I've moved.... again.

And hopefully for the last time.   Go here....  that's where I'll be.

I have my limits...

Ok, so you can't see it.  This looks no different to you aside from the obvious change.   Which it wouldn't because I'm not doing anything here.  However, my blog is going under a MAJOR change.  Seriously, like whoa.   I've jumped in head first into the world of self-hosting and wordpress.org-ing as opposed to .com-ing and then rapidly began to drown because intelligent though I believe myself to be?  I have limits.  I'm like the fish being asked to climb the tree on this and there are no points for effort.  In the meantime I changed my theme here to look a little less granny by the fireplace and a little more...  well...  NOT granny by the fireplace.

So I know I've been scare here and will continue to be.  I'm hoping it's worth it.  Wish me luck because as of right now?  It's not going well.   My fins are getting splinters and it's awful hard to breathe.  

Stay tuned...    

Dear Jason Kelce,

I wanted to take a couple minutes out as just one of an innumerable crowd of Eagles fans. to write you this letter.

I know you're a rookie and you're new here, but let me tell you a few things about us.

We are the tried and true.

We've been here through ownership changes, coaching changes and more player changes than I even would dare to name.

We've loved our team long before you got here and will continue to long after you leave.

We are the life blood, the heart and soul and the essence of this team that you just joined.

We believe in hard hits, fair play and tough love.

We criticize hard...  we love harder.

When a player embraces us, despite our flaws and usually because of them, we embrace them back.   A player that doesn't embrace us... well, if you want to know what that's like - ask our former quarterback.

We are devoted to the players that are devoted to us.  And we want to love every single one of you.

Players come on to our team - maybe some with our concern, but always with our faith and hope being the wind at your back.

We have long memories and forget little.  We forgive much.

However, if you pick a fight with some of us, you pick a fight with all of us.

As I said, you're new here.  We're not.  Which gives us a right to our opinions and the right to express them without being bullied by you.  Or any other player.  However, since this hasn't really ever happened before...  let's just say by you.

So, I just have one request...  given the fact that we are the reason you get a paycheck and that our passion is what makes this team able to exist at all... leave the fans alone... ALL of us.  Not "most" of us.  ALL. OF. US.

Just do us all a favor.  Focus on football.  Focus on YOUR job.  Not on OUR past-time.

Sincerely,
Amy.

Help Me Help Others

In honor of what is traditionally the month of breast cancer awareness, I have made a decision to raise money for The American Cancer Society.

There are cancers out there that affect more women than breast cancer does and it's time to bring them out of the dark and give them some awareness as well.  

Like colorectal cancer, non-melanoma skin cancer and lung and bronchus cancer.  There are no awareness months for those types of cancers though colorectal cancer kills almost as many women as breast cancer and lung and bronchus cancer kills more.

As most of you know by now, I sell Avon, and though I personally am committed to a goal of $200 by October 31st.

I am donating 30% of my profits from online sales for the month of October to the ACS.  I put in a regular priced order myself as well and am obviously donating 100% of the profit from my personal order.

You can help by going to my Avon store and shopping!  Tomorrow starts the beginning of Avon's Holiday Gift season!  There's no better time!

Please.  And thank you.

For the Love of the Game

Being a sports fan is tough.  Seriously.  It's like work sometimes.  Sports fans, the real kind of sports fans like e have here in Philly, we put effort into being a fan.  We know our players names, their numbers, their strengths and weaknesses.  From our armchairs, we're part of every pitch, every hit, every snap, every pass.  We participate fully and we care deeply.  After a tight game, we're tired and after a gut-wrenching loss... we're heartbroken.  Or livid.  Or both.

We hold our breath when our quarterback goes down waiting for him to get back up.  When one of our guys is on fire flying around the bases and suddenly goes into a gimp, we grimace and our whole being chants, "Please just be a cramp, please just be a cramp."  And when the quarterback stays down or the player doesn't take the field when it's time, our hearts sink and in one agonizing exhale we moan, "Oh no..."

It's brutal caring so much.  Being that invested.  Game after game and week after week.   It's agonizing, soul-sucking and downright painful.   So why do we do it?

We do it for moments like this:




And this:

 


 And, of course, like this: (which still makes me tear up)

 

These moments are why we do it.  The moments that we can say we saw.  We saw them happen.  From the stool at our local bar... from our couch in the living room...  right there in person.  In those moments we're all one.  Joined in a single moment of absolute joy.  We were there.  In our own way, in our place, breathing life into the moment and knowing at once that we'll never forget.

