I’ve said this before, but I really want to say it again: One of the things I love about blogging is developing cyber-friendships with interesting, fun people I would probably never meet otherwise.
One of my favorite blogger friends is Rick Williams who lives near Philadelphia. He’s the U.S. Campaign Manager for RetailTribe, a company that, well, I don’t really don’t know anything about.
He’s also a PGA Pro who finds golf – – WAIT, I NEED TO SAY SOMETHING HERE, “Mom, Richard, Bobby, Danny, Mary, Warren, Barbara, and all my other golf friends, including me, please sit down before you read the rest of this sentence, “a peaceful, meditative activity.”
Rick is a great writer who has a healthy approach (golf term!) to life, family, food, fun, and, of course, golf.
I don’t remember how we found each others’ blogs, but for me, it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. I can’t speak for Rick.
Wherever I am, if I see something cool that’s golf-related, I like to send pictures to Rick, such as these from a road-trip to French Lick, Indiana in October 2014.
This is the display in the atrium of the French Lick Hotel for the upcoming 76th annual Senior PGA Championship, scheduled at the hotel’s famous Pete Dye Course May 21-24, 2015.Extreme close-up of the coveted Albert S. Bourne trophy. In 1937, Bourne, one of the founding members of Augusta National Golf Club, commissioned Tiffany’s to create what has remained one of golf’s largest trophies. He then donated it to the Senior PGA Championship so that each year’s winner’s name could be engraved on it. (ref: www.pga.com/seniorpga/news/2014-senior-pga-championship-alfred-s-bourne-trophy,) and (http://golf.about.com/od/majorchampionships/g/alfred-s-bourne-trophy.htm.)Okay. This has nothing to do with golf. This is what it looks like when you lie on your back on the carpet underneath the highest point of the dome in the middle of the atrium of the French Lick Hotel.
You might be wondering why I’m writing about Rick Williams and golf on a snowy day in Chicago in January. Well, the answer lies (another golf term!) in the last two photos below.
But first, I need to set the scene:
This is the front of my house.This is the view of the golf course across the street from my house, facing the 9th hole.9th tee box waaaaaay back here
And now for the best part…
Two golf balls I found yesterday on the ground undeneath the windowboxes (see piicure of the front of my house, above.)It’s snowing today, so I apologize to the people who were playing these because I had to move the lie of the balls to see the brand. Anyone missing a couple of Titleists?
So, now, wherever I am, if I see something funny that’s golf-related, I’ll send those photos to Rick, as well. No one likes to slice or hook a ball, but this is ridiculous! Poor club selection, perhaps?
Links (another golf term!) to Rick’s blogs:
Mind Body Golfhttps://mindbodygolf.wordpress.com/
The Inefficient Kitchen http://www.theinefficientkitchen.com/home.html
Forgive me, O Steam Room, for I have abstained from thee.
It has been four long months since I last opened your formidable, yet hallowed door.
This is my confession.
I have strayed from your righteous vapors. Though I know thoughts and intentions meaneth nothing to you, nor do my words, since you are, with all due respect, an inanimate object, I did, with pure heart, pack my gym bag this morning determined to beg for your salvation.
Yea, though I walk through the locker room of perfect bodies, I will fear no embarrassment, for thou welcomes all shapes, sizes, and races. Thy warmth and the meticulous, friendly cleaning staff at Equinox, they comfort me.
After the practice of yoga, I shed all of my clothing and bathed in the gently falling waters of the shower to purify myself, until I felt cleansed, but not pruny, before crossing your threshold.
So, whilst I have no offering, such as even a spriglette of eucalyptus, I reveal myself to you, albeit tightly wrapped in atowel, because I seek your redemption; not your repulsion, and pray that you will absolve me of the pain of the pulled muscles in my Gluteus Maximus.
O, what a miraculous thing Thou art, for I can now receive breath through my right nostril once again. My mind has been cleansed and my thoughts are clear; yea, clearer than my mind has been for so many scores of years.
I feel as if every pore of my body has been relieved of the toxins in life, and those who seek evil upon me. I feel loose, but not in a bad-girl sort of way.
I feel unburdened, now, as if the impurities in my body have been lifted out by thee. And, yes, O yes, I feel five pounds lighter.
It would be untrueth of me to promise to partake in this ritual daily, even though my heart, Gluteus Maximus, and sinus cavity beseech me.
I beg for your absolution for my Act of Contrition. So, I will say these words, unto you, O heavenly Steam Room, “So that you might anoint my head with steam, I’ll be back. Maybe not tomorrow, but sooneth.”
