Friendships

I am blessed. When it comes to friendships I am truly blessed. I have friends from every part of my life: amazing relatives who I would choose as friends even if we did not share DNA, grade school friends (with whom I have been reacquainted thanks to Facebook), high school friends (thanks to Janie), college, and then throughout to my adult life.

I am not talking about fleeting friendships. Those friends that wander into your life for a brief period due to school, office or neighborhood affiliations.  The friends I speak of love me, because of me and...well...in spite of me. They love me regardless of all my faults and failings. That unconditional love is reciprocated to each and every one of them.  Again, I am thankful and blessed.

The best example of loving me in spite of me is Maggie. We have been there for each other for the past 19 years.  Together we have lived through raising 4 children, 2 divorces, money woes, jobs or lack thereof, depression, crushes, fear, illness, death, relationships, broken hearts, endless phone calls and most of all a friendship that will endure a lifetime. If I had a penny for every minute we spoke on the phone in the past 19 years, I would be a millionaire.  Although not wealthy, I am honestly richer in spirit because of her friendship. 

We always have each other's back. After her divorce, she could not afford to pay a speeding ticket.  She was experiencing a series of bad luck and I was afraid her license would be revoked if it was not paid soon.  So, although she did not ask for assistance, I paid her ticket.  However much money the ticket was has been repaid to me 1,000,000 times over. 

Maggie is my Wing Girl. Going on a first date?  One of us is on the other end of the phone suggesting clothing options and moral support.  Final words before hanging up are always, "Call me - no matter what time!  I want to know how it all went.  Love you!"  Especially for those blind dates, the "call me no matter what time" phrase is to make sure the other did not date the next Ted Bundy. Upon driving home from said date, Wing Girl is there to find out how the date went and if there will be date #2. 

Maggie is, in fact, one of my favorite dates. Whenever possible, we go out for dinner and a movie date. We laugh a lot(!), shop, eat, drink and go to the movies. We often joke that if one of us was the opposite sex we would be married by now.  Once we went to see "Confessions of a Shopaholic".  Maggie bought drinks before the movie and I planned to buy movie tickets and popcorn.  Unbeknownst to me there was a problem with my ATM card.  Earlier that day I tried to update my GPS maps through TomTom's website which is based in the United Kingdom.  There was a problem with their website.  After three attempts to update my GPS maps I gave up and decided to update them another day.  Yet, my bank decided someone had access to my VISA check card and was trying to use it in the UK.  They shut down all access until they could reach me.  They, unfortunately, neglected one small detail.  They forgot to call me and tell me that they were freezing my account.  Now I NEVER carry cash on me.  Carrying cash is completely against my religion.  So, we get to the theatre to see (again) "Confessions of a Shopaholic" (isn't the irony priceless?) and my check card does not work...at all.  Completely and totally declined.  Payday was the day before.  I knew there was money in there.  Money comes and goes quickly with me, but it sticks around for at least a weekend.

What could we do?  We laughed.   Maggie paid.

After 10 years of debate and countless field trips to tattoo parlors looking for the perfect Meg/Alexis angel, Maggie joined me on my tattoo field trip.  We laughed at all the different tattoos.  Seriously, naked angels with vampire fangs?  Obscene butterflies?  Not sure about you, but I believe butterfly bodies should not be phallic symbols.  Tattoo parlors are a strange and crazy world.  But with the two of us we had a blast.  After my angel was permanently affixed to my shoulder, Maggie was already asking what my next one would be.  Tattoos are rather addicting.  Most likely the Chinese symbols of "To Live, To Love, To Laugh."  The problem I initially had with that question is the same problem I have now.  Where to place those symbols?  Therefore, there have not been any more tattoo field trips, nor do I have Chinese symbols permanently adhered to my body. 

Maggie May knows everything about me...and I mean everything.  (Side note to the men I have dated:  OK...she does not know everything, but she does know as much about you as your best friend knows about me.)  I cannot lie, or bluff.  She was there for every episode of my life since 1991.  The one thing I can always and only be with her is real.  No fronts, nor falseness.   Occasionally there is bravado, but when I return to earth there is always laughter, or tears, over my false bravado. 

While taking pole dancing classes a couple of years ago, I called Maggie weekly on my way home to tell her about spinning, flipping, or about how strong and powerful I felt after my 2 hour workout.  I convinced her to come to an S Factor Open House so she could see first hand what this was all about.  After entering her name in a raffle, Maggie went home with her own stripper pole to install in her 1 bedroom Rogers Park condo.

We slid the 10' pole into my SUV. It went from my windshield, over the backseat and through the hatch.  We secured the pole with bungee cords and tied a red winter scarf on to the 1'-2' of extra pole sticking out of the car.  Once we got it into her back alley, attempting to get that dang long skinny box up two floors of a winding back porch staircase to her condo was a Lucy and Ethel moment like no other.  We dodged live (yes, live) electrical wires, almost dropped it when I was scared by a squirrel (I swear it was rabid), laughed till tears were streaming down our faces.  Of course I was in heels (aren't I always?)  Can you imagine if that pole actually hit a live wire, there would have been two crispy critter women (and possibly fried rabid squirrel) and many questions why we were trying to bring a pole dancing pole up to a 1 bedroom condo.  Questions would have been raised by many.  Those that know us would have shaken their heads and said, "We are not surprised."

When Mags decided she really could not store her winnings in her living room (on the floor, along the long wall, behind the T.V., stereo and chair) any longer, I offered to store it for her in my basement.  Which required us to return down two stories of the winding back porch staircase, again almost hitting live (yes, live!) electrical wires, (no squirrel this time) again laughing like idiots as we almost fried ourselves, again into my car where we slide it from windshield to hatch, tied a red winter scarf onto the last two feet of the box, secured it with bungee cords and I drove it down Lake Shore Drive to my house.  Once there, my accomplice, Katrina, helped me bring it through the garage, into the family room, pass my mother who was sleeping on the couch, down into the sub-basement and into our storage room.  Where it stayed until Maggie donated it (just last week) to a Harley charity raising money for ovarian cancer research.  The story is legend with my friends.  To this day, when the story is told I get tears in my eyes from laughing. 

Our friendship has seen the worst of me and the best of Maggie. Maggie is never mean, so I have never seen the worst of her. I have seen her at her saddest. And I have seen her angry.  But never at her worst because I truly don't believe she has "mean" built into her genetic code.  There are very few people in the world that possess pure kind souls.  I have been fortunate to meet a handful.  Maggie May is one of them.  When faced with a situation, I quite often ask, "What would my Maggie May do?".   Or "What would Maggie May think?" 

How many friends can laugh about the fact that I threw a clipboard at her?  Yes, I did.  Really.  Sad but true.  It is still the most embarrassing moment of my life, yet Maggie laughs about it.  When the subject comes up, I generally want to hide my head in the sand.  At the time I was frustrated in my job. My ex-husband was making my life miserable. I was angry, annoyed and irritated with everyone.  Actually, I was angry, annoyed and irritated with myself, but it was easier to be angry at the world.  I hated my life.  I had always wanted a career yet I knew my career was derailed due to single-parenthood with a toddler and pre-schooler.  Any career was going to be on the back burner for a number of years.  I love my children and would go through it all again to have them in my life, but at the time I could not see the forest for the trees.  I felt stuck with little options. 

If I remember right (because honestly, I've attempted to obliterate this moment of my life out of my memory), we were making audition phone calls for the theatre.  We had a clipboard for each day of auditions and I had the one she needed.  For whatever reason, instead of handing it to her, or flipping it onto her desk (our desks were definitely within handing and flipping distance), I threw the clipboard at her.  In my brain I meant to toss it, but there was definitely more throw than toss in my actions.  I don't know why I did it.  I never wanted to hurt her.  But in a burst of anger it went flying.  Maggie, fortunately, remained unscathed, yet I still remember the look of surprise on her face.  She teases me about it.  I remain mortified.

Yet, I am blessed.

There are endless stories involving many different friends.  Each one holds a special place in my heart. 

But if a friend can forgive me and still love me unconditionally for what could have been bodily injury, I am beyond fortunate.

Laughter

One of my earliest memories is about laughing. My Uncle Jim is a doctor (still practicing at 81 - God bless him!). When I was little he would visit us; chasing me around the house pretending to be a monster. He threatened to take me to live at the hospital where the nurses would take care of me. Most kids would be scared. And actually I was afraid of so many things as a child that I cannot believe I was unafraid of my uncle, or unknown nurses at an unknown hospital. Yet I remember my peals of laughter and giggles as I ran away; running just slow enough so Uncle Jim could catch me and throw me over his shoulder. I doubt I was more than 3 or 4, but that memory is etched in my brain.

I love that my kids make me laugh. We are talking full out, bust a gut, slide down the wall, can't catch my breath, afraid I am going to pee my pants, tears streaming down my face laughter. Although that kind of laughter does not occur every day, I love when it does. We laugh daily. If any of us attempted to explain why, no one would understand, but I am sure gonna try.

The laugh can be inspired by a look, a simple word, or action. The "I'm afraid I'm gonna pee my pants" laughter mentioned above was simply due to opening my daughter's bedroom door last winter to find her multitasking as usual. The room was dark except for the glow of her TV and a book light clipped to her headband so she could read and watch TV while being completely encased in blankets. (In the winter her room resembles a meat locker due to horrid windows.) I haven't a clue how she turned the pages of her book. With her nose? She must have known how silly she looked because her faced reflected the thought of being caught in the act of something extremely silly. It was the combo platter of a cold breeze hitting me in my face and the look on her face that sent me into giggles.

