Weird Wednesday

Short work weeks, like this Labor Day week, often feel screwy. There’s the confusing Tuesday that feels like Monday thing. The need to get five days worth of work done in four and the sudden appearance of Friday is met, not with joy, but with the panic of not having moved enough work off one’s workstation and onto someone else’s.

Then there are the added surprises, big and small -- like spending the long weekend not doing housework or laundry and realizing on Tuesday-Monday that you have no clean underwear that fits. Sadly, there is a drawer half full of undies that would still fit if you hadn’t spent the past 10.5 months not working out due to first healing a fractured leg, then babying it with its lingering nerve damage / numbness/ limited ankle mobility. The slower pace, somewhat hindered mobility, and newfound hobby of eating everything in sight have facilitated the recent acquisition of close to 15 pounds of fresh weight, quite possible some of the same flab newly shed by friends with more dietary discipline and a faster walking speed. 

On Wednesday of this week, as I was saying my morning goodbyes to the dogs (different than my lunchtime goodbyes) and taking my last sweeping glance at the place before leaving for work, I noticed a few signs of major laziness that needed remedying. There was a bag of trash set against the kitchen wall, waiting to be transported downstairs and eventually to the trash drop off place. The coffee table was cluttered with papers. Ditto for one of the kitchen counters. The couch pillows were heaped in the casual rearrangement preferred by the dogs. The table in the living room that sits against the wall was buried -- yes BURIED -- in plastic shopping bags. Two weeks earlier, I had decided to fuse layers of plastic to make fabric to construct a garment for a recycled fashion show in the Riverfest festival this weekend. First, I solicited bags from my coworkers, and boy did they respond. I spent several nights fusing three layers of plastic in a single sheet, many times over. Then one night drawing and cutting skirt pattern shapes and another fusing seams to connect six pattern pieces into a skirt. The rest of the raw material inventory (aka plastic shopping bags) sits on the table, sorted by size and color, atop several early fused layers of six sheets that are too thick and crunchy to use for clothing.

I never have company, there’s basically no chance in hell a man is going to show up to pick me up for a date, and after four months of the house being listed on the market with few people looking at it, it’s really hard to maintain the optimism and energy to make sure the place is ready for viewings every day. Like, practically impossible. There are days when I look back at the place and what I see as disarray and think, “Well, nobody’s been looking at it, I’m not going to be late for work just so I can take the trash to the basement / put away that sweater / pick up that dog hair,  etc.”

On Wednesday, I calculated the number of house viewings in the past four months (not that many), turned and waltzed out the door without dealing with any of the clutter. Yes, it was an actual waltz step in my mind, as I glided past multiple doggy poop bags (okay, a giant pile of them) tossed near the porch after returning from multiple walks with the fur babies that involve me transporting their poop in little black bags around the neighborhood. I traversed the brick walkway with the weeds growing between the bricks at a shocking rate. I surveyed the shaggy part of the lawn, uncut over the long weekend because I spent two hours trimming the hedges and low hanging tree branches so I could stop crouching under them with the mower and then was too hot, sweaty, hungry and tired to push the mower for the 45 minutes needed to tidy the lawn. Besides, only the half of the lawn with the fast growing scraggly grass needed a cut, the front section is some different kind of grass that doesn’t seem to actually grow. Instead of suffering heat exhaustion with additional yard effort, I had hit the shower and settled in for a full day Dr Who marathon on BBC America. And then it rained on and off over the next three days. Oops. Grass be growing now.

In any event, once at work on Wednesday, my 9:30 meeting started an hour late then ran twice as long as it was scheduled (typical, when they happen at all). It took a crazy turn when my coworker and I found ourselves suddenly reviewing a list of types of cattle as part of the work. Did you know there are over 800 breeds of cattle recognized worldwide? And that there are racing and fighting breeds? Yeah, me neither. RX3 might be my new favorite cattle breed name -- it sounds sleek, like a race car. And I'm sorry, but Jamaica Black, Jamaica Hope and Jamaica Red sound like types of pot.

When I returned to my desk and my cell phone, there were two messages from the real estate central showing center seeking approval to show the house from 1:00 to 2:00. My realtor and I had requested a one hour notice so that I could (theoretically -- if possible) get home and take the dogs out of the house. The scheduling folks had been waiting 1.5 hours for my response, and the showing time requested was now a mere 20 minutes from my hearing the message. I was just about to head to lunch at home anyway, but talk about panic. I asked for a 15 minute delay and sped across town. I grabbed the trash bag from the kitchen, loaded it with the poop bags from the porch and brought it down to the car. I neatened the stack of magazines and mail on the coffee table and kitchen counter and remade the bed destroyed daily by Winston and his luxuriating under the covers, opened the blinds, leashed up the dogs and fled the premises five minutes before the realtor and his client were due to arrive.

