Piece of my Mind

It occurred to me today that I can be a real jerk inside my head. No doubt about it, my attitude has been in the crapper today. I’m just tired, and when I get tired I get really sarcastic. I fire ugly comments at people inside my mind. Thankfully, I have that little filter that keeps it from oozing out of my head and spilling out of my mouth. By the way, that filter evaporates when I drink to excess which is one of several reasons I don’t drink much alcohol. Sticking with one or two drinks prevents me from telling people exactly what I think about their bad haircut, excessive makeup and need for dental work. (Remind me to tell you the 1988 Christmas party story sometime.)

That filter is a result of two things. First all, I’m a product of my surroundings, and in the south we kill people with politeness, even when we don’t mean it. It’s somewhat dishonest and leads to a lot of passive aggressive behavior, but it’s tough to overcome. Secondly, Baby Ruth and Zeke raised me to be nice to people, even when people are not nice to me. I may be 43 years old, but they would still kick my hind end if I went around acting like a horse’s rear end most of the time. So, I keep my tired and cranky comments to myself. It’s a good thing because my imagination has been a real butt today. Here’s just a sample of what I wanted to tell folks but didn’t:

To the clerk in the drive-thru-“Those gold caps with fake gems you put on your two front teeth look like crap. What were you thinking? Bend down here and let me yank that mess out.”

To the guy who sells me company Christmas cards-“You tracked me down on my cell phone while I’m in traffic to make a sales pitch? I WILL buy some, but not today. It’s September for Pete’s sake.”

To the secretary of the attorney who wants me to provide him with information for an upcoming lawsuit-“ I don’t want to leave another message. He hasn’t returned any of my other calls, and I don’t have any hope he’ll call me back this time. Just tell him my cooperation is commensurate with his courtesy toward me. It really chaps my rump that he sent me a letter telling me to show up for a SATURDAY morning meeting and won’t even call me back to tell me what he needs from me. Two words-subpeona this!”

To the tech guy at the internet place-“If you mean a twenty minute wait, don’t tell me five to ten minutes. By the way, do you own a comb?”

To the receptionist at the internet place-“For the fourth time, I do not want a candy bar or want to watch a different channel on the TV. I just want to sit here and stew about my lengthy wait for a new DSL modem.”

To Britney Spears-“You are a walking train wreck. Get some help for your addiction before you lose your kids, your family and your career. I’m sick and tired of your trashy act staggering across my TV every morning, and I’m sad that your children have to live with a mother who obviously never stays home at night and doesn’t know when to put on underwear. They’re going to be so ashamed when they get a little older.”

To O.J. Simpson-“Mama always said what goes around comes around. Something about this latest case seems a little fishy, so I feel like I should be skeptical about it. The truth is I don’t care. I hope you go to prison for a long time. You got away with murder the first time because you had the money to hire a slick defense team. I still want you to pay for that, so I’m not even going to try to be objective this time.”

And finally, to the woman who waited on me at an unnamed store-“I’m sorry. Did you say something? I was distracted by those butt ugly plaid pants you’re wearing.”

See, behind my smile and my calm demeanor I’ve been a grade A jerk today. Baby Ruth would tell me that thinking it is almost as bad as saying it. I supposed I should feel bad about it, but the truth is I’m too tired to care right now. And I’m not done with the day yet. Anyone who crosses my path is likely to get a piece of my mind, if you know what I mean. Oops. There’s the phone, and it looks like it’s that lab that wants me to pay for something my insurance has already paid. Care to guess what I’m thinking?

Good Mourning

It’s going to be a long day. I overslept. My underwear is too tight, and two people tried to drive in my lane this morning while I was still in it. I am tired, tired, tired. My “to do” list is so long it has categories. And my computers at home and work aren’t cooperating. If I lose the “Name That Photo” contest over at the pioneer woman (again), it will be another reason I need to be in Jamaica right now. Think Hubby can be persuaded? Here’s hoping the day gets better quickly. I’m off to find a Diet Coke.

