In Honor Of My Friend

My cat died yesterday. I feel like referring to her as a cat is utterly inadequate. She was so much more than a cat to me. She was my BFF, my sidekick, my sunshine, my baby, my constant. Cat, or animal minimizes what she was to me. She was my family.

I will attempt to type my feelings and memories through trembling fingers and tear-filled eyes. In July 2000, I went to NorthPark Mall in Dallas. My friends Carmen and Brion were about to come visit me from Nebraska and I was in the mood for a new pair of shoes. I walked out of the mall instead with a one-year-old cat whom I named Purrkins. The SPCA was set up outside Dillards and I fell in love with her and her beautiful coat with the Target logos on each side. Her beautiful blue eyes glistened and she posed with a regal presence. Her "motor" roared in celebration each time she was petted or held closely. I often wondered what her first year of life was like before we met, she and I settled into a happy life together very quickly.

Jay was just as smitten with Purrkins as I was. They too became fast friends and between the two of us, Purrkins was given many nick-names. Pookie-boo, Boo, Boo-kitty, P-kitty, and on and on. The three of us moved into our current house together more than 11 years ago. She was unwilling to simply live within the confines of our home. She was drawn to the outside, especially in the brutal Texas summer. She taught Jay and I to trust her and allow her to live part of her days outside while we were home. It was something we knew was a risk, and we were prepared to leverage that risk against her having a happy, fun-filled life on her terms. While she explored our front and back yard, we have memories of Purrkins climbing 8' fences, jumping up on our garage roof, racing through piles of leaves while we raked in the fall, sunning herself under bushes and plants while she raised her nose toward the sun with what appeared to be a huge smile.

Like everyone, Jay and I have had our share of having to play some difficult hands. Due to the complicated and unpredictable nature of life, we were forced to make our own family which we chose to fill with pets. Purrkins was the centerpiece of our family and our two miniature dacshunds came around in 2007 to turn our family of three into a family of five. For the most part, the dogs and Purrkins got a long very well. There was a mischievous side to Purrkins and she would sometimes tease the dogs or try to get them to chase her knowing that she could spring up quickly on a bed or piece of furniture and leave them feeling inadequate to her athletic abilities and agility.

I couldn't make the bed or change the sheets without her springing up to shuffle the blanket or sheets all around before darting around the room like a pin ball in a machine headed for a record-breaking score.

But that's all in the past now.

Just like that, in an instant, she was taken from us. I can't bear to type or think about the details beyond the fact that she is gone. That alone feels unbearable to me as I swim through my grief that is barely 24-hours old. I would be admitting to be a fool if I thought that she would live forever. Her 15-year-old body was beginning to fail her in ways that Jay and I could see but we didn't want to admit. But we thought we would have more time. More time to love her. More time to hold her. An opportunity to say goodbye. I guess I just can't believe that there is such an immense hole in my heart and an emptiness in our home. I am going to miss her terribly and miss the fact that she will no longer be part of my daily routine.

Of course we know that time will help us learn to live without her. Other highs and lows will come and go and fill our days up with stress, happiness, worry, doubts, dreams, hopes, and fears. But for now, it hurts. It hurts deeply and horribly and I wish I could fast-forward through whatever amount of time is going to take to be at peace with this loss.

Thank you for your sensitivity to my feelings at this time, there will never be another Purrkins, and that is a damn shame.

Coming Clean

I have a confession. Before you get too excited thinking I am really going to tell you my lifelong friends' secrets (you seriously didn't think I would tell you mine, did you?), I should say that it's really more of an epiphany. After thinking about what I would write about to kick-off the reunion tour this week, it dawned on me. I think I put my finger on why I haven't touched this blog in over a year.

This wasn't the worst case of writer's block that I have ever had...I have plenty of material, trust me. It's just that the "stuff" that's been on my mind...well, I just didn't think anyone would care.

Most of the people who read this blog are friends and family and I know and appreciate that you care about me. It's just that some of this "stuff" has the potential to be a one-way ticket to downer town and I don't want to be responsible for dragging anyone there. So in the spirit of full disclosure, you have been warned! Now on with the blog...

Half-year Resolution!

Not too many days ago, I was asking myself why I hadn't posted in NEARLY A YEAR! How embarrassing...it will be hard to convince anyone that I actually enjoy writing. So I am officially back! I have dusted off my laptop and I am ready to begin again. Who says you can't have resolutions in the middle of the year?

In Over My Head Part 3 (final)

It’s funny what thoughts go through your mind when you are faced with an uncertain situation.  The “what ifs” quickly take over and bounce around your mind like a pinball dancing around inside the machine.   One fear leads to a barrage of unanswerable questions and the fears multiply and can take over quickly. 

And yet, I was worried about my hair. 

