Attachment Issues



Hoodie and a Fist Bump - Happy and cool...

 I’m logging back into blogger after an almost two month hiatus. While it wasn’t necessarily on purpose, I have published at least one blog entry every month since September 2005. Wll, there was August 2008 that I missed for some reason and June and July of 2009 that got neglected for some other reason. I bet if I looked back on those dates I’d find that I was either too depressed to write or having too much fun to write. The extremes are usually the culprit when my motivation takes a vacation. Either way, somewhere in the back of my head, it’s been my intention to post a blog entry every single month. I never set out to do that. It just became that.  And it stresses me out a little when I don't.


The fact that I know and recognize this fully confirms my Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM) IV diagnosis (300.3) of obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD). Or to put it in spiritual terms – it confirms my attachment issues.

Thanks to the big screen, we’re all familiar with OCD. Think Jack Nicholson as Melvin Udall in As Good as it Gets. Hand washing, refusing to use restaurant silverware, not stepping on cracks, and counting the number of times he locked his door. I’ve never watched the television show Monk but apparently that character suffers from OCD as well. You get the picture. All of these “must dos” interfere with one’s ability to focus, to get along in life and to connect with people. We all probably have some sort of routine that we just have to follow…or else…or else it messes us up.

That’s pretty much my view of what attachment issues are – a lesser (or not?) level of OCD. What do we have in our lives and our daily routines, that if it gets interfered with, screws us up, plays with our heads, keeps us in our heads, and makes us anxious or depressed? We all know that nothing stays the same and that we have no control over most things in our life. Becoming attached to things, routines, people, and life in general is normal. Recognizing these attachments, noticing what’s happening in our minds when our attachments get knocked around, acknowledging what’s happening, and letting it move along, is not as easy as it sounds.

So what am I attached to besides writing a blog entry at least once per month?

• Being happy and cool - see above.

• The weather channel – I must know the forecast, especially when I’m vacationing or walking to MARTA.

• My two favorite places to lay down my yoga mat at Yoga Samadhi – it messes me up when I have to practice in a different spot!

• Stephanie’s spot in the yoga studio – it takes me time to get over it when someone else takes her spot!

• Sleep – loving this extra hour this morning!

• Olives and popcorn - enougj said.

• Glenn Campbell’s latest version of Wichita Lineman.

• Religious handouts – see below.

• My hairdresser – see below

• Speaking of Pam, Michigan accents.

• My good health – this getting old thing sucks.

• Pet names that co-workers, friends and family call me - such as sweetie, honey, boo, Carrie O, Care O., little bunny fu fu, and Care Care.

• My pets

• Doc. B.

• Going to yoga everyday

• Being predictable and non-impulsive – thus the reason I’m purposefully skipping yoga today – working on my attachment issues – it’s not going so well. I keep thinking I should be there instead of drinking coffee while sitting on my butt in front of the computer!

Hair Salon "hoodie" and a beer - Happy and cool.

Diary of a Wimpy Adult

Wimp Yourself

I’ve always known it, and yesterday confirmed it, I’m a wimp. Have been since I can remember and there’s no reason to believe I won’t remain that way. It’s caused me grief in the past and probably will in the future, but at my age, I’d say that’s just the way it’s going to be. I’m okay with it.  And I'm okay with my gravestone marker including the quote "she was so nice"...though it would be cool if someone would just go ahead and add "bless her heart" just to humor me.


But why did yesterday confirm it? It was the ten year anniversary of the September 11, 2001 massacre and I couldn’t bring myself to watch any of the reminiscing specials on television. Too much for this nervous, skittish, unassertive, girl who, ironically, was glued to the television back in September of 2001.

So yesterday I avoided the radio and the TV all day long. Despite that, it didn’t stop the world from putting my wimpiness right in front of my face.

We started off the morning with our yoga practice on the porch. It was so peaceful with the birds chirping and splashing around in the fountain. The hummingbirds and honey bees were the only things dive-bombing in the clear blue sky.  Well, that and an angry blue jay.  While I was supposed to be lying still in savasana, I instead watched a squirrel run away from blue jay.  Wimp.

After yoga, we went out to breakfast at Java Jive and sat next to a family of 4 - Mom, Dad, 12 year old daughter and 10 year old son. Daughter had on a fitted t-shirt that said “Be Aggressive!”. Son had a mohawk and a muscle shirt that said “Punish with Power”. Where do they sell these childrens' shirts? Did they make them back in the early 70’s when I was having my first and only fist fight with the neighborhood bully? Nope. I doubt it. I'm pretty sure I lost that fight.  Wimp.

Then we hit the Whole Foods for a few items to get us through the week. I made sure to park us strategically so we wouldn’t have to walk past Pet Smart where they would no doubt have a parade of free puppies, dogs, kittens and cats lined up at the front door on floats worthy of Macy's at Thanksgiving. I just can’t walk past those furry babies without feeling sad and guilty. Wimp.

So after breakfast we came home to again relax on the back porch with those hummingbirds and honey bees. And relaxing it was…until a plane flew overhead. Planes are a normal occurrence since we live only a few miles from the busiest airport in the world - but I swear this plane was flying way too low. I could hear the sputtering engine and all sorts of noises you don’t usually notice. As my blood pressure and heart rate were spiking, I looked up.  Turns out it was just a bi-plane, flying at its typical altitude, out for a Sunday saunter. Wimp!

The rest of the day I moved mushroom logs, used a power drill, raked leaves, pulled weeds by hand, chopped up the rest with the weed eater, and drank a beer.  Not so wimpy I guess! 

