It's all in the bottom right leg of the chromosome

There are countless books and complex theories as to why men and women are so inherently different.     I don’t believe the reason is as complex as scientists and psychologists make it out to be.  Do you remember basic biology when you were told that women were the X chromosome and men are the Y chromosome?  Let’s take a simple look at those two small letters shall we?  The x for example is made up of two equal lines which cross at the center at an angle.  What happens when you snap off the bottom right leg?  That’s right, you have the letter y.  So it stands to reason, that men are not like women because to put it simply, they’re broken.

What happens when the bottom leg is missing?  Let’s consider some of the most common differences by example #1 Why can’t men ask directions?

 I remember shorty after my marriage, before the GPS, we were invited to a wedding in Norfolk Va.  We had the name of the church and the street address. No problem; until we turned onto that street, and became confused because there wasn’t a single building on the road that contained a house number.  Now you wouldn’t think that finding the church would be a problem except that there were churches everywhere.  You know how each town has what they call fast food alley? You pass McDonalds, Burger King, Wendy’s, Pizza Hut, Bo Jangles Kentucky Fried Chicken, and Arby’s  in less than a half mile. It’s like running a fast food gauntlet and dodging the arterial blows till you emerge on the other end of the street where a development houses the local victims, peering out the window dreading the route back to the interstate.

This particular road in Norfolk could have been called the gauntlet of righteousness.  There were churches on both sides of the street. Catholic, Methodist, Presbyterian, Unitarian, Evangelical, Episcopalian, and Baptist along with churches of denomination I had never heard before.  We were running late, and I, being a woman, thought the solution was to just stop and ask a pedestrian. However, my husband, who contained that broken chromosome, decided the better solution was to turn the car around and cruise back and forth like ducks in a shooting gallery, till either we found the church or we were picked off by the righteous indignation of each denomination when we refused to stop at the prospective pearly gates of their parking lots. 

This leads me to example

 #2 why can’t men listen?

 Did I mention that I believe the bottom right leg of the X chromosome must also contain the tonal range that permits hearing?  Because it wasn’t until my voice hit a higher pitch that my husband’s inner ear became receptive and pulled alongside the next group of pedestrians we saw to finally ask directions.  As it happened, it was the bride and her parents, walking to the church.  To his credit, he did receive the telepathic message “I told you so”, from me with little effort. Which leads me to believe telepathy or mind reading, which is often credited to women is in one of the other legs of the X chromosome.

Example #3 Men like to think that women can’t manage without them. 
They want to be the providers. And though they accuse women of keeping score, they do the same.  The difference is the scoring curve.  Men tend to score a gesture or deed much higher than women.  Taking garbage out may be a ten in his eyes, but a 1 in hers, while taking care of the kids and doing laundry is considered menial and scores a one with him while his wife rates her time equivalent in accomplishing these tasks a bit higher than the time it took him to carry a bag from the kitchen to the curb. Consequently, they always seem to think things are off balance. Hmm, ever try to stand up a Y?

Example 4 men don’t talk.
 Men use as few words as possible and speak only when they have to...  Women want to discuss the problem until a solution is reached.  With one exception, when a woman is complimented on her salad, she graciously says thank you, I picked the lettuce fresh from the garden this morning.  But when men are complimented on an accomplishment they stand around beating their chests. It’s the old hunter gatherer stuff.    When a man goes hunting to put meat on the table, and someone takes notice, you are forced to relive the hunt with them.  They will go into excruciating detail from the weather to the type of ammo and on to a minute by minute description of the sights and sounds experienced before pulling the trigger and landing the shot.   I call your attention to the amount of cave drawings, depicting hunts.  I propose it was simply the woman who gave him the piece of charcoal and said “honey, write it down and I’ll read it later after I clean up the dishes and beat your underwear on the rock along the river and hang them to dry after I start the fire.

This leads me example 5, Men cannot multi-task.
Women are capable of rocking the baby, stirring the sauce and talking on the telephone while they supervise  one child doing homework and listening to yet another child reading aloud.  Men on the other hand can only manage one task at a time, with possible exception of performing certain bodily functions while reading.. The world comes to a grinding halt if they have to give so much as a yes or no question when asked during a sports game on the TV.  Oh, they will tell you they are thinking before answering, but must I remind you about the listening skills housed in the bottom right leg of the x chromosome?

