Crazy Bad Things

You know how, when you're in the company of other people and something crazy bad happens, you look around to see who else besides you is appalled by it and nobody is? You know how, when that bad thing happens, you hope others will join you in your effort to right a wrong but nobody does? You know how, when you step out of line to confront the bad all by yourself, everyone is now looking at you? You know how, when everyone is looking at you, the only person brave enough to challenge bad, you suddenly have to pee?

It was 1983 and the Jedi was returning to a theatre near me. By the time I got to the ticket counter all but one of the seats were sold out. I got the last one. As I was sliding my money across the counter, a woman pushed me aside and yelled at the young girl behind the glass, "WHAT DO YOU MEAN THE JEDI IS SOLD OUT?!" The startled girl apologized but unfortunately there was nothing she could do for the irate lady who had been waiting in line for over thirty minutes. "YOU ARE BLEEPIN KIDDING ME. YOU CAN TAKE YOUR THEATRE AND SHOVE IT UP YOUR BLEEP. I WILL NEVER COME BACK HERE AGAIN!"

I don't know about you but I call that behavior crazy bad. I looked around to see if anyone else besides me was appalled and nobody appeared to be. Everyone stood stoned faced and looked straight ahead. As the irate lady walked away from the ticket counter she continued her tirade, "BLEEP THESE BLEEPIN PEOPLE!" she screamed as she took the milkshake in her hand and threw it directly at a young man who was on a pay telephone several feet away from the ticket counter. From head to toe, the man was covered in chocolate slop. His mouth dropped open, his eyes grew to the size of golf balls, but he continued to talk, afraid to confront crazy bad.

Are you upset yet because I was kinda hoping you were? I thought you might join me in case I decide to step out of line to right this wrong. She's walking to the end of the line now screaming at people as she passes them. Everyone is looking straight ahead, silent.  Oh, no! She just pushed a little old lady aside so she can cut through the line to get to her car in the parking lot. Are you with me? Can we go right this wrong? Wait! She's coming this way. She's going to pass right by us. She's getting closer. OKAY! LET'S GO GET THIS BI... . What? What do you mean everyone will be looking at you? Excuse me? You have to what? Didn't you go before you left home.

You know how, when you find yourself in the midst of Crazy Bad, you always think about self-preservation? You know how, when you are in the presence of Instability, you try to not draw attention to yourself? You know how, when something does not involve you, you stay out of it? Yes, you say. You know all of those things? Really? Well, did you know this: When you do step out of line, walk right up to Crazy Bad, get in her face and say, "Now that wasn't a very nice thing to do, was it?" that crazy bad things can happen to you? Oh, you know that already? Okay then, never mind.

Watch the Hand

As I age I'm noticing that I'm having more trouble keeping track of my things: glasses, keys, cellphone and other sundry items that often times seem to evaporate into thin air. We live in a world ruled by the laws of physics, so stuff doesn't just disappear. There can be only one explanation for my things going missing: Tom.

That's right, as I age I'm noticing that I'm having more trouble with Tom losing my things. Well, it can't be me. I have this rule called "Watch the Hand" that virtually makes it impossible for me to misplace anything. This is how the rule works:  Before you lay your glasses down, follow your hand closely so you know where's its going. Watch it. Watch it. Getting close now. The glasses are down! The glasses are down! Now make a mental note: "I have just put my glasses in the refrigerator." 

The only thing I find wrong with my never-lose-anything rule is Tom. I can't get him to follow his hand when his hand is holding my stuff. And because of that I'm always looking for lost things. Things gone missing at the hand of someone else. Someone who shares my humble abode. An adobe that is too humble to speak up and tell me where Tom put my damn glasses.

I know it's Tom who lost them. He's the only other person living in the abode with me. So, therefore, that makes him the guilty party. Has to be him. Can be no one else.

What did you do with my glasses, Tom?

I didn't touch your glasses, Carol Louise.

You are the only other person living in this house. It had to be you. Think! Think! Where did you put them?

I don't know what you're talking about.

Tom, look at me! Look at me! I need you to focus. Where are my glasses?

On top of your head.

Oh.

Didn't you watch your hand put them there?

Go Viral

Have you noticed that old people never go viral? Never, ever. And whose fault is that? Let me see now, which social media site is to blame? Enny Menny Minny Moe, catch a tweeter by the...Twitter Toe. That's right! It's all Twitterdeedum's fault. Not Facebook. Not Linkedin. These sites are not ignoring us because when I twerked a sexy selfie and posted it on their sites, I received fifty likes in seven minutes and a hundred requests to play CornSmash. Old people like selfies of old people twerking on top a bedpan. However, when I tried twerking titillating tweets on Twitter, twenty-two twits (that's Twitter's tweeters) stopped texting me.

Does it upset me that young people have left Facebook because they don't want to be cyber social with the elderly? It's bad enough that they have to share the sidewalks, streets, and shopping malls with us, but cyberspace? No way! There's nothing about "old" that youth can relate to. Absolutely nothing. Not the music. (Get out the record player, honey, so young Jason here can listen to our favorite Lawrence Welk songs). Not the humor. (Say, have you heard that Bob Hope joke where a farmer's daughter falls into a pigpen...oh you have? Okay, never mind). Not the style. (Ethel, put on those white polyester pants. You know, the ones that hide your butt crack.) Not the politics. (If you ask me, our problems all started when Teddy Roosevelt invaded Cuba.) And definitely not the look. (Old does not appeal to youth, unless, that is, Old happens to have a whole lot of money. Yes sir. That green stuff looks real good on Old.)

Does it bother me that absolutely nothing we, the SCA (Senior Citizens of America--not to be confused with that other group, Society for Crazy Arborists) do is considered viral worthy? We never go viral. What about that sixty-nine-year-old-lady in Frogsbreath, Georgia, who rescued her cat, Razorclaws, from a giant toad, only to be slashed to death later that day by Razorclaws? What about that seventy-something man who, in one weekend, climbed all the way to the very top of a fourteen foot ladder that was leaning against his house? When asked why he did it, he said "Because it was there." And let's not forget that old lady who painted all of those pictures of Grandma Moses from the biblical stories about Moses and his Grandmother.

Knock! Knock!

Who's there?

It's time for...

It's time for who.

It's time for you to take your meds so you can rejoin the real world. 

And who are you?

I'm youth. I'm the one who will be making the decisions from now on. Your services and opinions are no longer needed or appreciated.  It is now up to me to decide what and who is relevant. If you follow those signs over there they will take you to the EXIT. And please, when you leave, don't let the door hit your flabby behind on the way out.

But, but, but...I have money.

MAKE WAY FOR THE RELEVANT LADY WITH NO BUTT CRACK IN THE WHITE POLYESTER PANTS.


