clueless in carolina

Fun With Fones

carolinagirls@att.net (clueless carolinagirl) — Sun, 12 Jul 2009 03:51:00 +0000

Gordon Gekko-Wall Street (1985) First cell phone I ever saw

What did we all DO before cell phones? We suffered, that's what. Yes, I tell you kids, we SUFFERED. SILENTLY. See, it was silently because we weren't talking into cell phones.....get it? Now go and ROFLOL, kthxlvyabye. lvyaspecial, Ms. Jane!

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Now I've never had any problems with my Iphone, none at all. Except if you count the fact that I feel like a bought a jet plane when a tricycle could have done just as well, given my limited intellectual abilities. I still haven't managed to make it play tunes through my aux hookup in the car. (Madeleine tried to show me but I haven't had any luck yet).

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I still want to use the GPS and have the Iphone gently guide me to a fabulous restraurant, but then again during the summer slump in our pay we can't afford them anyway. So, one day, dear Iphone, I promise to let you show me the way to someplace where you eat without using paper napkins, 'kay? OKAY WE HAVE A DEAL.

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However, a friend of mine named Carrie has had some problems with a number that previously belonged to a, um, ahem, well, um, sort of, shall I say, ahem, ACTIVE PERSON. His name will be changed to Cody to protect the innocent.

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She wrote about it recently on a list I'm on and I nearly sprayed the screen and I thought, "You know what? I bet you that I could talk her into doing my job for me." (It's flashes of genius that make me such a superb, albeit lazy blogger). And I bet my readers wouldn't mind one lil' ol' bit. So I asked, and here you go.

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Thank you Carrie! Feel free to write some more hilarious posts that I can "borrow"!!

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Y'all have to be patient with me 'cause I have a virulent bronchial infection that caused the doctor to mutter (under his breath but I still have most of my own teeh and a modicum of hearing ability left) "omigawd." The rattle coming from my lungs and my tubucular-like hacking made him lunge (AAAHAHAHA!!!) for his prescription pad and confine me to the house to 10 days. Lucky I still have my sense of humor, no?

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No?

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Hmmph. Of course I enjoy hanging around the hacienda, but now that I've been told that I HAVE to, I long to escape. That's called human nature, I guess.

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I'm going to turn the microphone over to Ms. Carrie right now. Many of you know her in the China adoption community. I only know her on the net, but I can't wait to meet her one day, and I will. She makes me look sweet and passive (adjectives that haven't been applied to me since the first time I howled for a bottle).

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Carrie begins:

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I bought a new phone 2 yrs ago and got a new number (I really don't use my phone much) and TO THIS DAY I am still getting text and calls for the guy that had the number before me.

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After I bought the phone I then complained vehemently to Lousy Phone Company (LPC) because I pay by the minute and my minutes were being used up. They said they could give me a new number but by then I had already given it to the school, daycare, etc. and all the managers that work with me had it programmed in their phones so I didn't want to go through switching it AGAIN when I had just done so.
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It seems that dear Mr. Cody was *quite* the playa' and all the hoochies had his number. And all the bill collectors. You would not believe the phone calls I have received and the texts I get. And I just got a text 2 days ago that is for him. (remember, I have had this number now for 2 years). (My note: Cody, Cody, Cody! Just think of the opportunities for social intercourse with your cohorts that you are missing by not correcting your number)

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Once I got a call telling me his contacts were in. I explained the situation to the girl who called and she says "Oh that's strange, he just ordered these last week." I swear to God, this was a year after I had this number - he was still giving out his old number to the contact lenses place?? What the.....??

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I told her to give him the message that all his bill collectors and various hoochies were calling me and the girl cracked up laughing and said if she was working when he came for the pick-up, she would deliver the message. I also told her to GET THE $$ FIRST!!

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You see how unselfish Ms. Carrie is? In the midst of her personal telephone crisis, she still has time to think of others. I call that saintly behavior. Yep. SAINTLY.

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I have learned several valuable lessons.

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1. They obviously don't let numbers go dormant for very long in the XXX area code.

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2. Bill collectors won't believe you when you say you are not Cody and still try to collect Cody's debts from you even when you have an obviously female voice.

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3. Bill collectors will hang up really fast if you call them a really filthy name. (My note: Another friend would immediately let his voice drop to a Barry Gordonish whisper and ask them if they were wearing frilly little panties. Both men and women)

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4. Hoochies generally will not phone before 11 am. (My note: Well, their jobs do require a great deal of nighttime activity, Carrie. Have a heart, girlfriend!)

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5. Hoochies don't know how to reprogram their phones. (My note: This should be a topic covered in Hoochie Boot Camp, fer sure)

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6. Hoochies do not believe you when you state you've never met Cody and no, you don't have his new number and accuse you of stealing his phone or, gag me, 'tryin to steal my man'. (My note: Carrie is Married With Children, and these days her idea of an exciting evening is knitting a really great sweater. I feel certain that Carrie is not trolling for booty calls. May I suggest that you program Loretta Lynn's immortal song "You Ain't Woman Enough To Take My Man" into your answering message, Carrie?)

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7. Hoochies have hearing difficulties and leave messages for Cody - even when the voicemail says "Hi this is Carrie, not Cody. He doesn't have this number anymore."

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8. Drunk dialing is a great hoochie pasttime. (My note: At least you can't get a STD from it!)

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9. Hoochies think - after calling YOU and waking you in the middle of the night and you answer the phone with WHAT!!?! - that they have the right to get all indignant. (My note: Once again, a topic that should be covered during the " Pretty Woman manners and ladylike behavior" week at Hoochie Boot Camp)

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1o. Hoochies are not amused when you say "Oh yes, Cody said you were okay enough for a booty call" and using many colorful swear words tell you what they plan to do to you and Mr. Cody the next time you cross paths. (My note: let us hope this phone does not have a GPS on it)

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11. If you want to irritate a hoochie, call her back at 8 am. She'll be sleeping. (My note: See No. 4)

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12. If you really want to irritate a hoochie, program her phone number into the fax machine at work and have it try to send her a fax at 7:30 am. Be sure to select "continue redial until successful."

13. Hoochies believe that cursing at a fax machine will make it stop. It doesn't. (My note: How interesting! Sometimes it works with my computer, I knoweth not why)

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14. Engineers tilt their little heads just like my dog does and look confused at the sound of Hoochie cursing emanating from the fax machine. (My note: they don't curse a lot at MIT, I guess, unless they get a B+ grade)

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15. Project managers and marketing people laugh and shoot coffee from their noses. (My note: obviously, they are men and women of the world)

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Poor Carrie! Will she ever be able to stop this ceaseless intrusion into her life and cell phone minutes? Will Cody ever find Twue Love and actually notify his Hoochie Harem? Did Cody get his contacts? Inquiring minds want to know.

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Stay tuned.

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By the way, my next blog post is entitled and once again, to quote Dave Barry, I am not making this up : "I once spoke with the alleged sperm donor in the Michael Jackson case, oh and one of my efriends have her zits squeezed by the one & only Debbie Rowe. Hey, tabloids! I'll spill all for the right cash settlement!"

Going Green, Going Nuts

carolinagirls@att.net (clueless carolinagirl) — Wed, 24 Jun 2009 18:09:00 +0000

Dear Credit Card Companies,

Thank you for all the suggestions to "go green" and receive only email statements. I really appreciate this. While you're busy jacking interest rates through the roof, sending letters with type the size of one molecule that announce the latest exorbitant fee increase for any late payments, changing the date payments are due, reminding us that if we bank online and the payment doesn't make it to your doorstep by that special day then we'll owe you another $30.00 or so on top of the interest rates you charge, it's comforting and touching to know that you have a minute or so in your busy lives (cough) to worry about the environment.

I'll have you know, Credit Card Companies, that I'm NO SPRING CHICKEN--I'm sure you've figured that out when you see 1959 in the DOB column--yep--right after the Civil War, or was it WWII? I can't remember. Obviously, my memory is not what it used to be.

But I digress. I've been a fervent environmentalist ever since I saw this tear jerking movie in 1970 or so called "Say Goodbye" which implied that by the time I was, well, NO SPRING CHICKEN that the planet would consist of arid deserts devoid of ways to support life.

And I am doing the best I can. How about the fact that I drive a small 2006 Nissan Sentra to work WITHOUT TURNING ON THE AIR CONDITIONER? True, that has something to do with the fact that I can't afford to pay for the gas it would take to use it, and I can tolerate extremely high temperatures without swooning. Believe it or not kids, but Gram here remembers a day when middle class families had ONE tv and ONE window air conditioner in the family room. At night, windows were opened and fans turned on.

We have also stopped using the dryer this summer, put in new energy efficient windows last year, and were forced to install a new H/A unit two years ago when our old one died a horrid death on the hottest day of the year. (Be sure to read my touching obituary entitled "Requiem For An Air Conditioner") Ah, I shall remember that certain Friday night at 10:20 PM when the old unit gave a last pathetic gurgle and died forever....I am trying to go green, so that I might keep some green in my wallet.

