Prevalance

February 19.

You know how when you’re thinking of buying a new car and have a few models in mind, you start to constantly see them on the roads everywhere?  Yeah.  That’s exactly what has been happening so far with this campaign.

I mentioned this already in an earlier post, but even though I knew how prevalent cancer is – I didn’t really know.  Yesterday, in the middle of a Manic Monday (are The Bangles still together?), I received an email from someone with whom I’ve worked the last 17 years.  Didn’t think a thing of it as the email hit my inbox, as I figured he was responding to one of the zillion emails I inundate him with daily.  Until I read it and it said this:

This crusade the two of you embarked on has suddenly become very personal. We just found out last night that Yvonne’s sister Heidi (38, mother of 4) has been diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. While the doctors say her prognosis is good she obviously has a long, tough road ahead. Thank you both very much for your efforts.

Aaron

I let out a deep sigh and responded with what I could.  The “both” Aaron is referring to is myself and Angela, our VP of Professional Services at work.  We have a high tenure at IOS, and as such, are like family.  Cancer invades our families.  It invades our homes.  It invades strangers. 

Speaking of strangers, I ran a marathon Sunday morning and cried twice.  Once when I finished, and once, at mile 22 when I read this HUGE sign, held high above the others:  “HELLO total stranger, today I am proud of you.”

Even though I couldn’t breathe, I smiled and said to her, “I love your sign!”

And then it hit me as it did again yesterday:  we are NOT strangers.  We are in this walk (or run) of life together.  We are in this fight against cancer together.

Together is the key - together we can make a difference for the greater good.  Seriously.  I believe it with every ounce of my being.

These blog posts are intended to bring about blood cancer awareness, hopefully inspire, and yes – hopefully also move you to donate to this collective cause.  Please consider it this week.  We have 9 left to go.

Thanks, everyone.

 

 

Shades of Grey

February 18.  The goal of MWOTY is not only to raise funding for LLS in the quest to find a cure for blood and other types of cancer, it is also done on behalf of a Boy of the Year and a Girl of the Year.

The women candidates campaign on behalf of the Boy of the Year and vice versa.  Here’s how I met Greyson Snyder:

Initially, I “met” him during a phone conversation with Jen Alia, Campaign Manager, while our roles were reversed as she was selling me asking me to campaign this year.  In passing (because it was a quick call), she said “The BOTY is 3 years old and has A.L.L.” 

Ugh.  When we are faced with decisions in our lives of any kind, especially those which resonate so deeply within us for very personal reasons, hearing information like that stirs conflicting emotions.  On the one hand, I was paralyzed with intolerable emotions.  Fear almost.  Could I do this, go back there, see and meet and get to know a CHILD with leukemia?  I’d avoided these feelings for so long I wasn’t sure.  Selfish, I know – but sometimes when we truly cannot deal with emotions which have a magnitude beyond our comprehension, we flee.  It’s just easier.

Yet on the other hand, I was simultaneously mad and driven to do something.  NO WAY should we still be hearing these kinds of stories.

And man am I thankful for those conflicting emotions.  Otherwise, I would not have met Greyson (Grey) and his family.  Grey is 3 ½ years old and has two YOUNGER sisters, Aubrey & Lainsley.  His parents, Nate and Dana, are the nicest most unassuming couple you’ll ever meet.  A young family, they are in the midst of a situation which they, I’m sure, are struggling to face every day.  Three young children, one of whom has cancer, two full-time jobs, you know…the “American” dream, less the cancer part. 

I love this family.  I’m thankful that we’ve entered each other’s lives in a way which (hopefully) touches the other at just the right time, for just the right reasons.  I know they’ve done that for me.

Grey and his parents were at the kick-off last week.  He went to “the party,” and was one of the stars.  He was running and playing and smiling and high-fiving just as any three year old should be. 

67 Days until the next party, Grey.   Until then, we are working hard for the cause.  Fight on little dude.

Be The Match

February 15.  Leukemia is the general term used to describe a number of malignant diseases where the blood-forming organs produce increased numbers of leucocytes.  Those (hard to pronounce) cells are colorless and are found in the blood and lymphatic systems, which are important in fighting disease. In very broad terms, leukemia is classified according to how fast it progresses and the type of cells affected.  Chronic leukemia progresses more slowly than Acute leukemia.  While there are about a dozen or so different sub-types, the four possible permutations and main types of leukemia are:

1.      Acute Myelogenous Leukemia (AML)

2.      Chronic Myelogenous Leukemia (CML)

3.      Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia (ALL)

4.      Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia (CLL)

I had CML.  Greyson has ALL.  You will learn all about Grey, this year’s Boy of the Year, very soon.

The only course of treatment for CML back in 1998 was a) do nothing and maybe live 5 more years or b) have a Bone Marrow Transplant with the caveat that not many people get through those well, if at all.  I immediately asked what Option c) was.

There wasn’t a third option.  My only sibling, Sarah, was tested to see if she was a match and could be my Bone Marrow donor.  She and I held hands as we walked back to the room at IU Med Center where her blood was drawn for testing.  She hates getting her blood drawn and was paler than a baby’s butt after they got done taking multiple vials.  Our parents were in the waiting room.  I can only imagine what was going through their minds, watching us from behind as we made that unknown trek.

A few (long) weeks went by before we learned the outcome of the testing:  3 out of 6.  Sarah was only a half-match and therefore could not be my donor as my body would reject her marrow.  I clearly remember both receiving that phone call and placing the ensuing one to my family.  It was if they had “failed” somehow.  That call in and of itself felt like I had already lost the battle; like the hope which we had all mustered up from the time my sister’s blood was taken to the time the phone rang had immediately disappeared, replaced by doom.

The emotional roller coaster families facing cancer go through is indescribable; yet I know most of you readers explicitly understand this.  Most of you have either gone through it yourselves, or have witnessed it via extended friends or networks.    

My patient care advocate explained that the next step was to search “the registry.”  I was only familiar with one type of registry at that point in my life (anyone want this crystal swan thing?) and now apparently there was some potential stranger in some database who could help save my life.

Thankfully, "apparently" turned into a reality. Thank you, Beth Robison, for being on the registry. 

http://marrow.org/Home.aspx

68 Days.  Keep racing.

The Kick-Off Party

I’m sure you’ve seen by now, but the official Man and Woman of the Year (MWOTY) kick-off gathering was Wednesday evening at Parkview Field.  The other two women candidates and their teams were in attendance, along with the three MOTY candidates and their respective teams. 

 

I’ve always been a sucker for camaraderie.  Being a part of a team is one of my favorite places to be.  From softball to basketball to track and cross-country, I was always a part of a team growing up.  Perhaps that is another reason I feel so blessed and thankful right now to be a part of a team which is dedicated to working non-stop over the course of these next ten weeks in the race to help fund a cure.

After being approached to run for WOTY and subsequently agreeing after heavy contemplation about all it would entail, I was asked the following question:  “So, who are you going to have on your team?”  I hadn’t given it a second thought since I figured I’d just do it all myself.  I know, save your comments – but in that admission is the first step to solving any kind of problem, I quickly admitted NO WAY can I do this alone.  Not if the goal of $100k is going to be reached.  Not if we’re going to make a difference in an impactful way.  Not if every possible network is going to be exhausted during this race.  I was going to need some serious help.  Cancer takes an army to defeat.   

