Dirty Little Secrets

I was recently privileged to be a guest on The Polka Dot Banner's Authors Blog.  The Polka Dot Banner is a website for authors – an author's gathering place, if you will.  Check it out sometime at www.polkadotbanner.com.  The guest blogging consisted of an initial post followed by a one day Q&A.  Below is a slightly edited version of the initial post.

 

 

DIRTY LITTLE SECRETS

 

What is it about secrets that make them so appealing?  It must have something to do with the inherent mystique that, by their very nature, is infused in them.  I actually have a theory about secrets: If you want something to remain a secret – are you ready? here it comes – do NOT tell anybody!

 

For me, I really don't have many secrets.  My life is an open book – literally.  The Ones That Got Away – A Dating Memoir chronicles 40 years of my life in, what some have deemed, wince-inducing candor.  For possible reasons why I'm so open and frank, see Diff'rent Strokes post of 6-21-09. 

 

So, what was the biggest secret with my book?  Well, the book itself, actually.

 

I think it was Aristotle who claimed one's life would not be complete if not for accomplishing three things:  build a house (did it), raise a child (I say hundreds of 'em in Sunday school count) and write a book (done).  Seriously, though… Write a book?  Really?  How about that?  See, the thing is, all of us have a story to tell – it may not always be the most interesting story, but it's ours and if we can tell it in an entertaining fashion then, why not? 

 

This is how my book began:  the idea popped into my head, then my opening sentence, which was followed quickly by the title, and then my closing sentence came to mind; after which, almost immediately, the entire 'meat' (read: beefcake – pun absolutely intentional) fell into place like dominos.  I was on fire.  I couldn't wait to get home to begin writing.  And write I did – I banged out the first three chapters as if they were writing themselves.  After that I wrote here and there, whenever I had some unfettered downtime (that's my favorite kind of downtime, by the way); then I'd go back over what I wrote – rereading it, altering it, tweaking it.

 

In 10 months I completed my story – and here's the thing: no one knew.  No one.  I never told anybody what I was doing.  It was a secret – but in many ways, it was much more – it was like my secret lover. 

 

There'd be times I couldn't wait to get home just to change out a particular word with one that was more suitable – one that really nailed what I was trying to convey.  As I've previously quoted, Mark Twain once said, "The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and the lightning bug."  I couldn't agree more.  When hiking, I'd be consumed with thoughts surrounding whatever – or whoever – I was writing about – just as a lover consumes one's thoughts.  Other times, I'd daydream and reflect on recently written passages as if I'd just lived the experiences for the first time – I fell in love, I laughed with friends, I was living life to the fullest.  And for whatever reason, I didn't tell a soul.  For nearly four years I kept my deep, dark secret all to myself. 

 

After finally deciding to publish my book, the time came to reveal this secret to my family – to my poor, unsuspecting family – who, at the mere mention of an impending announcement regarding a special project I'd been working on, began to throw out their best intuitive guesses:  "You're becoming a spiritual leader," my brother declared.  His mother-in-law quickly chimed in, "Are you buying a timeshare in Sedona?"  My own mother threw her hat in the ring with this mind bender, "You're adopting a baby!"  Well, certainly no question remains about where I get my creativity from.

 

I have to tell you that when I informed them that I'd written a book, it sort of fell on deaf ears.  I looked around at faces yielding little to no reaction until finally my 8-year-old niece said, "A book?  Am I in it?"  As I nodded yes, she enthusiastically did the truck driver pull-down and bellowed, "Alright!"  That actually broke the silence as if a horn really did sound, and then the questions began:  A book?  My goodness, what's it about?  When did you write it?  Has it been published?  Where do we get it? 

 

I answered all the rapid-fire questions and then they asked, "But… how did you do all that stuff?"  Well, not without some key people, that's for sure; one of which is none other than The Polka Dot Banner's own Jamie Saloff.  Without her help, The Ones That Got Away – A Dating Memoir would still be nothing more than a Microsoft Word document in a three-ring binder. 

