And Then We Were A Three Ring Circus

The Tao of Charlie Brown

2011-04-23T10:45:00.009-05:00

One of my favorite Charlie Brown quotes is, "Nothing takes the taste out of peanut butter quite like unrequited love." Although Charlie Brown was considered a blockhead by his peers, he was oh so wise. He had a heart as big as Texas. His quest for love from the Little Red Haired Girl always made me cheer him on. Come on Chuck! Go for it! Don't sit on the side lines any longer. So easy to say when you are not Charlie Brown. So easy to say when you are sure of where you stand in a relationship. Not so easy to say or do when you know you are standing on sand, not solid ground. I love peanut butter, especially chunky, but lately Charlie Brown is right, the flavor just ain't there.

The one thing good ol’ Chuck and I do not agree on is that I don't quite believe in unrequited love. You cannot be "in love" with someone if that love is not reciprocated. I hold tight to that thought even due to recent events. I do believe you can deeply love and care for someone; knowing that if the relationship continues down a specific path you see yourself easily falling in love.

The phrase "falling in love" is so appropriate. The realization that you are free falling, willing to let yourself be at your most vulnerable to someone, is freakin’ frightening as there are no nets in the high wire circus act of love. Whether reciprocated or not, your life, with one little realization, is about to be inextricably altered forever and always. Bye-bye comfort zone. Hello, doubt, uncertainty and insecurity. If a relationship has grown to this intensity, there most likely is a deep level of caring (and possibly love) reciprocated. But is it at the level you want or need? Is it at the level where your partner is willing to swing by on their trapeze and catch you as you fall?

For me, relationships always start better with friendship. The majority of my closest dating relationships began as friends. I cannot imagine caring for someone, or falling in love with someone without being friends first. Shared likes and dislikes, common interests and a deep respect for them as a human being are all foundations for friendship and sometimes, eventually, love. Build a relationship on anything less is akin to erecting a high-rise on sand. It will shift and tumble before the ground work is complete. I should know to trust the "friendship first rule". I first broke the "friendship first rule" when dating my ex-husband. And since “ex” is part of his current notoriety my explanation should be self explanatory.

Sometimes, though, relationships start backwards. You can’t help it. There is an immediate attraction that takes on a whole life of its own. The foundation is not built with bricks. The foundation is not really built at all. It’s as if the contractors decided to construct the middle 10 stories of a high-rise because that was the fun part and they liked working on those floor plans and interior design of those rooms. They want to do the fun stuff first. Then in a "d'oh!” slap on the head, what the hell have we done moment, the contractors realize nothing exists on which to stand their creation. They have to scramble and build the foundation. What once was feasible becomes extremely tricky and difficult to manage.

If both parties are willing, a plan can develop to backtrack and build that foundation. What once would have been simple and a beautiful natural progression turns into a difficult and awkward undertaking. The building can still be built, but due to strikes (wrestling with their own inner demons), labor negotiations (needing more or less than what each is capable of giving), revised architectural plans (logistics) and walk-outs (no longer available) both contractors need to be invested in the project at hand to restore balance to the building’s development. If one is unwilling, for whatever reason, no amount of bricks will stabilize the sand that has filtered into the groundwork and your relationship is going to fall like a high-rise built without pylons.

Where constructing a building is fairly black and white, love is not. In fact one needs a spectroscope to measure the variances and nuances of love. The music industry would be non existent if there were not a plethora of interpretations on love and its many different forms.

In my most recent relationship, neither of us believed in working on two projects simultaneously. Although we were both one building at a time contractors, an exclusivity clause was never discussed in detail or written in our partnership. It was more inherent in our personalities and beliefs. We could peruse other buildings or land. Be aware of what was out there. But neither one of us believed in renovating floor plans on more than one building at a time. So, when I learned my contracting partner had moved on to another project I was immensely bothered. In reality though, our union negotiations had been at a stand still for months and although our foundation had the support beams of respect, admiration, appreciation and a form of love in place, things were still a bit shaky. Too shaky to engineer the placement of those 10 floors we renovated months ago. It was going to take some pretty strong armed union tactics and a knowledgeable architect to bring this building to code and neither parties were in agreement. Rationally his moving on to another project made sense. Yet, I could not grasp why I was so angry and hurt.

Anyone who knows me knows my mind is moving 24/7. I contemplate everything ad nauseum. If you think it is frustrating knowing I think too much, just think about what it is like in my brain. It. Is. ExhaustING! Yet no one was more surprised than me when I realized my building was crumbling, union negotiations had failed and holy crap, the reason I was so upset is that I was free falling with no one on the trapeze to catch me. OK…there was one person more surprised than I, and I will get back to him shortly.

This epiphany happened while walking down Jackson Blvd. during rush hour, mid step on the way to the office causing a minor pedestrian pile up in front of Sears Tower. (I refuse to call it Willis. Refuse. I tell you.) Not a wise place to stop mid step. People were not pleased. Well if they knew what I was thinking, they would have known that I was not pleased either. Was I really falling? Had I fallen? Did I really care that much? Did he feel the same? My answers were in order: Yes. Quite possibly. Most definitely. Not a snowballs chance in hell. If he felt the same the new project would not exist.

My life, with that one little thought, was inextricably altered forever and always.

Bye-bye comfort zone.

Hello, doubt, uncertainty and insecurity.

Crap.

I was suddenly Charlie Brown in love with the Little Red Haired Girl and knew why he was on the side lines, why peanut butter lost its flavor, why he felt so vulnerable and why he was paralyzed with fear.

Still holding true to my belief that you cannot be in love without that feeling reciprocated, I realized you can still deeply love and care for someone. You can love and trust their friendship. Know and love their quirks and uniqueness. You can love how they look at life, love their strength of character, their honesty and how they treat others. You can respect them immeasurably. You can even respect how they convey the fact that they do not share the same deep feelings for you.

Some may consider that last statement pathetic. To me, not at all. As long as a breakup is not due to betrayal or abuse of any type and if the person can tell you their thoughts and feelings while taking into consideration how you will react, then you cannot do anything but wish them well. I won't lie to you. The message is still going to hurt. Believe me, when the band aide is finally ripped off, there is a sting, a kicked in the gut, son of bitch that hurts reaction. But truth be told, because your foundation maintains the cornerstones of respect, appreciation, admiration and love, they are going to convey their feelings gently being mindful of the bruise in your heart.

And that is what happened. With love and respect we were honest with each other. We both regret how we handled aspects of our relationship. He does not seem uncomfortable with my revelation and I wish him well. How could I not? The sting, kicked in the gut, son of a bitch that hurts reaction is still there. It will ease up eventually. I also learned there is a net when it comes to free falling and thinking you are not going to be caught. It arrives in the form of friends and family who love you.

Anorexia, Bulimia and the Road to Recovery

2011-01-02T12:15:00.010-06:00

How does one explain the mindset behind purposely starving oneself? I ponder that question as I sit here and munch on pretzel sticks, drink juice and type. Thirty years ago, I could have also been found munching on the same little sticks, but they would have been counted out to a specific number equaling 120 calories (100 calories were too few and 150 were completely unacceptable.) Thankfully, I no longer remember how many pretzel sticks equal 120 calories, although the number 24 comes to mind. What I do remember is that I could eat more of them than pretzel rods or the twisty kind; fooling my brain into thinking I ate more than I actually had. At the time, the drink of choice was not juice (too much sugar and too many calories), but TAB.

Never mind that TAB and pretzels contain tons of sodium, refined flour, pretend sugars and chemicals. If I was attempting to be healthy, I would have drunk tons of water, ate a healthful balanced diet and not attempt to deprive my body of essential nutrients. At the time I was convinced my behavior was healthy when it was anything but.  I was anorexic and eventually bulimic as well. I was addicted to starving myself.

Believe it or not, anorexia is an addiction. Just like alcoholism, gambling, or drugs. A person is addicted to depriving their body of necessary nutrients. There is a high that goes along with starvation. There really is. When mountain climbers experience oxygen deprivation they hallucinate, or think rather wacky thoughts. With that thought in mind, my sarcastic (healed) self believes the high comes from the effects of nutrient/caloric withdrawal on the brain. Seriously, why or how else could someone do this to themselves?

It is hard for me to remember that high and I am honestly glad I cannot re-create the feeling. My 15 extra pounds that refuse to leave my body after giving birth to Adam 15 years ago are a testament to being cured. Yet I remember how much I LOVED to bake cookies and never let the batter or spoon touch my lips. Being able to control my mind and body like that was euphoric. Personally, there is now a feeling of satisfaction when playing the role of "Quality Assurance" making sure everything tastes great. Back in 1980, the control I had over psyche, spirit and body was mind boggling.

So, again, I ask the question, how does one explain the mindset behind purposely starving oneself? The only answer I have is control. My life had suddenly turned out of control and I needed to create a sense of order, regardless of how misdirected.  I left for college in the fall of 1979 a bit fluffy. I was 17, not quite 5'2" and weighed about 133 lbs. I was on my own for the first time after growing up in an over protected Italian household. Personally, I could not wait to move away, spread my wings and fly. No one knew, nor would I divulge, how scared I was on the inside.

That same fall I fell in love for the first time and subsequently learned the pain of a broken heart. Knowing my parents expected I do well in college and needing to micro focus on anything but heartache, I threw myself into classes. It wasn't good enough to me, or my parents, that I was the first Concialdi to obtain a degree. Grades were extremely important. Grades showed perseverance and hard work. If I received a B, my dad always asked why it was not an A. I doubt he realized the pressure his comment inflicted. In his own way he was being supportive and knew that I could achieve anything for which I strove. He did not realize that I strove to be the perfect child and make him proud.  Being an over achiever was easy and I excelled in almost every class. Yet, the pressure I put upon myself was more than my frightened and hurt psyche could tolerate.

My dorms were the farthest away from campus requiring me to walk a minimum of two miles a day. After a while I upped my trek to campus; taking 3 or 4 trips into town and logging 6-8 miles a day. Then I added dance classes to the mix. I needed to lose a little weight, but as the weight started to melt off, I took over achievement to a whole new art form.

By the time I came home for spring break I was 25 pounds lighter. My brother, Mark, barely recognized me. I could step in and out of my jeans without unbuttoning or unzipping. At summer break I weighed 93 pounds. In nine months I lost a total of 40 pounds. The doctors were concerned, but I assured them I was not anorexic. The term was not common nomenclature in 1980 and they were surprised I knew the term. They then informed me I would be hospitalized if I lost one more pound. Wondering if they would stand behind their word, I took their statement as a dare and tried my hardest to lose that last pound. Don't ask why. The thought process of an anorexic is really not rational. Fortunately, I craved salty foods (pretzels contain zero fat) and massive amounts of TAB. To this day, I truly believe sodium, water retention and excessive carbonation prohibited my hospital admittance that summer.

I eventually gained a few pounds; hovering around 98-99. Every morning when I awoke, I ran into the bathroom and weighed myself (after I peed of course). Then I scrutinized myself in the mirror to make sure my thighs did not touch and that my stomach was flat.  If something touched or protruded, additional sit-ups, squats or walking was added to my routine. I continued this behavior throughout the majority of my college life with a slight foray into binging and purging for interest.

Positive that my body still contained ugly fat, I walked into a fitness center and wanted them to assess my BMI (Body Mass Index). It was barely on the charts. Surprise! Surprise! The women at the center who obviously had me pegged as anorexic tried to chat with me about lean muscle and consuming protein. I would have none of it.

No one in my family could understand my behavior. We were Sicilian for God's sake. Everyone ate. There were no excuses. Sunday meals at our house could feed the 299th battalion, yet I barely swallowed anything. I remember Mark loading my arms up with food; telling me to sit and eat. What was easy for all was impossible for me. I remember seeing the pain in my father's eyes. My chubby dad could not comprehend why I was torturing myself (and him). I remember once, with tears in his eyes, he asked me why I was so unhappy. He wanted to make it all better, but helping me was completely out of his realm. My mother thought teasing me would snap me out of it. She always had her own thoughts about weight and hated when I was fluffy. She called me her "little anorexic". No amount of tears or cajoling worked. I was the Queen of Control.

My parents sent me to a behavior modifier. Her task was to convince me to change my behavior. Little did she realize that I would go to great lengths to keep my skeletal frame as skeletal as possible. She and I planned menus and discussed what I loved to eat. Did she seriously think I was going to dine on any of the suggested peanut butter, macaroni and cheese, pasta or vanilla shakes? If she did, she was as delusional as I.

The death of my grandmother added to my need to gain control of my life. The last time I saw Granny Concialdi was at Christmas Break of 1980. Gran was 83 and ill, but she was a tough ol' Sicilian. My dad was Gran's youngest child and the light of her life. I was my dad's youngest child and the youngest of all the grandchildren. I too held a very special place in her heart. I stopped by her house the day I was returning to college. If I had realized it was the last time I was going to see her I would not have argued with her.

But Gran had a way about her. She had been telling me since I was 5 that she was never going to see me again. It's not like we lived far away. I lived on the next block. After my kindergarten graduation she told me she was never going to see go to first grade. Randomly throughout grade school she told me she was dying. After my 8th grade graduation I received the same speech and subsequently throughout high school. When I left for college...same speech. SO, here it was Christmas of my sophomore year of college. I had heard this argument my whole life. When I ran over to her house to say goodbye, Gran cried and told me she was never going to see me again.

Throughout any of these previous declarations I never argued with her. I always hugged her and said I would see her soon. This time, I argued; explaining that she had been telling me the same story for 13 years. I said that I would see her either at Spring Break or when I came home for the summer. And I promised that she would see me graduate college. I was naive. She cried, hugged me and kissed me goodbye. For Spring Break I went to Daytona with some friends and Gran died a couple of weeks later.

I lost an uncle when I was 10, but this was the first death I ever experienced as an adult. Well, as much of an adult you can be at 18. I was devastated. It also broke my heart because Gran was so sad when I left her house in January.  I took for granted that she would always be around. And I chose the last time that I saw her to argue. If I needed any additional excuses to punish myself via starvation, this was definitely a perfect time to do so.

From that moment on I was completely hyper focused; concentrating on my classes and my diet. I took over achievement to a whole new art form. By my junior year in college my family was spiraling out of control even more. My mother was diagnosed with colon cancer in October of '81. They knew going into her surgery that the tumor was malignant, yet my parents chose not to tell me until I asked for an honest answer. My father was now worried about the two women in his life. Both of us were facing life threatening illnesses and he did not know what to do.  One could be cured by surgery. But the other required treatment unknown to him. My disease was so foreign and incomprehensible. He was petrified that the news of Mom's illness would cause further starvation. What he did not realize is that any excuse fueled the fire.

Once given the news of her illness and surgery, I hopped in my car in Champagne and the muffler promptly fell off before I could hit the expressway. 4:45 on a Friday afternoon. Who was going to fix my car so I could get home? I HAD to get home. Nothing was going to stop me. My friend Chris and I pulled into a Midas shop where I was informed they did not have the part for my '73 Pontiac Catalina (a.k.a. the SS Concialdi). I calmly explained that my mother was in the hospital and I had to get to Chicago. They calmly explained that they did not have the part. A little louder, I explained they were a muffler shop and they should have the parts. They, again, explained they could not. A little louder and a little more frantic, I explained that my mother was in the hospital. She had cancer and I needed to get home.  They explained a little more emphatically that they could not fix it 10 minutes before closing. That is when I completely lost it. Think Shirley MacLaine in Terms of Endearment "Give my daughter the shot" lost it. My car was fixed and Chris and I were on the road by 6PM. I drove 80mph; arriving at the hospital before 8, a good 1/2 hour prior than I should. My poor friend, Chris, white knuckled the ride with me. All I can remember her saying is, "Would you like me to drive? Seriously, Mar, I'd be happy to drive." Pulling over required minutes and I would have none of that. Still friends, the poor woman has yet to ride in a car with me 30 years later.

As I arrived at my mom's hospital room the phone was ringing. Without barely looking at my mom, but sensing she was asleep, I grabbed the phone so not to wake her.  It was my dad calling to say I would be arriving within the hour. When my dad heard my voice he knew exactly what I had done. "Baby, how did you get there so quickly?" he asked. My only response was, "Traffic was good, Daddy. You would be amazed." Once I hung up the phone, knowing a lecture about safety, speeding and reckless driving was in my very near future, I turned to look at my mom. She was so frail hooked to a variety of loud, scary machines helping her live. I slowly backed myself up to the hospital room wall, slid down and fainted. I awoke to a couple of nurses, juice and cookies. The nurses could see what I was oblivious to. They would not let me leave until I ate the cookies...which took forever.

Soon thereafter, I decided that starving myself was getting a little too difficult, but I did not want to gain weight. That is when I hopped on the bulimia roller coaster. Some people are able to easily vomit. Not this girl. It is difficult for me to throw up when I have the flu. Throwing up when "healthy" took industrial strength effort. Throwing up an apple, celery, some pretzels and a couple of hard boiled eggs (Yes. That was my daily diet.) required more work than I cared to muster.  Although bulimic, I was obviously lazy about the tasks at hand. After numerous attempts at throwing up, I broke all the blood vessels around my eyes. Anorexia and bulimia are all about vanity. Wanting to look your best (in your mind's eye). The idea of looking as if I had been KO'd in the ring was completely unacceptable. Throwing up was not the only option with bulimia, so I ate and found various means to not keep the food in my system.

By my senior year my mother had two surgeries and radiation. She had one more surgery in her future, but she was going to be fine.  No one was quite sure if I was going to do the same. That September a family friend was getting married. Mark was in the wedding party and we were all going as a family. It was a celebration. Mom had kicked cancer's butt, Mark had just gotten engaged. All was right with the world. I went home that weekend to celebrate with everyone.

That night Daddy kept announcing to my mom, "You don't feel well. Let's go home." She kept saying, "I feel great! Let's stay." After a while, my mom, quite exasperated with my father, said, "According to your father I don't feel well. We are going home."  She was none too happy about this either. It was my father who did not feel well.

When I got home from the wedding Daddy was up watching TV. He was sweating. I remember kissing him good night and telling him I loved him. I awoke the next morning to the phone ringing. Mom was calling from the hospital. She had called an ambulance in the night. Unbeknown to us, Daddy had a mild stroke during the day; he went to the wedding not feeling well. Looking back there were signs of odd behavior, but none of us knew the signs of a stroke. We were all focused on the wedding and he never indicated he felt ill. The stroke weakened his heart. By the time he woke Mom to tell her he did not feel well it was too late. He died of a heart attack on the way to the hospital.

The next few months are a blur.  The pain of losing a parent is incomprehensible. I was sad and frightened. Mom was facing one last surgery and I was petrified I would lose them both.  But somewhere in that blur I realized that what I was doing to myself was insane. Life is a precious gift and my actions were equivalent to Russian Roulette. The thought process was a slow awakening. A flicker of a thought which eventually took root.

It took years to return to "normal" although I credit Baskin Robbins to part of my healing. I initially did not change much of my diet, but allowed myself ice cream on occasion. How could something so creamy and yummy be bad for you? To this day my brother Mike recalls me eating an ice cream sundae with a Diet Pepsi by my side. (I needed to balance out the calories.) Still not healthy, but the action was baby steps towards recovery. It was the first realization that eating rationally was not so frightening. Fear of caloric intake was prominent in my mind, but I s...l...o...w...l...y started to live a healthier lifestyle.

Today, I can no longer tell you the caloric value of most food items and am very proud of that inability.

Friendships

2010-09-14T16:20:00.003-05:00

I am blessed. When it comes to friendships I am truly blessed. I have friends from every part of my life: amazing relatives who I would choose as friends even if we did not share DNA, grade school friends (with whom I have been reacquainted thanks to Facebook), high school friends (thanks to Janie), college, and then throughout to my adult life.

I am not talking about fleeting friendships. Those friends that wander into your life for a brief period due to school, office or neighborhood affiliations. The friends I speak of love me, because of me and...well...in spite of me. They love me regardless of all my faults and failings. That unconditional love is reciprocated to each and every one of them. Again, I am thankful and blessed.

The best example of loving me in spite of me is Maggie. We have been there for each other for the past 19 years.  Together we have lived through raising 4 children, 2 divorces, money woes, jobs or lack thereof, depression, crushes, fear, illness, death, relationships, broken hearts, endless phone calls and most of all a friendship that will endure a lifetime. If I had a penny for every minute we spoke on the phone in the past 19 years, I would be a millionaire. Although not wealthy, I am honestly richer in spirit because of her friendship.

We always have each other's back. After her divorce, she could not afford to pay a speeding ticket. She was experiencing a series of bad luck and I was afraid her license would be revoked if it was not paid soon. So, although she did not ask for assistance, I paid her ticket. However much money the ticket was has been repaid to me 1,000,000 times over.

Maggie is my Wing Girl. Going on a first date?  One of us is on the other end of the phone suggesting clothing options and moral support. Final words before hanging up are always, "Call me - no matter what time! I want to know how it all went. Love you!" Especially for those blind dates, the "call me no matter what time" phrase is to make sure the other did not date the next Ted Bundy. Upon driving home from said date, Wing Girl is there to find out how the date went and if there will be date #2.

Maggie is, in fact, one of my favorite dates. Whenever possible, we go out for dinner and a movie date. We laugh a lot(!), shop, eat, drink and go to the movies. We often joke that if one of us was the opposite sex we would be married by now. Once we went to see "Confessions of a Shopaholic". Maggie bought drinks before the movie and I planned to buy movie tickets and popcorn. Unbeknownst to me there was a problem with my ATM card. Earlier that day I tried to update my GPS maps through TomTom's website which is based in the United Kingdom. There was a problem with their website. After three attempts to update my GPS maps I gave up and decided to update them another day. Yet, my bank decided someone had access to my VISA check card and was trying to use it in the UK. They shut down all access until they could reach me.  They, unfortunately, neglected one small detail. They forgot to call me and tell me that they were freezing my account. Now I NEVER carry cash on me. Carrying cash is completely against my religion. So, we get to the theatre to see (again) "Confessions of a Shopaholic" (isn't the irony priceless?) and my check card does not work...at all. Completely and totally declined. Payday was the day before. I knew there was money in there. Money comes and goes quickly with me, but it sticks around for at least a weekend.

What could we do? We laughed.   Maggie paid.

After 10 years of debate and countless field trips to tattoo parlors looking for the perfect Meg/Alexis angel, Maggie joined me on my tattoo field trip. We laughed at all the different tattoos. Seriously, naked angels with vampire fangs? Obscene butterflies? Not sure about you, but I believe butterfly bodies should not be phallic symbols. Tattoo parlors are a strange and crazy world. But with the two of us we had a blast. After my angel was permanently affixed to my shoulder, Maggie was already asking what my next one would be. Tattoos are rather addicting. Most likely the Chinese symbols of "To Live, To Love, To Laugh." The problem I initially had with that question is the same problem I have now. Where to place those symbols? Therefore, there have not been any more tattoo field trips, nor do I have Chinese symbols permanently adhered to my body.

Maggie May knows everything about me...and I mean everything. (Side note to the men I have dated: OK...she does not know everything, but she does know as much about you as your best friend knows about me.)  I cannot lie, or bluff. She was there for every episode of my life since 1991. The one thing I can always and only be with her is real. No fronts, nor falseness. Occasionally there is bravado, but when I return to earth there is always laughter, or tears, over my false bravado.

While taking pole dancing classes a couple of years ago, I called Maggie weekly on my way home to tell her about spinning, flipping, or about how strong and powerful I felt after my 2 hour workout. I convinced her to come to an S Factor Open House so she could see first hand what this was all about. After entering her name in a raffle, Maggie went home with her own stripper pole to install in her 1 bedroom Rogers Park condo.

We slid the 10' pole into my SUV. It went from my windshield, over the backseat and through the hatch. We secured the pole with bungee cords and tied a red winter scarf on to the 1'-2' of extra pole sticking out of the car.  Once we got it into her back alley, attempting to get that dang long skinny box up two floors of a winding back porch staircase to her condo was a Lucy and Ethel moment like no other. We dodged live (yes, live) electrical wires, almost dropped it when I was scared by a squirrel (I swear it was rabid), laughed till tears were streaming down our faces. Of course I was in heels (aren't I always?) Can you imagine if that pole actually hit a live wire, there would have been two crispy critter women (and possibly fried rabid squirrel) and many questions why we were trying to bring a pole dancing pole up to a 1 bedroom condo. Questions would have been raised by many. Those that know us would have shaken their heads and said, "We are not surprised."

When Mags decided she really could not store her winnings in her living room (on the floor, along the long wall, behind the T.V., stereo and chair) any longer, I offered to store it for her in my basement. Which required us to return down two stories of the winding back porch staircase, again almost hitting live (yes, live!) electrical wires, (no squirrel this time) again laughing like idiots as we almost fried ourselves, again into my car where we slide it from windshield to hatch, tied a red winter scarf onto the last two feet of the box, secured it with bungee cords and I drove it down Lake Shore Drive to my house. Once there, my accomplice, Katrina, helped me bring it through the garage, into the family room, pass my mother who was sleeping on the couch, down into the sub-basement and into our storage room. Where it stayed until Maggie donated it (just last week) to a Harley charity raising money for ovarian cancer research. The story is legend with my friends. To this day, when the story is told I get tears in my eyes from laughing.

