On the Go with Boingo

Everyone always says you shouldn't talk to strangers. I adamantly disagree. If you don't, you miss out on meeting some of the COOLEST PEOPLE who will ever enter into your world. One of the things that gets me excited over almost anything else is a room full of people I don't know. Every single one of them has a story. And some of their stories will blow your mind.

I will be chronicling my encounters with the newest members of my life's walk here, to share with you. Perhaps I'll inspire some of you to take that leap of faith and reach out to someone you don't know. It may be the best decision you'll ever make.

A Very Pressing Matter.

Six years ago today, at the age of 58, my mother died of breast cancer .  She never got checked, and refused to go to the doctor. I firmly believe that had she done just that, she would still be here telling me where to go, what to do, and who to do it to.

I was 30 years old when she passed, and have gotten a mammogram every year since.  I am, to put it very mildly, quite top heavy.  As you can imagine, such an annual event is no small feat for me.  (Speaking of feet, do my shoes match?)

Let me just 'splain something to you.  When I go in for a breast cancer screening, it's a serious expedition.    The folks from the Bronx Zoo are called in to utilize their elephant xray.  When I behave myself, and hold really still, they even throw me peanuts.

For those of you who've never had a mammogram, it's a piece of cake! Please allow me to serve you a slice...

SCENE--- Doctor's office.

Nurse asks me to undress from waist up.  Hands me two circular bandaids with BB's in the middle of them.  These are to be placed directly on the nipple.  Apparently the BB's are meant to protect the milk factory from being nuked.

Then I pull on the completely pointless front opening hospital johnny.  Don't tie it, cause that would ruin all the fun.

Next they lead me over to what looks like a robotic bench vice.   I am then meant to place one of the old girls (with the help of three attendants) on the platform, and hold very still while they bring the top down. I visualize it squeezing until that BB shoots off the end of my nipple and puts someone's eye out.  Fortunately, that doesn't happen.  I just exhale, hold still, and click, they take a pic.

After it releases, they whip the machine around vertically, and squish her this time like a fat kid stuck in an elevator door.  Very similar situation, only more gravitational challenges.  Again, just as I think I can't take anymore pressure--- breathe, hold it, click, release.  No big whoop.

Repeat this scenario for the other side, and hallelujah, I'm done!

NO. SUCH. LUCK.  After reviewing the films, they come to the horrifying realization that due to my mammorific magnitude, they have to redo the whole thing. Only this time, in QUADRANTS...yes, you heard me right ladies and gentlemen...  That means, I have to have the equivalent of FOUR complete mammograms.  EVERY YEAR.

So, ladies?? All the ladies!  No excuses.  If I can endure this torture four times, you can go in there and get your piddly little 15 minutes of annual boob squashing taken care of.

What a small price to pay to be able to stick around and make sure everyone's doing what they're told!

Hostage negotiations.

After acquiring my license this summer, I was given the opportunity to interview for a full time job, and got it.  

I work in a professional environment. Always considered a gregarious person, my entire existence consisted of shock and awe tactics deployed at the most inopportune times. The quiet, low key setting of the office presented itself as a challenge. I would have great ideas for jokes, but I couldn't let them out, so the actual words would bang themselves against the inside of my skull, trying to escape. Then there's my filter, or lack thereof.  When it's on the fritz, I worry that I'm going to say the wrong thing at the wrong time to the wrong person.  (It's been known to happen...I know you're all saying "What? You? Never!")

I was still training in my new position, and on this particular day, it seemed everything I touched turned into a soup sandwich. It was a mess. I couldn't focus. Everyone wondered where I was, and who this imposter was in my stead. 4:55 finally came along, and I slid into the bathroom for a quick trip before heading home. 

I went about my business, and then over to the sink to wash my hands. As I was standing in the mirror feeling sorry for myself, I heard the other stall door open. My co-worker, Sarah, took one look at the back of me, and said "GIRL!!!! PULL that dress down!" Apparently my panties were holding my dress hostage, and if she hadn't come along to handle negotiations, I might've had a real shake down. I thanked her, slightly embarrassed, and we laughed til we had tears running down our cheeks. 

My bad day was a mere memory at that point. It's amazing how the simplest thing can completely change your mood.  It was just what I'd needed. 


That, and the realization that there's more than one way to show my ass at work.

Nibble Nibble little mouse......

I'm 36.  I'm single (not legally yet, but close enough).  I'm intelligent, reasonably good looking, a decent cook, and a pretty good mother to my kids.  Why on EARTH is it that I'm constantly being asked out by married men and the barely shaving crowd?

I have to wonder what these married guys are attracted to?  Do I have that newly single smell?  What exactly does that smell like?  Ramen noodles, and beer? Freedom...it's the liberating scent of freedom! They like it, and they want some of it! Don't these guys realize I have so much baggage, I have to pay a surcharge just to walk THROUGH the airport?  Uh, not to mention...they're MARRIED?!

  

I tell these fellas to stay away.  I don't do well with married men. I've already had a relationship with one, and it hasn't ended well.  Now, we both have lawyers, and separate bank accounts.