Hope your day balanced out like mine did and that you embrace your wimpiness, bitchiness, strength or orneriness - whatever suits you!

Does Matter Matter?

Urdhva Dhanurasana (Wheel)

Due to the love/hate relationship I have with MARTA, I’ve often referred to it as my “inconvenient truth.” This past Friday, I found myself in one of the love phases. Not because it was actually on time. It wasn’t. Not because nobody had their pants so low to the ground that there were Calvin Klein underware in my face. They did. Not because the train was on autopilot (versus the stop and go, jerking motion, throw-up inducing ride caused by the Conductor actually operating the train). It wasn’t. So what was it that put my heart in the I love MARTA zone? Drum roll please… I was the thinnest person in my train car.


Normally I don’t pay much attention to my size in comparison to the rest of the world. I just figure my figure is full, I can be skinny if I want to be hard on myself, and my BMI is under the overweight category of 25 – 29.9 (so what if it’s just barely under, right?). But doing Ashtanga/Mysore yoga for the past 2 months has been a cause for pause on the matter matter. I would bet my first born child, okay - the money I would have spent on a first born child during its lifetime - that I weigh more than anyone in the class, male or female. I have to admit that it’s been a little disconcerting to see myself in this way. Yeah, yeah, I’ve had my weight issues, but for the most part I’ve been able to stay at my current weight, give or take a few pounds, for about ten years. Do I feel better when I’m at the lower end of those few pounds? Sure I do. Am I usually okay with being at the upper end of those few pounds? Sure I am. From what I know, I haven’t lost any sleep, friends, money or happiness over the issue.

And this isn’t really about comparing myself to the people with whom I practice Ashtanga. It’s just a fact that I didn’t really think about or acknowledge until good old MARTA put it in my face like a smelly armpit. It is what it is.

That being said, one more thanks to my Ashtanga Yoga Atlanta teachers. It’s where I spend most of my energy right now so bear with me. Then I promise to go back to my old frivolous blog-writing modus operandi.  Todd and Stephanie treat me just like any other new person that comes into the studio. They put up with smelly armpits as they help people (me) into Marichyasana C and D (a scrunched up kind of twist). They believe even chunky girls can do Urdhva Dhanurasana (picured above, that I could never do as a little girl let alone an adult - but all those University of Michigan-bound gymnastics girls COULD do it while simultaneously skipping rope, doing cartwheels and playing jacks). It's clear that my new teachers just flat out seem to believe in and support everyone whether they are new, experienced, thin, fat, or somewhere in between.

I’ve paid for month 3 in advance – so no turning back until at least September!

Wish me luck.  Or better yet, join me?

Guru Purnima (Huh?)

Sri K. Pattabhi Jois

This past Friday was Guru Purnima. If you know what that is, without Googling it on Bing, you win the yet-to-be-determined lavish prize package, second only to those handed out to Oscar nominees. I didn’t have a clue what it was until Doc. B. got me into Mysore yoga classes 6 weeks ago. And if you know what Mysore is, without Googling it on Yahoo, you win the other yet-to-be-determined lavish prize package, second only to the one handed out to those who know what Guru Purnima is.

“Guru” means remover of darkness and ignorance – or teacher. “Purnima” means full moon. So no, Guru Purnima is not an occasion to moon your yoga teacher. It’s actually a specific day each year that coincides with a full moon in June or July, on which students give thanks to their teacher(s).

“Mysore” is a type of Ashtanga yoga, taught in the style of Sri K. Pattabhi Jois from Mysore, India. It’s a group yoga class, but students show up when they want and practice their own postures at their own pace. The teacher is there to help students, individually, by showing them new postures, providing verbal instructions and giving physical adjustments. And let’s just get the pun out of the way; when people are done with the practice, it’s not uncommon for them to proclaim “boy am Mysore.”

Doc. B. has been doing this practice every morning at 6:00 am for over two years. She loves it and kept insisting that I would too…that it would appeal to my sense of routine (OCD) and that I would love the individual attention (in other yoga classes, I hated it when the instructor couldn’t remember my name after I’d been attending classes for months).

But here's the thing, I just wasn’t sure I was ready to give up my beloved gym membership. I mean really, what would I do if I couldn’t hop on the elliptical trainer at 5:30 am sharp, set it at level 6, and let CNN blare into my ear buds for at least a 30 minute workout with a few sips of coffee in between wipes of my brow. I’d been doing that, among other slightly varied workouts, since my favorite Decatur gym opened over 5 years ago. I was there with my people; the same faces every morning for years. We knew who was going to which machine, how long they’d be on it, and where they were headed next. And we knew that certain gym employees would open the building before 5:30 and others would wait until exactly opening time to unlock the front doors.

Well, the gym membership is on hold. After much Temple Grandin livestock nudging, not to be confused with slaughterhouse cattle prodding, Doc. B. talked me into it. She got the okay from her teachers (Todd Roderick and Stephanie Kohler of Ashtanga Yoga Atlanta) to let me show up for class on Memorial Day 2011.  This was predicted to be a day on which there might be a lighter turn out of students, and is now a day that will forever be etch-a-sketched by Picasso on my brain.

Doc. B and I arrived at 6:00 am with my bike on the back of the Subaru. I learned my first few postures, laid down into savasana (corpse pose), and peddled the 4 miles home. Meanwhile, Doc. B. finished her own practice and drove home like always – no disruption to her practice - except for my incessant questions like: Where do I put my mat? Am I going to be in somebody’s spot? Where do I sign in? Where do I put my purse? Do I need a towel? You always take a towel so I bet I need a towel? Should I have coffee before I practice or wait until after?

