Might as Well (Not) Jump

I was going to write a nice little post about my High School reunion. It was gonna be full of old friends and jello shots and puppies and gobs and watermelontinis. You would've loved it. I was going to mention the sound grown women make when they greet each other after such a long time apart (kind of a hybrid of the tween/teen squeeeee! and the college girl/young adult woman wooooo! - and don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about, 'cause you do). I was going to mention the things that change and the things that don't. I was going to talk about actually putting your arms around someone you've been virtually (((hugging))) for two years - and feeling theirs around you. I might've made a gentle winking reference to reading glasses and pill-minders and hot flashes. It would've been the feel good post of the year.

It would've been those things - it was all written out in my head - I just needed to find some computer time.

Between the time I wrote it in my head and I actually got computer time, though, something awful happened.

Classmates posted their pictures.

And I died.

There were seriously tears as I looked through the first batch, and numb resignation as I looked through each subsequent batch. That is NOT me. How can that be ME?

The pictures weren't the only reminder that things had indeed changed (for me). A lot. Let's just put it this way: If you're significantly overweight and have degenerative arthritis in your knees and David Lee Roth tells you you might as well jump, you should probably ignore him because it will be a very bad idea and hurt for a week. It won't hurt as much as looking at those pictures, but still...

Damn, I wish I could find a way to make the outside match the inside.

I'm not - this.

I'm nothing like this.

I guess you're just going to have to trust me on that one. Can you trust me more than you trust your eyes? Can you take that leap? Can I? Or will what's inside eventually morph into something as ugly as what's outside - just to bring balance to this dichotomy?

I know - there are people in the world with real problems. Hell, there are people in my very immediate world with real problems. People I love are hurting - and I am literally brought to tears because of what I look like. It is shallow and ridiculous and vain. I need to get over myself and put it in perspective.

And yet...

People tell me the pictures are great, and I die even more - because in most cases, the people who are saying this would die - DIE - if they looked in the mirror and saw something that looked like me gazing back at them. (Wow - drama much? Read that sentence again and see if you can't manage to swoon just a little. You know. Before you DIE!)

I just need to avoid cameras. They are a serious buzzkill. And - despite all I've said here - the reunion really DID provide a pretty darn good buzz.

And as badly as my knees hurt now? I'm still glad I jumped.

Your Post

So if we were drawing a Venn diagram of my friends, the place where the circle containing people I actually know and people I know through the blogosphere would have a very small overlap. My friend Eric is one of those rare folks who would belong in that small overlapping area. A few months ago, I told him that I was going to write a post for him for his birthday to let him in on something he didn't know. His birthday was last weekend. I worked and worked on this post, but I found myself adding details to make it accessible to readers who DON'T know us that ended up making it cumbersome and - I thought - a little boring. So I wrote him a letter, instead. When Tom read it, he said - post it with a little note explaining why it's a letter. Eric agreed that that would be okey dokey with him. I hope this will suffice as that.

One year I wrote a post for my daughter, Lea, for her birthday. When she tried to explain this to her friends outside the blogosphere, she said, "My mom wrote a post about me for my birthday. It's kind of like when normal people write you a song." I don't know what world my child is living in - where normal people are writing each other songs all the time, but there you go.

Without further ado:

Your Note

My gift is my song, and this one’s for you. – Elton John

For the most part, I like people. I like talking and I like listening. I enjoy the exchange of information, philosophies and thoughts. I am a social creature. You know – on accounta being human and all. I crave human discourse.

When I was younger, thinner, and generally more attractive, this was a much easier need to meet. There was always someone on the next barstool willing to expand upon their theories. Often they were interested in hearing mine, too. Barstool philosophy, phone calls that lasted all night, confidently meeting friends of friends of friends – it seemed that there would always be someone to talk to. It never occurred to me that it would ever not be this easy.

But as I got older, bigger, and generally less attractive, meaningful chat with strangers became more and more rare. Apparently, in the eyes of strangers, the quality of my conversations was inversely proportional to the size of my ass.

This was hurtful and surprising at first, in the days when I would still freely turn to that stranger on the next bar stool, or on the next seat on the airplane, or in line at the grocery store – whatever – and expect a friendly exchange. I soon realized, though, that while this behavior was viewed as charming when I was generally attractive, it just became intrusive and creepy as I veered away from societal standards of beauty.

I convinced myself, eventually, that it was ok for people to discount my thoughts and words. I began to believe that I indeed WAS unworthy. And then – because that wasn’t bad enough – it got worse. I convinced myself that being in my presence was a burden and that no one should be subjected to it. And I accepted that.

I accepted it.

It got to the point that I could barely remember a time when it had been different. To tell the truth, it didn’t even hurt any more. It was just the way things were.

Enter you.

We met briefly at the first Martini Club and exchanged about three sentences – enough to establish ourselves as the matriarch and patriarch of the group.

The next month, you arrived first and I was second. You beckoned me over to the barstool beside you and we talked while the rest of the crew trickled in. When conversation at the bar became cumbersome, we moved the party to a table. You sat at one end and I moved towards the other. It was my natural impulse to give you a break from my oppressive presence. I would’ve done the same for anyone. You had been kind to talk to me so long at the bar. I was grateful. I was ready to give you a chance to talk to younger, thinner, more generally attractive and therefore obviously more interesting people.

You didn’t take it.

You caught my eye before I actually sat in a different spot and patted the seat beside you. I was startled. You wanted to keep talking to ME? Even when there were so many other more societally acceptable options available to you?

I loved you a little bit in that moment.

Finding common ground and enjoying someone’s company – something I’d done effortlessly and almost constantly a couple decades before – was happening again. It took me completely by surprise.

It shouldn’t have, but it did.

Since then my confidence, while still nowhere near the levels it hit when I was younger, thinner, and generally more attractive, has improved by leaps and bounds. I no longer just assume that my presence is an imposition and a bother. I’m learning to take it on a case by case basis. I can accept that people – really GOOD people – might – just might – be able to like me for me. I trust myself enough to at least make the effort to find out.

So happy birthday, Eric my friend. My gift to you is cluing you in on your gift to me. I think I got the better end of the deal.

I hope you don’t mind, I hope you don’t mind, that I put down in words – how wonderful life is while you’re in the world. – Elton John, again. He’s very good. He’s no David Soul, but he’s still very good.

Troubadors

What a perfect show.

I think I could just post their play list and it would be enough to make everyone who has reached a certain age sigh in happy reminiscence. These are the songs that become tangled up in our very existence; rendering themselves inseparable from the memories of times past. I sat next to a long-lost/new-found friend who leaned over to me at one point and whispered, eyes shining, clearly retrieving a memory she hadn't dusted off in years, "A friend wrote that lyric in my high school yearbook."