After the trash drop, which took approximately 12 minutes, I needed to figure out what to do for the next hour. Food seemed appropriate as I was hungry and now separated from my sparsely furnished pantry, so I went through the drive through at Backyard Burger for a veggie patty for myself and meat for the dogs. The heavy traffic prevented taking a left out of the place to head to Dunbar Cave Park near the house, so after a few curse word filled minutes, it was a redirect with a couple of rights and finally a left into Rotary Park (a County park) to eat and walk. The walk was quick -- I was wrangling two dogs in a new place, so they were all over trying to get all their sniffs and squirts in. There are no trash barrels there (Who knew? Not me!), so I was juggling the burger trash, cell phone, and keys, and trying to not be tripped up by the dogs. We lasted about five minutes.

Still with time to kill, we headed to Dunbar Cave State Park (which has trash barrels AND dog poop pickup bags!). I parked next to a dark green car with a lady talking on a cell phone,  got the dogs out and started walking. We didn’t get very far when I heard the woman yelling. She and I had the only cars in that part of the lot and were the only people around, so I figured she was yelling to me. 

As I got closer, the yelling lady explained she had a flat tire and was on her way to a job interview “right up the street.” I asked the address, as it’s my neighborhood and might know where it was.  She just kept reading from a tattered scrap of paper “Up the street. Past two churches and some apartments.” Ummm, ok. She acted like she assumed I would give her a ride and there was no reason to not help her, so I got the dogs back into the car. As I walked around to the driver’s side of my car, I made sure to check her tires. (Hey, I watch a lot of Lifetime Movies these days in my new lazy, weight building routine and I know that attractive ladies can also be psychotic murderers.)  Flat tire, indeed -- it looked like someone had sliced open the side wall.

In order to take in a human passenger I had to move the stuff into the back seat with the dogs that usually dwells on the passenger seat -- my purse, agenda book, sweater needed to prevent hypothermia in my cubicle, two CD cases that don’t fit into the car's storage thingy, plus the new bag of trash from lunch at the park with no trash barrels. I assessed my passenger as I buried my purse under all the other stuff on the floor in the back seat. She was dressed neatly in brown pants and an earth-toned print blouse (that hopefully camouflague dog hair), her blond hair was in a thick, loose braid down her back, and she carried a medium-sized,  buttery soft leather purse that was maybe a designer bag from TJ Maxx or a decent knockoff. She was skinnier that I was in my good old size four days of one short year ago. I calculated her to be a size two, and figured my new 15 pounds of heft would come in handy and I could take her if she turned out to be some psycho.

She kept repeating the directions “Up the street. Past two churches and some apartments.” I thought I knew the business park -- I drive by it all the time, and never knew exactly what was inside it. We found the entrance, and finally the building. I wished her good luck with her interview and told her I hoped she didn’t have too much trouble getting a ride back to her car and dealing with the flat tire. Then, the dogs and I returned home at the end of our one hour exile. I got them inside, and turned around and went back down my weed covered brick walkway, along the shaggy lawn and raced back to work for my afternoon meeting. But hey, at least my hedges and low hanging tree branches are trimmed. I hope the potential real estate buyer noticed that part and not the rest of it.

Nunya Business

One lonely plan-free Friday night, after rifling through the cabinets and finding nothing upon which to snack (not even chocolate baking chips), trolling the six bookcases in the house and finding nothing of real interest to read, and suffering through an Olympic opening ceremony that included an interview with a swimmer conducted by Ryan Seacrest, it was time to take measures. The Seacrest thing had pushed me over the edge, and it was “Dohner Out” as I hurried to turn off the TV and exit the house. The problem was where to go.

Bars were ruled out, which pretty much left shopping as the only viable solo option. As I am trying to minimize my stuff, not acquire more things, I chose to visit Kroger, where the flyer indicated a special on Fritos, Cheetos and Ruffles. At least I could stuff my face upon my return home. And maybe I’d meet Prince Charming there and it would turn into a coffee date or something. Yes, it’s an idiotic fantasy, but some days, (especially Friday and Saturday) it’s all I have. Unfortunately, halfway to the store I realized I was wearing the unflattering pants and socks and sneakers I wore to walk the dogs after work. Ugh.

Once in the store, I studied the sushi display but most of it is covered in some kind of sauce stuff, so I ruled it out and headed to the salty snack row, where I deliberated over my junk food options as if my life depended on it. The bonus at Kroger is, the chips are in the same row as the beer, so I could scope out the men on a beer run, not that I’d be bold enough to do anything even if I did see someone attractive. What would I do, sidle up to the guy and purr in my sultriest tones, “Oh, darling, you just chose my favorite grocery store beer and doesn’t this place have a decent selection for a grocery store ... so how about you get another six pack and I’ll help you drink it?” Right. I would have to be already really, really drunk to be that bold.

The Frito/ Cheetos/ Ruffles deal was three bags for $7 and my reason for being there, but I chose instead, store brand tortilla chips on sale for $1 and the smaller-than-family size bag of Lay’s. Lay’s are my favorite major brand, mass market chips and a workable substitute for the Tri-Sum chips of my youth that I can’t get unless I order them by the case. History has already proven caseloads of chips to not be a good idea. There is no pantry place to store them out of sight (and thus out of mind), so I just eat them all in a few days. For real.

