My Ovaries Have Fallen and They Can't Get Up!

Don't Hose Me

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Alex Gray) — Thu, 22 Jul 2010 12:30:00 +0000

Daily showering is such a vicious cycle. Everyday, back in the shower, shampoo the head, hold on to the sliver of soap like greased pig, pick up shampoo bottle again - did I do this part? It's exhausting. If it weren't for the growing need for my shower to need a shower, aka mold accumulation, nothing would change at all.

I know some of you don't choose or say you don't need to shower daily, I believe I have stood behind you in line at the grocery store, well I am not one of you. With me the problem isn't about the smell. It's that I have fine hair, oily skin, and I live in Florida. If I do not hose down daily I look like I've slipped into a vat of oil at the Canola Factory.

When I was a teenager wearing a permanent bag on my head due to pimples, my mother would say when I got older I would love my oily skin, because I wouldn't have wrinkles. She said I had a built in moisturizer. Well, I'm four forty, I still get pimples, I now have wrinkles, and also I have the oil vat part.

For some reason, writing about hosing myself down, reminds me of a spa treatment I had once. I decided to get a body loofah at this old world spa an hour from my house. The spa facility was just as beautiful as I imagined, the treatment room was another story. It looked like an auto mechanic's garage. After doing a quick once around I began to get the creeping suspicion that nothing good could happen in this space. The only furniture in the room was a gray hard plastic surgical table in the center of the room. My instinct told me to run, but before I could act, in walked Helga. Actually I don't remember her real name but Helga should give you the proper visual. She was about six feet tall with hands like oven mitts, and either she was wearing shoulder pads under her uniform or she was a VERY big boned girl.

She walked over to me and uttered one monosyllabic phrase, "Get on table". Then she asked, "Do you need to keep towel?" almost like she was challenging me like I was the new girl on the prison block. Well I didn't know if I needed my towel. I didn't think I needed my pepper spray when I left the house that morning but things change. The towel may be my only remaining line of defense. I actually began to think back to my brother snapping me with a towel as a kid. Did he twirl it clockwise or counterclockwise?

I decided my best move was to act tough and toss the towel aside. I had bluffed my way through many sales presentations in my career. I could bluff my way through Helga. The next thing I knew Helga had grabbed a scrub brush and preceded to scrub me within an inch of my life.

As the torture continued I began to notice little things like, Helga's outfit looked a lot like the uniforms I saw the cleaning crew wearing on my way in to the spa....Is that an SOS pad in her hand?....I think there's a jar of turtle wax sitting on the shelf behind her?....Why is there a big drain in the middle of the cement floor?....and why the heck does this Frankenstein table have wheels on it? Among Helga's other stellar qualities, she had the grace of a hippo. Every time she walked around the side of the table to gain better access to my remaining tissue she would bump the side of the table, sending the table and me skidding across the wet floor until she grabbed us with her Grizzly Bear claw and abruptly stopped us. My spa treatment had become like some awful ride at a $2.00 carnival. I was waiting for the loud rock music to kick in.

Well, eventually every one of my skin cells had been removed and Helga put down her Brillo pad and asked me to stand up. It appeared the worst was over until I saw her grab a hose. Wait where did that come from? She proceeded to hose me down like a circus animal. Then she dried her hands with - MY TOWEL - and left.

So maybe this is the reason why I'm not so excited about my daily ritual of showering. Maybe I'm having Helga flashbacks? Come to think of it I don't like to scrub pots either.

Lisa Alex Gray

Trick or Treat

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Alex Gray) — Fri, 11 Jun 2010 01:13:00 +0000

Ignore images until the end...if you can.

I'm really not in the mood to do anything today, that is other than vaporize or become spontaneously invisible.

Actually I could probably get excited about a rousting game of hide and seek. I'll pick a really good spot to hide, like Nebraska, and everyone else can do whatever.

On second thought I think that was the game the "Runaway Bride" played a couple of years ago. That didn't have a good outcome.

So what can I do to disappear that doesn't involve a massive police manhunt and large amounts of taxpayer dollars?

What if I hire a Stand In? Someone to take over my life for a few days. This service must exist. What do those seat fillers from the Oscars do the rest of the year? I bet they would be available.

I can just imagine how this would work. My family would get up in the morning and find a sign in the kitchen that read - The part of Lisa will now be played by Betty Macdonald.

I think my family would be ok with this. What it really comes down to in my house is food. My family members are kind of like dogs. As long as a bowl of food is placed in front of them at the appropriate time throughout the day they're fine.

So while Betty is handling things at home I can take a vacation from myself. The only question is where will I go? I don't want to go to someone else's house. Then I will have to deal with their problems. I want no problems. I want to be faceless. Maybe I need a mask.

