The components for a good evening were in place. While my teen daughter was at home in charge of her two younger brothers, I found myself situated in a cozy booth, surrounded by ambient lighting, dark wood paneling, and a warmly lit fireplace. I peered across the table at my dashing spouse whose romantic aura and mystique had gone up ten-fold after a few sips of a well-mixed Cosmo at a suburban steakhouse.     

The young waiter hovered, but did not intrude; he watched the glass go down to quickly replenish it, but did not rush the order or insist on laboriously droning on through a long list of unwanted specials. He sensed our resolve to linger and enjoy the moment.  Buttery and warmly baked rolls complemented the libations, singing a siren song of promise:  hello sweet escape and adult indulgences – oh how I’ve missed you.  

We don’t do this as often as we should, so I was happily bantering away, hopeful for a night of scintillating discussion.  Will I hit pay-dirt and get my husband to talk about something deeper than Jack Bauer’s escapades with a bomb on 24 or how many bad guys he himself shot in a marathon X-box session of Call of Duty with our sons?  How about a political discussion or saucy and flirtatious repartee?  Perhaps we can  simply catch up in a way often hard to do at home in the minutiae of who left his or her trash on the floor, who removed my laundry from the dryer and bundled it into a wrinkled heap, and who forgot to flush.  The conversational possibilities were endless, especially after chugging a Cosmo on an empty stomach, not to mention the carnivore’s dream wafting around in my head of a coffee and spice encrusted steak, just waiting for me to give the order “Fire it up boys!”  I’m rarely the one in charge in my household, so pardon my lust for “power.”  

However, it never takes long for my fantasy bubble to burst.  For on this grand evening, when the moon and stars are aligned and life has brought me to this fine dining establishment sans children, a discordant racket erupted.  Attentive reader, envision countless tables of diners, all adults, all discreetly whispering, pondering, brokering deals and sexual favors perhaps, but all minding their own business.  Isn’t that the unwritten rule at a nice restaurant? Now juxtapose the entire restaurant of respectful patrons with the unmistakable sounds of a bevy of children all shouting, whining, and squealing just a few tables down from us. 

Who in the holy Mickey Mouse club brings a boat load of kids to a place that serves $12 Cosmos and $30 steaks?  I love kids, I really do.  I have often felt epiphanies and joy of the grandest level in their presence.  However, call me crazy, when I go out for a fancy dinner, I assume that I won’t be overtaken by the feeling that I could just as well be romping with a costumed mouse in the ball pit at Chuck E. Cheese. 

Suddenly I felt that I was no longer an intellectually stimulating and powerful woman flirting with an international man of mystery.  Reality descended!  I’m a real-life housewife, harried and craving a break, and my husband was crankily lamenting that he could have experienced the same distractions at home for the price of a few Heinekens and a bag of Doritos on the deck. 

Short of sending a round of Ritalin shots to this boisterous and rambling under-10-mini-set, or breaking into the zoo for an elephant tranquilizer, we decided to ask our waiter if it was possible to move further away from this chirping munchkin land.      

Our waiter worked his tip, spilling his insider knowledge.   Apparently the title of a real housewife was not even mine to claim anymore.  I was out-trumped by one of the “Real Housewives” of the hit TV show on Bravo.  This carnival of cacophony and garishness was mild compared to their usual antics according to our waiter.    

“Last time the kids were playing tag up and down the aisles.” 

Well shucks, who am I to question their fun?  Red Rover anyone? How about Chuckles the Clown emerging to honk a horn and ride a unicycle down the aisles to further add to the ambience? Perhaps they were celebrating good news, clinking champagne glasses and making the following toast:  “Our sugar daddy gave us the deed to this restaurant, sweet pea! Welcome to your new playground!”  

