Lexapro

Aggression, anxiety, balance issues, blurred vision,
brain zaps, concentration impairment, constipation,
crying spells, depersonalization, diarrhea, dizziness,
electric shock sensations, fatigue, flatulence, flu-like
symptoms, hallucinations, hostility, highly emotional,
indigestion, irritability, impaired speech, insomnia,
jumpy nerves, lack of coordination, lethargy, migraine
headaches, nausea, nervousness, over-reacting to situations,
paranoia, repetitive thoughts or songs, sensory & sleep
disturbances, severe internal restlessness (akathasia),
stomach cramps, tremors, tinnitus, tingling sensations,
troubling thoughts, visual hallucinations, vivid dreams,
nightmares, speech changes, worsened depression.

So, anyway, that's what I've been up to. How about you?

You see, about a year and a half ago my doctor asked me if I were anxious
and depressed. I said, "Sorta." He said, "I can give you a happy pill
if you want." Honestly, he used the term "HAPPY PILL" which just made
it all sound like such an excellent idea, you know? How could "Happy" be
bad for you. So, I said, "You bet!"

Well, now here we are, many months later and I've decided to stop taking
Lexapro, which is the drug's trade name.

The Man encouraged me to quit, saying he wanted the "old me" back. I guess
he likes the hysterical type. But, I decided to quit because the drug is
making me fat and sleepy. Also, there is the fact that the pharmaceutical
company (Forest Laboratories) which "managed to turn this medicinal after-
thought into a bestseller" (New York Times, Sept. 2, 2009), is under Senate
investigation for paying doctors to prescribe the drug to children, etc....
but I don't really care about this because everyone knows that the
pharmaceutical companies are always screwing around.

No, what's important to me is the "fat" part. Almost everyone who takes
this drug complains about the weight gain that follows. So, I ask you,
WHAT KIND OF NINCOMPOOP PHYSICIAN WOULD PRESCRIBE A DEPRESSION
MEDICATION THAT MAKES A WOMAN FAT, HUH? I mean, 99.9% of the reason
I get depressed is because of my weight! How dumb is this guy that he doesn't
know this about me and just about every other woman on the planet Earth?

Anyway, I had no idea. I just thought I was getting fatter because I wasn't
exercising enough or because I was getting old and all my internal organs are
starting to drop to my ankles. But, then I began reading some testimonials
from people on Lexapro and it was all the same thing - they were all getting
fat and hating it.

Another common reaction is tiredness and excess sleeping. I was aware that
I was sleeping more. I'd go to bed at 9:00 and easily sleep until 8:00 the
next morning, dreaming epic dreams, some in foreign languages! It was great,
but not very normal. Also, I noticed that after a thirty-minute lap swim,
I'd come home and need a two hour nap to recover.

All this summer I've been wondering about my complacency. Dust bunnies the
size of tumble-weeds would roll across the floor and, rather than sweep them
up, I'd place mental bets on which one would reach the wall first and explode
on impact. I named the two spiders in the bathroom because, in my mind, "Gee,
everything needs a place to live."

It took me a long time to put two and two together. When I finally figured
it out I decided to taper off the drug very slowly...because this so called
"Happy Pill" will come after you with pitchforks and cauldrons of boiling
tar if you try to escape its clutches, I read.

Everything was fine until I had That Darned Wisdom Tooth (TDWT) pulled.
Well, it was sort of my fault, but anyway, what with all the pain pills
and antibiotic pills and my statin pill, I decided that I'd just quit
the Lexapro altogether because, in my post-surgical, warped mind, it
was one less pill to take.

All went well for about seven days, except for some dizziness and loud
buzzing in my head, which I assumed were affects from the antibiotics
or the Vicodin I was taking for TDWT. But, then I started getting these
brain zap things and then it occurred to me that maybe this had something
to do with the Lexapro.

Duh.

