It was only a dream...

For the last week or so, I've been fighting a sore throat. It still hasn't materialized into a full-blown yuck, but I've been a bit crunchy and tired since it began. Yesterday, though, A started to feel as if he'd been hit by a truck. Scratchy throat, body aches, chills, the whole nine yards. I kept him home from school today, and brought him to the doctor just to make sure it's not strep or something equally craptastic.

While we were there, I told our (incredibly hot) doctor the whole story. He asked why I hadn't come in myself, and I explained I didn't feel as bad as A....blah blah blah. He looked at me knowingly, frowned rather sympathetically, and nodded.

At least it looked like sympathy. Maybe empathy. Or understanding.

Yeah, no.

Turns out he thinks I'm a crack whore. Or an alcoholic. Or at least some kind of hopeless addict.

The nice doctor said he was going to prescribe A some cough medicine with codeine, just in case. I thought, "Sweet! Codeine! That's always a good thing to have around the house. You know, just in case."

I picked it up from Walgreens, threw it on the kitchen table, and didn't think of it again until just now. As I was straightening up the house before bed, I grabbed the bottle to bring upstairs. Just out of curiosity, I read the label...and was horrified. I swear to God, it says:

Give "A" 2 teaspoonsful by mouth every 4 to 6 hours as needed for cough. No refills. Do not drink alcoholic beverages while taking this medication.

Yes, his name was in quotes. I'm guessing there was some winking and nudging involved too, but I can't be certain. Suddenly, I'm thinking about pulling an Elaine Benes and demanding to see what he has written on my chart.

Hell, what do I care? I have codeine. See you in January, suckers...

I really, really, really, hate this soul-numbing season commonly referred to as the holidays. The over-commercialized, plastic-coated, well-lit, synthetic representation of genuine, imitation Christmas-flavored product is enough to give me hives.

I'm sorry. I know that as a human being, I'm not allowed to say that. So maybe today, I'll be a wallaby.

It's not about the gifts. It's not about the decorations, the music, the time off work, or even the cookies.

It's about...

...

...

...yeah.

March to the beat of your own little drummer boy. Have the guts to step away from the crowd and just love the people that matter to you this Christmas.

Not an over-commercialized, plastic-coated, well-lit, synthetic representation of genuine, imitation love, either. Spend the few extra bucks of emotional capital for the real thing, despite the mounting evidence of spiritual recession.

Save the Christmas spirit, one corner of the world at a time.

Hell, I'll even spring for a bigger box.

Below is the text of an e-mail I sent to this year's cookie day victims participants. I think it says it all, really...

I just wanted to drop everyone an e-mail and firm up a few details on cookie day. As usual, I'm pretty excited. I can't wait to see all of you!

• I have sixty two pounds of dough ready to go. There are ten kinds this year -

• 
  

Sugar cookies

Spritz

Gingerbread men

Snickerdoodles

Chocolate cinnamon

Thumbprints

Peanut butter kisses

Oatmeal almond blueberry

Rum balls

Chocolate-chocolate chip

• I'm taking a vacation day on Friday, and should have a good head start before everyone arrives on Saturday. I plan to have the majority of the sugar cookies and gingerbread men cut and baked Friday. This should lead to an easier process on Saturday, with just the decorating left to be done.

• Wear sensible shoes. The floor in my kitchen is porcelain tile, and can be hard on your back if you're standing for too long in your socks or shoes that don't have much cushion. Ask Angela. She still has a limp from last year.

• If you'd like to bring any Christmas music, feel free. We just started listening to mine yesterday as we put up the Christmas tree, and A is already sick of it. He wanted to put on the Frank Sinatra Christmas album. I drew the line. A 'friendly' discussion ensued. (We all love Frank. But have you heard his Christmas album?)

• I'm making meatball subs for lunch, and they'll be hanging out in the crock pot whenever you get hungry. If you wish to bring anything snacky to accompany them, go ahead. Don't feel obligated, though. It's not as if anyone could possibly starve to death in a room with that many cookies.

• I'm anticipating 5-7 adults, and 4-5 kids. This means that we'll have plenty of people, and everyone should be able to take breaks as needed. Odds are I won't work you to death this year. Unless that's what you're looking for. Then bring it on.

• I'll be in the kitchen and working by about 8:00 AM. I fully intend to be finished by 4:00 PM. Feel free to arrive and depart whenever it's convenient for you. The front door will be unlocked, so let yourself in. I may not hear the doorbell over the Frank Sinatra Christmas Album.

• I have several tins that someone from work threw my way. They aren't the cutest things in the world, but they will do. I also bought a bunch of really cute boxes. You can feel free to just take the tins with you if you'd like, but I would ask that if you want the boxes, you buy them. I still can't believe I couldn't find cute holiday boxes for less than $3-$4 each, but I suppose that expensive crap is the spirit of the season these days.

• My neighbor is having a surprise birthday party for her husband that same day. I'm hoping parking won't be an issue, but you may have to park down the street a bit. Unfortunately, unlike my aunt Bernie, I can't fit twelve cars in my driveway (inside joke. Sorry.) Just don't block the mailbox, or the mailman will come and personally kick my butt.

If you have any other questions, let me know. Otherwise, I'll plan to see you on Saturday!

This is another installment of, "Hopefully, when this situation happens to you, you'll have learned through my misfortune and can avoid waking up in a puddle of your own vomit."

Seriously. If you have young sons, don't forget this one. It could save your ______ (insert important thing here).

If your twelve year-old ever (EVER) calls from the other room, "Oh, yuck! That is awesome!"

Run. Don't walk. You don't want to hear the rest of the conversation.

Especially if the next thing out of his mouth is, "Remember when I dropped that trailer hitch on my big toe and it turned purple under the nail? You gotta see this!"

When I was a kid, I had this great little record player. It was in a square box, with a flip-top lid, and was painted to look like a pair of blue jeans. I would sit for hours, listening to my book and record sets. Remember those? Every time you were supposed to turn the page, they would ring a little bell or make some other cool noise. You couldn't go wrong with the books and records.

I still remember so many of those records - one was Puss 'n Boots, which had an even better b side -it was the story of a goat that couldn't stop eating his master's stuff. He would sing, "Baaaa! Baaaa! I'm a naughty little goat. I ate up my master's pretty, pretty coat!" Then one day, he ran away because he felt so guilty. Of course his master came to find him (because who doesn't love their goat?), and everyone lived happily ever after.

The best record ever, though, was a gift from my godmother. It was the Bert and Ernie Singalong. I listened to it so many times that I knew it by heart, and was always prepared to put a penny on top of the needle in the spot where it would skip if I wasn't careful.

For those of you who aren't familiar, Bert is in the bathtub. Ernie invites everyone on Sesame Street over for a singalong, and they cram into the bathroom for an hour or so to have a little musical party (while Bert gets more and more agitated in his quest to have someone hand him a towel!!)

The other day, the subject came up in a conversation with P. And somehow (I think he used magic), he came up with this link. I highly recommend Bats in the Belfry and The Limerick Song.

Thanks, P. This is the coolest thing ever.

Or so says Ms. Pointlessly Hypertechnical, who has one of the best blogs I know. She's funny, smart, and has a great writing style. Don't be fooled by the misspelling of the word creative, either - she can, after all, spell hypertechnical. I think she might even be one of those people who looks things up when she's not sure. Yes, apparently they still exist.

Anyway, by getting blinged with this award, I now have to play along with the game.

Yes, I know it's not a real award. I also realize I never play these games. But my ego is also sufficiently large to say, "Yay! I won an award!" So now you're stuck watching me preen. Sorry.

Here are the rules, as I understand them:

(1) List six things that make you happy
(2) Pass the award on to 6 more kreativ bloggers
(3) Link back to the person who gave you the award
(4) Link to the people you are passing it on to and leave them a comment to let them know.
(5) Request scantily clad photos of your blogger friends of the opposite sex.

Alas, here we go.

Six things that make me happy:

1. My son.
   
2. Baking and sharing yummy treats with my friends. I'm still working off of the premise that if I feed enough to sweets to everyone else I know, it will ultimately make me look thinner. We're still in the process here. It may take a long time. Stick with me, and keep the faith.
   
3. Great live music. Symphony, rock concert, musical theater, I don't care. Just give me the thrill of listening to it unfold, and I'm happy as a clam. The kind that's not being eaten.
   
4. Spring. Oh God, do I love spring. Not only does it mean that winter is over, but it is also just breathtakingly beautiful. And it means that winter is over.
   
5. Quiet evenings with people I love. Also quiet mornings. And quiet afternoons. Okay, just get rid of the noise and commotion of everyday life, and let me enjoy some peaceful conversation (or not) with one of the few people on the planet that really make me smile :)
6. Our annual camping trip to northern Michigan. Eating wild blueberries, canoeing, roasting a myriad of tasty things over the campfire, and falling asleep listening to the whippoorwills and wind in the pine trees. Nothing quite beats the feeling of leaving everything behind and becoming a part of nature for a few days.
   

Now, as for six awesome, creative bloggers to pass this on to...

Hm. That's a challenge. Lemme think. Most of my friends hate this stuff more than I do, but let's give it a shot. Maybe winning an award (from me, no less!) will be enough to make it happen. I'll just keep telling myself that and pretend that someone will run with it.