After the painstaking salty snack deliberations, I extended my big night out by wandering over to the frozen treats case to really jazz up my pity party of one. I lingered over the Ben & Jerry’s and the Haagen-Daz and Bunny and Breyer’s and Edy’s and store brands. There were the no-longer-a-half-gallon new 1.5 quart size on a two-for-one sale, but the freezer was already full of pasta and shrimp and two ears of corn from last summer that I keep forgetting to throw out. I had to be practical and think smaller.

There was a woman in the ice cream row talking loudly on a cell phone, which was kind of annoying, as it was interfering with my frozen treat musings, but it got even weirder when she put her phone away and continued talking to herself in a normal conversational tone of voice. She was expressing out loud what she was thinking about the ice cream. “Oh, caramel swirl, that could be good, but wait that is the store brand, ewww. Oh, look, Ben And Jerry’s Chunky Monkey. Hmmm. What the heck? Frozen Greek yogurt? Blah, blah, blah.” Meanwhile, my eyes were rolling and the voice in my head, which I am fortunately able to generally keep from coming out my mouth, was responding with “Lady, you are coming off like a lunatic, stop narrating your ice cream shopping and shut the hell up!” Cripes.

I hurried my selection to get away from the lady talking to herself and grabbed a small container of store brand chocolate and one of rainbow sherbert, each on sale for $1. I felt her chastising gaze upon my lowbrow store brand choices, but fortunately, her commentary didn’t extend to critiquing my selections, at least not while I was there. If it had, I’d have been forced to tell her if it was so offensive to her, then maybe she should give me the money to buy something less heinous like Ben and Jerry's. But most likely not.

At the register, my potato chips, tortilla chips, ice cream and sherbert moved along on  the conveyor belt. When I handed the cashier my Kroger card (gas points, baby!), she muttered something. I said “Sorry?” and she repeated herself, slightly less mumbly, but still barely intelligible. “Hi. Are you having a good day?”

What is this, some new customer inquisition model? Wouldn’t a more appropriate question be, “Did you find everything you were looking for?” to which I might have responded, “Well, I found my chips, but alas, the Prince Charming I hoped to find in the beer row was nowhere to be seen.”

But come on.  Am I “having a good day?” Seriously? Isn’t that kind of none of your business little Miss Grocery Store Cashier? Cripes, My ex-husband didn’t even get that conversationally personal in seven years of marriage. I wanted to shriek “ I’m a single woman, alone in the grocery store at 9:00 on a Friday night buying chips and ice cream. Do I look like I’m having a good day?”

But I didn’t want to come off looking like the lunatic talking out loud to herself  in the ice cream row and who was now behind me at the checkout, so what I really said was, “Uh, not really.”

Let’s analyze: Is it necessary to my purchase transaction for me to have had a good day? Maybe this line of questioning is a new FDA requirement for buying junk food, or Kroger is now screening people for depression at the checkout. I wonder what she would have asked if I’d been buying razor blades, too. Just stop the busybody chit chat, take my money, give me my damned chips and ice cream and let me get out of here. I’m sure the chatterbox behind me was all too eager to divulge the details of her day, so leave me alone and quiz her.

Smellin' Money

We get business and banking trade magazines at work, which are circulated throughout the office. Titles including Nashville Business Journal, Nashville Post, ABA Bank Marketing Magazine and Independent Banker routinely land on my desk and I actually read them. Sometimes they are a little beyond my scope of work or interest, but there is almost always something in each magazine to catch my eye.

Oftentimes, the articles I enjoy are about using social media to promote business, new businesses opening, customer relationship management or successful bank marketing campaigns from around the country. I always scan the photos and mentally critique the men in them. Once in a great while, the critique is along the line of “Dang, he’s hot. That beautifully tailored suit really brings out his gray hair. Oh, crap, he’s wearing a wedding ring.” Unfortunately, it’s more like “Eww.... did this guy not know he was having his picture taken for this article? What’s with the clown hair?”  Yes, I know ... I probably shouldn’t be reading a business magazine like it’s the match.com listings, but hey, I’m single and drowning in a sea of couples. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Just as New Yorkers were reported to read the obituaries looking for apartment openings and I read them in search of new job openings, this is just a natural, less morbid extension of the process.

In my overactive inner life, if and when I see a photo of a hot businessman or banker in a nicely tailored suit and it’s not mentioned that he’s married, I would drop him a brief, professional note commenting on his brilliant quote in the article, we begin corresponding, and soon, we live happily ever after. It could happen! I had a coworker once who met her handsome and amazing husband when he was an expert witness in a case she was trying. My cousin made a wish on her birthday cake and that very same night her wish was granted when she literally bumped into the handsome Scotsman who would become her husband! See! Real life examples of happily ever after. Unfortunately, in six years of reading the magazines at work, I’ve not yet seen one banker or businessman I found attractive enough to take out my pen and get busy, so I can’t even execute the first step of my fantastical plan. But it doesn’t stop me from hoping.

Today, there was something in the ABA Bank Marketing Magazine that caught my eye. Two things actually. One was  an article by Robert Hall on relationships in our increasingly technology driven world that fosters fewer reasons to leave the house (I need the book -- “This Land of Strangers”). The other was a brief article about a new cologne. Yes, cologne. In a banking magazine. It’s a cologne called Money, comes in His and Her versions, packed in a box with shredded US currency. It claims to smell like freshly minted cash. So, it’s possible to look like money, smell like money and really and truly be SO MONEY! Even the website name is inspiring ... www.liquidmoney.com.

