And Whiskers on Kittens...

Here's Round Two of my most favorite things (in no particular order)...

Walking in the Woods: I find that being out in is nature restorative and peaceful and... completely and utterly necessary to well-being. Sometimes the woods are close to home, in the park... sometimes they're on a nearby mountain... and sometimes they're far away, in a place I've gone deliberately to get away from it all. Wherever they are... they're where I want to be.

Kissing: Granted, I don't get to do it as often as I'd like, but when I do? Ahhh. And first kisses? Whether they're anticipated, long-awaited, or complete surprises? Well, let's just say that one of the best parts about being single is the idea that yet another first kiss is possible.

Bookstores: They prove there's a Heaven. Right here. On Earth. Wherever I am, if there is a bookstore nearby, you'll find me in it. I don't even have to buy (though I usually do)... just being in a place filled with real, tangible pieces of bliss is good enough.

Chocolate: Yeah, I'm pretty sure I don't have to add anything here, do I?

Wine: All I'll say here is red. Merlot or Pinot Noir. With friends, preferably.

Swim Coaching: I've been doing this for 6 years so far and it's the best part of my year. I love my little sinkers... and my big sinkers. I love that it allows me to share something with my daughter that she loves and is so good at. And I love the family we joined when we came to our team. I can't imagine my life without them now. Winning has never been our primary goal... but it's what happened to me 6 years ago, and every year since.

Bagpipe Music: It's not for everyone, I know... and I'm sure it's simply in my blood, given my Scottish heritage... but I love the pipes. And a song like Amazing Grace? Can bring me to tears.

The WWII Era: This time in history fascinates me, particularly with regard to the Holocaust, the victims of the war, the families left behind, and especially the everyday people who became heroes. I've always thought I was born too late and should have lived through that time (and who knows? Maybe I did). Studying it doesn't bring me joy exactly, but learning the stories of love and triumph over adversity and evil does my soul good.

Stonework: I love things made of stone. I'm not sure if it's the permanence stonework represents for me, or if its simply the beauty of it, but I love it. One day, I shall live in a stone cottage by the sea. Even if only in my dreams.

Writing: I love to lose myself in a piece of writing and come out on the other side changed in some way. Writing helps me to clear my head and my heart of clutter; it helps me to clarify my thinking and understand things I'm struggling with; it helps me to find solutions to problems niggling at me (or smacking me upside my head. With a brick). It's good for me -- body, mind, and spirit. And if someone else enjoys something I've written? Well, that's just the most amazing icing on the cake!

Fresh Peas: Of all the wonderful things that come from a vegetable garden, fresh peas, eaten straight from the pod, still warm from the sun, are the best. Better than candy. Better than chocolate, even. True story.

To be continued...

Writer's Workshop: A Love Story

It’s been a long time since I did one of Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshops, but since I’m trying to write daily again and I’m struggling to come up with topics… here I am.

I decided to write about an outfit I loved.

OK, well, that’s not entirely true.

Since I couldn’t really think of an entire outfit I was crazy about (I’m not terribly clothes-horsey), I decided to write about a pair of shoes I loved.

Well, saying that I simply loved them is not doing them justice. At all.

I adored them. I was passionate about them. If they’d been human, I would have dated them. Hell, I might have married them. After all, they were more useful, more loyal, and (far) more trustworthy than my ex-husband.

You think I’m kidding, don’t you?

They were the Be All, End All, folks.

They were:

My Land’s End Mary Jane Trekkers!

Ta da!

These shoes… these paragons of comfortable footwear… these (dare I say it?) friends… BFFs, even… well, they got me through it all. For nearly five years.

I bought them when I developed an excruciating case of plantar fasciitis. I needed a shoe with some support and a back, since flip-flops and sandals were out of the question. I didn’t want to spend a fortune, though, and I found these beauties on sale for $20.00.

Twenty dollars. I kid you not. And it was the best $20.00 I ever spent. In my whole life. I kid you not.

And when I say they got me through it all, I mean it.

They cradled my poor right foot for two full years of that hell called plantar fasciitis, and for more than two years after it went away (because I was askeerd it was coming back, that’s why).

They faithfully managed four summers of swim coaching on a hot, concrete pool deck, and they kept me from landing on my arse on wet, tiled, indoor pool decks in the winter.

They provided safe shelter for my feet after walking 60 miles (each) in three separate Susan G. Komen 3-Day Events (even though my “friend” Anne wouldn’t let them in the tent with us at night because they “smelled”).

They took me on countless hikes, camping trips, puddle-stomps, and treks through the park with my dog, in all sorts of weather (including snow, because no matter what my daughter said, they were NOT, in fact, sandals, and it was perfectly appropriate to wear socks with them. Damn it).

But then? On December 31, 2011, they… died. They expired. They simply gave up from sheer exhaustion. The sole of the right shoe split in two.

And then my heart split in two. I know that sounds melodramatic… hyperbolic, even, but I was devastated. I cried. Real tears (and not from the “smell,” thank you very much).

But then?

I had an epiphany! And it was called:

SUPER GLUE!

I literally squeeeeed at the thought of my Trekkers going another mile… or 100.

And they did. They traveled onward for another several months…

Until…

I went for a walk on a hot summer day in 2012… and the super glue…

Melted.

It melted clean away, leaving the bottom of my foot exposed to the elements.

The devastation returned. And I knew it was permanent this time. My Trekkers were done for. I had to finally admit it. And my “friends”? Even my daughter? Instead of feeling sympathy or empathy (or even apathy), they were overjoyed! They went as far as to suggest that I burn them… but not before I contacted the CDC and the EPA to be on the look-out for possible environmental contaminants and airborne diseases.

