Cell-Phone-Induced Stupidity

While driving through the neighborhood a couple days ago, my eye caught a pretty young lady walking her dog. She was on her cell phone, oblivious to her surroundings, while her dog sniffed and prepped around a mailbox with a prominent sign which read, “NO DOG WALK.”

Priceless.

Dang, if I only got a photo!

What is it about cell phones that makes us lose our minds?

I remember when Bluetooth ear pieces first came out.  I was minding my own business one day, shopping in a clothing store, when I spied a lady with long hair talking out loud to nobody there.  My mind drifted back to years ago when I saw many who walked the streets of New York City doing the same thing.  But that was before Bluetooth.

Is she nuts? Oh … she’s talking to someone on her cell phone!

I must admit, I am guilty of the brain cell loss caused by cell phones.

“Oh, no!  I just missed my turn!  Gotta go!”

I reel around in a U-turn, with fellow road warriors muttering, “Crazy lady!”

Yes, cell-phone-induced stupidity.

Any other cell phone stupidity admissions out there?

You Are The Potter …

At a friend’s insistence, I called the hair stylist she referred me to – Susie.  I went in for a trim.

“What would you like, hun?” asked Susie.

“I’m not really sure … what do you think?”

“I think we should go a little shorter – that would look really cute.”

“OK.  You are the potter … and I am the clay.”

“I love you!”  Susie proceeded to give me more than a trim.  After a while, she commented, “You’d make a great redhead.”

“What?”  I was dumb-founded.

“I agree,” said a fellow client.  “You have the perfect complexion for red hair.”

Why is everyone such an expert on something I never heard before? And hey, if I was meant to be a redhead, wouldn’t I have been born that way?

“I don’t know,” I said.

“If you don’t like it,” chimed in the fellow client, “you can always change it back.”

“OK – why not?” I said.

Susie made me a redhead, and I liked it.

Next visit, she said, “We need to go a little brighter.”

“Brighter?”

“I went easy on you last time, but you really need to go brighter.”

“You are the potter …”

After she made the change, she asked … as I looked into the mirror in amazement … “Do you want me to do your eyebrows?”

“I think you’re going to have to.”

While home that evening, every time I passed by a mirror, I did a double-take.

Whoa! Did I pass through a nuclear-waste site?  What have I done?

But it’s easy to adjust and change … doesn’t phase me a bit now.  It’s only hair – and it can easily be changed, right?

I like Susie … she’s more daring than me.  I think I’ll keep her.

The Potato Gun Secret

“Mom, I want to build a potato gun,” said my mechanical-genius son when he was middle-school age.

“What on earth is a potato gun?” I asked.

“It’s made from pvc, and it has a pressure gauge on it.”

“And what is it for?”

“For shooting potatoes!”

“Well what are you going to shoot potatoes at?”

“Mom, it’s fun!”

“OK.”  I’m such a pushover for fun.

This turned out to be quite a project … and a pricey one at that.  But heck, it was all in the name of science … and scientific endeavors took top priority at our house.

I had no idea what a potato gun looked like, but my son knew exactly how to build one.  I must admit, I was a little scared when he loaded the potato, pointed it at the fence, and pumped up the pressure to the max.

Boom!  Splat!  It was a roaring success, and we all cheered.

After a few potato missiles splatting on the fence, however, my boys got bored.

“What if we load paintballs in it?” said the mechanical genius.

Against my better judgment, I let the boys explore their curiosity.  They loaded a pile of yellow paint balls and aimed for the fence.

Boom!  The paintballs overshot the fence … as well as the empty field next door … and landed with a SPLAT on our neighbor’s shed.

After a bout of everyone laughing hysterically, I went into solution mode.

“Kids, the neighbors aren’t home!  Run over there and wipe the paint off their shed!”

The clandestine operation was carried out immediately, and soon the evidence was eradicated.  The neighbors would never be the wiser for it … or so I thought.

A couple days later, my neighbor was out in her yard, and we engaged in a friendly chat.

“It’s so weird,” she said.  “I found some yellow gooey stuff all over my back yard!”

