Notes to Self

1) It really is best to water plants in the morning. One, it's better for the plants and two, when watering the plants in the afternoon, it's a good idea to point the nozzle away from your face before pressing the trigger, especially on a hot day, because the first 50 feet or so is scalding hot from sitting in the sun. Guess no more explanation is needed there.

2) Do not wash windows the day before mowing the jungle. The dust, dirt and grass clippings will head directly to the windows and adhere themselves more vigilantly than their forefathers ever did. Also, do not rewash the windows before Oliver does the weed-whacking, for the same reason. Ugh. Hey, at least I remembered to have them closed to keep from having to dust again. Progress!

3) When taking long trips, rest areas really do make more sense. Yesterday I made the long trek to Vandy (Vanderbilt) once more. Usually I stop at one of the rest areas but decided in my heat-induced wisdom yesterday that I would wait until I got there. So I parked the car in the parking garage and did the little waddle you do when you really, really have to go. I checked in at the desk since there was nobody in line and then made a quick beeline to the rest room. The neurology department shares the office area with the pulmonary department, so it's an area I'm quite familiar with - except the bathroom. For whatever reason, I had not been in this one before... Anyway, I got in there and there are exactly two stalls. One regular and one handicapped. They were both taken by two women (duh - it was the woman's rest room - at least I got that right) who were in the midst of a very intense conversation about Catholicism. Instead of coming out to finish the conversation, they continued to talk between the walls of the stalls. I had to chuckle even as I was doing the little "I have to go now!" dance. Perhaps it was the feeling of being in a confessional that made them so open to share their feelings, I'm not sure.

But after a quick little prayer of my own, finally one of the doors opened and I gracefully made my way into that first stall. The regular one. Yep, regular, probably built for a smurf or at the very largest one of the seven dwarfs. Well, when you gotta go, you gotta go. I quickly locked the door (at least that worked), put my 7-up on the toilet paper holder and went to hang my purse on the hook but there wasn't one there. A quick glance at the floor and I decided it was best to just sling it over my shoulder. So I shimmied and shook to get the pants that were stuck to my perspiring legs down, and finally got relief. Ah! Then for whatever reason after wiping myself (I know, TMI - but hang with me here) the toilet paper decided to catapult out of my hand and onto the floor. Of course, it was just out of my reach so as I sashayed closer the door to get it, I found out very quickly that it was an automatic toilet and it flushed, which scared me half to death and made me jump. Of course, when I did that, it was right into the door with my head and as I bounced off the door and tried to ensure that I did not get sucked into oblivion by the power jets on that toilet, I turned. As I turned, the purse that I had so eloquently balanced on my shoulder, knocked the 7-up off it's perch on the toilet paper holder and onto the floor. Out of reflex I went to catch it and when I did that, my purse headed right towards the aforementioned self-flushing toilet, so I did what any panick-stricken woman in the same situation woud do - I knocked it out of the path it was taking, only to have it spill open into the handicapped stall. By now I had the chuckles.

I quickly cleaned up the 7-up and threw the paper into the toilet. As I opened the door to go retrieve my belongings out of the other stall, I quickly thanked God that I was alone in the room. I can just imagine what anybody else would have thought. When the toilet "saw the light" it flushed once more, which just made me giggle more. As I was picking up my belongings off the floor and reminding myself to clean out my purse when I got home, I was in full blown laughter. It really was funny but this was one of those laughs that you just can't control. The kind where a funny thing tricks your body into thinking that it was even funnier than it was. So here I am, one toilet flushing up a storm, me in the other stall cleaning up my belongings after cleaning up what I'm sure left a sticky floor in the littler stall, when the main door opened. By now I was laughing so hard, I had tears in my eyes. I quickly finished and walked out to wash my hands when my eyes met the lady who walked in. Sure as I breathe, it was a nun. Well, I managed to keep my semi-composrd laugh stifled, mostly out of fear. I never have been Catholic but I guess all the stories I've heard all my life have stuck because I felt like I had just been caught doing something wrong in an all girls school bathroom. I managed to wash my hands without totally losing it and figured I'd get my bearings when I went back into the waiting room. Now normally they take awhile after checking in to call you but yesterday was the exception. As I was walking out of the rest room, I hear them call "Margaret."

