The Elusive G-Spot

I was doing occasional work for a furniture company that did warehouse sales. I got in with them five years ago. It was part-time, but it was my first real live job after coming off Lyme Disease.  If I could survive their big sales in the Florida heat, I could do anything.

 It was a measure of Finnish SISU (strength – chutzpah – balls) to be able to walk the length of that aircraft hangar more times than I could count. I was proud that I could power on smiling as others – older and younger - fell into sweaty piles on distant couches, far from management eyes.   

It was like a Turkish prison except they made us wear heavy waffle-weave company shirts instead of rags and fed us pizza instead of gruel. The owners sat among the gaping boxes in the A/C, of course.  

The last time they called, I freaked. I knew I couldn’t do it anymore.  Put a fork in me, I’m done. I passed some ominous milestone that said “if you go, you will wind up face first on the concrete and bust your nose into teensy pieces.”

 I said “yes” but I prayed God would give me reason why I couldn’t follow through. I don’t pray for myself very often, but I was scared.

God always answers the important ones. Sure enough, I got a big freelance writing gig – a rush project. I sent a nice email that I’d received an emergency project and they understood.

 I think I’ve served my last time at the warehouse. They were adding salespeople to the floor; we were lucky if we made $10/hr.

Still, I needed something to fill in the gaps. In October I didn’t get any projects until the last three days of the month. I panicked.  Be careful what you wish for.

I wished for a part-time job to supplement my freelance writing gigs and omigod, how exhausting my first day was.  I came home at 5 and crashed until morning. Maybe I was coming down with something and it’s just now passing, or maybe I have a brain tumor and will be dead by Tuesday or maybe I’m just getting old.  For real.

In my case, 60 was the magic number for holy shit.  Harder to get out there and exercise, harder to walk 60 minutes instead of 30, harder not to make myself a big bowl of buttered popcorn before bedtime, and way harder to look in a mirror. In the old days I would be considering plastic surgery. Now I can only aspire to Botox.

The most important thing anyone ever said was “the harder I work, the luckier I get.” So my luck should be pretty good because I have SOME type of income-producing work do every day. The variety is pretty excellent and I’ve been writing high-profile Harley-Davidson ads. Not for local dealers, for the corporation. It’s through the agency, though, and I’m not sure which ones get approved. But writing those ads is the most fun I have.

My neighbor followed my example and applied for part-time work at the outlet mall. I told her she HAD to get the job, she looked sensational. She’s tall and thin and she dressed to the teeth that day. Sure enough, she landed the job.

The older I get, the more grateful I am. This little job could see me through some very lean times. My neighbor seems to be getting more demanding after all the hard knocks. At first she was afraid she wouldn’t get the job, then she complained about the starting wage and wondered if they would let her wear the clothes.

I wanted to say “who would want to buy clothes you’ve worn?” but I kept my mouth shut.  If she says anything to management, she will set the tone for possible future employment.

Pffft. Not my problem.  If she screws herself out of that job and has to leave, I’ll have a new next-door neighbor and that could be for better or for worse. We shall see. Whatever.

The holidays are everywhere already. I would like to go north and be with family, but writing gigs and part-time job come first. What boomer can refuse any kind of work at this age in this economy. We have a responsibility to – at best, be able to help our family members; at worst – to take care of ourselves physically and financially so they won’t have to worry about us.  Because they do.

Hopefully I will be too tired to cry from loneliness at Christmas.  I did give one friend up north cartes blanche to come down and stay as long as she likes. I know she’s having problems with her husband and doesn’t want to talk about it. She said my invitation meant “more than you will ever know.”

She thinks I don’t know, but I do.

My “g” spot is the “g” as in “grateful.”   Grateful to love where I live, that my family up north is all in good health, that my critters are happy and well cared for, that Bodhi’s eye infection healed, that Bobby the Cockatoo isn’t plucking and that I have work coming in. Grateful that my writers group is a lot of fun, that my book is coming along, that I’ll be a little less lonely with the part-time job. I do enjoy people, especially tourists.

There will be a time when I will be forced to “not be lonely” – when my mother will need me to be there for her and I will have to freeze my ass off 9 months a year in Bumfuck U.P.

Way effing grateful.

The Old Deaf Guy

I don't know who said "People live too long and dogs don't live long enough." 

I haven't had a dog live a long time since the collie my mom bought me as a little girl died when I was in my 20's. I've always had big dogs; then one day it occurred to me I can't deal with them breaking my heart every seven years. When my Bouvier died, I opted for small, cute and portable. I had no idea how "big" small can be.

This is Bodhi, a.k.a. Bodes, the Bod-monster, Bo-Dee, shithead, my shit-zoo. "Bodhi" means enlightened but she's not. She's growly at her food bowl, grumpy at bedtime and wonderfully cuddly in the morning when she needs to get her speckled belly rubbed. I love her to death.

Princess is my grateful and loving adopted Lhasa and Bobby is my rescue parrot. I love them too, but yesterday it was all about the Bodes. She's seven years old. I'm a little paranoid. Their fur grows into their eyes and they get infected easily. The rescue sites frequently show pictures of Shih Tzus who've had an eye removed.

Bodhi's right eye was infected; again. I can't afford to get her groomed these days. I just learned how to trim her hair short around her eyes, but I think it got irritated before I got that skill mastered. (Close the eye with your fingers, trim the hair that extends past your finger with blunt nose scissors; works like a charm.)

