Third Act With Pattie

Tag: writing

  • MAY FLIES IN JUNE — THAT IS A HARD NO

    MAY FLIES IN JUNE — THAT IS A HARD NO

    OH MY BONE at the flies.

    Is the lake broken?

    The black flying flies.

    They are everywhere.

    They do not stop.

    I am convinced they exist for one purpose and one purpose only:

    To torment me personally.

    Let me tell you about May flies.

    They are very special flies that live in the lake as regular bugs for two whole years.

    Then one day they explode out of the water and become flying bugs.

    I know these are facts because Mama told me.

    Do I fully trust Mama’s explanation?

    Not entirely.

    She also says I don’t need to bark at suspect squirrels.

    So her judgment is questionable.

    There are hundreds of them.

    Thousands of them.

    Possibly millions.

    Maybe even billions.

    I have not counted them all because I am only one dog.

    But I have counted enough

    to know I am right.

    They hide in the grass.

    They hide in the trees.

    They hide on the boathouse.

    They hide on the windows.

    Basically, if a thing exists,

    there is probably a fly sitting on it.

    Then the moment you find the perfect place to squat…

    HERE THEY COME.

    Like somebody blew a whistle.

    Suddenly they are flying around your head.

    Flying in your ears.

    Landing on your legs.

    Making you question all your life choices.

    And let me tell you something else.

    They smell bottoms.

    I have seen it.

    Now, a good bottom sniff is important.

    To dogs.

    That is a professional courtesy.

    A respectful exchange of information.

    Flies have no business participating.

    They have not earned that privilege.

    The worst part is the windows.

    They stick to the glass.

    I go over to investigate.

    They jump off.

    Then they fly directly at my face.

    Which feels aggressive.

    And possibly personal.

    Mama explained that after spending two years in the lake,

    they only live for a day or two.

    A DAY OR TWO.

    Imagine waiting two years for anything.

    Then spending your entire adult life being annoying.

    That is a terrible life plan.

    I reported this situation to Management.

    Management said,

    “They’re just mayflies, Sassy.”

    Which is exactly the sort of thing Management says

    when they have no intention of fixing the problem.

    Also, I have one very important question.

    If these are MAY flies…

    Why are they still here in JUNE?

    I am beginning to think nobody is enforcing the rules.

    The only good thing about mayflies is that eventually they die.

    Which leads me to believe that even the all-powerful one—

    you know, D-O-G spelled backwards—

    has reached the end of His patience with them too.

    Until then,

    I will continue my patrols,

    file my complaints,

    and conduct all outdoor business under protest.

    Sincerely,

    Sassy 🐾

    A Very Good Girl Under Attack

  • I Miss That Woman

    I Miss That Woman

    One of the great lies of modern technology is that we can no longer get lost.

    We have GPS.

    We have smartphones.

    We have interactive maps.

    We have little blue dots that tell us exactly where we are.

    And yet, over the course of five days at Universal Studios, I was lost so often that I began to suspect my little blue dot was just making things up.

    The problem, as it turns out, is that theme parks apparently believe maps should be viewed on screens approximately the size of a saltine cracker.

    I used to be the person who got us where we needed to go.

    Although directionally challenged, I could read maps. Paper maps. Solid maps where the top was the top and the bottom was the bottom. Maps that did not suddenly rotate because I shifted my weight or turned my body fifteen degrees to the left.

    Maps where you could look at the route and say, “I need to turn right here.”

    Or, “I better turn left there.”

    Not arrows that changed direction on the whim of the gods.

    As a single mom, I took my two children on adventures all over the place.

    I studied maps before we left home.

    I highlighted routes.

    I planned for confusing intersections.

    I took them to amusement parks, water parks, state parks, and places we had never seen before.

    We didn’t get lost.

    And perhaps more importantly, we didn’t ask for directions.

    I miss that woman.

    The woman with the highlighted map.

    The woman who trusted herself.

    The woman who could look at a route and know where she was going.

    Now?

