The hair is the richest ornament of women.
~ Martin Luther

2009 will go down in the annals of Janey Time as a very significant period – it’s going to be the year during which…

... I ran a half-marathon (I figure if I verbalize this at every point possible, then it will be more likely to become reality) and will be in the best physical shape of my life. November, y’all. Mark your calendars.

...I write and create like a fiend. I’ve been working on my book, started last year during NaNoWriMo, but have been keeping it to myself. For the moment.

… I went au natural.

I’m stopping coloring my hair and going grey. (What did you think I meant? Heh.)

That’s right. No longer a slave to the dye am I.

And What Lies Beneath the decades of color is a mystery for the ages.

My hairstylist estimates I’m probably 70 percent grey. If my roots are any indication, that’s probably pretty close to accurate. I've been coloring my hair since I was 19 years old, which is when I saw my first grey appear. That's 25 years of dye. Of all sorts of shades and hues. Wow.

I’m ready for it.

Premature greyness runs in my family. My mother, aka the original Laura Petrie, has a head of gorgeous platinum hair which she’s sported since her late 30s/early 40s. And I suspect my maternal granddaddy, who passed when he was in his early 40s, is the root of this genetic trait. Pun intended. (Please. Have we just met?)

Took some piccies over the weekend of myself that I actually liked. Didn’t delete or run away screaming. A big part of that is the fact that I’m feeling good about ME (yay!) But I noticed (as did a couple of other people near and dear to me) that my untinted roots made me look not-half-bad. Which got me to thinking… which in itself can be a scary thing. But this time, I used my powers for good instead of mischief...

As is my want, I’ve been doing some internet browsing about this subject. The terms “liberating” and “unconventional” kept popping up in articles with comments from women who had gone grey.

Both terms I embrace and welcome.

If it’s good enough for Helen Mirren (between her grey hair and rockin’ bikini body, she is my idol for all time and who I want to be when I grown up) and Emmylou Harris, it’s good enough for me.


And because you know I use music to celebrate the moments of my life (International Coffees be damned), I pulled together a mini- playlist for the occasion.

Touch of Grey


You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Woman



Hair


Stage One: Grass Roots


Hair brings one's self-image into focus; it is vanity's proving ground. Hair is terribly personal, a tangle of mysterious prejudices.
~ Shana Alexander

I shamelessly stole this from my chica Perpstu and her delightful Popping Bubbles. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, right?

1. What are your current obsessions?
John Adams; Rays baseball; stupid Facebook games (MAFIA WARS!) and quizzes; FRS Low Cal Berry water mix-in stuff; Guiding Light; the shrinking and fabulous-ing of my tuchus.

2. Which item from your wardrobe do you wear most often? 

A Facebook Thingy. Brought it over here for posterity. You know what I always say -- my blog, my rules.

Per my pal: this can be a quick one. Don't take too long to think about it. Fifteen books you've read that will always stick with you. First fifteen you can recall in no more than 15 minutes.

Per me: I've re-written the requirements.. I've listed the most important books to me and who I am -- the total is 22. Tough. Wouldn't be me without any of these. So there you are.

1. Oh! The Places You'll Go by Dr. Seuss
Great advice for life. My go-to gift for college graduates.

2. A Taste of Blackberries by Doris Buchanan Smith
This book scared me to death when I first read it in elementary school -- the protagonist's little friend died after an allergic reaction to a bee sting. And to this day, I am convinced I will also suffer the same fate -- have never been stung by a bee *knock on wood* so the phobia continues.

3. Little Women by Louisa May Alcott
The first book I ever really truly loved. Reading it as a young girl, it never even occurred to me that it had been written over a 100 years prior. It was simply a wonderful literary journey. Have read this many, many times since and whenever I enter the March's living room on that Christmas day, I'm transported back not only to their home, but to being a wide-eyed girl full of possibilities and wonder.

4. Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell
My greatest literary obsession. The book that defined me as a teenager. I lived and breathed this book. My cousin, who lives in Atlanta, nicknamed me Scarlett -- and still calls me that. Romantic and compelling and sweeping and epic -- it fit the overly dramatic nature I honed during those years. I would sit for hours and try to style my hair like Vivien Leigh's on the poster I had hanging on my bedroom wall. While my passion for this classic has waned, it still remains beloved and at the top of any list i have of favorite books and movies.

5. Around the World with Auntie Mame by Patrick Dennis
The first "grown-up" book I ever read. Found it in the back of a closet and "snuck" read it -- I couldn't have been more than nine or 10. Still one of the funniest books I've ever had the pleasure of reading. I think it might be time for a re-read, in memory and celebration of Bea Arthur, the one and only Vera Charles.

