I KNOW ALL THERE IS TO KNOW ABOUT THE WAITING GAME

The other night I dreamed that I was visiting Dad, except he was at home in his own bed. He was sitting up on pillows and when I walked in I said "hey Dad". He replied with an enthusiastic "hey Cindy!". I then asked him how he was doing. He grumbled that he was awful. He said that he just couldn't get out of that bed and he was tired of being there. The dream sort of dissolved from there as dreams often do. I ended up on a bus carrying people to a mass gay marriage ceremony. I still have the crook in my neck from riding that bus. But I know it was all a dream because the last time I saw Dad, he wasn't talking. He held my hand, but only because it was a hand to hold. Not because it was mine. I left that day thinking that I'd never go back. That was the last visit, as if he's already gone to me. I didn't and don't see the point of it. When I awoke I half expected to get a phone call telling me that Dad had passed, that he was tired of being in that bed and left. Expecting or hoping? You know how people play that speculation game when one of their friend's is expecting? I say that baby is going to be born on this day! We've started to play this game with Dad, speculating on his passing. It's not as fun as predicting a birth. Some of us think he'll be with us for another year or more, while others believe it could be any day. I have no opinion. I remember how doctors gave Chris six months and he made it two weeks. I cannot predict or speculate or even guess. So far Janell has been the lucky one. Her visits seem to always land on Dad's good days. She can even get him to eat. The rest of us have been left with his bad days where he is either sedated or just not present in his body. You can see in his eyes that he's gone off to some other place, leaving a shell of himself behind. I've seen too many of the bad days to not want to see more.

There was an evening recently where Michael and I met one of his college friends for drinks. The subject of older parents and loss came up. She had had a difficult year with it all. Michael added that we were going though similar trials with my Dad. When the friend asked how I was dealing, Michael answered for me saying "she's taking it hard, she's close to her dad". I just sat there in silence, staring blankly at my plate. Part of me wanted to pipe up and tell him not to speak for me. He doesn't know. It's something I never talk about. He hasn't been around long enough to even know if I'm close to Dad or not. All he's heard is the goofy stories. He doesn't know about the years that I wanted nothing to do with Dad and that the very idea of being left alone with him sent me running to my brother's house for a whole summer. Except he does know those things and I don't really have to talk about any of it for him to see it. He knows that it was Dad that showed up on my third day of being completely alone after Chris died. It was Dad that some how knew exactly how to deal with me, not mentioning a single thing about death or Chris. Just a simple "hey, let's go on an adventure". Just like the old days. I was the kid that was game for anything. Dad would mention airport hopping, seeing how many airports we could hit in one day on his standby pass, and I was on board. You want to see what's causing all that smoke way over there in the distance? Let's go see. You want to ride every plane out here at this fly-in? Sure, climb on up. So I don't have to say anything really for Michael to know that this is hard. He speaks for me because he knows that I won't speak of it or if I do I'll just color code it and say "it's not so bad". Because that's what I do.

I am the one that is hoping that Dad doesn't last a year or more. I know that sounds terrible and even slightly selfish. It is inconvenient for all of us, the whole process. But it's most inconvenient and awful for him. I'm sure if he could talk to me he'd tell me that he's tired of being here, that he's ready for the next adventure. And I'm ready for him to have that too.

AND I DIDN'T STOP TO TAKE PICTURES

Michael has been getting his haircut by the same girl for years now. She lives in the suburbs of Lee Summit and works out of her basement. Recently I started letting her cut my hair too. At first I thought it would just be more convenient, but turns out I like the way she cuts my hair. This is a long version of why we were riding our scooters all over Lee Summit and the back roads of I don't know where all day on Saturday. And it was glorious! Michael needed some new t-shirts so we left early enough to stop in at JcPenny's for a bit of shopping. Did you guys know I only owned one pair of shorts? Now I have three! Any way....after Penny's we strolled around the outdoor shopping center and discovered an olive oil and balsamic vinegar shop where we found ourselves doing shots of olive oil at 11:00 AM out of tiny communion cups and then doing shots of oil and vinegar mixes. We were well greased and some dollars lighter when we left that store. From the mall, we made our way to Casey's (our hairdresser) house so that we could both get our "summer cuts" ('cause we thought it was summer, but today the high is 60 and I have put my electric blanket back on the bed). But we both look really pretty with our new shorter hairs. After our haircuts, Michael said something about wanting new goggles for his helmet. I have a pair of aviator goggles that I bought a few years ago that I love, but they have gotten worn. The soft padding doesn't really rest on my face any more. I said that I would also like a new pair of goggles, but they had to be the exact same kind as the ones that I already have. Michael did a quick search for motorcycle shops between Casey's and our house and said "follow me! I know the way!". Except his way turned into a highway. To avoid having a Clueless Freeway Freakout, we ended up on this little back country road that was nothing but rolling hills and farms and got kind of lost. We had to make a stop or two to consult a map. We finally made it to the motorcycle shop that Michael had found. Knob Noster Motorcycle Shop. It was right across the street from a "gentlemen's" club called Legs. I really wish they had a website to link to, because the guys running the shop were totally the Click and Clack of motorcycles. They did not have a huge selection of goggles, but they had one box of aviator ones (just like my old ones!) and a handful of Metzeler elephant stickers (I think it's a brand of tires). We left the motorcycle shop to make our winding way home, staying just ahead of the threatening storm moving into the area.

One of the things I love about this city is how easy it is to get lost in the coolest places. One minute you're riding down a typical city street. Stop light, stop light, stop light. Then, suddenly you're on a country road. No stop lights. Not even a stop sign. Nothing but lush green farm land, hills and trees. It makes me want to figure out a way to safely mount my camera to my scooter so I can just hit the button any time I want. Snap, snap, snap. Saturday was a good day to get lost.

WEIRD WONDERFUL

"Happy Mother's Day to you" the cashier said as she handed me my receipt. I mumbled out a "thank you" as Michael and I grabbed our groceries. We headed to the door and Michael asked "Do they just say that to every woman on Mother's Day?". I just shook my head. It was just the two of us. No Cabbage. Yet the woman just assumed that I was a mother. Why? Because I'm a woman of a certain age? I suppose I am a bit of anomaly to most. A woman of a certain age that's never used her uterus to carry a living being. There was a part of me that wanted to yell out at that cashier "I'm not a mother!" or something to make her think twice before wishing every single woman she sees a Happy Mother's Day. My inner ragey feminist wanted to jab my finger into her shoulder and shout something about just because I am equipped with the factory doesn't mean I have to produce. Then there's another part of me that thinks it's pretty insensitive of her to assume I'm a mother. What if I was that woman who desperately wanted a baby, but couldn't have one or afford adoption? What if I had lost my children and the very act of reminding me of Mother's Day was just like tearing open stitches, reminding me of my loss? Actually, I know a couple of people who probably find Mother's Day difficult because of loss. Lost mothers. Lost children. Not easy. The truth is I am kind of sort of a mom. I mean, I do all of the mom things when we have the Cabbage. I make sure she has clean clothes that fit her. Last weekend I taught her how to put her underwear on by herself. We practice it all the time now. I keep Cheerios, cereal bars, mac-n-cheese, ketchup and chicken nuggets in stock at all times. I have wiped a runny nose, rubbed many a banged knee, and fretted over coughs. At the end of a day's excursions it is not odd for me to clean out my pockets and find various rocks, bits of leaves, candy wrappers, and maybe a bit of string or a miniature My Little Pony. I am met with constant complaint and criticisms and I know more about the things she doesn't like than the things that she does like. I worry about her knowledge of the alphabet and that little problem with saying our "ls". I am often on the receiving end of hugs, kisses and animal kisses (rubbing noses). We will spend a morning fighting and struggling to get dressed and hair brushed only to get her into her car seat and have her exclaim "this is my best day ever!". I say to myself "High five! Shoes are on the right feet!". So yeah, every Wednesday evening and every other weekend I play a real live mom (on TV).

