Plantar fasciitis is the answer

“Inflammation of the thick tissue on the bottom of the foot that creates the arch is plantar this and just….ouch.” This was a recent “Jeopardy!” answer in the category “Here Comes Boo Boo, Honey.”

I know. The category name was horrible and I couldn’t help thinking of that awful show whenever the players chose from this particular list. The last thing I want to be reminded of is someone else’s spoiled kid when I have a couple of my own to deal with.

The question was “What is fasciitis?” which I correctly shouted at the television with glee in my heart. I do fairly well with the show because I adore trivia, but this particular response was so incredibly relevant that I was caught up in a moment of magical synchronicity.

Back on the 13^th of December, my whole family participated in the Jingle Bell Run in Avon Park. I don’t want to be one of those people who do 5Ks and then talk about every single 5K I accomplish, but Avon Park is my old stomping ground and even my little girl did this one with us. It was special.

My son was in front, like always, and my daughter was with Daddy and me. I figured she’d be conservative with her energy.

I was so very wrong.

The race began and she took off with me in tow. I was holding her hand in a crowd of people and I couldn’t let go because that would be incredibly irresponsible parenting. As she pulled me at a fast clip to the mall (that’s the Avon Park mall, aka cruising strip) a painful stitch stabbed me in my right side. It felt like my gall bladder may have tried to exit through my kidney.

I begged her to stop. “Please! Slow down, honey! The race is long and you have to pace yourself!”

Lucky for me, Daddy came along and took over while I slowed way down so I could rearrange my internal organs.

The thing about the Avon Park 5K is that we had three opportunities to loop past each other and wave. This allowed me to visualize the large gap forming between my family and me.

Needless to say, my son came in first with my husband second followed by my daughter with me bringing up the rear.

Here’s an interesting tidbit: my son somehow failed to cross the finish line. I suppose, in a way, he is still racking up minutes in the Jingle Bell Run. By the printing of this article, he’ll have a time of around 366 hours and counting. That makes my 47 minutes seem pretty awesome.

Once it was over, my sweetheart and I were on our way to Winn Dixie to pick up some necessities. She was in deep thought for a few moments.

“Mommy, fat people can run. I’ve seen them. They can run fast. They just practice. You can run too. All you need to do is practice. I’ll help you exercise.” Sensitive is her middle name.
With my spirits lifted, we went into the store when pain shot through my right foot. “What in the world?” I wondered to myself. I limped all weekend and hobbled into work the following Monday eager to find out from the ER doctor what was wrong with me.

Plantar fasciitis was the diagnosis.

Fat people can run, but they need to learn how to walk and jog first. Good thing I’ve got “Jeopardy!” to make me feel better about myself.

The most wonderful lie of the year

“Mommy, does Santa come here to Florida or does he only visit places that have snow?” It was an innocent question asked by my seven-year old daughter two weeks ago and it reminded me that Christmas was approaching at warp speed and I was totally unprepared once again.

I voiced a non-committal answer that would not entangle me in the “Santa trap” more than I wanted to be at that moment. I’m not a huge fan of the man, but somehow I have found myself signing “Santa” to the stickers on wrapped gifts every Christmas Eve since my son was a baby.

My son has, of course, figured things out, but my daughter is full of imagination and is absolutely as gullible as I was at her age.

She apparently has yet to ask herself questions like “Why does Santa prefer wealthy children?” or “Why does Santa use the same wrapping paper as mommy and have the same handwriting?” These are dead giveaways to the true identity of the mysterious, mirthful man.

When I was a kid, I thought it was weird that some guy broke into our house and left gifts. The gifts were great, but the fact that a stranger was in our house while we slept totally creeped me out. I once made a burglar alarm out of a string tied to my toys that would fall and wake me in case an intruder opened either my window or my door. I was slightly paranoid for someone so young.

Back in the present, I knew if “Santa” was going to come to our house, I had to get over my seasonal funk and put up a tree. Everyone knows that you can’t celebrate the holiday without a tree.

Luckily, my husband was feeling merry enough to head out to the tree place and grab a decent-looking evergreen. Now our house has the proper smell even though the cat is hell-bent on destroying the bottom three feet of ornamentation.

With less than a week until the big day, my daughter came down with a case of the sniffles. I didn’t think much of it until her ear started hurting too. This warranted a trip to the Pediatrician’s office.

The diagnosis was an ear infection, but my daughter was convinced she has allergy to “Christmas wind.” Apparently, this is the breeze that occurred when the temperature dropped to the 50s which is like freezing to us in the Sunshine State.

“Christmas wind” is full of particles that cause sneezing and an occasional cough, but I believe that it has further depressed my general mood as well because I have been an emotional mess lately.

I don’t blame my grouchiness on the fact that my washer and dryer are still on the fritz, but that does affect my life, especially on my coveted days off. On a related note, I am beginning to truly dislike the smell of laundromats.

I actually called off Christmas dinner at my house. I usually cook turkey and do a big spread, but not this year. I literally cancelled Christmas. I just don’t feel like dealing with it.

I do feel like running away to Bora Bora. I don’t have the vacation time or the cash flow to support this type of major tactical maneuver, but a girl can dream.

Santa, if you’re listening, Mommy needs some sanity left under the tree this year. I promise I’ll try to be good next year. Okay, I’ll try to be not so bad. Deal?

Jump on the bandwagon

I’m not a huge sports person which is a massive understatement. I do like to attend live sporting events, mostly hockey, but I don’t usually follow a team unless I am moved to do so by my gut feeling. I guess you could call it my “Bandwagon Bone.”

I started following hockey when I played NHL ’99 on the Nintendo 64. I was always the Dallas Stars and I was just about unbeatable. I began watching the real life team and they won the Stanley Cup.

When we moved to back to Florida, I switched my support to the Tampa Bay Lightning and they won the Cup. What are the odds, right?

After several years of nursing school and general disinterest, a couple months ago I bought some NFL souvenir cups to help our babysitter, Shelby, with her cheerleading fundraiser. I chose the Seattle Seahawks logo cups since we were just in Washington over the summer. I then went on Facebook and boldly declared that the Seahawks would be going to the Super Bowl.

At the time I was openly mocked. Now, with the Seahawks record of 11-2, not so many people are laughing anymore.

Perhaps they won’t make it to the big game, but if they do, I’ll know that I called it for a completely irresponsible reason based on utter nonsense. The Vegas bookies would hate me.

