Back To School

You are an obsession, I cannot sleep
I am a possession unopened at your feet
There is no balance, no equality
Be still I will not accept defeat

I will have you, yes I will have you
I will find a way and I will have you
Like a butterfly, a wild butterfly
I will collect you and capture you

You are an obsession, you're my obsession 

I love back to school time.

I have a life-long love of all things "back to school", especially school supplies and organization tools, which seem to be in abundance and reasonably priced from mid-July until the end of September.

My obsession started in grade school.

At the end of the year, my teachers would set aside one day to clean out the supply cabinet and would ask for volunteers.  Being the shy, geeky child that I was, I would always volunteer.

I would get to neatly stack and inventory all of the textbooks, writing tablets, workbooks, etc.  Then, I'd get to help organize all of the construction paper, scrap paper, and art supplies.  I love the smell of tempera paint.  To this day, I can still close my eyes and smell those fat bottles of primary colors.  I love the fat-bristled brushes that went with those jars of paint.  I'd get to wipe down all of the bottles and soak all of the brushes in the sink in the oh-so-private "teacher's lounge" area.

We'd wipe down the shelves and re-arrange everything perfectly.

If I was lucky, my reward would be some supply that was not needed or wanted any more.  Workbooks that had missing pages.  Textbooks that someone defaced.  Paint bottles that were almost empty.   I would scavenge them all and take them home for my own faux classroom.

Fast forward thirty some years and I still love school supplies.  My two favorite things to buy are notebooks and pens.

I love a good spiral bound hardback notebook.  I don't go for the flimsy 39 cent single-subject crap.  Give me a good solid notebook that will last me months.  I buy them to take to work (where you have to practically sell a kidney to get office supplies).  I buy them to make my lists at home.  I buy them to do my budget.  I buy them to just caress and lovingly own.  "Oh, my precious, you are mine," I coo as I hold them to my chest.  OK, I'm not that creepy but they are special to me.

I also love a nice .5mm felt tip pen.  I don't like regular ballpoint pens.  Gel doesn't really appeal.  My absolute favorite pen is the BIC Z4+.   You can't buy them in stores.  I have to buy them from Amazon or eBay.  Every year for my birthday and then for Christmas, I treat myself to a new box.  I love these pens so much that I give them to friends and co-workers and dare them to not enjoy them as much as I do.  I often joke that my soul mate will also have one of these pens in his secret stash at home and I'll ask to borrow a pen and he'll say, "Use this" and our eyes meet, the music swells and lightning crashes...   OK, yeah, I don't really fantasize about that, but it would be nice to meet someone who shares an affinity for a good writing instrument.  Right before I left my last job, I met a guy who was a member of pen club.  He even went to pen conventions.  Sadly, he was more of a fountain pen kind of guy. 

This morning's Sunday paper was a bit on the chunky side.  It was filled with sales ads for back to school items.  I think I'm going to go indulge myself and see what kind of trouble I can get into today.

It could be worse, right?  It could be liquor, cigarettes, drugs or gambling.  I mean, what's the worse that can happen?  I get a paper cut?

If I Could Turn Back Time...

Another turning point;
a fork stuck in the road.

Time grabs you by the wrist;
directs you where to go.

So make the best of this test
and don't ask why.

It's not a question
but a lesson learned in time.

It's something unpredictable
but in the end it's right.
I hope you had the time of your life.

I often joke about wanting to go back a decade or two and having a "do-over", especially if I could take all of the knowledge and experience I've acquired over the years with me.

This morning, as I sat in salon having my nails done, my mind began to wander.  The Karate Kid (the new one) was on the television and I thought back to the "original" and how long ago it seemed that we were all giggling and quoting "Wax on, Wax off."

Just like everyone else, I've had some really good times in my life (and some not so good times.)

I truly believe everything happens for a reason and that people and events are put in our lives to test us, develop us, and teach us.

I keep thinking back to college.  I was originally a communications major, with the intent of becoming a world-traveling journalist. Then, I took an elementary education class and changed my major.  Every so often, I think to myself that I wish I had stayed the course for journalism.

However, if I had not changed my major, I would not have stayed in Marietta after graduation and would not have become a child care consultant.  If I had not become a child care consultant, I would have missed out on making some wonderful friends and traveling to places like Philadelphia and San Francisco.  If I had not stayed in Marietta, where there was nothing to do past 5:00, I would not have turned to the internet looking for friends.

If I had not turned to the internet looking for friends, I would have missed out on meeting several people who are still very close friends today.  I would not have gotten to go to New York City (twice).  I would not have gotten to put my toes in the Pacific Ocean for the first time and fall in love with Southern California.  I would not have gotten to go to Disneyland and Beverly Hills. I would not have gotten to go to Des Moines for a wedding and then to see the part of Iowa where the movie The Bridges of Madison County was filmed.  I would not have gotten to be part of a cyber showering experience, weekly trivia games, and a very interesting email exchange with a very intelligent and interesting lawyer in Pennsylvania.  I would not have gotten my forehead licked and I probably never would have been invited to visit the "treasure trail".  (See earlier blogs for more on that.) 

If I hadn't stayed in Marietta, I probably would not have found out that my first serious love interest, Ron, died in September 1996 from leukemia. Discovering this, I had a mini breakdown that made me re-evaluate my life, which resulted in me quitting a decent job and moving three hours away to Columbus to "start living".

