WWF WTF!!!!!

It started slowly. All my friends were doing it. It seemed like harmless fun. It was something I only did socially, and I tried it because I was bored. And now I’m hooked. I’m an addict. Hello, my name is Barbara and I am a Words with Friends junkie. “Hi Barbara.”

I blame that darn Smartphone. It made it so easy to just sign up. And there was that first little ping – a friend wanted to start this online Scrabble game with me. How sweet. My first word was “Dog.” She countered with “Drawl”; I followed with “Wed”; she came back with “Feral”. F. U.C. K. Before I knew it the score was 345 to 82, in her favor.

Then another ping, another friend, another challenge; it was thrilling. What letters would the Scrabble gods throw my way? What words could I create with a simple drag of my finger? I tried my best, I used Xs and Zs, but was still left lagging far behind my competitor – like way behind, like three digits behind.

Words with Friends became my obsession. Soon I was no longer satisfied with my friends. I began trolling that dark world for any random opponent who’d have me. And there were many, like Friday Yah, XYZ23 and JaggerRules. Nameless, faceless players who helped me satisfy an immediate need. Heck, I didn’t even know if it was a man or woman I was playing with. It could have been a hay farmer from Georgia, a Russian novelist, or Alec Baldwin (shiver to think.)

I had multiple games going – all in hopes of increasing my score. Words lost meaning to me. I just saw them for their point value: Wax, Zygote, Quiz – I yearned for these high-point gems. Signs became life-sized Scrabble boards. Every time I drove past Jersey’s renowned hot dog joint, Rhutt’s Hut, the phrase “Sorry, ‘Rhutt’ is not an acceptable word,” flashed through my mind’s eye. (“Renowned” = 14 points)

Ahhh, Words with Friends in a tempestuous dance partner, my friends. Sometimes it was a kind provider, serving up a J, W, C or the wonderful, beautiful high-point B, with the corresponding and critical vowels. I challenged my partners – some strangers to me – with nuggets like “jazz”, “torque” and “nugget”. (“Nugget” = nine points) Other times, it was a cruel prankster, and only gave me vowels. I would look at my screen disheartened, with only “I E E I I I O” as my options. I updated the board with “it” “is” and “in”. (“In”= three points!)

As far as addictions go, Words with Friends was pretty tame. I could smoke, drink or become obsessed with a Chicago-based genre-bending rock-n-roll band. (Oh, wait a minute. . .)

It kept my brain going after hours. Rather than sitting in the couch and frying my brains on bad reality TV, I juiced up the “grey cells” with WWF. (Okay, I never watch bad reality TV because I think that medium is single-handedly causing the stupidification of America. I like The History Channel*.) {Wow if “stupidification” was a word, it would be lots o’ points.}

I even brought my dictionary home from work to increase my vocabulary. I discovered words like “yagi” (a directional radio or telescope antennae), and used that sweet little word to satisfy my dirty, little need for points. (Yagi = eight points) I did not feel bad, I won that game.

And then there were the desperate times when I pulled random letters together in hopes that it would be a word – and it was! Like “obi” (abbreviation for oblique or oblong). The screen would display “sending” and I would have those exciting few second waiting for the points to add to my total.

What a rush when 98 would jump to 128. The first time I broke 300 was exhilarating. I think it was “Quay” that brought me to that milestone.

Now I am always on the hunt for that rush. I swore I would never be that person who was constantly checking my phone while with friends and family. But now I keep checking to see if that WWF icon is up, indicating that it’s my turn. At least I am not updating my Facebook status every five minutes. (“At the gym.” “Eating cookies.” “Back at the gym.”)

Don’t judge me. (“Judge” = 19 POINTS!) I’ve enjoyed playing WWF with my young niece. Until that 16-year know-it-all started whooping my ass. (“Whoop” = 14 points) And it keeps my mind active and will delay my inevitable decent into dementia. (I know it is coming, just don’t know when.)

Even now as I type this, my phone is next to me, tempting me away from my brilliant prose to fill my board. That siren call is pulling me back to that rectangular device, in hopes that I will see those beautiful words: “Your Move.” (“Move” = 10 points)

Could be worse. Could be Angry Birds.

