Oh, If We All Were Mountaineers...

First off, Merry Christmas and all that jazz - hope everyone had a good one and continues this happy holiday season with food and family and fun. I myself will lead by example...

What's really important is this: the WVU Mountaineers' bowl win on Saturday. We were lucky enough to see it live in Charlotte, with thousands of other gold and blue faithfuls and it proved to be a great game - in fact, I could have used a bit less on-field drama, but the Mountaineers wouldn't have it any other way. Pat White, who may emerge as one of my all-time favorite people in the world, did not disappoint and it meant the world to see him go out on a fantastic finish. Good work!

But, onto what I found most ineresting about the game, aside from the actual play: the fans. I am accustomed to the WVU legions and will forever feel at home surrounded by them and their seemingly endless supply of Bud Light, no matter in what geographical location we find ourselves. But UNC fans? I felt unprepared.

Some of them wore blazers and button-down shirts. Some had preppy powder blue sweaters and khakis. Some ladies were dressed in heels. And skirts. To go to, you know, the football game. Now, you will be hard-pressed to find many skirts in the WVU crowd, unless you count the man known as "Big Cat" and that little number he's worn the past one hundred years and I don't think I will.

Many of the Tar Heels appeared ready to go to some sort of fancy mixer. Some WVU fans looked like they might need their stomachs pumped. One intoxicated Mountaineer (And really, is there any other kind?) yelled to the Tar Heel section of the stadium, "Yeah, wine and cheese at a tailgate! This is UNC football!"

Wow. To top it all off, I sat a few rows behind a Tar Heel fan in a blue bow tie. I once knew a guy who wore a bow tie everyday at WVU law school. He seemed nice enough, but I am leary of bow-tie-wearers walking amongst me daily. But, I swear, even he took it off on Saturday morning to drink from a keg before Mountaineer games. I saw it.

Seriously, folks. It's a football game. And you live in North Carolina. It's a nice place, I know. I live here too. But, it's hardly the Hamptons or Boston or some similarly snooty place where this is considered normal. (If this sort of place even exists outside prep school movies ala "Scent of a Woman.")

Take off the bow tie for the bowl game. Put on a stained hoodie like any other self-respecting football fan, grab a hot dog and chug a Natural Light outside the stadium before you have to go inside, and scream your head off for your team. Maybe paint each side of your face different colors. Or take off your shirt in sub-zero temps. Something.

Or maybe, this is just what we do at WVU. And in this, too, we wouldn't have it any other way.

Hotlanta

We spent the weekend in Atlanta. I have never visited the "new Capital of the South" as it was so referred in the Marriott's guide to the city, so it seemed a good time for a new adventure. While I spent most of the day Friday Christmas shopping in a mall (not the biggest, grandest plan I might have had at a different time of the year, but one must prioritize...) I did get to see a bit of the city on Saturday afternoon.

Scott and I took in the Georgia Aquarium, which fulfilled quite nicely. We have come to compare all aquariums to the one in New Orleans and always hope those poor creatures escaped Katrina's wrath. Anyway, Georgia's version wasn't equal to NOLA's, but we had a grand time nonetheless and I especially enjoyed the otters - they never cease to amaze, or amuse, me.

Before a gluttenous and wonderful dinner at New York Prime, a steakhouse of top repute, we strolled around the Centennial Olympic Park, centerpiece of the 1996 Summer Games and unfortunate home to the tragic Olympic bombing. This weekend, there was outdoor ice skating and blaring Christmas music, which made me super warm and fuzzy, though I could not convince Scott to join me for a wobbly turn around the rink. There are numerous statues and tributes to the city's Olympic hosting, and an interesting "Quilt of Remembrance" for the victims of the bombing.

As this visit was totally my idea, I couldn't help but take in every detail and one of those included the homeless who hang out in the park, not as tourists to remark on the spirit of the Olympics, but as residents of the streets. It saddened me, especially at this joyous time of the year and only solidified my gratitude at the very blessed life I do indeed live. While on my way to fill my belly with too much food and drink, I couldn't help but close my eyes and savor my fortunate existence.

It's nice to visit new places to remind me of my own warm and comfortable life. Happy holidays for sure.

Fear Not, Small Beagle

I put up all the Christmas decorations over the weekend. For someone as obsessive as me, it took a while. After each little thing had found its home for the next month or so, my husband pointed to the Christmas Steelers snowman stocking which hangs from a corner of the television cabinet, 'Is Gracie still afraid of that?'

I gasped. I had completely forgotten about that phobia! In years past, Gracie the Beagle pup had an irrational, yet hilarious, fear of this black and gold snowman. When she saw it hanging lifeless in all its terror, she barked, cowered, and ran from it wildly. We discovered through trial and error that she seemed afraid of anything black and gold - my Terrible Towel, the dancing football man, a Hines Ward jersey. Quite a hazard in this household, let me tell you.

Squealing with anticipation, I grabbed the stocking from its nook and yelled, 'Let's find out!' So naturally, I stuck that stocking right in the Beagle's face as she lounged on her brown dog bed in front of the roaring fire.

What I got was absolutely nothing. Not a peep. Not a howl. Nary the bat of a Beagle eye. She looked at me as if to say, 'What? Can't you see I'm chilling over here? Take that thing and do what you will. What do you want from me?'

My husband and I shrugged and hung that stocking back up. Later, I thought how wonderful it would be if we all could let go of our quirky neuroses as easily as Gracie seems to have let go of hers. In a year's time, what once held such a terror had become completely forgotten. It held no power over her anymore.

Maybe we all will be so lucky. Maybe we all can learn to let go of our fears as quickly and easily as a Beagle.

Face to MySpace

In the past week or so, I've discovered the evil nemesis of MySpace: Facebook. (In reality, I don't know that the two are enemies. In my mind, they are polar opposites and thus, must be pitted against one another. Cue the evil cackle - mwaaah, mwaah...)

