Pity the Pedicurist Who Must Pretty My Feet!

Dainty Digits They Aren’t

Female Feet of the Family

Ugly feet! Those would be mine. I have them, always have. At least I don’t have an alien toe like one of my girls—her second toe extends a half-inch past the rest of her toes. Unfortunately, each of my toes has alien tendencies. Always awful, age has worsened the appearance of my toes—knobby, bent, crusty, splitting nails, dry skin—each toe has succumbed to the years of schlepping me through life. I call the toe next to my “baby” toe my shy toe because it sneaks behind the third toe and stays there, gathering whatever dirt and dust doesn’t glom onto the other toes. In a few more years, it might never come out of hiding except when I wrench it out and give it a good scrub. My daughters have seen my toes, and, to their dismay, they know these nubs are hereditary. No crystal ball is needed to predict their future feet; all they have to do is gaze at mine.

I have accepted my feet in all their funkiness, but the world likely continues to be shocked when exposed to such blemishes on beauty. To put a balm on the blight of these hideous hooves, I sometimes polish my toenails. It doesn’t help, but it distracts, and about once every three years, I even step into a salon for a pedicure and foist my feeties on some unfortunate technician.

Toe separators always make me think of uppercase Es,
as in EEEK, look at my feet!

Friday was that day. A friend of my son’s attends cosmetology school and in an effort to get a bargain, I booked a pedicure. I knew all kinds of feet walked into the low-cost salon, so I figured mine might not frighten the students too much. As a plus, any student who could beautify these feet would get an automatic A. Before I left for my appointment, I scrubbed my feet until nary a dot of dirt remained on them. They weren’t less scary-looking, but they were squeaky clean.

The pedicure trade will never have enough tools to
tackle my toes.

I apologize for things that aren’t my fault, so in keeping with that proclivity, I apologized for my feet after the student (I’ll call her Tootsie) directed them toward the bubbling footbath. “Just relax,” she said. I think getting a pedicure is supposed to be enjoyable, but I spend the time fretting about my feet and feeling pity on whomever is tasked with tackling my toes.

The pedicure progressed to what is supposed to be the best part—the foot massage. Tootsie suggested I roll up my Capris so she could smooth lotion on the lower part of my legs as well as my feet. I hesitated, knowing that she’d see the horrid age spots on my legs and my cracked and dry alligator skin. When I rolled up my pants legs, however, even I was shocked. Horrors! That’s when I saw them, the seven hairs on my left calf. Yes, seven, total—on my entire leg. A ray of sunlight or strong overhead lighting sometimes catches those stragglers and makes them shine for the entire world to see. I shave those seven hairs about once every three weeks to keep up appearances, but I obviously missed them for the last seven months because each was an inch long. Of course, they weren’t in a clump but meandered about the front of my leg. (All nine hairs on my right leg must have met the razor on its last swipe across the terrain because they were invisible.)

I was mortified. Poor Tootsie was subjected to the ugliest toes on Earth, she had to smear lotion on my horrid age spots, and worse, she witnessed the weird hair effect that happened to me post-menopause. Why my legs went from having a normal amount of hair to having a total of 16 on both legs is a mystery to me. I would stop shaving completely, but those 16 look too strange when they’re an inch long. I apologized (again) to Tootsie, who took it in stride and once more suggested that I relax. No way. If I had a pair of tweezers, I would have snatched those hairs out while she massaged my feet. Instead I used my fingers to grip the ones that weren’t too slick with lotion and yanked them, resolving that henceforth whenever I tweeze my eyebrows, I’ll pluck those 16 hairs, too.

Tootsie was probably more relieved than I was when the pedicure was done—simply so she wouldn’t have to hear me apologize again. My toes sparkle and shine and don’t shock and dismay from my open-air flip-flops. As soon as I got home, though, I dashed into the bathroom, grabbed the razor and made certain all 16 hairs were shorn. Three years from now before my next pedicure, right after I scrub my feet, out come the tweezers!

Demons of Depression Foiled Again!

