My Subconscious Drinks Riunite and Watches Daytime TV

During that writers' conference I attended in April, there was one session advertised in the brochure as an opportunity to mine one's subconscious mind for writing material using relaxation techniques and guided imagery.

That's code for "hypnosis" if I ever saw it, so naturally I signed myself right up. If there's anything I love more than looking up an old boyfriend on Facebook to see if he's bald yet, its New Age religion.

Now, in the past I've had no success getting in touch with my spiritual self. I was the person at your high school retreat who kept one eye half open and peered surreptitiously at her peers during quiet prayer. I've tried meditation, and found it nearly impossible to shut off the running commentary in my head. But I am desperate to try, and darned if I was going to miss an opportunity to mine the old spiritual quadrant, and for writing material, to boot.

The presenter, Suzette Martinez Standring, began the session by speaking very eloquently for some time about the writing process, about the kind of writing that resonates most with readers, and the importance of evoking all five senses in one's work. I took copious notes, and before I knew it, it was time to go under.

The process was familiar, one I'd tried to follow countless times before when awake with insomnia or in the throes of an airborne panic attack.

The room was darkened, and we were encouraged to breathe slowly and deeply.

To still our minds.

To get centered.

To tune in to faraway sounds.

And to relax each part of our bodies in turn.

Next, we were to imagine a cord of light extending from the bottoms of our feet down to the center of the earth. We were invited to visualize ourselves at the top of a staircase. We would take three steps down. With each step, we would journey deeper and deeper into ourselves so that when we finally reached the bottom, we would be "in trance."

I was skeptical, but earnest. When I got to the bottom of my visual staircase, I was supposed to enter a place of great beauty and serenity. It could be anything I wanted it to be, as long as I felt at peace there, and comfortable.

I didn't see much. So, I pictured myself lying face down on a patch of lush green grass in a forest clearing. I have always enjoyed lying face down in grass because - and you didn't read it here - it is just like hugging the earth. Zero degrees of separation! To me that is very profound.

Anyway, I'm lying face down on the grass and trying to conjure up the feeling of sunlight on my back. It seems as though a babbling brook should be there, so I install one, and spotty sunlight beaming through the trees, as well.

The problem is, I know I'm not really in a forest. I know I'm still in the Torch Lounge at the University of Dayton. My hyper vigilant brain has failed me again, but I keep on visualizing the heck out of that forest clearing because I am going to get hypnotized if it's the last thing I do.

After a few more minutes of this, we are told to let a memory come to us, anything at all.

I get nothing.

After a little while, though, I see a red ball with a faux weave pattern, the multi-purpose kind every kid whose ever gone to school in America knows well. And that ball brings me back to Mr. Finneyfrock's gym class on President's Physical Fitness Test Day, like this:

I am ten years old. It’s President's Physical Fitness test day at school and I am hanging from the playground chin-up bar in a test of endurance. My size 2 feet, encased in white Keds with rainbow stripe friendship pins beaded through the laces, dangle several feet above the loamy ground. The mustachioed Mr. Finneyfrock, in soccer cleats, shorts, and yellow jersey, is standing next to me with his timer. It is warm out, and a soft breeze is blowing. I’ve been up on the bar for almost four minutes now and am barely showing signs of fatigue. My classmates stand in a semi-circle around me, cheering for me and my freakish strength.

I continue to hang there, wondering how much longer I should stay. My arms are not very tired. In fact, I like the slight burn, the sense that by the strength of my thin, tanned, arms alone, peppered with the golden threads of hair I detest, I am being held aloft. When I finally lower myself down, I am an elementary school hero. "IT'S A GODDAMNED RECORD!" Mr. Finneyfrock bellows.

Granted, this was not an unfamiliar, buried memory, but it was unbidden and true. Thing was, I couldn't for the life of me figure out what it was supposed to mean. I thought about it in the context of my current situation and the soul searching I've been doing to find my calling in life, about how I hoped that calling would include writing in some form of another. (Ironically, being at a writer's conference was unearthing all the self-doubts that have always plagued me in this regard.) I decided it meant that I was strong, stronger than my outward appearance belies. And then I didn't think about it again.

But last weekend I was sitting on my couch, staring at the wall and picking my cuticles. The kids were asleep upstairs, and my husband was down in the wine cellar, updating his inventory. I was considering making myself a cup of bedtime tea and taking a stab at some prophetic dreams, when suddenly it hit me.

Hang in there.

I'm supposed to just hang in there, it's as plain as the nose on my face, as obvious as the chin-up bar in my waking dream.

And . . . as cliché as a Hallmark card. Apparently, my subconscious mind has been drinking Riunite and watching Lifetime TV.

