I've had enough of silly love songs

And apparently so had John Lennon. He's the reason Sir Paul wrote this song after John bashed his post-Beatles song-writing.

Just call me and ol' John crazy cynics. But love songs just irritate me. Girls listen to those songs and believe that crap. And then expect real-life men to act like that. And they just don't. And can't. And won't. Then comes the hurt and disappointment. And the nagging. And the life-crushing let-down that can only come from expecting too much from a man based on love song lyrics. Honey, when he says (in a love song, of course, because men don't talk like this in real life),"I wanna love you all night long" he means maaaybe 5-7 minutes, OK? When he says "You've been on my mind all day" he means "I've been hoping we were having baked beans for supper" When he says "I just can't live without you" he means "Who's gonna do the laundry?"

I don't read romance novels for the same reason. Or watch the Hallmark channel. I don't want to be pissed off or disappointed. And I certainly don't need no crushing let-down.

Just make his beans and try not to expect too much.

'Cause life just ain't a love song.

Under the Big Top

No, this isn't about the circus though my life does qualify.

This about dressing the larger female body. Ahem.

It's been difficult dealing with this big ol' brick house. All my old body dressing rules went right out the window. (Yes, I had rules - so should you.) Add to that the menopause and we're dealing with big AND hot rules (what we like to call the double whammy of midlife misery). Brick house, indeed.

So, my bigger girlfriends - listen up. Pay attention. This is good stuff and you will thank me. Or you should 'cause some of y'all are making all these mistakes. And people can see it when you do.

1. Wear a bigger size. This is the hardest one so I put it first so you can get over it and enjoy the rest of these. You do NOT wear a size 12 anymore. Or a 14. And probably not even a 16. It's time to go to the other side of Cato's, OK? It only hurts for a minute and then the cute clothes take your mind off it. Go try something on ~ look how much better you look in clothes that FIT! (You can always cut the tag out.)
   
2. No knits! Knits cling - to every lump, bump and roll you have. You will spend all day long plucking that knit shirt out of that belly crease in the front. And for heavens sake, honey, knit pants will show every dimple in your lovely thighs and will wad up in your crack every time you stand up. We're walking behind you - we know this much is true. You need fabrics that will skim over your body - jersey, georgette. Polyester is the big girl's friend. Do not believe that Deschanel girl (Zoey?) when she sings 'cotton is the fabric of your life'. It's not true and she can't sing anyway.
   
3. Ruching and/or flowing is your friend. Any dress or top with ruching hides much and forgives more. And do not pull your shirt down smooth (especially if it's knit - see #2), They don't call it 'muffin-top' to be cute. They're making fun of you. Wear flowing not fitted cardigans or blouses - see 'The Stevie Method'. Fabric is important - lightweight and flowy will not make you sweat, uh glow and is easy to hike up in front of a fan or AC vent.
   
4. Do not belt it. I can't believe this even needs to be said, but I saw you and apparently it does. Do not put a belt around that big ol' belly. It does not make you look stylish or younger. It makes you look like a fatty with a belt flung around it. Really. Are y'all just not looking in a mirror? Do you not have friends? And in the same vein, do not tuck in that shirt. You might as well stamp "I refuse to compete" across your forehead (tm Emily-thanks!).
   
5. Create a distraction. Accessories are a big help. And the bigger and shinier the accessories the more distracting they are. A big honking necklace and spangly earrings will draw the eye up from that mess around your waist. Or away from that massive rear. And enough can not be said about big hair. Flat, unstyled hair is not for big girls - the bigger the hair, the smaller your rear end will appear. It at least will create balance and give you the illusion of hour glass. Fluff that stuff, baby. Then spray it good with Aqua Net. So it'll hold when you sweat.

This should be enough to get you started. This by no means is the entire set of rules. And we haven't even touched make-up ~ or chin hair. But I know many of you are sadly taking that belt off and plucking that double knit shirt out of your belly roll. And when you stand up, make sure to pull your pants out of your crack.

Delta Burke, where are you when we need you?

Cutesy don't cut it.

I love a turn of a phrase as much - sometimes more - than anyone. I love it when words come together in an entertaining, interesting and unexpected way. Just love it. Wish I was better at it.

But I loathe, detest, hate, can't stand how the current culture is kiddie sizing our convo. Heh.

Veggies.
Besties.
Hubbies.

I don't eat veggies (that's a whole 'nother story). I eat french fries.

You are not my bestie (and you oughta slap me if I even say such a thing). You my friend, girl.

