First "Officital" Radio Interview--EEEEEEKKKKK!

It’s Friday night, late. Tomorrow (Saturday) I go on the air for my first pimping radio interview. The show is out of Los Angeles and I’m sandwiched between Halloween, the Sword of Islam, and the state of our country. My three favorite topics! *GACK* (sound of me choking on that lie!)

The program is called Duffy and Company. I’ve talked to Mrs. Duffy; she’s originally from Kentucky and still follows “her team” (UK), which gives me 1 point for living in the right state. Mr. Duffy worked with the Beach Boys back in the day so that puts him on the “Uber Groovy” list in my book. The show is Christian and conservative. Mr. Duffy looks like a cross between my old neighbor (named Al Cook) and Rush Limbaugh. He’s got a very peppy and pleasant radio voice. You’ll enjoy listening to him.

What might be the most unnerving is that Mr. Duffy has actually read “Scared Silly!” ­(The question immediately erupts in my mind is this: Why would he go and do a thing like THAT for!?!?!? Now I feel pressured to actually remember what I wrote so I can explain it! Why would he do such a thing to me???? What is this world coming to?!?!)

OK: Below are the links. I don’t know how to work them…although I did just get on (only through Explorer…NOT Mozilla) and putz’d around a bit. Sadly I can’t think about it much more until after the show is done, which sort of defeats the purpose of telling you. But you’re getting the email anyway because you’re probably more media savvy than I (don’t feel superior…our brain-dead dog Libby would probably qualify as “more media savvy than I” and she doesn’t even have opposable thumbs!). Even if you’re not…I’m coveting the one thing that seems like it would OK to covet if God allowed coveting: Your prayers.

Please pray that all 4 of my brain cells will fire well, together, and quickly. Please pray that I can answer Mr. Duffy’s questions succinctly, with spiritual sensitivity, and humor. I’m asking to help me to find favor with him and his many listeners. And especially PLEASE pray that the folks who need what is offered in this goofy book of mine will tune in at just right time for God-sized hug and huge dose of hope.

True confession: I’m scared (Duh!). But am exceedingly grateful for this opportunity. And I don’t want to blow it but I don’t want to make it into a bigger (or lesser) deal than it really is—a conversation with someone who as READ what I WROTE (I think we can all safely say: Everyone panic!)

The plan is for me to work on various responses tomorrow…then I’ll “pop” by Sam’s and get a diet coke on my way into Kev’s office. I’m using the phone there, which will help make the connection more stable compared to my “We’re AT&T And We Think We’re god Which Means You’re Outta Luck, Chump” cell phone service.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

The time is 6:40 pm till 7 pm.

If you like, feel free to listen LIVE by going to www.kwve.com. Or go to www.duffyandcompany.com and click on the podcasts for my interview (I think this will be primarily after the show but you can check it out as well). Once the live show is ended, they make it into an archive podcast. The Duffy’s are going on a “someplace ancient” tour (check out their website, for more info—it’s cool but because it’s late) so my interview might be available on their archive podcast as early as next week (10/23) although it’s more likely that it will be available the second or third week in November. Mrs. Duffy will email me with more of those details as she gets them and I’ll pass them onto you.

Thanks so much for your love and support through this ever-stretching time. I’m really glad to have you around.

Stressed out (but not as bad as I used to be!) at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

Marcy

If You Ever Saw The Shining

This will make you feel all better about it.

I wish "doctored" movie trailers = real life at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

Betcha Didn't Know THIS About Kentucky!

Key Quote: "Kentucky produces more marijuana than any other state except California."

There are several "farms" rumored to exist not far from where we live. I haven't gone looking for them...basically because I like living with all of my limbs. And I haven't told Kevin about the rumors because he'll go all "man, let's go look for them! It'll be a GREAT date" on me.

When you add all of the potential pot farms, actual tobacco farms, and bourbon distilleries, us here in Kentucky should be riddled with lung cancer, but happy and unawares.

So then, what about this? (seen at Dairy Queen)

Or this? (found at the Kentucky Derby)

Probably Living In the Uptight End Of the State at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

Finally!

Therapy the way I like it: without people.

And They Say The Internet Rots Your Brain at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

Just When Things Were Getting Better...

Cnn.com reports this.

Stressing Out Over Being Stressed Out at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

David Bowie Needs "Scared Silly"

Here is some toe-tapping video evidence made with some Nine Inch Nails.