They actually have a name for what I'm going through. It's called SSRI
Withdrawal Syndrome. Yes, it's a "syndrome" and it can last from one to
SEVEN(I Want My Mama)WEEKS!

Today is Day 12 and here are my withdrawal symptoms to date:

Buzzing brain - it's like I can hear every single synapse;
Brain zaps - which are entities in and of themselves and may not be from this world;
Bouts of ferocious irritability that amaze even me;
Dizziness - but only when I'm standing up;
Sleep disturbance - which really gets me because I was so loving that cozy,
deep, gaaaaa sleep I was getting before. Now, I'm waking up at the ungodly
hour of 6:30 and 7:00 in the morning;
Speech impairment - which The Man finds amusing when I'm trying to verbally
abuse him;
Oh, CRYING! - I hadn't cried in the last 18 months, since starting the drug,
but the other day in the driveway this stray kitten shows up and it's meowing
and rubbing itself on my legs and it wants to be loved and petted and I just
looked up at The Man and said, "I can't handle this," and I stormed into the
house, stomped up the stairs, fell on my bed, and had a FANTASTIC crying fit!
It felt soooo gooood ...well, except for the fact that the cute little kitten
was going to have a terrible life and probably premature death, and because we
leave the country every winter I can't have a cat of my own like I was saying
I wanted just the day before, but oh, it felt so good to cry about it;
Hallucinations - I keep thinking this clump of wood in the backyard is a two-foot
long frog. It startles me almost daily.
Vivid dreams/Nightmares - I am seeing more snakes than usual in my dreams
but I can't say they've been really disturbing or scary...so far.

Other than the above, I feel fairly good. I am able to act normal when
around other people and while negotiating small cash transactions.

But, I want to say that this is ONE HELL OF AN EXPERIENCE I am going through.
And, I also say, that I have never experienced withdrawal LIKE THIS from any
other mind-altering drug I've EVER taken in my life, including those consumed
during the rowdy 80's in Hollywood and San Francisco!!

So, anyway, that's what I've been up to. How about you?...or did I already ask that.

Great Words NEVER Uttered By The Man

Here's a hundred dollars, Babe. Go get yourself something nice.

Oh, darn tomato sauce! I'll never get this stain out!

Gee, there's only one chocolate chip cookie left. Here, you have it.

Will you please stop washing my clothes all the time!

I don't care what it costs!

Honey, where did you put the Comet. I want to clean the toilets
before Darrel and Walter get here.

Mmmmmm. This tastes so good, it must be bad for me.

I'll drive!

I couldn't decide between the roses or the orchids, so I bought you both.

I'm sick and tired of your constant demands for sex!

Do these shoes make me look fat?

It's a good thing I remembered my hankie.

Yippee! We get to go Christmas shopping!

Tsk, tsk. Just look at all this dust!

OMG! You let me walk around all day wearing mismatched socks?!

Does our medical insurance cover liposuction?

If I were a color, what color would I be?

Hand me my rolex watch, would you? Not that one, the other one.

The point of this exercise is to illustrate the fact that what one doesn't say
is as revealing as what one does say.

I'm developing the science of anti-observation, a substratum of quantum
mechanics, I think, because I am observing the un-observable.

The Man is my test rat.

Words

(This is completely copied from www.davidpbrown.co.uk. When I read it my
morning coffee squirted out my nose.)


The Washington Post published a contest for readers in which they were
asked to supply alternate meanings for various words. The following were
some of the winning entries:

Abdicate
(v.), to give up all hope of ever having a flat stomach.

Carcinoma
(n.), a valley in California, notable for its heavy smog.

Esplanade
(v.), to attempt an explanation while drunk.

Willy-nilly
(adj.), impotent

Flabbergasted
(adj.), appalled over how much weight you have gained.

Negligent
(adj.), describes a condition in which you absentmindedly answer the door in
your nightie.

Lymph
(v.), to walk with a lisp.

Gargoyle
(n.), an olive-flavored mouthwash.

Bustard
(n.), a very rude Metrobus driver.