The youths in this story do not speak for all youths in America, so don't get your white polyester panties in a wad. It's old lady humor. I don't expect you young folk to get it. Say, have you heard the Bob Hope joke about the pig who had nonconsensual sex with a farmer's dau... . Oh, you have? Okay then. Never mind.

A Mirror Without a Face

I noticed it for the first time this morning. I prefer to sleep until eight o'clock, but my bladder is an early riser, so I was up at six whether I preferred it or not. It takes my eyes several minutes in the morning to clear out the fog, so at first I didn't think much about the fact that my face was missing in the mirror. Once the fog had cleared, I could see the wild hair, ears sticking out through the wilderness, and the flabby neck hanging down and overlapping my yellow robe. But where were my long dark eyelashes and my thick brown eyebrows and the youthful hue of my skin and my rosy plump lips? I saw them in the mirror just yesterday, or did I?

Years ago when I was a young girl, my elderly aunt told me this day would come. She didn't have a face--well, she did, but it was one bland color and it all ran together--and she said, "I just don't want you to grow old and be shocked one day when you wake up to find your face gone." While I played connect the dots on her arms, she would tell me stories about how the aging body works. She told me it was nature's way for eyebrows to turn white and disappear, eyelashes too thin, lips to shrivel up, and the rosy hue of youthful skin to fade. "Growing old is all part of life," my aunt said, "and so is losing your face."

So there I was this morning at six o'clock, standing in front of a mirror without a face. Well, it was there but it was one bland color and it all ran together. My aunt may have been right about nature and the aging process, but I'm not happy about it. Not happy at all.

A Mirror Without a Face

 I hate this aging thing. I want my face back.

A Work of Fiction

The following are excerpts from a book I wrote many years ago. It is a work of fiction. Names and incidents are the product of the author's (that would be me) imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Really.

All for Love

"God knows everything. There isn't anything He doesn't know about you. If you commit a sin, He will know and you will go to...uh...well...you know. Think about what scares you the most," she said. I thought about long, fat, slimy night crawlers. "Okay, now whatever that is--your worst fears--that is how you will spend eternity if you break His rules." Oh, no! Eternity with worms sliming all over my body!

The Sunday school teacher fidgeted in her seat after telling her young students they could go to h-e-double l. It was okay to say the word if you were talking about a place opposite Heaven, but it was not okay to say, "You are going to...you know." If you used it that way,  you were saying a bad word, and if you said bad words, or if you crossed lines that were forbidden to cross, God will know it and send you straight to that place opposite Heaven. Little did she know that she could have saved her breath as far as I was concerned. I was already aware that God knew everything. He told Ruth--this is not my sister, Judy, in case you were thinking that--that I had crossed the line. (Referring to an earlier story in the book when the young protagonist's older sister had drawn a line on their bedroom floor and warned her not to cross it. She crossed it, of course, when no one was around. But God tattled on her, and that's when Ruth--not my sister, Judy, if you were thinking it was--tried to suffocate her with a pillow.)

My Sunday school teacher had long brown hair that coiled like a snake on top of her head. It looked like a Cobra that had just swallowed a rat, but she called it a beehive. Her clothes were homemade and designed to hide the curves of her body. She wore no makeup or jewelry. Our church didn't allow it. I don't remember if it was a sin in 1952, or if it was that God just didn't like for women to wear makeup or jewelry and show their elbows and knees. No one could say for certain why God had those rules, but I was warned by my teacher not to question them.

Mother did not break the makeup, jewelry or dress code, but she did break another rule. Accepted as a member of The First Holy Church on Michigan Street, she was allowed to tithe 10% of her meager earnings to the church, but that didn't wash away her tarnish. She was not a Christian in the purest sense because she was divorced.

The day my Sunday school teacher informed me that God knew everything I did was the same day my grandmother gave Mother the sermon on the pew. Mother didn't ask for my grandmother's opinion. It was unsolicited, unexpected, and a shock to both of us.

I had fallen asleep during Reverend Johnson's altar call and as usual, my mother's lap was my pillow, and my thumb was my comfort. She always stroked my arms, but sometimes when she was lost in the message, she'd stop momentarily so she could focus on God's word. Noticing that my caresser was slacking on the job, I'd shake my arm and she'd return to stroking. This was my favorite part of church.

While I was enjoying my strokes and thumb, my head was accidentally knocked off Mother's lap by Grandmother. It crashed on the hard pew, and my first instinct was to cry, but when I looked up and saw Mother who was now standing and facing her mother who was now lecturing her about the sin of remarrying, the urge evaded me. The expression on both of their faces was the same: fear.

Grandmother couldn't wait for the church service to end before jumping out of her seat and running back to rescue her daughter's soul. The only way Grandmother knew how to show her love was to stand between her daughter and the devil. "Don't even think about remarrying, because the church won't recognize your marriage vows," my grandmother said, trembling and clutching at her chest. "Please listen to me. You'll be living in sin. If you don't believe me, read Matthew 19:9. This is not my rule. It's God's. He will punish you if you disobey Him."

Mother never once raised her voice or spoke back to her mother. She never defended herself. She never constructed long explanations in her mind to later unleash on her judge. Confrontation was not my mother's way.

* * *

It was cloaked in fear and its voice was loud and demanding, but the message was clear: Love. All that preceded this moment--the strictness, the switch, the rules---they were all for love. I was only seven, but I knew what love looked like.


The Tea Party

Sitting on the curb in my Sunday clothes, I anticipated Uncle Johnny in every car that turned onto Broadway. Okay, he'll be the next one, but he wasn't the next one or the next. It was eleven o'clock and he was supposed to pick me up at half past nine. I was beginning to think he'd forgotten me, as he sometimes did when he was busy, but I assured myself. Not today. He won't forget me this time.

The exhilaration of spending the day with Aunt Aggie and Uncle Johnny kept me in constant nervous motion. Not able to stand still, I decided to spend my time more constructively by counting the cracks in the sidewalk down to Charles' home. I had a crush on my ten-year-old neighbor and knew the cement path from my house to his quite well, but I had never counted the cracks before. When I counted eleven cracks in the sidewalk, I heard the familiar sound of my uncle's car.

"Uncle Johnny's here!" I screamed, jumping with excitement. He pulled up to the curb with a grin smeared across his handsome face. Boy! how i loved that face. His long protective arm reached across the passenger's seat and pulled me close. "Got a hug for Uncle Johnny, Baby?" Sitting next to him, I rattled on and on about nothing as he looked down at me, his blue eyes creased at the sides from his smile. "Really? That's great, Baby," he'd say.

Most of the previous day, I'd sat at the kitchen table with pencil and paper creating stick art of the two of us holding hands, and he acted like he was give golden nuggets instead of scribbles on paper. He turned his head affectionately to one side and said in baby talk, "I luz you so much. Do you know how much I luz you." I knew but pretended I didn't so he'd show me, and then he'd spread his arms as far as they could go, considering he was driving at the time.