I have a great business idea. Somebody should make faceless masks. They could be made out of that same stiff plastic that Halloween masks were made from in the seventies, with the little elastic string in the back, and punched out eye holes. The kit could also come with one of those one size fits all costumes inside the box. The ones with a cowboy or Wonder Woman printed on them.

I want my costume to be plain though; maybe flesh colored. A flesh colored faceless mask with a flesh colored costume. I'll look like a life size paper doll. You can't get anymore generic than that.

It's trick or treating for adults. The treat is I can wander through my life anonymously for a few days. Unfortunately, the trick is I'll return to a bigger mess; with piles of work, a pissed off husband, and a cranky child. Not sure this is the solution either.

I just did a quick Google search and I have the best idea yet. Those 1970's Halloween masks are still out there. We don't need to reinvent the wheel. We just need to buy a bunch of masks and have them on hand to represent our many moods.

Now if you'll scroll back to the top of this blog you'll see I've already picked out this weeks starting line up.

Lisa Alex Gray

10 FOR 10!

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Alex Gray) — Tue, 11 May 2010 12:18:00 +0000

This was the display at the entrance of my local grocery store yesterday.

Actually the picture doesn't really do it justice.

What you are looking at is the bottom portion of a tower built from Little Debbie Swiss Roll boxes.

The sight literally stopped me in my tracks.

My husband Kurt was half way down the first aisle before he realized I wasn't with him. I was back at the Swissonian staring at my version of the statue of David, and if the image itself wasn't enough to inspire poetry, the sign was. It read.

"10 FOR 10"

I had to read it twice to be sure I wasn't seeing things. Ten for ten. That meant all I had to do was give a store employee ten dollars and I could begin to create my own swiss roll masterpiece? My imagination ran wild with ideas. If I gave them fifty dollars I could build a Little Debbie fort. I could hide away from the whole world while surrounded by swiss roll wallpaper.

I was already grabbing reinforcement shopping carts when Kurt caught up with me and snapped me back to reality. "What are you doing?" "You're not buying those are you?" "They're not healthy". SH*T! My words have officially come back to bite me in the butt.

All those years I ran my kitchen like a donutless dictatorship. Only healthy snacks could cross our borders. I was drunk with power and I didn't care who got hurt. Did Kurt really need to eat Kashi crackers while watching the football game? Who knew!?! But that's how I played it.

Well now it was my football game and Kashi had yet to create a good cake roll. Which meant I was screwed.

Why did I want this stuff anyway? I thought I had outgrown childish indulgences. How could one properly placed display undue all my hard work? Those grocers really knew their stuff. Unfortunately for them, I was smarter. I was not going to let them win this time. I put down the Little Debbie boxes and courageously walked away from the display with my head held high. Then I grabbed two boxes of Caption Crunch on sale "2 FOR $5.00" and continued on with my shopping.

Lisa Alex Gray

The Hokey Pokey

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Alex Gray) — Thu, 13 Aug 2009 13:25:00 +0000

I long for the days of my childhood, where I could spend hours making a house out of leaves, on the front lawn - I had a leaf couch , a leaf table, a leaf bed.

My only worry back then was, am I going to be able to choke down the tuna and peas, in cream sauce, on toast, that sits before me at the dinner table, or will my dad feel compelled to enter us into another, who blinks first contest?

The rules of the contest were, I would be forced to sit at the kitchen table and stare at my food, til it either lept into my gullet, or magically disappeared, or my dad finally gave in- after being bullied by my mother - and let me leave the table.

Sometimes my dad would up the anty and sit a sundae in front of me, to slant the odds in his favor (which should have disqualified him, in my book). It actually was pleasantly distracting, to watch the sundae morph into various stages of deconstruction over time, until it finally resembled something like, well like the cream sauce from my dinner - not so enticing- hah!

As you may have already figured out - I usually won those contests - never under estimate the fortitude of a child faced with peas in cream sauce.

Don't you just love the 70's. Such good clean family fun- peas sauce and hoola hoops - that's what it's all about.

That line reminds me of another 70's favorite -The Hokey Pokey Dance.

"You put your left foot in, you take your left foot out, you put your left foot in and you shake it all about, do the Hokey Pokey and you turn yourself around, that's what it's all about."

That song really was low on the challenge scale wasn't it? Especially, if you compare it to the current wedding favorite - The Macarena Dance.

Songs have definitely changed over time. I remember singing and dancing in my room for hours, to the 45 "I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy." I'm almost embarrassed to admit it - notice I say, almost, what can I tell you, I'm strange and proud of it.

I would march around my room in circles with my hand on my forehead in a salute. "I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy, a Yankee Doodle Do or Die. A real live nephew of my Uncle Sam, born on the Fourth of July." - What the heck was I singing?!?

I forgot that's what the words to that song were. I think you could get a child to sing about anything as long as it had a catchy tune. "I love eating broccoli and spinach, and keeping my room real clean." Someone should put that to a melody.

