Fifty Shades of Beige

Owning and living in duplexes for nearly 30 years can be interesting—especially if you are a permanent resident. Sharing common spaces, landlord and tenant boundaries must be established. For the most part we’ve been very lucky. We’ve had a few interesting renters – the failed pediatrician who couldn’t keep her son (nearly naked Neal) clothed and who shopped at discount stores daily. The stunningly pretty but dim young lady who walked into our kitchen as Dan entered from the other way in his underwear. The Doctor from Italy who was appalled by the dust between the cracks of the hardwood floor although he never showered or wore deodorant, and felt he needed to be three inches from your nose to speak. The woman who was deeply disappointed with a beautiful replacement Kohler Brookfield kitchen sink (replacing the dinged up stainless steel) by the prospect of POT MARKS. After that heated exchange, I believe my comment to Dan was “the bitch is outta here.” And she was. The med student that went to Europe for the summer and made no arrangement to pay the rent for three months (surprise, you can’t live here anymore).

On the flip side, we’ve had some great long-term tenants as well. The very talented mom and daughter who are still great friends; a different med student who would study for days before bursting out of the flat to chase our 5 and 7 year old sons around outside, tickle them until they were breathless (he was missing his own little brothers at home) before “tying” them to a tree in the front yard. They loved it—and him. Once when we refinanced and our payment was halved we were able to reduce the rent for a young lady who was struggling with her bills. I can still feel that hug.

Within the last month our lower flat came open again. A quick ad on Craig’s list and we had several prospects. You interview, test the waters with a walk-through and application signing/chat at the kitchen table, conduct some background checks and pray that you’ve made the right choice. Our new tenant will be moving in next week.

We mentioned that we’d be painting the flat and he expressed an interest in picking out colors – something a bit warmer than the current gray, nothing extreme. We agreed to look at his preferences and hire a painter. The painter ended up being a bust – way too expensive, so we decided to do it ourselves, with volunteer help from our new tenant and his brother. The new guy dropped off the paint chips attached to printed digital photos of the different rooms and Dan called me at work to say they were all beige—joking that he could buy a five gallon bucket and call it a day. As all of my faithful 17 readers know, Dan is colorblind reds and greens. I would trust him with colors as much as I would trust Fox to predict an election or McDonalds to serve a gourmet meal. I asked him to hold tight until I got home.

Dan took off a few days to get some repair work done, and on Tuesday he started to paint. I got home from work and came downstairs to help. He had gotten quite a bit done, most of the big surfaces had one coat. The colors were wonderful. There were some instructions about specific applications of color to make features pop. Dan asked me a few questions about how to finish things off. In every case my response was the same, “if I was going to live here I’d want … , but let’s wait until tomorrow and check with the tenant.” 

On Wednesday, the tenant and his twin brother came by to help Dan. They had made quite a bit of progress when I arrived from work. We walked through and in every instance his design decision matched my initial reaction. We are all getting along fine. We painted for a while longer on Wednesday, then took a break for Thanksgiving.

We came downstairs on Friday and found Tom and his brother hard at work. Dan plugged in his “Everclear” station on Pandora radio. I ran to the paint store to pick up a bit more of one color and some white trim paint. When I returned the station had been changed to OLD country – Tom T. Hall. It seems They preferred new country and Dan’s compromise was country that told a story. Seriously—when’s the last time you heard “”Convoy”, or “He stopped lovin her today”, or “The Ballad of Bill Crump”, about a guy who builds his own coffin, or “Feleena,” the follow-up to Marty Robins famous El Paso? (Dan is an idiot savant for Westerns and old cowboy songs.) While I had to look this up to get it right, who the hell can paint to lyrics like this?

“He raised to kiss her and she heard him whisper

"Never forget me - Faleena it's over, goodbye."

Quickly she grabbed for, the six-gun that he wore

And screamin' in anger and placin' the gun to her breast

Bury us both deep and maybe we'll find peace

And pullin' the trigger, she fell 'cross the dead cowboy's chest.” 

Seriously, in another hour I’d need a gun, but make sure there are three bullets in it. I declared mutiny and changed it to something more modern (Sting, Genesis, 80’s, what’s not to love).

Dan’s dad came by to help and we put him to work cutting in color and trim in the back bedroom. Nearing the end of the pail, Dad came into the kitchen for a refill. We looked at the cans of paint to determine which shade he needed. Dan pointed to one can and declared this to be the correct color. Like adults smiling at a slow child, Tom and I shook our heads and pointed to another can. Dan insisted that the can with the dent was the can he was using earlier that day. Tom and I exchanged glances, and in that instant I accepted the pity he sent my way. Dan again explained that the can with the dent was the correct color, and in my mind I patted him on the head and sent him back to caulking grout. I refilled Dad’s paint cup. Tom, my new BFF, nodded his approval. Dan shrugged and left.

A little bit later I had a question for Dad about painting a cabinet. I stepped into the back bedroom and found him hard at work. I stared at the walls hoping it was a trick of the light. Or it was drying funny—yeah, that’s it! Or…or…not that it was the wrong paint and Dad was more than half done. It was like a sick, two-toned brown leopard, as Dad had dabbed the paint on all four walls. Maybe lower wattage bulbs? No, I would have to admit this to…Tom. Maybe he would have a plan. Dan was still caulking—he might not have to know. Yeah, that’s it. We just won’t let him in this room. I asked Dad to stop, and he said he was wondering why it was drying so funny. I wanted him to be quieter—Dan can’t know. To have to admit that the colorblind guy was right—and then sending him off to do Charlie* work scrubbing grout in the bottom of a shower stall…I went and got Tom.

Yes, he knew this was serious too. That relationship between landlord and tenant now had a new wrinkle. I had an alliance with Tom, yet we were both in the wrong. To now need to eat beige crow the day after Thanksgiving was appalling. And I could already see the little happy dance Dan was going to do. Dan walked into the kitchen.

Silence. Dan rinsed off his hands as Dad asked which paint can he should be using. Tom and I exchanged furtive glances, then quickly looked at the ceiling, studying the light fixture.

The bulb came on slowly in Dan’s head. I watched as his hand washing slowed, then stopped. He was looking straight ahead, processing the words “Which can of paint should I be using?” “Should I be using?” “Should…” He turned and looked at Tom and me. Tom faked a cell phone call (bastard) and left the room. Dan stared at me, then walked past his dad into the bedroom. While I expected laughter, there was silence. He emerged at least two inches taller and his dull eyes were gleaming. He walked up to the dented can and offered it to his dad. Dad resumed painting.

I had imaged a few different exchanges, but I was surprised. Dan simply said he was pretty sure he knew the difference between a dented can and an undented can, but when it came to final color selection he would always defer to me. Tom quit his fake call and returned to the kitchen. Dan picked up his now rinsed Charlie rag and returned to his grouting. Tom and I exchanged surprised glances and went back to our painting.