If I had not moved to Columbus, I never would have gone to work at an insurance company where I met a few of my closest friends, who are still friends to this day.  I would not have left the insurance company to work at mortgage company where I made several wonderful friends and got to fine-tune my training and writing skills.  I probably wouldn't have gotten to go to Las Vegas (twice).  I wouldn't have joined weight watchers and the gym.  I wouldn't have learned what it feels like to shrink in size and to do the elliptical for 30 minutes without giving up.  

If I hadn't moved to Columbus, I wouldn't have met someone who made me question myself, my life path and seek to move away to start fresh.  I wouldn't have moved to Virginia Beach.

If I hadn't moved to Virginia Beach, I wouldn't have met some of the people I've met, adopted Abby and gotten to put my toes in the Atlantic Ocean and Chesapeake Bay on several occasions.  I would not have discovered my love for boats and being outside.  I probably wouldn't have gotten to go to Atlantic City (twice), the Outer Banks, the Eastern Shore and several other local points of interest.  

So, all in all, I'm happy with the path life has given me so far.   Although there were blips along the way -- broken hearts, bad bosses, financial strain, and other assorted things that come with life, I think I'll keep this life the way it is. For now.

The only thing I would change, if I could go back, is that on a cold morning in December 2001, when I felt something "pop" in my back, I wish I had gone to the ER or doctor sooner.  I didn't and I ended up later finding out I had ruptured a disk in my back and by ignoring it for so long, I did permanent damage to some nerves which cause me to have nerve damage in my left leg.  I can't run, hop, skip, dance or do anything that requires the use of the left leg as it permanently feels like it's "dull".   I miss doing silly things like walking fast.. and dancing.  I used to love to dance.  I had rhythm, too. 

But, can't go back.  Can only go forward.

Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?

If I had a million dollars
(If I had a million dollars)
I'd buy you a house
(I would buy you a house)
If I had a million dollars
(If I had a million dollars)
I'd buy you furniture for your house
(Maybe a nice chesterfield or an ottoman)
And if I had a million dollars
(If I had a million dollars)
Well, I'd buy you a K-Car
(A nice Reliant automobile)
If I had a million dollars I'd buy your love

I'm always joking about winning the lottery.  It all started with a boss who used to say things like, "Well, I want to make sure you have procedures for everything you do in case you get hit by a bus."  Hit by a bus?  I would always say back, "Um, couldn't I leave under happy circumstances like, say, winning the lottery?"

After that, whenever I'm trying to cover all of my bases, I always toss in a "... when I win the lottery."  (I keep trying to foist my current duties off on a new co-worker whenever I think about winning the lottery but he insists he's coming with me if I win the lottery and quit.)

But, like the saying goes, "You have to play to win."  And, alas, I don't play.  At least not often enough to even give the odds a fighting chance.

Lately, however, the urgency and intensity of wanting to win has increased.  I like my job.  Most days.  I like my co-workers.  I know my sh*t and my job is fairly easy. Most days, to be honest, I'm pretty bored and watch the clock.  (Unless above co-worker is also in the same mind set and we distract each other for awhile with music lyrics, movie quotes and trying to think of songs that Michael Buble could cover without getting his a$$ kicked.)

However, I would love to not have an office job for awhile. OK, sure, I could go work some place that doesn't have an office but let me rephrase the previous statement.  I would love to not have ANY job for awhile.

My list of things I'd do if I won the lottery is long and I shall indulge some of the not so TMI things here.

Why am I indulging?  Well, I bought a ticket for tonight's $76 million drawing and for tomorrow's $100+ million drawing.  I'm mentally willing myself to win one or both of them. 

So, if I win big, here are some of the things I'd do:

Buy a nice beach house some place, with private beach access, lots of space for visitors, an outdoor kitchen/entertaining space and a huge wall of windows in the master bedroom that faces the ocean so that I can lie in bed and watch the waves.  (I also want black out curtains installed so that when I don't want to be awakened by the bright glare of sunlight, I can close the shades.)

Buy a nice farmhouse or other type house out in the middle of nowhere, where I could rescue animals, have a greenhouse to grow plants and veggies all year, have a garden in the summer and sort of tune out when I'm tired of living the "entertaining beach life."   A place where my kids (if I had kids) could ride bikes, climb trees, get dirty and enjoy being kids.

Hire someone to make breakfast for me.  I wasn't kidding when I "posted" about that one on Facebook.  I can do all of the other cooking, but breakfast is the one meal I want to have waiting for me when I wake up in the morning.  I want to be a coffee commercial, where I roll over to the smell of freshly brewed coffee and scrambled eggs... and maybe pancakes with syrup.  I don't drink coffee so I hope my personal chef does.  I just like the idea of waking up to it.

Buy my parents a house and move them into said house, with the stipulation that they do not bring any of the crap from their current house with them and that they do not argue or fight me about the housekeeping service I plan on hiring to clean their new house once a week to make sure the house is kept in good condition. (See my post about "A place for everything...")

Hire someone to go through all of the crap at my parents' house, our old mobile home next door and all of the various overflowing out-buildings, storage containers and sheds on the property to try to salvage anything that has value and worth and then trash everything else.

Set up a college fund for my nephews.  (And hire a tutor to help them bring up their grades so that they can go to college.  Seriously, I think sometimes I'm adopted.  One of my nephews had to repeat the 2nd grade.  The 2nd grade!!!  It isn't even "hard" yet so I'm scared of what 4th and 5th grade are going to do to him.)