*Okay, I don’t really watch The History Channel, unless it’s Ancient Aliens. (“Ancient”= 13 points)

This is what happens when I get stuck in traffic

In my defense, this came to me during a five-hour drive from New Jersey to Massachusetts for a Wilco show. My inspiration was the WII-lco t-shirt, which resembles a cartoon. I got to thinking on this long, lonely drive about what the Wilco Scooby-Doo style cartoon would be like. I just started with who would be who, according to cartoon stereo types based on looks.

And then my imagination just went to this place…

Nels: Since he's the oldest, he'd be the smart, rational one in charge -- sort of the Fred, if you will. Often rolling his eyes at the antics of Glenn and Pat (see below).

John: He appears to be just a really nice, normal, intelligent guy. He'd be second in command, sort of the guy version of Velma. He and Nels would be the ones who actually solve the mystery.

Mikael: He wears glasses, so obviously he's the nerdy professor. He's created all these contraptions that come out of his keyboards, e.g., he presses a key and transforms the Wilco-mobile into a helicopter, race car, hovercraft -- whatever the situation warrants.

Glenn: Drummer = wild and crazy guy who's always getting into trouble; scared of dark, scary houses.

Pat: There’s something very Peter Torkish about him. With that mop-top he gives off a very naive, innocent appearance. Therefore, he gets teamed with Glenn to investigate the dark, scary house.

Note: At some point, Glenn and Pat will disguise themselves as French maids to fool the bad guys. Believe it or not, it works.

Jeff: Since he's the front man, the only purpose he serves is to get kidnapped and spend most of the episode bound and gagged.

The plot goes along these lines: Wilco is playing a benefit show to raise money for the local orphanage. The bad guy, Mr. Snively, wants to buy the orphanage to turn it into a parking lot. His dastardly plan to thwart the band's efforts? Kidnap Jeff (see above). So, Mr. Snively's henchmen, Bruno and Max, disguise themselves as teenage girls who want Jeff's autograph. And – despite the fact that Bruno and Max are large men with ample five o’clock shadow, Jeff falls for the disguise. Unknown to Jeff, the pen contains some noxious gas. When he opens the pen, purple smokes flies out and Jeff is knocked unconscious (with the appropriate amount of twirling eyes and birdies).

Back in the dressing room, the other band members realize Jeff is missing. They need to go find him, but the show starts soon, so long-suffering manager Tony M forbids them from leaving.

In true rock-n-roll rebellion fashion, the boys decide to ignore Tony and head out in search of their leader. But how: Tony stationed a big, burly security guard at the dressing room door.

Then the appropriate light bulb goes off over Mikael. “Invisibility!” he shouts. “I programmed an invisibility cloak into my keyboards. All I have to do is play the opening of ‘Walken’, then transition into the mid section of ‘At least that’s What You Said,’ then the close of ‘Spiders’ .. And before you can say ‘Albert Einstein’, we….are…invisible.”

The now invisible boys all sneak out and the search for clues is on. The first one: the discarded poison pen. Professor Jorgensen takes a quick sniff and announces, “If my highly advanced nasal passages are correct, this is knock out gas. And here on the ground is a trail of what smells like Diet Coke. One can only deduce that that a pair of dastardly henchmen – disguised as teeny boppers – fooled Jeff into signing an autograph. Only, the pen was filled with knock out gas than rendered him unconscious, he spilled his Diet Coke and left a trail behind him in that direction.”

Nels hands out the assignments: Nels and John will go to City Hall to find out more about Snively Industries; Mikael will go back to his lab at the Loft to see if he can get any more clues off the pen; and Glenn and Pat are told to follow the trail of Diet Coke.

And the individual adventures go like this…

Nels scratches his head, “Well, ole Mr. Snively must not be too pleased with our little show tonight, which is going to raise enough money to keep the orphanage open for years to come. But not is Jeff is not there. I bet you if we find Snively, we find Jeff. And the show will go on.”

Mikael: Back at the Loft, Mikael has made an interesting discovery. He shows Nels and John that the mysterious substance he discovered on the pen can only be found at Snively Industries. So, Mikael, Nels and John hop back into the Wilco-mobile and head for the big, bad Snively Industries.

