It's no secret how I feel...

...about the weather.

I'm a summer baby, through and through. Then again, I hate the heat and humidity that Iowa summers bring. Hell, I dunno what I like anymore. All I know is that I'm sick to death of snow and cold. Our first snowfall was October 10th. Since then, we've had almost constant measurable snow: 57.5" total since it all began. The most alarming statistic, however is the 70 consecutive days with 5+ inches on the ground.

As I've said before, I'm no stranger to depression. My fight is a daily one to overcome the familiar (and oddly comfortable) feelings of depression and anxiety. I chose three years ago not to use medication. I didn't however swear off alcohol, hehe. Though, I do recognize that it doesn't help. Just helps distract me from the blah.

Today, the sun broke through the clouds that have plagued us for the last two months and I happily opened my blinds and let it pour in. The cats were happy, of course, as they basked in its gloriousness, quickly sprawling out across the living room floor. I was less enthusiastic, but nonetheless cheerful, despite my 4:30 AM wake-up.

I spent most of yesterday in bed. I was tired, but I think most of it was depression wrapping its nimble fingers around me and pulling me under. I gave in. I'm not proud of that, but it is what it is. I slept almost 15 hours (a small awake period during the Bachelor - hullo? VIENNA? Jesus, Jake, what are you THINKING?!) and while I didn't sleep well the last half of the night, I do feel better than I have in days. Could be the sleep, could be the sunshine. I don't care. I'll take it.

I even felt good enough to do my hair and make-up. Hubby asked me this morning "Got a hot date I don't know about?" Hardly. I just didn't feel like being a complete sloth for the 70th day in a row. I even took a few self-portraits. I'm smiling in some of them, but if you look closely, you can see those nimble fingers wrapped around me.

It's been twenty years, Mom...

I wrote this essay almost ten years ago, but the feelings and the pictures I painted with these words are still just as clear as the day I stood there next to her casket.

he•ro (hîr’o) n. 1.In mythology and legend, a man, often of divine ancestry, who is endowed with great courage and strength, celebrated for bold exploits, and favored by the gods. 2. A person noted for feats of courage or nobility of purpose, esp. one who has risked or sacrificed his or her life. 3. A person noted for special achievement in a particular field: the heroes of medicine. 4. The principal male character in a novel, poem, or dramatic presentation.

My mother never did anything to make herself famous, certainly wasn’t the main character in a book or movie, and she had no role in mythology, but she was my hero just the same.

The hurdles in my mother’s life were numerous. She was born during the Great Depression and struggled all her life to get ahead. When my mother was in her twenties, her father was killed suddenly in a train-automobile collision. Filling the shoes of “single mom,” she was married and divorced three times. But my mother’s biggest battle was one that took her life: her fight with cancer.

She was diagnosed with colo-rectal cancer shortly before her forty-ninth birthday and my thirteenth. For two years, she endured surgery after surgery, which robbed her not only of her physical strength but also taxed her emotional strength. She also suffered through sickening chemotherapy and cell-destroying radiation treatments. My round, soft-skinned, sleek-haired mother became a bald, bloated, blotchy-skinned woman who faced every day knowing she was one day closer to her last. Her life was marked not with a calendar but with a timer that told her to empty the next compartment in the pill case that sat on her nightstand.

I remember once during one of her sickest bouts she looked at me and said, “I’m so sorry, honey. You’re so young…I know you’d rather be out with your friends. You shouldn’t have to be takin’ care of some sick old lady. I’m sorry to be such a pain.” She was apologizing to me as if she had some sort of control over her disease. Mom was always like that, though. No matter who was to blame for whatever happened, mom was always the one to feel bad.

The last few months of her life were difficult for both of us. Despite dozens of prescriptions, Mom was always in constant pain. The medicine she took only confused her and made her hallucinate. She never felt better; she just thought she did. When she “came out from under”, the pain would envelope her again in a darkness that I pray I never know. She would cry for hours on end. Not completely understanding it all, I asked her once why she was crying. Her response was a loud sob, “Because I hurt, goddammit!” It was my turn to feel bad now. Mom had always taken care of me when I was sick and now, when she needed me most, I couldn’t do the same for her. I’d never felt so helpless in my entire life.

I was at school when I found out my mother had died. The next few days were consumed with making final arrangements. Although I’d cried, the true weight of what had happened didn’t set in until the day of her funeral. Before the service, I stood at her side with my hand between her arm and ribs, the same place I’d held her when I helped her in and out of bed so many times before. I looked down at my mother’s face…her beautiful, loving, peaceful face. I’d never seen her more content. I started talking to her. I told her goodbye, first of all. Then I told her how much I was going to do with my life and how proud she’d be of me. I told her that I loved her, but for the first time, I didn’t hear, “I love you, too.” This hurt so badly. In her entire life, Mom never ended a conversation with anyone before saying “I love you.”

I began reminiscing about my childhood and how close my mother and I had always been. I remembered the silly jokes we’d shared, the crazy things we’d done and the songs she used to sing to me. I began singing to her:

You are my sunshine. I started to cry.

My only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray. A tear rolled off my cheek and splashed against her hand.

You’ll never know dear, how much I love you. I paused, drawing a deep breath.

Please don’t take my sunshine away. She was gone. I stood there for the better part of an hour just singing and crying.

