And then there were none

I woke up to you fighting hard. Death had showed up out of nowhere. Sure, it was your 18th year, but your spirit was young.  It began squeezing everything out of you, but oh how you fought. You just didn't want to go. Wouldn't let go.  You wouldn't let me pick up your broken body to take you or move you. Besides, where would we have even gone in the time we had? There was nowhere to go but through it. So that's what we did. I kept a hand on you since you couldn't see or hear I was there. And when the end came for you, it came in loud and long. That I'll never forget and how I wish for you I could have ended it quicker. Quieter. You deserved a better end. It just hit like a storm. We had no time. You were very brave Buster. You always were. You came to us 15 or so years ago. You were skittish and sketchy, having been mistreated and crated for most of your life before us. The one and only time you ever played fetch was the day we met you on death row at the pound. You knew what Carl needed to see to okay your adoption. You delivered the goods, and promptly forgot your trick once safe in our family. It took you years to learn to play again. To stop guarding your food. But you mellowed. You trusted. You loved again. Once the babies joined our family, you learned to get where the getting was good. A dropped noodle here...a poptart corner there. Tortillas were gently accepted and fervently buried with your other treasures (underwear) among the cushions of your couches. You could smell anything sweet dropped from another room. You always preferred the sweet over savory. Even until the end, you knew if a pancake covered in syrup had hit the floor. You'd come running from the other end of the house and later waddling, your tail wagging, telling us "I'll handle that". You learned to appreciate a good nap. In your early years with us, you were invited to sleep with your pack, your humans. But you never fell asleep before me. In fact, you laid at my side watching me...staring at me. Keeping watch until I closed my eyes. Today I was given a chance to return to you that favor. Before you lost your hearing, our favorite parlor trick was to howl at the ceiling to the delight of many who came to visit. It was the howl of a wolf, deep and loud, not one of the short squatty body your warrior spirit was taxed with. When you howled, you looked good, and you knew it. You loved a good bandana and even more, a roll in the bed with a dryer sheet fresh out of the laundry. It took years for us to figure out why you smelled so fresh without any effort on our part. You cheated death several time while living with us. Maybe that's why when death finally came for you, it was so angry. You ate an entire pan of dark chocolate brownies without so much as a burp. We had to convince the vet to pump your stomach because "no dog who eats chocolate is this happy". You lived and the vet was astounded. Moving cars and bikes brought out your demons. You became a dog possessed. As a result I witnessed you run over by a super cab pick up truck. I just knew you were dead. I carried you in my arms as the vet looked you over, and once again doubted my claims. "He's fine. No way did that happen." Death lost again. But not today. You battled fiercely, but time was not on our side. Once your body finally relaxed and your spirit released, we gently wrapped you in your blanket and set you in your favorite spot on the family couch. We brought the children over to pay their respects. For a dog who hated children in the early years of his life(and old people, and other dogs, and people who weren't Caucasian, and anything that moved without your permission) you sure loved and protected your babies near the end. They looked at you. Studied you. Henry climbed to the couch, looking and thinking. Beatris poked your eye. For that I'm sorry, she's quick, and knows when to move under cover of distraction,as you frequently were victim. Scolded and unimpressed, Bea waddled off, not knowing that her breakfast bar buddy wasn't hungry anymore. Then came Henry. We stayed quiet and let him have his freedom. He gently patted your tummy. Then leaned over and kissed you. Then again. Then looked puzzled and kissed once more. Usually at this point, you would lift your head and roll the other way or curl into a ball and present your tail. All was quiet this time. Henry finally did what he does when he's desperate for attention. Desperate for interaction, needing someone's love and affection. He quietly signed "tickle me". You didn't move. Henry crawled off the couch and turned his back. You were gone. You are finally with Maisy again, your true love. I will rest easy on this one thought. When Maisy died, I was haunted by the thought that she wouldn't know which way to run to get to Heaven. Now you're there to show her. You were always the smart one. The capable one. The distinguished gentleman. And that gives me peace. I wish I could have given you the dignity and relief you so intensely deserved at the end. But there was no time. No obvious action that i could provide. I had nothing to work with. I failed you in the end. I should have done more for the beautiful rusty brown dog with deep and dark human brown eyes and short furry Berenstein Bear feet.  Who, 15 years ago, stood guard for me, then for my mate, and then for my offspring. You were a proud, dignified and devilishly handsome protector.  You deserved a death worthy of the life you lived for your pack.  Our Alpha Dog.  You were the bravest of the brave until the last breath. Until the last gentle beat I felt of your heart, like a birds wings. Beating, then a flutter, and then finally still. You were loved. You were wonderful. You are missed. Rest in Peace Brave Buster Brown. 

A Garden of Lies

I prepared for you a bed of manure and rich earth, and this is my reward?

I woke in the night and scattered amongst your being, 10000 ladybugs, eager to do your bidding....not a one wanted to stay with you to complete their task. 

I showered you with diatomaceous earth, being told the prehistoric microcrystalline dust would destroy, organically, the exoskeletons of any and all insects feasting on your roots. I marveled as the white clouds fell gently onto your body. Little did I know that the shredding this powder would exact upon the bugs crawling along your foundation...would shred my lung tissue as well. "Shoulda worn a mask",I heard someone say, over the sounds of my wheezing. 

Hours were spent reading on how to coax you into proliferating, reproducing, and creating, only to bear the secret shame and awkward exchanging of glances as attempted to hand pollinate you, by brush, from bloom to bloom. I only had myself to blame. My protective netting I built for you? Yes it kept out lizards and squirrels. Come to find out, it also kept out bees and butterflies and their sultry dragging of pollen to blossom, to blossom, to blossom.  (I'll give you that one. My bad.)

At the sound of distant thunder, I rolled not into a lover, but into the night, shrieking, with bags and blankets to cover your tender growth. It hailed not once and I ultimately stunted your growth by creating an overly humid and swelteringly hot prison when I forgot to remove the protective plastic bubble the next day....I smothered you with love. 

I rubbed oils into your flesh to protect you from the villainous pillbugs. Alas, had I only read directions, I would have known that exposure to sun would cause the neem oil to become toxic. All your blossoms burned and dropped to the ground....like my lofty expectations of delicate summer squash fritters. 

