Emma visits the Granmudder

That's what she calls me, GranMUDDER, emphasis on the Mudder.

Em's having a little trouble with that whole "baby sister" concept.  She was very supportive of the whole thing once they got Ada home from the hospital.  Ada was better than a dolly, you could love her all you wanted and she rarely required anything but a bottle and a diaper change.

The problem began when it became evident that Ada had violated the basic contract whereby she would remain a pink blob who only needed a bottle and a diaper change to make her life complete.  Apparently no one told Em that baby sisters are not a static, one form only event.

Unlike new dollies, they grow up.

Ada learned to eat things.  At first, feeding her crackers was kind  of fun, but then Mom and Dad got all anal about not giving her marbles to eat, so that was no fun anymore.  And Ada learned to get around in her walker, which meant she could actually enter the hallowed and sacred space of Emma's personal room and touch things.  And the parents were opposed to hitting her over the head with books when she did.

Then Ada learned to crawl.  Now she was mobile both in and out of the walker and no one's toys were sacred.  Also, many fun things had to be removed from Emma's general area.  Emma was strongly opposed to this course of action, but no one cared.

Ada learned to vocalize and Daddy had the unmitigated gall to address her as, "Hey, Beautiful!"  Emma is beautiful, she holds the copyright, the patent, the screen rights and the royalties from beautiful.  Emma sued.  She's three so that involved kicking Daddy repeatedly in the knee and saying, "No, I will NOT give you one minute, Dad."

I don't know what that has to do with beautiful, it's what she said.  A Lot.  For a very long time.

Then Emma stepped up her game.  If they were going to lavish attention on that....sister.....SHE would demonstrate some attention getting they would not soon forget!  I think Emma might have been Caligula in a former life.  She took all the dishes out of the cupboard, climbed the dishwasher, washed the kitchen windows with the floor scrubbing sponge, unmade all the beds, robbed the jewelry boxes and wore all the watches and did all of it while stark naked and singing, "This little light of mine."

Lacey made her come in the living room and wear pants.  Emma took them off and began growling savagely at Ada anytime she came near.  Ada cried.  Emma didn't care.  She took off all her clothes again and decided to go out on the porch to ride the tricycle.  Naked.

Lacey made her come in the living room and wear pants.  Emma decided she needed to potty.  I don't know if she actually DID potty, I do know she used an entire mega roll of charmin to decorate the kitchen on her way back to the living room.

She also took all of the meat out of the freezer, left the refrigerator door wide open repeatedly, robbed the breadbox to make herself a sandwich with some brown and serve rolls I had forgotten were in there and reprogrammed the computer so it does things I think might be in Russian, or possibly some alien alphabet from another galaxy, but is certainly not English, and Emma won't give me the password.

I just want Washington to know that if some little green naked men get out of a saucer on the White House lawn and demand to be taken to their leader, just bring them here.  It will be Em who summoned them and you're better off just letting her do whatever she called them for.  Otherwise she'll growl at you and that will likely start an interstellar war and really, it's just simpler to let Lacey make them come into the living rroom and wear pants.

Lacey's really good at that.  We can feed them the rest of those rolls Emma found, that should ensure they will want to leave fairly quickly.

So, anyway, occasionally Emma remembers she kind of likes Ada.  Not enough to want to share toys with her, but enough that no one is allowed to touch her, look at her or babysit her.  She may be a major inconvenience, but she's EMMA'S major inconvenience and you had better not forget it.
She reminds me an awful lot of some other little girl who lived in Towerville long, long ago and had a little sister.

And that little girl reminded her grandma of another little girl long, long ago who lived around there and had a little sister.  For all I know, SHE may have had a grandma who was reminded...well, you get the idea.

Pilly and the Angiogram

Before you faint, it was a CT angiogram, so nobody ran a wire into my heart--go technology!  And before I poke fun at the entire proceeding, let me say that the ladies who finally got my IV in were amazing.

They were professional, courteous, kind, funny, helpful and are now my heroes, absolutely.  I don't know what they pay you, ladies, but it's not enough.  Ask for a raise and say Pilly said so.  I'll back you up.

So, anyway, on to the Pilly story.  Would I have any procedure without gaining a Pilly story from it?  No, I would not.  Get serious.

So, Jacob took me to the clinic, on account of I can't drive in LaCrosse and we all agree that me stranded in an intersection screaming and crying while trying to decide when it's safe to turn while many people behind me honk and scream obscenities is probably not a good idea.

And we got there with no trouble.  Jacob can even turn left into Kwik Trip.  I'm in awe.  Seriously.

I was a little set back at the clinic because I had counted on there being someone at the help desk to remind me where to go (I lost my instructions, no surprises there) but they were off exploring the medical museum or greeting people at the door and so I was on my own.

It's just a thought, but I don't need someone to greet me at the door.  It's not Wal-mart.  Just stick someone behind the help desk and make them stay there.  They can greet me while I'm desperately trying to figure out which way is the CT scan.

And I found the CT scan place, where some nice little girl gave me a box to hold and told me to go wait with a magazine.  I know what the box is for, but even so, when your startle reflex is so finely tuned a hand clap can send you into a seizure, how good is it to leave you with a vibrating box and a magazine?

Just as I expected, the box took me unaware and caused me to scream and throw it in the air.  At least there was no doubt in anyone's  mind who was next.  It led the nurse right to me.

So I went to the little room where they make you put on the backwards gown and the robe, which does nothing to cover you and after pointing out which one was the robe for the third time, on account of clearly they thought I might forget, they let me get undressed in there.