My knowledge of the show was limited to only a few minutes of viewing time.  Once I watched as a housewife had her “shoe man” come to the house, setting up her very own exorbitantly priced shoe store right in her living room.  And to think I used to feel self- conscious when the Kenny’s shoe guy at the mall insisted on placing a $15 shoe on my foot in the 8^th grade. Another time, clad in designer gowns and jewelry, one of the housewives attempted a charity fundraiser, but her friends weren’t even bidding at this auction, but they sure looked nice. 

Popular culture is replete with examples of rewarding the self-indulgent extremes in life.

It tells us that a person living humbly or working at a simple trade or a housewife in the traditional sense of the word is rather boring, uninspiring, and somehow less than those making their mark in larger ways in the world.  While we may judge the flamboyant and over-the-top reality stars, making sure to distinguish ourselves from their narcissism and selfishness to alleviate our guilt, we duplicitously condone it by watching their shows, tuning in to talk shows that feature them, and buying magazines that detail their antics, thus guarantying more of this crazed spectacle of shallowness and vanity.  

While I was not a fan of the show, I found myself part of some odd bit of complicity on this particular evening.  Upon hearing that the noise was emanating from a reality show person, our frustration turned to bemusement. 

“Oh really.  Wow a “real” housewife is here!” How quickly I handed my title away.  

The perverse curiosity kicked in.  What else will she and her raucous crew do? Even my husband, usually cynical, completely chilled out to the noise and ordered another drink, challenging me to run over and snap a photo on my cell phone.  My husband offered, “This is like a circus.  You don’t really want to see the bearded lady or the sword swallower, but you get there and you just can’t help yourself.”    

Thankfully I held onto some principles of integrity and didn’t run up faking to be the President of the Real Housewives Fan Club. But I did wonder what it said about us all.  My husband and I decided not to move tables and even laughed with the waiter about them, other patrons stayed subdued, and no manager came up to chastise the mom of the boisterous kids as they would have with any other “real” housewife not on TV and loaded with money.  I think what struck me the most is that this group seemed to be clamoring for attention, as if by being noisy they stamped their perceived power and status across the entire restaurant.

“We do this because we can, and you accept it because society values and is perversely drawn to the concept of celebrity.”     

Eventually (can I get an Amen?), the “real” housewife and her bustling posse finally made a dramatic exit, creating their own megaphone narrative as they bellowed and bustled out with all of us cast as fawning, enabling patsies.  Yes, I gawked.  Call me clueless but noticing her ripped, frayed and tattered jeans, I could have sworn seeing similar versions at the local Goodwill store, my teen son’s drawer, and on a toothless man chugging from a flask and holding a sign declaring that the end is near.  However, on this “real” housewife, their status was transformed by the clever marketing and pr campaign of some charismatic designer, no doubt elevating them to the height of high class and sophistication, or so we’re told.  Pumps and bouncing cleavage finished out the look, singing its own refrain:  “I paid a lot for all of this; take a gander suckers!  And be sure to tune in next week to watch me drop $12,000 on getting my hair to look just right!”

You could almost hear the collective sigh of relief amongst the patrons when they left as the ruckus had calmed and the ambience and demeanor of an upscale steak house returned to how it should be: relaxing.  Dare I say we patrons even took it one crazy step further as an air of manners and thoughtfulness returned?             

Drifting off to sleep that night, I indulged some comical confrontations in my mind with this “real” housewife. 

“Here you go dear, we all are going to dine and dash and leave you with the bill!  Kisses and hugs!” 

Or maybe I’d have a “let’s get real” talk. “Here’s a list of the neediest charities in the area. Do you think you could forgo a few hair appointments?  I too have suffered a frizzy hair day.  I can walk you through the pain.”  

The most fun fantasy involved trotting down the aisle in the latest fashions from Mr.. Maxx (that’s T.J. for those of you not “in the know”), and tripping by her booth, haplessly spilling my Cosmo on her holey jeans and lady orbs.  “Oopsies!  You know us frivolous housewives, we just can’t help ourselves!”  

J. Lorraine Martin is a graduate of the University of Florida and a frequent contributor to Homeby3.com.  She also enjoys searching for laughs and meaning on her personal blog www.cheeselesspizza.blogspot.com.

