The State of My Flucuating Frame of Mind

To all my "dear readers, as the great Ann Landers referred to her "followers," this is for those of you who also function as my mental-health caregivers. Since most of you've been with me from my blogging beginnings, you're aware that this is a critical phase in what professionals call my "grieving process."

So, let's start out by taking a look at a "glamour shot" of me from several years ago, when it was still considered (by whomever owned the photography outfit, at least) sexy for a woman to wear a ridiculous mass of annoyingly ticklish ostrich feathers dyed in phony bright colors, which was known as a "feather boa."

Anything wrapped around my neck described as a "boa" immediately strikes me as repulsive, but I allowed myself to be talked into it, along with, ugh, red lipstick.

You should be aware by now of my dim view of such stupid notions when it comes to popular feminine fashions in my mother's day. When I look at the offensively flashy absurdity adorning my unevenly tanned shoulders, then focus on my lame attempt at a "come hither" expression as I'd been instructed to do, I'm not sure whether to laugh or cry.

Maybe throwing up is a more accurate way to describe the impulse I most often feel when I look back at what it was like to be an attractive young woman from my now-enlightened but hopefully not jaded retrospective view.

Ever watched AMC's "Mad Men?" I was in on the tail end of that blatantly sexist era, and maybe sometime I'll tell you about being literally chased around his bedroom by a horrible boss I once had.

OK, then, let's move on to my next item:

Here's an illustration of how I imagine myself navigating the stormy high seas of emotions in my life this month. I'm hanging onto Him for dear life as I struggle to keep my head above water in a flood of sad memories that threatens to engulf me at times. This is my attempt to endure what I know is a difficult period for all survivors on every anniversary date of a great tragedy in their lives. 

Add to the turbulent swirl of days this May yet-another unavoidable and uncelebrated date: Yesterday was my 59th birthday. The combination of "celebration" with "birthday" is an oxymoron for a woman my age, whose bathroom is so over-stocked with anti-aging lotions and potions that one would think I own stock in the company that makes Oil of Olay -- or Oil of Old Lady, as my husband called it. 

My ambivalent feelings about my 59th birthday are similar to my tainted, feminist leanings toward the societal influences that shaped my mother's life and my own early days. Actually, I'm proud of making it this far and in such fairly good shape, considering how little effort I've put into living anything close to a "healthy lifestyle."

If I allowed myself to fall back into my former negative way of thinking, I'd be horrified now to be just one year away from the unbelievably ancient and dreaded six-oh, as in, "OMG, 60?" But, due to the power of positive thinking and a weird freak of nature I'm really getting into these days, my head's been rearranged and now I think of "unbelievably ancient" as 80, at least, or maybe more like 90!

Alright, let's wrap this up, so here's my final item for today:

This is a cropped portion of a very cool action shot of a big bird of prey trained by a handler in Mongolia published by (who else?) National Geographic. This bird's coming in for a landing rather than taking flight, but it's the best picture I've seen lately showing the incredible power these carnivorous hunters' huge wings. I share it now with you in reference to the bird story I posted last month about the bald eagle I saw on the evening of my husband's death.

I will always believe I wasn't just watching a startled big bird burst out of a nearby tree and take off in an impressively loud flapping of his powerful wings. I was blessed to also have been witnessing my husband's soul leave this earthly world as, in an awesome display of spiritual grace and strength, he rose up and flew out of sight on his journey to the Other Side.

And to any of you who may think that God has no sense of humor, I will now tell you that as I write this, there are so many mourning doves hooting and hollering outside my office window that I want to just furiously fling it open and yell, "ALL RIGHT, ALREADY!! I GOT IT! SO SHUT UP, WILL YA? I CAN'T EVEN THINK, YOU"RE MAKING SO MUCH NOISE!"

Musings While Waiting For A Fairy

Here's a photo of my mom in about 1953. I'm the toddler barely visible in the background, playing in front of our house in Milledgeville, PA. She always wore a dress with an apron back then, just like Beaver Cleaver's mom, whatever her name was.

Hold it. How silly of me. She was Mrs. Ward Cleaver, of course. That's what her name was. It would have been rude to call her by anything else back then. A married woman just gave up her own names, first and last, to become "Mrs. Bob Brown," or whatever her husband's name was.  

