Uncategorized | every girl needs a greek chorus

January 6, 2015
by maggiex4 Leave a comment

Lousy Housekeeper (sorry)

How did this get here? A Fly Girl cap, a booklight, a headless antique, a bag of Christmas tags, a roll of tape

How did this get here?
Looks like a page from the children’s game book “I Spy”. And no, I didn’t arrange it for this photo!

Anybody know how my house gets to be such a mess? It’s only January, and it needs spring cleaning already. Only the BFF and I live here, although she sheds enough hair to spin into a ladder for Rapunzel. I cleaned up for Thanksgiving, and it was a mess a week later. I cleaned up for Christmas, and it was a mess by New Year’s Eve. Despite vacuuming thoroughly, clouds of dog hair wrapped themselves around the legs of my dining room chairs within hours.

I’m not talking about cobwebs in the ceiling or the grease on the kitchen exhaust fan. They will be there until I drag out the 18’ ladder to change one of my track lights. I’m talking about the ordinary clutter that seems to multiply like rabbits. I’m talking about the stray stick-on bow that ended up under the sofa on Christmas morning and made itself known on New Year’s Eve. The ornament hook that wandered into my bathroom.

Does this stuff have legs? Does it party in the middle of the night and drop wherever it passes out like a frat boy?

Why is there a clean dessert plate under my coffee table? Oh, I know that one! The BFF was licking the remnants of Cheesecake Factory Lemon Meringue Cheesecake and must have shoved it there. Thank goodness she’d already cleaned it!

Why is there a box of light bulbs sitting in a corner of my bedroom? It’s been a mystery for at least six months now, because none of the bulbs fits any of the fixtures in my bedroom or bathroom.

The worst room is my walk-in closet, which ceased to be “walk in” about three months ago after I lost My Mother’s birthday present and threw everything on the floor in my frantic search. I blame it on being short. I can pull storage boxes off the shelves, but I need a step-stool to put them back.

So, I just don’t put them back, and then they’re all on the floor, and I can’t walk in my walk-in closet. I kind of lean over the clutter and stretch my arms toward the rack in the back. This works for taking the clothes off the rack, but it’s impossible to reach far enough toward the rack to rehang the clothes. Consequently, my clean clothes are hanging in the laundry room.

There’s a place for everything in that closet, but nothing is in its place except my shoes and handbags. I love them almost as much as I love my BFF, and, even when you factor in the cost of her two emergency exploratory surgeries, I have more money invested in leather goods than I do in her. My pricey Italian heels would surely snap off if I stepped on them under that mess on the floor. My handbags, which come with their own dust bags, have a place of honor on a shelf. Of course, most of the dust bags are on the floor, but the pricey leather goods rest securely five feet above the fray (conveniently at my eye level).

I have always been a slob. My Mother once gave me a magnet that said, “Dull women have immaculate homes.” I was never certain how to take that from the Queen of Tidiness. I’ll never forget the Veterinarian saying to me in the early days of our marriage, “Don’t you think that it needs to be swept in here?”

“Don’t you know that the vacuum cleaner is in the closet?” I promptly replied, without a hint of sarcasm. “It takes two people to make this mess. We both go to school full-time. Why should only one person be responsible for cleaning?” He wisely never mentioned it again. In fact, we used to joke that we had to have a dinner party once a month just so we’d get the house clean.

Eventually, in 1986, I hired a young dancer to clean. She wanted to earn money to spend the summer taking classes in NYC, so she asked me what I thought of paying $25 to clean a house.

“I think I’ll be your first customer,” I replied, “that’s what I think.”

Of course, I would clean the house before she came to clean, because I didn’t want her to see how dirty we were and because we didn’t want her to put things away where we couldn’t find them again.

I understand that women commonly do this. By the time you’ve cleaned for the house cleaner, you might as well have just finished cleaning it yourself and saved yourself some money. And in a pinch, I am not ashamed to admit, I have been known to fake out my family by emptying the trash, spritzing lemon-scented Pledge in the air, and swishing the toilets and sinks with Clorox bleach to make everything smell sanitized, which it was, when you think about it. You thought that was just a joke, didn’t you? Ha-ha! There are actually crazed women like moi who consider it a legitimate cleaning technique.

Think about it. There isn’t much that survives an onslaught of chlorine bleach into the dirtiest recesses of your home, such as the toilet, the shower, and the garbage disposal. Who needs multiple cleaning products when Clorox gets the germs and Windex gets the grease? Caveat: Do NOT use them together. That would take care of things in a way you probably don’t intend unless you don’t want to clean again for eternity. Can you spell l-e-t-h-a-l?

DATE UPDATE: Match sent me an email saying that January 4 is their busiest day of the year for people searching for “that special someone” or “your last love” or whatever cliché their marketing team concocted.

Who did they send me? I got three scammers and three real possibilities, including an attractive, divorced, medical professional in DC who was looking for an “intelligent and witty” woman aged 54-66 “who understands that monogamy is not a type of wood.” He mentioned that he is exploring his Italian heritage. Don’t you think that he and I are a match made in heaven? I understand medicine. I used to live in the DC area. I’m 62. I have an Italian heritage. I wrote to him about our mutual interests and signed it “Suzanne, who understood monogamy for four decades.” I thought that sounded both intelligent AND witty.

I guess he didn’t think so, because he didn’t respond. Two other men emailed me, a 62-year old divorced “professional engineer” with a master’s degree who lives in the next county north and had a boyish grin and shaggy gray hair and was looking for a…wait for it…”intelligent and witty” woman. He complimented me on the “nice pic [sic] of you and cute dog.” (The BFF is a guy magnet.)

The other, who also lives near DC and has never been married (but has children!), was looking for a variation, a “unique and intelligent, witty woman”, and wrote, “Like your profile and photos. Happy New Year.” My profile at that time said, “Lousy housekeeper (sorry)…looking for a man who doesn’t want a Stepford Wife,” because I believe in truth in advertising, unlike most of the people on Match. I wrote to both men, and neither responded. I changed the profile. “I am the real deal (otherwise I would have lowered my age, raised my height, and faked my photos).”

On New Year’s Day, a whopping 10 men expressed their admiration, either through the dreaded winks or by “favoriting” me. Unfortunately, they represented the states of Connecticut, New York, South Carolina, Illinois, Oklahoma, Texas, California, and New Jersey, which made a particularly strong showing with multiple unsuitable entrants.

On Sunday, still glowing from the wins by the Spartans and the Ravens (I just had to throw that in), I received a “favorite” from an incredibly attractive widower, aged 64, who lives in one of the most affluent DC suburbs. His profile mirrored mine! He was looking for an “intelligent and witty” woman 58-65! He was online at that very moment! And I was his favorite! I clicked to “Favorite” him…and he disappeared. Like Cinderella’s coach at midnight, gone. The message popped up: “Profile no longer available. Perhaps you would like one of these…” Really? In 30 seconds? Sounds like someone at match is manipulating profiles and photos.

I changed the profile again, because I read that you get moved to the top of the matrix if you make a significant photo or information change. Today I sound like a Stepford Wife, not so witty, not so intelligent, definitely not unique. (“I love football and would love to cheer for your team.”) Although I kept “Caution: English major.”

I’ve had 64 views in 48 hours (surely due to the BFF), and two more scammers with the usual scammer spiel. Today, I got this from someone who appears to be a native speaker of English from the information he lists, but I’ve never heard a sane man of any nationality talk like this:

Another typical scammer. Would you date this man?

“Can we begin together?

Hello Beautiful Smiles,
Good afternoon and how are you doing?? I hope your day is going well?
I would like us to talk more so we can get to know each other more better. We can begin a conversation and see where it leads, Life is too short and we all want to spend it with the special one,
So let’s give this a chance and see what happens. Here is my cell : 555-555-5555
Hope to hear from you soon,”

To me, the “special one” is Jesus. That’s my answer.

I think I take Beautiful Smiles to convent they not let me have own wine and probably make me clean room and no take cute dog. She like dirty house. So, who I complain?? Life is (mostly). Soli Deo Gloria!

December 31, 2014
by maggiex4 Leave a comment

Take a hike, 2014!

Happy New Year!

It’s 9 o’clock on New Year’s Eve, and my family just left after enjoying a dinner of sirloin strip roast, scalloped potatoes, and triple sec carrots. The Daughter is headed for the nightmare known as New Year’s Eve at Baltimore’s Inner Harbor — she’s young. She needs to find out for herself that everything is overpriced and overhyped on December 31. At least, she has a designated driver.

