A think that I thought on a 17 mile roller-blading run.

The wind is created by roller bladers on the Wobegon Trail.
Proof? When we stop the wind stops.

North wind or south today, ma'am?

Anyone who says differently is selling something

I loved you.
Just thought you should know.
And I won't have a chance to tell you in person
Because I hope I never see you again.
Don't be bitter if I ignore you.
(if I can even work up the guts to follow through)
I'm only trying to save myself some pain. A little heartache.
But I might not have the courage.
Not even to soften my own hurt if it means causing yours.

Connundrum: I have to hurt one of us
...once again I doubt I'll have the courage to pick you.

I always said I hopes that wouldn't happen, 'cause I couldn't bear to lose friends that way.
And that wish came true. It hasn't happened. But this is much worse.
They just fade away slowly one by one, falling for someone else.
All of them. One after the next. And I hoped you wouldn't go too.

Well, atleast it won't be awkward to visit you when you're married.
There's a tarnished brass lining on the funnel cloud in my heart.


I'd hide too, Waldo.

I don't want to be known
because who I am will not be understood.
And I don't mean that in an angsty way. It's just true.

But I want to be understood.
To be known, but loved anyway.

And not because I think I'm something special. 'Cause I'm not.
But just because this is the only chance I have
For living.
My only go-round.

And to live is to love.
And to love begs requisite.
To truely be loved is to be known.

But if known means you see my faults
...well, that's another question entirely.

(except not)


Shades of Green and Grubby

To me she represents what I want to be. Classy and pretty in a 30-something way. Pink travel mug in hand (filled, no doubt, with chai). Her attitude and actions bespeak confidence. She fraternizes with the other young parents around her with grace and independence.

I bet she listens to NPR, does the Times crossword and drives a fuel efficient car. Maybe a Prius? Or better yet, A VW.

I bet her other child is a dirty dishwater-blond boy. Maybe 6 or so and not getting any older. He was born 6 or so, 'cause she would never be the mama of a baby.
Her husband is probably either an editor or owns a technological something-or-other company. At any rate, his office is extremely posh and in a very sophisticated building.

And their house is no less classy. Probably very modern – stainless steel and glass paired with retro yet simplistic furniture.

I've never even spoken to her. But I see her now & then while her daughter plays T-ball against the younger boy I nanny.

And now is when I'm gonna get philosophical: I realized that she was lookin' a bit green around the gills one day as I came dashing across the field with Evin before his game and flopped in the grass to read Covino's Elements of Persuasion... I have my options still open. I envy her stability, but she looked like she envied my independence and my freedom.

Hmm. I wish I could live with more passion in the now instead of envying what I may be someday. I'll regret every moment that I don't. Except for that one time... = )

May I offer you some chocolate and a midol?

It's not really worth the trouble to be female, sometimes. Here's is a partial list of my grievances:

I spend nearly a whole minute every day, while speeding through my-- err – beauty routine, bemoaning the fact that I have the most absurdly combination skin in the history of pretty much ever, 'cause of course that matters if you're a girl... Yeah, well, the blotchy look keeps those pesky shallow guys away, anyway! Bite me.

Whose idea was it that muscle should weight 3 times as much as fat? Seriously! I can go down 5 pants sizes by gaining 25 lbs. I could have 3% body fat and Concepts would still call me fat. Here's how it pans out: If one more helpful person tells me what an “average, attractive” female wight is, I'll put some of my muscle to use demolishing their face. I don't care if 108 lbs is attractive, being wimpy and/or waif-ish is not high on my priorities list.

Mascara is evil. I cut my eyelashes down to half their natural length so I could smear that gunk on them and poke myself in the eye with a bristle-brush? Swell.

Girl pants. Oick! What's the point? Girls spend HOW MUCH TIME complaining about their thighs and butts just to stretch on 99% spandex jeans that are 5 sizes too small and accentuate what? Oh yeah... Isn't that dumb? I'll loan you a pair of my brother's cargo pants, too.

Adding an addition to your height in the form of “pretty shoes”, aka high heels. I've never seen being 5'6” as an issue...apparently that would be a false assumption. If you don't add another half a foot to your regular height you can't be feminine. You also can't be graceful and wow people with your mad stilts skills. Yeah. Right. I have enough difficulty walking on the feet I was born with. Adding any extra possibility for klutziness is NOT a brilliant plan. Theory: it's not that high heels make your walk look graceful, it's that only those talented people who are way too coordinated to be descended from apes can manage to walk in them.