I forgot my purse on the way to my locker and had to go back for it, and then I couldn't open the door, get the key out, or hang everything neatly on hooks, but eventually I had the things stuffed in there, the door closed and the key around my wrist, so we went on.

We got to the place where they put in your IV and it turned out some grand Cardiologist was a little anal about only running the IV in your right arm.  We did try.  They numbed it each time, so it didn't hurt, really, which is good because I was only one among several older ladies and God knows what they would have thought if it had gotten any more complicated than it already was.

First, the obvious vein (you've probably had one or two  IVs in the crook of your elbow, so you know about that) no soap.

It turns out you have several other veins on the sides of your arm that will work in a pinch.  None of mine would, but still.  Don't give up hope.  They went and got the ultrasound machine to locate my elusive veins.  More numbing.  Still no luck.

Somebody went to talk to the grand Cardiologist, not mine, just the guy on call, and he said something like, screw the torpedos, full speed ahead, which apparently meant, keep digging.  We did.

More numbs it stuff.  They went and found a whole new person to try.  I liked the first one fine and didn't see why we should change, but the next one was nice, too.

Meanwhile many other old ladies came and went.  We had a lot of nice discussions about IVs and CT scans and life in general.  The new girl found a vein but it turned out to be an artery because it had a pulse.  I don't know if you know this, but you can't put an IV in an artery.  It was news to me.

More discussion with the grand Cardiologist who
1) still insisted on the right arm
2) wanted a number 18 cannula which was bigger than the vein, itself and
3) didn't care how long it took and assumed I didn't either.

I suggested we bring him down and poke five or six holes in his arm and then if he still thought it was a good idea, we could do me, again.  I was perfectly willing to use that ultra sound thing and have the girls teach me the fine art of IV running using him as a learning tool, but no, we weren't allowed to do that.

Eventually, the tube was in the side of my arm and we went off to the CT scan.  That was uneventful except for the part where they make you hold your arms above your head and hold your breath.  However, I have had the kind of Andiogram they do for real, where they run the wire into your heart, so believe me, I was not complaining.

It was a little embarrassing that I couldn't sit up afterward from a prone position, thus announcing to all that my abs are plainly on permanent vacation and refuse to do anything at all, but at least it was quick.

Getting the IV out was much simpler, and before you could say Bob's your uncle, I was on my way home.  And Jacob drove me home along the river and I saw an eagle.  Seeeing the eagle wasn't so great I would be willing to undergo that whole IV experience again for the privilege, but it was still pretty cool.

Today my arm is black and blue all the way around, I have more needle holes than an IV drug user and I even brusied where we tied the elastic around my arm, so I have my own, built in mourning band.  On the upside, it hurts to use that hand for anything, so I'm not waxing the floor til tomorrow.

I think I'll play with Emma, today.  She's way more fun than a medical procedure, I can tell you that.

Freedom

I once read a really great short story--I wish I could remember the title or the author, I'm sorry I can't--in which freedom was defined by the ability to say, "I won't."

And it is how to define freedom, just watch:

Pilly, quit expressing your opinion on line.

"I Won't".

Pilly, stop criticizing your local government.

"I won't."

Pilly, stop expressing your opinion about Wal-mart.

"I won't."

And so on. This morning I found the link to this blog disabled. I don't know why it would be or who is responsible and maybe it's just a fluke. Probably it is. But it certainly made me think about freedom.

I love my country, I even admire the President very much, I have trusted him since the first moment I heard him speak, I think his wife is beautiful and intelligent and kind, I think his children are adorable, I even like his dog.

I'm not wildly confident of the integrity of the House and Senate, but we're all just human, and Washington Government is in a very public eye, so I don't worry too much about that.

State government is in less of a public eye, certainly not under global scrutiny like Washington, but under enough scrutiny that we can probably be sure nothing too radical will slip by us.

But local government, now.....well, this is a small and rural place, the eye we're in isn't all that public, the checks and balances might not be quite so visible here. But it's still America, isn't it?

And as an American, I know that my freedom matters every bit as much as that of the President of the United States, himself. I know the President would say so, and I know he would mean it when he did, because I have a feeling the little people matter an awful lot to Barack Hussein Obama.

Because we're the ones who needed him most, we're the ones who trust him, we're the ones who believe in him and we're the ones who just keep on voting for all the things he thinks are a good idea.

And as a black man in America, I bet he knows a lot of stories about small rural governments, little towns where power goes to the head of the people who believe themselves to hold all the power, and what can happen to someone that the neighbors perceive as less....worthy....than themselves of actual justice.

Which would be not the letter, but the spirit of the law.

And so, as an American I encourage you to remember the man who said, "...and when they came for me, there was no one left to say anything," as he was taken off to Auschwitz, because that was the moment he realized that if they do it to me today, they can do it to you tomorrow. And that just because you think you're exempt, maybe you'd better rethink that.

Because people who get a little heady with power sometimes go Too Far. That's why our government--large and small--was designed to HAVE checks and balances. Because our forefathers knew that when a dog goes mad, it's a good thing if you already have a man in place whose job it is to leash that dog and put a muzzle on it before it bites the wrong person in the ass.

Freedom is a wonderful thing. Wonderful. And if you ask me to stop talking about it, if you try to make me stop talking about it, well, I Won't.

God Bless America.

To Ashley

Last night, you experienced the greatest loss any woman ever knows, the loss of your unborn child. And it was your child. Not a fetus, not a "collection of cells or tissue," but your child.

Well meaning people are going to try to minimize your loss in a futile attempt to make you feel better, but it won't make you feel better. I know. Your mother and I each lost a child, as well.

For me it was my second, but for your mother it was her first, like yours, and that is the cruelest loss of all, the loss of the firstborn.