Most of you know me as Peg and with good reason. The only time I go by Margaret is on legal documents, doctors offices until I can tell them otherwise and when I was in trouble with my mother - then it was "Margaret Ann!" So after the run-in with the nun and hearing Margaret, I had that deer in the headlights look as I tried unsuccessfully to hold back the laughter. I just couldn't do it. So with tears streaming down my face and the packed waiting room full of eyes looking my way, now knowing my name, I followed the tech towards the exam room.

The bad thing about laughing so hard, is that it makes it that much harder to breathe. Especially when you have a lung condition. Not to mention my face turning red for oh, so many reasons. And who do I pass in the hall, but my pulmonary doctor and one of the nurses, who were very concerned as they watched the tears streaming down my face and me gasping for air. Which, you guessed it, only made me laugh that much harder. I couldn't even tell them I was fine at first but as they headed towards the nearest oxygen tank, I did manage to get the point across that I really was fine. I just needed to catch my breath. LOL... Mercifully the doc knows me well enough that he let me off the hook. I've had him chuckling on more than one occasion before, so he knows I tend to try to find the humor in situations.

The hardest part about having the actual EMG was holding still. Each charge of voltage going through my nerves sent my arms into motion, narrowly missing the tech's nose, which of course, the thought of made me giggle once more. At least it was manageable and I was still on room air. Finally I was done and I'm sure everyone breathed a sigh of relief as I left, until two more weeks when I go back.

So next time, it's the rest area before Nashville where I will be stopping to relieve the bladder that is usually full from me sipping water all the way up there. They're rest areas for a reason - for just the purpose of your comfort as you answer natures call - with room enough to turn in the stalls and hooks that are bolted in the doors so tight that even if the doors disappeared, the hooks would still be there. Yep, rest areas it is.

4) Go to the bathroom before blogging and reliving a humorous story. The bladder can only take so much pressure and your blog readers can only handle so many bathroom stories. ; )

I didn't listen

Ever had that "still small voice" prompt you to do something and you found yourself arguing with it? You come up with every excuse and rational thought as to why you shouldn't do it. It happens all the time but every once in a while, I find that I'd like to kick myself in the rear for not listening.

Sometimes that voice is just relentless until you give in and do what it tells you to. Sometimes you just ignore it and sometimes God will show you just how wrong you were in ignoring it. That's what happened to me. All week long, God has been prompting me to call a dear friend just to chat. I rationalized that I would be bothering her, that I would just have to "hear it" because I moved without stopping by to see her, it just might upset her if I called, I didn't want to lie to her and tell her "I am fine", I didn't want her to worry about me, yada, yada, yada. The mind chatter went on.

I was busy this week with VBS and still dealing with my own physical infirmities and really didn't feel I was up to calling and swapping the physical "war" stories of our deteriorating bodies. I felt guilty because I didn't go to see her before I moved. The list goes on. Tonight I came home from VBS (Vacation Bible School) to find out that she passed away. I cried. Not because she died, after all she is in a much better place and she no longer is in pain. She's dancing on streets of gold with her dear hubby who passed away a few years back. She's been sick a long time and it wasn't a complete shock, after all she was up there in age. No, I cried because I didn't listen to God.

I will never get the chance to call her and listen to her distinctive voice say "I love you, baby." I will never get to tell her again that I love her. Oh she'd understand, she was one of the most forgiving people I've ever met. I can almost hear her now, saying "don't cry, baby. My old body was tired, that's all, and I know you loved me. I just couldn't hold on anymore. And ol' George needed me up here with him."

As I sit here, I realize how stupid all my reasons for not calling really were. You would think I would have known better. I've lost way too many people in my life to not know that when God prompts you to call someone, you better do it. There really was no good reason, I just didn't listen. And that's why I'm crying. It's not about tears for Frances, not at all. I'm happy for her because she's exactly where she has longed to be her entire life - in Jesus' arms. Tonight at VBS we had several little ones accept Christ into their hearts and she had a front row seat in the celebration in heaven. I know she is smiling that gorgeous, warm smile of hers and nodding her head in approval.

I am just so sorry that I didn't listen when God told me to call her. I'm sorry I didn't go to see her before I moved and let my mind conjure up all kinds of scenarios that would certainly never have come true. I'm crying because I let the enemy win this one and I'm crying because I know that I will inevitably let it happen again. I thank God every day that He sent His son to pay for my sins and that all my shortcomings were nailed on that cross with Him. It's just hard when you realize that you've just driven that nail one more time into those innocent hands.

I just didn't listen....