So Much to Post When I Get Back!

What a busy weekend! I have so many pictures and stories to post when I get back to Huntington. Between the football game yesterday and the family picnic today, it has been quite a weekend. For now, I'll leave you with this embarrassing incident...

So a few weeks ago, I set a new ringtone for Sean on my cell phone. It was meant to be a little joke between the two of us because of the flirty nature of our relationship, which includes a little good, old-fashioned butt smacking. It's a line from the Puddle of Mudd song "Control." It goes, "I love the way you look at me/I love the way you smack my ass/I love the dirty things you do when I have control of you," and then the line repeats. Generally, I am the only person who hears the ringtone, and like I said, it was meant to be an inside joke between Sean and me. Well, tonight I left my phone unattended in the kitchen and came down to the basement to check my e-mail. All of a sudden, I heard the ringtone blaring from my phone. I sprinted up the stairs as fast as I could on my bum ankle, but my mom beat me there. I yelled, "That's mine! It's me! I've got it!" She looked at me kind of confused and said, "What's it say?" Thankfully, I'm pretty sure she really didn't hear what it said. Needless to say, I didn't tell her. The phone is now safely at hand and out of earshot of my mother.

Merry Christmas, Dems!

It's official. John McCain has named his vice president, and she's a flake. As my mom would say, she looks like a floozy (the nastiest thing my mom would ever say about anyone). She's a former runner-up to Miss Alaska, and once was the mayor of a teeming metropolis of 6,000. And her children? Their names are -- get ready for this -- Track, Bristol, Willow, Piper, and Trig. I'm sorry, but if you have aspirations of becoming the Second in Command Leader of the Free World, you don't name your children after an asphalt running surface, a backwoods town in Virginia, a tree, an airplane, or a mathematics subject. And I thought Mitt Romney and Joe Lieberman were bad choices for the short list. They have nothing on Sarah Palin! Now, I wasn't going to vote for McCain anyway, but what was he thinking?

Let Down of Biblical Proportions

I took a vacation day today, so I drove home last night. Naturally, yesterday felt like a Friday to me. So when I woke up this morning, I stretched and then thought, "It's game day! It's game day! I wonder what time we'll leave for the stadium?" And just as the widest Christmas morning grin broke out across my face, I realized that it was only Friday. I would have to wait another whole day. You might as well have told me that there's no Pat White. That's how disappointed I was.

The Lily Sessions

Here are a few outtakes from my trip to Boston. I love watching this kid's mouth move when she sings and talks. It's almost like certain syllables are over-exaggerated.

Photo and video editing at www.OneTrueMedia.com

My Secret Boyfriend, Pat White

Lest you think I'm a bandwagoner, I have been in love with Pat White since his break-out performance against Louisville back in 2005. Not only is he the most talented player in college football today, he is also one hell of a good kid who has remained humble through it all and who understands that he is but one member of a team. In other words, his mama raised him right. And did I mention that he's H-O-T...


This is Pat after the Fiesta Bowl win against Oklahoma. He was the offensive MVP! I know, you're wondering what's up with that funky little gang sign, but it's not a gang sign, unless you know of a gang that wears gold scarves tied around their necks... For those of you who don't know the story, just a few weeks after the last game of the regular season (which was a devastating loss to Pitt), Rich Rodriguez (our former head coach) left WVU to take the head coaching position at Michigan. Assistant Coach Bill Stewart was named the interim coach and coached WVU to a Fiesta Bowl victory over Oklahoma. Coach Stew was fond of using the phrase "Cub and Boy Scout's honor" with his team. In this picture, Pat White is paying homage to Coach Stew, who he had, just moments earlier, said should be made the new head coach at WVU. (Later that night, Coach Stew was made the head coach, and they all lived happily ever after.)


Pat was the MVP of the Gator Bowl last year, too.


A lot of people think that Pat is just a running quarterback...


...but he can pass, too. Coach Stew promises that he'll be passing a lot more this season.


Look at that face. Matt Leinart has nothing on Pat White.


I guarantee he doesn't have a butt like that!

But Pat isn't just a pretty face (or a nice butt). He has tons of personality, too.


So now you know why I love Pat and why I've been counting down the days to the beginning of football season. You totally get it, right? I mean, who could not be in love with this kid?

Ten on Tuesday

1. We haven't had real rain in 6 weeks or so. I hope Fay is the kind of girl who puts out, so to speak.

2. I will be spending the next day and a half in CLE hell. Pray for my soul. Even Purgatory would be better than CLE hell.

3. TJ e-mailed me yesterday. He said, "I hope you're doing well." Wow...a selfless statement. I guess there's a first for everything.

4. When I got my hair trimmed on Friday, I had Amanda cut me some side-swept bangs. I am really digging them right now. Ask me how I feel about them in two weeks, though. I may be singing a different tune.

5. I have narrowed my wardrobe for opening day at Mountaineer Field down to three outfits. I won't know which one I'm wearing until about 30 seconds before I walk out the door, and I will have spent two hours getting dressed when I do finally leave the house. It's a huge decision, though. I mean, what if Pat White sees me sitting in the stands from the field? I want to be wearing the perfect outfit.

6. Sean has a truly exquisite derrière when he's wearing dress pants, as he was tonight. I just wanted to go up and grab it, but I didn't.

7. As nice as Sean's derrière is, it is not nearly as nice as Pat White's.

8. I haven't unpacked from last weekend yet, and I will have to pack for this weekend tomorrow. Football season...I live out of a suitcase.

9. Gas is down to $3.69 in Nitro!!!

10. It's utterly and completely ridiculous that I'm excited about gas being "only" $3.69.

Reunion Recap

Aside from the high school behavior of certain members of the class, I had a wonderful time at my reunion. I saw people I hadn't seen in months, people I hadn't seen in years, and some people I hadn't seen since graduation. Some had changed very little, some were practically unrecognizable. And at least one had turned into a certified hottie!

It was nice to catch up with everybody, but one thing I realized in listening to everyone's stories and memories was that I had not lived my high school years to the fullest. I knew all along that I had not enjoyed high school. If you told me that I could go back and do high school again, I would say, "Do I have to?" I hated every single minute of it. It was mostly my own fault; and so my regrets are my own fault. It makes me all the more resolved to live every moment from here on out, though, so I guess it wasn't all bad.