I am writing this because, one day, I hope you will be able to read it and know that you do not grieve alone and that in the world there is one person, at least, who understands.

For me, the hardest parts were that no no one would recognize my loss AS a loss. It was not a "blessing in disguise," or"not meant to be" and if it was God's will, I could only wonder why my loving Father would give me a gift like that and then take it away, before I ever got to enjoy it.

There is a reason for everything that happens, and God is a loving Father, but I still have no answer to that particular why, I expect I never will. I would like to think that it might have been, in part, because He knew that in 25 years or so, the person I loved best and was closest to would also suffer a catastrophic loss, and was going to need someone who understood the need to grieve.

I know that nothing you did caused this, and you need to know that, too. Really KNOW it. This is not your fault, nothing could have changed it, no matter what you did or failed to do you could not have changed the outcome.

Sometimes, things don't develop as they ought to, when something is so catastrophically wrong that the fetus can never become a viable, living child, we are designed to stop the process. Because God loves us and little babies, and spares us what we would suffer if we had to see those hurts made manifest in our child.

And though you may not believe me now, THAT hurt would be a thousand times crueler than the one you're suffering right now.

But having said that, now let me say this. You lost a baby. A person. Someone more precious to you than life, itself. And you have a right to grieve. The hardest part is having no grave to visit, no place to lay flowers, no stone that says that, even if for only a few weeks, your baby lived. And was loved. And strongly desired and desperately awaited.

Now, you are some one's mother, and no one can ever take that from you, my love. No one. So grieve as much as you must, know that empty arms are not empty forever, that broken hearts do mend, even if a little crookedly.

If you cannot have a grave to visit, plant a tree or a rosebush, and on this anniversary visit that place, and cry and leave a flower, and remember your child. And someday, even be a little glad that, even if for only a little time, you were everything to that little person.

You were food and shelter and a heartbeat that comforted. You were Mom, who was there at the beginning and that cradled that little life until it went back to God, and was cuddled by His Mother until you could come, and take it in your own arms.

I love you, Ashley. You ARE the kindness. Be brave, there is a child in your future that's going to need you. I promise. And you must be there for that.

Pilly and the Wal-mart Pharmacy

So there I was at the Wal-mart, trying to fill a prescription. And the one I call Sociopathy Girl (although she left girlhood behind some time ago, I fear) was working the desk. She's not a pharmacist, in fact, I'm not entirely sure she's human. She likes to play with her prey before eating it, maybe she's a cat.

And her eyes had that little maniacal twinkle of unholy glee that I have come to know and dread, and so I knew we were in for an interesting day. And we were.

She said the prescription wasn't on file. You want to bring your old bottle with you, the one where it says, "May refill until this date." That tends to throw a wrench into the Great Torture Device that is Sociopathy Girl's place of employment there in Viroqua.

As you may have surmised, I left my bottle home. So I asked her to call the clinic, and she said she would and Lacey, Emma, Ada and I went to visit the Christmas Aisle. Also, the housewares department, the movie section, the toy department, the grocery portion and the Ladies Room.

Ada was not enjoying Wal-mart and clearly would have preferred to go home. Lacey and Emma were having a war of nerves to determine whether Emma would ride in a cart and thus be successfully contained, or whether she would reinvent Wal-mart as a place where any ambitious little girl could climb a few shelves and ride the Pinatas.

Lacey temporarily prevailed. After a month or so, we went back to the pharmacy. No, Sociopathy girl said, they had not reached the clinic. We went to look at purses, jewelry, make up, cleaning supplies, bathroom tissue and clothes.

Emma tried on a few things as we went. You know, like lingerie from the nightgown department. Wearing a bra and panties on her head was distracting for her for a little while, but it palled. As did eating the marshmallows, drinking the milk and enjoying some Go-gurt in a tube.

I was still not loving Sociopathy Girl, and this was entirely her responsibility, so I just serenely kept walking. If you're going to torture the crazy people, you should be prepared for them to reply in kind.

Ada made a political statement about Wal-mart that required a visit to the changing station and a new diaper. Enough time passed for new life forms to evolve and I returned to the pharmacy. Still no reply from the clinic.

I've been through this before, so I went to the service desk and called the clinic, who replied as I expected, the prescription certainly was on file, they had responded two hours ago, and Sociopathy Girl was clearly having a bad day again.

I went back to the pharmacy, and informed Sociopathy Girl that she would be hearing from the clinic shortly, and as nearly everyone within the city limits had probably heard my conversation with the clinic--not that the clinic was problematic, they don't employ Sociopaths at the clinic, I just wanted to share information with other potential Wal-mart Pharmacy customers so they could experience the cat and mouse drama of interacting with Sociopathy Girl--I was confident that soon, the game would end.

It didn't end as quickly as I would have liked, so I released Emma from the cart. She tried out some blood pressure monitors. Lacey tried to stop her, but I intervened. After all, if Wal-mart wanted her to stop they were perfectly welcome to throw a net over Sociopathy girl, and I said so. Loudly. And firmly.

Emma said she had to pee. I suggested a likely looking spot on the floor in the eye department, but Lacey made her go to the ladies room. People noticed.

I had a nice discussion with Lacey about why the pharmacy should never jerk around the paranoid schizophrenics. I don't believe I am a paranoid schizophrenic, certainly I have not been diagnosed with that illness. But Wal-mart doesn't know that.

Other customers began decidng to wait on the other side of the store. While eyeing me suspiciously. I smiled, on account of I am nice like that.

I began speculating as to whether the sporting goods department would sell me a gun and some ammunition, but it turned out they don't sell firearms anymore. Pity, that.