Days before my first doctor’s appointment, I had a haircut and I really liked my new style.  Here I was faced with a situation that was already very serious and I was worried about my hair.  In retrospect, I believe it’s some type of defense mechanism, a way of protecting ourselves or a way to help us survive and cope.  These situations are so overwhelming and difficult to process that it becomes natural to focus on something, anything that you can control.  For me, it was my hair. 

I went back to work to help me pass the time before my next appointment with Dr. Mickey.  I clutched my purse as I rode up in the elevator to the fifth floor of the office building I was working in at the time.  I was riding with three colleagues that first morning back to work and prepared myself for the blitzkrieg of questions.  “I heard about your health issues, is everything okay?” “I hope so, thanks for asking,” I responded realizing that work wouldn’t be an escape for me after all.  I would have to relive the events of the last three days a thousand times that day.  It’s nice to know people are concerned and want the best for you, but I was really hungry to just feel like I was living my normal life.  I wanted everything to go back to how it was just a week before when my biggest decision in a day was deciding where to go to lunch with my co-workers.

But time did pass.

Seconds turned into minutes; minutes to hours; hours to days.  My friend since fifth grade, Sara, flew down from Nebraska to Dallas after the tumor hit the fan.  She called and asked if she could visit me for the weekend.  I was very touched by her gesture of support, as Sara was married with a little girl and pregnant with her second child at the time.  I welcomed the distraction and Sara was relieved as she had already booked her plane ticket.

This is bad if people are coming to visit. 

I had convinced my parents that they didn’t need to make the trip just yet.  One of the scenarios that I was contemplating was surgery (which lead to the concerns about my hair) and if that was the case, I would need my parents at that time.  Yes, it would be good to see Sara and try to feel normal. 

Sara, Jay and I had a good weekend.  We went to dinner, shopping and went to a downtown arts festival.  The weather in Dallas in April is usually cool enough to wear jeans or shorts and a long sleeve shirt.  The sun is bright and you tell yourself that you better appreciate the beautiful weather now because that wicked Texas summer heat is just around the corner.

The weekend passed relatively quickly.  We dropped Sara off at the airport, it was so great to see her and be able to catch up and feel like there wasn’t anything wrong.  But there was, or there could be, I still didn’t know.  The elephant in the room stayed close to my side and wouldn’t let me forget about it for too long.  Most days, the uninvited brain tumor was the first thing I thought of in the morning and the last thing I thought about at night during my prayers to God. 

Please, please, please, please, no, don’t let this be the worst-case scenario. 

I begged.  I won’t ever ask for help to find a lost contact again…I will not miss church…I will appreciate my life and the gifts you have given me.   I promised.

Monday passed.  Tuesday was now.  Wednesday is my appointment with Dr. Mickey.  One more day.  I had a flashback of being flat on the table before that first MRI.  A cool sensation started at my toes and moved up my legs. As the feeling hit my arms, I felt goose bumps explode on my skin and causing me to shiver until it reached my head.   The cold wave was a product of the realization that this one test could change everything.

Gulp.

Wednesday.  Jay drove me to the doctor’s office for my sequel appointment.  Armed with my hospital check-in card and two oversized and awkward envelopes full of pictures of my brain, we walked toward the entrance.  The automatic doors opened quickly as we approached the door.  As we entered, the smell of latex gloves and Clorox bleach filled my nose.  Phones ringing, elevators dinging, wheelchairs piled up on the side of the room next to the windows.  Definitely in a hospital, I thought.  I squeezed Jay’s hand too hard, but he didn’t say a word. 

Checked in with the desk staff.  Turned to sit in the waiting room.  I glanced around the room as I tried to get comfortable in the chenille-covered chair.  Old people, young people, children and family members waited all around us.  No words were spoken, but the eyes told the same story.  Stress.  Fear.  Anxiety.  Sleep deprivation.  One man sat remarkably still as he looked up at the television tuned to CNN.  His head was wrapped in white gauze and bandages.  I slowly closed my eyes and tried to think of something else.  Anything else.

Sue opened the door leading into the waiting room from the exam rooms.  She called my name and Jay and I slowly marched behind her after a quick smile, nod and “fine thank you.”

“Dr. Mickey will be with you in a moment.”  Big sigh.  I stared at the poster of a human brain on the wall for two minutes or maybe twenty, I can’t be sure.   Tap, tap, tap on the door.  Dr. Mickey entered looking a little more tan and somehow taller than I remembered. 

Hello.  Hello.  Good to see you again.  Yes, you too, thank you.

Dr. Mickey flipped through my chart, grabbed my MRI and CT Scans and was having what was for him, a completely average day.  He was the only one in the room who could say such a thing.  He threw the scans up on the illuminated light box.  One scan from the first MRI was on the far left.  The other scans were only from the CT that was done the week before.

He plucked his glasses out of his white coat pocket and carefully placed them on his face.  Jay and I watched Dr. Mickey scour the films.  We didn’t know it at the time, but Dr. Mickey had already reviewed my CT scans with his colleagues earlier that morning; the radiologist gave me a copy and Dr. Mickey a set of his tests.  He was checking his work one more time before speaking to us during my appointment.  He moved his eyes from one side to the other and back again.  Repeat.  My heart was beating out of my chest.

