Flakes

Within the next 36-hours, life as we know it in Wisconsin is coming to an end. How could it not when we are currently under a Blizzard Warning issued by the National Weather Service. And not just any blizzard, a Gigantic Blizzard. According to one local station we are in for a “walloping” amount of snow.  Another station has adopted the National Security Alert colors to proclaim in RED, 11 Severe weather alerts and in ORANGE, 43 schools closed.  Most alarming is a report from the local paper of the problems this mega-storm will cause Packer fans trying to get to Dallas in time for the Super Bowl on Sunday.  I can only laugh watching the local news.  I don’t know who’s happier, the orgasmic weatherman or the orgasmic sports announcer reporting from Dallas.

As I watch the continuing scroll of closings I worry that our collective retreat into the warmth and safety of our homes portent the fall of civilization.  As a society can we survive the canceling of religious class, youth group, square dance lessons, the school of professional massage, dog club and the Germanfest cultural meeting? And thank goodness for the extra tips thrown into that news scroll at the bottom of my TV screen, because yes, I will now remember to wear my hat and mittens when I go out.

I live in Wisconsin. It snows every winter. A lot. This is a fact. Sometimes it even feels like the world as we know will be completely buried by the White Death. Yet we manage the wind chills, the blowing and drifting, and the challenges of driving while reveling in the joy of the occasional snow day. Predictably, when the spring comes, and it always does, we feel smug that we have once again survived another deadly season. I might miss this, but only just a little bit.

Packer Fever

Is there a Packer following in Key West?

Will there be people who understand the irrational Packer fan?

Will there be folks who will let me watch the Packers with them while my husband retreats into his Packer anxiety?

I love the Packers.

After spending the afternoon at a bar with Packer fans I need to think about how a move will affect my love of the Packers.

Are they truly everyman's team?

If I live in Florida will I be expected to love the Dolphins?  The Buccaneers?

NO, I'm a Packer Backer.  I admit it.  I'm GREEN and GOLD.

Go Pack GO!

That is not my dog

I don’t have a dog. I had a dog once—Katie—a 10-pound humane society poodle-type mutt that pooped on the driver’s seat of the car if we ever left her alone. A dog that jumped off the third floor of a friend’s office building and survived. But that was many, many years ago. I have no dogs. Dan has dogs. The dog-faced boys took the place of our real boys once they moved out, greeting Dan at the door every night like it’s Christmas morning. Attacking his mittens as he shovels snow. Waking him up at 6 every morning at the cottage for a long walk—waiting until the pot of coffee is ready before howling at the door. And the dog faced boys tolerate me in the house. They listen—sort of. They get out of my way—if I insist. They feel they run the house when Dan’s not around, and while I hate to admit it, they sometimes do.

A few months back one of the dog-faced boys decided the antique love seat wasn’t comfy enough. He dug at it, ripping a hole in the fabric and releasing a storm of feathers that covered a good portion of the living room. This may have been the same dog that chewed the wood trim on the love seat. It may also have been the same dog that clawed the decorative front off the antique “rolled paper” sofa and chewed one of the pillows to shreds. Or, it may have been the other dog. I know for certain it wasn’t my dog, it could only have been Dan’s dog.

The dog-faced boys are Otto and Ripley, two rescue Dobermans. The size of small ponies they run wild in the house. They have a “toy box” full of eviscerated stuffed animals and enough bones to reassemble a cow. They demand affection. Their one skill appears to be an ability to assist any vehicle with a siren by launching into an insane howling. 

I keep waiting for the big payoff, the reason for having giant dogs in the house. I thought dogs would be a deterrent to break-ins. Not so, as evidenced by the intruder who found his way into the house, helping himself to a few items and a hiding spot as police combed the neighborhood. And where were the dogs? At the cottage, with Hunter, frolicking in the lake and running wild in the woods. I’d like to think the dog-face boys would have barked him down the back stairs and out the door, but I’ll never know. In the meantime, they continue to consume a 40-pound bag of dog food every third week.

And this brings me to the care and maintenance of these creatures. For the most part it’s “never my turn”. Dan runs them, picks-up after them and feeds them.  Feeding requires trips to the pet shop for “high-protein, low output” food, low output being a critical factor when the dog can build a turd big enough to trip the unwary. Fortunately we are able to participate in a frequent buyer program. With the purchase of each bag the store makes a note on an index card.  Buy ten bags and the next bag is free!

Again, Dan buys the food. It’s something I insist on after the name change. Dan had grown frustrated with the 5-minute search through all the Johnson’s for the our index card. Having purchased a tenth bag he decided it was time to make things easier. Weeks later I stopped to pick up the food and had a moment of absolute embarrassment when asked for my name. There I stood with a blank look on my face. Finally I said “I don’t know—my husband changed it.” The clerk stared at me, then laughed and said “you must be Mrs. Zzyvox!” Yes...of course I am.

