Roam for the Holidays

Mapquest lies. 1,100 miles my ass. From South Fort Myers to Grass Lake, Michigan is 1,350 miles. It doesn’t sound like much until you hit the last 100 miles bleary eyed in a darkness broken only by the orange glow of the “Service Engine Soon” light.

While much of the drive is lovely, this adventure totally beat the shit out of me. I may limp home in three days with two nights in hotels. The nice thing about driving is you're not stuck with a specific schedule or how much you can take.

Sunday was day two - Calhoun, Georgia to Grass Lake. Gas was about $2.79 per gallon in Florida; in all other states it was much less, about $2.45. I think that’s pure spite; don't hate us for our beaches and palm trees.

Have you ever noticed detours only happen when your gas tank is empty and your bladder is full? I-75 is closed in Cincinnati … it would be nice if they had a few signs that warned you about that. And their roads are pitted like lunar landscape. After I managed my way past the detour, it became an endurance run.

I was so excited about seeing family and friends again that I didn’t sleep well for two nights before leaving. I’ve been here 24 hours. Even after a good night’s sleep on fleece Barbie sheets (and one long nap 3’ from the wood burning stove) I’m completely fried.

In hindsight, am thankful that:

I only got run off the road once.
The car held up just fine.
Bodhi only partially released her anal gland on my jeans.
I’m in a position to snarf up a fresh (not frozen) White Castle or two.
I can also pick up a Red Wings tee for cheap.

It’s great to be with family, taking shit from the son and daughter-in-law, enjoying the granddaughters, meeting their friends, delighting in one big goofy lab, my two girls and two 6 month old kittens. It’s a hoot.

Went to a dance recital tonight – hip hop - taught by a tight young blonde with a thick pony tail, short-shorts and shiny pantyhose with wide runs. Her students - mostly white - looked like a cross between Lord of the Dance and Bring It.

Attending a ballet recital tomorrow, partying with first love, his daughter and her partner Friday night/Saturday morning, then first ex and his third wife at the Grass Lake winery on Saturday night.

Should be a great time with lots of surprises in between.

Zany night in Georgia.

Saturday, 11/14/09 - Motel 6 - Calhoun, Georgia.

Name that photo. No, it’s not a giant razor blade. Although I could probably use one about now … no, it’s a metal tissue dispenser COVER that typically goes on a wall OVER an inset tissue box; except that in this case there is no tissue, just wall y’all.

You have to wonder who they think they’re fooling. And then you have to wonder who “they” are.

Well, you don’t “have” to. And maybe you shouldn’t.

The room is actually quite nice despite the utter affordability of it. Me and my bitchez are sequestered back at the far end of the complex with another single woman and her red setter. We're about 6 rooms apart, like they're afraid we'll start trouble or something.

She was taking an arched back dump (the dog) when she (the owner) looked up and made mention of our shared experience. We have this whole building to ourselves. We could invite whole packs of dogs and bring biscuits and hydrants and howl at the moon and pee on the walls and really tear the place up if we wanted to.

But me and mine … we’re wiped out. They won’t want to get back in the car in the morning; neither will I.

It has been a hell of a day. We napped at a rest area. I’ve never done that. I woke up and someone was watching me. Never doing that again.

Heartfelt thanks to Snowbird for bringing some sanity to my pre-departure ditziness. I was out of the condo with everything I needed for me and the girls in one hour, on the road at 6:10 a.m. and the sunrise was SPECTACULAR. There were low rolling puffs of fog over some of the ponds and the sun came up through the haze. I saw it through my rear view mirror as I crossed the Peace River in Punta Gorda.

It was so beautiful other drivers actually smiled and waved.

When you drive from Southwest Florida to the Georgia border, I have to tell you the state just goes on and on and on. Then you enter Georgia, which should probably be named The Billboard State. You quickly get some sense of enduring community struggles as anti-abortion signs compete with billboards promoting the pleasures of the flesh.

