An Unnatural Love

Possible Quote of the Day: “I try to fill the emptiness deep inside me with Cheetos, but I am still depressed. Only now my fingers are stained orange. I am blue. And I am orange.”

~Karen Salmansohn

Let me confess: I LOVE Cheetos Brand Cheese Puffs. LOOOOOOVE them. And Let It Be Known That “Love,” in this particular context, like many contexts in which this word is used in America, means “a lusty hankering to an unhealthy degree.” It Should Also Be At Least Noted that the specific “Cheetos Brand Cheese Puffs” so craved are the freakish, glowing, puffy goodness of the Ordained Original, not the wimpy, shriveled, pathetic excuses for a Cheetos labeled “crunchy,” or any of the odd shaped versions. If they don’t look like overstuffed maggots, I don’t want ‘em.

My love for the construction-orange poofy nuggets originated during childhood: my mother, being a member of the Good Housekeeping Generation, was too offended by their in-your-face affront to nature and their exorbitant cost (which was significantly more than the 55 cents a bag of regular chips) to allow them in our house except on special occasions like birthdays and Thanksgiving. During those events I shamelessly stood over the Cheetos bowl like a drunken office worker, preventing others from nearing, nursing every stolen crumb until I my colon could process no more.

For me, nirvana during Seventh grade could best be achieved with a new “Mad” magazine, a sunny spot on the carpet, Elton John on the record player, and a bowl of Cheetos.

Alas, I am a Responsible Adult now. Ergo, these snacks are forbidden in our cupboard but for different reasons than my mother's. It is because they are addicting.

However, the other day I came home to find a bag of day-glo fluffy fingerlings glowing on the counter—the result of excess snackage from a Boys’ Day Out on the lake. In a Blink, I had found a pleasant read, (although in this century it was Dave Barry on the web), had a nice Adult Beverage and a large bowl of vibrant extruded corniness on a TV-tray by the couch. Life was SOOOOOO good! But I was soon to find it even better!

While at Wal-mart something caught my eye—What’s this? “All natural Cheetos puffs” served up as a neutral cream-colored puffette in the flavor of “Light Cheddar.” My mind reeled to make sense of what I saw, but to no avail: How can you have a Cheetos without the aberrant coloring that rubs off onto your fingers, clothes, and small furry pets? How can the words “Cheetos” and “Natural” be in the same sentence without causing a smirk or guffaw? Strangely…these snacks were fully Cheetos and fully serious. Even the bag looked healthy with its subdued palette of wholesome earth tones and a splash of respectable Navy. Chester, the racy, cool (and dare I say, “sexy”) icon of all Cheeto-ness since 1986 was present on the bag, only smaller looking somehow thinner—wimpy-er—in his typical wild-tongue stance; like a cross-country runner posing in a GQ pose for a “unposed” yearbook picture.

The Apocalypse just might be up on us.

The following is offered in order to appear knowledgeable and pedantic. According to Wikipedia, “Cheetos are often referred to in pop culture as the snack choice of lazy, overweight nerds and unemployed people.”

Don't tell my husband he could be lustfully replaced by a $3 bag of snacks at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

In Case You Don't Have Enough Stress In Your Life

Try this.

I'm stuck on 60 at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

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

It Just Goes to Show

Potential Saying of the Day: “The most happy marriage I can imagine to myself would be the union of a deaf man to a blind woman.”

~Samuel Taylor Coleridge

I just want to say that when a particular male-gendered person makes a big deal about a particular female-gendered person’s lack of priming a dilapidated chair before spray painting it blue and then the first said male-gendered person doesn’t sand his bench before he varnishes it even though the bench has become fuzzy due to being pressure washed with a high powered mechanical sprayer thingy, then those people must be married.

Just Wait 'Til He Sees What I Did to the Deck at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

Won't Be Topless

Potential Saying of the Day: “I base my fashion taste on what doesn’t itch.”

~Gilda Radner

My Texas Chic chic Cibby updated my wardrobe with two huge sacks from her closet! And they fit! And mostly look good on me! Which absolutely rocks because I have potential interviews of the media type and feel like the consummate fashion black hole sincerely want to be ready for this terrifying exciting literary adventure.