Coffee
(n.), a person who is coughed upon.

Flatulence
(n.), the emergency vehicle that picks you up after you are run
over by a steamroller.

Balderdash
(n.), a rapidly receding hairline.

Testicle
(n.), a humorous question on an exam.

Semantics
(n.), pranks conducted by young men studying for the priesthood,
including such things as gluing the pages of the priest's prayer
book together just before vespers.

Rectitude
(n.), the formal, dignified demeanor assumed by a proctologist
immediately before he examines you.

Marionettes
(n.), residents of Washington DC who have been jerked around by
the mayor.

Oyster
(n.), a person who sprinkles his conversation with Yiddish expressions.

Circumvent
(n.), the opening in the front of boxer shorts.

Frisbatarianism
(n.), The belief that, when you die, your soul goes up on the roof
and gets stuck there.




The Washington Post's Style Invitational also asked readers to take any
word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting or changing
one letter, and supply a new definition. Here are some recent winners:


Sarchasm
The gulf between the author of ironic wit and the reader who doesn't get it.

Reintarnation
Coming back to life as a hillbilly.

Giraffiti
Vandalism spray-painted very high.

Foreploy
Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of obtaining sex.

Inoculatte
To take coffee intravenously.

Osteopornosis
A degenerate disease.

Karmageddon
It's like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes,
right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like a serious bummer.

Glibido
All talk and no action.

Dopeler effect
The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.

Intaxication
Euphoria at getting a refund from the IRS, which lasts until you realize
it was your money to start with.

Ignoranus
A person who's both stupid and an asshole.

My Final Words Of Wisdom Tooth

The right side of my face is all pooched out and there's a big red blotch that
isn't a bruise and so I don't want to think about what caused it.

Here's the funny thing, though...at least I thought it was funny when I thought
about it this afternoon...'course, I'm on opiates...

But, get this. The other day after my surgery while I'm sitting there - wondering
where exactly my brain is since I know for a fact it is NOT in my cranial cavity
anymore because I distinctly remember it waving bye-bye and flying out my ear
during the first phase of drilling leaving me high and dry and forcing me to have
to really work hard to sit upright and look normal now that the ordeal is over -
the dentist comes in and starts telling me all the things I have to do and all
the things I must NOT do cause I could die probably.

The litany went something like this:

Okay, everything looks good. You can remove the gauze when you get home, or after
an hour whichever comes first. If bleeding continues, try biting down on a wet
teabag. You'll have to go to the pharmacy and get three prescriptions filled. Two
are for pain and one is an antibiotic that you have to take three times, spaced out
evenly throughout the day for the next ten days. Make sure you take all three and
don't miss a dose. The pain medications are Vicodin and Oxycodone. These seem to
work best if you alternate them, you know, take one then take the other the next
time. You can't brush your teeth today, but you can tomorrow and you should also
rinse your mouth out with salt water, 1/2 teaspoon in a glass of warm water, but NOT
today, starting tomorrow. I don't want you to suck anything through a straw and
don't spit! Don't blow your nose for at least three weeks. If you sneeze make sure
you keep your mouth open. Don't let your ears pop. Oh, you're not planning on
flying anywhere are you? No? Good. If you get a cold you can use your regular
antihistamine and if your nose runs, just wipe it, don't blow. Keep ice on your
cheek, twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off. But after two days, switch to heat,
twenty on, twenty off. For the next couple of nights sleep in a recliner if you've
got one. Keep your head elevated and this will alleviate swelling...blah, blah,
blah, blah, blah.

His lips were moving but all I could hear was: GETMEOUTOFHERE, GETMEOUTOFHERE,
GETMEOUTOFHERE, GETMEOUTOFHERE, GETMEOUTOFHERE, GETMEOUTOFHERE...