My point? You're asking me what the point of this entry is? Well, that is an excellent question and I shall answer you. You see, I had a credit card with Citibank and patriotically agreed to get only email statements. Then we had a most unfortunate series of events with the old folks in our happy little nuclear family. Everybody got sick and I got distracted. Then I *had* to have an Iphone. So that meant changing phone companies. Then I had to get a new email. And so on and so forth, and what happened was that I forgot to notify Citibank of the change in our email address.

You did get my attention with the urgent overnight letter, and I called you, apologized for the mixup, and asked what my balance was so that I could pay it off. I then asked how much of that balance was fines. $120.00. That's right. ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY DOLLARS. Citibank, I understand that the years and years that I have paid my bill on time, in full, and faithfully mean nothing to you, and that THE RULES prevent you from reducing it any further than $60.00, but I still think that SIXTY DOLLARS is a lot of money for one honest mistake. And I made a mistake. Indeed I did. I accept responsibility for it. But still--sixty dollars???

Believe it or not, I idiotically accidentally clicked on another company's fervent request to receive "handy and easy electronic statements!" I got my first email from them the other day and clicked on the link provided. It led me to another company that I had to sign up with in order to pay my bill online. NO THANK YOU. I immediately called them and requested that they switch us back to paper statements STAT.

Let's face it. While it is quite possible for snail mail to go astray, it's also even more possible that a glitch somewhere in a circuit board might result in an email not reaching you, innocent consumer. I sincerely recommend that you request paper statements from your credit card companies.

Frankly, I am sincerely concerned about the amount of paper I receive and may I make a suggestion on how to cut down on some of it?

STOP SENDING ME CREDIT CARD OFFERS EVERY FREAKING DAY URGING ME TO TAKE OUT ANOTHER CARD AND RUN UP SOME MORE DEBT.

It's just a thought.

Smooches!

Lorrie

Update 4:52 PM...I binged "citibank ceo" and found a phone number that connected me with their corporate office, and the nice person I talked to removed all fines and charges. Yowsa! Thanks, Citibank, you rock!!! But your front line staff still told me they "couldn't" remove any more than they did, and when I asked to speak to someone higher up, they "couldn't do that" either.

Update 8:26 PM.....And...our governor Mark Sanford is a total idiot, and once again South Carolina is the laughingstock of the country thanks to his moronic behavior. Somewhere in the handbook called "Governor For Dummies" it MUST say "Don't be the only governor in the country to reject a much needed stimulus package" and it also must say somewhere "Don't disappear for days and then show back up and confess that you journeyed to Argentina for an assignation on Father's Day Weekend." I just know it!!!

And Her Thighs Quivered With Unbridled Lust

carolinagirls@att.net (clueless carolinagirl) — Wed, 10 Jun 2009 21:41:00 +0000

My parents made some terrible mistakes raising me, all of which I intend to reveal in my upcoming biography "MY PARENTS WERE CRAZY."

But they did one thing right.

They taught be to be bored by porn.

Now I realize that might need explaining.

I really, truly, seriously doubt if my parents gave a second thought to what books I was reading. Not that I was going to bookstands and requesting a copy of Playgirl or anything. But if I spotted a book at a yard sale for five cents, it was happily purchased for me.

I've always read well ahead of my years. In fact, when I was in 2nd grade I pitched a fit because a school librarian refused to let me check out a tome on Shakespeare. I was such a pretentious little snot that I already had the idea that someday I would write a book about myself, and I thought this would be a charming story that would impress my audience with my o-ver-whel-ming brill-i-ance.

The librarian--and as Dave Barry said, I am not making this up, refused to let me check out a Shakespeare play but instead directed me to a book -- "Ben and Me" by Robert Lawson that I enjoyed so much that I regularly migrate to the children's section of the library to read it again. And if I'm ever shipwrecked on a deserted island I'll certainly choose a collection of Robert Lawson books over the entire set of Shakespeare's tomes.

By the time I was Madeleine's age (11 in September!) , I had amassed an impressive collection of "soft" (no pun intended) pornographic novels. At least they described, in vivid detail, um, the, um, you know, thing you, um, do when two people, um, love each other very much--and very often. But they did have a story line.

My two favorites were "Valley of the Dolls" and "The Godfather" which I had to get rid of for two reasons: 1. They were falling apart and 2. If you picked them up, the pages automatically opened to the scene with Anne and Lyon (Valley) and the scene with Sonny and the bridesmaid (Godfather)

Anyway, I read all that stuff, and I turned out perfectly all right. A paragon of morality. My first kiss didn't happen until I was nineteen. (Being a rather dorky looking kid didn't have anything to do with that, of course)

And sure, I read a lot of silly romance novels by Danielle Steel, Nora Roberts, Catherine Coulter, etc. But you know what? When someone starts trembling with lust, I skip to the page where the killer gets revealed or someone gets a diamond ring or a plane ticket to Paris or into a fight with her pawnbroker, or something.

I am perfectly confident in my ability to raise my small doppelganger Madeleine. (See? I also amassed an impressive vocabulary). Saintly little Meredith? I have to rely on her father to figure her out. I just don't get a kid who is practically perfect. I mean, if she chopped down a cherry tree, she'd totally confess. Madeleine would blame it on a gang of roving cherry tree choppers who were protesting against going green.

So I let Madeleine read whatever she wants--within reason, of course. She was heavily into Seventeen when she was nine. She enjoys the articles. Really, she only reads it for the articles.

Then, for some unfathomable reason, I started getting free copies of Cosmopolitan delivered to my home. I picked it up with interest. I enjoyed Cosmopolitan very much when I was a young(er) woman. Back in the good old days, Cosmo was filled with interesting stories and profiles by some world famous writers. Helen Gurley Brown was famously cheap, but she hired some excellent writers. And articles were as long as four or five pages and covered topics outside the bedroom. Today....

OH. MY. FREAKING. GAWD.

No. Just...NO.

I'm far from being a prude, and I hang with people of candor and great wit, and not all of their jokes and emails are G rated....but honestly, they need to change the name of that magazine to Brain-Dead Slutmopolitan. The articles all sound as if they were written (and I use the term "written" very generously) by Paris Hilton. They are usually one page long and contain explicit descriptions of about fourteen sexual acts on that page. I can honestly state that there is no SOCIALLY REDEEMING VALUE to the articles unless you enjoy reading about makeup, shoes, clothes, that thing that people who love each other do, or a list of current movies. I mean, unless you really crave knowing about the nicknames that the various young starlets have, or what they consider to be the best part of their body.

I have called the magazine TWICE to ask them to STOP sending me copies. And they still...ah....come. (No pun intended) What do I do with them? I suppose I could save them and take them to my gynocologist's waiting room, which is filled with boring magazines like "Rich People's Houses" but if I hide them where Madeleine can't find them, I won't be able to remember where I hid them.

help!

The Muse Strikes

carolinagirls@att.net (clueless carolinagirl) — Thu, 04 Jun 2009 18:26:00 +0000

September, 1962-Lorrie and Caroline

ADOPTION RAP

So we're adopted-ok, big deal
Lotta people tellin' us what we oughta feel
Why doncha keep your big mouth shut
And quit talkin' oucha butt
Everybody sayin' we're all messed in the head
I guess you'd rather us be dead

October, 1966-Lorrie and Caroline

Some days I'm sad, some days happy
I know this is rap but I'm gonna get sappy
Love my family so, so much
Always there with their lovin' touch
Father Knows Best, Donna Reed Show
My childhood was like that doncha know

Easter, 1985

So now we got two kids of our own

Thank you China for your generous loan
God looked down and made a match
One kid's my clone I coulda hatched

Madeleine Margaret Chen

The other one acts just like her dad
They're so sweet don't know how to be bad

Meredith Grace Li-Pei

I respect your feelings I swear it's true
Once I felt exactly like you...

but I got something I need to say
To the lady who shoots the IVF
I hope those drugs don't cause your death *
You just gotta have onna "your own"
You don't have the bling, just get a loan.

You dismiss adoption as an elective
They "need a good home" but you're scared they're defective
Different color, different eyes don't groove

Scared your family might not approve
Funny thing 'bout that perfect kid, boo
You could give birth to one with problems too

So you say why'd you go to China

You coulda adopted from South Carolina
We tried and I bet you'll never guess
Biracial? AA? We said YES!
The Man looked at us and said HECK NO
So that's why we had to go
Half the way around the world
To get our gorgeous fabulous girls...

Don't wanna be hatin' on people who employ
another path--I wish you all joy
Just remember if you have to have "your own"
One day you might be all alone.

*Gilda Radner, Liz Tilberis, me-fertility treatment, OC. In my case, fertility treatment has made me into a semi invalid due to a long and complicated serious of painful and expensive problems. A link? I believe so. copyright Lorrie, all rights reserved

adoption
adoption + international
china + adoption
infertility

As Told To....Holy Communion

carolinagirls@att.net (clueless carolinagirl) — Fri, 29 May 2009 21:43:00 +0000

Hi. I'm Madeleine. One more week of school, and I'll be a rising 6th grader. Nice to meet you.

