Contemplating the New Year

Happy New Year!! One of the traditions of New Year’s Day is having black-eyed peas for “good luck”. (The vegetable, people. Not the band. Duh.) I ate an entire can of black-eyed peas whatever-year-it-was. Didn’t do a single thing to help me. That year still sucked. I realized a few minutes ago we didn’t have black-eyed peas the first day of January 2012. At all. Not a black-eyed pea anywhere in sight. We’ll see what happens these next twelve months. If this year is a good one, I guarantee you I won’t have the shadow of a black-eyed pea in my house come New Year’s Day 2013.

I’ve been in a complicated. . .no, that’s not right. I mean, a constipated. . .no, that’s really not right. I mean, a contemplative. . .that’s it! A contemplative state of mind recently. Maybe because it’s the start of a brand new year. The old year is gone. The new year is here. Don’t look back. Just look forward. No regrets. All that poop.

Personally, I prefer looking back. Back to the times I was thin. Sexy. Popular. In my early twenties. Even though I worked and went to college, I lived at home with Mom. No major responsibilities. Too bad I can’t transdenmentalnationalize myself back to the early 1980s. Oh, wait. I tried that last month. To send my dear friend, Ann, some good weather. Didn’t work. All I got out of the process was a sore face. Forget it, then.

Okey dokey. So here I am in 2012. Being contemplative. There are a bazillion things to contemplate these days. Such as, Why do those erectile dysfunction commercials play totally lame music? You’d think they’d want guys to stay close to the TV, watch the promos. Nope. They play boring music so guys leave the room for more chips and “cold beverages”. (I would say “beer”, but I don’t know if I’m allowed to use the word “beer” in this type article. I don’t know why not, since “beer” has been around forever. Even ancient civilizations drank “beer”, so I should be able to say “beer”. Don’t you think?)

I’m thinkin’ the guys who leave are in denial. Yep. Or they have an ultra-extreme fondness for “cold beverages”. Which could be the cause of the reason for their denial. Or maybe they have no idea what the two-separate-bathtubs scene means at the end of some commercials. I don’t. Perhaps that’s because I don’t drink “cold beverages” or have the reason for those guys’ denial. If I did, I’d know. I don’t, so I don’t. Enough said.

Speaking of pharmaceuticals, I also contemplate medications. Such as, Why do drug companies tell you to take their splendiferous solutions to your problems then proceed to tell you if you take those same wonderful creams/pills/injections all sorts of untoward things may occur to you? Yes, folks, if you take this particular chemical which will make you as near-perfect as anything on earth, you might experience unhealthy events. If you swell to the size of your minivan, if you turn puce (“Puce”. Not “puke”. Although puking is a common side effect of most medications. Google it, kids.),if you produce body hair from places body hair normally doesn’t grow, STOP TAKING this product and call your physician RIGHT AWAY! No, really? Like I’d continue to take something that made me five times my normal size, turned me the color of a juvenile eggplant, and made the inside of my eyelid sprout Yeti fur?

Don’t stop me now, I’m on a donut. (On a roll. . .donut. Get it? Ha-ha-ha! I crack me up!) Not having health insurance has caused me to contemplate the method by which I manage my hormone replacement therapy. I’m taking OTC (Over The Counter) remedies for hot flashes, mood swings—including the heebee-jeebees, night sweats, food cravings. Et cetera. This root. That grass. Someone’s dirt. Somebody else’s wart. Whatever.

Yes, they claim to remedy those symptoms. I’m not saying I have hot flashes. But let me tell you there are times California wouldn’t need rolling “brown outs” if they could attach jumper cables to my forehead. I can’t attest to the night sweats. I sweat when the temp’s above 75 degrees. Day, Night, in between. Mood swings? Me? (Hey, shut up. No, YOU shut up. Calm down. No, YOU calm down. Huh? What?) As for food cravings, how am I supposed to tell? I crave food. All the time. Period. Can’t claim anything for-or-against the heebie-jeebies. I have enough anxiety all by itself; I feel like crawling out of my skin sometimes. If I could lure one of those Victoria Secret models to my mobile home, I’d crawl out of my skin and into hers. An even trade, as it were. Well, not exactly even. She’d get lots more skin. I see it as doing the poor girl a favor, you know what I’m sayin’?

I’m contemplating new moneymaking opportunities. Such as, I received a bar of hand-milled soap from my sister-in-law, Jean. It’s Pumpkin Patchouli. Smells great. Stuff is slippery as all get out. I’ve never had such slippery soap in my life. You have to chase the bar all over the bathroom. I caught it ricocheting off the mirror the other day. Dang-near hit me in the eye. I finally decided it’s exercise soap. I probably use up a good hundred calories every time I wash my hands. I’m seriously considering buying the company, marketing it as a weight-loss program. No need to go to expensive gyms, ladies! Just grab onto this bar of soap, add a little water, and Game On! Perfect for those of you who like exercising in the nude. Perfect for those of you who don’t have time to work out then shower afterwards: exercise and shower at the same time! BUT WAIT!! If you call right now, you’ll receive TWO bars of Gym In A Soap instead of one! I’m thinkin’ it could work. Don’t you? Bet you’d buy a bar from one of those Infomercials. Uh-huh. (Thank you, Jean, for not only a fantastic bar of soap, but an exercise tool as well. Love you!!)

I’m also contemplating how to prevent my sister from going to prison. Such as, keeping her from killing me. Because she’s gonna be mad. No, furious. Disappointed in me. And I’m sorry about that. I really am. (I tried, Sherry. You saw me. I shooed that little black-and-white kitten away from my house. I prayed and prayed for God to remove the kitty without her getting hurt or killed. For weeks! But here she came every day. Mewing. Loving on me. Kinda like with MacKenzie. Remember when I adopted MacKenzie? God kept telling me, This is your dog. I told Him it wasn’t. God said, This is your dog. I’ve had MacKenzie fourteen years. Isn’t she a sweet baby? You know she is. Please don’t shout at me. You know I’m Fraggle. . .I mean, fragile. . .right now.)

So, yes. I broke down. Adopted her. Lily Noel AnnaBeth Chopin Cassatt. She still has her baby teeth so I figure she’s right at six months old. I haven’t told her yet but once I return to the working force of America she’s visiting the vet. Going to be de-sexed, get those razor-sharp fingernails of hers removed. No other feline in this abode has fingernails so she can’t have them. Seems only fair. Right? (Silence.) Um. . .hello? (More silence.) Yoo-Hoo? (Sounds of crickets.) Oh, dear.

The main thing I’m contemplating is what plans God has for me. Such as, will Sherry arrive at my house in seven minutes wielding a pitchfork and a lantern, screaming “Kill, kill!”? (Kidding! Ha, ha. . .ha?) When will I become a worker bee again? Is reliable estrogen in my future? Since I can’t gamble, will God blow that winning Lottery ticket into my yard so I can find it? Whatever His plans, I have been promised He will not only walk beside me every step of the way, He will carry me when I cannot walk. Although I admit I’m weak—I do fear so many things, Father—He will never leave me. He will never forsake me. I will dwell forever with Him in His house.

Oh, wait. Is that a hair in my eye? A long, brown, scraggily hair—when I have dark blonde hair? Nooooo! Help, help! My teeth are itching! I’m hearing lame music!

Until next time, may you be filled with God’s tender mercies. 

Jann (Sherry’s sister)