Maybe They Won't Notice I'm Bottomless at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

A Useful Gadget for the Stressed Out

Who also want to annoy the people around them.

I'M LIKE THE CRYPT KEEPER!

My daughter turned 13 today making me unequivocally this,

With a coolness factor equalling way less than this.

So that makes me normal.

hand over the Geritol and no one gets hurt at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

Your Official "Scared Silly" Review of "Ocean's 13"

In this Humble Blog's opinion, regardless of the closed-minded powers that be, this movie deserves this.

It does so due to a direct result of:
1) A sufficient lack of plot,
2) An extreme lack of violence,
3) Stress-less plot twists,
4) And awesome Eye Candy.

Who needs popcorn? at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

Yet Another Useful Thing for the Fretful

God Bless Dr. Bach.

I'll take a gallon at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

Unbelievable!

Potential Saying of the Day: “I went to a bookstore and asked the saleswoman, “Where’s the self-help section?” She said if she told me, it would defeat the purpose.”

~George Carlin

Jody The Little Sister and her family was visiting from Washington D.C. (motto: We Have Politicians So You Don't Have To.)

We decided to stop by Southeast Christian Church (motto: Our Foyer Looks More Like an Airport Than a Real Airport), which has a coffee shop and a bookstore. While browsing amongst the shelves (read: “looking for my first book”) a lady came up to me and said, “Marcy Bryan? Hi! I’m Sara the Awesomest Bookstore Manager Ever, and we’ve just pre-ordered your new book! I can't wait! We'll do a book signing and everything.”

OK, she didn’t actually say, “I’m Sara the Awesomest Bookstore Manager Ever”…that was me. Because she is. Even with the Scary Book Signing Idea. Really.

Stunned and awed at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

Cool Scripture of the Moment

Hebrews 2:14-15 (New International Version)

Since the children have flesh and blood, he too shared in their humanity so that by his death he might destroy him who holds the power of death—that is, the devil— and free those who all their lives were held in slavery by their fear of death (added color, mine).

YEEE HAH! at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

Hooray! Gaaack!

Potentially Useful Quote of the Day: “Publicity can be terrible. But only if you don’t have any.”

~Jane Russell

My Awesome Friend Ruth who is a Newspaper Writer and who henceforth shall be called Awesome Writer Friend Ruth got me some “chill” time with Debra The Connected One who seems to know anyone in the business of broadcasting things. Picture Tony of The Sopranos only blond, and …OK…Debra has hair and is not male…but you can kind of understand the metaphor, right? She’s in the BizNess…bro.

Because Southeast had been my Divine Place of Inspiration (meaning I went there for over a month, 5 days a week, sat in their Media Center, and tapped on my keyboard for hours) I had met Debra The Connected One whilst birthing Scared Silly. She said to call her when the book was done… I thought she was just being nice…but she wasn’t. (One Slight Problem: Somehow I thought her name was Cindy or Susan. You can, of course, see that these names are easily confused with Debra…they all are of the feminine gender and made up of two syllables and have vowels in them.)

Thus, with Awesome Writer Friend Ruth's help, it came to pass that I found myself sitting next to Debra The Connected One in her office politely laughing about my misnaming her while we looked over a list of potential names, local media companies, and phone numbers that could take one’s breath away. Which it did. Specifically mine.

I sat gasping for air as she said "stress-relieving" things like: “OK, We’ll call Stations X, Y, and Z…they’ll love having you on their morning shows. Paper X might put you in the Religious section…but I think we could get you into the Features because this is such a huge topic. I know people in the Health Care Industry…why don’t we get some speaking gigs at their weekly health nights. And if we build up your credibility, I’ll call my friend from the Speaker’s Bureau In A Larger City Not Near Here…and if you get in his stable…boy you’ll just be everywhere.”

What happened to Youtube.com and podcasting and unshoweredness?

Hooray?! and Gaaack! at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

What do THEY know, anyway?

According to the Center for Disease Control, the Average American Woman weighs 164.3 pounds.

Several questions come to mind:
a) What do they mean by "average"?
1) Who is this woman? Is she offended at being called "average" by an organization that specializes in things like the measles and male patterned baldness?
b) Why is the Center for Disease Control involved with her?

