If a Woman Farts

The fact that no one is reading my blog is liberating.  No.  Really, it is.  I'm not just saying that to help pull me out of a funk, because I'm not in a funk.  I'm perfectly fine.  Having no, zero, zip readers is...what's the word I'm looking for here?  It'll come to me.  Sounds like.  Rhymes with.  It's on the tip of my tongue.  With no readers, I can say anything I want with no repercussions because, well, if a woman farts in the mall and no one smells it...

See what I mean?  I don't feel bad about saying that--even though it's ridiculous; everyone knows women don't fart--because no one is reading my blog.  How do I know this, you ask, even though you are really not here reading this?  No comments.  Wouldn't you think, if I had readers, that someone would feel a need to say something, anything, once in a while?

I have followers. Ten of them. They're not reading my blog, though.  They signed up to follow me because they wanted me to think that they were supporting me and my writing. There they are, all ten sitting together in a group on the right side of this page, smiling, waiting anxiously to see what I am going to say next.  Pretending to do this for me makes them feel good about themselves.  I imagine it's the kind of feeling you experience when you fake-smile and put money in a beggar's cup.  That feels good, right?  Not so fast.  What was that comment you whispered to yourself the last time you dropped a quarter into a beggar's cup and walked away? "Why don't you get a bleepin' job and work for a living like the rest of us?"  Remember that?  At least the beggar was worthy of a comment.

It's okay that no one is reading my blog.  No.  Really, it is.  I'm perfectly fine with it.  Having no, zero, zip readers is...what's that bleepin' word I'm bleepin' looking for here?  It'll bleepin' come to me. No. Really, it will.

Hitting Below the Belt

It could be anyone...members of my family, or friends, or friends of friends, but regardless of who the people are (I'm not telling, so don't ask), the following really happened.

A young (or old) married (or not) couple have been living together for several months (or years) and recently there was an unpleasant issue that needed to be addressed.

"We both live here.  Why am I the only one cleaning the house, cooking the meals, doing the dishes, laundry, and taking care of your dog?"

Now that is a very good question; don't you agree?  I thought you would.  It's a valid concern, has credibility, presented in a mature manner, and there is no hitting below the belt.  All of the right components necessary for conflict resolution are here.   Presented with the facts, the wrongdoer should just acknowledge that he (or she) has been negligent in the past, and then offer to do better in the future.  Case closed.  Problem solved.  Don't forget to kiss before going to bed.

"Who was your maid (or butler) before me?   I'm not your mother (or father), and I refuse to be your slave and follow you around the house picking up after you and your dog!"

"Whoa! What the bleep??  Why are you yelling at me?  I work hard all day; I'm tired; I'm stressed, and I don't feel good.  I walk into the house and BAM! you attack me!" 

Oh, shoot!  That doesn't sound good.  I thought this issue had been resolved already.  It seems like such a simple problem with a simple resolution.  Something that two mature adults could handle with ease,  but now there's yelling, cursing, self-pity, traces of martyrdom, excuses, exaggerations, and "credibility" has left the building.  But at least no one has gotten hit below the belt.

"Oh, and about that ugly, stupid dog of yours!"

Ouch!  Remember what I just said about no one getting hit below the belt?  Never mind.

The Gym

Yesterday Tom signed me up at the gym without telling me first, and I can't say I was happy about it.  Nine years ago, when we lived in Bradenton, Florida, I was sweet-talked into signing a year's contract at The Life Fitness Center by an overly attentive, handsome, physically-fit personal trainer who took an unusual interest in me and my body. At first I was skeptical and suspicious of his intentions.  Was his myopic focus on me sincere or did he have an alternative motive, say money?