But she already had an irritation. I'm short on bucks and worried about surviving financially to the end of the year. I only buy only what I need. I battle depression when I'm afraid. And now I needed to take her to the vet. She was the top of my worries; if anything happened to her, I would be inconsolable.

Going to the vet is another thing to stress about. I go to Our Hope on Pondella in North Fort Myers. It's a low cost ragtag office with lousy decor and really good people. Most of the people and pets who come here are having a hard time of it. I've seen it all - a well-dressed man making a scene, insisting he be allowed to write a check instead of paying by credit or debit. (Sorry buddy.) People arriving with rescues. One woman arrived with a feral kitten somebody shot. There was a long line that day. Nobody offered to let her go first (except me and I was way down on the list). 

She left crying with a silent shoebox.

The drama can be overwhelming for someone who channels the pain of the animals and the people who love them. I was already stressed when I called and made the appointment; I was glad they had an opening that gave me just enough time to shower and go.

Princess was not happy about not being able to go with. Bobby the Cockatoo hates to see me leave, but I heard his sweet "bub-bye" all the way out to the car.

There was no line. I was amazed. I got right in. The vet said I had done the right thing bringing her in. He operated on her eyelid a few months ago, she had a lump removed. I worry about cancer.

I think the vet might be from Jamaica; he's a quiet, capable man. His assistant is a hoot. She's probably in her 40s. She can be hard as nails; I guess she has to be. But I can see the twinkle in her eye.

There was a man I didn't know hanging around; her husband. He was helping out because the squirrel receptionist I always wondered about had been ... um, let go or something.

As I stood there holding Bodes for the vet, the assistant's husband came in and asked me to turn around to see the precious bundle of fur in a cage about eye-level. A baby Pomeranian. He had been found in a home where the breeders just got too old to handle things. The wife died, the breeding pair continued breeding as the old widower got Alzheimer's.  The assistant told me the dogs had been neglected and were so flea infested this precious little puppy was in his last 24 hours of life. Of course her care brought him back.

Someone walked in the front door and she walked out to see who it was. I heard snippets ... "feral kitten" ... "walked right in" ... "she's sick, I'm not sure what she needs." The assistant said something about a flea bath and they both laughed about the hazards of trying to bathe a feral cat. I didn't think much of it, I was worried about Bodhi.

The vet was worried about her tear ducts, they might be clogged. He gave me antibiotics and some special antibiotic they create from the pet's own blood. I waited out front for that and saw the person who brought the cat in.

He was a tall old guy, very well dressed. The kitten was orange and white and he had her in a nice red fabric traveling case. We were alone in the lobby, so I looked at him and asked what was going on. He said he had opened the door last night and she walked in. "She was sick. Animals know to go to humans for help when they're sick." I'd never heard that before. I liked the sounds of it.

He turned to look out the window. I asked him something else and he completely ignored me. I was hurt. Then the receptionist walked out and asked him a question and he ignored her too. She looked at me and said "he's pretty deaf" ... so I waved to get his attention and pointed to her.

He and the cat were invited into the vet's work area.  I didn't hear what was going on until they walked back out. It was going to cost so much for this and so much for that. Did he want to have the work done?

I wondered how he would respond. He was obviously retired and retired folks are scraping by with fixed incomes and rising food prices.

He said "this is a life, I have an obligation to save it." Lump in throat; some faith in humanity restored.

The assistant - who has her own zoo of rescues - said "this lucky girl picked the right door."

Amen.

He sat again and waited. They must have been running tests. He unzipped the bag and stroked the cat. He had named her "Scooter." What a great old guy name for a cat.

When they left it occurred to me he probably needs her as much as she needs him. Every once in a while God works these beautiful little miracles.

(24 hours later, Bodhi's eye already looks much better. Thank God for good vets: Our Hope Center, 893 Pondella Road, North Fort Myers, FL 33903; 239- 543-7387)

Hanging In

It's October 27 and I haven't had ONE writing assignment all month. I haven't had a lull this bad since the summer of 2010 when I damned near had a nervous breakdown. Fortunately, I was VERY busy this past summer, so I have enough to get by to about Christmas.

So I'm thinking all the stuff you think when you don't know where your next check is coming from. Where would I go, what poor relative would get stuck with me. What relative would I get stuck with. Would I have to go back to the snow??? I have two dogs and a parrot.

The parrot could take the cold about as well as I could. (The Lyme Disease destroyed my inner climate control. I can't even take a dip of 10 degrees ... 90 to 80 ... without severe joint pain that keeps me up at night.)

The threat of cold was the last straw. There was only one thing to do - go to Craigslist. OK, nothing under writing jobs. Nothing under web jobs. I would check retail. Yeah. I've sold furniture for Matter Brothers warehouse sales and I sort of enjoy the action; I do not, however, enjoy hours in the Florida heat running back and forth helping customers in a warehouse the size of an aircraft hangar. There have been times when I thought I would pass out face first on the concrete.

Sales would be OK but I didn't want to suffer. I enjoyed selling furniture because I like furniture. I would do a sales job - and be good at it - if it were a product I like. My existence is too hermity anyway. Need to polish those social skills again, learn to charm strangers instead of mumbling dumb stuff and staring at my magenta toenails.

Craigslist had retail! At the outlet mall within one mile of me! My car could break down and it wouldn't matter! Hooray!