I rejoiced in your potato vines, imagining the praise I would garner when I served au gratin. "From my garden" I would say, feigning humility and modesty, half-heartedly waving away compliments.  As I harvested your tuberous masses, your green outer flesh gave me pause. Only after I researched did I realize I had planted the wrong type of potato. (F.Y.I. you cannot, despite what you thought you remembered from 5th grade, just plant a potato from the grocery store into the ground) Your skin had gone "to pot"...I had unknowingly let you rot in the ground.  Had I served you upon a platter, not only would you have been exceedingly bitter, but apparently mildly toxic to humans, domestic animals, and possibly fish.  No adoring glances or jealous whispers over you were to be had after all. Only the echo of a loved one telling me, "what the hell is wrong with you? I almost ate that"

You gave me one, large, ruby red tomato...plump....almost bawdy with rosy perfection. I coveted you as you grew, counting down the days until you ripened. Watching your from my window. I had such plans for us. When the day had finally come,I plucked you from your root. I turned you in my palm....squeezing your tender supple flesh...and then, like a stone, my heart sank. The side of you hidden from me for 53 days as you grew on the vine was being completely devoured by a worm...still half lodged in your core...feasting. Not one who is prone to violence, I , red faced, dug the inch long offender from your skin with a stick, and cursing, 

flung him the length of the yard...sending him soaring into his great beyond. He hit the fence with a shockingly satisfying splat. See what you do to me? You make me crazy....I'm not myself when I'm with you. 

And so it is with a heavy heart and broken spirit that today,I harvest your last offerings you so stubbornly brought forth.  These dozen tomatoes the size of peas. Sprigs of rosemary covered in a strange scaly mildew that I can't find an explanation for online. A handful of onions, stunted and deformed, the size and smell of a single clove of garlic...tasting of dirt and paper grocery bags. Three or four green beans too tough to snap. Parsley...yellow and bitter. You gave me no squash...only male squash blossoms. A phenomenon that, according to internet, message boards, books, and family members, has NEVER happened before and technically should be impossible. Garden...you've broken my back, and my heart...(and I'm pretty sure you're responsible for spreading a blight virus onto my 7 year old peach tree that used to bear fruit every summer but is now just a disturbing gray skeleton that provides a safe haven for wasps, yellow jackets, and my dogs' obsessive urination. But I can't prove it)

You can't be forgiven. You won't be forgiven. You are nothing but a disappointment. I gave you love, you gave me a wasteland. I long for the winter to watch you go dormant, as I sit and ponder, looking at you through cold winter windows, "when shall I dig again?"