Davie Sure is Aging Well at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

And You Wonder Why We Are So Stressed Out

Maybe it's because of our past.

(I Really Watched This Show Which Explains A Lot About Me) at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

BTW: This complete our Youtube Trifecta...for today.

A Youtube.com Trifecta Is Now in Effect

A friend sent this music video by Nickelback to me the other day saying he thought of Kevin after viewing it.

It's oddly touching.

As is this.

OK So I Know These Are From MTV But I Don't Care at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

The World is Not Yet Lost

Scotland's Scrum sings "Amazing Grace." Really. And it's good!

That's a Wee Bit of Rad Piping, Laddie at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

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

There's this.

Hand Me Some Chocolate And Nobody Gets Hurt at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

"THEY" have arrived!

Many thanks for your book; I shall lose no time reading it.

~Benjamin Disraeli

Today was a Red Letter Day, a Day of Anticipation and Celebration because we not only Got! Mail! We! Got! Package! as well. And, as if one wasn’t enough, three bundles graced my door stoop. The first was the obligatory replacement satellite receiver from Dish Network (Motto: “Happily working unless there is weather then we freeze up like [fill in your favorite “frigid” simile here]). Apparently, during the last storm, some rogue electrons escaped from a nearby lightening strike and tried to abnormally “energize” my receiver. This caused the receiver to become fickle and moody so it’ll only “power up” when it “feels like it” and won’t play recorded programs at all. “I’m tired,” it seems to say as it clicks and grinds through its startup mode. “I guess you can watch Spongebob now but I just don’t have the energy to pull up the new Feasting on Asphalt that you recorded last week. Sorry. …Whirr…Spin…Reboot.” Maybe I should pour some Rockstar Energy Drink into its circuits (Motto: Who needs drugs? We whack you out legally!). Our Adopted Movie Son Harrison (more about him later) turned us on to it, and although I’ve not had the nerve to actually try some, Meghan said it was quite good. Actually I think it went more like: “WOWITSKINDOFLEMONYBUTBOY!DOIFEELFULLOFENERGYANDEXCITEMENTANDMAYBEI’MSEEINGTHINGSORITCOULDBETHATI’VEJUSTSTAYEDUPALLNIGHTANDAMTOTALLYEXHAUSTEDSOEVERYTINGLOOKSFUNNYANDMAKESMELAUGHHAHAHAHAHAH!SOB!

The next box was badly beaten, and with probable good reason: it came from www.flylady.net. Intense whinage has occurred here about this woman in the past and although I continue to moan and groan over her assignments and sink cleaning, I do most of them and they’re making a difference. Finally, after much vacillation I pressed my “widow’s mite” into her altar box of commerce so I, too, could receive the blessings I’ve read about in her deluge of emails (more on that later, too).

But the third box took my breath away. It was large-ish and oddly shaped—as though someone used a container too big for its intended purpose—the address label was white and unassuming. But I knew from whence it came and of what it was full.

“Scared Silly” had arrived.

I was weirdly reticent about opening the box…I’m not sure why…like I didn’t want to know that my thoughts had been reproduced in the manner of cloned sheep or counterfit money to be scrutinized by friends, foes, and experts alike. I opened it last. And tentatively. With almost shaking hands. There they were, two-dozen of ‘em in there, their eyes looking up at me over the brown box edges, their title trailing jauntily, yet earnestly, across the page.

I shut the lid and called my mom.

She wasn’t home so I called Kevin.

“Hey,” I said, doubtfully. “How’s it going?”

“Fine,” he replied. “What’s up?”

“Um…I got my books today.”

“How do they look?"

"There's a lot of stinkin' words in there, Kev."

"That's great! Can't wait to see them."

“Um…yeah. Now what do I do?”

That’s the thing. I should feel elation. Or at least a bit of triumph: It Is Finished. But it’s not, you see. I must now find ways to Get It Out There. I haven’t heard from my publicist so it feels like it’s up to me even though I gave the distribution of this thing to God weeks ago, today I take it back from Him because He isn’t moving any merchandise. Well, I guess He can’t officially because it’s not out until September 3, but that doesn’t matter. It feels like it’s All Up To Me and I Just Don’t Know What To Do.

How weird after trying to not be in the center of stuff for years, I now must try to strategically be in the center of stuff without looking like I’m trying to be at the center of stuff.