(But something is going to happen.)

I know it.

Yoomur

You don't often think of a humor writers' conference as the place for somber introspection. I had a fabulous time swinging from the chandeliers with a great group of fun loving and talented people at the Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop last weekend, but in fact I left with a few tough bones to chew.

I learned from author Wade Rouse that really good writing - and especially the humorous kind - is often borne of heartache and comes from a place of deep vulnerability. (A place where I rarely venture.)

I learned that if you are writing something for entertainment value alone, it better be devastatingly funny. Better to write well and have a deeper message so if the humor bombs, at least the piece will not. (Ooof!)

And I was reminded that an essential element of success is daily discipline. You have to write often and copiously to hone your craft and get better and better at it. There is no such thing as writers' block. You just sit down and write, even if that means getting up at five o' clock and staring at the wall.

Finally, I witnessed firsthand how people who come to conferences prepared with business cards and armed with 30 second pitches, as well as those who network confidently with everyone they meet instead of, for example, donning a cloak of invisibility and going to bed early, end up hobnobbing with published writers. (Note to self: next time, bring business cards, stay up late, wear Louboutins.)

But don't get me wrong. I had a great time and met a lot of fabulous people, like the brilliant and multi-talented KC, Choonkooloonks, Wendi Aarons, Smacksy, and Jennifer from These Are the Days, just to name a few.

I heard New York Times columnist Gail Collins rock the house with her keynote speech, listened to hilarious USA Today columnist Craig Wilson read his work, and watched live stand-up comedy expertly executed by Late Show writer Bill Scheft.

I had the chance to stand up in front of a full auditorium and read a piece I'd written.

I was hypnotized and learned how to apply guided imagery techniques in my writing.

I was mistaken for a girl scout while earnestly trying to network one day at lunch. That was a total bummer.

I got carded at a college bar with Classy Chaos. That was fun!

And . . . one more thing. My nagging suspicion that this blog I started almost three years ago as a creative outlet and a way to pass the time while the kids napped doesn't feel quite right anymore was confirmed.

Since I had no business cards with me, I said "RimaRama" out loud a lot. And it sounded kind of stupid. I also spent about ten minutes trying to explain to one person what the suffix "rama" means. And here I always thought it was pretty self-explanatory. (She also wondered why I was wearing a crown in my header and I was like, "because this blog is my alter ego and my alter ego wears a crown." And she was like . . . "Hmmmmm." Then I thanked her and ran away.)

So I'm thinking - just thinking - about killing RimaRama off and starting anew.

But I'm not going anywhere just yet. I will keep you posted!

Glad I Didn't Pick Viola

I had a most productive violin lesson yesterday. My teacher said that my playing is showing marked improvement.

"You used to sound like this" she said, playing a tortured, under pitch passage which caused her cat and two attack dogs to run for cover. "But now your playing has a much more pleasant and open sound."

Then she asked me to play the last variation of "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" on page 26 of my Level One Suzuki Violin book. And as I began my tentative performance with hands shaking and lips pursed in profound concentration, she picked up her violin and began to accompany me with a harmony line.

It caught me totally off guard, but was positively thrilling. I felt like an actual musician, playing an unassuming little duet as though it were the most natural thing in the world, when in fact my heart was in my throat and my knees were seconds away from buckling beneath me. It was the first time since I started studying violin that I felt a sense of accomplishment and got a taste for what it must be like to make real music. Which is enough to keep me going for at least a few more months.

I think my teacher is starting to warm up to me because towards the end of the lesson, she took me in her confidence by sharing a couple of viola jokes (apparently, viola players are the butt of violinist humor). And I laughed heartily, even though I did not understand the punchline. Because I will do anything for the honor of being included, if only by polite gesture, in the Cult of Violin.

The viola jokes are pretty bad. Here are some I found on this website:

How do you keep your violin from getting stolen?

Put it in a viola case.

What's the difference between a viola and a coffin?

The coffin has the dead person on the inside.

What's the difference between a viola and an onion?

No one cries when you cut up a viola.

How can you tell when a violist is playing out of tune?

The bow is moving.

What's the definition of "perfect pitch?"

Throwing a viola into a dumpster without hitting the rim.

(Ba-dum-bum-thonk.)

I Could Be a Sniper

I skipped through the front doors of the Cleveland Clinic's Cole Eye Institute for my nine month post-LASIK follow-up appointment yesterday.

I've been skipping a lot since my eyesight was restored to its pre-pubescent acuity last June. I have also been playing a game called, "Who Can Read the Road Sign First, Suckers?" when driving around with the kids, and executing spontaneous cartwheels because I no longer have to worry about my glasses falling off in mid turn. Next up: target practice.