On the Eve

My husband and I had been trying to conceive for several years. It has been a lot of trying, waiting, whining, crying, and weirding out. You get to a point where all the normal things aren’t working for you, so you start to venture into territories you never would have guessed. We decided to try medical intervention. We started slow, with Clomid, a drug that stimulates ovaries in the hopes that your only problem with getting pregnant is that you aren’t dropping an egg. I suggest before anyone tries this treatment, to do so under the care of a qualified professional. I did not, and not only did my ovaries drop an egg, they unloaded a few months worth and caused my ovaries to swell up and nearly explode. Not a great first start. We then decided to take our case to the professionals, a Reproductive Endocrinologist. We began various testing, and more testing and it was suggested I have a procedure that I can describe as awkward, intriguing, and painful. I was getting my reproductive system flushed with fluid and it is just as uncomfortable as it sounds. It’s hard to remember how to describe the experience, but at one point, with various long pointy instruments and Dr. Old’s head in my crotch, I tried to make small talk as I noted a heavily aged and faded picture of Clint Black pinned to the ceiling. I mentioned to the doctor that I was certain he was the Doctor who delivered my husband back in the 70’s and that I was pretty sure my Aunt by marriage had worked for him, “but she was a nun at the time, so you might not remember”. I should have mentioned that I popped a Xanax or two before the procedure. “I can’t see her cervix,” was his only response. Dr. Old wasn’t much of a conversationalist. Maybe he had seen a lot of unremarkable vaginas, mine included. Maybe he was burnt out on the whole vagina business after 20 plus years in practice. Or maybe it was because I was talking in loud whispers throughout the whole procedure. In my defense, Dr. Old turned the lights so low, it felt like I was supposed to respect the space. Either way, I passed the test. Fast-forward two weeks. All my imaging looked clear and my blood work came back normal. According to my doctor, there was no obvious reason I had not conceived so it was time for shots. Every night….for 10 days. I learned how to administer the shots. I even learned how to administer the shots without shouting “keep going, don’t pass out” as the syringe dangled by the needle tip from my leg, only halfway under the skin, as I covered my mouth with my hands, hyperventilating. I even learned how not to obsess over visible air bubbles in the syringe, and that I didn’t need to shoot half the contents of the syringe across the room while trying to remove a single air bubble from the dose. Once a week of shooting up had passed, I was called and told that it was go time. I had progressed quickly and was ready for insemination. So Carl and I packed up and headed towards the most romantic of destinations, our Doctor’s office, to hopefully conceive. Carl went back and did his thing without any trouble. I was worried because he was back there so long, but apparently Carl felt there was no need to rush as he had found himself at the El Dorado of Porn. They prepared Carl’s contribution and helped me get ready for the procedure. My doctor, George Stephanopoulos, entered the room. He used a tire-jack to open the “area” and used a series of forks to perform the procedure. As soon as it started, it was over and I lay there for a few minutes. Dr. Stephanopoulos high fived us and congratulated us on our first I.U.I. Before we left, our nurse peeked in the room and handed me a pill bottle of little pink pills. “Every night, take one of these….in your vagina. Good Luck!” Right. For 6 months, we repeated this routine. Shots for my lady bits, ultrasounds up my lady bits, procedures in my lady bits, and then various pills getting jammed in my lady bits. My urine was blue, my hair was falling out, my breasts were on fire, I had hair growing in places that made me cry, and I was so tired that I sounded like I was mid-stroke when I talked to people. I spent half my day with my leg hiked up on the counter putting things in, and the second half of the day on the toilet checking that nothing was coming out. In my spare time between obsessively checking for early pregnancy symptoms and taking multiple pregnancy tests in the middle of the night, I decided to try something new. I first heard about acupuncture from a friend. I had heard that it could be helpful when dealing with infertility. It worked for her, why couldn’t it work for me? Considering I had also heard that doing handstands after sex can help to conceive, and had only mildly injured myself in doing so, I thought I would give this a try. Keep in mind; I have a deep fear of needles. The kind of fear that gets somebody committed type fear. Actually it’s not so much the needles, but specific areas of needle penetration that send me into hysterics. Due to past experiences, I don’t want needles in my spine, eyeballs, or nipples. I walked into J’s office and it smelled of pine and flowers, and dirty hippie. We inspected my tongue. “Too much liver,” she says. We then talk about my bowels. “Too much fat.” Shocker. Then we get to the constitution evaluation. In Chinese Medicine there are 5 constitutions: Earth, Metal, Wind, Water, and Wood. I learn all about the different constitutions and realize, yet again, that I want what someone else has. Other constitutions are charming, fierce, smart, and even sexy. Mine? I’m what the Chinese call “damp heat”. Described as hot and humid. Essentially the description of hell. I’m an “Earth”, and apparently everything about my body is out of balance. I have too many emotions, am chronically constipated, most likely sweat profusely, and that my “roundness” comes from being like the Earth. Thanks China. That’s the nicest explanation of being fat I’ve ever heard. The good news is that my Chi is strong, as is my heart, and my uterus is warm. Bad news is that the rest of my body is an inferno for my organs, and was told I should start planning for a post-menopausal life plagued by chronic yeast infections. Once the consultation was done, it was time to get to the needles. After I was assured that absolutely no needles would go into my spine, eyes, or nipples, I laid back and gave myself over. I was told to focus on the meditative music and begin mental imagery of growth and life and fertility as she began needle placement. I was to repeat in my head, “What is infertile today is fertile tomorrow.” I first imagined a hill on the horizon, predawn, topped by the outline of a black, branchy tree. I saw neon blues and pinks begin to pulse at the trunk of the tree, growing and overtaking the branches, vasculating the tree with life. As the sun began to rise over the hill in pinks and oranges, the tree burst forth with life and leaves and fruit. I stopped visualizing when I realized I was ripping off my tree image from Avatar. Lets start again. I imagined a pool of dark stagnant mud. In a filmed time lapse like quality, the sun broke through the clouds and moved over the water, turning it clear and fresh. Bright green algae begin to cover the rocks, as the water became deeper and cooler. Intensely colored fish and frogs begin to leap and swim through the water as birds descended from the blue sky to pluck from the abundant pools. I saw a turtle swim into a rocky cave, and a plump beaver swim the other direction through forests of lime green seaweed that parted as he passed. Just as I thought I saw a dolphin swimming towards me, ready to play…I screamed. Not a mild protest, but an “I’m washing my face in the shower and have my eyes closed, and I know I’m home alone, but I think someone just touched me” kind of scream. My acupuncturist, once she herself recovered, explained that a needle that she just placed in my lower abdomen had hit an area over my stagnant uterus. My barren, cold, cobwebbed uterus and that we would “work on that”. I’ve since had several less traumatic visits and have finally allowed J to use needles again. My nether regions had never felt so invigorated. So much so, my feeling of “aliveness” frightened me. After about the 5th I.U.I with the protocol that had shown the best results, two types of shots a night and a shot to trigger ovulation, we were optimistic. We were certain THIS was our time…then we got the numbers. I had only made one follicle and the sperm count was pretty lame. We were devastated. We decided to take a break and go to Austin for the weekend. I spent the next 48 hours, eating, drinking, dancing, attempting to eat and chase lasers on the dance floor, leaving two full rum and cokes in a dance club restroom after I realized I had taken a power nap on the toilet, danced with a fabulous young, gay Frenchman, and then telling my husband things were getting weird that we needed to go home. I ate two pieces of street pizza that I know saved me from what would have been a game-ender hangover. I drunk cried to my very patient friends that entire weekend, and then pulled over after work the next week, and cried the next day on the phone to my Grandmother. I cried for several hours each day that week. It seemed like I was doing a lot of crying…like way more than usual. Hmmm? It was Halloween day when a friend asked if I had taken a pregnancy test. I had promised myself that entire week that I wasn’t going to test because the disappointment and sadness were crippling, and I managed to avoid testing that entire week. I finally had the will power to just let things be. I was so proud of myself and felt in control for the first time in the entire process. Later that night, I met my husband at the door. “Trick or Treat,” I whispered with a smile. He was distracted and I could tell he was still in work mode and was not impressed with my holiday ridiculousness. “Trick or Treat!” I said with a little more insistence. He was not playing along, and my husband continued to sort through the mail as I followed him around the house with my stupid plastic pumpkin. “God Damn it Carl! Trick or Treat! Eat some candy!” I screamed as I practically shoved the candy bucket through his rib cage. He finally gave in and fished out a piece of candy. “Um, thanks. Do I have to eat this now?” was his response. “Pick again!” I insisted. My husband was dangerously close to losing his patience when he stuck his hand in the pumpkin and pulled out a few weird pieces of plastic. He stared at what was in his hand and then looked at me, his eyes starting to water. He had in his hand three positive pregnancy tests I had taken just an hour before he had gotten home. I had broken down and decided to just test one more time, if for no other reason than to get the test out of my bathroom drawer. Earlier that night, when I read the results, I didn’t cry, I didn’t yell, I didn’t break it in half and throw it away. I laughed. I sat on the bed with my dogs, and laughed until I cried. And I waited with the most amazing and joyful sense of urgency for Carl to come home. Since then, I have spent the last 9 months behaving like an 11 year old without a proper sex education. I’m afraid to sneeze too hard or push too hard when I use the restroom because the baby might come out. I don’t sit on the floor to long because I don’t want to dent his head. I don’t raise my hands above my head for fear of tangling him in the cord. I have consumed little to no amount of caffeine and therefore have become so sensitive to it, that last week, after giving into an iced tea craving, I spent two hours in the Labor and Delivery Emergency Room with what I was sure was a heart attack. There are ultrasound technicians who turn and walk the other way when I walk down the hallway at my doctor’s office. I asked my nurse last week if she thought my baby was developmentally delayed because his heart rate has been so steady at all of his appointments and I repeatedly ask my husband if our baby looks “downs-ish” from the 3-D ultrasounds. I have completely lost control of all reason and logic, and I have a feeling it won’t stop after his birth. Sorry kid. To add to the beautiful experience of pregnancy, this baby has decided not to turn to the correct position for birth, meaning he is breech. Not only have I been obsessing that something is wrong with him that is not allowing him to turn, but I also have this gut feeling that he is just being stubborn. As a result, I have had a sore back for the last 3 months. Not because of his position, but because I have been doing handstands, in a public pool, trying to encourage him to turn. I’m not forcing him to turn, just gently encouraging him by flailing my body around 4 hours out of the day. I have a feeling I would get a lot less staring if I wasn’t wearing a swim cap and sunglasses throughout the process. I have put ice packs on my stomach, torn muscles in my wrists from doing inversion poses, and have blisters on my toes from burning myself on accident while using a red-hot mugwort stick on my acupressure points. I do all of this because I am terrified of a cesarean section. I want a natural childbirth. If I hear, “You’re crazy to want to be in pain!” or “Oh lucky you getting the easy way out!” one more time, I’m going to cut someone. People don’t realize that my fears of C-sections and epidurals are paralyzing and on the phobic level. I tried watching a C-section video to prepare myself, and I shook violently and started to hyperventilate. I’m not sure how that behavior is going to translate well in to actually having the procedure performed with me as the patient. Yes, I realize natural childbirth can be horrific as well. I made the mistake recently of watching a YouTube clip of a woman who made it to the hospital just as her baby was crowning. She had no time for meds, and her baby was a ten pounder. I still hear the screams when I close my eyes. What I wanted, after all the science and medicine and specialists I have seen, was to have one thing, Mr. Baby’s birth, be done without so much intervention. Just this once I wanted something not to feel clinical, but natural. But as the date has approached, the likelihood of Mr. Baby turning is unlikely, and as I sit and type these very words, I am scheduled for a C-section in the morning. I seriously doubt I’m going to show up. I keep playing “Ride Like the Wind” in my head as I consider heading to the border of Mexico. I am not so great with the idea of my stomach being cut open. I’m not so great with my uterus being outside my body. I’m really not so great with being awake during the whole slice and dice. I try not to share my terror and fear with everyone because I get so many, “All that matters is a healthy happy baby…” Really? Like I don’t know that? If I didn’t care about his health and safety I would be at the midwives office, gambling my and my child’s life away for the old fashioned birthing experience I so desperately want, so I get that it’s about his and my safety. What I also don’t want is the brain trauma of being awake during major surgery, with the sights, sounds, and smells. I’m not going to be much good of a mother for Mr. Baby if my brain starts to fry Clockwork Orange style, on the operating table. So for now, I choose denial. I feel my sweet baby kicking as I type. Mr. Baby is ready to party, and I want to hide in the corner. I am fearfully excited and downright petrified. As the rest of the world awakes tomorrow, I will be headed south of the border, as the sun rises, far away from all the doctors and nurses and needles and antiseptic and masks and risks and signatures and stares. At some point, I will turn the car around, and head back to that hospital room and do what I have to do to have the baby whom we did what we had to do to make him ours. But one thought will linger....Mr. Baby had better cure cancer, run for President, or make middle management at Radio Shack. This had better be worth it. P.S. Mommy loves Henry

