A Woman in Her Fifties...

...has fantasies.

Me to Mr. Fifty-Something, early this morning, "I woke up early today so I indulged in a little fantasizing instead of getting out of bed."
Mr. Fifty-Something leans over and begins to caress my shoulder as he whispers a leading, "OH, yeah.....??"
"Uh, you're about to be terribly disappointed and possibly embarrassed."
Shoulder caressing ends, sexy whisper returns to normal. "Oh. Yeah?"
"Well, I was fantasizing about how much better things would be if people would just realize I should be boss."
"At work?"
"Well, it started that way then morphed into something ugly. I had to shut it down when I realized I was on my way to being boss of the world. I had to stop before I went crazy with power and fantasized myself into being Boss of the Known Universe."
"You already are, honey, you already are."

If a woman in her fifties has the wisdom to enjoy a good fantasy, a man in his fifty-somethings has the wisdom to indulge her.

A Woman in Her Fifties...

I'm taking time tonight. Time to write. Time to edit months worth of photo files. Time to listen to American Idol and occasionally flip the channel over to Dancing with the Stars.
I am not taking time tonight to get ahead for tomorrow's work day. No drawing, no color separating, no marketing shots, romance copy or price breaks.
I am not taking time to shoo away 3 weeks worth of dust bunnies, clear off the dining room table or balance the checkbook.
The bathroom mirror will still be smudged in the morning, there will still be mulch tracked on the kitchen floor and my sweater from last weekend will still be draped across the back of a chair.
Tonight I'm editing photos, weeding the flowers, working on a digital memoir of Grandson Number Two's first year.
Doing the things that matter to me and letting the things that matter to everyone else wait for another day.
A woman in her fifties makes time. For what she loves to do.

Dear So and So....

Dear Winter--Thank you for returning in your snow white persona. I was, quite frankly, sick of your dull gray garb and bone chillling dampness. And it was particularly gracious of you to time your return with my not having to go into the office.---Appreciatively, Hoping for a Snow Bound Weekend

Dear Primary Care Physician--Yes, I understand that it's much less costly to you to farm out my lab work to the local hospital. However, my insurance carrier sees it in an entirely different light and what used to cost me a $25 co-pay now takes a $275 bite out of my pocket.--Disgusted Patient Who Expects You to Make Freakin' Good Use of Those Two Vials at $137.50 Each

Dear Local Hopsital--Really, I don't know how you get away with it. First the inflated lab visit then the CT for Mr. L. that cost a full 60% more than his last PET/CT. Granted the PET/CT was done in a truck parked behind the building but, still, it's not like your radiology department is in the Taj Mahal or something. I'm not sure how you talked our insurance carrier into this contract but expect that gravy train to leave town when it's time to renegotiate.--Regards, Bug Eyed Patient Staring at the Bill

Dear Mail Carrier--I know you don't write 'em, you just deliver. But, seriously, take a day off. I hear it's going to snow, take a weather day. I'm not up for more mail from the money hoarders local hospital.--Anxious Postal Patron

See Kat for more Dear So and So.

A Woman In Her Fifties Gives Thanks....