 

In the world of publishing, writing is actually the easy part – there is so much more that goes into making a story a book and I simply could not have done it without Jamie.  I write in pencil (getting my story into a Word doc is about as high-tech as I get); I am not computer savvy; I cannot text; I'm not on Facebook; I do not Twitter.  All that technical stuff is just geek – that's must have been a slip – Greek to me.  But Jamie is a genius – an absolute genius – and with her help my big, fat, juicy secret became a bona fide book.  A book in which one reviewer said, "It's like delighting in your best friend's dirty details without having to divulge your own!" 

 

You have your own details, though – don't you?  You have your own ideas.  So, what's up?  Why haven't you written your story yet?  You don't have to build a house or raise a child first; but you do have to start.  Many people have asked me for advice on how to write a book and I tell them all the same thing – write!  Don't worry about initially writing anything good, coherent or cohesive – just write.  It's much easier to fix something than to create something.  So pick up that pencil and get some words down – perhaps you have some secret you'd like to share with the world…

 

Write on!

 - M. Hill

Diff'rent Strokes

Well, it's been a full year already since I released my book, The Ones That Got Away – A Dating Memoir, and began this blog.  Whew! Time sure does fly. 

 

One year ago I was just getting ready for my annual trip home to the Jersey shore where I first announced, to many friends and family members, the news about my book – how exciting.  And now, a year later, let's take a look at where I am.

 

Support for what I call OTGA (Ones That Got Away) started off strong – reviews were great, people were laughing and loving it.  I was thrilled.  Who wouldn't be?  But then, unfortunately, I hit a little bump in the road.  I shared the announcement of my book's release with a woman I know from church.  You may already be thinking that wasn't the wisest decision – especially if you've read my tale, but we're pretty friendly and I thought I prefaced it correctly: I'm only sharing this with you because I'm proud of my accomplishment; I'm not expecting you to buy it; it's probably not your cup of tea – especially since things like Sex and the City don't appeal to you.  "I'm very candid," I warned as she expressed her interest in it.  Well, she bought the book – she and a couple of others as it turned out.  Gulp!

 

So, six months pass and not a word.  Hmph?  Well, okay, I suppose the rule of thumb is 'if you don't have anything nice to say, say nothing at all.'  But, really – nothing?  Not a word?  Not one single word?  This is a funny book – if I do say so myself – how could you not have one word to say? 

 

I've said this before, but it's true so it bears repeating.  There's a reason the saying 'if I knew then what I know now' exists.  Another true – and apropos – saying is 'be careful what you wish for.'

 

After six months of wondering, I found out what she thought.  She was appalled… horrified… disgusted.  Well, that was a far cry from what I was used to hearing: clever… witty… hysterical.  I'll tell you what, I like clever, witty and hysterical a whole lot more than appalled, horrified and disgusted.  After apologizing for offending her, I couldn't help but remind her, "judge not lest ye be judged," to which she plainly responded, saying she was not judging me – although it was clear that she was. Now, it may be true that she wasn't judging me on my transgressions, but she just couldn't get beyond "why, as a Christian woman, I would write such a book."  Before reminding her that my book was a 'dating memoir' and not a book about my Christianity, I half-heartedly defended myself saying, "For entertainment."  You know, the OTGA is supposed to be a light, fun read that women – of all varieties – could relate to.

 

One of the things that surprised her most was how open – and detailed – I was.  I had warned her about that.  I don't know.  I must have a distorted sense of what's private – and should remain private.  I have no idea, really, why I'm this way.

 

I think back to my mid-teen years, specifically to my first gynecological appointment – talk about horrifying.  Lying recumbent with my feet up in the air (we've all been there), I could barely breathe as they inserted that cold, stainless steel device (you know the one I'm talking about – looks like a juicer made by Oster).  Trying to just get through the experience, I focused on my breathing (shallow) and continued to answer the doctor's get-her-mind-off-of-what's-going-on casual questions.

 

Gyno:   So, what grade are you in?

…pop open the Oster device like an umbrella

Me:      I'm a… junior.

 

Gyno:   Do you like school?

            …insert fingers

Me:      It's... okay…

 

Gyno:   Anything special going on at school?

            …pushing and probing

Me:      I just… auditioned for… Grease

 

Gyno:   How'd that go?