Gee Whiz

Over the course of my 43 years I have learned a great many things about the opposite sex. I grew up with brothers, after all. But I am still puzzled by several quirks of the male species. At the top of that list is potty stops. For the life of me I do not understand why it ticks a man off to make a restroom stop when traveling by car. Hubby and I were driving to the airport the other morning when I told him I needed to stop. It’s a two hour drive and I thought I could make it all the way, but I couldn’t. I have a bladder the size of a peanut, and have a maximum time limit of an hour and a half between restroom breaks, sometimes less. Since we were driving into a large metropolitan city during rush hour, I did not want to risk getting stuck in traffic with a bloated bladder. I had visions of running down an embankment and whizzing on a bush. I didn’t want half of greater Nashville seeing my naked backside so, with about twenty minutes left in our drive, I asked him to pull over. You would have thought I’d asked him to paint my toenails. “Oh, my God! Can’t you wait just a little longer? We are almost there. It’s just a few more miles to the airport, surely you can wait.” “No. No, that’s why I’m asking you to pull over. It won’t take but a minute.” “Oh, alright, if we HAVE to.” (Insert vigorous huffing and puffing here.)

Now, this is the reaction I get every time we travel by car for any significant distance, and I have to pee. It’s the reaction I used to get from my dad when I was a kid. It’s also the reaction Hubby’s father used to give his family. In fact, just about every male I’ve ever traveled with, has had that kind of reaction. Women don’t do that. If I were traveling with a group of women and one of them asked to pull over, the driver would respond with a big “Sure, honey” and pull over at the nearest exit. Women don’t mind. We understand. Men mind. In fact, they get right down grumpy about it. Hubby’s mood can turn south in a heartbeat with the mere mention of a pee stop. “But I was making good time,” he says. “I’ll lose this Cadillac with the fuzz buster. It will slow us down.” “Yeah, well we’re going to slow down plenty if I pee all over this front seat,” I tell him. He stops, but I have to listen to a whole bunch of grumbling and huffing during the entire stop and another twenty minutes of “we’ll never make up that time” after we get back in the car.

I just don’t understand. It’s not like I take a long time in the restroom. Unlike a lot of women, I get in and get out. No primping, no lipstick, just a pee, a flush and a hand wash. I don’t even take my purse in with me. I want to get to our destination as quickly as Hubby does. Do Nascar drivers get this mad when they have to make a pit stop? If so, that would explain why there are no women in the pit crews. Are men born with a gene that causes them to get mad when they have to stop? If so, THAT would explain why they won’t stop and ask for directions, either.

On a Wing and a Prayer

How to save a life? I'm not sure. How to give hope to someone without it? Any way you can. How to rescue the drowning? Grab an arm and search for higher ground.

I will be away for a couple of days. Someone close to me is without hope..and is drowning. I will board a plane in the morning and pray that somewhere over the Midwest the good Lord grants me the wisdom and strength to help save a life 'cause I'm wingin' this one.

Driving Me Crazy

If I ever strike it rich I’m going to hire someone to drive me around. My anxiety level would be much lower if I didn’t have to worry about the craziness that comes with driving these days. Is it just me or did people used to be more careful and considerate when driving? Today it seems as if everyone is in such a hurry to get to the next stop that a drive across town is a like a high speed, bumper pushing Nascar event. I expect it in larger cities but not in my small town. Sometimes I’m just grateful to be alive after my 18 minute commute to work. Here are the top ten things that make me crazy about that short drive.

10. The Make-up Artist-I see her almost every morning. She doesn’t see me because she’s too busy finishing her beauty routine. Sweetheart, if you didn’t get it done before you left the house, forget about it ‘til you get to work. You cannot curl and lengthen both eyelashes during one stoplight.

9. Nose picker-Stop it! People can see you. I see you, regularly. You may be alone in your car, but the whole world is watching while you dig for gold. YOU-ARE-GROSS.

8. The tailgater-This guy runs the same stretch of highway I do every morning and consistently rides the bumper of several people during his dash across town. He’s done it to me, and I’ve seriously considered throwing on my brakes and letting him buy the back of my car. If I knew I wouldn’t get hurt, I would. Being the safety bug I am, I will just continue to seethe quietly instead. Well, maybe with hand gestures.

7. On The Blink-Did they take the turn signals out of some cars and not tell me? Because it seems as if some folks don’t have any. Tip: Making a left turn in front of me quickly without a signal is a good way to get run over. Or at least make me spill the contents of my lunch bag all over the front of the floorboard.

6. Putting on the Brakes- I hate it when folks putter 20 miles an hour in front of me and then slam on their brakes to make a turn. No matter how slow I’m going I will give myself whiplash trying to stop on a dime.