One Saturday afternoon, begging for a break from the challenges of keeping three kids happy, my gallant hubby makes plans to take our two sons out for some bonding time hiking in a heavily wooded area bordering a creek. They did attempt to convince my daughter and me that we really should join them hiking up a cliff (okay, slight incline), followed by a picnic lunch of beef jerky and fruit chews. As appealing as an adventurous hike can be in communion with nature (mosquitoes and slithery things) and the rugged earth (sloppy mud), not to mention the gourmet lunch, my daughter and I decided to rough it at the Cheesecake Factory instead.

They take off for their manly adventure, while we dally a bit longer. "No rush, honey. The boys will be gone for hours!" A bit of advice: one should never utter such decisive words of certainty as I think it teases the universe, baiting it into thinking Oh, lets have some fun with this one!

Eventually we head to the restaurant, but we never make it. My cell phone rings. My husband is panting on the other end. "I slipped on a rock and cut myself. I passed out and just came-to."

This passing out from blood is a recurring theme in my husband's life, and admittedly I haven't always been sympathetic. Between the stitches I had on my knee at age seven when I asked to be propped up on pillows for a better view as the doctor performed his handiwork (amazing and fantastic really!), and the fact I've endured the pain of the epidural not working during childbirth, my husband had it stacked against him if he was looking for empathy. My customary thought is quite simple: buck up!

But today something strikes me in his voice. He sounds scared and panicked. Not to mention he's in the middle of the woods with our two boys: an 11-year-old autistic with the propensity to roam and wade in deep waters and his ever-so- trusting 8-year-old brother.

"Oh I'm so sorry." Okay, that was sweet and tender.

"How bad is it? Is there a lot of blood? Is this a large gaping wound? How many stitches do you think you need?" Okay, bad and clinical, like the jaded triage nurse from the ER who has seen and experienced far worse.

Panting and seemingly losing some resolve in his voice, he says, "I don't know where I am. This is bad. Emergency room, oh..I don't feel good." Click.

Keeping in complete calm, I then yell out the following in front of my 12 year-old daughter: "Fiddlesticks (or something similar)!"

I redial him. No answer. "Double fiddlesticks!" I fear this moment will cost me my imaginary mother of the year award.

I'm clueless, frantically racing towards an unknown trail with all the good and motherly intentions of rescuing my loved ones, but lacking enough useful information to guide me; there's a familiarity to this theme, but this is no time to ponder. I'm certain the cut won't do my husband in, right? Lets review the facts: jagged rocks, creek, propensity to faint, blood, hmmm. Stay calm. STAY CALM! My daughter, so used to the chaos that often accompanies being the sibling of an autistic brother as well as having seen her Dad faint at home and survive, asks: "Do we still get our lunch out?"

We arrive at the parking lot in front of the Don't-Let-My Husband-Faint-Into-A-Pool-of-Water-And-Die trail. For goodness sake, there is more than one trail -- which way should I go? Thankfully, I'm soon saved from the decision, as I spot my beloved crew of trekking testosterone.

My husband is covered head to toe in mud and grime; blood is trickling down his face, soaking into his shirt giving him the appearance of someone who just wrestled a bear. After the Thank God I found you- I love you- Glad everyone is ok chorus concludes, I survey the damage. I'm back to feeling like the jaded ER nurse as, in my mind, this is a simple patch job; I only wish I had brought Krazy Glue.

Driving to the hospital, I quiz the boys.

Son A (A as in autism!) is matter of fact." Well, I thought, Daddy was surely going to die."

"Oh that must have been scary. What did you do then?"

"Well, I went on throwing rocks in the creek."

"Son B, what were you thinking?" (It should be noted son B is still in speech therapy).

"I wath wishing I knew how to caw you on Dads bwackbwe phone, but I didnt know how to wowk that thing. So I kept thwowing wocks in the cweek, too."