Yep...a helpless ornament. That's what females are obviously supposed to aspire to. Bummer, I guess I missed the memo while I had time to be entirely muscle-free. And it's too late to teach this old dog to walk in high heels. And the pants are straight out of the question. The mascara might get another try or two, but the combination skin, well...let's just say I threw out my concealer months ago. Get over it or go soak your head.

Because the problem with that is obvious.

They say you can tell a lot about a woman by the contents of her purse. So here's me in a nutshell (although I don't technically carry a purse...instead I have a huge WW2 Army messenger bag. Even better!)

→ 1 binder filled with 2 semesters worth of Spanish word-lists. I keep meaning to study them.
→ My bible
→ 2 books whose bindings read: Persuasion. The first, Covino's “Elements of__” is for a class in the fall. I haven't finished the first chapter in the 3 weeks I've carried it. The second, Austen's beloved novel has been read twice in the past 3 weeks.
→ A 8x10 pad of drawing paper
→ A collection of NYTimes crosswords.
→ A box of Brown Sugar / Cinnamon Pop-Tarts
→ 2 bottles of Pibb Xtra
→ A bag of just-add-H2O refried beans
→ A SJU Sweatshirt
→ My wallet
→ A comb, several tubes of Burt's Bees lipgloss and other assorted toiletries in a hand woven fair-trade bag from Guatemala
→ A tub of Green play-dough
→ My keys
→ 2 notebooks
→ A folder of scheduling information for the boys' activities
→ 3 Eco-friendly shopping bags
→ Sunglasses
→ Cell Phone
→ Tylenol & Band-aids
→ A mug and 9 tea bags
→ A sippy cup (Yes, it's mine. I spill a lot, ok?)
→ A jar of applesauce
→ Mary Poppins, herself, to say nothing of the lamp.

There. Take what you want from that and learn a lesson. So, I'm gonna say the moral maybe is check your girlfriend's purse/bag before you propose and if she has a sippy cup or refried beans...Run, 'cause she's probably a person like me.


Could communion in heaven mean Pop-Tarts and Mr. Pibb?

And it's about the little things that change my life.

I rode a scooter today for the first time. And I was going too fast down a hill and I tipped over. I landed on the cell phone in my left pocket. My elbow was dripping blood, the palms of both hands were torn open. The cell phone barely got scratched.

I was driving home from work and ahead of me the sky opened up with sun beams streaming like the curtains of heaven. And I drove faster, 'cause maybe if I get there they'll let me in early.

And I took a big gulp of Pibb Xtra and the bubbles went up my nose and it made me laugh and then the soda came out my nose. And I have never before experienced that because I just now got my adnoids taken out and they used to block off that particular escape route. And I felt like a second grader snorting milk out her nose in the cafeteria during lunch except that I wasn't embarrassed.

And I kept driving fast to get to those curtains before they closed and left me alone in this world. And I ate a Brown Sugar Cinnamon Pop-Tart and then another one because what if I got there in time and they let me in early? I don't know if they serve Pop-Tarts in heaven...


Ani DiFranco makes me want to draw daisies on my feet.

About a Boy makes me want to knit another square hat.

All Weather Human makes me want to be a philosopher.

Rebecca makes me want to jump in puddles and dance in the rain.

Lauren makes me want to be an environmentalist.

Allon makes me want to really, really fall in love with God.

Stephanie makes me want to be motivated and driven.

Will makes me want to be intelligent and analytical.

Sarah makes me want to not care what people think of me.

Sara makes me want to embrace quiet quirkiness.

Valerie makes me want to read, read, read.

Taylor makes me want to wake up early to to the smell of coffee and cook in a stainless steel

Jenna W. makes me want to be a good friend.

Jenna L. makes me want to dance, dance, dance.

Chantelle makes me want to create and be original.

Hannah makes me want to ask the hard questions.

Anneke makes me want to be a servant and live what I believe.

Baylie makes me want to be a good listener.

Colin and Evin make me want to be a mommy someday...but not for a long time, yet.

Candace makes me want to love what I do.

Ruth makes me want to understand what it means to really live.

....The things that inspire my life. You are probably one of them.