It’s been almost eleven years since I stood next to my mother’s casket. I still hear her voice and chuckle when I see how alike we are. Mom fought an endless battle, but she kept smiling and looking for the silver lining in the clouds. Sometimes she was even lucky enough to find it. I know she must’ve felt like giving up, but something inside her urged her on. She saw the good in things and knew her fight had a purpose: to inspire me. She surrendered her life in order to teach me to appreciate mine. I guess now that I think about it, she is the textbook definition of “hero.”

From my friend, Ann Marie

This was written by my friend, Ann Marie, @DonniesDancer
I'm reposting it here for those who can't read it.

Dear NKOTB,

Do not thank us for coming back…my loves, we never left.

Everyone has a story to tell, about how New Kids on the Block have affected them throughout their life. This is only a chapter in mine. Those who know me…get Kleenex. Mel that means you. ;) Stay with me kids, this is going be long and maybe too much for some to handle. I don’t share this story easily. But the guys need to know what they did for me.

In September of 1988 I was 14 years old. I had long thick naturally curly hair and Bert (Bert and Ernie) eyebrows. At the time I lived with my dad and my younger sister. I have an older sister but she’s 7 years my senior and was already out on her own by then. The guys were EVERYTHING to me. My parents had separated that summer and were well on their way to divorcing and my world was falling apart.

I loved to sing, dance and act and would spend HOURS in my room singing. If I wasn’t in school or dance class, that’s where I was listening to music in my room, singing and taping every single picture I could find of New Kids on the Block on my walls and ceiling. Popcorn ceilings sucked for that, by the way. I’m not sure how I got all of them to stay on there. LOL Anyway, listening and watching them was my way of escaping into a world where I felt safe and not so alone. There was something about seeing them, so young, doing what I wanted to be doing that made me think it could be possible. I went to every concert I could, and my father allowed it because he wanted to try and somehow make things better, easier for me and my sister. I, by nature, am a very shy and introverted person, but man get me on a stage…and I’m home. I would watch them and think one day, one day that will be me. One of them in particular, caught my heart (pretty easy since I wear it on my sleeve), and has had it ever since. We’ll get to him in a minute.

The days would continue to drone on and I would get shuffled back and forth between my dad who I lived with full time and my mom who I went to see every other weekend. Ahhh, Mom. My mom was a tiny little Filipino woman who was full of life and laughter and whom from I inherited my voice. It sure as heck wasn’t Dad. No offense Pops, but your singing ability kills cats. (Love you Pops lol). She had me singing and listening to Elvis Presley at the age of 3. Her favorite comedian was Whoopi Goldberg and I’d laugh every time she’d say her name because it came out “Goofy Goldberg” because of her broken English. I could rest my chin on her head when I hugged her. We’d dance around the apartment to NKOTB music. I would rock my black and white Adidas and my peace sign necklaces, and my Hardwear baseball caps and she’d always say, “Oh honey, That Donnie is a good looking boy. He’s so handsome.” And I’d giggle and say, “Glad you think so, cuz I’m gonna marry him.” Mom would say, “Okay honey, if you believe it, I believe it,” and so it would go… Mom believed in me, that’s all I needed.

In the summer of 1989 my Mom began dating a guy named Roger. He didn’t like us kids. If it was our weekend to be there he would find a way not to be, which was fine by me because the guy gave me the creeps. She would begin to give reasons why it wasn’t a good time for us to come over. It was hard to not be able to go to her when I was feeling down or convinced that I wasn’t talented enough. She was my drive, my reason for doing. She would come to every performance and sit in the front row. I looked for her. She gave me the strength to go on stage.

In September of 1990 I turned 16 and was very excited to get my license. I was a Junior in High School and well on my way to graduating early. I spent every waking moment in the music room. If I didn’t HAVE to be in class you would find me there, studying or working on choreography for our Swing Choir. I loved the little room with the piano. Picturing Jordan at the keys and hearing his voice in my head. I couldn’t play but I found just sitting at one messing with the keys was soothing. And so it would go…I was on my path to “stardom”. Singing “Fame, I’m gonna live forever…”

In December of 1990 Christmas was coming and there was debate as to where we were going to spend it. Mom said that Roger was going to be out of town visiting family. We were SO excited we could spend Christmas with Mom! It was going to be so sweet!

On December 19th I drove myself and my friend Amy, over to Mom’s - big shot that I was with my license and Dad’s car- to pick up a rosary I needed for Religion class the next day. (12 years of Catholic Schooling. OY! ) I had called before I left to make sure it was okay, and Mom said, “Sure, honey, anytime tonight.”
So I went after homework, It was 9:15p.m.when I got there (Yes, I most certainly remember the time). Singing NKOTB Christmas carols the whole way there. I think Amy stayed in the car while I ran in. That part is fuzzy. I knocked on the door and I heard Roger yell, “Come in!” I thought to myself, “Oh shit. I thought he wasn’t supposed to be here. Why isn’t he in Texas?”

I opened the door and there were beer bottles everywhere and he was sitting at the table in his tattered jeans and “wife beater.” He saw me and said, “Hey baby, you know how to play cards? Come over and sit on my lap and I’ll teach you how to play.” I will never forget the knot that formed in my stomach. I simply replied, “Where’s my Mom?” Roger hollered down the hall, “Maria! It’s your kid! The pretty one.” He proceeded to give me the nasty once over. I hadn’t seen my Mom in a while and she came around the corner, wearing a men’s long sleeved button down shirt, and that was it. Of course she was so tiny anyway it went to her knees and looked like a dress, and I remember thinking that she looked smaller than usual. Sick almost. She had her rosary in her hand. She had a very far away look in her eyes, and I said, “Mom, are you okay?” She just smiled sadly and gave me a hug and said, “ Everything’s fine honey, I love you.” She was so fragile, I thought she might break when she hugged me. I accepted her assurance as true and left. But something wasn’t right and I could feel it in my gut.

