I had been thinking of writing that "others" post for a long time. Then several weeks ago, I got an email from Traci. Her email and my response made me want to write about those kids even more. And after I wrote about them, and heard your responses, I decided to share selected parts of Traci's and my email exchange (with Traci's consent; thank you, Traci).

Dear Susie:

I've worked this email out in my head a gazillion times. Each time I sat down to write it, I either didn't have the time to make it the way I wanted it, had too many tears over something else entirely or I would write "Dear Susie" and think "I just canNOT do this today." . . . I think of you every single day and send a little prayer your way and tell myself "Write the freakin' email" and I don't. There's just so much...stuff. . . The truth is we all have our "stuff" and I've simply been overwhelmed by mine . . .

. . . Several weeks ago, I left a comment at your place about thinking I wouldn't like you or something and being pleasantly surprised that I do. You replied that my comment made you laugh for some reason (which made me laugh btw) and that if the spirit took me, I could write and explain . . .

. . . When I was a young girl in school there were...issues...for lack of a better word. I was an ugly kid and weird on top of it. The reasons are many and I'm not even going to go into them. To say I had a hard time in school would be downplaying it in the extreme. If there was a popular group, you could say that my end of the life spectrum was so far away from that it may as well have had its own spectrum completely. When I visited your blog, my first reaction was that it was one big clique-y kind of place (there are those in bloggerville) and I'd never comment...just read...anyway, there was just something about you that kept drawing me back. I lurked for awhile and you just kept touching my heart . . .

It's funny how things that happen to us early on can affect us so deeply that later, when we really are different people than we were, they still affect us in ways we don't expect. I didn't expect to be touched by you and I was and am and it surprises me still. I shut so much of myself off even now that when something opens my heart it is amazing. Thank you for that gift. . .

And part of my reply:

Dear, dear Traci,
First, I won't be able to respond to your email in the way it deserves, because it evokes so much in me. Stuff I've even wanted to write a post about. I was a popular kid, pretty much throughout school. But I was a popular kid who had no friends. They probably wouldn't say that; but that's how I felt. Because no one really knew me. They knew I dressed nicely enough and I got good grades. They didn't know about my parents' various addictions . . . domestic violence . . . . abuse. So, on the inside, I was as weird as they come, honey. I was never unkind to the "target" kids. I had no idea why I wasn't one of them. It was a "there but for the grace of God go I," kind of thing, before I was even old enough to understand or articulate that sentiment. I think the kids that were mean to unpopular kids also had a sense that at any minute they could become the target; but their way of handling it was to go on the offensive and not give anyone a chance to notice their weirdness, their vulnerabilities. I handled mine, as best I could, with humor and kindness. Not sure why. I give credit to God, to a Sunday School which, while very conservative, was also very welcoming and loving. Jesus has always been my friend. That's partly why it hurts and angers me so, that religiosity was used against you.

If people come to my blog and leave, it's because they get bored, or pissed, or whatever, but I hope it's not because I'm not welcoming to them. We are ALL dealing with some shit. It takes different forms, we express it in different ways, but I have yet to meet the person who doesn't have something big and scary somewhere inside, past or present. And if not, then it's future. None of us get through this life scot-free (is that the right word? I don't know that I've ever written that, it looks funny).

I remember a post of yours about your being an ugly kid, in a restaurant. I don't know whether you posted a picture, but in my mind, I see you, and you're cute as can be. We all have pictures of ourselves that make us cringe. I had a unibrow and buckteeth. But when we grow up to have a heart, and we look at little children, we can see that there's no such thing as an ugly child. Ugly is in the heart of the beholder. Ugly, as far as a child is concerned, is only what's projected onto her from ugly adults. And that projection makes her carry herself in a certain way, express herself (or not) in certain ways, develop mannerisms, etc.

I'm not a visual person. I remember what people say. Somebody has to look almost ALARMING (good or bad) for me to remember what they look like. I honest-to-God don't remember if you've ever posted a picture of yourself, old or current. But I know that you're beautiful. *You sang to me. You shared with me, a stranger, a gift that God gave you. Beautiful.

The post I have thought many times of writing, is about the kids who got picked on. I remember them all: Rose, Barbara, Joyce, Bonita, Mary... and I hope that they are living well, as revenge . . .

Thank you for taking time, Traci. I know what it means to take time when you're overwhelmed. It's no small thing, and I am very thankful . . .

*Shortly after I "met" Traci, she emailed me a recording of her singing Amazing Grace. It was lovely, and meant a lot to me that she would share herself in that way with a stranger.


If you want to read more, Traci's Spingle post is a continuation of this subject matter.

I'll be at least a little bit funny in a couple of days, I promise.

Sunday Post ~ "Face the facts of being what you are, for that is what changes what you are."

"Now, with God's help, I shall become myself." -- both quotes, Soren Kierkegaard


Romans 12:2 (the whole chapter is one of my favorites)

It is a serious thing to live in a society of possible gods and goddesses, to remember that the dullest and most uninteresting person you can talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare. All day long we are, in some degree, helping each other to one or other of these destinations. . . . There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub, and exploit --- immortal horrors or everlasting splendors. -- C. S. Lewis

The first one I remember was Rose. She was only the tiniest bit chubby (but back then, I don't recall anyone being concerned about fat), had pale skin, Dutch-boy haircut the color of straw, a sweet smile with a gap between her teeth. Rose. That's a beautiful word, a beautiful flower. But the other kids spat her name. Think, "Hello, NEWMAN," from Seinfeld.

Then there was Davey. He was happy, in spite of all their attempts to make that not be so. His nose ran a lot. I now realize that he must have had allergies. No one talked about allergies then. He was just snotty Davey. I remember once he called me before back-to-school. I think it was before 4th grade. He had never called me before, and I didn't know what to make of it then. Now it pleases me that he felt OK to do that. He was calling to tell me, item by item, each article of back-to-school clothing his mother had bought him, what colors, what he would wear with what . . . and to ask me if I thought his wardrobe was "OK." Back then, I just told him that everything sounded fine to me. He hung up happy. I never told anyone about that phone call until this minute.

