What keeps us here

It is Saturday morning and the sun is out.

Brilliantly.

The snow is still covering everything, but the sun works steadily to melt it down into small rivulets, mini streams in driveways, streets, roofs.

My alarm clock says that it is nearly ten and I stretch out my toes and yawn. So lovely to sleep in. I turn off the electric blanket and slide out of bed, standing up and bouncing once, twice, to check my mobility today.

It is pretty good, considering that I have been walking with a cane for over a week.

I decide that today will be a no cane day. I can feel it.

I pad downstairs in my soft white robe and find Liv and Socks sprawled out in front of the television, Liv's cereal and a half eaten pop tart resting on a plate next to them. I smile, check out what is on the television screen. It is a movie about a young woman with autism, Temple is her name. I kiss Liv's head and Socks' paw and go into the kitchen to find breakfast.

I recently broke my back molar while attempting to snarf down a bowl of Grape Nuts while watching American Idol, so I will need to eat something soft. After a long session in the dentist's chair with my dentist practically laying in my lap, drill in hand, well....my mouth is sore and I must be careful not to eat anything crunchy until my new crown is ready.

For the life of me, I don't understand how we can be so far reaching in medicine, yet in dentistry, we still have those awful drills that sound like chainsaws and we sit, supine in dentist's chairs with aqua dental dams in place while our dentists saw into our mouths. The smell of burning enamel stays in one's nose for a long, long time.

I decide on yogurt. I carry my carton back to the living room and Liv and I plan our day. Bing is in Chicago and this means only one thing:

FAST FOOD!

But, it will have to be soft fast food. We decide that we will go to the library to pick up books being held for us and then go grocery shopping at Whole Foods. Liv has a slumber party tonight but we decide to go to KFC for dinner. Soft mashers. Soft corn on the cob. Soft cole slaw. Soft, heavily buttered biscuits and maybe a few soft bites of fried chicken.

Bing would be gagging about now.

But, no...she is off at a seminar with six of her high school students, touring the Art Institute and the Field Museum. She will find something healthy for them all to eat. She called last night, though, and admitted to eating at a Chicago pizza place, but said that it was a veggie pizza, so that was fine. I laughed. The only pizza worth eating, in my opinion, is sausage and black olive, extra cheese.

Liv and I change our bedroom sheets together. We take off her sky blue sheets with soft fluffy clouds on them and replace them with the flannel zippy monkey ones. Socks jumps on her bed and takes a running leap into her arms, trusting completely that Liv will catch him. She does. She always will. We make a game of putting Socks in the middle of her dirty bedsheets and tossing him in the air a few times. He loves this and shamelessly begs for more, but I am winded and Liv is still recovering from her bout with mono, so we stop after two tossings. He understands.

We change the sheets on my bed from the soft, sage green ones to the creamy white ones. I love these sheets and they look gorgeous with the sun pouring in the bedroom window over them. I give in and fall on my bed, rolling in them. Socks and Liv join me and we all lay together for a while, talking about Liv's project for her history class on Nebraska pioneers and how Socks is starting to carry an odor and needs a dog bath. He hears the word bath and leaps down off the bed, out into the hall and down the steps. No fool is he. Liv cuddles up to me, asks me to tell her a story. She is ten and still loves my stories, so I indulge her. In a few years, she will have no interest in cuddling up with me, let alone listening to a story about an elf child named Liv who lives on a planet with no sun except for 5 days a year. I stroke her hair as I wield my story voice, tucking a hank of her golden hair behind her ear and run my fingers softly over the soft, sweet skin of her inner arm. making her shiver and cuddle closer to me.

All Saturday mornings should be just like this. It should be a rule.

After the sheets are placed into the washer, we sit at the table to make our grocery list. It is Liv's turn to be snack manager at school, so we plan each day's treats. We pick clementines for one day, cream puffs for the next. Flour chips and guacamole on another day. Liv's school is a Montessori and the rule is that treats must be low in sugar and high on good nutrition, but we think that we could maybe sneak in the cream puffs since they are organic at Whole Foods. I let Liv write the list in her careful, loopy script, so different than my bold scrawl. She writes down

milk (chocolate too, PLEASE!)
cream for Mama's coffee and an extra one for her to take to work
coffee
toilet paper
vegetables
fruits (don't forget that Liv likes granny smith apples in her lunch!)
ham for sandwiches
ingredients for Bing's chili
yogurt (cultural revolution only)
soft cheese that won't hurt Mama's tooth
GELATO (lemon for Mama, butter pecan for Bing, raspberry for Liv)

The rest we will get at our regular grocery store tomorrow. If we bought all of our groceries at Whole Foods, we would not be able to afford Liv's tuition since they are freaking expensive. But, their produce is exceptional and ah...the GELATO. Yes, we decide it deserves to be capitalized.

We take Socks for a long walk and while it is still very cold, the sun makes it almost bearable. We wear our boots, Liv's a paisley design and mine, a plain red and black plaid, although my heart wanted to buy the ones with daisies all over them. I should have bought the daisy ones. Next time.

We fold the sheets, holding them out between us and then walking towards each other to fold them. The rule is that we kiss when we draw close, we have done this since Liv was four and first started helping me. It is a lovely rule.

At last we head out to Whole Foods. I feel good today, healthy, not in pain anymore. I feel as pretty as an almost 52 year old woman can feel. I wear my oldest, most comfy jeans, washed to a light blue and as soft as jeans can get. I wear my black tee shirt that says I heart Mr. Darcy and my black, soft cashmere sweater with the white pearl buttons. Dangly earrings with feathers that are old and really....too young for a woman my age, but who cares? I wear them anyway. I had looked longingly at my black boots, but decided not to tempt fate, it is still icy outside....so I slide on my sneakers instead. I smear on some dark red lipstick to make my lips look brighter and then impulsively slide a small slash of lipstick on my cheeks and blend it in. Add mascara. Black mascara. I am ready Freddy.

Whole Foods is crowded. I send Liv off to get yogurt while I head towards the cheese section. I am craving a nice boursault, soft enough not to make my damaged tooth hurt but tangy enough to taste good on a piece of bread. There is a crowd. The cheese section is good here, so people gather around to get that mark down on the Spanish mozzarella. A man in a white coat is handing out samples of Epoisses de Bourgogne. It is smelly and acrid, not appealing at all. A tall, reed thin woman with bright red leather high heeled boots and a black leathery raincoat reaches for a sample, nearly knocking the packet of cheese out of my hand. She doesn't apologize. She is a woman who hardly ever apologizes for anything, I can see that. She pops the cheese sample into her mouth and closes her eyes for a second dramatically. When she opens them, she rewards all the men around her with a seductive Ann Margret smile. Her too brash red hair bobs as she shakes her head in a practiced way and tells the man standing next to her that this cheese is "absolutely DIVINE. I do so love a good ee-poy-says!!!"

