She's Baaaaack!

For the very few of you who follow “Crafty Thoughts and Blonde Moments,” I’m back. I feel as though I should be in a confessional. “Forgive me, Blogspot, for I have been absent. It’s been over two years since my last post…”

I had slacked up on blogging my thoughts, rants, comments and observations in 2011. But then in June of 2012, my world completely changed. I lost my husband to an unexpected heart attack. It was a shock to be sure and the past 2 years have been a time of tears, transition, trepidation, toughness and turnaround for me (hey, I'm out of practice so I had to do some alliteration drills). It was difficult to post a blog topic because so much of my humor came from, was directed at or was shared with him. Thankfully, all the things “they” say are true: time heals, you are never given more than you can handle, you are tougher then you think, and so on. I will miss him very much, but with his sense of humor, he’ll want me to move on and blog on.

So I'm moving on. I packed up the animals, sold the house in the suburbs and moved back into the city. (Cue up the theme music from “The Jeffersons.”) I’m closer to friends. Closer to work. Meeting the neighbors and getting active with a Rodeo committee again. Between home selling and buying, packing and moving, a new dog and a quirky new urban neighborhood (new to me, most of the houses are from the 50's), there are lots of fun blog targets to keep me inspired. And eeeek…newly single again. The whole dating again topic should hold enough blog fodder to take me into the next year. Hell, the next decade.

Like I said, I’m back. I’ve spruced up my page and given it a facelift. More musings and mulling (and hopefully fewer alliteration drills) to come, my blog fans – all 2 of you.

Mother Nature's Anthrax

Ahhh…Spring is here. A time for growth and rebirth. For beautiful blooms and a palette of greenery right out of a Monet masterpiece. A time for Mother Nature to start fresh. And a time for Mother Nature to exercise her twisted sense of humor on all us allergy sufferers. You know what I’m talking about: POLLEN.

Forget volcanic fallout…forget acid rain…forget tear gas. Pollen is powerful. It causes almost two months of nose-clogging, eye-watering, throat-stripping plant dust that single-handedly keeps brands like Sudafed, Zyrtec and Claritin in the black. But zapping grown men into sniffling babies and keeping the drug manufacturers in quarterly bonuses isn’t Pollen’s only gift…

Let’s not forget the boon to car washing businesses. Owners of car washes all over the south are planning their Riviera vacations, thanks to the little gems of germination. Mr. Bubbles is sitting at the Captain’s Table because my vehicle looks like its wearing a yellow fur coat. But wait, there’s more…

Did your neighbor compliment you on your new yellow tablecloth? What? You don’t OWN a yellow tablecloth? That’s just our trusty Pollen, floating into an open window or door to make itself at home in your home and promote yet another industry: cleaning products and maid services. You’ll either have to hire a maid or you will be the maid, thanks to our friend Pollen.

So when Mother Nature sends you her annual terrorist package of Pollen, thank your lucky stars for antihistamines, central air conditioning, a strong vacuum and sealed garage. Maybe that’s why they call it “Allegra” – which means joyous – because you’re so darn happy to have some relief!

The MRI - Testing More Than My Health...

I have been blessed with very good health. Hospitals and procedures are not something to which I’m accustomed. In Fall of 2010, I was told by my doctor that I needed to get a chest/body MRI done. While I realize an MRI is a major procedure, it’s fairly commonplace. I had an MRI done on my foot once, so no biggie. I was worried more about what we would find versus the actual procedure. WOW. My worry was completely misdirected.

First, the doctor asks if I’m claustrophobic. Why, of course I’m not, I scoff. I’ve been in an underwater submarine to look at pretty fish and coral. I’ve hidden in closets for surprise parties. I’ve driven in very small cars. Piece of cake. Second, the doctor asks me if I’d like a sedative for the procedure. Certainly not, I proudly boast…it’s just an MRI. As I re-tell this story back at the office, several friends warned me that “you will need valium.” I write them off as weenies.

I arrive at the MRI facility and check in. The nurse outfits me (very painlessly, I should add) with my IV and asks if I am taking a sedative. Certainly not, I proudly boast…it’s just an MRI. Any normal person would see a pattern here. Not me. I’m escorted into the MRI room and I see the machine that sort of resembles a wine chiller on its side. So it’s got THAT going for it. I’m presented with my ear plugs, a cozy blanket and a plastic ball on a tube. “This is your panic button,” the technician explained. “If you are at all nervous, just squeeze the ball and we’ll pull you out.” I grasp it, but I think to myself, obviously I won’t need that….

WRONG.