6. Scruples by Judith Krantz
The dirty beach trash novel that started it all for me. I would slather myself with baby oil, grab my transistor radio, lounge chair and this book and head to the backyard, rolling like a chicken on a spit to get the ideal all-over tan. Good times.

7. Henry IV Part 1 by William Shakespeare
This one is special because it was the first piece of Shakespeare I ever performed. Shakespeare festival at school -- I got to play the role of Mistress Quickly in a scene with Falstaff and Prince Hal. Such fun -- even though the name of my character was a bit embarrassing to shy little me.

8. Go Tell It on the Mountain by James Baldwin
Wrote my senior paper in high school about this book. Taught me so much about critical thinking and literary analysis and not to be afraid of sharing one's own interpretation.

9. One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Poetry in prose form. I discover something new each time I read this. Which I'm about to do again -- starting today -- with two galpals. Suzi and Crystal, I'm ready -- anyone else want to join us?

10. Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad

It's been a weird day. A really weird day.

Make that a weird week. Car troubles and a hospital visit thanks to a Will seizure and some career uncertainty for the Mister.

But some news I received today about a long-ago friend has thrown me for the biggest loop of all.

I can now say I know someone who's in prison. For third-degree sex offense and child abuse.

Knock me over with a feather.

This fellow was someone with whom I worked closely doing volunteer work. Family man. Christian. Talented. Creative. When Will was born, he was the first person to arrive at the hospital, aside from family. Met me in the recovery room, having come straight from the golf course. We were friends.

The last person one would ever imagine could or would end up in a situation like this.

The incident in question took place nearly 15 years ago. Things like this have a way of catching up with a person, I suppose.

I really am not sure what to do with this and if you asked me what I was feeling, I'm not sure I could describe it.

Shock.
Sadness.
Numbness.

I'm not angry or outraged. More sad than anything. For a lot of reasons. Not the least of which is that I'm now in a little bit of mourning the loss of a friend I thought I knew.

The Good Book says that he who is without sin can cast the first stone. I certainly don't qualify. And that's not how I operate anyway.

Went to the beach tonight to spend some family time and to try and gain some perspective and a little bit of peace about this whole thing. There was a very very low tide this evening -- so much so that a sand bar about 50 feet from shore was easily visible and accessible. Can't remember when -- if ever -- I'd seen such a low tide. A new experience. And as I waded out through clear, clear water, I could easily see the sandy bottom underneath my feet, shifting with every step I took. It wasn't until I reached the rough, shell and rock-laden sand bar. Solid. Reminded me of a hymn sung during my childhood (these days, I most frequently attend a contemporary service, where hymns, if they're sung at all, are reworked and jazzed up)

On Christ the solid Rock I stand,
All other ground is sinking sand;
All other ground is sinking sand.

Perspective.

And while I may never figure out exactly what to do with my myriad emotions regarding my friend, it's OK.

I've got perspective.

That's all I can ask for.

So.

If Bryan Adams had the Summer of ‘69 and Kristy McNichol had the Summer of Her German Soldier, then the Summer of ‘82 qualifies as my halcyon days.

I graduated from high school; worked the best hours ever (2-10 pm) in the best job ever -- as a lifeguard/swimming instructor; had a cute and very attentive boyfriend and was getting ready to expand my horizons, my knowledge and my drinking capabilities as a freshman at the University of Florida.

Life was good. I was tanned, rested and ready for whatever the future held.

It was those pesky run-ins with the law that put a wee damper on things.

My boyfriend and I had settled into a nice little routine -- he would drive me to work at the pool in the afternoon and then pick me up afterward for our date -- that way I wouldn’t have to worry about where my car was during the evening. Those dates usually involved grabbing a bite to eat somewhere, usually with a fruity cocktail for me (in those days, the drinking age was 19, so we got away with a lot. A whole lot.) and then doing what healthy, red-blooded, hormone-driven teenagers did. We drove a bit, parked the car somewhere and made out. For hours. Listening to my beau’s favorite cassette -- Kenny Rogers’ Greatest Hits. I can’t hear “You Decorated My Life” to this day without getting a little hot under the collar. And giggling uncontrollably. Which is a mortifying thing to admit, but there you are.

Living in Florida by the water, the heat, humidity and critters were always a factor. And so we would make out with the air conditioning on full blast -- which did nothing to stop the windows from fogging up. Teenage passion is a powerful thing. One particular evening, we chose to park in a cul-de-sac in an alley behind some houses in a fairly nice neighborhood. (Ironically, this is the same neighborhood through which I now run.) And as luck would have it, one of the residents got a little leery about the strange car with the foggy windows camped out next to his back yard. So he called one of our town's finest. Thanks to all our steam heat, we failed to notice Officer Friendly approaching the car until he came and tap-tap-tapped on the car window. And yes -- it was as awkward and embarrassing as you might imagine. We’ll just leave it at that.