I snicker under my breath. The man next to me exchanges a glance with me and then mouths the words "ee-poy says???"

It is ay-pwahz. I am a cheese lover, so I know that much. I reach for my dropped boursault and the man handing out samples asks if I would like to try a sample on his cheese tray. I decline. Too smelly for me, I say. The man next to me agrees. He points to my boursault and says that he has never had it, is it good?

I lower my voice like the red booted woman and say dramatically, "It is DIVINE!" We smile, laugh just a little.

I like to flirt a little when I feel this good. It is good for the spirit. Harmless, but enjoyable.

The man and I introduce ourselves and he asks me for my opinion on what to bring to a party that he is going to tonight.

"You look like you know your cheeses," he says, smiling into my eyes.

I help him select a nice safe brie, tell him that you can't go wrong with brie, ever.

Liv comes up then, with her bag full of yogurts for me.

"Okay, Mom," she says, "I have your Cultural Revolution vanilla yogurt."

The man looks at Liv and then me, then at my ring finger where I am not wearing any rings.

"Ah," he says, "You are a Mom!"

Yes, I tell him. I am. I introduce Liv to him and she smiles at him with her jack o'lantern smile that I privately think is the most beautiful in the world. He smiles back and asks her if she is a cheese expert like her mother.

She frowns. Ponders. Finally says, "No. Mama and I prefer velveeta when we make grilled cheese and Bing, my other mother, says that velveeta is trailer park cheese. So, I guess I'm not a cheese expert, really."

I have to smile. So much for showing off. I have been revealed as a velveeta fan. Liv goes on to say that she hopes that the cheese we bought is soft enough for me to eat since "Mama was eating Grape Nuts when we were watching American Idol last week and she cracked her back molar. So, we are only eating soft foods this week."

More revelations. I am now painted as not only a velveeta lover but a Grape Nuts/American Idol fan too. Groovy. I probably shouldn't have snickered at the red booted woman. Karma is coming back at me now.

"But," Liv goes on, unusually blathery, "Mama is walking without her cane today! She fell in our driveway a couple of weeks ago and hurt her um....groin."

She is suddenly embarrassed to have said the word groin to a stranger and she ducks her head, tucks her hand into mine and carefully looks away.

I am now reduced to my real self: a klutzy, fifty something woman who can't navigate a driveway, who has an injured groin and likes to eat velveeta cheese and Grape Nuts while I watch reality shows. I should probably just admit that we are going to KFC for dinner tonight and that I will wear my Hello Kitty slippers while I watch some show about pregnant sixteen year olds tonight like I did last night.

We smile at the man and head to the check out line.

We get home and after an afternoon of helping Liv with her history paper, I drop her off at her slumber party after KFC and make myself a cup of tea while I watch the news. The phone rings. It is Bing, calling to check in.

We share our days. She tells me about what is on the minds of 16 year old boys and says that seeing some Monet paintings at the Art Institute was the best part of her day. I tell her about working on Liv's paper, don't share about the man at Whole Foods. I also don't share about KFC. I'm not an idiot.

Bing's voice is soft and warm in my ear. "Do you miss me? Because I am missing you and Liv. How about we all go out for chinese when I get home tomorrow night and then we can watch The Amazing Race and go to bed early?

I tell her that yes, that sounds good. Especially the going-to-bed early part. She laughs softly and I feel her voice sliding through my veins and down my legs. I am very glad that I put those soft white sheets on the bed. We say goodnight and I love you and sleep well.

I hang up the phone and pick up my tea and crack open my book. I think about how life feels pretty good today, no bad pain, lots of good moments. Funny, how when my black dogs are around, I can't seem to see all of this good stuff.

I think that, in some ways, the dogs are good for me, for the simple reason that when I slip back into my life, I am so grateful for it.

For clean sheets

For Liv's soft golden hair and her jack o'lantern smile

For men in Whole Foods who think I am attractive

For the way that hot lemon tea feels warm and gentling

For the salty smoothness of KFC mashers

For stupid television shows about pregnant 16 year olds who have boyfriends who abandon them and the girl still looks at the camera, her black kohl eyeliner making snaky lines down her face as she weeps and says that she still loves her "man", this pimply boy child who wears his baseball hat backwards and texts others girls when he talks to her

For the sheer volume of television to choose from. I can watch Ordinary People or Seventeen Again or Dirty Jobs or a documentary on women in Iraq or a cooking show about how to make the perfect red velvet cake or Jeopardy! or well...you name it, I can probably find it. What a difference from the three channels to pick from when I was growing up.

For chocolate milk with a thin mint Girl Scout cookie dipped into it

For bright red lipstick

For a phone call from Chicago on a cold February night and a promise of going to bed early tomorrow night with the only woman that I have ever really loved.

It's enough to keep me here and then some. How about you? What is something that keeps you here?

A Fistful of Glitter

You see them loping towards you. Black dogs.

You sigh.

It isn't unexpected. Just a part of your life.

There are drugs that can be taken to scare them away. But, no. Maybe next time. Not this time. You resist. Not this time. Please.

They settle around you. You don't make eye contact. Too risky.

The eclipse begins. The light goes out of objects, people, backgrounds.

The memories return. The hard ones. You sit with them. Remembering. Luckily, you aren't feeling much at this point so you don't cry.

Your life plays out in front of you. You are an observer, though, not really a participant. Your Meryl Streep emerges and walks through work for you. You are grateful for this acting talent.

When Liv is around, something honest and desperate and loving emerges and you feel a slice of yourself come out to be with her. Hurting her, scaring her...it is not an option. She comes first, before anyone and everything.

Days pass. It keeps snowing but that's okay. The dogs don't mind it. It makes them stronger.

When you begin to carry an odor, you shower. When an important call comes through at work, you answer it. When it is time to shop for groceries, you go. You load up the cart with oranges, with coffee, with chicken wings, toilet paper. Apples. You pick up an apple and smell it and something slithers through you, razor sharp and your eyes fill. Remembering him. You mostly stay inside your head, though.

Colors don't really register. Patterns do.

The dogs stir. Look up. They're restless.

You feel naked but no one notices, so maybe you can wing it.

You feel suspended up in the air, away from everyone and everything, sitting in a cocoon of your own making. It is not uncomfortable, but being alone in this manner is not good, not healthy. But.

It is necessary.

Once in a while, you hear snatches of voices carrying out to you. There is your wife, slicing carrots on the cutting board. Her voice reaches out, a caress.

"I'm right here, sugar. No matter what. Right here with you."

There is a bright swing of red and Liv comes rushing past, dog brush in hand. Socks sees the brush and makes a run for it.

