Minutes of Grace

Nature Calls

minutesofgrace — 2006-05-16T22:35:48-05:00

Download MOG-2006-05-17.mp3 (Click to listen)

Picture this: You’re at the mall or traveling, or maybe attending a special event. Nature calls…ever so quietly at first. You don’t answer. Nature kicks the volume up a bit. You still don’t get the hint. Now growing impatient, Nature begins to yell.

“Hellllooooo, we have to pee! Don’t force me to act ugly in public…you know I can! Does the word “depends” mean anything to you? ”

You squint, tuck your butt cheeks it in, try to squeeze it off. You even try visualizing yourself drudging through the desert with the sand blowing in your face. You do everything to divert your senses from Nature’s increasingly threatening call. You even start doing that little dance—you know the one. But alas, you’re losing this battle. Your eyes are beginning to pop…the frequency of the synapses in your usually normal brain is growing more erratic…your face begins to “glow” in a sweaty sort of way. I do believe your eye color is changing—is that crimson?! Things don’t look good. You assess your situation as best you can. You correctly conclude you are too far from home to satisfy this urge in the sanctity and comfort of a familiar space.

You are now in emergency status—you do all you can do to prevent that warm trickle down your leg. You eyes start darting in every direction…you’ve got to find it…the sign…the sign…where is the sign. There it is! You scurry toward it. Yes, you have no other option. You are facing what we all fear. You have to use the dreaded public restroom—the bathroom EVERYONE on the planet uses. Yes, the horror stories you’ve heard are true.

You stand in front of the door with the sign showing the outline of a woman in an outdated dress. Oh my, you think…is this it? You turn the knob to open the door—mega mega trillions of germs hitch a ride on your hand. They’ve been waiting at this biological bus stop just for you to come along. You step inside the little house of horrors. You try not to breath—but your brain is already starving for oxygen—so, you take in a breath—but just a shallow one.

You’ve entered a whole different world. Yes, you are definitely out of your element. No more scented candles, no four-ply toilet paper with cutesy designs, no soft-cushiony toilet seats (if you like that sort of thing), no decorative flowers, no colorful glass vases, no fragrant soaps in pastel colors that match the walls, no spotless mirrors or fixtures that bathed you in “good lighting.” Noticeable absent is the pure smell of CLEAN—your own brand of CLEAN—nobody else’s kind of CLEAN—just yours. Your nasal passages are assaulted by a smell that could only have come from the Army’s biological arsenal.

Fate, my friend has brought you face to face with a sobering destiny. You have entered the no-man’s land of the public ladies’ room. That small room that might have one-ply toilet paper—or it might not have any at all. That small room at the end of the narrow hallway, seemingly built as an afterthought for it’s just across from the stock room. This is the small room with graffiti-laden walls that inform you of invaluable insights such as the size of what’s his name whatchamacallit, or the phone numbers for several local serial killers, or that whats-her-name is really good at doing indescribable gymnastics.

This small relief station is no relief. It has a cold-water only sink with faucet knobs that dare you to touch them (no doubt the exit point for a few of those pesky little germs from you encounter with the door knob).

Luckily, this is a one-seater, otherwise you’d have to share this joyful experience with a stranger. You step quickly toward the almost-white porcelain opening and, being ever so careful not to touch ANYTHING, you bend your knees and assume the time honored toilet-seat-aversion girlie swat position. Ah…Nature’s call has been answered. You close your eyes and visualize toilet paper. Actually, it’s more like a prayer.

“God, please let there be toilet paper. Amen.”

Your appeal to a higher power gets results--you’re able to scratch off three one-ply squares. God is indeed good. With a north to south motion, you wipe the paper quickly past your “not-for-public-view” parts. But you do this ever so delicately, lest the featherweight toilet paper disintegrate in your hand. You pull up your rather lacey panties (or bloomers, or thongs depending on your mood). You make the necessary adjustments to your ensemble, then with one deft move you flush the offending receptacle with your foot. You’re almost done.

