The Right Side Up

Tissue, Please

2005-05-25T15:31:00.000-05:00

What is the deal with the Chase credit card commercials? I have to say, they are truly giving Hallmark a run for their money. Either they have the best marketing firm around, or my hormones are further off the charts than I thought!

Who'da thunk it? A credit card commercial that makes me cry . . .

No Time for Nothin'

2005-05-25T15:22:00.000-05:00

Goodness, I haven't had the time to do anything with this blog in almost two weeks . . . been too busy with other things . . .

Anyway, things have finally settled down a bit, so hopefully I can get back to blogging more frequently.

The Treatment Advocacy Center

2005-05-14T09:24:00.000-05:00

Someone has recently posted an anonymous comment regarding my feelings about Dr. Torrey and The Treatment Advocacy Center. This person informed me that the Advocacy Center is not, in fact, funded by some of the larger pharmaceutical companies as I had stated in a previous post. All of my research indicates otherwise, however, I am always open to learning more on the subject . . . I'll have to check this out . . .

Believe it or not, for some time I actually supported Dr. Torrey and The Treatment Advocacy Center. His many accomplishments certainly can not be overlooked. It was not until I studied in depth his practices in two separate psychology classes in college that I learned the "other side" of him. I do still feel that he is a "Nazi psychiatrist."

If what I have learned and know of The Treatment Advocacy Center and the funding it receives is wrong, then I apologize ahead of time for any misleading information I may have posted. However, I will NOT apologize for my feelings regarding his unethical practices, of which I know to be true.

Thank you, Anonymous, for your comment. I am always open to further enlightenment . . .

The Old Man

2005-05-13T19:21:00.000-05:00

The old man,
withered and worn, skin like leather from too much sun,
with denim overalls that were a bit large,
making his strong, sturdy frame appear frail,
and he sat on the ground by a pine tree stump.

The old man
was quite pleased,
nodding every so often as if to say
I thought so, or
You don't say!

The young boy
sat before the old man talking earnestly,
for he was not so very small that he could not
weave tall tales, and the old man listened intently.

The old man
heard the story about the young boy
tackling a bear, but not just any old bear -
a one-eyed grizzly bear, mean as a skunk!

The old man
heard the story about the young boy
parachuting from a blazing airplane into the ocean -
full of two-ton sharks just waiting to gobble me up!

The old man
heard the story about the young boy
riding on the back of a man-eating rhino -
as fierce as that grizzly I tackled before!

The old man
was quite pleased,
nodding every so often as if to say
I thought so! or
You don't say!

The young boy
sat at his feet, and
it was then that he
loved the old man
the most.

A Lesson in History

2005-05-13T18:58:00.000-05:00

I try to be nice and forgiving of other people's ignorance, but sometimes I just get so irritated!

For the record -

Nixon was NOT impeached, he resigned.

Clinton WAS impeached. Yes, it's a fact.

This particular topic has bothered me for some time. People actually argue that Clinton was not impeached because he was not kicked out of office.

Jeez, open a book or a newspaper every once in a while . . .

Mother's Day

2005-05-12T11:01:00.000-05:00

Over the course of this week, I have been asked the same question repeatedly - Did you enjoy Mother's Day? The answer to that would have to be - yes and no. May 10th was the three year anniversary of my mother's death, so while I enjoyed others celebrating me as a mother, it is a very bittersweet occasion.

I have never spoken openly about my mother's death until now. Suicide is not exactly supper-talk, and let's face it - it's pretty damn painful. But today, in an unparalleled act of something I have yet to name, (insight? openness? forgiveness? too much coffee?) I have decided to let down my guard and speak.

There is a certain stigma, if you will, attached to my family now. We have been marked by suicide, and though I am not at all ashamed of my family or my mother's death, it has presented some problems. Case in point - my parents house sat for months with a for sale sign in front of it. In a small community talk is cheap and spreads like a wild fire. No one wanted to buy a house that someone had committed suicide in - until an out-of-town couple, knowing nothing of our family's history, decided they wanted it. When asked why he was selling, my father said that his wife had died of cancer, and he wanted to move closer to his grown children. Nearly a year later, the new owners contacted my father and threatened to take him to court for lying about what happened. They moved out soon after. The house has had several owners in the past three years and currently sits vacant. There is already talk of the house being "haunted."

Of course, this is just silly. Sometimes, when the mood strikes, my brothers, sister and I will take the nearly two hour trip to visit the old homeplace. When it's inhabited we are forced to simply drive by, but as it's usually vacant, we make our way up the long drive and back home. We walk around the property, all two acres of it, reminiscing of the good 'ole days - hot summers spent playing ball in the back yard, building a fortress under the front deck, swinging through the tops of the trees like Tarzan and Jane until our mother forced us back down, because it's too dangerous for yall to be up there so high!

These are the ties that bind. These are the memories that sustain us when the dark images of her death become too much to bear. But, I personally share a bond with my mother that my siblings do not. Between the Now and Then there is a common link - I share my mother's name and her suicidal scars. In her death I am able to open my eyes and see myself for the first time. I share her emotionally needy ways. I share her flare for drama. I share her ability to make a mountain out of a mole hill. I share her constant need for attention and approval. I share her ability to close off all those around me, especially those nearest and dearest to me. Sometimes I have to wonder if I, like her, will one day go insane.

Through it all, the one person who can shine a light on all my mother's good qualities is my son. He was so young when she died, all he ever knew of his gramma was her goodness and kindness. His favorite memory of her is how each and every time we went to her house, she would pat him on the head and say Hi, honey! For one so small, he could even then feel her love and her joy at seeing him. To this day he still keeps the rosary that she gave me on my First Communion dangling on a hook above his bed. He gets it down from time to time and sleeps with it, so that God and gramma can watch over me tonight. He is also prone to mention that gramma always had my favorite fruit snacks saved for me, and she never cared if we got dirty playing outside.

Yes, gramma was like that. She also never minded if my sister and I kept her up until the wee hours of the morning to talk about kids or men troubles. And she always had our favorite snack, too - chips and Coke.

