Joining the Thin Club

My Birthday Colonoscopy

  

"Greetings From New Rochelle!"

...read my texted photo.  It didn't take long for my cellphone to start ringing under the gurney upon which I am so fashionably positioned (don'tcha LOVE the hat?).  "OMG, MOM???  What happened?  Are you OK?" Casey blubbered into the phone.  "I'm fine, darling, just celebrating my birthday a bit early - I'm getting a colonoscopy!" 

"What the Hell?"  I don't think Casey appreciated being punked.  But I was in pretty good spirits.

I had woken up at 5 am and toasted the new day with a disgusting mixture of Powerade and Miralax powder.  64 ounces to be exact.  Blech!  And I had to finish the huge pitcher within two hours.  I am a person who rarely sips anything, much less chugs it.  If I'm going to drink anything at all it's plain old Poland Spring H2O.  But here I am facing the horrible mixture.  So I did my best imitation of Hawkeye Pierce, and hoisted my martini glass and toasted my soon-to-be BIG birthday.

The only problem was, that, as I imbibed my 8th glass, the final one - at around 7 am - my poor tummy couldn't take the challenge and like most, college kids who have had one too many, I spewed my guts projectile-fashion, all over the bathroom.  So now I was feeling sick, quite grungy and I had to clean up the bathroom to boot.  What a way to start the day.

When I called the doctor to tell him my um...progress...or lack thereof, he gave me the option of quitting - and trying it again another day.  "Not happening," I told him miserably.  "I will not do this to myself twice in a month, much less twice in a lifetime."  So several laxatives later, there I was, ready to "assume the position" and submit my colon to a thorough inspection.

"I want to watch."  The anesthesiologist looked at me like I was crazy.  "You can't," she said.  "Can so," I said back.  "I'm paying you - you can make it so I can watch.  Can't she?" I looked at my gastroenterologist imploringly.  "She can watch," he told her.

"You may feel discomfort," the anesthesiologist warned.  "And you won't remember a thing when it's over."

"Hmmm," I grunted, remembering some lousy dates I've been on.  "Been there, done that.  Bring it on," I challenged.

And so they did.  Comfortably nested in fluffy pillows, perched on my left side, I watched as a snakey probe explored the organ that most people never get to really see for themselves.  "We're turning a corner now," the doctor warned.  "You may feel this."  I did - a little, but the sight of the colon opening up like an amusement park ride was so fascinating, I just did a little Lamaze breathing and hung on tight.  It looked and felt like we were inside a tubular flume, with occasional splashes of "who knows what" flying towards us.  "Here's the small intestine," the doctor pointed out.  "Let's go inside."  He explored a bit.  Wheeee!  And then I saw what might be the reason I had this colonoscopy in the first place - my very own polyp.  It looked like a big pimple bulging out of the pinkish fold.  "That's a polyp," the doctor informed me.  "We're going to grab it with the forceps and biopsy it."  It was at the very end - in the ascending colon - near where my appendix once had been.  A quick snip and a bit of blood and no more internal acne!

So now I've got a new dilemma - I would like to give  my polyp a name.  Any suggestions?  Polly Polyp?  Peter Polyp?  I'm all ears...

In the past 50 years I've done some very cool things to celebrate my birthday.  This may actually be one of the coolest.  And, contrary to what the anesthesist said (and unlike the bad dates), I remember the details of my flume ride down my colon.  But as my birthday draws near, I do harbor the insane hope that someone will buy me a drink that has neither Powerade nor laxative in it?  Perhaps a Gimlet?  Anyone up for a Polyp Party?

GO AHEAD:  NAME THAT POLYP!

 

The Shoemaker's Daughter...

So here I am, teaching people how to market, but sadly, my own logo and marketing has been dated and rusty lately.  I started my business back in 1989 and, face it, things have changed since then.  A lot.  Because I hadn't really focused on my own re-branding, I put off some of the essentials - like creating new business cards and I took down my primitive website.  After all, everything you put out about yourself teaches someone something about you - right?  I couldn't just put together temporary materials - what would that say about me?  So, the shoemaker's daughter went barefoot.  Ouch!