And, by the way, nothing is sacred and quite often irreverent. Putting dinner on the table, or dining together is generally where the laughter begins. We don't care if we have company. Join the jokes, puns and silliness. The more the merrier. Most times when we have company, we end up sitting around the dinner table (or venturing only as far as the living room) talking and laughing for hours. I love that about my family and friends.

Anyone who dines at our table holds a special place in my heart as they are about to witness my family at their most real and surreal. Few have entered this domain. No casualties reported yet because I am very careful of the guest list. There was a time when I worried as to who would share my life. Would they understand our dinner table antics are sacred to us? Would they criticize? I no longer worry because anyone I would invite over would know how to laugh, joke, join the ensuing silliness and keep up with witty repartee.

Once as I walked in the door from work, Kat was teaching Gramma how to drop it and pop it. Music was blaring and there was my daughter and mother dancing in the kitchen. Trina was encouraging Gramma to "work it". Wish I had a video camera at that moment in time, but honestly, I was laughing too hard and having too much fun watching my mom dropping and popping. The dancing was pretty good. She knows how to move. And I am fairly jealous.

Another time Trina made Adam laugh so hard (can't remember why) water spewed from his mouth. As it arched through the air and hit the floor the evening sun caught the jet stream creating a beautiful rainbow. Sunny D quite possibly came out of Trina's nose as she witnessed the rainbow. But then of course, she was all, "Do it again! That was SO cool." Yes, the source of our laughter is quite everything and nothing.

Last winter, it was just Trina, Gramma and I at the dinner table as Adam was in bed with the flu. Trina always makes me laugh, but this particular evening she was on a roll. It started out with Trina trying to convince Gramma to join a dating website for seniors. First off, my mother can't even figure out how to turn on the netbook we purchased for her, let alone attempt geriatric on-line dating. But that did not stop Katrina. She wanted Gramma to go bike riding with some senior "dude" she saw on a commercial. I suggested a pub crawl. Gramma thinks we are both nuts.

Kat then told me the senior "dude" on the bike looked like he was in his fifties. Uh...gee...thanks hon...senior dude?...you are hitting a little too close to home for this 48 year old mom...so I grounded her. She laughed at me.

We then started gossiping about seniors that were currently dating. Katrina is sure there is a senior somewhere in Gramma's circle of friends that would be a great match. Gramma is sure her only current mission in life is to live vicariously through her grandchildren. Katrina suggested Gramma raise her expectations as their lives are not interesting. We then all agreed my dating life was completely snooze inducing. Can you feel the love?

Katrina, Adam and I banter constantly. One liners fly back and forth. Sadly, if the batteries in Gramma's hearing aides are not fully juiced she misses much of the rapid fire comments flying around the table. I spend a lot of time explaining what just happened which is often lost in translation, forcing me to miss out on the latest bit of insanity.

Although Adam is not quiet, and quite funny on his own, his sister over powers him in most scenarios. He is generally the straight man playing off of her lunacy. Desi to her Lucy. One of Katrina's favorite phrases is Mother Flower when she is angry. Adam stole the phrase when crabby about something. The next thing I heard was Katrina yelling, "Mom...Adam said Flower". I don't care what Adam was angry about, her stupid comment made him forget his troubles...for a moment.

Katrina's friends are surprised how the kids and I speak to each other. Yes, I know that I am the parent and they are my children. People remind me all the time that I am not their friend, but their parent. Thanks for the news flash folks. We do know. But honestly, I LOVE my kids. We have fun. My parenting style may be different, but I think I get the job done. And no one has been arrested...yet.

I have never condoned name calling. To me that is just rude. But being siblings, the phrase Dork or Idiot flies through the air on occasion. They never name call their Gramma or I. But they often tell me I am a Geek. I happily agree and am rather proud of the moniker. So, when Trina called me a Geek one day, a friend of hers was appalled. I explained to the boy whose English paper I was proofing that I am admittedly one and I happily embrace my inner geekiness. I get giddy over algebra homework. What can I say? They repeatedly tell me that I am whacked. This poor kid said his mother would have killed him for that remark. His mother obviously had a sense of humor-ectomy.

We have a sign in the dining room that is perpetually crooked. No matter how often I try to straighten it, it tilts to the left. I've given up. The sign reads, "Blessed are we who can laugh at ourselves as we will never cease to be amused." The slightly skewed sign is how I prefer to look at life. The fact that it won't hang straight on the wall is a metaphor for life. Nothing is as it seems and one can always tip a situation; finding humor behind it. Honestly we are often amused.

About 2 years ago my best friend Maggie won a pole dancing pole in a raffle at S Factor. Since her condo is not big enough to store it, I offered to keep it in our basement until she decided to either install it or sell it. It stayed in our basement unopened until she donated it to an auction raising money for ovarian cancer. But while it was still hanging out in our basement, one day while we were all dining on Chinese take out (yes, the best stories happen at our house over a meal) my mom asked what that long skinny box was in our storage room. Honestly, how could I explain a stripper pole to my 79 year old mother and why we were storing it? My response was, “It’s a pole…of sorts”. Considering Katrina was my accomplice when bringing the pole into the house, sneaking it through the garage, into the basement, passing my mother sleeping on living room couch and down the steps into the sub-basement and storage room, Katrina's shrimp fried rice flew across the room. I have never seen her laugh THAT hard. Gramma accepted the "pole of sorts" response; never questioning whether it was a light pole, coat rack, stripper pole.

Later that evening, Trina's friends, Eric and Antoine, show up to devour our Chinese take out leftovers. Katrina starts telling them about my "pole of sorts" comment to Gramma. The teens attempt to convince me to install the pole in the basement. One of the boys asked, "Ma, do you realize you would be the coolest mom at LT?" Um...yeah...and...not in this life time. I really don't care that my daughter's social standing would increase exponentially. Not the notoriety we want...or need. They did create hours of laughter discussing our house as the party palace with one of the boys attempting to mimic pole dancing with a dining room chair. The woman across the street who loves to peek out her window must have LOVED that scenario. I kept the curtains open. Heck if Gladys Kravitz is going to watch our house, she might as well have something to talk about later.

After dinner Gramma generally retreats to the family room to watch Wheel of Fortune, so our laughter gravitates upstairs. The kids generally do homework, text their friends and watch TV in their rooms. I generally sit in the middle of my bed which is my "desk", work on real estate, pay bills, or write. My door is open and they wander in and out throughout the evening. Our little area in the house is where the laughter continues. Great memories have been created wandering between our three rooms.

Sometimes I don't see what is going on in their rooms, but I hear it. The other day, Adam, while going through an Emo phase, wanted to see what he would look like with eye-liner and convinced Trina to teach him how to apply it. What I could hear from the other room was a simultaneously stream of commands and complaints, "Hold still. Open your eyes...Open them...I said hold still...Aargh!...you're swaying...stop it." Adam's version was, "Ow...I'm not swaying...Ow!...They are open" Next, I heard, "Have Mom show you!" With that Adam appeared in my room looking like a lost puppy and only half eye-lined.

Later the same night, Trina stood in my doorway bopping to music. Mind you, no Ipod or ear buds were attached. The music she was listening to was completely in her brain. As I am quite use to this behavior, I asked, "What station are we listening to today?" Techno. I could not help but laugh. Here is a girl listening to her own cranial MP3 while her pony tail swayed to the beat. A little while later, I noticed a different beat of her head as she wandered into the hallway. All I have to do is raise an eye brow, or tilt my head and she'll tell me the latest genre playing their top 40 list. It ranges from Punk, Techno, Oldies, Classic Rock, Country, etc. Once she told a friend it was Mozart. One thing for sure, my baby girl wouldn't know Mozart from Beethoven, but her comment had the intended effect of wonder.

There are endless stories of laughter and silliness. No one ever said life was going to be easy. But I honestly believe if you take what is thrown at you, find the humor in the situation and parlay it back to the universe wrapped in laughter you will live a happier existence.

Enjoy the moment.

Seize the humor.

Laugh.

God Humor

Dear God, You are a funny, funny Deity. You bring Almighty Humor to a whole new level. You probably hear that all the time, though! Right? Unless of course I am the only pawn You like messin' with. Please tell me that You do mess with others.

Please...tell me.

It would be way too presumptuous of me to think that I, out of millions and millions, could possibly be singled out in this laugh track You call Life. But since You keep messin' with me there must be something that holds Your interest. Is it my comedic timing? Or the fact that I just keep making the same stupid mistakes over and over and over...? Am I the real life equivalent to Lucy? If so, who is my Ethel? And can't I be Marilyn for a change? Do You sit back with a bowl of popcorn and a coke while chaos erupts around me?

While I am asking a million questions, Lord, may I ask why, Dear God? Why? Am I dense? Really? Are there lessons I keep refusing to learn?

Oh...hmmm...yes, I do remember that incident...which I then repeated that mistake a year or two later...ugh...and then there was...OK...hmmm...are You going to hold that one against me too? Oh...OK...never mind. No need to answer that question. I got the picture. But I don't mean to be obtuse when it comes to life lessons. You're not buying that one, right? Maybe I'm just a slow life learner?

While my plate is full to overflowing, You enjoy wreaking havoc in all areas of my life: financial, employment, social, health, familial. Am I missing any? Oh, yeah, the one area in which You seem to take great delight in creating cataclysmic proportional chaos is my dating life. My dates are so few and far between. Yet once one potential gentleman (victim?) arrives You throw me a curve ball which I never see coming. As You know my life resembles a tornado, hurricane or earthquake (pick a natural disaster...any natural disaster), so I am rather discriminating in my dating choices. Only the McGyver types who are resourceful enough to survive a tsunami with a palm leaf and string are allowed into my inner sanctum. If they are not resourceful, take pity on their poor clueless souls as they enter my life.

