March 24, 2022--Day the Exxon-Valdez Ran Aground
by Karen Schwabenland My bicycle crashes have been epic and one sided. One sided in that when mounted on top of a bike, physics dictates that you will fall to one side or the other. There is no objectivity involved. I ride my bike the same way I drive a car--like a bat out of hell, on two wheels. I recently sacrificed myself to our newest automobile. What I mean by that is that instead of letting my bicycle fall into it, I purposefully leaned away and hit the ground. Hard. Maybe I should say the ground came up to meet me because that is what it felt like. You see what happened was...I rolled my Schwinn out of the garage in order to take a cruise around the 'hood. It was one of the most recent beautiful days. Sky clear, sun shining, and a slight breeze in the air. I carefully rolled past my patio furniture to the driveway gate, and then in an inability to hold back the joy of stretching my legs--much like a dog on a leash before a walk--I did something that I will never do again. Do you remember riding your bike when you were a kid? I think I lived on mine--fully furnished with high handlebars, a banana seat, and only single feet brakes. This tripped out machine got me everywhere I needed to be (and few places I had no business to be) throughout my elementary school years. Often left in the front yard, it would beckon to me. I would hop on like a cowboy leaving a successful gun fight. The incline of the driveway gave me just the boost I needed to sail off down the street. It was always enticing to see how far I could make it before I needed to pump the pedal. It could be a good quarter mile or so before I needed to add any power to my ride. Our steeply inclined driveway was the kind some kids only dreamed of. My bike and the screen credits in my head both rolled along playing, "Happy Trails to You." That memory must have been in my frontal cortex because I made the dim-witted decision to repeat it. Only fifty years later. And on a driveway that has barely any incline. The thing about our driveway though is that the lawn mower has left its mark in the guise of ruts all along the edge. At ten years old, a small rut along a driveway is something that is not even noticed. At sixty years old, a lawnmower rut becomes a geographic land formation. I had already mounted my metal steed and was perched to launch down the mountain like a snowboarder, minus the tricks. I probably rotated my pedals around one time when the rut caught me. I wobbled. As I continued to wobble, I had a choice to make. To my left was our newish, recently washed, undinged up Mazda. To my right was the cold, hard ground. What to do? Mister has admonished me many times to watch what I was doing when rolling my bike past our cars. The passage from the garage and down the driveway is narrow, cars on one side and fence on the other. The lane is just big enough for a human or a bicycle. Both of them together herald havoc. I had just cleared the lane with the fence on one side when the lawnmower rut caught my front tire. I felt the bicycle leaning toward the Mazda. It would block my fall, but before I fell into the car, the bicycle handlebars would fall first and meet me there. It was Mister's voice I heard in my head when I made my bull-headed choice. The bike continued to lean precariously toward the car. It was a game I would lose. "Not so fast," the voice in my head cried. "There is more than one way out of this crisis." I leaned right. It was just enough to correct the list to the left, but it caused a new and separate list to the right. I quickly lost control. "Oh, calamity," I thought. And that is when the ground met my head. It happened so fast, I lay there stunned for a long minute. I gradually sat up. Already sore, I stayed in place for a bit, taking internal inventory. My neighbor from across the street rounded the corner of his house and waved at me. I waved back. He obviously thought I was just sitting at the edge of my driveway, with my pink bicycle in bits all around me. After a time, I gathered myself up and managed to return to the house. Mister was in the kitchen. He looked at my torn jeans and the leaves collected in my hair. "What happened?" he asked. "I crashed," I said. "What? Again? Where were you?" "On the driveway. I didn't even make it to the street." In the time that has passed since that crash, my second bicycle crash in one year, I have had a different song playing in head when I think of riding again. That song is, "Should I Stay or Should I Go?" by the Clash. They should more aptly be called the Crash though. One line from the song is, "You've got me on my knees..." Oh, yes. I know what they mean. Not saying I want to land on my knees if it happens again, but it might keep a second bruise on my tuchus from happening. Not to mention another one to