IWSG: Heavenly Mom Strikes Again

                                 

It's time for another edition of the  Insecure Writer's Support Group. Be sure to visit Alex J. Cavanaugh  and the rest of the talented bloggers who are always willing to lend a helping hand.

                               Heavenly Mom Strikes Again

About four years ago, two smart and sexy grandmas decided to fix up their grandchildren. Last spring, in the midst of Covid, the efforts of my mom and her dear friend were finally rewarded in an engagement. Though we're deeply saddened Mom won't physically be with us in November when our oldest son will marry the girl of his dreams, her spirit continues to move in mysterious ways.

Contrary to most normal mothers of the groom, my biggest challenge in preparation for the wedding has been finding a dress. I haven't even worn a dress or skirt, since our younger son's Bar Mitzvah 17 years ago. My go-to attire for special events in anywhere from 20 to 90 degree weather has been a dressy blazer and pants. Not only is this pantsuit perfectly paired with practical shoes, but it's  forgiving of figure flaws.

Nevertheless, I decided to leave my comfort zone for this momentous occasion by exploring the world of formal dress shopping. After several failed online attempts, I was shocked to find that even the racks in the downtown department stores were sparse.. A sales associate explained that manufacturers cut down on their merchandise, as they anticipated a huge decline in formal events due to Covid. 

I felt hopeful when I found a lovely long lace gown at a local dress shop. But it needed a higher neckline and long sleeves to cover the egg shaped fistula on my arm from past dialysis treatments. 

Since the owner was out of town, I called her a few days later to discuss the price of the alterations. Then she contacted the dress designer, and got back to me right away. It seemed like a fairly reasonable price, but I wanted another opinion on the dress. So my best friend graciously offered to meet me at the dress shop.

When we introduced ourselves to the owner, I never thought we'd become intimately acquainted. She barged into the fitting room  while I was trying on the dress, and adamantly ignored my objections by stating, "That's what we do here." 

This brought back memories of my first bra fitting, followed by the fifth grade class pushing me into the girls bathroom for a closer look under my see-thru peasant blouse. I think several of the boys lined up too, and there was some grabbing involved,  but the teacher didn't seem to mind. Of course, I really wasn't ready for a bra at 10. This was confirmed the following summer when I was wearing a t-shirt at the pool, and the waitress said, "Your lunch order's ready, young man."

Meanwhile, back at the dress shop…I was relieved when my dear friend also liked the dress on me. The next step was for the owner to have the designer send me some sketches of how the dress would look with long sleeves and a higher neckline.

Before the sketches were sent, the owner said she’d contact the designer to find out the price. Though I tried reminding her that she had already quoted me a price, she adamantly denied it, and reiterated the tremendous amount of work it would take to design a custom fitted dress in two to three months. 

I soon realized there was no point in continuing to reason with her, because the owner was clearly trying to pull a fast one on me. I played along knowing full well she was going to hike up the price, while I continued to look for another dress on the down low.

Just months before the big event, the Dress Nazi finally got back to me. When I heard the price was more than double her original quote, I began to wonder what else she was lying about. Would there be other hidden fees and more importantly would the dress even be ready in time for the wedding?

 It was time to call in The Fixer. Though I had lost touch with my dear, stylish childhood friend, he always had great instincts and never folded under pressure. No, he didn't offer to rub out the Dress Nazi, but I'll always be grateful for what he did instead.

I recognized the name of the seasoned downtown dress designer, because my fabulous future daughter-in-law found her lovely wedding gown there.  However, it wasn't until The Fixer explained that the designer previously had a dress shop in the suburbs, that I remembered my mom singing her praises. But I drew a blank on the details.

Coincidentally, my best friend, The Fixer, and I all grew up on the same street, and the three of us were off to see The Dress Wizard. I found a dress immediately. and the designer had excellent ideas about raising the neckline and adding long sleeves. She also accompanied me into the fitting room, but in a much kinder and gentler way.

Even the pattern designer who took my measurements seemed to have been skilled in psychiatric training, as I stood in my bloomers pleading, "Do you mind doing this blindfolded?" 