Give my brother some money to blow.  I'd like to think he'd be responsible with it, but I know he won't be.

Start a "make your own soap" business similar to all of those "make your own pottery" places.  I'd get it started and then hire people to staff it and run it and be one of those cool owners who pops in on occasion to help out, bring breakfast for everyone, bring souvenirs from my travels...  I always imagine myself in a colorful caftan made by the natives of some tropical place I've visited.

Hire a personal trainer and nutritionist to help me reverse bad habits and kick my butt into shape.

Hire a animal nanny to take care of Abby (and any other pets) when I travel.

Travel, travel, travel.  A long time ago, I set the personal goal to see one place/city for each letter of the alphabet.  I have about 13 letters to go.  Then, I want to hire someone to drive me in an RV (I hate driving!) from the northern tip of the US to the southern tip of the US, on each coast.  Then, I want to hire someone to drive me in an RV (because I'll still hate driving) from the east coast to the west coast. Then, you guessed it, hire someone to drive me in an RV straight down the middle of the country, ending up on the gulf coast of Texas.  I also want to take cruises.  I also want to go to each of the continents.  

After I'm done traveling for awhile, I figure I'll have met someone by then who loves me for me and who shares similar interests and sarcasm and will be ready to settle down, so it'll be a Vegas wedding or a beach wedding.  (I do have that private beach access.)

Ahhhh, isn't it fun to daydream?

I've been rubbing my belly (like Buddha's - for good luck) with the lottery tickets so I really hope that I can call off work on Monday because I'm going to Richmond to cash in my tickets and start the rest of my life.

I'll let you know when I'm accepting applications for personal chef, personal trainer, nutritionist, housekeeper, de-clutterer, pet nanny, RV driver, tutor, crafty employees, spouse and children.  

What would you do with a million dollars?

Miss Independent

Miss independent
Miss self-sufficient
Miss keep your distance, mmmm

Miss unafraid
Miss out of my way
Miss don't let a man interfere, no

Miss on her own
Miss almost grown
Miss never let a man help her off her throne

So, by keeping her heart protected
She'll never, ever feel rejected 

I was talking to a good friend and my good friend has decided that it's time that I stop being single.  She listed all of the things she loves about me and why she thinks I'm a good catch and should not be spending my nights watching tv, working a second job and hanging out with my cat. She's afraid that I will die a sad, lonely old lady, surrounded by cats and romance novels.  I think telling her that I had gone to a sex toy party may have also caused concern.  "You need the real thing," she said.

"I have friends," I said.  She made a sound of disgust.

"I have hobbies," I said. Again, sound of disgust.

"I work a lot," I said.  Disgust.

"I'm old.  I'm set in my ways," I said.  She made another sound of disgust.

"I don't know how to talk to men," I said. Disgust, disgust, disgust.

"You're just making excuses," she said.

So, I asked her, "How the F am I supposed to meet this man you want me to be with so badly?"

"Go out more.  Be yourself," she said. 
"Guys like you as you are.  You just never see it.  You go for the wrong types of guys.  I know he's out there," she said.

Be myself.  I am myself.  I think maybe she should have told me to be less of myself.

The reality is that I think I scare men.  I have the tendency to have a no bullsh*t approach to life.  I don't like to play games.  I usually say what I'm thinking, good and bad. I'm too honest sometimes.  I joke.  I flirt.  I do my own thing. I don't bat my eyes and play the coy thing. I don't wear the sexy clothing.  I am not helpless and needy. There's no mystery. I am pretty damned self-sufficient. I usually end up being the one who does the "chasing" until I get tired and give up, take my toys and go home.

So, needless to say, the only men who ever really seem drawn to me are gay men who like the no bullsh*t thing or straight men who are married or in relationships and know that their wives or significant others won't feel jealous of me.  I also get the guys who like having no bullsh*t female friends because it's safe. I like having male friends, too.  It's safe for me as well. I get to enjoy being with a guy without having to worry about the "ending". (See Looking at Life From the Last Chapter.)

Now, don't get me wrong.  I am not a tough chick who will bust some guy's balls.  I am not heartless and cold.  I clean up nice.  I know my limits and when to ask for help. I have a great sense of humor.  I'm smart.  I like to cook.  I am faithful.  I like to go out and do things.   I wouldn't mind having someone do things for me for once. I don't always have to be the strong one.  I am not immune to affairs of the heart, romance and wooing. I was wooed once.  I enjoyed it. I'd probably enjoy it again.

My friend has a way of getting her own way.   

I don't know if I should be scared ... or excited.

Idle Hands....

I don't need a bed of roses
'Cause roses wither away
All I really need is honesty
From someone with a strong heart
A gentle hand
Who'll take me as I am

About a week ago, I started to get these emails from a dating service that I had messages waiting for me there.  I don't recall signing up for the service.  However, the login at the site is using a password that only I would have set up (I had to get a password reset email just to log in) so I must have done it at some point.  Maybe I sleep-dated. (You know, like sleep-walking.)

Out of curiosity, I decided to check out the website and my alleged "messages".  

I am not a shallow person.  I am not perfect and I know that for me, to know me is to love me.  I don't like people to discard me based on appearances so I don't do that with people I meet.  I am fairly happy with who I am.  Yes, I could lose weight, but that won't change my personality. So, if someone wants to be with me, they have to like my personality.  That probably won't change, even if my waist does.

