Sit Still, Wouldya? [An audio/video Interactive Blog]

What do you do when you don't want to do anything but you want to do something? It's not really that I didn't WANT to do something, but my back had been in spasms for two days, so I just didn't feel good enough to do anything and knew that I shouldn't do anything, so as not to worsen my pain. But even when I don't want to do anything...I still have to do something. I'm not one to sit around even if I have nothing planned. I always find things to do around the house and if I don't...I concoct. But most of them require physical movement. There are not too many things you can do that allow you to just sit still...except reading, watching TV or sitting at the computer. But there is just so much of that you can do in a weekend. Believe me…I do my best to compete for the world’s record for most hours logged in on the computer and TV, but I do get to a point where my eyes are unfocusable (I made that word up) and I have to find other things. 

My weekend started out pain free (or what I call pain free in my world since I’m never pain free.)So bright and early Saturday morning, I started doing chores. Laundry that hadn't been done for a couple of weeks had piled up so it was time for a little fluff and fold. Once my sheets were out of the dryer, I started making my bed...and...BOING!

Spasms galore. I could not straighten up. So with my spine at a 45 degree angle, I finished putting the sheets on, [because being the slightly obsessive neat freak that I am, I couldn’t leave my bed half made just because of some excruciating back spasms], then proceeded downstairs to ice my back. Try finding a comfortable position when every which way you move causes spasms. I tried every couch and chair in the house that I could find, and after about an hour of struggling to get up and down testing each one, I was exhausted. I finally decided on one, sat down, futzed around trying to find that perfect position, strategically placed pillows around me, placed the ice pack on my lower back…and… Ding Dong. Are you f**king kidding me? The doorbell rang.

If I wasn’t expecting a delivery I would have ignored it but I couldn’t. It only took me about 4 minutes to rock myself up out of the chair like an 80 year old and walk to the door. 

Luckily I had a very patient FedEx person.

   

After about 4 hours of icing on and off, I was going nuts just sitting around once the spasms had subsided. The rest of my day consisted of various things I probably shouldn't have been doing. And of course I did things that required major physical twisting, which I never do on a daily or weekly basis. I pride myself on not being the brightest when it comes to physical limitations. I just go for it if it involves exercise or physical output, and I'm damn proud of it.

I'm not a sweeper. I'm not a fan of brooms. But there were leaves on the patio that were pissing me off because I had to traipse over them every day. Since I was having back problems, what better to do but sweep? I don't like dirty patios. I don't like dirty anything. So naturally, cleaning couldn't come at a more opportune time; when I should be doing nothing but resting my back. I made sure that I didn't sweep the entire patio though, so that my back didn't get too weary. 

When I got inside, I noticed sand on the floor because my kids had been at the beach. Couldn't let that stay there, and since the broom was already in hand, I swept up the floor. I only did downstairs, though, so that my back didn't get too weary. Following the pattern here? But as I was walking up the stairs to get something, a few little dust bunnies popped out at me. Well…there’s no way that is going to be overlooked. So what’s the smartest thing to do? Get out the vacuum, of course. But I made sure I just used the portable one. Ya know…the one whose hose is so short you have to bend over and stay that way the whole time you’re vacuuming? Another ingenious idea by moi.

As I remained stuck in the prone position for the next 20 minutes, my dog came to visit me from underneath. Good thing she is small so that she could get below me. She didn’t really understand why my hands weren’t rubbing her tummy but rather perched against the wall holding up my body. As I climbed my hands up the wall slowly straightening my back, she decided it was a good time for humping. Never miss an opportunity to hump a leg. (watch this til the end).

I finally semi-straightened up but before I did, I noticed the moldings and the walls had some marks on them that just didn’t belong there. How bad could it be for my back to do a little eraser sponging along the walls? But not only did I notice the marks on the wall, but I noticed my dog could use a little trim on her bangs. What better to do then bend down again and pick up my 20 pound dog for a little hair styling? I know 20 pounds doesn’t sound like a lot, but in doggie pounds…that’s like 140.

Eventually, I smartened up and realized I was being way over zealous and thought a shower would be the last output of energy on my unplanned agenda. I was in desperate need from all the activity I wasn't supposed to be doing that day. Too bad I'm not a bath lover because as I stepped into the shower, I didn't notice the bar of soap laying on the bottom, and as I stepped in....