Demons of Depression Be Gone!

Dark chocolate wards off the demons of depression. To preserve my mental health, which takes priority over piety, I did not give up chocolate for Lent. To further dispel any fantasies of giving up chocolate, Target’s pre-Lent, post-Valentine’s Day 70 percent off sale had heart-shaped boxes chock full of Lindt truffles marked down to 79 cents. I can't let the two boxes I purchased sit for 40 days. Perhaps my discipline of buying only two boxes counts for some sort of Lenten exercise in denial.

Lent came too soon after Valentine’s Day to make chocolate a reasonable choice of what to forgo for forty days and nights—nights especially, when the aforesaid demons creep out of the crevices in which they have hidden during the light of day.

Ash Wednesday and Lent always come too soon after Valentine’s Day and too close to Easter. Every retail establishment in the United States has at least one heart-shaped, sugar-crusted marked-down box or bag of love tokens that wasn’t purchased to show the love. Shelves that only days earlier shed the scarlet banners bearing cupids stringing arrows groan under the weight of chocolate rabbits, marshmallow chicks, malted milk robin’s eggs, and jelly beans in every flavor and color, tart or sweet, licorice or jalapeno.

A port in the depression storm

Self-denial regarding chocolate is not a strong point of mine in any event, Valentine’s Day, Christmas, Easter, Halloween, Independence Day, March 5, August 9, September 21, October 16. No holidays (of which I am aware) occur on March 5, August 9, September21, and October 16, and that’s the point. Chocolate consumption is an equal-opportunity indulgence as far as days of the week, month, or year, holiday or not. Lent isn’t a holiday, but instead is a time of sacrifice, penitence, reflection. Under the threat of the dark demons, few of those soul-enriching exercises are possible for me. However, with truffles hidden securely from the prying paws of my progeny, where I can have access to even one, I can face the demons and consider other soulful ways to walk through the 40 days and nights days and nights of this season.

Searching for Bliss in the Barf

Often, There Is No Message in the Mess

Cat Barf Epiphanies Do Not Exist

Simple Saturday morning pleasures such as sneaking back into bed and reading more pages of a favorite book cannot be underrated. I’m now in geriatric sleeping mode and often wake long before dawn, so my book beckoned me back between the covers on a recent Saturday. Mocha coffee in hand, I slipped back into my room, anticipating nestling myself beneath my down comforter, snuggling with my book, and maybe even falling back asleep.

No epiphanies from this cat

Not so fast. Horrors! Shock and dismay! A pile of cat barf, yes cat barf, oozed atop my comforter. I whipped into cleaning mode, scooped up as much of the goop as I could with a paper towel, and as fast as my fingers would function untied the duvet cover lest the barf seep into the down beneath it. The duvet is tied to the comforter in at least ten places, and as I untied those pesky ribbons, I noted that months earlier I had tied them in knots instead of easy-to-undo bows. The comforter is king-size, and because it was a gift, it is not on par with my usual bargain-basement, thrift-shop belongings. Thus it weighs about as much as I do and it’s so large that I could roll myself up in it four times, should that nutty idea ever strike. On the positive side, maneuvering the comforter meant I got in some weight-lifting as I cleaned the cat barf.

I didn't dress like this to clean the barf, but it would have been appropriate.

I must mention that after five children, I long ago reached my cleaning-up-barf threshold. Cleaning it means looking at it, smelling it—I needn’t go on. My eldest child will be 40 this year and rather than having an immunity to barf, I’m like someone with a nasty allergy—each exposure makes me sicker and sicker. Whenever I can, I beckon someone else, anyone else, to take over this particular clean-up duty. I pay for cat-barf removal. That geriatric sleeping mode, however, means that at 5:15 a.m., nobody else is awake—except the cat. I could have called the dogs in, who are expert at cat barf removal, but that’s even more disgusting and I would rather stifle my gag reflex than bring on another.