            …finger up the poop-shoot

Me:      (Gasp! Ohmigod, what the… break out in full body sweat)

 

Gyno:   Did you get a part?

            …remove finger

Me:      What? Oh… I was cast as Patty Simcox.  (Did I just poop?)

 

After my exam I told my mom what had happened.  "Yes, they do that sometimes," she said.  Boy, a little heads-up would've been nice.  When I told my sister this story, before I even got to the part that my mother knew what went on in there and didn't tell me, Linda said, "Oh, I know – I hate that part!"  What?!?  Why wouldn't either of these women – the two closest to me in my life – warn me about something like that? Because it's private? Bullshit – this stuff needs to be shared.

 

I believe this episode could be at the foundation of my open candor.  Many of us have similar experiences throughout our lives.  Why must we go it alone?  Isn't there comfort, safety and community found in sharing?  If something happens to you and a friend says, "Oh, me, too," doesn't that make it better somehow?  Whether it's made less sad (commiserate over a broken heart) or more funny (swapping an adult poop in the pants story, for example) – it's better.  It's better because it's shared and, to me, it's the details that make it fun. 

 

My mom often said that I told her things that "no mother should hear."  My mom is a retired nurse so she knows a lot about, say… anatomy.  Who better to talk to about varying penis shapes and sizes?  Right now some of you may be thinking, "shapes?" while others already get it – because, like me, you've been there.  See, the fun is in the details.  We're all part of a larger collective called the sisterhood – we should embrace that and be not afraid to share.

 

I actually thought in the overall scheme of things, my story was pretty tame.  After all, I am a monogamous person – just one at a time, please.  I go for only one gender: male – no crazy mixing-it-up for me.  And, I use just the one hole – call me old-fashioned, I know.  Yet, am I proud of everything in my book? Of course not – I've made mistakes.  We all have.  I wrote to Barbara Walters recently on this very topic – as a fellow member of the Hester Prynne Club for Girls of Questionable Morals, I thought she could relate. 

 

As I mentioned to Susan from church, the OTGA is a story about my dating experiences (and, yes, even Christian women have them) and I think there are many women out there who can relate to this material. 

 

So I put myself out there – completely.  'Brave' and 'courageous' were the words my editor used.  I didn't really see it that way at first – I just thought I was being honest – but I get it now.  The fact is, whether I shared my story or not, it's still my story – it's still who I am.

 

I think the following quotes are not only applicable, but poignant:

 

"Weakness is a greater enemy to virtue than vice"

 - François de La Rochefoucauld

 

"The only difference between the saint and the sinner is that every saint has a past and every sinner has a future."

 - Oscar Wilde

 

"The eye – it cannot choose but see;

  We cannot bid the ear be still;

  Our bodies feel, where'er they be –

  Against or with our will."

 - William Wordsworth

 

And my favorite one of all…

 

"It is better to be hated for what you are than loved for what you are not."

 - Andre Gide

 

My book has its audience, for sure.  Granted, it's probably not found among a typical group of church ladies, and that's okay.  My audience is more likely found among a coffee klatch of Cosmo-girls.  You know what they say… different strokes for different folks!

 

And speaking of different folks, I'd love to hear about some of your stories.  If interested in sharing, please visit www.honeybeepublishing.com and click on the 'contact me' link.  Drop me a line with your best blind-date-gone-wrong story.  I will send a complimentary copy of The Ones That Got Away – A Dating Memoir to the person with the best/funniest story.  Please realize, though, that I may use some of your material in future posts – so change names if you must (for story only – not contact info, of course.)

 

Looking forward to hearing from you…

 - M

The Fighting Irish

When I was a kid we had thirteen channels to choose from on TV.  Well, that's not really true.  The numbers, 1 -13, were, in fact, on the knob – did you catch that? knob – but I suppose we really only had about five channels from which to make our viewing selections: there were the three major networks, of course, then WPIX out of New York and PBS.  I'm wondering, now, what the other numbers were for – the future, I suppose.  Did anyone back then have any idea of what was really in store for us?  It's good that everything is digital now – you know, cable boxes and remote controls – if not, could you imagine the size of a knob that would hold 900+ numbers? Yeesh!