The Little Uterus That Could

I’m infertile. Well, not totally. If I had to guess, I would say only about 80 percent of my uterus is full of cobwebs and sulfuric acid. It’s that 20 percent of my uterus that I assume I have left, that I have been trying to sweet talk for the past two years. My husband and I did get pregnant once, but it quickly evacuated the premises due to what I can only imagine were unsatisfactory living conditions. The fact that I was pregnant once,sustains what I would call my mild optimism.
They say humor can heal you, and that laughter is the best medicine, so I thought I would try it regarding this situation since I’ve become open to all sorts of new treatments lately. I also know that if I can make someone else laugh about the insanity and darkness involved in this matter, I will be mildly pleased.
Here are the things that have really irritated me about the whole mess of fertility.

1. I should have started a savings account for the amount of money I have spent on pregnancy and ovulation tests. Oh, sure…it started out innocently enough, most things with me do. I would wait to test till my missed period, then I started testing just a few days earlier than that. Then the companies came out with the “Gold” tests that would tell you a week before your missed period, and that’s when things went dark. I am guilty of testing 2 days after intercourse, taking multiple tests in one day, testing even after my period started ("it could be implantation spotting Carl!") and hiding unused tests from my husband in various places, for repetitive, covert testing later. I wouldn’t have to hide them, if my husband hadn’t approached me with a pregnancy test intervention. I can quit anytime I want, and he shouldn’t be going through my underwear drawer anyway.
2. Faint postive vs. evaporation lines-some of you know what I mean. I know that disassembling a pregnancy test and examining the strip with a magnifying glass and an exposed lightbulb is neither reasonable nor sanitary. But let’s be honest, nothing about making babies is reasonable or sanitary to begin with.
3. Teenagers will get pregnant. Teenagers will get pregnant after having sex for the first time. Teenagers will get pregnant, on prom night, in the back of a rented limo. Teenagers will get pregnant and for 9 months will think they are just getting fat, and then have a baby one day, as easy as if they went to the grocery store and decided to pick up a few things,tampons,some cream of chicken soup, and a baby. I’m so over teenagers and their shiny eggs and sparkly uteruses.
4. For the infertile, sex has become a science. Now before anyone gets riled up and says…”You have to make it fun…it’s the act of love….enjoy it..” or my favorite “What a fun thing to have to do” here’s what I have to say. You imagine having to have sex for 7-10 days straight each month, regardless of illness, house guests, or employment, in the same position, and at the end for the next 20 minutes you're not allowed to move, go to the bathroom,sit up, or have a sandwich, and tell me that’s not a chore. “You have to keep it exciting.” Really? Do we? Let me tell you, there’s only so much role playing and inappropriate verbal exchanges you can engage in before things get weird. Trust me.
5. “Just relax…when you stop thinking about it, it will happen” I realize this is said in kindness and probably because nobody knows what else to say. “Sorry you're having trouble performing a basic element of the human experience,” isn’t really an option to say for most people. Not thinking about the inability to procreate isn’t quite like trying not think about the approach of tax season. I’m sure that for some people who have been trying for several months and haven’t conceived, taking a time out makes sense. But we’re on our 25th month of this insanity…I don’t have time to take a vacation from my hostile uterus. My clock isn’t ticking, it’s a ticking timebomb, and I need to McGuyver a baby out of there before it explodes.
6. My most irritating realization?(Disclaimer: Sorry to any appalled or embarrassed family members) I could have started having sex a LONG time ago. On my own volition, I couldn’t even think about, draw, say, or much less look at a penis until I was married. I grew up with such a well planned, realistic, information overloaded campaign about sex and the repercussions (my mother is a counselor/teacher for pregnant teens) that I fiercely prevented pregnancy and virulent strains of STDs by avoiding co-ed swimming pools, dry humping, and men until somewhere around my 25th birthday.