Two dog morning.

The dog-faced boys and I do have one thing in common. On weekend mornings they wake Dan for a quick trip outside. Once back in the house they race up the stairs. I let them settle in on the bed for a good snuggle and some serious sleep. Now these are MY dogs. 

Do it yourself, Atomic Boy!

Never let it be said that after 32+ years of marriage there are no surprises. The title “Do it yourself, Atomic Boy!” denotes at least 3 things. “Atomic boy” - no matter what haircuts our children had over the summer, before school we would give them a clipper and allow them to cut it off themselves. This usually resulted in random tufts of hair reminiscent of those poor souls who had endured overdoses of radiation, thus “atomic boy”. The “do it yourself” alludes to the children cutting off their own hair. It also reflects the fact that it cost us nothing to do. This starts my story.

Prior to our last vacation at Fantasy Fest in Key West I had a critical area of my anatomy “cleaned-up”. This involved making an appointment, showing up for the appointment, and actually having the waxing procedure completed. At 53, I’m old school, so this was a surprise for Dan. I thought it might be fun if he undergo the same procedure, after witnessing the results first hand on a clothing optional cruise during Fantasy Fest 2010 in Key West. I suggested the same spa and trained professional, which would result in a $50 expense, including tip.

We were invited to a party for New Years Eve by a fun couple we met at Fantasy Fest. After many hours of laughter, wine and Jaeger, we found ourselves naked, in the hot-tub. While we had a wonderful “vanilla-teaser”* time, it was clear that Dan was different from the other two guys in the tub. And not just because they were sporting Anacondas. When we got home I again suggested that before next year’s Fantasy Fest Dan accompany me to the spa. I didn’t expect anything until the leaves began to turn next fall…little did I know that branches would be stripped far sooner…

Tonight, walking to spontaneous Thursday night at Hectors, I noticed that Dan seemed to be limping more than he should have after a 3 mile run. I chose not to say anything, thinking he was perhaps tired after a long day at the office. But as we walked through the doors he confessed he would need help finishing an “oh so special project”.

Dan had purchased the “Extra Strength Brazilian Bikini Waxing & Shaping Kit”. It included a scissors, mirror, some bamboo sticks, a tub of wax and some soothing gel. "Natural Botanicals help relax & soften hair at the root for easy, complete removal."

Throughout dinner I could only drink my Margaritas and wonder what damage had been done. It was only on the walk home that Dan showed me the burn he had suffered on his arm. This is when I initially peed my pants. I will be channeling Dan from here:

"The instructions said to microwave the Brazilian Bikini Wax for 30 seconds. After 30 seconds there was no effect on the wax. The instructions were specific—do not microwave it for more than 60 seconds. The Brazilians clearly have no concept of time. After 90 seconds the wax was still “rock hard”. Standing naked in my kitchen I grew frustrated. I took the jar of wax from the microwave and stabbed it with the bamboo stick. It exploded, silently, splashing boiling hot wax all over my right hand and arm.

I immediately ran the burns under cold water. The wax turned to cement. I should have paid more attention because the instructions were very clear about removing the wax before it got ROCK HARD!

The instructions also noted that the maximum area that wax should be applied was 2” X 2”. I was in a rush, and now that the wax had stopped boiling, I needed to move quickly. I covered a good third of Dan Territory with a thick coating of warm, sweet smelling goo. I awaited the magic.  Moments later it was time. I grabbed the edge of the rapidly solidifying wax and pulled. jesus fucking christ, pain, so much pain. I counted to 3 and on the count of 3 I counted to 3. Eventually, I tore the alien from my loins. It had 500 legs! A patch of Dan that last saw the light of day in the third grade looked up at me and asked ‘why? why?’. I put the bamboo paddle back in the bucket, deciding that a smaller patch might work better.

As many of you may know, our son is a huge fan of Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Toward the end of that book Ford Prefect meets the designer of Earth One, and all of those beautiful Fjords. ‘All of the little crinkly edges.’ Having never looked closely at my own scrotum, in hindsight, smearing hot adhesive into the tiny crevices of the most tender spot of my own body was ill advised. While I debated (she’ll never notice) leaving the last hunks of rock-hard goo stuck to my privates I said a silent prayer and, John Wayne-like, yanked them from my body. The sight of blood made my hands shake, and I retreated to the safety of the gym and treadmill."

Ahem.

We arrived home from Hectors, me with wet pants, Dan in a state of tenderness. I assessed the damage and explained again why I had suggested a trip to the spa. His response? “That was almost eleven dollars!” I’m off now to assist in some repair work, then a quick kiss goodnight as Dan needs time to recover.

*Subject of future post – say tuned.

