Gigi October 31, 2009

Gigi was a pisser. 

Gigi was my maternal grandmother, and today (Halloween) would have been her 97th birthday.  She was larger than life.  A character in every way.  And I miss her.

When I look in the mirror these days  I can see her…… I see her in my double chin and ever-expanding mid-section.  I hear her each time I wheeze upon laughing.  Unfortunately, I am only resembling her these days physically, when it would serve me well to be like her in other ways.  

Gigi thought highly of herself without apologizing for it.  Everywhere she went, she was all dolled up.  Every outfit had its matching hat and scarf, bag and bauble.  She would “tell it like it is”,  and didn’t seem too worried about what anyone thought.   She wasn’t afraid to ask for what she wanted,  yet always took the time to think of the needs of others.  She never met a stranger she didn’t like and left everyone a friend.  

Gigi was always ready for a party (especially one in her honor), and delighted in receiving gifts.  (“You really shouldn’t have…..but I’m SO glad you did!”)  It seems that lately, I  have ignored the gifts she shared.  Gigi squeezed the juice out of life, and danced as long as her failing heart would let her.   

So here’s to you, Gigi……tonight I dance.XO

Picture This….. October 27, 2009

“Hello?”

“Oh, Thank God.  You’re there.  SHE’S THERE…….SHELLEY…..YES, SHE’S HOME NOW…..your father’s asking where……WHAT?……CAN WE HAVE THIS CONVERSATION AFTER I GET OFF THE PHONE WITH HER?…….why doesn’t he just pick up the phone himself?  Sorry……I’m not trying to be a pest……I mean, I’m not trying to intrude in your life, it’s just that we hadn’t heard from you all day…..I couldn’t remember if you told me that you would be out of town today………but even so, you usually slip in a call……..”

“It’s OK, Mom.  Don’t you remember I told you I had auditions all day today and tomorrow and that …….”

 

“SHE IS HOME…….SHE WAS WORKING………oh….that’s right…….well….no problem…. sometimes I just worry….you know….you’re there all by yourself.  I just picture you lying at the bottom of your stairs after slipping in your sloppy shoes.”

Now I know where I get it.  

I “picture things” all the time.  My son is late by 5 minutes and I picture the police at my door.  I’ve actually had conversations with them in my head. 

“He’s at the hospital now, ma’am.  We can take you there.  Who would have thought that those work boots sitting in the back seat would have flown upon his stopping and hit him in the back of the head, causing him to go unconscious like that at the wheel?”

(I would.)

I get carried away like that.  I’ve been on an airplane before and heard a baby coughing.  Suddenly, I’m picturing  it.  The “baby choking emergency”.  The flight attendant is beginning to panic.  The baby is turning blue.   Turns out the guy in 14C is a doctor.  He attempts to resuscitate the little one, but quickly realizes that he has to manually open the airway.  Dear God….we have no medical instruments available!  Swiftly, I grab my ball point pen and antibacterial hand sanitizer from my purse and in no time, the pink returns to Little Clara’s cheeks……

Thank God, most of the things I “picture” never come to pass.  Of course, I never picture myself winning the lottery or meeting the man of my dreams, but you can bet I’ve pictured getting my toe  run over by a city bus (and I don’t even live in the city), and I’ve pictured my hair catching on fire every year as I blow out my birthday candles. 

My son doesn’t get it yet.  He isn’t capable of understanding how a parent worries (or that his mother is a neurotic lunatic….well, maybe that).   He huffs and puffs each time I check  to make sure he’s safely where he is supposed to be.  It really isn’t meant as an intrusion.  Just  love and a morbid imagination, mixed with years of training in a family who insists you “call us when you get there” (even when you’re on your honeymoon).

So don’t worry, Mom.  Your Nervous Nancy calls don’t bother me at all. “Cuz I get it.  As a matter of fact, it’s a bit of a relief.  There may come a day when I DO run myself over in the driveway after trying to pick up the newspaper without getting out of the car. 

And I know you’ll send help in no time.

Pillsbury Dough Girl October 25, 2009

I decided to give my couch a break today as it is starting to cave under pressure.  The pressure of my ass pressing into it as I do most of my work-from-home from the very same, now cushionless, cushion.  I decided that today might be a good day to bring my computer out into the real world and let my couch have a moment to regain its original shape. 

So I parked it at Panera.  For those of you who get out even less than I do, Panera is a bakery-cafe.  According to their own webpage: 

“We are Panera. We are bakers of bread. We are fresh from the oven. We are a symbol of warmth and welcome. We are a simple pleasure, honest and genuine…. We are home. We are family. We are friends….”

