Bearing Down

I had a dream last Saturday night that begged for interpretation.

I was driving in upstate New York, likely the NYS Thruway between Utica and Herkimer.  There was an unidentified little girl in the front passenger seat and my seventeen year old daughter was in the back seat, with her head up near the front so she could talk to me.  I was traveling east on the Thruway and it was dusk.  The sky had a sort of clear purple color that was darkening.  I looked into the rearview mirror and saw a tremendous black tornado bearing down on the car (looked exactly like the above picture – it’s like someone was in my brain and snapped a photo.).

For one second, I pressed on the gas and thought I could outrun it.  My daughter saw it behind us and shouted at me to go faster.  Wasn’t going to work though.  I looked on both sides of the car for a place to hide.  There was a small shallow ditch on the driver side and a deeper wider expanse on the passenger side.  It was doubtful that we would be able to get out of the car and get to a place low enough before the tornado consumed us.

At this point, I was conscious enough to begin to manipulate the dream, getting us into the big ditch to safety.  I do not consider this part of the actual dream since I woke myself up. 

I dream a lot, but it’s only the dreams that stick that are the ones that cry out to our conscious to be clarified.  This one demanded to be understood.

Was I running from something?  Was something bearing down on me?  Was it prophetic – were there storms on the way of which I was blissfully unaware? 

I rarely have luck interpreting my own dreams – my daughter is good at it, Starbuck is good at it, but it is Guest Blogger-who-hasn’t-blogged-for-me-in-years who has a remarkable sense of what my dreams mean.  And she should – I do the same for her; we’ve been translating each other’s dreams for years.  We have a good sense of personal symbolism and the sort of things that tic our subconscious. 

So my daughter considered that I had been viewing my past – one full of turmoil and upheaval, the future was ahead and clear and I was driving right into it.  Not bad.  Starbuck wondered the what the tornado could symbolize.  Guest Blogger-who-hasn’t-blogged-for-me-in-years just smiled and said, “The tornado is time.”

You could have punched me in the gut.  That’s when I know an interpretation is on the mark.  It feels right.  The ah-ha moment.

Step aside for a moment to consider – oldest son is married and doing well in his work, pursuing a degree in human services.  Middle boy has just graduated the most difficult educational program the Navy has to offer – Nuclear Engineering – and will be headed out into the murky depths within a year.  But now - the baby that I nursed those years ago is graduating high school in less than a month, and soon to embark on higher education, a major life change on her horizon.

The tornado is Time.  It’s bearing down on me.  The little girl in the front seat is my daughter as a toddler and she’s also in the back seat, a woman.  Me?  Arthritis.  Progressive Lenses.  Middle age.  Wrinkles.  Surprised at the changes when they crop up.  Identifying them.  Combating them.  Coming to terms with them.  Then enjoying it when I see others as they find themselves on the same track.

The tornado is Time.  I can’t outrun it, and though I didn’t realize it, I still try.  I realized though, that as my daughter is headed toward a new and entirely unchartered course in her life, so am I. 

Time.  I was a daughter for 19.5 years.  A wife for 15 years.  Caretaker of the same dog for 16 years.  But I’ve been a mother of dependent children for coming up on 25 years. 

Time.  This is going to be new and unchartered for me too.  It’s pretty exciting.  No bailing out of the car on this one.  It’s time.

Eager Arthritis Homeopathy

I have not been stricken with a headache since earlier in the week, but I am still suffering with the joint pain, which I have decided is arthritis.  I attribute this pleasure to both parents and their damnable arthritis-laden dna strands.  Yet another hurdle placed on the track of my life. 

I’m game enough to see if I can find an alternative remedy for my self-diagnosis.  What you should take away from this is:

1. I’m young enough to I think I can tough out the pain
2. I’m too cheap to buy Glucosamine Chondroitin
3. I’m too cheap to pay the $20 copay to get a real diagnosis
4. I’m still in denial of my aging process.

