Warts but With No Frogs to Show For It

The fact that I wore huge bifocals as a kid wasn't enough for "God" to gift me with. He apparently was feeling generous on the day of my creation and decided that one deficiency wasn't enough for me to overcome. So, to add further injury to my optically challenged insult, I was also stricken with mountain sized warts.

My first one was the size of an eraser head and, since it resided in the palm of my left hand, was hide able. I reasoned that it began one day when a rose thorn pricked me in the exact spot that was now adorned with a scalloped wart. Upon it's discovery I contemplated moving away to an island for rejects, but I found my life could continue as per usual. I quickly adapted and learned how to hide my wart. When washing my hands in public I was careful not to tilt my hand so that someone could spot it. And, given my huge bifocals, I surely wasn't going to be holding a boy's hand anytime soon so I didn't have to bother worrying about being discovered that way either. It wasn't long before my mom took me to the doctor and with his Frankenstein-like contraption he burned my wart off with a beam of electricity. The smell of victory was sweet and similar to the smell of burning flesh.

And then, in a matter of a few months they spread. Little by little the cauliflower offenders began to sprout up like a canvas over the top of my left hand. One wart was manageable, but now, every morning I awoke to find another cluster. They would start out as little unoffensive bumps that quickly grew in size. They reminded me of the sponge capsules you would put into a dish with water that would expand into a huge sponge creature where the little pill once was. I would stare at my hands every night before bedtime trying to commit their size to memory. Every morning I awoke to find the clusters were growing larger. I had dreams of them overtaking my entire body until I was one huge wart monster terrorizing the town folk.

As they grew they inevitably became harder to hide. When I was in class writing at my desk I would cover my left hand with my right hand as I wrote, successfully masking all 8 warts that covered the top of my left hand, but looking autistic and strange as I did so. Being left handed called enough attention to me, now I was the strange lefty who held the pencil with both hands. I was able to do this for one grade level and then, over the summer, they began sprouting up all over my right hand.

By the end of summer I looked at my plagued hands and cried. It was the end of my 5th grade year and I had hoped, in vain, for a new beginning in junior high. Unlike most other girls who would wish on stars to kiss a boy or get a pony, my wishes were for pretty hands and 20/20 vision.

I had tried everything to get rid of them. Given, this was many years before the invention of the Internet, I was reliant upon simple here say about how to eradicate warts. Since it was a topic that I would only talk about to my family, my main source was my grandfather. His advice - wait for a night when there is a full moon and on that night cut a tomato in half and stand naked in the backyard smashing the tomato onto all of my warts. Spin around in a circle and scream as loud as I could, "warts be gone, warts be gone". Thankfully, had it not been for my fear of public nudity, I may have attempted this ritual.

The thought of returning from summer as an even uglier 6th grader had reduced me to tears. Soon I was crying so hard, the kind of crying that you make that funny stuttered breathing sound, that I hadn't noticed my dad had walked into the room. If you knew my dad, you would understand that his ability to deal with an adolescent girl was right up there with his ability to swallow fire. There was nothing more out of his comfort zone than trying to deal with emotions, let alone mine.

Given that modern day health care escaped my father and that his idea of first aid was sewing his own finger back on with a needle and fishing line, it was no surprise that I found myself driving with him in his van to his "doctor friend's" office with a Thermos in my lap. I didn't question where we were going, all I knew was my dad was determined to get me to stop crying and that was enough for me. So I followed him, like a trusting and hopeful puppy into the waiting area as he gave the receptionist his name and muttered something about being a friend of the doctors and that, "he would know what it was regarding". Within minutes the doctor asked for us to come back and we were ushered into one of the patient rooms. He came in behind us and asked me for the Thermos. I hoped he wasn't asking for it because he was thirsty and cursed myself for not thinking to fill it with something before we left the house. Quickly my Thermos and the doctor left the room. I sat there in silence wondering what sort of exchange my father had worked out with this strange doctor and why the doctor was more interested in my Thermos than he was with seeing my warts. Soon he came back in the room and handed me the Thermos which was cold to the touch. "Be careful not to spill it on yourself" he said to me with a chuckle which was a cause for concern on my part. He and my dad exchanged awkward pleasantries and my dad and I left.

