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buy cytotec without prescriptionIt’s really about power.   Doing what we can to give ourselves the upper hand.   No matter the emotional cost or carnage.

I’ve overcome complaining.   At least I’ve moved beyond the level I once owned.   I owe a very special person for my revival.   There are others I owe.   But mostly her.   And trust me.   She suffered in her efforts.

Now don’t get me wrong.   Sometimes one has to complain.   It is often a sort of act of cleansing.   You know.   Complain to a good friend.   Get things off your chest.   And move on.   But my complaining had some pretty deep-seated roots.   Complaining and expecting the worst was a way of life in my family.   Growing up.

It’s true.   And all of us in the family know this.   This is a secret to no one.   Growing up, if it was a nice warm day, it was “too damned hot out.”   If it was a cool crisp fall day, it was “too damned cold.”   If there was a fun trip to be taken, it was always too far to drive.   You understand.

I guess I was weak.   And like all of us weak ones, I did what I could to gain the little bit of power I felt I needed to demonstrate my worth.   Only through my steadfast complaints did I have and hold the upper hand on things.   And the upper hand is so important when your day or week or month or life is tanking, and you need someone to blame.   Someone – something – to elevate you to a level that is livable for you.   If there is someone else to blame, then surely I am not as low as they are.   Right?   You get it.

I guess we all measure our worth by the inadequacies of our surroundings.   Mostly.   Folks like me do.   Or I used to.   Until my friend set me straight.

When one’s self esteem is lower than a Gulf of Mexico oil flow, complaining, becoming angry, feeling cheated and victimized lift one up to where he imagines his esteem should reside.   But that often means the destruction of the esteem of others.   Recognizing this is where my friend shines.

buy cytotec oralShe spent months and years trying to talk me into her twisted way of thinking.   As it turns out, it took but one trip to the Food Lion to set me straight.

Late one afternoon, we went grocery shopping together.   Grocery shopping is an easy generator of complaints.   Too many shoppers.   Too many folks grabbing all the MVP mac and cheese bargains.   Too many folks in front of me in line, paying with coupons and quarters.

I had always been the type of consumer that, no matter how broke, desperate and powerless, I expected to be treated like royalty when I spent the few pennies in my possession.   I was the customer.   Always right, you know.

So on that late afternoon, my friend and I pushed our cart to the most accessible line.   As was usually the case, I unloaded the cart while the check out person rang up our stuff.   And, as usual, my friend began bagging.   That is the way the woman is.   She bags.   She helps.

This one day, just as I always do, I said to the check out person, “How are you?”   Nothing.   No response.   Again.   “How are you?”   Again.   Nothing.   The young girl didn’t even make eye contact.   Here I was, spending money I really couldn’t afford to spend at a business that was providing a job and income for this young woman, and she couldn’t even acknowledge my presence?   Meanwhile, my friend was bagging the groceries.   Something that Food Lion employees were being paid to do.

Ah ha!   So here was my opportunity.   Regardless of my lack of money and my overall weak standing in life, I, at that singular point in time, had the opportunity to elevate myself over the snotty little young woman at the Food Lion check out.   I boldly instructed my friend to stop bagging.

“Let her do it,” I said. “That’s what they pay her to do.”

I think she stopped.   Maybe she didn’t.   A noticeable change came over her after I made my grab for power that late afternoon.   I didn’t understand it until the ride home.

My argument was clear.   I was there spending money I really didn’t want to spend.   And.   I was the customer.   And.   I was right in my reaction.   My friend’s argument wasn’t as clear.   At least it wasn’t as black and white.

“You have no idea what that girl was going through today,” was one thing she said to me on the ride home.

“I don’t give a damn,” I said.   “I am the customer.   At least acknowledge that I am there to give her money!”

My friend was silent.   For quite a while.   She uses dramatic pauses that would put the best Broadway actors to shame.   Meanwhile, that pause pretty much killed me.   But it worked.

“Look,” she finally told me.   “That young woman may have had a terrible day.   Who knows what is going on her life.   And.   Maybe she is just a young jerk.   The point is you had the opportunity to change things.   The power to improve that situation.   To look at her and say, ‘Is everything okay?’ or ‘I really love the way you do your hair,’ or anything.   You chose to be a jerk.   Nothing was accomplished.   You could have made that young lady smile somehow.   Or you could have tried, at least.   You left feeling harmed by her.   She and you now feel worse than either of you did when we got there.   What was the point of all that?”

My friend pulled an extended Broadway pause for several days after that.   But I got it.   And I have never forgotten it.