While I naturally enjoy the more adolescent tone of MySpace, with the surveys and layouts and music and, well, surveys, I have to say it's been quite a trip to catch up with some long lost pals on the more sophisticated Facebook. In fact, there is also a bit of overlap, with more than one MySpace friend drifting with me between the two sites, updating profiles and pictures and current status.

In a way, I feel like I am a voyeuristic stalker of these other folks - and in large measure, of my own past. When I see those faces from days gone by, it's like a flashback to a whole different life. Was it really that long ago we were all hanging out at Kegler's on a Friday night? Gosh, that seems like yesterday.

Or, put another way, was it really only six years ago? Feels like forever. Our lives moved upward and onward and did so quickly. It happened in such a blur, I was hardly aware of it. One day, things were different, changed in some fundamental way while I turned my head for a second. Marriages and pregnancies and families and now, we're all hooked into each others' lives through virtual networking sites.

It's just as well. A lot of these old friends still have real-life, in-person relationships with each other, miles and lifetimes away from where I sit typing my random thoughts. Others are like me, off on our own to trudge through life on alternate paths.

I guess I'm just glad to have a connection where I can get it, even if it does come with a twinge of nostalgic sadness. These people are still my friends, even if we can't sit at the same table anymore to trade laughs and smokes and carefree whimsy. We have all gone to our respective corners, which is as it should be as you grow.

It is good to know everyone seems well. It is good to realize we can still share the love, even if we no longer can share a pitcher of beer. It is good to think that maybe, someday, in some spin on the universe, we may sit together again in person, laptops put away for a night of honest-to-goodness comraderie.

I, for one, hold out hope for that. I also know that Facebook may be the closest I ever come.

Ho, Ho, and Here We Go

After turkey and cranberries and football and shopping, it's time to hunker down and settle into the Christmas spirit. Usually, I'm annoyed by the early onslaught of Andy Williams' "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" blasting through the mall in mid-November, but this year, I am ready.

And to prove it, I've made a list of holiday things I for which I can not wait:

I can't wait to give all my spare change to the Salvation Army bell ringers in front of the stores. It's a great way to feel fuzzy inside, to help out those who are less fortunate, and to unload about five pounds from my purse. Everyone wins!

I can't wait for that NFL game right before Christmas day when the sports shows have the wreaths on the front of the desks and the little trees in the shot and everyone is all festive. This year, that game will be the Steelers against the AFC powerhouse Titans. Oh boy - it will be a doozy! (And the decorations will only make it better in my mind.)

I can't wait to fight through crowds at the mall, right before the big day, when I need that one last thing. I know this sounds miserable, and in a way it kind of is. But, deep down, I love the pressure and exhileration and look of panic on my fellow shoppers' faces as we all scamble through American capitalism.

I can't wait to see the Biltmore Estate all decked out for the big day. It's fabulous and breathtaking and a true joy of living here near Asheville.

I can't wait for the frantic traveling, with all the quirks each family brings to the holiday traditions. At times, I can complain about the pace of running to and 'fro, but really, it's pretty fun.

I can't wait to spend Christmas morning with my little family in front of the fireplace and gorgeous tree. Merry times indeed!

The Dog Days of Thanksgiving

This morning, I had to drop off my dogs at the kennel, where they will spend the next 5 days while I travel to the midwest. It's always a sad time because I would much prefer they be with me over this holiday time. However, no one wants that but me - they are not the most well-behaved pooches and you certainly can't just show up at the Thanksgiving dinner with a hyperactive 80 pound Chessie and a whiny, neurotic Beagle in tow.

No, that just is not acceptable. But I often think (and mention aloud to whoever will listen) that I could show up with some poorly behaved children and everyone would just have to deal with it and talk about me behind my back like any other self-respecting family. Yes, that is the difference when you've chosen canine kids over the more common human ones.

Oh well. Such is my life. And I would not trade it for anything in the world. It will be a happy reunion on Monday when we all come together in our happy home. While I am super excited for the holiday time and the family visit and shopping and laughter, I also can't wait to come back to my own little world here. That will also be a great feeling.

So, Happy Turkey Day - to both my peeps and my pups.

Get Down With Your Bad Self

You know how "they" always like to say things like, "Well, things are never black and white, my dear" and you cringe because it is so cliche? Well, it's true. And as much as I hate to admit it, we'd probably all do better to remember the world works in various shades of gray.

We are all tempted to parcel everything out - you to the "good" column, you over here to the "evil." No exceptions, no negotiations. Right vs. wrong, positive or negative, everything has its place and a place for everything. I suppose some succeed in their own minds at this impossible task, though in reality, it's simply inconceivable to look at the world this way.

For the past five years or so, I've been involved in the court system. More specifically, I work with the criminals. Some of that time, I worked putting them away. Other times I helped spring them free. Now, I sit squarely in the middle, striving only to help when I can and taking no firm position. Yes, most would think the criminal courts provide some vindication because if you commit a crime, you're bad, right?

Except not always. And it's frustrating (and only somewhat depressing) to see horrible judgement calls from otherwise quite likable folks. These people are often a lot like me and even you - and are certainly similar to scores of people I have known in my life, except they've been caught in their crimes while other criminals roam free, untouched.

Sometimes luck is the only thing standing between prison and freedom. It certainly doesn't stand up to reason that everyone on the street is living a crime-free life. In fact, most people in your own day-to-day routine are guilty of a crime for which they have legally skated by any consequence.

Because having not been arrested does not mean you are automatically a stand-up citizen. And doing a bad thing does not always make you an overall bad person.

Sometimes, I wish it did. It would make my job a whole lot easier on the soul.

A Typical Saturday

It's a weekend before Thanksgiving. Tomorrow brings the annual holiday separation, as my husband and I go our own ways for the next week. We might catch each other somewhere around "hump day" or so, but largely we're solo for the next seven days.

