Anxiety on the Yoga Mat

I love doing yoga. It is really the only group class I will do at the gym.  The others are full of loud club music and too much yelling about being pumped.  Yoga is a quiet relaxing class.  Well, it is SUPPOSED to be relaxing, but as my fellow anxiety sufferers know, NOTHING is relaxing when your brain is constantly bullying you.  I’m supposed to be focusing on my breathing and relaxing into stretches.  Instead, I’m fielding a never-ending string of disruptive thoughts.  Here they are in no particular order.

Quiet the mind? I can never quiet my mind. OMG! I’m doing yoga wrong.

I wonder if I can catch a virus from this strap or the blocks. I should just buy my own so I don’t need to touch other people’s germs.

I don’t want to put my feet or hands off my mat onto the floor. People walk with shoes on the floor.  There are a lot of germs on shoes.

I should probably clean this mat with Lysol.

I should clean my hands and feet with Lysol, too.

I could get athlete’s foot.

They I would have scaly alligator feet.

Why didn’t Disney have fences and alligator signs? That poor little boy.

Why didn’t all of these know-it-all parents say something to them that night? A simple “Hey, there might be gators in there” could have saved him.

I wonder if prices at the Grand Floridian will go down.  $600 a night to have a gator snatch your kid is a bit ridiculous.

My stomach hurts.

Man, I have no core strength at all.  I have GOT to do more planks at home.

I should have had coffee before coming here.  I just want to get to savasana already.

I can barely hear her.  Are my hearing aids working? What if I’m in the wrong pose?

If I’m in the wrong pose, she will correct me.  I hate it when yoga teachers touch me. I jump.

Seriously, another downward dog?  I think I’m going to barf. I knew I should not have eaten before coming here.

What if I have to fart?

And it’s a really smelly fart, like a hardboiled egg fart?

Oh no. Did I eat eggs today?

What if I have to poop?

Do I just grab my mat and run out of the room?

If I brought my yoga mat into the bathroom here I would have to set it on fire to get rid of the invisible urine and fecal germs.

Why didn’t I leave my socks on? I will probably catch athlete’s foot for sure.

I hate the big mirror.  I look like an oompa loompa.

Why are my arms so freckled?

I think I need to wear more sunscreen.

What if I get skin cancer?

Maybe I should just use spray tan.

But then I might turn orange.

I hope Donald Trump does not win.

I swear it will be World War Three if he wins.

He’s like a Nazi.

Who are these monkeys who are actually voting for him?

Did they not take history in school?

Our education system has gone downhill.

Oh my God; she is grabbing me and moving my hips around.  I feel violated.

I will have to remember to do this right next time. I’m not doing yoga right.

How can anyone relax with all of these thoughts?  Maybe I should have a drink before yoga class.  How about you guys?  Anyone out there who takes yoga without letting your mind wander into darkness? Leave me a comment.  Let’s wave our crazy flags.

Yoga Anxiety http://lisarpetty.com/

Be quiet, mind!!

Equations with the Stubbly Good Witch

“Think about what things mean.” This was my advice to my son as I drove him to his little slice of hell — school.  That particular day would be more hellish than usual as he had both his Geometry and Science final exams.   Like me, he would almost rather have a colonoscopy, including the dreaded prep, than be forced to learn math or science.  I felt for him, so I offered him the words of advice that got me through high school math.  Mr. Scott said them almost daily.  Whenever he would write a super long equation on the board and look out at sea of confused dog looks, he would simply say, “Think about what things mean.”  This simple philosophy has gotten me through a lot more than math.

 Mr. Scott was my favorite teacher even though he taught my most hated subject – math.  I had him for Algebra in ninth grade, and again for Integrated Math my senior year.  As a teacher, he was the perfect combination of firm, professional, and funny.  He knew his subject, but he didn’t just stand there and drone on and on about variables and the order of operations.  No.  He always kept our attention, even if he had to wear a dress.

