A word of advice from Jimmie:

If you want to look like a badass with a tatted up neck, rock star jeans, a wallet with a chain and a leather bracelet studded with silver spikes, perhaps you should not visit the grocery store with gauze wrapped all around your neck after getting tattoo work done and wince around the aisles like a whipped puppy dog, clutching your throat every time you move or speak. Doing this will instantly negate all your badassyness and instead make everyone (Jimmie) think you look like a wimp and a moron. 

The end.

Guess Where I Am . . . .

Also, a PSA – Men, if you insist on wearing a Speedo to the beach, please do not jog along the shore in it.  You are doing yourselves no favors.



Highly Recommend, By Jimmie – Take Two.

Dear Readers,

I’ve done some fun stuff lately.  Lest you think I don’t have a life anymore due to job hunting and crying and re-budgeting and talking about my sexy hair, I thought I should write it up for you.  Following is my new list of things for you to consider doing: 

Rock Island Playdate – When your friends ask you to drive 2 hours to the coolest place in the world for a day of relaxation and fun, you go.  Do not think twice about it.  Pack up a cooler full of lunch, get some water, throw a towel in the car and take off.  Probably you should spend some real money on proper water shoes and also probably you should dress for hiking as well as floating (can anyone say “upper body support, i.e. bra instead of swimsuit”?) but even if you don’t, you will have the time of your life.  Take lots of pictures so that you can show off to all your friends. Post them on your blog.  Isn’t that waterfall nice? It was gorgeous! 

Not pictured?  The poison ivy I sat in . . . .

Gavin DeGraw – I, too, wish I could explain it.

Kayaking – I’ve waited my whole life to do this but I guess I didn’t know it.  I’d been saying I was going to go for months and last Tuesday was the first time I got to keep my promise.  I put on the ill-fitting life jacket (can anyone say “Stay Puft Marshmallow Man”?) and perched my poison ivy covered butt in that kayak.  After I ran into a couple of docked boats and a couple of my friends, I got the hang of things.  Now while most of you probably prefer the straight line method of kayaking in which you go from point A to point B in a linear manner, you need to understand that I prefer the Charlie Brown sweater pattern method of kayaking.  I like to zig and then zag and take far longer than anyone else to reach the destination.  It’s a much better shoulder workout, see.  Lynnette will be proud.

Maxi Dresses – go to Old Navy and get yourself one and wear it to visit Poppa.  After he asks you why you wore your nightgown to visit him, you’ll throw it in the trash.  (Can anyone say, “You look pregnant in that dress?”)

Urban Hike – for a few months I’ve been participating in something called an Urban Hike.  It’s a long walk through downtown Nashville in which we visit historic sites and landmarks particular to Nashville.  We also climb 248 stairs, ring the Liberty Bell and sweat like warthogs but it’s really quite rewarding.  What I don’t recommend, though, is missing a couple of weeks of the walk, especially when some key elements of the walk are changed (i.e. changing the route from five miles to six) and then not bringing water to the new and improved six mile walk when the temperatures have just peaked at the all-time high of 109 degrees.  Also not recommended is yapping excessively about how fantastic this walk really is to two men who have unreciprocated interest in you.  When you make it sound like the most incredible of hikes, do not be surprised when both of those men show up (uninvited by you) on the SAME NIGHT to walk with you.  (“Can anyone say, “Awkward”?)

Cakes from Freddie – This here is the cake Freddie made for my birthday.  It was delicious!  Because she makes such delicious cakes, she has started a little side business called World Piece Cakes.  Isn’t that cute?  Check it out here.

Planning stuff with Woney – I always like to end these Highly Recommend posts with something about Woney.  Have you noticed that?  Anyway, Woney has been working out with Tony now for a year.  Lemme tell you, she looks FIERCE!  That guy knows his stuff. (Can anyone say “This is hard” and “I’m tired”?  Cause Woney can’t.  Tony won’t let her anymore.)  He got her started on some new cardio routines too, and she’s running a lot now, much like I used to.  (le Sigh, but I’m getting there!) We talked for months about doing the 5K Color Run in Nashville and then somehow missed the deadline to enter which, with both of us being blondes and having lives, I don’t understand.  Anyway, we talked about it, got excited about it, missed the deadline and then gave up on it altogether.  Instead, she is coming to visit me *just because* in November.  Also, we are going to Ireland in a year or so to celebrate her birthday and now will begin ramping up those conversations and planning discussions.  It’s just too exciting! 