With all of this, I have resolved not to be bitter. Because bitter is just another word for sad. If I were to become bitter, I would have to avoid certain situations and places where I saw certain kinds of parents with their young children. I would be reminded of what a travesty it was that they were allowed to procreate, and I can’t. And if I avoided those places, I would miss out on so many of the things I have come to cherish. I would have to say goodbye to 3 a.m. trips to Walmart on a school night, Rock concerts, R-rated movies, the Mall in the middle of a school day afternoon, the small and concealable weapons section of the Army Navy Surplus store, the firing range, and the large reptile section at Petsmart, and I’m just not ready to give those up.

One for the History Books

Well, the chill in the air is gone, and the freak ice and snowstorms have passed, and now I’m bored again, so I’m back to writing. I’ve been bad. Very bad. I have had all of these thoughts rolling around in my head, but just too lazy to get it out. Laziness. That’s really the only excuse, but I’m very good at being so lazy, so it’s legitimate. I meant to write of my holiday travels and travails, but frankly, it was all relatively functional, and dare I say…enjoyable? Of course, it’s not hard to receive a passing grade in my book. Consider some of my past holiday seasons.

I remember one Christmas where we pushed my Dad too far. We went hunting for our Christmas tree a little late that year, and as my father was squeezing our hurried purchase through the six inches of space between my brother and I, we responded, moved by the holiday spirit, in typical teenage fashion with something like “this tree blows Dad…” or “you’re lame.”    

He got that crazed look in his eye, and 10 minutes later, after having laid down the pedal, rubber thoroughly burnt, and frantic traffic dodging in silence through parking lots of one big box hardware store to the next when my father finally stopped and marched into Home Depot. My brother and I found ourselves in a predicament where what happened next was a blur. What I remember is that when it was all said and done, my family rode home in silence, my brother and I hunched over, necks painfully angled, perched atop two separate Christmas trees.  Our Christmas cup, had runneth over, and we kept our mouths shut.

Then of course, there was the one year, very long ago, when my brother was still a toddler. It was the 80’s. Marriage was hard, and the only thing worse than tax season in the 1980's, was trying to make the holiday “perfect” when things were less than. My parents had bought a beautiful tree, (honestly). The Christmas carols were going, the house smelled of roasted meat, and earlier that week, we had visited a new church and were feeling what I can only describe as a healthy dose of the magic of the season.

We were gathered around our tree, twinkling and bright, with a choir of angels on the Hi-Fi. For those 30 seconds, all was right and good. But in the blink of Santa’s eye, disaster fell.

What I remember plays out in my head, in slow motion, to the music from Apocalypse Now. My father, beaming, turned to light the fire…struck a match… and an ember flew. We all turned our heads the same direction, tracking the spark…willing it to fall short. It did not. It landed like calculatingly evil snow on our perfect tree, and was still. Then flash…the fire and smoke spread up the tree and for some reason, the outside of the fireplace, like water.

My parents made horrified eye contact, and simultaneously jumped into action, while my brother and I probably jumped up and down, wide-eyed and clapping, as if we thought this carnage was part of the show. My father ran outside, and for some reason got on the roof? (I’m still not clear why on this one) He fed a water hose down the chimney to my mother, turned it on full force, and let it rip. The tree was put out first, and mostly saved with only the back half of the tree left smoking. My parents continued to work on the fire that had breached the perimeter of the chimney and fireplace. As my parents were screaming directions and orders back and forth, the doorbell rang.

I ran, and as I opened the door, a cloud of soot and the smell of burned Christmas wafted past me. When the cloud cleared, I was shocked. Do you remember the part about my family visiting the new Methodist church a week earlier? Here, in front of my ash-stained, goofy grinning face, was the carol singing, cookie carrying, welcoming committee Pastor and wife, of First United Methodist. In a thrilling turn of events, they were also fully costumed and fully committed to their roles as characters from the works of Charles Dickens. I can only imagine what they saw behind me, as they turned away, mumbling within my earshot, what sounded like “This is why we should call first…” 

So…this Christmas and holiday season, seeing as it was fire free and light on the verbal attacks, got much more than just a passing grade.

Possession 101

     If you have been following my blog, are friend or family, or have happened to have a conversation with me for more than 5 minutes, you know that I am a bit paranoid. I know….you’re thinking you never noticed right? You’re too kind. I wear my fears like a pornographic sandwich board in the middle of Times Square. I have fears that run from "plausible" to “not a chance in hell”. You know how the Department of Homeland Security has their Threat Level Advisory spectrum that runs from green to red? Well, I have the Anne’s Threat Level Advisory that runs from “Likely to Keep me Awake for no more than 10 minutes Code Green” to “Uncontrollable Bowel Movements, Code Brown”. Not much puts me into Code Brown these days, except for this thought… is demonic possession possible?

     That’s right….I said it…(it should be noted that by even typing this or saying it out loud, I’m pretty sure I have increased my chances of actually being possessed. Once you say it…I’m pretty sure evil spirits know you are weak to their power. You know how Santa(whose actual existence my jury is still out on) supposedly gets stronger by knowing we believe in him? Yeah…I’m pretty sure the same thing goes for Satan and his posse.) I’m not coming from a religious standpoint. I mean the Catholic church believes in it. Once they prove something….it’s done….I’m coming from your average Joe standpoint, “Could this happen to me?” I know I’m just saying what everyone else is thinking.

     Just look at the kinds of things we are terrorized with in the media….Paranormal Activity, The Last Exorcism, Ghost Hunters, Exorcist, Gigli. If the fear of evil incarnated wasn’t real, Hollywood wouldn’t be able to profit off of it right? Who among us hasn’t frozen in cold horror at the sight and sound of static snow on the T.V.(and I mean old school Poltergeist static, not overdone The Ring static)? Turned on every light as we walk through our homes in the middle of the night? Heard the creak of the stairs that made our blood run cold in our veins, or sprinkle the perimeter of our bedrooms’ with Holy Water? Okay, that last one may be a bit extreme, but you know what they say about desperate times.

