CANCER

Roger has oral cancer. I want to get this out and face it head on during one of the worst years of my life, 2008.

Let's go back, let's go back, let's go way on way back when. Let's go back to 1970.In July of 1970, a sulking eleven year old named Lorrie (ME!) was being transported from Blacksburg, Virginia, to her new home Columbia, South Carolina.

Two weeks earlier, a young man across town named Roger (MY HUSBAND!) was being told that he had cancer. For those of you who didn't know, Roger was diagnosed with cancer when he was 17 and was given a 2% chance to live. His parents were told that he would be dead before his 18th birthday. He fought it for six horrendous years and managed to finish college and even play basketball during his second senior year in high school. He missed his "real" senior year due to operations, recuperation from same, chemo, radiation, etc.

Let's go back to 1991. A single, surly, 32 year old (ME!) was being told by her new boyfriend (ROGER!) that he had fought cancer for 6 years and could never create a child with me. "Who cares?" I said blithely. "We can always adopt." And I think you know how that story ended. Why if it was a movie, I'd pick a Barry Manilow song!

You wouldn't believe where I've been,

The cities and towns I been in

from Boston to Denver and every town in between.

The people they all look the same,

only the names have been changed.

But now that I'm home again I'll tell you what I believe:

It's a Miracle

a true blue spectacle,

a miracle come true.

We're together baby,

I was goin' crazy till the miracle came through.

Now you're here and my arms are around you

and baby they'll be dancin in the streets

for the miracle, a true blue spectacle,

the miracle is you!!

Now let's go back to September 2007 to an event that I chronicled in a previous blog post. State employees may change dental insurance only every other October. October 2007 was approaching and I vaguely remembered that Roger hadn't been showing me his beautiful just-cleaned-straight-from-the-dentist teeth for a long time. And I worried that he might need massive, expensive dental work. And there's this thing that state employees can get called "Super Dental" which will cover almost all dental expenses. It's expensive though, and I didn't want to add it unless it was needed.

So I called the dentist and the receptionist sternly told me that my darling husband had not been in to see the dentist since 2004. I made an appointment for him, and sure enough, he needed massive dental work, and it was done in January 2008 when the Super Dental went into effect, and we all lived happily ever after.


NOT SO FAST.

Roger went for his regular cleaning and checkup in December and casually mentioned that the dentist had pulled up his tongue and did a digital examination. My perverted mind instantly jumped to a inner discourse over the word "digital" and how it had been somehow reduced to a dirty word, even though it's a perfectly nice little word that simply means that the dentist ran his fingers all over Roger's mouth.

The dentist found a red place on the bottom of Roger's tongue. Now run to the mirror right now and look under your tongue. Does it look familiar? I bet I could count on my fingers (digitally) the number of times I've looked under my tongue--or the number of times a DENTIST had pulled out my tongue to examine it.

"It needs to come off, but he's not real worried," Roger said.

I knew. Somehow, I just knew. I JUST KNEW. But I didn't say anything.

Two weeks later he went to an oral surgeon and they numbed the tongue and clipped it and sent it off for a biopsy. The follow up consult was scheduled for two weeks.

"He didn't seem real worried," Roger said.

I said--nothing.

Monday, December 22.

Roger came in our bedroom at 10:00 AM, back from his appointment. "Not good news," he said. It's MALIGNANT.

I rolled over and sleepily said, "I knew I would save your life someday," and went back to sleep. For I knew this. I knew from the moment that I met him that someday I would save his life. And I knew everything would be ok.

NOT SO FAST.

On Christmas Eve I was in the emergency room begging them for a shot that would stop my crying. I could not stop crying. I have never cried so much in my life. I.Could.Not.Stop.Crying. They gave me a hearty thumbs up and a referral to a psychiatrist.

It mostly IS ok, but the margins are not clean. There is still a tiny amount of malignant cells in his mouth. So he went back yesterday for his first consult with the Next New Doctor, the oncology oral surgeon.

He's going to have the rest of the malignant cells clipped out on January 9. After that he will visit the surgeon once a week for months, then once a month for FIVE years, than, the doctor said, "we will decide if you will come in once a year or once every six months."

Do I need I even tell you how often he will be visiting this doctor after five years? No, I didn't think so.

"It was caught very early," said the doctor. I'd say you're very, very lucky." For you see, a painless RED or WHITE or BLACK patch in the mouth should be removed and biopsied if it doesn't completely disappear within two weeks. When it starts to HURT, it probably has started to SPREAD and this is a very, very fatal cancer when it starts to spread. For you see, the next place it jumps is to the lymph glands, which serve as a conduit all over your body.

Please rush to this website and read about it, and PLEASE go to this website and this website and read it like you're studying for orals. Ha! Ha! You see, I still have my sense of humor!!

And it has nothing to do with his earlier cancer. That was my worst fear and it didn't come true.

As the bell drops tonight, Roger and I will be clasping hands and praying for a good 2009. Successful fibro treatment for me, clean margins for him, and a painless and quick passing for my mother, now reduced to a speechless and pathetic human being in late stage Alzheimer's.

My friends, I wish the same for you.

A good 2009.

Happy Holidays

Happy Holidays to all! The gifts are bought, the kids are asleep with visions of a massive haul dancing in their heads, and we are getting ready to try to find all the presents we've hidden.

Thank you for reading my blog and for all the love and support. I hope that each and every one of you gets your holiday desires and that 2009 is better for all of us.