So now, in conclusion,

The end. 

As It Relates To Job Hunting

Y’all remember when I got lambasted for not having pearls to wear at an interview?  Look here at what Auntie Anne sent me.  My grandmother’s pearls!  Every last strand of them!  She sent them as a birthday gift with a note that said, “If you don’t want to look like a lady, wear them all at once.”  That is just like her . . . I plan on taking her advice and wearing every last strand of them over to the staffing place that was so snooty about my hair and while there, I will swan about with my brand new paycheck.

Speaking of hair, I have a story. Surprise.

A few years ago, when Boss and I were still a team, we ran into a travel snafu of sorts.  He had an evening meeting in St. George, Utah on a particular night and an interview at the Nashville airport the very next morning at 9:00.  I don’t know if you are good at geography and/or math but you should realize that getting from Utah to Tennessee in just a few hours is no easy feat.  Boss had to take a red-eye, get off the plane, and almost immediately go into an interview for a job we really wanted.  Because no one is pretty after an all-night flight and because no hotel will accept a reservation for 7:30 a.m, Boss had to find a place to shower and shave and generally get presentable.  The only logical choice was my house.

Our receptionist picked him up at the airport and drove him over to my house so that he could ablut before doing his dog and pony show for the airport executives.  When he came back to the office after his interview, we all noticed that he smelled a lot like girl and grapefruit and that his hair was exceptionally volumized.  After making fun of me a whole lot for the array of hair products I had in my bathroom, he swilled down some Red Bull, propped his eyes open with toothpicks and sat in his office pretending to work.  The staff, in turn, spent the day walking by his office, tossing around comments about his fruity scent and his poufy hair, and pretending to work.  (Coincidentally, we all got huge raises that year.) 

Before I finish my story, let me share another photo.

This here is my hair stuff.  And I think I see the problem.

We did not get the job at the airport.  I did not get a job through that staffing agency or even a single phone call from them.  What are the chances, do you think, that the snooty snothole over at The Hadden Group was right – that one will never get a job in Nashville if one has sexy hair?   Hmmm.  I’d believe it if I hadn’t been offered a job THAT VERY SAME DAY.  Obviously some people are enamored of my big sexy hair and want to pay me to bring it to work every day. 

Your loss, Airport.  Your loss, snooty staffing agency.  I’m not sure you could have handled us anyway. 

Prescription For A Heartbreak

Is there anyone out there who has never had a heartbreak?  I doubt it.  I was the last one, I thought. The last man standing.  I never had any of that gut-wrenching pain happen to me.  Never in high school which is unusual as everyone knows that high schools are rife with mooney-eyed teenagers moping around over lost loves.  Never in college which is also unusual as everyone knows you are supposed to give your heart away to a poet wearing a beret and a very spindly goatee.  I escaped all that, even through a myriad of serious boyfriends and even through a five-year marriage. 

It wasn’t until I was 38 that I really got the full experience of having my heart ripped from my very chest and trampled into bits.  Doesn’t that sound dramatic?  It was.  I got shredded and it was awful and may I say I don’t recommend it.  Do that mess when you are 18 or 24 but don’t ever wait until your late 30s for your first (perhaps your only) heartbreak.  Having never built up any resistance for it, I was a raw open wound for far, far too long. 

I’m not writing this now to be morbid, though.  You know that, right?  That isn’t really my style.  No, I learned some lessons through all that, and I’m here to Impart Wisdom today.  I haven’t done that in a while.  I felt like it was time. 

The first thing you want to do when you get your heart squished is to call Martie.  You wail a lot into the phone.  I mean a lot.  And you listen to Martie when she tells you that you will feel better in two weeks.  When the two weeks are up and you don’t feel better, you call Martie back and wail a lot into the phone.  Listen to her when she tells you that you will feel better in two weeks.  When in two weeks you don’t feel better, you call Martie.  You get the picture.  Do this for a full year.  Eventually the space between those calls will get longer and longer and then perhaps in time you will only have one of those calls per year, possibly even less. 

