Letters From Heaven Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely, but rather to skid in sideways yelling "YAHOO! What a ride!"
"When I am no longer here and can not comfort you or touch you or wipe away your tears, remember that my soul will gently caress your heart through the soft breezes of springtime."
P. Schultz
I have alway had an extremely high tolerance for drugs. Some people can take one or two Advil and it knocks them out (Tom); Give them half a Tylenol PM and they're gone for at least eight hours (Tom); A Vicodin will erase a entire day (Tom); And just sniffing the bottle that held Ambien will be enough for those butterflies to flutter about (Tom).
When I had dental surgery years ago, the surgeon didn't want to take that last minute chance that I wouldn't be knocked out so we "experimented" with a few different drugs in the weeks prior to the surgery. I already knew from an "experiment" in high school that Seconal made me sicker than a dog so we crossed that off the list right away.
First we tried Valium. It did nothing. Next came Xanax. Nada. Ativan ... nope.
Finally, we tried Halcion. The instructions were to begin with half a tablet, wait thirty minutes and if nothing happened, take the other half. At this point, I should be in la-la land but in case I wasn't, I was to wait another thirty minutes and repeat those steps until I was.
Saturday afternoon. I took the first half. And waited. Took the second half. And waited. Repeated the process. And waited. After the third full round, I remember thinking "this is ridiculous" and walking into the living room to make some phone calls.
That's all I remember until the next morning when I called the surgeon and said "I think we have a winner!" When he asked how many I had to take and I told him, he was amazed. He told me that one whole tablet would have knocked out a full grown man. Two would have put an NFL linebacker out of the game. Three ... well, I seemed to have the constitution of a horse!
I don't remember the surgery later that week, but apparently I had a great time. I was insistent that I needed no help walking up the stairs even though my feet were no longer connected to my brain. In the middle of the procedure I insisted that I had to use the bathroom (which was outside the office and down the hall). I jumped up out of the chair, strolled through the waiting area, blood and saliva dripping down my chin, cheerfully greeted the waiting patients, and whistled my way down the hall.
Since I haven't had a full nights sleep in so long, I've been wondering if Halcion is still on the market. But after taking half a Vicodin last night for a headache and sleeping almost all night, maybe I should forget it.
I have a feeling my tolerance level might have dropped a bit. From what I (don't) remember though, that Halcion was a lot more fun!
I am so glad that sister-friend Stephanie is going to be here soon. At least she is supposed to be here ... I heard from her Saturday evening and she was in Blythe (for those who haven't heard of Blythe, it's considered the armpit of California. At least to those who don't actually live there. And then again, they may feel that way too).
Anyway, I did not hear from her last night so I have absolutely no idea just where she is today. I'm hoping it's somewhere between Blythe and here.
She doesn't know it yet but at some point during her visit, we're going to get together with Jules. I'm guessing this get-together may be a real fun-filled, possibly dangerous experience (not in the bodily-harm-dangerous-sense, but more of the boy-am-I-in-trouble-dangerous-sense ... anybody who reads Jules on a regular basis will understand).
And since I don't drink, or at least not to the extent that I once did, and I have a guy who will be waiting at home who doesn't drink at all (that's right, we are not inviting him to join us), remembering the evening will be a definite plus.
I have a sneaky suspicion that between Stephanie and Jules, I should have several days worth of entries. Not to mention sore jaws from the laughter.
Any one out there who is close by and would like to join us, feel free to email me for the details.
Dear LFH: What side of the bed do you sleep on? (If I'm standing at the foot looking at you.) :P
Dear Miss Deirdre: First of all, if you're standing at the foot of my bed looking at me, one of us is in big trouble! Aside from that, I attempt to sleep in the middle. However, I am usually out-voted by a man-person, a 50-pound dog and a 13-pound cat. In which case, I generally end up on the floor. On the left side.
Dear LFH: I saw this on Tammy's...I'll ask you a different question tho...um...if you could be any animal in the world what would you be and why?
Dear Harmonia: Well ... nothing like cheating, huh? Okay, so I stole the idea from Tammy and you stole the question I asked Tammy! I suppose turnabout is fair play. I personally would be a cat. But not just any cat, mind you. I would be Stephanie's cat. Her cats are allowed to do anything! Trust me on this one. I know from personal experience.
Sincerely, LFH ****** Abby from FunnyGirl2 wants to know:
Dear LFH: Here's something I've been wondering lately: Should I have that mole on my nose removed? Oh, sorry, just talking to myself there for a minute. Here's a question for you: If your house were on fire, and you had to leave in a jiffy, what would you grab on your way out?