And best of all there was an opening at the Crocs store! I was just in there last month. A few years back a very wealthy client was sloggin' around in ORANGE Crocs like he was hot stuff. It was a mystery. Why are Americans paying so much money for ugly plastic shoes made in China? The day I went in a charming saleswoman cautioned me - I could not leave the store until I had tried on a "toning" type sandal. I had already been to about five stores in the past month and couldn't find anything that felt good.

She was so cool, more like a friend than a salesperson, so I followed her advice. Omigod - floorgasm. And they were on sale. And they weren't ugly at all, black with a touch of turquoise. The nice little Crocs logo made it clear I wasn't wearing just any plastic shoes.

Since putting them on it has been hard to take them off ... except at bedtime when they would probably grab at the sheets as I thrash.

They're so comfortable I HAVE THEM ON NOW.

I am a believer. I could sell Crocs. 

I responded to the ad, telling this story (except for the line about paying good money for ugly plastic shoes made in China).  And the manager wrote back! And I thought she was just pleased by my story. But no, she asked for my resume. I wrote back that I'm a writer, not a salesperson - although I did sell for Matter Brothers and I did have my own antique shop back in Michigan.

For the next 24 hours I worried that she would call me. This job started at minimum wage and that was hardly worth my effort. Except it's better than no income at all.

Sure enough, she called and wanted to meet me. Then I was worried I'd get hired. At $7 an hour. So I showed up and I had that magical quality; I didn't care whether I got the job. I set foot ... wearing the infamous sandals, of course ... into the store and immediately went into shopping mode. I was dressed as if I were working there ... khaki pants, black top, black Crocs. 

Damned if she wasn't charming and damned if we didn't hit it off. Damned if I didn't say I'd work (at a higher rate) and I'll be damned if she didn't accommodate me. If I got a big writing project and needed to adjust my schedule, that was fine with her.

Some of the things I imagined were better than I hoped. Apparently Europeans buy the hell out of these shoes because they're far more expensive across the pond. I LOVE Europeans - especially the Germans. This would be all the fun without having to go there.

I forgot you have to give references. I gave three, then I had to write them - clients of course - telling them what I was applying for. It's embarrassing. Humbling. Whatever, times are SO effing hard for most everyone.

I told my neighbor the unemployed respiratory therapist and she started applying to stores at the mall.

I called my mom. She knew I was getting panicked about work. She sounded relieved.

The manager promised to call me on Monday ... but she didn't. I went from worrying about whether I'd get the job to worrying I wouldn't. I need to stay here, God PLEASE don't send me back to the endless gray and cold of Michigan.

On Tuesday my mother called to see if I got the job. Nope. Giant "L" on my forehead, I can't even get a job selling shoes. I suck.

Wednesday morning I woke up completely stressed out. I actually stood up and prayed out loud to God asking Him to PLEASE let something good happen that day; within 15 minutes the phone rang.

It looks like it's going to work out just fine. I'll still have time to work on my book (which keeps me up until 4 a.m. some nights), I'll still have time for freelance and if something big hits, it can be worked out; although I've gotten used to working longer hours. I think I'm up for it.

My neighbor hasn't managed to land anything yet. She's afraid of losing her condo.

I'm feeling blessed.

Just Say Whoa.

Princess

Mickisuzanne (C)

I was a bum this morning. I washed rather than showered, let my hair do what it wanted and wore second tier clothing – a ratty old tea-stained tee that’s not good enough for Goodwill.

Well, it didn’t matter. I had a big project to finish, I would be at the computer all day. I wouldn’t see anyone but my neighbor. We chat through my screen door a few times a day.

Robin's life has gone completely to hell. She did a refi when values maxed and got stuck with a payment she couldn't make. I don't know how long it has been since she paid her mortgage; a long time I think. Someone from the bank tried to deliver a summons last week – but she kept her door shut.

She has two sons – one was living with her. Kyle. When he bought a bicycle I assumed he had a DUI, I didn’t ask. When weather got bad last winter I drove him to work. In Florida bad weather means windy with rain. He was always so grateful, tried to give me money for driving him 2 miles. He was a chef at a beautiful resort across the river from Sanibel. He loved his job and enjoyed his coworkers. He was happy. 

His 40 year old model sister was Facebook gold. When she lived with Kyle and Robin, I always had tawdry snarks to post. I went Doctor Seuss on her scrawny ass, called her “the ho next do."

She was loud and arrogant and walked around nearly naked. When my then boyfriend came over she popped out the front door like a cuckoo clock – always in something sheer with a black thong. She would turn around and bend over to slowly pick up her snorty blonde Pekingese. She bent from the waist.

My male Facebook friends fell in lust and asked if our small condo association had vacancies.

She reminds me of that email joke – no matter how beautiful she is, there’s someone who’s sick of her shit. Well, she finally found someone who puts up with it. She has been with him for months. He has a nice home here and they just got back from an extended stay in California.

Kyle says his sister was working a pot farm in California at $20/hr. I was tempted to ask if they were hiring. Not for the pot, for the money. I get nervous when work gets slow.

Anyway.

While I was in Michigan on business Kyle was arrested. Last summer he was one of the restaurant types who lost their jobs because of the oil spill. Work was impossible to find at that time and he wound up smoking some crack. While high, he attempted to steal someone’s purse. Nobody got hurt and he didn’t take the purse.

The authorities waited almost a year to arrest him and put him in jail. He had his life together by then.

I talked to Robin the night I got back and she told me about it. She was so depressed I was afraid she would kill herself. She stayed inside with blinds closed for two or three weeks. I bought her a blank card and wrote that she needs to be strong for Kyle.