I want this. I need this. I couldn’t wait to get home and check how much money it takes to smell like money (just $42.50! Subtle hint ... my birthday is in one month). This could kickstart the other fantasy that runs through my head ... the one where I meet my personalized version of Prince Charming Mr. Right in the seat next to me on an airplane, while standing in line at a coffee shop or when reaching for the perfect avocado in the produce department of the local grocery store. This fantasy is the reason I rarely leave the house without makeup. One never knows. I already told you about two real life instances of which I am personally acquainted.

Smelling like Money!!! Maybe that’s the golden ticket to attracting a guy who at least owns a nice suit, but more likely, I will attract the panhandler on the street who is in desperate need of money. But which version do I get? If and when I remember to bother to spritz on cologne, it’s Armani for Men, because most women’s fragrances smell too powdery or flowery and make me gag. There is no point grossing myself out with cologne, as there are enough reeking ladies running around the ‘Ville handling the task for me.

I checked the list of “resellers” on the Money website, hoping to test drive “The Fragrance of Success” which includes “the distinct note of fresh, crisp bills” (Her Money) or “the unique aroma of newly-printed bills” (His Money). Sadly, the only Tennessee reseller is, of all places, “The Cowboy Store” in some town called Huntingdon that I’ve never heard of before. Interestingly, many of the reseller names contain the words “Western” and “Cowboy” with Oklahoma and Texas having the most resellers. The smell of money will be heavy in the air over the oil well states. Strangely, the giant state of California has only two resellers, and Massachusetts and New York have none. Asia is listed with just one reseller in the entire region. Europe has one in Lithuania and England has just a website listed. Perhaps the answer is to boost my own money by becoming a reseller in one of the unrepresented areas  ... Hmmmm.

Matching Chemistry

A year ago, I signed up for an online dating service. This was not my first dalliance with modern matchmaking technology. My most recent marriage began with a match-dot-com introduction in 1999, and even though it didn’t quite turn out to be a forever thing and ended in 2008 with approximately 10-pages of a marriage dissolution agreement, I was willing to give the concept another shot. I crafted a profile representing the active lifestyle I prefer and posted several photos. Choices were made for preferred physical and philosophical traits in a companion, the requested credit card number was tapped in and the excited anticipation began for the flood of handsome, available, allegedly compatible matches located within a 50-mile radius. I mean seriously, my gal pals and facebook cyber friends boost my ego all the time telling me how great I am, so it only makes sense that there would be a veritable stampede of men in the local viewing area clamoring for my attention once they realized my availability. Right?

I don’t think I heard you over the sound of all the crickets. I am correct, right??

There was no flood. It was more like a drought interrupted occasionally by a drip. The rate was approximately one drip per week, and most drips were not even good matches on cyber paper. Maybe the pool of potential mates is shallow in my approximate age bracket. Maybe I am just too picky. Perhaps some nuance of the process has escaped me. In any event, I was not impressed by the offerings presented. It is possible my grasp of the English language is flawed, but if my narrative talks about dressing up and references black-tie events, what in those words attracts the camouflage and flannel-clad crowd professing a love for NASCAR, backwoods camping and hunting? Color me red lumberjack plaid confused.

After the three month subscription had run its course the membership was cancelled. There had been exactly one date with a man who was remarkably close to what my profile said I was looking for. He was educated, employed, attractive, funny and even had a photo of himself indicating he had worn a suit at least once in the current decade. We had a nice dinner with interesting conversation and we laughed a lot, but unfortunately, his switch was flipped to the 'off' position and he seemed to instantly lose all interest when I did not attempt to drag him off to bed at the end of the evening. Sorry, the admission fee to that amusement park is a greater investment of time and acquaintance than a few short emails, a phone call and a steak and potato dinner. Call me an old-fashioned bitch. It won't, however, help the situation.

Oddly, after the subscription expired, the drip exploded into a near-thunderous flood of five to ten matches per day. Where were all these men hiding for the three months I was a member? Even odder, I thought I had removed my profile from the program, so why was it even receiving matches? But there it was -- a regular stream of daily emails notifying me of messages on their system and encouraging me to meet Robert and Ben and Michael and JNoDrama and dozens of others. I recognized it as a ploy on the part of the service to get back into my wallet and it wasn’t going to work. Sorry, but I am not stupid enough to think a zillion appropriate matches just happened to join the service the minute I left it.

Over the weekends of Memorial Day and Father’s Day, the service offered "Free Communication" events. My email burst with messages of potential computer matches. A quick login to the site on Father’s Day and a visit to the inbox that seems like it shouldn’t exist on a closed account found it occupied by 101 system matches. I don’t know what some of these guys think women are looking for, but a scan of the listed profiles bore the riveting headlines (and I quote) "howdeee  ladies,,,!" "looking for fun times" and "Who’s you’re Daddy?"