Pat and Glenn: The trail of Diet Coke leads to Snively Industries, which, for the purposes of this story, is a dark, scary house. After a few rounds of “I’m-not-going-first-you-go-first,” the boys go inside, holding tight to each other and with the appropriate amount of knobbing knees. They are met with a pair of bright, yellow eyes peering at them from the darkness. The response to Glenn’s shaky “Who are you?” is “Who”. This goes on for a few rounds, with an increasingly agitated Glenn. Mercifully, this ends with an owl flying out.

They find Jeff bound and gagged in a room, being guarded by Bruno and Max. How will Glenn and Pat save Jeff? LIGHT BULB! Dress up as French maids. The boys don the outfits (where they found French maid outfits in a dark, scary house? Who cares? It’s a cartoon and a little thing called “Suspension of Disbelief”) and try to distract the guards. The gagged Jeff rolls his eyes at the attempt.

The French maid disguise works until the wig is pushed off Pat’s head. And the chase is on. Glenn and Pat grab Jeff (still bound and gagged), lift him up over their head and run. They meet up with John, Nels and Mikael, and they all run though the streets of Chicago, while holding the bound and gagged Jeff aloft and being chased by Bruno and Max. This all happens to tune of "Just a Kid," hilarity ensues.

They get back in time to plays to show and save the orphanage.

My Tale from Clinton Road

Let tell you a little bit about Clinton Road. Every small town has that one creepy house, graveyard or abandoned lunatic asylum. West Milford had the mysterious Clinton Road and the equally spooky Clinton Castle. Rumors said that it was built in the 1600s by some heretic settler who spent his nights in debauched activities with the local virgins and livestock. It was actually built 1907 … in the 1600s the only people in the area where Ramapough Indians and a handful of Dutch Settlers. But that’s not a creepy story.

Long story short – Clinton Castle burned down, the land was turned over to the Newark Watershed and the Castle and the surrounding property was left undeveloped. So – with the abandoned burned out remains of the Castle standing over the pristine Clinton reservoir – the surrounding woods became the playground to Satanists, witches, Nazis or the KKK… at least that’s what the scuttlebutt was. People said that there was a demonic presence that cast a deadly vibe over the area. Hogwash if you ask me.

Oh, I am sure there was some “Satanic” activities going on up there. By that I mean a bunch of 17 year old headbangers taking a midnight drive to the Castle for some Motley Crue, a Anton LeVay Satanic Bible reading, beer pong and mutual masturbation (but not in a gay way… kind of like Liberace was not in a gay way).

So, every West Milford kid was obliged to have a Clinton Castle and/or Road experience – kind of like all New Jersians are required by law to be a Springstein fan. So, one beautiful September afternoon, Johnny (not his real name) drove me up to the Castle. (Being that my tale was on a beautiful September afternoon and not on midnight on Samhain, you know this isn’t going to be creepy.)

I think Johnny may have had some ulterior motive driving me up on that lovely afternoon. Maybe if he scared me with tales of devil worshippers or Nazis I would turn to him for comfort, and maybe let him touch my boob. That was not going to happen. I liked Johnny’s friend, Ben (not his real name, either). I mean Johnny was a drummer, but Ben played guitar…really, who do you think I was going to want more? I was totally smitten with Ben until he switched to bass, and then the attractive waned. (Ben would often regale me with tales of his sexual adventures – for a 17 year old, he was quite adventurous. And all those things he did with Bob [not his real name – dang, I had a lot of weird friends in high school] were not gay – in a Liberace sort of way.)

Back to Clinton Castle on that lovely September afternoon: Johnny started to see that his plan for afternoon dry humping was not gonna happen when, instead of being afraid, I was like, “ooohhhhh, pretty.” So he jumped right away into his tale from Clinton Castle. It goes something like this: The local satanic cult (aka drug addled Ozzy-fans with slightly homosexual tendencies) where having their ritual at the Castle (see: Black Sabbath tape and a big bag o’ weed). The high priest Kevin was all set. Kevin earned that title cos the Anton LeVay Satanic Bible was his. He was also 21, so could buy beer: thus “High Priest”. (He really was a “high” priest – see next paragraph.)