I guess I could wait on God, but what if…

Oh, never mind.

Needing Some Serious Natural Cheetos and Diet Coke Meds—Pronto! At: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

Sitting On Set

“Shoot a few scenes out of focus. I want to win the foreign film award.”

~Billy Wilder

I’m sitting in a little trailer that a horse would refuse to enter. This is probably because it lacks at least two Important Horsey-Related Items: 1) a feedbag, and 2) windows. Although several days of my life have been spent in this spot I notice for the first time today (I’ll be a detective in my next life) a sticker that says “DragRaceResults.Com,” which is connected to a frame that looks suspiciously like some sort of drawbridge contraption. Hmmmm. I bet this isn’t a horse trailer at all.

It also lacks in the horse trailer department in that it’s got linoleum of the black and white checkerboard sort. And it’s been greatly modified so a horse would nix an invite on the grounds that it couldn’t fit in there if it wanted, what with all of the junk and all. By “junk” I mean thousands and thousands of dollars worth of video recording equipment, computers, a fancy tool roller thingy the size of a deep freeze, and boxes of HD tapes which cost--and this is just an estimate--about a trillion dollars each. This precious little tin box is called “Video Village,” The video part, I see. The Village? Not so much.

My official title while in “Video Village” is “Script Supervisor,” which means I sit in said metal container and punch two little buttons and then write about it. The two little buttons happened to be connected to a playback deck and the precious Sony HD recording deck making the place I presently occupy as the "nerve center" of the production and if I screw up by not hitting a button, or if I hit too many buttons, or hit buttons in the wrong order, thousands of dollars are lost in an instant. We often call this the “nervous center” for that very reason.

The one thing about the “nervous center” is that you have no sound from the outside world, nothing at all. This can be a bit of a drag, as it were, because although you are able view the world via the camera, it doesn't offer much in the way of informative visual communication and you don’t have any idea as to what they are saying. On top of that, this is film making so “they” (the crew) spend much of the day getting ready for a shot, which means that the “script supervisor” (a.k.a. “me”) spend hours sitting in this little tin crate, in utter silence, until someone loudly shouts over the walkie talkie, “Roll tape!” causing the “script supervisor” (“me”) to jump, give a little squeal, and try to press all of the right buttons in the right order. In turn the “script supervisor” (in this case me) yells, “Speed” back into the little walkie talkie. The screens come alive with pantomimed action. Then, “Cut!” comes screeching through my little battery powered communications device causing more jumping on the part of the “script supervisor” and more hitting of the correct (hopefully) buttons in the correct (hopefully) order and then shouting, “Tape has stopped!” into the little crackly black box.

All of this is reasonably satisfying, so far as an experience like sitting around waiting for something to happen goes—you at least have evidence on tape—except that you never know when they will yell one of those three critical words so you sit, in the stillness surrounded by the buzzing of costly teeny electronic hearts, for as long as it takes, even if you have to go to the bathroom really badly. The bathrooms are port-a-potties, but when your bladder is full they beat the Hilton hands down.

This quiet pattern is only occasionally broken when the 1^st A.D. (Assistant Director) asks for something to be “played back.” Now I have to hit three or four buttons (maybe 5) in a very specific manner in order to find the exact clip they want to see. This is extremely unsettling because everyone is waiting on ME to find what they want to look at on a machine that runs through tape faster than the government spends money.

Oh! And if it takes too long to set up a shot the decks will get tired and shut themselves off. There’s no sound to alert you to this little fact so when you are finally ready to record, Dern! One (or both) recorders are not cued so you frantically try to remember how to make the machines record something without going into the "cued " (otherwise known as the “ready to record only not quite yet”) position adding precious seconds to the already strained schedule.

That’s really what film making is: Hurry up! Don’t Screw Up! OK… Now wait. But don’t go anywhere because you never know when it’ll be time again to Hurry up! Don’t Screw Up! OK…

In case you’re wondering, being in here far surpasses, in my mind, being Out There. Out There is on set with all of the cameras and the extras and the sun. In here is a tired, little air-conditioner attached to the roof. This is to keep the ridiculously expensive equipment cool and the tapes from melting, and I’m grateful to be a second-hand recipient of the almost cool breeze. It’s undoubtably 150 degrees Kelvin (or something close), sunny, and windless outside of these walls. Two days ago a bag of gummies instantly become a oozing glob, Twizzlers turn to lava. It’s amazing to me that people are volunteering to put on burlap robes and try to act in this heat. I can’t even stand.

