Sneak Peeks by Louise Yeiser McAlpin

The Difference Between KC and Me

Yesterday, KC and I drove two different vehicles in two different directions for different reasons.  KC delivered our belongings, loaded into a U-Haul truck, to Michigan, and I delivered my mastiffs to friend Carrie's place in upstate PA, where they will stay until my back is strong enough to weather the jostles they inadvertently give.  Before we hit the road, we sat down to breakfast and said Grace.

“Heavenly Father, thank You for the meal sitting before us,” KC prayed, eyes closed, head bowed.  “Thank You for nourishing our bodies and keeping us well.  Please watch over me as I drive the truck back to Michigan and protect Weasie and the mastiffs as....”

I didn’t hear the rest.  I was too busy praying my own prayer.

“Dear God, if anything happens to KC, You and I will have issues.  Big, serious issues.  So don’t even think about it.”

When you consider my demeanor toward the Almighty, it is a wonder He didn't strike me dead years ago.  Why does He have anything to do with me?  Why does anyone, for that matter?

As I head into the final stretch of preparedness before surgery, my world is getting smaller.  The to-do list with all its unchecked items is irrelevant; people outside my immediate sphere are becoming less distinct, like shadows on the periphery.  The worries I had about moving?  I’m not sure what they were.  I expect the move to kind of take care of itself.

What is clear and solid are those things directly in front of me that must get done as part of my preparation process, part of keeping things afloat while I am indisposed, and making sure I’m indisposed as comfortably as possible.  I don’t know how long my recovery is going to be.  I’m told it will depend on me, on my body, on my reaction to the surgery, on my reaction to all sorts of things.

At this stage of the game, my expectations have basically flown out the window.  I didn’t realize how heavy they were until I noticed they were gone.  I'd like to feel their absence on an ongoing basis.  I’ll have to work on that.

Maybe I could also work on being a little nicer to God, having a more humble attitude, instead of throwing my weight around, threatening Him and carrying on.  I doubt it affects Him one way or the other how much I shake my fist and stomp my foot.  The only person being affected by it is me.  What kind of person do I really want to be?  How do I want to treat others?  Maybe I could be a little more pleasant and cooperative, asking for help and then accepting and working within reality.  A favorite quote from the movie, 28 Days, starring Sandra Bullock, reminds me, “I can control the little things, and then I have to let go and it's up to somebody else.”

That said, my issues and I will be back as soon as we can after surgery.  Thank you for reading my silly rambling.

From Louise

This Week's Bests and Worsts

Best Surprise

Three mastiffs being easily demoted from the couch to three cushy beds on the floor, who quickly learned the meaning of, "Go to your place."  KC will thank me later.

Worst Surprise

The impact of going off meds as part of pre-op.  Ouch, already!  I had no idea I was in all this pain.  It's been very distracting and I'm all preoccupied, as you can clearly see by the next item on this list.

Worst Consequence of Worst Surprise

An encounter with a curb.  In my Subaru wagon that I've been driving for seven years, seven, I cut a corner, hit the curb and blew out my back tire.  I knew I blew the tire the second after it happened.  Hit that curb like I had no idea where the car began or ended.  Hit it hard.  Bang.  Tilt and thump.  That telling drag on the steering wheel.  Limped to a neighborhood gas station, left the car at one of the pumps, slipped a note with my phone number on it under the station door and walked home.  They know my car.  They'll probably think it's funny.  Maybe someday I will too.  Thank goodness it was just a curb.

Best News

Positive feedback from Irish mentor Brian Leyden on my last writing packet, which, I might add, was on time, despite every, little, turbulent thing going on in my life right now.  On time, plus he was much happier with my writing.  My last packet was due two weeks after I got married and he did not permit me any time extention.  I get it.  This is grad school, after all.  "Flimsy," I think he called my book review, which I spent maybe five minutes writing.  Ah, well.  He was much happier with packet 2, the world is in its place and he and I are friends again.

Worst News

Auto accident involving friend and singer, Eddie Garcia, who suffered a concussion and sprained wrist.  Bandmate Bryan's injuries were even more severe and I'm not sure if he's been released from the hospital as of this posting.  I've got them both on my prayer list.

Strongest Wish for Next Week

That my hospital experience will look just like Grey's Anatomy, except for the Season 6 there's-a-shooter-on-the-loose-in-the-hospital finale.  That was a mean way to dispose of characters whose contracts were not renewed for Season 7.  Anyway, I choose Christina and Meredith to assist Dr. Kanter with my surgery, and I intend to surprise the entire surgical team, as well as those watching from the balcony, by not v-fibbing in the middle of the procedure, like everybody else on the show.

Have yourself a strong, rewarding weekend!