That's who we are.  That's why we put up with it all.  We know that we must go through the agony of defeat to get to the thrill of victory.  They both combine to make the experience worth the struggle.

We're fans so we do it and we will continue do it.  We'll always show up.

For the love of the game.

Fred the Arthritic Bird

So the birds around my house do this weird thing.

I'm sure they do it everywhere, but regardless of where they're doing it... it's weird.

They all group together.  A huge flock of them..  They all settle into a tree or two.  Thousands of them.  When you look up to the tree, it's moving.  It's just alive with the movement of the birds and the volume of them all chirping at the same time is so loud.  And when they all ride up together and take wing it sounds like I'm getting to be hit with a huge wind, but it's just their wings.  It's just crazy.  But the oddest part is, as soon as they all get settled, they take back off again.  But it's funny, there always seems to be one bird that lags behind. I think of him a Fred, the Arthritic.  It takes him awhile longer to take off.  To get those old joints moving.  To catch up.   So it really seems like they're all like, "Well, Fred's here.  I guess we can GO now.  Thanks for showing up FRED, just in time to leave."  And the cycle starts all over.  They do this for about an hour or two.  I feel bad for poor Fred.  And his poor stiff joints.  I figure that's the only explanation.

Either that or he's got terrible B.O.  

Meet Rufert

I''m Rufert.
These are my bottom teeth.

I am not one to rag on dogs.  I LOVE dogs.  I love my dogs.  I love other people's dogs.  I do not, however, love Rufert.  Rufert comes to our house once a year for two weeks when his owner goes over to England to visit his wife.  (Seriously, just don't ask.  Apparently, it takes an ocean between them to make their marriage work).  He is the dog of one of the mechanics at the shop my husband manages.  

This is the third year we've had the pleasure of watching Rufert.   Like I said he comes for two weeks.  Which means he goes HOME in just four more days.  I will admit, he's not a terrible little dog.  And he is rocking he ugly-cute thing, like hard core.  

But seriously - 

Number of times he's peed in the house:  1

Number of times he's pooped in the house: 1

Number of times I didn't know he pooped in the house and stepped in it - BAREFOOT: 1

Number of times he's tried to get it on with one of our other dogs, Morgan:  3,465,283 

To say I'm ready for Rufert to go is an understatement.   Whenever he comes I think he's adorable for approximately 1.25 hours.

After that it all comes screaming back to me that he:

- Hates grass and therefore poops and pees all over our patio

- Has dinner that is more complicated than dumping food in a bowl

- Normally doesn't see airplanes where he lives given the buildings around his house so he barks at them.  Every. single. one.  Oh and we live about 3 miles from a small local airport that people fly their private planes and Lear jets out of all. the. time.  

- Normally doesn't see flocks of birds...  or any birds...  and barks at every. single. one. 

- Has a weird skin disorder that as taken away a big patch of fur in the middle of his back and just left this scaley gross area that makes me not even want to touch him and definitely dials back the "cute" part of the "ugly-cute" factor by, well, by pretty much all of it.  

So why do we do it?  Because my husband is a kind and good person.  My husband, not me.  I mean, how could I be?  I just spent a half hour ragging on a little dog that can't help that he's the most annoying dog ever.  And also?  If two weeks in England with his wife where she lives...  in England...keeps his owner's marriage strong?  Well, then, we fully support that

A girl, her heart and Sundays in the fall...

A man.

A release date.

May 20th, 2009.  Mike Vick was released from prison for his heinous acts of fighting dogs and killing them.  And also, in my mind, for helping to perpetrate the stereotype against pit bulls, though, last I checked that isn't a legal offense (regardless of what I think).  At any rate, he was out.  He did most all the time he was sentenced to, did pretty much the rest of it under house confinement.

He made it clear he wanted to play football again.  I was incensed.  He wanted to PLAY football again.  How dare he?  Yes, he's a football player.  That was his profession before going to jail and the argument was that he should be able to do it after.  An accountant who goes to jail for dog-fighting can come out of jail and go back to being an accountant...  a carpenter could go back to being a carpenter... but the fact that THIS man wanted to come back and play football outraged me.   

