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COLONOSCOPY HILARITY

My New Year’s resolution is to bring more humor into my life and into the lives of others, to try not to worry about things I can’t control (Donald Trump), and to take control of the things that are mine to master (i.e., my ass).  As a 70-year-old celiac disease patient, periodic maintenance is a must and not to be ignored, if I don’t want to be wearing Depend’s diapers any time soon.  Therefore, The Donald goes on the back burner this week while I devote a post to my sorry ass as I march off to the gastroenterologist’s office singing to the tune of “How do you solve a problem like Maria,” from the Sound of Music.

How do you solve a problem like my bottom?

How do you sneak a pizza without pain?

How do you find a cure that gives you bread?

My gut is really-a-bitch! A pain-in-the-ass—a drain…

C O L O N O S C O P Y   D I S C O V E R I E S   T H I S   T I M E   A R O U N D

~~THERE ARE THINGS CALLED COLONOSCOPY FACTORIES~~

This is my fourth colonoscopy.  Given my gastro problems, it probably should have been my tenth, but I really, really hate doctors, so I avoid them as much as possible because they have often been wrong in diagnosing my health issues.  Case in point, it took twelve years to discover that the gastro issues I had been suffering with were all celiac related.  Why?  Because supposedly Black people don’t get celiac disease. Don’t even get me started about how often White doctors misdiagnose African-Americans’ health issues. That’s a blog for another day.  In the meantime I keep looking for a doctor who looks like Denzel Washington, has the intelligence of Stephen Hawking, and the bedside manner of Jesus. 

Well, I’m in a new town now and need a new butt doctor.  I thought I’d go with an Asian woman this time since my last three White male doctors were nothing to write home about.  The last one made me so angry with his rudeness, inability to answer my questions, and lack of kindness (he barely knew my name, never smiled, had a disdainful air bordering on racism, and explained absolutely nothing to my satisfaction). I almost gave him a colonoscopy right then and there in his office with my golf umbrella. 

In my search for a new butt doctor, I have discovered that many colonoscopies are no longer done in hospitals, but most of them are done in doctor-owned and doctor-run assembly-line factories.  In other words, they line patients up by the hour, roto-router their asses in less than 30 minutes each, move them though like an “in and out” burger-type joint, and then send them home with a bill that is about the cost of a Caribbean cruise for two (unless the butt patient is lucky enough to have insurance).  According to some sources, gastroenterologists (on average) earn $380,000 per year. (I was definitely in the wrong profession.)

~~THE INSTRUCTIONS ARE A PERFECTIONIST’S NIGHTMARE~~

My doctor seemed fine enough this time.  She was personable, seemed to know her stuff, and was very respectful.  But it was her butt factory that caught my attention and spawned this post for my blog.  After my consultation with my lovely new doctor, I was handed off to an office manager (not even a nurse—what happened to all the nurses?).   I was given a colonoscopy packet which contained what seemed to be 100 pages of instructions, looked like a dissertation, and I was convinced there was a pass/fail test at the end of it. The problem with me is that I’m a perfectionist and a colonoscopy is like the test of my nightmares—miss one step and you’ll a) shit all over yourself during the prep or b) shit all over the doctor during the procedure. There are so many obstacles that if you trip up on any one of them, you’re toast.  I can’t take that kind of pressure—especially at my age. 

AUTHOR’S DIARY: RECAP OF BUTT FACTORY AND COLONOSCOPY

As I pulled up my chair in front of the office manager’s desk, she began reading me my prep package while highlighting the pertinent aspects with a highlighter—which turned out to be every line in the instruction packet.

“The following instructions are VERY important.  Please read thoroughly and follow instructions as outlined.  If you have any questions, please call our office. NOTE: PLEASE BE AWARE THAT YOUR ARRIVAL/PROCEDURE TIME MAY CHANGE DUE TO REASONS BEYOND OUR CONTROL.”

ME:  Excuse me, excuse me, Nurse, I mean office lady, if I have to wait for my procedure to start, does it mean the doctor has punctured someone’s colon or perforated someone’s bowel and they are outfitting her with a colostomy bag?  

O. MANAGER:  No, it doesn’t mean that.  Where on Earth did you come up with that?

ME:  I googled “what’s the worst thing that can happen when getting a colonoscopy” and almost didn’t show up today after I read the Google answer.

O. MANAGER:  Do a favor for all the doctors in the world—stay away from the Google, Mrs. Tomczyk, when it applies to health matters. 

ME:  Can you guarantee the doctor won’t puncture anything once I’m conked out and she’ll be all up in my ass?

O. MANAGER:  (Sigh) No, I can’t guarantee anything.  I’m just the office manager.  But if it makes you feel better, I had my colonoscopy last month and everything went swimmingly.  I’m sure everything will be fine.

ME:  Can you, Mrs. Office Manager—can you?  No disrespect, but you’re not even a nurse.  No offense—but I TRUST nurses even more than doctors.