The forced joie de vivre was never my “thing.” The first year of our marriage, in 1972, we went to a showing of the original “Poseidon Adventure” with the late, great Shelley Winters doing the breaststroke in the waterlogged belly of an overturned cruise ship. At least, that’s how I remember it. My mind’s eye sees a lot of soggy chiffon billowing around her thighs, but the Champagne could be playing tricks again. Nope. I googled it. There she is, looking brave in seaweed green chiffon.

After the movie, we went to the restaurant from which Jimmy Hoffa would disappear two years later. I remember poor table service, mediocre food, lousy “champagne” and a conga line that snaked through the kitchen. It didn’t even occur to any of us that we needed a designated driver.

You do a lot of stupid stuff when you’re 20. Maybe that’s why I read every line of the Riot Act to My Daughter the critical care nurse before she headed out my door tonight, after she went on and on about how much fun she and her girlfriend the shock-trauma nurse were going to have and how much they were going to party. (Oh, yes, it struck me, too, that, of all people, these two professional health care providers would be more cautious.)

“Oh, Mom,” she sighed. “I don’t really walk the walk that I talk.”

“Just text me when you get back to your apartment.”

“At 3 am?”

“I really don’t care what time it is.”

“Are you going to be awake?”

“Of course, I’m going to be awake. You’re going to be in the middle of that nightmare with God-only-knows what kind of lunacy. How am I gonna sleep?”

“Ok. I love you, Mom.”

So, here I sit with my BFF and the remnants of a very fine bottle of Nicolas Feuillatte rosé Champagne. My BFF celebrated earlier by rolling in something quite dead and has been banished to the other side of the living room. She’ll be happily unconscious until 10 when she’ll demand that we go to bed like we do every night.

I haven’t made it to midnight on New Year’s Eve in 20 years. I’d rather be fast asleep in my snug king-sized bed when the neighbors start shooting off fireworks and automatic weapons. Ha! I’m worried about lunacy 20 miles away in Bawlmer, hon? We’ve got our own craziness out here in the gentrified sticks.

Just got a text from The Daughter. The fancy, schmancy and quite expensive watering hole didn’t have any ginger ale. Not what I wanted to hear, sweet child of mine. Yikes! I already hear gunfire nearby. Oh, yeah. I’ll be awake at 3 am.

Take a hike, 2014! Join your crappy friends 2011, 2012, and 2013 in Hades. Bring it on, 2015! Happy New Year!

December 17, 2014
by maggiex4 Leave a comment

Sugar Plum Fairy Tales

This morning, Kelly Ripa described a burlesque, “sexy,” nude version of Tchaikovsky’s The Nutcracker. I’ve seen countless versions of this Christmas classic; traditional, contemporary, jazz, tap, swing, macabre, and even on ice. I am completely bored with it, so nudity might make it more interesting. This all reminds me of a story that, unlike some of my stories, doesn’t involve my own nudity but probably should.

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who had a curl right in the middle of her forehead. She was captivated by everything theatrical. She grew up in a middle class family, in a middle class community that didn’t quite understand how to develop a career in the arts. The family visited museums of all kinds, had dozens of books and records, followed movies old and new, attended the theater, and excelled at decorating and dressing up for all occasions. It turns out, those are the very skills needed for a career in the arts; a passion for the new, the exciting, the different; the telling of the story of our common life.

The family had a movie camera, purchased to record the parents’ wedding in 1951, as well as every event that occurred thereafter, until it finally died in 1967. The little girl relished any opportunity to dress up and prance in front of the camera, especially in crinoline petticoats with a plastic tiara and “magic wand”, like the ballerinas she saw on television and in the movies. Or she clumsily would toss around a baton or attempt a soft shoe, like Judy Garland. In reality, she wasn’t trained to do any of those things, but, in her mind, she could be just about anything she wanted.

When she was four, she cajoled her mother into sending her photo into Detroit’s version of “Romper Room” and spent two weeks on the show, rehearsing songs, playing games, showing off her naked baby doll (nudity!), and munching on Awrey cookies, while drinking Twin Pines milk from thick white mugs. She watched what the hostess did, how the cameramen moved, how the lights were set.

At church, she learned that Sunday School is the place where frustrated adults are desperate to get children to sing or recite onstage boldly and with aplomb, wearing all manner of ridiculous headgear made of paper plates and construction paper. With loads of experience hamming it up for the camera, she could be counted on to belt out her lines with feeling, and singing “Away in a Manager” under a spotlight on a darkened church stage with the attention of family and friends added fuel to her theatrical fire.

Throughout elementary school and high school, while other children studied ballet and tap and baton and singing, the girl read and watched everything she could. She could be counted on to paint sets, make puppets and costumes, be the unseen narrator, produce plays in garages and basements, and write countless short stories and plays. She attended every professional and amateur production she could. By day, she studied drama, speech, creative writing, and journalism in high school and, by night, lived a fantasy life of acting, song, and dance in her basement.

Eventually, she was found by her life’s ambition. An English Major in college, she added acting and theater electives. She ushered at a community theater and, at age 20, took her first dance and piano classes.

At age 27, she took her first ballet class at a community college in her adopted hometown, where an enormously talented ballet dancer had started a dance company. The teacher invited the fledgling dancer to join the company. One of the group’s first presentations was Tchaikovsky’s “Waltz of the Flowers” from The Nutcracker Suite. With her talents for organization, the young woman assisted with costumes and

Community dancers

staging, and, having no fear or shame, performed “Waltz of the Flowers” dozens of times for all audiences, at libraries, nursing homes, and elementary schools, wearing a tiara made of silver pipe cleaners. Later, choreography for more experienced dancers was added, and after four short years, the artistic director decided to leave to form a separate ballet company. She spoke to the young woman.

“I think you should be the next artistic director,” she said. The young woman laughed.

“I don’t know anything about dance.”

“You know enough to know what is right and what is wrong. You know how to produce a show and tell a story,” the artistic director replied. “You’ll hire choreographers to carry out your vision of The Nutcracker.”

With the encouragement of faculty, parents, and dancers and a promise from the college to pay her $1.00 for every ticket sold, she reluctantly agreed to take on the job. At the last performance before she took over, the young woman stood in the wings, crying and trembling in fear, feeling totally unqualified and terrified of failure. It was one of the times that she clearly heard God say, “This is the job that I am giving you. Just do it.” Well, it was a little more involved than that, but, as she always said, when God tells you to do something, you don’t ask questions.

Under her first year of direction, she persuaded her husband to engineer the giant “Mother Ginger” dress, from under which about a dozen children spring to dance. He constructed it from PVC pipe, and she used parachute material for the skirt.

“Who’s going to wear this thing?” her husband asked cautiously, trying out the painter’s stilts that were required to lift the dress high enough off the floor for the children to stand up.

Always a good sport

“Well…” She lifted her eyebrows at him. He looked smashing in the wig, bonnet, and falsies.

In the second year of her reign, they added the “Waltz of the Snowflakes” scene, which completed all the choreography except the Sugar Plum grand pas de deux. Unfortunately, there was no capable young male dancer in the company capable of partnering a dancer.

In the spirit of a community dance company, everyone pitched

One of the best dancers in the Spanish variation.

in, sharing their individual talents. The dancers ranged in age from talented youngsters to willing adults, some of whom had never taken a formal dance class in their lives. All of them had a place in the corps, even an 80-year old grandmother who played—what else?—the grandmother. Some of them had only studied tap or jazz, acting or gymnastics, and one enormously talented young man, who did a wicked imitation of the singer Prince and could jump like he had springs for legs, became an audience favorite as the Nutcracker, himself.

All ages, all abilities

Behind the scenes, local parents and high school students learned to run light boards and follow-spots, call shows, make costumes, sell concessions, and fundraise. After the third year, about 100 people participated in each year’s show. The director enlisted her mother as costumer and house manager and her sister as stage manager.

One year, one of the college-aged dancers brought her good-looking boyfriend, a music student, to watch a rehearsal. The director seized her opportunity.

“Do you dance, too?” she asked.

“Um, no,” he shyly answered.

“Oh,” she paused to consider his level of gullibility. “You know we could really use a Prince in this show. You wouldn’t have to dance or anything. Just kind of stand there and support the Sugar Plum Fairy while she turns. Yeah, it’s not really dancing.” Surprisingly, he agreed. A dancer was born.