Michael hands me a card while we sit with our lox and cream cheese and CBS Sunday Morning. It's a thank you card. As I start to read it he says "they don't make cards for this". For this. For this confusing glob of blended family. Michael forwarded me a text sent from his ex-wife wishing a Happy Mother's Day to "the best bonus mom ever". He asked her if the Cabbage had really said it. His ex replied back with "no, but to be fair I couldn't really even get her to wish me a Happy Mother's day". The Cabbage isn't old enough to really grasp the concept of Mother's Day or Father's Day. I sent the Cabbage home Wednesday evening with a gift for her to give her mom and I made her "sign" a card, but that doesn't mean she really understood why we were doing those things. She's still learning the art of appreciation. I had been feeling slightly sorry for myself, being not a mother but kind of a mother on Mother's Day. His card made be feel appreciated and loved, but a little weird too. I sent a Happy Mother's Day text to Katrina and she replied "Thank you. Actually, Happy Mother's Day to you too". I replied "thanks, but weird". She texted back "weird wonderful". I suppose it is weird wonderful to suddenly go from being the one to celebrate mom to being the one celebrated as a mom. My first "Bonus Mom Day". It is kind of amazing how you think you may have blocked off that section of your heart only to realize that someone has managed to clear a path and how something you never wanted is something you're pretty happy to have now. Even if it's only part time.

STUMPED

I've deleted two entries in the last two days. I thought I'd say something about the recent controversy concerning Wayne Coyne, his support of Christina Fallin (even firing his drummer over it all) and his direction of a very demeaning video that perpetuates violence and degradation of women. Every time I sit down to pull my thoughts together on the subject, I run out of energy. Maybe it has something to do with distance. I am no longer regularly walking into the same coffee shop as him or making sure that I am present at every event and concert. At first I was shocked by all the news. I just never pegged Wayne as someone who would support racist hateful behavior, let alone join in on the act. I'm all for supporting art and creativity, but I draw the line at being disrespectful and hateful to cultures that are not your own or any medium that perpetuates hate and violence. I am disappointed that Wayne Coyne turned out to be that kind of person. But really, I'm disappointed that this has been such a big "news" story. A few ago weeks ago I heard a snippet of news on NPR about 240 Nigerian school girls being abducted from their school. It was just a short little blurb and then I heard nothing else about it. Occasionally, I would run across an update. There is a belief now that the girls have been sold as brides. But in general, the story of 240 missing girls, has been a nonstory. The headline story on Google news today is about Monica Lewinsky talking about the Clinton affair. Three stories down is an article about how little the Nigerian government has done to find and rescue the girls. In fact the Nigerian President's wife has told reporters that she doesn't even think it really happened and that Nigerian women need to stop protesting. Right under this article is a story about Rihanna going braless. I'm sorry, but when is that girl wearing a bra? And why is this news?!?

An Islamic militant group known as Boko Haram is claiming responsibility for the kidnapping. Their name actually means "western education is a sin". But really...that's beside the fact. The point I'm trying to make here, is why are we not hearing about these girls EVERY DAY!!!??? I can't stop thinking about what if they were our girls. Would we as Americans, sit back and let our government do nothing about a terrorist group kidnapping 240 of our girls? No. Not at all. What's frustrating and disgusting is that any body can sit back and let this happen. These girls were kidnapped on April 15th and John Kerry announced Saturday that the US would help Nigeria in any way to find and return the missing girls. That's almost three weeks later. These girls, someone's daughter, your daughter, have been missing for weeks now with governments doing nothing. What the Hell is wrong with us?!?

When those kids on that South Korean ferry died, the TV was inundated with images of grieving parents. It was so heartbreaking you couldn't help but empathize with the family and garner outrage towards the captain of that ship. Why are we not being inundated with images and video of parents begging for the return of their girls? There's not even a discussion going on about this situation. What's the number of girls kidnapped in one setting that gets us talking or makes us outraged? Sunday is Mother's Day. What a gift to those mothers to have their girls returned safely home. I know that I can't do much but spread the word. We can sign the petition at Change.org. I want to make this the headline news. I want those terrorists to know that the world is watching and that we care about those girls and I want those girls to know that there are people out there who want them safe.

So...start the discussion. Spread this story like wildfire.

LIKE A BULLET IN THE BACK

The year Chris and I moved to Kansas City, Florence+The Machine's Dog Days had just been released and was playing on the radio all the time. We'd be driving around the city, pointing at all of the things, and that song would start playing. Chris and I would look at each other with the stupidest grins. I'd turn up the volume so we could feel the music at a molecular level and we'd car dance like crazy people. Happiness had hit us like a train on a track. Good god, we were so stupid happy. We were enamored with this new city and with this new life. We were doing the things we said we'd do "some day". "Some day" was here and now. We had a house with a fenced in back yard. We lived in a neighborhood that contained good grocery stores, cafes, and shops all with in a few miles of home. I had (have) a job I loved. Chris was getting to a place where he felt like he could write. We were together and life was grand. I do recognize that I may have been happier than Chris. I know that he was still struggling with insecurities. We had opposite upbringings. I was raised by people who told me I could be and do anything while he was raised by people who said that you could be nothing, be nothing worthwhile. Those are hard insecurities to shake, but I think Chris was finally in a mindset where he believed in himself. Or was beginning to believe in himself. Or at least believed me when I'd tell him how awesome he was. I remember driving to work early one morning soon after we'd received the final diagnosis of "here's the number for hospice". I had been up half the night fretting over Chris and trying to manage his pain. I knew that I'd only be able to spend a few hours at work, but I thought I'd go in anyway and try to do something. It was still early enough in the morning that the streets were fairly deserted. The sun wasn't even really up yet. Dog Days came on the radio as I drove up Troost and I promptly burst into tears. I no longer wanted to feel that song on a molecular level. I didn't want to be reminded that just a few months earlier we'd been car dancing and laughing to that song. I didn't want to think about how it had suddenly turned out that the dog days were not over. In fact, the dog days were just beginning. How foolish was I to think that all the years we struggled in OK, losing J, living with Chris's mom, those were the dog days. Because I can assure you that even when we had very little privacy living in a house of "stinky fish" we still found something to laugh about (probably stinky fish). It was almost as if I could hear the gods laughing and pointing. "Ha! You thought those were the dog days. I'll show you dog days." It made me sad and angry all at the same time that I didn't see it earlier.

Cut to the now. That song came on one morning a few weeks ago while I was doing my morning microscopy maintenance. Of course I've heard it numerous times in the last three years. But on that day, I let the words sink its teeth in a little deeper. I smiled to myself now because happiness had hit me like a bullet in the back. I mean, that's what it felt like (feels like). I find myself in a different place of stupid happy. The surprise of it often hits me in a way not unlike Ally McBeal's daydreams of being struck in the chest with hundreds of Cupid's arrows. Michael and I talked about dinning room furniture and fine china as we travelled back and forth between his apartment and a storage unit. He said that maybe we'd eat off of fancy china when we hosted our first Thanksgiving. "Then we'd really have something to be thankful for." I started crying a this. I remembered that Thanksgiving that Chris and I hosted in our house. That Thanksgiving just before it all fell apart. Michael felt bad that he'd dredged up those memories, but I disagreed. I never considered having that again, having that joy again. And it's still hard for me to admit out loud that I am happy or deserving of any of this. But I disagree with Florence about needing to leave all the love and longing behind in order to survive. Longing maybe, but not love. It's that love that has made it possible to move past the dog days. It's that love that has made is possible to survive.

The dog days come and go. It's the love that always remains.