 Yes, I said a dress.  No. Mr. Scott was not a drag queen, not that there’s anything wrong with that.  He was a Vietnam veteran with a permanent five o’clock shadow who usually dressed like a gas station attendant.  I’m serious.  He had a bunch of gas station attendant shirts with his name, Frank, on the front.  They were from all different stations.  I used to sit there and try to imagine where he got them.  He couldn’t have just ordered them on Amazon because it was 1987 and Amazon, or the Internet, or laptops, or iPhones, didn’t exist yet.  No.  He would have had to work at all of the gas stations to get a shirt. Either that or he toured the country finding gas station attendants named Frank who needed some extra cash.  No matter how he got them, I wasn’t sure why he wore them.  Maybe it was to remind himself that no matter how horrible high school students were, teaching was still better than pumping gas.  (Young people, gas station attendants used to pump people’s gas for them.) Whatever the reason, he wore them almost daily, except, as I mentioned, when he wore dresses.

 One particular Halloween (See, I told you he wasn’t a drag queen.), I remember walking into his class on the second floor of the old 600 hall at South Broward High School and almost walking right into his magic wand.  That’s right.  Mr. Scott, Frank from the Shell station, was dressed as Glinda the Good Witch from the Wizard of Oz.  I couldn’t help but laugh all the way to my seat.  He just stood there and looked at me like, “What?”  I took my seat expecting an easy day of not really doing math.  I was wrong. 

 Mr. Scott began class by walking carefully across the classroom in his sparkly shoes and shiny dress, and pointing to the board with his wand.  He called on me, of course, and said, “Lisa, what is the quadratic formula?”  I looked at him like he was nuts, but he insisted that I say the formula out loud while he grabbed a piece of chalk with his wandless hand.  I’m happy to say that I got it ALMOST right.  I forgot to say “the opposite of” before I said “B.”  I’m sure at age 41 I still know MOST of the quadratic formula because of this experience. 

I never grew to love math, but I sure remembered it better after watching a man with a five o’clock shadow in a dress teach it.  Over the years, Mr. Scott donned many costumes, some of them dresses and some of them more masculine, like when he was Vince Fontaine in the school’s production of Grease.  No matter how he was dressed, he always took the time to slow down and show us HOW to think about what things mean.

 I kept that in my head during the SAT and I actually scored higher in Math than in English.  (Note: I ended up becoming an English professor.) I kept thinking about what things meant through college, marriage, caring for a baby, a divorce, a new marriage, moving across the country, and a host of other experiences.  Basically, whenever I was getting frustrated or taking things too seriously, I would stop and think about what things really meant.   Usually, they weren’t as bad, or as serious as I thought, once I really THOUGHT about them.  Sometimes, all I needed to do was put on a sparkly dress and laugh.  That always helps.  Thank you, Mr. Scott, wherever you are.

 

The Colonoscopy Scale

“This shouldn’t be too bad.” The dental assistant said as she put a bib on me while the dentist prepared his first syringe full of whatever they use to numb you these days.  I was yelled at by a dentist, a “friend” not my personal dentist, when I called it Novocain.  Apparently Novocain went out with Tab Cola and non-cable television.

“It’ll be fine. It’s not like it’s a colonoscopy,” I replied.  We both laughed and the dentist looked a bit uncomfortable, and kind of like he was going to tell me that he doesn’t work at THAT end of the body.

The name of this "prep" is funny, if you know what a "prep" does.

The name of this “prep” is funny, if you know what a “prep” does.

“No prep,” I said, and everyone laughed uncomfortably.  Leave it to me to make poop jokes in the dentist’s chair.  I’m always making people cringe.  It’s my best skill.