My “friends”? Are horrid.

I didn’t burn them, though. I didn’t even throw them out. I couldn’t. Could you?! Could you simply discard a friend with the trash (and I mean a real friend, not one of those, “Ew, get rid of those smelly shoes” “friends”)?! I think not.

So I kept them. I still have them, in fact. They sit in a place of honor in my closet. And when I open the door, I look at them wistfully, remembering what was... and what will never be again.

 

Sigh.

 

Eventually, I ordered another pair of Trekkers.

 

But they weren’t the same. They were… wrong. The color was wrong, the fit was wrong, the feel was wrong… even the criss-crossy straps (that made the coolest tan lines) were wrong. You see, they’d been tweaked. Why (oh, why?!) do manufacturers insist on tweaking perfection?

And the new pair didn’t last either. You should see them today. They look worse than the old ones... and after only a year! Sigh.

I don’t kid myself into thinking that I’ll ever find another pair of Trekkers. I don’t. Miracles don’t tend to happen to the same person twice, do they? But I have faith that, someday, I’ll stumble across an on-sale pair of close-to-heaven pool-deck-camping-hiking-rainy-day-snow shoes that I’ll love.

I am an optimist, after all.

The More Things Change, the More They Stay the Same

Back when Ryan was 9, I did a bloggy meme interview with her, to see how well she knew me. Turned out, she knew me pretty well. I thought it would be fun to see how she would answer the same questions today, at 14-years-old. Turns out, she still knows me pretty well. And she still makes me laugh!

What is something I always say to you?
9-year-old Ryan: That you love me.
14-year-old Ryan: GET UP! (When she was 9, she had to wake me up.)

What makes me happy?
9-year-old Ryan: Me!
14-year-old Ryan: Sundance. (I'll say it again... he gives me no lip and no attitude.)

What makes me sad?
9-year-old Ryan: When I'm rude and act like an idiot.
14-year-old Ryan: Dead animals. (Not the answer I expected, but true.)

How do I make you laugh?
9-year-old Ryan: By acting like a dork and telling fart jokes.
14-year-old Ryan: Fart jokes. (Some things never change.)

What was I like as a child?
9-year-old Ryan: How the heck should I know?!
14-year-old Ryan: I don't know. How would I know? (Again, some things never change.)

How old am I?
9-year-old Ryan: 44
14-year-old Ryan: 48 (Damn. I should do these surveys more often.)

How tall am I?
9-year-old Ryan: Ummmm... 5'2"?
14-year-old Ryan: 5'6" (And the doctor said I was finished growing at 13.)

What's my favorite thing to do?
9-year-old Ryan: Go hiking.
14-year-old Ryan: Write. (I'm always afraid she's going to say "eat." Not that it wouldn't be true.)

What do I do when you're not around?
9-year-old Ryan: You're on the computer.
14-year-old Ryan: Work. (I need to get a life. Obviously.)

If I became famous, what would it be for?
9-year-old Ryan: Writing a book.
14-year-old Ryan: Writing a book. (Clearly I need to get a move on.)

What am I really good at?
9-year-old Ryan: Making chili.
14-year-old Ryan: Writing. (She's a one-trick pony, my kid.)

What do I do for work?
9-year-old Ryan: Write resumes for people who can't write them for themselves.
14-year-old Ryan: Help unemployed kids get jobs. (So she doesn't tune me out all the time.)

What's my favorite food?
9-year-old Ryan: Umm... complicated foods that I don't like.
14-year-old Ryan: Wine. (I should be embarrassed. Shouldn't I?)

What makes you proud of me?
9-year-old Ryan: When you get the little kids on the swim team to stop being afraid of the water. And that you're really funny and all my friends love you.
14-year-old Ryan: Your sense of humor. No one else's parents are as funny as you. (Aw! Wait, that's 'funny ha-ha'... right?)

If I were a cartoon character, who would I be?
9-year-old Ryan: Jerry from Tom and Jerry, 'cause he's really smart.
14-year-old Ryan: Calvin from Calvin and Hobbes. And I'd be Hobbes. (Heh. I like it!)

What do we do together?
9-year-old Ryan: Go camping and hiking and swimming and to the movies. We have fun!
14-year-old Ryan: Um, like, everything. (She didn't say that with a frown. I promise!)

How are we alike?
9-year-old Ryan: We both talk a lot. And we like to read. And we're both sarcastic.
14-year-old Ryan: Same sense of humor. Same nose. Same laugh. (The last two really cheese her off. Heh.)

How are we different?
9-year-old Ryan: I'm dark and you're really white.
14-year-old Ryan: I have more sass. (Which gets her more stink-eye.)

How do you know I love you?
9-year-old Ryan: 'Cause you're my mom. Duh.
14-year-old Ryan: It's sort of a given, isn't it? (Duh.)

What do I like best about your dad? (Uh oh...)
9-year-old Ryan: That he lives in Alabama!
14-year-old Ryan: Child support. (Heh. And? Heh.)

Where is my favorite place to go?
9-year-old Ryan: England!
14-year-old Ryan: England. (That answer will likely be correct for a long, long time.)

If I Had a Nickel...

... for every time someone said to me, "You should write a book," I'd have... well... I'd have a bunch of nickels.

I've tried.

I have!

But I get stuck, usually a few chapters in. Also? I edit as I go. And I'm starting think that's a terrible practice. I get so caught up in perfecting (as it were) the minutest details, I lose sight of the bigger picture... which really ought to involve, you know, actually finishing the damned thing.