Anyway, here's a picture of me with two of my oldest friends, Suzi and Mary. Now, you need to know that this picture was taken around 2am, so don't judge us too harshly if we look a little rough.


And here we were at the end of our senior trip in 1993...


We haven't changed at all...right?

And speaking of trippy, check this out...


It's my senior will and prophecy, as published in the illustrious Knight Times. Um, yeah, that plan didn't work out so well for me...

If you'd like to check out more pictures from the reunion, visit my reunion blog.

Oh No You Did-Ent!

Well, as you know, my 15-year reunion was Saturday night. What you don't know is that there was a tisch bit of drama behind the scenes. See, the reunion committee was originally four of my classmates and me, but then we heard of another classmate who was trying to organize a reunion, too. So we invited her (her name is Robin) to join our committee. Big mistake. She turned into a major pain in the arse.

One of the members of the committee, who used to be a radio DJ when we were in high school and college, had volunteered to do the music for free. He planned to spend all summer putting together a playlist of songs from when we were in high school. But then Robin called the committee's de facto chair and announced, "I have a DJ lined up. He's a friend of a friend." The chair tried to explain that we already had a DJ, but Robin said, "Well, tell Chip we don't need him. I'm taking care of it." Oooookay. Fine. But then, just three days before the reunion, Robin announced that the DJ was coming from Washington, D.C., and we would need money to "take care of him." Well, I went off like a rocket. I explained in no uncertain terms that there was no budget for a DJ and that we had expected a free DJ all along. After all, we had a free DJ lined up in Chip before she butted in. So, I said, if Robin wanted to pay this guy, that was fine; but I would not be offering anything out of my own pocket. The other members of the committee agreed with me, and I'm sure Robin felt outnumbered. I didn't feel bad, though, because Robin should never have obligated the group without consulting us first. It seemed to end alright, though, when I further (and more diplomatically) explained the committee's position, and Robin seemed to understand.

So at the reunion, I decided to make peace. Robin was talking to two of her friends from high school, and I walked over to say hello. The nearer I got to them, the more I could tell that they were already talking about me. I said to Robin, "If you hadn't told me who you were when you first walked in, I would never have recognized you." Robin and her two friends glared at me, then looked at each other and snickered. Then one of the girls said, "Come on, Robin. I think you should sit at my table!" I couldn't have cared less, but seriously? Are we 33 or 13? As my friend, Ian, said later, "I thought this was a high school reunion, not an act-like-you're-in-high-school reunion."

Escape from Morgantown

I love Morgantown. Most days. Today, not so much.

I came home this weekend for my 15-year high school reunion. I know what you're thinking: How can she be celebrating her 15-year reunion when she's only 27? My age is sort of like God: You just have to believe in it. Anyway, I needed to stop in Morgantown on my way home. When I first got into town, it was only 3:30. However, when I finally finished my shopping and was ready to head on down the road to Kingwood, it was 5:12. PM. On a Friday. At the end of the first week of classes at WVU. As the time registered with me, I could feel the color drain from my face. I knew that at 5:12 on a Friday evening, there was no quick or easy way out of Morgantown. Any of you who have ever lived in or even visited Morgantown know what I'm talking about here.

At first, I decided to backtrack a little and head back down the interstate to bypass town, but then I remembered that I had passed road construction on my way in that had traffic in the southbound lanes backed up for quite a while. And that was before rush hour. So I decided that I had no choice but to go through town. Either route available to me would be bumper-to-bumper at 5:12, so I decided to take my chances with Beechurst Avenue, which would take me into the downtown campus (otherwise known as the 7th Ring of Hell), and then cut up through campus and down High Street for a quick escape out the Kingwood Pike.

About a half a mile down Beechurst Avenue, I got stopped. As I watched my traffic signal cycle through two green lights without any movement at all, I thought, What Morgantown needs to do is widen this road by at least 2 lanes. They could tear down a bunch of these crappy old stores and dive take-out places and easily expand. I started looking around, mentally condemning buildings as fast as I set my eyes on them, and that's when I saw it -- a new construction! Just around the bend a little was another new construction. I was infuriated. Why are they granting permits for new buildings when they should be tearing down the ones that are already here so they can widen this ridiculous bottleneck?! I started composing a letter to the editor in my head. It was not dignified or civilized, and it could never actually be printed in a newspaper, what with all the f-words peppered throughout. But it is so frustrating!

Morgantown is growing by leaps and bounds, which is great. However, there is no place for it to go. Morgantown is built on hills, and every square inch is packed with either University buildings or housing. The infrastructure was meant to handle about 15,000 people. There are currently over 28,000 permanent residents in Morgantown. That population doubles during the school year. So imagine 60,000 people or so trying to make it in and out of town on 3-lane roads. It is utterly ridiculous.

Fortunately, being a local, I know most every back street and end-route there is, and I was finally able to escape Morgantown. But it took me no less than 20 minutes to travel approximately 3 miles, which was the distance I needed to go to officially get out of the city and on my way home to Kingwood.

It's days like this that any romantic notion I have to come home to Morgantown goes right out the window.

Eight Months

I have been having lots of "moments" over the last couple of weeks. I'm not sure what it is, but I've been having little flashbacks to those last several days. I know I've mentioned this before, but I'll mention it again: Sometimes I feel almost drawn to those flashbacks. For a moment, I feel like I want to think about it, and then I think, No! Don't think about it because if you think about it, that will be all you ever remember. At times I feel like I need to think about it to process it all and to accept what happened. Other times, I feel like I should never think about it because that isn't what Mikey would want me to think about. At the end of the day, though, I know that eventually, I will have to face all those images and memories because as much as I might like for them to just go away, they won't. Today is not the day, though.

Today, I'm thinking about this:


This is a picture of Mikey and me on the shuttle bus after the WVU-ECU football game on September 22, 2007. It had been really hot that day, and the heat took a toll on Mikey. Still, he made it through the better part of the game.

At that point, he was still doing chemo, and it had caused a terrible rash all over his face. His eyelashes and eyebrows were growing out of control, too -- another side-effect of the chemo. He looks very thin to me in this picture, but I remember thinking at the time that, save for the rash, he looked terrific.