In spite of the claim to provide matches based on chemistry and the lengthy questionnaire that declared me an "Explorer" personality type, the system seems to have gone into overdrive, favoring quantity and ignoring all qualitative criteria. Thanks, but I am already acutely aware that there are millions of the wrong man for me out in the world, and that is why I took the time to read the options provided and make selections that represent “what I’m looking for.” These were not taken lightly by me and are solidly based on my own real-world, comedic production of a love life. That is why, within my profile, time was taken to choose the buttons indicating that my “ideal match” be a reasonably fit, non-smoker in possession of at least a college degree. 

There are few factors on which I steadfastly hold my ground, but years of self-examination and some notable missteps along the way have reinforced this baseline for me -- I know that I am most attracted to educated, non-smoking men who are taller than I am. The elitist editor in me awards bonus points for correct spelling, grammar and sentence structure that doesn’t require an interpreter. Yet, the 101 recent gifts from the cyber matchmaker feature a statistically shocking number of regular smokers with a high school education who can’t string together a complete sentence. The computerized matching system may consider me an "Explorer," so I’ll just save us all some time and go lick a dirty ashtray while attempting to converse with my sofa. At least it won't have to ask for definitions of the words I am using.

Clicks the "not really" response to "would you like to learn more?" prompt.

And Beyond

A few years ago, the Linens ‘n Things chain store departed our frenetically busy mall area, leaving the residents of Clarksville bereft of a store specializing linens for the table, bedroom and bathroom, along with the host of other (overpriced)  items carried there, like pillows, kitchen gadgets and small appliances. The store was usually its busiest during the big sales, which were the only times the pricing made any sense. Now, if they had asked me, I would have recommended they skip the inflated daily prices and carry everything at levels closer to the sale prices. Maybe then the store might not have closed. But what do I know? I’m just an opinionated  consumer on a budget.

After a stretch of being limited to Target, two Kmarts and three WalMarts in search of household necessities like sheets and towels, there was news that Bed Bath & Beyond was coming to town. This seemed exciting – once again, there would be a store providing one-stop shopping for the stuff I actually sometimes need – like sheet sets and comforters, bath towels and shower curtains and the occasional mixing bowl or pizza wheel.

As a resident of a fully (over)furnished home who hates to shop, I don’t even know when the store actually opened, but I remember receiving a catalog in the fall of 2011 when I was spending my days on the couch, mending my leg that enjoyed a compound fracture of the tibia and fibula while playing roller derby. Perhaps ‘enjoyed’ is the wrong word. With the exception of the dreamy, floaty feeling from the lovely drugs I was given in the hospital, there was little that was enjoyable about it. Physical therapy began almost immediately, work followed rather quickly, and I never even had a chance to get bored. I juggled part-time work from my new home office (a.k.a the couch) beginning the third week after it happened. The pain medicine made me tired, and I spent most of my waking time balancing a laptop on my thighs and taking (sometimes long-winded) business calls on my cell phone, forcing me to increase the minutes in my calling plan to avoid the hefty 40-cent per minute overage penalty.

None of this matched my mental image of convalescence. Wasn’t I supposed to wearing a satin bed jacket, propped up by puffy pillows in a bed outfitted in linens that complemented my skin tones as I lingered over books and writing, with pauses to nap as sunlight streamed through my crystal clear, immaculate windows? What sort of injury earns that recuperation program? And where can I get some beautiful bed linens that will give me a rosy glow worthy of a magazine spread? Perhaps our new Bed Bath & Beyond?

The first week out of the hospital bore the closest resemblance to my Victorian convalescence fantasy – that’s when I was staying at the home of my derby wife / buddy / angel-in-waiting Devlin D Flesh, with my busted leg propped high on a stack of towels, alternating between the couch and her youngest son’s bedroom. Instead of a lovely and feminine satin robe, I was mostly outfitted in red capri yoga pants and a black hoodie borrowed from my hostess. She was great company and we watched recorded TV shows and chatted and ate lovely lunches. People visited bearing homemade brownies and she shuttled me to the doctor’s office and then one day it was time to go back to my own home. The doctor had told me I would know when the time was right, and sure enough, one day it was suddenly the day.

Back home, instead of lounging in bed reading, the days involved waking up and doing therapy exercises in bed, hobbling to the kitchen to feed Moose and myself, then hobbling to the couch to fire up the company laptop, clock in and start working. Miraculously, Moose’s temperament had tamed to match my own new, low-energy state and he spent a lot of time on the couch with me. After four hours of remote desktop labor, there was an hour to take care of important business (also known as “watch old episodes of Project Runway”), before hobbling to the door to let in the physical therapist and spend an hour on therapy. Then, suddenly, it was suppertime, followed quite closely by bedtime, which was now several hours earlier than the glorious and active pre-fracture days due to the sleep-inducing properties of the pain meds and energy drain of healing.

This was the rhythm of the days for the next month, punctuated by daily visits from bona fide, genuine angels disguised as Red River Sirens teammates, co-workers and friends who would take time from their own schedules to bring me lunches, dinner, and groceries,  handle chores I couldn’t physically deal with and visit. They were the bright spots in the dark stretch of being broken and working-from-home. I wasn’t looking forward to returning to work at the office, because leaving the house was cumbersome with a walker and the graduation to crutches was not much better. Moving around took ten times longer and required immense amounts of energy.

