Confessions of a Middle-Aged Suburban Diva

The Summer of Bittersweet Lemonade

2012-01-03T20:29:00.003-05:00

Picture it. June 1985. Gainesville, Florida.

One hot summer. Sticky. Oppressive. Too humid to even be sultry.

And I was doing time in summer school. Working to get ahead on my credits.

Listening to a lot of music. Watching a lot of MTV.

Nursing a shattered heart -- the by-product of the end of a messy, complicated relationship that spring.

Kissing a lot of boys to try and at least numb the pain of relationship finality.

Living in an apartment with two other pals -- we were all subletters, having lived elsewhere during the main school year. Trying to dodge the landlord because the fourth regular roommate, who didn’t find a subletter, was late with her share of the rent and we kept having these horrible EVICTION FORTHCOMING notices plastered to our front door. (That chick finally did pay what she owed, but damn, did it take too much time and energy to get her to pony up.)

Drinking a lot of cheap beer. A lot. Sometimes spending my laundry quarters to do it, as my regular drinking haunt was right next to my regular Laundromat.

Having lawn chairs and beach loungers for apartment furniture because the regular dwellers took all their furniture with them when they left for the summer and it just wasn’t worth it to schlep sofas and chairs up from home for six weeks. Reading Rolling Stone religiously while burning a candle and listening to my Broken Hearts Club mix tape. Over and over and over.

Riding the bus back and forth to campus because I STILL didn’t have a car at school. Sweating like a hooer in church, even just walking to the bus stop. Damn, was it hot.

Watching the NBA Championship Finals from the hide-a-bed in our living room (why I remember that, I have no idea) and igniting love for my beloved Boston Celtics. Yeah, they lost but they earned a place in my sports-loving heart forever.

In other words, I was kind of pathetic. Well meaning. But pathetic.

In the midst of all that, I was taking two classes.

A Journalism Law classzzzzzzzz.

And an Oral Performance class. Which I adored.

Madly. Truly. Deeply.

I’m one of those rare beasts -- ok, weird people -- who, to be blunt, totally gets off on speaking in front of people. Love. It. It’s fun. It’s energizing. And it’s about as close as I get to being on stage in my regular, mundane life.

This oral performance course was tailor-made for me -- a frustrated theater girl who often regretted the decision (her father made) not to be a theater major. For class, we had to select different pieces -- prose, fiction, drama -- and not only read them aloud in an interpretive fashion, but provide a written narrative of our analysis and choices for the pieces.

I was in heaven.

Writing and performing. Bliss.

Which is what I needed in my hiding-from the-landlord-man, post-relationship ending funk.

Throwing myself into doing something I loved to get over a man. As only a broken hearted college girl could do.

I lived and breathed this class. I chose pieces that were challenging and smart and interesting: scenes from Neil Simon’s “Barefoot in the Park.” A Shakespearean sonnet (CXVI, to be exact) And the piece that tested me in more delicious ways than I can count -- a dramatic monologue -- one from Martha, natch -- from Edward Albee’s “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf.”

There was one more piece that I remember. It was a poem, author unknown. I think I found it tucked within one of my dog-eared copies of Rolling Stone. I wish I’d written it. I could have. It perfectly described the very state of my being that long, hot summer.

Oh this roller coaster...

am I on forever?

It was screaming thrills

when I had the stomach

for it. And I told

everyone to try a

roller-coaster sort of

life. “The ups are

won-der-ful!” I yelled

from somewhere near the sky.

But now my guts

ache and my heart wobbles

dangerously at the downs

and I have to cling on

tightly, alone in my

seat. A couple on the

grass over there are

sitting quietly with

their arms around each

other, looking into each

other’s eyes and probably

thinking “the ups are

wonderful.” I’d hurl

myself off the roller

coaster if I had someone

to sit with on the calm

grass. But as there’s no one,

guess I’ll stay here and

try not to feel sick

sometimes. “Some people

envy me this ride” I tell

myself and with heaving

stomach I remind myself

the ups are wonderful.

I poured myself into the reading and interpretation of those words. My twenty-year-old self infused them with the sense of melodramatic weariness that seemed to envelop me. A release came with the sharing. Lemonade made from the bitter fruit I'd been toting around. And I got a GPA boost out of it as well -- Lord knows I needed it.

I’ve long since moved past my state of mind that summer -- the residue of that broken romance was washed away with the tears from other heartbreaks and the waves of new experiences. But the words of that poem are still part of me. They’ve been applicable more than once since the summer of ‘85. Each hurt a little different, yet the same.

Yeah, the ups are indeed wonderful. Not a bad idea to keep your hands in the car. But don't be afraid to let go, even if it's just for a little bit.

Me me me me me Meme Monday

2012-01-02T19:12:00.003-05:00

Meme Monday. Random FUN facts about me. Y'all know the drill.

• If the whole world were listening to you right now, what would you say?

“All we are saying is give peace a chance.”

• If you could meet anyone on this earth, who would it be?

Former president Jimmy Carter, I think. I admire him greatly for putting his money and time and conviction where his mouth is. We share many of the same perspectives and he is an honorable man of God. Plus I suspect he’s a very charming Southern gent, and I’m a sucker for those.

• You just got a free plane ticket to anywhere. You have to depart right now. Where are you going to go?

Either New York City, or Barcelona, Spain. However, if I could pull it off, I’d head to Havana.

• What do you think about most?

Young William. Followed by flashes of writing ideas.

• You have the opportunity to spend a romantic night with the music celebrity of your choice – who would it be?

Please. Have we just met? Stewart Copeland. An evening 30 years in the making.

• You can erase any horrible experience from your past – what will it be?

The days when Will was very critically ill two weeks after his birth and we were given dire prognoses about his mortality. I would not wish that time on even my worst enemy. No parent should have to even consider the death of their child.

• What’s your strangest talent?

I have double jointed fingers that can move in slightly disturbing ways. I can also burp the alphabet.

What?

• What would be a question you’d be afraid to tell the truth on?

How much I weigh. Just like every other woman in the world.

• Ever had a poem or song written about you?

Sadly, no. I date my share of creative types, but interestingly enough, none of them immortalized me in song or verse. And I dated a good number of musicians, too. Bastards. Hrumph.

• When is the last time you played air guitar?

This morning. You know how quirky my house is….

• Do you have any strange phobias?

Snakes. Snakes. Snakes. That is all. That is enough.

• What’s your religion?

Christian. Proud member of the Religious Left. Baptist, but a very very very very to the 100^th degree moderate one.

• What is your current desktop picture?

A night shot of Manhattan streets, taken looking down from a top floor in a building.

• When you are outside, what are you most likely doing?

Working out. The outdoors is my gym.

• What’s the last song you listened to?

This one!

• Simple but extremely complex – favorite band?

Simple but extremely easy answer: The Police

• What was the last lie you told?

“No – I’m just going to the bedroom to watch the Gator game. I’m not going to take a nap.”

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

• What is a saying you say a lot?

“Please.” And “WHAT IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE!!!”

• What is your greatest weakness? Your greatest strength?

Weakness: my insecurity. I am riddled with self doubt regarding so many things…

Strength: my intelligence. The one area about myself in which I am confident.

• Who is your celebrity crush?

So many from which to choose, but let’s go with Jon Hamm. Try to act surprised.

• What is the first thing that comes to mind when you hear the word “heart”

Life. Love. Pursuit of happiness.

• How do you vent your anger?

Two ways: I either cry or speak in very measured tones using what I call $10 vocabulary words.

• Do you have a collection of anything?

Cookbooks! Snowglobes! Hotel china from classic St. Petersburg hotels and clubs.

• What is your favorite word?

Grace. Defined as unmerited favor. If Will had been a girl, I would have either called him Lucy or Grace.

... a very good place to start

2012-01-01T07:07:00.007-05:00

Well, I missed it.

You know, the big ball drop. Dick Clark -- who I understand was made up in such a fashion that he could have played Grandpa Oompa Loompa. The countdown ushering out the old and bringing in the new.

I fell asleep. 11:15 pm EST to be exact.

And so I missed the big-kiss-at-midnight-smooch-to-welcome-the-new-year thing.

In the spirit of that lovely tradition, I offer this little ditty. It rather covers the bases (first, to be specific. Heh.) for those who are near and dear but far away.

MWAH! That's me, blowing you big kisses in the wind. You know who you are...

Happy 2012, y'all. It's shiny, sparkly and full of possibilities. Plus there's that new car smell.

I'm brimming with optimism about this next 12 months. More so than I can ever remember. Not sure why, but I'm not going to over-analyze in case I jinx something.

Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end...

Made a set of resolutions last night. Different from the sort one usually makes at the turn of the calendar. You know, those promises we make to ourselves to espouse healthy living, break bad habits, become kinder, gentler, more dignified human beings.

Not this year. Not for me.

My resolution list looks like this:

1. Write more.

2. Drink Scotch.

3. Listen to Sinatra.

Now this is a list that's manageable. Do-able. Achievable.

That's not to say that I don't have loftier ambitions. They're just not "resolutions."

They're commitments.

To taking care of me. With healthy, sustainable eating. Exercise. Fresh air. Surrounding myself with people that affirm me. Whose approval I already have. Whose company I genuinely enjoy. Keeping myself mentally sharp. Shaking out cobwebs of the cerebrum. Carving out my identity.

I'm already committed to the mothering thing. If I do say so myself. That's a given. As you know. I'm just adding another layer onto the foundation of my life.

Exciting, isn't it.

Here's to new beginnings. Long may they live.

The best is yet to come and babe, won't it be fine...

La fin au début

2011-12-31T18:29:00.002-05:00

What does this song mean? For my whole life I don't know what this song means. I mean, 'Should old acquaintance be forgot". Does that mean we should forget old acquaintances or does it mean if we happen to forget them we should remember them, which is not possible because we already forgot them?
~ Harry

Well, maybe it just means that we should remember that we forgot them or something. Anyway, it's about old friends.
~ Sally

Old years begat new years. For friends young and young-at-heart, new and longtime, here's to making our marks significant and meaningful and deliberate on the blank page that is 2012.

Skål!

Chin chin!

Cheers!

Things I Think About

2011-12-10T18:25:00.005-05:00

Things I Think About...

Who really is the better Darrin – Dick York or Dick Sargent?

What makes Tootsie Roll Pops so darn addictive? And no, I don't know how many licks it takes yada yada yada...

Where did manners and civility and respect for one’s fellow man and woman go? What is wrong with people that they have to act like such jackasses sometimes?

Mario Cantone looks just like a shorter, slightly more gay version of my old boyfriend. Who was (unconfirmed officially, but I have a great sense for these things) gay himself, just not out at the time we dated. He's still on my "dead to me" list even after 20 years. More on that later...

Do people with self-tanning addictions really think looking like they just came out of a food hydrator is attractive?

The Coca-Cola people should hire me to do testimonials for Daisani. I drink that stuff by the gallon. If only it came in gallon containers (hint-hint)...

Does Donald Trump style his own hair after he gets out of the shower? Does someone come in and swoop and swirl it for him? Are they properly compensated?

And speaking of hair -- Gene Simmons. His hair. Defies description. Really. Have you ever looked closely at it -- it's like a pack of Brillo pads, sans soapy stuff, was taken and moled to make hair. Fascinating in a can't look away sort of fashion.

There needs to be a food truck in my neighborhood that serves/delivers made-to-order breakfast.

Are people really as damn happy to be eating at Olive Garden as they seem on TV?

Why do fools fall in love?

Seriously – what is wrong with people these days?

Did Jesus’ feet ever hurt after doing all that walking in what must have been very uncomfortable sandals?

Why can I not give myself a “pedicure” without looking like a gorilla painted my toenails?

Lovey Howell was underrated.

Am I EVER going to get my office unpacked and organized? God bless America, it’s a hot mess. Ask me about this, please. I have many projects (novel, essays, podcast, website) percolating for the new year and I need a place to work, y'all. If I want to morph into the modern-day Sally Rogers, I need to get on this ASAP.

If Jon Hamm rang my doorbell and said “run away with me” I wouldn’t bother to close the door behind me as I left.

If I had my own talk show, my set would look like a big, glorious bedroom and my guests and I would wear pajamas and sit around the bedroom to chat. And we'd have a house cat. Plus a little band on a set that looked like a paneled basement. Refreshments would be served.

Is there a better pop love song than "Maybe I'm Amazed" by Paul McCartney and Wings? I think not. Been singing it a lot lately... makes me smile.

Gee my skin looks terrific. Fresh air, natural vitamin D, 300 SPF and good moisturizers.

I don't use the word "dodgy" enough. Must remedy this.

Why did straight up aerobics go out of fashion? I loved that -- it made me feel like I was a dancer. What?

Do kids today (after they get off my lawn) listen to jazz? Do people of my generation? I hope so. Man I hope so. PS:and by jazz I mean the straight up, classic stuff or the current interpretation of that. Not the smoooooooth jazz that makes my ears cringe (yes, I know. Your milage may vary.)

We need a revival in earnest of that Random Acts of Kindness movement. Our world could use a bolus dose of it. Maybe I’ll start it…

Why are the women on House Hunters (that show on HGTV) so damn disagreeable all the time when they look at houses? Is that part of the casting requirements: "must be raging bitch and complain about everything, especially if the kitchen countertops aren't granite, there's only one sink in the master bathroom and the dining room is painted a color she doesn't like."

Does Rhianna own pants? Seriously -- all I ever see her in anymore are those high-waisted modern day granny panties and fishnets. Won't she be cold here soon, if not already? Is she planning to spend the winter months in the southern hemisphere?

Eggnog should be available year round. This "only at the holidays" nonsense is unacceptable.

These are Things I Think About

I like my literature a little on the trashy side

2011-12-06T21:40:00.005-05:00

Without a heart, I can never really know what it would be like to love someone, or every really understand a trashy novel.
~ Tin Man, some weird anime version of The Wizard of Oz

I have always surrounded myself with books. Man, I love those things. I don't ever remember a time when I didn't read. When I was a kid, one of my favorite things to do was read the novel synopses in the back of the volumes of the supermarket encyclopedias my parents "bought" with trading stamps. I knew more about Tobacco Road than any seven-year-old should have.

Now, that's not to say that I didn't read standard kid stuff -- Little Women, Anne of Green Gables, Nancy Drew, From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler -- all took up space on my bookshelves. Then there were magazines -- I learned about life from the "Can This Marriage Be Saved" column in The Belle's Ladies Home Journal magazines. Cultivated my love of cooking from Bon Appetit. Read classic sports journalism in Sports Illustrated. I have a good friend from high school whose indelible memory of me from those days is me reading Gone with the Wind. Still have the copy I read then, held together with ancient masking tape.

But all that changed the summer I was 12. I discovered Harlequin romances. Each volume dirt cheap at the grocery store. I wasn't much for the historical versions -- I was more the contemporary romance kinda girl. Even tried my hand at writing one -- my hero's name was Van Doren. Don't remember what the beautiful, spunky heroine's name was, but she was an Olympic swimmer slumming as a life guard at a resort in Florida.

Go ahead and gag. I know I am.

Harlequin romances. My gateway drug. To my still-current dirty little secret.

True Confession I: I love trashy novels. More than anything.

First it was Judith Krantz with Scruples. Then more of her genre. Jacqueline Susann. Valley of the Dolls. Sidney Sheldon. My goddess Jackie Collins. A truly deliciously horrible set of books about a group of deliciously repulsive women called The Crazy Ladies, written by a woman called Joyce Elbert. In that quinella, the "hero" was a pervy physician named Fingerhood. Yes, really.

True Confession II: At this moment in time, I pretty much read only trashy novels. Or silly little murder mysteries.

Nothing of literary value. Nada. It's all fluffier than the cotton candy kiosk at the circus.

Yes, I have a degree in English literature. Yes, I've read some of the world's greatest novels. I love to talk about those books still to this day. And there was a time when I read worthwhile things for pleasure. But somehow I've slid into the lazy crazy habit of not engaging with books that make me think past "wow, that's an interesting sexual scenario" or "my goodness, that woman is a slut."

My literary side right now is the equivalent of a Kardashian.

I am vapid. And I am unashamed.

When you are to the point when you order your beach trash from Amazon.uk, you just need to own it. By the way, just because a book text contains words like colour, glamour and dodgy, doesn't mean it's not a smutty book. It's just posh trash.

Not sure how I ended up here mired in literary muck. Maybe it's been collateral damage from my crazy, stressful life. Or perhaps I still have a little burnout from my crazy college schedule when I would have to carefully read at least two novels a week while holding down a full-time job -- and then have to be versed enough in them to participate in class discussions. Hammering out One Hundred Years of Solitude in a week isn't for the faint of heart. (But oh, what a beautiful book.) Or perhaps it's more that I came to need that discussion and interaction with others when it comes to a book of significane, now that I think about it. I'm a girl in need of a book club. Maybe.

PS: I got my English degree with a GPA of 4.0, thankyewverymuch. And my nine hours of grad school credit -- 4.0. Just for the record. *Cheshire Cat grin*

The new year always heralds a clean slate in terms of personal goals and objectives, hopes and dreams. A full calendar with all its pages on one side of the spiral signifies options and opportunity. Think I might add reading books that might engage something than my endorphins to the list. Add a little protein to the junk food literary diet I've been on. It'll be good for my mind to have something to process so that the mush my brain's become isn't so, well, mushy.

But for every Jeffery Eugenides book I add to the top of my nightstand, for every Chuck Klosterman essay I mentally process, I'll guarantee that there'll be a Jackie Collins or Brit Posh Trash book to match it.

I am woman. I like smut.

The truth is, everyone likes to look down on someone. If your favorites are all avant-garde writers who throw in Sanskrit and German, you can look down on everyone. If your favorites are all Oprah Book Club books, you can at least look down on mystery readers. Mystery readers have sci-fi readers. Sci-fi can look down on fantasy. And yes, fantasy readers have their own snobbishness. I’ll bet this, though: in a hundred years, people will be writing a lot more dissertations on Harry Potter than on John Updike. Look, Charles Dickens wrote popular fiction. Shakespeare wrote popular fiction—until he wrote his sonnets, desperate to show the literati of his day that he was real artist. Edgar Allan Poe tied himself in knots because no one realized he was a genius. The core of the problem is how we want to define “literature”. The Latin root simply means “letters”. Those letters are either delivered—they connect with an audience—or they don’t. For some, that audience is a few thousand college professors and some critics. For others, its twenty million women desperate for romance in their lives. Those connections happen because the books successfully communicate something real about the human experience. Sure, there are trashy books that do really well, but that’s because there are trashy facets of humanity...

~ Brent Weeks

Meme Monday: Good thing in little package

2011-12-04T22:11:00.009-05:00

Gifts can come in all sorts of shapes and sizes and forms and places. They don't have to come in pretty packages adorned with paper and bows and other fancy trappings. Sometimes, they can be as simple as sharing the gift of one's self with another person. Opening yourself up and letting facts and tidbits about yourself come tumbling out. Making yourself a bit vulnerable. Allowing others to get to know you.

And that's what I like to do on what I call Meme Mondays. Take one of those cookie internet memes/sets of questions and answer them. To share parts of myself, usually in a very self-deprecating way. 'Cause that's how I roll.

I love it when others do similar things -- give me the gift of themselves. Letting me get to know them through their words and experiences.

Part of being human is sharing the gift of yourself. At least from where I sit. So here goes...

Egg nog or hot chocolate?

Yes. Both. Please. And thank you. In a little twist, though, I like my eggnog sans ze booze (Farm Store's is the best!) and my hot chocolate with a little zip in the doodah. Preferably peppermint schnapps.

The first time I had hot cocoa with peppermint schnapps was in a hotel bar in Lake Tahoe. We were on holiday on the West Coast (Will stayed home with my parents) and while The Mister skied, I did apres ski without the actual ski part. The bartender recommended the cocoa/schnapps combo and by the time The Mister came off the slopes in the late afternoon, I was plowed. So much so that I'd drunk dialed pretty much everyone in my phone -- fun fact: drunk dialing is actually more amusing during daylight hours, at least for the person who's not drunk. It was all fun and games until we had to try and put snow chains on the rental car to cross the mountain pass to get to San Francisco, and I was no help at all. Unless you count making snow angels and giggling helpful.

Does Santa wrap presents or just sit them under the tree?
My mother, The Belle, made a deal with Santa many years ago that he does not need to wrap any presents he brings. I took out an extension on that deal myself when Will was born. He appreciates it, from what I understand.

Colored lights on tree/house or white?
It depends on my mood, to be honest. I was in a "white lights only" phase for a while, but now I rather like the coloured ones, especially on the house. I still like white on the tree, since it provides a nice backdrop for the other tree garnishes.

Do you hang mistletoe?

You betcha. Have a vintage mistletoe/elf ornament that hangs in a doorway -- very similar to the one we had when I was a kid. Love it. Now c'mon over here and gimme a smooch!

When do you put your decorations up?
Decorating is a gradual thing around here. I'm not organized enough (hush) to get it done early -- like Thanksgiving weekend early, as so many people I know do. With The Mister travelling during the week, it's kind of catch-as-catch-can to find time to get the tree, et all. We'll probably get the ball totally rolling next weekend.

What is your favorite holiday dish?
Truth be told, my favorite holiday dish is a... jello salad. Yeah. I know. But it's part of my family tradition. I've made it for holiday meals for like 35 years. The dish has the very groovy name of Cherry Salad Supreme and it involves not one (raspberry) but two (either lemon or lime) flavors of jello, layered separately with add-ins like marshmallows and cherry pie filling and whipped cream and crushed pineapple. It's like the antithesis of clean eating. But damn, is it good. Reminds me of my Nana, as I make it in a big glass dish with etched fruit on it that has been in the family for eons. Special place in my heart it has...

Favorite holiday memory as a child?

Setting up the Nativity scene was always my job as a kiddo. I had a certain way I'd place all the figurines, based on the chronology of the Christmas story in the gospel of Matthew, with the last piece placed being the angel that hang over the manger. And when I went away to college, that was still my job -- it would wait until I got home, even if the 'rents had put all the other decorations up, including the tree.

When and how did you learn the truth about Santa?
I honestly don't remember when I learned the truth about Santa, but I did figure it out on my own. However, because I had a younger sibling, I had to keep up the charade for his sake. Heh. Sometimes, it's good to be the oldest.

Do you open a gift on Christmas Eve?

No, we don't. The Belle is an incorrigible package snoop -- she shakes and examines all presents with her name on it, and despite her yearly suggestion that we open one gift on Christmas Eve, we always waited until the morning. The Christmas morning ritual: wake up, brush teeth, make bed, open gifts, have breakfast, take nap. Forward ho!

How do you decorate your Christmas tree?

Currently, the main tree sits in our living room and I have worked the decorations to coordinate with the browns/beiges/blues/crimsons/greens that dominate the room. My new tree -- the funky aluminum one -- will be decked out in vintage ornaments and highlighted with a groovy color wheel. Then there's the Festivus pole...

Snow! Love it or dread it?
Y'all. I live in the F-L-A. Second generation native.... I LOVE snow, since when I see it, I'm a mere visitor. It's wonderful.

Can you ice skate?

Hell-to-the-no. Good lord. In addition to apres ski, I also do apres ice skate very well.

Do you remember your favorite gift?
Honestly, I don't have a favorite gift. There have been some which were bigger hits than others, but every present that I really loved was perfect for me at that particular time in my life. All good.

What’s the most important thing about the holidays for you?
Taking time to embrace the essence of the season -- the Nativity, themes of peace and joy, love and hope. It's a time of celebration and contemplation. For moments of boisterousness and silence. Of music and verse. Reflection of the year just past and planning for the year ahead.

And the presents. Mostly giving. But a little getting too.

Hush.

What is your favorite holiday dessert?
I really don't have a favorite holiday dessert, unless pecan pie counts. But I do have a great holiday dessert story. One year -- I think I must have been a junior in college -- The Belle decided that we should try something new for Christmas dinner dessert -- an English trifle. Ladyfingers, raspberry jam and custard laced with sherry. What could go wrong? Nothing actually, save for the fact that we somehow ended up tripling the amount of sherry, both to soak the ladyfingers and in the custard itself. Unless you were a little old lady who sipped sherry steadily at the bi-weekly bridge club meetings or The Belle and me, that thing was pretty much inedible. Daddy would come home from work and find us both just sauced after having an afternoon serving of trifle. Come to think of it, that dish may have been the perfect food -- a dessert you can enjoy at happy hour time. Now where's my trifle bowl...

What is your favorite holiday tradition?
I have a much-loved version of Handel's Messiah and copies of the music that we will use to sing along with the recording. I have had opportunity to sing the Messiah (altos rule!) several times with the church choir and it remains my favorite choral piece/presentation for the season. Will has heard this so often that he will chime in when the Hallelujah Chorus pops up -- now that's a lot of fun.

What tops your tree?

A gold paper mache 10 point star I bought over 20 years ago at Urban Outfitters in Georgetown. It's a little dinged and the paint's a bit chipped. But it has held the top spot on my Christmas tree since I was a single girl with a miniature tree and a handful of ornaments, as I couldn't afford much more. A treasure.