O. MANAGER:  Well, I’m not a nurse, but you can trust me.  Let’s move on to the next section, shall we?



“5 DAYS PRIOR TO THE PROCEDURE STOP THE FOLLOWING MEDICATIONS: Aspirin, Ibuprofen, Aleve, blood thinners. 3 DAYS PRIOR TO THE PROCEDURE: Purchase One 238 gram bottle of Miralax, two 32-ounce bottles of Gatorade (NO RED OR ORANGE), four Dulcolax tablets (laxative).  2 DAYS PRIOR TO THE PROCEDURE: Stop salads, fruits (raw, cooked, and canned)

 “ON THE DAY BEFORE THE PROCEDURE, FOLLOW A CLEAR LIQUID DIET ONLY.  You may have black coffee, tea, clear soups, clear fruit juices (NO RED), Crystal Light (NO RED), Jell-O (NO RED), Sprite, Ginger Ale, and Gatorade.  DO NOT EAT SOLID FOOD.  Do not ingest anything by mouth 4 hours prior to your procedure.  This includes water, gum and hard candy.  If you do, we may not be able to perform the procedure.” 

At that point, Office Manager sent me on my way (I think I had gotten on her nerves) with the rest of my instructions highlighted in yellow, and a stern warning to do everything exactly as the instructions said.  I could have sworn I heard her say under her breath, “and for God’s sake, stay away from the Google machine.”)



~~NO TWO COLONOSCOPY PREPS ARE THE SAME~~

I obeyed the Office Manager and followed the colonoscopy instructions down to a T.   I made it through the first day of the two-day prep with flying colors.  I was very hungry, but I got through it without a struggle. There are so many stored fat cells on my body that I could go without food for weeks and still function at full throttle, although I kept moaning to my husband (WW=”White and Wonderful”) about how hungry I was so that he would pamper me.  It worked.

On the day before the procedure the games began.  The last time I had a colonoscopy, the prep took all day, and the prep mixture tasted like cremated dead people ground up into Gatorade.  This prep mixture appeared to be a newer method which required that I exist on clear liquids and Jell-O (no red!) until 4:30 p.m, and then consume the colonoscopy mixture starting in the late afternoon.  (The green Jell-O is a bitch, by the way!  Either they’ve changed the formula from when I was a kid, or I only ate the cherry flavor way back then.) 

At 4:30 p.m. I took 4 Dulcolax tablets (laxative) with a full glass of water, and I felt nothing—not even a tummy rumble.

At 6:30 p.m. I mixed 119 grams of Miralax into a full bottle (32 ounces) of white cherry Gatorade. Still nothing, although the white cherry Gatorade was quite tasty.  I was managing this colonoscopy prep very well, indeed.  My husband kept telling me how proud he was at how my body was handling it all.  (Still nothing but a urine spritz up until that point.)

At 8:30 p.m. I mixed another 119 grams of Miralax into a full bottle of lime Gatorade and went back to the couch to watch TV with WW.  Our favorite pastime is to cuddle while we watch TV.  I snuggle while he rubs my back and makes my life all right with the world.  He kept reminding me to keep chugging my Miralax so that I’d be finished before bedtime, and I kept telling him that he need not worry because I was handling this colonoscopy prep like a boss! At one point, something hilarious happened in the movie we were watching and I laughed.  I felt what I perceived to be a fart emanating from my body due to my spontaneous laugh.  I had forgotten that when one is doing a colonoscopy prep, one should never, ever trust a fart….




My poor husband, my poor couch, my poor throw pillows, my poor rug…  As to my clothes, they have been burned!  No washing machine in the world could salvage those garments.  As to my bathroom toilets and floors—let’s just say, hazmat suits were needed to clean them.  I am spry for being 70 years old, but I don’t move as fast as I used to when I was a lot younger and a long distance runner.  It really showed this time around.  Out of twenty-two bathroom sprints, I barely made two of them.  The rest I just let my ass explode at will.




~~YOUR ASS CAN MAKE YOU A VIDEO STAR~~

My check-in time was 9:00 a.m. the next day.  I had explosive diarrhea until 8:45 a.m. By that time, all that was coming out of my butt was Miralax foam.  I was so worried that I wouldn’t make it to the colonoscopy factory without destroying my husband’s new Lexus (which might have been cause for a divorce—I’m not going to lie) that I literally made a make-shift butt-plug out of tissue paper to try and put a stop to the onslaught.  And then I prayed for God to have mercy on my sorry-ass.

Fortunately, God hears my prayers and everything stopped at exactly 9:00 a.m. (With the old system, all elimination stopped by midnight the day before.  I think the colonoscopy people need to rethink this new plan.  Just sayin’!)  Nothing more came out of my body after I was told to strip off everything except my shoes and slip into a backless hospital gown.  (Shoes—WTF!?)  No one could explain that juxtaposition to me.

Everything from 9:00 a.m. became a blur because everything happened so fast:  An actual nurse gave me a ream of papers to sign which basically said they could kill me, sell my soul to the Devil, and I could not hold them responsible.  One of the pages required my permission for my procedure to be used for teaching purposes which seemed okay, at the time. (WW said, he didn’t see anything wrong with it—young doctors have to learn somehow, right?)   The nurse hooked me up to an IV, the anesthesiologist explained he’d be putting me “under” with the drug “propofol” (the drug that killed Michael Jackson—oh my God!), and the nurse’s assistant explained that my intestines would be pumped full of air and not to worry if I experienced a lot of farts when I woke up after the procedure.  The head nurse showed me the instrument they’d be using:  something that looked like a garden hose with a GoPro camera at the end of it.  Then the anesthesiologist wheeled me in my bed down the hall through a traffic jam of several beds coming to and from operating rooms to something that looked no bigger than a closet. 

