Heidi in Real Life

I love to buy stuff--gifts for my family, friends for me.   I loathe being sold something .   A friend told me you need to be an asshole to buy/lease a car these days.   My DNA is not programmed for purposeful ass-hole-ness—I am terminally, exhaustingly polite.   I went for a test drive, and I said, “Let’s talk numbers,” the sales associate, now an owl, hooted and turned her head 360 degrees. I was the owl’s prisoner.   My car keys were taken right away for trade-in evaluation, so I could not leave.   Trapped, I sat, and she kept hopping off to chat with the general manager. I started to rock and found my nearest exit (which was behind me).   It was like the time-share presentation in Cancun on my honeymoon: “No.   No.   We are on our honeymoon.   No, thank you” “I have a better offer,”   sales guy leaves.   A new, well-rested, unbroken, aggressive fresh horse trots in, determined to get our money, toss-tossing his...

When the sun was highest and there were no shadows noon on that June Michigan day, I went stomping through the field to pick flowers for my mother.  The daisies and dandelions I clutched were already bending over, wilting in my tight grasp, but my eyes were fixed on the blue cornflowers just beyond. I knelt on the hot ground and pulled on the weed, expecting it to relent to my little hands.   The stem was strong and stubborn.   I ended up stripping the stem of its leaves all the way up to the flower head, which popped off in my hand.   I regarded it for a moment in that bright sunshine and then let it drop.   I decimated 4 flowers before I finally gave up. In my little 5-year-old, not fully developed brain, I thought, “Me want flower.”   The consequences did not matter at all.   I did not mourn the flowerheads but kept trying until I learned that I was not strong enough to break them.   Now, as an adult with life experience, and a brain ...

Unplanned funerals suck.  Don’t blame the dead.   You, as the “still alive” need to prepare a suitable event …and they don’t just plan themselves.  Not unlike a wedding, you need a service complete with DJ (Death Jockey), food, and a venue.   Leaving things to chance or trusting friends and relatives will be the death of YOU!   Funeral Parlors do services all the time.  When you just “can’t”, let the professionals handle it.  These days, there are lots of options--forests, boats, even restaurants.  Funerals are for the living, so if you want a religious element, for God’s sakes, audition the clergy.  The pastor who did my mother’s funeral didn’t take very good notes, and on the day of, said her name wrong and made her sound like a very unfulfilled comptometer operator.  The minister at my father’s service, dressed in a cloak and hat-- a bit like Professor Snape.  At my friend’s recent funeral, at a restaurant, her sister-in...

Our hair flying, cheeks aching from laughter and screaming--the carnival operator with the greasy hair asks if we want to “go faster” and then throws it in reverse.  Life happened to us that way, both of us gripping the railing on a ride we were not in control of—together, shaken and wobbly sometimes, but stronger and wiser, somehow. Until you had to let go… way too soon.   Amy, you were joy.   You were bubbles and butterfly nets.   I can still see your big blue eyes at times wide with gentle apprehension and the next moment tenacious and spirited.   My children delighted in your kindness and confidence--always playful, always patient.   Their Amy snuggled with them, gave big warm hugs and made them feel loved and appreciated.   You wrapped presents in wads of tissue paper and covered the boxes completely with a thick, impenetrable layer of clear packaging tape.   But Amy-- you were the gift. Amy, you were music.   Singing in the car,...

Hello.   I’m a dignified 8-year-old Corgi named Freya.   I am Krista’s dog, and I adore her.   But on Fridays, Krista goes God-knows-where and leaves me home with “grandma” (her word, not mine).   Grandma calls it “Fridays with Freya” and it’s special spoiling time for the two of us.   Ugh. Grandma talks to me only in the world’s highest possible squeaky voice, asking me questions that I’m supposed to answer.   Here’s an example: “Who’s the best puppy? Say “I am!””   I’m especially annoyed when she asks me open-ended questions, like, “What do you think?”   I’m middle-aged, I don’t have time for this baby-talk nonsense.   There are times when Grandma leaves me alone at home.   I am totally fine with the peace and quiet of being alone (I’m very mature).   But, because I’m a rascal, I hang my head low when she comes back, and barely move.   She sits down with me, pets me and then I roll over for a belly rub.   If she tr...

The fur is really flying in Springfield, OH, as citizens, interested parties and especially pets of voters are enraged and taking it to the streets this election eve.   Many of the pets are out on the front lawn with signs: “The Haitians were GREETING us, not EATING us!” Haitian immigrants can be seen outside too, hugging the cats, dogs and hamsters… and not in a creepy way .    Pets of all size and shape think they can influence the outcome of this election.   Forget about Iowa, folks.     Where the atrocities of false rumors have been spread, they must be addressed and avenged.    “The Haitians have come here due to our low cost of living and plentiful jobs,” said Fido, a mutt, “and they’re friendly to us.   They eat mainly starch anyway, not meat.   Be afraid if you’re a navy bean!” “Yeah, I saw a bald eagle flying around the other day.   Now, they will eat us!” said Rufus the hedgehog, shivering. Donald Trump, lured...

