Raising Magnolias

Because it's never too late for happily ever after…

Archive for the month “August, 2017”

Bouncing Balls


Here’s the deal. Full disclosure.

I have ICS. (Inappropriate crying syndrome).

I also have ILS. (Inappropriate laughter syndrome).

And occasionally, though not often, I have IFOS. (Illogical freak-out syndrome).

My doctor explains it by saying that the balls that bounce around in my head don’t bounce high enough. Or fast enough. Or maybe they’ve been left in a car in the winter in Nebraska. According to Coulter if this happens to your balls, they will for sure deflate and never be the same again. Not that we’ve ever left balls in the car or shoes or food or bras or —


I take a tiny little pink pill with a very low dosage of the good stuff to combat ICS, ILS and worst of all, IFOS. And it works. It works so well that you decide you no longer need it.

This is much like a diabetic deciding one morning to stop taking insulin. Or someone with high blood pressure deciding he doesn’t like the way the blood pressure medicine makes him feel so one morning he just stops taking it. As if his blood pressure is all of a sudden, normal.

This is a random example, obviously.

So here’s a day in the life of a 40-some mom whose balls don’t bounce just right who one day decided she didn’t need her bouncy-ball-insulin. Or more like 10 days.

Day 1. I feel fine. I tell Mike that I’m going off my bouncy-ball-insulin and if I threaten to divorce him I don’t really mean it.

Day 2. I feel fine. There is no mention of divorce and only one mild episode of IFOS.

Day 3. I decide to send a chapter of my book to my mom to see if it is offensive. I quote Anne Lammot using the f-word, although I don’t say the f-word, I say, ya know, the word. Also have a tiny joke about liking vodka. Two things. 1. I should not have sent just one chapter out of context to my Mother. 2. I should’ve read the chapter during a family meeting with a therapist on-hand. 3. Yes, I know I only said two things. But the third thing is this, I wrote that chapter months ago. The sending of a hard chapter with no notice and no softening and no family meeting with a therapist only happened because of my balls. Ya know, not bouncing.

Later on Day 3. Mike and I are in-charge of the church potluck (dinner on the grounds!). And by in-charge, I mean we were supposed to put food out and then put food away. A lady hands me a box with a casserole dish wrapped in a towel. I take it out. She says she doesn’t want it out. I burst into tears and have to go home.

Literally. I went home. We left the kids in the sanctuary and went home.

Later, later Day 3. I go to bed.

Day 5. Training an in-home client I notice a small house for sale on the lake. It’s darling. It’s on a lake. I must buy this house. I call the realtor. It’s a neighborhood that would not come remotely close to our budget. I’m talking the number before the zeros would totally be the wrong number and yet I call again. And again. I say to Mike, I want to move to the lake. We need to go look at the house. I start looking for boats on pinterest.

Later Day 5. Coulter is confronted by a police officer at Greg’s house. Evidently he is (was) a suspect in a theft. Coulter. Right. The same kid who won’t let me enter through the exit door at Walmart has now started stealing credit cards. Coulter. The same kid who won’t let me use the bus lane for a 6:45 a.m. school drop-off  when there are no buses to be found because, and I quote, “it isn’t worth the risk”. Of course me not taking my insulin has nothing to do with Coulter being at the wrong place at the wrong time, but you can imagine how well I dealt with this.

Day 6. I tell my mother that no-one believes in me. Nobody thinks I can write a book. Nobody thinks I can run a business. Nobody thinks I can raise my children. I am done with this life.

Day 6. I text my friend, Come Lord Jesus. Like today. Let’s just do this thing already. And please take me with you the first time. I do not have a whole 7 year tribulation in me. I’m done. I am tired of being a grow-up.

Day 7. I have a terrible headache. Crazy-gross headache. I work all morning. From 1pm-4pm, that’s 3 hours if you needed help with that, I sit in the salon chair trying to become blonde. My head hurts so badly I think I will die on the spot. My talented colorist keeps coming over and peeking at my hair, then she makes a weird sound, squints her eyes and says confidently, “let’s just give it another 5 minutes.”

Ya know, how bout another 5 minutes.

Well, let’s just blow it out and see.

