The Barb Wire

Wilco came to New York recently. America’s best band, led by our generations’ greatest songwriter (Jeff Tweedy) blessed me with four wonderful nights. While I dance and sang and sweated like a drummer, I left with just one request. It’s a simple one at that. Can everyone at the concert please behave in the exact same way I do? By that I mean it’s okay to dance and sing and whoop it up like a truly dedicated fan. But it’s not okay to impede on the concert experience of your show neighbors.

 

I’m talking to you, guy who’s piecing and constant “whoos” were more damaging to my ears than the screaming guitar solos. Then there was Mr. Obnoxious, who thought that singing along LOUDLY during quieter songs was a good idea. BTW, singing the wrong words. (For future reference, next time you are in the front row of Wilco concert, the first verse of Jesus, Etc., it’s “You can combine . . .”, not “come by…”.)

So, if you want to sit and contemplate to music, or shake your thang, here are some suggestions I have to ensure that all people can have a great time. As the great Jeff Tweedy said, “It’s not just you. You are part of a group of people in a really beautiful way. It’s wonderful.”

Let’s keep it wonderful, folks!

1. NO TALKING! I’ve not enough time or space to go on about talkers; suffice to say that I believe there is a special place in Hell for anyone who bought concert tickets but spends the entire time deep in conversation. For all on you talkers out there, I’ve one thing to say: I PAID TO HEAR JEFF TWEEDY SING, NOT YOU COMPLAIN ABIOUT YOUR SISTER-IN-LAW!!!
2. Make friends! Friends make the long wait on line fun and interesting. Friends save your spot in the front row that you braved hours in the boiling sun, soaking rain, or freezing cold for when you need a drink, snack, or pottie
3. If you want to get in the front at a General Admission show, get on line early with the rest of the diehards, the folks who braved hours in the boiling sun, soaking rain, or freezing cold. I don’t care if your sweet gray-haired grandma is in the front row, just don’t do it. And just because your boobs are big and shirt is low, does not mean entitlement for the front. You have to work or pay for it.
4. Respect personal space. Feel free to dance and bop at will, I do. But no one wants you mashing up against them or stepping on their toes. Try what I do: I don’t move my feet. I bounce in place. A bonus — this is a great upper thigh and ass work out. If I had two or three shows a week, my ass would be rockin’!
5. Respect the opening act. They are well aware that we can’t wait for them to end, but if the bands we love like them enough to have them open they deserve our attention.

Those are my thoughts. Discuss.

The gynecological exam can be the most feared—and briefest— moment in a woman’s year. The year I turned 37 I made my annual pilgrimage to what was some of my crasser friends call “the Cave Man” — Cave Woman, in my case.

For my visit, I was lucky enough to get the new chair. The new chairs tipped me backwards until I was 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 chirped that everything, “looked good” from her vantage point. She looked at her chart and eyed me from behind her clipboard.

“I see you’re 37,” 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 exam – the breast, 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 cran-a-gown, 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.” It was called “Selena”. Pretty.

The technician in cranberry—I think her name was Lisa—positioned me against Selena and started to manipulate my breast into place. As barely a B-Cup, this 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 crank and proved me wrong.

“Don’t breathe,” 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 x-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 me a lot of time to think about my breasts. They’re cute, but no one would call them “spectacular.” I was barely 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 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—as 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 a guy’s 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 Tupelo Honey 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 know 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 same 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, pushed, 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 x-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 lay 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 put 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’mnotgoingtobeabletomakethe4:00meeting,” 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 too lazy take a chance.

“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 radiologist, an older Asian man with graying hair, confirmed three small cysts in my left breast. (Cyst: a fluid-filled mass that is usually benign.)

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 care with The Squisher inspire me to change my life? No, just affirmed my place in the wacky, scary, messy wonderful world of woman hood.

(A blast from the past.)

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.” Before I knew it the score was 50 to 3, 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 online 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 (I shiver to think.)

I had multiple games going—all in the hope 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!)

It kept my brain going after hours. Rather than sitting on 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 seconds waiting for the points to add to my total.

What a rush when 98 would jump to 128! The first time I broke three hundred 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 sixteen-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 Candy Crush.

I find myself with some extra time these days. So I have decided to to use this time productively. In addition to my job search, I am going to exercise my creative muscles and force you to watch. So here it is: my blog.

There is no specific topic I will be discussing and don’t expect any insights on social, political, religious or any other hot issues. This is just a place to share some of the stuff I’ve been writing over the years and will write. I may reflect on some of my adventures in unemployment. My primary goal, though, is to make you laugh.

So here it goes!