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Saturday, July 31, 2010

Changes Afoot




Parts of me are flawed
Fixing what I can
Cannot stress the rest.

Yep, these are my feet. Heinous, aren’t they?

My parents left me some very nice genetic legacies, but taking the bad along with the good I got the infamous family “Skank Toes,” a condition in which not one but two of my secondary toes are longer than my big toe, which is itself (as you will have observed) uniquely large and ugly. The result is that my feet kind of look like monkey hands, but they’re nowhere near as useful.

Even better, the odd conformation of my toes makes wearing most shoes uncomfortable, so when I’m not at work I tend to live in flip-flops. Therefore (unlike the golden glow that graces the sun-kissed backsides of my more shapely Californian sisters) my “thong tan” is on my feet. Unfortunately this tends to make my feet look dirty (they’re really not … usually) and more like hippie feet than the appendages of a 40-something-year old professional.

True, I could make more of an effort to prettify my hooves, and I do indulge in the occasional pedicure … but more often than not I have much more important things to do with $40. So there you have it. I’ve got ugly feet, and one of the best things about being my current age is being able to accept my flaws and admit some things just can’t be changed.

But that doesn’t hold true in every case. Change is indeed at work in my world, both physically and metaphysically.

First: the bod. In addition to Skank Toes, Mom and Dad passed on a tricky spine and a couple of obstreperous knees, all of which seem to require surgery on a depressingly regular basis. Tomorrow it’s knee #2, the right one, which made a funny popping sound about a month ago and has, like a challenging teenager, been refusing to do its chores ever since. So Dr. E. (“Hey, it’s you again!") is kindly going to go in with his little mini-vacuum and clean things up. I am not that nervous about this procedure as:

1) Dr. E is very good at his job and even takes little internal pictures of my joints while he’s at work to prove his mad meniscus-mending skills;

and

2) According to my father, a diabetic cancer survivor with more health problems he can shake his walker at, what I am having doesn’t even really count as surgery. He says – and he’s right – that you can’t call it “going under the knife” if all they do is stick little micro-tubey things into you.

Who can argue with that?

What I’m not looking forward to is the whole anesthesia thing. It’s bad enough when the smiling guy-or-gal in the green surgical mask saunters up and asks you to sign a piece of paper giving him-or-her permission to load you up with the same stuff that killed Michael Jackson … (“Propo-what???!!!” ). Recognizing the possibility of your own demise is unnerving at the best of times; it’s worse when you’re in a public place strapped to a gurney wearing one of those lame hospital gowns and a stranger wants you to promise that your survivors won’t sue if you don’t have enough stamina to make it through your minor little operation.

But then they actually give you the anesthetic, and next thing you know …

Well, you don’t know, and I hate that part. Being a bit of a control freak, I have a hard time letting other people load the dishwasher if I’m not supervising. Far less do I like the notion of others messing around with my body parts while I’m unconscious. Given my druthers, I would rather have my knee fixed with only a local anesthetic, so I could observe and offer constructive criticism to Dr. E. and Co. while they’re at work. (And I’m sure this is one of the many reasons my request to not go all the way under was politely declined.)

So heigh-ho, tomorrow off I go, and when I awake to the gentle sounds of the recovery-room nurse screaming at me and slapping me in the face (Why do they do that, anyway?) I will be fixed, altered, forever changed … for the better, I assume. That’s the physical part of my evolution.

Other good changes in my life include this blog, LifeKu. I started it just a month ago, and like all worthwhile endeavors it’s a work-in-progress. Thanks to some good advice, I’ve made some changes to the format and the way I post. Most notable is the fact that, going forward, if I have explanation (like this) to share with my haiku, then I will place it in the “comments” section rather than the body of the post in question. I do this on the advice of my BFF Babs, who is wicked smart and has known me since I was nine. As only a dear friend who is much more intelligent and web-savvy than I can do, Babs gently took me aside after reviewing my initial efforts and suggested I clean things up a bit.

“You do tend to go on, you know,” she said with infinite gentility and care.
Yes I do.
I love Babs.

I’m also going public, which is not something I expected to do, as LifeKu is really something I only intended to inflict on friends and family. However, as another good friend pointed out, someone as opinionated as I am really should spread the joy (pain?) around beyond my immediate circle. Hence I’m linking to one of my very own favorite local website, EdHat, which will (I am assured) open me and my seventeen-syllable takes on life up to a whole new world of readership and (I am also assured) really mean commentary called “trolling.” I actually had to look that up (as again, I am not that web-savvy) in order to realize that from now on, complete strangers can anonymously say anything they want about me with equally complete alacrity. (Dear Mama: you have the ugliest feet I have ever seen. You should be ashamed and go someplace far away where women are not allowed to write OR show their feet in public so the rest of us can live without the nightmare-inducing memories of your Skank Toes OR your horrible poetry!!!! LOL!!!!)

But that’s change for you; you take the bad along with the good and hope for the best. In the end, I guess I’m not going to worry too much because – for a good part of the next 24-hours at least – I'll be too out of it to care.

Please take care, and thanks for reading - MamaKu






giving Mommy space

"giving Mommy space"
does not mean yelling at her
from farther away.

Friday, July 30, 2010

FaceBook Haiku

To My Assistant

Your latest update
Was posted during work hours.
Where are my letters?

To My Stalker

No! We were never
Friends in the real world. So why
Would I friend you now?

To My Former Classmate

Congratulations!
You've clearly gotten in shape.
Now put your shirt on.