I think I’ll curl it just a touch and let’s see if that helps.

Well, I tell you what, stop by tomorrow and we’ll look then. The lighting isn’t great in here.

Maybe I’m not really a blond? Well then seriously, come Lord Jesus.

I have wrinkles and fine lines and my sister who’s almost 50 looks younger than I do and my mother who’s 70 has nicer skin than I do and I’m a grandmother with an 8 year-old (who is home alone throwing up after my friend’s husband picked her up from school because I couldn’t very well leave the salon with foil in my hair) and my biz partner with Rodan and Fields has like 4200 people on her team and I started the same year and have like 1. Well not, “like” 1. I actually have one.

My sister.

I am a failure. At everything. To everyone. This is how I feel.

I work all afternoon.

Later later, day 7. I think, I’ve actually lost track of time.

I’ve taken 4 children’s advil. My head still hurts.

I work until 7:15. My husband’s youngest son from his second marriage has a football scrimmage from which I’m picking him up and so I throw on my Bergan shirt and I stare into the sun and look at little people throw balls. I have no idea which one is my husband’s youngest son from his second marriage because I am blinded my the sun and my mind wanders to the solar eclipse. The scrimmage takes forever. Afterwards I see the players scatter and come find their moms.

My charge is no where to be found. I ask friends, I ask moms and walk through this dark tunnel where boys are eating hotdogs and I walk awkwardly close trying to see if I know any of them and I want to cry. God in heaven, how I want to cry but I don’t cry and I continue to look. It’s now almost 9 o’clock. If I ever make it home I will  never leave again. I’m never coming to another football game or basketball game and I just need to find my house. And advil.

I call Mike. IFO. Although this was not really irrational. I was mad. And scared. And starting to panic a little.

My husband’s youngest son from his second marriage beeps in. He had gone home with his mother.

I call Mike again. TJFOS (Totally Justified Freak Out Session).

Later Later Later Day 7. We talk about the difference between being respectful and being selfish. We talk about what it’s like to make a commitment and what it’s like to be scared and confused and embarrassed. We ask for the computer password.

Good times. Where’s the advil?

Day 6, 7, and 8. Mike has no idea how hard I am pursing the purchase of a new house. The realtor has not called me back. It’s as if my phone number or the sound of my voice has given him reason to believe I can’t afford this house. I can’t. But he doesn’t know that. And I’m highly offended that he’s assuming it.

My mother says that we are not to be highly offended.

Day 8. I tell my clients we are moving to the lake. One client has been in this particular house and since it’ll be a fixer-upper, she casually mentions that it’ll be great just as long as I don’t have a need to fix everything at once.

Hmmm. About that. I do love a good DYI project.

Wait. I mean DIY.

My friend, Misti looks at me and says, I’ve got one word for you. “Suburban.”

Come to think of it, I think I had tried to quit my insulin when I bought my suburban as well. You remember my suburban, yes? It’s so pretty and pristine and even though it’s 10 years old, you’d look at it and think it was brand new. A gentleman walking by the other day said, I love that color. It’s a beautiful truck. I replied, “Have you ever looked at a woman and just thought she is absolutely beautiful, what a gorgeous woman and then you got to know her? And she turns out to be a complete bitch? Yes, well, that’s my suburban.”

Did I just talk to a strange man about beautiful women and cars and b-words?

Later day 8. The realtor finally answers. The closing was that day. That day. The day that I was going to buy the house. It had sold. Closed.

Whatever, thank you Jesus.

Later, later, later day 8. I call my doctor. Bouncy-ball insulin, please.

I’ve never considered for a moment that I suffer from depression. I don’t. It’s different But my brain is a like a chemistry project that just didn’t quite work. Like maybe they were supposed to add H20 and instead added CO2. Which just happen to be the only symbols I can remember. My mother did not think I needed chemistry for college and so I didn’t take it. Looking back, I’m pretty sure it’s because she didn’t think I could pass it. 🙂

Mothers do know best.

I don’t like take medicine. But like Coulter, I prefer balls that haven’t been left out in the cold. I prefer my balls to bounce.

Pretty sure my family prefers it as well.

Now, just between us, if anyone hears of a house on the lake for sale will you please let me know.




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