OH BABY BABY

The earth is pregnant. Well of course, the earth is pregnant. The earth is always pregnant. It's just that suddenly I feel as if I am surrounded by pregnancies. Amy and Roger will introduce little Charlotte to us sometime in May. Three people in my group at work have announced that they will be welcoming new babies into their families sometime this Fall. Chelsea Clinton even announced that she is expecting in the Fall. I've done so much online window shopping for baby things lately, that I keep getting ads in my email and on fb for all things baby. Before I go any further with this entry, let me just say that I am not pregnant. But I will say that I have not been entirely immune to the pregnancy hormones emitting around me. There have been some twinge and kicks in my ovaries for sure, yet I remain steadfast in my decision. Michael and I have discussed children. He believes that it would be nice if the Cabbage had a sibling as long as it doesn't come from him. I think he felt pretty lucky to finally meet a woman who didn't want kids. We have discussed our options in birth control. I have been on the pill forever, since 18. Twenty years. I just now realized that I have been taking the same birth control pill for twenty years now. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays I eat oatmeal for breakfast. Tuesday and Thursdays are tofu scramble for breakfast days and every day before I brush my teeth, I swallow a little blue pill (along with some other vitamins). The birth control pill is the ideal drug for someone with OCD tendencies. It's so organized. Michael has concerns about me being on the pill for so long and at my age. There are concerns that extended use of the pill could increase my risk of cervical cancer. The year before last I had some irregular cells in my pap. Last year, my doctor made a big deal of those weird cells and how important the pap test was for me now. That was also the same time she found the lumps in my breast that turned out to be nothing cysts. I was pretty worried. I'd lay awake wondering what I'd do if I had cervical and breast cancer all at the same time. Thankfully, all tests came back good. No cancer. No weird cells. All that worry is now just a memory that I don't even think of as I gulp down my little blue pill every morning.

But being surrounded by pregnancies and babies has made me soft. I look at Amy's beautiful round belly and burst into tears. I just can't believe she's having a baby. Then I want to amend that statement to "I can't believe she's having a baby and Chris isn't here to see it". And that adds a few extra sobs to this moment of crying. I watch Call the Midwife while walking on the treadmill with a box of tissue because every birth makes me happy cry and my heart swell up. At my yearly exam last week my doctor asked me if I had any plans to have children on my own. I said "no", but it came out in that hesitant voice I tend to use when someone asks me if I want a slice of pizza. But when the doctor looked at me with a raised eyebrow, I more firmly said "no. NO." No. I'm too old (I'm not too old, but I know too much science and the misalignment rate of chromosomes goes from 20% at age 35 to 75% at age 40). I am in this weird place, two old for babies, too young for menopause. Michael and I have haphazardly disused permanent solutions to birth control. He thinks I should just go ahead get my tubes tied. I have days were I think the same thing. Wouldn't it be great to never buy a box of tampons? This was the moment I could have brought this up with my doctor but I couldn't. Not yet. There's that old adage "if it ain't broke, don't fix it". I don't have any issues or problems. I'm healthy. Invasive surgery seems like a stupid idea when everything works properly as it is now. Even though I know in my core that a baby of my own is not in my future, I'm not so sure I'm ready to permanently make it so. All of this brings me to questioning whether or not I'm content or regretful in my decision to remain childless.

I supposed that I would reach an age where I'd start to question my no child stance. It was inevitable. I can honestly tell you that my old biological clock has not started to tick-tock. I remain true to my word and with no regrets because I am not really childless. I'm not just talking about the Cabbage either. I am surrounded by marvelous little kids and some of those little kids are now graduating from high school. They will always be 'little kids'. My earlier excuse for not having my own little bundle was that I felt inadequate to raise a really good human being. Now I find myself in the position of being part of the village that is trying to raise a good human being. It takes a village. I feel less inadequate these days to be part of that village. My reasons now seem more selfish to some, though I will argue differently. I don't see the need to add another drain on the Earth's resources and having a child so that I'll have someone to take care of me when I'm old seems cruel. I am content in this life in, in this choice.

But I am excited with the prospect of squeezing some new babies and shedding a few tears over their miraculous births while sniffing the tops of their newborn heads.

#40DAYSOFYOGA

Lent is officially over. People who gave up sweets for 40 days heave eaten cartons of Peeps by now and Lent teetotalers are sporting their first hangover in forty days. This sounds rather cynical. I don't mean it to be. It's just that, let's face it, Lent tends to be forty days of deprivation for many people. I was told once that if it's something easy to give up, you probably shouldn't be giving it up for Lent. The whole idea is to make it a sacrifice. It's meant to be a period of atonement and self denial. It's not a New Year's resolution kind of thing. It can easily fall into that type of category for someone like me who is not Catholic or religious. Making myself get on my yoga mat every day for forty days doesn't seem like much of a sacrifice considering how I feel about my yoga practice, but it is a sacrifice to make time to get on my mat every day. Lent is a way to prepare a Christian soul for prayer and reflection on the resurrection of Jesus Christ. Yoga was created to prepare men's bodies for hours of seated meditation. Mediation is just another form of prayer, so of course it makes sense to me to devote forty days to yoga. I missed four days: one while in OKC for John's service, one because I was driving across country, and two because I was just lazy. The days after a lazy day, I'd end up staying on my mat for longer than usual just to make up for being a slug. So what did I learn from my forty days of yoga? Well, I'd like to tell you that I had some great epiphany, that all this yoga helped me drop the eight pounds I picked up over the winter, or that I completely stopped worrying about all the things. That would be the ideal. The truth is that some days the only thing that made me get on my mat was the guilt of not getting on my mat. I took a daily photo to keep myself honest. There were a few days when I thought if just get on my mat for the photo, I'd be good. That tended to be a good motivator because once I was there, I got into being there.

Forty days of yoga also forced me to commit time to being on my mat. This is something I've always struggled with, particularly when there are other people in my life. I tend to drift to the other things I should be doing, cleaning, making dinner. There's not enough time in the day. By dedicated Lent to yoga, I had to make time for it. That meant that my normal schedule of things tended to get jumbled. I had to learn to be more flexible and seize the spare moments in between things and shove other things over. I had to play Tetris with my schedule. And there were days where I did thirty minutes of sun salutations and said "enough!" because that was as mindful as I could be on my mat that day.

I have had people who have seen me in practice say "Cindy, you're so good. How long have you been practicing?". I always chuckle at this. I have been practicing for a little over fifteen years now. I am bendy and I have great balance. I can breath calmly in difficult poses. These are the things those people can see. They can't see what's happening in my brain or the effort it takes to be present on my mat on some days. If those were the things that they could see, they would think I'd only been practicing for a week. What I am thankful for is that they can all see the joy that practicing yoga brings to me. Even on those days I struggled to be there, I found a moment of joy and peace. And that's the take away: it only takes a moment.

LOVE THURSDAY OR THANKFUL FRIDAY

Michael and I have been two ships passing in the night lately. There was the weekend before last when I went out of town without him and then last weekend he was out of town without me. During the week there have been after school meetings and baseball practice and baseball games. Last night was a double header and Michael didn't get home until after eight. We had about half an hour to recap our days to each other before Michael put me to bed. He always tucks me in. I'm not even sure how we started this. It's not like I'm the type of gal that needs to be doted on, but there's something to this nightly ritual we have developed. Last night Michael looked at me and said "I just want to thank you for being you. At least you are authentic in your weirdness." This almost sounds like an insult, but I know that his meaning is love. He had just spent the weekend with a various bunch of people. One woman never stopped talking and blessed her room with candles and crystals. He said she was weird for the sake of a show. Attention grabber. But, I also know that he thinks I'm a complete weirdo. I am part science nerd girl and hippy. I understand the microbiology behind viruses and infections and believe in the holistic healing power of Ayurveda and yoga. I will read total trashy silly fiction and follow it up with a classic Jane Eyre or Austin. I have been known to break out in show tunes and sing out my answers to questions. I think you should eat fresh fruit every day and that many foods from cans and boxes are poison. I believe in evolution and a higher power God like figure. I write more words than I speak. Do these things make me a weird? I don't think so. I think that's because I've surrounded myself with people that live their lives as authentically weird as I do. We just see ourselves as "normal". The truth is, just like there's no such thing as perfect, there's no such thing as normal. We are all weird in our own way. I think "weird" is what we've turned to to describe something different than what we're used to.