When I start a project (of which there are somewhere in the neighborhood of 84 [unfinished] saved on my hard drive and flash drives all over my house), I usually have a fairly abstract idea of the direction I want the story to go.

An abstract idea.

Don't get me wrong, ideas are good... it's the abstract part that's a problem. If you can't turn 'abstract' into 'concrete,' you wind up with something that looks like the word version of a Picasso painting... some people will get it, but most will just scratch their heads in bewilderment.

But...

I've had a new idea.

And it's more Monet than Picasso (i.e. a little watery and unclear, but no one's got an eyeball stuck in an armpit or anything).

So, I've done the outline. I've written background for the main characters and I'm working on the secondary characters now. I have direction. I can see the beginning, the middle, and even the end.

And that? Is new.

I expect I'm going to get hung up along the way. As I do. But I'm going to try hard not to sweat the small stuff until all the big stuff is down.

And that? Is new, too.

I'll keep you posted.

But just to be safe?

Start saving up those nickels.

Raindrops on Roses...

If I'm in a not-very-good mood, I generally do one of two things:

1) I wallow

 2) I figure out a way into a better one

I don't much like to wallow and lately, my go-to get-in-a-better-mood thing has been Pinterest. My daughter and I discovered it at the same time, quite a while ago. It was addicting at first, let me tell you. For me? A visual person? Finding a place where I can pin pictures of pretty much everything I might like/love/want? Well, I have one word for you:

Squeeee!

So Pinterest has become an online Happy Place for me. And now, more than 8,000 pins later, it's where I can go to look at all my bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens...

Julie Andrews? Would seriously love Pinterest.

So I started pulling pictures of my favorite things for this post, figuring I'd wind up with a dozen or so. Ha! I have enough photos for 5 or 6 posts now.

Also? I'm in a much better mood than I was earlier. Try it. Think about your brown paper packages, tied up with string... I bet it'll work...

Here are some of my favorite things, in no particular order...

Laughing... I love to laugh and I find a lot of Life funny. All laughing is good, of course, but what I mean here is serious laughing. I mean the kind of laughing that makes your cheeks and your belly hurt; the kind where you can't breathe and the tears are rolling down your face and you wind up doing the silent, whole-body shake, until you snort and have to gasp for air. Man, that is some good stuff!

Lemons... I love 'em! I love the color, the smell, the taste. I love to cook with fresh lemons and squeeze the juice into my tea. I put a bowl of them on the dining room table and if I haven't used them before they start to turn, I slice them and boil them in some water on the stove to make the whole house smell good.

Rain... I crazy-love rain. I love all sorts, from soft drizzles to the heavens-just-opened downpours to summer thunderstorms and sun-showers. I love to walk in it and to come in from it, and I still stomp in puddles every chance I get.

Sheep... I adore sheep. If they're baby sheep, even better. If they're baby black-faced sheep? Be still my heart.

Old Houses... I've been having a serious love affair with old houses for a long time, especially if they've been abandoned. I believe old buildings have souls and seeing them neglected and empty makes me sad. I imagine all the lives that crossed their thresholds, and the happiness and sadness that occurred within. I have always had the ability to recognize a house's good bones and the ability to see what can be, rather than what is, so I restore and heal them in my head.

Tea and Books... Here are two of the best things ever invented. I have an e-reader but I still prefer the feel of a real honest-to-goodness book. And settling in with a beautiful story and a hot cup of tea (British Breakfast with cream and raw honey)? That'll make my whole day.

Line-dried Laundry... Laundry, especially sheets, dried in the sun and breeze? Best. Thing. Ever.

The Sea... I was born on the North Sea and someday, I'll once again live near the water. It soothes my soul and brings me peace. And when I feel that all my stuff is just too big to deal with, the vastness of the ocean reminds me just how small I really am.

Word Art... I love it when someone takes beautiful words and makes beautiful art with them.

Sky Watching... One of my favorite-ever things is taking my dog to the park on the weekends. When the weather is nice, we always have a lie-down in the grass after our walk. He snoozes, I use him for a pillow, and I just watch the clouds pass by. It's pretty much the best hour of my week.

So, when the dog bites, when the bee stings, when you're feeling sad... what cheers you up?

To be continued...

Rambling Toward Clarity

I've thought about changing the name of this blog for a long time. Diane's Addled Ramblings is not at all the name I would have chosen had I realized what this place, this project, this piece of me would become. But Blogger forced me to pick a name before I could do any actual writing, and because I only intended to jot down notes for friends and family in a centralized location, I didn't think too hard about what to call it. Truth be told, I've never liked the name (even if it has been appropriate a lot of the time).

So, as I say, I've toyed, several times, with changing my rambling title to something else -- something more sophisticated or witty or charming. But over time, I developed a nice little following and I didn't want to lose anyone. I'm also not the most tech-savvy person in the world and I wasn't sure how to jump from one URL to another without causing confusion or a big mess. And I didn't want to make searching difficult.

Also? I simply didn't know what to change the name to (though I considered 'The Dangling Preposition').

After a while, as seems to happen to many people who camp out for any length of time in Bloggy Land, I changed my focus to other things (Facebook mainly) and moved away from my ramblings. Oh, I still rambled (make no mistake)... I just did it elsewhere. And many of my bloggy friends joined me in FB Land, which has been ever so nice.

But every now and then, I'd come back here. I'd jot a few words down and leave again. Every so often, I'd check my feed to see if anyone was still visiting. Strangely enough, several people came consistently, even when I wasn't writing at all. I'd recognize familiar city and country names in Feedjit and it gave me great comfort (and validation) to know that a few people were still looking at and for my words.

