Vacation? You betcha.

I should really be packing. I should really be cleaning. Or making monsters, or cleaning up after other furry monsters. Because tomorrow I am going on vacation.

Vacation to Michigan - which isn't the first destination on my list, but I'll take it. I'll go anywhere anyone tells me as long as my sister is included in the destination.

I get to see my sister.

It's been almost a year and a half since I laid eyes on her. We've probably had 11 real conversations on the phone and a couple three dozen texted ones. It's been so long I forget how long her hair is, how loud and infectious her laugh can be. How meticulous she is with preparing salad and how she's much, much happier after coffee in the morning. With all the things I find myself forgetting, I'm never easy to forget how much I love her and miss her.

I can't wait for 15 hours to go by so I can get a little sister hug.

Paulina Supper Club #1: Pork Chops

I have this weird reaction where after eating my brain literally shuts down once the digestion process starts; It's like I'm being plugged into my charger and getting my batteries renewed. I can't make conversation, I'm more distracted than normal and I just need to stare at something while things breakdown.

The boys and I (I should start referring to them as the youngsters) have devised this new adventure called the Paulina Supper Club. Basically, it's a Monday night dinner at the homestead but with all of us contributing. We have such different schedules but for all the right reasons our Mondays are free and sitting outside this Summer our plan was hatched.

For the inaugural dinner we made pork chops with sort of an apple chutney/compote and apple cider gravy and (boxed) stuffing. Mini pumpkin pies with cream cheese honey frosting.

Matt doesn't cook and Doug likes to watch cooking shows. It's one part creative, one part teaching and one part execution on the fly. I love it.

Next week: Pulled pork sandwiches with homemade slaw and some deliciousness on the side that I have not determined

State Farm's got nothing on this neighbor

Let's add "good neighbor" to my life resume, shall we?

Oh, you want to know what constitutes a good neighbor? Well alright. How about we start with having to live below the "doin' it crew." This is a term, coined by the Prah's who also have this issue, which refers to two people engaged in sexual activity at a decibel loud enough to be heard by the neighbors. Living under a "doin' it crew" means you just get to experience the whole thing a little more intensely. But since this activity is normal in nature, I don't hold this against them or slip notes under their door to politely (or not so politely) request that their love maybe not be expressed at 3am on a Tuesday. See? Good Neighbor.

Or cleaning the lint out of the dryer after I take my clothes out so that it is ready to go for the next person. Interesting that I also must do this BEFORE I put my clothes in. Who do you think removes the lint, neighbors? The Lint Fairy?

The building has a janitor who comes by weekly and picks up, changes light bulbs, etc... but does it really take all that much effort to get your junk mail into the waste paper basket that they provide? I've walked into my vestibule some nights and wondered if the postman didn't throw himself a ticker tape parade in it. And on a separate note to all the restaurants hiring people to walk around and rubber band their menus to doorknobs and gate handles.....really this is a terrible waste of resources. They don't make it into the apartments, just end up littering the floor or the sidewalk until someone gets sick of looking at them and throws them away. There's this thing called the Internet, you should really re-allocate your efforts online. I promise you, even if you drop off a menu, if I can't order online, I'll choose one of the other nine Thai places I can. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the free rubber bands.

Then there's the recently new efforts of picking up bottle caps, cigarette butts, match books, Cheetos and the occasional Miller Lite can on Sunday mornings. This I don't mind as it's nice to have neighbors that know my name and whom I enjoy their company. Since one in particular is a recent college graduate, the transition from the college living to post college living (aka the "jobby job life") isn't totally mastered yet; he's in the adjustment period and things look like they are settling (mah baby's growing up!). Until early this morning.

I made the very adult decision to turn in for the night (it was well before 11 o'clock....on a Saturday!) because I was basically asleep on the couch -- though the one side of me would argue I was just resting my eyes -- and so I tried making it seem to my other half that we were going to utilize Sunday morning and accomplish a great many things before the rest of the city even scrambled their eggs. And by "scramble their eggs" I actually mean breakfast. Except for the upstairs neighbors which then I mean, REALLY LOUD SUNDAY MORNING WAKE-UP SEX.

I fell right to sleep and so when there was a very loud knocking on the kitchen door I was totally disoriented, freaked out and a little pissed off. And when it didn't stop I figured it was either:
a) morning

b) an emergency

c) a really stupid criminal

d) one of my neighbors home from the bar and not ready to go to bed

If you answered 'D' you would be half correct. If you answered 'B' you would be more correct.