As the dentist began giving me the first of what ended up being 4 not-Novocain injections (Lidocain, I’m guessing), I had to remind myself that this was NOT as bad as a colonoscopy.  I could handle this, right? I had to ask myself that again, when I could feel the drill after 3 shots.  This is when shot number 4 happened.  Still, no prep and no twilight anesthesia to deal with, though that can be fun for whoever is in the recovery room with me.  The twilight anesthesia, not the prep.  The prep is not fun for anyone, especially anyone silly enough to be in the same room with the person who is prepping. Please see the second to the last (or penultimate, as fancy people say) paragraph from this blog:  Twilight anesthesia experience.

Ever since I had my first colonoscopy, way back when I was 21, before the Internet and flat-screen TV’s, I’ve been comparing things in terms of better than or worse than a colonoscopy.

Um, people who are lucky enough, or phonetically challenged enough to NOT know what a colonoscopy is, read this before you continue.  Be sure to read more than the first two sentences.  Get to that “prep” part so you can really get an understanding for my comparison scale.

I usually state the comparison by saying something like, “I’d rather have a colonoscopy than go to a family reunion.”  This is pretty much true as I am not really close with most of my family.  Most things are pretty clear-cut, like this one.  I would always rather have a colonoscopy than do anything that required me to be outdoors for extended periods of time, and I would rather go to the dentist than have a colonoscopy.

Some things, on the other hand, are not so black and white.  Flying (on planes, not my broom) varies.  I’m a nervous flyer.  So, medical procedures and flying cause me the same level of anxiety, depending on the length of the flight and where I am going.  Shorter flights over land are better than colonoscopies because they are over quicker and have no prep.  Long flights, and any flights taking place over the ocean, is much worse than a colonoscopy.  I would truly rather do the whole prep thing, and blabber in the recovery room, than imagine crashing into the ocean and surviving long enough to drown in a plane.  The ocean is softer, so you obviously survive longer than if you just crashed in to the good, dry, hard earth.

OK.  I have given myself sweaty palms now.

If you haven’t had a colonoscopy yet, you are really missing out on a great comparison tool, and a lot of good stories that would make your friends cringe .  You can use whatever tools you have though. If you have had a root canal, use that as a comparison tool.  Anything surgical will do, really.  Let me know what your “colonoscopy” scale is in the comment area.

I learned all I need to know doing stand-up comedy.

This may come as a shock to those of you who don’t know me very well, or do not find me amusing, but I spent ten years doing stand-up comedy.  I was a comedian, or a stand-up comic, not a  “comedienne” as some people liked to call me while patting themselves on the back for being so knowledgeable.  Unless you are someone who refers to your female doctor as a doctorette, and I hope she does many painful medical tests on you if you do, there is really no reason to call someone with ovaries a comedienne.

Comedy was more of a hobby than a career as I stuck to the state of Florida and ventured into Georgia once.  As a parent, I didn’t feel that the life on the road necessary for a full-fledged comedy career would be appropriate.  I could not look my son in the eye and say, “Mommy would rather entertain drunk people than watch you grow.”  I’ve met many comedians who have done just that, and more.  Knowing that my son is more important than any career is just one life lesson that I learned from doing comedy.  Here are the rest:

  • You truly can’t judge a book by its cover.

Some comedians try to judge an audience by the age of the people, or the race or nationality.  They are the Archie Bunkers of comedy.  I just told my jokes.  They were real jokes that everyone could relate to.  I’ve seen many older crowds laugh at vibrator jokes.  A lot of comedians like to complain about a “rough audience.”  As Jerry Seinfeld used to say, “It’s not the crowd; it’s you.”  When we bring our preconceived notions, we bomb, on stage and in life.

  • Not everyone will like you.

Sad but true, no matter what you do, there are some people who just won’t like you.    I’ve had hundreds of successful shows, but two very bad ones.   Both bad shows occurred in more rural cities.  I learned that I am a “city folk” kind of comedian.  I didn’t bomb because the rural crowds were too rough, or bad.  I bombed because I just couldn’t reach them.  Like other mortals, I don’t achieve common ground with everyone.