Dirt

Years ago while taking an anthropology of religion class I was introduced to a concept made famous by Mary Douglas. Douglas writes, in Purity and Danger (1966)*, "Dirt is matter out of place”. She interprets this to mean that things are not considered dirty (or unacceptable) in and of themselves, but because of where they fit in a system of categories. The boundaries, where things may or may not fit, are thought provoking and potentially dangerous places.

I mention this because I heard the phrase once, during a lecture, and it has just stuck with me (or too me). It fits my world view and explains so much about the way I approach life and events. From a very simplistic and Paula centered view, my system of categories allows for an orderly and defined way of managing the world – anything else is unacceptable and therefore “dirt”.

I have always tried to clean-house, literally and figuratively at the beginning of the New Year.  At work I use the days between the Christmas and New Years holidays to shovel out, clearing away all the files that have accumulated on my desk, in my cabinets and even on my computer. At home I use the month of January to close out the year and get the financial paperwork in order. Personally, I make commitments to physical challenges for the year, signing up for a round of runs, bike rides and triathlons. Mental health clean-up involves an examination of the prior year and serious thinking about what I can do differently for the next year. As a result, I try to start the New Year with a clear idea of where I want to go, who I want to join me on the journey and what I hope to accomplish overall.

Of course, life intrudes on the best laid plans and introduces more dirt. Sometimes I can remove it quickly from my physical or mental environment; other times I end up packing it in my life’s baggage, absorbing the extra weight and continuing on.  This past year I had more than a few opportunities for quick clean-up as well as the stowing of more dirt in the suitcases. On reflection I’m especially surprised by my reaction to the terminal illness of my brother. I got a tattoo, something at my boundary of acceptable, and my wonderful sister Krissy signed up to get the same tattoo in the same place at the same time. For me it was a moment of bonding over a sibling in distress.

I start the New Year with my system of categories adjusted by pivotal events of the past year. I’m curious to see how this will affect my reaction to what is acceptable or unacceptable. 2010 altered my categories to allow for more porous boundaries and I hope a braver Paula. OK, 2011 bring it on.

* In an effort to keep this blog from going too far down an academic rat hole “Google” the name and book title if you’d like more information.

Music that resonates:

Judy Garland/Wizard of Oz – Somewhere Over The Rainbow

Don't Panic

For those of you who may not be aware, the words “Don’t Panic”, written in large friendly letters, are found on the cover of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. “Don’t Panic” provides all the instruction any traveler needs to negotiate the next unknown event. A second word from the Hitchhiker’s series having particular meaning in the Johnson family is “Belgium”, the most unspeakably rude word in the universe. It’s ironic that The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, a work of fantastic fiction, contains two absolutely true references to my life.  For the last 10 years Dan and the boys tell a story of tremendous embarrassment for me as they relay the events around the irrational panic I experienced during a border crossing into Belgium. It’s time for me to own it.

The Belgium Incident, as it is recalled in Johnson family lore, is the most extreme example of my difficulty crossing a border. Sadly, there are more examples, but this blog is about Belgium.  In July 2001 we took a trip to Europe. Thanks to an inheritance from my grandpa I was able to put together a 15-day planes, trains and automobiles vacation. We’d land in London for a few days of sightseeing, take trains to Amsterdam where we’d spend a few days, followed by another train to Cologne where we’d pick up a rental car and drive to Munich, ending with the flight home.

Off we went. We had much fun in London once we got past the microscopic hotel rooms, “beam me up Scotty elevators”, mad-cow warnings and the total lack of showers and air conditioning during an unseasonably hot summer. Oh, and just an FYI, celebrating the fourth of July in London is a real faux-pas.  Finished with London we boarded the Eurostar, a fast train through the Chunnel to Brussels and a connecting train to Amsterdam.

Now I must tell you, until the recent acquisition of GPS, I have been the navigator in the family. I read maps with incredible accuracy. I can get from A to B via the straightest or most circuitous route possible, your choice. I know that all roads lead to Disneyworld and I was not at all concerned about navigation in Europe. My family was depending on me to get them seamlessly from point A to point B. 

After what felt like a many hour delay, but was probably 45-minutes the Eurostar left London for Brussels. I knew we would have a tight connection to pick-up the train for Amsterdam. As I obsessed about the unexpected lost time the first prickling of panic began to set in. When the train arrived in Belgium we were down to less than 15-minutes to make the connection. I needed to find the appropriate platform and the next train. It never occurred to me that we had just entered another country, an awareness that dawned when every sign was NOT IN ENGLISH. Yes, I was now in full on ugly American mode. 

I finally spotted a sign with the logo for Thalys, the brand of the connecting train, on an elevator with a single button. OK I inferred, we need to go DOWN as UP was not an option. (Insert accelerated breathing and increased heart rate.)  I looked around and spotted an escalator-type ramp, no stairs, just a ramp and it wasn’t moving. With family in tow I proceeded down the ramp, which suddenly turned on and began to move in the wrong direction. I started running to compensate and the family followed.