And my hubby is not my bestie (are you hearing the ridiculousness now??) He's my MAN!

Cutesy ain't cute - it's...it's...makemewanttoscreamshutup dumb.

There. I said it. Whew.

What Momo knows

I've mentioned Momo (short for John the Baptist) before. He's my big ol' orange tabby cat. There will be kitty baby talk in this post. Here is my handsome boy:

I'm a cat person but I'm not a nut. Unlike 'dog-people' who believe their dogs really know stuff, I know what Momo really knows. Momo knows I'm his person but he doesn't know my name. He doesn't even know what 'names' are. Or that I have a job. Or what money is. And he doesn't call me 'momma'. He calls me 'maow'. But he does call me. And he does know things. This will be an ongoing list - kinda like the words your child is learning to say.

Here's what Momo knows:

1. Where his house is.

2. Who his people are.

3. Where the yum yum is.

4. How to get us to open the door for him.

5. How to get us to let him out.

6. Where the best napping spots are.

7. And that when I talkin' baby talks, I talkin' to him!

OK. Maybe that's it. Maybe that's all he knows. Maybe this won't be an ongoing list. But it seems to be enough. Momo said it was anyway.

Brick Houses

Did you know the song "(She's a) Brick House" was written about Chaka Khan?

Which makes me realize if I were African American, my size and shape would be appreciated and celebrated in song.

Ugly Shoes

I'm the professed Queen of Comfort (see the Stevie Method, big underwear and all references to stretchy waist bands).

But come on, ya'll. Crocs?

They ugly. Look in a mirror. Let somebody take your picture. Melt them. 'Cause they bad ugly. And they make you look like you have duck feet. And do NOT match them to your clothes. For heaven's sake.

If you do, be warned. I will make fun of you.

The Stevie Method

What with the fatexia and all, many times when I look in the mirror I see Stevie Nicks' eyes.

Well, it's not so funny. I do sound just like her when I sing in my car.

So anyways, this morning I'm putting the final touches on my snappy shag haircut and was reminded of Steve once again. I have big eyes like her and round features and kickin' bangs that highlight these things. It's not that far a reach. Really.

Then I realized that what may be reminding me of Stevie was the drapy way I dress my big fat ass in black clothes all the time. Yeah.

Doppelkitties

I'm a cat person. It's in me like red hair and short legs. I've had a cat(s) almost continuously since I was 6 years old. I like the idea of dogs and sometimes wish I was a dog person. Until I get a dog and realize they are the TMR class of the animal world. Then I'm glad all over again I love cats.

My current kitty is a big orange tabby named Momo which is short for John the Baptist. Momo is about 1 1/2 years old and is a big ol' mellow sweetie scairdy cat. In his short life, he has put up with a lot. First Pretty and Baby moved in - they were Tidbit's cats when she came to live here. Pretty was pretty high strung so she left pretty quick. Baby was ginormous fat and couldn't run away if she wanted to which she didn't so Momo tolerated her. Then last November Smudge and Lulu (short for Martin Luther) moved in - they were C&C's cats. For whatever reason Smudge left - I'm still sad about that. Lulu loved us, loved Momo, loved being outside - he was just a lover of life. Sweet sweet kitty boy (I just said that in kitty baby talk).

So imagine my surprise the day my Hussy told me Momo and Lulu were fighting in the front yard! He said he heard the awful 'cat'erwauling in the front bushes and out they ran! And Lulu had Momo down by the neck! Whaaaa??? Momo had about 5 or 6 pounds on Lulu. Just didn't sound like either one of them. They're just not the fighting kind. Head butts, purrs, lots of yum yum. Not fighting.

Then Jacquelyn tells me Lulu has been fighting with Boots? Huh? How can this be? Not my sweet kitty boy *kitty baby talk again*.

Then Big Daddy says something about Momo at the farm house. Then Hussy sees him on the road. This is not Momo behaviour. Is he mad at me for all the move-in kitties? Is he braver than I thought? Is this the life he leads behind my back?????

So Lulu goes back to live with his mommy and daddy - this is better for all.

Two days later I catch Momo chasing a black kitty into the woods that LOOKS JUST LIKE LULU!

Today Momo is skulking around the back door acting skittish so I walk out the door to prove to him everything is OK and there laying on Penny's blankie (2-day dog - another story or see paragraph #1) is a big ol yellow tabby THAT LOOKS JUST LIKE MOMO!

I knew my sweet kitty boys weren't the trouble. 'Cause they is sweet boys. And you know what voice I just said that in.

Sit Up Straight!!

