Laundry Hurts My Feelings: religion

Showing posts with label religion. Show all posts

Thank You Jesus For Spanx And Ryan Gosling

Friday, February 24, 2012

I'm still running to catch up to my life these days. Today, I'm headed up to see my daughter at college for her sorority mother/daughter weekend. Then I'm vrooming back home as fast as our clogged interstate will allow to attend The Saw Doctors concert with our very best friends, Tim and Michelle. I also have company coming. (Springtime in Florida!) On top of that, I've got more querying to do which will just add to my ever-present writer angst and the subsequent feeling that I will vomit in my mouth as soon as I hit the send key.

And then of course, there's the laundry. The wicked, despicable laundry.
Since I don't want to leave you hanging with an undignified post of me dancing on a bar and in honor of Lent— (It's probably a little blasphemous to mix God and bar dancing together. Forgive me, Lord.)—I'm going to replay a post about the blessings in my life. Please enjoy this commercial free rerun.
I'll skip the part about being thankful for my family, friends, health, happiness and of course, Bono. Everyone's thankful for those magnificent blessings. Instead, I'd like to share with you some of the good things most people don't even think about.
Here is my list of thankfulness, in no certain order:
☺The Chilean Miners— that out of the blackness of despair, 33 men arose into the light, into a second chance at life. Across the world, we collectively held our breaths, united in hope as we watched a miracle unfold before our very eyes. And in these days filled with dismal news, our lives all grew a little brighter in the sweet truth that miracles do indeed happen.
I'm getting a T-shirt made that says, "I ♥ The Chilean Miners, Even The Cheater."

I'm also grateful that this will give Eric Estrada his richly deserved comeback when the movie comes out. I miss his toothy smile and glossy hair.

☺Hostess Ho Hos. I'm pretty sure the ingredients on the back of the package are listed exactly like this, "A bunch of chemicals you don't even want to know about."
You can get four boxes for something like 99¢, since clearly chemicals are a lot cheaper than real ingredients. And even though everything about them is so very wrong, they are ridiculous in their deliciousness. Thank you velvety rolls of lard for making me happy and for coming in packages of two.
☺I am incredibly grateful for this look from my childhood.

Because really? Isn't everything after this fashion "No", just a great big step up? I feel like a fashionista when I take a look at this picture and realize how far I've come, even when I'm in my jammies, which may or may not be most of the time.
☺Synchronized line dances at weddings. I love to dance. I'm talking, I am out on the dance floor through every single tune during the reception. That is, until it comes time for The Electric Slide and the Macarena and all of those other, "Let's all act like extras in the Thriller video" dances. I hate them because even though I'm a dancing machine, I didn't say I was good at dancing. I am an uncoordinated boob and I look even more boobish when I'm not going freestyle, à la Elaine on Seinfeld. So that is why I am thankful for these songs because it gives me a chance to cool down and refresh myself with a little healthy pomegranate juice . . . mixed with vodka, of course.
☺Which brings me to my next little blessing—I was pumping gas the other day when I noticed my gas station has installed TVs above the gas pumps! Here's another tedious moment in my life that technology has filled. Thank you technology.
And they were running all these interesting little tidbits across the bottom of the screen. There was a tidbit about some shoe designer who was making one-of-a-kind goatskin shoes for the Chilean miners. And I was all, "Hurray for those super cool miners! Now they'll have stylin' shoes to go along with their faboosh sunglasses."
And then I thought, Gosh, I sure wish I had a pair of goatskin shoes because I can only imagine goatskin shoes must be FAB-U-LOOOUUS.
And for all you goat huggers out there, I could care less about goats giving their lives for shoes.
Shoes are beautiful. Goats are assholes.
Take it from me. I once had a goat in a petting zoo eat the entire strap of my favorite purse. I wish I'd made a pair of shoes out of him.
And I also learned something very practical while watching the gas station TV. If a bandaid is stuck to one's skin and guaranteed to cause a painful, "YEEOOW" when being pulled off, just soak the area in vodka and the bandaid will slide right off.
Another reason to be thankful for vodka and, of course, TVs in gas stations.
☺The man whose running schedule intersects with my school route every morning. His really thick shock of hair and his preference for running shirtless, thereby displaying his nicely sculpted pecs, are as yummy as my morning cup of coffee. And I haven't even mentioned his cut-just-right running shorts. Good Morning Running Man! Thank you!
☺I am very grateful for this cherished memento. This is the wold I came into:

See, I have three older brothers and three younger sisters. I was the first girl to enter this household of constant black eyes, toy guns and baseball bats. My brothers were my first experience with terrorists.
And this moment, just embodies my childhood. My one brother is chasing balloons, which I'm certain after they popped, he either stuffed them up his nose or fed them to the baby or both. My other brother is batting a balloon with a hockey stick, that's right, a hockey stick, right above the baby's pumpkin head. My mother, I'm guessing, is looking for an escape hatch in the ceiling to fly, far, far away from her chaotic life.
And the baby, well, I think that just sums up the whole situation. A baby with a gun in his mouth. I'm thankful we all survived.
☺The song, "Sweet Home Alabama" because that, Mister, is one kick-ass song. And because when that song comes on the radio, I have no choice but to roll down my windows, crank it UP and sing at the top of my lungs, even if my children are slinking down in their seats, mortified. Actually, any reason to embarrass my children is a reason to be grateful. And because I grew up in the South, that song was our anthem.
Even though for many years, I thought the song went, "In Birmingham, they love the gumbo." Which is nowhere near the real verse of "In Birmingham they love the governor."
Clearly, I was not up on my anthem's political message.
☺I am thankful for Pam, my senior citizen Walmart greeter.
Pam has hair the color of which I have never seen in my life, it's kind of a fluorescent red mixed with a pumpkin orange sheen. She also likes to draw her eyebrows on, obviously with a very shaky hand and her lips, which are etched in a permanent sneer, are painted clown red.
Pam has definitely picked the wrong profession. Pam is better suited for a job that fits her sneering disposition, something like a women's prison guard or even better, a clerk at the DMV.
Pam takes it as a personal affront when I try to replace my dysfunctional cart with its three working wheels, with a cart that, you know, works. And since 90% of the carts at Walmart have polio of the wheels, I am often coming back for one that doesn't bump-bump-bump throughout the store.
Pam does not like this one bit.
And lets me know this through her lipstick stained sneers, heavy sighs and the way she points at me and says mysteriously, "THAT ONE!" No idea what "that one" means.
And there was even one time when she tried to block me from getting a cart. She stood there, trying to look super threatening with her osteoporosis hunch, blocking the carts with her liver-spotted, crossed arms like she was Betty White's bodyguard.
But I am not one to be intimidated, at least not by 70-year-old women. I just said, "Pam, this is America! And in America I have the right to pick any cart I want! Now get out of my way!"
Well, I really didn't say "get out of my way", because maybe I did feel a little intimidated by her liver spots. But she did move.
And so I'm thankful for America and for Pam because without her, I'd have nothing to tell my Hubby when he says, "So, what did you do today?"
☺Profanity. Because like Rainman, I am an excellent driver. But I would not be an excellent driver without my wealthy supply of profanity.
☺Mark Ruffalo.