Peace,

Lorrie & the gang

A Remedy For Holiday Blues?

I think we could all use a good laugh, don't you?


Do you have feelings of inadequacy?

Do you suffer from shyness?

Do you sometimes wish you were more assertive?

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You will notice the benefits of Margaritas almost immediately and with a regimen of regular doses you can overcome any obstacles that prevent you from living the life you want to live.


Shyness and awkwardness will be a thing of the past and you will discover many talents you never knew you had.


Stop hiding and start living, with Margaritas.


Margaritas may not be right for everyone.


Women who are pregnant or nursing should not use Margaritas.


However, women who wouldn't mind nursing or becoming pregnant are encouraged to try it.


Side effects may include: Dizziness, nausea, vomiting, incarceration, erotic lustfulness, loss of motor control, loss of clothing, loss of money, loss of virginity, table dancing, headache, dehydration, dry mouth, and a desire to sing Karaoke.


WARNING: The consumption of Margaritas may make you think you are whispering when you are not.


WARNING: The consumption of Margaritas may cause you to tell your friends over and over again that you love them.


WARNING: The consumption of Margaritas may cause you to think you can sing.

Preshus Indigo Children

RANT RANT RANT RANT

Hope you're enjoying the holiday season, and that all your gifts are wrapped. I haven't sent out the first Christmas card, so I'll be busy this weekend.

Tonight I read a blog that sort of disturbed me, so I shall take this opportunity to unleash my righteous indignation upon you, sweet reader. A blogger seemed to think that a teacher had damaged her child's delicate psyche by perhaps suggesting that a color was inappropriate for a work of art. My eyebrows rolled so far back in my head that I thought I might be having a seizure.

Life is tough.

Our children will encounter difficult professors, teachers, bosses. They'll be dumped by boyfriends--and girlfriends too. They'll face adversity in their life. Just like you. Just like me. Remember when you had to turn in that paper in college by TEN O'CLOCK SHARP even though you'd been partying till three and all six of your grandparents had already been welcomed to Jesus's loving arms, eliminating them as a viable excuse? Remember last week when your boss wanted the project on her desk when she got back from lunch even though you knew she wasn't going to look at it for five days? Did your mommy and daddy call up and make it all better?

I don't believe my job as a parent is to gently smooth every obstable in the path and provide a conflict free world for my children. Sure, we're there for them. If there's a big problem, I'll be there guns a'blazin, fer sure, you betcha. But I've tried very hard since the day my first one toddled into preschool to emphasize that minor disagreements are between YOU and your TEACHER.

Miss Thang wandered into the bedroom tonight with a slip asking me to sign an affirmation that I had reviewed her weekly work. She complained petulantly that there was a substitute teacher today. The slips were due today. The regular teacher, she said, allowed one day grace period for slips, but this teacher took ten minutes off of her recess.

Awwwwwwwww. Oh Lord, I feel my eyeballs starting to spin again.

I shrugged. "Perhaps next week you'll have your slips signed in a timely fashion," I suggested.

People! You do your child no favors by hovering over them ready to go to war over the slightest problem or difficulty that your kids face.

Hey, I'm going to give mad propz to Donald and Ivana Trump. Although I really believe that he could afford a better toupee and dislike his habit of marrying embryos, their grown kids are:

1. Maintaining successful relationships

2. Taking responsibility for their offspring

3. Completing difficult educational pathways.

4. Working real jobs with real consequences.

So he and Ivana certainly did something right.

Congratulations Donald and Ivana!! I only hope one day that I'm richer and better looking than you guys are!! 'Cause you sure did a great job with your kids.

I HAVE CURED THE COMMON COLD

Disclaimer: I am no more qualified to give medical advice than the termites in your building, or the moth fluttering under your porch light, unless you feel that an "A" in 7th grade Life Sciences at Irmo Middle School is a stellar credential. The Nobel people turned me down with an extremely rude letter, I must say. Sniff. I mean, really. So what if Linus Pauling got there first? "Delusional wackjob" was simply overstepping the bounds of common courtesy, I must say. And was it really necessary to bring up the restraining order? Such barbarians they are.

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I really am just so dreadfully tired of this tedious cold that won't go away. Very mild nausea, stomach cramps, intermittent fevers, dreadful fatigue, sinus crud, ghastly tubercular-like hacking--every day is a brand new cornucopia of surprises from Satan.

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I have bought nothing for Christmas. This is unprecedented in the history of Mankind. I understand that Wii Rock Band 2 will be releasing Dec. 23, and I understand that our lazy selves will probably be wrapping up a picture of it for Christmas Day. I found my dream gift on a local email list, and Roger will be picking it up tomorrow (A heated chair massager).

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Sunday I woke up feeling sick. I was a desperate woman. Desperate, do you hear me? DO YOU HEAR ME? I NEED TO KNOW IF YOU CAN HEAR ME.

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I started overdosing on Vitamin C. I took 6,000 mg of it. I'd make a piece of cinnamon toast and eat two tablets. Did that three times.

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Monday morning I woke up feeling...um...how do I say this.....HEALED.

Oh, not totally. I still have a little nagging cough. But I feel 1000% better.

Holy guacamole! I don't even want to know how bad this is for me. All I know is that I feel a lot better. And I'm extremely happy to tell you this!!!!

Free Range Kids

So, did you catch the story about the lady who let her 9 year old son find his way home on the subway in New York City? And did you read that crime in New York City is back to 1963 levels?

