Stressed Out?

Potential Saying of the Day: "America is a place where Jewish merchants sell Zen love beads to agnostics for Christmas."

~John Burton Brimer

This is the website/product for you.


That was Zen, this is...um...not at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

Favorite Phrase of the Day

"...making the weewee of startlement."

~Dave Barry
As seen on Dave Barry's Blog.
(See below for entire citation.)

July 28, 2007

IDAHO UPDATE

Our car almost hit a deer last night. We were driving along a rural road and suddenly YIKES this deer, who had apparently been waiting in the dark for a car to come along, leaped in front of us, forcing me to slam on the brakes and barely avoid making the weewee of startlement. Why do deer do this? Do they enjoy it? Do they give each other high hooves and go, "Good one, Bob! They will have to clean the seats for sure!"?

Maybe we need some kind of federal program to keep them occupied, such as midnight deer basketball.

Wishing I could write like him at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

Say It With Me: STRESS HURTS!

I'm sitting on my couch wrapped in a sarong-like thing and a wonderful antique quilt given to me by a dear friend during the previously noted stresses. Oh! And I've got on a denim shirt (Don't want the Sagging Chest Parts to show). A lovely glass of Red is on a tray before me and the air is full of the smell of lilacs from the delightful candle another girlfriend gave me today.

Every part of my body hurts...OK maybe not my elbows, or my ears, or perhaps the skin that covers the end of my nose...but everything else aches from late nights, menses, standing on concrete for hours, and not the least of which, stress.

Last night was one of the most difficult spiritual battles I've had in a long time.

When Amazing Production Manager Cassie asked if I'd be an "accuser" for a production on the death of Jesus, I thought "one of the multitude of people yelling in the crowd at Jesus' trial and crucifixion." Let me just say by way of introduction: Ignorance is bliss...when you're dumb enough about enough things...

So...

Stress #1

When she told me to be there on Sunday night (July 22), it was no big deal. Well, it was a big deal in that I don't feel confident as an actor or, for that matter, any good at all. I don't like the itchy costuming, especially for period pieces, and there's a lot of "stand around time" which often causes me to stress out (In a Totally Scared Unsilly way). And considering what kind of week and a half I'd had, it was a big deal to do it...and it was all night which is difficult because I was already exhausted from the various crisii (crises, crisesessss), some of which would be categorized as "fairly large." But, like any good Christian, I planned to keep my promise as being one of the multitude yelling for My Lord's destruction. The only thing I asked the Amazing PC Cass was "There'll be diet coke, right?" (I gotta have at least one my comfort med!) "No problem," she replied "there'll be plenty of diet coke."

Stress #2

Sunday morning, I was getting up to go to church as Kev, Megh, and Harrison the Dolly Pusher (more on him later) arrived home. Kev limped to bed. "Please don't go to church today, I'm afraid my leg looks bad," he whispered before instantly falling asleep. So I stayed home; but couldn't rest even though I knew I'd be on set all night. I wondered what he meant by "bad" so I tossed and turned for several hours praying over Kevin, until I got a headache.

Stress #3

My headache...one of those that go all the way from my forehead back over my head, crossing at the shoulders and down to my butt. Tylenol and diet coke barely touched it. This is never a good sign.

Stress #4

On the way to set at 10:30 pm, the Good Ol' Honda's temperature gauge started moving--in the wrong direction. As you can guess, vehicle trouble causes me instant and intense stress. The car wasn't the only one wigging out, is all I'm saying.

Stress #5

There was no diet coke at Production Base Camp (PBC). Nor, I might add, any Shirah, but that was expected. I am assured there will be diet coke down below at the Actual Filming Site (AFS).

Stress #6

It quickly became apparent that I was not "just a face in the crowd"--I actually had a speaking and acting part! Didn't. Bargain. For. That. OK...well...I promised. First came makeup along with the worse panic attack in maybe a year. Even my heart hurt, which is a rarity for me. Annette The Makeup Artiste uses airbrush makeup (which I love and want my own personal thingy) but which exasterbated the attack. Poor Annette kept asking if I was OK and all I could do was nod. Then came wardrobe and since I was to be a Person Of Middle Eastern Descent instead of a Pitiful Caucasian, I had to color my Arms and Legs. At this point I was at near-zero functionability so one of the makeup ladies helped me paint myself. Then more tweaking of the Makeup Variety (arms, legs, and face) and other crap.