Don’t Get Me Started About the Bugs at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

Heat Wave-itis?

Potential Quote of the Day: “Don’t think of it as getting hot flashes. Think of it as your inner child playing with matches.”

~anonymous

It’s been one of the hottest summers on record in Kentucky. I mean it’s so hot that I just break out into a sweat for no reason. Sometimes I’ll even start to sweat in the middle of the night! I’ve tried using an extra fan when I sleep…which has helped some…but this heat wave just seems to hang on. The other day I was in the middle of my kitchen, it had been raining so it was humid but cloudy and still only in the upper 80’s—which I mistakenly thought was a nice break from the heat. But! No! Here it comes! Bam! That humidity must have made the heat index soar, because there I was, standing in the middle of my air-conditioned kitchen, sweating like a pig. And I hadn’t done any exercises or watched “Ocean’s 13” or anything like that.

Being out in the sun makes it even worse! I had gone to the quarry where my husband and daughter have spent the entire summer, in record-breaking heat, filming. I was there, on set, in the sun for an hour or less, and then went to the office. Molly the Perpetually Perky One looked up from her desk and said in a concerned (and perky) voice, “Did you get a sunburn?” “No.” “Well your face is really red!” Sure ‘nuff it was.

I’ve also noticed that I’m a little more testy at times.

Dern this Kentucky Heat Wave, it’s making me incredibly indelicate!

I Wonder What It Could Be at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

Great, Now Your Email Will Do It To Ya...

"E-stress: A chronic condition caused by checking one's email too often," courtesy of www.fark.com.

One Thing I DON'T Have To Worry About

my hair color becoming extinct.

God Only Knows What Color It REALLY Is at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

If Regular News Gets You Down

Try Happy News.

The little happy face in the web address line is worth it at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

It's a Finally! Trifecta!

I gots to get me some M&Ms.

Key Medical Expert Quote: "Sadeghpour said his research revealed that the cocoa extract was even more effective than fluoride in fighting cavities, according to a news release from the university."

Finally! Again!

Wine Therapy

Key Testimony: "I think that wine therapy is an excellent type of treatment. It relaxes you, gives you strength and fills you with vigour..."

Thank Goodness for Modern Medicine Is What I Say at marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

It's almost borned!

Possible Thought of the Day: "A person who publishes a book willfully appears before the populace with his pants down. If it is a good book nothing can hurt him. If it is a bad book nothing can help him."

~Edna St. Vincent Millay

My publisher just emailed me...because that is what you do now...you don't call or write, you email any and all correspondence of a certain level of worthiness, the “of reasonable importance” level. Communication at this altitude can be serious on the positive or negative, but rarely terminal. In other words, you won’t find out (hopefully) in an electronic letter that your dad has died (although you might find out he’s cheesed off at you!) nor would it be announced that you won the Nobel Peace Prize (but Fred McMahon could proclaim “you may already be a winner!”).

So my publisher emailed me that she has seen The Book (“Scared Silly”) and that It. Looks. Good. With only one inking issue—that means there will not be the shading difference in some of the headings—which I’m sure they’ll fix when “Scared Silly” goes into it’s next printing. (lol)

If you haven’t seen it: Have a look. You can even Look! Inside! And Read! A! Sample!

I guess this makes me a Literary Parent. My DNA is about to leave the protective walls of the publisher and enter into the Cold, Harsh World for all to see and criticize. This isn’t flesh of my flesh cooed over like my daughter was—this is the embodiment of my thoughts in concrete, it’s an invitation—a pathway into my thoughts and emotions and processes.

What will happen? Will “they” like me? Will “they” tolerate me? Will “they” put me on the bargain table out on the sidewalk for people to fondle and move on?

Someone once said that “having kids is having a piece of your heart walk around outside of your body.” Something similar could be said about birthing a book, I’m sure.

About to Be a Proud Parent at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

Finally!

I've been waiting for this!

If Only They Would Test Housework This Way at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

I Can't Write Right Now.

I have to write my radio show.

Really.

Do I Really Have a Face for Radio at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

You Knew This Was Coming

Holidays Cause Cancer.

Doesn't surprise me one bit at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

She's a Star?

