THE GARBAGE CAN CONFESSIONS

It started one week at work, after a particularly embarrassing sweets-binge, with the evidence in my garbage can.  As I looked inside, shame washed over me, and I began to wonder what the Office Cleaning Crew would think.  They don’t know me and I don’t know them.  Yet, this shameful candy evidence in my garbage can made me want to reach out to The Office Cleaning Crew …..  or the garbage can…..not sure which. 

Week #1: 

I took a paper towel and a fat sharpie then wrote the following note on it:

“I am very sorry for this disgusting candy wrapper mess in my garbage can.” 

At the end of the day on Friday I draped the note over the top of the garbage so it would not be missed. 

Week 2: 

  Ridiculously feeling the urge to make another statement about my garbage can, I wrote:

“I did not eat as much garbage (candy) this week, but, I did eat some cookies and some candy.”

There was no garbage associated with the cookies.

With that statement one has to wonder, who am I really talking to? 

The Office Cleaning Crew?

 My garbage can?   

 Myself?

God?          

Writing these notes makes me look crazy, however, I prefer to look upon it as repentance, purging, and, maybe let The Office Cleaning Crew know I am not a pig, and if I am, please know I am a human pig, and that I can laugh at myself. 

Week #3: 

It is amazing to me how much these garbage can confessions have already impacted my life.  Knowing I would be confessing to the garbage can about what I consumed during the week, the desire to eat the candy did not come.  The entire week passed with not one piece of candy passing my lips.  In addition, I walked at lunch for thirty minutes and on some days this week I even power walked every hour for three minutes. 

Friday happened next.  Sigh.  A coworker proudly announced Fritter Friday (a new idea apparently).  Who can pass on fritters?  Yes, I crumbled and had a fritter after a whole entire week of being good.

On one hand I am pleased the whole week went by sweet-free.  On the other hand I fumbled on the fritter.  I am calling that even. 

The garbage can confessions are becoming my weight-loss program.  Who knew?  Today, my note will say the following:

 “As you can see I ate a lot of salad this week and no candy.  I did have a fritter fumble.” 

As I write this, The Office Cleaning Crew comes to mind, I laugh, and wonder if they are looking forward to my confession this week.  Maybe they have not noticed.  It doesn’t matter.  The act itself of confessing my eating habits to the garbage can has obviously improved my diet.  

THE BABY

 A long time ago, me and my sisters (three of us) were all pregnant at the same time.  My older sister. who we will call Sister 1, was married and having her second baby due in March, 1980.  I was married and having my first baby due in January, also, 1980.  We were too young and we all got pregnant before being married, another childhood story for another time.

During this time, with Sister 1 and myself also married and out of the house, we began to notice some changes in our little sister, who we will call Sister 3.  Obviously, I am Sister 2.  Sister 3's demeanor became quiet, secretive, aloof.  The Parents, functioning alcoholics according to my opinion,  and elite members of the most prestigious club in town, which we will call the Moose Lodge for this forum, were oblivious to Sister 3 altogether.

There were also changes in her body.  Sister 3 wore regular clothes, however, was buying them in larger sizes.  This did not fool us Sisters.  One day, while driving Sister 3 to high school, I just frankly asked her if she was pregnant.  It took her a little bit by surprise, she paused, waited, and gave me a pointed "yes".  "Does Mom and Dad know?",  I asked.  She shook her head and stated she didn't know how to tell them.

Sister 3 was the tomboy of the family.  The closest thing to a "boy" my parents ever got.  Our family was proud when as a grade-schooler she insisted she join the boys baseball team.  Now this was the 60's and unheard of.  However, it happened and in the team picture it was impossible to tell she was a girl anyway.  Sister 3 did not, never did, ever mince words.  She said what she meant and she meant what she said.  I think this equally irritated and pleased Dad.  Dad used to call her "Little Miles" after his dad, while beaming with pride,  because she was so much like Grandpa and Dad, who had the same temperament.

Highly emotional moments make my brain freeze to some degree. This is why my memory is a bit sketchy at this point.  There were so many mixed emotions inside me and I could not process them quickly.  My memory tells me that I found out she was about 5 months along.  This meant she was as pregnant as Sister 1 and two months behind me.