    Now I am standing in a theme park holding a saltine cracker with a battery.

    Trying to determine whether the tiny arrow is pointing where I need to go or whether it has once again decided that True North is the most important information in my life.

    As if I routinely navigate by the stars.

    As if Lewis and Clark are waiting on me.

    As if anybody other than Eagle Scouts knows where True North is at any given moment.

    And because life enjoys piling on, I can’t see worth a damn out of the eye that needs cataract surgery.

    A weakness for another day.

    If I enlarge the map, I lose where I’m going.

    If I shrink the map, I lose where I am.

    And somewhere between those two settings lies the exact point where I begin questioning all my life choices.

    One afternoon of our Universal adventure, I was happily settled in Celestial Park.

    Soft music.

    Shade.

    Air conditioning.

    Comfortable seating with actual backs.

    Civilized beverages served in actual glass glasses.

    In other words, paradise.

    Then came the text.

    “Come meet us at Mead Hall.”

    Simple enough.

    Except Mead Hall was in the Isle of Berk.

    But I was not.

    And the app, despite being connected to celestial satellites orbiting the earth, seemed unwilling to share that information in a useful manner.

    I zoomed.

    I swiped.

    I rotated.

    I squinted.

    I tried again.

    At one point I was no longer certain whether the map was lost or I was.

    Finally, I found an information booth.

    And there, like a gift from heaven itself, was a paper map.

    A solid map.

    A trustworthy map.

    A map that stayed still.

    Within seconds, I had figured out exactly where I needed to go.

    But then something happened that bothered me more than being lost.

    I asked anyway.

    Not because I didn’t know.

    Because I wasn’t sure I trusted myself.

    When did that happen? 

    The employee confirmed what I already thought.

    I was right.

    Confirmation that I had become the unconfident woman.

    Eventually I found the portal to Berk.

    I could see the giant tower thing ahead of me.

    The roads split left and right.

    The app was no help.

    The signs were questionable.

    My confidence was fading.

    I chose a direction.

    Then another.

    Then another.

    At one point I found myself sitting on a rock trying very hard not to cry over a theme park map.

    Which is not a sentence I ever expected to write.

    About then, Hubby texted.

    “Where are you?”

    Well, if I knew that, I wouldn’t be sitting on a rock, would I?

    I didn’t send that response.

    I told him I was sitting under a sign that said:

    LOST ELDER. HAVE PITY.

    A few minutes later I finally asked another stranger for help.

    Again.

    And eventually I made it.

    Exhausted.

    Frustrated.

    Relieved.

    And more emotional than the situation probably warranted.

    Because the truth is, this wasn’t really about finding Mead Hall.

    It wasn’t even about the map.

    It was about confidence.

    I used to be the person who found the way.

    The map reader.

    The route planner.

    The woman with the highlighted atlas riding shotgun.

    Now I’m the person who asks strangers for directions.

    And I hate that.

    Or maybe I hate what I think it says about me.

    Because the truth is, I did find my way.

    I found the information booth.

    I found the paper map.

    I found the right bridge eventually.

    I even found Hubby.

    Maybe the problem isn’t that I can no longer find my way.

    Maybe the problem is that I’ve spent so much of my life believing strength meant never needing help that every request for directions feels like failure.

    And maybe, four months shy of seventy, after a year that included cancer, chemo, cataracts, and a Universal Studios app apparently designed by squirrels, that’s a lesson worth learning.

    Even if I’d still rather have a paper map.

    One story down. Several margaritas to go.

    -Pattie

    Subscribe now. New episodes of suffering drop regularly, and binge-reading is encouraged.

  • I Knew Better

    I Knew Better

    As I write this, we are on Day Three (of Five) of Liddle S’kiddle’s Family Senior Trip to Universal Studios Orlando.

    Against all logic, reason, and personal preference, I am still alive.

    Accompanying me on this adventure are Hubby, Senior S’kiddle, Middle S’kiddle, Middle S’kiddle’s boyfriend Redbeard (currently enjoying a favorable performance review), and of course, Liddle S’kiddle.