5. Disappearing Detour-We have a major road construction project about a mile from my house, and it affects three separate roads. I know it’s there. I know to expect a detour. I just don’t know from hour to hour where that detour is going to be. It moves frequently throughout the day. It’s probably not their fault, but I wish the construction folks could pick a detour and stay with it for a day or two.

4. Crappy Radio-I’m not too choosy about my music in the morning, but it seems there is nothing good on the radio at that time. I don’t need a lot of talk. I don’t need a bunch of commercials, and my ears aren’t ready for Kanye West at 6:30am. Just give me a little Steve Wonder or Marvin Gaye to start my day, Mr. Deejay. I know you have it. You play it later in the day when I’m at work and can’t listen to the radio.

3. Yellow Light Racers-I don’t know how many times I’ve almost been run over by someone racing through a red light at a high rate of speed because they thought they could beat it before it turned to red. Speed racers-saving yourself thirty seconds is not worth risking my life. If you’re doing it just because you like to go fast, let me know. I can hook you up with someone at the local racetrack who can give you a safe place to risk your own neck.

2. Cell Phone Hogs-Every day I am surrounded by folks trying to talk on the cell phone and drive in busy traffic at the same time. You’ve seen them. You’ve probably almost been run over by them. And I’ll bet if you were to take a poll of those folks, most would have to admit that the majority of their car calls are not that important. I say we ban cell phones from cars and that way I don’t have to answer mine whenever someone is calling to ask me what I’m cooking for supper or if I’ll pick up some Kraft Macaroni and Cheese at the Dollar Store.

1. This is the granddaddy of them all….the one that makes me absolutely insane…the thing that makes me swear like a sailor at strangers…the thing that makes me pull out fist fulls of hair…HOGGING THE LEFT LANE. Ooooh! I can’t stand it. If you are not passing or making a left turn soon, get out of the left lane, especially if you are driving way below the speed limit. Some of us would like to pass. Some of us are going the speed limit and would like to get around those of you who are driving 20 miles an hour in the 60 mph zone. No doubt, you are the same folks who park their cart in the middle of the aisle at Wal-Mart and hold up traffic in the bread aisle. Please, please get out of the way. I beg of you. You are plugging up traffic and making me cranky. Then I become that loud mouthing, swearing, angry driver that the rest of you hate.

In 1973

Hearing the James Blount song “In 1973” this morning prompted me to stop and think about what I was doing in 1973. I started fourth grade that year, and my memories of that year mostly involve fourth grade events. Mr. T. was our teacher. He was the first male teacher I had, and his reputation for strong discipline was legendary at Franklin Elementary. I was so scared of him for the first two months of school I was afraid to ask for permission to go pee. I didn’t get off to a great start with him, either. I lost my recess and had to write fifty sentences on the first day of school for failing to keep my mouth shut. It wasn’t really my fault. I swear. Our desks were grouped together, and my pencil rolled onto Larry O.’s desk. I retrieved it, but he swore it was his, and we proceeded to argue about it for the better part of social studies class. It was a brand new pencil with a Frito Bandito eraser, and I was not about to lose it. Larry was as stubborn as I was, and somewhere between Columbus’ voyage to America and the first Thanksgiving, we lost recess. It was one of many lost recesses. My elementary school report card is filled with comments like “out of seat too much” and “talks too much”. It’s no surprise I ended up with a career in journalism.

I eventually grew to like Mr. T.. He was an excellent teacher and was probably a little ahead of his time in the methods he used. Fourth grade was the year of the multiplication tables, and he rigged up this homemade gizmo that set off a buzzer when you guessed the right answer to each math equation. We used it for individual practice, and I thought I’d wear out the buzzer before I learned all of my twelves. He brought his pet boa constrictor to class, and he was always challenging us with some kind of riddle or trick question. He kept us on our toes, pushed us to learn and rewarded us at the end of the year with a Moon Pie and RC Cola party. There was no goofing off in his class, though. He ruled with the confidence of Castro and the sword of fear. Whenever someone got in trouble you felt sorry for the accused because no matter how guilty he was, the punishment would be harsh and swift. Of course, you were also secretly relieved that if someone was going to get caught, it wasn’t you. I vividly remember the day he grabbed Billy Z. by the hair for some infraction and shook his head like a dirty rug. Billy was stunned, and the rest of us were terrified. You could have heard a pin drop for the rest of the afternoon. Billy showed up the next day with a buzzed head. I was scared for his life but impressed with his defiance. On another day Mr. T. tied Greg R. to his seat with a jump rope for failing to stay seated and posted Laurie L.’s sentences on the wall for all of us to admire when she tried to race through that punishment with tiny scribbles just above the lines. She got another 1000 sentences assigned to her since the first 250 were so pretty, he said. Mr. T. made fourth grade worth showing up for class.