 

I went to Mexico recently with my brother and his family.  The kids watched TV – beamed in by satellite – the majority of the time it took us to get there.  Oh, sigh… No guessing games, no memory games, no counting license plates, no reading billboards.  To be fair, the only license plates you really see on that trip are AZ plates; here in the Valley you could count license plates all day long – so many recent transplants, part-timers (don't feel comfortable calling them snowbirds in June) and general vacationers – but on the road to Rocky Point… AZ tags mostly, almost exclusively.  And billboards?  Well, if you've ever driven through Ajo or the very lovely Lukeville (a runner-up in the 'Land that God Forgot' contest), you would know that mildly entertaining, conversation sparking billboards are only a road warrior's pipe dream and nothing more – not a one to be found. Truly, those folks on 95 are not fully appreciating the 60 or so miles on either side of the famed 'South of the Border' roadside rest-stop and travel attraction extraordinaire.  Ah, once again, I've digressed. 

 

It's not just TV, either.  Things are just different now.  Again, from my childhood, I remember a little radio that we kept in our kitchen – tuned, always, to WABC.  Was it still only AM?  I can't remember.  I do remember FM broadcasting being a new thing at one time, though, so maybe… 

 

Today, my niece and nephew carry Ipods, those dainty, little devices the size of a large domino, which can store 10,000 or so of your favorite songs.  Have I mentioned they're both under 10?  Honestly, these kids know more songs from the 70s than even I do.  Back then, when these songs were newly gracing the airwaves, I was busy decorating my bicycle (yes, I had a very cool banana seat) with musical eighth note decals distributed by 7-11 for WABC (I suppose, now, in retrospect, that it must have been in honor of the FM launch) and riding all over the neighborhood. 

 

While I enjoyed WABC's free stickers, my sister enjoyed the music the station actually played – singing constantly into her pseudo-microphone (aka, hairbrush) – so she knows all the tunes; and thanks to modern day gadgets like Rock Band, so do my niece and nephew.  I'll tell you what; the three of them together could probably do just as good a rendition of "My Sharona" as The Knack themselves – I am not kidding.

 

Now, I'm not sure this is what he meant, but Bob Dylan was certainly right when he croaked, the times they are a changin'.  But you know, even though some things do change, some things will always remain constant – like childish bickering and fighting, for example. 

 

When you're young, it seems sibling infighting is a fundamental part of the natural process one must go through on the road to maturity.  I often try and mediate when Liv and G go at it – after all, I have a lot of experience in this department.

 

My brother and I had, on several occasions, been sent to our separate rooms – like boxers to their respective corners – for extended cooling off periods of time. 

 

We'd been on road trips where the backseat was delineated in half, by a pillow that, out of nowhere, was gripped, grabbed and slammed down by, really, what must have been an elastic arm, from our father, who, while behind the wheel, threatened to, "drive right off the goddamned road, so help him… if we didn't stop fighting, shut our mouths and settle down."  I can remember how my brother and I would glance at each other – without really moving our heads – out of the corners of our eyes, giving each other the look that said, "Wow, what's up with him?"  See, kids just don't get it.

 

Maybe it was our Irish descent that had us fighting all the time – I don't know.  Do all siblings fight?  I didn't fight with my sister; we're four years apart though – maybe that has something to do with it.  My niece and nephew fight, just as surely as my brother and I did.  It's kind of funny now, but Tim and I don't really remember actually fighting all that much; but we do remember getting in trouble for it quite a bit so… 

 

I remember this one time, in particular; it's a classic.  'Deer in the headlights' would hardly describe the look on my face when I was caught by my father, who had come home from work early one day, to find me, post-fight, smearing a banana down my brother's locked bedroom door (I don't know why).  He was nearly apoplectic when asking me if I lost my mind; and since it was a rhetorical question, he didn't wait for me to respond before reminding me – in his loudest voice – that that was his house, his door and… his goddamn banana!  (Sidenote: I do not have any entitlement issues today.  Thanks, Dad). 