He turned to face us.  Removed his glasses and reached toward the plastic brain on the counter to use as a visual aid.

“Your tumor is right here,” he pointed with his index finger to a space that to me was on the back and base of my brain.  “It’s the size of a quarter, roughly.   What we can see from your CT Scans that you had taken last week with the contrast fluid is that the fluid moved around the mass rather than in or toward it which is what we want to see.”

Good news.

My stomach jumped, I shifted in my seat, and glanced over to Jay to check his reaction.  Did Jay hear what I heard?  A cautious smile filled his face.  Yes, he did.  Okay, focus on the doctor.

“It’s impossible to say why you have this cyst.  It’s not supposed to be there, and it’s definitely not what we would say is normal, but it isn’t impacting your brain, vision or speech.   It very well could be that this is how you came from ‘the factory’.  You have a vey healthy brain.  My recommendation is that you return in one year, then in two years and again three years from now.  We will want to keep on an eye on your benign cyst to make sure it doesn’t change in size or position.”

Wait.  Did he say cyst?  I heard the word tumor a hundred times before each time any of the doctors referred to what was on my brain.  Now in just two minutes, everything changed, but this time for the better.  He said mass, but then cyst.  I had never heard a prettier combination of words in all of my life—benign cyst.

Then we discussed my excessive headaches and double-vision.  From Dr. Mickey’s point-of-view, there wasn’t anything on my scans that told him why either symptom was occurring.  He recommended I go to a Neuro Opthamologist for my vision and to continue watching my headaches.  After my additional appointments and tests, the consensus was that my headaches were related to swinging hormone issues so we adjusted some medications and eventually, the headaches cleared.  Once the headaches were history, so was the double-vision.

I didn’t know Christmas could come in April.  I felt like I woke up that morning and got everything that I had asked for on my list including a winning lottery ticket.  Dr. Mickey answered some additional questions politely and we were soon on our way.  Passing the waiting room full of people who didn’t have answers or hope tempered my excitement for the moment.

We walked out of the hospital.  For the first time in over two weeks, my stomach growled.  My appetite had been missing in action since my follow-up visit at my regular doctor’s office.  Were things going to be normal again?

No.

Nothing would ever be the same.  I looked at everything differently.  Those two weeks of uncertainty, fear and anxiety changed me, opened my eyes to the fact that life really is as fragile as you fear it can be.  The flowers were prettier, the birds sang the most beautiful melodies, and I laughed as I ran my fingers through my hair.

Thank you, God.  Thank you.

In Over My Head Part 2

The next few minutes were a blur even in the moment.  I remember telling myself that I needed to breathe and blink, because I wasn’t doing either automatically.  And I heard the words tumor, neurosurgeon appointment tomorrow, this is serious, do you want me to go get your boyfriend? 

Yes, please.

The sandpaper tissues scratched my tear-soaked face.

Blink. 

Tears. 

Oh my god.

Friends and family were called.  Emails were sent via my dial-up Internet connection.  Calls started pouring in.  I couldn’t answer, couldn’t say any of it out loud.   It’s strange, but I remember so clearly that the outfit I wore on that first day was never worn again.  It was donated very quickly to charity.  I just couldn’t bring myself to put on the tumor uniform again.  I didn’t want to see any reminders of the day that everything changed.

Day two.  I dropped the shampoo bottle in the shower.  It banged loudly on the shower floor and the noise frightened me and shook me into a realization.  I was someone I had never been before—the person everyone was going to think about when his or her day went south and they would say to themselves:  it could be worse, I could be going through what poor Stephanie is going through right now.  I was that person.  I was 25 years old and I didn’t want to be that person.

I was early for my appointment with Dr. Bruce Mickey.  I had a neurosurgeon.  Most people my age have a doctor and a dentist.  I had a neurosurgeon.  Dr. Mickey is still considered one of the best neurosurgeons in the nation; the article I read in the salon reminded me of that fact.  At the time, I would have preferred to meet him at a dinner party rather than because I had a tumor on my brain.   His practice was run with military efficiency.  His nurse, Sue, called my name and Jay and I followed her down the long hallway to an exam room.  Orange carpet lined the hallway and bright abstract artwork dotted the walls.

We waited.  And waited.  And waited.

There was nothing to say to each other.

Dr. Mickey arrived in a bright white coat embroidered with his name in navy blue thread.  He tie was in position aligned perfectly under his Adam’s apple.

Nice to meet you.  Nice to meet you.  He sat on a black leather stool with stainless steel legs and black wheels.  He asked for my scans from the day before.  He put one scan up on the bright white illuminated light box and the images of my skull and brain came to life.  Then another scan, and another and so on until there were five scans filling the wall.