I don't know if I had this sense that that would be his last football season or if I was just trying to preserve the moment or what, but I asked Mom to take a picture of the two of us sitting there in that bus seat. As I took back the camera from my mom, Mikey turned to me and started talking about the cancer and the chemo and how he didn't know how much more he could take. I didn't want to hear any of it (denial was my coping mechanism -- ignore it, and it doesn't exist), but I couldn't tell him that. If he wanted to talk about it, I had to listen. He said, "You know, I'm at peace with it. If it's my time to go, I'm OK with that." And then he said, "I just worry about Cherie and the boys. I don't want to leave them alone with all of this." I was so thankful that I had on my sunglasses because I didn't want him to see the agony in my eyes. Up to that point -- that moment when he said the words "if it's my time to go" -- I'm not sure I really believed that he might not survive. And here he was acknowledging that it was not only a very real possibility, but also potentially imminent. I didn't say a word. I just turned my head and stared out the window of the bus, wishing the driver would hurry up and pull away so we could all get back to our cars and go our separate ways. Isn't that funny? I wanted to get away from him so I could be alone and cry. And now I would give anything to be back in that bus seat with him.

It's been 11 months since that picture was taken, 8 months since he passed away, and not even a millisecond since I last thought about him.

Seafood Night at BC

When I was in college, every Thursday night was seafood night. We usually had shrimp of some sort, as well as baked fish and maybe clam strips. Our first seafood night saw peel-and-eat shrimp on the menu. I thought I had died and gone to heaven. I mean, how many college cafeterias serve peel-and-eat shrimp? And to make it even better, I was surrounded by friends -- some old, and some new. Among the old friends was Lanai. Lanai and I had gone to school together since the 7th grade, and she was one of my three classmates who had ended up at Bridgewater with me. Lanai is very bright, an incredibly hard worker, and the kindest soul you will ever meet (except for maybe her cousin, Brandy)...but she's a little dingy. I love her dearly, mostly because the girl makes me laugh. Out loud. And hard. Gut-bustingly hard.

This particular night was no different. As we all sat around talking after dinner and digesting the 400lbs. of shrimp that we had eaten between the 5 or 6 of us, I looked around the table. Each of us had a little pile of shells in a bowl in the corner of our trays...except for Lanai. I said, "Lanai, what did you do with your shells?" "What shells?" she replied. "The shrimp shells...from the peel-and-eat shrimp...the shells," I said. Lanai looked momentarily confused and then said, "I wondered why they were so crunchy." We all sat aghast for a split second, and then we all burst into laughter.

I hope they still do seafood night at Bridgewater; and I hope that tomorrow night, there will be a group of girls sitting around a table in the cafeteria doubled over in laughter like we were on that night 15 years ago.

Ten on Tuesday: College Edition

1. I am not one of those people who sees all these kids going off to college this week and says, "Suckers! I am so glad to be through with school!" On the contrary, I envy them; and if I could, I would do it all over again. As cliche as it is, those were the best four years of my life!

2. I went to school in Virginia, some 3 1/2 hours away from home. It was a huge step for me. I was declaring my independence from my family. I was declaring my independence from the circle of people I had grown up with over the course of 12 years. And I was declaring my independence from myself and the person I always had been but didn't want to be.

3. Bridgewater College was tiny when I arrived on campus. At just 850-and-some-odd students, it was actually smaller than my high school! But I loved that it was such a small, close-knit community. I loved that you could walk across campus in 10 minutes flat and that you never met a stranger along the way. I loved that you could be involved in an organization or student government, and it meant something. I loved that your professors always knew your name. I loved that, at the time, there were only 5 classroom buildings on the campus. I loved everything about it.

4. Bridgewater was the first co-ed college in the state of Virginia. They were able to do that because they agreed to put the men's dorms on one side of campus and the women's dorms on the other side of campus...with academic buildings in between to block "the view." And when I moved into the dorm in 1993, the "visitation policy" went something like this: You could have people of the opposite sex in your dorm room on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 6pm to 9pm, on Fridays from 6pm to midnight, on Saturdays from noon to midnight, and on Sundays from noon to 9pm. I kid you not. And, yes, I was once written up for a "visitation violation." (I learned to be more sneaky after that!)

5. I lived in the same dorm room for 3 straight years -- Room 203 of Daleville Hall. I only moved down to the first floor my senior because it was more conducive to my job as a Resident Assistant. But before I left Room 203, I signed my name and the years I lived there on the edge of the cubbyhole door. I went back a few years ago, and it was still there. God, I was such a rebel!

6. I had a small panic attack the night before I was supposed to move into the dorm. We were spending the night in a hotel in Harrisonburg, and I didn't sleep at all. I decided that I had made a terrible mistake and that I should just go home to WVU instead. I stayed up all night trying to figure out how to tell my parents, who would surely kill me! But the next day I chickened out and couldn't tell them. By the time our first orientation session was over, I knew I had made the right decision in choosing Bridgewater, and I never looked back.

7. My mom, on the other hand, apparently did look back. To me, it seemed that she couldn't care less about leaving me there. She didn't show any emotion, and I could almost feel how anxious she was to leave me in the dorm and get back on the road to Kingwood. It wasn't until years later, that she told me that she felt like she was abandoning me there that day and that it practically tore her heart out. I guess that's why she was so anxious to leave -- she was afraid that she'd change her mind and take me home to WVU.

8. Every summer, I left campus with a heavy heart, knowing it would be 3 long months before I'd see all my friends again. And every August, I couldn't wait to pack my car up and drive back over the mountains to Virginia. Did I mention that those were the best years of my life?

9. Bridgewater had a strict on-campus living policy. You had to live on campus in the dorms unless (a) you were a commuter living at home with your parents and living within a certain mile radius, (b) you were married, (c) you were homosexual (that would be like letting a guy live in the girls' dorms or a girl live in the guys' dorms), or (d) you were suicidal (because who wants the liability of having a student slit their wrists in a dorm bathtub?). I didn't mind, though. I actually loved living in the dorm.

10. And because I happened to find these gems the other day, here are 3 pictures from that blissfully fateful day in August of 1993...


Dad, Boo, and me cruising around campus before the parents were made to leave the premises. (Bridgewater believed that the big "goodbye" should be like ripping of a bandaid -- quick and with no muss.) That tree was a landmark on campus, but they have since cut it down.