 

This was a different father from the road trip father (remember, I have two) and yet, a very similar reaction – what's up with that?  I guess it was us – me and my brother – we're the common denominator.  We fought right up until the time he went away to college.  I like to think that college matured him.  He was always the antagonizing instigator, after all; but, of course, that's just what I say.   

 

When Liv and Griffin go at it, fighting over what to watch on TV – or whatever, declaring their disdain for one another, I always remind them that one day they may find themselves packing up their lives, like I did, and moving 2400 miles across the country just to be near the other.  As their disgusted facial expressions shout, "Oh, please," I just smile back and ask, "So, who wants to play the Grocery Game?" and without waiting for a response, I say, "I'll start.  I went to the store and bought apples…" 

 

Keeping them engaged, and making memories. 

 

Erin Go Bragh!

 - M

 

 

Ode to the Peak

Okay, ode is probably not the correct word; commentary is more like it – but what kind of title is Commentary to the Peak?  First of all, if that were the title, it would have to be Commentary about the Peak – which is really what this is; but since that's hollow and lacking in sentiment, I'm using the word ode: Ode to the Peak. 

 

'The Peak,' of course, is Pinnacle Peak: mountain home to my hiking exercise trail. 

 

As I intimated a few posts ago, I have, once again, begun to hike in the morning.  We're in triple digits now so the afternoon hikes are just out of the question for me.  No, from now until some time in November, I'll be on that hill before roosters wake farmers, before six – or more to the point – before our sizzling fireball rises up, high in the sky, pushing morning temps beyond the 80s.  Can you imagine 89 degrees at 6:00am?  It's not that now; now it's around 78 – which makes the morning hikes feel like heaven on earth.  It's as we creep toward summer that dawn temperatures will be around 89, but keep in mind, when daily highs are anywhere from 108 to 115, a good 20 to 25 degree swing cooler is actually pretty pleasant.

 

Anyway, it's always great getting back into the morning routine.  It's like a reunion of sorts up there – I've seen all the regulars again.  There's DL with the red back pack and his posse of hiking compadres.  This is one serious group of retirement age hikers who seem to be more committed to hiking than, say, Admiral Byrd.  Pinnacle Peak must be their home base for regular exercise, but through overhead conversations, I know they hike all over the Valley.  They've hiked the Grand Canyon.  Why, many have hiked Machu Picchu – I wouldn't be a bit surprised if one or two of them have scaled Kilimanjaro.

 

In addition to this group, there are also the independent hikers, like me, who share this early rising, communing with nature, appreciation for the great outdoors.  There's Tim the Fireman, Ray the Contractor, Mr. Incredible, the Banker and the Anchor.  These last two are obviously friends – I rarely see one up there without the other.  I think their job descriptions alone could be parlayed into a sitcom: The Banker and the Anchor – two men, one conservative by nature, the other dynamically daring; come enjoy this revisionist version of a modern day odd couple as they comedically travel through the conundrums of life's ups and downs – this fall on CBS.  No?  Okay…

 

And there are others – Teddy Bear, Panama Patty, Safeway guy, Walgreens Lady and, of course, Speed Racer.  Speed Racer is the fastest hiker I've seen – I'm sure you've already ascertained that by the nickname I've given her.  She speed walks that trail as if jet propelled by a rocket up her you-know-what.  I move at a decent clip and she passes me like I'm standing still – not that she ever acknowledges my presence, by the way.  There's never an excuse me, pardon me, or on your left, and there's certainly no thank you when I step aside, clearing the path, giving her a wide berth.  Some people are just like that, I guess – not me.

 

I sometimes feel like I'm up there personally spearheading the Congeniality Committee (I may have mentioned this before).  I'm smiling, I'm waving, I'm saying, Good morning, How ya doin? or sometimes just, Hey – but the Hey is almost always accompanied by the smiling chin-bob.  There are those that respond and those that ignore.  Yeah, ignore.  I don't understand it, really.  I'm not trying to enroll anybody in network marketing, or have them join a pyramid scheme; I'm simply saying 'good morning.'  Oh, what nerve, huh?  Whatever… honestly, I've been hiking up there for so long now that I've sort of gotten used to that unfriendly, closed-off, antisocial behavior that it hardly even fazes me anymore. 