When I got home Wednesday evening, I was in enough discomfort to give the “warm olive oil rub” a try.  I had some in the cupboard, so it wasn’t like I had to go out and buy it (cheeeeeep cheeeeep cheeeeep).  At the same time, and just to play it safe, I took 200 mgs of ibuprofen as well.  The olive oil was nicely soothing, I wrapped my thumb in an old sock (NOT the alien master race vehicle that IS red flannel!) and I sensed an alleviation in my symptoms.  Well that was easy!  I felt the smugness of the effortlessly triumphant as I fell easily into sleep.

The next day, I remembered I had taken ibuprofen so I wasn’t sure if the that took away the pain or the olive oil did.  Craaaaaap.

Last night, in an effort to test the truth of the olive oil cure, I decided to go anti-inflammatory-free and just put the lovely warm oil on my thumb and elbow.  I wrapped my happy sock around the thumb, and waited for the magic to happen.  It didn’t.  Awwwwwww,craaaaap.

I want to avoid using aspirin and ibuprofen to excess, since I can envisage my stomach lining disintegrating, it’s molecules wafting up then bursting into nothingness.  I’d like to exhaust all my “already have the stuff at home” methods.  The olive oil tanked and I have vinegar, so I’ll try the “warm vinegar rub” tonight…see if that works. 

If that proves a disappointment, my next grocery list will include ginger (for ginger tea), some cayenne pepper, and castor oil (where do you buy castor oil?). 

You know I will keep you posted, and I welcome suggestions.  As long as it doesn’t blister me, corrode my skin, is made of blechy eggs or gets me arrested, I might give it a try.  However, there’s still no way I’m going to squirt lukewarm water up my backside. 

Craaaaaaaaap, indeed.

Oh for Bleep’s Sake

Yeah, so the headache stuck through yesterday.  Better today and I’m glad of it.  I decided that it must be the result of some sort of monster pollen engineered by Mother Nature as a response to animal hormone injections, airplane contrails, biotech corn killing off the monarch butterfly population, terrorist activity or alien master race implantation.

Not really.  But I do think the pollen is nasty this year. 

However, my complaint du jour is not the government-assisted ragweed.  It is joint pain.  Pain in the thumb and elbow of my left arm.  And because I know how it works (the finger bone’s connected to the hand bone, the hand bone’s connected to the arm bone, the arm bone’s connected to the shoulder bone, them bones, oh them skeleton bones), I’m expecting the crippling effects of arthritis to debilitate my shoulder tomorrow.  I’m envisioning my left hand gnarling up and hardening any day now.

The good news is that my left hand is not dominant, so I will be able to sign my social security checks and swat at mouthy children.  I also look forward to getting a handicap designation for my car.  I’m all for looking at the silver lining.

In the meantime, I’m investigating homeopathic remedies.  Some appear to be very soothing, others are a little, uhm…no.  The lukewarm enema for a few days to flush out my system?  A big fat NO.  The nettle soup doesn't sound too easy to make.  The water and potato juice drink…ew.  I could rub warm olive oil on the effected areas, or possibly warm vinegar.  I'll smell like a salad.  I'm unwilling to spend $20 for a few glucosamine chondroitin tablets.  For now anyway.  If it gets bad enough, I might.  So expensive though. 

I think I'll try the olive oil rub tonight.  See if it helps.  Oh, and I could wrap it in RED flannel.  I don't know why exactly it has to be RED flannel.  I get the flannel part – soft and warm – it’s nice.  I’m unschooled, though, in the medicinal properties of the red dye.  Maybe it makes it WARMER.  Maybe it seeps into your warmed pores, lays red eggs, feeds on the inflammation, then exudes alien master race spores into the atmosphere causing the monster pollen that will give me another two-day headache. 

I’m just not sure. But I guess it’s a good thing I don’t have any red flannel handy.