By the time I got down to the set I was trying to think of a way out of there. But I promised. Thank God, He gave me something to do (and an ice cold diet coke)...I became a Film Dummy which basically is someone who stands in for the principle actor or actress while the shot is being figured out or lighting is being set up. I guess you could call me a Stand In, except that sometimes I'm sitting...or walking...which might be a bit confusing considering all of the possible expectations. At any rate, being a dummy was a great help in preventing me from thinking, feeling, and thus retreating.

Stress #7

We break for lunch at 2 am. I'm told our segment will have live sound. How do you say "fecal matter" in Ancient Hebrew slang? Still no diet coke...maybe Annette The Makeup Artiste has one in the trailer.

Stress #8

Have to do something about my car during lunch, and Kevin obviously hurts. Even so, he sweetly tries to locate a diet coke while I try to breathe.

Stress #9

Movie making takes so freakin' long--just a few shots can take 3 or 4 hours...As we wait for the camera to roll, one of the extras and I discover that we are "Smoke Magnets" and struggle to breath while the smoke from our campfire lovingly follows us wherever we go. In case you were wondering, Oxygen Inhalation is important in preventing panic. Oh yeah, it's good in case you want to live, as well.

Stress #10

There is absolutely no diet coke anywhere on set. I have almost no comfort zone now...except that I've taken to carrying a liter of Lipton's White (Raspberry) Tea everywhere I go in the manner of Steve Martin.

Stress #11

Director Boy Shane blocks the scne: I actually have to walk, bump into the guy strategically, and remember my lines (and say them in an emotional [but not too] manner and privately [but loud enough to be heard by the boom mic two stories up]!)...do they know with whom they're dealing?

Stress #12

My period starts--early--as I stand there. My pads are up the hill in my car--Delightful Daughter Megh is too busy to go get them anyway. I'm afraid to sit down so I stand and ponder the likelihood of Feminine Grossness dripping down my leg.

Stress #13 and following...

I'm sure there are other plenty of sub-stresses beneath each numbered one, especially if you use your imagination, but it's silly to go any further. The point in the above "whinage" (and there is one) is that God, in his kindness (and probable humor), was present and willing to help me do what I did not want to do (and was not sure I was even capable of doing anyway) with grace, laughter, and joy. He was amazingly gracious and magnaminous to the production in general and to me in particular. Thankfully, I noticed.

Tonight I Thank God my still-living husband and my hard-working daughter, and for dear friends all of whom are Wonderful Gifts. And most of all, for Himself who takes delight in doing the impossible with goofy people like me.

I don't know why I'm surprised. Look what He does with smushed and rotten grapes.
MMMMMMMMMMM...Go God at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

Old Man Update

It's 2ish in the morning--Sunday, July 23, 2007.

I just got back from the film set. Kevin and Meghan both opted to go there tonight at 7:30--on schedule--after being released from the hospital at 3:30pm. I went to the set to take some firewood and check on them both.

Let me just say, the sets are incredible. The shots are gorgeous. My husband and my daughter have never looked more comfortable nor alive. Kev's leg is hurting but he's so happy there. Heart surgery on Friday, able to film on Saturday: It's a miracle...even if it's with the help of Modern Medicine.

Praise Jesus.

The doctor gave Kev the OK for this...he just can't lift, push, or pull anything for three days. He's not to drive or climb stairs. Then he's free.

Except that he now officially has "heart disease." Maybe you knew it from the first email...but neither Kev nor I had a clue. Obviously we're new at this Old Fogy business: "Oh he'll just get this taken care of and we'll be back to normal," we apparently thought in our blissful ignorance. So when the doctor handed him perscriptions for aspirin, blood pressure medicine, high cholestoral meds, and anti-platlet coagualting meds, Kev naively asked, "How long?"

"How long what?" the Doctor responded.

"How long will I take these," Kev asked.

"Um...." and the Doctor proceeded to explain that it was a disease that Kevin has, not simply a blockage. The problem is actually not the terrifying cork-like thing plugging up the artery...it's the more terrifying stuff we can't see...the plaque that is growing and floating around the blood vessels looking for ways to gang up with other renigade plague and form a Plaque Gang (PG for short). This unseen PG can roam through the body gathering members and thickness until it suddenly blocks off something vital like, say, the heart and "Bang" it's over.

