Lisa Gerardy's Blog, page 3

When Norovirus Turns Your Life into a Helen Mirren Drama

Let me set the stage: It’s a peaceful morning. The birds are chirping, the coffee grinder is sounding like a plane taking off, and I’m feeling great as I am a morning person. That is, until my husband emerges from the bathroom looking like he’s just escaped a Victorian sanatorium. Before I can offer to call ye olde doctor, he runs back into the bathroom. I won’t share the sounds I heard coming from the bathroom, but most of you have seen Oppenheimer, so you are probably familiar with explosive s...

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Lisa’s memoir, Chasing Normal: Finding Love after Surviving Physical and Emotional Abuse is for sale on Amazon, Barnes and Noble. Signed copies are available on Chasing Normal Media.

The MOST Depressing Time of the Year

As soon as the automatic doors open, I come face to face with a life size plastic Santa. I see him even before I see the CVS clerk, who greets me to let me know she is there, in case I was thinking of shoplifting. At least, that is why I assume they greet people as they walk in. Santa gives me a frozen look of judgment, his resting bitch face matching mine. I sigh and move past Santa and his faux fireplace and begin heading towards the pharmacy, which is my reason for shopping today. I’m here to...

You Never Know What You’re Gonna Step In!

I’m glad I always look down when I walk. It’s not because I’m depressed or super short, both are also true. It’s because I have three huge dogs, and in a warped Forrest Gump kind of way, in our house, you never know what you’re gonna step in.

When I first exited the bedroom this morning with the pack, I saw the half dried pee. That made sense, or tracked, as the kids say, because we were attempting to keep Dulce out of our bedroom last night. She barked repeatedly, with the barks getting closer t...

My Mother at 80

Today is my mother’s 80th birthday.  Yes, I said IS, not would have been as people often say when someone is dead but they are remembering a birthday. It’s still my mom’s birthday even though she has been dead since January of 2019.

It’s still 10/4! It’s her day. Ten-four is something truckers say over CB radios, and maybe other people say it over CB radios. I’m not well versed in CB radio culture and standard operating procedures. I do know that my step-dad used to say that my mom “talked li...

Chasing Normal Memoir presale

Hey you guys! It’s official! My E-book is available for PREORDER on Amazon. Order now and receive your copy on November 15.

What is is about, you ask?

One in four women and one in six men were sexually abused before age eighteen. Lisa was two. She was raised by a single, stressed-out, abusive mom, who worked full time and relied on government assistance and an abusive married boyfriend to get by. Because of this, Lisa never felt normal as a child so she chased the idea of having a norma...

IBS with Benefits

I have IBS-D. I specified the D because there are two types of IBS.  People with IBS-C have chronic constipation, whereas IBS-D sufferers beg Santa Claus for constipation every year.  Seriously.  Constipation would be a fucking gift to someone who goes five times a day on average.  Having IBS-D is like constantly reliving that one time you ate something from the roadside stand in Tijuana.

IBS is a bipolar bowel disease. There are highs and lows and it is nearly impossible to predict an attack.  I have tried just about everything. I eliminated gluten from my diet like everyone else in suburbia. I took probiotics daily; they made me feel WORSE.  I have cut down on caffeine and alcohol. I rarely eat fried foods. You know what? I still get the volcanic shits OUT OF NOWHERE and usually when I’m far away from my comfy, PRIVATE toilet.

[Note: if you are reading this while eating, now is the time to step away from the food.]

I’ve had IBS my whole life, so I’ve learned to cope with it. Even though shitting yourself silly can suck, there are some benefits to having IBS.  Here are just a few:

Super Sphincter – I could kill someone with my anus.  I’m not talking about the smell; I’m talking about the strength.  The muscle tone from years of holding in diarrhea attacks while searching for a restroom has given me a super strong butt hole.  I could probably squeeze someone to death with it.  Maybe Marvel or DC could make a superhero like this.  I’m imagining a brown cape and, oh never mind.  I’m taking this too far.

Never Obese – It’s like having bulimia, but they won’t put you on Intervention for it. I’m only mild to moderately overweight, not scooter level obese according to my doctor.  Just kidding. Doctors don’t talk to patients that way.  What I’m trying to say is I’m a little heavy around the haunches, but I’m nowhere near being on a Discovery Channel show or having Richard Simmons cry at my bedside during a Deal a Meal commercial. I eat enough to be bigger, but I just shit it out constantly.