It took many conversations, Sister 1 and myself, refusing to inform The Parents, forcing Sister 3 to tell them.  We felt she needed to take the responsibility to tell them since she created this situation.  It took two more months, 7 months along, to tell The Parents.

Since I was not present when this happened, or don't remember being present, how this revelation was  taken by The Parents is not known.  I do know, they "coped" by spending a lot of their time at the Moose Lodge, leaving a 15 year old, pregnant, afraid, lonely, emotional.....alone.

It was decided immediately between them all, a mutual agreement between The Parents and Sister 3, The Baby would be given up for adoption because that is what would be best for The Baby.  That decision....so bittersweet.  The joy for my first baby would forever be linked to the sorrow of Sister 3 giving up The Baby.  Same thing with Sister 1 and her second baby.

January blessed me with a beautiful baby girl we will call Snow White because she literally looked like her.  Lots of dark hair, fair skin, full red lips and very long eyelashes.  Even the other grandparents at the hospital commented on my Snow White's beauty.

The beginning of March blessed Sister 1 with a second son.  We carried on as if  Sister 3 had not been pregnant.  This had to be so hard for Sister 3.  She said nothing.  She asked nothing.  She went on as if this were not happening to her, in my opinion - the coping mechanism taught by The Parents, no doubt.

Six days after the birth of Sister 1's son, Sister 3 had The Baby.  This was a very weird situation with The Parents.  At the hospital, The Parents refused to let ANYONE see Sister 3, not even her own family and especially not friends.  We found this very strange, however, the family always did what Dad said.

The Parents have two ways of coping.  One, the Moose Lodge.  Two, refusing to talk about a situation making it non-existent to them.  We worried about Sister 3's emotional state, among other things.  We wanted to be a support system and it was frustrating to be forbidden to see her.  In our childhood home, feelings are not to be expressed out loud.

Later, Sister 3 told me she got the chance to see The Baby, a handsome, healthy Son, with lots of dark hair.  I think this made it easier on her.  The Baby was adopted through an agency, and soon,  was gone.  The Parents never talked about it.  Since all three of us have babies born close together the same year, there were some years I sent flowers to Sister 3 on that special, however, heartbreaking day. In watching our children grow,  the absence of The Baby was in the forefront of my mind, especially on their birthdays.  Sister 3, in my opinion never, ever got over giving The Baby up.  She knows rationally it was the right thing to do, emotionally and mentally it is a loss, just the same.  A family member missing, never forgotten.

For years, Sister 3 and The Baby's parents exchanged  non-identifying letters with updates.  It is me that named him The Baby.  All these years I have wondered about him, envisioned him, yearned for him, as well.  For some reason The Baby has always been close to my heart.

Recently, Sister 3 has decided it is time to try to find The Baby.  The adoption agency has since dis-banned.  She does not want to use Facebook to make a public search plea. She says that is too public for such a private manner.  In fact, Sister 3 has only told her two children and me that she wants to look for him.  I think she is afraid The Baby will reject her if found.  Sister 3 believes her children and The Baby have a right to know each other.  So even if he did reject her, maybe he would not reject his half siblings.........or me.

On August 8th, my Ancestry DNA kit was sent off so I can learn more about my heritage. Secretly, it is my hope The Baby also has done an Ancestry kit and is allowing DNA matches to contact him. This would be a dream come true for our family.  Blood is blood.

Searching for a man, born March 10th, 1980 in the western United States.  If you are reading this and think this could be you, contact me privately.

9-9-16  UPDATE:  Ancestry DNA test came back.  The Baby did not show up as a match.  Very disappointed.

THE POETRY PLACE

Based on this title, readers may expect a list of poetry.  I wish there were.  Instead, there is a very sad story I would love to share.  Telling this will probably turn my soul inside out, bare, for everyone to see.  This forum was created for these type of things exactly.  So here goes.

My childhood occurred in the 60's and 70's.  In those days, children were seen and not heard.  What Dad said....went.  He was always right.  If anyone dared express an opinion, it was clearly stated that is was wrong, because it was not Dad's opinion. Therefore, there was not a lot of encouragement to think for oneself or express feelings.  We stayed quiet while Dad was watching t.v.  Dad's mood dictated the mood for the entire house.

Dad was a good man, however.  In those days, love was expressed by having a roof over our heads and food on the table.  There were not many hugs, or spoken words of love. All homes in that era were not governed this way.  Some friends' homes were openly happy, humorous and had an aura of ease and comfort.  Unfortunately, this was not my home.