    To say I don’t enjoy amusement parks is like saying the Pope is a little bit Catholic.

    I am not comfortable in big crowds.

    Short people, you know what I mean.

    We are overlooked down here.

    Stepped over.

    Bumped into.

    And back in the days when everybody smoked? Burned.

    My PTSD still burns bright.

    Loud noises confuse me and make it difficult for me to think.

    I do not like to ride rides, mostly because I really do not want to stand in lines.

    And finally, I do not like to be hot and sweaty.

    Despite the facts, and because of my love for all the S’kiddles, I let hope overrule experience.

    I knew.

    We took this trip before when all the S’kiddles were little, sans Redbeard of course, and neither I nor they have changed. 

    They still disagree frequently and loudly:  on food, on clothes, on makeup, and existentially – boys. 

    They remain completely different human beings with wildly different definitions of fun.

    In addition, just two days before leaving on this trip, I dropped the edge of a 30-pound design wall onto my big toe…

    and it landed squarely on the nail root—

    that tender little patch of flesh where the nail emerges from the skin

    and pain goes to live.

    I’m not gonna lie.

    I cried like my foot had been amputated with a butter knife.

    Oh, and let’s not forget that I am sneaking up on seventy whether I approve of it or not.

    Or that I had cancer last year and had my last chemo treatment after Christmas. I forget about it more often than you’d think – until my body reminds me that IT has not.

    In other words, I arrived at Universal carrying a bruised toe, post-chemo stamina, sensory overload issues, and a lifelong dislike of amusement parks.

    The odds were not in my favor.

    First stop: Super Nintendo World.  Three stories of noise, music, children, and heat aimed directly at your soul.

    My circuits overloaded within five minutes –

    full-on senior brain seizure. 

    Next stop: Donkey Kong – kingdom of intense heat and sanity-invading drumbeats. 

    Two hour wait in the sun while the “children” – all of them adults, every one capable of being left unsupervised –  rode a roller coaster that turned out to be their least favorite.  

    And Hubby and I, still mid-brain seizure – never thought to seek shade and comfort just steps away. 

    Pull up a chair. There is no way this trip fits into one story.

    Frankly, it may take three margaritas and a miniseries.

    -Pattie

    P.S.  Consider this Episode One of The Universal Chronicles. More to come – pace yourselves.

    Subscribe now. New episodes of suffering drop regularly, and binge-reading is encouraged.

  • The Return of Leg Shaving

    The Return of Leg Shaving

    Today I shaved my legs for the first time since last August.

    Not because I’m lazy.

    Well.

    Not entirely because I’m lazy.

    The real reason is that chemotherapy comes with both curses and blessings.

    One of the blessings?

    No leg hair.

    For ten glorious months, I have not shaved my legs.

    Not once.

    No balancing on one foot in a slippery shower. No discovering halfway through that the razor is dull. No realizing I somehow missed an entire stripe down the back of one calf.

    Nothing.

    Just smooth legs and one less thing on my list.

    Of course, the curse is that chemotherapy doesn’t stop at your legs.

    It takes all the hair.

    And while there are certainly parts of that experience I do not recommend, there was something oddly satisfying about crossing “shave legs” off my to-do list for ten straight months.

    At some point during treatment, I stopped even thinking about it.

    Then recovery happened.

    Slowly.

    Quietly.

    The fuzz on my head started coming back.

    The eyebrows that had apparently quit without notice started showing up for work again.

    (As much as any eyebrows can after surviving the unforgivable tweeze craze of the 1970s.)

    The eyelashes decided they might stick around after all.

    Every little bit of regrowth felt like a victory.

    Proof that my body was finding its way home.

    And I was grateful for every bit of it.

    Until this morning.

    This morning I looked down in the shower and thought:

    “Well, apparently we’ve brought back the leg hair.”

    Now, to be fair, I should probably be celebrating.

