Mother’s Day is Hard……

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Mother’s Day is Hard……

Mother’s Day is hard for me.  My mother lives close by in a small house that I bought for her. It’s in a retirement community and is a 10 minute drive from me. And it is kind of a remarkable thing given our history. Let’s be clear though, I mostly bought the house for me, not her. I need to be OK with myself after she passes.

My mother has been mentally unstable my entire life. As a young child I watched her drink alcoholically, drive drunk, and create drama. There were the standard saturday morning thrashings if my brother or I woke her up too early. If I’m honest, my brother took the brunt of that. I would scurry away and he would try to reason with her, smack. When I was in first grade she was brushing my hair and got so frustrated with me that she hit me hard on the forehead, which caused a bump and a surprising amount of blood. I was told to say I walked into the door so mommy wouldn’t get in trouble. Most of the abuse was mental. She would routinely say “I wish you were never born”. That’s hard to reconcile as a child, hell it’s hard to type that now.

It was just the three of us – my mother, twin brother and I. My parents divorced when we were two years old. We saw our father on a regular basis until we were moved out of state at 8 years old.This move followed a custody battle between our parents and as soon as the ink was dry from the case our mother moved us to Florida with her charismatic and somewhat insane boyfriend. So we went from 3 to 4 for one drama filled year.

I remember crossing the state line in a red convertible Cadillac “Welcome to Florida – The Sunshine State”. It was pouring and the irony or perhaps it was foreshadowing was not lost on me. That year was filled with insanity and contradictions. We moved four times in 10 months and went to two different school districts. There were snakes and palmetto bugs, lizards and a trip to Disney. We had a 40-foot boat and I learned to fish and went snorkeling, it wasn’t all bad.

The bad was really bad though.The relationship between my mother and her boyfriend was volatile. I saw him beat her. I listened to countless loud, uncontrollable arguments. At one point my mother left with my brother to go back to New Jersey. I was left in Florida with a family that we barely knew.  They had rented one of the houses we had lived in and they had 5 kids, I was 9 years old.Who does that? Who leaves their 9 year old girl in another state with strangers for a month. A desperate crazy person, that’s who.

My mother came back in about a month and was promptly hospitalized after a suicide attempt. I was sent to a foster home for a week. Soon after my mother had another breakdown and destroyed the place we were living in. I watched her get arrested and placed in the back of a police car. A few days later I was taking my first ever plane ride back to New Jersey, alone.  My brother and I stayed with our grandparents for the next year until mom could get a place for the three of us.

The roller coaster continued throughout my formative years.Mother continued to drink and spoke of suicide often. Each day when I got home from school I would walk into every room in our apartment. Honestly, I did not connect the dots on this behavior until I was an adult, but I was looking for my mother’s body. There were also plenty of nights when I found her passed out on the floor with the telephone cord wrapped around her or in the bathroom. In between there was lots of yelling, uncertainty, acid laced gossip and talk of bankruptcy. I would be filled with panic when I heard my mother’s footsteps coming home at night, we never knew what to expect.

The high level of dysfunction continued until 1983. That year I was sent to rehab after a brief but intense bout of teenage rebellion. My mother had just gotten sober and once again introduced an insane man into our lives. Eventually that union caused the original three to be scattered in different living situations. My year consisted of institutions – including a cult working farm which portrayed itself as a recovery half way house. My brother lived with a friend’s family and mom couch surfed. The three of us never shared the same roof again – my brother and I were 15.

I grew up fast out of necessity, with little familial guidance. I learned how to “adult” in AA. Truly the 12 steps are a nice road map for life and I sure as shit wasn’t getting solid pointers at home. I learned about taking responsibility for my actions and my emotions. I became financially independent while I was a teenager and harnessed a strong work ethic. I put myself through college and really have done OK for myself despite the enormous odds stacked against me.

So how is it that after the shit storm that was my childhood am I able to care for my mother in a way that she never did for me? I don’t know maybe I get the illness part of mental illness. I mean if she had cancer or lupus I wouldn’t abandon her. I know it isn’t the same because the cancer patient doesn’t typically destroy others with their narcissistic ways, but I do know this, the woman is not well. So for the past 20 years or so I have managed to find a balance between compassion and self preservation.

