Meme Monday. Because I said so.

Do you forgive or forget?
I forgive. And try very hard to forget. But that doesn’t always happen.

Do you trust people?
As a rule, yes. But I also have a pretty good instinct for sensing who’s a dirtbag sleezeball and who’s not.

What are you not looking forward to?
Hmmmm. The next command appearance with the in-laws. Neither set like me all that much, despite my best efforts. Makes it tough.

Do you get mad easily?
Peeved, yes. Mad – not really. It takes a lot.

Tell us about the last time you were told you that you were pretty.
I cannot remember the last time anyone told me I was pretty. Facts are facts, I guess.

Do you have strange dreams?
Have we just met? All the time. My subconscious is a riot. Eric Idle on a road rally scavenger hunt and Howard Hesseman in a bubble bath. I’ll stop there…

Ever licked someone's cheek or forehead?
Yeppers ;-)

When did you last play a game?
Gosh – probably when the mister and I played cards. Which was ages ago.

What do you have on you at all times?
Cell phone. So I can be contacted in case Will has any funny business happen.

Do you go out in public without getting all dressed up?
Oh yes. These days, my uniform is my work-out gear. As far from dressed up as you can get outside of pajamas.

Do you like fruity or minty gum?
Cinnamon. HA!

Favourite musician or group?
Please. The Police. Others come and go, but Stewart and the other ones are forever in my heart.

Do you like anyone?
Sure!

Favourite computer game?
Does Tetris count?

First album you ever went and bought with your own money?
Helen Reddy’s “I Am Woman.” Circa 1972. This explains a lot, doesn’t it.

Think back five months ago, were you single?
Noooope.

Do you believe in celebrating anniversaries?
But of course!

Do you think someone is thinking about you right now?
I’d like to think so.

Last thing you bought?
A new sports bra with a racer back.

Are you a jealous person?
Yeah, I am. Not my proudest characteristic. Has more to do with me being insecure than anything…

Does it take a lot to make you cry?
Again – have we just met? I tear up watching a flower bloom.

Do you have a friend of the opposite sex you can talk to?
Yes, yes I do. A couple of them, actually. I'm a lucky girl in this regard.

Have you ever had your heart-broken?
Oh yes. Many many times.

Have you ever done something while drunk that you still cannot believe you did?
Heh. Yeppers. Shhhhh….

Do you text?
I do indeed. And for the most part, they are pretty text-speak free. I am an old-school English geek, dontcha know.

Do you wish someone would call or text you right now?
Mmmmhmmm

Is your life anything like it was a year ago?
In some ways, yes. In some ways, no.

Go back one year on your blog. Leave us a link to your favorite post.
Ode to Hirsute Pursuits So I went back two years. My blog, my rules. But this is THE most “hit” post of mine of all time, hands down. It’s worth a repeat view.

You can only drink ONE liquid for the rest of your life, what is it?
Sweat tea. No wait -- Nehi grape soda. No no -- Daisani.

What is the last thing you said out loud?
William! Eat your dinner!

Will this year be better than last?
I’m doing my damndest to see that it is.

Walk this way -- just give us a kiss. Or some coin...

My mother is a baker
A baker a baker
My mother is a baker
She always goes like this…

My father is a trashcan
A trashcan a trashcan
My father is a trashcan
He always goes like this…

**cue bales of little boy giggly laughter**

My boy is blossoming. Right before my eyes. And it’s amazing.

He's making up new words to songs to poke fun at his parents (note who got the brunt of the humor in the song lyrics I shared... not Mommy... heh heh heh)

He’s eating grown-up food – still soft and mashed, but it’s still real-people-not-toddler food – by himself.

He is engaged with this world around him. Identifying the colors of the clothes I’m tossing from the washer to the dryer.

“That shirt is vewy owange.”

Telling me what vehicles are sharing the road with me.

“That is a school bus. Going to school.”

Introducing himself to new friends and greeting familiar ones appropriately.

“Hewwo, this is Will” That’s usually said to a cute member of the opposite sex, accompanied by a cock of the head and a twinkle in the eye.