Did you know if your jeans are too tight you can not sit up straight?

The best I can manage is an uncomfortable 'lean-back'.

Sigh. No telling how I'm gonna stand up.

Procrastination

I was going to write about it, but I think I'll wait til later........

Fatexia

So it's been fairly well documented and noticed by all that I have put on quite a bit of weight.

There are many reasons for this:

1. Lack of exercise
2. Too much food
3. Menopause
4. Gallbladder surgery
5. Too much food
6. Older metabolism
7. Cookies
8. Too much food
9. Feeding low blood sugar
10. Feeding migraines

I've reached that stage of weight gain where folks don't disagree with you anymore when you make mention of being fat. They just nod in agreement. What the.....

I've had to make peace with the size of clothes I'm wearing. That number is a really big deal to women. That's why a lot of them don't look good in their clothes - they refuse to move out of that number they've got locked in their mind. They oughta. Really.

I've had to learn to dress it. Not much you can do really, but I try. Nothing clingy - lots of flowy, high waisted stuff. And elastic waist bands. Good stuff right there.

But it's when I see a picture of myself that brings it all to a crashing reality. I don't see it when I look in the mirror. I swear. I still see 'me'. I don't see that woman that shows up in pictures of me. It's reverse anorexia. I've got fatexia. Can't see it the full fat effect of the double chin, the little round chin ball I'm developing and that massive - dare I say MASSIVE - rear end back there. Can't see it for the life of me.

Somebody take my picture. Please.

When it fits

There's a lot to be said for underwear that fits.

It makes for a miserable day when it does not. And it can go wrong in so many ways. Too tight - around the waist or the legs. I hate the too-tight legs the most. That tender bitten flesh will scream at me all day long. Too loose - wanders around down there all day long. Who can concentrate when their underwear is on the move? It's a fine fine line that too-tight too-loose one. And that line is permanently etched into my poor 'leg-meets-the-torso' area.

And who designs this stuff? I have a sizable asset and it's tough to find underwear that accomodates that - too low, too shallow, not enough rise, leg holes not equal to girth. So much to consider in underwear design. Who knew? My asset - that's who.

Today was a miserable underwear day. It's in the trash already. So there. If it was up to me I wouldn't even wear the stuff. But who's gonna know. Really. Hmmmmm.

Junk Food Joy

I'm not really sure how much joy is involved with junk food.

There's the intital "I'm gonna get these _______. I haven't had them in so long!" joy when you run across a particular item you really really like. No love - you really really love them. Or you did when you were 12.

There's the taking it out of the bag at home joy. Do I tear into now or save it for later?

There the opening the package joy. How many do I get? Start with 3 and come back for more or just go ahead and get 6. Or 8.

There's that first wonderful tongue-thrilling taste joy. Oh my gosh. So good. Just like I thought it would be. Yes.

Then comes the regret.

I shoulda only got 3 after all. Now I'm stuffed.

I am so damn fat. And uncomfortable. Was it worth adding to that?

Then the reflux when I go to bed. Not so tasty now, huh?

So...does the joy outweigh (pun intended) the regret?

Well, does it punk?

Yep. Yep it does. Today anyway. I'm gonna go drink my Grapico.

Grief is tiring

and a very individual thing. Writing it out helped even tho not another person read it but me. Help is help.

Callie says the dates don't mean as much to her as his glaring absence when she instinctively wants to share something with him or is reminded of him. Those 5 days loom for me every year. For a while, I thought I would never get the picture of what he looked like in ICU out of my head. That's why I won't watch stupid doctor shows on TV anymore - patients don't look like that - they look horrid. Swollen or gaunt, red or pale, tubes and oozes and funny smells and they are unrecognizable. Nightmarish even.

Yes, those days loom. But they're over this year so on we go. And now I remember beautiful strong fishing Johnny. The best is yet to come!

Joy in the Nightmare

I call this a joy buffet and I haven't served a bit of joy the last 4 or 5 days. But it is a story that I need to share and he is a man that should be remembered. So in this whole horrid week, there was one bright spot, one moment in all of it that was shining and bearable. So let me offer this bit of joy....

We had to go shopping for funeral clothes. Do you know how hard it is to shop when you're numb, in shock, can't make eye contact, and your brain is screaming nonstop, "JOHNNY IS DEAD, JOHNNY IS DEAD!!!" It's hard. We had to have something to wear to the funeral and something to wear that night at the visitation.