   In my life I have had a few supernatural experiences, but they were awesome and not at all frightening in retrospect, (and not at all substance abuse related). I’ve been tapped, whispered at, woken up, and communicated with in dreams. (I realize all of those encounters could be explained away by various psychological diagnosis, none of which I have…I can get a signed doctors note if requested.)
     They are probably just figments of my over active imagination, but that doesn’t matter. I’m not trying to convince anyone else of their occurrence or existence. These experiences have mostly been with family or friends who have passed on, and have provided a sense of comfort and calm. These are not the kind of interactions that freak me out. These are not the kind of interactions that signal a “Code Brown” on the Anne Threat Level. 

    It’s the scary paranormal I worry about. I scare easily and can sometimes, especially this time of year, be in a perpetual “flinching” state from anything in the scary spectrum of the paranormal. While I know it’s not logical, there have been times where I have thought… “You know what would really be unfortunate? Getting possessed.” Let me give you some do’s and don'ts I have picked up and practiced along the way for avoiding said situation.

Don’t Play with the Occult

     I once had a slumber party where my attendees insisted upon a Ouji Board. I knew, even at the ripe age of 13 that you don’t deal with the darkside. Dabbling in Ouji Boards is kind of like dabbling in cocaine…it’s all fun and games until you’ve blown the roof off the darkside, and there is no coming back…..please see exhibit A: Ghostbusters and Gary Busey.
     When it was my turn, I got about five minutes into trying to contact River Phoenix or Kerry Von Erich or whoever, and before I knew it, my bedroom door was opening by itself and I was hiding behind my fake Z-Cavariccis and Walmart brand Hyper-color shirts in my closet,  having a hyper-color Code Yellow in my pajamas.

Don’t own easily “possess-able” toys

     This is standard and really basic knowledge in the fight against possession. In a tragic turn of events…I had asked for a “Cricket” doll for Christmas one year.  It was the “My Buddy” for girls and I pined for months over getting that doll.  If you don’t remember,( see for yourself )these dolls were almost lifesize and surprisingly life-like, and most importantly they talked.
     Well, after years of begging, in 1987, I finally got my very own “Cricket”, with her  frozen eyed stare and bizarre perma-smile, which I propped up in a rocking chair at the foot of my bed.
    Unfortunately the love affair was short-lived. In 1988, the movie “Child’s Play” came out.  You do the math on this one…. I’m pretty sure my “Cricket” is still face down, still staring, mouth duct-taped, in a frantically and haphazardly sealed cardboard box in my parent’s attic. 

Do avoid scary film and literature

     I don’t watch scary movies or read scary books either. I learned my lesson on that issue years ago. Freshman year of college, I decided I would be a literary hipster and get into literature from the 60’s and 70’s. One of these reads was The Exorcist.
     This was the purportedly true story that inspired the movie which I to this day, have not seen in it’s entirety. (I just couldn’t come back mentally or visually from the “crabwalk down the stairs”scene.) Let me tell you, in a side by side comparison, The Exorcist book makes the movie seem like a Hallmark Special.
     In the book, Satan’s demons creep stealthly and persistently into their victim. Their possession is not the sudden storm like the movie, but a slow, steady build. In fact, in the book, the demons only announce their initial presence at first by infrequent, but insistent tapping inside the little girl’s walls.  
     As the demons build strength, so does the speed and severity of their tapping, before it finally deposits in the soul of their victim. ( I think I almost threw up just recounting this). I read the entire book one night while home for Christmas break, you know….in the spirit of the Season.
     It was an exceptionally cold night, and as I shut off my light and laid my head on the pillow, I heard the slightest noise coming from my ceiling. Tap….a few seconds….tap,tap. Then I heard what sounded like scratching…and then silence….scratching…and then silence. Next, I heard what sounded like a toddler running across the floorboards above me. Be gone Satan! I just knew it was happening to me as it had happened in the book.
     Now, as I recount this, I’m able to calmly describe what happened in detail. But as you can imagine, at the time it was happening, I was suffering what can only be described as instant paralysis followed by profuse sweating, followed by my rapid-fire,obsessive repetition of the words “Dear Jesus, baby Jesus, Dear Jesus, Baby Jesus” over and over and then having to have what I can only describe as an unholy evacuation of my bowels.
     I found out later that my gastrointestinal reaction is what professionals call a common “fear response.” (this is why, if I do view a horror film…I do it at home…it really is better for everyone involved). It wasn’t until that sleep-deprived next morning that my mother shared the fact that the recent cold had forced a family of squirrels into our attic, and at night they “really got going.” 

Don’t believe everything you hear:

     At 21 I suffered my first panic attack. I really thought I was going crazy. If you have ever had a panic attack, you know what I mean. We are talking room spinning, lung ripping, heart stabbing, crazy head, debilitating panic attack. Not pleasant…at all.
     I went to see my primary care doctor that day to get something, anything to help me sleep, cope, a cure,to help me live for that matter. I was desperate and would believe anything if it meant I would feel better.
As I was recounting my episode, he asked me, “are you a believer?"
“Of what, medicine? Doctors?” I asked.
“No.” he replied. “Jesus our Savior.”
I was taken back. “Um…I’m Christian….but, I mean, I don’t really think that is relevant, or his doing, I mean this is just being human…I prayed about it, but I don’t really think my anxiety is Jesus related but I’m kind of freaking out right now. I’m not sure that’s the point right now, I mean I'm not sleeping, not eating…I mean I feel crazy, I feel like I’m possessed or something” I responded with the slightest hint of a laugh. My laugh was answered with a stare….
“Well, I can’t rule that out” he responded.

     Had my Doctor's head spun off his body and exploded against the ceiling, I could not have been more shocked. My mother and I just looked at him with faces of anger, disbelief, and desperation.   
     While he rambled on about some scripture about devils and Isaac and scales on people’s faces, my mother squeezed my hand in a way that told me “I’m getting you out of here….don’t listen”.
     We shouldn't have worried about being rude. We should have just gotten up and left. But like I said, we were desperate...we grew up learning to trust medical professionals. We were in uncharted territory.  
     I kept waiting for a prescription for a young priest and an old priest, but all I got was Xanax. This doctor has since been reported to the Medical Board. My thought is that you typically don’t want to suggest treating spirit possession as your first line of treatment to someone suffering from anxiety and depression. I shudder to think of the others he might have harmed emotionally while following his profession’s oath of supposedly doing none.

     Now, my mother and I can laugh about it. It’s just another example of my luck in times of trial. Needless to say though, that took time and a good therapist with an even better sense of humor to come down from. But like I said, I did get a Xanax out of the deal, so it wasn’t a lose/lose situation.

