Blog Clog And How Blogging Changes after 50

Every night when my head hits the pillow, I think about moments from my day that I'd like to record for "someday" when my organic memory is gone. There will come a time when I'll need to read about my days in order to enjoy those meaningful pauses in my life again. And maybe my grandchildren would enjoy the details, too.

But I hit a blogging snag a couple of years ago and just can't get past it.

I've fallen, and I can't get up.

It's a blog clog.

Every day, I start composing posts in my thoughts such as:

Once upon a time, there was a pregnant woman who had nowhere to go

and no one who cared about her and her twins, so we took her into our home.

Or

I'm in the long, tender process of saying goodbye to my parents.

Or

My child has had a child. I am a grandmother. 

Or

Once upon a time, I had three children whom I mothered ... adequately.

Then they grew up and moved away. I miss their voices and faces so much

that it's hard to look at pictures of our family from those years. 

But I don't get past those initial thoughts. 

These are BIG topics to tackle, and emotions wash in and out like ocean waves. Some waves are gentle, some are scary, melancholy, or bubbly (like the pic on the left)--delightful. 

Forward and backward, forward and backward, one recedes, comes another. The waves always bring in little treasures and take away little treasures. Sometimes I raise my head to the horizon, but I always feel the waves lapping at my ankles and shins, reminding me that everything is changing right under me. I can feel it. 

So I'm going to write about the little treasures that flow in and flow out. Maybe if I narrow things down, I can approach them and put them down for someday. 

But today, all I can do is write generally about the flow and change. Sometimes I'm just speechless. And that is when there is nothing to do but let the waves wash over me. 

On Turning 50: Just Do It

Yesterday I turned 50 years old.

I can't remember my 16th or 21st birthdays. I do remember my 30th. I woke up 9 months pregnant and had a burst blood vessel in my eye. My iris appeared to be swimming in bright red blood. It was hideous. All salt in the wound of turning 30, which I saw as the gateway to moth balls, short, tight perms and snap-up cotton housecoats. To the 30 year-old me: You have no idea how young you are. I am rolling my 50 year-old eyes at you right now.

Fifty has been looming in the back of my mind for a few months. I knew there was no escaping it unless I died, which I'm relieved to report I did not. So I decided to mark the inevitable by doing something different on that day.

I made a list. Following are the details of my day, in case a great-great-grandchild someday gives a tiny care or needs a document like this for school or whatever they do for learning in the future.

Woke up. (Admirable start.)

Had absolute sneezing fit due to allergies before I could get out of bed. Was afraid to look in mirror in case I had burst another blood vessel in my eye from the pressure of sneezing, but I didn't. I did note that my dark circles are darker than ever, though. Benadryl for breakfast.

Met Crystal at my bedroom door as I was leaving. She was holding the 10 month-old twins and a sign, "Happy Birthday Nana." I loved it, even though I realized that this is the first birthday I'm actually "Nana" to someone. Last year I was still in my 40s. This year I'm a 50 year-old Nana.

I headed out the door with my new Nathan belt, which is a glorified fanny pack, but don't say that to runners.

I began my long, long journey toward my first goal: Run my own personal half marathon on my 50th birthday, just to prove that I can. I called it the "Poking 50 in the Eye Half Marathon."

The weather was perfect. The autumnal scenery was perfect, minus roadkill. In fact, I even stopped to take pictures. Look at Indiana:

I was on an emotional high.

I felt invincible. I even dared to take this pic of me sans makeup at 50 years old and post it on Facebook.

Then, in the scenery, I spotted the Ragweed and wanted to tuck my tail and run like it was a rattlesnake, but I said to no one, "Hey. I'm 50. I'm strong. I'm running a half marathon (I was about mile 3). I'm invincible. I'm picking this Ragweed up and touching it, just to show how invincible I am!

In fact, I'm 50, and I eat ragweed for breakfast--not cowering before the "weed of rag" anymore.