Despite shamelessly fabricating answers during the letter chart reading portion of the exam (they all looked the same), I passed with flying colors and my corrected vision was deemed "20/20."

"Do you have any questions before you go?" Dr. D. asked me.

"As a matter of fact, I do," I said, unfurling the scroll on which I had penned them. "First of all, I've developed an uncontrollable twitch under my left eyelid. It's starting to get annoying because people think I'm making passes at them" I said, winking at the Doctor.

"I'm sorry, but I can't claim responsibility for your ocular spasms" he responded amiably. "My wife has that, too. Could be due to stress."

"Okay" I said, glancing at my list, "Can I go back to rubbing my eyes vigorously? I have been restraining from this practice for fear of dislodging my corneal flap, but since my eyes are completely healed now, I was wondering if I could really go to town up in there?"

"Well, we never recommend that anyone 'go to town' as you said, with the eye rubbing, but I will say that it would take a lot of pressure for you to actually dislodge your flap. In all my years of performing this surgery, I've only ever had one patient who damaged her flap, and that was because someone banged a car door into it."

"Holy shit."

"Don't be too alarmed. She's fine now - her vision is back to 20/20. The presence of the flap was actually helpful to us in repairing the damage."

"Saved by the flap!"

"In a manner of speaking, yes."

"OK, then, no rubbing. But what about makeup? Do I have your permission to go Tammy Faye Bakker on the eye shadow?"

"Just make sure you are using clean applicators and be careful."

"Let's say I was putting on mascara, and the wand slipped, stabbing me directly in the flap. What would happen to me?"

"You would probably scratch your cornea and it would be treated in the same way as a corneal scratch on any other eye patient would be."

"But I wouldn't go blind?"

"No. You would need to call us as soon as possible so that we could treat you, though."

"How about racquetball? Can I play racquetball?"

"Just wear protective eye gear."

"And swimming? Can I open my eyes underwater in the pool?"

"Sure. It might be a bit uncomfortable, as it is for the general population. I'd recommend wearing goggles if you plan to spend a lot of time with your eyes open in chlorinated water."

"I probably won't. I don't like to get my head wet. But what about scuba diving? Is that something I could technically do?"

"Are you planning on going scuba diving?"

"No."

"Okay, Mrs. Rama." (rising to leave and extending his hand for a shake) "I think you're all set!"

"When should I make my next appointment, Dr. D.?"

"You don't need to come back here."

"Really?"

"Yes. Just call me if you have a problem."

"Any problem at all? What if-"

"It's been a pleasure treating you, Mrs. Rama!" (showing me the door) "Good day now."

"OK, then! Goodbye! Thanks for the new eyeballs!"

And with that, I waltzed out of the eye clinic with a clean bill of health.

But I forgot to ask if it would be OK to get permanent makeup tattooed on my lids. It was the last item on my list.

I Am a (Very Sensitive) Home Economist

Yesterday afternoon, J-dog and V-meister kidnapped me and the P-Dawg by gunpoint and forced us to drive them to Red Robin for lunch. As we were waiting for our food to arrive, I noticed my husband eyeing me with a look of concern.

P-Dawg: "So, I've been thinking about what you might want to do when you eventually re-enter the workforce."

Rima: "Are you calling me lazy?"

P-Dawg: "No, no, it's just that-"

Rima: "I'm very busy, you know. Very busy. It's not like I'm running around getting pedicures."

P-Dawg: "No, of course not. But I've been thinking that-"

Rima: "I have too much time on my hands? Because let me tell you something, mister . . ."

P-Dawg: "No, it's not that. It's-"

Rima: "I spend a lot of time on laundry and general home economics. And tidying up. Do you think our family's shoes line themselves up from smallest to largest in the entryway all by themselves?"

P-Dawg: "Thank you. Listen, I'm not saying right away, but hear me out for a minute-"

Rima: "Not to mention menu planning and food preparation. These things don't come easily to me, but I do them out of love."

P-Dawg: "I know you do, and I appreciate it, I really do. But I know you want to eventually get back to work and I've been thinking about some options you may want to consider."

Rima: "Plus there's violin practice, and my charities . . . "*

P-Dawg: "For example, I think you might really enjoy starting your own business. You could do something you love, make your own hours, and not be confined to a cubicle."

Rima: "ARE YOU CALLING ME FAT?"

********************************************************************************************

While I do plan to go back to some form of work eventually, I apparently don't want to talk about it yet.

(And for the record, what P-Dawg had in mind was for us to start our own day trading business. Which I think has something to do with the stock market and is the OBVIOUS CHOICE for a person with degrees in French, English, and Edumacation who has no idea what's even in her 401k plan, regardless of the fact that she is routinely quizzed about it at the dinner table.)

