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Panic at an Actual Disco

I had my first panic attack when I was around 15, a little over 40 years ago. Fortunately for me, I’ve had very few since. Unfortunately for me, at that moment, I was standing on a stage. Picture 80s me with 80s hair in an 80s home sewn taffeta tea length “gown” in a beauty pageant inside a hotel ballroom near the World Trade Center. A beloved high school teacher approached me, months prior to that pivotal, panicky moment, telling me she’d heard about an upcoming pageant, err scholarship program, with the reigning Miss Texas as a judge. She thought I should enter. See, I was a pretty smart kid until it was time to talk in public. Crowds weren’t my thing – still aren’t. This teacher had pushed me as far as she could. She wondered if facing fears straight on would cure me of my phobia. It would be good for me, yes? That is how I found myself inexplicably culled from 200 to top 50, then down to 25. I was elated! Why, this was a dream come true. Yet, backstage in this ballroom, where a huge disco ball hung over the audience, I was lined up with 25 other similarly aged girls I did not know. Some of them had done this same pageant for consecutive years. A few of them had their own hair and makeup people. Not a soul spoke to me backstage, nor did I approach anyone. I felt out of my league. What was a country bumpkin doing here in the first place? A director woman wearing a headset was making the rounds. “Talent is next,” she barked at us. “Get your costumes on, ladies!” The words choked in my throat, but I forced out a whisper loud enough for her to realize, as our eyes met, that I was desperately seeking information. “What do I wear?” I croaked. “What’s your talent?” she spat within an inch of my face. “I’m giving a speech?” I softly bemoaned. She responded, “You think you’re giving a speech, or you know?” I stammered. She directed me, as directors do, to just wear what I had on. Minutes later, the others returned. Dancers were in leotards and sequins. Singers were in snazzy casual outfits. Piano players were in dramatic ball gowns. But the girl holding court at the front of the line, the 4-year Dallas Miss Teen Pageant veteran contestant, who looked exactly like Phoebe Cates (yo, 80s kids), was in full theatrical mode. Shabby dress, apron, hair kerchief, broom – I hadn’t been to many theaters in my life, but apparently, she had. She was slated to sing Matchmaker from Fiddler on the Roof. This was not going to end well for me. In that moment, as the Phoebe doppelganger was running vocal scales and the dancers were all practicing their choreography, I realized that I was about to vomit. At least, I hoped it was vomit. The other expulsion option would be far worse. Moments later, my name was called. Did she vomit? Did she make it to a trashcan? More on that later.

Ask Aunt B

Dear Aunt B Readers, So, last week I was asked this question: “I want to be anywhere but home. What is wrong with me? How do I fix this?

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Seven Hours and Fifteen Days

In 1990, I was a 23-yearold mother of two living in a Washington, D.C. suburb. I had a rowdy 3-year-old, a demanding 8-month-old baby, and no money. We were trying hard, however. March of that year was a good month. Conversations about bringing the family back to Texas had begun. There was more to eat than carrots and fried bologna sandwiches, though you can survive a pregnancy on such a menu, FYI. And, the cable bill had actually been paid! MTV still played videos. One spring afternoon, while the baby napped on a pallet and the preschooler was busy with a snack, I turned on the Zenith television in the walnut cabinet surround, and my mind was blown. The video was a woman’s face against a black background, nothing more. She was beautiful. While this sounds very tame in today’s world of anything goes, it was shocking for the times. She didn’t have any hair. Well, she did, but it was buzzed like a little boy leaving a 50s era barbershop. Her voice lifted and lilted and dipped like a haunted meadow. I was hooked. After my first experience with Sinead O’Connor, I went on to buy the CD featuring that very song, Nothing Compares 2 U. It is one of a few CDs I have repeatedly purchased in my lifetime. I know the words to every song on the album. I have followed Sinead’s life over the years. An artist who refused to compromise, even when it cost her money and fame, she lived on the fringe. When I read the news of her death last week, it floored me. That girl, my same age, who sang about racial injustice and poverty while loosely integrating biblical scripture into her music – she wasn’t supposed to go out like this. Sinead took her own life. She lost her son to suicide a year ago and could not go on. I certainly understand that unfathomable sorrow. So, I took to social media as so many others did. I chose the best picture of Sinead. I threw in a line or two from my favorite song of hers, Three Babies. I just said that I hoped she found peace. That’s when I saw red. Moments later, someone dear to me commented on my post. “Too bad she switched to Islam.”

