Drink-Up!

Although the first day of Fall was Saturday, September 23^rd, it’s still 1,280 degrees on any given day. The air is so thick with humidity it practically attaches itself to your clothes and they are soaking wet by the time you get where you’re going.

Everyone is dragging – their feet, their words and their thoughts. Folks can’t even seem to string a complete sentence together. They begin to talk and somewhere in the middle of the process, it’s as if a horrible disappearing magical act has taken place and the original reason for speaking in the first place, can no longer be remembered.

I attended an outdoor wedding a few weeks ago and I’ll just say this – when we arrived there were tables sitting all around, and about three of those HUGE gator fans scattered about, all blasting on high. One of tables was in partial shade, a fan situated right behind it. I began to make a bee-line for that table as it was empty and my husband said, that table is all the way up front, you want to sit that close?! And I said, I AM going to sit that close, you can follow me or sit with stranger’s! The wedding began at 6:30pm and before we left about 3 hours later, we were soaking wet.

As I said originally; Fall is already SUPPOSED to be here. And I had planned on beginning a walking regime again once it cooled off. But as it seems that is never going to happen, I decided to at least began changing my drinking habits.

I have one cup of creamer with my coffee each day and I use Splenda as the sweetener. Yes, I said creamer with my coffee because my husband says I should just spoon-feed the creamer and take a sip of coffee and be done with it! And, I allow myself one Sprite a day, and the rest is water. JUST WATER.

Now I always thought the amount of water medical experts advise is necessary, is 8 glasses of 8 ounces of water each day. Well no. It isn’t. It is your body weight divided by two – and that number gives you the ounces you need to drink per day. All I have to say about that is this: you might as well fill a bathtub full of water, give me a stool to sit on and a straw/funnel, because according to my calculations, that’s about much water I need to drink in a day, and it’s going to take a while.

Needless to say, I’m sticking with the 8 and 8 theory. It’s a start. But even that much water begins to make me feel like gagging by the last two of the day. However, the other day, someone introduced me to Propel. It’s a lightly flavored water with zero calories and zero sugar. I will not lie, I drank the first swallow down and angels were singing and flying overhead. I had to rein myself in not to guzzle the rest of it in one fell swoop.

That flavored water might just get me through until some coolness can blow-in and walking without falling-out is possible. I’ll keep you updated.  

Laughter Is The Best Medicine

That was then, this is now.  That one was my experience of losing face. This one is my absolute saving grace; I once was lost, but now I’m found.  

I suppose this is how everyone feels when they've come from a failed relationship into a relationship that has flourished beyond their wildest imagination. However, the grass is only greener because it’s had the proper nourishment and the right mixture of ingredients to make it grow.

I can remember back years ago, at my previous job, I was talking to one of the engineering techs. A youngster. Everybody under thirty years old is was a youngster to me back then. I can remember when everybody over thirty was ancient.  I am sure to him, I sounded ancient that day. Actually, what he said was, he thought I sounded like my husband.

Just prior to our conversation that day, he had taken a three-day road trip with my husband to some job sites as a learning/training experience. I am sure he got a three-day-earful of a South Carolinian, Kornbread euphemisms. He probably heard words spoken in such a way he has never heard, in all of his then, twenty-something years of life.

However, that day, I was trying to extend a little training myself. I was trying to explain how to talk to a customer in such a way, that they always thought the idea was theirs in the first place.  My “student” wasn't quite getting it, so I started over, taking another tact, using “plainer” words.

Almost instantly, I saw his eyes begin to glaze over, he lifted his hand in front of his face as if to ward off something coming his way. Something that was scaring him. I was about to ask him what was wrong when he began to beg me to stop, to just stop talking. And then he asked me, if I knew that I had begun to sound just like my husband?!

I laughed hysterically. Mostly because that was THE most ridiculous thing I had ever heard, and he looked so dang serious about it. He just kept staring at me. Like I had somehow sat there and morphed myself into my country-speaking husband.