If I’m right, I’m going to begin picking teams by jersey color and how well those colors look on me or if I have flip flops that match. This could be the start of something incredibly stupid. Stay tuned.

In other sports news, my son’s basketball team, the Hill-Gustat Golden Eagles, have begun their season with a bang. He’s also on a YMCA team so all we do is go from basketball practice to game to practice to game.

My boy is 13 years old and six foot 2 inches. He was born to play the game even if he still hasn’t tapped into all the potential harnessed in his body, but he’s come a long way from the kid who used to twirl around the goal’s pole and eat “bleacher gum.” Yeah, you don’t want to ask about that one. It is as gross as it sounds.

One of the best parts about his games is watching the girls play first. They are gritty and mean. You can tell they take the game personal.

The first time we saw them play, there was a grappling match for the ball between a couple of the girls. They wrestled on the ground for several seconds before the whistle was blown and then they disentangled themselves and shot each other some nasty glares.

My daughter said, “Mommy, they aren’t playing basketball. They are playing football!”

When the girls are done, they come up in the stands and help cheer for the boys. I’m glad we’re on their side.

When my daughter starts soccer in January I’ll be something I’ve always dreaded: the sports mom. I refuse to drive a minivan, but it doesn’t matter. I’m still going to be that crazed nut job screaming from the sidelines threatening innocent children on the opposing teams. This is my destiny. It happened so fast, I didn’t see it coming.

While I’m reluctantly led down this path of self-humiliation, I’ll go ahead and predict that my son’s team will be winning the majority of games this season. Don’t feel bad. There wasn’t anything you could do about it. I bought the T-shirt months ago.

Back in the exam chair

This week I was fortunate enough to partake in one of the great pleasures of human existence. What could be so wonderful that I must share it with everyone? After at least six years of hiding out, I finally visited the dentist.

I know what you’re thinking, “The dentist! Who in their right mind thinks it is fun to go to the dentist?” The truth is I don’t think it is fun so much as I just really needed to go. I desired that smooth feeling of my tongue sliding along the back of my freshly polished choppers, not to mention it was a good idea to check and see if any cavities were creeping their way into my teeth.

I believe I am an above average tooth brusher. I brush at least three times a day and sometimes more if I get a funky feeling in my mouth. Flossing is another story. I do floss, but usually only the front row. Also, I don’t floss down to the root of my tooth like they do at the dentist’s office. “Of course my gums bled. You just flossed up to my nasal cavity!”

My first trip with Dr. Chen’s staff was for an evaluation and my least favorite aspect of dental care: x-rays. I loathe holding those stiff bitewing things in my mouth for any length of time even if they have slightly improved from what they used to be back in the 80s.

We didn’t do anything on the first day except talk about my one cavity and schedule my next visit to take care of that sucker and get a cleaning. I couldn’t wait. It had to be done before my best friend, Cozette, arrived for my birthday weekend. She’s a dental hygienist and I wanted a bright smile when I picked her up at the airport.

My big day arrived and I was brushed and fully flossed. It didn’t matter. When the lady started cleaning with the sonic pick, it felt like all my teeth must have been triple coated in plaque.

Throughout the cleaning, I had to consciously stop my tongue from fighting the invading fingers and tools. I don’t know why, but my tongue wants to go to war with anything that enters my mouth. I guess it is just a basic desire to digest food. Perhaps my mouth wants me to eat live animals. I have no clue.

When I wasn’t thinking about my tongue, I was focused on not swallowing. For some reason, I find the need to swallow exponentially more than I would normally.  It doesn’t matter that I have a suction device that rids me of excess moisture, I become desperate to gulp something, anything down my gullet.

Throughout this silent torture, I had my hands pleasantly clasped on my belly and my legs crossed. On the outside, I looked like I was lounging at the beach. There was no way I was going to show anyone what a big baby I am.

Finally, the filling was getting done. I got a nice shot of Novocain and my jaw, lips, and half my tongue went numb while my tooth got drilled and filled. I hoped I wouldn’t be pulled over for speeding on the way home because I was seriously slurring my speech.

I left completely satisfied. The staff was stellar and so was my new shining smile. Just like every other dental visit in my life, I made an empty promise to floss more. We’ll see about that.

Lordy look who's forty

It happened last week. I am officially 40.

I don’t feel a bit different. I will revise that last statement: I feel slightly different in that I am a little less smart. The show “Jeopardy!” proves this to me week after week. I used to be a sharp cookie, but my children suck away my intelligence the way a leech feeds off the blood of its prey.

I should add that my anti-seizure medication has a side effect that makes it more difficult to instantly recall information. This would naturally make it seem like Alex Trebek is mocking me when he’s merely being the same Canadian super-braniac guy he’s always been. I’m just slowing down.

I promised myself I wouldn’t get depressed for my birthday and I didn’t initially. It helped that my best friend, Cozette, took a flight from Washington State to celebrate with me.

My son and I drove to the airport which is one of my least favorite things to do. We arrived early so we wandered around checking out the tourist stores while we waited. I allowed a woman to step on my foot just to see if she would because she was not watching where she was walking. She was horribly sorry. I patted her arm and told her it was okay then I laughed and told my son to pay attention because these people would run you over.

It was probably mean of me to do that, but I’m always conducting a personal social experiment to see how invisible I can become in well-lit areas. It isn’t like I’m a small person who is easy to walk into. You really have to try to do it.

Somehow, we missed Cozette. She slipped past us while we were in a store. After about 30 minutes, we found each other and headed out to dinner.

I can’t explain the giggle-fest that happens when I get around her, but anyone with a true best friend probably understands. We fall right into that comfortable talk and inside joke routine. It doesn’t matter how long it has been since the last time we’ve seen one another.

While I had Cozette, my daughter was spending a couple days with her best friend/cousin who was in town from Jacksonville. They are like two peas in a pod.

I had a small party that was going to be much bigger, but evidently Thanksgiving weekend is not the most convenient time to have a 40^th birthday party. On a positive note, the core group of fun people was there and we had a blast. Some of it got on video. This may not be a good thing.

Cozette went home, my niece went back to Jacksonville and the blues settled in my house.

It doesn’t help that my washer and dryer are on the fritz and I have to go to the Laundromat. Sitting in that place just gives me more time to think about how much I miss my friend and how I can’t stand living so far apart.

All this past week in school, my girl has been on yellow and orange for behavior. She’s having a hard time getting back in the swing of things too.