Other customers suddenly realized they had forgotten to purchase tires for their cars and decided to rectify that immediately, moving farther away from the pharmacy.

So we began discussing the possible effect of adding certain varied mushrooms to the employee coffee pot. Lacey allowed as how that might be fun and asked me how well I was able to distinguish between say, the Amanita species , the hallucinogenic species and morels, which are harmless.

I ventured the opinion that I was not good at that, not good at all. In fact it could be argued that as I don't see well, a lot of things could go wrong if I were to say, make soup from scratch.

Emma decided to test different fever thermometers and experiment with some batteries. I encouraged her to foster her sense of scientific inquiry. Ada fell asleep, but not until firmly protesting having to be at Wal-mart two years longer than the dinosaurs roamed the earth, thus missing her lunch.

I suggested to Lacey that we advise the clinic and the place they refer the crazy people to, to recommend that their patients use some pharmacy other than Wal-mart's, as the effect of denying medication to a person who was badly Bipolar had potential for repercussions of epic proportion.

And then I aired some views of the way Sociopathy Girl treated the elderly. Emma had moved on to vitamins and natural substances and was preparing to create an entirely new treatment for psoriasis.

Again, I opined that as I would take Emma home anytime they saw fit to give me my antidepressants, thus preventing my messy suicide in the meat department, and by a rare coincidence it was at that exact moment they called my name.

Before you come to arrest me, please be advised that at no time did I seriously consider tampering with the coffee pot or harming any individual. I am not sociopathic, unlike some people who shall remain nameless (I'll just look at the part and whistle).

This is an attempt at humor, after all. Of course, you may not find me amusing and if that is the case, I invite you (and strongly encourage you) to blog about that to your heart's content. I will even read you if you like, I am nothing if not gracious.

I am not qualified to diagnose Sociopathy Girl and it is only my opinion that she is probably only one act of psychological torture away from a new career as a serial killer, and unless you are the thought police, what I think is not a crime.

I'm allowed to think anything I want. Thanks to the First Amendment I can say anything I like, as well. Unless George Bush repealed that Amendment at the same time he instituted the Patriot Act and created the secret police department that he so reassuringly called Homeland Security.

So, anyway, I got the pills, I took the pills and now I am feeling pretty sane, again. Sane enough to make it to January when I see the Grand Psychiatrist and get new meds which may cure me. Or not. But are sure to make for an interesting spring.

I might switch pharmacies by then, though. Sadly, what they are letting that woman do to the mentally ill is, if not a crime, certainly morally wrong and medically unethical and you would think the actual Pharmacists would ask for her to be reassigned to say, the auto department and someone who likes people could work at the pharmacy window and look important while playing solitaire on the computer.

But that's just a suggestion.

Don't be like Sociopathy Girl. Make the world a better, not a worse, place.

Be the kindness.

Veteran's Day

I noticed over there on CNN that some bunch of government people were holding a meeting to discuss the homeless Veterans. Which ones, I'd like to know? And exactly where the hell have the committee members been since around 1980 when Ronald Reagan decided it violated the human rights of the mentally ill if we gave them food, shelter and medication so he turned them all out to live in a subway tunnel in New York?

I mention this because a significant number of them were Viet Nam Veterans. You remember Viet Nam, it was that other big mistake of a war we used to get rid of people we didn't like back there in the 60's.

There was a disproportionate number of black soldiers on the front lines, for instance, thus guaranteeing that there would be a lot fewer people yelling at the government about getting to use the same drinking fountain as the rest of us and not get lynched unto the fourth generation.

Those are my veterans. My Mom, a sweet person whose father was a World War II veteran, makes it a point to shake the hand of any soldier she sees and thank him for keeping her safe. It's a wonderful gesture and a good idea, it puts a human face on what you're doing there when you wake up in Iraq.

No one shook the hand of my Vets. I'm not sure they were actually fighting anything like terrorism, it might have been (the ominous threat of) Communism. Which no one could exactly define, but we knew was very bad. Something like a red alert on the terrorism scale. No one knows what that means, either.

Today we hear a lot about doing like my Mom and shaking the hands of the guys who come home. There was a suggested gesture for greeting my vets, too. You were supposed to spit on them and scream "Babykiller!" at them, even if they had been drafted and would just as soon not have gone to hell for a tour or two.

And a hell of a lot of people were ready to make the gesture, too. It was the politically correct of it's time.

Sometimes in parades you see my guys, the ones who can come. They wear Jungle camo fatigues, are usually unshaven and make a point to keep what's left of their hair in a long gray ponytail. If their smiles are a little wry, it's because they had to wait twenty years or so for their first parade and despite the fact that we applaud them now, they haven't forgotten how we met them when they deplaned in 1968.

On this Veteran's Day, I would like to tell you what defined "war" for me when I was ten, and what still defines it for me today.

It is the memory of the flag draped casket of Larry Swiggum, who won a purple heart which did not seem to me to be adequate compensation for his orphaned brothers and sisters, but was the highest honor the government could confer, so at least it was nice they tried.

It was a closed casket because there wasn't enough of him left to look at.


In Memory of Larry Swiggum, God grant you rest in peace and give you what we could not, life.

Katt Williams

I was just over there on CNN, and I have to tell you, that Katt Williams fellow has a really nice mug shot. Much better than mine. And I'm pretty sure he's not guilty, either.

So, just in case he should ever be here in hillbilly hell, I want him to know that he is welcome to drop in here and visit us anytime at all. We criminal types really must stick together. He can sleep on the sofa, help himself to the refrigerator, I will even give him the very best afghan my mother made to sleep under.