In all seriousness, I refuse to waste my time if there is not even a glimmer of potential, or possibility. It's not like I have a 100 point questionnaire they must complete. My requirements are not lengthy at all: intelligent, kind, funny, honest, creative and passionate in their convictions. If they make me laugh as well as think, well, I am done for. Totally done for. Bonus points for cute. Yet it seems that even when they arrive, something happens and the relationship crashes and burns faster than a car at Indy.

WHY?!?!

Although I did my fair share of ruining relationships, I will not take the fall on all of them. Seriously, excluding this year, think about the last two men You sent my way. It was over 18 months ago. Do You remember the guy from Match who thought date number one would end up in a booty call and was pissed when it did not? Seriously, one dinner at Big Bowl does not a booty call make. If it was Spiaggia, Tru, or Alinea there may have been a moment of pause, or consideration, without any follow through mind You (it was date #1 after all). But it was Big Bowl. So, no pause. No consideration. And no thank you. Did he expect that with every woman he met? Only You know for sure. With that thought in mind, eeewww!...is all I can say.

Then Lord, remember the nutjob who wanted me to take a personality test so he knew how to react to me? The saddest part of that one is I complied with said stupid test. Around date three, he informed me I was reacting a certain way to something he said because I am a #2 and he is a #7. No, I was reacting that way because his behavior to someone else was rude and obnoxious. If he could treat someone he knew for years that way, how would he treat me down the road? I could never keep the number stuff straight anyway. I'm good at algebra, not psychological accounting. God...You were there...You know I am not making this stuff up.

While I have Your attention, may we chat about another item...or two? Can You please stop sending married men my way? If they have issues (and don't we all have issues?) either give them the strength and clarity of thought to fix their marriage, or have them call me after the ink dries on their divorce decree. This is not an unreasonable request.

The final topic comes to mind after recently commiserating with a broken hearted friend. When presented with a Porsche, why do people choose a pick-up? If they have the option of driving a BMW, why hook up with a trailer? It truly boggles the mind. All of my questions and rants can be attributed to both sexes. Do people feel they are unworthy of a Porsche or BMW? Are they afraid of the commitment and responsibility to care for said vehicle? If You tell me that it is for the thrill of driving a different car, I am going to have to find alternate metaphors as a pick-up or trailer do not equate a thrill ride. And You my Dear Lord, are the only Benevolent Being able to answer these questions.

I am looking for the man who wants to care for and be proud of his Porsche. Doesn't it make sense that I am a bit gun shy?

I keep hoping You will send someone my way that will allow me to enjoy life for a bit and forget about all the other scenarios with which You keep thumping me on the head. Between financial woes, a mom who takes wacky behavior to a whole new level, single parenthood, career frustrations, semi-annual health tests, and an insane ex-husband, my plate is as over filled as a Thanksgiving feast. I am not looking for someone to take those things away from me. They are my issues with which to rectify.

What I could use is a little TLC. Someone with whom to enjoy an evening out so I can forget about the above for a short while. A phone call, or text, to see how my day is going is always an added bonus. I recently enjoyed those. They are quite wonderful. The last gentleman You sent my way made life lovely. He was total mind candy...intelligent conversations that stimulated my brain. A great sense of humor. Late night phone calls. And massive bonus points in the cute category. Getting ready to go out was exciting again. I forgot what it was like to feel my heart race when I received a text, or saw his name pop up on my caller ID. It was like a mini shot of espresso from my heart to my toes. A pretty terrific feeling. It was fun to smile out of the blue when thinking of him. And it was so nice to be thought of as desirable again. It had been so long since I was seen that way. I was beginning to wonder if it was still possible. Lord, things were looking up for the first time in a long time. Now, my phone is a bit too quiet. Why did it get complicated?

This is not a complete bitch session. You bring very interesting men to my life. I learn alot from each one. The good ones are always creative in some capacity. Do You realize three have been musicians? Of course You did. Otherwise, You would not be You. I even inspired a song which is currently on a CD. My one little claim to fame. But You knew that as well. I am very thankful for each experience as they shaped me into the person I am today. My only concern is that although You bring very interesting, creative men into my life, You hold them just out of reach like a carrot, or bunny, to a race horse.

Lord, I am so flippin' tired of everything in my life being out of reach. I often feel like said race horse running in circles; never quite reaching my goals. Scholastically, I have always been an over achiever, yet in my adult life I seem to be achievement challenged. WHAT am I doing wrong?

I was recently told that I was beautiful and light up a room. And that I should never feel bad or lacking about anything. Yet some how, some way, I always feel as if I am...lacking that is. The feeling tends to come from insecurities created by Life Lessons slapping me upside the head at the most inopportune times.

It would be great if a McGyver-type was as ready for a relationship with me as much as I am ready for a relationship with him. I want to be #1 in someone's life. Someone who equally twitterpates my heart; as I his. Is that too much to ask? Seriously? Lord, it is what I need. Not want. Need. There is just too much chaos around me. Something simple and beautiful would be wonderful. While in wishful thinking mode, if he arrived at the door with a bouquet of wild flowers, lavender and daisies I'd be exceptionally thrilled. But I won't get greedy. Twitterpated hearts rank above lavender and daisies, but lavender and daisies are simple, thoughtful and quite lovely.

Lately, I am very much trying to go with the flow, enjoy the journey and see where it all leads. But honestly, can You help with a little positive Divine intervention? Please? I am so lost; a little celestial GPSing would be wonderful.

It would be great to walk into a relationships with a wide open heart. Completely unjaded and fearless. If we reduced love to mathematical equations they would resemble the following:

Guarded heart + Jaded = Bad Relationship

Open heart + Honesty + Truth = Good Relationship

My intentions always start out with the second equation. Maggie, my biggest cheerleader, always tells me, "This is your year. I know it. I can feel it." She has been saying it since 1998. (Thank You by the way for at least keeping Maggie in my life. She keeps me sane.) Something tells me she will be confirming that "This is my year" on my deathbed.

I am all about the good relationship equation. The person becomes my friend. We enjoy each other's company. We start to care about each other. But even as I am working the whole open heart thing, something happens. Either with him. Or with me. It can be a variety of somethings, but You tend to enjoy the ex-girlfriend scenario. It is Your favorite storyline, isn't it? You always put a different spin on it, though. Just to keep things interesting? Us pawns are happy to oblige, but it is getting a little old. Can we try something different? Will You let me catch the carrot for once and let me enjoy a real relationship for a change? That is MY requested scenario.

But when the "something" happens, those old insecurities pop into my brain. The heart hardens a bit. It starts locking up rather than opening. The wall that was torn down starts to be re-built with a little barbed wire added for effect. What seems so simple gets all complicated when hearts (his and mine) have been previously eviscerated, skewered and run through a meat grinder. Ok...meat grinder may be a bit dramatic, but it paints an adequate picture. Let's try a novel approach to my relationships. How about one that is happy, fulfilling and long lasting? By the by, long lasting is a relative term. Give me a relationship that will last a season...three months...with an option to renegotiate the contract at the end of 90 days. Can You give me that and find someone else to irritate for a bit? Please? (You do realize my request is asked with the utmost respect?)

Lord, I do understand though, that if I was the right woman, the ex-girlfriend, or other scenarios, would no longer matter. One of the hardest lessons I ever learned is that no amount of "girl tricks" (as a friend once called them) will entice a man for any length if I am not the right one. See, my brain is not complete cement. I do listen...grudgingly...on occasion.

My guess is that You keep thumping me on the head because I am missing some other very basic and obvious signs. Which means that I am almost hopelessly beyond dense. Are You honestly sending me signs that I just ignore? If so, can You create neon ones with pointy arrows that flash? How about big billboard signs in the middle of the sidewalk? Lasers are fun and generally get my attention. Could You add some lasers? Lasers with sound effects are even better. Fireworks? Sky writing? Smoke signals?

I might notice one of those...or not...

Final revisions 4/5/10

Making a Difference - The Ripple Effect

Over the past couple of months I have been fortunate enough to reconnect with various friends and relatives over dinner. Whether these women are sorority sisters, friends from college, cousins, or past colleagues they may appear ordinary to anyone unaware of their accomplishments. But to see their resumes, or hear their stories, they are the rock stars of extraordinary. One has her doctorate, two have run a theatre, a couple could be classified as marketing gurus, one started her own jewelry business which now boasts a star studded clientele. Others excel at their chosen field while some chose family over career; raising children and now contemplating about their next step once their children are grown. Their resumes may be varied, but they all share an intelligence and sense of humor that is mind boggling. They stimulate my mind and make me laugh all within one conversation.

I am in awe of these women and am so thankful to have them in my life. Their accomplishments are jaw dropping. Yes, I have my own accomplishments. But it seems as if somewhere along the way, I was supposed to go straight but ended up making a left turn instead. Ironically, having always been directionally challenged, my broken internal GPS is a metaphor of my life.

As a child I could not wait to grow up. I wanted to be free and independent. It was important to me that I not rely on anyone else. Some how, some way, at a very early age, I learned that the only person one could really depend on was oneself. Everyone else in my life tended to disappoint.

My plan was to move out as soon as possible. I wanted independence even before I knew how to spell the word. I knew the type of house I would buy. It was a white tiny Victorian with a red door, a beautiful floral garden and white picket fence. With a JC Penney catalogue in hand, I would curl up in a family room chair for hours and mark everything necessary for my future home. Furniture pages were dog eared, kitchen gadgets circled, bedspreads and curtains marked. My home was going to be perfectly JC Penney-esque. Now, I prefer a Bloomingdales or Pottery Barn existence, but at 10 my world was all about JC Penney.

