I'm Just Sayin'

“Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, martini in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming "WOO- HOO what a ride!"

This is my favorite motto right now. I’ve seen it several places, attributed to everyone from a female kayaker in California to Maxine, the grouchy but loveable greeting card maven. Most recently, I saw it on the wall of my friend’s guest room. I had forgotten that we found the plaque in a shop on the Outer Banks of NC, during what began as the beach trip from hell. I won’t go into details, but let’s just say my friend and I fled a smelly, bug-infested DisComfort Inn for a much nicer (and cheaper) hotel a mile down the beach, with a salt-water pool and an outdoor bar with actual wait staff. Talk about skidding in sideways – we salvaged that vacation by the hair of our chinny-chinny-chins.

Speaking of hairy chins, I think I like this quote because it reminds me of my sister, Rhoda. She was five years older than me, and had survived menopause, hence the hairy chin comment. I said “was” because she passed away last May. And before you go all hater on me for talking about my dead sister’s hairy chin, let me assure you that Rhoda would have appreciated that humor, and I think she might have admired the segue.

Rhoda died at the age of 54 from metastatic breast cancer. I was there when she drew her last breath. I’d been there for nine days watching her sleep, trying to feed her Jell-O and chocolate pudding, putting moisturizer on her back, and balm on her lips. Her cancer had spread to her brain, and her kidneys were shutting down. She was a shell of the person I had known. Her most recent round of chemo had claimed every strand of hair on her body. No eye lashes, no eyebrows, no whiskers on her chin. And her glorious mane of once-blond-but-lately-red hair – all gone. She’d been weak and nauseous for months, and her skin sagged. She had no muscle tone to speak of. Her skin was splotchy and her beautiful gray-blue eyes were mostly dull slate.

I talked to her a lot those nine days, and tried to convince her to talk back. If you knew Rhoda, you’d be amazed that anyone had to encourage her to talk. I don’t know if the brain tumor had affected her verbal ability, or if she was just too weak and tired. But she never did say my name. It was kind of like she was already gone.

But she was there, and she had some great medical care. There was a hot male nurse named Doug who checked her vitals and brought her meds. And a male physical therapist who picked her up in a big bear hug every day, trying to get her to stand or walk a few steps. If Rhoda had been all there, those guys never would have known what hit them. They’d still be talking about it. For the first few days, there was a nurse’s aide named Rhonda. We laughed because for her whole life, Rhoda had been called Rhonda, and the aide said she had been called Rhoda a lot.

It made me sad realizing those people did not know who they were dealing with. I regretted that I did not have a picture of Rhoda so I could illustrate who she was, who she had been. As hard as I tried, I would never be able to do her justice with my words. But I told a few of them some stories so they’d understand. I told them how I used to spy on her meetings of the Monkees fan club, whose members wore paper dresses and white ankle boots and danced the pony to “I’m a Believer.” I told them how she came to visit me in my co-ed college dorm, and within an hour was sitting on the lap of a guy from upstairs, sharing a bottle of Southern Comfort with another. I told them how she had this vast knowledge of popular music, and how I used to call her for help when I played Trivial Pursuit.

There was lots of stories I didn’t tell them, like how she taught me to roll my hair on orange juice cans for big, bouncy curls, or how she bought me my first box of tampons because mom thought only sanitary napkins were suitable for young girls. I didn’t explain her fixation with babies, or the fact that she saved a woman’s life not long ago. I didn’t tell them that she married the same man twice. Or that she had a medium who put her in touch with dead relatives and friends.

How impossible to capture Rhoda in words! She was irrepressible. Mischievous. Controlling. Stubborn. Whack-o-into-psychobabble. Funny. Smart. Beautiful. And loving. She really loved life. And she really lived.

I am coming to terms with the Rhoda that was in that hospital bed. I’m disappointed that she didn’t speak to me for those nine days, but I understand. I know that cancer might have claimed her hair and weakened her body, but it didn’t get the best of her. She had already lived the best of her, and lived it well. She did not leave much in the locker room, so to speak. I’m positive that she lay there in that bed, silently planning her last hurrah. Saving up for the finale, when she no doubt skidded into heaven sideways, chortling in her husky voice, “Hot damn! What a ride.”

In Rhoda’s case, she probably had a margarita in one hand and a Red Lobster garlic cheese biscuit in the other. I’m just sayin.

Hannah Montana Mauled by Big Cat

Ok, that’s not exactly true. It was a Hannah Montana doll. She was not so much mauled, but just dragged through the house. And the big cat was one of my pets. Let me explain.

I could lie and promise to make a long story short, but I’ve already sunk to sensationalism and admitted to owning a Hannah Montana doll. How low do you want me to go? So settle in. This is going to take some time. It’s January. You’re broke, tv sucks, and it’s cold outside. You might as well stick it out with me here.