After you get off the phone with Martie, you get on the phone with Woney. You wail a lot into the phone to Woney and say yes when she asks you if you want her to fly to Nashville. Pick her up at the airport and spend lots of time just being with someone who lets you cry and takes you to movies and to historic places you have never visited to help take your mind off things. 

You are only allowed one phone call to the ex during this time.  In that phone call, you tell him that he needs to come get his stuff out of your sight and out of your house.  Give him a timeframe, say 20 minutes or so, to arrive.  During that 20 minutes, you inform him, you will be dragging his stuff (including the boat he’s been working on in your garage) out into the street.  If he has not arrived by the time you have everything in the street, you inform him, you will soak it all in lighter fluid and set a match to it.  Mean it.  This will ensure a swift removal of all of your ex’s personal items from your home which is necessary for your healing. 

The next thing you want to do is listen to some Alicia Keyes.  You can do this for approximately one day, maybe two, but you need to do it.  This will enable you to really turn on the water works.  So much emotion packed into a four minute song.  You should lament the lost love through the entire song and then switch over to a different song to really get the anger in.  Alicia Keys is fantastic for both sides of the coin.  Then, after one day (perhaps two) realize that there is far too much emotion in a single Alicia Keys lyric and immediately put that CD into the glove box.  Leave it there for a year.  Do not touch it.

The logical next step is to order a Billy Idol CD from Amazon.  You really want the Greatest Hits album.  You listen to this CD on repeat at top volume for the next two to three months.  Be sure to sing along with it.  There’s not a lick of emotion whatsoever in those lyrics and eventually, you will find that you can’t help but dance to them.  He’s just that kind of guy.

This little tidbit is always helpful:  go to lunch with Bootsie, Lynnette and Kindle.  Go to a cheesy little Mexican place for chips and salsa and Diet Coke.  It will surprise you, given that you think happiness is such a foreign concept and a dream long past, but you will be gifted with a single hour of happy that you can cherish for the next few months. Those hours of peace and happy are few and far between in the beginning. Take them where you can get them.

Aside from the occasional Mexican joint with friends, do not drown your sorrows in food!  This is a time for absolute rigid control.  Your food intake and your exercise are the only things you can fully control during this time so take advantage of that.  When you feel pretty good about your body, go to Buckle and spend an exorbitant amount of money on a single pair of jeans that make your butt look awesome.  This step is crucial.  Everyone needs a pair of jeans like that. 

Do not even consider dating anyone for a very long time.  Makes lists of qualities that you want in the next dating partner but make them so strict that almost no one will meet the criteria.  That way you don’t have to make excuses for why it has been so long since you have dated. 

Finally, you wait.  Everyone likes to tell you that time is a great healer.  You will look at them in disbelief and scoff at them when you have the energy or take a break from the crying because you know that time will never heal this wound.  Spend a lot of time with yourself, though.  Try it.  You will learn amazing things about who you are, and you will know yourself better than you ever have.  Wait for a year.  And if that isn’t enough, wait some more. 

One last bit of advice, but probably the best one:  make new friends like Freddie, Kindle, Spike, Felix, Lorne (Ty), Roxanne, Jane and Quan. Cultivate existing friendships like Phranke, Lynnette, Woney, Billie, and Dammit Todd.  Use your Martie.  She’s your best friend.  Find other people to hang out with that encourage you to do things for yourself, to cry when you need to, and to put on your big-girl panties already and move on.  These people are incredibly important.  Your life, while empty of a romantic partner, will be full beyond measure and really, really nice.  The nicest of all. 

The anticipated end result is indifference.  Not love and not hate, but indifference.  One day, after enough time has passed and you have completed the full prescription dose, you will be on the Greenway running in the heat and panting like a bear when you will be hit with a realization that it’s over.  It’s really over and your heart beats just fine with all pieces intact.  You are indifferent and if you cared enough at all about it anymore, it would be the best feeling you’ve ever experienced.

