...the eyes have it

I'm trying to justify such an extravagence as lasic. I was suffering pretty terribly. I was legally blind and rapidly becoming sensitized to the lenses. At night, my eyes were so tired they ached too much for sleeping. Soon, I would be in line for a new pair of glasses, which would cause the glass commodity market to spark out of control. For the good of the economy, I needed lasic.

So I did it! In the first hour, I found light of any kind to be an irritant and the eye-drops tasted bitter. (Trust me, the eyeball’s connected to the tastebud, and the tastebud’s connected to the…) Other than these minor issues, I’ve had no other side-effects, no pain, no burning, and no extra tears.

If it weren’t for my trusty drug reaction, I would have nothing to write about. I don’t remember much of that first night due to drugs. It happens every time. I warned the doctor that it would be better for everyone if I didn’t have the “relaxant.” I do “tense” so much better. The nurse reassured that five milligram tablets weren’t really anything to worry about.

At least that’s what I think she said, by that time I was snoring softly into my chest. She asked the husband to tilt the chair back, hoping to stop the mouth gape and drool. I vaguely remember meandering my way, with a double escort, to the operating table where I laid[1] down with relief, but when they said skooch up to the top, I started giggling.

I was pudding by that time and if they had told me to slosh on up, I might have attempted it. They tape your eyes open and the little machine sucks the eyeball up, which was a good thing because I couldn’t have managed that on my own. My memories end with me staring blankly at the blinking red light.

I slept like a baby from the office to the house; and I don’t recall how I made it in from the car. After about four hours of lying peacefully in a “lovely repose with hands crossed over the chest pose” (and obviously looking more at ease than the husband thought I deserved), I was forcibly awakened.

If I didn’t have to face people again, all would be well. It’s that drunk-at-the-company-party/morning-after that is mortifying. The next day, doctor and nurse were both very circumspect and only casually noted that I had been quite relaxed. The nurse remarked that it’s nice that I’m petite… Me? [2] …that they may replace the swivel stool in post-op with an armchair and that when they replace the chin-holder on the eye scope, they may try to reinforce it.

I remember now why I don’t have drugs during childbirth. It’s because of my big mouth. I have no discretion under the influence. The husband said that just as I was leaving, I announced to all-and-sundry that the reason the husband didn’t have this kind of reaction to medication was “due to his extensive history with drugs.”

Reality Bite: Please shoot me! Or just shoot me up again, so I don’t remember.

[1] Grammatically correct here as referring to an inanimate object, except my editor says that in all actuality, if I were talking about an inanimate object, I should use a passive voice, not active—“I was laid down”. Whatever.

[2] I’m weightier than I look. That’s what the ski patrol said when he piggy-backed me to the bottom. Oops, another story for another time.

…an eyeful

Hey, I’m tentatively revising my wholehearted recommendation for eye surgery. I’m thinking that there are downsides that are only just now becoming apparent.

It’s obvious that I have lost the sympathetic ear. “No, Mom, you can find your own keys. I know you can see them now,” and “Dad says it’s safe for you to drive us.” I can no longer use the missing contact lens excuse for my haphazard mowing, sweeping, mopping and paper chaos.

Dear Journal,
Life is filthy and some things are best left unseen, i.e., television and the whole of every election campaign. I’m thinking it’s a shame my hearing is still good. T.

I was legally blind and loving it! Even corrected, I could never really see as far as the floor and though my eye-doctor doesn’t promise perfect vision, unfortunately mine is now good enough to notice dirt in the corners, the film on the mirrors, the dust on the pictures and the crust on the windows.

I’ve decided that visually challenged is not necessarily a bad way to go through life.
Flying about blind as a bat had other heretofore unrealized benefits, and the best was that I never knew my shower was filthy. There is a whole new world open to me in the bathroom now that I’m not walking around with scratched glasses, peering into a foggy mirror. The worst of these seem to be connected to my being unclothed. I lived in my own little fogbank and sometimes life is simply better that way.

Reality Bite: There is an upside. When I put in the milky eyedrops and life returns to a haze, everything can again be beautiful.

…hero-whine

Organization puts the son off his groove. He complains for weeks afterward that someone has been in his stuff and he won’t find anything again, ever! Ah, but I have an ulterior motive. Stay with me while I explain how the supremacy cycle can solve this problem.

“Don’t worry!” I yell as I swoop in, “Out of the Way! I’ll help!” Slipping into a Superhero persona is the only way to really make mental contact with the son. To reach him at his level, I introduce the comic book super villain, Batty Mothre whose arrival follows the comic book formula and creates greater mayhem, destruction and chaos and places the victim in even greater peril.