On the other hand, it's heartening to know that the P-Dawg was merely projecting his own career aspirations onto his wife, and not trying to prematurely foist her on corporate America in curlers and a bathrobe.


*There are no charities

Fridays with Lorrie

In my violin teacher's living room this morning, I was fumbling through a rhythm exercise I had executed perfectly just hours before in the the privacy of my own home.

"I just want you to know" I said, "That I sound so much better when I'm practicing by myself and doing it ass backwards. But then I come over here and by the time you've corrected my hand position and bow hold and reminded me to relax my neck, everything just goes to pot!" I said. By way of a joke.

My teacher considered this, but did not let it roll. "I will always be correcting you," she said. "That is my job. You can't come in here, no matter how hard you've been practicing, and expect to play perfectly. It's not like one day you'll show up and I'll say, 'That's it! You're done! On to the symphony with you! There is always room for improvement, and I would be doing you a disservice if I didn't point that out."

I was dying to interject that No! that's not it at all! I just wanted to tell you that I only suck when I'm with you! (Even though in my heart of hearts, you know I'm always sort of hoping that one day she'll say, "You know . . . you have REAL TALENT.")

But she continued: "Being so hard on yourself is no way to live. When you expect perfection of yourself, it spills over into your relationships with others. You expect them to be perfect, too. And no one wants that."

She had imparted this wisdom with no hint of malice or judgment, but still my jaw dropped to the floor. Was my violin teacher lecturing me about personal relationships? The last time anyone besides my mother had offered up unsolicited advice was in 1997, when my friend V counseled me to quit the job I hated or stop bitching about it, already.

And then my teacher brought up my old nemesis, the adorable eight-year-old violin student.

"I think I've mentioned him to you before" she said. "He can barely get through one measure without me adjusting something, but do you know what he does? He just laughs, shrugs, gives me the cutest little impish look, and keeps on going! He is totally unfazed! And SO JOYFUL! I wish we could all be more like him!" she said, sunbeams shooting out of her ears and reflecting off her dangly silver zen earrings.

And I was like, "Is he also writing you a weekly check for $25 directly out of his allowance?" but I kept that thought to myself. Because what she said had really struck a chord with me. Especially that little part about perfectionists demanding that others be perfect, too.

I thought about my kids. And my husband. And everyone else who had let me down at any point in my life for coming up short in the Department of Excellence and Precision.

Had she been at our breakfast table today when I was yelling at J-Dog and V-meister for smearing Nutella all over their white school shirts first thing in the morning? Was she a fly on the wall when I was having an aneurysm because of the way the P-Dawg loaded the dishwasher? Was she there when I fired that one tech writer who did sloppy work? Or when I told my study abroad housemate in France that no one could understand him because his accent was so bad?

My violin teacher has seen right through me, and I think she's on to something. While I have to say that being neurotic has served me well in life in many ways, I don't know that I would want to live with me, or have me for a mother.

So. I went in for a violin lesson today, but left with a sparkly nugget of zen wisdom.

And I think I'll keep it.

It's Not Like I'm Garfield

Rimarama: "You know what? I am SO GLAD I signed up for this Erma Bombeck writers workshop! I think it will be really good for me."

P-Dawg: "Oh?"

Rimarama: "Yeah! I mean, I'm sure that BlogHer would be fun, but I feel like I'll get a lot more out of this from a writing standpoint, you know what I mean? I've always wanted to hone my humor writing skills. Plus, I get to meet KC."

P-Dawg: "It's funny, when I think of "humor writing,", I never think of you."

Rimarama: "What are you saying?"

P-Dawg: "I don't know."

Rimarama: "You don't find me the least bit entertaining?"

P-Dawg:

Rimarama:

P-Dawg: "It's just that when I think of a humor writer, I think of somebody like Lewis Black, you know? Someone whose all crass and crotchety."

Rimarama: "Are you telling me you've never once laughed at anything I wrote?"

P-Dawg: "I -"

Rimarama: "Have you even chuckled inwardly?"

P-Dawg: "I've chuckled inwardly."

Rimarama: "'What about, "guffawed?' Have you ever guffawed?"

P-Dawg: "Well . . . it's not like you're Garfield."

Fiddling Around

So far, the best part about taking violin lessons is waltzing around town carrying a violin case and looking vaguely musical. The actual "learning how to play" bit is proving to be quite a challenge.

Did I listen when the first potential teacher I called, chuckling slightly under her breath, suggested I try cello or piano instead? Was I paying attention when she confided that playing violin is actually hard physical work? That proper form must be mastered before any real music making can begin? Did I pay heed when she explained that the hands of children who start playing at a very young age actually grow differently to accommodate the various string positions? That few adults have the time and stamina to take on the commitment that is violin?