The young neighbor was very adamantly asking me to open the door and I assured him (through the bedroom window which faces the same side as the back stoop) that I heard him and was working on it. Unbeknownst to him, I was trying to untangle the sheets, find my glasses and put on acceptable amounts of cl----I've started to sleep less involved, so I was trying to find my pants.

When I finally got to the door he was standing there bare chested with a tee shirt wrapped around his wrist and the palm of his hand bloody. He had had an altercation with a glass bottle and needed me.........not to dress his wound, or drive him to the hospital.....the words he used were, "I need you to cut this flap of skin for me."

Wait, what did you just say? I surely must still be asleep or there must be sleep still in my ears because I swear I heard you say you needed me to REMOVE A FLAP OF SKIN?! Oh, that is what you said? Are you F'ING CRAZY?! But as this past year has taught me many things, I am capable of a lot more than I thought. I do actually keep a level head, as long as it's not MY blood.

I'll save you the details but after arguing the pros of going to urgent care, I acquiesced and (ahem...) "dressed the wound." Since I am a worrier and a planner at my core, I made him promise to sit on the stoop with me for fifteen minutes so I could see if it was done bleeding. The last thing I wanted to add to my Sunday morning clean-up was a pool of congealed blood. Don't worry mom friends, I also made him promise me that we would re-evaluate it in the morning.

While I didn't get to start the Sunday morning the way I had promised my other half, I think the thrill of it satisfied her. It's good to be needed.

Hostile Hens

News Alert posted from The Washington Post:

The Iowa company that federal officials say is at the center of a salmonella outbreak and recalls of more than half a billion eggs has repeatedly paid fines and settled complaints over health and safety violations and allegations ranging from maintaining a "sexually hostile work environment" to abusing the hens that lay the eggs.

Hmmm......isn't that the same allegation? I mean, it is to the hens at least. I have to wonder who filed on their behalf.

This just isn't working

Dear Chicago,

We need to talk. You are beginning to get on my nerves. Every weekend this Summer has been like a non stop party to you. You constantly invite all your peeps over for a long weekend and trash the place. There's garbage piling up outside and it's not mine. You expect me to clean up after you and I'm so sick of it.

You have this skewed sense of right and wrong. You make up your own rules for what suits you and you don't play fair. You walk around like you are above the law, that rules don't apply to you and when you get caught you lie and bribe your way out of it. Sure I'll admit it, your bad-boy attitude is partially what I fell in love with way back in the day. Waking up in the morning to hear about your Robin Hood gallivanting the night before while everyone was asleep was seductive but I've grown up and you haven't. You are acting like a spoiled child and I'm over it. If you break the rules you have to pay the price.

I'm falling out of love. All you do is take and take and never give anything back in return. I'm sick of giving you money and it's never enough. I work so hard to keep up with you and I have nothing to show for it. Would it be so hard for you to go out of your way just once and do something nice for me in return? You are so damn selfish; even the neighbors are getting sick of your behaviour. You refuse to see what's right - it's like you are walking around with blinders on oblivious that your actions are hurting others. I don't want to be associated with you when you are acting like an ass. I've given you fifteen years of my life - some of the best times I've had have been with you - but I feel like I have nothing to show for it. Should I regret my decision? Don't you want me to be happy?

It's not me, it's you. Things are going to have to change around here or I'm walking out that door and not looking back. No forwarding address or phone number for you to try and get me back, if you lose me it will be for good. I'm not saying I'm perfect but if you don't make some serious commitments to me I'm not joking about breaking up with you. You are breaking my heart and there's only so much more I can take.

You should know, I have flirted with other cities. There are many that would love for me to belong to them. I've never cheated on you but I've had the opportunity. I have even gone so far as to meet up for a drink but it never went anywhere because I felt like you were there waiting for me and that deep down you still love me but I'm beginning to wonder. Could you please finish just ONE of the projects you've started? You promised me you'd have the road in front of the house finished up in just three months. It's been almost a year.

Take some time and think about what I've said. But don't take too long, I'm not going to wait around forever for you to change. Start acting like an important part of my life, remind me again of the good things you have and stop trying to impress the people that don't even live here, impress me. You can start by taking a shower, you smell awful.

I'm hurt and confused from trying to love you.

Me

Mrs. Miyagi and the Warm Smell of Leftover Sunshine

I'm going to do a little cursing. Don't say I didn't warn you.

I fucking hate flies.

I can't stand their damn buzzing and their little grotesque metallic green bodies.