What happened to all those people who participated? Many of the students have gone on to obtain degrees in theatre and dance. The jumping Nutcracker has become a fixture as a popular choreographer and performer in the Baltimore area, and the Prince is an Assistant Professor of Theatre and Dance at Seton Hill University. Others are dance teachers, children’s authors, communications directors, children’s theater directors, and advertising executives. The youngest are now in their 40s, and some even have grandchildren. They stay in touch through that miracle of memories, Facebook.

That’s my story. Really, that’s my story. That’s how I parlayed a love of story-telling and performing into my life’s work. I no longer dance because I’ve lost all cartilage in my knees, and my hips don’t bend like they used to. There aren’t many roles for older women, and I gave up playing the ingénue at the age of 47, when I was paired with a 25-year old actor. It may sound exciting, but I found it creepy. I’m holding up well for my age, but I’m no cougar. Although, I’m thinking that a trip to NYC for a burlesque Nutcracker may be in order. Anyone care to join me?

DATE UPDATE: My Our Time account finally expired, and my last date was yesterday. A man who said he was “currently separated” had been pestering me for four weeks to have lunch with him. Supposedly, we had common interests in sailing and travel, but I had my doubts and kept putting him off. Finally, in a moment of boredom, I agreed when he asked, “What have you got to lose?”

Apparently, 90 minutes (including travel time) and 16 ounces.

He asked if I would join him at Panera or Olive Garden for lunch. I chose Panera, because I have given up pasta. From our email exchange, we clearly agreed on the location of the Panera (ubiquitous everywhere but near my home) and the time, 11:30. I thought it was a good location to complete my Christmas shopping, so I arrived at the mall early enough to shop and to be at the Panera by 11:28.

Since it was pouring rain, I stepped inside the restaurant and looked around. It wasn’t very crowded, and I saw no one matching the profile photo of my date. I stood just inside the front door and waited. And waited. And then waited some more. I kept checking my email. Nothing.

Finally, at 11:45, I stepped up to the counter and ordered a cup of Autumn Squash soup and half of a smoked turkey sandwich on country white (hold the mayo, tomatoes, and lettuce, please). When my order was called, I sat in a corner of the restaurant where I could see everyone who came in. Oh—and it was next to the rear door, so I could make a hasty escape, if needed. Some middle-aged couples came in and lots of young shop and office workers. No single 65-year old men. Not by a long shot.

At 11:54, I finished my soup, wrapped up my sandwich, gave one last look around the restaurant and at my email, and headed back out into the pouring rain. Periodically during the day, I checked my email, but by 11 pm, when I fell asleep, I had not heard from my erstwhile date.

At 1:30 am, my lunch decided to part company with my body, hence the lost 16 ounces. I was too nauseous to look at my email until this morning, when, lo and behold, there it was. He wrote:

“I should get the Bozo Award and won’t be surprised if I am deleted. I don’t know what I was thinking, but I went to [insert other location]. Wish you would have called me.”

WISH I WOULD HAVE CALLED YOU? You don’t contact me for 12 hours? No “sorry” for screwing up our date? I sent the D*bag (as I now think of him) straight to the “Trash” folder for eternity, because I think he’s not quite as “currently separated” as he claims, unless it’s his common sense from his brain.

I won’t let this bother me because other people have greater problems than meeting nitwits online to provide funny fodder for blogs. There may still be hope that I will find Mr. Right soon because I still belong to match.com for the next two months, although my profile now starts with “Not for the faint of heart.” And it’s almost Christmas. You know? Peace on earth, goodwill to men, whatever their dating status? So, who am I to complain? Life is good (mostly). Soli Deo Gloria!

December 9, 2014
by maggiex4 Leave a comment

Christmas Past

My First Christmas

My Mother and I were sitting around looking at old photos, which is always a source of amusement, wistfulness, and horror, simultaneously. I have pulled out the Christmas ones that have held up the best to share with you, since I sincerely believe that the best humor is self-deprecating, and these all tell a whole lot about who I am today. I hope that they (and that cup of “Christmas Cheer” that you’re enjoying) bring your own fond memories of Christmas past to this Christmas present.

My Mother says that my dad always carried this dog-eared photo of my first Christmas in his wallet, even after I was married and gone. I remember nothing about it, except that I still have the Teddy bear stored away. Check out those metal icicles on the tree behind me. Every year, My Mother personally hung each one, strand by strand, because she didn’t trust anyone else to hang them properly. I must admit, I’ve never seen anything come as close to the dazzling effect that she created.

My First Visit with Santa

Several things come to mind when I think of my first visit to Santa. First, this was taken at the flagship store of the J.L. Hudson Co., in downtown Detroit, the only place that had the Real Santa waiting to listen to your wish list — well, I think there may have been about 10 of them, carefully hidden throughout an elaborate display of animated dolls, toys, and figures. Second, it is apparent from the intense look that I am giving Santa that I learned at an early age to control stage-fright. Third, I see that the jowls I had in 1953 have made a return appearance 61 years later.

Christmas Carols

As we looked at the photos, My Mother remarked, ruefully, “Homemade dresses. You girls always had to wear homemade dresses.” I reassured her that I thought it was pretty awesome that I had a new outfit for every major occasion and holiday, AND I designed it. Nothing shameful about these pretty red cotton velveteen outfits from Christmas 1961, and, yes, My Mother sewed all those rows of lace onto the blouses. That’s what the mothers that I knew used to do, and I am ever so grateful that she taught me to sew, too.

Christmas Snark

Now, we move into the snarky teenaged years. This is probably 1965. 50 years later, I am still appalled that my naturally brunette hair is not flipping crisply on the ends like Marlo Thomas’, but that’s a subject for another blog (“How I survived an Adolescence in the 1960s of Really Bad, No Good Curly Hair”).

On to college, in my trendy midi skirt from Christmas 1970. You will note that the icicles continue to hang perfectly from our tree, although, as I recall, they had become plastic, which My Mother grumbled about for two weeks, trying to keep the static electricity they generated from clumping them together. I, on the other hand, note that, just as the jowls from my childhood have returned, my recent surgery has restored some other body parts to their former glory. wink, wink

It seems that there are no Christmas photos of me post-marriage in 1972. Actually, I found one from 1984 that’s too dark and mostly out-of-focus that you would find hilarious. I am glamorous in a Joan Collins-style bouffant coif, pink angora sweater with HUGE shoulder pads, ivory wool slacks, and ivory suede boots. It’s such a shame that I can’t reproduce it for your entertainment. Paint this picture in your mind’s eye and run with it: “Dallas” meets “Dynasty” at a party hosted by Dolly Parton. If you graduated from high school anytime before 1990, you’ll get it, and I’m gonna guess you have a similar photo lurking in a shoe box in the back of your closet, too.

Finally, here’s the most recent photo of me taken at Christmas, and it is easily my favorite. Trying to recreate the Christmas memories of our youth, when everything was bigger, shinier, and more fun, the Veterinarian and I visited NYC at the holidays almost every year. We gazed at the glittering displays in the department store windows, ate roasted chestnuts on the street corner, and skated at Rockefeller Center. Here we are in front of its famous tree in a photo taken by The Daughter. Do you recognize me now with the blonde hair?

Yes, Scrooge, Christmas present is very much like Christmas past. May your days be merry and bright!

My Sister and I 1957

December 3, 2014
by maggiex4 1 Comment

OW! I want crabs for Christmas!

As soon as Santa’s sleigh arrives at Macy’s on Thanksgiving morning, the airwaves are full of all manner of Christmas music. Besides traditional Christmas carols proclaiming the long-awaited Messiah (check out Handel’s “They walked in darkness” for the real meaning of Advent) and the birth of Jesus (ditto “…and suddenly, there was with the angel…”), I am fascinated by the goodwill and cheer that the promise of salvation engenders during the month of December. Apparently, that hope inspires some incredibly gleeful images.

Chipmunks singing, “Christmas, Christmas time is here. Time for fun and time for cheer.”

My five-year old self singing “I want a hippopotamus for Christmas.”

The scandalous I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus.

Dean Martin slurring “Baby, it’s cold outside.”

Elmo and Patsy warbling the tragic “Grandma got run over by a reindeer.”

And that Baltimore classic, Crabs for Christmas.