I did not. I arched my brow and did the Z-snap. "Bring it, sistah!"

And that's how I ended up on a tree-lined street with ivy clad Tudor style houses last Friday, knocking on her door for my first ever lesson, a flimsy invisible fence separating me from the two pissed off attack dogs who were obviously trained to scare the crap out of housewives turned wanna be violinists.

The first thing I learned is that the violin is a high maintenance kind of gal - there' s a lot of rosin polishing, string tightening, and chin rest adjusting before one can even begin to think about making music. And when your instrument is finally ready (*snort*), it's time to get in play position.

But don't think you can hold the bow any which way and drag it across the stings willy-nilly, readers. The violin is a demanding luv-ah, and there's a special place in hell for players who don't practice good bow hold. Of course, once your gnarled thirty-six year old digits are finally in position, you must go directly to the nearest fire station to make sure you've installed yourself correctly. Then and only then can you begin to play. One note - the "A."

But you mustn't flap your arms all over tarnation like some kind of freak show carnival fiddler. Instead, move your forearm back and forth, as though opening a door - your elbow should remain almost stationery. There! Just like that. Now make sure the horsehair hits the string at an angle, like so, otherwise it sounds like you're skinning a cat. Pretty f*cking hard, eh? Try to do all this with a "light touch," even though you're concentrating so hard that your knuckles are turning bone white and it's everything you can do to hold in that fart. Now you're ready to play.

Despite not being especially supportive of my non-traditional student status, I think my teacher is pretty cool. She drinks tea, has a dry sense of humor and a little zen rock garden in her music room. She also makes you do yoga stretches before each lesson, which seems to run counter to the attack dogs, but who am I to question the mysterious violin subculture?

My only assignment for the next week is to practice holding the bow and striking the "A" string using proper form. If I get really good at playing the "A," I'm allowed to try another note, but I must not go nuts with it. My lesson was only a few days ago, and already I'm having trouble re-enacting the bow hold and arm movements my teacher showed me. Despite watching countless instructional clips on Utube and poring over the diagrams in my Level One Suzuki book, I feel like I'm just now getting acquainted with my opposable thumb.

Readers, it looks as though I've met my match. She's fifteen inches tall and weighs about a pound.

Yo-Yo (Ra)ma*

I'm thirty-six years old, and there are a lot of things I still want to do in life. Last weekend, after hearing the Cleveland Orchestra play Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, I decided I would learn to play the violin.

I took piano lessons as a kid, but the thing that got me in the end (besides laziness and inadequate wingspan) was that pesky bass clef. It's a very busy instrument, the piano, and my left hand never fully cooperated the way it was supposed to. I always pounded out the melody, fudged the harmony, and pumped the pedals with a leaden foot.

The violin, however, is a simple, unassuming instrument with a pittance of strings. So rudimentary is the violin, that you could probably play it with your hands tied behind your back. I was fairly certain it was the perfect instrument for me, and, lo! I had an opportunity to try it when I took the V-meister to see a school friend make her debut with the childrens' orchestra.

The concert was part of the family music series, and the kids in attendance were given the chance to try different instruments before the performance began. V-meister didn't want anything to do with any of it, but I couldn't stay away from the violin table. After circling it for several minutes, I finally asked one of the orchestra volunteers if I could give it a go, and she said, "Why not? You look about twelve" (Not really, but it was implied.)

Just between you and me, I half expected that violin to play itself. And so I was rather taken aback at how awkward it felt, how cumbersome . . . how . . . how . . . downright difficult it actually was. I couldn't even figure out how to hold the bow without the docent's assistance, much less guide my paws into position on the strings. And the sound it made when I finally managed to put it all together was absolutely pitiful. I handed the violin back and ran away.

But don't think for a minute that my musical dream has been dashed. The violin is all the more enticing because of the challenge it poses. And really, I just want to learn how to hold the damn thing without poking myself in the eye with it play for my own pleasure and perhaps the P-Dawg's, who I plan to serenade by firelight (when I'm not busy hobnobbing with Franz Welser-Möst at Severance Hall, that is.)



* Cello, schmello

Just Call Me Hawkeye

I neglected to mention that during my blog sabbatical this summer, I ended up having LASIK surgery, after all. It's been almost three months now and I've officially changed the name on my drivers' license to, "Eagle Eyes Rama."

The surgery itself is nothing to be afraid of, as long as you're not one of those people who starts bustin' out the ninja moves if someone comes near your eyes. For one thing, they give you a val1um right before the procedure begins and what this does is cause you to chuckle while the surgeon marks up your eyeballs with a magic marker.