It's okay, if only a bit unconventional. This works for us and we have grown into this little tradition. There are deer to hunt, you know, and only one of us can do that - or wants to do that. (Hint: I root for the deers.) So, we go on our private treks for this holiday season.

But not yet. For today, as always, Saturday mornings are meant for coffee and something warm on the television. (I choose "The Daily Show.") The pups are in their usual routine - Gracie fans out on her dog bed just inches from the roaring fire and Emma paces the perimeter watching the snowy yard from the window. My husband is at the gym for his weekly racketball game and we're geared up for the Mountaineers' afternoon contest. (W! V! U! WVU!)

We will relish this normalcy for one last day. Then, after a week of travel and over-eating and family fun, we'll reconverge in our little abode here and take back our little family traditions.

All is right with our world.

I Wish I Might Make A Wish

My very own super-duper, stratospheric wish list for today: a lazy, rainy, spend-the-day-in-front-of-the-fire-with-the-pups North Carolina Saturday:

I wish I worked at Dunder Mifflin (I know it's fictional, but still...) with Jim and Dwight and Pam and the 'Nard Dog so I could say Michael Scott is my boss, too. Jim could put my stuff in Jello anytime!

I wish I could just win the PowerBall any of the 2 or 3 times a month I play it, but I am everyday grateful that I only want the winnings for frivolous things and don't need it to live.

I wish the Steelers' offense all the best in the coming weeks because I love them and know they need the luck.

I wish someday I could meet one of my celebrity crushes (i.e. Matt Damon, Ryan Gosling, Dave Matthews, Russell Crowe, et cetera) in person, buy him a drink, and pick his brain about the genius of his craft. Really, that is what I would most like to do.

I wish I had known Carrie Bradshaw (I know it's fictional, but still...) and been one of her best friends.

I wish I had these awesome brown boots I saw last week, though they are way, WAY out of my price range.

I wish I had a completely stress-free life, where wishes frequently came true, and I wish everyone else had that life as well.

(I know it's fictional, but still...)

Thank Goodness!

It's almost Thanksgiving. Well, kind of. I used to love Thanksgiving above almost all holidays. It's just not the same anymore.

As a kid, I'd wake up to smells of turkey and stuffing and watch the Macy's parade in my living room while my sister and I made place cards for the three grandparents who would attend - because with three extra people at the table, how would anyone know where to sit? My sister would also wear a cardboard pilgrim hat she made in kindergarten - when she ceased with the hat, she was likely a teenager. (I don't think that's a totally happy memory for her, but it is to me!! I know my mom still has that hat, so watch out sis!)

Now, Thanksgiving means travel. It is still awesome, don't get me wrong. We have new traditions - good ones, like the annual Black Friday shopping trip, which is highly anticipated each year. I still wish I could wake up at home and watch the parade, but seeing the family is certainly worth the extra steps taken to do so.

I think the real reason I loved Thanksgiving, though, was that moment when we went around the table and explained for what we were thankful. I'd think and plan my little speech to make sure I did not leave anything out.

Now, I realize I don't really need Thanksgiving day to be grateful for the good stuff in my life. All days, I find at least one thing for which to be thankful - and I can always find way more than just one! So, I don't get to watch the parade anymore (I miss the Rockettes most of all...)

But I do get to be thankful. Each and every day.

Best Week Ever!

As weeks go, this one went pretty darn great. If I look back seven days from today, it's pretty scary how many great moments I experienced, not really knowing when I began how wonderful it would turn to be. In the tradition of our instantaneous culture, where yesterday's news is not too new to analyze historically, I shall partake for my own sake. (And make a little rhyme, too!)

I showed up to my sister's house last Thursday night and we got to spend some treasured and rare time together. We stayed up late and talked over the finer plot points of the movie "Atonement" while repeating our disdain that the Oscar went to "No Country For Old Men" (a terrific flick, don't get me wrong) over "There Will Be Blood" (infinitely better on so many levels) while we also mentioned the striking similarities between Bob from "Twin Peaks" and Randall Flagg from "The Stand." This might sound like the most boring way to spend an evening, unless you are us.

On Friday, we traveled to our "home-home" where we visited the parents, celebrated my sister's birthday, and then took the 'rents to dinner to belatedly celebrate their 35th wedding anniversary. We surprised them with a trip to Atlantic City and they were sufficiently shocked as we had hoped they would be.

Saturday brought a Mountaineer win (big time!) and a Michigan loss (ha-ha) and even an overtime thriller where Pitt pulled it out. Now, I know as a WVU fan I must hate Pitt - and I do - but in a "lesser of two evils" scenario, where Pitt played Notre Dame (oh, the hatred runs deep...) I had to pull for Pitt. Don't shoot me, as I did grow up an hour from the 'Burgh and followed my heart to WVU and deplore Penn State...I had to root the way I did. Notre Dame must go down when possible, especially when WVU becomes bowl eligible on the same day Michigan loses its own eligibilty for the first time in thirty-plus years.

Sunday brought more family time and Monday night I relished in an important Steelers win against the Redskins - what a show! In any other week, that alone might have been enough to send me over the gleeful edge, but on Tuesday, our fine country elected a fine new president. The week literally could not have been better. (Unless I win the West Virginia PowerBall - then, it really could!)

Sometimes, this strange cycle of ups and downs does shift your way. I realize not everyone had such a fine week, that some perceptions of the very same events lead some people to the depths of despair. I myself have been there (oh, about four years ago...) My joy is tempered with this understanding and I can sympathize.

But I will not apologize for the happiness I feel. I just can't, even if I wanted to do so. The world looks a bit brighter for these days and I will bask in such glow for a little while at least. Not everyone gets a week like this one and I may never see another.

And I am thankful.

Yes, In Fact, We Did!