So I came back.

And here I am. Writing again. Hoping people are still reading. But doing it for me instead of for comments or followers (though comments and followers are mighty nice!). Doing it to regain a piece of myself I seem to have lost. Doing it to improve my skill and craft. Looking for some sense of purpose.

Looking for some clarity.

And still not liking the name, Diane's Addled Ramblings (even if it's still appropriate a lot of the time).

I brainstormed for a few hours the other day and came up with several potential new names... none of which felt right. I played around with my header, plugging in possibilities... none of which felt right. I was all set to just give up and resign myself to rambling addled for the foreseeable future, when it hit me...

I'm rambling, yes. Still. Maybe always. But I'm rambling with purpose. I'm rambling, not just to ramble, but to get to something, however indirect the route. I ramble, yes. I start at Point A and then I get sidetracked and sidelined and more than a little lost at times, but I'm still moving toward Point B (even if I go by way of Points C, D, R, and Y along the way). And my Point B?

Clarity.

I'm rambling toward clarity -- clarity in my thinking, in my life, in my heart, and in my soul. I want to be understood... I want to understand... I want to be clear and to see clearly. I want to live Life in a brilliant, bright, lucid, sharp, clear way.

I'm Rambling Toward Clarity. And I figure if I ramble long enough, I'll get there.

So there you have it. I'm still rambling. And I'm still easy to find. I'm definitely still addled, much of the time.

I'm still me. Always.

Would you like to ramble on with me? I'd love to have you come along...

The More You Cry...

Sometimes you just need a good cry. I think that's probably true of everyone. Right? It doesn't feel good, exactly - not while it's going on, anyway - but I know I usually feel better when it's over. It's especially good when it's an ugly cry. You know the kind... the sort of cry that if anyone took a photo of you while you were doing it, you'd smack 'em first and then make them burn the picture. The ugly cry is loud and serious and soul-wrenching. And it'll clean you out like nobody's business. It'll exhaust you and make you feel like you can sleep for days.

That? Is a good cry.

Some cries aren't so great, though.

You know... like the one you're trying to fight because you're not in a situation or place where crying is acceptable; the one that wells up and overflows, all silent and drippy. I hate that one.

Another not-great cry is the angry cry... when you're so stinkin' mad and you want to give the person you're mad at what-for, but all that comes out is blubbering. And sometimes bubbles. Man, I really hate that one.

One that gets me is when I'm trying to relay story to someone and I break down in the middle. I always feel like such an emotional sap. And even if the story is 25-years-old, it can still happen. There appears to be no statute of limitations on The Weep.

The one that comes out of the blue and whacks me upside the head, though - that one gets me every time. I don't expect it... I might not even be thinking about the thing that's about to make me sob... but then I'll hear a song on the radio or I'll see a commercial or I'll read something that reminds me and WHAM-O! There it is.

In the end, though, crying is cathartic. It's cleansing. It releases pressure we've allowed to build up in our hearts and in our heads. So it's all good, I guess.

Also? As someone mentioned to me today, the more you cry, the less you pee.

I guess that's a good thing. Right?

The Bottom of the Bun

When I was little - around 6 or 7 - I watched a telethon about starving children in Africa. Little souls with dark skin filled our black and white television screen, their bellies swollen, feet bare, eyes sad, and expressions hopeless. I was stunned. To that point, the only exposure I'd had to Africa was through Curious George and Babar; I'd never even seen any brown children in person; and no one around me was hungry... not that I knew, anyway. Though my parents had little money, I didn't realize that. We ate big meals together, around a Formica table in a happy, orange-painted kitchen. My days were filled with friends and school and the playground one-street-over; my nights were spent tucked into a cozy bed with clean sheets, in a room filled with dolls and books housed on shelves my dad made for me and painted pink.

I did not understand this desperate need.

I remember tearfully begging my parents to send money to save all those sad children. When they declined (we must help people in our own country first, you know, and the money you send to those organizations doesn't make it to those children on the television, anyway), I offered up all my dinners for the next month or two (the liver and meatloaf especially).

And I remember crawling onto my dad's lap and asking how God could allow such bad things to happen.

Now, my dad was no philosopher. And he wasn't always good at explaining things on a child's level (his description of communists gave me nightmares for years). He was also not a religious person (though he was a Believer), and my throwing God into the mix threw him. He told me later, when I was much older and we revisited this topic, that he knew even then I wouldn't accept the pat "God's plan" sorts of answers.

I could be a difficult child.

I thought the way he wound up explaining it was pretty good. Pretty damned good.

"You have to think of the world like a hamburger. You know how there's a top and a bottom to the hamburger bun, right? You can't have two tops or two bottoms, can you? You must have one of each. And the top part of the bun is bigger than the bottom, right? Well, think of the good things in the world as the top part... and the bad things in the world as the bottom. You can't have the good without the bad... or the bad without the good. And, hopefully, the good in the world is bigger than the bad."

To my discerning little-girl psyche, it made perfect sense.

To my discerning big-girl psyche, it still makes perfect sense.

I'm not a religious person. I'm not even a Believer. I feel so terrible for people who, when faced with a great loss, plead to God to help them understand why; why he felt it necessary to take from them. I don't need to ask why bad things happen... I don't try to understand how... I simply accept that they do. They have, they do, and they will -- forever and ever.

Amen.

It makes it easy for me. But though I don't try to look for reasons, I do try to look for lessons. I try to learn something from every bad situation I see or face myself. I try so very hard to pull the good from the bad and I believe so strongly that there is something positive to be found in every terrible thing that befalls us.