1963! That is awesome!!

Closer to home, I'm trying to adjust to the idea of free range kids.

Of course I vowed to do every single thing that my parents did completely differently, after all, that's what motherhood is all about. When I was in the 1st and 2nd grade in Chapel Hill, NC, I attended a swank private school 15 miles away called Durham Academy. Tuition was $400 dollars a year back in those prehistoric days though, when we drew our pictures on cave walls and hunted for food with clubs. Now I think $400 allows you to actually think about DA for about 5 minutes and maybe set foot on the property for another 5 minutes. But I digress.

I was not allowed to play with the neighborhood kids because they played stickball in the street. So unless a play date was authorized, rarely, I spent my time after school reading books and writing poems all alone. When I started 3rd grade, we moved to Blacksburg, VA, where my Dad was a professor. There were no swanky private schools, so I went to public school, rode the bus, and hung out with the gang on the street. There were many lessons to be learned--like don't go to a boy's birthday party wearing your Sunday best including high heel shoes--but we had a blast, riding up and down the streets and hanging out eating cookies at various kitchens.

My girls have completed one year of public school and are 1/2 way through their second. They have discovered a neighborhood gang (or rather, when the pool was open, the gang discovered them). They are now running around the neighborhood on bicycles and scooters, hanging out at several houses, and the phone rings constantly. They ask to have friends over every weekend to spend the night.

Well, it's hard to let them go even though it's only a few houses away. We bought them a new phone last weekend and they are required to carry it at all times. I can only hope and pray that they'll use decent common sense--more than I did. When I was 12 I suddenly decided to change lanes while riding my bike and almost got hit. This outraged man screamed obscenities at me and believe me, I deserved it! It was just one of those stupid, spur of the moment decisions. Thank God I grew up. Haven't had one of those for almost...mmm....two weeks or so now.

I had almost adjusted to a silent house when Roger announced that the kids would be WALKING HOME FROM SCHOOL two days a week. On Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays they go to a free Christian day care until 5:00 PM. This is helpful on so many levels--their dear little souls are being nourished, and Roger gets to nap a few more hours. For FREE. Did I mention it was FREE? Because I love the fact that it's FREE. And that they're being led closer to a walk with Jesus. For FREE.

Then Roger decides in response to constant pleading/nagging/begging that my 2nd grader and 5th grader can walk home from school on Mondays and Fridays. Let's see--You walk down Street A and cross a very busy street. I think there are crossing guards posted there. Then you walk down Street B for several blocks and then you walk down Street C for a block. That's it. They are in a group, and Madeleine has promised to watch out for her little sister.

"You're just sick of the CAR POOL LINE, aren't you?" I howled at my loving spouse.

No, he patiently explained while I chewed industriously on my fingernails. They wanted to, they would never be alone, they would gain an added measure of independence....yada yada yada.

So far, so good, I guess. But I can't embrace this Free Range Kids thing with a big old loving hug. Our subdivision is not gated and is 5 minutes away from two major highways. That's why I picked out the house--to make it easier to get to work. But it's also easy to be very far away from the neighborhood very quickly. They are responsible kids and have been warned 1,346,467 times about stranger danger, and never get into a car without a password, which unfortunately we cannot always remember ourselves, being so elderly and all. But....

I've done a lot of things that nobody in their right mind would call safe. I guess that I have to let them go, as soon as they give me Butterfly Kisses.

A Secret World War II Romance With James Walsh

The caption reads: Jimmy in Sardenia. March, 1944.


Clockwise:
1. Jimmy (Walsh) in North Africa-1943.
2. Same note as described below.
3. Jimmy in Sardinia. March, 1944.
4. Jimmy in Italy. March, 1944.

Caption reads: Jimmy and brother in Italy. (Mar

I promised I'd tell you about my mom's secret romance, so here it is...

First a little background.

Mom married at age 24. She and Daddy were students at the University of North Carolina in the Graduate School of Public Health. He took one look at her sparkling green eyes and curly blonde hair and he was a goner. They soon fell in love, married, and literally did live happily ever after.

Just got the ring! Rose Gardens at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill-

1948 -age 23

Ever after.

As we settle back into normal life after the national day of thanks, I thank all the deities above for parents were were truly, madly, deeply, in love. Real, real love. Is this as rare as it seems? The internet seems full of people lamenting a tumultous childhood with angry parents or parent figures. Are there any other people who were raised by two people who never stopped loving each other, not even for a minute? Parents who would neck like teenagers at times?

During her college days, all the boys were over fighting in World War II. Mom certainly had her suitors. She has a scrapbook filled with dried corsages and notations like "We caught Kay Kyser's band tonight! What fun! I had to look up Kay Kyser, but I guess he was who you called when you couldn't get Tommy Dorsey or Frank Sinatra or Benny Goodman to play at your "hop".

She had "JUST A FRIEND" named Clarence Smith who became a pharmacist in her hometown of Mooresville, North Carolina. They were ONLY friends, she made that CLEAR. mmmhmmm. Methinks thou dost protest too much, lady.

I do know that she married a rolling stone. Yes, Papa was a rolling stone. But he always rolled with her. She probably would have been content to spend to spend the rest of her days a few miles from the ancestral mansion but she loved Daddy enough to follow him all over the Southeast during their marriage. People, that was LOVE. For you see, Mom was an agoraphobic. Big time.