Air- Sweet Air Losing weight rapidly on Mounjaro® has made it so I can finally breathe at night.  This is may be the best result of my weight loss journey.   6 months ago, I was struggling with breathing, mostly because my neck-fat and my large, floppy boobs were strangling me.  I can’t speak for other’s sleep disorders, but mine was completely fat-related.  In the back of my mind, I feared having to strap on a CPAP in the future. My ex-husband, Hyde, had a tiny, baby-sized mouth and the tongue of Jabba the Hutt .   I don’t know how he could even talk .   In 1993, when I started dating him, he had a Model A version of a CPAP.    Model A consisted of a thick, wide hose and a little hat (for his head) to keep the nose-hose in place.   In the shadows of the night, the hose looked like a long, flaccid proboscis that I was hoping was not meant for foreplay. “Hyde, can you take that thing off before we have sex?” “Haaaaaaaah.  Haaaaaa...

Pancreas Bitch-Slapping Mounjaro ® is mostly responsible for my pancreas being kicked into modified submission.   To my endless joy, I no longer need to take Insulin.   My A1C is down to 6.1 and I’m only monitoring my blood sugar. Additionally,   I have no more back pain, and my sciatica has been tamed like a lion with a chair.   I have a lot more energy and I don’t think of things in terms of places to sit anymore. Thanks, Mounjaro! Hairnado! Hair loss is possible with fast weight loss (your experience may vary). The first time I noticed it, I was sent a picture of me in a group shot and I swear my forehead looked bigger. Think Casper the Friendly Ghost.   I blamed it on a lighting problem.   Next couple of months, my bathroom sink wouldn’t drain.   I plunged it out and a major clump of black, slimy hair emerged   “Huh?   How long has that been there?” Not even denying it —just plainly not seeing the truth. A week later, I dr...

  Part 1  -  (your experience may vary) I am a card-carrying fat person.   Fat is in my DNA.  I’ve struggled all my life.  I love food.  My favorite hobby was Sheet-caking. I’m almost 60 years old and I’ve tried almost everything to get thin.  I have Diabetes Type 2 and my doctor approved me for a weekly injectable weight loss drug- Mounjaro®.  My first shot was April 4 th , 2024. A little Ecstasy first: Exit Stage Left About 5 minutes after I gave myself a shot (the needle is tiny and doesn’t hurt at all)—I lost my appetite.  Almost immediately, my body got rid of anything that it had been holding inside it--Earth, Wind, Fire and Water  I burped more times that you can ever imagine.  4 days of this, and then I felt fine.  Not hungry.  Not thinking about food.  And so the journey began—The Deflation of Ms. Heidi. Nothing prepared me for how easy the weight fell off.  Mounjaro is a miracl...

I am still dumbstruck by people who can co-parent and co-exist with someone who has broken their heart.   There is a hollow, gnawing black hole in your body when you end a marriage. A massive, vacuuming abyss, and sometimes the only thing that makes it feel better is imagining your former love dangling above a pit of hungry (hungry) hippos. Later, you’ll catch sight of a family picture with HIM and his fat face in the middle of it, spoiling your happy memory.   You morph into a pulsing, sweaty bull, snorting, stomping-- getting ready to charge.   And then you find a pair of scissors and you cut that face—the face you once loved, the face that now mocks you, out of the picture, leaving a blank silhouette.   Childish?   Maybe.   But I was 24 when I divorced my first husband.   I was a child.   It would have been easier if I’d put the in-law on the end for less compositional disruption.   It would also save me the trouble of sticking a pictu...

Believe it or not, “My Mother the Car” was real sit-com in 1965 starring Jerry Van Dyke who owned a car who was inhabited by his mother’s spirit.   She talked to him via the radio.  Nightmare?  I say yes.  My own car makes passive aggressive suggestions just like my mother did, especially when she was driving with me.   My Honda reminds me all the time about cars approaching me on the right and left.   “I KNOW!” I hear in my brain.   Dolores (my mother) is just trying to be helpful.   There are lights, but that’s not a good enough warning—I need to be beeped at as well. Apparently, I don’t brake soon enough for my car’s taste.   Just as once, my mother’s foot used to stomp on the floorboard while she road shotgun alerting me that she thought I should slow down, Honda flashes a BRAKE warning in orange, large font.   “Yes, Mom, I know, I see the red light.”   Annoyingly, Dolores, as my Honda, will turn down the air conditionin...