A few seconds later I noticed something that both Dad and Tom missed. There was a slight vibration—a shaking, as if someone was moving a heavy piece of furniture. While both Dad and Tom would have dismissed it had they noticed it, I knew it was Dan doing his happy dance all by himself in the bathroom.

*Charlie work, for anyone who doesn’t watch It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, is the grunge work that no one else wants to do. 

Music that resonates:

Convoy – C.W. McCall 

White Trash Problems

There was an article today on page 24A of the Milwaukee Journal/Sentinel headlined “Obama wins Florida in close final tally.” Five days after the presidential election, Florida finally finishes it’s count. This is in an age of computer tabulation and instant results. In years past I would have viewed this with a bit of derision, commenting on Florida as a “third-world” state. But the parts of Florida we like are not really in the first world--they are part of the Caribbean. You are on island time. It is a different ethic. Normal is far from it, and it’s the reason we put up with 51 weeks in Wisconsin, so we can be there for one week in October. But I digress. This week other things came to light that cause me to realize I should not throw stones.

In a bid to refinance, the bank sent an assessor to our beloved 1882 Queen Anne. Head shaking, this arbiter of value proclaimed “you live in a duplex.  Nobody wants a duplex.” Considering the tone of his voice he could have been saying “trailer home.” The reclaimed tin ceiling—meh. The $15,000 new roof? “So what--I don’t like the looks of the 15-year-old cedar shingles on the turret.” In short, we won‘t be refinancing, at least not with those guys. Hey y’all, watch this.

Fully loaded dog-bus

Jumping ahead to today, Dan is outside running the gas out of our 30 year-old motorcycle. Our newest car is 10 years old with 127,000 miles. Our best car is 18 years old with 122,000 miles and is stored every winter. Dan chooses to drive a winter beater, a 1995 Aspire, with the back seat removed. He added a cheap faux Oriental rug from Hobo to help the dogs keep traction. The car refuses to idle and won’t go over 65. The dogs ride shotgun with Dan on errands and to the gym, always hoping with canine optimism that all trips will end at the dog park. I shake my head as Dan drives away in a 2086-lb car with 200 lbs of Doberman (250 if he has picked up Finn, the neighbor’s neurotic Yellow Lab), rolling down the street in what is affectionately and mercifully labeled, The Dog Bus.

I have driven enough trash in my life that, with rare exceptions (sorry Ashley), I refuse to drive it. I have driven cars that had home-made sunroofs. Strings you needed to pull to engage the choke. I refuse to ride in Dan’s pride and joy (our fourth car), his 53-year-old Ranchero with the solid steel dash and aftermarket lap belts. Once I had earned a college degree or two, I was done driving crap. But the crap is in our four car garage and I pay the registration and insurance. In short, I fund and enable Dan’s latent White Trash habit.

When we moved from the “Sout’ Side” we made a conscious effort to leave the vernacular of that part of town behind us. “Aina hey” was a term we grew up with and was used by beloved relatives. We taught our boys to say “that” and “there”; not “dat” and “dere”. While we reject much of the sout’ side legacy, we are acutely aware of one differentiator. Dan’s dad, a plumbing contractor who is still working as he approaches 80, told us when we moved from the Sout’ Side to Tosa: “North of Bluemound Road you are The Help, and you will not be offered a soda or coffee or a glass of water. South of Bluemound Road you are a peer, and you will be offered a sandwich or a coffee or whatever. Remember.” Since moving to Tosa, we have honored this, much to the surprise of more than a few contractors. Dan restocked the huge cooler daily as nine workers stripped six layers of roof off our three story home (two 30-yard dumpsters) and installed a pristine roof that would be looked at as worthless just two years later.

So, as I sit here trying to find a point to this blog, I need to ask: Are we defined by our degrees? Our zip codes? What we drive? Our ability to not end a sentence in a preposition? No, we are judged on how we treat each other. By how much we can laugh with our friends (especially about ourselves.) Do I want to throw stones at Florida’s inability to count votes? Not anymore (um, OK, maybe just a little). Some of our best friends hold opposing views, but we love them and I Just Don’t Care. My brother (and Dan’s brother) passed too soon and we learned from that. I refuse to let crap get in the way of us having fun in the days, weeks, months and years we have left on this far-too-cold rock.

To my friends who kinda wonder if we are a little trashy—I love you. To our friends who wonder if I look at them the same way-no, I don’t and I love you too. And I did end one sentence in this blog with a preposition. If you find it you win a free ride in the Mustang (our best car) – I’ll dump the clutch and squeal the tires for you!

Blood sport (and football)

November 4, 2012: I went to Lambeau field today, home of the Green Bay Packers, America’s team. They embody everything that is good and right. Having lived my whole life in Wisconsin it is easy to distinguish the good (Green and Gold) from evil (every other team’s colors). Aaron Rodgers is just…wholesome. Donald Driver is graceful under pressure. The Packers just exude goodness and purity. They proved their superiority by dominating 31 to 17 over the “bad guys.”

Sure, there was rough play, players were tackled to the ground. There were a few celebratory dances and leaps in the end-zone. But when someone got knocked down, they also were helped to their feet. You saw friendly conversations happening between the players. You saw a few tussles between the teams. The referees were respected (except when they made really bad calls, then the stadium booed). The players shook hands at the end of the game. We left the stadium, joyously triumphant, and appreciative of a game well-played.

November 6, 2012: I need to go to the polls and cast my vote for President of the United States. And pick a new Senator to replace retiring Herb Kohl. I am anxious for Tuesday. It’s been a long, dirty slog in the mud. There are pointed accusations, misinterpretations of intent and an underlying current of distrust. Unlike football, politics is not played fairly and this year, the vitriol feels amplified.

In politics, it feels like we lost our referees. Respected media markets are taking a pass on endorsements. The mostly right-leaning (Fox news) and mostly left-leaning (MSNBC) news channels would have us believe that the sky is falling, of course only if their man loses. We are divided, suspicious, disrespectful and scornful of anyone who expresses an opinion that varies from what we believe to be good and right. We are families divided, friends who don’t speak and workplaces with clenched teeth.

We are a nation that likes to win. But unlike the football game today where the players walked off the field shaking hands and sharing the camaraderie of a game well played, I fear that after Tuesday we will all be losers…no matter who wins.

Me time

I’ve been in a bit of a funk. Approaching my birthday, I think, it’s the double nickel. I am not sure how the years have gone by so quickly, but they have, and I’ve been thinking about it. It’s been on my mind so much that I downgraded my September Olympic triathlon to a Sprint distance. Fear. Stupid, irrational fear. That I’d come in last, or worse yet, be pulled off the race course because I was too slow. 