I fucking hate flies.
I hate that they land on the rim of glasses and tines of forks. That they walk their dirty little feet over every surface forcing me to follow around behind and sterilize. I feel like a gang of rude offensive bikers have laid claim to my apartment and are inviting their friends to come crash. Where are they coming from?!

I've spent most of my Friday night sitting here swearing and swatting and missing. Cursing and swatting and killing. SPLAT! You would think I would feel better but I am grossed out. Itchy and sticky and down right ornery.

I should run my central AC. Yes, I have it. But I don't like it. I spend half the year being cold that when Summer finally comes around bringing its sunshine and warm degrees like gifts to a hostess, why the hell shut the windows and make it an artificial 68?! I suppose the flies are consequences of fresh air.

Erin and I didn't grow up with air conditioning. We had cheaper ways to cool down...window screens, box fans, sprinklers, slip-n-slides, Popsicles and Jello Pudding Pops, (what I wouldn't give for either one of THOSE right now), cool baths and sleeveless nightgowns.

We grew up in the country so when it was time to come in for the night it was dark. D-A-R-K. You could see glow-bugs everywhere -- for what seemed like miles across the corn fields. There were bullfrogs and cicadas that would start making noises at night fall; sometimes it would start to sound like high-pitched static and then it would abruptly stop. Silence. Dark wonderful, warm, silence. At those moments you could hear Ernie Harwell and the Tiger's game on the AM radio that Poppa would be listening to in the garage as we went in to get ready for bed.

We had two cats that were allowed to go outside and at night they'd come in from their day adventure, curl up next to us and bring the smell of sweet green grass and leftover sunshine from their wanderings. I can sit here now and faintly remember this if I concentrate. (It's the same way I can remember the smell of Great Grandma Myrtle's Avon hand cream or my sister's Tinker-bell perfume). Just around the time we were climbing into bed the humidity would start to break and the big Maple trees out front would filter the breeze and you'd feel it begin cooling off -- perfectly timed to fall asleep. Night time lullaby of bullfrogs and branches swaying in the wind.

I would never have chosen central air over any of those memories.

Let there be INTERNET

The modem wasn't taking my calls.
I think it was screening my connection.

So I made an appointment with a private eye.
Then it came back from vacation; passport stamp and dirty laundry and sunburned.
And the Comcast private eye I had made an appointment with politely called and thanked me for my business but cancelled knowing I would soon be reconnected with my long lost Internet.

I love you, Internet. Please don't leave me again. I promise not to take you for granted.

(Well, that will catch you up on how my past five days have been)

I have this theory: Tuesdays suck.

My favorite day of the week is Monday. It's a brand new fresh start, a new beginning....a venture into the unknown. Tuesdays are both feet in, too far to turn back now -- but miles away from Friday. Nothing good happens on Tuesday.

For example, I have two bags of laundry that I had all intentions of doing on Sunday but ran out of quarters. Got quarters yesterday and then got home and chatted with my neighbor until it was time too late to start, no time to finish, the reality of the work week ahead setting in.....and I staggered to bed with the overwhelming depression that Tuesday was lurking only hours away. Woke up this morning feeling like I was being cracked out of delicate warm egg shell into a hot frying pan.

Didn't wash my hair. Forgot my Kleenex for the commute (the AC makes my nose run). Drank all my coffee before I got to my desk. Didn't leave my desk until seven o'clock at night - a tiring ten and a half hours sitting - got home and ate handfuls of Peanut Butter Captain Crunch. And now I'm sitting here reconnecting with you folks. It honestly wouldn't surprise me, the kind of things I experience on Tuesdays, if there really wasn't anyone reading.

My stomach hurts.

Ten hours at work, three hours of leisure, seven hours of sleep --- somehow that seems all kinds of wrong. I haven't had a true vacation since Calistoga, California four years ago. I have good intentions of doing something and no means. Or means and then no intentions. It's a vicious circle. Put my ass in a camp chair with a cup holder, a fire and a lake Michigan in front of me and call me stupid giddy.

Nothing poignant or well crafted tonight, just a girl sitting on her back stoop pleased that her internet is once again returning her calls and the Pandora is flowing like smoke from a tiki-torch. Have your best shot Tuesday, you've got thirty more minutes before I stop taking YOUR calls.

Wednesday, be kind to me. I've had my confidence tested and my intentions squashed by your nemesis, Tuesday.

Ya big FAKER

Best advice I've recently been given, "fake it 'til ya make it, baby doll."