He said he was sorry and changed?  Fine, go get a job as a high school football coach or even a college assistant coach, whatever...  but don't think you can come back on the football field as a player and have the opportunity to earn millions of dollars after what you did.  No, sir.  

I couldn't even imagine a team that would be willing to take on the fan backlash of signing this guy.  I couldn't think of a team that would touch him with a 10-ft-pole and risk that kind of outcry from the people who ARE the bread and butter of a franchise... the people that pay to come to the games.. buy the merchandise... and buy the concessions.  I couldn't even imagine...

August 14th, 2009 - The day Michael Vick signed a 2 year deal with the Philadelphia Eagles.  MY Philadelphia Eagles.  I will admit, I sat down and cried.  Literally.  I yelled for a few minutes.  Said some things my mother wouldn't be proud of.  And then sat down on the couch... and cried.  How... why... I knew someone, some team would give him a chance.  But why here?  Why us?  Why MY team?  It was the "not in my back yard" mentality.  I was.. devastated.  

Looking at him in an Eagles uniform made me sick.  When I saw him, all I could see were the pictures of the ravaged dogs.   And the knowledge coming forward again and again in my mind of the countless others already buried in his backyard.  Honestly, there are times, that's still all I can see when I look at him.

I was faced with a huge decision.  And I know non-sports people don't get this. But for several months... most of the 2009-10 season, actually, I battled with myself.  I tried to reason with myself and I cursed myself every Sunday I found myself getting excited about the game... and held myself in contempt when game time found my butt on the couch ready to watch the players do battle..  

I was bleeding Eagles green and white long before Michael Vick got here and I will continue to long after he's left.  I can't change it.  I can't hide from it.  And I won't pretend to not be excited when he completes those amazing passes to break open a game or when he runs for 30 yards and you can visibly see the competition deflate.  

I've watched him for the past two years and while in my heart I KNOW he'd still be fighting dogs if he didn't get caught.  Is probably only sorry BECAUSE he got caught.  And for all I know may do it again someday?  He's doing the right things now.  He's acting the right way now.  He's leading this team in a way we haven't seen for over a decade.  And judge me for it, if you must, but I'm glad he's here.  I'm glad he's turned his life around.  I'm glad to see what 18 months in prison did.  I think...  or I HOPE it gave him some perspective, showed him a little something of what matters in life and the sacrifices that come with taking the wrong road.

And it may be naive of me...  but when he thinks of what matters...  and the sacrifices made at his own hand...  I don't think it's dollars that come to his mind.  

I'm sure I'm being idealistic...  

but it's hard to argue with a girl, her heart and Sundays in the Fall.

Ten years ago tonight...

Ten years ago tonight babies were being born that will never know what it was like to live in a pre-9/11 America.

Ten years ago tonight I was 23 and living at my parents' house.

Ten years ago tonight I was still a year and a half away from meeting my husband.

Ten years ago tonight I was 4 years and 1 month away from getting married.

Ten years ago tonight I thought the unthinkable would never happen here.  In our country.  In my lifetime.

Ten years ago tonight I would have never looked up to watch a plane and hope everything was ok on board.

Ten years ago tonight I was only scared of the dark...  and my house a little... I would hear voices there sometimes.

Ten years ago tonight everything was fine.

Ten years ago tonight I would have never questioned the motives of my government.

Ten years ago tonight I never thought I'd see people jumping from a building that didn't have cables that had been edited out attached to them and a huge safety net below.

Ten years ago tonight I was blissfully ignorant and happily unaware of what was about to transpire.

Ten years ago tonight I was sure of everything.

Ten years ago tomorrow morning I was sure of nothing.

To all we lost, to all who were left behind and to all whose lives will never be the same, tomorrow we honor you.  Tomorrow we remember you.  Tomorrow we relive the events of ten years ago.  And vow once again to never, ever forget.

Ten years later tomorrow I'll still be sure of nothing.   And also?  Afraid of the dark.

My So-Called Life Rewind

Today there has been a marathon on Sundance Channel of My So-Called Life.  I've enjoyed every moment.

I was 17 for the 7 months the show was on originally.  It was fantastic.