Tonight I'm thankful to have had those years of active, hands on, raising the kids parenting. Even the years of active, hands on, raising the kids parenting of dozens of other people's kids. And more thankful to be beyond them.
More thankful yet for October's hysterectomy. Just in case God was thinking of exhibiting that sometimes odd humor and sending some late life baby our way. (I think our priest is still traumatized from our marriage prep when he happily announced there "is still time for the two of you to have babies" and I yelped out a very unladylike, un-Catholic response.)
After a day with the second grade, and grandson, on a field trip, I am all for the certainty that comes with a hysterectomy. Tired doesn't even begin to cover what we felt by the time we had tromped around the state museum, eaten with 100 kids at The Old Sphaghetti Factory (what daredevil thought THAT was a good idea??) and driven 2 1/2 hours home.
The relief at telling the class goodbye, kissing Josh on the forehead and getting into our quiet car was immense. Quiet. No little boys showing me how loud they can make phony fart noises, no little girls flirting with taunting little boys, no teachers holding up three fingers and wondering why 100 voices didn't cease. Or at least diminish.
I had seen those three fingers so much by the end of the day--and nothing happening as a result--that I wanted to bend two of them down and yell, "You're holding up the wrong friggin' finger, lady!"
With a couple of night's rest the reflection of the day sums up to a pretty good time. The museum is interesting, not too big, not too small. The kids tried every single thing in the place and surely learned something worthy along the way. Maybe even learned some not so worthy things but I'm confident I've bought silence with a few well placed Hershey bars.
The kids considered the day a success because they got out of school, rode a flat faced bus, visited Santa and forever traumatized unsuspecting restaurant patrons who were simply looking for a quiet meal.
Kevin considered the day a success because he got to spend it with Josh and shape some young minds a la that Norman Rockwell fuzzy mental picture he sometimes places over reality.
The real success was mine. I only made two kids cry in the course of the day and I made it back with no more, no less, than the 4 kids assigned directly to our care before we left the school this morning.

A Woman In Her Fifties Takes The Bus

Mr. L. and I scored 2 of 4 coveted spots as bus riding animal keepers chaperones for Joshua's field trip next week. Today his teacher (she of the former Colts Cheerleader fame) phoned his mom to offer us a get out of jail free pass chance to NOT ride the bus. "Some of the grandparents, if they're older, prefer not to ride the bus," says Ms. FCC. "Older?" Really? If she hadn't thrown in THAT word, I would have jumped at the chance to escape a captive bus ride with a hundred sticky, germy, excited-on-the-way-there,tired-and-grouchy-on-the-way-back second graders. The word was thrown down, however, so this woman in her fifties takes the bus. Just to prove she's as perky as any former NFL cheerleader.

Is there much use in hoping for a snow day as early as the 10th of December??

Gran-Natomy

Kevin set up 7 year old Joshua's computer today so we could talk via Skype. I objected strenuously to the idea of introducing another bit of technology into our days but was clearly outmanned by Josh, his mom and gramps.

So tonight we tried it out. Kevin sat on the sofa and I stood behind him while he adjusted lighting, camera and volume for our first ever live online visit with Joshua.

We could hear him perfectly. He could only hear choppy bits of our side of the conversation. Since we aren't nearly as entertaining or funny as we like to think, the seven year old clearly had the better side of things so far.

We couldn't see him at all. He, however, could see us quite clearly.

So clearly, in fact, that his mother felt compelled to offer this information:

"Just so you know, mom, what he can see is just the top of grandpa's head and a full on shot of grandma's boobs right through her pajama top."

I had been thinking we could work on his Spelling together online. Maybe do his Reading assignment. A little Math. Never, not once, did I plan to cover Anatomy.

I had a few suggestions for where grandpa might want to store the video camera now that it's been removed from the computer.

Hello, God? Can We Talk...

Yes, it's me again. Frequent caller, sparodic listener.

First I want to thank you for nearly a week and no call from the cancer center about Mr. L's recent blood work. No news is good news in our cancer experience. If you do manipulate (and you can tell I'm still conflicted on that whole possibility) those details, thank you.

Now, to get to the topic of the day, can we talk about spiders? I'm a bit arachnophobic. I'm not the scream high pitched squeals don't like spiders kind of girl. I'm the totally lose my voice, become immobilized and break out in a cold sweat don't like spiders kind of girl. Especially certain spiders in certain spaces.

You and I know the reason; no point in inviting anyone else into that nightmare, but I do wonder why you thought spiders were necessary? I mean, you gave snakes a feature role in Creation that explains their whole lack of popularity. But what were you thinking with the spiders? And why so many kinds, each more creepy than the last? And the hair. And all those legs. What, what, WHAT were you thinking?

Whatever your thoughts lo those many years ago when Creation came into being, could you cut me a little spiderless space right now? Like the other night, fresh out of the hospital, when I hobbled down the hallway, intent upon coaxing my objecting body into some basic bedtime hygiene, and--poof--there on the floor, right next to my foot was a spider. A spider who surely had a starring role in one of the Harry Potter movies. A big spider. A big hairy spider.