You’ve never heard of that one? The refrain is “Ow, I want crabs for Christmas.” For those of you who live elsewhere, you know that word as “Oh”, but in Bawlmerese, it’s the sound you make when a crab’s pincer grabs your nose. If you’ve ever seen a John Waters film or heard swimmer Michael Phelps interviewed, you’ve heard a Bawlmer accent, hon. Native son, filmmaker Barry Levenson, showcased it to perfection in his film Tin Men. So, of all the silly Christmas tunes, this has become my favorite, a tribute to my adopted hometown. Yes, I’m a Marylander now.

When I moved to Maryland in 1976, we lived in Silver Spring, a suburb of Washington, DC, where all of our neighbors and co-workers were from some other part of the world, so there was no one, definitive accent. Then, in 1979, we bought a veterinary practice in a community about 15 miles north of Baltimore, aka “Charm City.” One day, one of the employees came to me and said we needed more “tals” (rhymes with “gals”).

“I’m sorry,” I answered. “We need more what?”

“Tals,” she repeated.

“Tals,” I echoed.

“Yes, tals,” she confirmed.

“Oh. I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” I replied, thinking there was some peculiar local slang with which I was unfamiliar. This young woman was well-educated, a college student and graduate of the local private high school.

“Tals,” I kept repeating, trying to puzzle out the sound in my head. She continued to nod her head in affirmation. “Um, let’s ask the Veterinarian.” He was a Virginia native who said weird things like “Awnt” instead of “Aunt.” Surely, he knew what she was trying to tell me.

“Apparently, we have a problem with our tals,” I told him.

“Our what?” He looked back and forth between me and the employee.

“Tals,” she stressed, clearly exasperated by her dense employers.

“Can you spell it?” he asked. She sighed loudly.

“Tals. T-o-w-e-l-s. Tals.” A two-syllable word had become one.

According to Google and some locals, the accent primarily is heard to the east and south of the city from a certain middle-class demographic, but I’m here to tell you that I’ve heard it streaming from the mouths of captains of industry, local broadcasters, dockworkers, steelworkers, carpenters, stockbrokers, priests, doctors, lawyers, and even — horror of horrors — from my own daughter, a native of Colorado. She picked it up immediately from her classmates and teachers.

If Baltimoreans (please, don’t make the mistake of saying “Baltimorons”) are lucky, they are taken to Johns Hopkins Hospital in an “amblance” with a “POH-leese” escort. In the summer, they go “downy ayshin” (translation: to Ocean City) or “over a friend’s house in Blare, Murlan” (to visit a friend in Bel Air, Maryland). I have heard professionals with doctorates speak like this in normal conversation.

The accent may come from immigrants of Britain’s coastal cities who settled in the growing seaport of Baltimore in the 18^th century, and it definitely was influenced by German immigrants in the 19^th. At Thanksgiving, many residents traditionally serve sauerkraut with their turkey and clean up the dishes in the “zinc.” (I know, I know. That one is often defended because some sinks were made of zinc, but I’m not buying it.)

The most frequently mispronounced vowel is that long “o” sound. It acquires two syllables. Think the word “owl” without the “l”. It is the bane of speech therapists, stage directors, and choral musicians throughout the region. Ow, Tannenbaum is the current scourge of my choral director, as we prepare for our annual Christmas concert. It doesn’t refer to the complaint you make when you stab yourself with an evergreen needle while hanging ornaments.

If your team has ever played one of our best birds in the AL or the AFC (Orioles or Ravens), you’ve heard our fans shout “OW” during the playing of our National Anthem. “OW! Say does that Star-Spangled Banner yet wave…” (And, yes, it still proudly flies over Ft. McHenry on Baltimore Harbor).

Despite the fact that locals mangle the pronunciation of my birthplace by saying “DEE-troit” instead of “de-TROIT,” I’ve grown to love the area’s quirky heritage. It puts the “charm” in “Charm City,” as exotic as a Cockney in London or a Cajun in N’awlins, as quaint as the Canadian accent I grew up hearing in Michigan, eh? Even I have been chastised by My Mother for saying “muh-vie” instead of “moo-vie.” Conversely, the locals say that I, struggling to maintain my clear Midwestern accent, sound like Rocky the Flying Squirrel of Frostbite Falls, Minnesota.

So that’s the source of my favorite crazy Christmas song’s refrain: “Ow, I want crabs for Christmas.” Even Maryland Public Television, our local bastion of such classy programming as Great Performances, Downton Abbey, and Nova, has featured it. Thanks for the Christmas cheer, David DeBoy! www.crabsforchristmas.com

DATE UPDATE: Not much new to report. I talked to a man about what men are looking for in a date and what they are finding online. Apparently, they are just as mystified as I am. It seems that women lie about their age, marital status, and looks, too. I must be nuts for giving my real age, real height, and posting photos of myself without makeup. I’m still confused, so I’ll do what I always do, be myself and go with my instincts (which, you may have noticed, haven’t been particularly helpful, so far). A friend of mine says that her lovely husband (from match.com) dated “about 100 women” over two years before finding her. Yikes!

On the upside, I’ve not heard from Mr. No-Profile Photo, so, who am I to complain? Life is good (mostly). Soli Deo Gloria!

November 18, 2014
by maggiex4 Leave a comment

Skating on Thin Ice

As a child, I wasn’t much into team sports. I was terrified of dodgeball (how is it a sanctioned sport to hurl a ball at a 40-pound child hard enough to make her fall down?). I dreaded basketball (how realistic is it to ask a 4’9” child to heave a basketball into a regulation-height hoop?). And I especially hated sprint races in swimming class (how realistic is it to set the same child in a race against a child with the equivalent arm-span of Michael Phelps?). Cruel jokes all, to said child.

As much as I hated sports and as much as I hated (and still hate) winter, I also had a need for speed, loving ice skating, downhill skiing, and tobogganing. Since Michigan spends so many months with snow on the ground and ice on the lakes, you couldn’t escape outdoor activities. All the major parks had ice rinks and toboggan runs (steep hills with stairs to make your climb back to the top easier), and while real hills for skiing are few and far between in the glacier-leveled state, to a child, any rise was good enough to strap on child-sized skis and zoom down the hill.

Dads across the region moved snow around and flooded backyards to make personalized skating rinks for ice hockey and figure skating. It was a real art to make the ice lump free. Our next-door neighbors had an in-ground swimming pool, which they lined with logs along the edge in early fall, to protect it from the points of our skates, when the ice froze. How I loved to skate figures and words into the ice and glide, spin, and leap across it. Well, I was spinning in my mind, not exactly speedy sit-spins or flying camels.

Grace under pressure

In the 1960s, I imagined myself to be Peggy Fleming, gliding regally across the ice. Never mind that I didn’t have her athleticism, artistry, or beauty. Never mind that my ankles were as wobbly as Bambi’s and that I was as lazy as sin, I longed to be accomplished and elegant. Then, my adolescent hormones were seized by the seductive nature of pairs skating, with the spectacular married couple Ludmila Belousova and Oleg Protopopov (so rampant were those hormones, evidently, that I could remember “Protopopov” but had to google his wife’s name). Such a perfect pairing, but I was troubled that they represented the Soviet Union, the “enemy.”

Behind the beauty of sport was the ugliness of Cold War political intrigue that infused international sports at the time. Since Adolf Hitler seized his country’s hosting of the 1938 Olympics as a showcase of its skewed vision of ethnic superiority, sports had become a battle of moral supremacy. The triumph of goodness over evil. Of hard-working amateurs over subsidized athletes. Of freedom over communism. Of natural ability over drug-enhancement. (That one still haunts sports today.) The total medal count seemed to be the key to the survival of the planet.

Of course, figure skating has also had its zany moments. Witness Aja Zanova and the Bic Pen Commercial. Is this camp

Zaniness of skating

or what? https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hVwOBFN8mgA

Who could ever forget the obsession over Dorothy Hamill’s hair? Scott Hamilton’s relentless grin? Oksana Baiul’s smeary eye makeup? Anyone skating as a cartoon character in a giant, plush head? Even Blades of Glory couldn’t match the reality of skating snark.

Or the drama, when handsome Sergei Grinkov dropped lovely Ekaterina Gordeeva on her head and how she persevered in her career after his untimely death. Or Rudy Galindo came out as gay. (Well, maybe that wasn’t such a surprise.) And, twenty years later, they still dredge up the drama of Nancy Kerrigan vs. what’s her name. (I refuse to name her; she’s had enough undeserved fame.)