The son is expecting that, but the second phase of rescue calls for my character to follow the typical storyline and morph from bad to good and become noble and heroic. Again, utilizing the tried and true comic formula, my character then spends the next sixteen pages morphing from good to bad, back to good. I die twice and then I resurrect and rescue the victim from the disaster with my superhuman powers. And amid all of the confusion, I construct a force field that blows everything back to rights and he is ever and most eternally grateful, just like those confused souls in Gotham and this is how the tiny little cycle of supremacy pedals onward.

It’s me again,… the power of ruling the Lego world is similar to being a Super Villain toying with mankind. Aside from the obvious pleasures of wrenching the tiny people from their comfort zones, putting Mr. Motorcycle in Water-ski World, I can relocate entire civilizations. Vikings are quartering with cowboys and knights are swimming with underwater aliens.
At least their heads are. I divest the heads from the bodies and divide them into their own chambers, along with hats, weapons, bodies, and legs. 

Help me,

Reality Bite: Be armed and aware… and afraid

Frenetic

The frenetic life has somehow become my necessity, not choice. Saturdays and summers were once my own. I swore I would never be a free-wheelie mom, but here I am, dreaming of the compulsory hiatus of a flat tire, or an empty tank.

To: tripupmom
I called Triple A again. They promised at least a half-hour wait. When he came, I was sunning myself on the hood of the car and he complemented my shoes. Sometimes immediate online response is not all it’s cracked up to be. T.

I try to remind myself daily that for now, this is my road.[1] This detour in my life—continual craziness—will pass by too quickly and soon I will be sorry that I didn’t appreciate the view and savor the entire journey.[2] Still, I can’t help wondering how close to the curb I’m cutting and which direction the curve ahead will take.

To: thatsritch@take.out
I sat in traffic today while the children chanted, “We’re late; we’re late. It is our lifelong fate. My Mom is driving. Sorry mate! We’re late, we’re late, we’re late.” I do this joyously, right? T.

Like any rut or pothole, it’s hard to gauge the depth of the depression ahead while skidding toward it pell-mell. Not until I’ve careened through it and turned around to look back at the whole, can I really understand how deeply I was in.

Reality Bite: Maybe oblivion is not such a bad thing after all.

[1] …as my Mom reminds me, lest I forget.
[2] …and therefore there is no sympathy to be had down that avenue.

...seeking moderation

…obsessively average

Dear me,
Beware. A quest for perfection promises lifelong dissatisfaction (along with encouraging compulsive behaviors, like sorting underwear drawers and Legos). Find temperance somewhere. T.

The life of moderation is a difficult and lonely road. It’s hard to glide along being happy about achieving the goal of good enough——to fly on the heels of that anxious stride for excellence.

I find that maintaining a mediocre lifestyle is draining, in part due to the lack of outside reinforcement. I have to fly solo on this as there are no clubs or support groups, no workshops or interventions for the zealously average and I’ve yet to find a pill to assist me in being hopelessly mundane. I have scoured the self-help shelves for books, or even articles on maintaining one’s imperfection, but there’s not one. No author aspires for a Pulitzer in pedestrian, or a Nobel prize for normalcy. There are no red-carpet award shows for the successfully average.

I look for my own average individual to emulate, and just when I think I’ve found it, I get to know her, and realize that she too is striving to be better … and pssffft there goes my vision and my quest goes on.

Dear me,
I’m going to be very disappointed (but curiously relieved) when the person I’ve picked and placed on my pedestal to admire and aspire to be like, trips and falls back to human. And it is particularly discomforting when that person is me.

Once in awhile, I wander over and check out my self-help shelf. If I’ve accumulated more books on striving for perfection than curing myself of it, then I know that once again, it’s time to get real. So in an effort to benefit all mankind, I’ll sacrifice and leave the laundry to mold, the dishes undone, and the bed unmade. I surrender! I’ll take shoes from closets and fling them haphazardly in the doorways to reassure everyone that I’m ordinarily average and absolutely, obsessively imperfect.

Now I just have to explain this to the husband.

Quirks and Foible

…notoriety

To me,
The husband is uncomfortable with my detailed revelations of all the family quirks and foibles. I told him not to worry; it’s not his reality, it’s mine and everyone already knows how messed up that is. T.

I write to make me more comfortable with me, and it’s like a nametag—I put it all out there for everyone to see right upfront. I ease the awkwardness of first meetings and help everyone decide well in advance, if they are obligated to make an exchange or do what they can to avoid contact entirely.