Quite often, I thank the Lord Above for Mark and his hot manliness. I also thank the Lord for Google Images because anytime at all I can just type in Mark Ruffalo and wham, that beautiful man is staring at me with his gorgeous dark eyes and perfect lips. Just look at those lips! *Sigh* Thank you Lord for Mark Ruffalo and of course, Google.
No offense to Bono. Bono always comes first.
☺I'm also thankful for Neil Diamond because it proves my theory that there are certain people with hypnotic powers. What else would explain a hairy man in Sansabelt pants building a massive superstar 30-year career out of songs like, "Heartlight" and "Love On The Rocks?" The same goes for Rihanna and Miley Cyrus. How did they even get recording contracts? I think it's a mixture of hypnotic powers and a deal with the devil, at least in Miley Cyrus's case. Do not mess with the daughter of an achy breaky heart.
Now, if I could just channel some of those hypnotic powers for a J.K. Rowling kind of book deal.
☺Hysterectomies—specifically mine. Hysterectomies are little party favors from the medical community. It's like the docs are saying, "Thanks for stopping by and making some of our house payments with those three kids you brought into the world. Now here's what we're going to do for you—we're going to take out your tired womb." God bless the gynecologists who have provided this jingly, joyful service to women all over the world.
☺And lastly, I am thankful for our dear, precious Monsignor at our church, God rest his departed old soul. I'm pretty sure he was Moses's next door neighbor and he might just have hand delivered Mose's original stone commandments to our church. But that's not why I am so grateful for him and his memory. I'm grateful because when my youngest girl went to weekly confession with her class, she was assigned to Monsignor. And for those of you not familiar with the Catholic faith, we no longer have those confessionals where you slide open the window so the priest can't tell who he's talking to. No. You're now in the same room, face to face. Because it wasn't hard enough to confess our sins out loud to a dude in a gown. Now you have to do it face to freaking face. We Catholics love the power of guilt.
So my sweet little girl is kneeling there and she starts out with her, "Bless me Father for I have sinned . . ." She proceeds onto her sins when suddenly she hears a ringing.
And then, THEN! Monsignor holds up one finger for her to stop confessing her little, "I called my sister a poopy butt."
He fishes a cell phone out of his vestments and says to my girl, "Hang on. I've got to take this call."
And that is why I'm grateful to our awesome Monsignor because, that sir, is the best story of all times.
I am grateful for these blessings and so many other things I haven't mentioned like: Baby Ruth flavored coffee creamer, Jimmy Fallon, the Ritz Carlton, blow dryers, more cowbell, Mumford and Sons, Spanx, satellite radio, Betty White, Pirate Booty, Nicki Minaj's "Super Bass," platinum blond hair dye, the fashion comeback of leggings, my vitamin B12 shots, The Star Spangled Banner, Ryan Gosling and his perfect manliness, Tweezerman tweezers, my iPhone camera, Sephora, Johnny Depp, the use of wine and my iPod on a very high volume to combat the fact that my daughters all have PMS at the same time, Modern Family, seeing Bono and the boys four times in concert this past tour, San Francisco, Reese's Pieces, Costco, Retin A, and Hammer Time.
May you be filled with rich bountiful blessings of your own during this Lenten season and for the rest of your days.
No download today, since my iPod is still missing. I'm really hoping it's not in one of The Moron Twin's digestive tracks. I keep pressing my ear to their furry stomachs, hoping, but not hoping, to hear Bono singing from their intestines, but so far only dog food gurglings.

A Short Story, (Really, I Mean It) And A Very Special Download

Friday, October 29, 2010

****

This is going to be short today, I promise.

I know. I know. You've heard that from me about as many times as Charlie Sheen has promised he's sober for real this time, or at least he will be after he trashes up one more hotel room and calls up some of his best hookers.

But, I swear, it's a short one.

Because I have revisions that are keeping me awake at night. Because I am tearing up a few bits and pieces of my novel and weaving them into my story in a whole new way. And I need to be working on that, instead of hanging around in Blogland.

But most of all, because this is a short story, a short but fantastic story.

My girls have soccer practice twice a week and for the first time in our lives, they practice on the same days, same time, same fields and I am dancing a slap clapping, jiggity jig over this.

Now, here's the thing.

We are not the kind of family that is organized enough to eat before soccer practice. No, far from it. We are more like European diners. We never eat before 8:00 at night. There are too many sunsets to watch and too much life to be had while there is still light in the sky. And besides, we don't want to throw all the local restaurants off. They would all be, "What's up with the Mannix's? They're eating way too early."

So, we eat rather late on soccer practice nights since practice is over at 9:00 p.m. And we always go somewhere casual that doesn't mind some of us tromping in, in soccer cleats late at night.

A Five Guys recently opened up in our neck of the woods which is super exciting for us. We love their burgers just as much as we love In-N-Out burgers. But since both places did not exist in our neck of the woods, they were rare treats for us.

Not anymore.

Five Guys is a regular stop for us after soccer practice, which sure isn't good news for my ass but I cannot pass up that sort of delectableness.

The other night, my Hubby was out of town and it was just me and the girls after soccer practice. We decided it would be a Five Guys night.

As we stood at the counter, my Julia ordered first.

Now for those of you not familiar with Five Guys, let me first say I'm very sorry. Secondly, they have two kinds of fries: regular and Cajun.

Julia likes the Cajun fries.

She looked up at the menu and said, "I'll take a Little Bacon Cheeseburger with grilled mushrooms and onions." (Yes, my children have sophisticated palates. It's what happens when Mama hates to cook and restaurants are your primary source of dinner.)

And then she said, "And I'll have those Caucasian fries."

That's right. Caucasian Fries

The dude behind the counter frowned and looked up at the menu. "We don't have Caucasian fries. Do we?"

I was too busy, all doubled up, crying in laughter, to explain.

