Oh...My...Gosh!

OK, so I suppose I should've seen this coming, but somehow I didn't. Brace yourself, it's a doozie..."Burt" is married!!! Kristen told me all about it the other day. I have to say that I had no sort of emotional reaction to the news whatsoever. My heart didn't squeeze. My stomach didn't twist into a knot. My breath didn't catch in my chest. Nothing. I just laughed and said, "What?!" I always figured I would be hurt to hear that he had married someone else, but I'm not really sure why. I don't love him, and I'm very glad that we didn't get married ourselves. Still, I almost hoped that I would have some little twinge of heartbreak if for no other reason than because I should be upset. I mean, we were together for over 4 years. I was going to marry Burt. For me not to have some sort of emotional reaction means that all of that time was wasted, that I made a fool of both of us for all those years by pretending to love him and pretending to want to be with him. But I guess that is precisely what it was -- 4 1/2 wasted and hollow years. Well, here's hoping that this one works out for Burt and that sneaky little bitch he was dating when we broke up. Oops...did I say that out loud? ;-)

Blue Light Not-So-Special

I dread coming home to find the blue light on my land line flashing. It signals that there is a message waiting for me on the voice mail. Why is that such a big deal? Well, no one that I want to hear from ever calls me on my land line; most people call my cell phone. I don't know why I even keep a land line. I suppose it's some sort of ridiculous fear that something will happen and my cell phone will be dead or won't have a signal. Or worse yet, I'll need to call 911, and my cell will patch through to 911 in Lexington, KY, or some other far-flung dispatch center. But at any rate, no one ever calls me on my land line except for the State Troopers Association or some fellow Junior Leaguer in crisis or some credit card company that I inadvertently forgot to pay. In other words, it's never a call that I want to receive. So when I saw that blue light flashing, I almost didn't want to check the message. I did, though, and it was worse than I could ever have imagined...it was my dentist calling to remind me that I have a dentist appointment at 8am tomorrow morning!!!

Almost immediately, a knot formed in my stomach. It was like someone had pulled my hair and called me "ugly;" I was completely blindsided. The appointment wasn't written in my calendar, so I had forgotten about it. Now, to most people, it wouldn't be a big deal, but I hate going to the dentist. Don't get me wrong, I love my dentist. He's great, and he totally gets that I'm...well...I'm a baby about it. But as nice as he is and as much as he coddles me, I still dread that semi-annual trip to the torture chamber. (I know I've mentioned this before, but I can't find the post right now.) It's one of those things that I generally have to psych myself up for, you know? I see it on my calendar; I tell myself that everything will be OK; I convince myself that I don't have any cavities; and I remind myself that -- unlike my previous dentist -- Dr. Burnett does not subject me to that horrible, screechy water drill device. And then there's my routine. See, I'm not a regular flosser, but I usually floss like a mad woman for those two weeks before a dentist appointment, pretending that that makes up for the 22 weeks that I didn't floss after my last appointment. They're never fooled, though, and they always end up scraping and poking until tears are welling up in the corners of my eyes and my toes are clenched so tight in my shoes that I get a cramp in my foot. Since I hadn't known that the appointment was on the horizon, I haven't flossed at all, and now it's too late.

Ooohhhh...I can already hear it, that low scrapy sound as the hygienist scrapes the plaque off my teeth. Eeewwww...I can even taste the blood from all the poking and prodding. There go my toes crunching up! I just hope that the flossing I did do after my last appointment will be enough to get me through this. I got into a kick there for a few months this spring where I flossed religiously every night before brushing the hell out of my teeth with my Sonic Care toothbrush, but that fell by the wayside this summer. Now here I am, scarcely 12 hours before my dentist appointment, and I haven't flossed in months! Please, God, if you let me get through this with minimal scraping and no cavities, I promise I'll floss every night from now until my next appointment. Oh, and I'll feed the poor and stop killing spiders, too. Deal?

Oh...I think I need to go lay down.

The Big 100

I've been wracking my brain trying to come up with something pithy yet profound to write about for my 100th post, but I haven't come up with anything. I know what you're thinking...Surely there must be something funny or curious or otherwise out-of-the-ordinary going on in this sad girl's life! But there just isn't. I think I'm in a rut. I'm somewhere between my party-girl days at WVU and my inevitable title of Crazy Cat Lady, and I'm just stuck.