So we girls grew to adulthood knowing that one day Mr. Right would see our sparkling eyes and curly blonde hair and fall hopelessly in love with us, too. We neglected to factor into this equation the fact that we weren't mom.

And *I* neglected to factor in that I had straight brown hair with irritating cowlicks and wore hideous glasses. The only thing that "sparkled" was the sunlight reflecting off of them.

Oh well!

So we were cleaning out some of her personal stuff and what to my wondering eyes should appear but a boatload of references to guy she never ever mentioned. John James Walsh. (a/k/a Jimmy)

The above caption reads: Lt. James Walsh. Nice guy! WWII (Thanks for the heads up, mom. I might have thought it was the civil war without your notation). Met at church while attending WCUNC--(that's Women's College of the University of North Carolina in Greensboro) Wrote letter for long time. Sent candy and flowers. Then no letter. Killed?

The caption reads: Lt. James Walsh. North Africa. Sardinia? Met at Methodist Church. WCUNC-1940's? (She and Daddy did not meet until 1947 while they attended graduate school together). Send me lots of candy-and locket etc...

Just this weekend we were going through some more drawers and found a small cigarette lighter he had sent her. We went into hysterics. Did she go one toke over the line, Sweet Jesus? Not THAT stuff, but cigarettes. To hear her talk, wanting a cigarette led to being a crack whore and eventually you would be found dead in a sleazy hotel room, naked except for a tube top.

Daddy smoked for many years, but quit when I was born supposedly because I cried when the smoke hit my lungs. (translatation: Mom nagged him almost literally to death, I bet.) He probably decided that he had to either 1. Quit smoking. 2. Divorce mom. 3. Arrange a tragic "accident." So faced with the lesser of three evils he quit. He'd take a puff while on a out of town business trip and even drink firewater once in awhile. I know because I often went along on the trips to keep him company and see the world. Mom hated travel, as I've said.

Did Miss Pure and Virginal Lips who never did anything "wrong" or "unladylike" take a few puffs of the forbidden fruit?

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ANYWAY. Of course I could not rest until I had put this mystery together. But a search of the internet was less than fruitful. I found one reference to a John James Walsh who was taken prisoner in Italy and this psychic I talked to said that she felt he had died from dysentery. Of course, I'm skeptical of anything I can't prove, but I KNOW he would have written her when he got back after the war, even if it was to break it off.

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Dysentery. The poor guy. Did he lie in bed or on a pallet, knowing that his beautiful young life was ending clutching a picture of mom?

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Warning: Corny cliches ahead.

You've been warned!

No turning back now!

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This brought home the fact that hundreds of thousands of "our boys" and boys all around the world were killed in a senseless conflict. Today there are few men and zillions of women left on the planet who belonged to the greatest generation. Of course heart attacks further decimated the population of elderly gentlemen, but it's sad to think that so many women have to live throught their "golden years" alone because of a war started so many years ago by a madman vegetarian non smoker named Adolph Hitler.

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Funny how I can read a book about WWII or watch a History Channel documentary and not feel a thing when the announcer mentions the number of gallant young men who died for the country, yet this touching romance has me bumfuzzled.

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I fantasize about Jimmy returning from the war, marrying her, and producing kids who were terribly good looking. Then I fantasize that he kept up with her, learned of her widowhood, and having conveniently lost his wife early, renewed their relationship and made her last sentinent years happy ones.

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She never mentioned him, not ever, not once. This leads me to think this was a serious relationship (for a wartime romance) and she didn't want to be teased unmercifully about it. Or perhaps Jimmy was a fighter pilot and Daddy was rejected because he didn't have 20/20 vision and she didn't want to give our evil little brains ideas to rag him about.

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I teased her constantly about being "picked" to be my mother. "The doctor who arranged the adoption thought we were a good couple and would be good parents." Well, I just wonder why he didn't find a RICH good couple."

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'Tis a sad tale indeed. I hope Jimmy and Daddy will be at the Pearly Gates when she arrives.

Further Proof That Although This Child Was Born In China, She Is My Clone

So...hey y'all. How ya doin'?

The fall of 2008 continues to rocket towards a speedy conclusion. Halloween has come and gone, and only MY child would decide to dress up like the Unibomber. This was totally her idea.

Life comes at you fast. I'm doing a lot to work on The Condition That Must Not Be Named (according to my energy healer). I am trying 5 different things--regular medicine, guaifinesin, a pain doctor's cure claim, bio cranial therapy, and an energy healer. I must say that I am having some interesting experiences with the energy healer. I woke up one night and discovered the meaning of life and the reason for the whole Universe, but it was no big deal. I've been having a lot of "housecleaning" dreams--getting rid of a lot of emotional baggage from the past.

I'm still tired and still battling The Stomach Virus That Is Circulating Among Everybody. I'm about ready to order a full-body condom. I spent all day yesterday in bed. But then last week, I felt great and was running around just like I used to. Maybe I really will shake the monkey off of my back.

Mom is deteriorating mentally at a rapid pace. I've cried more this year than every year of my life put together. I guess it's cathartic or something. We're cleaning out her house and found evidence of a Secret War Romance that I'll tell you about in the next post. It was sad, and romantic.

At this point she's at the mental level of a one year old. She won't be here next year, and I'm glad. I can't wait for her to join Daddy in heaven. She seems to be content, however, which is a huge step in the right direction. All I want is for her to quietly drift off. She's suffered a long time with physical and mental pain, and she deserves some peace.