How was YOUR day?

Are You Who You Say You Are?

Have you ever noticed how people in certain professions are so inept at their own when it comes to taking care of themselves?  Like when you walk into a hair salon and not one hairdresser has well coiffed hair. We sit down in their chair...look up at them with puppy dog eyes begging them to make us beautiful, but secretly thinking “Please make me look nothing like you.” You then look over and see some of their co-workers with one side of their head shaved and the rest of their head donning various lengths and styles of hair. Like they couldn't decide what exactly they wanted to do at the time. Yet we are putting our trust in them to take scissors to our locks and style our hair...seriously? Are we nuts?

Then there are others with multiple colors of hair. What are they thinking? Very natural looking. I'd prefer not to look like I have multi-flavored cotton candy on my head. Maybe I'm just old fashioned and like to look a little more normal. I don’t mind blonde or red highlights, but a striped rainbow zebra head is a little more out there than I can handle. And some of those haircuts....yikes! Who comes up with those designs...people on acid? And what’s with foreign objects being weaved in? I would love to know who came up with the feather thing. Must’ve been an ornithologist, dontcha think?

But it's not even the outrageous colors or the ridiculous looking cuts...it's those with the greasy hair that looks like it hasn’t been washed in days. Or brushed........ever. Like they just woke up, got out of bed, and went to work with a matted down helmet head. Who knows what could be crawling around in there? And you're gonna shampoo MY head? [Can you please scrub your hands and clean under your nails before you begin? Better yet…wear gloves.] But once that head massage starts....all is forgotten. I'm in heaven....ahhhhh.

What about your manicurist? Have you ever had one with nails you would want on your own hands? When I used to get my nails done (you know...before my kids decided to suck my bank account dry and siphon every last drop out of it), I noticed my nail lady had the worst nails ever.  Her cuticles needed trimming, her nails needed filing, the polish was chipped, they weren’t the cleanest…yet I allowed her to use a cuticle scissors on my very precious fingers. I just don't get that practice of taking care of others but not yourself? At least do it as PR for your own methods. Your own body should represent, in a positive light, the body part you are servicing on others. There are some with nails so long and fake looking you’d think they were used in a Miracle Blade infomercial. I’m not quite sure how they function in everyday life with those weapons, except for being able to scratch someone’s back from 10 feet away. How do they tend to their feminine needs without gouging themselves? Geesh and ewww.

Do you know any shrink that doesn’t go to a therapist for their own neuroses? And they even bring it up in YOUR session about what they discussed in theirs. Seriously? I feel so much more secure now putting my mental health into your neurotic hands. I'm not sure if it's mandatory but every single psychologist I know...and I know a lot (not from personal experience, in case you’re wondering...although I do have some) but I have a lot of friends and family who are shrinks and they all have their own shrinks.  Doesn't that make you question their ability in problem solving and analytical thinking? So we are putting our mental health into the hands of someone who can't resolve their own mental health? Hmmmmm. Something to ponder.

I've noticed something quite interesting with some of the nurses I've known, which totally baffles me to this day. They are in a profession that stresses and demands health and sanitization. I've seen them at work and how obsessive they can be with cleanliness. But when I went to their homes, I wanted to puke. Oh my god! I had never seen such filth in my entire life. And clutter? It was just short of hoarding. I don't get it. How can you go from a totally sterilized environment to an almost uninhabitable home, knowing the health hazards? We are talking papers piled up three feet high on counters, floors, desks, tables, wherever; kitchen tables with layers of sticky goop and god only knows what else; bathrooms covered in…actually, I don’t even want to know. Tell me something...how do you not notice crumbs all over your floor as you're walking when little pieces are getting stuck between your toes, your feet are sticking to the ground and there’s crunching beneath the soles of your shoes? When your hand sticks to the table, do you not notice there may be some foreign substance you may have eaten 3 weeks ago still adhering to the surface? I’m not exaggerating…I had witnessed this first hand, and only one time because I never went back to any of their homes. I could vomit. I can only imagine what’s between the sheets and in the mattresses. No…I take that back. I can’t imagine.