 

They forgot to add, “We are deadly to your carb addiction.” 

 

I could live on bread alone.  What I mean to say is…I live on bread alone.  Which is probably not such a good idea given my severe wheat and yeast allergies.  Not to mention that anyone who has seen me lately knows that this diet is definitely NOT a good look on me.  It’s not that I’m getting fat……I’m just RISING!

Given my poppin’ fresh figure, I have been trying lately to just get a cup of coffee and find a corner booth.  But today, the place was packed so I was forced into the center of the main dining area.  My table choices were few so I selected the 2-seater opposite a Paul Bunyan look-alike.  He was alone (as I was) so I had to quickly decide to sit with my back to him, or spend the next 30 minutes trying to avoid staring at his fingers, which looked like a weird daikon radish I had once seen http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ovJS1Em-6dg/Rf-U8U_pbnI/AAAAAAAAFdM/rdPh6MLOJXo/s320/radishFoot.jpg

 

Turning my back to my lumberjack friend, I was facing another dilemma.  I was now facing the bakery display case. How on earth was I going to ignore all the yeast-leavened treats that were surrounding me and get any work done?  (An asiago bagel rolls by with a sourdough breadbowl full of broccoli-cheese soup.)  Just look away, Michelle.  Sniff your coffee……

 

I struggle to concentrate while the family to my left is “oooo-ing and ahhhhh-ing” over their pastry choices.  Mr. Elastic Waistband can’t contain himself over his warm Cobblestone Roll (a cinnamon raisin bread dough mixed with chunks of apples and spices, topped with streusel and white icing), while the Missus wrestles her Bear Claw down.  The children fight over the last bit of chocolate chip cookie.

 

Don’t listen to them…..I start humming Christmas carols to distract myself.

 

Staring at the bottom of my empty cup O’ joe,  I consider lunch.  Maybe just a soup and salad?  Afterall, there are healthier choices available here.  I wait patiently behind a grilled Panini and toasted bagel, while the lady behind me decides aloud that “whatever she’s having, she’s having on that Tomato-Basil bread!”

I stiffen my resolve as I approach the counter.  Soup and salad….soup and salad….becomes my mantra.

 

“Can I help you?” asks the metabolism-challenged girl behind the counter. 

 

“Yes, I’ll have a Grilled Chicken Caesar Salad with extra croutons and a French Onion soup …..extra croutons please….” answers my metabolism-less self.

 

“Now would you prefer an apple or a freshly baked baguette as your side?”

 

 

……………………………you’re kidding, right?

 

 

You Don’t Scare Me… October 23, 2009

They’re right over there….huddled together and staring at me.  I’m know I’m not imagining it.  They’re mocking me. They’re trying to intimidate me, but I won’t let them….I won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing the panic that rumbles just below the surface. 

They’re my unpaid bills.  Like a gang of hoodlums waiting for me just outside the schoolyard fence.  One bill alone doesn’t scare me…..I can handle myself on an even playing field, but put ‘em in a pile and suddenly I’m Goldilocks in the hood.  Vulnerable and fearing for my safety.  (Put your checkbook away, Mom and Dad….there’s poetic license at work here…..)

I try not to look at them.  Avoid eye contact the way I do the mirror as I step out of the shower….the way one avoids looking directly at the sun.  But it seems that the longer I avoid the confrontation, the rowdier they become. The  taunting increases as they grow in  number.

Stay calm….Michelle.  I must keep my wits about me.  I’ve been here before and survived.   I need to take away their power.  I just need to deal with each one of them alone.  Look ‘em dead in the eye and size ‘em up. 

OK….

Macy’s?…you’re not so tough… I actually thought you’d be bigger…..

Water and Sewer Bill?……..I’ve dealt with worse…you hardly ever come around….

oh……hhhhey…..Mr. uh…Car Payment….hehe…..back again, huh?

(GULP) Hhhow’s it goin’ …..Medical Insurance?…..(I feel sick) Lookin’ pretty pumped up these days…….

Alright, Michelle…..just sit ‘em all down and start the negotiations.  You can do this.   Just don’t ever let ‘em see you sweat….

 

and don’t be too quick to put all your cards (credit cards that is) on the table……..

Temporary Amnesia October 22, 2009

We’ve been dealing with (yet another) crisis in our household.  Approximately 3 weeks ago, my 18 year old son’s girlfriend was in a car accident.  Although she was unscathed physically (thank God), a blow to her head has left her with amnesia.  The doctors have assured that the condition will be temporary, and that it should resolve itself within 6 weeks or so.  Thankfully, she is beginning to remember bits and pieces of the parts of her life that went missing, and we are all hopeful that she will be fully recovered soon.