But, the whole time he's talking, my empty head is nodding up and down like a
bobblehead chiwawa on the dashboard of a Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme and I'm going,
"Uh huh...uh huh...uh huh," like I AM GETTING ANY OF THIS! I wanted to ask him,
"Hey Buster, where were you when by brain left? It was that big gray, ripply mass
with the cute little bat wings that popped out and flew away when you were in there
drilling for the Lost Dutchman Mine!

So, I didn't comprehend anything he said and I felt really guilty about it but I
couldn't help it. In the car on the way home I was trying to read the written
instructions and The Man asked me what I thought I was doing and I told him I have
to read this stuff and he said I was nuts and to just sit back and relax.

Then, I was there in the pharmacy still totally numb and worrying that my bloody
piece of gauze was going to pop out as I listened to some old lady who told me that
television was all sex and bad words and that Obama was all for abortion and that he
was going to close all the churches just like in Russia, and then the pharmacist
called my name and asked me if I had any questions but I couldn't think of any
because I didn't even know what the prescriptions were for because my brain was in
Madagascar hunting wild Fossa.

Today I became concerned that I had missed a dose of the antibiotic and it took me
about an hour to figure out that I could just count how many pills I had left and
that would tell me how many I'd taken so far, but then I realized that I was having
difficulty counting normally because I HAD remembered to take the Oxycodone.

And, that's when I began to wonder.

If I can't keep track of all this stuff, how do the stupid people do it without
killing themselves?!

I made the realization during the surgery that the whole procedure was from some
evil science-fiction world and I was willing to go along with it.

But this post-surgery rigamarole is just too much!

And, that's all I have to say ever again about the matter!

Except tonight I have to drive to the airport and pick up my brain which is
arriving very late and will have, I'm sure, tons of baggage.

A Wisdom Tooth Poem of Horror

Yesterday I had a scare
while seated in the dental chair.
Sit back and read, then say a prayer
thanking God that you weren't there.
It wasn't fun, it wasn't easy.
It would've made a grown man queasy.

I went in for a simple transaction,
better known as wisdom-tooth extraction.
But, as you’ll see, this simple subtraction
turned into a chain reaction
of horror and fright difficult to express,
but let me try and recount my duress.

It all started out in a manner routine
no indication from the x-ray machine
of difficulties that might arise unforeseen
that would eventually turn me a yellowish-green.
I declined the anesthetic administered by vein
and was given instead SEVEN shots of Novocaine.

That was a mistake I now know in hindsight.
Unconsciousness would have been an utter delight.
I would have avoided the trauma and fright,
the need to hold on with all of my might.
But, I decided to be brave and save $300 dollars
which is why I’m not welcome in The Community of Scholars.

Then in mask and gloves appeared my oral surgeon
ready to work on me, his wisdom-tooth virgin.
Whilst I quickly looked for something to purge in
he lifted his arms and started to surge in.
I closed my eyes and pretended to be
walking in a meadow of daffodil and sweet pea.

He had told me that this was “only a twenty minute ordeal”
so I meditated in order to avoid having to feel
the panic that started rising somewhere in my heel
and spread through my body like liquid hot steel.
I entered a state of total submission,
as he prodded with tools from the Spanish Inquisition.

Forty-five minutes later he was still at it.
By now my jaw needed wiring, my lip was split,
my hands were shaking and, I have to admit,
I was on the verge of throwing a fit.
His latex gloves were filled with sweat dripping
onto my face and down my arms slipping.

The tooth wasn’t moving, it wouldn’t come out.
At one point the tool slipped, I let out a shout!
The dentist was panting, the nurse looked with doubt.
I felt like I was going to die, just about.
The pulling, the tugging went on ad infinitum
and it got to the point where I wanted to bite ‘em.

I was no longer able to meditate clearly.
The drilling affected my concentration dearly.
The sound was so loud, my skull grated severely
It whizzed up my brain stem and shuttered me queerly.
Instead, I began earnestly beseeching my tooth
to relinquish it’s hold on my jawbone, forsooth!