The memories of my mother, both pleasant and painful, are so intertwined with each other that it is sometimes difficult to separate the two. Even her death, in and of itself, is viewed as both tragic and heroic.

My mother's illness was never diagnosed. Though she was in and out of the hospital several times during the last nine months of her life she was not sick long enough for the doctors to determine the cause of it. One day she just went insane - as if someone had simply flipped a switch in her brain. She became paranoid and fearful. She began hallucinating and hearing things the rest of us could not. She was convinced that "They" were out to get her, though she could never quite pinpoint just who "They" were. Through the entire duration of her illness, one constant theme stood out - They were going to "kill" her children unless she herself died.

Every book that was written, every news program that was aired, every phone call and letter sent to the house, every doctor she saw was in some way a means of communication for her and her alone. She came to believe that 9/11 was a warning just to her - They wanted her children and They were not going to stop until They got what They wanted. At about 5 a.m. on May 10th three years ago, my youngest brother, then seven, woke up very sick. He was vomiting and had a fever. To my mother, this was the beginning of Them taking her children, one by one. So she stood up. She did not give up, she stood up. She put a gun to her head and pulled the trigger.

In her warped, confused, mentally ill way of thinking, my mother gave the ultimate gift - she literally took her own life to save the lives of her children. Tragic, yes, but very heroic.

Mother's Day means so much more to me now. It is not only a day to honor all those little things that mothers do, but to remember what a mother's love is capable of doing. It is a day to sanction the true essence of motherhood - the gift of life and the power of love.

So, yes I enjoyed Mother's Day, if somewhat tearfully. And the gift I received from my husband and son, a large, comfortable porch swing, means more to me than either one of them will ever know. In some small way, this gift has given back to me a part of my mother. Somewhere in the great beyond my mother still sits, swinging lightly to and fro on her own porch swing and I sit right beside her, holding her hand, as I sway back and forth on this precious gift.

Just Another Day on the Job

2005-05-06T17:20:00.000-05:00

Today was payday , and I think I am underpaid . . .

It started out innocently enough - just a simple stree-free delivery job. No need to know anything about auto parts. Just pile a bunch of parts into my little s10 pickup, and off we go! Cruise around town all day, listen to the radio, maybe run through the drive-thru at McDonalds on occasion. Head back to the store, load up again and head back out.

Boy, was I wrong!

I did not initally know that part of my delivery route would be in Cujo-country. And I had no idea that I would end up delivering in the scary ghetto part of town. In the past year, I have:

- been broad-sided in a hit-and-run by a Ford Escort.
- been chased out of a garage by a very large german shepard.
- been stranded at the gas station with a full tank of gas and a bitchy cashier refusing to accept the company fuel card.
- been stranded at the gas station with NO gas and No key to the locking gas cap.
- been asked to run an unnamed drug to someone (I refused!).
- been backed and held into a corner by TWO german shepards (what the hell IS it with these dogs??!!)
- been asked to participate in an orgy (again, I refused!!)
- been hit by a flying serpentine belt because an angry customer didn't want to pay the bill.

Today, my boss told me that the cell phone and canister of mace I carry on each delivery are against company policy . . .

Yeah, okay. Whatever you say, pal. Go back into your office and finish your paperwork.

Yes, I think I AM a tad bit underpaid.

Blogger Widower

2005-05-05T14:27:00.000-05:00

That's right, I am a blogger widower.....married just less than a year and widowed by a blog !
Seriously, I am not really widowed by a blog but it sometimes feels that way since My Mary ( pet name ) started blogging.
And who do I have to thank for this ? The Ex Husband. Now I want to poke a little fun here and I don't think he will mind....at least I hope I read his sense of humor right or My Mary may be a widow instead of me being a widower !
My introduction to Mary's Ex was at first just as you might expect. When we met they had been split up for a while but had not yet reached that point where they were being exactly civil to one another. As a result, I heard all the horror stories , all the bad stuff from the past relationship and my opinion of him was one of disdain. Now , if you follow this blog at all, you must already know that My Mary and I have quite an age difference. To be exact, I will be 50 this year and she will be 28. You may have already read that I am going to have vasectomy reversal surgery soon so that I can provide my young wife with another baby which she so longs for.........but I digress....back to the Ex.
Being much older and of course by default wiser, I told my wife to be that her relationship with her Ex would certainly improve over time. I know from experience about these things after all. I told her that they MUST learn to get along for the sake of their own child , Hailey, who was about 4 years old then and now is eight going on eighteen.
In time, my theory proved correct and My Mary and her Ex started to let the past go in favor of a united future for their son. As time went on, I learned more about this Ex.

For example, I got to read some things he wrote regarding ready to assemble ( RTA ) furniture and I must admit that I began to laugh so hard it hurt. This guy is funny and maybe a little talented I thought.....
Later, as the years passed, and My Mary's son started school, the Ex came to town for the event and has since come to town for school plays etc. Impressive considering that he lives almost two hours away.....
At Christmas time one year he made a music video and again I was impressed. Bear in mind that I am only hitting the high spots here but suffice it to say over a period of about four years I came to know the Ex as a funny, articulate, very talented, intelligent, original guy. This all culminated one evening recently when he and his new wife joined us for dinner to discuss something related to their son. We had a great evening and my suspicions were confirmed, I actually liked this guy.
Now that may seem strange to some folks. But considering that my age and wisdom have served me well, I know that people are constantly changing and evolving and learning in life as I have and given that premise, whatever the reason for My Mary and her Ex splitting up, I am thankful that I have her now and that we all get along. I only have to look to my past to prove my point.

My Mary and My own Ex wife are actually friends. I can acnowledge the mistakes we both made in our marriage and learn from them and forgive myself and her for those mistakes and move on. We have a grown son that is a pure and utter joy to us both, and we pat ourselves on the back all the time and thank God for that minor miracle.

Anyway, My Mary's Ex introduced her to blogging and ever since, she has been busy as a bee typing and learning about how to link blogs, etc. I am secretly waiting to see if she can learn how to put pictures on the blog so I can show off my passion ( cars ) a little bit.