Our friendship has seen the worst of me and the best of Maggie. Maggie is never mean, so I have never seen the worst of her. I have seen her at her saddest. And I have seen her angry. But never at her worst because I truly don't believe she has "mean" built into her genetic code. There are very few people in the world that possess pure kind souls. I have been fortunate to meet a handful. Maggie May is one of them.  When faced with a situation, I quite often ask, "What would my Maggie May do?".   Or "What would Maggie May think?"

How many friends can laugh about the fact that I threw a clipboard at her? Yes, I did. Really. Sad but true. It is still the most embarrassing moment of my life, yet Maggie laughs about it. When the subject comes up, I generally want to hide my head in the sand. At the time I was frustrated in my job. My ex-husband was making my life miserable. I was angry, annoyed and irritated with everyone. Actually, I was angry, annoyed and irritated with myself, but it was easier to be angry at the world. I hated my life. I had always wanted a career yet I knew my career was derailed due to single-parenthood with a toddler and pre-schooler. Any career was going to be on the back burner for a number of years. I love my children and would go through it all again to have them in my life, but at the time I could not see the forest for the trees. I felt stuck with little options.

If I remember right (because honestly, I've attempted to obliterate this moment of my life out of my memory), we were making audition phone calls for the theatre. We had a clipboard for each day of auditions and I had the one she needed. For whatever reason, instead of handing it to her, or flipping it onto her desk (our desks were definitely within handing and flipping distance), I threw the clipboard at her. In my brain I meant to toss it, but there was definitely more throw than toss in my actions. I don't know why I did it. I never wanted to hurt her. But in a burst of anger it went flying. Maggie, fortunately, remained unscathed, yet I still remember the look of surprise on her face. She teases me about it. I remain mortified.

Yet, I am blessed.

There are endless stories involving many different friends. Each one holds a special place in my heart.

But if a friend can forgive me and still love me unconditionally for what could have been bodily injury, I am beyond fortunate.

Laughter

2010-09-11T14:34:00.006-05:00

One of my earliest memories is about laughing. My Uncle Jim is a doctor (still practicing at 81 - God bless him!). When I was little he would visit us; chasing me around the house pretending to be a monster. He threatened to take me to live at the hospital where the nurses would take care of me. Most kids would be scared. And actually I was afraid of so many things as a child that I cannot believe I was unafraid of my uncle, or unknown nurses at an unknown hospital. Yet I remember my peals of laughter and giggles as I ran away; running just slow enough so Uncle Jim could catch me and throw me over his shoulder. I doubt I was more than 3 or 4, but that memory is etched in my brain.

I love that my kids make me laugh. We are talking full out, bust a gut, slide down the wall, can't catch my breath, afraid I am going to pee my pants, tears streaming down my face laughter. Although that kind of laughter does not occur every day, I love when it does. We laugh daily. If any of us attempted to explain why, no one would understand, but I am sure gonna try.

The laugh can be inspired by a look, a simple word, or action. The "I'm afraid I'm gonna pee my pants" laughter mentioned above was simply due to opening my daughter's bedroom door last winter to find her multitasking as usual. The room was dark except for the glow of her TV and a book light clipped to her headband so she could read and watch TV while being completely encased in blankets. (In the winter her room resembles a meat locker due to horrid windows.) I haven't a clue how she turned the pages of her book. With her nose? She must have known how silly she looked because her faced reflected the thought of being caught in the act of something extremely silly. It was the combo platter of a cold breeze hitting me in my face and the look on her face that sent me into giggles.

And, by the way, nothing is sacred and quite often irreverent. Putting dinner on the table, or dining together is generally where the laughter begins. We don't care if we have company. Join the jokes, puns and silliness. The more the merrier. Most times when we have company, we end up sitting around the dinner table (or venturing only as far as the living room) talking and laughing for hours. I love that about my family and friends.

Anyone who dines at our table holds a special place in my heart as they are about to witness my family at their most real and surreal. Few have entered this domain. No casualties reported yet because I am very careful of the guest list. There was a time when I worried as to who would share my life. Would they understand our dinner table antics are sacred to us? Would they criticize? I no longer worry because anyone I would invite over would know how to laugh, joke, join the ensuing silliness and keep up with witty repartee.

Once as I walked in the door from work, Kat was teaching Gramma how to drop it and pop it. Music was blaring and there was my daughter and mother dancing in the kitchen. Trina was encouraging Gramma to "work it". Wish I had a video camera at that moment in time, but honestly, I was laughing too hard and having too much fun watching my mom dropping and popping. The dancing was pretty good. She knows how to move. And I am fairly jealous.

Another time Trina made Adam laugh so hard (can't remember why) water spewed from his mouth. As it arched through the air and hit the floor the evening sun caught the jet stream creating a beautiful rainbow. Sunny D quite possibly came out of Trina's nose as she witnessed the rainbow. But then of course, she was all, "Do it again! That was SO cool." Yes, the source of our laughter is quite everything and nothing.

Last winter, it was just Trina, Gramma and I at the dinner table as Adam was in bed with the flu. Trina always makes me laugh, but this particular evening she was on a roll. It started out with Trina trying to convince Gramma to join a dating website for seniors. First off, my mother can't even figure out how to turn on the netbook we purchased for her, let alone attempt geriatric on-line dating. But that did not stop Katrina. She wanted Gramma to go bike riding with some senior "dude" she saw on a commercial. I suggested a pub crawl. Gramma thinks we are both nuts.

Kat then told me the senior "dude" on the bike looked like he was in his fifties. Uh...gee...thanks hon...senior dude?...you are hitting a little too close to home for this 48 year old mom...so I grounded her. She laughed at me.

We then started gossiping about seniors that were currently dating. Katrina is sure there is a senior somewhere in Gramma's circle of friends that would be a great match. Gramma is sure her only current mission in life is to live vicariously through her grandchildren. Katrina suggested Gramma raise her expectations as their lives are not interesting. We then all agreed my dating life was completely snooze inducing. Can you feel the love?

Katrina, Adam and I banter constantly. One liners fly back and forth. Sadly, if the batteries in Gramma's hearing aides are not fully juiced she misses much of the rapid fire comments flying around the table. I spend a lot of time explaining what just happened which is often lost in translation, forcing me to miss out on the latest bit of insanity.

Although Adam is not quiet, and quite funny on his own, his sister over powers him in most scenarios. He is generally the straight man playing off of her lunacy. Desi to her Lucy. One of Katrina's favorite phrases is Mother Flower when she is angry. Adam stole the phrase when crabby about something. The next thing I heard was Katrina yelling, "Mom...Adam said Flower". I don't care what Adam was angry about, her stupid comment made him forget his troubles...for a moment.

Katrina's friends are surprised how the kids and I speak to each other. Yes, I know that I am the parent and they are my children. People remind me all the time that I am not their friend, but their parent. Thanks for the news flash folks. We do know. But honestly, I LOVE my kids. We have fun. My parenting style may be different, but I think I get the job done. And no one has been arrested...yet.

I have never condoned name calling. To me that is just rude. But being siblings, the phrase Dork or Idiot flies through the air on occasion. They never name call their Gramma or I. But they often tell me I am a Geek. I happily agree and am rather proud of the moniker. So, when Trina called me a Geek one day, a friend of hers was appalled. I explained to the boy whose English paper I was proofing that I am admittedly one and I happily embrace my inner geekiness. I get giddy over algebra homework. What can I say? They repeatedly tell me that I am whacked. This poor kid said his mother would have killed him for that remark. His mother obviously had a sense of humor-ectomy.

We have a sign in the dining room that is perpetually crooked. No matter how often I try to straighten it, it tilts to the left. I've given up. The sign reads, "Blessed are we who can laugh at ourselves as we will never cease to be amused." The slightly skewed sign is how I prefer to look at life. The fact that it won't hang straight on the wall is a metaphor for life. Nothing is as it seems and one can always tip a situation; finding humor behind it. Honestly we are often amused.

About 2 years ago my best friend Maggie won a pole dancing pole in a raffle at S Factor. Since her condo is not big enough to store it, I offered to keep it in our basement until she decided to either install it or sell it. It stayed in our basement unopened until she donated it to an auction raising money for ovarian cancer. But while it was still hanging out in our basement, one day while we were all dining on Chinese take out (yes, the best stories happen at our house over a meal) my mom asked what that long skinny box was in our storage room. Honestly, how could I explain a stripper pole to my 79 year old mother and why we were storing it? My response was, “It’s a pole…of sorts”. Considering Katrina was my accomplice when bringing the pole into the house, sneaking it through the garage, into the basement, passing my mother sleeping on living room couch and down the steps into the sub-basement and storage room, Katrina's shrimp fried rice flew across the room. I have never seen her laugh THAT hard. Gramma accepted the "pole of sorts" response; never questioning whether it was a light pole, coat rack, stripper pole.

Later that evening, Trina's friends, Eric and Antoine, show up to devour our Chinese take out leftovers. Katrina starts telling them about my "pole of sorts" comment to Gramma. The teens attempt to convince me to install the pole in the basement. One of the boys asked, "Ma, do you realize you would be the coolest mom at LT?" Um...yeah...and...not in this life time. I really don't care that my daughter's social standing would increase exponentially. Not the notoriety we want...or need. They did create hours of laughter discussing our house as the party palace with one of the boys attempting to mimic pole dancing with a dining room chair. The woman across the street who loves to peek out her window must have LOVED that scenario. I kept the curtains open. Heck if Gladys Kravitz is going to watch our house, she might as well have something to talk about later.

After dinner Gramma generally retreats to the family room to watch Wheel of Fortune, so our laughter gravitates upstairs. The kids generally do homework, text their friends and watch TV in their rooms. I generally sit in the middle of my bed which is my "desk", work on real estate, pay bills, or write. My door is open and they wander in and out throughout the evening. Our little area in the house is where the laughter continues. Great memories have been created wandering between our three rooms.

Sometimes I don't see what is going on in their rooms, but I hear it. The other day, Adam, while going through an Emo phase, wanted to see what he would look like with eye-liner and convinced Trina to teach him how to apply it. What I could hear from the other room was a simultaneously stream of commands and complaints, "Hold still. Open your eyes...Open them...I said hold still...Aargh!...you're swaying...stop it." Adam's version was, "Ow...I'm not swaying...Ow!...They are open" Next, I heard, "Have Mom show you!" With that Adam appeared in my room looking like a lost puppy and only half eye-lined.

Later the same night, Trina stood in my doorway bopping to music. Mind you, no Ipod or ear buds were attached. The music she was listening to was completely in her brain. As I am quite use to this behavior, I asked, "What station are we listening to today?" Techno. I could not help but laugh. Here is a girl listening to her own cranial MP3 while her pony tail swayed to the beat. A little while later, I noticed a different beat of her head as she wandered into the hallway. All I have to do is raise an eye brow, or tilt my head and she'll tell me the latest genre playing their top 40 list. It ranges from Punk, Techno, Oldies, Classic Rock, Country, etc. Once she told a friend it was Mozart. One thing for sure, my baby girl wouldn't know Mozart from Beethoven, but her comment had the intended effect of wonder.

There are endless stories of laughter and silliness. No one ever said life was going to be easy. But I honestly believe if you take what is thrown at you, find the humor in the situation and parlay it back to the universe wrapped in laughter you will live a happier existence.

Enjoy the moment.

Seize the humor.

Laugh.

God Humor

2010-03-14T23:11:00.022-05:00

Dear God, You are a funny, funny Deity. You bring Almighty Humor to a whole new level. You probably hear that all the time, though! Right? Unless of course I am the only pawn You like messin' with. Please tell me that You do mess with others.

Please...tell me.

It would be way too presumptuous of me to think that I, out of millions and millions, could possibly be singled out in this laugh track You call Life. But since You keep messin' with me there must be something that holds Your interest. Is it my comedic timing? Or the fact that I just keep making the same stupid mistakes over and over and over...? Am I the real life equivalent to Lucy? If so, who is my Ethel? And can't I be Marilyn for a change? Do You sit back with a bowl of popcorn and a coke while chaos erupts around me?

While I am asking a million questions, Lord, may I ask why, Dear God? Why? Am I dense? Really? Are there lessons I keep refusing to learn?

Oh...hmmm...yes, I do remember that incident...which I then repeated that mistake a year or two later...ugh...and then there was...OK...hmmm...are You going to hold that one against me too? Oh...OK...never mind. No need to answer that question. I got the picture. But I don't mean to be obtuse when it comes to life lessons. You're not buying that one, right? Maybe I'm just a slow life learner?

While my plate is full to overflowing, You enjoy wreaking havoc in all areas of my life: financial, employment, social, health, familial. Am I missing any? Oh, yeah, the one area in which You seem to take great delight in creating cataclysmic proportional chaos is my dating life. My dates are so few and far between. Yet once one potential gentleman (victim?) arrives You throw me a curve ball which I never see coming. As You know my life resembles a tornado, hurricane or earthquake (pick a natural disaster...any natural disaster), so I am rather discriminating in my dating choices. Only the McGyver types who are resourceful enough to survive a tsunami with a palm leaf and string are allowed into my inner sanctum. If they are not resourceful, take pity on their poor clueless souls as they enter my life.

In all seriousness, I refuse to waste my time if there is not even a glimmer of potential, or possibility. It's not like I have a 100 point questionnaire they must complete. My requirements are not lengthy at all: intelligent, kind, funny, honest, creative and passionate in their convictions. If they make me laugh as well as think, well, I am done for. Totally done for. Bonus points for cute. Yet it seems that even when they arrive, something happens and the relationship crashes and burns faster than a car at Indy.

WHY?!?!

Although I did my fair share of ruining relationships, I will not take the fall on all of them. Seriously, excluding this year, think about the last two men You sent my way. It was over 18 months ago. Do You remember the guy from Match who thought date number one would end up in a booty call and was pissed when it did not? Seriously, one dinner at Big Bowl does not a booty call make. If it was Spiaggia, Tru, or Alinea there may have been a moment of pause, or consideration, without any follow through mind You (it was date #1 after all). But it was Big Bowl. So, no pause. No consideration. And no thank you. Did he expect that with every woman he met? Only You know for sure. With that thought in mind, eeewww!...is all I can say.

Then Lord, remember the nutjob who wanted me to take a personality test so he knew how to react to me? The saddest part of that one is I complied with said stupid test. Around date three, he informed me I was reacting a certain way to something he said because I am a #2 and he is a #7. No, I was reacting that way because his behavior to someone else was rude and obnoxious. If he could treat someone he knew for years that way, how would he treat me down the road? I could never keep the number stuff straight anyway. I'm good at algebra, not psychological accounting. God...You were there...You know I am not making this stuff up.

While I have Your attention, may we chat about another item...or two? Can You please stop sending married men my way? If they have issues (and don't we all have issues?) either give them the strength and clarity of thought to fix their marriage, or have them call me after the ink dries on their divorce decree. This is not an unreasonable request.

The final topic comes to mind after recently commiserating with a broken hearted friend. When presented with a Porsche, why do people choose a pick-up? If they have the option of driving a BMW, why hook up with a trailer? It truly boggles the mind. All of my questions and rants can be attributed to both sexes. Do people feel they are unworthy of a Porsche or BMW? Are they afraid of the commitment and responsibility to care for said vehicle? If You tell me that it is for the thrill of driving a different car, I am going to have to find alternate metaphors as a pick-up or trailer do not equate a thrill ride. And You my Dear Lord, are the only Benevolent Being able to answer these questions.

I am looking for the man who wants to care for and be proud of his Porsche. Doesn't it make sense that I am a bit gun shy?

I keep hoping You will send someone my way that will allow me to enjoy life for a bit and forget about all the other scenarios with which You keep thumping me on the head. Between financial woes, a mom who takes wacky behavior to a whole new level, single parenthood, career frustrations, semi-annual health tests, and an insane ex-husband, my plate is as over filled as a Thanksgiving feast. I am not looking for someone to take those things away from me. They are my issues with which to rectify.

What I could use is a little TLC. Someone with whom to enjoy an evening out so I can forget about the above for a short while. A phone call, or text, to see how my day is going is always an added bonus. I recently enjoyed those. They are quite wonderful. The last gentleman You sent my way made life lovely. He was total mind candy...intelligent conversations that stimulated my brain. A great sense of humor. Late night phone calls. And massive bonus points in the cute category. Getting ready to go out was exciting again. I forgot what it was like to feel my heart race when I received a text, or saw his name pop up on my caller ID. It was like a mini shot of espresso from my heart to my toes. A pretty terrific feeling. It was fun to smile out of the blue when thinking of him. And it was so nice to be thought of as desirable again. It had been so long since I was seen that way. I was beginning to wonder if it was still possible. Lord, things were looking up for the first time in a long time. Now, my phone is a bit too quiet. Why did it get complicated?

This is not a complete bitch session. You bring very interesting men to my life. I learn alot from each one. The good ones are always creative in some capacity. Do You realize three have been musicians? Of course You did. Otherwise, You would not be You. I even inspired a song which is currently on a CD. My one little claim to fame. But You knew that as well. I am very thankful for each experience as they shaped me into the person I am today. My only concern is that although You bring very interesting, creative men into my life, You hold them just out of reach like a carrot, or bunny, to a race horse.

Lord, I am so flippin' tired of everything in my life being out of reach. I often feel like said race horse running in circles; never quite reaching my goals. Scholastically, I have always been an over achiever, yet in my adult life I seem to be achievement challenged. WHAT am I doing wrong?

I was recently told that I was beautiful and light up a room. And that I should never feel bad or lacking about anything. Yet some how, some way, I always feel as if I am...lacking that is. The feeling tends to come from insecurities created by Life Lessons slapping me upside the head at the most inopportune times.

It would be great if a McGyver-type was as ready for a relationship with me as much as I am ready for a relationship with him. I want to be #1 in someone's life. Someone who equally twitterpates my heart; as I his. Is that too much to ask? Seriously? Lord, it is what I need. Not want. Need. There is just too much chaos around me. Something simple and beautiful would be wonderful. While in wishful thinking mode, if he arrived at the door with a bouquet of wild flowers, lavender and daisies I'd be exceptionally thrilled. But I won't get greedy. Twitterpated hearts rank above lavender and daisies, but lavender and daisies are simple, thoughtful and quite lovely.

Lately, I am very much trying to go with the flow, enjoy the journey and see where it all leads. But honestly, can You help with a little positive Divine intervention? Please? I am so lost; a little celestial GPSing would be wonderful.

It would be great to walk into a relationships with a wide open heart. Completely unjaded and fearless. If we reduced love to mathematical equations they would resemble the following:

Guarded heart + Jaded = Bad Relationship

Open heart + Honesty + Truth = Good Relationship

My intentions always start out with the second equation. Maggie, my biggest cheerleader, always tells me, "This is your year. I know it. I can feel it." She has been saying it since 1998. (Thank You by the way for at least keeping Maggie in my life. She keeps me sane.) Something tells me she will be confirming that "This is my year" on my deathbed.

I am all about the good relationship equation. The person becomes my friend. We enjoy each other's company. We start to care about each other. But even as I am working the whole open heart thing, something happens. Either with him. Or with me. It can be a variety of somethings, but You tend to enjoy the ex-girlfriend scenario. It is Your favorite storyline, isn't it? You always put a different spin on it, though. Just to keep things interesting? Us pawns are happy to oblige, but it is getting a little old. Can we try something different? Will You let me catch the carrot for once and let me enjoy a real relationship for a change? That is MY requested scenario.

But when the "something" happens, those old insecurities pop into my brain. The heart hardens a bit. It starts locking up rather than opening. The wall that was torn down starts to be re-built with a little barbed wire added for effect. What seems so simple gets all complicated when hearts (his and mine) have been previously eviscerated, skewered and run through a meat grinder. Ok...meat grinder may be a bit dramatic, but it paints an adequate picture. Let's try a novel approach to my relationships. How about one that is happy, fulfilling and long lasting? By the by, long lasting is a relative term. Give me a relationship that will last a season...three months...with an option to renegotiate the contract at the end of 90 days. Can You give me that and find someone else to irritate for a bit? Please? (You do realize my request is asked with the utmost respect?)

Lord, I do understand though, that if I was the right woman, the ex-girlfriend, or other scenarios, would no longer matter. One of the hardest lessons I ever learned is that no amount of "girl tricks" (as a friend once called them) will entice a man for any length if I am not the right one. See, my brain is not complete cement. I do listen...grudgingly...on occasion.

My guess is that You keep thumping me on the head because I am missing some other very basic and obvious signs. Which means that I am almost hopelessly beyond dense. Are You honestly sending me signs that I just ignore? If so, can You create neon ones with pointy arrows that flash? How about big billboard signs in the middle of the sidewalk? Lasers are fun and generally get my attention. Could You add some lasers? Lasers with sound effects are even better. Fireworks? Sky writing? Smoke signals?

I might notice one of those...or not...

Final revisions 4/5/10

Making a Difference - The Ripple Effect

2009-12-29T15:27:00.002-06:00

Over the past couple of months I have been fortunate enough to reconnect with various friends and relatives over dinner. Whether these women are sorority sisters, friends from college, cousins, or past colleagues they may appear ordinary to anyone unaware of their accomplishments. But to see their resumes, or hear their stories, they are the rock stars of extraordinary. One has her doctorate, two have run a theatre, a couple could be classified as marketing gurus, one started her own jewelry business which now boasts a star studded clientele. Others excel at their chosen field while some chose family over career; raising children and now contemplating about their next step once their children are grown. Their resumes may be varied, but they all share an intelligence and sense of humor that is mind boggling. They stimulate my mind and make me laugh all within one conversation.

I am in awe of these women and am so thankful to have them in my life. Their accomplishments are jaw dropping. Yes, I have my own accomplishments. But it seems as if somewhere along the way, I was supposed to go straight but ended up making a left turn instead. Ironically, having always been directionally challenged, my broken internal GPS is a metaphor of my life.

As a child I could not wait to grow up. I wanted to be free and independent. It was important to me that I not rely on anyone else. Some how, some way, at a very early age, I learned that the only person one could really depend on was oneself. Everyone else in my life tended to disappoint.

My plan was to move out as soon as possible. I wanted independence even before I knew how to spell the word. I knew the type of house I would buy. It was a white tiny Victorian with a red door, a beautiful floral garden and white picket fence. With a JC Penney catalogue in hand, I would curl up in a family room chair for hours and mark everything necessary for my future home. Furniture pages were dog eared, kitchen gadgets circled, bedspreads and curtains marked. My home was going to be perfectly JC Penney-esque. Now, I prefer a Bloomingdales or Pottery Barn existence, but at 10 my world was all about JC Penney.

Sadly, life got in the way. Pretty soon I found myself following other people's expectations for my life; ignoring my own inner voice and giving in to the other person. It was so much easier in life than to argue for what I wanted. Slowly that Victorian house with it's red door and white picket fence was a distant dream.

I lived my life as the "perfect child"; consistently achieving excellent grades and honor roll acknowledgements. Please understand, I was NOT the perfect child. I was spoiled, selfish and greedy. My brothers will be the first to attest to that statement. I also did anything my parents asked of me. I never rebelled. Actually, I did not know that option existed. In college my over achiever status continued because I knew it made my parents happy. As my GPA rose my weight diminished. My focus and determination subsequently caused my battle with anorexia and bulimia.

Following the expectations of others has plagued me through my life: in my marriage, while raising children, while living with my mother, in every company I have ever been employed. While blindly following the expectations of others I consistently ignored my inner voice. The rare times I did listen to that voice, the masses were so surprised that I spent too much time justifying my actions. Eventually, it was easier to fall back on obeying everyone else's thoughts about how my life should be run. I chose the easy road - not the one less traveled.

Maybe because it is the end of the decade that I am thinking about regrets vs. accomplishments. Maybe it is due to my health scare last year. Maybe my life could have been different. Every choice made in life walks us down an unknown path oblivious to where the other roads may have led. Would our life have been better for making one choice over another? Maybe, but what is the point in wondering what if? Would my life be that much different had I chosen Pi Phi's over Tri Sigs? Many of the women mentioned above would then be missing from my life and I cannot imagine that fact at all. My mother, a very pragmatic women, once mentioned that if I chose one road vs. another the above questions would be a mute point as I would not know what I was missing. There would be other rock-star intelligent women bringing other gifts into my life. Still, I know and love these rock-star intelligent women and do not want to imagine my life without them.

I have never been a fan of "shoulda, woulda coulda" thinking. Maybe the life I led, brought me to where I need to be with the knowledge necessary to go forth. There was a time in my life when I selfishly forced paths. Looking back, each time I "forced" something, the Universe slapped me upside the head because whatever I was forcing was not in my best interest. The list is quite lengthy and each Universal slap was well deserved.

In a conversation with my cousin Deirdre, she mentioned how she wanted her career to make a difference. That thought impressed me and has stayed with me. The question then becomes what is making a difference? That is a highly personal answer and different for everyone. Grant writing makes a difference in various lives. Educators make a difference thousands of times over. Musicians, members of the military, doctors and attorneys all make a difference. Each difference is in the eye of the beholder.