You know, I hate to admit this, but I have actually been trying to get to bed by 9. Of course, I'm never able to do it, but that's beside the point. The point is that I want to be in bed by 9. I mean, how sad is that?! Am I 27 or 72? (OK, so I'm neither, but just humor me here.) It's like the joie has gone right out of my vivre. I should be out having drinks with my friends after work. I should be jogging around the park. I should be staying up late watching reruns of "Sex and the City" on TBS. But I'm not. I'm coming home, scarfing down a single serving of pasta, running a load of laundry, then crashing into a heap in my bed...in my flannel pajamas...watching reruns of "Good Eats" on the Food Network. Thank God I got rid of that cat last year, or I would be crazy cat lady!

It's not one of my blue periods. It's just a tired, semi-cranky period. It's a mid-life, matronly period. And that really bugs me because I had this little exchange with the Boy from Seattle the other day which ended in him saying that I sounded old and bitter. Old and bitter! I was so mad that I wrote back and told him that he was just mean. I told him that if I wanted a male friend to be bitchy and judgmental with me, I'd go out and find myself a queen and become his "fag hag." (Oh, stop. They used that term a million times on "Will & Grace.") But now that I think about it, what bothered me wasn't so much what he said but the terrible thought that it might be true. Am I old and bitter? No, no, no. Let's be realistic here. I may not really be 27, but I'm not much past 27, and I hardly think that qualifies as "old." Now the bitter thing...that's a little harder to shake off. I am surprisingly surly and a tad bit rude when men approach me these days. I always have my "Loser Radar" tuned to the highest frequency, and I snap to judgment within hearing the first few words that fall out of a guy's mouth. And I tend to catch myself saying truly unkind things about most men that cross my path these days. The one guy who has shown me great kindness and who has thrown a million compliments my way is the one who catches the better part of my sharp tongue. I find myself being out-and-out mean to him when all he's trying to do is brighten my day. So maybe I am bitter...

Or maybe I'm not bitter, but jaded. There is a difference, you know. It's a fine line, but there's a line nonetheless. I haven't really given up on life altogether. It's just that I find myself disappointed so often that I can't help but be a little cynical these days. (The Boy from Seattle can pat himself on the back a little for that.) After so many let-downs in the last several years (see here, here, and here...oh, and here), it's sort of hard to believe that there are good times to be had and people worth meeting to be found. I sort of feel like I've heard it all, seen it all, done it all, and now I should just take a little time off from it all. Of course, that would all be perfectly acceptable if I were stepping back from my social life to "get in touch with me," but I'm not. I don't believe in that self-discovery, find-yourself-and-you'll-find-love bullshit. I'm taking a break from my life because I'm just sick and tired of it, and, frankly, I'd rather get a good night's sleep. If that makes me old and bitter, then I'm old and bitter. I'd prefer to think, though, that I'm just decompressing a little so that when the mood strikes me and I do rejoin the ranks of the living, maybe I won't be as cynical and surly. Yeah, no, you're right -- who am I kidding here? Cynical and surly are the two words that best describe me. But perhaps I'll be less cynical and surly. And perhaps then I can meet my own Marlboro Man, like Ree, the author of one of my new favorite blogs. Should I dare to dream?

Just Like the Old Days!

Kristie came over to Hellington for the Annual Shellacking and for a girls' weekend. We weren't able to get tickets in advance, so we just planned to put on our game gear and head down to a local bar to watch the game on the big screen, but we totally lucked out and found two tickets for $50 each in the parking lot about 20 minutes before kick-off. We were so excited, and even though it was so ridiculously hot that I ended up with a heat rash, we had a great time (except for the first half when WVU forgot that they were playing football!!!).

Afterward, we went home and changed our clothes for a night out. It was exactly like it was back in Morgantown. We fixed ourselves up, we had a few drinks, and we managed to talk a guy into picking up our tab. Yep, we've still got it. "It" might have an extra 15 or 20 pounds and a few wrinkles these days, but we've still got it.