Old Lady Land

I smiled today.  A dear friend on Facebook recently shared her anxiety having joined the ranks of those who have let a child loose behind the wheel while clutching their license in their hands. My friend was feeling the incongruence between the joyful release from driving this child to and fro and the belly twisting fear that at any second, there would be a knock at the door behind which would stand a New York State Trooper and a cleric.

Having successfully delivered two sons into the asphalt jungle, I felt her pain. It really becomes an exercise in faith and trust, doesn’t it? If you believe in God or a higher power, you give yourself and your children into His hands. If you don’t claim such a belief, I imagine you let your children loose trusting them and keeping faith in all that you taught to keep them safe.

It’s also another meander down the road of your life. When you realize that you are old or at least oldering. The babies that came squalling out of your womb, that you nursed, changed, fed, bathed, nurtured, taught, cried for and wept with are now driving. They are big now. They can beat you up maybe; certainly they can run faster than you can, so it’s not like you can smack ‘em anymore. They duck and laugh. It’s humiliating really.

But now they are now seated behind a glass partition with bullets aimed directly at their little heads. We’ve put them in front of those bullets on purpose and they, in their turn, are thrilled at the prospect. Demand it really, the little sticks. It wasn’t that long ago that you too seized the feeling of freedom and you remember thrill that you got knowing you were untouchable.

Ahhh, but dame experience has taught that you really were pretty stupid at that age, that you most certainly aren’t untouchable, and that anything can happen.

That’s not what makes you feel old. Nooo. See, you still think you’ve got it going on, you have some influence, you’re hip and pretty freaking fabulous!  But then your daughter takes the keys one day and you hear your mother come out of your mouth (you can’t stop this, don’t even try).  Her eyes glaze over and she’s decided that you are just too old to live but she won't say it because what's the point...you’re too old to hear her anyway.  You aren’t feeble yet, you see all this run through her face in a split second...and that’s when it happens.  You know that you're old. You feel it. It is at that second that all the calcium leaves your bones and your hip breaks.

Not long after that you get progressive lenses, take Geritol and secretly start to pay attention to ads for Depends. 

We all eventually embrace our inner old lady. She’s glorious. So are we.  We remember, that one day, the little buttholes will get old too.  And we smile.

Teetotaler gods

I am thoroughly convinced that I can no longer consume alcohol of any kind or in any amount.

I’m a fan of the dirty martini; very dirty, thanks, with three olives. I suppose someone should just call it Olive Vodka With a Whiff of Vermouth or something because that’s how I like it. To be precise, my preference runs toward the big fat olives stuffed with a pimento – not a big fan of garlic or almond or hot pepper stuffarifficness. It’s just who I am. I will test the occasional sweetened up “..tini”; i.e.; Apple-tinis, Chocla-tini, Cran-tini and the like, but only as a varietal of the genre, not as a steady diet. On a hot evening I do like a cold Cosmopolitan. But basically, I’m a simple, salty girl.

Beer = Shiner Bock, Wine = Beringer Chardonnay, Shots = Tequila

I am not a big drinker. I was always worried, due to some pretty significant boozified DNA, that I would have a problem with alcohol so I spent most of my formative years avoiding it. After my husband left in 2000, I decided that I could indulge if I wanted to…and I wanted to. I lived with White Zinfandel for a while – to my friend Ken’s elitist oenephilic horror – whored around with Woo-Woo for a little bit and have now settled into my current surroundings with Olive Vodka With a Whiff of Vermouth. But no, I am not a big drinker. One or two drinks once or twice a week is way plenty.

However, Father Time pummeled, I having recently surrendered to the Bifocal gods. I’m worried that other little demons are sneaking in, taking up residence and soon to deprive me of any pleasure. I refuse to think about it.

My last two Tini-Episodes were uncomfortable. Each time - one martini – just one – and both times I woke up at 3am with a splitting hangover headache intending to drill a hole in my temple to let the bad out. Nausea. Fatigue. Unladylike stomach activity. I wanted to die.