So a month ago Robin lost her job as a health professional. Then she was denied unemployment. You know how sometimes you pick up on someone else’s emotions - I nearly broke for her. She persisted with the unemployment. I helped out by looking things up online. She finally got it and she – we – could breathe easier. She would be ok for a while.

So today a summons server tried to serve her for a second time. A blonde. I think she's new at her job because she seemed to be taking guidance from someone who was waiting out in the car.

She banged on Robin's door – which is right next to mine. My screen door is open most of the time. Anyone can walk up to Robin’s door and talk to me. It’s rare for either of us to have company, so it’s no big deal.

The woman poked her head near my screen. She pointed at Robin's door and asked "is this where Robin lives? Is that her car?" She was just here last week, she knows damned well that's where Robin lives.

I said "sorry, I don't want to get involved." I'm not offering any help. Robin tried to work with the bank. Fuck the bank.

The server told me she worked for a government agency, gave me a nasty look and started to issue threats … "well you know, we can ..." … apparently she had no idea what she could do. She turned to look at the person as if to say “help!” and wound up just walking away. I was relieved.

About 5 minutes later a Fed Ex guy walked up to Robin’s door with a big box. It was from Kyle. I assumed they finally let him mail his personal belongings home.

I walked up to the door and said "I'm right here, it's safe to leave it." I do that all the time. Fed Ex does that all the time. He didn’t ask me to sign anything but he asked "does Kyle live here" - I think I said "his mother does." I was not going to offer information to a complete stranger. I’m not going to say "Kyle is in jail." It’s embarrassing to everyone who cares. I care.

The Fed Ex guy left. I knew Robin would be glad to hear from her son, so I knocked lightly on her door and said "it's Micki". She didn’t answer so I went back to my computer.

The phone rang – it was Robin. I told her about the package but she was worried about the process server. So was I, still stressed out from the incident.

Robin thought the coast was clear so she came out - ignoring the package. We were freaked. Can the bank send the sheriff to move her out within 24 hours? She has heard of that. I have heard of it taking months, nearly years, for banks to foreclose.

I encouraged her but I was worried sick. She shook her head and said "they give 24 hours notice before they throw your stuff out on the grass."

I told her the summons server tried to threaten ME. She said she heard of the bank sending process servers in disguise. We worked ourselves into jittering paranoia. I imagined life with no lights next door. No little wall bumps at night, no signs of life. Nobody my age to commiserate with. I didn’t like it.

No sooner had she taken the box inside than three big honking Lee County Sheriff vans pull up. I think there were three or four cops with guns in bulletproof vests - and a canine unit. There was one immediately out front, one on the side and one in the back. We were surrounded.

They BANGED on her door SHERIFF - OPEN UP. Her door wasn’t locked so they burst right in. I heard them yell DOWN ON THE FLOOR!!!

DO YOU HAVE DOGS??? Not any more. The Peke was old and blind and the Ho didn’t pay attention when she introduced her to her boyfriend’s house. The precious girl drowned in his pool.

Nope, no dog to bite the cops.

I freaked and closed my main door. To leave it open was a violation of Robin’s privacy. About five minutes later there was a knock on MY door. They wanted to ask me questions.

Two guys - the Fed Ex guy and a cop in a bulletproof vest. I don't remember the gun being out but I was freaked. Fucking bank – when did they get THIS kind of power.

I thought it was weird that the Fed Ex guy was with the cop. I started explaining that I didn't know it was against the law to NOT help a process server. The cop looked confused. I explained that she had been there twice and was a little menacing earlier this afternoon. He said “oh – the woman who was just here?” His facial expression said the woman was way out of line.

The Fed Ex guy asked about Robin and I told him she has had more knocks than anyone I know.  I told him I was worried about her being suicidal. That she's a good person. I asked myself why I was telling a Fed Ex personal details of my neighbor’s life.

And he asked about Kyle and I was suddenly very confused. He said “look me in the eyes - we're not here to hurt your friend and we're not here about the process server. We're here about the package."

Reality began to dawn. The Fed Ex guy was under cover. I turned into a two year old. I may have gasped. "Oh, the box has bad stuff in it?" And he – as if RESPONDING to a two year old - said “YES, very bad stuff.” And I'm thinking heroin.

I told him Kyle’s story. That he’s a good kid who made a mistake last summer. That he was in jail but he would NEVER have anything to do with sending drugs to his mother's house and jeopardizing her life. At that point I was thinking it might have been someone in the prison. Note to self – watch for large scary tattooed guys.

The three cop vans remained strategically positioned while they questioned Robin. The officer with the canine unit let his dog out near my lanai. Princess started barking and I told her there was no way she could take that dog. I asked the cop if his dog needed water and he said that would be great. All of a sudden he was a real person; we were just two dog people who cared about making sure the big guy was hydrated.

I went back inside and waited. I didn’t hear Robin and the sheriff vans left. If they left her, she would have come right over to explain what was going on. I assumed they had taken her in for questioning. I imagined I’d be next – they would need me to confirm whatever she said. I wasn’t worried because neither of us lie.

Shortly thereafter a fast black car pulled up. I recognize people by their cars and I didn’t recognize this one. There were two 40-ish guys in it. I thought maybe it was Robin's other son but then it occurred to me - "anyone who shows up now is the person who sent the package."

And the dark haired guy waved and smiled on his way up the steps. I heard him say “Hi mom” as he walked in her front door. It wasn’t locked. Was she still there?