And what about out of shape trainers? How can someone who is overweight and lacking in muscle tone profess to be an expert in health and physical training? Isn’t that an oxymoron? Yet, there are people who decide this is the person they want whipping them into shape. Really? What shape was it that you wanted to be whipped into? Pillsbury dough boy? Michelin tire man? And you’re paying this oxy-moron to help you get there?

So why do we trust these people? Because they are located inside the establishments that promote the service we came for? Of course…but it makes no sense. If you saw a doctor with scars all over his face…would you trust him as your plastic surgeon? Think about it. Not that a haircut or a manicure is life threatening…but let me tell you…one bad haircut can cause months of stress and agony. And then you would have to see one of those shrinks who needs his own shrink to get through a day in his life. And you would eat to suppress your unhappiness so you would have to go see one of those overweight trainers who can’t train himself. And then you would get your nails done because if your hair can’t look good right then, and your body isn’t in shape, at least your nails can be, so you would go see one of those butcher manicurists who doesn’t take the time to trim her own nails. And there you have it and that’s why these people are in business. They are all in cahoots with one another. The circle of life.

***All professionals represented in this blog are fictitious. Any resemblance to a person I may know is purely coincidental***

Did You Forget Something?

Next Tuesday I leave for Vegas on a business trip. I decided I needed to get everything prepared this weekend so that I’m ready to go on Tuesday. You would think I was leaving the country for a year by the way I prepare for a 3 day trip. I’m not quite sure what it is about going away for just two nights that makes me feel like I need to tie up all loose ends and take care of certain chores prior to departing. I have a list the length of Long Island, just for this trip. I spent 2 hours in my closet configuring different outfits, knowing exactly what I will end up wearing…the same thing I wear to every business meeting I go to. I bring 10 wardrobe changes, and wear the same 2 outfits every time. I also bring an extra pair of pants and an extra pair of jeans, on top of the 10 wardrobe changes, in case I spill something on them and need to change. In all the trips I have ever gone on over the years, I have yet to have that happen. I don’t know what makes me think that all of a sudden, I will become a slobbering pig…but I guess it’s like our moms always told us as kids…wear clean underwear in case we’re in an accident and the EMT’s have to strip us down. [That would be the most action I’ve gotten in months…ok...maybe years!] God forbid our panties have a slight hole. [Which is kinda gross anyway. Socks, on the other hand, I have kept longer than maybe I should have.]

Working from home has its benefits and its downfalls. The benefits consist of never having to dress up or wear make-up or do my hair. But I always do get dressed, at least in my workout clothes, because staying in my pj’s just doesn’t do it for me. I have to feel presentable…just for myself. I put in my contacts and put make up on every day. But the downfall is my business attire is from the 90’s…back when I had to go into an office periodically. So when I do have to dress for a meeting, I never know if I’m in style, or quite the dork. It seems business clothes don’t really change too much, except for the accessories, so I’m hoping I am making a 'current' appearance. Actually, I think my clothes are now back in style so I should be good. Keep ‘em long enough, you look current once again.

But the lingering wardrobe choices are not even what amaze me about my preparation...nor are they what's time consuming. It's all the other details that I make priorities as if I was going to some foreign country for a lifetime instead of a neighboring state for a few days. I make sure all my bills are paid early...just in case. Just in case of what? Just in case I get detained at Southwest Airlines security at Las Vegas airport for a 4 ounce bottle of lotion, am thrown into jail for wanting soft skin, and as a result, I don't pay my American Express bill before the grace period ends? I know full well that my bills can wait until I return from the trip, yet I am compelled to take care of them prior to leaving.

I leave money for my girls even though if I was home for these 3 days, I wouldn’t be giving them any money for anything. Maybe it’s guilt money for leaving two grown-up girls alone in the house with the dog? They probably look forward to me going and think, “Oh good, we’re going to make $50 each when mom leaves just because she’s not home.”

I make sure I have all my chargers with me. I have my cell phone charger, my camera charger, my laptop charger, my ipod charger. I would rather have THIS charger with me, but he wasn’t available.