I would have told this story through interpretive dance, my preferred method of communication, but I’m still bloated from Thanksgiving, and don’t feel like donning my tutu at the moment.
Courtesy Disney
At about age seven, when I began my career as a writer, I created goals, a business plan, a budget, a writer’s platform, and took an oath never to use anyone’s real name without permission.
I chucked the goals, business plan, budget, and writer’s platform when I was seven and 1/2 because I could tell those things were never going to happen, and, so far, they haven’t.
But, I’ve always remained true to my oath, so the identities of the people in this story have been slightly altered, as you’ll see in the illustrations below, while they remain in a secure, undisclosed location.
Last week, one of my BFF’s, who is a righty, sent a group text to her Super-Friends that read, “Thank God it’s the left hand! Cutting an apple. At ER waiting for stitches.” We’ll refer to her as “Friend in the ER,” or FER.
Courtesy catspawup
Wonder Woman replied that she wanted to come to the hospital, but was at the dentist.
Courtesy DC Comics
FER then texted us all again saying that her colleague, Penelope Pitstop, had taken her to the hospital and planned to stay with her, so there was no need for anyone else to come.
Courtesy Hanna-Barbera
Yeah, right! You can’t tell a bunch of Super-Friends not to come when you’re in the ER. It’s what we live for. I’ve heard urban legends about women who have dashed out in the middle of a “bam” or “crack” during a Mahjong game to come to the aid of a fellow FER.
Like I’m not going to go to the hospital? So, I rescheduled the dogs’ vet appointments,
which turned out to be a good idea because another text arrived from Penelope. She was in peril because FER’s car was stranded at work. She needed to take someone with her to pick it up. I texted back, “I’m on it.”
Admittedly, my Super-Powers are pretty super, but even I can’t drive two cars at once. I needed back-up, and I needed it fast.
Courtesy DC Comics
I knew Captain Marvel would jump to the task. In a flash, she arrived to give me a lift. I had just enough time to grab my cape before leaping into the Marvel Machine.
Upon arrival, The Captain rode shotgun with Pitstop. I asked to be let into the ER, just as a courtesy; I’m so well-known there, I really didn’t need to ask. After all, I’ve seen almost every episode of Grey’s Anatomy, which practically makes me a doctor, and, I’ve been to Highland Park Hospital’s ER so often, I know where the warm blankets are kept.
As Penelope sped off with Marvel, I scrubbed in and yelled, “I need a bag of O-neg, people. Stat!” I received the attention of no one, so I just asked where I could find FER.
FER told me she had tried to reach her husband, but he said he had a crisis at work. She said, “He has a a crisis at work? I’m his wife, and I’m having a crisis,” at which point she showed me the gash in her hand. I started to turn green and wished I had opted to go with Penelope.
Just then, FER received a text from her son at school in New York. He’s handsome, extremely smart, and has a great sense of humor. He also has almost magical powers when it comes to calming down mothers, and his teeth actually sparkle when he smiles.
Don’t worry, Mom! Courtesy tvtropes.org
His text advised his mother to, ”Drink plenty of fluids, rest, use ice, and take Advil. Oh, and gargle with salt water,” wise words he had learned from FER over the past twenty years.
One of the doctors came in to see if the bleeding had stopped. When she saw me she said, “Oh, you must be her daughter.” I didn’t correct her because, after all, FER is five years older than I, plus, the fact that she thought I was FER’s daughter quelled my nausea and my face returned to its natural color.
A very cute male Resident brought in a tray that contained a suture kit, a bottle of local anesthetic, an assortment of needles, and very much gauze.
Courtesy Disney
“Nicely done,” I thought to myself.
I held my BFF’s hand and told her she could squeeze mine as hard as she wanted. She began to squeeze before the very cute male Resident even touched her. I excused myself for a moment, re-shaped my hand back into a hand, and put on the fuzzy gloves I had in the pocket of my cape. I told FER the gloves would feel good when she squeezed my hand, but I really wore them to put a layer of fluffiness between my hand and her grip.
As the very cute male Resident cleaned the wound with Betadine solution, I held FER’s hand again, this time cleverly placing my hand so that, if need be, only unnecessary bones would break.
I swear, she needed about 8,000 shots of anesthetic to numb that puppy up, which, obviously, equaled 8,000 squeezes. I felt bad for FER because of the pain, and because hospitals are definitely not her favorite milieu.
When FER declared that her hand felt as if it weren’t attached to her body anymore, the very cute male Resident and I exchanged nods. It was time to suture, and suture fast. We both knew we had a limited amount of time before the anesthetic wore off.