Dear Abby: Absolutely! Get rid of the mole! It's very distracting, not to mention that I've heard it plays havoc with your love life. But that's another story. Now as to your second question (which by the way, I'm letting you get away with this time only because you didn't know this was limited to one question per person), the very first thing I would grab on my way out is my own ass! After that, I'd have to say probably the other animals.
Sincerely, LFH ****** From Herb over at Herb's Place comes the following:
Dear LFH: If a man speaks in the forest and there isn't a woman around to hear him, is he still wrong?
Dear Herb: Well, there's no doubt this question came from a man. There's also no doubt that the answer is Of Course! There's no need for a woman to be present for a man to be wrong! Next question?
Sincerely, LFH ****** Miss Cellania over at Miss Cellania's Place always comes up with the technical stuff:
Dear LFH: What is the air speed velocity of an unladen swallow?
Dear Miss Cellania: Pretty much the same velocity as a laden sparrow. Unless of course, there's a jet engine in it's way. Then it pretty much just becomes a bunch of feathers. Which has a zero velocity.
Dear LFH: If you could take back 1 thing in your life that you've done, what would it be?
Dear "Name": Easy one! I would take back the trade I made last week on my fantasy football waivers. Stupid move! I traded my Kansas City Defense for St. Louis ... and what happens? Kansas City shuts out the 49ers, while St. Louis gets their butts kicked! It almost cost me the game but fortunately, my ...
Oh, did you want something serious? Wow! Um. Hmmmm. Well. Uh. Yeah. Lemme think. *sigh* Can I get back to you on this one?
I decided to steal this from Tammy since I'm tired of trying to think of something to write and I'm really tired of bitching about stuff (as I'm sure you are tired of hearing me try to think and bitch).
So, here's the deal ... Ask me a question. Any question. It can be personal, curiousity, something in general or even totally out there. Whatever you want to ask. And I'll try to answer it to the best of my ability.
Mark Foley claims he was molested as a teenager. So what does he do? He becomes a U.S. representative and sends "lurid" emails to young boys, supposedly while he was drinking.
Charles Carl Roberts was despondent over the death of his premature baby nine years ago. So what does he do? He walks into a school room and executes five young girls and then kills himself.
Now, I'm sorry people, but I don't care what trauma you've been through in your life. You still make your own choices. And blaming something from your past does not justify this type of behavior.
Jesus H. Christ! If every person who had a traumatic childhood went out and killed someone or became a child predator or a child molester or mother killer or father raper, can you imagine what would happen to our society?
By that justification alone, I should be able to rob banks, kick dogs and little children, run over pedestrians who take too long to cross the street, shoot my next door neighbor and expect to be forgiven by all ... because I didn't have a wonderful childhood.
I just have no patience or understanding of this way of thinking. Nor do I feel sorry for those who claim they are oppressed, they have no chance, they are forced into a life of crime and violence. Get real!
How much more do you want? Nothing in this life is going to be handed to you, no matter what you think your deserve. You're given many more opportunities than the average American female. It's all in what youdo with those opportunities. Look around. Others have made it. Get off your lazy butt and do something for yourself!
Debbie introduced us after Art class, during the morning break. We were on our way to Sambo's for coffee.
I remember the two little old women sitting in their car at the stop sign, staring at these three delinquent teenage girls dressed in ragged blue jeans and tank tops, long straight hair and bare feet.
You looked at me. I looked at you. Our thoughts merged. We hugged, grabbed each others hand and skipped across the road in front of them. They just stared, their mouths dropping open at such blatant behavior. We smiled and blew them kisses.
I remember talking for hours. Sitting in Sambo's day in and day out, during every break and lunch hour. Just drinking coffee and talking.
I remember the night I met you and Allan under the bridge and you took me home with you. You took me into the house, sat me down in front of Natalie and said "Can we keep her?"
She said yes.
I remember the weekend we spent laying on our stomachs on a raft in the middle of a lake in a place called Sweetsmill.
It was a nude weekend, with people of all ages. We were young and embarrassed and afraid to roll over. We sunburned our butts and the ride home was extremely uncomfortable.
I remember the nights spent sitting outside the club, leaning against the wall and listening to the band inside. Our guys were playing. Kirk and Leland and Donny.
We were so young. So much in love. Me with Kirk. You with Leland.
I remember the night we got busted. I had that tiny apartment and when the door came down, it almost hit the opposite wall.