The night is old or the day is young, however you wish to put it. I am rosy red with emotion and pride - all lovely elements in the wee hours of any morning, but more poignant somehow on this morning, historic in our blessed country.

My thoughts will likely be better put tomorrow or the next day, but right now, I must let out some of the joy which brims and bubbles not just under the surface but through it and over it, too. It's been a long road. I only imagine how those who have walked the path must feel, deep down in that place not blue or red on a map.

While I sat on the sidelines, breathless, they marched for a change in this nation, unprecedented in scope. It's not just the relief that I can't keep in, it's the hope which I forgot I had the chance to feel, forgot was still in me. It waited, patiently, for the chance to escape safely and lo, it appears to have arrived on a warm day in November.

The more insightful ideas will come, rampantly I am sure, in the next few days and weeks and months. Right now, my thoughts present in snippets and tears.

For tonight, I leave in full the text message from my best friend, with whom I've shared my passion and concern for the fate of our country:

"Thank god for obama! we can all stay in the country - who would have thought they would call it before midnight. back to bed good night!"

Indeed. Good night, good luck, and good bye!

Jinx, Shminx

Do you believe in jinxes and superstition? Do you make wishes at 11:11, eyes closed in deep thought? Or do you believe all this is a bunch of hooey?

Logically, I understand I can't change the world based upon the clothing I choose. However, if you heard a story about a girl who wore a particular Steelers fleece sweatshirt last year for the AFC Wild Card game aganist the Jaguars (which we lost) and who then did not wear that fleece again until Sunday for the match-up with the Giants (yep, another loss) would you think the fleece sweatshirt was cursed? Or merely a cooincidental theme?

It might sound crazy, but today when I went to vote (which we can do early here in NC) I put that fleece sweatshirt on and then debated whether I should wear it while I cast my ever-important vote. What if it really is cursed? Could I bring down the fate of the nation? I thought maybe I should just rip it off and wear something else.

But, I did not. My more rational belief process won out. While I do not fully trust our version of an "electoral system" I don't think my vote will matter more or less due to the clothes on my back.

Gosh, I hope it turns out my way. Or I will forever blame myself and that fleece sweatshirt. As crazy as it sounds, I just can't help it. I don't want to have to wrangle with that idea for the rest of my life - never mind the opposite choice in office for the next four years.

But I'll think twice anyway before I wear it again on gameday. Old habits die hard, I guess - and with the Steelers, any little bit helps.

I'm Dreaming of a White...Halloween?

It's freakin' freezing down here in the alleged "south." It snowed this morning and the wind is brutal - and all before Halloween. The multitudes of political signs on the roadside even remained snow-covered on my way into work! (I still know at which to wink and at which to scoff, though - I guess I've got them memorized at this point.)

I thought when I moved to North Carolina, the "Carolina" (which in my mind equals sandy beaches, sun, and seagulls) would somehow outweigh the "North" (i.e. snowy snow and snowflakes laced in snow.) But, I guess the mountainous terrain keeps us firmly planted in seasonal changes and days like this remind me more of gray cold Pennsylvania than southern skies.

When I first got here, I routinely became perturbed about this weather. Darn it, I moved south for a reason! But today, while I shivered due to my ridiculous outfit (what the hee was I thinking?) I actually appreciated what nature doled out.

Some gorgeous autumn leaves still hang on the trees, while the rest roll about on the frozen ground. While the temperature is Santa Claus, there are still pumpkins on porches and fall is in full effect. (I do feel a bit bad that Halloween costumes might need altered for this colder spell - boy did I hate having to put a sweater over a carefully calculated outfit for the annual parade. Gah!) The change might be a bit drastic, but it reminds of the shift in time, from summery greens to wintery nights, warmed by fire and love.

There are, of course, good things to be had in all times of the year. I don't think I really took that in as much in my past. In a way, it took this move south for me to truly appreciate all the good things colder days and nights provide.

It just can't be summer forever, you know...

Come Josephine in Your Psychic Machine

(Sorry in advance for the longer-than-usual post, but a promise is a promise...)
In honor of the ten-year anniversary this month:

Her name is Josephine and in north central West Virginia her psychic status remains legendary. (She may be dead now, if women of her power ever die…I don't know and would prefer to think of her as alive and kicking, if you don't mind.) For many of my Morgantown years, she remained a theoretical mysticism, only spoken of in third-hand accounts. To add to her intrigue, she had no advertisements for her services and you only got her phone number through personal references.

I'd always heard rumors she did private home readings, so when a brand new friend invited me across the Pennsylvania state line to a "party with Josephine" I breathlessly shared my enthusiasm. We made the trek with several other excited girls only to discover the address and directions led to an empty house, fully furnished but certainly unoccupied on that date. We drove home with a palatable disappointment.

My life went on, of course, always nagged by my unfulfilled psychic visit. Part of my routine became to peruse the pocket books in the supermarket checkout. Each month there would be new installments to decode your dreams and astrologically decipher your life and I ate it up.

One early spring night I visited the all-night grocery with a potential suitor (we'll call him "Dave" because that's his name) who had taken to cooking savory dishes after midnight. I looked at those tiny books along the aisle and wondered out loud at my supernatural fascination. While Dave paid the bill, the customer in front of him looked over at me and mentioned out-of-the-blue, "I just came from Josephine tonight. Do you want her number?" He then pulled out a coupon card from Garfield's restaurant, wrote that long-coveted phone number on the back and handed it to me, dumbfounded, in the check-out line.

Strangely enough, I did not call that number right away. That night I mulled it over with Dave and pondered the reasons I wanted that psychic vision. What did I want to hear? For what did I search? Days and weeks and months later, I still reached for those answers and left the card in my planner, a daily reminder of that for which I both longed and feared.