Next, I remember Barbara. Barbara was poor. She wasn't clean. Not her clothes and not her body. She smelled like bacon and woodstove smoke. There were white things in her black hair. I may not ever have gotten close enough to see what they were. I imagine them as lint, but I don't know. When I see her in my mind, I see her smiling. If she were clean, with nice clothes and a haircut, her pale skin and smooth black hair, and white, even teeth, would make her quite striking. I see her smiling, but I know she cried a lot. I hope not anymore.

And there was Bonnie in Sunday School. Snot was an issue for her, too, but that's because she missed her Mom. I don't know where her Mom was, but her Dad dropped her off in the Sunday School class every Sunday morning. Bonnie (I loved her name) had that combination that I still find so alluring -- very blond hair and dark brown eyes. And every single Sunday, to ease the pain of his leaving her there, her Dad would give her a chocolate Tootsie Pop. Damn, I wanted one of those. (Still do.) But Bonnie sucked her Tootsie Pop, and cried for her Mom, and the net effect of the dark brown eyes and the chocolate lolly was three dark brown circles on this pale, wet face, with the tears from the eyes, and the drool down the chin. Even being in the House of the Lord didn't stop the other kids from saying mean things. I just wanted the Tootsie Pop. And I wanted to say to her, "Your name is BONNIE. You have blond hair, brown eyes and a Tootsie Pop. And Mrs. Mahala is NICE. You don't have any reason to cry like that." I never joined in the teasing, but I must say, I didn't have much empathy.

That was all elementary school.

Next was middle school. Joyce. She had a couple of friends, and they called her Joycie. She was clean, and not poor. She had smooth, clean, light brown hair that hung below her butt. She was very fat. Even though I've said that we didn't think so much about weight back then, Joyce had to buy women's clothes. Clothes with a "W" after the size, and back then, there wasn't much to choose from in that department. A few people teased Joyce, but mostly she was safe, with her couple of friends. And when everyone saw how smart she was in Algebra, that helped, too. Because a lot of people needed her help. I got to know Joyce a little bit, because we were in an advanced math class together. She really was smart, and very witty, and very sweet. I thought it was a loss to those other people who didn't want to be around her because she was fat.

And there was Pop Mitchell. I'm sure her parents gave her a lovely first name, but I don't know what it was. She had very black skin and what I now realize must have been hyperthyroidism, because her eyes "popped" out. That's why she was called Pop. I remember her smiling and saying, "hello," all the time. She was developmentally delayed. Maybe that made the teasing easier for her, because when people would make a joke about her and laugh, she'd laugh louder than anyone. It didn't help Pop and her classmates any that their teacher's name was Mrs. Nutter. They were the special education class (although I never heard that term, we all just knew), but everyone called them "Nutter's Nuts." "Here comes Nutter and her nuts!" Come to think of it, Mrs. Nutter would laugh loudly when she heard that. I don't know quite what to make of that, now.

Then there was Mary Flick. I'm using her real name, because it's key to the specific torment that she endured. I just googled the name, and there are lots of them. A law enforcement officer, a campus ministry leader, a quality assurance expert, a nurse, the mother of a handicapped child. One of the insults that we relied heavily upon in middle school was the label, "'flicted." Short for "afflicted," but the "a" was never used. Just 'flicted. "Mary Flick is 'flicted!" "Here comes 'flicted Flick!" Mary always wore dresses. She had long, coarse, pale hair, and crooked eyes and crooked teeth. Her brother wasn't treated the way Mary was, even though he resembled her and of course, had the same last name. Mary is the only one, the sound of whose voice I can't remember. I may have never heard her speak.

I moved early in my freshman year of high school. I imagine there were kids in my new high school who had endured the same type of teasing, tormenting, bullying, abuse, that the preceding endured. I didn't know of them, though, in the new school. Except for Bonita. Upon first seeing Bonita, you wouldn't have thought there was much of a problem. A little bit unkempt, eyeglasses a little outdated, maybe, but it was the 70s, in high school. There was a lot of variety in dress. I didn't know, at first, that Bonita was a target. I remember the first week I was at school, someone, a preacher's daughter, ironically, telling me to ask Bonita about her recent trip to Salisbury (a town in North Carolina). I was new, ready to make friends, so I said, "Hey, Bonita, did you go to Salisbury over the weekend?" And Bonita became very flustered and started on a long narrative/tirade about going to Salisbury. It was part informative, part angry, all very odd. And Bonita seemed both pleased and offended that I had asked. The preacher's daughter and other kids around thought this was hilarious. I felt manipulated, and not amused. I learned that asking Bonita about Salisbury was guaranteed to engage and fluster her. I never knew why, or what the significance of that town was for her. Bonita probably had some developmental delays, some learning disabilities, and as I recall her now, she had some OCD characteristics, packing and unpacking, arranging and rearranging her belongings, in a compulsive, almost frenzied way.

I'm almost 29 years out of high school, and these children are still in my head. I think of some of them rather often. I didn't join in the teasing. Ever. So I'm OK with that. But I was a popular kid. I wish I had also been an assertive kid. I wasn't. I knew that being unkind to these people was wrong. Mean, immoral. My own self-esteem, sense of social security, was too tenuous to tell other people to stop it. I wish I had had more courage. And I hope -- I would be so delighted to have reason to believe -- that they are, in some form, living well, as "the best revenge."

I will never be "Mother of . . ." this or any other year. If you all knew how many times on any given day, I screw up, where my child is concerned, you would . . . well, that depends on who you are and whether you like me or not. But I'm here to tell you, I screw up daily. HOWEVER. I do manage to know where my kid IS! Almost all of the time. I know I just wrote about this stuff, but what is wrong with these people?! I feel like I've landed in the freakin' Parenting Twilight Zone.