I was looking forward to this weekend. Dan and guy friends, along with the dog-faced boys were heading to the cottage to do some repairs and pull in the pontoon boat. I could go, or I could stay home and “recharge”. Work has been difficult, projects felt like they were out of my control and I chose “recharge”.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.  Let me recap my very dull weekend. After a frantic Friday afternoon at work (crisis averted due to very competent colleagues), I got home at about 5:30 to an empty house. Dan and the dog-faced boys had left for the cottage at about 4:00 pm.  I proceeded to forage for leftover food and ate a warmed up dinner. I settled down to watch the Wisconsin Senatorial debate (be still my beating heart), post some nonsense on JSonline and watch my “Perception” DVR backlog. I was in bed at midnight.

Saturday found me sitting in my pajama’s until noon, totally missing the farmer’s market that is two blocks from the house. I went shopping, and happily, found a few new dresses for my work wardrobe. Happy with my discoveries I found that I had got shopping wrong, as I didn’t have any coupons to bring the price down. All the other ladies in the Boston Store dress shop looked at me like I was “shopping challenged”. I begged the cashier not to make me feel bad. She took pity of me and scanned some other smart shopper’s coupons for me. Arriving at home I chatted with the neighbor and promised to call if I got bored. I found a can of soup and crackers for dinner and watched a gripping “This American Life” episode I had DVR’ed. It was 7:30 PM. Oh my, look, a NCIS marathon. That was good until 11:00 when again, I went to bed.

On Sunday, I went to the gym and lifted heavy things for no reason. I cruised JSOnline and posted a comment or two. I walked down to the ‘Tosa village for a little shopping and lunch. I returned home to find a message from Dan that he was en route from the cottage and would be home soon. Thank goodness.

Dan tells me that when my boys, Carl and Hunter, are around I light up. I know this to be true. I can also say that when Dan and the dog-faced boys are around I feel so much more alive. Sometimes irritated, but alive. Dan showered, we debriefed the weekend and walked down to Hectors to watch the Packer/Saints game. Dan wore his Saints shirt, hollered too much in the bar and I wondered if we would get out unscathed. It was invigorating.

Solitude is overrated. I wouldn’t do well on my own. I need the craziness of people (and the dogs) around me to keep me awake. I don’t really need me time, I just need someone to give me a reality check. October will be a fun month.  My birthday (I might as well embrace it, it’s happening anyway), two weeks in Florida for work and fun, and the beautiful colors of autumn. I don’t need anymore me time.  I realize now that my recharge really comes from “we time”. I’m glad to have had the reminder.

We came through in the clutch

Labor Day. A day off of work and the opportunity to relax. Dan and I set up a  motorcycle trip to Eagle, Wisconsin—less than an hour away--planning to meet a high-school friend for lunch. The 1983 Honda Sabre, always reliable, needed a bit of dusting off. Safety a top priority, we put on jeans, boots, denim jackets and our helmets.  Ninety minutes before our meeting time we take off down Bluemound road, Dan driving and me hanging on.

We used to ride the motorcycle a lot more, but then Dan had a nasty meet-up with some pavement just two-blocks from home while wearing shorts and a t-shirt,  and we’ve backed off on the riding. Considering that it’s September 3 and today’s ride was my first of the summer, I was looking forward to a casual drive through rolling hills. We got to the western end of Brookfield and Dan was suddenly shouting something at me. I lifted my visor and asked what was up.  “The clutch just went out. I need to get some brake fluid to fix it.” Dan, familiar with driving junk, knew the location of the closest car parts store. We ran in, bought a small bottle of fluid and Dan went to work.

Armed with his trusty Leatherman tool, he removed a small cover, poured in some fluid and watched to see if it would drain into the tubing. Nothing. He put the cover back on and tried the clutch. Nothing. At this point, we had a decision to make. Continue on, or leave me here, go back home to get a car, pick me up and proceed out to Eagle. I said it was up to him, he was driving. But I knew the decision was really mine to make. Dan was ready to keep going. We could do the safe, sensible thing—leave me at the McDonalds while Dan limped the bike home and picked up a car. We are in our 50’s. The time for doing stupid things should be so far in the rear view as to be invisible. I asked him what he wanted me to do. Sitting on a small hill, we started the bike in neutral, got it rolling, slammed it into first and took off. Dan shifted up and down through the six gears by sound and feel, with no need for a clutch. We had a few difficult patches starting from a dead stop, and timing our  approach to marked intersections required lots of forethought (something I have dissed Dan on countless times over the years.) But ten minutes early we arrived at our destination—a biker bar crowded with dozens of gleaming Harley’s, BMW’s and others—all with working clutches, I suspect. We parked half a block away, jerking to a stop. We had a delightful lunch and a long conversation. Dan bought me a cocktail. He had three diet cokes.

Back out to the motorcycle, and a rolling, jerky start, but we are moving. The goal is minimal stopping, which was up to Dan. He evaluated the options and choose a route that he knew was heavy on scenic while light on traffic lights. He did a masterful job of keeping us moving. We encountered the first stop light and he took a right turn, then another right, a U-turn, a quick left and back the way he came to catch the final right turn onto the highway. We hit I-94 at Oconomowoc, maintaining a steady 65 all the way into town. The Watertown Plank exit, a yield and no reason to stop. Slowing safely to time his approach to the next intersection and light change. Some slight acceleration got us to the last light before a quick right found us in front of the house.

When it was "new".

It is possible to drive 60 + miles on city and country roads and only stop for lunch. Sometimes we are so stuck in our daily rut that we simply follow the directions from point A to point B and never think about how we got there. IF we think about it, we have plenty of time to evaluate a red light before we get to it. We have lane choices if we are looking for them.

It takes more thought. It takes constantly evaluating where you are and where you are going. And in a way—and I thought about this as I clung to Dan on the freeway on the way home—that is the point of this blog. I’m done driving like a zombie through my life. I want to think about the turns way before I get there. I want to know that my Dan, my “Thinking Man’s MacGyver” will get us out of jams, and I will do the same for him. I want to show up at the biker bar on a bike—albeit without a clutch—instead of my little red SUV.

Did we evaluate all the options? Sure. But I am happy that we discounted the simpler, saner option. Today’s ride could have been a nice amble through the countryside. Instead, it was a bit of a white knuckler (especially for Dan) but far more importantly, it was another mental challenge overcome.

Clear as mud

This last weekend I joined four other beautiful women and got really dirty.  Specifically, we completed a Dirty Girl Mud Run. Can I just say it was awesome?  It was also the antithesis of every myth of my childhood, the dogma of my youth that continues to influence the me, and imposes a misplaced sense of self that was originally constructed by some other “wise” adult.