On the way home I held the Thermos tightly wondering what magical liquid the good doctor had filled it with. Was I supposed to drink it? Maybe it was a syrup I would drink and would kill all the warts. I imagined with great satisfaction the warts drying up and falling away from my hands leaving silky skin in their place. When we got home my dad positioned a chair over the sink in the kitchen and then dropped a handful of Q-tips on a paper towel next to the Thermos. "Just dip them in the dry ice and then press them on your warts. I'm going to watch TV, call me if you need anything." And with that my dad left his 10 year old daughter with a Thermos of dry ice and shaky hands.

I dipped the Q-tip cautiously into the bubbling frosting liquid and then stared at it for a moment before lightly touching it to the surface of the largest wart. It didn't hurt as much as I had imagined so I pushed the tip down with more force and it made a sizzling sound. I grit my teeth tightly together as electric jolts of pain radiated in my wart and up through my arm. At first, the pain caught me off guard but then, the hatred and anger towards them and all they plagued me with took over and I began finding joy in the possibility. I imagined myself wart-free for the first time in years. I imagined writing papers at my desk with ease, with nothing to hide from anyone. First, I focused on the warts on my right hand since I was naturally a lefty and could hold the Q-tip with more precision. After 40 minutes, I held my shaky right hand up and admired the beauty. The white cauliflower masses were now purple and blue suffocated masses encircled by red inflamed rings. Then my shaky and battered right hand enthusiastically grabbed a Q-tip and retaliated with brutal force. By the time I was done my hands looked more tragic than ever but I knew it was a sign of greater things to come.

I went to bed that night with throbbing hands. Stronger than my desire to cry from the pain, was my satisfaction. That night I dreamt of the town folk raging up against the wart monster that had plagued them for many moons. Tired of being the victim of his torment they carried flaming torches into the night. They tracked down the wart monster and backed him into a dark alley. The wart monster screamed as they burned him with their torches and then the screams began to fade...the wart monster was dead.

And they all lived happily ever after...

Worry Wart

On weekend nights, when my mom was out on a date, I would sit in the stairwell and cry. I would do it quietly so that my grandma couldn't hear me, and so she wouldn't ask questions. I worried that she would hear me and ask what was wrong and I wouldn't have a good answer. I was born with worry lines already etched into my forehead. I was an incessant worrier and my earliest memories were plagued by worst case scenario thoughts. In addition to my red hair, I also inherited my pension for worrying from my grandmother.

I never knew what set off the bad thoughts. Most likely all the TV I watched made my brain think life had to be drenched in drama for it to be interesting and live able. On this particular night, I was tormented by the Highway to Heaven episode. Michael Landon had come to earth to be there for a little girl whose mom had died in a tragic car accident. Ten minutes before my grandma sent me to bed, my eyes were glued to the televised image of a bloody hand hanging outside of the smashed upside down station wagon. In my adolescent mind Pandora's Box of possibility opened and I couldn't ignore the fact that my mom was out there in the scary world, and even worse, driving. It was then I decided her fate was undoubtedly going to be the same as this drama series actress' fate...enter incessant worrying.

So there I sat in the stairway with dreary images circling my influential mind, my eyes glazing over as I fought off sleep, waiting for the inevitable late night phone call. At least that is how it always happened in the movies. The phone would ring, my mom would be in a coma and my grandma would rush my brother and I in our pajamas to the hospital to muster our last goodbyes. Just when I was about to score the music for my mental drama the key turned in the door and my mom was home! I quickly and quietly scurried up the stairs into my bedroom and drifted off to the kind of deep sleep that only 3 hours of crying could bring.

Out of everyone I worried about, my mom was the starring and recurring role. When I was away from her I would worry it was the last time I would see her. Right after she dropped me off at school I would watch her drive away as I tried to fight away the surge of fear that gripped me. Every day was another attempt to make it through 7 straight hours consumed by thoughts of how I was going to handle being an orphan.

In junior high and high school I passed on a lot of the antics that my friends were wrapped up in. I didn't want to smoke because I was scared it was going to fill my lungs with Cancer on the first inhale leaving my mom with the pain of caring for a dying child. I didn't want to sneak out of the house because if my mom found out she would be plagued with worry and driven to searching for me in the night, which would undoubtedly lead to her getting in a fiery car crash (seriously, that Highway to Heaven episode really stuck with me)!