Sadly, life got in the way. Pretty soon I found myself following other people's expectations for my life; ignoring my own inner voice and giving in to the other person. It was so much easier in life than to argue for what I wanted. Slowly that Victorian house with it's red door and white picket fence was a distant dream.

I lived my life as the "perfect child"; consistently achieving excellent grades and honor roll acknowledgements. Please understand, I was NOT the perfect child. I was spoiled, selfish and greedy. My brothers will be the first to attest to that statement. I also did anything my parents asked of me. I never rebelled. Actually, I did not know that option existed. In college my over achiever status continued because I knew it made my parents happy. As my GPA rose my weight diminished. My focus and determination subsequently caused my battle with anorexia and bulimia.

Following the expectations of others has plagued me through my life: in my marriage, while raising children, while living with my mother, in every company I have ever been employed. While blindly following the expectations of others I consistently ignored my inner voice. The rare times I did listen to that voice, the masses were so surprised that I spent too much time justifying my actions. Eventually, it was easier to fall back on obeying everyone else's thoughts about how my life should be run. I chose the easy road - not the one less traveled.

Maybe because it is the end of the decade that I am thinking about regrets vs. accomplishments. Maybe it is due to my health scare last year. Maybe my life could have been different. Every choice made in life walks us down an unknown path oblivious to where the other roads may have led. Would our life have been better for making one choice over another? Maybe, but what is the point in wondering what if? Would my life be that much different had I chosen Pi Phi's over Tri Sigs? Many of the women mentioned above would then be missing from my life and I cannot imagine that fact at all. My mother, a very pragmatic women, once mentioned that if I chose one road vs. another the above questions would be a mute point as I would not know what I was missing. There would be other rock-star intelligent women bringing other gifts into my life. Still, I know and love these rock-star intelligent women and do not want to imagine my life without them.

I have never been a fan of "shoulda, woulda coulda" thinking. Maybe the life I led, brought me to where I need to be with the knowledge necessary to go forth. There was a time in my life when I selfishly forced paths. Looking back, each time I "forced" something, the Universe slapped me upside the head because whatever I was forcing was not in my best interest. The list is quite lengthy and each Universal slap was well deserved.

In a conversation with my cousin Deirdre, she mentioned how she wanted her career to make a difference. That thought impressed me and has stayed with me. The question then becomes what is making a difference? That is a highly personal answer and different for everyone. Grant writing makes a difference in various lives. Educators make a difference thousands of times over. Musicians, members of the military, doctors and attorneys all make a difference. Each difference is in the eye of the beholder.

After repeatedly making left turns in my life, I want to make a difference. I am unsure what that difference is going to be but know I have the capacity and intelligence to follow through once my mind is made up. Does making a difference start with only breaking down in tears one evening in a week because there was too much week and too little money? Does that breakdown cause me to discover alternative plans and actions to have more money than week?

Or does making a difference mean that I may be ordinary, but raised intelligent thought provoking children who may make a difference in the world. Maybe my part in making a difference is rearing the ones who actually will make a difference. Does that count? Or is that cheating? Is the verbal vomiting in my blog making a difference somewhere in cyberspace? I can only hope that something I have done, written, or someone I have assisted, has gone on to make a difference in this world. Yet, I too, want - no need - to make my own difference. But what will that be?

What I do know is that we all have a responsibility to the world in which we live. A responsibility to help others grow to be strong caring, loving individuals who know the world is just a little better due to our participation. To have existed for naught makes no sense to me. Everyone has a purpose. Each person starts their own ripple; effecting so many people.

What is my ripple?

Alien Being in my Boob - Part II

This month is the one year anniversary of my benign alien being's eviction. Fortunately he stayed Dr. Jekyll; never reaching Mr. Hyde status. Yet, even upon eviction this alien being had the ability of wreaking havoc on my life and making me more than a little crabby. Surprisingly, he gets to continue this course of action into the unforeseen future. It appears that Dr. Jekyll had Hyde aspirations; leaving a calling card of precancerous cells lurking in the area. Not your typical non-worrisome precancerous cells...well as non-worrisome as typical precancerous cells can be...but the over-achievers of precancerous cells.

Part of me pictures these evil little wannabe cells wearing doo-rags and black leather jackets, leaning against light poles on a street corner and smoking cigarettes; tricking my body into making trades with healthy cells for Wannabes. The other part, pictures them as nerdy evil over achievers with big black round plastic rimmed glasses, huge reference books under their noses and perfect ACT scores figuring out ways to morph into malignancy.

For those that want to get all scientific, the Wannabes were labeled atypical ductal hyperplasia (ADH). Precancerous cells on steroids. The Arnold Schwartzenegger of Wannabes. Why has over achievement continually plagued my life? The articles on ADH can make one more than a bit apprehensive. Google, with its plethora of sites, became my friend and enemy this past year. Some sites state the chances of getting breast cancer from Wannabes is 400%. Others offer no percentages, but state ADH places one at a much higher risk. Regardless, I spent the past year thinking I'm cancer free, but...

That's the difficult part. Why can't I be just cancer free? No buts. I KNOW we all have cancer cells in our body. If we nourish our body properly, our body is supposed to fight them off. I KNOW my tumor which had staked it's claim, installed plumbing, had personality and played hide and seek was evicted and benign. I KNOW all these things. But, seriously, if a surgeon evicts benign aliens from your breast, there should not be any buts.

That is where my dilemma arose. I was not trying to make mountains out of mole hills (and that is not a breast joke.) This whole year I have been torn between being extremely thankful and wondering if I am more like the spoiled kid at Christmas who did not get everything she wanted. Is it OK to be thankful yet crabby over my diagnosis? Everyone will have a different opinion. I am not ashamed to admit I want it all. Is that human nature? I want a perfect diagnosis and zero alien beings or Wannabes residing in my breasts, or any other part of my body. If you were given the choice, you would probably agree.

These questions formed my tenuous but interesting relationship with my surgeon. My guess is that we mutually consider the other to be a huge pain in the arse, or pita. Initially, he was quite considerate, now he seems more annoyed. On the Thursday after my surgery, the day my pathology report was to arrive, I waited around anxiously. No phone calls. Feeling like the wall flower waiting for her phone to ring, I finally took a deep breath and called the surgeon's office just before their office closed for the day. His nurse apologized. Dr. Pita was still in surgery and she really did not know when he would be out. She confirmed that my pathology report arrived but he needed to speak with me about it. (GULP!) She suggested that I would not hear anything until the next day. I could appreciate the explanation. How can one be crabby when he has someone else opened up on an operating table. It's not like he was out playing golf. Although I wanted to know the results, he was a bit pre-occupied at the moment and another few hours were not going to change the outcome.

Although not expecting to hear from him at all, he called me a couple of hours later because he did not want me to worry another night. No cancer was found. My alien being was duly evicted and benign. Hallelujah!! Yippee Skippee!! Praise the Lord and all that jazz!

BUT...

But?

He then explained about the Wannabes. He stated we would discuss treatment options at my surgical follow-up appointment next week. Hmmm...my benign, yet rude, alien being was evicted, yet I still required treatment? He explained a little more about the Wannabes, mentioned Tamoxifen (the wonder drug of breast cancer patients) and then said good night. Well, now that left a million questions swimming in my brain.

Although confused, I was thrilled about zero cancer. I did not even give the Wannabes too much consideration. I was literally on a manic high. No cancer! Wow! I NEVER went to sleep that night. Not one minute. I was up the whole day Friday as well. I could not even nap. It was if there was a surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins. After being awake 41 hours and hallucinating the face of a cherub, I finally crashed at 1AM on Saturday morning.

I joked that I was fine with weekly mammograms if it meant no cancer. I kept repeating to myself, "No Cancer! I'm healthy!" Whew!

But then I Googled...read about the Wannabes...and then about Tamoxifen, its side affects and other treatment options...

Armed with 3 pages of questions in my notebook, my surgeon met with me for 20 minutes at most. In layman's terms, there were some precancerous cells checking out the territory, planning a coupe, but they were evicted with the tumor. Because of those snarky Wannabes, although cancer free, the "girls" and I are now, forever and always, considered risky. Although I prefer my breasts to be thought of as risque, anyone would take risky over the "other" alternative. I am very fortunate. My incision was healing nicely. All the stitches were internal and the outside was Superglued together. Interesting. I felt a little like a cut and paste project. I have to admit, the swelling was an added benefit. Both breasts swelled and I then knew what it is like to actually be voluptuous...even if was short lived. Katrina even joked, "Welcome to my world, Mom!"

Dr. Pita and I discuss my treatment options. We will meet every 4 months for the next year. A week prior to seeing him, I will have a diagnostic mammogram (breast squashed to crepe status). Once the report is sent to him, we will meet and he will conduct an ultra sound at my visit. Oh joy! Can't wait to start scheduling the appointments! I am already mentally tabulating how much time I will take off work since neither his schedule, nor the hospital's diagnostic mammogram schedule is conducive to one working single mom. The hospital only conducts one diagnostic mammogram per day at 9:45AM Monday - Friday. He only sees patients on Monday, Wednesdays and Fridays in the morning. Well, this will become a logistical nightmare. Regardless, I'm healthy!

He then explains Tamoxifen. It truly is the wonder drug of breast cancer. Women who have breast cancer take this pill daily for 5 years and "poof" no more breast cancer. The medical field has since been treating women at high risk with Tamoxifen. The results have been quite promising. There is that high risk label again. Tamoxifen is a very cool and enticing option. It does throw you into early menopause. At 46 did I really want to throw myself into early menopause? Dr. Pita then explains the rest of the potential side affects: uterine cancer (slight risk), cataracts, deep vein thrombosis and strokes.