Let me confess--Diet and exercise we expected. Daily Cups of Heart Meds, err...not so much. In fact--not at all.

So...I'm still reeling from the realization that I'm living with an Old Man, and what all that means...Just yesterday he was My Boy...Sigh...how quickly they change.

Good thing I haven't aged a bit. And just call me Cleopatra...'cuz I'm the Queen of Denial. *snork*

Thanks for your prayers and love. Don't stop now--Production is in full swing and they're not even halfway through yet.

Still grateful and stunned at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.con

Not Today Heart Attack! Not Today

OK...

Below you can read Kevin's version of today (Friday July 21, 2007)...but who wants HIS version when you can have mine, right?

So...several months ago I started walking to lose weight. Being a Caring Wife I asked (read: nagged) Kev to come with me. On the first walk, on the second hill, he complained of shortness of breath. In my most caring tone I reponded in what could only be considered a sympathetic response that went something along the lines of: "Kev, you're 45, you haven't exercised in years, and its allergy season...of course you're out of breath...we're ALL out of breath. Pull it up." (Don't you wish you were related to me?). His panting and whining continued...so as we headed home I said, "Listen, you're creeping me out...I'm calling Barb."

You need to meet Barb. We met her while we were living in Dear Miss Susan's apartment...Barb and her granddaughter were commandeered to care for Fluffy during one of our trips. Jessica, her granddaughter, who did the actual Rodent Hospitality, and Meghan ultimately became fast friends...It was with Barb and her family that Megh went to Disney World last year...and it was with Jessica that Megh went to Arizona/California/L.A. with week or so ago. Barb has Medical Connections of the Amazing Sort, and within days she had an appointment with a wonderful doctor named Capp Hoskins (Personally, I think "Capp Hoskins" is someone you'd find in a Spaghetti Western or a Film Noir Mystery--smoking a roughly rolled cigarette and laughing huskily).

Zip ahead a few weeks into the Shingle Zone...Kev goes in early because the Dr. Capp is leaving and blah, blah, blah, Kev's in great health, blah, blah, blah, got the blood pressure of a 15-year-old (come to find out he may have meant a 15-year-old labrador retriever), blah, blah, blah, blood work is great, blah, blah, can't believe how healthy and handsome he is, blah, blah, blah, but he has shingles. However...because of the shortness of breath...and his age...Dr. Hoskins ordered a stress test for the following week. No Big Deal.

Kevin nearly cancelled this morning...they're filming and he felt like it was going to be a burden but he had already cancelled once and he canceled two other appointments for today (that were ordered "because of his age") but--for whatever reason, thank God--he kept this one
.

I, Still the Ever Doting Wife, didn't even go with him to the test. "You'll be fine," I said. "You just walk on a treadmill for a while and they'll say 'Kevin, you're fat...and out of shape.' I'll meet you for lunch." Yeah, I'm up for the WIFE OF THE FREAKIN' YEAR AWARD...send your votes to www.heartlessspouse.com.

So I didn't believe him when Kev called and said he had failed the stress test and they were sending him to a Cath Lab. I leave my meeting, call Barb to check on the Doctor that would check on Kev (did I tell you she worked for a malpractise lawyer now?), made arrangements for Megh and took off.

No Big Deal, right?

I meet the Doctor, check. He's a very serious man. Friends come--it felt weird having people around me becasue it's nothing to worry about. We go back to see him and laugh because he looks funny with the little backless gown falling off his shoulder and his arms covered in tubes. We pray for Kev and they take him away. I Talk to Dr. Capp--Kev's in great health, he comforts...it may end up being a false positive--that happens. No Big Deal.

Within the half hour another doctor comes out. They found the problem--a blockage in the Lateral LAD (Left Going Down Artery or something like that)--how much? "Ummm," she pauses. "90 percent."

Let me just say that "90 percent" in the medical world is WAY different than Normal People's 90%. When we got to see the procedure (which Kev witnessed as they actually DID the deed) you could see the blockage...and wasn't no 90 %...that is unless you mean90% as "a hairline passage in which there is not enough room to pass even an actual human hair through." The Blockage was located high up on the LAD--like a gate at a turnpike--and it was amazing to see that blood was, in fact getting through, somehow. Barb said that the LAD was like that...it figures out ways to get around problems, if it can. If you have to have blockage, the LAD is the place to get it. Even so, she said Kevin was a Cardiac Arrest Time Bomb that was about to blow.