I'm glad that we have a new President-Elect. Things are going to look up in 2009, I just know it!!! I'm going to be healthier, and President Obama is going to do a great job. Don't expect miracles right off the bat, though. The poor man has a lot of mopping up to do. I hope Ann Coulter cries herself to sleep every night!!

More later--good to be back!!!

OBAMA PULLS OFF A MIRACLE

Original lyrics by Barry Manilow
updated by me
Dedicated to President-Elect Obama
and my wonderful readers.

You wouldn't believe we are,
The cities and towns near and far,
from Boston to Denver
and every town in between.

The people they all look the same,
only the names have been changed.
But now that results are in
I'll tell you what I believe:

It's a Miracle!!!!!
a true blue spectacle, a miracle come true.
It's been a long eight years baby,
And we were goin' crazy
till the miracle came through.

Now you've won
America looks brighter and
they'll be dancin' in the streets

For the miracle! a true blue spectacle,
the miracle is you!

I never knew you looked so good.
Oh I never knew anyone could.
We must have been crazy
to ever have gone so red.

I almost forgot what it's like,
trusting our pres to do right.
But now that we've done it
you'll know that most of us say,

It's a miracle==a true blue spectacle,
a miracle come true.

We've got a winner now,
and I was going crazy--
till the miracle came through.

Now you've won and I'm feeling so good,
and baby I am dancing in the streets

For the miracle--a true blue spectacle,
the miracle is YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

While we are all gnawing on our fingernails...

It's time to dance with the HSM3 gang!!!

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AND TOMORROW IT WILL BE OVER

Dr. Martin Luther King died just before I finished 4th grade. I cried and cried. I kneeled and said a prayer. I said, "Dr. King, I'm really sorry you had to leave your little kids like me and if a qualified AA ever runs for president I promise to vote for him to honor you."

It's time to make good on the promise I made so long ago.

Are You Pregnant? Are You A Victim Of Rape or Incest? Your Friend Sarah Explains Why You Should Have The Baby

John, You Ignorant Slut

Reprinted by permission from Julie at A Little Pregnant.

My Alternate Title: John, You Ignorant Slut.

Senator John McCain, Republican candidate for president, on late-term abortions, and whether they should remain legal when the health of the mother is at stake:

"Health for the mother." You know, that's been stretched by the pro-abortion movement in America to mean almost anything. That's the extreme pro-abortion position, quote, "health."

For purposes of my argument, it doesn't matter how you feel about abortion. Forget your own feelings about abortion. My own are rather liberal, offputtingly so to many people, so forget those, too. Forget your disappointment, if you feel it as I do, in hearing Senator Obama use the anti-choice movement's buzzwords, "partial-birth abortion," without busting out an angry McCainish sneer.

Focus instead on the air quotes McCain used, the belittling wiggle of his fingers as he summarily dismissed women facing what's possibly the ultimate lose-lose situation: your baby or your life.



[Source: Talking Points Memo]

Your baby. Your life. If you're reading this blog, chances are good that you're a mother, a pregnant woman, a woman who plans to become pregnant, or a woman who's trying. He means you. He means us when he holds up his hands and says with that single scornful gesture that we don't matter. That we are a figment of the "pro-abortion movement's" imagination. That — what, we're making this whole "staying pregnant might kill me" thing up? (That he did this on Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day is, of course, coincidental, but the irony, it is not lost.)

This is important to all of us, but to infertile women it has a particular significance. Everyone in the infertility blogosphere knows women who delivered babies prematurely because of life-threatening complications. Most of us know women whose illness set in too early for their babies to survive. And many of us know that simply by virtue of needing IVF to get pregnant, we're more than twice as likely to develop preeclampsia, which causes, by conservative estimates, 76,000 maternal deaths and 500,000 infant deaths worldwide each year. [Source: Preeclampsia Foundation]

Not only is John McCain saying we shouldn't have the right to terminate a pregnancy in the event that our lives are at stake, he's telling us he's skeptical that that happens at all.

We know better.

Look, I wasn't going to vote for him anyway. That's true for more reasons than I can list. But this is why I think no one should — no one of childbearing capacity. No women. In fact, no one who cares about women. No one who cares about even just one specific woman. In fact! In fact, no one with a brain. Because even if you're implacably, unconditionally opposed to abortion, a matter on which reasonable people disagree, I don't see any way a thinking person can look at those air quotes and see anything but pandering, contempt, and a dangerous willful ignorance.

This Mama is for Obama

Obama '08 - Vote For Hope from MC Yogi on Vimeo.

Sex and The Single Teenager

just what is on your mind, ya punk?

Nora Ephron once said, "When my kids are arrested for bank robbery I don't want anyone looking accusingly at me." Right on Nora. So I believe in being proactive. Teenagers are just walking hormones. You can raise 'em right and clean your shotgun when the thuggish young men show up to take your precious angel on a date, and they could still end up with a Juno situation. We'll do our best to impart The Right Values, and I am certain that they will listen to me adoringly and strictly adhere to the morals and values that we exemplify ourselves and always, always take appropriate protective measures.

Riiiiiigggghhhht.

So in 10 years I don't anybody looking accusingly at me if a kid ends up "in trouble" as my generation used to say. "I haven't gotten my friend lately." "And they call it a curse? Right now I'd call it the biggest blessing in the universe."