And I lost my voice, my painfully limited ability to move and my already dwindling calm attitude. Not cool. Not at all, at all. Pretty much all I had getting me through the moments last week was a strong vein of chutzpah and it flew out the door in the face of one hairy spider.

Then today when Mr. L. retrieved me from my bored housebound reality. Was the spider who suddenly materialized out of nowhere, clickety-clacked his spidery legs across the dashboard and disappeared into the vents just another freak of nature?

Or are you working overtime to answer Mr. L's prayers? He seems to think he could use a little heavenly help in dealing with what he considers to be an argumentive patient. Admittedly the first spider did distract me from my illicit intent to sneak a quick soak in a forbidden bubble bath while Mr. L. was napping. And after today's revelation, I won't be slipping out of the house with my camera for any forbidden driving until I see the lifeless remains of a certain truck dwelling arachnid. And we both know Mr. L. won't be producing that kill for at least another 2 weeks, per doctor's instructions.

Please, Lord, not to question your decisions, but please don't put any spiders in the M & Ms jar or on my comfortable chair in the backyard. Those small selfish comforts are really, well, comforting right now. Please don't take away my chutzpah and my chocolate all in the same week.

In case Mr. L's prayers have zeroed in on the weight of my sewing machine and box of favorite fabric, you can disband any potential army of spiders there. I'll wait until Mr. L. is here to lift it for me. I promise.

Take a spin with Liz at A Mom on Spin for your own conversation with God.

Dear So and So...

Dear Mr. Nurse in the surgical recovery area--What in my groggy demeanor gave you the impression I would be entertained by your nickname for the hospital's habit of scheduling most gynecology surgeries for the same day each week? "Bloody Crotch Day" you called it? Really? And here I thought it must be Give A Jerk A Job Day. Normally I would have seen a certain morbid logic in your humor that I might have found worth a chuckle. But timing is everything, sir, and a couple of hours after surgery isn't the time. I hope you get a chronic prostate infection, an impatient doctor with large fingers and a Groundhog Day like repetition of the same exam again and again.--Affectionately, Recovering Hysterectomy Patient

Dear Mrs. Nurse--Dr. Who said to do What to Whom? Not to me, he didn't. How do I know? Because my doctor is a she, not a he, because my doctor is a gynecologist, not a urologist, and because I am not the owner of the penis you were supposed to be threading a catheter into so that poor man could go home.--Sincerely, Now WIDE AWAKE AND ALERT Patient

Dear Hospital--Two words. Staff training. You need some serious help in a few areas. You are a lawsuit waiting to happen.--Non-litigious But Genuinely Concerned Patient/Consumer

Dear Husband--Happy Birthday. Next year. No recovering from anything for either of us on your birthday. Deal? I owe you a good dinner and more.--Love, Your Sleepy Slightly Drugged Up Wife

Drop in at Kat's place for your own Dear So and So...

Three Month News

Kevin's 3 month checkup day again. Oncologist thought things looked good, sounded like they should, felt like they ought to feel.

So now we wait for Kev's blood work to come back and hope those numbers don't show anything that would cause a call back to the clinic. The neuropathy in his hands and feet continues, always there, worse on some days, unpredictable as to what might trigger it. It's pretty clear by now that this will be a permanent side effect of the chemotherapy treatments, not a passing thing. One of those realities they definitely soft sell pre-treatment. Everything else looked/sounded/felt ok to the medical assistant, nurse practitioner, doctor, 4 year resident and lab tech who each got a turn at him. He also got a seasonal flu shot and scheduled a pneumonia shot for next week.

