I'll never be...

Much to the chagrin of my friend Todd, I'll never be one of those trendy women who know exactly what to wear and wear only the best designers. 

I'll always shop at Target and my purses will be knock-offs. Not because I want to look like I'm trendy, but because I like the style of whatever bag I'm carrying. My shoes will never be Choo or Louboutin. Although, if there's a cheaper replica of a style I like, I may buy it. Not saying I won't ever own something designer, but if I do, it'll be because it makes me look good, not because it's expensive.

I'm usually a step behind when it comes to the latest book or movie. I didn't read the Twilight series until after I saw the movie. I didn't read The Help until it was in theaters. I still read the book first, mind you but it was months after it became THE book to read. 

I was never one of those girls in school who had to have a Guess label on my ass or a Keds label on my foot. In fact, I remember being teased mercilessly about my "generic" style in school. It was miserable. But I never folded. 

I'm the woman who will happily boast about catching a good sale rather than bragging about a $700 handbag I paid full price for. (Mainly because I will NEVER pay $700 for a purse.) I'm not afraid to use coupons or wait in line for an early bird special. I don't consider myself cheap, just thrifty.

As a writer, I'm always nervous about my storylines being original enough. I once asked an author acquaintance of mine "How do you come up with such authentic storylines that haven't already been written?" She told me that every storyline has already been written. You just have to add new characters, twists and original touches to them to make them your own. So even what I write about will always be second-hand.

My furniture is, too. Second-hand, that is. And that's okay. I don't want leather sofas or high-end tables people don't feel comfortable using. My carpets are worn, as are my linoleum floors (that's right kids...not tile...linoleum). I take great pride in the fact that the flooring I used when remodeling my bathroom cost me $8. Not for each piece...the WHOLE floor.

I'll never be someone who demands the best money can buy - not because I can't afford it, but because I'd rather spend my money on other things I enjoy. I want to spend it on my family...my friends....traveling to new places...surprising loved ones with things that mean something to them. I may never own a Coach bag, but if I were to find out my bestie wanted one, I'd make it happen. 

I'm original. I'm me. I don't make apologies for my snagged rugs or the water rings on my coffee table. My house will probably always smell faintly of cats or dogs...and probably burnt popcorn. It's who I am, kids. I'll always be this way. 

I may make it big one day but when I do, you can bet I'll still be wearing my Danskin sweats and that t-shirt I own that says "Mess with me, mess with the whole trailer park." It's who I am.

I don't need a designer label to determine my worth. My friends do that.

** Let me make clear that I'm not judging those who want designer things or buy $700 purses. If that's what makes you happy, then by all means, do it. All I'm saying is that it's not me. :)

I can't remember.

• 35-47-17
• 685-2810
• "When I'm With You" by Sheriff
• August 13, 1987
• Dilaudid, Darvocet and Dolophine
• Kramer's Resort
• February 5, 1940, June 22, 1938
• "There's a time you got to go and show you're growin' now. you know about the facts of life, the facts of life."
• Michael Jackson, Thriller
• Grease, River Hills Theater
• Olives, wine and textiles
• Uncle Jack's tacos
• Brown leather with a three-inch platform heel and a Happy Days t-shirt 
• By looping a piece of rope around his fingers and tossing the end of it out a car window

These things probably don't mean a damn thing to you, but these are just a few of the random pieces of information I have floating around in my head. My best friends will tell you that I can remember details as if events happened yesterday. I pride myself on my memory. When people need witnesses for important events, they call me.

Since my surgery, my short-term memory has taken a few pings. Not huge ones, mind you; I could remember the random shit above, after all. But I'm starting to forget the names of everyday things. Like the other day I couldn't remember what waxed paper was called.

Waxed paper, for God's sake. I was holding the box in my hand. IN MY HAND! and couldn't think to look down at the box to figure out what the name of it was. Who does that?

Yet tonight, I sat here watching "It Could Happen to You" on tv and recited Nicholas Cage's line about getting leprosy from the water when he roller-blades into the lake in Central Park.

Two days ago, I forgot the name of that yellow creamy stuff you put on toast but remembered that I needed ¼ c of it to put in the macaroni with the orange powder that comes in the blue box. Tonight, I recited a recipe for my garlic Parmesan salad dressing without missing a single ingredient - except I couldn't remember what the white dressing was called that Hidden Valley makes.

The other day, the cable company asked me for my zip code. I drew a complete blank. (Then, of course, I panicked, thinking the woman on the phone would think I was somebody posing as me trying to hack into my account, which just made it that much worse.) But I could remember the last four digits of my social security number without an issue.

Hubs and my friends tell me I'm being too hard on myself...that this isn't a big deal. That I'll relax and get back to my old self in no time.