Twenty four hours prior to leaving, I print up my e ticket. Actually, I print up 2 copies, just in case I lose one. The problem with that is...I keep them BOTH in the same place. How sensible is that? I know how stupid that is...but do I still do it? Sure. Of course. Why wouldn't I? It just makes me feel better. And then I check my purse, no kidding, at least 50 times, to be sure my boarding pass and my driver's license are in there. I NEVER take my driver's license out of my wallet - EVER - so why do I still check my wallet 50 gazillion times to be sure it's still in there? I have temporary OCD about every single part of the travel adventure, prior to departure. I check my list over and over and over because I'm so worried I may forget something on there. You would think I was going to Gilligan's Island where there are no stores to buy something I may forget. My breath may smell for days if I forget my toothbrush because I'm sure no one in Vegas sells toothbrushes. I need like 10 valium before I leave on a trip because I’m always in panic mode that I’ll forget something.

I time the dying of my hair perfectly so that two days prior to the trip, those roots are ready to be tackled with. And I do it two days before so that one day before I leave, I can do my nails. I can’t do my nails before the dying because I may get dye under one of them or on my cuticles and I would have to re-polish them all over again. It’s an exact science, in case you were wondering.

I also make sure all my laundry gets done whether I need any of those clothes or not. And the dishwasher is put on…really? Why? I think…now I could be wrong…but I think I could be the Felix Unger of our time. And it’s quite disturbing.

The night before I leave, I print up directions to Burbank airport. I even print up the map, although I couldn’t read a map to save my life. But you never know when you will need a map to a place you have been to at least 100 times. I know the way to the airport and I have never seen so many signs guiding you along the way, almost screaming at you where the airport is, yet I still print up directions. And again, I check my purse 80 times to be sure the directions I do not need at all, are in there.

I wake up about 2 hours earlier than I need to, and the night before, I check my alarm about 10 times to be sure it’s set correctly. Of course, I barely sleep during the night because I’m so worried I won’t wake up in time to leave in time to catch my plane in time, even though I give myself more than enough time needed. I am so exhausted planning and preparing for this 3 day trip, that by the time I actually get there, I will probably plop down in my hotel room, fall asleep, and miss my first few meetings. Ahhh…something else to worry about.

Will You Please Shut Up!

Working from home, I have the pleasure of listening to the environmental sounds of my neighborhood. For most of my life, I hadn't realized that the most obscure sounds could be so irritating to me. But recently, I find myself screaming out "Will you shut the f**k up already!"  Every day, every single f**king day, seven f**king days a week, the street cleaner arrives without fail, at 620 in the f**king morning. At least on weekdays, I am already up working at my desk by that time. But I will be sitting there and realize something is really unnerving me. I look out my window and there it is. That damn ugly looking street cleaning machine. It's that steady sound of the vacuum engine that drives me crazy. I always loved watching the Zamboni clean the ice...but this...this irritates the shit out of me. And on Saturday and Sunday? Are you f**king kidding me? At least they could start cleaning the streets at eight or nine AM on the weekends, not 6:20AM. You'd think we lived in the middle of some war torn country...I mean...how much crap can accumulate on the street in 24 hours. They can't possibly be picking up enough trash to warrant this annoyance 7 days a week.

I think there is a bird in cahoots with the street cleaners to drive me nuts. I have a bird outside my window that has the most irritating chirp I've ever heard. And God forbid it chirps when I'm awake. Nooo...it decides to give me a wakeup call at five in the morning. Most birds have a sweet, melodious sound, but this one gives a crow a run for its money. Fran Drescher and Janice from 'Friends' sound like Simon and Garfunkel compared to this bird. I'm almost ready to take a rubber band and sling it at that winged hyena, but I'm not a violent person. (And I know it would backfire and hit me in the face instead.) Unfortunately, living in southern California...flying further south isn't much of an option, therefore, it never leaves.

I was sitting at my desk, concentrating on work, and I kept hearing these rustling sounds in my back yard. I looked out the window for several days and couldn't figure out where they were coming from, but the sound was driving me nuts. When I walked outside, I noticed the wood chips from around the perimeter of the yard were scattered all over the patio. I didn't see anyone or anything lurking (happy to report), so I kept sweeping the chips back into their flower beds. I would go out a little later after hearing the sounds again, and the same thing. This kept happening over about a month's time. I finally saw two birds pecking at the ground and making the mess. They kept coming back and doing this over and over all day long for weeks. I would run downstairs and out the door, chasing them and shooing them away, but they always returned when I wasn't looking. And I would continue to sweep the patio over and over and over. It was becoming really annoying and I have the blisters on my hands from sweeping so much, to prove it. I obviously didn't frighten them away; instead, I think it became a game to them. Eventually they stopped their pecking and scattering...probably after I put that electric shock sensor in the chips. (Just kidding)

I have yet to understand why they can't come up with a muffler for the leaf blower. They can muffle the sound of a car engine (I'm assuming that's what a muffler does?), they can muffle the sound of a gunshot, but they can't muffle a leaf blower? I have to imagine that gardeners will eventually go deaf at some point in their life, or they will be shot dead first by those of us who morph into psycho neurotic assassins while listening to them. I'm thinking of cutting down every single tree that surrounds my house within a mile radius, but I'm afraid I would probably be arrested.