I was always worried about losing the things I cherished most and my mom was on the highest tier. I couldn't imagine my life without a mom who would break out into "I Feel Pretty" mid-laundry folding with underwear on her head. Life without a mom who threw the coolest Gingerbread House making birthday parties for me. Life without a mom who would make microwaved fluffy butter eggs for me when I was sick. I couldn't imagine it, but I did, every second of every day.

As an adult, I still worry. I have learned how to manage my worrying so it isn't all consuming and I have done my best to try and flex my optimism so that my positivity muscles become stronger than my doom and gloom tendencies. But each day is a battle...I shall not lie.

When I was younger, I would tell my mom that when I grew up I was going to live with her forever. This sentiment was probably less about my wanting to live with her and more about making sure I was ever present so I could attempt to keep anything bad from ever happening to her. While it was a sweet gesture it was only that, I moved out of the house when I was 17.

When people find out that I moved out at such a young age they assume it was because I couldn't wait to get away from my mom. It was, in fact, the exact opposite. My mom is the epidemy of strength and Independence and in that sense I wanted to be just like her. I wanted to be just as strong as she was and the desire to take care of myself and be independent was more important than my irrational fear of being away from her.

I have come to realize that my unrelenting fear and worry over my mom was simply because I couldn't imagine life without her. As an adult, I still can't. About six years ago my mom moved 5 1/2 hours away. Coming from a family that is relatively small and one that always resided 10 minutes away from each other, this was a huge and scary adjustment. It is tough not having her around. Not only is she one of my favorite people, but she is also so much fun to be with. I miss being able to see her all the time and being able to do mom and daughter outings with her. Sometimes I will see mom's and their daughters together shopping or having coffee on a Sunday afternoon and it makes me ache for my mom. I wish she was close enough for me to drive to her house or to make last minute plans with.

Like any mom and daughter, we've had our share of ups and downs but my love and admiration for her is constant. Sure, I poke fun at her...the way she dances, the way she cackles when she laughs, but that is only inspired by sheer awe because with each passing day I become more and more like my mom and that...is a beautiful thing.

Breakfast with Baba

I went to breakfast with my grandpa this morning. We started it off with a Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity at IHop and then went to sit at the beach for a little while so we could enjoy the sunshine.

My Gammie, Mildred Catherine Stevens

The best kind of person to have in your life is someone you have so many memories with it is impossible to recount every one. Ironically, that also makes them the hardest kind of person to lose. Even though my Gammie lived for 90 years and 7 months, I will never feel as if I had enough time to share with her.

We were always very close. My positioning with her was God given, if you will, favoritism attributed mostly to the fact that out of 4 grandchildren, I was the youngest and the only girl. But our connection was more than that. Growing up I always knew no moment was complete until I shared it with her. No news that I had was ever received with more enthusiasm than when I told my Gammie about it. No one thought I was prettier, smarter or more talented than my Gammie did. If I was teased at school - which I was, often - she was the first to tell me that the other kids were just jealous of me. And she said it with such conviction that sometimes I even believed her. When I would visit her, the first 10 minutes were filled with her telling me how pretty I was or how much she loved me. Everyone needs that kind of love in their life.
Without her in our life, my mom, my brother and I would have been lost. Some may think it unfortunate that my mom had to move back in with my grandparents when we were young. But it was an amazing gift and a time I will forever feel fortunate for. Living with my grandparents meant every day after school I came home to a bowl of M&M's, Nickelodeon and my Gammie who was always there to be with Erik and me. It meant that after school when everyone else was being picked up in their mom's mini vans, my brother and I got to be picked up by a black Camero by our Gammie who wore leather pants and dangly earrings. Gammie made my brother and I special and unique. Everyone wanted a grandma like ours. One who favored playing tennis and wearing Poison perfume over their grandmothers who knitted and smelled like old wool.

As I got older and moved out of the house my Grandma's house was where I would return to when I felt like my world was spinning out of control. It was the one place I had on this earth where I felt safe. And like all wonderful grandparents do, my Gammie would make sure when I would visit that I had enough to eat and when I left her house I always left with more than I came with. Whether it be a bag of groceries foraged from her cupboard, coupons, magazines, candy or a few extra dollars to help me out. Gammie was my haven and my soft place to land. After our visit together she would walk me out to my car and as I drove away I could always see her lips moving as she said her ritualistic prayer for me which she was convinced would keep me safe, "Wrap Stacy in white, with Saint Christopher and Saint Jude on her shoulders."