Maybe that's what's missing in my life? I need more song and dance; maybe if I sang all day, the tough stuff wouldn't seem so tough.

"Get home from work at 11:00pm, get up at 6:00am to take my son to the doctor", "pay bills and grocery shop", "head out the door to work, get beat up by my customer's", "drive home exhausted, collapse into bed, get woken up at 3:00am to let the dog out".

Wow, that really WAS so much better.

Now if I can just get a hoola hoop going, while I sing, I may just be on to something.

Lisa Alex Gray

Eyes Wide Open

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Alex Gray) — Wed, 05 Aug 2009 01:30:00 +0000

Have you ever found yourself driving down the road, when you open your eyes and notice, you've driven five miles further, than when you last looked?

Now, I have to warn you this is a trick question, it's not about the distance you traveled in five minutes, although kudos to you if you made good time.

It's about your need to - open your eyes - while driving.

I'm sure you are aware, this is not an accepted driving method, in fact, it is highly probable you will be given a ticket, once your car comes to a complete rest in someones’ front yard.

So why do it? Why take out someone’s Hibiscus bushes unnecessarily?

Because - I am a mother/wife/full-time career girl, who is - desperately in need of sleep! (FYI, I have not yet harmed any Hibiscus bushes, so please don't send "The People For The Ethical Treatment of Bushes" after me.)

Yes, I am behind on my sleep. I've just been a bit tired since... Freshman Year, High School; but that's only a 27 year deficit. I can make that up, right?

It all started in Sister Mary's Shorthand class. It's really all her fault. If she had been a more stimulating teacher maybe I could have averted this whole issue.

I remember being in her class, sleeping to the rhythm of her chalkboard drawings of the shorthand symbols for "The quick brown dog jumps over the grey fox."

I mean, really, when were we ever going to need to put that into shorthand? The odds of seeing a brown dog jump over a grey fox had to be one in a million.

In a feeble effort to stay awake in her class, I would watch the clock on the wall for any semblance of movement, until my eyes would start to play tricks on me, and time would begin to move backward.

Then I would move on to phase two of my "Lightening Bolt Strike Me Now Plan", and forcibly hold my eye lids open with my fingers. It would become a battle of fine motor dexterity - the eyelid muscles versus the pointer finger and thumb. It's, actually, really impressive how strong an eyelid muscle can be. How I've ever managed to poke my eyeball with a mascara wand is really beyond me.

Remembering those days, gives me an idea. If our military ever needs to find an affective form of torture, we may want to consider Sister Mary's shorthand class. She may still be available; I think she was around109 years old when she taught my class, which would make her about.....

Well, you do the math.

I guess, until I have figured out my way beyond my sleep deficit, I will continue my daily fantasy of returning home from work and diving head first - shoes, purse, groceries, whatever's on me - into bed.

Then, again, maybe it's time to resurrect my "Lightening Bolt Strike Me now Plan"? At my age, time going backward could work to my advantage.

Lisa Alex Gray

Feeling Hot, Hot, Hot!

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Alex Gray) — Sat, 25 Jul 2009 13:58:00 +0000

Inanimate objects around my house are starting to melt.

This is the ceiling fan on my lanai.

It died.

The Florida heat was too much for it.

Not that I'm complaining about life on Venus.

After growing up in the blustery tundras of Wisconsin, I couldn't wait to move to a place where I could feel my toes again.

I didn't realize I would be exposing my toes to a whole new danger in the process. (i.e., bare feet + Florida ground = spontaneous combustion of feet).

The ground is just one of many things that turns to volcanic ash in the Florida sun.

Some days I get in my car, after it's been sitting in a lot all day, and I feel like MacGyver on a mission. I need to find a way to put the keys in, and drive, while levitating, and touching nothing.

I have a permanent brand of a seat belt buckle on my lower back, from the time I didn't levitate, and instead, leaned back when I got in the car.

Keeping things alive in Florida is another impossible dream. The stuff that I want to live...

like my grass...

or my rose bush...

...gets the life strangled out of it from the heat.

The stuff that I want to die...

like the weeds that have become my new grass....

...or the mutant bush,that I have killed five times, but keeps growing back, threatening to eat my dog....

All these things flourish.

What's a Floridian to do?

Well, if you can't beat'em, join'em.

So, I'll throw the mutant bush a steak, and stay cool the Demi Moore way....

...painted on clothes.

Getting in that car is going to take on a whole new meaning.

Lisa Alex Gray

The Little Orange Seed That Could

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Alex Gray) — Wed, 15 Jul 2009 00:13:00 +0000

There once was a girl who loved the sun.

She would sit and imagine it warming her cheeks to a rosy glow, as the light caused her eyes to sparkle and dance.