But all my pleading fell flat on deaf ears.
No matter my curses, my gut wrenching tears.
My tooth wouldn’t listen, it said it adheres
because it likes where it’s been all these years.
I had to admit, it did have a point
but, please, I said, please!, I want out of this joint.

Finally, finally, finally, at last!
The tooth popped out, sick of being harassed.
It came in two pieces, the crises was past
T’was a dentalian battle unsurpassed.
We three, the doctor, the nurse and me
all cried out in VICTORY!

The stitches were sewn with jubilant elation,
some x-rays followed, then a brief consultation.
I was given prescriptions and other information
about what to expect with regained oral sensation.
The Man was admitted to find me still breathing
and happy I’d survived this horrendous de-teething.

Now I’m recuperating in a drug induced haze.
My jaw is all swollen and will be for days.
The Man he is helping me get through this phase
with icepacks, pudding and the piano he plays.
I lie on the sofa and thank my stars lucky
that the day after tomorrow I won't feel so yucky.

But, one thing I do not understand, heaven knows,
is why I can’t for three weeks blow my nose!
And, when I sneeze my mouth mustn’t close!
This, until the wall of my nasal cavity re-grows.
I must be careful and try not to go mental
'Cause the last thing I want is to go back for more dental.

Now, I am weary and must go and rest,
I've tried to describe it all to my best.
I hope you've been able to perceive and digest
how important it was to get this off my chest.
So, this is my story, I swear on my youth,
it's the tooth, the whole tooth and nothing but the tooth.

You Can't Take Me Anywhere

This evening The Man decided to go walk along the pier. "Fine," I said, since I had
no intention of joining him. I usually go along, but tonight I thought not. After all,
I'd had a massive swim at the pool and had, after all, fixed dinner, and had, after all,
fed the fish, and had, after all, watered the pots. I after-alled out of going.

But, then I waited...and waited...and waited. He didn't come home. Where was he?
Did he fall down in a ditch? Did he stumble off the pier and drown? Did he get lost?
Did he get hit by a jet ski? Did aliens abduct him?

I mean, I was at a loss. I began to panic. He was out of my sight for thirty minutes
and there I was gasping for air thinking he must be dead and that I had nothing to
wear to the funeral except for an excellent pair of black Earth shoes that are really
just to die for.

I decided to go out and rescue him. I jumped up from the computer and jumped
onto my bicycle, neglecting to put on my shoes...or anyone's shoes, for that matter,
since this was an emergency!

Yes, I left the house on two wheels and shoeless...but, I figured that this was okay
since this is Lime Plant City and I had just polished my toenails this very afternoon.

I peeled down to the breakwater, running the stop sign, looking for The Man. He wasn't
lying along the side of the road. I couldn't see him thrashing about in the lake. I didn't
see any evidence of police intervention at the local bait shop. But, then, just as I was
about to head out onto the pier, there he was, sitting on a bench along the water's edge,
talking to a friend.

And, that's kinda when all hell broke loose.

You see, this friend is a right-wing, Fox News disciple, studying up for his final exam to join
the heavenly angels of racially-bigoted-hated-filled-close-the-borders-gimme-my-social-
security brotherhood.

I didn't know this when he told me to sit down and join the conversation. But, I will
say that I'd just left the house after reading all kinds of bad news on Alternet.com...which
tells you a little about where I was coming from when I sat down with this NUT CASE!

So, there we were...sitting lakeside, enjoying the late-summer tranquility and a few
mosquitoes, chit-chatting about my bare feet.

Then, somebody mentioned "healthcare."

Then, hell'th took over.

We got into it.

I don't know. Maybe it was the glasses of wine I'd had with dinner. Maybe it was the fact
that I'm doomed tomorrow because I'm going in for a much belated wisdom tooth extraction.
I don't know. But, whatever it was, something in me snapped. I got mad. Real mad.

I decided not to just smile and go "Hmmm. Uh huh..." to all the visceral garbage this guy
was spewing out. I decided to fight.