Before I knew it the vans were back and the guy who drove the black car is suddenly spread eagle over the rail in front of my door.

I don’t know frisking etiquette. I imagine you want privacy. I just sort of shut my door. The drama was overwhelming. About five minutes later I opened the door to let the breeze flow through and saw that the cops were gone again. The black car was gone – everyone was gone.

I decided I had better shower and try to look halfway decent; it could be a long night. I might wind up downtown answering questions.

My hair was still wet when Robin came up to my screen. I expected the process server to appear behind her at any second.

The police hadn’t taken her. The dark haired guy who ran in to claim the box was the Ho’s boyfriend. She was with him in California. Apparently he mailed himself a few pounds of pot - to Robin's address in Kyle’s name. I am aghast that he dragged Robin and Kyle into it. Fortunately, he spent the night in jail.

This is a quiet neighborhood, I'm sure we're quite the buzz. Robin is OK but shaken. Kyle is not implicated in any way; he probably won’t find out about this for a long time. The ho may have been slightly inconvenienced and her boyfriend is crushed by the idiocy of his behavior. It’s also no picnic to see your first offense land in the local paper with a photo of you in all you’re orange glory. He paid $150 bail and he has an attorney now. I think he’ll get a slap on the wrist.

Me? I did a mental tally on the sheriff department man hours, dog hours, gas and surveillance charges. I’m thinking there are better ways to spend Lee County tax dollars. Give pot the same laws you give alcohol – as in driving under the influence of either is exactly the same; and dedicate the really important resources to chasing down the hard stuff.

Are you (gluten) intolerant???

It's like the nutrition experts are bombarding us with information that has the potential to make some of us fat, bloaty and sluggish. They REALLY need to take people who cannot process gluten into account.

Like I LOVE Prevention Magazine. This was their article today "Foods Not to Ditch When You Diet." http://www.prevention.com/foodsnottoditch/?cm_mmc=Eat-Up-Slim-Down-_-04112011-_-Weight-Loss-_-Foods-Not-to-Ditch-When-You-Diet

It includes the foods that I've discovered wreak havoc on my health and welfare - pasta and grains.

I wrote a detailed account of my discovery in the previous blog; this is an update. I ate what the experts said to eat and could not lose weight, did not have energy.

I thought it was weird that beer suddenly gave me an instant headache. OK, can live without beer. Then I was eating mostly fruits and veggies one week and caved for a peanut butter and jelly on premium whole grain bread; THOUGHT I WAS GONNA DIE.

YES there is gluten in beer. YES there is gluten in bread.

I have a friend who is gluten intolerant, so I recognized my symptoms as being the same as hers. I told my yoga buddies about my suspicions and one asked what my blood type is - and if I had checked that diet. I found out rH Negative blood types are NOT good at processing grains.

Eat Right 4 Your Type: The Individualized Diet Solution to Staying Healthy, Living Longer & Achieving Your Ideal Weight

So how am I doing now? FABULOUS. Realizing I have a gluten issue has changed my life. I think if I'd known it when I was a kid, I would have never had a weight problem.It has been about three months now. The belly - and everything else - continue to diminish. The plumbing is starting to work as nature intended - without laxatives.

I had to travel for five days this month; that's the acid test. I just planned for it. Carried my nuts and apples, made sure I never got so hungry I'd eat bread, pizza or pasta. Isn't it weird - those were my comfort foods. My last meal would be Stouffers Mac & Cheese. I was drawn to the stuff that was most toxic for me.

Have I fallen off the wagon? Once. I didn't have much food on hand and decided to see how bad I would feel if I had one of my favorites - buckwheat pancakes. Or, as we used to joke when my son was little - buttwheat panquakes. I used to favor them for their ... uh ... fibrous qualities.

BLOATED LIKE A BALLOON FOR TWO DAYS. Not worth it.

Here's a quick summary as I understand it. If you are gluten intolerant, your body can't process flours and some grains. It blocks our systems from getting the nutrition from the foods; my conclusion - always hungry, never satisfied. You might as well be eating shipping popcorn.

I don't have health insurance. It makes me more aware of what's going on. My advice to anyone reading this is just PAY ATTENTION to how you feel after certain foods.

Do a search on gluten intolerance and see if you can relate to the symptoms. Make sure you know which foods contain gluten. If you're like me, every dollar counts. You don't have to buy a book, find the information online for free.

Believe me when I tell you feeling good is more important than eating baked goods. And there is still gooey, satisfying stuff to indulge with.

Now I'm a normal person, I eat, I'm satisfied; I just can't have flour and some grains. This does NOT feel like a diet, this feels like MYSTERY SOLVED.

Battling Bloat

Image from http://www.formerfatguy.com/



Despite my years with Lyme, I don’t usually blog about health; but this is really important. It's about boomer bellies; yours may not be some vague middle-age thing. Mine wasn't.

In January I was doing everything the medical community advises to lose weight and feel better. I was seriously worried about my belly and bowels. My tummy felt like it was second trimester or stuffed with sandbags; my bowels would not work without laxatives or mass quantities of prune juice. When the laxatives or juice finally took effect, it was like giving birth to rocks.

This problem has been going on for almost as long as I can remember. Back when I was on staff at ad agencies in Detroit, I had to set aside one full weekend morning each week to activate and complete a bodily function most take for granted.

I can’t believe I’m talking about this stuff in public. Well, you’re not reading it unless you searched for it, in which case my story may be helpful.