One day the girl sat in her kitchen eating an orange. The taste was so full of light that it made her think of the sun - which inspired a plan. She plucked a seed from deep within the orange and buried it in the dirt of a plant on her sill.

Soon a bud peeked out from under the soil and began to climb its way upward.

Two years later, as though it were destined, the girl, her boy, and their baby packed up their lives and headed south to where rosy cheeks glowed and eyes sparkled and danced from the light.

Unfortunately in all of her excitement the girl forgot about her little plant, leaving it sit in the driveway of her old house, in the cold. Until her mother, in search of memories, drove by the house and found it there. She called the girl and told her about it; making a promise she would bring it with on her next visit.

In no time the plant arrived at its new home. The girl greeted it with delight. She looked over her yard, then picked a perfect spot at the back, and planted it there. The plant was so happy it stretched its branches out and reached for the sky; before long it became a tree.

All was well, until tragedy struck and a neighboring family mistook the happy little tree as their own and cut it down.

The girl was so sad; but nothing could be done to save her tree.

So life continued on and the years passed by.

Then one day the girl noticed something peeking up at her from over the fence they had placed around their house a few years back. She couldn't believe her eyes. It was the seed. Somehow it had found its way back through the soil and up toward the sky once again.

It must have stood eight feet tall. The girl smiled with delight. It had become a beautiful tree with strong limbs and bright green leaves. The only thing missing were its oranges.

More years passed and although the tree never bared fruit the girl loved it just as well because it reminded her of the dream that had brought her to the sun.

Then one day the girl's favorite boy came running into the house brimming with happiness and news.

The little seed that inspired a dream, survived the cold, traveled a journey, recovered a death and reached high into the sky toward the sun, was now covered in oranges.

The girl, her boy, and their baby walked hand in hand over to the tree, looked up at it, and smiled

- a happy, rosy cheeked smile.

Lisa Alex Gray

Love Potion No. 9

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Alex Gray) — Sat, 11 Jul 2009 01:16:00 +0000

My husband is having an affair.

I found out the other night in bed.

I was reading a book when I noticed Kurt hadn't moved for a while.

I looked over just in time to catch him deep in an embrace. There was nothing he could do or say. His face said it all. He knew, I knew, and there was no point in hiding it.

I had been replaced by someone fresher and more eager to please - the new Cabela's Hunting, Fishing and Outdoor Gear Fall Catalog.

Apparently

the catalog had arrived earlier that day by Mayflower Moving Van. Which explained the dolly in the corner of the bedroom.

I knew immediately there was no way I could compete. That catalog had only one thing on it's mind - stealing my husband's attention and get him to spend some money on it.

I shouldn't have been so shocked, after all, I always knew there was a possibility that someday Kurt's head would be turned by someone else. I just never took into account inanimate objects.

I couldn't blame Kurt though. It was obvious the catalog had cast a spell on him. I just had to find a way to snap him out of it. So I came up with a counter attack and put my plan in motion.

Now all I have to do is wait. In a few days I will have my man back in my arms again.

My plan? Let's just say I did a little catalog shopping of my own.

See below.

Lisa Alex Gray

Me and My Shadow

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Alex Gray) — Mon, 06 Jul 2009 23:30:00 +0000

Life is an ongoing balance between too much human interaction and not enough.

I've noticed whenever I'm in need of a bit of alone time it seems impossible to come by.

On the same token when I am psyched for some social interaction I somehow find myself alone - and there's nothing like the feeling of total aloneness.

This is exactly where I found myself the other day.

I had the day off and had been looking forward to spending time with my husband Kurt and son Evan. Well Kurt ended up having to go into work. Then I found out Evan had plans to go to a friends house (he somehow forgot to tell me). So I was all alone.

My house echoed like an empty auditorium.

An electrician stopped by to fix our big screen TV and I contemplated inviting him to stay for lunch. I kept trying to think of another question to ask to keep him there a bit longer, "So there's a power button on the TV and on the remote?" "Can you show me where these are located?"

I saw the fed ex truck go by and I almost chased it like a dog.

Speaking of dogs, I even tried to hang out with my dog and cat, but they wanted nothing to do with me. I think they sensed my desperation, and decided to play the old "get even" card, payback for all the times I didn't want to scratch their ear 10 more hours.

The only companion I had was a box of Ho Ho's I met at the grocery store earlier that day. Ho Ho's offer such a shallow relationship though. They only give you 10 seconds of intimate communication and then it's over. That is until I introduce myself to another Ho Ho. Which leads me to how my day ended.

I found out there was one thing worse than total aloneness - an empty Ho Ho box.

Lisa Alex Gray

I Have a Dream

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Alex Gray) — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 17:06:00 +0000

and it looks something like this

No, it's not the palm trees and azzure water. Don't you love the word azzzzzzure. I like how my teeth vibrate when I say azzzzzzure. Anyway my dream does not include the trees and water. My dream is all about the thing hanging in between the trees - z hammock.