Exiting the hospital, eleven stitches later, my clan clamors for a treat to assuage the pain and trauma of the day. My husband, blood soaked and muddied, relives the horror of getting a boo-boo, deciding that Krispy Kreme would make him feel all better. My gang chants: "Can we go to Krispy Kreme? Please? Pleeeeeeeeaaaase Mom?" or in the case of son B "Kwispy Kweme, pweeeeth?"

Later over donuts and chardonnay, I reflected that I never did get my much craved-for break, but I am a firm believer that truth can be mined from the chaos. Because I am a magnanimous individual, I will impart my coveted wisdom.

Epiphany 1: If you are hiking in deserted woods, make sure that all comrades know how to use a Blackberry; it could come in handy.

Epiphany 2: Never underestimate the difficulty of pronouncing Ls, Rs, and Ss.

Epiphany 3: Donations are being accepted for a cause that has been grossly overlooked: FA (Fainters Anonymous and its sister organization IMFA (I'm Married to a Fainter Anonymous). United we can find a cure!

Epiphany 4: If you or a loved one is prone to fainting at the sight of blood, stick to sunny, sidewalk hikes in heavily populated areas.

Epiphany 5: Don't mix donuts and chardonnay; just say no!

J. Lorraine Martin is a frequent blogger for Homeby3.com as well as her own personal blog cheeselesspizza.blogspot.com

jvdwyn8frp

By: Cathy Gilkey

      I suppose the title is a misnomer, because I really was not a parent before Sept. 11, 2001. But parenting children certainly is different in the wake of the terrorist attacks of that day. But this past Sept. 11 was the first time we had to really talk about the events of that day.  Ethan came home from school and asked me about it. As innocent as a 7-year-old can be, he says, “Mom, why did those people kill all those other people?”
      I sighed, because I knew it was coming, and yet I still was unprepared as to how to answer. Truthfully, I don’t know the answer, but I did the best I could.
      “They did not like Americans, I think, so they thought they wanted to kill some of us,” I told him.
      “But, why? What didn’t they like about Americans?” he quizzed me again. “Where we mean to them?”
      The conversation went back and forth several times. I finally just tried to explain to him that sometimes people just don’t like other certain types of people for no good reason. Several more questions back and forth, and he tells me:
      “You tell me I don’t have to like everyone, but I have to be nice to everyone, even if they are not nice,” he insists. “Those people were not nice when they killed everyone.”
      That’s the lesson we try to teach him and his sister every day. Not everyone in this world looks out for their best interest, so we have to teach them to watch out for that. Not everyone cares if they do their best, or if they scored a touchdown at the Y football game, or if they can do a pirouette. The worst lesson, and the one I hope they never learn, is that there are people in this world who would even want to harm them. We talk about this, too, in general terms. I don’t ever want them to fear, but I want them to respect; respect adults and respect that not adults respect them.
      It just feels like a different world, especially post Sept. 11, 2001. Things that seemed so simple before, like flying on an airplane became at the very least, an ordeal. Then the economy crashed, and the economic fallout affected everyone. I’d like to think we shield our children from the realities of terrorism, from the effects of the recession, and from the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. However, failing to acknowledge them is a failure to acknowledge current events, and the events that are shaping our times, and their future. So we walk the fine line – we give them enough information to know there is a world outside of the street we live on and the school they attend, but attempt to shield them from the horrors of war, and keep their innocence as long as possible, because reality comes a little earlier with every child.

My husband is someone who cannot see a drop of blood without feeling that woozy feeling take hold of his stomach. Next comes the thumping head pain rendering him sightless and without balance. The episode is concluded with him toppling over like a Weeble Wobble toy except for the fact that he usually does fall down. For historical reference only and not out of any need to make fun of my beloved husband, I proffer the following anecdotes.

Episode 1: The Blood Drive

Dating in college and madly in love (naive and confused), we set out to do our civic duty by personally contributing to the blood drive. My future hubby passed out while donating, but fortunately since he was already lying down, nobody really made a fuss; desperate for blood, they always begged him to come back. Propelled to overcome this silly fear, he took noble and courageous action by gobbling up all the cookies and juice, and vowing to never give blood again.