So once again I will opt for the funny Mother’s Day card and some flowers, maybe a meal out for mom. I will not blubber on about how wonderful she is or post pictures on Facebook of smiling faces. I don’t do fake but I can do compassion.

 

 

 

 

Wrinkles, Zits and Hot Flashes…..Oh My!

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Wrinkles, Zits and Hot Flashes…..Oh My!

I’m at the tender crossroads of life somewhere between; the downward slide into decrepitude and moody perimenopausal bitch on wheels. It’s lovely and by the way gents you may want to look away, shit is about to get real. Very real in a mid-life-lady-no-longer-has-fucks-to-give kind of way. You’ve been warned males – ladies lets sip some chamomile (or scotch, no judgement zone here) and bitch about the lady days for a bit.

The things I HATE about perimenopause or whatever the fuck this is:

  1. The well meaning people that tell me to sip tea and take supplements. Shut up…..please just shut up. I want chocolate, Advil, a dark room and a nap. Do not try to hug me I may punch you in the face, hard.
  2. PMS has become……apocalyptic at times. Not every month, I mean God forbid something about this female cycle be predictable. Sometimes the mood swings are INTENSE like “The Three Faces of Eve” intense.
  3. Aunt Flow. I am so sick of bleeding y’all. Really enough already. My actual period vacillates somewhere between an annoying but ever present slow faucet drip to Niagara Falls. The first three days are the worst. So bad that the “spray” from my oozing lady parts has landed in odd places – under the toilet seat, on the floor, on the G-damn wall (yup, you read that right). I doesn’t seem like the laws of physics would allow for this level of splatter but I assure you it is the truth.  There have been times when I just wanted to put the yellow crime scene tape around my bathroom and call in the experts for clean up.
  4. Hot Flashes. I have only experienced these during the day on a few occasions and it’s quite impressive when it happens. One time the heat started on the back of my neck and I suddenly found myself with a literal hot head, sweat and all. What physical activity brought this on….uh, none. I was typing at my desk when all of a sudden…..
  5. Night Sweats is the asshole cousin of Hot Flashes. While I haven’t spent much time with Hot Flashes…..Night Sweats and I go steady. I sleep with that bitch every night, right next to my husband…..because I am a whore like that. Seriously, if you haven’t experienced this pleasure yet here’s a description: you awake in a head soaked puddle of your own bodily fluid (sweat), drenched pillow, hair like Medusa. The cure – go pee for the third time that night, come back to bed and flip that pillow over. Repeat this cycle however many times you pee in a given night until your pillow has turned into an overflowing sponge….then replace the pillow or the the pillow case….or steal your husband’s pillow if necessary…..because, men.
  6. Sleep Disturbances – Better known as insomnia and this little motherfucker is the worst. There is a reason why sleep deprivation has been used as a form of torture because………it is actually a very effective form of torture. The echos of sleep loss bleed into the next day which is why insomnia is such a dick. I can usually make it through the next day sans sleep until about 4pm and then I am replaced by Satan.
  7. Urinary urgency or the need to pee (all the time) with the most intense urgency occurring just before you fall asleep. This really kicks in as I am laying my head down on the pillow (prior to a soaking due to night sweats). There have been many evenings when I have gotten out of bed to pee 4 or 5 times within 30 minutes. I know it doesn’t seem possible that one could go so frequently within such a short time span, it’s true. I promise I’m not guzzling gallon jugs of coffee or Gatorade within an hour of bedtime. It’s a head scratcher.
  8. Fatigue. How unexpected is this…..really?! You have night sweats, frequent urination, insomnia and mood swings tag teaming to kick your ass all day and night. Of course we are tired, duh! Ladies if you have ever been pregnant you probably remember the wave of exhaustion that can overwhelm you during the first trimester. I get a lesser version of this during PMS. Of course it isn’t predictable because PMS is an asshole like that.
  9. Skin changes. Here is my complete thought process on the skin changes….wrinkles and zits should not coexist on the same face, ever.
  10. Sex drive changes. This runs the gamut friends. Some ladies have no desire for sex – could be due to vaginal dryness or painful intercourse or maybe they just can’t stand their man/woman/vibrator, I dunno. My issue is on the opposite extreme. I find myself sexting my husband and taking him into the walk in closet for quickies. I am like a 12 year old boy watching girls gone wild for the first time.
  11. Aches, pains and other signs your screwed for the next 5 days. Period cramps – check. Gents if you’re reading this and why the fuck would you be reading this….imagine that you swallowed a small spiked ball and it is rolling around your innards, that’s what cramps feel like. Oh and bonus round if you get the it-feels-like-I-got-stabbed-in-the-eye headache.