 

What does faze me, though, is the sometimes lack of social decorum that's exhibited up there.  I find that a lot of men think nothing of openly spitting, at any time, anywhere on the trail – not giving any regard to the fact that there are other hikers RIGHT THERE!  Don't get me wrong, I've actually hocked a loogie or two in my day, but I've done it discreetly, making sure no one was nearby.  Spitting is, after all, voluntary – it's not like vomiting.  We have control of if, and when, we let the phlegm-balls fly.

 

One day, I had a man no more than six feet behind me doing his absolute best to bring up a lung.  I cannot even begin to describe the repulsive, guttural, throat-clearing sounds this man was making.  All I can tell you is I was having one heck of a time controlling my overly sensitive gag reflex each time he was successful in forcefully expelling one of these hard-won muculent globs.  Wondering if any of his sputal spray was actually getting on my back, I eventually gave a half-hearted turn and said, "Sir, please," to which he responded, "What? I have to."  Have to?  Honestly, if he really had to perhaps he shouldn't have been out hiking.  Have to?  Didn't we just determine that spitting is voluntary?  Have to?  I don't think so.  I managed to subdue an overwhelming urge to vomit and ran off – I actually ran – thinking, "Well, here's hoping he won't have to poo a little further down the path." 

 

That man not withstanding, I love that hike.  It always reminds me of life – there are parts that are difficult and challenging on the way up that are easier on the way down.  There are people you meet along the way that are friendly, and those who are not.  To me, life is like that – tough at times, easier at others.  Sometimes, a lot of times, I think, it's the tough times that we experience that make the future times more manageable – we learn, we grow, we develop character from the tough times.  No pain, no gain as the saying goes. And, some people we encounter along the way will be friendly and make our walk more enjoyable, others not so much – but, these folks are there also (they will always be there) and we need to deal with it.  If that means running ahead before you're spit on, then so be it.  It's all part of the journey! 

 

On the run…

 - M

You lookin' at me? Uh, no.

I can remember how waves of panic would instantly flow through me on a Saturday when, as a teen, my dad would unexpectedly announce an immediate trip to Rickel Home Center.  Rickel did not enjoy the same popularity that, say, Lowe's or Home Depot currently does, but it certainly was a forerunner for those mega home improvement centers of today. 

 

In today's times, one may run into any number of known associates, friends or neighbors when strolling up and down the aisles of these local do-it-yourself behemoths.  Back in the day, it was generally just the Mr. Fix-its – those who held a subscription to Popular Mechanics and the like – that frequented a store such as Rickel.  

 

The departure announcement to Rickel was like a death knell to me – I did not like going to that store.  See, being of the female persuasion (warning: gender stereotype coming up), I cannot relate to, nor understand, how someone can take 15 minutes (an eternity to a kid) to make a decision between one bolt or another, between one type of putty or another, between one gasket or another.  As a teenage girl, a quarter of an hour is too long a time to spend pacing the O-Ring aisle while expressing disinterest with dramatic repetitive sighing. 

 

The only thing that could have made those trips more unbearable would have been to run into someone I knew, someone from school – or worse, a boy from school.  And although that generally did not happen, there was one occasion, however, when it did.  Being caught in such an uncool place as Rickel was bad enough, but to be there unshowered, without make-up, with greasy Farrah Fawcett wings, killing time near the toilets and be seen by John Murphy (my future prom date) well, that's truly the stuff nightmares are made of.  Oh, the horror.  

 

Now, it's completely possible an experience like that could mold a person's future behavior.  One could become an early riser, for example, up by dawn, showered and dressed, ready for anything – at any time.  Or, perhaps just the opposite could occur.  One might come away from such an experience giving up any regard for all personal appearances whatsoever.  For me, it didn't really have either of those effects.  I was unchanged – hence the aforementioned waves of panic caused by these impromptu trips to the store. 