It all started with a girl’s weekend in Asheville, NC, in early December. I promised to change the names to protect the innocent, so we’ll call the participants Thelma, Louise, Betty, Cagney and Lacey. I’ll be Betty. Thelma and Louise got a one-day head start, and the festivities began. By the time I arrived a day later, they were, let’s say, very relaxed … giddy with relaxation already. Typically on these weekends, we take in a show or two, eat too much, drink too much, sit in a hot tub, and laugh our butts off at really silly and inane things that you later file under “you had to be there.” This could possibly be one of those you-had-to-be-there stories. Just sayin’ …

Anyway, a day or two prior to my arrival, the national media reported that a woman was upset because her daughter’s Hannah Montana singing holiday doll was apparently dropping the f-bomb. Yep, her little angel was dancing around the house singing “Rockin Around the Christmas Tree,” a la Miley Cyrus (but hopefully with actual talent). Feel free to sing along here:

Rockin around the Christmas tree, have a happy holiday.
Everyone dancin’ merrily in the new old-fashioned way.
Rockin around the Christmas tree, let the Christmas spirit ring.
Later we’ll have some effin’ pie and do some caroling …

Wait, did she say pumpkin pie, or something that sounds like pumpkin, but begins with an f and gets your mouth washed out with soap when you’re six?

For some reason, this story captivated me. I mean, does this mom actually think her daughter picked up the f word from hearing Hannah Montana sing it? I think not. Kid must have heard the word somewhere before, mom. So I posted a link on my Facebook page, and suggested that perhaps mom could have bought the kid a book instead. And I arrived in Asheville still marveling over this national news nugget. And like a dog with a bone -- or five women with wine, lemon drop martinis and beer -- we seized upon it. The effin’ pie became a theme for the weekend.

What’s for breakfast? Effin’ pie. This martini is better than an effin’ pie. It’s colder than an effin’ pie outside. Thelma, you’re getting skinny. Need some effin’ pie? You get the picture. Guess you had to be there. (Don’t say you weren’t warned.)

Fast forward: exchanging Christmas gifts a few weeks later. Guess what Thelma bought me? No, not an effin’ pie. Pay attention! The Hannah Montana singing holiday doll! Apparently it was impossible to find locally, and she had to order it off the internet. Now that’s friendship for you.

She’s resplendent. The doll, not Thelma. Ok, sorry, Thelma, you are also resplendent, especially in your new size six jeans (I mean, EFFIN SIZE SIX). Hannah is indeed a glorious specimen, especially if you are a little girl who just can’t wait for puberty so you can grow into some really slutty-looking clothes. She is wearing bejeweled pleather pants and a red sequined sleeveless v-neck top. A silver belt with rhinestone buckle is slung around her hips, and it coordinates with the silver sparkly stilettos. She has dangly diamond earrings (really, they are shaped like diamonds, so for a six-year-old, they are diamond earrings), a red ruby necklace and matching bracelet. But, oh, her crowning glory is her maxi coat. It is white faux suede, with white faux fur collar, cuffs and hem, silver embroidery on the sleeves, silver piping up the front, rhinestones on the lapels, and silver ribbons at the wrists. Liberace would have loved it. Elvis would have wept.

Hannah came with a plastic keepsake ornament and a plastic stand that she straddles to remain upright. Really, you can’t expect her to hold up that coat on those teeny little stiletto heels. Let me just assert something: I would cuss too if I had to straddle a plastic pole longer than my legs! Course, I would cuss if I had to wear a ruby necklace, ruby bracelet, diamond earrings, a rhinestone belt and bejeweled jeans all at the same time. And those shoes! I don’t even know words bad enough for anyone who made me wear them.

Since this story is already waaaaaay too drawn out, I might as well digress here and let you know that, in order to activate the merriment, you have to pull down her pleather pants to access the on/off switch, located roughly were you might expect to find a tramp stamp. Praise Jesus that Hannah Montana does not sport a tattoo! She does, however, favor white bikini panties. Really, they are painted on. I know, TMI … just sayin’ …

And then you press a button near her navel to make her sing. Really, I am not making this up. Thankfully, you can press the button again to make her shut up.

Thelma and I gave it a listen. My brother stopped by, and he gave it a listen. (He seemed really confused about why a woman my age would have such a thing, and then he beat a hasty retreat.) We all agreed: given the singer’s nasally delivery, and the technical limitations of a dime-sized speaker embedded in a doll’s tummy, you could mistake “pumpkin” for something else, especially if you had heard that something else once or twice before.

Fast forward again: I am putting away the Christmas decorations and decide it is time for Hannah to relocate her resplendency to my bedroom, on top of my armoire, alongside Elmo, Woody from Toy Story, my Ozzie Smith Cabbage Patch doll, and a couple of Joe Crede White Sox bobbleheads. (Sorry, cousin Joe, but I happen to think you’re in good company up there. With Hannah’s arrival, it could turn into a real party. She is dressed for it, but remember, she’s 16 effin’ years old.) To ease her transition, I let her rest a while on the steps. (Yeah, I was too effin’ lazy to make one more trip up the effin’ stairs, ok?) I decided she might as well stay there overnight, because on my final trip of the day, my hands were full of my night-time necessities – ice water, cell phone, book, effin' glasses, maybe piece of chocolate).