We found ourselves in a room with frosted glass walls and doors and we could see a lot of people moving on the other side. Dan stepped up and with little difficulty pulled the glass doors open. We walked through and simultaneously a few people came through from the other side. Success! Our next stop would be the correct platform. I showed our tickets to a confused looking man in a uniform. He pointed up--the direction from which we just came. Tick-tock--time was running out. 

We jumped on another elevator and when the doors opened there stood a uniformed man and a woman with a walkie-talkie. She asked us, in English (somehow she knew) if we had "forced open the doors" downstairs. At this point I stepped back and deferred to Dan as the family spokesperson, because I CAN NOT tell a lie. Dan said “no, we are just trying to get to our train.” “Follow-me” she said, walking to another elevator. It soon became clear that she was not going to take us to the correct platform.

As our little group descended into the bowels of the train station my panic rose. What had I done? We found ourselves in the security office. I wouldn’t call it an interrogation, probably due to the presence of our teenage sons, but we were questioned. Dan held up admirably. I sat with my stomach in my throat, positively nauseous. Carl and Hunter sat in chairs with the smug confidence of children who knew that the worst outcome was they’d be sent home early and alone to the loving arms of sane relatives, happily liberated from their mom’s idea of a fun family vacation.  

The woman asked Dan if he had opened the locked doors. Dan replied "of course not. You can't open a locked door". Once she translated this into French or whatever, both the pitch and volume of the conversation increased by about 30%. An older officer took charge and accused Dan of prying the doors open. Dan just shook his head no and pantomimed doors sliding easily open. Two younger guards stood at the back of the room and smiled. The entire episode ended less than an hour later, when the officer angrily stamped our passports and escorted us to an outbound train. They were more than happy to take us to the train for Amsterdam. And because we had missed our earlier reservations they had the perfect excuse to put us on a train that had been converted from hauling cattle earlier that week.  

By comparison the rest of the trip was uneventful. Dan, alone in the rental car, lost his way on the autobahn convinced that “Ausfahrt” was the largest unknown city in Germany. Hunter put four years of German language classes to work ordering ice cream treats in Bonn. Carl managed to get reasonable directions from a deaf gas station attendant in Frankfurt who only lip-read German. I was able to convince Dan that “living the dream” did not include sitting day after day on a bench begging for beer money in Heidelberg. We found our hotel in Stuttgart despite the fact that it was in the middle of a pedestrian mall. We all survived the drive from Mannheim to Munich when a tire on the rental car exploded at over 100-kph. And we managed to convince the incredulous airline ticket agent that we absolutely did not want to take a bump and stay another day, no matter how many thousands worth of incentives they threw our way.

Of course, from the moment we were on the train to Amsterdam and throughout the balance of the trip I tried to negotiate a “what happens in Belgium stays in Belgium” pact. Dan and the boys would have none of it. Since 2001 I’ve been to Belgium several times, at the behest of my employer. I still panic a bit when I travel there and I can’t help but think it is the most unspeakably awful destination there is. Happily the border guards do not have my picture on file and I’m free to conduct business in Belgium. Don't panic. 

Moving to Key West? No problem. No border.

To stay on top you gotta be flexible

We have a stupid Gumby Santa on the top of our Christmas tree. It's been our tree topper since 1979, the year we got married. I hate Gumby Santa. I love Gumby Santa.

Yes, I know. It doesn’t make any sense. Think about your first Christmas as a newly married couple or a single adult, on your own. How many ornaments did you have? We had none. I went to some craft shop and bought what we could afford, some stupid wooden cut-out ornaments that needed to be painted. They came in a package of 64. Out of sympathy my mom-in-law and sis-in-law sat down and painted ornaments with me. They were not terribly attractive, but they filled in our first tree.

I had visions of buying a lovely angel or star tree-topper. Unfortunately that was not to happen. Dan and I found ourselves at some drug store at Point Loomis prior to Christmas. At the checkout they had a box of “Gumby Santas”, skinny, bendy Santas. Dan needed one for the tree top. He was taken with Gumby Santa. It cost 99 cents. Dan bought it as a lark and it pissed me off.

And every year since that first Christmas Gumby Santa has embodied some “event” of the year. For 2010 he’s running to represent Dan’s first marathon.  He’s graduated several times, painted a house, been to Disney on the Space Mountain ride, played the bass, starred in movies, participated in triathlons, played roller hockey as a goalie, played soccer as a first grader, been cast in school plays and basically reflected major activities in all of our lives for the last 33 years.

Gumby Santa is like an angel or a star, but he's so much better. Gumby Santa has been flexible, adapting to change and accomplishments throughout the years. I thought he’d fall apart or breakdown, but he hasn’t. He’s shown up every Christmas, ready to participate and represent the Johnsons and our rich life together.