If a picture had been taken at that moment, it would have been obvious to anyone that I was the most important person in my uncle's life. If he'd had twenty children, none would be more special than I, and if he had more time, he would spend it with me.

My aunt and uncle must have been too busy to have children of their own. Uncle Johnny's flying kept him away for days at a time, and Aunt Aggie worked six days a week trying to establish a career in real estate. When they weren't working, they devoted their extra time to charities and church functions, and when time permitted, which wasn't very often, my sister and me.

So, the morning I was sitting on the curb waiting for my chauffeur to pick me up was a very special day. It was my day with busy Agnes and Johnny Tuckor, and to add to the excitement, I was told that sometime in the middle of the day, there would be a surprise. My uncle winked and then pressed his lips together while zipping them shut, but their niece was no dummy. It was the same surprise as this time one year before--lunch with my aunt at the swanky Tea Room at L.S. Ayres' Department Store in downtown Indianapolis.


Arms Around Love's Waist

I loved going to the Tea Room with Aunt Aggie. I wasn't accustomed to restaurants with linen napkins, china, and real silver. Mother was doing well just to pay her share of the rent and utilities. There was no extra money for eating out. If she had the money, though, she would take us out to fine restaurants. I thought about how nice it would be if Mother could have come.

Sitting across from my aunt, I realized she was as pretty as Mother, but very different. No one would guess they were sisters. Agnes was tall, slender, with shoulder-length auburn hair and intense green eyes. Mother was short and petite with dark brown--almost black--hair, pale skin, and big brown eyes. My aunt was out-going and self-confident. Mother was introverted and confident about nothing. She would quickly abandon her opinion if she thought it disagreeable. To disagree might cause confrontation, and confrontation would snag the one thread that held her fragile core together. One pull and the thread could unravel, destroying her. For Mother, conflict must be avoided in order to survive, but for my aunt it was a challenge she seemed to enjoy. Aunt Aggie had a quick-draw reaction to the stimuli in her world; my mother moved in slow motion and often appeared disconnected. Mother was soft-spoken and kind, where Agnes spoke out, and her message was always direct and to the point. For what each was or was not, I loved them both, and on this particular trip to the Tea Room, I missed my mother.

When the tea party was over and Uncle Johnny dropped me off at the curb, he squeezed me hard and said, "I luz you so much it hurts." I told him I hurt too and jumped out of the car. Standing on the curb, I blew him kisses until his car disappeared from view. For a minute or two after he was gone, I ached for my loss, because I knew it would be a very long time before I would see him again.

I raced up the driveway, and there standing at the door was Mother. She'd been waiting for me. On this day she was alert, tuned in, and happy. She had both arms behind her back as if she were hiding something. When she saw me, her face blossomed into a huge smile, and she giggled when I tried to see the secret behind her back. I dodged to her left, then to her right, trying to sneak a peak. She backed into the living room with me in close pursuit. Then I saw it.

On the coffee table was a cake, and on the top sat eight candles, all eager to burn in celebration of my special day. Mother summoned Ruth and Maddie (if you're thinking this is really Hazel, remember these stories are a work of fiction) and they all sang a song just for me.

Five minutes after saying goodbye to Uncle Johnny, I was luxuriating in it again. I felt connected, valued. I felt loved. I wanted to put my arms around love's waist, squeeze it tight, and never, ever let go.

All of the Things That Matter

Ours is a second-time around love story. I met him after I returned from a solo backpacking trip to Europe where I had gone to escape the mess I'd made of my life. A few months before, I'd run away from a wedding planned just for me and where my presence was required. Later, after it was too late to say "I do," I realized I'd made a mistake; I'd lost the one and only man I could ever love. No one could ever, Ever, replace my shy, soft-spoken, sweet-talking, laid-back southern beau.

ENTER TOM

I didn't like him but he didn't notice. I avoided him, but wherever I went, there he was. He was forward, high volume, and rabid with energy. He was one hundred eighty degrees the other direction from the one and only man I could ever love. I wanted nothing to do with him, but that didn't stop him. He was handsome in a Billy Crystal sort of way. And he made me laugh, too. But my heart was in southern Indiana with the only man I could ever love. But look who's at the door, Carol Louise. It's Tom, and he wants to take you to the circus.

Being with Tom was like being at the circus. Never a dull moment, lots of entertainment, many surprises, high energy, and you never knew what was coming next. There were no sweet nothings whispered in my ear, no talk of me being his precious southern belle, no books on How To Please My Man, no lazy summer days sitting on the front porch drinking sweet tea and watching the dandelions grow. Oh, no. With Tom, it was push the pedal to the metal 'cause he had places to go, things to do, people to meet, goals to accomplish. No time to waste. Life was meant to live. So hop on board, if you dare, and let's see where this journey takes us.

That was thirty-eight years ago, and our journey together was short. Tom's ambitions and immense dislike for the tundra took him and his circus 600 miles south to Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. My infatuation with love took me to a farm in Greenwood, Indiana. Twenty years later...Well, look who's at the door, Carol Louise. It's Tom and he wants to take you to the circus.

He is one of the most wonderful and amazing men I have ever known. No, that's not true. He is the most wonderful and amazing man I have ever known. Think about all of the things that matter when defining a very good person, all of the things that matter when choosing a mate, and all of the things that matter in a relationship. I have them. I have them all.  And they are in the one and only man I will forever love: my best friend, my biggest supporter and fan, my mentor, my lover, and my husband, Tom. Plus, who do you know who gets to go to the circus every single day?

If you're reading this Tom, I loved you yesterday, I love you today, and I will love you even more tomorrow.

Still Need a Man to Validate Me

Life is like a pinball machine. The first time you play you have no idea what you're doing, but that's okay;  it's just fun and games anyway. There are rules, of course, but rules are for the more serious players. The cautious, thoughtful players learn over time how and why the intricate mechanics of the game play such an important role in whether they win or lose. As they pull the starting lever to put their ball into action, they are thinking ahead, preparing a game plan, anticipating the ball's trajectory, the path it will take as it bounces off one bumper and heads to the next. They also know there are dangers ahead. They're very aware of the dead-end gutters and the magnetic dead spots designed to trap them. There are some bumpers they want to hit and others they hope to avoid. As with everything, there's always that element of chance, but if you ask them for advice on how to play the game well, they will tell you to stay focused, and keep your eyes on the ball. Every move matters.