He smiled in his mug shot. That may be because he is more alert than I am and he knows what, "go stand over there by the wall" is leading to, or it could be that he knows he has a lawyer and enough money to sue some serious butt when this is over.

I would even testify on his behalf. I mean, I wasn't actually there or anything, but I am confident I could think of something nice to say about him on the witness stand, and convince the court that he only swears like that to make money, it's not that he's really rude. I used to be a Sunday School teacher, if no one runs my prints, that could even mean something.

It was refreshing to know that even wealthy, famous comedians can sometimes choose the wrong friends and end up in front of a wall getting their picture made by the nice deputy.

His lawyer said something like the charges were absurd, and I would just like to tell him that if he says that around here, some guy is going to yell at him, he's going to need a trip to the therapist afterward, and before you can say Bob's your uncle, someone will have charged him with obstructing justice.

I used to think Texas was kind of out there, because instead of a welcome to their state they just scream, "Don't mess with Texas" at you as you cross their borders. Now I am thinking it's nice they issue a warning and maybe Wisconsin could consider something along those lines. Not necessarily for the whole State, but certainly for this county.

And possibly the one next door, although I met their deputy once and she was just as nice as pie, so maybe not.

You may be wondering why I don't just go live somewhere else, and I would like to relieve your curiosity by telling you that most days I cannot leave my house. I am praying I will not be having an agoraphobia day on my court appearance day because if they make me come to court on a day like that, they are going to have to force me screaming and slavering white foam out the door.

Hauling me into court with that strait jacket and hockey mask on, riding on a refrigerator dolly and dripping blood from where I held onto the door frame and bit my tongue in half is likely not going to improve my situation in the courtroom.

I would go to great lengths to ensure I don't have to leave the city limits even on a good day, and that would be how I find myself in this charming position in the first place. Alright, my judgement was poor, I admit that, but it seemed like a really good idea at the time.

Which, incidentally, I am having engraved on my tombstone, since it seems to have been the sentiment that has guided my life all along, and no one need wonder why I am rarely if ever seen outside this house.

It usually wasn't a good idea at the time, and that would explain how I got here. Anyone who doubts me is welcome to visit any of the nurses who took care of me after heart surgery and ask them their opinion of my sanity.

I do think, however, that jail might be good for me. They lock you in a little room, you never have to leave and so far as I know, no one plays the guitar to all hours keeping you awake.

You don't have to cook, with a little persuasion I might be able to convince them to give me some floor wax and a few sponges and I could have the cleanest, shiniest, nicest little room in the history of prison.

Getting me to leave might be a small problem for them, I tend to bond with my safe zone. Still, it's a positive thought. In no time at all, every county worker in the area will know the words to Ave Maria and will be able to join in a rousing chorus of "The Risin' of the Moon" at the drop of a hat and with gusto.

While I'm gone, that nice Katt Williams fellow can stay at my house and keep the boys company.

That'll work.

The Important Official Disclaimer

In case you just joined the wagon train, and did not bother to read my first ever post on this site (and indeed, why should you?), I would like to point out that all Pilly stories are BASED ON actual events.

In other words, they were INSPIRED BY something that actually happened to me, but they are not literally, factually true. Usually.

They are therapeutic (that's my story and I'm sticking to it) because they are a venue that allows me to poke fun at myself (and everybody else. Is nothing sacred? No, not really), so please do not award them the weight of say, sworn testimony in court.

Stephen King once said that writers are incapable of telling a story without making it better, and although I am nothing like Stephen King (you know, rich, famous, talented) I am still a person who feels compelled to write.

So I claim the privilege. If you want the facts, watch that fellow on CNN. Sometimes he gets it right. Not often, but sometimes. He tries.

I, on the other hand, do not. If you can't laugh at yourself go to therapy. I know a good guy, if you need a suggestion. I would tell you to go to hell, but that would be rude, and a sin and anyway, therapy is marginally less painful, it could do you good.

I'm not promising, or anything. I'm just saying.

What you should not do is take any of it personally. I mean, really. Wouldn't you be embarrassed to have the world know you have a stick jammed so far up your...anatomy...that you can't laugh at how I perceive you ( and me)?

If that IS a problem for you, just start your own blog and write amusing things about me. E-mail me, I'll help you set it all up. I'll suggest funny things you can say about me and ways you can insult me. I get suicidal on bad mental health days--really suicidal, not funny suicidal--but I have removed all sticks from my anatomy.

May I suggest you do so as well? Life is hard, no one gets out of it alive. And as my Grandma Helgeson used to say, you might as well laugh as cry.

Over all, I have found her to be right about most things.

And Another thing

I see that, with my usual knack at telling a story I forgot the whole mug shot section, so you might need to know that.

Because it's nothing like you'd expect, although I can tell you that I now know why mug shots look like they do.

You know, like the person was drunk at the time or possibly a moron who drooled a lot.

Because they don't actually mention that they're going to take your picture, they just tell you to go stand by the wall there and face them. Which I did. But I was thinking about something and didn't realize they had taken my picture until they asked me to turn to the left.

By that time someone already had a picture of me with bad posture and breathing through my mouth. And during the profile shot I was obsessing over how I looked dead on and frankly, that didn't improve my profile picture, either.

And then some guy made me take off my glasses, because apparently glasses can alter your look to the point where your own mother wouldn't recognize you. I mean, my own mother always has, but clearly.

I was then not only looking perplexed, but I was blind, as well. I wanted to make a good impression so I tried to face forward, but that just makes me look like a turtle coming out of the shell. And trying to see when I'm blind tends to give me a maniacal glare.

So it's just their own fault if I look like Charlie Manson.