You hear their feet on the wooden steps, going upstairs. Liv's laugh carries down, sending a ripple of something sweet back at you through the air.

You breathe it in.

It helps. These things help. They do.

You look around you as you twirl slowly through the air. There are others up here too. You aren't the only one with black dogs. You watch them swirling next to you. We all have our own burdens. Yet, somehow, we are swirling together. In sync.

There is something beautiful in this break down.

Suddenly, a small piece of yellow comes at you through your bedroom window.

It is the sun. It is lovely, all ripe and soft. You put your hand out to touch it.

Nice.

Snatches of dialogue drift towards you. The words seem clearer, more easily heard than yesterday. Yes. It is more clear.

The vowels tumble gracefully into consonants and blend.

During the day, you notice that you are wearing that bracelet with the small, smooth, brown stones. How pretty, you think. How pretty this bracelet is.

You feel yourself coming down, back to the warmth, the heat of your life.

And then....there you are...standing with your wife in the bathroom. Her eyes meet yours in the mirror and you think to yourself

How lovely you are!

You carefully look around. The dogs are retreating. You see them loping lazily up the hill, back into the forest. One dog looks back at you and pauses for one moment.

Your eyes meet. And then he turns and runs to catch up with his mates.

You take a deep breath and look down at the glitter in your hand and then toss it up into the air.

Home again. It is good.

You are ready to taste a peach, break open a peanut, turn a page of a book.

Hello again.

Here we are..

A few days ago, while looking for stamps, I found something in Bing's desk.

It was an e-mail that had been printed out. I glanced at it, it caught my attention and I read it.

Hi Bing!!!
I just wanted to write and say a big THANK YOU for helping me figure out how to do those steps more carefully since my hamstring muscle is sore!!! I also wanted to tell you (BIG SHY ME) that I think I enjoy watching YOU do your workout more than I enjoy my own workout!!!! You are not only beautiful on the outside, but on the inside too and hey, if you ever want to go out after our workout for a "refreshing drink", I will buy you whatever your hart (sic) desires!!! Hope to see you very very very soon. P :) :) :) !!!

Well.

I know this woman. I have noticed that she has eyes for my wife. This was evident on the day that we all were eating at a diner together and she coquettishly took a bite of Bing's scrambled eggs and then giggled. I call her the ferret because she has this...this...scampering way of moving that reminds me of one. Plus she has a ferretty smile and nose. Bing always told me that I was crazy, that P is just a "lonely housewife with a husband who doesn't pay enough attention to her."

Well. Now.

I showed it to Bing. She didn't comment except to say that I was making a big deal out of nothing.

I stared at her grimly until she broke our eye contact and walked away, her face red and her expression trapped.

I got this note last night.

M
Okay. We need to talk about this and I know it but I am trying to sort my feelings out first. I shouldn't have printed that e-mail out, but yes, I did. My ego needed it. I was flattered.

P means nothing to me and you know that. She is just a needy, sad woman who...okay...okay...has a crush on me. I don't know why she does, but she does. I have never done anything to make her think that I will go out for a drink alone with her or do anything to jeopardize my marriage. But, you are correct, I haven't stopped her either. That is what I need to think about before we talk.

The truth is that sometimes it is very nice to have someone think I am attractive, funny, smart, whatever. Let's face it, darlin', you aren't the most romantic woman in the world. And lately, you have just been gone. Gone. I don't know where you go when you retreat inside your head but all I do know is that you only come out for Liv. You sit and stare at nothing. I watch you curled up on the sofa watching some dumb reality show and you have no expression on your face. I try to touch you and you freeze up, shudder as if I am a serial killer or something. You come to bed without taking your eye makeup off and when you wake up, your eyes are singed with black and you don't talk except to mutter a terse good morning. Do you even see me? I don't think so.

I meant what I said in my Valentine to you this year. You DO bewitch me and I AM under your spell. But, sometimes it isn't a good spell, you know? You are one of the most reserved, cool women I have ever met. I can never figure out what is going on behind those icy blues of yours. The other day when Liv made you laugh, it made me look up. I hadn't heard you laugh in WEEKS. And then just as quickly as it came out, you were gone again, in your head.

There has never been anyone for me but you. Ever. I know the "black dogs" are with us. But, Jesus, M, I'm on your side. If you would just look up and notice that. Forgive me, but sometimes you make it so hard. And it is tempting to get pulled in by someone who DOES notice me.

No excuses, though. The note is in the trash where it belongs.

Bing.

Dear Bing,
I know. And in my defense, I warned you. I told you from day one that I suck big large at the romance dance.
I felt badly when you touched my shoulder and I froze up. I saw the hurt on your face and instantly felt terrible. I should have said so. The truth is that I was afraid that you wanted to have sex and I am not in a good place for that just yet. So, yes. I froze up. I'm sorry.
I am working on things, really. I am educated about depression and I can work through it, I just...need some time, some space. And it would help if I didn't have to worry about you going out and seeking solace with someone else when I'm not present enough to give you what you need.
I hate being in this mental place. It scares me. And another snow storm coming...good fucking hell. Enough. I would have been a poor pioneer.
I'm good with words, usually, but they fail me when I am stuck in my head. All I know is that I am working on coming back to you. Can't that be enough for now?
And that fucking e-mail BETTER be in the trash. Just sayin'.
I think Adam Lambert says it best for me. I love you. We do need to talk. Soon.



Love, M

Hello, World

Sometimes, like the Wordsworth poem, the world is too much with me.

I look around and see my black dogs loping towards me from a distance. My melancholy coming at me. I think about hiding, but decide that fuck it, I will just stand there and let them crash into me. Easier.

The news is never good. Every doctor's appointment is a stretch of sitting in a chair opposite someone who sighs as they read the verdict out loud to me. I have sat in the opposite chair before and I must say that while it was never easy, it wasn't hard either. Not like this.

Driving to work in the morning, listening to my book on tape saves me. It is Denis Leary coming at me over the speakers and he makes me laugh. It helps. But, there are still those moments at red lights when I look at the cars around me, the people in them, and what I see is sad. Couples staring straight ahead, nothing to say to each other at 8 in the morning. A woman tries to put bright red lipstick on, misses her mouth and then shouts to nobody as she flings the lipstick back in her purse, scrubs at her mouth with her hand.

The snow never stops. Sometimes it is heavy, something light, but there are always flecks coming at me in the air. And the air...so fucking cold. It's like icy fingers encircling my wrists, dragging me out, laughing at my cringing away from it. No sun for days. Snow everywhere, piled on the sides of streets, small swatches of black ice on the sidewalks, turning concrete into mini skating rinks. The cold burns up my nose, makes my teeth ache. My skin is chapped, no matter how much pricey lotion I slather on. I flip through my gardening books, plot out my summer garden, dream of sinking my hands in the rich prairie soil. Next month, I will start my little plants in tiny containers in my basement. But, that is next month. Now is February.

