clueless in carolina

Saturday, July 11, 2009

Fun With Fones

Gordon Gekko-Wall Street (1985) First cell phone I ever saw

What did we all DO before cell phones? We suffered, that's what. Yes, I tell you kids, we SUFFERED. SILENTLY. See, it was silently because we weren't talking into cell phones.....get it? Now go and ROFLOL, kthxlvyabye. lvyaspecial, Ms. Jane!

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Now I've never had any problems with my Iphone, none at all. Except if you count the fact that I feel like a bought a jet plane when a tricycle could have done just as well, given my limited intellectual abilities. I still haven't managed to make it play tunes through my aux hookup in the car. (Madeleine tried to show me but I haven't had any luck yet).

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I still want to use the GPS and have the Iphone gently guide me to a fabulous restraurant, but then again during the summer slump in our pay we can't afford them anyway. So, one day, dear Iphone, I promise to let you show me the way to someplace where you eat without using paper napkins, 'kay? OKAY WE HAVE A DEAL.

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However, a friend of mine named Carrie has had some problems with a number that previously belonged to a, um, ahem, well, um, sort of, shall I say, ahem, ACTIVE PERSON. His name will be changed to Cody to protect the innocent.

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She wrote about it recently on a list I'm on and I nearly sprayed the screen and I thought, "You know what? I bet you that I could talk her into doing my job for me." (It's flashes of genius that make me such a superb, albeit lazy blogger). And I bet my readers wouldn't mind one lil' ol' bit. So I asked, and here you go.

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Thank you Carrie! Feel free to write some more hilarious posts that I can "borrow"!!

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Y'all have to be patient with me 'cause I have a virulent bronchial infection that caused the doctor to mutter (under his breath but I still have most of my own teeh and a modicum of hearing ability left) "omigawd." The rattle coming from my lungs and my tubucular-like hacking made him lunge (AAAHAHAHA!!!) for his prescription pad and confine me to the house to 10 days. Lucky I still have my sense of humor, no?

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No?

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Hmmph. Of course I enjoy hanging around the hacienda, but now that I've been told that I HAVE to, I long to escape. That's called human nature, I guess.

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I'm going to turn the microphone over to Ms. Carrie right now. Many of you know her in the China adoption community. I only know her on the net, but I can't wait to meet her one day, and I will. She makes me look sweet and passive (adjectives that haven't been applied to me since the first time I howled for a bottle).

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Carrie begins:

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I bought a new phone 2 yrs ago and got a new number (I really don't use my phone much) and TO THIS DAY I am still getting text and calls for the guy that had the number before me.

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After I bought the phone I then complained vehemently to Lousy Phone Company (LPC) because I pay by the minute and my minutes were being used up. They said they could give me a new number but by then I had already given it to the school, daycare, etc. and all the managers that work with me had it programmed in their phones so I didn't want to go through switching it AGAIN when I had just done so.
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It seems that dear Mr. Cody was *quite* the playa' and all the hoochies had his number. And all the bill collectors. You would not believe the phone calls I have received and the texts I get. And I just got a text 2 days ago that is for him. (remember, I have had this number now for 2 years). (My note: Cody, Cody, Cody! Just think of the opportunities for social intercourse with your cohorts that you are missing by not correcting your number)

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Once I got a call telling me his contacts were in. I explained the situation to the girl who called and she says "Oh that's strange, he just ordered these last week." I swear to God, this was a year after I had this number - he was still giving out his old number to the contact lenses place?? What the.....??

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I told her to give him the message that all his bill collectors and various hoochies were calling me and the girl cracked up laughing and said if she was working when he came for the pick-up, she would deliver the message. I also told her to GET THE $$ FIRST!!

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You see how unselfish Ms. Carrie is? In the midst of her personal telephone crisis, she still has time to think of others. I call that saintly behavior. Yep. SAINTLY.

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I have learned several valuable lessons.

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1. They obviously don't let numbers go dormant for very long in the XXX area code.

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2. Bill collectors won't believe you when you say you are not Cody and still try to collect Cody's debts from you even when you have an obviously female voice.

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3. Bill collectors will hang up really fast if you call them a really filthy name. (My note: Another friend would immediately let his voice drop to a Barry Gordonish whisper and ask them if they were wearing frilly little panties. Both men and women)

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4. Hoochies generally will not phone before 11 am. (My note: Well, their jobs do require a great deal of nighttime activity, Carrie. Have a heart, girlfriend!)

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5. Hoochies don't know how to reprogram their phones. (My note: This should be a topic covered in Hoochie Boot Camp, fer sure)

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6. Hoochies do not believe you when you state you've never met Cody and no, you don't have his new number and accuse you of stealing his phone or, gag me, 'tryin to steal my man'. (My note: Carrie is Married With Children, and these days her idea of an exciting evening is knitting a really great sweater. I feel certain that Carrie is not trolling for booty calls. May I suggest that you program Loretta Lynn's immortal song "You Ain't Woman Enough To Take My Man" into your answering message, Carrie?)

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7. Hoochies have hearing difficulties and leave messages for Cody - even when the voicemail says "Hi this is Carrie, not Cody. He doesn't have this number anymore."

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8. Drunk dialing is a great hoochie pasttime. (My note: At least you can't get a STD from it!)