Oh, don’t misunderstand. It all started out all right. I actually made it through about 14 minutes. But on Minute 15, the machine started closing in on me like a rolling kaleidoscope. As I clicked in, inch by inch, I started to lose sight of the white, tiled ceiling. Then, I attempted to keep up with the drum-rapping song that beat in my head. Oh wait – that’s not a song, it’s my heart beating faster than microwave popcorn! I can literally feel it in my chest, as my arms are crossed over my heart. I actually thought, “Well, it’s good that I look like I’m in a coffin, because I may just die.” Minute 15:30, I’m squeezing that rubber ball as if I could make it disintegrate and they start to pull me out. Minute 15:50, I’m out and they help me back to the waiting area to calm down.

At this point, I agree to the sedative. One problem: it’s only 1 milligram and my anxiety level is now at a gazillion milligrams. But I take it anyway, and being the oh-so-patient patient, I quiz the nurses, techs and my husband: “Is it working?!...What should I feel like?!?...Will I know when it kicks in?!?...Will I feel groggy?!?!...How long does this take?!” If you’d like to set my diatribe to music, I suggest using “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” as your music bed. I tried one more time, but to no avail.

Needless to say, my mission was scrubbed faster than the Space Shuttle getting yanked from Houston’s Johnson Space Center. I looked at my arm, where the nurse had so skillfully inserted the painless IV, only to find a coaster-sized, blue-red bruise around the insertion area where I had squeezed myself even harder than I had squeezed the panic ball.

So what did I learn from this? Well, I learned that an Open MRI is the way to go. I learned that Valium (20 mgs to be exact) is my friend. And I learned that I’ll probably never have a career as a Chilean Miner. In the end, all involved are healthy and happy (except maybe for that little panic ball – I WAS pretty abusive…).

What Scares Me?

A good friend of mine suggested an interesting topic: What are you afraid of? The first response that pops up is “ending sentences with prepositions”…but I digress. Since it’s the start of a new year and a new decade, I thought I’d ponder the question.

So what scares me? The usual tangible, icky things in nature: snakes, spiders, rodents and roaches. It’s not so much that they scare me, as I have an innate desire to kill them. Oh, and monkeys, too. Especially little, wiry monkeys. YUK. Perhaps my fear brings out some murderous streak. Perhaps that’s something others should heed…hee, hee. So here we go – Fear 101 for me:

Clowns
They’re evil. Just plain evil. No one is that happy all the time. Never trust anyone or anything that fits 10+ in a tiny car. (Now I must asterisk this by saying I do not mean rodeo clowns – they perform a valuable service.) But most circus “tramp” clowns, spindly marionettes and those icky mime-ish French clowns give me the creeps. Maybe it’s all that facial make-up and costuming hiding the real person inside. If there really IS a real person inside….

Uncontrolled Fire
I grew up with Smokey the Bear. He was smarter than the average bear. I mean, c’mon…who wants to become a human torch?!? Not me. I’m OCD when it comes to candles, fireplaces and even pizza boxes on low in the oven.

Tequila
It’s not so much the tequila that scares me as much as ME AFTER I drink tequila. It makes me mean. And I’ve already mentioned the potential murderous streak…

Drowning/Suffocation
I learned to swim at an extremely young age…perhaps my parents had the same fear and wanted me to overcome it. I love swimming, but do it very controlled environments. Pools, small ponds, oceans with see-through water and LOOOOOONG sand bars. No Jacques Cousteau-action for me...no swimming through dark, coral tunnels. I sort of hyperventilate as I write that!

Reality TV
The Bachelor…Jersey Shore…The View…Wife Swap…The Ed Show…Toddlers and Tiaras…Bridalplasty…The Glenn Beck Show…ANYTHING with a Kardashian on it. I only hope it’s not an indication of where our collective mindset is headed.

White Zinfandel
Enough said.

Being Lonely
I don’t mean being alone, I mean being lonely. Having no one in which to turn. I think I’ve got this fear licked, because I’ve been lucky to have great family and surround myself with wonderful friends.

Perhaps writing about it exorcises some fear demons. Mostly I try to live every day to that cliché of “the fullest.” And I try to be thankful every day for my blessings and to hope for those who don’t have as many. I found an amended version of “The Serenity Prayer,” and it helps me with my fears. Maybe it will help you with yours.

God, grant us the serenity to accept things we cannot change, courage to change the things we can, and the wisdom to know the difference. Grant us the patience for the things that take time, the appreciation for all that we have, and the tolerance for those with different struggles. May we appreciate the freedom to live beyond the limitations of our past ways, the ability to feel your love for us and our love for each other and give us the strength to get up and try again ~ even when we feel it is hopeless.

HAPPY NEW YEAR, ALL!

Reply All - REALLY?

WARNING: SOAP BOX ALERT. RANT FOLLOWS.) Has someone in your company, or even someone with a large group of friends for that matter, sent a mass e-mail? And then, one by one, recipients start hitting “Reply to All” with their own pontifications on the e-mail’s subject? It’s like kicking an anthill and all the little buggers come flowing out like lava.