But you don’t and so you just continue to run. 


Dr. Jimmie

Lessons Learned In Job Hunting! Also, I’m Too Sexy For Work!

Let me begin by saying, I do not have permanent employment.  I am at the same temp job I wrote about with the yummy soap. Apparently I confused people, but I had a story . . . .

Guess what? I got a job!  There’s one small catch, though.  It hasn’t started yet.  I got this job on my very first interview, probably two weeks after I lost my job with Boss. I took the drug test and signed my rights over for a background check.  And then I waited.  Waited, waited, waited.  I eventually came to the conclusion that this job would not happen, mostly because they said, “It won’t happen.”  I peed in a cup (among other places – why is it so freaking hard for women to do that?) for nothing.  I did learn a lesson, though.  Talk is cheap.  Words mean nothing and until your butt is parked in a permanent chair and business cards have been ordered, don’t believe a word anyone says.     

This lesson also applies to the company who says, “We will be making a decision in two weeks.  We have to move quickly on this.”  Yeah, right.  I’ve been waiting five weeks and despite my friendly phone calls, have received not even a fare thee well, not a no nor a yes.  (Also, it should be noted that this applies to the temp job that was supposed to only last four days, although in this case I’m very thankful.  I’ve been there over a month now. Every week we have the same conversation – “Can you come in next week as well? Yes?  Good. See you Monday.”  What a Godsend.)

Want to know some other lessons I’ve learned?

Not everyone gets my fabulousness.  I know, it’s shocking.  I can’t believe it either. Probably it doesn’t help that I inflate my ego every time I write a cover letter for a position (which I have done more than 60 times now) to submit with my resume.  I get all big-headed talking about what an asset I will be to XYZ Company, but when XYZ Company rejects me after I’ve spent seven hours of my time interviewing with them, taking four proficiency tests (in which I did very well), taking two email tests (again, did very well), critiquing my own cover letter and thank you note (fantastic, once again) and being assured that I was the strongest candidate (by two different people), I get knocked down a peg or two.

Another lesson from that one?  I am not particularly fond of rejection, no matter how nicely worded it is. I reckon I needed a comeuppance.  I sure got it.  No worries about my carrying around a big-ass balloon for a head.  Crushing.

Something else I’ve learned is that taking the Microsoft Office Suite proficiency tests over and over again will increase your scores.  I’ve taken them three times already.  I would have taken them five times except two staffing agencies just “simply forgot” to send them to me.  They “simply forgot” three times – I’m not entirely sure how that happens, particularly when they say to me as we are on the phone that they are “sending them as we speak, right this very minute!”  Anyway, I’m quite good at the test-taking and apparently I can type like mad, although I thought the days of having to prove it were long behind me. 

A final lesson, and this one is very important.  Yesterday, I visited with another staffing agency.  Again, I took all the tests, had high scores on all of them, got glowing reviews of my resume over the phone with my agent, and made the appointment to meet in person.  We discussed my qualifications and my goals for new work and then had the following conversation:

Agent:  “So, a question.  Do you normally dress like that?” she asked as she waved her hand in the general direction of the very nice dress I had worn.

Jimmie: “Yes.  Is it not alright?”

Agent:  “Well, you did work for the same man for a long time so I assume you just got comfortable in your wardrobe? We will need to dress you for interviews.”

Jimmie:  “Sure, okay.  Not a problem for me to wear a black suit.”

Agent: “Do you have pearls?”

Jimmie: “No.”

Agent: “We really prefer pearls.” <big sigh> “I suppose the necklace you have on is fine.”

Jimmie: <silence> <Okay, the silence is only on the outside.  Inside I’m screaming WTF and wondering what the h-e-double-hockey-sticks is wrong with my very tasteful necklace that I bought at Tiffany as a present to myself when I reached a weight loss goal. I had no idea that my being an ex-sorority girl was only helpful if I had pearls to go with that title.  But, whatever.>

Agent: “Does your hair always look like that?” she asked, again with the hand wave in a circular motion near my head.

Jimmie: “No, not always.  Why?”

Agent: “It’s too sexy.”