In North Georgia a very tall McDonalds sign has another sign directly below. It's for “Adult Specialties”. I don’t know why McDonalds corporate isn’t all over that. Some customers might expect to be served by thonged young thangs with sesame seed buns.

Driving from Florida to Michigan is actually pretty cool. This is so much cheaper than boarding the dogs, getting additional vaccinations pre-boarding, etc., etc. Plus you get to see the land. I had the windows open as we passed cotton fields and “boiled peanut” signs.

You get really tired by the time you hit Atlanta - which is a horror. We’re talking Saturday and you STILL cannot time that town to save your life.

It was about 15 miles of cars, trucks and Hummers doing 70 miles per hours NOSE TO ASS without tapping the brakes; those people DO NOT UNDERSTAND the concept of one car space for every 10 miles per hour.

Bubbas in half ton pickups with rifle racks half bounce/half slice through traffic like they’re cutting the herd.

Thanks to Snowbird for lending me his Garmin … directional indecision can throw a weary driver well off course. I could be in Savannah right now.

Navigational software is like religion. It expects unconditional trust without considering real world change, personal experience or choice.

Still, tired as I was, it saved my day.

Listened in on some right wing conservative radio. In Georgia it seems they like to tie guns to Jesus. If you’ve got a gun you can go out into nature and enjoy the world He created … while blowing the living shit out of anything in your path.

Another earnest radio preacher mourned the fact that we live in a time when “some Christians are now seen as being intolerant and out of touch.”

Saw a sign for Christian marriage counseling. “Who’s loving her if you’re not?” ??? That seems extreme.

Caught a spectacular baby shower pink and blue sunset before calling it a day. Tomorrow I hit the Tennessee mountains at sunrise.

From beginning to end, I’m expecting a wonderful day.

Yoplait Fiber One: Side effects of phenylalanine

The American diet is KILLING us.

Sorry readers, I'm just posting this to get the word out because I can't find anything in a search and I hope someone smart will find this blog and pay attention.

I didn't fall victim to Yoplait Fiber One because of the commercials with the adorable Indian guy ... I saw the "Key Lime Pie" flavor and bought two four-pack servings. They are so good, you can't hardly eat one. And at 50 calories per serving, why should you? Fiber? 5 grams, yay.

Do you ever look at 50 calories on a serving and wonder how something so sweet can be so low cal? So of course I was eating two as a meal with a banana ... before I started getting sick.

I developed a raging yeast infection. This doesn't make any sense. A long time ago a doctor told me yeast infections come from sugar. He said "if you want to stop having them, stop eating sugar."

So I'm not EATING any sugar, WTF???

I used one OTC yeast suppository and started feeling better last night; so I had a snack. Guess what kind of snack. And then guess what - the itching and discomfort came back IMMEDIATELY. Then I was hit by exhaustion. I just woke up from sleeping nearly nonstop for 12 hours.

So I'm remembering back to that label ... this isn't sugar - is it?

Now this is going to take a scientist or nutritionist to figure out. But I did note this on the package. It's an asterisked comment, of course:

PHENYLKETONURICS; CONTAINS PHENYLALANINE.

I'm a Virgo, my mind pays attention to stuff like that. So after being sick for the past two days, I went back to the package and looked it up online.

http://www.janethull.com/newsletter/1008/warning_phenylketonurics.php

So I'm thinking "I'm sick ... am I a phenylketonuric???" I am many things, but that too??

Here's what Wikipedia says:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Phenylketonuria

That doesn't sound at all like me. So obviously phenylalanine affects more than phenylketonurics...

Get the word out, read the labels - and those scary asterisks in caps?

Put the product down and step back from the dairy case.

How can I be so stupid?

When we're stressed, we forget the good things.

This was my view Wednesday afternoon from a friend's boat out on the "Miserable Mile" between the Caloosahatchee River and the Gulf of Mexico.

I forget I'm in fucking paradise.