Example number 6 -  If there was ever a doubt that God was all-knowing and all-seeing, just look at who he chose to bear the children. 
 Women will endure 36 hours of labor and be back on her feet, within hours of delivery, but if a man pulls a muscle, he’ll whine for sympathy for hours, maybe even days.  And Lord help us if they should get the flu!  You would think they were on their death bed and you begin to wonder if you should first call the priest to administer last rites, or grab the check register to be sure you made the required payment on his life insurance while racking your brain trying to recall where the will was stashed.  Perhaps it’s because they are trying to keep their balance on that one-legged chromosome .

And finally, you realize men have no opinion when it comes to helping you decorate the house or deciding if they like your new dress or your new hairstyle. And the ones who do, are said to be more in touch with their feminine side.  I’d be willing to bet if their genetic structure was examined closely, there would still be part of that lower right leg of the x remaining.  In other words, they’re probably gay!

Still, men blame the wife when they do not get the son they wanted to carry on the name; though basic biology tells you it is the man who determines the sex of the offspring.  The women have only the X chromosome, while the male carries both the x and the y.  So if the broken chromosome happens to swim faster, and produces another broken chromosome, they have no one to blame but themselves.

Some people explain it all as "It's a guy thing.  I maintain that it's a "Y" thing.

Men can be kind of like a cockroach.  Cockroaches have a similar system for determining the sex of an individual. The male cockroaches determine the sex of the offspring. The male cockroach contains only an x chromosome, and thus produce sperm that contain either an x or no chromosome at all.  Wanna guess what sex the no chromosomal sperm produces?

The hurrier I go the behinder I get!

It’s funny how a random thought or event can trigger a completely unrelated memory.  A recent conversation on a trip to Ikea brought to mind a family gathering I attended a number of years ago.

It was my aunt’s 65^th birthday party, and they were having a big family gathering at a hall in Lawrenceville, which is about an hour and a half drive from my place.  At that time, she was living in a senior home, and the invitation suggested a gift card  because they took frequent outings to the local Walmart.

Perfect, I thought, saves me racking my brain wondering what to buy.  Better yet, I can leave camp a little early and pick it up on the way, since I knew there was a Walmart not far from the party.

If experience is the best teacher, I am a bad student.    I had everything planned to the minute. 10am: leave the office to go home and get ready.  10:15: shower 10:30-11:00: blow dry my hair (yes, my hair takes longer than the shower) 11-11:30 dress and apply makeup then out the door by 11:45.  Arrive at walmart by 1:15, grab a gift card and back in the car heading to the hall by 1:30, to arrive at party at 1:45, fifteen minutes ahead of the guest of honor.   A piece of cake, I said to myself proudly as I wrote my itinerary down on paper the night before. 

I had not planned on the record heat and humidity when I bought my outfit, which consisted of a long sleeved top with mandarin collar and slacks.  No worries, I thought confidently, I allowed a little extra time to blow out my hair, and I would be in an air conditioned car, store and restaurant.

The first lesson I  never learned from experience is that something always happens at work that prevents you from leaving the office at the anticipated time.  That day, it was the unexpected throng of nearly 100 wolf watchers that descended on us at 10am, just as I was about to walk out.  Remaining, calm, knowing I can shave minutes off my shower and apply makeup as I drive; I proceeded to go back in the office to help register each car as quickly as possible.

 I tore a page from the registration book and started a second line at the other counter to speed things along.  It’s always when I am in a hurry that I notice how excruciatingly slow everyone else is moving.   How long does it take to write a name and address down? I wonder, as I watch the next person in line pick up the pen and start to write.  I am screaming “hurry!” in my mind, and I concentrate on the hand with the pen as I try to will it to form the letters faster.  I quickly hit a button on the register and state the amount they owe.   Then it happens-just like in a movie.  Everyone and everything around me shifts into slow motion, and I watch from what seems to be another dimension.   I stated the price two more times before the sound waves reached the customer’s ear, and I can almost visibly see her brain slowly processing what I wanted from her.  