To say that the outpouring of assistance and participation thus far has been amazing would be a gross understatement. Honestly, even I have no words.  I am going to find them for a future posts though, because the way in which people come together for the greater good is the best feeling in the world and the ultimate definition of camaraderie.

Thank you to my team for EVERYTHING.  Thank you for putting up with me and my endless questions.  Thank you for offering to help with things even before I ask.  Thank you for going outside of your comfort zones.  (What?  22 hours at O’s on St. Patty’s Day won’t be “comfortable?”)

 

Ok, now that I type this I’m realizing something:  This exactly parallels what cancer patients and their support teams go through.  Endless questions.  Help given before it is requested.  Comfort zones tested and surpassed. 

I’m pretty proud of all this camaraderie.  Soldier on, friends.  We’re in this thing together – no matter what side of the diagnosis we are on.

69 days until the party. 

http://www.beth4lls.com

 

 

Why Am I Doing This?

Happy Valentine’s Day to all you lovers out there. You know what I love? Talking. I seriously asked my Mom once what she thought my “spiritual gift” was because I had no idea. She responded as if it was the most moronic question I could have possibly asked.

While no one is surprised I like to talk, it is surprising to most people when they first find out I had cancer. I take that as good news. That news means there are those of us out there living normal lives (zip it friends who have dirt on me), who have gone through treatments and are now cancer-free.

Let me tell you something that surprised me. As you know, yesterday was the kick-off for this 10 week effort. I sent out several hundred emails to customers and contacts asking for help. And in the span of the first two hours, I cannot tell you how many emails came back with stories. Shared stories detailing personal cancer journeys and the associated struggles, triumphs, and for some, the defeats. I normally don’t cry often, but yesterday morning I couldn’t stop. The overwhelming feeling of “I knew this disease was far reaching but I didn’t really know…” came over me as the emails continued to fill my inbox.

• Thanks Beth, my mother passed away from leukemia 5 years ago, so this is close to my heart. I have made a donation.
• Thanks for the e-mail. I had an uncle that I never got a chance to meet because he died many years ago at the age of 4 from Leukemia.
• Your email is very touching because what you don’t know is about 1 year ago, my mother was diagnosed with AML Leukemia while her and my dad were in Florida for the winter. While we have been through a lot with my mom having leukemia in the spring, going into remission and then it coming back in the fall in the form of a rare skin leukemia.

Here’s something else I thought I knew – that I was prepared for this campaign. Yes, I’m going to do everything I can to bring in as much possible money so the researchers can figure out how to beat this thing. They have to. We have to. Cancer needs to go away like, now. But I was completely ill-prepared for the emotional part. My emotions have been on overload since yesterday morning. The emotions have both taken me back and centered me to the here and now. This part, I can’t really explain sufficiently. Just thankful.

So why am I doing this? So eventually, none of us will have to receive emails like these ever again. Thank you for sharing; thank you for helping.

70 Days to go. The race is on.
http://www.beth4lls.com

The Cancer Curing Kick-Off

So here it is. 10 weeks from now, there will be a black tie gala here in Fort Wayne to celebrate the efforts of 6 individuals who are raising crazy amounts of money to benefit The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society (LLS). This campaign ("race" henceforth) is called the Man & Woman of the Year. I am one of those women. And, I am a leukemia survivor.

Here is where you'll learn my story. A story which some of you may already know; others may not. A story which is so near and dear to me yet one which I've not revealed to the magnitude which I'm committed to revealing now. No, this isn't some People-Us Weekly-George Clooney-like attempt to bring publicity to a movie. This is real life. Names will not be changed (sorry, some of you).

This is real life with real people, including our local Boy and Girl of the Year - Greyson Snyder & Kellcey Nichols - two brave kids who have been diagnosed with blood cancer. You will learn about them, their battles, their triumphs, their families, and how WE are going to help. Every dollar I raise in this whirlwind of a 10-week race counts as one vote. The candidate with the most votes is named the Man and Woman of the Year at the gala on April 26th.

I want that night to be a party. A party to celebrate life and all its ups and downs. A party to celebrate what a city like Fort Wayne can do when it comes together and works hard. A party to celebrate, thank, and honor patients, survivors, families, and friends because guess what? Cancer doesn't discriminate. It doesn't just affect the person who had to hear the words, "it's cancer" or the parents who had to tell their 3 1/2 year-old little boy "you're sick, buddy." It affects everyone we know. This disease is far reaching. But here's where we step in and say - reach this, cancer. You're going down.

So before the work begins and that final party starts, here's my one and only sales pitch (What? Those of you who know me find that ironic? C'mon.)

I ask that you join me in supporting LLS by making a tax-deductible donation to my fundraising campaign. All contributions will help fund LLS programs, including research, patient services, advocacy, public and professional education, and community services.

Thanks to LLS’s research funding over the years, blood cancer survival rates continue to climb. The ONLY choice I had when I was diagnosed 14+ years ago was a Bone Marrow Transplant (more on that part of the story later). Today, that's not the case and it's strictly due to money being raised for R&D. Not only are LLS supported therapies now used to treat patients with rare forms of stomach and skin cancers, they're even being tested in clinical trials for patients with a range of cancers including lung, brain, breast, pancreatic and prostate. In addition, many LLS funded drugs are being tested for patients with non-cancerous diseases such as diabetes, rheumatoid arthritis and multiple sclerosis.

LLS is leading the way in cancer research. LLS doesn't mess around. And neither do we. My goal you ask? $100,000. I'm gonna need some help, people. Help me help others like Grey. Like my running buddy, Brad (more on him later). Like people you know.
For more information about LLS, please visit www.lls.org.

Sales pitch over. Game on. The race is starting. Check this blog (or http://www.beth4lls.com) daily for updates on the campaign, the fundraising events, the pictures, and all the stories. I am committed to writing to you every day. Commit to reading, learning, and yeah...donating.

71 Days until the party. Let's go.

Monday Morning Madness

Now I'm thinking about Muse; I love their song Madness.

(Digressing even before I get to the topic de jour, wonder if that's a first...ah, never mind.)

Just walked in the door from a fast and snowy 6 miles.  We pushed.  And then pushed some more.  The guys I ran with this morning are faster than I've ever been.  Which is good for someone on a mission to qualify for Boston in just 13 short days.  So I didn't even mind when one of them screamed, "This is what you came for, baby!  Pick it up!  This is mile 25!"

Any other day I would have thought of ways to get back to our cars first and let the air out of his tires.  But today - today I was thankful for the effort.  And the snow.  And the friendships which push me to be better.

Hello, Birdie.

I hate birds.  Well, with one exception:  Hummingbirds.  Those little suckers fascinate me. 

So it should have come as no surprise to me at all that I did not immediately jump on the Twitter bandwagon.  When that little Tweety Bird hit the air waves, I seriously thought it was Looney.  Mel Blanc had to be at least a little pissed, taking a roll around his newly dug home.  I can hear him now - I'm a tweet wittow biwd in a diwded gwave...

Ok, that's just craziness.  But much to my chagrin, twitter is not.  It's new and interesting and fun to me.  I couldn't possibly enjoy learning about it any more than I have this past week.  And on some level, I maybe even want to know every last thing about it.  Haven't quite decided yet.  As they say, the jury is still out.  In serious deliberation, mind you, but undecided nonetheless.