I read a recent article, or perhaps not so recent, from a newspaper, or perhaps it was a magazine about a man, or maybe it was a woman who decided to wear a name tag for a year. The article described the life changes brought about by breaking down the barrier of anonymity in society.
The article described what a positive experience it was and the individual decided that the experience was enlightening and that he/she may continue to wear the tag long after the experiment was over.

After this encounter, I was a little dubious about having one’s name front and center, but I see now that there are benefits. Take for example, one of those parties that are frequented by those who go to see and to be seen. For me to be seen, it takes most of a week to search and retrofit the outfit. Trashy to classy is a major overhaul these days and the ensemble had to blend perfectly with what every well-dressed man wears to an evening out, his everyday suit gussied up with a glitzy tie.

We get to the party, the husband and I with our teenage daughter, who has been asked to act as a coat check girl. We are offered nametags at the reception table, but I am ultra cautious as the outfit is decorated with teensy-tinsy beaded flowers on velvet and I worry about pulling the tag off later and leaving a barren rectangle. Rather than being left with no option but to leave the nametag on into perpetuity, I stand and ponder my options.

As I shift the tag from finger to finger, hand to hand, I glance around and notice that the husband and daughter have been greeted by the boss—the big boss and they are quickly ushered over to meet the wife and rub shoulder-to shoulder with the other to-be-seen crowd. I am relieved to see that they are welcomed.

Another wanderer stops beside me. It appears that he has bypassed the nametag table in favor of the open bar. We made small talk over his wine glass while I surreptitiously flap the tag to see if drying it some would weaken the glue’s grip. I again send up the sonar and detect the husband and daughter still with the “In” crowd and looking very convivial. The circle has grown and I can tell the husband is guiding her in formal introductions with his hand at her waist.

I am still trying to decide whether to fold the tag in half or slap it on when another couple completes their nametag drama and steps toward me. I’m relieved that it’s someone I know because I realize that the wine man is shortly going to introduce himself and it will be necessary for me to free a hand. I decide to stick the tag on, but then I am stumped by another quandary, left or right. I know the article stated explicitly which, based on hand-shaking procedure, but I can’t remember.

The other couple greet us by first name and it’s apparent that they are familiar with wine man as pleasantries are exchanged. He’s fine, the children are fine, the night is fine, and as the conversation dwindles, the wine man glances around and then comments, “Wow, look at what Dave brought with him! Is that his new wife?

The couple and I glance in the direction to which he is goggling and as the couple’s eyes take in the group, their eyes flash back to meet mine as his next words, “Wow, he’s traded up!” cause their stunned mouths to drop.

I am obligated to respond with, “That is Dave’s daughter and last I checked, I’m still his wife,” and I slap the name tag to my chest definitively.

Reality Bite: The latest psycho-survey says that adults laugh as a response to fear… fear that a situation may happen to them. This book should be hilarious!


[1] The daughter reminds me, “like Stalin.”

Valentine Sonata

Valentine Sonata '96

I spent the day in paper chaos
searching for the perfect card.
Striving for that phrase immortal
to impress you like the Bard.

A wealth of thought -- oh poems replete
some so sincere, some sickening sweet.
Of all the prose, none sparked the light
so not appropriate. Some lied outright!

My mind just tumbled o're with verses
Roses Are Red, or I Love You Because,
But nothing seemed to fit you perfect;
One so unique--it grants me pause.

You make my life just so complete
You’re one of a kind. Uniquely unique!
I should not, could not, have expected to find
A card to express what’s on my mind.

It seemed so hopeless. I felt despair.
At once I thought, “Get underwear!”
I rebuked myself, “Concede defeat?”
Not me! You know, I’ve such conceit!

A thought then struck. “A poem attempt.
I’ll write and express what’s evident!”

True poets don’t bother with rhyme or rhythm.
They say what they feel, and take criticism.
The truth be known it’s harder to rhyme
To send a message so sublime.

And yet, the true poem--it’s been defiled.
You’ll have to make do with an Oscar Wilde.

As I struggled and suffered to make the lines rhyme,
I was suddenly and rudely reminded, “The time!”
The children were starved. Dr. Seuss had just ended.
The dinner uncooked, the laundry resplendent.

The moment was lost, could not be recaptured.
My desolation complete. You would not be enraptured.

When suddenly, wonderfully, it came so inspired!
Personally, to angels, my life must be wired.
A revelation! An answer! A thought so sincere!

I’ll just resurrect the card you gave me from last year!