Ah, visitation. I only know the Southern way, but there's a lot of love, laughter, hugging, crying, talking, remembering, JOY at a southern funeral visitation. Of course, it's more enjoyable if you are the one doing the visiting as opposed to the one being visited and I spent all day long dreading it. I craved quiet and solitude. My brain was screaming at me. I could barely make eye contact - how in the hell was I going to greet visitors?

So we dressed in our new funeral clothes and we had to go early so we could see Johnny. We had a private hour before the visitation began. And he did not look like himself but he looked good - you know? And we cried and touched his rubbery hands and stroked his cold face - oh my God, oh my God there are simply no words. None. Oh God I still cry out to you with the memory. Oh God. Oh Johnny.

And then they opened the doors. And here they came. People and people and so many people and then more people. And they hugged us and clung to us and cried with us and told us memories and loved us and loved our Johnny and it was glorious! Glorious I tell you. And there were so many of them our visitaton ran 2 hours over the alloted time. And it was JOYOUS and GLORIOUS and God's hand was on us all. Our hearts were calm and encouraged and reminded. Reminded of how loved we were, how loved Johnny was.

This was good. Thanks friends. Thanks.

Planning the funeral

Daddy's going to take me to the funeral home. I am numb. I'm just moving and doing the things people keep telling me I have to do. But I do know which funeral home I want to use - the one close to where Johnny was born. So Daddy called them and they are going to meet us there. On a Sunday afternnon. Because Death doesn't care.

And Susan and Lisa decided they should go. Jesus help me. Please.

I have to buy a plot. Do I want one for both of us? I'm young I may not want to be buried there. But then you have to be buried somewhere.

I have to buy a casket. Tons to choose from. Susan and Lisa like this high dollar one all carved for the outdoorsman - way high dollar. Oh wait - are you guys helping me pay for this? No? Then shut up.

I have to plan the order of service. Here we agree - closed casket (he hated crowds and would not like be stared at), graveside service only (see above) and we must have the song "How Great Thou Art" sung (his favorite hymn ever). Do we want a program? What do we want in the program? Who will conduct the service? They are not church going people so they agree that my pastor can do the service and a former pastor's wife will sing (like an angel, she did).

Done. $10,000.

Now what will he wear? Oh my God - that pummeled me. Pummels me now. I picked an outfit I had just given him for Christmas - he liked the softness of the shirt and he looks wonderful in that color.

Oh Lord - what are we going to wear. Because I know whatever it is, I will never wear it again.

I'll deal with that tomorrow.

The Day

Today is the official date of Johnny's death.

We had agreed to meet at the hospital at 10 am. Susan and Lisa did not come home last night - still staying away which was fine with me. I was so tired of them already - all that anger and guilt and redneck bullshit. I couldn't even be myself in my own home. Couldn't even grieve.

So of course they did not get there by 10. So we waited. I'm sure it gave them some sense of control. Fine - it did not matter. We all went in together and surrounded him. All of us crying and touching and hugging. I sat beside him with my hand on his leg and waited for the moment to say, "Turn off the respirator." When we were all ready - if you can call it ready - the respirator was turned off. And we waited again because every single one of us had some tiny hope that he would continue to breathe on his own and this nightmare would not be true.

I felt his leg grow cold under my hand. The nightmare was true and he had really left us.

We left pretty calmly and quietly. The wrenching part was over - we were emotionally exhausted at this point. Numb.

And then I had to go to the funeral home. Hello, nightmare #2.

Waiting

So after they told me yesterday his pupils were fixed and dilated and I knew he was gone, I asked Daddy to take me home. Right then. I just couldn't stay at the hospital - there were so many people there, wonderful loving friends who had been there since Thursday morning when the nightmare began. But I felt myself crumbling under the weight of the truth and I couldn't do it there in a hospital waiting room. I picked up the canvas bag (his purse lol) and hugged it to me smelling the smell of him on it. I walked out behind Daddy with my eyes down - I could not bear to make eye contact at that moment. I was about to explode with rage and grief and disbelief, and the spark of eye contact would have ignited it. Another friend followed us home and guarded the driveway - so sweetly asking loving friends to let Callie and I have some privacy and alone time. And they did.

Susan and Lisa stayed at the hospital with their Daddy. They were sure the hospital and doctors were not doing enough and they were sure their anger would change that. They weren't ready to accept the truth and they needed that time. This may be when their anger at me began - I'm not sure.

I had to make the decision about taking him off the respirator. And today was the Who Who's dance at Callie's school. And Susan and Lisa were still so angry. Today was not the right day if there is a right day for that sort of thing. So I talked with them all and we decided we would wait till tomorrow to turn off the respirator and all the other horrid machines and tubes keeping his body going.