Frequent Flier

Your status updates
Twelve times a day make me think
You have a problem.

To My Son

Thanks for friending me!
Now please just tell me one thing:
Who are all those girls?

About that photo of you doing body shots?

These things, like tattoos
May seem like a good idea
At the time. They're not.



Appreciation

Appreciation
Dormant, can be awakened
By coincidence.

Thursday, July 29, 2010

New and Not Improved

Botox, Juvederm
Invisalign and Implants ...
Have we ever met?

I had a little bit of a crush on this guy in high school; he was good-looking then and I imagine he stayed that way until some plastic surgeon got ahold of him. Now he has a big, immobile forehead, Joe Biden eyes and weird pouty lips over teeth so big and white they look like headlights. I just ran into him and at first I didn't recognize him ... then I just felt sad.

Why?

Why???

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

How would Jesus drive?

That fish on your car
must be praying really hard
not to become scrap.

This is one of those haiku that probably requires a little backstory:

Between chauffering the kids, my commute, and client meetings all over the place, I do a lot of driving on the 101 freeway, and I've had ample opportunity to observe the culture of SoCal asphalt. Say what you will about Californians being laid-back and mellow ... they can be as insane as any Jerseyite once they hit the road.

Over the years, I've noticed certain trends, and one of these is the fact that some of the most aggro drivers out there are:

1) women (which is just funny because it's testosterone, not estrogen, that's supposed to make you all feisty)

and

2) a surprisingly large percentage have those little metal Christian fish symbols on their bumpers.

(DISCLAIMER TO THE DEFENSIVE: I am not about to bash Christians! I am a Christian, for heaven's sake. I just also happen to have a rich sense of the ironic. If what I just wrote makes you want to hunt me down and shoot me, then please ask your minister for a reference to a good anger-management counselor. And pray for a sense of humor, because it really does help.)

So there it is: a disproportionate number of the road-raging, steering-wheel-pounding, middle-finger-flipping tailgaters I've observed proudly identify themselves as members of The Flock with these little fishes, and ... let's be honest here ... THAT'S FUNNY. Like these folks figure they don't have to worry about dying in a fiery rollover collision because the Big JC has their back ... bumper, that is.

Driving my son to baseball practice yesterday, though, I came across an all-time Best (or Worst?) in this particular category. Not only was this intense-looking blond pushing her honkin' big Yukon over the Summerland hill harder than a stock car, tailgating, passing on the left, and cutting off other drivers all over the freeway, but her little fish symbols were arrayed all over her back window in such a way as to represent what must have been her family - Big Daddy Fish, Medium Mommy Fish, and a whole school of little fishies. (These my-family-as-window-stickers thing is another road oddity I just don't get, but that is the subject of another haiku, I think.)

I have to wonder if KidzMom (according to her vanity plate), good Christian woman that she must be, was shooting to get herself and the offspring buckled into her back rows into Paradise on an accelerated schedule, 'coz she was - and I am not exagerrating here - driving like a woman possessed. It was scary to watch.

I dunno. Maybe they were late to VBS or something.

Anyway, to all my fellow Christians out there, and especially to those of you who proclaim your faith on your car - please note I AM NOT MAKING FUN OF YOU. Or our faith. Or anybody's faith. I am just poking fun at hypocrisy ...

and how better than to Haiku?

Monday, July 26, 2010

High School Redux

High school reunion
Friends and Happy Memories!
Why are you so drunk?


This one speaks for itself, I think. What about you, Gentle Readers? Do you go to reunions? Or do you figure you've kept in touch with the people who matter to you, and the rest should just stay where they are - as memories in your yearbook.

Bad Mother Haiku

Death in a Bowl

I killed my child's fish
Changing its guppy water
Right down the drain ... oops.

Tournament

Watching you play ball
It's hot. Pray your team loses ...
So I can go home.

Adolescencia

I liked you better
When you were small and still thought
I was really cool.

Summer Camp Blues

Pickup is at three?
I don't get off until four.
Won't you keep my kid?



I love my children more than anything in the universe, up to and including chocolate. My seventeen-year-old son is one of the kindest, most moral people I know. He also happens to be tall and handsome and a great student. My fourteen-year-old is a philosopher, wise beyond his years, and so athletic he already has various coaches bickering over where he should "take his talents." (He did not get this from me, BTW) Their little sister, AKA "The Littlest" was a true surprise gift from God, and not a day goes by that her smiles and never-ending stream of consciousness don't bring immense joy to us all.

Having said that ... there are times when the kids drive me crazy, and when motherhood (especially when juggled with the financial necessity of employment) really makes me question my better self. When that happens, what else to do but Haiku?

What about you, gentle readers? How do you cope with the dichotomy that is parenthood?

Road Hazard

Hey, Mercedes Girl
Texting at the traffic light -
Can't you see it's green?


What is it with all the people texting behind the road these days? Don't they watch the same horrible news reports I do?

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

Dressing for one of those days

Stabbed in the left breast
By the errant underwire
Of my favorite bra.


This felt like a betrayal. I love this bra!! Now what am I going to do? (Besides Haiku, that is.)

To my yoga instructor

I've been doing this
Since you were an embryo
So get off my back.


Is it just me, or is it really hard to take direction from someone young enough to be my daughter? Especially when she weighs half as much as I do?

When disaster strikes


When disaster strikes
And my shrink is out of town
Haiku never fails.
Welcome, friends. I hope your life and loves are generally happy, but when you need an extra smile, there will always be Haiku.
(And yes, the eggs in the picture are from my hens.)