My doctor was there looking a little worse for wear.  She had laryngitis, and she looked like she hadn’t slept all night.  Apparently, she’d already performed two procedures before me. I wasn’t feeling confident in her, given her harried appearance.  I really should have fled right then and there; after all, I still had on my shoes, but I was hemmed in by two guard rails and hooked up to a giant oxygen tank. The anesthesiologist announced that the “propofol” he would soon pump through my IV would sting “a little” just as I experienced a burning sensation in my veins so hot that it felt like someone was administering liquid fire through my IV.  I sat straight up in the bed, reached for my IV to snatch it loose from my hand, as I shot the anesthesiologist a look that said:  “If I come out of this alive, your ass is grass, Negro!” At that moment, I heard my doctor say, “Thank you for letting us film this procedure for classroom purposes—I assure you, your face will not appear on camera.”  I screamed (or so I thought I did)—“NOOOOOO, WHAT?  DOES THAT MEAN MY ASS AND MY HOO-HAH WILL BE ALL OVER YOUTUBE?” I collapsed without managing to rip out my IV and awoke 30 minutes later in the recovery room to the sound of a rather large Elephant farting with abandonment while a nurse called my name:  “Wake up, Mrs. Tomczyk—it’s all over!”

THE AUTHOR: POST COLONOSCOPY PROCEDURE

All jokes aside, according to the American Cancer Society:

“Colorectal cancer is the third leading cause of cancer-related deaths in men and women in the United States. It’s expected to cause about 51,020 deaths during 2019. The death rate (the number of deaths per 100,000 people per year) from colorectal cancer has been dropping in both men and women for several decades. There are a number of likely reasons for this. One is that colorectal polyps are now being found more often by screening and removed before they can develop into cancers or are being found earlier when the disease is easier to treat. In addition, treatment for colorectal cancer has improved over the last few decades.”

My doctor found three tiny polyps in my colon.  I am waiting to see if they are pre-cancerous or not.  If you’re 50 years old and over, please get your colon checked out.  It isn’t fun, but it may save your life. At the very least it will give you a story to regale your friends with for years to come.

I  KNOW, I KNOW…I SAID I WOULDN’T POST ANYTHING ABOUT TRUMP, BUT I JUST COULDN’T LEAVE HIM OUT OF THE CONVERSATION WHEN TALKING ABOUT ASSHOLES!

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IF YOU’D LIKE TO READ OTHER STORIES ABOUT MY PREVIOUS COLONOSCOPIES AND “LUCILLE BALL” ESCAPADES IN LIFE, CHECK OUT MY LATEST BOOK THE FETUS CHRONICLES AT AMAZON.

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WANT TO KNOW MORE ABOUT THE AUTHOR?  Check out her website at www.eleanortomczyk.com

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Eleanor Tomczyk and “How the Hell Did I End Up Here?” with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

 
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Posted by on January 10, 2019 in Uncategorized

 

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MOTHER-OF-THE-BRIDE MINDFULNESS

Do you know what I discovered this week?  In a little over a month’s time, I will turn seventy years old.  (Say what?!) I know—how the hell did I end up here?  Friends of long ago are beginning to die off, hip and knee replacements are de rigueur among my set, and most women my age and older would like to strangle the man who discovered Viagra because we all thought “The War Against our Dry Desert Nether Regions” would end in our septuagenarian years (original joke tribute to the great Robin Williams—God rest his soul).  I’m not sayin’ me and my man are there yet; I’m just sayin’ what the 70 plus sistas are confessing to me after a couple glasses of wine.

Anyway, my life is slip-sliding away and what consumes my waking hours?  Donald Trump.  No, that’s not completely true.  What is consuming me is the way certain factors of the Christian church (Evangelical Right-Wing Christians) have gone all in for this devil and placed him at the right hand of God—just a little lower than Jesus Christ as they daily shout: “Trumpee,  Trumpee, you’re our man—if you can’t save us, no one can.”

Evangelical worship Pat Bagley The Salt Lake Tribune UT

Cartoon used by permission: Pat Bagley The Salt Lake-Tribune, UT

They seem willing to excuse any egregious behavior on Trump’s part, assuring that his base will keep him in political power for the long haul rather than call him into accountability.  In the meantime, I keep watch and pray that God will save us—deliver us from this man and his minions.  But it is beginning to dawn on me that, like all the other times the Christian church has been on the wrong side of history (Crusades, pogroms, slavery, Civil War, segregation, Nazism, Apartheid, Jim Crow, Rock-and-Roll, and Elvis Presley), God is on holiday and this is not going to end soon—or well—because Evangelical Right-Wing Christians wouldn’t know the real Jesus if he came back and shared a fish sandwich with them by the River Jordan.

Evangelicals 1 Bob Englehart Middletown CT

Cartoon used by permission: Bob Englehart, Middletown, CT

In the meantime, the chaos caused by our Liar in Chief (2000 false or misleading statement in first 355 days in office according to the Washington Post) consumes my every waking moment.  It does so because I’m addicted to the news.  I claim it is because I need to keep in the “know” in order to write my blog.  In reality, I’m trying to maintain control by looking for the moment my fellow believers “get woke” and do the right thing by abandoning the Trump ship. Unfortunately, this is not a Hollywood movie, so my chances of seeing an immediate and conclusive happy ending is pretty nil, and I’m not getting any younger.