Last year, and indeed, for the 3 years prior to that, LG was in a Grrl Scawt Troop with a very experienced, very competent leader. This year, that Leader had to resign for personal reasons (nothing scandalous), and now we're in a "co-op troop," which means that while we have a titular leader (yea, I knew you'd like that), no one is really in charge.

These emails were exchanged today. Names changed to protect the incompetent.

From: Iminna Fogg i.fogg@gmail.com
[Add to Address Book]
To: All the Moms of all the girls in Troop 1/2Ass
Subject: Our Camping Trip
Date: Tuesday, April 24, 2007 10:53:50 AM

Don't forget that this Saturday is our big [one and only of the whole year] camping trip! We will leave for Camp Woodpecker at 10 a.m. on Saturday, and return at 11 a.m. on Sunday. Camp Woodpecker is about 3 hours away from Pretty City . . . blah blah

Here are the carpool arrangements . . . blah blah

###

From: Susie Fairchild whatwasit@comcast.net
[Add to Address Book]
To: Iminna Fogg i.fogg@gmail.com
Subject: RE: Our Camping Trip
Date: Tuesday, April 24, 2007 11:20:30 AM

Iminna,
Ohmygosh, I'm so glad you sent this! Of course I knew this weekend was the camping trip, but I had written down that it was to Camp Bufflehead! That's like, only 1/2 an hour away! Thanks again . . .

###

From: Iminna Fogg i.fogg@gmail.com
[Add to Address Book]
To: All the Moms of all the girls in Troop 1/2Ass
Subject: RE:RE: Our Camping Trip
Date: Tuesday, April 24, 2007 11:30:50 AM

Oops! I goofed. Our [one and only major event of the whole year] camping trip is to Camp Bufflehead. See you Saturday!

###

Oh, cheez whiz! Are y'all sure you don't just wanna camp in our backyard again? I'd feel a lot better about things . . .

Really pissed me off disgruntled me: LG went to a friend's house for dinner and to go see a play, a little theater play in which another of their friends was performing. Actually, she went to the little girl's father's house, where the little girl visits every other weekend. The Dad said that he would have LG home by 9 p.m.

9 p.m. comes and goes. No problem, they probably went backstage, blah blah.

9:30 p.m. comes and goes.

10:00 p.m. comes and goes.

Now I start to get worried/pissed disgruntled. Frankly, now I start to have flutters of panic. Which makes me even more pissed disgruntled, because I haven't had a panic attack in about two and a half years.

They arrived home at 10:25 p.m. Yea, I know she was with a parent, but that parent had both a watch and a cell phone. I say he was totally inconsiderate, and a horrible example to my (and his own) preteen daughter about what to do when you're going to be later than you said you would be.

::tangent:: The ex-wife of this man, the one the child lives with most of the time, is the parent who, when I agreed to drop off LG at their house for a two-hour playdate while I did some errands, loaded the girls in her car and went all over the place. One of my errands, while I thought my daughter was safely parked at this neighbor's home, was to Petco (where the pets go). Imagine my surprise when, there by the fish, I see LG and her friend. And no Mom. I stood there talking to them, and eventually the Mom joined us, all apologetic, not that she had taken LG to the store in the first place, but that she had let them go off alone in the store. She assured me that she would never do this in a place like, for example, Target, but that Petco (where the pets go) was small enough that she felt OK doing that. I learned later that not only had they gone to Petco (where the pets go), but that earlier in the day, this Mom had lost her cell phone. And a strange man from the next town over had called her to tell her he had it. And she had taken my daughter and her own to this strange man's house, the next town over, to retrieve her cell phone. ALL OF THIS when I had agreed only that LG could come over and hang out in their basement for a couple of hours.

I realize I risk solidifying my "uncool Mom" status with this rantangent, but I am the Mom who, when LG and the little girl with whom she's been walking to school returned home one morning, saying the sidewalks were too icy, would I please drive them to school, I said of course I would, then I sat in my car and would not, could not, back out of my driveway before I phoned that little girl's Mom to explain the situation, and tell her that I was happy to drive little Uma to school, but did not want to take her anywhere in my car without her mother's knowledge and consent. Which, of course, her mother gave. But that is a thing with me, dammit! Don't put my kid in your car and take her somewhere when I believe you are keeping her at your house! And I'll extend you the same courtesy. ::end tangent::

Oh, and LG just now told me that Dr. Dad (yea, the non-custodial, no-calling Dad is an M.D.) also left the girls at home alone when he went out to get their pizza. Not that I wouldn't do that; but I wouldn't do that without asking the girl's parents if they minded, if she minded, etc. In this house, 10-11 is the age where we're just beginning to let LG be home alone, for very short periods of time. I would not presume that other parents are doing that, or that it's OK with them if I leave their child unsupervised. (I know; go ahead and make me my "uncool Mom" hat.)


Really encouraged me: Had 15 vials of blood drawn on Thursday. No, that's not the encouraging part; that's the part that says they still don't know WTF WTF is. The encouraging part was that even though no one knows, the endocrinologist really seems to be working on it. Because of the mysterious disappearance of my Vitamin D, she sent me to a dietician in her office. And the dietician seems really nice and smart. She even called on Friday to ask me some more questions, and tell me she is researching malabsorption disorders. So, yea, it encourages me that finally someone's thinking about me when I'm not sitting in front of them; and it encourages me that an M.D. is human enough and humble enough to call a "lowly dietician" and say, as the dietician told me she did, "I don't know what's wrong with this patient; will you listen to her story and see if you can come up with any ideas that we can pursue?" So, whether or not they come up with anything, it encourages me that we have not exhausted all possibilities, and that there are medical professionals like these two, out there.


Cracked. Me. UP.: LG and Jif came home from Sunday School telling this story. Jif and another man were teaching the children's lesson. Three-year-old Michael was hanging on every word they said. The other teacher finished the line in the story, "Jesus told Peter, 'You will deny me three times before the cock crows.'" At that very moment, Jif sneezed loudly. For a second, little Michael seemed to try to incorporate the sneeze into the story, but he wasn't buying it. He said, "Hey, that was no cock! That was Mr. Jif!"