But to me, it is a big deal. And what if I don't get back to my old self? What if I have to carry around a notepad for the rest of my life with my own damn phone number written on it because I can't remember it? I'll be at the grocery store trying to buy food for my family and forget which debit card has the grocery budget on it...then struggle to remember the pin when I do figure out which one to use.

I hold myself to a very high standard and I know that. The thing is, up til now, I've been able to meet (and exceed) that standard. I've forgotten things now and then like everybody, but when it comes to remembering to pay the water bill or mailing a birthday card on time? I don't forget those things. EVER. This month I forgot them both. I pray the problem doesn't persist and it's just a side effect of all the damn pain pills I've had to ingest over the last month like my husband thinks is to blame. But knowing that memory loss is a side effect of an oophorectomy, I'm not overly-optimistic. (I'm also not WebMD'ing my ass into an asylum yet either, so relax. I'm just trying to stay realistic.)

Until then, please just bear with me when I ask what seem like really stupid questions. I promise I've been paying attention. I just don't recall at this point in time where I put my memory.

==================================================

The things above, by the way, are:

• 35-47-17 : my 7th grade locker combination
• 685-2810 : my first phone number
• "When I'm With You" by Sheriff : the song I danced to with Dusty Smith at a school dance (December 10th, 1988, btw)
• August 13, 1987 : the date of my first period (*Overshare, I know)
• Dilaudid, Darvocet and Dolophine : the cocktail of medication my mother took on a daily basis when she was battling cancer from 1987-1990
• Kramer's Resort : The place we always went to on family vacations when I was growing up
• February 5, 1940, June 22, 1938 : My parents' birthdays
• "There's a time you got to go and show you're growin' now. you know about the facts of life, the facts of life." : the lyrics to the theme of one of my favorite childhood TV shows
• Michael Jackson, Thriller : The first "grown-up" album I ever bought
• Grease, River Hills Theater : The first movie I saw in a theater. (And have seen no less than 400 times since then.)
• Olives, wine and textiles : The main exports of Portugal. This was on a 4th grade social studies test that I studied my ass off for (and only got a C+, I might add.)
• Uncle Jack's tacos : The restaurant I ran to in the food court at Southridge Mall where my mother was standing in 1979 when a janitor walked close to me and I panicked and thought he was there to kidnap me. (He wasn't. He did, however, throw my food away. Bastard.)
• Brown leather with a three-inch platform heel and a Happy Days t-shirt : What I was wearing Easter Sunday in 1976 when I tripped and fell on the sidewalk and skinned my nose. (The t-shirt was mine. The heels were my sister's.)
• By looping a piece of rope around his fingers and tossing the end of it out a car window : How Ricky Schroder nearly got his fingers amputated as a kid

Too little, too late, M'com

It's always amusing to me how much a company will kiss your ass when you call to disconnect services. 

Back in January, a promotion that our cable company offered us came to an end, which meant our $95 cable/internet package would be jumping to almost $200 a month. That's not something I care to pay, so we called to see what other promotions were available. We were told that we could keep our current package (basic and expanded digital cable, On-Demand services, all 5 premium stations and our 12 meg internet) for $166/mo but that we'd need to enter a two-year contract to get that price. I told them to forget it. We'd be shopping around and let them know when they could come disconnect.

There were no thanks from M'com for our patronage...no apologies for not being able to find a suitable package that worked for our budget. Nothing. Just a "Thank you for calling M'com. Have a nice day." (Which, I suppose is better than nothing, but still.)

So we called the two major dish companies to find out rates and bundles for what we were looking for. One of them couldn't offer us anything better than what we had and since we live in the sticks, they couldn't even offer us internet. That wasn't gonna work. Me without internet? They might as well take water and oxygen, too. C'mon, people. The second satellite company was able to get us a great package AND found an internet company who was able to get us hooked up for about $50 a month. It wasn't the greatest price, but it was better than nothing. So we signed up and I called M'com back to let them know that we'd found someone willing to work in our price range -- ultimately giving them a chance to keep me as a customer by meeting the prices I'd been quoted by the other companies.

They failed.

So we continued with the installation with the satellite company and we love it. LOVE. IT. The bundle they'd arranged with the other internet company, however, was a fail, so we canceled our bundle with them. We're keeping M'com for our internet, which is fine. We haven't had too bad a luck with them in that respect and after we talked to the other internet company, their price was competitive anyway, so instead of dealing with the hassle of switching, we just stayed with M'com.

We wanted to make sure the satellite would work well for us before we canceled our cable, so we've had it for a couple weeks now and I called M'com today to disconnect our cable. I spoke with a girl named Katie. She was very sweet, very professional and when I asked to terminate our cable service, like any good customer service agent, she asked me why. I told her. She asked if she could tell me the promotions that M'com was currently offering that I qualified for.