I found that I was actually quite relaxed - giddy, even - while the operation was taking place. I only freaked out once when the technician kept telling me to focus on the green light, but I couldn't see it because the surgeon was still adjusting things. I started to become a little frantic, like, "I CAN'T SEE THE GREEN LIGHT WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?" and then the technician got in trouble with the surgeon for stressing me out.

You experience a lot of strange sensations (you might also smell something burning) during the surgery, but it doesn't actually hurt. The procedure I had involves cutting a flap in the cornea and re-shaping the surface underneath. The worst part was that, after they cut my "flaps," I had to lie down and rest in the next room over for a few minutes before the second part of the procedure began. While I was "resting," my numbing drops began to wear off and I started to experience some "discomfort," as they like to say in the biz. At first I thought I could master the discomfort, but when I realized I could not, I stumbled, batlike, into the hallway in search of relief and had to be escorted back into my holding cell.

The rest of it was pretty uneventful and I actually don't even remember all the details anymore. When it was all over, I could already tell that my vision had improved, albeit through a brilliant haze. I had to wear a horrendous pair of wraparound safety goggles for the next twenty-four hours and then every night for a week, which thrilled J-dog and V-meister to no end.

As I'd feared, my eyes were very dry for the first month or so after the surgery and not a day went by when I didn't say to the P-Dawg, "P-Dawg, I knew this would happen. Now I'll have to wear goggles and live in a climate controlled humidity chamber for the rest of my life." And each time, the P-Dawg pretended as though no one had spoken.

So even though my eyes are still drier than they were before the surgery, there are very few days when I am uncomfortable because of them and it's still better than the worst bad contacts day. All told, I'm very glad I went through with it. The only drawback is that I have a lot more crows feet than I'd realized and I found out my shower is pretty gross. But on the flip side, I could easily, with valium, pilot a stealth bomber or build myself a nest out of shiny objects.


P.S. I realize I'm jumping the gun a little with my pretty new autumn themed Queen Elizabeth/Disney Princess banner, but I couldn't stand looking at retro mom running away from her kids for one more day.

Girl, You Know It's True

The P-Dawg once told me that doctors know we lie to them. There is even a formula of sorts for gleaning the truth out of answers to questions such as, "How many drinks do you typically have per week?" ("one or two" = "three or four") and "Are you using birth control?" ("Yes" = "No")

Shocking.

I had my annual ladyparts checkup a few weeks ago. Just as my physician was preparing to exit after our three minute encounter, I pulled out a scroll with a bulleted list of discussion items for the two of us to review at leisure. One thing I wanted to interrogate her on was the potential for a new medication I'm taking to cause weight gain. (It has already dissed my blog and killed off my houseplants.)

Rimarama: "Just a few questions before you go! The internet told me that I could totally blimp out on this drug, even though the manufacturer's label says otherwise. Have you seen this happen with your other patients and if so, please comment."

Doctor D: "Are you getting regular exercise?"

In my head, I tallied up the number of times I'd walked out to the mailbox during the last month, and then I said, "Uh . . . yeah! Totally!"

Then, in her head, the good doctor plugged my answer into the formula and said, ""If you don't watch it, you have the potential to gain forty pounds and NEVER TAKE IT OFF AGAIN. But keep up the diet and exercise! And go get that baseline mammogram I recommended last year."

Thus I began a strict exercise regimen which includes a rigorous cardio workout nine three days per week and the contortion of my body into gravity defying Pilates poses on the days in between. I've been doing this for about a month now and I've actually gained two pounds. On the other hand, if you tried to punch me in the stomach, your fist would crumple like a tin can.

(And if you were to ask me how often I'm exercising, I'd tell you, "Every waking hour of the day, are you calling me a liar?")

My, What Thick Corneas You Have

Last week, I went for a preliminary evaluation to see if I'm a candidate for laser eye surgery.

First they had me fill out a questionnaire explaining why I wanted it. I knew I couldn't write "I hate my f*ck#ng glasses," so instead I talked about how they interfered with my quality of life. My glasses are making me fat by impeding my ability to participate in contact and water sports! I live in fear of being trapped in a burning building if I had to escape quickly and couldn't locate them! Also, they make it difficult to watch TV while lying sideways on the couch.

Not five minutes after I'd handed in my essay (did they read it?), a technician invited me back for a battery of tests. I had made the first cut! For the next hour and a half, that technician poked and prodded me. She had me follow a pinprick of light with my eyes, took pictures from different angles, and shot puffs of air into my eyeballs at random intervals, then snickered when I recoiled. (Optometrists get their kicks from administering the glaucoma test, apparently.) But we had a rapport, the tech and I, and felt certain that by the end of our time together, she would present a glowing recommendation to the surgeon.