The woman slowly reached in her right jacket pocket  then the left.  Coming up empty, she checked her two front pants pockets, taking what seemed forever to feel around and realize they too were empty.  As she slowly reached further down her leg, I quietly cursed whoever invented cargo pants.  Seriously, do we really need to have pockets halfway down our legs as well? Then the light bulb finally went on, albeit dimly, and she remembered she left her money in the car. She slowly turned to make her way through the crowd to her vehicle, and I wondered why she would get in line to buy a ticket without money on her in the first place.  I quickly hit cancel on the register so the person at the other counter could ring up their customer, and I motioned for the next person in my line to sign in. I looked up and wondered how the second hand on the clock can be sweeping around its face so fast, while everything else was moving so slowly.

Finally, I peeled out of the parking lot at 1030 and headed home to get ready.  After a frenzied shower and struggling to get my clothes on over a semi dried body, I tried to force myself to control my breathing and blood pressure as I plugged in the blow dryer.  My hair is like a barometer; if the humidity is over 45%, my hair will literally start to shrink into ringlets of curl and frizz, so sweating would be counter -productive.  I tried to retrieve the lost half hour at the office by only applying my eyeliner, and throwing the rest of the makeup in the car, intending to apply the rest while driving, knowing it won’t be the first time I did that.

Now on the road, I am reminded of the second lesson not learned through experience.  Posted speed limits to the average driver are open to interpretation.  On parkways and interstates, they are interpreted as the minimum speed required for survival.  On secondary roads, which my route required I take, they are interpreted as warnings of certain death if your speedometer gets within 10 miles per hour LESS than the posted speed. Having preprogramed my gps to the address of the party, I felt my anxiety rising as the ETA became later and later.

As I still hadn’t reached Walmart to buy the gift card, I tried to distract my mind from the stress of being late and started thinking about the event I was heading for.  My aunt was my father’s youngest sibling.  My father, one of twelve children, had passed away several years prior, and knowing he hadn’t been the first to die, I tried to recall how many of them were still alive.

Let’s see, I thought to myself, there is Mary and Junior and Samuel and Morris, Jeannie and Puggy and Pat - suddenly the lyrics for Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer popped into my head, and I smiled as I slowed down for yet another red light.

Ten minutes later, I noticed the clouds had gone from white to dark gray, and as I pulled into walmart, the first raindrops began to fall.  Panic began to rise again, as I found the closest parking spot was nearly a tenth of a mile from the entrance.  As I closed the car door and hit the remote lock, the sky opened up and it began to pour.  I ran as fast as I could, but apparently, another lesson that I did not commit to memory was my lack of agility in anything other than sneakers.  I burst through the doors, nearly colliding with a group of seniors aided by walkers and canes.  I headed straight for the rack of gift cards grabbing one marked $25.00.  I stopped short before getting in line for the register because I realized how long it had been since I had seen any of these relatives and how long it might be before I may see them again.  Why didn’t I think to bring a camera, I chided myself. I made a quick decision to buy an inexpensive camera to commemorate the occasion.  I was nearly soaked to the skin with rain, and I glanced up to scan the department headings looking for the word  “electronics”.  Of course,  it was way at the  back of the store, and I breathlessly hurried to the camera department.  I scanned the posted prices and chose a camera that was reasonably priced, but to my dismay, they were locked in a cabinet under the glass case.  I raced to the person working the register in that department, pacing impatiently while he finished with the customer ahead of me.  “I’d like to purchase a camera over there please”, I said to him. 