Actually it's more of a vision than a dream. A vision of me sprawled out on a hammock, watching the clouds float by, while I sway in the breeze.

I've had this dream/vision since I was a teenager. Which is kind of odd since most teenagers have dreams of college, careers or possibly marriage. I suppose I had those dreams too. I don't remember. Obviously, they weren't as important as the hammock.

So why do I still have this dream after 30 years? It's not like it's incredibly challenging. I didn't imagine, first, weaving the hammock from thread I dyed by hand, on a large loom. This goal should have been accomplished many hammocks ago.

Well I don't know why. Why, at forty four years of age, do I have a stuffed animal named Scruffy? These are just a few of the many unanswered question that plague me, as I'm certain plague many of my family members.

Travel forward 30 years to present day Florida (setting) my local grocery store. I was doing my weekly shopping when I saw something that stopped me in my tracks. No not another Ho Ho display. It was a display set up by the produce department, of a hammock anchored by two potted palm trees, a few crates of bananas, and a crate of pineapples. Winn Dixie had created a tropical oasis for their loyal shoppers, right there next to the Doritos.

I sighed when I saw the hammock, as I always did, and would have kept walking if my eyes had not grazed the sign perched on top of the banana pile - Hammock $59.99. What was that? Hammocks are usually at least $200.00, I know, I've been pricing them for thirty years. The $59.99 sign must be a trick. It probably was one of those, buy one hammock get one for $59.99 deals, and what was I going to do with two hammocks? My dream only included one.

I read the sign again making sure I understood what it was saying. Maybe they were selling the crate of bananas for $59.99 in which case that would not be a good deal. I can never make them last past three days and the only thing I know to do with rotten bananas is make banana bread. Let's just say I haven't perfected that recipe yet. Even the dog won't eat it and he'll eat cat poo.

Once I verified the sign was correct I decided the time had come to turn this dream into a reality. I wrangled myself one of the highly motivated stock boys to help me carry the rectangular box, containing the hammock, to the check out, and then to my car. Yes, of course, I gave him a tip. I told him to go to college or get used wearing that shade of turquoise.

As soon as I got home from the store, I opened the box and pulled out my hammock, after which I debated putting the hammock back in the box and going to take a nap.

I have to be honest with you the hammock looked different than it did in the store. Maybe it was the lack of pineapples and bananas.

See picture.

I refused to give up though. Because as I said - the time had come.

So I worked diligently through the rest of the afternoon with the help of my trusty dog Finn

and I made myself a hammock.

Now that I have put that dream to rest, all I have left to do is lay back in my hammock and sway to the breeze, as I plot out how to accomplish the next item on my list of long term dreams....

Getting David Cassidy's autograph.

Lisa Alex Gray

It's Just a Game

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Alex Gray) — Thu, 25 Jun 2009 11:46:00 +0000

No, this is not a map of the Los Angeles Freeway...

it's a picture of the children's board game Chutes and Ladders. Ironically it is also a fairly accurate depiction of what my life looks like in 2-D. For those of you that find the visual imagery incomplete, I will tell you how the game is played (i.e. my life).

The object of Chutes and Ladders is to get to the end of the game without being sent back down a chute/ladder to the beginning of the game so many times that you run screaming from the room crying to your mom that your brother is cheating (okay, I don't actually do that part anymore).

Sometimes you're lucky, you land on a square that says you've done something good, and you get to climb the ladder a bit closer to your goal (my life in the 90's). More often you land on a square that undoes much of your hard work sending you tumbling back to the beginning of the game again (my life in the last year).

I personally am not finding the fun in this game. I can't help but question why someone would want to make such a frustrating life scenario into a game in the first place? I can just imagine how this decision came about.

It obviously took place after a horrible meeting at Hasbro. A few people got fired, a few demoted, and the rest were given one last chance to come up with an exciting new game that children would love and parents would buy.

Mr. Hasbro Executive, who's job now hung in the balance, headed back to his office and worked late into the night - possibly assisted by friends Jack (Daniels) or Jim (Beam) - to come up with a game. Which he did, based on the only thing on his mind, his years of hard work and dedication followed by a swiftly faltering career.

He probably presented the game partially as a joke to upper management assuming he'd be given his walking papers as soon as the presentation was over. I'm sure he never expected the company to actually like the idea. The rest is history.

Well, I have found a way to bring this frustrating 1970's game into the future. Below is my prototype of what the new game would look like....

They may want to include a pair of rubber gloves with this version.

Lisa Alex Gray

The Grass is Always Greener.

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Alex Gray) — Sun, 21 Jun 2009 12:50:00 +0000

Look what I got! - It's a push mower.

I couldn't be more so excited!