“Really?” I asked incredulously.  “That is weird!”

That was about ten years ago, and it still bugs me.  I’ve got to ‘fess up to my dear neighbor.  The potato gun secret has to come out of the closet!

Life Is Too Short, Not To Have A Little Fun

I pulled up to the red light, first in line in the left lane.  I heard a bizarre, hokey tune to my right, and turned my head, expecting to see an old ice cream truck from my childhood memories.  (Gee, are there any more ice cream trucks anywhere?)  Nope, it was a classic, white convertible with the top down, with a wide-smiled kid at the wheel.  (These days, anyone under thirty is a kid.)

The windows were up in my silver Corvette Coupe, but I could still hear this kid talking and laughing with his friend in the car behind me, zany horn going strong throughout his lively conversation.

“… Yeah, I’m going to race this lady in her Corvette!”

Hmmmm … he wouldn’t have a chance …

The light turned green, and I floored it.

The kid caught on, and caught up to me.

I floored it again … and this was right in the middle of town.

I let him catch up to me.  We exchanged wide smiles.  It was a conservative, small race … in a small town swarming with cops looking for someone to catch doing anything questionable.

I’m pretty sure I proved my ride’s superiority, and he respectfully smiled in acknowledgement.

We went our separate ways into our days – filled with our own priorities – I, with a big smile, and I’m sure he wore one, too.

Life is too short, not to have a little fun.

We do need to place more priority on having a little fun once in a while in this life, don’t you think?

Sparks and Wonderment of Angels

Sometimes things go seemingly wrong, but when we catch a glimpse of what could have gone a lot worse – we become very thankful for the “seemingly wrong.”

Such was the case with a recent power outage in a couple rooms.

Dang, why is this happening now?

I called a trusted electrician who had done work for me before.

“Miss Judy,” he called in southern gentleman style, after a thorough investigation.  “Take a look at this.”

He jiggled the suspect outlet, and wild, two-inch blue-white flames shot out.

“Holy crap,” I said.  “That could have burned the whole house down!”

“I can’t believe this house hasn’t burned down already!” he said.

I pray for this house and our tenants every day. 

“There must have been an angel standing here!” I said.

Who knows?

As for me, I’m truly thankful for the “seemingly wrong” power outage, which prompted me to call a trusted electrician to fix the problem.

I can’t help thinking – when things go wrong, how often are they really a blessing in disguise?

How ‘bout you?  Any blessing-in-disguise experiences?

Planes, Trains, and Automobiles

(My own little version.)

I enjoyed an eye-opening weekend at Jena LaFlamme’s first-ever Pleasure Camp.  She’s a bold pioneer, leading a pleasurable, revolutionary charge through territory once known as “a man’s world.”  If you’re an adventurous woman who dreams of writing her own life story, and aren’t afraid to think outside the box, I invite you to join Jena’s charge.

I found a cool room in Manhattan on http://www.airbnb.com, and the hosts were warm and generous, offering me a free extra night.  With hours of free time the next morning in New York City, I planned to go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  But alas, it was closed, along with most museums on Mondays in NYC.  So I hailed a cab and headed for something open – the Museum of Modern Art.  While waiting for the museum to open, I stumbled upon a Cuban restaurant and enjoyed a heavenly cup of café con leche.  Heavenly, I say, because it was my first cup of coffee in a long time.  I’m wired enough without the stuff, so it will remain a rare treat.

Once inside the museum, I headed for the fifth floor to relish in the thousands of brush strokes by the masters.  There’s nothing quite like beholding an original piece of art, imagining each painstaking stroke of genius splashing on new canvas.

I caught a cab back to my room to pick up my luggage, then hailed a cab to take me to the airport.

“Can you take me to the White Plains airport?” I asked the driver.

“The what?”

“White Plains airport.”

“I gotta find that one,” he said, flipping through his book.  “Here it is – it’ll be one hundred dollars.”

I flew for free, got an extra night for free, and wasn’t about to let a cab driver spoil my fun.

“I’ll take the train.  Take me to Grand Central.”