So after all that hoopla and angst, six weeks later I’m still a Mysore newbie and loving it. And after six weeks, I have some Guru Purnima to be celebrating. Thanks to my new teachers, Todd and Stephanie, for:

• Remembering my name as of day one.

• Still adjusting my postures even when I’m perspiring so much that my pretty purple Manduka yoga mat and my off-brand/non-Lululemon fake yoga clothes are completely soaked from the sweat dripping out of my second chin, third eye, third arm and third leg.

• Encouraging five-count ujjayi breathing (Darth Vader breathing) so much so that I find myself doing it as I walk to MARTA, while I’m on MARTA, as I sit at my desk at work, while I'm in the bathtub and when checking status updates on Facebook.

• Making me realize that Kiran Carrie Chetry and Robin Meade still go on with their lives even without me tuning in all of the TVs at the gym to CNN. Did you know that Kiran means “ray of light” in Sanskrit?

• Telling me things like “you’d look great in that posture if you were an 80 year old with arthritis” (shout out to Stephanie on this one!). It puts things in perspective for this chunky soon to be 47 year old with love handles – it’s all relative.

• Not judging me as I reinforce the new postures you taught me by watching Mysore videos on YouTube while drinking wine. Oh wait, you don’t know that I do that.

• Not chastising me if I cheat on a posture when I think you’re not looking. Oh wait, you don’t know that I do that either - well, yes, you probably do. And yes, I know, I’m only hurting my own practice by doing that – I’m working on it!

• Giving me so much encouragement, correction, smiles, support and no-no-no’s before 7:30 am that anything crappy that happens at work just really doesn’t even matter. NOTE: I still reserve the right to complain about the crap at work though or it wouldn’t be any fun.

To my new teachers Todd and Stephanie, and the many I’ve had throughout my life (Sealpops included if you’re out there), may you be uplifted spiritually as you have uplifted me.

P.S. Thank God for moon days and Epsom salts!

P.P.S. The person doing savasana in the background of this photo is doing a really good job!  http://www.flickr.com/photos/ashtangayogaatlanta/5877595292/

Birthday Card to Dad

The Grandmothers

Slumber Party!

Snow Monsters

Tub Fishing



Every year when it hits July, I think of those lucky numbers, 7 and 11, today’s date. My dad was born on 7/11, so I’d say they are lucky for at least me, my siblings, my nieces and my nephews. I’ll let my mom decide for herself if those are her lucky numbers but I suspect that they’re in her top three.

It’s always hard to pick out a birthday card for my dad. I wander through the aisles at CVS hoping something will jump out at me, but that just didn’t happen this year. So I sifted through the cards we have here at home for just such occasions. Somehow Doc. B.’s pack of generic cards from the Insight Meditation Society in Massachusetts just didn’t fit the bill. Stacks of colorful meditation cushions, seated buddahs and buildings with “Metta” inscriptions above the entrances wouldn’t suffice. There was also a random anniversary card that said “I’m so happy to be sharing life with you”. I guess dad shared his life with me but I would have had to sharpie out the “happy anniversary” part of the card – tacky but frugal – so Dad might have gone for this. Plus, perhaps Doc. B. was saving this card for me – after all, it is our 10/14 year anniversary in October (10 years since ceremony and 14 years since we met).

Eventually I found the last of a box of cards I’ve had since the early 90’s – cards with cats on the cover. There was one that looked like a cat we had when I was growing up – Binky the Siamese mix. That would have to do. I wrote my special note on the inside, sealed up the envelope, placed multiple heart stickers all over the envelope, stamped it and sent it on his way.

Dad is 71 today. And that card just doesn’t seem like enough. Sure, I talked to him on the phone, but I’d so much rather see him in person. But alas, I’m the one that moved to Atlanta. When I called him, he was at my sister’s house. He’d had a great day with my mom and three of their five grandchildren. They had meatball sandwiches for lunch and were building forts and haunted houses when I called. Just like when we were kids.

So here are some pictures from those kid days. My brother and me with our grandmothers. My two sisters having a big old slumber party. My brother and I playing in the snow. And three of us kids fishing from the bathtub. Brings back good memories, huh?

xxxooo Dad!

Bucket List 2011

Doc. B. called me at work a few weeks ago and asked me if I’d ever made up a bucket list. I responded in the negative but said I’d always wanted to. I spent the rest of my day, well, breaks and lunch, working on ideas. When we came home that night, we opened a bottle of wine and shared what items had made it onto our lists.

What made my list? Okay, if you must know, here you go. And by the way, they are in no particular order, I’m just numbering them since I’m sick of bullets. I live in Atlanta for goodness sakes!

1. Watch a match, in person, at Wimbledon.

2. Learn how to ride a motorcycle.

3. Brew a batch of my own beer or wine.

4. Read at least 25 of the top 100 classics.

5. Travel the length of Route 66 in a 1964 convertible Corvair – color doesn’t matter but light blue would be nice.

6. Learn Spanish by doing an immersion course in another country.

7. Attend the Sundance Film Festival.  Bonus bucket points if I bump into Robert Redford or Ashton Kutcher.  Triple bonus bucket points if they give me the evil eye.  Quadruple bonus bucket points if they smile.

