Cranky Fibro Girl

Harnessing the healing power of snark

Another Oldie, AND Goodie

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“Random Access Memory” (first published October 30, 2005)

I’ve been very conscious of my mind lately, as I have been making a concerted effort to quiet down the mental chatter that is frequently taking place in my head. So this weekend after much breathing, visualizing, and cognitive retraining I was able to connect with a place of intense inner stillness and quietness.

And what did I encounter in this amazing place of clarity? A deep insight into the mystery of life? A powerful connection with the Divine? Actually, yes. But in the middle of those incredible experiences, somehow there was also still room for the following thought:

“Whatever it is I think I see, becomes a Tootsie Roll to me.”

So what that says to me is that apparently, I will never truly understand how the mind works, no matter how much I may study it.

For example, why is it that I often have trouble remembering simple things like my age and my phone number, yet I can recall almost the entire sign language alphabet which I learned in 1977 when I was in kindergarten?

And it’s not just my mind I don’t understand, either.

This weekend my husband and I were visiting some friends, one of whom was telling us about her brother’s recent wedding. She began by describing how her brother called her on a Thursday to tell her that he was getting married that following Monday. So she and her mother decided to fly out and help with the preparations. After running around all weekend they finally made it to the day of the wedding, and she and her mom were with the bride-to-be as she was getting her hair done for the ceremony.

Our friend: “So, she finally found someone to do her hair. He was a little person. You know, that’s what you’re supposed to call midgets now.”
Us: “Huh. That’s different.”
Our friend: “Yeah, so as he was doing her hair and riding around on his scooter…”
Us: (interrupting with snorts of laughter)
Us: “What?! He was riding a scooter?!”
Our Friend: “Well, yeah, because he couldn’t walk. So, anyway, I had to be his assistant and hand him his tools because his partner had to go out.”
Us: (the snorts have become shouts now)
Us: “What?! He was a gay midget hairdresser?”
Our Friend: “Yeah. But his partner isn’t a midget. He’s a regular-sized person.”

At this point further conversation became impossible, because my husband was laughing so hard that he was crying, and I was laughing so hard that I fell off of their couch and onto their living room floor.

But believe it or not, that was not the funniest part of this story. The funniest part was the fact that our friend told us this story with absolutely no reaction whatsoever. She. Never. Laughed. Once. And she honestly did not understand why we were in hysterics. She told the story in a tone of voice that suggested that gay, scooter-riding, hair-dressing midgets are a time-honored, traditional part of everyone’s nuptial experience.

I don’t really have anything more to add to this story, which I truly believe was a gift from the humor heavens. So to close, I will share with you the additional mental gem I received during my weekend of quiet contemplation:

“Pass, pass, pass, pass the Old El Paso.”

Just Another Wednesday Night At The Ryan’s

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(The phone rings. It’s my parents.)

My dad: “Jennifer! I need to talk to you RIGHT! NOW!”

Me (sitting down, just in case): “OK.”

My dad: “Are you familiar with a product called ‘Vera Mist’?”

Me (realizing that it’s OK to relax, yet not entirely sure where this is going): “Um, no.”

My dad: “Well, your mother and I were just watching TV and we saw a commercial for it. Apparently it’s a new nasal spray.”

Me: “Hm.”

My dad: “And you know how they have all that small print at the bottom of the screen, like ‘Not for use for children under 12’ and things like that?”

Me: “Yeah.”

My dad: “Well, one of the disclaimers said-and I swear, this is exactly what it said-‘It is not entirely known how Vera Mist works.’

Me: (now in dire need of some Vera Mist myself, due to all the snorts of laughter.)

My dad (imitating a marketing executive): “Yeah, we don’t actually know what our product does. But why don’t you just go ahead and squirt it right up your nose anyway? Near your brain!”

The Lowest Common Denominator

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Image courtesy of FreeDigitalPhotos.net.

Today I walked by a plastic fish, and it sang to me.

I was quite startled as you can imagine, since this is not the experience I normally expect to have when I am dropping off a prescription at the pharmacy.

I glanced at its sign as I was walking quickly by (you don’t want to stand too close to your singing plastic fish until you know exactly what is going on) and it said something like, “blah, blah, the benefits of taking fish oil.”

That experience got me to thinking, as this is not the first time I’ve had animated plastic figures sing to me about important health related information.

My grocery store has a large display of vividly colorful plastic fruits and vegetables located directly above the produce department. They too have a song, all about the benefits of eating fruits and vegetables, which is performed in a catchy reggae style complete with steel drum accompaniment.

5 a day, 5 a day,
We all know it’s the healthy way,
Fruits and vegetables,
They’re OK,
The healthy way,
Eat 5 a day.

This song has penetrated my brain, much like some kind of musical virus, to the point where occasionally my husband will look at me with an extremely furrowed brow and ask incredulously, “Are you singing the Kroger produce song?!”