Therefore, I’ve put myself on a news “diet.”  (I know I’ve said this before, but this time I mean it!)  I’ve relegated the news to an hour or so via the TV in the morning to catch the headlines, and then I’m done.  (Have you ever noticed how the news keeps featuring the same headlines all the damn day long while coupling them with the reporters’ conjectures and fears, which causes me such anxiety that it gives me endless heart palpitations?)  If anything happens after my morning download, I’m sure I’ll hear about it eventually because “good news can wait; bad news will refuse to leave.”  I need to do this because my obsession with the sell-out of my faith is causing me too much anxiety and I’m missing the best parts of my life while inching closer to the grave every day.  I keep waiting for God to show up, but the dude really seems to be on vacation in a universe far, far away.

I’m returning to meditation (5 to 10 minutes a day) and I’m turning my heart, soul, and mind to the family event that deserves all my Trump-free attention:  Baby-girl is getting married this summer!  I want to live in every minute of this momentous occasion because who knows how long I get to hold onto my short-term memory as I start the slip-n-slide into the grave (May it not be anytime soon, thank you Jesus, hallelujah, amen).  I already know I’m going to be an emotional wreck at the wedding, so I need to put plans into gear that will help me absorb everything about the occasion.

MOTHER OF THE BRIDE CRYING

Cafepress.com/funny wedding invitations

First and foremost, my mother-of-the-bride dress is being made next month (it was supposed to be constructed in May, but I put it off another month), and I’ve been so focused on the stupidity happening with Trump and my sell-out fellow Christians that I’ve fallen well behind my weight-loss goals.  So I added kettle bell weight lifting (a form of torture invented by the Russians in 1704) right after my daily meditation to hasten my slenderizing quest.  I just started the kettle bells and I will not tell a lie:  it is not going well.  At each session, I start out with the best intentions but half-way through I lose interest or energy, and I don’t know why.  Wanting to live in the moment and keep it 100%, I decided to record my sessions so that I could analyze them and course-correct myself.  I exercise along with a DVD that is headlined by a seven-foot Nordic blond bimbo who doesn’t have a fat cell in her DNA, but I keep telling myself if I just keep on keeping on, I’ll look like her in time enough for the wedding this summer.  I refuse to be a fat mother-of-the bride. Below is a transcript of what I recorded—maybe you can figure out where I’m going wrong.

BIMBO:  Let’s get started with some basic warm ups. Suck in that core; tuck in that butt, and let’s get this party started!

ME:  Bimbo-lady, I am ready to do this thing.  I relegated Morning Joe to one hour—tops.  I’ve meditated on all my blessings for ten minutes, and I’m going to call Baby-girl later today to find out how her wedding dress fitting went so we can savor that moment together.

BIMBO:  Alrighty then…Lift up your smaller kettle bell and swing.  Squeeze that booty.  Lift those knees!  PUSH IT!  Count of sixteen, then eight, then four.  Now repeat!

ME:  Ah, excuse me…Bimbo lady, I hear a “ping” on my cell phone.  Could be my grandson.  Maybe it’s an emergency.  Let me put you on pause for a moment.  I’ll get right back to you ASAP—I promise.  What’s this?  It’s not my grandson…it’s a news alert:  EVANGELICALS STUBBORNLY CLINGING TO SUPPORT OF TRUMP WHILE WALKING A TIGHT ROPE OVER THE FLAMES OF HELL.

Evangelicals John Cole PoliticalCartoons com

Cartoon used by permission: John Cole, PoliticalCartoons.com

ME:  Sorry, Bimbo-lady, it won’t happen again.  I’ll try to concentrate.  I really did think it was an emergency message from my darling boy.

BIMBO:  Let’s pick up our heavier weight and start to swing between our legs and up over our heads.  This should feel really good right now, so let’s go for broke.  JUMPT IT! MOVE IT! GET THAT BODY MOVING!!

ME:  (God, this feels like torture.  Help me, Jesus!)

BIMBO:  Don’t give up on me now.  Up and down—down and up. The lower you go, the more muscle you’re building, and the more calories you’re burning.  Swing from the hips.  How low can you go?  Squat that butt—squeeze those glutes.  MOVE THOSE HIPS, PEOPLE!

ME:  [Gasping for air] Wait a minute, Bimbo lady.  I heard another “ping” on my phone.  This could be one of my kids needing my sage advice.  Let me put you on hold.  Oh, noooo!  It’s another news flash:  KANYE WEST OPENLY DECLARES HIS LUST FOR DONALD TRUMP—SAYS TRUMP IS WORTH LOSING HIS SOUL TO DO SO.  UPDATE TO FOLLOW AS WE GATHER MORE DETAILS OF A BLACK MAN GOING ROGUE.

Kanye West Rick McKee The Augusta Chronicle GA

Cartoon used by permission:  Rick McKee, The Augusta Chronicle, GA

ME:  Sorry, Bimbo-lady.  It won’t happen again.

BIMBO:  Are you slouching those shoulders?  How low can you go?  Don’t quit on me now.  4 more, 3 more, 2 more, 1 more…This feels soooo good, doesn’t it?  LET’S GO AGAIN!  I COULD DO THIS ALLLLLLL DAY!

ME:  Shit! Uh, maybe I’ll see you tomorrow Bimbo-lady.  I just got a Charlie-horse in my ass from the last squat. I think I’ll crawl over into a corner and meditate some more or maybe grab a snack if I can ever walk again.

