All About Me

With all the things people think they know about me, there’s so much they don’t. I don’t make a secret about being gay or a liberal (neither predicated the other—I was just born that way). Many people think they know me, but what they know is the product of my experiences, the sum total of what my life has made me.

Independent: yes.

Mouthy: yes.

Sometimes stupid: yes.

Those are the obvious things. Doesn’t take a brain surgeon the figure that much out. All you need to do is talk to me for 15 minutes.

Very few people know how I became the person I am.

They would be surprised to learn that I directed the children’s choir at church when I was in high school. Or that I played alto and baritone sax, as well as piano. That I sang with a number of ensembles, ranging from the high school choir to the Civic Chorus to college choirs.

Or that I was president of my college music fraternity.

They don’t know that my educational background is in English, with a special fondness for Southern literature. Or that in grad school I ended up focusing on medieval literature and tried to develop a coherent of tragedy that started with Aristotle and ended with the deconstructionists.

That I have probably already read any news story they’ve seen. That I’m probably better informed than they are and keep up with everything from politics to non-profit finance to local issues, like property taxes to changing the election system for city politicians.

They certainly don’t know about my struggle to live my life honestly and without apology.

That one took 23 years.

I prevaricate on that one, because it took me that long to be honest with myself. I didn’t get around to everyone else for a while. So let’s just call that one 28.

Most people know me as the accountant with the crazy husband. The one who never takes time off, who works in the background making other people look good. The quiet-but-mouthy one who gets so involved with work that he doesn’t know whether his boss is in her office or not. Even though it’s only a few feet away.

The computer geek that knows how to do stuff they can’t and knows when to just say no when he doesn’t. To them, I’m tech support.

They know one part of me.

Part of that is intentional: they know the part that I want them to know. The other part I keep to myself and reserve for a few special people.

Those few know the real me, the whole me, the one who gets up early every Sunday morning for CBS Sunday Morning, because, in all the years I’ve been watching it, it has never failed to stimulate my mind. The one who loves watching cooking shows and creating recipes out of thin air—most have never been prepared, but they seemed damned-good at the time.

They know that taking care of my crazy husband is my first priority. If he needs me, I’ll be there. Whether he recognizes me or not.

They know that my next priority is my family, whether we’re getting along or not.

They know that my heart is in Tennessee, even though my body may be in Texas.

Even with all the beauty we live smack-dab in the middle of here in Texas, I’ll always have a soft spot for the cherry tree in Mama’s back yard. We planted it from a seedling that had sprung up next to Granny’s cherry tree when I was a kid. It did well and has grown into a mature tree.

Maybe like me

Me and Baby and Peggy Lee

From the moment I walk outside and press the remote control to open the car doors and I hear the confident ca-chunk-chunk of them unlocking, it’s all theater from there on out. The inside light comes on and then gently fades once I turn the key.

When I reach a few miles per hour, the doors lock themselves back, again.

Ca-chunk-chunk.

Pure theater.

And with the windows down and Peggy Lee singing “Fever”, every turn I make is fit for a TV commercial. If I need extra power, I just punch in the button that turns the overdrive off. If I can’t hear Peggy quite well enough, I punch the button that rolls up the windows.

I’m not used to such luxury, so ca-chunk-chunk sounds almost like a symphony some days.

Or at least an overture.

An invitation to enjoy driving again for the first time in decades.

All from a fuel-efficient Ford Focus.

Fuel-efficient, yes, but still with balls big enough to out-perform BMW’s on the highway. Or at traffic lights, for that matter.

With Peggy Lee in the background and my Baby running for the roses, I can’t lose, now can I?

Me and Baby and Peggy Lee: theater on wheels. Life in motion. Heaven on Earth.

Who knew I’d find it in the parking lot?

Of Mice and Old Men

It’s no wonder health care costs so much in this country. A few years ago, I went to the doctor because I had such constant pain in my right shoulder that I couldn’t sleep some nights. I had electric shocks going down my arm that made everything between my neck and wrist throb and spasm. Some days, I could barely get my fingers to move.