Those cautious, thoughtful pinball players mentioned above? That was not me. I not only didn't know how the game worked, I didn't care, and I didn't give much thought to any move I made. Quite often I allowed others to take control and play the game for me, because I didn't think I was capable of winning on my own. Why, I wonder now as I sit here at my computer writing this blog post, did I think that? Where did that mindset--I need a man to take care of me; I need a man to validate me--come from? Why was I not more like my friend, Becky Harper, who, at eighteen, knew there was nothing she couldn't do on her own, and in her short sixty-two years, she lived every day proving it. Will I ever in my lifetime figure this mystery out?

A few months before she passed away at ninety-two, I went to visit my mother at the nursing home she'd been in since 2012. As soon as I walked into her room, she motioned for me to come closer; she had something to tell me. "I like men," she said. "I know you do, Mother," I said and patted her hand. And I did know because in our lifetime together, she had told me that at least twelve hundred times. "No, Carol Louise," she insisted. "I mean I really, REALLY like men!" Then she put her hand to her mouth and giggled like a ten-year-old school girl would after telling her best friend a secret.

Over the years I have, out of necessity, become an independent woman. As a single mother, I bought a house, remodeled a house, went to college, secured a great job, raised a son...by myself. I don't need a man to take care of me, thank you very much. But do I still need a man to validate me? Youbetcha! I am, after all, my mother's daughter.

The Thing About Trust

Six was too good looking for his own well being. Women swooned over his movie-star looks and the attention made him uncomfortable. He often said he was not the man who women believed him to be, and he was right. His beautiful exterior was in stark contrast to what lie beneath the surface. Six was shy, unassuming, reserved, soft spoken, kind, thoughtful, and gentle.

When I first met Six, I was distracted by his looks, but after some time I discovered that he was a genuinely nice man who should marry my sister, Lynnette. I arranged a meeting, introduced them, and waited for the mutual attraction, which never happened. She was looking for a much younger Florida boy, and he was looking for someone not so gorgeous. Enter me. The not-so-gorgeous someone.

There was nothing to not like about Six, so I didn't. I liked it all. His beauty, his sweet nature, his desire to go slow so our relationship could grow to be strong and healthy. I was the first one to mention love. His mention of it came later, but at least I knew it was sincere when it did come. One year passed, then two, and three. The foundation of our mutual love and respect was rock solid by year four, the year we started talking about marriage. Maybe, at age forty-six, I had finally gotten this whole love thing right.

WRONG!

It was those damn good looks that got him in trouble. He wanted to say no, but Six was an accommodator, a people pleaser, and there were a lot of women out there who wanted pleasing. He was sorry, he said. It wouldn't happen again, he said. It was me he loved, he said. Would I not leave him? he asked. How could I go? He was my man. He had the power. And without it I was, well, you know.

Here's the thing about trust. Once it's been violated, it places every person, place and thing under suspicion. It has a million unanswered questions; it calls telephone numbers it doesn't recognize, and it does drive bys at two o'clock in the morning. Beware of a violated trust because if intuition says something is wrong, it will play detective, track down the truth, discover dirty little secrets, and then wait for just the right moment for the big reveal. Gotcha! again. But wait! Not so fast! What about the man? Gotta say nothing, do nothing; soldier on in silence in order to keep the man, right?

WRONG!

Here's the thing about violated trust. It just can't keep its big mouth shut.

A Real Piece of Work

Love Number Five was the exact opposite of Number Four. He was more pretty than handsome, more feminine than rugged, more artistic than mechanical, more clean than dirty, and most importantly, he was honest to a fault. There was never a doubt what Five was thinking because if he thought it, he said it.

"I  think our relationship is the best relationship I've ever been in," he said one day out of the blue.

"Well, thank you, Five. That is a very nice thing to say."

"Well?" he said.

"Well what?

"Is this the best relationship that you've ever been in?" he asked.

"Uh......"

Oh, sorry. I forgot to mention another way that Four and Five were different. Four never raised his voice. Not once. Five, on the other hand, was a yeller. Four was a low-down dirty lying cheater, but he was stable. Five, well, was the opposite of what I just said.

"ARE YOU SAYING THAT THIS IS NOT THE BEST RELATIONSHIP YOU HAVE EVER BEEN IN?!" Five yelled as he threw a cup across the room.

"Can you give me a minute to think about it, please? I don't think it's the worst," I said as I kept running the low-down dirty lying cheater through my mind.

FIVE MINUTES LATER

"I'm sorry. Will you please forgive me?" Five pleaded. "It's just that I love you so much that I want you to want this to be your best relationship ever."

"Okay."

"Okay what?" he asked.

"Okay, I hear you? Okay, I know that is what you want? Okay, can we be done with this conversation now?"

"YOU ARE A REAL PIECE OF WORK!" Five yelled as he looked for another cup to throw. "You're not going to say it's the best, are you? Why would I choose to love someone like you?"

"You have it all wrong, Five," I thought to myself. "Why would I choose to love someone like you?

Soon after this love spat, Five broke up with me. My man was gone and I was devastated because with him he took his power, the power that made me whole. I was once again without worth.

The Power to Make Me Whole

At age forty, after two failed relationships and one marriage, I was far from understanding what part I had played in the dismal outcomes of loves gone wrong. All I knew was I wanted love. No, that's wrong. I needed love. Without a man, I was worthless; I had no value. The entire world could offer its devotion, but there was only one person, the man in my life, who had the power to make me whole.

Low self-esteem does not like the light of day or the dark of night. Actually, it doesn't like much of anything, especially the host in which it lives. Because of its negative and reclusive nature, it spends a lot of its time hiding. It only comes out when no one is around to hear its constant barrage about its poor living conditions.

One bright sunny day in 1985 my low self-esteem was nowhere to be found when I confidently walked into a Greenwood Volkswagen repair shop to see if they could fix my broken Beetle Bug. Handsome gets me every time. Every single time. He was wearing a dark gray jumpsuit that fit his six foot frame nicely, and under his baseball cap I could tell there was some serious handsome going now. Could he help me, he asked in a low-manly voice. I looked at him; he looked at me; then the music started and it was love at first...

NO! STOP! Can't you see what you're doing? This is your problem. Your notions about love and romance are based on what you've read in fairy tale books, romance novels, seen on soap operas and watched at the movies. They are not real life. Love at first sight is not possible. Love takes time. Lots of time. How can you love someone you don't even know? Wake up, Carol Louise! Wake up!

I looked at him; he looked at me; then the music started and it was love at first sight. The only problem was, and it was my low self-esteem who pointed it out to me, I didn't come across his screen. He not only was NOT that into me, he didn't even see me. It wasn't until I came back a half dozen more times that he finally took notice.

We had so much in common, Love Number Four and I. He was a pilot; I was a pilot. He had a dog; I wanted a dog. He lived in Indiana. I lived in Indiana. He worked on Volkswagens; I owned a Volkswagen. He was a homosapien; I was a homosapien. Five out of five. That was good enough for me, and so my fourth love affair began quite spectacularly in an airplane somewhere over southern Indiana.