They say, after so many years, you will BE your mate. You will think for each other. You will think before they think, and you will already know that they’re thinking/feeling. And all of that is alright. I've been reading his mind for a long time now.  However, I don't care anything about succumbing to his South Carolina dialect. And I'm pretty sure, there will never be a time, anytime soon, that you will see me with a "wad a chaw" in my jaw.

But if in my later years, I began to slide into his slow, sure way of talking, that’ll be alright. For he is the missing piece to this jagged, jumbled up puzzle I call my life. He takes such good care of me; I wish I had found his funny, beautiful face years ago.

They say laughter adds years to your life. Just think how much longer I could have lived, had I found him first.

Until We Meet Again

She was Bronx, NY the minute she opened her mouth. She was straight-forward, blunt, and she was of one the hardest working women I have ever known. I am not ashamed to admit that I was terrified of her for the first six months that I would know her and work with her. She definitely gave a first impression that she wasn’t to be messed with.

I would meet her the summer of 1981, right after my high school graduation. A friend of mine worked at one of the local Piggly Wiggly’s and she called to let know they had an opening for a cashier. I would work there for a little over 5 ½ years and I would learn more on that job than I probably have most others combined. But what I really learned the most about was people. It definitely wasn’t high school anymore, where everyone was within and age or so of each other, their minds were built somewhat alike, and everyone was moving in unison in a forward motion.

People there were of all ages, and seemingly came from all over the place. Many were locals for sure, but some, like Mavis, were definitely not. To this day, I can remember trying to mimic her accent, and never, not once, even coming close. It was thick, it was mucked-up with something akin to both dark alleys and side-street markets with fresh fruit in the front bins. Kind of like her personality I guess. Her switch from wide-open mouth laughter to stern eye-balling stares could be as fast as lightening and sometimes hard to determine where things went off the rails so fast.

My now ex-husband and I would later become friends with her then husband and we would spend time outside of work together. Eating meals together, playing cards and board games, and we all took in a country concert or two. Her favorite country band back then was Alabama and she and her husband had seen them in person several times; I feel sure they didn’t have a bigger fan of their music.

Her favorite drink was Kalua and Crème and I can hear her and that accent ordering it from the waiter right now, with a lit cigarette stationed between her fingers. Her sense of humor was as bawdy as she herself was bare minimum, and I loved it. I would get married the first time in March of 1984 and she stood as one of my bridesmaids.

Her favorite television actor/crush was Tom Selleck. He starred in a television show back then called Magnum PI. I will not say she slobbered or drooled when she saw him/talked about him, but that’s only because she might come back to haunt me if I did.

I would learn a week or so ago, that Mavis Hatcher died in a nursing home August 7^th in Albany Georgia; she was only 67. I am so sad that I didn’t know, didn’t visit her, and didn’t bring her comfort. I don’t know how we all lose our way in life and lose the people who matter. But I have never forgotten you Mavis Hatcher, and pray you are resting in peace.

Good As Gold

On my way home yesterday, the day after voting/election day, standing on the curb, in front of the square, was one man, all alone, holding a sign that simply said THANK YOU, in large bold letters. I couldn't tell by his shirt which candidate he was representing, or even if he, himself was THE candidate. But by standing there, he was doing two very important things at once:

#1 He was thanking everyone for allowing him, his words, and his promises and efforts, to seem relevant.

#2 He was letting everyone know who may have voted for him, that he was thanking them, letting them know that they were appreciated and relevant as well.

That's all anyone really wants in life. To know that they are worthy, appreciated, and relevant. They appreciate being acknowledged for making the effort, going that extra mile, and being available when needed. So, when we, as people, can't seem to show that respect and appreciation; well, that’s what is wrong with the human race in general right now.

It's everyone’s job to make folks feel relevant and appreciated, and when we don't, we appear to be unaware of anyone's worth. It just doesn't get any more disrespectful than that.