Any who.... this is what Johnny related to me: Kevin had really exceeded his high priest duties that night by bringing not just the beer and black t-shirt, but also the LSD. Our little devil worshippers had piled into their moms’ station wagons and taken that long drive up Route 23 to the dark, mysterious, badly paved Clinton Road. Over the reservoir and through the woods, these bad boys hiked up to the Castle.

Once ensconced at the Castle, the Ozzy started playing and the LSD was handed out. High priest Kevin started quoting Anton LeVay (“It’s good to be bad,” “Christianity is crap,” “I like puppies”.) Moved by the happenings, one of the revelers, Mark, began having visions.

Johnny told me this story with complete seriousness – like he was channeling Stephen King. And this is what Johnny told me: “Mark dropped all this LSD ….and….saw…Satan…in ….Kevin’s….FACE.”

I said, “Ummmmmmmm…what was the first part of that sentence?”

Johnny replied, “Mark dropped all this LSD?”

Me: “Ummmmmmmmm, may that have had something to do with the satanic vision?”

Johnny, shaking his head emphatically, said, “Nooooooo. It was the dark magic.”

No, Johnny, it was hogwash. And when you give another dude a blow job, that’s gay – in a Liberace sort of way.

My Sinuses

My nasal passages have been conspiring against me for years. What they have against me, I do not know. There must have been some offensive action I committed in my late 20s that turned my sinuses against me. Now, the slightest turn in the weather weighs on my head like a 30 pound dumbbell. My passages so clogged and congested that I’m left a dizzy mess.

This week, what started as my allergies just tickling the back of my throat evolved into a nasty head and chest cold. Did not take the Alleve D in time. Alleve D is a miracle drug that halts the congestion at the first sign, but you have to take it right away. (And another thing – those damn meth heads have made buying decongestants such a task. What up with that?) I started the lovely Alleve D too late, and my sinuses got me.

Work was a fog. Being the super important corporate kingpin I am – I could not take a day off. I could leave early. Damn early. Congestion just made my head so heavy thinking was impossible. When the cough in my chest began to disrupt critical business decisions, I knew it was time to shut my computer and go home.

This was by no means a serious sinus attack…I’ve been clobbered by congestion. Pain so great and head so stuffed I’m dizzy and nauseous. So bad once that I ended up in the emergency room for excessive – hate to be gross – vomiting. The slightest movement would push my balance off course and head me running to the latrine. Then very act of running to the bathroom would set off another vomitous explosion. It sucked.

Luckily, I moved into an apartment with wood floors – opposed to wall-to-wall carpeting that harbored those nasty allergens that set my sinuses off. Then there was the procedure – it involved a long needle, cortisone and my nose. It was gross, painful and it worked. Since then, my sinuses have acted up but have not knocked me out.

So this week I have to contend with feeling kind of eh, a distant notion that something just ain’t right. My chest is phlegmy and my head is hazy—the other day at the gas station, I forgot to put the car in park and started to roll away. I take some more Alleve D, cleanse my sinuses (won’t get into that) and view the world through the white gauze of congestion until my nasal passage have drained.

Ah, my sinuses.

A Perfect Day For Ramen Noodles

A perfect day to be a Sunday. It’s raining. Sometimes is just some spritzing, then progressing to a steady drenching, not quite a downpour but you still would not want to get caught in it. All the attempts of the past week to get in five servings of fruit and vegetables a day are flushed away like rain down the gutters. I want some Ramen Chicken Noodle Soup. It is hot and soothing and the noodles feel stringy and gooey going down. Yum. I had two cups for lunch. Dinner – peanut butter sandwich.

And I don’t feel great. Just that slightly sinusey feel that leaves me feeling slightly eh. Not enough to keep me home from work, but just enough to make me slow and grumpy. Two attempted naps and some Alleve D later, I’m still not feeling perky. And back to work tomorrow after a week off. *Sigh*

Not the most phenomenal way to close a momentous week. Two words -- Wilco Fest. Actually, Solid Sound Festival, I call it “Wilco Fest” – a consortium, of sorts, of like-minded individuals coming together to celebrate in the glory of our great Wilco. Some modern art, cheap festival food and 5,000 Wilcoians – it was heavenly.

Highlights: Jeff Tweedy in the dunk tank; Laminated Cat, Magazine Called Sunset; the most amazing coffee cake at Belles Victorian Inn; Jeff Tweedy in the dunk tank…did I already mention that? Opps, sorry; Jeff Tweedy cracking jokes and signing his heart out; Mavis Staples shaming me for feeling tire.