We are now sitting in the hospital room. It's 1 a. m. Kevin is complaining about the pain in his groin (I've called him a Pain in the Opposite of Groin...but I kind of like the simplicity of "Pain in the Groin" --perhaps it shall be shortened to the even more simply P.I.G....Now I can say, "Kevin you're being a P.I.G." and we will know it doesn't mean he's eating with his mouth open. Hmmm...Anyway...that's what they are concerned with mostly, the groin hole where the Tubey Thing and the Lead Wire Thing and the Dye shooter Thing and the Stint Taker Uper Thing went. They come in and check his leg. Never mind the Stint in the Heart! We want to see the Hole in the Groin! *smile*

Within the last 24 hours: I've found out that others knew the potential danger he was in before I had a clue...and came just to be with me in my ignorant optomism without saying a word. I've found out the doctor who gave Kev the stress test called over and hand picked one of the best reactionary cardiac cath doctors in this heart hospital. I've found out that Kev's night nurse is a third generation Christian from India who has brought us a lounger, a cot, an extra sandwich ,and a couple of diet cokes, along with a bunch of hugs and prayers. I've learned that everyone should get a stress test if they are nearing the age of Middle--I'm calling my doctor Tuesday. I've been told that jet skiing, tromping up and down hills, hot weather, dragging heavy equipment, among countless other activities that Kevin has happily participated in over the past several months, could have overwhelmed the nearly sealed artery sending him into cardiac arrest. I've learned that death isn't always the worst thing that can happen when your heart can't get oxygen...you could live but be totally crippled by the event. I've learned that a lot of emotion happens when you see on the consent sheet the line about "emergency heart surgery" and the possible that that might be someone you love. I've learned that God's Kindness comes in countless forms: a song on the radio, phone calls, emails, visits even though I've said "no," a good doctor going on a "hunch," a husband who makes a choice, little diversions, a beautiful sunset, a private room, places for my daughter, another day with my Adorable Boy and my Sweet Daughter. The list doesn't stop.

In the midst of this we get word that someone Kev worked with on building the filming site got up this morning with his wife. No Big Deal. She took a shower and came out of the bathroom to find him fallen over, dead. He was a wonderful Christian man with terriic faith-filled kids, and had a fabulous work for God. My stunned prayers go out to her and her children who we know and love.

I don't know what to make of it all...but right now I'm going to cuddle up with my recovering husband after I text my daugher good night. I won't sleep. But it won't matter. Because being near him is an Incredibly BIG DEAL!

Please continue to pray for us and the film shoot. Weird things continue on all fronts.

According to the doctor, we should be going home tomorrow and, if Kev feels up to it, he could be on set--at least for a while--tomorrow night.

Hug each other especially close for us tonight...and ask your doctor about a stress test on Monday.

Marcy

Below is Kevin's version...

During the rat/maze/treadmill exercise test the nurses began to look
worried. They stopped the test, took me to a room and then the physician
arrived. He looked at a loss for words. He then said this was the worst
stress test he had ever seen! He said it appeared as though two of my three
arteries were nearly 100% clogged. He refused to let me leave or drive my
own vehicle. He said he had already called an ambulance to rush me to the
hospital. He said I was a walking time bomb! They actually rushed me past
emergency room procedures which caused the emergency staff to nearly get
huffy. But the surgeon and two nurses came into the room and said to skip
all that and take me straight to the surgical lab. All of this excitement
took place within one hour! The team came in and went to work going up in
through my groin with a guide wire and dye. It was then the surgeon watched
live x-rays as he discovered my left ascending artery 90% closed...that¹s
like a pencil dropping to the width of a stretched paper clip! He then
tried an inserted balloon to stretch the artery...but it began to disfigure
it. Next measure is the stint. Basically it is like taking apart an old
bic pen and removing the spring around the ink shaft. This metal tube-like
spring is inserted up the artery into the constricted area and then
expanded. It has a material on it to adhere to the artery walls and become
part of me. This took and the artery began to pass blood like normal. He
seemed relieved and pleased. The only next step would have been emergency
open heart surgery. Praise God that wasn't necessary!!!

2 Writers in 1 Family = Lots of Words at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

I Was Even THERE!!!

Looks like I missed my golden opportunity.