After repeatedly making left turns in my life, I want to make a difference. I am unsure what that difference is going to be but know I have the capacity and intelligence to follow through once my mind is made up. Does making a difference start with only breaking down in tears one evening in a week because there was too much week and too little money? Does that breakdown cause me to discover alternative plans and actions to have more money than week?

Or does making a difference mean that I may be ordinary, but raised intelligent thought provoking children who may make a difference in the world. Maybe my part in making a difference is rearing the ones who actually will make a difference. Does that count? Or is that cheating? Is the verbal vomiting in my blog making a difference somewhere in cyberspace? I can only hope that something I have done, written, or someone I have assisted, has gone on to make a difference in this world. Yet, I too, want - no need - to make my own difference. But what will that be?

What I do know is that we all have a responsibility to the world in which we live. A responsibility to help others grow to be strong caring, loving individuals who know the world is just a little better due to our participation. To have existed for naught makes no sense to me. Everyone has a purpose. Each person starts their own ripple; effecting so many people.

What is my ripple?

Alien Being in my Boob - Part II

2009-10-17T23:37:00.010-05:00

This month is the one year anniversary of my benign alien being's eviction. Fortunately he stayed Dr. Jekyll; never reaching Mr. Hyde status. Yet, even upon eviction this alien being had the ability of wreaking havoc on my life and making me more than a little crabby. Surprisingly, he gets to continue this course of action into the unforeseen future. It appears that Dr. Jekyll had Hyde aspirations; leaving a calling card of precancerous cells lurking in the area. Not your typical non-worrisome precancerous cells...well as non-worrisome as typical precancerous cells can be...but the over-achievers of precancerous cells.

Part of me pictures these evil little wannabe cells wearing doo-rags and black leather jackets, leaning against light poles on a street corner and smoking cigarettes; tricking my body into making trades with healthy cells for Wannabes. The other part, pictures them as nerdy evil over achievers with big black round plastic rimmed glasses, huge reference books under their noses and perfect ACT scores figuring out ways to morph into malignancy.

For those that want to get all scientific, the Wannabes were labeled atypical ductal hyperplasia (ADH). Precancerous cells on steroids. The Arnold Schwartzenegger of Wannabes. Why has over achievement continually plagued my life? The articles on ADH can make one more than a bit apprehensive. Google, with its plethora of sites, became my friend and enemy this past year. Some sites state the chances of getting breast cancer from Wannabes is 400%. Others offer no percentages, but state ADH places one at a much higher risk. Regardless, I spent the past year thinking I'm cancer free, but...

That's the difficult part. Why can't I be just cancer free? No buts. I KNOW we all have cancer cells in our body. If we nourish our body properly, our body is supposed to fight them off. I KNOW my tumor which had staked it's claim, installed plumbing, had personality and played hide and seek was evicted and benign. I KNOW all these things. But, seriously, if a surgeon evicts benign aliens from your breast, there should not be any buts.

That is where my dilemma arose. I was not trying to make mountains out of mole hills (and that is not a breast joke.) This whole year I have been torn between being extremely thankful and wondering if I am more like the spoiled kid at Christmas who did not get everything she wanted. Is it OK to be thankful yet crabby over my diagnosis? Everyone will have a different opinion. I am not ashamed to admit I want it all. Is that human nature? I want a perfect diagnosis and zero alien beings or Wannabes residing in my breasts, or any other part of my body. If you were given the choice, you would probably agree.

These questions formed my tenuous but interesting relationship with my surgeon. My guess is that we mutually consider the other to be a huge pain in the arse, or pita. Initially, he was quite considerate, now he seems more annoyed. On the Thursday after my surgery, the day my pathology report was to arrive, I waited around anxiously. No phone calls. Feeling like the wall flower waiting for her phone to ring, I finally took a deep breath and called the surgeon's office just before their office closed for the day. His nurse apologized. Dr. Pita was still in surgery and she really did not know when he would be out. She confirmed that my pathology report arrived but he needed to speak with me about it. (GULP!) She suggested that I would not hear anything until the next day. I could appreciate the explanation. How can one be crabby when he has someone else opened up on an operating table. It's not like he was out playing golf. Although I wanted to know the results, he was a bit pre-occupied at the moment and another few hours were not going to change the outcome.

Although not expecting to hear from him at all, he called me a couple of hours later because he did not want me to worry another night. No cancer was found. My alien being was duly evicted and benign. Hallelujah!! Yippee Skippee!! Praise the Lord and all that jazz!

BUT...

But?

He then explained about the Wannabes. He stated we would discuss treatment options at my surgical follow-up appointment next week. Hmmm...my benign, yet rude, alien being was evicted, yet I still required treatment? He explained a little more about the Wannabes, mentioned Tamoxifen (the wonder drug of breast cancer patients) and then said good night. Well, now that left a million questions swimming in my brain.

Although confused, I was thrilled about zero cancer. I did not even give the Wannabes too much consideration. I was literally on a manic high. No cancer! Wow! I NEVER went to sleep that night. Not one minute. I was up the whole day Friday as well. I could not even nap. It was if there was a surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins. After being awake 41 hours and hallucinating the face of a cherub, I finally crashed at 1AM on Saturday morning.

I joked that I was fine with weekly mammograms if it meant no cancer. I kept repeating to myself, "No Cancer! I'm healthy!" Whew!

But then I Googled...read about the Wannabes...and then about Tamoxifen, its side affects and other treatment options...

Armed with 3 pages of questions in my notebook, my surgeon met with me for 20 minutes at most. In layman's terms, there were some precancerous cells checking out the territory, planning a coupe, but they were evicted with the tumor. Because of those snarky Wannabes, although cancer free, the "girls" and I are now, forever and always, considered risky. Although I prefer my breasts to be thought of as risque, anyone would take risky over the "other" alternative. I am very fortunate. My incision was healing nicely. All the stitches were internal and the outside was Superglued together. Interesting. I felt a little like a cut and paste project. I have to admit, the swelling was an added benefit. Both breasts swelled and I then knew what it is like to actually be voluptuous...even if was short lived. Katrina even joked, "Welcome to my world, Mom!"

Dr. Pita and I discuss my treatment options. We will meet every 4 months for the next year. A week prior to seeing him, I will have a diagnostic mammogram (breast squashed to crepe status). Once the report is sent to him, we will meet and he will conduct an ultra sound at my visit. Oh joy! Can't wait to start scheduling the appointments! I am already mentally tabulating how much time I will take off work since neither his schedule, nor the hospital's diagnostic mammogram schedule is conducive to one working single mom. The hospital only conducts one diagnostic mammogram per day at 9:45AM Monday - Friday. He only sees patients on Monday, Wednesdays and Fridays in the morning. Well, this will become a logistical nightmare. Regardless, I'm healthy!

He then explains Tamoxifen. It truly is the wonder drug of breast cancer. Women who have breast cancer take this pill daily for 5 years and "poof" no more breast cancer. The medical field has since been treating women at high risk with Tamoxifen. The results have been quite promising. There is that high risk label again. Tamoxifen is a very cool and enticing option. It does throw you into early menopause. At 46 did I really want to throw myself into early menopause? Dr. Pita then explains the rest of the potential side affects: uterine cancer (slight risk), cataracts, deep vein thrombosis and strokes.

Can you imagine the PR spin Tamoxifen's marketing people put on this drug to convince the medical field it is the wonder drug for those at high risk? Dr. Pita informed me I am cancer free, yet he wants me to think about taking a drug that could potentially give me cancer, throw me into early menopause, give me cataracts, blood clots and a stroke. Not only would I be meeting with him on a quarterly basis, I'd be meeting my gynecologist regularly to insure Wannabes were not staging a coupe in my womb. Can you say jumping from the frying pan into the fire? At least my gynecologist has evening appointments. I decline his Tamoxifen offer. He suggests I learn more about it and we can discuss it again at my quarterly visit in January.

Can't wait!

By now, I am a nervous wreck. Dr. Pita has mentioned more than once I am high risk. He wants me on a wonder drug which scares the hell out of me. I want more answers. The other part of this nightmare that made me furious is that I wanted them to run tests on my right breast. Dr. Pita, nor the radiologist, were interested. Their reasoning was although I have been known to have pain under my right arm in the lymph node region, there wasn't a lump on that side and nothing showed up on the mammogram. Hello! McFly!! My alien being played hide and seek on my left side until you found it and it's blood supply in an ultrasound. You installed a GPS in it during the biopsy because he played hide and seek. He could have a twin alien taking up residence in my right breast. My arguments fell on deaf ears.

I followed up with my general practitioner as directed; explaining everything. I was angry and scared. I adore Dr. R. After explaining it all to him, not calmly mind you, he agreed that I should go for a diagnostic mammogram and ultrasound on my right side. Although not likely, if there was pain there could be something. He could have been appeasing me. I am sure my alternating between angry, calm and tears had nothing to do with it. Dr. R. admitted breast cancer was not his specialty. Because I had many legitimate questions about my newly appointed high risk label and Tamoxifen, he suggested I speak with an oncologist. I asked if that is what he would tell his sister rather than a high-strung patient. He reassured me that it would be the same information he would give his sister, wife, mother, etc.

It was not my intention, but my doctor dance card had never been so full. Someone mentioned that I seem to be seeing a ridiculous amount of doctors for having a benign tumor removed from my breast. She knew people with cancer that did not see as many doctors. My guess is a cancer diagnosis is cut and dry: diagnose cancer, remove cancer, treat with chemo/radiation, continue treatment until cancer is gone. Yet, that process requires many, many doctors.

My Wannabes threw me into a different category. Due to my HMO, follow-ups were required with Dr. R. Dr. Pita was required for search and seize of aliens and Wannabes. And because I had many questions about Wannabes and Tamoxifen it made sense to see an oncologist. If I jumped on the Tamoxifen band wagon then I would add my gynecologist to the already full dance card. This was not the type of popularity I wanted. Seriously, wall flower status was looking pretty good.

The choices on meeting my new oncology "dance partner" were December 24th, or January 12th. After quipping, "Nothing says Christmas like a little cancer discussion", I chose January; scheduling my diagnostic mammogram appointment a week earlier and as well as Dr. Pita's appointment immediately following. The oncologist was wonderful. He sat with me for a full hour; explaining my risks, my care, my family history which contains no breast cancer, but heavy on colon cancer and polyps. I took copious notes. Due to my family history, my oncologist states although considered high risk for breast cancer, I am even more at risk for colon cancer. Well, aren't you just the bearer of good news. As we closed the discussion he stated that I am an intelligent, well informed woman and I will make the best choice for me.

Seriously, I don't want to make any choices. Things would be much better if no choices needed to be made. My Cleopatra alter-ego, Queen of Denial, was emerging. I next meet with Dr. Pita. His first question upon walking in the room was why I had a diagnostic mammogram/ultrasound on my right AND left side. I explained. He stated that in the future he needs to conduct all ultrasounds on me. If he ever has to operate again, he needs to be the one behind the ultrasound. It took EVERYTHING I had to keep my composure. He condescendingly denied my right breast ultrasound request 3 months ago, yet he slapped my hand because I did not have him conduct the ultrasound Dr. R. ordered after my near nervous breakdown! That is when Dr. Pita confirmed his Pita status.

We again discuss Tamoxifen. I take copious notes, but explain that the drug gives me the heeby jeebies. If the Wannabes had reached Hyde status, I would definitely consider it. But by taking it now, the Wannabes could migrate to my uterus, reach Hyde status and hire additional recruits to wreak havoc on my blood, eyes and brain. Call me Crazy, but no thank you! By the time I left, we both consider the other one the biggest Pitas we have ever met.

I have friends that are pro Tamoxifen as well as con. Some swear by it others agree that it scares them as well. A family member in the medical field thinks I am crazy for not taking it. My ex-husband thinks I signed my own death sentence. If my choice turns out to be wrong, I will probably be more crabby for proving him right - but we won't think along those lines.

In April, I meet with Dr. Pita again. His next tactic is to inform me that because I refuse to take Tamoxifen I am no longer considered a preventative patient. We are now on a course for early detection. Is he trying to frighten me? It is slightly working, but I do not appreciate strong arm tactics. Again, if the Wannabes reached Hyde status, yes, I'd take the scary drug and meet with the rest of the doctors on my dance card at regular intervals. But to not have cancer and put something in my body that could cause cancer just seems ridiculous!

Now that I am considered early detection, my treatment consists of alternating between an MRI and diagnostic mammogram/ultrasound every 6 months. Just how much radiation am I putting in my body? Are we detecting cancer or are we creating it? As I leave, Dr. Pita's nurse mentions that scheduling a breast MRI can be a bit difficult, so I should start attempting to schedule it about 2 months before my next appointment. Uh...OK.

Silly, silly me. I thought it was difficult to schedule because the imaging department was so busy. I found out the real answer when I called to make my appointment. Not only do they schedule breast MRI's once a day at 10AM. A breast MRI can only be done between your 7th-14th day of your menstrual cycle. For one who is not regular (yours truly), this can be another logistical nightmare. Also, because the MRI is done with contrast, blood work needs to be done no more than 14 days prior but not less than 2 days of the procedure. You are kidding me, right?

This was now beyond a logistical nightmare...we were reaching clusterf**k status. Step one, guesstimate when my period was due. Step two, determine days 7 through 14 from guesstimate (highlight in yellow). Step three, remove all weekend dates and determine which left over days are potential days to take off from work. Step four, highlight potential days in pink. Step five, call to see if any of these dates are available. Step six, once scheduled (circled in red), count back two through fourteen days to determine blood work window. Highlight in blue. My calendar was very colorful. Step seven, pray guesstimate is correct. Prepare to call Central Scheduling if cycle does not coincide with guesstimate. The first attempt did not work well. My second attempt was juggled between vacation schedules at the office. Upon contacting Central Scheduling, they had the 12th and 14th day of my cycle open. I took the 12th. Whew!

The insanity continues. When I went for my blood work, the phlebotomist was confused by the order. While I called Dr. R.'s office to straighten everything out, she started working on another file. Once she had my correct blood work order, she started to enter it into the file on which she was working - not mine! I only caught the mistake when I realized the wrong doctor's name was on the computer screen. I questioned her. She looked quite surprised, but reassured me that my name was on the screen and pointed to the patient's name, Eileen. I reminded her my name was Mary. She was a very embarrassed phlebotomist. I called Dr. R's office a day or two later to make sure that my blood work had been completed correctly.

After my breast MRI, I met with Dr. Pita who no longer mentions Tamoxifen. We chat for all of 10 minutes. I leave with my order for a diagnostic mammogram in 6 months. Until told otherwise, this is my schedule. Whether it is a preventative program, or early detection, my plan is to remain healthy.

I am beyond fortunate that Wannabes were the only cells found. I know that. Although she is a survivor, I saw what colon cancer did to my mom. There are friends in my life currently living with cancer. Other friends are survivors. I have lost beloved friends and relatives to cancer. This is a club that I would prefer not to join. Not fond of their dues and initiation rituals. Yet the chaos that ensued this past year is the equivalent of a fun house at a carnival. Nothing is as it appears. Parts are scary. Parts are ridiculous. Conversations with doctors are akin to fun house mirrors reflecting distorted or unclear information.

I have learned more this year than I ever wanted to learn about breast cancer, Wannabes and treatments. I would have preferred living my life blissfully oblivious to their existence. I try to eat healthier. Yet reducing stress and increasing sleep continually eludes me.

The only remaining constant is I am in charge of my health care. No one else. I will make informed decisions about my treatment.

My body.

My health.

My rules.

Alien Being in my Boob

2008-09-23T23:42:00.007-05:00

I still have not been able to completely wrap my head around this chain of events. And being the 21st century, I have serious doubts about modern medicine. Let me start at the beginning rather than my usual attempts to begin at the end and work my way backwards.

Last October, I met with a psychic who I reference often in this blog. Except for a few minor details, he has been fairly spot on in all areas. During my one and only reading with him, he mentioned that I was going to have a scare with regards to my breasts, but that it was all going to turn out OK. Let me tell you after the past month that phrase, "it's going to turn out OK" is the only thing keeping me going.

A few months ago I noticed a lump in my left breast. A procrastinator to the end, or possibly, due to the resurfacing of my alter ego, Cleopatra, Queen of Denial, I avoided the thought of setting up a mammogram appointment. As it turns out it would not have mattered (but I digress). The lump seemed to disappear on its own, so I did not rush making the appointment. I assumed it had to do with my menstrual cycle and never thought twice.

The hospital where I receive my mammograms is pretty terrific on sending late notices. I never wanted surgery at that hospital, but mammograms are OK. After the fourth late notice and an implied threat that Nurse Ratchet was picking me up at my house and dragging me to the hospital, I finally scheduled an appointment. Even the woman scheduling my mammogram commented that I was a few months behind. Impressive. They take "the girls" quite seriously. Of that I am thankful. Hopefully, their surgical techiques are as impressive as their mammogram follow-up. Although never wanting to have surgery there, guess where I am going?

Upon filling out the form pre-mammogram I answered the question of "Do you have any concerns regarding your breasts". Although tempted to state, "I always wanted to be a C cup", I refrained. Instead I listed the fact that I noticed a lump in my left breast, but could no longer locate it. The poor nurse almost went into apoplexy. "What!? You are only scheduled for a screening! We are not staffed with a doctor this evening. If you have a lump, we need a doctor here and a diagnostic mammogram." Wow! They DO take "the girls" seriously. I assured the nurse that it was OK. I stated that the lump seems to have disappeared, so I was not too worried. Since I was wrapped in a false sense of security that mammograms see everything, I was fine with a screening; assuming that if there really was a lump it would show up. Silly, naive woman am I! My mammogram came back perfect. Two healthy breasts. Obviously, one was lying!

A couple of weeks later, I noticed the lump again. My stomach sunk a bit, but my mammogram was fine. No worries. Telling myself it was nothing, I called the nurse at my doctor's office. Candice suggested I come in. My doctor finds the lump as well and sends me for a diagnostic mammogram and ultrasound.If anyone is unsure of a what a diagnostic mammogram is, think of it as your breasts being flattened to the size of a crepe. OK, maybe that is a slight exaggeration. Your breast is flattened to the size of a pancake. Once we hit pancake status, my lump decided to reveal itself; obviously afraid of "popping" if the technician flattened to crepe status.

So, I have a lump that likes to play hide and seek. Great! My alien being has personality. I would not expect anything less. They kindly escort me to another room where I will have an ultrasound. The nurse/technician comes in and positions me on a table. Pours warm (thank you) gel on my left breast and proceeds to look for my "something". Which, obviously afraid of being squashed again, had not gone back into hiding. The nurse measures my lump on the ultrasound screen and informs me that she is going to bring in the doctor. The doctor comes in, introduces herself and proceeds to scare the ever loving shit out of me. After looking at the screen, she points to my something that I am seriously hoping is a nothing, and proceeds to show me where my something has developed its own blood supply. Not only has my something moved in uninvited, played hide and seek, but acquired plumbing?! How rude! Sadly though, the doctor is in dire need of a course in Interpersonal Communication and Bedside Manner 101.

I know I tend to become hyper and wiggy all on my own. I also admit to taking artistic liberties at times, but what I am about to write is the God's Honest truth! While the doctor is pointing at my alien, she says, "It's formed a blood supply. See right there...a blood supply. Hmmm...a blood supply. Tell me, have you lost any unexplained weight recently?" "Uh...no" is my only response, as my stomach starts to slowly sink again and I am sincerely thankful for not having lost the last 10 pounds I've been carrying around since Adam's birth 13 years ago. "I'd like to biopsy this immediately. What kind of insurance do you have?" At that sentence, the nurse pats my knee and says, "It's going to be OK, sweetie. Don't worry."

Really wasn't worried until Doc opened her mouth. Once they learn I am on an HMO, they state that they are sorry, but an immediate biopsy is impossible. I am to speak with a breast cancer case worker and they will schedule a time convenient for me and my HMO. Have I ever mentioned how much I despise our health care system? So, my something that I am seriously hoping is a nothing, is actually a potential something which needs to be biopsied immediately, BUT because my HMO requires pre-authorization my immediate biopsy needs to wait 4 days. This scenario makes as much sense to me as the terms buffalo wings and liberal republicans. Our health care system is in dire need of serious reform. But that is a blog for another day.

After getting dressed, I am escorted to my breast cancer case worker, Kathie, a very friendly personable woman with whom I immediately feel comfortable. She tells me that she is a survivor and not to worry. The advancements in research are amazing. Woah! We have not yet determined that my something is a something. I'm still holding strong to the hope that my something is a nothing. Albeit a very rude something for wreaking a ton of havoc within a very short period of time. I listen to what she says, and nod appropriately, but honestly my memory of the conversation is akin to listening to the adults talk in Peanuts cartoons, "Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah."

I leave the hospital with my appointment for my immediate biopsy at the end of the week and a folder with my case worker's business card. Can this truly be happening to me? Surreal...completely and totally surreal...

Folks, it is about to get weirder.

I call home to tell my mom. No matter what age you are, when you are scared, you want Mom. My mom, although knowing why I was at the hospital, answers the phone saying, "I was just walking out the door to by a dryer. Ours will cost over $500 to fix." "Uhm...OK...I just wanted to let you know that I am going in for a biopsy on Friday. They want to biopsy the lump." "OK...Friday? OK. I'm going to go buy the dryer." "Uh...OK. Bye!"

Now, my mom has a way of never showing emotion unless something is extremely funny or you have her so pissed off her blood pressure is off the charts. I've seen it happen - the blood pressure off the charts thing. I've caused it to happen. My brother's have too. So have my children. It's not easy, but it's possible. It's the Irish in her. As my grandfather use to tell her, "Good Irish children don't cry." Interpretted as, never show emotion. Thank, God I have some Italian in me! But, I honestly thought there would be some reaction to a biopsy. Maybe she was in a hurry to catch a special sale at Sears. Maybe she had not wrapped her head around it. Maybe you don't worry until there is something to worry about, which is my mother's general belief. But honestly...lump...blood supply...biopsy... I was scared to death and my mother was out buying major appliances; reacting as if I was stating Friday's weather.

Or maybe, she could not comprehend what I was telling her. No matter the age, us parents never want to hear the words biopsy when referencing our children. I can't even imagine Kat calling me one day with the same sentence. Hopefully, I would act less odd but if the Gods are with me that is one conversation we will avoid forever and always.

I called my doctor's office to get my approval for an immediate biopsy that needs to wait four days. I speak with Candice whom I love. She is young, extremely straight forward, yet sensitive. Something I appreciate. I am already a bit shaky. It is probably evident in my voice. Candice, attempting to put my mind at ease, suggests that my something is probably a nothing - most likely a cyst. And so I ask the question that I was afraid to ask in the doctor's office. I know Candice will tell me the truth. "Does a cyst form its own blood supply?" Dead air. And then I hear on the other end of the phone, "Awww..." (I know she wanted to say "Shit" instead. You could hear it in her voice.) "No. A blood supply? They told you that? No. A cyst does not have a blood supply, honey." I knew that. I just needed to hear it from someone that would tell me the truth. Candice did state that fibroid tumors do form their own blood supply. OK...a 50-50 chance. I can do 50-50.

It took at least 10 days for Friday to arrive. Honest. Initially I planned to go to work after the biopsy, but came to my senses with a little assistance from my boss. He strongly suggested I take the day off after the biopsy. Smart man.

I am truly blessed with great friends. Six different friends offered to sit with me at the hospital. We could have had a party. That hospital never would have been the same. Dara lives the farthest away and is generally on Dara time - a minute or two late. She drove down from McHenry; arriving as Adam walked to the bus. She has known Adam since birth and barely recognized my man/child walking down the street. The only thing that has not changed on Adam are his dimples. We get to the hospital where they inform me that I am a bit early. Funny, we arrived at the exact time they told us to get there.

Dara sat with me in the waiting room watching Oprah and eating Altoids. We chatted about everything and nothing. The nurse stopped by to explain the procedure and told me that they would be inserting a titanium clip during the biopsy so that any doctor could locate the biopsy site forever and always. My own internal GPS.

Dara encouraged me to ask many questions in the procedure room. I have a tendency to just go with the flow. It's not that I am not inquisitive, but my mind became rather numb with the overwhelming possibility that my alien being truly is a something. So, gathering courage from Dara and Altoids (wishing that it was liquid courage in the form of Jack), I start to assert my questions on the nurse. She is clearly not use to one of the flock using their brain. If it wasn't for my friend's encouragement, I would have been one of the masses walking into the procedure room with my brain the consistancy of jell-o. The nurse must have told the doctor that there was a rebel in their midst, because when the doctor arrived, she introduced herself, firmly shook my hand and immediately stated, "I hear you have many questions about the clip." She then explained why they needed my homing device. Since the lump is rather small, 1.5cm, and because it tends to play hide and seek, they need a tracking device (my verbage not theirs) to locate it. Unless there is an understandable explanation, I prefer most synthetic objects to not be inserted in my body. She stated a fairly straight forward case and a reasonable explanation. This alien seems quite insufferable and I wouldn't put it past him to go all incognito on me and disappear again. A GPS made perfect sense. The thought of my lump with shades and raincoat made me giggle. They thought I was nervous.