And lately? I've tried to be grateful for the bad things.

Grateful.

That's not easy, let me tell you. But if you think about it, it makes sense.

When you've been sick, you appreciate your health so much more. When you've been in pain, you appreciate the relief that comes from being pain-free. When you've been sad, you appreciate the happy. When you've been flat broke, you appreciate the security that comes from having money.

You understand. Good with bad. Light with dark. Up with down.

The top of the bun with the bottom of the bun.

When you're in the midst of the bad stuff, though, it's hard to believe the good will come back. But it does.

It always does.

Because nothing lasts forever. Not the good stuff. Not the bad stuff.

Nothing.

So right now, at this time of year, when everyone is thinking about and listing all the wonderful things they're grateful for, like family and friends and health and jobs -- the top of the bun -- I'm going to think of the bottom. I try hard all year to be grateful for the good things in my life, so right now? I'm going with the crap.

The bottom of the bun.

I'm going to be grateful for the pain, the fear, the hurt, the loss, and all the dark stuff that makes me want to crawl under the covers and hide. Because when I make my way back out into the light?

And I always make my way back out into the light...

It's good.

It's so very good.

It's top of the bun good.

Life is Funny

Life is funny. Sometimes it’s funny ha-ha… sometimes it’s funny odd. Sometimes? It’s not funny at all.

Life is also difficult and painful… and wonderful and beautiful.

And funny.

Did I mention that?

This year has been funny. This year has also been difficult and painful… and wonderful and beautiful.

And short!

This year has been short. Sort of. On one hand, it seems as though the New Year just rolled in. On the other, it seems like forever ago I was trying to stay awake ‘til midnight so I could see the ball drop.

As I say, Life is funny.

This year I plugged away… I mothered… I worked… I coached… I got sick… I found out I had cancer… I dealt with it… I took my girl on an amazing trip to NYC… I got a new job… I fell apart completely… I came back together… I rediscovered a few things I love… I got a new job within that new job… and I connected and reconnected with amazing people. I was busy and lazy and tired and happy and sad and uncomfortable and at peace. And occasionally? I was all of things within the span of 24 hours.

Life is funny.

On one hand I feel as though I moved forward this year (at times just plowing ahead with my head down and eyes closed). On the other, I feel as though I made little progress toward goals and desires and fulfilling needs.

Life is funny.

One thing I know for sure, though, is that Life never stops moving (even if we want it to stop for a little while). And I also know for sure that Life has a lot in store for me yet… a lot of difficult, painful, wonderful, beautiful things. I’ve felt for a while like I’m perched on the edge of something big… and I’m trying to work out whether or not I’m supposed to dive right in (but into what? That’s what I don’t know yet) or just sit still, allowing it to come to me – to envelope me in its enormity.

I just don't know.

But I'll let you know when I figure it out. 

If I figure it out. 

...

Yeah, Life is funny.

She Is My Girl...

I love my girl. Like crazy. She's 14 now. She's beautiful and brilliant and hilarious.

She's opinionated and she's not afraid to offer up those opinions (even if no one's asked for them). She has few filters. Yet. There are several social issues she believes so strongly in and she's more than willing to speak up for and about them. But she has few filters. Yet.

Though she was a loner when she was little, she is definitely a social creature now. She has an amazing group of friends - girls and boys. She loves them fiercely and she tells them so. She's not afraid of confrontation, though, and if a friend does something she doesn't like, she'll say so. She also processes criticism about herself and tries to make changes when she feels it's warranted.

She doesn't always feel it's warranted.

She is a beautiful writer and the way she strings words together leaves me speechless. She's scared of math. She loves to learn and she'll regale me with the process for conjugating verbs in Spanish or details about The Plague or the War du jour during car rides, so I know she truly is learning and not simply memorizing facts. She's self-directed and organized and she manages her work in a way I only ever dreamed of doing. In a way I still dream of doing.

She gets that from her father.

She's left-handed and right-brained. Creative, she loves words and art and the theater. She'd like to make films one day. And publish a book.

On land, she's less-than-graceful, but in the water, she's a joy to watch. Butterfly is her stroke. Swim team is her happy place.

She works hard... if she's inspired. If not, she coasts a bit.

She loves Doctor Who and Harry Potter and Sherlock Holmes. She loves all things English, actually. She reads voraciously. Voraciously. John Green is her favorite author. Right now. She seeks out cool and interesting music, and by the time everyone else catches on to it, she's moved on to another artist or group that's even cooler and more interesting.

She lives in jeans and Chucks and pretty scarves. She wears glasses - cool, hipster-y Ray Bans... and she likes them. Without them, she's blind. She can paint the most amazing designs on her fingernails -  designs like Van Gogh's 'Starry Night' and Merida from 'Brave.' She has beautiful hair that she can never quite get chlorine-free.

She calls herself 'weird' and 'geeky' and 'awkward' but believes all of those things are OK.

Mostly.

She has my nose, which she hates, my smile, which she can't deny, and my sense of humor, which she loves. She sounds just like me on the phone.

She's cynical for one so young, and she definitely inherited the sarcasm gene, but she also embodies the positivity of youth that comes from knowing your whole life is ahead of you.

She is not (and has never been) what I would call a sweet child... but she has sweet moments.

She wants a tattoo. One day. And if she gets one, it will likely be a literary quote.

She has a boyfriend. She believed, until recently, that no boy would ever like her and she refused to hear my assurances that many would (and probably already did). And he's cute. Really cute. She wasn't sure she wanted to "date" him at first and when I met him, I said, "How on earth were you not sure? He's adorable!" She replied, "Well, I know he's cute, but looks aren't everything, Mom. I didn't know if I liked him."