The need to explain my childhood, in a nutshell,  is directly related to The Poetry Place.  Feeling squelched, stilted, ignored, and unloved caused my personality trait to be a very sensitive, sympathetic, shy, backward, pushover.  My private thoughts ran rampant inside me.  I owned them.  They were mine.

Around twelve years old, all these feelings, good, bad, ugly, came to the brim of my soul and it became necessary to get them out.  This is how The Poetry Place was born.

I chose an orange three-ring binder.  Meticulously, purposefully, I thumbed through magazine after magazine and began cutting out letters that appealed to me.  The first page of my creation has these myriad of magazine letters glued to the very center of the page like this:
                                 
                                                         The Poetry Place
                                                                    by
                                                            (my real name)

The magazines gave me a sincere appreciation for photography.  One photo in particular spoke to me.  It was a candid shot of an elderly man with a cap of some sort.  It was a closeup so his face filled the entire page.  The old man's expression captured my heart and it is very hard to explain what the expression represented.  He was not smiling, looked as if he had just wiped his eyes, as his hands were in the frame around his mouth, but not covering it.  Immediately, this picture was cut out and glued to a sheet of white paper and put into this book. To this very day I wonder who he was, what his situation and what he was feeling.  Each and every deep wrinkle on his face had a story to tell. His eyes begged to be listened to.

In a notebook, I began to spill out every feeling, thought, idea that I was unable to share otherwise.  Poem after poem was written, typed by an old typewriter, onto white paper, and magazine photos that matched the poem were glued to the side of the poem. Each entry was like imprinting my heart and soul and I began to feel release...............comfort.....joy......accomplishment.

It could be said this poem book was a journal.  To me it was much, much more.  It was a part of me.  Like my arm or leg.  It breathed and lived just like me.

Eventually, a tragic event occurred around the age of thirteen.  That story will be another post someday.  This event rocked me to the core and I cried and cried and mourned and harbored absolute anger towards my parents.  It was a helpless feeling, hopeless to me, and there was nobody to turn to. This is when, once again, I turned to my best friend, The Poetry Place.  This is the shift from child to teenager in my writings.  Although my twelve year old poems were very "adult" I was still a child.  The tragedy clearly transformed my book, and me, to the next level of youth, no longer a child.  Turning the tragedy into a valid poem did some good for me. It locked the event into a written truth.

As my teenage years continued, so did my additions to The Poetry Place.  I felt, I wrote, I pasted pictures.  Over and over and over.  This continued into adulthood and I carried this book close to me everywhere I moved and continued to add to it, although the older I got the less frequent I wrote.

By the time I was twenty-seven, there were three children, two ex-husbands and a busy life raising my children alone.  There were no entries anymore.  Still, I kept this book close to me, in fact, this book was me.  It represented my soul.  The Poetry Place, my best friend since I was twelve, sat on a shelf in my bedroom as proof that I existed, felt, and thought.

During secretarial school, we were required to give a talk and be videotaped.  It was meant for us to see for ourselves, our mannerisms, our speech, how we portray ourselves to others.  Always, I was more comfortable  behind the camera. I despised pictures because pictures seem to accentuate my flaws. It takes practice, makeup and retakes to get a good picture.  So I dreaded this assignment.

It was important to me to talk about something I was passionate about.  I poured over my soul, The Poetry Place, and decided to talk about the tragedy and share the poem I wrote about all those years ago.

The day of the taping, I went to my place of employment where my secretarial skills could be used by helping the Personnel Director.  How I got to that place is another story in itself.  Let's just say for now, I was doing a damn good job, but, politics got in the way.  That morning I walked into the office and froze.  Literally froze in movement and speech.  One of my secretarial classmates sat at MY desk performing MY duties.  Furious, humiliated, the writing on the wall became very clear. I had been replaced and this was a shitty, unprofessional way to tell me.

Knowing it was necessary to pull off this tape recording on this very day, in front of The Bitch that stole my position, was daunting to say the least.  Leaving work for the very last time, (I quit on the spot), I bawled like a baby until school started that afternoon.  Whenever I get very angry, I cry.  In fact, I cry over everything and have been dubbed "The Family Crier".  It is this raw emotion that is at the heart of my writing, therefore, there is no need to apologize for that. It is a gift.