Did my heart good (from Comcast news):

WAYNESBURG, Ky. - Miss America 1944 has a talent that likely has never appeared on a beauty pageant stage: She fired a handgun to shoot out a vehicle's tires and stop an intruder. Venus Ramey, 82, confronted a man on her farm in south-central Kentucky last week after she saw her dog run into a storage building where thieves had previously made off with old farm equipment.

Ramey said the man told her he would leave. "I said, 'Oh, no you won't,' and I shot their tires so they couldn't leave," Ramey said.

She had to balance on her walker as she pulled out a snub-nosed .38-caliber handgun.

"I didn't even think twice. I just went and did it," she said. "If they'd even dared come close to me, they'd be 6 feet under by now."

Ramey then flagged down a passing motorist, who called 911.

After winning the pageant with her singing, dancing and comedic talents, Ramey sold war bonds and her picture was adorned on a B-17 that made missions over Germany in World War II, according to the Miss America Web site.

"I'm trying to live a quiet, peaceful life and stay out of trouble, and all it is, is one thing after another," she said.

In spite of my gun-control views expressed around the innernets as a hole last week, I say, "Hell yea!" to gun-toting 82-year-old former Miss Americas who are just trying to stay out of trouble.

Sunday Post ~

I would take no for an answer,
Just to know I heard You speak,

And I'm wondering why I've never
Seen the signs they claim they see,

A lot of special revelations
Meant for everybody but me,

Maybe I don't truly know You,
or maybe I just simply believe...

'Cause I can sniff, I can see,
and I can count up pretty high;
but these faculties
aren't getting me
any closer to the sky,
but my heart of faith keeps poundin'
so I know I'm doin' fine

but sometimes findin' You
is just like tryin' to
smell the color nine.

Smell the color nine...

--lyrics by Chris Rice

Psalm 9:9-10
Psalm 10:1

You may have noticed the flurry of silly on the blog this week. Not that I need an occasion for a flurry of silly, but this week I had one. In between laughing at Pearl, and joking with you all, and making fun of the tree lady, I cried, a lot. Hard crying that would hit while I was driving in my car, or sitting at my desk, or lying down to sleep. And I needed to escape to silly when I could.

This post will not be well-received by some.

I have been deeply saddened, as have so many millions of others, by the tragedy at Virgina Tech. I should say, the tragedies. There were many, and not just on that one day. They were set in motion years ago, when a mentally ill child, then adolescent, then young adult, apparently slipped through crack after crack. The final cracks were in the gun laws and the mental healthcare privacy laws in the Commonwealth of Virginia.

I don't have any friends or family members who were working or studying at the school at the time of the shootings. Because of our relative proximity to the school, many people in our area are alumni -- LG's teacher, Biscuit's vet, are just two I've spoken with this week. I've been thinking a lot about Seung-Hui Cho. And about his family. A local Christian radio station was calling yesterday for listeners to go on their website and send cards to the grieving families. And they said they wanted people to write to Cho's family, as well. That's what I had been thinking about doing.

As I recently commented on someone's blog, mourning a life is an even more painful and complex challenge than grieving someone's death. And I don't know if mourning a life ever ends. I say this from personal experience. When the person who died is someone like those brilliant, successful, cherished students and teachers that we see on TV, we know, everyone knows, that their lives, although much too short, were something to be celebrated. Family members have already made clear that their memorial services are to be celebrations of life. Of the joy they brought, the contributions they made.

When it is difficult to find something to celebrate about the person's life . . . what do you have but grief, pain, darkness? How will the Cho family honor their beloved son and brother's life? In what stories, memories, will they find comfort? I pray that there are some. We haven't heard them.

I heard a few people talk about how odd Cho was. I heard a couple of people say that they tried to talk to him, but he wouldn't talk. I heard a story of how, as a young adolescent, he refused to read aloud in class, and when the teacher wouldn't let it go, and forced him, his speech was unclear and the entire class laughed at him. From that day forward. And I heard him described by high school classmates as "this shy kid who got picked on every day at school," and "someone who would not even give someone a dirty look."

Today I saw that VT played a baseball game. The attendance broke all records. And during the game, the news report said, they observed 32 seconds of silence. That pushed the button that prompted this post. There are 33 grieving families. One grieves alone. One young man is excluded in death as he was in life.

I don't have the answers. And I have many more questions than I have the energy to address here. But I do hope we don't stop asking the questions until we get some things changed. Like laws. And hearts. I don't know which will be more difficult.



*for you youngsters, the title is from an oldie:

He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother


The road is long
With many a winding turn
That leads us to who knows where
Who knows when
But I'm strong
Strong enough to carry him
He ain't heavy, he's my brother.

So on we go
His welfare is my concern
No burden is he to bear
We'll get there
For I know
He would not encumber me

If I'm laden at all
I'm laden with sadness
That everyone's heart
Isn't filled with the gladness
Of love for one another.

It's a long, long road
From which there is no return
While we're on the way to there
Why not share
And the load
Doesn't weigh me down at all
He ain't heavy, he's my brother.

I misspelled a word in a letter to the elementary school Gifted and Talented Committee. (Now they'll know I'm not really one of them.)

LG knows that we are on the fence about whether we want her in that program in middle school. Last night I told her about my discovery of the misspelled word. She said, accusingly, "Now they'll think I don't have smart parents! Is that what you want them to think!?" I love it when a plan comes together.

****



And I'm not embarrassed, but they should be:

On the phone with the tree service, I tell them that we need an estimate on removal of the one fallen tree in the front yard, and the two standing, but damaged, trees in the backyard. And I ask them to please itemize the costs on the estimate, because the neighbors will be paying for the fallen tree, which is theirs.

Tree lady: Oh, we don't do that.

Me: You don't itemize on estimates?

Tree lady: No. But we will break it down for you so you know what each service costs.

*blink*blink*

Me: Oh . . . well, that'll be fine, then. Just . . . go ahead and break it down.

