Take That to the Bank.

I don't want to start out by saying, "when I was a kid..." and then launch into a lengthy explanation about why a specific time in my life was better than what might be going on now.

That said, when I was a kid the world was more personalized. Yes it was. We were nowhere near as automated as we are now.

I remember walking to the bank on the corner with my Grandma when I was about seven or eight. Once we arrived, my Grandma would tell me to sit in one of the chairs and wait for her while she took care of her banking business. I specifically remember sitting in a standard vinyl chair that stuck to the back of my legs if I happened to be wearing shorts. But I was comfortable. I would leaf through whatever magazine was sitting on the table next to me. McCall's. Woman's Day. Life. Just sit there and flip through them, not really reading them of course. I was just happy to be spending time with my Grandma. When it was my Grandma's turn to be helped by the teller, the teller would always look over at me and wave or wink. Once a man who I will now assume was the Bank Manager came out to see me and brought me a cupcake and asked me if I was having a nice day. I said yes, I was, between large bites of chocolate goodness. One time when I was there with Grandma the same Bank Manager came out to the lobby area where I sat and gave me some paper coin rollers and told me that if I saved my coins and rolled them up and brought them back to him, he would give me dollar bills. That thought appealed to me.

I liked going to the bank with Grandma. Going to the bank with Grandma always meant I would be treated well by bank employees, given free cupcakes and coin rollers and pens with the bank's name embossed on the side. One time one of the tellers gave me a Kennedy Half Dollar. I still have it.

That was then. This is now.

One morning this past week I got up and went on one of my typical cleaning binges. You know the kind. No cushion left unturned. In the process I found a long forgotten velvet drawstring bag from some shoe company that I had filled with coins and forgot about. The bag weighed about nine pounds. No kidding.  I thought about dragging them up to someplace with a Coinstar location and dumping them and getting them counted, but then I remembered the fee. No thanks. That's when I decided I would spend an afternoon in the air conditioning rolling them myself.

First, of course, I needed some paper coin rollers. I could buy a bag of them at the store. But then I remembered I could get them free at the bank.

So guess where I went next?

These days I usually don't physically go into the bank unless I have official business to do that requires a teller, which, like most people these days, is rare. But today I went into the bank, my regular branch, mind you, to get me some paper coin rollers.

I was in a pretty good mood. Sun was out. My hair didn't look to humidity damaged. My California tan still looked fresh. Life was good. I was having a good day.

I walked into the bank and got in line behind two people. Two people. One was already at the teller counter sounding like he was finishing up. The lady in front of me was the only other person in the bank besides me and bank employees. There didn't seem to be anybody at the drive thru, either.  There were three tellers standing behind their respective counters. Two were open and one was talking on the phone. Out of the two who were open only one was taking care of customers. The other one sounded like she was talking business on the phone with a friend.  I heard snippets of her conversation that involved the phrases, "just bring it tonight when you get to the bar", "yeah, I know, they broke up last week" and "I love Jagermeister!"  Okay, I thought. There's just me and this other lady in front of me to be waited on. I guess she doesn't need to have her window open. Besides, maybe she's on a break.

The woman in front of me is called to the teller window. She takes care of her business and within seconds she is done. I could not hear her exchange with the teller. They were talking quietly. When she gets ready to leave and turns around, I notice she is rolling her eyes. Hmmm, I thought. Wonder what's wrong with her. She looks ticked off.  She leaves.

Now, it's my turn to be waited on.

I approach the teller's window. I smile at her and say politely, "Hi. Can I just get some of those paper coin rollers?"

Without cracking a smile or greeting me back she says, "How many do you need?"
"Uh, about ten of every kind I guess" I reply.
"But how many do you need?"she asks. I'm like, really? I repeat my answer.
"About ten of every kind will do the trick" I say, still smiling.The teller sighs.
"Just a minute. I have to see if we have that many" she mumbles. I was sort of surprised.

You have to see if we have that many? What?
I wait patiently while she leaves her window for a second and goes to another window that's closed and she takes a key from a nearby filing cabinet and uses it to open a drawer and she looks inside the drawer and then closes it right away again and walks back over to her window where I am. She is empty handed.

"I can give you about five of the penny counters and five or six of the nickel and dime ones. I can't give you any for quarters" she says, matter of factly.

"What do you mean? This is a bank. I have years worth of coins to roll. I need more than that. Are you telling me that you are out of coin rollers?"  She doesn't reply at first. Then she says, quite serious in tone, "would you like to talk to my supervisor?"

What? Is she serious?

"No" I reply, a bit frustrated, "I don't want to talk to your supervisor. I just want some coin rollers. What's the problem?"

"Well if you need a large quantity of coin rollers I will have to charge you for them" she said, quite seriously.

What. The. Hell?

"You're kidding me, right? I've been a bank customer here for nearly thirty years. I have four different accounts here. My entire family banks here. And you're telling me that you need to charge me for a few of those stupid paper coin rollers? Geez. When I was a kid I remember my parents brought home a free toaster when they opened an account here when you guys were under a different name! Now I can't even get coin rollers?"

The teller, about a generation younger than I, leaned over her counter and said to me, firmly but quietly, "That must have been a long time ago. This bank doesn't give out kitchen appliances when you open an account. We give you fifty dollars when you open a new checking account here. Would you like to see a brochure?"

Now I was ready to smack her.

"Did you hear me just now when I said I have four different accounts here? I'm good. I don't need a brochure today. I just need some coin rollers. The last time I got them they were free. And I could get as many as I wanted" I said.

"How many years ago was that, ma'am?" she asked me.

Oh, Lord, I wanted to smack her sooooo bad. I looked behind me. Still no one else had come in since I had. The bank was literally empty except for me and the employees. I glanced around once and noticed a bank employee sitting in a cubicle typing on her computer.

"Actually, the teller windows are for cash and check transactions. If you want to buy some coin rollers you can go see the representative at that desk over there" the teller said then, pointing to the same woman in the cubicle who was typing on her computer.

"I don't want to buy coin rollers. I want you to give me some free like I know this bank can afford to do for a customer who has been a customer here since 1977. A customer who has four different accounts here. A customer whose family has accounts here. Why is this such a big deal? All you have to do is go back to that drawer with your key and open it and give me some coin rollers. Ten of each kind is not going to throw this bank into ruin. I feel like I'm on Candid Camera." She stared at me, confusion etched on her face. The reference to the show "Candid Camera" was lost on her. I should have said "That reality show called The Real Snotty Bank Tellers of Southeastern Michigan,"  a modern day reference that she would understand.

"Just a minute, please" she said to me then and excused herself. She disappeared through a door behind the teller's area and was gone for about a minute. When she came back she brought a smart dressed man in a suit with her. His name badge said,  "Gregory. How Can I Help You?"

Was I being arrested for asking for asking for free coin rollers? What was going on?

"Hi there. I understand you want some paper coin rollers and you don't want to pay for them?" he said.

I was mortified.

"I wouldn't put it like that. I just needed a few of each kind and all of a sudden you want to charge me for them? That's kind of unreasonable. And then she (I glance at the teller) tells me out of the blue then that if I want to do this kind of business I need to go see the woman at the cubicle over there. What in the world kind of joke is this? Do you know how many years I have been a customer at this bank? Do you?" I said, this time rather loudly.