Work is busy, the load never gets lighter. The secretaries make it bearable, bringing in crock pots of chili and chicken noodle soup to take the edge off of the hour long appointments with children who need my help and parents and caregivers who sometimes care, but mostly don't. I see so many mini Precious' out there. I look into the dead eyes of their caregivers and pass out pages full of tips that will never be read. I hold babies on my lap with their sodden diapers that should have been changed an hour ago. I grab one of our boxes of free diapers and press it into the parent's arms as they leave. Their children are past being children at the ripe old ages of 3 or 4 or 5. They look solemnly at me as I try to test their levels of need. They sometimes press against me briefly, liking the way that I smell, the way that my voice stays tranquil and never shouts at them. One child is enamored with my bracelet, taken with the bright stones. I want to take it off and slip it over her wrist, but know that it will just be taken away from them on the bus ride home and placed in a cigar box on their mother's dresser with the other costume jewelry. I offer what I can: a warm coat, diapers, a coupon for free Similac, an all day pass to the zoo. It is nothing and I am useless. I know this as I slide my arms into my coat at the end of the day and take one of the arms of a helpful janitor building engineer who sees my cane and wants to be my escort to my car. We walk across the parking lot and chat about how cold it is and what his wife will be making for dinner that night, how much he hopes it is spaghetti night.

The chores seem endless at home. A dog needs to be walked, dinner prepared, dishes cleaned up, homework checked. Everything hurts by bedtime; my back, my legs, my head. My heart.

I look outside and think how nice it will be when it is summertime and stays light outside until 9 p.m. When the sun will shine almost every day. When it will be warm again. No more huddling under the electric blanket.

My Da died when I was very young, but I think he saw in me the Irish melancholy that he was prone to as well. He told me once when I was feeling sad over some silly thing that there were always apples.

I gave him a look.

He laughed that laugh that was unique to him, all crusty sounding and deep with lyric. He handed me an apple that he was preparing to eat, told me to close my eyes before I bit into it. I did.

It was a Granny Smith apple, so tart and juicy that it made me wince once as I bit into the apple flesh.

It was delicious and made more so by having my eyes closed.

"When life gets hard," he told me, "there are always apples."

I didn't know exactly what he meant then, but I think I do now.

When life gets hard, you have to move your gaze from the snow to smaller things that cheer: an apple, the bright red buttons on that black sweater, the worn spine of a book of Whitman poems, the way the pages smell.

A little dog, my little boy dog, whose tail wags furiously at the mere sight of me. His beady black eyes catching mine, smiling into me, wanting nothing more than a walk by my side in the cold snow, the wet rain, the warm sun or a steamy hot pavement.

My little girl, my Liv. With her hair all wet and combed back like a baby seal after her bath. Reciting a poem to me in french, arms reaching up to hug me back as I lean over her in bed to kiss her goodnight, one more time.

My wife, turning the car heater on me every time, leaning down to kiss my head as she walks by me sitting at the computer. Bounding in to cheer me up by telling me that there is a Godfather marathon on television, should we grab an apple and cuddle up to watch?

Yes, we should.

I am luckier than most. I have much to be joyful about, I just can't see it sometimes when those black dogs come loping at me over that snow packed pasture. I see them in the distance, their shiny black coats against the harsh white of the snow. Their red tongues hang out of their mouths and I shiver.

Time to step back and consider the apple.

Time to grab on to...what? Something. I'm not sure. Is it God? I don't know, I don't have the poet's soul that my Da had. I am more of a scientific thinker, a logical person. But there is enough of a poet in me too to know that even if I can't always feel it, there is something good out there. Leading me. Calling me.

I think of the song that is sung every day at lunchtime at Liv's school. It says something like,

the world is good to me
and so I thank the world
for giving me the things I need
the sun and the rain and the apple seed
the world is good to me

I heard a song at the Lady Antebellum concert that spoke to me. I try to ignore the abortion reference, but the rest of it makes me feel like there must be others out there who feel what I do. Others who have their own black dogs and need to go find that apple as fast as they can.



Hello, World

After the concert

After the Lady Antebellum concert (well, Tim McGraw was there too...but who cares?), Bing and I walked slowly back to our car. She held me up, let me lean on her. It was so late, we both had to go to work the next day and my recent um...groin injury prevented me from really diving into the concert like I wanted to.

I am about as crazy for Charles Kelley as I can be even though I suspect he is not my type. I suspect he is a very devout Christian and that is okay with me in a person, as long as their religion isn't shoved down my throat. He strikes me as the kind of guy who probably would insist that I sit next to him at church every Sunday and well...his loss, folks, 'cause it ain't gonna happen. And of course, he's a married man and I am old enough to be his mother, but well...that man should know that he missed something by not reaching into the audience and yanking me up on stage to dance with him, Bruce Springsteen style...

I really, really liked looking at him, watching him sing, seeing him throw himself into those songs. And that black leather jacket sat so so nicely on his shoulders.

Okay, he made me want to scream like those Beatles fans you see in old news reels.

I sat in my seat among all the cowboy hats and Tim McGraw fans and just waited quietly for Lady Antebellum to take the stage.

And then, they were there and boy howdy, I was rockin' in my seat. I wanted badly to get up and sway and dance around with Bing and pull my hair clasp out and go a little crazy. But...no. I knew it wouldn't be happening that night.

That was me in the audience, a 51 year old woman in jeans with a black sweater and sneakers. Smiling up at you, Charles Kelley, watching your every move.

I was on my feet and leaping around like my 20 something self would have, hands in the air, head flung back laughing and singing along with you. Getting down with my bad self.

In my head.

After the concert, we found the car and Bing drove home, putting the heat on high and aiming it straight at me, glancing over at me with concern in her eyes.

"Are you doing okay? Not hurting too much?"

No, Bing. I was just fine. It was a grand date. Thank you for understanding that I can still want to be your sweet ass gal and your wifey, but HOLY COW...I also wanted to fuck the daylights out of that man up on the stage.

Because, hey...you admitted that you sort of felt the same about Hillary Scott who was up on that stage with him.

Driving home, the lights of the city shining all around us, Bing and I held hands and talked about the concert. She was all about the music and I was all about the lyrics, as always.

She turned to grin at me during a red light, leaned over to softly kiss my cheek.

"I could tell it was killing you not to get up and dance," she said.

I agreed that it had, but when you are vain, fifty one and walk with a cane, you have to do all that shit in your head. We talked about all of the concerts we have seen together.

The Bob Dylan one where I was so stoned that I went out to find the ladies room to pee and got lost in the hallways and missed most of the concert.