Do I feel widowed sometimes ? Yeah, a little . But if I am honest, I must admit to several things:

* Blogging gives my incredibly talented wife an outlet for writing. I think she should really pursue getting some stuff published. She is that good. I am one of the chosen who gets to read some things that others don't and I can tell you, she knows how to spin story.
* Blogging also provides an emotional outlet to vent everyday frustrations that we all share.
* If My Mary is glued to the computer, it means I can play in the shop !

Make no mistake, I know I work a lot of hours and I am gone a lot and I don't want blogging to become so addictive that it hurts our relationship but I think overall, the positive outweighs the negative. So, hopefully , the Ex will see that I think he is a pretty neat guy. We may not have much in common, our talents and interests are direct opposites, but I think he could hang out in my shop anytime he wanted..........

Now that my latest hot rod is finished, you may see more posts from me than before, I hope so, but I wanted to let My Mary know that she is "pattable" and I think she is very talented and wonderful !
Posted by that Old Guy she married - Keith

Marriage

2005-05-03T11:06:00.000-05:00

One of my all-time favorite poems by Ogden Nash -

I Do, I Will, I Have

How wise I am to have instructed the butler to instruct
the first footman to instruct the second footman to
instruct the doorman to order my carriage;

I am about to volunteer a definition of marriage.
Just as I know that there are two Hagens, Walter and
Copen,
I know that marriage is a legal and religious alliance
entered into by a man who can't sleep with the
window shut and a woman who can't sleep with the
window open.
Moreover, just as I am unsure of the difference between
flora and fauna and flotsam and jetsam,
I am quite sure that marriage is the alliance of two
people one of whom never remembers birthdays and
the other never forgetsam,

And he refuses to believe there is a leak in the water
pipe or the gas pipe and she is convinced she is
about to asphyxiate or drown,
And she says, Quick get up and get my hairbrushes off
the windowsill, it's raining in, and he replies, Oh
they're all right, it's only raining straight down.

That is why marriage is so much more interesting than
divorce,
Because it's the only known example of the happy
meeting of the immovable object and the irresistible
force.

So I hope husbands and wives will continue to debate
and combat over everything debatable and
combatable,
Because I believe a little incompatibility is the spice of
life, particularly if he has income and she is pattable.

Sound familiar, babe? Hee Hee!!
Love ya bunches!

? ? ? ?

2005-04-29T20:51:00.000-05:00

Okay, I'm certainly not trying to sound stuck up or like a little miss-know-it-all, but I have to ask -

Am I really the only one that actually "got" Citizen Kane???

I am truly the only person I know who likes that movie. Actually, I love it - it's one of my all time favorites.

Aside from the outstanding storyline, the cinematography and editing is brilliant - way ahead of its time, and to this day few movie makers can pull something off that's as good as Citizen Kane was.

So again I ask - Am I the only one who "got" Citizen Kane?? Are there others? If so, please come to my defense . . . I fear the way my family looks at me when I talk about this movie . . .

RANTINGS

2005-04-29T19:57:00.000-05:00

I hate looking for my favorite pair of jeans only to find that they are in the dirty clothes basket, along with the shirt I was planning to wear with them.

I can't stand it when I'm running late and need gas, only to find that the damn debit machine on the gas pump wont take my card, so I have to go inside to pay.

It really bothers me when I'm trying to comfortably doze on the sofa and he keeps talking and asking me questions and doesn't seem to understand why I sound a little grouchy.

I hate it when the dog keeps whining and scratching at the door and begging to go out, and after spending a good hour outside with nothing happening, he comes in and pees on the floor.

It really bothers me when I check my messages on the answering machine only to find ten different messages letting me know that he just left me ten different messages on my cell phone.

But what REALLY creases me is when some dumb ass comes into my store to buy a starter, and they don't even know what kind of car they drive.

I'll be honest - I am probably the LEAST mechanically inclined person in the world. I'm doing good to fill up the tank, and I don't even know how to put air in the tires. But, I DO know the year, make and model of my car.

Pointing to the parking lot and telling me "its the blue one" will not get you a starter.

Telling me that the car you need a battery for is not really yours, but actually belongs to your third cousin twice removed on your father's side is not going to get you a battery.

Telling me that there ISN'T a year, make and model for your 350 engine because it's simply an engine that's been sitting in your garage for the past ten years is not going to get you a transmission filter.

Telling me that you need the little round thing that screws into the bottom of a long block is not going to get you ANYTHING.

Telling me that you want to be waited on by a man because an auto parts store is no place for a woman WILL get you a size eight up your ass.

Basically, I'm not a mechanic, and I admit it. But, I am not paid to be a mechanic. I work in an auto parts RETAIL store - RETAIL being the key word. I get paid to pull your part off a shelf and ring it up.

I do not work in a garage.
I am not a toothless, greasy-headed, ten half-naked kids running around with Cujo in the back yard while I work in the garage with my redneck convict boyfriend type of woman, simply because I happen to be standing behind the counter in an auto parts store.

There - I got it off my chest . . .

Setting the Record Straight

2005-04-24T14:37:00.000-05:00

I have recently been told that many of my convictions are "conflicting" and that I don't seem to know where I stand on any given subject. Initially, I chose not to respond to these comments, considering their source - a Democratic liberal. But the more I thought about it, the more irritated I became, so here is an overview of my thoughts and feelings on several different topics.

Feminist or Not?
My refusal to change my last name to my husband's after we married does not make me a feminist. It has absolutely nothing to do with "asserting my individual rights and identity as a woman." I took my first husband's name and did not go back to my maiden name until shortly before I remarried. Keeping my own name was a very personal choice, having more to do with the death of my mother than anything else. I do plan on taking my husband's last name within the year, as I am very proud to be his wife and united under his family name.