Living in the Moment FB

Courtesy of the FB page of Melanie Mayo-Laakso

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ELEANOR’S SELAH (“AHA”) MOMENT

I am discovering that I need to turn off the news notifications on my phone as well as the TV because just when I think I’ve gotten out of the news madness and calmed my mind, those phone “pings” suck me right back in.  We are in our current national madness for the long-haul with all of its chaos, lies, and delusional Christian sycophants.  I fear that there are no easy solutions, no instant answers, and no quick comebacks.  This is a war that will leave our country damaged for a very, very long time, and me constantly, maniacally obsessing over that fact isn’t going to heal us any sooner or make it go away any faster.  I’m finally waking up to that fact.  In the meantime, how then shall I live:  purposefully, with deep gratitude for all the goodness that I do have in the moment—savoring that time before it too will be snatched away by death.  Just because I’m living in the moment though, I while never cease to fight the good fight.  The issue is knowing when, where, and how to fight that war, because there is a time and a season for everything, and the current season for me is to relish in the preparation and celebration of joining my family with another incredible family through the sacrament of marriage.

“There is a time for everything,

and a season for every activity under the heavens:

a time to be born and a time to die,

a time to plant and a time to uproot,

a time to kill and a time to heal,

a time to tear down and a time to build,

a time to weep and a time to laugh,

a time to mourn and a time to dance…

ECCLESIASTES 3:1-4

TRUMP AND THE WORLD’S MADNESS CAN WAIT BECAUSE NOW IS THE “TIME” FOR A WEDDING IN THE TOMCZYK HOUSEHOLD.

Wedding is coming meme

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INSPIRATIONAL QUOTES ON MINDFULNESS

“The best way to capture moments is to pay attention. This is how we cultivate mindfulness.”Jon Kabat-Zinn

“The present moment is the only time over which we have dominion.”Thích Nhất Hạnh

“Mindfulness isn’t difficult, we just need to remember to do it.” Sharon Salzberg

 “The way to live in the present is to remember that ‘This too shall pass.’ When you experience joy, remembering that ‘This too shall pass’ helps you savor the here and now. When you experience pain and sorrow, remembering that ‘This too shall pass’ reminds you that grief, like joy, is only temporary.”

– Joey Green

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THE AUTHOR’S LATEST BOOK:  “The Fetus Chronicles:  Podcasts From my Miseducated Self” is on sale now at Amazon!

WANT TO KNOW MORE ABOUT THE AUTHOR?  Check out her website at www.eleanortomczyk.com

 WANT TO HEAR THE AUTHOR’S LATEST INTERVIEW?  Check out the podcast interview with Leo Brown: http://breadboxmedia.podbean.com/e/what-if-it-is-true-can-you-find-faith-in-darkness/

REFERENCES

https://www.npr.org/sections/health-shots/2018/01/04/575167967/meditation-for-fidgety-skeptics-offers-practical-advice-for-stressed-out-cynics

https://www.brookings.edu/blog/fixgov/2018/04/13/trumps-lies-corrode-democracy/

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Eleanor Tomczyk and “How the Hell Did I End Up Here?” with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

 
6 Comments

Posted by on April 29, 2018 in Uncategorized

 

Tags: , , ,

JESUS, COME BACK!

Do you know what I discovered this week?  Easter and April Fool’s Day fall on the same date this year.  What could possibly go wrong that hasn’t already gone wrong in these here United States?

Easter and April Fools John Darkow Inside Columbia

Cartoon used by permission: John Darkow, Inside, Columbia

I’m actually going to go to church on Easter.  I know!  Can you believe it?  Haven’t been in years.  I left my religion some time ago (actually, my religion left me!), and, although I never plan to permanently return to a religious corporate structure again, our messed up world—especially our messed up country—has me in need of communion and a corporate hug from God.

I need to confess that I’ve never understood why Jesus didn’t set the world straight the first time he came around.  If he wanted us to live a certain way—love thy neighbor and all that—why didn’t he just make it so? Isn’t he all powerful?  Hadn’t the world committed enough wars, mayhem, and terror BC to give him a gist of the character of mankind that would inhabit the world in AD?  We didn’t get any better once he left, we just got more efficient at torturing and killing each other.  Shouldn’t he have known that, being God and all?

Jesus Come Back Bob Englehart Middletown CT

Cartoon used by permission: Bob Englehart, Middletown, CT

I don’t even know why I expect to be consoled by going to church on Easter because one of the reasons we have the President that we do and we’re in the mess that we are in is because Conservative Evangelical Christians sold their souls to the Devil in exchange for 30 coins of silver.

Easter Bunny: March 29, 2018

Cartoon used by permission: Adam Zyglis, The Buffalo News, NY

But I’ll remedy that and go to a Black Baptist church.  Not that they’ve got a corner on the righteousness market, but at least I won’t have to put up with any racism which I seemed to have run into head-long in my community recently while accidentally encountering a bunch of Born-Again/Fox News loving, Trump Luddites masquerading as a “history” club, who feel that it is okay to have their own “alternative facts” with an agenda to mold the world into their racist image (Hillary was right: some of them really are quite deplorable when you get up close and personal).  Besides, I’m keeping count, and the White Evangelical pastors who support Trump (laid hands on him and prayed for God’s anointing) far outnumber the Black Evangelicals 20 to 1.  I’m also keeping count of the White Evangelical preachers who are biting the dust for grabbing women by the “you know what” (it’s Holy week so I need to keep this clean) and they are dropping like flies (must read article referenced below*).  Unlike Trump, they don’t seem to be able to get away with their sexual sins as easily as he can.