You've got to wake up every morning with a smile on your face, and show the world all the love in your heart. ~ Carole King, Beautiful

I reached over to hold my husband's hand. I reached across him with my other hand to hold my daughter's hand. I leaned my head into my friend's shoulder. Tom thought I was being a little silly, I could tell, but it was a wonderful moment.

Shower the people you love with love, show them the way you feel. ~ James Taylor, Shower the People

My best friend in the middle school years and I listened to her Tapestry album so many times I'm surprised we didn't wear it out. We sang every song, word for word; note for note, over and over and over. We hadn't experienced many of the complexities of life yet, but Ms. King paved the path for us. That friend was taken from this world in a most untimely manner a few years back, making those memories even more poignant for me.

It doesn't help to know that you're so far away. ~ Carole King, So Far Away

They closed the second set, as I'd suspected they would, with You've Got a Friend. They performed it as a beautiful duet, sitting side by side, their long and loving friendship obvious in their body language. Tom and I played that song to introduce the bridal party at our wedding.

Close your eyes and think of me, and soon I will be there - to brighten up even your darkest night. ~ Carole King, You've Got a Friend

It was an amazing show, performed on a revolving stage to make every seat in the house a good seat. Carole King is gorgeous. I don't mean gorgeous for her age (68, according to the ever reliable Wikipedia), I mean flat out gorgeous. It would be tempting to say that she seemed most comfortable seated behind the piano, because that certainly was a natural placement for her, but she seemed equally at ease strapping on a guitar for one or two songs - indulging in guitar hero poses that delighted me to my core. When she was not seated behind the piano, she owned the stage - dancing, engaging the audience, and smiling - always smiling - her beautiful, wide, easy, real smile - all in ridiculously high and skinny heels. Well, you just go on and GO, girl!

Now I'm no longer doubtful, of what I'm living for, and if I make you happy I don't need to do more ~ Carole King, Natural Woman

James Taylor's voice has not changed a bit. He presents as humble, in a manner that is charming, sweet, real and - dare I say it? - sexy as hell. He looks a little older, but still younger than his 62 years (again, per Wikipedia) would indicate appropriate. But his voice? - virtually unchanged. I kept thinking that if I closed my eyes, it would be pretty easy to melt years - decades - away. I didn't, though. Not for longer than the time it took to blink. I didn't want to miss a thing.

So close your eyes, you can close your eyes; it's all right. I don't know no love songs, and I can't sing the blues anymore, but I can sing this song, and you can sing this song when I'm gone. ~ James Taylor, You Can Close Your Eyes

I thought You've Got a Friend would be the end. When you're Carole King and James Taylor, where do you go from there? How could there be a more perfect ending for this show? They left the stage to thunderous applause and I did not anticipate an encore. Except - the house lights didn't come up. And that means...

Up on the roof we went. I was pretty emotional at this point. These two amazing and prolific talents had stirred up quite a lot of memories. I tried to subtly wipe a tear from my eye without being noticed. In doing so, my head turned slightly to the left, and there was my friend rubbing both eyes with her fists. I threw subtlety to the wind. It's highly overrated anyway. We went ahead and openly wept. It had been quite a ride.

When this old world starts getting me down, and people are just too much for me to face, I'll climb right up to the top of the stairs, and all my cares just drift right into space. ~ James Taylor, Up On The Roof

I'm not a huge fan of live albums, but I may buy this one. And I'm going to listen to it with my eyes closed.

Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

I went to college a mere 45 minute drive from my home, so my parents visited often. My mom did my laundry. (Yes, I was one of those kids.) Once a week she would drop off the clean and pick up the dirty. Her thought process was that it was cheaper for her than giving me quarters for the laundromat. (Again, yes, one of those kids.) These visits usually involved taking me and often a roommate or friend out to lunch. During my senior year - the year I was 21 and therefore of legal drinking age - if that visit occurred on a Friday, I would ask them to drop me off after lunch not at my house, but at the bar where I knew at least a few of my friends would already be getting their happy hour on.

Happy hour, in 1983/1984 at this particular bar, meant dime a draft or dollar a (generously poured) well drink. God, I miss the 80's.

So they - my parents - the teetotalers - would pull up in front of the bar - slip me a $5 - kiss me - and say, "Don't drink." I would exit the car in my high-waisted pegged jeans and cheap pumps that matched my top with enough money in my fist to get pretty darn drunk and still leave a tip. Oh Daddy dear, you know you're still number one - but girls - they wanna have fu-un.

Flash forward to the present.

My parents came to visit my sister and I this week. While they didn't do our laundry, they did take both of our families out to eat. At some point during the meal, my sister asked if I'd be interested in going out for a beer after dinner. Guess what I said. Go on, guess. So my mother slipped us a $20 and asked if we needed a ride to the bar. Oh Mother dear, we're not the fortunate ones - but girls (still) just wanna have fu-un.

Now $20 wasn't enough to get us drunk, or even decently buzzed. But it was enough.

And they played a lot of good 80's music.

The Real Housewives of Central Ohio

I have to confess right up front: I've never actually seen any of the Bravo network's Real Housewives shows. I'm aware of them - I don't live under a rock - but I've never been able to muster up enough interest to watch.

From what I gather, they chronicle the lives of rich, spoiled women with more money and time than brains. That may be inaccurate - as I said, I've never actually watched. Just one woman's uninformed but nonetheless confidently stated opinion.

But what of us? Those families and couples who manage to get by on one income - and choose to do so - but don't have a lot left over for indulgences. What of us? Surely there are more of us than there are of them. Surely there are people out there who want to know - our stories.

'Wait!' you might be saying at this point, 'isn't that what blogs are for?'

To which I reply, 'Simmer down, Captain Buzzkill. Let me enjoy my parody. Sheesh. I ask for so little.'

Today's episode opens with four women enjoying an al fresco lunch on a balcony in a popular suburban shopping destination. One of them - we'll call her me - is carrying a fabu new bag that she bought for herself as a consolation prize following an aborted shopping spree.

Me-she is the oldest member of the group which includes women in their 20's, 30's and 40's. This is not an unusual situation for me-her. This is partially due to the fact that I-she am-is so hip it hurts. Or not. Whatever.

Conversation revolves around the temporary part-time job that has brought these women together. They are divorcees, newlyweds and family women. Their backgrounds are diverse and similar. Together? They are everywoman.

They pantomime toking on joints when the conversation turns to their boss, a very mellow chick indeed. She is never seen, but sometimes her Hakuna Matada voice is heard on the other side of a phone conversation. She is a Zen Charlie to our Suburban Angels.

Conversation turns to our lives since we've last convened, prompting a series of flashbacks. One has gotten a full-time job and is moving into a new home. This is huge! Surely we could squeeze a couple episodes out of that!