Which do you prefer -- giving or receiving?

Giving. But I'm getting better at receiving -- which is funny for a chick whose love language is gifts. Go figure.

What is your favorite Christmas song?
Can't pick just one -- "Joy to the World" is my favorite hymn; "And the Glory of the Lord", my favorite classic piece. Anything by Vince Giraldi. Dean Martin's Christmas renditions. But if I had to pick one, it would be "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," any classic version. Judy Garland. Frank Sinatra. Ella Fitzgerald. I tend to get a little snotty when it comes to my Christmas music, now that I think about it -- I'm picky about what I like in a version. For example, there are myriad versions of another favorite "Baby, It's Cold Outside," yet most of them are just meh to me. Maybe I'll do a post about the requirements to make it to Janey's Top Christmas Hits list.... hmmmm.

Yeah. I know. Try not to act surprised about this true confession...

Candy Canes: yuck or yum?
Ugh. Don't totally dislike. But not a fan.

Favorite Christmas show?

Have we just met? A Charlie Brown Christmas. It's on the telly tonight and I cannot wait.

Saddest Christmas song?

Ironically, it's also my favorite -- "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas." The lyrics suit my temperament, I think. A bit contemplative and melancholy. But so, so beautiful. At least to me.

Sunday Something-Something

2011-12-04T12:54:00.002-05:00

The Jump-Off: Things you can do in three minutes

• Have a quickie *lascivious eyebrow raise*
• Give yourself a facial
• Do a whole lotta crunches (engage your core!)
• Read a magazine article
• Give yourself a ghetto gorilla pedicure
(The Do-It-Yourself part = ghetto. The fact that you get more polish on your toes than your nails = gorilla.)
• Play a game of solitaire
• Saute an onion
• Load the dishwasher
• Do a quick eBay search
• Deep condition your hair
• Pull weeds along your front walk
• Have a mini-one-song dance party
• Sign and mail a “just because” card to a friend
• Read the comics in the newspaper
• Cook an egg -- poach, fry, scramble, etc., etc., etc.
• Make and cool down (from "Atomic Hot) a bowl of oatmeal
• Iron a pair of pants
• Boot up my Macbook Pro
• Brew a cup of tea
• Collect a bunch of shells on the beach
• Do my nightly skincare routine
• Watch a video on YouTube
• Use a set of those Crest Whitestrip things
• Whistle a happy tune
• Surf through all jillion of your cable channels
• Toast a piece of bread
• Fall asleep
• Kill a couple of levels in Angry Birds
• Complete a row of needlepoint
• Stain stick all the spills and stains on your kiddo's school uniforms.

Stay tuned, as this list is fluid... got anything to add?

It's the Thought that Counts... Isn't It?

2011-12-02T22:22:00.006-05:00

If it's the thought that counts, then why do we have fingers?
~ Piglet

Y'all will be pleased to know that I've created a new spin on that tired old thing known as mathematics -- something geared more towards the fabulously right-brained members of society. It's called JaneyMath and features such premises as "rounding up to the nearest whole dollar when entering check amounts in the ledger assures you of always having more money than you think you do in the old bank account." See. Perfect sense. (I can feel the heads of all the accountant-types I know exploding in five-four-three-two...)

In JaneyMath, there's also something called the Present Theorem: For every gift-giver, there is at least one gift-receiver. Seems obvious, no?

However, there's nothing in said theorem about the intent of the gift-giver nor the attitude of the gift-receiver. We add our own subjective colors when it comes to that.

Picture it: Christmas, 1998. The Mister and I had just been married for a year and were still trying to figure out the whole "whose family do we spend what holiday with" chore. We'd done Thanksgiving with his mother in Baltimore, taking the AutoTrain in order to pick up some furniture she had for us. Christmas was split a bit, with an early celebration here locally with my folks and then several days with my father and step-mother-in-law at a mini family reunion in north Alabama. Whew.

Opting to have a little celebration at home before we hit the road on Christmas Eve night, we packed the car and then sat down for a little dinner and present unwrapping. There were lots of oooohs and ahhhhs as we revealed all sorts of treats underneath paper and ribbon.

And then we got to the boxes from The Mister's mother. I can't remember specifically what they all were -- most likely a pullover sweater for him, along with probably a Home Depot gift card and maybe a weird book by some religiously fundamental author or a "doctor" espousing a kooky unorthodox position on health and healing. There's not a lot of variety in her gift-giving repertoire. Actually there is, but let's save that conversation for another time. When I have more wine available.

Finally, there was a large box for me. I'd already received some bolts of fabric she'd picked up on a mission trip to Central America. Gorgeous cloth, but damned if I still don't know what to do with it. Anyhoo.

I tore the paper off, opened the box, pulled aside and discovered... a set of cat stove burner covers.

Wow. Just wow.

It was at that moment that I was immensely thankful I was opening the gift without the giver present. The look on my face said it all.

At the time, my beloved kitty-witty Roxanne was still around, afoot and underfoot. Black, with the exception of a white bib and white paws, she was my spoiled little minx, named after the iconic song by my favorite band, The Police. And the cats on the burner covers looked a lot like Roxanne. Nifty.

The way I see it, there are two sort of people who have cats as pets. People who like cats. And cat people.

People who like cats are just that -- they dig felines. It's not necessary to have cat images a-go-go on myriad things in their possession. They like their pet. That's kind of it.

Cat people, well, are the opposite of that. Please note that I'm not judging cat people. Some of the nicest folks I know are cat people. You do your thing (meow), I'll do mine (le mew, le purrrr.)

But. In the dictionary, next to the phrase "cat person, subgenus obsessive," is a picture of my mother-in-law.

And she assumed that because I had a cat, I liked cat stuff. That I was a cat person.

Ai yi yi.

I was extremely thankful that we had a gas stove at the time and the covers didn't even fit, saving me from having to whip them out when the M-I-L came to visit. This gift was a mismatch literally and figuratively.

And a classic example of "it's the thought that counts."

It's provided me with a good lesson in the art of gracious acceptance, though. Which has proved invaluable.

See. Silver lining. Even in the form of some cat stove burner covers. WIth some help from JaneyMath.

Gracious acceptance is an art - an art which most never bother to cultivate. We think that we have to learn how to give, but we forget about accepting things, which can be much harder than giving... Accepting another person's gift is allowing to express his feelings for you.
- Alexander McCall Smith

A Present for a (Semi) Pretty Girl

2011-12-02T07:27:00.002-05:00

The greatest gift you can give another is the purity of your attention.

~ Richard Moss

True confession: I rather run hot/cold when it comes to Christmas "stuff." Not talking about the pure essence of the season, for that is one of the cornerstones of my Christian faith. I'm always fired up and passionate about that. My pre-Will years of writing and/or directing my church's Christmas programs have provided me with some wonderful experiences using my God-given talent and a lifetime's worth of stories.

No, I'm talking about all those other trappings. The ones that probably qualify as pop culture. Christmas specials and oft-cloying cutesy holiday themes and symbols-of-the-moment. I'm not really an Elf on the Shelf kinda girl, for example. And although I love it as a rule, some Christmas music leaves me meh. (Yep, Michael Bublé, I'ma lookin' at you. Don't get me started on The Biebs.)

But there's one piece of pop culture Christmas tchotchkes that is cherished by me more than any other. I know the dialogue by heart. My tree is full of representative ornaments. I have table tableaus and books and snow globes and and and...

A Charlie Brown Christmas.

My favorite then, now and always. The perfect blend of the sacred and the secular. Never mind that I *am* Lucy Van Pelt (just ask my family) and that I always tear up whenever Linus volunteers to tell Charlie Brown what Christmas is all about.

So when I saw Hallmark had put out a book "of" the story featured on the television special -- complete with sound buttons that correspond to the different parts of the tale, I knew I had to buy it for Will. He loves those books -- they're more about being able to push buttons and make noise for him than the actual story, though. However, I figured I'd give it a try. At the very least, I'd be amused.

Hush.

So night before last, after a chaotic day that involved him having a small seizure on the PE field (sigh), I sat down on the comfortable green couch in our kitchen and picked up the book. Pushed a button or two to see if I could get his attention.

And I did.

He sat down next to me. I figured we'd sit there for a minute or two, start reading, push a couple of buttons, he'd close the book with a resolute "THE END" and we'd be on to our next thing. Mr. Short Attention Span present and accounted for.

Color me wrong.

I began to read the story. He scooted over to me, to sit close. Peering down to look at the pictures on the page. Then looking up at me and smiling so wide and pure it took my breath away. He helped turn the pages. Laughed at the silly sound affects -- Charlie Brown's "Good Grief!" was a particular favorite. And kept smiling. All the way through to the end, when I sang along with the "Hark the Herald Angels" button and he giggled.

It was a perfect moment. At least for me.

Will gave me an amazing gift in those 10 minutes -- the gift of his attention. We engaged together in something that has a huge place in my heart. And he enjoyed it.

Yesterday was extremely trying -- my sweet boy had another very serious scary seizure early this morning that necessitated an ambulance ride to All Children's and a several hour camp out in the ER that included many tests and a whole bunch of poking and prodding. My heart and soul ached for him, watching him sleep and struggle to regain baseline. But my spirit was buoyed through the stress and fear and exhaustion by many things -- the support and love of friends far and near through texts, social media and a phone call; the amazing care given by his hospital entourage; and the time we spent together with Charlie Brown, Lucy and the gang.

I may receive tangible gifts this holiday season. But none will mean more to me than the gift of attention and love my Will gave to me as we read a Christmas story together.

Sacred. Precious. Unforgettable.

Oooooh! Shiny!

2011-12-01T06:32:00.000-05:00

Lucy: Say, by the way, can you play "Jingle Bells?"
[Schroeder proceeds to play "Jingle Bells", which sounds like a traditional grand piano]
Lucy: [interrupting] No, no. I mean "Jingle Bells." You know, deck them halls and all that stuff?
[Schroeder begins to play again, with the piano sounding like an organ]
Lucy: [interrupting again] No, no. You don't get it at all. I mean "Jingle Bells." You know, Santa Claus and ho-ho-ho, and mistletoe and presents to pretty girls.
[gazes lovingly at Schroeder, who then out of frustration taps one key of the piano while playing "Jingle Bells," which sounds like a child's toy piano]
Lucy: That's it!

'Tis the season for giving. Unless you've been living under a rock or on Ice Station Zebra (and even there, I suspect Target might have bought ad space on a glacier or something) you've been inundated with tweets and texts and emails and tv spots and billboards and catalogs and and and... all touting DEALS! and SALES! and BARGAIN! for the PERFECT GIFT for that SPECIAL SOMEONE!

You know, presents to pretty girls. Ahem.

True (not so secret) confession: I LOVE presents. Getting, giving, selecting, getting. Many moons ago, when we could still be considered newlyweds, The Mister and I took a class with our Sunday School group about the five love languages. My number one love language -- by a HUGE margin -- is receiving gifts. I'm clapping my hands in glee at just the thought of getting a present. YAY!

Gifts to me signify a tangible representation of someone thinking about you. Don't have to be fancy or posh or... wait for it... expensive. It's really the thought that counts. And lest you think I'm one of those dames who just likes to receive, I love to give gifts to those I adore just as much. There's so much fun in seeing a little something-something that either reminds you of a person or is a piece that special someone would just love -- and then getting and giving it. I'm clapping my hands in glee again.

Yeah. I know.

Gonna be talking a lot about this particular subject this month -- I'm pulling off the bandaid and getting ambitious, participating in NaBloPoMo during December, which has the theme of, you guessed it, gifts.

Your "presents" will be most welcomed.

Ouch. That's really bad -- even for me.

But still -- thank you! I'm here all month! Try the veal! Maestro!

Provocative

2011-11-21T18:28:00.003-05:00

Resonating with me.

This. Yes.

(Via Chuck Klosterman, Killing Yourself to Live: 85% of a True Story)

We all have the potential to fall in love a thousand times in our lifetime. It's easy. The first girl I ever loved was someone I knew in sixth grade. Her name was Missy; we talked about horses. The last girl I love will be someone I haven't even met yet, probably.

They all count. But there are certain people you love who do something else; they define how you classify what love is supposed to feel like. These are the most important people in your life, and you’ll meet maybe four or five of these people over the span of 80 years.

But there’s still one more tier to all this; there is always one person you love who becomes that definition. It usually happens retrospectively, but it happens eventually. This is the person who unknowingly sets the template for what you will always love about other people, even if some of these loveable qualities are self-destructive and unreasonable. The person who defines your understanding of love is not inherently different than anyone else, and they’re often just the person you happen to meet the first time you really, really, want to love someone. But that person still wins. They win, and you lose. Because for the rest of your life, they will control how you feel about everyone else.

Friendship, friendship -- just a perfect blendship

2011-11-16T22:34:00.003-05:00

I received a real treat today.

No, it wasn't the two people who told me I was beginning to look a little like Kate Winslet (who knew that healthy living and losing weight could thrust me into the embryonic stage of being a celebrity doppelgänger? I don't see it, but damm if that wasn't nice to hear.) Nor was it the two different people who told me they dug my writing and are you writing a book because you really should... (did I win the compliment lottery today?)

My treat was the fact that I got to see love and affection. In their truest forms.

Will had a seizure at school this afternoon -- not a major one with all the twitches and whistles, thank goodness. 'Twas a petit mal version which didn't last long. A by-product either of his ongoing, dammed ear infection or of his recent growth spurt which may have rendered his current anti-convulsant dosage slightly ineffective.

His teacher called to give me the news while I was in the shower and I raced to school, still dripping wet from a hasty dry-off and dressing. Never underestimate a stressed mama's ability to get out the door in a (barely) presentable fashion in the speed of light. Thank goodness I wasn't pulled over. Shhhh... As I raced through the school office -- the admins know to let me go on by just based on the look on my face -- and back to Will's class, I mentally ticked off all the things I needed to do in case a trip to the ER was required. When I got to the classroom, I opened the door, not sure what I was going to encounter.

It was there that I got my treat.

Will's teacher was getting him settled in a wagon to go out to the car -- after a seizure, he is exhausted and what is know as postictal -- and she wasn't sure whether he'd be up to walking. Her helpers included two of Will's classmates, his pal Corshawna, who was holding his hand and his buddy CJ who was talking to him in a garbled tone that I couldn't decipher completely but instantly understood the tone. CJ was telling Will, in his own way, that he was going to be OK.

And then I felt two little arms, barely touching me, with a curly blonde head tucked in just so -- in hug position. It was Justin, he of the sensory issues, he who doesn't like to be touched, he who is just learning social cues. Justin was giving me a hug to let *me* know that it was going to be OK. "Hi Will's mom!" he said as he pulled away.

If that's not love -- genuine love in its purest form -- then I don't know what is.

During our little time of crisis, we were ministered to by Will's friends. Kiddos who don't have it easy, thanks to delays and health issues. Kiddos who themselves know all too well the nuances of crises. They didn't think. They just did. Their friend was sick and they wanted to help. Plain and simple.

Balm for my soul. Comfort for Will's.

It was beautiful.

Not been an easy time 'round here lately for us at Casa de Janey. The Mister's been on the road more than usual and Will's at a point when he really misses his papa. Then there's the ongoing effing ear infection, which has triggered three seizures in three weeks (that's my theory and I'm sticking to it.) Plus I'm nursing a cold which has settled in my chest and throat, making me sound like Harvey Fierstien's younger shiksa sister. I'm tired, with coping skills that are a little on the weak side, and a support system that, while strong, isn't local. Got some hugs over the phone tonight, which helped, but still...

It ain't easy being me sometimes, y'all and right now is one of those times.

But I was buoyed up from the depths by love and affection and friendship today, thanks to the tender hearts and giving spirits of Will's pals. My boy is loved. He has friends. Who could ask for more?

And even though today was tough, as all carpe diem days are, my heart is not as heavy as it might be.

Thanks to the TLC of some kiddos who took care of their pal (and his mommy) when he was in trouble.

If you're ever in a jam, here I am.
If you're ever in a mess, S.O.S.
If you're so happy, you land in jail -- I'm your bail.
It's friendship, friendship, just a perfect blendship.
When other friendships are soon forgot, ours will still be hot.

Da da da da da da dig dig dig

Decennium

2011-10-27T07:27:00.001-04:00

What a long, strange trip it's been.

Will turns 10 years old today. My baby is 10. A decade old.

Where did the time go?

By the way, that is a completely facetious question. I know exactly where the damn time went. Trust me.

Will is soaking up all the attention and fuss he's getting today -- which he loves, being the only child/hambone that he is. His birthday is nothing more to him than a celebration of, well, him. For that, I am thankful. So thankful. It should all be tinged in happy, light and joyous moments. Just for him.

This day. His birthday.

Let me tote around the shades of gray it holds. That's my job as his mama.

Perhaps because this marking of his birth falls on a significant number is why I'm brooding. I came to a semi-deep sense of peace with everything just a little bit ago -- but because it's been 10 years since Will came rushing into our lives frighteningly early, I think I'm looking at it more than just a happy holiday.

Parents' lives are changed the day their child is born -- how can they not be? The world as they knew it instantly becomes a different place.

My life was changed in ways I could not even fathom the day Will was born. An entire trimester early. A weight of one pound, 10 ounces. Thirteen inches long. With a questionable mortality rate and precarious health.

I walked out of my office on a Friday afternoon. Less than 24 hours later I was hanging upside down trying not to give birth, numb with morphine, still full of fear and uncertainty.

What a long, strange trip it's been.

As I look at Will today, with his shaggy hair and gap-toothed smile, picking up a basketball with two hands, one of which is hampered with cerebral palsy, I had to stop and catch my breath.

He is amazing. To me, anyway. All things considered.

Been rather introspective the past couple of days, thinking about all the events that led up to Will's abrupt birth -- I suppose that's natural with a milestone like 10 years. While the nuances have faded a bit from memory, there is still so much about that time that is vivid in my mind's eye. But at last it's not overlaid with guilt and angst. For that, I am grateful.

There is so much I've learned in the past decade -- about parenting, children, human nature, medicine, insurance, education, therapy, myself. I've become even more opinionated (if that's possible), patient, open-minded, resourceful, protective and caring. I'm in no way an extraordinary person -- and I still reel with uncomfortable self-awareness if someone, in a well-meaning attempt to try and convey some sense of appreciation, deems me so. I'm simply a mama, playing that parenting card God dealt me.

And speaking of God... I'm still toting around some anger where He's concerned -- at how life is playing out for my boy. It's not easy. So many challenges. Uncertainties. Compromised health issues. Developmental delays. The fact that nothing comes really simply or easily for him. Still don't get it. But have come to peace that I won't get it. Not like I want to. So I move on.

I've coined a phrase (at least I think it's original) that I whip out when people use the term "normal" when comparing Will to other kiddos -- I prefer to think of those guys as "standard issue." Some wise person said that normal's just a setting on a washing machine. Because in addition to his crazy health issues and delays and stuff, young William is just a 10 year old boy. With a wicked sense of humor, a passion for music that grows daily and a love of learning. He likes baseball and game shows and playing outside. His favorite people in the whole world are his daddy and his nana. And he loves going to church like it's his job.

I'd like to think that our little family is helping the cause for special needs kids and their parents by de-mystifying what kids with disabilities look like. Psssst... in case you were wondering, you can't catch cerebral palsy or developmental delays -- pass it on. And I'd much rather you ask questions about Will's condition than stare or point or, yes, refer to him by any number of outdated and currently offensive terms. Believe me, I've heard and seen it all over the years.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't get pings of jealousy when seeing pictures of standard issue families doing standard issue things that just are out of the realm of what our family can handle. I tell myself that it's part of being human. We've lost friends because of our circumstances -- and I understand that, since we don't run in standard issue kid circles. Still kinda hurts though. It's tough because the Mister travels for work during the week so our time, both together and apart, is precious. And tough, to be honest. The isolation can get a little exhausting.

Told you I was in an introspective mood.

OK. Enough of the emotional download.

Anyhoo.

It's a day to celebrate All Things Will. He is a loud miracle on two legs who wakes up talking and doesn't stop until his head hits the bed (he's not fond of pillows). Opinionated. Funny. Bright. Mischievous. My biggest challenge. My greatest blessing. Now and always.

Over the last decade we've cried more tears, laughed more laughs, sung more songs, seen more doctors, giggled more giggles, watched more Disney Channel and healed more hurts than I ever thought imaginable. Would I change anything? Only for Will. To make his life easier and more predictable. I'm just parenting. 'Tis what it 'tis.

What a long, strange trip it's been.

And I'm the better woman for it.

Happy birthday, my prince.

Forty-seven wishes

2011-09-27T08:27:00.001-04:00

1. For Will to continue maximizing his potential.

2. To keep on embracing the true essence of myself.

3. To continue on the path to being healthy, both internally and externally.

4. Contentment

5. To only have one mortgage. Please. Only one mortgage.

6. Health for my family and loved ones.

7. Happiness for my family and loved ones.

8. To spend some quality time with those I love.

9. To carve out time to be creative in my own way.

10. To make our house a home.

11. A really relaxing, rejuvenating vacation.

12. A decent night’s sleep.

13. Tampa Bay Buccaneers: NFC South champs.

14. The ability to raise one sardonic eyebrow.

15. Tampa Bay Rays: AL Wild Card winner.

16. To hear the words “Jon Hamm, Party of Two” and be one of the two

17. A continued strengthening of my self-esteem.

18. The sudden appearance of an organizational gene in me. Please? I ask for this every year. Hope continues to spring eternal.

19. To spend quality time with those who aren't family by blood but family by choice.

20. To see snow this year. Preferably falling on the mean streets of Manhattan.

21. To be less guarded.

22. To get out of the house more.

23. To hear live music more frequently.

24. To tell the ones I love that I love them with greater frequency

25. To embrace my roles at church and serve with faith, grace and humbleness.

26. To control and manage my stress in a constructive manner.

27. A more tolerant, accepting, respectful, gentler society.

28. To have a week when my nails don’t look like a gorilla is my manicurist.

29. More than one decent night’s sleep in a row.

30. Longer legs and less wide feet (Hey, these are my wishes. They don’t have to be practical. Or feasible.)

31. To be more vulnerable.

32. To engage in some continuing education activities. No stagnating!

33. For more good hair days than bad hair days.

34. To be a good friend.

35. To find some dependable babysitters. (see Wish #22)

36. To make and cultivate new friendships.

37. To read more.

38. To make progress with my myriad scrapbooking/genealogy projects. That's the fun stuff, y'all.

39. To actually grow a plant successfully. Outside. (my aerogarden does not count.) Without killing it.

40. To be the best choir urchin director I can be.

41. To learn one new skill.

42. To hear the words “Copeland (as in Stewart), Party of Two” and be one of the two.

43. To make a difference for the good in my world.

44. To FINALLY do that karaoke thing.

45. To be kinder and not so hard on myself.

46. To celebrate a success everyday. I tend to focus on what went wrong rather than what went right. Call it the Glass Half Full Philosophy.

47. To have the chance to make 48 wishes the same time next year.

Alert the media -- it's Meme Monday

2011-09-19T10:36:00.003-04:00

Just when you thought there was NOTHING new to learn about me, along comes Monday and another set of delightfully random questions. Don't say I didn't warn you...

Who is the last person you high-fived?
Will. We are the masters of the “up high/down low/too slow” routine. Although lately we’ve been into the fist bump. Much more hip.

If you were drafted into a war, would you survive?
Listen – if things get so dire that they start drafting women of a certain age, we’re all in trouble. But in the unlikely event I do get the notice, I think the lack of room service and indoor plumbing might do me in before the enemy does.

Do you sleep with the TV on?
I like to fall asleep with the telly on, but thanks to the sleep timer, it’s just for about 45 minutes. Sleeping with the television on can lead to weird dreams, especially if you drift off to something like Criminal Minds (SERIAL KILLERS!) or Law & Order: SVU (SEX CRIMES!). So I’ve heard, anyway.

Have you ever won a spelling bee?
Know.
Heh. Seriously. No. Hell no. I have many gifts, and proper spelling isn’t one of them. If you’ve ever IMd or texted with me for any length of time, you can attest to this.

Have you ever been stung by a bee?
Yes. Wasps too. Had minor allergic reactions to both. Scared me to death because when I was a kid, I read this book called A Taste of Blackberries which tells the story of a boy whose best pal dies because of an allergic reaction to bee stings. Talk about a great thing to stick with you for decades…

How fast can you type?
Really really fast if you don’t count typos. Or misspellings. Heh. I’m actually pretty fast. I had to work on the speed thing in college to reach a certain WPM to get into a required reporting class. Hours spent banging away on my faithful little electric typewriter paid off. But if you bought stock in white-out in those days, I probably made you very very rich.

Are you afraid of the dark?
Regular dark? No. But something like cave or cavern dark with bats and bugs and things that go bump in the night – you betcha.

Eye color?
Brown. The shade that deepens in color depending on what I wear.

Have you ever made out at a drive-in?
You betcha. I am a big fan of the car make-out. It’s fun and reminds me of being a young thing when grabbing time and location to play tonsil hockey with the object of one’s affection was always a bit of a challenge.

