Don't Panic. Published Work to Come...

If, after nosing through my page, you have decided to check out my published work, take heed. I need to attend to my ailing scanner (i.e, heave it out the window and buy a new one,) so that I can scan in my work. But first, I've got some more writing work to do that will bring additional big bucks into our household, so please be patient. I know you're dying to see all of the brilliance that I've contributed to the world and I promise that soon, all of your dreams in that direction will come true. (As you can see, after moving to Asheville, North Carolina, I have become just a wee more full of myself. It's not me - it's the mountain air.)

Purse Woes

A dear friend of mine needed a new purse – her old standard was looking ratty and more importantly, it was on the verge of being dreadfully out of fashion. After all, she’d been lugging it around for a good three or four weeks since buying it.

So she took her hippest friend with her to hunt for a new one and ended up with a faux cowhide number. Unfortunately, though, upon returning home after a hard day of shopping, she realized to her chagrin that her stuff didn’t fit into it. So, she was back to the store the next day to snag the larger version. And though it had somewhat less personality than its smaller counterpart, it contained all of her stuff. Even more importantly, as her very stylish friend informed her, big purses are in.

So, now she’s lugging around a purse that’s nearly as large as her 7-year-old son and she’s talking about visiting a chiropractor – her back is starting to ache.

Perhaps a visit to a therapist would be more in order, to find out why she’s lugging around everything from a three-pound jug of hand sanitizer to 16 pairs of designer sunglasses in an assortment of colors. Not to mention a wallet the size of a full-grown squirrel, with credit cards that, when placed end-to-end, would span the length of her favorite shopping mall.

But who am I to talk? I’ve got my own purse issues. I’m still carrying around that little jean purse I bought two years ago at Walmart (I was there getting the deal of a century on tie-dye supplies for my Girl Scout troop, when the purse caught my eye), but I dream of burning the dang thing in a blazing bonfire. I constantly have to forage around for my things inside the 114 or so pockets of my purse and therefore am subject to cursing in front of my impressionable children. Still, I refuse to buy a new one. Jean material goes with everything, after all. Who can beat that?

What’s worse is that I am also subject to hanging up purses on walls, as décor. So, although I may have loved that psychedelic hot pink and lime bargain bought at a nearby flea market, I can’t ever use it. After all, I can’t leave a gaping space in my wall arrangement.

And my kids will eventually learn those bad words anyway.

From Lithe & Limber Ballet Dancer to...Immobile

La, la, la, la, la…what a beautiful day it was last Tuesday. The sun was shining, and as I busily straightened the house, I thought: ‘How wonderful it is to be living in one of the most beautiful places on earth, and also, to still have all of my own teeth.’

I reached down to pick up a bottle of fabric cleaner off the rug, when CRACK – a shooting pain coursed through my body, rendering me in a ballet pose that looked much more graceful than it felt. One arm behind me in midair, the other towards the ground. My right leg raised up, with toes pointed to the ceiling.

I tipped over to rest my body, twisted, on the couch, and screamed. I hadn’t felt this kind of agony since the birthing of my progeny.

Several doses of muscle relaxer and pain killers later, (and, if I could have made my way over to the kitchen, vast quantities of hard liquor), I’m now back on my feet. My back still hurts, but at least I can move. What’s worse is a blistering 3rd degree burn on my back from the plastic heating pad (which lost its cloth cover when my urination attempts into a makeshift bedpan failed miserably (now I really DO need that fabric cleaner, and also, it’s a shame that we have to throw away a perfectly good cereal bowl.)

But, I can’t complain. People are bringing me things like chocolate and magazines, and I’m particularly enjoying the dates my friend, Lumpy, (who, in her infinite wisdom, guessed that I could probably use the fiber), brought me, along with her two cheery princesses.

But do you think I got any sympathy from my loved ones during my dark hours?

Son (on phone to telemarketer): My mommy broke her back. Now she can’t make me chocolate milk.

Daughter: Does this mean we can’t go on our vacation now? I’m going to go play on the computer.

Prince Charming, the Husband (who is forgiven, for he was the one who issued forth the blessed narcotics): I’m just going to cancel the whole trip (with a look of chagrin.) We probably can’t go now.

Parents (who are also forgiven because they took time out from their busy, post-retirement party schedule, to help out with the cold-hearted kids): You didn’t bend with your knees. Didn’t we teach you how to bend down properly?

Friend Lisa (who is forgiven, always, because she is perpetually entertaining in her mirth): Why on earth were you CLEANING?!