Hopefully we can shake these funky feelings soon. Our kitten doesn’t care about our mood. She chews on our feet and hands regardless of how we feel on the inside. It keeps us grounded.

Unless something changes, I’ll just continue taking the days as they come. Fifty, I’m coming for you next.

Off the couch and on the road

The Foundation Florida Hospital 19^th Annual Gala Bill Jarret Ford 5K Run/Walk and 10K was last Sunday. I know what you’re thinking, “That was a long title for a race!” Yes, I did type it directly off the souvenir shirt because there was no way I would’ve remembered all of that.

This was my first “real” 5K. I did the scavenger hunt race, but we had a bunch of stop-and-go action in that one. This time, it was straight walking. No, I didn’t run.

I walked with a coworker, Reesie, and a former coworker, Melissa. Reesie is like six inches shorter than me and super petite, but she somehow managed to walk incredibly fast. I did have to jog a few times just to catch up with her.

My son also participated, but he left me in the dust immediately. I saw his head towering over most of the other racers near the starting line and then I didn’t see him again until I finished. That’s right; I finished, but before I did there was an excessive amount of whining coming from my mouth.

First, 3.1 miles doesn’t seem like a long way until you start speed walking it. Second, trying to talk while walking becomes more difficult the further you go. This is all very obvious, basic information, but I am an extremely slow learner. In fact, I did not shut up the entire time.

Melissa was smart. She barely talked at all. Reesie chatted away like breathing was just something happening as an afterthought.

One weird note: the road was littered with dead frogs. It was pretty gross. I couldn’t help but think of Frogger except none of these frogs were very good at avoiding traffic. The road only had two lanes for Pete’s sake.

After a little while of breathing heavily, I said that I was having a new onset psychosomatic asthma attack. I asked Reesie if I collapsed, would she render aid. She said it was her day off. I was all alone in a crowd of walkers. The runners were gone. At least we were close to a hospital.

When we saw mile marker 2, I asked if that meant we were entering mile 2 or finishing mile 2. Melissa said we were definitely beginning mile 2, but none of us saw mile 1. Reesie said she wasn’t sure. I was disheartened. That would have been the longest mile ever.

When we approach the 10K sign that directed those overly athletic people to divert their course, there were runners already returning from that direction. I was impressed. Their bodies were glistening with sweat as they pumped their legs down the road.

“I am so out of shape,” I thought to myself.

When we heard the loud speakers, we knew the end was near. I almost wept.

The best thing about the event besides the fact that is was finally over was that people were cheering when we crossed the line. It didn’t matter that my time was 50 minutes. What mattered was that we did it. It was truly a good feeling.

My son finished with a time of 26:22. He said he didn’t push himself because it was going to be a big week in basketball training. What a booger.

I’m already signing up for my next one, only now I’m putting more effort into getting ready. Maybe I can get a time of 48 minutes. Baby steps.  I mean, really, I am waking muscles that have been lying dormant for years.

Seriously supper fluffy

My daughter discovered her hamster was missing about a month or so after the evil critter started running on the big wheel in the sky. She never came right out and asked what happened to it, but she’d say things like, “I want to get a new pet. Not a mean one like that hamster we had, maybe a new hamster, a nicer one like Peanut was.” Peanut was my son’s hamster and she was just about the most perfect pet anyone could ever want.

Well, I wasn’t going to allow another rodent in our home. I was sick of the smell of bedding and tired of the sound of wheels turning at all hours of the night. If we got another pet for the indoor setting, it was going to be something we could all fall in love with.

I considered my cat allergy and wondered how I could live with it. We could vacuum more and bathe a cat like my sister-in-law, Magan, does with their feline.

This was all solidified when my sister, Meredith, came into possession of a lost kitten. She was just a baby around 6 weeks old found in a car bumper. Meredith couldn’t keep the tiny thing because of the cat situation in her own house being so volatile. Apparently, her two grown cats were quite aggressive towards this new bundle of fur.

After a discussion with my husband, Chris, we decided to adopt Lili, the adorable Siamese-mix orphan in need of a good, caring home.

Lili immediately wrapped all our hearts around her little paws even though she is vicious and thinks she is about the size of a Bengal tiger. She relentlessly attacks us all day long. Our feet and hands are forever vulnerable and we try not to wiggle them too much unless we want to feel sharp, pointed fangs sunk into them every few seconds.

When she isn’t trying to chew our skin, she is applying saliva to her fur or on my favorite blanket. We started calling it the “Mommy Blanket” because she nurses it and paws at it like it’s a mother cat. It is pretty disgusting really. I often want to say, “Do you need some time alone? Am I interrupting something here?”

I did give her a bath after the first few days. She was too small for any flea shampoo so I had to use Dawn Dish Soap. She was loaded with fleas before I got ahold of her. I’ll say she tolerated the bath as best she could, but not one iota more.

Because of Lili’s bad behavior with our appendages, we had to begin correcting her in a nonviolent fashion. To do this, we purchased a squirt bottle. Now, if she attacks us too aggressively or unnecessarily claws at the unsuspecting furniture, we mist her with water. She is on a learning curve at the moment and yes, that is an understatement.

I thought the mister was a great tool so I started using it on the kids. When they argued, I’d squirt them and say, “Cut it out! No! Bad!” They got angry, but they stopped what they were doing immediately. It was effective until my husband confiscated the bottle because he said I was abusing and misusing it.

Even though I sneeze about three times a day and the litter box is totally gross, Lili has been a welcome addition to our family. Honestly, every sneeze is a “Thank you” to Lili for not being a hamster.

Thank you for not talking

Something has been seriously getting under my skin lately. When I say “lately” I mean for the past 10 years, but since I’m fairly slow to anger when I’m not driving or in line at Walmart, I’ve been holding in my frustration on this topic until now.

What has my feathers all ruffled? It is the gratuitous use of cell phones.

I’m the first person to admit that I have a disturbing and unnatural attachment to my cell phone. It is an iPhone and it has a pretty case that is a reproduction of Van Gogh’s “Starry Night.” It stays by my side at all times and contains cool music, my link to the Internet, Facebook, every important phone number on the planet, and has the most annoying robo-assistant to help with any question I have, but rarely gives me the answer I am searching for. Frankly, I’m surprised I haven’t named the blasted thing.

Now that I have confessed that bit of information, I will say that I use my phone in public on occasion. It usually isn’t easy because my carrier is behind in technology by about 15 years. So when I’m in the grocery store and I want to know if my son wants green or red apples, I have to go all the way to the very front to acquire a signal. It really isn’t worth it.