One orders a third mojito while alluding to a family crisis. The camera zooms in on her empty glasses. Foreshadowing? Tune in next week. DUN Dun dun...

One regales us with stories of her latest travels. I'm sensing a great opportunity for a montage...

One can't wait to get home and sit on her porch swing with a book. She suggests wistfully that the next time we get together we should wear hats. The camera loves hats. Hats amp up the drama. Her suggestion is agreed upon. Hats it is.

We go our separate ways to engage in such exciting pursuits as mowing the lawn before the rain hits, meeting the school bus, and getting dinner on the table. It is riveting stuff, I tells ya. Riveting.

Hey Bravo - call me! I'm ready to talk.

Compromisin' Enterprisin' Anything But Tranquilizin'

So it's International Women's Day. I know this because it says so on my calendar. Also, Will Forte sang about Women's History Month on SNL.

Well, the venerable Mr. Forte addressed women in herstory (see what I did there?) pretty well, as did Maude before him.

I won't try to compete.

I read the following platitude somewhere:

Here's to wonderful women - may you know them, may you raise them, may you be them

I have been privileged to know many wonderful women in my life. I've known women who are strong in the way society values and women whose strength is quieter. I've known women who rocked the corporate world, women who rocked their babies, and women who just plain rocked. I have in my life women who are bitches, angels, geniuses, athletes, jokers, smokers and midnight tokers. I am so blessed, because I have women to laugh with, to cry with and sometimes just to be with. I know wonderful women. May you know wonderful women.

I have the huge privilege and responsibility of raising two wonderful women. My girls are beautiful and talented and unique. They are strong-willed and strong-minded. They have always been free to be who they are and (most of the time, anyway) who they are is pretty wonderful. I am raising wonderful women. May you raise wonderful women. (Even if you don't have a daughter! Remember - it takes a village!)

It would be immodest to say that I am one, so I won't - but I WILL say that I know there are folks out there who think that I am. For that I am lucky beyond measure.

eta: Those of you who generally stop here - don't! Read the Maya Angelou poem Unknown Mami posted in the comments. Seriously.

Ya Feelin' Lucky, Punk?

Well, I'm not.

I'm feeling most unlucky indeed.

But it's never really about luck, is it? That's what the lucky ones say, anyway. They say it's all about choices.

My argument is that I didn't choose most of my circumstances. And that's true, for the most part. But I do choose how I'm going to respond to those circumstances. A pertinent and recent example:

Yesterday a friend posted pictures of us from the mid-80's on Facebook. I was reminded under no uncertain terms - there it was - that I had a rockin' bod in my mid-20's. It bummed me right the frick out. How does one go from that to this? Well, there was a little bit of bad luck. I have a slow metabolism. I have hypothyroidism. I have Hashimoto's. I didn't choose any of those things. Bad luck. BUT! When I saw those pics, my immediate reaction to the sense of failure they sparked was to find comfort in a bowl of hot fudge. With or without ice and or whipped cream. And THAT, my friends, is a choice. (No, I didn't do it. But only because there wasn't any in the house and I was too lazy to go out and get any. Sometimes laziness is an asset.) When I showed the pics to Tom, by the way, his only response was: "Your hair looked dumb." I love this man so. much.

So - to recap - current state of the body is a result of a combination of bad luck and bad choices. Eliminate ONE of those things and it would probably be not as bad as it is, but not as good as it was. It can't all be attributed to one or the other.

Remember in "What's Eating Gilbert Grape?" when Johnny Depp takes Juliette Lewis to meet his morbidly obese mom and his mom apologizes for her appearance, with tears brewing behind her eyes, "I wasn't always like this..." and Juliette Lewis answers, without missing a beat, "Well I wasn't always like this, either." We all change. I love that moment. I love Johnny Depp....

Dang. I appear to have once again digressed...

Luck. Choices.

Ahem.

I am dealing with some other stuff, too, which I'm not quite ready to talk about here. It FEELS like a lot of bad luck. I KNOW that to the outside observer it would LOOK like a lot of bad choices. I'm still trying to sort that out. Trying to determine how different choices might yet turn it around. No luck so far - I'll keep you posted.

I know that I'm lucky in many ways. I have a roof over my head. Said roof is in a rapidly deteriorating neighborhood. Said roof is over a house that was built fast 14 years ago and is falling apart before our eyes. Said house is always a mess and I can't keep up with it. Some bad luck. Some bad choices. But ultimately the great good luck of having a home.

I have a family. Said family doesn't have much time for me, they're all busy chasing their own lives and making their own bad choices (and an occasional good one) regarding their own personal circumstances. Said family's good choices are a reflection on them and their bad choices are a reflection on me. Said family is always a mess and I can't keep up with it. Some bad luck. Some bad choices. But ultimately the great good luck of having a family.

I have friends. Said friends are mostly kept up with via the computer - even the ones who actually live close by, of which there are not too darn many. Said friends are rarely available for a cup of coffee or a glass of wine, but they're almost always available with a friendly ear (er, um, eye...) and a lot of support. A little bad luck. A couple bad choices. But ultimately the great good luck of having friends.

I could go on - but you get the general gist. You're pretty bright like that. Luck and choices. Our reality is a combination of the two.

Sorry I was a bummer today. But it should improve. The sun is shining and it's a beautiful day here. How lucky.

Make good choices!

It's a Nice Day for a White Wedding

I told you the love story for Valentine's Day. This story picks up practically where that one left off.

"I'm pregnant."

"Are you sure?"

"Peed on a stick..."

"What do you want to do?"

"I want to get married."

(hugging me and kissing the top of my head) "We will be the happiest family ever."

That was our romantic proposal. Jealous?

We talked about just rockin' it City Hall style given the circumstances, but my mother wouldn't hear of it. She and my father had eloped and she'd always regretted the fact that they hadn't had a wedding. I was going to have a wedding, damn it.

So we threw one together in three months. It was not a dream wedding. I realize this may be surprising to those of you who had always aspired to be 33 and pregnant when you walked down the aisle, but it's true.

My mom hired a photographer - the only one she could get at the last minute. She chose the cake (I couldn't make it to my hometown, where all of the preparations were being made). We bought a dress. It was not a lovely, feel like a princess dress. It was - what's the word I want? - tasteful, you know, given the circumstances.

Tom's aunt, who had served as a mother figure after his mother passed away, enthusiastically offered to do the flowers. Silk flowers. Oh, kids, I love fresh flowers. I try to have some in my home all the time. I can assure you that I did not want silk flowers on my wedding day, no matter what the circumstances were. Did I tell her that? No. I thanked her profusely and accepted her generous offer. I really wanted his family to like and accept me. A refusal of such an enthusiastic offer didn't seem like a step in the right direction. I didn't feel like I had much leverage, given the circumstances.