Under the heading of avoiding invasions of his personal space--always a good thing from Kev's view--he got a couple of bits of good news today. First, I talked with his surgeon's office in Indiana and Dr. Francis says if he's not having any additional/new symptoms of constriction in the bowel surgical area, he can push the next colonoscopy off until April. One year from the last one. Second, his oncologist says he doesn't have to have another PET/CT scan until the end of the year/beginning of next year. Kevin hates the PET/CT possibly more than the colonoscopy since it adds additional radiation exposure to his already over-exposed body so this was exceptionally good news.

Three more months ticked off the Cancer Come Back Meter. This is good news.

Have a Plan, Version .09 (aka Make a List)

Today is Clean the House Day. Why? Because it's on the list I made. The To Do Before Surgery List.

My essential rule. Have a Plan. Having a list is almost as good as having a plan.

I'm not sure why cleaning the house made the list. Probably because it was suggested on one of the several forums I visited while seeking information. For The Plan.

FYI, I've categorized the forums from Essential Information to Good to Know to HYSTERical Women Having Hysterectomies. I didn't last long at that one. And they haven't emailed me a reminder to drop back in.

Anyway, somewhere along the line, there was a suggestion of having things done pre-surgery so you won't have to worry about doing them later. What I realized today was that it's not likely I'm going to worry now or later about the house being clean. Or super clean anyway. Scratch that one from The List.

See? I'm already ahead of the game.

I did clean the bathroom--the bathtub being my comfort zone when I feel rotten and I want a really clean comfort zone in the coming days--and I made a mental list of things I will never purchase again. Bathroom things. Things Kevin delicately refers to as "girl stuff." No more.

With all the $$ I'm going to save on that "girl stuff" I can do some serious shopping. My doctor said it was important to walk after surgery. She probably meant at the outlet mall. Recouperative Shopping. Who could possibly argue with that plan?

Dear So and So---

Dear Grocery Patron--I am as uncomfortable with debit cards as you. But, for gosh sakes, if you're going to write a check in the grocery store line, you could fill out the store name and date sometime in those interminable hours minutes of waiting in the line. Something sooner than two minutes after your order has been scanned, price checked and bagged. Maybe master multi-tasking and learn to write and visit with the cashier at the same time. At least have located your checkbook and pen somewhere in your cavernous Vera Bradley tote. Aren't those things known for their incredible organizational pockets anyway? Use them.
And don't get me started on your sport of coupon diving in the depths of aforementioned Vera Bradley. I leave you with one word. Organize. ---Patiently Waiting Organized Person Behind You in Line

Dear Body--Yes, I know you are 50 now. But you seem to be forgetting who owns who. I am in charge and I would very much like you to remember it. Just give me a little break here and tow the line. I'm not kidding.---Thinking of Turning You in Under the Cash for Clunkers Program

Dear Grandson--While it is all about the fun and the learning and the teamwork and sportsmanship blah, blah, blah I expect you to kick some soccer butt this weekend at your tourney. Really. Granny is not sitting outside on a cold rainy day at 7:30 in the morning to see niceness. I want to see some serious soccer.---Love, Soccer G-Ma

Kat's got you covered for your own Dear So and So rambles...

A Woman in Her Fifties

Science be damned.

I've never understood the female practice of tottering around on sky high heels with pointy pinched toes. Or the lies we tell about how darn comfortable it is to walk around with your heel perched 4 inches above the ground while your 4 inch span of toes is compressed to 2 inches.

I spent 25 years working from my home. Working at home gives one a lot of dress code options. The freedom, for instance, to wear comfortable footwear. Since I hadn't gotten a job in the 18 months or so since moving here and the Drive-Thru Feed Barn doesn't have a dress code, my feet have lived in a seasonal rotation of croc sandals, sneakers and an occasional suede boot. No heels, nothing confining.

However, a princess does what she has to do when representing the royal throne in the public working world. Which means when a job possibility loomed, I dug out my funeral-holiday party-wedding heels from the depths of the closet.

They weren't too bad during the interview. I overlooked the fact that I probaly hadn't walked more than 50 yards and congratulated my feet on their adaptability.

Work Day One brought the realization that production layouts have to be logged out on a computer located in a far corner on the production floor then hand delivered to a desk at the opposite end of the building from my desk. Several times a day.