By mile 8 or 9, I was experiencing pain in my right hip which subsided and then reared its head in my right knee. Then that pain then migrated to my left knee, which began to holler. I stopped at Westside Park, locally famous for various bad things have happened to people throughout the years. I sat on a bench for 5 minutes. I hated to sit because I do not like to walk during a run, let alone sit. But I told myself that this run was about endurance and longevity, not speed or beauty as far as form (Which was very smart of me because if it had been about speed or beauty, I would have called for a ride at that point. You have to know how to lie to encourage yourself when you run.)

I resumed running but couldn't resist stopping for a small Coke from a Burger King. ?? I know, I know. Bad form! But I was thirsty, and it was my birthday, and I had money in my Nathan belt  ....

So I drank that while jogging.  Picture that.

Here are the bricks down the middle of the campus of my alma matre, Ball State University, at about mile 11. If you had told me in 1985 that I'd be running down McKinley Avenue when I was 50, I would have died of embarrassment. As it was, I was dying of exhaustion.

About 2 miles from home,  I dropped on a curb for a few minutes. On a curb, I tell ya! Oh the indignity.

When I stood, I realized that if I insisted on running the rest of the way, I could damage the knee. So I decided to run 100 steps then walk 100 for the rest of the way home.

No, I will not tell you how long the run took me. It was about endurance, remember??

I showered and soon George was home from work. We ate at a locally owned restaurant called Kacy J's. This is here where I met my second goal: To drink my very first beer. Yes, you read that correctly. While I have enjoyed various wines and flavors of margs in the past, somehow I have missed beer. I could not decide which one to order because I had nothing to go on, except that Rachel Ray says Sam Adams is the #2 choice for domestic beers. So that is what I ordered. What did I think of it?  Just OK. I'm not a huge iced tea drinker, have to be in just the right mood. That is how it would be with beer. Right mood, icy cold, maybe.

Goal three of my plan was go downtown to the free Art Walk where various vendors had booths and America's Hometown Band played many patriotic tunes, or the same patriotic tunes different ways, and set off a couple of fire works. It was at the art walk where I had what I would call my birthday cake: a chocolate cupcake frosted with peanut butter frosting. Goal four: Decadence. Satisfied by cupcake.

When we returned home, I proceeded with my fifth and final goal, to re-watch an Oprah show that I recorded February 4, 2011, called Supermodel Legends. I saved this episode for a year and half just to watch on my 50th. Oprah's guests were four former supermodels who were there to talk about aging: Cheryl Tiegs, Beverly Johnson, Christie Brinkley and Stephanie Seymour. There were also short spots, one featuring Paulina Porizkova, which I particularly enjoyed. I've seen her speak about aging elsewhere and have come to really like her. I found this Oprah episode to be VERY inspiring and uplifting; I highly recommend it. And it is from this show that I lifted Ms. Porizkova's line, "Aging is not a right; it is a privilege."

She's right. I'm privileged to have more time here than did my friend, Diane. I'm privileged to spend more time with my beloved and see my children grow up, graduate college, get jobs, get married and have children (All of this is happening right now in my kids' lives). I'm privileged to know my parents in their old age, to share memories with my brothers. I'm privileged to share life with some amazing female friends. I'm privileged to have a body that still works pretty well and can accommodate requests like, "OK, Half-Century Old Body: Get up and run 13.1 miles!" I'm privileged to breathe in and out, to sit, to stand, to hold a cup of coffee, kiss a baby's sweet face.

I made it to 50. I'm here for a reason. I'm not invincible, but I am strong. I know that the year ahead holds many joys and many sorrows. But I'm privileged to wake up each morning and just be here, for other people, for the joy of being, just because of the love of my Creator. And that is what I want to remember throughout this next year.  Waking up is not a right; it is a privilege. No whining about creaking and wrinkling. Just do it.

Changes

It has been so long since I have written a post (6 months) that I couldn't figure out how to get to the dashboard.

Wow.  How things change in 6 months, or a year.

One year ago, my daughter's wedding was quickly approaching (June 18). There was a lot going on in my life then, no doubt, but the happenings were small beans compared to life a year later.