I kept telling Amy, I should go back and she’d reassure me continuously and we went home, singing NKOTB all the way home. I couldn’t sleep that night, that feeling just wouldn’t go away, and at 3a.m. my Dad knocked softly on the door, opened it to see if I was awake and, I sat up, looked right at him and said, “She’s dead isn’t she?” He just said, “Yes.” I got up walked past him and out into the living room where the Christmas tree was lit up and Christmas music was still playing. The Christmas song came on, and Jordan’s voice sent me into a tailspin of tears. I couldn’t stop crying. I just sat, in the chair, staring at the tree, crying. I vaguely remember my dad was on the phone and people were starting to come over and I just stayed there. As the sun came up “What a Wonderful World” played on the radio, and I had no more tears left. That moment…I lost everything that ever mattered to me.

On December 19th, 1990 I went to visit my Mother not knowing that was the last time I’d ever see her again. I was the last one to see her alive. After I’d left the apartment Roger and my Mother got in a fight over the fact that I was there at all. That night, Roger raped and beat my Mother to death and left her naked, bruised body on the floor and went for a drink at his ex girlfriends house, claiming that that’s where he was all night.

On December 22nd, 1990 3 days before Christmas…I buried my hero.

My life was never the same. I stopped dancing. I found no joy in singing anymore. I did it, but my heart was not in it. What was the point if the ONE person who I felt believed in me was no longer there.
I still listened to NKOTB because without them I probably would have stopped performing all together.
And so it would go…

Not long after my parents divorce and shortly before my mother’s death, I joined a support group called Y.A.B.E (shout out to my peeps!) Young Adult Beginning Experiences. It was a group that helped kids with loss of a loved one through either death or divorce. Well, cha-ching! Got a twofer right here! It was there that I met the second person who ever believed in me. She’s told me for years that I’m gifted and beautiful and strong and funny and smart, and if it weren’t for Melanie and our shared love of NKOTB, I don’t know where I would’ve been. She, to this day, is ever encouraging, believes in me and my talent and constantly helps me find my “inner bitch.” LOL I began singing again - performing and actually finding a bit of joy in it.

And like most things, life carries us away. The trial came and went; the bastard is serving a life sentence, thanks to evidence and my testimony that put him at the scene of the crime at the time of death. I graduated, Melanie got married, I got married. She had kids, I had kids. We lost track of each other. The details are not important as to why, although Melanie would insert here, “The hell they aren’t! It was because of the Ass Hat! fndfohfw’mfdFdf.” LOL And so it would go…ten years went by and every once in a while we’d talk but that was about it. Every so often I’d see Donnie on screen and think, “Yep, still gonna marry you.” Who cares if we were both married? I would always think, “I bet HE’D be more supportive of my career choice.” LMAO! What? I held onto whatever dreams I had. No matter how small. I was and forever will be a dreamer. I’ve waited 20 years, what’s 20 more? ;)

Fast forward to 2008, I’m separated from my husband for a second time and going through hell…again. I told Melanie I think that the guys are getting back together. She said, “Don’t tease me Cheese.” I said, “Seriously, go look on the website, there’s like a countdown or something.” She was ever vigilant, like she is about most things, and didn’t stop ‘til she confirmed it. I moved back home to Des Moines after living in Minneapolis for 11 years and the reunion of not only NKOTB, but also Melanie and I began and here we all are, 20 years later. Still friends bound together by our life experiences and our love for NKOTB.

We sat at her house this morning and watched “Coming Home,” and I watched as 5 bad brothers from the Beantown land took me back to when my dreams were new and anything was possible. I left her house crying like a baby.

My spirit is restored. I have come full circle. I will forever pursue my dreams. Hell, there’s always gonna be a need for a Grandma in some movie or show, and by the time I get to where I wanna be that will probably be me. My point is, it’s taken me a long time to get here and a lot of heartache, but I am in it for the long haul. With my heroes NKOTB and Melanie, I truly believe (Okay Mel, I MOSTLY believe LOL).

Jordan: You’re voice is such a gift to me and I will forever remember hearing you that morning. You are a source of peace (and laughter). You are what I aspire to be: A master of your instrument. ;) Mark my words, we will sing together. Oh yes, it’s gonna happen. 2 fist pumps baby boy!

Danny: You made me laugh SO hard watching you talking about vocal warm ups on the DVD. Melanie and I were in TEARS! Your smile and laugh are infectious. Every time I see and hear you I just want to hug you.

Jon: You and I are a lot alike. I am very shy and reserved and it usually takes a strong push to get me on that stage, but watching you do it again even though, it’s hard, It gives me courage to get my ass out there.

Joe: You can sing to me for hours. You have so much power and depth to your voice. You move me Joseph. Although you will always look like you’re 12 years old to me, I love you dearly and those amazing eyes. I think we need to tackle a Broadway show together. I’m thinking Chicago. ;)

And last but not least… the cheese in my cheesecake…

Donnie: You were the first man who ever captured my heart, and have it now, always and forever.