While waiting to board my recent flight, I sat amazed by the number of passenger classifications who were welcomed onto the plane before me.   By the time they got to calling the Basic Economy group, I got a sense of what the Steerage class must have felt like on the “Titanic”.   “Sapphire Perks Members! Come on down! May we rub special lotion on your dry, back skin?” “Knights of Serbia, enter!” called the flight crew in unison, holding up the heart-sign with their hands. “Emotional support animals?   COME!” “Bueller?” The airline kisses up to its elite customers, thanking them way too many times for flying with them.   I watched a flight attendant divide the entrance way into 2 separate lanes, so that the special passengers could walk down a special path and not co-mingle with a line meant only for substandard customers.   Was the carpet puffier on that side of the room?   I’ll never know. “Who wants to sit on the plane longer tha...

I always knew I was different.  Thanks to my brother’s research on Ancestry.com, I know why. Springing from closets, slithering out of old books and pictures, arising from graveyards across the 7 seas, my relatives have been creeping their way into my life. I’m fascinated— and terrified . I can be really clumsy. Could that be a gift I inherited from great-grand pappy “Trips in Front of a Train?” How about my crooked lower incisors? Yarns have been spun about Great Aunt Mill’s oral self-care. So objectionable were her rotten teeth, she pulled them out herself with a pair of pliers. I’ve always had untamable eyebrows. It makes perfect sense now that I’ve met Uncle Canis lupin.  Of course the odd ones stand out. My grandma once told me about her Aunt Amelia who was nervous and fuzzy. Today I would have asked her a LOT of questions, but as a youngster, I just sat mute. I have ever since been hyper-vigilant for signs of either trait. I wonder what they would t...

Not well anyway. Ahead of a recent physical a sadistic nurse handed me a teeny--tiny bathroom cup and asked me to fill it to a very high line. The cup laughed at me. If it were a Dixie Riddle Cup, it would have read: “What has 2 legs and a wet hand?” “A big girl getting a urine sample.” Alas, peeing in a tiny vessel is not something I think to practice before the annual performance. Not since my early childhood gym days have I felt as ill-prepared for a physical feat. As I once heard children taunting my feeble attempt to crab-walk, I now feel “nursey” rolling her eyes, daring me, yet expecting me to fail (and to make a mess). Nurses, medical assistants, drug-screen enforcers! Please don’t hand me a chalice so small it disappears in my undercarriage. One so small, I feel like the Friendly Giant holding it in a comically massive hand. So small, that having to blindly assess where the next burst of pee will occur (and capture it) is a big girl’s worst nightmare (followed closely ...

You can get into big trouble trying to diagnose your own ailments on the computer.   As tempting as it is, there is no substitute for a medical degree, a cold stethoscope and a scale that adds 10 lbs.   However, one night recently, I turned to the dark-side and read up on the residual pain from my gall bladder surgery.   Of all the crazy things it could be, the one I settled in on was:   A plugged, spasming bile sphincter. Oddly, this diagnosis soothed me and I went to sleep. Later, the next day, I attended a water aerobics class for the first time in many months.   The two male lifeguards who were on duty that night I knew from years past.   One was a college kid; another man was nearly my age.   They asked how I was doing. “Much better, but I had some complications after my surgery.”   I said.   I should have said, “Fine”, but I felt compelled to give more details.   It’s what old people do. “Oh?   What kind of complicat...

Last night we attended a “Huey Lewis and the News” concert.   Huey’s still got it: the fantastic voice, the hair, the muscles and the jeans-friendly body.   OK, I'm back. At the entrance to the event was, in contrast to paragraph 1, my first real glimpse of myself as an old woman.   This occurred when we comingled with our fellow concert-goers-- the cast of “Cocoon ”—in line at the door. My daughter and I stood for a short time to have our tickets scanned, not by a tough bouncer searching for pot or explosive devices, but by an elderly woman who wouldn't hurt a fly. In my seat, I lost myself again, youth recaptured, as Huey entered the stage to the heartbeat at the beginning of “Heart of Rock ‘n Roll.”   With the lights out in the darkened theatre, it was a magical night.    Then they played “I Want a New Drug” and flashed the spotlights on the audience.   WHOA!!   50 shades of grey !!   I felt like I was standing in a cotton fiel...

A blogger friend of mine sent challenged me to write 7 facts about myself.   Opening the door into Heidi’s “Fact safe”…creeeeeaaakkkkk: 1.          I spent a night with Elvis Prestley . O.k, O.k, I was with a stadium full of people in 1973 (I was 8) at one of his last white-jumpsuit shows.  I was not impressed and spent the entire concert with a scarf over my face (the flashbulbs were blinding) and my fingers in my ears.   Thank you.   Thank you very much. 2.          A Hamster helped me get through my divorce in 1991. On one, lonely, miserable night just before my divorce to my then husband was final, I felt especially lonely and uncertain about my decision.     At 4:30 in the morning, I made a list of the Ex’s good and bad points.   Concurrently, our 7-year old, half-dead hamster, Elmer, squeaked his wheel, so I decided to make a pro-con list about HIM and compar...