The spring turned to summer, which flew into fall. The circle of friends I had adored so much had broken into fragments and scattered, not by my choice but certainly to my advantage. Still, my little life started to feel foreign a bit lost.

One night, while under the influence of Molson Golden and pure adrenalin, my new roommate and I decided to finally call Josephine on the phone and make an appointment. Why that time? I can't say, except that whatever Josephine told to me could certainly not disappoint. At this particular low point, you could say I had the most open mind ever.

Josephine answered on the first ring and informed me I would be coming on Monday at 6:00. No negotiations or wrangling. No directions. I'd call one half hour before I left my home on Monday to find out how to get there. I'd bring someone with me, of course. I hadn't told her the appointment was for two.

So, I called her Monday afternoon and got the directions. My roommate and I drove the twenty or so miles to find a small residential home, where we entered a welcome, warm kitchen. It smelled like it looked: a grandmother's house, all electric heat and remnants of food and soft surfaces. A middle-aged lady sat at the round kitchen table and told us she had a standing appointment with Josephine every week. Josephine had predicted all the major mine disasters in the town, a neighbor's husband's death, and any births and deaths on the typical horizon. Sit, she told us. We were in for a treat.

Josephine's bedroom door opened and she summoned me inside. She stood barely five feet tall hunched over. She had gray hair in an old-lady frizz on her head and wore a calf-length housecoat and slippers. When I see the Oracle in The Matrix movies, I picture Josephine, with only the ethnicity swapped.

She motioned me toward a card table and metal folding chair. Josephine handed me a deck of playing cards, directed me to sit, and told me to shuffle and place them, face down, into four piles.

I formed my four, fateful piles. Then, she turned card after card after card and began to lay out my life's plan, as she saw it. A half hour later, I left a vastly different girl.
***
The details of her reading intrigue to this day. While on an early date with my eventual husband Scott, I realized he was a "dark, handsome man from my past" just as I'd been warned one would try to contact me. Josephine had told me I'd be married or engaged within a year of that reading, that I'd likely marry someone "a little above me" in terms of money or education (since I do not prefer a "caretaker" role) and that he'd likely be named William, yet use an alternate moniker. So when I became engaged to William Scott less than a year from the psychic visit, it seemed spooky to say the least.

A great deal has already materialized in ten years – my move south, my career switch, my additional education, the marriage, an increased financial state. I still think all the time of my visit – me, with my "long, happy lifeline." I wonder if I'll ever meet that third child of whom she spoke (there were three kids in my lifeline, not all of them mine; same with the two marriages; Scott does have two kids from his first marriage, you know…)

Over the years, Scott has grown to worry about my turning right in the rain or mist (because "that is it" she warned) even though he maintains an outward skepticism. Yes, Josephine does play a role to this day.

These past ten years only solidified my belief in her truth. And also in my belief that nothing beats a good story – especially if it's a story about a seemingly truth-telling psychic around Halloween.

So what if it did take me years to get her number? It was well worth it, I'd say.

Deja What?

Since Halloween is near, I post the following. (Not my original idea, as you will soon find out...)

I began to write about my spooky experience with The Psychic. A few sentences in, I made a decision to save that idea and use it for tomorrow night's edition of Eve's Night Out, the women's writing bonanza I try so hard to attend each month.

So, I opened a new window to copy my already-started post and had a stronger-than-usual sense of deja vu - right down to what little Mike Greenberg blathered on about on "Mike and Mike in the Morning." Cooincidence? Maybe. But when it surrounds The Psychic story, one can not be sure.

My deja vu happens at least five times a week, no joke. It is a powerful phenomenon which I find so fascinating and exhilerating, I hope it never diminishes. (I am also quite creeped out by it, but my curiosity trumps my fear. Maybe in this case only.) It's happened several times as I've dealt one way or another with The Psychic story, so I've convinced myself there is an otherworldly connection.

I wish I could be dialed in with the supernatural, ala John Edward, to tap into these ideas and access the other layers of consciousness. I don't seem to have that gift. Sure, there are times I can predict the phone will ring and who will call and the like - but I chalk it up to energy forces and not true psychic ability, the same idea as those boardwalk beach ladies who overcharge you on vacation. True psychic visions are rare and beautiful to me and I will forever be in awe of those with such talent.

All I can do is repeat the personal glimpses I've had in my life. I feel blessed to have even that to share.

Scary? You bet. Worth it? Absolutely.

The Filthiest Towel in the Whole USA

In honor of the Steelers' important win yesterday and to commemorate the fact that the "Curse of the Smokers' Barn" (long story) appears obliterated, my homage to a legend:

All real Steelers fans have at least one Terrible Towel. You hang onto it, take it with you to games and thrash it about in wild enthusiasm when good stuff happens. As a crazed fan at real-life Steelers games, I've walked my ice cold beer past venders hawking bright yellow Terrible Towels, hot off the iron. I've visited the Steelers store many times and marveled at the piles of brand new Terrible Towels, and once even bought one so mighty Myron Cope could autograph it. (That particular version hangs on my wall, never to be used in any other way but decorative.) But as for my own towel, well...

My faithful Terrible Towel is not bright yellow, though it may have once been - I don't know because I haven't known it since its inception. Now, it's more of a dingy mustard color. I received it as a gift and I think my dad might have found it outside good old Three Rivers Stadium years ago. This could also be a family urban legend in itself 'cause no one is for sure. I know it's old and beat up and I've had it for well over ten years. Before that? Your guess. The edges are frayed from being swung and pulled and thrown in frustration, stepped on, forgotten behind at Kegler's to be frantically retrieved, and drug to and 'fro from single apartments to married homes.

There is no discernable smell, though there should be, since I've used it as a bar rag to soak up bar spills, a napkin to wipe beer and hot sauce from my face, and a weapon to ward away rival fans. I've never washed it, out of fear it might fall apart and out of superstition that it could lose some of its magic. It is, then, far and away, the absolute filthiest, most germ-ridden article ever allowed in any of my many abodes. (Some of which, in college, were themselves quite prone to filth and germs.)