And he will survive a move, when we move, and be ready to represent any new accomplishments and activities in a way no star or angel ever could.

Music that resonates:

There's No Place Like Home for the Holidays

The Musician and the Thespian

Hunter & Carl, 1987

The holidays are coming and this was holiday party weekend. An open house tonight found us enjoying the energy of small children. Of course, those of us with children fully grown started to reminisce about magic moments when our kids were growing up. We have two adult sons who are without a doubt the most wonderful guys in the world. Certainly in my world and Dan’s world.

Hunter & Carl, 1996

Resistance to moving south has always been contingent on their futures. I made it clear to Dan early and often that if the boys stayed in the Milwaukee area I needed to be there too. However, they’ve charted a different course, away from home and drop-in visits.

Carl, the musician, lives in Philadelphia, with plans to make a musical future for himself in New York. Music is what he loves. More importantly, it makes him happy. He first picked up an instrument in the fifth grade. Carl was set on being a tuba player but due to size, forced to start on the baritone. This was not acceptable and as soon as he hit middle school he convinced the band director to let him switch. As a freshman in high school he discovered the bass guitar as the passport to the jazz ensemble. He taught himself to play, using an instrument borrowed from his Uncle Brian.

Carl & Hunter, Peavey museum, 2000.

Sophomore year was a crucial point for Carl in asserting control over his destiny. He walked around the house for hours on end with the bass in his hands. More than a few arguments were focused on our requests for him to put the bass down and “DO YOUR HOMEWORK”. Exasperated by less than stellar grades we took him to a psychologist for an evaluation. The therapist showed us a picture Carl drew of a mobile home threatened by a large, nasty looking tornado. Carl had explained that it was “the juxtaposition of outside factors on the safety of the home and family”. Take a chill pill mom and dad, nothing wrong with this kid.

Hunter (center) & Carl (right) in Music Man, 2002

Hunter, the thespian, always knew he wanted to be an actor. In the third grade he donned a hula skirt, bikini top and lipstick in a risky performance for Odyssey of the Mind. He got his first video camera in grade school and made a stop-motion short story for a middle school project. Hunter was cast in two First Stage productions and all but one of the high school plays. He wrote and directed “Zombies, the Musical” for the Student Play Festival at Wauwatosa East. He brought tears to my eyes as a fireman in "Working", in a production staged by his theater class.

While in college we’d hear about a project Hunter was involved with, and if we were lucky enough, he’d let us know when and where to see a performance. He’s written and directed his own full length movie, a project that found me dying a slow and painful death covered in blood colored liquid laundry detergent. “Now mom, could you just gasp and struggle until your final breath? Oh, and then hold your breath and DON'T MOVE until I say cut.” (My best and only movie role and it hit the cutting room floor.) He landed a lead role in the independent movie Driver's Ed Mutiny. And just like Carl, Hunter is truly happy with this life choice.

As a parent the best thing in the world is to see your children thriving, happy and pursuing their dreams. That’s what my kids are doing. They no longer live in their home town, they are pursuing dreams and their adult futures in other places, with plans to move even farther away. My resistance to moving diminished when it became clear that one or both of them would be a plane ticket away, no matter where we live.

Hunter & Carl 2010

Periods. And the periodic table.

I need to set long term thinking aside for a while to deal with short term issues. At least I hope they are short term issues. The problem is I’ve been absolutely difficult lately, in emotional flux, riding some nasty mood altering roller coaster. I totally blame this on hormones, or lack of, or imbalance – whatever, but I need to get a handle on this. And this is not at all helped by my husband’s belief that women have a propensity to hit menopause and go crazy, ending long term relationships for some undefined better place. His opinion is based, of course, on well informed and insightful observations of more than a few breakups.


The stupid thing is that I have none of the “normal” signs of menopause. I’m 53 (there, I’ve said it), I had one hot flash about 4 years ago and I can still rely on the calendar. What I’m mostly dealing with is insomnia and anxiety. My new best friends are 2am, 3am, 4am and 5am. They greet me every night, twinkling at me from the clock. All I can do is pull the covers over my head and hope they will go away. I’ve resisted the urge to get out of bed and watch TV, bother Dan, shop on-line, or worse yet, post stupid insomniac status updates on Facebook.


Compounded by poor nightly sleep is an increased level of anxiety that I can’t seem to get control of.  Not that I haven’t tried. I started with my primary care physician.  From her I got the second best medical advice ever...”your symptoms will eventually go away”.  This $250 proclamation is only slightly less helpful than the advice I got from a previous primary care doc about a different issue. When I reported stabbing right shoulder pain while moving laundry from the washer to the dryer, he said…”use your left arm”. Really Sherlock, that’s the best you can do? 