It was a year of slumber parties, usually at Lisa M.’s house. We rode horses there. Lisa’s mom went to beauty school that year and practiced on her kids. It was not unusual for Lisa to get on the school bus each morning with a new perm or frosted bangs. She had a puffy wash and set hairdo for picture day, and I made her mad by laughing at it. My weekends were filled with Nancy Drew and Laura Ingalls Wilder. Mood rings were popular and jean legs were bells, big bells with patchwork fabric sewn onto the bottom. My mother loved that trend because she could squeeze extra months of wear out of my pants. My best Christmas present that year was my first bra. It was a yellow elasticized number that was pretty but definitely unnecessary. All of us girls came back from Christmas vacation excited about our new bras. We talked about them endlessly and showed them to each other in the restroom. There was more flashing going on in that restroom than at Mardi Gras in New Orleans. We talked non stop about boys, too. That was the first year we really started to notice them. It was the year we noticed them noticing us.

It was a year of many changes for us. It was a good year, a fun year. We were oblivious to all of the Watergate, Vietnam, Cold War fallout swirling around us as we practiced our multiplication tables in rural, small town America. 1973 was a good year if you were nine years old at Franklin Elementary. Thanks James for reminding me of that.

The Enemy Has A Name

Dementia- The loss of intellectual functions (such as thinking, remembering, and reasoning) of sufficient severity to interfere with a person’s daily functioning. Dementia is not a disease itself but rather a group of symptoms that may accompany certain diseases or conditions. Symptoms may also include changes in personality, mood, and behavior. Dementia is irreversible when caused by disease or injury.

There, I said it. Finally. After days of debating whether or not I’m ready to write about this, I’ve finally put it out there. Papa T. has dementia. He’s in the early stages of the illness. We don’t know what’s causing it, but I can tell you it sucks. The doctor handed us the diagnosis a couple of weeks ago, and it still smarts. Individually, we’ve suspected for a while now that he was suffering from it but didn’t really have the nerve to voice it out loud to each other. Mama J. was the first to have the courage to bring up the subject. With some reluctance I did a little internet research and found the symptoms of dementia, which may or may not be caused by Alzheimer’s but results in the behavior we like to call senility or hardening of arteries. I was startled to discover just how many symptoms of dementia he has. That prompted a discussion with the doctor that confirmed our fears.

For the last few months Papa T. has been pretty forgetful. He doesn’t always seem to be as alert as he should be, and sometimes he gets confused. He also wants to sleep and eat all of the time. We blamed it on medication, thin blood and a number of other things. We danced around this unspoken fear probably because we weren’t ready to accept it. After all, he still can’t see much, and his hearing is poor. Neither one of those issues is likely to get better. That’s more than enough to handle. But to know that he has a terminal illness for which there is no cure is heartbreaking. The real sucker punch is knowing what this disease is going to do to his personality. We’ve already had a glimpse of that, and it’s not pretty.

He’s always been a very kind and gentle man. He still is, except when you try to help him with basic functions like getting into the shower or navigating steps. His temper flares, and he says some downright ugly things to the person helping him. Moments later he doesn’t remember saying those things. Perhaps it’s best that way because he would never intentionally hurt those he loves the most, and he would feel terrible if he knew he was being mean. But it does hurt. He was always very particular about his dress and hygiene. That’s fallen by the wayside. He’s an intelligent man who led an entire school district for years, engaged in lively political discussions and chaired important committees in important circles. Yesterday he lost track of half the day believing it was morning when it was late afternoon. Daily, he can’t remember if he’s taken his medicine.

It makes me very sad, but in a way it’s empowering to know what we’re up against. We’ve been slapped in the face with a diagnosis, and it’s up to us to fight back now that our enemy has a name. While we know we can’t win the war, we can win a few battles, and this enemy has no idea what it’s up against. The Hula’s are a determined, stubborn lot. We fight hard, and we fight mean. We were a little stunned by that first blow, but we’ve picked ourselves up, dusted ourselves off and have put up our fists for the next round. This could get a little bloody.