We will now forever call the Five Guys fries, the Caucasian fries.

Today's Very Special Download:

All right.

You guys know I never get political on my blog mainly because this is not a political blog. This a fluffball, hot-man-loving, Miley-Cyrus-bashing, shoe-adoring, Moron-Twins-hating, look-at-the-stupid-thing-I-did-now, kind of blog.

And it's not that I don't have a voice when it comes to politics. Trust me. I do. I was raised in a household where we were encouraged to be aware of the world around us and stand strong in our beliefs.

I choose not to share my opinions here because opinions can be divisive and I'm the Rodney King of Blog Word. I'm all, "Can't we all just get along?"

But yesterday my dear, darling friend LisaPie, posted a video on her Facebook page that brought me to tears.

See, there is one political hot button quite dear to my heart.

And that is gay rights or better yet, the appalling lack of rights, gay people have.

I live in a small Southern town and it saddens me to say that an undercurrent of bigotry still resides here in so many ways. So many awful ways.

But today, I am only here to talk about one.

Now, I want to be clear. There are good people in this town, fair minded, lovely people. But there are also some who believe that their way is the only way.

I drive down the country roads of this town and it fills me with sadness— the manicured yards, so pretty and well tended with these ugly splotches of hate, little signs supporting gay marriage bans and just say no to gay adoptions.

A few years ago, my girls' high school made the national news, unfortunately. The kids wanted to form a Gay/Straight alliance. The administration approved it. The parents got wind of it. And the firestorm began. I can't tell you how many chain emails I got from a group of parents infuriated that the high school had allowed this. They were up in arms and ready to stop this abomination.

And yes, that is what they called it. An abomination. It makes me cry to write those words.

I wrote back, trying to explain that this enlightened generation, these wonderful kids were showing the world something called tolerance. A much needed theory these days.

Parents wrote back, telling me that this club was just a ruse— a way for the gay kids to recruit our precious ones into homosexuality.

I wish I were kidding.

I am proud to say, there was no buckling. The Gay/Straight alliance is alive and flourishing.

As it should be.

The world needs to take lessons from these teenagers. Teenagers who drive too fast and have no logic and think their parents are the most ridiculous people in the world.

These kids showed the inherent wisdom that lies in their young hearts.

A few weeks ago, a bright, young man so filled with promise jumped off a bridge to his death. The world awaited him. He was a Rutgers college student, a virtuoso violinist, a boy coming into manhood, filled with endless possibility. But bullies took advantage of him in the worst way and invaded his privacy so outrageously and illegally and broke him beyond repair. He couldn't find the light through all the awfulness and he chose to end his too few days here on this earth, all because of some ignorant bastards.

My heart broke. Again. As it always does.

It is beyond reason that in this day and age, discrimination is alive and well and being held up in the courts. It is unfathomable to me that here in America, people's basic rights are being squashed by those who protest and hold their Bibles aloft. In the name of the Lord, we will hate.

And don't even get me started on that.

What would Jesus do? Not this. Not this at all.

And please, don't come after me with Bible verses. I know them well. I was raised in Catholic schools and in the Church and I can go hand to hand with anyone when it comes to verse.

And I really am offended by the statement —I don't hate the gays, I just don't believe they deserve equal rights.

Discrimination is hate, my friends.

Jesus lived and died among the most discriminated people on the planet. Jesus left us with a simple, abiding truth: to love one another. It is not our right to pick and choose. It's easy, man. It truly is. Love one another as I have loved you.

My wish is that this next generation— these kids who are forming Gay/Straight alliances in their schools, these kids who accept people no matter their sexuality, who allow their gay friends to be comfortable in their own skin, so that gay teens do not have to hide away in shame— my wish is that, in years to come, they will look back, we will all look back to these days and shake our heads and say, "Never Again."

And here's the thing that amazes me the most about all of this ridiculous nonsense. The gays who are fighting this brave and noble fight, they're not bitter, they're not seething in rage. They are just constructively working to make things right.

My friend Cathy for instance, who has long been an active voice in the political gay community, just invited me to the party "Celebrate the Repeal Of The Adoption Ban in Florida". Because finally, she will legally be allowed to have rights to her son, the boy she watched come into the world, the boy who for 11 years has known the fierce love of his two fabulous mothers. Cathy chose to fight with her eloquent words and her gentle heart and her savvy activism, respecting the system through this long and arduous journey.

Me? I'd be throwing bricks through storefronts and setting shit on fire if someone told me I was not allowed the same rights as everyone else here in the Land of the Free.

But my gay friends don't hate. They choose instead to show the world dignity, peace and love in their steadfast fight for their unalienable rights.

We might want to all take a lesson from them.

No H8. Please. Choose love instead.

In response to the savage bullying of Rutger's student, Tyler Clementi and a host of other awful gay bullying incidents, The Gay Men's Chorus of Los Angeles made a video of hope, for victims of hatred. Along with their friends and families, their message is the universal cry:

It Gets Better.

Their performance is stunning. Please take five minutes out of your day to watch this and really understand the message these beautiful men are sending out to the world.

And let's all do our part to make this world a little more sparkly. We have the ability to stomp out one flame of hate on this planet, a place right now entirely too mired down in hate and intolerance.

We are one. And we can do better.

Our founding fathers said it best:

We hold these truths to be self evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator, with certain unalienable rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

No H8. So that we can all live in a world of acceptance and love. No H8. For all of us.

Awake My Soul

Monday, October 11, 2010

So, here's the thing.

I have always been a non-medicine type of girl. My hubby drinks up the Nyquil the second he starts to sniff. He's also big on popping a few Advil every time he gets in the car. I think it's a Pavlovian response. He gets behind the wheel and he instantly needs Advil for his headache. And then a big argument ensues because I NEVER have Advil in my car, even though he continuously stocks up my glove compartment with little jars of the pills and I always tell him forget the Advil because I think he just THINKS he has a headache. And he tells me I'm not the HEADACHE MARSHALL and only he can decide when and if he has a headache. And he has a headache right NOW and there is no ADVIL, AGAIN! And he wants to know where all the Advil goes that he keeps putting in my car, because now his headache is raging.

The girls swipe them.

They take a few for their headache and then that little jar just happens to find its way into their purse. One day, when these klepto girls of mine have all moved out, we will stumble upon their secret cache, it'll probably be a closet upstairs in their Dung Dump, filled with small sized jars of Advil, over 100,000 hairbrushes, tons of scissors, all my Tweezerman tweezers, Scotch tape, my favorite thongs and my killer patent leather stilettos that just mysteriously disappeared one day. I loved those shoes so much.