Since then, my dad's cancer has required hospice to step in. My baby left for college in August. Our niece and her two newborns moved into our home on Thanksgiving Day, and this week? Well, I lost my job, sort of.

Brother, can you spare some Status Quo? Some Serenity, Christopher Cross?



It hasn't all been bad, though. I still have Mom and Dad. My son is now engaged. My college daughter is happy with her school and friends. The married daughter has a new job that is more like a career than a job. The babies are the light of my life. Although my carpet will never be the same. I wish I had purchased one the color of ABP baby formula (Already Been Processed). Ew, I know.

And since soon I'll no longer be working, I can enjoy the sunshine in a way I haven't in 9 years. I can run when I feel like, and less whenever I can fit it in. I'm enjoying Facebook (why do I feel like an infidel for admitting that here on my blog?)


Maybe I'll have more time to blog. I had just about given up on it, but I will certainly have more time now. And although I've lost readers and doubted its relevancy to anyone, when I have occasionally looked back at a post for some reason, I'm touched by the details I've long forgotten and realize that someday, the posts will interest somebody, somewhere; I'm kind of hoping it will be a grandchild.


So Laylah, Josiah, or Grandchildren, I'm going to keep at it. I'm going to record the mundane and the humorous, the sad, the happy. And in the process, I think it will help me adjust to changes. I'm capturing moments that photos miss.


So today, I'm thinking of David Bowie's "Changes:"
Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes 
Turn and face the strange 
Ch-ch-changes 
Just gonna have to be a different man 
Time may change me 
But I can't trace time 


I can't trace time? Maybe not, maybe so. I can someday trace my steps back through these posts and see life again, see the details I've forgotten. I think that is worth the effort of blogging again.

Because the Texting, It is Hrd 2 Undrstd

Yes, even the Pope texts. More and more mature folk are texting.


And so it was only a matter of time.... Yes, this came in an email. But it is so good, so good. Creator unknown. Enjoy.

Since more and more Seniors are texting and tweeting there appears to be a need for a STC (Senior Texting Code). If you qualify for senior discounts this is the code for you:

ATD: At The Doctor's
BFF: Best Friend Farted
BTW: Bring The Wheelchair
BYOT: Bring Your Own Teeth
CBM: Covered By Medicare
CGU: Can't get up
CGIP: Can't get IT up
CUATSC: See You At The Senior Center
DWI: Driving While Incontinent
FWB: Friend With Beta Blockers
FWIW: Forgot Where I Was
FYI: Found Your Insulin
GGPBL: Gotta Go, Pacemaker Battery Low!
GHA: Got Heartburn Again
HGBM: Had Good Bowel Movement
IMHO: Is My Hearing-Aid On?
LMDO: Laughing My Dentures Out
LOL: Living On Lipitor
LWO: Lawrence Welk's On
OMMR: On My Massage Recliner
OMSG: Oh My! Sorry, Gas.
PIMP: Pooped in my pants
ROFL... CGU: Rolling On The Floor Laughing... And Can't Get Up
SGGP: Sorry, Gotta Go Poop
TTYL: Talk To You Louder
WAITT: Who Am I Talking To?
WTFA: Wet The Furniture Again
WTP: Where's The Prunes?
WWNO: Walker Wheels Need Oil
GLKI (Gotta Go, Laxative Kicking In)

Of course, here's the other end of the spectrum:



Are you a texter?

Tales From the Mid-Life Brain Or The Woman Who Once Was "Mommy"

Happy Monday to you!

Now that we have the niceties out of the way, let me say that I think my brain is dissolving.

In case you didn't know, when you become peri-menopausal, your brain and body start to dissolve, mainly from exposure to the inexplicably high levels of natural gas you emit.

In fact, every time I bend, I remember that there is more than one meaning to the British signs along the trains: "Mind the gap." For real, there is a "Facts of Life" episode for every mid-life woman wherein she earns the nickname "Tootie."