Isn't it odd how what once felt so ordinary and normal to us can seem, in retrospect, so absurd and even stupid when viewed from the distance of several enlightening years?

I think my mom was fairly comfortable wearing a dress every day. Sometimes she wore "pedal pushers" if she was working outside, but usually a dress. Always, the red lipstick, too. She wouldn't be caught dead without her bright-red lipstick on, a life-long habit she clung to forever. Once, as she was coming to after surviving open-heart surgery at age 80, she opened her eyes, looked at me, and asked, "Where's my lipstick?" She was not joking, either. She was serious about her lipstick.

So there you go, it's Mother's Day, and I've mentioned my mom with fond memories. Now, since I am a mom, I think I should get to do and say whatever I want all day long! What would be your "heart's desire" if you could have absolutely anything you want? 

If I could have a Magic Mother's Day Fairy wave a wand and grant me absolutely anything I wish, it would be ... (right after world peace and a cure for cancer, of course) ... I'd wish to have an endless, lifetime supply of PUPPIES!

I would just love to have puppies around me all the time. When one turned about six months old, then it would just be time to get another one! Puppies, puppies, puppies. I can almost smell puppy breath just thinking about it! Of course I'd get to keep them all. I read that Oprah has 14 dogs, so why can't I? (Don't answer that; the financial reality of this idea isn't being figured into it, that's why it's just a wish, get it?)  I've given this some thought and I think I could get by on a minimum of two baby doggies per year; although three or four would be better. Only large breeds; I have to admit that little dogs are not my thing. I don't hate them (they're not cats, after all), but I just wouldn't want one unless it was the only dog I could have. Any dog's better than no dog at all. 

My vision of a perfect world of forever puppies and puppies forever (FPPF) is just a fantasy. I do think however, that I really would just absolutely love it if it could be real. So just in case my loyal readers, who probably desperately want to cheer me up since they are so burned out on reading my sad stuff, become overly supportive about my FPPF perfect-world concept they decide to take action, I'm ready.

If I get up one day next week and look out my front door to see that 29 puppies in crates have arrived in my driveway, I can handle that. I'd be a bit freaked out, but I could handle it. No problem, really. Kennel license from the county, minor detail. Puppy chow in bulk from the at the feed store, I can do that.

I have already forfeited the thought of ever having a decent lawn, clean floors, or enjoying extended periods of time, like an entire day, let's say, of total peace and quiet with no barking by anybody at anything, including the mailman.

I also have a high tolerance level for whining and chewing, and cleaning up inappropriate pooping and peeing bothers me not in the least. I could worm, give shots, wean, burp, rock, play with and hug puppies endlessly and expertly.

I am even used to sleeping in a room where the air is frequently fouled by dreaded dog farts. Big-dog, really bad, audible dog farts in triplicate, actually. Now that, my friends, is the true sign of a natural-born, dedicated and devoted dog lover. Well then, my little flock of faithful followers, that's about all I can think of to entertain myself and hopefully, you, with at this ridiculously late hour, so it's over and out from my outpost at 45 degrees North. Fret not about me, dear friends. All's quiet on the western front and my fairy may be on her way. Anything's possible.

A Would-Have-Been Day

Roger Henderson

April 18, 1952 - June 4, 2009

Ride free forever, my love.

Those Pink Patches Are Snow

KEY WEST, FL  -- This time of year, living in North Idaho ain't so hot -- literally. The Idaho Panhandle is having what's politely termed, "a late spring." No spring at all, is more like it. It was snowing at the Spokane Airport the day I left for the Florida Keys.

So here I am, wasting away in Margaritaville, searching for my lost shaker of salt, to quote Jimmy Buffet. It sure is nice here. The white-sand beaches and auquamarine-blue, clear waters are as sublimely beautiful in real life as they appear in tourist-luring photos.

This is a trip my husband and I had planned for a long time before he passed away. He wanted to fly here, rent a Harley, then ride the 90-mile Overseas Highway from mainland Florida to Key West. It's hard to believe it's been nearly a year since he crashed his bike and died on the same day my mom passed away. It's a good thing I'm able now to hear the rumble of Harleys passing by without "losing it." There are hundreds of Harley riders here who must have had the same idea as my husband. I can see where it would be a beautiful ride.

So, don't worry if you don't hear from me again for a few days. I'm busy working on my tan.