I walk, kayak and do yoga. I’m vegetarian, but I do eat eggs and dairy. I was eating fruits, vegetables and whole grains. Breakfast was usually steel cut oats – lunch might be a salad or a whey protein shake with fresh fruit. I had learned to make an amazing pasta fagioli with oil, garlic, onion, tomato sauce, pecorino romano cheese, white beans and whole grain pasta. It was so delicious it had become a mainstay.

So why did I feel like shit? Why did I never feel satisfied? I don’t have health insurance, I can’t just go to the doctor and find out; I can only take care of myself, pay attention and do some research when there’s a problem.

One week I had been especially mindful about what I ate. I know the principles of Atkins, so I’ve always been wary of carbs. But one night I was STARVED so I pulled out two pieces of high fiber whole grain wheat bread, organic peanut butter – crunchy of course, creamy is for wussies - and high quality raspberry jelly. Within an hour I felt like I was going to explode; then it occurred to me. I’ve heard of this before.

I have a friend who is gluten intolerant. I sent her an email – what does it feel like when you eat wheat? She said “bloated and sluggish beyond belief.” So I researched more. If you’re gluten intolerant, you WILL bloat and you may be horribly constipated or diarrheic. (I made that word up – I think.)

If you are gluten intolerant your body isn’t absorbing the nutrition from the food; no wonder I would eat and not feel satisfied. I was eating high quality healthy foods – but they weren't good for me.

After a week at my mothers, with her pancakes, cookies and pies, my bloat was at tilt and I felt like death on a soda cracker.

I read that some people who have this disorder can develop serious problems with their small intestines. My Gram and her annoying adventist sister nearly died from intestinal problems.

I called my mom to talk about it and she vaguely implied I was as much a food zealot as my Gram; who – by the way – lived to 96.

So if I hit a wall with mom, that’s ok. Some of my best friends are nurses. I talked to one on the phone and she said absolutely, it sounded like I needed to be off gluten. And she said it reminded her that she probably should too.

One of my long and lean yoga buddies is also a nurse. We have Starbucks after class and she always gets some weird soy thing because she’s lactose intolerant. While we talked she leaned back and said “Look at my belly. I shouldn’t even be having soy but I can’t give up everything.”

Another yoga buddy suggested I looked at the blood type diet. I hadn’t really thought much about that. When I looked up my blood type – rH negative – I found my type doesn’t do well on any grains at all.

(This blood type thing is fascinating, well worth checking into.)

Eat Right 4 Your Type: The Individualized Diet Solution to Staying Healthy, Living Longer & Achieving Your Ideal Weight

That was a month ago. That peanut butter and jelly sandwich was my last gluten. I feel SO MUCH BETTER NOW. I’m satisfied after meals and my bowels are starting to work on their own.

Gluten is in grains and flours – white, whole wheat and rye.I don't feel like I had to give up that much. I gave up steel cut oats, whey protein, bread and pasta. I read labels on everything now – something I’ll have to continue doing until I’ve got the thing down.  I discovered gluten-free products in the health food aisle; the ginger snaps and animal cookies are excellent. I don’t feel like I’m missing a thing.

Food tastes better – I think because I know it’s serving as nutrition now. When I want carbs, I eat potatoes or brown rice. My yoga buddy nurse friend was worried about my protein intake so I've added humane organic chicken to my diet. DO NOT poison yourself with factory farmed meat and poultry. (Please research that.)

The foods I’m eating now are not the enemy.

Beer? Hello my gluten-rich frienemy. I had already learned I couldn’t drink it without getting a headache within an hour; now I know why. If I want a drink I have wine or something with rum.

So if you’re chronically bloated and constipated or diarrheic – it may be that “healthy” gluten rich food and drink you’ve been consuming.

This book looks excellent:

The Gluten Connection: How Gluten Sensitivity May Be Sabotaging Your Health--And What You Can Do to Take Control Now

Pay attention to how you feel after eating certain types of foods. I think it’s a good habit to get into.

Namaste my belly boomer friends.

The Wads of Winter

My friend Connie raises Geese in Missouri. That’s not what she intended to do with her life. She was an award winning landscape designer in Chicago - but her mother was dying alone on the family farm and her city slicker siblings would not step up.

I’m not saying Connie’s mother “was” dying because she died, but because somewhere along the line she started holding her own.

Her brother grudgingly writes checks to make the problem go away as her sister sits back and criticizes.

It’s the traditional American family.

Hospice still comes out – that’s a surprise. Connie can’t get it through her head that they are there for end of life. When death is not imminent, they go away. When hospice saw my Gram was getting better that’s what they did. I joke that they fired her after four months. She lived years past that.

But Connie needs help, she can’t even accept the thought that they might stop coming. She hates and needs them. She rages on Facebook, she doesn’t want to hear the truth about hospice nurses being there to dispense comfort, not healing. I throw my two cents in like a grenade and run for fear of fallout.

It’s not good, it’s not bad – it just is.

I don’t want to get into it with her. Nobody carries a burden as heavy as hers. Her mom has lung cancer and mild dementia and Connie is in her second winter of horrific bronchitis and migraines. She and her mother live in separate buildings on the land and she has to trudge through deep snow to keep her mother fed and medicated and make sure the furnace is working. Not to mention feeding/watering/caring for the geese and the herding dogs and ….

I would break under her burden.