In my case, the wise adult who so profoundly influenced my thinking was my grandmother. Placed in the unexpected position of caring for a two year old girl and a three year old boy following my parents’ divorce, she did the best job she could. As a small child I remember waking up in the second bedroom of my grandma’s house (I never thought of it as grandpas, he just lived there). Grandma would come in and lift the shades in the morning to wake us, feed us a balanced breakfast of fruit and cereal. She washed all our clothes in the wringer washer and hung them to dry. She served sandwich lunches and comfort food dinners. She dusted and scrubbed the house. She made cinnamon rolls on Saturday and served them on Sunday. And with regularity she told me all the things I shouldn’t do.

• Don’t sit on the sidewalk; you’ll get a bladder infection.
• Change out of your wet swimsuit; you’ll get chafed.
• Don’t run; girls shouldn’t sweat.
• Don’t get dirty; girls should always look clean.

There were a myriad of other “don’ts” that have extended into my adult consciousness and I can’t possibly remember them all. When I started writing this blog entry my mind had formed a pre-written ending about busting my grandmother’s myths and proving that once again I could successfully break out of these invisible mental constraints.

But then something happened that completely changed my way of thinking.   Missouri house representative Todd Aiken said that a woman couldn’t get pregnant as the result of a “legitimate rape”. And then I read an article in Scientific American with a startling statistic “…it is rather normal to be a survivor of sexual assault if you are female. One out of six women in the United States have been the victim of rape or attempted rape, and that is using a rather tight definition that does not include many kinds of assault victims can experience. 64,080 women were raped in the US between 2004-2005. Sixty four thousand and eighty.”

Sixty four thousand and eighty, between 2004 and 2005. In an age where women are more likely to report the crime of rape. I couldn’t help but wonder about my grandmother’s reality, as she certainly didn’t grow up in a time of all sweetness and light. Just as today, the very fact of her gender could put her in harm’s way. Had she made it through her life without harm? Did she know of other women, friends or family members who barely whispered horrible secrets of shame and blame? Unlike today’s current environment, where we can call out Todd Aiken and his ridiculous comment, back in her day there were few words on the subject that could be spoken out loud. 

I realize now that every time she told me what I shouldn’t do, she was in fact expressing her fear for me. Maybe what she was really saying was, be careful, there’s danger in seemingly safe situations and you need to be aware. Maybe she was really saying “I love you.”

So this blog entry has a different ending. I’ve put a new lens on old phrases I'd heard countless times. I’ve also learned that running in the mud with friends is sometimes no more than just running in the mud with friends. 

The room Dan digs the most...

Is it possible to be jealous of a woman your husband never met? A woman who died in 2008? More to the point, can one be jealous of a room dedicated to her memory, and then come to love that room as much as your husband does? The short answer is…yes. That room was Dan’s dream.

Or dozens of them, actually. Dan is a dream talker. As he wakes up he begins to narrate all of the dreams he had the night before. This is usually 10 minutes before I need to get up, and the only dream I’m having at that moment is that he had become a mute overnight. Instead, over the last 33 plus years I have heard countless variations on the dream that he finds a hidden door. Or trapdoor. Or window. That leads us into a room or rooms that we didn’t know were there when we bought the house.

When we did buy the Villa Johnson in 1996 there was a roll of insulation stuffed in a hole in the basement wall. There were far too many projects that needed to be done (kids through high school, me through grad school, bedrooms and a bath on the third floor, etc.) for the odd bit of insulation to move to the front burner. But gradually the Big Projects were ticked off the list. Pointing him toward other pursuits—the play that he’s talked about for years, publishing the kids book he wrote in a flash and has done nothing with since, were in vain. Dan pulled out that piece of insulation, grabbed a flashlight, and crawled into a gross, cobweb-infested crawlspace under what we understand was a doctor’s office that was added to our house in the 1920’s.

In 1923, a young woman was born in Nashville. Betty Mae Page was The Pinup Model Of The Universe in the 1950’s, and enjoyed a resurgence of popularity in the 1980’s and 90’s. Dan was smitten on our first trip to New Orleans by a tee-shirt for sale in the French Market. Gradually, more and more of his casual wear featured this raven-haired woman. In those years I didn’t really give it much of a thought.

Back to 2005, Dan announced that he was cutting through the stone wall and would be excavating this room. The intent at the time was that this would be part of his workshop. Over the next few months Dan dug out 27 yards of dirt (70,200 pounds) along with large pieces of rock that had once been the foundation for a long-gone back porch. Concrete was poured, walls were power washed, and the room, with its cream city brick and stone walls was revealed. Now the intent of the room changed. It was too pretty for a workshop. And another half of the basement needed to be converted into a party room. And we needed a full bath down there as well. Someone had injected Dan’s boondoggle with steroids, and I was powerless to stop him.

In the spring of 2012 we went to visit Hunter and Megan in LA. I had a dozen touristy things I wanted to do, and Dan and the kids were fine with all of them. Dan had one request—to find the final resting place of Betty Page. The cemetery was NOT easy to find, and if not for the determination of Megan (in “full-on Megan Mode”) we would have missed the entrance—and Betty’s humble tombstone. Despite me giving him the evil eye at least twice, Dan insisted on buying flowers. As he laid them on her grave he broke into tears. But by then I understood.

By May of 2005 the rooms were nearly done, and the theme was Betty Page. Dan had covered the ceiling of the larger party room with 333 empty wine bottles—“half of 666” he likes to say. The dug-out room has lights that make the brick walls glow. The pool table is red satin with leopard bumpers. Dan made the light switch plates using photos of Betty. Banners and posters abound. The painting was done, bathroom complete, and he was trimming the carpet when I finally snapped. “Of all of the projects you have taken on, this is the dumbest. It has been a waste of your time and our money. If you think we will ever have a party down here you are mistaken.” With that I spun on my (not high) heel and left.

A month later, when we had a wildly successful wine tasting party in the newly-christened “Betty Room” I had to admit I was wrong. And the room is so wrong in so many regards. But I’ve come to realize this room may be more like me than my dining room filled with Gone with the Wind plates…or any other room in the house.

Betty was a good girl. A born again Christian who once punched a famous photographer for coming on to her during a bath tub photo shoot. She was a good girl who, occasionally, liked to put on costumes and have her picture taken.  That all came together for me one famous Friday night in Key West two years ago. I was covered up, wearing a black corset, garters, fishnets and leopard high heels. Our favorite hang out, Capt. Tony’s had a fake “dungeon” set up in the lower level. Couples or singles would pose with the equipment, and a few flashes would go off as people took their picture. On a lark, I walked up to a large wooden X. I grabbed the metal rings, lifted one high heel, and glanced back through my bangs at the crowd with a bit of a wicked smile. One flash. Ten. 100. A wall of white light as cameras snapped. I turned and walked back over to Dan and two friends with cameras who were near-by. Their mouths were hanging open. Dan finally blurted out: “Do you realize you just channeled Betty Page?”  In fact, there were so many flashes Dan’s camera didn’t get the picture. A friend’s did, and a large blow up of it hangs in the Betty Room unless we know we are getting company.