When I finally went in to meet him, the surgeon started in on the old "good news and bad news" speech, but I cut him off at the pass.

"Give it to me straight, doc."

"Well, you're a . . .reasonable candidate. I like the thickness of your corneas and your pupils dilate beautifully, but . . . [whips out thermal relief map of my eyeballs and furrows brow in concern] there is a bit of dryness I'd like to remedy before going forward," he confided, pointing his laser at some suspicious yellow areas.

He assured me that he'd performed the surgery with great success on many, many people with my exact profile, but since most peoples' eyes become more dry for up to a year afterwards, it's a good idea to "get a handle on the dry eye" before proceeding. Also, there is no way to tell for sure how much drier my eyes will become post surgery and whether or not the condition would be permanent. Still, I left with a prescription for Re$ta$i$ and a tentative surgery date in early June, which I plan on canceling at the last minute.

Then I went home and spent way too much time surfing Lasik message boards, reading posts about Lasik disasters from people with screen names like, "Keep Your Glasses" and "Lasik Ruined My Life." Who I'm assuming got the two-for-one special at Lasers-R-Us and not the Cleveland Clinic Cole Eye Center, but still. I find this "reasonable candidate" business disturbing.

What to do? And who will win: my vanity, or the Internet doomsayers?

Examining My Zipper

*Re-enters sheepishly and begins combing through spilled garbage. Takes swig from half-empty bottle of Mad Dog 20/20, tosses aside. Thinks twice, picks it up, and places in recycling bin instead. Unwraps piece of Nic0rette and begins chewing thoughtfully. After a moment, locates broom and sweeps aside dustballs, glass shards, delusions of grandeur. Finally, leaning upon broom handle, clears throat and begins to speak.*

*****************************************************************************************

Sorry about the earlier melodrama, readers. I was having writer's block, stage fright, and an existential crisis. Also PMS.

I was annoyed at having typecast myself into a certain role here, and angry that I didn't have the guts to break out of it.

I concluded that having a "successful" blog was more about marketing than about writing, and I pouted. Because I am a terrible salesperson and I peddle funky wares.

I resented the fact that I'm not currently in a position to spend the time and energy it takes to write "seriously." Why, oh why, was I putzing around writing silly anecdotes here when I could be using my "free time" to work on something "real"?

And I tried - for about a half an hour - to write that real something. But I didn't have it in me. What I had, if you must know, were a series of cliches strung together awkwardly with little or no segue and sprinkled liberally with flashy five point words.

I came to a late realization that probably won't surprise you: it takes more than skill and perseverance to be a good writer. It also takes a certain amount of courage, and that is something I don't know if I'll ever be able to shore up - not so much because I'm wary of offending the masses, but because I fear exposing my true self to the people I love the most.

There were, in fact, a lot of things I could have written about while claiming to be "blocked." But they required a kind of raw self-exposure I'm not sure I'm ready to make. In this place, or anywhere else.

It was a hard pill to swallow, especially when I finally realized that there is not much difference between journal blogging honestly and writing creative non-fiction for publication. I always told myself that I'm only exposing the tip of the iceberg here to avoid exploiting or drawing undue attention to myself and my family. But it seems there's no avoiding it: If I ever hope to write, I'll have to drop my pants.

Still, I wonder and I fret. Can a person writing pantsless continue to entertain? How many friends will I lose once I've streaked across the football field in my honest altogether? In the end, is it worth it?

Until recently, I've been pretty happy wearing my pants up around my armpits here. And I'm not sure I want to lower them, but I may start loosening my virtual belt, just a little bit.

Feel free to look away.


P.S. How high, if I may ask, do you wear your pants?

Swimming In the Deep End

Turns out, I like yapping about adventure, but when push comes to shove, it's all I can do to tear myself away from my comfort zone and the soul-deadening daily routine.

Take, for example, last night.

I didn't want to go to that French gig I was telling you about. I had a headache, it was snowing out. I'd have to put together an "outfit," schlep across town during rush hour, and converse in a foreign language with a group of strangers.

Why, I asked myself, would a person put herself in such a position when she could just as easily don pants with an elastic waistband, take a Ty1eno1, and stretch out on her couch for a night of Internet and TV?

Well . . . because I fear that changing things up every now and again is the only thing that stands between me and a house dress, rollers, and plastic furniture slipcovers at some point down the line.

Because it's time to start chipping away at the shell I've spent the last decade or so building around myself, afraid and unwilling to forge new, true, and honest friendships. Because I want to invite more beauty and nuance into my life, and because I've read one too many new age self help books.