Today she wrote me privately. I have to take a deep breath to open her emails because they break my heart. She explained it this way. I’m not changing one word – just the punctuation because – well, I’m a Virgo.

She wrote “Not to put pressure on you, but I just can’t deal with people right now. And I don’t consider you a person. If you know what I mean- that is a compliment. You are more like a dog.”

The compliment was significant; we both like dogs better than people.

She wrote a very long email and it seemed wads were the crux of it – the straws that broke the camel’s back.

She said she was losing it due to her mother “stuffing endless amounts of kleenex up her sleeves and then my washing her clothes only to have millions of shreds of tissue all over everything, that then falls off when I take the clothes out of the dryer and then I have to sweep the floor.....her home aid brought red washclothes for some unknown reason--- she has millions here already- and so when I washed her clothes all of her whites came out stained pink. I blew up.”

The pink thing made me snicker a little.

But the tissue up the sleeves … that brought Gram back. She did that. She wadded some of it up and stuck it in her ears too; only in the winter.

Back when she was just a dumb blonde – before the dementia started to take her away. Her ears would be full of it and you’d say something and she’d get pissy – annoyed – like “speak the hell up!” Only she would never say “hell”.
I’d point to her ears and she’d double over with laughter. She’d pull them out and I’d say “there for a second I thought you were deef!” That was one of her words.

I think she had a theory that the wads kept her ears warm. Well, maybe the cochlea. I don’t recall ever having cold cochlea. I guess it could happen.

Hats messed up her hair and made her look like “the wreck of the Hesperus” – whatever that was. She was very vain.

We were exposed to the elements more than most because we were Jehovah’s Witnesses. Gram brought out the big guns on Saturday mornings when we went door to door with the Watchtower and Awake. She used COTTON BALLS instead of tissue wads. Maybe they were her “dress” wads.

And she wore an oppressively heavy brown mouton coat with tissues tucked up the sleeves. I’m sure she felt quite elegant, but I hated that coat. One Saturday morning, she caught a heel in the hem and I turned to see her rolling around on the sidewalk struggling to break free. The thickness broke her fall, but it looked like she was being mauled by a bear.

We laughed so hard we cried.

Years passed. I grew up and got married … a few times. She got older and dementia eased in slowly. She got a little testy with people. She bought me dog grooming mits for my third wedding. I’ll never know for sure - dementia or one last lucid shot at my credibility?

Then she forgot who we were; but it seemed like she remembered she loved us. I missed her before she was gone.

Yeah, I remember wads.
Connie ended her tirade …

“I have to get my head back on to seeding the fields and paying my debts off and dealing with hospital bills and sewing curtains, getting to meetings and pretending my life isnt freaking me out of my mind.... NOT lose it over pink clothes. And tissue bits. And hypocrites. And loneliness.”

I wrote back that the days are already getting longer – spring is coming. The snow will melt, the new chicks will arrive and the cycle will begin again.

I did not write that she will get well - her mother won’t and one day she’ll miss the wads and the day the laundry went pink.

The Drafting Compass

I had a friend who wanted to move to Florida except that his parents lived in West Palm. He spread a map, took a drafting compass and drew a circle that rendered 250 miles of comfort zone.

He chose a city on the edge of that zone - far enough to discourage unannounced visits, but close enough to get there quickly in case of emergency. Brilliant.

My situation is not like his. I came to Florida first and my parents – well, they’ll probably never come at all. They’re in Northern Michigan near Lake Superior.

I would need a bigger compass.

I look at my map and there is some satisfaction in being closer to Castro than my mother. I’m about 400 miles north of Havana, 1700 miles south of mom’s.

Both dictators are getting on in years.

Mom is much younger, mid 70s. Castro – well, he has to be ninety by now. I think I’d have a better time with him, but he never calls – he never writes. He doesn’t know I exist.

My mom knows but she doesn’t care much. She had one child - a bastard – that’s me. That was her defining moment. She came home pregnant at 15 and got heat from her mom. Sure, blame the Gram for being upset because she already had her hands full raising three kids while her husband – Grandpa – was suicidal; crazy on his ass with bipolar.

Despite the hardships, Gram welcomed me with open arms. But my mom? According to her current life script, she never forgave her for coming home pregnant. Funny, I don't remember it that way. I grew up with those two and I never saw my Gram dish out anything but food, shelter, love and money.

Some years after mom married – still stalking the ever-elusive happiness - she went into therapy and came out blaming her mother for every disappointment. Her resentments started growing right around the same time Gram started slipping gears.

I told her I thought Gram was getting dementia. Mom disagreed. She said she was playing games.

So - of course - after years of steady decline Gram died of dementia. She has been gone for four years, but my mom continues to claw at her memory like a housebound cat attacks a scratching post.

I have a hard time picking up the phone to make a call. I miss my Gram; she's glad she's gone.  Sometimes I prefer email because written words don't cut as deep as spoken words. There is something powerful in a person's "tone."

I’ll bet Castro doesn’t have this kind of drama. He wouldn't permit it. He'd wave it away in a hairy knuckled cloud of smoke.

I’ll bet he embraces his bastards as living/breathing signs of macho.

He would be full of himself – like her – but he wouldn’t give me creepy, judgmental stares over a steaming mug of herbal tea.

She sits curled on the left corner of the great blanketed Collie Couch, with one or two of the great wooly beasts dozing at her feet. If she has food, they huff and puff with desire.

It annoys her that I am vegetarian; but she says she is too - well, except for the bacon. Oh yeah, and the burgers.