Also, I lose my balance when I can't see, because something to do with that brain freeze during heart surgery, so I don't just look like Charlie, I look like Charlie heavily drugged. Which, now that I think of it, is how Charlie usually looked.

Ah, well. You never get a second chance to make a first impression, mores the pity.

I would like to point out that if you can't tell I'm me if I take my glasses off, how well do you expect to do when I take my hair down? Yet, we left it up in it's twist.

No one even knows how long it is, or how it might alter my appearance if I quit dyeing it or tried a chignon or something. Isn't that as important as glasses? Does this mean I could sneak into Venezuela if I just got a new do?

And, despite the pain meds, I seem to remember we were having a lovely chat about being a grandma throughout this procedure, so I probably also have that sappy, somebody just hit me with a rubber hammer look I get when I rhapsodize over my grandchildren.

Charlie didn't have any grandchildren, but he tended to rhapsodize over a lot of things, so probably, there again, I bear a striking resemblance to him in my mug shots.

This was before the fingerprinting, but after the shoe discussion. I did offer to commit suicide once, but that was mostly a no starter. They looked at me oddly, but no one made an emergency appointment with my therapist like Tammy does when I make that offer to her.

Presumably, Tammy is more fond of me than the Sheriff's Department. But then she knows me better. So far. I am not feeling suicidal today, which is kind of a nice break, but you never know.

I figure I am just one small note from the Sheriff away at any given moment. I'm thinking I may devote a whole chapter in my book, "Pilly's Guide to Creative Suicide," on the downward spiral that occurs in the mind of crazy people when being threatened by yelling deputies.

And, by God, it wasn't an empty threat either. They're nothing if not thorough at that Sheriff's department. And honest. If they promise they're going to have you charged with a crime, you may rest assured that sooner or later, they will get around to doing it.

Even if they have to interrupt your funeral to do it. In fact, I would not be surprised if they dug up my corpse and insist it stand trial. I feel my mother may object to that, but there you are. The law is the law and we all must follow it. All the time. Every day. With no mistakes.

You make a mistake around here and you'll find yourself wandering around next to a wall trying to find a camera in no time at all. Just trust me. I would know.

Being Booked

So, now that I've learned to cope with that whole jail incident, I was thinking you might like to hear about it. Assuming that, like me, you've never been in trouble and your entire experience is based on remembering Jack Lord say, "Book 'em, Danno."


Because it's nothing like that. So if you were expecting some guy to surf and play wild music and to take a trip to the islands, you're really going to be disappointed.


I thought you had to get arrested to be booked, but apparently I was mistaken. Unless this was being arrested and now we get to do it by the honor system and some guy just assumes you'll bring yourself in if he sends you a nice note.


Anyway, some guy brought me a note saying the District Attorney (on the recommendation of the County Sheriff) sure would admire to charge me with a crime and did I think I could drop in at the jail sometime before November thirtieth for some picture taking and so forth, and would I bring my identification with a picture on it, on account of it sure would disappoint them if they went to all that trouble and then found out I'd sent my sister or something. You know, to keep it interesting and prolong the mystery.


So I called that nice fellow at the jail and asked him could I come right then and what was he hoping for in the way of identification.


I got the feeling he was a little taken aback at my call, but he allowed as how I could come that afternoon as he was expecting to be running back and forth to the courthouse that day so all his subjects could do something at court, and it was going to be busy.


I'm always early and I got there at 2:30 even though he said three o'clock, on account of I didn't like to be late, but they had clearly not been as busy as they had expected because the place was quieter than the grave and I couldn't find anyone to help me for some time.


Eventually some nice little girl appeared behind a class wall with a speaker in it and we had a nice visit while I tried to convince her that I was there at the request of the Sheriff, and not just because I had to get my fingerprints done to be bonded for some highly official security clearance job.


Give me peace. I was tempted to say the FBI sent me, on account of Viroqua is such a big city and there are so very many high security clearance jobs available to 50 year old Grandmas with anxiety disorders, but I was in enough trouble, and Jacob was with me, so I just smiled instead.


She directed me down the hall to a nice chair by the Pepsi machine to wait to be assisted. It was boring but some lady was showing a whole herd of kids where their grandma worked and some guy was mopping the floor, so that killed some time. Not enough, but still, There was nothing to read.


After an hour or so Jacob went back and found that nice little girl they keep imprisoned behind that glass and it turned out that someone had indeed forgotten I was there, so she told them again. I think we did that three times or so. I took a pain pill. It didn't help.


Along about suppertime they sent out this real nice blond lady, who it turned out is a deputy. She was a lot prettier than that fellow who yelled at me, and she had a very pleasant way about her, too. The pain meds were starting to kick in about then so I could walk without lurching on my bad hip, but I was a little happier than you would reasonably expect a person to be who was there for the reason I was.


Despite the fact that I had been careful to bring a lot of ID, because you know how thorough we obsessive/compulsive types are, they made me leave my purse with Jacob and not one person ever looked at my Driver's License, my Social Security card, my three library cards, my online ordination minister credential cards (I'll tell you that story another day, no I do not believe I am really clergy and yes, I did have a good reason for doing that. I made a tidy sum of money selling my amusing article on how I earned a doctorate with my three page doctoral thesis, "Am I My Brother's Keeper." It was enough to pay the phone bill, go Pilly) or my letter from Bishop Fred (who awarded my doctorate) stating what a fine upstanding woman I am, even though he never met me.


And I had to empty my pockets, which turned out to be holding my Rosary beads, and which was as big a surprise to me as it was to anyone. I had my hair done up like I always do, so the nice lady had to poke around in there to make sure I wasn't concealing anything like a file.