That’s when it happened for the second time that day.  You know - the slow mo thing; that parallel dimension that makes everyone look like they are moving through water against the current.   The salesman slowly raised his head and looked up at me, then even more slowly, swiveled his head down towards the end of the aisle. He had to be at least 350 pounds, and I was mentally screaming when I took in his girth and estimated the speed at which he would likely be able to move.  I was breathing faster than he was moving.    It must have taken a full two minutes before he was able to rotate his body and reach for the key hanging on the wall behind him.  I was in agony watching him struggle to displace the air in front of him and make his way down the aisle.  I was telling him the make and model  of the camera  I wanted when I realized that, although I had taken only a few strides  and the legs on my five foot four inch body were not all that long, they had put a greater distance between us than I had thought  possible.  I walked back to him, turned and proceeded in front of him trying to displace the air and create a draft that might pull him up the aisle quicker.  When we reached the cabinet, I could see him gauge the distance down to the little shiny padlock that kept the cameras from being poached by shoplifters.     It was all I could do to keep from becoming hysterical, as I watched him ever so slowly give a tug on his right pants leg to bend the right knee slightly, and then slowly reach with the other hand to do the same with the left.  Inch by inch, he repeated this motion as he slowly maneuvered himself into a squatting position, panting heavily from the exertion. He reminded me of a Sumo wrestler, and I was tempted to partner up and wrestle him to the ground for that key.  After what seemed an eternity he was finally able to lower his massive body enough to reach the lock.  He slowly inched the sliding door open only to discover they had no more of that camera in stock.  I quickly suggested the second cheapest camera.   He slid the panel open a fraction of an inch more which caused a shift in balance and his knee dropped all the way down and came to rest on the tile floor.  Damn I thought; now he’ll never be able to get back up!  Every muscle in my body began to twitch with desperation, when he slowly spoke up and said they were all out of that one too.  “Never mind then” I said quickly, “thanks anyway.”  I waited there, muscles twitching like a race horse at the starting gate, while he slowly rocked back and forth reversing the motion that got him to his current position.  Finally, he stood up and began to slowly shuffle his way back to the register.

 “I’ll just get this gift card” I said and handed it to him.  He slowly reached for the card and tried to swipe it through the machine.  Still in slow motion, he tried a second swipe before suggesting I take it to one of the front registers.  I snatched the card from his hand and quickly raced toward the front of the store. 

Perspiration was beginning to form around my hairline, which flanked the top hairs already wet from rain. The top of my head was beginning to itch as each individual hair surrendered its position and recoiled like springs that have been stretched beyond their limitation.   I made a quick detour to the health and beauty department and grabbed a travel sized blow dryer, remembering I had a converter still in my car that we had used to plug the computer into the cigarette lighter while traveling cross country.  Seeing that it was still pouring rain, I also grabbed a mini umbrella and made a bee line to the register that had the shortest line.  I dropped everything onto the conveyer belt and dug in my purse readying myself for a quick payment. An audible whimper escaped my lips when I realized the person in front of me had a blouse that had no tag, and a call for a price check went out over the loud speaker. 

What else can go wrong? I asked myself, as I finally paid for my purchases, grabbed my package and hurried toward the exit.  I promptly retrieved the umbrella from my bag, opened it up and began a mad dash to the car.  Just before I got there, a gust of wind answered my last question and turned the umbrella inside out.   Struggling to hang on to it, I unlocked the car, and threw myself onto the front seat and tossed the inside out mangled umbrella onto the back seat.  I was gasping, trying to catch my breath as I tried to tear open the package on the blow dryer.  It was sealed in hard plastic and I was using my keys to frantically cut it open. Once I got it punctured, I clawed at it viciously while praying that I wouldn’t slice my hand open.

By now, I was sweating profusely and wishing I had purchased some deodorant as well.  Finally the dryer broke free, and I took a deep breath as I plunged it into the converter and flicked on the switch.  There was a faint …whew… of air then a pause, followed by another faint. ..whew.  It was then that I realized a hair dryer draws more power than the cigarette lighter was capable of giving. I would have gotten more drying power blowing into a bendy straw pointed at my head.  I angrily yanked the dryer by the cord and threw it behind me with such force it landed with a crash.  I cringed, and then let out a breath of relief when I saw I had not broken the back window.

I slammed the gear shift into reverse and hurried to the hall. As I parked the car, I glanced down at the makeup I had brought with me but never applied.  I decided I had moved beyond caring and then thought, well, maybe just lipstick.  I grabbed the silver cylinder, gave the lipstick a quick twist, and flipped down the visor to access the mirror.  My hair was a mass of frizz and curls, taking on the appearance of a Berber carpet that was clawed by a cat and the eyeliner was smudged.  I looked down at the lipstick in my hand and threw it in the direction of the blow dryer.  It would have taken a whole lot more than that to fix what was staring back at me in the mirror.  I was exhausted and spent and frankly no longer gave a damn about what anyone would think of how I looked.  I stepped into the hall and mingled among my relations.  Perhaps it was because I looked like I’d gone through hell and back that they all seemed to be impressed and in awe of the fact that I came all this way and planned to return all in the same night.   “”I couldn’t do it” I heard one of them say.   The past few hours flashed through my mind as I smiled and calmly said, “It’s no big deal”. With that, the last piece of straightened hair surrendered its position and coiled backward to join the rest.

