On a Happier Note...

It's Big Mar's 88th birthday today!

88 years old. Holy Crap! I can't imagine being 88. Hell, I can't imaging being 80 or 70 even.

She wears it well. Sure she's slowed down and can't get around as well without a cane or an arm to hold onto, but her mind is sharp as a tack. She still does crosswords, reads voraciously and plays cards with her BFFs. And she still is the best cook in the family. It's nothing for her to whip up dinner for 10 or 14 or 22. She never sweats it. Even holidays with the entire brood and an assortment of strays, she never freaks. She loves the chaos.

Amazing.

Growing up all of our friends used to come hang at our house. They loved her as much as we did. She was like everyones Mom only better because she always had fresh bread baking or some other wonderful culinary treat cooking on the stove. Don't get me wrong. She wasn't shy about disciplining us or our friends if we needed it. But she always did it fairly. Then it'd over and she'd feed us cake.

Our house was the family party house. Any relatives from out of town would always stay with us..as crowded and inelegant as it was. She and my Dad made if fun for them. She's still one of the most cheerful, fun-loving old ladies I know. I like to think we all got our positive disposition and sense of humor from her.

She's smart enough that had she been born in these times, she could have been anything she wanted to be. A lawyer. A doctor. An executive. But she was born in an era when not many had the opportunity to go to college. She became a wife and mother instead. And I'm thankful for that. I wouldn't want anyone else to be my Mom. She is the best. Elegant and smart, quick to laugh and loves unconditionally. And boy does she love kids. Here's a photo of her whooping it up with my nephew Mike who is a complete carbon copy of my brother, Bud. (Her little baby boy. Her favorite, by the way. Oh yeah. Don't deny it Big Mar.)

She wants to live to be 95. I hope it's longer...much longer.

So here's to you, Big Mar. Happy 88th. May you always find humor in the mundane, laughter in the little things and be surrounded by those who love and cherish you.

Salut!

Calling All Cocktails

or here we go again...

Okay, so today has been one of those off days.

First of all, I had an extra steel drum practice this morning, and I could not have stunk up the place any more. Like a huge turd. A ginormous, garlic-laden Chinese take out, beer loaf fueled, noxious gas cloud accompanied turd. With a capital "T".

You'd think I never heard these songs before. We're supposed to perform for some big-time charity event in a couple weeks. Pffft! Yeah. Like that's not going to be too humiliating. And no, you're not invited unless you have really, REALLY deep pockets to donate thousands and are, you know, deaf. Then you can sit in the front row.

Moving on...

Part two of my "off" off day involved a trip to the hospital for a three-years-running follow-up ultrasound of my petite decolletage. After waiting for over half an hour (thank God they had wifi so my iTouch could keep me company) I was ushered into a badly lit room and handed a lovely cloth gown. Ladies, you know the one I'm talking about...it has the repetitive little diamond pattern on it much like your Pappy's boxers from the 50s. Mmmmm... Dead sexy.

This thing has almost as many random ties as Medusa has snakes for hair. Seriously. I don't know what my problem is, but I can never seem to front tie the damn thing closed. There's always a gap through which some such embarrassing girlie bit peeks. Hellooo, Sailor! Why bother covering up anyway, right? I'm just gonna have to whip out my fun bags for some stranger to wrangle. Thank God it's a chick and not some burly, furry Sasquatch Dude with a nicotine stained red beard and missing bottom teeth who doesn't wear boxers or briefs. Eeeewww!

"Hi. I'm Pam. Now lay back and let's whip that bad-boy out so I can squeeze about three inches of this ice-cold gel on your girls and press this flat DE-vice clear down to your gizzard over and over and over and over..."

Good times.

After thirty fun-filled minutes of awkward chit chat and even more awkward silences, the tech scurries out of the room to consult the doc. Turns out there are two cysts they want to do a TFA or PFA or DDT or BFD or WTF...whatever the Hell it's called. It's a fine needle aspiration of the fluid contained in the aforementioned offending cysts.

Shit.

It's not necessarily bad. It's probably nothing, much like the last time. And it certainly could be far worse. Like big-time worse. Like festering death hidden in the hollows of my innards, worse. I have two dear friends who are dealing with the Big Bad Wolf of cancers, so I should quit whining, right? Right. But still...

Shit.

I hate being a statistic.

See, now if I'd only been a big ole hootchie and got knocked up way back when, I probably wouldn't be facing this crap. But, Nooooooooooo. I had to be a good girl.

Anywho, I was fine...until I called Geo. Then the tears just started flowing. Absolutely ridonkulous with a capital DONK. I mean, really. I'm not dying of cancer. It's nothing, but you know, that's how girls are. Well, that's how THIS girl is. The first familiar voice and WHOOSH! Waterworks.

So you know what I did? I bought two Reese's Peanut Butter Pumpkin bars and ate both of them. Then I washed them down with the tallest fucking Mojito I could concoct. Because sometimes in life the only pacifier is cocktails and chocolate.

Time to turn that frown upside down. *ice cubes tinkling* Ready for a refill.