“Fowth fwoor pwease”, said as we get on the elevator with another kiddo and his mom at the hospital building on our way to feeding therapy.

I am amazed by my child. His communication issues prohibit us from having standard “what did you learn today at school” conversations, so I must glean insight into classroom activities and his progress through these casually dropped little nuggets of information. Sure I’m in constant conversation with Will’s teacher about things, but that’s more administrative. These moments are of joyful enlightenment.

And they are what I’m clinging to these days as they are juxtaposed against some unfortunately constant and slightly unsettling health nonsense for my beautiful boy. He’s having more frequent seizures – some brief, some more serious. We’ve tested and poked and probed and had multiple conversations with neurologists and neurosurgeons. Chances are that this increased activity is due to either the decreasing effectiveness of his anti-convulsant and his recent growth spurt. Which makes sense – but sometimes sense isn’t always taken into consideration in the heat of the stressful moment.

Here’s a little secret – please pretend to be slightly shocked when you read this, ya’ll – I have some serious control freak tendencies. Which can drive me a bit round the bend – especially where Will is concerned. It pains me greatly not to be able to head the seizures off at the pass or to make them stop or to figure out what the hell makes them start. If I could, I would. Everything. Something. Anything.

I’m going to do a Very Important Something this coming weekend – something in honor of Will and all the other kiddos who came into this world under less-than-optimal and precarious conditions. I’m lacing up my Brooks trainers, putting Will into a groovy-all-terrain rickshaw stroller thing and hitting the happy trail in Safety Harbor. It’s March of Dimes walk time.

This is the third time we’ve actually signed up to participate in this profoundly personal fundraising event. Both previous times were thwarted by a seizure, although last year I walked the event alone, leaving my boys home to rest and recoop. I’m praying that we won’t have any “funny business” this year so that we can participate as a family with friends and loved ones who have volunteered their time to come walk along with us.

That being said... yeah, you had to know there was a pitch coming after that long pimp warm-up… we would love to share the day with as many people as possible. Come walk with us, if that’s a geographical or logistical option. Toss us some coin – Will would not be where he is today if not for the research and activities of the March of Dimes. Or simply cheer us on -- go team go!

I’m a firm believer in the importance of being a good community citizen – of giving of yourself to better the world in which you live and of paying it both forward and back. The March of Dimes is an organization in which I believe passionately – it advocates for a cause that is profoundly personal. You supporting Will and me as we try to give a little back both humbles and blesses me deeply.

Thank you for reading this. For supporting us as we navigate our very unconventional life. And for simply being our friends. Here’s to walking for Will – three miles that will make a difference.

Will says "Walk this way with us on Saturday."

(Yeah, I know. But you gotta admit, you laughed just a little.)

Bad Day at Grey Rock

Ever have one of “those” days? You know the ones – those 24-hour-capsules…

… when the shit you have to deal with just seems to keep piling up faster than you can handle it.

…when you get pissy with even your best pals

… when you don’t even try to take one step forward because you know you’re just going to have to take two steps back so why bother

… when even a glance in the mirror makes you sad

Yeah. One of THOSE days.

I’ve recently had a whole run of “those” days. My self-esteem was shot. Nothing I did was right or even remotely easy. I was in a very “I’m disgusting and ugly and repulsive and the only reason people are nice to me is because they feel sorry for me because I’m the pathetic mother of a special needs child” place.

Yeah. It was bad. That stuff is on the tapes that run in my head when the blues get the better of me. It happens.

And yesterday – ah, yesterday – was the day when I was finally going to fight my way through it. Or so I thought.

A non-working air conditioner and an up-creeping temperature in the house gave me big pause.

I hate being hot. Like really hate being hot. It’s not my best look. At all.

And then there was the woman who yelled at me in the parking lot at Will’s school for parking where I did because another car had double-parked alongside me, making it impossible for her to get her big SUV into the handicapped parking lot.

I cried. Before 9 am. Not good.

So, after a while, when things started to even out (but not after I went to the pissy side, which didn’t last long mercifully, thanks to the patience and coercion of good friends) I began to believe that there was hope for me, my day and life in general.