Love,
Ann Marie~

NKOTB questions Livestream COULD have asked

We all saw the painful interview that @Livestream just did with New Kids on the Block. You know, the one that pissed Danny off and made Jon give that squinty-faced "Who Cares?" look. The interviewer (and I use that term QUITE loosely because, let's face it, my twelve year old would've been a better journalist) asked the same lame-ass questions that the guys have been asked for the last two years: "Why did you guys reunite?" "What's the craziest thing a fan has ever done?" I mean REALLY? What, because none of us have heard about how Donnie heard the song "Click, Click, Click" and decided it was time to come together again? Because nobody's listened to the recap about Joe's crazy Korean shower girls 14,000 times?

I came up with some questions (with my twelve-year-old, btw) that COULD have been asked. Feel free to add your own!

10. You've just come off a week long tour of the US to promote your new DVD "Coming Home," where you've sat with fans and watched it side-by-side in a theater. What was it like being there with your fans and seeing their reactions first-hand?

9. Your fan-base is typically made up of thirty-somethings who grew up listening to your music. Now their children are listening to you. Do you find it surreal that you've touched two generations of fans?

8. The "Coming Home" DVD has some gag reels and bloopers on it. What were some of your favorite silly moments over the last couple years that didn't make the DVD?

7. Danny, you've inspired thousands of fans to start taking better care of their health through diet, exercise and regular breast exams. Have you ever thought about doing a fitness video?

6. Joe, your son Griffin was quite visible at concerts and in videos and behind-the-scenes interviews over the last two years, yet we haven't seen even a photograph of your new son, Rhys. Why is that?

5. Some of you have started following your fans on Twitter. What's the most surprising thing you've learned about them through there?

4. Speaking of fans, surely you've noticed the camaraderie that has developed among Blockheads. Many have said "It's not about the guys anymore, it's about this family we've developed." What are your thoughts?

3. This time around, you've said that you're much more accessible to fans thanks to the internet and social networking sites like Twitter. Do you find it harder to have downtime with your families and close friends this way?

2. You've said in past interviews that there was a lot of music that didn't make it on "The Block." Do you plan on releasing any of that music or any new music anytime soon?

1. You've got a four-day Cruise in May, two Radio City Music Hall shows in June. What else is on the tour agenda for New Kids on the Block this year?

Some randomosity at 4am

1. While I enjoy the peacefulness of a rural morning, I love music. I'd rather listen to music than watch TV. Nothing beats cranking my favorite playlist and singing along as I go about  my day. I wish I were more talented in that area

2. I have read almost every single book that's ever entered my house. Most of them more than once. I LOVE to read, almost more than I love music. I honestly don't know if I could give up either one if I was forced to make a choice.

3. I don't like kids. I say that in general terms, as there are always exceptions (my own, of course), but for the most part, children are noisy, messy and demanding. Three things I really have no patience for.

4. I have begun writing a book that I've had in my head for a very long time. Having been encouraged by close friends and distant ones I've finally come to see what they've seen in me all along.

5. I hate steamed cauliflower and raw broccoli.

6. I would have made a KILLER lawyer if I could've stood all the bureaucratic BS that comes along with it. Ask my ex-husband. He'll tell you how brutal I can be in a courtroom.

7. I've rediscovered myself as an individual as I've worked my way through my thirties. I'm liking what I see, though I know there are still areas that need polishing.

8. It's not likely that you'll ever think "I wonder what Mel thinks about this?" I'm far too opinionated for my own good

9. I have one of the most compassionate hearts when it comes to animals. If I had it to give, I'd support more charities involving animals. I wish (sometimes) I were that compassionate toward people.

10. I rarely forget anything. The addition of me being vengeful and creative should make this a trifecta of fear in anyone who crosses me, hurts my friends or threatens my family.

Lost sisters

Without going into too much family history, I'm going to try and explain this recent development without confusing anyone too much.

My mother was married three times in her life.

1) Howard - they had two kids together: Cheri & Tim
2) Nelson - my biological father. They had me. He left when I was just a few months old and died when I was 6 yrs old.
3) Roger - my stepdad, but the only man I'd ever called Dad. He had three grown kids from a previous marriage. He came along when I was about 18 mos old and was with my mother until I was 13. He died five years ago.

I grew up calling Cheri and Tim my sister and brother. It's always been that way. I've never referred to them as "halves" or anything. In fact, my brother is who raised me when my mom died when I was 15.

Because of the circumstances surrounding my parents divorce and the issues leading up to it, I had no contact whatsoever with my biological father, who had moved back to Georgia, where his family was from. The only relative on his side of the family we had anything to do with was his brother (my uncle) Calvin. Calvin and my mother had kept in touch throughout the rest of her life. My father was very rarely spoken of.

Fastforward to 1995. I was recently married and had a newborn. My aunt (Nelson & Calvin's sister) Melba had written me a series of letters telling me about my extended family. She knew my mother hadn't ever really talked to me about it, so she told me all about aunts, uncles, grandparents, etc. She also told me that I had two sisters on my dad's side, Mary & Linda and included some pictures of them from when they were little.

This was news to me. I had no clue I had other siblings out there. Aunt Melba told me their names, but unfortunately, nobody in my family had last names or any idea where they lived. I did some internet searches for them, but without last names, I didn't get far. I'd done a few more futile searches over the years, but after fifteen years, I'd given up. I felt it was probably just not meant to be to meet my sisters. For that matter, I didn't even know if they knew that I existed. I'd come along several years after our father had left their mom.