My favorites, that I read regularly:

• Ahl Things Considered - Back in college, we used to call him Mr. One out of Ten. Why, you ask? Because one out of every ten things he says will be the funniest thing you've heard all day. He's still got it.
• Walk in Brain - When I can't take any more right-wing politics from my friends in the financial world, I go read this. It balances everything out. Plus, he has the driest sense of humor ever. And is my oldest friend in the world.
• Looking for Something - Always thoughtful and kind, J is one of those people I have always looked up to for his quiet wisdom. I'm so glad he showed back up on the face of the planet a little while back :)
• whirledpeas deleted her entire blog, but maybe this will prompt her to start up again. I doubt it, but it's worth a shot.
• The Rollercoaster Express - M may kill me for this. I'm just sayin'.
• My sister - I'm still not linking to her blog. Consider yourself spared :)

Rule #5?

Well, if I haven't seen you naked by now, let's just keep it that way, mkay?

Oh, and happy Veterans' Day. Go out and hug a vet today. Find five if you can. They deserve it.

I spent much of the day today feeling as if I was living apart from the world around me. On the train this morning, I spent an hour finishing a great book, which I closed with a smile as we pulled into the station. Stepping out onto the platform downtown, it seemed as if the entire city was moving just a little faster than I was.

It wasn't a bad feeling, mind you - it was more like a pleasant, yet unnatural calm had descended in a cloud around me for the day. As I made my way down the sidewalk through a swirling sea of fallen leaves, I wrapped myself in the quietness of my thoughts. Knowing it may be the last warm morning of the season, I lifted my face to the sky and inhaled the crisp scent of fall.

As I stood on the corner, waiting to cross the street to reach the office, I was startled out of the sense of solitude by a voice beside me. "Hey, Christine. How's it going?"

I looked up, and was suddenly disoriented. There was K standing there in front of me. Only it wasn't. It was Brian from Treasury Management, who looks uncannily like him. It took me a few seconds to realize I hadn't replied, and I said, "Has anyone ever told you that you have a twin that used to work for us? I think you're a body snatcher."

Brian laughed, and told me not to reveal his secret. I smiled, disconcerted, and hurried into the building, where I found an empty office and closed the door. It was a day for solitude and focus, not for chatting.

The morning passed quickly - I only opened the door for a few short restroom breaks, and managed to hold on to the inexplicable serenity until lunchtime. I packed my things, decided that I'd work from home for the afternoon, and slipped out to have a bite to eat with P before catching the train. Even in the bustling Thai restaurant, I felt very still. I said little, and P commented that I seemed a bit off. I explained, thinking of just how strange it all sounded as I spoke. Neither up nor down, but simply quiet, I smiled and hugged him. Sometimes that's the most appropriate way to convey things that don't translate well into words.

On the way home, I watched the world fly by through the window of the train. A twenty-something girl across the aisle was flirting with the married man next to her. A woman and her young daughter, fresh from the American Girl store, spoke quietly of dresses and tea parties. The conductor punched my ticket without a word, and I rested my forehead against the cool glass while the man beside me slept. As I drove home from the station, it occurred to me that I'd hardly spoken all day. It was a pleasant change from the hectic pace I've been keeping for the last few months.

Shortly after I arrived home, the spell was broken. My friend Angela called with news on her husband's leukemia. It has spread into his lymph nodes, spleen, and liver. On Monday, they are starting yet another round of chemo to try to hold the disease back long enough to do a stem cell transplant.

Suddenly, everything became very real again.

I really wish it hadn't.

I was in a car accident on my way home from work today. Blah.

No injuries (except for the fact that my back is now killing me), and only minor damage to the vehicles, but it was enough to really shake me up. The worst part was having to call A and tell him that I was going to be late because I was in an accident. After I told him that everyone was okay, he felt a bit better, but I knew he was sitting home worrying about me for the next hour until I walked in the door. He's very attentive tonight, and trying to take care of me (even though there's nothing really to be done). I love that kid.

Even before that happened, I have to say that this was not a good day.

To whomever is in charge, I would like a do-over, please.

"...What Have We Learned?"

• Sunday night will always be Hot Single Guy Night at the grocery store.
• I will never remember this before leaving the house for the grocery store on Sunday night.
• Karma dictates that if you even think about calling someone stupid, you will immediately do something monstrously inane, thereby making the other person look like a frickin' genius.
• Algebra really doesn't stick in your head for 20 years. You may have breezed through it in high school, gotten a solid A, and proclaimed yourself a mathematical hero. But you don't remember it as well as you thought you would. You will look like an idiot trying to help your kid simplify equations. Deal with it.
• Being on a diet always sucks worse than you remember.
• Seeing a gorgeous sunrise is always way cooler than you remember.
• Making improvements to your home is a dangerous addiction. It's always just one more thing. Maybe two. Then I'll be done, I swear. Right now, I'm promising myself that after I get new carpeting and doors, I'll quit. Oh, except for the lighting and shelving in the kitchen. And maybe new seating at the dining table. Or an organizational system for the garage.
  
• Children are meant to be seen, and not heard. Just like financial markets are meant to be boring. Both work well as concepts on paper, but neither actually applies in real life.
• If you've been on a diet for weeks, and have been eating mostly healthy things the entire time, do NOT splurge on a Chipotle burrito (complete with hot salsa) and a bottle of beer. Just trust me on this one.
• Twelve year-olds are a lot more fun than they're cracked up to be.
• Presidential politics will, eventually, be the end of us all. We have two choices - 1.shorten the amount of time in which they are allowed to campaign, or 2. shoot ourselves in the head and get it over with. I don't care which it is at this point. Just make it stop.
• Linens and Things is going out of business. I need to figure out how to get banned from their stores until they are completely gone, so as to avoid having to file for personal bankruptcy after snatching up every deal on every useful thing I find there on sale.
• Pie is way underrated.
• Sugar cookies are way underrated.
• Ice cream is way, way underrated.
• Did I mention I've been on a diet? I've lost nine pounds. Unfortunately, unless I start to really exercise a lot, it's just like the home improvements thing. Maybe if I just lose 20 more pounds, my tummy will be flat. Or maybe 50. Okay, 100, and that's my final offer!
• I would kill you for a donut. Don't lull yourself into thinking I like your company enough that I wouldn't do it.
• Okay, I love you. Now give me a frickin' donut.
  

Sometimes at night, when my head is too full of thoughts that refuse to stop spinning, I have been known to just get out and walk the quiet, dimly lit streets of the city.

Darkness makes the world a different place - it's as if each block you pass has been left to you by the faces that had claimed it during the day. The glow of the street lamps, the whispering of the wind in the trees, and the occasional passing vehicle only punctuate the surrounding stillness that is your own, small universe.

It began for me as a young adult. The summer after my freshman year in college, I stayed with my parents (who had just moved back to upstate New York after living in Indiana for four years). I would find myself awake at odd hours - sometimes 4am, with nothing but a buzzing energy inside of me. I would leave the house, walk down the hill, and wander into the playground of my old elementary school. There, they had the best kind of swings - long chains attached to a rectangular rubbery seat a few feet off the ground. I was grateful for the lack of squeaking as I pumped my legs, swinging higher and higher over the grass until I felt I could touch the sky. With a smile on my face and the wind at my back, I would watch the sun peek over the edge of the schoolyard. As the night became day, the buzz would begin to quiet. I would eventually climb back up the hill to the house, slip silently up the stairs, and settle back into sleep.

Later in my college years, I developed the bad habit of walking across campus by myself at night. Without a roommate or anyone watching the doors, it was easy to come and go unnoticed. The tiny little lake down the street from my dorm was the usual destination - and regardless of how laughably small it was, it still held the power to reflect the stars in a touchingly quaint way. Now that I look back on it, of course, I was probably fairly lucky that I never once found any trouble on those evenings. I didn't care at the time, though. I just needed to be out.

Later, when I was married and living in Joliet, I was fortunate enough to live in the most lovely walking neighborhood I've ever found - it was the heart of the historic district, and our street was lined with huge old oaks, Victorian streetlamps, and a boulevard lit with Italian lights. Gorgeous old homes with wraparound porches stood like sentinels behind their manicured lawns, and the churches still rang their bells throughout the evening.

Some nights, when I couldn't sleep, I would find myself walking quietly to the Cathedral. Down the sidewalk, along the covered walkway, and through meticulously carved arches, there was a small garden. In the center was a statue of the Virgin Mary, surrounded by the loveliest roses. I never saw anyone else there after dark...it was its own tiny world, removed from the city. Once, after a particularly difficult evening, I found myself curled up in the grass beside the roses, watching the stars. My mind began to drift, and the peace I had so desperately prayed for slowly came.

When I awoke, the sun was rising. I was covered in dew. I picked myself up, walked home, and crawled into bed smelling of roses and night air. I slept in that morning, finally content.

One of my poorer choices of adventure came in Memphis, Tennessee. I was there on business with K, and we were in a crowded piano bar on Beale Street. I had been drinking, and found myself in the mindset of the angsty drunk. The bar was too loud, the people too close. I had no choice but to leave.