Castro wouldn't take my shit. He'd have his chef slap a big bloody steak on my plate and inform me it's that or nothing; at least I could go on Atkins for the duration.

Not so at mom's. She bakes cakes and pies the whole time we're there. She's an incredible cook. Maybe that's how she shows her love. At the end we waddle back out to the SUV with our bags - emotionally deflated and physically fat.

Castro would have a fully stocked bar of prime rums and brandies.  I imagine him puffing as he leans back comfortably in a heavily tufted leather chair. It might have some ash burns.

He might have a dog – or maybe even a cat. I could see him with a cat. He probably has people standing by with lint-rollers. In fact, he would have an entourage of trusted friends and cohorts.

My mother doesn’t because she is fierce.

My step-dad hides out with the remotes in his ginormous but somewhat drafty family room. The kitchen is the late-night demilitarized zone where they elbow roughly past each other, exchanging muttered “fuck you’s” in the dim light of the open fridge.

The open profanity usually occurs at the dinner table when the stepdad asks her to pass something and she'll respond with something like "fuck you, get it yourself." 

It was unnerving but sort of laughable when he was stronger; now that his health is bad, it's intolerable. We've started taking her aside to tell her to calm the fuck down. Well, not me - I'm afraid. My son does it.

I'm afraid because if I get into it there's a very good chance we will  never speak to each other again. Ever. And if I have cause to get into it, I would probably be ok with that.

The dad sleeps downstairs in his own room. It WAS the prime guest room. Mom takes offense to that, but then she takes offense to most everything he does.

I remind her she has a blessed life and it's all because of him.

I sleep upstairs under a dozen glassy eye deer-heads. I get the pull out sofa with the metal rails that bite because I’m the asterisk in family visits to The Great White North. Don’t get me wrong, I like it that way – below radar, with my son, daughter in law and granddaughters out front like the marines. 

I make it up there about once a year. I drive to my son’s place in lower Michigan, then we drive another 500 miles past that. We go in my son’s great guzzlin’ SUV with sleeping kids, spilled Cheetos, farting dogs and The Little Mermaid on DVD.

My first daughter-in-law misses us. During delivery of Emma, my first granddaughter, she discovered the joy of pain meds and drugged herself right out of a perfectly beautiful family. Today she has a new family but she misses the life she had with us.

We've hooked up on Facebook and it's like old times. She asked if she could list me on as her mother and I said OK. I always loved her. She was young, she fucked up. We all fuck up sometimes.

She's sorry.

This week she sent an email asking me to tell my parents she misses them.

I understand how she feels. I miss my ex-husband's parents, they are awesome. But I knew what was going to happen.

I sent an email and my mom wrote back: "We will NEVER forgive her for what she did.”

I wrote back saying that doesn't change the fact that Becky will always be Emma’s mother. I envision my mother making some unforgiveable comment that will offend Emma for all time.

It seems like my mother has become the mother she manufactured in her head, the mother she THOUGHT she had. I half-think a person who has never met me or us will read this silly overview of our family's maternal dynamic and have more clarity.

Maybe one day I'll have that. I wish I could understand.

I'm pretty sure my Gram would have accepted Becky’s apology. I think she lived 96 years because she knew how to forgive and accept.

So I’ve got my map and I’ve got my drafting compass.

Let’s see … only 400 miles to Castro’s; 1700 miles to the mom’s. It takes a lot of gas, forgiveness and acceptance to go there.

Open Letter to Fox News

Dear Ms. Kenney:

Tonight I accidentally stopped on Fox as I was flipping through. I briefly heard that a person can still weigh in on that hate speech thing. I'm sorry to be bothering you, but if you don't know who to write, write to the top.

Do I believe the hate speech factor is valid? Absolutely. I've read up on the shooter and I have little doubt he has some form of autism. I have a friend who has Asperger's Syndrome. That person is emotionless and sometimes horrifically inappropriate; he has tremendous difficulty fitting in socially. Is he affected by the media he sees and hears? You bet - if it's in his "script." These people "script" themselves to squeak by. They can only manage one - maybe two.

The shooter had a vision of hate and death; if he needed encouragement to follow through, all he had to do was turn on the radio or TV.

We've been banging this around on Facebook since Saturday. Today someone asked "how many people would be influenced by that sort of thing?" Well, I did some research. They say approximately 20% of the adult population has mental health problems. I didn't take time to find out how many are smoking pot, drunk on their asses or strung out on Hillbilly Heroin. Let's say another 10% are strung out on drugs - liquid, prescription and otherwise.

That leaves about 70% of the adult population to watch you and your commercials in a lucid state. Well, at least half of that adult population thinks like me. Fox News is Faux News, a freakshow of hate and venom. If I knew someone was advertising on your network, I would go out of my way to NOT buy from them.

I had a friend from up north who spent a night here last year - on the heels of another guest. She came out the next morning and whispered "did you know your guest TV is set to Fox News?" Embarrassed, I said "Omigod no, I'll fix that right away."

I have unfriended friends who parrot the Fox hate rhetoric - online and in real life. I've known some of those people for 30 years.

Your network has been ugly and divisive since before the presidential election. When I think Fox I think bigots, christian fanatics and KKK. I think that evil crying clown Beck.

It would be amazing to see you initiate some renaissance of working together across the political divide; to see Fox become part of an intelligent solution instead of the loaded gun that it is.

(Sent to Fox 4 News in Fort Myers 1/11/11)