Category: Living my Life

Every morning I take calcium, vitamins, a baby aspirin and medication to manage my cholesterol. (Most cholesterol meds should not be taken with citrus juice.) The potassium I take to ward off the side effects of the cholesterol pills should be taken with food. The over the counter naproxin that eases my arthritis symptoms cannot be taken too soon after the aspirin. The non-drowsy Loratadine I swallow occasionally to clear my sinuses needs to be taken early in the day, lest I remain ‘non-drowsy’ half the night. Over time, I have established a routine for working all these pills into my daily life.

This week, to complicate matters, I needed to take a round of antibiotic (twice a day). When I read the slip of paper that came with the perscription, I found that the pill could not be taken with milk, nor “within six hours before or two hours after taking calcium,” and it would be better to avoid diary products all together. Also, I must not take an antacid within one hour before or after the antibiotic.  Oh yes, drink plenty of water.

I figured if I took my usual round at 7:00 a.m., I could take the antibiotic at 1:00 p.m. and again at 8:00 p.m., foregoing my usual bowl of cereal at bedtime.  Loradatine at 9:00 if needed and potassium with lunch. And be careful what I eat for lunch because I can’t take an antacid.

And did you notice that none of these pill are life-saving?  Because I’m in great health. I have to be. I can’t work any more pills into my schedule.

My hairdresser changed the part in my hair. Well, it’s not really a part, not as people of my generation understand parting the hair. My hair is styled with a vague insinuation to the right (now to the left).  This is not a part. My mother understood how to part hair. She would clasp my face with her right hand, tighten her thumb and fingers and say, “Don’t move.” As if! Then she would guide a comb through my hair and a layer of scalp, pull it to the side and fasten it with a bobbie pin or barrette. There it would stay for 30-40 minutes before it began to crawl out of the fastener.

But I digress. When I say my hair style is now slightly different, that doesn’t indicate that I am the devil-may-care type who bravely makes a major change in my appearance. No, it means that I have no control over what my stylist does to my hair. Nor does any other female I know.

If you don’t believe me, just comment on any woman’s hair and you’ll hear, “I didn’t really want it this short…” “This wasn’t what I planned, but…” “I looked in the mirror and this is what had happened…”

Actually, knowing that it is out of their control makes me feel differently about some celebrities I see with questionable hairdos. (The question being, “What are you thinking?”)

Like Kate-with-the-eight.  One side of her hair hangs to her jawbone, the other is cut above her ear. She looks for all the world like she fell asleep and one of the kids found some scissors.*

Or Holly Hunter on “Saving Grace”, a show that has credibility problems on several levels. When have you seen a police woman with a mass of nearly-waist-length hair?  An open invitation for a perp to grab and pull.

Oh, I could go on, but as I said, it’s not their fault. It’s cruelly ironic that as women, our hair is the one feature that has the power to define our day.  Yet we must, from time to time, put our trust completely in the hands of another person. And if we don’t come out looking good. Well … I don’t even want to think about it.

*Okay, to be fair, Kate may or may not have this hairstyle right now. I do not watch that show. But I do channel-surf and every time I pass The Learning Channel, she is there.  I’ve seen that hairdo. If she doesn’t have it right now it just shows that she thought better of it.  Or her hair dresser did.

There’s a tired joke about a man who wakes up to find two Texas mosquitoes standing over his bed. The first one says, “Let’s take him down to the river and eat him there.” “No,” says the second one, “if we do, the big guys will take him away from us.”

So Texas mosquitoes are big. But Arkansas mosquitoes are persistent. You can fan and spray and slam with a fly swatter, but unless you actually kill the little varmint, he will continue to land on you. 

And Arkansas mosquitoes are sneaky. There is no doubt when there is a Texas mosquito around, since they have a sound just a tad softer than a helicopter. But I had no idea an Arkansas mosquito was in the house until I woke with six bites. My arm, my ankle, the heel of my hand, my little finger, the spot where my sandal strap rests and the bottom of my foot all sported itchy whelps.  Sneaky … and persistent.

So, to close this comparision of insects from different locations, I have to say Oklahoma mosquitos are rather woosey. Spray a little OFF anywhere on your body and they won’t touch you. In Arkansas, you can bathe in insect repellent and the mosquito will find the small spot you missed … say on your ear lobe … and chew away.  Texas mosquitoes consider OFF a gourmet sauce to enhance the flavor of their entree.

It was 1996 and I had taken my seven-year-old son, Phillip, and his friend, Jordan, to Chuckie Cheeses for pizza and games. At the end of the outing, the young boys took the tickets they had won to the counter to trade them in for one of the prizes in the showcase. For a child, trading in these tickets is a lesson in the realities of life: The tickets you won are never enough to get the prize you have your eye on. 

So, the youngster must mix, match, negotiate, and explore all possibilities before he makes his choice. I retired to a nearby booth to let the boys work it out with the attendant behind the counter.  Finally, they finished and joined me. “Boy,” Jordan said, “That man sure hates his job.”

Today, I attended an event sponsored by the cooperative I work for, where 1200 classroom teachers came together to hear a motivational speaker. The title of her talk was “The Power of Positive Thinking” and she reminded us that the power Norman Vincent Peale wrote about over 50 years ago, in his book by that title, still works.  She spoke of the healing touch of laughter, named a long list of comedians who lived into their 80s and beyond.  (George Burns and Bob Hope, 100+.) In a nutshell, the secret of a happy and successful and fulfilling life is to have a positive outlook and to laugh often.

For you, dear friend, I wish that whatever you do for most of the hours in your day brings you satisfaction and joy, if for no other reason than it is a means to an end that will be satisfying and joyous.  I hope you enjoy your “job.” Because if you don’t you won’t be able to fool anyone. Not even a seven-year-old boy.

As a writer, I have always wondered why editors and publishers say “Do not send registered or certified mail.” How else can I be sure my valuable words arrive safely? One magazine even declared, “Certified mail will be refused.” I got the message, but I still wondered. This week I found out.

I am Contest Chair for an upcoming conference sponsored by White County Creative Writers (see more about this at www.whitecountycreativewriters.org) and Tuesday, among the large brown envelopes in my mailbox, I received a slip of paper informing me that I had a certified letter I could pick up at the post office on Wednesday.

I couldn’t take care of this before or after work because the PO keeps the same schedule as I do.  I had to use my lunch hour.

At the post office, I stood in line behind folks with the usual transactions: Buying a money order, choosing just the right stamps to match one’s personality, picking up mail after vacation to Disney World where they had a wonderful time (have I mentioned I live in a small town?). The young woman directly in front of me put a package on the counter.

“Is there anything fragile, breakable, yada, yada, potentially hazardous?”

“I don’tknow. My boss just told me to mail this package.”

“Well, someone has to answer that question.”

We all stood for a few seconds, contemplating the dilemma. The young woman whipped out a cell phone and got the necessary information from her boss. 

My turn. I signed and printed my name twice, wrote my address on the scanner, and retrieved the precious envelope.

Let me mention here that the writer paid $6.66 to get the entries 100 miles across Arkansas in one day. But it actually took two days, since I wasn’t at home the first day. Another writer spent $3.75 on Priority Mail to guarantee next day delivery stuck in my screen door rather than the safety of my mailbox. Most manuscripts cost less than $2.00 by regular mail and arrived in one day.

Seriously, folks. Regular mail. Then, for a small fee you can get delivery confirmation online.