While I've learned some important etiquette such as it's polite to thank someone for a RT (retweet, losers) and DM's are fun - the most important piece of background twitter information told to me by an expert in the field is that it originated with the intent of being similar to text messaging.  Now I'm not sure if that is exactly true or he - inexplicably and almost immediately- figured out how my brain works and gave me a meaningful correlation to hush up my line of rapid fire questioning.  In either case, I got it.  It's kind of like texting.

Texting...that is a whole 'nother thing I could go on about.  I have no idea how many texts I send and receive on a daily basis.  65?  70?  Who knows.  It may even be well over 100.  I communicate all day long.  This week, however, I'm quite certain it has exceeded whatever constitutes my standard number. 

Which leaves me feeling a bit hypocritical.  I'm constantly ordering Liv to put that $!*@ phone down and STOP TEXTING.  Please, for the love of all things holy, would you stop acting like a teenager?!

(That wasn't directed at her.)

Yo.

This is what I start most texts, emails, or greetings with when I chat with one of my very best friends.  Truth be told, I have no idea why we're still friends, in that he scolds me on a regular basis.  Today when I divulged a little nugget to him it was, "Oh god."

He's from the South.  A little Southern bell.  Polite, those people.  All except this one.

The other scold today came in the form of this question:  "Are you ever gonna write again?"  So I sent him a link to another blog which will commence on February 13th and have daily entries through April 26th.  He read it.  I got no response until I inquired.

Yeah, I read it.

Good concept?

That is "public" Beth.  I miss the side you show on your personal blog.

You just miss ME.

I do miss you!

It's almost 10:00, dude.  I'm boxing at 4:30 tomorrow morning.  The race is in 18 days.  Liv is upstairs in my bathroom (renovated hers for her B-day) jamming to One Direction.  I got nothin' and I need some sleep.  I know you'll understand because not only do you miss me, you love me!  I promise to write more on this blog and also come visit soon.

Damn, you're high maintenance.  Friggin' southerner.

Dorian Gray: Part 2

“When one is in love, one always begins by deceiving one's self, and one always ends by deceiving others. That is what the world calls a romance.”   
                                                                                  --Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

I wrote about Lance Armstrong back in August when the "shocking" revelation hit the airwaves like he had just pedaled over a cliff bigger than the fiscal one.  Back in August, I was much more tolerant of that revelation than I am now.  Back in August, I still kind of liked and admired the guy and felt only slightly, not fully, bamboozled. 

Today, five months later, I no longer like or admire him and in fact am on the verge of wishing I would have never laid eyes on the man.  Never worn his yellow bracelet.  Never secretly wished I could emulate him.  And certainly, unequivocally, never put him up on a pedestal which he did not deserve to be hoisted upon.

You see, Lance suckered us big time.  He lured us in and then spat us out the moment he no longer needed us to fawn and drool and ooh and aah over him and his accomplishments.  His accolades.  His smart, rich, and sexy.  The moment he was done impressing us with his fiction, he left us high and dry.

Was Oprah really surprised that "Lance did not come clean in a manner she expected?"  I know I'm a faster marathoner than the woman (thank god), but I truly didn't think I was smarter.  (Fine, I may have thought it but my bank account proves otherwise.)  She said she studied for that interview like it was a college exam, reading everything she could get her hands on and compiling a list of 112 questions to ask His Highness, but they didn't much matter.  And to that I say two things:  one, it confirms O did not attend college because no one is sober long enough to study that much and secondly, what a waste.

What a waste of her time on a man who did not deserve her intrigue.  What a waste of American athlete's time everywhere - thinking here is an individual on the up and up, who is totally above board, who we should all befriend and bend over backwards to love and cherish.  We should have genuine concern for him, his family, his life, his interests, his needs, his experiences.

You know what Oscar Wilde said about experience?  He said "Experience is merely the name men give to their mistakes."

Screw you, Lance.  You are and were and will forever more be a phony. 

The romance is over. 

Yet, I would be remiss if I did not thank you for being such a disheartening experience.  Truly.
Because just as one of your many ex-girlfriends once sang:  You're My Favorite Mistake.


 

Beth's Top Ten List of Reasons Why Pneumonia Can Help You Realize Previous Unknowns

One of my best buddies told me, after sending him the below list, that boredom has full onset.  Not necessarily.  I am working by tail off from home.  I just like lists.  And, I like a little empathy when I have pneumonia.

10.  Being the one in the Dr.’s waiting room receiving the dirty looks instead of giving them is way more refreshing than the collective airflow.

9.  Shallow sighing at people is not nearly as fun as full sighing at people.

8.  The dog doesn’t sleep all day nor have a bladder the size of Texas?

7.  Skipping 2 high-mileage weeks 41 days before the marathon won’t be a problem at all.  Fresh legs. 

6.  The number of ways in which to wear nasty unwashed hair in a pony-tail is virtually endless.

5.  Edy’s may be “slow churned,” but when your throat and lungs are on fire, it most certainly does not have to be consumed in that manner.

4.  Wearing sunglasses inside your own home to avoid the light makes you feel like a Kardashian.  And no matter how bad one may look at that given moment, they'll still be smarter.

3.  Saying “Why yes, more soup, a gallon of milk, the mail, and gas in my car if you don’t mind” has a certain ring to it.  My standard guilt has also been temporarily sidelined.

2.  Who knew Erica Kane is finally off the air?

1.  Running 7 miles with pneumonia is nothing if not helpful come race day.  (Oops.  Pre-diagnosis).

 

 

 

 

New Year = New Everyone?

 

I've never understood it, frankly.  And this "new" year was even on a Tuesday.  It's not like our new year began the week afresh.  So why in the world was I reduced to reading everyone's "New Year's Resolutions" on Facebook like I was going to have to add brand new friends by the end of the News Feed?  People, please.  We are people.  We don't change.  At least not much and certainly not in the span of Monday-Wednesday.

When I walked out of the hospital after being in there for 35 days after intense chemo and other modesty-stripping procedures, people continuously asked me if I was "changed."  Do you stop and smell the roses now?  Do you give thanks for everything around you each and every moment?  Does butter taste creamier than ever?  I was 25.  My secretions had been measured to 1/4 of a fluid ounce every day for over a month.  I had been poked, prodded, plucked, and all other medically necessary Harlequin-like things by total strangers.  NO, I was not instantly changed.  Sure I was glad to be the hell out of there, but I was still me.  What I was lighter from in missing hair, I more than made up for in heavy guilt from the constant inquisitions of whether or not I was a new and improved me. 

(Note to naive 25-year-old me:  YES.  Cancer-free was enough.)

So call me jaded (again), but I find the whole New Year's Resolution thing revolting.  People are people.  Some are well-intentioned, some are not.  Some vacillate between the two on a regular basis.  No matter - not for me to decide.  I've gotten burned by trying to convince myself I know someone one too many times to render myself an expert. 

But what I do know with absolute certainty is that God puts people in our paths at exactly the right time.  For example, last week in tradition fashion, we met at Chels' house in Columbus.  And by "we" I mean the four of us:  Beth, Beck, Chels, and me.  Friends for over 35 years.  There's no bullshit, there's no pretense, there's no hiding a thing.  It all comes to the forefront whether you want it to or not.  The wine helps a little too, but honestly, we were completely sober the entire time which outsiders would not have believed given the increase in decibel levels over the course of the evening.

The boyfriends we'd rather never remember, the flings we wish we could, the Oh My God you screwed him...really? conversations (full disclosure:  I was the one asking that question, not answering) - it was all very refreshing.  Trips down memory lane can do that to you in a matter of minutes.  More importantly, they can alleviate the here and now, which as you may have guessed by now my astute readers, won't cause any backlash from yours truly in this season of life.