Luckily, at that moment, Supergirl, a mutual friend, who happens to be a nurse, walked in. She knew how to distract a patient AND watch every move the very cute male Resident made.
Courtesy DC Comics
Meanwhile, Captain Marvel returned with FER’s car. Knowing FER was in the capable hands of Supergirl, I went to the parking lot to bring FER’s car to the ER entrance, so she wouldn’t have to walk very far. That’s what Super-Friends do.
Unless a certain Super-Friend had no idea how to start FER’s car. My car, which is normal, has a key that you put into the ignition and turn. My husband’s car has a BOBB or FOOBY-THING that only needs to be close enough to the car so upon entering, all he has to do is push a button.
FER’s car also had a FOBBY-BOBBY-THINGY, but there was no button to push. So, I began to try to surgically separate the FOB-BOB, thinking if I pulled it apart, one side would reveal a key because, after all, there was a slot for a key in the ignition.
Nothing worked. I began to wonder if I was missing the key and that the BOB-FOB only locked and unlocked the car.
Captain Marvel to the rescue! She knocked on the driver’s side window and said, “I knew you’d never figure this out.”
“Really? You don’t know how to start this car?” Courtesy DC Comics
What a Super-pal. She explained that in order to start FER’s car, I only needed to have the BOFFO on me or in the car, and then turn the ignition, like I would if there were an actual key in it.
I began to question why cars can’t all just start the same way, when the ever-vigilant Captain Marvel reminded me that I needed to pick up FER stat.
Captain Marvel followed me as I drove FER home, and then took me home. We contemplated getting coffee, but felt our Super-Powers had been so depleted not even a Starbucks could perk us up to full-power.
We both needed to go home to recharge. After all, tomorrow was another day, and, because we are members of The Super-Friends, we must always be ready, even if we’re a little late because we have to apply another coat of lipstick.
I would like to thank Captain Marvel for her marvelous input, and help with editing this story.
As I left my Mother’s house last night, I said my usual good-bye, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and a short hug.
But, she held on.
She rested her head on my shoulder and told me how nice it felt.
It felt nice to me, too. I don’t recall the last time my Mom and I held each other long enough for it to create a memory.
The memory of that hug stayed with me all night, as if it were trying to tell me something. I woke up this morning, not having so much of an “aha” moment, but more of a “duh” moment. My Mother has been living alone since my Father died this past June, and probably hasn’t had a really good hug since.
My Dad was a big guy, and when he was younger, and stronger, gave the best, great, big bear hugs. Our family has always been affectionate, so hugging and kissing each other has been as natural as breathing; almost taken for granted.
My Dad died suddenly after a heart attack, so I’m sure there were plenty of hugs up until that moment.
Of course, there were lots of hugs after, from friends, family, and even people I’d never met before. I felt protected and warm.
I had also unwittingly joined a club to which many of my friends were already members. Without having to say a word, we knew we had each others’ backs. We knew the pain. We would learn to live a new “normal.” As different as we might think we are from one another, we all hurt the same.
My Dad used to kiss me on the top of my head. I don’t know how, why, or when that ritual started, but I don’t remember him kissing me any other way. It became such a part of our “hello” and “good-bye” routine that upon arriving or leaving I would walk over to my Father and bow my head for a kiss. It never seemed strange to me. And, even though I didn’t hug or kiss him back, it seemed to have the same affectionate effect on him as it did me. Loving kiss given. Loving kiss received.
I don’t even know how he kissed anyone else. I never paid attention. It didn’t matter to me. We had our own thing that worked for us, and that’s what I’ll always remember.
My brother, Paul, and his partner Terry, came in town from Nashville, Indiana more frequently after my Father died, so Mom got lots of hugs from them. We all hugged each other a lot. There was strength and hope in those embraces.
Cruel isn’t even a strong enough word to describe what happened next. Less than three weeks after my Father died, Paul died at the scene of a car accident. Gone. No warning. No chance. No hope. No final hugs. And, very few hugs afterward.
We had nothing to give one another. Terry had lost his Partner right after my Mother had lost hers. Friends and family were so stunned they didn’t know what to do. I didn’t, either.
Some of us don’t have Mothers to hug anymore. Some don’t have Fathers, Grandparents, Siblings, Spouses, Partners, Children, Cousins,Aunts, Uncles, or even Best Friends. But I think we all have at least one person in our lives for whom a hug would create a memory that, for at least that moment, would provide protection and warmth for them, and for us.