There's one more person I'd trade places with:

Here she is.

I'd trade with Pearl, because she's the most beloved woman on the internet. Plus, my family would love having her for a day. I know you've seen this everywhere else, even in emails from me, but really, can you get too much Pearl? I think not. I hope she gets her own show.

Update to the update: If you're worried about Pearl, read here. She'll be OK. As soon as she gets her drink on.

OK, it's not really Barbara Walters, it's Eclectic. And I don't know whether she wants to or not, because I asked her to. Because most of what I have to say these days is some variation of "WTF is wrong with me?" and because you all must be even more bored with that than I am, I decided to do a meme. These are five questions from Eclectic, and my answers:

1. If you could trade places with any human (but not human AND divine, only human), past or present, for a day, who would you choose?

These questions are too tough already. Because of the way my brain works. For the same reason I hate multiple choice tests. I see too many possibilities, and it is painful for me to narrow it down to one. So I won't. Since it's just for a day . . . I would want to be Mary Magdalene, because I would want to know what it's like to be that close to Jesus. I would also trade places with Mother Teresa (when she was alive), because I would like to feel what it feels like to be that other-centered. Plus if we traded places, she'd be here with Jif and LG, and they could use a day with a woman who is completely other-centered. Not a lot of that happening here these days. And I would also switch with Oprah for a day, because I would LOVE to give away money and stuff the way she does. Plus, while she was living my life, she'd get that cute Nate Birkus in here to redecorate. Oh, and if trading places with me meant that she'd have WTF, she would use all her money and power and probably get fixed right up.

2. What blows your dress up? In other words, what makes you feel happy like a little girl on a swingset?

Excuse me? Blows my dress up? I hadn't heard that one. Although I do still like to wear a wee-dress occasionally. That's not a tiny dress or a dress that I pee in, it's the kind of dress that flares up when you spin around, and you have to go, "Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" when you do that. What was the question?

One of the happiest moments I remember is being at Lake MacDonald in Glacier National Park, walking down to the lake, looking down through the clear water at the beautiful stones, and telling Jif, "It's been nice, but I live here now." So, being in a beautiful place with someone I love, that would do it. I also love hours of very silly laughter while dining with girlfriends. I don't do that often enough. And being with LG when she discovers new things that she finds wonderful -- a certain writer, a smell-good lotion, a new food. Little things. And the dog doing silly things. He HATES it when we play any sort of card game. The other night we were playing Apples to Apples, and I was in the recliner, with a blanket over me. Biscuit was barking at all of us as he always does when we are holding cards. All of a sudden, he jumped right up on top of me and grabbed my cards out of my hand and started running around the room. We were all laughing like little girls.

3. Pretzels, chips or popcorn?

Not pretzels. I can leave pretzels sitting around here indefinitely. I do love chips, but I have them very rarely, because I would eat them all. I think (rightly or wrongly) that popcorn is healthier, so that's what I eat the most of. A few times a month, popcorn. But if I had even less self-discipline than I actually do (that would equal none), then it would be chips.

4. If you were at work and the fire alarm went off unexpectedly, would you exit the building immediately, go across the hall and offer assistance at the daycare, or keep your attention on your client and ignore the alarm until notified that it's not a drill?

This one's pretty easy. I would go across the hall and offer help getting the little turkey farmers out. I would also take my client with me and direct him or her to help get the children out, and I would consider that part of the therapy. Few things are better for a person's mental health than forgetting self for a time and helping someone else.

5. What is your favorite color?

I never like this question, because I can't answer it. (See response to #1.) For the longest time, my favorite color was green. Then it became purple. Then the two together. I still like them. I like jewel tones. Red (blue-red, not orange-red), turquoise, sapphire. For clothing, I mostly like jewel tones, and black. And most pinks. I like some pastels, especially periwinkle and limey greens. That's all for clothing. I do not wear yellow or orange, because to do so would be to run the risk of being mistaken for a corpse and accidentally embalmed. (I hate when that happens.)
I do like yellows and golds for decorating, though. They're happy colors in a house, but not on my person.

And here are the rules for this here meme:

If you want to play:

1. Leave me a comment saying, "Interview me," but be more polite than that, please. See previous post.

2. I will respond by emailing you five questions of my choosing. They may be very boring, or terribly intrusive and in questionable taste. Oh, and make sure I have your email address, or that would just really annoy the hell out of me.

3. You must update your blog with the answers to the questions. Whether you like them or not.

4. You have to include this explanation, and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.

5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions, yadda yadda yadda.

So, let me know if you want some questions. And I have NO idea how long it will take me to get them to you, but I will. And happily.

The title of this post is something that I find myself saying to LG with rather alarming frequency. It's always after one of her little girlfriends has done something heinous. We were talking about this at the agency where I work the other day, and everyone there had stories to share of mean girls. Mean little girls, be they nieces, neighbors, what have you. Aren't parents teaching their kids the basics of politeness, courtesy, and such? This may be the post in which I reveal my hopelessly old-school, uncool true self.

This is a letter (mistakes intact, names disguised) that my daughter received last year from a friend (?):

To LG,
Because of my popularness, I cannot play with you and eat with you every day. I will be busy playing and eating on the following days with Erin and Andrea:

• Mon.
• Wed.
• Fri.

So it will be far to all my friends that are close to me like best friends. So this is how it is going to be for now on. If you have any complaints please e-mail me as soon as you can.

From,
Brigitte Bordello (aka a best friend maybe)

For the first few years of LG's school life, I invited every girl in the class to her birthday parties. I couldn't bear the thought of some little one feeling excluded. We were the only ones who did this. I realize it's not always practical, and perhaps not even reasonable, especially as kids get older and form groups of friends. (I miss the days of pre-school, when the entire class, and even Miss Betty and Miss Carole were "my friends" to LG.) We invited kids that did not invite her to their parties -- and they always came. I've tried not to encourage a tit-for-tat mentality; more Golden Ruley, whenever possible.