“Which train do I take to get to the White Plains airport?” I asked the lady at the Grand Central ticket counter.  I was getting a little nervous about catching my flight in time.

“You can take the train to White Plains, but will have to find a ride to the airport,” she said.  “Track 111, down the stairs to the right.”

I commandeered my 45-pound suitcase, backpack and small backpack purse down the stairs.  (Backpacks are easiest in New York, with all the walking you do.)  At times like this, I make endless promises to myself about traveling light next time … knowing full well they’ll be broken.

Once on the train, the conductor started collecting tickets.

“Which stop do I get off to get to the White Plains airport?” I asked him?

“First stop, Ma’am.”

So, first stop I raced for the door with bags flying, and managed to shove one into the closing door, so it would open enough to let me out.

I lumbered down two very long flights of stairs and out onto the street … 125^th Street, that is.

No, it can’t be.

I hailed a cab.

“Can you take me to the White Plains airport?” I asked the driver.

“Where’s that?”

“Westchester.”

“No.”

“Well where am I?”

“You’re in Manhattan.  This is Harlem.”

I’m still in Manhattan, just as I feared!

I called my sister-in-law.

“Zinora, I’m in friggin’ Harlem!” I said, bursting into tears.

“You’re where?”

“I’m in friggin’ Harlem!  The conductor told me to get off at the first stop, and I’m in friggin’ HARLEM!”

(Now, don’t get me wrong.  The only thing wrong with Harlem at the time was that I simply didn’t need to be there!)

“Jude, calm down.  Get back on the train and go to White Plains.”

I dragged my bags back to those daunting two flights of stairs, looked up at them, and started to cry.

“The station is right there across the street.”

I looked toward the voice and saw a smiling gentleman peacefully pointing toward the station.

How did he know where I needed to go when I didn’t even know?

“Thank you,” I said with composure.

Inside the station, I got on line for the only open ticket window.  I looked at the time and started to quietly panic.

“I came from Grand Central and need to get to White Plains,” I explained to the man behind the window bars.  “The conductor told me to get off at the first stop.”

“That was a miscommunication, Ma’am.  He meant the first stop after Harlem.”

Wonderful.

“So how do I get to White Plains?”

“If you have your ticket, I can refund it and give you a new one.”

I rummaged through my bag.

“The conductor took my ticket.  Just give me what I need to get to White Plains!”  I was still ahead of the game, refusing that one-hundred-dollar cab ride.

I loaded up my packs with bag in tow and made it up the two flights of stairs across the street.  Next stop … White Plains … finally.

I wonder if that smiling gentleman was an angel.

I got a cab ride to the airport, just in time to hear the announcement of my flight boarding.  I checked my bag and was making it quickly through security until the TSA agents started having a lively conversation over my backpack.

“Ma’am, is this yours?” asked an agent.

“Yes!”

“There’s something sharp in it, like a corkscrew.”

Sure, I’m going to try to kill someone with a corkscrew.

“It’s in the front pocket,” I said.  “My flight’s boarding.  Just take it.”

He pulled out the corkscrew and examined it, opening the ¾-inch blade.

“Yep.  That’s a sharp blade,” he said.

Like I’m going to carve into someone with a ¾-inch blade.

“Just keep it,” I said.  “Are we through?”

“Stay calm,” he said.  “You’ll make it.  I just need to pass this pack through security again.”

My imagination runs wild with what I could do with that ¾-inch blade right now.

Now I need to get Zinora a new corkscrew.  Maybe she’ll forget about it.

If I can count on my family for anything, it’s that they’ll never read my blog.  But yes, I’ll buy Zinora a new corkscrew anyway.

I made it to the gate just as they were making the last call for all zones to board.

I’m finally in the air, and all is well.

Moving Again … And The Worst Move Ever

I doubt anyone dislikes moving more than me.

Unfortunately, I had to leave the hubby in May, and am going through lots of changes … for the better, I trust.  I moved into this tiny, one-bedroom apartment to save us both some money, and it was like moving into a camper.  Space is at a premium.