What is it about boys and their cars? Why do they believe that the louder the car, the more appealing it is? Seriously? I can tell you, without a doubt, that the louder the car, the further away I want to get from that person. How do they handle the noise? Especially on a motorcycle? Maybe they are all gardeners and are already deaf from the leaf blowers. I can barely stand the noise from my hair dryer while I’m drying my hair. I tried putting ear muffs on, but the band across the top of my head kinda got in the way of the styling process. I’m almost ready to leave my hair in one big frizz ball just to avoid the hair dryer noise.

I have never met a smoke alarm that I didn’t want to beat the shit out of. After moving into the house I am currently living in, there was a mass conspiracy amongst the smoke alarms to not only scare the crap out of me, but to drive me straight out of bed almost jumping out the window in the middle of the night. Every once in a while they would give me that lovely little chirping warning that something was amiss, but most of the time, they would go off suddenly…all at once, with that deafening shrill never ending siren sound . I have spent so much money on replacing batteries only to find out that the battery has nothing to do with their incessant screeching. I have literally pulled most of them out of the ceiling and still they insist on beeping. And the description of ‘beeping’ is being quite kind. I cannot understand what it is that keeps them going and going even after they’ve been disconnected.  I have taken hammers to them and beaten them to death and they still keep going. I have thrown them in the trash outside and the neighbors have complained about the high pitched noise coming from my side yard. I waited for the trash men to come and personally handed them all the alarms and told them to take them away as far as they could. I was able to track their garbage route for the next 20 minutes by the screaming of my smoke alarms. In fact…I think I still hear them calling out to me…’help meeeee’…..I just hope I never have a fire in my house because I will now have nothing to warn me. Except the heat and flames, of course, but I think I’ll take my chances.

Why is it that I can hear all the noises I have no interest in hearing, yet I can’t hear my own kids when they talk to me? “What? What did you say? Can you speak up and stop mumbling. Slow down. I can’t understand a word you’re saying.” I mean…who talks that fast? And why is it they can all understand each other but parents can’t? That’s why I like texting. I can understand them when they talk. And the silence of it…well…that speaks for itself.

Sister Act

I am so fortunate to have someone in my life who truly and deeply cares about me. No stipulations, all give, no take, no expectations. Just true, deep down, honest love. She has been my confidante, my sounding board, my mentor, my role model. She's been my best friend for as long as I can remember. We've had our 3 minute fights and then they were over. In fact, she used to be downright mean to me when we were kids and would give me Indian burns and rat me out to my parents. But I still worshipped her.

I would annoy the shit out of her as much as possible, so she turned me into her own personal slave. She would make me do the most ridiculous tasks, like call me into her room just to get her a pencil from her desk that was 3 feet away from her, while she sat there and waited for me to give it to her. She would make me test her on her school work every night, which I absolutely hated doing (and which is why she turned out to be the brains in the family). But for some reason, whatever she told me to do, I did...without questioning.

All I wanted to do was hang out with her and her cheerleader friends, and sometimes she would let me. I hated that I got her hand-me-down clothes even though I always wanted to wear them before they became hand-me-downs. I always had crushes on her boyfriends, just because they were her boyfriends. I thought she was the coolest, smartest person ever.

We've had some great times together in our adult years. We've taken a couple of trips to Mexico, which were pretty hilarious. (Club Med...Need I say more?). We got lost in Acapulco, walking around for about an hour, looking for a restaurant. When we finally decided to hop into a cab to take us there, the cab driver picked us up and drove a half block to the restaurant, not telling us it was 10 feet in front of us. And charged us!