I also don’t have reception in any other major stores or at my job. This means that I am off the grid if I’m not in my car or at home which is fine with me because I don’t like to be bothered while I’m shopping anyway. Please leave a message.

Apparently, this isn’t the case with other individuals.

My family and I went out for a nice breakfast at a local pancake place one morning not too long ago. It was nice because we didn’t have to prepare it ourselves. Also, nothing beats having a syrup selection that includes butter pecan and strawberry. No one needs that much sugar in the morning, but smothering your pancakes with one of those after diving into a massive bacon and cheddar omelet felt so right.

When we sat down, the problem was immediately clear and seated directly behind us. He was well into his call about, get this, weight loss. How incredibly inappropriate given the gluttony that was about to occur at our table!

The guy’s daughter was sitting at the table with him as he rattled on with his sales pitch about an effective workout routine. My husband rolled his eyes. As a salesman, he hears this stuff all day long.

I felt bad for the kid. If I’m going to ignore my children while I talk on my phone, I at least try to do it in the privacy of my own home where no one can witness it.

In line at the grocery store the other day, a different gentleman was talking on his wireless headset. Those are even worse because first you think the person is talking to you; then you think they are crazy; and then you finally realize they are on the phone.

Most phone etiquette rules advise to stay at least ten feet away from others while on your call and never to use the phone in certain places like restaurants, elevators, and funerals. It is silly we have to tell people this.

I almost miss the days when you had to be at home to make and receive phone calls. Almost.

Take a little off the bottom

I was around 22 years old and I wanted to cut my hair short. Not super short, but it had grown down to the middle of my back and I thought I’d have it trimmed to hang below my shoulders. It didn’t seem like a big deal at the time.

I sat in the chair of the salon which was one of those fantastic places that charged ten bucks for a cut with no frills. The stylist seemed pleasant and she had her license posted in plain view. I could totally trust this woman with my lovely locks.

With distinct instructions on where I wanted my hairline to fall and requesting some simple layers in front, she began her work. She clipped several clumps to the top of my head and bent my chin down to my neck. This was odd, but she had that official license. Who was I to question her expertise?

I felt the cold metal of the scissors creep along the back of my neck as she cut my hair away.

“Wow! That feels pretty short!” I said alarmingly.

“It will dry longer,” she confidently stated.

What followed was perhaps the worst hair massacre ever to occur in the history of that salon. My once long, beautiful mane was chopped unevenly into a mockery of what I had requested. It hung well above my shoulders. When I saw it, I was speechless. I couldn’t even be angry in my shock.

I did pay, but only so I could hurry up and leave because I had to go cry in my car. I actually went to another salon to have it fixed later in the week which made it even shorter.

Though that is the worst cut I’ve ever had, it isn’t the last time a stylist has cut my hair too short. When my niece, Brittany, posted on Facebook last week that a lady cut her hair shorter than she wanted it, I simply responded, “They always do.”

I’m not saying they are all bad, just that some refuse to listen. If you find a good one, they are worth their weight in gold.
My husband, Chris, found a great barber. For guys, this is even more important because they have less hair to work with and more opportunity for little mistakes to leave a bigger impact. He doesn’t like going to the other guys in the shop, but he accidentally did the other day.

Chris has a beard. I love his beard. It frames his attractive face and no one ever messes with his beard. At least, no one did mess with it until this other barber got ahold of him.

He sat in the chair for his usual cut thinking his regular guy was out of town. This new guy turned on the clippers and buzzed the side of his beard! No asking for permission or anything!

Well, the damage was done so the rest of the beard had to be evened out to match.

The cut was excellent, but the beard is significantly shorter. He was growing it for a reason. He expressed his displeasure about the situation and apologies were made.

I know it is only hair. Right now, my hair is so thin, I long for that crappy cut I had when I was 22. At least my hair grew back then!

Still, if it is your job, just take the time to communicate. We’ll love you more and tip you better for it.

A very important discussion

“Mom! Where did Adam and Eve live?”

We were in the car on our way home after leaving the grocery store a couple months ago and this was the beginning of what I thought was going to be a theological discussion with my daughter.

“Well, honey, some people think that it was located in what is now modern-day Iraq.” Hold on, stupid. You are making this too complicated. “What I mean to say is that they lived in the Garden of Eden.”
“Yeah, Mom, but then they met a snake and ate that apple and God kicked them out. Where did they go then?” She was very interested in this.

“Well, they lived in the regular world like the rest of us.”

“Okay. So when they lived there, where did they poop?” I knew it. I knew there was more to this than simple biblical interest.

“What I mean is that they didn’t have toilets and water running under the ground so what happened to their poop?” I was proud that she knew about the general idea of underground water whisking away excrement; kudos to her.

Thus began a long and detailed discussion about the luxury of pooping in the wilderness. I told her early people had the options of going right out in the open, by a bush, behind a tree, or digging a hole and burying it like a cat.

“Couldn’t people just poop in the water?”

“Well,” I said, “You don’t want to go and poop in the water because you drink water and eat fish from the water. That would be like pooping where you eat and that’s not a good idea.”
“Mom! I don’t mean like that kind of water!” She pointed out the window of the car towards Lake Jackson. “I mean like salty water. You can’t drink that!”

“I’m sure lots of people pooped in water, salt and fresh. Like sailors would poop in the ocean before toilets were on boats.”

We moved on to the invention of outhouses and the rooms inside of castles that contained benches with holes leading to long poop chutes that carried waste to the outside walls. She thought this was utterly disgusting.

Ever since that day, she has not dropped the subject. Direct quotes have included: “Did Adam and Eve have kids? Did they poop in a hole? Did Jesus poop in a hole? Did people use their hands to dig the hole before they pooped in it?”

I picked her up from church just this past Wednesday and the first words from her mouth were, “Mom, I don’t want to travel back in time because I don’t want to have to poop in a hole.”

I can’t imagine ever going rustic camping with this child. It would be her nightmare come to life. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t like it either. I’m a modern amenities type of woman.

Even though she seems timid about the prospect of outdoor potty time, she isn’t at all shy about her body functions. We were at Walmart a couple weeks ago and she loudly proclaimed exactly what she was doing in her stall so that the entire women’s restroom could hear. This probably comes from having an older brother.