I decided, on a complete whim, to walk back to the hotel. Downtown Memphis isn't exactly a cornerstone of culture and niceties at 1am, but I didn't care. The city was mine. I strolled confidently down the street, humming a song to myself with my head thrown back in the breeze. No one approached me during that mile-long trek, and at the time I felt it was because I was invicible. My mind cleared, the city slept, and by the time I reached the hotel, I was both sober and relaxed. It was worth the reproving looks and short lecture in the morning.

I wish I knew why the night air is so centering. Somehow, it brings both a sense of solitude and a connection to the universe as a whole. Everything is cleaner and more precise. Light dances through leaves with a shimmering beauty all its own, and the smells are always sweeter; more delicate. It's a reaffirmation of individuality, and a reminder that every moment is precious.

This past summer, I was with P one evening, and the restlessness set in. It was late, and I felt the old, familiar buzzing in my head. I was restless, and knew that sleep would not come without a fight. When I told him that I was going to go out and walk, he looked at me as if I'd sprouted horns. Chicago at night, after all, is probably a lot less safe than Memphis. After a moment, he realized I was serious. He grabbed for his shoes and announced he was coming with me.

At first, it was odd, walking with someone at night. I wasn't sure if I could find what I was looking for if I had to share my sidewalk with someone else. How could I find the solitude of the night if there was another person on my heels?

But somehow, it worked. We strolled through quiet, residential streets, and he stood back to let me stop and marvel at the rustling leaves in the singular glow of the streetlamps. We strayed into hidden gardens, searched (to no avail) for an accessible swingset, and ventured into dead-end darkened alleys to see what we could see.

At the Church of the Transfiguration, we paused to reflect on the statue of Jesus that stood in front. It was an old statue, and Jesus' fingers had either worn or been chipped away over the years. In its own way, it was a hauntingly sad, beautiful piece. We said a prayer to the Broken Fingered Jesus, and went on our way.

That night, as all the otherson which I walked, I slept.

It seems that peace really is out there. It's just that sometimes, it's hiding in a dark place...and you have to be willing to go looking for it if you truly want it.

...that doesn't find this surprising.

It's heartbreaking, but true - I've seen so many dear artistic friends struggle with depression, substance abuse, and mood disorders that it frightens me. Creativity has its price, and I continue to hold those that follow that path in the highest esteem.

Some days I think I'm lucky I survived my years in music. Some of you will remember just how impossible I was back in the days when my life was focused in that direction, and I'm sure will agree that I'm much better off in today's structured setting.

Those of you that are still bringing beauty to the world?

My hat is off to you.

...you've been working too many hours in the financial sector and not sleeping nearly enough when you find yourself watching the Senate vote on the bailout live on cnn.com (and you're nearly in tears hoping that it passes).

Now we need the House to make things right.

It's that important, people.

I have a new addiction.

A while back, I was on my way home from the city, and desperately needed something to drink. Spotting a friendly, neighborhood 7-11 on the corner, I popped in for some icy-cold refreshment.

And there, in the back corner of the store, I discovered what will surely be my downfall.

The Crystal Light, sugar-free tangerine-lime slurpee.

Friends, this comes from the girl who swore off the slurpee 25 years ago. Remember back then? You generally had two flavor choices - Coke or cherry. You could buy twizzlers at the same time, use them as straws, and eat the nasty half-frozen sugary candy by-product afterward.

Then you'd fight off the sugar rush and nausea for hours.

But this...this is different.

It is sugar-free.

And it is tangerine-lime. (sounds gross on the surface, doesn't it? Don't be fooled. It's magically delicious.)

It is guilt-free dessert.

So this past Friday, on an ill-fated road-trip to Mount Prospect, I dragged poor P into every 7-11 in a three-county area to see who carries them.

Alas, we only found the cherry lime-aid flavor. Still tasty, but not nearly as yum. We'll call it the methadone variety.

To date, I have only found two locations that carry the tangerine-lime. One at Foster & Northwest Highway, and one in Elgin on Randall Road. Both are a hike from my home and office, but I wil find more, I swear.

They are out there, and they are taunting me with their freezy goodness.

And when I do find them close to home, I swear I will spend all of A's college savings on them.

Isn't that how a good addiction works?

Or might I be able to buy a slurpee machine and supplies on eBay?

If I stop showing up to work and social events, please wait a few weeks before holding an intervention. I'll just have one more, I swear.

I will do this for you.

I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

:)

As I've made my way through adult life, I've tried my best to become an open, honest communicator. When I was younger, I was horrible about such things. I come from a family that would rather gouge its eyes out with shrimp forks than tell someone they had hurt your feelings. I also grew up thinking that when you tell someone that you care about them (regardless of the context), the most likely outcome will be shunning and public ridicule.

A lot of that I've gotten past. I have spent years forcing myself to say those very difficult things, whether good or bad. Regardless of the cold sweat and racing heart, I do my best to get things out in the open when necessary. It may be with a hundred caveats, and painstakingly slow, but I find a way to say it.

I'll manage not to pass out when I say, "I think you're a wonderful person, and I'm glad you're in my life." I'll fight back the nausea to mention, "This situation made me uncomfortable, and I think we should work together to fix it." Dear God, but I do try.

Right now, though, I'm struggling. My feelings are hurt, and I'm not sure I'll ever be able to tell a friend how disappointed I am in his behavior. I'm afraid that either way, the friendship is permanently damaged.

The story is very long, and I won't go into all of the details. What it comes down to, though, is that he and I went through a period where things were tense. He stopped calling, and when we did manage to talk, it was around an unacknowledged elephant. It was obvious that he was uncomfortable, even though he would never talk about the situation. I brought it up, I asked the questions, and tried to find out how to fix it. Nothing worked. (If, at this point, you feel like interjecting, "Duh, he's a guy..." please don't. I expect more from this one. I also expect quite a bit from myself, and won't play innocent. I made my share of mistakes, and take responsibility for them.)

Until I started dating P. All of a sudden, it was like a switch had been thrown. I guess I was safe again, and everything was supposed to go back to the light, frolicking banter of the old days. He called, he wrote, and acted as if nothing had ever happened. The silent sigh of relief was palpable.

It feels like I'm fifteen again, and my mom is saying, "Ssshhh. It's over, and he's happy now. Don't make him talk about it, or it is just going to cause a fuss."

Yes, this is more on the melodramatic girl side than I usually blog, and I'm sorry about that. My question, though, is this:

Is the fuss worth it? *

Because I honestly don't know anymore.

*This is a rhetorical question. I am not looking for your answers, as I know you don't have enough facts to address it. I'm simply wondering out loud. Or in print. However you want to say it.

The fog was so dense that I could almost pretend it was an early spring morning. Visibility was only a few feet, and the air was completely still as I was leaving the house at 6:15 this morning. I had to be downtown for an early meeting, and the sun was still contemplating whether or not it was going to come up.

The air smelled of fall, though, and the few yellow leaves that were scattered on my driveway left no doubt that spring was quite a long way off. Suburban winter lay between us like a snarling beast, and it was intent on making the journey as difficult as possible.

I pretended anyway.

The world was quiet. The small crowd gathered on the platform at the train station was relatively subdued. Several men stood with their ties still hanging loosely around their necks, and many women crowded into the small shelters where it was warm. As the train approached, we climbed silently inside, finding corners into which we could curl up and watch the world pass.

Crossing the river was nearly surreal - plumes of white fog rose like campfire smoke toward the bridge as the sun began its subtle attempts to push the mist back from where it came. The intercom was startlingly loud as the recorded voice announced that we were now approaching the next station. People stared emptily out the windows. I wondered if this was a function of the fog, or merely the fact that this was one of the earliest trains of the day. For me, it was a combination of both, and I just couldn't seem to make the morning seem real.

When I stepped off the train and into the city, everything immediately changed. Cabs flew around corners as swarms of people moved with a determined purpose. The air was crisp and clear.

Everything was humming.

It struck me how much I love this city, and how alive it makes me feel. Every time I venture in from the suburbs, it hits me all over again. And I smile.

When the time is right, I will make the move in. Every day will begin with the motion of the city, and I will become a part of the vibrancy that is Chicago. Even with its warts, its costs, and its hectic pace, I have fallen in love with it. Who would have thought, even ten years ago, that I would come to such a place?

Not me. But then again, we're never sure where it is that our evolution will take us.

The panic in the markets is just about enough to send me over the edge.

Morgan Stanley and Goldman Sachs reported better than expected earnings, and their stock prices dropped about 30%.

Some money market funds broke the buck this week because of Lehman and AIG inestments - this isn't a first, keep in mind. It happened a few years ago, and people took it relatively in stride. This time, investors are so convinced that the world is ending that they are flying to the safety of short-term treasuries like there is no tomorrow. They are so crazy, in fact, that today a billion dollars of them traded at negative yields. Yes, people purposely lost money in T-bills. This hasn't happened since 1940. We (along with several other big houses) had to close our treasury money market fund to new purchases last night in order to protect the yield for existing holders.

Imagine the fury.

The rollercoaster of the major markets is enough to make you throw up, even intra-day (150 points up, 150 points down, 410 points up. Pass the pepto, please).

My clients are calling in tears, and all I want to do is politely tell them that it's that kind of panic that has made this mess into a catastrophe.

Here's the thing. If the market goes down, keeps going down, and never recovers?