On the day the Bed, Bath & Beyond catalog landed, carried into the house by a helpful lunch visitor to spare me the fearful trip up the pitched driveway with a walker, I opened it with excitement, eager to see bed linens and bath towels. Since buying a queen size mattress, I have had only two sets of sheets, which means my options are an endless stretch of schlepping to the basement to launder sheets or sleeping in a grubby bed. More sheet sets in the rotation means the shiny promise of a week or two without washing and folding sheets. (This is also my theory on underpants – the more you own, the less frequently the laundry must be dealt with.)

In my excited journey through the Bed Bath & Beyond circular, it took 14 pages before the first (and only) image of a towel and another couple pages before I found the sole depiction of sheets. The 28-page circular was light on “bed” and “bath” and heavy on the “beyond,” with things like dinnerware, vacuum cleaners and a variety of urgently needed “As Seen On TV” products like the Genie Bra. The latest circular leads with an extensive array of patio furniture.

Consequently, seven months have elapsed since reviewing my first circular and I have still not visited Bed Bath & Beyond. Based on what lands in my mailbox, I’ll probably have better luck finding bedsheets at Tractor Supply Company, which, thanks to their recent frequent rotation of TV commercials, I now know is not actually a tractor showroom. To think I’ve been avoiding the place for years because I didn’t need a tractor, and it turns out I would have been mighty disappointed if I had gone there looking for one. Which is how I think I’ll feel going to Bed Bath & Beyond for sheets and towels and finding everything but.

Tick, Tick, Tick

The mild (read: nonexistent) winter of 2012 has resulted in warnings about a prolific season for insects and critters  from people who know about and monitor such things. It never got cold enough to kill off, well, anything. Heck, it was the first winter in quite possibly my entire life when I didn't even pull on a pair of gloves. The absence of a solid winter freeze meant a spring of wretched  allergies for everyone, and even though it's only April, the ticks and mosquitoes are already out in full force.  I've been sneezing, personally responsible for a spike in tissue sales, and scratching at bug bites like a monkey for what feels like forever but is probably closer to a month. Good times.

While generally annoyed by any biting creature that leaves behind an itchy reminder of its bloodsucking infiltration of my person, I've been thoroughly skeeved out about ticks since back in the last century. In the mid-1990s I met Meg just after she'd contracted Lyme Disease from a tick bite while gardening in her yard on Cape Cod. She was pregnant at the time and endured partial facial paralysis for several months from Bell's Palsy, which lasted until she delivered the baby. As a kid who never much cared for bugs, dirt or sweating, I reached adulthood backed by years of solid experience of summers invested in hiding indoors reading books to avoid insects and life in general. This methodology proved highly effective until the summer of 2008 when the stray cat I coaxed into my house and life converted my bug-free sanctuary into a flea-ridden hellhole. Daily routines expanded to include obsessive vacuuming coupled with frequent use of a lint roller and the wearing of Deep Woods insect repellant on the feet and ankles while indoors. Two failed home bug bombs led to the contracting of the services of a professional exterminator, a relationship that has endured for four years. During the period of flea infestation I became highly adept at sensing abnormalities (such as a lone flea) upon my flesh and could run the lint roller over all surfaces to collect fleas and their larvae with the speed of a Marvel Comics superhero.

Fortunately (and probably in large part due to my extensive avoidance techniques), I enjoyed minimal personal contact with ticks. There was the two-week archeological dig  at Land Between the Lakes back in October 2003 or so, when I sprayed liberally with Deep Woods eau de DEET, kept pant legs and shirt tucked in and still found a tick on my stomach one night after returning home. One tick over a two-week period spent daily in the woods felt like success. After performing at City of Clarksville's 2010 Riverfest along the Cumberland River, I felt an itch, and upon removing my belly dance costume, dealt with the glorious task of removing a tick that was busily burrowing into my bosom.  

The spring of 2012, however, is proving to be a record breaker.

In the space of one week in late April, I had already removed a tick from each dog, both of which seemed to be already expired and interpreted by me to mean the flea and tick solution is working. Then, sensing something unusual and tickly on my own skin, examined the situation and found a tiny, orangish dot with little crawly legs traversing the expanse of milky skin between my lady pillows. The next night, again sensing something amiss, I discovered a larger, darker reddish brown demon burrowing into my inner thigh, thus triggering a new, near-permanent state of high alert. I can now detect an eyelash or a dust mote on my skin the instant it lands, which, with my new hyper-acute sense of awareness carry the weight of a log or a boulder.

And that brings us to today, a day spent schlepping material possessions from the confines of the basement and inner sanctum of my home out to the front lawn -- and in the case of much of it, back from whence it came -- in the home retail ritual known as a Yard Sale. The rigors of dragging an ottoman, various chairs, boxes of  books, coffee mugs and other assorted housewares out to the front yard to be arranged on tables previously trotted up the driveway to the yard, and then unwinding the whole operation seven hours later, left me feeling thoroughly spent and in need of a lovely nap. It's cheaper and more convenient than going to a gym, but by the end of it, the leg that was broken six months ago was throbbing and aching (except for the parts that are still numb), and the leg that is doing the bulk of the work of transporting me around was even more fatigued than usual. My lower back hurt and my shoulders and neck were screaming with exertion and tension. The couch beckoned for a nap or to watch a movie (or a combination of the two).  We settled in -- Moose nestled into the pillows by my shoulder, and Winston down by my feet.