Silence.  The wheels of Dr. Mickey’s stool turned from one scan to the next back to the first, over to the second.  Silence.  10 minutes of silence as Dr. Mickey meticulously reviewed the images before him.  Jay squeezed my hand.  I couldn’t handle the silence any longer.  “Can you see how still I was during the MRI?”  Jay smiled and nodded.

Dr. Mickey turned to us as if he just realized he wasn’t the only person in the room.  “Well, I think we need to do some additional tests.  The tumor you have needs to be evaluated further and I would like to send you to get a CT Scan with contrast fluid.”

I was still experiencing headaches and double vision and Dr. Mickey did not think those issues were related to the tumor.  Just a coincidence that the tumor was found during the MRI.  I don't know why, but I thought that could be a good thing.  I knew I had three issues then-tumor, unexplained double-vision, and a cluster of migraine headaches.

The CT Scan procedure started off similar to a spinal tap so that the contrast fluid could be injected into my body.  The gurney I was on was tilted with my head directed down so that the fluid would naturally move downstream to my brain.  I remember I was wearing a periwinkle Nike t-shirt and black yoga pants.  Jay had to work but his brother Jamie had a break in his schedule from law school and dropped me off at the hospital for the test.  I have no idea what we talked about as Jamie drove me to my appointment.  I am sure I couldn’t have told you that five minutes later either.

Waiting.  Waiting.  Waiting. 

Chat with the radiologist.  Throw in a stupid joke to break the ice.  He’s nice.  Hold still.  Don’t breathe.  Don’t move.  Don’t itch.  Don’t think about it.  Count to 100.  1…2…3…4…5…breathe. Don’t move.  20 minutes.  How much longer?  Don’t move.

“Okay, we’ve got what we need,” the radiologist said as he pushed up his glasses.  “Dr. Mickey is going on vacation for a few days, but I am sure he will call you next week with the results.”

I went into desperation mode.  “Dr. I-don’t-remember-your-name-nine-years later, I know you aren’t supposed to say anything, but I don’t think I can wait until next week.  Is there anything you can share with me that can help me make it until my appointment with Dr. Mickey?”  Tears started to fall onto my periwinkle shirt creating dark purple polka dots.  I was overwhelmed by my own feelings but I controlled the tears before they turned into sobs.  I wasn’t prepared to have to wait that long.  I couldn’t.  But I didn’t have a choice.

In Over My Head-Part 1

I went to the salon the other day for my semi-regular “sunshine injection pilgrimage”.  In other words, to get my hair highlighted.  Sadly, my hair turned on me from medium/dark blonde to light brown sometime in college.  I could be wrong, but instead of attributing this to my increasing age like my stylist does, I attribute my darkening roots to the excessive amount of dark beer that I drank in college.

While in the salon, I typically like to decompress, drink my glass of water and read an empty magazine article.   I started reading a Dallas magazine story about a woman around my age faced with a growth on her brain.  The article chronicled her on the road to recovery and I am happy to report her health and life returned to normal.  Toward the end of the article, she mentioned the name of the doctor she owed her miraculous turnaround to--Dr. Bruce Mickey of the University of Texas-Southwestern Medical Center.

My eyes froze on his name.  They were paralyzed there as I said his name in my head over and over and over again.  I closed my eyes and was transported back through nine years of memories, jobs, parties, celebrations, tragedies and laughter until I was sitting directly across from Dr. Mickey in his office. 

It is an experience I will never forget.  I had been suffering with migraines for years.  I had been able to control my headaches with diet until the spring of 2000.  In the time period of a week, I suffered with six unbearable migraines that were eventually accompanied with double-vision. I went to my regular doctor who ordered an MRI of my brain.  “Routine” was the word she used.  She called me that afternoon and suggested I come in right away.  Don’t panic, I thought. 

Knot in my stomach. 

Jay and I were in the early stages of our relationship.  We had met just six months before and our dating routine didn’t include trips to the doctor to discuss serious health matters.  Things were about to change.

Jay was in the waiting room and I went back to the exam room after my name was called.  The doctor came in and immediately snagged a box of tissues from the counter and brought them over to the exam table near my leg.  She let out a heavy sigh.

“Are you here alone?” she asked, tilting her head to the side.  Her long dark hair was in a braided ponytail and it whipped from one shoulder to the other.  

“No, my boyfriend is in the waiting room here with me.”

“That’s good,” she said, “that’s good.”

Outsmarted

So before I got in the shower today, I saw that my beloved cat Purrkins was asleep on the floor. I had just taken some clothes out of the dryer and didn't have time to put them away.  I naively, but carefully layered each piece on the back of a rocking chair in our bedroom knowing that I would hang or fold everything up once I was done.

Fast forward 15 minutes.

I walk through our room, post-shower and see that Purrkins had pulled my clothes down from the back of the chair to the seat of the chair and made herself a very cozy bed.  It seems impossible, but I assure you that given Purrkins' resume, she did this.  She has never been a feline interested with cat nip.  No, her drug of choice is warm clothes.  The temptation was more than she could handle.