Since completion, the Betty Room has been the scene of a number of great parties. Our long time friends think about them and smile. Our newer friends think about them and wink. In the summer the thick stone walls make it a perfect retreat. In the winter it’s our private club that we can go to without stepping into the cold. All of our pictures from Fantasy Fests adorn the walls, and a couple of years ago we added a second-hand leopard high heel shoe chair. Other decorations don’t need to be mentioned here. It is an outrageous space, but for our house, and Betty, and in our relationship, it’s a costume that we can wear because the foundation is strong. Our beautiful old Queen Anne doesn’t mind the rebel room in the basement. Despite her demons in later life, Betty was always proud of the artistry she put into her modeling and photos. And while we’re only there one week a year, I like how we look in our costumes and paint in Key West. 

Jealous of Betty? Not any more. I’m happy she lets us share her space.


Music that resonates:
Boss's Daughter (aka Hell on Heels, Dan's favorite) - Pop Evil

Build a bridge...

…and get over it. A snarky comment I’ve thrown at Dan a few times when he’s complained about something. The thing about those trite little comments is that they usually have some basis in reality.

Today, I ran my first quarter marathon, which at 6.55 miles was .35 miles LONGER than a 10k, a distance I’ve conquered a few times. The Summerfest Rock ‘n Sole Run is held on the Milwaukee lakefront and traverses the Hoan Bridge, twice. Fun facts about the Hoan: it rises at about a 4.2 percent grade for a distance of 2,500 feet. Then the road slopes down at a grade of 0.3 percent for 2,800 feet, then rises again at a 2.8 percent grade to the height of the Hoan Bridge over the Milwaukee River, then falls at an average slope of 3.1 percent for a distance of 4,800 feet. At its high point over the Milwaukee River. the bridge deck is 125 feet above grade while at its low point near Municipal Pier No. 4, it is only 30 feet above grade. In other words – it’s a tall bridge with a challenging incline.

I’d not been looking forward to the run. Supportive of Dan’s desire to run the half-marathon distance I suggested I’d run the 5K. Of course he challenged me to step it up a notch and in the middle of winter saying yes to more than twice the planned distance is easy. Today I had to make good. As we drove to the race start we encountered thick fog near the lake. The air was heavy and damp as we made our way to the start. The race announcer was issuing warnings to the runners about visibility on the bridge. Apparently the first water stop would just appear in the mist. The gun went off.

I started to run, wondering why I had agreed to this when that snarky bridge comment landed back in my head. It’s a bridge. Get over it. And I did. Twice. Along the run I thought of a few things about getting over a bridge that apply to life in general. 

1. It’s OK to start in a fog. Sometimes it’s better not to see the finish line. The fog helped me focus on a strong start, as it obscured the visual reminder of how far I had to run. By the time the fog lifted I had more than two miles down. Beginning the task, the race, the challenge is often the hardest part if all you are thinking about is the end.
2. Find your pace and stick with it. I concentrate on getting my heart rate in the right zone. I know I can keep it there for a long time. When it bumps up I can feel it and I’ve learned how to make the necessary adjustments to bring it back down. When faced with something challenging you need to control what you can because it helps the rest of the challenge feel less out of control.
3. Cheer on the person ahead of you. It’s good to celebrate the successes of others. Today’s run doubled back on the bridge and the front runners came fast up the other side. We all cheered because they were working so hard and providing inspiration for the rest of us. It’s easy to cheer when you remember that…
4. … the only person you are competing with is yourself. That person in front of you is out there working hard toward their own goals. You know who else isn’t competing with you? The race walker who just passed you, the person in the full polar bear costume, or the guy texting and running.
5. Finally, celebrate your success with bacon. When I finish one of these physical challenges I want food. I’ve earned it. I worked hard and I need a reward. And because bacon isn’t a part of my regular diet it tasted extra special. 

It was a good day. When people ask me if I’m a runner, I say no, I’m a finisher. I picked up my “unofficial” time at the end of the race and was happy to get over today’s bridge (twice) in 1:22:39. That’s three minutes and 13 seconds faster than my fastest 10k. My best run time ever.


Music that Resonates (a trite song for a trite phase):


The Climb - Miley Cyrus

No-decompression limit

The day before we left on vacation, Dan sent me an e-mail stating he was “crispier than bacon.” Several incidents at work (details deleted) where his employees had been complacent. Had done things “the way they always did.” Had skipped procedures because they just didn’t see the point. As Dan explained, there but for the grace of God he would have had to tell three women that their husbands were not coming home from work. Ever.

Dan’s tension, coupled with significant changes in my job left us both ripe for some time off to decompress. We welcomed our annual dive trip to Cozumel.  We signed up for a “scuba review” to refresh our underwater skills, then launched into a week of diving. The one skill we’ve been less than proficient at maintaining is understanding our “no-decompression limit.”  Most divers these days wear a computer that calculates how much time they have at various depths against the amount of time needed for a 15’/3m safety stop before their final ascent. If you dive within the no-decompression limit your safety stop is 3 minutes. If not, you need extra time during the safety stop for your body to eliminate the nitrogen that collects in your bloodstream during the dive. As we don’t own dive computers (yet), manual calculation between dives is required, or you must rely on the dive instructor for direction.

Looking good underwater.

On our last dive of the week we hit our maximum dive time at depth and Sven, our dive instructor, had us follow him up from 90’ to 45’ to stay within our no-decompression limit.  Careful attention to the physics of diving and adherence to expert guidance resulted in a 67 minute dive, our longest, with "air to spare". It was the perfect way to end a week of diving, especially after a bit of a down note on the day before.

On the previous day, we learned (after our two glorious cenote/cave dives) that exactly four weeks before three divers had been complacent. Had done things “the way they always did.” Had skipped procedures because they just didn’t see the point. A dive guide with 15 years experience and two guests never finished their cenote dive. The guide and the woman were dead with empty air tanks. The guy still had 200 PSI (not a lot, enough to get out) but was dead as well. All in the cave we’d finished diving minutes before.

This got me thinking about the need for reflection. For decompression. For keeping a fresh perspective on the things, people and relationships I’ve known and had for years. For fear that if I get complacent, they (and I) may not fare so well. My personal self, my work self and my relationship self all do so much better when I’ve had time away from the routine. The need to decompress can not be underestimated. Inadequate decompression in diving will get you “the bends”.  Insufficient or infrequent decompression in life will result in all kinds of physical and mental side-effects, and they are not pretty.