This works in a myriad of ways but I'm talking about one. Attitude. Yes, the big "tude." Mine is as meek as a Jabberwocky, timid as a striptease. Stings like whiskey. Soothes like a thunderstorm.

I can tell when I'm nearing the tank being empty, the short fuse approaching. Things that normally would roll off as easy as raindrops on window shields become boulders in the driveway of my life. I got bit by a mosquito or something this weekend and my answer to solving this minor inconvenience was to scratch it until it no longer looked like a tiny little red dot but rather a large red-hot scorch mark. What would have taken a day to heal is now a 56 hour reminder to put things in perspective.

I try to have a carry a decent attitude for the sake of those around me. Yes, the strangers I come into contact deserve a smile, a door held open, a seat given up on the train when they seem to need it more than I. But more than the strangers I meet, I do it for my friends. I believe that my friends validate my existence.

Hang on, hang on....I'm not saying I live for my friends, I'm saying I love my friends. Truth be told, I choose to keep the number to about that of a baseball team but I love these folks to the depths of the Pacific Ocean. I try to have something special I share with each one, too. Sometimes it's easy to come up with the bond, other times it's hidden like the needle in a haystack. That's the fun in it for me....trying to uncover the hidden feature.

Occasionally though it can be misleading. Season. Reason. Lifetime. Sorry to say, the little saltwater fishes of my friendship come with the Lifetime subscription. I don't like kicking someone off the team, but I'm strong enough to know a painful goodbye is better than a lifetime of disappointment. For those that get the uniform, we may share the strangest common denominator or even seem a fallacious pair at first glance but peel away the layers and there's a reason.

So here's why I love you: For telling me not to wear the duct taped jeans, reminding me not to be silly - that we are best friends and "that's why." For correcting my creative use of the English language, helping me embrace the PIBE theory, for future schemes that include both of us, for sharing history and making memories, laughing for the 976th time about that one day, giving meaning to randomness. Nicknames and pseudo family titles that mean something. Sharing family members before they're gone, not holding grudges, trusting me to find the best secret hiding spots in plain sight. Creative cooking when we should have gone to bed, big plans that fizzle into the best ideas ever. Co-creating Porch Counsel for the purpose of hearing what has to be said and not caring how it sounds. Eating acorns and fast forwarding commercials. For biting and forgiving. For showing up and opening the door. Listening throughout the night to the sad and frustration and never judging. For doing something even though it makes no sense whatsoever and not needing it to. For showing me places I'd never discover on my own. For always having an invitation even when you know I may decline. Taking the good with the bad, the awful with the fantastic. Truly loving my cats when you know you'd rather they be dogs. Challenging me to be better. Recognizing when I struggle to ask for help, congratulating me when I succeed.

You all give me the reasons I sometimes feel the need to fake it. As with the other myriad of ways to fake it, I hope you can never tell the difference ;-)

Some things glow, some things fade away

Work has disrupted the better part of my Summer so far and for that I'm disgruntled, displeased and genuinely disheartened. I struggle to balance the life I want to lead and the life I am currently living. It's not all bad, I know this, but it sure is more than a stone's throw from where I want to be knowing.

So much of it is just not fitting together. Walking around inside myself it feels like an Amtrak train car on the elevated tracks of Chicago. Sure, it's 'A' mode of transportation, but it's not the 'same' kind of transportation -- walks like a duck, quacks like a duck......moves like a hippo.

Left work at 8 o'clock tonight and started the trip homeward. Got on a crowded train and luckily had a seat until the elderly couple came aboard and I felt that pull to be respectful. My job is sitting all day, I can surely stand to stand up for them. And I did. And it felt so good. I like to think my one small gesture of respect is witnessed by another and they reciprocate and on and on....an anonymous "paying it forward" of good intentions.

Have had family on the brain lately. Friend-family and Family-family, both genuine and real and true. While distance makes the heart grow fonder, it also breaks it into a thousand billion pieces of longing and wishing and dreaming distance was blocks instead of mile markers. I miss you sis and I wish it were different.

Swimming in my thoughts I shuffled away from the station and down my street. Thinking about so much of the days personal events: staying true to buying local at the Farmer's Market, caving and drinking delicious coffee, enjoying fresh air with company, making plans I'd give up coffee to see come to fruition, plans to see Pop this weekend, chores that have been stacking up.....and then seeing little brilliant flashes.......