I repeat:  My hair is too sexy.  I wheezed with mirth until I realized that she was serious.  And with that, I think it’s best if I just stop right there and not mention anything else she said about my sexy, sexy hair.  There was more, honestly.  But I will say this:  I thought the 40s were supposed to be my sexy years, not the 39s.  I was aghast as I hadn’t even touched my hair with a backcomb nor had I fluffed it unnecessarily.  I think in some way I was strangely thrilled that someone found my hair too sexy but I’m not sure how I can equate that with something positive just yet. 

I do take some comfort that she found my makeup “acceptable.” 

Lesson learned from that experience:  Jimmie is too sexy for work! Who knew?  I sure didn’t, although this would have been helpful to know ages ago.  It would explain an awful lot.

I will leave you with one final lesson, really more a plea for someone out there.  Someone really, really needs to invent a method for women to successfully pee in a cup.  I won’t go into the details about how your hand gets more liquid than the cup and how disgusting that is, but I can pretty much assure you that if you succeed in this endeavor, you will be an instant billionaire.  And when you have your celebratory big-ass party, I will bring my big sexy-ass hair to celebrate with you.  Because we could all use a little more sexy. 


UPDATE: * Names NOT Changed To Protect The Innocent

John Dye was a man of his word.  He made it right.

Martie thanks you, as do I.


The Orange Life

Gah.  I’ve been in a funk lately.  It hasn’t been fun. 

Someone stole my garbage can, right out of my front yard.  Why?  What need does anyone have of my garbage can?  It reeks because I put excessive amounts of used cat litter in it and some chicken gone horribly, horribly wrong.  I cannot imagine why anyone would go to the trouble of rolling it out of my driveway, down the street and into their garage when all it’s going to do is make their garage smell like feet.  That was thing one. 

I was asked to take on some new responsibilities at work.  I like new challenges and getting opportunities to worm my way into to the company so that I am an incredibly valuable resource when recessions hit.  Smart thinking, I always say. But this request hit me funny and quite frankly, I was a complete jerk about it.  That was thing two.

I started a bad trend of being lazy.  It’s a vicious cycle.  You skip the gym one time and then suddenly you’ve skipped a month’s worth of gym visits and your jeans don’t fit as smoothly as they once did.  Combine that with an overwhelming affection for Easter Peeps and viola, weight gain.  That was thing three.

For a solid week, every route I chose to drive – home, work, gym, anywhere – was the wrong route.  Devastating traffic accidents happened daily and I found myself smack dab in the middle of highways that were closed for an hour or more to clean up debris.  Trying not to think about who just died on the road, I spent a lot of time in the car winning fake arguments in my head which usually got me worked up into a foul mood by the time I arrived at my destination, and I was the only one fighting.  That was thing four. 

Hormones contributed to things five through ten with some other varying factors thrown in for flavor.   

I was not in a good place. 

Driving home one afternoon, on a road with traffic that moved approximately one square inch per minute, I was having a fake mental argument with the neighbor I suspected of stealing my garbage can.  The weather was rotten.  It was raining on half of the road and the other half was dreary and gray.  I was wrestling with myself outside of the argument, wondering where my negativity was coming from and why I insisted on nurturing it, when I glanced up and saw the faint colors of a rainbow.  Within minutes, the rainbow fleshed fully out and I was faced with a breathtaking view of an enormous arc of glorious color.  Never in my life had I seen a rainbow from end to end, the entire arc, but that day, I saw every bit of it.  The sun dropped behind me, the sky turned the most beautiful golden hue and the gray became a background, like a painting.  Breathtaking.

I’ll have you know, that rainbow clapped its massive hand over my negative door and slammed it shut.

Here’s my lesson: for the entire funk, I could see myself being negative.  I could see the progression I was taking to work myself up into a big old snit about anything, didn’t matter.  I was fighting it, praying about it, rejecting negativity, giving myself positive self-talk, but the negative was still there by my side.  I was fighting to speak life and in the instant I saw the promise in the rainbow, I understood that it’s that easy.  Just speak it.  Just realize that God is bigger than me. 

That was my journey.