I bought it at Goodwill. If you have to ask then you still don't know me well enough. The lady standing behind me in line at the checkout kept staring at me like I was deranged, until she couldn't help herself anymore, and blurted out, "Are you crazy?" Which, I suppose, could have something to do with the fact I live in Florida and the current heat index is somewhere around 105 degrees.

I received a similar reception after I got home from my husband Kurt. Only he added that if the neighbors see me cutting the lawn with this thing they are going to think we are in such financial straights that we can't afford gas for our lawn mower. To which I replied, "Do I look like someone who cares what the neighbors think?".

Who said I was going to cut the grass with my new mower anyway. Well, maybe at some point, in January, when the temperature has dipped to the mid-70's. Cutting the grass was an after thought when I made this purchase. I bought my new mower because of a memory, a profound memory, that has tugged at me for 35 years.

When I was nine years old I had a friend named Elmer. Elmer and I didn't have much in common. We didn't go to the same school or play in the same parks. He was a bit older than me, by eighty years to be precise, but that didn't matter to me. Our bond was beyond years.

We used to take walks together to the end of my block a distance of about 4 Cape Cod houses. Looking back I think his doctor had him taking these walks to help with his circulation. Whatever the reason, if I saw him passing by my window I would run outside and catch up with him as he slowly shuffled his feet forward. I would hold his hand and take the smallest baby steps that I knew how so I could comfortably keep pace with him.

We didn't talk much during our walks we just smiled at each other from time to time and carried on our way. Even through the silence there was one thing I knew for sure about Elmer he had the energy of an angel and spending time with him was like touching God.

The other way I discovered I could spend time with Elmer was to help him with his yard. So once a week I would walk the few doors down to his house, push back the double doors on his wooden barn-like garage and pull out his push mower. He had a small patch of yard in the back of his house and a bit more surrounding the sidewalk in the front but I stretched out my job like I was cutting the lawn at the White House. There was nothing like the sound of the blades clinking away as they clipped the grass, coupled with the overwhelming smell of green, as grass fell to the earth. Elmer was thankful for my help. I don't think he understood that I was the lucky one.

Elmer and I only shared a short period of time together, but it is still one of my fondest memories from my childhood. The discovery of the push mower at Goodwill today was like taking a trip in time machine. A $9.99 trip. Not a bad price.

Since the mower has been home I've taken it out for a few brief spins. Unfortunately Florida grass is a little tougher than the delicate grass in Wisconsin. It doesn't matter though as long as I can hear the clink, clink, clinking of the metal clipper blades as they rotate, I'm in heaven, with my wonderful angel walking along side me.

Lisa Alex Gray

The Chocolate High

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Alex Gray) — Wed, 03 Jun 2009 15:36:00 +0000

And, I'm back...

Where I was doesn't matter. What matters is I'm back and I'm FAT. Okay maybe I'm not fat. I mean where could I go in one week that I would return suddenly fat?

It's more of a mental fat. It's the fat that happens when I am making "poor eating choices" as someone annoyingly healthy and harshly party pooperish would say.

The truth is I went nowhere other than several trips to my refrigerator, kitchen cabinets, and the candy aisle of the grocery store.

Indulging was something I wanted to do for myself or TO myself (as the party pooper/therapist would point out). At the time though it definitely felt like it was FOR myself like a little reward for all my hard work.

Unfortunately, now I'm coming down from the sugar high and sinking into the dark, not so pleasant, punishment phase...

GUILT, GUILT, GUILT the hips are marching!

Which is why I am feeling fat. That and the fact that I ate so much I'm sure any minute my body's going to balloon out and float away. Like the girl from Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory who turned into a big blue ball and had to be rolled away. I won't be turning blue though. I didn't eat any blue food. My vice was and always is - CHOCOLATE.

I think my addiction to chocolate began after an elementary school trip to the Nestle Chocolate Factory. I experienced my first chocolate high back then. I must have exhaled chocolate gases for days. Ever since I have struggled with chocolate dependency.

It's obvious I need some kind of intervention, and I'm not seeing any government bail-out dollars being ear-marked for my plight, which means I will have to do my own R and D.

So if you see a woman with a chocolate bar bandaged to her upper arm, don't stare, just smile empathetically and be on your way.

Lisa Alex Gray

The Dryer Ate It

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Alex Gray) — Thu, 07 May 2009 00:06:00 +0000

This is how I went to work today.

The first thing I did when I realized my error was conduct a quick body check to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything else - bra (check), underwear (check), no weird stuff on my face (check).

Then I began to weigh my options. I even called my husband for ideas. He suggested I paint my left ankle black. I did have a black sharpie in my pocket, but I hate the way they smell and the mark really does last forever. I would end up having to marker in my other ankle the next time I went to the beach.

I thought about taking off my other sock. I am in Florida after all, I could do the Miami Vice thing, but where would I find a white blazer on such short notice?