No seriously, is there something sticking out of my eye? Ladies, feel free to rant in the comments.

Teachable Moments

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Teachable Moments

For those who are not familiar….teachable moments tend to be awful and necessary. They also like to present themselves at inconvenient times and mostly in public places usually when you are exhausted or at least exasperated. My husband and I are raising two kids; a nearly 13 year old boy and an 11 year old girl. If you haven’t raised humans up to the tween phase let’s just say things get interesting. My number one goal in parenting is to raise kind, productive people that contribute to society in a positive way. I’m not hoping to get a sports scholarship, ivy league acceptance or even perfect hair….I just don’t want to raise assholes.

My kids are opposites in some ways. My son wants to stay a kid. So much so that I had to break the news to him about Santa Claus a few months ago. For the past two years I’d been leaving hints in bits of conversation like scattered bread crumbs, hoping he would ask for more. I leaned heavy on the “traditions” aspect of Christmas and would often say things like, different families have different traditions. We would discuss this regarding Santa and the Elf on the Shelf. I even suggested…scratch that….flat out told him…..”Do NOT talk about Santa at school.” The point is the hints were there, I left them scattered about to ease the transition. He didn’t bite, not even a nibble.

This Christmas Eve he had the “Santa Tracker” on his Ipod and made intermittent announcements about where Santa was in his one night gift giving world tour. I made a mental note to squash Santa on December 26th. Of course that day came and went and I finally had to make myself tell him the last day of winter break. It was hard. I waited until we were alone and I looked him in the eye and decided to ask “Do you really believe in Santa?” I saw sadness and fear in his eyes and I knew I was about to take away a piece of his childhood. It killed me to tell him but he’s in middle school if word got out, the mob would descend on him like vultures on a fresh carcass. I was gentle and direct when I told him something to the effect of……..there isn’t one Santa, there are many Santas – moms, dads, grandparents, brothers, sisters, neighbors, friends….there isn’t one man dropping off presents all over the world. Santa is the idea of giving without expectation, it’s a tradition and a fairy tale rolled into a beautiful message of giving. We both cried a little and hugged. A few minutes later I asked him if he had any questions or if he wanted to talk about it. His only response was “I don’t believe you”. True story.

Now for the girl….ahhh tween girl drama is brutal. We have already experienced frenemies and flat out bullies. At times I think my daughter has been a bit of a bully and I called her on it immediately. I tell her constantly about the importance of not talking smack about people and treating everyone the way you want to be treated. I monitor her Instagram and I am shocked at some of the conversations that take place.

My kids have limited access to electronic devices. Half an hour during the week and an hour on weekends and holidays. They are not permitted to have their Ipods in their rooms at night. This past Valentine’s Day there was a conversation with several girls on Instagram and two girls were pondering where my daughter was since she wasn’t responding. One girl suggested she was dead, another suggested she was pregnant. Yes you read that right and these girls were 10. Do you think their parents monitor their Instagram? Doubtful.

My daughter has not yet found her tribe. She floats between different groups of girls and has some close friends. She does not have a best friend at the moment and she is trying to make me her best friend. This is achingly sweet, but let’s be honest I can’t be her BFF, I have to discipline her. She is very emotional right now and requires a lot of one on one time and I am juggling the chainsaws and kittens the best I can. Yesterday was a disaster.