When was the last time you chose a bath over a shower?
It’s been waaaaay too long. I can’t even remember the last time I took a good bubbly soak. Hmmmm…

Do you knock on wood?
Yes. Just in case. You never know.

Do you floss daily?
No. Shhh…

Can you hula-hoop?
Once upon a time, I could. Haven’t tried in a while.

Are you good at keeping secrets?
I am very discrete when need be. Have anything you’d like to share?

What do you want for Christmas?
Jon Hamm

Do you know the Muffin Man?
No, but I know the Muffin Top Man. Me and Elaine Benes.

Do you talk in your sleep?
I don’t think so. I know I snore (shut it) but I think that’s the only utterance I make.

Who wrote the book of love?
Either Sir Shakespeare or Señor Neruda or Lord Byron. Sigh.

Do you make up your own words?
Heck yeah! Thought I made up one last night – concussive. But alas, someone beat me to it. I’m particularly fond of “conversate” and the classic “strategery.” If only Words with Friends thought the way I do about such words…

Soul Food

2011-09-14T09:27:00.000-04:00

A chicken salad sandwich on wheat. Lettuce and tomato. With a side of salt and vinegar potato chips.

Iconic meal in my life. It was my go-to late night dinner in college. I often had late lab/writing classes in the journalism school and only after they let out would I have time to grab a bite. Usually at my favorite watering hole, where I’d pull up a stool at the bar, completely disregarding my mother’s long-ago comment that “nice girls don’t sit at the bar” and order a chicken salad sandwich. With salt and vinegar chips. And a cold beer in my custom mug, reserved for regular patrons. So so good. Comfort food.

I had a chicken salad sandwich on wheat, with a side of chips the other night for a late night dinner. But instead of the happy sounds of a bar come to life, my background was the sound of beeps. Pages. And the wheezed breathing of my little boy.

We had one of those infrequent but rattling episodes with Will, when a seemingly innocuous respiratory issue turned unnerving, with my kiddo having two seizures barely 12 hours apart, the last one so lengthy and scary that the paramedics were called and a trip to the emergency room taken. When you have a child with neurological issues, you simply don’t fuck around with things. We are so conditioned that I even have an old school backpack of Will’s loaded with things for a hospital stay. Pre-packing a bag. Not just for pregnant women any more.

Tests were run. Will’s health history was repeated over and over to various medical personnel. Calls made – I now have a “don’t call us, we’ll call you” rule for times like this. Time killed by aimlessly clicking a TV remote over and over and over.

It was during a rare quiet moment, when Will was sleeping in his favorite position – tuchus in the air, head on crossed arms, snoring thanks to the congestion – that the mister and I realized it had been a long time since lunch. I shuffled off to the hospital cafeteria, where I was greeted with steaming trays of food that had no appeal. Then I saw a list of deli items, which included my beloved chicken salad. Comfort food. For a time when I needed comforting badly.

And in the chaos and anxiousness of a emergency room, I ate my personal version of soul food. As much as I could, anyway. Situations like the one I was in have a way of curtailing one’s appetite. Great diet tip but I wouldn’t recommend it for the long haul.

Somehow, that combination of the chicken salad and tomato and salt and vinegar chips took me back to sitting on that bar stool. To my youth when my only responsibility was getting educated. Before shunts and seizures and medicines and my sweet boy were at the top of my responsibility list.

And just for a moment, it felt as if all would be OK.

We're home now, nursing that infection as best we can (damn thing is viral, so it doesn't appreciate the whole "better living through chemistry" concept.) Will is feeling better, as he's back to his usual antics -- a whole bottle of one of my health supplements and his favorite stuffed toy enjoyed time in the washer yesterday. I'm still recovering, as days such as the one we had on Sunday send me into a bit of caregiver's post-traumatic stress. To be expected, from what I understand. But as long as my kiddo's on the mend, I can deal with anything.

Been thinking about that chicken salad sandwich. A lot. But I think that it's best reserved for moments when I really need it. To feed my soul. An extreme special occasion, if you will.

For times when I need to know that all will be OK.

The Drying Game

2011-08-18T07:54:00.003-04:00

Ah summer -- the time when a young man's fancy turns to mischief. And so it has been the case here with young William, who has found very creative ways to assuage the boredom of the last hot days before the advent of a new school year.

He is obsessed with the dryer. Our front-loading, state-of-the-art dryer. Making it spin, usually on turbo high. Changing the settings, which is more about pushing the buttons than anything. And putting things other than clothes in, just for the fun of it. For the sound of it.

Grrrrrrrrrrr.

There go the whites
Mmm, getting whiter
There go the colors
Getting brighter

He likes the washing machine, too. That one's fun because after pushing a combination of buttons only Will knows about, he can flood the laundry room floor with a plethora of soap suds. It's like we're having our own foam party. The first time he did it, I took pictures and sent them to the Mister, who was, as usual, working at a client site for the week. I could hear the suppressed laughter all the way from West Palm Beach. The second time he did it, the Mister was home. Interesting how it was funnier the first time Will made this happen.

Anyhoo.

I must mention that for the most part, Will's access to the laundry room is restricted. The Mister drilled a hole at the top where we put a dowel to "lock" the sliding pocket door. Most of the dryer antics occurred before this measure was taken. We're slow on the uptake sometimes, Will's parents...

There go the delicates
Through the final rinse
There goes my Saturday night
I go without a fight

Without further ado, I give you a list of Things Will Has Put in the Dryer. For your amusement and for my attempt to regain some sanity. Seeing it all on paper might help.

• Hangers

• Shoes. Usually mine.

• A roll of paper towels. It was a passel of paper towels and a crushed towel tube by the time I got to it.

• Television remote control. That was fun, since the TV was stuck on Disney Channel until I could find it.

• Various toys

• Several rolls of aluminum foil, parchment paper, etc.

• A box of AeroGarden seed pods. Yes, I have an AeroGarden. My complete inability to grow anything in the plant world sort of necessitated it. This is the only way I can grow herbs, since it's pretty much fool-proof. And Janey-proof. Hush.

• Kleenex box cover. BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG

• A set of magnetized letters from the refrigerator. Those were fun to get out of the metal dryer. I invented some new yoga moves getting them off the top of the drum.

• A bottle of Tide. That's right. Laundry detergent in the dryer. Fortunately it wasn't a full bottle. And I am rather proud of how I figured out how to clean it up. (Wet towels on air fluff, no heat. Wash towels and repeat. Worked like a charm.) I'm thinking of using it as my audition piece to be the next Hints from Heloise.

I'm not sure why he's so fascinated with these big loud machines. He has similar affection for the dishwasher. Where his belt -- his leather, braided school belt -- has gone through a cycle or two before. I keep telling myself it's a great occupational therapy thing that he can get his belt off as I hang it up to dry. Always look on the bright side of life and all that jazz.

While all these antics are crazy and keep me on my toes, I rather embrace them. Boys are going to make mischief - and it's refreshing to have to maneuver around things that aren't special-needs or health-related. This is some standard-issue-boy-stuff. How wonderful.

School starts Monday. The dryer and I are very happy about that.

Watching the clothes go 'round
Watching the clothes go 'round
Watching the clothes go 'round
Watching the clothes go 'round

Roll up your sleeve, please

2011-03-23T22:53:00.007-04:00

“EWWWWW Miss Janey! That’s just gross!”

My earnest Choir Urchinette looked up at me with her big brown eyes, round as saucers and filled with horror.

She made what can only be described as an oogy face and with hands on hips, she stared me down.

My offense: calling one of the more high-energy boys in our little group “hot pants.”

“Sweetie, what’s wrong with me calling him 'hot pants?'"

“Miss Janey. He’s a BOY.” Words dripping with disdain, she looked down at her purple glitter flats and shuddered as only an indignant kindergarten girl can.

“And that’s a bad thing?”

Sigh. “YES.”

Meanwhile, Hot Pants and his brother, Hot Pants II (so called because they are both named very similarly. Kind of like my version of George Foreman’s kids.) were over in the corner, dancing, singing and beating on each other as brothers do. At that moment, I could understand my Urchinette’s contempt. If I were a six year old girl, I'd probably have the same reaction.

“So. Boys. They have cooties, huh.”

“Yes. Cooties. Ick. Gross. I hate them.”

At that moment, the light bulb went on. Ah-ha! I had a Teachable Moment lying at my Converse-clad feet. Here was an opportunity to make a difference in the life of one of my beloved kiddos.

Impart some important knowledge.

Equip them for the future. Or at least for the playground.

“Do you know how to give a cootie shot? Something that will protect you from… boys.” I stage whispered to her.

“Nooooooooo.” Her eyes got wide again, this time with excitement. I had begun to redeem myself.

I wiggled my index finger, motioning her to come over and sit down with me at the table across the room. Which, by the way, had only has kid-sized chairs around it. Thank goodness my knees didn’t creak as I sunk down. I was already in trouble with my cool cred with this young lady.

I pulled my chair close to the Urchinette and gently grabbed her arm. And evoking the memories of a playground experience helmed by my elementary school BFF, taking place underneath the red and white bars of the monkey bar dome, I indoctrinated her into the age-old sorority of GAB: Girls Against Boys. The antithesis of the He Man Woman Haters Club.

Circle. Circle. Dot. Dot. Now you’ve got your cootie shot.

She watched very carefully as I administered the sacred ritual, having me do it twice to make sure she got it. And probably as immediate insurance. Hot Pants was writing graffiti on the white board with a contraband dry erase marker right about then. In her eyes, he was totally cootie-rific. And now she was prepared.

I had the Urchinette give me a cootie shot before we stood up. To give us a bond. We pinky swore, then went about our choir business. Two girls. Ready for anything those boys could throw at us.

Who’s an educator? This chick, that’s who.

Cooties. And boys. Beware.

Meme Monday After Dark

2011-01-31T18:58:00.004-05:00

Welcome to the better late than never edition of Meme Monday. Perfect for reading when you need something mindless right before bed...

This edition is the second part/continuation from last week's question. The place where I found ~~stole~~ these questions from broke it down into more digestible bites to prolong the fascination. Enjoy. Or whatever.

34. HAVE YOU BEEN OUT OF YOUR HOME COUNTRY?
Yeppers. Been to all the other countries in North America and a couple of spots in the Caribbean.

35. WEAKNESSES?
A smart funny man with facial hair and a hairy chest. Oh, you mean my personal weaknesses… I’m terribly insecure and wear my heart not just on my sleeve but pinned to the front of my chest. Plus I can rarely resist a good semi-intelligent chick flick and anything caramel. And I'm terribly competitive with anything of the cerebral nature.

37. FIRST JOB?
Other than babysitting, I was a professional gift wrapper at a small gift shop during the holidays. Great gig. Still can wrap a package with precision and no extra paper!

38. EVER DONE A PRANK CALL?
As a chick who grew up in the heyday of slumber parties when such things as caller ID were a mere glint in some inventor’s eye – what do you think?

By the way, do you have Prince Albert in a can?

39. DO YOU THINK EVERYONE OUT THERE HAS A SOUL MATE?
Indeed. Sometimes more than one during different phases in life.

40. WHAT WERE YOU DOING BEFORE YOU DID THIS MEME?
Dishes. Domestic goddess stuff. Living the dream.

41. HAVE YOU EVER HAD SURGERY?
I have. Wisdom teeth and some lady-stuff surgery – oh! LASIK too!

42. WHAT DO YOU GET COMPLIMENTED ABOUT MOST?
My hair. My skin. My smile. *blush *

43. HAVE YOU EVER HAD BRACES?
Yes – about 18 months back in my youth. Ugh.

44. WHAT DO YOU WANT FOR YOUR BIRTHDAY?
Let me get back to you on that one. It’s a ways-away.

45. HOW MANY KIDS DO YOU WANT AND WHAT DO YOU WANT THEIR NAMES TO BE? (OR IF YOU HAVE KIDS, TELL US ABOUT THEM.)
I have one – the infamous Young William. Please read The Will Chronicles to find out more about my boy.

If Will had been a girl, I’d have named him Lucy or Kathryn, Kate for short.

46. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE?
The Name That Was The Bane of My Youthful Existence is a family name – my nana’s middle name. We had a family friend (who was a little kooky, come to think of it) who believed until her deathbed I was named after her. That kind of works, too, actually.

47. WHAT IS THE BIGGEST TURN OFF OF THE SEX(ES) YOU'RE ATTRACTED TO?
Arrogance. Lack of relative intuitiveness. Stubbornness.

48. WHAT IS ONE THING YOU LIKED ABOUT HIGH SCHOOL?
The fact that my HS was so small that I was able to dabble somewhat successfully in a lot of extra-curricular activities.

49. WHAT KIND OF SHAMPOO DO YOU USE?
Alterna Caviar. I am a real diva when it comes to my hair.

50. DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING?
No. It’s horrible. Sometimes I cannot even figure out what I wrote.

51. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAT?
Roast beef. What?

52. ANY BAD HABITS?
How much time do you have…

53. ARE YOU A JEALOUS PERSON?
More an insecure person than anything – which can bleed into jealousy.

54. IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON, WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU?
I’d like to think so. I’m tough to get to know and like Popeye, I am who I am. Love me or not.

55. DO YOU AGREE WITH FRIENDS WITH BENEFITS?
If I were single…

56. DO LOOKS MATTER?
To some, yes. I prefer the character of a person and the brain. That gray matter is my first interest in a person. Always.

57. HOW DO YOU RELEASE ANGER?
I’m working on healthy ways to do this. The Trainer is having me start to do some boxing exercises. That worked this morning…

58. WOULD YOU RATHER GAIN 58 POUNDS OR LOSE 58 POUNDS?
Lose. Please. From your mouth to my tuchus and core…

59. WHAT'S YOUR MAIN GOAL IN LIFE?
To ensure that Will maximizes his potential and has a happy, healthy life.

60. WHAT WAS YOUR FAVORITE TOY AS A CHILD?
I loved my Mrs. Beasley doll (from Family Affair) until my brother, who hated her, broke her ability to talk. Still pissed to this day. Also loved my Barbies and my Spirograph. Plus my set of supermarket encyclopedias, which I read cover-to-cover one summer.

61. HOW MANY NUMBERS ARE IN YOUR CELL PHONE?
Let’s go with 37. I’m too lazy to count.

62. WERE YOU A FAN OF BARNEY AS A LITTLE KID?
When Barney was in his heyday, I was substantially older than the age of his target demographic. But even if I was a little kid, I would have hated him.

63. DO YOU USE SARCASM?
Have we just met?

64. MASHED POTATOES OR MACARONI AND CHEESE?
Mac & cheese, baby.

65. WHAT ARE YOUR NICKNAMES?
JJ, Mama, Girlie, Miss Janey, Will’s Mom

66. FAVORITE SUPER POWER?
I’d like the ability to run really really fast. My tuchus would be a whole lot smaller as a result. Second place: invisibility. Just because.

That's Ms. Scumbag to you, thankyouverymuch

2011-01-30T13:00:00.002-05:00

We've all taken them. The Personality Test. I've filled out so many of these bloody things over the years that I've lost count.

This one is a little different. It's a whirly spin on the ubiquitous Myers-Briggs test. Here's the scoop on me:
Your Score: Scumbag- ENFP

60% Extraversion, 60% Intuition, 33% Thinking, 46% Judging

I have a feeling you're not going to like this much. Do I care? No.
How do I know? It's because you hate criticism. You love to be loved and you'll do anything to be accepted.

Unfortunately for you, I can see right through your insincere compliments and over-the-top greetings. No matter what you do, I'll always hate you for what you are. An arrogant, unstable, overly enthusiastic scumbag.

I bet you're pretty proud of your accomplishments, huh? You seem to achieve at whatever you put your little mind too. Trust me. Nobody likes the person who is good at everything. NOBODY LIKES YOU.

This might also have something to do with the fact that you're a cheating machine. You're just not the type of person to make long-term commitments. You enjoy seeing "what could be", rather than being satisfied with "what is." This, of course, means you often leave others in the dust while you seek out another lover.

Well, at least you're not the one left in the dust.

Unfortunately, when you're the one lying in the gutter with a bloody knife in your back, you might think differently.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

If you want to learn more about your personality type in a slightly less negative way, check out this.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The other personality types are as follows...

Loner - Introverted Sensing Feeling Perceiving

Pushover - Introverted Sensing Feeling Judging

Criminal - Introverted Sensing Thinking Perceiving

Borefest - Introverted Sensing Thinking Judging

Almost Perfect - Introverted iNtuitive Feeling Perceiving

Freak - Introverted iNtuitive Feeling Judging

Loser - Introverted iNtuitive Thinking Perceiving

Crackpot - Introverted iNtuitive Thinking Judging

Clown - Extraverted Sensing Feeling Perceiving

Sap - Extraverted Sensing Feeling Judging

Commander - Extraverted Sensing Thinking Perceiving

Do Gooder - Extraverted Sensing Thinking Judging

Busybody - Extraverted iNtuitive Feeling Judging

Prick - Extraverted iNtuitive Thinking Perceiving

Dictator - Extraverted iNtuitive Thinking Judging

Link: The Brutally Honest Personality Test written by UltimateMaster on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the The Dating Persona Test
View My Profile(UltimateMaster)

So -- what kind of skewed personality do you have? Pony up and share, won't you...

Saturday 9: What a Fool Believes

2011-01-29T16:20:00.003-05:00

My pal over at In My Copious Free Time features a fun little exercise on her blog today -- it's perfect for a great laid-back Saturday post...

1. What celebrity do you think is the MOST foolish?
Those boneheads on shows like Jersey Shore and Laguna Beach and The City and blah blah blah. Grow up. Take some responsibility for your life. Shut up. Listen. Put down the cocktail glass. WALK AWAY FROM THE CAMERAS. Grow up.

2. What are 5 things you don't care about?
NASCAR
The Kardashians
Anything that has to do with space/NASA (SO not my thing... yeah. I know.)
Twilight
X-Box, PS3 and all that stuff

(Yikes. Does this mean I’m old?)

3. What 'issue' do you think your opinion is so right about that you end up trying to sway others to your point of view?
That Dick York really was the better Darrin.

And the importance of the separation of church and state.

4. What personality do you like to listen to on the radio?
Hmmm. Truth be told, I am a music-on-the-radio girl through and through. But I will have to say I enjoy listening to my pal Lynne Austin (you probably know her as The Original Hooters Girl) do her thing on the local Hooters Nation Morning Show on the drive taking Will to school. Always unpredictable and wonderfully entertaining. Plus she’s a really swell person. And great to go to a baseball game with.

5. What culture are you fascinated by?
Cuban culture. Here in my neck of the woods, there are a lot of Cuban-Americans and native-born Cubans and while they have graciously shared their cuisine, there is still more about their culture I’d like to know. My grandparents (as you may or may not know) spent summers in Havana in the ‘20s and ‘30s, whetting my curiosity even more.

6. You are alone with your lover's diary. What do you do?
Roll over and go back to sleep. His business, not mine.

7. What frustrates you?
Closed minded individuals who listen but don’t hear and talk but don’t speak.

8. Do you remember the first time you were on the internet? What did you do first?
It was in 1995. And I think I checked the features of AOL. I can still hear the screeeech of the modem doing its thing even now.

9. What was the biggest fight you have ever had with someone?
Can’t remember the issue but I know it was with the mister.

A Word from Atop the Soapbox

2011-01-25T11:03:00.003-05:00

We have met the enemy and they is us.
~ Pogo

Muse. Muse. Muse.

Ponder. Ponder. Ponder.

I’ve been mulling, nay marinating, on something for quite a while now.

You know, it’s kind of a weird time here in the old U S of A. There’s a lot going on. A lot.

Everyone has an opinion. Which is great. It’s what this country was built on. Although I am dean of the school of thought that says you only get to voice said opinion if you vote, but that’s another rant for another time.

But. And with any good rant, there’s always a “but”… the way these opinions are being expressed isn’t quite as great, at least from where I’m sitting.

We are, y’all, a nation divided at the moment. Left. Right. Liberal. Conservative. Republican. Democrat. The Great Divide runs right down the middle of the Canyon of Ideology. And it’s getting wider and wider with each passing day and with each refreshing of your Twitter feed.

Civilization is a method of living and an attitude of equal respect for all people.

~ Jane Addams

I'm not concerned with your liking or disliking me... All I ask is that you respect me as a human being.

~ Jackie Robinson

As a reasonably aware person – I try to keep up as much as my crazy life will allow – I know that politics as usual these days is an intense place to be. The immediacy of the way we communicate allows voices to be heard, information to be shared, action to be taken – all fused with intelligence and passion. What’s missing, as I see it?

Respect. And hearing. Not just listening – but hearing.

I have a behavioral meme I run with my Choir Urchins at least three times during a rehearsal period – I call it a Gimme Five. When Miss Janey says “Gimme Five”, that means she wants looking eyes, listening ears, quiet mouths, hands to yourself, feet on the floor.

We could all use a Gimme Five moment, y'all. Sooner, rather than later.

Because right now, we’re mired in the muck of disrespect. Closed-mindedness. And not hearing anything but what we want to hear – which is most likely a parroting of our own deeply held views.

It’s not getting us anywhere. Anywhere productive, anyhoo.

It’s been about talk. Not so much about action.

Vitriolic language is bantered about to make points. It’s become sport.

Guess what?

Incendiary language doesn’t put food on a table.

Snarky 140 character blips don’t help a family facing a mountain of medical bills and a moat of insurance issues

Divisive comments don’t get that guy off the unemployment line and onto the route to having a job. And feeling good about himself.

Sticks and stones may break my bones but words take up residence. Bones heal. Takes a lot more to evict words that hurt or sting.

Lest you think I’m merely pontificating from up here on my soapbox… I’m not innocent. I own my culpability in this one. I can wield my tongue with a sharp snarkiness that points and pokes. I watched the war of words and worlds escalate on social media between ideological opposites immediately following the Tucson shootings. When pointing fingers took president over concern for the injured, I vowed to curb it. Reel it in.

It’s damaging. It’s ridiculous.

Most of all -- it’s not productive.

And above all, I’m about things that are productive.

Somewhere, somehow, in a world when we know about news almost before it happens and the court of public opinion is fluid and viral and fickle -- we’ve lost sight of what matters.

Making a positive difference.

The art of compromise.

The impact of collaboration.

Respect.

Humanity.

People.

The seduction of a soundbite or a re-tweet is palpable. And like it or not, pundits have solidified their place in our society where processing news filtered through ideological cheesecloth is a national pastime. However, said pundits have a tendency to become the news themselves (Mr. Olbermann and Ms. Palin, I’m looking at both of you…) further muddling the real issues.

We’re going to have our fair share of such things in the next few days, as the President delivers the State of the Union address tonight. I’m thinking about watching it on C-SPAN, for as dry as that might be (it’s Sahara dust bowl dry, y’all), it’s the message straight up. With no chaser, left right or center.

When all is said and done, the one thing that cannot be disputed (and should never be disputed. Ahem.) is that everyone, in his or her own way, loves this country. Just as it’s no one’s place to pass judgment on whether another person is religious-enough, it’s no one’s place to judge whether another person is patriotic-enough.

And PS: all those folks who look at things differently than you – they are not bad people. They are not stereotypes. They are individuals. Part of the whole. And they should be respected and treated as such.

This land really is our land, my fellow Americans – from California to the New York Island. Working together to make it the best place it can be would do more to honor the intent and action of our founding fathers than any amount of spewing rhetoric could dream of doing.

I’m ready. Are you?

So let us begin anew—remembering on both sides that civility is not a sign of weakness, and sincerity is always subject to proof. Let us never negotiate out of fear. But let us never fear to negotiate...

...Let both sides explore what problems unite us instead of belaboring those problems which divide us...

...And so, my fellow Americans: ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country.
~ President John F. Kennedy

Meme Monday. It's tanned, rested and ready.

2011-01-24T09:19:00.002-05:00

It's Monday. It's a Meme. It's Meme Monday.

How's that for a logical deduction. By the way -- feel free to steal this little exercise for your own use if you are so inclined. I'd love to know more about y'all!

The more that you read, the more things you will know. The more that you learn, the more places you'll go.
~ Dr. Seuss

1. ONE OF YOUR SCARS, HOW DID YOU GET IT?
Picture it. Spring semester, senior year in college. Day two of a three-day all nighter. Senior magazine project due in 36 hours. Oral Spanish exam to be taken in 38 hours. Thus the reason for the lack of sleep. Back in those days, when dinosaurs roamed the earth and journalism students wrote stories on electric typewriters, we did such projects by hand. With rub on letters and rubber cement (which would provide a nice buzz after prolonged exposure in a small room) and X-acto knives. While working on my magazine sitting on the floor of my room in the sorority house, I dropped the X-acto knife onto my barefoot, making a nifty little slash across my right pinky toe. Undeterred, I found a band-aid, patched up my war wound and kept right on designing.

Got an A on that project, thank you very much.

2. WHAT IS ON THE WALLS IN YOUR ROOM
Right now, just paint. Even after being in the new house almost a year, we’ve still yet to hang any pictures. Yeah. I know.