Stifle that reflex I did as I removed the duvet cover and fetched it post-haste to the washer, where I ran hot water and added liberal amounts of detergent and bleach. Still gagging, I returned to the comforter and with a few gentle swipes cleaned the damp area so I won’t need to take on a part-time job to pay a dry cleaning bill.

Air-drying the duvet cover would have been delightful...

I tried to find some sort of life lesson, but failed. Not everything produces an epiphany to move me into and toward a self-actuated life. Cat barf happens, but I wanted to find some bliss in the mess. I decided that when the sun came up, I would take the duvet cover and the comforter outside to dry in the fresh air. Not quite an epiphany, but I experienced the anticipation of later that evening climbing back into bed, with air-dried sheets (might as well wash them, too), a clean duvet cover, and a comforter that had been among the breeze, the sun, the flowers, and birdsong (and none of that other bird stuff). The scent would permeate the room, and I would tuck myself in with my book and fall asleep to the sweetest aroma on the planet, but only after putting the darn cats outside.

Still no bliss . . . it rained.

Athletes and the Dumb Things They Say about God

More Dumb Things People—Athletes—

Say about God

“This is so wrong,” I said

after reading the recent Super Bowl claim on God.

“Divine intervention,” said David Tyree, of New York Giants and Super Bowl XLII fame. That’s why he caught the game-changing football that led the Giants to their ring-yielding victory in 2008, gnashing the hopes of the New England Patriots for yet another ring of their own. Tyree will be in Indianapolis this Sunday, no doubt hoping (praying) for another “divine intervention” to squash number 12’s (a.k.a. Tom Brady) desire for another win—another ring.

Tyree is not alone. None other than the glorious Giselle has imparted her own plea for an intervention of positive vibes and prayer for 12—her husband—and his teammates.

Divine intervention is no stranger to sports jargon. Athletes praise God when they win; when they lose, it’s because God has “other plans.”

I’ve heard this misguided jargon for years, but I’m still not numb to it. “Are you kidding me?” was my reaction when I read the “divine intervention” story. I am pretty certain that each seventh day, God rests, as He commanded us to do, never mind that whole Super Bowl Sunday thing. On that day of rest, I think God surveys the universe and sees that some of it, indeed, is good. I also think He’s aware that the rest of it is not so good—a work in need of a lot of progress.

Another thing I’m certain of is that this Sunday, God is not going to be micromanaging the Super Bowl. God’s hand is not going to manifest a nudge of the football in one direction or another so that team X catches it. God will not be sending a whisper of air to a less-than-Vinatieri kick so it sails though the goal posts.

I don’t think God is taking sides in the Giants versus Patriots contest. I’m certain God will avoid Madonna’s half-time show: He’ll be far too busy sending angels to frantic moms as they try to navigate the Madonna years with their daughters.

Super Bowl XLVI—that’s 46, I just worked out those Roman numerals—will have a winner. Super Bowl XLVI will also have a loser (even though it’s beyond me how any team that makes it to the Super Bowl can be called a loser in any context).

If any winning Giant thinks his ring is a gift from God, what would a Patriot think about God when his ring finger is as light as it ever was come Monday morning?

If any winning Patriot claims God was on his side, what would a Giant think when he sips bitter wine rather than champagne late Sunday evening—that God abandoned him?

Sports are and always have been a win-lose prospect, and that’s the way of the game—any athletic contest. Sports have countless positive aspects, and I don’t doubt that many an athlete has been led—by God—away from a life on the streets to a life beneath the bright lights. But that doesn’t mean that God ignores those still standing beneath streetlights in less-than-savory areas.

Divine intervention? I believe in it with all my heart. Too many events transpire without any explanation—a tumor disappears, a child is whisked out of harm’s way, a serendipitous moment occurs—in those times, I don’t use coincidence to describe what has happened: I use Godincidence.

My belief in divine intervention stops when a sports contest begins. God simply has too much to do to trifle with football, baseball, and soccer.