1) it is a conspiracy or just an uncomfortable friendship?

c) Should we, Spectacular American Women (because we're definitely NOT AVERAGE) be concerned?

1) or just jealous?

WAAAAYYY above average at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

Another Useful Thing For the Fretful

Frownies

Key phrase: "Sure they look silly, but who cares if you just sleep in them?"

do the have it in Industrial Strength? at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

Too Much Like Me

Potential Quote of the Day: "Don't Panic."

~Douglas Adams

I’ve seen myself reflected in the most horrible of ways…

No, it wasn’t in a warped Wal-mart mirror during an ego-bashing swimsuit search.

Nor was it in an Extra Large Diet Coke after a sleepless night.

It was in the eyes of my terrified daughter during a panic attack.

Oh dear God, how I prayed for this day to never come! Her shallow breathing, her pale face and big eyes, her tears. “I’ve stopped thinking about the future,” she whispered several nights ago. “Because…I’m afraid…I…won’t…have...one...”

This wasn’t her first attack. That one came while she was in Tennessee with Kevin. He performed masterfully, talking her down and finally to sleep. The next day, true to her yammerful-ness, she gave me a blow-by-blow. We chalked it up to unruly hormones. Bad hormones. Baaaad.

But as I held her during the next two nights, desperately trying to put into practice all of the stupid things I had just written a book about…it all felt so insipid. Nothing…no logic…no prayer…no cheerleading…no scripture quotation…nothing could reach her as she waited to die.

She didn’t, of course. But being a wise and caring mom, and...wanting someone else to have to deal with it, I made an appointment with Megh’s Doctor. Well, we couldn’t actually see him because he was on vacation, blissfully unaware of our great need. Instead we were assigned the Substitute Pediatrician. Just want we needed: the B-team to help the precious fruit of my loin fight the biggest thing in her near-teenage life.

The Substitute Pediatrician swept in, listened briefly, performed a perfunctory listening to her heart and lungs and then made his pronouncement which was both amazingly helpful and stunningly profound:

“Do you have (insert list of panic symptoms here)?” Megh nodded emphatically, surprised he knew her so well. “We I think you’re fine and that you’ve got ‘stressed out.’ It's called a "Panic Attack." And I just want you to know that I see so many girls and boys about your age for this very same thing.”

With one phrase, the Substitute Pediatrician not only reinforced everything both Kevin and I said, but somehow, made it into a Magic Wand of Sorts and made everything better. Really.

In fact he made it so better that Megh announced upon leaving that she was hungry and wanted to celebrate her Newly Renewed Lease On Life with Burger King Chicken Fries and Onion Rings. Value sized.

I love that girl.

she's obviously my daughter at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

Panic Person's Shopping Dream

This.

Will take a gross at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

I Have to READ It?

Good Quote of the Moment: “I just wrote a book, but don’t go out and buy it yet, because I don’t think it’s finished yet.” Lawrence Welk

Must read Scared Silly yet again. Lynn the Nice Lady Editor says it’s the absolutely last time I will have to do this so I must read it very carefully. But apparently not too carefully…because they really can’t change much now that it’s been laid out for printing. Go figure. Maybe I’ll read it with one eye shut.

As to this being the absolutely last time I will have to read Scared Silly…I have my doubts. I just re-read it a month ago for “flow,” and then a month before that during which I had to answer a bunch of “questions.” In case you’re wondering, when someone like Lynn the Nice Lady Editor has “questions,” it means she has areas of your manuscript that you’re totally sick of that are near and dear to your heart that needs “attention,” or that needs “clarification,” or that needs “fixing,” or that just “sucks” and needs “help.”

Side thought: You’d think that, with the amount of times I’ve read this thing, and being that I wrote it, some of the wisdom therein would sink into my thick skull and I’d be the Most! Adventurous! Person in the World! Ever!

Sigh…I guess I’ll have to read it again. With both eyes open, next time.

Needing serious caffeine at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

Saint Kevin

Potentially helpful quote of the Day: "You know your children are growing up when they stop asking you where they came from and refuse to tell you where they’re going." P.J. O'Rourke

My daughter reached another milestone in becoming (to mis-quote Dave Barry) an Adult Woman of the Female Gender.