Now, you’d think that would have given us the motivation to be a little more savvy about where we parked. 

Yeah. I've posted this before. However -- my blog. My rules.

But as I prep and get my ducks in a row in anticipation of the March for Babies walk this weekend, I can think of nothing I've ever written that cuts straight to the heart of the matter and explains why this cause is so immensely personal for me.

It's a piece I wrote a couple of years ago, when I had some distance from Will's birth experience yet the emotions were still fresh.

If you have a moment, please read this. And then zip over to Will's March of Dimes Walk -- if you can participate with your feet or your wallet or your spirit -- we'll take it!

Thanks. From the bottom of my heart.

~~~~~~~~~~

Mortality /Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep.
- John Keats

There’s a name for it. A nickname if you will. Deemed thusly so by the wise, world-weary souls who have chosen as their life’s work to care for premature, critically ill babies.

They call it the honeymoon period.

It’s just like what it sounds like -- a time of indeterminate length when all is going well, when outlooks are rosy, when optimism abounds as one watches the health and the process of a micro-preemie. Which is what Will was.

And he had a lovely honeymoon period. Nines on his APGAR scores. (Educational Minute: The Apgar test is the very first test given to a baby, in the delivery room, right after he is born. The test was designed to quickly evaluate a newborn's physical condition after delivery and to determine any immediate need for extra medical or emergency care. APGAR: Activity, Pulse, Grimace, Appearance, and Respiration. The scale is from 1-10, with 10 being the highest. Rumor has it that only doctors’ children receive 10s.)

His heart valve closed appropriately, his jaundice dissipated. Things seemed to be going very well.

I was still in the hospital, feeling ok, but under close watch more for stress than anything. I watched football from my hospital bed, cheering as loudly as one can do in such an environment for my Gators (who beat Georgia) and my Bucs (who beat Minnesota). My husband rarely left my side, sleeping on an army-issue cot that provided nothing in the way of comfort. We had just come back to the room after a quick little Sunday night visit with Will when the phone rang. It was Will’s night nurse. And there was a problem.

Some pulmonary bleeding had made its presence known. Indicating the very real possibility of a bigger problem. In the brain.

Back we went, unsure of what we would be told. And after a brief consultation with the very young, exceedingly laid-back-to-a-fault on-call resident, we still had more questions than answers. All he could, or would tell us is that “the problem is very concerning.”

What the fuck does that mean, Dr. Dude?

“Very concerning.” That’s some real technical mumbo-jumbo there, fella.

Once Dr. Dude left, the nurse explained to us that this sort of thing -- some apparent brain hemorrhaging and bleeding -- was not uncommon in micro-preemies, and that tests would be run in the morning to determine exactly what was going on.

I was released from the hospital the next day, still wearing my maternity clothes, still questioning everything.

I began to develop the routine that would dominate my life for the next three months.

Wake up. Check the clock. Wait until 7:01 to call the hospital, the earliest possible moment after shift change from night to day staff. Find out how Will’s night was. Inquire when rounds were being held (no visitors, including parents, were allowed in the NICU until rounds were complete). Busy self with mindless activities. Try to figure out how to use the electric breast pump machine. Shower, drive to hospital. Spend time with Will. Chat with nurses, respiratory technicians, other parents. Talk to doctors, physicians' assistants and specialists. Fruitlessly resist urge to cry too much. Work hard to focus and process what was said about Will and his treatment. Leave before shift change (again, no visitors allowed). Go home. Remember to eat something. Stare at the TV. Do battle again with the breast pump machine. Call the hospital before going to bed. Try to sleep. Wake up to go to the bathroom and call the hospital again. Try to sleep again. Wake up. Repeat.

As the week progressed, Will began to ride the Preemie Express Rollercoaster, with good stability one day and problems the next. Tests were administered -- many CT scans -- to see what was happening in that noggin of his. Chest x-rays showed some issues with his little lungs. Infections began to pop up spontaneously.

The honeymoon was over.

After several days of tests and observations, the doctors called us in for a meeting. Will had indeed suffered a brain bleed, and a pretty severe one at that. He had the beginnings of chronic fluid build up in the brain and subsequent seizure activity and tendencies. And there was no way to tell what affect or turns this would have in the immediate and in the long term.

I wish I could tell you exactly what my reaction was, but exhaustion and sheer emotional numbness masked whatever it may have been. Not such a bad thing in hindsight.

We heard all the rhetoric, delivered in a very well-meaning fashion. I don’t want to downplay that. But to the doctors, caring as they were, Will was one of many patients. To me, he was the most important person in that room. And this horrible thing was happening to him. And that was inexcusable and incomprehensible in my eyes. My heart still aches with the memory.

Up and down, up and down we went over the next week and a half. Good days, tough days, oxygen problems, infections, electrolyte issues, cloudy chest x-rays. Stable. Not stable. Seizures, duress, agitation, irritation.

And all I could do was watch him through the Plexiglas of his isolet.

My dear friend, my college roommate and not-blood-but-should-be sister came to visit from Atlanta for two days during all this, just to hold my hand. Such a welcome respite from the insanity.

She had just left for the airport when the phone rang. Will’s nurse. We were needed for a meeting with his neonatologist. Immediately. That’s never good. And it wasn’t. At all.

To this day, I cannot talk about this moment with any clarity or objectivity. Here are the words I wrote, miraculously, in an e-mail that afternoon.

Sun, 11 Nov 2001
This is a hard one to write, so bear with us. Will seems to be taking a southward turn again. More problems with his oxygen. The doctor suspects that some of this problematic activity may be attributable to seizures caused by his brain hemorrhage. They have been giving him a sedative/anti-convulsant, which settled him down initially, but they have had to continually increase the dosage. He is now having obvious seizure activity.

They will watch him over the next few days to see if his condition gets better, but if it doesn't, his doctors frankly told us that they may be running out of medical options for treatment.

Please continue in prayer for Will's head and healing.

It is only now, with time and some scar tissue that I can actually acknowledge what happened that day.