It's hard to admit that my cat is smarter than I am.  I think she was jealous of the bed I created in our bathtub for the canines and myself last night once we heard tornado sirens.  Purrkins wanted nothing to do with our Tornado-hut, but the dogs loved it.  

Maybe I should switch to baths, it seems that my animals keep sabotaging me when I take a shower.

Oh no, she didn't!

I am sure you all think from the title of this blog entry that I got in a fight at Sonic or something.  Not the case.  Although I have been known to resort to name-calling when I'm in the mood for a Vanilla Coke and there isn't a space to park.  That's a story for another day.

No, today much to my shock, horror and disappointment, my dog Elke took a whiz on my duvet cover.  It was on the floor, she must hate my guts, and the rest is history.  Then I freaked out. On her.  She's outside and doesn't even act like she wants to face me.  She should trust her instincts.

 

I think I am going to send her to the puppy jail.  Here's the picture I will give to the police when they book her and need to have something for her mug shot:

She was a baby when I shot the picture and her mischievous nature apparently hasn't changed much.  I was minding my own business taking a shower.  From our shower, a showeree can easily see into our bedroom which is where said incident occurred.  There I was, not a care in the world except whether to regular or deep condition my hair today UNTIL...out of the corner of my eye, I see a little white tail shoot straight up for the sky.  She was looking back at me over her shoulder like she knew was destined for problems.  She must have been mad at me, but if this is in reaction to me getting in the shower, than she has the most serious case of separation anxiety I have ever seen and we need to get his pooch some prozac!  

Once I realized what was happening, I screamed her name, her sister and littermate, Scout barked at her.  I knew it was too late, but I still ran out of the shower and escorted the guilty Elke straight outside.  Goofball dog.  And Scout was just as upset as I was.  She knows how I roll and I discipline just like the military.  One of you is guilty, you both get the punishment. Scout didn't even fight it, she just rolled outside right behind tail-between-her-legs, Elke.

Happy Steph-ebration, everyone!

That's right everyone, today is my birthday!  It gives me great pleasure to announce that I am just-as-close to 20 as I am to 50 today.  My philosophy on birthdays is simple, and it is, BRING 'EM ON!  I love birthdays, and not just my own.  All birthdays should be celebrated with laughter, stories, memories and the honorees' favorite dessert.  

Laughter and the telling of a good story was as big a part of my family growing up as oxygen is in most other families.  If you couldn't tell a good story, you better be a good listener.  Of course, with so many stories flying around the room at any given time, it was often hard to get a word in edgewise. 

 

I remember a few months after I moved from Nebraska to Dallas I was talking on the phone with my mom.  I have no idea what we were laughing about, but out of nowhere she says, "you know what, you are really funny."  Mind you, we hadn't just met.  I was 22 at the time.  It was just that my poor mother's attention had always been divided primarily to my dad-joke-telling father and my court jester sister, Shelley.  It was as if my mother and I had never spoken before.  I am sure it's hard for most of you to believe that I would be the shy one compared to my other family members, but it is true!

Speaking of story telling and Steph-ebration, I can't let the day go by without re-telling one of the best stories from my actual birthday.  After my parents took me home from the hospital, the nurses called the house from the maternity ward and said that they needed to bring me back right away for some additional tests.  Apparently, the hospital staff had overlooked giving me the standard test done at the time for Down's Syndrome.  To really get the full effect of this story, you need to know that my mom has always prepared for the worst because she believes that she won't be disappointed but rather happy when things turn out okay.  I joke with my parents that my dad's glass is always overflowing rather than half-full and my mom's glass is empty, just fell on the tile floor and smashed into 1,000,867 pieces, and her vacuum is broken. 

Back to the hospital story.

Of course, my mom believed the nurses already knew something was wrong, but they were simply trying to let her down easy.  So on the way back to the hospital, my mom very seriously said to my dad, "Jim, I don't care if something is wrong with her, I want to keep her."  The tests turned out to all fall in the normal range and all was well.  My parents love to laugh with each other and me as they think back to May 1974 and the drive back up to the hospital with their new baby.

So I close confirming the thoughts that you all have in your mind right now, yes, my parents have given me a tremendous amount of material for my blog.  Stay tuned for those delicious walks down memory lane.  In the meantime, Happy Steph-ebration!

I Might Have Married An Alien

There are certain things you don't ask on a first date.  I submit a few to you from personal experience:   How much do you weigh?  When do you want to get married?  and finally Are you an alien?

It may be self-explanatory, but the first question is one that should never be directed to me...the second question I suggest is never asked to either men or women under any circumstances even if you are both on the Queen Mary, and it's sinking...and the third question is specifically for my husband, Jay.  I have some explaining to do.