This is Kristie and me with "Big Cat." He's a legendary WVU fan who has been featured in a documentary about "super fans."





Kristie and me in the 4th quarter, when victory was assured. Believe me, we weren't smiling in that first half!

The Annual Shellacking (aka, The Coal Bowl)

Well, it has come and gone...the forced "rivalry" game that is The Coal Bowl. For those of you not familiar with The Coal Bowl, it is an annual football game between West Virginia University and in-state non-rival Marshall University. You see, in the early- and mid-90s, Marshall enjoyed moderate success on the football field, first as a I-AA National Champion (but not a real National Champion) and then as a mid-major conference champion. They began to think they were a force to be reckoned with, and they started jacking their jaw about playing big brother WVU. Of course, WVU's dance card was filled with the likes of Miami, Virginia Tech, Pitt (which was a respectable team back in the day), and out-of-conference opponents like Ohio State and Wisconsin. WVU had no time nor inclination to play Marshall. Nonetheless, WVU scheduled them for a home opener in 1997. With Chad Pennington and Randy Moss at the helm, it was arguably the best team that Marshall has ever put together. But they lost -- 42-31. It seems Chad and Randy were no match for Mark Bulger and Amos Zeroue. But still, the Herdies were hungry for more. They whined and cried and poor-mouthed until the governor made the two schools sit down and negotiate a seven game series. WVU has nothing to gain in the series; but with no dignity left after nine years of boo-hooing, Marshall has nothing to lose. The series began last year at Mountaineer Field. As predicted, WVU's dynamic duo of Pat White and Steve Slaton dominated the game and handed Marshall its collective ass with a score of 42-10. Marshall ended the season 5-7 while WVU ended the season 11-2 and Gator Bowl Champs.

This year, WVU came out of the gate as the #3 team in pre-season and first week polls. WVU fans yawned at the notion of another blow-out win over a less-than-worthy opponent. Of course, they also lamented that WVU could have scheduled a much more exciting opponent for an extra home game if not for the governor's pity game. But it is what it is. "What it is," though, depends on whether you're a WVU fan or a Marshall fan. To WVU fans, it's yet another game that detracts from WVU's strength schedule and, ultimately, hurts the team's chances of playing for a national title. To Marshall fans, it is a rivalry and the only "bowl game" they will play in this year. And it isn't just any "bowl game" to them...it's their Super Bowl.

So for months before the game, Marshall fans were talking their smack about how they would come out and upset WVU. They inflated their team's abilities and pulled out stats from their glory days. (Hello, Herdies, it's HISTORY! You suck now! Get over it!) But what really got to me, what really pissed me off were those last few days when Marshall fans started making up the most horrible rumors about WVU fans. They even went so far as to make up stories of having seen t-shirts in and around Morgantown that depicted a plane crashing in flames and saying, "We WERE Marshall," a reference to both the plane crash that decimated Marshall's team in 1970 and the school's chant, "We are...Marshall!" NO ONE would ever print such a t-shirt. And NO WVU FAN would ever wear something so tasteless and cruel. Not all WVU fans exhibit the sportsmanship that most of us show, but even the crude fans aren't animals. But in typical Marshall fashion, the Herdies picked up the rumor and ran with it, all in an attempt to cover their own inadequacies and to eclipse WVU's high hopes for the season and its two Heisman candidates. It is precisely this sort of ignorance and blind hate on the part of the Herdies that makes WVU not want to be bothered with even meeting them on the field. And it is this sort of behavior that makes me despise the Herdies.

It goes without saying that the t-shirts were, in fact, a myth. Not a single one was spotted on game day. And as expected, WVU came out on top 48-23. It was a little scary at the beginning, but I don't think any of the WVU fans were really worried. The best part is, though, that it's over. I don't have to think about this forced rivalry or about Marshall again for another year. I can get back to focusing on the big picture that is WVU football...and on my secret boyfriend, Pat White.