Over the years, I've lost touch with a lot of my Georgia family. Uncle Calvin passed away in 2007 and I hadn't really talked to anyone since then. I recently found his wife on Facebook along with some of my cousins and I sent them friend requests.

When my aunt accepted me as a friend, I went through her profile, looking at pictures and checking her friends list. That's when I stumbled up on Linda's name...and just a few people later, Mary's. I looked at their pictures and knew right away they were my sisters. Now what?! Did they know who I was? Would they want to hear from me?

I finally decided to break down and email them both. Mary responded within a few hours very favorably and we actually spoke on the phone for the first time Sunday afternoon. I'm still waiting for Linda's response, but from what I understand, she's very busy and doesn't get the chance to get on Facebook as frequently as I do. Mary and I are planning on meeting for the first time in March.

I'm still overwhelmed by this whole thing, but I'm so excited at the prospect of getting to know my sisters.

All roads lead to Oz

Whenever I'm on my Blackberry and don't have time to read someone's blog, I'll mark their post as a favorite and go back later to read it. I constantly do that with @altgeldshrugged (Jen Lancaster). For those of you unaware, she's my favorite author and quite possibly the funniest person I've never met. She's written several books memoir-style, which is probably the genre I can most closely identify with.

Anyway...the favorited one of her links the other day and went back to read it tonight: Move Over, Tucker Max. It's typical Lancaster humor in the beginning, but very UN-Lancaster-like, she gives actual writing advice.

The irony in her timing of this blog is unreal.

As I stated in my last blog, a completely neutral third-party came to me and asked me if I'd ever thought about writing. (Obviously I have or I wouldn't have thirteen blogs that I maintain on an almost-daily basis.). I have hashed it over with Kimmi and AM numerous times and they've always told me the same thing Sherri did, but like I told them "You have to support me - you're my friends." They both pitched equally obnoxious fits about that, but whatevs. I did have a long conversation with the hubby tonight about this whole book thing, though - how his family would react to my book, mostly. I've always been a VERY direct person. I say what's on my mind and I don't beat too much around the bush. I don't play games. They're not so much like that. They tend to be more diplomatic and politically correct, so I'm sure if I write a chapter about my views on how my relatives raise their kids, for instance, it's probably gonna piss somebody off. *I* don't care in regards to myself, but I do care how it would affect my husband. So therein is the challenge.

Anyway...long story short, I'm moving forward with this book thing and especially after reading Lancaster's blog, I'm gaining knowledge that just the other day I'd told Kimmi I didn't know how to get. Funny how things work out, sometimes.

Resolutions

I'm not usually a resolution kind of person. I mean, who the hell wants to make promises to themselves that just end up being broken anyway? But..the more I've thought about it, the stronger I felt about doing a list anyway. We'll see how we did this time next year.

1. Sleep at least once a day. I know that sounds like a no-brainer for most people. With my schedule the last year, this hasn't always been the case.

2. Buy one dress each month and wear them as often as possible.

3. Subscribe to a magazine.

4. Accomplish the weight loss goal I set for myself last summer. (So far, I'm on track, just slowed down a bit.)

5. Continue eliminating toxic people from my life. If they don't build me up, they have no business being here.

6. Send birthday cards and/or emails to all my friends and family (So if you think I don't have your birthday saved, please send me an email with your birthdate!).

7. Travel more with my family.

8. Take more bubble baths.

9. Go camping a few times.

10. Read 50 new books.

11. Redecorate my bedroom.

12. Spend a long weekend traveling with each of my kids separately.

13. Spend a long weekend with my husband...and only my husband.

14. Spend more time taking pictures of things I enjoy rather than things I'm being paid to shoot.

15. Finish writing my book

16. Finish writing my other book.

17. Visit three new states I've never been to before.

18. Revisit three states I've already been to.

19. See a pro sports team play...still haven't decided who or where yet.

20. Blog daily.

My year, summed up in picture and prose

As the year winds to a close, we all tend to think "Where has this past year gone? What do I have to show for it?" and more times than not, we struggle to remember what has happened to us. I've been very fortunate this year to have preserved my 2009 in pictures. Some of the pictures may make sense to you, some may not. You may even find yourself in some of the pictures.

The early months of 2009 were quiet and unobtrusive, for the most part. I caught a killer sale at Dillards, discovered a fantastic new author whom I adore and threw a couple of birthday parties for my kids. I camped out in 20° temps to be one of the first people in line for concert tickets. I stood next to a childhood classmate and watched him cry as Toby Keith sang about him and the hundreds of thousands of other American Soldiers fighting for our country. I snuggled with my kids, my husband and my pets. I sat through school music programs and embarrassed my kids by taking hoards of pictures. Why? Because I am my mother's child and pay-forwards are a bitch.

I traveled. Lord, did I travel! 6,000 miles overall in 2009. I finally hugged new friends I'd met online. I was introduced to the wonderful taste of Portello's Italian Beef sandwiches. I met New Kids on the Block (some of them more than once). I slept on the streets of New York City with a thousand perfect strangers that I now call sisters. I stood at the top of Rockefeller Center and let the wind blow through me. I stood at the base of Ground Zero and sobbed, letting grief blow through me. I rode the subway for the first time. I strolled through Central Park. And had a pretzel. And got lost. And got hit on by a hobo. And listened to a three piece band perform for pocket change. And loved every minute of it. Okay, not every minute of it. Being lost in Central Park kinda sucked.  I had Cuban food for the first time and discovered a serious love for fried plantains.