We hear a lot of talk about being our authentic selves. Honestly, I've never really thought about it until Brene Brown's The Gift of Imperfection and that only made me aware of the times I hadn't been my authentic self. There have been two times in my life where I have not lived as my authentic self. It should be of no surprise that one of those times was during my high school years when I tried a little too desperately to fit in with some crowd, any crowd really. Bits of my authentic self often leaked out and got me into trouble (I got hate mail once from my church youth group). The other time was after graduate school. I'm not really sure what was happening then. That transition from being in school (since kindergarten) to grown up land threw me. I struggled with finding myself and my footing again. Both of those times I can tell you that I was miserable. It doesn't feel good to live an unauthentic life. It's hard. Like physically demanding kind of hard. Being your authentic self is easy. Oh my God, it's so easy!

I was slightly thrown by Michael's compliment. It just seems so natural to be my authentically weird self, but what he was really thanking me for was being authentic. It was good of him to remind me that this is something we should appreciate more. It dawned on me that not all of us have had the luxury of being around and with people who allow us to be our authentic selves with out judgement. I don't think people realize this but authenticity is kind of like learning to ride a bicycle. There's really no way to tell someone how to ride a bicycle that first time. It's a feeling and a motion you have to just figure out on your own, but when you do get it, you're a bike riding fiend. You can ride all over town and back. There may be a few tumbles here and there, but from the moment you figure out how to pedal and balance that bike, you never forget it. Every time you get back on a bicycle, you know exactly what to do.

I started this post for my Love Thursday entry, but realized about half way through that it really falls under a Thankful Friday category. I'm thankful that I've, for the most part, been able to easily be my authentic self. I'm thankful for the people in my life that allow this of me with out judgement. I am thankful for the wisdom to not give a shit about those who do judge it. Really...that's the best part of it. The most freeing part. So, here's to being our authentically weird selves. We're pretty awesome. Happy Love Thursday and a fabulous Thankful Friday!

THIS IS IMPORTANT!

Have you guys seen the Dallas Buyers Club yet? Well, you need to get on the ball and see it. Pronto. The movie tells the story of Ron Woodroof and how he started the Dallas Buyers Club to sell drugs to AIDS victims who had no other recourse. Here's why I think this movie is important. Ron was a typical blue collar guy. He worked as an electrician, went to rodeos, and liked his booze and women. In his world, homosexuals were "faggots" and AIDS was a gay man disease. His world changed drastically when he was diagnosed with AIDS. His story is not just about finding better drugs to combat AIDS and providing those drugs to others at a time when there was nothing but AZT (poison). His story is about breaking past prejudices in sexuality and prejudices in the disease itself. Ron Woodroof learned the hard way that AIDS is not a "gay man's disease". Something else pertinent in this film is the importance and power of education. Sure, many of us know how HIV is spread now. But do we really? There's a moment in the movie after Ron's diagnosis where he's in the public library doing research on HIV and AIDS. He comes across an article on the transmission of HIV. It's pretty tough watching the revelation come across his face, the flashback to that evening of sex with that girl with the track marks on her arms. But we know this stuff now. We know how this disease is transmitted. At least I believe there's a generation of us who know how this disease is transmitted. Those kids coming up into sexual maturity these days, I'm not so sure about. Suebob recently posted this visual of maps and sexual education in this country on her facebook page and I have to tell you, it's pretty alarming the things we are not willing to teach out children.

There are more states in the union that do not require sexual education than states that do. And just wait until you see the map of states that do have sex and HIV education, but that do not require the education to be medically accurate. You will throw up. At least I did. DO NOT REQUIRE THE EDUCATION TO BE MEDICALLY ACCURATE!!! Are you kidding me? A lot of the sexual education curriculum being taught to teens are lessons that are demeaning to women (implying that a girl who has sex is used and dirty, shame on you Oxford MS) and are not teaching the real medical dangers of unprotected sex.

The CDC estimated that the number of new HIV infections was around 12,000 in individuals between the ages of 13-24 in 2010. I think this intolerable, particularly when we know how this disease is spread. I believe that we can do better. I believe that we can raise a generation that sees zero new cases of HIV and have healthy sex lives. This is why I raise money for the AIDS Walk every year. Money raised for the AIDS walk not only goes to help care for victims and research. A portion of those funds go to education and awareness. Just the walk itself brings awareness that HIV and AIDS is still a very real and prominent disease.

With your help and generosity, I have reached my fund raising goal and then some for the AIDS Walk. I cannot thank you enough and I cannot fully express how much it means to me to have your support. Each donation makes me think that YOU believe in that generation of zero infections. So thank you. I said that I'd sent a print of choice to each person who donated and I will be contacting you guys shortly with how to proceed with that. In the meantime, check out the links to my Flickr page and Instagram page on the right hand side of my blog and start thinking about what you may want.

WRITE MORE, WHINE LESS

I feel like I've been doing less writing in this space. I mean, I've been putting words here sure, but it seems like it's mostly been tales of whoa or laundry lists. I also have a serious sense of deja vu in writing that last sentence. It's been said that 2013 was the year the blog died, though most of us bloggers will still proclaim like Whoville towns folk that "we are here". It's just that social media outlets like Twitter and Tumbler have taken our eyes away from long scrawl. Given us short attention spans. I was raised by a man who never could tell a story in 140 characters. I suppose I picked up the same habit. I rarely have anything to say in 140 characters. At least nothing entertaining. Hell, I rarely even post a facebook status. I kind of feel like you need to be reading this post with a southern drawl. The Help is on the TV. I know. There's controversy. I have issues with the book, but the remote is on that end of the coffee table. You know, that end of the coffee table that's too far to reach because you mopped floors, got a massage and have had few Fat Tires (I'm about to find out how well Thin Mints go with that Fat Tire). It's that far. Any way...long winded tales and blogging. I'm going somewhere with this. I swear. I'm not good with one liners. Obviously.

This blog has been so many things to me over the years. I've used it as my sounding board in my political days. It's been my place to keep track of the happiness and good in my life. It has been my therapist as I travel through the winding road of grief. It has been my teenage diary as I tripped around dating. It has been my sounding board in promoting charities and causes I believe in. But most importantly, it has been my creative outlet. And for someone who never saw themselves as creative of any sorts (still doesn't), this creative outlet has become crucial to my daily sanity.

Last week, when I sat down to write my usual Love Thursday I vaguely remembered that this is my creative outlet. I made a conscious effort to write something that wasn't about chore lists or sorrow. I also made a conscious effort to write something that wasn't grasping at an attempt to prove that I am happy. I sat down and wrote about tulips. And sure, it wasn't any great prose, but it was something. It was something that felt good. I'd like to keep that up. I'd like to drop that fear of constantly having to write something for this space. That sounds funny to say, but it's like having a half empty shelf and instead of waiting until you've found the right piece to display on that shelf, you just put whatever there. It leaves one dissatisfied. Maybe I should stop forcing it and just write. What would that be like?

Whatever it is, I bet it tastes better than Thin Mints and beer.

THE BLEAK HEREAFTER

There's a stretch of Hwy 169 between Kansas City and Coffeeville KS. It's a two lane stretch between some small town and the junction with Hwy 400. When you're driving this section of highway, even though the speedometer shows your speed to be 75 miles an hour, it actually feels like you are standing still in the middle of the road. The road becomes a concrete gray swath between fields and train tracks. And you feel like you are going no where. It is at this moment when a bubble of impatience begins rise up from my belly. The weight of the drive begins to settle between my shoulders. This is the place where I have to make the choice to let the road lead me into crazy town or give in to the nothingness of it. I check the speedometer again and let go. I stop thinking of the path ahead of me and just be in this spot of nowhere. Because it is temporary. I had all these thoughts and stories from the weekend. They are jumbled in my head in pieces that do not seem to congeal into one coherent tale. If I think too hard about it in words, it sounds depressing. In reality, there were many parts of the weekend that were sad and depressing. A visit with Dad where he's reached that point of not knowing who I am or at least can't speak to say one way or the other. A service or celebration of life for a dear man. Returning to the space where three years earlier we had all gathered to celebrate Chris's life. It was rough. When Robin walked up to the front porch of the McClellen Castle and asked how I was doing, tears leaked out as I said "good".