"I understand your frustration but you have to understand that we have to charge certain fees for certain things now."

I was getting a pretty good idea now why the woman in line ahead of me a few minutes before left with her eyes rolling toward the heavens.

"You know I could've just went to Target this morning and got some of those rollers" I said, obviously pissed off.

"And they would charge you for them" Greg the Smart Ass replied. Then I rolled my eyes at Greg.
"That's because Target is a store where they sell things and taking them would be shoplifting! This is a bank where I have done business for 30 years! That kind of loyalty deserves a few free paper coin rollers don't you think?"

Man I was wound up now.

Greg said, "Angie here says that when you came in you originally asked for ten each of each kind. If you only need one or two..."

Aaaahhhhhhh. I want to reach over the counter and strangle Greg. And I want to punch Angie the Teller. I want to scream. But who would hear me? It's just me and this crazy bank staff full of stingy tellers and a bank manager named Greg who is talking to me like I'm five.

I glance up at the security cameras and make a face that seems to say, "Are you getting all this for the news at eleven?"

Finally, after all that and then some, Greg caves, turns to Angie and says, "Give this lady ten each of the coin rollers" and then he looks at me and says, but still talking to Angie, "but only give her five of the ones for quarters."

He said it like, "And make sure she doesn't try to get six out of you!"

Somebody stop this insanity. Please. Greg smiled at me then and said, "Is there anything else I can do for you today?"

Oh, the shit that went through my head that I wanted to say at that point. But I didn't say anything. I was the bigger person. Besides, I was tired. I nodded no. Greg disappeared a few seconds later through the door from whence he came. Angie walked over to the drawer, stuck her key in and pulled out a handful of coin rollers. She counted them carefully. I called over to her, "Now remember, only five for the quarters! We don't want to cause the bank to collapse because of me!"

She didn't laugh. She brought the rollers over to me, rubber banded them together and handed them to me. And then, to my honest surprise, as I turned to leave she said to me, "Oh, just so you know for next time? You can do stuff like this at the drive thru window."

I turned back around and looked at her, true anger in my eyes now.

"What?" I said to her.

"You can do this at the drive thru next time" she repeated.

"Bite me, Angie" I mumbled at her, but still loud enough for her to make out what I said.

"I beg your pardon?" she said.

"You heard me" I replied.

Yes, she did.

Post Script:

A few days ago I needed some quarters for laundry. I went back to the bank again to buy a couple rolls. My beloved Angie the Teller was nowhere to be seen. Today, I had to deal with a different teller. A new, and hopefully improved teller.

This was not to be.

I got Lorraine. I stepped up to her window and presented her with my twenty dollar bill and forced a smile.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"I just want to buy some quarters. Two rolls. That's all" I replied.

"Do you have an account here?" she snapped. What? Is she serious?


"Yeah, I have like three accounts here. Why?"

"Swipe your check card please" she said then, motioning toward the card scanner to my right.

No effing way.


As I proceeded to swipe my check card, I asked her why I had to do this.

"So we know you have an account here" she answered in her snippy tone.

I'd had about enough of this bullshit.

"You know I was just in here about a week ago needing some coin rollers and your teller Angie wanted me to pay for them. Now I have to have an account here before you'll sell me a roll of quarters? What kind of nonsense is this? I'm giving you a twenty dollar bill. Cash. I'm not writing you a check or giving you a zillion unrolled pennies. What difference does it make if I have an account here or not?"

Yeah. I was mad.

"It's the new rule" she replied, getting my quarters out of a drawer and placing them in front of me.  I took them and stuffed them in my bag and got ready to leave. She smiled at me and said, "Thank you for banking with us today, Ms. Morgan."

Oh really? Now I'm Ms. Morgan with a smile because I just proved to you that I have an account here by swiping my card in your mighty presence? What the hell? Get off your high horse, Teller Queen.

"The new rule, huh?  How does that rule read on paper? 'We will make every attempt to make our customers feel like crap the minute they ask us for anything that is outside the realm of a car loan or a 30 year fixed mortgage. This essentially means that if you come in here and ask us for a roll of quarters of a paper roller to shove them in, we will not be obliging this request until we've succeeded in making you feel like an out of town visitor.'  Is that how the new rule reads?" I asked her.

She just stared at me. I squinted and leaned in to read her name badge. Lorraine.

"Is that correct Lorraine?" I asked her.

"Well, Ms. Morgan..."

"Well Lorraine? It's like this" I started in a loud whisper, "I was banking here when you were still waddling around your playpen in Pampers. When you were learning how to walk I was opening my first savings account. When you were starting kindergarten I was getting my first credit card. And when you were tormenting your first babysitter I was experiencing my first direct deposit. So don't Ms. Morgan me. As far as I'm concerned, when I come into this bank and ask you for a roll of quarters and I give you a twenty dollar bill to buy them I don't want a hassle or some lecture about the new rule. As a matter of fact, when I come into this bank I want to be treated like royalty whether I have five bucks in my account or five million, got it?"

Lorraine was listening. Kind of.

"The next time I come into this bank I want you to treat me like my last name is Trump, got it?"

Still listening, she was.

She nodded nervously.

"Who?" I asked her.

"Trump" she replied.

"Atta girl."

I turned around to leave. This time there was a woman who looked to be a few years older than me waiting her turn. As I brushed past her I winked at her and said, "I broke her in. She's all yours."

Let this be a lesson to you little smart ass teller children who think you can tell me it's a new rule and I will go away.  I won't go away. I've paid my dues. I'm older than you and not easily bullied.

It's called good customer service. It's not my rule. It's the rule.

Today it is very obvious that brick and mortar bank buildings do not want me in their building. Not physically, anyway. They want me to bank online. They want me to use the ATM. They want me to use the drive-thru. And I do. Quite frequently. And I don't mind. I am a creature of progress.

But something is really wrong when an institution like a bank gets so impersonal that they can't be bothered when I need some coin rollers or quarters. YOU'RE A FRICKIN' BANK. THAT'S WHERE THE MONEY IS.

I don't like being treated like I'm imposing on you when I need your help. Especially when you are handling and in charge of MY MONEY. When I need to do business with you that requires human interaction, don't give me B.S.  Give me good service.

When you are handling my money, you will turn cartwheels for me if I want you to, got it? You will say yes ma'am and no ma'am and thank you ma'am. Yes. You will.

So let this be a lesson to all you Gregs and Angies and Lorraines out there in Banking Land. CUSTOMER SERVICE. JOB ONE.

That's right. The next time I walk into the bank and ask you for a roll of quarters or a crisp fifty to put inside a birthday card? You do it. That's right. Just do it. When I walk into the bank where I have three accounts you look up at me when I enter the bank and you say, "Good Morning. How are you today? WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU TODAY?

Well, let's see. You can start by not pissing me off. 


Always a good place to start.



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Shits and Giggles: Losing My Depression

I think everything in life has the potential to be funny in prescribed, spooned, measured amounts. Listen, it has to be. A friend much wiser than I told me once that the more prone you are to depression, the more absurd you find day to day living.  You find more to laugh at and the laughter is often inappropriate.