We talked to the pastor in preparation for the wedding. We stressed that we were equal partners in the relationship and that we did not want anything in our vows or in the service about a woman giving it all up to become subservient to her man. He smiled and nodded and made some notes.

Mom found a DJ who listened to every word we had to say.

The big day arrived. I spent the morning like most brides do, getting my hair done, pampering myself a little bit. Making sure the reception hall looked nice. Tom used the opportunity to peruse some of the places of historical significance in my hometown. Namely, the Johnstown Flood Museum. Yep. He spent the hours leading up to our wedding immersed in learning about the single greatest disaster my little home town had ever known. Despair. Disaster. Devastation. Now get me to the church on time!

We didn't have miles of attendants in matching dresses in my favorite color - we just had my sister and his cousin stand up for us. More, I was told, would've been inappropriate given the circumstances. The pastor devoted his entire sermon to women becoming subservient to their men. If it hadn't been for - you know - the circumstances - I may have walked out right then. Tom later confessed that he would have, too. This was not what we had agreed to agree to. But agree we did.

As our guests headed to the reception, we stuck around for pictures. Apparently when you hire your photographer at the last minute, you get what you get. We got a lot of JC Penney catalog worthy pictures of me in my tasteful dress with my silk flowers attempting to hide my thickening waistline.

"Why yes, I DO have the time..."

The popular 'newlyweds in front of the heating vent' pose.
Notice how strategically the photographer has placed the lovely bouquet. There are a whole lot of things about this picture that aren't fooling anybody...
And no, I'm not wearing a bustle and you're mean for asking.

Then we headed for the reception ourselves. I'm sure you know without me telling you that it was raining. I swear to God, if one more person had told me "rain on the bride is good luck" I probably would've greeted them with a roundhouse kick. Circumstances or not. No bride wants to be rained on. Luck, schmuck. (Chuck Norris has nothing on a pissed off/rained on pregnant bride!)

Things took a turn for the better at the reception. The food was delicious. The DJ had indeed listened to us and respected every one of our wishes. And best of all - the guest list was small. We were able to not only spend some quality time with each of our guests, but we were also able to have a good time with each other. We danced - and not only the obligatory bride and groom dances - we danced when we liked a song. And - remember? - the DJ had listened to us. We liked a lot of songs. Oh - for my Western PA readers who may be wondering - there was no money dance. My mother informed me that it would be inappropriate, you know, under the circumstances. But we had a blast. We started our married life on a very happy note indeed.

That was all fourteen years ago today.

Since then I've been to beautiful, storybook, dream weddings. I've been to elegant weddings. I've been to intimate backyard garden weddings. I've heard of insanely romantic proposals. I've seen wedding pictures that are so beautiful they make me want to weep. A couple of those marriages even lasted...

So, yeah. The proposal was lame. The wedding will not be used in any wedding planner's portfolio. The honeymoon did not exist. But the marriage? Solid as a rock. Maybe we should put the emphasis back where it ought to be. A nice wedding is, well, nice. But the happily ever after? That's the endgame, ya'll.

I think the past fourteen years have gone pretty well.

And the circumstances turned out pretty well, too.

A Purple Letter Day

Oh, man, have I been looking forward to today. But not as much as my friend Ellin has. Today, you see, is Ellin's birthday. It's a special one. Yep. Today Ellin turns 47. Now you may be scratching your head at this point and saying, "Forty is a special one. FIFTY is a special one. But forty-seven? Isn't that one that just comes and goes?" Normally you'd be right. But forty-seven is a special one for Ellin. She hated being forty-six, and as of today SHE ISN'T ANYMORE!!!


You can clearly see that Ellin is beautiful. What you can't see is that she's strong (one of the strongest women I've ever had the privilege of knowing), loyal (she's put up with my dubious antics for around thirty-five years, but I'm far from the only one she's loyal to. If Ellin loves you, she loves you. Period.), and she makes the best pizza west of the Schuykill (if my hometown readers aren't eating Ellin's pizza at least once a week, well, what the heck is YOUR deal?)

Ellin hated being forty-six because both one of her favorite aunts AND her beloved brother passed away when they were forty-six. She dreaded turning forty-six the way many of us dread changing that decade marker on our birthday cake. Forty-six wasn't a banner year for her. She's one of the best people I know, but the world sees fit to batter her around way more than her share. She gets to practice that 'strong' trait I mentioned more often that she should. It got a workout this year.

But you know what? She made it. And today she's forty-seven. Today is a new day. Today is important. Today is big.

Ellin and I have been friends since Junior High. I had my first drink with her. (yep, she's to blame) My parents were (and are) teetotalers, but Ellin's were not, so she would go through their liquor cabinet and pour out just a little bit of everything. We'd add orange juice and call it good. (it, um, wasn't) We are probably lucky to be alive. She was also the one right next to me when I went to my first concert (Nazareth, for those who haven't heard that story before. Now you're messin' with a son-of-a-bitch.) Somewhere around tenth grade we made a countdown chart to our High School graduation. That was the day we were gonna hop in a purple van and head to California. Instead, we headed to different colleges. Sometimes, in retrospect, I wish we'd done it. College would've waited a year. Many years and many adventures later we had our first daughters within six months of each other. I could tell you stories for a month, but I won't because, well, even the guilty deserve a little privacy sometimes. Of course if I told you purely fictional stories about Helen and Sammy's adventures some day...

(Don't sweat it, babe - not gonna happen)

I love Ellin.

Happy birthday, my friend. Cheers!

I Am Not a Beautiful or Unique Snowflake

But I am a flake.

And I'll tell you all about it here in an unprecedented second post in one day.

Responses from my blog go straight to my email and to Tom's as well.

My blog posts on Facebook as well.

Since posting this morning, the outpouring of concern in both places has been overwhelming. And it has been overwhelmingly AGAINST going to the school of casual discomfort.

At about the same time that Tom was IM'ing me to ask me to please listen to my bloggy buds, I was reading an e-mail from one of my nearest and dearest IRL buds pleading with me not to do it.

I canceled.

I will reschedule with the original doctor - the one who made me feel comfortable - the one with a professional office with private surgery suites with big windows overlooking the woods - the one who thinks IV sedation is fine but total sedation is better. I will call him as soon as I am recovered enough from the hysterectomy to know when I will actually be able to make - and keep - an appointment.

I will still feel - be - ugly - very very ugly, no doubt - for several months. That is inevitable. But I will not be as anxious about the procedure or about the ultimate result.

Now here's the thing: I would not have come to this conclusion without the support of my blog and Facebook community. How powerful is that? Tom was too close to the situation. I value his opinion, of course, but in this case - I don't know - I felt like I was just being a pain in the ass and a big whiny baby. And he was going to be affected by this. I didn't want to make things harder on him. My online community stepped back and said - NO - this is really scary - these are valid concerns. The little bit of distance made a difference.