The day after I signed the contract, I was back at the gym wearing mama jeans, an Indiana University T-shirt, and flip-flops.  I spotted Mr. Attentive by the elliptical machine talking to a potential client, so I found the closest treadmill to the elliptical and started slow walking.  While I waited for my personal trainer to acknowledge me (he was only two machines away), I saw two men exchange harsh words and then begin fighting.  A third man joined in and then a fourth.  A heavy set woman jumped on the back of one of the men and stuck her fingers up his nose.  It was mayhem.  Finally Security arrived and the fight was over.  After that Jerry Springer stepped up onto the stage, but I couldn't hear what he was saying because there was no volume on the gym's televisions, only closed caption that was too small to read.

After walking for five minutes on the treadmill, I was exhausted.  I didn't know that getting into shape was going to be so hard, but I wasn't concerned because my personal trainer would help me through the hard times. But, where did Mr. Attentive go?   The elliptical machine, where he had been moments earlier, was now occupied by a thin, attractive, color-coordinated prom queen.

I canvased the gym until I found him lying on a bench press stand, and he was alone.   As he struggled to lift a long bar loaded with weights over his chest, I patiently waited for the right moment to get his attention.  I was far enough away as to not be hovering, but I was also close enough that he had to know I was there.

After several minutes of what felt like stalking, I left to use the restroom and when I returned, my trainer was working out with Miss Prom Queen.  He didn't remember me from the day before.  Imagine that.  When I asked him if he was available to train me, his comment was, "You'll need to make an appointment at the front desk, Ma'am.  I charge $90 an hour."  

The Bradenton gym and I parted ways after a few months, but now I'm a card-carrying member of the Franklin gym and today, after working out with my personal trainer (who asked for no money), my body (especially my swiss-cheese bones) thanks Tom.  I won the best-mate lotto.

Seventh Chance

My sister Judy told me a long time ago that the mate you choose in life can't make you happy.  But--and this is an important but--if you choose unwisely, your mate can make you unhappy, very unhappy.

Since wisdom comes with age, and I was a late bloomer, I didn't "get it" until I was in my fifties.  I'm not sure I would have ever understood or appreciated what Judy had said if I hadn't given love a seventh chance.

My problem with men began the day I was born.  That was when my father chose to abandon his wife, three-year-old daughter and newborn child.  Oh, and shhhhhhhh  don't tell anyone because he doesn't want people to know that his first marriage was a mistake.  Can you keep a secret?

One of my first experiences with love happened in the first grade.  For me, it was love at the first mention of his name: Robert.  That was my father's name.  I will admit that I was a bit forward and my relentless pursuit of Robert might have made him uncomfortable, but I think the teacher's punishment for what she called "harassment"--making me sit in a corner with my back to the class just because I couldn't keep my hands to myself--was unfair.  Just like my father, Robert wanted nothing to do with me, and he asked the teacher to move him to the other side of the room, but his lack of interest and the distance between us made me love him even more.

I wasn't discouraged by Robert's disinterest.  In fact, his aloofness created a challenge.  For me to win his affections, I had to prove myself worthy; I needed to earn his love.  I brought him candy and apples; he gave them away.  I could swing higher than anyone in our class, but he didn't notice.  When he dropped his crayons on the floor, I raced across the room to help him pick them up, but he turned me away.  Nothing I did--gifts, acts of kindness, accomplishments--mattered to Robert, yet my love for him--and my absent father--grew stronger.  Then in the second grade Robert moved away and love faded.  Then...

FOURTEEN YEARS LATER

When I was twenty I finally got my first chance to love and be loved back.  There were no grade school or high school love affairs because, well,  let's just say I was unappealing to the opposite sex.  Okay!  I was ugly!  Are you happy now?

UGLY

An adjective that describes a person, place or thing, that

no one in their right mind would want to have within

 500 yards of them.  Something to avoid at all costs. 