3. DO YOU SNORE, GRIND YOUR TEETH, OR TALK IN YOUR SLEEP?
True confession: I snore. Yay sinuses! I’m completely and utterly embarrassed by this, but it is what it is.

4. WHAT TYPE OF MUSIC DO YOU LISTEN TO?
Save for contemporary country, rap and any metal that’s thrashy or deathy, I’ll listen to just about anything.

5. WHAT TIME WERE YOU BORN?
7:30 am

6. WHAT DO YOU WANT MORE THAN ANYTHING RIGHT NOW?
Tangibly - a turkey sausage egg white flatbread from Dunkin’ Donuts. Less tangibly – to be a better friend to those around me.

7. WHAT DO YOU MISS?
The spark and lightness I had before Will was born. My carefree nature. How’s that for something on the serious side.

8. WHAT IS YOUR MOST PRIZED POSSESSION(S)?
My child. Does he count?

9. HOW TALL ARE YOU?
5’6”, give or take some fractions/depending on the volume of my hair.

10. DO YOU GET CLAUSTROPHOBIC?
No I don’t, come to think of it.

11. DO YOU GET SCARED IN THE DARK?
Nope. Not really.

12. THE LAST PERSON TO MAKE YOU CRY?
My child.

13. WHAT'S YOUR WORST FEAR?
That Will will die young. Wow. It’s just out there now, isn’t it.

Why are these questions so damn serious? Oy.

14. WHAT KIND OF HAIR/EYE COLOR DO YOU LIKE ON PEOPLE YOU'RE ATTRACTED TO?
Dark hair. Brown eyes.

15. WHERE CAN YOU SEE YOURSELF PROPOSING?
Please. I’m leaving this here because I’m too lazy to remove and renumber the questions.

16. COFFEE OR ENERGY DRINK?
Coffee of the two. But iced tea if I must caffeine.

17. FAVORITE PIZZA TOPPING?
Sausage and onions.

18. IF YOU COULD EAT ANYTHING RIGHT NOW, WHAT WOULD IT BE?
Cheeseburger, rare. With mayonnaise and grilled onions. Fries on the side. And a cold beer.

19. FAVORITE COLOR OF ALL TIME?
Purple

20. HAVE YOU EVER EATEN A GOLDFISH?
Not to my knowledge

21. WHAT WAS THE FIRST MEANINGFUL GIFT YOU'VE EVER RECEIVED?
I received Roget’s Thesaurus as an 8th grade graduation gift from a very dear friend of the family. That book, more than any other, has served me well for over 30 years. It is coffee-stained with grease marks made by late-night pizza covered fingers. I still have it – it has a place on my desk, next to my college dictionary and high school grammar book. I may be buried with this book.

22. DO YOU HAVE A CRUSH?
But of course I do…

23. ARE YOU DOUBLE JOINTED?
Yep. My pinky fingers are double jointed. That’s the reason I’m not a jazz pianist today. My story and I’m sticking to it.

24. FAVORITE CLOTHING BRAND?
Hmmmm. I rather like DKNY, if I have to pick just one.

25. WHO IS YOUR FAVORITE FEMALE/MALE CELEBRITY?
Female: Helen Mirren and Diane Keaton. Both Women of a Certain Age. Both relevant. Both always interesting.

Male: Jon Hamm. Because I love him. And James Franco. Because I find him fascinating. Dude marches to his own drummer and what a beat he’s keeping. I cannot wait to see what he’s up to next.

26. DO YOU HAVE A PET RIGHT NOW?
No I don’t. I’d love a kitty witty, but…

27. WHAT KIND IS IT?
See #26

28. WOULD YOU FALL IN LOVE KNOWING THAT THE PERSON IS LEAVING?
Yes. How could you help yourself if you were falling… I’m not wired to turn that particular emotion on and off.

30. SAY A NUMBER FROM ONE TO A HUNDRED?
A number from one to a hundred.

Let’s also go with 27.

31. BLONDES OR BRUNETTES?
Brunettes. Every time. Every single time. And if it’s a brunette with more than a touch of grey… swoon.

32. FAVORITE QUOTE?
What I really wanted was to have a job like Darrin Stephens on 'Bewitched', where you could be creative all the time.
~ Edie Brickell

I know God will not give me anything I can't handle. I just wish that He didn't trust me so much. ~Mother Teresa

33. FAVORITE PLACE?
It’s a toss-up. My vacation house on Captiva Island. Or Manhattan. Very different. But both feed my soul.

Maybe the best recipe ever. Ever.

2011-01-23T09:34:00.004-05:00

I love magazines. Like really love magazines. If I told you the number of magazines to which i subscribe, you'd either be shocked or impressed or a little of both. And yes, I do try to recycle and/or pass them on when I'm finish. I'm nothing if not an environmental reader.

The magazine to which I have subscribed the longest -- 25 years -- won't surprise you. It's Bon Appetit. My mother "took" it when I was a kid -- although I'm not sure she ever really read it. That was mostly because once the postie dropped it in the mailbox, I snatched it out and took it to my room where i poured over every detail, clipping recipes my 12-year-old self thought looked interesting. An obsession was born.

Cut to the current February 2011 issue. While flipping through it casually -- there's a feature on braising, y'all! -- I noticed an ad from Sugar in the Raw that featured perhaps the best recipe I've ever seen. I think I want to marry whoever came up with this. Genius. (As always, your milage may vary.)

Can't find the ad on the web anywhere yet -- but here's a transcription. See what you think...

Cocoa Brownies to Heal a Heart Broken by a Man Who Promises it Wasn’t You, It was Him, and by Him He Means a Girl Named Stacey Lee.

Count the years you dated. If it exceeds 5, double the recipe.

Oven, 350. 8″ pan, greased.

In a bowl: 1/2 cup unsalted butter, melted. Not margarine, butter. Diet starts tomorrow. 1 cup all natural Sugar in The Raw. You can sub 1/2 cup zero calorie Stevia Extract In The Raw with 1/2 cup Sugar In The Raw but a time like this calls for the good ol’ stuff.

Mix, then add 1/2 cup flour. It’s ok, today calls for carbs. 1 tsp of baking powder. Wonder what it does? Don’t. Just add it.

3 eggs, yolks and all, 1 tsp of vanilla extract, 1/2 cup Dutch cocoa powder, 1 cup chopped walnuts.

Now stir it up, throw it in the oven for 20 and cry till you hear the timer. Let them cool for 10, then devour that pan of chocolaty goodness, girlfriend. Uh, we mean friend.

I'm right, aren't I? Genius.

Being Bodacious: The One Where We Sing About...

2011-01-11T15:36:00.002-05:00

If music be the food of love, play on
~ Shakespeare, Twelfth Night

Ally McBeal considered it.

Carol Burnett had a very famous one.

So did Lucille Ball. And Mary Tyler Moore.

A personal theme song.

And while those ladies of the small screen had songs that were associated with their programs on the telly, the lyrics, when you think about it, were fairly personal and descriptive.

There was a commercial a couple of years ago for some product or other that featured a man who had another dude that walked behind him, pulling a wagon carrying a boom box that played his personal theme song. Loved it. Not only for the humor value but because I’m enough of a diva to consider doing something like that.

A theme song should serve a couple of purposes, the way I see it. First, it should be a song YOU love. Not like, not tolerate, not think is just so-so. LOVE.

Second, it should be a song whose lyrics – and even the melody – should represent some part, some essence of you.

A song that makes you feel good.

Gives you confidence.

Lifts your spirits.

Highlights your bodaciousness.

So, my bodacious sistahs – this week, we all want to know what your personal theme song is… and why you chose it. Why it speaks to you and for you. How it makes you feel.

Remember what the late great Mama Cass said…
You gotta make your own kind of music
Sing your own special song
Make your own kind music
Even if nobody else sings along

There’s one difference though – I bet you’ll have lot of us (me to begin with) singing right along with you.

So let’s hear it y’all – sing it loud. Sing it proud.

It’s all about you.

Meme Monday. You know you want to.

2011-01-10T16:06:00.002-05:00

Yep, it's that's time again, boys and girls, for the weekly roundup of completely useless, sometimes ridiculous, always entertaining facts about me, your erstwhile blogger.

Pay attention -- there may be a quiz later ;-)

1. What do you add to your coffee?
Not a morning coffee drinker – I prefer my caffeine cold. But when I do have coffee, it’s usually after a really nice dinner. And I take it black.

2. What are you reading now?
Re-reading Anne Lamont’s Bird by Bird and Rory Noland’s The Heart of the Artist. Getting in that creative frame of mine.

3. Do you own a gun?
No. No. No. Never. Not my thing in any way, shape or form.

4. Are you registered to vote?
Absolutely – have been since two days before my 18th birthday.

5. Do you get nervous before doctor appointments?
Does the sun rise in the east and set in the west?

6. What do you think of hot dogs?
All beef with ketchup and kraut only.

7. Favorite Christmas Song?
Secular: “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas”
Sacred: “And the Glory of the Lord” from Handel’s Messiah. It’s got a killer alto part.

8. What do you prefer to drink in the morning?
Water/FRS lo cal wild berry. And PS: I was drinking FRS looooong before Lance and Tim started pimping it. That stuff works. Seriously.

9. Can you do push ups?
Yep. Can you?

10. What was the name of your first boyfriend/girlfriend?
Pretend: David (Cassidy)
Real: Steve

11. What’s your favorite piece of jewelry?
My Tiffany ball earrings. Go with everything.

12. Favorite hobby?
Probably cooking. There’s always something new to do with it – and the products (when done well) make people happy.

13. Do you work with people who idolize you?
Heh.

14. Do you have ADD?
No I do… ooooh look! Shiny!

15. What’s one trait that you hate about yourself?
I am extraordinarily disorganized and without a neat gene.

16. What’s your middle name?
The birth certificate lists it as Elizabeth, but I use the maiden name these days.

17. Name three thoughts at this exact moment.
* Is Will going to muck with the washing machine again this afternoon.
* I really need to find something for lunch that doesn’t involve the words cheese or burger
* God bless America, I’m tired from this morning’s workout.

18. Name three things you bought yesterday.
* A vintage matchbook from a favorite childhood restaurant here in the ‘Burg
* A Bible app for my iPad
* Workout clothes

19. Name three beverages you regularly drink.
* Daisani
* Iced tea
* Red wine

20. Current worry right now?
Getting Will through current and potential ear infection issues as unscathed as possible until he goes in for the surgical exploratory thing in late February.

21. What side do you dress to?
Moving on… (obviously, this is a question directed towards the opposite sex. But it amuses me, so I left it in…)

22. Favorite place to be?
Either floating in a lovely large body of water (salt or fresh, matters not) or in Manhattan.

23. How did you bring in the New Year?
At home, watching some celebration from Times Square on the telly.

24. Where would you like to go?
Man, that’s a loaded question… want to visit South America and Europe. Biggest dream is to visit Cuba. The MINUTE travel for Americans opens up, I’m booking a flight and hotel. Wow. Yeah.

25. Name three people who you will see today.
*Will
*Will’s teacher
*My trainer

Saturday Morning Cereal: First Bowl

2011-01-08T08:57:00.002-05:00

Many moons ago, in a land far far away (OK, it was in my old house about five miles away, but go with it...) I started a Saturday morning blog feature that I really enjoyed. In the spirt of Blog Revival and stuff, I thought I'd bring it back as a semi-regular thing. So enjoy this blog rewind with your morning coffee and good-for-you cereal -- and don't forget to take your vitamins.

~~~~~~~~~~

You know, Saturday mornings just aren’t the same when you’re a grownup. Too many responsibilities. Too many chores. Boring stuff on the telly (save for the cooking show block on FoodTV... but that’s something else entirely.)

I’m missing the pace and entertainment of the Saturdays of my youth. Pajamas and cereal and cartoons. No homework. No endless youth sporting events. No pressure, save maybe to help Daddy in the yard. (Man, I HATED that. Even as a kid, I knew outdoor manual labor was not for me. Damn weeds in the sidewalk cracks. Ugh. But it was fun to get those teeny little snails and whip them at my brother. What?)

So in what may turn out to be a regular thing for me, I’m going to take a ride in the Wayback Machine with Mr. Peabody and Sherman to the time...

...when all cereal that was worth anything had sugar in its five top ingredients list...

...when your pajamas had feet in them...

...when you had to actually get up off your bean bag chair to change the channel, unless you had a younger sibling to do it for you...

...when cartoons and kid shows ruled the morning airwaves. Good cartoons. Cartoons with no educational or social value save for entertainment, Fat Albert and earnest Bill Cosby notwithstanding.

Today, let’s take a look at the World of Sid and Marty Krofft...

Y’all. This shit was wild. Seriously. Skippy. Trippy. Hippy.

Live action shows with crazy premises and over-the-top characters (C’mon. Martha Raye and Charles Nelson Reilly both had parts on Krofft Saturday morning programs. Those two totally define over-the-top... just go look in the dictionary and you’ll see their mugging mugs. Promise.)

I’m just gonna let the show opening to a few Krofft classics speak for themselves... the storytelling theme songs; the costumes; the hysterical special effects -- it’s all there, just like you remember it.

Enjoy. And pass the Super Sugar Crisp. I’ve still got milk in my bowl. (But I call dibs on the Archies record on the back of the box. That’s all mine, baby.)

HR Pufnstuf
Fun fact: my elementary school nickname was Janey-poo, after the illustrious Witchy-poo. And yes, that was a term of endearment -- I was a charming young lass. So there.

Bugaloos
Martha Raye as Benita Bizarre. More awesome than I have words to describe. Benita Bizarre is SO my new drag name, replacing Clams Casino.

Land of the Lost
I never watched this one myself -- never got into the whole dinosaur thing -- but I had friends who loved it. Still do. And who can do a pretty fair sleestack imitation.

Sigmund and the Sea Monsters
Johnny Whitaker (Jody from Family Affair!) Mary Wickes (classic character actress!) Burp and Slurp and Sweet Mama Ooze (best character names ever!)

And here’s the oh-so-familiar credit that ran after every episode...

PS: Couldn’t resist including this quote from Marty Krofft, from an interview in the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. He was asked, point blank, about the relationship between drug use and his shows:

We've heard that for 35 years. We did not intentionally do anything related to drugs in the story. People thought we were on drugs. You can't do good television while on drugs. People never believe you when you say that, but you can't. The shows were very bright and spacey looking. They may have lent themselves to that culture at the time, but we didn't ascribe that meaning to them, and I can't speak to what adults were doing when they were watching the shows. We just set out to make a quality children's program.

Lazy Post

2011-01-07T18:43:00.000-05:00

I just had one of those Oh! Em! Gee! moments -- I inexplicitly loved this song back in the day (even had a poster of Neil with these guys on the wall of my room in several of the myriad places I lived in college) and for some reason, just now remembered it. I tracked this down on YouTube and am indulgently putting it here, so I can watch it whenever I want. You're welcome to join me.

BONUS!

Elvis needs boats.
Elvis needs boats.
Elvis Elvis Elvis
Elvis Elvis Elvis
Elvis needs boats.

I Am Bodacious: Chapter 1

2011-01-06T07:46:00.001-05:00

You start out happy that you have no hips or boobs. All of a sudden you get them, and it feels sloppy. Then just when you start liking them, they start drooping.
~ Cindy Crawford

So.

Time for me to pony up – I’m the one who charged my girlies to spill on “the one thing I love about my body” after all. Need to put my mouth where my money is. Or something.

And after some thought – I have nice eyes, damn good skin and FABULOUS, GLORIOUS hair – I’ve decided that the one thing I really love about my body is…

My boobs. Tits. Breasts.

So many names, so many attributes

I’m a curvy girl – always have been, always will be. To paraphrase the frazzled effeminate hotel desk clerk in This Is Spinal Tap -- I’m just as God made me, y’all. I’m *still* working like a madwoman to make myself curvy and healthy and I’d be very happy to get those curves down to a lovely shape.

My one fear is that I’m going to lose my rack with all my get-healthy energy. So far, so good, though. Doing lots of pec exercises to keep things bouncing yet behaving.

We must we must we must increase our bust.

But make no mistake – I am not a woman who defines herself by her chest.

I just happen to like what’s there.

And yes – they’re real. And, from what I’ve been told, they are spectacular.

Cultivate your curves--they may be dangerous but they won't be avoided.
~ Mae West

I received my best confirmation on the quality of my bodaciousness one evening spent with a gal pal dancing and cavorting at a gay club here in town. My décolletage was recognized, fawned over and got a little action even (grope!). The boys loved my girls. There you are.

I could wax poetical here about how the breasts are a vehicle for nutrition and sustenance for the young and talk about how fulfilling breast feeding was for me. But I can’t – because Will was so early my body never reacted the way a normal post-partum body does and despite my very best efforts, I couldn't adequately do the breast feeding thing. Although I do have a great story about working with the lactation specialist at the hospital and having my breast milk shoot across the room and spray a doctor who was observing. I think we were asked to step out of the NICU after that, because our giggles were more than a little disruptive.

Anyhoo.

My breasts, for me, define my physicality as a chick. They make me feel feminine and confident all at the same time. Sometimes they command attention. Sometimes they are just there to give me a boost (damn underwire). And sometimes they’re just a counterbalance for my uber-cerebral self.

So yeah. My boobs are one thing I love about my body. Curvy rules, y’all.

And like Shania says – man, I feel like a woman when we’re in synch.

Being Bodacious: The One Where We Talk About...

2011-01-05T10:07:00.000-05:00

Pssst... this is a Post Rewind from a year ago, when I initially kicked off this whole Being Bodacious thing. Whether it's familiar or New To You, I think it's still a great exercise. If you're like me, you probably could use such a re-focusing reminder... have at it, y'all!

~~~~~~~~~~

Woman must not accept; she must challenge.

She must not be awed by that which has been built up around her;
she must reverence that woman in her which struggles for expression.
~ Margaret Sanger

*cue Don Pardo*
Previously on this blog...
I declared that this was going to be -- on a Take Two -- my year of living bodaciously. And that one of my goals was to make a difference. A bodacious difference.

Well, here’s my shot at that.

I’m a huge proponent and fan of my gender. I do volunteer work with my gender. I support causes affecting my gender. I genuinely (most of the time) like my gender.

We chicks really do have it going on.

However (and you had to know that was coming)… we women are unnecessarily hard and unsupportive of each other. And in turn, ourselves. It’s partly our nature (Hey! I can say that because I am a girlie), partly our environment and partly who else knows what. We women spend – no, we waste – time being contrary to one another, either directly or indirectly when that time and energy could be better spend doing something constructive. Life's tough enough without adding any extra unnecessary angst. Trust me.

Whew.

Does that make sense? It can get a little heady up here on my soap box.

In an attempt to make a small positive difference for my gender, I’ve decided to host a regular self-celebration for us girls. Yes, it’s a meme. But it’s a meme with a purpose.

We’re going to spend time Being Bodacious.

I’ll throw out a topic for discussion and exposition – something that will be thoughtful and insightful, a little funny (c’mon – it’s goofy me helming this after all) and completely constructive, celebratory and creative.

If there's interest, there will be a spot to share the link to your blog/your thoughts so we all can go check out your online home and… be supportive. Cheer you on. Have your back. Right now, just leave a comment with a link to your blog and your poetic thoughts on this matter.

See. Pretty nifty, huh…

So… onto our Bodacious Topic.

Finish the phrase: “One thing I love about my body is…”

I can hear y’all’s “ooooooooooos” right now.

Not playin' here. Told you.

If you do not tell the truth about yourself you cannot tell it about other people.
~ Virginia Woolf

Yeah, this is a big one. You can blame Shape Magazine for putting the idea into my head. But I think it’s a great place to start this little journey we’re about to go on together.

If you’re like me, you can name 112864 things you do not like about your body. However, when it comes to spinning that onto the positive, it becomes a little more difficult. OK – a lot more difficult.

But it shouldn’t be hard. Or scary. Or painful.

We are wonderful. Head to toe. Skinny darlings and curvy goddesses alike. No, that’s not me BSing here. It’s the truth.

So let’s start with a little self-assessment. You might love your shoulders and the way they look in your bathing suit. Or your luscious, gloss-loving lips. Maybe it’s your fantastic, pedi-worthy toes.

Tell us about it. Don’t be shy. Toot that horn.

Share one thing you love about your body.

You can do it. Because you’re Bodacious.

One is not born a woman, one becomes one.
~ Simone de Beauvoir

The Year of Living Bodaciously: Take Two

2011-01-04T12:12:00.003-05:00

Once upon a time, approximately 368 days ago, I declared 2010 to be my year of Living Bodaciously.

While I had great and earnest intentions, that didn't play out like I thought it would. Life, real and urgent, interfered and co-opted me in ways I never imagined. Will's ongoing health issues completely occupied and pre-occupied me. When one parents a special needs child with some rather complicated medical quirks, one's priorities are always gauged by those quirks. And last year, we had one quirky experience.

But. While The Eleven brings with it the Beast We Know (Will has some crazy infection centers in his ear region) it also brings a very aware and active medical entourage who are all working together (and dispensing antibiotics) to get him cleaned up and healthy.

So Mama here can now think about Being Bodacious once more. BAM!

I'm going to share my big old declarative post from last year again, since frankly, it still sums it all up for me. And I'm going to be talking about my evolving bocaciousness on a regular basis, with open invites for y'all to participate either here in the comments or -- better yet -- on your own blogs. Part of Being Bodacious is to encourage each other in our pursuits -- like writing.