My heroes are the comedians that make us cringe and think. Kathy Griffin. Chelsea Handler. Judy Gold. George Carlin. Mitch Hedberg. Richard Pryor. Lenny Bruce. Jerry Seinfeld. Kathleen Madigan. Wanda Sykes. And the list goes on and on.

I live for inappropriate laughter. I must get pretty moody then, right?

I immerse myself in all things funny as much as I can. I look at life through big thick Mr. Magoo glasses. I know everyone is pointing back at my coke bottle spectacles, but I can see them really good, better than the average Joe can, and I can see through them. They see a nerd when they stare at me. I see funny when I stare at them. I can't help it.

It's very possible that this runs in my family somewhat. My younger sister turns into a giggling maniac whenever someone trips, falls, walks into a wall, knocks over something...

She's been like this her entire life. If you are clumsy and you do something that results in your falling flat on your ass, if she is within ten feet of you, she's going to laugh at you whether you like it or not. She'll probably even laugh and point. The good news is after she's pulled herself together she will probably ask you if you're okay.  Don't take it personal when she's still holding back giggles while she asks you if that cut on your forehead needs stitches. And she will gladly call 911 for you if she thinks you broke something, like a leg or a hip. And if it looks like you might have a concussion,no fear. She'll probably drive you to the hospital herself, after she calls three of her friends to tell them how this stranger slipped on a banana peel in front of the 7-Eleven and landed on their back and got the wind knocked out of them and then smacked their head really hard on the pavement. Funny stuff.

Did I mention she's a big fan of that "Wipeout" show where contestants compete in insanely ridiculous water sports where they have to get through slippery, wet obstacle courses in order to win? She loves it. The entire hour consists of mostly physically inept people getting catapulted across a mud filled lake while they try to stay hoisted on specialized flippers and diving boards. It's crazy. But yeah, it is funny. I've watched the show. And during the parts where I merely smile and laugh when someone gets wiped out, my sister goes into convulsions.  And I say good for her. Laughter is good for the soul. Even at the expense of  others. I guess.  Just this past winter I lost my balance while trying to get into the back seat of a jeep and my sister was in hysterics. I don't get it. But it works for her and God Bless Her. We all need something that tickles our funny bone.

If there is nothing in life to laugh at, why bother getting up in the morning? Seriously. I do know a few people who find nothing funny. They are serious from start to finish. They're not necessarily mean people, or distraught people, or even depressed people. They're sort of, well, annoyingly reserved to the point where you just want to slap them. It's like you could take them to a Will Farrell/ Steve Carrell film fest and they won't crack so much as a grin. You want to shake them and say, "What is wrong with you? Were you born without smile muscles?"

They are the Debbie Downers.

They must be even keeled folks, the ones who don't laugh at anything. The ones who will say, "Oh, nothing is wrong. I just never found the Marx Brothers, The Three Stooges or I Love Lucy amusing, that's all. Now the sinking of the Titanic? That was a hoot! The Hindenberg Explosion? I thought I'd laugh til I died..."

Smack.

Debbie Downers are not people who get depressed from time to time like we do. Debbie Downers are wired wrong. Debbie Downers see the serious side of everything. They are inherently flawed. That isn't depression. That's a huge ass character flaw.

But we who get depressed from time to time or over stretches of time know what it takes to get us moving and laughing again. At least I do. There is a reason they say it's darkest before the dawn. When you're going through a dark tunnel, eventually you will find light at the end of that tunnel. (A Debbie Downer would call the light at the end of that tunnel a train. See what I mean?)

I digress. Through my life I have experienced many bouts of depression. I think at this point it might just be the way I'm wired because I always snap back no matter what. And then I snap back better than before. I like life. I really do. I just hate the intermission. I don't deal well with change. I like things to go my way. I don't like to lose if it means I'm going to end up feeling shitty or looking bad in the end. Of course, most of this is all my perception of me. Isn't that what the blues are? Our perception of ourselves and how we deal with the external crap that's bringing us down? There are so many bon mots quoted to make us feel better when we're down. "God won't give you more than you can handle."  Good to know. Sometimes hard to believe. "When you're all the way down, the only way to go is up."  Really? What genius thought up that one? "A smile is a frown turned upside down." So what then? Are we supposed to stand on our heads when we don't feel like it? Break our damn necks trying and then we'll see who is in a funk.  Geez.

When I'm depressed I like to pull out of it myself. I don't like people egging me on and telling me that what I need to do is take a walk or get moving or pursue a hobby. Pursue a hobby? Yeah. Nothing gets me out of the doldrums more than a frustrating 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle of an iceberg on the Arctic cap or going through ye olde  coin collection to find that copper penny from 1903 that might be worth fifty cents now.  I feel better already.

It's best to let me be. I'm never suicidal. So buzz off. If I have the blues and I want to sleep for three days let me.  Well, no, don't let me. I'd smell after three days without a shower.

The thing that has helped me most through my depression these past few months is the fact that I have been talking to women like me (and some men) who are going through bouts of sadness for reasons that are familiar to me and foreign.  If it brings you down, it doesn't really matter what it is. If it's disrupting the quality of your life and sucking the joy out of your existence, it's safe to call it depression.

There is clinical depression and there's situational depression. And somewhere along the line I think they can meet in the middle and be aggravated by other things as well. Some people need meds. Some people need to talk to someone. And some of us just need to pop in our well scratched copy of "Best in Show" or any other Christopher Guest movie and that does the trick. Feeling better to the point where you can actually walk across the room and pop the DVD into the player is the real trick for me. The experts are right about that. You do feel better when you move. I missed that exercise train years ago. I was never athletic in school. I was like that kid Brick on "The Middle" who spends recess under a tree reading a book and hopes that the teacher won't notice that he isn't socializing with the other kids.  Perhaps if I had been a little more athletically inclined my depressive episodes would be easier to deal with today. Maybe when life's blows punched me in the face I could rebound a lot faster and not wonder what the hell is wrong with me. There's a fat chance I might join a gym in the near future. But there's a fatter chance I won't. I have exercise equipment in my home. There's a pair of jeans drying on my cardiac workout machine now I think.

What can I tell ya?

But life need not be a bully. And, to the best of my ability, despite the proverbial orange construction cones that have been my special roadblock for more than a few months now, it is still a wonderful life and this, too, shall pass.

Didn't mean to go all Jimmy Stewart on ya there.
Oh what the hell.
Kiss My Ass, Mr. Potter. Despite you and your tricks, it is a wonderful life.

Blues get out of my way. I got some laughing to do.

There is nothing quite so exhilarating than driving really fast and knocking down orange construction cones on a stretch of highway at 3 am.

In your mind, that is. Don't really do it. For heaven's sake. You know how sensitive the road commission can get when people start knocking over their damn cones after dark. Touchy, touchy.

Keep on smilin' kids. Makes people wonder what you're up to.

"Enjoy every sandwich." -Warren Zevon

Enjoy the day. I'll meet back up with you here in a while.

**************************************************

**************************************************

On Loss: Steven Slater: I Get You. I Really Do.