What average somewhat geeky straight girl in their teens didn't want to be Angela Chase with a Jordan Catalano of their very own to notice them, think they were great and subsequently treat them like crap?  I know I did.  For crying out loud, watching the show today still makes me want my own Jordan Catalano.  Boy was hot.  I want one for no other reason than to have someone in my life I call by their first and last name constantly.  Because that's kind of fun.  "I can't talk to Jordan Catalano."  "If Jordan Catalano is nearby, my whole body knows it."  "So what did your parents think of Jordan Catalano?"  Well, maybe not NO other reason.  But that would be the biggest reason by far.

The only thing that seems unrealistic?  Thinking about sex all the time at 15.  When I was 15 I was in 9th grade and in my first year of high school and had a huge crush on...  ok, I see their point.  But even still, it wasn't the first thing on my mind.  But then again...  if my crush looked like Jordan Catalano, maybe it would have been a different story.

Anyway watching the marathon today made me wish for a simpler time.  Oh, it didn't seem simple at the time.  Like every teen I thought I was, oh so complex and deep and complicated.  No one could understand the intricacies and difficulties of being me.  After all, I was PROFOUND.   Yeah, not so much.

We grow up.  We learn there are issues bigger than a geometry midterm, parents meeting boyfrineds and sneaking off to the boiler room.  Or under the stairs as the case may be.  We still worry about our friends, would rather be liked than not and we learn that the Jordan Catalano's of the world don't change and can't be fixed.  But in our memory, we still love them anyway.

Though I'd never want to do it over, I sometimes miss my teenage angst ridden days filled with brooding, pouting and the never-ending search for my very own Jordan Catalano.
First and last name.

Reason #5382 why being an adult can bite me

No allowance given for yard work.

We don't have a mower with a bag.  The last time Tom mowed within a couple days we had stripes of brown dead mowed grass in our yard.  (The same brown grass that prompted this comment and subsequent post regarding our neighbor).  To be honest, it looked like crap.   We seem to be the only bagless mower owners in the neighborhood.  So we were THAT house.

Today after Tom mowed and went back to chainsawing the tree he and his father brought down, I started raking.  We have .6 of an acre.  Which doesn't sound like much, but if you take into consideration that our house is the size of a shoebox and our detached garage is the same size as our house...   we're talking about two shoe boxes on .6 of an acre = lots of yard.

So I raked and I raked and I raked.  I got the whole front yard done, but it got to the point that it was too dark to see what was done and what wasn't.  So we called it a day.  (Tom had stopped chainsawing and was collecting the piles.

Where is the person who's supposed to pay me for doing this chore?  My husband had an inappropriate response, but since my mom reads this, I'll leave it at that.  (Hi, Mom!).

I'm tired and sore and tired and in the words of Ringo...

Stupidity runs amok... more specifically MY stupidity.

So here's what I had planned to do today on Day 1 of my 4 day weekend"

- Shower

- Sort the Avon order and contact my clients to arrange delivery.

- Spend about an hour with just me and my idea book and brainstorm book ideas.

- Put in a movie and get on the Gazelle for about an hour.

- Shower again, because, obviously.

- Tidy up a little

- Watch a little TV

- Write a post

- Go pick my husband up at work.  

What from the list I've actually accomplished at almost 1pm. 

- Shower

What I've accomplished that WASN'T on the list

- Left my brain in bed sleeping, apparently.

- Answer the door to a sales guy - supposed sales guy 

- Watch his little demo of his magic cleaning stuff to take off paint, brake dust and some sort of something off our porch banister. 

- Stupidly say my husband wasn't home.

- Panic because I just told a total stranger that my husband wasn't home.

- Call the police to tell them that I'm an idiot and am now nervous because some stranger knows my husband isn't home.

- Call my husband to tell him he married said idiot.  

- Obsessively go out front and out back repeatedly to make sure no one is sneaking up on my house to break in/kill me/rape me/murder me/kill my animals.

And oh, I did wrote a blog post.  

In which I thought I had lymphoma... (and other ramblings)

Spoiler alert - I don't have lymphoma.

Anyway, there was this thing in my ear.  I didn't think much of it.  Pimple maybe?  Kinda hurt but no biggie.  And no, I know there are no lymph nodes in my ear for any of you medically gifted people out there who are already trying to connect the dots and tie in my thinking I had lymphoma into the thing in my ear.

So a few days later my ear hurt more.  Then Tom and I were in the car and I rubbed my neck and felt a lump on the side.  It was about the size of a pea and hard.   I immediately started to cry.  The ear was hurting more, not getting better and a dr's appt was made.   In the back of my mind I was confident the two were linked.  In the front of my mind, I was surely dying of lymphoma.  