Memories flashed before my eyes like the time my late doctor introduced me to a nurse by saying, "She's not fat, it's her liver."

Fortunately, my friends were in agreement that this dress was "the one," and my husband also signed off on the text photo. Then The Fixer suggested I wear one of my mom's classic brooches to complement the dress, so I could hold her close to my heart at the wedding. Just thinking about it still moves me to tears.

Then it hit me. I showed the delightful designer a photo of the dress Mom wore to my wedding 34 years ago. Without skipping a beat, she remembered designing the one of a kind Oscar worthy creation for my beautiful mom. If there were ever a sign that I chose the right dress, this was it.

                   

                     (with my brother, grandma, and mom in June 1987)

IWSG: Meddling Mothers & Disappointing Daughters

                                                  

 It's time for another edition of the  Insecure Writer's Support Group. Be sure to visit Alex J. Cavanaugh  and the rest of the talented bloggers who are always willing to lend a helping hand. 

As Mother's Day is fast approaching, I hope many families will be able to gather together for safe celebrations this year. In the meantime, I thought I'd re-post this game show parody.

 

 Meddling Mothers and Disappointing Daughters

Host: It's time to play Meddling Mothers and Disappointing Daughters, the only game show where mothers and daughters try to get along to win prizes that the mothers will never be able to operate in the first place. Let's meet the contestants...(He notices that one mother is still trying to climb up into her chair)  Do you need some help Dorothy?

Dorothy: No, I'm fine thank you.

Dorothy's daughter: Just grab my hand, and let me give you a boost.

Dorothy: I said I don't need any help. STOP RUSHING ME!

Host: Okay, let's move on to Gladys and her daughter Gretchen. How many times do you call your mother a day?

Gretchen: Once. 

Host: And you Felicia?

Felicia: I call my mother once a week.

(A loud siren sounds)

Host: Where's Dorothy?

Dorothy's daughter:  She fell down and her Life Alert alarm went off.   

 (The paramedics lift Dorothy into her seat)

Dorothy's daughter: I call my mother six times a day. She hangs up on me, and says, "It's never enough."

(The bell sounds ding ding ding)

Host: You are correct. The answer is, "Never enough." You just won a case of prune juice. You must be very proud of your daughter Dorothy!

Dorothy: Did you see how nice those paramedics were? Why couldn't you have married someone like that?  

Host: All right then. Now we'll ask the mothers a question. Gladys when is the last time you said something nice to your daughter?

Gladys: Don't we get a lunch break?

Host: It's only been five minutes. We'll have snacks after the show.

Gladys: But this is when I eat lunch.

Gretchen: Here Mom, I brought you a sandwich. (takes one out of her purse)

Gladys: It's on rye bread. I like a nice roll. I can't eat this. What's wrong with you?

Fanny: I'll take it. I'm starving. (Looks at her own daughter Felicia) Why don't you ever make me lunch?

Host: Fanny, when is the last time you said something nice to your daughter?

Fanny: That's easy. As we were driving over, I told my daughter that her dress was very pretty...

Host: Well, that is nice.

Fanny: And I'm sure that if she lost ten pounds it would actually fit her.

Host: Maybe we should just throw out that question. Dorothy, when was the last time your daughter took you to the doctor?

Dorothy: You know falling down really makes a person thirsty. How come no one offered me a drink or a sandwich?

Host: If you answer the question, I'll get you both.

Dorothy: Okay, yes please.

Host: Yes please what?

Dorothy: I would like both a drink and a sandwich. Soup would be nice too, but I don't want to be a bother.

(Gladys is dashing across the stage with her walker. Her daughter is jogging behind her)

Host: Where are you going?

Gladys: I just remembered I think I forgot to turn off the stove.

Host: Can you have someone else check on it?

Gretchen: It's my stove, and I just got a text that the fire department is heading over to my house.

Gladys: Are we stopping for lunch first, 'cause I still haven't eaten?

Host: Good luck ladies. Be sure to tell us your new address, so we can send you a lifetime supply of incontinence products.