From Louise

The Wedding's Over

My back surgery is less than a week away.  “You must be so stressed out,” everyone keeps saying.  Truth is, I'm much more bothered about being away from my husband than I am about this surgery.

We have been married for sixty-one whole days and have lived together for, maybe, half of that time, if we're lucky―five days here, a week there.  For the most part, I wake up alone, except for a mastiff or two sprawled on the floor, in the same single-mom bed that I’ve enjoyed for the last thirteen years.  This makes it rather challenging to feel like a newlywed.

Why are we separated?  For now, I need to be in Pittsburgh because my property is for sale and even though I have three huge, drooly English mastiffs, everything must stay neat and tidy for showings.  Then, after my surgery, I have to stay put, being quiet and super careful, until my back “sets.”  Once it sets, I am free to join my husband in Michigan.  Meanwhile, except for during, and immediately after, surgery, KC needs to be Up North because that is where his new job is.  It's all so confusing.

Sometimes I think I made the whole marriage thing up.  My life's the same, nothing's changed, ho hum.  That's the time I need to twirl my engagement and wedding rings around my finger, or take them off to study the shiny, white bands they leave on my skin that I didn't think was tan.  Plus, I have wedding and mini-moon pictures, a marriage certificate, a new drivers license, credit card, social security card, and, coming soon, a new voters' card.  They all say McAlpin.  Louise Yeiser McAlpin.  Plus, I have a husband who calls, emails and texts me sporadically throughout the day, plus a phone call at dinner and one at bedtime.

So, okay.  We've been married sixty-one days and don't quite live together yet.  No biggy.  We've got other stuff to do at the moment.  This too shall pass.

Model Monday

It was all Brenda's fault.  She got me hooked on America's Next Top Model, with Tyra Banks and a host of mannequin-like models, who desperately needed to eat a few cheeseburgers with fries, cole slaw and a couple of shakes.  Saturday morning, I went to her house because someone was coming to look at mine (remember, it's for sale?) and I wanted to avoid overhearing people's comments.  Yes, I know there's some mastiff slobber on the walls and not enough upstairs closet-space.  Okay?

Anyway, I fled to Brenda's house, thinking we could sit quietly together and, like, write!  We've had writing dates before, the most memorable one being the day we decided to walk the mastiffs around the block, which we figured would clear our heads and make us brilliant.  She took Charlie (217 lbs.) and I had Webster (170 lbs.).  We left the house in warm, sunshiny weather and walked down the street only to get caught in a torrential downpour that came out of nowhere, complete with lightning, thunder and a small tree to hide under, which was no help whatsoever.  My neighbor drove by and offered his dry porch to us, but I was laughing so hard, I was unable to respond, so I waved the car on.  When we got back to the house, we had to wrap ourselves in bathrobes and wait for our clothes to come out of the dryer.  I guess you could say Brenda's and my writing dates haven't always been that successful.

This was no exception.  I parked my car across the street from her house and texted her, asking if I could come up.

“I have so much writing to do,” Brenda said, once we had settled in her living room, across from the tv, which was on.  Her laptop sat open on the table in front of her and mine was on my lap.

“Me too.  Let's turn off the tv and get to it.”

But no.  Brenda had to watch one last rerun of America’s Next Top Model before she would off the tv, which I thought was fine.  After all, it was just one.  What harm could it do?

Once the show ended, Brenda tried to press the power button on her computer.  I'll give her that.  She really tried.  But these re-runs were running back-to-back all afternoon and I thought it would be fun to watch the next one, just one more, before we settled down to business.  That one more ended up being another one more and another, and another, and so on, until we had watched every single show, down to the bitter end.  Within hours, the six competing models of the first show I watched were reduced to three, then two.  The grand winner: CariDee.

Brenda said she needed to watch America's Next Top Model for deep-seated, psychological reasons.  My excuse?  I was putting off till tomorrow what I should have been doing that day.  I gave in.  I chose to be weak and bad.  Sometimes it's fun to be weak and bad.

Today is Monday and I'm still thinking about America's Next Top Model.  What happened to Melrose, Eugena and Anchal, three of the losers?  Or the twins?  Are they strolling down catwalks or posing in front of cameras somewhere, or are they wasting away (even more) while they sit in front of their tvs, wondering what went wrong?  I've lost two nights' sleep over this, so I have to ask: is there a 12-step program for people addicted to dumb reality shows?  If so, I have to find a meeting right away.  And if I have to go, I'm dragging Brenda along with me.  Because, as everyone knows, it was all Brenda's fault.

Better Rusty Than Never

Today's Friday List of four was brought to you by Unconscious Mutterings, Week no. 397.  Thank you, Nina!