Third time’s the charm. I went to Guest Blogger’s house last night for dinner. Convinced that someone was trying to poison me, I eschewed the martini and went with the lovely J. Lohr merlot (I think it was merlot…let’s just say “red”) that was trotted out. I drank what constitutes 2 glasses of wine. A pleasant evening of conversation and laughter…it was lovely.

Today, headache and fatigue. Tummy is off the bubble. God and my body are telling me to stop drinking. Now. And completely.

It took me 2 years to bend over for the bifocal gods. The teetotaler gods can wait too.

Progressive Lenses

I mentioned it earlier, sneaking it in like it wasn’t a big deal; I now have progressive lenses.

I’d fought my need for bifocals for two years. Thinking that my inability to focus when reading was a fluke – positive it would clear up on its own. Thinking that somehow biting that pillow was an admission that I’d fully dried up. Thinking that the only thing left for me was to research funerary real estate.

New Job, New Vision Benefit, New Eye Doctor. We had a long and satisfying chat about my skyrocketing ocular hypertension ~ indeed, New Doctor seemed enthusiastic about the state of the art tests and dreamy technology that littered the office ~ practically clapping his hands together and gleefully rubbing. We then had a sincere conversation about bifocals and my options. The staff at New Eye Doctor’s Office was terrific. I must have modeled 200 frames and while I was tempted to reach for the same look I’ve had since 1983, I allowed the staff and my daughter to pick the frames for me. Progressive non-glare, plastic, no scratch lenses with purple, slim frames. Very different.

I’m still getting used to the frames; seriously, wasn't the height of eye frame fashion 1980s? Gibungous frames with lenses that covered your head, subtly tinted thanks. I’ve since chided myself for fighting my need for progressive lenses for so long: I can see. I can read. Even though I have to get the right lens adjusted, I can see better than I’ve seen in three years.

The good news is ~ I haven't dried up, I'm not looking into burial plots and I'm the first of my siblings or cousins to get fitted for progressive lenses. That means I win...don't I?

Trying to ZZZZZZZZZ

I. Am. So. Tie Tie.

That’s how my daughter used to say she was tired when she was a baby. In the manner of billions of parents the world over who repeat the cute things their kids babble; my family and I still say that when feeling markedly sluggish.

No idea why I’m so tired...well my sleep patterns have been interrupted this week. I was still exhausted Monday after driving home from NY on Sunday. And then one horrific night in particular occurred Wednesday, after having consumed caffeine-laden soda after 9pm. That was mistake #1. Wide awake, I stayed up watching television, deleting shows on my dvr. At 11:30 pm, since I was still unable to nod off, I finally decided to engage my bedtime ritual and read until I fell asleep. That was mistake #2. I was this close to finishing Stephen King’s Duma Key and was at a critical juncture; the last 100 and creepiest pages of the book. No way was I going to fall asleep until I finished.

But damn it, it was a work night, and at 2:30 am the effing book wouldn’t effing end, so I closed it, shut off the light and was determined to get three hours of sleep anyway. Huzzah! Success!

No, that was mistake #3. Not that it was foreseeable, but I had a highly disturbing nightmare. Once I realized I was inside a dream I forced myself to wake up from it…and it was all of 3:00 am. Thirty solid minutes of disturbed sleep. For what it’s worth, the dream left a gruesome feeling in its wake that I’m still, two days later, having difficulty shaking. I might have been able to let go of it if I didn’t learn that Guest Blogger (who? Who is that even?) had a dream that included some similar elements on the same night. I’m still creeped out.

After that, the night was pretty much a bust. Mistake #4; I dozed a few minutes each half hour after that, but I kept waking up to check the clock.

It used to be that I could manage a sleepless night and still run on fumes the next day without any ill effects. I could juggle a job, young children and a lusty marital bed; sleep wasn’t too big a deal. Now, it takes me several days to recover if I don’t get enough shut eye.

Just another sign of aging. Nearer my God to thee.