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9. Hoochies think - after calling YOU and waking you in the middle of the night and you answer the phone with WHAT!!?! - that they have the right to get all indignant. (My note: Once again, a topic that should be covered during the " Pretty Woman manners and ladylike behavior" week at Hoochie Boot Camp)

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1o. Hoochies are not amused when you say "Oh yes, Cody said you were okay enough for a booty call" and using many colorful swear words tell you what they plan to do to you and Mr. Cody the next time you cross paths. (My note: let us hope this phone does not have a GPS on it)

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11. If you want to irritate a hoochie, call her back at 8 am. She'll be sleeping. (My note: See No. 4)

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12. If you really want to irritate a hoochie, program her phone number into the fax machine at work and have it try to send her a fax at 7:30 am. Be sure to select "continue redial until successful."

13. Hoochies believe that cursing at a fax machine will make it stop. It doesn't. (My note: How interesting! Sometimes it works with my computer, I knoweth not why)

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14. Engineers tilt their little heads just like my dog does and look confused at the sound of Hoochie cursing emanating from the fax machine. (My note: they don't curse a lot at MIT, I guess, unless they get a B+ grade)

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15. Project managers and marketing people laugh and shoot coffee from their noses. (My note: obviously, they are men and women of the world)

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Poor Carrie! Will she ever be able to stop this ceaseless intrusion into her life and cell phone minutes? Will Cody ever find Twue Love and actually notify his Hoochie Harem? Did Cody get his contacts? Inquiring minds want to know.

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Stay tuned.

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By the way, my next blog post is entitled and once again, to quote Dave Barry, I am not making this up : "I once spoke with the alleged sperm donor in the Michael Jackson case, oh and one of my efriends have her zits squeezed by the one & only Debbie Rowe. Hey, tabloids! I'll spill all for the right cash settlement!"

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

Going Green, Going Nuts

Dear Credit Card Companies,

Thank you for all the suggestions to "go green" and receive only email statements. I really appreciate this. While you're busy jacking interest rates through the roof, sending letters with type the size of one molecule that announce the latest exorbitant fee increase for any late payments, changing the date payments are due, reminding us that if we bank online and the payment doesn't make it to your doorstep by that special day then we'll owe you another $30.00 or so on top of the interest rates you charge, it's comforting and touching to know that you have a minute or so in your busy lives (cough) to worry about the environment.

I'll have you know, Credit Card Companies, that I'm NO SPRING CHICKEN--I'm sure you've figured that out when you see 1959 in the DOB column--yep--right after the Civil War, or was it WWII? I can't remember. Obviously, my memory is not what it used to be.

But I digress. I've been a fervent environmentalist ever since I saw this tear jerking movie in 1970 or so called "Say Goodbye" which implied that by the time I was, well, NO SPRING CHICKEN that the planet would consist of arid deserts devoid of ways to support life.

And I am doing the best I can. How about the fact that I drive a small 2006 Nissan Sentra to work WITHOUT TURNING ON THE AIR CONDITIONER? True, that has something to do with the fact that I can't afford to pay for the gas it would take to use it, and I can tolerate extremely high temperatures without swooning. Believe it or not kids, but Gram here remembers a day when middle class families had ONE tv and ONE window air conditioner in the family room. At night, windows were opened and fans turned on.

We have also stopped using the dryer this summer, put in new energy efficient windows last year, and were forced to install a new H/A unit two years ago when our old one died a horrid death on the hottest day of the year. (Be sure to read my touching obituary entitled "Requiem For An Air Conditioner") Ah, I shall remember that certain Friday night at 10:20 PM when the old unit gave a last pathetic gurgle and died forever....I am trying to go green, so that I might keep some green in my wallet.

My point? You're asking me what the point of this entry is? Well, that is an excellent question and I shall answer you. You see, I had a credit card with Citibank and patriotically agreed to get only email statements. Then we had a most unfortunate series of events with the old folks in our happy little nuclear family. Everybody got sick and I got distracted. Then I *had* to have an Iphone. So that meant changing phone companies. Then I had to get a new email. And so on and so forth, and what happened was that I forgot to notify Citibank of the change in our email address.

You did get my attention with the urgent overnight letter, and I called you, apologized for the mixup, and asked what my balance was so that I could pay it off. I then asked how much of that balance was fines. $120.00. That's right. ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY DOLLARS. Citibank, I understand that the years and years that I have paid my bill on time, in full, and faithfully mean nothing to you, and that THE RULES prevent you from reducing it any further than $60.00, but I still think that SIXTY DOLLARS is a lot of money for one honest mistake. And I made a mistake. Indeed I did. I accept responsibility for it. But still--sixty dollars???

Believe it or not, I idiotically accidentally clicked on another company's fervent request to receive "handy and easy electronic statements!" I got my first email from them the other day and clicked on the link provided. It led me to another company that I had to sign up with in order to pay my bill online. NO THANK YOU. I immediately called them and requested that they switch us back to paper statements STAT.

Let's face it. While it is quite possible for snail mail to go astray, it's also even more possible that a glitch somewhere in a circuit board might result in an email not reaching you, innocent consumer. I sincerely recommend that you request paper statements from your credit card companies.

Frankly, I am sincerely concerned about the amount of paper I receive and may I make a suggestion on how to cut down on some of it?