Prompt no. 1: Surprisingly

It's an adverb.  I like adverbs, although, when I was an undergrad in English Writing at Pitt, my classmates, who had just finished Journalism 101 to join me in Creative Nonfiction I, considered an adverb to be something akin to an unpardonable sin, punishable by death.  In small group work, as soon as an adverb appeared, the offending writer, usually me, became the most wretched of all condemned souls.  However, I think a well-chosen adverb modifying an emotion-packed adjective can do wonders for a sentence.  Dresses it up in finery it didn’t know it had.  Hauntingly heartbreaking or luridly luscious.  Can't you just hear those petticoats swishing under those gorgeous, full skirts?

Prompt no. 2: Penciled

My eyebrows are surprisingly strange.  Thick and dark on the upswing, they disappear into sun-bleached blondness on the downswing.  They have to be plucked near the bridge of my nose and painted on in other places.  This may not make any sense, nor be a terribly brilliant subject to write about, but this is the way it is, just the same.

Prompt no. 3: Ignore

“Just ignore it,” my husband tells me.  Why should I ignore something, when stewing over it can set me spinning into a nice, steamy resentment, fueled by self-righteous anger, which I can stir from time to time and cook to utter perfection?

Prompt no. 4: Let’s go!

The Pittsburgh Penguins.  Man, do I love ice hockey.  Anyway, I am selling my house right now, which is a big surprise to those who know how much time and money I have put into it, but this is the sort of thing that happens when a home-owning female falls in love with, and marries, the apartment-dwelling love of her life.  The couple can either move into her house, or the woman can sell it, so they can live in a totally new place.

I am selling my house.  Our new place is in Harbor Springs, Michigan, which means that some time in November, after back surgery and a 6-week recovery period, I’m moving Up North to live with my new husband.  One small problem.  Harbor Springs is overflowing with Detroit Redwings fans.  I mean, they're everywhere!  The encroachment of these guys into my Pittsburgh Penguins lifestyle is pretty nauseating, but I promise to do my best to keep it under check.  After all, throwing up, especially in public, is not at all polite.  Nor would it give me any brownie points with my new neighbors.

 

Have a safe, healthy weekend!

From Louise

One.... Two....Two and a Half....

Date Night.  Tina Fey and Steve Carell.  The white, expensive sports car stolen by our heroic couple has hooked front bumpers with the yellow, every-day taxi driven by our totally freaked-out cab driver and they are trying to figure out how to unlock the cars.  Plan 1 is to floor both cars in reverse.  No luck.  I can't remember what Plan 2 is, but they are prepping for it.

"On the count of three!" Steve Carell hollers.  "One!"

The camera pans from face to determined face in each car.  Not really.  The cab driver is still scared half to death. 

Two!  The tension mounts.  The cars are revving.  Camera shows two feet on two pedals, ready now.  Steady now....

Three!

My lights go off!  Really.  They do.  The lights, the air conditioner, the clocks on the microwave and oven, the overhead fan upstairs.  The lights and everything else.  All out.  The hum of appliances and electricity and who-knows-what-else winds down and disappears, and I am enveloped in silence and darkness.

Someone has cut the lines and must be in the house!  No house can lose its power accidentally on the count of 3.  Not possible, I think.

Quickly.  Decision time.  What should I get first, the mastiffs or my flashlight?  I opt for the mastiffs and feel along the wall to their crates in the back of the house.  They make no noise, which is freaky.  My heart is in my throat.

They're dead!  The same person who cut the power lines has killed my mastiffs, I think, struggling with the lock on Winston II's crate.  Finally, his tail starts banging across the back of his crate.

You're alive! I whisper.  I have to be very quiet so the burglar can't hear me.  I don't want him to know my whereabouts.

Both Charlie and Primo start to stir, alerting me to their aliveness, as well as causing me to wonder if I am being a little silly.  That's all it takes.  One thought.

I take a deep breath and relax my shoulders.  I let the dogs outside, feel my way through the house and upstairs to the hall closet to fetch my flashlight.  On the way back down, I look out the window to see several neighbors congregating across the street in front of dark houses. 

I AM being silly, I think.  It was just a creepy coincidence.  Very creepy.

No need to drag this story out.  Of course I join the neighbors outside and learn that a tree limb has knocked down a transformer in our neighborhood, which should be fixed in a few hours, which is exactly what happens.  Right around my bedtime, electricity is restored.  I set my coffee maker for the next morning, climb the stairs, forcing the mastiffs to come up with me, lock us all into my room, in case the non-existent burglar comes back, turn off my lights and settle into bed.  Although I like to listen to Art Garfunkel's Breakaway CD to lull me to sleep, tonight I want to be able to hear all the night noises and be at the ready, flashlight close at hand.  I may be silly, but it's never a bad idea to be cautious, right?

My last thought before drifting off to sleep is, Weasie, you totally watch too much tv.

This may or may not be true, but even so, allow me to be the first to admit that possessing this knowledge hasn't, and won't, change a single, solitary thing.