Well? Was there music?

Oh, yeah. Lots of music. It was very romantic.

What about a smoke machine for special effects during this romantic interlude?

We generated our own smoke.

So it was true love then, you and Four?

Well, there were a few itty bitty problems with Four.

Really? You said it was love at first sight. What problems could there possibly be?

I don't want to talk about it.

Was it that personal ad he ran in the newspaper seeking someone other than you? Could that have been a problem?

No comment.

What about the fifty letters you found that were responses to his personal ad that sought someone other than you? Was that a problem?

I have no comment at this time.

What about his words affirming his devotion and love for you while he was driving all over Indiana seeking someone other than you? Would you say there was an itty bitty problem with that?

Okay! Okay! Yes, I admit it. Four's lying and cheating and deception was a problem, but, but, but...

But what?

He was my man. Without him I would be worthless. The entire world could offer its devotion, but there was only one man, Four, who had the power to make me whole.

That's a bunch of crap and you know it.

I know! I know! But try telling that to my low self-esteem, would ya? It's not very happy with me right at the moment, so maybe it will listen to you.

Doubt it.

Plenty of Eggs in the Grass

Just imagine for a moment that you are a little girl who has been invited to an Easter Egg hunt at the neighbor's house. Your anticipation of the upcoming hunt is making you giddy because, even though you've never been to an event like this before, you've heard lots of amazingly incredible stories about how fantastical they can be. Your vivid imagination has taken the stories as they were told to you over and over and over again, and turned them into a fictional wonderland where truth and reality are banished and fantasy rules.

Just imagine for a moment that you are a little girl who is now at the neighbor's house and the Easter Egg hunt is about to begin. Every other little girl there is squeaky clean, dressed in their Sunday best, wearing their Mary Janes, and carrying a pretty basket, but no one had told you that sandals and pedal pushers were unacceptable attire for the hunt. Hey! You're eleven! You should know better!  And, where's your basket? What do you mean no one told you to bring a basket? Where do you expect to put the magical egg without a pretty basket? 

Just imagine for a moment that you are an old lady reminiscing about a little girl who many years ago went to an Easter Egg hunt with hopes of finding a hidden treasure that had magical powers. Realizing she looked different than all the other well-dressed, pretty little girls who were being doted on by their attentive mothers, she moved to the outer edges of the lawn and waited alone for the hunt to begin. Then, while all of the other girls giggled and joked and danced and pranced around the yard, she crawled over every square foot of grass...searching, searching, searching. Then a gleeful scream was heard from afar and the hunt was over, but only for the moment. There are plenty of eggs in the grass and they can also hold the power, and so the search must continue until that one magical egg is found.

Just imagine for a moment that you are an old lady with young women trailing behind you on the treadmill of life--sisters, nieces, daughters, granddaughters--and you know something they don't know. In fact, you know a lot they don't know. That's what living sixty plus years on this planet will allow you. You know stuff. But they know stuff, too, and they don't want to hear your stuff because it's old stuff from an old lady who likes to ramble on and on and on about her stuff.

Here's something you might not know: An egg is just an egg. It can be hard boiled, over easy, scrambled, poached, deviled, or decorated real nice on the outside, but no matter how you prefer your eggs, they are still only eggs. You don't have to wear your Sunday best when selecting your egg, it's okay to come as you are, nor do you have to crawl on the ground to find your eggs. They are everywhere; they are not magical; and, if you don't remember one single thing I have written in this post, please remember this: THEY DO NOT HOLD THE POWER.

Third Time's a Charm

Third time's a charm, literally. When I married my third love at age thirty-five, one of my wedding presents was a charm that looked like a pile of cow dung. Okay, that's a lie. It could have been a cowboy hat that resembled cow poop. I don't remember now. It was oh so long ago. What I do remember is that my husband was a cowboy, literally.

We got married, had a little cowboy, divorced, and that's all there is to that story. What? You want more? Okay, here's something. I was introduced to the cowboy at his farm while standing in a pile of cow dung. He liked me; I liked him. We got married, had a little cowboy, divorced, and that's all there is to that story. What now? Still more? After we left the cow pasture, kicked the poop off our boots, and went inside his farmhouse, we got cozy and cuddled on the couch. He liked me. I really liked him. We got married, had a little cowboy, divorced, and that's all there is to that story. What do you mean you think there's more to the story? Well, maybe there is a tad more. After several cozy months inside that farmhouse cuddling on the couch, I was in love--or was I in love with the idea of love? But, and it's a great big BUT here,  he realized He Just Wasn't That Into Me, so we went our separate ways. Four months later we got married, had a little cowboy, divorced, and that's all there is to that story, literally.

My Second Chance at Love

We left the flower shop, drove to Interstate 465, bypassed downtown Indianapolis, and then headed west on Interstate 70. Destination unknown. We were running away, my little yellow Volkswagen bug and I.

It was Friday, August 1, 1975. Aunt Gracie called first thing in the morning to go over her list, again, of "Things To Do." Her calls were coming every day now, and the increasing urgency in her voice was making me anxious. Had we met with the minister yet? Did I have a final count? How many people were coming from out of town? Had I ordered the flowers? No. No. No. and I'll do it today.

"Can I help you?" the lady behind the counter said without looking up. She was cutting stems from a pile of red roses that were laying on the counter top and carefully sticking them in a vase.

"No thanks. Just looking." The selection of flowers was overwhelming. Too much stimuli. I couldn't focus, so I left. Outside, in the parking lot, I sat for fifteen minutes trying to remember what else was on my aunt's list. Nothing came to me. Nothing! My brain was awash in fog.

The one thing on Aunt Gracie's list that did happen on time was the mailing of the invitations, but that detail was at the top and way before the final countdown to the wedding. In the beginning of the engagement, when I hadn't put any thought into spending the rest of my life--THE REST OF MY LIFE!--with the soft-spoken, handsome star football player from southern Indiana, I had no difficulty following the wedding planners' instructions. Now, with just two weeks to go before I would be saying things like, "I promise to cherish, honor, and obey," and "thereto I give thee my troth," and "til death do us part," I was struggling to maintain my mental equilibrium.

After a few months of dating, my second chance at love, a sweet-talking southern suitor, had professed his undying love, presented me with a beautiful diamond ring and a book with detailed instructions on How to Please My Man, and I said Yes. But now with just two weeks to go before the celebratory throwing of the rice, mashing cake in faces, and pitching flowers at desperate old maids, I was giving this whole "pleasing your man til death do you part" thing some serious thought. I could cherish and honor, and I could even part with my troth, but obey? Nah! Good chance that wasn't gonna happen.