I suppose she will outgrow her fascination with historical bowel practices. If not, she may become one of the most educated gastro-intestinal doctors the world has ever known. Until then, I’ll try to keep up with her inquisitive mind.

Bully at your own risk

Nothing gets my hackles up like bullying. This probably has a lot to do with my own childhood and the fact that I was a bit odd. Heck, I’m not exactly normal now.

My friend, Leilani, and I used to sing at the top of our lungs on the school bus which made people quite angry, but we were too oblivious to notice. At least, I was oblivious until the day a girl named Terry, who shared my bus journey each day, walked all the way to my neighborhood with the sole purpose of beating me to a pulp. I escaped that butt-kicking by talking my way out of it, but I left with a new awareness of my standing in the social hierarchy of the schoolyard.

There was also a group of four girls who picked on me relentlessly. They all looked almost exactly alike. They don’t mean anything to me now, but when I think of bullying, I always think of them.

Over the years, I haven’t had the time to worry about mean people in my life. If anyone wants to mess with me, I’m game for some sarcastic banter.

Now, my children are whole different subject. If you want to get me truly enraged, pick on my kids.

When my son was just a toddler, we went to McDonald’s to enjoy the play area. It was Olympia during lunch time so the weather was most likely rainy and miserable.

He was so cute climbing innocently into a tube when some 5 year old kid walked up and kicked him in his butt. I didn’t even think; just reacted. The next thing I knew, I was beside this strange child saying, “Hey, Kid! Next time you kick my son, I’m going to punch your mom!”

The boy just stared at me for a moment with his mouth hanging open before he ran to his mother. I’m not sure what he told her, but she never said a word to me. Who would? I probably looked crazy. It was the first time that psychotic maternal instinct took over.

It almost happened again the other night. My daughter told me that she isn’t like the other kids because she’s different. I told her all kids are different. She said, “But I’m more different than the others.” This hurt my heart a little because I know that’s how I felt when I was her age.

She said people called her names; more specifically another kid called her “pom pom cheeks.”

“Pom pom cheeks?” I asked. I love this girl’s cheeks. They are the most adorable cheeks in the world, but this label obviously hurt her feelings. I was furious that someone got to her.

“You know what? This little jerk called you a name because they can’t stand how beautiful you are and they are jealous so they have to try to tear you down. You are beautiful and unique and talented and they hate that so they have to call you names to make you feel bad about yourself because they feel bad about themselves.”

She was distracted for a moment. “Look at me!” I said. “You are special and wonderful. People are going to do this again and again because they can’t stand how awesome you are, but I know it and I love you.”

She hugged me super tight and said, “Thank you, mommy.” That was it. I didn’t even have to threaten someone’s mother. I really think I’m getting better at this parenting business.

Catnapping is not acceptable

Phase one of my feet hitting actual pavement has come to pass and I am still alive to tell the story. That’s right, my promise to complete my first ever unassisted ambulatory event happened on October 6^th with the Challenge Nation urban scavenger hunt in Jacksonville.

My team consisted of 2 sisters-in-law, Ali and Magan, and a friend, Aaron. We ran, jogged, and walked around the Landing in Downtown Jacksonville, but mostly we used the power of our brains to take 6^th place out of 67 teams. It felt amazing.

But enough about that! The real story in Jacksonville is about a cat; Magan’s cat.

I would be a total cat person if my allergies didn’t prohibit me from taking the plunge into complete cat ownership. I do okay short-term if a house has been recently vacuumed like Magan’s was, but I can’t tolerate built-up cat hair and overripe litter box offerings. There isn’t enough Benadryl in the world to help my nasal passages cope with the trauma of the sneeze-fest that is my life with a long-term feline roommate.

One of the things I love about cats is how aloof they are with their affection. They sit across the room and glance at you with pure disdain in their eyes as if to say, “I see you there admiring my beautiful, silky coat. I know you want to pet me, but I recently finished the perfect application of saliva to my fur. You’ll just have to wait until I’m ready to receive your affection, human.”

Lately, I haven’t had much love for cats. The only ones I’ve come into contact with are the neighbor’s outdoor kitties who like to lie on top of my new car. They also did something creepy and disgusting for which I’ll never forgive them: peed on my favorite flip flops.

Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have left my flip flops in the carport, but I never thought a cat would find the urge to pee on them! I also didn’t think I’d wear them to a class at work and smell them for two days and think it was the carpet that smelled like urine, never suspecting it was me all along.

This is my recent cat experiences before Magan’s cat; a very pretty boy, and incredibly cat-like in attitude. That isn’t what was outstanding to me. What impressed me about him was two other non-catty things that made me want to abduct him and make him our family pet.

First, she gave him a bath the night before we arrived. I have never bathed a cat and could only imagine the horrors associated with a cat in a tub, but she told me it wasn’t a big deal. It made me want to wash him right then if only to experience it firsthand.

The second and most impressive feat this cat exhibited was his bathroom habits. This cat pees in the toilet! He also poops in the tub which isn’t exactly desirable, but still easier to clean than a litter box. That means no litter! Ever!

I could tell the cat liked me and, though we flirted with the idea of sneaking him home with us, we left him there. It would be way too obvious that we took him.

I guess, like completing that Jacksonville race gives me hope I will finish the next one, meeting Magan’s cat gives me hope that I may one day find a compatible cat companion. I know he’s out there somewhere, waiting patiently for me, meticulously applying saliva to his fur.

Inattention to details

“Son, why didn’t you turn in this paper on the Egyptian Crisis?” I was checking the Pinnacle Grade Viewer a few weeks ago and was upset that he was starting his class with a low grade.

“I did turn it in, Mom!” He sounded convincing, but I didn’t buy it.

“Obviously you didn’t. There is a zero in place of a grade.” He pulled the paper out of his backpack and handed it to me. After seeing the plainly marked “0” at the top, I quickly read through it. “This paper is about Israel!” I then read the teacher’s note at the bottom stating the obvious problem: my son had written a paper about the wrong Mideast situation. Of course he received a zero.

“You do know that Egypt and Israel are two different countries, don’t you?” I asked. I was a little afraid to hear his answer.
“Well, I know now,” he responded a bit indignantly.

The boy is brilliant when he puts his mind to it. In math, he learns effortlessly. In fact, he has done so well on the FCAT the last 3 years in the mathematics category that he received an invitation by Duke University to take the SAT.

On the other hand, when he does dishes, he can’t seem to put them away in an orderly fashion.