And I love it. I'm proud when with fellow revelers that my towel is of the vintage variety - not brand new and pristine. My towel has seen the thrills of victory (the Colts go down on Vanderjagt's "accuracy", the Steelers win the Super Bowl) and the agony of defeat (Super Bowl loss, how many times did the Patirots beat us?) I've had my faithful towel way longer than most boyfriends or any one of my jobs. You can't beat that kind of loyalty with a stick.

So, I drag that dirty old thing to a new generation of Steelers. From Gary Anderson to Jeff Reed, it's with me through thick and thin. Every time I see it, I smile. I've been through a lot in the past fifteen or so years and I'm reminded that my towel has too, albeit in a different sense.

We've been together this long and I know we have many years ahead of us. Here we go, Steelers. Here. We. Go.

Life's Loveliness

Sometimes life goes so fast and is filled with great excitement and I can't pause to reflect properly. Such is one of those times, apparantly, and you won't hear me complain. The past week and a half has been filled with both fun and insight. The highlights:

I spent one awesome, hot Sunday afternoon on a football field with thousands of my compadres to hear Barack Obama passionately lay out his plan for this country. At the end of his speech, amid the deafening noise, a flock of doves flew across the crisp blue sky and proud emotion overtook me. In that one moment, I truly felt filled with hope. The high has not subsided. (Later that evening, as if it couldn't get better, the Steelers thumped the Jaguars in surprising fashion. Let me tell you, I went to bed one happy camper that night, sunburn and all.)

Scott and Emma and Gracie and I renewed our fall tradition of a weekend at our West Virginia cabin surrounded by the brightest fall hues and smells of autumn. Though West Virginia takes its fair share of hits (some deserved, most definitely not) there is no better place to appreciate nature's glory - particularly at this time of year. Even the shacks along Tucker County's winding roads appear somewhat less sad when surrounded by red and orange brilliance. (To top it off, we listened to the struggling Mountaineers beat Syracuse at WVU's homecoming and our cheers might have been heard across those hills in Morgantown! Go Noel Devine, you little running man!)

Hopefully, these resounding memories will build upon themselves. In reality, I know life is not one beautiful scenario after another. Which makes it all the more lovely when you are handed some goodness.

Thanks, life. Thank you very much.

Spread the Love

Technology often scares me. Last night I perused iTunes and found some cool music to add to my playlist and suddenly, a toolbar popped up on the side of the screen informing me of some other music I might like.

Now, I'll gladly take tunes suggestions from my friends or even a random dude on the street if offered, but from a computer program? That is just too creepy for me.

And how could the computer possibly be able to know what I might like? I myself can barely figure that out, which is why Kanye West and Alanis Morisette live harmoniously with Roger Miller, Christina Aguilera, Maroon 5 and scores of showtunes - not to mention Frank Sinatra, JET, and Bobbi Gentry. This is either the most open-minded, inclusive compilation or the most schizophrenic. Either way, it's all genuinely me.

My varied tastes speak to what I believe is my ability to appreciate lots of different cultures and standpoints equally. For example, I might really want to sing along with Reba's "The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia" (mostly because I want to enthusiastically agree "Don't trust yourself to no backwards Southern lawyer!") A few minutes later I could totally be in the mood for angry old Eminem, then suddenly switch to Billy Joel's "Piano Man."

I don't think this is crazy, just wide open for anything that speaks to me. My diversity is one of my greatest assets and quite possibly the one of which I'm most proud.

There is no way iTunes could read me that deeply.

Stress-Sanity

What a stressful week it's been. Never mind the Steelers' inability to put the Monday Night Football game away in a reasonable fashion, forcing an overtime they just didn't need before the match-up in nasty Jacksonville on Sunday night.

Put aside the fact that the Project Runway judges found it somehow reasonable to keep whiny, disrespectful Kenly on my television screen yet one more week (which I hope is the last week of her, though I know better.) And don't get me started on Desperate Housewives - how intrigued I am by this brand new mystery, which I can't keep track of already and it's only been one episode!

Sure, the country is in financial ruin, we don't have any gasoline in this part of the country, and my own personal household has weathered several emotional storms the past few days - and it isn't even Friday yet. I find it nearly impossible to keep track of what makes me anxious half the time, since it could be one of about fifty things I may or may not have made up in my head.

Such is my nemesis in this world: the mangled idea of danger around every turn. I have learned to keep this at bay much of the time - or, at least, hide it in the attempt to "fake it until you make it." I am a walking contradiction: happy, fun, lively, and wrought with anxious paralysis.

I try to take this insight and turn it into the way to help myself - accentuate the positive and downplay the problem areas (as Tim Gunn might advise.) This will not be fixed in a day, but for today, it's my mantra.

Synchronise This!

Synchronicities happen all the time, all around me. I wonder sometimes, delusionally, whether I bring them on myself. I know I am not a powerful enough force in the universe to do this, but the frequency can cause small doubt in the recesses of my mind.

Usually, these small magical tidbits fascinate me. Lately, I'm kind of creeped out by it all and I hope the next day comes without any such cooincidence. This is the same way I feel about deja vu, which also strikes me (in my view) disproportionally.

There is no control over this part of the cosmos. That is likely my lesson: to realize I can't control anything, really, no matter what my illogical brain might tell me.

Some things are just not meant for my interference. How many more synchronicities until I learn?

Set It Aside

There are moments when I feel like someone smacked me upside the head and put my priorities in order. This is one of those times.

Nothing major or catastrophic happened. It's just that I woke up a few days ago and began to think about a few things differently. When I think about what stresses me out, it's usually the worry over stability: jobs, house, money, mortgage, bills, and on and on and on.