This is my mom, Lorrie. She pretty much runs things around here.

Don't tell Daddy I said that.

Here she is again. Don't tell her, but she's sucking in her stomach as hard as she can, the gold jewelry cost $1.00 and her shirt cost $1.00. She got it at a consignment store. Plus she gets her hair done at Walmart. When I get big, I plan to be REALLY classy. Easy--I'll just ask mom where do stuck up people go who don't "know how to manage money and be thrifty" and then I'll go to where the stuck up people go.

ANYWAY, she made Daddy drive Meredith and me to stupid religion classes every Wednesday night for a whole YEAR so we could be baptized and receive Holy Communion as young Catholics. Then the women asked Daddy to be a substitute teacher a lot, so he got to teach 6th graders. Daddy's a real sucker. Don't tell him I said that either. He was raised Catholic, and we wanted to also 'cause all our cousins who live in Columbia are, and they're really cool. I mean like Alex, Kody, Kendall, and Logan rock.

Mom refuses to change from the Episcopal Church. She says when priests can be women and marry and when the Church blesses gay marriages, she'll reconsider her position. She says she took holy vows when she was confirmed Episcopalian, and that is that. Personally, I just think she's too lazy to go to religious school. Funny how she always picked that night to "work late."

I'd rather go swimming...note my newly pierced ears! Woot!

And Meredith would rather go swimming....

Or just chill and play with our puppy Callie....

But we have to do what adults tell us to. Totally bites.

So the first thing we had to do was get all dressed up. This is a picture from my Holy Communion in 2007.

And so is this one.

So naturally we had to go through the whole thing again with Mom screaming, "SMILE!" and Daddy screaming "We'll be LATE!"

I'm having so much fun I can hardly stand it.

Then we were off to church....

I gave Meredith some advice on how to fake looking all holy and good and stuff like that.

I think I did a good job, don't you?

Once I got Meredith all indoctrinated, I grabbed Mom's Iphone and started texting my friends. Mom is very understanding, I'll have to say. She says church is boring unless the priest has an interesting sermon or a good hymn she can sing. She sings horribly, but it's good and loud.

Finally it was over with and time for pictures.

Meredith shot this picture of Mom and Dad. Mom wore proper shoes in church, but brought her flip flops to change into afterwards.

More pictures...

Here we are with Daddy and his parents.

Meredith got some cool gifts, but nobody gave ME anything, so I ignored everybody and decided to text again.

And then we all went home and Meredith fell asleep early. It was a long day!

THE END.

holy communion
catholic

Alzheimer's

carolinagirls@att.net (clueless carolinagirl) — Mon, 25 May 2009 20:45:00 +0000

Started on Monday.....

It's a quiet day at the office. There is no traffic on the roads. I expect to drive home very fast tonight.

Right now I'm enjoying a minute of solitude in my office. No frantic clients are beating down the door, no students are begging to register, it's just me and Corky (the name inexplicably given to my laptop computer my Meredith). And I have a minute to breathe and talk about Alzheimer's.

As most of you know, my mother has Alzheimer's. "She's dying of Alzheimer's," I used to say. Now I look at her and wonder fearfully if she will live. She would not want to be alive with her brain destroyed. She grew up on a farm where they still chopped heads off chickens and was potty trained in an outhouse. (They got indoor plumbing when she was four). She and Dad were fiercely determined not to live assisted by machinery. Fortunately she has ironclad documents that will allow us to forgo them when the time comes. Fortunately my sister and I are in complete agreement about that.

She sits in a wheelchair now, eyes blank. They light up when we come into the room. I noticed that her room had dying flowers the last trip, so for Mother's Day I was seized with an inspiration. During all the ballet recitals we had attended, I noticed kids being presented with flower bouquets. Too cheap to buy new ones that were ignored by the kids, I went to the dollar store and bought a gaudy bunch of red carnations and a pretty bunch of pink roses. I grabbed the pink roses to take to Mom for Mother's Day. They really are pretty and you would have to look carefully to see that they are

fake.

Finished today...

Inherited? I'm adopted, and glad to be so. Let's go back to the olden days. My maternal grandmother, Mary, was born in 1888. In 1953, she was a farm wife. Her husband keeled over from a heart attack one day. She kept the farm going with the help of her youngest two sons for several years, then the land was divided into plots and both sons began other careers. My grandfather had asked-no-demanded--that his children pursue careers that were safer than farming.

In 1955 Mary into a small trailer to make her housekeeping duties easier. Somewhere in there she lost her sight from untreated glaucoma, and most of her memory. She kept going until about 1967 when her mind began to fail and the siblings decided to ship her around so each one had his turn at taking care of her. She was very sweet and vague. I couldn't carry on a real conversation with her. She would just sort of smile.

Naturally, being a know it all teenage snot, I informed my parents that Gram probably had Alzheimer's. I refused to think that it could be inherited lalalalalalalala fingers in ears I can't hear you. It became a lot more obvious when Mom's oldest sister was definintely diagnosed with Alzheimer's.

Here's what they don't tell you about Alzheimer's. The net makes it sound like you start out not being able to remember things, etc., and then eventually you lose the ability to function, and you go a nursing home, and eventually you die, as we all do eventually. Sounds like a gentle walk into the night--or down a strange street if you escape from your house in later stages without being caught.

Here's what they DON'T tell you. The worst thing about Alzheimer's may surprise you. It devastates me to see mom staring blankly into space most of the time but the worst part is over.

You see, in 2002 or so Mom's whole personality changed. I do not know if my aunt or grandmother's experienced this, or to what degree. They lived in different places, at another time. But she became a raging, needy bitch. There really is no tactful way to put it. She became nothing but a voice on the phone, whining and demanding. The kids were used to hearing me scream "if that's mom don't answer it!" because her conversation consisted of

1. Her bowel movements
2. Her "low down" feeling--like a drag in the pelvic reason. Why? She had that for 30 years and nobody ever figured out why.
3. Drop what you are doing right now and bring me a hamburger/change the oil in my car/ drive me to the doctor/ run an errand. Of course we didn't mind helping her out at all. The tone of her voice changed from asking nicely to demanding, though, and everything needed to be done this exact second.
4. How unhappy and miserable she was.

My sister and I begged her to take antidepresants. Her doctor gave her a prescription and she took one and decided it didn't "agree with her." I actually considering mashing up the pills and putting them in her milk.

The night that stands out in my head began with a dream party in 2004. A Saturday night in the summer. You know the party where everything is going right? You look good. Your dh looks good. Your hilarious, intelligent friends are at the top of their game. The food and drinks were ambrosial. And it was well worth the 50 mile drive to their place in the country.

The girls were 6 and 4 and behaved like angels. We relaxed in the light of a thousand Christmas tree type lights strung on trees surrounding the huge outdoor eating area.

At 9:30 my cell rang. To this day I wonder why I picked it up. It was mom ordering us to leave the party right this minute and drive her to urgent care for some non emergency condition. I don't remember what; the evening is a merciful blur at that point. I told her we just could not do that. If she was ill, call an ambulance. Call a friend to take her. In desperation I offered to pay for a taxi. No. She wanted us, and she wanted us NOW.

I said no. She did not go to urgent care and the next morning she was just fine.

I carried the guilt around for years, and the party fun was of course ended with that phone call for me. Now I feel even worse knowing it was the disease talking and not my fan-frickin-tastic mom.

I guess the lesson is that if an older person suddenly morphs into an alien being you ought to be looking for nursing homes.

I keep going around saying, "Well at least she is not in any physical pain," but one tiny, hideously selfish part of me wants her to have a disease with pain (just a little bit, controlled by drugs) and have her mind intact. But you can't bargain with the Deity. You play the cards you get.

I say this and yet the mental distress the poor woman suffered was immense and went on for years. Already afflicted with both agoraphobia (fear of leaving home) and hypochondria (I have never once in my life heard mom say she feels great), the disease fed off of these the way gasoline feeds off of a fire. The result was such sadness, and such depression.

So...I'm wondering if this is the last Mother's Day that I'll ever spend with Mom.

We took the girls and they played the violin for Mom.

Mom enjoyed it.

And I hugged her and told her goodbye and that I loved her and that she was the best mom ever. Here's the deal: I have some mild hearing loss. Had it since birth. Could never hear the secrets little girls whispered in my ear. I just looked at them and smiled or frowned, depending on the look on their faces.

Roger said that he heard mom reply, "I love you too, Lorrie."

I missed it.

I hope I will hear it the next time.

If there is one.

Alzheimer's
Alzheimer
Alzheimer's disease

old memories return to haunt me

carolinagirls@att.net (clueless carolinagirl) — Sun, 17 May 2009 19:41:00 +0000

Spring fever means wondering about the road not taken. But I slap myself silly sometimes and remember this quote.

Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not.

But remember that what you have now was once among the things you only hoped for.