I was polite, but told her that it was pointless and explained why.

She was appalled, reiterating over and over that customer service like that was not how they were trained and she was very disappointed that I wasn't treated better. She said she understood why I wouldn't want to continue cable service with them and apologized for the last person's behavior toward me. It was refreshing, actually. She took care of the disconnect stuff and reminded me that my internet price had been part of a bundle and without that bundle the price, would unfortunately increase by $15/mo. She was apologetic about it, which again, was nice. She then offered me a promotion for 2 years of internet at a deeply discounted rate if I entered into a contract. 

Gee, lemme think about that. I can either pay you $80/mo for internet or I can pay you $40? Hmm. This is a toughie.

YES, please!?

So, long story short, we're getting what we want at a fraction of the price. Buh-bye, M'com.

This is not okay.

Have you seen this yet?

Go ahead. Click the link. I'll wait.

That's only twenty-five reactions that were captured on Twitter during the Grammy's. If there were 25, there were probably 250. 2,500. 25,000? Even one is too many.

Really, ladies? You'd let Chris Brown do THIS to you??

Ladies, ladies, ladies.

I'm honestly not even sure where to begin with this because I don't know when you began believing that physical abuse is an acceptable form of affection.

Were you abused as a child? Did you witness it? Did you see your mother get hit?

These are my parents. They look happy, don't they? My mother loved my father til the day she died.

Despite his alcoholism and physical abuse.

I was only six months old when she kicked him out of our home and told him to never come back. He didn't. I spent many years being upset with my mother because I never got the chance to know my father. I am an adult and I realize that my father as a whole was not the abuse he administered, but it was a large part of my family's history. She protected me by asking him to leave. I don't know what he could have done....would have done, if given the chance. She also protected me by never falling prey to an abusive man again.

I, too, was in an emotionally abusive relationship. There were two instances when he got physical with me. One involved a car and a barely-frozen lake. The other involved his hands. Both instances shook me to my core.

Do I seem like a victim to you? Do I seem like a person who would put up with anyone's crap?

Well, I was. I'm not saying I didn't say things and do things that pissed him off. I most definitely did. But even in all of the backtalk and arguing I handed him, NEVER did I deserve to be hit. Nobody does.

Ever.

Hitting is NOT okay. Namecalling is NOT okay. Backhanded compliments are NOT okay. Punching the hell out of your girlfriend because she called you out for being a cheating piece of shit is NOT okay!

This? is NOT okay.

My best friend spent fifteen years with a man who verbally beat her down, insulted her appearance, intelligence, talent and spirit every chance he got. When he decided to get stupid one night and take things a little too far, she called the cops and they escorted him out of their home. She's one of the lucky ones. Her mother wasn't so lucky. Her mother was beaten, raped and murdered by her abusive boyfriend.

Do I need to say it again?

This is NOT okay! EVER!

Ladies, the only way you can have any ounce of self-respect (or teach your daughters how to have some) is to refuse to be treated badly. Don't stand for behavior that doesn't make you feel good about yourself or about him. If you cry more than you smile, GET OUT.

Because this? 

is not okay.

Silver Spoons and heartfelt croons

The first time I ever heard her pipes I was nine years old and watching my heart throb, Ricky Schroder on "Silver Spoons." She played herself and was Dexter's love interest for an episode. She belted out "Saving All My Love For You" and won my heart over. Obviously, Whitney Houston did far more than a walk-on in a Saturday night sitcom, but that's where she got her start in my life.

I remember belting out "Greatest Love of All" into my Tickle deodorant bottle in my bedroom. Door shut, tape deck cranked, I sang every note (badly, I might add) at the top of my lungs. I'm certain my mother hated Whitney. But I loved her.

She gave me a song for every turning point in my life. "Greatest Love of All" was played at our assembly the last day of 6th grade. "I Wanna Dance with Somebody" peppered the skating rink speakers every Friday and Saturday night through my junior high years. The year after my mom died, she set a new precedent with her rendition of the Star Spangled Banner. When my high school boyfriend and I broke up in early 1993, "I Will Always Love You" got me through many a sleepless night. In 1999, when I went through my divorce "It's Not Right," came out.

While I'm not sobbing with an ugly cry like I did for Michael Jackson two and a half years ago, I am grieving the loss of such an influential woman. Her music encouraged many, her struggles with addiction and domestic abuse touched a chord with some but her perseverance was inspiring.

I pray for her family and the friends she left behind. May she find the peace in her death she was unable to find throughout her life.

Rest in peace, Whitney.

In sickness and in health

Today is my twelfth wedding anniversary.