You step toward the sink, retrieve the last brown cardboard-like paper towel and rip it in half. The first half you secure under your chin for later use. The second half is used to cover and turn on the cold water faucet. Surprisingly, there is soap—industrial strength—but soap nonetheless. You wash your hands quickly, retrieve the small piece of paper towel from under your chin to dry your hands and sprint for the door. You’re almost free. Then, you freeze in your tracks--halted by a message posted at eye level on the back of the door:

“Dear Customer. We take pride in our “pubic” restrooms. Please notify the management if our facilities need attention. The Management.”

Sure you will. You cover the door knob with the used paper towel, fling the door open and take flight. You’ve almost escaped--your pace quickens as you follow the narrow hallway out into the real world—your nostrils fill with almost fresh air.

The tension begins to fade. Your systems are slowly returning to your version of normal. You feel lighter…relieved…safe. Ah…life is good. All that excitement has made you thirsty.

Identity Theft

minutesofgrace — 2006-05-11T21:04:23-05:00

Download MOG-2006-05-15.mp3 (Click to listen)

Now you've done it. We're all uneasy. Paper shredders are flying off the shelves...people are checking their credit reports every fifteen minutes...guarding their trash and bank accounts. Yes...you have hit a nerve. They are afraid for good reason. You and your cowardly cronies are reaching into the personal lives of God-fearing citizens and traipsing off with their very essence--that which makes them, well...them--their identities. Their very lives are being spirited away. This personally invasive criminal activity leaves the most secure individual feeling skittish.

Fortunately, I've not had the pleasure of being targeted by you creapily creative criminals. But I do have a message for you:

To the criminal community I say: Steal me!

I'm forty pounds overweight. Take it all, it's yours. I'll leave it in plain site around my waist, hips and thighs. No need to notify me when you plan to exercise your thievery--just surprise me.

I also have some laugh lines. They too are available for the taking. You'll find them sprinkled generously all over my face (they tend to congregate around my eyes and mouth). Don't worry, I'll leave them totally unprotected. I won't miss them. I've long since realized life is not that funny. If it gets funnier, I'll simply generate more laugh lines. Keep checking back with me--consider me an endless supply.

I wear a size ten shoe. Ok...size eleven in the afternoon. I'll leave at least three shoe sizes in a Tupperware container next to the blue mailbox...in front of the house with the dandelion farm. Help yourself.

I also have quite bit of clutter in my life--specifically, fourteen unopened boxes in my basement. These boxes were packed for the movers 13 years ago and have remained unopened through six moves, three marriages, five states and two countries. If there's treasure in one of those boxes, I'll never know. Stop by on Wednesday afternoon between one and three...you'll need a truck. I'll leave the boxes in the back yard. Help yourself---close the gate when you leave.

I have a habit of not listening very well. I'm pretty sure I'm clairvoyant. Therefore, I know what people are going to say before they say it---so why waste time listening. While they talk, I often amuse myself by mentally rehearing how I will articulate my next brilliant thought. Admittedly, this self-centeredness causes problems. Please take it away! The people around me will be grateful and my life will improve immeasurably. I'll leave this self-serving habit in an Aigner shoebox on the backdoor step next to the mulberry bush.

Oh...one last thing. For the last five years, I've been plagued with daily drenchings fondly referred to as "hot flashes." The name does not do them justice. They are not hot--they are scorching. They are also not flashes--they last waaay too long. I've had to purchase a walk-in freezer to serve as my dressing room in the morning. Please accept my hot flashes as my gift for all the joy you bring to your fellowman. If you happen to live in a cold climate, the hot flashes will come in very handy. If you don't--feel free to take my walk-in freezer too--you'll need it...I'll have no further use for it.

My larcenous friends, I offer you these wonderful and easy opportunites to exercise your talents. But don't rush off just yet...I have a feeling there are more people like me who have a few things they'd like to get rid of too.

Ladies...anything you'd like to add to this list?

Everybody Freeze!

minutesofgrace — 2006-05-02T12:41:19-05:00

Download MOG-2006-05-16.mp3 (Click to listen)

Oh...come on try it...sounds like a good cause...after all, who's gonna know...I will if you will...