Seeing Kurt Cobain scream out "Smells Like Teen Spirit" at a Nirvana concert.

Bon Jovi, The Sex Pistols, BB King, Simon and Garfunkel, The Kinks, David Bowie.

All when we were young enough to go up close to the stage and dance around, reaching up our hands for a touch of this guitar player and that singer.

I look a lot different now. I no longer get to concerts two hours early to claim a spot by the stage. I don't wear leggings. My hair isn't all wild and flowing past my shoulders. I wear lipstick, not gloss.

I no longer can throw myself into the music, feet flying, arms up in the air.

Now, I sit in my seat and clap wildly in my sensible sneakers and extra warm sweater. My hair is clipped back neatly and it stays that way. I'm not chugging a beer. I'm not even sipping on wine, because, at 51, my bladder is about as big as a peach pit and I have to pee if I drink more than one cup of liquid an hour before the concert.

But, in my head....oh yes, there I am. That girl. The one in the tight jeans and boots and the Joan Jett and the Blackhearts tee shirt, rocking out and holding up, not a cell phone light, but a lighter flame.

Charles, that girl would have given you a run for your money.

But, this girl stretched out her legs and leaned back to smile at her partner, who commented that her hand felt cold and fished out some mittens out of her pocket for her to wear.

Those two women went home and took showers because they smelled like smoke and beer from all those younger fans. And then they fell into bed because one of them had a class to teach at 7:30 and the other had a client at 9:00 sharp.

Bing rubbed my back gently as she spooned me in the big bed with the soft mahogany colored sheets with a high thread count. And whispered into my ear that I was still her crazy heart rocker woman, but hey...it was late and we were both too tired to get all over each other.

Tomorrow would be another day of business suits and getting a child to eat her breakfast and get to school on time. We would not run yellow lights or have a Mountain Dew for breakfast with a Snickers bar before that philosophy class that we hate. Those days were long gone. Nope. Bing would have her protein shake and I would have my yogurt. Bing would lay out those mittens that I always forget to wear because she knows my hands get cold.

Inside, we were still 20 something but we are also 50 something as well.

And bringing home the bacon was part of our plan to have a good retirement and be able to buy baby new shoes.

But, you know....our sleeping dreams would be shiny with stage lights and guitar riffs and Charles Kelley in his black leather jacket, shimmying across the stage and Hillary Scott belting out how she needs him now.

But, we're good. And happy. And settled.

And a little crazy hearted.

Still.

My final answer

Thanks to all for reading. And thank you, as well, to Carole, who posted many comments which gave me food for thought. I've thought long and hard as to why I just don't care for Sarah Palin and Carole's comments helped me cement my views.

So...

Dear Carole,

Your posts annoyed the hell out of me. At first, it was the sardonic use of the word regaled which set my teeth on edge, but I got past that. And then I was just plain bugged by your comments, which sounded to me as if they were selected out of some sort of misguided Wikipedia entry. So, I thought more. And I realized that your comments angered me mostly because they reminded me of what bothered me the most about Republicans and their eagerness to support Sarah. They seemed to look at certain facts, but didn't bother to dig more deeply.

When I first read about Sarah Palin running for the vice presidency, I wanted to like her. Like a lot of other women, Democrat and Republican, I loved the idea of a woman running for a high office. The first articles that I read about her seemed promising. Not promising enough to make me switch parties (her stands on gun control and gay rights were appalling), but I thought she seemed to be an interesting person. I read much of what you commented on in your posts, Carole. I thought it seemed to be a plus that she had the nickname Sarah Barracuda. This indicated to me that she might actually have some teeth. I read how she had cut property taxes by 75% and cut her own salary by 10% as governor. I didn't know much about AIP, but it didn't seem akin to the Nazi party or anything so I set it aside on the back burner to look at more deeply later. I thought it was pretty gutsy of her to build a sports complex in a small place like Wasilla.

And then I read more, dug deeper.

As EVERYONE should before they elect anyone to a high office.

I discovered that her nickname of Sarah Barracuda was not necessarily a compliment. That her team mates had christened her that NOT because she was such a fierce competitor but mostly because she back bit teammates and tattled on them incessantly to their coach in order to garner more playing time for herself.

I discovered that the sports complex in Wasilla was fraught with problems. The largest problem was, of course, the little issue that Sarah had neglected to see that the city had a proper title to the land. It was a mistake that even a first time home buyer should be smart enough to avoid....but, no...she wasn't. In fact, the city had to pay out 1.3 MILLION in extra litigation costs. Wasilla was left with a long term 20 million dollar debt. So, basically, she had botched the purchase of land for a major sports complex. Kind of shows that she doesn't really do her homework, yes?

And yes, Palin did cut property taxes by 75%. But, I dug a bit deeper because that seemed odd to me. I discovered that her tax cutting reputation was actually only possible because of a 2% sales tax which she helped to initiate. Uh huh. Her duplicity on taxes was disturbing to me. All of this cutting followed by massive spending and then advocating more taxes while appearing as a fiscal conservative. What the hell was that all about?

I read lots and lots of articles stating that Palin tried to ban books in the libraries, books like Tom Sawyer, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and Death of a Salesman.

These articles were false. It turned out that Palin didn't actually ban books, she just threatened to do so and had several meetings with the library commissioner to discuss that. So, well...okay...she just THREATENED to do it, she didn't actually do it. Still, it says something about her that was unsavory in my mind. Kind of like someone who says they are going to beat the snot of you but decides not to do it because suddenly they have witnesses.

I read deeply about the AIP and was not comforted. This was not some sweet family oriented organization. It had massive pro gun initiatives. It also had Mark Chryson.

I would be interested in hearing your opinion of old Mark, Carole, because he sounds like sort of a dip shit to me. What do you think of him? I read and was annoyed all over again when he used the tired old tale about how it should be Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve.

Shut the fuck up, I thought. Or find a new lingo, because this one is as old as "it's Shake and Bake and I helped!"

I read about the party's affiliation with neo-Confederate organizations and I was pretty sure that I didn't want my vice president to be all over that or her husband, for that matter, either. I read how Chryson proudly admitted that he had urged Palin to get further ahead by slashing others.

Nice buds, there, Palin.

And F Havemeister as director of Alaska's Department of Agriculture? That was such blatant cronyism that it startled me. Now, Carole, I have no problem with appointing one's friends in high positions PROVIDED THAT THEY ARE QUALIFIED. Franci was not qualified and you know that. If I showed my ten year old daughter her qualifications and asked her if she thought Franci was qualified, she would say no because even a TEN YEAR OLD can understand that. I admit that I shook my head and snickered when I read your reply complimenting her credentials because she is married to a dairy farmer and "has much to offer." Good hell, Carole, I GREW UP ON A FARM IN IOWA. We raised cows, pigs, chickens, and even horses and had a huge organic garden and grew corn and soy beans and wheat. Does this make me qualified to be director of agriculture? Hell, no. Shit, no. Fuck, no. I went to school for many, many years and trained in my profession and I am now qualified to make it a career. THAT is a qualification. Not growing up on a farm. I at least understood your other replies, even though I felt that you hadn't researched adequately. That reply...well, it made me wonder if you weren't reaching a bit.