This summer my self-neglect cost me clients.  The people I pitched loved my verbal presentation.  They "got" that I had all the experience needed to bring their product to market.  But they couldn't understand how an expert marketing consultant had absolutely nothing to show for herself.  Which of course made me feel bad.  And not having clients further cut the budget, making it impossible for me to pay for the things that I need done.  A vicious cycle.

Time-money-money-time - it seems if you have one, you just don't have the other.  But change has to start somewhere...

So yesterday, after another client requested some sort of visual - a website, a press kit -- anything that puts all my years of marketing experience in one place, I did what I should have done years ago.  I rebranded.  I worked with Oscar Rivera (www.oscarsart.com) - a fabulous graphic designer and videographer that I met while pitching a new client.  I finally worked out the details of my branding and tweaked my tagline.  And together, Oscar and I created the new JSL Publicity & Marketing look (see above).  No, the shoemaker's daughter may not need Manolos, but she does need a good pair of Nikes to get her from here to there!

Morning Prayers

What's your first thought when you open your eyes every morning?

If you are like most people, it's probably that you wish you had a few more hours to sleep...This summer has been a quiet one for me.  With my daughter gone for the summer - and my 5:30 am walking partner/neighbor away, I could easily roll back into bed...But instead, I find myself waking up and reflecting on how much I have--another day-another opportunity to perhaps do some good for someone. 

This morning, I decided to multi-task.  I grabbed a book that I needed to deliver to the Scarsdale village on behalf of a client, grabbed my prayerbook, took some money and my housekeys, and I embarked on a 2-mile walk to the village.  At first I tried to read the prayerbook while walking.  Do not try this one - it can be dangerous - especially when you have no sidewalks!

So, I put the prayers on hold, walked through lines of giant sycamores on Heathcote Road, past Beyonce's mansion (and past many others) on my way down the hill.  I delivered my client's book to the appropriate venue, then kept on going into the woods by the Bronx River Parkway.  There, near a waterfall, I perched on a rock and completed my prayers, my "thank yous" for all I've been granted, adding a few "requests" for things that would help me complete still more each day...I  don't need things for me - I need things to help me complete my mission on this planet.  No more and no less.

I didn't hear the rush of cars on the Parkway, just my own whispered words of comfort, the swish of the trees, the chirping of birds singing along with me, and an occasional friendly "hello' from passerby who were riding bikes or pushing strollers on the pretty wooded path by the train station.

A friend of mine has been telling me how difficult it is for him to get out of bed each day.  He lost his wife to cancer and he says the thought of going through his day alone is daunting.  He bemoans his lack of work and the things he needs but doesn't have.  He drowns in the endless clutter of his life.  He cries every day, he says. Even when the sun is shining, and the grass is green and the trees gently wave a morning hello.

But this morning all I could see were G-d's blessings and life all around me.  Wish he had been there to see the world from my perch.  If only everyone could.  The world would be a much happier place.  So I bought a cup of iced coffee at Dunkin' Donuts and began the uphill trek home.

Should I Write a Dating Book?

Everyone keeps urging me to write down my dating stories...They say they are too funny, too ridiculous to be believed.  But there are SO many dating books already out there...and since these men are obviously circulating, I don't think my stories are any more bizarre than the next gal's.

I didn't really date before I got married.  I had one serious boyfriend and was summarily two-timed by him and then I met the man I would marry.  I knew I would marry him because of his opening line to me.  I had gone to a party on Memorial Day with a bunch of my friends and a weird guy sidled up to me and asked me if I was a Libra.  He pronouced it LYE-BRA.  "I'm a LYE-BRA," he said, "Are YOU a LYE-BRA?"  As I turned my back on him in disgust, another guy rescued me by bringing me a glass of diet coke.  He smiled and said, "I sweat a lot.  That's why I always wear a T-shirt under my shirt."  And that was the man I married.  HE was a Virgo.