We set time aside to go shopping in a mall. Let me just state this for the record – I hate to shop, especially at malls but this is my girl so I make time for it. We stopped at a friend’s house on the way which took longer than expected and as a result we had less time to shop. She had about 10 items on her list of things she wanted to do and we had time for maybe 7. When I told her it was time to go, a tear slid down her cheek and I got the instant whinny rebuttal from her. I felt a lava like rage boiling in my gut and I insisted that we had to go.

I won’t lie it was ugly and I wish I conducted myself differently. My initial fear was that I was raising a self entitled spoiled brat and that is oh so unacceptable. I told her we needed to leave and I walked at a very fast pace. She was a wreck. I did not yell but the anger was coming off of me like steam, it was palpable. She was crying before we got in the car.

My tone of voice and body language made it clear that I was angry and I wasn’t good at listening to why she was upset in the first few moments. I came to my own conclusion that my daughter was being a spoiled brat. That probably wasn’t entirely fair but it wasn’t completely off the mark either. So I stepped on to my soap box and told her how I will not tolerate a spoiled entitled child. I explained that I wanted her to focus on kindness, a work ethic, academics and not on shiny pretty things we get at the mall.

Then I droned on in a way that has made kids eyes roll for centuries. I told her that when I grew up, the only clothes I got were hand me downs from my cousins. In addition, I got one new outfit that my Nana would buy me in early September before school started each year. Then I realized that this conversation was taking a toll on her and I reminded my daughter that she is funny, smart and kind to animals and people and that I liked those things about her. I told her that I worried that she was too concerned about designer labels and material things…. Geezus it was just too much to put on 11 year old shoulders.

At the end of the day we were both calm and discussed better strategies for our next outing. We have determined that a prioritized list will help us stay on track and help us better focus our time. We both apologized to each other and ended the night with our usual tuck in – saying prayers, reviewing the best parts of the weekend, making plans before the final I love you for the night. So many teachable moments this weekend and sometimes it’s hard to keep my own brand of crazy out of the mix. My own childhood haunts me and I know it echos into my present parenting abilities. So as the teachable moments keep coming, I need to remind myself to stay teachable. Parenting is hard.

 

 

 

I’m Obsessed with Numbers…

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I’m Obsessed with Numbers…

Lately I’ve been obsessed with numbers – weight, age, finances and the big one, the blog related likes, views and comments. I don’t even math well so I’m not entirely in love with this obsession. I have to constantly give myself pep talks about the various numbers in my life.

The weight number, ugh. I don’t weigh the same as I did when I was 22, primarily because …..I am no longer 22. I know, duh, but I still obsess over the scale. Truth be told I have a one way abusive relationship with this apparatus. I weigh myself a few times a week….here are some of the conversations I had with the scale over the past several days: “Are you fucking kidding?!” “Yes!!!!!” and silent treatment with a defiant middle finger aimed at the scale display.  It’s not pretty but it’s honest.

Age yeah I know….it’s just a number right? Wrong. It’s a marker of time which pushes the needle closer to our own demise. I’m a realist folks and I’ve been a hospice volunteer for nearly 10 years….we are all going to die. That ascending number is a reminder, I have less time than I did a year ago. I know, depressing as hell, let’s move on.

Finances, well I leave most of that worry to my husband. Calm down he isn’t in charge because he is a man….he’s in charge because he is the most qualified one in the house. Before kids, I was a career gal, bought my own house, researched my 401K options…now not so much. I do have a small business that I run but honestly the numbers are so small at this point it isn’t a big deal.

The blog numbers….these are the greatest obsession of the moment. How many likes versus how many views. I lose my mind when the orange light is on – a comment, gasp, heart beats faster….I’m embarrassed to admit it. I tell myself that writing is cathartic, I do it for me, to tell my stories. That is true but I still want people to read the stories.

So…..if you have taken a moment to view, share, comment or like this post (or any of them), thank you!