Yeah, you're not going to give two shits about your investment portfolio. You won't have a job, a home, an economy, or a government. And if you think that's going to happen, then you really shouldn't be investing at all, anyway.

Panic breeds failure. The media, the bears, and the fear-mongers have dug us a hole so deep that getting out is getting harder and harder every day.

Please just stop. Let logic prevail again. We'll get through this, and everything is going to be okay again. I promise. Stop making this so much worse than it really has to be.

Please?

You're killing me.

This is absurdly funny.

This is enough to make me swear off any more political discussions until mid-November. Don't even try - I won't be sucked in.

This gives me nightmares.

This is still my favorite blog entry ever. If you can even call it just a blog.

If I ever recreate my blogging style, it's going to look something like this.

Life is too short. Eat more cookies.

A came home from school today and informed me that he needs a lyre and a flip folder before next Tuesday.

If that leaves you saying, "Huh?" then you may want to just quit here.

If it hits you that on Tuesday, the junior high band is going to start marching in practice for a parade, then I'm sure you'll understand just how blown away I am. The next generation is starting to march. (Jonathan, you were right. You were so, so right.)

I remember being in the Leary Junior High Band in Massena, New York, and trying to get the hang of marching through the streets of my neighborhood for the first time. Mr Rotunde, the band director, had this obnoxious whistle, which he would use to mark time and get us going. Two long whistles on one and three, and then four short counts of a full measure. Then we were off, tripping and stumbling, trying to figure out which foot we were supposed to be on. We played the national anthem and the high school fight song. Kinda. At least slightly reasonable facsimiles thereof. If you listened closely.

Old people and women with little kids would stand in their driveways and watch us march by. My mom could hear us from our house - sometimes she would walk a few blocks to see me play (all hunched over and trying to keep an eye on both the person in front of me and my feet). She would wave, smile, and sometimes cry just a little bit...I never could figure out why. It didn't seem like it was such a big deal.

Now I know. It's a rite of passage. One more sign that my baby, well...isn't a baby anymore. His first parade is on the 20th, and his dad and I will stand on the curb watching just like our parents did. I'll probably cry a little bit too, and A won't understand why.

He'll be too busy trying not to crash into the kid in front of him.

For the next two weeks, my house is going to have one extra inhabitant - A and I are kittysitting for Mark's (formerly my) cat, Miles.

At 13, he's a bit of a crotchety old bugger, but I have to admit that it's nice to have him around the house. He seems to be settling in nicely, and has even found himself a favorite spot on the back of the couch (right behind my head, where he purrs like a old diesel for hours on end).

I have made a list of resolutions for this two week period, and I thought I should probably write them down so I don't forget any of them.

• I will take some sort of allergy medicine every day. I will avoid the sneezing even before it even starts.
• My bedroom door will remain closed, creating a dander-free zone. I will not forget to close it, ever.
• I will make sure A brushes him at least every other day.
• I will not take him to the groomer and have him shaved (lest he eat my face off in my sleep.)
• I will not take him to the groomer and have him shaved (lest he eat my face off in my sleep.)
• If he throws up on my carpeting, I will not kill him.
• I will not use barfed-on carpeting as an excuse to call 1-800-588-2300.
• I will spoil him with Fancy Feast and Iams, so that he's impossible to live with when I send him home. I'll be like the cool grandma. But younger.
• I will not take him to the groomer and have him shaved (lest he eat my face off in my sleep.)
• I will not decide to develop a full-blown claritin addiction and go out to buy myself a new cat.
• I will not let A talk me into buying a new cat.
• I will pet him and pat him and hug him and squeeze him and call him George (after which, he may eat my face off in my sleep).
• I won't even take him to the groomer and have him bathed. I am kind of attached to my face.
• I will give him plenty of love and attention while he is here. Every time I do so, though, I will wash my hands and remember not to touch my face (the aforementioned one to which I am attached).
• I will not let A talk me into buying a new cat.
• I will not fall asleep anywhere except behind the closed bedroom door, just to be safe.
  
• We won't even say the word groomer in his presence. Just to be safer.
  

If I go missing and stop answering the phone, please come see if you can find my face somewhere. I hear there are doctors (at least in France) that can sew them back on.

kthnx.

I was sitting outside this evening, waiting for the fireflies to come out. They seem to already be past their peak, as I don't see nearly as many now as I did a month ago.

Fall is coming. As if I needed further testament, I looked up into the trees that surround my patio. All of the little helicopters hanging from the branches have turned a golden brown...a precursor to the leaves that will soon follow suit and fall to the ground. I should know what kind of trees the helicopters hang from, but I don't. I just remember being a little girl and throwing them into the air, blowing them higher, and watching them spin slowly to the ground. Perhaps if I had felt a remnant of that innocence tonight, I would have done so again.

Instead, I tried to slow my racing thoughts and listen to the birds chirp sleepily as they settled in for the night. I'm a bit muddled this evening, as tomorrow is going to be an incredibly stressful day - I'm testifying in my babysitter's divorce trial in the afternoon, and it has me genuinely spooked. I won't go into all of the details, but I will say that I'm not terribly thrilled about telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth about what I've witnessed from her soon-to-be-ex-husband. It's the right thing to do, and I will share my story willingly, but the guy seriously creeps me out. I don't like the thought of making a psycho enemy of someone who lives just a few blocks away from me.

_________


I haven't been blogging lately because I've not been sure exactly what to write. Life has been very good to me, and I have no complaints - I'm dating a great guy, I've been promoted and given a decent raise at work, and A is home, back in school, and very happy. It just seems like if I write too much about it, not only will I sound like a total sap, but I'll also jinx my chances at staying happy.

Silly? Of course.

But I've never claimed to be the world's most rational person.

So tonight, as I sat outside and lamented the missing fireflies and little brown helicopters, I did something I haven't done in a long time.

I prayed.

I asked that I get through tomorrow with dignity and grace. I asked that I find a way to hold on to this new-found, refreshing happiness. And I asked God to let me find a way to still my restless mind and stop waiting for the other shoe to drop, bringing me back to the angst-filled status quo.

I'll do my best to blog more often. It's good for me, and I've missed it. Thanks for hanging in there while I've been gone :)

More to come throughout the next few days, but I thought I'd stop in and drop a line or two saying that life is pretty darn good.

A week of vacation is great for the soul...especially when it involves camping, canoeing, and realizing once again that northern Michigan is truly a place to remember why we've been put on this earth.

Nothing brings me back to center quite like peace, quiet, and fresh air. And the rest of the good things that happened over the last week or so.

But for now, I'm going to go to bed and smile myself to sleep.

Life is good :)

...was unbelievable.

It was a beautiful night at Summerfest in Milwaukee, and they came on about 9:00. Mark and I stopped on the way into the park to buy a couple of beers and a pack of clove cigarettes (yeah, I know. We're too old to act 20. Shoot me.) Our seats were great. The crowd was alive. I was beyond excited.

In an appropriate Independence Day tribute, Scott Weiland (who somehow manages to be simultaneously too hot for words and totally fucking skanky) came out on stage wrapped in a huge American flag. Add big shades and a big, black fedora, and he looked the part of the consummate rock star.

They opened with Big Empty, and all the fears I'd picked up from the media were gone. Rumors have been flying that he's fallen back off the wagon - he's had a few bad shows on this tour, from what I've heard.

Last night, he was on.

They played every single song that I love, and as time passed, he removed the hat, the glasses, the flag, a leather jacket, white silk vest, scarves in red, white and blue, a red linen shirt, and a blue tee shirt.

Yeah, he must have been roasting for the first few tunes.

But what a showman! Crouched at the edge of the stage in black leather pants and white boots moaning through Plush, he proved just why fans keep coming back to see him. Standing in the aisle, sipping a beer, and smoking the world's sweetest cigarettes, I closed my eyes and drank it all in like a woman who had been starving for a much-needed fix of good, solid rock.

The entire band was phenomenal. I sang and whooped until my throat was raw, and by the time we left, I couldn't hear a thing.

We didn't even stop to listen to Seether on the way out. I was flying so high that I didn't want to pollute the wave with a band that was just plain good. Plus, Mark was running on two hours of sleep, and I didn't want to make him stand there any more :)

I got home after one, and was shocked at how fast I sank into sleep. As I drifted off, I decided it didn't matter how many cooties Scott Weiland has. He can jump me in a dark alley any time - I'll just have to make sure to carry a full body condom with me whenever I leave the house.

yum

I have never been able to find this online before today. Imagine my delight when I came across it! Settle in and enjoy. This is truly the very best of the best of the best.

I sat in my office this afternoon, gazing out the wall of windows as the storm clouds blew in from the northwest. The sky was ominously dark over the forest preserve, and my boss walked by with his bag over his shoulder. "It's looking pretty dark out there," he said. "Better get out before the rain hits."

I looked at the clock. It was 4:22. Really too early to leave, but I packed up and followed him out anyway. Scattered, angry drops were already starting to fall as I made my way to my car - I hurried to beat the onslaught. Seconds after I closed the door behind me, the skies opened up. It was an immediate torrential downpour.

Stoplights were out, fire trucks passed by, screaming toward accidents, and the drive seemed to take forever. When I arrived home, the house was dark. I decided not to turn on the lights as I ate some leftover pasta and read through the day's news.