STOP SENDING ME CREDIT CARD OFFERS EVERY FREAKING DAY URGING ME TO TAKE OUT ANOTHER CARD AND RUN UP SOME MORE DEBT.

It's just a thought.

Smooches!

Lorrie

Update 4:52 PM...I binged "citibank ceo" and found a phone number that connected me with their corporate office, and the nice person I talked to removed all fines and charges. Yowsa! Thanks, Citibank, you rock!!! But your front line staff still told me they "couldn't" remove any more than they did, and when I asked to speak to someone higher up, they "couldn't do that" either.

Update 8:26 PM.....And...our governor Mark Sanford is a total idiot, and once again South Carolina is the laughingstock of the country thanks to his moronic behavior. Somewhere in the handbook called "Governor For Dummies" it MUST say "Don't be the only governor in the country to reject a much needed stimulus package" and it also must say somewhere "Don't disappear for days and then show back up and confess that you journeyed to Argentina for an assignation on Father's Day Weekend." I just know it!!!

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

And Her Thighs Quivered With Unbridled Lust

My parents made some terrible mistakes raising me, all of which I intend to reveal in my upcoming biography "MY PARENTS WERE CRAZY."

But they did one thing right.

They taught be to be bored by porn.

Now I realize that might need explaining.

I really, truly, seriously doubt if my parents gave a second thought to what books I was reading. Not that I was going to bookstands and requesting a copy of Playgirl or anything. But if I spotted a book at a yard sale for five cents, it was happily purchased for me.

I've always read well ahead of my years. In fact, when I was in 2nd grade I pitched a fit because a school librarian refused to let me check out a tome on Shakespeare. I was such a pretentious little snot that I already had the idea that someday I would write a book about myself, and I thought this would be a charming story that would impress my audience with my o-ver-whel-ming brill-i-ance.

The librarian--and as Dave Barry said, I am not making this up, refused to let me check out a Shakespeare play but instead directed me to a book -- "Ben and Me" by Robert Lawson that I enjoyed so much that I regularly migrate to the children's section of the library to read it again. And if I'm ever shipwrecked on a deserted island I'll certainly choose a collection of Robert Lawson books over the entire set of Shakespeare's tomes.

By the time I was Madeleine's age (11 in September!) , I had amassed an impressive collection of "soft" (no pun intended) pornographic novels. At least they described, in vivid detail, um, the, um, you know, thing you, um, do when two people, um, love each other very much--and very often. But they did have a story line.

My two favorites were "Valley of the Dolls" and "The Godfather" which I had to get rid of for two reasons: 1. They were falling apart and 2. If you picked them up, the pages automatically opened to the scene with Anne and Lyon (Valley) and the scene with Sonny and the bridesmaid (Godfather)

Anyway, I read all that stuff, and I turned out perfectly all right. A paragon of morality. My first kiss didn't happen until I was nineteen. (Being a rather dorky looking kid didn't have anything to do with that, of course)

And sure, I read a lot of silly romance novels by Danielle Steel, Nora Roberts, Catherine Coulter, etc. But you know what? When someone starts trembling with lust, I skip to the page where the killer gets revealed or someone gets a diamond ring or a plane ticket to Paris or into a fight with her pawnbroker, or something.

I am perfectly confident in my ability to raise my small doppelganger Madeleine. (See? I also amassed an impressive vocabulary). Saintly little Meredith? I have to rely on her father to figure her out. I just don't get a kid who is practically perfect. I mean, if she chopped down a cherry tree, she'd totally confess. Madeleine would blame it on a gang of roving cherry tree choppers who were protesting against going green.

So I let Madeleine read whatever she wants--within reason, of course. She was heavily into Seventeen when she was nine. She enjoys the articles. Really, she only reads it for the articles.

Then, for some unfathomable reason, I started getting free copies of Cosmopolitan delivered to my home. I picked it up with interest. I enjoyed Cosmopolitan very much when I was a young(er) woman. Back in the good old days, Cosmo was filled with interesting stories and profiles by some world famous writers. Helen Gurley Brown was famously cheap, but she hired some excellent writers. And articles were as long as four or five pages and covered topics outside the bedroom. Today....

OH. MY. FREAKING. GAWD.

No. Just...NO.

I'm far from being a prude, and I hang with people of candor and great wit, and not all of their jokes and emails are G rated....but honestly, they need to change the name of that magazine to Brain-Dead Slutmopolitan. The articles all sound as if they were written (and I use the term "written" very generously) by Paris Hilton. They are usually one page long and contain explicit descriptions of about fourteen sexual acts on that page. I can honestly state that there is no SOCIALLY REDEEMING VALUE to the articles unless you enjoy reading about makeup, shoes, clothes, that thing that people who love each other do, or a list of current movies. I mean, unless you really crave knowing about the nicknames that the various young starlets have, or what they consider to be the best part of their body.

I have called the magazine TWICE to ask them to STOP sending me copies. And they still...ah....come. (No pun intended) What do I do with them? I suppose I could save them and take them to my gynocologist's waiting room, which is filled with boring magazines like "Rich People's Houses" but if I hide them where Madeleine can't find them, I won't be able to remember where I hid them.

help!