You may not know what you've done for me, so here it is: You make me want more from life and inspire me to get off my butt and run for it. You've made me what I am and you're making me what I will become. You make me long to be so much more. You inspire my life.


So, I was thinking of getting rich quick...

I have a brilliant idea.
Let me know if you think it's worth pursuing a patent here...I've got this revolutionary new weight-loss plan...it goes kinda like this:
-> You get your tonsils taken out and then your throat feels like pain incarnate for a week + some, so you don't eat anything.
-> You have to take a week or two off life to make it work really well, 'cause all you'll want to do is sleep for, like, 5 days (or that might just be the codine...).
-> But at any rate, you can't ingest anything other than water and maybe certain fruit juices.

NOTE: all that stuff they tell you about eating ice cream & popsicles and stuff? Lies.
Your throat will be raw & bloody after two bites of ice cream. Don't do it!

But...12 lbs in 7 days? =\ Yeah, not even kidding.

I was thinking of calling it "The Tonsilectomy Diet", what say?

Think it'll go over?


But it's not a lie.

Surgery at six am is a blessing – I have no desire to be conscious long in advance so there's little time to think about what is going to happen.
Of course I know they are professionals.
I hear about people getting their tonsils out all the time. And they live to tell about it.
But maybe this time it will be different.
My throat is the one that is being cut this time.
What happens if the scalpel slips?
I may find out. Or...I may not.

The only word to describe the surgical center.
“Please enter through Door A and give the receptionist your name”. So I do.
I sign paper after paper acknowledging that I understand the risks and agree to the privacy laws.
Is this post an infringement?
I might know...had I read the stack of papers before signing.

The nurse is very kind.
I can't even hate her for making me wear the purple foamy surgery gown.
At least I get to wear my bra and underwear; that's better then at the clinic.

My blood pressure is fine.
My lungs sound good.
My heart is beating, too, so they tell me.
The IV.

She warms my hand with a very hot washcloth and wraps it up for a few minutes. My veins are too small; they have to plump 'em up a bit.
“We'll just keep talking about something else and you look away, alright?”
I've never been good with needles.
As she talks about who will see me next and what the recovery process will be like, she jabs a needle into my hand and threads a piece of clear plastic tubing into my vein, taping it down with ten or 12 strips of clear adhesive.

She continues to talk, smiling and carefree.
Next comes the anesthetist.
He, too, bears a big grin and assures me of the simplicity of the process – just three drugs added to my IV which will knock me out, then they will start pumping gas in through my nose so I don't wake up before they're through and will slip an oxygen tube into my mouth and down to my windpipe to keep me alive. “Thank you,” I say.

I really will appreciate that.

And back comes the nurse; now more friendly, cheerful and soothing even than before – my first indication that this is probably going to hurt more than I was expecting.

And I wake up and fall asleep and wake up and fall asleep and wake up and fall asleep in Recovery 1.
And I wake up and fall asleep and wake up and fall asleep and my mom is with me in Recovery 2.
And I wake up and only doze off and wake up and repeat again and again between cups of water and cups of apple juice and chips of ice and a heating device that attaches to my surgery gown and puffs it up like a balloon all down the front in Recovery 2.

And the nurses come back, three different nurses –
the one who got my ready for the IV
and the one who went in with me to surgery and the one whose son I took classes with
and who just wants to be there for me if I need a familiar face filled with reassurance instead of worry.
The worried face is worn by my mom.
She likes to worry about me.
I think she considers it her full-time job.
But it's not very soothing right now, since she is the one who talked to the surgeon right after he finished with me.

And they give me back my comfy clothes and they leave me to change and I do and I leave the room and my knees are gelatinous. But I'll be ok, they say, and they give me a carnation and send me off to my car and my mom drives me to the store to get my meds and some jello and some ice cream and some Sprite and some apple juice and some popsicles and some Jones Cream soda.

And I sleep for ten minutes then take a drink of water and then sleep for ten minutes then run to the bathroom and then take a drink of water.
And so it goes.

It has been 6 hours since I left the operating room.
I have slept in 10 minute intervals ever since, between walking down the hall to the bathroom and getting water.
And Shelbi is in London.With Noel and Tucker and Susan and the gang.

And when I changed pants I found a funny patch with a snap on it stuck to my side and I don't know how it got there or what to do with it.