*********************

**********************

More later, I promise...

I'M A PUBLISHED AUTHOR!!!!!

carolinagirls@att.net (clueless carolinagirl) — Mon, 11 May 2009 17:19:00 +0000

Hi!

Yeah I know....you parents know, and if you haven't had the pleasure of procreating or adopting, let me clue you in. Springtime is where you gas up the car, buy the fancy dresses, recharge the batteries on the camera, and transport the darling to various ceremonies while you choke back the tears and count the years. (Look at what a genius I am--I just composed another poem!)

But hey, I'm on a roll! Let's go:

A POEM

Grading papers

Going to court

Holy Communion

Muffins For Moms

Parent-Teacher Conferences

Filling out forms

Violin recitals

Busy

By: Lorrie (all rights reserved)

And by the way, I'm in a BOOK!!!!!

Here it is!!

Here's the link: http://www.dillonadopt.com/Store.htm

What's A Homosexual?

carolinagirls@att.net (clueless carolinagirl) — Fri, 17 Apr 2009 21:38:00 +0000

My parents believed in total frankness. They were generations ahead of their time. I asked Mom this question when I was about 10 and she said, "Let's look it up in the dictionary." So we did. It said that homosexuals were people who preferred to have sex with people of the same sex.

"But Mom...what do they, um, DO?"

"I don't know."

We're talking about the same woman who earned a master's degree in Public Health from the University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill and didn't understand why she was being asked to evaluate saliva samples from prostitutes for the Florida State Board of Health.

We had several closeted gay members of our family and it Just Was Not Discussed until I attained the age of teenagerhood where I felt the need to enlighten the moronic adults of the facts of life. Everybody just shrugged and say, well, maybe they are, but it's none of our business.

A few minutes ago:

Madeleine: Can I watch anything I want on YouTube?

Me: As long as it doesn't have a lot of nasty cussing.

Madeleine: Whew! I was just watching two lesbians kissing.

Me: Okay.

Madeleine: Why do people do stuff like that?

Me: When I was kid and as a grown up, I wanted to hug and kiss and marry a boy. Some people want to hug and kiss and marry boys, some want to hug and kiss and marry girls. It doesn't have a thing to do with them being bad people. Don't ever let anybody tell you anything different!!!

And people should be allowed to marry anybody they want, but they can't in this stupid state. But if a boy wants to marry a boy, he should, and if a girl wants to marry a girl, she should be able to. Remember I showed you my friends -- a family with two girls who are married and have kids? And you know your uncle is gay.

Madeleine: Yeah, and he's really cool. Man does he give us great presents.

And off she goes.

He Lives In You

carolinagirls@att.net (clueless carolinagirl) — Sat, 04 Apr 2009 18:43:00 +0000

On Tuesday night, we attended a "Get To Know You" orientation at the new middle school that Madeleine will attend in the fall.

The place looked familiar. And for good reason. For the school opened its doors in the fall of 1970 and a surly, ponytailed child with glasses the size of Coke bottles, buck teeth and saddle oxfords entered the doors as a 6th grader.

Me.

Things have changed since 1970. It's ONLY for 6th graders. I like that. 6th grade is the year that children are transformed into tweenagers, and I like the idea that there won't be 7th and 8th grade boys around checking out the new crop.

The classes are now single gender. Again, two thumbs up!! Madeleine is not pleased, but I told her the boyz weren't behind barbed wire--she'll still see them at lunch and recess.

Also, the place has been redecorated and looks like a cruise ship. They offer so many electives and fun courses (tennis, anyone?) that I half expected them to announce free massages after recess. They're trying to pull in the prep school crowd--the crowd that has attended expensive private schools. Math and English have three levels. The top level of math primes students to start studying Algebra in the 7th grade. I couldn't have been more pleased about the last two years in public schools, and if this school is 1/2 as cool as it looks, I think I'll be just as pleased. Madeleine will go into Strings II automatically since she's already had 2 years of lessons. The spring field trip is to ORLANDO. I think we got to go to the state house once.

I was, naturally, awash in a wave of nostalgia. I showed the girls the brick column I ran into because I was so busy talking to some of the Popular Crowd that I wasn't watching where I was going. They were...unimpressed. The fact that Mom attended this school impressed them about as much as if I had said that Abraham Lincoln had attended this school. We are now the Ancients, of course. Relegated to wallet emptying and taxi services.

But in this transitory society of ours, I think that one day Madeleine will tell a friend that she started 6th grade at the school her Mom attended with pride.

As the Lion King says, "He Lives In You." Long after I have departed this earth, I hope that I have descendants alive who might tell a story I told, use a measuring cup that I used (I snagged mom's, who got it from her mom. It's tin). They might remember a favorite song that I liked. Daddy's song was "Fever" by Peggy Lee and Mom's song was "These Dreams" by Heart. I'll make sure the girls know this. Who knows, maybe they'll read this blog once I have it made into a book. I have mom's diary that she kept when I was an infant and it means the world to me. Maybe they'll listen to the Beatles since it was their dad's favorite band.

Mom's time on earth is slowly drawing to a close, but my parents live in me. They taught me how to laugh (I've often said you could film a sitcom simply by aiming a camera at our dinner table). They taught me to take hard blows simply because I watched. They never said We Told You So. They let us learn our own lessons.

I hope this doesn't sound unbearably cheesy. But sitting there in the cafeteria at my old middle school, I felt proud that I was able to pass on a family tradition. I could feel my ancestors around me, lifting me up as I go through my own crucible of fire. I vowed to pass their lessons and stories on to the next generation and add some of my own and I'm sure Roger has his own stories to tell.

He Lives In You.

Lesson Learned

carolinagirls@att.net (clueless carolinagirl) — Sun, 29 Mar 2009 17:51:00 +0000

Madeleine got the rejection letter this week.

She failed to get into the Sooper Genyus Art Camp. "Competition was fierce," read the letter. "More than 500 kids auditioned for 50 positions. We wish you the very best in all of your future endeavors."

She took it well. She had to play a piece, do simple exercises with the violin, and answer questions posed to her by three strangers.

She made a mistake on her piece and they cut her off in midstream. I told her to play a simple piece perfectly, not try a piece she didn't know by heart and screw it up, but we hired a private tutor for her and he talked her into a piece that I fear was beyond her abilities unless she had practiced it far more diligently than she did. She took First Chair at the school orchestra without practicing--she plays with the USC orchestra on Thursday nights without practicing--why practice?

She also had to answer questions and she is terribly, terribly shy. This is not me. At that age I could have engaged three adults in a conversation without breaking a sweat. I was born without a shy bone in my body. When I'm "on stage" I come alive. I am great at standing up in court and arguing for my client or teaching a class. Being an actress never interested me though. I took Acting 101 in college just out of curiosity and realized that there were bad actresses--and then there was me. I still remember playing Emily from Our Town in a sketch and realizing that if you could rate acting talent in negative numbers, I'd be a winner.

Lesson learned--maybe? Takes more than talent, it takes WORK.

Brilliant children are showered with praise, encouragement, awards, doting teachers etc. ....and they never have to lift a finger. Madeleine can read an assignment once and make 100 on a test the next day. Study? What is that? She missed a few questions in 3rd grade, when the tests started to get more intense, and explained that she had "short-term memory loss." I nodded my head sympathetically and suggested that this terrible disease could be cured by studying. It didn't take. She hardly sat down during the awards program that year--Best Speller, Best Overall Third Grade Student, Best Behaved, yawn. The year before her school had stopped spelling bees since Madeleine won them every time and the other kids gave up trying.

Meredith brings home Best Behaved, Most Compassionate, etc. awards (they don't start grading them till 3rd grade in the public school) and Madeleine brings home countless Honor Student awards. Our refrigerator is covered with them.

HOW can you explain to a child like this that getting ahead in life requires WORK?

This might have done it. Maybe.

I haven't said anything. I haven't said "Told you so," although it took heroic control to keep my yap shut. As she advances into 6th grade next year, more failures lie ahead. And this is one lesson that she is going to have to learn the hard way.

The Dragon Grins

carolinagirls@att.net (clueless carolinagirl) — Sat, 28 Feb 2009 04:34:00 +0000

I try not to dwell on the fact that I have a painful disease called Fibromyalgia that will never be cured, just "managed." But sometimes I feel sad and hopeless. I started this blog in 2005. I read over my old entries and think how funny I used to be. I try not to dwell on it, but sometimes I think how easy it would be to just slip away from this life. But I can't and I won't. I signed a contract with China and God to raise my children and walk into the sunset with my man and I plan to honor my promises.

Anyway, I can't wait sometimes to see how it all turns out and I'm thankful that I have a management program (guai) that will someday tame the beast that lives in my body.

But there's a poem written by Ray White that sums up what fibro will do to you. I'd like to share it with you. Remember, sometimes I look great to the outside world, but I'm loaded up with pain pills and muscle relaxants, trying to get through another day with the beast.