After spending genuinely accepting and loving time with them, I finally made the connection between my self-conscious struggle in being satisfied (i.e. stop setting higher and higher goals) and my equivalently self-conscious struggle in being well...in this season of life.  My friend Beth literally just got married for the first time 3 years ago.  She was the most experienced dater among us.  Without going into too much detail about her, let's just say it is rare when she speaks up and even rarer to hear her say anything negative about anyone.  Out of no where she turned to me and said, "Stop liking the wrong ones.  You've always liked the wrong ones.  The ones who treat you like crap, the ones who are emotionally unavailable.  Me too.  But trust me, there are better ones out there.  And for god's sake will you SLOW DOWN?  It just delays everything." 

I teared up and sipped another gulp of my wine.

I'm sure my desire to achieve constant goals has something to do with pleasing someone / earning their love, attention, and respect as a child or lovestruck moron teenager.  At least that's what $110 bucks an hour would insist upon repeating like some kind of marathon mantra.

I'm sure my desire to achieve constant goals has something to do with pleasing someone / earning their love, attention, and respect as a child or lovestruck moron teenager.

I'm sure my desire to achieve constant goals has something to do with pleasing someone / earning their love, attention, and respect as a child or lovestruck moron teenager.

Please.  Who am I kidding and why am I throwing money around like I should have something entitled "Writ" after each session? 

We are all just people.  And we are all gonna be just fine.

Happy 2013.  Including all four of its seasons.

Planting the Seeds for Online Dating

You knew better, right?  There is no way I will ever sign up on an online dating site. 

I know many people who've found their true love their soul mate, their counterpart, their everything on a dating site.  Yada yada yada whatever.  They are happy beyond measure -swearing that paying whatever membership fee, writing a (very factual, I'm sure) bio, throwing up a photoshopped picture of themselves in some lip-puckering sultry pose, and hitting 'submit' has given them more daily pleasure than anything they could have ever imagined.  Have these people never eaten dark chocolate?

The whole online dating phenomenon does not help one iota with my jaded.  Someone was just telling me that "at our age, it's more about finding someone that is 'compatible' and has similar interests in life rather than true love."  Hogwash and humbug, I say.  Or at least I hold to in an effort to have the happily ever after which has eluded me for forty solid years. 

But thankfully in the meantime, I have not lost my sense of humor.  Not only are there the usual suspects in the way of online dating sites, but now apparently there is one called:  FarmersOnly.com.  I saw it on a commercial as a "woman" was "driving" a John Deere through a field as she happened upon some toned and tanned sweaty farmer planting something totally unrecognizable to us city folk.  And as crazy good luck would have it, he even had a towel on him to wipe his brow. 

The only thing which I did recognize in all of this was my utter contempt for one more marketing ploy aimed at suckers.  Along with verification beyond a doubt that when I move in a few years, it will not be to a farm. 

East Coast New-England style house with a big ass French Rooster Country Kitchen?  Twist my arm.  Just not too hard since I may have to plant a garden or something if they're low on lobster.

PITA

Write Drunk; Edit Sober   --Hemingway

Thank you, Ernest.  Although I promise I am not drunk or even drink right now, as I've been on the proverbial wagon since last month.  Exactly one month ago today, in fact.  It's never wise to consume beer that is darker than Mich Ultra in a fashion which rivals how you wished Tom Hanks would have eaten at his special reunion party once he got off that godforsaken island.

Now that we have that all cleared up, let's move on to the topic de jour:  I had an 80 minute massage at Woodhouse earlier.  To say it was long overdue is an arrant understatement.  After dumping my things into a locker, I changed into the plush, commodious robe and those hard plastic slipper things which don't do a thing for your feet after a long run.  To the hallway I went, making nice with the way too bubbly employee who insisted upon walking me the six steps around the corner to the Quiet Room. 

The Quiet Room is quite possibly my favorite room in Fort Wayne.  No, I'm not embellishing for effect.  That room makes me happy and instantly reposed while simultaneously reminding me what cozy feels like.

When I drift off to dream, that room is exactly the kind of place my mind wanders.  From the floor to ceiling stone fireplace, to the candles aligning the massive wood mantle, I sunk deep into the oversized leather couch and all its welcoming pillows - hot cinnamon tea in hand.  As I gazed into the fire, the thoughts which swirled in my head at warp speed were all over the place; yet, I was completely and utterly relaxed.  I'm like James Taylor.  I can only get to a point of total calmness if I'm in front of a fire or if it's raining.  Someday I am going to go to Aspen or Zermatt and just reminisce for days in front of a gigantic stone fireplace wearing the coziest sweater and drinking spiked hot cocoa.

Half-asleep, I heard a deep voice mumble, "Beth?"  No way could this be the guy who'd be working on me for the next 80 minutes.  My hard plastic slippers went shuffling down the hallway behind a man who was clearly either Lou Ferrigno or his younger twin brother.  And by incredible hulk-ish I mean I was pretty sure the room we were about to enter contained one massage table, some birds chirping through speakers and certain death.

About-to-break-me-in-half asks if there are any special areas of interest, areas which are troublesome or causing me pain.  Reluctantly, I tell him I am a runner so my legs are always a wreck.  He nods, and assures me he understands as he is also a runner.  If I wasn't so scared for my life I would have laughed in his face, the one attached directly to his bulging shoulders.  Instead I silently followed the directions I know by heart:  hang up the robe, kick off the torture shoes and crawl under the sheet face up.  He'll be in to kill me in a second.

It started out fine.  Enjoyable, in fact.  I like when they don't talk and I especially like the head rubbing.  Anthony (I think) commenced there and was on a roll when all of a sudden, I stopped breathing.

"Too much pressure?"

"Nope.  I'm good."

"You seem pretty tough."

Great.  I love when people tell me that, especially people who don't know me.  While that may be true once in a while, it most certainly is not true all the time and it definitely wasn't true as he went for the arm/elbow combination down my legs.  That IT band is tricky.

"I can work on your hips later if you'd like."

Apparently my silence was taken as an affirmative.  I had noticed Anthony's multiple tattoos only seconds after meeting him.  Roughly half-way through our session, he divulged that he was in the Navy.  Not only was this unrestricted line officer busting my back, he decided to point out our unfortunate similarity.

Don't go there.  Please don't go there - either literally or verbally, I thought.

"Yes, I foolishly got it about twelve years ago.  Honestly, I forget it's there so I also keep forgetting I need to get it removed."

Once someone asked me if it said, "Leon."  Funniest friend I've ever had.  Have.  Had.  Anywho...I gotta get this thing removed. 

To the hips he went, and by hips I mean glutes.  It hurt so much there was only one thing for me to do as he was poking and prodding and bruising:  put myself back in front of that fireplace, in my own little Quiet Room.

My body's aching and my time is at hand
And I won't make it any other way
Oh, I've seen fire and I've seen rain
I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I'd see you again

I will not be seeing Anthony again.  Or hopefully anyone named Leon.

Paying the Price

"Yep, that's true."

It is not a stretch to say I have been told on more than one occasion that I'm hard to argue with.  Since a preposition just ended that sentence, I'm not so sure that is actually true.  However, I will cop to unyielding and never forgetting one word someone with whom I'm "arguing" has either just said or has said in the past.  Anamnesis, if you will.  Sure, as necessary, I may gently remind them of their current or former statements and point out how they may be in complete contradiction to what they are screaming about in that exact moment.  Color me helpful.