My belief that all women be entitled to equal rights does not make me a feminist. Truth is - in this country women have more power and equality than ever before - we HAVE been liberated and empowered. We no longer need the Feminist Movement or the National Organization for Women (NOW). What was once a much-needed organization struggling to enable women to make their own choices and share the same rights with men has now become a rally campaigning anti-men and female victimization slogans. As women have risen up to embrace and happily accept what is rightly theirs, left-wing liberal feminists and the (much hated by me) National Organization for Women have gone above and beyond to perpetuate the myth that most women in this country are STILL victims to an unjust society favoring men, all the while diminishing the importance of men, both in the workforce and in the home. Yes, I firmly believe that all women are equal to men, but I refuse to affiliate myself with ANY organization and/or label that casts such a bad light on men and creates such a false reality of women.

To Drug or Not to Drug - That is the Question
Due to a recent post, several people now have the impression that I am anti-medication for all mentally ill individuals. This is false. I do understand the need for medication for those patients with illnesses so severe that they simply can not maintain a decent quality of life without it. I do acknowledge that there are MANY individuals out there with many different illnesses that greatly benefit from the medications that they take.

Having said that - I AM opposed to PASSING LAWS that would FORCE people to take mind-altering medications simply because they have some type of mental illness. I AM opposed to giving mentally ill children and depressed adolescents mind-altering drug when their brains will not even reach full capacity, physically and chemically, until they are in their early to mid twenties.

First - I do not see how it is constitutional or ethical to force medication onto a person that either doesn't need it or doesn't want it. California leads the nation in lobbying to pass such laws, and I can definitely see why - the pharmaceutical industry is a multi-billion dollar industry, and there is plenty of money to be had in research. California lobbyists and other organizations, such as the Treatment Advocacy Center, are supported and/or funded by some of the nation's leading pharmaceutical manufacturers and drug research facilities. Basically, a lot of people can make a lot of money by passing these "hostile treatment" laws. This, clearly, is wrong.

Second - Do you really want to give your child a medication that clearly states on the warning label - may cause hysteria, manic behavior and suicidal tendencies? This, to a child whose brain will not be fully developed for years! I think that speaks for itself . . . .

Support the War or Not?
Let's be honest - no one LIKES war. No one actually WANTS war. There are times, however, when it is necessary. Yes, I do support the war in Iraq, and I do support this country's fight against terrorism. The personal worries and fears that I have about two of my brothers fighting in this war do not detract from my support of it. I am simply a sister with two brothers in the war - so think about how you would feel were you in my shoes . . .

I hope I have cleared up some of the questions a few of you seem to have on exactly where I stand. If, after this, you still don't get it - oh well . . . what more can I say?

Tales of Catawba

2005-04-23T21:18:00.000-05:00

Last summer, because of my new job, I had to give up the volunteer work I did every Saturday at the Catawba State Psychiatric Hospital. I was terribly disappointed, as this was something I enjoyed doing and looked forward to all week long. Many people have asked me what exactly I did there, so I've decided to tell a few tales about my experiences at Catawba.

Catawba Hospital has a local reputation as being a very formidable type of facility. Many imagine it as a hospital with bars on the windows, dark scary corridors, moans and groans coming from every corner. High school kids have been known to dare each other to drive by the front entrance, and for some, legend has it that those who go into Catawba never come out. While there may be truth to some of this, most of it is highly inaccurate.

Catawba was originally built as a tuberculosis treatment "getaway." It is set far back from the main road and surrounded by a deep forest and high mountains. What was once a small hospital is now an entire complex of buildings - there is the main hospital plus half a dozen smaller facilities for administrative purposes and residency training. There is even a church on the grounds for those that wish to worship.

Though there are no bars on the windows, the entire hospital is in complete lock-down at all times. The first floor contains mainly offices and the security center. Patients are rarely, if ever, allowed to venture to the first floor alone.

The second floor is what is known as the "Short Term" ward. There are usually only three to five patients there at any given time - usually young adults that have had some type of trouble with drugs and alcohol. These patients usually come and go in a matter of weeks, though some do stay for several months.

The next level is known as the "Adult" ward, most commonly referred to as "Forensics." These patients range from ages 18 up to 64. Most are lifers, meaning that they have already been there most of their lives. At least half are convicted criminals, either pleading guilty by reason of insanity or having been found too incompetent to stand trial. This was the only ward I was not allowed into without another staff member present.

The third level is "Geriatrics." These patients are all over the age of 65 and most have been institutionalized their entire lives. Some simply suffered from dementia and were transferred there from nearby nursing homes that did not have the ability to cope with their illness.

Every Saturday morning, the first thing I had to do was sign in with security. I was given an armband that held two keys and a whistle. The armband was secured as high on the arm as possible to prevent it from being taken away. One of the keys unlocked the elevators, the other unlocked the doors to the wards. Along with the whistle was a card with instructions on when to blow the whistle and what code to use when doing so. For instance, three short whistles in a row meant that there was a "patient breakdown" and help was needed. Thankfully, I never had to use it, though at times I came pretty close.

Usually, at least one patient had arrived the night before, so a thorough assessment of that patient was necessary in order to decide what type of treatment he or she needed. After going over the proper paperwork and case history, I and whom ever happened to be working that day would meet with the new patient and talk. Our goal was to find out why the patient felt they had been sent there. Some knew that they were ill and needed treatment, but most did not.

After that, we went from ward to ward, basically doing whatever the patients wanted to do. During the week, their days were filled from morning to night with therapy and scheduled activities, but the weekends were up for grabs. The geriatric patients almost always wanted to hear gospel music and play with the musical instruments. So, we would gather them all together in the recreation room, armed with gospel cds, guitar and harmonica. Sometimes they would want to write letters home, so we would write the letters for them, word for word as they spoke what they wanted to say to their loved ones.

The adult ward was completely different. You just never knew what they would want. Sometimes just a movie, but more often than not, they wanted to shoot pool or play cards or listen to rock music and dance.

The patients themselves are characters I will never forget. One of my favorite patients was a lady that was obsessed with breasts. The first time I met her she grabbed one of mine and very loudly informed me that God had not been very generous with my chest. I laughed and asked her if she knew of any good doctors that could give me what God apparently had not. Of course, she did, and rattled off a list of good "plastic surgeons" ranging from Dr. Spock to Dr. Quinn. Another patient, a young man about 30 years old, loved to dance. Every Saturday I would have to "slow dance" with him to at least two songs. What we actually did was hold hands and walk in circles, but he seemed to think he was dancing, and I wasn't about to tell him otherwise.