A dozen years ago, I stood in my brother's living room with our pastor and twenty of our closest friends and family members and vowed to love this man for the rest of my life. The service was brief and to the point, but like every other ceremony I've ever seen, there was the promise about cleaving to each other in sickness and in health.

In the grand scheme of things, that in sickness and health thing has been pretty easy-going. Sure, we've gotten the flu from time to time and while neither one of us is a "hair-holder," so to speak, we do make sure our spouse has everything he or she needs to get better. Although, if we were keeping score, my husband has definitely gotten the short end of the stick. Since we got married in 2000, I've been hospitalized at least three times. I've found lumps in my breasts, torn muscles, sprained joints and had reproductive issues that have left me bed-ridden, sometimes for weeks on end. 

Overall, I consider myself pretty healthy, so really these times have been minimal, but when the words "in sickness and in health" are truly put to the test, I am so fortunate to know that my husband will be here through it all. And what a trooper he is. With me, it's never as simple as just being sick. I'm a control freak, so with sickness along comes mood swings, impatience, stubbornness and impertinence. I don't do "dependent" well, but like a God-sent miracle, my hubby puts up with all of it. 

I'm getting better about it, though. He made homemade chili tonight for supper. Not once did I get off the couch to "help." In fact, I didn't even offer suggestions from the couch unless he asked for them. And it was delicious. Did it taste like mine? Not exactly, but that's okay. I let it go. I ate it and enjoyed it and spent my time being grateful for having someone to take care of me. He's taken such good care of me this week. He brought me doughnuts yesterday because he knew I was craving sweets. Today, he brought me an array of candy that he thought I might enjoy. He has waited on me hand and foot since I came home from the hospital Thursday. 

Normally, I'm someone who wants privacy in the bathroom (I don't pee with the door open and don't want anyone else to do it either), but God bless him, he's stood right there with me, handing me whatever I may need and helping pull me up when I lacked the abdominal muscles to get up myself. He's helped me change dressing on my incisions and has rubbed lotion on my back and feet because they're so dry. He's made ten back-to-back trips to the kitchen & bathroom when I've asked for more ice water...then a bowl of soup...then a Coke...then more pain pills...then to take my bowl back to the kitchen...then the ice bag. He's lifted and held me in place while I adjust pillows and cushions in what I'm sure has been painstaking fashion for him. He's had sleepless nights because I've cried out in my sleep, waking him up from his. He's put up with my rants about crappy nursing staff and the pity parties where I begin feeling sorry for myself. 

My husband and I have hit rock bottom and we've seen the view from the top. I know I take him for granted far more often than he deserves, but I don't know what I'd do without him. I'm so thankful for his unconditional love and his full understanding of what "in sickness and health" truly means. I pray that we never have anything more taxing than what we've dealt with so far, but I know if we do, he'll be there without question.

I love you, baby. Happy anniversary.

Little Monsters

WARNING: Medically graphic post and probably one that risks an overshare or two. Proceed at your own risk.

I wish this post was talking about the term Lady Gaga uses when referring to her fans, but in this case, it's referring to the monstrous tumor the doctors found in my abdomen yesterday.

I awoke yesterday morning to severe cramps that I thought were menstrual in nature. I had an endometrial ablasion almost six years ago, so I don't have periods any more, but I do, from time to time, get cramps, breast swelling and migraines. So, over the last few weeks when I've had increased cramping, I didn't think anything of it. I figured it was just PMS-related, took a couple of Tylenol and went on with my day. Yesterday, however, was quite different from the cramps I'm used to having. 

I thought perhaps it was bowel related and once I went to the bathroom I'd be fine. I did, but I wasn't fine. If anything, the pain had gotten worse. Now, I'll be the first to admit I'm a pain baby, but rarely do I cry from pain. The cramps I experienced yesterday morning had me doubled-over sobbing. 

I called my friend Wendy, who's also a nurse, and she suggested that if this wasn't normal cramping that I needed to go to the emergency room. So after a quick call to my bestie, she came and picked me up. That forty minute drive to the emergency room was almost too much. The cramps got worse and by the time we pulled up in front of the ER, I had all I could do to walk into the hospital.

My hubby joined Ann Marie and me a few minutes after I got settled into a room and I spent the next several hours being poked, prodded and scanned. My fear was that it was a blood clot due to all the sitting I'd been doing on the plane and in the airports last week, but the doctor quickly dismissed that fear. He first thought I had kidney stones and sent me down for a CT scan to find out for sure. This initial diagnosis scared me immensely. The pain involved with passing a kidney stone aside, I have plans for these kidneys and nowhere in the scheme of those plans was there room for stones. I had a small meltdown and was proverbially bitchslapped from my bestie for worrying about her kidneys instead of myself. I digress. Fortunately, the results from the CT scan came back and my fears were put to rest for the time being.