I guess I have complained some and gotten angry a time or two since that late afternoon at the Food Lion.   But not without quickly thinking of my dear friend.

Remembering her beautiful heart.

And remembering that, by holding within my own heart the simple understanding and kindness she possesses, I have all the power I need.

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A couple of Sundays ago was Mother’s Day.   And like everyone else who, like me, no longer has a living mom, or who lives too far away to visit their living ones, so, too, did I miss mine on that day.   But on that day, Mama paid me a visit.   She once again brought life into my heart.   Real life.

These days, I am working in a garden center in Charlotte, North Carolina.   A few weeks ago, I learned that the home of two of my favorite customers had unexpectedly been destroyed by fire.   It happened on Easter Sunday.

One of those customers, I heard weeks ago, was burned in the fire and hospitalized.   I had seen neither of them since the disaster.   That Sunday, I did.   I saw them both only moments after beginning my busy Mother’s Day at that garden center.

That’s when Mama came alive in the genuine way that only Mama could.   And Mama’s visit came in a form generated by the wonderful smile of the mother whose house had been destroyed on Easter Sunday.   Her smile reminded me of my mom. buy cytotec online uk  She had a basketful of the most beautiful flowers, something Mama really would never have pushed around a garden center.   But when I saw that woman and her smile, what she had in that basket paled in comparison to all that was stored within and racing from my heart at that moment.

Look, I am telling you all of this not to make anyone feel better about me.   I am weak.   Much weaker than the smiling mom with a basketful of beautiful flowers.   This is all about moms and daughters and sons and the opportunities that smiles, love and determination present to each of us at every moment.

These days, before I arrive at my workplace, I ask God to take me where I need to be.   He somehow puts my mind at ease and delivers me to places occupied and shared by the hearts of customers and co-workers I need.   And He always delivers me to those who need me most.

At that early moment on Mother’s Day, I didn’t give a damn about any other customers, or the work load I was facing that day.   Everything else that may have better helped the ultimate success of my store on that busy day,  just went away.   And the stress that I felt when I walked into the garden center for the first time that day, dissipated into just one beautiful and focused moment.

buy cytotec online without prescription from canadaMy focus, for the longest time, was only on the eyes, the smile and the words of the mother.   As other garden center workers and customers called my name, begging for help, I never took my eyes off that beautiful mother.   God and Mama made me focus only on that dear woman who lost her home, and nearly lost her daughter.   And when I saw her daughter for the first time, wrapped in bandages to protect and preserve her damaged skin, and when the mom smiled as I gently hugged her daughter and broadly smiled at our reunion, that was the moment I lived with Mama again.

Look, my mom, and even my dad, were never able to teach me how to practice and endure the mechanics of becoming and being a successful business person.   But as long as I have the ability to focus on the hearts of those with whom I work and serve,  just as I did with those two customers that day, my most loved ones live on.

I don’t know everything.   But I do know this.   Choosing to ignore insignificant and temporary money-making opportunities in favor of the most important focus and smiles and genuine engagements of all moments is, well… All I can say is, “Damn it, those moments are permanent!”

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buy cytotec online 200 mcg no prescriptionLook, Mama had a good heart.    And she taught me some good stuff.    But she also had a balance about her.

“God, I hate my life.”

My mother passed along that notion to me when I was just a child.   The recurring line delivered by George Segal or Jack Lemmon or someone in some movie from the ’60’s, I think, cemented that belief in myself.

“God I hate my life,” I repeated from the actor’s role many times as an adult.   I even started, at around the age of 30, the “God I Hate My Life Club.”   Years ago, I was given by a friend a t-shirt onto which that quote is printed!

I think I have overcome the self-hatred.   Nevertheless, I love the laughs I still get from folks when I say those words.   They’re funny!   And, come on.   Mama deserved the right to hate her life – especially on special occasions like Mother’s Day.

Those were the days when Mama, a woman from a proper southern upbringing, expected absolute respect and lavish gifts to honor her devotion to family and to her undivided and proper commitment to the family she led.

Look, her kids had no money.   On Mama’s special occasions, the best we could do was draw a picture or cut off an azalea bloom from a neighbor’s bush or give something even less to the woman.   She always smiled and seemed to appreciate our efforts, but what really caused my mom to hate her life were the efforts by her husband on such days.

I really don’t know where the man’s thought processes originated on those occasions.   But he was kind of a simple man.   My guess is that he actually believed he was honoring his wife with the gifts the only money-maker in our household could afford to buy.