And you know what? None of that should matter as much as we make it so. Yes, we all need to live and pay the bills. But if it all fell apart one day, what is the worst that would happen? It would be rough and there would be tears and then...I bet we'd pick ourselves up and move on. If I had those things with me that should matter most, that I should worry most about losing - my family, my friends, my dogs - then I bet I could make it work in the end.

I try very much to put things in the proper order. I try to focus on what is important. Sometimes I think I am doing such a good job only to realize my energy is spent keeping all the material aspects of my world in perfect order.

From now on, that is just not going to do. For me, it's time to shove the material aside and put more time into an alternate form of currency, make sure that part of my universe is in working order.

For me, I hope to find internal peace and stability through that instead.

Holiday Horizons

Now that we officially celebrate autumn, you can feel a subtle switch in the mood. Time for sweaters and jeans and possibly a burning fireplace in the evenings. There are Santas in the stores (too soon, too soon!) and I've seen some kids in hard deliberation over Halloween costumes.

Soon, it will be Thanksgiving and then Christmas, winter and snow and Ho-Ho-Ho. When you are separated in miles from family, this time of year can bring additional travel-related stresses. Some of the family is north, some south, and everyone wants a piece of the holiday festivities.

You could be tempted to allow this pressure to get to you (particularly if you happen to be my husband in recent years!) I tend to think it's a treat to have so many folks clamor for me! Think of the people alone in the world; never could that be more exhausting than at the holidays. To have too many families spread over the east coast? How could that be bad?

Yes, there are long car trips and the dogs dislike nights at the kennel. The packages sometimes get crumpled in the move, you don't have nights in your own bed, and there's always some obligatory family tension here and there. But it's all part of it.

Someday we won't all be around to spend the holidays together. Then we'll likely sit back and miss special memories and wish we could have another holiday to overeat and laugh. I think it better to appreciate those moments now, no matter the slight inconveniences. If things go the way they should, my husband and I will have our share of holidays where we will stay right here, wake up in our own beds and not have anywhere we need to go.

Won't that be sad.

PASS IT ON!!!

You know what? I've written this little blog for some time now, posts on MySpace and on blogspot.com and I'm content with the readers I have - my friends and family. That's been great. Many of the important people in my life know I fancy myself a writer and attempt a coherent rambling on this blog (aside from my husband, who last night announced he had no idea I had a blog - go figure!)

Today, I decided I've had enough. By chance I stumbled upon a hateful blog, a gathering of rather vitriolic swill - and I became a bit hot under the collar. Tempermental and passionate I am to a fault; yet, I try to keep my emotions at bay, try to be diplomatic and respectful and, mostly, I do a juicy good job. But tonight fired me up and there's no going back from that!

I'm mad - mad that these folks spew half-truths and judgmental drither (in a poorly-written fashion, mind you) and get thousands of hits a day. I don't so much mind their opinions - they have a right to believe what they like, just as I do. I may not agree, but unlike the few passages I read on their site, I won't automatically accuse opposite-thinkers of being evil and potentially burning eternally in...well, there goes the anger again.

No, I'll just sit quietly here and wonder how many people read their little ramblings and hope that rational common sense prevails. I will try to overcome the rise they've gotten out of me. I'll shake my head and mumble under my breath and shut the site down while I vow never, EVER, to stumble upon it again.

And as I do all that, I've decided that I'll take one more proactive step: an e-mail forward to my address book contacts, a graceful request to check out my modest blog, while asking each of them to pass my blog site on to three of their friends, with the same humble request, et cetera.
Who knows? I could get some hits too. The best way to fight a perceived negative is not with a blow as low, but with an elevated positive. (Sure, call me Pollyanna. I can take it. I've seen the movie - who doesn't like Hayley Mills?) This is my idea, my notion of good karma, my vision for the way the world could work.

Let's see, shall we?

No "Kidding" Around!

Earlier this evening I ordered take-out from the local Chinese joint (pineapple chicken - yum) and as I waited for my food, I noticed a table of teenage guys out for a night on the town. They looked about thirteen or so - not old enough to have driven themselves, but mature enough for a few hours of parent-less "boy time." They laughed and joked and texted and made a mess and generally seemed to have a blast.

It certainly isn't in my nature to stare at teenagers. What got to me was my realization that I could be one those kids' mothers. And it wouldn't be a "Juno" teen pregnancy situation either - I'd have had the kid at around twenty years old. Hell, that wouldn't even be scandalous really - young, yes, but hardly an eyebrow-raiser.

How strange. I thought of how different my life would be had that been my road to take. It's such that I can't even fathom it being real. I can barely wrap my head around the concept of having a kid right now, let alone having spent the past decade as someone's mom.

Right now, I sit on my quiet couch with a cold beer, smile as my two dogs scavenge the floor for fallen crumbs, and watch my 90210 Season Three DVD's in anticipation for my Tuesday night ritual of tuning into the brand new version. (Dylan just chose Kelly over Brenda - get ready for the rumble!) What the heck would I do with a kid in the house right now? How could I catch up on my crappy television, write my blogs, update my iPod, and focus on meaningless Hollywood gossip?

Sometimes I think maybe I've missed out on some things, not being a parent. Certain folks reassure me those things are dirty diapers, temper tantrums, sleeplessness, and being broke. I'm not flippant enough to think it's all negative, nor am I naive to believe it's all unicorns and rainbows. It's just a difference in what I want right now versus others - I don't think there's a right or a wrong. But you have to like whichever side of that fence you sit, or it will be a recipe for unhappiness.

I'm cozy in my own contentment. And that's the most important thing to remember: we all must "choose our choice" in the end. This is mine. For now, at least.

Rumbling Rumors

I'm not typically prone to panicky behavior due to catastrophic e-mail forwards prophesizing doom and gloom. I don't usually listen to rumors and change my behavior accordingly. With all my neurotic semi-insanity, this kind of stuff simply doesn't phase me.