Let’s see, where can I set this iron to cool down?  Ah, I have about a 1.5 square-foot space on the kitchen counter!  Now where should I put this 12-pack of toilet paper?  Where else but in the one closet I’ve got?

I don’t like living out of boxes – not at all.  So when I moved in, I put everything wherever it would fit.  The cable guy came the next day to hook up the internet.

“How long you been here?” he asked.

“Since yesterday.”

“Wow, you’re amazing!  I can’t believe you’re already moved in!”

In my mind, I wasn’t moved in at all, but I guess it looked like that to him.  A couple of months later, a friend stopped by from out of town.

“Wow, you’ve got everything up on the walls – you’re all moved in!”

I should hope so, after two months.  Don’t other people unpack?  I knew this move would be temporary, but I can’t stand to live in chaos, so I made it livable – even if just for several months.

And now I’m packing boxes, carefully labeling them, hoping the movers will actually READ where the boxes go.  If they’re in the right room, I can more easily find whatever I’m looking for, without going nuts.

My thoughts drift back to one move in particular, which was a nightmare.  Our first baby was six months old.  I knew we were moving out of state, but I didn’t know exactly when … until one morning, when there was a knock on the front door.  It was a handful of our employees.

“Hi, we’re here to move you,” said one guy cheerfully.

“Right now?” I asked.

“Yes, your husband sent us over here with this truck, and we’re here to move you.”

Why am I always the last one to hear about anything?!

“Well,” I said, “I guess you can start with the big stuff, while I pack up boxes.”

And that’s how the day went.  Keep the baby in the swing … pack up a bunch of boxes … crank up the swing again … which wakes the baby … Oh, maybe he’ll go back to sleep … pack more boxes … try to stay one room ahead of these guys … crank the swing … “Waaaaaaah!” … nurse the baby, put back into swing, crank it up … pack more boxes …no labels … Oh well, I’ll figure it all out in the new place …

In the new place … Where on earth is that fying pan?  And the dishes?  Rumage through boxes … crank up the swing … I sware it was in this box … open more boxes … crank up the swing … “Waaaaaaah!” … nurse the baby, put back in swing, crank it up … go through the same boxes again, using a few choice words … The baby IS asleep, right?

I think he swung in that swing for a solid month, as I hunted and unpacked and hunted some more.  Forgive me, my son!

So, no more last-minute moves for me, no thank you.  Give me a couple weeks to pack up, and a couple weeks to unpack, and I’m good to go.

The upside of moving is that it forces you to get rid of all the stuff you don’t need.  So I guess moving twice in one year should keep me fairly uncluttered.

How ‘bout you?  Your best move?  Your worst?

Beware of Wormwood

Wormwood plant

No, I’m not talking about wormwood’s dire biblical implications … even if they are a little scary.

My doctor put me on a parasite cleanse because “everyone has parasites.”  I don’t know if that’s true, but I trusted him and went along with it.  (Yes, it’s the same doctor I’m no longer seeing.)  The cleanse consisted of a few herbs, one of which was wormwood.  He assured me there were no side effects.

Hmmm … if it can kill parasites, it must be pretty potent.  I should have done my due diligence by reading up on it.

After starting the cleanse, I couldn’t sleep for days.  Days turned into weeks with insomnia.  Not a pretty picture.  I finally got some sleep medication, but it didn’t work.  Got a different kind, and that didn’t work.  Third try, no cigar.

Then it dawned on my delirious little mind, “Hmmm … the beginning of my sleep troubles strangely coincided with starting the parasite cleanse.”  I looked up the ingredients and discovered one of the side effects of wormwood is insomnia.

I stopped taking it, but still can’t sleep.  So I looked up how long wormwood stays in your system.  All I could find was a doctor’s comment in a forum, “For a long time.”  Not very helpful.

WebMD says wormwood is also used to increase sexual desire, and to stimulate the imagination.  So if you want to be a highly imaginative, sex-crazed insomniac for an indefinite period of time, have at it.

As for me, lesson learned:  An herb can have side effects.  Read about it before swallowing.  Wormwood – for me, at least – is very bad.