 

 

I Ain’t Raising No Lady

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I Ain’t Raising No Lady

I ain’t raising no lady. That’s right I said it. I am the mom of a tween girl and a nearly teenage son. The tween angst is high in this house right now and it tilts heavily toward my girl. My husband and I are raising a young girl but by no means do I ever want her to be a lady. Remember the lady rules back in the day:

  1. Speak when spoken to
  2. Be submissive to your husband
  3. Always be polite
  4. Don’t be bossy
  5. Don’t be overly competitive
  6. Learn how to cook, sew – hone those domestic skills
  7. Don’t play ‘xyz’ sport that is for boys…..Engineering ? Heavens no also for boys….insert every other gender specific toy, activity, profession, etc.,.

These were the messages many of us midlife and older females received as girls. Rubbish complete absolute rubbish. And the idea the boys should never cry, equally stupid and harmful. Enough with the gender stereotyping, please let’s be done with that crap.

Here are my rules or shall I say suggestions for raising a female, male, dog, goat, gecko….you get the idea:

  1. Always be kind. When you can’t be kind, be quiet. The urge to be a jerk usually passes pretty quick and leaves no icky after taste.
  2. There are times to be quiet and times to speak up. The right answer is not always obvious. However, if you are ever being physically harmed or verbally and/or mentally abused it is always right to speak up – not to the aggressor but to someone that can help.
  3. You will make mistakes and it is usually OK. I say usually because I want you to know that there are rare instances where your mistake is so huge that you find yourself pretty far from OK. And honestly, most of the time you can pick yourself up and claw yourself back from even the biggest disasters….sometimes you need to ask for help. Eat that elephant one bite at a time. You may have to forge a new path, one nibble at a time.
  4. Follow your gut. Your stomach usually knows when a situation or a person is off. Listen to that inner nudge. There is an exception to this……if you are a survivor of a traumatic event or you are struggling with mental illness, you may need to run your thoughts by a trusted confidante or mental health professional. I say this out of love and personal experience. There have been many times when the thoughts in my own head could not be trusted.
  5. Find a way to forgive people that have wronged you. But wait my mother/father/brother/uncle/second grade teacher….shhhhh….dear one. I am not telling you that you need to be best friends or be in a room with this dreaded person ever again. What I am suggesting is to forgive the person enough so that you can move on from the place of pain that you find yourself in. Hate, anger, resentment those are poisons, do your best to remove those toxins. Forgiving someone is an act that you do for yourself, because ultimately you suffer if you can’t move on.
  6. Be accountable for your actions and take responsibility for your own happiness. Before blaming someone for a circumstance or situation take an introspective look in the mirror. If you are not happy try to identify what the problem is and start digging for a solution. No one is entitled to a “happily ever after” and if a person gets there….chances are they worked their ass off for it. Being content is an inside job. It’s about attitude, perseverance and believing that you are worthy of happiness.
  7. Take care of you at all times. Self care is not self indulgent – go to the gym, take voice lessons, meet with friends, do yoga, take the class in Mandarin, write that novel – whatever self care is for you, make room for it. You’re worth it.

The hardest part about raising kids is knowing that I can’t take my personal experiences and inject the wisdom I have gained from them into my kids. They have to learn this stuff for themselves. Learning is painful at times. They will be betrayed, feel snubbed, have their hearts broken and hurt others along the way. Life is messy and imperfect and I can’t stop the inevitable pain that will come their way. What I can do is be a sounding board, an honest confidant, a safe place and a soft pillow to land on.

If you could only pick one thing that you could teach your kids, what would it be?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Other Man in my Life

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The Other Man in my Life

The other man in my life is kind, generous, funny, cute and pretty much an all around top notch guy. Before you get too concerned, don’t worry my husband knows about him. In fact he kind of hijacked our date last night. Curious?

My daughter had plans to sleepover a friend’s house and my husband was supposed to have dinner out of town. For days my guy and I planned what we would do, just the two of us. After much debate, we decided on the Speedway and dinner at a local favorite. He really likes the chocolate cake at that place.

I was so happy to spend time with my special guy because I know this isn’t going to last forever. At some point in the next handful of years, he will leave and I don’t know if he’ll come home again or settle in some other part of the world. The other man in my life is my son and he is weeks away from turning 13.