Hard to argue with?  Nah.  Should have been a lawyer?  Yes.  (Although, I'd swim through an ocean of puke before I'd ever consider becoming one right now.)

Admitting you are wrong is a hard thing to do; admitting someone else is right is even harder.  Yet, admission to someone that they have you and your situation pegged is excruciatingly arduous.  Especially when you never wanted to end up in that situation in the first place. 

Being rendered defenseless against rhetorical questions about yourself is no picnic.  Definitely absent is any immediate image of a young and carefree girl with hair billowing in the wind as she holds hands with her soul mate while skipping across a field of overgrown corn on their way back to the checkered tablecloth where he uses his best manners and hand feeds her cheese in between sips of world-class white wine.

(Run on sentence.  Easy to argue with.)

Today granted me not only clarity but the opportunity to go through one more excruciatingly arduous situation vis a vis that type of admission.  Thankfully, mercifully, it was with the one individual whose motives I have never, nor will ever, question.  And I question everything.

As forever true and dear friend always tells me:  If you want something badly enough, you make it happen.  Everything else is just an excuse. 

I hate excuses.

Crazily Foolishly Rational

Today I was reminded that I loathe not only the French, but the Greek as well.  Maybe not the people of these origins, but the language.  Life.  It's one big oxymoron. 

I have two more Soprano's episodes to watch before I return the set to my Dad.  I'm still somewhat embarrassed to be taking life lessons from Tony Soprano, but, certainly not above it.  You simply can neither discount an Italian heritage nor ridiculous feelings which come to the surface under extreme duress, copious amounts of alcohol, or counseling sessions.  Dr. Melfi was trying to help Tony see why he's attracted to certain types of women.  Easy peasy.  He pays her enough in cash earned from his Waste Management profession that seemingly, it should be a breeze. 

But alas, things which should be typically never are.  Things which should be vary greatly from reality.  This I know all too well; just like I know that hearing Dr. Melfi say, "L'amour Fou" on a show which could not possibly be any more Italian is almost as asylum-funny as what I was taught in church this morning:

"Philosophy" is a combination of two words: "phileo" - to love; and "sophia" - "wisdom."

And this, my friends, is where I would end with a smiley face if I used them. 

J.D.

Salinger.  Probably my favorite author of all time, although I read recently that Philip Roth is now done writing which is a shame.  Another one of my all time favorites.

In an endless and ongoing list entitled "And THAT is my problem," add that one:  I struggle with all time favorites.  Sometimes, I'm too sentimental for my own good.  Sometimes, I allow a beautiful season of life which has occurred in the past to severely blur a new potential season.  And sometimes, I know it and just don't care.


 "Certain things, they should stay the way they are. You ought to be able to stick them in one of those big glass cases and just leave them alone." --J.D. Salinger


"Among other things, you'll find that you're not the first person who was ever confused and frightened and even sickened by human behavior. You're by no means alone on that score, you'll be excited and stimulated to know. Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now. Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles. You'll learn from them—if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you. It's a beautiful reciprocal arrangement. And it isn't education. It's history. It's poetry." --J.D. Salinger

election day and other stuff

It's 3:59am, otherwise known as my body has not yet gotten used to DST and thinks it is really 4:59am.  Coffee is brewing and I am getting ready for my 90 minute work out with Evan at 4:45am.  Good morning, Tuesday.  And good morning, blog.  It's been a while...

After I drop Liv off at school early this morning so she can make up a Spanish test, I will vote.  Nothing about this feels right - well, my choice does given the two "choices," - however the whole thing makes me question my profession.  Running for President is nothing if not the most over the top sales job ever.  One spewing with venom, malice, lies and stupidity when it comes to the business-like mindset which is required (in my opinion) to operate this great country of ours.  I miss the founding fathers.  They seemed pretty great.  If I lived back then, I may have even dated one.  Surely if they were as intelligent as they appeared especially in comparison to today's "leaders," then I would have easily been able to overlook dating someone with better hair.

So the reason Liv had a make up test is because I picked her (and her best friend) up from school at 1:00pm last Friday.  We took Liv's friend to Chicago to celebrate her 16th Birthday.  They are all turning 16; my childhood friends and I are all turning 40...yikes.  This is going to be such a wonderful year (seriously - no sarcasm, I am very much looking forward to ALL the exciting things which are on the books and in the works).

In an effort to "culture" the girls - or at least get them big city ready - I bought tickets to a show and made reservations at a fancy-ish Italian restaurant.  As we walked in to Francesca's on Chestnut (how could it not be fancy-ish with a name like that?) I was immediately in love.  Uh-oh.  No, Beth, no...no more impetuous with the falling in love immediately thing.  I had forgotten how much an Italian restaurant resonates with me.  The aroma, the ambiance, the attire, the obvious anticipation of calamari, wine, insalata caprese, and an unknown deliciziso entree.  Screw it, I was going to be in love for at least the next two hours. 

And in love I was.  The food was over the top fantastic - pumpkin ravioli?  Brilliantly sweet.  I savored every last amazing bite.  It was just the right portion size to leave me wanting more yet, realizing I had enough.  I'm sure there's a correlation or life-like simile here but let's leave it alone, people. 

While in Francesca's, I took in all the others dining around us.  The dynamics which were represented kept the smile on my face and warmth inside both my belly and soul illuminated.  There was the (clearly) loaded yuppie family, complete with a Dad in the obligatory navy blazer pretending not to be filthy successful, his wife - the Mom - with her $200 blow out hair (First Lady of a Whig in a former life?), and their four very handsome and way too young for me sons.  I loved watching them laugh together, rib a little, and genuinely enjoy each other's company. 

Next to them sat a very eclectic couple, but I deduced they were strictly friends who had either a) tried to date at one point and hated it or b) were about to and would end up crazily happily married with little eclectic kids running around their concrete floor in a flat somewhere.  Watching their dynamic was cool and exciting.  And somewhat tiring because she wouldn't shut up.

At a table to my left sat a Dad and his son.  Just the two of them in little matching sweaters with white polos underneath.  The Dad was not sporting a wedding ring.  Maybe it was his weekend.  Nonetheless, they were cute and engaged in a very parental-child-like conversation.  I enjoyed that as it reminded me of time I spent with Liv years ago.  Sans the gay matching sweaters.

And finally - finally there was the couple who got to me.  These two were seated just down from the Dad and son.  In fact, the husband was sharing the same booth back the Dad was...you know, the long row of a booth against the wall.  He was engaging her with his intellect; she was smitten.  He had very distinguished wrinkles around his kind and witty eyes.  His laugh was genuine and deep, matching his unconditional love and admiration for his wife.  Their hands touched once in a while across the table, carefully making sure they didn't knock over their wine - red for him, white for her - but it wasn't in a lovey-dovey kind of way.  It was more in an "and can you believe THAT?" emphatic sort of connecting kind of way.  If I had to guess their ages - I'd go early fifties.

That couple did me in.  Not because I no longer could resonate with the other relationship dynamics in the room.  I could.  For I had been involved in those other's before - the yuppie (well, Midwest yuppie) family, the platonic eclectic couple, the single parent with a cool mini-me kid.  However, that couple - the head over heels, profound respect, admiration, and friendship couple - I have not been.  And it wasn't even the recognition of that glaring omission in my life which made me tear up.