Turns out I had a nodule in my ear that had become infected.  Like mother of all infections infected.   And the lump in my neck?  That was the lone lymph node trying to fight the infection.  Don't ask me why the rest of the lymph nodes didn't step up to take part in the battle, but they didn't.  That lonely little lymph node was fighting it's heart out and I'm so appreciative.

Long story short the infection got taken care of and yesterday the nodule was taken care of and after the infection was taken care of within two days the lump in my neck was gone.  That lymph node is somewhere tropical on a well deserved vacation.  I'm sure of it.

And aside from some pain, I'm all better now.  Just need to heal.

______________________________________________________________________

School is back in now.  Which means very little to me since I have no kids and don't go to school.  It means nothing except for two things.   TRAFFIC is the first thing.   They've built so many new homes and townhouse complexes between here and my husband's work that even in the summer there was heavy congestion.  Now that school is back in?  We're having to leave between 15 and 30 minutes earlier.  And STILL stopping and sitting in traffic.  The 15 to 30 minute buffer isn't to avoid the traffic, it's to allow for time to sit in it.  The other thing the start of school means is that I'm back to being the morning driver.  During the summer my husband drives in the morning.  But he has ZERO patience for traffic when he's the passenger and even less than that when he's the driver.  So now that we have super heavier traffic during the school year, I have to be the bleary eyed driver in the morning.  INTO the sun.

And just for the record, can I ask a question?  See, in stop and go and SUDDEN stop traffic, I leave room in front of me lest I rear-end the person in front of me.   Makes sense to me.  Seems a lot like logic.   So can anyone tell me WHY people in the right lane think that's an open invitation to move over in front of me to the left lane?  Thereby effectively removing my buffer zone?  Because it happened 6 times on the way to work just this morning.   I'm not talking like a ridiculous about of space.  I'm talking a car length, in which they squeeze in their car.  It gives me stabby pains in my eyes.   Along with the ones I already have in my ear.

______________________________________________________________________

You know, I had this whole thing written in this space here, but I'm not doing it.  Some issues I don't want to revisit to be quite honest with you.  But let me just say this.  I've recently come to believe that someone I used to be very good friends with but are now just Facebook friends with may read this blog.  So let me just say this:

To you, if you are reading, you know who you are.   Of everything I lost 5 and a half years ago for better or worse...  and in most cases for the better - you - are my only regret.  I see pictures of you, your husband and your two beautiful girls and when I see your face?  Oh my gosh, I just love you.  And miss you.  So very much.  And while I don't actually expect anything between us to change because I really think some things may be insurmountable for me to get past (which is totally my issue, not yours at all) - I just wanted you to know how I feel about you.  I think you are a remarkable woman with a beautiful heart.  And I always will.
- Love, Amer

____________________________

A Letter to my Neighbor

Dear Neighbor:

You seem like a decent guy.  You do.  And I do like that when things seem awry in our neighborhood you patrol it with a Colt45 tucked into your belt given the responding police are 40 minutes away.  But knowing that you're a slightly different guy with a house full of guns gives me pause to bring this up to your face.  Not because I think you'd shoot me, but because I don't want our house left off your rounds when a stranger walks into another neighbor's house thinking she's not home (we're guessing to rob her) but finds her sitting in her easy chair in the living room and runs out.  Like I said, it gives me pause...   a long pause.

But if I WERE going to say anything to you it would be along the lines of "When I want your opinion on my weight I will ask you for it, you misogynistic jerk... got it?"  Because honestly, I am sorry that the previous neighbor with her tight body, fake boobs and highly age inappropriate clothing moved out and this fattie moved in three years ago thereby effectively removing your eye candy, but them's the breaks.  You can't win 'em all, buddy and I do not need you telling my husband that when he mows that I should follow behind him and gather up the grass clippings because, according to you, I could "use the exercise".  Really?   REALLY?

And, I will admit, at first I was mad at my husband for not sticking up for me, but really, it's just not worth it.  Plus, depending on how it went down that could be something that would ALSO leave us off your rounds and  I just don't want that. And I was irritated that he didn't tell you that I've lost 25 pounds in the last 3 months but the more I thought about it, I'm glad he didn't - because why on earth would that be any of your concern or business?