Dorothy: Continents? I can name the continents! There's Asia, Africa.....

Host: Well, that's all the time we have for today. Thanks for playing Meddling Mothers and Disappointing Daughters. (The daughters storm off stage) Aren't you forgetting something? Don't leave me alone with your mothers. Come back!!!

IWSG: Writing Therapy

                       

It's time for another edition of the  Insecure Writer's Support Group. Be sure to visit Alex J. Cavanaugh  and the rest of the talented bloggers who are always willing to lend a helping hand.

November Optional Question: Albert Camus once said, "The purpose of a writer is to keep civilization from destroying itself." Flannery O'Connor said, "I write to discover what I know." Authors across time and distance have had many reasons to write. Why do you write what you write?

I finally gathered up the courage to start writing in 2011 when our boys were off at college and law school. What began as a blog to share humorous stories about my life as an empty nester, became a scrapbook of wonderful family memories, and opened doors to becoming a journalist.

Soon the focus of the empty nest changed when my beautiful rebellious mom reluctantly moved into an assisted living facility. Her home of 46 years had multi-levels, so it was too difficult for her to navigate the stairs in a walker. Though we toured several pretty places, my young, hip septuagenarian mom had the same complaint, "There are too many old people here." 

Mom became the star of so many of my stories that she told me, " You're lucky I'm your mother; otherwise, I'd sue you for stealing all my best lines."

Writing about my mom was also therapeutic for me. Instead of pulling my hair out from her many falls and hospitalizations which later led to her inevitable move into a nursing home, we managed to always find the humor in every situation. And she took great joy in reading the comments from her many dedicated fans. I couldn't possibly have asked for a better muse, and nearly two years later, I still miss my mom dearly.

In 2015, I began writing for a daily local news website which featured a weekend print edition. I always wanted to write professionally, and believe the experience I gained through blogging and the IWSG, led to helping me achieve this goal. 

Though I learned a great deal about local schools and city news, I especially enjoyed writing human interest stories. Whether interviewing individuals  from 12 to 100, I tried to treat each story as a personal gift. 

One of my favorite interviews was a darling couple about to celebrate their 75th wedding anniversary. When asked the secret of a successful marriage, the charming husband replied in two words, "Yes, dear." 

His wife had a wonderful sense of humor too, and they couldn't have been more appreciative. When I dropped off extra print copies of their newspaper article, she told me about all the positive feedback they received from the beauty shop, grocery store and even the gas station.

 Because they were "instant celebrities," they were now being approached by neighbors who never spoke to them before. She even joked about moving, as the women were getting a little too friendly with her 97-year-old husband. 

Then she took me aside and expressed how much my interview meant to them, since most of their family lived out of state, and many of their friends had passed away. Their humorous love story made her feel young again. I couldn't help but tear up, as we hugged and said our goodbyes.

Some of my other news stories were about Holocaust survivors, shelters for  abused women and children, and many health issues from preventing injuries to overcoming debilitating illnesses. I'll always be grateful to my encouraging editor who patiently guided me along the way.

My goal was to write news stories that were both informative and entertaining when possible. Though my blog stories have often missed the mark on both counts, I hope to at least provide a distraction during these turbulent times.

IWSG: A Frightful Visit To The ER

                                     

It's time for another edition of the  Insecure Writer's Support Group. Be sure to visit Alex J. Cavanaugh  and the rest of the talented bloggers who are always willing to lend a helping hand.

                             

                        A Frightful Visit To The ER

It all began just days after my husband's successful knee replacement surgery. While he was racing around on his walker, I felt like I had just gotten off of a horse. 

Though I hated to bother my out-of-state kidney transplant team on Labor Day weekend, I feared without a medication adjustment, I wouldn't be able to continue to care for my strong and selfless hubby. 

After describing my symptoms, the transplant nurse urged me to head over to the emergency room. 

I told her that I couldn't possibly leave my husband unattended shortly after his surgery, and there was no way of knowing how long the wait would be in the ER. But the nurse apologetically explained that she couldn't prescribe anything without examining me, and didn't want to take any chances since my immune system had already been compromised from a serious intestinal infection last June.