When the rain let up, I opened all of the windows and let in the smell of the rain. The house was still dark. I talked with a friend for a while, cleaned up the dinner dishes, and stepped out the back door.

The chairs were wet, and the trees continued to toss fat drops across the patio. The clouds loomed forbiddingly overhead, yet the leaves fairly glowed with that fresh, lush shimmer that storms always seem to leave in their wake. I wiped down one of the chairs, curled up into it, and closed my eyes. The smell of green things filled my head. I sat for a few minutes, thinking about all of the interesting things on my plate right now. My life seems to be turning in a few new directions, each of which deserves a certain level of contemplation.

I must have drifted off for a bit, because when I opened my eyes, the sky was much darker. The fireflies had come out; they were meandering across the yard, blinking at each other in a language I wasn't meant to understand. The silence of their journey added a level of mystery to the evening...dozens of them floated, seemingly aimlessly, as I watched. Long moments passed. I sat without moving.

The phone rang inside, and I slowly rose to grab it. As I walked in, I looked back over my shoulder at the fireflies. They flew on, oblivious to my departure.

After I finished talking with A, I glanced out again. The rain had started back up, and the yard had gone dark.

I left the lights off as I sat on the floor to write. Maybe if I wait long enough, they will come back.

The house is quiet with A gone. I can hang around in my underwear and eat ice cream for dinner if I want to.

I had pasta standing in the kitchen in shorts and a tee shirt, instead.

Afterwards, I sat in a pile of poetry books on the living room floor, wishing for inspiration. Atwood, Giovanni, Neruda, and Rilke kept me company; they are old friends with dog ears and quiet voices. Their honesty and perspective made me yearn for some semblance of creativity.

It's disjointed, this evening. My mind won't follow a path. It meanders from space to space.

So I took my flute from the shelf, and simply held it. I sat for quite a while, thinking and clicking keys. Clicking and thinking. Thinking. Clicking.

I need a focus. My life has begun to meander again.

I covered the embouchure hole with my lips and took a deep breath....remarking how much easier it is to breathe with silver in the hands. Eyes closed, thoughts slowing. Moving air.

Thinking. Clicking.

I can't write, as of late. My process has been suffering for so long. It's empty.

Clicking. Thinking.

It's reflective of my mind. I have been empty.

C minor was the easy choice. The sun was setting, and the room falling into darkness. I curled myself into a corner, turned in, and wrote you a poem.

Keep listening. It's still there.

A few months back, I picked up tickets to see Stone Temple Pilots at Summerfest. They're playing Friday night on the main stage, and I've been all twitterpated about it for weeks.

Tonight?

Yeah, I found out that Seether is playing the same night. I can probably catch the last part of their show after STP is done.

I am so totally going to be deaf next week.

Today, my friends, is A's twelfth birthday.

I baked the most chocolatey cake ever - it's a bittersweet chocolate/pecan meal base, frosted in a semisweet chocolate-butter glaze. Piped on top are mounds of white chocolate buttercream icing. To finish, I drizzled melted white chocolate over it.

He's having a big sleepover party at his dad's house - tons of pizza, video games, movies, and flashlight tag are in store. I'll be there, of course, because dad was terrified of having that many kids in his house without additional adult support ;) It should be a crazy night.

Personally, I'm hoping that if I can stuff enough pizza, cheetos, and cake into them in the first few hours, they'll all be in comas by midnight. Then I can get some sleep before driving A up to my parents' house tomorrow.

The best part, actually, is probably going to be watching dad freak out over all of the kids running around his house. But then again, I'm kind of a wench like that.

This year, I'm switching to Nutraloaf.

You know you want it.

After spending two and a half weeks with his grandparents in southern Illinois, A finally came home today.

My house feels like home again...for a week, at least, before he heads off to visit my parents.

This summer is a challenge, because I'm quite unhappy with the babysitter situation - A is turning 12, and he hates going to her house to hang out with the 'little kids'; and I'm not terribly happy with many of the life choices she's made recently. Truth is, I don't want him there much, either. But at his age, it seems like a futile exercise in humiliation to get him set up at a new babysitter for just a couple of months before school starts back up. He'll be in junior high this fall, and I've promised to let him stay by himself after school at that point.

So he's looking for places to go and things to do over the summer. Several weeks with each set of grandparents, a week of vacation with me, a week with dad, and as much time as he can spend with friends. Unfortunately, that means I'll see very little of him between now and the end of August. I know he enjoys traveling, and it's good for his adventurous little soul, but it's a lot harder on me than I'll publicly admit. When he is gone, my house is too quiet, and my life lacks a certain structure that only parenting can provide me.

Yeah, I'll admit it. I've spent the last two weeks living off of Jamba Juice, instant oatmeal, and Jimmy John's sandwiches. It's nothing to be proud of, but I won't be bothered to cook for just myself.

I plan on soaking up as much of him as I possible can over the next week...and then Saturday night, we're having the big birthday party at his dad's house. I tell you, I love that boy with everything that I have. Just by existing, he's given me all of the reasons I've ever needed to make something of myself and set an example for him to grow into a healthy, productive, loving adult. He's my world.

Not to mention the fact that he's the funniest person I know. We'll consider that a bonus.



A - "Mom, why do you think that Hardee's restaurants are only in the south these days? They used to be everywhere."

Me - "I dunno. Maybe they're just so unhealthy that everyone in the north that ate there died."

A - "Yeah. I bet they all had Hardeetacks."

Me - Groan.

Every Christmas, my mother plays Santa and puts together a 'stocking' for all of the kids and grandkids. I put that in quotes because it's really not a stocking - it's a gift bag that she leaves outside of the bedroom doors on the morning we're going to celebrate (which may or may not be Christmas Day). The bags contain all kinds of small household things (toothpaste, hair pretties for the girls, travel kleenex, and the like), candy, puzzle books, and toys. It's my mom's way of being...well...a mom.

This past Christmas, much to my surprise, I opened my stocking to find two boxes of -

pantyhose.

L'eggs off-black, reinforced toe, control-top pantyhose.

I didn't have the heart to tell my mom that I'd given those up like a bad crack habit years ago. I made the move to garter belt and stockings. I don't have to list the reasons why. You know them all.

Let it suffice to say that I cringe now every time I think of stuffing my crotch into something that refuses to let it breathe. The girly bits have grown accustomed to a sort of freedom, you know?

So yesterday, I had an event to attend - a cocktail party in the city for a group that works with the homeless. As I was packing a bag to bring to work so I could change on the way there, I had a novel idea. Instead of laundering my last pair of snag-free stockings or stopping to buy a spare pair, I'd wear the pantyhose. How bad could it really be, right?

Wrong. I changed in the ladies' room at the office, and was horrified at the fact that my mother seems to have forgotten that I've lost a lot of weight. She had purchased size B - which I believe is shorthand for big. I put them on, and pulled them up.

and up.

and up.

to about four inches below my bra.

I felt like the creepy, dumpy woman with cankles who wears the big brown pants and snowman sweaters to work six months out of the year. It was utterly demoralizing.

I slipped on my pretty little black dress, cute pointy shoes, and tasteful jewelry. I then proceeded to waddle out of the building like a beached manatee. I got in the car, drove into the city, and told myself over and over, "feel pretty. feel pretty. feel pretty. no one can see your control-toppy goodness. You are going home alone. just feel pretty."

It would have been amusing, had I not felt horrendously ugly.

At the event, I slunk off to the restroom approximately every 37 minutes. I had to adjust, pull up the sagging ankles, and yell at myself for leaving the pretty lace garter belt in a drawer. It just wasn't right. I could hear it crying in loneliness from 40 miles away.

Perhaps it was my strange mindset, or the death grip of the reinforced-toe monstrosities, but I found the entire evening to be a bit surreal. I suppose it didn't help when a woman from the facility, who is obviously used to dealing more with the homeless than business people, started calling everyone over for the auction.

"Hey! Everybody get down here! It's time for the auction! Move down to this end of the hall now, you hear? I want everyone down here now - no excuses!"

I chuckled quietly, but was cut short in amazement at her next proclamation.

"HEY! You people down at the other end of the room at that mashed potato bar, get the FUCK away from the mashed potatoes!"

My friend Lynn and I turned to each other, jaws dropping open. It's not often you find yourself at a cocktail fundraiser where you're told to get the fuck away from anything, really.

Alas, I left the potatoes alone. I didn't think I could handle her wrath in the befuddled state in which I was operating. Unless, that is, I removed my pantyhose and strangled her with them.

Afterwards, I meandered the few blocks back to my car. I think my crotch was squeaking. I prayed for a quick, painless death.

As soon as I got in the car, I shimmied up my dress, yanked down the off-black ugliness, and fished a pair of conveniently-located sandals out of the back seat. As I approached the gate to exit the parking lot, I tied them in about 11 knots, made a freakish ball out of them, and tossed them out the window into a garbage can. Two men jogging by looked at me as if I had just landed from Mars.

I smiled sweetly at them and drove away.

The girl bits rejoiced, and we all lived happily ever after.

The end.

I'm trying to think of a clever, witty spin to put on all of the bad things that have happened this past week.

It's not working.