If the name Steven Slater doesn't ring a bell, you've probably not been following the news reports about him these past few days. He's the Jet Blue Flight Attendant who got fed up with the conditions on the plane he had routinely boarded for work one day last week and got into it with a passenger over a carry on bag. The rest is a story for generations of disgruntled workers for years to come. He grabbed the intercom on the plane, said a few choice words, grabbed a beer and left via the emergency exit down the slide in a huff. And oh what a huff it was. He didn't hurt anyone. He didn't shoot anyone. He didn't threaten anyone. He just made a grand exit. Okay, he didn't put in a two week notice. But what fun would that have been? He's a celebrity now, at least for fifteen minutes, and I for one am a fan of his stunt.

Why? Well, I feel his pain, that's why. And apparently so does have the nation. Those who have lost their job (how do you do) and those who are stuck in jobs where they are mistreated and abused (you know who you are) can indeed relate to Slater's unique exit strategy.

The comedians are having a field day with the story. And why shouldn't they? This one had a happy ending compared to the disgruntled employee stories we usually read about. The employee gets canned and comes back in an hour with a handgun and you know the rest.

The thing that makes Steven Slater a hero in my book is that he didn't take out any innocent bystanders and yet his actions spoke louder than any shotgun blast ever could.

I've had enough.

Only recently did I speak to an acquaintance of mine who works for a popular airline and she was telling me how horrible flight attendants are treated by management. I can't imagine a job like that being too glamorous in the first place. Cramped quarters, serving mediocre food to passengers already pissed off and tired from a long flight in coach and the snobs up in first class can't get waited on fast enough. They got to pour those drinks during mild turbulence without spilling them on anybody. They're on their feet for pretty much the entire flight and they have to listen to everyone's complaint, big or small. If the plane goes through a rough patch of bad weather, nobody is yelling at the pilot. They yell at the flight attendant. And she or he is supposed to convey the complaint to the pilot after the plane has landed because these days the pilot is segregated from everyone else until the plane is no longer airborne.

These are just a few of the things my acquaintance shared with me when talking to me about her job as a flight attendant. Her famous last words before our conversation ended? "They don't care how they treat us. They know we need the job. Why would they care about how we feel?"

Sadly, this is the case with most run of the mill companies these days. I worked for a company that let me go after eight years of service for no other reason than they wanted to save money, cut costs and get rid of the old timers. Naturally I will not reveal the company's name here, but is it really necessary? The more I talk to people since I lost my job the more I'm hearing the same stories from others who have lost their livelihoods as well. They have experienced the same kind of loss I experience. It's a popular kind of loss these days. The loss of a job. Nothing hits you in the gut like a clumsily tossed grenade quite like the words "We are terminating you from the company."

I could see the writing on the wall for a while with my company. They had lowered their standards where respect toward their employees goes for a couple years prior. The writing was indeed on the wall.
Was what happened to me fair? I don't think so. Did I deserve to lose my livelihood because some junior upstart decided I was old and in the way? Hell no. And when I got let go that fateful day did I have the inclination to show myself out, walk to my car, get in it and then wait for my boss to walk out to his car  at the end of his day so I could run over him a half a dozen times with mine?  Sure. Did I act on that inclination? No. You didn't hear about it on the news. It didn't happen. I went home right after it happened and texted a few close friends and told them what had happened. Then I ordered a pizza and watched some back to back episodes of "I Love Lucy" on DVD. That's how I coped. That's how I coped that day, the day that it happened.

It was not a dramatic Steven Slater exit from my place of employment. I got let go. Steven Slater quit. Other than that, it sounds like the stress of our respective jobs was getting to both of us for awhile. Now that I am no longer with that company, that particular stress is gone. If you've ever had to go to work a nervous wreck every day wondering when you'd get the axe and then got it, you know what I'm talking about.  But that didn't mean it was over after I ate my double cheese pizza and watched some classic comedy to take off the edge.

The worse was yet to come. The sense of loss was so fresh, so great, so new, so horrible that the first thing I noticed was that I couldn't sleep and when I did I kept dreaming the scenario as it happened over and over again. "We are terminating you from the company." The words kept ringing in my ears. And what made it worse was just a month earlier I had suffered an even greater loss. The loss of my mom.

In my mind, the sonofabitch boss was kicking me when I was down and didn't care. What a douchebag he was. What a douchebag he probably still is. People like that do not change. They just get bigger egos and bigger heads to store them in.

Aside from the temporary inclination to run over him with my car, I didn't think any more about exacting revenge on the guy. I wasn't interested in ending up in prison or dying in a police shootout for such an idiotic cause. But that didn't mean I didn't hurt after it happened.

The first couple days after you lose your job are the hardest. You have to file for unemployment. You have to register for work with the state. You have to post your resume online with the unemployment agency. You and a million or so other people who are jobless as well. Never let it be said that you are not in good company when you find yourself unemployed. Not even close. At first it feels like you are because the wound is so fresh and new. But after you put it all into perspective, you realize you are a part of what I called in a previous post, "The New Majority."

You start collecting unemployment and thank God that you're getting some sort of income to live on. Then you realize you can't afford COBRA, even with President Obama's generous discount in effect, and then you find yourself uninsured. You start thinking about everything that is currently wrong with you health wise and then you start wondering what else could happen while you're uninsured that could end up being potentially fatal because you can't get decent health care anymore. You shudder to think how much out of pocket treatment will be for the simplest of maladies. Is that freckle on my wrist cancer? Is that lump a tumor? Am I getting forgetful because it's the onset of Alzheimers or is it just the stress of worrying about getting Alzheimers that is making me crazy? What if my cholesterol goes through the roof now that I can't get my Lipitor? How will I afford my migraine medication? What if I break a finger, an arm, a rib or a leg? How will I get my thyroid checked? The mind is like a bad neighborhood at night. Don't go there alone. Trust me. Take a friend if you're going to go that deep into your head.

But I did go there and my thoughts ran rampant during those first few weeks without insurance. I couldn't help it. I'm human. And I had never been without health insurance before. Now I knew how the rest of the country who had a lifetime of no insurance felt.

Eventually I settled down and quit obsessing about being sick or becoming that way. I did end up getting an upper respiratory infection that was easily treated with antibiotics prescribed to me by a kind doctor at a local clinic I now go to for a nominal monthly fee. But I did miss seeing my regular physician that I always took for granted. This much I know for sure. Quality health care is not free. At least not in this country it isn't. But that's an argument for another day.

The other thing that hammered feelings of worthlessness into my psyche in the days following my termination from my job was waking up that first Monday and having no place to go in the morning. I remember waking up and instinctively knowing it wasn't Saturday or Sunday and clomping around the kitchen looking for a coffee filter and putting coffee beans in the grinder and making coffee while the tape played over and over in my head: You don't have a job to go to today. You don't have a job to go to today. You don't have a job to go to today because they let you go, you asshole.

That's right. I called myself names while I made my coffee. I stood there in the kitchen and watched the water drip through the filter basket and waited the whole five minutes for the coffee to be done. I poured myself a cup and went into the living room, sat on the sofa and turned on the TV and started surfing channels like any fool with a remote does when they're bored. The programming choices during the day are interesting, to say the least. For years I was never home during the week to watch any of it. The View. Dr. Oz. Ellen. The Today Show. The Doctors. Wendy Williams. Tyra. Maury. Jerry Springer. Somebody new named Steve Wilkos. The afternoon news. Soap Operas. And, of course, the mother of all daytime shows, Oprah. Really? I thought. Is this as good as it gets now?