Fortunately, both my considerate brother and devoted son graciously offered to hubby-sit while I drove myself to the ER. Thank goodness for cell phones, as I texted with friends to help pass the time. 

I knew it would be a long wait, but the staff would not let me leave the building to walk around outside. So I did laps inside the hospital until I got reprimanded for walking a short distance from the crowded ER to the empty lobby.

Three hours later, I was placed into an examining room. It took longer for me to change into my hospital gown than it did for the doctor to provide a humiliating diagnosis. 

He tried to ease my embarrassment by explaining that this painful condition resulted from having a compromised immune system along with being a complete nervous wreck. Well, he was two for two, but I couldn't help thinking he was being a bit rash.

Though I attempted to assure the doctor that I like Princess Di was a "woman with a history, but not a past," he quickly left to call my transplant doctor to discuss treatment. 

While I was awaiting the doctor's return, I called Hubby to fill him in, but no one answered. Surely, the poor boy was worried sick about me, so I called my brother to find out what was going on. 

My brother said my husband didn't bring his phone with him on their walk. This was the farthest he had walked since his surgery. 

Apparently while I was on the verge of being branded with the Scarlet Letter, my husband was holding court on a bench outside our apartment building, as some of the neighbors stopped to admire his new knee along with his sheer bravery. I could hear him laughing in the background; clearly having the time of his life.

After waiting almost another hour, the ER doctor returned to announce there was nothing they could do for now, but the pain would subside on its own in a few days. While I was doing the walk of shame out of the ER, I could've sworn one of the technicians winked at me.

During the drive home, a dear friend called to see how I was doing. I told her that it was all a terribly humiliating waste of time, but she didn't seem to believe me. I finally mustered the courage to say my disgraceful diagnosis out loud, as a train thunderously whistled down the tracks.

Then she blurted out, "What do you mean you have burps? And why would you have to change into a hospital gown for that?"

Later when I jokingly asked my husband for a list of partners he's had throughout our 33 year marriage, he replied, "Got a pen?"

Wishing everyone in blogland, a safe and happy Halloween!  In the meantime, please wear your masks in public, and don't forget to get a flu shot!

IWSG: Neighborhood Watch

                                             

It's time for another edition of the  Insecure Writer's Support Group. Be sure to visit Alex J. Cavanaugh  and the rest of the talented bloggers who are always willing to lend a helping hand.

  

                                          

                               Neighborhood Watch

Ted Abel was known for being a good neighbor who enjoyed history, The Chicago White Sox, cycling, classical music and pickle ball. He could often be seen strolling hand in hand with his wife of 40 years down their quiet wooded street.

The Abels tried on several occasions to be friendly with their next door neighbors, the Cains, but the wife was more interested in sun bathing and six packs (tin not skin) than any form of socializing. The husband usually kept to himself.

Consequently, their paths would soon cross again, and Ted's life would never be the same.

Fast forward to early June when many thought the pandemic was slowing down and several states were optimistically moving into Phase 3. Ah, the good old days.

Shortly thereafter, Ted's landscaper found him climbing down a tree with a nervous cat in tow. The landscaper warned him that someone was throwing yard waste into his backyard, Outraged, but playing it cool for the cat's sake, Ted was determined to keep his fly dumping degenerate neighbor from disgracing his yard again.

He quickly went next door to confront Cain, but was rudely greeted by his wife. Ted tried to divert his eyes, as Cain's wife was sunbathing in a bikini that was stretched out in all the wrong places.

"Is your husband home?"

Her whole body creaked, as she struggled to free her entangled thong bikini from the lounge chair slats.

"He's busy working. What do you want?"

Ted calmly explained that if her husband dumped his yard waste in their backyard again, the landscaper was going to add it to his bill. 

This set Mrs. Cain into a rage. How dare Ted accuse her husband of any wrong doing. At first she threatened to blow Ted up, but then decided it would be a better idea to shoot him in the face. Yes, she never liked his face anyway.