 

But see, as we get older, we know when we're going out; and as an adult, we're generally put together in such a way that's deemed appropriate for public appearance.  We don't go out in our PJs, for example – no matter how comfy or 'lounge-wear' like they may be – we just don't do it.  But does that mean hair and make-up are always perfect?  Not for me, it doesn't. 

 

One day, as I was getting out of my car at the Post Office, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror and actually said to myself, out loud, "It'd be nice if I cared just a little bit more about my appearance."  Then, closing the door and seeing my image again in the car window, I added, "Or… at all."  See, for me, time management always trumps vanity.  I went in and out of the PO unnoticed. 

 

Most times, I think it's like that.  People just really aren't looking at us the way we think they are.  Don't believe me?  Did you ever run into a previously bearded man after he just shaved?  When seen for the first time, most people don't realize that the beard is gone.  All they know is something is different.  New shirt?  Hair cut?  What is it? 

 

I, myself, had – keyword there, had – very long hair.  It fell to well below my mid back.  In fact, when pulled in front of me, it covered both boobs like Pocahontas with her braids undone.  It became a nuisance at that length and I had six inches cut off.  Six inches – that's half a foot.  NO ONE noticed. 

 

Speaking of boobs, a woman I know just had an augmentation – that's very popular out here.  Hers was tastefully done; a lift with some fullness restoration – the right size for her frame.  She told me that no one really noticed – no one said a word.  I actually think if it's done right you shouldn't notice.  Let's be real, it shouldn't look like balloons are pushing up your clavicles.  Maybe some people did notice, but were just being polite.  Perhaps some just felt too awkward casually saying, "Hey, nice boob job."  I don't know.

 

I even read an article about this kind of thing once.  A group of people were sent in to different social environments wearing Barry Manilow concert T-shirts.  Most of the participants were initially horrified when shown what they'd be wearing and had reservations about even continuing with the experiment.  Poor Barry, how did that ever happen to him?  That's not the point, but it was the point behind the experiment – sort of.  The end result was that the majority of people surveyed, when asked to describe what the 'test subjects' were wearing had no idea.  The closest anyone got was a concert T-shirt of some sort.   

 

See, people just aren't paying any attention to us.  Let's face it; unless you're a bride walking down the aisle, all eyes are not on you.  Isn't that liberating?  It is to me. 

 

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to twist my hair up into a clip and head out to Lowe's.

 

Just being me…

 - M

Wild Wild West

I've recently come to have a whole new appreciation for when Dorothy Gale first found herself in Oz, apprehensively saying to her little dog, "Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore."  The land she was in, although familiar, was completely unlike the surroundings in which she grew up.  I can relate to that.

 

Anyone who's read my book, The Ones That Got Away – A Dating Memoir, knows that I grew up in New Jersey.  I spent 39 years there before I packed myself up and headed west; and although I vacationed in sunny AZ several times before my move, it does seem different, somehow, now that I live here.  I've noticed things.

 

One difference I noticed right away had to do with the wildlife.  Back home, for instance, when driving around, my conditioning was to be on alert for deer that may, at any time, haphazardly run out on the highways.  Within my first few weeks here, I found myself swerving to avoid a mountain lion that was gracefully flying across the road – a mountain lion! 

 

Similarly, at twilight in New Jersey, it is not uncommon to see bats gliding through the air.  Now, don't get me wrong, we have bats out here, but we also have many other winged creatures that like to come out and play in the night.  Again, just shortly after my arrival in the desert, one early evening, an owl with a six foot wing span just about overtook my windshield nearly giving me a coronary behind the wheel. 

 

Moreover, back on the eastern seaboard, raccoons can be found freely roaming about, scavenging – or, if they meet with an unfortunate fate, you'll find them puffed up and bloated with postmortem gas lying on the side of the road.  I've never seen a raccoon here.  We have other scavenging critters.  We have javelinas – savage, wiry-haired, tusked animals that resemble wild boar.  This past fall, my courtyard became a place of gluttonous revelry as a family of these destructive animals trashed my yard – twice!  Like a crazed Mr. McGregor I chased them away screaming and waving my arms like a lunatic.  (I now have chicken wire across my gate – it's pretty.  Not.)  These, too, are sometimes found puffed up on the side of the road, but not often – you see we have many other creatures out here that wouldn't pass up such a feast.  Nothing lasts too long on the side of our roads. 