The Branchflower report was interesting to me because it did it's job. It was not about leading a lynch mob, it was about the law, about sitting back and looking at all angles and remaining bi-partisan. It was about the fact that Sarah Palin thought that she was somehow above the law and used bullying tactics to get her way. It was not about whether Wooten had a sterling character. It was about the fact that SARAH PALIN VIOLATED THE STATE'S EXECUTIVE BRANCH ETHICS ACT. This act states:

Each public officer holds office as a public trust and any effort to benefit a personal or financial interest through official action is a violation of that trust.

She fucked up, Carole. Big time. Whether it was her bullying tactics or not stopping her husband from doing them...doesn't matter one whit to me. I do not want this person governing any country that I live in.

And Palin's 10% pay cut? Well, that was true too. But, dig deeper. Records show that while she did initially take a pay cut, years later her salary had risen to the point where it was actually thousands and thousands of dollars HIGHER than it was when she took office. So, that pay cut? She managed to get it back. And then some. But, you have to dig to find this shit out, Carole.

I also have a personal, totally unfair reason why I dislike Sarah Palin.

She reminds me of a girl I knew in high school. Judi Deckerson. Judi had it all. She was a cheerleader, she dated the star football player, she was good at volleyball and she was an A student. She was also a catty bitch who had a shit list and even her close friends were afraid to be on that list because she could turn on a dime with them and make their lives miserable. She also cheated at games and tests and was such a suck up with the teachers that even they saw through her eventually. She never disliked me but I disliked her. I disliked her duplicity, her falseness and her disingenuous nature. On the surface, she seemed like someone worth knowing and her first impressions were good. But, little by little, you came to see that she was not all that and then some. She was not even a little bit and then some. She was just a mean spirited person who probably was given too much power.

So, yeah Judi Sarah bugs me.

Carole, I hope that I haven't offended you too much. I can be a bit smarmy myself and sometimes come off as a smart ass. I truly appreciate all the time and effort you gave to your comments, I just think that you are very, very wrong. You say that you are bipartisan, but I don't really see that. I think that you are a die hard Sarah supporter and since we live in a democratic nation, that is your right.

I am a mother. I do fiercely support my child, as you said. I also gave up my career for many years to raise said child. But, I feel insulted to be compared with Sarah Palin. I am a supporter of gay marriage, gay rights of all kinds, gun control, abortion and health reform. I do not share many of Sarah's views. I do not respect her but I do respect her (and your) right to state her views.

I just think she carries an odor. I really do. And I can only hope that sooner or later she will overplay her hand and trip up, showing herself for who she really is.

Until then, I'm just fine with Tina Fey roasting her on SNL. That would be me sitting in front of my television set smirking.

And that's my final answer, Regis.

Snicker, snicker...

Well, laughter might be the best medicine. Watching Palin give a speech denouncing Obama's use of a teleprompter while she stared at the crib notes on her hand was a pretty good pain pill.

And then watching her steal material from idiotic bumper stickers ("how's that hopey changey thingy working out?") was also pretty funny.

What wasn't funny was watching the people in the audience getting all hyped up over her. It was sort of scary. God, are there that many dumb asses in America? Oh, yeah...they all voted against gay marriage, that's right. There seem to be a good many of them.

It was also sobering to watch her face and to read her body language. I did this for a living for a very long time and what I saw there was incredible arrogance and an almost smarmy confidence in herself. Her facial expressions alone were something fascinating to watch.

I sternly told myself to simply take in the speech in a bipartisan manner. I closed my eyes and just listened. She uses more run on sentences than I do. And sometimes changes course of topic matter in a single sentence. I can't figure out her popularity. What do you think it is? I'm curious. And if you are a Palin supporter, can you tell me why? I just don't get it. It seems as though we should all see right through this woman, but we aren't. Why is that do you think?

That folksy manner of hers is appealing for about ten minutes and then you just want her to stop acting like some down home Minnie Pearl in a designer suit. She begins to carry an odor.

What do you think about this? And how about her using crib notes from her hand and quite noticeably relying on them to remind her to talk about tax cuts, the budget and um...boosting the American spirit? Shouldn't a good Republican be able to do that without crib notes?

I can't wait to see what SNL does with this. Calling Tina Fey.......

Please excuse Maria from blogging as she has a groin injury...

Yup. Tis' true.

I have a pulled groin.

I have never had one before and I am here to tell you that they MOTHER FUCKING SUCK THE BIG ONE kind of sting.

I was traipsing out to my car on Friday morning on another day of our really fun snowy weather THAT WILL FUCKING NOT STOP, when I managed to find a slice of ice and my high heel caught on it and I nearly did the splits. In a pencil skirt.

After I woke the entire neighborhood up with my screaming...

No, I didn't really scream. Except inside of my head and it was deafening....

I managed to go back inside and change my clothes and go to work. Where I sat at my desk, biting my lip in two from the pain all day long.

I have a friend who works in an ER and I stopped by to beg him to ex-ray me since I was sure that I must have broken my pelvis.

Nope. Just pulled my groin muscle. Hard.

Did I also mention that I have a heel spur in my left foot? I had that before but now with the um....GROIN injury, I am lurching along like Quasimodo, the deformed bell ringer. And I woke up in the middle of the night with my whole pelvis aching so badly that I wanted to bawl.

So, I woke Bing up and asked her to please rub my groin. And not to try any funny stuff while she was down there....

She complied. I finally took a pain pill which worked but knocked me so senseless that a tree could have fallen on the house and I wouldn't have woken up.

So, it will be a quiet weekend around this house of bliss and high jinks.

Bing, of course, had to get her two cents in:

"Why on earth would you try to go outside in HIGH HEELS when we just had an ice storm? Are you really that obtuse?"

No, just vain.

To top things off, we found out last week that Liv has mono. This would explain why she has been sick off and on for 3 weeks. And I feel like such a BAD MOTHER because I not only accused her of faking but also made her go to school for several days until she finally convinced me that she was really, really sick.

So, there was my darling child's spleen steadily swelling up and I was raising my eyebrows at her and asking her if she was really sick. WAS SHE SURE SHE WAS TOO SICK TO GO TO SCHOOL? AGAIN?

She kept saying she was. Finally, after THREE trips to the doctor, they decided to test her for mono and yes, she has it.