Possible Saying of the Day: “Movie making is the intense, frenetic activity of a highly (or not) trained group of people in an attempt to stay one step ahead of total chaos and anarchy for great lengths of time. When it’s good, it’s magic. When it’s bad, it’s a train wreck.”

~Me!

I became a movie star the other day. OK, it wasn’t actually day--my moment of “acting glory” came in the dead of the night. And by "movie star" and “acting glory” I mean “Doing Something That Is Almost Like Acting Only Without the Emotion, or Action, or Believability.”

Please know: I did not choose to stay up all night with gunk all over my face, a turban on my head, inhaling campfire smoke and trying to not goof up my two lines…I was snookered.

Here’s how it happened:

We make movies.

Lengthy Side Note Warning: In order to make movies you must first learn to say everything using Cool Movie Language. For example, Movie Husband Kevin is known “on set” as Director of Photography or the DP instead of the more understandable “camera guy.” “On set” is Cool Movie Language (CML) for the place where they are using the camera, and hopefully recording stuff onto a videotape or film reel. I say “hopefully” because the process of movie making is very slow and “iffy.” You never know how the shooting will go…especially if you have children in the shot, or animals, or, for that matter people, weather, or objects. It’s a miracle that anything gets “in the can.” “In the can” is CML for the recording of the acting onto the video or film.

There are a few other words that you should know: “Craft services” has nothing to do with sewing or scrapbooking but rather food, a “grip” isn’t necessarily something anyone “on set” can do with their hands, it’s a very special person who handles the lighting and electricity. “PA’s” are not related to Pennsylvania but are people (usually young, strong, and desperate to be in filmmaking) who do all of the grunt work like moving dirt or helping to carry things on or off the “set.”

Let’s see, there’s the “Focus Puller” who actually does focus the camera but twists a knob instead of pulling it. There’s the 1^st AD who does deal with time (get it, 1 AD? Yeah, movie humor…it’s intense.) but she watches to make sure the production stays on schedule (among many, many other things). In our production, we call our 1^st AD “Mudda” because she has to take care of us all. There’s also the Dolley Grip who doesn’t go around hugging toys, but has to move a wheeled platform (called a Dolley) smoothly so the camera will look like it’s floating. We are using several camera methods, the most space age is the SteadiCam in which a person straps on a large black device which actually makes the camera “float.” SteadiCam people are very proud of what they do and they’ve tried to tell me how it works, but I can’t remember. If you really need to understand, consider yourself a geek and go here. End of Lengthy Side Note.

Although City On a Hill Productions is a Movie Company, it is also a non-profit, and as such survives primarily because of a group of insane loving and generous people called “volunteers.” And once you are a volunteer with “City” you are put on a list that will provide all sorts of future abuse opportunities to serve and experience the intense pain joy of working in hideous challenging conditions for free eternal rewards.

As a result I was asked to be an “accuser” in a film series about Jesus’ crucifixion. The important thing you must understand—which I didn’t at the time—“accusers” had to “accuse,” translated I actually had to say something. Somehow I thought I was part of a large group of people yelling. That sounded like something I could do: disappear into a crowd of raggy-dressed extras and shout. But I got to the makeup tent and it was announced, “One of the accusers is here!” and I was scuttled off to get my face done. I overheard people (and there were a lot of people putting on costumes and makeup) talking about how filming tonight would be “live”—which is also another word for “hot” meaning that they were going to tape people’s voices as well as their actions. Hmmmm…I thought, I wonder who’s that poor sucker who’s got to speak and act.

But it wasn’t until I was down at the set itself that I realized that I was one of four poor suckers who had to speak and act.

But that wasn’t enough…I had to speak, act and do choreography, which in this case

consisted of walking and bumping into Tony (who played Peter) strategically, AND THEN say my lines. (“Say, I know you [turn to look at my friends] He’s a friend of Jesus!”) Then follow Peter up the street, turn and glare at him as he retreats.

Acting was difficult because myself and one of the extras are Smoke Magnets. No matter where we stood, the excessive smoke from our little fire lovingly enveloped and caressed our faces. We spent more time gasping for breath than anything.

In the end, the shot was “got” and, more importantly, I didn't mess up, and another story from My (Whatever!) Movie Life was ready to tell.

My husband didn't even recognize me in my makeup at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

One More Thing To Worry About

This .