It was the fact that I could see me sitting in her spot.  Drinking her white wine.  Looking across the table at the man with whom she was in love.  The man whose company she was completely, utterly, and unapologetically enjoying, as she thought with anticipation of the things they were going to accomplish next.  And I saw me sitting there.  I could even picture what the guy I'd be with would be wearing.

Why yes, I could even see his face. 

?

"The world needs talkers too, honey."  That's what Liv's Dad told her once, about a year or so ago, when she and I were going at it in typical Mom vs. teenage daughter style.

I got it.  That's all I needed to be explained to me in order to understand.  Sometimes honestly, I just don't.  I don't understand why asking questions of someone like What'd you have for lunch? or How was your day? or Did you do have a good time? is so offensive.  But apparently it is for the non-talkers.  You know, for the people who just process differently than those of us who are right. 

Ok, fine.  I now realize, through that example and countless others, that just because I do something one way, it does not make it the right way.  That just because I operate, function, think, or feel in a certain manner does not make all those who don't freaks.  Asking questions is my way of showing love. I never really understood that either, but it makes sense, especially given the multitude of people who would believe I have given up question marks like they're gluten. 

So once I began to understand this perceived "flaw" of mine, I calmly explained it to Liv.  Why yes, I stupidly and methodically began to point out the rationale behind my (constant) question-asking to my daughter.  The one who does it her way, the right way, the only way, all the time. 

She totally got it.

The Ride.

I am not buying a Mercedes Benz even though in less than a year I'll be car shopping. 

No, this Mercedes is something much more important.  Something much more valuable.  Something I cannot just buy for if that were the case, I may have done so by now.  Clearly it would have saved more than money; it would have saved me from 4:15am wake-up calls, blisters, high-heel restrictions, pain, swearing, and other unladylike conduct.  It would have saved me from the constant carrot dangling right in front of my face... this self-imposed goal which has eluded me for some inexplicable reason. 

But what's the fun in that? 

We all know money can't buy happiness.  Or qualification to Boston.

February 17, 2013.  The Mercedes Marathon.

Pick Me Up

Coffee and I did not fall in love until just recently.  Recently as in we are approaching our two year anniversary which in the scheme of things, renders us in the newlywed-we-still-respect-each-other-stage.  I just never drank it other than at my Grandma Mar's house while eating an entire package of dunkers, otherwise known as Stella D'oro Anisette Sponge Coffee Treats.  I'd eat those suckers like I was in my cell on death row.  I have enough energy that adding any sort of caffeine to that inherent indefatigable mix would just make me seem abnormal.

Since I've embraced my abnormalities in all their glory along with my entire "abnormal" life based on societal standards, I drink coffee daily.  Couldn't be happier that Pumpkin Spice Coffee-Mate has hit the dairy case.  The other day as I sleepily poured fresh water into the coffee maker reservoir, I realized something not all that profound.  There are two kinds of coffee-drinking:  the necessary kind and the relaxing kind.

How I made it over 37 years with enough energy to sustain my life is now in question.  It's like when the Opthamologist tells you that once you start wearing glasses or contacts your eyes will get used to the new strength and just naturally become the worse strength.  They will, in a sense, become so attached to seeing life through their new lenses that they cannot see without them.  Long gone will be the innocent misconception of having eyes which are completely fine, of days where everything which needs to be conducted is conducted and your irises are none the wiser.

Coffee is now necessary for me to function.  As my Mom says, "I can't understand what you're saying, I haven't had enough coffee yet."  I used to think she was just disagreeing with whatever was coming out of my mouth early in the morning in a feeble attempt at maintaining her usual peace through obvious mismatched kinesics.  Now I know better.  That crap about caffeine and becoming more like your mother with age is totally true.

But on Saturday mornings, after a stress-relieving long run in crisp (or not) air, after the steaming hot shower where run reflections and muscle loosening occur, after walking into my kitchen with a newfound perspective on life - I make coffee.  And even though it's the exact same kind, prepared in the exact same manner, poured into the exact same mug, it tastes completely different.  It is hotter, fresher, and infinitely more comforting.  That coffee is a reward, a harmonious extension awaiting me like an old friend.

And that's when it hits me:  there are also two kinds of people in this life.  The necessary kind and the relaxing kind.  Who knows which comes first.  But in either case it doesn't even matter.  For in the end, they go hand-in-hand.

Hello...BRUT(al)US...

I know.  I know I said several posts ago that it was my "One and Only Political Rant," but call me Obama-like with my promise.

This won't take long.  That, I promise.  I simply want to say the following, in Romney-like fashion:

NUMBER ONE:  I loved it.
NUMBER TWO:  Who knew Mitt had that in him other than not Michelle?
NUMBER THREE:  I loved it.

Favorite line of the night?
"I've been in business 25 years and have no idea what you're talking about."

Neither do we.

Favorite one of many things Mr. President said which he knows nothing about?:
 "...when people go to The Cleveland Clinic for preventative visits..." 

Unless they've opened a RediMed in The Clinic's lobby that I've not yet heard about, um...no, Barack.  They don't go there for that.

Don't pretend you know and love our swinging Buckeyes unless you actually do.  Jack ass.

And for the record sir, it's too late to run there complaining of a (Simpson) Bowle issue.

This diagnosis just may be curable after all.

Fer Real?

So I have this friend - we'll call her "Elly May" - who has been through a lot in her life.  I know, I know, who hasn't, right?  But she's sort of an enigma.  One of her friends told her recently to not lose her "jaded" since it's one of her better qualities.  You see, she has become completely jaded given those lots of things she's been through in her life, particularly relationships.

Her way of feeling better about her sense of constant jadedness, perhaps subconsciously, perhaps sometimes not, is to help others.  Or at least try to.  Try and instill in them a sense of urgency about what making horrible decisions can do.  The consequences which will undoubtedly ensue, making the road ahead much more difficult than necessary to traverse. 

Elly May is a doer.  A fixer.  Fiercely independent.  Yet, at her core, she's compassionate and loving, and feels really badly about the people she's let down in her life because of those inherent qualities.  The qualities which are both a blessing and a curse.  She's labeled as thinking she's better than others, or she's labeled as not caring about others, or she's labeled as...fill in the blank.  Labels are given to her by those who are either insecure and jealous, or those who truly don't know her and refuse to take the time to do so given their insecure and jealous.  If, in their opinion, she's nice - she's patronizing; if she's not, she's an elitist bitch.

Tough place to be.  For my friend.

She told me this past week was particularly difficult for her.  While always introspective, she actually heard "it" this week.  She was on the receiving end of what undoubtedly is the root of the tears she sometimes sheds.  The ones no one would believe she cries since she's so "tough."  Elly met with a counselor at her church, in an effort to volunteer and help with one more program, share one more story, talk to one more person and connect her church to a similar program.  At the end of all the business talk, apparently the counselor asked her how everything was going and why she stayed so busy.  Forced introspection, I'm sure, was not easy for her since she likes to do things which she decides to do, and certainly not do them when anyone else tells her to.

I've tried to tell her this myself but as usual, she won't listen.  The counselor told her she didn't feel "accepted" and she has been trying to do things her entire life to fit in, since most people who don't know her box her out.  Or conversely, the people who do choose to be around her find they really enjoy it, but internally, if they are insecure with themselves, wish they weren't.  And, since she's not an idiot, she also picks up on this and then feels badly and somehow responsible all over again.