Well, it was hot as hell for months. But it's beautiful now. I actually had to pull out a turtleneck to hit the beach tonight. I was laughed at, of course; until people grabbed my hands and found they were like ice.

The locals were in sweatshirts and the tourists were in beachwear - but there are no strangers. Everyone is there for the same reason - to hang out, make friends and have fun.

And there's more stuff I've forgotten. Maybe the summer heat seared it all out of my brain ...

This is where people come to let go.

The people here have great nicknames. Minnesota Diane and Bible Jim ...

Fort Myers Beach is a warm, friendly reunion at this time of year.

Within the past five hours ...

Bible confessed the girl he took to prom had a sex change operation shortly thereafter. He made fun of his stroke, saying he can still play with nipples but he can't flip people off without using both hands.

Someone thought he had a rip in the back of his shorts so he turned around, dropped them and bent over. (No rip, but quite a view. A few random screams.)

A large group of quasi-inebriated folk endured/enjoyed karaoke night at the Lighthouse Tiki Bar - a mix of everything from the ridiculous to the sublime.

I sat at "the Michigan table" with friends who hail from there but would literally rather die than return year-round.

There was a good-natured rivalry between Michigan and Ohio as someone sang "Sweet Home Alabama - Summertime in Michigan."

A wealthy gentleman sat there and said there was great money to be made in this economy if you know what you're doing with stocks. (Expressing his theories in some detail.)

A very large man in his 30s talked about his recent diabetes diagnosis. Says when his doctor put him on a 1300 calorie diet, he told him "hell, I SPILL more than that."

A young couple who had married on the beach earlier today danced their first dance at the Lighthouse Tiki Bar. The bride had tears in her eyes - as did most of the women who formed a large appreciative circle around them. It didn't end there.

A lunatic from Minnesota got caught up in the moment, grabbed the mic and asked the DJ to play "Amore" - "when the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that's amore" ... and most everyone sang. It was like a scene from Mama Mia.

How does a wild-ass beach tiki bar become the setting for a real live musical?

A woman in her 70s danced shamelessly with younger men - as if she were 50 years younger - and nobody laughed or judged. (Although several men hid.)

The photo of a man everyone knew - who died several months back - is taped prominently on the bar area. Local bars don't forget their own.

The cops showed up, but nobody was arrested.

Yup, it was a beautiful day on Fort Myers Beach, from time with the friend who invited me to a bike ride this morning (proudly rode up and over that damned bridge again without stopping or freaking out from the height) to time with friends tonight.

This was one of those days that makes you think "maybe it will be ok after all."

Screw Fear.

Hey, we Boomers expected we'd get old with all our gold.

I spent this past summer worrying about how I was going to survive financially and it started reminding me of being a Jehovah's Witness, back when the elders were telling us the world was gonna end in 1975.

I had been hammered with that damned Armageddon thing since I was a little kid. We would be persecuted, we would be killed. Just like the death camps in WWII. Imagine teaching your kids about the death camps. Who does that??

I can remember being 6 years old and my mother sitting across from me at the kitchen table, telling me "one day you may be taken away from me, but you will have to be strong."

WTF. Strong? At 6? How?

As a young adult I would bow my head and mumble "but the Bible says no man knows the day nor the hour"; unfortunately, nobody hears you when you when you bow your head and mumble. And when you're female in that religion nobody would have heard you if you screamed, ripped off your bra and set your tits on fire.

The elders said the righteous (us) would be tortured and persecuted. And then God would sweep down from on high and smite all evildoers (anyone who wasn't us) and resurrect the righteous who had already died (only 144,000) and suck them right into heaven. Sort of a mini-rapture.

The rest of us would live forever on a paradise earth.

Even then, fresh and innocent, I can remember thinking "that sounds sort of boring. With THESE people? Foreverrrr?"

Fear gets really old after a while. You get numb. And then you get pissed off.