Dad hooking me up before they drove off into the sunset. Incidentally, that car? We bought it used from a Kingwood car dealer. It had previously been owned by the United States Secret Service. Boo ended up marrying a Secret Service Agent. Coincidence? I think not.


Me standing on the steps in front of my beloved Daleville Hall. Most. Awesome. Dorm. Ever.

I'm Sorry...

...but trampoline? As an Olympic sport? The Olympics are officially ridiculous now. They're ruined for me.

Things That Make Me Want to Cry

Seeing the picture of my mom with all 7 of her siblings from this past weekend and realizing that when I am 72 (my mom's age), I won't have that same picture...that makes me want to cry.

Getting an e-mail from my sister-in-law that shows up as "Cherie [R.]" in the "from" line when the e-mails from that same account used to show up as "Mike and Cherie [R.]...that makes me want to cry.

Planning to go home this weekend and realizing that I haven't been home in 2 months, which means I haven't been out to the cemetery in 2 months, which means Mikey might think I've forgotten about him...that makes me want to cry.

Going to mass each week and thinking only of Mikey through most of it, wondering if I ever will see him again...that makes me want to cry.

Looking at old pictures of the kids and seeing Mikey's hand or his nose or his beautiful dark hair on the edge of the frame...that makes me want to cry.

Wondering who will sit in Mikey's seat at the football games this season...that makes me want to cry.

Praying to see Mikey in a dream, but never having that prayer answered...that makes me want to cry.

No, actually, these things don't make me want to cry. They do make me cry.

No DTs Yet!

For the first Saturday in I don't know how many Saturdays, I did not go out last night. I went to mass and then went to dinner with Cheryl; and after that, I went home. Well, OK, I had one beer, but I didn't intend to have even that one. I was returning a glass to Hank's that Cheryl snuck out of the bar the night before, and, naturally, the bartender assumed I was coming in for a beer, so she opened one before I had a chance to say, "No, thanks." (Yes, the bartenders all know what I drink. Yes, I know that is probably not a good thing.) But after I finished that one beer, I left.

I did leave my make-up on, and I didn't take down my hair until the very moment when I finally went to bed, just in case someone called and said, "Where are you? Come out!" No one called, though. It was a tiny bit of a blow to my ego actually, but I got over it. It was nice not to wake up with a pounding headache or smelling like stale cigarette smoke.

Still, there is a small part of me that wonders what I missed last night...

Church Cleavage

Remember in "The Wedding Singer" when Drew Barrymore and Christine Taylor have the discussion about Drew's wedding kiss and the difference between "porno tongue" and "church tongue"? Well, let's talk "church cleavage."

Yesterday was a holy day of obligation (the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary), so like a dutiful Catholic, I marked my calendar and made plans to attend the 5:30pm mass. When I got dressed in the morning, I took note that I needed to wear something semi-appropriate for work, semi-appropriate for church, and appropriate for happy hour. I settled on a pair of jeans and a white, v-neck tank with a little bit of beading around the v-neck. I honestly didn't think my boss would be at work, so I wasn't worried about whether I was showing too much cleavage there. As for church, my plan was to slip in at the last minute and sit in the back where no one would see me or my cleavage. And then...well...I don't think there is any such thing as inappropriate bar cleavage.

Naturally, my boss was at work. I cringed every time I passed him in the hall and tried to turn away from him as much as I could. Then when he let us go from work early, I got to church early. So much for slipping in and hiding in the back. As I sat there saying my prayers, one of the ushers (who is my age, so we're friends) tapped me on the shoulder and said, "We need a reader." I said, "Alan, I can't read. I'm wearing jeans!" He said, "So? I'm wearing shorts." I said, "Alan, I can't read. I'm showing cleavage!" He laughed and said, "Well, you're reading. There's no one else." I went to the vestibule and desperately scanned the crowd for someone else who I could recruit to read in my place. He was right: There was no one else. So I turned to the Monsignor and said, "I'm so sorry about my attire. Had I known I was going to have to read, I would've worn something more appropriate." I realized how ridiculous that sounded. One way or the other, I knew I was going to mass, so I should have had something more appropriate on to begin with! Monsignor just said, "That's alright. I'm not one of those who worries about things like that," but I swear I think he rolled his eyes as he turned his head.

I tried to pull my shirt up as much as possible, but it didn't really help. I convinced myself that it wasn't too much cleavage. It wasn't "porno cleavage;" it was "church cleavage." Yeah, sure. Church cleavage. Still, I was terribly self-conscious as I stood there at the lectern in my v-neck tank and jeans. I was certain everyone knew I was going straight to happy hour after mass, the Monsignor included.

I've Hit the Wall...Again.

My life is all about cycles, not the least of which is the party cycle. Look, I'm single, I don't have any children or even pets, and I live in a town where there is nothing to do. So while I would love to have more respectable cycles in my life -- like a theater cycle or a museum cycle or a contemporary American cuisine cycle -- I don't. I am left with these: the walk around the cemetery every evening cycle, which I have not been able to bring myself to do since Mikey passed away; the shop at Marshall's every other day cycle, which is bad for my financial health; the volunteer cycle; the stay in bed all day cycle (otherwise known as depression); and the party cycle.

The party cycle comes and goes and lasts for anywhere from 6 weeks to 6 months at a time. It starts out slow, with me going out on Friday and Saturday nights for a few hours and having a few beers. Just a few. As it picks up speed, I begin staying out until the wee hours of the morning, and I start drinking much more than "just a few" beers. Mornings start to become a little rough. Then I find myself throwing a few week nights into the mix. At that point, my weekends turn into blurs of shots of Sambuca and 3am meals at Flapjack's. I don't crawl out of bed until early afternoon, and even then my head is pounding and my stomach heaving. My daily mantra becomes "Never again!" but then I repeat the behavior that very night. I even start "taking the edge" off my hangovers with a couple of Sunday evening beers, just to ease myself back into the work week. And then, suddenly and without explanation, I hit the wall.