Although, frankly, what good a file would do you in the booking room is more than I can tell you. They also patted me down in a very courteous way, probably to ascertain that I was not wired to explode or planning to shoot anybody. Although exactly where they thought I might conceal a gun and how they thought I planned to get access to it is an interesting thought.


Seriously, I have thought of all the places a person might reasonably conceal a weapon--I wouldn't put anything sharp in any of those places, but presumably some people wouldn't be afraid to--and I'm blessed if I can figure out how you'd ever get at the thing without stripping right down to your knickers.


And if I began spontaneously to strip down to my knickers I feel fairly certain someone would have both noticed and been alarmed and about the time I found my way to this weapon the men would have been there to take me to the asylum, so what good would it do to conceal a weapon in the first place? But I digress.


First you answer some nice getting to know you questions. You know, what's your middle name and your social security number and are you married, but also your shoe size, which I find a little odd, but who am I to judge? Maybe the government worries about it's shoes, I don't know. I have my own shoes and I did not particularly admire the kind of shoes they had to wear, so I can promise you their shoes are certainly safe from me.


But I don't mind reassuring them if that's the way the anxiety takes them. I used to worry that the hammer would float into the living room of it's own volition and beat me to death, and I'm still able to function pretty well, so they needn't be sensitive if their fear involves shoes.


I completely understand.


Then they weigh you and measure your height. I weighed about what I expected, but it turns out I am two inches shorter than the Cardiologist thinks I am, so I might have to go see that osteoporosis fellow again and tell him I have official government proof that I have shrunk and doesn't he think maybe he should upgrade my spine from just osteopenia.


I mean, if one must have the government in one's business, then they can bloody well write a letter to the osteoporosis fellow backing me up and therefore doing something useful instead of obsessing over their shoes.


Then they ask you why you're there. I personally feel that if anyone knows why I dropped in to be weighed, measured, fingerprinted and photographed one could reasonable expect it to be the guy asking the questions. And I do think I should have the right to say anything I want to that question.


You know, "damned if I know," or "I came to have tea" or "Piewhacket is in the bedroom" (another story, I'll tell you later. I'm probably not welcome in Venezuela anymore). But I figured adding being a smart ass was probably not going to improve my day so I just went with, "Some guy sent me a note and I left it home." Which seemed to work as well as anything.


Then another nice lady--who, remarkably, also turned out to be a deputy and a very nice person--did my fingerprints, which if you didn't have to be accused of a crime to get done, I would highly recommend to everyone because they do it with water and a computer and it is really cool.


Mine kept wanting to screw up the system, but then, what would you expect from a..you know, what I am...right? Eventually we got enough pictures to satisfy anyone, and after that they unlocked the door and let me go home.


I really liked those ladies, and I was going to send them flowers and a thank you note and tell them how nice it was to be treated so kindly in such an awkward situation, but then, like as not, that fellow that yells would feel bad and left out, and I just can't bring myself to give him flowers.

Sanity

Some people have an episode of temporary insanity, but as I always have to be different, I get episodes of temporary sanity. Not that I'm complaining.

I would like to thank my friend Jeannie (Buzz's mom) for saving my life last week. I always say, "Be the kindness." I say it because one act of kindness can sometimes be the deciding factor in life or death. You just don't always realize how a single kind or unkind act can impact another life so greatly.

Jeannie was the kindness for me. Her hand on my shoulder gave me strength, her smile and her kind look reminded me that I have friends, that I have support, that I am loved. It was a simple act, and yet it turned the tide for me. When I tell you to be the kindness, that's not just a catch phrase. It's a rule to live by, a mantra, a hope. A way that you can change the world.

Sometimes, between one heartbeat and the next, I go from being an empty tortured soul to being the richest woman in the world. And the only thing that has made the change is my perspective.

I would like to tell you, if you are one of us crazy people, that you can just choose your perspective. But that would be a lie. We can't.

It really is like the tide. It comes in until it's done coming in and you're as dead as you can be without actually dying, and then the tide turns and you get well. For no reason at all, because of nothing you have done or failed to do, not because of a change in circumstance.

It's just that the tide has turned, and now it's going to go out for awhile. But eventually, it's going to turn and come back in again, too. For no reason at all, because of nothing you have done or failed to do, not because a change of circumstance.

And sometimes you just have to accept that.

Today, I am, like Saint Francis, a Joyful Beggar. And I am grateful for that. Today I think this whole sanity/insanity business is a blessing from God. Not just anyone can be crazy, you know. It's not a gift God trusts to just everyone.

I have always said with Poe,

"From childhood's hour
I have not been
As others were,
I Have not seen
As other's saw,
I could not bring
My passions from the common spring."

I am gentler for this illness, I am kinder for it, I am more patient for it, and I have compassion for all who suffer from it. Those gifts are worth the whistle, I would rather have them than sanity.

Jesus shared his poverty with me, and that is a wonderful and awesome thing. But that He should also have pierced my heart just a little with this illness, so I could share in what He and His Mother suffered for love, just a little, not more than I could stand, well. That takes away my breath and makes me hide my face like Emma does when she is shy.

Because I know I didn't do anything to be worthy of that.

But if He shared it with you, too. If you know what it is to feel so much that you are undone by feeling, Remember that you are blessed.

Saint Therese died during a period of depression so great she could not feel God's presence. Mother Teresa did, also. And just think, that Jesus sees something in us that is enough to make him let us share that sometimes, a thing that is granted to Saints....what a wonder that is.

Because we are not good, we are not special, we are not, ourselves Saints. And even so, He shares that with us.