THE DRAGON GRINS

The doctor explains to me that I have a Dragon that has come to possess me. This Dragon is mean. This Dragon is deceiving and destructive. "But" the doctor says, "We can work at keeping this Dragon down."

"What is this Dragon's name?" I ask.

The doctor in his professional calmness says "The Dragon is FMS." The doctor explains to me ways we are going to keep him down. "Feed the Dragon some meds like Trazodone or Elavil. Do some light exercise, maybe the Dragon will get tired and leave you alone for a while."

I turn to leave and for the first time I see this Dragon. He looks at me with those evil yellow eyes,

and the Dragon grins.

I say to myself that Dragons can be slain. I read that in stories at school. The armor clad knight slaying the Dragon and triumphantly returning to town.

As I am in this daydream the Dragon jumps on me. I wrestle with him. His hot breath sears my head. His roar makes my ears ring. He leaves me in a pile of flesh on the ground. I ache all over. Some parts of my body are painful to touch. I am exhausted as I pick myself back up again. The Dragon looks back to me --

and the Dragon grins.

"I hate you Dragon." I scream as he walks away. I feed the Dragon the medication prescribed. Slowly at first, then increasing a little as time goes by. I do begin a little exercise. I change some of my diet and increase the carbohydrates. I am starting to feel better. Wow! I can go back to work now. With joy I move about relatively pain free. And I say to myself, "Maybe I have beat this Dragon. Maybe the Dragon was only my imagination. I was just a little depressed and down, but now life is great."

I look to the sky and see dark clouds looming. A cold North wind starts to blow. I hear a thunderous pounding of footsteps. I have heard that sound watching Jurassic park, but I'm not watching the movie. Boom..... Boom... Boom... I don't see anything. Boom...Boom... I panic and start to run. I don't know where to run, but I just run. The pounding gets closer and louder. I feel breath on my neck. I dare not turn around as I try to run faster...faster. A claw grabs my shoulder. Searing hot pain rips down my back. I stumble and get back up. This time something trips me and I roll to my back, staring upward. Terror runs through my body.

The Dragon has returned! "You can't escape" the Dragon yells, "YOU ARE MINE!!" I try to get up as the Dragon slams my body back to the ground. I can hardly stand the pain as he tortures me by stomping my hands. With his teeth he pulls at muscles in my back and legs. He burns my head with intense fiery breath. The battle is finally over. He stares at my crumpled body as I try to get focused on this beast. My eyes finally clear enough to see,

and the Dragon grins.

Days pass. My fingers no longer work like they used to. My muscles feel like the second day of Olympic training, but the sensation does not leave. My head is not clear. I do not see well at night. Parts of me are cold and clammy. I am stiff. Why did the Dragon beat me so hard? When I try to sleep, the Dragon slaps me awake several times at night. Sometimes I am freezing. In bed I awake drenched in sweat. It hurts to stand. It hurts to sit. My mind says one thing and my mouth says another.

And the Dragon grins.

Sometimes I think I am in a nightmare and will just someday wake up, the real me. I don't look sick, so why do I feel so bad. Friends and family laugh when I mess up on my words talking to them. I feel stupid looking in the refrigerator and not knowing why or walking around in circles either not finding what I was after or forgetting what I was looking for.

If I am driving at night and it starts to rain, the road disappears. And it is not uncommon to go somewhere and then make wrong turns coming back. My mind said turn right, but my body said left. I can go somewhere and not remember how I got there. I am not dumb, just not "connected" anymore.
Outwardly I laugh and play, but inside I have to cry sometimes.

And the Dragon grins.
fibromyalgia
fibro
fibro pain

Christmas With The Machete Hanging Over My Head Part I

carolinagirls@att.net (clueless carolinagirl) — Sun, 15 Feb 2009 03:05:00 +0000

Hey, what better time to chronicle Christmas than on Valentine's Day? Watch for the Valentine's Day post on Easter. Actually, I'll sum up V-Day around here. Zippo. We don't believe in spending zillions of dollars on a holiday manufactured by Hallmark yada yada.

Our love is so beautiful, fabulous, perfect, wonderful, eternal, timeless that we don't need anything else. Around here it's "Yo! Roger! Do (insert tiresome, boring, devilishly hard chore) here! Every kiss begins with 'Kay!

I'll stop here while you empty your stomach contents.

Well, so the *&*& fool didn't go to the dentist for 3 years and I made him an appointment and then he started going back regularly (because of his terror of me finding out he had stopped again and since *I* had him add Super Dental it's free anyway except for the monthly dental insurance premiums but I digress) And a wonderful dentist found a tiny little sore that turned out to be the beginning of oral cancer which would have probably killed him in 2 years if it had not been detected and I found all this out on December 22, 2008.

December 22 I was calm.
December 23 I was calm
December 24 I woke up and remembered:

1. It was Christmas Eve
2. This was the season of festive joy
3. I had fibromyalgia
4. Mom's dying a slow and agonizing death from Alzheimer's
5. My mom's pastor was celebrating Holy Communion at her nursing home and
6. I was supposed to attend and
7. My husband and mother both had diseases and
8. things looked bad.

And so I started crying and crying and crying and crying and crying and crying and crying and my sister called to see when I was arriving at the nursing home and I replied, "aaaaeeeeeGULPwaaaaaaahGULP" and instead of attending the communion I had Roger drive me to the local mental hospital. Where I very seriously considered checking in, except that it was Christmas Eve and I didn't want to ruin it For Da Chilluns plus I didn't know how much my insurance would cover and I figured I'd be even MORE depressed if I got a bill for $30,000 in a few months.

I spilled my guts to an intake counselor and asked for a shot of something or a pill to just let me slide gently through the next two days and got a hearty thumbs up and no drugs and a referral to a counselor. Which I ignored. Why am I depressed? I think I have it figured out. And now that Roger has an "all clear" from his oncology oral surgeon I am not terribly depressed. I'm not HAPPY HAPPY JOLLY JOLLY but one day the ordeal with Mom will be over, my fibro will be controlled, and I'll be really happy again. In fact, I have good days.

So we did Christmas Eve and I felt...happy. And when I saw the looks on the kids faces when they saw Razor Scooters and Rock Band 2 for Wii under the tree I felt...happy. And when they asked me to sing "Eye Of The Tiger" I felt...ecstatic. Nobody has EVER asked me to sing before, considering that I would definitely appear on "Worst Of American Idol" auditions if I ever tried out.

And now, after hearing "Eye Of The Tiger" 432 times, I'm...not so happy with that song anymore. Even though Survivor is one of my favorite bands ever. In fact, I chose the lyrics from "The Search Is Over" to announce Madeleine's adoption

and the lyrics from "High On You" to announce Meredith's adoption.

Yes, I do realize that the songs are about adult romances, but the lyrics applied so well to the love we feel for our daughters and the miracle of finding them literally on the other side of the world, I changed them in my mind to songs about our beautiful daughters. It's funny, but Meredith DOES have "piercing eyes....like a raven."

Christmas With The Machete Hanging Over My Head Part II

carolinagirls@att.net (clueless carolinagirl) — Sun, 15 Feb 2009 01:16:00 +0000

Pictures...

THE SEASON BEGINS

Madeleine Margaret

Won First Chair at school orchestra

Recommended to audition for Sooper Genyus Art Camp

Plays with the University Of South Carolina Orchestra at Thursday practice sessions

Meredith Grace

First year violin student.

Sister Act

Madeleine's first real concert!!!!!

Mother! Please sit down with the rest of the nice parents and quit standing up in front of 200 people to take my picture!

Just one more, okay?

We don't have a Baby Jesus, but this is Baby Callie (poodle)

CHRISTMAS EVE

Incandescent Beauty

Trying to smile for the camera.

I've seen your picture

Your name in lights above it

This is your big debut

It's like a dream come true

And when you smile for the camera

I know they're gonna love it

I like your pin shot

I keep it with your letter

Done up in blueprint blue

It sure looks good on you

So won't you smile for the camera

I know I'll love you better

Peg...

It will come back to you

Peg....

It will come back to you

Then... the shutter falls

You see it all in 3-d..

It's your favorite foreign movie

-Steely Dan lyrics

CHRISTMAS DAY

Waiting in our bedroom before being released and stampeding to the living room to see what Santa brought.

OMG! ROCK BAND 2!!! The picture that makes it all worthwhile

1. Finding it on Barnes & Noble-4 hours of internet searching

2. Ordering it-$220.00
3. Convincing the kids that it wasn't even being released until Dec. 30-Delightful

4. Messing with your children's delicate psyches-PRICELESS

5. Seeing the look on their face- BEYOND PRICELESS

GET IT OPEN. NOW.

And they all lived happily ever after.

Yeah

carolinagirls@att.net (clueless carolinagirl) — Sun, 08 Feb 2009 00:27:00 +0000

Daddy Don't Hit Me

carolinagirls@att.net (clueless carolinagirl) — Tue, 03 Feb 2009 17:36:00 +0000

September 1966

My friends,

Is there anything on earth as boring as a blogger detailing her dreams? I suppose that sitting around watching flowers grow might qualify. But my friends, I'm still shaking. I must tell you.