Now, figure skating is everywhere, even in the summer. I’ve been casually watching this “Grand Prix” competition (when the Ravens aren’t on), where they travel each week from country to country, competing. It seems like overkill to me. Too many injuries. I miss the skill of compulsory figures that gives the sport its name. I hate seeing skaters so worried about not completing quad jumps (men) or triple axels (women) that they can’t complete a clean program of grace and skill. Falling is rarely entertaining, even on America’s Funniest Videos.

The music has become a snooze fest. The other day, two Japanese skaters competed to the same music from Phantom of the Opera, because, according to the commentators, the music is wildly popular in Japan. Even I can’t listen to Moonlight Sonata, Waltz of the Flowers, or a montage from Carmen any more without wanting to throw something at the television. Bolero always makes me think of Torvill and Dean, the hottest couple ever to do anything on the ice. The music should be retired. No one will ever use it better than they did.

Take my advice, International Skating Union and sports broadcasters everywhere, bring back the artistry. Bring in new music. Bring back sophisticated Dick Button and Peggy Fleming to commentate. Just don’t bring back the Cold War.

DATE UPDATE: Through match.com, I have a date this Thursday with a witty, intelligent man who suggested a really nice restaurant. Lucky me! Fingers-crossed that I have a good time. (I know better than to start looking at wedding invitations.) Plus, I see that the two men who never confirmed dates with me continue to check my profile. Not sure what this means or if one of them is worth it, but, we’ll see.

At the suggestion of a friend, on Saturday, I ventured into Our Time, the sister site of match.com for people over 50. Using the same profile and photos, I have been deluged with messages and “flirts”. I dislike it because it doesn’t weed out the atheists and smokers in advance, which makes it trickier to read the profiles. On the other hand, there have been some different prospects (and some the same). And I may have accidentally shown interest in the ex of someone I know. That’s a new dating dilemma.

Within hours of joining Our Time, about 1/3 of the messages that I received were from people with no photos. Everyone who dabbles in online dating knows that you don’t respond to people who don’t post photos. We savvy online daters can tell a lot from a photo. For instance, if you look like and claim to be college professor Alistair Winthrop, Ph.D., but write like a non-native speaker of English, I’m gonna delete you. Likewise, if you have no picture or if parts of your profile are unanswered, I’m gonna skip right over you.

Unfortunately, my would-be stalker also found me at Our Time. No, my life isn’t dramatic enough, I have a would-be stalker. He first sent me a bizarre “secret admirer” note last year with his telephone number. When The Daughter and I googled it, we were shocked to see that we knew him…and we know his wife! On the advice of my attorneys and of law enforcement, I ignored it. He wasn’t threatening, just needy, but that’s not my responsibility. I added him to my prayer list.

Apparently, he was one of the “Mr. No-Profile Photos” that I had deleted on Sunday. Without identifying himself, he messaged his disappointment to me yesterday, using my first name. Now, if you’ve ever watched Dr. Phil or have two brain cells to rub together, you know that you never use any part of your real name or address in your profile. Therefore, my dear Watson, it was elementary to me who it was. His profile confirmed it, so I took a screen shot of it.

Since I was reading it on my phone, I had to wait to get home to block him. Several hours later, his profile had disappeared, and the site’s security division says that, while they retain impressions of everything that occurs on their site, they are unable to prevent him from contacting me in the future. This is why you never give people on these sites your last name, address, personal email address or telephone number.

Well, ladies who follow my blog, don’t worry about your husbands, who aren’t the kind who would be sneaking around on internet dating sites. And if they were, I respect you enough to warn you. On the other hand, if you don’t want to know, drop me a note. In any event, rest assured that I am not interested in any more drama than I already have, so I’ll let them down gently.

This is a different kind of Cold War. Maybe I should rustle up my own WMD. I’ve been told that you’re guaranteed to hit something with a shotgun. So, who am I to complain? Life is good (mostly). Soli Deo Gloria!

November 11, 2014
by maggiex4 2 Comments

Batten the Hatches!

Batten the hatches! My comfort zone is about to take a hit. Apparently, the Polar Vortex has been kicked south by a mega-Asian typhoon over the North Pacific colliding with the Jet Stream, and something on Weather Radar bounced off a slow-moving front, shoving it into a Stationary High, causing it to flee south, around, and duck under, and according to the media meteorologists, disaster could, maybe, probably, be headed from Hudson Bay through Kansas, Dorothy, screaming like a freight train toward my neck of the woods, and it’s probably all my fault because I just can’t be trusted with weather.

Exciting! Weather Channel map for November 11, 2014.

At any rate, some Weather Guru has determined that at least 42 states (Hey, who dared to offend eight states by leaving them off the list?) will be affected by something unpleasant, and, here in Maryland, we may have snow by the end of the week, just in time for my beloved Michigan State Spartans, who live with winter from November 1 to May 1, to journey here to play the University of Maryland Terrapins in their quaint little stadium in the middle of the night. Advantage Spartans! [Aside: Who decided that sporting events should start at 8:30 at night? Ridiculous!]

Has there never been cold and snow in the Midwest in November? [Sorry. I was laughing so hard at my own joke that I had to take a Kleenex break.] Does no one own a coat, hat, gloves? Ice scraper? Spare roll of toilet paper? Box of Kleenex for emergencies? I suspect many of my old friends back in Michigan have snow shovels hidden in their garages. Maybe even a snow blower or two. I remember when the sidewalks were swept by the city with machines. No snow days for us schoolchildren! Now, everyone panics and huddles inside with cable or satellite tv, internet, and video games.

When did we become a nation obsessed with weather? We’re like Goldilocks, never satisfied. It’s too cold. It’s too hot. There’s too much sun/heat/rain/snow/ ________________ (fill in the blank). There’s not enough sun/heat/rain/snow/ __________________ (fill in the blank). The Polar Ice Caps are melting, endangering homes along the coast. Should they really have built that luxury condo on a barrier island, defying God’s brilliant purpose of the barrier island? They’ve been dredging up sand from the ocean floor onto the beach at Ocean City, Maryland since I moved here in 1976, saying that the destruction of the dunes for development is the culprit. How is that my fault? I drive a hybrid, after all.

Other than warning of an impending “weather event” of actual disastrous proportions, like a tornado, hurricane, or blizzard, I’d just as soon be surprised. What can I do about it? Not much. The magic gene for weather control did not reach me in the great evolutionary process. How do I prepare for this? Batteries, water, ice, bread, milk, toilet paper?

Boring! Actual National Weather Service alert map.

Last February, an ice storm took out pine trees a half-mile away. Their soft branches bent and snapped under the weight of the ice, taking out the lines that supply our little 20-house development. (Ban pine trees!) In July, a storm inexplicably took out the power for 51 hours. Disasters? Nope. I’m still here, unscathed.

Unfortunately, we are insignificant to the power company because we have so few households, and, therefore, are some of the last to have power restored. BFF Fiona and I have our survival routine down pat. During the day, we go about our business, as usual (shocking, I know). At night, we sit by the light of a Coleman lantern, with her snoozing at my feet while I read from my Kindle or from the Kindle app on my iPhone without the lantern. Wait! We do that every night before we fall asleep. No sweat.

I am not a camper, by any stretch of the imagination. On vacation, I want to read books in a comfy lounge chair, wearing clean clothes, stroll through museums, have long lunches in nice restaurants, and drink lots and lots of soothing adult beverages. I have done time on sailboats, freezing, pelted by hail, swatting at no-see-ums in sweltering heat, bathing with saltwater. But I always had clean sheets on my bunk, a nice bottle of wine, a book, and, usually, a steak in the icebox or a beach restaurant in the next port.

Pellet stove + lantern = cozy

My house faces south, with large windows, so, in the winter, the living room and bedroom warm up comfortably, if the sun is out, and my pellet stove runs off a 12-volt marine battery. In the summer, leaves cover the tree branches and shade the house, so it naturally stays about 10 degrees cooler than the developments built in former cornfields.

What are my survival secrets? I always have an Igloo-brand drink cooler filled with water, containers of solid ice stored in a spare freezer, and cooler packs frozen in the door of my freezer to protect its contents in the event of power loss. I also keep water in old bleach bottles, which can be used for washing or flushing the toilet. And, if I know that a tropical storm or blizzard is on its way, I am that woman who fills up at least one bathtub with water. I see it as a talisman against the weather gods and have had to use it to wash dishes and flush the toilet more than once. Of course, I have three low water-use toilets, so I can get at least three flushes out of whatever water is in the tank.