I was thinking of John last week and it lead me to think of all the amazing people I've been privileged to have in my life. I don't know what I expected when I moved my things into that dorm room nearly twenty years ago. I knew I'd get a good education, meet some new friends, and gain some freedom and independence. I never expected to walk away with a family. I always assumed that every one left college with the same crazy amazing gaggle of a family. We all grew up together from poor college kids, through divorces and deaths and heartbreak. What I discovered is that the family I gained in college is unique, not just because of the people, but because of the connection we have made with each other. Yeah, the weekend was hard, saying goodbye never gets easier. If it was easy, those connections would be meaningless.

Once a year, they do a control burn of the Flint Hills. As I drove home, I ended up driving through the aftermath of this year's burn. Miles and miles of scorched earth stretched out around me. The smoke was still thick in the air. When I stopped in Emporia to pay the toll, the smell burnt fields filled the car. The land looked so foreign and bleak, but they do this to facilitate new growth. I know the next time I pass through that area, the hills will be green with new growth, new life. I was reminded of the good things of the weekend, the laughter, the joy of being able to hug this family of mine. Next time I travel through the Flint Hills it will be to celebrate the birth of little Charlotte. We'll be welcoming a new member to our crazy amazing gaggle. I think after too many goodbyes, we've earned the right to say hello to this new soul.

So say we all. And thank you to the Force.

THIS BLOG ENTRY IS EPIC! (notreally)

Michael has been begging for a day long scooter ride for weeks now and it just hasn't been possible with the weather and kooky schedules. Finally we got a decent forecast for a weekend. The problem is that good day landed on a Sunday. Sundays for me tend to be get-my-shit-together-for-the-week days. The nightly chore thing I had going fell overboard a way long time ago. Saturdays are run around, hunting and gathering days. That leaves me with Sunday to clean the house and do laundry and not brush my teeth. It might have had something to do with the Sudafed I ended up taking, but I was able to accomplish most of all of those things on Saturday (including cleaning out and vacuuming my car. Sudafed=speed) and thus freeing up Sunday for yoga, CBS Sunday morning, and scooter riding.

We decided to do the Battle of Westport driving tour. You guys? Kansas City has had some major historic things go down here and one of those things was the Civil War. The last major battle of the Civil War in Missouri and the largest engagement this side of the Mississippi took place right here in October of 1864. The battle involved 30,000 troops with 1,500 causalities on both sides and covering a 25 mile radius. There are 23 stops on the tour with permanent markers at 25 different sites, each containing a description of events. Now, when the self guided auto tour was finished in 1979, I'm sure the markers were very prominently displayed around the Kansas City area, but time and sprawl has taken it's toll on this tour. Spotting a marker is a lot like doing a scavenger hunt. A scavenger hunt on scooters! There were a few times we ended up driving up and down some neighborhood streets before spotting a marker. We missed marker #2 all together, but the neighborhood you have to go through to see markers 2-5 are full of big houses nestled in the side hills with small winding roads. I had never been in this area before and was completely distracted by all the beautiful old homes. We found one marker on the sketchy side of Troost, in a parking lot next to one of those fast cash loan places.

A number of the markers are around Loose Park, where the biggest part of the battle took place. Loose Park is like Kansas City's version of New York's Central Park. On Sunday, it was packed. Parking spaces were no where to be found. Marker #5 is right across the street from the North end of the park and has small driveway next to it. We parked the scooters there so I could get my camera out and take some pictures. Then we got to watch too ladies battle it out over a parking space across the street from us. It was pretty much like that scene in Fried Green Tomatoes when Kathy Bates' character smashes into that VW that stole her parking spot (Towanda!). Except there was no smashing, but lots of yelling. Marker #8 is on the south side of the park and was the staging ground for Sterling Price's Confederate Army. This was the most interesting marker for me. Loose park was full of people that day. Families having picnics. People flying kites, playing frisbee. A wedding party was gathering for pictures. All of this life happening on the same field where a 150 years ago men battling to the death. It was a surreal experience.

We spent the rest of the afternoon traveling from marker to marker. We missed one because we just couldn't find it. By the time we made it to #21, the wind was so strong that I was having trouble keeping my scooter in the lane. Michael called it at that point. So, we missed the last two, but oh, the distance we travelled! It was at least forty miles and we never left Kansas City. It was so great. I can't wait for the next scooter adventure.

APRIL FOOO...WAIT, WHAT DAY IS IT?

I honestly thought that tomorrow was April 1st and had ideas of writing all about how Michael probably wished I was playing an April Fools joke on him with the meal plan for this week. You see, I've put us on a cleansing diet this week. Last week every pair of pants I put on made me feel awful. Then I bought a pair of pants (in my usual size) through an online sale for a place I've always wanted to buy pants from but haven't ever because they are EXPENSIVE. Those pants arrived Friday and I was really sad when I tried them on. They fit, but it ain't pretty. They're too tight but if I'd gone up a size those would be too big. So I threw my hands up and yelled "THAT'S IT!". The food in this house is out of control. It's not that it's so bad for us as much as I have been eating so much of it. I told Michael that I was going on a cleansing diet for this week and he said "sign me up!". No gluten, no sugar, no caffeine, no animal products and no alcohol for a week. Then Michael said "wait a minute. no cheese?".Hey, I gave him an out. I told him he didn't have to do this if he didn't want to. I probably shouldn't have started our first meal of the cleanse with something like kelp noodles. I felt like my ass was telling me it was just time to lighten up and thought what a great way to start out the first week of April. Except it is not April. But who cares. No gluten, no sugar, no caffeine, no animal products and no alcohol for a week. This sounds like it would be so dang easy for me, but I will tell you that I have been tempted. There was a bunch of food left over from an event at work and they invited the employees down to eat it. There were three kinds of cookies. I ate strawberries and grapes. Same thing. But I was really surprised by my reaction to the sight of all that food. The craving train hit hard. Besides the cookies, they had lots of vegetarian friendly items, all of which were wrapped around some sort of bread. I was slightly appalled at myself because of how badly I wanted to eat that stuff wrapped in bread. I have grown an addiction to bread products. I don't even know how I did that. I eat corn tortillas at the house and have a bagel on Sundays. But if you set a basket of fresh bread any where near my face, I will eat it. My office at work has had a constant supply of cookies, candy, and muffins since Christmas. I have said yes to every cookie, cupcake and sweettart. I used to those soft fluffy foods to comfort me through the winter. Actually, I think I just now realized that's what I've been doing. Breakthrough!

I've done this cleansing diet before. It's a great re-set button. I've learned a few things about doing one of these re-sets. Right off the bat you're hit with all the things you can't eat. This diet is so easy if you can flip that mindset around to see all the things you can eat. Also, flavor is important. Spices, spices, spices. I had to plan meals that I thought Michael would eat. He likes curries and tacos. We'll have butternut squash and chickpea curry on night and black bean quinoa sweet potato tacos another night. There's a potato and broccoli skillet meal planned and a stir fry with corn noodles. Somewhere in the middle of all this I hope to regain some control over my eating habits. Well really it's more about regaining some constraint in eating the foods I just don't need to be eating.

Except I just sent a check to Stephanie for three boxes of Thin Mints.