Will was in danger of dying.

The world turned black.

And part of me withered away.

Mon, 12 Nov 2001
Will had a decent day today. No seizures last night or today but he had one this evening while his night nurse was giving him his hands-on checkup treatment. Any sort of contact -- even having his diaper changed -- seems to agitate him. They are trying different anti-convulsant medications to see if something will work better for him. Good news on other fronts (he's gained weight--now 860 grams), but his head and his seizures are the obvious main concerns right now. They (and we) will keep watching him and see how he does.

Please pray for his head, and that he can rest peacefully and comfortably.

I remember nothing. I remember everything.

I felt nothing. I felt everything.

Out of control. Beyond my control. No control.

Tue, 13 Nov 2001
Today brought more of the same, I'm afraid. They are giving Will lots of medication for his seizures but he's still having them occasionally. He had a bit of a calm period while we visited him today, which was good to see. A neurologist is visiting him twice a day now and following his condition.

Please keep praying for peace and comfort for him. These are very tough days for us -- almost numbing in their intensity -- and it helps tremendously to know that there are so many who continue to talk to God on Will's behalf.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. One foot in front of the other. Words forming. Senses moving. Function. Function. What is normal? Will normal ever come this way again? Will I recognize it if if does?

Wed, 14 Nov 2001
Will had a good day today (and needless to say, so did his parents). His nurses said he was doing better all-around than yesterday. No obvious seizures detected today and his breathing looks better than we've seen it in weeks. Right now he's getting an electroencephalogram (EEG) over a 24-hour period to monitor his brainwaves and seizure activity, so hopefully we'll learn more about how his head is doing. He's back on breast milk so hopefully that will help him with weight gain, as well as build up his immune system to fight any infections. He also has graduated to a larger-size diaper -- it's these kinds of things that make a mother proud!

Finally. Exhale. Deep. Primal. Mournful. Relief. Temporary. Momentary. Real.

The rollercoaster was moving up the track, slowly, very slowly. But it was moving. Not stalled. Not stagnant.

There is so much more to be said about this. I’ve not allowed myself to process anything. Until now. I just couldn’t. Even now, seeing the words I wrote seem like they were composed by someone else.

But as I hear Will in the other room, singing along with The Wiggles and happily playing with his cars, I think that permission can finally be granted to my tortured soul. Can I let go of this melange of twisted emotion that I’ve been clinging to? I hope so.

I hate it.

It hates me.

Guess what? Here's that damn AHA! moment people are always talking about. Clarity via that virtual lightbulb going off.

I survived this horrific episode. Every parent's nightmare. Mortality up close. And way too fucking personal. My child. My baby.

I am leaving the door open, so some solace can approach, creeping in quietly. Perhaps catharsis will follow suit, and with it, perhaps some self-forgiveness. Who knows.

It's all I can do to just open the door and wait.

I’m still a little dizzy from the rollercoaster ride.

Even now.

Go figure.

This is the spot where I am mortal.
- Johann Christoph Friedrich von Schiller

Gonna take a moment here to do something I rarely do.

It’s actually something I’m not comfortable doing.

I’m going to toot my own horn, just a little.

Y’all – I’m becoming… an athlete.

You may pick your jaw up off the floor.

Seriously. Athlete. Of sorts.

The workout thing. I’m not bad at it.

Go figure.

I’m finding myself addicted to that feeling that comes after a good session when the sweat’s flying and your hair (thick, glorious and curly) is drenched from scalp to ends and your face is flushed with exertion and your heart beats just a little faster.

Hi. My name is Janey and I’m an endorphin addict.

Whoooo! What a rush.

And all this activity is paying off – I’m down some inches and strong and have a great cardio recovery time. Had to buy new underthings the other day – my old ones are too big.

Go. Me. I. Rock.

Also making big plans – my trainer (who I count amongst my top blessings from God now and forever) and I are going to…

wait for it…

Run the Disney Princess Half Marathon next spring. Yes, you read that correctly.

The very concept of “Me. Running.” is pretty crazy in itself – but a half marathon? Thirteen and change miles?

Yeah. I’m gonna do it. Got inspired watching The Biggest Loser a few weeks ago when the contestants, on a home visit, had the challenge of running a half marathon. The looks on their faces when they completed all those miles were amazing. Inspiring. Convicting.

And a look I want to sport on my own visage.

Already started training. Slowly but surely. Doing intervals – run for a minute/walk for three/run for one/and so on.

Here’s the best part: I’m even doing this when NOT with my trainer. I’m run/walking all on my own. For me, that’s huge.

I’m still trying to sort out this change in my psyche – my greatest revelation in this whole process has been how much of the workout is mental. Getting over preconceptions and the negatives that race through one’s head. Focusing on the matter at hand. Believing that yep, you CAN do it.

People have told me I love and respect (my trainer and my brother) that running takes off the unflattering curves faster than anything. I can already feel my tuchus muscles in ways I haven’t in a long long time (I’m embracing the pain, even in the glutes…)

And I do have some incentive to be the best I can be – our annual week at the beach is coming up in about two months and then I have a FAB trip planned with FAB friends to NYC in July for which I want to look ah-mah-zing. Mmmmmhmmmm.

It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this good about myself -- the “me” as I am now (damn, that’s weird to say) and the future “me” yet to come. This is the first thing in a long, long time that I’m doing just for myself. And even though it’s going to make me a better mother (I’m already seeing this as I play baseball with Will on Saturday mornings – in years past, I’d be in the bleachers. This year – I’m shagging fly balls and running bases.) amongst other things, it’s really making me a better Janey.

So, go me. I rock. Yeah – I really, really do.

Hung out at the Kids Art tent at The Burg's big outdoor art festival this afternoon. Miss Janey was the diva in charge of making macaroni necklaces... check it out:

Mobile post sent by citizenjaney using Utterli.  Replies.  mp3

More fun with Utterli! This time, I tackle some mechanical instructions for something called the Ergo- Driver. Listen and then tell me you don't want one for your very own.

Mobile post sent by citizenjaney using Utterli.  Replies.  mp3

A classic from last fall. Chalk this one up to a dearth of creative ideas. And me feeling a little bit sassy at the moment... enjoy, y'all.