And last night, I hit the wall. I had actually been looking forward to going out, as I have every Friday for the last few months. As usual, I started with happy hour at St. Mark's (best bar chairs in town, by the way). I had two beers and some nibblies, just like I always do, and then I left there around 8pm to go to Hank's...just like I aways do. Hank's was packed last night. All the old familiar faces greeted me as I walked through the bar, and, normally, I would feel electrified by that. Last night, though, I felt almost burdened by it. After I said hello to everyone, I tried to find a niche to settle into. Sean and his dart-throwing buddies were consumed by their game, so I couldn't slide in there. Cheryl and Rod and Rod's pilot buddies were chatting and carrying on, but I didn't want to slink in there (one of the guys with an apparent Napoleon complex was more than I could take). The lovable nerds were arguing the merits of the new animated Star Wars film, but, well, I just couldn't care less. And my fun and witty friend, Bill, and his equally fun and witty wife were sharing a table with another couple who I didn't know, so I couldn't very well barge in on that conversation. Ten minutes after arriving at my "home" on Fourth Avenue, I realized that I wanted to be anywhere but there or any other bar for that matter.

It wasn't the people. It wasn't the music. It wasn't the commotion. I just had had enough of that whole scene. I have been going in full party mode since St. Patrick's Day, and I'm just done for a while. I've been going 150 miles per hour (or the bar equivalent -- 150 beers per hour), and I just need to slow down and get my feet back under me. I realize that I have been using the bars and the bar friends and the beer to fill voids in my life, and I know that it isn't really getting me anywhere. It's like when you try to dig a little hole in the shore too close to the water. Maybe you're looking for sand crabs. Maybe you're looking for sea glass. Maybe you're looking for China. You dig a little, and water starts to seep into the hole. So you keep digging to try to bail out the water, but the water is coming from the sand itself, so you don't get anywhere. And then, the unthinkable: The little hole you were digging starts to get bigger as the sides collapse from all the water filling it. And you realize that you haven't found what you were looking for at all because it's not there. It isn't. And it never will be. All you're left with is a big hole.

Of course, I say all of this, and I understand the truth of it, but I also understand that I will be right back out there digging my futile little hole in another few weeks after my stay in bed all day cycle comes and goes. For now, though, I need a little breathing room.

Mor. Ti. Fied.

I got this gag gift called "The Finger" for Christmas or my birthday (I can't remember which), and I took it to work with me because I figured I might get a little mileage out of it there. It's this little plastic hand, which is curled into a fist; and when you squeeze a little bulb at the end of a long, flexible tube, the middle finger pops up. My co-workers all laughed and we came up with a list of scenarios in which we could use it at work, at home...at Wal-Mart. Ha ha! Hee hee! Ho ho! We all get a few laughs out of it. Well, instead of bringing it home like I should have, I left "The Finger" prominently displayed on my desk, perched atop my CPU.

Then yesterday, my friend, Michelle, stopped by the office with her 7-year-old daughter, Abby. As Michelle and I were talking, I noticed Abby started looking around my office...and then her eyes settled on "The Finger." I panicked. Should I reach up and grab it? No, if she doesn't think it's a big deal now, she'll know it's a big deal if I do that. Should I try to get her attention? But then I'd have to interrupt Michelle, and that would be rude. Shit! Why didn't I take it home?! Abby seemed fixated on it. My eyes darted between Michelle and Abby, trying to actively listen to Michelle while desperately hoping Abby would stop studying "The Finger."

And then, when there was a break in conversation, Abby pointed at "The Finger" and asked, "What is that?" I could have crawled under my desk and died when Michelle looked over at the crude display. I quickly said, "Well, that's something someone gave me as a gag gift one time, but it's really not very funny at all. In fact, it's very rude, and I shouldn't even have it here." Michelle smiled, and I thought, Crisis averted. I handled that well. But then Abby went on, "But what does it mean?" Crap! Trying to remain calm, I said, "Well, it means something not very nice. Like I said, I shouldn't even have it because it's really very rude." Michelle started to laugh, which should've made me feel better, but it didn't. I knew Abby was probably fighting the urge to squeeze the little bulb, and I was terrified that she would. I practically broke out into a flop sweat, and Abby continued, "Does it say something?" Realizing that I was in over my head, Michelle stopped laughing long enough to say, "Abby, you know how sometimes Daddy and I explain to you that sometimes grown-ups do or say things that aren't nice and that they really should never do or say? This is like that." Abby didn't ask me more questions about "The Finger," but I knew that as soon as they were alone, Michelle was going to have to answer a whole mess of questions. I was mortified.

"The Finger" is going into hiding post haste.

Random Picture Memories, or The Funniest Story About My Mom EVER!

(Erica, now 21; Alex, now 16; Ashley, now 23; Lindsey, now 18; Clay, now 22; Shane, now 20; and Chris, now 18)

In 1995, my entire family (at that time, 17 people) went on a trip to Niagara Falls. We caravaned in 3 cars and crammed ourselves into 3 hotel rooms. Good times. OK, actually, it was a good time. The kids were really pretty good given their ages (3 to 10), and even the adults had fun. Besides, I always kind of liked Niagara Falls. (Although, it never ceases to amaze how the Canadian side is so clean and beautiful while the American side is always so dirty and run-down looking.)

On our way back to West Virginia, we decided to make a stop at some old fort out on one of the Great Lakes. (I'm really bad with the Great Lakes -- the only one I know for sure is Lake Erie.) The beach on the lake was kind of rocky, and my brother started showing the kids how to skip rocks. That's him in the middle -- sort of hidden behind Shane -- helping Shane pick out the perfect rock.


My mom said, "Now, you kids be careful with those rocks! Watch what you're doing, and don't hit anybody with them!" Of course, my mom couldn't resist the draw of the massive body of water either, and she decided to skip a rock herself. That's her on the far left, carefully selecting her rock.


She readied her rock-skipping hand, picked her spot, and...*THWAP!* "Ow! Grandmaaaa!" She beaned my nephew Clay right in the back of his head! She was duly scolded and forbidden from skipping anymore rocks.

Well, OK, But...

...I went off the pill back in January, and I'm still picking losers (e.g., "him"). So what's my excuse?

The Pill Makes Women Pick Bad Mates

Ten on Tuesday

1. First and foremost, Lean Cuisines are on sale at Kroger this week, 5 for $10! Now, there is one catch: You have to spend $20 to get the discount. Still not bad, though.

2. I am so sick of wearing flip-flops! If my ankle doesn't get strong enough to allow me to wear my heels soon, I'm just going to cut my whole damn foot off! Oh, wait...then I still wouldn't be able to wear my heels...

3. Is there anything more disturbing than seeing someone over the weekend and then hearing that he is now in the hospital with horrible injuries? I still have goosebumps.