And the young ones....this one I truly can't fathom.  Do they want me to cook them dinner, and do their laundry? Read them a bedtime story? Do I remind them of their mother? 

Do I smell like gingerbread?!!

I am actually flattered by all this, but the reality of my life at the moment is this... I am becoming an independent woman.  I will stand on my own two feet, for my own sake, and for the sake of my three monkeys.  I have a potentially fantastic career ahead of me, and a wonderful family to raise.  I don't need any unnecessary distractions.

I've come to realize how important it is to become your best YOU before you can ever share yourself with someone else. 

I'm not ready to share yet.

GOOOOOAAAAAALLLLLLLLL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It blows my mind how many times I've started something only to quit halfway through when presented with a challenge.  The only thing, until now, that I've ever followed through with is childbirth, and frankly, after a certain point, I didn't really have a say in the matter.


I am proud to report, that I completed a licensing course for my present line of work.
In the grand scheme of things, it really isn't that big a deal, but to me it's tremendous.


First, I paid the money for the course. Parting with money is not something I do easily.
I love being surrounded by dead presidents, and it hurts me deeply when they leave me.


Second,  I had to actually study the information.  Sitting down is something I do well.  Focussing is not. My friends joke that I'm worse than a crow.  Something shiny passes through my periphery, be it an object or an idea, and my thought train is completely derailed.  Luckily I was given five months to complete a course that should've only taken me three weeks.  I made certain to utilize that time to it's full potential.


I read over the information, did the online quizzes, three times, constantly dreading the pending exam.
I eventually threw caution to the wind and just took the test.  And I PASSED it.


The next day, I walked into my work, informed everyone of my recent accomplishment, and reiterated my interest in fulltime employment.  They all congratulated me,  and asked me if the coffee was ready yet.


Baby steps, I thought....but steps in the right direction.  I've made my first goal!  I have many more to achieve, and I will reach them, one play at a time. I've just gotta keep head held high and my eye on the ball!

My Dogs Are Barkin'!

I have a job.  In an office.  We are required to dress in business attire, which quite frequently, includes high heels.  Who on earth came up with the brilliant idea that women who are in charge of seriously important stuff should do it walking on their toes?   Probably a man.  They figured if they had to watch women surpass them professionally, they could soften the blow of their defeat by making it a prettier package.  They wanted to keep us on our toes, literally.   

The other day I was wearing a particularly uncomfortable pair of heels...I headed into  the break room at work and happened upon some of my female co-workers.  They saw me practically limping as I made my way to the water cooler, and Daisy asked "Girl, why do you wear those shoes if they hurt you so badly?" 


To which I responded, "How else am I gonna grab me a man?  I need to find me a wealthy man......no strike that.  I'm gonna be the rich successful one and have me a smokin' hot pool boy named Francesco." The ladies all started laughing.

As if on cue, one of the handsome younger guys we work with struts in the room, and starts digging in the ice machine....I looked at him, smirked and said...


"Hey, Chad..." He looked up at me questioningly."Do you speak Italian?"

Daisy and the rest of the girls nearly fell out of their chairs. 

Turd Wrestling!

It was precisely two weeks from the day that I had decided to bless my neighborhood with the fantastically bright and cheerful turquoise door.  I arrived home from work, shut off my car, walked to the mailbox, and with my mail and keys in hand, skipped happily to my home's welcoming entryway.  I opened the door, kicked off my shoes, threw the mail down on the counter, and cracked a cold Aquafina. Ah, it's great to be me, I thought.  Work was going great.  My kids were enjoying their summer in Maine.  Things were finally starting to look up.

I set my water down and started rifling through the mail....Bill...credit card offer..bill...bill....Credit Card offer....and hey, what's THIS?

It was a letter from my HOA!   Enclosed was the usual friendly reminder "Thou hast not mown thine grass, nor trimmed thine shrubbery."....but there was something more.  Also therein was another letter.  A letter informing me that I'd violated them and their covenants. I was to request permission of the ARCHITECTURAL CONTROL BOARD to paint my front door.  I sat in my cynical way and wondered how the ACB truly felt after me violating them so.  I pictured a bunch of folks sitting in a cold shower fully clothed just rocking back and forth, moaning....."She wants the turquoise, but we mustn't let her have it...no... she must. follow. rules. must. ask. permission....."

They wanted me to fill out a form, and write them a letter chronicling exactly how I planned to change the exterior of my house, which contractor I'd be employing and also include a sketch of the proposed changes.

I thought of writing the letter in German, to appeal to the imposing fascists....

I thought of asking my nine year old daughter to create a beautiful depiction of our home with the intended (post facto) paint color.

I even considered painting my garage door the same color.

I did none of the above.  Call me passive agressive, a pacifist, or a pansy...while those initial reactions were spooling about in my brain, I knew that just following the rules would be the easiest course of action.  I have kids to raise, and a career to build.  This wouldn't be a battle worth fighting.

As my mother always used to say "Never wrestle a turd, 'cause even if you win, you're still covered in it."


Thankfully, I've retired from all kinds of wrestling.