We had one patient that we called "Christmas Bill," because every year, around the holidays, he would become so depressed that he had suicidal thoughts. He admitted himself every year, claiming that "it's safer to be in a nuthouse than alone with my gun." He was one you would never think as being mentally ill. He was very calm, very well spoken, and was never on any kind of medication. He just got real depressed every year at Christmas, and knew that it was not a good idea for him to be alone.

My first big task was the Halloween party the staff put together for the patients. Because Catawba is funded by the state, it is the state that decides ultimately what type of treatment the patients receive. Unfortunately, the state does not believe in socializing the patients in any way other than in a constructive therapy environment, so the Halloween party was paid for entirely by the staff. We spent hours decorating the gym and setting up food - we even had a live band that agreed to play for free. The patients spent hours getting dressed up - they had not had anything like this in years.

When it was time to bring the patients in, they refused to enter the gym. It took us a few minutes to realize that they were afraid of the decorations. So, in a mad dash we turn up the lights and took down the "dancing ghost" and the "singing jack-o-lantern." When the patients came in they took one look around and promptly sat down on the bleachers and refused to get back up. We anticipated this, and my personal task was to get as many of them on the dance floor as possible. Not an easy task when you consider that most of them were in bedroom slippers and pajamas, and some could barely even walk. But, I finally managed to get a few of them on the dance floor, and the rest, except for the geriatric patients, finally accepted that it was fun and joined us.

This was the night that I made a very big mistake. I was dancing with one of the patients - he was Chinese and had a very thick accent. I could barely understand anything he was saying. I did catch the fact that he believed he was being released the following week. Well, everyone there is about to be released, if you actually believe what the patients say. Somehow, out of his explaining to me in broken English about his release, and my nodding as I tried to understand him, I unknowingly agreed to "visit him and be his girlfriend." Little did I know that he actually was released the following Monday, and was sitting at home waiting for me to visit him. A simple phone call with his doctor and the out-patient treatment center he was required to check into once a week cleared to whole thing up, but I couldn't help feeling horrible about it. I did learn a very valuable lesson from it, though - do not ever nod your head unless you understand exactly what is being said.

I also came close to blowing the whistle a few times. One day, a very nice older lady complimented me on the sweater I was wearing. I thanked her, then went about with my business. When it was time to go downstairs to fill up the lunch trays, she grabbed my arm. She insisted that I was wearing her sweater. When I explained to her that I was not wearing her sweater, but that it was my own, she insisted that it was the one she had always wanted and I had to give it to her. She would not let go of my arm, and tried to take my sweater off of me. It was pretty scary, but mostly I just felt sorry for her. We were finally able to get her to calm down and let go of my arm without calling a "patient breakdown." The following Saturday she didn't even remember who I was.

Another time, while in the rec room, two men got in a fight over the pool table. They both wanted to break the balls, but of course, only one could do it at a time. There was a loud verbal confrontation, but again we were able to diffuse the situation without calling in security.

One Saturday, I had spent the entire day sewing faces onto little felt snowmen we had all made the week before. The patients aren't allowed to use the small sewing needles, so that was my job for the day - sewing faces onto felt snowmen. When I returned each one to the patient that had made it, one lady was very angry that I had not put a nose onto her snowman's face. A simple mistake, but not to her. Again, I almost had to blow my whistle, but she finally calmed down without any real trouble.

I could go on and on and on with stories from Catawba. Though a little scary at times, it truly was one of the most rewarding things I have ever done. The look on some of their faces when I explained to them that no, I was not a doctor or an intern, but that I was there just to hang out with them, said it all. They were shocked and very pleased that someone would want to spend an entire day with them, without being paid to do it. I know that taking the time to do something as simple as playing a few card games with them was enough to make a difference. These patients, in general, have been labeled, cast aside, shunned and basically forgotten by society, when what they need is the dignity and respect they deserve. After all, they are human beings, if somewhat confused, and they do have feelings, just like the rest of us. The illnesses they suffer from are no more controllable than cancer or Parkinsons or Alzheimers.

So, I ask that you please keep these patients in mind - say a prayer for them, and be kind the next time you happen to run into someone you think is crazy.

AOL SUCKS!!

2005-04-20T15:58:00.000-05:00

I work in an auto parts retail store, and one of the annoying tasks I have to deal with on a daily basis is what to do with all those AOL disks that are shipped to our store every Friday. You know the ones - they are free, and advertise 5 billion free hours of AOL, if only you would be so kind as to take one home.

Our customers NEVER take advantage of these freebies, so they pile up on my counter more and more every week, doing nothing more than getting in the way of the $2oo alternator I am trying to sell.

So, in an effort just to get them out of my way, I grabbed a few and brought them home, thinking I'd give them to my brother. They sat on my desk at home for months, until one day, in a fit of absolute and complete boredom, I popped one of them into my PC.

WHY, OH, WHY DID I DO THAT????

Remember when AOL was fun? When it was cool? When the sound of You've Got Mail! was all it took to render you helpless for hours in front of your computer?

Boy, have times changed!!!

After going through the entire tedious task of actually setting up my very own, and let's not forget, FREE, AOL account, it took me approximately .0000000000000001 of a second to remember why I have not used AOL in years - it SUCKS!!!

Let's just say I'm really NOT that stupid -

I simply don't need all that "user-friendly" bullcrap shoved down my throat every micro-second that I'm logged on. And I don't need all those cute, annoying little icons. And I certainly don't need to "personalize" my account so that some freak weirdo pervert loser can better enable himself to "chat" with me. I'm pretty sure I can do better than that . . .

But what REALLY creased me about the entire, God-awful experience was when I tried to cancel . . .

I spent a whopping 2 minutes with AOL before I turned off my computer in disgust, vowing to cancel my account immediately. But, I have to admit, "immediately" for me means forgetting about the entire thing completely until 3 months later, when my ever-so-patient husband asks me why we have been billed by AOL.