WHAT DREAMS ARE MADE OF

The other day, Michael made a loop around the block on his scooter and passed a house with a for sale sign in the front yard. He came home really excited about it, so we walked over to have a look. What's odd is that I had just been looking at the same house on Trulia. We decided to make an appointment to look at the inside of the house. Saturday evening, the three of us walked back over to the house to meet a realtor and look over the house. My first impression of the house is to slightly grimace. It is kind of a lime green color, but if I look at the house in black and white, I see the great big front porch. I see an open and inviting entry way. Inside there's beautiful hardwood floors, a huge kitchen and the quirkiest half bath I've ever seen. The second floor holds three bedrooms, but the best part is the sunroom off the main bedroom. This room has already been designated as the yoga room. There's a room in the basement that only lacks a wall of drywall to be finished, a laundry room next to it, and a door that leads to a garage that would hold both scooters and my car. Most of the things inside are all aesthetic fixes, some paint here, a picture there. There's a door from the kitchen that leads out onto a large deck that over looks a big backyard, one that is currently housing two chickens. Those two chickens were like a sign saying "this is your house". Needless to say we both want this house, even though we have nothing saved for a down payment and will need to scramble funds together to even attempt to make an offer. The idea of it has tied my stomach in nots.

It's funny how sometimes we imagine how are lives should be. You can can picture the movie version of your own life in your head. When we moved here, I imagined all the things Chris and I would do. I could see all the the changes we'd make to this house, the garden we'd build in the backyard, and the chickens we'd get together. I remember the dreams we'd talk about together, trips we wanted to make together. I could see us making those trips. I could see our happy life before us. When Chris died, my vision of my life changed. I no longer saw a life of two. Now it was a life of one. The changes I'd make to my house. The garden I'd build in the backyard. The chickens I'd get for the backyard. The trips I'd make. Single and solitary. This morning, I looked over at Michael and I could see our life together. I could see us doing boring things in that house. We'd still dance around each other in the kitchen, but this time the steps would be different because we'd have a larger dance floor. It would be so natural to walk down the stairs to the basement, carrying a basket of clothes, and see Michael sitting at table in his "man cave" putting a puzzle together. I can feel the sun flooding into that yoga room and I can see are own chickens pecking around a huge garden. This new vision of my life was so clear and filled me with so much joy. It eased that clenched feeling of panic I had about the house. This new vision is something I never imagined for myself.

It's not the house. It's the path my life has taken. At times it seems so surreal, so different from the original idea I had for my life, my life with Chris, my life alone. Yet not so different. The premise of the movie remains the same, it's just that the characters and the dialogue has changed. My visions are optimistic. All of them filled with joy and love, though the first and last more so than the middle one. Though I would have found joy in that solitary life, just in a different way. I'm still amazed at my luck. Who knows what will come of this house we want to buy. But for now I can just dream of things to come.

MARCH MADNESS OF GLAMOUR

My March (and first) Ipsy bag arrived last Friday and I literally squealed with delight. I should add in a disclaimer here first. I am getting nothing for this post. No sponsoring happening here. OK. I had been thinking of signing up for some kind of beauty box service for some time. That subliminal flash of ads for various ones in the corners of our favorite websites was starting to work and I began to think how nice it would be to receive fancy products to try on every month. When I talked to Talaura about it she said that she'd been with Ipsy for over a year now and was so pleased with it, she bought a subscription for her sister as well. So I signed up to receive an Ipsy glam bag every month. Most of you know that I don't wear a lot of makeup. There's not much call for dressing up in my line of work. It's inevitable that the day I wear a nice (kind of short) skirt and heals to work, I end up having to climb around under a microscope. But sometimes it's nice to play dress up and sometimes doing just one little thing just makes you feel a little less blerg. Recently I started using an eyelash curler before applying my mascara and holy goats people! That one little simple thing took my eyelashes from nice to WOWZA and I've just decided to keep that as part my morning regimen. But that's as girly as I tend to get. I noticed that every time I'd get an email about how Ipsy was preparing my March glam bag, I got a little giddy. It's like that feeling the night before Christmas or your birthday.

When the pink envelope containing my glam bag arrived, the first thing I did was try out the bareMinerals Marvelous Moxie Lipstick. The thing I don't like about regular lipstick is that you always have to reapply. This is true for this lipstick as well, but it's so soft and smooth you don't mind reapplying. I also noticed that my lips remained hydrated and soft feeling even after the lipstick had worn off. Bonus part is that it smells nice. The next thing I tried out was the Pixie Flawless Beauty Primer. I was eager to try this out because I'm almost out of the stuff I am currently using. I was not all that happy with my current foundation because my face always felt greasy by the end of the day. This stuff from Pixie is much lighter and less noticeable as a base on my face. At the end of the day I don't feel the need to squeegee my face either. I will probably buy this as my replacement foundation.

Now for the eye shadow and eyeliner. First of all, I do not own one stick of eyeliner and I was pretty thrilled to find that one had been included in my bag. It's like I'm the Pinocchio of girls and having eyeliner finally made me a real girl. But having eyeliner and using eyeliner are two completely different things. The eyeliner is Chella's Indigo Blue. The thing I really liked about it is that it has a really fine tip, which made it a lot easier for me to apply. But even after I applied the thinnest of lines on my eyelid, I still felt like it looked like I had too much eyeliner. I know this has a lot to do with the fact that I'm just not used to seeing myself with eyeliner. I do like the eye shadow from NYX. Those are all colors that I would I have picked out for myself and they don't make my eyes itch.

Looking at my selfie after using all of the stuff in my glam bag, I see that the eyeliner is not all that bad. It's something I'd probably use for special occasions, but not an every day thing for me. All and all, though, I'm pretty pleased with my first glam bag. It's something fun and it's nice that they choose a different artist every month to design the little bag your stuff comes in. I can't wait for next month!

BON TENTATIVE

I had planned to sit down Sunday and write up something about the lovely weather on Saturday and how I did yoga outside and dug in the dirt and planted seeds. I thought about telling you about the broken garage door and how Michael had a small bought of handyman's tourettes (his words) while fixing it because by golly he was going to get it fixed THAT day because of scooters. I could have told you about being able to read only the top line of the eye chart with my left eye and trying on so many different frames for glasses that I finally just grabbed two styles (that in retrospect look very similar to each other). There's also the whole story of waking up Sunday morning to a layer of snow or how I spent the day in the basement creating a huge pile of stuff for donation pickup. Oh and there was that blissful hour and half I spent on my yoga mat, lox with cream cheese and CBS Sunday morning. Le Sigh. Instead of writing about any of that stuff on Sunday, I decided to make this vegetarian shepherd's pie recipe from Bon Appetit. I don't know if you know this but Bon Appetit is French for "be prepared to spend eight hours in the kitchen preparing this meal". Also, you will need every single pan. All of the pans. Some of the pans you will use more than once, so be ready to wash pans. There was this complicated sauce that took hours to cook. It involved straining and thickening. Once every thing was cooked this way, you cooked it again a different way for another half hour. All of the kitchen windows were fogged over with steam from boiling potatoes and simmering sauce. I layered the lentils and veggies as instructed and then poured the sauce over every thing. The pie dishes filled to slushy mess level and I still hadn't attempted to top with mash potatoes. At this point Michael stepped in and said that we should dump everything back in the pan and thicken the filling even more (so much cornstarch). Once the filling was back in the dishes, I used my hands to smear mashed potatoes much in the same way you would spackle a wall. Then guess what? They went into the oven to cook some more!