One thing that is practical and reasonable, though, is to teach children not to discuss a party in the presence of anyone whom you are not absolutely certain was invited to that party. This is a rule that I made up, I guess, but it seems kind to me. We are clearly the only ones who have this rule. And the corollary is, invitations are always mailed or hand-delivered to homes; NEVER taken into school where it becomes so obvious who is and is not invited. Until this year, we were the only ones who followed that rule. Interestingly, this year the school made it a policy that no written invitations could be distributed there. Not that everyone follows it, but it did feel good to point out to LG that someone other than I felt that was a bad idea. I can just picture a mean kid flamboyantly handing out little envelopes, and the little uninvited ones waiting, hoping, only to be disappointed. Grrrr! I know how it has affected LG to listen to some of her friends talk about going to so-and-so's upcoming soiree, when she has not been invited. I can only use these moments to reinforce "our" value system, "See, we're making a good decision by not doing that; it can be hurtful." And then I go into all the reasons why people must limit the number of guests, etc., but little Veronica is still your friend, etc.

At LG's recent birthday party, one of the young ladies (*cough*choke*) had a problem with the refreshments that we offered. I said to her, as I had to each of the other guests, "Would you like fruit punch or lemonade?" And she said to me, as no one else had, "What?! You mean you don't even have any sodas?!" Yet another occasion after which we got home, did the post-mortem on the day and I found myself saying to my daughter, "You must tell me that you would NEVER say a thing like that to your hostess . . . " And I hear her say, somewhat wearily, "No, Mom, I would never do that." Cheez!

Are kids getting meaner? Are parents neglecting to teach kindness, politeness? Am I an old fart?

I got nothin'. I could come up with just any old picture, and quote, and scripture. But believe it or not, every Sunday Post I've ever done has had some inspiration, some actual meaning for me on that day, at that time. Today, I got nothin'. I am sick, and sad, and weary. There's the health thing, there are family things, there are friend things . . . blech. I do remain thankful; I know my blessings far outweigh my troubles . . . I'm just in that dark, rainy place.

If I knew how, I would show you a picture of how the hyacinths on my kitchen table smell, or how the rain on my roof sounds. I'm not a good enough photographer to convey those things in a picture, or a good enough writer to share them in words. But they're good, and hopeful, so I'd share them with you if I could.

My arms won't stay happy enough to reply to comments the way I like to. But I will say to Andrea and Peaches, from last Sunday, it is never too late to say, "He is risen, indeed." OK, that reminds me of a story. I just did a quick search to see if I've told it here before, but looks like I haven't. If I have, please forgive.

A few years ago, I saw a client, Gail, the week after Easter. She came in very upset, angry, tearful, and began to complain about her son, a college student.

"He RUINED Easter!" she accused, repeatedly. When I got her calmed down enough to explain the ruination of Easter, she told a story of how her boy, who was at a church-affiliated school, had gotten a ride home for Easter break with their parish priest, who happened to be visiting at the college. Gail was one who nearly worshiped the priest, and his opinion of both her and her family was of tremendous importance. When the priest picked up young Joshua, young Joshua was thoroughly hung over. And as such people sometimes do on long car trips, he puked all over the priest's car.

After telling the story in great detail, Gail resumed her lament, "He RUINED Easter." I should try to come up with some nice words for how I felt about this, since this is the Lord's day, and since we're talking about Easter, but the truth is, she was pissing me off. I gently challenged her thinking.

Knowing that Gail was a professing Christian (she professed all over the place, at the drop of a hat), I asked her, "What does Easter mean to you?"

"What?"

"What is the significance of Easter to you? What does it mean?"

She thought for a few minutes and said something like, "It means reconciliation. It means a new beginning, it's a way for our sins to be forgiven, a way to approach God . . . "

"OK, so that's Easter. Now maybe I'm missing something, but help me understand how Joshua puking in the priest's car ruins Easter."

Gail was quiet for a moment and then she smiled a tiny smile. "Easter can't be ruined," she said.

Yes! "That's right. It's a done deal. The tomb is still empty, every single morning when we get up. There's nothing you, or I, or Joshua or the priest, can ever do, to make that not be so."

So there. As always with these Sunday Posts, I'm preaching first to myself. I will be doing my darnedest to thoroughly immerse myself today in what I believe to be that truth: Easter (reconciliation, new beginning, forgiveness, a way to get back to God) is every day.

Happy Easter, friends.

Oh, and I need to let you know this, if you don't already. My friend Little Sister is beginning treatment this week for cervical cancer. If you don't know her, go read a little bit. She doesn't post much, because she is terribly busy changing the world most of the time. She's feisty, opinionated, smart, funny, sexy and just generally kicks ass. So she needs to get well and get back to what she does best, because there is a lot of ass-kicking to do in this world. Please join me in praying for her quick and complete return to health.

Thank you, kind, dear people for checking in, for praying, for thinking of me. I had the EMG. It was negative. That is very good news. When the New Rollogist said, "It's good news and bad news," I knew it was good news. "Positive" would have been "confirming for ALF." He said a couple of months ago that "negative" wouldn't rule ALF out, but between his clinical judgment and the negative EMG, I am now choosing to rule ALF out. The "bad news" that he referred to is, of course, that I still have all the symptoms but no diagnosis or treatment. I'm still waiting for blood tests from the neuro and the endocrine doc. Don't know what WTF is, but I'm choosing to think and behave, as much as possible, as though it is not a life-threatening illness. It is life-altering, for sure, but it won't kill me. I will kill it first.

Now, in case anyone ever offers you an EMG, just say NO. The first part was the shocking of the muscles in my arms and legs. The doc said it would be comparable to what a dog feels when he's shocked by an invisible fence. (This is the same doc who said I have fleas and ticks; I think the man is calling me a dog.) The first few shocks were unpleasant, but when he asked me if I was OK, I said, "Yea . . . that's not so bad; I'd still jump the fence." A few shocks later, though, I did yelp and say, "Now THAT would keep me in the yard." It relieves my anxiety if I can make medical types laugh.