After blaming the entire thing on my younger brother, (sshhh, don't tell, now, but how could I explain that I had actually stooped so low as to install AOL onto our computer?) I immediately (yes, dear) grabbed up the phone and dialed the 1-800-Hold-For-The-Rest-Of-Your-Life number that I had somehow managed to save.

I must have picked a good day to call, because I only had to hold for HALF a lifetime, when a foreign woman by the name of Theikikiglugenheimer came on the line. When I explained the situation to her, she calmly went into a 15 friggin' minute dialogue about how WONDERFUL their service is, of which I could have for FREE for 3 MORE months, if only I would simply change my mind.

I calmly explained back to Mrs. Theikikiglugenheimer that no, I would not prefer to simply change my mind.

Then, Mrs. Theikikiglugenheimer took it upon herself to pull up my "account record" and inform me that I was in no place to make an accurate decision, as I had only spent 2 minutes online, and won't I please simply change my mind?

Gritting my teeth and biting my tongue, I again explained the situation - I do not want AOL, I NEVER used it, and I don't want to pay for something that I never use - after which I was asked WHY I never used it and if my husband would like to keep it to use himself.

This is where I went red -

First of all, how dare she assume I have a husband? I mean, yes, I do, but did I tell HER that???!!! No, I did not. What if I was a lesbian, or a widow, or had just gotten divorced, or been left for another woman or any number of things that COULD have caused me to take offense? Well, that offended me . . .

And just what business IS it of Mrs. Theikikiglugenheimer's WHY I want to cancel my AOL???!!! Just for that - I told her that AOL sucked, that SHE sucked, that the whole damn world sucked, and that we'd be much better off without ANY internet access what-so-ever, just so people like me wouldn't have to deal with nosy idiots like her.

Within seconds my AOL service was cancelled . . .

The moral of the story is -

STAY AWAY FROM AMERICA ON-LINE!

This Man Must REALLY Love Me!

2005-04-19T16:32:00.000-05:00

My husband Keith and I have always been the object of overt stares and rude ridicule, as we have a slight age difference between us - twenty-two years, to be exact. Many an eyebrow has been raised as we hold hands in public, or introduce each other as husband and wife rather than father and daughter. However, nothing has provoked more shocked stares, deceitful whispers and those Are you out of your mind??? comments as our recent decision to have a baby.

Keith and I are already parents. He has a grown son from a previous marriage, and I have an eight-year-old son from a previous marriage. After careful thought and consideration, we had decided several years ago that neither one of us wanted any more children, so my husband did what so many men fear - he had a vasectomy. He did this for me - I really don't like taking pills everyday, and the daily/weekly/monthly task of keeping up with other forms of birth control was just too troublesome. "This man must REALLY love me," I thought, as I sat in the urologist's office while he was having a procedure done for me, on his most sensitive area.

And then we got married . . .

At first, I didn't realize exactly what was happening to me. "Let's get a puppy!," I said. So we got a puppy. "Let's get a cat!," I said. So we got a cat. But still, it wasn't enough.

My son, by this time, was avoiding me at all costs, fearful of the kissing and tickling and babytalk I tend to still do, of which he assure me he is WAY too big for.

Then the dreams started . . .

At first, it seemed pretty normal - dreams of me holding cute little babies, Keith playing peek-a-boo with a toddler. Innocent - yes, but not for long. Soon my dreams turned a little sinister - like the dream where I'm taking a shower and suddenly my entire uterus falls right out of me and starts swirling around and around and around, getting closer and closer to the drain, with five or six little babies falling head-first down into the drain. When I confided in my good friend, Pat, she calmly explained that my biological clock was ticking, and it was time for me to have another baby. I adamantly disagreed.

Then . . . a few weeks later Keith and I stopped by to see a couple of his old friends. I had never met them before - knew nothing about them. They had one young child, a couple years younger than mine, but though he had just re-enlisted in the military at forty years of age, they were planning to have another baby. Even though I had never met these people before, this news just devastated me. I was jealous!!!

At this point, I could no longer deny what I was feeling - yes, I did in fact, want another baby. Let's face it - I am incredibly in love with the most wonderful man God ever made, so why shouldn't I want his baby? And all those dreams . . . Yes, I was in love and my biological clock was ticking loud and clear . . .

When I finally expressed my desire to have a baby with my husband, he said, "Okay," and I thought, "This man must REALLY love me." I mean, really - only two years after deciding that I would prefer not to take any form of birth-control which resulted in a painful procedure on his most sensitive part, he has agreed to have an even MORE painful procedure done to undo the previous procedure.

After making all of the proper phone calls to doctors, and doing all the proper research, and conducting all the proper tests on me, we finally had a meeting set up the UVA Hospital, in Charlottesville, with the doctor that would be undoing what had already been done.

Our appointment was at 10:30 in the a.m., which meant that in order for us to get there on time, we needed to leave our home by 9. It just figures that neither one of our alarm clocks went off, so we were rather late starting out. To make matters worse, it was raining cats and dogs.

Shortly after leaving our house, we became so engrossed in conversation that we missed our exit we needed to take to get to Charlottesville. "No problem," says Keith. "We'll just take this new bypass and cut across to where we need to be." I didn't bother to mention that the new bypass was not yet completed . . .

Turns out, a lot of stuff was not yet completed, like the road sign that tells you which new road is the bypass you're looking for. So, after three unsuccessful tries on roads that were obviously NOT the bypass, we finally got the right one, which shot us out at the exact same place we would have been had we just turned around and gone back to the exit we had missed half an hour earlier.

Meanwhile, the rain was still pouring down, but Keith assured me that we could still make it on time.

An hour and a half later, just arriving in Charlottesville, we decide it would probably be best to call the doctor and let him know that - no, we are not skipping our appointment, and yes, we do realize that we are half and hour late. After ten minutes of searching for the right number on the info paper that clearly stated the doctor's number, we dialed in and got a recorded message - "We're sorry. Doctor such and such is out of his office. Please hold for further assistance." So we continued to hold until we were disconnected.

The day progressed . . .