That said, some of these guys are scary.  Why do men use webcams to take photos for dating sites?  They all look like scary mugshots.  They always tilt their heads back and you can see right up their nostrils.  I saw one guy who looks like Phil Harris (RIP) from Deadliest Catch.

I deleted the first batch of messages.  I had 15.  Not one was from Virginia and several of them were old enough to be my father. I have no desire to date someone's grandfather.  I decided to go ahead and upload a photo of myself and put an actual profile with my "likes and dislikes."

Although, I have no real "type", I do know there are certain things I do and do not find attractive in a man.  So, I put it out there.

So, today, I got another message from the site.

I've been home today.  All day.  With a stomach bug.  I can't stray too far from my bedroom/bathroom but thanks to the technology of a wireless router and laptop, I can sit in bed and play on the internet between bouts of dry heaves and napping. 

As the saying goes, "Idle hands are the devil's playground" (or something like that), so I logged into the website to check my messages.  

I had a message from a guy in North Carolina, not far from here.  No picture.  38, average build, average looks - according to his profile.  Brown hair.  Brown eyes.  Lists reading, cooking, hunting (ugh) and playing pool as hobbies. 

Minus the hunting thing, it's a decent start.  So, I wrote him back.  We've been going back and forth most of the day.  I've been biting the inside of my mouth every time he makes a misspelling or grammatical error, hoping he's just using a smartphone or something and not being careful with his typing.

About an hour ago, I get the following message: "Does it make a difference if I tell you I'm married?"

Seriously?  Hell yeah it makes a difference.  I'm the queen of benefit of the doubt.  (Some call it "head in the sand" syndrome, but....)  So, I thought, "Maybe he's separated, getting divorced or his wife has been missing for years and he's only married on paper?"

Nope.  Married.  Wife and kids live with him.  He's bored.  Looking for someone to have fun with.  (Read: have sex with)  

I wrote him back that I am not looking for the same thing he is.

His response, "YOURE LOSS.  I DONT LIKE FATTIES ANYWAY."

(Shaking head)

I bet his wife thanks her lucky stars every night for him.  

Or maybe she's on the dating site, too, looking for someone.

Dreaming My Life Away

These dreams go on when I close my eyes
Every second of the night I live another life
These dreams that sleep when it's cold outside
Every moment I'm awake the further I'm away

I seem to have some of the most detailed and bizarre dreams when I'm sick or stressed out.

Last night, I had this dream that I was on a road trip with my parents and brother.  I was about ten, but had all of the wisdom, fears and knowledge of my 40something self.  (Meaning that I didn't feel like a 10 year old in my dream.  I felt like an adult.)

We were in this old blue station wagon, driving winding roads and rocky cliffs.  I felt like we were going too fast for the conditions.  It had just rained and everything was muddy and misty.

I kept asking my dad to please slow down.  He ignored me.  I asked my mom to make my dad slow down.  She ignored me.  I asked my brother.  He said, "Shut up, b*tch.  We're almost there!"

We finally got to our destination.  It was this huge campground of sorts with a even bigger body of water.  I'm assuming it was a lake, but it looked like it might have been a man-made lake because the water was crystal clear instead of murky like a real lake.

We drove over ruts and potholes, bouncing around, trying to find a parking space.  It was very crowded.  There were booths and vendors along the way, like it was a carnival or festival.

We finally found a parking space and got out of the car.  My brother made a beeline for the lake.  I was hesitant.  I got closer to the water and I could see snakes in the water.  I do not like snakes.

Everyone seemed oblivious to the snakes and kept splashing and jumping in the water.  I kept trying to point out the snakes but no one seemed to notice.

My dad told me to get in the water since the trip had all been for me anyway.  He seemed peeved.  I looked around for my mom but she wasn't there.

I hesitantly got into the water but all I could think about were the snakes.  

A snake slithered up to me and lifted its head from the water and said, "It's about time."  Then, it showed its fangs....  and I woke up.

I felt mentally drained when I woke up.

Why can't I have dreams of who my soul mate is or some fabulous celebrity bringing me breakfast in bed?

A Place for Everything ... and Everything in its Place

To the left, to the left
To the left, to the left
To the left, to the left

Everything you own in the box to the left
In the closet that's my stuff, yes
If I bought it please don't touch

My mother is a hoarder.  Yes, just like on TV.  I can't go home without being overcome by this overwhelming urge to light a match and run.  In fact, this is one of the major reasons why I don't go home to visit.  There's no place to sit.  No place to eat.  No place to walk, stand or lean.  I often joke that Jimmy Hoffa is probably buried upstairs in the spare bedroom, under the stack of National Enquirers from 1978.  She gets understandably mad at me.  My dad just stays in "his room" and blocks it out. 

She's always been like this.  I watch the hoarding shows, trying to figure out why she's that way, why she does it.  Her parents were hoarders, too.  I remember going to their house and being frightened of the mounds of stuff that were piled to the ceiling, waiting to topple and crush my small five-year old self.  When I was in college, my uncle who still lived at home with my grandparents lit a match, tossed it and ran, burning the house to the ground and killing my grandfather in the process.  I often wonder if it was all of the "stuff" that pushed him over the edge.  Growing up in that environment is not healthy.  I was always tidying up my tiny little cubicle sized bedroom.  I refused to let her sickness invade my space.  I loved going to my friends' houses just to have some sense of normalcy.