That would explain why she was tired all of the time, had a constant sore throat and the chills.

I am in a medical profession. How could I have missed this? I admit that it is not in my field of specialty, but I should at least be able to recognize obvious symptoms.

But, I missed them.

Another story for Liv to tell her therapist:

"I had mono for a few weeks before I was diagnosed. My mother made me go to school anyway. She didn't believe me when I told her that my throat hurt for two weeks straight. So, that is why I hate doctors...."

Well, to be honest, her pediatrician missed it too. He kept telling us that she had a bad virus with possible bronchitis complications. He finally checked her for mono after I took her in to see him the third time and told him that we weren't leaving until we had some answers.

So, Liv is in bed reading her days away. She is feeling okay, she is back to going to school half days and is eating and drinking more now.

And now I am in bed too, reading and feeling like someone mistook me for a wish bone.

I fully expect Bing to come home with the measles or swine flu because it is my experience that bad things happen in threes.

So, cut me some slack on the blog writing for a while, folks. Why don't you all entertain me for a while by telling me about your worst illness or injury so I won't feel so alone with my aching groin and stinging heel spur?

Do tell.

The too bright receptionist and other horrors of working in a swank building

I have a new office.

In a downtown, plush medical building.

We all moved in early December and I am not acclimating well.

I miss the old office in the projects. It was in an old building with steam hissing radiators and peeling paint. Probably lead paint.

We had to move after one of our secretaries was attacked on her way into the building on a frosty morning in early December. It was just a matter of time. We had all experienced pan handlers and a few of us had our vehicles broken into. Our old office was in a building shared with a massage therapy office.

Except it wasn't. Not really. Well, maybe there was some massaging going on sometimes. Mostly, we suspected there was a lot of hot sweaty sex happening. It sounded like that anyway. There was a great deal of traffic going past our office doors, mostly men who looked sideways a lot and who wore hats. Once, when Marisol, one of our secretaries and a very comely woman, was coming back from her lunch, she was pinched on the ass as she walked by a man waiting in the doorway. When she indignantly turned on him, he held up his hands apologetically and said, "Sorry, senorita! I thought you were one of Manny's girls!"

Manny's girls would be the um...massage therapists.

We talked about moving then, because seriously, none of us really wanted to share a building with a brothel. Actually, the business side of it didn't bother me so much. What I hated was seeing the massage therapists getting dropped off at work by their boyfriends or husbands, whatever and watching them lean in to kiss their children in car seats before they entered the building.

It made me feel sick to think of their faces, all painted up and tarty, already weary with the work that was coming. They would nuzzle their children and then visibly square their shoulders and walk into the building, their toddlers waving goodbye to them and flashing their toothless grins.

Sometimes I would see them between appointments, leaning against the wall outside, smoking, looking bored. One woman, hardly more than a girl, sometimes would read one of those Japanese comic books. One time she had a bruise on the side of her face.

That bruise bothered me.

But, it wasn't until one of the secretaries was attacked that we decided with certainty that we needed to move to another location. She wasn't hurt, a passing police officer scared her assailant away before he did more than push her down and try to grab her purse, but it was enough to scare us all into action.

Julie, our fearless leader, immediately launched into action and within a week, she had several possibilities. Most were in the western area of our city and those were nixed almost immediately. Not one of us wanted to work in what we all refer to as Stepford.

We all liked the idea of moving downtown. It was close enough to the projects that our clients could get to us easily. We all toured the building and were immediately seduced by the automatic flushing toilets in the abundant ladies rooms and the fact that there were many toilets and each stall actually had toilet paper! The building also sported a cafeteria and a receptionist on the ground floor. We would be sharing the top floor with a physical therapist (and yes, the irony wasn't lost on us about how weird it was that someone had to go to the tippy top floor for PHYSICAL therapy.)

The whole building had scarlet and mauve colors and furniture and carpeting. Not one hissing radiator anywhere. No graffiti. A group of building engineers to keep everything tidy and clean.

The rent would be steeper. We would have to share in the cost of the receptionist's salary. We would have to pay a building fee to maintain the team of janitors building engineers.

But, we thought we could do it. The secretaries loved the huge, clean waiting room and the roomy work space. The rest of us were glamored by the spacious offices and the floor to ceiling windows.

We moved the week before Christmas.

I should be grateful, I know that. I no longer have to worry about my car getting broken into. We have underground parking. My office is lovely and I actually have a window in it. It is warm. Our old offices were always cold because the radiators leaked. The toilets in the ladies bathroom have not once overflowed. This was a weekly problem at our old office.

I am slowly getting used to swank. And our clients seem to like it too. Every office in our building is a medical one. The cafeteria serves lots of comfort lunches like meatloaf and spaghetti and meatballs.

But, I miss the old place, I do. I miss it.

And I do not like the receptionist in our building.

Her name is Karon. Not Karen. Karon. Pronounced Kay-RON. She is about my age, in her fifties, I suppose. She has a no nonsense face with round Harry Potter spectacles.

She wears plain skirts with very bright blouses.

Hot pink. Neon orange. Sunshine yellow.

She is also prone to wearing sequins, so not only do her blouses make you blink in the early morning hours, but they can nearly blind you if the sun is shining.

She memorized all of our names and says good morning to each of us when we walk through the doors.

She has a voice that is perpetually chipper and one octave too high.

She doesn't just wish one a good morning, she has to put a spin on it:

Good morning, Maria! Happy hump day!

Happy Friday!

It's almost Friday. Thursday!

Did you catch that gorgeous sunrise this morning?? Didn't it make you feel like singing?!

I am not a morning person. Or a neon color person. Or a cheery sprite of a person.

She annoys the crap out of me.

In the building newsletter (yes, we have a freakin' NEWSLETTER that lists our freakin' birthdays and any other bits of news that you can share with Willie, the news letter guy and he will post little funny stories about your dog, children, etc.) all of our e-mail addresses are listed.

Karon started including everyone in my office in her nearly daily cutesy pie e-mails.

What is a friend? I just want you to know that I consider you to be my FRIEND!!

Or

Are you hungry for Spring? ME TOO! Push the little daisies and watch a pretty summer garden grow right before your eyes!!

Karon is a christian. And proud. One of THOSE. I know this because she sends us all e-mails telling us that when we thought we were all alone, Jesus was carrying us and that is why we couldn't see his foot prints next to ours.

Right before Christmas last year, Karon sent out a mass e-mail urging all of us to mail Christmas cards to the NAACP because they wanted to take GOD out of schools and life in general. She urged us to send a specific HOLY Christmas card to them and suggested that if we all did this, we could clog up the NAACP's mailboxes and make them learn a lesson about how devoted we christians are.

Well, leave it to me to make Karon cry.