As the doctor explained the procedure of a core biopsy, I positioned myself to watch the monitor. Both the nurse and doctor questioned why I wanted to watch. It was perfectly logical to me...this something is going to be a nothing, so this would be my one and only opportunity to watch. They may have thought I was nuts, but after the doctor showed me how she would take the biopsy (think tapered lighter to light hard to reach candles with a hollow needle inside) and shot the aparatus off; allowing me to hear it (very loud...must have been invented by a man...few women would have created something that obnoxious), we were off. After 3 good biopsies, she asked what I thought about 1 or 2 more samples. I reminded her that this was our one and only time to do this, because I was not returning. She better make sure she had enough. Famous last words.

Dara and I go out for breakfast afterwards and then I go home to ice my boob and sleep. By the way, seat belts are not a good idea after breast biopsies. I eventually took off my seat belt and said if any cop pulled me over, I'd pull up my shirt and show them my very purple boob. I would either get out of the ticket, or arrested for indecent exposure. I really did not care which.

I went to LT's first home football game that night as I promised Kat's friend Eric that I would see him play the JV game. Prior to that evening Eric held a special place in my heart. But that night, Eric branded my heart. He is the only person who reduced me to tears. Good tears though.

First off, many of Kat's friends call me mom and hug me upon site. Some of the girls even scream and then hug. Full frontal hugging was not a possibility that evening. I got very good at side hugging. After a few enthusiastic hugs and seeing the pain on my face, Kat slowly filled in her friends as to what was going on. I watched Eric play and then sat with the parents of my best friend from high school. They were there to watch their grandson play on the varsity team.

After the JV game ended, Eric walked up to me with the saddest eyes I have ever seen. He patted the left side of his chest and just said two simple words, "You can't." I ran down the bleachers and hugged him. I told him he couldn't think that way. I needed him to think positive. We all have to think positive. I hugged him again. Praised his football game and reminded him that I loved him. He hugged me back and told me that he loved me too. Yep. A 15 year old boy who raids my refrigerator and guzzles lemonaide reduced me to tears. I had been strong up until that point.

Because the biopsy was performed on the Friday before Labor Day, we were fortunate enough to have to wait an additional day or two for the results. This alien continues to piss me off. Stops by uninvited, decides to stay, plays hide and seek, installs plumbing, requires a GPS system and now the damn thing shows up on a holiday weekend, forcing me to wait a few extra days for diagnosis. GRRRR!!!!!

The results finally arrive on Tuesday. There is one nurse at my doctors office that really should take a job where she never interacts with people. Coal mining might be a better position for her. Where was Candice? How dare she take a day off?! Who cares if this is a holiday weekend! Did she not know that this was all about me at the moment?! This nurse did not do a very good job of giving me the biopsy results. First she calls in the middle of dinner to tell me that my doctor has already left for the day, but I need to discuss a lumpectomy with my surgeon. Whoa, there Missy! One, I don't have a surgeon. I haven't really needed one since my tonselectomy when I was nine. He is the same doctor that delivered me and has been dead almost 20 years. My guess is that my surgeon is currently unavailable. And two, does this mean it is malignant? Her response was very non-committal and suggests that my doctor call me in the morning as he has (again) already left for the day. Great! I get to wait one more day.

The next morning I call Candice. She sets me straight. My general practitioner wants me to speak with a surgeon. They will provide me with a name or two. Since Adam has an appointment for a sports physical that night, I chat with our doctor after Adam's sports physical. He basically informs me that my alien needs an eviction notice. They cannot determine if it is malignant or not from the biopsy. I thought tissue was either cancerous or not. How can it be inconclusive? Since they biopsied the inside of the tumor, if any cells on the top or bottom are malignant then they will not know until removal. He gives me the name of a surgeon. I ask if I can wait a month. We have family arriving at the end of September and I really prefer surgery after they leave. He looks at me as if I am an alien being. He sternly informs me that I can wait until the beginning of October, but no more.

Honestly, I knew I needed to speak with a surgeon. But for me, I need to let the information seep into my brain. I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer and occasionally just need to think about things before I proceed. I did not want to accept the fact that my something could in fact be a something. Hell, it now appears that not only does my something show up uninvited, play hide and seek, installs plumbing, goes incognito and has personality. My something can actually be Jekyll and Hyde. Is it malignant...is it benign? Get. It. Out. Of. Me. NOW!!!!!

Since I'm not exactly Dolly Parton I ask if there will be a dent. Most likely. Your breast is small (don't be getting personal here Doc!) and the mass is rather large. (Didn't the doctor who performed the biopsy say my alien was small and that is why I needed a GPS device?) Can you medical-types keep the story straight? Maybe the GPS is because my alien likes to play hide and seek.

OK...dent. Can you fill with a little lipo from my hips or tummy? He stares at me blankly, but Candice laughs. I hate when my humor is wasted on people. No, he states slightly condescendingly, they don't fill with lipo.

FINE!!!

I decide even if my relatives are arriving at the end of the month, I better meet with my newly appointed surgeon. I want this done on my time table, but at the same time, I am not liking this parasite setting up shop in my breast. For us women, breasts are hollowed territory and this something needs to go. The surgeon is compelled to give me best and worse case scenarios. Best case is great. Remove alien being, stitch me up inside and then superglue me together on the outside. I never even see stitches. A couple days off and ice my breast. OK. I can handle this. I ask him about lipo. He too is seriously lacking a sense of humor. But I am sure they can fill an empty spot. Can't they?

It appears that the type of tumor I have is generally benign when small. People only need to worry when they are large. When large, they can morph from benign to malignant. It is Jekyll and Hyde!!! I Knew It!!! My tumor is on the larger end. Having never done anything half-assed in my entire life, I would not expect it to be any less. Why did the biopsy doctor tell me it was small. Was she just installing GPS devices for the hell of it?! Is this some type of conspiracy theory? Hmmmm.....

OK...my tumor is an over achiever. Of course it is. The more my sponge-like brain soaks up this information, the lights turn on and somebody is home for the first time since this nightmare began. Get it out of me as soon as possible, especially if he is currently Jekyll and has not yet hit Hyde status.

The worse case scenario is not an area I want to entertain. I would face additional surgery depending where Hyde finally staked his residence. As he begins to explain things further, I realize that I would be looking at reconstructive surgery. Wow, all this from a grape sized lump? Whenever I thought about breast surgery, it was always as an enhancement.

As my stomach is sinking farther and farther and I am becoming more and more nauseous, I continue to take notes and ask questions. The only good thing about our worse case scenario is that radiation would win out over chemo. I remember making some stupid remark about having just grown out my hair out to my desired length and that I would be very crabby about losing it. Sometimes I really wish my mouth would not open because I do realize how stupid I occasionally sound. The surgeon reiterates, this is worse case scenario.

GULP!!

He is fairly confident that it is benign.

Can you be sure?

No.

Crap!!! I want to ask his take about the blood supply issue. But remind myself to never ask a question when you are afraid of the answer.

So, September 30th it is.

Really hoping that my psychic is right about all of this. I will have a definite problem with one of my breasts, but everything is going to be OK.

Please, Dear God. Let this all be OK.

Extreme Makeover Dropout

2008-09-20T12:21:00.001-05:00

Let's just put it out there; saying it like it is, I am an Extreme Makeover Dropout! Is there a 12-step program for this affliction? Ty Pennington would be so disappointed in me. I could never come up with a bed made out of an old race track and hot wheels. Honestly...not that creative. A Martha Stewart clone? Martha would shake her head in shame. Tim Allen's character from Home Improvement is getting closer, but even if he was occasionally a bumbling fool and clueless about stuff, it all worked out at the end of 30 minutes. Generally it takes me 6-8 months at least! My home decorating adventures are more akin to DIY meets Lizzie Borden...with her ax.

Our house is in dire need of home improvement. Adam often asks if we can write Extreme Makeover. It isn't that bad, except for the snarky plumbing problem, electrical issues and seepage in the basement. With Hurricane Ike's aftermath swamping Chicago, our basement seepage is not slight. We actually contemplated turning the basement into an indoor swimming pool. The front lawn was so flooded that we may have an outdoor one as well.

If I had the time and money we could fix the plumbing and electrical, as well as extend the bedrooms over our garage so Adam's room is not the size of a closet. Plus waterproof my mom's bedroom. It tends to leak during heavy rains and power failures. Oh...and the driveway could use some resurfacing. The weeds in the driveway are ridiculous. How many other houses need to mow and weed kill their driveway? Lastly, after the village idiots allowed the condos behind us to build a fence, we have a 3 foot property drop off in the backyard. If it wasn't for the 6 foot weeds blooming back there, it would be problematic for all visiting toddlers and drunken friends. Hmmm...maybe, Adam is on the right track after all. Little did we know upon purchase that it was a fixer upper in disguise.

It looked so cute. It has so much potential. How odd is it that our house mirrors the men I tend to date?

After the deal was done, one of our first clues that we bought a lemon was the puff of smoke and electrical sparks Adam encountered when pulling the string to his bedroom ceiling fan. He stepped out of his room a little jolted stating, "I feel like a french fry!" Then there were the live wires underneath the kitchen cabinets, lights that dim when the garbage disposal turns on, or better yet just turn on or off on their own. The oddest problem though was when we discovered the previous owner duct taped two pipes together. This little problem was not discovered until a couple years down the road when a wall became a bit spongy. Duct tape is not waterproof. Go figure. I'd love to have a conversation with the previous owners, but they are happily retired in North Carolina. Here's hoping that karma is going to do her job.

My life has been hounded by many home improvement projects, starting with my first condo. I actually love the process of playing with home improvement ideas. When showing my real estate clients properties I can always point out the potential in every home. My only wish is that I could afford a Pottery Barn existance. Instead my projects are more Walmart-esque. My home improvement projects are not always fiascoes, BUT they are never perfectly smooth.

When first engaged, we bought a one bedroom condo together. Although the year was 1987, the place was straight out of the early 70's. It was impeccably decorated, but the 70's home decorating style should NEVER be revisited. The condo's kitchen wallpaper looked as if it was actually gold stucco which perfectly matched the gold in the gold, brown, avocado and rust plaid entryway wallpaper. To say it was a hideous color combination is an understatement. Yet, it was impeccably hideous.

We repainted and re-wallpapered and I learned that Oriental rice-paper is extremely expensive. Who knew?! As usual...champagne taste...beer pocket. We only needed a small amount, the condo was the size of a postage stamp. So, we found a store that had wallpaper remnants. Woo-hoo! Oriental rice paper remnants replaced plaid. I often wondered who besides owners of small condos ever needed wallpaper remnants. It's not like someone living in a normal home is going to wallpaper one half of a wall. No wonder that store eventually went out of busines. Once the condo was painted and wallpapered, I experienced my first decorating fiasco. Well as much of a fiasco as you can have with a postage stamp 1 bedroom condo.

The wallpaper was cream with shades of peach and sage green. We picked out a peachy paint for the living room/dining room combo. Silly me did not realize that paint changes color in sunlight, or lack thereof. My peachy paint was great during the day, but once dusk hit it was more of a pinky/peach which clashed with the severely discounted Oriental wallpaper. Crap!

In our first horrible financial decision, a theme which continued throughout our marriage, we flipped our condo fairly quickly and moved into our townhouse. Soon thereafter I was pregnant with Katrina and was met with the dilemma that every first time mom in a cookie cutter/Stepford Wife townhouse subdivision encounters. Every pregnant woman was measured by her baby's nursery. The poor babies were still floating in cocoon like status, clueless to the fact that their fate was judged and sealed by their Mommy's' decorating tastes. Sadly for Kat, her mom was already a decorating dropout. Every neighbor wanted to see our nursery.

The nursery was a country bunny theme with little country boy and girl bunnies walking with a wagon. I planned on stenciling bunnies all the way around the room. Being a procrastinator to the end, I was fairly along in my final trimester when I started stenciling the walls in the nursery; beginning with the wagon, then overalls, next dresses and finally the bunny heads, ears and hands. Sadly, the color of the bunny heads looked rather cartoon pig pink versus the tan/pink color I envisioned. And my daughter's nursery waited patiently with decapitated bunnies stenciled around the room while I searched for the perfect color. I was petrified that she would be born and brought home to a room of headless bunnies. Hormones and stress do not mix well. I was a basket case over finding the right tannish pinky color for the bunnies. The look of horror on the Stepford Wives faces when they walked into the nursery was almost worth the stress of not finding the perfect bunny color. I'm sure they discussed the nursery behind my back. Hell, they discussed everything behind every ones back. Why should I be any different? In my own sick, warped way, it was rather funny. But eventually the proper bunny color was found and the bunnies got their heads and hands prior to Katrina's birth. But it was close!

Babies, full time jobs, divorce and general life experiences side tracked me from any other home improvement projects for quite a few years. I was too busy to even consider redecorating. One foray into painting Adam's room reduced me to tears. I bought the paint, Mickey Mouse Sorcerer's Apprentice blue and some other Disney lighter blue. I planned to paint when Kat and Adam were with their dad. My eager VanGogh and Picasso were not going to assist me. No how. No way. I knew I was a disaster waiting to happen when painting. With their assistance at 7 & 10, we would have the ceiling and floor painted and nothing on the walls. When I got home from work one night, my mother and children had a "surprise" for me. They painted Adam's room all by themselves. It was a disaster. There was paint everywhere and I sat down on the floor and cried. I was not sure with whom I was angrier. The children who did not follow the guidelines, or the grandparent who did not enforce them. That cured me for about 4 years.

But then last year when Kat graduated from 8th grade and we threw her a graduation party, I had to take home improvement projects seriously. The wallpaper in our bathroom was falling off the walls and I was not about to allow my out-laws to see our home for the first time with wallpaper falling from the ceiling. So, I removed the wallpaper and learned that the wallpaper was covering missing drywall in many places. Again, I looked up at the heavens and asked God, "WHY?!?!?" My easy project was about to take an unexpected turn. There truly are so many unexpected turns in my life.

Not only was there missing drywall, but in other areas, chunks of drywall adhered to the wallpaper upon removal; leaving me to wonder if some of the wallpaper paste included superglue. The nightmare continued with beads of wallpaper paste that refused to come off. So as I mudded, patched and smoothed, my walls would occasionally adopt a pinstripe effect from the superglue-like residual wallpaper paste. Piss me off! I sanded, mudded and finally gave up. The walls were not the smooth canvas I envisioned; meaning I needed to give the paint some type of texture effect. My little wallpaper/paint project was becoming a nightmare and I was more than just a little crabby. To make me loathe the project even more, I stepped backwards against the wet white wall not realizing that my pony tail was about to look as if it had been used as one of my brushes. Great! It was a look. Not the look I generally go for. But...

This bathroom has a lavender tub, toilet and sink. I painted the walls white and planned to give it a texture look of lavender and sage green. So one afternoon, I grabbed a sponge, rags and dry brushes and tried various effects on my wall; constantly painting, wiping off and repainting various colors and styles. I didn't like anything. So, I grabbed my laptop while sitting on the bathroom floor and googled "painting techniques & finishes". There were a ton of ideas. I hated them all. Finally out of complete frustration, I took a paint brush and dotted lavender paint on the walls, swept a dry paint brush over the wet dots. It wasn't a bad look. It was different. The jury was out on a verdict, but I was running out of time. When done, it was OK. Not my favorite, but OK. The sage green was too much, but we had a unique lavender and white bathroom. My Sigma sisters would be so proud.

That same summer, before the party, I also built a reading grotto in front of our house. The idea for the grotto sprung when I parked in our weed infested driveway and saw my daughter sitting on the ground with her back against the garage door. She wanted to read outside, and wanted to know what was happening in the neighborhood. The only place to sit was in the driveway.

With that thought in mind, I attempted our grotto. It too is not perfect. But fifty 50 pound bags of stone later, and too many paving bricks to count, we have a nice little place to sit and read in the summer. Like our driveway, it is fairly weed infested at the moment. The plastic under the stones did not block out the weeds like the packaging promised. I am so home improvement challenged! And so gullible when people tell me it is fool proof. This fool will always be able to prove them wrong.

Always a glutton for punishment, this March we decided that Kat's wallpaper definitely needed to come down. Mine was falling off on its own, so I might as well do two projects at the same time, right? What was I thinking?! It's not like I have anything else to do.

When we moved in, Kat's room was the girly pink room with raspberry sherbet carpet and butterfly wallpaper. Kat is not a girlie girl and HATED the room. We removed the carpet immediately, but the wallpaper remained for 5 years. In her hatred of her butterfly wallpaper, she, with her grandmother's permission, allowed her friends to write on her walls. There were poems, lists, hellos and well wishes, letters and drawings. Think of your high school year book. Now picture it on wallpaper. We initially tried to save some of the more sentimental comments. Eventually, we opted for taking pictures.

Her wallpaper was impossible to remove. Possibly due to all that Sharpie ink. We scored the wallpaper and then Diffed it. After two weeks of trying to chemically remove it, we rented a steamer; removing the majority, but not all. We attempted Dif again and more came off. Many days I came home from work and Kat was using tweezers to remove the specs of wallpaper permanently adhered to the wall. Finally, I just painted over the suckers and tell people it is texture!

Kat is decision challenged, except when it comes to pizza...that she knows...bacon and black olive, please. Ask her to choose between two movies at Blockbuster, or two books at Borders and she is completely incapable. She acts as if it is a life and death decision. Ask her to choose paint colors for her room - Oh! My!! God!!! Do you know how many colors there are at Home Depot and Menards?! Do you realize how many color combinations are possible with Ralph Lauren, Behr, and Pittsburgh Paints? We reviewed them all. Do you know how nearly impossible it was for her to pick colors? Her first thought was blue and lavender which matched her comforter. Then dark plum, with metallic plum stripes. Then it was dark plum and 1 black wall (decorated with a silver metallic moon and gold metallic stars). One day when I got home from work there were samples of red, orange and yellow splashed on her walls. What the hell!? We had been on one side of the color wheel and suddenly...BAM!!...jumped all the way to the opposite side. Did you know there is a difference between purple and plum? There is. Because once we revisited that theme again, we were hit with a plethora of color combinations until she finally chose Grap Surf, Vintage Purple and Moon Rise for her trim.

My paint choices were fairly simple. In Ralph Lauren speak, the colors are Celery and Vera Cruz Suede with Daisy White trim. Painting both rooms simultaneously were a challenge which I have tried to block out of my mind. There are snippets of the nightmare that occasionally flash through my brain; wearing sunglasses while I painted the ceiling to block out paint falling in my eyes (Thank God for Steve and Berry's cheep sunglasses.) Other flashes include Adam painting the accent wall color on an unaccented wall, my realizing that the color I initial wanted for 3 of my 4 walls (Shoreline Blue), was much more Caribbean blue than green/blue requiring a trip to Home Depot covered in paint to pick out the new color of choice - Celery, Maggie doing the best trim job I have ever seen, Kat and Adam are whizzes with a roller brush, Kat's friend Joe unknowingly stepping into lavender paint and then onto hard wood floors. Kat not realizing there was wet paint in the paint tray and dripping paint all the way down the sidewalk and driveway. All in all, painting was the easiest part. It was the wallpaper removal and paint clean up that nearly killed me. The paint project started in March...I just finished decorating my room this week. Yep! 6 Months! Right on schedule.

Adam, now feeling rather left out of the DIY projects, asked if we could paint his room...the color of a wolf. Someone please tell me, what are the colors of a wolf. They are not part of the color wheel I have recently visited. Also, aren't they rather dark for a room the size of a closet? I was leaning towards Shoreline Blue. Hell, we have a full gallon sitting in the garage! Hmmm...

That project will have to wait for a bit. I am not ready for another 6 months of hell. But since his room is the size of a closet, maybe it will only be a 3 month project. It will be finished just in time for Christmas.

On that note, I better go mow my driveway. Bye!

Religion

2008-07-03T20:42:00.018-05:00

Religion keeps popping up in my life these days. It's not that I've ignored it in the past, but for whatever reason, I've had more conversations in the past two months about religion and spirituality than any other time in my life. Then the other day I visited a blog where the writer posed the topic of religion. He asked people their opinions of organized religion. Being a definite religious blend, I have a lot to say on a very sensitive subject.

I was raised Catholic, yet my father's family are the only Sicilian Baptists I know, or ever heard of. HONEST!! During the depression, my grandparents could not feed their 6 children. The local Baptist church aided in feeding and clothing my father and his siblings. Gran and Poppo, fresh from Sicily, did not know how to repay the church, so they did the only thing they knew to do, convert. Except for my dad and an occasional cousin, my dad's family were the only Sicilian's I knew who did not drink or smoke. Most Italian weddings are filled with wine and dancing. Not ours. The "heathens" of the family were usually trying to find a nearby liquor store to smuggle contraban into the reception hall.

When my dad married my mom all sorts of conflict and chaos ensued. He couldn't marry that "Catholic" girl! Funny, just a few short years prior they were all Catholic. I don't think anyone saw the hypocrasy behind their concerns. To them lines were drawn. They were now Baptist, so Dad should marry a Baptist just like all of his siblings. And to be fair, I am positive there were a few raised eye brows on Mom's side about Mom not marrying a Catholic. The two of them did something even more scandalous for both families. They ran off and got married by a justice of the peace. Eventually, Dad converted (back?) to Catholocism and they were married in a Catholic church. When I think about it now, it all seems odd. Gran loved my mom inspite of her being the wrong religion and Gram O'Sh loved Dad. Much to the chagrin of my dad's family, we were raised Catholic. Not the best Catholics (which bothered Gram O'Sh just as much) but we did occasionally go to church and went through all the rites of passage: Baptism, First Communion and Confirmation.

Although I didn't grace the steps of a church too often, I always loved the ritual of mass. The one area that I always questioned in Catholicism was confession. In theory it sounds great, but were you really absolved of sin after confession. Shouldn't there be some remorse to go along with your actions. Sadly, I know people that can be cruel, or rude to others, but justify it because once they walk in the confessional they are free of sin. WHAT?! Was that really how the program was set up? Break a commandment, go to confession, slate clean; repeat. Just one of the many questions I have about religion.

After doing battle with the Catholic church during my divorce, I opted out of raising my children with any religion. Our Parish in McHenry suggested that I stay and fix my marriage. They would not assist with counseling. I didn't consider annulment an option. Kat and Adam existed, so there was a marriage. Good thing I thought that way, as they informed me that they would not assist with an annulment if I requested one. I was told repeatedly that in God's eyes I needed to return to my marriage. No ifs, ands or buts. Sorry, God. I was not going to subject myself or my children to that living hell any longer. And so we left. The marriage and the church.

Later the Arch Diocese of McHenry told me that if I paid them $400 my marriage would be annulled. Hmmm...annulled with two small children. That seemed too weird. Besides a year ago, they said it was impossible. No thank you. That's when I looked into a Protestant based church and finally decided that I am completely unsure about organized religion. My beliefs are more spiritual than anything else. I believe in a higher Being as well as angels (spirit guides), etc. To me, He/She has many different names for many different cultures - God, Allah, Buddha, The Big Kahuna...

I believe in prayer. God, Jesus and I chat all the time. I need to remember to say "Thank you" much more often. These past couple of weeks have been strong reminders that I do not say thank you enough. The area of religion that consistently confounds me, and one of the reasons why I walked away from organized religion, is that people are ridiculed or ostracized for their religious beliefs, or lack thereof, as well as their differences. Think about it, my father was not supposed to marry my mother because she was, God forbid, Catholic! I'm sure the Catholic side did not recognize their marriage until they were married in a church. They both believed in God and Jesus, so what is wrong with two divergent viewpoints? To me, God would not condone ridiculing others for their beliefs as He/She is a benevolent Being; loving anyone and everyone.

The idea of someone being killed because he/she is different is impossible for me to wrap my head around. Yet, this has been the cornerstone for wars. Someone recently tried to explain it to me and although his arguement was quite persuasive, it is still a difficult thought to swallow.

Organized religion seems to categorize people which I find extremely unhealthy. Should a women fall out of favor with her church because she finally found the strength to file for divorce and leave an abusive marriage? Should homosexuals be told that they are sinners because of their God-given sexual orientation? Just because I believe one way and you another does not mean that we fight to the death. To me, diversity is to be embraced, to ignite discussion and growth, and finally a way to learn about each other.

Leaving organized religion offered a variety of challenges and many would say I failed miserably while raising Kat and Adam. I was never very good at biblical stories and my children gleaned what they could from me, but more so from the neighborhood children. I remember one day when Adam and Jake (his best friend at the time) were 5 and sitting in our living room discussing the story of Adam and Eve. Jake went to a Lutheran school, so he had a much better grasp of religion at 5 than I did at 40. The two of them were talking about Adam (of Adam and Eve fame, not my son) eating the apple when Kat walked in the room. She turned to me and stated that Adam and Jake really had the whole Snow White story mixed up. My children were obviously raised more along the lines of the Gospel according to Disney.

In fact this past Easter, in front of the relatives, Kat announced that she was pretty sure that Jesus was just a regular guy who did a pretty good magic trick or two and had everyone bamboozled. Our relatives are sure that I am raising devil worshippers and are now praying over their souls. I questioned many beliefs while growing up, but wasn't as vocal. Kinda wish my kids weren't so vocal either. As a parent you can't wait for your children to speak and then when they are teens, at times, you really wish they learned to be quiet!