~~~~~~~~~~

Now who's talking dirty... me, that's who!

In a fit of boredom and inspiration, fueled by the need to have a post today for NaBloPoMo, I decided to use my new pal Utterli and have a little good clean fun with my Top 10 Sexy Words.

It's not my best work -- damn throat issues still abound -- but it's not bad.

Please be kind. We are all friends, right?

Mobile post sent by citizenjaney using Utterli.  Replies. mp3

1. If you could describe your personality through a dance what would it be?
Hmmmm… let me think.

The mashed potato.


A little hustle.


Some salsa.


Followed by a tango.


Then capped with that middle school dance staple – standing close with your arms around the neck of your partner, moving in a circle to the music.

Except more with a more grown-up intent.

And of course a healthy dose of this…


2. What about describing you being sexy through a type of dance?

The thrill of the Hunt. The agony of too many treats.

Ah, I remember it well

The annual Easter Egg Hunt. Highlight of the season for little diva me.

My mom belonged (actually, she still does, as do I) to a women's organization (ok, it's the Junior League) that hosted an Easter egg-stravaganza every year for members' children. In those days, such an occasion was cause to buy a new Easter dress (at Rutland's, where at the same time that you were getting your new frock you could turn in your entry in the Easter Coloring Contest. Big stuff.) and new shoes (from Saltz Shoe Store, where you would walk out the door with new footwear and a balloon tied to your wrist.) Plus a spectacular Easter basket in which to collect treasures of all sorts. Perhaps even that coveted golden egg.

