Some days, it doesn’t matter how many times I reassure myself that all will be well. A kind word from a friend can start the flow of tears. I’m always grateful to tap those tears because when life hands out lemons, I usually let my brain take over, sending my emotions to a tropical location where I drink lemonade and avoid the feelings. Checking my calendar for a full moon also helps. A full moon over Miami takes me back in time to the beaches and sunshine of my former life. Tears on a snowy, cold day are particularly welcome!
I believe God is plenty mad over politics as usual between our two political parties as election day nears. The Lord tried sending a message by hurtling a hurricane toward Tampa just before the Republican convention. No luck. Even God’s attempt at humor – you knew Angry Birds was conceived to give voters opportunities to defuse their frustrations, right? – had no effect. Next, an epic storm fueled by Hurricane Sandy pounded the east coast. What’s next? I fully expect Debbie Wasserman Schultz and Reince Priebus to duke it out, if only to decide whose name is harder to pronounce.
Debate worries, mean-spirited ads and pundit overload have started affecting my appetite. The worst offender? Every time I see Joe Walsh with his mouth open wide, my interest in all things edible disappears. On my way to having my hair cut, I wound up driving behind an Accord with the license plate J Walsh. Seriously? The urge to swing into Wendy’s for a Frosty disappeared as I tailgated that car. No diet has ever worked this well. Maybe Walsh can become a Jenny Craig or Nutrasystem counselor post election. I know I lose my appetite when I look at him.
Dear Hair Follicles,
I know you have reason to hate me after a lifetime of abuse, but c’mon—cutting me off at the root is unfair, don’t you think? Sure I ironed, teased and colored my hair mercilessly, but give a girl a break. One of the reasons I worked hard to look good was so I could buy you the pricey hair products you demanded. I’m really, really sorry. Can I get a second chance? I promise to cherish and care for you always. Heck, I’d marry all of you if I thought it would restore my mop.
If my polling place is any indication of early voting activity in DuPage County, things are really jumping. I signed in, raced through my ballot and hit the parking lot where my Kerry-, Gore- and Obama-stickered car remained the lone symbol of Democratic power amid myriad versions of “Romney for President” bumper stickers. Even the road leading to my precinct was littered with Republican signs—including forests of Joe Walsh placards. No matter. I drove my car—resplendent in Democratic Party history and pride—past those cars with my head held high and my newest “I Voted Today” sticker on my chest.
I really liked the music selection blaring from my daughter’s car, but when my shouting didn’t bring a response from Caren, I knew the ugly truth: She butt dialed me. Again. Usually it’s my granddaughter Liz who butt dials me, but caller ID makes it easier to identify the person racing along at 50 MPH to the beat of Bruno Mars. Of course, I may join the club in the near future. I’m finally trading in the Paleolithic-age cell phone I’ve ignored since I got it around 7 years ago for one that’s slim, sleek—and ready for butt dialing.
If you’ve followed my mortgage saga this year, you know things are crazy, but at least my cats weren’t threatened. One family was told by a collection agency that the dog would be killed if she didn’t pay the mortgage company, so I’m feeling luckier than most as I await news from the Hardest Hit Fund. My housing counselor says I may know something by Thanksgiving—right about the time I hope to be debt free! This could be the best Thanksgiving of my life if the puzzle pieces fall into place, so pass the tofurky and the sweet potatoes!
Even the thought of purging possessions feels overwhelming, which is why I’d just as soon stay seated at the computer rather than tackle a closet. But when the mood strikes, I must drop everything I’m doing because it could be months before the urge returns. From boxes of old files to clothing I won’t wear again in this lifetime, everything’s fair game. It feels good to see the closet floor for the first time in years. The secret to success is getting everything out of here immediately. That’s why my car looks like someone’s living in it at the moment.
I have a horrific track record when it comes to holiday candy, which is why I don’t buy a single piece until late on Halloween day or midnight before Easter Sunday. Do Jewish kids get Easter baskets? You bet. But my kids found convenience store crap in theirs because the good stuff mysteriously relocated annually to an undisclosed location known only to Dick Cheney and my stomach. Ditto Halloween. My kids have forgiven me, but old habits die hard. If you’re looking for me on the 31st, I’ll be at the 7-11 around 4 p.m. disguised as an immature woman.
The Mayans are right: We’ll be spinning in space in a couple of months and I have a hunch why gravity would want to abandon Planet Earth: Too many crabby, out-of-sorts voters with nowhere to hide from the constant barrage of negative political ads. You think Earth can’t express its’ righteous anger? Au contraire. A record number of tornadoes, hurricanes and a drought that has seriously lowered Lake Michigan’s water levels are the proof. We have exactly 30 days from November 6th to December 21st to shape up before everyone will need a seat belt and tether. You’ve been warned.