Remarkably, Ted remained composed when he asked her if they had any firearms in their home. But his delusional neighbor wasn't listening. She just rambled on about how much she hated Ted and his excuse for a wife.

"You two definitely deserve each other. Your wife is a vile woman."

Awakened from the one woman shouting match, Cain stormed out of his house.

After Ted filled him in about the yard waste fiasco followed by his wife's threats to shoot him, he casually asked if Cain had any guns in their home. When Cain refused to answer, Ted said he had no choice but to call the police.

Cain just shrugged his shoulders and said, "Do what you gotta do."

The next day, two police officers escorted Ted to the house of Cain where they  spoke to the couple on their front porch. Ted almost didn't recognize Mrs. Cain, as she wasn't dressed like a retired stripper. The Cains politely denied any confrontation with Ted, and the police went on their way.

Ted couldn't believe that the police weren't taking her threats seriously. When he asked why they didn't investigate further, the officers explained that they couldn’t legally search or even ask the couple if they owned a gun.

In an ill attempt to set Ted's mind at ease, the officers added they were going to file a police report. Ted wanted to say how the report would really come in handy when he's shot to death by a screaming bikini wearing gun moll, but he thanked them anyway. 

Later that night, Ted told his wife every sordid detail about his life threatening confrontation with the Cains, as well as, the futile follow-up with the police. Upon hearing the news, his wife's face drained of color, and she couldn't speak. 

Ted tried to put on a brave face while reassuring her that she needn't worry, as he  was getting his affairs in order, so she would be well taken care of in the event of his sudden demise.

Within minutes, his wife miraculously rose to announce that they needed to notify the family. She went into the den to call their eldest daughter and Ted quickly followed.

After repeating the story verbatim to their daughter, Ted couldn't believe his ears when he realized what most upset his wife.

"Yes, she did threaten to shoot Daddy in the face, but can you believe that no good former street walker had the nerve to call your mother a 'vile woman?'"

IWSG: The Quirks of Quarantine

                                                     


It's time for another edition of the  Insecure Writer's Support Group. Be sure to visit Alex J. Cavanaugh  and the rest of the talented bloggers who are always willing to lend a helping hand.

                                            
                              The Quirks of Quarantine

Being under self-quarantine certainly gives a person plenty of time to think, especially during TV commercials. Unfortunately, many of my insights are soon forgotten in the time it takes  to find a pen, wipe it down, and sterilize my desk, counter-top, wall, or husband's back all before realizing I ran out of paper. Of course, my laptop is more efficient, but where's the fun in that?

Sadly, I've gotten used to being in isolation. I wouldn't necessarily call it my new normal, because it's more like my old abnormal. But while others are having trouble abiding with all of the necessary safety precautions, my husband has been enjoying social distancing from me a little too much. 

Though we share a small apartment, Hubby recently sent me an e-card for my birthday. Not only did it save him a trip to the store, it saved him the trouble of being in the same room with me.

Whether walking around the apartment building or venturing outside, I feel like I'm trapped in a Spaghetti Western. If I do happen upon another lone drifter in our deserted hallways, or ghost town sidewalks, it's as if we're about to face-off in a duel or gunfight. We each step back about six feet waiting for one to pass the other. Fortunately, no guns have been drawn, but I've taken to carrying toilet paper rolls as a peace offering.

Though my neighbors used to greet me with a kind word and a smile, everyone is so terrified of catching COVID-19, that they've even begun to avoid eye contact at all costs. Thus far, I haven't heard any evidence of contracting the virus through eye rolls, side-eye, or uncontrollable blinking, but this works to my advantage.

I no longer have to wear make-up, suck in my stomach, or wash my hair on a regular basis. I've considered brushing my teeth as an optional activity, but even that gets old after a few days.

The quarantine has forced me to get reacquainted with my kitchen, which isn't necessarily a good thing. I'm cooking more and eating more, which makes me a prime candidate for gaining the "quarantine 15." 

So I try to walk laps around our tiny apartment in between meals, snacks, desserts and thoughts about any of the above. I'm sure our neighbor below us is thrilled when I'm gracefully trotting around before midnight in a last minute attempt to reach my daily step goal. 