Until I was mistaken for Will’s grandmother. By some dude who spoke before thinking.

Yeah.

Damn.

Ouch.

Talk about an ego-killer.

This sort of thing happened to me once before, when I was asked if I was the mother of a good friend of mine, age 33. I was but 10 years older at the time. That one I laughed about. The grandmother thing – not so much.

The timing of that ill-advised comment was probably the toughest thing. Dude. Really? Way to kick a chick when she’s down – even unintentionally.

I spent a looooong time looking in the mirror last night, trying to reconcile that comment with the actual visual. Didn’t work. But I did come to one conclusion.

Gotta be the hair. My gray hair.

Again – dude? Really? Is the color of one’s hair the prime indicator of age? (That’s not rhetorical, y’all – I really want to know…)

I had a moment (OK, several looooong moments) where I was ready to throw Will into the back seat of the car and head to the drugstore with Preference by L’Oreal on my mind.

Didn’t do it.

I yam who I yam, y’all. Blue moods and green envys and gray hairs and pale skin and all. And while I think a new hairstyle will help boost my spirits (got an appointment next week!), the color’s going to stay.

It defines me. It’s different. And I like it. My hair is my crowning glory. It’s not the norm.

And neither am I, for better or for worse. I'm seasoned -- not old. (And I'm a MILF -- nowhere near being a GILF. So there.)

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Exhale.

Post Rewind Classic: Clubhouse Rules

PLAY BALL!

Two words that are music to my ears. It’s that time of year. Baseball season. America’s Pastime.

I love sports. Passionately. I’m the chick watching SportsCenter with all the guys at the bar. The one placing bets on games. The one who reads SI.com and ESPN.com daily.

And while I love all sports (save for NASCAR – what’s the hell is the deal with that, anyway. I just don’t get it. At. All.) baseball and the boys of summer are part of me. Chalk it up partially to genetics – both my dad and brother played, with Daddy getting drafted while playing college ball but having to change gears due to an ankle injury -- and partially to an innate affection for a game that’s deceptively simple on the surface and always accessible.

A happenchance discovery of a blog piece written by a Houston Astros fan about his own personal baseball creed inspired me to develop my own similar statement.

Call it Janey’s Baseball Manifesto. It goes well with peanuts and Cracker Jacks, dontcha know. As well as a cold Bud Lite Lime in an aluminum bottle and a soft pretzel with light salt.

A good cigar is like a beautiful chick with a great body who also knows the American League box scores.
~ M*A*S*H, Klinger, "Bug-Out," 1976

• I am a fan of the game. Period. Then, now and forever. I’ve been watching baseball for as long as I can remember – Saturday afternoons were all about the ML Game of the Week on NBC with Joe Garagiola. Weekday evenings were spent with tuchuses on rough wood bleachers watching my brother play ball and my dad coaching his team.

This is probably why I love the purity of the Little League game, with its crazy scores and earnest players, as much as I do the nuanced finesse of the Big League game. Give me an afternoon/early evening on a field one step up from a sandlot with a steamed hot dog, a Pepsi and kids engaged in America’s Pastime and I’m a happy, giddy girl.

The other sports are just sports. Baseball is a love.
~ Bryant Gumbel, 1981

• I will always have a passionate opinion about my team:

They’re wonderful!

They suck!

They’re great!

They’re awful!

Amazing!

Damn, they suck!

These opinions will be spewed forth fast and furiously and quite often in the span of a week, a three/four game series, a day or even a game.

I’m a chick. It’s my right to chance my mind. Yeah, that’s right. I pulled the chick card. Nyah.

There have been only two geniuses in the world. Willie Mays and Willie Shakespeare.
~ Tallulah Bankhead

• I’m going to defend my team’s players – through stupid comments and asshattery and bad behavior. Most of the time, anyway. That’s just how I roll. Love my team, love its players. Regardless. Usually.

However, once a player that dabbles in the aforementioned asshattery is no longer a member of my team, he is automatically Dead To Me and his actions, which I previously ignored or overlooked, become abhorrent.