Purse Pharmacy – I’ve got a multitude of pills in my purse for all stomach occasions.  You got gas? I’ve got Gas-X.  You got the runs? I’ve got prescription and non-prescription relief for that.  Have you crapped yourself silly and now you just have cramps? I’ve got that covered, too.  Hang out with me and you won’t need to bring your own pharmaceuticals.

Bathroom Map – I’m like an app for locating bathrooms. I know where they all are.  I know where the best places to poop are, aside from home.  Ladies, I will tell you that the restroom in Von Maur is a little slice of heaven.  If you don’t have a Von Maur near you, and you are in need of a restroom, find the fanciest department store in the mall.  It will be safe.

Candle Collection – My husband buys so many delicious smelling candles and he usually seems to light one when I have just had an attack. This doesn’t bother me because having the bathroom smell like pumpkin cupcakes and shit is better than having it smell like just shit. The candles come in handy during the rare times when other humans visit our home and use our bathroom.  Everyone knows that other people’s crap is way nastier than your own.

Yes, IBS, D or C, can be frustrating, especially for those of us who are control freaks. I mean, if you can’t control your bowels what CAN you control?  AMIRIGHT? That is why I choose to look on the bright side and focus on these benefits to constant buttocks eruptions. What about you? Do you have IBS or some other embarrassing condition? Share your story in the comments section.

Those Fucking Clowns

 

The last time I saw my mother alive was about a year and a half before her death.  I didn’t see her after her death either.  We aren’t really an open casket kind of family.  We aren’t really a casket kind of family in general.  She was cremated.  You’re probably wondering why I went that long without seeing my mother.  Maybe you’re judging me for it.  People try to understand others by thinking of their own situations.  Perhaps your mother hugged you and wiped your tears.  She made you cookies and took you to scout meetings.  My childhood was a little darker.

On the first day of that last visit, my husband, son, and I were sitting in my mother’s tiny, humid living room in South Florida on the Saturday of Labor Day weekend.  Things were going OK.  She was chatting away, as usual.  My mom loved to talk.

We were sitting on the couch, across from her cream-colored wall unit, where the TV and her knick-knack collection resided. Mom started pointing to knick-knacks and talking about where they came from.  Then, she pointed to three, sad looking, chipped, ceramic clowns on the top shelf and says, “Lisa, didn’t Raul give those to you?” My stomach instantly cramped.

Raul was a guy my mom dated for seven years when I was a kid.  He was married, and he was a violent alcoholic.  He dislocated my mom’s jaw twice and hit her many other times.  Once, when I was about seven or eight, I pulled a steak knife on him and told him to stop hurting my mother.  For real. I felt that threatening him with a small steak knife would stop the insanity.  It didn’t.

He didn’t just hurt my mother.  When I got to be about eleven, Raul started fondling me and kissing me on the mouth, with his mouth open.  I told my mother about this when I was twelve.  She finally broke up with him when I was thirteen. I’m not sure why it took her a year, and I’m not sure why Raul was not arrested.  The only thing I can think of is he was helping with the bills.  Money trumps safety, I guess.

I wanted to say, “yes, mother. Yes.  That man who beat you and molested me for seven years.  That Raul.  Yes, he gave me those cheap ass stupid clowns that you insist on keeping and shoving in my face like they don’t make me want to vomit. It’s like you had a lobotomy and forgot reality.  Yes. He gave those to me.”

I think Raul knew that he sucked as a boyfriend and a person.  He knew, on some level, that beating women and molesting little girls was wrong.  I think that is why he was always trying to buy my mom’s and my forgiveness.  He was always buying my mom flowers, or some other “I’m sorry” present after a big fight.  He bought me stuff, too.

I don’t remember every gift he gave me, but I do remember two of them. One was a blue, obviously fake, fur coat with white trim.  I loved it even though I lived in South Florida, where I could wear it maybe one day a year.  It was soft and very warm.  I felt so grown up in that coat.  As an adult, I hate fur coats.

My mom has always loved knick-knacks.  I have never understood this as they don’t actually do anything but collect dust.  Anyway, Raul used to buy her little ceramic things. I guess he figured that I would love them too, so he bought me three little clowns.  For most of my childhood, they were on a shelf in my bathroom.  When I moved out, I left them there because I have no reason to want to keep anything Raul gave me.

My mom disagreed, I guess because she still had these clowns on her living room shelf when my family and I cleaned out her apartment after her death. I’m not sure why she wanted to remember Raul or keep these now chipped clowns, but she did. They were the very first thing my husband put in the trash.