I was thinking of putting their glossy image on a milk carton.

But what I was saying is, I don't do medicine.

I do take my probitotic every day, but that was it. I believe in letting sickness work its own way out. When I have a cold, I use my sinus rinse which is just like a Neti pot except much more streamlined than trying to stick a teapot up your nose. I also have some Chinese herbs if my cold gets too bad. But other than that, it's a few Advil here and there and that is the extent of my medicine taking.

Unless, of course, I'm in the hospital for something and they offer me morphine. Oh, sweet morphine! How I love thee! I've only had morphine twice in my life. Both times it was kick ass fun.

Back to my story.

For those who are unaware of my plight, long story short, I felt a huge, sudden pressure over my left eye almost two weeks ago. Within seconds, I had lost normal vision in that eye. Everything was double and blurry and I had no depth perception.

And I was scared. Very, very scared.

I traveled my way through specialist after specialist, ending up at a neurologist's office. Dr. A is the Head of Neurology at our Big Cheese Hospital in our Big City.

In the course of this journey, that seems more like two years than two weeks, I kinda, maybe a little bit, disagreed with Dr. A about some things.

He looked at my blood pressure and my blood work and my wonky eye which wouldn't even follow a pencil. He looked at my MRI results and CT scan and arterial scans and all of my other countless tests. And he ended up writing me prescription after prescription of meds.

Serious meds. Meds to be taken for the course of my lifetime.

I said I didn't need them. I said I was not a girl who took medicine. I said I was proud of my health and the fact that I work out and never take the escalator if there are stairs and even then, I race up them, taking 2 steps at a time and I eat the good things, like brown rice and flaxseed on my steel cut oats and fruits and veggies, about 6-8 servings of those fruits and veggies in my day. And I am young and fit, too young and fit for serious medicines.

And I floss. Not everyone can say that.

And I didn't need his aggressive approach of prescribing meds like he was prescribing candy.

And so I gave him a lot more than my two cents.

And that beautiful man didn't back down as I stubbornly argued with him. He just threw my arguments right back at me with some of his own.

I had convinced myself and my general practitioner for the last few years that my escalating blood pressure was due to White Coat syndrome, (where your blood pressure only spikes at the doctor's office) and that when I took it at home, I was fine.

I'm coming clean here today to say, it wasn't exactly fine.

But if I laid still and conjured up the sound of crashing waves and Martha Stewart's voice, (seriously, I find her voice to be the most soothing thing. I never watched her show for the cooking or the crafts. I just watched it for her hot stone massage of a voice.), and if I was ultra, ultra relaxed, my blood pressure wasn't good, but it wasn't alarming.

It was always alarming at the doc's office. But I constantly pleaded, "It's white coat syndrome."

Dr. A told me he didn't want to hear anything more about my white coat nonsense.

That's what he called it— white coat nonsense. Of course, this was after I had listed all the reasons I didn't want to take his blasted medicine.

I know. Feel free to call me a dumbass. I deserve it.

And then Dr. A listed all the reasons I should take these meds, starting with the fact that this was just another way to keep my body in top condition, a preventative, just like all the other things I was doing. And that I would feel better once I started taking the meds. And no matter how hard I tried with exercise and eating right to bring my blood pressure down, that genetics always has the upper hand. And since my mother has been taking blood pressure medication since her 40's, my blood pressure genes were just laughing at all my best efforts.

And then he told me, that these medicines I was fighting against would save my life.

I was sure my eye had just something muscular going on, from all my writing and reading and writing and writing some more. I thought I had overworked my eyes. Kind of like how I overwork my gluteal muscles, in a ceaseless futile effort to make me bootylicious. I thought I had just pulled a muscle of the eye or something like that.

Dr. A thought differently.

He told me I had inflammation in the vessels of my eye due to blood pressure surges, deadly blood pressure surges, and that my eye was the clanging alarm. And if I didn't start taking the meds to put my numbers back in healthy places, that my eye would be just the beginning.

If I continued to let my blood pressure get the best of me, it would do exactly that. It would take more sight and it might take the ability to move my limbs and it might rob me of speech and even worse, it could rob me of thought and then, my precious, precious words would no longer come unbidden. They would be stuck in a brain that wasn't working.

All because I'm a stubborn she-devil who was doing the worst thing I possibly could, I was lying to myself about my own health.

Dumbass, indeed.

I took the meds reluctantly, knowing I was overmedicating myself, certain I would have terrible, long lasting side effects.

And as each morning began, my Hubby would say with this expectant tone, "Well? Can you see today?"

And I would start every morning with this quiet, "No" and a heart so heavy, I could not lift myself out of the darkness, no matter how much I put on a brave front and said things like, "Yes I'm fine!" and "This is no big deal!. I can handle a little something like a jacked up eye!"

But there was no joy behind my perfunctory words.

And I am usually brimming with sunshine. This time, I couldn't find the light, not a single ray.

But in my despair I knew one Truth, one ceaseless Truth that I have mentioned here before and it is this: We are not in charge. We are never in charge. I often forget that, but it is in the clearest moments of my life when I remember that Truth.

It was in that first smile my husband ever gave me.

It was in my three girls' newborn, lusty cries.

It was in the most sorrowful moment of my life when the ER doctor came into that awful waiting room— the private one, where no hope lies— to give us the shocking, shocking news that my father had left this world.

It was in the wails of my family after hearing those awful words, "I am sorry to tell you, we were unable to save him."

And it was there in the hospitals and doctor's offices and in their pencils and arterial scans and in the countless needles that drew blood from my veins, searching for answers, it was in the dark MRI tunnel and in the kind determination in Dr. A's eyes.

Our paths are already carved out before we have even set foot on them. And in my Truth, it is the Lord Above who decides where our paths will take us. I prayed a lot these past few weeks. But as tough as it was, I did not pray for answers. I prayed for my friend battling breast cancer. I prayed for those who know so much more devastating illness than a little eye trouble. I prayed for my doctors. I prayed for the constant safeguarding of my family. And I prayed for the Lord's will to be done. I squeezed back a few tears as I uttered those words. But my job is to walk the path set out for me as nobly and righteously as I can. I cannot change what is set before me. I can only live it with grace and love and light.

This is my Truth.

And in my Truth, I think that perhaps the Lord Above, knows that this girl in her size 6-1/2, high heels can't handle a lot.