After the shocking came the needles into the muscles. That smarts. I didn't look at them, I knew better, but Jif said they were long; inches long, and they went quite far in. It hurt. After the arm and leg, he did one in my face and one in my tongue. That was the worst.

Anyhow, tonight I feel just like I've been electrocuted and had long needles stuck in my muscles, but the news was as good as it could be, from that test.

Thank you, friends. I hope your Friday the 13th is a good news day, too. Without the electrocution and the needles. Unless you're into that kinda thing.

Fill 'er up.



By request, a photograph of my orange pee jug. Oh, the indignities I endure to please you people.

Easter Sunday Post ~ The Legend of the Three Trees

This is a story I like to read to little ones at Easter

Once upon a mountain top, three little trees stood and dreamed of what they wanted to become when they grew up. The first little tree looked up at the stars and said, "I want to hold treasure. I want to be covered with gold and filled with precious stones. I'll be the most beautiful treasure chest in the world!"

The second little tree looked out at the small stream trickling by on its way to the ocean. "I want to travel mighty waters and carry powerful kings. I'll be the strongest ship in the world!"

The third little tree looked down into the valley below where busy men and women worked in a busy town. "I don't want to leave the mountain top at all. I want to grow so tall that when people stop to look at me, they'll raise their eyes to heaven and think of God. I will be the tallest tree in the world."

Years passed and the little trees grew tall. One day three woodcutters climbed the mountain. The first woodcutter looked at the first tree and said, "This tree is beautiful. It is perfect for me." With a swoop of his shining ax, the first tree fell. "Now I shall be made into a beautiful chest, I shall hold wonderful treasure!" the first tree said.

The second woodcutter looked at the second tree and said, "This tree is strong. It is perfect for me." With a swoop of his shining ax, the second tree fell. "Now I shall sail mighty waters!" thought the second tree. "I shall be a strong ship for mighty kings!"

The third tree felt her heart sink when the last woodcutter looked her way. She stood straight and tall and pointed bravely to heaven. But the woodcutter never even looked up. "Any kind of tree will do for me." He muttered. With a swoop of his shining ax the third tree fell.

The first tree rejoiced when the woodcutter brought her to a carpenter's shop. But the carpenter fashioned the tree into a feed box for animals. The once beautiful tree was not covered with gold, nor with treasure. She was coated with sawdust and filled with hay for hungry farm animals.

The second tree smiled when the woodcutter took her to a shipyard, but no mighty ship was made that day. Instead, the once strong tree was hammered and sawed into a simple fishing boat. She was too small and too weak to sail to an ocean, or even a river. Instead she was taken to a little lake.

The third tree was confused when the woodcutter cut her into strong beams and left her in a lumberyard. "What happened?" The once tall tree wondered. "All I ever wanted was to stay on the mountain top and point to God..."

Many, many days and nights passed. The three trees nearly forgot their dreams. But one night, golden starlight poured over the first tree as a young woman placed her newborn baby in the feed box. "I wish I could make a cradle for him," her husband whispered. The mother squeezed his hand and smiled as the starlight shone on the smooth and sturdy wood. "This manger is beautiful," she said. And suddenly the first tree knew she was holding the greatest treasure in the world.

One evening a tired traveler and his friends crowded into the old fishing boat. The traveler fell asleep as the second tree quietly sailed out into the lake. Soon a thundering and thrashing storm arose. The little tree shuddered. She knew she did not have the strength to carry so many passengers safely through the wind and the rain. The tired man awakened. He stood up, stretched out his hand and said, "Peace." The storm stopped as quickly as it had begun. And suddenly the second tree knew she was carrying the King of heaven and earth.

One Friday morning, the third tree was startled when her beams were yanked from the forgotten woodpile. She flinched as she was carried through an angry jeering crowd. She shuddered when soldiers nailed a man's hands to her. She felt ugly and harsh and cruel. But on Sunday morning, when the sun rose and the earth trembled with joy beneath her, the third tree knew that God's love had changed everything. It had made the third tree strong. And every time people thought of the third tree, they would think of God.

That was better than being the tallest tree in the world.

Jeremiah 29:11-13
Isaiah 55:8-9

Happy Easter, everyone. He is risen.

Every year, I try to make a special Easter dessert with LG. Not that we need extra sugar, what with all the chocolate that is about to appear in baskets, etc. It's just a tradition. WTF has kept me from doing a lot of things, but I'm happy to report, we got the bunnycake made!



Plus, because this year's bunnycake only required one layer, we also made basket cupcakes, which LG decorated, quite nicely, I think.

Here is last year's bunnycake. This year's was a bit more challenging. But not much. Go to bed, now, so the Easter bunny can come. Leave him some carrots and a nice drink. LG told us to leave him some lemonade. I think not. He wants wine tonight. I just know it.

I want to try to make this short and boring, rather than long and boring. Unnecessary sentences like this one and the one preceding it won't help much with that intention, will they? Nor will rhetorical questions like that one.

OK. I saw the endocrine doc on Wednesday. This was veeeeeery interesting, because even though I had been taking 50,000 IUs of Vitamin D per week for 6 weeks, in addition to supplementation for the previous 5 months, my D level had not come up at all. In fact, it had gone down slightly. Weird. She is doing some research and ordering more tests. I picked up an orange gallon jug today in which I will pee for 24 hours, for her. You might not have needed to know that. But if I fill it up, I will be unable to resist sharing that with you. There might be photos.

So then, the New Rollogist that moved me from Passover to Good Friday, called up on no-name Wednesday, to move me again, to Holy Thursday. So I saw him yesterday. Overall, that visit was encouraging and frustrating at the same time. There were some tears. It was kinda rough on me, too. I told him the symptoms that had appeared since I last saw him -- rather violent muscle twitching, aspirating liquids, pain in arms, in addition to all the previous symptoms. He says that he does not know what is wrong with me, but that he believes it is not ALF. He says that although the symptoms are consistent with ALF, he has seen me for some 8 months now, and he believes if it were ALF, I would be more disabled than I am. (And truly, I am not disabled. Some things are difficult for me, but I can do them. Everything I really need to do, I manage to do.) Still, he wants me to have the EMG, and I have agreed to do that. Next week. Friday the thirteenth. I'm brave like that.