She is comfortable in her own body and she doesn't alter her opinion of herself because of advertisements and media influence. When a friend confided that she was trying to lose weight, my girl admonished her, telling her that she is perfect as she is and that she can't compare herself to other girls because everyone has different body types.

She is brilliant.

She makes me laugh. A lot. Sometimes she makes me shake my head in astonishment... in wonder... and in sheer frustration. She is not perfect. She has her moods and her attitudes and there are days when she makes me understand why some species eat their young. Sometimes, when she's being awful, I hug her tightly... because it keeps me from pushing her out a window.

But I love her more every day. And I like her more every day.

Her dad isn't in the picture. He's been gone for so long that she doesn't want him in it anymore. That makes me sad. I loved my dad so much and I wanted that for her, too. But it's out of my control. So I try to be both for her. And so far, it seems that I've been enough.

She talks to me. A lot. I don't think for a second that she tells me everything, but I know she tells me so much of her life... and I know I'm so privileged to hear it. I forget that not all mothers are so lucky. She said to me yesterday, "I don't think you really understand how unusual our relationship is."

I might not.

But I do know how very lucky I am.

I am so very lucky. She is my girl. I am her mom. She is not the child I imagined I'd have. She is so much better than that child. And through her eyes, I see the world differently. I see it as it can be and not as it is. I see it as it should be. She makes me want to be a better person. She makes me strive to be a better person.

She is my girl. And I am her mom.

And I am so very lucky.

What the World Needs Now...

Growing up, I rarely heard the words, 'I love you.' My family, immediate and extended, simply didn't say it. I don't know why... it was the way we were raised, I guess -- Old Country. I can probably count on one hand the number of times my mother said it to me. My dad said it even less. I didn't doubt they loved me, mind you... we simply didn't say the words. Attempting it felt awkward... uncomfortable... forced.

Then we got a puppy. A fuzzy black spaniel mix who oozed joy and devotion and unconditional love. And those three words started rolling off my tongue pretty easily.

And it was the start of something beautiful.

Eventually, I was able to say it to my friends... then to a very select few men in my life (never more than one at a time, however!). Over time, it became so easy and normal to say it that once, when talking on the phone to a client who had the same name as my then-husband, I ended our conversation with, "I love you." There was dead silence for a few seconds and then my mortified verbal stumbling around in an attempt to explain why I'd just declared my love to someone whose resume I was writing. Thankfully, he had a good sense of humor and pronounced my customer service 'top-notch!'

Now, at this time in my life, I say the words 'I love you' a lot. I say them several times every day to my daughter, my dog, and at least a couple of my friends.

Someone told me once that saying those words often cheapens them.

Saying the words 'I love you' often...

... cheapens them.

Can you imagine? Can anyone ever hear them too often? Any child? Any friend? Any lover or spouse? Any person who feels unloved or unwanted?

Now, I understand if they're said without feeling or simply to appease a need or desire when they aren't truly meant. Saying anything that requires conviction and belief when you don't feel it alters the meaning of the words, certainly.

But I never say them that way.

When I say 'I love you,' I mean it.

When I fall in love, I mean it.

And I fall in love all the time...

... not romantically, as that has happened very rarely in my life.

But I fall in love all the time with peoples' spirits... with their souls... with their senses of humor... with the mischievous gleams in their eyes... with their beautiful smiles and silly laughs... with their compassion and kindness... their intelligence... their passion and conviction... their generosity... their humanity... their creativity... their humbleness... their determination to rise above the obstacles and the hurt we all must face... with their ability to dance when they want to limp away in pain... with their energy and enthusiasm and zest for Life.

I fall in love with the love they exude and express outwardly -- to the world and the people in it.

And being in love? Like that? Makes me happy.

And the world needs more in-love, happy people.

Lots more.

Love.

I figure it's why we're here.

If you can think of a better reason? Let me know, OK?

Mirror, Mirror

My daughter is beautiful. And amazing. And brilliant. And talented. And ridiculously funny.

These things I know for sure.

She?

Doubts it all.

All the damned time.

It makes me crazy. I am constantly wishing she could see herself through my eyes. If she could, she would be kinder to herself. Gentler. She would love the person she is the way I love the person she is -- beyond all reason and limits. She would look in the mirror and be happy with what she sees. She would celebrate her many accomplishments instead of bemoaning her shortcomings. She would be unafraid to show the world and Life just how incredible she is.

And I wonder why she simply cannot see her amazingness the way I do. She says, "You're my mother. You love me. You can't see me clearly."

Pfffttt. Ridiculous! Because I love her, I see her more clearly than anyone! She thinks I can't see her faults? Ridiculous! I am the one who has to deal with them directly! She thinks I can't see her shortcomings? Ridiculous! I see them, but they are far outweighed by her talents!

I know part of it is that she's 14 and these teen years (and the ones just before) are defined by self-doubt and anxiety about... well... everything. And I know part of it is the fact that she is surrounded by friends who are just as beautiful and amazing and brilliant and talented and funny as she is... but they are beautiful and amazing and brilliant and talented and funny in different ways than she is... and we always, always (always!) compare ourselves to others, often perceiving ourselves as 'less than.'

And I am afraid -- terrified -- that part of her inability to see herself clearly is because of...

Me.

I have set a poor example.

I am a 48-year-old version of her. I find it nearly impossible to see my own beauty and amazingness and brilliance and talent, even when -- especially when -- it's pointed out to me.