I've heard people talk about REAL dreams before, but I always thought they had maybe taken a little too much acid. But this was the realest, realest, dream. I was living it. I've had dreams that convinced me they were really going on, you know? Dreams where you wake up shaking. Or dreams where you are falling down steps and you jerk. This dream made me wake up screaming. IT WAS REAL.

I hestitate to tell you about it because it makes my sweet darling Daddy sound like a monster and someone is going to say AHA, she's repressing incidents from her childhood. But rest assured, we LOOKED like Ward, June, and the Beaver, and we WERE Ward, June, and two girls with beavers. I'm sorry! It just flew out of my mouth. We had a lot of stuffed animals including a singing beaver. No, I'm not kidding.

ANYWAY. Disclaimer: None of this is even close to reality. My parents were kind and gentle people who had big dreams for us, but were smart enough to let us set our own goals and the timing of them.

Here's the dream: We were living in my aunt and uncle's house in North Carolina. It was the summer before my senior year. My parents were making me attend summer school. I studied very hard and almost flunked the first session. Daddy announced that I would be going to the second session where I would be studying physics (GAG) and learning to play a new instrument. I had four weeks to pass the hardest course in the world AND learn to play a new instrument.

Reality: I took physics my senior year in high school out of love to please my father and I despised it. He never asked me to. I just wanted to make him happy and become an engineer, his dream for me. (GAG). I come from five generations of scientists. But I hated science.

Reality: Madeleine has been invited to audition for some mega-exclusive super dooper Child Genyus Summer Camp because of her violin. If she gets in, she's on the fast track to Super Genyus Artist Magnet School, 20 applicants for every position, and perhaps Super Genyus Governor's High School of the Arts, 150 applicants for every position, etc, a full scholarship to Julliard, a full professorship in music at Harvard, her own string of CDs, a concert at the Kennedy Center AND Carnegie Hall, and international fame and glory. Maybe that's where the music thing came from. Ten years ago we brought home a fourteen pound child. Ten short years ago. And she liked country music in those days.

Anyway, I wept in my dream and begged him to reconsider. "Please Daddy," I said. I can't learn a semester of physics in 4 weeks. I'll make a F! I can't learn a new instrument in four weeks either! I'll have two Fs, I won't get into college or win a scholarship (both of which did happen IRL). Please, please, Daddy, please reconsider!"

He remained cold and distant and remote. "No. You will do as I say." I was so mad I lost it completely. He was at the stove. I stood on the other side of the stove, the place that divided the kitchen from the family room, FLIPPED HIM THE BIRD, and he turned around with a look of FURY on his face. He started to run after me and I fled as fast as I could down the hall to my room, which I frantically tried to lock. It wouldn't lock! I kept twisting it back and forth, knowing I had five minutes to live (or survive after being severely beaten).

And I woke up. Screaming. I have never awakened up screaming in my life.

Wha.....?????????

All I can figure is that I'm secretly angry at my parents for "leaving" me, and that somehow that transferred into this dream where my loving, gentle father turned into a monster that I hated. It was so final. There was no appeal from his decision. There is no appeal from death and dying. Maybe my mind twisted that into this?

Anybody with any insights? Bueller? Bueller? I'm not kidding, if you have any ideas, share, please. This dream shook me to my core.

So, So Lucky

carolinagirls@att.net (clueless carolinagirl) — Mon, 26 Jan 2009 00:53:00 +0000

You have to go way back in time for this story to make any sense.

*********************

For the first time ever, I've actually made contact with some of the people that populated my parents' lives. My parents moved around constantly as Daddy had this thing about acquiring degrees. He ended up with two masters and one PhD. He'd work awhile and then take a notion to go back to school. I wouldn't even want to try to add up all the places my parents lived since their marriage in 1949.

******************

*******************

Everywhere they went they'd make a couple of friends and it was a lifetime deal for them. Christmas cards would be exchanged, letters written, occasional phone calls or visits would be made. I grew up hearing the whole life story of people I've never met, never will.

*******************

My parents always wrote of all the wonderful things that happened in their lives and all the fabulous accomplishments of their wonderful children, glossing over all the problems. On paper, my sister and I achieved an impressive resume, to be sure: both of us graduated from college early with honors, acquitted ourselves in law school admirably (i.e. we graduated. My sister made Wig And Robe, I graduated), and always managed to scare up a job somewhere.

**************************

We married, my sister had an early divorce, but got a good one the second time around, both adopted adorable kids, etc. etc. etc. ad nauseum. There were years--years! that my sister and I both went through crappy jobs, rotten boyfriends, medical problems, etc. that were never revealed to the adoring public who awaited the glowing missives every year from my beautiful, brilliant, madly-in-love parents.

*************************

**************************

My parents acted like teenagers going steady until the day they died. You think Obama and his wife looked hot for each other? Well, I hate to think of my parents in that way, but from the way they grabbed and kissed each other at the slightest excuse (like if Mom removed a casserole from the oven) I'd say that they were pretty much in love Obama style. And you should see the love letters..And Daddy's favorite song ever was Peggy Lee's "Fever"..which makes me a little squicky..but we had some lovebirds for parents all right. Lucky. Lucky parents. Lucky daughters.

****************

*****************

Some little old bird told me that there were people on the mailing list who didn't greet another unbearably smug but charmingly written (with my father's wonderful sense of humor) Christmas letter from "Ruth and Grady" with smiling anticipation. People who had awful problems.

****************

People who had unresolved, shall we say, ISSUES.

***************

****************

My little old bird was chirping the truth.

****************

***************

So most of the people I've called couldn't be more gracious or caring, (Hi Jim and Doris! Hi Ed and Doris! Hi Vickie and Callie Vick! ) but there's been a few.

****************

*****************

Ok, I present this to you. Mom had a "friend" in high school. JUST A FRIEND. So she was a hot blonde with curly hair and sparking green eyes, so what? They were JUST FRIENDS. HONESTLY.

******************

Her friend, Clarence Smith, wrote her letters all through his service in WWII. We just found another college scrapbook with a towel marked "Aloha!" that he sent her from Hawaii. He sent her about 30 pictures with friendly inscriptions on them, pictures from all over the world. He was quite the well traveled serviceman.

****************

Well, I couldn't care less about the pictures, and I thought that perhaps Clarence Smith would like them. I copied down his number and called him. I got his wife. Clarence, your wife could not have been ruder to me. She was cold and rude from the start of the conversation. She ended it by saying, "I don't think we'd be interested," and hung up the phone. No, "I don't think so, but thanks so much for asking." Maybe they weren't JUST FRIENDS???

*****************

******************

Good Lord Almighty, woman, they were such good friends that Mom asked him to play at her wedding. That doesn't sound like they were anything but friends, or Mom was incredibly insensitive, one or the other. Maybe she was the girl that got away? Maybe he did some talking in his sleep? Maybe the rumor floated back to Mooresville, NC that Mom kept her stunning figure and beautiful face 4-evah--even now, even though she's almost dead, would you believe she still looks pretty and has a great figure? Now I have to figure out if he had any kids who would like the pictures. CLARENCE SMITH'S KIDS--are you out there? Email me! Your mom totally dissed me!

*******************

Next I called a couple that I'll call John and Jane McCrabby. Poor things! You see, they adopted two children at the same time that my parents did. Daddy and John were pals in grad school, and I don't know if Mom and Jane were close. Anyway, they're still living and sentinent, and together, and MOM lost the love of her life eleven years ago and suffered a whole lot, so lady, maybe you could cut her a break, HUH? But her kids have had such horrible luck in life.

*********************

**********************

Ok, we'll start with the oldest, Sue, who is my age. Poor Sue got pregnant at age 15; her parents made her get married. She had a son. The marriage didn't last long, as you can imagine. Sue picked herself up and went back to school, became a nurse, and remarried.

****************

Then, several years ago, her second husband killed himself. Oh Sue, my heart breaks for you. Then her son, we'll call him Sam, got a girl pregnant when HE was a teenager, so Sue became a grandmother before she was 40, I think. Sam's girlfriend ran off and Sam is raising his son alone, or was, anyway.

***********************

The son, age 2, died several years ago very suddenly of bacterial meningitis. Now that is just so much tragedy that it makes me feel like I'm starring in Ozzie and Harriet.

************************

The second child, Roy, is seriously schizophrenic and I don't think he's ever been able to hold down a job.

*************************

**************************

To tell you the truth, I wanted to cheer up the McCrabbies by letting them know that our "perfect, wonderful, beautiful successful" family has had its share of grief and pain. So I called and got Mrs. Crabby on the phone and told her the tragic news about Mom. My jealous bitch radar started to ping mighty hard after the first few SECONDS. She didn't even try to sound sad. I heard--jubilation. I was shocked. I expected some quiet satisfaction once she got off of the phone but I didn't expect her to sound as if I was awarding her a prize from Publisher's Clearing House. After all, the family was friends with ours for 40 years. They visited us. They sent letters and my mom sent letters back. They sent us Christmas cards every year. Daddy and John were great pals and knowing Daddy, I'm sure he did many kind and helpful things for John. I'm sure Mom sent her consoling letters and maybe even flowers each time another tragic missive arrived. At the end of the conversation I asked if she'd like Mom's mailing address and contact number.