They're home. The glo-bugs I miss so much when Fall comes around have come to light up my late night wanderings. My throat caught with that kind of happy that results in emotion saved for puppies and fireworks. Somethings fade away because they have to. Somethings come back 'round again because they are meant to. I've lamented so many things lately that have faded for reasons not entirely understood that I forgot....somethings will always be right there when you're not expecting them.

Welcome back glo-bugs. Brighten my walk home while you are here, I promise to pay attention until you fade away.

Double Down.....I DOUBLE Dare You.

This should get your blood boiling – without even having to ingest one bite. Consumerism, gluttony, corporate irresponsibility, nutritional obligation……What is going on?!

Where does the fault lie – just because you CAN create and market something doesn’t mean you should. Just because you CAN order and eat something doesn’t mean you should. Why are we not doing more about this? Is it a need to feed on something so bad for you it feels rebellious? Are you rebelling against the ‘Man’ by ordering up a Double Down? Does the ‘Man’ care? Should he?

KFC's Double Down bet pays off
(msn.com 5/19/10)

KFC says Americans are gobbling down so many Double Down sandwiches that the fast-food chain will offer the bunless, meaty sandwich longer than it had planned
**what, did they intend to promote it as a dare?**

KFC said it has been one of its most successful sandwich launches ever.
**define success. Heart attacks? Blood pressure prescriptions on the rise? Double breasted-beakless chicken shortages?**

Later this month, KFC expects to sell its 10 millionth Double Down. They cost about $5.
**Hmm….that’s fifty million dollars. Yet they are only donating $.50 per bucket to the cure for breast cancer. I think KFC could step it up, don’t you?**

Some have questioned the sandwiches' nutritional value.
**Duh

The original version has 540 calories and 32 grams of fat, and 1,380 milligrams of salt. A grilled version cuts calories to 460 and fat to 23 grams, but sodium rises to 1,430 milligrams. By comparison, the Big Mac from McDonald's has 540 calories, 29 grams of fat and 1,040 milligrams of sodium. A daily 1,500 milligrams of sodium is recommended.

Full Lyrics. AS IF

hey, hey, hey

My love, uh huh, my love, hey,

my love, hey, my love, hey,

my love, hey, my love, hey

Way to go Justin Timberlake.

And they said don't judge a book by its cover. Guess you proved them wrong, huh?

Must be nice getting paid a million per letter.

Let's crack some skulls

Well actually, just teeth.

Stupid teeth. I can't wait for this to be done later today. It's no secret that I get really freaked out with doctors and stupid freaked out about teeth. You can imagine my general state of mind today....

So I'm getting ready to pull on my big girl pants, comfortable and not restricting. Drying my hair straight today because I doubt I'll feel like a shower tomorrow and putting all the smushy food I bought at eye level so there's no thinking involved. No thinking.

I hope side effect numero uno from percocet or darvaset or vicodin is giggles. It'll help when I look at the chipmunk cheeks in the mirror.

447.......448.......449...................450................451.................452.....................453.....................454........

Well, I'm running out of sheep. So much for that trick.

Sweet dreams when you get there

There were many nights when Corri and I lived together when we would stay up late talking and giggling, making plans for life or just plans for the Best. Lunch. Ever.....until we could hardly keep our eyes open. Sleep was giving us a curfew yet we would beg for "just 10 more minutes" like little kids. Finally giving in and calling it a night, the bedtime checklist was conducted: door locked? lights off? candles extinguished? cats accounted for? and we would head to our rooms. From down the hall I would hear her say to me, "Sweet dreams when you get there" and I would drift off, destination in mind. Except I have never been one to have all that many dreams -- some occasional running through forests dreams and the reoccurring nightmare --but mostly nothing to write home about that I could recall or even feel the imprint of when I woke up the next morning. I trust that they played and I watched without feeling the need to dwell or run an encore the next night. This system was all fine by me. Then I moved into my own place for the first time ever. Dreams have started being remembered, replayed and weigh heavy. Insomnia has become a constant bedfellow.

I'm miserable. Or, at least let's say I liked it better when I didn't remember anything exciting from the night. Sleep and I are at odds. It's like driving in a car a long distance with someone you are fighting with. You've got to acquiesce and know that being in the car is necessary to get you to the destination but it's not the place you are thrilled about spending time.

This past week in particular handed my ass to me on a pillow. It's UNBELIEVABLE how the stupid reoccurring dreams, two actually, are so easily understood and clear when I wake up. I want to stand in line at the dream counter and tell the sales rep that, "Yes, thank you I enjoyed the message and appreciate the opportunity to watch the re-run. Now could you please wrap it up and file it under "CRYSTAL CLEAR" for me?" Thanks.