Can you imagine the PR spin Tamoxifen's marketing people put on this drug to convince the medical field it is the wonder drug for those at high risk? Dr. Pita informed me I am cancer free, yet he wants me to think about taking a drug that could potentially give me cancer, throw me into early menopause, give me cataracts, blood clots and a stroke. Not only would I be meeting with him on a quarterly basis, I'd be meeting my gynecologist regularly to insure Wannabes were not staging a coupe in my womb. Can you say jumping from the frying pan into the fire? At least my gynecologist has evening appointments. I decline his Tamoxifen offer. He suggests I learn more about it and we can discuss it again at my quarterly visit in January.

Can't wait!

By now, I am a nervous wreck. Dr. Pita has mentioned more than once I am high risk. He wants me on a wonder drug which scares the hell out of me. I want more answers. The other part of this nightmare that made me furious is that I wanted them to run tests on my right breast. Dr. Pita, nor the radiologist, were interested. Their reasoning was although I have been known to have pain under my right arm in the lymph node region, there wasn't a lump on that side and nothing showed up on the mammogram. Hello! McFly!! My alien being played hide and seek on my left side until you found it and it's blood supply in an ultrasound. You installed a GPS in it during the biopsy because he played hide and seek. He could have a twin alien taking up residence in my right breast. My arguments fell on deaf ears.

I followed up with my general practitioner as directed; explaining everything. I was angry and scared. I adore Dr. R. After explaining it all to him, not calmly mind you, he agreed that I should go for a diagnostic mammogram and ultrasound on my right side. Although not likely, if there was pain there could be something. He could have been appeasing me. I am sure my alternating between angry, calm and tears had nothing to do with it. Dr. R. admitted breast cancer was not his specialty. Because I had many legitimate questions about my newly appointed high risk label and Tamoxifen, he suggested I speak with an oncologist. I asked if that is what he would tell his sister rather than a high-strung patient. He reassured me that it would be the same information he would give his sister, wife, mother, etc.

It was not my intention, but my doctor dance card had never been so full. Someone mentioned that I seem to be seeing a ridiculous amount of doctors for having a benign tumor removed from my breast. She knew people with cancer that did not see as many doctors. My guess is a cancer diagnosis is cut and dry: diagnose cancer, remove cancer, treat with chemo/radiation, continue treatment until cancer is gone. Yet, that process requires many, many doctors.

My Wannabes threw me into a different category. Due to my HMO, follow-ups were required with Dr. R. Dr. Pita was required for search and seize of aliens and Wannabes. And because I had many questions about Wannabes and Tamoxifen it made sense to see an oncologist. If I jumped on the Tamoxifen band wagon then I would add my gynecologist to the already full dance card. This was not the type of popularity I wanted. Seriously, wall flower status was looking pretty good.

The choices on meeting my new oncology "dance partner" were December 24th, or January 12th. After quipping, "Nothing says Christmas like a little cancer discussion", I chose January; scheduling my diagnostic mammogram appointment a week earlier and as well as Dr. Pita's appointment immediately following. The oncologist was wonderful. He sat with me for a full hour; explaining my risks, my care, my family history which contains no breast cancer, but heavy on colon cancer and polyps. I took copious notes. Due to my family history, my oncologist states although considered high risk for breast cancer, I am even more at risk for colon cancer. Well, aren't you just the bearer of good news. As we closed the discussion he stated that I am an intelligent, well informed woman and I will make the best choice for me.

Seriously, I don't want to make any choices. Things would be much better if no choices needed to be made. My Cleopatra alter-ego, Queen of Denial, was emerging. I next meet with Dr. Pita. His first question upon walking in the room was why I had a diagnostic mammogram/ultrasound on my right AND left side. I explained. He stated that in the future he needs to conduct all ultrasounds on me. If he ever has to operate again, he needs to be the one behind the ultrasound. It took EVERYTHING I had to keep my composure. He condescendingly denied my right breast ultrasound request 3 months ago, yet he slapped my hand because I did not have him conduct the ultrasound Dr. R. ordered after my near nervous breakdown! That is when Dr. Pita confirmed his Pita status.

We again discuss Tamoxifen. I take copious notes, but explain that the drug gives me the heeby jeebies. If the Wannabes had reached Hyde status, I would definitely consider it. But by taking it now, the Wannabes could migrate to my uterus, reach Hyde status and hire additional recruits to wreak havoc on my blood, eyes and brain. Call me Crazy, but no thank you! By the time I left, we both consider the other one the biggest Pitas we have ever met.

I have friends that are pro Tamoxifen as well as con. Some swear by it others agree that it scares them as well. A family member in the medical field thinks I am crazy for not taking it. My ex-husband thinks I signed my own death sentence. If my choice turns out to be wrong, I will probably be more crabby for proving him right - but we won't think along those lines.

In April, I meet with Dr. Pita again. His next tactic is to inform me that because I refuse to take Tamoxifen I am no longer considered a preventative patient. We are now on a course for early detection. Is he trying to frighten me? It is slightly working, but I do not appreciate strong arm tactics. Again, if the Wannabes reached Hyde status, yes, I'd take the scary drug and meet with the rest of the doctors on my dance card at regular intervals. But to not have cancer and put something in my body that could cause cancer just seems ridiculous!

Now that I am considered early detection, my treatment consists of alternating between an MRI and diagnostic mammogram/ultrasound every 6 months. Just how much radiation am I putting in my body? Are we detecting cancer or are we creating it? As I leave, Dr. Pita's nurse mentions that scheduling a breast MRI can be a bit difficult, so I should start attempting to schedule it about 2 months before my next appointment. Uh...OK.

Silly, silly me. I thought it was difficult to schedule because the imaging department was so busy. I found out the real answer when I called to make my appointment. Not only do they schedule breast MRI's once a day at 10AM. A breast MRI can only be done between your 7th-14th day of your menstrual cycle. For one who is not regular (yours truly), this can be another logistical nightmare. Also, because the MRI is done with contrast, blood work needs to be done no more than 14 days prior but not less than 2 days of the procedure. You are kidding me, right?

This was now beyond a logistical nightmare...we were reaching clusterf**k status. Step one, guesstimate when my period was due. Step two, determine days 7 through 14 from guesstimate (highlight in yellow). Step three, remove all weekend dates and determine which left over days are potential days to take off from work. Step four, highlight potential days in pink. Step five, call to see if any of these dates are available. Step six, once scheduled (circled in red), count back two through fourteen days to determine blood work window. Highlight in blue. My calendar was very colorful. Step seven, pray guesstimate is correct. Prepare to call Central Scheduling if cycle does not coincide with guesstimate. The first attempt did not work well. My second attempt was juggled between vacation schedules at the office. Upon contacting Central Scheduling, they had the 12th and 14th day of my cycle open. I took the 12th. Whew!

The insanity continues. When I went for my blood work, the phlebotomist was confused by the order. While I called Dr. R.'s office to straighten everything out, she started working on another file. Once she had my correct blood work order, she started to enter it into the file on which she was working - not mine! I only caught the mistake when I realized the wrong doctor's name was on the computer screen. I questioned her. She looked quite surprised, but reassured me that my name was on the screen and pointed to the patient's name, Eileen. I reminded her my name was Mary. She was a very embarrassed phlebotomist. I called Dr. R's office a day or two later to make sure that my blood work had been completed correctly.

After my breast MRI, I met with Dr. Pita who no longer mentions Tamoxifen. We chat for all of 10 minutes. I leave with my order for a diagnostic mammogram in 6 months. Until told otherwise, this is my schedule. Whether it is a preventative program, or early detection, my plan is to remain healthy.

I am beyond fortunate that Wannabes were the only cells found. I know that. Although she is a survivor, I saw what colon cancer did to my mom. There are friends in my life currently living with cancer. Other friends are survivors. I have lost beloved friends and relatives to cancer. This is a club that I would prefer not to join. Not fond of their dues and initiation rituals. Yet the chaos that ensued this past year is the equivalent of a fun house at a carnival. Nothing is as it appears. Parts are scary. Parts are ridiculous. Conversations with doctors are akin to fun house mirrors reflecting distorted or unclear information.

I have learned more this year than I ever wanted to learn about breast cancer, Wannabes and treatments. I would have preferred living my life blissfully oblivious to their existence. I try to eat healthier. Yet reducing stress and increasing sleep continually eludes me.

The only remaining constant is I am in charge of my health care. No one else. I will make informed decisions about my treatment.

My body.

My health.

My rules.

Alien Being in my Boob

I still have not been able to completely wrap my head around this chain of events. And being the 21st century, I have serious doubts about modern medicine. Let me start at the beginning rather than my usual attempts to begin at the end and work my way backwards.

Last October, I met with a psychic who I reference often in this blog. Except for a few minor details, he has been fairly spot on in all areas. During my one and only reading with him, he mentioned that I was going to have a scare with regards to my breasts, but that it was all going to turn out OK. Let me tell you after the past month that phrase, "it's going to turn out OK" is the only thing keeping me going.

A few months ago I noticed a lump in my left breast. A procrastinator to the end, or possibly, due to the resurfacing of my alter ego, Cleopatra, Queen of Denial, I avoided the thought of setting up a mammogram appointment. As it turns out it would not have mattered (but I digress). The lump seemed to disappear on its own, so I did not rush making the appointment. I assumed it had to do with my menstrual cycle and never thought twice.