So I finally broke down and went to see the doctor that I pay for health insurance every month to have at my disposal.

That was a big step for me.

I don’t like doctors. I’m sure they’re nice people, but there’s something about a white lab coat and an office that smells cleaner than it should that makes my blood pressure start spiking. So they focus on the blood pressure instead of what drove me so reluctantly to even find out where there offices are.

I explained the blood pressure issue to the GP and reassured him that, not facing a white lab coat and an overly-sterile smell, my blood pressure is fine. I can’t normally hear my pulse in my ears.

So he checked me out, decided there was nothing blood-pressure-related to the pain shooting down my arm, and sent me off to get an MRI.

Having an MRI is about the closest any of us will ever get to putting our head first and then our whole bodies into a giant condom made of plastic so hard it would defeat at least on of the purposes of condoms. Thank God the Xanax took over before I realized I had been stuffed into a giant tube like so much manicotti stuffing before it goes in the oven.

The only thing the MRI showed told them was that, yes, I do have a brain.

Not that I always use it, but it’s definitely there. At least I have proof.

From there, they referred me to a neurologist. She was a nice lady until she pulled out the tiny needles that she was going to poke into my skin and then give me a small jolt of electricity. Small is relative, by the way: it depends on which side of the button you’re sitting on. Got the button in your hand, no big deal. Can’t reach the button, small gets really big.

So she poked me, prodded me, tried to electrocute me and said she’s get back to me. It was almost certainly a herniated disc in my back.

She also prescribed a home traction unit. That involves filling a plastic bladder with water, hanging it from a hook that fits over the door, and then connecting all that to your neck. Fill it up too much, and presumably your neck with either snap or you will slowly choke to death.

I used it, but very carefully.

Thousands of dollars later (the insurance company’s, not mine), I was with my sister at a CompUSA. I saw a track-ball mouse and bought it on a fluke. I figured that it would be easier to use than what I had at the time and also take up less space on what is a decidedly crowded desk.

I wasn’t sure I would be able to use it, but I knew it would give me my shopping fix. Cheaper than me in Steinmart when things are on sale. (Sales don’t work, by the way, if you buy everything you see that you like. They only work if you exercise restraint, and I ain’t talking about cotton-ropes-around-a-bedpost restraint.)

I took my new mouse home, plugged it in and within minutes my shoulder was feeling better.

Then I looked at what had been right in front of my face: I spend a lot of time using computers, both at home and work. Using a regular mouse means a lot of repetitive motion for my right shoulder. I had told all the doctors I had seen as much.

None of them picked up on the $20 solution to a problem my insurance company paid thousands to treat.

A $20 mouse fixed my shoulder. Well, it didn’t totally fix it, but it sure-as-hell helped out a lot more than all the money Aetna spent.

Sometimes the answer’s so obvious it’d you on the nose if it were a snake. Sometimes the $20 answer makes a whole lot more sense than endless referrals and endless co-pays.

Think about that the next time you talk about health insurance.

Sometimes, less really is more.

Happy New Year's?

It's New Year's Day. The parade is over. And somewhere people are getting ready to play hockey in a snow storm. I know this because I can see them on TV doing so.

There's nothing else on, so I'm watching it with the sound down.

But the stands are full. Of idiots sitting in a snow storm watching a hockey game that hasn't even begun yet.

Meanwhile, back in River City, we've made it to 47 degrees. It's going to drop as the day goes on, and we'll awaken to 22 tomorrow. With wind.

And my voice sounds like a bad imitation of a Texas football coach. All high-pitched and raspy.

I can barely talk and people are playing hockey in a snow storm. (Well, they aren't playing yet. They just got the Canadian flag rolled out. Hope they get to it before the white-out.)

Love and kisses from deep in the cold, cold heart of Texas.