Ode to a Rainy Parking Garage

I marvel at the wonder of a rain shower in the parking garage,
the dew of the heavens pouring down on my head in this enclosed shelter.
How can this be so? My car is parked only on the second of four floors.
Shall I worry about the structural stability of a concrete structure
that leaks like a sieve?
No, for the engineering geniuses of General Services report that the garage
is "mostly safe."
Shall I fear for the safety of my beloved car, my Japanese chariot?
No, for though the waters fun like Niagara Falls, the structural deficits
are not "critical."
Shall I question the judgment of those in the blue uniforms?
No, for they know best...though they don't park their own cars here.
Instead, I shall just put up my umbrella and break into song as I walk
to my car.
Not everyone is so lucky as to park in a concrete water garden.

6 Going on 46

So when I stopped at Mikey's today, Tyler was keeping him company. That is, Tyler was running around, making a mess and stirring up the dog. Tyler is 6 and in first grade this year. He has always been a little...stubborn. Yes, I think "stubborn" is a good, diplomatic word. He's never been one to take direction well; and, in fact, he often ignores direction. But what's new is his attitude. Always before, he was quietly defiant, sneaking around to do whatever it was that he shouldn't be doing. Now, he's very in-your-face about it. And mouthy...the child is out of just plain mouthy!

He wanted to show me a trick outside on his scooter, and while we were out there, I decided to climb up the hill to see the new treehouse Michael had built for the boys. Tyler scrambled up the ladder ahead of me, stopping on the porch to instruct me on how to climb the ladder. He wasn't content to just stand on the porch, though; he had to skate (on his Heelies) back and forth on the 8-foot by 3-foot porch, which is 8 feet off the ground. When I suggested that maybe he shouldn't skate around up there, he said, "Have you ever worn Heelies?" When I said that I had not, he said, "Well, then I think I know a little better than you." I was momentarily taken aback, but then decided that it was actually kind of cute, so I let it go.

Then after we had climbed back down, he wanted to show me some tricks on the trampoline. At one point, he got dangerously close to the edge and nearly pitched himself over the side. When I cautioned him to be careful, he said, "Have you ever been on a trampoline?" I told him that I had, but he still said, "Well, I think I know a little better than you!" This time I was defiant and said, "No, I don't think so," but then I realized that I was arguing with a 6-year-old! There was no point in that, so I just said, "You know what, I think it's time to go back inside and see your daddy again."

I'm sure he's heard that phrase -- "I think I know a little better than you" -- a million times from his daddy. Somehow, though, in his mind, Tyler knows better than any of us. Good Lord, I hope he doesn't talk to his teacher like that!

It's Funny the Things You Notice

I stopped to see Mikey on my way back to Hellington today. He had a chemo treatment last week, so he was feeling pretty punk all weekend. He didn't even attend opening day at Mountaineer Field, and THAT'S serious! So I just wanted to see him before I came back down here.

When I got there, he was laying on the couch and was so sick to his stomach that he didn't even turn his head when I walked in the door. He was very thin and even seemed smaller in stature to me. His face was still marked with the rash that is the tell-tale sign of treatment with Erbitux, and his hair seemed a little thin to me. But do you know what really struck me as I looked at him? It was his eyelashes. I thought to myself, Were they always so long and thick? I really don't think they were. And so I thought to myself, How strange that something so ugly as chemo could cause such a beautiful side-effect. Why I would focus on something like that, I don't know, but I did.

Beyond those beautiful, thick, black eyelashes, though, he looked sick and exhausted. He told me that they were switching his chemo protocol, but that he didn't know much else (how many treatments, whether they'd remove more lymph nodes, etc.). He told me that he thought he was ready to go to Texas (to M.D. Anderson) or even just to Pittsburgh to see if there's anything else out there. He didn't seem very hopeful, though, noting that there aren't many trials for metastatic colon cancer. (Erbitux is a trial drug, but it isn't having an impact on Michael's cancer.) All in all, he seemed pretty down.

But I'll tell you what perked him up a little...WVU football! See? I told you it was magical! He was very excited to talk about the prospect of a national title game and of a huge season for Pat White and Steve Slaton. And, of course, we both noted that the next WVU home game falls on a non-chemo week, a very lucky turn of events indeed!

By the time I left, he was sitting up and sounded a little stronger. I was satisfied with that and decided I was leaving on an "up note." Still, please keep him in your prayers.