Sometime around 8:00 pm, Michael and I finally sat down to dinner. I don't have a picture. It looks just like the Bon Appetit version. Except there's sauce oozing out around the edge and the potatoes are way lumpier. And maybe not as crispy on top. The shepherd's pie was not uneatable. In fact, the meal was tasty, but it was not I-just-spent-hours-slaving-over-a-hot-stove tasty. I think the irritating part was not necessarily the time that went into making the meal, but the pretentiousness of the steps involved in making the meal. I know how to cook. I know how to boil water (I always laughed at that line in Sabrina: "Today, we learn to boil water"). I understand that some meals are just complicated and take some preparation time. But we are talking about shepherd's pie here and I even cheated. I bought the precooked lentils at TJs and used a bag frozen mixed veggies. Does a sauce really need an hour of cooking time? What happened to mashed potatoes the way mom makes them? What the Hell is a ricer?!? I'm pretty sure it didn't take half a day to prepare this dish in the 1700s and they were using WOOD BURNING STOVES!

Michael has agreed to restraining me the next time I think a Bon Appetit recipe is order.

THE THINGS WE DON'T TALK ABOUT

I've started listening to NPR again on my mornings into work. In Oklahoma, NPR was the only radio I could tolerate. I have a radio station here that plays music I listen too, but I was missing the stories so I turned it back over to NPR. I don't get to hear much. My morning commute is short, ten to fifteen minutes depending on the street lights, but that's enough time for one or two stories. Last week I caught this story on Morning Edition. Bud Hammes, a medical ethicist at a local hospital in La Crosse Wisconsin, started a campaign a few years ago to teach area nurses to ask people ahead of time about filling out an advance directive. As a result, the whole town has become very open about talking about death. During the story they did an interview with an older couple. He had reached the stage with his prostate cancer where chemo therapy was no longer helping. The nurse sat down with him and his wife to fill out his advance directive. As the nurse began asking the necessary questions, the wife began to cry. And so did I. I remember those questions and I know what it's like to be in her chair. Part of me was sympathetic. It's really double edged. The questions are difficult. "If you reach a point where treatments will extend your life by a few months and side effects are pretty serious, would you want doctors to stop, or continue to do all that could be done?". The answers feel like hot lava. This is where you have to relinquish all hope that the person you love will get better. This is where you surrender to the inevitability of life's end. The other part of me was jealous of this woman. She has had a whole life with this man. They had children and grandchildren together. So much time. I was jealous of her time. I was jealous that she got to be so much older before having to deal with this hard part. That feeble line "it's not fair!" entered my head, a phrase I never said when dealing with my loss. It's not fair. What a ridiculous turn of words. As if I ever in my life expected fair. Fair is where you go for corn dogs and cotton candy and dangerous carnival rides. It is not for expectations on how life should go.

Friday night Chris and I would be celebrating sixteen years together. Would I say that woman is lucky because she's celebrated more than twice that many anniversaries? Maybe. Lucky is just as double edged as those advance directive questions. The lucky part is not having to deal with that side of things at all. The lucky part is not even knowing those questions exist. Admitting that she's lucky kind of says that I think I am unlucky. I have a wall of pictures at my desk that show me just how lucky I am. The pictures are blend of the life I had before. Chris and his Calvin like messy hair. Hooper fat and happy sitting in a puddle with his tongue hanging out like a lunatic. Our friends' kids in various stages. Todd's Lio, brand new with his hand smashed against one side of his little face and looking at us with one eye. JR sound asleep in Pepaw's lap. Chris and I on our wedding day. All of these are mixed in with the life I have now. The Cabbage smirking from the backseat of my car. Michael and the Cabbage planting seeds in the garden. Me and Mom on a castle in Ireland. Michael, The Cabbage and I, the three of us laughing. I am lucky in the life I had before and I am lucky in this new one. I've always recognized that, how lucky I was to have the time I did have. Not once have I pined for the time I didn't have.

That NPR story starts a very important discussion that many of us are leery to have. Of course no one expects to even think about their mortality when they are young, let alone be forced to answer such questions by surprise when you've just been hit with the news that this is the end. You haven't even had time to adjust to this new dilemma and someone wants to know your thoughts on resuscitation. It brings to mind the old adage "always be prepared". Maybe I'm lucky to know these things now. I was asked a couple of weeks ago by mom how I felt about a feeding tube. I was relieved that I was not alone in my views, that we all felt the same way about it. Did my previous experience help me approach the conversation in a calm easy manner? Sure. Would it have been easier to know what dad's thoughts were on the subject. Most definitely. Knowing the answers to those questions well before things actually get hard, frees up brain space for the things that are important when it gets closer to that time to say goodbye. There's a relief in knowing you are doing the right thing for that person. Sometimes you need to talk about death so that you can enjoy the life.

IT'S THAT TIME OF YEAR

The minute I typed out that title, the Christmas Waltz popped into my head and I've been humming that tune ever since. I realize that I am singing a Christmas song while thinking of Spring. It can't be helped. Oh, Karen Carpenter...sometimes I think you're my spirit animal. Any way..it's that time of year where we are teased with the idea that Spring is getting ready to settle in for good. When I say tease, I mean literally dangling the sucker over the baby's head and jerking it just out of reach every time. I've been told that's what it's like to transition between actual seasons. There's no transition of weather in OK. Today happens to be one of those days where that baby thinks he might actually get the sucker. The sun is shining and it's a whopping 62 degrees outside with a predicted 70 degrees by the end of the day. Tomorrow may be even warmer, but a chance for snow in the evening (I don't even understand that). So of course this means that scooters were ridden today. Actually, Michael got on his and ran a few errands yesterday. There was a mention of ice cream, but I couldn't be bothered to put on bra yesterday let alone real pants for riding the scooter. I did make sure that V would start and placed some new stickers here and there on her. This morning I bungeed my yoga mat to the seat, pulled on my gloves and took off for work. I made it half way up my street before the laugh involuntarily bubbled up and out, bursting free with a loud guffaw. The joy that riding the scooter brings is jut not containable. So much so that I'm willing to risk coming home in the rain (possibly snow) tomorrow. Scooter season has begun and I am reminded of all the other things that come with Spring. Tulips, planting the garden, and the Kansas City AIDS Walk. For so many years the AIDS Walk was a Fall time tradition for me. I'm still getting used to this new Spring tradition and I feel like I've been caught by surprise by it this year. I've done very little in the way of fundraising. I missed out on the AIDS Walk Open this year because I had too many grown up obligations going that day. That's usually my kick in the pants fundraiser start for the AIDS Walk. Today is the day I begin my campaign to raise money for this year's AIDS Walk. And here's why. Today I welcomed the beginning of Spring or at least the idea that we are moving into Spring with a joyous scooter ride. Not only does riding the scooter make me so dang happy, it gives me hope for more scooter rides to come. Spring carries with it the hope of warmer temperatures, green grass and beautiful blooms of new life. No wonder Kansas City chooses the Spring to host their AIDS Walk. Because all of us involved with the walk have hope. We have hope that one day there will be a cure or at least a longer healthier life with HIV. We have hope that our younger generations will have the proper education to avoid contracting this and we have hope that each year we will see fewer and fewer new cases. That's one of the many reasons why I walk.

So from now until April 26th, I will be fundraising for the Kansas City AIDS Walk. For every person who donates, you will have your choice of any size print of any picture you want from my Flickr or Instagram feed. If you look to the right side bar of the blog, you will see a button for my Flickr page under the "Find Me" header. You will also see a couple of new links under the "Some Other Things I Do" header. There's one for my Instagram page and, most importantly, there's a link to my AIDS Walk fundraising page. Let's fund some hope! Please and Thank you!