8. Wear a big old Southern Baptist Church hat to the Kentucky Derby and bet on the long shot.

9. Open a Swiss bank account.  Even if it's just with the minimum balance.

10. Pick up where my family has left off on researching and keeping up with our family tree.

11. Shave my head – or at least a buzz cut. Maybe when Pam at the hair salon finally agrees to let me go gray?

12. See a psychic – I know – you probably can’t believe I haven’t already seen one.

13. Witness the Northern Lights – doesn’t matter from where.

14. Go to Oktoberfest in Germany and hike in Bavaria (maybe hike first, then beer?).

15. Write a book. Bonus bucket points = write a book and get it published. Triple bonus bucket points = write a book, get it published, and get on Oprah’s book club list – oh wait, will she still do that now that she’s retired?

16. Change my name – first, middle, last or all three – just because I can. Heck, it’s the one thing the legal system might actually let me do.

17. Fly first class to anywhere outside of the continental USA – preferably somewhere in Europe. Maybe that trip to Wimbledon or Germany?

18. Find something to be passionate about. Wonder what that will be? Checking off items on my bucket list perhaps?

What’s on your list? Any of these?

All in the Family

It's Miller Time - should be a good Memorial Day Weekend for these ladies!

I love calling my family. Makes me wonder why I don’t do it more often?

One of the reasons I’ve never liked calling people on the phone is that I always feel like I’m imposing. Like I’m interrupting a much needed nap, the third course of a 5 course dinner, or the planning of a military coup . I can only speculate that it’s a hold-over from the days before caller ID - and even before answering machines I guess. Remember there were those few years when if the phone rang the norm was:

1. Run to the phone,

2. Stand by it as you let the call roll over to the machine,

3. Listen to who was calling, and

4. Decide if you were going to answer it.

Invariably it was someone you didn’t want to talk to saying “pick up!” And remember, once voicemail came onto the scene, there were those people who didn’t get it and they would still say “pick up!”?

Now people just look at their phones and see that it’s you. Or one step better, they’ve got you set up with a special ringtone. I’m pretty sure that Doc. B. has selected “crickets” or “angry cat” as my ringtone. A friend has a “bark” ringtone for her boss. But my favorite was the woman on MARTA who had “gunshots” as her ringtone. Nobody even flinched when her phone rang. But I did see a couple of old guys chuckle.

So, back to my original point. When I call my parents, they don’t look at caller ID because I don’t think they have it. They just answer the phone – period. And they don’t just say “hello”. Sometimes they say “good morning!” or if it’s Thanksgiving, my dad might say “gobble, gobble, gobble.” Or once my dad realizes it’s one of his four offspring, he might say “is this my favorite first-born daughter?” They are so dang sweet! Their voices are upbeat. They seem genuinely happy to hear from me. I can only guess they would sound this way even if an IRS agent called them to schedule an audit. My mom would likely be running to the calendar to “pen it in”. Wait, my mom’s brother is a retired IRS attorney so perhaps they’ve had practice (nod to uncle R. if you are reading this blog!). And not that they have anything to hide from the IRS.

My sisters are the same way. For example today I called to see what middle sis and the kids were up to on this holiday weekend. One of the kids was promptly put on the phone (with my sis guiding the call) to talk about what they’d had for lunch. Carrots, cottage cheese, corn on the cob, chips, cold drinks, catsup and c-hot dogs. All in honor of aunt Care - they were eating a lunch filled with “C’s”.

And my niece even laughed when I asked if they’d had any c-olives for dessert!

I love my family! Happy Memorial Day to all of you! Hug a soldier or the relative of a soldier if you can!

Pulling Weed = Needing Pot

Don’t tell my mom but…

How many times have I started a blog with that line? I should go back and look.

Okay, so let me start again. Don’t tell my mom but, I’m using pot. Neti Pot, that is. For those of you who’ve never heard of a neti pot, it’s a cheap, at-home, saline irrigation system that cleans out all of the crap in your nasal passages. Just heat up 6 ounces of water, dissolve in 1 ½ teaspoons of salt (preferably sea salt or kosher salt harvested directly from Lake Wobegon or Lake Michigan if you can get it) and let it cool down to lukewarm - but NOT matthew, mark or johnwarm. Then pour it into your neti pot. This is where the fun begins. Stick the open end of the neti pot into one of your nostrils, tilt your head and pour half of the solution into one nostril and watch in shock and awe as it comes out the other nostril. Then repeat on the other side with the remaining half of the mixture. Seriously. I’m not kidding. It’s sort of like laughing and having milk come out of your nose but this is on purpose.

April is pollen season in the south and this year, it came early and is overstaying its welcome. I love being in the yard when the temps are good, like right now, but this is getting a bit ridiculous. The neti pot is getting a work out that almost warrants a gym membership. I’m also washing way too many bandanas, and not because they contain “working in the yard” sweat. I’ll leave the “what I’m washing off of them” to your imagination and your own personal nostrils.

I’m off work today. As is always the case when I’m home alone without anyone to talk to but the cat, my mind wanders (or as they say in disability applications when they are trying to get approved for cognitive issues, my mind “wonders.”). Today I was home from work for a specific reason that caused my mind to “wonder” about words that weren’t in my vocabulary until my adult life. Take for example, “Sub-Zero”. This new word is the reason I’m home today; I’m waiting on Seth, the refrigerator diagnostician. You know what that means? It means that I’m going to pay for a service call today and I’m only going to find out what’s wrong with the fridge. Then I’ll have to take another day off work, and pay more money, so that the repair technician can come out and fix it. So here we go in Jeopardy speak: “a large stainless steel chilling apparatus that looks really cool for ten years but ultimately repair costs are the same as a brand new Kenmore. What is Sub-Zero?