Thankful I'm not a male ages 25-27 at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

The Cardiac Club

I just returned from attending Kevin’s First Cardiac Rehab visit. Cardiac Rehab is a very special “club” for people with heart disease, or as one of their helpful videos put it, heart “issues.” Kev looked odd being at a facility where most of the club members were approximately the same age as, or possibly older than, Methuselah.

In this "club" you are either "in" or you're "out." And once you're "in" you can't get "out." It is similar to the "well" written and "easily" understood title track by The Eagles called “Hotel California”… (“You can check out any time you like, but you can never leeeaaaave!” Insert the most incredible guitar riff ever here.) We caused a bit of confusion with one nurse because we were new initiants and she had to actually explain how the “rehab” thing worked.

We also committed our first Geriatric Sin Ever by forgetting to bring in his medicines. It wasn’t my fault mind you…I told Kev to do this but he--being the old one, as is typical with those who are thusly--forgot. So the nurse put on her Scoldy Face and told us to remember them the next time we came in, because the doctor can’t change what he doesn’t know. (More Scoldy Face.) When she flipped the page and read it she found each med neatly listed which caused her to put on her Happy Face until I told her I was also giving him herbs, making her find her Uncertain and Professionally Doubtful Face while she tried to spell “Echinacea.”

Remember, I am not a “member” of the Cardiac Rehab Club (motto: “Move Over Methuselah!”) but I have my own little title…I’m a “Thosewith.” As in: “Those with Mr. Bryan…” While the club members experienced fun things like EKG’s and wearing little numbered pouches around their necks (Kev was #6) the “Thosewith” crowd partied in the Patient Education Room. “Partied” here means, “sat silently watching stressful videos about heart disease and heart attacks in which famous people ‘guided’ the viewer from one expert to another who says helpful things like: ‘people with heart disease usually have more than one heart attack in their lifetime.’”

I must admit, many helpful things were gleaned during my wild times in the “Thosewith” crowd. For example: Mike Ditka can get really excited about things like heart clinics and dieticians. And exercise will increase your HDL, lower your LDL, strengthen your heart, clean your blood, prevent all sorts of nasty diseases, and make you rich and famous. OK I made that last part up but according to the video, exercise is the New! Miracle! Cure…it’s like aspirin was 50+ years ago, or Coke was at the turn of the last century when it still had Cocaine in it (motto: “helping you poison your bloodstream for over 100 years!”). Too bad I’m allergic (to exercise, not Coke)—I break out in a sweat just thinking about it! Gaaaack!

Nutritional Side Note: In case you’re wondering, potatoes are not a vegetable; they are Death. This is because they are White. And White is Bad, in this case meaning “given to us by Satan” not “righteously groovy” as exemplified in the song “Bad to the Bone” which was croaked by George Thorogood during the 70's. We, as Americans, have been wrong about potatoes for years. Perhaps it’s because, being a New World Food, spuds have a special place in our psyche. And really it’s an easy mistake to make: In the 50’s Hollywood put the Good Guys in white. Angels are depicted as wearing white. Bread, sugar, and milk—three staples from child hood—were white. Hmmmmm...maybe this “White is Good” business is all part of some Communistic Conspiracy to Overthrow the U.S. Think about it: First came white bread brought over by the British. Then came white sugar that was brought over from the tropics. And milk? Don’t get me started. Because it will lead to the next Evil Food: Animals. Do you know why animals are on the Nutritional White List Of Evilness? It’s not because we’re killing something living and breathing. It’s also not because it’s uncivilized. It’s because animals carry FAT and FAT is Satan Spawn according to this video in which they repeatedly held up “realistic” looking pounds of fat. It reminded me of …of…Oh let’s face it, that gunk was just gross. And I just can’t understand how something that nasty can look so good on me! (Insert hollow laughter here.)

Another video showed “re-enactments” of people who had heart attacks and how they felt and acted. One guy acted “out of breath” just like Kevin! He even said the same things! But unlike Video Heart Attack Man's concerned and loving wife who took him directly to ER, I told Kevin that he was just old, out of shape, and annoying! And then I made him walk again the next night! Just call me Nurse Death Marcy! I know there were at least 5 or 6 times when he acted just like Video Heart Attack Man and each time I fussed at him. You can tell that compassion is one of my more obvious gifts.

Yeah, I really did tell all him that at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

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