When power goes out in the summer, I move the block ice to my refrigerator, use my generator to run the freezer and refreeze the block ice. The generator also is used to recharge a battery that I then use to charge my phone and laptop, run my television for the morning and evening news, and give me an hour of lamplight. I should have it set up to run the well pump and/or furnace, but I just can’t get motivated enough, because, news flash, it is rarely a problem.

When I designed my kitchen, I had a gas cooktop installed, which can be lit with a match and on which I heat water for bathing, dishwashing, and beverages, as well as cooking. Of course, there’s always the gas grill outside or the charcoal grill in my dining room. I’ll never lack for a hot meal, so, bring it on Polar Vortex!

DATE UPDATE: Yesterday, I met a man for lunch at a nice local restaurant. Upon my arrival at noon, we shook hands; he expressed surprise that I looked like my profile photos and inadvertently revealed that he had already consumed a beer. During the next two hours, he drank three more. I’m not sure if I was so awful he couldn’t stand me or if he has a drinking problem. Since I can’t be more fabulous, I’m going to have to guess it’s him (plus he had exaggerated about a few things in his profile, like his occupation and his ownership of a boat, to name just two). To ensure that there is no second date request, I played myself as silly, chatty, and as obnoxious as possible, finally throwing in my trump card —religion. “Yes, you should know that I am the Senior Warden at my church and have seminary training. My faith means everything to me.” (All true, by the way.) I think I actually saw him wince. What a disappointment…he had such good grammar!

On the other hand, he paid for my $9 salad and glass of water (someone has to remain sober during a blind date). My batteries are charged, my water is topped. So, who am I to complain? Life is good (mostly). Soli Deo Gloria!

November 1, 2014
by maggiex4 Leave a comment

Dazed and Confused, What Else is New?

It’s been a busy time in my world, some satisfying, some funny, all frustrating. So, here goes…

Happy 87^th Birthday to my mom — a week late. Thinking myself to be organized, I bought her a birthday present in

1972 – The night before my wedding, she told me I didn’t have to go through with it, if I didn’t want to.

August, sat it on a chair in my bedroom, and am fairly certain that it was still sitting there two weeks ago. I checked the size of the box the week before the Big Day and bought wrapping paper for it. The day of her birthday, it had vanished. I mean, vanished, as in not to be seen anywhere in my house. I checked every square inch of my bedroom, including under the bed, under the chair, and in my closet. Nope. Nada. No gift. Not in the guest bedroom, my daughter’s old room, the living room, dining room, garage, attic, or sunroom. In desperation, I had to stop at Rite Aid and buy a lame Panera gift card to give her from my BFF Fiona. Is that not embarrassing?

I had the wrapping paper, tissue, ribbon, box, and card ready to go with nothing to give the sainted woman from whom I get my middle name, curly hair, and lack of stature; my sarcasm, temper, frankness, and stubbornness; my hypertension and high cholesterol; my sewing and typing prowess; my love of reading, old movies, fashion, and history; my fear of heights and being hurt (physically and emotionally); my righteous indignation and survival instincts, not to mention my quest for perfection.

Lucky me! Good genes!

Of course, what would be perfect enough for the only person who is always behind me, even when she thinks I’m wrong? Who made me clothes and costumes, convinced my dad that a liberal arts degree was acceptable, sheet-rocked a veterinary clinic, helped me hang wallpaper, loved my husband and adopted daughter, my dogs and cats, and let me move away to Maryland without complaining?

Well, there’s always Christmas. I love you, Mom!

This happened the very same day that I had my last post-op visit with the plastic surgeon, and, no, I wasn’t as prepared as I hoped I would be. Yes, I hit my weight goal, the day before my visit (thank you very much) and decided that I needed to lose another five pounds so I’d have a “cushion”. You know, with the holidays coming up and all that rich, festive food. I’d rather have a cushion of pounds that I could maybe, possibly gain without notice, than that big cushion of fat below my navel.

Anyway, during the exam, I had my last prodding. “Yes, sir, I have feeling there and there.” I thought he unnecessarily kept referring to the “rigid necrotic fat” in my right breast and said that I should call him if I ever decided that I couldn’t live with it. What? It’s not painful or even visible beneath my clothes. Did you see the black banded dress that Miley Cyrus wore to the amFAR fundraiser this week? Well, I couldn’t wear that with my new breasts, but, if the sequins were properly placed, I could probably wear the gown that Rihanna had on. (Google them for your laugh of the week.) Tom Ford of Gucci, give me a call.

I told the doctor that no one would see it but me, and he said, “Well, you might change your mind.” He’s so inscrutable that I’m not sure what he thought I was going to change my mind about. Letting someone see it? Touch it? Well, my match.com experience continues to be dismal, so that isn’t likely, if you know what I mean.

After the exam, it was time for the dreaded “after” photographs. And even with as much entertainment as I have given hundreds of people with my experience of the “before” photographs, I still came close to tears. Don’t get me wrong. The doctor is a very kind and gentle man. There’s a nurse there, holding up a blue backdrop, and my abs are looking pretty decent for a woman my age, but there’s just something about standing upright, naked, and having photos taken. I stared at the ceiling, turned a quarter to the left, full left, a quarter to the right, and then full right, smack into my reflection in a mirror!

“OH, DEAR GOD!!!!” I shrieked. Really and truly and most hideously, I shrieked at the unexpected sight of little pale me, naked except for a pair of black tights. The doctor and nurse laughed. I don’t know if they laughed because it’s their little joke to stand a naked senior citizen under fluorescent lighting in front of a mirror, or if it’s because the joke was finally on me.

“Oh, Suzanne, you’re always so funny!” the receptionist once told me.

Oh the humanity—er—I mean, the humiliation. Not only had I seen the gruesome situation in my mind’s eye, but there it was in front of me, like a grotesque Picasso painting of one of his naked ex-wives.

“Really,” I mumbled, completely defeated. “I’ve spent the last six months preparing for this moment, losing 15 pounds, flattening my abs, and this is just awful.” They continued to laugh. I hope they were thinking, “Isn’t she charming?” and not “Silly old lady! What did she think she looked like?” Looking at the pale wrinkles and folds from my forehead to my waist, I understood why the doctor wanted me to call him if I “need anything.” Silly man! Only a magician could save my dignity now! Of course, I’m not really happy with my neck…

If I could only do something about my neck...

The Daughter says I look too masculine in this photo.

This all gives new meaning to my continuing misery with match.com. It’s the same old-same old. The interesting men who are my age don’t want a woman my age. The rest look like Santa Claus or worse. Unfortunately, I don’t think any of them has a present in his pack exciting enough to induce me to sit on his lap. [Sudden thought: Maybe my profile should say that I’m the woman you want sitting at your death bed praying like mad for you and making you laugh. Naw. Probably not.]

Last week, as I was forced to go through my “Daily Matches”, clicking the green check for “Interested” or the orange x for “Not interested”, I started to feel sorry for them. I reminded myself that they, too, have the same angst about the process that I have. Looks aren’t everything, you know. So, I carefully read each of the 11 profiles and decided to click on one man who “caught my eye”, as they say in the online dating game. He had a tremendous smile and twinkle in his eye (ok, ok, it could have been pixilated by my poor internet connection). His profile was downright funny and, the real clincher, it was beyond LITERATE! True to form, he (my age) didn’t want a woman my age or height but claimed to be looking for an intelligent, funny, beautiful woman.

“Well, hey!” I thought to myself, “three out of five is a pretty close match. We all need to be realistic about this, buddy” and clicked “Interested”.

Imagine my surprise the next morning to find an email from him! He gave me a story about how he was so sorry that he was already dating someone else because I was just what he was looking for and that I should hang in there, blah, blah, blah. Why did he even write me? Makes no sense. I responded, thanking him for his kind remarks but telling him that I was done with the whole degrading, demoralizing process because I can’t be taller, younger, or any more fabulous than I already am. I also referred him to this blog for my real feelings (see “Righteous Indignation” above, sometimes a bad move). And he replied AGAIN, with the same drivel about “hanging in there” because I was so “fabulous.” WTH? What have I ever done to you? Whine, whine, whine.