By Day Four the bulging blisters on the back of my foot had broken leaving a little more room for the growing callouses on my toes.

On Day Six I realized if there was a fire in the building I would probably fry as I scrounged under my deak to locate the shoes I had pried off swollen feet while working at my computer.

Somewhere between the oozing blisters and the burning sensation running up the back of my calves, I had an ephipany; a moment of clarity in the making since I was 12 years old and nagged my mother into buying my first pair of heels.

A woman in her fifties doesn't wince when she steps out of the car and into the work day. She doesn't hope the sheer agony of standing for 20 minutes while the boss tells a funny story in the hall isn't showing in her face. She doesn't sit in her favorite chair until she's within seconds of peeing her pants because it hurts too much to walk 20 feet to the bathroom.

A woman in her fifties wears comfortable shoes.

Dear So and So...

Dear Bird Singing Outside my Window at 5:30 AM last Saturday--I get it. You're hungry. And I've been out of feed for two days. I know I've made the commitment to keep those feeders full and I'll go to the Drive Thru Feed Store today. But listen to me, you perky crimson moron, it was five-freakin'-thirty. On a Saturday. It was still dark outside, for gosh sakes! Darkness on a Saturday morning means it's officially still night and I am officially still sleeping. Keep it up and I'll take away the black oil sunflower seed you love and fill those feeders with nothing but cracked corn. Sincerely--Mrs. Audobon

***

Dear Tiny Town--If you're going to close the two main roads in town, one leading through town to the east, the other leading out of town to the west--at least post an alternative route. Don't assume that everyone in town knows to go up two blocks, turn at Esther Mae's house, go three blocks to where the old cemetary was and turn left to get back on the highway.
And why are there so many one way streets in a town this size? Everyone in the county could drop in at the same time and there wouldn't be enough people to cause a congestion.
That said, sometimes you are terribly quaint and old-timey. Loved the tractor parade to kick off the Corn Festival. It was worth being trapped in town for an hour.
---A New(ish) Neighbor
***
Dear Person Who Drives 30 MPH for 17 miles each day at 4:30 in the afternoon. On the two lane state highway with a speed limit of 55---I know there are some tight curves on this road. And a few hills and very little shoulder. But, really, 30 MPH? The entire way? In dry weather on sunny days? I know the hulking power under the hood of the Kia may be intimidating but could you at least pull over every now and then to clear up the snaking line of traffic behind you?
Impatiently--The Leader of the Parade of Drivers in Your Rearview Mirror.
***
Dear Commuter Karma---What is it with you that has me stuck behind Super-Cautious-Driver for 17 miles and the only times oncoming traffic allows for passing SCD we are traveling in those tight curve no passing or blind hill zones? Why don't you give me a break and go kick around the civil engineer who planned that road?
--Commuter In Search of the Tao of Driving
***
Dear Civil Engineer--Listen, I keep looking at the rocks, trees, flowers, fences--anything--in the vicinity of those tight back to back curves along my commuter route and I don't see a single thing that indicates they couldn't have been plowed under in favor of a straight roadway. Nada. No burrowing owls, no rare field mice, not a single swamp rose or rare prairie grass. This isn't scenic, you goofball, it's annoyingly slow in good weather and outright dangerous in bad. And I figure all those twists and turns increase my commute distance by a good 8 miles. I've put in an appeal to Commuter Karma to have you punished. Expect to spend your eternity riding in a silver blue Kia at 30 MPH with two old ladies on a road that stretches forever into the horizon.
Helpfully---Driver Who Aims for the Straight Road

Visit Kat for more Dear So and So inspiration

She's Turning 50...

...it's getting closer. My quest to somehow mark these final days of my forties continues. Well, not so much that I care about marking my forties; more about the fact that I'll be fifty. Soon.

It's been a few days since you've had the benefit of my forty-nine, pushing fifty, year old wisdom. Tonight, I bring you this little nugget:

Sometimes the most charitable thing you can say is "No."