My husband Jay is from Roswell, New Mexico.  I will give you all five seconds to come up with your favorite alien joke off the top of your head.  I'll just be over here humming "The Girl From Ipanema".  5...4...3...2...1.  I will pause again as you laugh to yourself about your alien joke. Okay, are we ready to move on?  Good.  I would now like to apologize to all of you for mentioning "The Girl From Ipanema" because it's quite likely that you might all be singing the song in your head.  Lo siento.

I didn't know much about Roswell 10 years ago before I met Jay.  You probably know that it is believed by many that the outskirts of Roswell were the site of a UFO crash in the 1940s.  Full-blown cable specials on conspiracy theories and alien experts have become en vogue, but that wasn't the case when I met Jay.  Oh how times have changed. I have on occasion watched bits and pieces of these shows hoping to learn more about aliens and determine whether or not I am married to one.  Of course, having been to Roswell personally dozens and dozens of times, it's hard to miss the Alien mania all around town.   I have particular fondness for the street lights which line Main Street.  

The bottom line is, over the years I have collected evidence that could suggest Jay might in fact be an alien:

1.  He changes clothes an average of 2.5 times a day.  This could be because he is an alien and they are constantly trying to adapt and blend in. Or, this could be because I do the laundry and he is unaware how much extra work he is generating for me.  

2.  He is oddly obsessed with the weather.  With the exception of my mother who has a favorite meteorologist on The Weather Channel,  I have never known someone so aware of the weather today, tomorrow and what it is supposed to be doing this time of year.  Jay could be keeping track of weather patterns and reporting back to his home planet.  They would need to gather historical weather data to ensure they are traveling to Earth at the most opportune times.  Or, he could be the ultimate boy scout who needs to be prepared for any situation at all times.

3.  He can name any aircraft in the air, even with his eyes closed.  Granted, I am not exactly able to check his work, but he is confident about the manufacturer and model with each plane he sees or hears in the sky.  From "Above Top Secret," Jim Marrs suggests that aliens are far more advanced than humans when in comes to advances in air travel.  Jay could have gained this encyclopedic knowledge while in Alien training on his home planet.  Or, he could simply have an obsessive compulsive disorder regarding a hobby and interest that has persisted since childhood.

I realize that most people reading my blog are my friends and could be naturally concerned about my safety if Jay becomes aware that I am on to his could-be-an-Alien ways.  Don't worry, dear comrades, it is well known that Aliens don't read blogs.  

Say what, Diane Sawyer?

I love Diane Sawyer.  Good Morning America is as much a part of my morning weekday routine as my multi-vitamin and regular paste Crest.  However, this morning she threw me a complete curveball.  There I was, barely awake, praying that it was Saturday.  Jay had turned on the television which confirmed my fear--it was a weekday.  I was so tired, I wasn't sure which day it was in that nano-second of time.  Tuesday.  Then the familiar GMA opening soundtrack filled the bedroom, the colorful orange and yellow title graphics flooded my room like spotlights and Diane dropped a bomb on me.

The recession is over.  

Just like that. 

While I am thrilled that this may in fact be the case, I am skeptical.  Honestly, I was skeptical that things were quite as horrific as the talking heads claimed from the beginning. Full disclosure encourages me to admit that I enjoy the view from my perch up here in the denial tree.  In reality, I know plenty of friends and former colleagues who lost their jobs, but many have already moved on to find better and brighter futures.   I know I can be cynical, but it seems like ever since "shark attack" hysteria a few years back, the media just jumps on a story and then beats it into the ground until another headline distracts their attention away.  I think they all have ADD, or as Jay likes to say, "AD...ooooh...shiny".  I present the following example to illustrate my point:  Recession -> Susan Boyle -> Swine Flu.  Recession over.  Susan Boyle got her eyebrows done so now nobody cares, and the Swine Flu has a new name which sounds like a Talking Heads album.

I hope Diane is right, I hope the recession is going away.  Many people claim that this break in working has helped families reconnect and adults reevaluate what type of career they really want to have rather than what they were doing before a layoff.  I guess that would make some of the pain of the last few months worthwhile; knowing that there have been lessons learned and lives changed for the better.  I just am not ready to hear about it at 7 in the morning.  See you tomorrow, Diane.

Headed To My Homeland

Ahhh...fresh air.  I am fast forwarding four days when I will actually be able to take a deep breath without fear of inhaling the latest pollutant clouding up the DFW skies.  I am headed to my homeland, the mothership, the good life, Nebraska.  Some may accuse me of planning this trip just to put a few more state lines between me and the Swine Flu, but I can tell you all with certainty, that is not the case. 

 

It's time to visit the friends and the family.  I am embarrassed to admit in writing how long it's been since I have traveled north on I-35 to see my people, so I won't mention it.  Just trust me when I say that it's been too long and this is a much overdue adventure.  And what an adventure it will be.