She's been there for every major event in my life and my daughter's lives. And she's been there for me during every devastating event, too. I've hit some real bumps in the road throughout the course of my life and made some very stupid decisions and mistakes, but she never judged or preached, just supported...letting me know how true love is supposed to be. She's my big sister and my best friend. She's the one person whose sincerity, honesty, strength, loyalty and love I will never doubt. She's the most selfless, giving human being I know.

I love you Beth...I couldn't ask for anything more than what you've given me. You've been my rock.

This video has nothing to do with this blog...but I wanted to share:

Boo

I never understood what fear was as a kid. We were invincible until we hit our late 20’s, early 30’s…or until we had our own kids. Right? Then fear was all encompassing. I cannot believe what a fraidy-cat I became once my kids were born, and how annoyingly overprotective I could be.

As a child, I was willing to do anything and try everything. Nothing seemed to faze me because I didn’t know any better. But with experience, we know what’s ahead of us and what the possibilities are. Ignorance IS bliss.

In grammar school, I would always want to be the lead in our school plays. I had no problem getting up in front of an audience and acting out a role. I couldn’t wait to be in the limelight. (I don’t know how I was able to memorize lines back then. Nowadays, I have to look up someone’s 7 digit phone number 8 times before I can finally finish dialing it.)

I didn’t mind giving oral reports in high school. Piece of cake. But for some reason, once I hit my college years, fear set in and froze me from deep within. Getting up in front of a class of my peers tormented me for days prior to the big speech. I kept writing it and rewriting it hoping it wouldn’t sound stupid and hoping no one would ask any questions. It was like those dreams where we are standing naked on stage for all the world to see. And although my body may not have been naked, my soul was. And I didn’t like it one bit. Communications was probably not the best major for a person who feared public speaking. [Ya think?] I would try to speak on subjects I knew first hand thinking it would give me more confidence.  I would stand at the podium and do all I could to not have my legs give out from under me and keel over.  I tried to keep the thought of projectile vomiting out of my mind. But my voice would crack and I would shake so badly, that one time my grip on the podium was so tight, it started tipping over, and the guy sitting directly in front of me jumped out of his seat to push it back upright. Thank god for him or I would have face planted in his lap. I’m sure he was also saving himself from a little nut crushing. Talk about humiliation. Fortunately, I was concurrently showing a short film to complement that speech, distracting them from what just happened to me. On the positive side…I didn’t pee in my pants. And to my surprise…I aced the assignment.

I have turned down certain jobs just so I wouldn’t have to do presentations. I remember sitting in the conference room at my office one day, and I had recently accepted a management position. Each week we would have phone meetings with our clients. I said to my supervisor, “If you make me speak in this meeting, I will quit. I swear”. Luckily she knew me and liked me (and didn’t fire me), and all she did was have me introduce myself. That, alone, made me break out in huge red blotches all over my chest to match the colorful flush of my bright red face. And it was only a phone meeting. Could you imagine if it was in person? I’d most likely be passed out cold, sprawled out on the conference room table. I decided I wasn't cut out for management.

People have suggested taking a public speaking course. Seriously? Do you NOT have to get up in front of people to learn to publicly speak? What about fear of speaking in public do they not get? So why would I want to take a public speaking course if you have to speak in public to learn to speak in public? Geez….

I am claustrophobic. Claustrophobia is horrible. It pops up in places you wouldn’t think it could. For instance…during various sexual positions. [On the bottom, for example.] That tends to ruin the mood…don’t you think? Trust me…it does. Obviously, elevators are a huge problem. I’ve only been stuck in one once…but it was the most crowded elevator I had ever been in. It was at my daughter’s college on moving-in day and I have to believe every student attending her school was packed into that particular elevator. I’m sure the weight limit was far exceeded, as was my composure. I looked over at my daughter, [as if there was anything she could possibly do], and said, “If you don’t get me out of here, I will pull every piece of hair out of your head, in chunks. If you don’t get me out of here I will cut you off from every single dollar I was ever going to give you. [Like that was a big threat with all my millions]. If you don't get me out of here, I will....” She looked at me and said so serenely and quietly and so melodically…[that I wanted to shove my fist down her throat…] “Mom, calm down. Everything will be fine. Nothing is going to happen. MOM….BREATHE” as I was starting to lose consciousness.  When I came to, I was sitting on the floor leaning against the wall in her room. I lived! I was no longer a sardine. I made it out. I have no clue how but I did. Needless to say, I get many a great workout climbing stairs now. I only need resuscitation from too much aerobic exercise, instead of from hyperventilation.