During our first introduction to diving we learned that the number one rule of diving is to “look good”. We later learned that the real number one rule of diving is to not hold your breath. But we have always clung to the “look good” rule because it’s true. If you hold your breath, your lungs will pop, your eyes will explode, and you will not look good. So my hope for you is that you find your safe way to decompress. Because you have such lovely eyes.

Book report

When I joined a book club about 10 years ago I had an agenda. My goal was to step out of my usual reading genre and expand my reading horizons. Ditch the “bodice rippers” and move on to something worthy of my time. In those 10 years I’ve read a lot of wonderful fiction and compelling non-fiction. Books I never would have sought out on my own, introduced to me by this great group of women. I missed the last group discussion, so I’m not sure what inspired the next choice, but I’m now 289 pages into Fifty Shades of Grey by E L James. 

Before I even cracked the cover my interest was peaked by a question on Facebook posted by friend and columnist Jim Stingl, “I'm writing about "50 Shades of Grey" for tomorrow's column. Any of my female Facebook friends want to help me explain the appeal of this steamy, domination-theme book everyone's talking about?” Whoa, what? Not yet having read the book, I didn’t feel I could respond, but I haven’t stopped thinking about the question. So here it is, (a little late for Jim’s column) my answer…

Pick up any steamy romance, written by a woman, for women and the formula is always the same. She’s beautiful (but doesn’t know it), willful, smart, young and a virgin. He’s an older, drop dead gorgeous, perfect male (as described by the cut of his clothing), incredibly rich and inscrutable. She has a trendy name – Ashley, Serene, Elenora; he’s got a manly name – Roque, Gavin, Crawford. The story begins with the meet cute; pages of literary foreplay; the coming together in a blaze of sexual glory and multiple orgasms; more hot sex and always orgasms; betrayal and misunderstanding; deep regret and longing; clarity; a return to each other; more hot sex and happily ever after.

It’s that simple, and it’s that complex. Now, if you’re a man reading this, you read hot sex and orgasms, and bam, that was all you needed. Think about it, for a man, every issue of a Playboy is a brand new visual – so many variations on the theme. If a woman even has a Playgirl, she probably has just the one and it’s not the current issue. Why? Because there are so few variations on the theme, it’s all just junk. But a well written romance novel will transport you to emotional heights and visceral responses. It will leave you unable to set the book down as the end of each page has the promise of more tension and deliciousness on the next page. It’s pure escape; it’s inspiring and it's fun.

Fifty Shades of Grey takes this theme to a whole new level, but it’s the same story. She’s a beautiful, young, willful virgin; he’s a handsome, rich and inscrutable man. Pages of relationship foreplay, a cautious introduction of the domination theme with the heightened tension of fear. The story hits it’s first peak around page 120 and it’s a roller coaster ride from there. So there it is, it’s about the escapism, the quality of the build-up, the tension, the response and the . . . education.

It’s that simple and it’s that complex. Now, excuse me, I’ve got 200+ pages of fantasy land left to read.


Songs that resonate:
Jar of Hearts - Christina Perri
Ooh La La - Goldfrapp

"All politics is local"

I find it interesting that a quote from a liberal democrat, Tip O’Neill, is the key to my voting decision in the upcoming Wisconsin presidential primary. I’ve often repeated this quote but it has never meant more to me than the upcoming opportunity to regulate something personal that is completely out of control. So here it is. I’m voting for Rick Santorum because he’s the only candidate with the political courage to regulate my uterus.

It's out of control!

You may remember that I railed about my uterus in a December 2010 post, "Periods. And the periodic table." The thing is out of control and that has not changed. Until my uterus quits working, and nature renders me functionally useless as a breeder in today’s society, I have no idea when it is going to act up again.  In fact, it seems to be getting worse with time and frankly I’m ready for a higher authority to lay down the law!

 

And here’s Rick Santorum, ready and willing to tell my uterus exactly what it can and can not do. I need this kind of definitive control. I can’t get it from my physician and it won’t listen to my husband. Rick Santorum offers the promise of local control in the most personal way. How can I not cast my vote in his favor? He’s thinking about ME!

And that’s all I have to say about this presidential primary. Period.


Music that resonates:
Imma Vote for Rick Santorum (And You Know You Should Too) - Hunter Johnson

Big Blue Marble*

*Addendum to Landscaping


Many people I know have a phobia about parts of their body. For Dan it's his ears, which are incredibly tender. Our dear friend Malcolm has a thing about his eyes. I'm lucky enough to have two "things": my eyes and my belly button. Eye exams bring high anxiety, but this blog is about my belly button. When we were newlyweds, Dan would put his finger in my belly button. I would shriek in terror and scream that I was about to unravel. When pregnancy pushed my inny belly button out, it was a constant source of concern.


But pregnancy was a long time ago, and apparently I didn't think through the full implications of how a tummy tuck would affect my belly button. For those of you who are unaware, during the procedure the surgeon untethers your belly button from it's current mooring and shifts it upstream where it looks completely natural and normal, and looks downstream toward it's now rehabbed neighborhood. The doctor literally stitches your real belly button into skin that had previously been somewhere inches higher on your abdomen.


During recovery I had a circle of stitches that I basically ignored. They were removed at two weeks post-op and the doctor was pleased with how it looked. I went back last week for another check-up. Once again, everything looked great, except, my belly button was shrinking. Really? I thought it looked cute. But no, not cute, it was going to vanish due to the contraction of the circular scar tissue. However, the doctor was not concerned, as this often happened and there was an easy fix.


"Go home and put a marble in your belly button. Tape it in place and leave it there overnight. And repeat until the shape settles in and the shrinking stops. Good? Great, see you in two months."


Dan quickly volunteered that he had a marble. Really? WTF? It's like Wally Cleaver at a swap meet. What grown man knows where he can lay his hand instantly on a blue cat's eye? I was even more delighted to find that he found it two years ago while trenching in a drain tile in our backyard, where it popped to the surface. It had been on a shelf in our bathroom of "old-shit-posing-as-antiques" ever since. Little did I know at that moment that it had more popping to do. He boiled it in a frying pan. The visuals never cease at the Villa Johnson. 


But, back to the subject at hand. I'm here to tell you that a marble either fits into your belly button, or it doesn't. And no amount of twisting, or antibiotic cream lubrication is going to get that marble to sit nicely in your belly button if the marble is too big. I'm a compliant patient. I wanted to follow the doctor's advice. He's the expert and he knows what he's talking about. 


I gave the marble one last push. And--pop!--it vanished. Yup, gone. Well actually, it looked like my belly button was about to give birth to a small blue baby, as about 1/8 inch of the marble was "crowning". And no amount of manipulation got the marble out. It was stuck. 