Nearly 20 years ago, my Film Guy Husband and I went to Nigeria to...what else?...make a video...this time for a ministry there.

A man offered Kevin several goats for me...During the conversation Kevin kept smiling and nodding...I assumed that he didn't understand what the man was asking and so unwittingly entered into the negotiation...But now, I'm not so sure...maybe he knew a good deal when he saw one.

Either way, the transaction was stopped by the missionaries who thought the whole thing was funny.

But look what I missed.

At Least I'm Sexy in One Country of the World at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

Just When You Think You Have the Answer

Researchers tell us this.

Gonna laugh 'til it kills me at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

Web bio-long version

“Strange as it may seem, my life is based on a true story”

~Ashleigh Brilliant

Personally, I think bios like this are pretty silly. It’s like me trying to make you like me.

“Look!” The bio demands, “I’ve done this! And This! And What About This!?…Oh! And I’m sure you’ll like me because of THIS!”

Yet, in the spirit of what my publisher requires, here goes:

I grew up in Scottsbluff, Nebraska, eldest of four. Dad was a professor at a private college named after a dead trapper who “took ill” near a local sandstone hill and was unceremoniously abandoned in 1828 by his trapper buddies. The town was established at the turn of the century, Hiram Scott College, established four score years later. HSC, a private institution and a grand experiment of liberal thought attempting to set its feet on the wild and apparently conservative prairie amid the German farmers and long-term family businesses. Many confused and troubled kids from the Eastern Seaboard journeyed away from their crowded cities to land smack into the Middle of Nowhere of the Nebraskan panhandle where not even a Kmart existed. My father taught Life 101 there disguised as Biology and countless students sat at his feet, smoking and drinking (you could do that in the 60s), soaking in hope for themselves and their future among the lectures on worm digestion and plant sex. Dad was a “Dead Poet’s” type of teacher—brilliant and caustic with a mouth like a sailor and a smile like a used car saleman. I desperately wanted to be like him when I grew up.

Mom was your consummate flexible, long suffering wife. Regularly required to whip up meals for 20 with food barely enough for 6, she patiently stepped over the bedded down bodies of stray college students who couldn’t go home for break. Her husband collected them, you see: he thought no one should be left behind, so he brought them home by the dozens, homesick and hung-over, for spaghetti and bread. Her children were no better: collecting stray cats, dogs, turtles, rocks, kids…anything that needed a home ultimately came home with us. And, God love her, she “un-complainedly” fed, watered, bathed, and loved on every last one. I wish I was more like her.

Blah, blah, blah, graduated with a BS from Oklahoma Christian College, blah, blah, blah where I met and married my husband, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

Panic Milestone #1: The first panic attack I remember occurred in March or April 1985 at a local restaurant in Oklahoma City. (This was a decade before the words “anxiety” and “disorder” were used together.) For a split second, the room spun and I gasped for breath…was I going to pass out, or throw up or soil my shorts…or maybe do all three at once? Could it be the flu? I had felt fine the moment before. Everything looked different, too, like I was trying to win a foreign film award by shooting things out of focus or in a surreal way. My heart was racing—or was it? Maybe it was a heart attack. Think: what are the symptoms of a heart attack? Heart feels funny. Check. Chest feels heavy. Check. Feel like I could pass out. Check. Are there other symptoms? I couldn’t remember. Tired. I suddenly felt tired. And my hands are trembly and clammy. My legs were weak. Must. Sit. Down. Why can’t I breathe…What’s wrong with me? Maybe I’m dying. What if I’m dying? Eeew, my neck feels all crawly. I want to cry…no, scream. I want to run away screaming. Someone’s talking to me…What did he say? I’ve Got. To. Act. Normal. Must. Focus. On. Speaking. Man. Lightheaded…I’m feeling so light-headed. Ohhh, my bowels hurt. Ooops! I’ve got to find a bathroom. Please, I don’t want to feel sick here! I can’t do this! I can’t stay here! I’ve got to get out! I just want to be home. What do I do?

From 1987-1989 I worked on a Master’s degree at the University of Akron. Although I didn’t know what they were called at the time I was having 5 to 10 panic attacks a day, some lasting 90 minutes each. I ate little (animal crackers, diet coke, atomic fire balls) and shook uncontrollably every night until I fell asleep. Poor Kevin would lie beside his wife and watch her defib. I never knew how horrible and helpless it was for him until I watched my sweet daughter panic just recently. Oh, God, I hated feeling it but how I REALLY hated watching her go through it! Even though I could dissect the blasted thing to its micron level for her, I couldn’t stop it run its freaking course, ravaging my daughter’s psyche. She’s had a half dozen attacks. I struggled constantly for over 20 years. It’s a wonder Kevin didn’t give up on me decades ago.