As I was chatting with Rosa (my IRL friend I was e-mailing when I made this decision) I said, "How much does it suck that these people who know me only through the interwebs were able to give me the love and support that I needed, while my mother said, 'It'll be fine, there won't be any difference. Why would you pay more for the same thing? ' " Then I reminded her and myself that my mother is the one that made me walk home from school after a root canal.

Ya'll.

I am breathing so much easier since I made that phone call.

I am still upset that it is something that will have to happen. I wish I didn't have to put it off - to keep that low grade worry in the back of my mind - but I really think I'm making the right decision.

And I really have you to thank for that.

And I don't know how to thank you.

Thank you.

(S)he's a Bad Mother ---- Shut Your Mouth!

When we last met with the Bad Moms' Club, they were camping in the woods. This weekend found them - er, um, us - in the woods again.


We have had this trip planned for several months now, so when the skies decided to open up and dump upon us Friday afternoon, just as we were scheduled to leave, we grabbed umbrellas and rain ponchos and said, "Bring it!" It takes more than thunder and lightning and torrential downpours to scare Bad Moms. The ultimate Bad Mom - Mother Nature - rewarded us for this attitude by clearing the skies by the time we arrived and blessing us with the most beautiful weekend weather we could imagine.

We camped at the same site - recognizable by what I like to call "The Tree of Anatomy". That's because I am far too refined and sophisticated to call it what everyone else called it. Take a look and come up with your own names. We're gonna ask for that site again - it seemed appropriate for a gender specific howl at the moon camping trip.


My sister had the shrine set up, with a few additions. Buddha joins us, now, as well as a jackass. (Yin and Yang, baby, gotta keep things balanced.)


Since we decided we didn't want to be a one song jukebox, the Patron was left behind this weekend. But fear not! There's always room for jello!


Johnna makes her jello shots more like jello jigglers. The benefits of this are twofold:

1. Less liquid = stronger shots
2. How much fun is it to eat your shot like a cookie?


That Johnna? She's ok.

Of course those of you who recall our last camping trip know that just because we're camping doesn't mean we have to eat hot dogs on a stick. We started Friday night's repast with a little bit of Bad Moms Brie. Then we moved on to a delicious salad of baby greens, dried berries, walnuts and goat cheese. We had soaked some corn on the cob and thrown it on the fire earlier in the evening. After our salad course, it was good to go. It was so tender sweet and tasty that it required neither butter nor salt. There were burgers, which were also delicious, but most of us opted to split one, as we'd already filled our bellies with such fine fare.

Those of us who rise with the sun couldn't figure out how to raise the little canopy, so we made and drank our coffee right under it. The three of us who enjoyed this thought it was a pretty cool little clubhouse and considered slapping a "No Boys Allowed" sign on it. The rest just gave us a rash of crap for not being able to prove ourselves smarter than the canopy. Oh well. No clubhouse cowboy coffee for you.


You may recall that my sister is the queen of the camp breakfast. She makes massive quantities of hash browns with onions and pepper and garlic and just a hint of butter. (hint : stick as potato : potahto)


In our two breakfasts, we had bacon, sausage and ham.

The eggs which she also prepared were delicious as well, fried in the remnants of the bacon.

Nom nom nom nom nom.

But Saturday dinner - oh, ya'll - Saturday dinner. We started of with another wheel of Brie. This time we prepared it with roasted red pepper salsa and honey almonds. We served it, as usual, with bread toasted over the fire. When that was gone (and let me tell you - seven hungry women, one wheel of Brie - it wasn't long at all before it was gone) we had our first round of fondue.

Round one included shrimp, scallops, filet mignon, chicken and pork along with a vast assortment of dipping sauces provided by our lovely Tastefully Simple representative. (How do you like my mad pimpin' skillz?) This was followed by Gruyere and wine fondue with pretzels and more fire-toasted bread. Do I have to tell you what came next? I don't, do I? You know what came next. Next, of course, came the chocolate. The chocolate course was served with assorted fruits, pretzels, brownies (Chocolate on chocolate. 'Nuf said. ), and an almond pound cake that was the bomb even without the chocolate sauce. (That was also provided by our Tastefully Simple lady and - I swear - I wouldn't be pimping it this much if it wasn't just. that. good.)

Of course even Bad Moms can't indulge like that without feeling the need to work a LITTLE of it off. So we hiked.


Kids, I had almost (but not quite) forgotten how much I enjoy a good hike. We took several. They were glorious.

Johnna in row 1; Row 2 is Lisa, Wendy, Me and Amy

Our guru, Diane, was so inspired by the setting, she turned a little routine stretching into an impromptu yoga session. She IS the warrior!


Impromptu yoga sessions were not confined to the woods. Here's Amy demonstrating the little known but demanding practice of aqua-yoga.


We rented a 22 foot pontoon boat for the afternoon Saturday and enjoyed a peaceful afternoon on the lake.

Well, we enjoyed an afternoon on the lake, anyway.

After a hard day hiking, tubing, drinking and eating, who wouldn't want a nice invigorating foot bath back at the campsite? Roughin' it doesn't have to mean rough feet.

Happy Campers.

Wendy, Lisa and Johnna

We - at least I - went home happy, balanced, and sore. My legs and back are sore from the hiking. My stomach is sore from the laughing. Sore isn't always such a bad thing. Not bad at all.

It's My 200th Post, And I'm Payin' it Forward

Well, I made it to the big 2-0-0. I didn't celebrate 100, but I think I'd like to do something a little bit special for 200.

But first there's backstory. If you've been hanging out here for a while, you know there's ALWAYS backstory... (stick around for this one, though - there's a payoff!)

Sometime in January, one of my friends posted the following note on Facebook:

The first five (5) people to respond to this post will get something made by me.
This offer does have some restrictions and limitations so please read carefully:

- I make no guarantees that you will like what I make.

- What I create will be just for you.

- It'll be done this year (2009).

- You have no clue what it's going to be. It will be something made in the real world and not something cyber. It may be a mixed CD. It may be a poem. I may draw or paint something. I might bake you something and mail it to you. It may involve yarn. Who knows? Not you, that's for sure!

- I reserve the right to do something extremely strange.

And in return, all you need to do is post this text into a note of your own and make 5 things for 5 others.


I was intrigued, especially because the friend who posted it is a gifted painter and I am - um - not. Hoping for a piece of original art for my home, I signed on. I posted the note again, as per the instructions, and five people quickly signed on.

I thought about making something generic that could be passed along to all of them, but then I remembered this line:

What I create will be just for you.

I decided to put a little more thought into it. I posted all of their names above my computer and I jotted little notes on them as I chatted with these folks. Slowly but surely I decided what to make. I'd like to share what I made for whom and why. Read to the end - there's a payoff!