* * *

At the Cloverdale exit, my bug made a right turn, raced past a Yield sign without looking and kept on going. We were now in the country, surrounded by fields of soybeans, corn, and an occasional farm house. Aimlessly we drove, my bug and I. We were running away. Away from responsibility. Away from consequences.  Away from an undefined nagging feeling. With the peace of mind that country landscapes have always given me, the "I can do this! No, I can't do this!" battles that had been raging in my head for a week now had declared a temporary cease fire, but the calm could only be short lived. The future was coming, and it was coming fast. We had to go back. I had to make a decision.

"I can do this!" I said upon returning home later that night, and I meant it...at the time. At age twenty-nine,  I had finally met my Prince Charming. I loved Number Two, or was I in love with the idea of love?

AUGUST 14, 1975 - TWO DAYS BEFORE MY WEDDING

"I can't do this!" I said as I maneuvered my way through the stacks of wedding presents in my parents' living room. I sat down on the couch and waited for their shocked expressions, their anger, their accusatory shaking fingers, their admonishment, their disapproval of me, their tears. There were tears but nothing else. I can't say anyone was happy with my decision, but everyone accepted it, because, well, they had no choice.

There is an old saying about love and marriage. "When it's right, you will know it." I'd like to add another sentence to that saying. "If it doesn't feel right, don't do it." 

My First Love

He was my middle-school sweetheart. Seventh grade. Belzer Junior and Senior High. And it was love. True love. I was thirteen and he was eighteen. I know. I know. I'd heard it all before. Five years is nothing when you're adults, but when you're still legally a child, it's still illegal in all forty-eight states. Love adheres to no rules, knows no boundaries, rarely listens to reason, and is relentless in its pursuit of happily ever after.

It was during one of my many adolescent pursuits of happily ever after when I first saw him. I was standing outside my seventh-grade classroom waiting for the teacher to unlock the door when I heard a commotion at the far end of the hall. White billowing smoke like you see at concerts and in the movies obscured my view. Then, suddenly, out of the fog, he appeared. He was beautiful. No, really he was. I know everyone says that about their ugly love interests, but in this case, it's true. More like gorgeous, actually. Gorgeous on crack. Yeah! Like that. Anyway, the lights dimmed, the music started and this black-haired, brown-eyed Adonis, along with his doting entourage, began walking--in slow motion--right toward me. Me! I pushed my glasses higher up my nose so I could get a better look. Oh, my goodness! What a vision of perfection.

You know how when you hear people say "It was love at first sight" you think to yourself "Wow! That person is really dumb!" Excuse me? You don't think that? Really? I could have sworn that was you. It's my memory. Not so good anymore. Anyway, when Adonis and his cheerleader girlfriend came down the hall and walked right past me, it was, it was, it was love at first... . Wait a minute! What just happened here? This is my fantasy. Who stopped the smoke machine? Who unplugged the music? Who put that cheerleader in my fantasy?

I did. I cannot tell a lie, Okay, that's a lie. I lie all the time but for the sake of this story, it was me, the sixty-eight-year-old you with retrospective vision and hindsight wisdom who took the story away from you, a really dumb thirteen-year-old.

NOW FOR THE REST OF THE STORY (seven years later)

He was my first love. I was twenty and he was twenty-five. I know. I know. Adults, so no big deal in all fifty states.  I had known of him since the seventh-grade when he was the fantastical object of my desire. But it wasn't until a blind date in 1966 brought us together that I realized I might have been wrong way back when. But then there was still that beautiful face and the Corvette and the boat and the house on the lake and the control and the...and the con... . Wait a minute! What just happened here? This is my story. I should be able to tell it however I want.

Okay then. You tell the story. I'll stay out of it.

There was his wonderful sense of humor and his intelligence and his infideli...uh...his infidel... . Alright, you can tell the story.

Nah! I think you just did.

Just One Sentence

When I told my first love that he was the one, he said, "The man does the choosing; that's just how it's done." Love Number Two said I was his perfect little princess and then proceeded to mold me more to his liking. Wedding to Three went off without a hitch, but I could tell the cowboy's heart just wasn't in it. Love Number Four? Oh, he was a very, very bad boy. Five was tart yet sugary and spiked with a pinch of crazy. Six was a victim of his own conflictions. All loves gone wrong, then along came Seven. Perfect Number Seven.

It's the loves gone wrong part of my life that initially inspired me to start my blog which was and still is written for my family, in particular, the generations trailing behind me. If just one sentence in one story causes just one loved one to stop and think for one second before doing that one thing that could potentially harm them and their future, well then, all the ramblings will have been worth it.

My family's happiness is not my responsibility, but it is my inspiration.

Fear Mongers

The only thing we have to fear is fear itself. And of course the terrorists, economic collapse, super bugs, societal decline, identity thief, crazy foreign leaders, failing education, faulty space heaters, killer bees, under-cooked chicken, television evangelists with mustaches, black ice, ticks, asteroids, wine shortage, car salesmen, global warming, sink holes, bed bugs, nursing homes, the IRS, and let's not forget the common, every day, every where, garden variety germ.

What have I missed? I'm afraid I may have forgotten something that I need to be fearful about. Here, let me turn on Fox News. Oh, No! How could I have forgotten the Democrats? I'm scared; very scared. I know. I'll just switch channels and watch The Daily Show with John Stewart for a little comic relief. Oh, crap! Where's my Xanax? The Republicans are coming! The Republicans are coming!

You can run, but you can't hide. The purveyors of fear will find you, pull you out of your temporary safe haven, and then proceed, with much exuberance (are they enjoying giving you bad news?), to tell you why you should spend every waking hour in a state of anxiety because the sky is falling! the sky is falling!  the sky is falling! 

Sometimes the fear mongers' messages are confusing, like that time in 2008 when Dr. Oz was just a mere mortal and guest doctor on The Oprah Show. He brought with him a Mysophologist, an expert who helps people overcome their fear of germs. With a group of germaphobes in tow, Dr. Oz and the germ guy set out on a trip through back alleys and nasty bathrooms in an effort to eliminate the obsessive compulsive disorder associated with an unfounded, unrealistic, and illogical fear of germs for once and for all time.

INTO THE DEMPSTER DUMPSTER WE ALL GO

You want to get rid of your fear of germs, don't you? Okay, dive on in. Open that McDonald's bag and what do you see? Maggots? Never mind. Eating maggots is for the more advanced class. What about that Colonel Sanders Finger-Licking-Good box? It's not more than twenty-four hours old. Go ahead, lick it! Stop crying.  Don't be a big baby now. You can do it. On the count of three. One, Two, Three...LICK IT! LICK IT!

ON OUR KNEES AT THE TOILET BOWL

For goodness sake, folks. It's only germs. I know it smells bad and I don't know what those brown flecks are floating in the water. Never mind those. Shit! It's not show and tell, ya know. It's time to lick the toilet seat and say goodbye to your fear of germs once and for all time.