 

And, speaking of roads, there are even major differences with them.  As I drove around the Garden State, I often found myself on roads like Ocean Avenue, or the Parkway – not to mention the myriad of ubiquitous Main Streets that crop up in every other town.  Out here it's quite another story.  Here you'll find Dynamite Boulevard, Bloody Basin Road and Stagecoach Pass just to name a few; plus we have a multitude of Mountain Roads: Red Mountain, Black Mountain, Lone Mountain, Daisy Mountain, Carefree Mountain, Carefree Highway ♪ ♪ ♪…  Sorry.  You can see what I'm getting at though, can't you?

 

It's different out here – and it's wild.  Why, even when I hike, I never know what I may encounter.  I've had bobcats and coyotes run in front of me up on the hill.  I've had diamondbacks cut short some hikes as I've been forced to turn around just to avoid crossing their path.  And, I was stung in the face once by a bee.  Someone had asked me if it was an Africanized bee.  I told them I really didn't know.  What I did know was it was a pissed off bee – that I was able to say with certainty.  As we get closer to May the bees will begin to swarm.  This is the impetus that will get me hiking in the morning again.

 

Ah, the morning hikes – one as to be alert in the early morning.  Many of the nocturnal animals are still roaming around and only beginning to retire for the day.  I keep an ear out when hiking, especially in the morning – I like to be sure that the steps I hear creeping up behind me are created by sneaker-clad feet and not paws. 

 

There is one gait, however – that although not typical, is not completely uncommon – which always seems to get me.  This one goes something like tcsh-tcsh-tp, tchs-tcsh-tp.  At first it perplexes me.  Can I be hearing that right?  Hard to tell with the deafening sound of my heart beating within my inner ear.  My adrenaline begins to rise as the sound gains on me: tcsh-tcsh-tp, tcsh-tcsh-tp.  Stay cool, I think – those are not paws.  Tcsh-tcsh-tp, tcsh-tcsh-tp – or, are they?  Just then a smiley, ruddy-faced geriatric with a dowager's hump and a walking stick scooches past me saying, "On your left, dear."  At least I think that's what she's saying – hard to tell, what with my cacophonous pulse raging in my ears.  I move to the right allowing her to pass. 

 

I tell you what; some of that older population is in really great shape.  We're a very outdoorsy community, people are active – we're on the move.  I can't help but wonder if I'll still be able to hike when I'm white-haired, hunched over and calcium deprived.  I guess I'll just have to wait and see…

 

As my heartbeat continues to pound and a slight tingling sensation overtakes my hands, I think to myself, "Damn you, butter," and it's then that I notice the three buzzards circling overhead.  "Hmph, what are they doing," I wonder – hopeful they've spotted a partially eaten, disemboweled carcass and that they're not waiting on me. 

 

See, that's another big difference between the east coast and here.  Back there, I'd stroll on the boardwalk where the biggest avian danger was getting pooped on or having a seagull take food from my hand.  Here, I climb mountains where turkey vultures await the possibility of a clogged-artery-induced collapse so they can peck my eyes out.  See what I mean?  It's wild; but don't get me wrong – the Wild West is the best!

 

Not in Kansas,

 - M

Resurrection Sunday

Riding in to town like a king

Oh, the joy that comes with spring

 

Silently enduring bogus trials

Oh, to see the children's smiles

 

A nail for each hand, and one shared by his feet

Oh, the fun of an egg hunt cannot be beat

 

"Forgive them," he asks, "they know not what they do."

Who is he talking about – them, me or you?

 

"It is finished," he cried, just before dying

Oh, the thrill of Easter egg dying

 

His body was placed in a tomb, not a casket

Oh, grab hold of those bunnies and fill up that basket

 

Prophecies fulfilled, three days later he rose

Oh, the parades, fancy bonnets and bows

 

Why do we celebrate Easter this way –

Nesting sugary treats on fake beds of hay?

 

It's the resurrection of Jesus – have no doubt

That's what Easter is truly about

 

Happy Easter!

 - M