I?

Need to practice what I preach.

The example I've set her for has fallen woefully short.

Don't get me wrong... one thing I've always believed I'm good at is being her mother. We have an incredible relationship and she is all those wonderful things, in part, because I have nurtured them in her. I know this. But, unknowingly, I have allowed her to believe that not acknowledging your own amazingness -- not celebrating yourself and who you are -- is OK.

My friends tell me all the time that I am amazing and wonderful and all manner of lovely things. I hear what they say. I do. I get validation all the time. But I pooh-pooh it as bias...

They love me, so they can't see me clearly.

...

I do believe I've heard that somewhere before.

Gulp.

I learned a long time ago that this sort of thing is called a legacy burden. We pass these negative beliefs and behaviors down, from generation to generation, without even realizing we're doing it. I was made aware of it when discussing body image issues with my therapist a long time ago. I vowed never to pass those worries on to Ryan and I've done a great job of that, I think. She has a healthy body and, overall, is happy in it and with it.

But I didn't realize what I was doing... what I am doing... what burdens she will carry... what burdens she is carrying because of the way I see myself.

This negative self-talk has been something I've been aware of for a long time. It's something I've tried to work on, periodically, over the years. But this is the first time I've realized how it's affecting the person I love most in this world. Stupidly, I didn't think she could hear me. I didn't think she would know what was going on in my own head. And this is the first time I've realized that she is seeing herself through the same mirror I've been using.

It's time...

It's time to get a new mirror.

The Boy From 30 Years Ago

Once upon a time (nearly 30 years ago), a girl met a boy.


She was the sort who embraced convention, while secretly longing to step out of the box. He was the sort who quietly kicked the box aside and did his own thing. She liked him. A lot. He liked her. A lot. They spent time together. A lot of time.

Eventually they turned awkward flirting (which consisted mainly of her messing up his carefully spiked hair and him pretending to be annoyed by it) into a sweet romance. With kissing. A lot of kissing.

Over time, their feelings for one another deepened. The flirting and the romance turned into love.

First love.

But neither the girl nor the boy was very good at actually saying how they felt. Or understanding how they felt. They were young. Their hearts were both strong and terribly fragile at once… their egos and confidence even more fragile than their hearts.

But still, they loved each other.

Until the girl made a mistake. A terrible mistake. Her ego got too big and too loud and it couldn’t hear what the boy's heart was saying... or what her own heart was saying.

And she broke them.

She broke their love. She damaged it beyond repair. And when she tried to fix it, she couldn’t. The boy was hurt and sad and angry and proud… and he pushed her away.

And it was over.

They were over.

She didn’t know it, but he still thought of her.

He didn’t know it, but she still thought of him.

But it was over.

And they went on with their lives. They fell in love again, with other people. They lived -- in new places, with spouses and children, with happiness and hurt, with endings and new beginnings.

And every now and then, they thought of one another.

Then? A long time later, they reconnected through the magic of the Interwebs.

The girl was so happy to find out that the boy’s life was good. She was thrilled to see he’d achieved the happiness he so deserved. And they traveled down Memory Lane and laughed about old times.

Then they went their separate ways again, this time knowing there was a thread tying them together… and this thread had always been there, even if they hadn’t known it... and this thread would always be there.

 

And there was great comfort in knowing it was there.

And then? Something happened to the girl and she needed support… and the boy was there, the thread pulling them back together. His words soothed her spirit and made her forget, if even for a moment, that anything was wrong. He made her remember why she’d loved him so many years ago…

 

And he made her love him all over again.

But this love? This love is different...

With this love, there is no ego… no awkwardness…


There is no romance... no flirting...

With this love, there is just heart.


Just friendship.

And the knowledge that time can make whole what was once broken.

Stuck...

My fear of doctors was ingrained early. The first pediatrician I remember, Dr. Cook, was a morbidly obese, gruff-voiced gargantuan, with a penchant for chewing on toothpicks and pen caps. My mother adored him. My brothers liked him. I was terrified of him. He set the tone for my interactions with doctors for the rest of my life, which is:

I go when I feel like I’m dying.

And that’s the truth. I can count on one hand the number of antibiotics I’ve taken in my adult life. I can count on the other hand the number of check-ups I’ve had.

I don’t like doctors. Well, OK, that’s not true. Doctors are fine (some of them are downright lovely). What I don’t like is going to doctors. I dread it, in fact. It makes me feel sick. Ha! I’ve always said I’ll die of something that could have been easily prevented, diagnosed, or treated, if I’d just been willing to get a check-up.

Then I got cancer. How you like them apples?

When the cancer was diagnosed, it was because I thought I was dying. Not from cancer, mind you, but from a nasty infection in my gut… brought on by one of those damned antibiotics… taken for a kidney infection… which made me feel like I was dying.

The diagnosis threw me for a loop. It didn’t help that it was blurted out with little to no care or concern by a callous ER doctor, when he really didn’t know for sure what was wrong.

Turned out?  He was right.

After I gave it a little time to sink in, I did what I always do… I looked for the bright side. And there was one. This cancer – a slow-growing lymphoma – isn’t going to kill me. Well, it isn’t likely to kill me. It could, certainly, but it’s not likely to do so. It will never go away or go into remission, true, but it’s not likely to kill me. That’s a good thing! If you’re going to get cancer, this is the sort to get. So, YAY, ME!

Right?

So I went along, as I do, focusing on the bright side, ignoring the other stuff. Pushing it down and away… not dealing with it.

As I do.

Except… except for when I have to go to the cancer center for tests.