I decided my best move was to just leave things as they were and act surprised if anyone noticed, "That's strange, I had two socks on when I left the house this morning?"

The funny thing about this incident is that I've done it before.

I make a living as a computer geek, fairly detailed work, yet I continually miss the simple details in my life. I've actually worn two different shoes out the door more than once.

My only comfort is that I have noticed that I am not alone in my faux pas. I had a customer the other day that had the most lovely eye make up and eyeliner on her left eye only. The other eye was completely bare. I struggled against whether to tell her or not.

I mean would I have wanted someone to tell me the day I had toilet paper streaming out of the back of my pants? - wow, the memory of that day still makes me cringe - which is why these are always dicey calls.

It's like when someones zipper is down or they fart in public. Do you acknowledge it or just indiscreetly cover your nose with your hand and keep talking?

This is wear my decorum really shines. In situations such as these I figured out the perfect solution - I just turn the other cheek.

Lisa Alex Gray

Cracking The Code

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Alex Gray) — Sat, 02 May 2009 12:25:00 +0000

Why do public bathrooms have toilet paper hangers with rolls that look like caveman wheels? They're so large and cumbersome I feel like a contestant on the wheel of fortune trying to spin for money.

I just want to be able to get in and out of the bathroom as quickly and painlessly as possible. Yet every time I enter I feel like James Bond on a mission. I must decode the toilet paper roll and deploy it before my bladder detonates.

I've actually gotten quite good at cracking the toilet paper holder codes. The last cypher I cracked went something like this, two quarter turns to the left, one half turn to the right, one pound with my fist, two curse words under my breath and "ta da" the vault door opened and I was rewarded with a 12 inch piece of paper. I was so proud of myself I consider leaving the code on the bathroom wall next to the heart with Jamie loves Kevin inside.

The only problem is toilet paper holder's seem to work on some kind of revolving cypher. When I tried to use the same series of moves again it didn't work.

Usually in this case I decide to make the best of the situation and balance myself over the toilet seat using my quadriceps to not only, keep me clear of deadly bacteria, but help prepare me my thighs for swimsuit season.

Yet, even if I survive this Gladiator moment, I still have one remaining challenge. Can I hold this position long enough to air dry, and if not, what do I have in my purse that could be used as toilet paper? Which is why I never have any deposit slips left in my checkbook when I need to go to the bank.

Lisa Alex Gray

Hormonal Amnesia

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Alex Gray) — Thu, 30 Apr 2009 11:40:00 +0000

My ovaries and I are currently in peace talks.

The sun is shining and it is safe to go outside and play again.

I feel so good it's hard to remember feeling bad. Was it all in my head? Who's been writing this blog lately anyway? To think only days ago I actually wanted to lash out irrationally. Today I want to hand out balloons to strangers. Where did all the anger go?

Could I be suffering from some kind of hormonal amnesia? Is it possible that the right combination of progesterone, estrogen, cortisol and DHEA create, not only the need to yell at a grocery clerk for bagging the butter with the bleach, but also cause a form of amnesia?

This could explain why women go from month to month without eventaually organizing a march on Washington for hormonal change. Once a tough month is over we blindly skip off into the sunset. Then when we have our feet firmly on the ground again and have allowed some dust to gather on the Advil bottle we are hit with a surprise attack.

I always know when bad things are coming because I suddenly crave chocolate cake with a white cream center. I'm usually a health fanatic but every month this craving hits, like an alarm going off, and I know trouble is coming. I may not remember exactly what that trouble is, due to the amnesia, but let's just say I pull out a bottle of pledge.

Lisa Alex Gray

The Happy Camper

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Alex Gray) — Mon, 27 Apr 2009 12:13:00 +0000

The other day I went to my local health food store and asked the clerk for a pill that would make me not want to" lash out irrationally".

She just looked at me blankly then proceeded to walk across the store weaving in and out of the aisles until she stopped in front a shelf containing various holistic mood elevators/suppressors.

She picked up a bottle from the shelf and held it up to me. "It's Happy Camper." she said matter of factly, "We make the Store Manager take this during our monthly sale". Then she put the bottle back down and walked away. I guess she felt her job was done.

I stood there staring at the bottle when it hit me, man she punched the word MONTHLY kind of hard, and I think she winked when she said it. What was she trying to say? Am I that obvious? It's not like I had a heating pad ducked tapped to my waist or something.

Then suddenly I remembered the other thing she said - Happy Camper. The fix to my problem was called Happy Camper? I couldn't believe my luck. I have always wanted to be a Happy Camper. In fact I've spent my whole life telling people that I was not a happy camper, or at least most of the 70's. Why hadn't I heard of this before? Shouldn't it be a headline on MSN's home page? Breaking News....Happy Camper pills now available for the masses...limit one container per family to prevent shortages. I mean this is what's been missing in our society, Happy Campers! They should be putting this stuff in our drinking water.