Later, The Man said I needed to work on my delivery. He's probably right. I did get a
little heated. But, I was steaming mad and let it fly. I couldn't help myself. I'm just so
sick, so sick, so sick of the racism and bigotry and fear and hatred I keep hearing from
uneducated people who can only spout out slogans and repeat sound bites they hear on Fox.

Listen, if you want to impress me, if you want me to listen, be original, okay?

Give me thoughtful countenance, not regurgitation!

Now I'm thinking I've ruined a friendship. I don't feel apologetic at all, though. I just
feel sad and miserable. I'm sad because I live here with nimrods, and I'm miserable
because I don't know where to go to escape them.

Not that I'm Dagney Taggert...but, Who is John Galt? And, more importantly, where
is Galt's Gulch. I need to go there.

I can't really remember the plot of Atlas Shrugged, but I do remember the mindless,
weakness of the people. And, that's what I feel now. And, that's why I got mad. And,
that's why I couldn't just shut up and go, "Hmmm...Uh huh..."

I'm really starting to worry. I'm really starting to think I'm living in an insane world.

And, let me tell you, if I'm starting to feel this way, it's a bad situation because I am
not an innovator, I am a reflector. I reflect what's going on. I'm representative of
the status quo. And, if the status quo is this screwed up, we're in for it.

I feel so sad.

I will continue thinking about this as I go under the knife tomorrow morning
at 9:45, at my oral surgeon's office, where they want a $300 deposit before they'll
do anything, in spite of the fact that I have dental insurance!!!

More Than You Need To Know

This morning I'm having one of
those The-Smithsonian-called-
and-they-want-to-stuff-you-
when-you're-dead moments.

You see, I'm menstruating.
Don't look away in disgust!
How do you think I feel!

Here I am, 55 and 1/2 years
old and my Aunt Flo from
Redlands is visiting...AGAIN!!

I'm on the rag. Miss Scarlett’s come home to Tara. I've gotten a dishonorable discharge
from the Uterine Navy. I'm saddling Ol' Rusty. It's game day for the Crimson Tide.
I've rebooted the Ovarian Operating System.

Under normal circumstances, I would never write about something this personal
because I am from a generation of people who never spoke out loud about anything
that, in the slightest, teeniest-tiniest, itsy-bitsiest way, referred to a bodily function.
But, I am so appalled, so amazed, so astonished by the inner workings of my body,
that I feel the need to share.

I would say I want you to "feel my pain," but there is no pain. There's nothing except
the continual need to go out and buy pads...or, no, I mean "feminine napkins." Now,
THAT'S a term from MY generation.

"Feminine Napkins" is a good one. Sort of makes you feel all warm and cozy. But,
isn't the use of the word "feminine" a redundancy in this case? I mean, they didn't
make "Masculine Napkins" did they? If they did, I really missed out on that! I shall
ask The Man whether or not he ever had need for a "Masculine Napkin" just as soon
as he wakes up this morning. I like to give him pause for thought first thing.

But, what I was going to say about buying the pads is that when I purchase them I
am aware of the furtive glance from most cashiers. Their eyes flicker up and look at
my old face, then they look back down. Then, suddenly, their thoughts begin scrolling
across their foreheads like a Jenny Holzer LED display. "She must be buying these
for her granddaughter!"

So, here I sit. Miss Eternally Fertile. Oh, I know what they say, that these aren't
real periods, that they're imitation, sort of like Imitation Ice Cream, or "I Can't Believe
It's Not Butter." But, I can tell they're real, all right. This is no imitation menstruation.
Which makes me wonder if, let's say, the Huns decided to attack Lime Plant City for
some raping and pillaging, well, could I get pregnant?

Whoa. I think my brain just did a polar shift. I have to pick myself up off the floor
and upright my chair.

I mean, OMG. Just imagine. What if?!