The first thing he wanted to do was race electric go carts. This is something he is freakishly good at and he loves it. We got to the place and there were a dozen or so 20-somethings waiting to race. I’m sure they saw my short, skinny kid and thought, poor guy hope he doesn’t cry when we beat him. Nay, nay my boy raced three times came in second for the first race and came in first for the second and third races. I tried not to laugh out loud, it was difficult. He was racing guys that chose names like meatgobbler and BigDaddy and he crushed them, hard.

My husband joined in for dinner and the venue changed to meet his request. I have to admit I was a little sad to shorten my exclusive night with my son. I feel blessed that we have such a close relationship and he is just a joy to be around.

Is there another man in your life?

I’m Angry

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I’m Angry

I am angry and sad, disgusted, grateful and happy. So what led me to be this twitching mass of emotions? My past. Old wounds long ago scabbed over and faded are suddenly brought to light. Burning sun on Mercury light. Yesterday I unearthed a message that was buried in the not yet friends message folder in Facebook. It was waiting there for three weeks.

It was from a lovely women living in another continent who stumbled upon my humble blog. She was enthusiastic in her message to me, a total stranger, because we shared a common teenage horror. We were each sent to “The Family” in upstate NY in 1984 when we were 15 years old. We were not there at the same time but our experiences had some unfortunate overlap.

I have written about “The Family” before in some of my posts which describe my first year of sobriety. Here’s where they come in to play in my story if you are so inclined,  https://wasthatmyoutloudvoice.com/2015/05/02/1-out-of-37-part-4/  it was a horrible place to say the least and not something I think about often. Of course now that it has been revisited, I find myself in investigative mode and the stuff under the rocks is pretty gross. Think contender for Dante’s 10th circle of hell and you’d be getting warmer, much warmer.

Tony Argiros and his wife Betty ran “The Family” when I was there  in January of 1984.I’m not sure how long they were in the group home/work farm business at that point but I found some testimonials that go back to 1979. I suppose they tweaked their sadistic craft over the course of several years and decided that they were so fabulous at wrecking lives that they ought to expand their services.

My new online friend informed me that Tony and Betty Argiro founded The Family Foundation School in Hancock, NY. According to Wikipedia The Family Foundation School was established in 1984. In googling the school’s name I came across a website http://www.thefamilyschooltruth.com/Home.html whose sole purpose was to get the place shut down. They sought testimonials from alumni, parents and staff. After a 5 year battle, they were successful and ultimately the place shut down. The Family Foundation School, later known as the Allynwood Academy closed in 2014.

Sadly, in the time that they were open, hundreds, if not thousands of lives were forever altered. I’ll toss a bone Tony’s way and suggest that perhaps a handful of kids were helped along the way. And I say that knowing the ends do not always justify the means. Based on the testimonials that I read, the school shared some common traits with it’s precursor group home “The Family”.

Both places had a strict blackout period during which residents could not even communicate with their parents. Pro tip, if a place says your kid can’t talk to you for 3 months, that’s a red flag. They shared a focus on breaking down the individual.  They did this by removing all personal belongings, providing unfamiliar clothes, cutting hair in a severe manner and horrid meal times where staff and residents would select targets for humiliation and degradation. With the added bonus of sleep deprivation and physical labor to the point of exhaustion.I honestly don’t know how some of these kids made it, some where there 3 or 4 years. To top it off many of the alumni complained they never finished school due to excessive punishment or manual labor. It was supposed to be a school….shouldn’t the academics come first?

Imagine if Jim Jones opened a school except there’s no Kool-Aid. Just a steady barrage of soul shattering punishments, isolation and humiliation. The founders loosely based the school on a 12 step program and inserted their own brand of insane diabolical fundamentalist values. The result was disastrous.

Read the words of the alumni testimonials. Visualize for yourself what these teenagers endured, some for several years. I only spent a month or so during my incarceration at the family farm and in that time I ran away twice. I was successful the second time. Others tried to runaway from the school or the farm. One kid was killed by an 18 wheeler in his desperate attempt to flee the farm. Many attempts were made at the school and at one point they used search and rescue dogs to retrieve the escapees. Another student killed himself by jumping off a second story balcony. During my time I fantasized about breaking a leg just to go to the hospital. I even had a failed attempt at burning the place down. I understand their pain and I want to tell their stories.