Radical Honesty

Have you ever picked up a book and felt it was going to change your life — in the first few pages?  Radical Honesty by Brad Blanton PhD is the kind of book that prompted me to get out a highlighter and mark it up — too many goodies to pass up.  Here are a few … but with a warning … this guy uses “colorful” language.  So here are some quotes, which I’ll try to “clean up.”

“I am sixty-four years old.  I have been a psychotherapist in Washington, D.C. for 30 years … This is what I have learned:

“We all lie like he**.  It wears us out.  It is the major source of all human stress.  Lying kills people.

“The kind of lying that is most deadly is withholding, or keeping back information from someone we think would be affected by it.

“The mind is a jail built out of bull**** … This book tells how the bull**** jail of the mind gets built and how to escape.  This is a “how to” book on freedom.  Withholding from other people, not telling them about what we feel or think, keeps us locked in the jail … The way out is to get good at telling the truth.

“I work mostly with “garden variety” neurotics … often … accompanied by somatic discomforts and diseases … When therapy works, the somatic ills disappear … and people take responsibility for making their relationships, professional lives, and creative powers work.  Taking responsibility means a person no longer blames outside circumstances, or other people, or past events for the conditions of his own life.

“Therapy is over when a person stops incessantly demanding that other people be different from what they are, forgives his or her parents and other begrudged former intimates, reclaims the power to make life work, and takes responsibility for doing so.”

Pretty cool.  There’s an old proverb, “When the student is ready, the teacher appears.”  I decided to apply these principles of truth before I even got the book …

You know how easy it is to let people slide with words and actions that hurt you?  We tend to walk away, or lash back with accusations.  Well I’m tired of that nonsense.  I love to be with people and usually give them every benefit of the doubt.  But I have decided life is too short to not let people know when they’ve hurt me.  Yes, it’s easier to burn bridges and walk away, but what if they did it unintentionally?  Why say NO to a relationship that might be easily repaired?

Such was the case with the doctor I recently wrote about.  I felt very hurt by his treatment of me one day, so I let him know how he hurt me.  I told him I would like to continue to be his patient.  He responded by cancelling my next appointment.  Oh well, at least I tried.  I didn’t hide … I told the truth … and I feel a lot healthier for doing so.

“The truth shall set you free!”

Do you have a moment of “radical honesty” to share?  If so, feel free to leave a comment!

Searching For A Doctor …

When you’re a kid, you dread going to the doctor. What kid wants a shot or some nasty-tasting medicine?

In your 20’s, you feel invincible. When you get sick, you go to the doctor for a “quick fix,” so you can get back to doing whatever it is that you do … as soon as possible.

In your 30’s and 40’s, life starts catching up with you – all the ways in which you’ve neglected your health and have perhaps internalized stress and painful emotions come back to bite you. You go to the doctor for a quick fix, and find out she wants to put you on medication(s) … for life.

In your 50’s, you’re fed up with the “same old same old.” At least I am. I’m tired of being treated like a specimen, examined and scrutinized according to a one-size-fits-all set of specialized, compartmentalized standards.  I don’t want to be enslaved by medications and their side effects for the rest of my short life — if I take them. Unfortunately, most American medical schools are funded by pharmaceutical companies, and the source of funds always dictates what is taught in the schools.

I believe too much of American medicine treats the symptoms of diseases, rather than going to the causes and helping our bodies do what they were made to do — heal themselves.  However, it doesn’t serve the pharmaceutical companies well to heal people, who will no longer need their drugs.

As I am always solutions-driven, I finally found a doctor who treats the “whole person,” and doesn’t prescribe any prescription drugs, because they all have dangerous side effects.  He believes in “hands on” chiropractic, and I’m finally finding relief from pain, both physical and emotional. He also offers nutritional counseling and other means toward healing, including therapeutic massage.  He practices “functional medicine,” which only utilizes natural interventions to help the body heal itself.

I am finally finding relief from pain, and healing in so many ways … physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

I don’t want to settle for “band-aid” pharmaceuticals which just treat the symptoms, and don’t address the cause. I encourage everyone to keep seeking genuine healing, until you find the solutions you desire and need. I wish you the best.