Sara's Project

Sara strikes me as the sort of woman who is very simply elegant. She is also a woman who suffers frequent migraines and other severe headaches.

I remembered seeing a pattern for an eye mask in Handknit Holidays and I thought it just might fit the bill. I knit it using a 100% silk yarn that was an absolute pleasure to work with. I filled it with flax and lavender. Flax retains temperatures well, so it can be cooled off in the refrigerator or warmed up in the microwave, depending on what temperature would feel more soothing.

The combination of the weight, the darkness a mask provides, and the optional temperature control have eased many a headache for me and I hoped they'd do the same for Sara.

Relax!

Laura's Project

Laura is an avid reader. As many avid readers also like to dabble in writing (ask me how I know...) I thought Laura might be able to get some use out of this notebook cover. The pattern is based on one presented in 101 Designer One-Skein Wonders but I altered it a little. The yarn is a really scrumptious handspun that I bought at a festival a couple years ago. I just really love the idea of taking a simple notebook and making it look a little more sophisticated and special.

It could also be used to cover and protect a paperback book (or just hide the cover of a trashy novel!) when she's reading it, if she prefers.

Write on!

Andrea's Project

Andrea is a stay-at-home mom who is utterly devoted to her kids and her husband. This is a wonderful trait and she should be applauded for it! Unfortunately, sometimes when folks are too devoted to others they forget about themselves. Andrea has admitted that she never takes any time for herself - it is just not a priority. She has ALSO told me that she has a super-bitchin' soak tub that she has NEVER used.

So I decided to make soap holders for Andrea. His and hers, so she didn't have to feel guilty about an indulgence just for her. Shared bath time can be fun AND indulgent! (nudge, nudge, wink, wink)

I used a pattern from the book 101 Designer One-Skein Wonders and some high quality cotton yarn. As I was making the set I thought, "I wonder if I couldn't make some soap to go with these? Handmade soap could be quite indulgent while not promoting guilt - ya gotta bathe! Why not bathe with something luxurious that was made just for you?" Andrea's soap is a lovely softening goat's milk base with lavender and vanilla to enhance the relaxation properties and oatmeal for exfoliation.


Indulge!

Crystal's Project

Crystal loves entertaining. She loves to cook for friends and she loves to get her party on! I thought, since she gets pleasure out of preparing food and drink for her loved ones, maybe I could give her a little pleasure during the planning stages. I thought a reusable grocery bag might be just the ticket.

I have several patterns for reusable shopping bags, but my favorite is this one.

I like the drawstring feature, but if Crystal doesn't she can easily remove it. It allows the bag to be more compact, so she can throw it in her purse.


This way, I figure one friend - me! - will be with her while she shops - thus extending the joy of entertaining.

Party on!

Linda's Project

Linda was tough for me because she is a very crafty chick herself. There is nothing I can do that she cannot do, too. That made things a little tougher on my end. The project I chose is no exception.

Linda loves jewelry and she loves the ocean. I made this jewelry box using seashells and sand from the beach. I like the open weave of the top for storing earrings. I hope she can get some use out of this and that it will remind her of the beach when she's not near it. I've made one for myself, too, and that's what it does for me!

Surf's Up!

Cass's Project

Cass was not one of my 'first five', but she was the one who sent the project out in the first place, and I wanted to send her a little something in the same spirit to thank her.

Cass is a righteously cool little chickadee. I think of her always as an earth mother. Cass knows herself and wants her children to be free to know - and, more importantly - be - themselves as well.

Like many good earth mothers, Cass is into yoga. I'd made a bag for my own yoga mat years ago using a pattern from Inspired Cable Knits by Fiona Ellis. I love the cables that loosely represent the tree pose. They are so fun to work. I knew Cass would feel the joy I experienced making it when she used it.


I had intended to make it using organic soy yarn, but when I went to pick that out I found this gorgeous green recycled cotton. Recycling is good karma, no doubt. And everyone knows that redheads like Cass look good in green.

Namaste.

Matt's Project

Matt was also not one of the first five, but he used my posting to initiate a fair trade. Matt is an amazing artist as well as a kick-ass bass player and he promised me an original work of art in exchange for a black toque he could wear on stage.

Um? No brainer.

Matt lives in a state where it's warm a lot more often than it's cold, so I didn't want to use wool for his toque. I used, instead, a high quality cotton DK. This is one of my favorite yarns and I have made untold numbers of baby sweaters using it because it is so darn soft.

I used a pattern from the righteous Debbie Stoller's Son of Stitch 'N Bitch.

And then I made one for myself.

Rock on!

Sue's Project

Technically, Sue was not in the first five either. She posted a comment then deleted it, silly woman with an itchy finger on the delete button!!! But the comment went to my e-mail anyway, so I figured she was SORT OF in the first five...

Also, Sue is easy to gift!

Sue has confessed on separate occasions to a bag/purse obsession, an addiction to coffee, and a love of the color blue fueled by a love of the Nittany Lions. What better gift than a 'coffee clutch'? (I know! Groan! I crack myself up!)

The perfect size for your keys, your wallet, your phone, and a couple Starbucks gift cards!

The purse was crocheted from another Debbie Stoller book, Stitch 'N Bitch Crochet: The Happy Hooker using a durable nylon yarn. The embellishment is all me. I've made quite a few of these bags, and my signature "thang" is that I line them with old T-shirts. It's environmentally conscious and it gives a little funky cred to a simple clutch, I think. I know Sue is a very charitable gal, so, since I didn't have a Penn State T-shirt in my stash, I lined hers with an old 'Race for the Cure' T.


If she doesn't like the embellishment, it can easily be done away with. Mine is plain and I sometimes embellish it with 'flair' and sometimes with a pretty brooch. The sky is really the limit here.

Shop on!


Now I realize that this was a long post. If you managed to get this far, you deserve a reward. A PAYOFF if you will! So I've decided that, in honor of my 200th post, I'd like to make one of these items for one of you. Leave me a comment and tell me what you like. I'll draw one name from a hat and I will make that winner the item of their choice. I'll do what I can to work with you to make sure colors and such are what you would like them to be. In the spirit of things, I think it would be really swell if you decided to pay it forward... I won't force it as part of the agreement, but I sure do think it would be swell and I sure would like to hear about it if you do.

So. To recap.

Do you want:

Sara's Relaxation Mask?
Laura's Notebook Cover?
Andrea's Soap Holders?
Crystal's Shopping Bag?
Linda's Jewelry Box?
Cass's Yoga Mat Bag?
Matt's Toque?
Sue's Clutch?

Leave me a comment, and good luck! A winner will be drawn on Friday, August 14. Make sure I can reach you!

Talk To Ya Later

It's Thursday, so it must be time for a trip down Memory Lane...