I bailed in 1974. And it felt GOOD. Screw fear, screw worrying about what's going to happen.

Guess what - the world didn't end in 1975. Just as I suspected.

So I spent all last summer terrified I couldn't make it financially one more month and you finally get to the point of fuggit, what's the worst that can happen? What poor friend or relative would YOU call if you lost your job and your house? Or which of your friends or relatives may wind up calling YOU when THEY lose THEIRS?

Which option is WORSE - and which has the potential for (gasp) good things? Like that sense of family and friendship, of pulling together that our spoiled brat generation lost a long damned time ago.

My daughter-in-law grew up in communist Poland. This is nothing compared to what she's been through.

So if you have to move, to room with someone, what will you take? What will you give away? What will you abandon?

When I hit the blackest of the black, lowest of the low an amazing thing happened. I looked around and asked myself what I could sell. What I should sell. I brought more furniture than I needed anyway.

Turns out I could get rid of a 7' tall antique oak sideboard, almost 4' wide. It was beautiful, but it ate my living area. I'd tried posting it to eBay before, got a hit, sold it and the buyer renigged. This is why I hate eBay. And this is why I hate being from Michigan, I'm too polite to post negative feedback. I might as well be Canadian.

(No offense Connie.)

I posted it to Craigslist instead and got a few lowball offers. Then the snowbirds started coming back. I used to hate to see the out of state plates, but now it's like the cavalry's comin. Feels good. Feels like cash.

I posted the sideboard to Craigslist and sold it within three hours. Got paid in hundred dollar bills. Not as much as I would have liked, but I basically broke even. I had a great gaping hole in the middle of my room, but wow. What a great feeling to let something go. And the space - there was something soothing about it.

Now nothing is safe. Well, the dogs and my late 70s German porn...

When I worry I organize my stuff and it just feels good. Those bags of clothes that are going to charity - they feel GREAT. The brown bags full of papers for recycling? EXCELLENT. I am thinning this shit out.

There's no crap in the fridge either - garbage in, garbage out. Literally. Every dollar counts, especially when you don't have health insurance.

And when I worry about where I could go, I think of it as an adventure my grandkids will tell their kids. Heck, I can aspire to become an unwelcome scourge in their lives - like the grandmother in Sixteen Candles.

I can give them the nervous tic they sometimes give me. Something to tell their therapists in years to come.

Maybe I will never have to go anywhere and then again, there is always a gray area. To be broke and alone and getting older in this economy doesn't necessarily mean you have to impose your sorry ass on someone else or that you may be asked to share YOUR home or condo - it may mean you will fall into something meaningful.

Because I've noticed a very weird change lately.

Last year at this time the guys on match were arrogant and condescending. Now they're kinder/gentler - a little bit humbled. Some are desperate and needy, looking for anyone solid and honest and not a golddigger.

Wood is less of a priority than gold and there's not enough of that to spend on bimps any more.

So it's getting pretty funny. I'm blowing off anyone with a Harley and taking more time with the boat photos; just for fun.

I am suddenly hearing from the men I loved most in the past, those bridges I never burned. "Are you seeing anyone?" It feels like musical chairs, where everyone realizes they're getting old and they don't want to be alone for the rest of this rocky ride.

So it could be good. None of us know where we'll be this time next year. One thing we know for sure - it's going to be interesting.

Catch and Release

When religion and lifestyle collide ...

In 1973 I enrolled my son in daycare and started an exciting new job. That’s where I met Sharon. She was built like a pinup, with strawberry blonde hair, full rack, skin-tight clothes and nosebleed-high heels.

She drove a midnight blue Camaro. Black wasn’t good enough - she’d had it specially painted. She was cool as cool can be.

I was honored she took the time to talk to me. We were the same age and rack size, but I felt dowdy and unworthy. I was married to a Jehovah’s Witness elder and I dressed like it. Raised that way, I had obeyed my religion to and past being a virgin on my wedding night.