From 1990 to ’94 we lived in Joplin, Missouri. Eating at restaurants had become almost impossible if there was any waiting to be done…sometimes even McDonald’s was too slow. Grocery shopping was torture, and several times a cart full of groceries was left as I fled. During this time, Kevin was gone about six months out of the year traveling overseas…and I realized that I felt stronger and braver when he was gone. Something clicked. Hmmmm…maybe this struggle has something to do with our relationship…A description of Agoraphobia was also found, which helped me know I wasn’t going crazy alone—at least there were a few other wackos like me out there…and we had a name! And it sounded exotic! Or at least foreign!

Our daughter was born in 1994 in Houston, Texas. From the beginning Meghan was The Nurturer…patting my breast as she nursed, rubbing my cheeks when we snuggled. I desperately, desperately wanted her to not to end up like me thus I swore (yet again, but this time I! Mean! It!) to change…or die (I did mean this). Every known book on Panic was borrowed or purchased and I devoured them all.

Lots happened after that…a total meltdown…some health challenges due to burned out adrenals…I even left the airport instead of waiting for a “stand-by” flight, after getting on and off a plane…gave up being healed and decided to “make the best of my illness” by finding something “nice” about each day. Talked to doctor after doctor after doctor. Tried their meds…nothing worked. Talked to counselor after counselor after counselor. Prayed and prayed and prayed. Had people pray…went forward at church…called prayer-warriors in…There’d be some relief but the terror returned. Discovered that a sip of red wine was one of the few things that helped. My doctor concurred and we made a plan to monitor intake. I’m able to leave my house without tears for the first time in nearly 10 years.

Attended Faces of Christ retreat in Louisville, Kentucky in 2004 after moving there. Realized that it was the lies I believe about myself and God that keeps me stuck. I begin to work on identifying and countering them.

Began seeing Super Prayer Warrior Lisa-Marie. She can pray just about like I’ve never seen. The amount of release that came from sessions with her were really stunning. Forgiveness is her zone and even though I thought I had forgiven God, myself, and others…I hadn’t.

Still fighting…I’m having a small panic attack as I write this. But I’m able to lean less and less on medication and more and more on God. And I’m really hoping (and trusting) that all of the hell that I’ve experienced will be used by my Father to help free up someone else. Then, maybe all of this isn’t pathetically in vain.

Still crazy at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

Not Just for Roofs (or is that Rooves?)

Potential Saying of the Day: "The ideal way to get rid of any infectious disease would be to shoot instantly every person who comes down with it."

~Henry Louis Mencken

Amazing Camera Husband Kev just came home from a check up. Dr. Capp says Kev is in "remarkable shape for a 45 year old." But he wants some more tests done. Apparently Dr. Capp isn't sure what kind of shape "remarkable" is...would that be spherical, perhaps?

BTW: one of Amazing Camera Husband Kev's complaints (as of midnight the night before) was that his "poor, pitiful" side was feeling "tender" (in this case "tender" is a camera term for "painful, lumpy, and red").

Dr. Capp's diagnosis: Shingles*. From stress. Just for the record. Shingles is for old people**. That’s all I’m saying.

*note phrase: "If the virus does become active again, usually later in life, it causes Shingles."

**note phrase: "About half of the nearly 1 million Shingles cases in the United States each year occur in people aged 60 years and older."

unshingled and grateful at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

Changing Lives, One Sink at a Time

Potential Quote of the Day: “Housework can't kill you, but why take a chance?”

~Phyllis Diller

“I have a website that, I hate to say it, has changed my life,” says Jana the Jogging Neighbor.

"Really,” says I.

“Really,” says she. “It’s www.flylady.net and she helps people organize their lives using 15 minute intervals. She starts off by having you shine your sink. (Pause.) I forget what FLY means, though.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” says I.

“Nope. Even Shane noticed,” comments she.

Yeah, whatever, thinks I. It’s certainly got a stupid name. "How interesting," fibs I.