Please make yourself comfortable, make sure all safety belts are in place and prepare for my next Bad Poetry hour. (a respectful hush fills the room. I can just FEEL IT)

SEX AND THE SINGLE TEENAGER

Teenagers will find a way to have sex.

they will have it in the car,

maybe even in a bar,

some will do it on a beach,

we hope condoms are within reach.

they will have it during school,

they will hide and break a rule,

they will do it in the wood,

my best friend had chigger bites all over and what she was doing to get them we all understood.

At home when parents are somewhere gone,

they'll go upstairs and get it on,

they may love the Lord but I bet

they also love having sex, I fret.

Fabulous parenting is off the page

when teenage hormones begin to rage.

you might have breastfed or read books every night,

but teenagers seek delight.

Forbid it fiercely and say it loud,

but don't be surprised if you are called upon to be a grandparent proud.

you probably were as good a parent as you know,

but teenage hormones cry "Let's Go!

Do not judge parents whose kids have sex,

for one day soon you might be the next,

your kid might come to you while life is fine

and show you a stick with a double line.

The kid's a teen, what is your role?

first you teach them birth control*

then you step back and pray pray pray

as they dance down the steps to greet the day.

Isn't that just the most fabu poem? Maybe one day I'll knock all those boobs like Walt Whitman off of the map. (g)

* Talking about morals and values and self respect does help, but does not always result in a chaste promise ring child.

What If Bristol Palin Was Black?

This guy says it well. But I've always believed that a picture is worth a thousand words.

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Let me tell you something:

Sarah Palin is not a nice person. I can't tell you how I know that (oh! Don't you want to scream when someone says that) but just trust that I have a VERY inside source.

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Let me tell you something else:

I've been helping African American single mothers since I finished Lard School in 1982. They know. Oh, yes, they know all too well that what YOU think of them. They know that somewhere down in your heart that YOU think that THEY are basically responsible for the destruction of The American Way. (No, I'm not talking to you, dear reader, but the Man and Woman In The Street). And they're just quietly going about their business with dignity.

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Yes, there are some "lazy AA women on welfare." Yes, there are PLENTY of "lazy caucasian women on welfare too." Yes, I'm all for welfare reform. It should be a fallback temporary thing. Every single person in America should be able to get training for a lucrative career.

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Some women won't. Some women will spend their lives being professional "girlfriends"--I've met some of these. They live with any man who will support them, until they get too old and get replaced, and sometimes they'll go live with a kid and never be productive. Some women will never diaper your kid or sell you gas or give you a shot or clean the factory or write a brief.

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But some of them will! And I'm proud to say I've seen women crawl out of the trap that they were born into. Born into a society that hasn't really progressed that much since Diana Ross wailed "Love Child."

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You think that I don't feel love

But what I feel for you is real love

In others eyes I see reflected

A hurt, scorned, rejected

Love child, never meant to be

Love child, born in poverty

Love child, never meant to be

Love child, take a look at me

I started my life in an old, cold run down tenement slum

My father left, he never even married mom

I shared the guilt my mama knew

So afraid that others knew I had no name

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I'm proud to say that I know women born into poverty who are now guarding prisoners, processing crime scenes, writing briefs, working on Worker's Comp claims, doing payrolls for a business, buying houses, and raising children.

Baby Come Back

Don't you hate bloggers who go away and then apologize for not posting, like your day is just going to go to HADES if you visit the site and see the same ol' same ol'?

Ok. Well. Please forgive me. I'm sick. I'm so, so sick. I've fainted twice in the last week. I can barely keep going. I have had to officially reduce my hours at work.

Everybody else is sick at work too, which is not much of a consolation. One of my friends took off today at 10:30 telling me that he is miserable. This American bit where you go in whether you're like sniffling and snorfling all over the place -- let's just say that studies have shown that if you're sick you should stay at home in bed.

But I can't. I like being employed.

I promise to return soon and tell you all about my ultra exciting life of work-bed-work-bed-the kids just turned 10 and 8-work-bed-work-bed-I think you get the picture and now I am going to bedzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

You Have GOT To Be Kidding Me

the puppy dog eyes

School has started. We've picked up the information packets, we've filled out forms until the pens died, we've bought the supplies. Supplies. Dear Lord, supplies. Pocket Protector, Blue, Plastic, 1 inch wide, on sale at midnight at a store 20 miles away. Madeleine needed a notebook (WHITE ONLY) 1 inch thick. Walmart only had a WHITE ONLY 1 1/2 inch notebook. I threw it in the cart. I hope I don't get called to the principal's office and my disobedience put on my PERMANENT RECORD.

As the years go by we've (DH & I) have developed a rather cavalier attitude. Meredith needed 25 1 quart ziplock bags. Walmart only had them in boxes of 40. Roger opened the box and carefully extracted 15 of the bags. She needed two 7.5 bottles of antibiotic hand sanitizer and Walmart only had 12 oz bottles, and seriously, guys, Roger was preparing to PUMP OUT THREE OUNCES FROM EACH BOTTLE. I think being a SAHD is warping him a little. I slapped his hand with a rolled up newspaper and he whimpered softly and left the hand sanitizer alone.