************************

*************************

"No," she said. That's all. Just..."No."

At Last

carolinagirls@att.net (clueless carolinagirl) — Wed, 21 Jan 2009 15:10:00 +0000

At last.

There is nothing else to say.

I'm so filled with joy and excitement today. I never thought I'd live to see the day. Now, I wait to see the first female President.

My husband doesn't like to dance. Which is a good thing considering he dances like a chipmunk having a seizure. But I can always lure him out on the floor for a slow dance. Why? Need I explain? THIS IS A G RATED BLOG.

And I KNOW you guys out there say you're happy just being alone. Heck, we moved my mom's furniture out of the attic yesterday and there was a cute mover in his 50s out of a bad divorce who resisted SIX HOURS of my attempts to hook him up with some of my single friends.

But people, when my partner looks in my eyes during a slow dance.... I want it for you. I want you to take the floor while you stare into the eyes of your partner and you sway slowly to the romantic music. I can't help it. There is no better thing in the universe, even chocolate cheesecake with whipped cream.

Except--that Roger's biopsied tissue from this last surgery was squeaky clean and he only has to go back every MONTH! The oncology surgeon was THRILLED with the results!

And the Obama family is in the White House.

Let's dance!

All Quiet On The Southern Front

carolinagirls@att.net (clueless carolinagirl) — Wed, 14 Jan 2009 20:27:00 +0000

Long post coming filled with heartbreak, poignancy, humor, wisdom, and a free lollipop entitled Christmas With A Machete Knife Hanging Over Your Head but I wanted to post a quick update for everybody who was worried about the upcoming surgery.

I knoweth not why, but I a$$$$ume that the new cleanout had to be done at the ho$pital for a good rea$on. All they did was the same thing that the Doctor 1 did -- clip out more stuff. Doctor One shot a load of novacaine into the tongue at his office and clipped and sent Roger off with a lollipop.

Doctor Two had him visit the hospital, where he had to have an EKG and blood test before surgery. They originally had him down for GENERAL ANESTHESIA. But they did local. Doctor Two clipped more stuff out of the tongue, doped him up with local anesthesia, and didn't even give him a complimentary lollipop.

See, originally they were going to do it at the hospital so that the path lab could give immediate updates on margins, but Doctor Two said he wasn't going to rely on those quickie updates. Why he didn't change it back to chair-novacaine clip is beyond my comprehen$ion, but I'm $ure there was $ome good reason. All went well and now we wait for the path results to come back with squeaky clean margins.

Don't want to get Doctor Two upset, though, as Roger's life now rests in his hands. And that, my friends, is, as the card advertisers say:

PRICELESS.

CANCER

carolinagirls@att.net (clueless carolinagirl) — Wed, 31 Dec 2008 19:05:00 +0000

Roger has oral cancer. I want to get this out and face it head on during one of the worst years of my life, 2008.

Let's go back, let's go back, let's go way on way back when. Let's go back to 1970.In July of 1970, a sulking eleven year old named Lorrie (ME!) was being transported from Blacksburg, Virginia, to her new home Columbia, South Carolina.

Two weeks earlier, a young man across town named Roger (MY HUSBAND!) was being told that he had cancer. For those of you who didn't know, Roger was diagnosed with cancer when he was 17 and was given a 2% chance to live. His parents were told that he would be dead before his 18th birthday. He fought it for six horrendous years and managed to finish college and even play basketball during his second senior year in high school. He missed his "real" senior year due to operations, recuperation from same, chemo, radiation, etc.

Let's go back to 1991. A single, surly, 32 year old (ME!) was being told by her new boyfriend (ROGER!) that he had fought cancer for 6 years and could never create a child with me. "Who cares?" I said blithely. "We can always adopt." And I think you know how that story ended. Why if it was a movie, I'd pick a Barry Manilow song!

You wouldn't believe where I've been,

The cities and towns I been in

from Boston to Denver and every town in between.

The people they all look the same,

only the names have been changed.

But now that I'm home again I'll tell you what I believe:

It's a Miracle

a true blue spectacle,

a miracle come true.

We're together baby,

I was goin' crazy till the miracle came through.

Now you're here and my arms are around you

and baby they'll be dancin in the streets

for the miracle, a true blue spectacle,

the miracle is you!!

Now let's go back to September 2007 to an event that I chronicled in a previous blog post. State employees may change dental insurance only every other October. October 2007 was approaching and I vaguely remembered that Roger hadn't been showing me his beautiful just-cleaned-straight-from-the-dentist teeth for a long time. And I worried that he might need massive, expensive dental work. And there's this thing that state employees can get called "Super Dental" which will cover almost all dental expenses. It's expensive though, and I didn't want to add it unless it was needed.

So I called the dentist and the receptionist sternly told me that my darling husband had not been in to see the dentist since 2004. I made an appointment for him, and sure enough, he needed massive dental work, and it was done in January 2008 when the Super Dental went into effect, and we all lived happily ever after.

NOT SO FAST.

Roger went for his regular cleaning and checkup in December and casually mentioned that the dentist had pulled up his tongue and did a digital examination. My perverted mind instantly jumped to a inner discourse over the word "digital" and how it had been somehow reduced to a dirty word, even though it's a perfectly nice little word that simply means that the dentist ran his fingers all over Roger's mouth.

The dentist found a red place on the bottom of Roger's tongue. Now run to the mirror right now and look under your tongue. Does it look familiar? I bet I could count on my fingers (digitally) the number of times I've looked under my tongue--or the number of times a DENTIST had pulled out my tongue to examine it.

"It needs to come off, but he's not real worried," Roger said.

I knew. Somehow, I just knew. I JUST KNEW. But I didn't say anything.

Two weeks later he went to an oral surgeon and they numbed the tongue and clipped it and sent it off for a biopsy. The follow up consult was scheduled for two weeks.

"He didn't seem real worried," Roger said.

I said--nothing.

Monday, December 22.

Roger came in our bedroom at 10:00 AM, back from his appointment. "Not good news," he said. It's MALIGNANT.

I rolled over and sleepily said, "I knew I would save your life someday," and went back to sleep. For I knew this. I knew from the moment that I met him that someday I would save his life. And I knew everything would be ok.

NOT SO FAST.

On Christmas Eve I was in the emergency room begging them for a shot that would stop my crying. I could not stop crying. I have never cried so much in my life. I.Could.Not.Stop.Crying. They gave me a hearty thumbs up and a referral to a psychiatrist.

It mostly IS ok, but the margins are not clean. There is still a tiny amount of malignant cells in his mouth. So he went back yesterday for his first consult with the Next New Doctor, the oncology oral surgeon.

He's going to have the rest of the malignant cells clipped out on January 9. After that he will visit the surgeon once a week for months, then once a month for FIVE years, than, the doctor said, "we will decide if you will come in once a year or once every six months."

Do I need I even tell you how often he will be visiting this doctor after five years? No, I didn't think so.

"It was caught very early," said the doctor. I'd say you're very, very lucky." For you see, a painless RED or WHITE or BLACK patch in the mouth should be removed and biopsied if it doesn't completely disappear within two weeks. When it starts to HURT, it probably has started to SPREAD and this is a very, very fatal cancer when it starts to spread. For you see, the next place it jumps is to the lymph glands, which serve as a conduit all over your body.

Please rush to this website and read about it, and PLEASE go to this website and this website and read it like you're studying for orals. Ha! Ha! You see, I still have my sense of humor!!

And it has nothing to do with his earlier cancer. That was my worst fear and it didn't come true.

As the bell drops tonight, Roger and I will be clasping hands and praying for a good 2009. Successful fibro treatment for me, clean margins for him, and a painless and quick passing for my mother, now reduced to a speechless and pathetic human being in late stage Alzheimer's.

My friends, I wish the same for you.

A good 2009.

Happy Holidays

carolinagirls@att.net (clueless carolinagirl) — Thu, 25 Dec 2008 05:36:00 +0000

Happy Holidays to all! The gifts are bought, the kids are asleep with visions of a massive haul dancing in their heads, and we are getting ready to try to find all the presents we've hidden.

Thank you for reading my blog and for all the love and support. I hope that each and every one of you gets your holiday desires and that 2009 is better for all of us.

Peace,

Lorrie & the gang

A Remedy For Holiday Blues?

carolinagirls@att.net (clueless carolinagirl) — Fri, 19 Dec 2008 23:55:00 +0000

I think we could all use a good laugh, don't you?

Do you have feelings of inadequacy?

Do you suffer from shyness?

Do you sometimes wish you were more assertive?

***************************

If you answered yes to any of these questions, ask your doctor or pharmacist about Margaritas.

Margaritas are the safe, natural way to feel better and more confident about yourself and your actions.