My husband Jay and I will load ourselves and our two miniature dachshunds up in our car.  One of the two (impossible to say which one) has a tendency to get a little car sick but I will be prepared this time.  We discovered her aversion to long journeys on our way through West Texas last December and our situation was so dire that I ran into an Allsup's Gas Station to buy paper towels and 409.  For those of you who are fortunate enough to not be familiar with Allsup's, essentially I took one for the team.  Big time.  I sacrificed my hair, clothing and skin knowing that I would exit Allsup's smelling like a human fried burrito.  Nasty.

I have always enjoyed the road trip, and I am looking forward to this one as well.  I have 1,000,684 memories of taking family vacations in the car.  As the older sister, I always had dibs on setting the ground rules.  Territory was always the top priority.  "This is the line," I would say to my sister as my index finger ran down the middle of the back seat.  "You stay on your side, and I'll stay on my side, and we should get along just fine."  Yeah right.   Immediately treaties and agreements were violated and all hell broke loose.  My mom pretended to sleep as we argued and my dad turned up the volume on the stereo and sang along to his favorite Bruce Springsteen song of the moment hoping we would work it out on our own.

Road trips are different now.  Jay and I have started our own traditions to pass the time during our 10-hour trek to Lincoln.  We often play the popular "how many meth addicts did you see at that gas station?".  I always win if I am first in the QuikTrip in Wichita.  Dog vomit and Meth addicts...you can see why I am looking forward to the fresh air.

Extra, extra!

"Dad, I need a new bike."  I commanded to my father attempting to steal his attention away from the television, his evening reading material and whatever thoughts he was having at the time.  He put the newspaper down, gave me the look and replied, "Steph, what you really need is a job."  

Surely he misunderstood what I was talking about.  My plan had been that I would let my parents know of my deficiencies in my bicycle department, and they would fix my problem by providing the bike to me. Simple enough.  

Unbeknownst to my dad at the time, this conversation was simply a technicality as far as I was concerned.  I had been eyeing my new 10-speed for weeks at the Coast-to-Coast hardware store.  It was bright red with padded handle bars and a portable bike pump clipped to the frame.  Who in their wildest dreams could even imagine that such an accessory was widely available in 1985?  Not this side-ponytail-wearing pre-teen.  This bike was my destiny, and I knew it.  My dad wasn't so sure.  

"Yes, you need to buy the bike yourself and you can start working this week," he insisted.  I wasn't deterred. Knowing that I was too young by a few years for babysitting, I figured my dad had miscalculated my age again and would soon just cut me a check once he double-checked his math.  "I am too young to babysit," I helpfully reminded him.  "Who said anything about babysitting?  You are going to get a paper route."  I paused waiting for my dad to start laughing. He's always had a great sense of humor and I was sure he was pulling my leg.  Three seconds passed...four seconds...five...six, this is weird, I thought, we were now having a staring contest. He didn't crack a smile, but he did circle the HELP WANTED ad for me and then sent me on my way.

While my mom was in agreement that this paper route would be a good exercise in responsibility for me, the idea of her oldest child canvassing the streets alone in the dark to scatter newsprint did not jive with her motherly instincts.  Solution-she would drive me on my paper route every morning.  In retrospect, it sounds like cheating.  But in all seriousness, it was 5 in the morning and it was winter in Nebraska. 

Each morning my alarm clock screamed at me at 4:30 AM. The regional manager whom I 

worked for delivered my bundles of "The Lincoln Star" to my door.  I immediately started the ritual of folding the papers to optimize space in my bag covered in reflective tape.  If it had rained or snowed overnight, I had to bag each paper in a beautiful plastic orange wrapper that would make a 2009 environmentalist cringe.  My hands were covered in smeared black ink and our house smelled like the combination of newspapers and fresh Folger's coffee as my mom prepared for our departure with her first cup in hand.

My mom was a trooper.  She knew the route as well as I did.  We were partners in crime and I look back on those early morning hours with nostalgia now.  I proved to myself and my parents that I could follow-through on a goal and be responsible enough to be trusted with a job.  The best part was I got the bike eventually, it was the sweetest $90 I ever spent.  I test drove the bike around the block to make sure we were meant to be together, and my instincts were correct.  I started humming the tune "Born Free" as I turned the corner back to the store.  It was time to pay.  I counted out a combination of newspaper tip money and allowance.  I basked in the glow of my accomplishment.  Handing that cash over to the owner of the hardware store, it seemed only fitting that some of the bills were smeared with newspaper ink. 

Ahhh...Spring

I love spring.  Naked trees become covered in green veils, flowers appear and explode in color and fragrance and tornado sirens scream in the distance.  As a girl from the Midwest, more specifically, Nebraska, I can't separate spring from Tornado season.  The two go together like peanut butter and jelly and in my family, we were always aware of even the slightest tornado threat within a 150 mile radius of our home.