This next part might look familiar. Or it might be a New To You thing. Regardless, enjoy and ponder. And start owning your bodaciousness -- 'cause we've all got beaucoup amounts of it to embrace and share.

~~~~~~~~~~

Bodacious.

Main Entry: bo·da·cious
Function: adjective
Etymology: probably blend of bold and audacious
Date: 1832
1. outright, unmistakable 
2. remarkable, noteworthy
3. sexy, voluptuous

It’s rather a funny word, though, isn’t it – bodacious. Albeit with some great meanings across the board – yep, even the sexy and voluptuous part. Can’t be noble and upright all the time. (insert lascivious eyebrow raise here)

That’s what I’ve declared the next 365 days to be for me. Full of bodacious living.

How I’m going to be.
How I want the path I follow to be.
How I want the footsteps I leave behind to be.

Bodacious.

I asked some friends to give me one word they would like to see describe their take on The Eleven. Here’s what they told me:

Skinnier
Prosperous
Fulfilling
Awesome
Amazing
Improved
Success
Happy
Patriotic
Love
Happy
Lessons
Contentment
Ausgezeichnet
Employed
Lighter
Orgasmic
Opportunistic
Calm
Happier
Plurific
Peaceful
Non-Craptastic
Bacony
Excitement

That works, dontcha think? Got a word to add? Leave it in the comments. I’m curious to see what’s on your psyche.

What is it about the genesis of a new year – a series of days, hours, minutes, moments – that causes the collective humanity to assess themselves and set upon some course of self-improvement at the least and self-awareness ideally.

You got me.

I know, though, that for the right now, my gym will be full of people on a mission. Cigarettes abandoned. Calories counted. Order sought. Calendars streamlined.

Whether anyone will be able to maintain his or her personal quest for the next 525,600 minutes is one of those great unknowns. I’d like to think so. But just as the human condition prompts us to engage in self-improvement activity, it also gives us reason to stop, whether of our own doing or from the doing of outside, unavoidable forces.

At least we mean well.

So what am I going to do with myself here in the shiny and new framework known as the year MMXI? So glad you asked…

Have better posture and engage my core CONSTANTLY
Be more sassy
Do unto others…
Laugh every day
Engage in self-confidence, not self-defeat
Make a difference
Make a joyful noise
Pray more
Praise more
Thank more
Trust more
Achieve and better fitness goals -- then make new ones to tackle
Make my house a home, with an open door, full glass and engaging heart
Write, dammit – WRITE!

Most of all, though is that I want is to let The Eleven be a year of sustained passion – for creative ventures, relationships, myself and life as a whole and to cultivate the belief that passion translates to success by any and all definitions.

Let’s go do this thing called life, y’all, here in The Eleven.

You ready?

Meme Monday. Still rockin' in the free world.

2011-01-03T10:42:00.002-05:00

Hello and welcome to yet another (over)sharing from the World According to Janey. There will be a quiz at the end of the lesson, so pay attention!

1. What curse word do you use the most?
Yes.

How’s that for an answer. I have what the kids call a potty mouth. Come by it naturally, as my paternal grandmother apparently had the same affliction. Am working on it, though – however, baseball season is coming… sports brings out the merchant marine (in speech, that is) in me.

2. Do you own an iPod?
I have three. One verrrrry old one that Will uses, an iPod Touch for toting around and a Shuffle that I use when I work out.

Don't ask me where the chargers are for them though.

3. Do you still remember the first person you kissed?
I do! I think. Wait…

4. Would you rather take the picture or be in the picture?
Take the picture. I am a notorious camera-phobe. You would not believe the lengths I go to in order to NOT be in a photograph. Ugh.

5. Has anyone ever called you lazy?
Yep. And it was justified. That’s all I’m going to say about that.

6. Has anyone told you a secret this week?
Mmmhmmm. My lips, they are sealed.

7. What is the first thing you notice about a someone to whom you are attracted?
His brain and/or sense oc humor, natch.

8. What are you looking forward to?
Finishing this meme. And my me-only trip to New York City in March.

9. Do you own any band t-shirts?
But of course. Lots of Police ones, a Stones classic and my vintage Joy Division one come to mind.

10. When is the last time you slept on the floor?
Not too long ago when Will was having a tough time health-wise and I needed to be close by.

11. What did you do last night?
Watched maybe the worst football game in the history of the sport. And played Angry Birds. Oh – swore a lot. That game was horrible. To think that one of those teams is in the playoffs and my Bucs aren’t. Stupid system. My profanity was justified. Trust me.

12. Do you get along better with the same sex or the opposite sex?
It’s a toss-up. Depends completely on the person.

13. Who was the last person to make you mad?
Not going to say but I think they know who they are. Ahem.

14. Who would you want to be tied to for 24 hours?
Jon Hamm. Please. Have we just met?

15. T or F: All’s fair in love and war?
No. There needs to be some honour and discernment. Not enough of those two things going around these days.

16. What’s something you’ve always wanted?
To be a talk show host. Hush.

17. Do you enjoy spending time with your mother?
It depends…

18. Do you want a bright yellow ‘06 mustang?
Not particularly.

19. Apples or oranges?
Despite being a total F-L-A girl, gotta go with the apple. Yum.

20. Would you rather swim in the ocean or a lake?
While I love the ocean, there’s just something about swimming in a lake that relaxes me. Maybe it’s the non-salt-water-up-the-nose thing I dig.

A 2010 Rewind: The Nail in the Sparkly Coffin of the Year

2011-01-02T17:57:00.009-05:00

Since everyone, their uncle and their uncle's barista have created a retrospective "best of 2010" list, I thought I would join the fray. Here's a rambling, slightly rant-y but hopefully amusing look through my LASIK-d, stylish reading glasses sporting eyes:

My favorite film
OK. Here’s the thing: I rarely, if ever, go to the movies these days. Which saddens me because there was a time that I saw pretty much every film that interested me when it hit the big screen. This motherhood thing has cramped my stylish cinematic aficionado self.

I saw two movies in the actual, sticky-floored, artery-clogging-popcorn selling theatre this year: Inception and Eat Pray Love. The last movie I saw before that was Kung Fu Panda in 3D, with my niece. That should explain a lot. Especially since I insist on calling it Kung Pao Panda.

All that being said – I honestly don’t have a favorite film this year. I’m probably the only person you know who wasn’t blown away by Inception. Blaming that one on personal taste, mostly – I’m not crazy about the Matrix flicks either. I’m catching up on this year’s offerings, though, via Netflix/AppleTV, but Get Him to the Greek doesn’t really qualify as great cinema, regardless of how much I laughed. Hush.

I do have some things in the queue, including The Kids are Alright. And I half have it in my head to maybe take a girls night out to see Black Swan and/or True Grit. There's hope for me yet.

My favorite book
Man, when did the exercise turn into true confessions. Does “Go Dog Go” count?

I have been horribly, horribly negligent with my reading this year. I’ve read nothing of consequence, save for a couple of books about the ‘70s. I did, however, lie by pools and on beaches catching up with Carl Hiaasen on my Kindle, as well as float in pools reading some very salacious and delightful Brit chick lit. Those English write trashy novels very very well.

Now that I have both a kindle and iPad, I have NO excuses not to read anywhere, anytime. Although I have to say that nothing beats having that book in your hands, dust jacket beside you because while the flap of it makes a great book mark, it’s not so good for reading with on.

By the way, recommendations are always welcomed. Please share!

My favorite album or song this year
Finally! Something for which I have some actual collateral. Thank goodness.

Real True Confession: I was a Pop Goddess this year. While I like the song stylings of Mumford & Sons (that is some seriously good music they’re making – I find it quite thought-provoking) and Fitz & the Tantrums are groovy as hell, I was mired in some poppy catchy lovely froth.

Froth like this:
Bruno Mars ~ “Just the Way You Are”
When I told my 15-year-old niece I dug this as we were playing Angry Birds side-by-side on our respective Apple contraptions, I got my “cool auntie” card punched for at least another year.

Katy Perry ~ “Teenage Dream”
I think Mrs. Brand is adorable and I love her image and her moxie. But truth be told, the version of this song I’m nuts about is this one:

Taylor Swift ~ “Mine”
She is who I wish my 21-year-old self would have been. I admire her a lot.

Cee Lo Green ~ “F**k You”
My favorite song of the year, hands down. Groovy, catchy and cheeky. Plus his voice is sick, y’all. I’m dancing in my office chair right now just thinking about it.
(Heads up – this is the potty-mouth version. Couldn’t resist. My blog, my rules.)

My TV Boyfriend of the year
Have we just met? Do I even need to answer this question? Seriously?

Yeah. My TV Boyfriend, now and for the foreseeable future. Is That Guy.

I love him.

And no, there is no restraining order with my name on it anywhere. Hush.

My TV Girlfriend of the year
Good question. My votes: one for Sofia Vergara of Modern Family – she’s impossibly gorgeous (have you seen her?) and is funny funny funny on a show of comic-timing experts. And one for Christina Hendricks of Mad Men. She too is gorgeous with a body to die for (have you seen her?) and brings so much to a complicated character.

I posed this question to some of my interwebz girlies and they had some equally interesting recommendations:
Emily Deschanel – Bones
Morena Baccarin – V
Yvonne Strahovski – Chuck
Michaela Conlin – Bones
Mariska Hargitay – L&O:SVU

My my my.

My biggest anticipations of the new year
You know, I really don’t have any serious specific anticipations for the new year in the way of pop culture. I'm not fan-wanking for any movie or band or projected TV show. I am, however, always hoping to discover some new (or new-to-me) music, discover a telly program that’s either brilliant or so horrible-that-it-becomes-brilliant. I would like to see a career renaissance for another veteran performer, a la Betty White. My vote: Katherine Helmond. Might wax poetical about that later.

My favorite new website of the year
Gotta be Get Glue. A social networking site for entertainment/pop culture, it lets you “check-in” to whatever you’re watching/reading/listening to/doing/etc. plus guides to you find other such things you might be interested in. For a pop culture diva like me, it’s a little slice of social media heaven. And you get stickers for stuff! Yay! Go check it out. Then friend me!

My favorite pop culture news story of the year
Did some thinking about this one. And after some contemplation and time spent with some of my favorite expert sources (People, TMZ and EW) I decided that my favorite pop culture news story this year wasn’t an actual story per se, but more of a theme. The world of social media mashed into pop culture like never before in 2010. Highlighted by the release of The Social Network, the critically acclaimed film about the social media behemoth, Facebook, the relationship between high-profile personalities, the news they generate and the way that information is shared and spread got faster and more interactive. Personalities interacted directly and virtually with the people who use their product -- television, movies, music, books, sports. I had a couple of Twitter exchanges with a chef, Alex Guarnachelli, I admire greatly. Made my whole day. It’s the little things.

What amazes me more – and it shouldn’t because it’s so ubiquitous now – is the sheer speed at which information, both factual and fictional, is spread. We used to get word of a notable person’s passing or other such news via the televised media or the newspaper, often much later than when the event itself happened.

Craziness.

I think I’m going to stop now with this little bit of blathering, as I am discovering I have a whole lot to say about it and will reserve that for another post in the near future. How’s that for a stay tuned/cliffhanger tease…

My favorite actor/actress of the year
You know, I have to go with James Franco here – not so much because of what he’s done on-screen (but I understand he defines compelling in 127 Hours), but because he’s just so damn compelling. He is a Renaissance man keeping step not just to him own drummer, but an entire percussion corps. Fascinating fellow. Enigmatic. Ubiquitous. Sure he’s got critics and detractors but I’d rather have someone like him to read about than a whole passel of Kardashians and Disney Princesses. Most of the time. Shhh...

My favorite TV drama of the year
Mad Men. Nothing else for me comes even close.

My favorite TV comedy of the year
Modern Family. Whip-smart writing and a cast that crackles with chemistry and timing.

My favorite TV reality show of the year
My dirty not-so-secret love. There are so many from which to choose… it’s kind of a toss up between a couple of the Real Housewives franchises – Atlanta and New York – and The Amazing Race. Never let it be said I don’t have diverse tastes.

My favorite TV channel of the year
Bravo. Please. I could leave it tuned to whatever number it is on my digital cable all day and be happy happy. It’s compelling and a little trashy and doesn’t take itself too seriously. Plus Andy Cohen!

So there’s my little Pop Culture Roundup. As always, your millage may vary and your thoughts are always welcomed. Thanks for reading.

And as Tracey Ullman used to say “Go Home!”

The Eleven: Date with a Day

2011-01-01T14:34:00.005-05:00

Ah New Year’s Day, I greet you with a hail and hearty hello. You and I have quite a history, don’t we – going back many many years.

When I was a wee lass, you were a fun day when I got to set off poppers and blow horns my parents brought home from their New Year’s Eve outing. I don’t remember ever seeing your genesis, though goodness knows I tried. Sleep was a bigger foe to conquer than my nana, who would let me get away with anything… shhhhhh.

You did, in those days, come with a meal I still to this day don’t care much for. Ham = blah. Greens = not bad. Cornbread that’s not sweet = meh. Black eyed peas = the debil. I’ve been told that my distaste for this menu may be cause enough for me to turn in my Steel Magnolia card, but I don’t believe it. You can stick it and please pass the boiled custard.

When I got older, you were a time for rest and recovery and why are y’all talking so loudly. Pajamas were the attire for the day and football the entertainment. You were a day to exhale, as the festivities of the holidays were in the rear view mirror and the pressures of the spring semester ahead yet to be revealed.

I have spent many of you watching a bowl game live and in person, thanks to a daddy who was a mucky-muck with the bowl committee and available tickets. There’s nothing quite like sitting in a full football stadium WITH YOUR PARENTS when you are either hung over or still under the influence of the considerable amounts of adult beverages consumed a fairly short time previously. How’s that for a fancy pants way to say “still drunk.” WITH YOUR PARENTS.

Anyhoo.

With you, I’ve nursed the flu (103 fever!) and a broken heart (stupid boys), entertained housefuls of people, comforted a friend whose mother suddenly passed away, driven hundreds of miles to get home in time to go back to work. And I’ve spent you at the isolet-side of my boy, helping to carry supplies and blankets and stuffed animals as he moved from the most critical area of the NICU to the area for more stable and improving little ones. That day, you were nothing but sheer joy.

I’ve experienced every conceivable emotion with you. Including hope. Always hope.

There’s a line of thought that says how one spends time on New Year’s Day sets the tone for the rest of the year. Not sure I buy into that, as I think one’s frame of mind on this day is more important.

And on this day I am focused and peaceful. Full of hope and overwhelmed with ideas. Creativity is pushing forward, relegating self-doubt and insecurity to the back row.

So on this, our annual rendezvous, New Year’s Day, I salute you and share a knowing wink. Here’s to us meeting again in approximately five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes. It is, as always, a pleasure.

This one’s a semi-long distance dedication just for you:

I'm so glad we had this time together,
Just to have a laugh, or sing a song.
Seems we just get started and before you know it
Comes the time we have to say, “So long".

Turn It Up. It's 2011

2010-12-31T16:34:00.006-05:00

Birds flying high you know how I feel
Sun in the sky you know how I feel
Breeze driftin' on by you know how I feel

It's a new dawn
It's a new day
It's a new life
For me
And I'm feeling good

Rip it off. Go ahead. Tear it off with abandon. Wave it around in the air like you don’t care.

Time to take off that last little bit of 2010 and toss it into the wind.

We’re on to something new, y’all.

And it goes all the way to Eleven.

This is not the time to dwell on what was or what might have been. That’s an invitation to wallow. And while there are lessons to be learned and a few memories to cherish, I’d rather bid that sucker adieu and head into the great potential-laden unknown.

Forward ho!

We can go all the way to Eleven.

That’s one more than ten. One louder. One better.

And I can’t wait.

Not making any resolutions per se for The Eleven, as those have proven to be akin to that albatross which hung around the Ancient Mariner’s neck. I’d rather hang my new vintage fur stole around my neck – it reminds me of my Nana, right down to the smell – and simply try to make a change for myself, my loved ones, for my world – a change for the better.

I want to be the most authentic, fearless me possible.

To gain confidence.

Worry less.

Maximize my potential.

Be creative.

I want to go to Eleven.

Turn it up, New Year.

Nigel Tufnel: The numbers all go to eleven. Look, right across the board, eleven, eleven, eleven and...
Marty DiBergi: Oh, I see. And most amps go up to ten?
Nigel Tufnel: Exactly.
Marty DiBergi: Does that mean it's louder? Is it any louder?
Nigel Tufnel: Well, it's one louder, isn't it? It's not ten. You see, most blokes, you know, will be playing at ten. You're on ten here, all the way up, all the way up, all the way up, you're on ten on your guitar. Where can you go from there? Where?
Marty DiBergi: I don't know.
Nigel Tufnel: Nowhere. Exactly. What we do is, if we need that extra push over the cliff, you know what we do?
Marty DiBergi: Put it up to eleven.
Nigel Tufnel: Eleven. Exactly. One louder.
Marty DiBergi: Why don't you just make ten louder and make ten be the top number and make that a little louder?
Nigel Tufnel: [pause] These go to eleven.

Back to the Future

2010-11-03T06:19:00.005-04:00

Picture it. Fall, 1994. An early November evening. Tuesday, to be exact.

I was a grad student in my first semester taking a class in Latin American Contemporary Fiction. We met one night a week, first for three hours in the classroom proper with our professor and then took the action and our pontifications to the campus watering hole afterwards, where beer was consumed and philosophical snark was dispensed.

That particular evening, along with our beer and opinions, the single television in the joint, mounted high on the wall, carried midterm election results. Tom Brokaw and Tim Russert brought the news of a huge, cross-country Republican win, which the GOP dubbed the "Republican Revolution."

We grad students watched the results with an interested yet somehow detached eye. We laughingly referred to the star of the evening, Newt Gingrich, as Axolotl Gingrich, after the Latin American amphibian featured in a surreal short story (by Julio Cortázar) we had just finished reading. The witty semi-urbane-ness of our naive, slightly arrogant educated selves helped to mask our concern and uncertainty, as most of us fell more than left of center with our politics. In those days, such things could be assuaged with some banter and booze. Which is what we deployed.

A midterm election going the way of the party other than the one in the White House. A first term President who spent substantial time his first two years in office working on a health care plan. The country at a crossroads.

Sound familiar?

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

And so we carry on, Americans. Each of us trying to do our part for what we believe is the correct path for our country. It's what we do best.

Sometimes you eat the bear. And sometimes the bear eats you.

Forward ho.

Atop My Soapbox: A PSA for My Fellow Chicks

2010-11-02T06:32:00.003-04:00

Those who stay away from the election think that one vote will do no good.
‘Tis but one step more to think one vote will do no harm.
~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

Hey! You there! Whatcha doin' today?

(A) There's no telling. I know I have things to do, but I cannot find my to-do list.

(B) The glamourous usual -- carpool, soccer practice, piano lessons, helping with homework, cooking dinner, laundry.

(C) Why do you want to know? What’s so special about today? Is there some sort of fabulous function that I don’t know about? Do I need to book a babysitter? Get a new outfit?

(D) I’ll be speaking out and letting people know just what I think and how I feel about important issues and ideas facing our country and our community.

I’ll be voting.

Psst... the go-to answer is (D).

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Did you know...
... 22 million women on their own did not vote in the 2000 presidential election. This is the largest group of non-voters in our democratic process. Voting together, women on their own could determine who wins and loses elections.

Women don’t vote...
... because they felt before that they weren’t affected by the election process or its outcomes.

... because none of the candidates on the ballot met their “personal criteria.”

... because they’re “too busy.”

... because they didn’t think their votes would make that big of a difference.

When was the last time you cast your vote in an election? In this year's primaries? In 2008 for the last Presidential election? Can’t remember?

Guess what -- no worries about any of this. The great thing about voting is that as long as you’re a registered voter, there’s always another opportunity around the corner to let your voice be heard. It's kinda like getting a less-than-desirable haircut. Hair (usually) always grows back. Problem solved. Regarding this voting thing though -- the key is not to let the oft-infrequent opportunities constantly pass you by.

Here's what I've learned in my over-25 years as a registered voter: Voting is one of those things that may seem like a little gesture when in reality, it’s a big statement.

Vote early and vote often.
~ Al Capone

Granted, casting one’s vote can sometimes feel like an obligation, especially when adding a stop by the polls might mean shifting schedules and rearranging appointments. But -- casting a vote in any election is our right, our privilege and our chance to share OUR opinions in a venue where they will be heard and counted.

Think of it this way -- not voting lets other people make the decisions for you, and, speaking for myself, nothing pisses me off more than having someone speak for me without my consent or without an opportunity to put my two cents in. I can feel my blood pressure rising just imagining this.

PS: By not voting, you forfeit the right to complain about whoever’s in office. Those elected officials aren’t really representing you, because you never spoke up and said what you thought should happen in the first place.

Muse upon that for a moment. That scenario more than kinda sucks, doesn't it.

Women, just a few generations before ours, were not able to vote; many had to literally fight to give us the opportunity to let our voices be heard. Our gender won -- and I do mean won -- the right to vote in 1920 with the passage of the 19th Amendment to the Constitution. This achievment took nearly 75 years to come to fruition, starting with the first Women’s Rights Convention held in 1848. Petitions, pickets and personal sacrifice -- many suffragettes were arrested, held illegally, and treated badly in prison -- were the hallmarks of the struggle that culminated in a quiet passage of the 19th Amendment on August 26, 1920.

If our fem-ancestors worked that diligently and passionately to secure something that we now consider a basic human right and often take for granted, the least we can do is to honor their dedicated efforts and take the time to share our opinions.

The very least.

The possibilities are endless for what could happen if our gender let its voices be heard. Look at voting as an opportunity to invest and educate. Find out what the issues are. Spend time focusing not just on individual candidates (and goodness knows, with all those political ads bombarding us from every possible form of media, it's hard not to,) but on the objective side of politics as well. Think about what matters to you. To your family. To your community.

And come Election Day (ahem -- today!) put that “I VOTED” sticker firmly on your chest and head out to tackle the rest of your day -- because you can smile proudly with the knowledge that you have made a significant mark on your world.

Democracy... it’s a good thing.

Resolved, That the women of this country ought to be enlightened in regard to the laws under which they -live, that they may no longer publish their degradation, by declaring themselves satisfied with their present position, nor their ignorance, by asserting that they have all the rights they want...

Resolved, therefore, That, being invested by the Creator with the same capabilities, and the same consciousness of responsibility for their exercise, it is demonstrably the right and duty of woman, equally with man, to promote every righteous cause, by every righteous means; and especially in regard to the great subjects of morals and religion, it is self-evidently her right to participate with her brother in teaching them, both in private and in public, by writing and by speaking, by any instrumentalities proper to be used, and in any assemblies proper to be held; and this being a self-evident truth, growing out of the divinely implanted principles of human nature, any custom or authority adverse to it, whether modern or wearing the hoary sanction of antiquity, is to be regarded as self-evident falsehood, and at war with the interests of mankind.

~ Declaration of Sentiments and Resolutions
Woman's Rights Convention
Held at Seneca Falls, 19-20 July 1848

PS: This is a revision of a piece I penned for the 2008 Presidential Primaries. Still applies. Maybe even more so today.

Find your reading glasses... it's a literary Meme Monday!

2010-10-18T09:10:00.000-04:00

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

Mr. Kurtz. He dead. This work says so much about the human condition. And I quote it constantly. "The horror! The horror!" You wouldn't believe how often that phrase comes in handy. Or maybe you would.

11. The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway

I am quite the Hemingway fan -- he can say so much with so few words.

12. The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald

A glimpse into a world I still find fascinating featuring people I'm not sure I'd want to know in real life.

13. The Bastard by John Jakes

American history with a soapy edge -- what's not to love. I have the entire series of these books, dog eared and worn, on my reading book shelf (as opposed to my research book shelf) ready for a re-read.

14. All the President's Men by Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward

True confession: I'm obsessed with the Watergate era. And investigative. Reading this book for a political science report in high school was the impetus for me wanting to major in journalism in college.

15. The Dubliners by James Joyce

Read this as a sophomore in high school. It was the first piece of "serious" literature with which I connected and just didn't rote-read. I can still picture, clear as day, the bazaar in "Araby" as I imagined it as a 15-year-old.

and six to grow on
16. The French Chef Cookbook by Julia Child

Aside from genetics (thanks, Grandma!), this book -- and its author -- are why I cook.

17. Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil by John Berendt

Just a great read. Picturesque and evocative.

18. The Message/modern translation of the Bible

How the Word sounds in my head when I read any translation. I love this translation.

19. The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck

A beautiful book with themes that speak to the essence of who I am. Whenever I read this, I'm always one pumped up liberal afterwards.

20. Man and Superman by G.B. Shaw

Brilliant as literature and as a play. Four words: Don Juan in Hell

21. The Hotel New Hampshire by John Irving

I love John Irving and his quirky characters who live their lives in most interesting fashions. This book is perhaps my favorite of his, with Garp a close second. PS: I hated the movie.

22. What We Talk About When We Talk About Love by Raymond Carver

Wrote a major paper in grad school about this piece. Carver speaks to me -- his people, ordinary, flawed, seemingly unaware folk, live those proverbial lives of quiet desperation. And he's got that minimalist style thing going. Now I'm in the mood for a re-read...

Meme Monday. Seriously.

2010-10-04T06:54:00.002-04:00

Hello and welcome to yet another (over)sharing from the World According to Janey. There will be a quiz (with essay!) at the end of the lesson, so pay attention!

1. What time did you get up this morning?
5:54 am. Thirty-six minutes before the alarm. Thanks, Will!

2. How do you like your steak?
Shhhh… listen. Hear that soft, barely-perceivable mooing? That’s my steak making its way to the table. Janey likes her steak r-a-r-e. Always have, always will.

3. What was the last film you saw at the cinema?
Eat, Pray Love. Yeah, I know.

4. What is your favorite TV show?
Mad Men. No question.

5. If you could live anywhere in the world where would it be?
Manhattan.

6. What did you have for breakfast?
Will be having a Clif bar (maple nut) and an FRS wild berry energy drink. Just enough fuel for the upcoming workout.

7. What is your favorite cuisine?
Probably Italian, with Cuban a very close second.

8. What foods do you dislike?
Olives. Coconut. Sushi.

9. Favorite Place to Eat?
My favorite restaurant in the whole world is a place called Six/Seven in Seattle. Also very fond of an Italian place on the Upper East Side in Manhattan whose name escapes me at the moment…

10. Favorite dressing?
Balsamic vinaigrette or a GOOD bleu cheese.

11.What kind of vehicle do you drive?
2005 Honda Pilot

12. What are your favorite clothes?
Jeans and… or a great little black dress. Guess which I have more opportunity to wear? ;-)

13. Where would you visit if you had the chance?
Cuba. England. Cuba. Sweden. Cuba. Spain. Cuba. Brazil. Get the picture?

14. Cup 1/2 empty or 1/2 full?
Half full. Try my hardest to always look at things this way.

15. Where would you want to retire?
I live in the F-L-A already. Not a subject to which I give much thought.

16. Favorite time of day?
Don’t really have one – it rather varies.

17. Where were you born?
In a hospital about five miles from where I currently live. Yep. Still hanging in the ‘Burg.

18. What is your favorite sport to watch?
Please. Have we just met?

19. Who do you think will not tag you back?
No one will tag me back because I don’t plan on tagging anyone.

20. Person you expect to tag you back first?
See #19

21. Who are you most curious about their responses to this?
Ugh. Not removing this one because I’m too lazy to re-number this bad boy.

22. Bird watcher?
Nope.

23. Are you a morning person or a night person?
While I like staying up late, I’m more focused in the morning.

24. Do you have any pets?
No.

25. Any new and exciting news you’d like to share?
My fantasy football team rather sucks at the moment. But my Rays are AL East champs, which helps assuage the pain of having a sucky fantasy football team. Jay Cutler, really? Really?

26. What did you want to be when you were little?
Either a talk show host or a weather girl.

27. What is your best childhood memory?
Too many to name here. The childhood was fun and never dull.

28. Are you a cat or dog person?
Cats. Hands down. Dogs are very foreign to me.

29. Are you married?
Yeppers. Thirteen years the end of this month.

30. Always wear your seat belt?
Heck yeah. Feels weird to drive/ride without it.

31. Been in a car accident?
Define “accident.” Do fender-benders count?

32. Any pet peeves?
Inconsiderate people. Lack of respect for one’s fellow man. I’m not perfect in these areas by any means, but the rampant rudeness and thoughtlessness of society in general irritates me greatly.

33. Favorite Pizza Toppings?
Sausage, onion, extra cheese.

34. Favorite Flower?
Tulips and hydrangeas.

35. Favorite ice cream?
Anything with caramel. Mmmmmmmm.

36. Favorite fast food restaurant?
The evil yet delicious Chick-Fil-A.

37. How many times did you fail your driver’s test?
NONE! HA! Passed on the first try.

38. From whom did you get your last email?
iTunes telling me a show I have on a season pass is ready to download. When you’re a discerning TV viewer (OK, addict) sometimes the DVR isn’t enough to catch everything you like when time slots overlap.

39. Which store would you choose to max out your credit card?
Either Nordstrom or Crate and Barrel.

40. Do anything spontaneous lately?
Sadly, no. There’s not much room for spontaneity in my life anymore.

41. Like your job?
The toughest one I could ever imagine having – parenting a special needs kiddo – but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

42. Broccoli?
No. Will eat it if necessary but it’s not something I choose willingly. Unless there is cheese sauce involved.

43. What was your favorite vacation?
A trip to Seattle/Vancouver/Whistler. So beautiful. Or any of my trips to NYC. So fulfilling.

44. Last person you went out to dinner with?

Dinner? Hmmmm. The Mister, I think. Don’t get to go out very often. (See #41)

45. What are you listening to right now?
Led Zeppelin on the radio in Will’s room and Little Einsteins on the telly. My child is a sound junkie.

46. What is your favorite color?
Purple

47. How many tattoos do you have?
None. Yet.

48. How many are you tagging for this quiz?
Again with the tagging questions… pfffft.

49. What time did you finish this quiz?
6:53 am

50. Coffee Drinker?
Not in the standard sense – like my everyday caffeine cold (hello, iced tea!) but I do like espresso after a “real” meal.

Forty-six Wishes

2010-09-27T07:12:00.002-04:00

1. For Will to continue maximizing his potential.

2. To embrace the true essence of myself.

3. To find a personal physical goal, train and achieve it. Then celebrate it!

4. Contentment

5. To only have one mortgage.

6. Health for my family and loved ones.

7. Happiness for my family and loved ones.

8. To spend some quality time with those I love.

9. Progress in my many writing projects.

10. To get the new house fully unpacked and decorated.

11. A really relaxing, rejuvenating vacation.

12. A decent night’s sleep.

13. Boston Celtics: NBA Champs

14. The ability to raise one sardonic eyebrow.

15. Tampa Bay Rays: World Series Champs.

16. To hear the words “Jon Hamm, Party of Two” and be one of the two

17. A continued strengthening of my self-esteem.

18. The sudden appearance of an organizational gene in me. Please?

19. To see my "chicas" this year. Our trip to NYC was too long ago and far away

20. To see snow this year. Preferably falling on the mean streets of Manhattan.

21. To be less guarded.

22. To get out of the house more.

23. To hear live music more frequently.

24. To tell the ones I love that I love them with greater frequency

25. To embrace my new roles at church and serve with faith, grace and humbleness.

26. To control and manage my stress in a constructive manner.

27. A more tolerant, accepting, respectful, gentler society.

28. To have a week when my nails don’t look like a gorilla is my manicurist.

29. More than one decent night’s sleep in a row.

30. Longer legs and less wide feet (Hey, these are my wishes. They don’t have to be practical. Or feasible.)

31. To be more vulnerable.

32. To keep up with my continuing education in cooking or writing or something.

33. For more good hair days than bad hair days.

34. To be a good friend.

35. To find some dependable babysitters. (see Wish #22)

36. To have the strength to know when a relationship has run its course and to know that I did all I could to try and save it. Sometimes these things simply happen.

37. To read more.

38. To make progress organizing my myriad scrapbooking/genealogy projects.

39. To actually grow a plant successfully. Outside. (my aerogarden does not count.) Without killing it.

40. To be the best choir urchin director I can be.

41. To learn one new skill.

42. To hear the words “Copeland (as in Stewart), Party of Two” and be one of the two.

43. To make a difference for the good in my world.

44. To FINALLY do that karaoke thing.

45. To be kinder to myself. If I heard the things I say to myself said to someone else, I’d be shocked and appalled. This needs to stop.

46. To have the chance to make 47 wishes the same time next year.

Personal hell

2010-09-26T14:47:00.002-04:00

Hier ist die Stelle wo ich sterblich bin.
This is the spot where I am mortal.
~ Johann Christoph Friedrich von Schiller

Been a long week. One I am happy to see pass into the annals of time.

I've been haunted this week -- by images, by lack of control, by elements outside my control, by loneliness and old demons and renewed fears. Seriously -- if I could, I'd throw a Get the Hell Out of Here party for this week.

Family issues and broken air conditioners aside (Goodness knows, I hate to be hot when I don't have to be. My idea of camping is no room service. I own my diva-ish-ness proudly.) it's Will and his health that have consumed me. The seizure and breathing issues of last weekend. Not an image that erases quickly in the slideshow of my mind. He is feeling better -- the antibiotic seems to have done the trick and my sweet, singing, funny boy has re-emerged. We just need to get to Friday and his ear tube surgery without any more nonsense.

You'd think that would be enough to assuage my nerves. But what was probably intended as an empathetic comment from someone at Will's school hasn't let me rest. When I shared the details of his medical emergency, she commented that she understood, as she lost a student once in a similar situation.

Yeah.

We've had brushes with Will's mortality before. When he was about two weeks old, constant seizure activity and other issues led to us having a "we may be out of options" conversation with his NICU doctors. Can't tell you how horrible that was. Word still fail me. And yes, with a kiddo that sports such health issues as Will does, that mortality thing always plays in the back of my mind, distantly and vaguely.

But now, with the seizure and breathing issues, coupled with that offhand comment -- thought of his mortality have consumed me. My dreams. My subconscious. My waking hours.

I know Will thinks I'm nuts, going and checking on him constantly when he's resting or sleeping. "Weave me awone. Cwose the door. Bye bye." has been said more than once when he's been chilling on his bed, listening to music or drifting off to sleep. Yes, Mama's a pest. But a well-meaning one.

I bear my responsibility as Will's mama heavily, more so because I am chief cook, bottle washer, chauffeur and care giver during the week when the Mister is on the road for work. This can wreck havoc on a control-freak such as myself. My head tells me if I can just keep an eye on Will at all times, I can prevent and pre-empt any issues.

But I'm driving myself crazy in the process. Making myself sick. Sucking the joie de vivre out of my soul.

I've isolated myself this week -- pulled away from friends and family. Who wants to be around someone like me in the throes of a situation like this? I'm weird -- ok, quirky -- enough as it is without this nonsense. People don't need to deal with anything extra when they have their own issues afoot.

I know I have so many things to be thankful for -- and I truly am. Our household is employed, we have a wonderful child and a roof over our heads. But right now, I'm mired in the emotional quicksand of fear and helplessness and loneliness. Scary horrid place to be -- just me and my whack-a-doo thoughts and emotions.

Gotta get out. Can't do this anymore. Not right now.

I must be content with the knowledge that I take care of Will the very very best way I can. And that his life -- and mine -- are in God's hands, as I believe it. I just need to go with that and rest in it.

So hello new week. New perspective. New outlook.

How's that for trying to think positively?

It's a start.

Blue

2010-09-19T08:18:00.001-04:00

It’s an interesting shade of blue. Tinted, really. Kind of reminds of me of the blue hair old ladies often sport when following ill-advised coiffure advice, now that I think about it.

But it’s a shade of blue that haunts me.

Will’s lips were this shade of blue when we found him during the wee small hours of the morning in the throes of a seizure, which was compounded by respiratory distress.

Terrifying. A sight I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy nor on any parent.

Time blurs for me as I try to recall what happened. A 9-1-1 call. Firemen – one of whom has come to tend to Will before in such situations. I refer to him as our personal firefighter – he is impossibly kind and gentle with both parent and child and nobody else better claim him because he’s ours. Oxygen tanks and masks. IVs inserted into little boy arms. Paramedics arriving. Bodily fluids afoot. Torn paper and wrappers and caps strewn.

This is what a medical emergency looks like.

By the time Will was carried out to the ambulance in the tattooed arms of a paramedic, the Mister walking behind as the official oxygen tank carrier, I wasn’t sure what end was up. Our firefighter pulled me aside and gave me some words of encouragement – Will’s breathing was recovering and it sounded to him like an upper respiratory issue. Congestion that might have complicated the seizure.

Congestion that turned my world a horrifying shade of blue.

When I arrived at the hospital, armed with clothes, meds (since it’s a whole lot faster to bring your own anti-convulsants rather than wait for the hospital pharmacy) and other things needed for a day of emergency room hurry-up-and-wait, I found an understandably cranky Will being poked and prodded by the attending emergency room doc and the guys who tended to him at home waiting to see what she thought, along with the Mister, fresh from his ride in the ambulance, giving vital information to all who requested it. There was peace in that chaos, for I knew that Will was in good hands. And this latest problem was on its way to resolution.

After visits from hospital personnel both new and familiar, some tests and a cup of bad hospital coffee, Will was deemed ok to go home. That damned ear infection is still lingering, most likely the primary complicator in Will’s already complicated heath craziness. His ear tube surgery is two weeks away – and it cannot get here fast enough. We are armed with my favorite antibiotic (It doesn’t have to be refrigerated! Hooray!) and a slight increase in the dosage of one of his anti-convulsants and the comfort of good test results. Young William seems to have bounced back with the energy and zip that only an eight (almost nine!) year old has. For that, I am immensely humbled and grateful. The Mister and I are still pulling ourselves back together, as the residue of our personal post-traumatic stress lingers longer in our adult minds and emotions. We continue to watch him like the proverbial hawk, noting anything that could be a precursor or signal of something going awry. What is normal eight-year-old behavior and what is the sign of another crisis brewing -- questions we ask constantly as we test the limits of our parental instinct.

As I collect the laundry of the day and try to resume normalcy, I notice a large blood stain on Will’s sheets, most likely a by-product of the lightning fast IV insertion. Red. Bright red. A partner with the blue of distress. New colors for my emotional stains. And while I’m haunted by these images, I really wouldn’t be any kind of parent if things stayed clean and pristine on my soul. And so it goes...

State of Being

2010-08-09T08:10:00.002-04:00

Things that go bump in the night. Are in my head.

Fitful last night’s sleep. It was a shortened respite to begin with, thanks to plans and events planned and unplanned that went late into the evening. But as my head hit the pillow my mind went into overdrive, as it is wont to do when the world is quiet and dark.

Fears about Will’s future – who will take care of him after I’m gone from this world. I had horrible visions of him as a homeless person. Or crying. Or simply just lonely.

Guilt over his birth – recurring and assuaged somewhat. Buried deep now actually, but still present. My body failed him when I was carrying him. I bear the responsibility of his health issues. Intellectually, I know this is harsh and that Things Just Happen. But try as I might, I cannot completely shake the residue.

I’m still angry with God. Why my child? Why my sweet boy? He doesn’t deserve any of this pain and crazy way to live. I see photos of families enjoying vacations and camp and soccer and softball and so many other standard issue activities. Those sorts of pictures are not part of our photo album nor will they be. And while I don’t begrudge my friends any of the joys of these moments (and I do so enjoy sharing in the experiences of their lives), I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little jealous. There. I said it. The ugly truth. Laden with tears and a bit of envy. I love my son more than you can ever imagine – but oh how I wish our reality was different sometimes.

I am thankful that a resolution to the serious health issues we’ve experienced seems to have been reached. Several rounds of antibiotics and a scheduled surgery for ear tubes look to do the trick. I know that God has provided for and is taking care of Will. But I’m still out of sorts with Him. And this anger is keeping me from worship and church. Don’t feel like we fit in at the moment. Will or me. I hate that. Makes me sad and profoundly lonely, as I love the fellowship I gain from being with the family of believers and the perspective I gain from corporate worship. But right now…

I’m not sharing any of this to garner sympathy or pity or consolation. Not at all. Don’t want it. Mortified to think about it. Nor am I looking for ways to fix this or condemnation or anyone telling me how to feel or that these emotions aren’t valid. I simply needed to get this shit out of my head and put it someplace. My blog, my rules.

Saw the movie Inception recently. Trippy flick. And I have to wonder if my subconscious, inspired by the film, prompted me to regurgitate all of these things in the hopes that someone would steal them from me and dispose of them. Worth a try. Heh.

I’ll be fine. Will is good at the moment – a little whiny, but what bored eight-year-old isn’t. I’m just hurting more than a little. All part of My Version of Motherhood.

If Music Be the Food of Love, Play On

2010-08-01T18:21:00.002-04:00

This is a post-rewind from many moons ago. But as on this day, 29 years ago, MTV was born, I think it's still relevant. Kind of insightful. And stuff. So read on, Macduff -- and remember when Behind the Music still meant weird requests in concert riders, and groupies.