See, Spurrier, Steve as a classic example of this. He’s a Jackass. Through and through. Once upon a time, he was My Jackass. And it was OK. His antics and arrogance didn’t bother me one whit. I embraced it. Then he wasn’t part of My Team anymore. Now he’s Dead to Me AND a Jackass.

(Yes, I know that I’m mixing sports analogies here. You know the deal: My blog, my rules. Have we just met?)

Baseball is a ballet without music. Drama without words.
~ Ernie Harwell, "The Game for All America," 1955

• My prerogative: as a fan, I get to criticize and lambast and bemoan the fate and play of my team. My heart’s with them – nothing wrong with a little tough love and constructive criticism.

However… when anyone else opens their big trap to criticize or lambast or bemoan the fate or play of my team or anything related to my team… pffft. Not cool.

Even worse: I really don’t appreciate being mocked or taunted or goaded about my team and their standing, success or otherwise. Don’t do it to get a rise out of me – unless you want to fall into Dead To Me status along with Spurrier. I take my sports teams very seriously – thinking it’s “funny” to mess with me about them is the fastest way to end up on my Very Bad Side.

And once you're on my Very Bad Side, you usually don't leave. I defend my teams like a mama bear. Fiercely.

You got that, pal?

Baseball? It's just a game - as simple as a ball and a bat. Yet, as complex as the American spirit it symbolizes. It's a sport, business - and sometimes even religion.
~ Ernie Harwell, "The Game for All America," 1955

• Let’s be honest: try as I might, there’s no way I can be objective or impartial or benevolent with a wrong call when it comes to my team. Yeah – that ump really does need glasses if he thought that pitch was a ball. And please – Carl Crawford was SAFE by a mile, dude. When I love, I love unconditionally and with a biased, affectionate eye. Suck it, ump.

Don't tell me about the world. Not today. It's springtime and they're knocking baseball around fields where the grass is damp and green in the morning and the kids are trying to hit the curve ball.
~ Pete Hamill

• Embedded in the fiber of my being and the foundation of my soul, there lies a well-bred, genteel Southern lady who was taught not to say unkind things about anyone (at least in the presence of those to whom she would be referring.)

However – that engrained character trait goes out the window when it comes to the main rivals of my team – specifically the Red Sox and the Yankees.

I loathe them.

Despise them.

Would even go so far as to say I hate them. Yeah. I know.

I heckle their players whenever they appear on the telly, even if just in a commercial. I would root for the Devil himself in a three game stand at Fenway. My first bet of the season (Yankees/Rays) is already in negotiations. Mwah hahahah.

It must be noted, however, that while I despise the Yankees on a global, more general level (c'mon -- they're the Yankees. What's not to hate...) my disdain for the Red Sox is much more specific. I cannot even hear the names Pedroia or Youkilis without automatically saying "I hate that guy." Just rolls off the tongue, no thought given. Pavlovian almost.

By the way, this venom is also spewed at my other athletic rivals, including the horrid, wretched and vile Florida State Seminoles and Tennessee Volunteers. In case you were wondering.

There are three things in my life which I really love: God, my family, and baseball. The only problem - once baseball season starts, I change the order around a bit.
~ Al Gallagher, 1971

• I am a true, through and through sports-loving girl. Let's emphasize that "girl" thing for a moment... while I'm going to appreciate the game and the stats and all the things my fellow testosterone-laden fans do, my estrogenical sensibilities are going to come shining through periodically. And I'm going to make comments that reflect that. Like "nice tuchus" or "damn, he's hot" or "Hit the ball long and hard, sweetie." I spent several years in the mid '80s following the Los Angeles Dodgers simply because I was in love with Steve Sax and his outstanding posterior.

I'm a girl. It's what I do.

But. BUT. But. I am a baseball fan first and foremost. I'm no groupie nor obsessive superfan. While the scenery might be easy on the eye, my longterm love and devotion is for the game. Players come and go. But teams are forever. In my heart, anyway.

So there you are – the Janey Baseball Manifesto. Read it. Learn it. Know it.

And I’ll see you in the cheap seats. First dog and draught are on me.

Love is the most important thing in the world, but baseball is pretty good too.
~ Greg, age 8