Now, I don’t expect him to become a freakish Martha Stewart minion because I’m certainly not, but I know for a fact this kid had some type of shape sorter toy as a baby and, looking at the silverware drawer after he’s put it away, you’d think he can’t tell the difference between a rounded spoon and a square-tipped fork or calculate the physical problem with stacking a larger object on top of a smaller one.

Reading is another area which he doesn’t want to devote much of his time. This breaks my heart because I love to read. I just can’t seem to spur that interest with him. He prefers to skim read which is why he didn’t score as well in that category on the FCAT. He can do it, but he doesn’t want to do it.

He is me made over. I look back at myself at his age and cringe at what is to come. He is lazy with school work unless it comes easy and puts it off if he doesn’t like it, but at least he’s more social than I was. I tended to be a bit of a loner until I hit high school. I also wasn’t so athletic.

Speaking of athletic, this kid is beyond fit. He practices daily for basketball whether it is at the school gym or out in the neighborhood.

Last week, he did something that exceeded my expectations of his physical abilities. At age 13, he ran the Mason K. Smoak 5K race with his Grandy. When he found out about the race, we bought him shoes and he ran daily. He said he was going to run to win.

He finished in 31 minutes, 2 minutes ahead of his Grandy who finished 1^st in her age group. We are so proud of them both. He brought home a medal and a souvenir shirt. He acts like it is no big deal.

I look forward to seeing how this boy will amaze me over the years. He’s quirky and unique and astounding. He’s my star peg and he’ll never fit in a round hole. That’s just how he’s made.

The password is not password

I am a lover of ridiculous, campy movies. That doesn’t mean I don’t have a deep appreciation for movies like “Snow Falling on Cedars” and “A Beautiful Mind” because those were great movies, but I like to sit back and let my mind go numb and just laugh for a while at pure idiotic genius.

Back in 2000, the second Austin Powers movie had already been released and I was pregnant with my son. One of the characters in the movie was a hefty guy who often repeated the phrase, “I’m dead sexy! Look at my belly!” I claimed this statement as my own the larger my belly grew.

One memorable night, I did a little dance around the apartment for my husband, Chris, in a pre-pregnancy dress that I soon discovered I could not pull back over my head. We thought the scissors would have to be utilized, but at the last minute, he finally returned my upper body’s circulation and set me free from the adorable crushed green velvet outfit. I didn’t feel too sexy anymore.

Anyway, my son was born in August and that Christmas I found my first computer under the tree. This meant I was getting an email and everything that went with an online identity.

My email was, of course, deadsexy@aol.com. There may have been a number in it, but I don’t remember anymore. I thought it was quite clever until I began receiving creepy emails. It also wasn’t an email you wanted on a resume. You don’t think about these things when you have a job.

My first email meant a password. My password was “password.” How simple was that? What did I care if someone went into my email? I didn’t have any secrets.

It is almost cute how naïve I was. Almost.

Since that time, my password cache has multiplied quite nicely. I have passwords for all kinds of things. When I call the bank with a question about my account, they ask for my 4 digit password. What? I made up a 4 digit password? When did I do that? We go through the motions every time; they ask more details about me, I give it to them, they tell me the digits, I say, “Oh yeah! I remember now!” As I sit here typing, I can’t remember them.

I have passwords for the kids’ lunch accounts online and they each have their own unique codes for their grades online. I don’t get to pick those.

I have three personal emails, one of which I never check. I have a Google account I never visit, an Amazon account I do, and an iTunes store that I’ve had to change the password so often I finally started a password list.

I have a password for my work computer that, thankfully, links to my work email, but not my HR online and my thumbprint gets me into the locked medications.

In addition, there are my nursing certifications, my social media, house bills, and my blog. In all, there are about 30 passwords jumbled around in my head and they aren’t all the same.

My job forces a password change every four months. Some of my passwords require numbers and some want “extra characters.” It is utter insanity.

When people talk of the future and retinal scanners, believe me, I’ll be one of the first in line to open my eyeball to science. Besides, I need to save my brain for forgetting more important things like birthdays.

Just call me "Sir Hutchins"

Having a name like “Damara” means people are always pronouncing it incorrectly. I’ve become accustomed to hearing the variety of words used in place of the name my mother gave me.

In case anyone doesn’t know, my name is said like “duh-mare-uh.” It rhymes with mascara and there are no big “A” sounds like you’d find in the word “age.”

Some people have called me “dam-air-ah,” stressing the first three letters so it sounds like I am being sent to the most unholy of places imaginable. Others say “duh-meer-a” actually adding an “e” sound where no “e” is represented. That’s nothing. It gets more bizarre.

I often get called Dharma thanks to that show, “Dharma and Greg,” that ran at the end of the 1990s. I have nothing against Jenna Elfman so it doesn’t bother me much.

The latest and my favorite mispronunciation of my name has got to be “De-more-ah.” My coworkers have latched onto this one and frequently use it to get my attention when I’m talking to myself or harassing one of them. For some reason, picking on each other makes the day go by a little faster.

Being called another name is one thing, but being mistaken for a different sex is something completely different.

Anyone who meets me in person can probably ascertain that I’m female. Yes, I’m a big girl. I’m not a blue whale in an aquarium full of dolphins, but I’m not petite either. My friend Tonya is small. You know the type; she can shop in that section where you don’t have to worry about the buttons staying together on the shirt. In fact, she even shops in the single digits. Yes, she’s that small; cute as a button.

I will never be that little because my bone structure would get in the way. Even in high school, the smallest size I wore was a 9 and I wouldn’t want to be that skinny again. It wouldn’t look right on me. Saying that, I don’t necessarily want to be the size I am now, but I’m straying off topic.

The issue here is femininity. Tonya is little and I am not so little. We both look like girls. Period. That’s all.

Now, do I sound like a girl?

Apparently I sound like a man because I often get called “sir” when a person can only hear my voice. Mostly this happens on the phone or in a drive-thru, but every now and then I get the “sir” treatment face-to-face.

Do I take offense to this? I flub the ma’am/sir bit every now and then, but when you are the target as often as me, you can’t help but wonder what it all means.

I am losing my hair. Maybe I need a wig. Maybe my posture is getting worse. Maybe I need a better bra.

The other day, the poor guy in the Starbucks drive-thru called me “sir” and immediately knew he messed up. He then called me “ma’am” four times before I left the window. Seriously? Like that was going to make up for my bruised ego.

Yes, I still tipped him. It isn’t his fault I’m so mannish.