Trump Knows Easter Bunny Rick McKee The Augusta Chronicle GA

Cartoon used by permission: Rick McKee, The Augusta Chronicle, GA

I think the straw that broke the camel’s back was when the likes of Laura Ingraham and the NRA smeared the Parkland School shooting survivors with lies about their character and mocked them on Twitter.  I was so angry that if I owned a gun I would have seriously considered using it against those Neanderthals.  Fortunately, I don’t own a gun for just that reason:  crazy mad can happen to the most mild-mannered person if rubbed the wrong way.

Anyway, I don’t like the state of my heart.  It has grown dark with fear, anger, and resentment.  (My mother always said, “Don’t wrestle with pigs; you’ll get dirty, but the pigs will love it!”)  So I’m getting up out of the slop and dragging my sorry-ass to church before it is too late for my soul.

run-bitch meme

Courtesy of askideas.com

Who knows:  maybe Jesus will show up and stay for good this time.

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ELEANOR’S SELAH (“AHA” MOMENT) ABOUT RESURRECTION

I am discovering that there is no belief in a resurrection without wrestling with doubt.  Is Jesus real or isn’t he?  Did he die as some cosmic sacrificial lamb or didn’t he?  And on the third day, when the tomb door was rolled away, was he there or wasn’t he?  If he can do that, then why doesn’t he save us from ourselves?

And then I remember that he has.

Resurrection means hope and new beginnings, and like spring, when one is in the midst of winter, it is difficult to imagine that spring, hope, and new life will ever conquer the seemingly permanent deadliness of winter.  But I believe in the resurrection of Christ (help thou, my unbelief, oh God when I fail to believe), because it is my only hope for our poor sweet world and my sanity.

HAPPY EASTER AND HAPPY PESACH EVERYONE!

OUR WORLD SURE NEEDS THE GRACE OF BOTH.

Broken World Dave Granlund Minnesota

Cartoon used by permission: Dave Granlund, Minnesota

INSPIRATIONAL QUOTES ABOUT EASTER RESURRECTION

“The Resurrection miracle is nothing to you and me if it is only an event of eighteen centuries bygone. Unless we can live the immortal life – unless we can receive God to his own home in these hearts of ours – the texts are nothing to us unless these daily lives illustrate them.”—Edward Everett Hale

“It seems as if, for every dragon head that is lopped off, two more terrible appear. Seems so. But in truth, Life is gaining all the while. Brute force, such power as there seems to be in things, cannot stand against ideas which are eternal.”—Edward Everett Hale

All quotes courtesy of http://www.brainyquotes.com

I AM Dave Granlund Minnesota

Cartoon used by permission: Dave Granlund, Minnesota

HE IS RISEN!  HE IS RISEN INDEED!

***

THE AUTHOR’S LATEST BOOK:  “The Fetus Chronicles:  Podcasts From my Miseducated Self” is on sale now at Amazon!

WANT TO KNOW MORE ABOUT THE AUTHOR?  Check out her website at www.eleanortomczyk.com

 WANT TO HEAR THE AUTHOR’S LATEST INTERVIEW?  Check out the podcast interview with Leo Brown: http://breadboxmedia.podbean.com/e/what-if-it-is-true-can-you-find-faith-in-darkness/

 REFERENCES

https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/christians-offer-trump-cheap-grace/2018/03/27/9e7f5034-31c9-11e8-8bdd-cdb33a5eef83_story.html?utm_term=.4e89b81ca6a3

https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/the-fix/wp/2018/03/27/more-white-evangelicals-believe-stormy-daniels-and-that-could-have-some-long-term-implications/?utm_term=.69ee97c45fda

https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/morning-mix/wp/2018/03/29/laura-ingraham-savaged-for-taunting-parkland-activist-over-college-rejections/?utm_term=.e8fbcb09421b

http://www.msn.com/en-us/news/us/kirbyjon-caldwell-famed-houston-megachurch-pastor-sold-millions-in-worthless-bonds-feds-charge/ar-AAvhlsf?li=BBnb7Kz&ocid=UE13DHP

*https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/acts-of-faith/wp/2018/03/30/in-an-age-of-trump-and-stormy-daniels-evangelical-leaders-face-sex-scandals-of-their-own/?utm_term=.9ddc4fa87a96 *

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Eleanor Tomczyk and “How the Hell Did I End Up Here?” with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

 
7 Comments

Posted by on March 30, 2018 in Uncategorized

 

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PLEASE BLOW SMOKE UP MY KEISTER

Do you know what I discovered?  Trump taught me something recently.  (I know!  Aren’t you amazed!)  He taught me how a person can get people to blow smoke up his or her behind, and it can sometimes be a good thing.  I’m sure you all saw it or read about it.  He called his first cabinet meeting and after touting his royal greatness, he had his cabinet sound off one-by-one about what a fabulous job he’s been doing and what an incredible leader he is.

Trump Cabinet Steve Sack The Minneapolis Star Tribune

Cartoon used by permission: Steve Sack, The Minneapolis Star-Tribune

BINGO, I thought.  This is sheer genius!  Trumpee has taught me something I can use.  Why don’t I apply this methodology to getting reviews for my new book, I thought?  You see, I just learned from my publicist that if I can get 50 reviews from people who have read my new book, The Fetus Chronicles: Podcasts from my Miseducated Self, Amazon will list my book in its newsletters and other promotions.  Isn’t that cool?