 

 

 

 

 

Feral Dinosaur Toes…….

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Feral Dinosaur Toes…….

So I’m just going to put it out there…..my current shame……onychomycosis (on-ih-koh-my-KOH-sis) other wise known as toe nail fungus or what I lovingly refer to as feral dinosaur toes. It’s gross and somewhat uncomfortable and I have been hiding it under painted toe nails for years. I have tried the random home remedies – oregano oil, Vicks VapoRub, bleach….this fungus is persistent. I finally decided to be a grown up and deal with it head on when both big toe nails were about to fall off.

I shimmied into my big girl panties and went to the Podiatrist. If you haven’t been, it’s like going into a time machine. You may enter the waiting room as a 40 something hipster but you will leave feeling like a 87 year old infirm granny. My Podiatrist is great. He manages to make me feel like an equal whilst dealing with my toes of shame. He is honest and kind and has a sense of humor. I like those qualities in a human. He tells me that all the topical stuff is a waste of time and money. As for laser treatment, he snickers and does an eye roll at that one. Even the medicine he suggests has a cure rate of about 65% and those are the best odds. Knowing that I am not likely to dutifully apply eye of newt and chant every day, twice a day, for the next infinity…..I decide to investigate the oral medication.

My present situation is this…I am taking Terbinafine HCL (a generic form of oral Lamisil) to treat my moderate to severe case of ick. This medication is so intense that I had to have blood drawn to confirm that my liver is functioning properly. Fortunately, I haven’t been drinking in over 30 years so that sobriety thing is really paying off. When you read about this medication you just assume that it will kill you. The pros and cons list is pretty skewed but ultimately I want to get rid of this problem. It goes beyond pretty toes I want this fungus eradicated.

So in reading the precautions you are advised to avoid caffeine and sun exposure. This seems insurmountable but OK I will triple up on the sunblock and get some long sleeve light weight shirts. Avoid caffeine, well shit just got real. The no alcohol thing is not a problem but no morning cup o’ Joe well that seems extreme. I did some further reading and basically caffeine takes longer to leave the body while on this medicine. So in my selective reasoning, I have determined that I can have one cup of coffee early in the morning. Will have to see how that goes. The coffee may have to be shelved for a few months (who just typed that?). Whaaaaat??

For the pros…..I may lose my sense of taste. Yeah I know, this is listed as a con in the literature but momma needs to lose some weight so I’m going to look on the bright side. A little loss of taste wouldn’t necessarily be bad as long as it’s temporary. Insomnia is also a possible side effect. OK that sucks no getting around that. I am hoping that is due to the extended life this drug gives caffeine. So maybe if I drink just one cup of coffee early in the morning I will be alright? I realize I have just outed myself as the desperate coffee junkie that I am. Only time will tell. I have 3 doses in me so far so we will see how things progress……fingers and toes crossed.

 

 

 

What’s Your Superpower?

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What’s Your Superpower?

What’s your superpower? Wait, you don’t have one…..I bet you do. I bet there is something that you can do that eludes most of us. I’m not going to suggest that you have a superpower that is yours alone. I’m sure there is some overlap of powers out there. So I just want you to take a minute and pat yourself on the back for whatever that thing is that you do better than most.

I think we spend so much time comparing ourselves to the flawless pictures on social media. It’s easy to get sucked into that black hole of beauty and expectation that surrounds us all in our daily lives. Far too easy to feel bad for not measuring up. We do it to ourselves and our children soak it in like little sponges. As a parent I try to tame my crazy critical self around my kids so they don’t take on my personal quirks and anxieties. Yes I purposely censor my inner critic and try to keep my own brand of crazy tucked in. It doesn’t always work. They’re on to me and I suspect they know I would like to lose twenty pounds though I have never said it aloud in front of them. I try to put the focus on the fact that I work out consistently, 3 to 4 times a week. I place emphasis on the fact that I am strong and healthy. I won’t even get into my inner turmoil over aging naturally or fighting it with modern science…..I debate this one on a regular basis and I’m still undecided.