4. I am very much enjoying my ponytail. I have moments when I want to cut my hair off to chin length (which I did about this time last summer), but then I think, If you do that, you won't be able to feel a ponytail brushing against the base of your neck. And I loooove that feeling. Right now, I'm shaking my head just to feel it.

5. I have officially cut "him" out of my life. Well, OK, so I just deleted him from my cell phone, but that is big. I don't delete anyone from my cell phone, so for me to do that was like saying, "You are dead to me!"

6. Speaking of my cell phone, my new ringtone for Boo is Lily singing "Country Roads." It took me days to finally catch it on my cell phone.

7. I saw a car accident this morning. It was in a spot that the LawChick and I have often commented on as a very dangerous spot. People pulling out onto the highway from the McDonald's or the Exxon often do not yield the right of way to the people already on the highway, and that is precisely what happened this morning.

8. I could go to sleep right now, but I want to see the gymnastics and the swimming tonight. Why do they have to be on so late?

9. John Edwards, this movie quote is for you: "The pus that infects the mucus that cruds up the fungus that feeds on the pond scum." (Name that movie!)

10. Only 18 more days until I begin my stalking of Pat White in earnest...er, I mean...um...until football season!

Today's Program is Brought to You By...

...the letter J, the letter E, and the letter M. Our sponsors also include TwinMommyLawChick, who so graciously reminded me of the brilliance of '80s Saturday morning cartoons.

The Beginning, Part 1



The Beginning, Part 2



The Beginning, Part 3

John Q. Bastard

Is it just me, or does this John Edwards story just keep getting worse and worse? First, there was the bombshell admission itself, strategically timed so that the opening of the Olympics would "soften the blow" and overshadow the news of Edwards's infidelity (which is rather insulting, I think). Then there was the highly improbable suggestion that it wasn't Edwards who got this woman pregnant, but one of his campaign aides. You can get a campaign aide to take the fall for anything, I guess. But that came coupled with news that Edwards's campaign finance chair had been sending money "to the aide" to give to the mother and baby to help them out. That seems a little odd, don't you think?

Oh, and speaking of help, Edwards claims that he went and met with his lover and her baby in California because she was desperate to talk and was going through some hard times. By his own admission, he agreed to meet her because he wanted to make sure that she kept quiet. Kept quiet, I said. Now, John, why would you need her to keep quiet? Hmm? And his excuse for having the affair in the first place? Why it was his meteoric rise to fame, of course. The devil politics (or was it popularity?) made him do it! This, too, is quite insulting. Fame and popularity don't turn you into a lying, cheating bastard. Ego and arrogance do.

But perhaps the thing that I find hardest to believe in all of this is the notion that Edwards quickly saw the error of his ways, broke off the affair, and promptly told his wife, Elizabeth...way back in 2006. Really? Because I don't buy that. And let me tell you why I don't buy that: Elizabeth Edwards has always been a pillar of strength and grace and emotional temperance. Whenever she speaks of her son, Wade, who died so tragically at the age of 16, she never sheds a tear. Her eyes and words convey her sorrow, but her emotions never betray her. She has long-since come to terms with her profound loss and has resumed her life for the sake of her three remaining children. When she announced to the world that she -- a mother of three, two of whom are still very young -- had experienced a recurrence of her cancer, which was now incurable and, therefore, terminal, she didn't break down into sobs. Her voice didn't even waiver. She had known for weeks by then, and had made her peace with it.

Yet when the announcement was made last week that her husband had betrayed her, she was said to have made a "tearful" statement to ABC news over the telephone, obviously devastated and shaken. Now, I think that if she had really known about her husband's indiscretion since 2006, she would have come to terms with it by now and would now be her stoic self before the press. Moreover, she wouldn't be issuing online statements and giving brief answers in telephone interviews. She would be in front of the cameras, coming to her husband's defense and urging him on, as she has so many times before.

Undoubtedly, you will say, "Well, she said herself that she's known all along. And he's the one who asked her not to defend him so that he could take this all on himself." I think, though, that there's something far deeper than that at play here. I think Elizabeth Edwards was just as shocked on Friday as the rest of the world was, and I think she is in the throes of grief. And I think she would do or say anything right now just to make it all go away. And it should go away. It isn't any of my business or any of your business. It doesn't effect you or me in any way. Hell, I shouldn't even be writing about it. But it is just so sad and disappointing. So I hope it does just go away soon so that I don't have to think about that poor woman or her poor children and the pain and humiliation they will carry with them for the rest of their lives.

Are You Kidding Me?

Cheryl and I decided to catch a matinée of "Mama Mia!" today. About 10 minutes into the movie, in walked three women...with three kids, one in a stroller. The oldest of the three children looked to be about 4. The middle child was about 2, and the baby...well, I don't know, but the fact that he or she was in a carriage-style stroller tells me he or she was pretty small. It wasn't enough that they came in late, but they had to make this huge production of where to sit. The kids started wailing out loud, "Nooooo! I don't want to sit there; I want to sit here!" and "Where's my popcorn? Mommy, I need my popcorn!"

Within five minutes, the two older kids were up out of their seats and twirling around in the aisle. If they sat for ten minutes straight, I missed it. And, of course, every so often, the mommies would take turns getting up to attend to the children. That, of course, meant that their heads and shoulders were in and out of the frame every five minutes or so. The baby cried out a few times, too, but was remarkably quiet besides that. To top it all off, I had to get up at one point to excuse myself from the theater when I choked on my water. When I got to the bottom of the steps, I had to step over the 2-year-old and her pop and popcorn, which were all laid out on the step. When I came back in, I had to step over her again -- her mother hadn't even had the decency to clear the step after she saw me struggle with it the first time.

The same thing happened last summer when Boo and I saw the "Bourne Ultimatum." There was a couple who came in with a very, very small baby who cried at every loud noise! Why would you take a baby into a movie like that? I'm sorry, but that is not acceptable.

I fully appreciate that mommies need lives and want to see movies, too, and they very much deserve that -- more than me even. However, I am adamantly opposed to children in movie theaters, unless, of course, it's a children's movie. I'm sorry, but if you can't find someone -- your husband, your mother, your sister, a neighbor kid -- to watch your children for a couple of hours, then you just shouldn't go to the movies. I paid $6 to get into a matinée that I only got to enjoy half of because they were so distracting. And the mommies couldn't possibly have enjoyed the movie either, what with all the ruckus from the kids and coming in late and all. So what was the point? It was just so frustrating.