But yet as I sit here not tired, or not wanting to go have another go around of the same fucking picture film, I know it's all cued up waiting. Cruel.

I wish I had a hallway and at the end of the hall was my fabulous roomie calling out "sweet dreams" because at least I had a fighting chance -- or someone to drag back out on the couch and keep me company through the adventures of Insomnia.

Too late now

Facebook.

I did it. I'm either going to catch a lot of grief, or a lot of "it's about damn time."

Detour

I was all set tonight to write about casually dating or my life as a contestant on the $10,000 pyramid. And then I got onto the internet and started bouncing around clicking on this link and that link -- feeling like I was back aimlessly driving around on the winding two lane country roads of my youth, no street lights, very few street signs, no destination in mind -- and I happened to check in on my high school buddies band, Small Brown Bike.

Which led me a side project, www.dragonstheshow.com

Which led me to their Facebook page

Which led me to familiar names and discovered familiar faces

And now I'm sitting here at my kitchen table in a haze of memory and emotion and I don't know what to do with myself. For 16 years I've only ventured back home a dozen times or so. I would fondly recall people, events, mundane high school days...wondering what those people were up to. Who got married, who had kids, what corners of the Earth they moved to, what careers they wound up in. Kristy B does a really good job of keeping in the loop as much as she can with the big things (weddings, divorce, babies and gossip) but I miss the day to day. I'm envious of them sitting on a bar stool at Dark Horse or the bleachers at a football game on Friday night. I know it sounds unreal but I didn't really consider the possibility that they would be accessible online, easy to find, easy to contact and catch up with. And now I feel like I've been picked up and set down in the middle of a reunion that I didn't RSVP to.

Is it too late? Do I walk into the pep rally 16 years late and try to connect with these friends from my past?

Some Facebookers I know have 1200 "friends." I only had 500 kids in my HIGH SCHOOL. Twelve of them I just found looking at OTHER Facebook pages. Names from the past that would flitter thru my head and I would just give up as though they were lost forever.

Technology has successfully played yet another little prank on me. Fool me once, shame on you...Fool me twice.......maybe it's time I do this. Four years until our 20 year reunion. Maybe there's still hope for me to make some connections.

Question

If Asparagus makes tinkle smell very (very) bad, is it like garlic and should be avoided on a date?

ARE YOU SHITTING ME?!

I haven't posted in over two MONTHS?! WHAT?! Oy.

Well, I'm going to have to get my arse in gear and remedy this.

Soon.

Very soon. I swear.

You love me, you know you do.

I think we'll need more cake

Happy Birthday Februarians!

Robyn Coffin, Remee Morse, Me, John Basco, Jeremy Hirsch, Andres Marcus, Reed Maschevski (yeah, I spelled that wrong) and of all things, Happy Birthday Dunkin Donuts.

What?

Yep, Happy 60th you cheap-ass-donut-making-franchise with excellent coffee. Two more years and you can retire your ovens. Just keep the kettle brewing.

Headshaves, Horseshoes and Love

Its weird, the things that represent strength.

In the past week I've watched my best friend face fear and become stronger than I think she realizes. She can rock a shaved head and I am in awe of her. I guess that's what got me thinking about this post's topic. I associate shaved heads with fear and ultimately strength.

My little sister had a life threatening accident when she was three. To this day I can vividly remember fragmented pieces of it. She went from a little smiley kid with pigtails to little smiley kid with a helmet. She had this huge horseshoe scar on the side of her shaved head where the Doctors repaired her fractured skull.

Her skull.

But oddly enough, the shaved head, scar and helmet only accentuated her little kid smile (just like it is doing for Crescent) the proverbial twinkle in Erin's eye was for real. Even though she was three and couldn't verbalize it, I believe she knew just how close she came to a different outcome and she was celebrating. (Okay, so she celebrated in the weirdest of little kid ways, like pretending the dining table leg was her pony, but it made her happy.....and they said there was no damage to the brain.......hmmm....)

As her older sister, I think about that day a lot. Somewhere deep down in the memory banks lies this image of her actually getting hit (by a softball bat....and NO I was not swinging it). Thankfully, I have made a deal with the memory librarian and she archived it so I can't consciously recall it.