In the meantime, at least the beer is a bit colder than lukewarm (who would have thought one could use the word lukewarm twice in just a few short paragraphs?). And since the freezer section is working just fine, there’s plenty of ice for frozen drinks. So while I wait for Seth, I might as well get outside on this blue-sky Atlanta day and pull weeds – even if it means filling my nose with pollen, such that I once again need pot…neti pot…yet another new adult word.

So back we are, full circle, to the net pot. Well, almost. Just one more thing.

Mom hated it when we kids came in from the sandbox and washed our dirty hands in the kitchen sink. In fact she wouldn’t allow it. I’m guessing it’s because it would interfere with the plastic sandwich baggies she had washed and was drying so that they could be used again? Or maybe it was just that she was a home economics major and this was part of her training? Either way we had to go to the bathroom to scrub our grimy mitts. Or if we were at Grandma and Grandpa O’s, we could use the sink in the entry room, where there was always some really cool abrasive soap – the kind that could scrub off tractor engine, chainsaw, cherry picker and snowmobile grease AND I bet could even be added to the laundry to freshen up a well-worn Carhartt jacket.

So if mom hated those dirty paws in the kitchen sink, imagine what she might say if she saw me employing the services of a neti pot over the kitchen sink? There’s no handed down from generation to generation protocol for where to use a neti pot. Maybe next time she’s in town, I’ll give her a demonstration and let her determine the guidelines. Or maybe I’ll just keep pulling weed and using (neti) pot in the kitchen sink.

When are you coming to visit again mom?

For those of you in the Atlanta area – see you at the Inman Park Festival this weekend?

black bag

What do you think of when you hear the words black bag?  I think of Marcus Welby, M.D. or other famous doctors who carried around cure-all potions and instruments in a leather black bag.  Or other times I might think of a really expensive purse that a co-worker or friend purchased that was pretty but not worth sacrificing that utility bill I really need to pay or that dental appointment I really ought to keep.

But now, after living in the hood for a time, I realized that there's a true market for black bags - black plastic bags that is.  Every beer and liquor store in town delivers one's purchases in these little black bags, usually from behind a bullet proof window.  Cheap wine, beer, Jose' Cuervo, Wild Irish Rose and probably even the occasional bottle of Manischewitz (shameless nod to Passover) have no doubt seen the inside of one of these ubiquitous black plastic bags.

I've often wondered why alcohol is passed across the check-out counter in this way?  Is it because we are supposed to be ashamed of what's in them? Like no one else on God's organic, chicken composted, grain fed, free range, green earth ever drank directly from a bottle of Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill tucked away in a recycled brown paper bag?  Call me a snob, but a black plactic bag is just not the same.

And if we're to be ashamed of these purchases, why doesn't Publix offer us little black bags for wart removal cream, jock itch powder, dandruff shampoo, Harlequin romance novels, pork skins and Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey?  These questions are beyond me. 

Also beyond me are the two men on the MARTA train this morning who decided to re-purpose their black plastic bags as "lunch containers".  I kid you not, one man got on at my station and the other got on two stations later and sat his sweatpant-covered butt in the seat right next to us.

Wait, maybe this wasn't their "lunch"?

Cheers to you no matter what you drink out of....

Black Bag "lunch" number one

Black bag "lunch" number two

Speaking of alcohol - check out my friend who has just relocated to Las Vegas from ATL - two VERY funny blogs she writes that I read religiously - or perhaps I should say spiritually?

www.mybigfatvegas.blogspot.com/

http://www.sevenbellsandthreesheets.blogspot.com/

Vacation Signs

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JHSgAGeh8gw

April 10, 2011 marked the 30th anniversary of my parents buying a two week share of time at the Sea Crest Surf and Racquet Club on Hilton Head Island. I’m sitting in the Dock Master, sleeps 8 Unit, as I type. It’s a two bedroom, two bathroom, pull out couch and bunk beds, 1980’s era (still) condo just a block from the beach.  Several of my dedicated readers have visited here over the years so you get the visual.

I was a junior in High School when my family purchased weeks 14 and 15 of this time share "deal". Their realtor, Bobby Sandell, was honest with them and made sure they knew this was NOT an investment but rather a vacation location for years to come. Bobby is still a realtor with Re/Max on Hilton Head.  When his name is spoken, we all smile; such a cutie then and a handsome man now.  I feel certain I can feel his presence or at least the presence of his BMW convertible, every time I drive onto the Island.

Shortly after conferring with my maternal grandparents (for financing I’m sure) and holding a Brady Bunch family meeting at the Ice Cream Cone across the street (est. 1971), the deal was sealed. So what if mom and dad spent $17,000 30 years ago for what can now be STOLEN for $7,000? We love it and it’s been so worth it!

So here I sit on my last evening before returning to Atlanta – typing out the top 10 signs I’m on vacation (well, I didn't quite make it to ten).

I've only been here a week, but there are 32 Piggly Wiggly plastic bags tucked under the kitchen sink.  It, along with the Red Dot liquor store, are within walking distance of the unit.

The remote control on the living room t.v. doesn’t work and I don’t care.  I can just pull a chair right up to the t.v. and operate the channel changer by hand.  Or, I can be lazy to the max and go lay down in front of the television in the master suite where the remote control DOES work.