This link is The Squirt’s journey.  Remember her?  She is my littlest sister – the cute one, the one with blonde hair and blue eyes and a tan, which skipped right over me and graced both of my younger sisters with its golden glow of health.  She’s writing and it’s good.  Give it a read and see what you think. 

La Vida Naranjada

Words of Wisdom, by Jimmie

If someone offers you kim chee, say no.  They might tell you it is delicious.  They are delusional.  Pickled, fermented, rotting cabbage ≠ yummy.    

If someone offers you a sample of maple bacon ice cream, say yes.  You won’t be saying yes because it is tasty.   You will be saying yes because it is terrible.  Why, you ask, do you recommend maple bacon ice cream when you think it is disgusting?  Because, I respond, after tasting maple bacon ice cream and realizing that it tastes like a cockroach threw up in your mouth, you instantly realize that the only way to get the taste out of your mouth is to purchase and enjoy a whole cone of red velvet cake ice cream.    Because you will eat the entire cone of red velvet cake ice cream in an effort to rid yourself of essence of cockroach, you will feel no guilt at all and only relief that the awful taste no longer lingers.  You’re welcome.

If someone offers you a free hockey ticket (Nashville Predators, woo!) which includes a pass into the all you can eat buffet and really sweet seats, say yes, even if it is raining outside.  I know I’ve explained to you that I don’t really “get” hockey but it doesn’t mean I don’t like to go to a game on occasion.  It’s quite exciting really.  If you can ignore the men (rabid fans, woo!) who sit directly behind you, you know, those men that give their expert and loud opinion on every single play of the game and also those men that teach you new curse words that you never dreamed existed, you will have a fabulous time.  The music (John Denver, woo!) is fantastic.  The mascot (Gnash, woo!) is rowdy. The fans (bunch of strangers, woo!) are devoted, so devoted that they paint their beer bellies with their favorite player’s number (Jordin TooToo, woo!) and will show you those bellies if you cheer loud enough for them.  Brave, brave men.  Good hockey players (Ryan Suter, woo!) make the game look easy.   It is a joy to watch and by the end of a game, you might just “get” hockey a little better. 

Men, if someone offers you a pair of skinny jeans and exclaims that they will look awesome on you, say no.  They are lying to you. 

If someone offers you a volunteer position driving a gaggle of senior citizens in a big van to dinner once a month, say yes.  You guys, I love these people so much. This month we went to the Omni Hut which is a kitschy place that serves Polynesian food.  The wait staff dresses in muumuus and Hawaiian shirts, the menu relies heavily on pineapple and teriyaki sauce, and all décor is enhanced by black lights so that everything takes on a nice neon glow.  My group has been waiting for this trip for months so I was a little surprised that for the first time since I took this position, I suffered from a few moments of embarrassment when each person at the table had an issue of some sort: 

  • “No spices of any kind on my chicken, please, no not even salt.  Especially not pepper.  I like my food plain.  Really, really plain.”
  • “This coffee tastes terrible – I can make better at home.”
  • “What is this?  Fried rice? Are you sure? I’ve never seen fried rice like this in my life.”
  • “I just killed a cockroach.  I know you can’t see it but it was here.  Okay, yes it was small but it was here, right here on the bread plate.  Would you like some bread?”  (Editor’s note:  There was no cockroach.  There was only a drama queen who was suffering from lack of attention, bless her heart.) 

I had new guy this time.  His name is Mark and he is from the Ukraine.  It was 70-something degrees outside and Mark came to dinner in a button-down collared shirt, a sweater, a jacket and a jaunty beret.  He was, in short, adorable.  After dinner, we shuffled out to the van and had a small scuffle over who would ride in the front with me.  There was a small mishap with some of the leftovers which left a pungent odor in the van. The woman who was unhappy about the cockroach was disgruntled all the way home, a 25 minute drive.  But as the seniors filed off the van, Mark adjusted his beret and said in his heavy accent, “Thank you, Jimmie.  I had a nice time.”  And he gave me a hug.  First time I’ve gotten a hug from one of my seniors.  It made the horror of the kim chee taste test fly right out of my brain.   