Needless to say, there was a lot of drama surrounding this event. My son, though obviously relieved at his girlfriend’s physical safety, was devastated by the fact the his relationship with her “vanished” in an instant. Any attempt at reassuring him that all would be well was met with “Mom, you don’t understand!  The person I love doesn’t even know who I am!”

Touche.

That really must suck. I can’t say that I know how exactly how he feels, but I can relate in my own way. Getting divorced has some similar symptoms. The difference is you remember who “they” are, but “they” (90% of the people who used to be your community of friends) suddenly don’t remember who YOU are. Dinner party invitations stop coming and folks get really good at pretending not to see you there sniffing cantaloupes in the produce aisle. Am I bitter? Naw….not any more…….. it’s just a little disappointing.

The greater tragedy is when we let things like that cause us to forget who WE are. I’ve had my own form of temporary amnesia for quite a while now. Before I became this cynical, depressed, overweight, middle-aged woman going in circles, I was fearless. (I was 9 at the time…but I was fearless!) My mother often asks me what happened to the girl who wasn’t going to let ANYTHING get in her way. The girl who didn’t care what anyone thought of her and who was determined to get where she was going no matter the cost. Well Mom, she hit her head……on life.

My brain is just fine. No bruise, no bleeding. Just a build-up of crap I’ve let rest there for the last 2 decades. But my 6 weeks are loooooong past and it’s time to recover the bits and pieces of the parts of my life that have gone missing. I forgot I had self-esteem. I forgot I had brains. I forgot I had dignity. I forgot what it’s like to tuck a shirt in. It’s time for me to remember who I really am. (Can you hear her?  Helen Reddy just burst into “I am Woman, Hear Me Roar..”)

http://www.lyricsdepot.com/helen-reddy/i-am-woman.html

Uncle Stu’s Underpants October 21, 2009

Finishing up our coffee and brainstorming session, my friend and I prepared to leave our quiet corner of the restaurant.  “Walk with me over to Walmart, will ya?” suggested my friend. 

 ”Sure.” came my quick reply.  I had nowhere in particular to be and it wasn’t all that far across the plaza, though I felt that somehow this was my health conscious friend’s subtle way of getting me to do my first bit of exercise in….oh….say…..a year? I wondered if perhaps this wasn’t an impromptu exercise class disguised as a shopping trip.

As my friend race-walked across the parking lot, I was determined to not let on that I was in full respiratory distress.  “HHHHHWhat  hhhhhdo  hhhhhyou need hhhhat Whhhhhhalmart?” I heaved.

“I’m looking for underwear.”

Huh. Not that I cared….we are pretty good friends, but I’ve never actually been underwear shopping with a male friend.  We headed straight for the underpants while I wondered to myself….Hmmm….Boxers or briefs?  Definitely not a tighty-whitey kind of guy.

Walmart sure does carry an awful lot of mens’ underpants.  While I examined a pair Zebra-striped bikini bottoms, my friend seemed unable to locate the object of this trip. 

“What kind do you wear?  I can help you look”  I offered.

“It’s not for me.  It’s for my Uncle Stu.  He needs a 3x boxer.”

While we perused the aisles in search of Uncle Stu’s underpants, my friend filled me in.  Uncle Stu is his mentally challenged uncle who lives on Staten Island, and for one reason or another has found himself out of stock in the BVD department.  My friend serves as a guardian of sorts to this gentleman whom I’ve never met, and was given the task of securing the new undergarments on his behalf. 

Given my new understanding of the situation, I was now a gal on a mission.  The thought of Uncle Stu having to go “Commando” was too much for me to bear.  We tore the place apart.  I opened cabinets that were for Associates Only.  We recruited help from a lady wearing a yellow smiley face button.  We showed her the shelf marked 3X that was filled with nothing but 2X  imposters.  She called for backup but none came.  We were on our own.

We did find one opened 3-pack marked 3X, but upon further inspection, discovered it held only 2 pairs of 2X.  The disappointment was palpable.

And now I can’t get Uncle Stu’s underpants off my mind.  It’s become my new obsession.  Everywhere I go, I’m in search of the 3X boxer.  I run into Target for some kitty litter, and where do I find myself?  That’s right…..Men’s underwear.  A quick stop at KMart is derailed by my new fixation.  My friend has since found his charge a workable solution, but it’s not what Uncle Stu wanted….or what he deserves.  Uncle Stu must have his underpants!  The thought of this stranger with an unnecessary wedgie keeps me up at night. 

 

I really need to get a life.