So speaking of business I would suggest that you mind yours or I will keep up with the passive aggressive behavior I've been employing all night of "mistakenly" leaving on the side porch light which shines right in your bedroom window.  At this point I'm only intending on doing it for about a year.

So when I see you outside and our eyes meet and you look like you might make a move to come down the hill to shoot the crap with me, don't be offended when I quickly take the dogs back into the house.  It's only because I think you're a jerk.

But thanks for your vigilante like method of law enforcement   It is appreciated.  Your opinions, however, about MY body?  Are not.

The old ball and chain of your neighbor...
Amy

I Don't Want to be Cooked in the Squat

For anyone who doesn't know who Zig Ziglar is, you're about to be introduced.

I used to listen to Zig Ziglar CDs all the time back when I fancied myself an insurance salesperson.  As my goals in life have changed, so have my listening habits.  I'm all sports talk radio all the time now.  Which really has nothing to do with any life goals except being happy and listening to sports talk radio makes me happy.

But what I forgot and lost sight of was that listening to Zig Ziglar made me happy, too.  Yes, he speaks on sales and successful selling and closing the sale - but he also speaks on successful living.  Goal setting and going for your dreams by building a foundation under them.

I was missing Zig and his unique voice the other night and took a chance and looked him up on YouTube.  There he was, in all his Zig Ziglar glory.  And while a lot of the videos were different parts of things I've heard when I listened to him before, there was a gem that I came across that I got to hear for the first time..

It's about being "cooked in the squat".   No one could speak better on what that means than Mr. Ziglar himself so here he is talking about being "cooked in the squat".



I'm one of those people. The one that always seems to be waiting for something to start or finish or happen before I do what I want to do. Or become who I want be. And I think I'm done with that. I don't think I want to wait anymore. I don't want to be "cooked in the squat." I want to rise up to my full potential and just BE.

So I'm gonna.

Favorite Post of the Week #8

No contest.  My favorite post of the week this week almost made me pee laughing.  No joke.  

It's this post here from the ravishing Shauna Glenn.  Because oh my gosh, it's so something I would do and I love the way she writes it.

Definitely worth a read.  And Shauna, in general, is worth reading always.   Some of my favorite posts of Shauna's:

Actually - you know what?  1.  There are SO MANY good ones.  2.  Every one I think of I have no idea when it was written, so I'll never find them in her archives.  So make a cup of coffee or something, get comfy and just read them all.  It'll be worth it.  She's fantastic.   She should really have a "poop" category because THOSE posts?  Those are the funniest posts by far.  Hilarity ensues.

And I'm apparently a 12 year old boy.

The Help - In Defense of Me

I seldom, if ever - usually as a rule - post anything... controversial.   And I don't know that this is or will be, but I know it makes me feel all uncomfortable knowing what I'm going to write so at least in my mind, it's controversial.  It makes me feel all icky because I hate conflict and controversy and I also worry that my reluctance to stand up and say something will make me waver and I'll come across seeming unsure when in actuality, I'm just overwhelmed by the fact that I'm actually taking a stand that sometimes what I want to say gets lost.  So I really just avoid it all together.  But I just can't on this one and after some soul searching, I am ready to embrace whatever backlash there may be.  I know what I am.  I know who I am.  And I am confident in that and will defend it if and when necessary.  This would be one of those times.

I've read a few posts like this one from Mocha Mama among others about The Help and their feelings about it.  And I do 100% see their points, especially from Mocha Mama's post which was so eloquently written.  I encourage everyone to go read it.  I understand that several other books...  fiction and non-fiction have been written about domestic employees in the 60s.  And I know I'm just a white girl and like my friend said to me "it's best to leave the determination of whether something is racist to those that actually experience racism" and I agree with that, until it it comes to my own morals coming into question.

I cannot help the fact that The Help was a good book.  I cannot help the fact that The Help was well received.  I cannot help the fact that The Help got good reviews.   All of which goes together to create the fact that I could not help that I wanted to read The Help.  And loved it.  And it had nothing to do with a "white savior" figure coming in to rescue the day.  Of THAT I'm certain.  It didn't even cross my mind.   I don't see color - maybe that's why *I* didn't notice the white savior.