Good, good times.

Already showing my sassy, flirty side...

My brother and me.
Notice my hair is wild and wooly --
the bane of my mother's existance in the late '60s...

That's my dad (only grownup dude in the photo)
trying to corral my brother
(he's in that snappy white shorts suit)
so he doesn't run roughshod over everyone else
in his age group as they hit the egg finding field.

Presenting the World's Longest Meme. Why the World's Longest? It took me so much time to complete it, that I changed clothes in the middle of doing so. Oy. Have at it, y'all.

Where did you take your profile pic?
At my brother’s house last Christmas

What exactly are you wearing right now?
Shorts, sport bra, panties (well, you asked)

What is your current problem?
Spring cleaning. Ugh.

What makes you happy most?
When Will thrives.

What's the name of the song that you're listening to?
“Pray Naked” ~ The 77s

Any celebrity you would marry?
Maybe not marry, but if Stewart Copeland or Jon Hamm asked me to go away with him, then who am I to say no…

Name someone with the same birthday as you?
Shaun Cassidy, my buddy Jim

Ever sang in front of a large audience?
Ah yes…

Has anyone ever said you looked like a celebrity?
Back in the heyday of Designing Women, I was told Iooked like Delta Burke. So there’s that.

Do you speak any other languages?
Very rough Spanish

Has anyone you've been really close with passed away?
Yes

Do you ever watch MTV?
Only if there’s an America’s Next Top Model marathon on

What's something that really annoys you?
Condescending people; close mindedness

Middle name:
Elizabeth

Nickname(s):
Janey, Mama, Miss Jane

Current location:
Living room

Eye color:
Brown

Do you get along with your parent(s):
Actually, yes

Are your parents married/separated/divorced
Married for 47 years

Do you have any siblings?
One! (Hi, Bill!)

Ice Cream:
Pralines and Cream

Season:
Fall (football season!)

Shampoo/conditioner:
Yes – Goldwell stuff. I am a Diva when it comes to my hair.

Dance in the shower?
Pshaw – but of course!

Do you write on your hand?
Yes – can’t lose that, in theory.

Call people back?
If I must…

Believe in love?
Ab-so-frickin-lutely.

Any bad habits?
Where shall I start…

Any mental health issues?
I dance with the demons of depression…

Broken a bone?
Nope!

Sprained stuff?
My ankles, countless times

Had physical therapy?
Not me personally

Gotten stitches?
Yep – just once, though

Taken painkillers?
Have we just met – oh yeah.

Gone scuba diving or snorkeling?
Snorkeling – the scuba thing kind of scares me.

Been stung by a bee?
Just once. And thanks reading in second grade that book “A Taste of Blackberries” in which a kid dies because of an allergic reaction to a bee sting, I’ve been terrified of them ever since.

Thrown up at the dentist?
Thrown up? No. Passed out? Yep.

Sworn in front of your parents?
Oh hell yeah.

Had detention?
Never. I was a good girl in those days.

Last movie seen?
In the theatre? Kung Fu Panda

Last three people to text you?
Patty, Thom, Patty

Last person you called?
Cable guy

Last person you hugged?
Anna-Jean!

Last person you tackled?
Good grief. I don’t tackle. Regularly, anyway.

Last thing you touched?
Daisani bottle

Last thing you ate?
Lemon chicken soup

Last thing you drank?
Daisani

Last thing you said?
Get out of there!

Were you named after anyone?
Kind of. My first and middle names are family names,

When was the last time you cried?
A couple of hours ago (stupid Grey’s Anatomy)

Do you like your handwriting?
No – it’s horrifically bad. I used to think it had character, but then I finally saw the light.

What is your favorite lunch meat?
Roast beef, sliced thin. And rare.

Do you have kids?
You betcha! Yay Will!

If you were another person, would you be friends with you?
Probably. I’m fun!

Do you use sarcasm?
Please. Have we just met?

Do you still have your tonsils?
Yep – and don’t get me started on how this is a thorn in my side…

Would you bungee jump?
Only if I were a contestant on The Amazing Race. Otherwise, hell no.

What is your favorite cereal?
Old school Alpha Bits.

Do you untie your shoes when you take them off?
Sometimes. But not usually.

What is your favorite number?
27

What is the first thing you notice about a person?
His/her eyes.

