Weighty Matters

Weight, it's a weighty matter.  It's a frustrating matter as well.  I came to the conclusion today that I gain weight when I breathe.  I gain weight when I hold my breath.  I gain weight when I sneeze, when I cough and when I laugh.  I gain weight when I think, when I don't think, when I don't think about gaining weight. I gain weight when I'm sleeping, when I'm reading, walking, and thinking about running.  I'm pretty sure that I will be the first person in all of medical history to gain weight when I die.

Paul, my poor grieving husband, will be handed my cremains, and they will say, "Mr. Bittner, here are your wife's cremains.  At the time of death she weighed 940 pounds, but after cremation, her ashes weighed 1080 pounds."  I guess when the fat is in the fire, it gains density, and ashes are weighty matter.

Oh what does it matter, it's only weight, and if I'm dead, it won't matter.

Ode to a Septic Tank

You bubble and brew
and draining is not
something you do.

You back up,
do the back stroke,
and pumping you
makes me go broke.

You're poopy, and
stinky, and full of
crap.  In dealing with
you my nerves are
about to snap.

You know when
company's coming,
and you start the
back up, the back
stroke, the bubble
and brew.

Oh septic tank,
I'm so tired of YOU.

Passport to Insanity

Life is a learning experience, and if you ever want to learn things the hard way, deal with a government agency.  This is true with passport applications, with renewing your driver's license, your car registration, change of address, getting a new birth certificate, filing your taxes, or heaven help us, getting a new social security card. Talking to a person in any government position is just difficult to say the least.

The first thing to be addressed in any phone call to a government office is what language you speak.  If you speak English, press one.  Sometimes you have to hear that question in Spanish before you hear it in English.  Sometimes you hear it in English first, and sometimes you can press one for English and two for Spanish, but it's usually press two for English and one for Spanish.  Please listen to the rest of the message carefully, because you know you are not going to hear your option, and if you do hear one you think is correct, it won't be, and you will have to go through the process again. 

Press one for English.  If you would like to speak to an agent, press zero, or sometimes nine, or sometimes you don't have an option to speak to a living, breathing human. And sometimes when you actually speak to a human, they seem to be dead, or barely breathing, or not from this planet.

I think the message should say, Press one for English. Press two for Spanish, press three to continue this call in confusion, press four if you didn't understand what was said previously, press five if you are unsure if you are a US citizen.  Press six if your blood pressure is now at stroke level.  Press seven if you feel this is an emergency.  Press eight just for the fun of it.  Press nine to return to the main menu.  Press zero to hear hysterical laughing if you think that will get you an operator.  Now pick up the pieces of your phone and try this call again.

I applied for a passport in February.  While applying in person, at a US Post Office, the postal employee verified that my Texas birth certificate met the specifications by checking in their thick book of what to look for in a US birth certificate.  The book was wrong.  A short form birth certificate from the state of Texas will not be accepted.  Don't even try it. You must have the long form that lists both your parents, their place of birth, your mother's maiden name, their next door neighbors at the time of your birth, the hospital that you were born in, if you were born dead or alive, that one is very important, because you might be dead, and applying for a passport to a new location.  By the time you complete this process you will feel like you've at least seen the borders of Hell, if not been there.

Thank goodness there are only ten options for numbers to press on a phone.  When I called Texas Vital Records and pressed all the correct numbers, I was informed by the government employee that I could expedite the process of getting the long form birth certificate by paying a small fee that cost more than your average new car, but it would still take fifteen days to process.  I could come into the office, you know the one there in Austin, TX and get a copy myself.  Thankfully my wonderful cousin, who lives in Austin was able to obtain a long form birth certificate for me.  I had to send her my credit report, a list of all my children,my marriage certificate proving I was married to their father, how many cars I own, a copy of my driver's license, and a letter of permission for her to obtain my birth certificate.

Don't even get me started on the complications of having someone hand deliver the birth certificate to the passport office in Houston.  We are treated like aliens in our own country!  I'm pretty sure that soon we won't even be able to clear security in airports.  "I'm sorry sir, but your left ear   lobe is slightly larger than your right ear lobe, and that sir, is a national security threat.  We cannot allow you through security."  "Ma'am, in the x-rated x-ray we just took of your body, the one that we all looked at and laughed about, the same one that is now causing hysteria in our underground, secret viewing area, we determined that your boobs are 1/8th of an inch longer than our standard measurement for allowing you to fly.  There is not room on the floor for them, so please step out of line, gather your belongings, and vacate the premises.  You won't be flying the friendly skies today." To the young couple with the two well behaved children, you might hear this:  "Due to the fact that an elderly gentleman, certainly a gentleman with violent tendencies, slapped a child for crying while on a flight, we no longer allow any children on planes.  Please seek alternate travel arrangements."

I joke, but it's really not funny what all we have to go through.  

The Purpose of Middle Age

I don't know the purpose of middle age.  I'm there now, and I feel like I have no purpose.  When I was young, newly married, having children, raising children, surviving the daily struggle called life, I felt like I had purpose.

Then the children left home, made their own life, and I am where?  Middle age, the land without purpose.  I worked when the children were little, because it was a matter of survival. I dreamed of a time when I could just relax, work on my scrapbook projects, go to lunch with a friend, make a quick supper for two, and then read a book.  Middle age, the land without purpose.

At the end of the day, I'm weary, but not tired.  I look back over the day and wonder what I've accomplished.  Sure, the house is somewhat clean, depending on which of the little guys have been here.  I cooked supper for two, or maybe three, if Shana came by.  I didn't work on a scrapbook project, because that means getting it all out, and then having to put it all away.  I don't have lunch with my friends, and I don't even know the reason why.  I read a few pages of a book, and then have no interest in it.  Middle age, the land without purpose.

Sometimes I help my mom, or an aunt, or an uncle, but most times I just am me, me without purpose.  Get a hobby?  I have hobbies, they just don't interest me.  Take a walk?  Oh sure, I love to walk in the wind.  Middle age, the land without purpose.

I think middle age, the land without purpose is a tough place to be. This weekend while we were with Jacob, I realized another door had closed, and I'm trying to figure out how to open the next door in my relationship with my son.  Jacob and I were always very close, and we still are, it's just a different closeness.  He's a man, he doesn't need me, and now I try to understand how I fit into his life.  With Sarah and Julie it wasn't such a huge transition.  Moms and daughters work through stuff as it happens, and I know the girls will always be there, always call, always want to talk, but Jacob, it's just different.  I want to yell at him...I'm your mom. Remember me?

In this middle age land without purpose, I can't find me.  I don't even know the me that I want to be.  Would I even like me, if I found me?