You be the judge here.   If you were a woman celebrating your birthday, would you appreciate your husband giving you a spatula?   Or if you were a mother on Mother’s Day, how excited would you be to receive from the man you married an umbrella?   Ah, imagine the romance you would feel when, on your special day, your husband gives you a 5-gallon jug of Jean Nate Toilet Water purchased at the discount drug store, Pic-N-Save.

But I think I recall correctly when I say the final blow for Mama came around the same time I watched for the first time that “God, I hate my life” movie.   Whatever occasion that was, it was the one where her loving husband gave her a pair of orthopedic nurse’s shoes.

Maybe I am wrong about Mama hating her life.   But if she didn’t, well – the damned orthopedic shoes should have given her ample reason to do so at that moment!

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buy cytotec without rxAn old college friend loves Saturday nights.  At least he did when we were in school together.  His sort of theme song back then was Elton John’s “Saturday Night’s Alright For Fighting.”  Many Saturdays, a bunch of us would gather at his single-wide west of Chapel Hill, North Carolina and the state university there and party until the wee hours or all night.  At some predictable point during each of those evenings, the stereo would be cranked to the max while 90-percent of the “mates” in the room would jump around and dance and sing to the sound of Elton singing, “Saturday…. Saturday…. Saturday….”  Often, the jumping and dancing and singing and Elton would be repeated on those nights.   Saturdays were huge for my friend.  And for the others there.

I mostly sat off to the side somewhere, smiling and silently sipping bourbon or beer.  It was quite a sight and experience.  Though I was quite the dweeb and didn’t sing or dance along with them, I enjoyed those times.

But Saturdays?  While sitting, smiling and sipping somewhere near the front wall of that trailer way out in Orange County, I one night came to the conclusion that Fridays are much better than Saturdays.  What does one have after a Saturday night?  A Sunday hangover and the promise of an 8 o’clock Monday class.  After a hard-party-Friday, one still has all day Saturday to recuperate and the possibility of an Elton appearance later that night.  So yes.  Fridays are better.  This is what I convinced myself to believe.

I still prefer Fridays.  The day has meant a lot to me over the years.  My very first date was on a Friday night.  It was with a young woman who became my “high school sweetheart.”  She and I would join the friend who introduced us and his “steady” date at the time at our school’s football games on Friday nights.  The crispness of the fall air and the sense of belonging to someone and to some things and the excitement of new love made those young Friday nights what they were.

Fridays and love go together, I think.  Much more so than Saturdays and Elton John.  A few years after finishing college and finding work in Chattanooga, I was young and alone and pretty much friendless in that town for a good while.  I moved there in late summer or early fall.  The crispness in the air came much sooner there than in Jacksonville, Florida where I first encountered how special Friday nights and romance can be.  On my lonely Friday nights there, I would treat myself to barbecue sandwiches, Tennessee style.  I would get my to-go order and go home.  I couldn’t eat the pulled pork at the restaurant.  Watching all those young and happy Chattanooga couples dine, and smile, and enjoy each other kind of made the swine hard to swallow in public.  But at home, even alone, the sweet and tender Q made whatever my Friday nights were at the time.  My Friday love, for one long Tennessee year, was a warm and succulent sandwich that wore tomato-based makeup.

Fridays.  Friday nights have, to me, always represented safe and comfortable opportunities.  But my love of this night involves more than high-school sweethearts, Tennessee barbecue and crisp fall nights.   It involves my dad as well.

My dad overcame quite a bit.  He had problems.  I understand so much more clearly these days what he and my mom went through so many years ago.  And my dad made good on some things.  When he died in 1992, we were good friends.  I love that man.  And I forgave him long before he left us.

But the man drank.  More “than a barrel full of monkeys,” the man drank.  To excess.  Six nights a week, every week.  For some reason he never drank on Sundays or holidays.  That still left about, what – 300 nights a year for a goofy little kid like me to live in fear?   The moment after he was due to leave work those 300 evenings, my nights became nothing but dreadful.  Most times, he would stay away from home a while, drink, and return home to a wife who was fuming and more than prepared to engage in another losing battle with an unreasonable and belligerent drunk.  And the screaming, the cussing, the crying and the frequent violence would last until well past the moments Johnny Carson said his good-nights.  Nothing I would do or try to do would make a difference.  I begged, I pleaded, and I tried to make him comfortable so he would just fall asleep and bring the more peaceful mornings to us all sooner.

The only things I could count on all those times were fret and dread.  And the hollow Ed McMahon laughs I heard from the living room hours before the nights finally ended.