Common Sense

This past summer, the loss of common sense has become frighteningly real to me. I have watched people drive over the concrete flower bed that surrounds the dump station, back over planters that stand two feet high; drive over cement parking stops and take wrong turns, all because they are incapable of reading maps.  Several times we’ve had people arrive with their tent, but without their tent poles. This weekend, we had folks arrive with the poles and no tent.  You wonder, what were they thinking? But that is the problem in a nutshell, people don’t think anymore, nor are they expected to.

We’ve had those who walk into the office to register for a wolf watch, literally take three steps straight in from the door to arrive at the counter, turn around and are unable to retrace the three steps to find the door they just walked thru when they came in!   

 I recently observed a woman swaying in front of my office door.  At first glance, I assumed she was a little tipsy, but when I asked if she needed help, she suddenly realized what she was doing and sheepishly admitted she was trying to trigger the electric eye to open the door. I laughed, pointed to the doorknob and said turn and push.  People are used to having automatic doors or push bars; they do not know how to operate a simple door knob.  It was a short time later that I watched a woman struggling to open the door by pushing with both hands.  “You have to use the knob “I said and shared an eye roll with a nearby employee.  After a few more seconds of seeing her struggle with the knob, I added “you have to turn the knob first, and then push”.  She shot me a look as if I were to blame for her inability to operate a doorknob, and we all cringed when she slammed the door behind her so hard a box of Advil vibrated off a nearby shelf.  Verbalizing the instructions “turn the knob then push” has taken the place of “goodbye, have a nice day”.  It has become such a frequent necessity; I’m considering putting an instructional sign at the edge of the door above the knob.  However, I realize most wouldn’t comprehend what they are reading, and I’m not sure how to convey the message using pictures!

 Common sense is defined by the dictionary as “sound and prudent judgment based on a simple perception of the situation or facts. It is perceived as the knowledge and experience which most people already have or what we think they should have.” 

I have come to believe that as we as a society, advance in technology, the level of common sense diminishes proportionately.  The more technological advantages we utilize, the less capable we become.  If experience is the best teacher, then teachers have gone on strike!  Calculators in school have all but eliminated the need for using our brains to solve a simple math problem.  There is no need to memorize the times tables since that little hand held device solves the problem for us.  Escalators and elevators eliminate the need to exert ourselves walking to the second floor.  The internet has not only eliminated the need to learn the Dewey decimal system when searching for the book in the library, it has all but eliminated the need for going to the library.  Hit spell and grammar check on the tool bar, check wikipedia for a definition, everything is done for us, eliminating the “accountability” aspect of everyday living. The GPS and smart phones have eliminated the need to learn to navigate using a map. 

A product of parochial school, I can still recall the dreaded penmanship test.  The palmer method of writing was to blame for many a classmates’ sore knuckles.  Today, there are those who feel that children should not have to learn to write, when they have a keyboard.  Some have already lost the ability to read cursive. Soon it will be considered a skill much like archeologists who can decipher the ancient languages and hieroglyphics.  

I can’t help but wonder if we are sealing our own fates by shirking accountability and speeding toward advancements only to fall victim to our own self destruction.  There were the Mayans, the Incas, the lost city of Atlantis, all of whom stir the imaginations of archeologists across the globe.  Will some future civilization come to study us?  With all the advances in science, technology and medicine, I wonder what they’ll think when they unearth plastic bags imprinted with a warning not to put them over your head because it could cause suffocation, or finding those little tags on pillows and furniture warning of fines and possible imprisonment if removed.