The Presentation

minutesofgrace — 2006-05-01T13:56:45-05:00

Download MOG-2006-05-14.mp3 (Click to listen)

I was running late today. I had ignored the alarm—twice. I didn’t even take time to say my daily prayer. I showered in record time and rushed to put on makeup—not sure I painted the right things the right colors—even my lip gloss tasted a bit strange. I hurriedly twisted my hair into a bun and tied it securely. Fortunately, I had my clothes hanging conveniently in the front of the closet and ready to go. The stop lights were good to me. I instinctively said a prayer as my car slipped uneasily in front of a Wal-Mart truck on the Sixth Street Bypass. I was fast enough---but just barely. I got to work on time--even had time to spare before the big presentation. I used those fleeting minutes to relieve myself and blot the beads of glistening color---a.k.a makeup sweat---courtesy of an ill-timed hot flash. Finally, it was my turn at the podium. It was memorable...I got a standing ovation! I was bathed in compliments on my research and unique presentation style. I learned three things today:

In a large auditorium filled to capacity, it's the small things that matter most—such as a four-foot strip of commercial strength toilet paper stuck to the bottom of your three-inch Aigner pumps.
Sweeping your hair into an updo using only the severed leg of taupe colored pantyhose makes a subtle, yet noticeable, fashion statement.
In a pinch, personal lubricant makes very effective lip gloss.

Note to self: Daily prayers...every morning...no matter what.

Exercise Anyone?

minutesofgrace — 2006-04-30T16:55:57-05:00

Download MOG-2006-05-13.mp3 (Click to Listen)

He pretented to be asleep. I nudged him--still he refused to move. It was always the same story. He'd say, "I'll go to the track with you in the morning." Then when it was time to crawl of out of the bed we'd shared for 19 years, my dear husband just lay there, feigning sleep. I asked if he planned to join me in my three-mile power walk. He mumbled something unintelligble, packed his pillow beneath his head and returned to his stupor. Today, like always, my calls for lighter meals, more exercise, and doing more things together were summarily dismissed. I sat up in bed and prayed silently...for him...for me...for guidance...for relief.

Aside from the obvious health benefits, my objective was much more basic: I wanted more face time with him. To talk. To laugh. To hold him--to be held. I wanted simply to share his space--while he passionately acknowledged my presence. This morning however, my snoring husband acknkowledged little. I flapped the covers deliberately and got out of bed using far more movement and animation than were necessary. He stirred, but only slightly. I dressed quickly, and rushed to the track, eager to replace the stagnant solitude of my bedroom with refreshing park vistas.

I had exceeded my personal best this morning--not exactly record time, but darn good despite having to stop to get a gnat out of my eye and to discreetly unbunch my underwear. I slipped into the garage door, and seeing his car, I was painfully reminded of my earlier failure to rouse that man of mine. Oh, well. In the kitchen, I cupped my hand under the ice dispenser on the refrigerator door and rubbed two ice cubes around my neck and allowed them to drop inside my sports bra. I closed my eyes to savor the welcomed chill.

He grabbed me from behind. My ice cubes popped out and shattered on the ceramic floor. He wrapped one arm around me while twisting my shoulders with surprising force. Now, facing him I was speechless...my mind raced for answers. I was only gone 45 minutes--ok, an hour. Did I lock the door when I left? Did I set the alarm? Did some intruder defile our home? Remnants of a futile scream oozed from my throat. Who was this wild man...this...this animal!

His hand moved swiftly and deftly across my forehead, brushing my perspiration-soaked hair from my face, sending my "Breast Cancer Awareness" cap sailing across the kitchen like a pink frisby. His finger slowly traced the outline of my mouth. My eyes widened with recognition. My breath was stiffled as he pulled me closer to him. He plunged his tongue past my lips and lingered there. Mmmmmm. His body stiffened in important places. Mmmmmm, again. My size ten running shoes dangled inches from the floor as this uncontrolled being carried me through the dining room...past our family pictures draping the walls...(is that picture crooked?)...and into the bedroom. He whispered unmentionables in my ear...thankfully I remembered what they meant.

Oh my God! This is it!

He was all I wanted--physically fit or not, eating light or enjoying seconds, watching the game or allowing the game to watch him. I...huh...I mean...we plan to "run" again tomorrow.