Let me please go on the record and state, I LOATHE “Reply to All.” I just heard someone today making fun of people who are annoyed by "Reply to All" offenders. That would be me. Should I let them know I'm one of them? Should I let them know that a “reply to all” is simply a corporate-sanctioned piece of spam e-mail? Should I let them know that "Reply to All" offenders are just plain lazy and borderline not aware of their surroundings? That they should not be allowed to operate heavy machinery?

It’s bad enough in your personal e-mail. But I think it’s worse in a corporate setting. Most “Reply to All-ers” are oblivious to the fact that usually, high-level company executives are also cc:ed on a mass e-mail. Does the CEO of your company really want to receive 50 replies back? Do you really want that CEO knowing you were not smart enough to simply reply to the original sender? While she/he might enjoy knowing that there’s a great team spirit amidst all the replies, they still get sprinkled among the other 125 e-mails received that hour via Crackberry. And no one wants to deal with that.

Go ahead. Hate me if you want. I hate having to purge 19+ replies all saying, “congrats” or “I feel exactly the same.” I hate hearing a barrage of opinions on a topic about which I really could care less. I hate having to mute my computer’s sound because every time one of them appears, a chime goes off and it sounds like a bad rendition of “Carol of the Bells.” I hate being excited that the e-mail box reads, “You have 30 new e-mails” and they’re all “Replies to All.”

Please don’t feel compelled to reply to this blog entry – you can leave me a voice mail.

Stop the Madness (or should I say, “Ad-ness?”)

Some things are just inherently wrong. The Michael Jackson-Lisa Marie Presley marriage…pineapple on pizza…tank tops with bra straps showing…adding water to single malt scotch…

Last night, I saw a TV commercial for maxi pads – the ones with “wings.” There’s not a thing wrong with advertising a feminine hygiene product. What was wrong was the creative concept. THE MAXI PAD WAS RIDING A MECHANICAL BULL. Not a girl wearing a maxi pad, but the pad itself flies up onto the bull (it has wings, you know) and gently spreads its wings around the body of the bull. As the bull performs its mechanical shuck and jive maneuvers, the maxi pad stays in place – an obvious metaphor for its true function.

STOP IT. I know what a maxi pad’s supposed to do. And I don’t ride mechanical bulls (anymore). I’m having a hormonal flashback to the old 70’s ad where the fem-hy-challenged female exclaims to her fem-hy-knowledgeable friend, “I need roller skates to keep up with you!” I guess the mere fact that I’m blogging about it serves the company’s communication goals. So alas, somehow they’ve won.

What’s next? A douche commercial featuring a fire hydrant? Well, that's just a bunch of bull.

When Humans Become Meals...

July 2010 has been the rainiest and hottest July I can remember. With this climate comes the humidity, the bad hair, the stagnant air and the standing water. And with this environment comes the mosquitoes. Tiny little vampires of the insect world.

According to Wikipedia,there are about 3,500 species of mosquitoes in the world. I’m quite sure that about 3,499 of them live in the Texas-to-Florida corridor. To my vampire comment, let’s be fair…only the female mosquito is the vampire. She needs the blood of humans to produce eggs and ultimately future little bloodsuckers. Males suck on plant nectar and hang out while their gals prey on us warm-bloods. This is like a bad rendition of “Twilight” and we’re ALL Bellas.

These little she-devils love my husband. He is a mosquito magnet of the highest attracting force. Buy stock in “Off” or “Cutter” products, folks, because our family is single-handedly keeping those companies in business. Before we go outside to do anything – and I mean ANYthing – we have to “lube up” as we call it. Go to the mailbox? Lube up. Walk the dog, water the plants or any yardwork? Lube up. Answer our front door? We should lube up. Our neighbor came to our door this past week and we literally smacked a mosquito on his forehead. Nothing says “hi, neighbor,” like a pop to the upper-left forehead and the blackish-red stain of a splattered insect!

Think we should do more than just “lube up?” We have coils that you light. We have citronella in all shapes, forms, liquidities and holiday colors. We have tiki torches – which I think when lit simply signal the mosquitoes to “C’mon over, dinner is served.” We have a propane-powered fogger, which works like the sprayer trucks, but in hand-held form. Our county has sent the trucks and even crop duster foggers to fly over our neighborhoods, but alas, throngs of the little swarmers still cruise our yards.

I’m pestered by them, but not like my husband. I think it’s because I eat a lot of garlic and according to an old wives tale, garlic in the bloodstream is supposed to be unappetizing to mosquitoes (yet another vampire connection). But lately, I too have had to spray every exposed body part with insect-repellant chemicals. And still, as I bend down in the flower beds to battle the crab and Dallas grass (there’s another blog entry there…), I’m attacked by swarms that would send the Luftwaffe back to Berlin. I feel like I’m the man in that old “Off” TV commercial, where he sticks his arm in the aquarium filled with mosquitoes, and they attack him like paparazzi on a Kardashian. And sadly, it’s not looking any better in August…