Then the doctor mentioned something called a teratoma that showed up on my right ovary and coming from a family who has been stricken with numerous types of cancer, I recognized the term -toma immediately. The nurse reassured me that it didn't necessarily mean cancer, that it was more like a cyst. Having known numerous people with ovarian cysts, I wasn't over worried; cysts are pretty common, after all. The doctor then told me that according to the scan, the cyst was 7cm x 7cm. Metric conversions aren't my forté, but I knew that was about 3 inches. In that area of the body, that's a good sized cyst. The doctor told me that he'd consulted with a gynecologist who was on his way over to look at my scan and discuss the findings. 

When the gyno got there, he confirmed the doctor's diagnosis that it was a ovarian teratoma. He said it was a medium sized cyst that would need to come out, but that it wasn't emergent and unless I wanted to do the procedure today, it could wait a week or two. I expressed my concern about it being cancer, but the doctor reassured me that the chances of it being cancer were less than five percent. This eased my worries a little, but by this point, I was mad at whatever had caused me this pain and I just wanted it out. The gyno understood and explained the procedure would be done laparoscopically and that depending on how involved it was with my right ovary, it too may need to be removed. Given that I had my tubes tied almost fifteen years ago, I didn't care if my lady parts stayed or went. I signed paperwork, the doctor got on the phone with surgery and within an hour, I was being prepped.

By 7 p.m. I was in recovery and the nurses were reminding me to breathe deeply (always a problem for me). Typically, this surgery is done out-patient but because I was having a good deal of pain and one of the incision sites was having some trouble with seepage, they decided to admit me overnight. I spent the night on a Fentanyl pump and the doctor came in to talk to me this morning. 

I had a lot of questions for him because he was gone by the time I came out from under the anesthesia and Hubs isn't the detail-oriented person I am, he didn't ask the questions I would have. I wanted to know if they had to take my ovary, first of all (they did). As an information whore, it was also important to me to know exactly what this thing was called (dermoid teratoma - I'll let you Google that little bit of nastiness on your own). I also wanted to know if there was any way this could've been an ectopic pregnancy gone horribly awry (it wasn't). I wanted to know if there was a chance of it coming back on the other side (there is). I wanted to make sure my tubes were still "tied" (they are). I wanted to know what my recovery period is (two weeks). Most of all, I wanted to know if it is cancerous (doc says no, the biopsy should confirm this). Long story short, this cyst is the most disgusting thing you could possibly imagine but it has been removed. 

(The white and dark colored tissue you see here in the photos

is the cyst that wrapped around my right ovary.)

The doctor said that it was a bit larger than they first thought, explaining that the ovaries are typically the size of an almond and my cyst was the size of an orange and filled with fluid, hair and other organ-type tissues. I was totally grossed out, but he reassured me that this is normal because apparently ovarian tissues are complex in that they draw cells from all parts of the body - hair follicles, sweat glands, bones, teeth, organs like liver and kidneys, etc.This cyst, because it grew from the ovarian cells, also includes many of these cells. Hubs called it an alien and honestly? that's what it feels like this is: some sort of hairy little alien. It's been sent off to pathology and I should know shortly for certain that it's not a malignant tumor. Granted, the doctor has already given his expert opinion and that it's not cancer. But I'm someone who needs proof, so I will wait patiently (ha!) for the results to set my mind at ease.

Until then, I am forced to take it easy and recognize how fortunate I am in all this. If this had happened last week, my family would be frantic here at home while I was recovering at a friend's place in Harlem. My bestie, thankfully, is unemployed right now and was able to drop everything and not only take me to the hospital, but was able to stay with me all day to put my worried mind at ease. Hubs, too, was not only able to take off work and come to the hospital, his bosses had FMLA paperwork drawn up so he can take off the rest of the week to spend with me so I'm not alone. My friend RG came up and tagged in for Ann Marie and Hubs so they could get something to eat (since they hadn't eaten all day) and stayed with me. As it often does, our conversation helped me make sense of the day and the perspective I needed desperately. Even my ex-husband and his mother were there for me. They picked up Midget so she wasn't here alone and scared after school last night. They drove her to school this morning, too, so she wouldn't miss her presentation for National History Day. 

Tonight, Midget and I had the "What if it's cancer?" talk and I think we both feel infinitely better. Since Hubs can be a bit of a tosser and a turner, I decided to sleep on the couch tonight. It's also easier for me to get up and down out here, so this is where I'll sleep. Midget, who is afraid I may need her in the middle of the night, is also camped out here with me. She's asleep on the bean bag and I'm on the sofa.

Even in this narcotic haze, I can appreciate God in all this. His timing is impeccable and He has surrounded me with love. I am so blessed.