Feeling far superior to the lame advice of over-educated medical practitioners, I began chatting with friends about symptoms and possible remedies.  After all, who knows better than peers who are in the battle, have survived it, or have thrown in the towel and now live alone? A friend described a peaceful office and a skilled practitioner, who combined listening to both the person and the body to define a balanced treatment plan. This led me to a chiropractor/nutritionist who specializes in health, energy, balance and natural remedies. Perfect. I’ll take it.


The doctor listened intently, completed an extensive physical examination using kinesiology, and read the entrails of a sheep to determine that I’m allergic to potatoes, tomatoes, mushrooms, and salt. She found my CVS multi-vitamins were causing more harm than good and the calcium supplements were hard for my body to digest.  A saliva test found levels of some adrenal something or other were off balance and contributing to my sleep issues. Three visits, and a $120 checkbook adjustment for the purchase of various cleansers and vitamins, found me at home with “the remedy.” Of course I’d have to go back for more adjustments, but my health insurance was covering the visits so this must be OK, right?


I had to stop with the supplements after three days because I got a nasty stomach bug. Everything I ate completed the incredible journey, very quickly and painfully.  Thankfully, that subsided within 24-hours and I added in the supplements to my nightly routine. Three days later I woke up needing to call in sick to work because I couldn’t be more than 3 feet and 2 seconds away from the bathroom. Stop everything again, except this time I had figured it out. Something in my diet was causing this, and the only thing new was the supplements. I was no better the next day and needed immediate relief – I had two weddings to attend, one that day and one the next. I wasn’t going to miss them. 


I took a chance that I could make it to the walk-in clinic 5-minutes from the house. After a bit of uncomfortable banter with another physician, as well as a detailed review of the ingredients on the bottles, I was informed that taken alone, none of the supplements was harmful. Combined, they created a mega-dose of magnesium with an explosive laxative effect. Some direction on appropriate over-the-counter remedies and I was patched up enough to attend both weddings. Unfortunately what I’m finding from October into December is the half life of magnesium must be 20 years or something like that. Unbelievable, because I never knew it was a radioactive substance. 


I’m going to get myself past the holidays, then re-engage the medical profession.  I’m zeroing in on someone who specializes in the care of “women of a certain age”. In the meantime, I resolve to count to 10, bite my tongue, keep my thoughts to myself, not go crazy, generally hold onto my opinion and try very hard to be easier to get along with. If I’m not, I’m absolutely giving those people that care permission to call me on it.

The trouble with normal

For years I’ve been listening to an insightful performer by the name of Bruce Cockburn. He’s got a lot of angry political songs on his playlist. From one of the songs I extracted a line because if felt like it applied in all situations - the trouble with normal is it always gets worse.

I’ve always thought about that phrase in the context of aging. I get older and the long term effects of gravity become more visible. I’ve aged into routine and uncomfortable preventive diagnostic protocols. My fertility wanes with unpleasant side effects. My parenting emphasis has shifted from babies to toddlers to young children to pre-teens to teenagers to young adults, and so on.

One of the things I fear about the idea of relocating is what that means in terms of a life milestone. When I think about moving south, I must admit, I think of a stereotype (bad, bad Paula). Old people, gray haired people, retired people, weak and wimpy people move to warm and sunny climates because they can’t handle the extremes in temperature, the snow shoveling, the leaf raking, mowing the lawn and tending the garden. I feel like the big move means giving up and getting old, because, as the song says, normal just gets worse.

In order to more fully explore this notion I sat down and completed a self-styled “is normal worse?” exercise to validate my perception – I used two points in time, 10 years apart, for comparison.  Suffice it to say that 20 years ago was not memorable.

PROOF POINT	10 Years ago	Today	Normal
Marriage	21+ years; a lot of “discussions”; intimacy - meh	31+ years; great communication;   intimacy - breathless	+  It just gets better!
Parenting	Teenagers; 16 & 14	Adult children in Philly and Chicago	+ Low key parenting stress
Work	Laid-off and between jobs collecting unemployment	Project manager with pension, 401k, health/life benefits, excellent salary	+ Improved
Health	30+ pounds overweight; pre-diabetic; high cholesterol	Would like to lose 10 pounds; normal blood sugar; improved cholesterol	+ Improved
Family	Parents, 4 brothers, 2 sisters	Parents, 3 brothers, 2 sisters	- Loss of 1 to Big C
Housing	Valued at high end of market	Lost value due to economy	- Same house, new roof, less equity
Fitness	Couch potato	Could complete a sprint triathlon tomorrow	+ Much improved
Hair color	Blonde	Blonde with reddish highlights	= No change in methodology

So, that’s 5 in the plus category, 2 in the minus and one unchanged. My take away? Life “gets different”, but it doesn’t have to “get worse”. I can’t stop aging, but I don’t have to be old. My hair color can continue to come from a bottle to match the current aesthetic. I don’t want to retire today, but no one is asking me to, and I certainly won’t want to work forever. Family dynamics inevitably change, so it’s best to concentrate on the quality of relationships. And I’m not wimpy or weak unless I choose to stop moving and go back to the couch.