I hardly recognize myself anymore. My kids want the mom back who never cooked well but did not ruin bowls of cereal as she prepared them. Currently, the only thing I am able to cook is marshmallows over a campfire and M&Ms in bowls because they do not require milk to be poured over them. In other words, if you have to add or mix an ingredient in any food, it is already too complicated for me.

My kids miss the mom who remembered their birthdays. They want someone who not only remembers a date but most importantly, buys a gift. Or two.

They want a mom who remembers whether or not they have had wisdom teeth extracted.

But apparently, that mom is no more. For I did indeed forget to buy the birthday gift two weeks in a row, and I had to confess to my son I could not remember if he had oral surgery, for Pete's sake.

Don't even get me started about senior pictures. I forgot I had a third child until about 20 minutes ago.

Recently, I sat sorting a box of beads I'm using for my new hobby: jewelry making.

Stringing beads. That screams "nursing home."

Anyway, as all four or three of my kids sat around me, I reminsced about when they were little.

"Just about every day, I read you this sweet little storybook called, 'We Help Mommy Every Day.' Do you remember that book? It began, 'We help Mommy every day. We help her in the morning, as soon as we get up.'"

It goes on to chronicle a day full of chores made lighter by little helping hands--sort of glorified child labor, and I was indoctrinating you, hoping against hope that you would think it was the epitome of both fun and goodness to dust a table and sweep a floor. Do you remember Bobby and Martha?"

My beads plunked into their compartments without a response from my kids. Unless you count expressions like this as a response:



So later, I was in the kitchen pretending to fix their lunch, and they were hanging out with me. Not helping, mind you, but hanging out, which is almost as good.

My son, Jordan, said to me, "Don't worry, Mom. When you are in the nursing home, we will come visit you every day. I will even read to you. Do you know what I will read?"

And then he launched into a familiar sing-song reading voice mimicking mine from so long ago:

"We give our kids our money every day. We give them our money as soon as we get up ...."

Oh, the orneriness. But what he doesn't know is that as clever as that brainwashing plan is, it won't work. Because I will not remember that I have kids by then - so who would I give my money to???"

WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE???

What It Takes to Learn a New Phone

New phone.

Two words, two syllables--so simple.

Or so it would seem.

But I am old.

I'm not stupid, just old.

In fact, I even went to college, but I was busy learning how to roll my stockings, wave a pennant and have my hair bobbed like the Flappers instead of learning that silly technology stuff that I would never need.

So my personal learning curve for anything technologically new is ... indescribably slow. Think about what the polar opposite of warp speed might look like, and there you have an image of me learning a new gadgety thing. Continents move faster.

So my 23 year-old daughter has been helping me every painful step of the way to get set up and prettied up on the new phone.

She has about three hairs left in her head from stress-pulling.

Here's the short list of my problems and complaints with which she has had to deal after I tried first and then burst into paroxysms of pseudo-swearing:

Fumbling hands that hit the side buttons all the time, causing the phone to speak out loud. I hate this. I do not want a talking phone--there is no need for a phone to speak up under any circumstances. "Shut UP, phone."

Font that is too dark/too small.

Having to remember to press the red function key before it will do half of the things on the keyboard.

Having to re-do all of my contacts because they wouldn't transfer from my old phone.

Putting contacts into groups only to discover I'm allowed a mere 10 friends or relatives in any group. Is this some kind of rule, that a person can't have more than 10 people in any group in life? There's no way the Waltons could have used the "family" group on this phone, let alone the Duggers.

Switching from vertical to horizontal keypad.

Sliding the front of the phone back to reveal the keyboard only to hit various buttons that change things I don't want changed.

Figuring out a ring tone for each family member, as if I'm going to be able to remember who is attached to which tone.

Finally, some real fun: getting LOST wallpaper and ring tone installed.

I'm serious--getting me set up on this phone took an entire Saturday that my daughter can never recapture!

But it's all put together now, and my phone--she's a "beaut." It's racy flamenco red, small, lightweight--nothing like that gray brick I inherited from a family member about 7 years ago. I would take that old one out of my purse and people would stare at it and then at me as if I had taken a banana out of my purse and tried to text on it.