Sunless Sunday

 I watched the NOAA weather station‘s radar loop light up the screen with a kaleidoscope of blues, greens, yellows and reds, and I could hear engines start up as campers were pulling out of their campsites. It was not even noon and the campsites were vacating rapidly despite the 3pm check-out.  When the rain arrives early Sunday morning and there is no end in sight, most people pack it in and make a hasty retreat to their dry homes. Some even ask if we could refund them since their vacation was cut short with rain, and become annoyed when we say no, explaining we have no control over weather. The disappointed and disillusioned first timers whose brand new tent leaked like a sieve plod into the office looking for coffee, not just to warm them up, but to give a caffeine boost so they have the energy to finish cramming the muddy equipment into the car after the sleepless night they had just endured.  Lesson learned, even the best of tents should to be tarped in a heavy rainstorm.

As I watched the mass exodus, I thought back to my first experience of camping in a tent.  I had just met my husband and decided I would show an interest in his occupation by purchasing a large canvas tent and various cool looking camping accessories.  I did a practice pitching in the back yard to be sure I wouldn’t look completely inept. Satisfied that I was prepared for my first camping experience, I reserved a weekend at his family owned campground.   

Feeling benevolent, I decided to invite my nephew, four nieces and my mom, not thinking of how I’d transport them and the equipment.  Although I loved my Volkswagen rabbit, it was not my first choice when I had purchased my brand new vehicle eight months earlier.  I really wanted to get the VW Westphalia van.  However, my mother would not hear of it.  After all, good catholic girls do not drive around with their bedrooms!  I piled my mom and five kids in my Volkswagen rabbit.  Obviously it was long before the days when seatbelts and car seats were required.  I had the tent and other gear tied to the roof.

 I was feeling quite proud of myself after I pitched the tent without any problems especially since my only other tenting experience prior to my practice pitch was draping a sheet over a table and playing under it with my cousin when I was a child. One of the cool purchases I had made was a set of pots, pans and dishes that all nested within the largest sized pot.  It didn’t occur to me that paper plates would have been the wiser choice with five kids and two adults.  I’d no sooner get done heating water; washing and drying the dishes then fitting them back "puzzle style" into the pot, when it was time to start the next meal.  My mother would watch me perform this ritual over and over and continually ask “and you call this fun?” 

Hot dogs and beans over the fire was dinner that night, followed of course by the mandatory s’mores for dessert. 

Finally, when dinner and marshmallow toasting time was over, I left my mother with her grandkids ranging in age from 5 to 11 years old sitting by the fire and walked over to the patio by the lake for some romantic moments with my new found beau. 

We had only been together for a few minutes when he stood up and said we’d better head back to the campsite.  I thought perhaps bringing five kids and a mother was too much for him when he explained there is rain coming. 

Seriously? I asked myself, who does this guy think he is, Daniel Boone?  Then I heard it; a drumming, far away and muffled at first, then getting louder and louder.  We broke into a run, but the wall of rain coming over the mountain was moving faster than we were, and by the time we reached the campsite we were drenched. 

I stuck my head into the tent and found my mom inside with the kids praying the rosary for protection against a chance lightning strike on a nearby tree that would surely fall and crush them all.  Mom and the five kids had pretty much filled the 8x10 cabin tent, and I decided to sleep in the back of Clate’s pickup, which had a cap over it and a mattress that spanned the width of the truck bed. The storm was raging outside and I must admit I may have said a decade or two of Hail Mary’s myself. 

Breakfast was spam and eggs.  It was surprising how that canned mystery meat actually tasted good when cooked over an open fire.  While I was packing away the tent and loading up the car, Mom stated this whole outdoor thing wasn’t worth the trouble and isn’t anything she’d want to repeat.  No chance of that happening, I thought, as I listened to five kids fighting over who would ride shotgun.

A shrill alarm coming from the weather radio beside me warned the possibility of flash flooding in the area and brought my mind back to the present.

A young couple came running into the office looking for a campsite. Rain is what separates the true outdoor enthusiasts from the weekend “wannanbes” I thought, as I smiled and handed them a registration form and campground map.

Lobotomy/Lobectomy, Po-ta-to/Po-tot-to

                                   

I watched the numbers on the odometer slowly roll to the next tenth of a mile and my eyelids seemed to be tugged further down as each rotation triggered another yawn.  I wondered how I had driven 14 hours to Georgia, just two months after my lobectomy, when I am now struggling to stay awake on a simple 20 minute trip to Pennsylvania.