In the five days since that incident, I was called “sir” 2 more times; once in person. Yes, I have a complex now.

Now that I’ve been getting this unwanted gender assignment, I’ve been longing for the days that people would only mispronounce my name. I didn’t know how good I had it.

Still falling for my man

My husband, Chris, is my hero for so many reasons. One is that he continues to hold my undying love and affection ever since our first date on December 7, 1990. I don’t think I like much of anything for more than a year so that it amazing.

Another reason he’s awesome is that he always comes through for the family. He is everything a father and a husband should be. I know that is extremely mushy, but it’s true so I don’t mind putting it out there.

Now, I’ll tell you something that I’ve envied about Chris for almost 23 years, but keep in mind that this is another attribute that makes him super-human in my adoring eyes: the man never falls.

I fall down all the time. I run into stuff and fall. I fall while walking on flat surfaces. I slip on wet or icy roads and fall. I fall standing still. Seriously, I might have some kind of issue.

So you can see why I’d look at this attractive, well-balanced man and think to myself, “Wow! I really chose a great guy to mix my DNA with. Hopefully our children will have a chance.”

This was going great until April 21^st of this year at 7:07 in the evening when I witnessed Chris, my Superman, fall down. That’s right; he fell right in front of my eyes.

The setting was the living room and he was going to sit down on the couch. He had a beer in one hand and his bowl of pot roast in the other. He said, “I’m going to quaff this beer with my sup!”

I giggled because we were both reading one of the “Game of Thrones” novels at the time and it was a fitting statement.

He then asked as he was preparing to sit, “Doesn’t quaff sound like you are just throwing it back?” He fell right at that moment.

He was fortunate to have fallen backwards onto his butt on the couch, but he will not tell you this. His version is that he began to lose his balance and he decided to sit down before he fell.

I laughed and immediately got out my computer so I could log the time and date. I titled the document “Day Chris Fell.” It was that important, that rare.

It probably would have passed into memory, but about three months later, he fell again!

This time, on July 15^th at 8:48 PM, he again had a beer and a bowl of pot roast on his way to the couch. He stubbed his toe on the lounge chair part of the sectional and fell forward onto the cushions.

I’d like to state an impressive fact that on both occasions he managed to not spill either his food or his beer.

While I laughed and did not offer any assistance for his stubbed toe even though I am a nurse, I felt it was important to also log this fall to keep track of a potential problem.

His official statement: “I shifted my weight onto the backs of my hands so I could still hold onto my dinner. There was no falling involved. This is not a loggable fall.”

I have seen this guy glide 40 feet across a McDonald’s parking lot on a single greasy French fry without so much as a wobble of instability. If I say he fell, then he fell.

Just to be safe, he may want to steer clear of my pot roast.

School shops and whistle stops

The second week of the new school year is officially over and, catching me by surprise, my son actually had the nerve to say, “I can’t believe how fast this year is going by!”

“Excuse me?” I asked. “This year literally just began. We can’t even see your grades online yet!” I’m not even sure if I should be congratulating the boy or grounding him before Labor Day!

My daughter, on the other hand, has a more straight-forward approach to her scholastic activities with her color-coded behavior chart that gets reported to us on a daily basis. She’s been on green, which is good, and yellow, which is not very good, almost evenly across the board. Red is the very worst. Knowing her, red is always a possibility.

The kids and their performances in class haven’t been my biggest issue so far. My first problem was the completion of the supply lists for both children and how I thought I’d never finish checking off each item. Unfortunately, I was in no mood to shop after finalizing their first pre-orientation trip to the major “everything” store in town for paper, folders, binders, pencils, and other staples.

After orientation, I discovered that I had gotten the wrong types and colors of folders and the wrong size binders. Go figure. They also needed things like headphones and manila envelopes along with tissue boxes, Ziploc bags, and hand sanitizer.

Back in my youth, we sneezed on our desk to mark it as our territory. We also had really good immune systems.

Through all this madness (I say “madness” because I actually did get mad at a certain point when I couldn’t find the right color duo tang folder before rationally checking an office supply store), my other problem has been a background annoyance that was unrelenting and still continues. It originates from the mouth of my son in the form of whistling.

I’ll interject here that whistling is one of my biggest pet peeves and it is not because I can’t whistle myself. I think I can’t whistle due to the fact that it always got on my nerves and I couldn’t stand when other people did it. Even people who do it well bother me when they do it all the time. It is like the bagpipes of mouth noises.

My son is the worst because he has no creativity with his whistles. He just makes the same noise over and over. It makes me want to throw things at his face to make him stop.

His sister is a better whistler than him, but that may be due to the fact that she is missing two of her front teeth. My husband is the whistle master and he does it just to get under my skin.

I wonder if birds hear my son and what they think about his out-of-tune wallowing or if a bird of prey heard him, would it would assume that it was picking up the cry of an injured bird and swoop in for an attack? By stopping him from whistling, maybe I’m actually saving his face from the talons of an opportunistic osprey.

I’m trying to lighten up. The school shopping is done and the children seem like they want to do well. We’ll see.

As for the mouth noise producer, I’ve set my “No Whistle Zones” to include anything within my earshot. That leaves his room and the neighborhood to enjoy the wonders of whistling. Don’t worry, neighbors, he won’t stay 13 for very long.

Putting myself on the line

It is said that one pound of fat contains an extra mile of blood vessels. That means that your body had to create this blood supply to support all those Twinkies and Cheetos and milkshakes that were not really part of a healthy diet, but tasted good at the time.

After reading a recent column of mine concerning my daughter’s interest in where drinks come from, Barry Butler, sent me a video called “Donuts Don’t Grow on Trees.” It is very straight-forward as you can imagine from the title. The point is we need to eat better. All of us.

I’ll be the first to admit, I’m not the most health-conscious person, mostly because I hate my kitchen and I feel pressed for time on the days I work. We usually have apples, grapes, and bananas sitting around for consumption, but my son is the only one who eats the apples and he eats them all in a matter of days. If an apple a day keeps the doctor away, he is onto something because he rarely goes except for vaccinations.

Every now and then, I get on a kick to get “healthy.” I declare, “This week is yogurt week!” I buy 10 cartons of yogurt and eat 3 then wait a week before I start skeptically checking the dates on the sides. I then question why I bought so many because who can eat that much yogurt? I like yogurt, but come on!

The next week I will buy 8 salad ingredients and have one incredible salad and waste a ton of vegetables that I never take the time to mix again.