                                                - Wikidikipedia

I don't know when the ugly morphed into something more appealing, but when R.J. asked me for a second date,  I was stunned.  Mutual friends had arranged a blind date, and I was certain R.J. (one of the most popular boys at the high school we both attended) would be upset when he saw what his friend had done to him.  We were together for ten years.  During that time, he remained mysterious, aloof, just out of reach. He was hiding something from me, but what?  R.J. had secrets.  Lots of secrets. I was uncertain where I fit in his life.  I was...uh...I was...well...let's just say I was lacking in the "marriage-material" category.  Okay!  I wasn't good enough!  Are you happy now?

NOT GOOD ENOUGH

A person, place, or thing that will fill in

 until something better comes along.  

                                                             - Wikidikipedia

I'm not sure when I became "good enough" and "marriage material" for R.J., but it occurred coincidently the same time I broke up with him and started dating someone else, but R.J.'s marriage proposal came too late.   After a few months of dating Chuck, he thought I had all of the qualifications to become Mrs. Chuck and he asked me to marry him.  I accepted. Hold on now!  Is this a wise decision?  After just a few months, you know that this is the mate for you...for life??  "Well, there will have to be a few changes made," Mr. Chuck said. "Oh, really?" the future Mrs. Chuck said. "Like what?"  "Oh, nothing that you can't adapt to, Sweetheart, like following a standard code of behavior for women, knowing your place in the home, and a few other itty-bitty things."  It seemed I wasn't good enough just as I was; I needed changing.  But that's okay, my second chance at love would be happy to mold me to his liking.  Two days before our wedding, I got cold feet, hid behind my hysteria, and jumped ship.

MOLD

A verb which means to take a person, place, or thing

 and change it to something more to your liking. Or...

a stinky substance found in the bathroom shower.

                                                              -Wikidikipedia

At thirty-four I got another chance at love, my third.  I never worked so hard in my life to earn someone's respect, affection, and love.  Even though I didn't succeed in any of the three, I married J.J. anyway.  Well, there was a good reason at the time. But, I've told you this story many times before, so let's move on.

GOOD REASON

Jason

When my marriage to J.J. ended, I was convinced that I was unworthy of love. My fourth, fifth, and sixth chances proved me right.  I received what I thought I deserved, until...

...along came Tom, my seventh and last chance at love.  

The mate you choose in life can't make you happy.  But, if chosen wisely, they can contribute greatly to your happiness.

Best Mate Lotto

I wrote a long, rambling story about the man I married eleven years ago, and it was my intent to post it on the one day of the year that celebrates love.  But, after reading it this morning, I realized it didn't do justice to the man who is, as corny as this must sound, the love of my life.  Words evade me.  How do you describe the one and only person in your life who always puts you first?  Always.  Just imagine what it means when the person you have chosen to spend the rest of your life with, a 24/7 companion, best friend, puts your needs before theirs.  I don't have to imagine it.  I'm living it.

As with every morning, I was awakened today by lots of big, open-mouth, juicy kisses and a warm excited body fidgeting on top of me.  Up an down, up and down.  "Okay, okay!  I'm awake now," which was Maggie Mae's cue to jump off of my back and race to her food bowl.  A few minutes later Tom came into the room and, well,  that's where this story ends.

I have won the Best Mate Lotto and life is good.

Depressed

They just pop into my head.  My last post, "Skinny Legs" came to me while I was shaving my legs yesterday in the shower.  I usually get just the title and I have to come up with the rest, which is no easy task for me.  Each story takes approximately six to eight hours to write and then revise, revise, revise.  The shower is not the best place to be inspired; it couldn't be further from pencil and paper, and my computer doesn't care for water.   So most of the time, the shower stories fall victim to my failing short-term memory.

Depressed.  That was the title in today's shower.  It's popped up before many times, but I've ignored it.  How can I write a lightweight, humorous story about depression?  What's so funny about that?  We need to keep it positive, right?  Thanks.  I thought you would agree.