Thursday, June 04, 2009

The Muse Strikes

September, 1962-Lorrie and Caroline

ADOPTION RAP

So we're adopted-ok, big deal
Lotta people tellin' us what we oughta feel
Why doncha keep your big mouth shut
And quit talkin' oucha butt
Everybody sayin' we're all messed in the head
I guess you'd rather us be dead

October, 1966-Lorrie and Caroline

Some days I'm sad, some days happy
I know this is rap but I'm gonna get sappy
Love my family so, so much
Always there with their lovin' touch
Father Knows Best, Donna Reed Show
My childhood was like that doncha know

Easter, 1985

So now we got two kids of our own

Thank you China for your generous loan
God looked down and made a match
One kid's my clone I coulda hatched

Madeleine Margaret Chen

The other one acts just like her dad
They're so sweet don't know how to be bad

Meredith Grace Li-Pei

I respect your feelings I swear it's true
Once I felt exactly like you...

but I got something I need to say
To the lady who shoots the IVF
I hope those drugs don't cause your death *
You just gotta have onna "your own"
You don't have the bling, just get a loan.

You dismiss adoption as an elective
They "need a good home" but you're scared they're defective
Different color, different eyes don't groove

Scared your family might not approve
Funny thing 'bout that perfect kid, boo
You could give birth to one with problems too

So you say why'd you go to China

You coulda adopted from South Carolina
We tried and I bet you'll never guess
Biracial? AA? We said YES!
The Man looked at us and said HECK NO
So that's why we had to go
Half the way around the world
To get our gorgeous fabulous girls...

Don't wanna be hatin' on people who employ
another path--I wish you all joy
Just remember if you have to have "your own"
One day you might be all alone.

*Gilda Radner, Liz Tilberis, me-fertility treatment, OC. In my case, fertility treatment has made me into a semi invalid due to a long and complicated serious of painful and expensive problems. A link? I believe so. copyright Lorrie, all rights reserved

adoption
adoption + international
china + adoption
infertility

Friday, May 29, 2009

As Told To....Holy Communion

Hi. I'm Madeleine. One more week of school, and I'll be a rising 6th grader. Nice to meet you.

This is my mom, Lorrie. She pretty much runs things around here.

Don't tell Daddy I said that.

Here she is again. Don't tell her, but she's sucking in her stomach as hard as she can, the gold jewelry cost $1.00 and her shirt cost $1.00. She got it at a consignment store. Plus she gets her hair done at Walmart. When I get big, I plan to be REALLY classy. Easy--I'll just ask mom where do stuck up people go who don't "know how to manage money and be thrifty" and then I'll go to where the stuck up people go.

ANYWAY, she made Daddy drive Meredith and me to stupid religion classes every Wednesday night for a whole YEAR so we could be baptized and receive Holy Communion as young Catholics. Then the women asked Daddy to be a substitute teacher a lot, so he got to teach 6th graders. Daddy's a real sucker. Don't tell him I said that either. He was raised Catholic, and we wanted to also 'cause all our cousins who live in Columbia are, and they're really cool. I mean like Alex, Kody, Kendall, and Logan rock.

Mom refuses to change from the Episcopal Church. She says when priests can be women and marry and when the Church blesses gay marriages, she'll reconsider her position. She says she took holy vows when she was confirmed Episcopalian, and that is that. Personally, I just think she's too lazy to go to religious school. Funny how she always picked that night to "work late."

I'd rather go swimming...note my newly pierced ears! Woot!

And Meredith would rather go swimming....

Or just chill and play with our puppy Callie....

But we have to do what adults tell us to. Totally bites.

So the first thing we had to do was get all dressed up. This is a picture from my Holy Communion in 2007.

And so is this one.

So naturally we had to go through the whole thing again with Mom screaming, "SMILE!" and Daddy screaming "We'll be LATE!"

I'm having so much fun I can hardly stand it.

Then we were off to church....

I gave Meredith some advice on how to fake looking all holy and good and stuff like that.

I think I did a good job, don't you?

Once I got Meredith all indoctrinated, I grabbed Mom's Iphone and started texting my friends. Mom is very understanding, I'll have to say. She says church is boring unless the priest has an interesting sermon or a good hymn she can sing. She sings horribly, but it's good and loud.

Finally it was over with and time for pictures.

Meredith shot this picture of Mom and Dad. Mom wore proper shoes in church, but brought her flip flops to change into afterwards.

More pictures...

Here we are with Daddy and his parents.

Meredith got some cool gifts, but nobody gave ME anything, so I ignored everybody and decided to text again.

And then we all went home and Meredith fell asleep early. It was a long day!

THE END.

holy communion
catholic

Monday, May 25, 2009

Alzheimer's

Started on Monday.....

It's a quiet day at the office. There is no traffic on the roads. I expect to drive home very fast tonight.

Right now I'm enjoying a minute of solitude in my office. No frantic clients are beating down the door, no students are begging to register, it's just me and Corky (the name inexplicably given to my laptop computer my Meredith). And I have a minute to breathe and talk about Alzheimer's.

As most of you know, my mother has Alzheimer's. "She's dying of Alzheimer's," I used to say. Now I look at her and wonder fearfully if she will live. She would not want to be alive with her brain destroyed. She grew up on a farm where they still chopped heads off chickens and was potty trained in an outhouse. (They got indoor plumbing when she was four). She and Dad were fiercely determined not to live assisted by machinery. Fortunately she has ironclad documents that will allow us to forgo them when the time comes. Fortunately my sister and I are in complete agreement about that.