Recently we received the records for our teen daughters phone usage during a little vacation to Florida. In two weeks, she spent 3337 minutes talking to her boyfriend and sent 1021 texts to her buddies. I tried to work up righteous anger, but I couldn't.

To do so would've been hypocritical.

To do so would've been a denial of the misspent hours of my own youth.

I, too, spent more time missing my friends than appreciating my surroundings on family vacations - particularly when they extended longer than a week (the proven measure of time that a teen girl can comfortably tolerate separation from her peeps).

In the summer of 1978 I was almost sixteen. My friends were the most important people in the world and our constantly shifting romances were the most important events.

This was the summer my parents decided to take us on a tour through the northern United States with a few jaunts into southern Canada.

This sounds like a beautiful way to pass the summer, no?

At the time, this sounded a lot like the seventh level of hell.

In 1978, of course, cell phones existed only in science fiction. Long distance calls were expensive. To hear my parents tell it, very, very, very ridiculously expensive. They were never made lightly. They were doled out carefully, like a precious commodity. Most of them were made to relatives at home to check on the house and the extended family. The purpose for these calls was assuredly more report than rapport.

Every time I would pass a wall of pay phones I would slow down and gaze at them longingly. They represented passage from this cowboy hell to the socialization I was missing and craving at home. So close and yet so far.

Then, one day, during a visit to a tourist attraction somewhere in the Rocky Mountains, I saw my opportunity. And I seized it. An available pay phone and not a parental unit in sight. There was no time to think, I needed to act quickly. I picked up the receiver and followed the instructions on the phone.

"I'd like to charge this to my home number, please."

One ring.

Two rings.

Then the voice of my friend, spanning the distance, taking me away from this stupid wilderness and reporting all the small town gossip.

My eyes rolled back in my head. It was otherworldly. I was only aware of the dulcet tones of my friend's voice and the information she was sharing.

"Tammy! Lu! Hunter!"

That was weird, Cyndi almost never used my middle...

"TAMMY! LU! HUNTER!"

Oh shiiiiiiiiit.

The spell was broken.

The middle name had been invoked.

My mother looked like a cartoon character does right before steam starts shooting from its ears.

"I gotta go..."

Sadness about the disconnect mingled with fear of retribution.

I mentioned that we were somewhere in the Rockies. We were somewhere in the CANADIAN Rockies. Making this an international call. And an international incident. If long distance calls were verboten, international calls were - well - if there's a word for how off-limits they were, I don't know it.

As we walked back to the car, the vibe I got from my parents was clear. "We will continue to feed, clothe and house you because you are our responsibility but we do not intend to like being in your presence."

I acquired my first job within a week after getting home. I paid the phone bill with my first check.

An irresponsible and immature act resulted in the first truly responsible and mature decision of my young life.

Sometimes it just works out that way.

It's a Small World After All

No - this isn't another post about Disney. I didn't drink the water from the ride and trip. That was Lisa Simpson.

No, mine is a story that sort of begins with my friend Kevin.


That's him in the black hat and the plaid shirt.

Kevin works at the music store where Liv takes drum lessons. He thinks she's awesome, so I think he's awesome. We talk every Thursday while she takes her lesson. He has played with a lot of big name folks and he always has a story to tell me, usually backed up by pictures or a CD or an article in a magazine. Talking to him is surreal sometimes. I am very used to him mentioning names that are familiar to me, because he's played with a lot of REALLY big names. One day, a couple months ago, he did just that. We were a few sentences past it in conversation when I realized - hey! I didn't recognize that name because he was famous! I recognize that name because I knew a guy by that name - a musician by that name - in my hometown! I made him rewind to see if I'd heard him right. Indeed I had. The bass player in Kevin's band was the guy I knew from Youth Fellowship in high school. I didn't know this guy well, but we had mutual acquaintances, most notably his brother, who I ran around with a little bit back home.

Small world.

It turns out these brothers are both now living where I now live. I looked up the one I knew on Facebook. (I do love me some Facebook.)

Tonight I was reintroduced to the other. (That's him in the plaid shorts and the white shirt, in case you were wondering.)

What a fun night.

Of course seeing someone you knew thirty odd years ago unexpectedly is a trip. (Not a 'drinking the water from the Small World ride' trip, but a trip all the same).

That was fun.

But it was a fun night all around. If it's not clear from the picture, this was a little community free concert. People came out with their lawn chairs and their blankets and hung out and listened to music in the park. I was not the only person there who kicked off my sandals. Well, technically, I was the only person who kicked off MY sandals. Other people kicked off their own sandals. Other people kicking off my sandals would've been silly. And weirdly less sanitary than going barefoot.


The wee ones put on a show of their own. They danced, they ran, they rolled down the hill. Is that not an excellent hill for rolling? Slightly older kids practiced their cartwheels and somersaults. Older kids still climbed trees and talked in the woods.

A toddler with the sweetest curls brought Tom and I into her ball game. Well, she started with me, but when she realized Tom would play, I disappeared. She was an eye-batter, that one.

I have never gone to one of these concerts before. Expect that to be rectified.

It was a perfect evening - temperate with a warm summer breeze. (Which did, indeed, make me feel fine. Thank you so much for asking.)

The band was so good. There was just so much talent - Tom and I recognized the keyboard player as the bass player in a jazz combo we used to see a lot. One of the guys had written an Emmy award winning jingle. He has an Emmy on his mantle. There was so much diversity - both in the genres they played and the talents they exhibited. Several people played different instruments. Most of them sang at least once. Crazy talent.

To the best of my knowledge they all have day jobs.

And Nickleback are millionaires.

Sigh.

You Gotta Have Friends

My daughter and her boyfriend need to be reminded to make time for their other friends. Sometimes strongly reminded. Sometimes forced. It's tempting for me to chalk it up to typical teen foolishness, but that would be short-sighted of me. I've known women - teenagers, young women, older women - women who certainly ought to know better - who get wrapped up in a new romance to the point of shutting out everyone and everything else. To my great chagrin, I have BEEN that woman on more than one occasion.

I am one of those women who says they're married to their best friend, and I mean that sincerely. Of course I love my husband. Of course he sometimes annoys me (living with someone who is not yourself is always going to get annoying at some point, no matter how much you love them). But I really like him, too. That's what makes me lucky. I hope you're in the same boat, or find yourself there one day. It's good.

But it's not enough. No relationship - not even a really really great one - can satisfy all of your social needs. I find myself at a place in my life right now where I'm really actively seeking same-sex friendships. I want that girl time. I've spoken to this before, perhaps to the point of tedium.