Lowlights: Poor line control – I got totally screwed out of front row; parents who took up space with their double stroller – four people could have stood there, and where were the earplugs for the kids????; that one group that feels they’ve the right to the front row cos they get it every time – like it makes them some sort of Wilco dignitaries. Sheez.

Now let’s talk about Philadelphia Folk Festival. $300 for a one hour and 30 minute Jeff Tweedy solo performance – and so worth every penny. Before I get to Jeff, I can’t fail to mention the hippies. Hippies hippies everywhere – and a great reminder of why I like my 401k and deodorant. I saw many men in skirts, I know they would call them “kilts” but that wasn’t Scotland and William Wallace was nowhere in sight. Okay, I’m square, I will admit it.

Now Jeff. I realized at Wilco Fest that I am on the low end of the Wilco Crazy Fan Meter, but I’m not crazy enough to let a chance to meet JT pass. Even if he was standing outside the high-end Port a Johns. In my defense, I was not standing outside the door waiting for him to finish his business. He was waiting for Jason, the road manager. I approached him and he greeted me with a smile and hand shake. There was a brief conversation about the success of the Solid Sound Festival and he asked me the greatest question. Not, “Wanna make out?”, but, “Is there something you would like to hear?” YES – of course, “You’re Not Alone.” “Oh, I’ll think about it.” And I pouted. I had underestimated the power of my pout because he relented and sang “You’re Not Alone” beautifully. In reality, it was probably on the set list, but in my world it was the power of my pout that did it.

So, I’m in a good mood. I’ve got the post-concert blues at bay, but the jonesing for the next show will begin soon. Jonesing for the next opportunity to have those blue-green eyes looking down at me. (They are more green in real life, and more blue in pictures.)

But, tonight’s the last day of my Wilco high. Back to work tomorrow. Time to step up and be a leader – get that promotion and more money. And save up some bucks for a Living Room Show.

Yes, it’s a good day for Ramen Noodles Soup.

The Squisher

The gynecological exam can be the most feared—and briefest— moment in a woman’s year. For my visit, I was lucky enough to get the new chair. The new chair tipped me backwards until I was are almost vertical, with my head pointing down and my knees towards the ceiling. I assume it gives the doctor a more optimal view.

From below, the doctor had just down her checked and chirped that everything, “looked good” from her vantage point. She eyed me from behind her clipboard. “I see you’re37,” she said. “How about a mammogram, just to get a baseline.”

As a very conscientious, mature woman, I knew this was the right thing to do. “Yup!” I agreed, and the doctor handed me a prescription and was gone. The entire episode, the breast exam, the pelvic, the prescription, was just about 10 minutes long.

But I was proud. I was doing the mature, responsible thing. Thirty-seven had been a hard hill to take, but I was oddly proud of my age and was enjoying some of the tasks that came with it. Even a mammogram.

Two days later, I arrived right on time with my date with “The Squisher.” I was immediately shown to a small changing room by a broad, yet pleasant woman in cranberry-colored scrubs. She handed me a cranberry-colored hospital gown (I guess cranberry serves as some sort diversion) and told me to change.

After I stripped from the neck down and donned the cranagown, I was ushered to a small, warmly-lit room decorated with calming caramel tones and dried flowers. In the center of the room was “The Squisher.”

The technician in cranberry—I think her name was Lisa—positioned me against the “Squisher” and started to manipulate my breast into place. As barely a B-Cup, that was not easy. She pushed, pulled, and mashed my teeny breast into place, then smushed it between two plates. When I thought it could not be smushed any more, Lisa turned a cranked and proved me wrong.

“Don’t breath,” she said, and disappeared behind the wall.

Don’t worry, I thought.

Lisa appeared, moved to the other breast, and followed the same procedure. Then two more times for the side view.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Lisa chimed.

Not so bad!!! I thought, How could you do this to other women!!! You … you… TRAITOR TO OUR GENDER!!!!

But, it was over. Much like my gynecological exam – it was a thankfully brief ordeal. I was told to go home and wait for the results. But why worry – this was for the “baseline” and there was no history of breast cancer in my family. Besides, nothing bad ever happens to the Morrisons, so I had nothing to be concerned about.