Yesterday, 10 days later, his profile popped up on a generic list of men who were online and ready to chat. Really? What happened to that woman you were dating last week? I hope you do read this. I thought you had possibilities. If you’re reading this, you should know that I was thinking Daniel Craig, not Sean Connery.

Finally, this week, I received an unsolicited email from an attractive older man (I would have said “gentleman” but read on). He liked my witty, literate profile and commented kindly on my looks (which no one has done yet and is considered an online dating etiquette “no-no”). Being a sucker for compliments, I went to his profile, reminded myself to be generous and open-minded, found his favorite hobby, and commented on it. It was something that I find thrilling and that not a lot of people have done (but I have, twice). He responded within 24 hours and asked me to do it with him (no, it’s not illegal or immoral, and I’m not going to say what it is because maybe, just maybe, I’m wrong about him, although I don’t think so, but I’d really like to be delightfully surprised, and I wouldn’t want to jeopardize anything). I replied that his offer was “irresistible” and told him a tiny bit more about myself and how I came to be familiar with his hobby. I also gave him the few days that I was unavailable and waited to hear from him.

I waited 24 hours. And another 24 hours. And I’m still waiting. I think it’s kind of odd that a man would ask a woman out, that she would accept, and that then he wouldn’t follow up. Maybe he compared notes with the other men on match.com and found out about my blog. (Damn you, Righteous Indignation!)

On a satisfying note, I completed a state grant that I was writing for the Deer Creek Chorale, with whom I sing. The writing part is enjoyable. I love bragging about our wonderful artistic staff, dedicated board of directors, and the tireless and talented singers with whom I perform. I hope the grantors appreciate what we do for the arts in our underserved community, because we are stellar! For an English major, that’s a no-brainer. Sadly, it also involves a whole lot of freaking data (like 19 pages of it), which means numbers, numbers, numbers. Writing this grant is about 20 hours of work (including interim and final reports), hoping to get at least $1,000 and, at most, $2,500. Last year was our first attempt at a grant from the state, and we were awarded $1,500. So, who am I to complain? Life is good, mostly. Soli Deo Gloria!

October 14, 2014
by maggiex4 2 Comments

The New and Improved Me – Part III

Another day and night of oxycodone, the third day.

I awoke to a large spot of pinkish sera seeping through my surgical bra where one of the drain tubes had been removed. It wasn’t bright red, so I wasn’t especially worried about bleeding to death, but I was concerned about it leaking through to my clothes. Everything was wet, and I felt gross, not smelly, just cold and wet. Again, the Daughter carted me to the doctor.

“That’s looking better,” he pronounced, as he removed the bandages. “You’ve got a long way to go, but it’s healing.” He prodded the left nipple with the stainless steel probe. “Can you feel anything yet?” I shook my head “no.”

“Well, it takes time for all the nerves to reconnect.”

Cold & wet

He handed me a mirror, and, for the first time, I had a look. It was pretty grim. There were little oozing raw spots, here and there, on my left breast, and a half-dollar-sized wound on the lower half of the right breast that looked like fresh ground sirloin. I could see that the edges were starting to granulate and heal, but the rest was what I’d heard the Veterinarian call “pink and healthy.” Maybe another woman would have swooned, but I had seen worse.

“Again,” said my doctor, “this is a rare complication, as I explained, but —“

“I understand,” I interrupted him. “I can deal with it. It is what it is.”

He stopped, looked me directly in the eye, and considered me for a few seconds. Maybe he thought I was going to cry. Maybe he thought I was going to sue for malpractice. Maybe he just didn’t know how to respond. He changed the bandages, hooked and zipped me up, and helped me sit up.

“So, I’ll be ok to travel in about three weeks?” I asked.

“No,” he answered. He looked from the Daughter to me. “Where are you planning on going?”

“Well, we’re going to Cancún, Memorial Day weekend.”

“No,” he laughed. “You’re not going anywhere, especially not on a plane to Mexico.”

“But I’ll be with her,” the Daughter replied. “It’s just a plane ride and sitting on a beach drinking Margaritas.”

“No,” he said. “Think about the air pressure on the plane and all the unhygienic places you’d be exposed to.” My spirits sank.

“I want to see you again on Monday. Over the weekend, change the bandages once a day. Cover the wounds with antibiotic cream or Vaseline and new gauze pads. Call the office, if you have any questions.” He shook our hands and stopped at the door. “You really don’t look like a woman who’s had surgery.”

So lucky to have my own nurse

“Why does he keep saying that?” I whispered to the Daughter, when he left. “Is he trying to cheer me up? I have these awful blisters. Isn’t that bad? And, if I look so great, why can’t we go to Cancún?”

“I don’t know, Mom,” she sighed. “He’s worried about complications, plus you have those huge open wounds. Just get dressed, and let’s go.” She drove me home and settled me on the sofa with the dog. I ate some soup and slept for several hours, until around 3 pm.

When I awoke, I felt a little warm, with sun streaming through my living room windows. 60 pounds of hot Golden Retriever weren’t helping. My icepacks were sloshing. I refilled them and laid back down, shivering under my blankets.

I texted the Daughter.

“Did you take your temp?” she replied.

“I don’t have a thermometer that hasn’t been used in the Dog.”

“Put some ice on your head and take Tylenol.”

“It’s on my chest.”

“What?”

“The ice is on my chest, not my head. I don’t use Tylenol.”

“What are you feeling, exactly?”

“Chills. My forehead feels warm. Hey! I can clean the thermometer with that surgical scrub.”

My temperature was exactly 100°. Normal people wouldn’t worry too much, but I have always had one of those body temperatures that is subnormal and sort of dyslexic. It’s 96.8°. I am always cold. People at church anticipate my icy grip when we “pass the peace.” Consequently, when my fingers feel warm, I assume that something is wrong.

“You have a low grade fever. Let me know how you feel in 30 min.”

30 minutes later, I dutifully texted my temperature, 101.3°.

“Uhm…call the doctor?” she texted, along with his emergency number.

“No, I don’t want to bother him.”

“It’s Friday afternoon. You don’t want to end up at Patient First.”

“Should I take Motrin?”

“You should call the doctor.”

“It’s almost 5, and they’ll be closing.”

“Call the doctor, Mom. That’s why he has an emergency number.”

Sure enough, they had closed for the weekend, but I left a message on the answering device. I felt worse bothering the doctor after hours than I did about the fever. I’ve been on the other end of an after-hours phone call. You understand that it’s part of the job, but there’s always a big sigh when you see a message. Still, it was only 10 minutes after closing, so I knew I wasn’t ruining his night. Within three minutes, he returned my call. I apologized profusely for bothering him after hours. He was most cordial and approved my request to discontinue the oxycodone and start Motrin. Again, I apologized profusely for bothering him.

Within a few hours, after taking the Motrin, my temperature started dropping. Without the oxycodone, I was comfortable and, once again, slept like a baby, on my back. When I awoke, I made first attempt at changing my dressing, smearing the wounds with Vaseline (which, I discovered, leaked through my clothes), covering them with gauze pads, and securing the whole thing with bandage tape). At 8, my phone rang. It was my doctor calling to check up on me. I was enormously impressed and, once again, felt stupid for bothering him with my insignificant little fever. In fact, I wished that it had been worse so that I could justify his concern.

Two more nights and days without oxycodone, and, on Monday, I was back in his office.

“Hey, Suzanne, how’re you feeling?” He shook my hand, and we went through our routine; he did the unzipping and unhooking and prodding, and I did the jokes.

“So, guess what?” I asked. “My left breast came back online.”

“What?” He looked at me warily, probably wondering what I was babbling about now.

“My left nipple,” I explained. “It has feeling again. Little electrical jolts. It seems to be entertaining itself at the most inopportune moments, like when I’m sitting quietly in church.”

He smiled and shook his head, hooking and zipping me back up. I felt short, childlike, and completely ridiculous. It occurred to me to keep my mouth shut. But…naw…

“It’s sort of like dressing a baby doll, isn’t it?” I laughed.

“Yeah,” he replied, “it really is.” This time, he laughed with me.

By my last visit, in mid-July, after two months of frequent exams, prodding, poking, and joking, my doctor declared that I was healed, except for some “rigid fat necrosis.” (Sounds delightful, doesn’t it?) I told him that I was regaling my friends with stories about my surgery, which stopped him in his tracks, but I reassured him that he was never the butt of my humor. I left him my latest motto: “I am not always happy, but I always try to be cheerful. Sometimes, that’s the best I can do.” As usual, he nodded his head. I hope I’ve spread a little sunshine his way.