I am not brave. I get flustered easily. I have no patience. I always think with my heart instead of my brain. I talk way too much, especially when I'm nervous. I cry as much as I yell. I am a judgmental driver. I hate confrontation. I cannot sing, but I do . . . badly. I cuss like a sailor.

And my hair is thin and baby fine. Just thought I'd add that fact.

I think, God, in His wisdom, was up there going, "Okay, give Joann Mannix back her sight now. I cannot abide all the histrionics. How her poor husband puts up with it, I have no heavenly idea. Peter, add a few Get Into Heaven Free points to that man's scoreboard. He earns it every day."

I woke up ten days after my vision left and with not much hope I looked around the room. And in those blessed waking moments, there was an acuity that had not been there the day before. I could stare straight ahead and I didn't feel like I was looking in a funhouse mirror. If I glanced to either side, my vision was still bad, but straight ahead was absolutely perfect.

I took in the wonders of a new day like never before.

There's a cool story behind this grand, old tree. I'll tell you all about it someday.

Nothing represents the South better than Spanish Moss.

The grandfather oak that stands guard over our house.

The rays of sunlight streaming through the trees make my Morons look like angels. Huh, imagine that. And yes, my Sophie always sits like she's doing yoga.

The next morning, my eyes were a little better. And every day since then, as the meds bring down my numbers, righting my body back into a safe place, my vision gets clearer and clearer.

I now say a prayer of thanks every time I pop those tiny little pills into my mouth.

I feel so fortunate for these last two weeks. For doors that opened when I needed them. For being placed in the care of stellar doctors throughout this unraveling chain of discovery. For medicine and physicians who practice the art of healing so nobly. And for Doctor A.

Especially for Doctor A.

I realized this week why he wouldn't back down. Why the last thing he said to me as he walked me out the door was, "You take this medicine. I want to see you back here next week, because I personally will be checking your blood pressure and I want to celebrate with you because you have every reason to celebrate. Don't change that."

I contemplated his words and I now understand how frustrated he must have been with me. This is a man, who on a daily basis, sees those who no longer have a chance to get it right. He takes care of those who have been ravaged and robbed by strokes and aneurysms and so many kinds of savage beasts. And here I was, healthy and whole and on that very brink between living a real life or having everything taken from me. And I had the audacity to fight that.

Dumbass. Queen Dumbass.

I am going to get a bumper stick made that says I ♥ My Neurologist.

Second chances were handed to me on a silver platter. Man, I thought I was a lucky girl before. Now, I'm sure, I am the luckiest.

I will not waste a minute of my luck. I will be going full force on some revisions for my novel, suggested by my esteemed critique partner and then off we go.

And every day, I look at the world, my world and know I will never take it for granted, again.

And don't worry, the sadness is gone. My next post will be full of the funny and the mortification. You won't believe what happened to me now. Oh and of course, there's still vacation tales to be told.

The old, but actually, more like the New Joann is back. Let's have some fun.

Two little bits of housework:

First of all, I missed something very special this weekend. There's a pretty big auction that I have always been a part of since its inception over 10 years ago.

Last year, I stepped down from my usual duties . . . except for one special duty.

Sunday was my Hubby's birthday and he wanted to spend the weekend at Disney. And in all honesty, with this awful eye business, I forgot about the auction. I apologize to all my friends and to Dena, our amazing chairperson, for not being there to support all of you.

And then there is certain man, a great man— my auctioneer who has made our auction a stunning success year after year. He was such a part of the auction and so devoted, even after he moved to Tennessee, he flew back every year to spin his magic for me.

Mike, I am sorry, I wasn't there for you.

I had some frantic texts from my best friend Michelle, Saturday night, telling me someone was looking for me and that someone was claiming he couldn't do the auction without me by his side. And then when I got home on Sunday, there was a message from Mike who couldn't believe I wasn't there, his helpmate during the live auction and at the end of the auction, his helpmate in tipping a few back and catching up until the next year. I am so sorry Mike. I'll be back next year, if you'll have me.

And then to all of you, who have emailed me, sent me notes of encouragement, prayed for me, sent me blessings and good wishes, I cherish each and every one of you. And I will be talking to each of you very soon.

When I got my sight back, I thought that was my signal to zoom ahead. I jumped right in, the first day and tackled two of my doctor appointments, my kids' dentist appointments, a hearty workout, my housework and a huge grocery shopping trip, since our cupboards had grown bare in the past few weeks. My Hubby made dinner and I helped by cooking all the veggies and rice. By the time dinner was over, I literally could not get out of my chair, I was so exhausted.

I guess I'm supposed to take this in baby steps.

I'm not very good with baby steps.

But I'm trying. So, don't think I've forgotten any of you, it might just take me a little while to get there. It's all in the baby steps.

I'm ending this post with a toast: Here's to life, all of our lives. Make your life joyous and blessed and whatever you do, please, please check your blood pressure and all of those other super important numbers. Your life might just depend on it.

Today's Definite Download: Another Mumford and Sons. And I know, I know, I just did a Mumford and Sons, but this song is not only phenomenal and is so representative of their towering talent, it speaks to me, of what has been unraveling in my life, like no other song. I have been listening to this beauty, over and over again on my iPod. And with each banjo strum, with each word, I dance. I dance like I have never danced before.

"Awake My Soul". Because, I have awakened. I am here. I am here. Hallelujah.

How fickle my heart and how woozy my eyes
I struggle to find any truth in your lies
And now my heart stumbles on things I don't know
This weakness I feel I must finally show

Lend me your hand and we'll conquer them all
But lend me your heart and I'll just let you fall
Lend me your eyes I can change what you see
But your soul you must keep, totally free

In these bodies we will live, in these bodies we will die
Where you invest your love, you invest your live
In these bodies we will live, in these bodies we will die
Where you invest your love, you invest your life

Awake my soul, awake my soul
Awake my soul
You were made to meet your maker
Awake my soul, awake my soul
Awake my soul
You were made to meet your maker
You were made to meet your maker

The Birth Of A Query (And The Cookie Dough It Took To Get There)

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

It is done.

My query, that is.