She sits in a wheelchair now, eyes blank. They light up when we come into the room. I noticed that her room had dying flowers the last trip, so for Mother's Day I was seized with an inspiration. During all the ballet recitals we had attended, I noticed kids being presented with flower bouquets. Too cheap to buy new ones that were ignored by the kids, I went to the dollar store and bought a gaudy bunch of red carnations and a pretty bunch of pink roses. I grabbed the pink roses to take to Mom for Mother's Day. They really are pretty and you would have to look carefully to see that they are

fake.

Finished today...

Inherited? I'm adopted, and glad to be so. Let's go back to the olden days. My maternal grandmother, Mary, was born in 1888. In 1953, she was a farm wife. Her husband keeled over from a heart attack one day. She kept the farm going with the help of her youngest two sons for several years, then the land was divided into plots and both sons began other careers. My grandfather had asked-no-demanded--that his children pursue careers that were safer than farming.

In 1955 Mary into a small trailer to make her housekeeping duties easier. Somewhere in there she lost her sight from untreated glaucoma, and most of her memory. She kept going until about 1967 when her mind began to fail and the siblings decided to ship her around so each one had his turn at taking care of her. She was very sweet and vague. I couldn't carry on a real conversation with her. She would just sort of smile.

Naturally, being a know it all teenage snot, I informed my parents that Gram probably had Alzheimer's. I refused to think that it could be inherited lalalalalalalala fingers in ears I can't hear you. It became a lot more obvious when Mom's oldest sister was definintely diagnosed with Alzheimer's.

Here's what they don't tell you about Alzheimer's. The net makes it sound like you start out not being able to remember things, etc., and then eventually you lose the ability to function, and you go a nursing home, and eventually you die, as we all do eventually. Sounds like a gentle walk into the night--or down a strange street if you escape from your house in later stages without being caught.

Here's what they DON'T tell you. The worst thing about Alzheimer's may surprise you. It devastates me to see mom staring blankly into space most of the time but the worst part is over.

You see, in 2002 or so Mom's whole personality changed. I do not know if my aunt or grandmother's experienced this, or to what degree. They lived in different places, at another time. But she became a raging, needy bitch. There really is no tactful way to put it. She became nothing but a voice on the phone, whining and demanding. The kids were used to hearing me scream "if that's mom don't answer it!" because her conversation consisted of

1. Her bowel movements
2. Her "low down" feeling--like a drag in the pelvic reason. Why? She had that for 30 years and nobody ever figured out why.
3. Drop what you are doing right now and bring me a hamburger/change the oil in my car/ drive me to the doctor/ run an errand. Of course we didn't mind helping her out at all. The tone of her voice changed from asking nicely to demanding, though, and everything needed to be done this exact second.
4. How unhappy and miserable she was.

My sister and I begged her to take antidepresants. Her doctor gave her a prescription and she took one and decided it didn't "agree with her." I actually considering mashing up the pills and putting them in her milk.

The night that stands out in my head began with a dream party in 2004. A Saturday night in the summer. You know the party where everything is going right? You look good. Your dh looks good. Your hilarious, intelligent friends are at the top of their game. The food and drinks were ambrosial. And it was well worth the 50 mile drive to their place in the country.

The girls were 6 and 4 and behaved like angels. We relaxed in the light of a thousand Christmas tree type lights strung on trees surrounding the huge outdoor eating area.

At 9:30 my cell rang. To this day I wonder why I picked it up. It was mom ordering us to leave the party right this minute and drive her to urgent care for some non emergency condition. I don't remember what; the evening is a merciful blur at that point. I told her we just could not do that. If she was ill, call an ambulance. Call a friend to take her. In desperation I offered to pay for a taxi. No. She wanted us, and she wanted us NOW.

I said no. She did not go to urgent care and the next morning she was just fine.

I carried the guilt around for years, and the party fun was of course ended with that phone call for me. Now I feel even worse knowing it was the disease talking and not my fan-frickin-tastic mom.

I guess the lesson is that if an older person suddenly morphs into an alien being you ought to be looking for nursing homes.

I keep going around saying, "Well at least she is not in any physical pain," but one tiny, hideously selfish part of me wants her to have a disease with pain (just a little bit, controlled by drugs) and have her mind intact. But you can't bargain with the Deity. You play the cards you get.

I say this and yet the mental distress the poor woman suffered was immense and went on for years. Already afflicted with both agoraphobia (fear of leaving home) and hypochondria (I have never once in my life heard mom say she feels great), the disease fed off of these the way gasoline feeds off of a fire. The result was such sadness, and such depression.

So...I'm wondering if this is the last Mother's Day that I'll ever spend with Mom.

We took the girls and they played the violin for Mom.

Mom enjoyed it.

And I hugged her and told her goodbye and that I loved her and that she was the best mom ever. Here's the deal: I have some mild hearing loss. Had it since birth. Could never hear the secrets little girls whispered in my ear. I just looked at them and smiled or frowned, depending on the look on their faces.

Roger said that he heard mom reply, "I love you too, Lorrie."

I missed it.

I hope I will hear it the next time.

If there is one.