  • Nothing will take you down faster than fear.

I’ve done many open-mike nights, both as a beginner and as a more experienced comic.  I always cringed when a new comic would get up on stage and tell the audience about his stage fright. No! No! No!  Fear is not funny, nor useful.  To be successful, nervous energy must be used to, well, energize.  Showing fear turns you into a wildebeest in the center of a pride of hungry lions.

  • There is always room for compassion.

I will never forget this one drunk woman at a Friday night show.  She was the worst heckler that I had ever had.  She would not shut up, not for me or the other comics.  I hammered her with everything in my STFU arsenal.  Still talking.  When the headliner was on stage, at the end of the show, she finally got quiet.  That’s because she was in the bathroom barfing.  My first thought was, “serves her right.”  Then, I remembered how horrible it is to puke and I thought about what a rough night she had ahead of her.  So, when she came out of the bathroom, I took her to a table in the back and got her ginger ale and crackers.  The other comics thought I was nuts.  She’s probably a perfectly nice person when she’s sober, and she had probably had a horrible week at work or something.  We all screw up.

  • You don’t have to be sexy to be successful.

Comedians come in all shapes, sizes and colors.  Some are gorgeous and some, well, not so much.  Being funny is not about being sexy.  I’ve only known one comedian who was both.  One.  Being successful at comedy depends more on how quick you can think than how skinny you can be.

  • It’s good to know what is going on the world.

Comedians make fun of the world around them, so, clearly, they must actually pay attention to the world outside of their homes.  By world, I mean everything not just Snooki’s hair.  In the real world, it is also good to speak intelligently about things that matter.

I think everyone should do comedy, at least once.  There are so many things to learn, and there is no better feeling than being DONE with a public speaking gig.  After 10 years, public speaking doesn’t bother me at all and it is most people’s number one fear.  Do you believe that?  How could anyone’s number one fear be speaking into a microphone to a crowd of people who are there to listen to you?  My number one fear is frogs.  They are slimy, they boing at you and they do not listen.

Not so Shocking Gators in Disney

I was born and raised in Florida.  I have seen alligators on golf courses and in parking lots.  I know they exist.  I have been to Disney more times than I have been to Red Lobster.  I never stayed at the Grand Floridian because I am not made of cash, but I have walked near the Seven Seas Lagoon, and I have ridden boats on it.  I never saw an alligator on Disney property, and I never expected to see one there.  I was in Disney, where magic is real and all animals are animatronic. The only alligator I saw during any of my trips to the land of magic was in the Peter Pan ride.

I’m sick to my stomach over little Lane’s alligator related death.  I can’t imagine the horror he felt or the horror that his parents will live with forever. Of course, hard hearted idiots out there are already blaming the parents.  People are saying it is “common sense” to know to keep your kids away from a lake in Florida, especially one with No Swimming signs.  Common sense is not so common and the kid wasn’t swimming.  He was walking in the water, or wading.  Common sense is made up of your experiences, the things you learn during life.  Lane’s family is from Nebraska.  Alligators are not a part of a Nebraska resident’s common sense.

Honestly, I don’t think common sense would have kicked in for me either.  Have you seen the beach area at the Grand Floridian?  Shocker – it looks just like a beach.  There’s beautiful white sand, beach chairs, and a regular looking shore line.  Yes, there are No Swimming signs, but that doesn’t mean you can’t touch the water, or be near it.  Why wouldn’t kids want to build sand castles next on a nice little shore like this?   Why wouldn’t parents let them? There were no alligator warning signs.  No Swimming isn’t equivalent to saying, “There are alligators in the lake.”  I think that would have gotten everyone’s attention.

And Disney should have had signs like this because they KNEW there was a problem.  Management was aware that some guests were feeding alligators.  Employees even requested that a fence be built.  Disney even has its own “wildlife-management team” in place to remove nuisance gators.  In spite of all of this, the folks at Disney still showed movies on the beach at night.  They were encouraging families to hang out on a beach next to a gator filled lake at night, alligator meal time.  Why are we shocked that an alligator, a wild predator, took a small kid standing next to its habitat during feeding time?