~~~~~

When I hear music, I fear no danger. I am invulnerable. I see no foe. I am related to the earliest times, and to the latest.

-- Henry David Thoreau

Picture this: carpool-driving-road-warrior mom (call her Janey) is on her way to pick up her Kiddo-in-Residence from summer school. Radio playing. Loudly. Natch. A familar guitar riff pops out of the speakers, followed by a driving beat. Meat Loaf’s “Paradise by the Dashboard Light”. Janey drives circles around the school, singing along lustily, as is her habit, until the very long-ass song is complete. She is late to collect her young charge as a result. But the disapproving stares were worth it.
__________________________________

I was discussing the impact of the music of one’s youth recently with some lovely bright folks somewhat younger than I. Discerning music fans all, they were rightfully bemoaning the fact that the hallmark songs and sounds of their generation are poppy, cotton candy-esque and ultimately disposable. I feel for them, as the music of my youth had a profound influence on me -- and honestly, on who I am today. So, in that spirit, I took a little walk down memory lane.

During that time in my life -- those young adult years -- it was the early 1980s.

At that time, I experienced...

...Prince wowing everyone with Purple Rain;

...Michael Jackson and Thriller (which is arguably one of the great albums of all time, despite the fact that he's descended into disturbing madness and deviant behavior, effectively destroying any relevance he might have had today);

...the Commodores being funkycoolsoulful;

...the Rolling Stones still being relevant -- Tattoo You is splendid, even the ubiquitous "Start Me Up" -- a song I must crank up to eleven, even to this day;

...Genesis and Abacab changing how I listen to music, hearing the nuances;

...my eternally beloved Police, also changing how I listen to music -- with my brain in addition to my ears;

...the emergence of my too-cool-for-school R.E.M and their fellow Athens musicians, the B-52s (who I saw on a bill with Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers and the Who. Strange combo, great concert);

...the intelligent timeless songwriting of Billy Joel;

...my re-introduction to the classics of the 1960s, thanks to The Big Chill. I went through a brief phase when I didn’t listen to anything released after 1970 -- not a conscious choice, but just the frame of mind I was in. The Kinks. The Mama and the Papas, The Beatles. The Stones. The Monkees;

...the igniting of my appreciation of classical music thanks to Amadeus;

...the birth of my passionate love of jazz overseen by Al Jarreau and his seminal Breaking Away album and cemented by Harry Connick and the soundtrack for When Harry Met Sally;

...a young woman named Madonna who made some damn catchy dance music while capturing the attention of a nation with her brash style and cheeky attitude (and oh! those big-ass hair bows, skirts paired with leggings and jellies with ankle socks -- man, did I think I looked cool as shit in that getup...)

...the unexpected treasures found on college radio, where cutting-edge, inventive, experimental music was played, current mainstream trends be damned. I don’t live in an area where such a station exists at the moment, so I have to work a little harder to seek out those bands and artists who aren’t overexposed on Top 40 radio but whose fresh approach to music I crave. Never would have discovered Squeeze if not for college radio. And my life would have been just a smidge less complete.;

... the birth of MTV. When it was a renegade channel playing nothing but music videos. And what I watched religiously. Even while studying. (Which explains a bit about my GPA.) Duran Duran. The Fixx. Michael Jackson. Culture Club. Men at Work. Hall & Oates. The Go-Gos. The Bangles. We could actually see the music, sometimes portrayed in a very no-nonsense fashion, sometimes presented cloaked in the abstract, obscure or just plain weird. Anyone remember the Wall of Voodoo “Mexican Radio” video, with the guy’s face emerging from the bowl of beans? Who thinks up this stuff? And why didn’t they share what they were smoking when they were in the “creative” process?

Video didn’t kill the radio star.

It just forced him to hire a stylist.

I often think in music. I live my daydreams in music. I see my life in terms of music.
-- Albert Einstein

Memories intertwined with music are everywhere, especially during those impressionable young adult years. I was thrown out of a high school dance for singing, along with my incorrigible buddies, all the words to Jimmy Buffett’s “Why Don’t We Get Drunk and Screw?” very, very loudly. Acapella. A long-time boyfriend liked to listen to Kenny Rogers (sad but true confession -- can't hear "Lady" to this day without feeling a little twinge of first love) while we made out and steamed up the windows of his Honda Civic. I hear Joe Jackson’s “Breaking Us in Two” and instantly go right back to my freshman year dorm room.

Sheila E’s “The Glamourous Life” puts me in the backseat of my college roommate/best friend’s vintage diesel Mercedes sedan, motoring down the road for a weekend away in Jacksonville. The Psychedelic Furs’ “Love my Way” sends me straight to a late night alterna-dance club called The Vatican which reigned for a short time as the place-to-be-after-2-am in Gainesville in 1986.

"(Keep Feeling) Fascination" by the Human League reminds me of a Friday afternoon spent dancing on a wall in the front yard of a neighboring fraternity house located on one of Gaineville's main drags, beer in hand, the other hand waving to cars (many with people I knew in them) as they rolled by. Springsteen’s “Glory Days” has me sitting on a bar stool at my favorite watering hole, drinking a Killians Red out of my special numbered bar-regular mug, eating a chicken salad sandwich and waiting for Jeopardy to come on at 11:30 pm, after spending the evening at the Journalism School.

Sting singing “If You Love Somebody Set Them Free" reminds me of spending a Saturday afternoon during a Labor Day weekend in that same bar, spending my laundry change on beer, casually waiting for Hurricane Elena to hit the west coast of Florida. And Heart’s “Alone” reminds me of a deep, unspoken, unrequited love, about which I always suspected the object knew, but never did anything about.

Music is nothing separate from me. It is me... You'd have to remove the music surgically.
-- Ray Charles

For every connection I just made, I’ve got a least a dozen more. Music is so much a part of me. I’m not the greatest musican or music scholar. I just know what I like. And am passionate to a fault about it. And I keep music around me as much as possible. My iTunes is rolling right now as I write this. Love & Rockets “So Alive," to be precise. Hypnotic song with a very sexy underbeat. Oh yeah.

I now realize how much of my life is defined by music -- where I was when I heard a song; what was playing when thus and such happened; why a set of lyrics can instantly make me happy or melancholy or thoughtful or joyous. And my musical tastes were truly defined during that critical young adult period in my life. When I was figuring out who I was, what I wanted, where I would go, the songs around me became ingrained. And I still listen to them today. As well as innumerable other songs discovered since. My iPod is a bottomless well, ready to hold any aural pleasure I can find.

And as I review the songs of my youth, the melodies of my soul, the lyrics of my psyche, I also can see the Bright Young Thing I used to be, just briefly. But just long enough to recognize her. And like what I see. Long enough to remember who she is and to subsequently motivate me to reaquaint myself with her. She's still here, in me. Never left. Hate how long it took me to realize that. I just gotta find out where's she's been hiding and make her relevant again (and hip... always gotta be hip.)

The cliche of the soundtrack of one’s life is strikingly accurate. At least in my experience.

And just as characters in a musical spontaniously break into song, so do I.

Doesn’t everyone?

And if they don’t, they should.

They’re missing out on one of life’s greatest joys if they don't.

Na nanana na nanana na na
na na na na nana.
Ah ah ah...
(“Dyslexic Heart” by Paul Westerburg)

Music is the vernacular of the human soul.
-- Geoffrey Latham

A Word from Atop the Soapbox

2010-07-27T20:34:00.005-04:00

People are people
So why should it be
You and I should get
Along so awfully

This just in: I’m a naïve, but well-meaning idealist. Through and through.

Why else would I be reeling from a very unexpected encounter with blatant and vitriolic racism. The likes of which I’ve never seen before. And still cannot imagine, even after just a glimpse.

The set-up: I was innocently Googling something for another blog project. And in the results from that search, I saw a word that made me stop. A very racist word. The most racist word of all, as far as I’m concerned. A curious click led me to a site I never would have even imagined existed. The most appallingly racist, xenophobic and mob-mentality-fueled thing I’ve ever seen.

And it’s rocked me to my soul. My naïve, idealistic soul. And not in a good way.

(FYI: I’m not going to share the Google topic, nor the word, nor the URL of the site on which the word appeared. That would serve no constructive purpose. The end.)

So we're different colours
And we're different creeds
And different people have different needs
It's obvious you hate me
Though I've done nothing wrong
I've never ever met you so what could I have done

I’m not surprised that there are still racist currents running through our country – on both sides of the ethnic divide. My shock and horror comes from the frenzied, entrenched narrow-mindedness I saw. The sheer hate for one person from another because of the color of his or her skin and nothing more. The celebration of acts of discrimination and belittlement and hurt. The telling of tales.

Blatant racism. Celebrated and shared. It was akin to a virtual Klu Klux Klan meeting. And I suspect that it’s probably not the only site like it on these internets.

I just don't understand.

You've got to be taught to hate and fear
You've got to be taught from year to year
It's got to be drummed in your dear little ear
You've got to be carefully taught

I’m not here to argue on behalf of any extremist side in the racial divide, as xenophobia exists in both camps. I’ve seen it first hand from each group. Even had it directed at me personally. Will is one of a very small minority of Caucasian students at his school. And while I’ve never seen him treated with anything but friendliness and respect (and some flirting with some older elementary girls) I’ve come up against a bit of unfriendly behavior from the parents. Been called names and thrown a couple of profane hand gestures in the parking lot. Received a lot of looks. Ignored or cut off while standing or waiting in a queue.

I try to take it all in stride. Especially when I watch Will in action. My brave, open-minded boy. Who knows nothing of this racism. Who himself can be an example not only for people with disabilities, but for his race as well. We should all be able to act accordingly - and follow young William's innocent but correct example.

Now you're punching
And you're kicking
And you're shouting at me
I'm relying on your common decency
So far it hasn't surfaced
But I'm sure it exists
It just takes a while to travel
From your head to your fists

I have kin who resided and embodied the stereotypical perspective of upper middle class Southern whites of the ‘50s and ‘60s. While I cannot and do not condone their attitudes, I have to take them in context and perspective. However, I never saw or understood them to be anything but racist in word. Not deed. Never malicious. More ignorant and fearful, to be honest.

But that brand of racism is a far, far cry from what I glimpsed on that message board. This is contentious. Angry. With movement. Scared me a little. And I don’t scare easily.

This is also not a partisan issue. It’s got nothing to do with political parties or ideology. To use examples from either side of our current political spectrum to help make a point diminishes the matter at hand. This is a human condition issue. It’s about people. Plain and simple. Who were, in fact, all made equal by our Creator. It’s presumptuous of us to judge and view otherwise.

I can't understand
What makes a man
Hate another man
Help me understand

I was asked if I was going to “report” this message board for offensive content. Turns out the domain owners have barricaded themselves behind a privacy service. And while I firmly adhere to the Voltaire school of thought in most matters of controversy or disagreement – I do not agree with what you have to say, but I'll defend to the death your right to say it – I must admit that this gave me a moment of pause. Getting entangled with people of this mindset is not the battle I want to fight, the hill I want to die on, so to speak. There are other ways to address the issue. You're reading one of them right now. So thank you.

You've got to be taught to be afraid
Of people whose eyes are oddly made
And people whose skin is a different shade
You've got to be carefully taught

More than anything, now that I’ve had time to process and the initial shock and awe has subsided, I’m sad. And disappointed. For as far as our country has come since Dr. King and others worked so tirelessly and faithfully for civil rights, we apparently still have a long way to go. In those early days, the issues were more out in the open. Obvious. These days, such things are more cloaked and subversive. And as a result, more divisive and potentially dangerous.

I’m not going to say that there are no easy answers, because I don’t believe that’s the crux of the matter. It’s solutions that need to be cultivated. For as long as such people belong to such sites and perpetuate such lines of thinking from generation to generation and don’t want to alter their world view, solutions that stick are a long time coming.

And that makes me saddest of all.

I can't understand
What makes a man
Hate another man
Help me understand...

Sign it. Share it. Restore it.

2010-07-21T07:24:00.001-04:00

This Gulf thing. Been a while since we (as in you and me) have chatted about it. It’s still there, even though it’s reported that progress is being made in a successful fashion to cap the bloody thing. And I’m still full of #$)*$&#$ about it.

Not much is happening here in my part the west coast of the F-L-A in terms of physically helping the cause. But I’m staying currently educated and trying to plug in to as many places and sources as possible. As the cliché goes, I’m ready, willing and able.