If anyone had any ideas on how to make the following things funny, throw them out there.

• Carpenter ants living in my house
  
• A flooded, mildew-stench filled basement
• Cleaning out gutters on a metal stepladder at 6 am on a Sunday morning during a thunderstorm
• A 14 hour day in South Bend, IN
• Watching a friend with a 20% chance of surviving cancer as he naps on your couch
• Having the bottom of an extension ladder upon which you're standing to paint a cathedral ceiling slide several feet across the floor, nearly hurtling you 20 feet down face-first into the ground (and considering yourself lucky that you ended up only beating the shit out of yourself against the ladder, bruised and bloody as you end up at a 45 degree hoping someone comes to hold it steady before you fall the rest of the way)
• Being so sore and covered in bumps and bruises that you seriously consider canceling uber-cool plans for Monday
  
• A kid who has been off on vacation visiting grandma that loves you very much, but is having so much fun that he's only talked to you for a grand total of 5 minutes in the last week and a half
• Making (above-referenced uber-cool) plans to play hooky on Monday to do something wonderfabulsome, looking forward to it all week long like it's your last hope of sanity, and then having it fall apart at 12:30 Sunday night
• Having a 400 pound gorilla sitting on your chest at 2am, not being able to sleep, and knowing that you now have to be up for work in three and a half hours because the aforementioned plans canceled

Come on, people. Help me out here. I need to make this funny. There has to be a way.

If anyone posts a comment along the lines of, "Aw, I'm sorry you had a shitty week. Hope it gets better soon!" I will come rip your arms off and beat you with them.

Funny, damn it. Make me laugh.

I need funny.

I had an illicit romp with an old love this morning.

Today is my boss' birthday. I was out late last night, and hadn't had a chance to bake anything for him, so I stopped at a great little bakery in Arlington Heights on my way to work. I walked in the door, took a number, and was standing in line for my apple-cheese coffee cake when I saw him there, watching me.

He was sitting quietly behind the glass, hanging out with his friends and enjoying the warmth of the lights. He hadn't changed in years, and he looked good enough to eat.

He, of course, was a chocolate-iced cake donut.

My breath caught, and I knew that I could not resist his charms. I had to have him, then and there.

This torrid affair all started when I was a little girl. Sometimes on Saturday mornings, my uncle Tim would swing by to pick me (and/or my sister) up and take us out for a few hours. He drove a big green Ford that we nicknamed The Green Machine, and I remember sitting in the back seat, listening to Supertramp, and tooling around to all of his favorite spots. Sometimes, we would go to the Texan restaurant and order pancakes. Other times, we swung past Spatz's bakery and picked up fresh-baked bread and brought it to his house to make toast with peanut butter and jelly.

The best, though, was when we would drop in at Provenzano's grocery. It was a little corner market, complete with butcher shop and deli, on the west side of Saginaw where everyone knew Tim by name. It was a little slice of Americana that I will never forget.

Just inside the front door, in the window facing the street, Mr. Provenzano had placed a huge machine, which came to life every morning long before the store opened. This magical contraption made, much to the delight of my sister and me, the world's most perfect cake donuts.

At one end, the man who was running the cash register would place a huge pile of dough into a contraption that would cut it into rings and deposit it into a veritable river of (most likely highly saturated) fat. The young donuts would swirl around, get flipped over at just the right time, and then come out the other side to be deposited on a grated conveyor belt to cool. After a few minutes, when they were still just barely too warm to touch, a thick layer of chocolate frosting would be dripped over the entire mess...and within moments, we would have the world's best sticky warm donuts in our chubby little hands.

In the car on the way home, we would lick our fingers and proclaim Tim the best uncle that ever was. Life just didn't get any better.

Later, when I got married and moved to Joliet, we lived two blocks from what may have been the world's best donut shop. When the weather was right, you could smell the place from our big Victorian front porch. Mark and I would take A down the street in his stroller, pop in for an apple fritter, and congratulate ourselves for choosing the perfect location to settle our little family.

But alas, all good things do come to an end. Somewhere around 2002, it occurred to me that too many years of indulging in the sweet love of donuts (and other delightful treats) had taken far too great a toll on my waistline. It was time to break off the relationship. Donuts and I were through.

Like any addict, I have fallen off the wagon every now and again. When I find myself in Joliet on business, my car sometimes exercises its own free will and hijacks me to the donut shop parking lot. Of course, at that point, I have no choice but to answer the call and guiltily devour a delicious cruller. I'm only human, after all.

But as a general rule, when someone offers me one of the tasty pieces of evil, I will polite decline with, "Thanks, but I gave those up forty pounds ago." I can hear them crying as they are carted away.

This morning, though, when I saw him in his neat little case, I could not say no to him, my old flame. He called, and I answered. When my number came up on the little board, I said to the nice old lady, "I'd like an apple-cheese coffee cake and a chocolate-iced cake donut, please."

She smiled knowingly. The coffee cake was wrapped in one large wax paper bag, and the donut in another, smaller bag. I paid her $8.27, and I stepped quickly out to my car. As I slipped into the driver's seat, I pulled the beautiful boy out, looked fondly upon him, and took a huge, incredibly un-ladylike bite.

He wasn't as good as he used to be thirty years ago. Of course, neither am I. But we sat there together, enjoying the moment as only lovers can. When I was finished, I started the car and headed to the office.

As I pulled out of the parking lot, I licked the last of the chocolate icing from my fingers. Then I wiped them on a napkin I found in the glove compartment, picked up my iPod, and put on some Supertramp. I sang along loudly, poorly, and with great abandon.

Later, I called my uncle. As I recounted the events of the morning, he began to laugh. "You'll never guess what I had for breakfast this morning," he said.

It turns out that even though Provenzano's is long gone, they sold the donut machine to a little place on the other side of town when they closed. Tim had gone over to the east side and gotten himself a warm chocolate-iced cake donut.

For a moment, before I tackled the catastrophe that was my desk, I was a happy, chubby six year-old with a belly full of sugary goodness.

Everyone should have a moment like that every now and again, regardless of their will to fight the addiction. Sometimes, the view from the ground beside the wagon is mighty fine.

Yesterday afternoon, as I was bringing in groceries from the car, I was startled as a little gray mouse skittered across the floor of the garage. He stopped, twitched his nose for a moment, and then scampered off to a quiet corner where I could not thwack him with a shovel if I tried.

As if I would thwack him. You know better.

I stood for a moment, contemplating what to do, when it occurred to me that I was just going to let him live a peaceful life in the corner of the garage. Stupid, you say? Ridiculously girly? I think not. I decided then and there that not only would allowing him to live help my karma, but also that enough time has passed that the trauma of the mouse incident can now be told.

You see, he (she/it) is just a little mouse. There is nothing in the garage that I worry greatly about him eating, and he deserves a safe little haven in which to live out his furry little life.

Others have not been so lucky.

There was, to be honest, the cute little mouse dude I found in the basement a few years ago. I couldn't thwack him, either, but the truth is that I was likely more afraid of him than he was of me. After several minutes of dancing around the family room area squealing and wondering what to do, I managed to scoop him up in a box and toss him out the front door. After my heart stopped racing and I started breathing again, I felt pretty good about myself for having spared his life.

But.

But.

Then came Mickey and Goofy.

When poor Stuart the gerbil died, I told A he could get a new pet. We went to Petsmart, and spent what felt like hours looking around at all of the fuzzy creatures in the cages. He decided he wanted a mouse. And since they were so small, couldn't he get two? It would be so nice for them to have a friend to hang out with when he wasn't home, blah blah blah.

I gave in. The barely post-pubescent boy working the rodent area assured us that it was a good idea - since they were all from the same litter, they would be great together and live longer for the companionship they found in each other.

Great. Just what I needed. Mice that lived longer.

But we brought them home, set them up in their cage, and A was happy. He played with them, let them crawl all over him while he was watching tv, and showed them off to his friends. Everyone was happy. Except me, because they smelled awful, but that's another story.

A few weeks later, A came to me, a bit concerned. "Goofy keeps chasing Mickey around the cage. I don't think he likes him very much." I wasn't sure what to make of this. I hoped to God that Mickey wasn't a little girl mouse, stuck in with the boys...baby mice would be enough to put me over the edge. A decided he was going to keep an eye on them and see what happened.

Well. Something happened, alright. A couple of evenings later, I heard the wail that makes every mother in the world drop whatever is in her hands and run for dear life to wherever it is that the sound is coming from. Like dolphin radar, I zoomed in on A's room and made it up the stairs in about four steps as I was hearing it.

"Mooooooooooooooooooooooooooommmm!!!"

When I arrived, A was sitting on the floor in front of the cage. A look of great horror masked his little face. "What? What's wrong?" I gasped.

"Goofy."

"Ate."

"Mickey's."

"Head."

"Off."

Time stopped for a moment. I was having difficulty comprehending the reality of the situation. I was stunned into Seinfeldian stupor.

"Ate it?"

A nodded.

"Off?"

He nodded again, tears falling down his cheeks.

"Ate?"

More nodding.

"Off."

Head dropped to chest.

"Wow."

I tiptoed over, suddenly afraid of the evil mouse monster that could show such cruelty. I peeked in the cage, where Goofy was cowering in a corner. I glanced to the other end, and sure enough, there was the headless body of Mickey, laying in a pile of bedding.