Next week, I return for my final visit, and, possibly, the dreaded “after” photos. This time, I’m prepared. I’m preparing my witty repartee to ward off visions of Victorian England, and, as I told him on the morning of surgery that I would, I’ve gotten rid of the “armpit fat” and flabby abs (although, they remain glaringly white).

When I look down at my chest, I still marvel at how different my new breasts look. From that view, they look perfect. When I look in the mirror, they look like something attached by Dr. Frankenstein. It’s not the scarring. It’s the strangeness of them. We’re still becoming acquainted. My neck and backaches are a thing of the past, and I’ve treated myself to some cute lingerie, of course. Once again, I fit into some of my favorite clothes, including a gorgeous Italian wool gabardine suit that I had tailored in Hong Kong almost 20 years ago, an Armani knock-off that spans the vagaries of fashion. So, who am I to complain? Life is good (mostly). Soli Deo Gloria!

October 7, 2014
by maggiex4 Leave a comment

The New and Improved Me – Part II

“You’ll vomit in the car,” the Daughter said bluntly, as she drove us away from the hospital. I was starving.

Modern anesthetics are amazing. Five hours after my breast reduction surgery began, I awoke with a nurse by my side and mounds of ice on my chest, zipped into a surgical bra, and starving. Thankfully, I felt no pain. Surgery had taken 3-1/2 hours. My Daughter, the critical care nurse, exchanged go-home instructions with the nurses, as only one professional to another can do, and helped me dress in my comfy hoodie, long knit skirt, and best panties (I am my mother’s daughter, after all). Did I mention that I was starving? I desperately wanted to stop at McDonald’s for fries and a Coke.

“Daddy bought McDonald’s for me after my colonoscopy, and I was fine.”

“No, Mom.” Oh, how painful it is when the child becomes the mother!

“You know, your doctor was nice for a surgeon,” she continued, “He came out after surgery and talked to me and asked if I know a surgeon at my hospital that he trained with. Like, I see him and his patients in the CCU, but why would a famous surgeon know me?”

“What did my doctor say about me, the patient?”

“Oh, not much, the usual,” she shrugged.

“Were you terribly bored while I was in surgery?” The waiting room television had been tuned to CNN.

[Sudden thought: Why do airports and hospitals show breaking emergencies? I guess it’s better than the Maury Show, which was playing at the hospital the day I had my nuclear stress test for high blood pressure.]

“Naw,” she replied, “I went home and watched Xfinity on Demand with my cats.”

“WHAT?!”

“Well, Mom, I only live 10 minutes away, and there wasn’t anything I could do, sitting there for five hours.”

I sighed. Practical Me understood her point, but Mommy Me envisioned her waiting prayerfully.

By 2 pm, we were home. I crashed in the living room, flat on my back on the sofa, nestled into my favorite pillows and blankets with 60 pounds of Golden Retriever at my feet, the best comfort of all. I picked up my cellphone.

“What are you doing?” The Daughter asked. “You’re supposed to rest.”

“I can see my feet for the first time in decades,” I emailed my nearest and dearest.

Nurse’s Aide

The Daughter fixed herself a sandwich and settled in a big armchair and ottoman. We were all soon fast asleep, rousing ourselves enough to replenish my icepacks, empty my drains every four hours, eat leftover pizza (which tasted so good), and feed and walk the dog. I woke again at midnight with a crick in my neck and throbbing throughout my chest. I changed my ice and woke the Daughter.

“It’s time to empty my drains and go to bed.” We went into my bathroom, where I had my first look at what I had done to myself. I lowered the zipper of the surgical bra and tried to examine the top of my breasts. Alas, they were swathed in gauze padding and bandage tape, although I spied a little bruising. The surgeon’s purple star still marked the base of my throat, and I was stained orange with Betadine scrub from my shoulders to my waist.

“Wait!” I pushed the Daughter’s hand away. “Why are you stretching these drains? You’re going to break the lines or pull them out.”

“Mom! I do this dozens of times every night at the hospital. I think I can do yours.” I was chastened. She efficiently emptied the drains, professionally measuring and recording their contents. I would have been lost without her.

“You need to take your oxycodone and Ambien.”

“No, I was already sleeping. I’m not taking the Ambien. I hear people sleepwalk on that stuff.”

“The security alarm is on. If you open the door, it will go off and wake you up.”

“Let’s just go to bed. I’ll take the oxycodone, if the pain gets too bad. Put it next to the bed with my water bottle.”

“No, Mom. You take the oxycodone before you feel the pain, or it doesn’t work.”

“I wonder what the street value is of all that oxycodone and Ambien.”

“Mom.”

“It’s like having a gold mine in the closet.”

“Take your oxycodone. We have to be at the doctor’s for the post-op exam at 10 to have the drains removed, and you don’t want to be in pain.”

From the Veterinarian, I learned that there is pain that kills you, and everything else is tolerable, unless excessive blood loss is involved. Yes, I’m the woman who spent two hours in the oral surgeon’s chair having her wisdom teeth removed with Novocaine only. I’d rather be in pain than risk opiate addiction, but bossy Nurse Ratched was right. I swallowed the oxycodone and slept like a baby on my back, chest covered in icepacks. Hmmm…I could get used to this stuff.

Night and day, the second day.

I was unconscious until the Dog woke me at 6:45 to eat. I ate my tea and toast and obediently swallowed my oxycodone. Since I couldn’t lift my arms over my head, I wrestled my bandaged self into a button-up-the-front shirtdress. Easy in, easy out, I thought. I settled in the car, reclined, with the icepacks tucked into the front of my dress, for the 30 minute drive to the surgeon’s office.

In the exam room, the Daughter helped me wrestle back out of my dress and into a soft cotton gown. I was still pain-free and hopped onto the exam table, shivering under a draft of cooled air. She took a seat by the door with a good view of the table.

“Good morning, ladies,” the surgeon greeted us. “You don’t look like a woman who just had surgery.” He shook our hands, helped me lay back on the table, and snapped on a pair of latex gloves.

“What should I look like?”

“A lot worse than you do. So, let’s see what we have here.” He unzipped and unhooked the bra, cut away the gauze bandages, and removed the drains. “Well, the incisions look fine, but I see we have some blistering.” He pulled out a stainless probe.

“Can you feel this?” He touched my right nipple.

“Yes.” He touched the left one. “Um, no.”

“That’s ok. It takes a little time for all the nerves to reconnect.”

“Ok.”

“Now, I’m going to open these blisters.” I glanced up at the Daughter, who was stretching her neck for a better view and suddenly grinning maniacally. He picked up forceps and a scalpel and then swiftly clipped away the dead skin on my right breast. My Daughter the nurse grimaced.

“Hmm…” he studied the wound. “That’s pretty deep, but it should heal. The dressing will need to be changed once a day, so you’ll need to come back tomorrow. Let’s look at the other one…OK, this one’s not as bad. The blisters are on the areola and underneath.” He stood up and looked at me seriously.

“Now, I explained that this happens rarely, when circulation slows during the procedure, but it does happen and has happened here.” He seemed apologetic. “It should heal just fine, but the scarring may be more obvious.”

“OK, I get that,” I answered. “Just tell me how to deal with it.”

Having spent over 30 years in veterinary medicine, I have acquired more than a little knowledge of how medicine works, even human medicine. Sometimes, sh*t happens. He rebandaged the wounds, hooked and zipped me back into the bra, gave us instructions, and told me to return the next day for a dressing change.

“You really don’t look like a woman who just had surgery,” he shook his head and left us in the exam room.

“So, how bad does it look to you?” I asked the Daughter, when we were back in the car and headed to her apartment to check on her cats.

“It looks pretty bad, Mom.” She sees a lot of patients after breast reconstruction surgery in the critical care unit.

“Bad, as in life-threatening bad?”

“No, but it’s serious.”

“Oh.” We waited in silence at a stoplight. OK. Of late, everything else in my life was complicated, why should this be any different? Minor detail, relatively speaking.

“Just get on with it,” the Shrew in my head hissed.

“Lunch. Today, I want McDonald’s. I need a Big Mac, I think,” I demanded. “A Big Mac Meal. I need fries.” You can’t keep a tough girl down, especially when tasty, salty, greasy food makes her feel so much better.

“And a large, real Coke.”

Just get on with it.

[To be continued.]

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