My niece, whom I also consider my baby sister, graduated from high school. One of my oldest and dearest friends finally moved back  home. We went camping. I nude-sunbathed for the first time ever. I learned to take time to stop and smell the roses, or in my case, peonies.

We traveled some more when I won tickets to the CMT Music Video awards in Nashville (Thank you, Reba!). I got to see the Ryman Auditorium up close. I also got to see numerous music icons. I got to see Kid Rock stoned out of his mind (and really? Who doesn't wanna see that?!) while trying to announce nominees for an award.

I traveled some more and met more BlockHead "sisters," in Chicago. I had caramel cheese popcorn from Garrett's. I shopped on Michigan Avenue. I stood at Navy Pier with my new "family" and played "Thriller" on my Blackberry when we learned that Michael Jackson had died. I stood the next day with the same family and sang along to "Man in the Mirror" as our boys paid tribute to the man and his music. I held hands with the son of a pop star.

I began a new fitness program and dedicated myself to a healthier lifestyle. I started a new tradition of attending my old hometown's 4th of July festival with my daughter. We ate snow cones, cotton candy (so much for that healthier lifestyle) and watched the fireworks blaze over the ball fields on the edge of town.

I traveled again. This time, RiceChex and I drove to Colorado. We spent several days in Denver teaching our good friend Crisillyus how to properly stalk a boy band. We toured historic hotels (for reasons that will remain unmentioned until the statue of limitations runs out) and outdoor malls. I got a kick-ass new makeover and sang Cher songs during Karaoke at a gay bar (I killed it, thankyouverymuch!). I met more new BH sisters (and reminisced with old ones). RiceChex and I then discovered that Kansas is actually the largest state in the Union as we traveled through it on our way to Texas. She and I learned that Oklahoma doesn't have winds that whip through the plains, but they have thunderstorms that last for 400 miles. I determined that there is no place hotter than Texas in July and that the Indigo Hotel is the most adorable hotel on the planet. I vowed to return to Dallas to eat at Porta di Roma's (ask for Michael!). I shopped in a regular store for the first time ever and purchased an adorable shirt at Anthropologie. I partied at a club with pop stars (and 500 over-the-top groupies) and saw Jesse Metcalf in person (he's as beautiful in real life as he was on Desperate Housewives). RiceChex and I discovered the biggest gas station in the world (everything really IS bigger in Texas!) and tried Beaver Nuggets for the first time (I'm a fan. She's not.).

August brought the end of summer, the Iowa State Fair and the first day of School. I began Fall with more concerts and time spent with Chick Clique, my local girls-night-out group. I traveled with ProjectDance to Sioux City to help teach a dance routine, participated in the Race for the Cure and celebrated Halloween "Karen Walker" style with friends at numerous parties. November brought "New Moon," our family Cranksgiving at FatBoyz and some remodeling around the house. The office and living room both got make-overs. Friends and family helped us celebrate Christmas and I rounded out the year being cozied away at home thanks to Mother Nature's fury.

It's been a remarkable year and I am so thankful for all the memories I've made and the people I've made them with.

Thank you for sharing 2009 with me.

Photo and video editing at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Have I done the best I could?

I was talking with a friend tonight and we were tennis-matching back and forth truths about ourselves. I admitted to not being very fond of Christmas. He joked that either I'd had a miserable childhood or I didn't have cable television. I told him that Christmases when I was a child were great. But Christmas 1989 was the last really great Christmas I'd had. He asked me if I'd tried to recreate those good Christmases with my own family. I answered that I had, but felt like I'd fallen far short of my goal.

Now that I've had a little time to gnaw on it, I really wonder if I've tried all that hard afterall.

Christmases when I was a kid were SO crazy. I remember playing with my cousins and eating tons of great food and making audio tapes of all of our clan singing Christmas carols for my aunt who lived in California and couldn't be there with us. I remember the sheer number of people and the chaos that resulted from it all. I can't do that myself. I can buy great presents for my kids. I can cook a great meal. I can invite family & friends to my house. I can start Christmas traditions for my family, but I can't recreate the things that made my Christmases so great as a kid.

That's something only my mom could do.

And I miss her.

God, I miss her.

We're talking about a woman who sacrificed SO much for me...everyday of her life she sacrificed for me. She always went without things so that I had what I need and wanted. She knew what the cancer took from her, but she was much more aware of what it took from me and she tried to make up for it in so many ways.

I remember one of her last Christmases, she went on this big charade to surprise me with a Happy Holidays Barbie doll. I'd seen the picture of the doll in a magazine and as a huge Barbie girl, I fell in love with the blonde beauty in the red ball gown. I carried the picture around with me for weeks and weeks. I was too old to play with Barbies anymore, but I couldn't help wanting that doll. She was beautiful. My mother worked at Target that year and she managed to snatch one of the limited edition dolls that came in and she hid it from me and surprised me with it on Christmas. I still have that Barbie, but I will always cherish the memory more than the doll. It was symbolic of what my mother was...constantly selfless.

My mother was no saint. And I recognize that. She was a real person with real faults...but if there is one quality I wish I could draw from her, it's the selflessness she had.

When I remember those times, I really have to ask myself, have I done the best I could? And I have to answer "No."

Sometimes the truth hurts.