Wow do I get why the woman is jaded.  Kinda hard not to be with all that heady stuff being backed up day after day by 90% of the people she encounters.

Yesterday Elly May tried to attend an event which rendered her in the presence of people who, at one point in her life were her life, but are now just kind of an awkward ancillary memory.  An attempt for her to try and once again do the "right" thing, be accepted by people who probably never really fully did, and to put on a brave face for everyone around her.

She told me it was like having a giant target on her back or, more appropriately given the setting, a little red dot on her forehead.  When I asked her how she knew she maybe shouldn't have gone and that it was time to leave, she replied:

"I was standing in a pole barn holding a plate of corn bread and ranch dip while watching people ride up on 4-wheelers.  Discussing fishin' and huntin' and 'coons in freezer stories.  My ex-husband was acting like he was Obama at the DNC, his mother was shooting daggers at me, and I was the only one NOT wearing either a season or one of the aforementioned events on a sweatshirt.  Ask me again."

What a bitch.

el amor

I cry in church every Sunday.  Without fail, something makes me cry.  For the past year, it's been this overwhelming sense of God's love rather than sheer misery which preceded it for a longer period of time than I care to admit.  Today I had tears streaming down my cheeks while I sang and smiled as if I had a bigger mouth than I actually do.

With a complete sense of peace and unwavering amount of faith - I sang 10,000 Reasons.  I could not be any more in love with that song.  It moves me at my core.  The cadence is enveloping; the words are extraordinary.

So as I'm standing there, swaying, smiling, thanking, loving...I get it.  Maybe not everything - but whatever it is that I got, I didn't let go.  I hung on to the simple notion that I have had some very special people in my life, at exactly the right times, for exactly the right reasons, and I've had the opportunity to love them and be loved by them.  I hung on...

Sometimes longer than I should have, perhaps.  Sometimes, not tightly enough.  Sometimes, once, from afar.  Unspoken.  Unrequited.  Unbelievable.

Whatever may pass and whatever lies before me, let me be singing when the evening comes.

I was singing this line moments ago as I climbed the stairs and Liv shushed me because she was reading.  So I hummed instead.

You're rich in love, and You're slow to anger
Your name is great, and Your heart is kind
For all Your goodness I will keep on singing
Ten thousand reasons for my heart to find

After the song was over, we sat down and continued learning about Paul's letter to the Colossians.  In our notes, we wrote down three of his character traits, which instantly confirmed for me why I came to the conclusion last week that I love Paul.

Paul had 1) a brilliant mind; 2) an indomitable will; 3) a tender heart

I love.  I love lists, I love these words, I love that I still have the propensity to believe in love.  I love knowing, unequivocally, that I'll feel it again.

Which is a song by Honeymoon Suite.  We did not sing that in church today.

Life-Altering Laughter Always Transpires at Bdubs

It's happening.  I always knew the day would eventually come when my mothering was no longer needed as much.  When my stellar parenting, directions, and advice - all based on my own remarkable choices - would no longer be required in Liv's quest for survival.  If I am honest, this whole transformation has been quietly occurring in the background for the last couple years.  I've been purposely ignoring it.  Until now.  Today marks the day in which I am accepting it; in fact after the lunch we just had, there's really no way I couldn't.

The girl is funny.  Wicked funny.  Sure, part of me wants to look at her as she's zinging these zingers and pretend I don't get a thing she's saying.  But the other part of me is secretly thinking 3 things as my gut is shaking uncontrollably in utter hysteria:  1) Nice one.  2) A good parent would consider that a punishable word.  3)  I am SO taking credit for at least some of her sardonic gifts.

We (ok, I) had a busy morning.  Ran 14 miles at 5:45am.  Home at 7:56, showered by 8:19, left for church at 8:50.  Service until 10:15; video shoot for Nicaragua sponsor child at 10:20; Spanish class at 10:30; volunteer at the Event Center at 11:30.  Uno madre and su hija...super famished.

Bdubs.  We're both kind of hooked on it, especially Liv.  I love it for very different reasons, but I love it nonetheless.  So in we go and the conversation immediately ensues.  For all the finger-licking that has gone down there, it will forever pale in comparison to the conversations.

Liv:  I'm excited to go to the OSU game next month.  Those seats will rock!
Me:  [Less excited, as we are taking her "boyfriend" for his 16th and a yet TBD "person" for me to sit with]  It'll be fun.

Liv:  Who do you think you'll take, Mom?
Me:  [Still trying to be "Mom" and not succumb to the impending role-reversal]  No idea, honey, but I'm sure someone will want to watch some football.  It's OSU! 

Liv:  You know, Mom, it's easy.
Me:  [Oh sh*t]:  Watching football?  I know it is.

Liv:  Duh, no.  Them.
Me:  I love Fall weather.  It's my favorite season EVER.

Liv:  Boys are just not all that complicated.  [pretend male voice]  "FOOD!  SEX!  ME NO HAVE EMOTION."
Me: Well Liv, while there might be a bit of underlying truth to those stereotypes, I for one hope to find one some day with a smidge more substance than the Big Three.

Liv:  You're the one who told me stereotypes exist for a reason.
Me:  [to myself]  Great parenting genius, although she totally got your steel trap never-forgets-anything-that-anyone-she-loves-says thing.

Thankfully, our food arrives.  Her dissertation continues with seemingly rhetorical questions such as, "Do you know how hypocritical boys can be, Mom?  They LOVE long legs, yet we can't be taller than they are.  How can I be short with looooonnng legs?  They want us to need them, yet we can't be needy.  They want us to be independent, but we can't be smarter than they are."

Honestly, it's like a stand-up routine.  Of course the audience would be all heterosexual women and men would hate her, but I'm pretty sure she could at least put herself through school with this monologue. 

(And for the record as a side note, we are honestly not feminists.  She is not forever jaded by my track record, nor do I speak ill about any most of it.  The constant message I preach is: foundational friendship.  Have it.) 

Just then, four high-school boys buffoon in and are seated immediately behind Liv.  I see them.  I see them pretend not to check out the back of her beautiful naturally curly hair and simultaneously wonder if I am actually her Mom, as if the mafia hit look I'm giving them isn't a tell-tale.

Dude, LET'S SMASH SOME WINGS!  I'M LIKE FREAKIN' STARVIN'.  DID YOU SEE THAT WAITRESS, C'MON, SHE IS SMOKIN'.  Dude, ANDREW LUCK IS SO GONNA BE BETTER THAN MANNING.  He's LIKE...OLD NOW.

Liv:  [With only a slight nod of her head over her shoulder, no turning around required]:  Exhibit A.

"It is impossible for a man to be cheated by anyone but himself." - Emerson

Today is day 4 of 5 at this Technology Conference.  I'm pretty ready to come home.  Snarfing a pizza while watching a movie in my room at 10:00pm only sounded like fun.  Sweating profusely the following day on the treadmill to purge myself of the extra calories and guilt was fun.

I'm learning a lot.  Not only about the new release of a particular suite of a software solution which I sell, but about people.  I know a lot about the former, in that it's been my profession for the last eighteen years; apparently I also know a lot about the latter, in that I've been interacting with them for the last thirty-nine.

People.  We are funny creatures.  Messy.  Fun.  Not so fun.  Annoying.  Disingenuous.  Smarmy.  Lots of smarm around here...