I contend that the assumption that people of a certain color who love The Help are racist IS in and of itself...  racist.  I take offense...  actually no...  I am downright indignant over the fact that I could even be considered racist because I loved the book, have every intention of seeing the movie (OnDemand, because my husband will never go because it's a chick flick) and more than likely will love that as well.

I am not saying The Help is not racist.  I do agree with my friend that I am in no position to determine if it is or not.  I have my opinion, but it's just that, my opinion..  I respect most all opinions.  The opinions I do not respect are the ones that say *I* am racist because I enjoyed the book and eventually will enjoy the movie.  I am not now, have never been and never will be racist.

**breathe**

Oh I am also not saying that Mocha Mama said that if someone liked The Help they were racist.  She didn't.  I loved her post, but a search lead me to more posts that I don't even want to link.   Kelly's post is logical and poignant and brings to light some topics and insights that I've never even thought of... :)

Band Nerd for Life... apparently...

So awhile ago my high school band director posted some news on Facebook.  He was leaving the school where he'd been a band director for YEARS, my school, and going to another school.  And not just ANY other school, but my school's rival.  In football, in band... we always seemed to be one step behind this school.  We just couldn't get by them.  It was all very political and orchestrated.  I mean their band could have taken the field in street clothes and no instruments and still come in above us in the final rankings at band competitions.  Not because we were so bad... but just because that's how it always was.  Always.   Even back to when my brother was in the band that other band always came in above.  

I adored my band director.  I thought he was just the bee's knees and I wish him well, of course (shut up, I DO!).  But oh my gosh.  When I read that on Facebook, it was like a DAGGER.  Seriously?  THERE?  Of anywhere you could go...  THERE?   It just feels...  wrong.  Like a betrayal.   Like Arlen Spector becoming Democrat, like Charlie Manuel going over to manage the Mets, like Andy Reid going to coach the Cowboys...  or Giants...  (actually that wouldn't be so bad...  it'd be nice to know another team would never win), like McCartney teaming up with Jagger.    Just...   wrong.  

So yeah, I may be fifteen years out of high school, but the band geek in me is still alive and kicking.  

Getting to my fighting weight.

Ok, so BlogHer12 is roughly 50 weeks from now.  And I've read over and over that no one cares how you look or how you dress.  Just that you show up.  Ok...  I hear blah blah blah blah.   I know BlogHer means one thing.  Eleventy billion pictures.

I refuse to hate every single picture of me that is taken while I'm supposed to be having loads of fun and getting to know some of the people in person that as of right now I'm convinced only live in my computer screen.  

So I'm comitting.  To you, readers, and to myself.

I will be back to this or close to it by BlogHer12.   Join me HERE on the journey.

 

When moments that define us die...

Today I found out that an old high school boyfriend... and my prom date... died.  On Saturday.  I am utterly torn apart.

Nate was a wonderful guy.  Kind.  Sweet.  Funny.  We were together just 5 months.  Which at 17 is like, forever,

We broke up, mainly just because I was going off to college and he had another year of high school left and we knew it just couldn't work.  So it ended.

Now years later he went in for surgery on a hernia and came out a vegetable.  And now 6 months later.  He's dead.  I didn't know anything about what was going on.  Just happened to see something about a memorial for "Nate" on Facebook and happened to ask "Nate who".

My senior year of high school near the end of the year in my AP English class, we read a poem called The Egyptian Vase.  We talked about it afterwards and how those vases the Egyptians made told stories of their lives.  Our teacher said that as we were leaving high school and "starting our lives" that we all had an empty vase and we would be painting it with the most important moments of our lives and things that meant the most.  It was an eloquent speech and has most of the girls in tears and the guys looking solemn.

About two weeks later was prom.  Nate arrived in a limo and we were taken to dinner.  He brought a dozen roses and a teddy bear.  When we were in the limo he sat in the seat across from me and he just looked at me.  In the most gorgeous dress I've ever worn (yes, including my wedding dress) feeling wonderful and he just smiled and said, "You know? I've always known you were beautiful, just because you are.   But tonight?  You've blown my mind."

It's on the vase.  It has been ever since and always will be.  And I just can't wrap my head around the fact that that wonderfully beautiful boy is gone.  I will always have that memory that for me will encapsulate everything I loved about him forever.

The world is that much darker today because Nate's light has gone out.  And my world is darker because the creator of one of my brightest, most shiny glittery moments is gone.

Godspeed, Nate.   And thank you.