Beautiful

Bee Gees Song of the Day: Every Christian Lion Hearted Man Will Show You

Don't walk so tall
Before you crawl
For every child
Is thinking of something wild

I was lamenting the aging process the other day. When I was young, I'll be the first to tell you that I looked great. Firm, taut, strong, a size 4, my ass excited the ardor of upper classmen. Well, one upper classman. But he was hot and I had a powerful crush on him. I was dating someone steadily at the time and so didn’t give in to my baser nature.

I’m fortunate; my face still looks young. I’ve gotten used to the bemused wonder on the faces of those who find out I have 3 grown children. Still, I’ve changed over the last 25 years. My roots need coloring, my wrinkles are deepening.

I’m no size 4.

I was admiring my daughter’s hands the other day. Smooth, slender, and lovely. I compared her hands to mine and mine came up wanting. Wanting botox. But my youngest child exclaimed, “Oh, I LOVE your hands!”

“You are just being nice, they are hideous.”

“Oh NO. Look at them, they’re beautiful!”

“Oh, really.” I was unimpressed.

“I look at these hands and I see life! I can see all the foreheads you’ve checked for fevers, all the neck rubs, the aspirins you gave us, the peanut butter sandwiches you’ve made. Do you know you are able to make a peanut butter sandwich with one swipe of the knife?” she kept stroking and admiring my hands as I stared at her with an open mouth.

“How do you make peanut butter spread across the bread like that? That amazes me! I tried to do that once and I just ripped the bread. These hands have washed thousands of dishes, folded tons of clothes, swept floors, driven me places. These hands have loved and hugged and lived! Look at my hands! They haven’t lived! They’ve done nothing! I love your hands! I think they are beautiful! And your face,” she started to smooth my cheeks. “Look at those lines! Look at those smile lines by your eyes! I love those, you’ve laughed so much, you’ve smiled so much, they make you so beautiful!”

I doubt that we ever see ourselves as others see us. 43 years of living day to day, laughing, crying, loving, hating; all that living marks us emotionally, intellectually and certainly physically.

Do we ever see ourselves as someone who loves sees us? Did I realize that the insignificant act of spreading peanut butter on a piece of bread caused wonder? Did I ever stop to consider the eyes of my children and what they saw? When I wept? When I hated? When I forgave? When I clapped? When I smiled? When I hugged?

I looked at my hands again. And I looked at my smile lines again. And I looked at my not-size-4 body again. And I was beautiful.

I'm Still Here

Bee Gees Song of the Day: A Lonely Violin

One time long ago,
I tried so hard to reach you,
A song I tried to teach you,
But you were never there.

Despite all my big talk last week about changing my walking habits because of Scary Patrick The Face of Evil, I pretty much get up at the same time and walk the same route every day. Sometimes I’ll change it up on the weekends because there is not the rush to get back and get ready for work. Mostly, I keep it the same because Buddy needs the consistency – mess up anything in his routine and he’s crazy dog for the rest of the day.

I’ve been contemplating this tree on my walk. Like an old whore sitting in her favorite spot of the bar, dressed in what was her finery from the Eisenhower administration. She thinks she still looks fetching, waiting for Mack Daddy to come in and make it all good again. The trappings once used to allure have decayed, as she has, and she’s a sad shell of herself. She’s trying to be dignified and witty with the young hipsters crowding around, (she could show them a thing or two!) but after a nod of acknowledgement, they turn away and try not to make eye contact again. She picks up her green wrap and hugs it a little more closely to her thinning frame.

Bleeping kids.

I'm reminded of a really wonderful song I hear occasionally on the Broadway Channel on my Sirius radio.

Yvonne DeCarlo singing "I'm Still Here". Best lines:

"First you're another sloe-eyed vamp! Then someone's mother....now you're camp! Then you career from career to career. I'm almost through with my memoirs ~ and I'm here."

And here she is. You know Yvonne DeCarlo. She played Lily Munster. I think she's beautiful. She passed away January 8, 2007.

(Ignore the blip 2 minutes in, but please please at least watch 3 minutes in to the end.)