I think it was at that moment that I started to cry. It had finally pinched the nerve that hadn't been irritated yet. It was like air on a decaying tooth. And when I cried I cried for a good hour or more. I cried for losing my job, my health insurance and cried for losing my mother all over again. All wounds were freshly opened again and I cried so hard I hyperventilated. Then finally, I stopped. I had to stop. I mean, you can't cry forever. If you do you don't get anything else done. Life does go on.  It goes on despite loss of a parent, a job or health insurance. It goes on despite loss of worth and dignity and feelings of being needed or being smart. Life either goes on or you just die inside. I was not ready to die inside or out. I never even thought about suicide. Not my style. Despite life's nuts and bolts and roofs falling in and walls caving in I still love my life, even when there doesn't seem to be any reason to.  Why kill myself? I'm gonna stick around and make the rest of you miserable. Or I'm gonna laugh in the face of adversity and say WTF. Might as well live.

So I salute you, Steven Slater for the way you made your exit from an employer who did you wrong. You made me laugh and relate to you all in one fell swoop. Your days as a flight attendant for any airline are probably officially over, but I have a feeling you don't mind that at all.

Where to next, Steven Slater? I don't know what your future holds. I don't know what my future holds. But here's to no more bumpy rides and carry on bags that are too damn full to go in the overhead compartment.

Prepare for take off.  Now the sky is the limit. With or without wings.

*****************************************************************

PMS,Menopause, Anger, Depression, Weight Gain and The Finger...The Gift That Keeps on Giving.

Out on a Ledge....

My first experience with menopause and not realizing it was in late January two winters ago. I was asleep, tossing and turning. Around 2 am I woke up after some bizarre dream about being chased around a high school gymnasium by a large Vlasic Pickle with legs and found myself feeling hotter than July and not in the sexy way. I was burning up. I was sweating. I kicked off the covers. I couldn't understand it. It was January in Michigan. On this particular night it was about 20 degrees with a wind chill. (Can't forget the all important wind chill. We are just the biggest snobs about our wind chills in the Great Lakes Region.) Anyhow, I couldn't cool off. I got out of bed, started pacing, feeling like I was going to spontaneously combust. I went to the bathroom, turned on the cold water in the sink and started splashing cold water on my face. Nothing helped. Finally, I went to my living room, opened the door wall that led to my balcony and stepped out into the frigid air and let it hit my entire body, the brittle, bitter winter air whipping through my body, through my jammies and through my skin. I loved it. I stood there like a freak for a good ten minutes enjoying this self-imposed refrigeration, oblivious to the possibility that a neighbor up late might see me and call the cops. "She's on the ledge of her balcony. Her arms are outstretched. She's smiling...I think she's on something..."

I was on something. I was on menopause. Or, as my late mother used to call it, "the change." She was never clear about what it was I was about to change into. That was the kicker. I soon found out that she was being polite when she said that.

I was going to change into a Super Bitch.

And how.

Anger Comes out to Play.

About a month or so after that first hot flash I was driving around the Target parking lot looking for a spot near the entrance like everyone else does on a day when the temperature is below zero. I kept circling and circling, losing my patience. Don't they know I am waiting for a parking spot? What is wrong with these people?

Then, it happened. A car behind me backed up a bit, slithered up alongside of me and made that smooth move to cut in front of me. I moved up a little so he couldn't. I felt my blood starting to boil. I don't know why, though. There was no parking spot to be had at this point so he wasn't cutting in front of me to take a soon to be available spot. Why was I getting so worked up? Still, I felt myself getting ready to blow. The guy eventually slid in front of me with no problem and proceeded to pass me without further incident.

Oh, I'm driving too slow for you, am I? Really? You can't wait a few minutes while I try to find a parking spot? You think you're better than me? Is that it?

I sped up a bit, as much as I could in a public parking lot at a Target. I got behind the guy, feeling my rage take over. I was nearly kissing his bumper. I honked the horn a little. He didn't react. He turned down an aisle. I turned down the aisle. He stopped and looked in his rear view mirror. I smiled a devilish smile and mouthed the words, "Who do you think you are, asshole?" He just stared at me curiously and shrugged. Only one thing was going through my mind at this point.

I am going to get even with you for cutting in front of me if it takes me all afternoon, jerk off.

The guy drove up yet another aisle, this time a little faster. Presumably to get the hell away from the nut job in the car behind him. I laid on the horn. I was consumed with anger and rage.

Finally, his car stopped in the middle of the aisle. He put it in park, got out and walked over to my car behind him. It was at that moment I realized he could have a gun or at best was just going to slap the shit out of me for being so impatient.

Cautiously, I rolled down my window. Not so brave now. The guy looked harmless enough. He leaned into me and said, "What is your problem?" My heart was beating fast.

"Uh, wow...you're not Ted. I thought you were my friend Ted...you look just like him. But you're not Ted at all. Wow. I'm really sorry. I was trying to get your attention because I thought you were Ted. I'm really embarrassed..." The guy looked puzzled.

"Oh" he said, buying my whole excuse. I felt myself getting a grip on reality.

"Well, I'm not Ted. I'm Joe. Sorry" he said. Joe shrugged, pulled up the collar on his coat and turned to walk back to his car.

Of course, I felt like an idiot. What had just happened?

Cry Me a River in the Target Small Appliance Dept.

I eventually got a parking spot and went into Target. I had a small list in my pocket. A bottle of Vitamin C, some Kleenex, a couple light bulbs, some AA batteries and some coffee filters. Easy.

I grabbed a basket and headed up the health and beauty aisle. Of course, you don't just walk up and down the aisles at Target. You linger in them like you were in some sort of retail gazebo where any minute a cast member from The Sound of Music might jump out in front of you and start singing a cheery number to enhance your shopping experience. Yes, you get what you need but then you don't just move on to the next department. You stay, you look, you touch, you wonder what else you need before you leave that particular aisle. You see, at Target, everything is pretty and arranged in happy rows and in perfect order. Next to the Vitamin C there is Vitamin B12 and B6 and eventually you're examining endless bottles of herbs. Feverfew. Rose Hips. Garlic tabs. (Odorless or regular...amazing!) Flax Seed oil. Black Cohosh. Fish Oil. Wonderful, magical herbs. Lord, what do all these do? You find yourself in a sort of Target Euphoria. You become overwhelmed with joy and peace and love for all humankind because Target is Oz. Target is Universal Studios. Target is the the Cedar Point of Retail Fun.You and Target are one. You never want to stop shopping. Because that's what Target does to people. You come in for a four pack of Northern and you leave with an entertainment center you never knew you needed. And there you are in the middle of January in the cold trying to fit a 200 pound bookcase in the trunk of your sedan and surprise! It requires assembly.

Eventually I make my way to the Small Appliance Department where I know I will be able to find my coffee filters. I use the number 4 basket style. Target always has these huge packages of them where you can get like a 150 for two bucks. They are always stocked near the coffee makers, usually on a shelf overhead for my convenience.