Luckily, I did not inherit the gene.  Thankfully, luckily and happily, I did not inherit that gene.  Praise the Lord, I did not inherit that gene.

But, I worry about it.  I worry that it's hidden inside of me, waiting to burst free and make me stop taking out the trash, make me fill every nook and cranny of my home with things I can't use, don't need and won't even see after awhile.  Whenever anyone jokes about how we all turn into our parents some day, I quiver with fear at the thought.  I do not want to be my mother some day.

My house is tidy.  I try to keep everything organized and in good condition.  

I like to "collect" things that mean something to me.  I do attach sentimental value to things.  However, I have no qualms tossing out clothing that doesn't fit, magazines I'll never read, household items that have no use to me...  You can walk around my apartment easily.  There are no mounds of things to fear here.

I was sitting at a red light today and looked over and saw an old station wagon stuffed to the brim with "stuff".  The only "clear spots" were where the driver and passenger were sitting.  OK, yes, they could have been homeless and that was everything they owned contained in a metal container on wheels.  However, I doubt it.  I wanted to ask them, "Why do you do this?  What pleasure do you get out of this?"  I also wanted to offer to clean out their car for them.

Someone asked me recently why I was so proud of my closet reorganization.  I just smiled and said, "Because it made me feel better to do it."   The reality is -- my closet represented a dark side of me that showed me that I was capable of becoming my mom.   I blamed depression, bad back, laziness, lack of energy... whatever was handy.  Every time I opened that closet door and saw all of the clutter inside, I was reminded of where I came from.

But, now it is clean, organized and manageable.  The clothing has been donated and I feel so much better looking inside and seeing it so organized.

Maybe I am not my mother's daughter after all.

Being the Big Sister

Working on my "Through the Years" project for Facebook and looking at all of my childhood photos made me think back to what it was like growing up in Dunbar and having a younger (by one year) brother to be my partner in crime.

My brother has red hair. No one in our immediate family has red hair. So, when we were kids I used to tell my brother that he wasn't really my brother and that his "real" family was looking for him. I'd say, "You don't look like us!" (He didn't have an ounce of fat on his body until he discovered alcohol and cigarettes after the birth of his 6th child.) He would cry and tell Mom who would re-assure him that some great great great grandparent had red hair. He got his "so there" when he produced a bunch of red-haired babies.

My brother and I shared a room when we were kids because we lived in a mobile home with only two bedrooms. (When I turned 12, I got the bedroom and my brother was banished to sleeping on a pull out sofa and having all of his toys and personal belongings kept in a storage cupboard in the living room.) When we shared a room, he had the top bunk bed. I would wait until he fell asleep and then I'd reach up along the wall and pinch, grab and/or poke whatever part of him I could reach, scaring the crap out of him. If that didn't work, I'd wait until he fell asleep and then take both of my feet and kick the top bunk really hard, propelling him upwards. He retaliated by waiting until one night while I was sitting on the floor playing barbies then he kneeled on the top bed and peed on me and my barbies. I stopped kicking the bed and scaring him after that.

The top bunk was off limits to me. I was always the neat kid and my brother was the messy one. I hated that he didn't make his bed so if I was alone in the room, I'd climb up and make his bed for him, which would make him mad because it meant I violated his sacred space. So one night, he came in and caught me on the top bunk making his bed. He yanked me off of the bed so hard I fell and dislocated my shoulder. He got quite the "switching" (I grew up in rural PA where the biggest fear you had was getting "switched" for being bad. This meant that a very young branch of a tree would be skinned and then you got it across your bare hiney.) when we got back from the hospital.

When I was about 10 or so, my brother got a BB gun for Christmas. I was jealous. I was a bit of a tom boy. I loved my barbies but I also loved matchbox cars, building things, tearing things apart, riding mini-bikes, etc. So, I begged my brother to let me use his gun. He said ok and went to set up "targets" for me. The targets were empty soup cans from the trash. He lined them up on tree trunks in the back yard. Well, my aim wasn't that good nor my patience. To try to scare him, I shot at the target while he was still setting it up. I ended up shooting him in the head. Luckily, it didn't really hurt him seriously, but I did get a nice little "switching" for that one.

I used to make my brother play barbies with me. He hated it. But, I didn't really have any other play mates so whenever I'd catch him doing something he shouldn't be doing (like looking at the rolled up PLAYBOY my dad kept hidden behind the toilet tank in the bathroom), I'd blackmail him into playing barbies. He had his own set of dolls which he kept hidden in the closet. His man doll was "Gary" and "Gary" would always hang out with Barbie when Ken wasn't around. I'm still not sure if the baby Barbie had was Gary's or Ken's. 

My brother noticed that our man dolls were "missing" some major pieces of anatomy. So, he made little wee-wees for our man dolls out of play doh. The only thing-- when you'd make the man doll sit, the playdoh willies would pop off. So, my brother would then use modeling clay as little ding dongs, but then when you made the man dolls sit, the thingamajigs would get all twisted and smushed. Eventually, he took some crazy glue from dad's tool box and glued the playdoh doodads on the dolls. Our man dolls had permanent woodies.