    This is evidence of healing.

    Recovery.

    Progress.

    The return of normal bodily functions.

    But instead, I found myself standing there with a razor thinking:

    “Couldn’t we have left this one behind?”

    Then I dug my razor out of the back of the bathroom drawer and actually stopped and stared at it.

    The blade looked exactly the same as it had ten months ago.

    Which led to an important scientific question:

    Does a razor get dull just sitting there?

    Because if so, this one should have been worn slap out by now.

    Then I remembered.

    I had put that blade on the day my port was installed.

    Not the week before.

    Not sometime that month.

    The actual day.

    And suddenly I wasn’t looking at a razor anymore.

    I was looking at a timestamp.

    Back then, I had no idea how many doctor’s appointments, PET scans, infusions, steroids, naps, night sweats, and worried conversations stood between that shower and this one.

    If you had told me that morning that the next time I used that razor I would be cancer-free and standing in my shower complaining about leg hair, I would have taken that deal in a heartbeat.

    Then there was the shaving cream.

    The good shaving cream.

    The extra-foamy, sensitive-skin, smells-really-good shaving cream.

    The can was almost empty.

    Which raises another question.

    Does shaving cream evaporate?

    Or has someone in this house been secretly using my expensive shaving cream while I wasn’t paying attention?

    I’m not naming names.

    But there are only two people who live here, and one of them is a 6-foot-7 semi-retired male.

    The evidence seems compelling.

    Anyway.

    The shaving is done.

    The legs are smooth.

    The era of effortless maintenance appears to be over.

    And that got me wondering.

    Is this a thing for men who have gone through chemo, too?

    Because back in my day—and yes, I am officially old enough to say that—a man shaved his face and called it good.

    That was the entire grooming plan.

    Nowadays it seems like the only thing some men don’t shave is their face.

    So I’m curious.

    Men who have been through chemo, was there any hair you were perfectly happy to lose?

    Any hair you were relieved to see return?

    Or maybe more importantly…

    Was there any hair that came back and made you think:

    “Seriously? Of all the things that could have stayed gone forever, you picked THIS?”

    Because ladies, let’s not pretend we don’t have opinions here, too.

    By a certain age, some hair starts showing up in places nobody ordered it from.

    And it arrives with the confidence of a long-awaited guest.

    One day you’re minding your own business.

    The next day you’re standing in front of a magnifying mirror wondering how a single chin hair managed to grow three inches overnight without your knowledge.

    The human body is a mystery.

    Recovery is a mystery.

    And apparently hair is determined to remind us who’s really in charge.

    So today I shaved my legs for the first time in ten months.

    It wasn’t particularly exciting.

    It wasn’t especially meaningful.

    But it was one of those ordinary little moments that quietly reminded me how far I’ve come.

    Ten months ago, I was sitting in chemo.

    Today, I’m complaining about shaving my legs.

    I’ll take that trade every single time.

    Even if the leg hair is making a comeback tour that absolutely nobody requested.

    -Pattie

    P.S. This post is cross-posted here and on my new blog, Third Act With Pattie.

    Second Battle Same Me was the story of getting through cancer.

    Third Act With Pattie is the story of everything that comes after.

    These days you’ll find me, Richard, and Sassy navigating lake life, retirement, family adventures, quilting projects, and whatever chaos shows up next.

    Nature has a lot to say.

    So does Sassy.

    Come join us at Third Act With Pattie and subscribe so you don’t miss a story.

    My Creative Brain Was Hiding… in the Fabric

  • The Return of Leg Shaving

    The Return of Leg Shaving

    Today I shaved my legs for the first time since last August.

    Not because I’m lazy.

    Well.

    Not entirely because I’m lazy.

    The real reason is that chemotherapy comes with both curses and blessings.

    One of the blessings?

    No leg hair.

    For ten glorious months, I have not shaved my legs.

    Not once.

    No balancing on one foot in a slippery shower. No discovering halfway through that the razor is dull. No realizing I somehow missed an entire stripe down the back of one calf.