LENT LINT

If asked about my religion I will tell you that I was raised in a good Baptist home where the dancing only occurred in ballet class and the drinking only happened in the...never. Anyone who truly knows me, knows that I am at heart an old Italian catholic woman. Named Magdalena. With a shawl and orthopedic shoes. And maybe a mustache. Any way...the catholic in me has nothing to do with religion (I'm not religious). No, Magdalena is born of guilt and the need for confession. She may also have something to do with my need for ritual (OCD), which is why I try to participate in Lent every year. It's a tradition started in grad school when Tiffany introduced us to King cakes with hidden plastic baby jesuses inside. I've given up soda, chocolate, all kinds of candy, coffee, and other things I can't remember. Usually Lent is about giving up something that I enjoy. Last year, instead of giving up something, I added something to my life. I did forty days of creative journaling and forty days of being an active listener. The journaling was easy. The active listening was a challenge. I noticed that there were times that I'd become resentful of people who demanded my attention RIGHT. THIS. MINUTE. I didn't learn to say something like "can you give me a second to finish up this text or email or picture?" Instead, I felt like I had to set whatever I was doing aside to pay attention to the person talking to me, even if it was an interruption. I do not regret the active listening challenge, but if I do decide to do this again (which I'm thinking about), I will need to set up some doormat rules for myself. Yes, what you are saying to me is important, but I am or what I am doing at the moment is equally important. Let's meet in the middle here.

This year I'm devoting 40 days to my yoga mat. I talk about getting on my mat a lot, but talk is not action. There are weeks when the only time I get my mat out is for Wednesday class. Last week I can remember rolling out my mat twice. Now there are some weeks I do really well and I get in a good hour of yoga every day up until Friday. Friday, everything falls to pieces and I don't see my mat again until Monday. I lack follow through (seriously...Michael and I made up all those homeless care kits and it was almost three weeks before they made into my car and I have yet to give one out). Well, I'm making an effort to actually follow through with something. When I mentioned this at lunch yesterday, one of my coworkers asked me if I'd be interested in teaching a few classes a week. He's a tennis player and is looking for a way to stretch. I told him "maybe" and then started researching yoga and tennis and now I'm developing yoga classes for a tennis player in my brain. I've gone to "I might" to "yeah...I'm totally teaching this class". But I'm also hoping this is one of the things that helps me with my 40 days of yoga.

What about you? What are you doing or not doing for Lent this year?

IT'S NOT YOU, IT'S ME

Well, once again I have been turned down for an audition to the Kansas City LTYM. The rejection should sting more than it does, but I think I've learned something. The LTYM is just not my thing. It's not my writing niche. It's a club that I just don't fit in with and that's OK. It doesn't make my stories less valid. I will admit that the pieces I have submitted to this have never really been pieces that I am particularly proud of. They were good, but I always felt they lacked something. Emotion maybe. I just don't have things to say on motherhood even though I wiped a pretty gross butt over the weekend as well as ended up with someone else's boogers on my shirt. My stories on motherhood and moms just doesn't really fit inside a category and I think by forcing myself to write something that may fit into whatever category diminishes my story. Instead of writing for me like I usually do, I end up writing what I think they want to read. It's not a truly organic story. But I'll share that story with you any way. In Search of Bonus Mom

I never wanted children. That sentence is not to be confused with “I hate children”. I just never wanted a child of my own. Children are amazing and wonderful. I love spending time with my niece and nephews. I love my friends’ kids and make sure they get gifts on all the holidays. I just never had that biological urge that most women talk about. My inner baby clock ticked briefly in 1999, but graduate school made it impossible to take it seriously and then it just sort of wound down and stopped ticking. There are so many reasons I could give you for why I never wanted children of my own. I was never in a place where I felt financially stable. The population of the planet is already out of control. Is it really fair to bring another human being into this world? But, the main reason I avoided motherhood was that I never felt capable of raising a good human being. I felt inadequate to pass on the right kind of values to ensure that a child grows up to be kind, compassionate, responsible, and wise. Being a mother was a life that I had put out of my head as even thinking about wanting. But here I am, in this new relationship with a man that has a three year old we like to call the Cabbage. Every other weekend, I am helping pull clothes off or on to go potty or bed time. I am making sandwiches in the shapes of butterflies to entice the Cabbage to eat something other than cereal bars. I am wiping snot from a serious sneeze. My recently watched list on Netflix has gone from Mad Men and American Horror Story to My Little Pony and Super Why. I now find myself saying things like “please don’t touch the bottom of your shoe while you are eating” or “because I said so”.

There’s this place I like to go to for breakfast. It’s this little hole in the wall place that sits in the middle of an old neighborhood. It used to be the corner grocery and they still have some of the old grocery fixtures inside. Chris and I stumbled across it on accident one morning and it became the favorite right off the bat. It’s more than a restaurant. It is a community. Most of the patrons are people that just walked down from their house, usually carrying their own mug or still in pajamas. I didn't stop going there after Chris died. I would sit at one of the smallest tables and pretend to make a grocery list or look busy doing something “important” on my phone. Really, I’d be secretly observing the other tables, the groups of friends, the tables of young families, the laughter and the love. I watched it all as if I was standing on the outside looking in. As I look back on those moments now, I see that it seems very lonely and I guess I was a little bit lonely then. Maybe pretending that I wasn't. My second weekend with the Cabbage, we went to this place for breakfast. There we were, the three of us sitting at a table, Michael reading the paper while the Cabbage and I played a game on my phone. When our breakfast came out, I helped the Cabbage get situated with her breakfast and then I started in on mine. There I was sipping coffee, the Cabbage munching away on bacon and Michael eating while reading the day’s horoscope. Just like that I went from being the outsider to being that table of laughter and love. I was the one with a family and something in my brain said "Oh! This is what that feels like". It was not a feeling I had thought was missing from my life, but it was definitely a feeling that was comforting. It was a moment that I could get used to. It opened the door to visions of a slightly older Cabbage sitting at a breakfast bar in an open kitchen, coloring or doing homework while I cooked dinner or all of us sitting down to dinner together, laughing and talking about our day. Maybe we'd play a game or invent our own game of using the word of the day from a word-a-day-calendar in a sentence.

Then came Christmas, our first Christmas together, and it included work related Holiday parties. We were at a Christmas party for Michael’s work. I had found a ridiculously cute outfit on sale weeks ago for the Cabbage. The shirt was all calico ruffles with matching pants that had even more ruffles at the ankles. I dressed the Cabbage in her ruffles and I fixed her hair with the clips she’d picked out. This would be her first visit with Santa and she wanted to look good, sparkly boots and all. And then there he was. Santa. I wish I could have caught that moment when she realized Santa was standing next to her and saying hello. It was a look of sheer wonderment. Later, when it was finally her turn to sit on Santa’s lap, Santa looked out into the crowd and asked “Is the mother here? Where’ the Mom?”. Michael spoke up quickly with “Oh no, her mother’s not here”. Too quickly. I felt an unfamiliar pain, a kick in the gut as all the adult eyes in the room turned to me inquiringly. I felt an all too familiar flush of heat creep up my neck and into my cheeks as the tears prickled in the corners of my eyes. I swallowed those tears back and forced a smile, pretending that all of this was perfectly OK. Perfectly normal. Perfectly perfect. I mean, it was the truth. Her mother wasn't there and I am not her mother. Moments after, Michael whispered in my ear “I’m sorry. Did I handle that right? I feel like I didn't handle that right”. I brushed it off, said it was fine. Really, we hadn't prepared ourselves for what to say or do in these situations. I was more surprised by that kick in the gut feeling, that pain of realization that she wasn't mine.

My role of who I am in the Cabbage’s life is confusing. My mother while talking to the Cabbage referred to me as “your mom” and “your Aunt Cindy” in two different sentences. Michael asked once how would the Cabbage introduce us to people? “This is my daddy and this is my Cindy?” he asked. I shrugged and said “why not?” and we have heard her refer to me as “my Cindy”. Unfortunately “My Cindy” doesn't give me a label that most people in society need to define this relationship. I have a friend who has a Bonus Mom. In fact I've noticed this is a common term used around the internet world. But it would kind of be nice to have something of my own. I have looked up synonyms for bonus and extra. It seems kind of cruel to try to make a three year old say Honorarium Mom. Gravy Mom has a hipster ring to it. I’m really leaning towards Special Lady Mom only because it makes me laugh. From now on when someone asks if the Cabbage’s mother is here, we’ll just say “No, but her Special Lady Mom is here”. Bonus Mom….I should probably stick with Bonus Mom.