Sadly, I'll probably have to attend PTQD (Post Traumatic Quarantine Disorder) meetings when the stay-at-home order is lifted.

Though I miss my boys terribly, I'm proud of how seriously they're taking COVID-19, and how hard they've been working to help others. Our older son learned to create face masks on his 3-D printer, and offered to give them to us, and his doctor friends since hospitals are in such short supply. Unfortunately, the face masks are not considered hospital grade at this time, but may be helpful to others at risk.

Our younger son has also been providing a useful service by Skyping with clients of all ages to lift their spirits, as well as their gluteus maximus through strength training.

I also miss my brother who in addition to picking up prescriptions and groceries for his neighbors, is frequently offering to run errands for us. But my husband has taken to avoiding crowds by shopping during the early senior hours. Though I tease Hubby a lot, there's no one else I'd rather be quarantined with, and I'm truly grateful for him.

Yesterday, was a good day, as my husband finally tracked down some much needed sanitizing wipes and paper towels. The paper towels might also come in handy to keep the peace in our hallways.

Stay safe and healthy, my friends.

IWSG: A Pain In The As...king

                                                   

It's time for another edition of the  Insecure Writer's Support Group. Be sure to visit Alex J. Cavanaugh  and the rest of the talented bloggers who are always willing to lend a helping hand.

                                            A Pain In The As...king

BOLO Alert: My husband has a cough and cold. But it's not an ordinary cough and cold, because my husband has it. What makes it even more horrific is that his endless suffering is just weeks before his knee replacement surgery.

The other night I found Hubby napping in front of the blaring TV, so I turned down the volume. He awoke shortly, changed chairs and turned the volume way up to generously share his program with the majority of neighbors on our floor and the floor below. 

When the phone rang, I had to quarantine myself in our bedroom with the door closed in order to hear the other voice on the line. This  took away from my laundry time, as I would have to enter a dangerous hearing zone that would make even the calmest dogs go absolutely mad. 

After the call ended, I decided to take my life into my own hands by re-entering the mutant hearing zone to find my husband was once again sound asleep. When I told him how the blaring TV was affecting my hearing he replied, "I can't worry about that right now, as I have to focus on my upcoming knee replacement surgery."

The other day, I went to the doctor to be treated for a sore throat, cold and slight cough. Fortunately, I knew right away that it wasn't the Coronavirus, as I was fever-free, but I didn't want to take a chance on being sick for my husband's upcoming surgery.

The nurse was having difficulty swabbing the back of my throat during the strep test, so I offered to grab hold of my tongue while she went in with the swab.

After after several failed attempts, I finally held my tongue down long enough for her to get a culture. When I apologized for being such a difficult patient, the nurse said it wasn't my fault that the lab ran out of tongue depressors. 

Needless to say, I went home with neither prescription nor pride in tact. 

The next day, my husband's cough soared from a one to a two on a scale of 10, so he saw the same NP (nurse practitioner) in our doctors' office. Before he left, I reminded him to tell her that we were both at a children's birthday party where many of the guests later came down with either colds or the flu.  

Then he walked out muttering (in between exaggerated coughs), "Julie, thanks for giving me this generous gift before my surgery."

Apparently, Hubby accomplished a lot more during his office visit. He explained that the NP swabbed him for the flu, and if the results were positive, she would call in a prescription for him and a preventative dosage for me with approval from my kidney transplant doctors. 

I couldn't believe that I wasn't tested for the flu, but my husband was not surprised. According to the NP, I did not have flu-like symptoms. I only had a sore throat, runny nose and slight cough, while Hubby had a terrible cough, runny nose and felt (here's the operative word)...ACHY.

A few expletives later, I offered to pick up some soup, and other favorite items at the deli, along with his pending prescription, but Hubby wanted to go instead. I argued that he was far too sickly to venture out again, but he insisted.

Then the NP called and said he didn't have the flu, but she'd still give him a prescription to make him more comfortable. Now I was really angry. Shouldn't I be at my full strength to take care of her favorite patient after his surgery? 