    Nothing.

    Just smooth legs and one less thing on my list.

    Of course, the curse is that chemotherapy doesn’t stop at your legs.

    It takes all the hair.

    And while there are certainly parts of that experience I do not recommend, there was something oddly satisfying about crossing “shave legs” off my to-do list for ten straight months.

    At some point during treatment, I stopped even thinking about it.

    Then recovery happened.

    Slowly.

    Quietly.

    The fuzz on my head started coming back.

    The eyebrows that had apparently quit without notice started showing up for work again.

    The eyelashes decided they might stick around after all.

    (As much as any eyelashes can after surviving the unforgivable tweeze craze of the 1970s.)

    Every little bit of regrowth felt like a victory.

    Proof that my body was finding its way home.

    And I was grateful for every bit of it.

    Until this morning.

    This morning I looked down in the shower and thought:

    “Well, apparently we’ve brought back the leg hair.”

    Now, to be fair, I should probably be celebrating.

    This is evidence of healing.

    Recovery.

    Progress.

    The return of normal bodily functions.

    But instead, I found myself standing there with a razor thinking:

    “Couldn’t we have left this one behind?”

    Then I dug my razor out of the back of the bathroom drawer and actually stopped and stared at it.

    The blade looked exactly the same as it had ten months ago.

    Which led to an important scientific question:

    Does a razor get dull just sitting there?

    Because if so, this one should have been worn slap out by now.

    Then I remembered.

    I had put that blade on the day my port was installed.

    Not the week before.

    Not sometime that month.

    The actual day.

    And suddenly I wasn’t looking at a razor anymore.

    I was looking at a timestamp.

    Back then, I had no idea how many doctor’s appointments, PET scans, infusions, steroids, naps, night sweats, and worried conversations stood between that shower and this one.

    If you had told me that morning that the next time I used that razor I would be cancer-free and standing in my shower complaining about leg hair, I would have taken that deal in a heartbeat.

    Then there was the shaving cream.

    The good shaving cream.

    The extra-foamy, sensitive-skin, smells-really-good shaving cream.

    The can was almost empty.

    Which raises another question.

    Does shaving cream evaporate?

    Or has someone in this house been secretly using my expensive shaving cream while I wasn’t paying attention?

    I’m not naming names.

    But there are only two people who live here, and one of them is a 6-foot-7 semi-retired male.

    The evidence seems compelling.

    Anyway.

    The shaving is done.

    The legs are smooth.

    The era of effortless maintenance appears to be over.

    And that got me wondering.

    Is this a thing for men who have gone through chemo, too?

    Because back in my day—and yes, I am officially old enough to say that—a man shaved his face and called it good.

    That was the entire grooming plan.

    Nowadays it seems like the only thing some men don’t shave is their face.

    So I’m curious.

    Men who have been through chemo, was there any hair you were perfectly happy to lose?

    Any hair you were relieved to see return?

    Or maybe more importantly…

    Was there any hair that came back and made you think:

    “Seriously? Of all the things that could have stayed gone forever, you picked THIS?”

    Because ladies, let’s not pretend we don’t have opinions here, too.

    By a certain age, some hair starts showing up in places nobody ordered it from.

    And it arrives with the confidence of a long-awaited guest.

    One day you’re minding your own business.

    The next day you’re standing in front of a magnifying mirror wondering how a single chin hair managed to grow three inches overnight without your knowledge.

    The human body is a mystery.

    Recovery is a mystery.

    And apparently hair is determined to remind us who’s really in charge.

    So today I shaved my legs for the first time in ten months.

    It wasn’t particularly exciting.

    It wasn’t especially meaningful.

    But it was one of those ordinary little moments that quietly reminded me how far I’ve come.

    Ten months ago, I was sitting in chemo.

    Today, I’m complaining about shaving my legs.

    I’ll take that trade every single time.

    Even if the leg hair is making a comeback tour that absolutely nobody requested.

    -Pattie