I'm Crushed!

Are there no good, decent men left in the world? I truly believed he was above reproach.

John Edwards Admits to Extramarital Affair

Vacation: More Lily!

Two nights before I left, Miss Lily came upstairs with this little pink stuffed puppy and said, "Mama, she needs new batteries. She won't bark." Boo explained that the puppy didn't have batteries and that if she didn't bark, she was just broken. Lily said, "I'll have to take her to the doctor." Then she said, "C'mon, Lawa," because she needed someone to reach her doctor kit in the closet and because I was her slave most of the week.


So I took down the doctor kit, and Lily set to work. She laid out all of her instruments...


...took the puppy's blood pressure and temperature and gave her shot...


...and then put on a band-aid. When Lily picked the puppy up, though, the band-aid fell off. I said, "Did you fix her?" Exasperated, Lily said, "No," then chucked the puppy on the ground and said, "I'm not wasting my time." Dr. Lily doesn't have much of a bedside manner.


Lily will now willingly ride the rocking horse Mikey made her as a baptism gift (he was her godfather), and she rides like the wind! And just so you can see how much she's grown...


...here she is on her horse back in February of 2007.


Lost in her shows.


When I dared to interrupt her shows and ask her to look at me, I got this look.


And when I said, "Well, that was an ugly face. Let's try that again," I got this look.


And then I lost her to her shows completely...

Vacation: The Rest of Boston

After our Fenway Park tour, Boo and I jumped on a trolley and began our tour of the rest of the city. The trolley tour that we signed up for allowed you to jump off at any stop and walk around at your leisure, and then you just jumped back on the next trolley at that stop or at whatever stop your travels took you to. Unfortunately, we weren't able to see a lot of the things I had wanted to see because of my gimpy ankle; and, frankly, we couldn't have done it all in one day anyway. Still, we did manage to see some great sights. Here are some of the pictures...


You can't possibly go to Boston without seeing Cheers, right? This is the original Cheers. Actually, it's the Bull & Finch. But this is the facade that was filmed for all of the outside shots on the TV show. It is an actual, operating bar and restaurant. I am told by Boo that it looks nothing like the Cheers on TV on the inside, but we didn't venture inside because Boo said they don't really appreciate gawkers. If you go inside, you are expected to sit down and order something. I say that if you don't want gawkers, don't put a big sign outside that says "Cheers," but what do I know? There is another Cheers at Quincy Market that is made to look just like the TV Cheers, but we didn't go there. By the time we got to Quincy Market, my ankle was done.


Oh, to live in one of these old brownstones. I'm sure it isn't cheap, though.


I found it really interesting that on nearly every block, you found the old married with the new. It was fascinating to me. Most European cities go out of their way to keep the old, old and the new, new. Not in America. We just throw it all in on top of each other.


I don't even remember what part of the skyline this was or in which neighborhood it was, but I think that's the Prudential building on the right. We drove all over that city that day.


Likewise, I don't remember which church this was, but I thought it was kind of a nice picture.


And I thought the carvings on the church were beautifully intricate. One thing I learned on the tour was that "brownstones" are not made of brown bricks or stones at all, but of limestone which was painted brown to protect it. I'm guessing this church was made of limestone painted brown, but I don't really know.


I want to say this was the library, but I'm not sure. Whatever it is, it reminds me of the d'Medici palace in Florence, Italy.


More of the skyline, but this time with sailboats. How charming is that?


This is the little bistro on Charles Street in Beacon Hill where Boo and I had lunch.


More of the old with the new. This is the Old State House, which is right in the middle of a forest of tall, glistening office buildings. It's kind of sad, isn't it?


There is a surprising amount of green space in Boston. There is the Boston Common, the Public Garden, and even an old Victory Garden that is now a co-op for people in the city who want to grow vegetables. I loved Boston, and I will definitely be going back...and not just because my sister lives there.

Vacation: Fenway Park

So after we made it back home from Cape Cod, I decided that my ankle was up for a trek into the city. Yeah, no, I agree; it was a stupid idea. But I had so been looking forward to it, and I really thought I could handle it. So on the morning of the 29th, Boo and I dragged our butts out of bed early, left Lily with her very capable daddy, and took the train into Boston. (Boy, did I feel like a total slacker in my shorts and flip-flops while everyone around me was wearing business attire and mentally preparing for the work day ahead. But I got over it.)

Our first stop was Fenway Park. Frankly, I didn't know how long I'd last, but I knew one thing for sure: I wanted to see Fenway Park. Now, I have to be honest here. I'm not a Red Sox fan. At all. However, I do love the movie "Fever Pitch," and Fenway Park is a part of Americana and a dying breed in a sport where old stadiums are being torn down every day to make way for bigger, better stadiums. Why, even Yankee Stadium is about to be torn down. So I had to go to Fenway. It was the one thing I was most looking forward to in Boston.

The tickets for the tour were only $12. Can you believe that? What can you do in a city like Boston for $12?! The Red Sox were in town and were playing their fifth straight home game that night, so the streets were still crowded with little kiosks covered with tarps and there was all sorts of activity at the stadium. Add to that Manny Ramirez's impending trade, and you really could feel the electricity in the air.

Once inside, our tour guide led us to a section of old wooden seats, a remnant from the the stadiums renovation in the '30s when a couple from South Carolina bought the team and returned it to its Babe Ruth days of glory. The tour guide gave us a brief history of the Red Sox and Fenway Park and lobbed a few jabs at the Yankees before leading us to the Budweiser deck. The Budweiser deck is off of first base, and it is a highly coveted section of tables with its own bar and food service as well as wait staff. The cost of enjoying such luxury? A mere $400 per table of 4...per game. Too rich for your blood? That's OK, there are plenty of other seats in the park.

So we walked around the park to the State Street Pavilion. There we got an even better view of the Big Green Monster and saw the seat across the field where Ted Williams landed Fenway's longest in-park home run. Allegedly, that ball hit a sleeping patron on the head. Allegedly, he was a Yankee's fan. And allegedly, he was so impressed by Ted's athletic prowess that he and his entire family became Red Sox fans. Forever. From generation to generation. Now, you probably couldn't afford to sit in the State Street Pavilion either; however, at the top of the Pavilion are some highly affordable standing room only seats. Just be sure to get there early so you can stand in the front.