Yeah...I am in definite trouble when it comes to my children and religion. Quite often I wonder, "Who ARE you two?"

Kat's questions started with her first communion. By then the church already knew that I was planning a break. Kat, my little sage soul, at the ripe ol' age of 7 questioned many things in her CCD class. Then, due to a bout with the flu, she threw up suddenly and forcibly on her desk in CCD and possibly (if I remember correctly) her teacher. Kat swears her religious life was fairly non-existent after her teacher yelled at her for being sick. After her first communion we planned our escape. Looking back, I should not have made her follow through with her first communion. It was rather hypocritical on my end. Yet, at the time, I was confused and thought if she started something she should finish it. The fact that Katrina lost a tooth just prior to her communion and we almost had blood spilling down the front of her white dress should have been another sign that organized religion was not for us three.

When it came time for Adam to make his First Communion, we were living here and he heard how much money his friends received. His commitment to religion was purely economic based. So, he did not even enroll in a CCD class.

Kat has always entertained the idea of a more spirituality than religion. If you ask her today, she will tell you that she is more Wiccen than anything else; being one with the world. Adam has announced that he is atheist and believes in evolution. Sadly, Adam also learned freedom of speech and religion can be quite costly. He has been ostracized by many of his friends due to his beliefs. Many of the kids at his school are Latino and they take their religion very seriously. Those children do not take kindly to someone who questions Jesus' existence. It was a hard lesson to learn. But freedom of speech and religion unfortunately have their costs.

I believe in a higher power. Who else could create such amazing sites and sounds. The beauty of a sunrise, or a baby's laugh have to be the creation of a higher Being. I am lucky and blessed to be here and to have the most amazing friends and relatives. That fact alone are acts of God. Yes, I do need to say "Thank you" much more often.

Kat, Adam and I are all firm believers of karma. What goes around comes around. We believe in treating others the way we want to be treated, with love and respect. Lies and cheating have no place in our lives. We may not be religious, but we are good people. Not perfect. But good. We love and care for others. A trait that some of the most devout need to learn.

My Man-Child

2008-05-11T15:53:00.008-05:00

So...as I'm standing in the living room the other day, Adam walks up and states, unbeknown to me, the obvious, "What's up, Shorty!" As I turn to look at him, my eyes naturally focus on where his eyes are usually located - eye level with me. That's when I realize that my eyes are now focused on his nose and my eyes need to travel ever so slightly upward to look into his. His eyes are smiling at the fact that he is taller than Mom. What the hell just happened? When did he get taller? Granted, I am somewhere between 5'1" and 5'2", so being taller than me isn't a huge feat. But Adam is my baby, not this "man-child" staring at me.

The signs have been there. I just chose not to acknowledge them. A year ago in January was my first realization that Adam was growing up. The poor kid had one of the worst flus I had ever seen. He spent 4 days with his head hanging into a bowl, garbage can, or toilet. Anytime he ate anything, he threw up. During one of his many trips to the bathroom, as he kneeled in front of the toilet, I witnessed the biggest feet I had ever seen. I should have been next to him holding his head, soothing him as he got sick for the umpteenth million time, yet I stood in the doorway mesmerized by his feet. It was amazing how big they had become. It was as if someone put clown feet on my then 11 year old.

Then there was his 6" growth spurt from June to December. His request for size 10 Pumas this Christmas. His deepening voice. I no longer have to play a guessing game when calling home to determine which child I am talking to. Neither one liked the fact that I didn't recognize their voice, but for the past 12 years they sounded exactly alike. Conversations began with, "Hi, Baby! Watcha doin'?" Generally, from their answer I knew who I was talking to. Occasionally, if their response was noncommittal, a little investigative questioning was required. For a while when Adam would call me he would start out with, "Hi Mommy. This is Adam." just to clarify who was on the phone. Now, there is no question. Adam's voice, when not squeaking, is deep.

Up until last year there was a voice mail message from Adam saved on my cell phone. It was a message he left when he was 5 or 6. In a very sing-song voice it said, "Hi Mommy! This is Adam. I love you! See you at 6:00". Verizon promised me the message would not be lost when I requested a new cell number. They were wrong. Although very apologetic, that precious message was lost. I was crushed yet I can still hear that sweet voice in my head. Just as I can hear his voice when he woke me daily as a pre-schooler, "Wake up, Mommy! It's a bright and shiney day outside!" Although I always wanted to pull the covers over my head at 5AM, how could that sweet sentiment not make you wake up and hug the little guy?

He has always loved coffee, but it was generally a splash of coffee with a ton of French Vanilla creamer and milk. Last month his mug contained much more coffee than creamer. Two weeks ago he announced we didn't have any mugs that were manly. All of our mugs were girly with flowers, or "Mom" or "Gramma" written on them. There weren't any "man mugs" around. He finally found a brown Bloomingdales mug. That is his mug of choice. His "man mug." While out shopping for a Mother's Day gift, I found some forest green mugs for him to use as well...just in case his "man mug" is dirty.

I knew this day was arriving, but it was always at a distance. Now...his maturity is staring me in the face...or, actually, over my head. He starts middle school next year and has requested more responsibility around the house. Where did my little guy go? In a blink he's no longer my baby. I'm a little sad. Yet, very proud of my son and extremely curious as to what Adam will do with his life.

Regardless, Kat still reminds him that no matter how tall he gets, or how old he is, she will always whip his butt.

On Line Dating - II

2008-04-09T22:53:00.005-05:00

In February, 2007 I swore I'd never on-line date again. Then in October, 2007, with the realization that forever is an interminable amount of time, I attempted on-line dating one more time. Today, I've come to the realization that maybe on-line dating really isn't for me. Am I destined to a life alone? Well, that is an unpleasant thought. And anyone ever walking into this house realizes "alone" is definitely subject to interpretation. Summer's on its way and this house resembles a zoo, or more appropriately, and insane asylum during warm weather.

I have to admit, that on-line dating has become an amusing source of frustration. My tongue firmly planted in cheek these days. And once again, God has impressed upon me His/Her warped, sick and wacky sense of humor. A very sage southern gent keeps reminding me that this whole concept of dating is a numbers thAng. Plus, it only takes one. I get all that, but my numbers seem to be seriously skewed! Per my little ol' dating website, my profile recently surpassed 4700 views. Why am I putting that number into cyberspace? Boggles the mind doesn't it? Do you want to know how many dates I've had out of those 4700 views? Two. Both dates with the same guy back in November. If this is a numbers thAng then I am seriously in trouble.

Back in November, when I was unjaded and filled with the promise of many, many dates I met Don. After a few emails, we decide to meet. He teaches architectural history at a couple of Chicago colleges. We graduated from the same University a year apart, our kids are similar ages and we had similar interests. We agreed to meet at a little restaurant in LaGrange called Palmers. Now, I should have known better than to meet there because that restaurant has bad karma all over it from my blind date with a cop. Note to self, never agree to go to Palmers on a date EVER again.

We never actually made it to Palmers because on my way into the parking garage, my car battery decided to die...in the middle of the entrance to the garage. Ever multi-tasking, I stopped in the entrance because the lockbox to pay for my monthly commuter parking is attached to the parking garage. Since no one was behind me, I hopped out to drop off my check. Out of habit (I guess...it's the only reasonable explanation there is) I turned off the car. Fifteen seconds later, when I hopped back into my yellow beast attempting to start the engine nothing happened. CRAP!!! I looked up at the heavens above me thinking this can't be happening. It was. It did.

Yes, folks, no one could enter the garage until my bright yellow vehicle moved its butt out of the way! And my bright yellow vehicle wasn't moving out of the way until the battery got a well needed jolt of juice! Yes, God has a seriously wacky, wacky sense of humor!

So, I call Don, praying that he has jumper cables. He didn't. Neither did I. Mine were sitting on the floor of my garage. An excellent place for them, don't you agree? He pulls up behind my car. We introduce ourselves and I can tell he is a bit put out by the turn of events. I want to tell him, "Sweetie, you need to learn to roll with the punches...especially if you are going to hang with me. My life is chock full of rolling with punches." But, I don't...tell him that is...and decide to wait and see how the evening plays out.

A friend comes to my rescue who admonishes me for not having jumper cables in my car and shakes his head when he learns where they are sitting. How bad would I look if I told him that even if the jumper cables were handy, I wouldn't have a clue what to do with them? Don follows me to the dealership where I drop off my car so they can install a new battery in the morning and we go out for a drink to a little bar by my house. After a pleasant evening of conversation, he drives me home.

OK...that went well...he passed the rolling with the punches test after all. We both have a nice time and agree that we need to go out again sometime...soon. So, we do. On Friday, we meet at a bar near my office where we bump into a table of 10 guys with whom I work. Don asks if we can go to another bar. Sure. Do you not like the idea of my office-mates nearby? I rather liked the idea of them in eye shot since I didn't really know Don that well. Realizing it could be rather disconcerting for him, I agree to go somewhere else. We have a couple of drinks and great conversation. He brings up the subject of moving our relationship at a rather slow pace. Whew! I am very content on moving slow; refusing to make the same mistakes I made earlier in the year. (Offering the opportunity to make room for new and improved mistakes.) Slow...good...Mary likes slow...snail pace slow...excellent. I want to be friends first then work on the whole relationship thing. Sounds like a great plan. He drives me to my car parked at the train station. And attempts to maul me.

What the hell happened to slow??!!?!?
He apologizes.
I get in my car and drive away.

On Sunday, I get an email telling me that he has thought of me continually since Friday. He can't wait to see me again. Call as soon as I get this email. Even if we can only spend an hour together it would be great. Tempted to log on to dictionary.com to make sure I understand the meaning of slow...because his meaning is WAY different than mine, I email back stating I'm flattered, but gently remind him that we were moving slow. He calls to apologize for mauling me and for rushing the relationship. He suggests I call him sometime - on my terms - and we will go out. I do just as he suggests. I call a few days later, got his voicemail, left a message suggesting we go out and never hear from him again.

Yep. That went well.

I took the holidays off, but once January hit, I was back on track; seeing who I'd meet. I'd wink. Email. Respond. They all lead down dead end roads. Until I met Jim. His pictures were a little quirky, but they were definitely creative. His profile stated that he recently moved back to Chicago after being away for 15 years. He was looking for someone to reacquaint him with the city. It also stated he is a photographer which explained some of the interesting shots. I made the bold move and emailed him. Which once again proved that I should never trust my instincts.

His return email was a poem stating that I inspired him. Not sure how my short note could be inspiration, but being a muse always boosts ones ego. We emailed back and forth, yet his emails were always in poem form. Little did I know what that foreshadowed. We exchange phone numbers as I planned to be in his area the following week. When he called I realized that not only does he write letters as poems, he only speaks in rhyme...and in the third person. At first, I was intrigued. He made rhyming and third person conversation appear so easy. In less than 5 minutes, I was irritated. Jim also had an alter-ego named Mr. Positive who recited daily affirmations. Between the rhyming, third person and alter ego, I was praying the conversation would end soon. We had two phone conversations. Both were surreal at best.

My kids have a knack for interrupting the most important of phone calls with the least important crisis. Once while discussing a real estate deal with a client, Adam complained that there weren't any pizza rolls left in the freezer and wondered why I didn't hop into our car and careen off to Jewel to pick up more for his hungry little belly. Although both Kat and Adam are accustomed to my withering stares during these incidents, I too have become accustom to their popping into a room while I'm on the phone.

When they were younger and they attempted to interrupt a phone conversation I'd launch into the 1, 2, 3 checklist. They knew the first finger held up meant, "Is somebody bleeding, or is a major appendage broken?". Two fingers meant, "Is the house on fire?" Three fingers meant, "Is someone dead?" If they answered "No" to all three questions, whatever crisis they were experiencing better wait until I was off the phone. Do you think that during either of surreal phone conversations they interrupted with crisis du jour?! No! This is the first time in their short little lives they chose to respect my privacy. I'd have happily faked a house fire, broken leg, or immediate purchase of pizza rolls!

Next!!
(Be careful what you wish for.)

Soon I received an email from Fred who is a governmental consultant in Iraq. He was coming home in April, saw my profile and was interested in getting to know me. His message stated that if we hit it off maybe we could go out to dinner when he got home. I read his profile, but did not respond immediately. Although intrigued by his profession, he mentioned wanting to meet someone who could pick up at a moments notice and travel. That is SO not my life! I decided to write anyway, but before I could put fingers to keyboard I received a slap across the face...all the way from Iraq. I was internationally picked up and dumped before I could even respond.

Fred's second note stated he noticed that I checked out his profile, that I seemed pretty, but my profile wasn't anything special. He compared our salaries and stated that I obviously wanted to be taken care of, but wondered why he would he want to take care of a 46 year old single mother, when he could have a 26 or 36 year old woman. Then wished me luck in my search. OUCH!!!

Fred made me crabby! I sent Fred a note back thanking him for showing me his true colors before I wasted any more time and suggested if he needs the merits of a more experienced woman spelled out over a 26 year old girl we truly had nothing to discuss.

This is just ridiculous!!

Then I met Steve. Steve is quiet. Sweet. A vegetarian Buddhist(?)/Hindu(?) high school teacher who is currently on a cleansing fast. I tend to be hyper at times, so a serene person sounded like a very good thing to me. His voice was soft, controlled and his words were carefully thought out. Someone who could ground me when I move into warp-speed. Steve and I chatted for quite a while. When we finally figure out the logistics of meeting, Steve drops a bomb on me. This is one I never saw coming. Neither will you.

Steve told me that he joined a tantric sex club. Yes, you read that right. This time I used dictionary.com to make sure I understood the meaning of tantric sex, "a Hindu philosophy combining spiritual and indulgent sexual practices". Yep, except for the Hindu part, I was pretty spot on that definition. In this club he is partnered with two women and they help each other "heal". Clothed or unclothed. They assist each others' every need as they "heal." Clothed or unclothed. His concerns were whether he could hold a monogamous relationship if he entered into these sessions unclothed. Ever the PR rep and being as diplomatic as humanly possible, I ask for the website (which I have since forgotten...sorry folks) to do my own research before destroying his phone number. Rather than just falling off the face of the earth, I called to say that I couldn't meet him - but wasn't honest enough to tell him that it was due to his club. I chickened out. Ever diplomatic. Ever the wimp.

Honestly, you can't make this stuff up!
Please note, the above names have been changed to protect the truly wacky.

Around the same time frame I start chatting with two men. One fairly distant, and one local. David - the fairly distant one, is from Georgia. He is charming, funny and has two teenage daughters. The local guy, Mitch, has just been accepted to grad school, divorced with a young son. I "met" them both within days of each other. It was the weekend where I successfully juggled waaaayyy too many activities in one day. A talent that I have almost honed into an art form.

That Saturday, Kat was going to her turn-about dance and Adam to a birthday party. In the morning I worked at the real estate office for a couple of hours. Mom dropped Kat off at the office so I could take her out for a manicure. After that we picked up her friend, Marina; bringing her back to our house. Alex, who's father rescued me and my dead car back in November, came by to do their hair for the dance. While she made them gorgeous, I watched Alex's 22 month old daughter, Ryan. Quickly remembering that 22 month old toddlers have the energy equal to a nuclear blast and an unquenchable curiosity. She is one busy little girl!

Once Marina was gorgeous, I drove her to a friend's house for group photos and dropped Adam off at the birthday party. Only to get home, say good-bye to Alex and her mini nuclear reactor, help Kat get dressed, take pictures and drive her to the dance since her boyfriend had to work that night. Come home make a quick dinner. Whew! Relax for a few minutes until Adam arrived home from the party. He and I chatted for a while until I left to pick Kat up from the dance. Her boyfriend stoped by from work with a custom made pizza from his job. (I like this kid!) Then a few more of Kat's friends arrive on our door step. My day started at 7AM and ended at 1AM. These are typical days for me when the kids are home. Occasionally an open house, or house showing is thrown into the mix - not to mention errands, grocery shopping, etc., etc., etc.

I've always joked that I would never date anyone out of state since I don't have time to date anyone within my own zip code...but maybe that's the whole problem. If I dated someone at a distance, I would know to take a weekend here or there to be with that person. So, that night, with that thought in mind, while a variety of high school kids and Adam were sitting at my kitchen table, I expanded my search. And I "met" David. I don't even know what I entered into my search, but there he was. His profile simultaneously touched my heart and made me laugh. Parts of it were beautiful, other parts hysterical. Although very far away, I knew he was someone that I would want as a friend. He is now someone who I hope is going to stay a friend...albeit a very long distance friend.

David answered my initial letter and told me up front he was dating someone. Normally, I'd just say thanks for the note and wish him the best, but instead I told him if they ever came up to Chicago, I'd happily be their tour guide, or give them some "non-touristy" places to visit. From there we built a friendship. His emails have made me full out belly laugh more than once. He occasionally becomes my dating cheerleader with an email question of "Soooooooooo...how's Match goin'?" Generally not well.

It's sad that the best rapport and conversations are with a man 11 hours away...who is dating someone. Once again proof that God has a wacky, warped and sick sense of humor!!! But I like my new friend and hope that one day he and his family will trek up north. I'd like to meet them.

That same evening I chatted with Mitch; exchanging phone numbers, he mentioned that he preferred to write vs. call. He thought it would be more romantic. He marveled at my busy schedule and asked if we could meet the following week - which was Kat and Adam's spring break. A few weeks prior I had injured my back. It has yet to heal properly and at the time I was busy coordinating an MRI, as well as jumping from doctor appointments to chiropractor appointments and coordinating a visit of one of Kat's friends from our old neighborhood. I explained that once I knew those logistics, I'd let him know when I was available. After looking at my calendar, I suggested Tuesday. He suggested Monday. I had an appointment that day. So I suggested Wednesday. I didn't hear from him. When I wrote again, I received an email stating that my schedule is extremely frustrating and disappointing. I KNOW!!! Babe, you are preaching to the choir! I wrote him back; apologizing for not making the time to meet him. I'll never hear from him again.

That is when the realization hit me that many non-custodial parents haven't a clue as to what life is like for the custodial parent. Kat and Adam are with me 12 out of 14 days. When they are at their dad's they are not even gone a full 48 hours and my Friday evening every other week is spent driving 1 hour north to his house and driving 1 hour home. Their dad is not faced with coordinating who needs to be where and at what time. It will ease up when Kat starts driving, but until then my life is very full - bursting at the seams full. Between working full time, a part-time real estate career, side projects and attempting to be a present parent to my children, my time is limited. Throw in an unscheduled MRI and doctor visits and the whole mix is off kilter. Is it an excuse so I don't have to get close to someone? Or is it a fact of life for me right now? I don't know the answer. How do I fit it all in? If the right guy came along would I know? I hope so. I've juggled it all before because I wanted to be with someone. Hopefully, I'd do it again.

My dating life was turning into a sieve with more men leaving than arriving. The eternal optimist keeps saying, "All you need is one."

Continually giving "the good ol' college try", I found a profile of a man who lives in the next town. He is an architect. A widower with 3 small children. His profile could have been written by me. I sent him a note. He wrote back stating the same thing. It was uncanny how similar our profiles were. Unfortunately, he felt zero chemistry towards me (which I read as, "You are not cute") and wished me well. Yep...God...wacky, wacky sense of humor!

After that, Kat announced she is glamming me up and taking new pictures of me. She says I'm beautiful. But then reminded me to make an eye doctor appointment because she needs glasses. My life is filled with irony.

So my on-line subscription expires in a couple of days. The masochist in me is very curious as to what else can befall my attempts at love and romance in the on-line dating world. The optimist wants to believe that there can't be any more like Jim, Fred and Steve. The realist is beginning to wonder if I am just an actor in God's universal sitcom.

Will I ever have the answers?

2008-03-23T21:15:00.010-05:00

The other day Adam walked up from his little cubby in the family room that is basically Xbox 360 Central. He found me sitting in my favorite spot in the house. He was angry...ranting about the injustices of being 12...scheduled bedtimes, showers, homework, the fact that someone ruined his hieroglyphics project at school. The list was endless. Finally (I can be a little slow), realizing this wasn't about tween angst, I asked what was up.

My little guy with tears in his eyes asked why so many people were dying in this war. Why is there war? Why do people have to kill people? I have a hard enough time explaining war to myself. So, to try to explain it to Adam was near impossible. I was honest...I don't know the reasons, nor the answers. As far as I'm concerned, war is senseless. His response is that we should kill who is responsible. Well...that sure would make a lot of people happy in this country, but is quite illegal and I'm not sure killing over killing is the answer. There is so much senseless death at the moment.

Not just regarding war. Look at our college campuses, malls, every senseless act of violence to speak of. I never really realized until now how odd the phrase "senseless act of violence" truly is. Of course violence is senseless. What initial act of violence ever makes sense?

Adam is afraid. Afraid of war. Will he have to go there one day? God, I hope not. When he was 8 he wanted to be a Navy Seal. He loved the idea of saving the world...being a hero. Now with a little acquired wisdom over the past third of his life, he realizes that the act of being a hero could get him killed. I don't want to raise a coward, but I, just like every other parent in this world, wants to keep my children safe for as long as humanly possible.

A couple of weeks ago, our family celebrated my mom's birthday. We were all sitting around the table, Mike and Renee, Mark, Ashley and Donny as well as Kat, Adam, myself and the birthday girl. Kat who is loving world history was discussing war with her uncles. Now, as liberal as we are, Mark and Mom are as conservative. Renee sides with us, Mike somewhere in between. Ashley is definitely her father's child and Donny, smart guy that he is, kept his mouth closed. I really don't know where his political views stand and with our heated group, he was probably smart to keep quiet. Ashley could have dumped him, or Kat thrown him out of the house (don't be messin' with my girl in a heated debate).

Mark made the comment that we should just bomb Iraq and Afghanistan. I have always taken issue with the thought of bombing to stop a war. The photos from Hiroshima were burned into my brain at a very young age and make me shiver upon thought. Kat jumped on to her Uncle's statement and ran with it. Much to her dismay though, Kat adds comic relief even when she is discussing a serious topic. I will first attempt to explain what she meant to say, and then replace it with what she did say.

Kat learned in world history about Shiites and Sunnis. If I have my facts correctly, the Sunnis are 90% of the population and are not the extremists whereas the Shiites are the other 10% crazy people. If I'm wrong flip flop it. It boils down to 90% good - 10% bad. (So...after that statement you understand where Kat gets her comic relief.) ANYWAY...Kat wanted to know why we should bomb a whole country when 90% of the people are thrilled that they have some sort of democracy. Why bomb a country when only 10% are problematic?

Unfortunately, Kat being Kat and completely hyped up over the fact that she had her facts and figures straight even if she jumbled up the names.

Her argument started with, "Uncle Buddha (a loving nickname given to Mark after he survived a 20 foot fall, crushing his entire right side and subsequently gaining a few pounds during recovery. Don't feel too bad about Mark's Buddha nickname...he's nicknamed her Kat-Tastrophe!!), how can you even think about wiping out a whole country when 90% of the people are good? The Shinazi's are only 10% of the population. They are the crazy ones. You can't massacre a complete country when 90% of the people haven't done anything wrong."

We all stopped at Shinazi.

The whole table at the same time looked at Kat and asked, "SHINAZIS?!!?"

"Yeah, Shinazi's! You know the bad guys. The Shinazis! They only make-up 10% of the population. Shinazis!!" (looking at us all like we are idiots.) I'm envisioning Hitler with a burka.

After repeated questioning of what the hell she was talking about, Mike finally figured it out. You mean the Shiites and the Sunni's? What the hell are Shinazi's? And Kat in her Katlike ability to dismiss anything and everything, "Well, you knew what I was talking about, so what's the big deal?"

Actually, we could replace the names with Sharks and Jets. Tulips and buttercups. Who cares what they are called? Do we really need to annihilate a whole country so our loved ones can come home? We have just hit a new milestone in this war: 4,000 US troops killed in Iraq. When will it end?

How do I explain the fact that men and women are over there fighting for us. For our freedom. We need to thank them, yet I can't stomach the fact that they are there. It makes me frustrated and angry because I can't fathom what it would be like to send a son or daughter to war. The not knowing. Just book me a padded cell, please.

Do I tell my son that? If he's scared. Should he see me scared as well? Shouldn't I be the strong one with answers? What if I don't know the answers? Do I punt? Parental punting is OK with minor issues. Not sure I should advocate punting with issues like this. My guy was sad, scared and needed to know that it will all be OK. Do I lie and say it will be fine and pray that it will be very soon. Jeez we've been in this war for 5 years. How much longer will it be? In 6 years he could enlist. I'm sure there are some parents out there now who 5 years ago had a 13 year old and were positive the war would be over before their son or daughter turned 18. How many of those teens have enlisted? How many of those teens will die before its over?

I understand protecting our country. But it sickens me that it has to be done.

The morning of 9/11 I remember that I left for work late that day. I was going to drive the kids to school for some odd reason. Adam was in kindergarten, Kat in 3rd grade. Adam dressed in overalls and a horizontal striped shirt. Funny how you remember the oddest things. Our neighbor called to say a plane hit one of the twin towers. We turned on the TV. I was expecting to see a prop plane. That is when we saw the second plane hit. Adam turned to me and asked if they were drunk drivers. Truly, out of the mouth of babes. Comprehending that this wasn't some accident, yet not fully wrapping my head around the events, Kat stated what I was thinking. Mom, that wasn't an accident was it? No, Baby. I don't think so.