In a panic, worried that the marble was going to do some permanent damage or get sucked into my body, I had two choices.  Go to the ER, sit there for many embarrassed hours and have it extracted, or wait it out until morning, call the surgeon and have him fix it. He would at least understand, he's the one who told me to put it there! 


I covered it up with gauze and went to bed. At some point during the night it worked it's way out. I woke to find it gently held in place by the bandage. Thank goodness.


Since then, every waking hour, I've been acutely aware of my belly button. I can't bring myself to try the marble again, so I've substituted an ear plug. I go to sleep with my belly button packed and wake up fully aware that there is a foreign object in my remodeled belly button. I'm aware, but fortunately, can't hear any complaints. 

Leave the gun, take the canoli

That’s all the Italian I know.

About three months ago we started “Friday night mystery date.” Dan or I (mostly Dan) finds a fun or unique place to go out, just the two of us. I wasn’t feeling well on Friday, so we stayed in. Feeling responsible for a missed opportunity, I explored some options for Saturday instead. Milwaukee has some long-standing gastronomic institutions. I settled on Mimma’s, an Italian restaurant that has been around forever. We’ve never been there so I thought it might be a nice, romantic destination. I called and made a reservation.

Parking near the restaurant is dicey, it’s in a old neighborhood with limited street parking. Dan circled the block and came upon a parking spot within 50-feet of the entrance. His parking juju. I used to ridicule it until that night—three days before Christmas a few years ago--when we needed to make a run to Mayfair mall. In an endless stream of cars looking for a spot, I turned to Dan and, ala The Ten Commandments, threw down the parking gauntlet. “So where's your messiah now?” or more accurately, “so where's your parking juju now?” With God As My Witness, Dan said nothing, but turned into the main entrance to Mayfair. He waited in the line of cars, and With God As My Witness, he pulled up and parked in the Very Closest Parking Spot to the front door of the mall. I was stunned, and bowed to the juju. I have not dissed it since.

Years later, on a 14 degree night, the juju came through again. We had about 40 minutes before our reservation, so we stopped at another establishment for an aperitif. Thirty minutes later we walked over to Mimma’s.

The check-in area was packed; we barely made it through the front door. A quick discussion with the patient folks standing closest to the door found that they all had reservations and had not yet been able to check-in. No problem, we’re friendly. We continued conversing with others while assessing the situation. I really wanted to eat here. I really wanted some good Italian food. OK, I didn’t plan for a Valentine’s rush, my mistake, but it would be worth the wait.

The 150 year old lady at the check in counter asked once “Do you all have reservations?”  We all nodded and she shuffled away. That was the last thing she said to the crowd. About 30 minutes later a table of two, who’d been perusing the menu and sipping their water abruptly left. A large, visibly flustered waiter (“We only have three servers! We only have three servers!”) walked by and asked where they went. The waiting crowd said they left. “Well we are incredibly busy and I just couldn’t get to them!” At this point Dan began to narrate what should be happening. The curse of working for a company in the top quartile for customer service is that he doesn’t tolerate lesser service well. The hungry, waiting crowd ate it up (pun intended). A table of 4 and a table of 3 were seated.  When the 150-year old came by again she saw the empty table and seated the party of two ahead of us. A nice young couple who had a reservation 15 minutes ahead of ours. 

Dan continued. A little explanation to the waiting patrons. Apologies and a small appetizer. There are a dozen people in line—a quick glass of wine? Nope. Twenty minutes later that young couple seated at the table of invisibility looked over the menu and continued to sip water.  Eventually, that same flustered waiter stopped by and said someone would help them out soon, not sure if it would be him or someone else, but someone would come around “eventually”?  Dan pulled out his iPhone and asked Siri for Italian restaurants in the area. “There are 13 Italian restaurants close to you.” The hungry crowd laughed. Time for us to bail.

We took a short drive to another chain Italian restaurant, again scoring a parking space Right In Front of the establishment. We were seated within 15-minutes, without a reservation. Granted, this is a chain, with a lot of tables and big staff.  It was now 9ish and lunch had worn off completely. Food was on the horizon and I was happy.

Everything is served family style. We ordered a salad and two main courses. We talked and couldn’t help but notice the large table of large folks obviously celebrating some event – probably a birthday, as evidenced by the woman in a tiara.  Our salad arrived and we dug in. The waitress offered a garlic bread basket, but I declined, knowing that it would only serve as a butter delivery system. The large party next to us got multiple pizzas and pasta dishes. Our entrée’s came and we quickly realized we had over ordered. We both ate a portion and sat looking at dinner for the next week.

Desert? No, thank you, stuffed. And then came the lit candelabra and large birthday cake. Yes, it was her birthday. This large table of very large people were celebrating her 23^rd birthday. And really enjoying the cake. A lot. We have been there. We understand. But like a reformed smoker, when you see people that large shoveling in cake on top of an insane amount of food, all you can think about is “must get on the treadmill.” The waitress came back with our leftovers, in four separate containers.  Yup, dinner for a week. 

On second thought, perhaps we should take the gun and leave the canoli. And never diss the juju.


Music that resonates: 
That's Amore - Dean Martin

How do you cook a Nauga?

Today started with a list of things to do. Get a muffler fixed, stop at the bank, get some boots repaired, buy some new shoes, grocery store and so on. Dan and the dog-face boys took care of the car drop-off at a local muffler shop, a small independently owned place that has done work on all of our cars. Dan has a relationship with them and they once even signed some custom work they did on his 1960 Ranchero. They know him there and he likes to take his business to the small shop.  

I lounged in, loving Saturday morning until Dan and the herd returned.  When I got up I looked around the bedroom. Quite a mess as I’ve been trying on clothes to see how they fit since my recent landscaping. Very pleased with what I’m seeing in the mirror, the resulting debris of cast-off costume changes needed some attention. Included in that pile were a pair of boots that never quite fit properly. 

Dan did a quick Google search to find out the hours of the local shoe repair shop. The search led to one of those sites where people leave reviews. The owner of the little shop really ticked off a customer with a rant about folks from a political persuasion other than theirs (and ours as well). This led to a discussion of patronage – do we go to the most local shop, or do we find another place for the repair – simply because of this review and the owners political affiliation? Does it matter if we take our business to a shop in Wauwatosa or West Allis? 

We went to the Tosa store and turns out the owner doesn’t care to do that type of repair work. He did give us the name of the one shop in town that might help us and no political commentary. Off we went to downtown Milwaukee, to a store that has been in business for over 75 years. This felt good. The proprietor took a look at the fix we wanted and declined to do the work. Turns out the original purchase, made over the internet, was not of sufficient quality to warrant the amount of work needed for the repair.