**Side note: Librarians love caramels. If you ever need to bribe one, make sure to be prepared.**

I am so damn thankful I AM an older sister; I can't imagine having lost her. Ever since we were teenagers we've talked about the "one day" dream -- that one day we'll be neighbors with a gate made in the fence between our houses and her kids will run away to Aunt Sissy Pant's house where they'll eat fluffer nutter sandwiches in pajamas while we make forts with the couch cushions. And in the middle of the night Erin and I will carry them quietly back to their own beds so when they wake up they're back where they belong. I'll let you in on a secret, I don't care if she has kids or not, there would be a gate in the fence so I could run away to my sister's house and hideout in the fort we'd make in her living room.

When I look at her now, I don't see that little awkward scared kid in a helmet with a horseshoe scar, I see a beautiful strong sister with a lucky horseshoe mark she'll carry with her forever.

When you see a shaved head, you are looking at a strong woman. You may not see them at first because their hair has grown back, but look closely and I bet you'll see the twinkle in their eye and the strength in their heart.

What Weight Watchers and my Ex have in common

Or.... "Does this Cheesecake make my life look fat?"

(For the record, I don't like cheesecake, not in the least. Not even if it were infused with ginger, dusted with macadamia and topped with Frangelico whip cream)

It's time for me to fess up because I've been holding back and I haven't been honest with you recently. I always said that I would write what I needed and wanted to with no reservations or modesty (tact, yes) but no editing content for the audience. Shoot straight from the hip (Lord knows I have them) and always tell the truth, because we all know, truth usually makes for the best material.

I hate this.

Ok, here goes.......ready.....set........go........I have gained some *noticeable* weight. Shocking! Why on Earth could this take me by surprise? Naturally good eating habits wouldn't lead you into such a predicament, and I've mastered those in the past. Like 80 pounds in the past. Pssh-yeah.

Wait, what's that you say? Cookie dough and red wine at midnight can't be considered good? Whatdaya mean I can't grandfather these in?! Well I'll be a turnip cart, I never would have imagined........ah, bullshit. I totally knew. Totally aware. It's as if I have given Power Of Attorney to my mouth, my tastebuds and my emotions. They're the evil step children I have to put up with and right now I feel like they've tied the rational, calm part of my being to a chair in the tool shed.

The thing is, I'm a stress eater. What a low down dirty vice this is. Everyone eats to sustain life. Everyone has stress. I just happened to introduce these two scoundrels on the playground one time and since then they refuse to go play alone. I want to be one of those people unaffected by my stress, or at least can I be in the group that gets stressed and can't stomach water? I'd love that. Built in willpower.

Now you see why I haven't written about this topic until tonight. I have a lot to say about this and all of it is extremely personal and probably uninteresting to you. I don't know anyone who is happy with their body condition. Ok, maybe two people. In the country. But I'm not going to lie, when I get to the point where I've reversed this gain, I will shut the hello up and just be content. I'll be the third person in the country.

So why write about this at all? Well, I've got to bite the bullet and go to my Weight Watchers meeting this weekend. I've had the same leader since I started in 2005 and she's tracked the successes over these past years right along side of me -- until I took a leave of absence in November and haven't been back since. And now I find myself dreaming of loosing 10 pounds before I next go to weigh in so that she doesn't know the extent of the damage done in 3 months.

Why is that? Why would I try and lose weight prior to attending a meeting? A meeting solely created to support someone who is actively losing or maintaining weight? It seems stupid. But then if that's true, why do we brush our teeth before going to the dentist? Or trimming before going to the waxing appointment? Or even cleaning the house prior to the cleaning lady coming over....all services we willingly seek out and pay (dearly) for.

It's for approval. You want to be given kudos for maintaining your (teeth/lady parts/house) items between sessions. Approval that you took care of your new clean teeth for six months! When you walk out of that waxing appointment you are going to use your power for good and when you return for follow up there's travel and excitement to share! Trust me, you want the same from a WW Leader. You want to see the smile of congrats when you've lost from the week before. That hint of jealousy that they themselves wish for a second that was their success we were celebrating. To be better than when last you met. To have something to bring to the table.

Same goes for exes. You always want to look better, smell better, seem stronger than when you last met.

I can't change what will register when I get back on the horse this weekend at the meeting. Just like I can't worry about what I'll look like the next time I see my ex. I should be thankful I don't have to be naked for either.

Why Gay bars have Kleenex

It's not easy to admit that I've cried in some strange places for a myriad of reasons. Though I am proud to admit that it hasn't been often as of late. With the exception of tonight.

Add yet another bar. A bar ill equipped to handle an emotional outpour with a best friend. A PBR Irish bar.