**UPDATE** The pathology reports indicate the tumor is benign. It is not cancerous.

The pursuit of happiness

Our local news this morning reported two more teen suicides at a nearby high school. While I don't pretend to know the reasons behind what happened, I can say with certainty that these kids weren't happy and saw suicide as the only way to achieve it. I'll save you the diatribes on mental health, counseling and psychotropic drugs (I'm too exhausted to tackle that discussion twice in one day), but my earlier discussion did bring up a good point on Facebook this morning.

We believe that we've got the right to be happy.That regardless of whatever comes our way, happiness is the God-given right we possess.

Sadly, that's just not the case.

In a world of immediate gratification, fast food, microwaves, smart phones and the internet, we're taught that we can have anything we want the minute we want it. We don't have to work for it or wait for it and as a result, we also don't know how to appreciate what we have already. I'll admit that I'm as guilty of this frame of thinking as the next person.

What I'm not guilty of, however, is believing that I'm going to be happy all the time.

I've battled with depression since I was at least nine years old (possibly earlier) and have done almost every possible kind of treatment. I'll spare you my own personal experiences for now, but suffice it to say, it wasn't until I embraced the fact that life isn't always sunshine and roses that I finally got better. I know there are going to be days when I just don't feel like getting out of bed. Days when the last thing I feel like doing is smiling or laughing. Days when it's all I can do to shower or brush my teeth. Days when I'll cry.

Unfortunately, we're taught that sadness isn't normal. That sadness is clinical...medicinal...mentally debilitating. We're taught that crying is bad, that feeling blue isn't healthy. And that a pill (pick a pill...any pill) will fix it all. Unfortunately, as long as we believe those things, we will NEVER overcome depression. Because a pill isn't going to pay the bills or find us true love or land us the perfect job or make the annoying neighbors move. We're always going to have stressors in our lives that make life a little tough sometimes. We have to make a conscious decision that regardless of what happens that may not be good, we can still choose to be happy.

Now, I'm not talking about cheering and celebrating when a job offer falls through or your car breaks down, but those things also aren't the end of the world either and we have to keep that in perspective. Given my irritation last week when I missed my flight to Minneapolis, you know that I have as hard a time with perspective as anyone else. It's a struggle for all of us. We can only keep trying.

Remember, we're not guaranteed happiness, only the pursuit of it.

So go pursue it already!!

A vessel revisted.

About eighteen months ago, I wrote a blog called The Vessel. In it, I wrote "I can't wait to see how it all pans out for her."

And get to see it, indeed.

I wrote this blog about Sherri Shepherd and the role of "Lula" in One for the Money. I'd been tipped off about the casting call by my bestie and I immediately sent a DM to Sherri alerting her to it. When I'd read the book a few months earlier, I couldn't picture anyone filling that role but Sherri and as far as I was concerned, nobody else needed to even audition. Little did I know, Sherri'd had "Lula" on her Vision Board for years. She'd wanted to play this role since she'd read the book seven years earlier.

I've said before and I'll say again, I am so blessed to be a part of Sherri's life and to have her as part of mine.

I love you, girl and I'm so proud of you. Let's go rock that Red Carpet!

What she needs

As the mom of two teenaged children, while I'd never let them know this, I frequently wonder if I've done the right things. Have I taught them right from wrong? Do they truly understand Stranger Danger? Will they "just say no" when offered drugs or alcohol? When the time comes for sex, will they have the courage to abstain and if they don't, will they be smart enough to protect themselves? These worries are constantly on my mind, especially as they become more and more independent.

Midget (who's fourteen for those of you who are new) and I had a little heart to heart tonight and the topic came up about what a good kid she is. She's got a bad habit of lying to me from time to time to get herself out of trouble, but fortunately for me, she sucks at it and I can usually tell when she's trying to pull one over on me. So anyway, we were talking about how she's a role model for the younger kids in our neighborhood and that I've been told more than once by parents around here how much they appreciate her sticking up for their kids or mother henning them if/when the situation arises. It's always a proud moment for me when someone sees her with me and says "This is your daughter? You should be a proud mom because she..." and they proceed to tell me that she defended someone or ratted out a neighborhood bully or whatever the case may be. And it makes me happy to see the smile that Midget gets when I tell her about these instances.

For whatever reason, as we were talking, she brought up a situation that happened a few months ago with some friends of hers. They were all hanging out at somebody's house and they were smoking. We're a non-smoking home, so to be around cigarette smoke isn't something Midget's used to. Anyway, one of the girls offered her their last cigarette. Midget took it and looked at it and asked the kids, "Why should I smoke this?"

One of them replied, "So you can blend in with us." (Apparently the little thugs watched After School Specials to see how it's done.)