Alzheimer's
Alzheimer
Alzheimer's disease

Sunday, May 17, 2009

old memories return to haunt me

Spring fever means wondering about the road not taken. But I slap myself silly sometimes and remember this quote.

Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not.

But remember that what you have now was once among the things you only hoped for.

*********************

**********************

More later, I promise...

Monday, May 11, 2009

I'M A PUBLISHED AUTHOR!!!!!

Hi!

Yeah I know....you parents know, and if you haven't had the pleasure of procreating or adopting, let me clue you in. Springtime is where you gas up the car, buy the fancy dresses, recharge the batteries on the camera, and transport the darling to various ceremonies while you choke back the tears and count the years. (Look at what a genius I am--I just composed another poem!)

But hey, I'm on a roll! Let's go:

A POEM

Grading papers

Going to court

Holy Communion

Muffins For Moms

Parent-Teacher Conferences

Filling out forms

Violin recitals

Busy

By: Lorrie (all rights reserved)

And by the way, I'm in a BOOK!!!!!

Here it is!!

Here's the link: http://www.dillonadopt.com/Store.htm

Friday, April 17, 2009

What's A Homosexual?

My parents believed in total frankness. They were generations ahead of their time. I asked Mom this question when I was about 10 and she said, "Let's look it up in the dictionary." So we did. It said that homosexuals were people who preferred to have sex with people of the same sex.

"But Mom...what do they, um, DO?"

"I don't know."

We're talking about the same woman who earned a master's degree in Public Health from the University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill and didn't understand why she was being asked to evaluate saliva samples from prostitutes for the Florida State Board of Health.

We had several closeted gay members of our family and it Just Was Not Discussed until I attained the age of teenagerhood where I felt the need to enlighten the moronic adults of the facts of life. Everybody just shrugged and say, well, maybe they are, but it's none of our business.

A few minutes ago:

Madeleine: Can I watch anything I want on YouTube?

Me: As long as it doesn't have a lot of nasty cussing.

Madeleine: Whew! I was just watching two lesbians kissing.

Me: Okay.

Madeleine: Why do people do stuff like that?

Me: When I was kid and as a grown up, I wanted to hug and kiss and marry a boy. Some people want to hug and kiss and marry boys, some want to hug and kiss and marry girls. It doesn't have a thing to do with them being bad people. Don't ever let anybody tell you anything different!!!

And people should be allowed to marry anybody they want, but they can't in this stupid state. But if a boy wants to marry a boy, he should, and if a girl wants to marry a girl, she should be able to. Remember I showed you my friends -- a family with two girls who are married and have kids? And you know your uncle is gay.

Madeleine: Yeah, and he's really cool. Man does he give us great presents.

And off she goes.

Saturday, April 04, 2009

He Lives In You

On Tuesday night, we attended a "Get To Know You" orientation at the new middle school that Madeleine will attend in the fall.

The place looked familiar. And for good reason. For the school opened its doors in the fall of 1970 and a surly, ponytailed child with glasses the size of Coke bottles, buck teeth and saddle oxfords entered the doors as a 6th grader.

Me.

Things have changed since 1970. It's ONLY for 6th graders. I like that. 6th grade is the year that children are transformed into tweenagers, and I like the idea that there won't be 7th and 8th grade boys around checking out the new crop.

The classes are now single gender. Again, two thumbs up!! Madeleine is not pleased, but I told her the boyz weren't behind barbed wire--she'll still see them at lunch and recess.

Also, the place has been redecorated and looks like a cruise ship. They offer so many electives and fun courses (tennis, anyone?) that I half expected them to announce free massages after recess. They're trying to pull in the prep school crowd--the crowd that has attended expensive private schools. Math and English have three levels. The top level of math primes students to start studying Algebra in the 7th grade. I couldn't have been more pleased about the last two years in public schools, and if this school is 1/2 as cool as it looks, I think I'll be just as pleased. Madeleine will go into Strings II automatically since she's already had 2 years of lessons. The spring field trip is to ORLANDO. I think we got to go to the state house once.

I was, naturally, awash in a wave of nostalgia. I showed the girls the brick column I ran into because I was so busy talking to some of the Popular Crowd that I wasn't watching where I was going. They were...unimpressed. The fact that Mom attended this school impressed them about as much as if I had said that Abraham Lincoln had attended this school. We are now the Ancients, of course. Relegated to wallet emptying and taxi services.

But in this transitory society of ours, I think that one day Madeleine will tell a friend that she started 6th grade at the school her Mom attended with pride.

As the Lion King says, "He Lives In You." Long after I have departed this earth, I hope that I have descendants alive who might tell a story I told, use a measuring cup that I used (I snagged mom's, who got it from her mom. It's tin). They might remember a favorite song that I liked. Daddy's song was "Fever" by Peggy Lee and Mom's song was "These Dreams" by Heart. I'll make sure the girls know this. Who knows, maybe they'll read this blog once I have it made into a book. I have mom's diary that she kept when I was an infant and it means the world to me. Maybe they'll listen to the Beatles since it was their dad's favorite band.

Mom's time on earth is slowly drawing to a close, but my parents live in me. They taught me how to laugh (I've often said you could film a sitcom simply by aiming a camera at our dinner table). They taught me to take hard blows simply because I watched. They never said We Told You So. They let us learn our own lessons.