Obvious to everyone in the room that I had been crying, only three people knew why.  Me, The Bitch, and the teacher.  I came to school early and told my teacher all about it.  Walking to the front of the class in my brand new dress, a black and white beauty that accentuated my tiny waist and made me look like I had a nice hour-glass figure, that actually, was barely there.  The dress made me feel good while I briefly looked over The Bitch's jeans and casual top, feeling vindicated on that issue at least.

Raw, emotional, and true to myself I shared my tragedy with the class and finished my talk by reading the emotional  poem.  The class sat silent for a few seconds.  I drew a breath of satisfaction, because I am very good at reading people and I could tell the class was touched.  As I closed my book the class began to applaud.  This brought on more tears from the shear realization that my life mattered.  The tragedy shared, somehow helped to bring closure.

When the emotions take over, life becomes a blur and my body moves while my mind is not taking inventory of my belongings.  I was sure I held the book close and took it home and laid it on the shelf of my bedroom closet like always.

After I received my Certificate of Completion finishing the Secretarial course, I made a very bad decision.  My "friend with benefits" over the past nine years was at my window late one night.  For this forum we will call him Meany.  Meany had been asking me to marry him for three years. Deep down I knew this was a mistake.  Unfortunately, he caught me at a very vulnerable time of my life.  Raising my children alone, working full time, barely scraping by, suddenly I decided I was tired of being broke.  Marrying Meany would certainly help that situation, I convinced myself.

It happened fast.  He helped us move out of my three bedroom, 2 bathroom condo and move several towns away, back to my hometown.  Marriage changed him immediately.  Instead of "friend with benefits" I had a controlling abusive snake for a husband.  He did not allow me to properly go through my belongings and forced me to throw boxes away without checking them first.  My gut told me this would be a very expensive mistake.

Four months later, he beat me from the front of the house to the back on New Years Eve.  Teetering, reeling at the back door with no shoes or coat, I had a choice to run or stay and get beat more.  My children asleep (I hoped) in the bedroom inside the house.........I knew he wouldn't hurt them.  So I ran.  I ran barefoot in the snow and puked all the way to the police station.  A policeman drove me back to the house, Meany was arrested, and I literally  had a couple hours to pull my children and belongings out of the house.

We relocated to an apartment and somehow my family had removed my belongings from Meany's house to my apartment.  When everything was put away and the children were asleep, I longed to hold my best friend, The Poetry Place.  The search began.  Each location I searched I came up empty handed.  Becoming frantic, I searched more fervently, over and over, looking in places and boxes I know had already been searched, as if more searching would make my beloved book, my soul, appear.

Gone. Lost. My beloved book, my soul, my poems, pictures,..........The Poetry Place......gone forever.  I was devastated beyond repair.  I still am.  It has been twenty-seven years missing.  Right now, tears are welling up, a familiar pain inside my belly, (yes, real physical pain), and the overwhelming loss of my beloved book has scarred me permanently.  A part of me........ missing. Forever.

If anyone ever sees an orange three-ring binder with my soul inside...............I am here.

BUILDING CHARACTER

This post is likely to come out like a baby projectile vomiting, because if I don't write, my head will explode.  SIGH   *takes a deep breath*

As a writer, the decision was made long ago to refrain from reading books because my secret fear was that I would subconsciously absorb others' writing style.  It is vital that my style is my own.  With that being said, a few years ago, I kept hearing this curious hubbub of chatter about Fifty Shades of Gray.  

One day while sitting in my tiny town's corner store table using the WiFi, the Store Lady, saw that all three volumes of these books had been purchased on my Kindle.  It is my Kindle, however, when I won it, I didn't know what to do with it so my daughter set it up and began downloading and reading books.  (The Store Lady is probably thinking, likely story...)   Anyway, one by one, the Store Lady had all three volumes ready to read.  She paused, leaned over the table, looked me square in the eye and said, "Take my advice.  DO NOT read these unless your husband is home".   I giggled and  told her I planned to read them, regardless.   