my ego. March 16, 2022--Wear Out Your Pants Day by Karen Schwabenland Last night, I worked backstage at the community theatre production. I helped actors prepare for the show by carefully laying out all of the parts of the many quick change costumes involved in the show. I had my phone in my hand to use as a flashlight in case I needed it when the lights went out. Someone needed me to help them get into a costume. With nowhere to put my phone, I reached down to put it my front pants pocket. "Hmmm. That's funny," I thought. "I don't have a pocket....wait a minute! These are my favorite pair of cargo pants with the deep pockets that I wore specifically for the very reason of needing a useful place for putting things tonight." I reached around behind me. I found my front pocket. Right on my ass. It was already filled in a curvy sort of way. Somewhat amazed at my discovery, I said aloud, "Hey, I'm wearing my pants backwards." That got a few laughs, but I hadn't planned it. I helped the actors by zipping up dresses and straightening collars all the while conscious of every person I asked to hold my phone while doing so. I was afraid I would lose it in the hubbub. Then, since it was my night to sit in the audience and watch the show, I went to find the Mister, who was already sitting in the house. I found him seated next to a few friends, relaxed and waiting for the production to begin. After hellos and greetings, Mister said to me, "Why don't you put your phone in your pocket before you lose it?" "Well, I can't because I am wearing my pants backwards. .... By accident," I added. People were coming in quickly by then. The theatre was filling up. "I can't believe you just said that out loud for the whole world to hear," said Mister. I shrugged. "I'm just stating a fact. I am wearing my trousers wrong." After another laugh, a friend next to Mister said, "Why don't you go change them? You still have time." I checked the time on my phone. I had five minutes. I left my phone with Mister and headed to the ladies room. I could have used the women's dressing room backstage, but I had just witnessed that scene. I knew it was chaotic. In the short time it would take me to fix my pants, there was a distinct possibility of completely losing them in there. Those quarters were tight. A bathroom stall seemed preferable. I found the restroom and set about my business. I was wearing sneakers, so those had to be untied and removed first. I was glad it was quiet. I was the only one in there. I needed to concentrate. I don't know how I put my pants on backwards when I dressed at home. They had not even been uncomfortable while I wore them that way. The trousers were cargo style, but in a dark navy gabardine material. I had altered them myself as I do most of my clothing to fit me perfectly, like a glove. Except maybe my body was not so glovelike since I couldn't tell my ass from a hole in the wall. Apparently. As I stood next to the toilet bowl unlacing my shoes, I thought that I didn't really know shit from shinola. I made it back to my seat just in time. The show was about to begin. As I sat down next to Mister, I whispered, "Where's my phone?" "In my jacket pocket," he whispered back. Then the house went dark and the play began. We were so happy and entranced by the performance, I forgot about my phone. Mister handily gave it back to me after the show though, so I could snap photos with the actors. After all of the congratulations and, "Good Show(s)!" were exchanged, Mister went to get the car while I got costumes ready for the next day's performance. I reached down to put my phone--which I was still holding--in my pocket. Again. For the second time that night. My front pocket was not there. "What the @#$%?" I said aloud. I looked down. I still had my pants, the pants I had carefully removed and turned around to face the front, on backwards. "How?...What?...Why?" I thought. I reached around behind me just to make sure I was not in an episode of the twilight zone. I found my pocket. Filled up. With....oh, don't even ask. Maybe I was in an episode of the twilight zone. The one where your own ass keeps getting in the way of providing a safe place to put your phone. I located my purse in the ladies' dressing room where I had safely stored it underneath the counter before the show. Most of the actors had left by then, so it was uncrowded and quiet. I put my phone in my purse before I started my cleanup process. I debated telling Mister about my turn of events, but eventually decided to own up to it. As we left the theatre, I said, "And if you're wondering where my phone is, it's in my purse. On account of my pocket is still behind me. Filled up with... nothing but net." I sighed. "I thought you changed your pants," said Mister. "I did. But somebody must have come in there and changed 'em back around when I wasn't looking," I said. "Come in where?" he asked. "To the ladies' room?" "No, come into my pants." "I would hope that by now you would know when someone comes into your pants." "Theatre fairies. Or something." "Maybe it's not your pants that are on backwards. Maybe it's your head." I fell in beside him walking to the car. "Well, if that's the case," I said, "You better start only holding my left hand from now on." March 4, 2022--Personal Exercise Day