This was the third lung surgery in 18 months, and I am starting to doubt that I am as recovered as I thought.  Though the initial pain has subsided, the occasional sharp twinge and hyper-sensitive patches of skin serve as a constant reminder of the fact that I am still unable to turn the page on this chapter of my life. This last surgery removed a nodule the size of a golf ball, yet the lab results are still inconclusive.

Perhaps the stress of the unknown is why I feel my mind wearily wanders from the task at hand, and I feel I’m viewing life peripherally, completely unfocused.  Two years…first the bloody cough, then the news that there are spots on both lungs…the words lung cancer” tossed about like an errant ball in the hands of children, coming ever closer to the neighboring window.  Eighteen months of fighting with the insurance company over bills that should have been paid from the first two surgeries, but haven’t, because of a simple typo on their end that they can’t seem to fix.   Anxiety levels getting ratcheted up a notch each time a CT or PET scan was postponed, waiting for insurance approval.

I’m unable to throw away collection notices, which, in my mind have become ransom demands,  because of the Stockholm syndrome-like bond that has formed between me and the insurance company.

I continued to bounce from test to test, surgery to surgery, waiting for the inevitable shattered window, which came the day I was released from the hospital in the news that a family member had lost her fight with cancer.  It was hard to celebrate my good fortune of leaving the hospital, being told my tumor was not cancer, when the life of someone so young with two little children had been cut short so prematurely. A kind of survivor’s guilt overcame me, and I kept wondering why I was so fortunate.  I previously said I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop, but now I wonder if it hasn’t been thrown, hitting me in the head and leaving me in some post operative state of confusion. 

Nothing is sharp.  Not that sharp would be a word I’d use to describe myself!  My face is round, as is every part of my body. Even my hair gets round with an increase in humidity! The only thing capable of being sharp would probably be my tongue.

I’ve heard of disorders such as postpartum depression, and post traumatic stress syndrome. I have to wonder if there is a post-op perplexity disorder and I’m the new poster child.  I feel like I am in a room, surrounded by people having a toke from some community reefer, and I’m stuck in the middle, feeling disoriented from the contact high!

There are so many horror stories of hospitals performing the wrong surgeries on patients and amputating the wrong limb. If it weren’t that I distinctly remember the doctor marking the surgical site with indelible ink, I would swear he performed a lobotomy instead of a lobectomy! My memory is shorter than the life expectancy of a mayfly. I would like to think if there was a problem like Alzheimer’s, it would have shown up on my periodic brain MRI, which monitors a spot found on my right frontal lobe.  I would think if it had grown, I would have at least gotten a courtesy call.  Hmmm, that is…I don’t remember getting any call…..

Sisters on the Fly

We get many types of camping groups during the season.  There are canvas campers, Pwp’s, Scouts, church groups etc.  Last weekend we had a group called Sisters on the Fly.  Intrigued by the name, I immediately went to the computer and consulted the google guru. Sisters on the Fly began with two sisters who liked fly fishing and were having such a great time, they started inviting their girlfriends along.  It reminded me of the old Faberge shampoo commercials.  Do you remember them?  The original user was so pleased with the product that she told two friends, and they told two friends and so on…and so on….capitalizing on the impact word of mouth has on advertising and marketing.  This sisterhood has done the same, growing from the original two to the over twenty-six hundred members currently signed up. I was awestruck by these women, and if I am to be honest, a little envious of these ladies, who could gather together for a carefree jaunt without husbands, boyfriends, children or pets.  Not that I have never traveled without husband or children myself, but that there were so many others who did so on a  regular basis in such an organized fashion impressed me.  I felt an immediate kinship with these women of all ages, occupations, and personalities.  Some of them were meeting for the first time, though their exuberance and excitement at seeing each other gave the impression they had known each other all their lives.    They are a sisterhood of fun-loving independent women with arms open waiting to embrace a new family member.   Several travel in vintage trailers, and tiny teardrops, tricked out and named to reflect their own personalities.  I had my doubts about fitting in, since my husband and I recently purchased a 30ft motorhome  on the hope that we’d be able to sneak away a few times per year. But I was assured that it wouldn’t make a difference what I was camping in.