Episode 2: The Barbecue

During our first year of marriage, we had a visiting friend over for dinner. She happened to be on crutches due to an unfortunate incident of sitting on a hot iron, and subsequently tripping. Perversely I was hoping for a mooning (imagine the imprint of an iron on ones bottom), but we ran out of time due to my own competing stupidity.

Convinced that the superior way to split an ear of corn was by wielding a Ginsu Samurai knife and a cutting board, I proceeded to swiftly sever the tip of my fourth finger. Promptly my husband and I ran out the door to the emergency room while our guest was left to comically hobble outside to finish cooking her dinner on the barbecue. I hate to brag, but we really do know how to throw a killer dinner party.

Riveted by the blood and my dangling fingertip--held together by a Bounty paper towel and the force of my other hand--I made some various comments to my husband while he drove us to the hospital.

This is so cool. My fingertip is hanging on by just a thread. I wonder if it will fall off before we get there.

My husband said in a breathy tone, Stop talking about it, I don't feel good.

Oh, honey this isn't like the blood drive; its my blood. Wow its a gusher!

We approached the red light, and I glanced over at my gallant husband pushing through his blood phobia to save his damsel in distress. There was just one small problem: my knight in shining armor was passed out at the wheel. With his head hung over and drool coming out of his mouth, he at least managed one redeeming feat-- keeping his foot on the brake and awaking just in time for the green light. It would simply be wrong of me to mention that my blood wasn't the only fluid that was a gusher; lets just say, my dashing hubby needed his own Bounty - the Quicker Picker Upper.

We entered the hospital with my hubby staggering, displaying wet-crotchet khakis and a white, ghostly appearance. We were quickly triaged--I waited while my hubby was ushered to a bed and alerted with smelling salts. Wasn't this supposed to be my attention-getting moment?

The next day hubby presented me with a butter knife and told me I would sadly have to part ways with my Ginsu Samurai knife collection. I only wish Depends had been invented back then.

Episode 3: The Fancy Dinner Out

Reservations were made at a downtown swanky restaurant; a reward for a hard summers work with the kids home all day slowly bringing me close enough to look over the edge of the cliff, entertain a fantasy of driving off it Thelma and Louise style in my red convertible, but then deciding that if hubby took me out somewhere nice, I could continue to be a good mother.

Descending the stairs of my home like a dolled up Cinderella, I gleefully beckoned to my sweet prince, saying Honey, I'm ready to go!

Imagine my horror and concern (frickin here we go again!) as I walked over to find my dear hubby with a huge gash on his leg, passed out on the kitchen floor. To add to the melodrama, he was twitching and jolting his body around like a bad after school special that warns of the dangers of taking illicit drugs.

The back door was wide open with a trail of blood leading to the grill rack flung on the deck; there was a chunk of meat hanging off of it, but I don't think it was a burger. Only a man would decide to go to Home Depot to buy new grill racks and attempt to install them in the suffocating August heat, right before going out to a fancy dinner.

Ding dong! Well suffering succotash (its possible I said something else); the sitter was here, and my husband was writhing on the floor with an oozing, bleeding gash from a brand-spanking new, very sharp grill rack. Any chance she had a Depends in her babysitters bag?

Well I guess I was somewhat saved by the bell as my darling prince awoke. I hastily shuffled him to the bathroom and out of sight. I then greeted the sitter at the door with a calm and cheerful demeanor as I formulated my plan to lovingly spend the evening at the emergency room waiting for hours as gunshot and stab wound victims trumped his leg gash. Now to clarify, by emergency room, I mean restaurant because this little lady wasn't giving up her posh dinner. And by posh I simply mean leaving the suburbs and eating at an establishment that doesn't have a chain of restaurants across the Southeast, $3.99 grand slam specials, or spit guards over the Salisbury steak at the all-you-can-eat buffet.