That's a big revelation from the woman who's spent close to 50 years trying to please as many of the people as much of the time as she possibly could. And increasingly resenting the hell out of it.
Father Dan presented the idea one day at Mass. Since I rarely agree with anything Father Dan has to say, the idea stuck with me so I could pick it apart later and prove him wrong and I spent some serious time thinking about it.

Father George clinched the deal a few weeks later with this treasure. "Make your 'yes' mean 'yes' and your 'no' mean 'no.' Then shut up and eat your soup." And there I was with two indicators that it might be ok to say "no" sometimes. More than ok. It might be the more right, the more honest thing to do.

This was a concept I could really get behind.

I'll admit I was an extreme yesser. No connection was far enough flung for me to be able to say "I just can't get that done..." I mean, I always knew I could get it done, I didn't want to get it done. But I could. So therefore, I should. Right?

No. There. I just said it. Say it with me. "No."

Don't want to handsew tiny glass beads on the neighbor's cousin's ex-husband's sister's daughter's prom dress? You can say "no." In fact, it's probably better to say "no" than to mutter under your breath that drawing attention to that butt with thousands of glittering beads is a fashion faux paus.

Don't want to bake 20 dozen cookies for the club bake sale? You can say "no" knowing that your 'no' is much more charitable than your freudian slip of adding salt in place of half the sugar in those freakin' cookies you didn't want to bake in the first place resentful 'yes.'

In honor of my recently found no-ability and my upcoming birthday, I've ordered this shirt for myself. Since I'm still not too confident with my "NOs" I'm thinking of buying the shirts by the case and just handing them in appropriate moments.

"I need you to volunteer to design a 20 x 40 print to illustrate my new business concept and I don't really have any idea what it should be but I like the color red and I need it by tonight....ok, then I can give you until tomorrow morning...and I'll need a logo and some business cards while you're at it..."

"Here's your shirt....."

So, God? Can We Talk?

Still Me. In case you've accidentally stumbled back on this line. Because I'm pretty certain you took another call in the midst of last week's gender inequity rant inquiry.

Not to worry. I haven't lost my place. We were talking about my new friends The Hormones and the absolute lack of turning-fifty crap which did not befall Mr. L. when he hit that happy milestone. Tonight I'm still dwelling a bit on The Hormones. Trying to decide why they've dropped in now like some never seen before cousin showing up at the beach house and staying for the whole summer.

You know I've been seriously job shopping since late December. Eight months of limited possibilities and even more limited near misses. I spent a lot of that time trying to decide if maybe I've been wrong and you do actively manipulate the day to day details.

As in, maybe you've been trying to tell me that I had a job already. One where the pay was haphazard and the hours long but the benefits were pretty good and the working environment great. Mr. L. was happy and well cared for, the Misses Lorri and the GrandTwoSomes knew where to locate me at almost any given moment which is no small thing when there are crucial stories to be shared. Or babysitting to be done.

Why am I thinking these thoughts, you ask? (Which is, obviously, a rhetorical question since we both know you already know...) Well, having landed, lost and re-captured an interview late last month, I suddenly found myself with a job. Temporary at first but within the second day of work I had a permanent offer.

Here's the thing; that annoying little surgery scheduled for some 3 weeks from now. The one brought on my new BFFs, The Hormones, and their happy sidekicks The Creepily Multiplying Cells.

It's not likely that my job will be held for the 4 to 6 weeks my doctor says I need to be out. Not even the 3 weeks she says I can't drive. Business is business and this is the busy time for the promotions business.

So, what's the deal? Where do I lay the blame for a job given and taken away in nearly the same breath?

Sometimes crap happens?
I forgot to forward some email chain letter to 15 of my best friends?
That damn meatloaf again?
YOU???

Is this your work? A not-so-subtle smack of a reminder that I need to concentrate on doing what I was doing before I sent in that last resume? You know I don't believe you manipulate the details. I really don't. Not that you couldn't. I've just never thought that you do. Seems to conflict with that entire free will thing.

I'm not saying you don't have A Plan. I got to almost 50 without A Plan so, believe me, I understand the need.