On my way to Hilton Head, I stopped in for an appointment at {Intimacy} for a bra fitting.  I spent over $300.00 despite a potential government shut down and after days of hand wringing and beating myself up, I'm finally over it.  And my girls are happy.

Every meal has fresh seafood and alcohol involved.  Prime example here at Chef David's "Roastfish and Cornbread"...

I begin to ignore the irony in life but am subtly brought back to reality at "The Salty Dog" at Sea Pines' South Beach where, you guessed it, there are no dogs allowed...

I've finished three books including "Quiet Guilt: The State of Michigan v. Starr" by my second cousin once removed, Clare Adkin.  Also in the top three for this vacation were "Sophie and the Rising Sun" by Augusta Trobaugh and "Dewey: The Small-Town Library Cat who Touched the World" by Vicki Myron (Thanks Christal and Katie!).  I only cried once during that last book - during the death scene - and I didn't even care that I was out on the beach deck when that happened.

And for the 14+ times during this trip that I visited the Piggly Wiggly, I always chuckled at the "Butt Wipes" aisle - thanks to WPPJ (Witness Protection Program John) for pointing this out to me.  I wonder how many years it's been there?  Gotta love that Piggly Wiggly, that's been there for 50 years, for leaving it up there.  I dig the pig....

Hope they sign the budget tonight so that I have a job to go back to on Monday to pay for this week of decadence!

Little Bunny Foo Foo



me and baby brother




I want one Million dollars for that rolling rabbit!



oh look, the cat likes the fake bunny!


With little Maddie Cat in a better place, it’s time for me to move back to a self-deprecating mode. Let’s start with a children’s poem to get us back in the groove.

"Little Bunny Foo Foo
Hopping through the forest
Scooping up the field mice
And bopping them on the head!
Down came the Good Fairy, and she said:
Little Bunny Foo Foo
I don't wanna see you
Scooping up the field mice
And bopping them on the head!
I will give you three chances,
Then POOF you're a Goon".

The well-known moral of this story is “Hare today, goon tomorrow.” Personally, I prefer a different moral to this story as outlined in the book “Lenore, The Cute Dead Girl: Noogies.” In this book, after being chastised by the fairy, Little Bunny Foo Foo starts bopping other animals on the head. The Fairy reappears to remind Little Bunny Foo Foo that you’re not supposed to bop ANY animals on the head. At which point Little Bunny Foo Foo bops the fairy on the head. The moral of this version of the story is “be more specific.”

In our household, I tend to be the whiner, specifically. Sure, Doc B. will complain now and again, but my bouts tend to be more pouty with intermittent lashing out. All that anger and generalized repression has to come out somehow…and sooner or later.

So when I get in one of those moods, Doc. B. (lovingly?) refers to me as Little Bunny Foo Foo (LBFF for short and LB for even shorter). When this first became my nickname, I tried to pretend that “LB” meant “little butt.” Unfortunately, that has not been the case since approximately 8th grade, but who’s measuring? Apparently the neighborhood has a lock on my dimensions because the butt factor was confirmed again for me this afternoon. While bending over to pull weeds on our busy street this morning, only one car honked and whistled. I could swear I heard Sir Mix-a-Lot thumping some bass in the speakers with a remixed rendition of “Baby Got Back.” The “I like big butts and I cannot lie” part of the lyrics stood out like a sore gluteus maximus.

Anyway, as you can see from the baby pictures above, I have an early connection to bunnies. I think I’ll continue to see that as a good thing, butt or no butt.

Maddie Cat

Madison: May 12, 1988 - February 27, 2011

Yesterday, Maddie enjoyed a stroll on the screened porch. It was a wobbly jaunt, but a walk in the fresh air none the less. She circled the perimeter, taking in all of the smells and sights. She lost most of her hearing years ago but I bet she heard a few birds too. This was her last moment in the sun, at least on this earth that is. After three days of difficulty breathing, so much so that she couldn’t purr, she passed away at 7:30 this morning. Doc. B and I petted her as she took in her last few breaths and let go of the very last one. It’s going to be a new world for me. Save for vacations, I never went more than a day without hearing that little girl purr. Almost 23 years of the loudest, sometimes obnoxious, yet most comforting sound I may ever know.


While she didn’t quite reach her 23rd birthday, or the point at which she would have lived half of my life (in December 2011), she lived in 4 decades: May 12, 1988 – February 27, 2011. So many people, jobs and homes have come in and out of my life over that time period and she was there through it all. She was my constant witness to the joys in my life as well as the things I’d just as soon forget. I miss her already.

To all of you who knew and loved her on so many different levels, and who supported me in the decisions I made because that kitty was in my life – I thank you. Hug a pet for me today.

Disposing of the Evidence

Thursday after work means two things.  Doc. B. goes to sangha to meditate and I make plans to go out for drinks.  I put that word in italics because it seems sacrilegious to put sangha and adult beverages in the same sentence.  But then again, Doc. B. saw the following bumper sticker yesterday: “Want a taste of religion? Lick a witch.”  I guess if that Wicca-supporting individual can put religion and witch in the same sentence, then I can put sangha and alcohol together?

This past week, my Thursday evening plans fell through. So I decided to move my Friday morning routine to Thursday night.  Nothing like getting a jump on Friday morning, right?

Friday is disposing of the evidence day in our little section of the Oakhurst hood.  This is the day when each household sacks up the week’s trash in one of three sizes of expensive, color-coded, pay-as-you-throw, volume-based collection bags that are required by the city of Decatur.  If you don’t put your trash in one of these bags, it does not get picked up. 