She snorted, looked at them and said "I don't wanna be an idiot." She then proceeded to go outside, toss the cigarette to the ground and stomped it out. Her friends were pissssssssed.

Her mother, however? Proud.

I've taken a lot of flack about not providing my kids everything they want: computers, gaming systems, closets overflowing with designer clothes, blah blah blah. And it's true. I don't give my kids everything they want. I don't believe that sets them on a good path for their life.

But what I have done is given them exactly what they need.

My daughter is already a better person than I was at her age. I gave into my friends. I took the cigarette (and many more after that -- from my mom's stash, mind you) and smoked every damn one of 'em. I lied to my mom about it. Fortunately, I had the brains to stop smoking before I became addicted, but the point is, I gave into peer pressure.

My baby girl didn't.

I won't win every battle as a mom and I know that. But I won this one.

Thank you, Jesus.

Tape over my mouth

Since Blogger is being a pain in the ass and won't let me edit my page to reflect my stance on Blackout Wednesday, I can only post the link to explain why I'm "Censored" today and what it means to you.

SOPA Strike

Love Eternal

Fifty years ago, in this dress of Chantilly lace and satin, a young girl of eighteen pledged to spend her life beside one man.

Until death do they part.

Not until the stress of kids got to be too much. Or until the bills got too high. Or until they got bored. Or until someone else came along. Or until one of their careers led them away from the other. Or until the nagging got too frequent. Or the snoring became too annoying.

Until. Death. Do. They. Part.

I'm once-divorced. It's not something I'm proud of, mind you, but it's the truth. Just like this girl promised, so did I. Until death do we part. Little did we know "death" was just five years away. We knew nothing about lifelong promises and felt we were above the vows we made. So we walked away.

Like most people of divorce, I took my lessons with me and much to even my own surprise, within a year of my divorce being final, I met a man and married him.

That man and I have been through hell and back. We've seen the dark and we've seen the light. We've seen the tears and the anger and the frustration. We've seen what rock bottom looks like and we've come close to throwing in the towel.

So close.

Closer than we ever care to admit and closer than we'll ever be again.

When we got to that point, it was only then that we realized if we gave up, we'd never have what his parents have. We would be just another statistic...just another failed attempt. What we realized is for better or for worse really meant just that. We'd seen the "worse" and it wasn't pretty.

So we made a decision, however subconsciously, that we were going to find the "better."

And I'm so grateful we did.

We still have bills we can't pay, days when I can't stop nagging him and I rarely get a full night's sleep without the interruption of his snoring, but we're here and we work every day to get it right.

And we have his parents to thank for giving us a living example of what it means to love eternally. Their compassion for each other reminded us of the compassion we still had in ourselves to push through.

Happy 50th anniversary, Mom and Dad.

Julia

Anyone who knows me knows that I speak in song lyrics and movie quotes, so it rarely comes as a surprise to anyone when I pull out a favorite Julia Roberts reference.

There's this scene in My Best Friend's Wedding where Julia and Michael are on the boat in the Chicago river and they're juuuuust about to kiss, but before that can happen, they talk about moments passing you by.

That, my friends, is where I am right now: my moment has passed me by. Not for good, by any means, but for now, it's gone.

For many, many reasons, most of them having to do with my husband's current situation at work, our New York move is on hold. What that means is no pretty brownstone on a sleepy Brooklyn street - no subway ride into the city at dawn - no Macy's, Bloomies or Saks - no view of the ESB.

As I've swallowed this bitter pill, I've tried to keep perspective and figure out what I'm able to do here in Iowa that can prepare me for the eventual move out East. Most of it involves classes and lots and lots of writing. I have to start treating my writing like a full-time job if I'm going to get better (read: published). It means turning off my phone, disconnecting the internet (you have no idea how damn appealing Pinterest is to someone with an easily distracted imagination) and shutting my office door. It means late nights and early mornings. It means scrapping complete manuscripts and starting over because I know down deep, there's a better book in me.

So while right now it feels like I'm stuck here, I'm not. I'll travel. I'll research. I'll observe. I'll ask questions. I'll drill my author friends for advice. It feels a lot like treading water, but in reality, I'm strengthening my swimmer's legs.

And, as Julia said in Eat. Pray. Love., "It won't last forever. Nothing does."

So there's that.

2011 - a look back

I noticed, as I was preparing this year's slideshow, that my life has become busier. I'm doing more, seeing more, traveling more, enjoying more. I adopted the mantra, "Live out loud" a few years ago and ever since then I've been doing just that. I grab life by the horns and I tackle it head-on. This year was no different. Though it would be virtually impossible to list every highlight from 2011, I did come up with some of my favorite memories and listed them here.