The only parking place we could find was about two blocks away, but after depositing over five dollars in the parking meter and then realizing it was broken anyway, and after making a mad dash through the pouring rain that turned my eyeliner into something out of Dracula, and after desperately trying to decipher which front entrance on the building coincided with the front entrance on the map, we finally arrived at the urologist's office, forty-five minutes late.

We were the fourth couple in line . . . twenty minutes later we were still the fourth couple in line. "I don't think we're in the right place," I said. So, after looking at out rain-drenched map one more time, we decided that perhaps we had come to the wrong entrance.

We walked outside, where the rain had eased up a little, thankfully. Walking all the way around the building twice, we finally chose a different entrance and went inside. We found a nurse, who was kind enough to give us proper directions to Dr. So and So's office.

We went down a long, narrow hallway, up a flight of stairs, down two more floors in the elevator, through a room that apparently had a very bad water leak, and down another long, narrow hallway. Finally, a door with our doctors name on it!!

We walked through the door, only to realize that we were in the exact same place we had started from. We were STILL the fourth couple in line, with the SAME THREE couples STILL in front of us . . .

The day progressed . . .

Eventually, they got to us, though HOW they did that, I'll never know. The receptionist, much to the chagrin of the nurses, was determined to take as long as possible with each and every form she had. She determined to take even longer with those tiny stupid little stickers that had to be posted on each and every form she had. By this time, the nurse was fuming, and the Spanish couple being us was yelling things that I couldn't understand, but was sure contained words that shouldn't be spoken at all.

Finally, we see the doctor. He does the thing that doctors do, then gave us the news we had been hoping for - 99% chance of getting pregnant. He told us that he had performed more of these procedures than any other doctor in the country, and his credentials posted all over his wall proved it enough for the both of us. But just one thing - the surgery cost thousands of dollars, and insurance didn't cover it.

"No problem," says Keith. "I'll just sell such and such and this and that, and use my tax money to pay for it. Not a problem at all."

"Wow!!!!" I think. "He's going to sell such and such and this and that??!!! He must REALLY love me!!"

After leaving the hospital, we decided that we were starving, and pizza sounded like a nice choice, especially to me. And anyway, isn't Charlottesville a college town, full of starving college kids who can never seem to get their fill of pizza? College town = college kids = lots of pizza places - Right? WRONG!!!!!

We knew that we needed to get onto the main drag, the main road that runs through the heart of Charlottesville, the place where all the businesses were, and where we thought, mistakenly so, we could find a nice, simple place to enjoy a few slices of Italian pie.

It had begun to rain again - very hard. So hard, actually that it was very difficult to see the front end of the car. So was it really my fault that I THOUGHT I saw the right road sign that would lead us to pizza?

The first wrong turn was pretty simple to forgive - it's raining, can't see the signs, blah, blah, blah. We were able to turn around and get back on the highway without too much trouble, if you don't consider running over someone's shrubs in their front yard in an effort to make an illegal U-turn trouble.

The second wrong turn was a little more difficult - we ended up in the back of some type of hospital/factory/learning center/parking lot from hell with no escape route what-so-ever kind of place. Still, not bad after driving over the curb and cutting off a mini-coupe with a driver that apparently suffers from severe road-rage.

But the third wrong turn was the worst - bumper to bumper traffic, at a stand-still. So, even if we wanted to turn around, we were stuck. And not a pizza joint to be found ANYWHERE. "Honey, let's just stop somewhere else. We don't have to have pizza," I kindly offered. What I got in return was some kind of grumbled response about college kids and evil non-existent pizza places. I decided to just keep quiet until we arrived home.

Because we were stuck in traffic without the option of turning around, we were forced to go with the flow of the cars around us. Ten miles and one hour later, traffic thinned out enough for us to pick up a little speed and try to figure out how to get somewhere other than there. Just as we were about to turn around, we spotted it - Pizza Hut. Now, I am not exactly the biggest Pizza Hut fan in the world, but I don't feel as strong about the subject as Keith does. Keith hates Pizza Hut, and will drive miles and miles out of his way in order to find a much better dining environment. However, because we were already miles and miles out of our way, and because this was the ONLY pizza place within five hundred miles of one of the largest colleges in the country, we felt we had no other choice - we had to eat at Pizza Hut.

In order to prevent my Dracula eyeliner into becoming the actual Mask of Zorro, Keith dropped me off at the door while he went to park the car. As soon as I entered, I tripped over two large buckets brimming with water. A glance up confirmed my fear - the ceiling was leaking and this was NOT going to go over well with Keith.

When Keith opened the front door to Pizza Hut and saw the huge, ugly, leaking mess that was the lobby, the look on his face said it all - Let's just eat as quick as possible and get the hell out of here!

The place was packed, and our hostess informed us that there was only one booth left, but it had a broken table. But, what are you gonna do? So we sat down anyway. This broken table was actually more of miniature wooden ski slope - it was so lopsided that you couldn't even put a glass on the table. We literally had to prop it up, then very carefully balance our arms on it so it wouldn't tip over again.

We ordered the pizza buffet - BIG mistake. Apparently the buffet at Pizza Hut is only suitable for future Fear Factor hopefuls - they had what looked like fried rhino eyes, poached pig butt, and something else that I couldn't make out but looked like it was moving. Everyone in the place was waiting for more fresh, better tasting pizzas to come out. When finally they did, Keith and I, in our need to fill our stomachs with anything resembling real food, had just sat down with very skimpy salads that we were able to scrape out of the bottom of the salad bowl, which sat right next to the Fear Factor pizza on the buffet. So, of course, we missed out on all the GOOD pizza, for every single person in that restaurant literally FLEW to the buffet when they saw the fresh pizzas arrive.

When we finally venture up to the buffet again, what we feared had come true - all the other people had snatched up every bit of good pizza, leaving us with the God-awful Fear Factor pizza. Oh, well - what are you gonna do? We sat down with our plates, and then it happened.

You know that sound you hear of everything slowly dying down and then becoming completely quite - like when the power goes out? Yep, that's what happened!! The damn power went out because of all the rain . . . .