20 MINUTES OF TELEVISION INVESTIGATIVE JOURNALISM - 2014.

Beware! There's danger lurking in your very own kitchen. See those salt and pepper shakers looking so innocent on top the stove? Don't believe it. Covered in Strepacockibatris, they're out to make you sick. And the floor under your kitchen bar? Caninebeenpeeinhere Disease. Disgusting! Water faucet? You don't wanna know. Cutting board? Throw it out. Bar stools? Don't even ask. Refrigerator magnets? Cute but deadly. And as bonafide, certified, and self-appointed purveyors of fear, we suggest you think twice about closing your bread bag with that little white tie wrapper thingy.  It's crawling with germs.

So, here I sit writing my blog on a computer whose keys have been thoroughly cleaned by Maggie Mae after she found part of a Cinnabon lodged between Option and Command. I've washed my hands six times already this morning, and I'm following the advice of a germ expert I saw on 20/20 last Friday night. I'm using only my right hand to touch things, which leaves my left hand free for things like rubbing my eyes, putting my fingers in my mouth to dislodge food stuck between my teeth, biting my nails, and picking my nose. This technique works great, but it takes twice as long to write my blog.

I know it's still early but all of this arduous focus on my safety has worn me out, so I'm going to go back to bed now to conserve energy. What? There's millions of germs in my bed? Really? What about a nap on the couch? Ecoli? You don't say. Okay, I'll just lie down on the carpet for a bit. Mold, mildew, mites, dust, dirt, and dog feces?  Well, already then. I'll just stand here in the middle of the room where it's safe.

Huh? What asteroid?

Victoria's Little Secret

"If there's anything I can do for you, honey, I'll be right over here folding these crotchless panties," the saleslady said as I wandered like a lost child through the mall store. I had never been in Victoria's Secret before, and I was overwhelmed by the incredible number of visual aids available to me, all for the purpose of seducing my man.

I wasn't in the store by choice. Unlike my two...I mean three...uh...four sisters, I hate to shop. Well, I don't hate to shop. I just dislike it immensely. And if I must shop, then I just Google the nearest Goodwill. Just like Google, Goodwill has answers for everything. Going to a funeral but don't have anything black to wear?  Don't fret. Goodwill's got the dress for you and the shoes, too. You may have to safety pin the waist so it doesn't look like a maternity dress and stuff toilet paper in the toes of the shoes, but Hey! what do you expect for $7.39?

"Still looking, honey? If there's anything you need, I'll be right over here stacking these nippleless bras," the saleslady said after finding me in a state of catatonic delirium at the see-through négligée display.

Catatonic Delirium

A condition in the brain caused by

outside forces in the environment that

result in the brain appearing to shutdown.

This condition is oftentimes mistaken for 

someone texting on their cellphone.

                                          --Mikidikipedia

Luckily no one noticed my momentary stupor. It was my and Victoria's little secret. I continued to wander aimlessly through the store. Did I mention I wasn't at Victoria's Secret by choice? Why would I  pay $30 for crotchless panties when I could buy slightly-used undies at Goodwill for $1.49 and cut the crotch out myself? But it didn't matter what I wanted; it was what my man wanted that mattered. 

"When it comes to sex," he said, "men are visual." He was one of the seven loves allotted to me in this lifetime, and I wanted to please him both off my bed and on. Outside of the bedroom, which comprised of 99% of our relationship, I gave him the best of me, but it was that 1% behind closed doors that caused him to stray. Well, it wasn't his fault. It was those dang over-sized, high-waisted, slightly-used Goodwill panties that I insisted on wearing because, well, they were comfortable.

So, here I was at Victoria's Secret trying to keep my man. I was desperate to not lose him to her, the seductress with a closet full of dirty little secrets. But my efforts to satisfy my visual lover were to no avail. She won; I lost. But, in retrospect, in hindsight, in the end...not really. 

It's been almost twenty years since I last stepped inside a Victoria's Secret, and I don't have plans to return any time soon. I have won the Best-Mate Lotto and thank God he doesn't wear his glasses to bed. 

The Lie

It's all the time and it's everywhere. Every time we turn on the television, surf the Internet, watch a movie, read a magazine or book, walk out our door, it's there.  Because of its omnipresence, we have become accustom to it. We've accepted it as normal. From its relentless barrage, we have been brainwashed to believe its message. Any adverse emotions related to it such as inadequacy, sadness, depression, fear, anger, or anxiety have been bound and gagged and sent to the far back corners of our minds, where they languish, until...

Ladies of age. Listen to us, for we are here to help. You can trust us, the ones who stand to make billions from your feelings of inadequacy. Are you sad and depressed about losing your youth and beauty? Are you fearful that that twenty-five-year-old mind-blowingly gorgeous blond bombshell with big boobs at the office will steal your man? What?? She already has? Well then, are you angry? Have a little anxiety about those crow's feet, drooping jowls, and frown lines? Fret no more. We have the cure for your debilitating and disfiguring disease called "aging." All we ask is that you 1) continue to accept the lie: you are not okay as you are, 2) believe all your friends are doing it, therefore so should you, 3) don't give any thought to how ridiculous you may look if we get it wrong, 4) don't consider for one second that the world's focus on youth is not your concern, and 5) give us a lot of money, 'cause beauty ain't cheap, honey.

I'm a woman of age and I feel bad about that. My feelings of inadequacy are due to the lie that follows me wherever I go. The lie is my shadow. It's right next to me constantly saying things like, "If only you didn't have that chicken waddle dangling from your neck." And "Whoa! Those are some big honky wrinkles you got there!" And, "You know, with a little money--okay, a lot of money--there are things you can do to get rid of that old-lady face." 

"I know, I know," I say back to the lie, "but I don't want to succumb to the whimsy of the shallow and fickle world."

Aging is a normal part of life, and we shouldn't be made to feel bad about that. Besides, today the favorite flavor is Anything Young; tomorrow it might be Everything Elderly. It's possible. You never know. It could happen. Maybe. Okay, there's no way in hell that could happen, but can't an old lady dream?

Then Along Came Christie

I'd like to write about something that is happening all around me, does not include me, and is detrimental to the mental and emotional well-being of women of age, which does include me.

Just six decades ago, sixty was the old eighty. Thirty years ago sixty was sixty. By the new millennium, with so much focus on living a healthy life-style, sixty was starting to look a whole lot like fifty, naturally. All was good in the land and women who followed the edicts of healthy living were happy just to hear,"Oh, you're sixty? I would have guessed you to be ten years younger." But then, along came Christie and now...