As with any tragic event, we have the thoughts and prayers people.  Wow, what a lovely and totally useless sentiment.  “Thoughts and prayers.” I see this over and over on social media.  So, just whispering to yourself in your home or church or wherever, or thinking nice thoughts is going to bring back the little boy? Is it going to take away the parents’ sadness and guilt? What exactly do thoughts and prayers actually do? Why do people feel obligated to say this? Either be quiet or just speak the truth.  Say things like:

“I’m sorry you are going through this.”

“If I could do anything to change it, I would.”

“I feel helpless and I don’t know what to say.”

Seriously, if I were in this situation and someone offered “thoughts and prayers” I would go on a jack-slapping spree.

Maybe, instead of thinking and praying, we can do real things like work to prevent this from happening to another family.  Call Disney, write them, picket them, fly a banner over the Magic Kingdom, write snarky blogs, call your congressman. Do whatever you can.  Demand that fences go up. Heck, maybe we can even bring Donald Trump to Florida and have him build a wall around the Seven Seas Lagoon.  This should never happen again. If there is a known problem we need to work on an actual solution, not just sit around and talk about how rare it is and hope it doesn’t happen again.

Yes, I know. Alligators were there first.  Blah, blah, blah. That doesn’t mean we can just let them eat pets and children.  Maybe we need to start actually thinking of ways to protect everyone, alligators included, by maintaining a healthy separation.  Those five gators in the Seven Seas Lagoon would not have been killed if there had been a fence or even an honest sign about WHY there was no swimming allowed.  The sign should have a picture of an alligator with big teeth, just to show our friends who don’t speak English what the real deal is. Until then, I will enjoy all of my Disney magic in California, where there are no gators.  The humidity is also a lot lower.

It doesn't LOOK like a lake of gators. Photo from Disneydining.com

It doesn’t LOOK like a lake of gators.
Photo from Disneydining.com

 

 

A Writer’s Agenda

Hi lovely readers!  I’ve been in sort of a funk. This has been my daily agenda for a while now.  Leave me a comment if your day is similar.  

 

No wonder Matt Lauer hasn't called me to interview me about my awesome books!

No wonder Matt Lauer hasn’t called me to interview me about my awesome books!

Chewbacca Lady, WTF?

Unless you live in an off the grid tiny house in a rain forest, you have heard of Chewbacca Lady, the latest in a long line of asinine internet superstars. Okay I get it.  I’m a big ole Oscar the grouch pajama wearing meanie.  I don’t find Chewbacca Lady deserving of all of this media attention. I also didn’t think Kim Davis deserved it, or Rebecca Black and her godawful Friday ear worm. And let’s not even talk about the Kardashians here.  Really, here in Murica, a whole lot of people doing nothing of importance become “celebrities.”

So, when I first saw that Chewbacca Lady had gone viral for putting on a mask and laughing, it irritated me.  When I found out she was using her way more than fifteen minutes of fame to push Jesus, I became more annoyed. In case you are unfamiliar with Atheism, let me clarify.  I don’t have a problem with Chewbacca Lady because she is a Christian.  I have a problem with her pushing it on everyone via a Star Wars mask.

Since her video went viral, Candace Payne has been on numerous TV shows. She has spoken at Christian conferences. She has toured Disney World and Lucas studios.  Mark Zuckerberg himself invited her to tour Facebook and tagged her in a post.  Now, Southeastern University in Florida wants to give Chewbacca mom and her family FREE college.  It’s crazy.  She put on a mask in a car and laughed her ass off.