Whew.
I've never been more relieved to say those three words in my life.
I am breathing easier and feeling lighter than I did after my implant surgery, (on a tooth, Internet, on a tooth), on my last day of Catholic ~~prison~~ school, when my youngest daughter made her way out of diapers, when Joanie Loves Chachi was cancelled, after I shucked the paper gown from my last hoo-haa visit, when my oldest girl FINALLY learned to drive without sobbing that she couldn't keep the car straight in the lanes, when my dogs grew out of eating poop and of course, most of all, when Kate Gosselin got booted off of Dancing With The Stars.
Again, whew.
As some of you might know I was lucky enough to win a query revision. In fact, I'm certain you all know, because I screamed the news so loudly, I'm sure the entire Internet had to clap their hands to their ears and collectively gasp, "Dear God, what was THAT— a thousand cats in heat?"
Suzanne Hayze of Writing Out The Angst: The Twisted Path Towards Publication, so very generously came to me with her torch blazing, leading me out of the darkness and into the light of the playground where the big kids— the agents and hopeful writers— play. It's a big rousing game of tag, with the writers all scurrying around and the agents plucking just a lucky few out of the game with a firm tap of "You're It."
How I want to be It.
Suzanne worked with me in a constant flurry of emails, advising me, questioning me, pointing me in right directions, reassuring me when I'd get flustered and cheering me on, always.
On the 4th of July, on a broiling Chicago afternoon, as I sat in an overcrowded pizza joint with a table full of screaming toddlers next to me, making me wonder if noon was too early for wine, I got an email from Suzanne. It said, "Take a look, breathe . . . Then close it up . . . Then open it again."
I excused myself from the chaos and fled to the quiet of the bathroom and did just that.
And there was my query. Shorter. Sweeter. Better.
I will forever be indebted to Suzanne for shaping my words into a query. A very real and succinct query that shouted out from the screen, "Pick Me!" because of her work.
And even though Suzanne did a stand-up job, my instinct told me I needed to include some key ingredients that were missing.
And this is, in no way, a criticism of Suzanne's revision. Her work was exemplary. But the one true thing Suzanne said to me over and over again, was to follow my writer's instinct and trust my own voice. And I just knew these ingredients needed to be added to the mix. I had to find a way to insert my necessary bits without upsetting the fine balance of Suzanne's revision.
And I did just that . . . kind of.
I sat for hours in front of my screen, trying to figure out how to work my pieces back into the puzzle to make the picture perfect. And once again, I cried. I ate ~~all of~~ a chunk of cookie dough mix. I took a lot of showers. I don't know why, but water brings me inspiration. I tried to convince my hubby we needed a waterfall in the back yard, just a small one so I could run out and just stand under its mighty gushers any time I needed some inspiration. He had the nerve to snort at me. That's it. Just snort. He is so mean when it comes to giving me waterfalls.
I started pestering my sister and friends with my query. I'm sure every time my name popped up in their emails, which was about every 5 minutes, they were all, "Are you kidding me? Does this chick think I don't have a life? She needs meds, big time."
Mainly I just wallowed, not knowing what to do.
And then I discovered an angel in my midst.
A.B. Keuser is her name.
She's an aspiring author who'd come over to my blog after I won the contest. We'd exchanged plenty of comments and emails and as I sat there, trying to make these two pieces come together, but not having any idea how, she popped into my mind and I said to myself, "Ok, here's someone else I can pester with my neurotic helplessness."
I sent her an email and then she was there, saying, "Let me take a look. I help writers with their revisions on Query Tracker all the time. "
And here's when I tell you what I've learned. This writing community, they are some generous folks, indeed. When you step into their midst, they wrap their arms around you and welcome you into their fold with support and help and love and it has been one of the best things about this ride—these extraordinary writers and their big hearts.
And so I sent her my fragmented query, that I'd been trying so hard to meld together.
She sent it back very shortly thereafter. And it was strung together so sweetly and so perfectly, I just let out this big ugly sob of relief.
My friend, The Empress who is one of those big-hearted people in my life says, sometimes we are standing too close to see things for what they are.
And that was me, so close that the words were bleeding together and not making sense and making me dizzy and sad from the trying.
Finally, I can say the magical words: I wrote a query.
Some amazing people stepped away from it, took a look and said, "That goes here. This goes there. Aaaaad, there. It now fits."
I'd like to show it to you now, if you don't mind.
I'm giving you just the shell. I don't have my bio or intro included because I just want you to focus on the meat of my query.
And, if I may ask, can you tell me what you think? Give it to me. I want the bad and the good. I've become a brave girl throughout this journey and I promise you, I can take it. My writer's heart is no longer paper thin. It's now more like a ShamWow.
And one more thing? I need an opinion.
Queries are supposed to be short and sweet. Mine hits exactly right in the sweet spot of where it should be, but there is always room for more shortening. I'm not sure whether to keep the last paragraph or cut it. I think it sums up my query, but at the same time my query can stand alone without it. Can you give me your two cents?
Oh, and one more other last thing and I promise to be through with asking favors. I'm not set on the title of my book, not by a long shot. I originally titled my book The Book Of Kel. It's a play on the title, The Book Of Kells, which is an ancient manuscript of the Gospel. It is housed in Trinity College in Dublin and it is one of the most illustrious, extraordinary things I've ever been privileged to see.

And not that my book has anything to do with the Gospel. Trust me, it doesn't. I can't even
let my mom read my book. The thought of her reading certain scenes in my novel, makes me ill. I just liked the play on words.
The thing with that title, though, was very few people got it. It seems that I'm just about the only book nerd out there who gets all excited over old, pretty books.
I was also playing with In Grace's Place, but I worry that sounds too much like a self-help book on how to be the perfect submissive Christian wife. And there is one word in that sentence that riles me up like no other. I'll give you a hint. On my wedding day, I told my hubby we would always be happy as long as he never tried to tell me what to do. I should have added, "and if you build me a waterfall".
So, tell me what you think of my titles. Or if you have a better one, I'll be so grateful, I'll do something super nice for you. I don't know what, but my pile of indebtedness is growing bigger by the minute.
And so, without further ado, I give you my dang-blasted query:

Kelly Truitt is a hapless wreck in bargain basement stilettos and knock-off designer bags.

Her job, reporting on the less-than-scintillating world of education, is in jeopardy thanks

to her reputation as slacker extraordinaire. Her love life is one catastrophic joke and her

sister Grace, once her truest confidante, now litters their conversations with intolerant sighs.

“Kel” is pretty sure it’s because Grace leads a grownup life with a husband and kids, while

Kel still picks her cereal by the best prize in the box.

Kel doesn’t think life can get more disastrous, until she discovers Grace’s secret, a secret

that will change their sisterhood forever. Grace calls it a manageable cancer. Kel calls it a

betrayal. And the hurt between them fissures into months of silence.