That title is not a euphemism for a romance gone awry.  Nothing that complex here. This post really is about heartburn and since it’s the only thing of note I have experienced lately, this is what you get. For those of you who have gently reminded me that I have not written anything since Feb 20th (and I luff you guys for it), you are welcome.  We now all get to hear about my stomach.

To begin, I’d like to present a list of things that cause Martie heartburn:

  • Little Caesar’s pizza
  • Beans
  • Krystal’s
  • Do-si-dos and milk
  • Mexican food
  • Chinese food
  • Olive Garden
  • Alcohol
  • Grandma’s spaghetti
  • Meatloaf

As you can see, Martie suffers from heartburn a lot.  Because she suffers from heartburn a lot, she generally has a nice supply of antacids stashed at every home she regularly visits (much like me and my toothbrushes – I have one at every house I regularly spend the night in).  My house is no different which is lucky for me.  See, recently I found myself in need of an antacid or two which is really weird because my list of things that cause me heartburn is as follows:

  • Bananas

I have eaten no bananas so I’ve been a little concerned about my new condition.  Maybe I have some underlying stress that I’m not fully cognizant of or maybe there has been some profound hormonal shift in my body, but whatever it is, I’m now a proud sufferer of heartburn.  (An FYI – the first person that suggests to me that my excess acid production is a symptom of getting old gets a box in the kisser.) I’ve raided Martie’s stash these last few days which has helped tremendously but I remain puzzled.

Used to I suffered from heartburn all the time.  I spent lots of days feeling burny and uncomfortable, and I took lots of over the counter remedies for it.  My list of heartburn causes back in those days consisted of:

  • Bananas
  • An unfortunate combination of 75 pounds of excess weight and an unwise choice in marriage partner

Eventually I ditched the weight, both 50 pounds of fat and 180 pounds of husband, and eventually all things seemed to regulate.  But before that, there were days of acidic agony that I just never seemed to conquer. 

One day in particular, I could feel the acid bubbling around in my stomach.  It felt black and lively, and I distinctly remember thinking “Oh, so this is what hydrochloric acid feels like as it eats through your stomach walls.”  I was miserable.  We had no money and I had no remedy.  I tried milk, water, everything.  You know what I remembered, though?  I remembered that Poppa had a home remedy for acid indigestion.  I’d seen him use it a thousand times and it always seemed to work.  See, Poppa’s list of thing that causes him heartburn includes:

  • Everything

Poor man.  He’s always got something rumbling away in his tummy and when you find yourself awake in the middle of the night with no easy access to a store, you find what works in your house.  His remedy was to mix baking soda and water into a thin watery mixture and then suck it down.

Now baking soda is used for loads of things.  It makes cakes bake up nicely.  It whitens your teeth when you brush with it.  It cleans out funky smells in your refrigerator.  All of these things relate in some fashion to stuff that goes in your mouth but generally the taste is masked by sugar or minty toothpaste or something.  Drinking it mixed with water is  . . . . interesting.

Yep, interesting.  But let me tell you, that stuff works.  I mixed up a batch of Poppa’s home remedy and I swilled it down.  The absolute moment it hit my esophagus, I could feel it start working.  I felt it go all the way down into my stomach and I could feel it surrounding all that acid in there.  It was the strangest feeling, like the bubbles were racing to the top of the liquid and those bubbles were ANGRY.  It only took a few seconds for my baking soda to make its way all the way down to the bottom of my stomach and for me to feel like something big was going to happen and happen soon.

Suddenly, I burped.  That sounds so innocent and small.  Let me tell you, it wasn’t.  Not this burp.  It came up from the very depths of all my internal organs and made its way forcefully and urgently all the way through my body and out of me.  It literally felt like I had ingested an entire Coca Cola and shot the full acidic, bubbly can of liquid out my nose.  I thought my head flew off and was never more shocked in all my life to find it still intact when the belch ended.  My eyes were watering and my nose was running and my stomach . . . . well, my stomach was completely settled.  Nary a drop of acid left.  Not one.  It was amazing. 

So there, boys and girls, is my story about heartburn.  I hope you all enjoyed it immensely and learned something new today.  Clearly I am having some writer’s block issues but I’ll be back just as soon as those clear up.  Anyone got a home remedy for that?


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