When I begin a book it quickly becomes my main focus and I get so engrossed that every possible moment is spent reading.  It took me three days to make it through  all three books.  The story is a great one.  The sex is surprising, refreshing and bold.  The characters in the book were my favorite though.  The Cinderella-type....... rags to riches, falling in love with Prince Charming.........ah......I found the story better than the sex, frankly.  Halfway through the second book I began thumbing past the sex scenes and catching up with the fantastical story.  It really is a great story.  Hats off to the writer.  During the third and final book, I can honestly say the unconventional sex was predictable and boring.  On the flip side, the story was captivating, thrilling, suspenseful and I had somehow absorbed these characters into my life as if they were distant relatives.  

Now, I know the book is fictional and that it is irrational to accept into one's life characters from a book that do not exist in real life.  But they are here.  *points to heart*   Inside me.  In fact, all the characters from books I've read during my life, live inside me, to some degree. They are not me, just a part of what makes me.....me.   

Last night I finished a book called MAUDE.  Today, it is like I am a medium and I can feel Maude with me.  I know that sounds nuts, but, I have had "medium" moments and this could be one.  The story is told by a granddaughter about her beloved Grandma.  Maude's life begins in the early 1900's and the reader is taken all the way to the 1960's.  If Maude is here, she is feeling my hug and hearing my thoughts of endearing respect and admiration.  

Some people say suffering builds character.  There has been plenty of suffering in my life. Some brought on by myself, while a different type of suffering,,,,,changed me...the type brought on by others.  The cruel bullies, young and old, the abusive ex-husbands, nonchalant family members by their choice....yes, I have suffered.  However, these experiences have been more about teaching me new ways of thinking, feeling and behaving. After the pain, of course.  Sometimes, pain takes a long time to get through.

The character I have built has been by taking on traits of all the unsung hero's, the valiant heroines, the respected survivors of real tragedies. This is my character.  All these people, fiction, real, it doesn't matter, they LIVED!  They live because writers gave birth to them on pages. They continue to be immortal because they thrive inside my heart and soul. 

This is me.  Once an empty vessel, meandering through life looking for a place to belong.  The outside world disappointed me over and over. One day the light turned on and underneath it was a book in my hand. In opening up the pages I accepted character,  after character,  into my soul and we, all of us, continue to be complete today.  One day someone will open a book and it will be mine, about my life, and it is my sincere hope that the reader laughs and cries with me and instills a little of my character into their hearts.  

BELL BOTTOM BLUES

The 70's.  Man, no better time in my life than the 70's.  I will never get over that decade.  The classic rock, the 8-track tapes, the cassettes, and, actually, the big record albums,  We loved playing The Carpenters and singing it in the kitchen as if we were stars, my sisters and I. And the best part, the bell bottoms!  What great memories.

It occurred to me that I don't have to give them up.  Nope.  At first, I began to dream of making my own bell bottom jeans.  I would make the waist with today's style......nobody want to go back to the full high-waist bell bottoms.  In the 70's, before I had kids, my body was young, tight, firm and the high waist was ok.  Besides we didn't know any better.  But now.......NO WAY.  High waist would just make my middle-aged belly look six months pregnant.  So I envisioned a retro/modern bell bottom jean.

Next, it occurred to me that there might just be bell bottoms out there.  So the search began.  After some digging, I found them!  True to the 70's, hail to the 21st century, bell bottom jeans with today's waist.  My mouse did not hesitate as I scoured the site and picked out a couple different pair and bought them.  And the wait began.

The reason in the first place I wanted bell bottom jeans is because my husband and I are going to the KANSAS concert soon.  Oh I love them.  This is one group I possessed the 8-track tape for and wish I still did.  Kansas.  In person!  Who wants to show up to a 70's band concert without bell bottom jeans!  Not me!

Yesterday they arrived.  The size chart was different and I ordered a size that I have never worn.  However, I will not elaborate.  Let's just say, I am NOT the actual size these pants came in.  So I have been riddled with worry about the pants not fitting and not having time to return and order a different size before the concert.

While excitedly opening the package I asked my husband if there was anything in the pile of mail that would deflate my happiness over the bell bottoms.  "Yes" he flatly stated.  I knew it.  Round 3 with the IRS about to commence.  Them wanting money that is not theirs.  Grrrrrrrr.....however, I was still ecstatic about my pants.