But now, when my spicy little phone rings, I hold it up high, loud and proud, like that dancer in the picture up there, not ashamed for anyone to see!

OK, well, I'm at least current now, and I do enjoy hearing the LOST theme.

Next step: Complete Ipod mastery!

So let's be honest here: How do you deal with learning new things?

Too Long to Read? Nahhh! Grab a Cup. Let's Catch Up!

Welcome to cawfee tawlk. I'm your host, Linda Richman. Er, Crow. Tawlk amongst yaselves; I'll give you a tawpic: Weekends. Discuss.

Ah, the weekend. Allow me to Back it up, Barkus.

Meandering Moment: Pre-retirement, my dad was a trucker. He drove an 18-wheeler, which meant loading and unloading at docks was a huge part of his life. One of his closest co-workers was a guy named Don Barkus, whom I believe is now passed on.

When my dad would talk in his sleep, even years after retirement, one of his most common exclamations, and I do mean exclamations in the sense of !!!!, was a phrase oft-heard at the docks:

"Back it up, Barkus!"

which completely cracks me up and causes me to look for opportunities to say it.

Thus, "Back it up, Barkus," has become synonymous with
A) Physically step back, Dude
B) Rewind mentally/verbally.

Where was I? Oh, backing up the weekend, Barkus.

I fell down Thursday night. It was bedtime, and I was walking through my fam room to the one step up which leads to a short hall which leads to the bedroom, when the step reached up and wrenched my ankle, which caused me to do what this model does in the video, although I wasn't carrying a watering can. And by the way, I feel sorry for model Kamilia Wawrzyni, one, because of the way I'm sure people butcher her name and B) There is actually water in that can (Why?) and III) That had to hurt.



So all weekend I have been dealing with "water can ankle."

But I didn't let it stop me from running, and Friday I ran 5.5 miles + walked a mile home. When I collapsed in the grass of my neighbor in Halteman Village, it may actually have been one of the proudest moments of my long life.

Jorge's flights from Ft. Lauderdale and Atlanta were both delayed, so I had one more evening by myself which I spent with Barbara Stanwyck.

On Saturday, I went to the beautiful wedding of the daughter of my friend, Diane, whom I've written about before who is battling cancer:


















Saturday evening, my father went into the hospital with chest pains, and I stayed there until 1:00 AM when they admitted him. I went to bed at 2 AM, rose at 7 AM, went to church, then took my mom back out to the hospital and sat with them most of the afternoon. (I knew via staff he wasn't in apparent danger or even in severe discomfort. The chest pains come and go.)

Dad is 87 and is in remarkable health for his age. So far, all of the test results are good, don't think he had a heart attack. Monday morning at 8:00, cardiolyte Dip and Echocardiogram. Say a little prayer. He's such a sweet man and so incredibly hard of hearing.

Final note on the weekend--Pet peeve list addition: Docs with foreign accents who will NOT speak up nor slow down when speaking to obviously deaf elderly people. What is up with this?? Where is the bedside manner? I kept telling the hospitalists how hard of hearing Dad is, and they would repeat the question with the same speed and volume. It was incredibly rude and ridiculous.

Dad would stare blankly at the doc, then turn his head to Mom for help who is also hard of hearing and not accustomed to foreign accents, who would either answer incorrectly or look to me, then I would speak VERY LOUDLY to demonstrate what you have to do for him to hear you, and then the doc would say, "OK," and then ask the next question in the frustrating manner. We did this absurd scene over and over. I was a loose cannon by 1:00 AM.

I was ready to shout, "Back it up, Barkus, and turn it up, too!"

OK. Now it's your turn to discuss: Weekend.