I looked overhead and saw a row of cone style filters. I moved a few around and saw only #2 cone filters. The Melitta Brand yet. Where were the #4 Target basket style brand? I felt myself getting anxious. I became frantic. I climbed up on the bottom step to better reach the top shelf overhead and started moving the other filters around angrily. The inner monologue started yapping a mile a minute.

What the hell? Where are the #4 basket style? Where did they hide them? They're always here! Damn! This is bullshit. I hate Target. Why did I even come here today? Sonofabitch."

And then, in the small appliances aisle at Target, I started to cry. Not wailing. But the tears flowed. I stood there, leaning on my shopping cart, weeping because they were out of #4 basket filters. Now what? Now what would I do? I fished around in my coat pocket for a tissue. This is horrible. How will I make coffee tomorrow morning if I can't find my #4 basket filters today?Better yet, why the hell was I crying about it?

I eventually composed myself and started up another aisle. I dobbed at my eyes with the tissue and again, wondered what just happened. I knew in my heart that this wasn't about coffee filters and the inability to find them where they usually are at my favorite Target.

This was about something more, something deeper, something...hormonal.

This was menopause. Welcome to hell, Cheryl. We've been waiting for you. Well, it did feel like somebody had been poking me in the ass with a pitch fork lately...

Does my Butt look Big in These?

One day my metabolism just came to a screeching halt. Okay, well, I don't know if it happened "one day" but it seemed like one day I woke up and couldn't fasten my jeans, couldn't bend over to tie my shoes without cutting off my circulation, couldn't walk up a flight of stairs without wheezing and couldn't walk more than a few feet without my knees hurting. Of course, I didn't mention this to anyone and I didn't bother to get on a scale to weigh myself to see what the numbers said. I was full of excuses. The biggest one was since I was in menopause this kind of stuff was bound to happen. Let the good times roll.

The thing was, these were not good times. The only thing that was rolling was the fat on my thighs. And I was content to do nothing and blame it all on menopause.

Now it's true. Menopause does turn us into monsters until ye olde eggs dry up and are no more. But there are things we can do to lessen the agony. We just don't do them because we figure it's hopeless. Menopause is just the natural order of things; our God given right to be nasty for a couple years. So shut up and go get me another Klondike bar from the freezer.

Uh, yeah. What a crock.

Did it ever occur to me that maybe I was a bitch before menopause ever set in? A little something called PMS? Of course, we all know when we're in the throes of PMS we deny that it's PMS that is to blame. We want to key a car because it's nicer than ours, we want punch out the CVS cashier because she's chewing gum, we want to eat a gallon of Ben and Jerry's Dublin Mudslide Ice Cream because it "helps" and we want to break into tears every time we see that commercial on TV where the puppies are neglected in the shelter and Sarah McLachlan is singing a sad song in the background and begging us to give, give, give so the puppies won't die.

I keep saying "we" like every woman in the world had this kind of PMS. Shame on me. I had this kind of PMS. And it just morphed into a lousy menopause.

I am convinced that half the women incarcerated in prison committed their acts of violence on the 28th day.

"You're honor, I was bloated that day. I had cramps. I couldn't find my keys. He looked at me funny and asked me what was wrong. I told him I saw the way he looked at my OBGYN when she told him to be patient with me. He was having an affair with her. So I stabbed him with the steak knife. Thirty-two times."

Ridiculous begets ridiculous I suppose. But I'll go to any lengths to make a point.

Finally, The Finger.

During my worst PMS days and my most intense menopausal moments, I had no problem flipping people off, usually in traffic. And usually under the dashboard where they couldn't see me. I used to flip them off openly, on the freeway, and then the times changed. People started shooting each other over stuff like that. So, I swallowed my hormones and resisted the urge to flip them off openly. I started doing the dashboard flip. Not quite as effective, but it made me feel that in some small way I was indeed getting back at that idiot who wouldn't turn on red.

One day I saw Jerry Seinfeld's stand up routine about people who give the finger. Then I felt like an idiot for all the times I exercised my right to be an asshole who flipped the bird, hormonal or not. Jerry was right. You're not really getting back at anyone when you show them a random finger on your hand. It could be your pinky, your ring finger, your index finger or your middle finger. Point he made was, it was a finger. Oooooohhhhhh. I'm scared. Now I think back on my days of finger flipping and realize how stupid it truly is.

Honking my horn at morons in traffic is much more fun.

In Conclusion

So, PMS, menopause, anger, depression, weight gain and the finger. What of it? Can you relate? I think PMS and perimenopause turned me into a monster for most of my forties. I think PMS and menopause made a lot of things worse than they had to be. Is it any wonder they did a Broadway show and called it "PMS: The Musical?" I know I'm not alone on this one, girls. I do realize that some women get lesser symptoms than others. Good for you. Now go eat a bon bon and let the rest of us smash out some headlights. But seriously, nobody will argue the point with me that PMS and menopause in all its forms can make a woman crazy, or feel like she's on the verge of committing homicide or even suicide. Is that where all the depression comes from? Maybe, but now I don't think so. What if you are through with menopause and you still get depressed and angry and fed up with the way things are? What if you're still fat? Or, what if you hate yourself sometimes? What if you think you're going out of your mind still? What if it's just life as it is on life's terms that you have to learn to deal with and there isn't really anything organic going on inside your brain to blame it on?

Oh, I said. This is just life. Depression, anger, Weight Gain and the occasional need to flip someone off in traffic.

Or maybe I'll just flip off Jerry Seinfeld the next time I see him do that bit about the finger.

Silly male comedian. What the hell does he know? I'm a woman. I have a pass.

See? See how it goes?

After all this I have taught myself a lesson. Life often isn't fair. Life often sucks. In life, we are going to experience depression, anger, addictions, loss and a buffet spread of many other things that don't seem fair.

And most of the time those things will have nothing to do with PMS or Menopause. PMS and menopause is a good excuse for awhile. But then it's over and then the reality sets in.

"Oh, I'm having a bad day that seems to be going on forever..."

Now what?

I will survive.

Sing it, Gloria.

****************************************************

Twilight Zones...

My good friend Suz told me that depression, loss and weight issues are all intertwined. She's right. They are. I knew that going in. I figured I was either going to hide from my friends or show my true face, my true self, warts and all. This doesn't mean you all get to join me as I rummage through my underwear drawer for a pair of Hanes for Her that doesn't ride up. But it does mean that I think I have, no, I know I have things to say that will not serve me well to keep to myself. I know that if you're reading this now you have experienced one or all of these bumps in the road at one time or another. Maybe your depression is really anger. Maybe your loss is not as obvious as the loss of a parent. But it's still a loss. I'll tell you what. If you lost your favorite ring down a sink drain and that made you cry because someone special gave it to you, then you belong here. If your weight issue/food addiction is really another kind of addiction, please, stay. And if you think this is going to be pseudo therapy every day, you're wrong. In fact, I'm not sure what it's going to be yet. Right now it's for me. Because I know that depression in all of its manifestations, loss in its every form and addictions of every kind can be crippling and numbing. The good news is, I have a lifelong habit of thinking that just about everything is funny eventually. I always snap back, even after a good cry. Sometimes I laugh after a good cry. Sometimes after I laugh I eat something. Then I whine because I'm too full. Then I wonder why I ever quit smoking. Then I remember that cigarettes are disgusting. And on and on we go. I think they call that getting lost in ones own thoughts.

