Kris’s Kolumn

Listen up world! I’m about to solve one of the biggest problems for women everywhere and you know what I’m talking about.

IT’S THE DAMN LOCATION OF PUBLIC RESTROOMS.

Have you noticed that almost every public restroom – stores, restaurants, public transportation sites is – located behind the men’s room. The men’s rooms are almost always first and the women’s rooms are almost always second.

This is not a good thing if you, like most of us, have had children, are past the age of forty, or are serious beer drinkers. I personally cannot tell you how many times I have said to hell with it and run into the men’s room because I simply could not walk another five feet.  And yes I saw you at the urinal.

I was making one of my seemingly endless trips to the local hardware story the other day when it dawned me…helllooo! The reason this has happened is because there are not enough women in the construction industry. The men have built most of the bathrooms and of course they want to be the first ones to pee.

So buckle up girls.  Let’s strap on some tool belts, get out our rulers, and have at it. Once we get our construction management degrees lets not only put the women’s restrooms first but lets make them REALLY big with lots of extra stalls and while we are at it how about a wine frig in every corner, maybe a couch, a bookshelf (of course!) and a shower?

My bladder is so excited just thinking about this that I have to excuse myself.

It’s been one of those years – you know? Losses and gains and challenges and change and me always getting up out of bed with my fists clenched and ready for the fight and folly of the day. I especially love the folly part.

So the other day I was out hiking, which is like hot yoga, free beer, a massage, or a huge pork roast to some of you – depending on what floats your boat. Besides the glory of silence, and blue skies, and the crunch of tree droppings under my boots, I saw the must unusual bird in the most unusual place. This is especially interesting because I am writing about birds right now and there was a sweet black and white messenger laughing at me as I threw my angst around the forest.  Then just as my partner and I were about to leave the trail I heard the clump, clump, clump of an approaching human. I stopped in my tracks for two reasons.  First of all I wanted to brace myself for the person who was intruding on what I thought was my sacred space and secondly, the clumping was unusual.

The man who appeared seconds later only had one leg and was using crutches to hike. And yes, he took my breath away.

I’ve always thought that when life is hard for me it’s harder for someone else. I’ve always thought that things could always be worse no matter how worse they already were and the moment I saw the man clumping down the trail I called myself an ass.

Sometimes I am an ass and I’ve never really been afraid to admit that true fact.

But I’m also lots of other things, the least of all being that I’m honest, and I know I can always do and be better.

The man in the forest was a lovely gift and so was the bird and so was Sally who came to see me today from Chicago.

I’d never met her before but she’s written to me and sent me some precious emails and today she held my hands and told me that my writing was a gift that had helped her and many of her clients. Sally was just what I needed today – and she has two legs. She also has a lovely heart and a great husband and the courage to say the things that need to be said. She was like a sweet bird that landed at the the edge of the stream and I’m here to tell you there are birds, and Sallies, and clumpers all over the place.

All we have to do is look.  Really.

Lift up your head and look around and then move forward with one leg, or two, or with your hands or whatever in the hell you have to propel yourself.

That’s what I’m doing.

You may have seen my float past your window just a moment ago.

I could care less what the rest of the world says or does.

I’m flying baby…….

Is it really so hard to design a bike seat that doesn’t make a woman cry or shoes that don’t maker us cry even harder?

First the bike seat.  Seriously. We can talk to each other on little cell phones, fly to the moon, turn our cars on from airplanes and watch our children enter the house when we are a thousand miles away.  My rear end can’t take much more of this. Could someone please design a bike seat that doesn’t make me feel as if I am in the third stage of labor?

To be honest here I have never had much of a rear end.  I’m not bragging either because the rest of my body – which is quite a huge hunk – has been making up for my missing ass. I’ve got lovely rolls here and there and it looks as if my neck has exploded. My buttocks is not as lucky.  I’m sure in a few years someone will have figured out how to shift weight around with a lazer but until then – someone save my hinder.

Now, on to the shoes. Really? I’m on my feet a lot now serving wine and running around the Wine Madonna.  Some days, usually three or so a week, I am on my feet for 15-plus hours a day.  So far I have purchased four new pairs of shoes and so far I can only wear the one pair that doesn’t make me weep after three hours.  I’ve had these shoes for over ten years and of course they don’t make them anymore.  They are Born leather sandals and they are starting to fall apart. (Watch Kris cry.)

Comfort and style please, right now, before I have to hop on the scooter and get back down there. Are there not any women with size ten feet designing shoes?  And here’s a warning to all you goofballs wearing high heels.  YOU ARE GOING TO RUIN YOUR FEET AND YOUR BACK AND YOUR LEGS. There – I told you so.  Not to mention the fact that you all look as if you are about to fall over, we all know you are not that tall, and did I mention you are ruining your body?

Is it too much to ask for? Shoes and a bike seat?

Mrs. Claus – get on this will you please?

It happens about once every fourteen days.  I go to bed and then when I wake up…it’s morning! And don’t act stupid.  You know exactly what I’m talking about.  It’s called middle-@!@#$%^ age.

Usually, thanks to everything from my bladder to lingering hot flashes, I wake up at least three times. Well, maybe the word least is not correct. The other night I went to bed about eleven p.m. and I swear I was awake when the birds started singing. I mean seriously – why bother?