Later on, when we got to middle school and high school, I became the brainy fairly popular one and he chose to be the C average underachiever most likely to work in a minimum wage job. He would always act like he didn't know me because he didn't like people comparing us. So, one day, a friend told me that my own brother was making fun of me behind my back to look cool. I waited until he was with a bunch of his friends and walked up to him and gave him a big hug and told him in front of all of his friends that he was the best brother a girl could have. He turned red and called me all kinds of names. I got my revenge and he stopped making fun of me at school.

Sadly, once I went away to college, my brother and I drifted apart. The drift started in high school when it became very evident that we weren't on the same path. I would always encourage him to do better, be better and get the h*ll out of town as soon as he could. He had so much potential. He was really good at building things, fixing things and knew more about cars than anyone. But, he didn't care about any of those things. I went away to college and he got a girl pregnant. His life became a long line of child support payments, dead-end minimum wage jobs, unpaid bills, loans from our parents and even more kids with a couple of different women. He looks older than me now and there is no sign of the little boy who used to be my partner in crime and my ally against parents who embarrassed us too much, loved us too little and sometimes acted like we were nuisances instead of little kids trying to live a happy life.

When I go home, I see pieces of him in my nephews and celebrate their naughty sides, their creative sides and their individuality. 

They are too young to know what they have and I hope they never ever forget what it's like to be a child. I hope they grow up to have great memories of one another.

That's What Friends Are For

Keep smilin', keep shinin'
Knowin' you can always count on me, for sure
That's what friends are for
For good times and bad times
I'll be on your side forever more
That's what friends are for

I talked to an old friend on the phone last night and was immediately transported back in time about 20 or so years.  

We met in college.  We didn't have any classes together, but in the summer, I used to stay on campus and work in the mailroom and she worked in another department and would pick up mail for that department.  We started talking at the mailroom counter, which led to hanging out and talking on the phone.  That led to a decades old friendship.  

Making friends was so much easier in college.

We used to talk about everything and nothing.  First loves, first kisses, first times.

She was there when I fell in love for the first, second and third times.  (She wasn't there for the fourth, but I won't hold that against her.  I'd like to think that if she had been, the recovery time would have been shorter.)

She was there during first job interviews, first jobs and first cars.

She was there when I thought I was going to get married and would humor me and my stack of BRIDE magazines.

Then, I moved away from Marietta.

She got married and started a family.   I didn't.

We used to joke about how we were going to get married around the same time, have kids around the same time and have parallel lives.  Our kids would be friends.  Our spouses would be friends.  Our pets would be friends.

It didn't happen.  We lost touch.

It had been almost a decade since we last spoke and yet we picked right up like we hadn't stopped. 

Makes you appreciate the friends you have in life and the memories you make with those friends.

Also makes me long for a simpler time when driving around in a car listening to music, stopping for ice cream and talking worked everything out.
 

Every Breath You Take

Cause you can't jump the track, we're like cars on a cable
And life's like an hourglass, glued to the table
No one can find the rewind button, girl.
So cradle your head in your hands
And breathe... just breathe,
Oh breathe, just breathe

In September, 2007, I was diagnosed with Hyperventilation Syndrome .  Now, I know that sounds like some sort of fake disease or condition.  I think I may have laughed when my doctor told me about it. 

You see, it started out looking like something much more serious.

On my last day of work at my previous company, I woke up in the middle of the night (before my last day) with this cramp in my left calf muscle.  It was far worse than any charley horse I had ever experienced.  It lasted 15 minutes.  It hurt so badly that I remember biting my pillow and crying.  Then, when the spasm finally ended, my chest started to hurt.  My thoughts immediately went to embolism.  A cyber friend of mine had recently died from a clot that had happened in her leg and traveled to her lungs.  I was so scared.  The chest pain did not go away so I drove myself to the ER.  They ran all sorts of tests, hooked me up to machines and IVs and tinkered around me for hours.  My blood pressure was stroke-high.  I was dehydrated.  My EKG had abnormalities.  They injected some sort of blood pressure stabilization medicine and slapped on a nitro patch.  They eventually released me once my levels were normal and the pains went away.  I didn't have a heart attack.  They wrote it off as an anxiety attack.

Over the course of the next month, I was back at the ER 6 more times for a variety of things - more chest pains, blurry vision, radiating pain in my brain (I now have "insane in the membrane" stuck in my head), night sweats, muscle spasms, dizziness, tingling in my lips and fingers, high fever, low fever, insomnia, uber fatigue, vomitting, back aches....  I was a walking episode of "Mystery Diagnosis."  I had stress tests, CT scans, MRIs, echocardiogram, and even a cardiac catheterization, which I do not wish on anyone.  I was admitted to the hospital every time, spending the night in the cardiac ward.  It was a very scary experience and a very lonely experience, as I wasn't working any more and was preparing for my move to Virginia so I didn't really see or talk to anyone on a regular basis.  Everyone was baffled because despite being obese, diabetic and hypertensive, there was absolutely nothing wrong with my heart (except that it had been broken a few times.)

Then, I went to see my family doctor for a final visit before my move to Virginia, to collect my medical file and to say goodbye to all of the nice people in his office.  I was telling him about my ER adventures and he said, "I want to try something."  He then had me breathe from the chest (not the diaphragm as we're taught) rapidly and shallowly.  Then, he left the room and said he'd be back.  While he was gone, my body temperature started to drop and I started to shiver.  Then, my lip went numb, then my fingers.  I started to get chest pains and nausea.  My vision went blurry.  My head started hurting and I felt like total sh*t.  I wanted to curl up and cry.