I was sick to my stomach.

Kat couldn't handle the events. Someone suggested that if she was so upset, I should protect her from the images. How do I protect her when it was everywhere. She refused to have the TV on because she couldn't stand seeing the constant coverage. She refused to walk into a grocery store because the images were plastered on every magazine and newspaper. When everyone else cheered because we heard planes again, my daughter shook at the sound of their engines overhead. They were a reminder and a source of fear. Any time a plane flew over our house, she ran inside afraid it was going to crash. The Sunday after the attack, I was reading the Tribune, my chair facing the hallway, when I heard a noise. I lowered my paper to find my 9 year old daughter sitting cross legged on the floor, rocking back and forth in the hallway, sucking her thumb, holding a blanket and teddy bear. I didn't realize the back page of the Trib showed people jumping from the tower. It was her first image that morning. How horrible.

Again, I was sick to my stomach. I can hug my children and tell them I love them. Calm their fears and tell them it's going to be OK. Tell them what they need to hear. What they want to hear. Yet, I don't know how to talk to my children about war. I'm not an advocate, yet I know it is a necessary evil. I don't have the answers. Will I ever? If so, do I really want to comprehend war?

Conversations with a Kat

2008-02-17T21:20:00.019-06:00

Katrina: "Mom, I want to learn to drive. Everyone I know is driving."

Me: "You will...one day."

Kat starts naming her friends that have permits and are already driving. One is supposedly driving with 5 family members in her car. (Note to self, stay off the sidewalks in our surrounding towns). Since they haven't even started driver's ed, I'm not sure how the kids have accomplished this feat. Then, in Kat's Katlike ability to make me wonder what is going on in her little ol' head, she says, "I'm tired of not being able to text my friends because they are driving."

Me (attempting to understand the logic of that sentence and finally giving up): "And you think you will be texting while driving?" She just laughs at me at the same time as saying, "NO! Not me!"

The logic of a 15 year old eludes me at all times.

I strongly suggest she has her father teach her the basics as I tend to be a bit high strung. She then suggests that a friend of hers, who just got his license will teach her. I don't be thinkin' so!

A few minutes after that conversation, she, while on the phone with Emily from our old neighborhood, informs me that Emily drove to the gas station to get milk. I explain that since Emily is 6 weeks older, it makes perfect sense that she should be driving to the gas station and Kat barely backs the car out of the driveway. I also suggested that if Kat walks the 50 miles to our old neighborhood, Emily's parents can give her the keys to their car and she can drive to the gas station to get milk for them.

Katrina and I banter all the time. Our conversations make us laugh and we never really think about what we sound like to others. We joke around. Tease each other. She laughs at me while I try to keep her from growing up too quickly. I laugh at her when she thinks I'll buy her clothes that I didn't wear until I was well past drinking age. Little did we know we had a comedy act going until I took her shopping for school clothes last August. We went to her favorite store Mandee. I can't tell you what we were laughing about, but a couple of months later when she and I returned, the sales clerks remembered us. We were told that we were unforgettable. I didn't have the guts to ask if that was in a good way or a bad way. Never ask a question if you aren't sure you want to hear the answer.

This afternoon while in the check out line in JoAnn Fabrics, we started discussing celebrities and their tendency to name their children extremely unusual names - Coco, Apple, Shilo, Suri. The conversation started because Shilo Pitt's picture was plastered on the cover of a magazine. I commented that Shilo is going to be gorgeous with her father's looks and her mother's lips. Kat started pursing her lips trying to make them as big as Shilo's. Which started me giggling. Then Kat wondered out loud if Shilo was the name of a dog in a movie. From there we discussed the idea of naming children unusual names. Then on to Britney Spears who was (of course) on the cover of the same magazine. While noting Britney, I start to say, I still want to invite...Kat finishes my sentence...I know...you still want to invite Britney over for coffee and try to straighten that poor child's life out. I didn't think the conversation was that funny, or unusual...for us, but the woman behind us kept laughing at our one liners to each other.

Somewhere along the way, I told Kat about Abbott and Costello's, "Who's on first." Found it on YouTube and she agrees, that is the two of us on a daily basis.

We'll be headlining at Zanie's next month. Look for us.

Parental Rights

2008-02-10T22:34:00.012-06:00

I just read a statistic stating that within one given year, the US has 2.4 million marriages and 1.2 million divorces. That sure drives home the 50% divorce rate statistic and got me digging into other facts. It appears that 67% of second marriages and 74% of third marriages end in divorce. These statistics are very disheartening. Makes one wonder if monogamy is really possible. One article stated our divorce rate is realistically around 25% (oh, come on!!!) while others state it is as high as 60% (maybe they just averaged the first, second and third marriage/divorce statistics).

In our old neighborhood the divorce rate was negligible. We were the only divorced family in the preschool my children attended. Also, we were the only divorced family in our neighborhood. That is until the lady down the street had a love child with a minister that was not her husband and the woman on the next block (who could not believe that I would file for divorce) ran off with a guy 20 years younger; leaving her two children with their father. I never did thank them for taking the spotlight off of us. But they both disappeared so quickly that I was never given the opportunity.

Although divorced myself, I am a firm proponent that divorce devastates everyone. Lines are drawn. Friends and family take sides, yet there are no winners but many losers. Families are ripped apart, emotions are eviscerated and children never quite learn how to cope with what happened between their mom and dad. A friend of mine whose parents have been divorced for years stated that when her mom complains about her father, my friend, even as a grown woman, still feels horrible, "It's as if she is ripping on my DNA." Although I avoid saying anything negative about my ex-husband in front of Kat and Adam, after that conversation I am even more aware.

In my marriage, I asked for our divorce. It would be dishonest to say that I couldn't live another day in our marriage. I could have existed in that life, but I chose to live, not exist. Even now knowing how the divorce would affect Kat and Adam, I would do it all over again. Grading on the curve, I truly believe they are happier now than they would have been if we stayed. Besides, living a farce is not conducive to raising smart confident children. I was extremely unhappy. So was Kat. Her migraines started at 3 years old. The stress was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Adam was too young to remember what our house was like.

I actually thought that Adam would adapt the best out of the two kids, yet he never quite adjusted. Per Adam, Kat remembers their father living with her. Even though life was not a Norman Rockwell experience, Kat knows what it was like to live with a mom and a dad together. I filed for divorce when Adam was 11 months old. We moved out when he wasn't quite 2 and divorced by the time he was 2 1/2. He doesn't have the memory of his parents together. That fact bothers him immensely. It's not easy living with the fact that my choice is the cause for that pain.

Kat remembers what our life was like. Although she too had difficulty with the fact that her father did not live with us, she was more bothered by the fact that he tended to not excersize his visitation rights. Initially he only lived 1 block away. Then he was only 1.3 miles away. Sometimes the only time she saw her father was when he drove down the street to watch a game at a friends house. Kat saw other fathers in the neighborhood spend time with their children. She often asked why she didn't have a Daddy who wanted to play with her. For a long time she thought the reason that her father wasn't around was because he didn't love her enough. There have been so many conversations where I have explained that it's not that he doesn't love them. He's just not capable of giving more than he does. He's flawed. Not them. I don't know if they will ever truly comprehend that fact. When your father is by choice fairly non-existant in your life you will always feel a bit unloved.

On the other hand, Adam blames me. Adam was once told by his father that he wanted to fix our marital problems, but I refused. Since then, Adam went on a campaign of you left Daddy alone. You made him live by himself and took us away. Adam was 9 at the time. Adam wanted to move in with his father so he wasn't alone. It was a very difficult time in our house. There was a point when I tried to simplistically explain the chain of events, but it fell on deaf ears. In reality, the situation was not simplistic. I did not know how to explain it. So I did not pursue it. He didn't want to hear the facts. Besides, how do you explain that when counseling was suggested his father said he would rather see me in divorce court. A week before the papers were final is when his father asked for a reconciliation. By then it was too late. Maybe one day Adam will ask again and will hopefully understand. Maybe he won't. I doubt the scars left by divorce ever truly heal. And when parents pit the children against the other parent, the scars are even deeper.

When I hear my friends discuss their divorces, I am always surprised that divorce settlements are so skewed. The settlements are a true indication as to who had the better attorney, not what is best for the children. I wanted out. That was it. When we moved to my mom's, I took our clothes, Kat and Adam's toys and furniture as well as the silverware and crystal. The bedroom furniture that I bought prior to our marriage and all living room furniture stayed with my ex-husband. When we moved into my mom's I used the bedroom set I had when I was 12. People thought I was insane to leave so much behind. My dignity and sanity was more important than any material item.

I know friends (male and female) driven by other forces and emotions. They ended up paying through the nose and the ex-spouse reaping the benefits of the other's emotions. Loving fathers have paid the price of a BMW just so they can spend a(n) additional day(s) with their children every other week. Others have absorbed all the household debt and attorney fees because they felt it was the "right thing to do". In other cases, such as mine, I settled for less materialistic items. Some people also know how to work the system. I receive less than $500/ month in child support. I could go back to court to request more, but know how the system was worked before and know it will be worked the same again. I would be paying legal fees with a negligle, if any, outcome. Were our attornies looking out for us, or did they smell blood and take advantage of the situation? Or is it our legal system?

Basically, in the state of Illinois the courts generally side with the mother regardless of who is the more fit parent. I understand the anger and resentment that a person feels during a divorce. Been there. Done that. But throughout I never quite felt that my children were taken completely into consideration.

A few years ago, I had the opportunity to take a new position with the company I had been with for 12 years. I knew my current position was not going to be around much longer. It was just a few months after 9/11 and positions within the hospitality industry were few and far between. Therefore, the only glitch is that we would need to move out of state...to California to be exact. The state of Illinois has very strict laws about taking minor children out of the state in which their non-custodial parent resides. The attorney I hired stated it would be extremely difficult and quite expensive, yet I needed to try.

My reasoning may have been selfish. Some would argue that I didn't take my children's feelings into consideration. Yet I was faced with the fact that my current job was not going to be mine much longer and I had a position with a company for which I enjoyed working. Take the position, or face the unemployment line. The options were quite limited. Although my ex-husband lived near, he rarely saw the kids, so any guilt of taking them away was asuaged by the fact that he never spent any more than 24 hours with them on any given visitaiton week and there were times that 60 days went by without him ever laying eyes on his children. No, there wasn't any guilt in my decision. I was trying to be the responsible parent and support my children.

The subsequent legal battle was endless. The costs insurmountable. I jumped through every hoop the courts required of me. My ex-husband jumped into the role of father of the year, yet couldn't be bothered to show up for his court appointed meetings with a mediator/psychologist. The court system proved to be a debacle. After spending the costs which could have been used to purchase my own BMW, I was told that I could move to any part of the country, or world, for that matter, but "the minor children shall reside in the same state as their father until they are 18 years of age." So I turned down the position in California.

The court did not care that I was left unemployed. Nor were they concerned that our sole monthly income was less than $500 a month in child support. I had no other income. (We are still receiving the same amount, less than $6000 a year in child support. Insane!) Nor did the court care that the non-custodial parent was continually late with his half of medical, dental and school registration fees. No, the courts didn't take any of those facts into consideration. They were concerned that I was trying to "steal" my children from their father. It didn't matter that I complied with their every request, jumped every hurdle to do all that they required during the court proceedings. None of that mattered. I was the bad parent. I was irresponsible when all I was trying to do was support my family.

The icing on the cake to this debacle was when I attempted to apply for public aid, unemployment, or food stamps until I could get back on my feet. The state of Illinois denied my application. Their reasoning? Because I was offered a position in California, but chose to not accept it. Therefore, I turned down gainful employment and ineligible for aid. Can you believe it? The System did not care that they dictated my choosing between my children and career. The choice was easy. But the System then made it impossible for me to support my children. What or where can anyone survive on less than $500/month. If it wasn't for my mom, we would have been homeless. It was a horrible chain of events and a reality check to what others less fortunate endure on a daily basis.

That is when I realized how flawed our legal system remains. I've heard discussions about paternal rights as well as maternal rights. Why does it need to boil down to gender. What about parental rights? Our legal system is skewed and needs serious reform. I don't know how to start, or who to go to. How do you fix a system that is so severely flawed? It's tragic.

Divorce is difficult enough. The innocent and naive pay the penalty. The legally savvy run to the bank. It makes zero sense to me.

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow...

2008-02-01T14:15:00.003-06:00

Last night I watched massive amounts of snow fall to our yard. Our total accumulation at 6AM today was 10", yet more was still coming down as I drove to work. Although I am not a huge fan of winter and even on summer's hottest days, it can always be about 10 degrees warmer for me, watching the snow fall is one of my favorite pastimes. It is SO relaxing. Just wish we had a fireplace to make it more comfy cozy.

When we first moved into this house I decided that we needed to install a fireplace in the living room and a sun room off the dining room. Being a tad cash challenged, I still want to those renovations, but haven't quite figured out how to do so. When watching the snow fall, I really want a fireplace!

Anyway, while it was snowing, there was the cutest fattest bunny I have ever seen romping in our front lawn. He cracked me up. He jumped, hopped and played in the snow. Sadie wanted to go play with him. Don't worry. Sadie would never harm a fly, let alone a bunny. In fact, every morning when I let Sadie out in the back yard, I tell her to go chase the bunnies. She runs outside ready to play with her friends. Unfortunately, the bunnies run away and Sadie just stops in the middle of the lawn and sits; looking very forlorn. She's like the kid in the playground who doesn't have any friends. The bunnies run away and she can't figure out why they won't play with her. Sadie has never figured out, what those bunnies already know, that most dogs her size chase and kill bunnies. Sadie doesn't have that killer instinct. She just truly wants to play.

Last night when the snow started, it was crazy windy; howling through the windows and rafters. I believe the wind gusts were 4o mph. Kat saw two bunnies in our front lawn playing. One was bigger than the other. The littler bunny kept hopping in the snow with the wind behind him. The little guy took flight every time a gust of wind blew past him. Hop..hop...fly. Hop...hop...fly. Since I missed the show, Kat tried to explain what the bunny was doing. Her impression of a bunny taking flight was probably funnier than the actually event. She was laughing so hysterically that the sentences couldn't quite come out, just odd words like, "hop...vroomm...flying". Adam and I began laughing along with her. We hadn't seen the "bunny show", but her impersonation of the little guy was priceless. If the bunnies were looking in our window they probably got their own show. The three of us looking rather ridiculous...one of us impersonating a bunny taking flight and the other two full out belly laughing at her.

Little did the bunnies know that they are the only creatures allowed in our front lawn after a snow fall. Kat is very particular after it snows. No walking in the lawn when a fresh blanket of snow has fallen and Lord help the unknowing individual who puts one toe in the newly fallen snow. That girl can be lethal. The back yard is OK territory, but not the front. I have to admit the lawn is beautiful when unblemished by footprints. Although Kat does fall short of standing on the front step scaring other animals away, bunnies are the only animals she allows on our snow covered lawn. Probably because of their entertainment capabilities.

I still wish we had a fireplace in the living room, but with the bunny show appearing every evening, we'll just wait until we are a bit more cash solvent.

BBBBBRRRRR!!!!!

2008-01-25T06:50:00.002-06:00

This weather is just stupid cold! It's days like this that I wish I was living in sunny California. It's also days like this that I want to create a voodoo doll in honor of the judge that prevented the kids and I from moving to sunny California. We were his last case prior to his retirement to Arizona. Hmmmm.....he's toasty warm and we are freezing our butts off waiting for school buses and trains in 30 below wind chill factors. Hardly seems fair. Me? Bitter?! Never!!! Maybe if the Gods are with me, the judge has a perpetual sunburn and his golf game never improved.

So, the cold comfort (sorry, couldn't resist the pun) in that $25,000 legal battle debacle that I am still paying off is their father is much more a part of their lives now. Honestly, that is a very good thing for everyone.

In a mood to be random, I am just going to free form my hatred for the cold.

Trying to convince teens to dress warm is nearly impossible. Adam seems to think that -4 just means he should wear two sweatshirts to school and no coat. His mother is not the best role model since I still prefer my black leather coat that hits my thighs and is missing a button or two to my puffy down coat that hits my ankles. Yes, I'd be warmer, but I love my leather coat with missing buttons and always feel a bit claustrophobic so bundled up. Maybe it is a small rebellion against the fact that I am not in sunny California.
Yesterday, while the air temp was -4 and I refuse to even acknowledge the wind chill factor, I didn't have time to iron a pair of pants because it was more important to send an email breaking a date for that evening. (When dates are so few and far between it is really stupid to break a date, but our doctor's schedule just doesn't coincide with my office and social calendar. Need to discuss that with the doctor after we discuss Kat's headaches.) So I resorted to a black short skirt which did not require ironing and which did not quite meet the knee high boots I was wearing. Yes, a slave to fashion even when impersonating a block of ice at the train station. Maybe not a compete slave to fashion, with two scarves wrapped around my head I resemble a character out of Fiddler on the Roof. As I stood waiting and waiting and waiting for my train, two questions kept popping into my frozen brain. Can knees get frostbite? Why are trains perpetually late in the cold? Just an hour prior I was bundling up my 15 year old like she was 5 and going out to build a snowman. Three layers later, 2 sets of socks, scarf, mittens, headband, no boots - just gymmies, and her coat she is looking at least slightly warm. She thinks I'm nuts. She's probably right. As a typical parent we occasionally get to say, "Do as I say, not as I do." Never claimed to be perfect.
Kat stands at a bus stop which I remember hating as a teen. Buses are never on time, so you end up just standing there freezing. When it is this cold an extra minute freezing is an eternity. Adam's bus offers front door service (it literally stops at our mailbox). Next year for middle school he won't be so lucky and will realize two sweatshirts just won't cut it at a real bus stop.
Kat's room is the coldest room in the house. Both hers and Adam's rooms face west, yet his is a mini sauna and hers we can double as a meat locker. Kat has a favorite glass which changes from blue to purple when you pour a cold beverage in it. It is always in her room. The other day she showed me the empty glass which was sitting on her desk. It was purple with nothing in it! Yes...that room is frigid. Why and how? I'm really not sure how to fix it without installing new windows and that just ain't in the budget at the moment, so we have towels between the storm and window to block out the breeze (yes, breeze). Although she is welcome to hop in bed with me, she refuses. She actually prefers a cold room, but this is ridiculous. So, this morning when she walked in my room shivering from the cold, I wondered why she wasn't wearing her bathrobe. In perfect teen logic, she explained that she hangs it on a hook by her window and it is too cold to wear. In perfect parental logic, out of curiosity I countered, can you hang it somewhere else so it is not in direct contact with the cold? Probably, but she never thinks about it until she wants to wear it.
This semester Kat has gym 10th period. From a high school girl's perspective this is the perfect period to have gym class. You don't have to worry about how your hair or make-up looks after gym class when all you are going to do is go home. It definitely has its perks, except when for the next 4 weeks, your gym unit is swimming. That waist length mane of hers is too long and thick and takes hours to dry in normal weather. Blow drying it is even a forever process. So, not only does she get to freeze at the bus stop in the morning, but she gets to freeze at the bus stop with wet hair in the afternoon. I have serious concerns over wet hair and -30 wind chill factors. She is more concerned that her hair smells like chlorine. I guess her logic lies on the same hook that she hangs her bathrobe.

Next week we are suppose to see 50 degree temps. Taking in the wind chill factor that is a swing of 80 degrees in 7 days! Kat's room will be livable, she won't freeze on the bus stop, my train will be on time and I won't even have a problem with Adam wearing a sweatshirt to school in January. Life is good!

I'm inked!

2008-01-18T17:43:00.002-06:00

This little ol' suburbanite single mom just got inked last weekend. There were definite country mouse meets city mouse aspects to the whole event. As much as I try to act worldly and sophisticated, at times, I truly am just a dork. Part of my charm.

Wanting company while taking this rite of passage, I asked Maggie if she would join me on my adventure. So after my dance class on Saturday, the plan was for me to stop at Maggie's place, shower, change and off we go on our field trip. Sadly, I have this innate ability to make myself nervous over the stupidest stuff, so having something permanently adhered to my body was definitely nervous inducing. Therefore, while running out the door to my dance class, I forgot my going out clothes and was not about to be seen in my dance attire. So, after class I drove from the West Loop (dance class) to Countryside (home) to Rogers Park (Maggie's) and then to Uptown for my tattoo. And how expensive is gas these days?

When we finally arrived at the Tattoo Factory, I showed Maggie the two angels I had seen before. The first one definitely had attitude. My impression of Alexis as an angel...just a little pissed off about there. The second has a very sweet serene face. She's the one I went with. While waiting for an available tattoo artist, Maggie May and I were looking around. She found Chinese symbols to go with my favorite saying, "Live well, Laugh often, Love much." Hmmmm.... If all goes well maybe one day I'll get the three symbols that mean To Live, To Love, To Laugh. Just not sure where on my body they will go and I really wanted to know how I was going to feel about my angel before I added any other ink or symbols to my body.

So, once we talked to the tattoo artist, my natural dorkiness set in. When looking at their website they listed a coupon for 10% off, so I printed it out. Yet, while talking to them I realized that although coupon was in hand, it was really dorky to mention it. They looked at me funny and I really felt dumb. They did discount the price but did not take my coupon. I'm not sure if the discount was due to them shrinking my angel a bit, or because I asked them to remove the pink glowing aura around her, or because they took pity on me and knew I was completely out of my element.

Nick, my artist, was adorable. Wanting to get to know the guy who was going to adhere my angel to my shoulder, I started asking a variety of questions. Ask my kids, I can come up with a million questions. He answered them patiently and never made me feel ridiculous (although on a couple, he may have thought it). He's been a tattoo artist since he was 15. Although he has a definite baby face, I decided he was older than he looked and guessed his age at 27. Uh...no...he's 23 and I think now insulted. Crap! Does that mean you are going to put a moustache on my angel? He laughed. I asked about the whole process, how it was going to feel, how long it would take. And then made him promise that at no time he would say, "Oops!" when tattooing. He laughed again. Yes, even when out of my element, I can still be charming.

Nick kept telling me that I'd be back for another. And I kept telling him, probably not, this is it. No more tattoos. Yet, when he was done and I saw what a great job he did with my angel, as Maggie and I were getting ready to leave, I needed to look at those Chinese symbols one more time. Just where would I put them?

So, the next morning, I figured I better inform the masses. I really just didn't want them to see it one day out of the blue. My mom was so cute. Her first reaction was laughing, "So, you finally did it!" Then, "Was it a clean place?" Next, "Did it hurt?" Her last question was very funny, "Did any of the ink come off on the bath towel when you took a shower?". I hope not!!!

When the kids got home from their dad's I told each of them separately. Kat's reaction was, "Why didn't you take me?" Well, Baby, you would have begged me to be either inked or pierced before we left. Safer to keep you home. Of course, she asked about her requested mother/daughter field trip when she is 16 and my response was still, you will wait until 18 to be tattooed. After the experience I wonder if I will give in. No, I will resist the temptation. I waited until I was 46 for my first tattoo, she can wait until she is at least 18.

Adam's reaction was not what I was expecting. He hates needles and is definitely his father's child. "You're stained!! That's disgusting!" Oh, Baby, it's not good to hold back your feelings. Tell me how you really feel! He did ask if it hurt, but holds me in complete disregard. Note to self, never mention pole dancing class.

I love my angel. She is beautiful. Nick did a great job! I highly recommend him. Tattoos are addicting. I am seriously thinking about my Chinese symbols: To Live, To Laugh, To Love. Except I really don't know where to put them. Considering it took me 6 or 7 years to decide on this one. (It took me a year to pick out my bedspread, and another year for the paint for my room, so something this monumental needs definite consideration) I just might figure out where I want those placed by Kat's 18th birthday. We can do our mother/daughter field trip then.

Any suggestions where?

Angel on my shoulder - Part II

2008-01-14T20:35:00.003-06:00

Katrina's guardian angel has to be her second cousin, Alexis. I'm not sure who Kat's guardian angel was prior to July 19, 2005, but on that date, Alexis staked her claim. We all would have preferred Alexis to guide Kat in teenage wisdom through text messaging, her myspace page, or via IM's, but for whatever reason, there was a different plan. One thing we all agree on down here, He/She has some serious 'splainin' to do when we cross the pearly gates.

Kat and Alexis were 3 years apart - almost to the day. Kat's birthday is 11/17 and Alexis 11/19. Kat adored Alexis. So did everyone else. How could you not? As Kat has matured, Alexis' family decided Kat is a "mini-me" version of Alexis. They truly are two peas in a pod. Occasionally, when Kat does something rather Alexislike (Katlike), I tease her about channeling Alexis.

Alexis' sister and parents created a virtual memorial for her. It truly is a beautiful testiment to how much Alexis was loved and adored. Alexis' mom, Patty (my cousin) once asked if Kat would like to write anything to be included. Kat didn't say anything right away, but eventually came to me and said that anything she wanted to say was probably not appropriate. So, I asked her to tell me some of the memories she had, or stories she wanted to share about Alexis and, well, she was right. Although hilarious stories, and none are particularly bad, none are appropriate for a virtual memorial. They will stay Kat's memories though. And she will cherish them forever.