I never understood how people are able to walk into a room full of strangers and immediately assimilate. I walk in, pivot around, and walk right back out, not knowing what to do with myself. I was never able to just go up to a group, or even just one person that I didn’t know and say, “Hi, I’m Jaime”, (in one of those annoyingly perky little voices,) for fear that they would look at me with a “who the f**k cares” attitude. And then what? Then what do you say? I have no problem talking to a person in line at the market…you can always talk about the food you’re buying and what you’re pigging out on or complain how slow the line is moving…but at a gathering, where there may not be a commonality, how do you begin a conversation? “So…what’s your sign?”, “You come here often?” “You want to get in my pants as much as I want to get in yours?” So I basically either hang out hugging the wall or avoid those situations altogether.

Heights make my stomach churn. If I have some protective wall or railing I’m usually ok, but there are times I look down over the banister in my house and get nauseated, worrying I’m going to fall over. I walk down the middle of the hallway just so one of my hallucinatory ghosts doesn’t push me over the side.

There was a time I couldn’t wait to learn to ride horses. I thought since I would have reins and a saddle to hold on to, I should be ok with the whole height thing. Who was I kidding? But I decided I was going to take riding lessons because I always loved horses and riding seemed so beautiful and liberating. A couple of friends and I went to Pepperdine University, where they were giving lessons, and where the terrain was spectacular. I asked for the smallest horse so they gave me one slightly larger than a pony. Probably smaller than a merry-go-round horse. But whoa…that was still quite a ways off the ground with no pole to hold on to. My first conquest…I got on the horse. Yay! That was a huge accomplishment. Then…I got off the horse. Then I told myself ‘suck it up and it will be fine…get back on the horse, you big wuss.’  [great pep talk] So I did. The instructor (who was a retired army drill sergeant) told us to give the horse a kick to get it going. Well…not on your life bub. I ain’t kicking no animal. So I sat in the saddle and rocked my body back and forth hoping the horse would understand what I was telling her to do. As she sat there, not budging an inch, the instructor kept yelling at me to give her a kick. “NO, I won’t kick her.” He then marched over on his horse and hit me on the head with his crop. “Now kick the god damned horse.” Just short of shitting in my pants, I gave her a little, teeny nudge and off we went. He must have been one helluva drill sergeant .

I was quite pleased with myself that I was actually on a horse, riding. Well…I wouldn’t exactly call it riding. We couldn’t have gone any slower unless we were at a complete standstill, but that was good enough for me. We were walking on the trails and they kept getting narrower and narrower and my heart kept beating faster and faster. You have got to be kidding me. These were beginner trails? Ants couldn’t stay on these trails they were so narrow, and they wanted our horses to? It wasn’t long before my heart sank down to the pit of my stomach on its way out my ass. My horse’s back leg kept slipping off the trail and I was losing my balance. I proceeded into panic mode, but I gave it a couple of more feet before jumping off and running for my life. I was outta there. But before I left the grounds, I grabbed the crop out of Satan’s hand and broke it in half over my knee. I’ll teach you Mr. Svengali, drill sergeant, horse kicker guy.

After that experience…I decided to play it safe in the horse arena.

I won’t go into the other phobias I have or I may as well just make this into a book. But to sum it all up, here’s my list. I was amazed at all the classifications of fears:

Glossophobia speaking in public

Topophobia stage fright

Acrophobia  heights

Hydrophobia  water

Claustrophobia  confined spaces

And we all know I have this…I believe I’ve mentioned it just a few times…

Mageirocophobia  FEAR OF COOKING (LOVE this one!)