This is my food cycle. The rest is filled with meats, potatoes, and various starches; thus the fat and miles of extra circulation. My heart is probably not my best friend right now.

After having moped around sufficiently about my impending age which I can do nothing to postpone, I’ve decided it is time to act, so I’m coming out in a big way.

My coworker, Reese, was on the hospital’s website when she forcibly pulled me aside and said, “Look! You need to sign up for this with me! There are others doing it too.”

It was a 10K/5K run (walk optional) that will be happening in November.

I had lots of questions like, “How long is a 5K? Is this a loop around the hospital or on a designated map? Will we encounter bears?”

A 5K is 3.1 miles. Reese is doing the 10K. That’s fine with me because I’m not shooting for the moon; I just want my feet to touch the pavement.

What’s funny is that I had a pedometer at work during the busy season last year and I walked about 5 miles during one shift. I don’t know why I’m being such a baby about the 10K. It isn’t like I have to give medications every 15 feet.

Now that I’m committing to this goal, I’ve decided to up the ante and go on another trip to Jacksonville on a scavenger hunt marathon in October with my sisters-in-law. I must be crazy.

The thing is, if I tell people I’m going to be there, I have to show up or pay someone to hit me in the shins with a baseball bat before the events and that doesn’t sound fun at all, so I guess I will go.

Now that this is out there for the world to see, does anyone have size 11 women’s running shoes I could borrow?

Quietly coming of age

“This is the boringest birthday ever! Give me all your stuff. I’m taking your birthday back!” This was yelled by my daughter to her big brother on his 13^th birthday which happened to be on a Thursday. This was also the same day as school orientation for both children so we didn’t have major plans.

My son didn’t want a party. He asked for one thing months ago and that was to go four-wheeling with his dad who has a birthday two days after his. They should be riding in the dirt at this very moment, as a matter of fact.

This is no small-time ride either. They got gear. Lots of gear. The outfits look hot and by “hot” I mean it appears that they will be incredibly sweaty very quickly.

In the meantime, he opened a few gifts at the house and, to the dismay of my daughter who thinks everything needs to be done her way or not at all, we had a quiet dinner at Red Lobster with their Grandy and Grandpa.

It is strange to be the parent of a teenager. On one hand, he is interested in things I was interested in at his age. I remember “discovering” The Beatles and Jimi Hendrix years after my dad did. My son and I now connect on those levels.

On the other hand, we have an “almost” man in the house who can’t seem to learn the art of doing dishes. This is a constant battle we never see eye-to-eye on.

The other night, all four of us actually got caught up in watching “Rocky V.” No, I didn’t forget a Roman numeral; that is the fifth Rocky! By the end, we were all quoting Sylvester Stallone.

At one point, my husband, Chris, asked, “Are we really watching this? Do you want me to change the channel?”

My son and I both shouted, “NO!” I said in a more reasonable voice of someone who couldn’t possibly be enthralled with such a subpar movie, “It’s just that the fight is about to happen. We have to see the big fight at the end.”

The same night, “The Warriors” came on and we were transported back to the 70s. My son had a ton of questions about why people dressed the way they did and if gangs really acted like that. We had to explain the fact that it was a movie, but yes, the 70s and 80s did have a problem with fashion.

My daughter was highly interested in the gang she referred to as the “Baseball Clowns.” She said, “What are they doing with all that make-up on? They need to just take it off.”

I’ve been getting a constant barrage of questions on every topic from both of them all summer.

From her: “Mommy, where do drinks come from? Like milk and tea and water? I mean, where does it all come from? I know milk comes from cows, but what about the others? And why do we cut down so many trees? We need trees to breathe.”

From him: “Hey Mom, can I go to the lake? Mom, do you realize the people on your side of the family are kind of thick built? Mom, will you let me drive your car? Well when can I drive it? Will it be mine one day?”

I’m thankful they still want to spend time with us and I’ll miss this summer, but now that we have an official teenager, who knows what the future holds?

Preliminary mid-life crisis

My best friend and I parted ways at Sea-Tac airport last month with ideas to do something again in the fall of 2014 so I was surprised when she sent a message asking what kind of plans I have for our birthdays (hers is at the end of November and mine is at the end of December).

I messaged her back saying I wasn’t sure this far ahead of the date, but I wondered why she was asking. She told me that this was a big one for me and she wanted to come celebrate.

It hit me then, even though I’ve been talking about it for a while and joking about it even longer, that I am turning 40.

Suddenly, I didn’t feel right anymore.

What am I supposed to think about this? I’ve always said age wasn’t a big deal, but I am way behind on things I want to accomplish.

I haven’t entered one of my paintings in the Caladium Festival. I haven’t finished my book that I have been working on. I haven’t lost the 40 pounds I promised to get rid of 12 years ago. I haven’t paid off all that debt I wanted to pay and, consequently, I haven’t gone to Bora Bora.

I know, I shouldn’t focus on the incomplete projects because not many people even get to the end of their lives thinking they have done all they wanted, but I might want to check off a few of those items.

I did go to school. That in itself was a major distraction and one I want to progress further in. I also have a wonderful husband, Chris, and I cherish our life together with our children. I have incredible friends who make me laugh and an unusual, but loving family.

There is a picture on our dresser from when Chris and I were still dating about 20 years ago. We were at the Highlands County Fair and had our photo taken in one of those staged areas where they dress you up like you are from the Wild West. I looked like a saucy harlot and he looked like a gun-slinging cowboy. We were so adorable and so skinny.

If I could travel back in time, I think I’ve said before, I’d have a few words to say to that young lady. I’d tell her to apply herself and she’d roll her eyes. I’d tell her to never get a credit card and she would do it anyway because someone told her not to. I’d tell her to use sunblock and she’d laugh and lounge at the lake on her days off with her friend, Veronica. I’d tell her to lay off the sausage McMuffins while she is pregnant with her firstborn and she’d eat them thinking she could walk them off later in the miserable Washington rain.

Mostly, I’d want her to know that, even though she could not envision a future for herself, there will in fact be one and she could be ready or completely caught off guard.

I’d also tell her to enjoy her hair; flaunt it, let it grow, put it in pony tails, and pay people to professionally arrange it in fancy dos because that was one thing that wasn’t going to last.

Cozette and I talked for a while. I guess arrangements will be made and I will be having a birthday bash somewhere. Now if I can lose about 40 pounds by then, I’ll be looking good.