And the forms! Egads! Madeleine's teacher had one innocent question on her form. "Has anything happened in her family that might have an effect on her classroom performance?" The brief answer here is no. Madeleine and I both have Teflon-like abilities to brush away events that would devastate the more sensitive members of our house, Roger and Meredith. For example, my grandmother died when I was a junior in high school. I had a perfect attendance record at our high school football games since I loved them plus I was in the band. Grandmother, bless her heart, had been senile as long as I could remember, and I never really formed any sort of relationship with her. The words "You're really making me miss the game just for a stupid funeral?" may have escaped my lips sometime during this family crisis.

But of course, how could I resist writing about myself? I mean come on now! To channel Chandler on Friends, Could I BE more interesting? I think not! I filled a page starting in October of 06 when I thought I had cancer and then I had to have a total hysterectomy December 06 and then developed fibromyalgia in Jan 07 and Madeleine's father had to quit his job in June 07 because I could only do 2 things, work and collapse and then her grandmother developed Alzheimer's and has been so far this year in TWO nursing homes and THREE hospital stays and so on and so on and then I referred her to this blog if she wanted more detail. And I am just as sure as I can be that she leaped on this blog like a leopard leaps on a wounded gazelle. Mmmmmhmmmmm.

They start early these days with the fund raisers. Raise your hands if you feel that fund raisers were a direct result of Satan worming his way into the hearts and souls of each school. Ok, I get fund raisers for cash-strapped private schools, but this is a public school. I delivered a lovely civic lecture and showed the kids our property tax bill, ending with a rousing call to ignore all the gazillions of fund raising brochures they were presented with. I held them spellbound as I explained the intricacies of property law taxation. Well, not really. They just continued to watch Hannah Montana.

But later on two little girls came to me with the puppy dog eyes and begged me to buy something. I refused on principle. To heck with the principal!! hardehar.

I said you may not sell to:

1. My friends.

2. Roger's friends.

3. Relatives.

"But mom," they said, WE WANT TO WIN A PRIZE!"

"So sell to the neighborhood, then," I said, figuring that my shy little ladies would never dream of marching up to strange doors to sell merchandise.

This weekend I've been kinda laid up with a stomach problem, and it seems to be circling the neighborhood, because today one child came over to swim and lost control of his bowels while standing on the steps leading to the porch. My God. That poor, poor child. Poor, poor Roger, who had to clean it up.

So while I lay comatose moaning and clutching my stomach.....

The kids went all over our neighborhood and sold stuff to just about everybody!! (I must admit it was really cool stuff and I might even buy something myself) Roger crabbed about it because it forced him to abandon his yard projects to play chaperone, but by gum, those kids just marched up to strange doors and rang the bell.

Amazing.

p.s. Callie is doing great.

Introducing Callie

Meet Callie!!!

Way back in the olden days before Al Gore invented the internet I had two dogs, Nicky and Cassie. Nicky went blind at age 6 from an inherited disease called Progressive Retinal Atrophy and Cassie was rescued from a puppy mill. They both had a lot of problems. Nicky's were primarily physical and he wasn't real smart. In fact, I probably should have called him Bubba. Cassie was superbly healthy but had terrible mental problems. She never recovered from her year in a puppy mill.

Here is picture of me holding my two little angels way back before the children arrived.

I had to put Cassie to sleep a few months after I began this blog back in 2005 and I had to put Nicky to sleep the year before. And it broke my heart. Yeah, yeah. Anytime a family pet goes to heaven it breaks people's hearts. Well, MY HEART WAS BROKEN WORSE THAN YOURS. No, not really. It's just a shame that animals have such short lives. I did not want to ever put another dog to sleep. I did not want to ever get attached to another pet.

Then I was possessed with the spirit of Barry Manilow and the following lyrics went through my head:

You remind me I live in a shell,

Safe from the past,

and doin' okay, but not very well.

No jolts, no surprises,

No crisis arises,

My life goes along as it should,

it's all very nice,

but not very good.

And I'm ready to take a chance again,

Ready to put my love on the line with you.

Been living with nothing to show for it;

You get what you get when you go for it,

And I'm ready to take a chance again

with you.

When she left me in all my despair,

I just held on,

My hopes were all gone.

Then I found you there.

And I'm ready to take a chance again

Ready to take a chance again with you,

With you.....

When people would ask me if I planned to get another dog I simply plastered a soulful expression on my face and waved my hand vaguely and said....well...you know..the CHILDREN are so young....and they would nod knowingly and walk away.

It didn't have anything to do with the children, but I've found that they offer great excuses to do things like:

Ride the ferris wheel

Go to Disney

Not work full time in the summer.

Man, I'm going to miss that when they're all growed up!!! Then I'll have to confess that all my activities are solely because *I* want to do them. Oh well. I still have a few years left.

Well, this spring I decided I wanted a dog. Dealing with mom has been so stressful and heartbreaking. I decided I wanted a young, happy soul in my life. Lacking the guts to have an affair, unlike John Edwards (you miserable &*&*&*&) and since Roger firmly vetoed any more human children, and he turned thumbs down on cats because his former live in girlfriend had 20 or so once upon a time, that left..dogs.

Now I have to go back and tell you a story which should convince you that I'm insane. Of course, most of you have already figured that out. But here it is.

Hurricane Katrina hit in 2005 and I began sobbing daily as I read stories of people drowning because they refused to leave their pets, and little kids having their beloved animals yanked out of their arms before boarding a rescue bus and Cassie (that's my poodle) spoke to me.

"Put me to sleep and adopt a Katrina orphan poodle," she said.