After throwing back a cool glass of chocolate milk, I calmly offered once again to make a deli and drugstore run, so this poor suffering man could crawl under the covers to begin the healing process. 

Finally, my husband told me the real reason why he needed to run those errands. Apparently, he had a taste for the deli's special tuna salad, but their tomatoes left a lot to be desired. Rather than settle for a less than perfect sandwich, he preferred making an additional stop at an upscale grocery store to personally select an exquisitely firm tomato. Of course, I couldn't be trusted with this important task.

In the end, the NP also prescribed something for me, but it's not strong enough to numb my new pain.

IWSG: Falling For Each Other

                                               
                                                

It's time for another edition of the  Insecure Writer's Support Group. Be sure to visit Alex J. Cavanaugh  and the rest of the talented bloggers who are always willing to lend a helping hand.

                       
                              Falling For Each Other

Last month I wrote about how 2020 got off to a rocky start when my husband fell in the shower, and we almost didn't make it to our dear friends' New Year's Eve party. Though the story had a happy ending, I stumbled by taking a lighthearted approach to my husband's accident, causing karma to step in. 

About a week later, Hubby experienced debilitating pain in his right knee, and couldn't walk. In an effort not to wake me, he used a Swiffer handle as a makeshift cane. Then I bought him an actual cane, and we went to an orthopedic doctor the next day. 

The x-ray showed that the arthritis of Hubby's right knee was so severe that his leg was bone on bone. The doctor ordered physical therapy, in addition to continuing pre-shower fall therapy on his right shoulder. 

He also advised him that he'd likely need knee replacement surgery in the near future. We researched surgeons and will be seeing our first choice in mid-February. 

But karma didn't end there. A few days later, despite clear skies, I bundled up in layers, snow boots and my warmest winter coat en route to a hair appointment. I didn't want to take any chances encountering wild winds or slick sidewalks. Then without warning, as I approached the corner before the beauty shop, I gracefully fell face first on an uneven sidewalk. 

A kind stranger apparently witnessed the dreadfully embarrassing incident and offered to help me up, but I slowly managed to get to my feet. I tried to smile with my protruding bloody lip, and thanked her as I limped into the shop. 

Then my wonderful beautician sprang into action by helping me into the chair. I admired her restraint, as I was aghast at my reflection when I saw something resembling a freakish Simpson cartoon character staring back at me.  

Next, I checked to make sure I wasn't missing any teeth while my caring beautician gently dabbed my lip, and bandaged my bloody knee. Then she offered to either drive me home or to the ER. 

But I did exactly what my mom would've done. I ignored my throbbing knee, and stayed for the two hour color highlights appointment. Hey, if I had to go to the hospital, I was darn well going to look my best. My full-service nurse/beautician even drove me home afterward.

Fortunately, my husband's knee was improving, so later that night he lent me the family cane. By this time I was screaming in pain, but he didn't notice any swelling and thought my knee would heal quickly. 

Grateful that I fell on the opposite side of my new kidney, I spent the next few days toughing it out by icing and elevating my knee, in between Nancy Kerrigan "Why me?" rantings. 

A few days later, my husband woke me with a start when his blood pressure sky rocketed to 184/100. I drove him to the ER for a series of tests. 

Fortunately, aside from his blood pressure, his other numbers looked good, and there was no evidence of a heart attack or stroke. 

Relieved that Hubby was out of danger, I asked if the young trauma doctor would look at my knee. He nodded. Then I rolled up my pant leg, and added, "If I was your grandmother, would you recommend having an x-ray?" That went over like a lead balloon which really cheered me up.

The x-ray showed I have a small fracture of my kneecap, so I was outfitted with an immobilizer (brace) which spans from my lower thigh to my upper calf. Thankfully, my husband has been doing well on a low-dose hypertension pill.

When we arrived home that afternoon, we were greeted by our neighbor whose husband is a former orthopedic surgeon. After we told her why I was wearing a brace she reiterated what I already knew, that a fractured kneecap is extremely painful. Then my husband apologized for not taking me more seriously.