I hope this doesn't sound unbearably cheesy. But sitting there in the cafeteria at my old middle school, I felt proud that I was able to pass on a family tradition. I could feel my ancestors around me, lifting me up as I go through my own crucible of fire. I vowed to pass their lessons and stories on to the next generation and add some of my own and I'm sure Roger has his own stories to tell.

He Lives In You.

Sunday, March 29, 2009

Lesson Learned

Madeleine got the rejection letter this week.

She failed to get into the Sooper Genyus Art Camp. "Competition was fierce," read the letter. "More than 500 kids auditioned for 50 positions. We wish you the very best in all of your future endeavors."

She took it well. She had to play a piece, do simple exercises with the violin, and answer questions posed to her by three strangers.

She made a mistake on her piece and they cut her off in midstream. I told her to play a simple piece perfectly, not try a piece she didn't know by heart and screw it up, but we hired a private tutor for her and he talked her into a piece that I fear was beyond her abilities unless she had practiced it far more diligently than she did. She took First Chair at the school orchestra without practicing--she plays with the USC orchestra on Thursday nights without practicing--why practice?

She also had to answer questions and she is terribly, terribly shy. This is not me. At that age I could have engaged three adults in a conversation without breaking a sweat. I was born without a shy bone in my body. When I'm "on stage" I come alive. I am great at standing up in court and arguing for my client or teaching a class. Being an actress never interested me though. I took Acting 101 in college just out of curiosity and realized that there were bad actresses--and then there was me. I still remember playing Emily from Our Town in a sketch and realizing that if you could rate acting talent in negative numbers, I'd be a winner.

Lesson learned--maybe? Takes more than talent, it takes WORK.

Brilliant children are showered with praise, encouragement, awards, doting teachers etc. ....and they never have to lift a finger. Madeleine can read an assignment once and make 100 on a test the next day. Study? What is that? She missed a few questions in 3rd grade, when the tests started to get more intense, and explained that she had "short-term memory loss." I nodded my head sympathetically and suggested that this terrible disease could be cured by studying. It didn't take. She hardly sat down during the awards program that year--Best Speller, Best Overall Third Grade Student, Best Behaved, yawn. The year before her school had stopped spelling bees since Madeleine won them every time and the other kids gave up trying.

Meredith brings home Best Behaved, Most Compassionate, etc. awards (they don't start grading them till 3rd grade in the public school) and Madeleine brings home countless Honor Student awards. Our refrigerator is covered with them.

HOW can you explain to a child like this that getting ahead in life requires WORK?

This might have done it. Maybe.

I haven't said anything. I haven't said "Told you so," although it took heroic control to keep my yap shut. As she advances into 6th grade next year, more failures lie ahead. And this is one lesson that she is going to have to learn the hard way.

Friday, February 27, 2009

The Dragon Grins

I try not to dwell on the fact that I have a painful disease called Fibromyalgia that will never be cured, just "managed." But sometimes I feel sad and hopeless. I started this blog in 2005. I read over my old entries and think how funny I used to be. I try not to dwell on it, but sometimes I think how easy it would be to just slip away from this life. But I can't and I won't. I signed a contract with China and God to raise my children and walk into the sunset with my man and I plan to honor my promises.

Anyway, I can't wait sometimes to see how it all turns out and I'm thankful that I have a management program (guai) that will someday tame the beast that lives in my body.

But there's a poem written by Ray White that sums up what fibro will do to you. I'd like to share it with you. Remember, sometimes I look great to the outside world, but I'm loaded up with pain pills and muscle relaxants, trying to get through another day with the beast.

THE DRAGON GRINS

The doctor explains to me that I have a Dragon that has come to possess me. This Dragon is mean. This Dragon is deceiving and destructive. "But" the doctor says, "We can work at keeping this Dragon down."

"What is this Dragon's name?" I ask.

The doctor in his professional calmness says "The Dragon is FMS." The doctor explains to me ways we are going to keep him down. "Feed the Dragon some meds like Trazodone or Elavil. Do some light exercise, maybe the Dragon will get tired and leave you alone for a while."

I turn to leave and for the first time I see this Dragon. He looks at me with those evil yellow eyes,

and the Dragon grins.

I say to myself that Dragons can be slain. I read that in stories at school. The armor clad knight slaying the Dragon and triumphantly returning to town.

As I am in this daydream the Dragon jumps on me. I wrestle with him. His hot breath sears my head. His roar makes my ears ring. He leaves me in a pile of flesh on the ground. I ache all over. Some parts of my body are painful to touch. I am exhausted as I pick myself back up again. The Dragon looks back to me --

and the Dragon grins.

"I hate you Dragon." I scream as he walks away. I feed the Dragon the medication prescribed. Slowly at first, then increasing a little as time goes by. I do begin a little exercise. I change some of my diet and increase the carbohydrates. I am starting to feel better. Wow! I can go back to work now. With joy I move about relatively pain free. And I say to myself, "Maybe I have beat this Dragon. Maybe the Dragon was only my imagination. I was just a little depressed and down, but now life is great."