     So here’s my thinking… I know that manifest evil isn’t real, sort of…I know that some of the stories out there are made up…sort of.  And I know I’m not crazy, sort of.
     The reason I believe in God, that I play the lotto, or that I fill out those entry forms for the Publisher’s Clearinghouse is that I just can't predict or possibly know everything.
     There are a lot of "what if's?" out there. I don't want that day of reckoning, or in this case, unholy inhabitation, to come and find out I’m not on the right team, that I should have scratched the numbers, or that I’m unaware or unprepared. That I’m short a penny, over the line, or using a pencil when I’m supposed to use a pen.
     So…on one hand, I’ll keep praying to my deceased family members and thinking of them often, and being open to those times I think I feel them in a sound, a smell, or breeze during my day.
      On the other hand, I want to be prepared for a Code Brown, so I’ll keep my Holy Water, thank you. I’ll keep my nighttime prayers and my superstitions.  I’ll keep my 23^rd Psalm and Lord’s Prayer. I’ll keep turning on lights, and turning off static channels. I’ll keep my unfounded fears and paranoias because they are like my leather shoes…I finally have them worn in, and they fit me perfectly.  I’m just raising awareness…your welcome.

"Did you really just say that?"

Well my friends…it is with a sad heart I write this post.  My time in the company of fools has ended….I graduated my CNA course. As you may realize, I have not posted anything since when I first started said course. I have not had the time to write since my clinicals took place in an assisted living facility, I have literally and figuratively been knee-deep in s….…but I digress. The point being, my last post was a mere scattering of experiences I had in my class/asylum.I had no idea that some of the best moments were yet to come.

I have grown to love most of my classmates in a very cautious way. I mean to say, that while I enjoyed some moments in Nutterville, I can say that with the exception of two relatively sane people, I did not exchange numbers or emails with anyone, nor had anyone sign my yearbook on my way out the door. It’s been great, good luck, and God I hope we don’t run into each other professionally.

In honor of my class coming to an end, and my inability to accurately retell all of my cringe-worthy details of the past 5 weeks, I have compiled, in my secret pocket notebook, my top ten “they did NOT just say that” quotes from my classmates. Enjoy….

1.     “Wait…I had chicken pox…Does that mean that now I have AIDS?”

2.     “You can tell that black man is a good lover by the way he is washing his hands.”

3.     “ I had a man die at my house during a tornado…but he was old”

4.     “I once set my menu on fire to get Priscilla Davis to stop hitting on me in front of my girlfriend” (for those not in the know, Priscilla Davis was the wife of the famous Cullen Davis of the Cullen Davis Mansion murders)

5.     “Should we tell someone that this man’s penis is green?”

6.     “My friend saw Tom Cruise making out with another man under a blanket in first class”  (This I don’t find so unbelievable)

7.     “Time out…what happens if I get fecal matter in my mouth?”

8.     “Why doesn’t anyone speak German anymore?”

9.      “Hell no I haven’t seen Letters from Iwo Jima…that’s about the enemy. You don’t sympathize with the enemy!”

And my favorite sentiment shared with the entire class

10. “That woman’s labia does NOT look 90 years old”

So long classmates….I’ll see you in the news…….

For the sake of yourself and others

When I go to therapy, I make a grand assumption while sitting in the lobby. I like to assume that I am the sanest person in the room. As a result, I am mindful of two elements.

1.     My own personal safety. Part of being mildly paranoid is that I am constantly prepared for hand-to-hand combat. I have run several worst-case scenarios over in my head for various situations. Possible carjacking at a red-light, a mugging in a grocery store, an irate driver in a road rage incident, an overpass collapsing right as I drive under it. (I admit I don’t have many escape options on that one….). I had a somewhat jarring and eye opening experience my first time in a psychiatrist office lobby years ago, and as a result, I have become somewhat cautious now, always performing an “ocular pat down” of all parties in the room as a result.

2.     Treat others with respect and exercise emotional caution. For every mentally unstable individual with a touch of violent manifestations, there is an individual who is suffering with grief, anxiety, and fear in a way I cannot even begin to imagine. This is why when I am in my therapists waiting room, I am quiet, mostly still, and unobtrusive. I realize it takes very little to set off many individuals in the anxiety spectrum.

It is because of Reason 2, that my most recent therapy experience was blog-worthy. While waiting in the relative calm for my session, the lobby door opened with a vengeance and in walked a man I can only describe as Art Garfunkel with darker hair, and a weight and hygiene problem.

Now had he sat down and picked up Psychology today like the rest of us, all would have been well. Instead, he was followed by his young son who I can only imagine was ADHD of biblical proportions. Then again, this father looked like the kind who would let his 10-year-old son drink espresso in the morning, so that could have been it. This father and son pair looked like the kind that the Dad gets high and together they play Beatles rockband until first light, debating the merits of socialism versus libertarianism. I’m not trying to sound judgmental, just setting the mood.  In other words, this dynamic duo was of the pretentious hippie variety. The worst kind….

After my first impression of this pair was formed, it did not surprise me that these two were in “talk therapy”. It’s a very hip trend among the “self-actualized”, and I applaud them. Where I draw the line is simple…Sir, I can handle the half dreadlocked, half permed hair, the unkempt beard, and the pit stains on your polo. I can even rationalize the juxtaposition of your slovenly dress and your transportation being the svelte black BMW you just stepped out of. What I cannot, and will not tolerate, is you opening the door to this professional office park building and walking in…BAREFOOT!   No Sir!

You then proceeded to sit down,  stand up, and pace the room no less than 4 times, apparently looking for a bathroom, though the sign was posted clearly on a door you never entered. You then went in and out of the office 4 times, going back to your car for a magazine, then a book, then God knows what. Because it was raining, you left your muddy footprints on the tile floor each time…again…BAREFOOT…in an OFFICE BUILDING! This isn’t your tree house, living room, or the mudhut you built in your backyard for your existential “time-outs”. The same instinct that told you to put your pants on this morning, tried to finish the job but you just didn’t listen. This is a place of professionalism. For those who suffer from anxiety, germ-related OCD, feet or hippie phobias, or like me, are nearly driven mad by idiots, you have created a perfect storm. You Sir, owe me one hundred bucks because I just wasted my therapy session on you and your feet.

Annoying right?....Then again….it could just be me….