We decided right then and there to leave, but unfortunately for us, we still had to pay the bill - go figure that one!!!

Four months later . . .

Keith has successfully sold the truck he used to haul his dragster around on, our '87 all-original, mint-condition Camaro z28, and a small variety of left over auto parts of which I know nothing about, save the fact that they bring in large amounts of money. And finally, the long-awaited tax refund check has arrived.

As I watch my husband now, phone in hand, work schedule strewn about as he tries to fit in time off for his little procedure on his most sensitive part, I am struck by how deeply his love for me is. This man truly DOES love me. How else can you explain his going through such drastic and, at times very annoying, measures to keep me happy? I've always said that I was easy to please - I don't require expensive jewelry, a fancy car, a huge, expensive house - just give me a hot cup of coffee, a good book and I'm all yours. Oh, yeah - and a baby.

But for all you ignorant fools out there that still believe our May-December romance is nothing more than a mid-life crisis, I assure you - it is not. We are going to have a baby, hopefully sooner than later. A baby - the single greatest way a loving, devoted, happily married couple can express their love for one another.

A baby -

Yes, I know this man does REALLY love me.

Phones are for Talking!!!

2005-04-19T16:05:00.000-05:00

Recently, I received several different messages on my answering machine, from several different members of my family, informing me that they had left several different text messages on my cell phone. Why don't you ever text back?? they ask. And here is my reply:

Phones are for talking, not for typing!!!!!

If you really want to "type" me something, send and email. And OH MY GOSH!!! Did you know that you can send a written letter through the mail???!!! Yes, it's true!! You can actually write or print something onto paper, stuff it in an envelope, put a stamp on it, and let the mailman deliver it for you!! Isn't that GREAT??!!!

But I don't always need to actually have a "conversation." Sometimes I just need a quick answer or a short reply," you say.

Well - that's just rude. Has modern technology caused you to lose your basic manners? You know, you can say - "Ain't got time to chat long," or "I can't talk now, just gotta get a quick answer to something." Hmm . . . must be too much effort. I just don't see how that can be better than trying to figure out how many times to push the number "1" button before getting to the letter "C" or having to scroll down five hundred thousand times just to read one damn sentence.

Can anyone explain this to me? Am I really so behind the times that I simply can not understand the big deal in "typing" on a phone???

Be that as it may - I still refuse to respond to ANY and ALL text messages that appear on my cell phone.

So keep that in mind when you grab your phone to type something to me . . . .

Dr. E. Fuller Torrey = Nazi Psychiatrist

2005-04-18T16:22:00.000-05:00

A couple years ago, shortly after the death of my mother, a bought a copy of Dr. E Fuller Torrey's renowned book, "Surviving Schizophrenia." The book was both informative and moving, so I decided to do a little research on Dr. Torrey to determine just how credible he really was . . .

Dr. Torrey is a research psychiatrist dubbed by The Washington Post as "The Most Famous Psychiatrist in America." For decades he has studied the theory that schizophrenia is not caused by family conflict, as once believed, but by diseases of the brain that contain a genetic component. Though widely discredited, his most recent studies conclude that many patients suffering with schizophrenia "caught" the disease through a virus carried and spread by many household pets, particularly cats. Dr. Torrey conducts most of his research with the use of human brains, some three hundred of them, that he stores in a "brain bank" at his research facility in Bethesda, Maryland.

Dr. Torrey is also president of The Treatment Advocacy Center, an organization hell bent on passing laws that would force mentally ill patients to take mind-altering anti-psychotic drugs. The Treatment Advocacy Center places strong emphasis on those patients living outside of psychiatric hospitals and facilities - basically the average Joe that in most cases can function normally in their day to day life without being doped into oblivion. The reason behind this - the average Joe with a mental illness "may or may not" pose a threat to him/herself and/or others.

Basically, let's just keep ALL those individuals suffering from ANY type of mental illness so drugged up they can barely function at all - just in case . . .

So, allow me to ask - just who in the hell does Dr. E. Fuller Torrey think he is???!!! One of the biggest problems with today's mental healthcare system is that sooo many people are being drugged rather than treated. Here's an idea - why not teach patients how to productively cope with their illness rather than how to swallow as many pills as possible?

Until recently, I volunteered my time and services every Saturday to a local state psychiatric institute. Though some of the more severe patients were sometimes highly medicated, most were not, but instead were given every opportunity to learn how to lead a normal life in the "outside" world. Aside from the group and individual therapy sessions, there was music, arts and crafts, health and fitness awareness. The hospital provided computer classes and taught its patients how to properly balance a budget. They had a "mini-home" built into one of the wards where patients could "live" and learn how to deal with everyday stresses, such as cooking and cleaning and shopping. The hospital also taught job-hunting skills, with "community awareness" held once a month. This allowed patients the ability to go grocery shopping, use a debit card, put gas into a vehicle - basically the entire system was set up to teach, encourage and enable those with a mental illness to manage those normal everyday tasks that so many of us take for granted. Am I to believe that this system is not as productive as forcing medication on those that either don't need it or don't want it???

Though Dr. Torrey is perhaps the most notorious advocate of "hostile treatment," this is in no way a new concept. Some time ago, a very famous young actress was admitted into a psychiatric hospital with symptoms ranging from hysteria to hallucinations. For years she was forced to take large doses of anti-psychotic meds, while undergoing shock treatments that left her permanently scarred. It was eventually discovered that she did not, if fact, suffer from any mental illness whatsoever, but she did have tuberculosis. A simple adjustment in medication and proper treatment would have saved her quite a bit of physical and emotional pain. And just who was this actress so poorly treated? You probably know her best as Scarlett O'Hara . . .

So, to Dr. E. Fuller Torrey, I say - go to hell. Your unethical desire to strip the dignity of those patients you claim to care for is repugnant and borderline fascist.

To the general public, I say - turn off One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest. Put down I Never Promised You a Rose Garden. If you want to see the TRUE face of mental illness, take a good look around - you'd be surprised at how many people you know who are mentally ill, and yet, AMAZINGLY, still lead healthy, productive lives.