I lovingly attended to my husband who was trembling and frightened in the bathroom. There, there, sweetheart. It will be okay.

I cant look at it. Do I need stitches? he asked with childlike trust.

His gash absolutely could have benefited from stitches, but there was a posh, sanity saving dinner involved. Oh honey, it is nothing much at all. I can fix it up with liquid Band-Aid. In his hazy state he agreed, and I tended the wounds of my fallen hero.

Later over an oaky Chardonnay, ambient lighting, and an antipasto plate, we declared our undying love and affection for each other. He then looked at me knowingly and said, I needed stitches, didn't I? We both burst out laughing. I told him the jagged patch job I did would no doubt give him a manly scar with a story to tell.

J. Lorraine Martin is a graduate of the University of Florida and a frequent blogger for Homeby3.com. She also enjoys musing and reflecting on her own personal blog cheeselesspizza.blogspot.com.

1.   If your child is prone to eating Doritos and throwing up, consider orange as a carpet color choice; who wants to haul out the carpet cleaner over and over again?  You might want to also rethink the top bunk bed as a sleeping option.    

2.   Never touch your eyes (or any other unmentionable body parts) after you have sliced jalapenos.

3.   Don’t expect a four-ft. fence to contain a dog that can easily clear six-ft.; do expect alerting phone calls that neighbors’ cats are bellyaching in the trees. 

4.   Never, ever run to the bus stop without a bra on – you’ll save the children years of therapy costs.

5.   Put off for tomorrow what you should do today.  Constantly repeat this mantra and practice without guilt. 

6.   A fight with husband, wine over-indulgence and attending a Pampered Chef party do not mix.  It will result in overspending on knives and yet another box of items you won’t know how to use when you receive them.

7.   Using new Pampered Chef knives while under the influence of anything stronger than Advil is deemed not prudent, especially if your spouse is prone to passing out at the sight of blood.

8.   An ear of corn can simply be snapped in two.  Rumor has it that failure to heed this profound kernel of wisdom and instead using a large butcher knife can result in an emergency room trip to repair your severed finger tip.   It can also lead to your husband passing out. 

9.   Drinking cosmos in dim lighting at the neighborhood Cabi wardrobe party is not recommended.  In the morning light, those pricey Capri’s that made you feel like a run-way model now look like a walking billboard stating:  “I don’t work out!”

10.   Schedule the Salvation Army pick-up after Cabi and Pampered Chef parties.   This advice is also applicable after all major gift-giving holidays, particularly if your family has a penchant for giving aqua-green velour muumuu’s, Chia pets or re-gifts from the junk pile in their garage. 

11.   Be careful when texting; your husband may appreciate receiving the good news that your recent weight gain resulted in a bra cup-size upgrade, but this news is not so compelling for your son to read.

12.   Beware that texting to the wrong person may result in the need to fling more coins into the ‘future therapy expense’ piggy bank.  You may want to consider buying several piggy banks.  

13.   If you are not in the mood for sex, put on a Snuggie.   Apparently the monk/mental patient look is not a turn-on.

14.   Sadly, despite its immense promise, the chocolate/alcohol/fried chicken/lay-in-bed-watching-Netflix diet does not work.  Same goes for The Girl Scout Cookie Diet. 

15.   Think positive:  the glass is half full!  Unless of course it is a chardonnay glass which should always be filled to the tippy top.

by Cathy Gilkey
 
Next time you go to the Post Office, look for my photograph there, because I, Cathy, am a wanted woman.
 
My crime, you ask? I used a toilet bowl cleaner in a manner in which it was not intended.
 
I'm minding my own business. I notice the sink looks nasty. I mean, new ecosystems were evolving in the bottom of my drain. Being the good scientist I fantasize about, I look closely, am grossed out and start ransacking my cleaner cabinet. I find I have not one, not two, but FIVE containers of Lysol wipes. Apparently, I'm expecting the Apocalypse, and I'll need wipes to help me clean up. Even if I Lysol every single surface in my house, I would not need five canisters to do the chore.
 