 

Why I Don’t Want a Funeral

 


Don’t worry, friends and family. I’m not dying, at least as far as I know. I could have cancer right now, or maybe some undiagnosed heart condition. From what I can tell without an in-home MRI, I’m not dying. Not now. But, being the type-a person that I am, I like to plan and control everything, including what happens after I die. So, I want to be sure everyone knows what I want.


 


I’m not an emotional person. If you are into personality types, you should know that I am an INTJ. Look it up. It’s more of a thinking than a feeling type. Think of me as sort of a Vulcan. I watched maybe three episodes of Star Trek in my life (Star Wars is WAY better), but I know that Vulcans are logical creatures with nifty ears. They don’t want to hug you and talk about your feelings. That is how I feel about my own death. I don’t want people making a big fuss about it because of whatever feelings they might be having. Feelings don’t bring people back to life. They don’t do much of anything. Funerals just aren’t logical. What do they really DO?


 


First of all, it is super expensive to have a traditional funeral and burial. You have to buy a casket and a plot. You have to buy enough food for all of the people who attend this unnecessary event. What is the point of spending thousands of dollars so that a corpse can rot in the earth in a pretty, padded box?


 


Because that is what you are after you die. A corpse. You’re not a live person anymore. You’re already gone. So, you’re not actually going to feel the nice satin padding of the super deluxe coffin. You’re not going to know that you’re in your plot with your fancy marble tombstone.


 


And let’s talk about plots for a second. I haven’t done the research, but I would love to know how much land in this world is being used for the sole purpose of holding rotting bodies. I always hear about starving people in the world. So, why don’t we plant food instead of dead people? After all, it’s not like the people are going to grow into new people.


 


From what I can tell, we have funerals for the living. Living people need some sort of closure and seeing the casket and the corpse does that for them, maybe. I’m not one of those people. I don’t go to most funerals. I don’t see the point. It’s better to visit people when they are alive than to stand around and talk about how wonderful they are, or how peaceful they are in a “better place.”


 


When I die, I want my family to take whatever money they were going to blow on a funeral and give it to a cat shelter. I also want 20% of whatever money I have left to be donated to a cat shelter. I want to be cremated, and I want my ashes to be put wherever my family sees fit, but not in a plot with an expensive stone. And, if I’m being honest, not in the water. I hate water.

Girl, it’s cold outside!

Years ago, when I worked for an online university, I was in Miami for a meeting with my colleagues.  One woman I was sitting with asked me where I lived.  At the time, it was Indiana (I don’t miss that place) so I told her.  She wrapped her arms around herself and pointed out the obvious, that it gets cold in the winter there.  She lived in Miami.

Then she said, “I couldn’t live there.  You can wear more fashionable clothing down here because it’s warm.”

I said, “That’s only if you think showing all of your skin is fashionable.  Cool boots and cute sweaters can be fashionable, too.”

Ever since that conversation, I’ve been wondering when showing your Bingo wings and back fat become fashionable? Also, why are women considered beautiful if they are freezing to death?  And the bigger question is why do they buy into this nonsense?

I really hate to see the bare-legged women of winter. No, they are not a new hippie-dippie folk band. I know that it’s 2019 and proper hosiery has the street cred of “Baby it’s cold outside”, but pale whisker pocked legs are just not attractive under a cocktail dress or evening dress.  I know from experience putting on tights can raise your pulse and cause minor perspiration, but they are needed, not only to keep you warm but really, no one wants to see that black-speckled Elmer’s paste. No matter how much you shave or wax when you get cold stubble pops up.

Yes, white girls, like me, I’m talking to you.  Keep those white glowing Dublin stubs under a nice pair of black tights, or better yet, wear pants.  Women are allowed to wear pants now.  Yep, we were given that right shortly after we were given the right to vote.

Now, I know that fashion is a lot different now than it was way back when. Women are expected to wear strapless and sleeveless dresses year round while men get to wear nice, comfy warm suits.  BUT there’s no law against adding some tights and a nice little jacket or fancy sweater to your dress.  You don’t need to dress for summer when it’s six months away.

Now, let’s talk shoes.  Those little, strappy, glitter shoes sure do look cute with your freshly pedicured toes, but what would you do if you ran out of gas or had a flat tire on the way home?  Would you walk through the snow in those summer shoes?  Think of the great frostbite you could get.  Maybe, if a couple of toes fell off, you could save money on a pedicure. Seriously, you are not on the red carpet, honey.  Dress for the weather that exists, not the weather in Hollywood.

Stay warm out there! Summer is just a short five months away!