This is the milestone that is reached over and over and over again, month after month, if you get my drift.

She was not home when she came upon this milestone.

I was not with her.

Her dad was.

She was rather unprepared, as it were.

He is officially a saint.

Boy, did he earn it at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

Open Email To Those Who Love Me #2

So…remember how stressed I was that I might have to be my own Shameless Commerce Division for “Scared Silly”?

Remember how difficult and scary it felt?

And how I was going to trust God to take care of getting “Scared Silly” into the hands that needed it because, after all, it was his assignment in the first place and I really, really wanted him to be in charge of it?

Well, I lied.

Not that asking for prayers and ideas was a bad thing. They came pouring in after my last whiny email and offered a plethora of possibilities that seemed plausible and yet totally safe, I mean extremely creative.

Things like:

Making some spots and posting them on YouTube.com..

Making one of the chapters (or part of a chapter) into a Podcast, offering it for free, and then encouraging people to buy the book to get the rest…

Sending a copy to Oprah and Ellen…because…you never know…

Several friends have agreed to let me put the book and the link onto their website…(Thank you Website Owning Friends!)…

Many offered various connecting points (counseling orgs, publishing orgs/seminars, book clubs, etc.)…

And Kristen (who is like a Sister/Daughter) offered to design a website and who shall from hereafter be known as Kristen the Rocking Sister/Daughter because designing a website was so overwhelming that it made me want to pull clumps of Internet-challenged ergo overloaded and twitching brain cells out of my nose with a bendy-straw.

Thanks for all ya’ll’s prayers and thoughts…they were/are wonderful…

But…

Maybe you should stop now.

Because…

I think God is taking you seriously.

OK…Let me just say I thought I was stressed about “doing-it-yourself” pimping, but I was wrong…

Friday brought an email from Standard’s Marketing Lady, Rebekah Stewart, who is, I’m sure, a very nice lady and who said, (and I quote):

Hi Marcy,

I wanted to let you know that we have secured a publicist for Scared Silly. Joni Baker from Buoyancy PR will be handling all aspects of publicity for your title (press release, securing interviews and reviews). I have already given her your contact information and I’m sure she will be contacting you shortly to “get the ball rolling”. As always, if you have any marketing questions, feel free to contact me directly. Thanks.

Let us bow our heads and join with me in saying, “EEEEEEEKKKKKKK!!!!! WHAT DO YOU MEAN ALL ASPECTS and SECURING INTERVIEWS! Diet COOOKE! I NEED AN IV! STAT!!

There you have it.

I’m maybe your only friend who is so transparent about being completely fickle. In case you missed it—apparently I can’t be pleased: First haranguing and complaining about not having someone to be in charge of shamelessly commercing this book…and then, after God graciously setting up a Proper Book Pimp, I’m freaking about what she will make me DO!

(I should have known that God had something up his sleeve when I felt like all of my Friend-Generated Ideas were cool AND do-able.)

I hope this Book Pimp Lady actually reads “Scared Silly” so she knows just what kind of wacko she’s dealing with.

BTW: You probably ought to keep praying…God only knows what’s coming next (of course he does!). I’ll probably have to fly.

More than once.

And change planes.

In Chicago.

I bet I’ll even have to shower, too.

I need a Diet Coke.

And some chocolate.

Gratefully, even though it doesn’t sound like it today at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

Open Letter to Any Friends Who Find This Site:

It's Memorial Day and I'm typing instead of BBQing...partly because I am a
bad BBQer, but partly because I'm fretting...

Last week I talked to Lynn, the Editing Diva at Standard Publishing who is working on “Scared Silly.” You may not remember—assuming you have a life—I wrote a book last year, which has taken nearly another year to finish and print.

As I type this, we (“we” meaning the Editing, Proofreading, Correcting, and Typesetting team at Standard…and me when 1) they need to get approval for all of their changes; 2) something needs footnoting; or 3) some section is deemed so hideous that I must rewrite it) are in the final stages of correcting, proofreading, more correcting, layout, more proofreading and correcting before sending to the printer. Target release date is September 1^st.