So now I’m wondering what all of this means. Have the Powers That Be decided that we as a people are incapable of knowing how to take care of ourselves? Or that we are too defensive at the slightest hint that someone might be telling us what to do? So now they have to pipe in important information as a kind of subliminal background track to our daily lives, using the most innocuous, non-threatening characters they can find? Do they think that we have collectively become that dumbed down, with the attention span of a gnat?

These are important questions that need answering, and I plan to pursue them just as soon as-oh look, a bird! It’s so pretty.

Um, what were we talking about?

This Is My Brain…

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Do you remember this commercial from the 80’s?

Picture of an egg: “This is your brain.”

Picture of an egg frying in a pan: “This is your brain on drugs.”

Well, I’m feeling a real affinity for that commercial this morning. and I’m thinking that I could revive that ad campaign by making my own, updated version of that commercial. Only mine would not be about substance abuse. Mine would say, “This is my brain after four days of an extremely inflamed shoulder muscle, which was then poked with what felt like really sharp sticks, but was actually a licensed health care professional using medically approved health care tools.” Catchy, huh?

The purpose of my commercial would be to illustrate the process my mind undergoes as it searches for the perfect, most articulate, most precise method of utilizing swear words to describe this particular pain. (Hey, I never said my commercial would have any deep or meaningful purpose.)

Step 1: I mentally inventory all the “bad” words I know, often trying them out in a Fill-In-The-Blank, Complete The Following Sentence With The Best Word sort of situation.

For example, “_____, my shoulder hurts!” Or, “My shoulder hurts like_____!” (This is where all my years as a language teacher really come in handy.)

Step 2: Once I’ve settled on the perfect word I play around with it a bit, to see if there are any ways that I can embellish it.

For example, Can I string it out by adding extra syllables? Can I stress it in a different way? Can I pronounce it in a funny accent?

Step 3: Next I look for a catchy theme song or a kicky advertising jingle, in order to set my words to music.

I don’t need to provide an example here, because I know that if you’re reading this post, you’re already experimenting with this process for yourself.

Step 4: Generally by this time the pain meds have begun to kick in, so my song drifts down to the level of a mantra, or a tribal chant.

For example, “BUM, bum, bum, bum, BUM, bum, bum, bum, BU-um, BUM.”

I’m not really sure what happens next because, if all has gone according to plan, at this point I am finally asleep. Or, at the very least, I am enjoying the benefits of a heavily medicated stupor, cradled by this gentle lullaby: “BUM, bum, bum, bum, BUM, bum, bum, bum, BU-um, BUM.”

Random Access Memory

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I’ve been very conscious of my mind lately, as I have been making a concerted effort to quiet down the mental chatter that is frequently taking place in my head. So this weekend after much breathing, visualizing, and cognitive retraining I was able to connect with a place of intense inner stillness and quietness.

And what did I encounter in this amazing place of clarity? A deep insight into the mystery of life? A powerful connection with the Divine? Actually, yes. But in the middle of those incredible experiences, somehow there was also still room for the following thought:

“Whatever it is I think I see, becomes a Tootsie Roll to me.”

So what that says to me is that apparently, I will never truly understand how the mind works, no matter how much I may study it.

For example, why is it that I often have trouble remembering simple things like my age and my phone number, yet I can recall almost the entire sign language alphabet which I learned in 1977 when I was in kindergarten?

And it’s not just my mind I don’t understand, either.

This weekend my husband and I were visiting some friends, one of whom was telling us about her brother’s recent wedding. She began by describing how her brother called her on a Thursday to tell her that he was getting married that following Monday. So she and her mother decided to fly out and help with the preparations. After running around all weekend they finally made it to the day of the wedding, and she and her mom were with the bride-to-be as she was getting her hair done for the ceremony.

Our friend: “So, she finally found someone to do her hair. He was a little person. You know, that’s what you’re supposed to call midgets now.”
Us: “Huh. That’s different.”
Our friend: “Yeah, so as he was doing her hair and riding around on his scooter…”
Us: (interrupting with snorts of laughter)
Us: “What?! He was riding a scooter?!”
Our Friend: “Well, yeah, because he couldn’t walk. So, anyway, I had to be his assistant and hand him his tools because his partner had to go out.”
Us: (the snorts have become shouts now)
Us: “What?! He was a gay midget hairdresser?”
Our Friend: “Yeah. But his partner isn’t a midget. He’s a regular-sized person.”

At this point further conversation became impossible, because my husband was laughing so hard that he was crying, and I was laughing so hard that I fell off of their couch and onto their living room floor.

But believe it or not, that was not the funniest part of this story. The funniest part was the fact that our friend told us this story with absolutely no reaction whatsoever. She. Never. Laughed. Once. And she honestly did not understand why we were in hysterics. She told the story in a tone of voice that suggested that gay, scooter-riding, hair-dressing midgets are a time-honored, traditional part of everyone’s nuptial experience.

I don’t really have anything more to add to this story, which I truly believe was a gift from the humor heavens. So to close, I will share with you the additional mental gem I received during my weekend of quiet contemplation:

“Pass, pass, pass, pass the Old El Paso.”