SIXTY IS THE NEW THIRTY

I saw the stunning Miss Brinkley posing in a one-piece bathing suit--she normally wears a bikini, she said, but her children insisted on the one-piece for the photo shoot--on the cover of People Magazine two months ago. Her sixtieth birthday--that's 6-0 years old--was February 2nd and the male editors in charge thought it would be fun to flaunt this six-decade-old phenomenon in front of its 46 million subscribers--most of whom are women who, in their most imaginative, creative, delusional, or drug-induced state of mind, would never, ever believe they could look like Christie Brinkley...at any age.

People Magazine boldly announces, "STILL STUNNING IN A BATHING SUIT AT 60!" People's sister magazine, Sports Illustrated, boasts, "She has the legs of a 30-year-old and the face of an angel. She's what you aspire to look like at 60. She's mind-blowingly beautiful."

If you'll please excuse me. I must throw up now.

Okay, I'm back. It's my gag reflect. It acts up on occasion. Like, for example, when a young, shallow, out-of-touch-with reality editor of a sports and T and A magazine says, "She's what you aspire to look like at 60!" Really? Forget sixty. I didn't look like that at thirty. The transformation from an ugly duckling to cute was the most I could ever hope for, and in that years-long journey, I learned that beauty is superficial and fleeting. Is beauty that important? What about the heart and mind of those who aspire to be the best person they can be, those with integrity, compassion, empathy and an abundance of love for themselves and others? What about substance and depth of character?  Is what truly matters the exterior shell that is so gorgeous it blows people's minds, or is it the peace of mind and calm resolve that accompany a beautiful soul?

So, is Christie Brinkley, whose picture on the cover of People Magazine has been altered, tweaked, and Photoshoped, what we women of age want to aspire to look like at 60? 

You bet your sweet drooping buns it is! 

Senior Moments

Call it senior moments, brain fade, or mental glitches, but please don't call it senility. It's bad enough that I have to sit back and watch my body deteriorate right in front of my bifocaled eyes, but when my brain says things like,"What appointment?" "I don't have a clue." and "Sorry. I didn't realize I'd told your friends that already, six times," I have to admit that I'm a little more than concerned. I'm scared.

Every day new anti-aging products become available for those among us who are vain and aesthetic-conscious. From creams to scalpels, the options to remain young on the outside are limitless.  But what about the brain? Did you know that the human brain loses about 9,000 neurons a day? Each neuron has an entourage of ten to twenty assistants. They kick the bucket too. Along with the thousands of cells dying each day, there are these vicious little radicals--they're free but who would want them?--that fly around inside our heads destroying anything they hit. And we can't ignore the tangles, plaque, and shrinkage.

So why am I telling you this, you ask? You, who are young and aesthetically pleasing. You, who can read a book and remember every detail in it one year later. You, who still have 99.9 billion healthy and fully-functioning brain cells. You, with no tangles, plague, or shrinkage. You, who ask me to explain myself and hold me accountable for every single slip up my brain makes. You, who think you'll never have a senior moment or brain fade or mental glitch. So why am I telling you this, you ask?

Uhhhhhum...

I don't have a clue.

Between the Drops

I stood at the end of the driveway with my trash can in one hand and a recycle bag in the other. From the house to the street would take less than two minutes, so I didn't see the need to wear a raincoat. I'd just run between the drops, I reasoned. But when I reached the street I was stopped and forced to stand under the pelting rain for many long minutes because of a malfunction at the command center.

I knew trash pickup was Thursday, but what I didn't know was what day it was. Was it Wednesday? Or was it Tuesday? I was hoping for a Wednesday answer so I could leave the trash at the curb and hurry back to the house. I was starting to shiver as the cold autumn rain assaulted me from every direction. Wednesday, Tuesday. Wednesday, Tuesday. Come on brain! I'm getting wet. It's a simple question. It can't be that difficult.

Jason peeked out the window, probably to see why it was taking me so long to take out the trash. Not wanting him to know I was having difficulty getting my brain to answer a simple question, I smiled and waved and then leaned nonchalantly against the trash can. Nothing to be alarmed about, Sweetie. Just hanging out in the street in the pouring rain with our trash. He gave me his signature you-are-really-weird look and closed the curtain.

Meanwhile, back at the curb, I was still trying to get an answer: Wednesday? Tuesday? What is taking so long? Then, out of the gray fog, came a thought. A thought? A thought is a good thing. It meant my brain was working--albeit in a limited capacity--again.

"I have an idea," my brain offered.

"I'm cold, I'm wet, I'm in no mood for ideas. Just tell me what day it is."

"If I knew I'd tell you, but that information is unavailable at the moment. Want to hear my idea?"

"No! I'm going to stand here in the rain until you tell me what day it is."

"Tuesday! You're a day early."

Angry with myself for getting it wrong, I started back up the driveway with trash in tow.

"Just kidding. Hey! You demanded an answer so I gave you one, but truth is, I don't know. That information is unavailable at the moment. Want to hear my idea?"

"No! I'll wait until that information is available."

So I waited and waited and waited until I couldn't wait any longer. Shivering, soaked, and defeated, I left the trash at the curb--so what if it sits there an extra day--and walked back to the house.

"Just so you know," my brain boasted, "leaving the trash at the curb was my idea."

The boy peeking out of the window was my ten-year-old son. I was forty-five, way too young for command center malfunctions.  It only gets worse.

Regrets

The thing about death that makes it difficult for me to grasp is the finality of it. The miracle of life--this one unique life unlike no other who has ever lived on this earth--is gone forever. Forever. Once that last breath has been taken, there are no do-overs. All opportunities to right the wrong, to make amends, to avoid regrets are lost. The following was spoken at the funeral of my mother.  She was born on February 26, 1922 and she died on her ninety-second birthday, February 26, 2014.

A regret is a terrible thing to waste. Why throw away perfectly good regrets when you can beat yourself up with them, wallow in them and feel bad about what you should have, could have done. If only I’d done this. If only I’d done that. If only.

It was with many regrets that I sat on the edge of Mother’s bed one week ago today and thought, “If only I’d done more, if only I’d been more attentive, if only I’d been more understanding, tolerant, less critical; if only I’d been more loving. If only, if only, if only.”

Now she was leaving us; time with Mother was running out. The room was quiet; she was quiet (which if you knew my mother, you know that is very unusual) and she was peaceful. I held her hand and told her over and over and over again that I loved her and that she was not alone. Then, because regret is a terrible thing for me to waste, I apologized for not being the unconditional loving daughter that she deserved. As a mother she had done her very best. As a daughter I could have done better. And I asked for forgiveness. I think she heard me. I hope she forgave me.

Regret is NOT a terrible thing to waste. Get rid of them. Don’t let regrets be part of your story. There’s still time. When you love someone, don’t assume they know it. By your actions show them you love them and then tell them over and over and over again.