Guilty.

So yesterday I finished reading "Women, Food and God" by Geneen Roth. Never mind that the author did the talk show circuit. Never mind that Oprah gushed over her on her show. The book was pretty damn good for a book about food. But the point of the book was not that it was all about food. It was about our relationships with food. I wanted to dismiss it all as New Age Crap, repackaged mumbo jumbo, the usual suspects packed neatly inside of a self-help book. And indeed, there were parts that I did dismiss. Stuff that I just wouldn't get on board with. But I took the stuff I could use and that has made all the difference.

Did I mention that I was eating a slice of pizza while I was reading the last chapter?

I know, I know. And when I was eating the slice of pizza I was completely oblivious to the fact that I was eating the slice of pizza. Some tomato sauce even dripped on the acknowledgment page and it dried there and I didn't notice it until I flipped through the book to find a quote that I wanted to share with someone this morning. I thought to myself, "Really, Cheryl? Did you just do that?" Yup.

In the opening paragraph of Chapter 7 on page 89, the chapter called "Tigers in the Mind" Roth states, "No matter how developed you are in any other area of your life, no matter what you say you believe, no matter how sophisticated or enlightened you think you are, how you eat tells all." Further on she writes, "In the moment you reach for potato chips to avoid what you feel, you are effectively saying, 'I have no choice but to numb myself. Some things can't be felt, understood or worked through.' You are saying, 'There is no possibility of change so I might as well eat."

Yup. Been there. Felt that. I mean, if I'm chomping away blissfully on a piece of pizza while reading the last chapter of a bestselling book on food addiction, there is a problem.

The good news is I highlighted a lot of paragraphs in the book. I don't do that with books that don't impact me in one way or another.

I don't think Roth is some miracle guru here to set my waistline free. But I do think she has some good ideas.

These past six months have been very rocky for me. Perhaps they needed to be rocky so I could climb to the top and remember how hard it was to get there. So am I back on top of things again? No, not totally. Who the hell is, really? I've turned it around lately and made myself a part of the New Majority. I'm unemployed, I'm uninsured and I lost my Mom in less than a month. I thought I had it all wrapped up after the first couple months passed. People would ask me how I was, I'd tell them I was fine. I did confide in my best friend, but she even knew I was spinning out of control. And because she is my best friend, she keeps all those secrets. That's what friends are for. But now they are my secrets to share. Why? Because now I'm in a place where I know that I am not alone. REPEAT: I AM NOT ALONE. And I'm an arrogant, selfish fool if I think I am. I live in a state where it seems like half the population is now unemployed. I am not the only person in this country who is now without health insurance. And I know someone else out there in the stratosphere lost someone they loved once upon a time.

Depression, Loss and what the hell...let's just lump them into one category and call them addictions. That way the smokers and the drinkers and the gamblers and the druggies and the compulsive shoppers and the sex addicts AND the food junkies won't feel like they have nothing to contribute when it comes time to comment at the end of a post. Of course you can comment. And I promise I won't delete any of your feelings as long as you're not hateful or spiteful. Please try and refrain from dropping gratuitous F bombs all over the place if you get all heated up about something. I'm not a prude, but let's try and be intelligent when we communicate. Nobody ever listened to a tirade of profanity spill from someone's mouth and then said, "Wow, I bet he/she went to Yale."

Okay, that's enough about that. You got the idea.

So help me out. Why did I eat that slice of pizza during the last chapter of "Women, Food and God?" And will I be honest enough to tell you if I went to the kitchen for a second slice after I finished the book? Can brutal honesty be that hard? Apparently.

Depression, Loss and Addictions. I am not through with you. Yet.

Tomorrow I will be back with my boxing gloves on. I told you already. Down but not out.

Let us cling together.

Good Night.

*******************************************************************

Just Add Water.

Where were we? Oh yeah. Depression, Loss and Weight Issues. You will be surprised, (or not) how many places I can go from those three starting points.

I am blessed with a wandering mind. Everyone says so. The doctors would call it ADHD. I call it fun.

I had the waffles for breakfast. Don't get excited. I didn't make them from scratch. Why would I do that when we got Eggo? Yeah. I had Eggo Waffles. I don't even own a waffle iron. A waffle iron is not even a kitchen appliance I would buy for myself. I wouldn't even own one just to watch it collect dust. If I'm going to own a kitchen appliance for show, I'm going to own a big, fat silvery shiny wok and hang it from a bronze hook on the ceiling or a blender that does 102 different things besides frappe. I'm going to own a set of knives I will never use to gut a fish or filet a mignon. Yeah, I'm going to own decorative kitchen appliances. I'm going to wander into the heads of Martha Stewart, Rachel Ray and Emeril without actually doing the work they do with those kind of appliances. I might invest in and actually use a Paula Deen spatula just so I have something fancy schmancy to lick the frosting off of after I bake my long awaited cake from a box. God Bless You, Betty Crocker. Pretty, pretty kitchen.

My idea of baking? Just add water. I like any sort of recipe that calls for water. Water is simple. Water is in the faucet. I just turn it on and it's mine for the taking. Read the side of the box and it says, "Just add water and stir." Love it. Yes I do. And unless you've paid attention to the JUST ADD WATER phenomenon, you have no idea how many things you can now buy in a box that just calls for water. Okay, well, maybe water and an egg. But I can crack an egg.

A short list: Pudding, pie filling, pancake mix, Easy Mac,cakes, dips...just add water.

Are you getting the feeling that I don't much care for cooking? Yeah? You'd be right to go with that feeling. I will never have my own show on the Food Network with this attitude. And I will more than likely never navigate my thighs toward the skinny jeans section if I don't change my ways.

Is it worth it? Well, sometimes. They make just add water products for people like me who want the balm of a comfort food NOW and that is the truth. We who love our comfort food and need our comfort food NOW do not want to have to stop and read a recipe book or blend a zillion ingredients together to make something tasty. We don't want to have to preheat the oven to 450 and wait. We don't want to wait, period. We want our comfort food NOW. No waiting. No blending, no beating, no mindless stirring, no wisping, no forking, no cutting, no chopping, no nothing. NOW. Just add water and shake a bit or stir it a bit. I want to be comforted now. So please, for the love of Mallo Mars and M&M's, just add water and be done with it.

I have great intentions when I go grocery shopping. I try to shop the perimeter like the experts say. That's where all the healthy stuff is, you know. You push your cart past rows and rows of cabbages and chives and tomatoes and peppers and cucumbers and apples and bananas you know you ain't gonna pick up one of them and read on the sticky label, "Just add water." Nope. You buy fruits and veggies you're going to work to enjoy them. Nobody ever bought a head of iceberg lettuce and took a bite out of it right there in the produce aisle. They bought it, took it home, rinsed it off, chopped it up, put it in a bowl, chilled it and then mixed it up with dressing and croutons. Whew. That's a lot of work.