A couple years (decades) ago, my sister and I held a party for my parents 30th wedding anniversary. She was pretty much a newlywed at the time and I was as single as a gal could be. We watched our parents arrive at the party together. Very shortly after that, however, Mom was off with her friends and Dad was off with his. They came together, periodically, touching base, but for the most part they had completely separate experiences. I remember saying to my sister that very day, "Well, there we have it. The secret to a long happy marriage. Spend as little time together as possible." We had another party just a couple years ago to celebrate their 50th. It played out in much the same manner. I remember thinking after that one, "How wonderful! Since they both talked to different people and got different stories, they'll have plenty to talk about when the party's over".

Yep. I crave my girlfriend time. I need my girls.

My daughter needs to be reminded of the importance of that. It's far too easy to get caught up in the throes of young romance (even when it's between older people!). It's hard not to get caught up in the whole 'you and me against the world' mentality. It's romantic and it's wonderful. But it's not everything - and when you treat it as though it is, a lot of important relationships don't get nurtured. Romeo and Juliet wanted to take on the world, and look how that turned out.

When I was a newlywed, I certainly bought into it. I think you're supposed to. Honeymoon period and all that. Since I was older when I got married, a lot of my friends had already been married a long time. They took separate vacations. They still took together vacations, but they took separate vacations, too. I remember thinking Tom and I were golden because we would never do that. If there was time off to be had, we wanted to have it together. That was fine for OTHER people, but we had something just a LITTLE bit better than that. Just a LITTLE stronger. Then it happened. Tom wanted to go away for a weekend that didn't interest me at all. I didn't give in; he didn't give it up. I cried as I watched him pull out of the driveway. We were no longer golden. We were just like everybody else. Soon thereafter I had my first little solo outing.

It was revitalizing.

It made things better rather than worse.

Who knew? (apparently a whole lot of people - but it was a eureka moment for me)

How do you satisfy your need for girl-time (or boy-time, if you're one of my rare and beloved male readers)? What advice would you offer to a young girl trying to figure out that balance (and not even sure she wants to)? How important are your friends (aside from your spouse) to you? Do you like everyone you love?

Talk to me! I need you!

The Happiest Place on Earth

I'm going to continue giving you little stories on Thursdays until you tell me to stop. I'm trying to think of a clever little name for my story Thursdays, but I'm drawing a blank. If anyone thinks of anything, they would have my sincere appreciation! Here's another one my mom isn't aware of! I think 30 odd years later she can handle it, though. I think the statue of limitations is up. She can't ground me anymore, anyway...

I first visited Disney World in the spring of 1978, just a few years after it opened, with my marching band. This trip marked both my first flight in an airplane and my first stay in a hotel. We were camping folk, there had never been a need. I dutifully made my bed every morning, to the great amusement of my more worldly roommates.

I'm quite certain that it goes without saying that I was extremely excited. It probably also goes without saying that 'extremely excited' is understating it a bit.

Young? Check. Cute? Check. Uncharacteristically free from parental supervision? Check. This was a recipe for bliss. Just add The Mouse and enjoy liberally.

All the candy bars, magazines and light bulbs (yes, light bulbs) I'd sold to finance this trip were finally paying off. I was in Florida. In April. With my best friends. In the almost brand spankin' new self-proclaimed happiest place on earth.

There was no downside.

We explored Frontierland, Adventureland, Fantasyland and Tomorrowland thoroughly, as a pack of squeaky squealy teenaged girls. We expected wonder at every turn and we were usually not disappointed. We laughed until our sides ached, developing and nurturing inside jokes that continued to insure a giggle months after we'd returned home.

We marched in the afternoon parade and, as a part of this endeavor, were treated to a peak at backstage Disney. *shudder* We never spoke much of that. We saw characters without their heads on. They were, for the most part, excessively pimpled teenagers. It was like watching Jim Henson speak for Kermit. You know he's there, but you don't want to think about it. Very disillusioning. I shall speak of it no more.

Later that year, over the summer months, our family took another trip to Disney World with family friends. Now, having been there myself only months before, I considered myself sort of an expert on all things Disney. I didn't mind sharing my expertise. I'm a giver like that. I spent a lot of time assuring my travel companions that they needn't worry, I'd show them around. I had, if I haven't made it quite clear, a sort of inflated sense of self-importance about the whole affair.

The night before we were to head to Disney we were staying at a beach not far away. I snuck out of the camper once everyone was asleep to go to a bar. I was nearly sixteen and the drinking age in Florida at the time was eighteen. It was no problem at all to pass. It was a great bar on a pier right over the ocean. I don't remember the name of it, but I do remember that their claim to fame was their Bahama Mama. Drink three of 'em and you could write whatever you wanted on the wall. They made a damn fine Bahama Mama, I must say. At least by the standards set forth by my almost sixteen year old palate. I think I wrote something to that effect on the wall when I earned my turn with the Sharpie.


I returned to camp and no-one was the wiser.

That's not entirely true.

Dave knew.

Dave was the eldest of our friends' kids - which still put him at two years younger than me. Dave was not adverse to a little blackmail among friends.

Now anyone who's downed a couple few delicious fruity rum drinks in the course of an evening knows that the evening spent drinking them is WAY more fun than the morning spent recovering from them.

The families' plan was to be on the road early early so that we'd be at Disney when the gates opened. Not a huge problem for anyone but the drivers, since we were traveling in campers. Since the drivers had NOT snuck out to drink rum with boys the night before, it was not a problem at all.

MY problems began, as you can imagine, when I woke up. Looking good, feeling good. Dave whispered in my ear at the next rest stop, "Don't worry. I'm not going to tell anyone."

"And in return?"

"You wound me! I don't want anything in return! I just want you to spend the day with me at Disney. Show me the sights..."

"That's it?"

"Ride the rides with me..."

"I don't feel much like..."

"I sure would be sad if you didn't ride the rides with me. I can only hope I wouldn't let any information slip in my saddened state."

He had me by the short ones, kids. What choice did I have but to say yes?

We got to the park and developed a buddy system of sorts. My sister and Dave's sister would be buddies. Me, Dave, and his younger sister, Cass, would be buddies. Safety rules were discussed, tickets were distributed, meet up times were scheduled.

Being the senior member of my little group, as well as a self-proclaimed Disney expert, I assumed I'd be leading our little expedition. "I thought we'd start with..."

"Teacups" interrupted Dave.

"TEAcups?" I said, my eyes narrowing behind my dark shades and attempting to burn holes straight through him.

Cass started chanting, "Tea Cups! Tea Cups!" Dave joined in. Now this was just flat out playing dirty and he knew it. Cass was seven years my junior and I adored her. I could deny her nothing. Dave was not unaware of this fact. Teacups it would be.

Guess who took control of the wheel that controls the spinning in the teacups?


That was just the beginning of the price of Dave's silence.

He did what he could to torture the poor, stupid, know-it-all, hungover teen he held firmly under his thumb. But as a clear testament to the well-earned "Happiest Place on Earth" moniker, it was still a pretty darn good day.

Suck it, Dave.

Teacups indeed.