Red or pink?
Red

What is your least favorite thing about yourself?
Externally: My way too-generous tuchus (but dammit, I’m working on it)
Internally: My rampant insecurity

Who do you miss the most?
My friends who I don’t live near

What color pants and shoes are you wearing now?
No pants/no shoes. Am in my pjs at the moment. (I have changed clothes since I began taking this stupid thing. That should be an indicator that it is way too damn long.)

What are you looking forward to about tomorrow?
Getting the cable fixed!

What are you listening to right now?
The sounds of silence

If you were a crayon, what color would you be?
Red-Violet

Favorite smells?
Fresh citrus; men’s cologne; honey

Who was the last person you talked to on the phone?
My dad

Favorite sports to watch?
It’s easier to name the sports I DON’T like to watch: NASCAR; some golf. That’s about it.

Hair color?
Dark brown. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Eye color?
Hasn’t changed since I answered this about 50 questions ago.

Do you wear contacts?
Nope -- lasik

Favorite food?
Steak. Caramel. But not together.

Scary movies or happy endings?
Happy endings

Last movie you watched?
At home: A Mighty Wind

What color shirt are you wearing?
Dark blue Grant Balfour/Rays t-shirt

Summer or winter?
Yes!

Hugs or kisses?
Ooooh, kisses.

What book are you reading now?
Pictures at a Revolution: Five Movies and the Birth of the New Hollywood

What’s on your mouse pad?
Underwood typewriter

What did you watch on TV last night?
Not much of anything – my usual programs weren’t on

Favorite sounds?
Will’s laughter; the ocean; jazz

Rolling Stones or Beatles?
Apples and oranges – but right now, I’m in a Stones mood.

What is the farthest you have been from home?
Alaska

Do you have a special talent?
Wouldn’t you like to know…

Where were you born?
St. Anthony’s Hospital, St. Petersburg, FL

Who was your favorite teacher?
Brad Moore. High school history/poli sci teacher. Learned SO much.

What’s your secret?
My, aren’t we nosy?

What’s your biggest goal/dream?
For Will to maximize his potential and to be a published author.

A son is a son till he takes him a wife, a daughter is a daughter all of her life.
~ Author Unknown

I knew it was going to come someday. Thought I was even prepared for it. Part of life and the logical progression of things and all.

I just wasn't expecting it to happen so soon. Like now. This morning.

I was thrown over by my boy child for a cute younger woman.

*sob*

Baseball Saturday. We were sitting in the dugout, Will and I, chatting about swinging the bat and how we were going to keep our collective eyes on the ball when we were at the plate.

And then she arrived. Lindsey. Bubbly. Brunette. In her yellow "Rays Community Outreach" t-shirt -- she had come to the game today as a representative of the American League Champion Tampa Bay Rays. WHOOOOO!!! She sat down on the bench next to us -- a pebble had gotten in her trainers and she took her shoe off to shake it out.

"Hewhoo," said the spider, who sported the slightly toothless grin of a seven-year-old male, to the fly.

"Well hi there! What's your name?" The Object of Will's Affection took off her sunglasses to chat.

"My name is Will and I am seven years old."

He would have offered up his home phone number, address and the fact that he likes long walks on the beach if he'd been given half the chance. But it was National Anthem time and so the declaration of everlasting love would have to wait until the rocket's red glare had come and gone.

Lindsey stood up and asked Will if he was ready to play some baseball. That was all it took. He stood up, grabbed her hand and said "Let's go!" But before they could ride off into the sunset together, he turned, looked at me and said, with ominous emphasis, "BYE."

Well then.

Just call me Chopped Liver. Red Headed Step Child. Wallflower.

The happy couple walked to the third base line for the anthem singing. Will's antsy pants soon got the better of him and I had to become the proverbial third wheel in order to keep the ensuing chaos down to a minimum.

As chance would have it, my future-daughter-in-law was assisting in the field on first base. In a smidge of lovely serendipity, Will's favorite Rays player is Carlos Peña. Who plays first base. Cupid's arrow really had some heat on it today.

Every time Will hit and ran to first, the charm was in full effect. Smiles. Giggles. The "aren't I cute" look.

Barf.

Eventually, the attention span of the seven-year-old boy won out over the affection of the seven-year-old boy and our interest in baseball and all its charms for the day waned. I knew that It was time to go when he played right field from the relative comfort of his tuchus.

But the die had been cast. The Flirt had been unleashed. I knew he had the potential within him --but this was the first time he used his powers to charm so thoroughly. Including totally throwing me over for a babe.

I suppose it's now my turn to feel the growing pains. Part of the process. Not sure if I'm ready, but, like with most motherhood-type things, I really have no choice.