But I digress. So, Lysol wipes are fine, but I'm scared to get them out, because, you know, I might need them for something else, like the impending Apocalypse. So I rummage some more. No sink cleaner. I look and find only two bottles of toilet bowl cleaner, you know, the kind you squeeze onto the underside of the rim and let sit for a minute, then scrub? Only I forget to come back and scrub and my toilet bowl has permanent blue streaks in it.
 
So I think, heck, if this can clean my nasty stanky toilet bowl, surely it can clean my sink. I squeeze some in there, let it sit, and thankfully remember to scrub it off. It didn't work so well, there still was some staining, but I figured it'd be ok. I turn the bottle around and it says, no joke, "it is a violation of Federal law to use the product in a manner that is not specified."
 
It's designed to clean toilets. I do not, although some may, pee in my sink. My sink is not a toilet in any way.
 
Hey Federal law, do you feel violated? Cuz it felt goooooood for me!
 
The good news is I killed the ecosystem. The bad news is it may have taken off the finish off my sink. Darn. Maybe I should have used those Lysol wipes.

So we’re free again, and this time for the long haul.  Check out the site to post your job and find talented moms looking for flexible work opportunities.  The best part: you never need to pay us!

Sherry and Kevin

By  J. Lorraine Martin

It was that time again ladies when you meet a complete stranger and fling your breasts out unabashedly (no I’m not talking about that night after you had too much tequila back in college). You proceed to allow your breasts to be flattened out to an oversized and overly painful pancake.  Despite your embarrassment and dread, you think on that technician as a saintly person, an everyday hero, but you feel so nervous and awkward that you don’t tell them; you just think it as you silently chant the mantra “not now, not this time, not me.”   

Let’s review my prestigious family history.  My maternal grandmother, whom I never met, died at age 50 of breast cancer.  My amazing mom began her own battle with breast cancer at the age of 56 when I was in college.  Crushing panic gripped me as I was certain I would lose her. However, she was spirited and deceptively strong, forging onward in that delicate dance between living your life to the fullest and the fear of having it taken prematurely from you.   From first diagnosis to her final, succumbing breath at age 75, she viewed her cancer, chemotherapy and numerous episodes of hair loss and nausea as obstacles to plan around, but never as permanent impediments to fulfillment and happiness.  One hoped to catch her contagious spirit of joy when in her presence.    

Carrying the knowledge that genetics increased certain odds for me, as well as doctors taking a highly precautionary approach, I walked into my first mammogram at age 27 full of overt fear; I was sobbing loudly and melodramatically imagining death knocking at my door.  The scene was all the more poignant as the waiting room was filled with the silver haired and the wrinkled, all forlornly looking at my youthful, unlined self in extreme pity, or so I imagined.   Later, I would call my mother, and she would celebrate my good news with me.                   

Recently I entered into a discussion with friends over the possibility of taking a preemptive strike by removing my breasts; I’ve read articles about other courageous women, like Christina Applegate, who have done just that.   However, there was a small problem:  I loved and adored “my girls” and my husband was partial as well.  “The girls” have been a part of nearly every important and endearing life moment:  for starters, capturing the attention of the football team back in high school, nurturing three children, keeping lust and passion alive and well in my middle years, and if I do say so myself,  they look pretty darn good in a t-shirt.

Does that make me shallow? Is it reckless and naïve to hope I might defy the odds, enjoying their sensuality and utter (pun intended) femininity even at the senior citizen’s home one day, perhaps enticing a frisky octogenarian if I find myself single late in life?  Or am I taking on a risk, setting it up so that my husband will actually be that lecherous octogenarian chasing the ladies in the nursing home?  And once one starts down the preemptive pathway, where does it end?  The uterus?  The ovaries?    

Forgoing drastic measures, I find myself 40-something, corralled with others clad in generic gowns and serious faces while awaiting the interpretation from my second round of scans.  Would the results be life changing?   