Just to be clear, I don’t think Candace Payne is less deserving of her pseudo celebrity status because of her beliefs. I just wish that other causes and people would receive this much attention. For example, my friend Heidi Floyd, a Christian and pastor’s wife, travels all over raising money for cancer research while still battling the disease. I wish SHE could get this level of attention so that more people would donate to cancer research or volunteer to help cancer patients etc.

I also know a young woman named Heather who just turned 30 and is battling pancreatic cancer.  Heather has two young kids, a husband, many family and friends, and patients who rely on her.  That’s right.  Heather is a nurse who has not been able to work because of her disease. You may know how I feel about Go Fund Me, but in this case, I would love Heather to get all of the funds she needs for her mountain of medical bills. If you can help, please do visit Heather’s page and donate. Not only is she battling the disease, but she is raising a lot of awareness, too.

There are many people out there actually doing things to help others.  They deserve this level of attention.  They deserve to have everyone know their names.  Candace just is not one of these people.

Religious friends, I can hear you.  “But Lisa.  Chewbacca lady is doing something wonderful.  She is spreading the word of God and the joy of Jesus.” Maybe she should put on her Chewbacca mask and laugh her way over to Africa, the Middle East, or anywhere in the world really and tell all of the starving children without safe places to live about this joyful Jesus and his daddy, God. I bet the kids think true joy would come from a sandwich and a roof, not an invisible man in the sky.

We need to start putting people in the spot light who deserve to be there. We need to place more value on those who help others, like nurses, teachers, firefighter, doctors, and volunteers.  Imagine what we could do as a society if we actually came together and helped each other rather than admiring viral video stars and other b-rate celebrities.  If you know someone who is really doing something good, please leave a name and or link in the comments section.  Let’s publicize the people who really deserve recognition.

 

 

 

Getting Rid of a Stye

Most people have some kind of health issue that they deal with. Some folks get migraines.  Some have seasonal allergies.  Others, like me, have IBS and deal with a host of poop issues.  Some get styes.  I’m NOT prone to getting styes, so I am not used to having a foreign eye lid invader like I do now.

http://lisarpetty.com/

Cut me, Mickey!!!

Supposedly, styes come from leaving on make-up when you sleep OR picking your nose and touching your eye. I work from home, so my use of eye make-up, or any make-up is limited to that once a week where I actually go out in public.  I didn’t think I picked my nose and touched my eye, but I guess I could be wrong. Other than this megaridiculous never ending stye that I have now, I have had ONE other stye episode ever in my life. Ever.  This time around, I not only got the stye on my top lid that was big enough to pay taxes, I also had a smaller version on my lower lid.  Stuff like this makes me actually believe in God and know that he hates me. It reminds me of the time I had the never-ending bronchitis of 2015.

Anyway, now that I am on week three of living on the styeway of hell, I have become an expert.  As a self-proclaimed expert, I can tell you how to get rid of that pesky stye and I won’t even try to sell you some snake oil product in the process.