The website of flylady is cluttered and overwhelming, making the idea of such a person organizing something as distant as my house seem surreal. But, Jogging Neighbor Jana normally is a fairly level-headed friend so I signed up for the emails anyway.

That night detailed instructions about shining my sink arrived via the electronic post. My first reaction: total cheesed offness of such a degree that it took a glass and a half of wine (Peter Vella boxed Burgandy, undated…unless you count the funny numbers on the bottom, then it was April, 20, 2007…a good day for winemaking, I’d say) to amp down below "Chernobyl" level. In mid-gulp I realized that because I was so miffed, it was obvious what I had to do. I must Go. Shine. Freakin' sink. $*%(@)#)$)%_@

So I did. And now I can’t stop. I actually look for her assignments each day and although I try not doing them, but they stick with me…tickling my brain until I find myself body-snatched, as it were, by some other Me, stumbling away from my computer to fulfill the request of FlyLady and her minions. It’s the weirdest thing.

And yet my sink gleams. And now my shower and several of my windows do too.

But can't do the shoes yet at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

Possible Quote of the Day: “Whenever I feel like exercising, I lie down until the feeling passes.”

Robert Maynard Hutchins

So the other night I was sitting on our deck visiting with my husband when here comes my neighbor running up the hill toward our house. Actually she was jogging, which is way different than running in that jogging, as a rule, requires cute clothes made of technologically advanced and often expensive materials such as spandex. It is this blog’s humble opinion that spandex should be outlawed from use across the planet as it’s probably causing global warming and because it makes a certain blog author look like the Michelin Man.

I am really proud of my jogging neighbor—She just had a baby (which makes her fourth) and is battling MS (which is a horrible disease). She’s an ex-rock climbing champion who spent extended time camping and climbing in places that lack several specific items that are vital to this blog’s existence like McDonald’s bathrooms and Taco Bell.

So why didn’t I jump up and cheer her on? Well, for one thing that would scare the living ooky out of her—primarily because she was in her “zone,” so to speak. Also I didn't want to embarrass her or myself. She’s not only my neighbor, she’s my friend and I like her and I want her to like me. But I must confess to an audible groan when she entered my vision. But why?

I thought about this for a long time. First there’s the obvious: Because I’m not running and I don’t have four children. I’m not running after just having a baby. I’m not running and fighting MS. I’m don’t have any of these things to contend with and I don’t even walking consistently.

Which makes me a loser. Or at least that’s how I felt. The truth is, I really am a sloth. Walking is fine, if the weather is cool, and there’s a breeze, and the stars line up just right, and…well you get the picture. But I’d rather read, or sew, or write, or do something else.

And apparently I want everyone else to be at the same level of loserhood that I deem myself. Everyone should wake up with a Diet Coke in their hand, consume something fried and heavily salted by 10 am, and drag them selves around the block just often enough so that people notice the effort.

Her discipline puts into glaring relief my pathetic-ness and it made me want to cuss. Yet, for me to become a rugged outdoor-type might take more than an Act of Congress or direct intervention from the Almighty. My DNA would have to be altered somewhere below quark level. It's not that I'm clean freak--just ask my family. I can go days without showering, no poblem. It's. Because. I don’t like to sweat. Ever. And I don't like bugs. Around my face.

But why does her sweat matter to me? Why can’t my sweet, godly, and active neighbor pursue her interest/hobby/passion without me feeling gross enough to not want to cheer and wave? And why can’t I embrace my interests/hobbies/passions and be joyful and OK about them? And why is it always about me? And in particular, why do I always make it about me being a loser?

I guess that will take some more exploration.

Send therapy bill to: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

Birthday Hangover

30 dinner guests
10 party guests (7 girls, 3 boys)
24 hamburgers
18 hotdogs
Industrial sized container of Bush's Baked Beans
40 cupcakes with "13" iced on them
2 XL tubs of icing (one chocolate, one vanilla)
2 gallons Blue Bell ice cream (one chocolate, one vanilla)
500 waterballoons
$70 for 3 minutes of fireworks
50 plastic drinking cups
7 girls for sleepover
2 am "official" bedtime
4:30 am "actual" bedtime
4 loads of laundry
2 borrowed tables
12 borrowed chairs
soggy clothes draped over the deck railing
pop and other schmutz tracked through the house


Watching my daughter celebrate entering teenage-dom surrounded by her favorite people in L'ville: priceless.

now make mine a double at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com