Good thing I don’t have this:

Logophobia  fear of words (or you probably wouldn't be reading this right now)

But this is my favorite…even though I’m not afflicted:

Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia  fear of long words…I’m still trying to pronounce it.

ra-TATTOO-e

I frequently think about what I would get if I was to get a tattoo. Not that I'm planning on it, mind you, but it's crossed my mind a number of times...especially when my girls discuss what theirs will be. My youngest daughter already has two. She had to wait to get her first on her 18^th birthday, because I was not going to approve her getting one [at all] and she needed my written permission as a minor. She described what she had wanted and I had to admit it sounded kind of cute. A little design that I figured wouldn't be too intrusive and mostly hidden on her body.  But I certainly was not going to be the one to take her and watch some tatted up, drug addicted, Harley riding, strung out, motha frickin’ gang member inflicting pain on my little girl, in some hole in the wall storefront. So she went with her dad, [I think], and some friends and had it done. I expected her to come home with some colorful, playful little piece of art adorning her hip, hidden by her jeans. Boy was I way off target. This thing was gigunda. I mean gi-normous. I mean, if you had to compare it to something, I'd say Texas has nothing over this thing. This tattoo would cover the entire body of a Tyrannosaurus Rex when it was pregnant. And hidden? I think not. It is smack in the middle of her back, between her waist and her shoulder blade, towards the side. So you don't actually see it when she's dressed, but you certainly can't miss it in a bathing suit. It screams out to you...Yoo hoo...here I am. Your eyes are immediately drawn to it and glued on it. Obviously she went in there with one idea in mind and came out with another. Or so I thought. Or so she led me to believe because she knows me oh so well and didn't want me to go into panic mode had I known what she really was going to get…a tattoo the size of an IMAX theater screen.  

The next one she got, she got without telling me beforehand. She just nonchalantly posted it on facebook for all to see. I always check out her pictures on FB and usually can tell what I'm looking at. But this one kept me staring for about 5 minutes. It's like...'What the hell is it? Are there letters? Is it a word? Where is it? Is it some secret code she is sending her friends?' My face was practically up against the screen trying to figure it out. Then it hit me. Another tattoo. Was that on her finger? I immediately called her and she told me, yes, it was indeed a tattoo. It said 'Shine'. I must say...you can't be more positive than that. And it really was cute. And her hands are still the size of a 5 year old so it looks adorable. OMG...I actually like a tattoo. Who have I become? I don't know if I know me anymore. Who woulda thunk?

What I don't understand, is how does anyone willingly allow another person to take a needle and engrave their skin to the point of having a picture permanently embedded? I have never seen it done in person, but just the thought of it creeps me out. I have no problems with needles. I never wince when I get a shot or get blood drawn (actually, the rubber tourniquet they tie around my arm hurts more while it’s squeezing and twisting the shit out of my skin then the needle does), but taking one and drawing on my body for what must seem like eternity, has the same appeal to me as falling down an elevator shaft. How my kids have no problem with it is beyond me. I used to hear about it for days when they were due for shots. I almost had to drug them to get them to the doctor for the millisecond the injection took. But for this...no problem? How does that make sense? I just can't understand lying there, being calm, while someone takes this dentist's drill and chisels out your skin, scarring you for life. Ewww...gives me the willies.

You look at some of these kids with their entire arm or leg covered with tattoos and wonder how they will feel about it when they're 50 or older. I wonder if, when the skin starts sagging, the happy faces will turn into frowns. A ‘d' will turn into a 'q'. And a picture of a naked woman with perky little tits will then have boobs down to her waist. People's tattoos will need plastic surgery.

Ok...so what would I get if I did get a tattoo? Well...I've thought about Tweety. How cute would a teeny tiny Tweety bird look on some part of my body? Adorable, right? Ok...so I am 50 something years old. So I still have this affection for a cartoon character. So what. It's Tweety bird…C'mon.

I thought about my favorite quote..."Don't cry because it's over, Smile because it happened".  But I realize that it would probably wrap around whatever part of my body I have it carved out of, and I don't want to be wearing a permanent belt of letters. So I'll just keep that quote in my head and heart instead.

This could be me but without the crack showing

I could just do my initials. JPBSP...but if I remarry (yet again), I would have to go back to add another letter. No way am I going through that torture twice. So the question would be, do I get the initials, or do I get married again? What a real dilemma that is.

So here’s what I decided. There really is no decision. I was never going to get one. But if I did…this is what it would look like:

I could dress myself in my tattoo…

And no one would notice the saggy skin, boobs, and every other body part drooping under the designs. But hopefully the tattoo would make me look like this:

And if that's the case...Mr. tatted up, drug addicted, Harley riding, strung out, motha frickin’ gang member...here I come!

Tell me...if you were to get a tattoo...what would you get?