  • Realize you have a stye.
  • Squeeze your eye shut tightly and say “fuck!”
  • Open your eye again.
  • Look in the mirror to confirm that you have a stye.
  • Say “fuck!” again.
  • Look up stye on Google.
  • Realize that it is a STAPH infection that you got from moving bacteria from your nose to your eye.
  • Know for certain that you are a Neanderthal.
  • Vow to wash your hands before and after touching any part of your body forever and ever.
  • Wash your hands.
  • Remember that time in 1978 when you had pink eye and your mom put warm teabags on your eye.
  • Grab a teabag, put it in water and microwave it for a minute.
  • Curse like a mofo when you grab the HOT teabag out of the cup.
  • Curse again when you sip the very hot cup of tea.
  • Let the teabag cool on a paper towel.
  • Wash your hands.
  • Squeeze the teabag and put it on your eye.
  • Sit down and wait for it to cool.
  • Get up thirty seconds later and run the teabag under the hot water in the kitchen sink.
  • Put the teabag on your eye again.
  • Throw it away after it is cold again.
  • Wash your hands.
  • Take a stye selfie and post it on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter.
  • Roll your good eye when the “advice” starts popping up in the comments.
  • Tell everyone that you have been putting teabags on your eyes since 1978.
  • Calmly explain to that supplement selling friend that you will not be trying the cure everything drink.
  • Tell your helpful essential oil selling friend who suggested you try a peppermint eye mask to fuck off.
  • Put on sunglasses and go to the store.
  • Buy some stye ointment and a “Mommy’s Kisses” compress.
  • Go home and heat your compress in the microwave at 5 second intervals until it goes from cold to TOO HOT during the final 5 seconds.
  • Let it sit on a paper towel for a bit.
  • Wash your hands.
  • Pick it up when it is cool enough to touch and put it in its super cute pig head pouch.
  • Put a pig head compress on your eye like you are 7.
  • Post a pig head compress selfie on Instagram and Facebook.  Screw Twitter.
  • Brace yourself for all of the helpful advice from moms who use “Mommy’s Kisses” on their real 7 year-olds.
  • After 4 days of compresses, wonder why the fuck you still have the damn stye.
  • Google more ways to get rid of styes.
  • Find a Youtube video where a jackwagon lances his own stye with a needle.
  • Consider lancing your own stye with a needle.
  • Wash your hands.
  • Read in the video comments that the jackwagon ended up needing eye surgery.
  • Put your needle away.
  • Wash your hands.
  • Go to urgent care.
  • Get a prescription for antibiotic eye ointment.
  • Use it three times a day. Washing your hands before and after.
  • Notice everything is blurry.
  • Notice your hands are peeling like sunburnt tourists.
  • Also notice your eye lid has gotten BIGGER and REDDER.
  • Begin telling random people that you went 4 rounds with Rocky and yell, “Cut me, Mickey!”
  • Notice how the young people don’t get it.
  • Go to your eye doctor.
  • Have a complete exam including numbing eye drops and lots of being touched on your sore as fuck eye.
  • Get a prescription for Augmentin.
  • Take it for two days with no trouble.
  • Notice your eye lid is not as swollen or red.
  • Wake up on the third day on Augmentin and shit yourself silly.
  • Wonder if you accidentally drank colonoscopy “prep.”
  • Call the eye doctor.
  • Request a “less harsh” antibiotic.
  • Squeeze your butt together as you go to the pharmacy’s drive through window to pick up your new medicine.
  • Take said medicine twice a day for 10 days.  So, 12 days total of antibiotics.
  • On day 13 notice you still have a stye.
  • It’s tiny. It’s not red.  But it is STILL THERE.
  • Look up that lance your own stye video again while you grab your “Mommy’s Kisses” compress.
  • Pour yourself a double-shot of vodka and consider pouring it on your eyelid.

What about you guys?

Have you ever had a stye that lasted 3 weeks or more?

What did you do?

Please, for the love of all that is holy and unholy, help me get rid of this!!

http://lisarpetty.com/

If I am ever single again, this is SO my Match.com picture.

 

The Liberal Agenda

I have always been a liberal, even way back in elementary school.  I can remember getting in trouble in fourth grade for getting angry during Ronald Reagan’s first inaugural speech.  I don’t remember what I said, but I can tell you with great certainty that Mrs. Baxter was a Republican.  She was not too happy with me and neither were a couple of my friends.  Growing up, I had always heard that Republicans were cold hearted jerks, so I was shocked that some of my friends actually liked Reagan.

Shortly after he became president, Reagan suggested that ketchup should be considered a vegetable in the school lunch program. This was WAY before Michelle Obama was first lady.  So, the school lunches didn’t have many vegetables to begin with, and Reagan wanted to make it so a sugary, vinegary condiment counted as a vegetable.  That qualified as cold hearted to me. Even at age nine I knew that ketchup was not the same as broccoli.