As I usually do when they are laying against me (or completely on me), I was petting my fur babies.  I felt a little bump on Moose's belly which turned out to be a tick. I disrupted our scene of domestic tranquility to fetch the now specially designated tick removing tweezers and pull the thing off. Like the one on him the other day, this one seemed less than alive.

Exhausted from moving heavy stuff in 80+ degree heat while now simultaneously harboring a refreshed state of tick high alert, I thought I felt something on my own stomach. Bingo! It was a tick, but unlike the one just removed from Moose, mine was still scuttling around and attempting to become one with my flesh. The tweezers came back out and so did the tick, which was entrapped on a piece of tape like his compatriot from Moose. By now, the idea of napping was nothing more than one of those flimsy morning dreams that evaporate with the bleat of the alarm clock. When the dogs rotated positions, it was Winston's turn for petting and tick inspection, which revealed one in the crease where his leg joins his body.  A banner day -- everybody gets a tick.

The calm of an evening featuring two hours of  Big Bang Theory episodes in syndication and a Lifetime network movie starring Lindsey Lohan, fueled by a supremely satisfying supper of double portobello veggie burgers with Provolone cheese and lettuce on an everything bagel accompanied by a Sam Adams Boston Lager, was interrupted by intrusive thoughts of ticks. The tranquility destroyers were two thoughts recurring to the point of obsession -- What will happen when I find a tick in a place I can't reach to remove it? And what if there is already a tick lodged in such a location and I just haven't found it yet? As I was shoving these ideas aside for the umpteenth time, I was snapped to attention by a poking feeling beyond my side and more around towards my back. The first assumption was the mandatory care tag in my new summer camisole, but contortions and yoga twists revealed it to be another freeking tick -- the second such discovery in an hour or two.

It's feeling out of control. Is it safe to use heavy duty repellant all over, every day like body lotion? Is there a body lotion with DEET that desn't smell like insect repellant and make my nose become stuffy? Does canine Frontline work on people? I sense a new research project in my immediate future, but it's probably just another tick. I'll tackle those new questions right after trying to memorize the symptoms of tick-borne illnesses like Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever and Lyme disease. With four ticks removed from myself in one week's time, I am quickly losing faith in my odds. It's making my skin crawl.

Firsts and Such

The final Red River Sirens Roller Derby event for 2011 was a stunning personal finale.

Some people succumb to mid-life crisis by buying flashy sports cars and/or flashy jewelry. Some get divorces. Others take up overeating or drinking or religion. Some fight it with flat-out denial. Case in point -- I bought a pair of Reidells, learned to roller skate at age 49 and helped grow a roller derby team. I took the name 'shades deville' and focused on hydrating, stretching, endurance drills, technical skills, and attempting to cultivate and channel my aggression to help my team. After a year and a half of training and practicing, questioning myself, feeling like a misfit in a sport with a reputation for being dominated by misfits, and skating on the roster for a few bouts against other teams, things were finally beginning to gel for me. I was beginning to trust my skates more and second-guess myself less. I felt, for the first time, like maybe I could, with lots of focus and lots more practice, someday be good, and not just good 'for my age.'

About 45 minutes into the season-ending Zombies versus Commandos intra-league bout, I was propelled into a cannonball maneuver (I was the cannonball) at turn two that went not-quite-right, followed by a tangle or a Tango or something that resulted in me on the floor. I hit the floor a lot, and prided myself on getting up quickly, but this time was different. I felt my left lower leg snap, sort of like breaking a stick. This was not the usual spill, and my blood was spilling into a pool on the track.

Those few seconds resulted in a triumvirate of firsts in my personal and medical history. Spiral fractures of my tibia and fibula at the precocious age of 51-going-on-30 (or 12, depending upon whom is asked) marked my first documented broken bone(s). (The odd configuration of my 90-degree tailbone detected in January 2011 is still an unknown physical situation of unknown origin.) The multiple fractures required my first surgery (unless wisdom teeth removal counts, in which case my weekend of monumental firsts is minimized by approximately 33.3 percent). It was also my first overnight hospital stay (undisputed – and three nights!). The EMTs and hospital staff were incredulous that someone half a century old had not previously been broken and hospitalized, which had me feeling like some sort of freak. My camouflage patterned boys size 16 boxer briefs worn over fishnet tights and camo paint on my face only exacerbated the freak feeling. Out of context, commando derby attire is kind of, well, odd. I couldn't wait to wash the green and brown makeup off my face.

My first hospital food had me curious as to whether it would live up -- or down -- to the infamous reputation ascribed to it. It looked good on paper -- a visually appealing, professionally designed menu featuring breakfast, lunch, dinner, and "available all day" selections. At least twice (and possibly every time), the person on the other end of the food hotline asked, "Is that all?" after hearing my order for a scrambled egg and orange juice, or grilled cheese and tomato soup. Evidently, they are accustomed to feeding heartier appetites.