The hospital where I receive my mammograms is pretty terrific on sending late notices. I never wanted surgery at that hospital, but mammograms are OK. After the fourth late notice and an implied threat that Nurse Ratchet was picking me up at my house and dragging me to the hospital, I finally scheduled an appointment. Even the woman scheduling my mammogram commented that I was a few months behind. Impressive. They take "the girls" quite seriously. Of that I am thankful. Hopefully, their surgical techiques are as impressive as their mammogram follow-up. Although never wanting to have surgery there, guess where I am going?

Upon filling out the form pre-mammogram I answered the question of "Do you have any concerns regarding your breasts". Although tempted to state, "I always wanted to be a C cup", I refrained. Instead I listed the fact that I noticed a lump in my left breast, but could no longer locate it. The poor nurse almost went into apoplexy. "What!? You are only scheduled for a screening! We are not staffed with a doctor this evening. If you have a lump, we need a doctor here and a diagnostic mammogram." Wow! They DO take "the girls" seriously. I assured the nurse that it was OK. I stated that the lump seems to have disappeared, so I was not too worried. Since I was wrapped in a false sense of security that mammograms see everything, I was fine with a screening; assuming that if there really was a lump it would show up. Silly, naive woman am I! My mammogram came back perfect. Two healthy breasts. Obviously, one was lying!

A couple of weeks later, I noticed the lump again. My stomach sunk a bit, but my mammogram was fine. No worries. Telling myself it was nothing, I called the nurse at my doctor's office. Candice suggested I come in. My doctor finds the lump as well and sends me for a diagnostic mammogram and ultrasound.If anyone is unsure of a what a diagnostic mammogram is, think of it as your breasts being flattened to the size of a crepe. OK, maybe that is a slight exaggeration. Your breast is flattened to the size of a pancake. Once we hit pancake status, my lump decided to reveal itself; obviously afraid of "popping" if the technician flattened to crepe status.

So, I have a lump that likes to play hide and seek. Great! My alien being has personality. I would not expect anything less. They kindly escort me to another room where I will have an ultrasound. The nurse/technician comes in and positions me on a table. Pours warm (thank you) gel on my left breast and proceeds to look for my "something". Which, obviously afraid of being squashed again, had not gone back into hiding. The nurse measures my lump on the ultrasound screen and informs me that she is going to bring in the doctor. The doctor comes in, introduces herself and proceeds to scare the ever loving shit out of me. After looking at the screen, she points to my something that I am seriously hoping is a nothing, and proceeds to show me where my something has developed its own blood supply. Not only has my something moved in uninvited, played hide and seek, but acquired plumbing?! How rude! Sadly though, the doctor is in dire need of a course in Interpersonal Communication and Bedside Manner 101.

I know I tend to become hyper and wiggy all on my own. I also admit to taking artistic liberties at times, but what I am about to write is the God's Honest truth! While the doctor is pointing at my alien, she says, "It's formed a blood supply. See right there...a blood supply. Hmmm...a blood supply. Tell me, have you lost any unexplained weight recently?" "Uh...no" is my only response, as my stomach starts to slowly sink again and I am sincerely thankful for not having lost the last 10 pounds I've been carrying around since Adam's birth 13 years ago. "I'd like to biopsy this immediately. What kind of insurance do you have?" At that sentence, the nurse pats my knee and says, "It's going to be OK, sweetie. Don't worry."

Really wasn't worried until Doc opened her mouth. Once they learn I am on an HMO, they state that they are sorry, but an immediate biopsy is impossible. I am to speak with a breast cancer case worker and they will schedule a time convenient for me and my HMO. Have I ever mentioned how much I despise our health care system? So, my something that I am seriously hoping is a nothing, is actually a potential something which needs to be biopsied immediately, BUT because my HMO requires pre-authorization my immediate biopsy needs to wait 4 days. This scenario makes as much sense to me as the terms buffalo wings and liberal republicans. Our health care system is in dire need of serious reform. But that is a blog for another day.

After getting dressed, I am escorted to my breast cancer case worker, Kathie, a very friendly personable woman with whom I immediately feel comfortable. She tells me that she is a survivor and not to worry. The advancements in research are amazing. Woah! We have not yet determined that my something is a something. I'm still holding strong to the hope that my something is a nothing. Albeit a very rude something for wreaking a ton of havoc within a very short period of time. I listen to what she says, and nod appropriately, but honestly my memory of the conversation is akin to listening to the adults talk in Peanuts cartoons, "Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah."

I leave the hospital with my appointment for my immediate biopsy at the end of the week and a folder with my case worker's business card. Can this truly be happening to me? Surreal...completely and totally surreal...

Folks, it is about to get weirder.

I call home to tell my mom. No matter what age you are, when you are scared, you want Mom. My mom, although knowing why I was at the hospital, answers the phone saying, "I was just walking out the door to by a dryer. Ours will cost over $500 to fix." "Uhm...OK...I just wanted to let you know that I am going in for a biopsy on Friday. They want to biopsy the lump." "OK...Friday? OK. I'm going to go buy the dryer." "Uh...OK. Bye!"

Now, my mom has a way of never showing emotion unless something is extremely funny or you have her so pissed off her blood pressure is off the charts. I've seen it happen - the blood pressure off the charts thing. I've caused it to happen. My brother's have too. So have my children. It's not easy, but it's possible. It's the Irish in her. As my grandfather use to tell her, "Good Irish children don't cry." Interpretted as, never show emotion. Thank, God I have some Italian in me! But, I honestly thought there would be some reaction to a biopsy. Maybe she was in a hurry to catch a special sale at Sears. Maybe she had not wrapped her head around it. Maybe you don't worry until there is something to worry about, which is my mother's general belief. But honestly...lump...blood supply...biopsy... I was scared to death and my mother was out buying major appliances; reacting as if I was stating Friday's weather.

Or maybe, she could not comprehend what I was telling her. No matter the age, us parents never want to hear the words biopsy when referencing our children. I can't even imagine Kat calling me one day with the same sentence. Hopefully, I would act less odd but if the Gods are with me that is one conversation we will avoid forever and always.

I called my doctor's office to get my approval for an immediate biopsy that needs to wait four days. I speak with Candice whom I love. She is young, extremely straight forward, yet sensitive. Something I appreciate. I am already a bit shaky. It is probably evident in my voice. Candice, attempting to put my mind at ease, suggests that my something is probably a nothing - most likely a cyst. And so I ask the question that I was afraid to ask in the doctor's office. I know Candice will tell me the truth. "Does a cyst form its own blood supply?" Dead air. And then I hear on the other end of the phone, "Awww..." (I know she wanted to say "Shit" instead. You could hear it in her voice.) "No. A blood supply? They told you that? No. A cyst does not have a blood supply, honey." I knew that. I just needed to hear it from someone that would tell me the truth. Candice did state that fibroid tumors do form their own blood supply. OK...a 50-50 chance. I can do 50-50.

It took at least 10 days for Friday to arrive. Honest. Initially I planned to go to work after the biopsy, but came to my senses with a little assistance from my boss. He strongly suggested I take the day off after the biopsy. Smart man.

I am truly blessed with great friends. Six different friends offered to sit with me at the hospital. We could have had a party. That hospital never would have been the same. Dara lives the farthest away and is generally on Dara time - a minute or two late. She drove down from McHenry; arriving as Adam walked to the bus. She has known Adam since birth and barely recognized my man/child walking down the street. The only thing that has not changed on Adam are his dimples. We get to the hospital where they inform me that I am a bit early. Funny, we arrived at the exact time they told us to get there.

Dara sat with me in the waiting room watching Oprah and eating Altoids. We chatted about everything and nothing. The nurse stopped by to explain the procedure and told me that they would be inserting a titanium clip during the biopsy so that any doctor could locate the biopsy site forever and always. My own internal GPS.

Dara encouraged me to ask many questions in the procedure room. I have a tendency to just go with the flow. It's not that I am not inquisitive, but my mind became rather numb with the overwhelming possibility that my alien being truly is a something. So, gathering courage from Dara and Altoids (wishing that it was liquid courage in the form of Jack), I start to assert my questions on the nurse. She is clearly not use to one of the flock using their brain. If it wasn't for my friend's encouragement, I would have been one of the masses walking into the procedure room with my brain the consistancy of jell-o. The nurse must have told the doctor that there was a rebel in their midst, because when the doctor arrived, she introduced herself, firmly shook my hand and immediately stated, "I hear you have many questions about the clip." She then explained why they needed my homing device. Since the lump is rather small, 1.5cm, and because it tends to play hide and seek, they need a tracking device (my verbage not theirs) to locate it. Unless there is an understandable explanation, I prefer most synthetic objects to not be inserted in my body. She stated a fairly straight forward case and a reasonable explanation. This alien seems quite insufferable and I wouldn't put it past him to go all incognito on me and disappear again. A GPS made perfect sense. The thought of my lump with shades and raincoat made me giggle. They thought I was nervous.

As the doctor explained the procedure of a core biopsy, I positioned myself to watch the monitor. Both the nurse and doctor questioned why I wanted to watch. It was perfectly logical to me...this something is going to be a nothing, so this would be my one and only opportunity to watch. They may have thought I was nuts, but after the doctor showed me how she would take the biopsy (think tapered lighter to light hard to reach candles with a hollow needle inside) and shot the aparatus off; allowing me to hear it (very loud...must have been invented by a man...few women would have created something that obnoxious), we were off. After 3 good biopsies, she asked what I thought about 1 or 2 more samples. I reminded her that this was our one and only time to do this, because I was not returning. She better make sure she had enough. Famous last words.