I must have slept soundly. I didn’t hear the attack ensue. All I know is, when I got up this morning, poor Hannah was in the living room, her belt was in the dining room, and one shoe was in the kitchen. I’m not sure which cat it was. I know that Chloe does not like country music. Fannie has no tolerance for anything that usurps my attention. Sophie looks good in silver, so maybe she wanted the accessories. Maybe they all worked together to teach the teen-age tart a thing or two. Kind of like an episode of “What Not to Wear.” Feline Fashionistas … only on Bravo … watch what happens …

Whatever, Hannah survived. Still has a full head of hair, her magnificent maxi coat, and a smile on her face. I guess she enjoyed getting off that effin’ display stand for the night. I’m just sayin.

Today is the first day of smoke-free bars and restaurants in North Carolina. Finally! Those of you outside tobacco road probably don’t realize how major this is. I live in tobacco town, Winston-Salem. Yes, the town that Reynolds built. To be clear, the cigarettes were named after the town, not vice versa. The town (originally two towns, hence the hyphen) was here long before R.J. Reynolds moved from his daddy’s tobacco farm in Virginia. But make no mistake, everything here has ties to the golden leaf.

You can’t flick a cigarette butt in town without hitting something built by, funded through, or named for something or somebody associated with tobacco. It was tobacco money that brought Wake Forest University to town. Deacon fan or not, you have to admit this town would not be the same without its ACC school. And certainly RJR has contributed to development funds for every college and university in town. Charitable trusts created by the Reynolds family and other executives of RJR Tobacco sustain our arts and cultural organizations. The names are everywhere: Reynolda Road, Smith Reynolds Airport, Bowman Gray Stadium.

Yes, tobacco has been good for North Carolina in general, and for Winston-Salem in particular. But our financial dependence has compromised our health for long enough. Now we clear the air.

I used to smoke. I started in high school because it was cool. (Literally it was Kool, then Salem, then Virginia Slims, and finally Marlboro Lights.) I quit on Martin Luther King Day, 1995, because it was making me sick. (The habit was making me sick, not the holiday. That just happened to be the day I emptied my carton). So, in my typical fashion of making everything all about me, I’ve decided this smoking ban is NC’s gift to me, on my 15th anniversary of being smoke-free. Thanks, NC. Thank you very much.

I also used to spend more time in bars. I was never really a bar fly. No one ever called my name when I came in the door. I never reached the level of patronage where I could slide onto a stool and order “the usual.” But I was there, drinking cold beer, ordering shots, watching sports, throwing darts, listening to music. Then I quit smoking, and I couldn’t tolerate the smoky bars anymore. To be honest, I also got married, bought a house, got a promotion, and started working really insane hours. There were time and financial constraints, but smoke was the major reason I slid off my bar stool.

I still go to bars. I compete in a dart league, and we throw darts in bars. Mine might be the only completely smoke-free team in the league, and we grumble about the poor air quality. But I guess we love darts more than we hate smoke, because we keep showing up in smoky bars every Sunday. I had to give up darts for awhile after I quit smoking, and it wasn’t just because the bars were smoky. I also couldn’t throw straight without a lit cigarette waiting on the table behind me. But eventually I came back. Now I wonder how the new law will affect the smokers in our league. I wonder if it will alter their abilities as it once altered mine. If so, maybe there are more trophies in store for me and my team. (Again, making it all about me and mine. I probably just forfeited any chance of every getting another sportsperson award.)

A few months ago, I talked to a local bar owner about the pending ban on smoking, and he was worried. You could look around the place and understand why. Every bar stool was occupied, and I was the only one not smoking. The bartender was spending almost as much time cleaning ashtrays as she was mixing drinks. This is a place with regulars, where the regulars order “the usual” and the regulars smoke. A lot. The owner feared that his regulars, those who help him meet payroll and pay the mortgage, would abandon him. They can sit at home and drink, and smoke at the same time. Would their desire to light up supersede the need for what they find at his bar? I think not, and I told him so. Told him my story. He said, “Yeah but you don’t drink enough to keep me in business.”

So, I have a challenge for my friends in Winston-Salem, and throughout North Carolina. Go to a bar this month. Park your butt on a bar stool and order a drink. Maybe two. Call a cab if you need to. Breathe the air. Smell the coffee, the beer, the cheap cologne of the guy next to you. Notice how clearly you can see the television, now that it’s not obscured by a cloud of smoke. If you’re sitting next to a smoker (you’ll know because they’ll be grouchy, fidgety, or eating lots of peanuts) show them some encouragement. Hell, go ahead and buy them a drink. Show the bar owners that non-smokers are a viable economic force. Keep our bars in business. Do it for the love of cold beer. Do it for the economy. Do it for me, in honor of my 15th anniversary of being smoke free. Again, it’s all about me. I’m just sayin.