It's just my way, but it is half her fault because anyone who knows me knows that I am not my best self before I have had my morning coffee.

I walked into the building and there was Karon in her lime green sweater, making my eyes water and ruining my mascara before I even got in the elevator (it actually WORKS, which is more than the one in our old building did.)

She asked me if I got her e-mail yesterday.

I nodded. Give me credit here because I did try to walk past her without saying anything scathing.

But no. She had to press me.

"Well, did you go out and buy some Christmas cards to send with baby Jesus on them?" she asked.

And almost made me snicker by saying HAY ZEUS instead of the Americanized GEE ZUSS.

I sighed. I wanted my coffee. But, she asked me, didn't she?

I told her that no, not only had I not purchased HAY ZEUS cards but that I had no plan to do so. Did she want to know why?

She nodded solemnly.

I told her that I thought it was kind of well...mean spirited to do that and really, did she think it would be something that HAY ZEUS would do? WWJD?

One of her double chins quivered. Her eyes became moist.

God, no. Not at 7:45 in the morning. NO WET EYES ALLOWED. NO BAWLING.

She blinked and then.....

THANKED ME.

For "enlightening" her. For "teaching" her an important lesson.

It would have been so much easier if she had just flipped me the bird. But no. She had to go and redeem herself and her lime blouse by apologizing and thanking me.

I told her that I was sorry to be so cranky, that I hadn't meant to make her feel bad, but that it was early and I hadn't had my coffee....

Big mistake.

Because now she sometimes surprises me by sweetly handing me a cup of Starbucks when I walk in the door.

"I know how you need your coffee, Maria!"

I don't want to like Karon. I don't want to open my e-mail every other day and find little pep talks about how to smell the roses.

But, I suppose I am going to have to let those neon orange blouses and her never faltering smile into my heart.

I can't help it, though.

I sort of miss the prostitutes waving at me with their fingers curled around a Marlboro.

I miss the elevator that only works sometimes and then makes a really scary noise as you ascend.

I miss the diner on the corner that serves greens and chicken thighs on Thursdays.

I miss seeing fresh graffiti on the back wall.

But, god...it is heaven to have a hot water tap that actually comes out HOT.

What about your work place? Does it fit you?

What color are your work carpets?

Um

Ok. Here's the deal. I had a very hot dream last night.

I have not had one like that in years. Thought I was beyond all that, getting old and all that.

And then last night I dreamed that I was on some sort of a plane and Edward Cullen (as played by Robert Pattinson and you know that he is gorgeous incarnate) was sitting next to me...

holding my hand.

He was feeling um...frisky and kept trying to kiss me. I was all coy and daft, worried that the flight attendant would object to an old arthritic woman making out with a teenage vampire.

Bella was sitting across the aisle and kept glaring at me. I was pretty impressed with myself. I mean...good hell...there I was in all my wrinkled glory and I was still getting a vampire boy hot and bothered.

And then I saw Liv walking up the aisle. She was just a toddler and obviously looking for me. I felt horrible embarrassment then.

BAD MOTHER! BAD MOTHER!

What the hell was I doing canoodling with a neck biter when I had a CHILD to care for?

I immediately jumped up and ran to her, picked her up and brought her back to another seat far away from Edward.

I got her settled and then looked up and he was standing in the aisle, a parachute on his back, goggles on.

"Care to join me in some skydiving?" he asked, smiling that Edward smile.

I wanted to go so badly that I could taste it.

I turned back to Liv and she was gone, replaced by Bing.

She looked at me and smiled indulgently.

"Go for it, babe," she said.

I suddenly realized, (of course!) that I was naked and I was embarrassed to get up. I had that tummy pouch!

And then the alarm went off....

I've already analyzed, no need to help me with that...

But, it left me curious...

What did YOU dream about last?

A shout out...

I wanted to share something with y'all...

Here's a great new site to check out:

Our Big Gayborhood

I was asked to join the writing team and after careful perusal of the site, decided that this was one of the good ones, so I happily agreed...

One of the co-editors is Lori, who you might know from her excellent blog Hahn At Home. When I heard that Lori was a part of this, I knew I wanted to be there too.

Take a look see, yes?

And now I need to go take a shower and wash off the tacky smelling vanilla spray that Liv sprayed on me when we stopped at Target to buy Activa. Yes, I need to stay regular at my age. But, I do not need to go around smelling like a junior high cheerleader. So..off to my shower and then on to LOST!!!!

LOST!

Any other fans out there?

I have watched LOST from day one. I never wavered until last year when it started to feel like someone was messing with me....

I watched, but I was a cranky viewer. I was becoming weary of the fact that instead of getting questions answered, I seemed to have more of them each week.

Still, I watched.

I really became sick of Jack. I am not a Jack fan. I get tired of his limpid, moist eyes, his hero stance. I fell a little bit in love with Sawyer. Now, that is a man who would be worth tangling with, I thought. And yes, he fell into my weak slot: a bad boy with a good heart. Sayid, Desmond, and Miles made my heart skip a bit too, but not like Sawyer.

I liked Kate at first and then cooled on her when she started sporting those limpid, moist Jack peepers. Juliet replaced her and for a long time, she was my favorite, even trumping Sawyer.

Mr. Eko left too soon. But, in retrospect, it was probably for the best. Mr. Eko, I sensed, was limpid, moist eye material and I was glad he was gone before he succumbed.

I want to know what the hell happened to Claire. I think I DESERVE to know, since I have been a loyal fan.

Why doesn't Richard Alpert age? Will someone please clear that up for me?

Will Jin and Sun ever reunite? Because, seriously, I want them to. Real bad.

Why did Daniel get tossed off so quickly? I was just getting to really like him and then, ZAP! he was gone.

What is John Locke's purpose? I am ready for him to stop strutting around being everyone's moral compass and wise man. I want to see why he was chosen.

I was okay with Hurley. Ben gave me the eebie jeebies. He has those beady eyes that look like he is going to go off like the devil in a church any second.

I have questions, people, and seriously, they need to be answered. And I am warning you right fucking now that if you end this show by saying that it was all a dream that Jack had, I will find you and hurt you.

What exactly IS the smoke monster?

Who built all those statues?

How does the wheel work exactly? And more importantly, what the hell are the significance of those damn numbers?

I want this all cleared up.

I also want Sawyer to lose all of his shirts and be forced to walk around without one, just wearing a pair of jeans. I would be okay if that happened to Juliet too. I know that she is supposedly dead, but I think a naked dream sequence would be nifty.

Mostly, I think you have some 'splainin' to do.

I will watch tonight as I have for many years. Bing and Liv started out LOST fans, too. They strayed. Not me. I remained loyal even if it was against my better judgment at times.

Prove me right.

PLEASE.

Reward me for being a loyal viewer.

I want to believe, I really do.