The largest of the three bags is almost a Tiffany shade of blue.  Is that supposed to make us feel good about it?  Like we’re throwing away the wrapping paper to the many Tiffany boxes we’ve received since our trash was picked up last week?  The print on the side of the bag includes the phone number for the sanitation department, a weight limit warning of 50 pounds, a caution statement about not putting small children in the bag, and a proclamation that “this bag is ‘furnished’ for garbage and trash only.” 

I don’t even know where to begin.  First, why would I call the sanitation department?  And if I were trying to call them, the trash bag is the last place I’d look to find their phone number – until today that is.  Second, our household of two adults and two cats could probably fill this bag every single week of the year with 50 pounds of cat litter, empty Dancing Goats coffee cups, tofu container packaging, starling carcasses, dryer lint and Luna bar wrappers.  I have no clue what households with children and dogs do about this 50 pound limit.  Guess they have to move on to bag number two. Third, it’s 2011.  Do we not all know by now that bags can suffocate children?  Forth, this bag was not “furnished”, rather I had to drive to three different stores to find them and then I forked over cash for them.  And finally, where is the definition of “garbage” and “trash?”  Who gets to decide?  For example, do the starling carcasses really count as garbage or trash?  (FYI – no starlings were actually harmed in the writing of this blog; only thoughts of a starling massacre were entertained).

Then there’s the recycling.  All of these items go in the beat-up plastic bins that the city did actually provide for us, free of charge, over ten years ago.  This is where all of the bottled and canned evidence goes.  If you drank it or ate it, and it came out of a can or a bottle, it will be out there for all of your neighbors to witness.  If you had seven bottles of wine during the week, everyone will notice.  And if they were all bottles under $4.99, this group of folks will know.  If you ate a can of spam or opened a new box of super tampons, the world will take note.  If you decided to splurge on a pint of tequila or Ben and Jerry’s, all passersby will be in on your secret.  And if you try to sneak in the greasy remains of a Mojo’s pizza box, it will be there for all to see (this is expressly forbidden – no greasy pizza boxes in the recycling!).  By the way, we have one recycling bin that is so beat up, it really needs to be replaced.  I think it’s time that these containers were recycled but every time I put one recycling bin in the other and set it at the curb, for some reason they never pick it up?

And lastly, let’s not forget about the yard trimmings.  They let us put those in an actual plastic trash can.  If it fits, it ships…into the yard-trimmings truck that is.  But make sure you don’t let one little Kleenex be seen in the yard clippings container or your hard work will sit there til’ next week’s pick-up.  And this is true whether you personally put that Kleenex there or not!  What if some unknowing soul, blowing his/her nose as they pass your house, is just trying to be nice?  Rather than tossing the used tissue into your bed of lavender, they put it in with your yard trimmings.  Sorry, Decatur does not want someone else’s used hanky mixed in with your yard trimmings – take note folks; it's all about the trash.

Deuces my friends.  (According to an “in-the-know co-worker,” that means good-bye. But apparently you have to listen to recording “artist” Chris Brown in order to know that).

My Love-Hate Relationships

Ruby-Crowned Kinglet?

I’m so grateful to have my J - O - B, but I'm not so much lovin' on it right now. In today’s economy, it makes little sense to spew "I hate my job" tirades when I have friends who don’t have them or have one that doesn’t pay half of what they previously earned. This caused me to start thinking of the many love-hate relationships in my dolce vita.  Or is it dulce vita? No, it’s dolce vita and dulce de leche – either way – they both translate to excellente!

Let’s take birds for example. In general, I would have to say that I love, Love, LOVE birds. Just this week I spotted the above bird that everyone believes is a ruby-crowned kinglet. I specifically ended my 40 minute jog with a stop at the Sugarcreek garden just to see if I might stand still for a few moments and greet a sparrow, a wren, or a chicken hawk. Within minutes, my ears were drawn to rooting-around sounds in a pile of brush. My eyes then focused on lovely shades of green reflecting off of the cutest little bird.  He had a red spot on the nape of his neck. I say "he" and "his" because for some reason, unlike with humans, male birds get to be pretty. The little guy even stalled long enough for me to get out my iPhone and snap his picture. So when I say I love birds, I think you get it. And right at this very moment, I love that there’s a bright-red boy cardinal sitting in the bird bath...sharing space with a little girl house finch.

So with all this birdie, birdie affection, what on terra firma could be my love-hate relationship with them? One word – STARLINGS. I hate that these ugly, mean, flying and screeching machines that use and abuse the eaves of our home to get it on, hire a doula, and ultimately birth more devil Starlings (and for those of you in therapy now, or in the recent past, is this shadow-self stuff?). When I say eaves I really mean attic. And when I say attic, I really mean the spot directly above Doc. B’s meditation space. There is absolutely no way I could muster the equanimity, let alone the concentration, required to emit thoughts of loving kindness with Starlings feeding their spawn directly above my freshly cut and colored head of hair. Yes, there’s room in the inn but this ain’t no nativity scene.  They're supposed to eat insects but apparently they don't even do that - we were still "forced" to build a screened porch to keep them AND the skeeters away.

Perhaps as I begin to mellow in my old age I’ll find the patience to share square footage with these annoying creatures. After all, they and their ancestors have resided here longer than we have.  Our contractor's carpenter had to scare them out of the house over ten years ago during our renovation…yet they keep coming back...damn squatters (or are we the squatters?). Plus, I’d bet one year’s worth of my J – O – B salary that there are, and will continue to be, days when I’ve been described as an annoying creature.