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Fantastic

I am an introvert. When my husband proposed to me, I gleefully said yes, with a single caveat. It had to be private. I didn’t want people looking at me. Walking into a room alone causes an IBS flare. I am often thought to be cold, indifferent, arrogant, or just plain mean, but it’s a simple case of fear. I don’t like to speak first. I don’t like to walk in first. I prefer, almost demand, solitude over crowds. I get overwhelmed easily. Places like Walmart are painful for me because there’s just too much going on. It’s too peoplely. It’s too loud. It’s too colorful. All my senses ping at once and suddenly, hours later, I’m still in there attempting to avoid people, not because I don’t like them, but because I just cannot do it. Yet, once you get to know me, you can’t shut me up. I tell loud, raucous jokes, play board games, give hugs, and laugh like there will be no tomorrow. But the introvert thing, it’s a strong trait with me. Oddly, neither my mother nor my daughter had a shy bone in their bodies, prompting us to joke that it skips every other generation. And, boy is that ideology panning out in front of my very eyes. My granddaughter is an extrovert.

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Cape Fear

“Ms. Moo?” the voice was coming from a body in the corner with a clipboard for a head. It’s the curse of the paperwork software. Some places, namely the ones that feel the need to place plastic bracelets on your arm, use a software program that cuts off after exactly 3 characters of one’s surname. It’s a perplexing problem for someone with a perfectly symmetric name like Dina Moon – 4 letters, 4 letters. It’s a shame to leave that last letter off, I think. “Diana Moo?” The name butchering continues with predictable reactions. All waiting room eyes gravitate to me, Ms. Moo, who has just stood to acknowledge the greeting. I don’t even correct them anymore. It’s easier to go with the flow. I can be Diana Moo for the next 2 hours. That’s how long I will be here, in this auxiliary Baylor Hospital building. It’s mammogram day.

Ask Aunt B

B Dear Aunt B, I am hearing lots about artificial intelligence. I would be lying if I didn’t say it frightens me. Will I lose my job to a computer?

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It’s Not a Cat

It was dusk, the first time I saw the creature. My 5-minute foray to the outside of my house went awry. I had intended to water the rosebushes, the ferns, and the small patch of lemon balm I was trying to resurrect from the summer heat. Like a modern- day Goldilocks drawn further and further into the woods, I had wandered first toward the unchecked mailbox and then toward the voice of a neighbor. Suddenly, it was more than dusk. It had gotten dark. In this old neighborhood, dark means the beginning of the feral cat witching hour. They emerge from every crevice, out from under every pier & beam porch, and from the belly of every storage shed. We have ginger cats, so very many calicos, and run of the mill black cats. As I turned to saunter back down my walkway, I glanced up at my front door. That’s when I saw it. The black feral cat we call Midnight had gotten INSIDE my foyer somehow. He was sitting atop my paternal grandmother’s 1900-era buffet, facing the glass, his yellow eyes ablaze, his long mane extending from his face in perfect, triangular points. My mind raced. How had this he devil gotten inside? Had I left the door open? It was closed now. Does this cat have opposable thumbs? I was blown away by his mustered bravado that prompted him to do this as his normal personality is more prone to Freddy Krueger-like claw maneuvers. Moreover, how was I going to extract him from my home? My thought immediately ran to my three resident cats, the youngest still in need of a spay. Great, all of them have been exposed to who knows what sorts of deadly communicable diseases and Polly is probably with kitten child by now. Grabbing a rake from the side of the porch, a weapon I knew I would not dare to use on any animal, I took a deep breath and readied my nerves. Time to eradicate the beast. Hand to doorknob, sheen of sweat on my brow, breath held for eternity, I looked up to face my foe. The eyes? Turns out I’d left a double wick candle burning. The mane? My faux hydrangea and lavender flower arrangement was throwing a perfectly cat shaped shade silhouette in the exact place. Crisis averted. There was no beast lying in wait. Things aren’t always how they seem. Why do I think I know best?

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Forney Messenger

Mailing Address: P.O. Box 936, Forney, TX 75126
Physical Address: 201 W. Broad St., Forney, TX 75126
Phone: 972-564-3121
Fax: 972-552-3599