I’ve decided to return those lyrics to the song, placing them back in their original context. With all the political nonsense and lack of civility it will be nice to move to the Conch Republic. After all, they seceded where others failed. That’s my kind of normal.

Music that resonates:

Bruce Cockburn -- The Trouble with Normal

Follow me

Hunter came in by train from Chicago on Wednesday night. Late. To make things easier we decided to drop off a car for him at the train station. On our way out of the house Dan said “follow me.”

I followed him down our street and through the parkway to 76^th.  When he got to Wisconsin Avenue he turned left and I followed him into downtown. He parked his car and jumped in mine.

On the way home he asked me why didn’t I want to take the freeway? I don’t typically take the freeway in town, so I was heading up St. Paul. Why was this a problem?

Dan said no, why didn’t I want to take the freeway on the way to the station, it’s faster?

What? I was following you on the way there.

You turned on your directional at Wisconsin Avenue. 

I did?

Yeah, so I figured I better just turn left.

But I was following you and you could have gone to the freeway.

Well, I figured you didn’t want to take the freeway for some reason.

Hmmm.

I took Hunter back to the train station this morning. Halfway there I realized I was on the freeway.

So now this is stuck in my head. Who is following who?

Music that resonates:

R.E.M. -- Stand

Plate Tectonics

With Thanksgiving just around the corner I dove into the china cabinet to set the table for twelve.  As I started to pull out my wedding china (because Thanksgiving CAN NOT be served on paper plates) I became aware of the various plate options that I had.  Turns out I own 249 plates, not counting miscellaneous paper plates, and those currently in the dishwasher.

249 plates!

:Dan steps in: China cabinetSSSS. four, (not the singular Paula implies above) not counting what’s elsewhere in the house. After 32 years, we can address the madness of the plates. It has been nuts—we have plates that have never seen food—never seen a party—never seen the dark wonder of the Dish Washer. But they hang from walls, fill cabinets and when a plate is needed “NO! YOU CAN’T USE THAT PLATE!” 

A weapon not used is not a weapon at all.

I still flinch remembering the “Enchilada Episode.” We had enchiladas on a Friday night and there were two left-over. The one and only time Paula ever had a rummage sale was the following Saturday morning. This was many years ago, and as I recall the story I realize that Paula was high on something, for she decided to SELL SOME PLATES. That’s right, actually get rid of the plates THAT WE USED EVERY SINGLE DAY. I awoke, excited as a five-year-old knowing there were two left-over enchiladas for breakfast. But where could they be? Paula had washed them down the garbage disposal to sell the plate for a quarter. No, I am not bitter. I have, over the years, learned to bury the pain. But I digress…

I will downsize the motor vehicles. The convertible, DeLorean*, motorcycle and Toaster are going. A 66% reduction. I need to ditch one of the two party refrigerators (the 1954 Graf’s is going, the 1932 GE stays.) But now it’s a matter of what to do with all of the plates, “Oh Ashley!”, and I’ll turn this back over to Paula. I have to (believe it or don’t) empty the dish washer.

*It’s a long story.:

Ahem. 

The wedding china, all gifts, service for 16 and lots of extras. Blue depression glass bubble plates were found in my grandmother’s china cabinet after she died, my mom-in-law rounded out the set for me. Green and pink depression glass, not sure where I got those. Halloween plates, too cute to pass up. Large serving plates from a variety of sources.  Decorative plates of many patterns were all gifts. And the Gone With the Wind collection, frankly (my dear), I love them all. They are not microwaveable, a concept lost on Dan. I LOVE Gone With the Wind, the book, the movie and the plates.  The plates are … a passion that my mom-in-law indulged. 

Clearly, I need to come to grips with all of the plates…and make Dan two enchiladas…

Separation anxiety

Life is full of difficult choices and uncomfortable situations. When you make a personal decision to change your trajectory, other people are going to be affected. The stone in the pond metaphor becomes more and more relevant. A stone is dropped and the ripples of water begin to radiate. Sometimes the smallest of stones create an unexpected wave that just knocks me off balance.

Last week Dan dropped a stone. It was a mutual decision, but I let him drop it. This time it was a money stone, our annual allocation to the church. We’ve been members of the same church for years. We attended every Sunday. Our boys were confirmed into membership. We became more and more active, ultimately becoming church elders (first Dan, then me) chairing a committee. Members of that committee included a bunch of grumpy old men. What I learned from that experience as an elder was that bullies come in all ages and they certainly bullied me.