He came back with a paper bag.  "Now, breathe into this," he said.  He had me breathe the "right way" in and out while covering my mouth with a paper bag.  After a few minutes of this, I noticed that I didn't feel as dizzy.  He had me lie back on the table and continue to do it every few minutes or so until I felt fairly normal again.

Then, he said, "You have hyperventilation syndrome."  Nice, tidy and quick.  I guess I should have seen him first.  He explained all of the symptoms and all of the by products of what happens once it happens.  I asked him why now? He said it may have been the stress of moving.  It may have been posture.  It may have just been my weight.  He didn't have a good root cause.  He said most of the time, it's psychological and sadly, once a person develops it, they rarely get rid of it.

For awhile, the "episodes" were a regular part of my life.  Even knowing what it was, it didn't make me feel better.  For me, once it happens -- and the sad thing is, I don't even realize it's happening until I start to feel all shaky, sick, numb and cold -- I'm not functional.  The only way I can restore normal breathing is to lie down in bed on my right side, pull the covers over my head and breathe in and out until I fall asleep.  While I'm asleep, my body resets itself and I resume normal breathing.   

I hadn't had an episode in months.  Months.  Then, two weeks ago, they started again.  At work.  It's a very scary thing to be sitting at your desk at work and realize that you feel like you can't breathe and at any moment, you could pass out.  No one at work knows about this condition.  Mainly because I don't like bringing my personal business to work and also because there's not exactly anything anyone can do. I can't go home and take a nap, so I soldier through, usually so out of it by the end of the day that I can't focus.  I come off distracted, irritable and unhappy when it happens.  I do a lot of yawning when it happens, which makes everyone think I'm super sleepy or very boring.  Then, I get really cold.  My office has irregular air conditioning -- one day, it's hot, the next it's cold.  Yet, once I get one of my episodes, I can't get warm enough.  People think I'm odd to be wearing a thick sweater on a 100 degree day. Then, because my stomach is filled with all of the air I've been sucking in, I get nauseated.  I've often had to make myself vomit to release the foam and air that has built up in my stomach.  (Pretty picture, eh?)  I turn into a 5 year old, wanting to lie down on a cot and have someone rub my back until it's all better.

I'm having one as I type this and I'm mad because I have things I need to do.  I don't have the time to go lie down and be a vegetable for the night.  I was hoping that by writing about it, I'd somehow calm myself down.  It's not working.


I've been trying to think of what kind of changes have been happening lately that may be causing this but I can't think of any.  (sigh)

Anyone got a paper bag?

Out of Necessity

Food, glorious food!
What wouldn't we give for
That extra bit more --
That's all that we live for
Why should we be fated to
Do nothing but brood
On food,
Magical food,
Wonderful food,
Marvellous food,
Fabulous food,

I have a love-hate relationship with food.  To look at me, you'd think it was more love than hate. 

That's actually the "hate" part, but that's another story for another day.

What I love about food is cooking it.

This wasn't always the case.

For the first 18 1/2 years of my life, I lived with my parents in a small rural town in SW PA.  We didn't have a lot of money so my mom made all of our meals from scratch.  Yes, there was the occasional tv dinner (in foil trays with foil you peeled back -- none of the environmentally unsafe plastic things) or can of Chef Boyardee. (I can't eat anything by Chef Boyardee now because of this.)  But, for the most part, she cooked every day.   Spaghetti was my favorite.  I was very disappointed recently when I asked her for the recipe and she confessed it was a Kraft box mix that she "doctored up".  My second favorite was her chili.  Third were these things she called "poor boys" which were hamburger patties that she added onions, spices and cheese to and fried (yes, I said fried) in a skillet in bacon grease.  (Is it any wonder I was the fattest kid in my class?) The fourth was this egg noodle dish she made with whole milk, butter and parmesan cheese -- a poor man's fettucine alfredo.

I digress.  After I moved out and went to college, all of my meals were provided by Marietta College via the Marriott Food Service.  I had three square meals every day for 4 years.  I still remember "Steak Night" on Fridays... and the pancake syrup so thick that you could stick your fork it in, let it congeal and then lift the plate off of the table.  Good times!

After college, I moved into a women's boarding house in the same college town and all of my meals came from the dining room downstairs or from whatever I could concoct using a microwave or hot pot.  I was very creative with that hot pot.   

Then, in 1996, I moved to Columbus and was truly on my own for the first time in my life.  I had an apartment with a kitchen and dining room.  I had a real stove, real oven.  A full-size fridge.

The first few months, I lived off of take out and fast food.  My bank account grew smaller as my waist size grew larger.  Then, I got a part-time job at a housewares store.  I was surrounded by all sorts of gadgets, gizmos and cookbooks.  When business was slow, I'd read the cookbooks.  Someone suggested the "food channel" at one point and I became addicted to cooking shows.

In order to be well-versed on the items I was trying to sell, I would borrow or buy them and take them home and make things.   I realized that cooking for pleasure was absolutely nothing like those horrid home ec classes I had to take when I was in high school.  The "chemistry" aspect of cooking also appealed to the geek in me.  I became obsessed with cooking.

I started collecting recipes and cookbooks.  My cupboards were filled with all sorts of pots and pans and devices.  