I wasn't alone afterall.

I miss you, mom.

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.

~Mary Frye~

"I Made My Family Disappear!"

For the last thirty-six Christmases, I've celebrated with family, friends or both. My house was always the hub of chaos during the Holidays. Our family hosted get-togethers that rivaled those of the Kennedy Clan. Kids, grandkids, cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, friends, friends of friends, girlfriends and boyfriends of friends of friends - our house was FULL!

Those were always my favorite memories, too. Wonderful smells coming from the kitchen. My mother never skimped on a holiday meal, of course. Big, steaming pots and casseroles, desserts, appetizers, whatever you call the prequel to appetizers, side dishes, salads, candy...you name it. Pop & beer were always stored in the back porch, where it frequently got so cold the cans would freeze and burst. Yep..just wasn't Christmas without a foamy Pepsi can bubbling over.

When my parents divorced, our family events became a bit smaller, but still happened. Fewer people, but still lots of people and food. We included more friends in our gatherings, too. Then, mom died and we had one last Christmas with the whole family before we finally decided it was more work than it was worth. We had small get-togethers then, usually just us siblings and our immediate families. It was fifteen years before our entire extended family got together again.

That was a fun year. I'd been working that year on special presents for my aunts & cousins. I'd dug through old pictures and scanned & printed them off, creating unique calendars for each of them. The kitchen was full of those mouthwatering smells again. We played games and visited. The kids played and left chaos in their wake -- just how a family get-together is supposed to work. We've since tried very hard to keep those traditions going.

When my husband and I got married, we discovered quickly the need to alternate the big holidays. His family is much like mine used to be: huge gatherings with all the kids, their spouses and children. Hoards of food, lots of noise and so much wrapping paper in garbage bags afterward that Greenpeace has our family on their Most Wanted list. As time has gone on, though, I've grown less tolerant of the noise and the chaos that comes with eleven grandchildren (seven of which are under the age of 12). It's no secret that I'm not fond of children, nor should it come as a surprise that I prefer peace and quiet. Combine the chaos with religious judgement and completely different parenting styles for our children  and I spend most of the holiday in petulant silence. Sometimes the migraine I fake to get away from the noise isn't so fake, after all. As time has gone on, Hubby and I have developed a holiday tradition of our own: fighting about whether I have to attend his family's Christmas celebration. I always end up going, though in order to keep the peace. (Whenever he goes to see his family without me, he's bombarded with questions about what's wrong with our marriage since I'm not there.)

This year, I was granted a pardon.

Long story short, Hubby screwed up. He trusted his mother with something in confidence (which she didn't keep so confident) and quite honestly, I'm tired of pretending to be someone I'm not and since the valve between my opinion and my mouth is permanently disabled, it's bound to get ugly. I was still prepared to go...that whole keeping-the-peace thing, you know...but he told me the other night that I don't have to go with him this year.

What does that mean for me? I'm Home Alone this Christmas. Our family is going to my cousin's house on Christmas Eve, then we'll be dropping the kids off at their dad's before heading home. Hubby will get up bright and early Christmas morning and head to his parents'. I will be staying home. By myself. Just me (and three cats) (and a dog) (and whoever's on Twitter) (and Facebook).

I will be making a big pot of my mom's homemade tomato soup. And I'll spend the weekend sleeping in and staying up late, watching movies, reading books, soaking in a bubble bath and doing whatever the hell else I feel like doing.

 

I may even sing "White Christmas" a'la Kevin McCallister. You never know.

Who are you?

I was talking with a friend earlier tonight that I met online a few years ago. We were asking each other random questions and he asked me "If someone were to ask you "Who are you?" how would you respond?"

I was dumbstruck.

How exactly would I respond to that question?

I answered a simple "I'm the most complex person you'll ever meet," which is true, but definitely doesn't tell anyone who I really am. It doesn't tell them, for instance, that I *hate* waking up but do enjoy mornings. It also doesn't tell them that I can't stand fighting, but love a good debate. That I like cheese sauce and string cheese, but don't like cheeseburgers or cheese on my salad. That I can stay up for days on end, but also sleep for days on end once I crash.

It doesn't tell them that I value my privacy and my solace, but am scared to death of being alone later in life. Or that I can eat Frosted Mini-Wheats straight out of the box, but don't usually eat them for breakfast. Or that I moan in my sleep and always dream in color. Or that I sing well but always get embarrassed about receiving applause for doing so.

It doesn't tell them that my favorite color is orange. And red. And purple. That I have a brand new box of crayons that I bought a year ago but haven't used yet. That I have two fathers and never really knew either of them. That my mother died when I was 15 and while I didn't know her as an adult, my life's experiences have mimicked hers. It doesn't reveal that I'm highly sentimental about my family but rarely speak to my own sister.

It doesn't express how much I love animals and dislike most people I meet. It doesn't tell them that I don't watch the news or read the paper because it's too depressing. Or that I love Christmas but hate not being able to decorate and give gifts the way I would like to because of financial constraints. It doesn't reveal that I cry for no reason and every reason. Or that I find more sympathy for characters in a book or movie than I do real people most days.

Who am I? I guess now you know.

I'm just me

"Giiiiiiirl, you just....MMMM!"