So we stopped attending regularly, then pretty much dropped it, but our giving continued because I always expected to go back. This year the pledge card arrived and we made the decision to redirect some of the money to the United Way and use the balance towards our relocation goal. For me, this meant I would not be going back, except for the occasional special event.

In theory this should not be too difficult, we had not been to a service for a long time. Dan sent the pledge card back with a note regarding our decision. Then we had dinner with good friends Jim and Sarah. Friends we’ve shared many a meal with, friends we’ve taken to the cottage, friends we’ve vacationed with, “default friends”. Jim delicately brought up a note he had received this week, from us, stating our decision to stop giving to the church.  He got this because he’s not just a friend, he’s also our minister.

There it was, in front of us and it needed to be discussed. We were stepping away from the church, but not from Jim and Sarah. Their friendship is cherished but the ripples from the stone in the pond had reached them, touched them, affected them. I felt the water slosh back and wash over me. There I sat, sharing bar food and drinks, smiling through tears.

Change in direction

Do you ever play the what if game? That speculative game where you think about the events and choices in your life where critical things happened to get you where you are today? I played that game this morning and this is what a came up with (critical path begins in September 2008 and there is some future speculation as well) -

Happy to report only green arrows so far. Let me know if you have any questions.

Dark, but true, context about the first plan

I need to say straight up and for the record, this is not a work of fiction. People who can write fiction have an imagination and an ability to tell stories. I can only tell the truth, as I have no imagination and a passable ability to tell stories. But I do have something better. I have Dan.

In my last post I said Dan does not plan to reach 54. This was absolutely the truth. He has an exit strategy. This truly means that he does not intend to get old, or become an invalid, or die of some debilitating disease. Which is not to say he hasn't been on the road to a heart attack, or a stroke, or who knows what else, because he hates seeing a doctor.

Here are the facts. Dan has watched too many of his relatives waste away, young at heart and feeble of body. This is never going to happen to him.  He told me this early and often in our relationship. Initially I did not believe him, it was too crazy to be true. But the longer we were together and the more opportunities I had to experience his resolve, the more I came to fear and then believe it was true. If you are having any difficulty with this, let me say it more plainly. He is planning to end his own life before nature can find a way to slowly end it for him. Was that 54, is it still 54? I don’t know for sure, but that is what he has always told me.

A critical reality check came for me when Dan turned 50.  He and best friend Malcolm had made a pact to have a pie fight in honor of their 50th birthdays.  This pact, made while still in college, seemed years away. Overnight, there it was, Dan and Malcolm's 50th just around the corner. They planned, and executed, a stunning birthday event complete with over 500 pies and over 100 guests. 

Now what? Four short years from Dan’s self-proclaimed end date, he had already provided Carl and Hunter with disposal instructions for his ashes (a topic for another day), and this was pressing on me. I had one ace to play and I played it – “don’t even think about this while your mom is alive, it would devastate her, she’s already lost one son.”  He agreed that would not be wise. So you can see, as a couple, relocating anywhere was not something I ever needed to think about.  I had a more pressing matter at hand. I needed to come up with a plan…

Music that resonates:

Warren Zevon -- Don't let us get sick

Change in plan

Let me be honest. Any formal plan to make a location change is going to involve a lot of discussions about money. The topic is going to come up early and often. It’s stressful. And because I’ve never taken the idea of moving anywhere very seriously we did not put a firm long term plan in place.

I’m not kidding when I say this, I’m married to a man, who up until he ran his first marathon 6 weeks ago, planned to be dead before he was 54.  He absolutely told me this when I was 19 and we got engaged. He repeated this for the first 25 or so years of our marriage. My instructions were to collect the life insurance payments, become a rich widow and get married again (my silent amendment to that plan was to get a pool and a pool boy). Seriously, this was Dan’s original plan. And just for the record, I was never in favor of this…well…except for the pool boy part…I kind of liked that idea.

Our entire married lives we’ve negotiated money this way…I handle the monthly bills, Dan gets the taxes done. We’ve always had joint accounts. Money is pooled, bills are paid, a set amount goes into savings and the rest is, well, spent. We cinch in when we need to and our outflow flexes with our fortunes.  We’ve lived on one small salary and two generous salaries. We’ve both embraced the theory of if you can fix it with money, it’s not worth worrying about, because you can always make more. Shake your head in disbelief now, it’s OK.

As we begin to seriously discuss a relocation, we need to examine our lack of a truly responsible long term fiscal strategy. Please don’t misunderstand, we do have savings, 401k and retirement plans working quietly, in the background. However with this shift in thinking the magnifying glass is out.  What can we do with these accounts and how can we make more money? What are the trigger dates for maximum pension payouts? What happens if we exit work on this date versus that date?  It’s exhausting and I don’t like it.

And I won’t get to interview prospective pool boys.