But back to the superpower…..my superpower is my willingness to go outside of my comfort zone. I will offer help in situations that I have no idea how to handle. I am secure enough to admit when something is too far beyond my comfort zone and I will ask for help or admit my short coming. I do this as a volunteer and as a business owner. I know it’s a little shocking for someone to admit when they are in over their head but I’m here to tell you it is OK.

I have a small business (super tiny – one woman show small). I basically provide help to people (and their pets). It’s a simple business which genuinely strives to help people. I started it a couple of years ago when I found it daunting to try and get back into the working world. I had been a SAHM for over a decade and I really needed to work again. It’s just a tad hard to get a job after 10 years out of a career during a dismal job market. So I took some time and thought about what I wanted to do. I decided that I wanted to work part time and model humility and a work ethic to my children and I have done that.

Right now my primary client is an 88 year old woman with dementia and mobility issues. I check in on her every day for a couple of hours and make sure she is safe and comfortable. She lives with her daughter who works full time. There have been times when I have walked into a literal shit storm. One day this week my sweet client was trying to wash out her poop filled Depends in the bathroom sink. She was extremely distraught when I got there and my first priority was to get her away from the poop to avoid further contamination and get her clean and comfortable. She was so upset that she was crying and apologizing to me. I remained calm, kept eye contact with her and told her that is was OK and that is wasn’t her fault. I got her settled and cleaned the mess. The one advantage of dementia is that you forget stuff. Within an hour my sweet lady forgot about this horrid incident and we went on with our day.

Another challenge I had this week involved a hospice visit. I have been a hospice volunteer since 2008 and this new patient will be one of my toughest. The patient is 47 (my age) and has several adult children and an 11 year old son (same age as one of my kids). I dreaded our visit this week. I have lost friends this age to cancer, this one was hitting me close to home.  I shed tears before I even met her. To top it off she wanted me to paint her toe nails which is something I generally suck at. But I showed up and offered to do it anyway and her toes looked pretty when I left. I soaked her feet and filed her nails. I rubbed lotion on her feet and we chatted like old friends. I left our visit uplifted which is the weird thing about hospice. It is incredibly rewarding in it’s own mystical way. I don’t question it. I just bring my willingness to go outside my comfort zone, my superpower. Tell me what is your superpower?

 

And now for Grandma Shaming……

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And now for Grandma Shaming……

I saw this meme the other day and it really pissed me off. On one side we have the astounding Ernestine Shepherd. Ernestine is a 74 (actually she is 79 now, gasp) year old power house who looks to be half her age. The other side features the anonymous frail looking grandma who resembles what a 74 year old looked like about 20 years ago. The headline on the meme is “Both of these women are 74 years old…..The choice is yours to make”. So in addition to fat shaming, slut shaming, mom shaming and everything else we now add grandma shaming. Are you fucking serious? Stop it.

Now I’m sure we would all like to resemble the powerhouse on the left. She looks amazing and I am sure that is due to a number of factors including a huge time commitment at the gym, running, lifting, whatever else she does to achieve that level of excellence. I mean how many hours a day does it take to achieve that? Great nutrition…I’m sure she doesn’t have a cheat day, ever. And genetics, there is some gold swimming in that woman’s gene pool for sure and god bless.

Now frail granny on the right, what’s her story? Is she depressed? Does she have some kind of disability or chronic disease? Did she eat bon bons and sit on the couch for 50 years or did things just come unglued for the past decade. Maybe her husband died 10 years ago and she got depressed and didn’t keep up with the running club. Maybe she worked 16 hours a day at some shitty job just to scrape by……the point is we don’t know.

I’m just tired of the little digs that come up on my Facebook feed, otherwise known as the judgement zone. Enough already people. Just do the best you can. More moderation, less judgement – please.  Just remember no one here gets out alive, regardless of how much you bench. Relax a little, it’s all temporary.