To say the girls are ditzy is putting it mildly. While Alexis was sick, she had been tested for everything you could imagine. At one point they even tested her for Lyme disease. When her sister, Brooke, asked her what tests she had done, she said, "I don't know, limestone, or something." Later a cousin, who had heard the limestone story, told Alexis she had heard about the testing for limestone, Alexis response was along the lines of, "See! I told you it was a real disease." Yep, the girl was ditzy.

Kat has had similar moments. When Kat was 13 she insisted she was old enough to hang out at the mall with her friends. I just as strongly insisted she was not. The argument had continued for a couple of weeks when I found an article about a town in New England not allowing kids to be at the mall without parental supervision until they were 15. So, when Kat woke up, I handed her the article. As she is reading it, her eyes were rolling, and she was shaking her head. Finally, she looked up and spoke in a very matter of fact, taking control of the situation voice, "But this is New England! New! England! Mom, this is all the way across the..." I so hoped she was going to say country...really, I did...but she didn't. She finished the sentence completely filled with disdain for my stupidity, "...ocean!!!" Just what is that school teaching you?!

There are times as a parent when I go to my room and stuff my face in a pillow so as not to laugh in front of the kids at what they have said or done. Couldn't be done this time. I full out belly gut laughed at my daughters expense. Wouldn't you? Once she realized what she said, although really ticked off about knowing she was stuck with me at the mall for the next two years, she realized how funny she sounded.

Another time she confused the name of the Broadway musical Lion King with a gang. I still giggle at that one too.

I can't help but wonder what these two would have been like as they got older. They would have been a definite comedy act. Being two kids who love anything loud - loud music, loud debates, loud laughter, loud talking. With the two of them together, no doubt we would all need ear plugs. We didn't get to see each other often, but I know for a fact they would have been very close. Alexis does visit Kat. For those of you who don't believe in spirits you may think I'm nuts. That's OK. I know I'm not.

Alexis died of unforseen complications to her chemo treatment on a Tuesday evening, July 19th. She died the day after her leukemia diagnosis. Not knowing what was about to happen, after dinner that night I asked Kat if she would like to go to Oakbrook with me to buy Alexis a Build A Bear. Kat and her friend Cory picked out a purple fury bear. We dressed her in a Tae Kwon Do costume, named her Roundhouse Rosy and planned to write on the card, "Let's kick some leukemia butt!" As we walked out of the store, my cell phone rang. It was my mom calling to tell us Alexis died. Kat has never stepped foot in Oakbrook mall since. Last November, Patty and Jim gave Roundhouse Rosy to Kat. Many mornings Kat wakes up with that purple bear in her arms, when she knows it wasn't near her when she went to sleep.

Alexis also refuses to let a poster stay up on Kat's wall. It was a poster that Kat's friends were making for Kat to bring to Alexis in the hospital, but it ended up instead being a sympathy card for Kat. Everytime she hangs the poster up, it falls. She can use tape, thumb tacks, super glue. It doesn't matter which wall, or what she uses. That poster likes the floor. Kat has finally resigned to set the poster against the wall. Alexis seems fine with it there.

I once went to a psychic. He was known for talking to spirits who have passed on. I asked him about Alexis. He said, there is so much sadness around her. I agreed. He then said, she keeps showing me her shoulder/back. She likes the idea of your angel tattoo. The psychic did not know that I have always wanted a guardian angel tattoo on my shoulder. I didn't have it in October when I spoke to him, but for the passed couple of years I've talked about it all the time and just got it this weekend. So, she's around. I know.

Kat often questions why Alexis had to leave us. She is definitely pissed off at the Universe and mistrusts all doctors. Can't blame her on this one. Losing someone you love is horrible at any age, but to lose someone you care about and look up to when you are 12 has life altering effects.

Like I said before, we all would rather have had Alexis personally mentor Kat through life. Instead, she is going to have to offer wisdom and strength in other ways. I'm just surprised she's doing it so quietly!

Below is Alexis' virtual memorial website. I've tried to list it as a link, but Blogger and I are still not getting along about listing links. Therefore, if you can't just click the link please copy and paste the site to your browser. You will see how much Alexis is adored.

http://alexis-white.virtual-memorials.com/main.php?action=view&mem_id=5779&page_no=1

">Link

ME? ADD??? OMG!!!

2008-01-13T23:18:00.001-06:00

ADD? Me??

Is this even be possible? I heard of adult ADD, but mid-life ADD? That's a new one! My whole life I have always been a tad unfocused - constantly losing stuff, feeling disorganized, flying by the seat of my pants, stopping mid conversation to start another, or just to stare at something that caught my eye, shutting down because there is too much to take in, or thinking about 40 things all at the same time. As far as I was concerned, those traits are part of my normal nuttiness and just part of my charm.

Granted, being a single parent, working a full time job as well as a budding real estate career (I'm still a one hit wonder), my life has been on overload for way too long. It's possible that I am scattered because there is so much going on all the time. At times I wondered if Valium just needed to be part of my daily diet.

How do I begin to decipher this mess so you can understand the chain of events? Ten years ago, I was in overwhelm and counseling was the only answer. My divorce, working full time and raising Kat and Adam was all too much for me. Counseling was more of a need than a want. For those of you who don't know, it is not always easy to find a good counselor. Actually, finding a good counselor is like finding the perfect pair of pumps. You need to try them on, see if they are a good fit. Do they make you feel good? Or uncomfortable? Can you be yourself while wearing them? I've been known to lug boxes up and down from storage while wearing the perfect black 3" heeled pumps. That's when you know you own the perfect shoe. It's the same with a counselor. If you can be yourself and not worry about what is about to come out of your mouth, then it's all good.

When you are an exhausted, stressed out single parent, who constantly questions all decisions, finding the perfect counselor is not an easy task. At the time, I was a bit unsure about the counselor I found. She was more of a Birkenstock rather than a 3" black patent leather, stiletto heeled pump. She seemed OK, but I was so emotionally tied in knots she could have been the Gandhi of all counselors and I would have been skeptical. After a couple of sessions, she told me that she thought I was ADHD. She gave me a packet of literature about adult women and ADHD. I went home and told my mother and a friend about her assessment. They both informed me that it was impossible for me to be ADHD. According to my mother, I could not have graduated from U of I with my grade point average and be ADHD. Funny, neither person has psychology degrees, yet it was easier to believe them and be the Queen of Denial. I never went back. Although I did save all the materials she handed me that evening; reading a few articles. They were interesting and I could see myself in them, but it was easier to believe she was a quack than adding anything else to my overfilled plate.

I saved those articles for quite awhile and occasionally looked at them. I eventually saw another counselor who was a rockstar of all counselors. She never came up with this assessment but we were focusing on issues brought about by my trying to move the kids and I to California and the legal battle that ensued - which I lost. I never really thought about the ADHD thing again until about 3 years ago when I met with another counselor. He mentioned that he too thought I was ADHD and gave me a video to look at...which I promptly lost. Freud may have a thing or two to say about that act. The seed that was planted a few years prior was starting to take root. I was less stressed and realized the first counselor may have been right. I found those articles and read them again. They listed my behaviors exactly, but again, I wasn't ready to face this issue; hiding behind my Cleopatra alter ego and denied the possibility. After telling myself I wanted a female counselor, I stopped going.

Then, last summer (which I fondly refer to as the summer from hell) I finally faced the facts and admitted something was very wrong. I couldn't state what it was, but everything around me was blowing up in my face. I was beyond a bit nutty and extremely stressed. I read somewhere that stress exacerbates ADHD behavior. And well last summer I hit the charts on stress. When writing it all out, it seems rather benign, but there was so much more going on than the typical full time job, part time real estate career, 1 teen, 1 teen in training who is a gangsta wannabe, and an aging parent who occasionally gives cantankerous a whole new meaning. Those things are all normal to me - typical day in the life stuff. Besides the mundane, there were other events that I would prefer to not list on line. One regarding Kat gives me hives and tics just thinking about...trust me, that issue is hive and tic worthy.

On top of everything else, Kat was flying to the Grand Canyon and her father and I planned an 8th grade graduation party. The week I mailed out the invitations to Kat's party I learned that her father was suddenly financially strapped due stupidity. Although promising to reimburse me at a later date (which I have yet to see), he could not pay for his portion of the party, nor help with Kat's trip to the Grand Canyon. During that same conversation, I also learned that child support was disappearing for an indefinite period of time due to legal issues caused by his stupidity. Although financially strapped, I chose to continue with the party for 60 people.

By then I had already ripped down the wallpaper in our bathroom because I refused to let my "out-laws" see peeling wallpaper the first time they entered our house. While removing wallpaper, chunks of drywall came down as well, so there was more to my quick bathroom renovation than I had planned. Yeah...things were a bit stressful and my behavior was quirky, a little extreme and slightly irrational at best. There are a few people who may suggest other adjectives for my behavior, but I'll stick with quirky and slightly irrational, thankyouverymuch!

While cleaning the garage the week prior to the party, an old friend called. While catching up on families, life, etc., he mentioned that he was recently diagnosed with ADD. As he started describing the symptoms, I pulled up a crate and just plopped. It was if he was describing me. After we hung up, I googled ADD, took a test and - Holy Crap!! I either passed with flying colors, or failed miserably. Choose how you want to look at it. Per the explanation of the test, out of the 75 questions, if my score was over 20, I was probably ADHD. My score was 36! So, the Birkenstock counselor was more of a stiletto black patent leather 3" heeled pump after all. Who new?!

At that point the realization of being ADHD for my entire life finally hit me. Memories from grade school, high school and college came flooding back. The puzzle pieces finally fit and explained so many different experiences and life choices. Soon thereafter, I contacted my doctor, found a new black patent leather, stiletto heeled therapist and have been working on me for the past 7 months. It hasn't been easy, but its all good.

During the next part of this particular journey, a variety of drugs to combat ADHD come into play. This chapter was a roller coaster I never want to ride again. My doctor suggested an experiment of sorts. He was going to prescribe something to me. If in fact I was ADHD, I would know immediately. If I didn't notice a difference, there was something else going on and we would proceed accordingly.

You need to understand, I have never been a chemical kind of girl. In fact, I remember a very exasperated obstetrician trying to explain to me when pregnant with Kat that taking Albuteral during an asthma attack would not harm the baby. Finally in shear frustration he yelled, "If you don't take your inhaler you won't breathe. If you don't breathe, you will die. If you die, the baby dies. UNDERSTAND?!" Talk about your bedside manner. Somebody needed a nap. I understood. I was just trying to explain that I don't like chemicals. In his defense, that may have also been the same appointment where I naively asked if I could donate blood while pregnant. He was definitely worried about my common sense at that point and pitied the poor child I was carrying.

So, back to ADHD chemicals. The fact that a little pill could make me more focused was intriguing. The fact that it was a prescribed amphetamine was a little frightening. I really wasn't sure how I felt about controlled substances. To be honest, the question still looms, was I excited about being more focused, or of the added benefit of losing weight? The idea of taking a daily dose of something still bothered me. I still don't take my asthma inhaler until I'm about ready to cough up a lung, so I wasn't sure how this would play out.

My first attempt at this whole chemical experiment started with Adderall. My friend who was recently diagnosed took it with no problems. I was definitely ready for this little one month trial. Honestly, after just a few days I felt more in control of my thoughts, actions and emotions...something that has been seriously lacking for...oh, about my entire life. The lights were on and somebody was actually home. Then the question arose, was this little controlled substance really working, or because I wanted the outcome to be a specific way, was I mentally tricking myself into thinking it was working? I don't have an answer. I just know I felt as if I was a new and improved me.

Many of my friends were/are skeptical, but I was now more than positive about my assessment. The only snarky problem that bothered me was my aversion to chemicals. I was grateful for the fact it made me focused and clearer of thought. I worried about the effect of this daily pill on my body and began investigating homeopathic options after reading the insert the pharmacist gave me. One has to wonder when one reads the following warning on one's prescription, "may cause heart attack, stroke, or sudden death".

Now this is an interesting choice to make...spacey, ditsy, disorganized and messed up relationships for the rest of my life, or sudden death where I don't have to worry about any of the above.

Hmmmmm...tough call.

My other thought was, what about alcohol? I enjoy a beer, glass of wine, or my frozen Grey Goose on occasion. Eventually, I came to the conclusion that no one would have made it out of the 60's without combining amphetamines with alcohol once in a while. I was definitely careful though.

Sadly, it was all short lived. My daily dose of amphetamines caused a "slight" problem in the breathing category. Being asthmatic, I am always conscious of the importance of breathing and how the lack thereof makes you feel slightly on edge. Adderall worked perfectly on making me focused and feeling like I wasn't flying by the seat of my pants. I was thrilled about the weight loss thing too. Bonus!!! But for some reason it also made me feel as if I had 10 bricks sitting on my back and chest. I was soon literally gulping for air. Not good. After an EKG, we verified that my heart was not misbehaving. My doctor gave me the EKG print out which I saved to prove to the kids that although sometimes questionable, I truly do have a heart.

One drug down...next!

Little did I know how much of a guinea pig I was going to become. Strattera was the next attempt. It was explained that this would not have the immediate effects of Adderall. It was initially used as an anti-depressant, but they later learned it helped with ADHD. This drug takes a minimum of 2-3 weeks to take effect. OK. Let's give it a whirl.

According to Maggie, I was still me, but a much calmer me. Not so anxious and a little more relaxed. But the side-effects were not for me. Let's just say, I have now seen menopause and it ain't pretty. Sharp spikes in blood pressure, hot flashes (which are not fun in the middle of August) and an aversion to alcohol. OK, alcohol aversion is not menopause related, but it wasn't fun either. My counselor explained that with Strattera, alcohol's effects are more than doubled. Not the fun effects - feeling good and silly. The bad hangover effects. I was informed of this after drinking double margaritas that hit me like a ton of bricks. I haven't been that hungover since my freshman year in college when introduced to everclear punch. Grudgingly, I could live an alcohol free life if need be, but the blood pressure and hot flashes on top of no alcohol had me checking into drug #3, Ritalin, which did absolutely nothing.

Next!
Drugs were beginning to look like the men in my life.
They come and go so quickly!

I so want to go back to Adderall. Really, how important is breathing? It was the first time in my life I felt focused. You know, God really has a seriously warped sense of humor. Teases me with something and then takes it away. He/She did a lot of that in 2007 and made me very crabby.

So...now we are on Concerta. This drug was tested in November and December, my absolutely craziest time of the year. Initially, I couldn't tell if it was working because I was moving 24/7. I was so busy at the office that nothing would keep me focused. Now that things have calmed down, I do feel as if it is working. I would still rather find a homeopathic remedy, but most of the ones you read about stimulate the brain (like caffeine), but they don't stimulate the correct part of the brain. I have a website or two I need to investigate further. But for now, Concerta and I are partners.

Kat is very similar to me and I highly suspect she too is ADHD. I should have her tested, but do not want to introduce her to drugs. The side-effects on teens are even scarier than the "may cause heart attack, stroke, or sudden death." Some list suicide, hearing voices, and other bizarre behavior. She's a teen and has her own quirks as it is. Besides, Kat has had a rough enough year. I'd like to wait for a bit.

The two of us do laugh though, because in the past we were both easily distracted and when talking we bounced all over the place. I still do on occasion, but not nearly as much. She can be all over the map. Our code phrases have become, "Look at the pretty bird.", or "Ohhhh, shiny." Usually said when the other has drifted so far off the conversation, we haven't a clue where they are leading. It may sound ridiculous, but it usually is cause for giggle fits. Kat could be talking about one thing, drift to another, then another, and I'll say, "Oh, look, it's shiny!" and Kat snap out of where ever and start to laugh. I'm currently trying to instill some of the behaviors I am learning to see if they will help her.

What a journey this was. And why did it take until I was 46 to figure it all out? Maybe because it's not the end result, but the journey that matters.

The Ring

2008-01-03T06:20:00.001-06:00

I wear an engagement ring on the middle finger of my left hand. Because it is a bit big, on top of that ring I wear a silver band that reads, "wishes do come true" as a ring guard of sorts. Although still waiting for that statement to in fact be true, I have a ton of hope. Occasionally, I take the silver band off and wear my mom's wedding band, or a ring from Gram O'Sh

Anyway, back to the engagement ring. It is gold, with a very simple yet elegant setting. A small diamond set with two really tiny diamonds to each side. It was the prettiest ring Granny could afford to purchase back in the 40's. The story behind it is a little twisted, but I still love it.
My grandmother gave me this ring on my 16th birthday. I knew it was special to her and could not understand why she entrusted me with this beautiful ring. I wasn't the most responsible teen. Looking back, maybe she hoped I'd lose it and then no one would know what truly happened to it. I proved her wrong and still have the ring.

She did state that I could not wear it all the time, but I didn't really understand what she meant. Although she moved here from Sicily in her late teens, she still spoke very broken English and sometimes things were lost in translation. I thought she meant I could only wear it for special occasions. Not so. I came home and showed my parents the extravagant gift from Granny. Both parents had the same reaction, "She gave you THAT ring?!!?" Neither one would divulge the story behind the ring, but I knew that the story they weren't telling me was something very intriguing which only made me more than persistent.

Being a tad relentless, my mom finally gave in and told me the following…

When one of my dad's older brothers was leaving for the war (I'm a bit fuzzy on whether it was the end of WWII or the Korean War) he left behind a girlfriend. She lived down the street and my grandmother adored her. I believe her name was Rose, but I could be very wrong. For the purposes of this story, she will stay Rose. Granny LOVED Rose and hoped that one day Rose would join the family. Granny received a letter from her son asking her to pick out an engagement ring because he was getting married. Since Granny assumed it was for Rose, she bought a very special ring. The best she could afford. My ring.

My uncle then wrote stating the day he would be flying home. When that day arrived everyone, including Rose, went to the airport to pick him up. He stepped off the plane with the woman who became my aunt. To say Gran was furious is the mother of all understatements!! She was one irate Sicilian and you never messed with my Gran on a good day. Messing with her when angry was sheer stupidity. Gran swore like a truck driver alternating from broken English to Sicilian and back to broken English again. She didn't know who this woman was and could not imagine giving that ring to anyone but Rose. (I always felt bad for Rose. Can you imagine standing at the airport watching the man you love step off a plane with another woman. He actually did Rose a favor. It turns out that my uncle was not the nicest person in the world, but that story is for another day.)

Anyway, my grandmother was not giving that ring to anyone except Rose. And she especially wasn't giving it to that "putana". Yeah, my Gran had a temper. The woman who was to be my aunt already had a child but was never married. Being that era, having a child put her in putana status immediately. If Rose wasn't receiving the ring, she was keeping it. My uncle and grandmother fought for days. My aunt and uncle eventually moved out of state (without the ring), but every time they came to visit, my uncle would look for "his" ring. I always wondered where she hid it because my uncle practically turned her house upside down.

Gran held on to it for a ridiculous amount of years until I turned 16. She must have decided that he would never take the ring away from his niece, but no one in the family was taking any chances. I was instructed that when my aunt and uncle visited, I could not wear the ring. How silly. Was he really going to wrestle his 90 lb. niece to the ground for a ring. Knowing him...possibly. As I got older (and a little more bolder) I started wearing it all the time; turning the ring around so it looked like a thin gold band. My uncle was persistent though. He searched for his ring when Gran died and was more than crabby that no one knew its whereabouts. Until recently, very few knew it was in my possession.

I treasure my ring. Not because of the bad karma or story that is associated with it, but because it is the only item I have from Gran. It is a simple and beautiful ring which was purchased for someone whom she cared deeply. She loved the ring and stuck by her principles. Therefore, I also love my ring and will pass it on to Kat one day.

I wish I knew what happened to Rose.

2008 - Tattoos and pole dancing?!

2008-01-01T11:11:00.002-06:00

2007 was a year of self discovery for me. An awakening of sorts. I've learned more about myself in those 365 days than I have in a lifetime. It is wonderful to re-discover the good things. There are definite areas of self improvement though that will require industrial strength focus. But I guess we all have a vice or two.

In part of my self discovery I realized I need to find "me" again. A few years after my divorce I changed my last name back to my maiden name. There was so much anger built up between my ex-husband and I that there was an overwhelming desire to distance myself in every way possible. It was the first time that the saying, "needing to find myself", made sense. Since murder is still illegal in this state, reverting back to my maiden name was the best possible (and safest) choice. So I did. The kids handled it fairly well. There were questions and I answered them as honestly, yet sensitively, as possible. Now, both of the kids have adopted my last name hyphenating the two last names together. Although not legal, and quite lengthy, many school papers come home with both last names. Kat's 8th grade diploma lists both names. Her choice. Her father was not pleased.

As I said before, 2007 was a year of self discovery; a need to find out who I was once again. Possibly redefining the definition of me. I still am missing a thing or two. Mainly, the need to stop being afraid of what others think. That's big. Confidence is a huge piece of that puzzle. I lost my confidence a long time ago. There are occasional spurts of confidence, but nothing that arrives on a sun up to sun down manner. I am the master of bravado and often appear self confidant and occasionally actually feel glimmers, but deep inside, I am a marshmallow of self doubt. Many would never guess my insecurities. Kathrine Hepburn had a great quote that sums it up perfectly, "Everyone thought I was bold and fearless and even arrogant, but inside I was always quaking." That's me.

So, it is time to change. Time to stop worrying and time to exude confidence, sexuality and a positive self image; even if I am the only one who notices. My first step into this metamorphosis is to finally get the tattoo I've been talking about for years. Maybe to some, tattoos are not sexy. Yet, to others they are very sexy. Sexy or unsexy, for me, it's a symbol of empowerment. Anyone who knows me well, knows that I have thought about an angel on my shoulder forever. I never found the right one. They were always too big, too cartoony, too bright, etc., etc., etc. The tattoo bug hit me again last week when I stumbled upon a tattoo parlor.

Our little Barney Fifedum town doesn't have tattoo parlors in its vicinity. Heck, we don't have a library, nor a post office, so a tattoo parlor is pretty far down on the list of establishments our town lacks. But we are only a few miles from Chicago and well, they have a plethora of tattoo parlors. Initially, I drove into Uptown to buy my brother Mark a stove top wood smoker for Christmas at this great little cooking store called The Wooden Spoon. Oh My God! I love that store. They also offer culinary classes that Mark and I may need to investigate. A block away from The Wooden Spoon was a little tattoo shop. I had a few minutes before meeting Maggie for a Christmas drink, so I stopped in to see if I could find my angel. I found my angel, BUT the tattoo parlor was so disgustingly dirty that I felt the need to detox after I left. They weren't tattooing me in that joint if they had the only perfect angel tattoo in the world. When Maggie and I met, I gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and immediately found the bathroom to wash, no scrub, my hands.

So...now that I had the angelic image in my mind, the bug was once again upon me. On my way home I got lost. Typical. My internal GPS has always been broken. Once in the city, I can only go home the way I came, otherwise someone moves the expressway on me. So, I needed to backtrack the way I came, going back to the kitchen store where I bought Mark's gift and then home. I know...ridiculous!!! Sadly though, Chicago's one way streets always throw me off. So, somewhere along the way I stumbled pass a tattoo parlor that looked interesting. Noting the streets, I decided to return soon to see what they had to offer.

A couple of nights ago, I drove out to see if I could once again find the tattoo parlor and my angel. Found both. Since it wasn't too far from Maggie's old neighborhood and near where I delivered Christmas gifts for an office project, as soon as I got my bearings I was OK. I walked in. It looked busy (a good sign) and most of all CLEAN!! Yippee Skippee. Spoke with Hank. Nice guy. A definite flirt. He does the piercings, but he gave me a tour of the tatts. This is a completely different world from my little suburban lifestyle. Also, I realize it's not the smartest thing to be walking into a tattoo parlor by myself at 11PM on a Thursday night. But I've always been a little more independent for my own good and generally Maggie ALWAYS knows where I am off to. She's my wing girl. When going on a date for the first time, Maggie knows the complete itinerary. Stopping by a tattoo parlor at night, Maggie knows where I am. So, never worry. Maggie May knows my whereabouts.

It's not like I can tell Kat, "Sweetie, Mom's going to a tattoo parlor on Montrose. If I don't come home, call the police." Actually, Kat is so into tatts and piercings that she would probably hide in the car and surprise me upon arrival. Her goal for her 16th birthday, besides her driver's license, is for the two of us to go for mother/daughter tattoos. It's the only way she will get one before she's 18. I have yet to promise the requested mother/daughter fieldtrip though. Her father would KILL me. He won't even care that murder is not legal in Illinois.

My angel search is very specific. Nothing cartoony. Nothing huge. Colored, but not too bright. She needs to look realistic and soft. I am not into smurfs, cartoon characters, or anything with fangs or too suggestive. It's an angel for God's sake! Why are there drawings of naked angels, or even worse, naked angels with fangs!?!? I'm sure it's a guy thing and since in a previous writing, I established that I rarely understand men, this is just another area where I am clueless.