So where does God figure in the sports world? He figures in the kids who make it away from those streetlights. He figures in the discipline, the health, and stamina that athletes of all persuasions pursue. He figures in the joy we mere observers get when our team gets the ring or the medal. He figures in the pleasure of the company of friends as we share victory and in the commiseration of those same friends when we stumble away stung by defeat.

God figures when a star athlete runs a summer sports camp for disadvantaged kids in blighted areas. God figures when another athlete spends ring money on a youth center. God figures in those details, but not so much in the details of the final score.

It’s that other final score that God is most concerned with . . . how do we score in the details of our lives, what kind of game are we playing, and exactly what do we stand to lose—or win?

* * * * * 

Sunday, I will not be "praying" that my favorite team wins...

but I will be rooting for the New England Patriots.

Yearning to Shed My Skin . . .

Shedding My Skin

“I’ve kicked the habit

Shed my skin . . .”

~ Peter Gabriel So

Sometimes when I write, I shed my skin, exposing what’s beneath. It often feels too raw, too new—this fresh skin that’s not quite accustomed to the light and the elements of life around me. I feel too vulnerable, too transparent, so I rush to cover it with other words, with humor, with an opaque cloak.

That opaque cloak, even though it might mimic a safe environment, voids the transparency with which I want to greet the world, with which I want to meet life—head-on, open, clear, innocent, trusting, ready to shed yet another skin, another layer, to feel life and all its elements.

Dumb Things People Say About God

 "God Never Gives You

More Than You Can Handle"

Dumb things people say about God could fill a book, or two, or three.

How do I know what people say is dumb? I don’t as a biblical scholar or on an extra-personal level. However, I am a rather practical person in most respects and I think of God as a rather practical God in most respects. That’s why I believe people say dumb things about God. I have what I call a relationship with God; however, it’s not the kind that born-againers talk about when they say “personal relationship,” like they have a BFF thing going with Jesus and He’s directing their lives as if He’s sitting in the passenger seat of the car and saying “Slow down, speed up, get in the far-left lane, now get ready to turn into the CVS parking lot.” I don’t believe God has such a hyper-focus on my life or anyone else’s.

It seems to me that if you’re God you probably have a lot more important things to do in the universe than micromanaging whether someone’s life is best served by moving to Omaha rather than Ontario. Not that I don’t believe in a powerful God, I do. And I do in spite of some of the dumb things people say when they are trying to make sense of events that make no sense.

Dumb thing number one, I read a few weeks ago in response to a friend facing a health crisis with their child, and it’s been festering in my psyche ever since:

“God never gives you more than you can handle.”

I hate that saying. In the context of a God who reigns over the universe, passing out the good cards and the “bad” cards, God gives many people much more than they can handle, every day, all over the world.

This blithe comment bugs me for other reasons. This statement is almost always said to someone in the process of trying to handle a serious challenge. By serious, I mean tragic or frightening, maybe death or the looming spectre of death. Maybe that challenge means a loved one has been injured or is facing a dreadful disease. Maybe someone is facing persecution for his or her religious beliefs. Maybe an earthquake or tornado destroyed every possession they own. Maybe a tsunami swept away everything and everyone they cherish. Maybe a doctor just broke the news their child has leukemia or their spouse needs a heart transplant.

When someone is in the midst of a crisis, they need a life preserver given to them with the most kindness and compassion the giver can muster. Saying “God never gives you more than you can handle,” even though it comes with fine intentions, borders on cruelty in my opinion.

When someone is in a crisis and they are told that well-meaning, albeit misguided “God never gives you more than you can handle,” I wonder if they respond the same way I do—at least in my mind; I’m not rude enough to retort what I really think: “What? I’m supposed to handle this because you say God’s not going to push me beyond my endurance? Let me tell you, I am beyond endurance. I am scared out of my wits. I am tired. I feel alone. I am trembling in fear and knee-capped. And now I must face the prospect that a loving God gave this to me? And because I’m still standing, there might be more to handle? And, I also have to hear you say that God has not given me “more than [I] can handle? I'm still here, so is there something more I'll have to handle?"