Like a lot of kids in my elementary school, I lived in a low income household with a single mom.  I qualified for the reduced lunch price, which was about half or the normal price. Sometimes, when I didn’t have lunch money, the cafeteria ladies would give me a pity peanut butter sandwich. I usually wasn’t the only kid in the cafeteria with the tell-tale little sandwich. Most of us were living in poverty or close to it.  We didn’t need LESS nutritious food.

While my mom has always been a Democrat, most of the family is Republican. Since I’m one of about three liberals in my extended family, I’ve been hearing all about this supposed “Liberal Agenda” for quite some time. I have heard that liberals don’t work and want to live off of the government. I have two jobs and I have worked since I was 15.  I have heard that liberals hate guns and want to take them all away. Nope.  I have even heard President Obama being compared to Hitler.  Um, really?

Since I am a flaming, card carrying Liberal, I decided who better than to share this secret Liberal Agenda with the world than me.  I know what Liberals are up to. Well, at least I know what Trump supporters THINK we are up to.  So, here is your very own saveable/shareable Liberal Agenda.  Share it with the world. Expose the “truth.”

Liberal Agenda http://lisarpetty.com/

Crap! I’m running late!

Parallel Parking — The Final Frontier

I recently served a two-month grand jury term.  In addition to learning that there are a lot of trashy people in my town, I learned that I am a coward when it comes to parallel parking. Every Wednesday, my jury days, I would get to the court over an hour early so I could park in a real parking lot. If I didn’t get there early, there would be no spaces in the lot and I would have had to, gulp, park on the street. Confession: I’m 44 and ½ years old and I do not know how to parallel park.

I learned to drive in South Florida, Hollywood to be specific.  Back in the day, in Hollywood, I never had to parallel park.  Even the street meter parking in the down town area was diagonal pull in parking.  Every place I ever wanted or needed to go had a parking lot.

I got so little practice with parallel parking when I had my restricted that I failed my first try at getting my regular driver’s license. When I attempted to park between the two poles, as instructed, I backed into one of the poles. The screechy old woman who was administering my test screamed, “You failed!”

That was my final straw with her. She hated me from the moment she got in my driving instructor’s small Toyota. The license examiner had me press the horn and it made a pathetic, sick frog noise.

“I could fail you for that horn!” She yelled.

My heart immediately started beating faster.  “It’s not my car. It’s my driving teacher’s car,” I told her.  I could tell by her face that I probably shouldn’t have talked back. Oh well.  Too late.

After that rough beginning, it’s no wonder I failed the test.  After I banged into the pole, the examiner had me drive back to the license office.  I shook the whole way.  When I pulled into a parking space in front of the office, I got out and got in the passenger seat.  I started crying as soon as I shut the door. My instructor told me not to worry about failing. He assured me we would try again in a week or so, at a different license office.

http://lisarpetty.com/

This is about my speed when it comes to all things driving.

True to his word, a week later we went to a different driver’s license place in Fort Lauderdale. This time I got a youngish, around 30, man. Since this office was smaller than the other one, the actual driving test took place on neighborhood streets rather than a driving course.  So, there were no poles when I had to parallel park.  There were also no other cars because everyone in the neighborhood parked in their driveways.  Parallel parking was easy with nothing to hit.

After I aced parallel parking, I did a crappy, off road three-point turn. The examiner still passed me in spite of that turn. He even had “safe driver” added to my license.  Honestly, I think he just had a creepy grown man crush on me.  During the test, he told me I was pretty.  He also asked if I had a boyfriend.  I didn’t say anything about that to my driving instructor or my parents.  I was just so happy to have my license, and to not have to parallel park ever again.

Since that day, I have not parallel parked unless there were no cars on either side and I could just pull in.  Whenever I make plans with friends, I tell them to pick a place with “real parking.” If all else fails, I valet park or park really far away. I hear there are cars that can parallel park for you. Until I have one of those, I won’t be attempting any street parking when there are actual cars parked within a block.

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