Let's go.

As every cat owner knows, nobody owns a cat.
~ Ellen Perry Berkeley

That statement was never truer when applied to my childhood feline, W.C. Which stood for “White Cat.” Pretty original, huh? Although “water closet” might have been more apt...

He lived to be 23 years old -- no, that’s not a misprint. Twenty-three years old -- as best we could tell, anyway. He arrived one day on our back patio in 1972, nearly fully grown and looking every bit the young stud muffin he was. At the time were still smarting over the way-too-early death of our dachshund Hamlet and weren’t really in the mood to give our hearts to another pet.

Guess how long that lasted?

(Sidebar: I got Hamlet as a gift for my fifth birthday. The fact that a kindergartener named her doggie after a Shakespearean tragic hero should give you an indication as to what kind of a weird kid I was. Need I remind you about my 10-year-old affection for Dr. Henry Kissinger?)

Anyhoo.

My soft-hearted mama fell hook, line and sinker for Dub’s charm and after one can of tuna consumed, he was ours. Whether we wanted him or not. Which we did.

And so he grew, in size and in personality. And antics. He was soon legendary around the ‘hood. Not in an entirely favorable way, either.

W.C. was perhaps the crankiest cat ever to walk the face of the earth. A feline misanthrope, he didn’t like much of anybody outside the family. And even that could change on a dime. My dad’s friend from college, known always and forever and mysteriously as The Mouse, lived down the street from us when both our families were young. As was his habit after-work, he would change out of his suit into shorts, leaving on the undershirt, dark socks and hard-soled shoes and come down to our house for a cocktail. One evening, when the scotch was flowing, W.C. decided that The Mouse should live up to his nickname and totally unprovoked, came over and tried to climb his arm. No damage was done (fortunately) but the shock of the incident alone still makes all the human parties involved laugh.

Thank goodness.

As might be expected for a big old crabby, ornery tomcat with a penchant for fighting, Dub was a regular at the vet's office. Torn ears, scrapes, missing fur -- he had it all. (If this how he came out after a scuffle, I couldn't help but wonder what the other guys looked like...)

The most unique trip we took to the vet happened one sunny Saturday morning. The family was outside -- Daddy doing yard work, me pulling weeds against my will (damn chores for allowance policy), my brother doing something unconstructive. All at once, up the driveway comes W.C.

Tail bloody. And suspiciously shorter.

Somewhere, somehow, he'd managed to come home with about 2-1/2 inches less of tail than when he left. And he wasn't talking.

My mother, always the protector, jumped in the car and drove slowly along his known route, looking for that piece of tail -- assuming that it must be like a severed finger and if found and put on ice, it could be reattached. No such luck. Of course.

I always figured that there was some poor old lady who got a kitty surprise when she opened up her car door (Dub was famous for never meeting an open window he wasn't interested in) and in the ensuing chaos, slammed the door on his tail.

He actually was no worse for wear. Didn't slow him down one iota and probably made him that much meaner.

It was also not unusual for Dub to pay calls on the neighbors, either. The guy next door did a classic double-take the morning he was coming down the stairs of his home, passing W.C., who was on his way up -- obviously having made the most of an open window somewhere in that house.

And then there was the time he jumped into the trunk of a neighbor's car and ran all her errands with her...

Some people say that cats are sneaky, evil, and cruel. True, and they have many other fine qualities as well.
~ Missy Dizick

Dub, as you might imagine, was infamous at the vet's office. We would board him there while we were away on family vacations, and without fail, at least once a visit, he would pick the lock of his cage, get out and strut around through the doggie area, subsequently riling up every canine in the joint.

He also had the habit of taking a whizz on personal items belonging to people with whom he was not pleased. He once completely destroyed a box of Christmas tree ornaments with his Toxic Urine, rusted the top of the lawnmower, and left a big puddle under the accelerator of my brother's Suzuki Samurai. Not all at the same time mind you. Thank goodness. Can you imagine...

I could go on and on. After 20 years, people still ask my parents, with a bit of fear in their voices, if "that cat is still dead."

In his later years, he drooled a lot (poor baby) and ended up with this weird snagglepuss thing going on. He was, in fact, a real life Bill the Cat. And his zest for life morphed into a love of napping. As happens to any of us when we age.

The whole family, men included, shed many, many tears when we had to put him to sleep. It happened two days before Thanksgiving -- boy, that was a rough holiday, as Dub would always have some turkey with us. We still miss him and I always have a silent gobble gobble toast in his honor.

Although the standing joke in the family is that good old Dub is not spending eternity in Pet Heaven...

One cat just leads to another.
~ Ernest Hemingway