By the time I met Sharon, the marriage and religion weren’t working. Unfortunately, I was such a cult clone I couldn’t see my way out.

Maybe worldly people would show me the way.

That’s what Jehovah’s Witnesses call them - “worldly”. We weren’t supposed to associate with them because they would lead us down the wrong path.

I guess I was hoping for that. And I got my wish.

Within a year I was out of the marriage and the religion. I was a single mother having the time of her life. The seventies were a free-for-all and I had Sharon and Maria to show me the ropes. Maria was wildest of all, a bisexual nymphomaniac in F-cups.

Sharon went through men like nut creams in a box of Godiva chocolates. If one relationship wasn’t working, she’d date someone else TOO - until she was sure she was safe to blow the old guy off and move in with the new guy. Her marriage to the tae kwan do instructor ended with that level of overlap.

She was fixing up the house she acquired in that divorce when she met Jim. He seemed like a good guy, but she found him a little boring. One night I called and she said she was painting her living room. Said Jim had called and wanted to see her but she blew him off.

I told her she might be giving up her chance at the real thing.

So she started making more time for him. Then one day she decided she had to have him. I think she saw his portfolio - or found his little black book. She went nuts, more insecure with every passing day.

She lost weight, her clothes got flashier and she marketed her sexual prowess in all possible ways. If you got her answering machine, you heard “man eater” by Hall & Oates.

I don’t remember the clincher that nailed the poor bastard. I think they dated others to make each other jealous and he couldn't take it any more. Unfortunately, that whole go-round also destroyed all trust immediately prior to the wedding.

Of course I wanted to throw Minute Rice. Of course I didn't take my role as Maid of Honor seriously. What I wore was up to me so I selected a pale blue prom dress on clearance off a juniors rack.

I would ultimately be pleased with my choice of polyester over natural fabric.

They were married outside, next to a pond. Drinking ensued. Maria seduced a friend’s teenage son, an occupied portajohn was tipped and my tuxedo’d copilot flipped our craft mid-lake during the post-nuptial canoe race. I surfaced with sunglasses intact.

My dress was dry in 10 minutes, but I smelled like bass.

My copilot woke up at home alone in his hot tub. He climbed out and peeled off his tux.

A month after the wedding Sharon called to say she was pregnant. After the birth of the second son, she found Jeezus. She was pure, virginal, transformed and her two buddies were suddenly heinous.

Her stern fake-nailed finger was pointed DIRECTLY at me. Note that the third member of this little group was still a total whore dog. I was simply continuing my path of serial monogamy, the catch and release of dating.

I never did overlap like Sharon did*, never went from one to the other without the customary mourning period of sitcoms and chocolate almond Haagen’dazs.

Still, one day at lunch she looked up at me and said “I’m worried for your mortal soul.” I pretty much told her my soul is nobody’s business but mine. And I warned her that if she kept it up, she would lose a friend.

And she did. I cut off communication, remarried, changed my name and she never found me again.

Until last week when I got a Starbucks Venti 2% Milk Sugar Free Hazelnut latte BUZZ and looked her up on Facebook. There she WUZZ.

I submitted the request to friend; afterwards I saw she posted her profile as ultra-conservative and her tagline was “I LOVE JESUS.”

Oops.

She was DELIGHTED to hear from me, ecstatic, still married with both sons in college. They sound like they're prospering despite the economy.

She said she’d been trying to find me for years and is hoping for a full-scale reunion, all three of us. I wrote back it would be great to see her, but this time it would be an awkward mix - her the conservative Christian, me the liberal Buddhist and Maria … wow, still Maria.

I threw her a caveat. “You DO understand we will not be able to discuss politics, religion or perversion.”

If she can accept that, we'll have enough stories for at least five steamy novels.

I haven’t heard back. I wonder if I will.

The catch and release of friendship ...

* The closest I came was when I dumped the owner of a used car lot for a Republican State Rep who went on to become a senator. In hindsight, that was an even trade.