After the initial excitement wore off I picked up the bottle of Happy Camper to get a closer look. The jar was bright yellow (my favorite color another good sign) with a little cartoon camper guy on the front. He had a big smile on his face and was wearing shorts with big brown marching boots. I want to march. I don't think I've marched since I was in first grade and I think it was for a fire drill. It was obvious this was the product for me right color, marching boots, shorts. Who doesn't like to wear shorts.

The camper guy also had a little derby hat on his head, kind of like a robin hood hat. To think a pill that would make me so happy that I would want to put on a hat. This just keeps getting better and better. It took everything in me not to wrench the jar open right there in the aisle and start popping pills, then open more jars and throw pills around the store at the rest of the customers, "Happy Camper pills for everyone!", but I'm an adult so I restrained myself and waited til I got in the car.

Once in the car I cracked the lid on the little jar of freedom and popped two pills in my mouth washing them down with my bottled water. Then I sat perfectly still and waited. I'm not sure what I was waiting for. Did I think I was going to jump out of my car and start marching around the parking lot? Eventually I decided to drive home. I figured it was safe afterall they weren't called crazy camper.

The rest of my day was spent patiently waiting for the pills to take affect but nothing happened. I continued to take the pills everyday for a week in the hope that any minute the urge to put on shorts might strike. I even kept a hat in my car, just in case. But nothing happened. I guess my mutant hormones were just too powerful for the Happy Camper ingredients to overcome.

Eventually I stopped taking the pills all together. What was the point. Marching was overrated anyway. It makes your legs hurt after a while. I tried it just to see. I also put the yellow bottle away in the place where all good ideas go to die the back of my cabinet next to the bottle of fish oil capsules (nothing like burbing fish all day). There was only one thing left to do. The next day I drove by my grandpa's house and gave him back his hat. He'd been asking for it anyway.

Lisa Alex Gray

Today's Math Equation

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Alex Gray) — Fri, 24 Apr 2009 13:18:00 +0000

30 (days)

- (minus)

5 (day cycle) x 3 (yes three cycles this month)

= (Equals)

15 (DAYS OF SANITY)

Yes, that is right, I have had just 50% of this month to live in harmony with my ovaries. Boy, where did the time go?

This month has certainly been a power struggle between me and the O's and with 6 days remaining in the month I'm calling it a draw.

Time to begin strategizing for the month of May.

So what is my next plan of attack?

Let's check the list.

LIST OF WAYS TO COMBAT OVARY MUTANY

A. appreciation - DONE

B. meditation - DONE

C. irritation - DONE

D. frustration - DONE

E. exhaustion - DONE

F. infuriation - DONE

G. inebriation - DONE

H. obliteration - DONE

I. emancipation - NEXT

SO I GUESS IT'S TIME TO MOVE.

Lisa Alex Gray

SOS

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Alex Gray) — Thu, 23 Apr 2009 14:23:00 +0000

I have decided it is time to send a shout out to the world or anyone willing to read, particularly anyone sporting ovaries, for some

V-A-L-I-D E- X- P- L- A- N- A- T- I- O- N

or maybe just a few words of... HOPE.....or an.....SOS.....or I don't know, light a tampon and throw it in the air?....something to tell that I am not ALONE IN ALL OF THIS!

Okay if the tampon has gone out and your still here then I will expand on my definition of what I mean by THIS.

THIS (a noun); life with my ovaries in my forties. Used in a sentence i.e. What the h*ll is THIS doing here again? THIS makes no sense. THIS thing is going to kill me.

So now that you have a pretty good understanding of how to write your own sentence using the word THIS I will continue with my story.

I honestly don't know where it all went wrong with me and the O's.

I actually feel I have been a pretty nice support system for my ovaries over the years, some might even say a friend.

Our relationship began when I was 11. My mom sat me down and pulled out what looked like a 1970's high chair seat belt and began to describe how I was going to become "a woman" soon. Her smile said yippie! but her eyes betrayed her with a look that said "run for your life".

One short year later I was introduced to my ovaries first hand. On that day I said a prayer of thanks, not because I was "a woman", but because technology had made one small but important leap in that year making it never necessary for me to have to figure out how to launch the seat belt contraption thing for myself. Thank God for small favors.

Since those formative years I have had many highs and lows with my ovaries and even though they've lead me to moments of deep humiliation, such as the high school "oh, I just sat in red candy that's all", incident. I've stood by them.

And this is why I ask you no beg you to tell me...

IS ANYBODY OUT THERE? AM I ALONE IN THIS OVARY MUTINY? ARE THERE ANY SURVIVORS THAT HAVE LIVED TO TELL THEIR TELL?

I'll be watching the skies for your torch.

Lisa Alex Gray