Taking my new pants into the bedroom i tried on a pair.  YOWSA.  They fit!  Maybe a little loosely, however, I will take loose over tight pants any day.  No camel toe allowed! I pranced into the living room and showed my Honey.  He smiled....not sure if it was a smile of approval or ridiculousness.  I didn't care. I loved them and that is all that mattered.  Personally, I think he secretly wonders if I am a nut case anyway.  I don't care about that either.  I am who I am.

The second pair fit even better and I adoringly pointed out to him how the bell bottoms completely covered my feet.....and then some!  Just like in the old days.  Oh, this second pair is heaven.  Dragging the ground like they should.  Anything off the ground was considered "floods" back in my day and only those labeled "geeks" wore floods.

Not really caring about the answer, I asked my Honey if he would be embarrassed to be seen with me at the concert in these pants.  He chuckled and affirmatively said, "No".  That made this even better.  My excitement was not going to quell.  I washed those buggers and dried them right away.

 Today,  I wore them to the office. Like a nut, I proudly pranced my bell bottom clad body around the entire office saying, "Anyone want to meet the 1970's?"  Ha ha............wondering what they think,.......yes....caring...no.  Ell no!  I am one happy bell bottom breezy groovy chic today!

BLADDER UP!

Today I was shopping in a cute little store and began engaging in conversation with cute little college girl. Before I knew it I was telling her about the horrors of aging, and that I planned to put the truth about what happens, in my blog. She asked for the blog name.  So far, I have not given this information to anyone at all.  I created a  public Facebook account under my author pen name and posted this blog info on it.  Since I really do not know this girl I decided to give it to her with the promise she won't tell anyone it is me.  So here goes.

A few years ago I was working in a career that is highly physical, requiring heavy lifting and a lot of walking and standing.  During this time I was also enjoying regular Brazilian Waxes.  Ahhhhhhh..they are fantastic and worth the reasonable, quick pain, and embarrassment.  I got busy and missed one or two, therefore, I was shaving what I could reach and attempted to shave "down under" if you know what I mean.

With one foot on the toilet, a mirror in one hand, the razor in the other, I began to attempt this difficult task.  Honing the mirror into the correct position, My hoo haw "down under" was in full plain view. We have all looked at our hoo haws before (don't you deny it) so I knew something was wrong.  Very wrong.  I took a closer look and gasped out loud.  I may even have swore. What I saw put me in mild shock.  There was a creamy white, pink veined, "ball" right inside my vagina.  Between horror and curiosity, the curiosity won and I touched it.  Nothing.  No feeling at all. Knowing that I gave up my uterus at age 28, I knew this was not it.  I put the mirror down and abandoned the shaving project.

I hurried into the bedroom and cried out loud to my my husband, "my bladder is falling out!
  Look, LOOK!"
This got his attention and he said, "What?".......

.I laid on the bed, opened my legs and demanded he look.
 "Look!  It is right there. Right inside my hoo haw peeking out.  Like a baby crowning, but it's not a baby!"

Detecting the panic in my voice, he looked.  "Closer!" I demanded.  He got closer, looked intently, and peeked out from between my legs and said, "I'm sorry I don't see anything".
 "Get the mirror!  Let me see!"
He got the mirror and gave it to me.  We did my best to position the mirror so I could see my hoo haw while laying down.  He was right.  It was gone.

Confused, I went back to the bathroom, mirror in hand, and looked while standing up, again.  Being more aware of the feeling inside my hoo haw, I did feel a sort of "shift" of something I had never felt before.  It was very subtle, but definitely movement.  Taking another look, I already knew what I was going to see.  And as sure as the sky is blue, there it was, my bladder, hanging just inside my hoo haw.

At this point I began racking my brain about what I had been feeling to ascertain if I had any symptoms of my bladder falling.  The only thing I could remember, is that for about a year, sex had become a little painful. I giggled at the hilarity of it. My husband has been  banging my bladder all this time.  Tough little body part!

Sitting in the doctors office I knew this meant surgery.  The doctor examined me and asked me questions.
"Have you had any breakthrough peeing"?   "Do you smoke"?  I shook my head "no" to both of these.  "Do you do heavy lifting"?  BINGO  I nodded.  "Have you or are you in menopause"?  Again, I nodded.  The doctor wrote some things down and told me he is very surprised that I have not been peeing my pants.  Apparently, his examination determined my bladder had fallen 85% out of place.  "You should be peeing your pants" he stated.  This was concerning to him so he insisted I see the urologist.  He was going to have to have the urologist in on the surgery to put my bladder back where it goes anyway.