After that, our next stop was the Big Green Monster, which is a huge green wall that closes the field off from the street behind the park...and keeps too many balls from escaping the outfield. According to our tour guide, the most coveted job in Boston is that of working inside the Big Green Monster, changing out the tiles on the score board by hand. There is no bathroom, no air conditioning, not even any electricity; but there is a waiting list a mile long to be crammed behind that wall, watching the came through a 3-inch slit. Wow.

Having completed the tour and being thoroughly impressed by the park, we went back to the team shop (where the tour began), and I did what I swore I would not do. I bought a Red Sox t-shirt. Worse yet, I've already worn it twice. BUT I'M NOT A RED SOX FAN. I just had to have the t-shirt.

I'm So Disappointed...

I missed Ten on Tuesday! I fully intended to blog my ten observations and to try to upload those pictures that I couldn't load the other night, but I ended up getting violently ill last night. Here's the story...

I was still having a good bit of swelling in my foot (but not really my ankle) yesterday, so I decided to go to my GP to just make sure that I wasn't missing something. I was pretty sure my foot wasn't broken because I've broken my other foot before, and I couldn't put any weight on it. Still, the hospital had only x-rayed my ankle the day I fell, so I thought better safe than sorry.

While I was at the clinic for my foot, I mentioned that I thought I might be getting a bladder infection. Starting late Monday night and then all through Tuesday, I had a little bit of pain when I peed, and at one point yesterday, my urine was really rust-colored. The nurse told me to go ahead and give her a sample, and when the doctor came in, the first thing he said was, "You have a raging bladder infection. Your sample was full of blood and white blood cells. It may already be in your kidneys. Does your back hurt?" I was stunned. I had only had symptoms for 18 hours or so. I said that my back didn't hurt and that, really, my symptoms seemed kind of mild (of course, I don't think I've ever really had a bladder infection before). He pushed around on my kidneys, but that didn't hurt. He said, "Well, even still, we need to treat this immediately, or you're going to end up in the hospital." I do not want that!

So he sent me home with two antibiotics, one of which I only needed to take in a single two-pill dose. When I picked up the prescriptions, the pharmacist made a point of telling me that the two-pill dose was a very high dose, especially to take it all at once. She warned me that it generally causes stomach problems anyway, let alone in such a high dose, and she advised me to take it with food and then eat frequently over the next 24-48 hours. So I went home and fixed a huge chicken breast and some rice with veggies. Literally only two or three minutes before I ate a bite, I took the two pills. Within 30 minutes, my stomach was cramping and heaving. I didn't even think I could make it upstairs. I stood in front of my toilet for a good 20 minutes, thinking I might throw up at any second. Then I was hit with diarrhea. At least that made my stomach feel a little better. I slunk back to my bedroom and tried to lay down, but that only made matters worse. So I propped myself up on pillows and tried to sleep through it. I woke up around 11 and tried to force myself to eat a bagel. I did as well as I could and then went back to sleep. I felt much better when I woke up, but after I ate breakfast and got to work, I felt a little wonky again. M-I-S-E-R-A-B-L-E. I'm pretty sure God is punishing me for having sex this weekend.

Oh, and my foot does not appear to be broken. There wasn't a radiologist available to look at the film because I went to the NowCare and it was after hours, but the doctor didn't see anything. He couldn't explain the swelling, but he said it would probably just take it a few more weeks to clear up. It's already been 2 weeks! I miss my high-heeled shoes, and I'm running out of work-appropriate outfits to wear with flip-flops (which are the only shoes I can wear right now)!

Grrrr...

I'm not able to upload any pictures tonight for some reason, so I'll have to put postpone my Fenway Park recap. It's good, too, so stay tuned!

"Stars"

My latest musical obsession: "Stars" by Simply Red. Boo, Lily, and I were having lunch one day when this came on the radio. I hadn't thought about this song in years, but it immediately took me back to my early years in high school, which is so very appropriate given that my class is celebrating our 15-year reunion in just a couple of weeks. Of course, as soon as I got back home, I downloaded it to my iPod, and I have listened to it incessantly ever since. I was shocked when Cheryl didn't remember it and horrified when she said...*gasp*...that she didn't think it was that great. Well, it is that great! The song is great, that is. The video is terrible. In fact, it may well be the worst video produced in the '90s, which is saying a lot because there were a lot of bad videos in the '90s. So just close your eyes and listen.

More Pictures from Cape Cod

This is Lily's best "priend," Bun-Bun, sitting on the dash as we drove into Hyannis. Bun-Bun even went to the beach. Bun-Bun is never neglected.


Here's the obligatory self-portrait of Boo and me after our arrival at the Cape house. We've looked better.


Lily wasn't too sure about donning the "Planet of the Apes" mask, but she did put it on long enough for me to get a picture or two.


The penny candy store had two benches out front -- this one, which was, oddly enough, on the right side of the porch...


...and this one on the left side of the porch.


Lily all decked out in her beach gear. Somewhere along the line, she managed to lose "Nemo."


Miss Thing on the beach. I love her little beach hat.


Another of the beach goddess.


I don't know who lives in this fabulous beachside manse, but I wonder if they have a single son around...oh, say...33...


Even on the Cape, Lily had a couple of testy moments. She completely ignored me when I tried to get her to look at me for this shot.


We had lunch at this restaurant (Baxter's) one day. The owner stepped in front of Boo and asked her if she was 21 (she's 32) before he let her in!


The waters all around Cape Cod are dotted with sail boats.


This is the Kennedy Compound. The white house with the 3 peaks is Teddy Kennedy's house. It was the house that Joe and Rose Kennedy summered in with their children. Just to the left is a house that looks like it should be a 4th peak to the Teddy's house. That's Bobby Kennedy's home. And up on the hill above Teddy's house and a little to the right, you can see a chimney sticking up. That's JFK's house. Caroline Kennedy did own it, but she sold it to Teddy. Farther down are Eunice Kennedy Shriver's house and Joan Kennedy's (Teddy's ex-wife) house.


Lily dropped that cookie in her hand on the wet rocks down by the water...and then she picked it up and ate it! Kids have no "ick" factor.