His workday ended at 5:00 pm most every day.  My nightmares began at 5:01.  Except Fridays.  Fridays he worked until 9 o’clock.  NINE O’CLOCK.  Four extra hours every week for a young dweeb like me to breath and live and enjoy, without the fear and the anticipation of trying to separate battling parents and to calm unreasonable angers.  Four more hours each week to just be a kid.  Four precious hours without fret and dread.

Four hours that were not alright for fighting.

To my old college bud and all the trailer people back then – I’m sorry I couldn’t celebrate Saturdays the way you guys did.  Fridays are just too damned important to me to turn my attention to some other meaningless day.

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Last Friday night I heard a few neighbor children squeal and laugh.  It was around dusk.  Just around the perfect kick-the-can time of day.  That’s the time of day when the neighborhood quiets down a bit.  Traffic subsides.  Dads are reading newspapers. Moms are clearing the dishes.

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Walter Cronkite’s quiet and gentle authoritative voice fills the background in all the neighborhood living rooms.  Or at least, that’s the way it was in the neighborhood of my youth.



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I tried to demonstrate the suspense and excitement of a Friday night kick-the-can event to my son and his friends when they were little guys.  But my son and his buddies lived a rural life then.  Kick-the-can is for city folk.  My little bumpkins never understood.  I hate that for them.  Besides, Dan Rather in the background is something less than memorable.


When I was a kick-the-can kid, I lived in the Fairfax neighborhood of Jacksonville, Florida.  It was an area maybe seven blocks deep and 3 blocks wide.  Squared off and rectangular blocks.  No curves.  No hills.  Just houses.  Neat little houses.

You never really wandered away from your own sort of two or three block circle of friends and neighbors.  You didn’t need to.  Everyone a young kid needed was to be found nearby.  There were 13 of us.  Four girls.  Nine guys.

canada cytotec Kick-the-can is a game of hide and seek.  “Base” is a tin can.  In our neighborhood, the can was placed on the sidewalk. Usually somewhere between my house and the Mason’s.  The kid who is “it” protects the can.  When “it” sees a kid hiding, he or she yells, “One-two-three on…” whoever, then touches the top of the can with the bottom of his or her foot.  canadian generic cytotec no prescriptionWhoever is captured has to hang around the base.  That is until someone behind “it’s” back, runs and kicks the can.  Kicking the can frees all prisoners.

That was some intense Friday night stuff.  It was the focus of every kid in the neighborhood on Fridays.  We looked forward to it.  A chance to be outside, in the dark, protecting our turf and our friends, saving Sally Mason and others, confusing “it” to the point of total humiliation.  Friday night kick-the-can was war.  We did what we were called to do.

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And the exhilaration.  Hiding as quietly as we could.  Peering out between azalea shrubs and twisted oak tree moss.  Watching “it,” being just as quiet as the targets of his aggression, calmly scour the horizon for his prey while holding his silent and dejected prisoners close by.  We wait.  We watch.  We study “it’s” vulnerabilities.


“It” takes a few steps towards Roosevelt Boulevard.  Then stops. Looks toward the houses across the street.  Then glances at his prisoners.  Takes another step toward Roosevelt.  Then runs the opposite way, toward Herschel Street and past the can.  “It” thinks he hears someone.  He is wrong.  So he straddles the can, whistling, as if to tell those of us in the moss and azaleas that he has everything under control.  Suddenly, one of the prisoners stands straight up, smiles, and points toward Roosevelt.  “It” runs to capture others.  Arthur, arguably the quickest runner of us all, runs to the can and kicks it as far as anyone ever has. All are freed once again, scattering themselves back into the shadows and disguise of the moss and shrubs.

Man.  We made a real difference back then.  In our own little Spring and Summer Friday night kick-the-can world.

canadian pharmacy cytotecI do not recall how each of us played the game.  I don’t remember how “it” was chosen.  I don’t even remember how I played the game.    I remember watching from the darkness and whispering strategy with Johnny.  I remember running as hard as I could and kicking the can as far as I could.  I remember feeling like a hero to Sally and the others I freed.

But I also remember being a very cautious little runt.  Sneaky even.  My guess is that when I was “it,” I protected that can as well as any skinny little kid could.  I’m guessing that, for the most part, I just stood there, daring anyone to come close.  Once the others grew tired of my kick-the-can version of Dean Smith’s 4-corner stall offense, they would show their scurrilous faces.  And I would need only step one foot to touch the can and one-two-three them.

Those Friday nights were as perfect as any Friday nights I have had since.  Much more perfect, I imagine, than any I will have again.  But the squealing and laughter I heard a couple of nights ago?  Well, that made last Friday night as close to perfect as it gets these days.