Three days later I was holding a letter that requested “Additional Evaluation” and calling the imaging center for a second appointment. The receptionist cheerfully assured me, “Oh, we just need to take some more pictures.”

I knew what it was all about: body lotion.

I was told not to wear deodorant, perfume, or lotion the day of my mammogram. That morning, I forgot and put some of my “Tupelo Honey” lotion on my legs. That must have interfered with the ex-ray.

I had to sit through a weekend before my next appointment, but I was not worried. It was the lotion, right?

But those two days gave be a lot of time to think about my breasts. They’re cute, but no one would call them “spectacular.” I was barley a B-cup and proud of my perky stature. I could wear cute little t-shirts or low-cut sweaters without looking ridiculous or slutty. I would never sag, unlike my sister, Liz – a Double-D who had to do numerous chest presses to keep her girls off the floor.

Alas, I was often teased about their size. When I would promise to lift my shirt for Jeff Tweedy, my other sister, Mary, would comment that he’d wonder why that 12-year old boy in the front row was flashing him. When Liz’s friends would meet me for the first time, they’d give me that what-in-the-hell-happened-to-you look. I’d be a rich woman if I had a dime for every, “She is NOTHING like her sister,” I heard.

Like all women, my breasts—a perky as they were—make me feel attractive and feminine. They are womanly and beautiful and soft. Deep, deep down inside, I even enjoyed when his eyes would wander downward and not meet mine.

That weekend I also thought about probability. I was the sixth of seven children – the probability of all of us leading long, healthy lives was always something I questioned. I had always been on the verge of being a hypochondriac, and concluded that if a Morrison was going to deal with disease, it would be me. Even though I told myself that lotion was to blame, my mind was filled with worst-case scenarios.

My appointment was for 2:00 p.m. on a Monday afternoon. My plan was to leave the office after lunch, go to my appointment, and be home in time for a 4:00 call with my boss, Kathi, and the marketing team. Easy-schmeazy.


But my brain kept throwing up possibilities: What if I’m sick? What if I have “it”? Will I lose my breast? My hair? What if I can’t take care of myself? Will I die? I’ll never fall in love . . . never dance at my wedding . . . never be pregnant . . . never hold my sleeping, little girl in my arms.

My brave front was just that . . . a front.

Kathi, whose capacity to care was greater than that of the entire 2006 Penn State graduating class, assured me that this second date with “The Squisher” was normal. As I left my office that Monday, her compassionate eyes let me now that she was thinking about my breasts, but not in a creepy, I-should-involve-HR way.

When it comes to a mammogram, two words you don’t want to hear are, “Extra Compression.” I had a vision of my nipples popping under the pressure. Why would I need extra compression for my teeny boobies?

But Lisa informed me that this was not the case. I was just ushered into the caramel-colored room with the dried flowers. There was no explanation other than, “extra compression.” Was it a cyst, tumor, water on the knee, body lotion? Lisa just maneuvered me against The Squisher and pulled, push, and mashed my breast into place: two front views, two side views.

“Okay,” Lisa said, “just sit here and I’ll be right back.”

I sat in the comfy chair in the corner of the caramel-colored room and held by cranagown closed over my sore breasts. My mind kept running, What’s wrong, what do they see?

Lisa walked back in the room. “We just need to take a few more pictures.” More compressions and more ex-rays—this time focused on the left side of my left breast.

“Okay come with me,” and Lisa lead me out of the room back to the small changing room. “Now, sit here,” she said, “but don’t get dressed.”

I waited a few more minutes, looking at my watch. . . 2:40, I needed to be out by 3:15 to get home in time for the meeting.

The door opened. “Barbara?” a motherly woman in her fifties was smiling at me. “Hi, I’m Carol. I’ll be doing the sonogram. Come this way.” She held out her arm, and I followed her to another, darker room. I laid down on the examining table and opened the cranagown.

Carol had short, wavy blond-gray hair. She wore blue liner on her upper eyelid and pink lipstick – the typical make-up of a motherly technician in her fifties. Even the white cotton sweater over her blue scrubs said, “I’m here to comfort you, dear.”