People, believers and nonbelievers alike, get more than they can handle—all the time. Grief, desperation, despair, drug and alcohol addiction, death of someone loved and cherished, mental illness, crimes so horrid as to not even be believed are committed against people daily. And, yes, I believe it’s more than they can handle. I also believe a loving God didn’t choose to mete out those events. I would love to believe that the universe and life have order, but they don’t. Bad things happen, they just do. Ernest Hemingway said “The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.” “Some” are stronger, but not all.

Where does God figure in this? I believe God figures in the effort we make to mend those broken places. I believe God figures in the hand that holds the trembling hand. I believe that God figures in the home-cooked meal that arrives at one’s door when hunger prevails, but energy is gone. I believe that God figures in the doctors who work to heal the “broken places,” be they physical or emotional. I believe that God figures in the folks who look at the broken places and find what’s intact and focus on that. I believe God figures in the Christians who thump hammers in earthquake-ravished places such as Haiti, rather than thumping Bibles. I believe God figures in every smile, every hand we can reach out to help those who need us, especially at those times when we believe that we have been given more than we can handle.

Botulism Belly Blues at 3 a.m.

Botulism Belly Blues at 3 a.m.

I hate it when I wake up with botulism at 3 a.m. Not that it happens often; it doesn’t. In fact, only once . . . so far, but when you have botulism at 3 in the morning, who’s counting?

I woke at 3 with a stomachache and was certain I had botulism. Saturday evening, I made artichoke-spinach dip and ate about half a casserole dish of it. It was delicious, but not worth botulism, I realized at 3 a.m.

I didn’t have botulism, but I was afraid I did. Earlier in the evening before I opened the can of artichoke hearts, I noted a tiny bit of rust around the ring you pull back to open the can. At $3, I didn’t relish the idea of tossing these, so I inspected the can. I didn’t see any swelling or dents, so I figured it was okay to eat them. My daughter said to check the artichokes and if they smelled okay, then they were safe. “You can’t smell botulism,” I said. Nonetheless, I opened the can, checked for any rust inside the can, noted the clean, shiny surface, smelled the artichokes, and decided they were just fine. I made the dip, ate half of it, and took my sleepy satiated self to bed.

Everything was fine until 3 a.m. when I woke with pressure in my belly. “Oh, God! I have botulism! I just know it. What was I thinking? Is my life worth a $3 can of artichokes? Now I’m just going to die of botulism!”

Sane self said, “Now, just wait a minute. You probably have a stomachache because you ate too much dip. Calm down and read to distract yourself.”

I reached for my glasses in the dark, turned on the light, and tried to focus on my book. The words were blurry, so again, I was convinced that I had botulism! “I do have botulism! And now I’m going blind!” idiot self wailed.

Sane self said, “No you don’t. It’s 3 a.m. and you’re not even awake. Small wonder you can’t read!”

Idiot self calmed down for a minute and I thought about the spinach artichoke heart dip, which felt like a pound of bricks in my gut. Half a pound of mozzarella, a cup and a half of spinach, Parmesan and Romano, mayo, and 8 ounces of cream cheese, all mixed into a fabulous whirl of fat, which I baked and then scooped up by the tablespoonful onto crackers and ate until I almost gagged I was so full.

Sane self then recalled the last time I ate a baked dip that had cream cheese as an ingredient. I got sick in the middle of the day that time and nothing canned was involved, but something about the baked cream cheese had the same effect—pain in the gut.

“Well, I didn’t have botulism then, so I probably don’t now,” sane self said. Idiot self got quieter and quieter and realized it was probably okay to go back to sleep, which I did. I woke up without botulism and no desire to eat even a drop of the leftover dip.

In retrospect, even though I’m laughing about sane self and idiot self battling it out in my bed at 3 a.m., if I ever see rust on any can ever again, I’ll just toss it. It’s not worth botulism at such an early hour.

Jokes aside, dented, swollen cans, or cans with rust can be dangerous. It isn’t worth taking a chance—even for $3 worth of artichoke hearts.