Fairly soon, there was my angel. The one found last week at the very scary tattoo parlor. Upon second look, she is a little larger than I planned - probably 5" tall by 3" wide around her wings. Hank explains they can shrink her a bit, but her facial features may be lost. Hmmm. Need to think about this some more. It's still a bit angel on my back vs. angel on my shoulder. Maggie called while perusing various other tattoos and that's when I found a better version of my angel. Yes, my angel. Her colors are a little more muted, blue gown, blond hair (Alexis was very blond...Meg blondish/brown. Perfect!) Since Meg and Alexis are Kat's and my guardian angels this tattoo fits the bill. I still think Daddy is Adam's guardian, but honestly, there weren't any chubby, bald angels with beards to represent Daddy. Sorry, Pop, we are going for symbolism here. Your guardian angel duties will be in spirit only. The price not too bad and would be completed in 1-2 hours. Getting better all the time. Also on my shoulder/back, Hank explains, it shouldn't hurt too much. Oh, yeah. The pain factor. I forgot about that. I also forgot about the needles. This isn't exactly a temporary thing here where you wet a washcloth against the artwork, press it against your skin and and it magically appears.

Do I really want to do this? Does this have trailer trash written all over it? One friend asked if I thought about what it is going to look like in 10-20 years. Not really. Is this a mistake? Possibly. My father would be SO proud! (said dripping in sarcasm). Actually, he is probably doing pin-wheels in his grave! Sorry, Daddy!

Actually, my father was the only member of the family with a tattoo. When he was in the Korean war, he had my mom's name tattooed on his left (?) forearm. She was furious about it. Her concerns were what if they got a divorce, or she died. (Never realized what a fatalist remark that was until now!) What would he do with the tattoo once wife number two came along? His response was that he would tattoo a #1. in front with a line through her name, and tattoo a #2. and wife #2's name underneath. Perfect. Problem solved! He was always a funny guy.

I'm still a little nervous about the whole thing. Do I donate blood one more time before I get my angel since I won't be able to donate for a full year after? It would be the nice, thoughtful thing to do. Lifesource would appreciate it. I've check the BBB about the tattoo parlor - no complaints ever. That's a good sign, but the cynic in me wonders do people who get tattoos really complain to the BBB if there is a problem? Wow, that came out rather snobbish. I am stepping into a whole other world and still a little nervous about the whole thing. Do other people think this way? Truly, what would my mother say? What would Adam say? But another Hepburn quote comes to mind, "If you obey all the rules, you miss all the fun." Thanks, Kate!

We already know Kat will be jealous...if she has her way her tongue will be pierced, nose pierced (someone please tell me what happens when you have a cold?), plus the following tattoos: sun and moon on her neck (OUCH!!!), the words, "Live well, laugh often, love much" around her wrist (again, Owww!), a red and pink awareness ribbon representing breast cancer and leukemia on her ankle (I think). She has given up on the teddy bear - Thank God!!! I might be missing one - maybe Chinese symbols - which may be my next tattoo if all goes well. I'd like Chinese symbols to reflect life, love and laughter. One tatt at a time please, Missy, but I digress.

So, you see empowering myself with these feelings really isn't easy for me. I want to be one of those people who really is strong on the inside and out - not wishy-washy like the above paragraph proves. Again, one step at a time.

In my ever attempt to banish wishy-washiness, I also decided to try something just a little different. Something a bit outside my norm which would also be fun. The radio station I listen to in the mornings, WTMX, talked about a pole-dancing class that just opened up in the city, S Factor. Yes...pole dancing. In the class you do learn to spin around a pole (which is fun!), but it is so much more. You also learn to feel sexy, powerful, strong and confidant. I've taken an intro class and it's not what people would think. Yes, you do learn to twirl around a pole, but it is also a fusion of Pilate's, dance and yoga. There is a definite workout involved where muscles that I didn't know existed are screaming in toned up pain. I've signed up for 8 weeks and will see how it goes. I need a little excitement in my life. Even if it is for just me.

It's not like there is anyone else around who is interested in what I am learning. The kids might slightly freak if I firefly around a light pole when going for a walk. It's not exactly a Gene Kelly, Singin' in the Rain, twirl around a pole. Besides, being a newbie is cause for bruises and klutziness when you take your first swing. I have yet to feel sexy with 4 huge bruises on my right leg. My first twirl was better than twirls two and three, but once you have the hang of twirling, it is a lot of fun.

Right now this is just for me. To feel strong and confidant. Maybe one day, someone else will appreciate what I've learned, but that's not what is important at the moment. Right now, gaining confidence and strength is my goal. Besides, can you see me trying to explain to my mother and children why I've installed a pole in my room? Nah...not at the moment. Nor can I imagine either of my brother's reactions. To Mark, it would be new material for constant jokes and harassment. Mike would never be able to look me in the eye again. So, for now, this is just for me...and anyone reading this blog.

As for my father looking down from heaven, his baby girl, the one with so much potential, the one he was so proud of. You left before you could see me graduate with honors, or meet your grandchildren. Thankfully, you missed the debacle called my marriage. Yes, your baby decided to start the new year with a tattoo and pole dancing classes; stretching the boundaries of what is acceptable in every day society. Yep...yep...yep. You should be beyond proud! I love you and miss you, Daddy! You can stop spinning in your grave. Instead, I'll take a spin or two around a pole; flashing my angel on my shoulder. I'm going to be OK.

Christmas

2007-12-25T10:31:00.000-06:00

As I sit here Christmas morning while the rest of the house is still asleep, I realize how fortunate I truly am. OK...there is that snarky little credit card issue that rivals the national debt, but grading on the curve, I am extremely fortunate. I have two amazing kids who are beautiful, healthy and who I adore. I think they like me just as much...well...generally they do. I have a mom who's health could probably use a pick me up, but she makes us laugh...and we her. I have a good job and great friends. Although life isn't perfect, it is all pretty good and I am blessed.

There is a cup of hazelnut coffee at my side. I am toasty warm in new jammies and a chenille blanket wrapped around my toes. Surf and turf is waiting for us at dinner. Santa's presents are the only gifts under the tree since Kat and Adam opened most of their gifts last night. White lights and ornaments adorn our tree. Some ornaments are our standards...others newly added this year. The moment is peaceful. Although I love Christmas and look forward to the day, I can't help feeling a little blue.

This year has flown by in a blink. In 2008 I really need to learn how to savor the moments. In my mind, flashes of 2007 memories pop into my head. Many of them are moments from the year when I didn't stop to savor what was happening. One that comes to mind is trying to take the perfect shot of Kat as she received her diploma only to have the camera malfunction and me miss the moment completely. I have a picture of a blur. There were also times taken for granted which slipped away like sand in a sieve. My arrogance thought there would be other opportunities, or moments to savor. I want to reach back and grab them and hold tight, but its too late. The moments are gone.

Sometimes along with the moment, people leave too. One of my fatal flaws is that I rarely stop to smell the roses. I am always moving on to the next "thing". It could be the whole prickly ADHD thing we discovered this year, but even on meds I tend to just keep spinning my wheels. (Remember the Flintstones when they had a prehistoric squirrel on a wheel running kitchen appliances and lawn tools? That is me on a daily basis.) Kat told me the other day I was like the energizer bunny. She's right.

A very wise woman suggested that I remember to stay present on Christmas. Take in the moments. Enjoy my children. Enjoy the day. Even if I have to stop and remind myself, that is what I plan to do.

The month of December is always so busy for me. Not that everyone else isn't. It's just my busiest time of year at the office and then add the craziness of the holidays, I forget to enjoy the season. So today and starting this day forward I plan to live in the moment. Not take people or things for granted. If there is joy to be found take it in. Love to share - share it. Don't think that just because someone is here today means that they will be here tomorrow. I'm not talking about death, although that too is a very real possibility. My friend, Maggie, told me about receiving an email from a friend of ours stating he decided to move to California. He never said goodbye - he just moved. He sent the email after he was already settled. Poof. He was gone.

Maggie also is spending this holiday with someone who means a lot to her. He flew in on Sunday and is flying home tomorrow. Poof - he is here. Poof - he will be gone. I'm sure that after he flies home it will seem extremely surreal for both of them. Were they really together this Christmas? It will be such a brief visit that it will probably be more like a dream. One thing I know for sure, Maggie is someone who never takes moments, or life events, for granted. She is quite sage and one of the calmest women I ever met. She knows to savor the time they have together because they will be separated all too soon.

I've had too many poof moments this year. I want/need to relax. Enjoy the day. The event. The moment. I want to lie on the couch at dusk and watch the snow fall. Not think about where I should be, or what needs to be done. Just be. Last January there was such a moment. I was lying on someone's couch watching a brand new blanket of snow fall around. It was dusk and the sky was a Cerulean blue with big fat fluffy snow flakes floating everywhere. It was beautiful to watch and I was content to be snuggly warm under a blanket and watch the snow. And just be. I hadn't felt that calm or peaceful in more years than I care to admit. It was a perfect moment. As content as I was, because I wasn't home, in the back of my brain I felt the need to leave that sanctuary and be the responsible parent. I "knew" I would have a moment similar to experience again. I was wrong. The moment I stood up...POOF...it was gone...and a similar moment never again materialized.

Lesson learned.

Living the moment is so important. Therefore, if in a conversation, I need to be actively participating, not thinking of 50 other things at once. I want to be present for my family, friends - all the people I truly care about. I don't want to poof. I've poofed too much in my life.

What this truly means is that I need to relax. I am always reacting to what life throws my way. I need to be an active participant in my life. That may sound weird to any of you reading this, but honestly, I spend the majority of my life reacting to others. Maybe in order to live in the moment, I need to stop reacting and start participating in what is happening around me.

The one thing I have done this season to start and end my day is to sit by my tree. With all the other lights out in the room, the only illumination comes from our tree lights. While I sit, there is either a cup of coffee/tea, or a glass of wine in hand to sip and reflect while I soak up its simple beauty. Sitting and enjoying our tree is my little slice of heaven. Occasionally, when I walk down the steps to the living room, I stop mid stair and just take in the moment of my tree.

So I AM learning to relax. In another week our tree will be gone. After we take it down, I'm not sure what my new ritual will be. I could actually attempt baths. I have always been more of a shower person, but this could be my new endeavor. I once had a roommate, Gail, who LOVED baths. That girl could soak for hours! She is more of a type A personality than I am, yet she knew how to relax. I'd try the bath thing on occasion, glass of wine in hand, candle and a book. The pages would get wet, the water cold and I'd get crabby. That was then. Since after the first of the year, I won't have my tree to aid in my relaxation and I did receive a few spa essentials for Christmas this might be the year to try it all over again. Hmmm...I wonder.

This writing has taken a completely different vain than I initially planned. I no longer remember what my plan was. This all just rather spilled out. And as usual, I'm not sure how to end my writing.

So, to anyone reading this, remember to enjoy whatever you are doing at the moment. Be present. Actively participate in what is happening around you. Do not take life, or the people around you, for granted. They may not be here tomorrow for a variety of reasons.

I think I just received my favorite Christmas gift before anyone has woken up - the knowledge and the wisdom to enjoy this day, the people I am with, as well as the friends and family that I will not see today and the memory of the people no longer in our lives. To all of you - Merry Christmas!!! Enjoy your day. Love those with you and those you wish were with you.

Peace!

Alexis' Angels

2007-12-24T22:43:00.001-06:00

This post is difficult to write on many levels. To talk about Alexis evokes tears just as I start typing. Some of the tears are due to the senseless stupidity of her loss. Some are for the questions that will never be answered. Other tears are because we never got to the hospital to see her. Then there is the fact that family parties are not the same without her. It's not that my relatives are boring, it's just that Alexis pretty much embodied the life of every party. The final set of tears are because Alexis' parents, Patty and Jim, took their loss and transformed it into a way to help others. That final set of tears and thought process - Alexis, her illness, Patty and Jim, transformation and helping others - takes all of two seconds in my brain, but in actuality it took about 2 1/2 years in the making. The outcome and enormity of their actions still blows me away.

I guess if this is ever going to make sense, you should first know a little about Alexis.

Alexis Christine White. To write about her seems to take away some of her vivaciousness. She was so unique that words really can't capture her properly. I loved how Alexis would tell a story. Actually, she did not tell the story…she re-enacted it. The story itself did not have to be of any importance, but she made it amusing. She was pure kinetic energy. As she told a story, her whole body was in motion reliving the events, her voice becoming faster and louder with every word, stringing words together until you swore the story was just one very loooong sentence and at the end she would be giggling with peals of laughter. Sometimes laughing so hard she couldn’t finish. The more dramatic the story the better. I was never sure which was more entertaining, the story Alexis was telling, or how she told it. I still don’t know.

If I was to free-associate in describing Alexis, the words that come to mind are: funny, loud, irreverent, loud, bright, loud, a little ditzy but at the same time quick-witted, fun and did I mention...LOUD. She loved loud music - the louder the better. She also loved a good debate and was never afraid to speak her mind...loudly. Oddly, these are the same characteristics that I use to describe Kat. Kat is now the same age Alexis was when she died. That is another reason I cannot wrap my head around the chain of events. I can't imagine losing Kat. She is too vibrant, just like Alexis.

Alexis hadn't been feeling well for a while. It started out with her arm hurting. Nothing more, just an ache in her arm. She eventually had aches in other joints as well, severe lethargy and horrible headaches. There really wasn't any specific symptom There were a battery of tests, all inconclusive. One doctor suggested that being 15, she was probably just bored. She should lose 10 pounds and find a hobby. I would seriously LOVE to know if that doctor's medical license arrived in a cracker jack box. Her blood work showed that she had an infection, but still nothing showed leukemia. They tested her for everything including Lyme disease, which in Alexis' ditziness stated they tested her for limestone. Finally, after months of testing, on July 15, 2005 they determined Alexis either had leukemia or lymphoma. They would know for sure on Monday. They determined on Monday that Alexis has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia (ALL).

In veritable Alexis style, she asked if she was going to die. The doctor's assured her that she would not. So, Alexis agreed to be part of a study to help others with blood cancers and then asked when she could be sprung so she could buy her mom a birthday gift. Patty's birthday was Friday and she wanted to buy her mom a Build a Bear. Since they weren't letting her out of the hospital for awhile, she sent her sister Brooke and Jim out to get the present. Alexis resigned herself to losing her hair...she had the most beautiful blond curls you have ever seen, but she was not thrilled with the idea of her braces being removed. Patty recently told me that removing her braces is the one thing that reduced Alexis to tears. Alexis had her first chemo treatment on Tuesday and died that evening from unforeseen complications. Alexis was waked on Friday - her mom's birthday.

There are a million questions that still go through my mind, but nothing will bring Alexis back. I often question why life takes such unexpected turns, yet I still can't comprehend these chain of events to even ask the right questions. We would all love to have Alexis back in our lives, but since that is not possible, Jim and Patty created something to honor Alexis which will benefit many other families in the future. They created Alexis' Angels to help children battling blood cancer at Christmas.

Initially, they created a team to walk in the annual Leukemia Lymphoma Society's Light the Night walk. The team's name is It's ALL About Alexis, named for her type of leukemia. Alexis died mid July, the walk was the 3rd week in September. It's ALL About Alexis raised thousands of dollars in just 6 short weeks. This wasn't enough. Patty needed to continue to stay busy so they organized a bowling fundraiser to help raise more money for It's ALL About Alexis. We have walked 3 years in a row and have had 2 bowling fundraisers.

This still wasn't enough.

Every year, Patty's siblings take turns adopting a family in need rather than buying each other gifts. It was Patty's turn to pick the family in 2006. So, Patty contacted the Leukemia Lymphoma Society (LLS) to ask if they knew of a family that had a teen going through chemo. LLS did not have a program of that caliber, but they would look into Patty's request and see what they could find. This one phone call was the seed of Alexis' Angels. LLS did find a family. They also found a sponsor and through word of mouth 9 children were adopted that Christmas. I remember walking into the LLS office in Chicago to drop off some gifts. It looked like Santa's sleigh exploded. There were gifts everywhere! What a great feeling to participate in something so rewarding.

In 2007 they expanded the program where complete families were adopted rather than children. Thirty-seven complete families were adopted throughout Illinois and Missouri. Jim and Patty personally delivered gifts to many of these families. Jim generally brings the gifts to the door. Patty stays back as she symbolizes what each of these mothers fear. Can you believe what they created out of their love for Alexis?

Patty and Jim were initiated into a club that no parent ever wants to join. The club's initiation fee is set way to high. They took that club membership and chose to create something to honor Alexis. Their strength amazes me. If it was me, I would have booked a padded cell at the local psyche facility and spent the rest of my days there. Not them. Their strength and fortitude is a true testament to their love for Alexis.

Patty told me that Alexis always wanted to help children. My belief is that she was so strong willed that she figured out a way to help kids even from a very far distance. She planted a seed in her mother's brain which has now become an annual event. She is an amazing spirit.

To read more about Alexis Angels please click here:

http://alexis-white.virtual-memorials.com/main.php?action=view&mem_id=5779&page_no=14

(I know there is an easier way to list Alexis' link, but for some reason, blogger and I are not getting along at the moment. If you still can't link to it, copy and paste the link to your browswer.)

It's Beginning to Look a lot Like Christmas - Part 3 - Santa

2007-12-04T22:15:00.002-06:00

When I was little, I never understood why my father always suggested we leave a pastrami sandwich and a beer for Santa. Everyone else I knew left cookies for Santa and carrots for Rudolph. But in our house, Santa always asked for pastrami and beer. At the young, tender age of 5, and it being the 60's, the idea of drinking and driving never crossed my mind. I just wondered why Santa always wanted pastrami at our house. Was it better in Brookfield, Illinois? Did pastrami not exist in the North Pole? Why us? Why did everyone else leave cookies? It wasn't until I was older that I realized why Santa wanted my father's favorite sandwich and a beer.

Soon thereafter I informed my mother that Santa wasn't real. Possibly because I put together the Santa/Daddy pastrami and beer puzzle? I remember stating my case matter of factly in the kitchen as she washed dishes. Being the youngest child, I think she wanted to prolong the fantasy for a few more years. Neither Mike, nor Mark, ruined the fantasy. To me it just seemed too impossible and I just "knew" Santa wasn't real. My mom didn't argue. She really didn't say anything.

When Kat and Adam were 6 and 3, a neighbor's daughter posed the Santa question to her mom. The girl's mom told her "the truth" and the child subsequently told her 3 year old brother, plus Trina and Adam. Admittedly, I was a bit crabby over the subject. I never understood the idea behind telling a child Santa wasn't real. It takes some of the magic out of the season. Therefore, from that moment on, I started a "We Believe" campaign at our house. I bought pillows that stated we believe in Santa. To answer the question as to how Santa enters our house when we don't have a chimney and fireplace, I bought a "magic key" that hangs on our door knob from the Saturday after Thanksgiving until the Christmas decorations are taken down. There is a magic to Christmas which embodies the whole Santa concept. Starting at the moment that the kids first came to me questioning Santa, I became and still am Santa's best PR rep.

Santa always vistited their pre-school on a Saturday. The pre-schoolers and their siblings gathered together, made Christmas ornaments and waited in line to tell Santa what they wanted for Christmas. Santa always gave the kids a bag of reindeer food so Santa could easily find their house. The reindeer food consisted of oatmeal and glitter that we sprinkled on the lawn. Every Christmas Eve we put on our coats and boots, trudged into the snow and sprinkled tons of reindeer food on our lawn. The glitter always looked rather sparkly and shiny on the snow. Yet I always wondered if it was safe for the raccoons, deer and squirrels that may also dine on 'reindeer food". Is glitter poisonous if eaten in copious amounts? It didn't stop me from putting it out every year, but I still wonder how many animals we may have poisoned in McHenry. Obviously, Santa's reindeer are special, so we didn't worry about them.

One year when the kids were about 4 and 7, they decided their father needed to go to the pre-school Christmas party with us. So, Kevin arrived and helped them with ornaments and stood in line with us to talk to Santa. We looked like any normal family, except we were the only divorced couple there. With the divorce rate well over 50%, there wasn't one other divorced couple at that preschool, or yet in our neighborhood! Excuse me, where were all the divorced, dysfunctional parents in McHenry county!? The kids loved having their father there with us and it was fairly Norman Rockwellish until Adam announced with Santa and a million moms standing around us, "Mom, did you know Becky lives in Daddy's house?" Kat then chimed in, "The cat is out of the bag now!" It was apparent that although the kids knew their father and Becky were living together, they were sworn to secrecy by their father. Every mom within ear shot could not wait to see my reaction and what Kevin had to say.

Yes, another dysfunctional family moment I will always cherish.

So, I picked Adam up and countered the question with a question (a skill I learned going through our divorce. If you don't want to answer a question, answer with a question.), "Do you like Becky?" Adam's response was yes. I turned to ask Kat the same question. Her response was the same. I didn't even look at Kevin. There were some very unChristmas like thoughts going through my head and I knew who was getting coal that year! It wasn't that I disapproved of Becky. I actually liked her. What bothered me more than anything was that their father swore the kids to secrecy. He was teaching them it was OK to not be honest and forthright.

As it turns out, Becky was terrific to Kat and Adam. She helped unlock Kat's artistic ability. She also received an emerald cut 1 carat diamond that was once promised to me. Rumor has it she bounced the ring off of Kevin's head at a bar when she broke the engagement. I always think of that broken engagement as why I am a firm believer in karma and as a delayed gift from Santa. I always liked that girl!

To this day, I still believe.

A few years ago, Kat walked in my room, very reminiscent of my confronting my mom over the whole Santa issue. She stated a very clear case. Every questions she posed, I countered with another question - a skill I continue to master.

Kat: "Mom, Santa's not real, right?"

Me: "Why do you ask?"

Kat: "It just doesn't seem possible that this old guy can fly through the air and deliver presents to everyone."

Me: "But isn't it fun to think that it could happen?"

Kat: "But it's not possible."

Me: "How do you know it's not possible? Wouldn't it be a very cool trick?"

The conversation continued something like that until she stormed off in frustration. (tee! hee!) A similar conversation occurred a year or two ago with Adam. He too gave up on convincing me that Santa is not real. He now starts every conversation about Santa with his fingers making the quotation sign. "Do you think (quote) SANTA (end-quote) will bring me an XBOX 360?"

The kids have now come around to my thinking. Prove to us Santa isn't real. We dare you. There is such a beautiful magic to this time of year. Everything is prettier, happier, shinier. We love this time of year.

In our house, Santa never wraps his gifts. His gifts were always under the tree ready to be played. Granted the years of the Barbie townhouse, tea cart and hot wheels racing sets were years that I stayed up until 2AM wondering WHY Santa couldn't wrap the #$#%$ gifts and let me deal with the batteries and assembly the next morning. One year Santa and I needed to swap gifts. I bought Adam a Kinex roller coaster that contained over 1,200 pieces and when assembled was 6 feet long and 3 feet tall. It actually took 3 months to put together. I know, what was I thinking?! Once I realized all that was involved with the gift, Santa gave Adam something else (can't remember what) and I wrapped the roller coaster. But amid the chaos of Christmas morning, I knew why Santa's gifts were already assembled. As much as I love my kids, the idea of being bombarded with putting together "some assembly required gifts" without sleep and minimal coffee is not an activity I can handle on Christmas morning. Besides, this method gave them something to play with until Gramma woke up and we could exchange gifts.

This tradition never quite caught on with my mom. Considering we live in the same house and after years of telling her that Santa did not wrap gifts, she continues to wrap and write "From: Santa" on the kids presents. When they were old enough to questions why Santa wrapped some gifts with Gramma's handwriting, but did not wrap others, I just said that Gramma liked to pretend she was Santa. Her continued disregard always fueled the question of whether Santa was real. The kids had a great case about the Santa debate when there were already presents under the tree signed "Santa" in Gramma's handwriting.

After we moved into this house, Adam started sleeping on the couch in the living room right next to the Christmas tree hoping to spot Santa. He left notes in the tree asking Santa to wake him up and give him a sleigh ride. Adam became very crabby over never being woken up. One year, I found an ornament that is a tube where you can place a letter to Santa. It was used every year until this year. Hmmm...maybe I should put a letter in that this year. I sure could use a wish or two granted.

One year when Adam was asleep on the couch I dropped a present right by his head. If he woke up I was definitely caught in the act. There I was frozen in mid present delivery - completely conflicted on what to do next. Afraid to look to see if he awoke and equally afraid to look to see if the present that dropped was breakable. Thankfully, Adam sleeps like a rock!! (and the present was fine) Whew!!

Kat and Adam are now Santa's junior PR reps. The magic of potential and possibility is very real this time of year. If someone even suggests that Santa isn't real, there is a quiver of a lip, a sad face and a question raised in a very small voice, "You mean...Santa's not real?" It could be said by any one of us. As far as the three of us are concerned, Santa is real. To state otherwise is fightin' words.

We've seen the miracle of Christmas at work. My next entry will be about Alexis' Angels, which brings the true spirit of Christmas to light. Since it has to do with Kat's guardian angel, the two may be combined, or it will be a two parter. I haven't decided yet. Check back soon to see.

In the interim, have a very Merry Christmas!!

Ho! Ho! Ho!