We also took a photo of the uneven sidewalk where I fell, and sent it to the city to hopefully prevent future injuries.

Last week Hubby celebrated his birthday, and our wonderful boys took us out for a delicious pre-birthday dinner at an outstanding steak restaurant which really raised our spirits.

On my husband's actual birthday, I wanted to make his favorite fudge brownies, but the mixing bowl is located on a high kitchen shelf. With his painful shoulder(s) and our bad knees, we didn't dare risk climbing up the step stool. Though I offered to make a bakery run, he insisted on finishing the last slice of frozen key lime pie instead.

February 4th marked the three week anniversary of my fall, and when we're not putting our impaired knees together (my left and Hubby's right) to team-up in competitive three-legged races, we can be found casually limping down the sidewalk. 

However, when the disgruntled seniors sideswipe us with their walkers as they forge ahead, my husband is never left behind in a trail of dust. Instead, Hubby can be heard howling in his best raspy Ratso Rizzo voice from Midnight Cowboy, "I'm walkin' here."  

Of course, this just makes me fall for him all over again.

IWSG: Hair Hysteria

                                                        



It's time for another edition of the  Insecure Writer's Support Group.  Be sure to visit Alex J. Cavanaugh  and the rest of the talented bloggers who are always willing to lend a helping hand.

                                                      Hair Hysteria

                                                     

Surrounded by my favorite boys; 8/19

My mom's entire life revolved around her hair. From a young age, she fought by any means necessary to keep her hair from getting wet. Mom was the only one in her high school gym class who was able to talk her way out of taking four years of swimming.

Beginning in her 20s, Mom had weekly beauty shop appointments. She would patiently watch her beautician dry and style her hair. Then she would primp in front of the mirror with a pick until her hair was teased and coiffed to perfection, adding enough hairspray to choke an elephant. Fortunately, her saintly beautician didn't take it personally.

Is hair obsession hereditary? Though I suffered through four years of swimming in high school, I admit to being traumatized by bad hair days. Then fate stepped in.

The night before a haircut appointment last April, I received a text from my beautician informing me that she had a bad case of the flu and wasn't sure when she'd feel well enough to reschedule.

I hate change which is evidenced by the fact that I've had slight variations on the shag hairdo since I turned double digits. 

As much as I adore my beautician of over 20 years, I felt that maybe this would be a good opportunity to finally try something new.

Not only was I able to get into another highly recommended stylist two days later, but she was just steps away from our apartment building.

Our first meeting prompted her to ask, "Why do you have a Carol Brady hairdo?"

Carol Brady was the mom played by Florence Henderson on the popular sitcom The Brady Bunch. Shag hairstyles were all the rage in the 70s and Mrs. Brady was quite a trendsetter. The series ran from 1969-1974.

Though almost 50 years later, this was clearly not a compliment, I was in dire need of a stylist who wasn't afraid of hurting my feelings. Boy I miss my mom!

The beautician explained that I could have a more contemporary look by simply growing out my top layers, while trimming the surrounding longer layers. She styled it straight for the first few haircuts which looked great, but I had trouble working with it. Even using a flat iron didn't help.

When I pleaded with her to bring back my shorter layers which had morphed into wings, she assured me that if I just held out a little longer, my hair would be easier to handle. I told her that she was like having an AA sponsor.

Like any good sponsor, she could relate to my frustrations, as she also has curly hair. I decided to follow her lead and stop fighting the heat and humidity by embracing my curls. I'm happier and my husband's happier, so it's a win-win. 

Now I have the best of both worlds, as my former beautician (who's also a color expert) moved into a shop just blocks away from where we live, so I still see her whenever I need highlights.

Hair obsession doesn't only effect the women in our family. Years ago, a close relative joked that he was a member of the "Balding Men's Club," after one of my sons saw him talking to another balding man, and assumed that all men experiencing hair loss knew each other.

One day after being traumatized by the worst haircut of his life, the close relative ranted to the barber in vivid details about what a terrible job he had done. 

Finally, the barber asked, "If I don't charge you for the haircut, will you promise never to come back to my barbershop again?"