BMProof-FetusChronicles

“The Fetus Chronicles” Book Mark Proof: Su from Earthly Charms

 

I bet you’re saying to yourself, “I’d love to write a review for you Eleanor, but if the truth be known, the thought of typing something into Amazon cares me to death.  How do I go about it, and what if I get tongue tied, or in this case, finger tied?”  Don’t be afraid.  It is quite simple.  You don’t have to be Hemingway; you can say as little as, “I liked this book,” and all you have to do is follow these very simple instructions:

How to Write a Review

In the meantime, while you are thinking about how to “blow smoke up my ass” on Amazon (if you hate my book, remember that my name is “Smeegle Klondonovich”), please enjoy a redo of my first published writing that started it all.  I got beaten by the writing bug, so to speak, after I wrote this.  This story will hopefully remind you what a “brilliant, talented, outstanding, deeply profound writer I am”—don’t you agree?

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WILL HIGH SCHOOL EVER END?

(Repurposed post from 2013)

Why is it in real life, as in high school, we exert so much energy trying to impress people we don’t know, won’t ever see again after our season of random internment, and who have no financial or emotional investment in our future?

I have beautiful, White girlfriends who won’t go to a swimming pool while on vacation because they don’t have the figures they had in college anymore, and the strangers across the pool from them, who they don’t know and couldn’t care a rat’s ass about, might become scornful of their cellulite or less than perky boobs. When in reality, they should be embracing Joy Behar’s classic observation of things that shouldn’t matter one iota:  “So what – who cares?”

All my baby boomer girlfriends have better bodies than I, but even though I’m at least 50 pounds heavier (when I’m telling the truth), I have a black woman’s sensibility about this issue: accent the positive, suck in the negative, and skirt the thunderous. Then bedazzle the shit out of your goddess self with a rhinestone cover-up and rhinestone flip-flops, and “drop it like it’s hot, baby”!

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Author Doing Her Bedazzled Thing: Photo Credit–J. Tomczyk

Not too long ago, my husband and I took an extended cruise in the Mediterranean.  It was the trip of a lifetime. Everything was better than we had fantasized: the weather was picture perfect, the people were warm and accepting, the 3,000 passenger ship was outstanding, the food was superb, and we were like newlyweds reveling in each other’s company. The only thing that seemed to cause just a tiny bit of consternation was the very aggressive touring itinerary (4 days of excursions, 1 day at sea, 3 days of excursion, 1 day at sea, 2 days of excursion, 1 day at sea) that we had been given. But I wasn’t overly concerned because even though I’m a “fat-bottom girl,” it doesn’t mean I’m not in good health. I’m a daily exerciser and had trained for this trip for 8 months.  I added strenuous hills to my daily, treadmill workout, climbed the stairs at work in the afternoons, and special ordered shoes a triathlon athlete would use.

What I didn’t expect and what my research never revealed was that all of our 10 touring sites were perched on the top of ancient hills or mountains with steep inclines to protect the antiquity inhabitants from marauders.  Most accesses were like scaling a wall.

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Port of Malta: Photo Credit–E. Tomczyk

Every evening we were given an overview of the activities for the next day.  In between the instructions for the cake decorating class and the marzipan demonstrations was listed the information the cruise director felt we needed in order to survive our shore excursions.

Ship Brochure: It takes 600 steps to reach the top of your fabulous destination.  There is a cable car if you prefer or you can employ a donkey to transport you up and down the ancient stone stairs.  Wear comfortable shoes. Cost: $100 – $400/person. The ship departs at 5:30 – if you miss the departure, you will have to make your own way to the next port to meet the ship.

Translation: The 600 steps are straight up the face of a mountain; the cable car often has a two-hour wait, and you will miss your ship utilizing that mode of transportation. The stairs are shared by donkeys that slip constantly on the descent and leave slippery “pooh” all over the staircase from Hell. No manner of footwear is capable of keeping you upright once you lose your footing going down – you might as well kiss your sorry ass goodbye. Before you leave this beautiful island, the tour guide will make sure she dumps you in the shopping area that has only one way in and out to the stairs or the unreliable, overly-crowded cable car system. The shopkeepers will try to help you by relieving you of as many Benjamins as possible to lighten the load of your descent. Trying to balance yourself on a donkey while your hands are stuffed with chotzkies however will be proof-positive that you have lost your ever-loving mind – once and for all. Good luck, silly over-weight Americans!

DAY THREE TOUR:  On day three, my husband (the Energizer Bunny), a gay couple (the extremely handsome, not-one-ounce-of-fat-on-their-bones Neil Patrick Harris and his partner David Burtka look-alikes), a lesbian couple (50’ish with similar body frames as mine whose bodies had each born children in their former lives), an octogenarian grandmother from Iowa sporting a recent double-knee replacement, and an old dude of an age somewhere between 90 and Methuselah began our shore excursion.

Because I temporarily lost consciousness, I can’t remember at what point I lost my mind and reverted back to high school.  I do remember approaching a sky-high escalator in a museum with hundreds of other people in sweltering heat and watching the escalator break down right before my group got on.  Because there was a wall of people behind us, we were forced to go forward and mount a circular ramp that seemed like twenty flights of stairs that shot straight up to the heavens. The lesbian mothers, the grandmother from Iowa, the Methuselah dude, and I stared at each other in total horror! Hadn’t we just climbed 300 steps the day before and 200 steps the day before that, as well as an unexpected 100 steps in a museum that wasn’t listed?  Didn’t the brochure assure us there would be no more steps to climb on this tour? I could have sworn someone said we’d catch a break today.