My friend Margaret thinks I'm depressed.  "I think you're depressed," she said on my last trip to Indianapolis.  As I sat across from her at my favorite restaurant, Harold's Steer-In,  I couldn't believe she thought I was, you know, the "D" word.  I told  her she was wrong, all wrong.  No way.  Not possible.  Not me.  It's imperative that I have 100% control of my emotions at all times.  It defines who I am.  Depression does not fit anywhere in my life, I desperately wanted to say, but I couldn't stop crying long enough to get the words out.

I woke up that cold, gray morning crying, and when she called to see if I wanted to go to breakfast, I tried but failed to keep the sobs under control.  Instantly, my day planner for Saturday, January 12, 2013, was full.  If I thought I was going to go back to bed,  I was mistaken.  There were thrift, consignment, and antique shops I needed to see, she said.  And there was a great little cafe where we could have lunch and talk.  So off we went; girlfriends, best friends, making the most of an awkward and uncomfortable day.  One wanting desperately to help, the other refusing to believe she needed it. Both hurting, but for different reasons.

So there it is...my post about depression and denial.  That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

*  *  *

A married woman walks into a doctor's office and she can't stop crying.  The doctor asks, "What's wrong?"  "I'm pregnant," the woman says through her tears.  "Well, that's great news.  I know you want to have children, so why are you crying?" he asks.  "Because I don't think it's mine," she replies.

Just wanted to end this post on a positive, happy note.  We need to keep it positive, right? I thought you would agree.

Skinny Legs

She is sitting in a folding metal chair along the wall in the school's gymnasim.  She's done her best to look attractive, but she knows the chances of someone picking her are slim.  She's been to too many school dances to believe that tonight would be any different.

The lights have been turned down as Elvis begins to sing Can't Help Falling in Love.  From across the darkened room, boys leave their seats for the long walk across the hardwood floor to where the girls sit, waiting to be selected.  She holds her breath.  Maybe.  Just maybe.  One by one, her friends leave their seats, and once again she is conspicuously alone in a long line of empty chairs.  They look over at her and smile and give her a "I'm so sorry you didn't get picked" look.  She doesn't want their pity. It just adds to the torture of pretending that "never being picked" doesn't matter.

But look at her.  Thin as a pencil.  Skinny legs.  Big Teeth.  Pimples.  Thick glasses.  Fine, thin, mousy brown hair that refuses to conform to the "big hair" style of 1962.  Why would anyone pick her?

TWO YEARS LATER

She's sitting on an expensive leather sofa in the lobby of a law firm in downtown Indianapolis.  She's done her best to look professional, and she hopes her chances of being hired as a legal secretary are good.  This is her first job interview since graduating high school so she's not sure what to expect.  Sitting at the opposite end of the sofa is another girl about her age.  She's very pretty. The thought crosses her mind that she may be applying for the same job.

The office is bustling with activity.  A chorus of typewriters is clicking feverishly in the background while secretaries and lawyers fast walk past her. Someone stops to ask her if she'd like a cup of coffee while she waits.  No, thank you.  She doesn't drink coffee.  The other girl says yes, please.  Black. She realizes she been holding her breath.  The attractive girl is asked to step inside Mr. Kunz' office.  When she returns she doesn't take a seat back on the sofa, but instead opens the lobby door to leave. As she closes the door she looks back and smiles.  An insincere smirk that seems to say, "I'm so sorry that you didn't get picked."

TWO YEARS LATER

She's sitting in the passenger seat of a blue Stingray.  The top is down and the wind feels good as it plays havoc with her short blonde hair.  Her big sunglasses shield her contact lenses from anything the wind throws at them. Her new boyfriend, a law student at Indiana University and former prom king at the same high school she attended, insisted on taking her to lunch to celebrate her raise at work.  As he pulls up to the curb in the heart of downtown Indianapolis to drop her off, he leans over and kisses her.  A long, long, sweet kiss.  It takes her breath away. A long line of cars wait behind them.  No one honks.   She feels conspicuous.  As she steps out of the car, she sees Mr. Kunz, her boss, waving as he fast walks to court.  And she smiles.