To pass the time, I contemplated cancers that would be more palatable.  How about cancer of the cellulite?  “Yes, Dr. Kildare, go ahead and remove the cellulite on both of my thighs.  Oh no, it has spread to the saddlebags as well!  Well, if you think it is a must, then go ahead and remove those as well. No I do not want cellulite reconstruction.  I will find a way to prevail.” How about cancer of the second elongated toe?  I could certainly lose the tip of this carnie toe and forge onward.  Cancer of the love handles?  The jelly roll?  The double chin?  Or the cauliflower ears inherited from my dear old Dad?  My Dumbo’s could certainly be tapered back and made smaller with no love loss.   

My internal comedy routine was soon overshadowed by the sobs of a woman who looked to be my age.  Her harkening cry, no doubt, gave voice to all of the hidden fears and apprehensions wafting around in the waiting room.  Caught in a vacuum of my own inertia and ineffectiveness, I pondered how to make a move to help her; thankfully the woman sitting next to her offered her a kind word and a Kleenex.  I remained quiet, keeping my fear at bay.  Soon she was escorted out by a nurse; her sobs fading down the corridors, yet still echoing in the silence of her departure. Was there anyway words from a stranger could help diffuse her immense pain?        

Soon I was called to the ultrasound area to wait the arrival of Dr. D--short for Dr. Dick (no joke).  I found it somehow irreverent and ironic that if should I get bad news a Dr. Dick would deliver it to me. What exactly does a Dr. Dick look like?  I settled on a vision of the comedian Andy Dick walking in making me laugh and declaring that this was all just a gag and my breasts had at least 100,000 more miles left on them.   Surprisingly Dr. D appeared and was a woman who effortlessly did her job with professionalism and a gentle bedside manner; I was glad her personality did not match her last name.  However, she didn’t deliver me a clean bill of health; it was decided that further exploration of a “mysterious new area” was warranted via a biopsy.     

Two days later, a well intentioned nurse, who had previously and awkwardly tried to distract me with mind numbing cheerfulness and trivial banter, was now attempting to grab my hand during the procedure.  So many times in my life I yearned for intimacy and loving touch and it was withheld.  How maddening that in this terribly emotional moment, a stranger’s gesture to clutch my hand and stare at my breast being stabbed repeatedly with a needle, felt so unwelcome and odd; this nurse appeared to have a routine she clung to as she encountered a constant barrage of patients facing potentially devastating, life-altering news.  I did not have the heart to completely rebuff her, though, so I pulled my hand away leaving her holding my pinkie.  Despite her attempt at kindness, I resented that I had to yield my will during a moment that should have been entirely mine to feel and navigate in a way of my choosing.  Had the other lady who received the devastating news wanted to be talked to in the waiting room or left alone? 

Life was such a delicate, nuanced ritual:  fumbling to give and receive love and compassion, struggling to intuit the needs of another, attempting to put aside our own ideas to truly meet someone in the way they wanted to be met, but often failing in our need to protect our own fragile emotions.  Life to me was cultivating the ability to divine and walk that narrow path of intimacy, however elusive and chartless it may be.     . 

I left with an ice pack, a bandage, and a current of tamped down worry that flowed under the surface until a few days later when the much anticipated phone call came letting me know I was okay this time around, but would need to check back in six months.  Unlike in my 20’s when I could not hide my angst in that waiting room, I had managed to contain my fear throughout this process.  Tears of profound relief rolled down my face.  I was infused with a need to hug that pained stranger and say “I’m so very sorry.” I also imagined another chance to speak to my mother and say “Remind me again, how did you manage to lead your life so fearlessly and with such acceptance?” Her countenance aglow and her voice joyfully replying:  “Faith, dear, and a love of life.”      

J. Lorraine Martin is a graduate of the University of Florida, and is a frequent blogger for Homeby3.com as well as her own blog, cheeselesspizza.blogspot.com.