“Okay,” she said (they always start with “okay”), “just put your arm over your head. I’m going to up on some gel, it’ll be a little cold.”

The gel was cool and – the best word to describe it was “goopy”. The lump in my throat was beginning to grow, and I turned my head away.

Carol moved the sensor slowly over my breast and hit some keys on the computer. My mind was racing with all the possibilities . . . tumor . . . cancer . . . chemotherapy. . . illness . . . pain . . . hospitals . . . needles . . . tests . . . tears . . . my mom . . . my dad. . . my sisters . . . nieces . . . nephews . . . my life . . . my breasts . . . what did they see?

Carol finished and handed me a towel to clean the goop off. She left the room to study the results. I looked at my watch, 3:15… I’ll have to take the call in my car.

Carol came back, “Okay (always with the “okay”), we just need a few more pictures. Are you pressed for time?”

My mind did a little flip. What more do they need?!?!?!?

“I just need to make a phone call,” I said. I dialed Kathi’s number and heard her chipper voice on the other end. “Hi, this is Kathi.”

You know when you’ve been holding back the tears, but as soon as you speak, the tears overpower you and your voice is several decibels higher and much faster?

“KathiitsBarbandI’mnotgoingtobeable tomakethe4:00meeting,” I rushed before I started to cry.

“Is everything okay?” she asked.

“Yup.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yup.”

“You’re sure.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Really?”

“Yep,Gottago.Seeyoutomorrow.Bye,” and I hung up the phone.

Back on the examining table, the cold sensor moved over my damn left breast, going back over the same section on the left side over and over again. Carol hit more keys on the computer. This time, my mind traveled to different places.

If the worst case scenario is true, how will I change my life. I’ll say “I love you” more often and “You’re pissing me off” when needed. I’ll give more time to play and less time to TV. I will not be too afraid or lazy take a chance. I will finally take the sabbatical from work to follow my favorite band, Wilco, across the country. And if I ever meet Jeff Tweedy–by God—I’m kissing him on the mouth!!!!

“We’re done,” Carol said. I think she saw my fear and finally decided to give me an explanation. “Looks like you have a few small cysts. Nothing bad, we just want to make sure. We’ll just get the radiologist to confirm.”

A few minutes later, the radiologists, an older Asian man with graying hair, confirmed three small cysts in my left breast. (Cyst: a fluid-filled mass that is usually benign. Can be removed for analysis.)

The lump in my throat vanished, and I wanted to laugh. But, I also felt a little ridiculous; there are many women who receive much worse news, and I was crying over some cysts.

Kathi, who I called from the parking lot, assured me that my worry was righteous. “That was sooooooooooo scary, Babs,” she said. “You were right to be worried. Don’t ever deny your feelings – and don’t ever scare me like that again!”

Did my dates with The Squisher inspire me to change my life? Well, I’ve not increased my “I Love You’s”, but I call my mom more often. I don’t tell people they piss me off, just remind them how they make me happy. After work, I run to the gym, not to the couch. I’m not traveling across country for Wilco, but will be seeing My Boys in soon.

And Jeff Tweedy had better pucker up!

My Brief Flirtation with Haikus

So – several months ago Wilco had a Haiku writing contest. Below is my attempt at writing haikus. I think they were pretty good – did not win me a guitar. That’s okay; I don’t know how to play. But, think these gems should see the light of day. My favorite line is "With his tools of distortion."

******
Beautiful Tweedy
How your voice, your words thrill us
Sing now, Sing always

*****

Heart, bird, Either Way
Spiders live and Outtasite
Wilco's best by me

******
Just play me Wilco
All the morning, noon, and night
Ipod blares my boys

*****
Oh my Glenn, sweet Glenn
Pound your skins, make my knees weak
So handsome and tall

*****

Nels blows me away
With his tools of distortion
Guitar God, Heaven

******

Mysterious Mike
Sits quietly in the back
In front for Pronto

*****

Pat of the Mod Hair
Struts, vests, and spinning windmills
He's Wilco's style

*****

John brings steady joy
Keeps the bass with warmth and heart
Our friend in the band

******

To Jeff's wool chapeau
Survived departures and drops
Constant as Stirratt

******

Praise for Jeff's neck-eard
Never seen a finer growth
Whiskers of greatness