The urologist found out why I had not been peeing my pants.  My bladder had fallen into my hoo haw and the ureter (the hose that go from the kidneys to the bladder) had kinked, preventing the urine flow into bladder.  SCARY.  No wonder my urine stream had been lessened.  Hmmmm........

Surgery was scheduled a couple weeks away.  One night during this time, I began to vomit violently.  I could not stop vomiting.  After sitting  by the toilet for several hours we decided I should go to the emergency room.  They gave me meds to stop vomiting and one of them was Phenergan.  Little did I know, this caused severe Restless Leg Syndrome. By this time I was very familiar with the feeling of my bladder retreating up when I laid down and my bladder falling into my hoo haw when I sat or stood up.  It was sickening.

Needless to say it was a rough night.  My restless legs wanted to go jogging.  My body and head wanted to sleep.  My legs won.  I laid there trying to resist the urge to do bicycle movements with my legs. I couldn't......I began a series of laying down and doing bicycle movements, then sitting up to look at my legs, willing them to be still.  This up and down series lasted hours.  Unfortunately, every time I laid down I felt my bladder retreat, and sitting up my bladder falling in.  Up, down, in, out. Up, down, in, out. Up, down, in, out, ALL NIGHT LONG.  Inside myself I realized the hilarity of this situation if I was not so miserable.  I vowed to someday tell this story because you will never hear it anywhere else.

Stay tuned for the hoo haw surgery story to follow.

CELEBRITY BRATS

Today I was reading the news and saw an article, supposedly, featuring Heather Locklear and Richie Sambora. Darling, talented people. The article was not about them, sadly.  It was about their daughter.  I began to seethe so I don't remember her name.  Not important.  Apparently, she is a model.  Go figure.  Hypothetically, take this same girl, subtract the famous parents, add her as a "nobody" and the result will not be that she is a model.  Or even news worthy. 

Why do brats of celebrities automatically get a "get in free" card to be famous?  Do they have the same talents as their parents?  Obviously not.  Do they have good looks?  Not always.  The point is...it doesn't matter!  The children of famous, rich, celebrities are growing like mold in the industry!  

There are a few cases, in which, these "children" don't even have to work to have the paparazzi taking pictures of them picking their noses.  I am sure the same "few" come to your mind as well....like Paris Hilton that can sit with a little doggy and have photo shoots because mummy and daddy are filthy rich.  Give me a break.  We don't give two hoots about your life!  You brats are infiltrating my beloved t.v. 

Another that may come to mind is a crew of no-talent-never-worked-never-broke-a-nail brats that are a package deal, because, apparently, nobody can just read about one. The Kartrashians, ooooops, I stand corrected, The Kardashians.  Remind me what any of you did to EARN being famous and rich! We don't care who you are dating, married, had babies with, where you took them to be baptized, or what you think of your daddy, errrrr.....mummy?   

There are a slim number of somewhat talented actors and actresses that, yes, did ride on the fame coat-tail of their parents.  Sometimes I can even bear to watch them.  How I get through it is quite interesting.  While watching the "mini-me" of whatever actor/actress they came from, I go back in my mind and think of  how hard it was for mummy or daddy to break into the business.  The slamming of doors, the calls of rejection they probably suffered, before "being discovered" by a sharp movie executive.  It takes me back to a simpler time, I suppose, is what it boils down to.  

Regardless who they are, how they got there, my message to all celebrity brats that have never had to wipe their own hiney, "Shame on you"!   My respect and admiration will always go to those that fought the fight, that were discovered because of their very own talent,  hard work, and determination.  

MY KALEIDOSCOPE

                                                           

As a kid, we all had a kaleidoscope, at one time or another.  It would create all the oooo's and aaaahhhh's of what YOU created by simply rotating the viewer.  

This is exactly how I perceive life.  Life goes on all around us and we all see it differently.  My siblings and I can recall certain events in which we were all present, however, we all have a different story about the same event.  This is the kaleidoscope view.  

There are days I need, and want, to share the kaleidoscope in my head.  It would be a cleansing effect, I think, for everyone to see, what I perceive.   So this is the beginning of a kaleidoscope ride for all the world to see.  Stay tuned!