This week I had one really good night that followed a seriously bad succession of sleepless nights that made me want to burn the bedroom off the far end of the house. When I woke up and realized I had slept for seven hours in a row I thought at first I might be dead.  I’m not kidding. There I was alert and rested and about to pee in my pants.  It was a miracle! I’m still so excited about it I’m writing this blog.

Last night was a pretty good night too.  It was an up-only-twice night. The night before? For a while I thought about just lying on the bathroom floor.

Here’s what I know for sure – I won’t really die from not sleeping.  It’s not like this hasn’t happened before.  My kids were horrid sleepers until they turned twelve and could sleep for three days without moving.  There was a time after college when I was so poor I was living on popcorn, crackers and cheap Montana beer and I slept about once a week. The last few years when my kids were in high school I didn’t sleep either.  That’s a story for another blog but you probably know about kids crawling in and out of windows and beer cans in the bushes.

And yes I know about tea and vanilla and warm milk and  no wine before bedtime and reading and keeping the television off and all the other crap that doesn’t always work but is supposed to help you go nite-nite.

I’ll take the one night in fourteen but if you drive by and see my light on – come on in.  You can help me count sheep and then we can shave the damn things, knit some sweaters and set up a store on the front porch.

So Oprah is about to announce her latest book choice.  I’m pretty sure it’s not me.  But she’s announcing the latest pick a day before my birthday.  Hello!!!!! Oprah!!! This could have been huge…for me at least. Actually, I think Oprah would like me.  Can you see it now?

Kris Radish striding onto the stage in Chicago  wearing her favorite cowboy boots, jogging bra, and her hiking shorts while she waves wildly to the audience (half relatives) and then crosses her gams as she sits in THE SEAT.

I get about three-thousand emails a week (I’m exaggerating but I’m having a great time.) asking when  I’m going to be on Oprah with my books.  If only I knew!  My new theory is that Oprah is going to wait until the next book and then spread them all – eight by then – out on the stage and we’ll blow the drums off the Random House printing press. Some people dream about nice cars and trips to the Bahamas.  Me?  Cowboy boots on Oprah’s stage. And maybe nice sheets.  I’ve always wanted really nice sheets.  Oh!  And I want to take my mom to New York and have her sit in the Oprah audience back in Chicago. She adores Oprah.   This means I may have to change my outfit. And just once to walk into the wine store and not look at prices – just labels.

Suddenly I am very thirsty.  But, seriously I love Oprah.  Her mom used to live very close to me and there were always Oprah sightings.  I wanted to go lie in the ditch and wait for her and throw copies of my novels at her limo but I thought that might turn her off. A woman’s empowering novels should stand on their own.  So I considered lining the highway with them.

Seriously, for real this time. I love, love, love what Oprah has done for authors and books and reading. Books are the cornerstone of society and she’s helped not just authors but the ripple down effect is amazing. Booksellers.  Publishers. Relatives. Collection agencies.

I really do get emails from lots of my readers asking me why I haven’t been on the show.  It’s not easy.  Oprah has readers who have readers who have readers.  She’s one smart cookie and I know it’s just a matter of time before she has me on and then gives me my own show. And no, a Radish will not do a cooking show.  I have the whole thing planned but you’ll have to wait.

In the meantime I’m going to keep writing.  My head is spinning with novel novel ideas and I have all of you to keep me company while Oprah figures this out.

But just in case – I’m polishing up all my boots.

Remember the old days when there were like three kinds of bras and pretty much three kinds of anything to choose from?  Those were the days.  Color me clueless about bra fashions.

Years ago when my little princess daughter discovered the joys of expensive underwear I was heavily entrenched in my jogging bra era.  I’m still in my jogging bra era and  expect to be there unless the girls decide to re-invent themselves.  This is highly unlikely.

So my daughter had a strapless bra for prom, some kind of ritzy thing that crossed in the back, something else barely visible that always made made me ask, “Why bother?” She was and remains an all-occasion bra wearer.  As much as I hate to admit it I could have used her help Friday night.

I was dressing for a semi-nice event and decided now that I am able to tuck in my shirts again I may as well show my arms.  I mean what the hell, right? I put on a sleeveless top that left my bra straps exposed. Crap.

My partner and I had a long fashion discussion as I stood and looked at the one strap that would not disappear no matter how I stood or what I tucked where.  The last time this happend I simply tied the straps togeather with my emergency travel sewing kit. My mom would have been proud.

Yes, I know that there are all kind of bras that let women show a variety of body parts including upper arms, backs, sides, fronts and middles.  I just don’t happen to own any because I’ve just started exposing my body again after a twenty year hiatus.  We talked about fashion and how bras are now part of the outfit and how pretty much anything goes-even showing one lovely white bra strap.

I stood by the mirror for a very long time.  I bent over.  I lifted my arms and I decided I liked how I looked from the front and to hell with the misbehaving strap. There had to be a wall I cold stand against for a few hours.

No one tried to push my bra strap inside my shirt all night but this might be because there were 150 men at this event and three women and the men were more interested in each other’s bra straps if you get my drift.

No, I haven’t run out to the underwear store but I suppose it’s inevitable.  There’s more events and my arms are just dying to be seen.

My bra-happy daughter will be here in three weeks.  It’s time to suck it up and have her take me shopping for underwear.  I’m thinking about hiring a film crew.  This could be the ticket to fame I’ve been waiting for.

In the meatime I am seriously writing today in my old, and when I say old I am being very generous, strapless bathing suit.

Let’s call it practice.

Oops!