One of my besties, she of I Read Banned Books, enlightened me to this cause: Restore the Gulf. It’s easy to participate in this one: click on the link, have a little look around and just plunk down your John or Joan Hancock on a petition that emphatically says “I demand that a plan to restore American’s Gulf be fully funded and implemented for me and future generations.”

Notable Louisiana residents (including my political boyfriend James Carville, Emeril Lagasse, the Manning brothers and Sandra Bullock) have come together in a short video to plug the cause. Look! Here it is:

So while you’re taking a hit off your morning coffee or energy drink or unsweetened raspberry iced tea fron Dunkin’ Donuts (not that I’d know anything about that last option) take a gander at the video. And sign the petition. For so many reasons.

Not the least of which is that it’s the right thing to do.

If music be the food of love, play on. Tuesday Tunes

2010-07-13T13:32:00.004-04:00

It's been way too long since I've played word association with my crazy-diverse iTunes collection. Here's a glimpse into that part of my that moves to a syncopated beat. (OK, sometimes it's syncopated. Sometimes it's not. Just go with me here...)

Storm: “Stormy Weather” ~ Lena Horne

Dark: “Whistling in the Dark” ~ They Might Be Giants

Late: “Stay Up Late” ~ Talking Heads

Heavy: “Heavy Metal Drummer” ~ Wilco

How can I not love a song with the lyric
“she fell in love with the drummer.”
Seriously.

Television: “Sleeping With the Television On” ~ Billy Joel

from arguably my favorite complete Billy Joel album,
the underrated Glass Houses

Leave: “Could I Leave You?” ~ Follies

From the musical "Follies" written by Stephen Sondheim.

If you're new here, I love him like it's my job.

Busy: “Cat’s In the Cradle” ~ Harry Chapin

Smooth: “Agua de Beber” ~ Astrud Gilberto

& Antonio Carlos Jobim

Gentle: “Gentle on My Mind” ~ Glen Campbell

And because I cannot help myself,

I give you the opposite of gentle:

Hurt: “Down in the Depths” ~ Lisa Stansfield

One of my most favorite songs in the entire world.

'Twas written by my musical idol, Cole Porter.

Meme Monday. Still rockin' in the free world.

2010-07-12T09:18:00.002-04:00

Hello and welcome to yet another (over)sharing from the World According to Janey. There will be a quiz at the end of the lesson, so pay attention!

Who...
…is easy to love?
Young William, natch!

…do you just wanna smack?
There’s a list. Hold on…

…do you talk to when you’re alone?
Myself. The telly. God. Not necessarily in that order.

What...
…dangerous things do you do while driving?
Drive too fast. Let my mind wander and think about stuff other than what’s on the road. Yeah. I know.

…would you never, ever, ever give up?
Iced tea and cheese. Never. Ever. Ever.

…is Satan’s last name?
It changes on a daily basis. Today it’s Mel Gibson. Bastid, that one is.

…is the last thing that moved you?
Thinking about the daughter of one of my BFFs and how she treats Will like a regular kid. Their relationship is amazing and brings me to tears on a regular basis.

…is the freakiest thing in your house?
My KGB phone. What?

When...
…is it time to turn over a new leaf?
When the old one is too shriveled to be useful and is too dried to serve as a good place to hide behind.

…will you be all that you can be?
A question I ask myself every single day…

…is enough enough?
When I figure it out, I’ll let y’all know. Remember what Mother Teresa said: “I know God never gives you more than you can handle. I just wish He didn’t trust me so much.”

…do you go to the dark side?
When I need to eat. And when I spend too much time by myself. Which is more than you'd think. I don’t do well when left alone too long. So text/e-mail and check on me – ‘kay?

Where...
…are your pants?
Hugging my tuchus at the moment.

…is your last will and testament?
Sitting on the mister’s desk, waiting for us to find a notary and a witness. Any volunteers?

…is your junk food stash?
Since I’m really trying to eat clean, I don’t have one at the moment. Although it’s usually in the freezer, since I’m a sucker for ice cream.

…are you the happiest?
When I’m around water – beach, lake, pool. It soothes me somehow. Perhaps I am part mermaid.

Why...
…are there no seat belts on school buses?
Whoa. I never thought of this. Budget, probably. Or piss-poor planning.

…are musicians sexy and plumbers aren’t?
Seriously? You’re asking this question of the woman who’s been in love with Stewart Copeland for 30 years? The chick who has tales yet untold about myriad relationships with tune-making dudes? The girl for whom music is a serious aphrodisiac?

Although a plumber who solves the problem of malfunctioning indoor plumbing could look awfully good to this diva in the right light…

…did the chicken cross the road?
Because he could, dammit!

…do we revere athletes more than teachers?
Do not get me started on this one…

Would you...
…swim the English channel for a doughnut and coffee? If not, what?
Quite possibly. If the doughnut was a Krispy Kreme Hot Now and the coffee Cuban.

…forgive someone who deliberately hurt you?
Yes. I have. And under the right circumstances, I will continue to do so.

…rather believe a lie if it hurt you less than the truth?
No. The truth will, as they say, set you free. And it eliminates the persistent, paralyzing what ifs.

…still need me, would you still feed me, when I’m 64?
Yeah. Yes I will.

Once more, with waaaay too much feeling

2010-07-10T09:05:00.003-04:00

It's a tough place to be right now. My world.

Something is up with Will and we can't seem to get a handle on it. Increased seizure activity. Like really increased. At least the damn things aren't of the tonic clonic/grand mal variety. Short, zone-out, petite mals are the episode du jour. And there are a hell of a lot of them. A lingering ear infection is hanging around as well.

My poor, sweet, brave boy.

Couple that with some insensitive comments by unthinking people and you have a tense, very emotional situation.

As Will goes, so do I. I'm not in a particularly good place at the moment. Such is the life of a mama with a kiddo who has serious, chronic health issues. I can't even seem to take proper care of myself -- never a good thing. But my priorities, my focus, my heart -- all with my child. Can't help it. How I'm wired.

I realize I sound like a one-note songstress these days -- but this is consuming my world. These infrequent blog posts are a catharsis of sorts for me. Need to get this angst out somehow. Not going to apologize for it either. Nor am I going to apologize for my parenting skills -- yeah, even those have come under some criticism recently. From people who technically should know better.

Bite me. When you have a child like Will, then you can perhaps offer advice. Until then, shut it.

I'm doing the best that I can.

As I watch him sleep after yet another "carpe diem" (the second in less than 18 hours) I try desperately not to cry. Mothers are supposed to protect their children from the bad things. The hurts. The monsters under the bed. But I can't protect Will from this affliction he's had since birth. It's tearing me up inside. Damn control issues.

A very dear friend refers me often to Psalm 46... "Be still and know that I am God." I know in my heart and spirit this is the best advice, but I struggle with it, as it's hard for me to slow down and hush up long enough. He is watching over Will. I must rest in that. Easy to say, not always as easy to do. But I'm trying.

Meanwhile, we forge along. More questions than answers. Such is the fabric of our life.

Happy Birthday, Home

2010-07-04T08:48:00.003-04:00

Well, she was an American girl
Raised on promises...

In honor of the celebration of my country's birthday, I went hunting for video of perhaps the most amazing and patriotic experience I've ever been a part of. And wouldn't you know that YouTube didn't let me down:

I love this for a lot of reasons.

First and foremost, it's Miss Whitney, at her very best, before BobbyBrown! and crack and whatever else made her the caricature that we see today. Her voice, majestic and radient, coupled with the subtle elegance of the backing Florida Orchestra made this rendition of the National Anthem truly iconic. It's my favorite version ever.

Better yet is the fact that I was there in person to hear her sing. Super Bowl XXV. Tampa Stadium. 1991. The Buffalo Bills versus the New York Giants. Phil Simms in his heyday. Hell of a game, with a heartbreaking finish for the resiliant Bills fans. I'd never seen grown men cry at a sporting event before -- but burly gents and usually stoic dudes were wiping away tears with their sweatshirt sleeves and gruffly consoling each other. Whoever says sports are "just games" is deluded. Or non-fan haters.

Anyhoo.

They've all gone to look for America
All gone to look for America...

The game was played literally days after the first Gulf War started. MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa was Central Command. And the largest sporting event in the world was held just about five miles away. The images of the movie Black Sunday were evoked by the media frequently in the week preceeding the game. My dad was on the local Super Bowl planning committe, and as a resulting perk, got to purchase tickets. I had nosebleed seats (and a date that crapped out on me at the last minute. Douchebag. Yet another story for another day.)

Security was intense. The air was electric with varying currents of anxiety and anticipation. I was frisked, poked, prodded and explored. But.. when the orchestra played those oh-so-familiar notes and Whitney opened her mouth to sing, you could feel the tension subside and the entire stadium, down to a person, swell with pride and love of country.

This land is your land, this land is my land
From California, to the New York Island
From the redwood forest, to the Gulf stream waters
This land was made for you and me

This Gulf War was the first taste of combat my generation could fully grasp, as we were too young to completely understand the nuances of Vietnam (although I remember vividly seeing Dan Rather reporting on the war on the CBS evening news while we ate dinner.) And it was vivid -- CNN brought every single action and movement to us, live, 24/7, and in color (remember the neon green of the night over Baghdad behind Arthur "Scud Stud" Kent?)

Well she was an American girl
Raised on promises...

We weren't jaded then to all things war-related, as we are now. That first blush of war unearthed patriotism and uncertainty and curiosity, colored by naivete and hopeful expectations for resolution and the obligation of our country as the protector of the world. Little did we know what would lie ahead, nearly 20 years later, as we struggle to make sense of a war that shouldn't have happened and seemingly has no end for the brave men and women who are simply doing their jobs as military employees. [/end liberal Janey PSA]

But that January night, as Whitney let forth with the glory of her voice, dropping over us the words of love for country, we simply embraced the moment for what it was -- one cloaked in pride for who we were and what we stood for as Americans.

O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave...

It's a good reminder for me on a day when my country is still at war. When my Gulf stream waters have been violated and invaded and sullied. When the echos of a Civil War of words and perspective and ideologies about the direction our nation should take pits citizen against citizen, brother against brother, sister against sister. When economic hardships and employment woes are the norm rather than the exception.

Despite it all, this is still the place to be. Resillient and proud, we shall over come. It's just what we do here in America.

Happy Birthday, Home.

America! America!

God mend thine ev'ry flaw,

Confirm thy soul in self-control,

Thy liberty in law.

Stay Flexible

2010-06-29T22:37:00.000-04:00

The best laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!
~ Robert Burns

I should have been out and about and attending a meeting I’d been looking forward to right about… now.

But.

(You know there’s always a but with a lead-in like that.)

Young William’s health issues reared their horrible heads.

And just like that, my plans changes.

Seizure. Meds. Sleep. Gentle tending. Night night.

My ears are wired. My eyes are single focused. I don’t engage the recliner part of the sofa since I need to be able to get up and quickly at a moment’s notice.

Tonight, my parental concern is coupled with some disappointment. I was really looking forward to the meeting I had on the schedule. The subject matter was something that interests me – and I was hoping to plug in with the sponsoring non-profit so I can use some of my overly extensive training and skills.

Not to be. My version of motherhood took priority.

And I’d be lying if I said this didn’t irk me. Please understand that I’m not irked with Will – it’s the circumstances that make me mad.

It’s frustrating. I want to reach out and expand my scope – to do things that I have some passion about and to share myself with the community. But my first priority – now, then and always – is to my child. His needs supersede everything.

And tonight, he needed me. So my plans were rearranged. As they needed to be.

True confession: I had a little, very brief pity party for myself. But it didn’t last long. Not at all. When one starts reflecting on one’s blessings, even in the face of a trying situation, the pity party gets busted up pretty damn quickly.

I’m blessed to have faith that sustains and a God who doesn’t leave me, even when I get overwhelmed and forgetful.

I’m blessed to have true friends new and longtime who listen when I ask, who don’t pity when I vent, who don’t abandon when I’m not perfect. Who take me just as I am, flaws and weird life and all.

Most of all, I’m blessed to have an amazing, resilient child who bounces back after crises, who is the strongest person I know.

Who is my hero.

Priorities.

Walking through the valley

2010-06-05T12:00:00.003-04:00

I know God never gives you more than you can handle. I just wish He didn’t trust me so much.
~ Mother Teresa

It’s become a Saturday standard around here.

Will had a seizure just now. This one was particularly bad. Tonic-clonic (the type of seizure formerly known as grand mal. Prince isn’t the only one that can change his name…) And while it lasted probably around three minutes, it seemed like an eternity.

Can I just tell you how much I effing HATE that he has to go through this… you cannot even fathom the depth of my hate for this.

I seriously think I know what hell looks like – it’s watching your baby going through such a horrible episode, his body in unprovoked angst, while you stand by, helpless to stop or control it.

I would not wish this on my worst enemy.

And mixed in with the pain and drained emotions is anger. Yeah. Not at myself, for once. Novel.

I’m angry at this moment... at God.

I just don’t understand why this has to happen to MY boy. Who never ever did anything to deserve this. Whose entire existence, since the very moment he came into this world, has been plagued with issues of the health variety. C’mon – he nearly died at only two weeks old because of his precarious health. I know that this sort of thing is all he knows. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck. Big fucking time.

I found myself, just moments ago, with tears running down my face and catches in my throat. Bargaining with God. Give me the seizures and the pain – take them from Will and give them to me. When one’s heart walks around outside one’s body, one does and says whatever she can to protect that heart.

I know that’s not God’s style – not His thing. He loves Will. He loves me. And we love Him. There is no question about any of that. But a mother in pain for her child says many things in the heat of the moment trying to make sense of what is to her a senseless situation.

A very wise friend (who is also a pastor) told me that it’s OK to be mad at God – if anyone can take it, He can. But (and you know there’s always a “but” with this sort of thing…) you just can’t let it consume you. Much like Ari Gold always says, you eventually gotta hug it out. In a manner of speaking.

Will’s sleeping it off now, sawing logs like he’s in the finals of the Lumberjack Games. (He inherited the Johnson sinus issues. As well as the Johnson wide feet. Lucky us.) And after some TLC from some dear friends who made me giggle, some counsel from a loving pal and some quiet time with God, I think I’ve regained some equilibrium.

Not sure why this episode affected me so deeply.

Maybe it’s because it hit Will so hard.

Maybe it’s because my feelings of helplessness simply reached their tolerance point.

Maybe it’s just because.

If you should ever leave me
Though life would still go on, believe me
The world could show nothing to me
So what good would livin' do me
God only knows what I'd be without you

Is that a championship trophy in your pocket...

2010-06-03T18:01:00.007-04:00

Don’t call me stupid.
~ Kevin Kline as Otto, A Fish Called Wanda

Don’t call me shallow. Often.
~ Janey

Fact: I am a chick.
Fact: I like sports.
Fact: I have been known, on occasion, to appreciate the physical attributes of boy-types who play sports. In a very shallow and slightly lascivious way.

What?

At least I’m honest.

It ain’t always easy being a female sports fan. Not in my world, anyway. Most of my galpals don’t get my intense affection for all things ESPN-esque. Sure, they may have cursory interest in their college teams or our local sports franchises, but nothing resembling what I would call passion. And when I try to talk games or stats or drafts with the fellas, I get mixed reactions – from a condescending pat on the head to being ignored to some genuine give-and-take.

It’s just the way it is.

I grew up in a household that was filled with sports. My dad loves them; my mom could be considered a fan. My brother played ‘em – primarily baseball. Many spring and summer nights were spent with my fanny riding the splintery pine of Little League bleachers, drinking slightly flat soda (because there was something wrong with the dispenser in the concession stand) and learning to watch and call balls versus strikes. (And given the current state of umpiring and questionable calls in MLB, I might want to think about pursuing this a bit further. Although the ump outfit is not the most attractive thing I've ever seen...)

Oh – and I also took serious note of the players on any of those teams – who appealed to me in a hormonal sort of way. Hormones. The Achilles Heel of any adolescent. But it was a win-win all the way around, the way I looked at it.

Cute boys and sports. A match made in Janey heaven. Been that way ever since.

And ever since, I’ve tried to reconcile my genuine interest in sports with my genuine appreciation of the male specimen. Tried like hell to make sure I’m not looked at like a “camp follower” or a “groupie” or that most loathed of all labels – a “bimbo.”

Sure, I developed a rabid interest in the LA Dodgers of the early/mid ‘80s because of the chiseled boyish good looks of their ballyhooed second baseman, Steve Sax (that's him, over <<<<<). But I also became attached for life to the Boston Celtics around that same time – and trust me, that was not a team made up of pinup boys. Bless Larry Bird’s heart. Good thing he’s one hell of an athlete. It really is the “sport” itself I am interested in – that I follow and study and watch and obsess over and enjoy. And if there’s a player I find that I fancy (John Lynch – call me! How you doin’, Andre Agassi? Buy me a drink, Dario Franchiti?) then that’s just a bonus. I think. Note: there is one exception to my “I am not a bimbo” declaration. Swimming. While I do like the sport – even though I really only pay attention during Olympic years – have you seen those boys in their “uniforms?” Mother Nature – thank you thank you thank you.

Let me make one point VERY clear. As a rule, I am a sports fan of the team -- be it the Rays, Celtics, Gators or Buccaneers -- not specific players. Should a player I like be traded from my team, depending on where he goes, I wish him well. But he's kinda dead to me. Just how I choose to function. Your millage may vary. And that's fine. But I wanted you to know where I stood...

I've been threatening for a while now to start a blog/site about sports from a chick's perspective. I think this summer may afford me the time and mood to make good on my threat. And I now have a partner-in-crime for this project! I want whatever we come up with to be a place for thinking women who are sports fans. To be an outlet for perspectives on something that, let’s face it, has traditionally been a man’s world. And this here chick’s perspective could be clinical (I am a Fantasy Football commissioner/team owner); observational (got an opinion on everything -- but I also respect the opinions of others); retrospecitcal (Hey now -- that is so a word. I just made it up. Hush.); and, yes, sometimes hormonal and a little saucy. Hubba hubba.

But never ever bimbo-esque. Promise. You can take it to the bank.

We could always opt for the more temporal gratification 
Of sheer physical attraction 
That wouldn't make you a shallow person 
Would it?
“Here I Am” ~ Lyle Lovett

The Poem's the Thing

2010-06-02T19:21:00.001-04:00

Prompt:

What is your favorite poem? Why?

Long before I was an English major or had tried to analyze Thomas Pynchon or even wrote my high school senior honors’ paper about James Baldwin, I was a more than slightly precocious little girl who discovered her love of literature and pop culture at a very early age. So when I received a very adorable dachshund for my fifth birthday, no one blinked an eye when I named him Hamlet.

Now, lest you think I was reading a pop up version of the sad tale of the Prince of Denmark and his comrades, let me mention that one of my favorite shows on the telly was Gilligan’s Island. And my favorite episode (aside from the radioactive vegetables one) is the one featuring that rapscallion Harold Hecuba and the all-singing, all-dancing musical version of Hamlet. From epic pop culture nodding to classic literature a doggie was named.

Thus began my relationship with Shakespeare – one that’s only gotten stronger with time. Given that, it’s no surprise that my favorite poem is a Shakespearean sonnet. One that I have loved since I was about 15 years old. I was a slightly-awkward, drama-loving, secretly-shy girl who, unbeknownst to family, friends and even herself, felt most at home on stage. And was asked to participate, with mostly upperclassmen, in a school-wide Shakespeare festival. Even now, a thousand years later, I still get a little farklempt when I think about it. To me, it was a Big Deal. I played a small supporting role in a scene from Henry IV, Part 1 (Mistress Quickly – sharing a scene with the characters of Falstaff and Prince Hall was no small feat – scenery chewers both) and recited a dramatic interpretation of a sonnet. Sonnet 116 to be exact.

And in that moment in the program when it came for me to do my thing, presenting words older than I could ever imagine at my tender age, standing alone on a stage in front of peers and parents, I, for perhaps the first time during my emersion as a young woman, felt like my true authentic self. I owned that moment. Those words, their sentiment, though much more mature than my limited life experience could grasp, their rhythm – they became part of my essence that day. They have never left me.

So I give you my favorite poem. Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116. Typed from memory.

A bit of my soul on paper.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O no! it is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken.

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Kool-Aid Wishes and Oreo Dreams

2010-06-01T21:07:00.002-04:00

Prompt of the Day:
When you were little, what did you want to be when you grew up...

Adults are always asking little kids what they want to be when they grow up because they're looking for ideas.
~ Paula Poundstone

As a wee lass, there were two things I wanted to be when I grew up. One was a weather girl. Yes, in those days, there was such a “job” as being a weather girl. I figured I could stand, point, wear fabulous clothes and tell people to either head to the beach or take an umbrella with them. I did give some thought to the science of the weather – I could tell a cumulous from a nimbus. And always was able to see the bunny rabbits and Santa Claus in the cloud formations when I was sunbathing in the back yard.

And then Janey went off to college and in her very first spring, met Intro to Meteorology. Not a match made in heaven. More like in the horridly hot exosphere.

One semester, several blown-off classes and many pre-test all-nighters later, the dream of being a weather girl was dead. That’s D for dead, if you catch my drift.

The other childhood dream job – and one I still fancy periodically – is to be a talk show host. In the mold of Merv Griffin or Mike Douglas. Along with game shows (God bless the Game Show Network for giving me my fix of Match Game, Tic Tac Dough and the various financial incarnations of Dick Clark’s Pyramid), talk shows were part of my regular telly viewing, especially in the summer time. Both urbane and unpretentious, the classic talk show was a venue for witty repartee, knowing banter, some unguarded goofiness and glamour glamour glamour. And I wanted to be a part of it. To ask the questions. Laugh. Be a little provocative. Host one hell of a lively – and live – on cameral cocktail party.

Times changed, though – and so did the talk show. Things are slicker now, more scripted and less free-wheeling. But I still hope that somehow fate will see fit to point me in a direction where I can be a raconteur with Regis (does he even need a last name?), share a chuckle with Richard Simmons and perhaps sing a little with Nathan Lane.

Check your local listings for dates and times.

When they tell you to grow up, they mean stop growing.
~ Tom Robbins

Gratitude

2010-05-31T10:00:00.002-04:00

Your silent tents of green
We deck with fragrant flowers;
Yours has the suffering been,
The memory shall be ours.
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Memorial Day

Decoration Day

A time to remember those who gave their lives in military service during wartime defending the rights of others.

War. Daunting term. One I had to learn, accept and process early in life. Some of my earliest memories are of sitting at the dinner table, watching Dan Rather reporting from the jungles of Vietnam. Watching the protests against the war. Trying to understand rhetoric from both sides at a very tender age.

War. It was a constant part of our family vacations, in a very gentle, curious form. As we loaded into the family roadster and took off to visit kinfolk and see sights across the South, there was always a page or two in our AAA TripTik detailing the way to a Civil War battlefield. Kennesaw Mountain. Ft. Sumter. Manassas. Appomattox. Petersburg. Vicksburg. We saw ‘em all. As a tweenage girl, this was not my idea of exciting and I did my level best to at least feign some interest. Kind of. It helped if there was a gift shop in the visitors’ center. The battlefields were just places I read about in my history books – the details of the battles was just information to be learned and regurgitated on a test. Seeing them up close and personal – not thrilling.

That changed somewhat after I read, for the first of many, many, many times, Gone with the Wind. War now had a face for me – albeit a fictional and historical one. When we would drive through middle Georgia on our way to Atlanta, I’d look through the trees and try to imagine soldiers on horseback patrolling or fighting.

In relation to the way modern wars are fought, it seemed so primitive. But maybe that’s war in its purist form without a lot of bells and whistles.

The beginning of the end of war lies in remembrance.
~ Herman Wouk

True confession: I’m not crazy about wars or the reasons given for fighting them. That’s just me – your opinion may, and probably does, vary. While not a technical pacifist, I do lean that way. I’m the girl who once hummed “Give Peace a Chance” while at an air show at our local Air Force base. Again, your millage may vary.

I’d like to think, in my very idealistic fashion, that disputes can be solved with discussion and compromise. But grown-up me knows that’s not always possible, always the case. War is war. A necessary evil. It’s a tricky wicket, this war thing.

Over time, I’ve come to the realization that wars are part of the human condition – it was a war, in fact, that was a catalyst in our country being created. And why I can speak my piece in peace, freely without censorship. Why we still can enjoy our many, plentiful freedom blessings. And I don’t take any of those lightly or for granted.

I am, above all, a team player. And my team is that of my country. As David Puddy once famously said, with his face painted in the colors of his fave hockey squad “… gotta support the team.” And so I do. To the best of my ability. I love my country. Very very much.

I’m thinking about our team, composed of brave men and women, who are doing their thing on shores far away on behalf of our country. It’s not an easy job – the one they’ve been tasked with. It’s tricky and complicated and very dangerous, sometimes with a fatal outcome.

So today, on a day deemed as a time to remember those who gave their lives in defense of rights and freedoms and solutions, we pause to ponder. And say a most earnest and indebted thank you. Regardless of whether we agree with the involvement, the people who lived it first hand are more than worthy of our appreciation, care and gratitude.

Thank you. From the bottom of my heart.