Fucking Cancer. Fucking absent Kleenex. God Damn dog.

I am not one to cry in front of people. I hate it. It makes me feel weak and vulnerable - two things I just don't put up with in myself. Yet I'm not naive to think that it hasn't happened, won't happen....I just can't stand it when it does.

My best friend starts Chemo next week.

Fucking Cancer. I'd like to go two rounds with you in a ring. Two rounds. First round I get surprised by how dirty you fight and the next round I KICK YOUR ASS.

But it's like boxing smoke. Elusive and coy...one minute right in your face and the next not even a shadow on the mat. So instead, I pour my weakness into something constructive. A benefit for her. Something that can provide comfort to her and her husband. Selfishly it makes me feel good for contributing.

But there are nights that we sit and laugh until we cry - and then cry until we laugh. Tonight we started laughing over PBR and Chardonnay and bar pizzas. Then we started to talk about the benefit and the crying started - the, "I can't believe the amount of support and love that is out there" kind of crying. So we paid the bill at the PRR bar and decided to call it a night.

Unfortunately (or is it fortunate) that our train stop is literally twenty paces from a gay bar called Scot's. How do two girls sharing laughs and tears in a straight bar pass up a drink at the gay bar?! Moments after arriving we were bought a martini and shots. Gay men just aren't scared off by the prospect of crying; they are drawn to it like moths to flame.

So for those of you that I sent texts to that seemed odd or out of left center, I don't apologize but I offer the explanation of PBR draft beers, gay men and a dog named Wilson. If you'd been there with me in person you'd have appreciated the fact that Gay bars have Kleenex readily available.

Here's to you Crescent Prah. I will bring the Kleenex, kick Cancer's ass, and cry anywhere, anytime as long as it's with you. Just promise that someday it can be my dog that we take pictures of in a bar.

Boom! Rubber Band

Here's a weird thing....rubber bands.

Tell me, when was the last time you remember purchasing a rubber band? Go ahead, think about it. I'll wait.

Waiting. ...............................................................still waiting.................give up? Yeah don't feel bad, I can't either. But I knew that (this is my topic after all) I just wanted to see how long you'd try. Even though you can't recall when you acquired a rubber band I bet you could walk to your kitchen or your desk and find a handful of these rascals scattered in the drawer. Rubber bands are like those dryer sheets that sometimes hide out in the crotch of your pants until at the most inopportune moment, say like when you are in line at the bank , it decides to make a break for it and shimmy down the pant leg and escape by sneaking past the sock. FREE AT LAST.

(What in the hell does a used dryer sheet have in store for itself after preventing static cling? I doubt roller coasters and pony rides are on the agenda. Maybe a sort of lining for a bird's nest possibly?)

I think about rubber bands all the time. I wouldn't go so far as to say that I "collect" bands (that's more than a little fishy) but I do know when and where I get them from. You can walk around my house and find a few bands hanging on random door knobs or cupboard knobs -- always handy -- and even one hanging in my shower, but that's a special one. These get used in a myriad of ways from long term to quick fixes. You just never know when you'll need one, a good band is hard to find.

(Get it? Good band....like man........wow, I've been away too long. Either I'm rusty or you've forgotten my sense of humor. Let's get it together people!)

Postal workers are NOTORIOUS for dropping bands all down the sidewalks of their routes in Chicago, like Hansel and Gretel and the breadcrumbs. All I have to do is walk two blocks out of my way and have enough bands to last the next couple months. I like to remind myself not only am I being frugal, I'm also doing a good deed by collecting these off the ground so some yippy little dog doesn't choke to death when he decides a chewy rubber band is a good afternoon snack.

(Only yippy dogs. Big dogs wouldn't bother with anything smaller than a fan belt.)

When I was growing up my parents owned a grocery store and my mom was the Non-Foods Manager. That meant on days when the stock came in we would have to help replenish the shelves. Boxes of Tylenol held together with a rubber band, bottles of cough syrup clinging together inside a rubber band -- container after container of the same. By the end of it you'd have rubber bands lined up from wrist to elbow. Enough rubber bands to last a lifetime. It was a bitch and a half to get those Mothers off your arm. Usually leaving a hairless forearm as proof of a job well done.

I venture to guess that after reading this you will catch yourself noticing the existence of rubber bands more. And, if you want yet more excitement, you can do what an old acquaintance of mine started doing. Every time he'd see a rubber band on the floor or sidewalk he'd yell, "BOOM! Rubber band" and pick it up.

I bet his forearm is hairless.