When Grace calls from the depths of her sickness, Kel’s life is indelibly transformed from

her slipshod world strewn with martinis and messes in New York City to a new life in

Northern California filled with toddler tantrums, babies, car seats that defy the laws of

physics, cut-throat preschool mothers vying for the role of homeroom mom and God help

her, potty training. While navigating her way through diaper woes and drama mammas,

she meets a winemaker who teaches her Zinfandel should never be white and love should

always sparkle like the finest champagne.

As Kel steps into her sister’s perfect shoes, she discovers an indomitable strength in the

recesses of her imperfect heart, a strength that heals the wounds of a fractured sisterhood

and a strength that carries a family through its darkest days

A work of women’s fiction, The Book Of Kel, is complete at 100,000 words.

Today's Definite Download: "Heroes" by the incomparable David Bowie.

No lyrics. Just a dedication to Suzanne and all my friends and A.B. Keuser who listened

and pushed me and gave me their help and their hearts. You know who you are. And you

are my heroes.

We've Got Jesus And Bono In The House Today

Sunday, May 23, 2010

Today, the lovely Dee of The Redheaded Stepchild and Say Anything has asked me to be the guest blogger over at her place. Thank you, Dee for the honor.
So, head on over to The Redheaded Stepchild for my post. Since it's Sunday and all, I thought I'd write about a little run-in we had with Jesus one time.
I'm also writing about Bono because as you've probably heard, the world has stopped spinning. Well, at least in this house it has, because Bono has injured his spine and when Bono hurts, I hurt.
So, go check me out over at Dee's place and give Dee a little love while you're over there. She's not feeling too hot these days. She looks hot. She's just not feeling hot.
So, what are you waiting for. Go! Click the button! I know it's Sunday, but clicking takes very little effort.
Later, Taters.

For All The Days To Come

Monday, January 18, 2010

Several years ago, a Catholic school was born.
I was there, laboring, sweating, dreaming, building, helping birth this little school. I was on the board that hired a little speck of an Irish lady from the south side of Chicago to become our first principal.
Mary Liddy had been a principal for many years in Chicago, where Catholic schools are as plentiful as good Brat sandwiches. She knew a few things.
She took me on, telling me she was going to make me work and work hard to build this school.
A team of parents helped her create a school we could all be proud of. She vowed it would be a school, unlike Catholic schools of the past where nuns ruled with rulers as their weapon of choice and fear and intimidation were the sole motivators to do well. Mary vowed it would be a place full of joy and fun, where children felt free to express and think and learn.
I was so enthralled by her approach. You see, I was a product of the old Catholic school and I had lived through my own days of intimidation and fear.
There are no good memories from those days.
My 6th grade teacher was a nun, a nun so large she had to turn sideways to fit through the door. I wish I was kidding. Along with her weight, she had some major, major issues, the biggest one—anger, that she must have thought would all be solved by entering the convent.
Unfortunately, they weren't.
She had dental surgery one time. We came into our classroom that day met by this message, scrawled in gigantic cursive across the chalkboard, "I CANNOT SPEAK THIS MORNING, BUT I CAN STILL HIT YOU."
True Story, sadly.
I was never the brightest bulb on the block when it came to Math. I ruled English and Spelling and Reading, but Math . . . no. Our middle school Math teacher, also a nun, felt the best way to teach math skills was to assign children a math problem which they had to solve on the chalkboard in front of the entire class. With no instruction, you were given your problem. If you didn't have an utter clue on how to solve it, (as I raise my hand shamefully at this moment), you were belittled, screamed at and mainly made to feel like the biggest moron of all times before you were allowed to sit down, trembling— any confidence you had, shattered as you tried to hold in your tears while still not having any idea how to find the reciprocal of a decimal mixed number.
I don't even think I bothered to tell my parents about it. Those were different days when parents didn't think to question teachers, doctors or anyone of authority.
Me, I'm all about challenging the authority.
I am a mother bear when it comes to my kids and if anyone ever treated my children like that, I would have marched up to school and torn them apart limb by limb with my words.
Ask anyone.
I demand respect and accountability but in return I give back the same. I gave our little school the greatest portion of my years with them and I gave them three well behaved girls who always did their best, because they knew their mother would tolerate nothing less.

That school has been one of the most pivotal things of our life. The folks of that little school became our second family. My children made life-long friends there. When my father died, the entire school wrapped their arms around me and didn't let go. Some of our best friends came from that school.
When the school was finally built, Mary called me and said, "Come on up. I want to give you a tour of your new school."
Mary walked us through the school, proudly showing off the lockers and the sparkling new desks, the pre-school, the science lab, the art studio, and all the rest.
When we got to the pre-school rooms, Mary said with an Irish glint in her eye, "Here's one of my favorite things."
She turned to my baby, my 3-year old girl, ready to start school for the first time in her little life and said, "Julia, come here I want to show you something very special in your classroom." She opened the door to the tiniest toilet I have ever seen.
I never thought I'd say a toilet was cute, but this darn thing was so unbelievably cute.
Julia turned to Mary and said without missing a beat, "Can I use it?"
Mary couldn't have been more delighted. There was many a time she reminded Julia that she was the first student to use the potty at our brand new school. I couldn't wait to embarrass Julia at her 8th grade graduation with the potty story.

Over the years, things went just as planned. Our school was a place of joy and fun and learning, filled to the brim with excellent teachers hand-picked by Mary. And that Mary, how I was her biggest fan.