Now Cassie or Nicky talking to me was not unprecedented. Nicky never said anything much but "I'm hungry" or "My eyes hurt" (he eventually had to have his eyes removed due to PRA complications such as dry eyes) but Cassie and I communicated fairly regularly. I kept thinking that I heard her say stuff, but then I would dismiss it as me being, well, insane.

But I would swear on a stack of Bibles that she spoke to me. She hadn't been feeling very well for about a year due to Cushing's disease, but we had been managing. All of a sudden she was so weak she could barely walk and she lost all of her appetite.

"Well...ok....." I said. "If that's what you want. But I cannot adopt a Katrina poodle. I need some down time. I've been caring for sick, elderly dogs for years and the kids are still so young, really. I need some down time."

"Fine, but DO IT. Take me to the vet NOW."

"Will you help me pick out a new dog when the time is right?" I asked.

"Certainly," she replied calmly.

Well, the fit came over me and I posted on a poodle list, and within 1 hour I received an email from a local rescue friend. She had a new poodle with her, a happy, smart, healthy female poodle, only a year old, spayed, cute as a button. She was just going to post the dog on the rescue website, but thought that we might like her. OH HECK YEAH.

"But she must have a clean PRA test," I replied. So that's why we've waited so long after meeting her. They've developed a test now for that horrible disease. I would never adopt another poodle without that test, for PRA is quite common in poodles. Her test came back clear.

And she is everything I would wish for. She's smart. She's already doing lots of "Cassie" stuff. Cassie loved to follow Roger around the pool as he cleaned it. Cassie loved to walk on the brick just outside our screened back porch. So does Callie. She spent 6 months in a puppy mill, but it does not seem to have affected her. Joy shines out of her eyes.

I wanted to name her Delilah, but my whole family screamed, and her given name was "Silly" and our rescue angel named her "Sally" and I finally decided that her name would be Pei-Pei. (Meredith's nickname in her orphanage.) The kids stared hostilely.

"I thought Pei-Pei would honor your Chinese heritage," I tried to explain.

"IS THE DOG CHINESE?" they both replied. Gracious. I must stop sending them to school. They're getting way to smart.

So--Callie it is! Thanks to my sister for coming up with the name. It's close to our maiden name.

And Cassie, thanks! I knew you would keep your promise to me.

And now I must close with the song that I requested to be played at our wedding, sung by Aretha Franklin.

Like a warrior that fights

And wins the battle

I know the taste of victory

Though I went through some nights

Consumed by the shadows

And was crippled emotionally

Somehow I made it through the heartache

I escaped

I found my way out of the darkness,

kept my faith...kept my faith

And the river was deep

I didn't falter

When the mountain was high

I still believed

When the valley was low

It didn't stop me

I knew you were waiting

Knew you were waiting for me

With an endless desire I kept on searching

Sure in time our eyes would meet

And like the bridge is on fire

The hurt is over

One touch and you set me free

I don't regret a single moment

Looking back,

when I think of all those disappointments

I just laugh,

I just laugh!

So we were drawn together through destiny

I know this love we share was meant to be

I knew you were waiting..knew you were waiting for me.

Blogher 08

Hey Nineteen

First I need to explain to you that I wasn't the fat pimply friendless geek girl, ok? But I had a lot of dork in me. Oh yes. A lot. That just happens to be a picture of me in flattering light without the 6 foot thick glasses which I wore in the day. I still wear glasses. I can't wear contacts and lasik scares me.

Then I need to explain to you that I am almost frighteningly gregarious, I love parties, I love drinking and smoking, I love meeting total strangers and partying. I am Southern, trained to be GRAY-SHUS. Trained to be social.

And I could have easily gone to Blogher 08 this year.

But I'm terrified. TERRIFIED.

Because I'm a Z-list blogger. And the first time that somebody looked at my badge, didn't recognize me, and walked away would have devastated me.

And this hot, gorgeous, popular chica was snubbed. Good lord, if it had been me, I probably wouldn't have just been snubbed, I probably would have been beaten over the head with an Ipod phone, first generation.

And of course the entire internet is talking about the Unfortunate Series Of Events that was started by the awesome and funny Bloggess posting an adorable post which made me laugh (and which I thought was supposed to be flattering, seriously) about The World's Most Famous and Revered Blogger. And the aftermath was caught on videotape.

And if someone had called me Janet I would have simply locked myself into a bathroom stall the same way I did when Susan Shelley pointed out that I had corn stuck on my braces in the 8th grade.

And I won't lie to you...I'm still a seething mass of insecurity and sheer terror.

Somebody talked about meeting people she had actually exchanged emails with, them reading her tag, and walking away. I've exchanged emails with some very very popular people and talented writers who have written very nice responses to a total stranger writing them. (Well Miss Cellania is a friend of mine, but the others didn't know me from adam). A blogger that writes the some of the funniest stuff on the web has complimented my blog and it made my day. Yeah, I'm a fangirl.

And once again the web vibrates with the sound of "I had a great time and made some awesome connections" vs. "It was just like high school and I felt left out and excluded from the private parties." Of course, some ballsy chicks crashed it. If a one of the most famous chicks on the net felt insecure, gawd help me.

I don't want to spend a thousand dollars on a trip only to be regressed to high school dance time.

Ok, I'll start slow with Blogher Greensboro. And if some of my homies want to be my roommate next year in SF? Email me. I love to party, I love swag, and I love the idea that bloggers are finally getting some respect from the real world. Even if the New York Times didn't write about them in the right section.