So I had today. Callie got ready for Who's Who, Susan and Lisa were at some other relatives house because they couldn't stand to be around me. So I went to the hospital and stayed with Johnny. All by myself. Just him and me. This last Saturday night we would have together.

And I sat there with him that last Saturday night - touching him, nuzzling him, smelling the deliciousness of him, and talking talking talking to him. Crying and praying and talking. Remembering and telling him good-bye.

Today's the day...

he really died. They sent us home last night for some rest telling us we could see him in ICU this morning. We came back bright and early - before 6 am. And waited. And waited. Finally a nurse came out and said the Dr. wanted to do another 'some kind of test' on him since his pupils had become fixed and dilated this morning.

WHAT?

Oh, did they not tell you?

No. Nobody had bothered to come out and tell me. And I knew in that moment that he was gone.

Crash!

He crashed this morning. He had been sick all night and all they did was give him phenergan. I knew he was running a fever, but it didn't seem to matter to anyone. He was very red and his heart was beating so fast I could see his shirt moving up and down.

When Daddy got there, Johnny wasn't talking much anymore and I started crying. Daddy got mad and went looking for a doctor. He found Dr. Hanna in the hall and got him to come check on Johnny. His heart rate was so high, Hanna couldn't register his blood pressure so he made the decision to move him to ICU even tho he was not the 'physician of record'. That joker was out of town. Not that he'd been called anyway.

I was so relieved I started crying again. Johnny said, "What's the matter? You're scaring me." I said, "No, no baby. I'm just relieved. You're gonna be ok now."

Last thing I ever said to him.

Surgery Day

Today is the day Johnny had surgery to repair a hernia on his bladder. It had been causing some discomfort so he elected to go ahead and have it repaired. Callie was graduating in May, Lisa was getting married in June - he wanted to feel good for those occasions.

It was a long day - we got there early and waited. We prayed before he was wheeled to surgery. I kissed him and told him I loved him.

He did well in surgery but we had to wait a long time to get a room. It was almost 11 pm before we got a room on the 8th floor - surgery floor where they 'specialize' in caring for surgery patients.

Yeah.

Johnny

Tomorrow marks the 6th anniversay of Johnnys' surgery - January 28th. I will never forget it no never not ever not for the rest of my life. Or the 4 hellish days that followed.

This year it appears I will 'handle' it better than any year past. The rawness apparently is beginning to heal some. I can still cry unexpectedly at the most surprising times or get choked up talking about him but it is better. The Carols and Communion service did not absolutely slay me this year - that's how I knew I was dealing with it better.

My Johnny had a simple surgery January 28, 2004. On the 29th, he crashed. I believe it to have been caused by toxic shock. Whatever 'it' was it raced through his body shutting down one organ after the other until it reached his heart. His organs were so damaged we could not donate them And 'they' wanted to tell me he had a heart attack. Liars. I am still angry and bitter and I hope it does not consume me all the rest of my life. That's why I am encouraged that I am 'handling it better'. Maybe by the time he died on February 1st I will not be a total mess this year. It is my goal to not speak of it - except maybe to Callie. It doesn't matter to anyone else anyway.

But it matters to me. I still miss you every day, Johnny. Every. damn. day.

Southern Voice

Tim McGraw has a wonderful song out called "Southern Voice" that I just love. And you'll notice from my list of favorite songs, Dixie don't do country.

But I do Southern. Proudly. Innocently. Easily. Joyfully!!

'Course, that's all I know. I've lived in the South all my life. I don't know any other life but this - any other way but our way. And I love it. Love it, I tell you. I love the slower pace of life here. We get tore up if we catch all the red lights down the main highway. Or if you don't turn your blinker on for the right turn. I love how we all know each other or 'know of' each other. I may not know you, but I know somebody who does. Or who is related to you. Or who was married to you once. Or twice. And I love our accent. I love those flat 'vowls' that make all the difference in the way we sound and the way Yankees sound. (And for the record, Yankees are anybody that don't talk like us! Geography doesn't matter.)

So what Tim says in his song "Southern Voice" - that's us, that's our life.
'

Migraine blues...

Had another migraine today - a killer. Now I'm moving around like I'm made from fine china and might break easily. It's hard being a delicate flower but it pisses me off too. But maybe it's the thorn in my flesh. Maybe I'm supposed to be made better by them somehow.

Nah. I hate them. I feel like I'm losing my life to them.

On a positive note, the ice bag I bought last week at WalMart worked like a charm.