My father was and continues to be fascinated by tornadoes and all storms for that matter.  He has very vivid and happy memories of sitting on his family's front porch with his grandfather watching a storm roll in as lightning would strike in the distance.   I wasn't there with my father and his grandfather obviously, but I envision them both trying to be the first to point out the next ominous dark cloud or flash of light at the 2 o'clock position.  That was not my mom's childhood experience.  As the daughter of a farmer who raised livestock and crops, tornadoes meant that my grandparent's ability to support the family was on the line.  Hail often accompanies aggressive storms and the combination can wipe out that season's hard work in an instant.  

When I was in high school, my mom was in a horrible car accident and we celebrated her release from a wheel chair with dinner out one night.  During the day, the weather was wonderful.  The skies were cloudless and the most beautiful color of sheer blue.  Streets were filled with bicycles, and everyone drove with their windows down.  Spring had officially sprung.

It wasn't long into our celebratory dinner that the weather quickly changed.  The owner of our favorite restaurant yelled to all patrons that we had to leave immediately.  There wasn't enough room in his facility for everyone and there was a tornado headed right for us.  This was my mom's living nightmare.  She wasn't entirely mobile as she struggled with crutches and a cast that extended to her knee.  We were eight miles from the safety of our basement.  We quickly got into our car.  The sirens howled warning us that we were tempting Mother Nature.  Run for your life.

The sky was now pitch black to shades of muddy green.  There was no motion in newly-bloomed trees, no chorus from the birds.  We were vulnerable in our vehicle trying to outrun the storm.  Once we were on the highway, the winds picked up to violent levels.  The heavy rain followed.  Windshield wipers at the highest setting could not come close to clearing the windshield for my father's eyes.  We were the only car on the road.

I remember thinking that we had to keep my mom calm.  She started reciting the Lord's Prayer. Silently nudging my sister to look behind us, we could see the wall of the tornado when lighting flashed in two-second intervals.  It couldn't have been more than a half-mile away from us. Knowing that this sight would throw my mom into complete panic, my sister and I were quiet about what we were witnessing.  I simply asked my dad to go faster.

As I looked toward my dad and the steering wheel, I noticed that he was fighting to keep the car on the road.  Then the orange glow of the "low fuel light" lit up the console like a Christmas tree. You've got to be kidding me.  Our car moved faster now, the wind was letting up a little.  I heard the next day in school that several families lost barns and buildings and I was keenly aware that I had probably seen it happen as I watched the tornado move across the farmland behind us.  

We got to our house safely.  My mom disregarded all instructions from her doctor's visit that day and ran into our house directly to the basement.  My sister and I followed.  My dad stayed upstairs to watch the sky and call around to check on his business.   Needless to say, we were all okay, and without any suggestion to the contrary, we celebrated my mom's next healing milestones in the comfort of our own home close to her weather radio and steps away from our basement.

The First Wardrobe Malfunction

I will never forget a hot day in the summer of 1984.  Our long-time neighborhood postman delivered a certified envelope to our front door.  I would be surprised if that nice man's ear drums have fully recovered even by now.

I screamed, like I had never screamed before.  These weren't the wails of a child in pain or fear.  These were the sounds an obsessed girl makes when she is holding an envelope containing concert tickets to see Michael Jackson.  I don't remember who, but someone on the scene reminded me to breathe.

This was no ordinary concert. Children all over the country had promised to take out the trash until they graduated from high school just for the chance to go to this event.  I was one of those kids.  I had no idea my deals with the devil would carry such a price.

My planning began immediately.  I had meticulously picked out my outfit weeks in advance.  To answer your question, yes, my chosen ensemble did include a sequins-covered glove for my right hand.

I knew without a doubt that this concert would be the happiest day of life.  And it could have been.  Then my mother got involved.  My mother was very proud that she and my dad could take my younger sister and I to Kansas City for the concert.  I am sure my parents made sacrifices so that we would be able to attend the concert as a family, and I appreciate that very much. Now the but.

Because of the expectation and expense involved, I think my mother was under the impression that we would be mingling with royalty at The Victory Tour show at Arrowhead Stadium.  At least that's what I try to tell myself as I work my way toward forgiveness.

You see, at my mother's demand, I was not allowed to wear my perfectly planned outfit with the coordinating sequins-glove.  This was a special occasion and my attire needed to correspond accordingly. So...she made us wear our Easter dresses to the Michael Jackson concert.  I'll say it again just so you can really understand the gravity of the situation.  I was forced to wear my Easter dress to the Michael Jackson concert.  

As you might expect, there are no pictures I can share with you.  My mother didn't want to capture my near-tears eyes as I looked around the parking lot watching kids my age flash their trendy clothes and breakdance and moonwalk around me.  I knew they were taunting me.  My mother knew it too, but it was too late.

The show began and thankfully, the lights went down and no one could stare at me in my pastel-striped dress.  Gag.  I do know for sure that the show was fantastic and I would have been thrilled to be there even if I was wearing a garbage bag.  Well, a garbage bag with my sequins-covered glove anyway.