So being thrust into the dating scene again at mid-life, I guess it shouldn't really surprise me that men say the weirdest things.  And that many of the leftover "LYE-BRA'S" are probably still out there cruising.  But it does surprise me.

And the burn-out that accompanies the dating process is immense.  I'm discovering that I'd rather be alone much of the time.  I never thought of myself as a loner but it's a fact, I prefer the solitude of a long walk and the ocean crashing on the shore than a man with teeth like a checkerboard telling me that I'm the "beth-t thing that ever happened to him."  It's mean, I know, to make fun of such a ni-th-e man - but dammit, why can't he get implants if he wants to go out with me and hope-th to one day kithth me?  And if he can't afford them, can he afford me?  THAT, my friends, is dating burnout.  Not a pretty sight.

And the ones that see fit to come and go at their leisure.  They say they'll call, but no doubt get distracted by some other pretty bon-bon in the dating chocolate box.  And so, rather than end it with a reason...("I met someone else "- "I don't think we're a match" - etc.), they just disappear, figuring, they are leaving their options open.  Guys that do that to me do not get a second chance one month later, when the prettier bon-bon turns out to be a stale Turkish Taffy.

Worse yet, are the ones who string you along for six-months pretending to be interested, only to let you know the day after they profess undying love for you that they are "not feeling it anymore..."  HUH?

So, folks, the book may come.  But for now, I'm just gonna retire my number.  I pulled my profile off frumster, swore off the singles events and I'm gonna fly solo and enjoy the beach, the sun and the summer!

Socially Bizarre...Dream Date

We all have our awkward moments.  The kind where you feel like, oh gosh, Annie Hall, or worse, Woody Allen.  Where you are fumbling for the right word, or ripping through your laptop for the right presentation that eludes you, and you hem and you haw, and everything seems inaccessible somehow...and you realize you're coming across...well...weird.

But there is a huge difference between a temporary lapse in social graces and, downright socially bizarre behavior.  And the problem is, these gentlemen don't have a clue as to why they have been rejected!

Today, when Mr. X called me to invite me to spend the weekend with him, it definitely fell into the realm of  the bizarro.  You see, I haven't seen Mr. X in months - he claims it's my fault - that I dropped the ball (I did) and stopped communicating with him, so here was his comeback move:  Warning, gentlemen:  DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME - You are almost certain to be rejected.

Mr. X calls me and suggests that I spend the weekend - all expenses paid completely - with him - get this - AT A NURSING HOME!  It seems, he is working as a chaplain at said home - somewhere in New Jersey.  And his idea of a cool way to reacquaint with me was to get me a bed at this nursing home, and enjoy the meals and spend time with me -- very healthy meals, he assures me - no sugar and no salt .  We could spend the entire weekend in nursing home bliss.

Now I know I'm getting "old" and my birthday is next month, but I really hadn't considered checking myself into a nursing home for at least a few more years, and certainly not for a date.  This is one for reality-TV - really!

To compound the matter, I'm coming off a dream date last night -- with someone special who really KNOWS how to impress a girl(motorcycle ride to and from Coney Island--my FIRST!, backstage passes to Credence Clearwater Revival, an AMAZING concert, a shmooze with the band afterwards, topped by a walk on the boardwalk at midnight, with lightning flashing in the distant clouds over the ocean).  So here I am, scratching my head and trying to figure out how Mr. X could EVER have thought I would even consider this ridiculous Nursing Home suggestion.

And it makes me wonder why some guys know just how to make a woman swoon and others are SO socially bizarre...Got brains?

There's a DESK Under The Clutter!