How important it is for us to recognize and celebrate our heroes and she-roes!

~ Maya Angelou

A Word from Atop the Soapbox

2010-05-30T18:25:00.005-04:00

Protest: an expression or declaration of objection, disapproval, or dissent, often in opposition to something a person is powerless to prevent or avoid: a protest against increased taxation.

There is no place hotter than inland Florida during the summer months. Humidity clings to the air like tween girls to one other upon a Justin Bieber sighting. So to be dressed in proper ’80s business attire (it was, after all, the summer of 1986) which included hose, heels and an “I Am Woman Take Me Seriously” paisley silk bow tie scarf, it had to be some sort of important occasion. And it was.

I was blowing off summer classes in Gainesville and driving in a van with some pals to participate in my first protest. In Tallahassee. At the capital building. Outside. The cause: stopping tuition hikes.

In my world in the era of Reagan-omics, protests and other forms of political activism were relegated to the ideological fringe, even on a college campus. In those days, my personal resolve wasn’t developed or particularly strong and I, at least on the surface, went along to get along. I would look at the outspoken souls who chained themselves to the doors of the campus administrative building to protest economic involvement in South Africa (which in those days was still under the cloud of apartheid) and wonder what it would be like to join them. Never had enough nerve or self-confidence to do so. The pull of peer pressure and acceptance was too great.

When the opportunity to “march on Tally” came up, I jumped at it immediately. And march we did. Carrying signs, shouting chants “Stop Tuition Hikes NOW!” Making nice for the photo ops. Cameras still and video documented our activity – many from around the state. Cool! A rewarding day and good deed done.

Once back home in Gainesville, I checked the answering machine in my ghetto apartment (now that’s another story for another day) and found a message from my parents. Who wondered how my day was. They had seen me in a news clip about the protest. And until then, had no idea where/what I was doing. Yeah. That was a fun ensuing message.

Fight the power. Except if it’s paying your bills.

Unless you’re new here (and if you are, Hello! Welcome! Come on in! Can I get you something to drink?) you probably know that these days I lean a little to the left (HA!) on most issues political, social and the like. I don’t have many kindred spirits in this arena in my real life (I am but a curiosity to the many, many Republican conservatives I know) – and as a result, I try to keep my mouth shut and relegate my opinions and actions to speaking carefully when asked specifically to do so and blathering virtual words. Like these. Funny how that works, isn’t it…

The colossal brouhaha in the Gulf with gushing oil, smoke, mirrors, excuses and repercussions has, basically, gotten me all riled up. More than likely, it’s because this one hits close to home – literally. I live 10 minutes from the Gulf and if the breeze blows just right, I can smell the salt air on my patio. My casual poo-poo-ing of a situation usually just involves some research, maybe a letter ripped off to the appropriate governmental representative and a lot of verbal indignation.

Not this time.

I want to take some action. To make me feel like I’m doing something to help the situation. Make a difference. And at first blush, I thought protesting might be the answer. Marching with a sign, in the Florida heat, letting my voice be heard. Except this time, it would be for something slightly more global than what my college classes cost an hour. I found details of organized protests across my county, where people would stand and chant and wave signs in front of BP stations.

But. Something about that didn’t set right with me. And so I delayed my pursuit.

After thinking about it for a bit (and after a thoughtful conversation with the slightly more conservative Mister) I realized that while it would feel good – to me – to express my righteous indignation via a classic protest, it’s not all that pro-active. It’s the bigwigs at BP at whom I want to direct my ire – not the dude or dudette who owns the station. (And yeah I know that a protest of this nature isn’t just about that, but it’s not the route I personally want to take.)

I guess I’m just looking for something tangible to **do** to demonstrate how I feel – and to help. Not just to restate the obvious when it comes to blam and say “Bad BP, bad BP.” But to work to make the situation better.

Maybe that’s uber-idealogical of me. It’s how I’m wired, for better or for worse. Dwelling on pointing fingers for extended periods of time isn’t constructive, in my opinion. Getting about the business of pro-active assistance is.

So while you won’t see me on the news wielding a sign and chanting in front of a filling station, you might, should the situation have escalated so, see me with my bottle of blue Dawn on the Gulf coast here in my part of the F-L-A, cleaning oil off a precious sea creature and giving them some TLC. And you can be sure I’ll keep reading and learning and expressing my righteous indignation, even if only in words.

And someday, you will catch me in a protest for something when I believe it will be the most constructive thing to do. Make sure you call or e-mail me when you see me on the news. Thanks. That would be groovy.

Being Bodacious: Chapter 7

2010-05-25T20:01:00.002-04:00

You have brains in your head.
You have feet in your shoes.
You can steer yourself any direction you choose.
You’re on your own. And you know what you know.
And YOU are the girl who’ll decide where to go...

~ Theodor Geisel

A friend of my parents recently unexpectedly passed away – a rare, weird blood disease turned very insidious. In celebration of his life, his widow and children hosted an informal get-together where friends and family could tell tales and toast to his memory. The many facets of his personality and his character unfolded as the cocktails flowed and the conversation accelerated. What is interesting (at least to me) is that he will be remembered for many different things to many different people – each person carrying a distinctive imprint of him in their memory and their hearts.

As I am wont to do, I’ve been thinking (being homebound with a sick kiddo has given me plenty of time for my favorite mental pastime) – this little story has started the wheels turning about mortality and legacy and how we each spend our individually unique time here on the planet…

So, my bodacious ones… here’s the point to ponder for the week:

If you were to be remembered for, let’s say, five things that were distinctively, positively **you**, what would they be.

Maybe you make an amazing piecrust. Or have a laugh that undoubtedly signals your delight. Perhaps you have a secret passion for trashy beach novels (not that I'd know anything about that...)

Ahem. This is not the place for any self-deprecation or negativity. This is the place to celebrate those things that are uniquely you – those things for which you want to be remembered.

Have at it – what are you waiting for? We can’t wait to be able to celebrate **you**

A Word from the Domestic Goddess

2010-05-21T14:41:00.002-04:00

I have a long-standing love affair with the tomato. My precious pomme d'amour. My Uncle Mac, the gentleman farmer from Mississippi, grew them tall and plentiful in his backyard -- one of the highlights of our family trips to Jackson was helping pick the 'maters and then watching my Auntie Ruth slice them then, season with salt and pepper, and serve at every meal. Even breakfast. They stood on their own as highlights of the dinner table -- no balsamic affectations needed, no mozzarella accompaniment necessary.

The tomatoes I encounter these days aren't quite as lush as the ones of my Southern summer childhood -- I find the ones from the grocery need some accessories to get them palette-ready. This soup does the trick. The oven-roasting gives the 'maters a deep resonance, with the trifecta of onions, garlic and shallot adding a sweet note. It's a little taste of summer in a bowl. Just something else to love.

Roasted Tomato Soup

2 1/2 pounds fresh tomatoes (mix of fresh heirlooms, cherry, vine and plum tomatoes)
6 cloves garlic, peeled
2 small yellow onions, sliced
1 shallot, sliced
1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 quart organic chicken stock
2 bay leaves
2 tablespoons butter
1/2 cup chopped fresh basil leaves,
3/4 cup heavy cream, optional

Directions
Preheat oven to 450 degrees F.
Wash, core and cut the tomatoes into halves. Spread the tomatoes, garlic, shallots and onions onto a baking tray. Drizzle with 1/2 cup of olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Roast for 20 to 30 minutes, or until caramelized.
Remove roasted vegetables from the oven and transfer to a large stock pot Add 3/4 of the chicken stock, bay leaves, and butter. Bring to a boil, reduce heat and simmer for 15 to 20 minutes or until liquid has reduced by a third.
Wash and dry basil leaves, if using, and add to the pot. Use an immersion blender to puree the soup until smooth. Return soup to low heat, add cream and adjust consistency with remaining chicken stock, if necessary. Season to taste with salt and freshly ground black pepper

Being Bodacious: Chapter 6

2010-05-19T16:38:00.001-04:00

It was my Labor Day weekend ritual as a teenager. Instead of celebrating the last days of “freedom” before the school bell rang on Tuesday morning, I found myself speed reading and writing to get my summer “homework assignments” done.

I perfected the art of procrastination at a very young age (ask my dad about helping me with a project about Samuel Gompers and John L. Lewis the Sunday at the end of Spring Break…) putting off things was something I just did. I put a lot of trust in my internal timer to know exactly how long it would take for me to complete something by the deadline.

Sure, trying to read The Scarlett Letter, An American Tragedy and The Old Man and the Sea in the span of three days may not have been the best idea I’d ever had, but at the extremely enlightened age of 16, it made some kind of weird, triumphant sense. Add an essay about “what I did over the summer” to the to-do list and you had a complete jumpstart from the lazy days of summer to academia.

Right now, we’re looking ahead to summer at Casa de Janey – our retrospective on what “we did over the summer” has yet to be written -- although here in the F-L-A, it feels like we’re already settled into at least the trapping of summer, with temperatures at July/August level and the constant hum of the air conditioner as the soundtrack. And as I get ready for the end of school for Young William, I’m doing the get-ready-for-the-season thing, picking up sunscreen and new beach towels and assessing the condition of our beach stuff.

So, Bodacious Ones, here’s a little point to ponder get the season rolling:

What do you do to get ready for summer? What says summer to you – music, food, clothes, activities, you name it…

Be sure to check in with the dashing Mr. Linky so we can come pay you and your blog a social call -- Bodacious chicks are nothing if not hospitable.

Meme Monday. It's got a purpose.

2010-05-10T21:46:00.004-04:00

People think responsibility is hard to bear. It's not. I think that sometimes it is the absence of responsibility that is harder to bear. You have a great feeling of impotence.
~ Dr. Henry Kissinger

Fun fact: I am a liberal.

Yeah, I know. Guess what else? Water is wet and birds (save for a couple of exceptions) fly.

Miss Janey’s left-leaning tendencies are not exactly a secret – I’ve been called, more than once “everyone’s favorite liberal.” In a few cases, I’m the ONLY liberal some people know (remember where I live, y’all. I’m not a member of the Religious Left for nothing. ) I’ve a friend who swears there’s a file on me and my “activities” in some government building. The fact that I bought and now proudly display a phone that was used in a KGB building in Moscow during the Cold War pretty much probably confirms this.

My liberal interests over the years have been mostly regulated to the social issues (don’t get me started…) and fiscal side of things. That’s not to say that I didn’t care about the other prong in the liberal trifecta – the environment. But my passions lay elsewhere. I’ve protested, written letters, worn ribbons, donated time and finances.

Until that damn methane bubble went and blew. Spewing oil into my beloved Gulf of Mexico. That did it.

The toll this disaster is going to take on so many aspects of the economy of the Gulf region can’t even begin to be counted yet. Not sure how I’m going to help here – but I’m going to lend a hand somehow. Might be something as simple as donating Dawn (the blue kind) to help clean our precious Florida wildlife. Might be something more – something where Will can participate too. But I want to help in some way.

Because saving the environment just got personal.

And, as I am wont to do pretty much anytime when my eyes are open, I got to thinking. About being a better world citizen. About the little changes I can make in how I conduct the business of living my life.

So today I made a point to haul my grocery tote bags with us as Will and I did our post-school run to the store. He likes ‘em, as they are easier for him to help carry.

Today I also began participating in a little initiative helmed by Sir Paul McCartney and his daughters called Meat Free Monday. To quote the site: Meat Free Monday is an environmental campaign to raise awareness of the climate-changing impact of meat production and consumption. Many people are unaware that livestock production is responsible for 18% of global greenhouse gas emissions – that’s more than the entire transport sector.

As I am the OCG (Original Carnivore Girl), this was a challenge for me to even consider participating. But I made it. I think it will be a mutually beneficial exercise for me, the world and Sir Paul.

And in honor of Meme Monday, I found quite serendipitously this meme about my eco-habits. I’ve answered honestly – and while I’m a little ashamed of some of my responses, it’s nice to know exactly where I have opportunities to grow in this area. No, I’m not going to take off for parts unknown on a Greenpeace boat or become a full time vegetarian (not that there’s anything wrong with that.) or start a hemp wardrobe. But I am going to be more aware of what I do and how I do it.

Because it’s now personal.

Be the change you want to see in the world.
~ Mahatma Gandhi

Do you recycle?
No, but I should. I discovered just a couple of days ago that the neighborhood recycle area is about five minutes from the house. No excuses. I do now read the paper on line and on my Kindle. So there’s that.

Do you do you laundry with hot or cold water?
Cold, with warm for whites.

What kind of light bulbs are in your house?
For the most part, they’re the energy efficient ones. I think. We’re still moving in and I’m getting used to the joint.

Do you compost?
No – but I’m thinking about it. There’s space in the new backyard to set something up. On the list to research.

What kind of vehicle do you drive?
A Honda Pilot.

Do you use plastic or reusable bags when grocery shopping?
I’ll fess up – I had been using the plastic ones. Yeah. I know. But now that the reusable ones are found, deployed and back in the care, I’m on that track.

What are three ways you conserve energy?
*I try to turn off lights when we’re not in that room. However, the Junior Member of the Household like to flip switches on and off. I mean well
*I take super efficient showers with pretty cool water.
*I try to run major appliances during non peak-hours. Doesn’t always happen that way, but again – I mean well.

Away, away, from men and towns,
To the wild wood and the downs,
To the silent wilderness,
Where the soul need not repress
Its music.
~ Percy Bysshe Shelley "To Jane, The Invitation"

Meme Monday. Because I said so.

2010-04-26T18:51:00.003-04:00

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...

2010-04-19T22:19:00.006-04:00

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

2010-04-15T12:07:00.001-04:00

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

2010-04-06T09:33:00.012-04:00

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

Being Bodacious: Chapter 5

2010-03-30T18:21:00.002-04:00

How hard it is to escape from places. However carefully one goes they hold you - you leave little bits of yourself fluttering on the fences - like rags and shreds of your very life.
~ Katherine Mansfield

I suspect we all have places we love. Locations that mean something to us. Where we feel most like our authentic selves. Cities. Countries. Towns. No place. Every place. Wide open spaces. The beach. The mountains. The desert.

I had occasion earlier this year to spend an extended amount of time in my most favorite place in the world – Manhattan. While the weather was less than cooperative (blizzard, anyone?) just being in the city and embracing the pace of it, the feel of it, the essence of it was good for me. Deep down to my soul. I wrote and thought and rejuvenated.

So, here’s this week’s Bodacious Point to Ponder:

What place feeds your soul? Where do you feel most at home? Most creative? Most peaceful? Most like your authentic self? Any and all of the above…

Let the Bodacious Travelogue begin!

You can fall in love at first sight with a place as with a person. ~Alec Waugh

Being Bodacious: Chapter 4

2010-03-22T17:12:00.002-04:00

Went to a concert last night. Rodrigo y Gabriela.

Great show – amazing musicians (both highly accomplished guitarists), with technical skills like I don’t think I’ve ever seen.

But what really struck me, especially about Gabriela, was the passion and joy with which she played. It radiated from her. It was infectious. In the way she played. In the way she moved. In the way she smiled. In the way she interacted with the audience. You couldn’t help but enjoy watching her perform because she was so damn delighted to be there. Doing her thing.

Got me thinking. Thinking bodaciously, that is.

So here’s my question of the moment, Bodacious Ones: What activity that you do/did/want to do gives you unbridled, gleeful joy? What’s your “thing?”

Don’t be shy. Don’t be embarrassed. Just be yourself. Let your light shine and share YOUR joy. We can't wait to hear about it.

WHOOOOOO!!!

Beaver's Dad has got it going on...

2010-03-15T12:43:00.003-04:00

You know you've morphed into a Woman of a Certain age when...

*Sleeping on the couch makes your back hurt.

*A $5.00 bottle of wine is no longer considered "the good stuff."

* You go to the drugstore for Tylenol, Pepsid and anything with SPF in it, rather than condoms and pregnancy test kits.

*"Hey! You kids! Get off my lawn!"

* "I just can't drink the way I used to" replaces "I'm never going to drink that much again."

*You suddenly realize, while watching Leave It to Beaver that Ward Cleaver is a handsome son-of-a-gun.

When did this happen?

At what point did old Ward become really rather hot? And snarky, too.

At first I chalked up this rather unsettling opinion to sleep deprivation and exhaustion -- after all, it was dark o'clock in the bloody morning when I was tuned in. But after catching a glimpse of a LITB episode this afternoon, my new perspective was confirmed: Ward's kind of a DILF.

He's tall, dark, and charmingly dapper in that '50s suburban dude way. And had a bit of a wise-cracking side that I never noticed before -- it was very subtle, but evident in his interactions with June. Sure, he's uptight -- what man in that era wasn't (and Maynard G. Krebs does not count) -- but when he'd sport that cardigan sweater in his bookcase-lined den and light up that pipe... well. Hmm. Hmm. Hmm.

I'm a little disturbed by this -- it's frickin' Ward Cleaver for goodness sake. Does this mean I'm going to start finding Lou Grant a little alluring? Or Mike Brady dishy? See what Maude saw in Walter Findley? Look at Mel Sharples with a lascivious eye? Imagine an intimate tête à tête with Oliver Wendell Douglas?

Maybe. At this point in my hormonal evolution, nothing would surprise me. After watching a suddenly rather hot Ray Romano on Men of a Certain Age earlier this year, well...

I'll really only start to worry about my well-being if I find myself watching Matlock for more than Ben's courtroom wiliness... rowr.

Demon elephants are mucking up my living room... film at 11

2010-03-08T07:39:00.001-05:00

I’m one of those people who dreams. A lot. Both the day kind and the night kind.

And while I can control the day kind, the night kind is more of a renegade. Those dreams. A different beast. Sometimes silly, sometimes inscrutable, sometimes crazy. Those I can process. Then leave behind, save for recounting the most interesting ones.

It’s the scary dreams I have a hard time leaving behind. Especially the ones with recurring themes.

And I have one in particular that haunts my very soul.

It involves Will. Dying. Young.

The moment I realize what’s happening in my subconscious is a tough one, as I fight like hell to wake up to stop the tragedy from playing out. Sometimes I’m successful. Sometimes not so much.

I had one of these dreams the other night. Days later, I happened to mention it to The Mister in casual conversation.

He got very quiet, then told me he had a similar nightmare. Except it involved us dying, leaving Will alone. Uncared for. Homeless and vulnerable.

Sent a shiver up my spine. Pierced my soul. Careened tears rolling down my cheeks

Even now.

And while we’re taking steps to prepare for Will’s financial future – a will, a trust, prudent planning – the future in general is daunting and frankly, a little terrifying from this perspective.

We do not know exactly what Will shall be as he matures and grows older. But I am realizing that our less-than-standard issue path is going to continue. And while I privately mourn little things that I once took for granted, I know I need to check all my guilt of the past and my uncertainty of the future at the door for the sake of Will’s present. So that his issues of the past can be handled in order for his future to be as brightly maximized as possible.

It’s not easy.

It makes me pensive.

And more than a little blue.

But it is what it is.

I hate the elephants in the room. Hate them. Wouldn’t wish them on anyone. And it seems addressing them doesn’t make them any more pleasant.

I just need to resign myself to the fact that they’re there. Get prepared to clean up the shit that they drop (and boy, do elephants shit a lot.) And figure out how to carry on. Bravely.

For Will.

Always for Will.

Being Bodacious: Chapter 3

2010-02-16T19:12:00.001-05:00

What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet...

What’s in a name? A hell of a lot, if you ask me.

A name is how you are identified. How you identify yourself. Often times, a name comes with a background or meaning or significance. Names are given with great care and thought.

So, my darling Bodacious Ones, let’s play the Name Game this week.

•Why were you given your name?

•What does it mean?

•Has your name influenced you as a person / your personality?

•What does your name mean to you?

Use these questions simply as a guide to tell us about the significance of your name – to you.

And for those of y’all who prefer to remain anonymous on your blog, please feel free to talk in general terms. No one needs to be uncomfortable with this little exercise. And like I always say – my blog, my rules. The same applies to all y’all. Tailor this one however you see fit. Coloring outside the lines is a favorite modus operandi of mine...

Well, who are you? (Who are you? Who, who, who, who?)
I really wanna know (Who are you? Who, who, who, who?)
Tell me, who are you? (Who are you? Who, who, who, who?)
'Cause I really wanna know (Who are you? Who, who, who, who?)

Meme Monday, Nordic Combined Edition.

2010-02-15T17:45:00.003-05:00

Yes, ladies and germs (and I use that word deliberately... **achoo**) it's time again for More Useless Information about Me... this time in HiDef!

And by the way, I define Nordic Combined. I am a quarter Swedish, after all. So there.

1. When you looked at yourself in the mirror today, what was the first thing you thought?
Nice undereye bags, there, Sick Girl. Good lord, I look bad.

2. How much cash do you have on you?
$17.82

3. What’s a word that rhymes with DOOR?
Rapport

4. Favorite planet?
I’m rather partial to Earth, to be honest. It’s done me right thus far, although Mars does have a bit of sex-hay appeal to it.

5. Who is the 4th person on your missed call list on your cell phone?
A number I don’t recognize. Wait… it’s the PODS people, probably about today’s final pickup.

6. What is your favorite ring tone on your phone?
I love my catch-all one: “Honky Tonk Woman” by the Stones.

7. What shirt are you wearing?
None.

HA! Made you snicker, didn’t I.

I’m wearing my pajamas. They are purple. Standard sick girl attire.

8. Do you label yourself?
Yep.

9. Name the brand of the shoes you’re currently wearing?
Old Navy terrycloth flip-flop slippers

10. Bright or Dark Room?
Dark. I have vampire-esque tendencies in this area.

11. What do you think about the person who took this survey before you?
I have no idea – I pilfered it from some dude whose blog popped up in a “blog meme questions” Google search

12. What does your watch look like?
Timex, gold/silver, Target special

13. What were you doing at midnight last night?
Watching the latest episode of “Real Housewives of Orange County” because I couldn’t get to sleep thanks to my cold. By the way, those women are awful. Seriously – who acts like that? Ridiculous.

14. What did your last text message you received on your cell say?
It was from the Mister – a note about the bedroom furniture we’re buying for the new house

15. Where is your nearest 7-11?
Quarter mile from here.

16. What's a word that you say a lot?
Please. Seriously? Will!

17. Who told you he/she loved you last?
My mother.

18. Last furry thing you touched?
The suspicious looking strawberries I discovered yesterday in the back of my fridge.

19. How many drugs have you done in the last three days?
Advil, Prozac, Zyrtek, Mucinex. I think that’s it.

20. How many rolls of film do you need developed?
None. Please. It’s a digital world and I’m living in it!

21. Favorite age you have been so far?
30 was good. Had the world by the tail. But I like to think the best is yet to come…

22. Your worst enemy?
Myself. Although there is another frenemy situation looming…

23. What is your current desktop picture?
My “table” at the Algonquin lobby. Look for a similar one next week…

24. What was the last thing you said to someone?
“My name is Mama. Not Janey. That’s not a good choice.”

25. If you had to choose between a million bucks or to be able to fly what would it be?
The money. Flying is what airplanes are for.

26. Do you like someone?
You betcha.

27. The last song you listened to?
“Shut Up and Kiss Me” – Mary Chapin Carpenter. I sang along as well. And it was AWESOME. Hee!

28. What time of day were you born?
7 am. That explains a lot.

29. What’s your favorite number?
27

30. Where did you live in 1987?
Gainesville and then the ‘Burg.

31. Are you jealous of anyone?
Truth be told – yep. I have a friend I miss a lot and am jealous of those who are spending time with her these days. I'm afraid I'm not interesting enough for her any more...

Anyhoo.

32. Is anyone jealous of you?
I cannot imagine who would be… seriously.

33. Where were you when 9/11 happened?
At work.

34. What do you do when vending machines steal your money?
Kick the bloody things.

35. Do you consider yourself kind?
Yes.

36. If you had to get a tattoo, where would it be?
Hip. And it would be an ampersand.

37. If you could be fluent in any other language, what would it be?
Spanish

38. Would you move for the person you loved?
Yes.

39. Are you touchy feely?
Depends on what my mood is.

40. What’s your life motto?
Be the change you want to see in the world.

41. Name three things that you have on you at all times?
Earrings, cell phone, glasses (either sun or reading)

42. What’s your favorite town/city?
New York, New York

43. What was the last thing you paid for with cash?
The co-pay at Will’s pediatrician.

44. When was the last time you wrote a letter to someone on paper and mailed it?
I honestly cannot remember. This makes me a little sad.

45. Can you change the oil on a car?
If “change the oil” means take it to the mechanic, then yes indeedy

46. Your first love: what is the last thing you heard about him/her?
I cannot remember… Google, here I come

47. How far back do you know about your ancestry?
About five generations. I have some work to do, don’t I…

48. The last time you dressed fancy, what did you wear and why did you dress fancy?
Black gown, purple pashmina, silver shoes, fabulous up-do. Debutante Ball in December.

49. Does anything hurt on your body right now?
Most things above the neck are in a mild state of discomfort at the moment. Damn cold.

50. Have you been burned by love?
Absolutely. But no, I’m not going to spill the details…