I look to the sky and see dark clouds looming. A cold North wind starts to blow. I hear a thunderous pounding of footsteps. I have heard that sound watching Jurassic park, but I'm not watching the movie. Boom..... Boom... Boom... I don't see anything. Boom...Boom... I panic and start to run. I don't know where to run, but I just run. The pounding gets closer and louder. I feel breath on my neck. I dare not turn around as I try to run faster...faster. A claw grabs my shoulder. Searing hot pain rips down my back. I stumble and get back up. This time something trips me and I roll to my back, staring upward. Terror runs through my body.

The Dragon has returned! "You can't escape" the Dragon yells, "YOU ARE MINE!!" I try to get up as the Dragon slams my body back to the ground. I can hardly stand the pain as he tortures me by stomping my hands. With his teeth he pulls at muscles in my back and legs. He burns my head with intense fiery breath. The battle is finally over. He stares at my crumpled body as I try to get focused on this beast. My eyes finally clear enough to see,

and the Dragon grins.

Days pass. My fingers no longer work like they used to. My muscles feel like the second day of Olympic training, but the sensation does not leave. My head is not clear. I do not see well at night. Parts of me are cold and clammy. I am stiff. Why did the Dragon beat me so hard? When I try to sleep, the Dragon slaps me awake several times at night. Sometimes I am freezing. In bed I awake drenched in sweat. It hurts to stand. It hurts to sit. My mind says one thing and my mouth says another.

And the Dragon grins.

Sometimes I think I am in a nightmare and will just someday wake up, the real me. I don't look sick, so why do I feel so bad. Friends and family laugh when I mess up on my words talking to them. I feel stupid looking in the refrigerator and not knowing why or walking around in circles either not finding what I was after or forgetting what I was looking for.

If I am driving at night and it starts to rain, the road disappears. And it is not uncommon to go somewhere and then make wrong turns coming back. My mind said turn right, but my body said left. I can go somewhere and not remember how I got there. I am not dumb, just not "connected" anymore.
Outwardly I laugh and play, but inside I have to cry sometimes.

And the Dragon grins.
fibromyalgia
fibro
fibro pain

Saturday, February 14, 2009

Christmas With The Machete Hanging Over My Head Part I

Hey, what better time to chronicle Christmas than on Valentine's Day? Watch for the Valentine's Day post on Easter. Actually, I'll sum up V-Day around here. Zippo. We don't believe in spending zillions of dollars on a holiday manufactured by Hallmark yada yada.

Our love is so beautiful, fabulous, perfect, wonderful, eternal, timeless that we don't need anything else. Around here it's "Yo! Roger! Do (insert tiresome, boring, devilishly hard chore) here! Every kiss begins with 'Kay!

I'll stop here while you empty your stomach contents.

Well, so the *&*& fool didn't go to the dentist for 3 years and I made him an appointment and then he started going back regularly (because of his terror of me finding out he had stopped again and since *I* had him add Super Dental it's free anyway except for the monthly dental insurance premiums but I digress) And a wonderful dentist found a tiny little sore that turned out to be the beginning of oral cancer which would have probably killed him in 2 years if it had not been detected and I found all this out on December 22, 2008.

December 22 I was calm.
December 23 I was calm
December 24 I woke up and remembered:

1. It was Christmas Eve
2. This was the season of festive joy
3. I had fibromyalgia
4. Mom's dying a slow and agonizing death from Alzheimer's
5. My mom's pastor was celebrating Holy Communion at her nursing home and
6. I was supposed to attend and
7. My husband and mother both had diseases and
8. things looked bad.

And so I started crying and crying and crying and crying and crying and crying and crying and my sister called to see when I was arriving at the nursing home and I replied, "aaaaeeeeeGULPwaaaaaaahGULP" and instead of attending the communion I had Roger drive me to the local mental hospital. Where I very seriously considered checking in, except that it was Christmas Eve and I didn't want to ruin it For Da Chilluns plus I didn't know how much my insurance would cover and I figured I'd be even MORE depressed if I got a bill for $30,000 in a few months.

I spilled my guts to an intake counselor and asked for a shot of something or a pill to just let me slide gently through the next two days and got a hearty thumbs up and no drugs and a referral to a counselor. Which I ignored. Why am I depressed? I think I have it figured out. And now that Roger has an "all clear" from his oncology oral surgeon I am not terribly depressed. I'm not HAPPY HAPPY JOLLY JOLLY but one day the ordeal with Mom will be over, my fibro will be controlled, and I'll be really happy again. In fact, I have good days.

So we did Christmas Eve and I felt...happy. And when I saw the looks on the kids faces when they saw Razor Scooters and Rock Band 2 for Wii under the tree I felt...happy. And when they asked me to sing "Eye Of The Tiger" I felt...ecstatic. Nobody has EVER asked me to sing before, considering that I would definitely appear on "Worst Of American Idol" auditions if I ever tried out.

And now, after hearing "Eye Of The Tiger" 432 times, I'm...not so happy with that song anymore. Even though Survivor is one of my favorite bands ever. In fact, I chose the lyrics from "The Search Is Over" to announce Madeleine's adoption

and the lyrics from "High On You" to announce Meredith's adoption.

Yes, I do realize that the songs are about adult romances, but the lyrics applied so well to the love we feel for our daughters and the miracle of finding them literally on the other side of the world, I changed them in my mind to songs about our beautiful daughters. It's funny, but Meredith DOES have "piercing eyes....like a raven."