I have a slightly odd confession to make -- when I cook, I like to pretend I'm on a cooking show in my own home.  I'm very fastidious about my kitchen.  Abby is NOT allowed anywhere near the counters.  And, in the off chance that she does a little jig on them while I'm asleep or at work, before I do any sort of cooking, I wipe everything down with wipes.  I then do my mis-en-place --  setting up all of my little bowls of ingredients.  I tape the recipe to the counter or cupboard.  Then, I talk to my faux audience and walk them through what I'm doing.  Then, I do the overly dramatic nom-nom noises when I taste my finished product.  This gives me joy.  Sometimes, Abby will hop onto a bar stool and watch from a careful distance.   There was a time when I tinkered with going to culinary school and becoming a personal chef.  

When I lived in Columbus, I had a small group of friends at my day job whom I ate lunch with every day.  I would bring them samples of things I made.

In 2001, I joined Weight Watchers and one of the biggest keys to being successful (I lost 70 lbs in 4 months and kept it off for nearly 2 years) was being in control of all of my meals.  Breakfast, lunch and dinner.  I was always experimenting.  I would go to restaurants and try things and then come home and make low-fat, low-cal, lower-points versions of things.  I would introduce these items to my friends.  

I used to have a fairly active social life in Columbus.  I had parties on a regular basis and would feature new recipes and concoctions at my parties.  Spinach dip, chicken parmesan dip, bran-encrusted chicken tenders (that actually tasted good, despite all of the fiber), fruit dip...  I was a regular Martha Stewart wannabe.

Then, I moved to Virginia Beach and became hermit-ish.  I discovered that the desire to cook isn't as strong when you don't have anyone to cook for.  Because I have a hard time with portion control, I'm not too keen on preparing anything that has 6-8 servings, eventhough I know I can freeze the portions for later.  One of my friends teases me all the time that I'd be a damned good "June Cleaver" type wife.  Sans pearls, high heels and a dress.  Oh, wait, that sounds like I cook naked.  Noooooo....  I'm more of a fuzzy slipper, comfy clothing kind of cook.

I've been itching to cook more.  I've been slowly rebuilding the stockpile of kitchen items I gave away to charity before I moved here.  I've been reading my cookbooks again.   I've made some friends at work who seem interested in being guinea pigs.   I made a breakfast casserole Thursday night and took it in yesterday and for the most part, the response was favorable.

Still, when I win the lottery, one of the first things I'm going to do is hire someone to cook breakfast for me.  That's the one meal I just want someone else to do for me.  I'll handle the rest.

You've Got Mail

I am unwritten, can't read my mind, I'm undefined
I'm just beginning, the pen's in my hand, ending unplanned

Staring at the blank page before you
Open up the dirty window
Let the sun illuminate the words that you could not find

When I was in 8th grade, my English teacher taught us the fine art of letter writing. To further encourage our skills, she gave us the chance to buy a membership to a world pen-pal club and make new friends. I forked over something like $5 and asked for three pen pals who were female and who spoke English. I ended up with Lori from Canada, Flavie from France and Anne from Australia.

I was so excited to get those little slips of paper with their addresses on them. I got to learn all about the joys of "air mail" and got this little thrill everytime I wrote "Par Avion" on Flavie's envelopes. I also learned the fine art of writing very small on thin paper so that I didn't get lectures from my mom about how much it cost to send a simple letter overseas.

Lori, Flavie and I wrote for a few months and then the letters sort of just died off. Anne, on the other hand, was my soul mate. 

Now-- I have to admit that when I first saw I had an Aussie pen pal, I was excited because, well, the love of my life at that time, Rick Springfield, was from Australia and I felt this instant connection to him since I was writing someone from his mother land. (Hey, I was 14... I used to think that because I had a pink polo shirt and my crush had a pink polo shirt, we were destined to live happily ever after, too.)

Anne was one day younger than me and we shared so many common interests. We liked the same kinds of music, fashion, cosmetics, boys, movies, etc. We shared similar family woes. We had big dreams. 

Anne and I wrote each other every week from the time we were 14 until we both graduated from college/university. We both survived puberty, broken hearts, first dates, learning to drive, fights with our families, desires to travel, college plans, career goals, first loves... and all of the other "momentous" things that happen in a young woman's life. Then, "reality" reared its ugly head. She moved to Japan to teach and I stayed in my little college-town trying to get a teaching job and trying to figure out what I really wanted to do with the rest of my life. We eventually stopped writing. I don't know if it was my "turn" or hers, but the letters just stopped coming one day.

I think about her a lot and often wonder what she is doing and what kind of life she made for herself. I still have her parents' address in Australia and think about sending a letter to them just to see if they'd send it to her and maybe she and I could have one of those "perfect for a daytime talk show" reunions where we both admit that we've missed each other over the years. I tried finding her on the internet, but her name is pretty common and it was like finding a needle in a haystack to even try.

In this day and age of instant messages and e-mail, I miss letters. Real honest-to-goodness letters. I miss walking to the mailbox and seeing an envelope with a friend's handwriting on it. There is just something special about knowing that someone took the time to sit down and write something on paper and then put it in an envelope and send it.

Anne and I were always creative with our letters. Stickers, pictures, artwork, scribbles. Pink paper. Purple paper. Glittery paper. Each time we wrote, we tried to take it just a little further than the last time. We even used to send gifts to each other.

I love to go to the Hallmark store and buy greeting cards and then randomly send them to my friends every now and then.  I know it must be nice to open the mailbox and have something other than junk mail waiting for them.

When was the last time you surprised someone with something you actually had to write, lick and mail?