No, I didn't quite vomit.

But I had to clean it up. It was almost more than I could stand. I tentatively reached in, pulled out the murderer, and tossed him unceremoniously into the exercise ball. "Watch him." I said to A. Then I took the entire cage down to the garage, where I dumped the contents into the garbage can. Thinking quickly, I pulled a box off of the shelf, threw some of the bedding into it, and sealed it with duct tape. A could believe that I picked Mickey out and put him in there. We would have a funeral later.

For weeks, A contemplated what to do about Goofy. We considered bringing him back to Petsmart, but they claimed they would not take him back. We thought about letting him go, but after I told A that it was a natural dominant instinct that lead him to kill,he felt bad for him. He ended up staying, and A eventually forgave him for the transgression (as boys will do, I suppose).

Fast forward about two years later.

Goofy was getting old. And by old, I mean utterly disgusting. The tip of his tail was turning black, he had scratched all of the fur off of his face, and he looked like a zombie mouse creature from beyond the grave. When he started to bleed around his eyes, I decided enough was enough. It was time to send him to meet his maker. And his murdered brother.

This, of course, posed a problem. What does one do with a pet mouse that needs to die? I did what any woman would do. I called the boy's father.

"Goofy needs to die," I said.

After a long pause, he asked what the hell I was talking about. Since he was planning to come over later that evening to pick A up, I intended to drop the problem into his lap and be done with it. After all, he's a man, right?

Kind of.

"Oh, God," he said. "I still haven't recovered from the angel fish."

I rolled my eyes. I vaguely remembered back in 1995, when we took down the aquarium. There was one giant angel fish that hadn't died, and we'd done something to get rid of it. I couldn't remember what. I scoffed at him.

"Don't you remember?!" He exclaimed.

"No, what did we do?"

"We flushed it!!" he nearly squeaked.

I remembered then. It had been bad. But nothing was going to beat this.

The two of us spent about a half hour on the phone, searching the internet for humane ways to kill mice. I called a vet. I was told it would cost $90 to have them take care of it. This was simply not an option.

Since A refused to accept letting him go outside (it was about 10 degrees out there), whacking him in a pillow case (okay, I wouldn't let that happen, either), or any other easy, quick kill method, it was determined that the only way to accomplish the dirty deed with the least guilt possible was to use the method described in a website that dad found. We would create a miniature gas chamber filled with carbon dioxide by combining baking soda and vinegar, and send him off into a nice, peaceful sleep from which he would never awaken.

The bitch of it?

When dad came to pick him up, the two of them decided it was best for A not to be there when it happened. They rushed out of the house before I could protest (much), wished me luck, and disappeared into the night.

There I was. Standing in the kitchen with a box of baking soda, a bottle of vinegar, an already half-dead mouse, and a set of plastic bowls. Those bastards had completely weaseled out of everything. I was stuck.

I couldn't make this shit up if I tried, you know.

I sat at the kitchen table for several minutes, wondering how I'd gotten myself into this mess. Why didn't I just force the men to take care of it? Isn't that what men do? What do I keep them around for, anyway? Why couldn't I be one of those women who can turn on the waterworks on a moment's notice in order to get her way?

I thought about just letting him go outside. I contemplated moving out of the house then and there so I didn't have to deal with it. I also thought about mailing the damn thing back to dad.

But in the end, I placed a small plastic bowl inside of the larger bowl. I set Goofy inside the larger bowl, too. I filled the small bowl with baking soda, then poured an entire bottle of vinegar into it. In a flash, I covered the big bowl with the lid.

I stood there listening. I heard tiny claws clicking against the bottom of the bowl as Goofy walked around a bit. More clicking, a bit of rustling, and then it grew quiet. I waited. Another click.

Then nothing.

I had killed the mouse.

Without opening the bowl, I gingerly picked it up, walked carefully to the garage to avoid sloshing god-knows-what around, and deposited the thing into the garbage can. There would be no funeral this time.

Then I promptly left the house to go play cards at M's house. I wasn't about to be haunted for the evening.

On my way there, I called the boys and told them the deed was done. A never asked about it again. I never brought it up. The guilt consumed me...this wasn't like squishing a spider (which is bad enough, really) or accidentally running over a little frog with my car. I had become a cold-blooded, calculated killer.

I couldn't even blog about it. That's how bad it was.

Until yesterday, when I saw the cute little guy in the garage. Knowing my house, he will die a horrible, painful death on his own...it's just a matter of time. But I will not set a trap. I will not put out poison. I will let fate hold him in its hands, and I will step away.

I will not have more mousy blood on my hands, I swear to you.

So yes, call me a murderer. Call me a heartless bitch. But know that yesterday, I let one little mouse live.

May God save my soul.

My friend isn't coming to visit this weekend, after all.

I am sad.

I have a little boy who wants to take me out on a date.

No, not my A.

A 19 year-old who thinks I'm "kinda hot, in an experienced kind of way."

I'm not sure if I should slap him or send him home to his mommy to be spanked and sequestered to his room full of action figures.

What kind of 19 year-old wants to go out with a 35 year-old who is...well....technically old enough to be his mom? I'm grossed out on so many levels.

Where do these people come from?!

It's been a tough last week or two...I've been pretty busy, and not feeling my best. Luckily for me, my friend (and frequent commenter here) ms whirledpeas is coming to visit for the weekend. It should be a blast :)

Last night, as I was driving A down to the middle of nowhere to spend a few weeks with his grandparents, it occurred to me that he's entering what may be the toughest time of his life. He finished sixth grade earlier this week - and is going into junior high this fall.

To be honest, I have a very strange memory. There are some important things I remember in vivid detail, and others people will bring up which I have forgotten completely. To go off on a tangent for a moment, it seems many of those forgotten moments come from the years I was married - for some reason, Mark will often mention things of which I have no memory whatsoever, and I feel almost as if I'm betraying him by staring blankly while he explains until I have enough detail to put the pieces together.

One thing I do remember, though, is that junior high sucked. I have crystal clear memories of how stupid kids are in the 12-14 age bracket. All of those hormones, the newly-discovered independence, and the struggle to manage all of the changes as they happen are enough to make you crazy. Remind me over the next couple of years when I'm on the verge of killing him, if you will, that all of this is much harder on him than it is on me.

Or send alcohol. One of the two.

Breathe.

I AM breathing.

Not like that, you stupid twat. Breathe like you mean it. Diaphragm deep.

It hurts.

I don't care. Do it.

And so I did. It was 5:48 am, and my alarm had just gone off. I awoke from the night's fitful sleep to the feeling that there was a horse standing on my chest. The pain and pressure, directly above my left breast, were excruciating. I turned to lay flat on my back, and stretched my neck and shoulders. It didn't help.

So I breathed. Slow, deep, shuddering breaths, one after the other. After twenty minutes or so, it had subsided to a dull ache. I got out of bed, took four advil, and started my day.

A friend of mine is compiling a book of short stories. The guidelines include the following:

"Undercover – confessions of our secret lives" is a collection of true stories in which people disclose something about themselves that you would never believe if you only met them casually.

I am looking for stories of between 3000 and 6000 words. But these are just numbers – don’t be constrained by them. If it only takes 1500 words to sketch a story that grips me with its honesty, you’re in the running. If it takes 7000 to paint a word picture complete with poignant details and I get lost in the flow of its candour, you’re in as well.

Think laterally. A secret or a secret life can certainly be about some hidden sexual depravity but it is just as likely not to be. Maybe it’s a hidden innocence instead – for instance, I’d love to hear from someone who has a happily sexless marriage by choice. It could be the criminal past of someone who is now totally square or a manslaughter conviction that sent a straight citizen to prison.

I have so many secrets I could write about. A few of you know some of them. I have spent the last several days trying to decide what I wanted to explore, but each seemed so empty...so ordinary. I started with the dark, horrible secrets, then moved on to the very sweet ones. In the end, I came to the decision that the only one worth writing is the one that no one knows.

It will be entitled, "November 2nd, 2014".

I'll make you a deal. If it's published, I'll post it here.

Yeah, I've been pretty boring here lately. Sorry about that. I've had a ton of things going on, but I haven't felt particularly inspired where any of them are concerned. It's almost as if my life is taking a deep breath, waiting for something big to happen to snap me out of this rut.

Things haven't been a total waste, though. And since it's been a long time since I've put together one of these lists, here is a sampling of what I've learned lately:

• Spring really is the happiest time of the year.
• The ants that live in my back yard are zombies - no matter how many times I kill them all, they always come back. I hope they don't eat my brain.
• Harrison Ford is still pretty sexy for an old guy.
• Sunday night is still hot single guy night at the grocery store.
• I will never learn to fix my hair and do my makeup before going to the grocery store on Sunday nights
• Everyone should have a whirlwind summer fling with no hope of permanency at least once in their lives. It's good for the soul.
  