Walking through those doors? Just about does me in. Before I go and after I’m there, I can talk about it. I can joke about it. I’m bright and positive and fine. I am just fine.

I'm. Fine.

Except… except for when I have to go to the cancer center for tests.

And then I’m not so fine.

Walking through those doors brings it all to the front. Every little piece of fear and worry and anger and frustration… all right there… right in front of my face and crowding my brain and my heart.

And it all makes me cry.

And feel weak.

And I don’t like to feel weak.

For the past couple of weeks, I haven’t been feeling great. I don’t know if what I’ve been feeling is normal, since I don’t know what normal even is anymore, but it doesn’t feel good. This I know for sure. So I called the cancer center and had my November appointment moved up to this week. I went in for blood work this morning, so the doctor can review it all before Friday afternoon, when I’m scheduled see her. And let me tell you, I dreaded the appointment today, as getting blood from me is damn-near impossible. I have bad veins. I usually wind up getting stuck multiple times before they can get enough blood to test. But I was dreading this visit more than seemed logical. It was just lab work. Right? No big deal, for goodness sake. Right?

So when I walked through the doors of the cancer center at 8:30AM, and the now-familiar dread-weight settled on my psyche, I wasn’t surprised. My usual even-keeled, reasonably cheerful demeanor disappeared. I couldn’t look anyone, staff or other patients, in the eye. There was no smile, not for a single soul.

I was not myself.

I made it through, though. I got stuck three times – once for each vial of necessary blood. And then I trudged back out to my car, to head on into work. Instead of feeling the weight lift, however, as normal, I burst into tears. Everything I’d been holding back came gushing out.

That? Surprised me.

It hit me that this is something I am going to live with for the rest of my life. It hit me – hard – that I will be walking through the doors of the cancer center every few months for the rest of my life.

The. Rest. Of. My. Life.

And it dawned on me that I will never be able to enter into a relationship without having to say, at some point, “Oh, by the way, I have cancer. And I’m going to have it forever. It probably won’t kill me, but it could, and if you want to be with me, you will likely wind up having to spend time in a hospital. Also? Don’t get too attached to my hair, ‘cause it’ll probably go away from time to time.”

And suddenly?

I felt…

Broken.

Defective.

Less than.

And I realized that I’ve been feeling all these things every time I walk through the doors of the cancer center. That’s why the appointments make me cry. I just wasn’t acknowledging them.

As I do.

But now I have. And now I have to figure out what to do with these feelings.

But that? I don’t quite know how to do that.

Oh Sugar, Sugar... Oh Honey, Honey

I claim to be an 'everything in moderation' girl.

But I'm not.

I'm an 'all or nothing' girl.

In pretty much everything.

I give (or take) 100%, or I don't do it at all.

Yeah. I know. I'm working on it, OK? Quit nagging me about it! Sheesh.

Anyway, last year, I decided I needed to give up Diet Pepsi (and all artificial sweeteners, in fact). And if you know me at all, you know that was big. Really big. Diet Pepsi was all I drank. And it was all I drank for years. I mean years. Well, that's a lie actually. I drank Diet Coke, too (but only out of the fountain. Because it doesn't taste good in bottles or cans, that's why). I drank gallons of the stuff every day. And though I know I'm prone to hyperbole, I'm not exaggerating about this (seriously... I figure I have so many chemicals and preservatives in my system, I'll never die).

So I went cold turkey.

'All or nothing,' remember?

It wasn't too bad. At first. But it got harder. And then it got easier. And now? I don't really even like the taste of soda anymore. I quit in November and I switched over to unsweetened iced tea and/or water. I don't really like water all that much (unless I'm crazy-thirsty), but I know I need to drink more of it. So I'm trying. But all in all, I consider my 'all or nothing' effort a rousing success!

Yay me!

But now? My 'all or nothing' thing is sugar.

Sugar is really not good for you. I know this. And what I've been told by numerous sources who work and specialize in nutrition and in the actual 'healthcare' industry (as opposed to the 'sickcare' industry most medical people work in), is that cancer feeds on sugar. This makes sense to me, really, as when they gave me the radioactive crap to light up my cancer for the PET scan, I was told it contained high amounts of sugar, which goes straight to the cancer.

Hmmmm...

So, since it's not really good for you in general and it might be really bad for you if you have cancer, it seems a logical move to cut it out. Right?

Right.

OK. I can do this. I mean, I don't eat a lot of actual sugar. Like, out of the sugar bowl, I mean. I don't put it in stuff or on stuff. So I'm good there. But I'm told there's sugar in... (gulp)... chocolate.

Say it ain't so, my peeps! Say it ain't so!

OK, I'm not a moron. I know it is so. There is sugar in chocolate. There is. It's there. It's not fair. But that's Life. There. Is. Sugar. In. Chocolate. And that means... there is sugar in... in... in...

Nutella.

Oh, lawd!

I don't know what I'm gonna do. Is there a Nutella rehab clinic? Does anyone know? Hey, maybe I'll start one! I know it can't just be me. Can it? No, there are others. I know there are. It could be a good career move, really.

But I digress (that's also called avoidance. I'm quite good at that, let me tell you).

OK. I can do this. I can. I will pull myself together and I will go...

Cold turkey.

On Monday.

No sugar. No chocolate. No...

Nutella.

Sigh. Sniff. Sob. Waaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

I'll check back in with you when the shakes have stopped and I can write again.

Wish me well, my friends. Wish me well.

At least I can rest easy knowing there's no sugar in red wine. Whew! Dodged that bullet.

Wait.

What?

WHAT?!

Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!