But, really, whattheheck IS the plan? And how am I supposed to know if you don't become a bit more obvious? I need more than hints and clues, God. If you could maybe just drop a word document into my 'in' box or leave a printed version on the dining room table. I would offer to shred it after I read it, but, well, you know what went down between me and the shredder.

You could make it out of chocolate, though. It would be consumed. Possibly before it's read. The Hormones would make sure of it.

Yours in Confused Faith---Lorri

Connect with A Mom On Spin for your own heavenly call

The Throbbing Thrill of Fifty...

One week until fifty.

In a true tribute to the way I've lived the past 49 years and 51 weeks, I didn't get around to the insightful daily tributes to turning 50 that I had planned for this month. At least I had a plan. That's a big improvement over the previous 49 years and 49 weeks.

The full impact of 50 is still creeping up on me. Today I was blindsided with another reminder of ownership of a half-century old body. I was excited that Dan Brown's newest book is being released with a large print version.

Large print? When did that happen? My ninety-seven year old grandmother reads those beach trash novels. The ones where a buxom English peasant girl is being ravished by the wealthy land owner until the true heir to the kingdom--disguised as the owner of the local pub--swoops in to save her virtue. Or at least claim it for himself. They're always full of delicate references to the hero's throbbing manliness and the tingling thrill of the virginal heroine. My granny churns through those things. In small print. The ones where the words look like thousands of tiny little ants crowded onto the page.

I had to give up beach novels ten years ago. Couldn't see to read them. Not even with the bi-focals that landed on my face some five years ago. I used to love to crawl into a warm bed on a winter evening and read a good trashy novel until late at night.

Now I tuck myself in at 9 PM with the large print version of Reader's Digest. It's not just the large type that appeals to me. It's those short articles and stories. Falling asleep by 9:15 makes it tough to get through anything classic. Or hot and trashy.

Dear So and So...

Dear September 11, Nine Eleven, Nine One One--You are many things to me. The lovely autumn day our family and friends gathered at an outdoor chapel to watch my sister and new brother-in-law exchange their wedding vows. Exactly six years later we gathered in another location as our oldest daughter was married. That same September 11th was the last birthday a dear sister-in-law celebrated with us. Just as you were about to arrive again she lost a battle with cancer, leaving behind a grieving family including her 3 young children. We gathered that September 11th to begin saying goodbye. I thought we had seen the full course for one date. Intense joy and unbelieveable sadness.
And the next year you arrived again. You were a glorious fall morning. Crisp, not cold, not hot. Brilliant blue sky, white clouds. Full of promise. 9/11/01. Our daughter was pregnant with our first grandchild. I remember our son-in-law phoning from Michigan. He was in a meeting with no access to TV. Could I turn on the TV and tell him what had happened? The children in the daycare were playing around the room and the older kids migrated toward the TV once it was on. I had to turn it off. Both for the kids and for myself. We went outside to play. I remember sitting on the swing with a little one on my lap and one on each side as we watched the other children play. I heard the giggles, the little arguments. The pretending and the planning. And I could not stop thinking about the children in New York, Washington, other places, who had lost parents that day. Who had kissed their moms, their dads, goodbye that morning for the last time. Who had no one coming to pick them up from daycare.
You've changed us, September 11th. Again and again. Some of us have become tougher, harder, because of you. Some of us have become more vulnerable, softer around the edges, because of you. You've brought us together and torn us apart.
I'm sorry you are forever aligned with the sadness and tragic moments that have come to be you in our minds. Because today you dawned again. Crisp and bright and full of promise.
Thank you. May we all work to be the fulfillment of that promise.

Thanks to Kat for writing a poignant letter that helped me put my list of petty pickiness into perspective this day.