I had experienced a really bad day that particular day. The world seems to be taken over by youth who think they know everything, disregard age and its wisdom, and ignore the pots of gold, often standing or sitting right beside them, that hold years of mistakes and solutions/recoveries that could be to their advantage if they would only be still. And listen.

I would later, that same evening, find out that the man I saw standing on that curb was Charlie Frost, the actual candidate himself. Evidently, half of Quincy had also seen him and filled my Face Book post with accolades for Mr. Frost. And crazily enough, the comments weren’t about his politics, but instead, who is he as a person - they all shared with me what a wonderful and kind human being that Charlie Frost is to them and it would seem, to anyone he comes in contact with.

So, I thank that one lone man for standing on that curb that afternoon. I needed to see him that day, especially then; I needed to feel better about human beings, even if it were only for that last few minutes it took me to get home. I saw it, I knew it, and more importantly, for those few minutes, I believed it.

I rarely push folks to check anyone out; whether it’s a television show, a book, or a writer; but I am about to do just that.  Because the next day when I opened my email, (divine intervention) Sean Dietrich, author of Sean of the South, had written a column just for me. I needed it, and I thank him for it. He talked me off the ledge of ugliness, and hopefully his words will help me to be more forgiving and less angry going forward, because the latter emotion is neither healthy or positive.

This is the link to that particular column – check him out: http://seandietrich.com/hey/

Doctors Will Be The Death Of Me

A couple of weeks ago I told you all about my blood-curdling, Transylvania Vampire experience at my doctor’s office – everyone survived although the top of my hand has looked like an experienced prize fighter since then. A bruised and purple hand does not, a pretty fashion statement, make.

So as is the usual, last week was my appointment; to follow-up on my blood-work, see what’s been happening for the last six months, and determine whether or not to call in extra folks for inspirational conversations or explanatory dieting techniques such as:

     

•                Starvation Through Wired-Shut Jaws – the positives and negatives.
•                            Training in the procedure of locking-down the refrigerator with chains and bolts the                    size of a wrestler’s arm.
•                    Directions on how to line the front of your refrigerator with Before and Before and                     Before pictures – from top to bottom – just so you understand – you will never see an                 After picture if you do not succeed.     
•                And lastly, the infamous Talk of Shame – which is guaranteed to leave you in tears and              swearing to never eat another pastry or plate of pasta again.

But first, I would have to actually be able to ATTEND my appointment. When I arrived, it was as they say, a full house. People and their moods were in all states of irritation. Finding a seat was the first hurdle, and then making sure I wasn’t anywhere near anyone who was hacking up a lung, running for the bathroom or looking flushed from fever. That last part wasn’t as easy as you would think, given that half of the room looked flushed from impatience and anger.

I must have arrived on “everybody in Quincy who is pregnant” appointment day. Women in all states of mommy-hood were there, shifting in their seats every two minutes, alternately sighing and fuming under their breath as their name was NOT the name called out when the door would swing open each time.

I myself was a little worried about the gal sitting directly in front of me, and actually even more concerned that I hadn’t taken that CPR/Emergency procedure class that was offered one time, a million years ago.  She truly looked like an any-day-now Mama and while I could hold her hand and let her squeeze it for relief – I wouldn’t be much help for anything else.

Finally, my name was called, much to the chagrin of an older woman with her arm in a sling, who was there before I was that day. I felt bad, and a little scared, because I had to walk right past her, but I would learn a few minutes later that she had arrived 2 HOURS early for her appointment. Seriously?! Who in the heck does that?

My appointment went well, I didn’t get into too much trouble and my numbers stayed stable from my last visit. All of that was well and good except for my weight number – that needs to unstable itself backwards at 120 miles MPH.

And – to my knowledge no emergency babies were delivered even though I was more than prepared to help, whether I knew what I was doing or not!