Carnival Dave Granlund Politicalcartoons com

Cartoon used by permission: Dave Granlund, Politicalcartoons.com

All I know is that my husband, who has the ability to walk faster than most people can run, took off up the ramp to find the tour guide who was nowhere to be seen.  As the rest of our group began to ascend the inevitable, the gay boys began telling us about a rather large, fat-bottomed woman (whose ass was the size of Cleveland) who couldn’t make it up the last ramp in the previous city, and they just couldn’t understand why people didn’t read the ship instructions about the strenuous nature of the excursions.

(Had they seen my ass, I wondered?  Was this a veiled hint about moi?)

“I mean, really now, why can’t these people ‘just say no’ if they’re too fat to complete the course without looking like they’re going to die,” said our Neil Patrick Harris look-alike cruise mate. “Personally, I feel like making an announcement tonight at dinner over the PA system.  ‘Really people – know your limitations; because you need to cut the rest of us some freakin’ slack!  We’re having heart attacks here just wondering if you’re gonna have a heart attack right in front of us’”!

The lesbian couple, the grandmother, the tremulous old man, and I gingerly laughed along with the boys, but we silently heard the “Rocky theme song” roaring in our ears (or was it the blood rushing to our heads before the onset of major strokes as we secretly wondered if they were ridiculing us?).  We took off up the incline like thoroughbreds at the Kentucky Derby trying to match the gait of the Adonis boys, leaning almost at a 45 degree angle to balance our bodies on the slope. As I passed the old man at my road-runner pace, his eyes widened in terror as his lips mouthed, “What the fuck?” but my team and I had to leave him in the dust.  Keeping up with the Adonis-looking critics was all that mattered, even if it meant moving at the speed of light and losing a soldier along the way.  These bodies had born children and nursed babies, goddamnit! The fat on our asses, our low-hanging breasts, and puff-n-stuff stomachs were badges of honor.  Maybe the gay boys had children, but they sure as hell hadn’t “had” children!

The octogenarian dropped out about two-thirds of the way (clutching her side) and gasping for air. My lesbian sisters and I made it to the top without dying, but I had a Charlie-horse in my ass that wouldn’t quit. As the girls and I high-fived each other (sisters, hangin’ tough!), I could see (being the chubbiest in the bunch) that I had impressed the boys. What they didn’t know was that I couldn’t say more than two words without gasping for air or I would keel over and die.  I didn’t dare speak without great measure.  I knew if I tried to articulate more than one five-word sentence without pausing, I’d be the gay boys’ prophecy come true: one fat-bottom woman careening into their perfectly fit, athletic bodies and knocking them back down the slope like a giant chocolate snowball from on high.  So I took out my Blackberry (remember those?), nonchalantly leaned against the museum wall, and pretended to check messages as if I were some high-muckety-muck at a Fortune 500 company and the business couldn’t live without me.

Uphills Meme

Runner Meme: Courtesy of @ Cook in Canuck

“Some hike, huh?” said one of the gorgeous boys.

 “Uh, huh. . . .” I whispered, while trying not to lose consciousness as my heart almost exploded in my chest from over-exertion.

“Great ship, isn’t it? said the other Adonis boy. “What’s on your agenda tomorrow?  We’re going rock climbing.  Isn’t that exciting?!”

 “G-r-e-a-t!” (tap) “Me doing” (tap) “pool” (tap) “water volley-ball tournament” (tap) “against a bunch of twenty-somethings” (tap)—”gonna make them eat my” (tap) “dust.”

“Excellent!  You go, girl with your bad self!”

Clearly, I had impressed the boys.

The next day found the quivering old man with both hands glued to a walker while arduously climbing into the hot tub (he was still there at dinner time with a smile on his face).  The lesbian couple, the grandmother, and I met up at the spa first, and then we subsequently waddled to our separate “quiet” corners around the adult pool (cellulite, thunderous thighs, and saggy tits on full display).  We spent the afternoon sipping rum punches and napping the day away in rockin’ bathing suits while our mental health applauded our goal-setting activity of just being ourselves and being proud of the hard-earned battles won by giving and sustaining life with our amazing bodies.

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ELEANOR’S SELAH (“AHA”) MOMENT

I’ve discovered that if my girlfriends (old and new) and I ever want to shake the specter of high school, we need to finally travel at the beat of our own drummers in our old age, because it’s the condition in which we arrive at the final destination, not the opinions of others, that really matters.  Joy Behar really is an oracle whose mantra we should adopt when the high school spirit tries to tear us down and make us forget the amazing women that we have become in our mature years: So what – who cares!

Write a Review FB

Writer’s Meme: Courtesy of LianaBrooks.com

WANT TO KNOW MORE ABOUT THE AUTHOR?  Check out her website at www.eleanortomczyk.com

HAVEN’T YET READ ANY OF THE AUTHOR’S DISCOVERY SERIES?  CHECK OUT HER AUTHOR’S PAGE ON AMAZON!

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Eleanor Tomczyk and “How the Hell Did I End Up Here?” with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

 
2 Comments

Posted by on June 20, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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