During the aforementioned conversation with Lynn, the Editing Diva at Standard I began to sense that, although Standard Publishing publishes a lot of books, they don’t really market them much. They mainly offer them in their catalog or on their website or sell them to Amazon.com or other regional/local booksellers…and that’s all.

So when it became apparent that I might have to be my own publicist, I immediately thought of you and your ability to pray. OK…That’s not completely true. My first panicky thought was how badly I suddenly had to go to the bathroom (typical in my struggle against Panic Disorder), then I thought about needing a Diet Coke (at least!), and THEN I thought about how badly I needed prayer, which brought me directly to you.

Here’s the deal: Being my own publicist is about as horrifying a thought as I can imagine for a multitude of reasons that I won’t bore you with—not the least of which I would have to PERSUADE PEOPLE TO LET ME TRAVEL TO PUBLIC PLACES—maybe even ON AN AIRPLANE, DO SOMETHING PUBLIC, possibly NOT NEAR A BATHROOM (like book signings or interviews) and GET PEOPLE TO LIKE ME.

However, I REALLY want “Scared Silly” to get into the hands of people who need it…which can’t be done if I don’t get it into the hands of people who can let other people know about it. (Boy, I could use a Diet Coke!)

In August Standard can provide me with an electronic photo of the cover and a sample chapter. Lynn the Editing Diva at Standard suggested I email it to people (or post it on their websites, if they let me), to taste test. This is one possible advertising ploy that wouldn’t require me flying OR showering. Which is good. But probably not good enough. Kev suggested I make a radio spot and see if we can get it on some Christian stations. So I now have two showerless ideas…but I can tell something bigger is needed. And that something includes you.

PLEASE PRAY that God will provide a network that can help make this book widely available. Pray that it can get into strategic hands like buyers at Wal-mart or Waldenbooks…or that radio host Delilah will read it, love it, and play the non-showered radio spot…or that Oprah would receive it and want to bring her crew to KY for a visit (OK…I’d go to Chicago for Oprah…).

You know me…Beyond asking for prayer and ideas…I pretty much suck at “pimping” myself. So there you go.

I understand that God gave me the assignment to write this book…so I believe he’ll help get it out to where ever he wants it to go…but I want to be faithful and adventuresome in the process as well. Even if it means traveling, speaking, and pitching myself.

Thanks for letting my panic before you. The good news: I’m not curled up in a fetal position…yet.

OK, now I really need another diet coke.

If you have any ideas, feel free to let me know. I appreciate them mucho.

More than anything thanks for your prayers. I really, really, really, REALLY need them.

And I probably need another diet coke, at least at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

Come Make Me

Potential Wise Saying of the Day: "The nice part about being a pessimist is that you are constantly being either proven right or pleasantly surprised." ~George F. Will

What the @#*($*# Were You Thinking?

Potential Wise Saying for the Day: "It's far easier to forgive an enemy after you've got even with him." ~Olin Miller

In an effort of being a good mom and possibly winning one of these someday, I ventured into another state to take my daughter to a locally performed version of a Broadway hit musical. In the process almost hit some people with my car. OK, I didn't actually almost hit them perse' , I almost hit their minivan--while I was going almost 20 miles per hour. Because it was peeing down rain. Because I was about to take an erroneous exit. Because the Indiana highway system stinks.

One would think that, after spending 10 years in the midst of Houston traffic, navigating my way around with 4 million people -- 80% of whom are what a more prejudiced person might call "foreigners"-- that I would have experienced and overcome all possible Interstate Exit Scenarios. But no, Indiana wins the award for Most Confusing Use Of Concrete.

Keep in mind that Indiana is known for stunningly non-viable ideas. For example, New Harmony was a combo failure--started by a group who believed, in 1814, that the return of Jesus Christ was imminent--so they bought land on which to live simply and perfectly until the Big Day. After 10 years of waiting, they moved back to Pennsylvania apparently to be closer to this and these as oppose to these, some of which--I kid you not--are named after major drug companies.

And speaking of bad ideas, during the first two decades of the 2oth century, Indiana was the Manufacturing Center for the largest variety of failed vehicles in the history of mankind. Just four of the 200 names you have never heard of, unless you are a total car geek or my husband, according to my daughter's textbook on U.S. States are: Duesenburg, Auburn, Stutz, and Maxwell.