To give you a little insight into this great lady, I'll tell you a story:
As backwards as the Catholic Church can be sometimes, they are on top of their game when it comes to sex education. Sex education begins with fundamentals at an early stage. By the sixth grade, they learn the full blown plan involving birds and bees and boys and girls.
So much better than our generation.
My entire sex education revolved around a frank conversation I had in the 3rd grade with a very sophisticated, in-the-know 5th-grader. My cosmopolitan friend took me aside and told me a woman gets pregnant when a man pees on her . . . ANNNND, she informed me in her worldly fashion, the woman likes it.
I tried to prep myself for years for the whole pee thing. I tried to convince myself that when that gross day came, I too, would find an unfathomable way to like it. Man, was I ever relieved when I found out the truth! I never could get into the golden showers no matter how hard I tried.
I was in the room when the 6th grade girls got the big talk. They'd hired someone from the county, some expert in the area of grossing kids out by talking to them about sex.
She was awful. Dry and boring, stating the facts. She looked embarrassed, cringing as names of body parts came out of her mouth. Ironic, I thought as I sat there— an embarrassed sex instructor.
After her excruciating talk, the girls were ready to flee the room, but then Mary stood up and announced she had a few things to add.
Mary gave them the most empowering 5 minutes some of those girls might ever know. She spoke of respect. She spoke of respecting their bodies and respecting the glorious individuality each of them hold, curvy girls and toothpicks, alike. She spoke of demanding respect from boys. She spoke explicitly of what boys wanted from girls. And it's true. No matter how politically correct you want to be, boys are boys. They are hormonally driven to TRY AND GET SEX BY WHATEVER MEANS POSSIBLE. They can't help it and they never change, no matter the age.
She spoke specifically of what to say to a boy when pressured, how to say it, when to say it. She spoke of honoring themselves and insisting on honor from the world around them.
Today's world prepares children with information and available birth control and facts. Virtue and Respect are topics sadly ignored in the education of sexuality. But, Mary knew exactly what girls need to hear.
Mary retired a few years back and a new principal took charge.
Things changed.
For me, the joy deflated.
For me.
I will not speak for anyone else and I will not bash our little school that I still am so proud of.
My two big girls graduated from that little school. Thanks to the hands and hearts of that school, they were ready to soar into the world and soar they did.
My little Julia was the last girl standing.
I won't say much. What I will say is somewhere along the way, some of that old-school sensibility entered the halls of that little school. And the entire atmosphere gradually changed, like a hot-air balloon with a slow leak.
I did my best. I lowered my head and tried to be patient with rigid mandates and policies that didn't make much sense. I tried to stay positive as the climate turned into a tight-fisted, controlling place.
I tried to pretend that it was still working for us. It was easier for me to do, since I had focused my life in another direction. I had steered my world away from the school and into my writing. My children were getting older. They needed me less and less. But, more importantly, I had discovered the part of me that I had left behind, far too long ago. I had opened my writer's notebook, again. And even with that, even though I had given of myself year after year after year to that school, there were still certain folks who chose to say unfair things to me about my choice to spend less time at school when I would show up for volunteer work.
We still hung in there. It was our school and the teachers there were points of lights guiding our way, keeping my girls actively and eagerly involved in the process of learning.
I won't go into any more detail. It would do no good. It would only harm and I want to do this for the better.
I will just say there has been a small voice in my head whispering questions now for some time. But, this was the only school Julia has ever known. She was soon to be the first graduating class that went all the way to the end. The full cycle of our lives there completed. Our little, safe world. The first girl to use the potty in the history of the school. Those are all big deals.
The breaking point came the day Julia returned from Christmas break. Our Florida weather has been freezing. Julia's school uniform gives her a choice of a skirt, shorts, or a skort. Perfect Florida attire. Pants are offered, too, but my girls were never interested in pleated uniform pants that had not a bit of cuteness to them, not to mention they were pretty pricey for a few days of wear out of the school year.
That first day back the temperature was in the 20's and I instructed Julia to wear a pair of thick woolen, blue tights with her skirt. As we pulled up to the car line, we saw the principal standing there in what I thought was a welcoming back gesture.
Julia saw it otherwise.
She began to panic, like nothing I've ever seen, breathlessly saying, "Mom, I'm not sure if I can wear tights to school. I'm not sure. I THINK I'M GOING TO BE IN TROUBLE! PLEASE, PLEASE TAKE ME HOME!"
I was astonished as I tried to calm her. It was cold outside. She needed to keep her legs warm. End of story.
She didn't want to open the door, she was so frozen in fear. I finally convinced her I would let no one give her grief over her tights.
And I will say, nothing was said. Her tights were an acceptable form of dress code.
But, as I pulled away, I had a flashback of my old-school years and the total panic I would have when my church beanie was missing. Girls who forgot their beanies on Mass day were forced to wear a humiliating paper hat that looked suspiciously like a dunce cap.
She had that same sense of panic . . . over tights. What was I doing to my girl?
I picked up my phone and made a phone call. And in that moment, Julia's world changed forever.
My friend Debbie is a big gun in the public school system. She gets things done. She is a hard-working volunteer who has served her children's schools well and because of that, she is highly respected. I poured my heart out to her and it was as if she'd been waiting for me all along. She made phone calls. She made things happen.
The destiny of my children's young lives rests in the palm of my hands. That, at times, has twisted my heart in two and given me some of the most agonizing moments of my life. This was no exception.
I want to do good by them. No— I want to do extraordinary by them.
I don't know if I've made the right decision. But, this week, Julia begins again at a new school.
She will be with Debbie's daughter, Haley: A girl who is more sister than friend; A girl she has known since birth; A girl who has been her constant companion, day in and day out on happy days and days of little-girl squabbling; A girl who I'm counting on to help my sweet Julia navigate this big world.

I know it's not going to be easy. I know that middle school is a tough place, sometimes. Hormone surges tend to cause kids to be little assholes in the middle school years. And my Julia is as gentle and sweet as a baby deer.
But, she is also strong and smart. And on the tour of her new, very impressive school, we learned that children are allowed to talk and laugh and chatter at lunch, instead of being required to eat in silence. We learned they have an Ag program with roosters and chickens and a greenhouse and a cow. Julia's favorite things—plants and animals. We learned that even though the place is a billion times bigger than the little school that has been her life, there will be smiling faces and helping hands ready to help her find her way. We learned that on cold days, you don't have to panic because you want to keep your legs warm and you don't have to worry about detention if your ankle socks aren't the required standard inches above your ankle. In fact, if you don't feel like wearing socks, you don't have to. The school chooses to focus on more important things than the length of your anklet.
Today, I sorted through my infinite piles of unmatched socks. When I was through with my task, I called Julia into the room. I held out to her a big pile of socks, all uniform regulation, all a certain length, all standard white. I smiled as I said to her, "What do you say we toss these in the trash."
Her face lit up sunshiny and full of real joy. Oh, how I love joy on a child's face.

We purged our life of those socks. Next on the list, shopping for some new clothes for this new life of ours.
She and I, we can't wait for it to begin.
Today's Magnificent Download: Arcade Fire's, "Wake Up." This is one of my most favorite songs of the last year, an absolutely glorious, glorious song. It was used in the trailer for "Where The Wild Things Are." And it fit perfectly.
"Somethin filled up my heart with Nothin. Someone told me not to cry....Children wake up, hold your mistake up before they turn the summer into dust...With my lightnin'-bolts a-glowin', I can see where I am goin' to be....With my lightnin'-bolts a glowin', I can see where I am goin'. You'd better look out below!"
Shine on, my beautiful girl. I have a good feeling the days to come will be your best ones yet. And remember, you can go potty anywhere. A toilet's just a toilet. That's all I'm sayin'.

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