• The book was wrong - you don't need a towel everywhere you go. You need an umbrella.
• Even though I spend a lot of time wishing I could go home and curl up on my couch, I'm actually much happier when I'm out and about doing stuff.
• Despite this fact, there is nothing sweeter than a good nap on a Saturday afternoon.
• I hate the USPS, people in mail rooms, and anything that has to do with failed cheesecake.
• I need to find a few good books to read this summer. Suggestions are welcome - Non-fiction ideas will earn you much scorn, ridicule, and derision.
• I'm not turning into my mother, after all.
• It's really hilarious when it's your SISTER'S kid who throws his wiimote through the brand new plasma tv screen.
• Every woman should have an ex-husband as cool as mine.
• Never eat a jalapeño chicken sandwich and spicy vegetables immediately before going to a movie theater
• I belong in the arts. I will get back there some day if it kills me.
• Within the next six months, I intend to be making a shitload more cash than I do right now. This will help with the long-term arts plan.
• My kid is awesome, even if he is turning 12.
• I have the coolest friends in the world.
  

Now I'm off to go be boring for a few more hours. I think there's a nap with my name on it hiding somewhere in the couch.

So I made cheesecakes this past weekend. I was delighted with how they came out, and froze one immediately to go to K in Washington. I was determined to make sure it got there completely unscathed...I would do whatever I had to do to make it work.

After wrapping it in parchment paper, then adding a layer of plastic wrap and freezing it, I placed the springform pan gently back around it. I then placed it in a styrofoam cooler and popped over to Meijer for a pound of dry ice. I tucked everything in big, puffy packing material, and rushed over to the post office on my lunch yesterday.

The cooler was taped securely, with just a small space to allow the carbon dioxide to escape (dry ice will make the whole thing explode if you don't let it out). I paid eleventy million dollars to ship it overnight, to arrive today at K's office by noon.

And then the unthinkable happened. There was apparently no one in the mail room when the mailman arrived. He left a note telling them there was a package...and will attempt delivery again another day.

Right now, my cheesecake is sitting in the post office in Tacoma, and I have no idea what condition it is in. It may or may not still be frozen. It may or may not be melting into a puddle of cheesy custard in the cooler. It may or may not be completely ruined.

I worked so hard on this whole project, I could just cry. He has been working so hard on the MBA/CFA projects lately that I know he could scream...and I honestly believe that a little bit of homemade cheesecake, baked with a bit of Christine-y goodness, has the potential to make everything just a little bit easier. Call me naive, I don't care. It's my way of taking care of the people that mean a lot to me.

I hope they try to deliver it again tomorrow, and I pray that there is someone there to sign for it when they arrive. I then can only hold my breath and wonder if it will still be in one piece...and edible. If it doesn't arrive tomorrow, it has no chance of survival. None.

Say a little prayer to the postal gods tonight, if you would.

Please.

-Fleur Adcock

A snail is climbing up the window-sill
into your room, after a night of rain.
You call me in to see, and I explain
that it would be unkind to leave it there:
it might crawl to the floor; we must take care
that no one squashes it. You understand,
and carry it outside, with careful hand,
to eat a daffodil.

I see, then, that a kind of faith prevails:
your gentleness is moulded still by words
from me, who have trapped mice and shot wild birds,
from me, who drowned your kittens, who betrayed
your closest relatives, and who purveyed
the harshest kind of truth to many another.
But that is how things are: I am your mother,
And we are kind to snails.

I had lunch with Jonathan yesterday, which was (as always) delightful. I won't give a full spoiler report, but he's in for some pretty big changes in his life. I'm really happy for him, his family, and everyone else who will be positively affected by all of the cool stuff that's happening.

Here's the thing, though. Lucky bastard was wearing the coolest shirt in the world when I picked him up - it was a white tee with a great big ol' picture of Trogdor on the front. He's awfully lucky I didn't steal it off of him and make him wear my girly sleeveless button-down home. Now I have to figure out where I can buy myself some Trogdor gear.

And by the way, am I the only person in the world whose first exposure to Trogdor was through Guitar Hero, and not through the sbemails section at homestarrunner.com?

First, let me apologize for not drawing attention to this earlier in the week. It seems that an historic event occurred on Monday, which shall forever now be known as "Oreo Day". I'm marking it on my calendar for next year, just in case it happens to come back.

Alas, I was not witness to this moment of beauty, as I was asleep in my bed many miles north of the hallowed site. But just knowing that it happened in my area is enough to give me a happy glow of peace and wonder.

So imagine this. It's early in the morning. You're driving down I-80 between Joliet and Morris, and there is a great big truck in front of you. Our Dear Lord God Above, in his wondrous mercy, looks down upon the driver of said big rig, and places his hand upon his shoulder.

"Sleep now," he whispers to the man.

And the man does. He drifts off into a peaceful slumber, in which he dreams of green pastures, fruitful fields, and a quiet valley of heaven.

Except, of course, for the fact that it's really a sheep farm, cornfields, and a great big median. But that's beside the point.

The truck flies off the edge of the highway, into the median, and comes to a crashing halt. In the process, his truck breaks open and spills its precious cargo all over the highway.

The load?

Yeah.

Twenty thousand pounds of oreo cookies.

I shit you not.

You stop your car, fall to your knees, and thank the Creator for his sweet gifts and blessings.

Then you stuff your trunk full and beat it the hell out of there before the cops show up.

And we all live happily ever after.

The End

Before I forget in the hubbub, I wanted to share a nugget that came out of a conversation I had yesterday...you, of all people, will appreciate this one.

The Greatest Name for a Band Ever -

"Mean Games With Sweet Girls"

You can thank me later.

Last night on the phone, you said you were pretty sure I'd blog about my evening...

...but I'm not going to.

How very unlike me, don't you think?

What I will say is this...

I woke up this morning, and stepped outside to water my flowers. The sky was clear, except for a few high, puffy clouds, and the birds were singing. My fading lilacs still filled the air with the sweetness of spring. I closed my eyes and turned my face to the sun....

It is a new day.

What was that commercial for? I am thinking it was either V-8 or some sort of after-shave. I'm not sure. I know, I know...big difference.

Anyway, I had a great day today. And I needed that.

So thanks to the person that made me smile. Even though the odds are that you'll never read this, I hope you know that it meant a lot to me.

And next time, I'll try a lot harder not to fracture your skull in the process.

Scout's honor.

No really, I mean that. Women complain about men being pigs, but guys have nothing on the nastiness of chicks. Don't ask so surprised, either. You know it's true.

It's also a well-known fact that I'm one of those people that has to pee a lot. We can blame it on the bp meds, or on the fact that I drink a ton of fluids. It doesn't really matter...the fact is that I'm on about a once-an-hour schedule throughout the work day.

So this morning, at about 9:30, I headed for the ladies' room. I really had to go. I made a beeline for the first stall, where.......whoa. Someone had dribbled all over the seat. Gross! If you're that paranoid about catching cooties from the seat (which I am), then use the little paper cover. It's not that hard.

I made a quick turn for stall #2. Guuaaaaahhhh. Could it be?! No.....

Yes. Dingleberries. I kid you not. I'm not touching that seat with a ten foot pole.

Stall #3. Wet tp stuck to the seat.

Last chance - the handicapped job at the end. I almost dove for it, I swear.

And I am not even going to begin to tell you what was in there. I can't possibly relive it, and I'm not going to make you vomit. I'm nice like that.

So I had to do the cross-legged hobble down to the 8th floor, and start over. It took three stalls to find one that didn't have some horrifying tale to tell.

So, ladies, why? Why can't you just pee and be done with it? For the love of all that is holy, must you make my potty experience so traumatizing?

This is a call to action. Pee in the toilet. Don't leave surprises behind for your friends. And please...this part is important.....FLUSH WHEN YOU ARE DONE.

That is all. Carry on.

I am so all about this song by Ludo right now- it's been stuck in my head for three days. I'd embed the video, but that function is disabled on the Youtube site.

Check it out.

I napped this afternoon, which was likely a bad idea....but it felt so nice to just curl up on the couch and close my eyes that I couldn't resist. The result of this, unfortunately, is that I am now wide awake. I do believe, however, that it's worth it.

It's chilly tonight, and the wind is still blowing. After A went to bed and I finished up some work, I put on a sweatshirt and went outside to sit for a while. The first thing that struck me was just how very dark it was. I told myself that I was being silly, because of course it's dark - it's nighttime. But then I realized that for the first time in ages, the neighbors didn't have their outside light on. And the half moon was hiding behind a thin layer of remaining clouds. It truly was darker than I'd seen in a long time...and it was wonderful.

I sat down and put my feet up on the table. Laying my head on the back of the chair, closing my eyes, I smelled the lilacs...with only about a week left to bloom, they should be savored, don't you think? It was quiet. I relaxed.

It has been a good weekend. I am happy, and relatively calm. I have so much to be grateful for, and as I sat in the dark, with the wind stirring my hair, I smiled. It was a fabulous Mother's Day. My life is good, despite its hectic pace. I am a lucky woman.

I came inside and peeked in on A, who was curled up in a mess of blankets in his room, which I affectionately call the Pit of Despair (if you saw it, you would agree). He looked small there in his bed, even though he's as big as I am now. Sleep brings a certain youth to every face, which is twice as beautiful in children. His deep, even breathing told me that he was at peace, too. I smiled again.

Happy moments, my friends. That is what life is all about. Enjoy every single one of them, and keep living for the opportunity to find them.

I love you people...those of you I have pointed here. Because you know what?

You make me smile, too.

Thanks for being a part of my life.