One guy actually said the words (ok, slurred):  Let's understand something.  I am not graced by your presence right now, even though you're beautiful.  There are so many things wrong with that, I'm not even going to touch it (pun intended) except to say I have this uncontrollable and unfortunate problem of bursting into laughter at the most inopportune times.  Only I'm pretty sure that timing was totally appropriate. 

I have no idea what chick in that loser's life made him feel like he was lucky to be with her, but obviously there was one.  Categorically, knowing absolutely nothing about it, two things are for certain:  she was right and there was only one.

Literally and metaphorically, there is so much baggage around this sprawling conference center that it's both saddening and providing cheap entertainment for me.  Yet it continues to remind me that I'm no different.  No different from any of these people (well, except that jack ass) or, from any of the jaded lenses we look through as we meet new individuals.

Another rather nice guy actually said these words to me:  I thought we had a connection?  Yeah, we've both read the same author.  Call me old-fashioned, but that does not equate to waking up together in MY book. 

The author was a fiction writer.  The only fiction I read, really, while on beach vacations.  And this week is no vacation. 

I'm ready to be home.

New Series

One of my friends told me in a not so polite manner that this blog appears in his start up each morning when he arrives to work.  Now mind you, my guilt when a new blog does not appear for His Highness is tempered by the fact I'm still not entirely convinced he actually "works."  That aside - I have one thing to say before I head out for a week long conference.

Yesterday we started a 21 week series on the book of Colossians.  I'm very excited about this study.  It is not a story, as so many books of the Bible are and as we all have come to expect and resonate with as we go about our daily lives.  Instead, Paul wrote this book (along with others) while he was imprisoned; this book was actually a letter to the people of Colossae, whom he had not yet even met.

I wish I could have known Paul back in the day.  Actually, I wish I could meet a Paul-ish guy in this day.  He was physically tough, sound-minded, right hearted, and experienced things that most of us won't even come close to even thinking about. 

Mostly, I just really like the guy for writing.  He was a prisoner so he couldn't do anything, per se, so he did what he was capable of doing in that moment - he wrote.  Exquisitely.  Passionately.  How cool it is that we can read through, learning about times in history and yet, be able to apply the lessons to our current day.  I wonder if it ever dawned on Paul as he was going through the situations, as he was being taught by Jesus, as he was living. 

I'd LOVE to do that.  Write - hand-write - letters daily for someone else to find someday.  They'd definitely think I wrote them from an insane asylum but that's ok.  I have a lot to say.  I have a lot that swirls in my head which I've not yet even begun to blog about.

What I could write would make for a good story, that's for sure.  Stuff no one knows about - well, maybe the guy who has time to know since he never works, but not the masses.  Man, the new shades of grey that would come of it, not to mention the new number for infinity, would be truly astounding.

Hmm.  One more thing to think about.

9-11

Today is my birthday.  Today I am:

1.  Overwhelmed with emotion
2.  Filled with joy
3.  Appreciative
4.  Remembering
5.  Surprised
6.  Inspired to be more, do more, become more
7.  Content
8.  Thankful
9.  Smiling
10.  Older

This Old Soul

Sunday evening:  7:39pm. 

Just finished cleaning the kitchen after eating a dinner consisting of chicken, sausage, sweet potatoes and noodles which I made for Liv.  (And...her boyfriend, although she eschews calling him such.)

I actually like the kid.  He's polite, normal, comes from a good family (I know because his parents refused to let him come over until they met me...guess I'm sort of normal, too).  Liv and I have this horrendous habit of watching TV when we eat dinner.  I'm sure Parenting magazine would have a field day with the whole scene, but they only write about fictitious little Ozzie and Harriet families and balloon making craft tables at birthday parties anyway. 

Liv grabs the remote as Kevin is cutting into his sweet potato.  We'll finish watching Wedding Crashers, she announces.  Yikes.  The only saving grace here is that it is the edited version. Sort of.

We've heard it all before, Mom.  I feel like asking her the age old, "If your friends all jumped off a bridge, would you follow?"  I'm not sure there's a correlation either.  It just sounded good in my defense.

It's early on in the movie.  I am staring at our TV screen as if it's Mission Earth at Epcot Center where, if you look away, the vertigo gets you and you immediately puke inside of that claustrophobic death trap as you're sardined next to other vacationing strangers.  I see Claire Cleary, played by the lovely Rachel McAdams, delivering the wedding toast.  With dewy, idealistic eyes, she says: True love is your soul's recognition of its counterpart in another.

Cue Gary Sinise's voice as CapCom because I was just transported to Orlando.  I want to hurl.  Perhaps it was from the punch in the gut as I heard these words which I somehow want to believe.  Probably even long to believe, being somewhat of a closet romantic. 

Just as Claire Cleary so astutely responds to John Beckwith when he first delivers this (blatant pick-up) line to her, "It's a little cheesy, but I like it," I couldn't agree more.

Obviously I have no idea if it's true.  Given my track record, I'm probably the wrong person to ask.  I do, however, know that earlier today I came across these gems which I can attest are COMPLETELY true:

 

These things are all the rave, so they normally repulse me.  But not these.  These made me appreciate that I still have my sense of humor and a teenage daughter who is way smarter than I was at her age.

Oh, and the house.  Which Kevin is leaving.

Sugar and Bitters

I hung up the phone awhile ago with one of my best highfalutin friends.  He laughs at the adjective, but secretly enjoys the accuracy.  I'm not thrilled that he now lives in Scottsdale (told you), but I am very happy to talk to him on the phone every now and then.  The actual phone.

While we may have been mobile in our respective homes while chatting, there is something about old-fashioned communication that enhances the exchange.  It's nice to hear an actual voice instead of some impostor emoticon.  I feel ripped off every time someone grants me 20-20 vision into the window of their meager little soul via one of those possessed symbols.

Now, if they're sent to me from someone who knows me well enough to do it strictly in sardonic fashion - fine.  Good.  Enjoyable.  But if one of my friends is upset and sends me the cry-baby face, it makes me want to send the Grrrr ANGRY-SMURF-MAN! face back, because I am now mad that I'm on the other end making fun of my friend - who is obviously upset.  I'd rather hear their voice cracking in grief or gut wrenching in laughter so I can feel connected to them instead of connected to Mr. Yuk and his family.

Anyway, I struggle with the conflict between instantaneous communication and old-fashioned means.  The former is a necessity in today's working world, but I would argue it does not translate whatsoever in today's social world.  In fact, it totally jacks it all up.  You can't get to know someone, really know someone, through texting or emailing alone.  It's the equivalent of liquid courage.  People say things when they're under the influence of alcohol that no way would they say stone cold sober. (My "friend" Deb would tell you that I told some cashier guy he was svelte - sure he was behind the register at Cap-N-Cork but she's a liar nonetheless). 

Old-fashioned communication is sweeter, more meaningful, and longer-lasting.  Hallmark cards?  I save them all.  Post-it notes left in surprise locations?  I leave them for Liv frequently; she saves them all.  A hand-written thank you card on vellum with a 24k cresty-seal from my highfalutin friend?  Still in my office - next to the other one until Cash For Gold branches out beyond jewelry.

People hide behind all sorts of facades, whether it's 4 glasses of wine or poetic words.  And tomorrow afternoon, when Liv's stupid teenage boy"friend" comes over after school to "study," he better remember this is 2012 - when all communication is done through non-sweet, non-meaningful, and lickety-split-like-lasting texts.  From separate rooms. 

Thank goodness they're too young to remember Roxanne.