Those were the first words uttered by the husband of a couple we're friends with when we walked into the Halloween Party last night. He ended the sentence in a growl and a shake of the head. I guess I don't see it. It's hard for me, really. Having been a heifer most of my life, I don't see that I'm any different than I've ever been. I'm just me. I have my moments of confidence, but like any woman with self-esteem issues, I constantly question compliments and the only things I really notice are how many fat days I have a week, how much the numbers on the scale fluctuate and how I haven't gone down another size in almost two months. I don't see this vixen my friends seem to see. I don't know that I ever will.

But even my husband says she's there. He said last night I carry myself differently. I'm more confident, less introverted and I even smile more than I used to. He said he wished I could see myself the way he sees me.

The thing is..and I may spend time in therapy for this, I guess I consider almost any declaration of accomplishment egotistical and an unattractive quality in any human being. So while I have learned to take compliments better, I still brush them off because they make me uncomfortable. I know I've lost weight. I know those thirty-ish pounds I've lost are a HUGE accomplishment, but to point it out, feels awkward to me. To celebrate them for more than a general statement of "I lost ____ pounds," to me, seems self-serving and the *LAST* thing I ever want to be is self-absorbed or egotistical.

I have over 400 followers on Twitter and I still sit back and say "what the hell?" I know many of those people follow me because of the weight loss I've achieved over the last few months, but it still seems weird to me. There are celebrities who've lost more weight than I have. There are tried-and-true people who live healthy lifestyles daily who are far more "together" than I am. Why the hell do 400+ people want to follow me? I'm just me, ya know? I tell people the same thing when it comes to my writing...or my singing....or anything else they try to compliment me on: I'm just me. I'm nobody special.

I'm MUCH more comfortable just blending into the background than being out there in the spotlight. And I'm discovering just how uncomfortable I am receiving compliments, too. This weight loss thing is much more difficult than I realized. It's so much more than just losing weight. There's responsibility with it, too. I didn't know about it. I sure don't know what to do with it and furthermore, I don't think I'm qualified to take it on. So...how do I just lose the weight and return everything else that comes along with it?

Please Remember...

I was not there. I did not die.

I did not feel the tremors of concrete exploding above me in this morning's business meeting on the 56^th story. The soles of my shoes did not melt to the floor as it was licked by the flames on the level beneath me. Jet fuel vapors did not saturate my nostrils when I gasped for clean air in my smoke-filled office. My clothes were not torn or ripped off my body when glass and debris pierced the safety of the stairwell. Rescuers will not scrape my splattered body off the sidewalk because I leaped to my death from a window a quarter of a mile in the sky. You did not see me fleeing in panic from the cloud of ash chasing me like a mugger through the streets of New York City. I did not yank every door handle looking for that one unlocked car to serve as refuge from the criminal grabbing at my sleeve. The gritty taste of soot did not stain my tongue in the snowy blizzard of ash that bleached my skin, hair and clothes.

I did not mutter the 23^rd Psalm just in time for the nose of my plane to kiss the steel walls of a skyscraper. My throat was not slit with a box cutter by the man who held my fate. My cell phone wasn't dialed in the last minutes of my life as I hid in a tiny box of a restroom. I did not describe to my husband the terror I was encountering just seconds before my exit from this world.

Instead, I was here. I lived.

I gaped at the radio in disbelief when Tim McGraw was interrupted with a late breaking news story of a plane crashing into the World Trade Center. I surfed the radio stations searching for more information on this catastrophic event. When a journalist's voice was replaced again with song, I would punch the "seek" button on my Alpine until another somber voice was heard. I contemplated turning my car around and returning to the sanctuary of my home. Algebra just didn't seem quite that important anymore. Math won out as I parked my car on campus. The repeated stories echoed through the empty hallways from radios turned on a bit louder than usual. A television in the student lounge boomed ominously to an astounded audience of students, most barely old enough to recall the Oklahoma City bombing with any accuracy. Many had never seen disaster of this magnitude. For that matter, none of us have.

I don't remember sitting through Prof. Jensen's examples on the board today and I still don't understand #20 on the worksheet she assigned. I can't even tell you how I got home this afternoon. Somehow, I managed to pick up my kids and meet my husband at the door with a sigh of relief. The television became our Midwest connection to the horror on the eastern seaboard. We watched in grotesque interest when CNN rolled footage of limp bodies plunging to the ground in some twisted form of suicide. I didn't blink until the video was shown a third time as the plane suddenly appeared in the right of the screen, veered suddenly and exploded through the 83^rd floor of the second tower. It wasn't until the whispered words became harmonized verses as this country's congressmen sang "God Bless America" that I finally felt emancipated enough to cry.

My six year-old asked me to show him on the globe where the "bad man crashed his plane." I did. I also showed him where we live. I repeated in "kid terms" what happened and whom they think did it. I attempted to explain why the person is mad. My son, a young man who at times carries the weight of the world on his shoulders said to me, "Mama? I don't want there to be a fire. I don't want to die." His body will not be laid to rest with the thousands who perished in this disaster. But there is a small part of him that will be buried. A small part of all of us will be.

Music of patriotic mourning steals the silence of my quiet home as it nears 3am here in the Heartland. Still a bit shell-shocked, I sit in this chair typing sporadically as ideas pierce the numbness of my mind. With tearstained cheeks, a lump in my throat and a knot in my stomach that cannot be loosened I pray yet again. I beg God for some whisper of understanding or a sheet of peace to envelope me so that I may at last sleep tonight.

Today, someone took a proverbial bite of the Big Apple, but I was not there.

I did not die.

(written September 2001)