Thanks to a Friend, I Have Seen the Future, and I am Depressed

This is one of my best friends, whom I shall call "M," except her real name is much cuter (and longer) than that, and it sounds like "Madwoman," which I often call her.
Amongst M's personality traits is a devotion to truth and knowledge. In a practical everyday way, this dogged determination shows up in the form of helpful email links but also in the debunking of urban legends by her checking with Snopes to see what's what. So, for instance, if I get a message forwarded from someone which claims that sleeping with a fan blowing on you all night will kill you, I just wait a couple of seconds to see if a follow-up message from M appears with the text, "False. [Inserts Snopes link.]" And this pretty much happens daily. Because people are not going to be fooled under M's watch. It's a mission.

And if you say to her in a nonchalant way, "Gee. I wonder [fill in blank with something like "Has Rupert Everett had plastic surgery?"] she gets her phone and Googles whatever topic you just wondered about and tells you the answer. Because people are not going to be befuddled under M's watch. It's a mission. Because, you know, knowledge and truth, etc., etc.

Two quirky traits we share are that we count a lot [random things, like number of steps from here to there or how many seconds at a red light] and we each fear that we will be detained somewhere like a doctor's office waiting room or the airport without a useful endeavor to pass the time, like debunking people's emails or having a book to read. She likes Sudoku; I like crosswords. We both have Yorkies, except hers, Petey, pictured at left, is a gigantic Yorkie who backs up into you to give you his version of "the cold shoulder," but it's actually the cold backside.

So the other day, I received this graphic from M, sharing straightforward, albeit depressing info about aging. Why she forwarded this, I did not know, unless she was compelled to make sure we would not be under any false presumptions that aging might be ... bearable. Because people are not going to wear rose colored glasses under M's watch. It's a mission.

Read these stats, and then I'll tell you why it's depressing.


It's depressing because I don't know about you, but by these determinants, I'm already old, and I have apparently been old for many years! This is my life on a graph, people! I mean, all that's missing is "1 hour per day plucking chin hairs and looking for the rheumatiz' medicine."

So I have Madwoman to thank for this, who just had to make sure I was in the know about Expectations vs. Reality regarding growing old. Wouldn't want to be wearing rose-colored bifocals, that's for sure. Makes me want to give her the Petey back-up!

Does this graphic represent your life at this point?

"Everything is Amazing; Nobody is Happy" (Vid)

Don't know this guy named Louis C.K., and so I don't endorse his whole schtick because something tells me he's not Brian Regan-rated for content, if you know what I mean. But this video is going around, and it totally cracked up Jorge and me because we are old and do indeed remember feeling impatient when we dialed phone numbers containing zeros on our ROTARY PHONES because zero took the longest to dial. Have mercy. We had one just like this picture.

46 Year-old Faces

Recently I was shopping with my 22 year-old daughter, and we meandered into a Sephora-like store. I was drawn to a display of that certain makeup which I will discreetly call "Naked Rocks." You know the one I'm talking about, the one with the infomercials where people swirl and tap and dance and sing about the wonders of this miracle non-foundation powdery foundation.

I'm not daring enough to order makeup, of all things, right off of TV. That's right up there with leaving your dryer running when you leave the house or unbuckling your seat belt and getting your mail from your car while on the wrong side of the street--dangerous, very dangerous. Sometimes I just go crazy like that, but ordering makeup off of TV? No way.

Anyway, here it was, right in front of me, and I was interested to see if the miracles could be performed on me. I wanted to dip my toe in the Bethesda pool, so to speak. Or my whole face.

Instantly, a beautiful young thing asked to help me, and I asked her if she could fix me with the Naked Rock makeup, and she said, "But do you want to be healed?" No, she didn't really say that. She said, "Yeah. I'll try," which didn't do a lot for my already fragile ego.

Then she got some brushes and Naked Rock powder and swirled and tapped and applied. And then she buffed. And buffed. And buffed. Until I shined like the top of the Chrysler Building!

Finally, she reluctantly handed me the mirror. I literally gasped. My skin looked like this:

I said, "I don't ... know ... what ... to ... say."

She said, "[nothing]", which is code for: "What went wrong? I am so fired!"

So a slightly older beautiful young thing came over to see the devastation up close. Eyes were darting. Whispers. Raised eyebrows. Scrambling for remover. Oh, it was so bad.