One box of Easy Mac and I take that puppy home, tear it open and just add water. Never mind that I'm adding another blotch of cellulite to my right thigh. Easy Mac is called Easy Mac for a reason.

And products like Easy Mac are the reason I have weight issues.

See how I eventually came back around to that?

Brutal honesty is a must when it comes to weight issues. At least my weight issues. No point in denying it or giving myself the runaround. We're all friends here so what the heck.

So my challenge the next time I go grocery shopping is not to buy anything that says, "Just Add Water" on the box or the bottle. I don't think this is going to be as easy as it sounds. After all, I just took a few paragraphs to tell you how much I love cooking and baking this way. Water is my friend. But I should be drinking it straight. Not adding it to additives and powders and starches. I got it all wrong.

This is one of the many reasons I have weight issues. Just Add Water. Just Add Excuses. Just Add Five More Pounds.

Will I ever learn? Will I ever stop at one slice of pizza? Better yet, will I ever stop eating that slice of pizza in front of the TV? And better yet still, will I ever stop going to the kitchen to get the second or third slice of pizza during the commercials?

Just Add Water. Just Add Excuses.

Why can't I Just Do It?

********************************************************************************

Depression Can Be Funny.

How else was I going to get your attention?

But actually, it's true. Depression can be funny. It's all in the crafting, the timing, the crying...

With a little creative thinking, depression need not be the near suicidal adventure that so many define it to be.

Am I making light of such a serious condition? Hell no. I get depressed a lot. I don't know if I would toss myself into a support group and call myself a hopeless wreck, but yeah, I know depression.

I know depression. I also know the pain of loss, the anxious feelings that worry produces and I know what having weight issues means. (I like that term, "weight issues." That's a nice way of saying "I'm carrying a few extra pounds" without the world assuming that I'm a hopeless tub of lard. (I'm not.)

Depression. Loss. Weight issues. Not necessarily in that order. That would be like the chicken or the egg question. Why bother? It just is what it is and it manifests itself in various ways in different orders and there is no rhyme or reason. Currently, meaning today, I would have to say the order is weight issues, loss, then depression. Six months ago it was Loss, depression, then the weight thing. Sometimes it's three of one and none of the other.

Exasperated with me yet? Good. I got your attention.

I woke up this morning craving waffles with lots of butter and syrup. I would say today the weight issue wins, hands down. Last night before I went to bed I was thinking about my mom who died six months ago. Loss. Loss and the pain of it. Went to sleep, had dreams I don't remember this morning and now I want waffles with butter and syrup on them. Am I depressed? Not yet. But I bet I will be if and after I eat the waffles. See how that works?

Did I mention I lost my job back in March? Almost exactly one month after I lost my mom. Talk about a double whammy. And the very next day after I lost my job my health insurance went belly up, too. Well, that was to be expected. It's a good thing I didn't keel over of a heart attack after hearing the news that I lost my job because there wouldn't have been any health insurance to cover such a catastrophe the next day. I would've had to have the heart attack within the same 24 hour period as finding out I lost my job in order for the heart attack to be covered. Having the heart attack after the insurance was cancelled would've probably just killed me and then I wouldn't be here writing about this today.

Still with me? Want to smack me yet?

So there is this saying, "That which does not kill us makes us stronger." I never understood what that meant until I lost my mom, my job and my health insurance all in one fell swoop. And don't let anyone else tell you that they "know how you feel." They may relate and empathize, but each experience is unique to the individual who is experiencing it. What if your mom died and you were never close to her? What if you had a tumultuous relationship with her? What if you lost a job you hated anyway? What if you had a spouse who had better insurance than the policy you just lost? See? There are conditions.

Notice I didn't throw the weight issue in any of that. Don't worry. It's there.

Okay. Now.

It would be convenient for me to say that I gained all my weight because I quit smoking. Then people would feel sorry for me. "Oh, well, at least she quit smoking. It's okay that she gained a few extra pounds." The thing I leave out these days is that I quit smoking for good in 1991. It's 2010. That's like blaming the speeding ticket you got last week on your high school driver's ed. teacher.

The other excuse I use a lot is, "Oh I just woke up one morning and was fat." Uh, no. That's not true, either. It takes a long time to get fat just as much as it takes a long time to lose the fat once it's parked itself on various parts of your body. The only difference is that gaining the fat isn't noticed because while it's happening you're eating fun foods that taste good going down and you're not thinking of consequences. "Oh, that third slice of pie was so good....hey, I can't fasten my jeans! Oh so what. The ice cream on the pie was wonderful..." Or something like that.

I'm a big fan of comfort food. Give me a bowl of Mac and Cheese and a big slice of French Bread on a cloudy day and I'm a happy woman. For awhile.

I ate a lot of Mac and Cheese right after my mom died. And I didn't really know why. I just ate it. Lots of it. It made me feel warm and fuzzy inside. It helped me deal with the pain of loss and the depression. It didn't do a thing for my cholesterol levels, but it did make me feel warm and fuzzy inside. I can't stress that enough.

What does any of this have to do with depression being funny? And how does it all relate to the pain of loss? And what about that weight issue again? Really?

If you're reading this and you don't have at least one of the above maladies invading your life from time to time, then this is probably not the blog for you. You'd best be reading the Huffington Post, PerezHilton.com or one of a million other blogs out there. And they are out there.

So why don't I just call this blog "Depression, Loss and Weight Issues?" Well, first of all that's a boring ass title. Would you seek out a blog called "Depression, Loss and Weight Issues?" I wouldn't.

But yet, you might if it wasn't called that.

I put a lot of thought into my depression, my pain of loss and my weight issues. But these days I refuse to let those three things define me or dictate to me the quality of my life. I want to laugh in the face of depression, I want to accept the pain of loss without letting it kill me inside and I do not want my weight issues to, well, weigh me down.

That which does not kill us makes us stronger.

It is morning on my side of the world. I want coffee. I want waffles. I thought about my mom last night and I haven't weighed myself in a month. I am getting over an upper respiratory infection that I had to go get treated for at a clinic nearby because I no longer have health insurance that would afford me the luxury of going to my regular, favorite doctor whom I adored and respected.

This morning I am definitely going to have my coffee because it's my last addiction and I will not give it up ever, even if they say it's going to turn me into a haggard prune tomorrow. I probably will make waffles because I want them. I will think about my mom at least once or twice today. I'll have an up and I'll have a down. Maybe I will laugh a couple times. Maybe something will move me to tears. And being that I have an upper respiratory infection, I will probably cough really hard if I laugh and wheeze uncontrollably if I cry today. You never know.

I will curse the company that cost me my job back in March. I will watch something frivolous and unnecessary on TV, or not. I might take a walk, or not. I might call a friend, or not. I might read a book, or not. I might write some more, or not. I might overeat, or not. I might do this, I might do that.

Or not.

Depression, Loss and Weight Issues. Not necessarily in that order and not necessarily all in the same day.

But those are the three biggies. You can come along for the ride or you can stay home. Don't much matter to me.

I think at the end of the day you will decide to come along with me for the ride. Just because you're curious.

I'm a pretty good driver.

That which does not kill us makes us stronger.

Well, let's test that theory, shall we?

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