THE PRINCESS AND THE JOB

The saga of Princess Working Stiff last saw our heroine as she negotiated the wilds of a Wednesday after work crowd at the grocery story. In a not so princessessly way. Since then, she has:

• received an offer to make the temp job a full time permanent gig
• negotiated said offer into a permanent part-time, 20 to 24 hours a week gig
• agreed to work full time through the month of September to get the department caught up
• dropped into an exhausted stupor every night after preparing the evening repast for the prince
• realized that, overall, she really--truly--isn't a huge fan of people
• rediscovered the pleasures of driving the royal carriage. alone. with her favorite music

Never Trust a Vegetable

Yeah, it creeped me out too.

Some sort of nasty bell pepper dwelling caterpillar was my first guess when I found it inside the pepper-formerly-destined for Kevin's stir fry.

It's something inanimate growing in the pepper. Probably harmless, maybe a seed that's sprouted. But who knows? Maybe it's some "harmless" growth spurred by a chemically induced misfire in bell pepper DNA. Possibly it's the vegetable equivalent of my over-abundant estrogen fueled cell rampage.

Whatever it is, the last time I saw something that creepy looking growing in what otherwise appeared to be a healthy happy place was two years ago when a doctor showed me photos of the tumor he had just found during Kev's colonoscopy.

And that happy epidsode resulted in major surgery for Kevin followed by almost a year's worth of radiation and chemotherapy.

The Misses Lorri have always blamed my meat loaf for that entire incident. I've suspected all along that it was the vegetables. They look all healthy and good for you but you never know what secrets they're hiding.

This is why I've avoided vegetables as much as possible throughout my adult life. You can't trust 'em.

Barbie and Me, BFF

I recently learned that my former BFF is also celebrating a significant birthday this year.
Yep, Barbie turned fifty, hit the half century mark.

I haven't purchased many Barbies since before the Misses Lorri reached their pre-teen years.

The massive box of Barbie (and her clothes, shoes, accessories, vehicles and friends) enjoyed an occasional visit during the days of owning the daycare. But Barbie and I have gradually followed different trails in life.

There were some similarities in the early years. We each got married.

And lived a neat and tidy life in the suburbs with our own Prince Charming.

We raised our families.

And, in my case, several other people's families as well.

Somewhere along the line our paths went in different directions. Barbie became a teacher, an astronaut, CEO of her own company; all while maintaining her fashion icon status.

I stayed at home in my garden when I wasn't bailing out supervising the Misses Lorri through potential arrests, expulsions and general mayheimyouthful indiscretions. Once the Misses Lorri became too old for the legal system to give a rat's ass what I had to say had left the family nest, I began to think about what I might do now that I was grown up even though I didn't do much about doing it. Turns out only Barbie has an entire staff devoted to changing her wardrobe--and, thus, her life--with a few sketches on the art board. The rest of us have to actually DO something. And I found I was immensely qualified for nothing.

Eventually I wondered if this was the only job I might get.

I don't begrudge Barbie her success, her Princess crown or her to-die-for shoe wardrobe. Not even the magic that lets her change her accessories and instantly become a firefighter, a doctor or a top chef.

But that perpetually perky smile is un-natural. Freaky. And nothing's gone south on that body. Doesn't gravity exert any force in her eternally blue-skyed world? I've never seen her mainlining Midol or rushing to the bathroom after a good joke resulted in near social disaster.

We've spent the same 50 years here during which Barbie has become a Cougar while I've become another zoo creature entirely. Something from the Large African Mammals section.

What I'm looking for is a little equity in nature, the passage of time. Fifty years old and I'm supposed to believe she hasn't had a little work done? That she doesn't slink into the bathroom from a darkened bedroom and hope Ken doesn't see her before she gets the bags compressed, the furrows filled, the eyelashes faked and the hair fluffed for daytime viewing?

Happy Birthday, Barbie. I'm sure you'll understand if we don't get together for a drink and dinner. It could take you another 50 years to decide which of your 1,000,000 pairs of shoes to wear and I can't wait. Father Time has not been as generous to me as he has to you. Listen, call me if you ever have a hot flash, bloat up for half the month, realize your bras are older than your office mates or forget where you put the keys to the Malibu Beach wagon only to find them clinched in your fist. We'll talk. That's what best friends do.