Just as my repressed inner optimist suspected, breaking out was a good thing. At the very least, it didn't kill me, and I got an opportunity to crank up neural synapses that hadn't seen action in years.

I met my friend in the museum lobby, where the francophiles had already begun gathering. Sure, there were a few impeccably knotted Hermes scarves and imperial Gallic profiles, but no one was putting a gun to my head, demanding a certain death conjugation showdown.

Alas, starting up a French conversation with a person you are accustomed to speaking with only in English is both awkward and terrifying, like diving into the deep end wearing a bikini that's one size too big. There's no way around it except to pinch your nose, jump, and hope your thong stays put.

We dove in. The water wasn't nearly as cold as I'd expected, and I immediately remembered how to tread. Once I realized that my friend's french skills were as rudimentary as my own, well, I daresay I began straight up doggy paddling.

There were, of course, a lot of frenzied hand gestures, elaborate commentary about the weather, and the odd English word with a French ending tacked on mid-sentence, but we made do. The important thing was that we understood each other and no native speakers approached us.

The group received a private tour of the special exhibit featuring turn-of-the-century decadence in the House of Faberge, Tiffany, and Lalique. Before you knew it, I was flipping around like a veritable Shamu and offering total strangers my opinion of Princess Kelly's never-before-seen Faberge egg: "C'est cool, ca."

One thing I didn't do was try to purposefully strike up actual conversation with other attendees. I may be looking for adventure, but I don't have a death wish. During the dinner portion of the evening, my companion and I sat with a chap whose language skills were very much on par with our own. The three of us concluded that it was snowing out, poulet frites are pleasing to us, and there's a train station nearby.

Also, I might have offered him a job at my friend's restaurant, to which I'm pretty sure he replied "I, too, enjoy skiiing."

Anyway, it's a start. I am going to try to attend next month's event if I can, maybe even work up the courage to bust out some freestyle moves.

Welcome to my year of swimming in the deep end.

The Haps Chez Rama

Readers, I have been crossing items off my New Years Rez list with wild abandon.

I made a new friend recently (see Rez # 9), and she invited me to attend a dinner/lecture at the art museum with her later this week (see Rez #10).

The only catch is that it's all part of some sort of french language "circle" where I'll bet everyone wears fetching scarves and stands around speaking only en francais all night long.

It's what I get for running my mouth about spending that junior year abroad every chance I have. People assume I'm still a francophone, but the sad fact of the matter is that my once solid language skills have been reduced to a single phrase: "Je ne comprends pas."

Normally, I have no problems with meeting new people and engaging in small talk. I have a litany of foolproof conversation starters, ranging from my year abroad, of course, to my thoughts on communism and the incident of the skin tag on the operating table. Unfortunately, my vocabulary skills on these topics are limited to English and Lithuanian.

Well, if you need me, I'll be at the local library, boning up on the past imperfect and putting myself into a tizzy over what to wear.

A bien-tot, chers liseurs!
-Rima de la Rama

*****************************************************************************************

P.S. Remember the episode when I thought the chick from Jazzercise was trying to pick a fight with me?

Well, thanks to lovely Loralee of the Looney Tunes, that post is being re-published at BlogNosh Magazine today! It is the apex of my blogging career.

You should go over there and check the place out. I hear they have an excellent wine list, good ambiance, and something for every palate. (Although I fear my post might fall under the "How Did This One Get Past the Radar?" category.)

I'm Going to Become an Optimist, Even if it Kills Me

Happy New Year, my peeps.

Here's the laundry list of stuff I'd like to get done this year. Don't hold me to it.

1. Obtain more positive attitude
   
2. Defeat my stupid chronic vertigo once and for all
   
3. Be more engaged with my children
   
4. Update my look
   
5. Write mo' better
   
6. Redo my living room/dining room
7. Develop an assortment of my digital photos, frame them, and put in family albums already. While I'm at it, I'll put together J-dog and V-meister's baby albums, too.
   
8. Update my Flickr page regularly
   
9. Make new friends
10. Do girls' night out monthly and drink something besides red wine
    
11. Stop sweating the small stuff, for crying out loud
    
12. Get prescription sunglasses
13. Revive basil plant
14. Become "handy"
    
15. Take active interest in family finances and investments
    
16. Read news from an assortment of world outlets weekly
    
17. Have professional family photo taken
    
18. Take better care of my nails and get an occasional manicure
    
19. Lose 3-4 more pounds
20. Keep in better touch with far away family and friends (hint: use phone, email)
    
21. Replace all window treatments in house
22. Finish guest bedroom
    
23. Paint family room
    
24. Be patient and kind
    
25. Cut down on whining