Though I never had the urge to buy Faberge shampoo, I was compelled to buy into this sisterhood.  Rather than living vicariously through their friendly blogs on their website, I joined after that weekend, and am now sister #2615.  I wasn’t sure what to call my RV.  I am always looking for a reason to bug-out of my duties at the campground, and have been accused of doing it at lightning speed!  I relate to lighting more and more as I get older –as my mind produces an occasional brilliant flash before returning to a dark void of nothingness. And…. during a menopausal hot flash, I can not only rumble like thunder, I’m capable of vaporizing anyone or anything in my path just like lightning! And I almost glow, flushed with excitement at the idea of leaving the campground. In view of these observations, I’ve  decided on Lightning-Bug-Out.  My daughter even sketched a cartoon lightning bug standing thumb out, motioning an escape, a martini glass, wine glass and jug in the other hands.  Now I am anxious to attend a meet-up, to feel that I truly am a part of the family of adventurous Sisters on the Fly!

A very "Public House"

                                                          

I attended a convention in Sturbridge Massachusetts last March.  Even though I had to make the drive and attend the convention alone, I was looking forward to seeing other campground owners from the Northeast.

Judy, a good friend and campground owner from Cape May, assured me that I wouldn’t regret making the trip and she’d keep me company.  Most of the luncheons and dinners are included in the registration for the event but there was one night that dinner was on your own.  We met up with three other campgrounds from our state and decided to go to a well known restaurant called “the Public House”.  We looked forward to swapping stories and knew we always laugh and enjoy the time we spend together.

We hurried into the public dining area where our table for eight was waiting.  Our time was limited, because we had to return to the hotel for a “cracker barrel” discussion, so we put in our orders as soon as the waiter came to the table.

 “Oh my God!”  Judy exclaimed as she ducked her head behind the menu she still held in her hand.  “I don’t know where to look!”

All but the gentleman sitting opposite her at our table were now following her line of sight to a woman seated at the table a few feet from us who was breast feeding her baby. 

Although breast feeding is only natural, I must admit the public display was a little uncomfortable.   I was born in an era when discretion and modesty was an inherent condition.  Having had two children of my own, I know there are many ways to feed an infant discreetly when in public.  This woman, however, was not interested in utilizing any of them.   Judy, being older than myself, was of the Ozzie & Harriet generation and such things were not even discussed in mixed company, let alone demonstrated.

It became quite obvious that the intention of this mother was to attract as much attention as possible, and she was indeed successful in her endeavor. The fact that she used breast feeding to that end was nothing short of offensive. I remember wondering if she had chosen the “Public House” for the name alone. It was as though she purposely tried to expose as much of her body as possible, making no attempt at draping her chest but rather exposing herself from the top of her blouse down.  She was sitting at a table against the window, which would have given her complete privacy had she chosen any of the three other seats at the table, angling herself away from the other diners. However, her choice was the chair that faced the entire restaurant full of diners.  After an hour and a half went by, it was obvious the child was not the least bit interested, but she kept forcing his face toward her breast.  How much could a child so small drink? Especially when she had been nursing him in the crowded lobby only minutes before? Seriously?  Even a dairy cow would have emptied in less time. 

 As we glanced around the room, other customers sat with heads tilted, trying to obliterate her from even their peripheral fields of vision (not an easy feat due to the size of the room and placement of the tables). Discussion at our table deteriorated rapidly into bad puns and jokes as a result of our own discomfort which I’m sure contributed to our raucous behavior.   The woman looked to be glaring directly at us and called the waiter to her table several times. However, we weren’t sure if she was lodging a complaint against our table or trying repeatedly to draw the young man’s attention to her bare breast.

Service was extremely slow, and we just wanted to get out of there.  I usually drink my coffee black, but thought cream might help to cool it down and speed up our ability to depart.   Already late for the cracker barrel session and feeling the tension around the room, when my coffee was poured I turned to Judy and inquired “Got Milk?”  The laughter that ensued got the check to the table quicker than any of the dinner courses.