by Karen Schwabenland What keeps you from regular exercise? In other words, why are you still fat? Harsh words, I know. I am right there with you though. I have an image in my head of what shape I'm in. I only occasionally come face to face with the horrible reality. And that is what this post is about. Not why any of us are still fat, but horrible reality. My youngest child is twenty-three years old, and I still haven't lost the baby weight. Why has that happened? God gave women pain in childbirth because of Eve's shenanigan's with the apple, but who gave us the perpetual inability to lose weight? Speaking of my youngest baby, Daughter Dearest has taken on the dogma of the Nuevo Age-o movement--much to my dismay. Her newly found religion came as a surprise, by why should it have? She's twenty-three. She is just naturally testing the waters. So of course, I have started testing the waters myself. Just so I can keep up and have some kind of civil debate with Daughter Dearest. Not that we ever have had any bones to pick. One New Age guru that I have listened to lately is Teal Swan. She is someone whom I know Dearest has been interested in. Teal Swan has something to say about everything under the sun. I recently found her video about weight loss. She said that in order to lose weight, one must first deal with the emotional issues (ie-trauma) that is keeping that weight on you. What in the world? I couldn't believe what I heard. She had implied that a person is overweight because they had not fully dealt with what had traumatized them in the past. Well, I just... O.K., look Missy Mary Teal Swan, I have had as much emotional trauma as the next person. Well, maybe a bit more. How would I really know how much is much? I have even been to therapy--twice. And by twice, I mean a sum total of two visits. It was hard. So I quit. What I am, basically, is a quitter. I searched and searched my brain to think of what could be holding me back from exercising and losing weight. I could not connect any of my personal trauma to it. At all. Finally, I realized the answer though. It is as plain as the nose on my face. Anyway, why I cannot/will not exercise is because the act of exercise itself is traumatic to me. I dread/avoid the soreness and exhaustion that comes with any new exercise program. As I sit here today writing this blog, there is a cat clawing at my back. Someone is taking a ball peen hammer to the arches on my feet while simultaneously squeezing each knee into gigantic vice grips. (Hint--I do not own a cat.) All of these things are happening because already this morning, I have been on my feet for three hours--shopping and cleaning house. And yes, I wear the correct kind of shoes, the kind that Wendy Williams is now assigned to wearing. Oh, yes, I was also up and down a ladder today--twice. Honestly, the ladder was probably the item that did me in for the day. Oh, Miss Teal Swan, you are such a child. You have not walked around in a sixty year old body. You ain't got no babies yet. You have not had the weight of worries about them on your shoulders. You have not had to fight for every crumb of fair and appropriate education for them. You have not lain awake at night wondering what will become of them when you are gone. Yes, Miss Swan, I got two babies, and they are both high maintenance. But I digress. What I really mean to say is we (meaning all parents of special needs children) are the ones who must live forever because no one--I mean NO ONE--will be able to care for our children as well as we do. And if we are really serious about living forever (as in still walking around on this planet), seems like some new age philosophy would be the way to go. But I don't go there. Not really. It is too late in the game to change directions now, philosophically speaking. Anyways, I have experienced too many successful Hail Mary passes to not believe in the game I play. The only other way to keep walking around on this planet is exercise. So, I've been told. Damn. Exercise is hard. I hate hard. *No daughters were harmed in the writing of this post. *We are fully aware of the controversy surrounding Teal Swan and have worked our way through it. |
AuthorKaren Schwabenland--Keeper of a daily blog of written matter, reporter of events large and small, and charlatan extraordinaire Archives
September 2022
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