Clarice the Starling


More of my love-hate relationships:

• I love Elizabeth Gilbert and Hollis Gillespie but hate that I covet their writing skills.

• Along those same lines, I love writing (including this blog), but hate that I can’t get it together to write a book.

• I Love the cats but hate scooping the poop.

• Along those same lines, I love going to the hair salon to hear the joke of the month, but hate that I’ll be paying for it until I decide it’s okay to be gray. Joke of the month: knock, knock…who’s there?... smell mop…smell mop who?

• I love that we have a housekeeper for the first time in my life but hate that we clean before she visits.

• I love that Doc. B is a vegetarian, but hate that it means we don't cook a juicy steak on the Weber grill every now and again. Oh wait, I can do that when I go out to eat when Doc. B. is off on a meditation retreat.

Hope you're lovin' on what you're hatin' on!

"Mindless Break"

Come on people, it's just basil!

Yeah, I know, we've all seen these questionnaires before - but they're fun!  Well, they're fun when you have all the time in the world, like when you are on your third snow day!  A new friend of mine sent this out with the following perfect intro:

"This is a mindless break from other activities.  And a perfect day to receive/send because all we can do in Atlanta is rattle around and keep checking the temperature on our cabin fever..."

So now that I've finished cleaning out the spice rack, I can take a mindless break to answer a few questions (I had "high" hopes that Doc. B. had forgotten about a certain "spice", but it really is just basil).   Enough with the fanfare, read on! 

1.     What color are your socks right now?  They’re blue at the moment but they're mood socks so I expect they’ll change colors by the time I finish completing this assignment.

2.     What are you listening to right now? The sounds of silence – Doc. B. left me, to go to work, says she couldn’t stand to be in this snowbound state any longer.

3.     What was the last thing you ate?  Besides crow?  The second to last chip in the basket – at the U-Joint.  I always leave the last bite for Doc. B. – isn’t that sick!

4.     Can you drive a stick shift?  Yes, but would prefer that the stick be attached to a Porsche Carrera GTS Cabriolet vs. our Ford Ranger.  It’s hard enough to shift, let alone roll the windows up and down manually.  Plus, did you ever notice how hard it is to drink coffee and shift at the same time?

5.     Last person you spoke to on the phone?  The RCI salesperson.  No sir, I really DO NOT want to trade in my week at Hilton Head for a cruise!

6.     Do you like the person who sent this to you?  She made me laugh my butt off the first time I met her, so YES!

7.     How old are you today?  16,911 days old – there’s an app for that!

8.     What is your favorite sport to watch on TV?  I could really go down in the dirt to answer this one but I’ll stick with women’s college basketball and March madness men’s basketball.

9.     What is your favorite drink?  Yesterday it was the spicy orange/lime margarita that Doc. B. created with what we had in the house.  Today it was the Founders Red Rye Pale Ale at the U-Joint.  If this weather continues, it maybe the Wild Irish Rose from the corner store – complete with the ubiquitous black plastic bag.  Favorites change daily so check back often!


10.     Have you dyed your hair?  I anticipate paying at least $18,000 to Pam, at the hair salon, over the next 15 years – enough said.


11.     Favorite food?  Just give me a pizza, topped with extra cheese and green olives, and you’ve got a happy me.


12.     What is the last movie you watched?  “The Kids are Alright.’  I know, stereotypical but the Joni Mitchell sing-along alone was worth it.  Oh wait, that’s stereotypical too!


13.     Favorite day of the year? Any moon day because that means Doc. B. is not going to yoga and we get to sleep in!


14.     How do you vent?  Usually with Mrs. T. since most of what I vent about is related to work.  But I also vent by getting my butt to the gym as often as possible.  And it’s not been possible since Sunday!


15.     What was your favorite toy as a child?  Anything that belonged to my Uncle Al.  I loved all of his stuff – snowmobiles, Atari Pong, BB guns, and burning barrels.  “Let’s light some stuff on fire after we shoot at some empty pop cans!”


16.     What is your favorite season?  No hesitation on this one – the fall!


17.     Cherries of blueberries?  Any kind of fruit!  Overhiser Orchards – we’ve got the ripe stuff!


18.   Do you want your friends to e-mail you back?  Only if they so choose.  Despite what many of them think, I don’t hold grudges, really I don’t!


19.   Who is the most likely to respond?  Ted Nugent.  He’ll like the BB gun comment.


20.   Who is least likely to respond? Ted Nugent.  I guess I’d need his address in order for him to respond – oh well.


21.   Living situation?  It’s all good!


22.   When was the last time you cried?  Do I really have to answer that one?  How about the last time I teared up? Can I answer that one instead?


23.   What is in your closet right now? Lots of jeans and comfortable shoes.


24.   What are you most afraid of?  Right now, running out of food and booze – this snow storm stuff is for the Yankee Birds!


25.Plain, cheese, or spicy hamburgers?  Everything Spicy!


26.   Favorite dog breed?  I’m a cat person, but I do like dogs if they are somewhat bigger than a cat, don’t bark, don’t shed, don’t poop and don’t have to be walked.


27.   How many states have you lived in?  Besides a state of fear and loathing, I’ll say three and one district.


28.   Diamonds of pearls?  I thought the question was Diamonds or rust?  Where is Joan Baez when you need her?


29.   What is your favorite flour?  I like Martha White the best.  The label is so inviting and seems like it would make good pancake.  

...This is my brain on basil.