Dara and I go out for breakfast afterwards and then I go home to ice my boob and sleep. By the way, seat belts are not a good idea after breast biopsies. I eventually took off my seat belt and said if any cop pulled me over, I'd pull up my shirt and show them my very purple boob. I would either get out of the ticket, or arrested for indecent exposure. I really did not care which.

I went to LT's first home football game that night as I promised Kat's friend Eric that I would see him play the JV game. Prior to that evening Eric held a special place in my heart. But that night, Eric branded my heart. He is the only person who reduced me to tears. Good tears though.

First off, many of Kat's friends call me mom and hug me upon site. Some of the girls even scream and then hug. Full frontal hugging was not a possibility that evening. I got very good at side hugging. After a few enthusiastic hugs and seeing the pain on my face, Kat slowly filled in her friends as to what was going on. I watched Eric play and then sat with the parents of my best friend from high school. They were there to watch their grandson play on the varsity team.

After the JV game ended, Eric walked up to me with the saddest eyes I have ever seen. He patted the left side of his chest and just said two simple words, "You can't." I ran down the bleachers and hugged him. I told him he couldn't think that way. I needed him to think positive. We all have to think positive. I hugged him again. Praised his football game and reminded him that I loved him. He hugged me back and told me that he loved me too. Yep. A 15 year old boy who raids my refrigerator and guzzles lemonaide reduced me to tears. I had been strong up until that point.

Because the biopsy was performed on the Friday before Labor Day, we were fortunate enough to have to wait an additional day or two for the results. This alien continues to piss me off. Stops by uninvited, decides to stay, plays hide and seek, installs plumbing, requires a GPS system and now the damn thing shows up on a holiday weekend, forcing me to wait a few extra days for diagnosis. GRRRR!!!!!

The results finally arrive on Tuesday. There is one nurse at my doctors office that really should take a job where she never interacts with people. Coal mining might be a better position for her. Where was Candice? How dare she take a day off?! Who cares if this is a holiday weekend! Did she not know that this was all about me at the moment?! This nurse did not do a very good job of giving me the biopsy results. First she calls in the middle of dinner to tell me that my doctor has already left for the day, but I need to discuss a lumpectomy with my surgeon. Whoa, there Missy! One, I don't have a surgeon. I haven't really needed one since my tonselectomy when I was nine. He is the same doctor that delivered me and has been dead almost 20 years. My guess is that my surgeon is currently unavailable. And two, does this mean it is malignant? Her response was very non-committal and suggests that my doctor call me in the morning as he has (again) already left for the day. Great! I get to wait one more day.

The next morning I call Candice. She sets me straight. My general practitioner wants me to speak with a surgeon. They will provide me with a name or two. Since Adam has an appointment for a sports physical that night, I chat with our doctor after Adam's sports physical. He basically informs me that my alien needs an eviction notice. They cannot determine if it is malignant or not from the biopsy. I thought tissue was either cancerous or not. How can it be inconclusive? Since they biopsied the inside of the tumor, if any cells on the top or bottom are malignant then they will not know until removal. He gives me the name of a surgeon. I ask if I can wait a month. We have family arriving at the end of September and I really prefer surgery after they leave. He looks at me as if I am an alien being. He sternly informs me that I can wait until the beginning of October, but no more.

Honestly, I knew I needed to speak with a surgeon. But for me, I need to let the information seep into my brain. I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer and occasionally just need to think about things before I proceed. I did not want to accept the fact that my something could in fact be a something. Hell, it now appears that not only does my something show up uninvited, play hide and seek, installs plumbing, goes incognito and has personality. My something can actually be Jekyll and Hyde. Is it malignant...is it benign? Get. It. Out. Of. Me. NOW!!!!!

Since I'm not exactly Dolly Parton I ask if there will be a dent. Most likely. Your breast is small (don't be getting personal here Doc!) and the mass is rather large. (Didn't the doctor who performed the biopsy say my alien was small and that is why I needed a GPS device?) Can you medical-types keep the story straight? Maybe the GPS is because my alien likes to play hide and seek.

OK...dent. Can you fill with a little lipo from my hips or tummy? He stares at me blankly, but Candice laughs. I hate when my humor is wasted on people. No, he states slightly condescendingly, they don't fill with lipo.

FINE!!!

I decide even if my relatives are arriving at the end of the month, I better meet with my newly appointed surgeon. I want this done on my time table, but at the same time, I am not liking this parasite setting up shop in my breast. For us women, breasts are hollowed territory and this something needs to go. The surgeon is compelled to give me best and worse case scenarios. Best case is great. Remove alien being, stitch me up inside and then superglue me together on the outside. I never even see stitches. A couple days off and ice my breast. OK. I can handle this. I ask him about lipo. He too is seriously lacking a sense of humor. But I am sure they can fill an empty spot. Can't they?

It appears that the type of tumor I have is generally benign when small. People only need to worry when they are large. When large, they can morph from benign to malignant. It is Jekyll and Hyde!!! I Knew It!!! My tumor is on the larger end. Having never done anything half-assed in my entire life, I would not expect it to be any less. Why did the biopsy doctor tell me it was small. Was she just installing GPS devices for the hell of it?! Is this some type of conspiracy theory? Hmmmm.....

OK...my tumor is an over achiever. Of course it is. The more my sponge-like brain soaks up this information, the lights turn on and somebody is home for the first time since this nightmare began. Get it out of me as soon as possible, especially if he is currently Jekyll and has not yet hit Hyde status.

The worse case scenario is not an area I want to entertain. I would face additional surgery depending where Hyde finally staked his residence. As he begins to explain things further, I realize that I would be looking at reconstructive surgery. Wow, all this from a grape sized lump? Whenever I thought about breast surgery, it was always as an enhancement.

As my stomach is sinking farther and farther and I am becoming more and more nauseous, I continue to take notes and ask questions. The only good thing about our worse case scenario is that radiation would win out over chemo. I remember making some stupid remark about having just grown out my hair out to my desired length and that I would be very crabby about losing it. Sometimes I really wish my mouth would not open because I do realize how stupid I occasionally sound. The surgeon reiterates, this is worse case scenario.

GULP!!

He is fairly confident that it is benign.

Can you be sure?

No.

Crap!!! I want to ask his take about the blood supply issue. But remind myself to never ask a question when you are afraid of the answer.

So, September 30th it is.

Really hoping that my psychic is right about all of this. I will have a definite problem with one of my breasts, but everything is going to be OK.

Please, Dear God. Let this all be OK.

Extreme Makeover Dropout

Let's just put it out there; saying it like it is, I am an Extreme Makeover Dropout! Is there a 12-step program for this affliction? Ty Pennington would be so disappointed in me. I could never come up with a bed made out of an old race track and hot wheels. Honestly...not that creative. A Martha Stewart clone? Martha would shake her head in shame. Tim Allen's character from Home Improvement is getting closer, but even if he was occasionally a bumbling fool and clueless about stuff, it all worked out at the end of 30 minutes. Generally it takes me 6-8 months at least! My home decorating adventures are more akin to DIY meets Lizzie Borden...with her ax.

Our house is in dire need of home improvement. Adam often asks if we can write Extreme Makeover. It isn't that bad, except for the snarky plumbing problem, electrical issues and seepage in the basement. With Hurricane Ike's aftermath swamping Chicago, our basement seepage is not slight. We actually contemplated turning the basement into an indoor swimming pool. The front lawn was so flooded that we may have an outdoor one as well.

If I had the time and money we could fix the plumbing and electrical, as well as extend the bedrooms over our garage so Adam's room is not the size of a closet. Plus waterproof my mom's bedroom. It tends to leak during heavy rains and power failures. Oh...and the driveway could use some resurfacing. The weeds in the driveway are ridiculous. How many other houses need to mow and weed kill their driveway? Lastly, after the village idiots allowed the condos behind us to build a fence, we have a 3 foot property drop off in the backyard. If it wasn't for the 6 foot weeds blooming back there, it would be problematic for all visiting toddlers and drunken friends. Hmmm...maybe, Adam is on the right track after all. Little did we know upon purchase that it was a fixer upper in disguise.

It looked so cute. It has so much potential. How odd is it that our house mirrors the men I tend to date?

After the deal was done, one of our first clues that we bought a lemon was the puff of smoke and electrical sparks Adam encountered when pulling the string to his bedroom ceiling fan. He stepped out of his room a little jolted stating, "I feel like a french fry!" Then there were the live wires underneath the kitchen cabinets, lights that dim when the garbage disposal turns on, or better yet just turn on or off on their own. The oddest problem though was when we discovered the previous owner duct taped two pipes together. This little problem was not discovered until a couple years down the road when a wall became a bit spongy. Duct tape is not waterproof. Go figure. I'd love to have a conversation with the previous owners, but they are happily retired in North Carolina. Here's hoping that karma is going to do her job.

My life has been hounded by many home improvement projects, starting with my first condo. I actually love the process of playing with home improvement ideas. When showing my real estate clients properties I can always point out the potential in every home. My only wish is that I could afford a Pottery Barn existance. Instead my projects are more Walmart-esque. My home improvement projects are not always fiascoes, BUT they are never perfectly smooth.

When first engaged, we bought a one bedroom condo together. Although the year was 1987, the place was straight out of the early 70's. It was impeccably decorated, but the 70's home decorating style should NEVER be revisited. The condo's kitchen wallpaper looked as if it was actually gold stucco which perfectly matched the gold in the gold, brown, avocado and rust plaid entryway wallpaper. To say it was a hideous color combination is an understatement. Yet, it was impeccably hideous.