Margaritas can help ease you out of your shyness and let you tell the world that you're ready and willing to do just about anything.

You will notice the benefits of Margaritas almost immediately and with a regimen of regular doses you can overcome any obstacles that prevent you from living the life you want to live.

Shyness and awkwardness will be a thing of the past and you will discover many talents you never knew you had.

Stop hiding and start living, with Margaritas.

Margaritas may not be right for everyone.

Women who are pregnant or nursing should not use Margaritas.

However, women who wouldn't mind nursing or becoming pregnant are encouraged to try it.

Side effects may include: Dizziness, nausea, vomiting, incarceration, erotic lustfulness, loss of motor control, loss of clothing, loss of money, loss of virginity, table dancing, headache, dehydration, dry mouth, and a desire to sing Karaoke.

WARNING: The consumption of Margaritas may make you think you are whispering when you are not.

WARNING: The consumption of Margaritas may cause you to tell your friends over and over again that you love them.

WARNING: The consumption of Margaritas may cause you to think you can sing.

Preshus Indigo Children

carolinagirls@att.net (clueless carolinagirl) — Thu, 18 Dec 2008 03:38:00 +0000

RANT RANT RANT RANT

Hope you're enjoying the holiday season, and that all your gifts are wrapped. I haven't sent out the first Christmas card, so I'll be busy this weekend.

Tonight I read a blog that sort of disturbed me, so I shall take this opportunity to unleash my righteous indignation upon you, sweet reader. A blogger seemed to think that a teacher had damaged her child's delicate psyche by perhaps suggesting that a color was inappropriate for a work of art. My eyebrows rolled so far back in my head that I thought I might be having a seizure.

Life is tough.

Our children will encounter difficult professors, teachers, bosses. They'll be dumped by boyfriends--and girlfriends too. They'll face adversity in their life. Just like you. Just like me. Remember when you had to turn in that paper in college by TEN O'CLOCK SHARP even though you'd been partying till three and all six of your grandparents had already been welcomed to Jesus's loving arms, eliminating them as a viable excuse? Remember last week when your boss wanted the project on her desk when she got back from lunch even though you knew she wasn't going to look at it for five days? Did your mommy and daddy call up and make it all better?

I don't believe my job as a parent is to gently smooth every obstable in the path and provide a conflict free world for my children. Sure, we're there for them. If there's a big problem, I'll be there guns a'blazin, fer sure, you betcha. But I've tried very hard since the day my first one toddled into preschool to emphasize that minor disagreements are between YOU and your TEACHER.

Miss Thang wandered into the bedroom tonight with a slip asking me to sign an affirmation that I had reviewed her weekly work. She complained petulantly that there was a substitute teacher today. The slips were due today. The regular teacher, she said, allowed one day grace period for slips, but this teacher took ten minutes off of her recess.

Awwwwwwwww. Oh Lord, I feel my eyeballs starting to spin again.

I shrugged. "Perhaps next week you'll have your slips signed in a timely fashion," I suggested.

People! You do your child no favors by hovering over them ready to go to war over the slightest problem or difficulty that your kids face.

Hey, I'm going to give mad propz to Donald and Ivana Trump. Although I really believe that he could afford a better toupee and dislike his habit of marrying embryos, their grown kids are:

1. Maintaining successful relationships

2. Taking responsibility for their offspring

3. Completing difficult educational pathways.

4. Working real jobs with real consequences.

So he and Ivana certainly did something right.

Congratulations Donald and Ivana!! I only hope one day that I'm richer and better looking than you guys are!! 'Cause you sure did a great job with your kids.

I HAVE CURED THE COMMON COLD

carolinagirls@att.net (clueless carolinagirl) — Tue, 09 Dec 2008 21:26:00 +0000

Disclaimer: I am no more qualified to give medical advice than the termites in your building, or the moth fluttering under your porch light, unless you feel that an "A" in 7th grade Life Sciences at Irmo Middle School is a stellar credential. The Nobel people turned me down with an extremely rude letter, I must say. Sniff. I mean, really. So what if Linus Pauling got there first? "Delusional wackjob" was simply overstepping the bounds of common courtesy, I must say. And was it really necessary to bring up the restraining order? Such barbarians they are.

*****************************************************************

I really am just so dreadfully tired of this tedious cold that won't go away. Very mild nausea, stomach cramps, intermittent fevers, dreadful fatigue, sinus crud, ghastly tubercular-like hacking--every day is a brand new cornucopia of surprises from Satan.

**********************

I have bought nothing for Christmas. This is unprecedented in the history of Mankind. I understand that Wii Rock Band 2 will be releasing Dec. 23, and I understand that our lazy selves will probably be wrapping up a picture of it for Christmas Day. I found my dream gift on a local email list, and Roger will be picking it up tomorrow (A heated chair massager).

*************************

Sunday I woke up feeling sick. I was a desperate woman. Desperate, do you hear me? DO YOU HEAR ME? I NEED TO KNOW IF YOU CAN HEAR ME.

*************************

I started overdosing on Vitamin C. I took 6,000 mg of it. I'd make a piece of cinnamon toast and eat two tablets. Did that three times.

************************

Monday morning I woke up feeling...um...how do I say this.....HEALED.

Oh, not totally. I still have a little nagging cough. But I feel 1000% better.

Holy guacamole! I don't even want to know how bad this is for me. All I know is that I feel a lot better. And I'm extremely happy to tell you this!!!!

Free Range Kids

carolinagirls@att.net (clueless carolinagirl) — Sat, 06 Dec 2008 22:29:00 +0000

So, did you catch the story about the lady who let her 9 year old son find his way home on the subway in New York City? And did you read that crime in New York City is back to 1963 levels?

1963! That is awesome!!

Closer to home, I'm trying to adjust to the idea of free range kids.

Of course I vowed to do every single thing that my parents did completely differently, after all, that's what motherhood is all about. When I was in the 1st and 2nd grade in Chapel Hill, NC, I attended a swank private school 15 miles away called Durham Academy. Tuition was $400 dollars a year back in those prehistoric days though, when we drew our pictures on cave walls and hunted for food with clubs. Now I think $400 allows you to actually think about DA for about 5 minutes and maybe set foot on the property for another 5 minutes. But I digress.

I was not allowed to play with the neighborhood kids because they played stickball in the street. So unless a play date was authorized, rarely, I spent my time after school reading books and writing poems all alone. When I started 3rd grade, we moved to Blacksburg, VA, where my Dad was a professor. There were no swanky private schools, so I went to public school, rode the bus, and hung out with the gang on the street. There were many lessons to be learned--like don't go to a boy's birthday party wearing your Sunday best including high heel shoes--but we had a blast, riding up and down the streets and hanging out eating cookies at various kitchens.

My girls have completed one year of public school and are 1/2 way through their second. They have discovered a neighborhood gang (or rather, when the pool was open, the gang discovered them). They are now running around the neighborhood on bicycles and scooters, hanging out at several houses, and the phone rings constantly. They ask to have friends over every weekend to spend the night.

Well, it's hard to let them go even though it's only a few houses away. We bought them a new phone last weekend and they are required to carry it at all times. I can only hope and pray that they'll use decent common sense--more than I did. When I was 12 I suddenly decided to change lanes while riding my bike and almost got hit. This outraged man screamed obscenities at me and believe me, I deserved it! It was just one of those stupid, spur of the moment decisions. Thank God I grew up. Haven't had one of those for almost...mmm....two weeks or so now.

I had almost adjusted to a silent house when Roger announced that the kids would be WALKING HOME FROM SCHOOL two days a week. On Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays they go to a free Christian day care until 5:00 PM. This is helpful on so many levels--their dear little souls are being nourished, and Roger gets to nap a few more hours. For FREE. Did I mention it was FREE? Because I love the fact that it's FREE. And that they're being led closer to a walk with Jesus. For FREE.

Then Roger decides in response to constant pleading/nagging/begging that my 2nd grader and 5th grader can walk home from school on Mondays and Fridays. Let's see--You walk down Street A and cross a very busy street. I think there are crossing guards posted there. Then you walk down Street B for several blocks and then you walk down Street C for a block. That's it. They are in a group, and Madeleine has promised to watch out for her little sister.

"You're just sick of the CAR POOL LINE, aren't you?" I howled at my loving spouse.

No, he patiently explained while I chewed industriously on my fingernails. They wanted to, they would never be alone, they would gain an added measure of independence....yada yada yada.

So far, so good, I guess. But I can't embrace this Free Range Kids thing with a big old loving hug. Our subdivision is not gated and is 5 minutes away from two major highways. That's why I picked out the house--to make it easier to get to work. But it's also easy to be very far away from the neighborhood very quickly. They are responsible kids and have been warned 1,346,467 times about stranger danger, and never get into a car without a password, which unfortunately we cannot always remember ourselves, being so elderly and all. But....

I've done a lot of things that nobody in their right mind would call safe. I guess that I have to let them go, as soon as they give me Butterfly Kisses.