It is a reason to be the kindness, alright. Be joyful.

Pilly and the Television.

I may have said this before, but I am really tired of the state of the television. There I was over on CNN trying to figure out what the hell went wrong, when I noticed that my news was not coming from what I would term a reliable source.

When I hear news I want it to come from some guy who not only had to go to college but was expected to maintain at least a C average if he ever wanted to sit behind the news desk.

I don't want to know what some idiot thinks about the state of the world. If I wanted that, I could go look in a mirror and talk to myself, it would be every bit as edifying as what Bob the plumber thinks went wrong with the health care bill.

And I don't need to hear from George the doctor, either. George's job would be to ascertain that my heart is still beating and that I don't have that h1n1 flu. I could give a flip what he thinks about politics. I don't go to Bob the plumber to get my car fixed, I don't take my car to Phil the electrician, and I don't want to know how "cool" the teenager next door finds the Presidency--which incidentally, he aspires to, and the way things are going, why not?

And George the doctor should stick to medicine, presumably he did not spend ALL of medical school discussing how gnarly Twitter is.

I would mention ***** the Deputy here, but I believe that might be how I ended up getting fingerprinted last week, and as charming as the ladies at the jail are--and they are very nice, something I do not take for granted anymore--I still feel no desire to go visit them again. It gets in the way of my suicide attempts and frankly, I put a lot of thought into dying and i don't want some person to screw that up for me.

I'm not saying I'm not guilty, that would not be up to me, anyway. I feel confident that given enough time and patience someone, somewhere is sure to reach that conclusion with no input from me, and will no doubt inform me at the appropriate time.

If it should turn out that I AM guilty, I hope jail has a significantly better heating system than this house and that no one expects me to cook. I see no reason for other inmates to be subjected to my cooking, I think they even mention it in the constitution in that cruel and unusual section.

So, anyway, I took boucoup coumadin and thinned my blood all to hell and gone and couldn't have my CT Angiogram so God alone knows what's going on in my chest, but I just decided "screw my chest, what has it ever done for me, anyway?"

And please don't answer that, because at this point it would not matter if my chest had thrown itself on a live grenade to save my life, I still wouldn't like it.

So back to the news, I eventually got to the TV series review and, there again, it was delivered by someone too young to have seen the original series V unless he was wearing a diaper, and in the intervening years certainly did not go to school to learn anything useful.

Had I wanted to know what someone of that age thought of the remake of V as opposed to the original, I could have asked one of my kids, there would be no need for me to go to CNN for that. I would like to know how anyone can be expected to adequately compare 80's V with the 2009 version, if during the original version he was eating strained peas and charming his mother with his toothless grin?

And, also, why should i care what he thinks, even if he got his PhD in television review. A sane person would just go watch the stupid show and afterwards muse to himself, "Was this better or worse than the last time we pretended mean aliens came to earth and pretended to be us...?"

It would not be at all necessary to pay someone for his considered opinion. No one pays me for my considered opinion and I find it a hell of lot more useful than that of some guy over to CNN that has joined the team via the "ordinary people e-mail us what they think" option.

Even if they were any good, and they're not, wouldn't you think that it would occur to one of them that if he went to college someone would PAY him to opine about Star wars? Dude, you're giving it away for free. That's what ruined the prostitution industry, go talk to an old hooker and get yourself back to school. Soon.

In the meantime, quit e-mailing CNN. Also, if you go giving your opinion of current events around here, some guy takes you to the jail and fingerprints you, just so you know. It's fun and all, but it's really hell to explain to the Ladies Aid.

I have given up such nice pastimes as church and kindergarten events for my grandchildren and baby showers for my daughters-in-law, and frankly there's only so much you can do after you have creatively planned all the ways there are to commit suicide. Although I am thinking of writing a book. You know, "Pilly's Guide to Creative Suicide," although God knows why you'd want to buy it. I clearly suck at it.

I will tell you this. Forget the mess, you won't be the one cleaning it up. Forget the dramatic "maybe I'll die and maybe I won't" approach, if you're not sure, don't start. If you are sure use something absolutely certain with no second chances. Guns or hemlock or something like that.

And don't leave a note telling which deputy finally drove you over the edge, in case God intervenes or something and you WOULD fail, that's just going to come back and bite you in the ass and it'll be off to the nice jail ladies to be fingerprinted yet again.

Not that I'm suggesting that you should actually go and attempt to kill yourself or anything, as a general rule I am opposed to suicide and you probably won't enjoy it as much as you expect to and you might go to hell, although the jury's still out on that one. I'm pretty sure it's a sin, and why would you listen to me anyway?

Have I ever given you advice that worked out well? No, I have not. Get a clue.

So, anyway, if I live til January I get to see some grand genuine psychiatrist who's going to play musical chairs with my mood adjusting meds. Never a dull moment, really. First you're depressed and then your maniacally gleeful. Then you're sure you're Napoleon, then you think you might be a mushroom (and not the good kind people used to take to see visions, the fungus kind that makes you vomit. Actually, after they make you sick enough you don't really give a damn about feeling better as long as you can quit vomiting, so there may be a foreseeable reason for that one).

Then you see people's faces melt and run and buildings talk back to you. And if you're lucky you end up taking one that makes everything gray and dull but nothing talks to you, so that's a small plus.

And after a year or so in hell they find the magic drug combination and you're good for ten years or so til it quits working for you and you have to play the magical medicine musical chairs game once again.

Remember the sixties?

One pill makes you smaller
and one pill makes you tall
and the ones that mother give you
don't do anything at all

Go ask Alice, when she's ten feet tall.


Crazy hurts. Be the kindness.