Next was a stop at the “big bank” to close our checking account of over 30 years. Since last November I’ve gone through the tedious exercise of moving all of our automatic bill deductions from the bank to the credit union.  A quick check of the remaining bank balance yesterday uncovered another fee deducted, I suspect from going under the “minimum required account balance.” Time to bail. Asked why we were closing the account I mentioned fees and loss of services. Dan placed his hand on my leg – a gentle reminder that getting snarky with the woman stuck working on a Saturday, and with no control over these things, was not the person to vent on.

This led to a discussion of what does “local” mean. Here was an individual, working “locally” at a bank whose home office is in another country.  Didn’t our use of that bank constitute local support of their employees? Which led me to thinking about an all-hands meeting at my employer yesterday where we discussed economic issues in Europe and Asia that were impacting “our” projections. I work locally, don’t I? For a multinational. Am I a hypocrite in my fight against the big bank?

Next stop, locally owned shoe store to pick up some new running shoes. I’ve been advised by my physical therapist that now is the time to transition to more foot/body friendly natural running shoes. The shop is tiny. The shoes are made in China. Damn. Apparently the only barefoot running that I can do, that is guaranteed to be made in the USA, is my own bare feet. Shoes purchased and now I was feeling really conflicted.

Leave it to Dan to bring me back to reality. Through all this chasing Dan was puzzling over how to fix the “unfixable boots”.  Back at home he exclaims, “I’ve got naugahyde!  I bought it before we got married to fix those scratch and dent end-tables we had.  I can use that to fix the boots.”  So, once again, my do-yourself-husband will implement a home made fix with a material older than the internet on a cheap internet purchase. And I think I need to buy another cow, or pig, or nauga through the Heifer project just to balance out the karma for the day. Does anyone know—are naugas white or dark meat?

Landscaping

I’ve used this blog to metaphorically think out-loud, a combination reality check, rant, quasi-journal, self-reflection and sub-text chronicle of a thought-process that would get me from here (Wauwatosa) to there (Key West). Most of the time I feel like the writing is a quick throw-away that allows me to move on to the next thing that needs attention. For the few of you who do pay attention (and I thank you for that), you’ll have noticed a short absence. I haven’t written anything for awhile, mostly because I’ve had one really BIG THING on my mind, and felt the need to keep it quiet.

This one thing was about a desire for personal change that I could barely articulate to myself, much less my husband of 32+ years, and with extreme difficulty to the few people from whom I felt the need to gather opinions. The decision has now been made, the money has been spent and I’m on the road to recovery.

Let me back up a minute. We are a family of do-it-yourselfers (as immortalized in the Atomic Boy post from last year.) If at all possible we get it done, and only in rare circumstances do we call in the experts (tree trimming, dryer repair, roofs on three story houses). But the one personal project on which I have devoted a lot of time and energy is one where I was making no progress, and my frustration levels were rising.

I have certainly commiserated with fellow moms about how some women have skin that snaps back in place moments after giving birth to their 20 pound baby, and some women (like me) lost all elasticity before the 6.3 pound baby’s first cry. Throw in another 8.8 pound baby, via C-section, and we no longer needed to pack a tent for camping.

Now, 25 years later, I find I have been subconsciously communicating that I wanted to make a change. Clothes shopping for me has always been grim, and even at my thinnest (post-baby) weight nothing ever fit right. And when it’s picture time I much prefer to stand behind someone or some thing, and please, don’t catch me sitting down. As I walked through my thought process with my husband he described a completely non-verbal interaction that I’ve had with the mirror on a daily basis for many years. So when I told Dan I was ready for some personal landscaping, he did some research and helped me make an appointment. When I told my sister I had the procedure on the calendar she said “well yeah, I know you’ve wanted to do that forever.” So on December 27 I didn’t get puffed-up “fish-lips”, plumped up Pamela Anderson breasts or the “is it faux-real” Joan Rivers face. I just had my stomach cinched in a bit.

So, why, in this day and age would I bother with this? Ultimately, because no matter how hard I tried I wasn’t comfortable in my own skin. The final realization came when I completed my latest triathlon. Dan and the professional photographers on the route pulled off some pretty good action shots – me running from lake to bike; me biking full speed in my tri-suit; me running on the 6-mile course. I reviewed the professional shots (mostly side views) and purchased none of them. I deleted most of Dan’s shots and posted few. I ran that last leg of the race looking at the shadow of a woman much larger than my image of myself.  If two coaches had been asked to pick 10 competitors (based on appearance) who would “finish” it would have been a throwback to every gym class I’d every been in and I’d have been left on the bench. I finally realized I wanted my physical self to look somewhat as good as I actually felt.  I completely and totally did this for me. And I kept it quiet because I didn’t need anyone talking me out of it.

This was absolutely not a decision made lightly. I joined an on-line forum that provided an opportunity for Q&A with surgeons as well as women in all phases of the process, from research to recovery.  What I found were women in agony months later. Rented hospital beds and purchased walkers. “I wish I’d NEVER done this” said one poster who’d had two surgeries to repair the first. Bad infections. Women walking hunched over six months later. Sure, there were success stories, too, but 98% of the women posting were much younger than me. I went back and forth for months, changing my mind multiple times a day. I had several in-person sessions with the surgeon who patiently answered all my questions. I thought the holidays would be a nice diversion, but instead I was in a funk of nerves. I kept going to the gym and sweating it out, but no amount of crunches, tucks, lunges, planks, rows, spins, runs or stair climbs was going to move the unmovable mass of my abdomen. Soon checks were sent and cashed. The day was approaching. My surgeon made a point to say that this was the most painful procedure he did. It would require an overnight stay for monitoring and pain management. 

That day—we arrive at 5:30 am. By 7:30, I am in the operating room. By 11, I am in recovery. By 1 pm, I’m in my room, groggy but feeling OK—like a really tough abs workout. By 10:30 pm I had completed 2 short walks up and down the hallway. By 7:30 the next morning Dan was back with a big cup of tea. He and a nurse helped me out of bed for another short walk. I sat in the chair and enjoyed my tea—waiting for the pain to hit. By about 10 am my surgeon came in to check on things, and was very surprised to see me out of bed. Surprised that I’d already walked the halls. Surprised that I’d already used the little girl’s room. Surprised that I was smiling and ready to head home.

Dan kept an eye on the timing for pills, and the “1 or 2 for pain” was only 1, and is diminishing daily. By the three day checkup my surgeon told me I was in the “top 5 to 10 percent” of recovering patients. Despite the fact that my abs never looked like a 6-pack, all that exercise had paid off.

And the result? While it will take several months for all of the healing to resolve, that first post-op shower, with all the swelling, stitches and bruises was-pretty amazing. I suspect I’ll be buying more post-race pictures this summer. And I’m already looking forward to buying a beautiful fitted dress for a June wedding, new swimsuits for our next diving vacation and a few new costumes for a triumphant return to Key West in the fall!