Right about a year before my Gammie began leave the house less and less, she and I would meet for coffee every Friday before I went into work and before she got her weekly haircut. We would spend an hour every Friday sitting and talking. I loved those visits.

Over the past few years my Gammie's sparkle began to fade. She has been in and out of the hospital countless times. Many of which we didn't think she would make it out from. Our visits of lengthy talks and catching up were replaced by her circle of questions, "Are you happy?", "What have been up to?", "What do you do for fun...see any good movies lately?" And those questions would be asked over and over for the entire span of our time together. It broke my heart to let go of her little by little. It broke my heart to see her legs swell with fluid, to hear her constant coughing and wheezing. My Gammie never wanted to be old. She never wanted to be sick and in pain. She was like lightning, strong, fiery and electric. But time had reduced her to less than that and I knew it made her sad. She was trapped in a body that didn't match her spirit. For 90, she looked amazing but for Gammie, she looked sick.

This Christmas, although my Gammie still wore her pretty Chico's outfit and was decked out in all her usual accessories. She had two new accessories that made my heart sick - an oxygen tank and a wheelchair. I knew it wasn't long until she would leave me....until she would leave us. But I just don't know how to let her go.

My Gammie is vibrant and sparkly. She would enter a room of strangers but would leave the room with friends. And I loved her so very much. I know she was hurting, I know she was sick. I know she wanted so badly to let go but no matter what, I am not ready. Even though I feel like I have been trying to prepare myself for years, I am not prepared for this. I am not ready to let her go or to let her fade away. To do that would mean I too fade away because so much of what I am is because of her. She knew how much I loved her, she knew how much she meant to me and I know how much she loved me - which is why letting her go is so hard.

Unprotected Sketch - Family Style

At this past Friday's Unprotected Sketch show at Second City, my mom and Tony flew out special for the occasion! It was awesome that my mom and Tony finally got a chance to see one of my shows. I figured it was best to break them in with some Improv before they saw my stand up, which can be much more nerve racking that sketch. My brother and Julia also joined and so did Jami and Res. Paul was nice enough to come and see the show again. He has probably seen the show more than any audience member ever in attendance. It was a lot of fun and great to have the support of my wonderful family and great friends.

SOCCER FANS!

My brother and I grew up playing soccer. We spent many weekends chowing down on orange slices and drinking capri suns compliments of the weeks soccer mom. My brother has always been a huge sports fan when we were kids. He was always going to baseball games, watching football and playing basketball. In the last couple of years he has become a raging soccer fan. More specifically, a Barcelona fan. I would venture to say that he has more Barca paraphernalia than players who are actually on the Barca team. He recently took his love for the game to a new level and created a very cool website called http://www.barcaloco.com. Be sure to check it out and pass it along~

More Christmas Fun

Paul and Caroline mid flight
Me, Paul, Caroline and Paul's dad on the family boat cruise around Newport Harbor

Caroline, Paul and I at his Paul's Aunt's House.

Christmas Time Is Here

The Christmas Tree in All Its Glory

Jack's eyes don't like the flash either

Charlie guards his new bone

mmm...french toast breakfast, it's even yummier on Christmas

Santa Jack

Paul and his mommy

Charlie guards all his loot

Charlie loves his stocking treats

Another Day Up North

Now the story goes....the buffalo on the wall of this random breakfast place, somewhere between Morgan Hill and Half Moon Bay, actually talks. However when we were watching him he didn't utter a word. I am thinking he was probably worried about dropping his bow.

Bocce Time!

After a great birthday horseback riding we all rallied and went to dinner and to play bocce ball. I was so very tired but since the girls won the game and schooled the guys it was worth staying up.

After dinner and tiramibirthday cake I was still a hungry hippo.

An evening at the winery

After a long day at golf my mom, Tony, Paul and I went to the Clos Le Chance Winery to have some yummy turkey day left overs, drink some wine and listen to jazz...the jazz was a guy with a guitar playing cover songs of Jack Johnson but nonetheless it was a nice way to end the day.