Most recently Indiana has become the most famous home of the totally uncool Indianapolis 500, according to Al "I'll Be Famous for Something" Gore.

Indiana has also taken the same intrepid approach to their interstate exits, branching several off at once, not really telling you where you are headed until you find yourself lost among the innards of their not-quite-revived downtown region which apparently consists of the entire state.

So it was, that at one of these double/triple peel off exits, I realized I was about to be ejected into the vast labyrinth of streets located on the wrong side of the highway with little or no hope to cross until we had missed the start of the the next millenium. Oh, and did I mention that it was torrentially raining?

As I tried to ease myself back into the next peel off exit lane, a Hunter Green Minivan comes up behind me and HONKS the entire time it passes me. In reality, I might have been in line to hit it, but I was ahead of her, with my blinker on to move over. On, and did I mention I was AHEAD OF HER?

Well, I took the proper peel off exit, even though it was poorly marked (So there! Indiana DOT!) and followed the now Angry Hunter Green Minivan to the Derby Dinner Playhouse to see the ex-Broadway musical presently performed by talented Indianians. We pulled in right behind them. I thought about parking next to them but thought better of it. Which was probably good.

The crowd of youthful, and apparently fashionable young people in the form of students were already entering the theater. For some strange, fateful reason the members of the Angry Hunter Green Minivan filed up to the line about the same time as we. I know they were members of said van because they all, from the 70-year-old grandma with bottle-bottom glasses, and the 40-something-year-old female driver with bottle-bottom glasses--and even their eyeglass-less 8-year-old boy stared angrily at me as they marched in front of Meghan and I through the door. They continued to propel the Evil Eye back through their skulls as they waited in front of us to purchase tickets. As I stepped up to do my little theater business, the bottle-bottomed eyeglass-wearing driver-mom stood just to my right with her newly gathered posse, openly and angrily gesturing in my direction.

If I had been a bigger person, I would have marched right up to her and apologized. Or I might have offered to buy them lunch. Or stopped them in the parking lot as we left and said something redemptive. But I didn't.

And as I left, I noticed she had a Christian "fish" sticker on her Angry Hunter Green Minivan. I, on the other hand, have a leftist "Life is good" on mine.

I might have gotten more grace had I cut in front of a pagan saab.

Beepbeep at marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

It's My Birthday and I'll....if I Want to...

"There is still no cure for the common birthday." ~John Glenn

Today is my birthday.

My husband is on the beach in California.

My daughter is spending the night at a friend's house.

I had planned to sit on my lazy patoosh with a nice glass of wine, some expensive chocolate, and a bag of Fritos, watching Nacho Libre or the behind the scenes of the original King Kong.

But instead I force fed my cat. Surprisingly, this activity was not born out of a sadistic desire but of necessity...she has stopped eating. Apparently cats will do that and then they can't start up again. So, to save her life we take something that smells and looks disturbingly like liver pate and a syringe and squirt several plunger's full down her unhappy throat. The whole process has gotten easier, which I'm not sure is a good thing. She doesn't fight much, nor does she throw up any more...but she just sits there and takes it. Not even when I retrieve her from under the bed...she just sits, resigned to her fate, as though even thinking about the struggle is too much effort. I wish she'd struggle just a little for that is one of the hallmarks of a cat--they are loners, walking to their own beat, or at least purposefully not walking to yours. They do what they need to do ONLY when they're good and ready to do it. And they pity the fool who tries to force them...their little razor claws and lightning fast reflexes can shred skin faster than, well, lightning. Our little Peanut was once the best and the quickest and possibly one of the largest of her breed. While prowling out of doors, she would bring home little ex-chipmunks, voles, birds, and mice just to show she could... In the house, however, she became simply The Stalker. I have caught her staring intensely at the oven as though she was trying to will it to turn on. Perhaps she was trying to conjure up her x-ray vision so as to see through the appliance, or attempting to focus all of the ESP energy from her self and all of her cat sisters to lift the giant scrap of metal out of the way of her quarry. Over the past 3 years, she has caught only two mice in the house: one was proudly placed under the coffee table in time for my surprise birthday party last year (And let me tell you, nothing says "Happy Birthday" like a dead mouse in the middle of a house full of people!) and the other we eventually found under the pedestal of our dining room table in "full-ripe" condition, if you get my, sniff, drift.