You'd see me on Oprah, for sure. She could do the whole show from here, filming the
results of the pillaging and at the end I'd come out and talk about my ordeal at
the hands of those disgusting Huns and I'd cry and stuff. And then, after the break,
would come the moment the world was waiting for: "Oprah, meet my son, Attila.
Say hello to the nice lady, Atti."

Future generations would pay to see me at The Smithsonian Institution, right there
in the American Anomalies and Freaks Collection, on display, eternally, forevermorally.

I'm ridin' the cotton pony right into immortality.

Wow. Giddyup there!



(Addendum: I asked The Man about whether or not he ever used a masculine napkin.
Without missing a beat he said yes, he often requested waiters to "please remove this
disgustingly inferior, offensive, dainty towelette and bring me a decent, Masculine Napkin."

Then, several moments later after having time to really think about it, he got all offended
and said he didn't want to talk about it, that it was a bit premature, that he wasn't ready
for diapers at this point. Maybe in the future. Gee. Methinks he doth protest too much.)

Speed Kills

35 MPH is for weenies and dead people.

Yeah, call me an unamerican, communist-sympathizing, draft-dodging, lesbian-
atheist-professional-sports-hating troublemaker, but I am convinced that the
35 MPH speed limit was developed to numb the brains of the American driver
and make us all pathetic, apathetic, and copasetic to the core.

35 MPH is the driving equivalent of "Don't Worry, Be Happy."

I bet you that nothing in the universe goes 35 MPH in it's natural state. I think
it's a mutant speed of movement. In fact, it could be the "anti" speed. It's like
when anti matter meets matter. Things explode. Kind of like what happens to
me when my speed runs into 35MPG.

We've got this road here in Lime Plant City. It's a main road that leads into the
down-townless area where The Man and I live. EVERY time I happen to NEED
to take this particular stretch of road I ALWAYS get behind someone driving a
Buick LeSabre who has just left the hospital having had a quadruple lobotomy
and they JUST HAVE to drive EXACTLY 35MPH!

And so we sit there, going along so slowly, NEVER WAVERING from exactly
35 MPH, our brain cells dying and falling out the window, sprinkled along the
roadway like Hansel and Gretel's bread crumbs.

Three days later we're still there. I look in my rear view mirror and see, not the
reflection of my weary face, but a spider building a large web connecting the
mirror to the door. It's a nice web, actually. It doesn't even ruffle because
there's no breeze. We're going too slowly for a breeze.

A bird has build a nest between the base of the radio antenna and the passenger-side
windshield wiper, and is settling around her eggs. I must think of good names for the
brood when they hatch in about two weeks, at which time I estimate I'll only be about
another mile from home.

Now, don't for a minute think I get angry or impatient. No, no, no. I just set my seat
back a little further, turn on the classical station and think about how lucky all of us
are, all of us behind the LeSabre. We have this wonderful opportunity to pause and
recount our lives up to this point, our highs and lows, our thrills and defeats, lovers,
friends, family. Some of us have pulled scraps of paper, old receipts, used wads of
Kleenex from under the seats and are writing our autobiographies, or our last wills
and testaments, since we'll all be dead by the time we get home again.

When I went grocery shopping I was only 55 years old. Now, I'm 105 and I'm afraid
The Man will have taken up with some 63 year old spring chicken by the time I make
it back.

Still, the LeSabre creeps along.

I know that I could pass it. But, in Lime Plant City, the last time someone attempted
to pass another vehicle the lead driver had a stroke which resulted in an 80 car pile-up.
'Course, damage was minimal, what with the fact that the cars were only going 35 MPH!

About the time my head is rolling off it's hinges and my tongue is tired from trying to
touch the tip of my nose (and from playing other equally worthless tongue-stretching
games), the LeSabre suddenly leans over in the bicycle lane and dies.

It takes the rest of us drivers about ten minutes before our brains start synapsing again.
Then, we all pass, one after the other, staring wide-eyed, wondering, "What'll we do now?"

But now I'm in the lead. Ha Ha!

I pop good ol' Geoie into second gear and off we roar...

at 36 MPG!