"Why are you spreading out your stuff on the dining room table?" my daughter asked, as she sat down with her dinner adjacent to my new makeshift "desk."  My laptop, checkbook, papers, business cards, notebooks and magazines all surrounded me as she tried to find room for her plate and cutlery.

The truth was, I was afraid to hole up in my office space.  The desk was daunting.  Pounds of papers from little sticky pad scribbles to huge notebooks with notes, to print-outs of Twitter updates, made it it impossible to even get near my ancient computer.  Months of client-speak, proposals that never culminated in accounts, resumes that needed just one more tweak, had proliferated from computer to desktop, to the point where just sitting in front of the desk sent papers flying and made me feel disorganized and disheveled.  So I took my new laptop and started a new clutter space downstairs.  Where my daughter was trying to eat.

Ridiculous, but so true...the clutter was chasing me. 

As I sat in Rosie the Hypnotists dark room yesterday, I confessed my innermost anxieties...that I could no longer focus on anything anymore...there was much too much clutter in my life.  Rosie listened to my description patiently.  You WILL change it, she said firmly.  Beginning tomorrow, you will take a few hours each day and you will put yourself back together.  Losing control of your life is no way to run a business.  It's affecting your business, your life, your self-esteem.  You can and will change it by turning your life into modular compartments, addressing each compartment methodically, and tackling the tasks at hand.

And so today, I entered the dreaded office.  Before I got started, I listened to Rosie's self-hypnosis CD, relaxing my mind and letting her positive suggestions in.  Then I attacked the office, blowing off potential appointments, with a giant empty box from my garage and I began going through the mess that has taken over my life.  I made piles - kids' report cards; notes from lectures; business cards, magazines, phone numbers, notebooks with client scribbles.  It was disheartening to find a $25 check from Merrill Lynch dated 11/08 that said it was invalid after 90 days, but this is just one casualty that has resulted from my lapse into clutter.  I am back in control, ready to take back my life.  I won't let it happen again.

I have just scratched the surface - the files need thinning and I have paid invoices to file and much more to throw away.  After I've tackled the office, I will put some new systems in place, address my computer files and figure out what else needs fixing.  Amazingly, there IS a desk under the clutter.  Now that I've found it, I think I'll keep it that way!

The Freak Show - All of Us!

I spent July 4th weekend at a singles event and I had a revelation there.  With the sun pounding on the boardwalk, the waves crashing on the shore, it occurred to me that all of life is a freak show.  You know the kind you see in carnivals in the movies, with tattooed men and bearded ladies.  There IS no normal...except in our own minds.

I quietly watched as single men and women drifted through the weekend, making the motions of people trying to connect but silently slipping right by each other like ships passing in the dead of night.  There were grossly obese men who couldn't understand why thin, pretty women were passing them by.  There were older plain women who were hurt that young attractive men did not want to date them.  Everyone, even the most attractive and intelligent in the group, had something hanging over them - either physically or psychologically--what is known in the singles arena as "baggage."  One attendee put it succinctly and effectively.  "We are all broken toys," he said.  And it reminded me of headless Barbie dolls and firetrucks missing a wheel.  He was right.

What most impressed me about the weekend was the sad realization that , in spite of our own flaws, all of us--myself included--were walking around like we were the only ones in the room with no baggage whatsoever.  We were the perfect toy in the brand new box, pristine, unopened, never drooled on or chewed.  But I know better...and when you scratch beneath the surface, there was not a face in the crowd that could claim perfection, no matter how pretty or handsome, trim or fit, accomplished or intelligent they were.

A lady with facial hair, a man with missing teeth, a woman battling the memories of dealing with bulemia, a young mother with four children, a 75-year old set on finding a 35-year old...what a collection we were.  And so, when approached by other "broken toys" we reared our heads, looked through them, or sat barely tolerating the other's advances.  Some got downright insulted that the other dared try to engage.  Is it fair?  Is it nice?  Certainly not.  But it is human nature.  A sad fact.  We only see the other's flaws.  Not our own.