The first one said, "Yeah, this is probably not for you. Megan, the side of her face where I didn't apply this actually looks better than the Naked Rock side."

Megan looked mortified. I don't think either of them had ever really been up close and personal with skin older than 40, because Grandma-skin doesn't count.

So they swabbed me clean and tried to sell me a whole other line of medicine water, sort of one step up from spackling cement.

I passed.

Therefore, I'm still using L'oreal makeup because if I use it enough years, I'm sure I'll look just like L'oreal spokesperson Andie McDowell, who is stuck at 33, even though she's 50. Poor thing.

I'm just sure of it, Toto!

Just Because I Felt Like It

*EDIT* When I posted this, I didn't realize it might come across as fishing for compliments, and now I'm embarrassed. So please don't feel you have to comment at all. The truth is, I didn't have anything else to post.

Catching Up and Another Entry in the Sidebar Category: I Know You Think I Make This Stuff Up

Shocking, Eye-Opening News: Did you know that if you shove someone on an airplane, you could osteensibly cause them to lose their faith AND develop hemorrhoids? I'm Switzerland neutral in this ordeal, but I do find it humorous that hemorrhoids are at the seat of this suit. What really happened on that flight? We'll probably never really know. It's Victoria's Secret.

"I Know You Think I Make This Stuff Up"

Did I mention that I'm having hot flashes now? This is not only pertinent to this story but also foreshadows a lengthy post soon to come on the intricacies involved in said hot flashing.

But for now, let me just understate my experience by saying that I'm a walking bubbling volcano. Wednesday morning, I was running late for work, and as I got out of the shower, I felt Vesuvius rising in my torso before I could even get dried off and dressed. I grabbed my handy-dandy 12" fan from my nightstand and held it on myself like you do a hair dryer on your hair.

This slowed me down even more, so I threw on all of my clothes and headed toward the door, only to cast a backward glance at myself in a full-length mirror and see--the dreaded panty line. Impossibly short on time, I grabbed a pair of specialized line-less panties out of my drawer and dashed out.

I drove like a speed demon to work. Not really, but 5 mph over the limit feels wild to me. (Like when I sometimes do not clean the lint filter before drying a load of laundry ... on purpose. I know; I'm the Evel Knievel of laundry.)

I parked, grabbed up all of my things that I schlep into work each morning, walked into the building, greeted people and made straight for the restroom to switch my underwear, which is when I realized I had merely bunched up the 2nd pair in my fist as opposed to sticking it in my bag, so it was all exposed for the world to see. If my co-workers saw it, they didn't say anything. If they saw it, I'm sure they thought, "I must pretend not to notice that Ditzy is carrying wadded up underwear in her hand. Must pretend. Must be appear to be oblivious."

When I got inside the stall, I made the switch, but still reeling from embarrassment and being the creature of mindless habit that I am, instead of sticking the first pair in my bag, I simply tossed them into the toilet like toilet paper, as if I thought, "Be gone, panties that show your lines!"

I considered flushing them, but saw the whole custodian scenario flash before my eyes, so I fished them out and trashed them. And that is the latest edition of "I Know You Think I Make This Stuff Up."

Final chapter of this post:RE-CAP on Oneighty Talk

Many of you (one) asked me to re-cap my talk Wednesday night at Oneighty.

Drumroll: It went OK.

There were roughly 60 kids there, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself. Whether or not the kids enjoyed it, I do not know.

My daughter was NOT thrilled that I used all of the pics from this post to start my talk, but I did, and she lived, although she covered her face. At least I didn't tell the wadded up panties story.

But here's how I know she secretly loves me: Before the talk, she came up to me and said, "Let me see your teeth." So I bared them, and they passed inspection. Suddenly I was emotionally overcome by her protective measures on my behalf. Until I realized she was simply trying to avoid even more embarrassment. Oh well.

When it was over, she actually said I did a good job. And that was before I bought her the Sprite on the way home. Little did she know that if she had said "great job," she would've been one Taco Bell Mango Strawberry Fruitista Freeze richer.