Even though it was delivered from a place called "Room Service," and arrived on a plate under a fancy lid on a tray carried by a person wearing a white shirt, black pants and black vest, (been there ... not a first) the trappings and presentation could not disguise the fact that the food was still mostly yucky. It turned out the flavor was directly improved, not by the tiny salt and pepper packets included with the napkin, but by activating the pain management button prior to, and while eating. It seems that Morphine makes food taste better. Each time my "Fresh Fruit Cup" contained cantaloupe, it required conscious and deliberate effort to block out the memories of the flood of news coverage of the recent spate of deaths from lysteria-tainted fruit. (Those were probably the times my blood pressure approached anything above super-low.) The veggie burger sounded promising but turned out to be an overcooked, sponge-like disc that was too spicy for even my spice loving palate -- another first. I choked down two bites before I gave up on it. The linguini with pesto, overcooked and mushy to the point of not requiring chewing, became another two-bite meal. The french toast was barely toasty and served with gross margarine spread. The scrambled eggs were actually edible. The clear winner of first prize in hospital Room Service roulette was the tomato soup and grilled cheese, but the overall winner for best meal during my stay was pizza from Michael's Pizza, prepared at a legitimate food supplier and delivered by a derby teammate. Perhaps Michael's could get a food concession at the Medical Center and perform a huge service to weak, hungry patients.

Gateway claims to practice Hourly Rounding, whereby nursing staff visit the patients every hour. They promote this in an informative brochure titled "Hourly Rounding and What it Means for You." There were clocks with movable hands opposite each bed in the luxury suite in which I was lodged (Room 4228). When the staff visits, explained in the brochure as hourly during the day and every two hours overnight, the clock hands are moved to the time of the most recent visit. Many of the visits included the recording of vital signs -- temperature, blood pressure and pulse. The staff almost always had to do my blood pressure twice -- the cuff on the portable equipment cart was too large and a reading couldn't be done successfully until they got "the small cuff." Eventually, someone left a small cuff attached to the rail of my bed so they could stop searching and commence with the reading and recording. Staff usually marveled at the low, low readings on my blood pressure. Perhaps the pool of blood left on the derby track had not been replenished yet, taking my usually low blood pressure to new lows.

Hourly rounding was great. It was predictable. As a 'guest,' I appreciated knowing when to expect the staff to show up to do vitals. It meant if I needed to use the bedside commode, I knew when someone would be around next, and might be able to avoid a call to the nurse station for help. On Sunday, Hourly Rounding worked like, well, clockwork. On Monday the system was just a fond memory and the place turned into a totally different hospital. It was anyone's guess when (or if) medical staff would be stopping by. Several times I had to buzz the nurse station because the IV machine to which I was attached was beeping frantically, which is rather unnerving and quite loud. When someone finally arrived, they'd casually comment, "Oh, that one is getting low," which probably would have been noticed with those regular, hourly visits.

When the same night nurse arrived Monday night that I had on Sunday, she asked how things were going. I said "Great," then asked if Hourly Rounds were just a weekend thing. When I pointed to my clock displaying "7" and said that was not from an hour ago, but from that morning -- 13 hours ago, she mentioned I was not the first patient to mention that in the hour since she'd arrived. Then she said she was going to speak with the supervisor, because the Hourly Rounding system was a quality mandate of the hospital, and supposed to be followed consistently.

On Tuesday I was discharged, which led to another day of surprises in the absence of information provided. I was told early in the day I would be discharged and that was the extent of the helpful nuggets of knowledge. Umm.... any idea what time this may be happening? Should I order another fabulous lunch from Room Service? I needed to arrange for a ride and a time frame would be helpful, unless that ambulance crew that delivered me on Saturday was planning to drop me off somewhere. I was handed two sheets of paper and two prescriptions, which required a line of questioning worthy of Judge Judy to learn that no, this hospital does not have a pharmacy on-site. (Maybe the tradeoff was between the lobby Starbucks or pharmacy?)

One sheet of paper was an official permission slip to leave. The other was a yellow carbon sheet bearing the previous day's date and a one sentence instruction to "Follow up with doctor on Wednesday, Oct 26." There were no written instructions about keeping my lower leg elevated for the next three days, as told during the surgeon's bedside visit. There was none of the timeline information I thought I remembered mentioned in my pre-surgery drugged state (when I was certain I felt the warmth of sunshine, beach breezes and sounds of the ocean) about stitch removal and putting weight on the affected limb. No info about keeping it dry. No doctor's name. No phone number to call to set up the aforementioned follow-up appointment. No helpful info whatsoever. This was becoming a mystery worthy of Nancy Drew. At least the Doctor's name was on the prescriptions. When we arrived at her house after a cross-town jaunt to the pharmacy, my gal pal Wendy conducted an Internet search to find the basic contact info required to call and schedule the follow-up, which, according to the office staff, was supposed to be Friday, not Wednesday. So the one concrete instruction I left with was not even correct. I had the feeling this was not a first-time occurrence for the establishment in which I was recently a guest.