I had compiled a list of "ALF mimic" disorders that I took in, and went through with him. Most of them, he has tested me for. Some, e.g., Lyme disease, he agreed to test again. Those of you who wrote to me about the various kinds of myositis, he's testing for those again, too. I told him my metal poisoning theories. I think he rolled his eyes. I told him I know he doesn't believe me, but would he please humor me and order the tests. He said that he likes to humor me, so he will. I don't dislike the man. I'm not sure why that is, but I don't. Then I told him about the Vitamin D mystery, and asked him if that could be related to any of the things we were talking about. He said he didn't know how a D deficiency could do to me what's happening. Then he went into a barrage of Dr. Philisms, most of which went in one ear and out the other. I do remember one, though, "The same dog can have both ticks and fleas." This means that I could have WTF plus a Vitamin D deficiency, without the two being related. I remembered that one, because Jif latched onto it as the outcome of the meeting, reminding me several times since then, "You have both ticks and fleas." He's sensitive like that.

So, I have no diagnosis and no treatment, and feel pretty crappy, over all. But I do have an allegedly bright doctor who was once an ALF researcher, telling me that he doesn't think I have it now. So that is good. Very good, really. Next, I have lots more blood tests, peeing in an orange jug, and the torture test next week. I'll let you know when there's news. Thank you so very much for your kindness and your prayers, and your sticking around for this yucky, boring medical stuff. When this is over, I promise I'll stop posting medical stuff, and I'll write moving, fascinating, hilarious posts . . . or maybe just go back to putting eyeglasses on my dog's butt.

A couple of weeks ago, Jif and I were at Hopkins, and Jasmine, the speech pathologist, was walking us from her department to the radiology place, quite a long trek, through the underbelly of the hospital, with pipes and steam and homeless people (I think I saw some), then back up into the light. Seriously, it was a long, confusing walk. And we chatted while we walked. And every now and then I'd catch Jasmine looking at me with an expression that I think can be described as "quizzical." When I'd catch these looks, I'd smile, or nod, or sometimes I'd just pretend I didn't notice. I also wiped my mouth, my nose, licked my teeth, etc., just in case she was seeing something disgusting of which I was unaware. Finally, after the tests were done and she was walking us back, she said to me, "I guess Dr. Flintstone told you that you look exactly like his secretary."

"Ummm . . . no."

"Oh my gosh! He had to see it! You are identical to her. Separated at birth! They say everyone has a twin, and I'm telling you, yours is Linda! Same smile, same eyes, same hair . . . "

Oh, so that explained why she was looking at me like that. Just then we re-entered Jasmine's department, and one of her administrative staff was standing there waiting for her. But instead of immediately asking Jasmine what she was clearly waiting there to ask her, the clerk stared at me, without even an attempt at subtlety, and said, "That girl right there look just like Linda!" Jasmine agreed, and the two of them went on about it for a couple of minutes.

We finished what we were there for that day, and as Jif and I were leaving, I said to him, "You know, what if Linda turns out to look like some old hag? That's gonna suck, because then I'll be so offended I can't come back here anymore, and they say Dr. Flintstone is the best throat doc in the world!" Jif understood that indeed, if Linda were plum butt ugly, I really couldn't frequent those healthcare providers any more, best in the world or not. And of course, I also thought, what if they told Linda the same thing, and she was offended at being likened to me? It could happen.

We went there maybe two more times in the next week or so. Each time I said to Jif, "Did you see anybody who looks like me?" And each time, he didn't.

On Monday, I went there for speech therapy. After I was all done, Jasmine sent me to the administrative area to set up my next appointment. As I stood at the counter, a woman passed behind me, and something about her caught my attention. I didn't see her from the front, just from the back. She was about my size, and had hair my color and length. I could tell by the way she was dressed and by the way she walked that if she were "the one," that would be OK with me.

When Jif and I were leaving the parking garage, I said again, "Did you see anybody who looked like me?"

"Nope. Did you?"

"Actually, yes, I think I saw her. Just from behind, but I'm pretty sure that was her. We can keep coming back."

"Was she hot?"

"Yea."

Did you ever see your "twin?" Did someone ever tell you you looked just like someone and when you saw them, you weren't too happy about the comparison?

(Ahem. Look at me! I posted again! heeheee)

file under: &Can't Make This Stuff Up &WTF Disease

Hi, all. I had to come on here and say how much it means to me that you stop by and email and snail mail, with your kind words, and that you continue to pray. I am thankful for each of you -- those who have "always" been around, those whose names I've just learned, and those old friends who aren't blogging now, but stopped in to say hello. I hug each of you in my heart. WTF has accelerated, in some ways. I do not know whether that's good news or bad news. I have considerable pain, now. Some say that "ALF" doesn't hurt. If that's so, then I welcome the pain. Others say that it does hurt, as the muscles are dying. I don't know. My arm and leg symptoms are symmetrical, too. Some say that ALF isn't like that. If that's so, then I'm thankful for the symmetry of my pain. I am using the arm strength I have to research, mostly. I'm thinking all the time, and have some leads, some things to check on. I laugh when I see this, now:



Because that's me! My big head is always trying to figure this out, but my puny arms just won't cooperate! I say, "I have a big head, and little arms . . . " in my best dinosaur voice, much too much for my family's comfort, but hey, a girl's gotta have a little fun.

I so want to come on here with good news. No, great news. I see my New Rollogist, this Friday. I made the appointment when I was there back in January, and it was originally scheduled for this Tuesday. Then a couple of weeks ago, my Jewish New Rollogist's secretary called and told me he'd made a mistake, and wasn't going to see patients on Passover. So how about Friday instead? Uh . . . you mean Good Friday? Sure. I found that amusing. Maybe it will actually be a good Friday. I hope.