You were still a minor and Natalie took you home. You all went camping the next day, fully expecting me to be released. But I was considered an adult and it was my apartment, even if it wasn't my dope.
I remember how bad you felt when you found out I had spent the week in jail.
I remember you cried when I moved to Texas and got married.
I remember you cried when I got a divorce and moved back.
I remember the night we dressed to the nines and went out to see our new guys playing in the band. It was right before you left for Alaska.
I remember when you left. You and Ron, so brave and daring, driving that little VW bug all the way from California to Anchorage.
I remember when you married Bobby and Natalie and I flew to Anchorage. You were such a beautiful bride. You were so happy.
I remember the phone calls when you and Bobby started having problems. You went through rehab and cleaned up but the marriage was over.
We both cried.
I remember when you met Tom and moved to the Island, starting over with your own business.
I remember the first time I saw the Saturn commercial on TV and realized it was you, looking into the camera from that little island in Alaska.
I remember when you and Tom came to California and we all met in Carmel for Thanksgiving. You seemed happy but you were also so very troubled.
You were on a slow, downward spiral and you didn't know it. None of us did.
I remember the breakup with Tom and the union with Robin. You seemed happier but the spiral continued.
I remember when you decided to go back to school. I surprised you by showing up at your graduation and it was the beginning of my renewed relationship with Natalie. I had quit drinking. You hadn't.
I remember more phone calls when you were drinking and all you wanted to do was re-live the past. All I wanted to do was let it go.
I remember the last time I saw you, as you were leaving for the airport the day after Natalie's memorial service. I wish I had said more then. I wish I had told you that the person I held hands with thirty some years ago was still in there somewhere.
I wish I could save you. I can't. I can't even recognize the person you are now. I wish I could find the person you used to be.
I have a friend. A stupid friend. I realize that probably isn't a nice thing to say but even she realizes it so I figure it's fair game.
This friend is in a situation that she's trying to figure out whether to stay in as it is, take her chances at a confrontation or just say screw it and get the hell out.
She thought about writing to one of those "Dear Abby" advice columns (much like Abby considered the medical column in her local newspaper), but when I suggested throwing the situation into the blog-basket and see what kind of advice the real world has to offer, she decided to give it a shot.
So ... here's the situation:
She has been in a relationship for about three years; she moved in with her "love" about a year and a half ago; They moved to another state about six months ago and bought a house. The thing is, her name is not on the house (there were a couple of reasons for this at the time, but we won't go into that). Over the past several months, there have been a couple of conversations in which her "love" insinuated that putting her name on the house was something they needed to do, especially if something happened to him.
Now because of the financial situation ... he makes an excellent salary, has several investment accounts, IRA, CDs, etc., ... she doesn't have to work, not does he want her to work. She is basically a "kept" woman. She lives in a nice house (which she decorated and she takes care of), she can buy just about anything she wants or needs with no questions asked (well, there are some limitations ... a new car might be pushing it), she pretty much wants for nothing. Something women around the world would give their eye teeth for.
Except ... everything he has, all of those investments, including the newest life insurance policy and 401K through his new employer, have his (grown) children as beneficiaries. And she knew that going in to the situation. What bothers her is that he recently changed an attachment to his will in which he specifically listed the house they now share as being a part of his assets that are to go to the kids. Not to her.
The thing is, she's afraid to confront him because what if he says something like "You don't like it? Leave" and she can't just say screw it and walk away because she has nothing to walk away with ... no job, no money, no place to go. Oh, there are places she could go but ... she really doesn't want to go.
My advice to her is to suck it up, get a job (whether he likes it or not), and get financially independent so that when she does confront him, she can leave if that's what happens.
I thought about writing something humorous and witty this morning, but I couldn't think of anything.
Then I thought I'd write something inspirational and uplifting, but again my little brain went blank.
I moved on to something intelligent and thought-provoking, but I had nothing.
I considered sharing one of my secret original recipes but my originality seems to have taken a vacation and I was pretty sure that most people out there are already familiar with Shake-n-Bake.
Then, I received an email from a long time friend ... an old boyfriend from high school who found me a few years ago on Classmates.com. We've kept in touch via email ever since.
The email was short, simply telling me that he wouldn't be around for a while and to do an internet search on his step-daughters name. He added a P.S.: "Don't ever pass up a chance to tell your daughter and grandkids you love them."
Just from the tone of the email, I knew this was not going to be good. And it wasn't.
Holly Jean Quick, sixteen years old, was raped and murdered in Sparks, Nevada.
You never know when it will be too late to say "I love you." Don't take the chance.