But trying to make my cat live isn't the only thing I did to celebrate the beginning of my 46th year on Planet Earth.

I also tried to download software from the internet to my computer. I know what you're thinking; you're thinking, "You idiot! Not on your birthday! It's emotional suicide!" Well, I just have one thing to say to you doubters of my technical prowess: Sebastian The Tech-Type Help Guy from Bombay (now called Mumbai) and I are now BFFs--we've even exchanged passwords and interesting data (Did you know that the population of city Bombay (now called Mumbai) and the entire population of Australia are roughly the same? OK Bombay/Mumbai is larger, but only just.) 3 hours, 20 minutes of my birthday were spent trying to protect my computer from viruses and infections. Halfway through I wanted to buy it a condom and say, "Just say 'no' to everyone."

But God brought to my house a lovely 50ish-degree day, blustery and spring-like after several weeks of biting cold while Kevin is in L.A. in the cold rain, proof that, even with everything (big or little) else, I must be his favorite

, I'm going for a walk in my polar bear pj bottoms because no one is here to tell me I can't; I'm having a diet coke and a handful of M&M's with peanuts and a handful of Cheetos too, in order to properly celebrate the me-ness that is.

birthday warning #3

"The best way to remember your wife's birthday is to forget it once."
E. Joseph Cossman

Birthday hour: three days 18 hours and thirty minutes...and counting.

Continuing the list of "joy-full-ness" includes:

*Trying to save my daughter's cat who is dead-set on starving to death;

*My husband is going to the Pacific Ocean for my birthday which also includes 6 other days while I freeze my middle-aging patoosh off amidst the frozen (but sadly snowless) bluegrass;

*It remains cold and snowless which is about as wonderful as being married and sexless or poor and homeless.

*This uplifting announcement concerning the state in which I live (by "state in which I live" I mean "Kentucky" as opposed to, say "confusion" or "panic" or "boring drivel") by the medical world. Thank you, citizens of Kentucky for making my heart healthy future a virtual impossibility.

hand over those freetos at marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

Let's Get This Party Started

Potential wise saying of the day: "I ran three miles today. Finally I said, 'Lady take your purse.'" Emo Philips

It's February 1st - the beginning of my 46th year on Planet Earth.

So far in 2007:

I've got to go get checked out for Glaucoma.

My daughter's spine is twisting like a corkscrew.

Spent the equivalent of 15 bottles of medium-priced wine on matching my hair with my eyebrows.

Yesterday my Louis Vitton purse (it was a gift from a friend, obviously) was stolen.

The good news, some kind lady found my wallet minutes after some godless punk, I mean poor, misguided soul, tossed it out onto the middle of the street. We were all amazed at the fact that my credit cards, checkbook, bank card were there. Of course my cash, what precious little there was was gone along with my even more precious Starbucks gift cards - those pagans! And strangely enough my driver's license is also missing. Oh and did I mention that my new Louis Vitton purse is also gone.

Over and over we've thanked God that they only stole those few things. We were grateful in this manner because we are fashion morons. If we personally had known the value of the purse versus what the actual value of all of the cards in my wallet, we would have torn our clothes, screaming and writhing in rage. Had I understood what I was dragging around, kicking under bleachers, tossing it un-gently in the floorboard of my not-so-cleaned truck I would have, at the very least, chained the purse to my wrist the minute I unwrapped it. Or, more likely, stapled the thing to my thigh with a staple gun. Or perhaps, knowing my fashion moronicness, I would have simply put it into the closet in its little flannel bag and let it rot.

But no, I had to actually use the darn thing, blissfully ignorant that this flap of a cow's butt is worth more than my I make in 9 months as a radio personality...Ok so that's not saying so much about my salary...but still, you can gather that it's a boatload of cash.

But it's gone. Taken by someone who understood better than I the price a new Louis Vitton would bring on the street. I, to my credit, am wiser, albeit Vitton-less, person.

Happy Birthday to me.