• "Oh my God! YOU. TWO. DID. NOT!"
• A moment amidst the chaos
• Thanks-forbeingmyfriend-giving with Tara and Ann Marie
• Green beans that tasted like nail polish remover
• Welcoming Weston James to the world
• "You got any o' that Franzia wine?"
• Trying elk meat for the first time.
• Floating around the Caribbean with my Alphas #ItsaTSQthing
• Riding the Tilt-a-Whirl four times in a row with my bestie
• Meeting Adam Bouska
• Welcoming Lacey to our family
• Big Man getting his permit and realizing how far that little "runt" has come since he first started out in this world
• Baking cinnamon rolls for the guys and their band, only to have Brian Littrell accuse me of making him a FatStreet Boy
• Having two of my photos featured on display at the Iowa State Fair
• Sharing Sherri & Sal's special day with them
• Driving a golf cart for the first time (and NOT wrecking it)
• Getting the opportunity to meet Maisy & Loki (Oh, and that Lancaster chick)
• Being reassured I wouldn't run into the people who were Occupying Wall Street (and running into them anyway)
• Helping warm-up the audience at the View in Tom's absence
• Going for a carriage ride in Central Park
• Making Santa laugh and wiggle like a bowl full of jelly

In 2011, I learned to breathe. And trust. And forgive. And stand strong. I loved and I lost. I finally comprehended what it means to show tough love. I rebuilt and knocked down walls. I made friends and lost some. Above all, I lived. I lived out loud.

And I will continue to do so.

2001 in pictures

You're not gonna die.

Well, as they say about the best laid plans...they get screwed up. Or something like that. (Sorry, John Steinbeck.)

Our holidays plans were just that: best laid. And screwed up.

Midget got hit with a moderate case of the flu Thursday night and spent all night Thursday curled up in bed or hovering over the toilet. Friday morning, I sent Hubs and Big Man off to my in-laws so at least they could enjoy the holiday festivities (and so they, too, wouldn't get sick). I wasn't worried about myself because I never get sick, save a sniffle here or there. My immunity is top-drawer, so I don't get too worked up about being exposed. We got through Friday fairly well and by the time 8pm rolled around, Midget was able to keep down solid food and was on the mend. Fortunately for her, she didn't run a fever for more than a couple hours and wasn't hit with worse symptoms.

Then came Saturday.

And the end of my health as I knew it.

I will save you the graphic play-by-play, but to say that I was sick is the mildest understatement of the year. I haven't been that sick since 2006. It's now Tuesday and I'm still running a low-grade fever. Because I don't get sick very often, I forget the longevity of illnesses and what's serious and what isn't. Also, if I don't have to take meds, I won't. I believe in letting the body heal itself when it comes to illness, so unless I'm absolutely miserable, I won't take anything.

Fortunately for me, I have great friends to keep me grounded. The following series of texts took place Saturday night between my bestie and me:

Me: I'm gonna take some Tylenol.  If I can't get this fever to go down, I need you to take me to the hospital.

AM: *blink* How freakin' high is it?!

Me: It's over 102° now. I'm most worried about dehydration.

(Keep in mind, I took a bath, drank a LOT of water and used cold compresses for the prior four hours, trying to get the fever to come down naturally.)

AM: Oh. No need to panic yet til it hits over 104 but drink water or suck on ice cubes.

Me: I'm trying but its not doing any good.

AM: Is this the first dose of Tylenol?

Me: Yes.

AM: K. Keep me posted.

A half hour later (Tylenol, ice, cold compresses and water).

Me: Gonna try to sleep. Fever's 101

Shortly before 2:30 a.m.:

Me: Still 101. Dunno why it's not coming down more. Tylenol, ice chips & water.

AM: Mel...its only been an hour since you took the Tylenol.

Me: Two.

AM: It was only an hour since you told me.

Me: How long does it take?

AM: Depends, but 101 is nothing. 106, on the other hand. Well, that's when it's time to talk hospital. Keep taking fluids and try cold compresses on your forehead and the back of your neck.

Me: (dying) K. I'm sorry for being paranoid. I don't get fevers very often.

AM: (no doubt, sighing loudly and rolling her eyes) LOL Its okay love.

Me: My normal temp runs at 96.8, not 98.6 like most people, so my 101 is everyone else's 103.

AM: Rabbit's had chronic fever syndrome since she was a baby, so I'm a little more lax when it comes to fevers.

Me: Big Man did too.

AM: Then you should know you're not gonna die. (I sense more eye rolling.)

God bless her for putting up with my paranoid ass.

But, just as she predicted, I didn't die. I still feel pretty rough (thanks to that fever I still can't shake), but I did, in fact, live.

And...I got to watch my Celtics play on Christmas day. Not that I could actually focus on the game, but I heard Marv Alpert's voice, so that counts for something, right?