We repainted and re-wallpapered and I learned that Oriental rice-paper is extremely expensive. Who knew?! As usual...champagne taste...beer pocket. We only needed a small amount, the condo was the size of a postage stamp. So, we found a store that had wallpaper remnants. Woo-hoo! Oriental rice paper remnants replaced plaid. I often wondered who besides owners of small condos ever needed wallpaper remnants. It's not like someone living in a normal home is going to wallpaper one half of a wall. No wonder that store eventually went out of busines. Once the condo was painted and wallpapered, I experienced my first decorating fiasco. Well as much of a fiasco as you can have with a postage stamp 1 bedroom condo.

The wallpaper was cream with shades of peach and sage green. We picked out a peachy paint for the living room/dining room combo. Silly me did not realize that paint changes color in sunlight, or lack thereof. My peachy paint was great during the day, but once dusk hit it was more of a pinky/peach which clashed with the severely discounted Oriental wallpaper. Crap!

In our first horrible financial decision, a theme which continued throughout our marriage, we flipped our condo fairly quickly and moved into our townhouse. Soon thereafter I was pregnant with Katrina and was met with the dilemma that every first time mom in a cookie cutter/Stepford Wife townhouse subdivision encounters. Every pregnant woman was measured by her baby's nursery. The poor babies were still floating in cocoon like status, clueless to the fact that their fate was judged and sealed by their Mommy's' decorating tastes. Sadly for Kat, her mom was already a decorating dropout. Every neighbor wanted to see our nursery.

The nursery was a country bunny theme with little country boy and girl bunnies walking with a wagon. I planned on stenciling bunnies all the way around the room. Being a procrastinator to the end, I was fairly along in my final trimester when I started stenciling the walls in the nursery; beginning with the wagon, then overalls, next dresses and finally the bunny heads, ears and hands. Sadly, the color of the bunny heads looked rather cartoon pig pink versus the tan/pink color I envisioned. And my daughter's nursery waited patiently with decapitated bunnies stenciled around the room while I searched for the perfect color. I was petrified that she would be born and brought home to a room of headless bunnies. Hormones and stress do not mix well. I was a basket case over finding the right tannish pinky color for the bunnies. The look of horror on the Stepford Wives faces when they walked into the nursery was almost worth the stress of not finding the perfect bunny color. I'm sure they discussed the nursery behind my back. Hell, they discussed everything behind every ones back. Why should I be any different? In my own sick, warped way, it was rather funny. But eventually the proper bunny color was found and the bunnies got their heads and hands prior to Katrina's birth. But it was close!

Babies, full time jobs, divorce and general life experiences side tracked me from any other home improvement projects for quite a few years. I was too busy to even consider redecorating. One foray into painting Adam's room reduced me to tears. I bought the paint, Mickey Mouse Sorcerer's Apprentice blue and some other Disney lighter blue. I planned to paint when Kat and Adam were with their dad. My eager VanGogh and Picasso were not going to assist me. No how. No way. I knew I was a disaster waiting to happen when painting. With their assistance at 7 & 10, we would have the ceiling and floor painted and nothing on the walls. When I got home from work one night, my mother and children had a "surprise" for me. They painted Adam's room all by themselves. It was a disaster. There was paint everywhere and I sat down on the floor and cried. I was not sure with whom I was angrier. The children who did not follow the guidelines, or the grandparent who did not enforce them. That cured me for about 4 years.

But then last year when Kat graduated from 8th grade and we threw her a graduation party, I had to take home improvement projects seriously. The wallpaper in our bathroom was falling off the walls and I was not about to allow my out-laws to see our home for the first time with wallpaper falling from the ceiling. So, I removed the wallpaper and learned that the wallpaper was covering missing drywall in many places. Again, I looked up at the heavens and asked God, "WHY?!?!?" My easy project was about to take an unexpected turn. There truly are so many unexpected turns in my life.

Not only was there missing drywall, but in other areas, chunks of drywall adhered to the wallpaper upon removal; leaving me to wonder if some of the wallpaper paste included superglue. The nightmare continued with beads of wallpaper paste that refused to come off. So as I mudded, patched and smoothed, my walls would occasionally adopt a pinstripe effect from the superglue-like residual wallpaper paste. Piss me off! I sanded, mudded and finally gave up. The walls were not the smooth canvas I envisioned; meaning I needed to give the paint some type of texture effect. My little wallpaper/paint project was becoming a nightmare and I was more than just a little crabby. To make me loathe the project even more, I stepped backwards against the wet white wall not realizing that my pony tail was about to look as if it had been used as one of my brushes. Great! It was a look. Not the look I generally go for. But...

This bathroom has a lavender tub, toilet and sink. I painted the walls white and planned to give it a texture look of lavender and sage green. So one afternoon, I grabbed a sponge, rags and dry brushes and tried various effects on my wall; constantly painting, wiping off and repainting various colors and styles. I didn't like anything. So, I grabbed my laptop while sitting on the bathroom floor and googled "painting techniques & finishes". There were a ton of ideas. I hated them all. Finally out of complete frustration, I took a paint brush and dotted lavender paint on the walls, swept a dry paint brush over the wet dots. It wasn't a bad look. It was different. The jury was out on a verdict, but I was running out of time. When done, it was OK. Not my favorite, but OK. The sage green was too much, but we had a unique lavender and white bathroom. My Sigma sisters would be so proud.

That same summer, before the party, I also built a reading grotto in front of our house. The idea for the grotto sprung when I parked in our weed infested driveway and saw my daughter sitting on the ground with her back against the garage door. She wanted to read outside, and wanted to know what was happening in the neighborhood. The only place to sit was in the driveway.

With that thought in mind, I attempted our grotto. It too is not perfect. But fifty 50 pound bags of stone later, and too many paving bricks to count, we have a nice little place to sit and read in the summer. Like our driveway, it is fairly weed infested at the moment. The plastic under the stones did not block out the weeds like the packaging promised. I am so home improvement challenged! And so gullible when people tell me it is fool proof. This fool will always be able to prove them wrong.

Always a glutton for punishment, this March we decided that Kat's wallpaper definitely needed to come down. Mine was falling off on its own, so I might as well do two projects at the same time, right? What was I thinking?! It's not like I have anything else to do.

When we moved in, Kat's room was the girly pink room with raspberry sherbet carpet and butterfly wallpaper. Kat is not a girlie girl and HATED the room. We removed the carpet immediately, but the wallpaper remained for 5 years. In her hatred of her butterfly wallpaper, she, with her grandmother's permission, allowed her friends to write on her walls. There were poems, lists, hellos and well wishes, letters and drawings. Think of your high school year book. Now picture it on wallpaper. We initially tried to save some of the more sentimental comments. Eventually, we opted for taking pictures.

Her wallpaper was impossible to remove. Possibly due to all that Sharpie ink. We scored the wallpaper and then Diffed it. After two weeks of trying to chemically remove it, we rented a steamer; removing the majority, but not all. We attempted Dif again and more came off. Many days I came home from work and Kat was using tweezers to remove the specs of wallpaper permanently adhered to the wall. Finally, I just painted over the suckers and tell people it is texture!

Kat is decision challenged, except when it comes to pizza...that she knows...bacon and black olive, please. Ask her to choose between two movies at Blockbuster, or two books at Borders and she is completely incapable. She acts as if it is a life and death decision. Ask her to choose paint colors for her room - Oh! My!! God!!! Do you know how many colors there are at Home Depot and Menards?! Do you realize how many color combinations are possible with Ralph Lauren, Behr, and Pittsburgh Paints? We reviewed them all. Do you know how nearly impossible it was for her to pick colors? Her first thought was blue and lavender which matched her comforter. Then dark plum, with metallic plum stripes. Then it was dark plum and 1 black wall (decorated with a silver metallic moon and gold metallic stars). One day when I got home from work there were samples of red, orange and yellow splashed on her walls. What the hell!? We had been on one side of the color wheel and suddenly...BAM!!...jumped all the way to the opposite side. Did you know there is a difference between purple and plum? There is. Because once we revisited that theme again, we were hit with a plethora of color combinations until she finally chose Grap Surf, Vintage Purple and Moon Rise for her trim.

My paint choices were fairly simple. In Ralph Lauren speak, the colors are Celery and Vera Cruz Suede with Daisy White trim. Painting both rooms simultaneously were a challenge which I have tried to block out of my mind. There are snippets of the nightmare that occasionally flash through my brain; wearing sunglasses while I painted the ceiling to block out paint falling in my eyes (Thank God for Steve and Berry's cheep sunglasses.) Other flashes include Adam painting the accent wall color on an unaccented wall, my realizing that the color I initial wanted for 3 of my 4 walls (Shoreline Blue), was much more Caribbean blue than green/blue requiring a trip to Home Depot covered in paint to pick out the new color of choice - Celery, Maggie doing the best trim job I have ever seen, Kat and Adam are whizzes with a roller brush, Kat's friend Joe unknowingly stepping into lavender paint and then onto hard wood floors. Kat not realizing there was wet paint in the paint tray and dripping paint all the way down the sidewalk and driveway. All in all, painting was the easiest part. It was the wallpaper removal and paint clean up that nearly killed me. The paint project started in March...I just finished decorating my room this week. Yep! 6 Months! Right on schedule.

Adam, now feeling rather left out of the DIY projects, asked if we could paint his room...the color of a wolf. Someone please tell me, what are the colors of a wolf. They are not part of the color wheel I have recently visited. Also, aren't they rather dark for a room the size of a closet? I was leaning towards Shoreline Blue. Hell, we have a full gallon sitting in the garage! Hmmm...

That project will have to wait for a bit. I am not ready for another 6 months of hell. But since his room is the size of a closet, maybe it will only be a 3 month project. It will be finished just in time for Christmas.

On that note, I better go mow my driveway. Bye!