Light Green

I try to live a life that’s gentle on the environment, animals, and people of this planet. To be honest, it can be very fulfilling but also very challenging. Here is a list of likes and dislikes I have about being a hippie. (I consider myself a hippie “light” because I shower, shave, and eat red meat, but I still recycle.)

Like-Free Range Chicken
Dislike-Tofu

Like- Bath and cosmetic products that are cruelty free.
Dislike- Bath and cosmetic products that make me smell like a pine tree.

Like- Grass fed, free range, humanely raised and slaughtered beef.
Dislike- God, I miss bacon. I mean I really miss it in like I dream about B.L.T.s miss bacon.

Like- The theory of conserving water by not doing dishes!
Dislike- The reality that less disposable dishes equals more dishwashing.

Like- I get to shop at much cooler grocery stores. I would much rather hang out at Whole Foods than Kroger.
Dislike-I have considered dealing drugs to support my artisan cheese and organic produce habit.

Like-I can avoid Walmart and a certain demographic of people one would find at a Walmart. Too many six sizes too small daisy dukes, Nascar muscle shirts, and carts full of fireworks and Milwaukee’s Best.

Dislike- Hippies aren’t always my favorite people to shop with either. Too many crocheted beanies,odd smells, hacky sacks, intimidating piercings, and “Who is John Galt?” bumper stickers.

Like- Doing my part to save the planet
Dislike- being outnumbered by those who aren’t

Finally, things I really miss since choosing my hippie light lifestyle….
Trans Fat, Febreze, canned vegetables, margarine, Potpies, Twinkies, Ding dongs, and of course the biggest sacrifice greenies have made world wide is missing the opportunity to feast on the greatest culinary creation since refined sugar and starch….the KFC Double-Down….

Don't look down....

This will be one of many future posts about phobias, but let’s talk about fear of heights shall we?

Have you ever spent the majority of your ferris wheel ride on the floor clutching your loved ones ankles screaming in terror to “stop shaking the buggy damn it!”

How about having a panic attack before and during the helicopter fly over scene at the Omni/Imax theatre? If you don’t know what I’m talking about, consider yourself lucky.

Do you find yourself screaming at others “For God’s sakes get off the rail” or “Quit leaning on the glass, it could give at anytime”? (This logic is the same reason I don’t walk over manhole covers or city grates….could give way)

If you answered yes to any of the following, we should be friends. If you said no, you’re a real tough guy aren’t you?…well good for you.

I have done some considerable research, none of it sound or scientific, on phobias and on this one in particular. Did you know that some people who are afraid of heights are afraid because they fear that when they are on top of something high like a cliff or a balcony, they fear that they will have a moment of insanity and hurl themselves off of the edge? I did not make this up. Katie Couric talked about it on the Today show once so I know it’s legit. People who have walked on the Golden Gate Bridge have been overwhelmed with this thought of “what if I just run off the edge of this mothertrucker?”

Still sound crazy? Well, let me add some personal relevance.

I once spent what should have been a lovely evening, glued to a bed, hot, sweaty and panting, but not for the reasons you might think. Our room was on the 22nd floor of a hotel room with a wonderful balcony view. I did not leave the bed, and I am not joking. I was convinced that if I got out on that balcony, that I would have a temporary moment of insanity, climb the rails like the old lady in the Titanic movie, and that would be it. Crazy? Absolutely. Common? More than you would think.

So,those of you lurking in the shadows with this same issue, be not afraid! You can now consider me your personal hero for shedding light on this issue. You’re not alone!
Then again, as I have said a hundred times before, “It could just be me…”

Desmond! I'm NOT your brother....

Tonight, I want to talk about Lost. I know, I know, enough already. I know what you’re thinking, “Nobody cares, it’s just a show, now where is the new season of WipeOut.?” Here’s the catch, I’m pretty sure I’m going to blow your mind with my interpretation and analysis of this epic sideshow.
Observations
J.J. Abrams was a contributor to the show right? You know who else he is pals with? Tom “Weirdest Guy in the Room” Cruise. This brings me to my first theory. Lost is just another piece of Scientology propaganda. And let me tell you why
1. The flight is from Australia. Where was Tom’s first wife from? Too simple? Perhaps.
2. They blow up over the ocean in an airplane. What do Scientologists think Xenu dropped humans off on Earth in? A DC-10. Too coincidental? Most likely.
3. Volcano on the Island/A Volcano is where Xenu stacked us after taxi-ing to the gate of Earth. Grasping for straws? Without a doubt.
4. Desmond, with his obsessive smiling, large teeth, and borderline homoerotic “brother this, brother that” talk is definitely Tom Cruise. (My new BFF Libby came up with that one) As an aside, I would not put it past J.J. Abrams to have had Tom Cruise cameo in some obscure, unrecognizable role. Tom could have been in the polar bear suit, the taxi driver, the Oceanic freight driver, or Hurley in a fat suit. I was not one of the people who found Cruise’s turn in Tropic Thunder hilarious. I found it disturbing and to be honest cruel. Didn’t Ben Stiller realize he was just fanning the flames of Cruise’s thetan- spewing personality disorder?
5. Locke, with his ability to look slightly sexy in one take, and pasty and sexual predator-ish in the next makes him Travolta, hands down.
In closing, I share with you some things I have tossed around in my head since the finale.
1. Why couldn’t Ben go in? Answer-He’s obviously still alive on the Island, taking over after Hurley’s passing.
2. The scene with Sun and Jin was actually really moving. I cried. Many people went nuts over the scene with Sawyer and Juliet, but honestly, I couldn’t stop focusing on what was in the vending machine. Were those Rolos Sawyer was trying to eat? Yikes. That’s like choosing to eat Mentos.
3. The Vincent scene got me choked up, but since I can’t separate fiction from reality, (I’m hoping it’s not a dissociative disorder, but that usually hits early 20’s so I’m encouraged by that) now I’m consumed with worry about a. why wasn’t Vincent in the church going to heaven? and b. if he isn’t dead, whose going to take care of him now?
4. Finally, the big question I was left with. Why wasn’t Ana Lucia in the church going to heaven with everyone else? I’m pretty sure I saw her briefly in the finale opening a door dressed as a cop. Apparently on the Island, you drink, you drive, you go to hell.

In closing, I loved the show even when I hated it. I think you will find my argument is valid, and my evidence concrete. I did most of my research on Wikipedia. You’re welcome.