Over the weekend, uncharacteristically, I fell victim to one such warning about a gas shortage and ran out at 8:00 in the evening to scour the land for petrol. Turns out, this would not be an easy task and I barely succeeded at all. A few hours later, I realized my action, coupled by similar reactions all about the area, caused the shortage in the first place and now the region is gas-less.

How easy it seemed to just heed the words of apparent wisdom. I don't fault the messengers - I chose to give in to the mob mentality, and afterward felt half guilty and half relieved, my gas tank filled as my car sat idle all weekend. Did I take the gas someone needed to get to work Saturday morning? Was someone left stranded and worried on their way somewhere because I was compelled to rush out and horde "my share?"

It's this kind of thought I attempt to avoid - the "me first" way of our society. I've heard another sort of "rumor" that certain foreigners have a somewhat evolved "we first" outlook, and I've witnessed this around me too. Just not this weekend.

I can't exactly take back my rush to the pumps. I will, however, be more careful the next time to analyze whether my actions are in defense of my personal safety and welfare, or a form of greed. In this case, it's safe to split the difference and say it's a bit of both.

That makes me feel considerably better. It doesn't neccessaily make it okay.

Fall Forward

It's still hot tamales outside, but all accounts point to fall on the horizon: the football season is in full swing, kids are back to school, and you can sense autumn in the cool night air.

Fine by me. I love summer, with the hot sunshine and frilly sundresses and lazy attitudes. I adore a dip in cool water on a hot afternoon, a canoe trip, a beach vacation. But something about fall brings me to life (and it's not only the sports so associated.) The vibrant leaves, the smell of a fire, the nip in the air - all beautiful. Some of my best memories have come in the fall, cozy in a fleece sweatshirt and jeans.

Uncannily, the most nightmarish experiences in my life have also fallen in the fall. Some years ago, I began to track whether this assumption proved true or simply a mistake in my perception, and found it wasn't revisionist history. Cooincidence? Or something more?

And why, with this knowledge, do I always look so forward to this particular change in season? Sometimes, when I acknowledge this, it does bring a chill to my insides and a quick anxiety. But, I refuse to allow it to dampen my autumn anticipation. So what if some bad things happened years ago? Lots of good things happened, too, so what do you do?

This simple attitude can be lost so easily if you allow yourself to focus on the negative, as seems so prevalent not only personally but across the board. People have one bad experience in a place, and suddenly the whole thing is tainted beyond belief.

It's much easier to do this, I know. But, in my consistent attempt to better my overall attitude, I'm not going to do it. I strive to be better than all that, and I think it wouldn't be a bad idea if everyone tried it now and then.

Obviously, I can't make that happen. But as for me, bring it on!

September 11, Present Day

Obviously, today is somewhat solemn in tone. Not so much as in years past, when the major news networks fell all over themselves to replay horrific shots of those planes and the towers until you just pretty much ignored it entirely to maintain your sanity. But still, if you really think about it, some sense of that day will likely flood you.

Anniversaries of all kinds have always played a part in my life. I am, perhaps overly so, constantly aware of time - what time is it now, what day is it, what happened a month ago today, a year ago, ad nauseum. This allows me the opportunity to revisit the past - something I likely also do too much - and calculate what has happened in my life since that time. The ways in which the world changes and yet seriously does not change whatsoever fascinates me.

Of course, seven years ago today, we all experienced some sense of horror. But what about in the years since? Last year, I worked in my basement on some task, all the while listening to MSNBC replay the actual coverage from 9/11/01. Don't ask why a girl prone to anxiety and panic would willingly subject herself to this for several hours because there is no semblance of sanity there. Often, it just seems I enjoy to put myself back there - whether it happens to be pleasant or unpleasant. (Good thing my health plan covers therapy, I'll say that much...)

In the year since, I don't know how much really changed. I will later today return to my basement to accomplish several tasks. Physically and emotionally, I've attempted to make positive strides, but probably look pretty much as I did then. I still live here in the mountains with my dogs and my husband, still work at the same job, still ponder the same sorts of dilemmas both big and small.

A year seems a long time when you look forward, not so much when you look back. I am sure there will be coverage of 9/11 today, though I should attempt to NOT watch or listen.
I am still the same person, though, so I can't say the chances of ignorance are good. I can say that I hope by this time next year, I am doing at least as well as I am today. I hope to be even better, to have accomplished greater things, to have more savory experiences on which to dwell.

That's about all we can really hope for anyhow.

Mystery History

Every once in a while, I take an afternoon to leisurely frolic through a thrift store. Sometimes this can be a tremendous disappointment. Other days, it's quite fulfilling.

I am always on the lookout for one of my obsessions: vintage gloves. You know, cute little old-fashioned gloves to accent modern outfits. They serve no real practical purpose but when I wear them, I feel an instant boost in my mood.

Last week, I hit paydirt in one particular second-hand treasure trove. They literally had baskets of gloves and I literally tried on every single pair. I took my sweet time, so much so that the caretaker peeked around the corner at me several times, likely to make sure I wasn't stashing anything in my considerably large handbag - or hadn't simply collapsed of some rare disorder in his establishment. Good times.

Besides the obvious love of the look, I also like to inspect each pair and daydream about the original owner, decades ago. I wonder what place she held in the world when she picked up that pair of gloves, where she may have worn them. Did she take wedding vows in those gloves? Hold a baby? Interview for a job? Fascinating to ponder a life I'll never know.

It's also a tad morbid as I imagine many pairs of gloves end up in such places when old ladies die, leaving behind a house full of such things that end up donated. I wonder whether these gloves lay discarded for years, reminders of a different era of a life.

And now, they sit in my bedroom, ready to accent this outfit or that. After my time, will someone snatch them up for a costume or play? Will a girl like me find them as intriguing?
Hard to say for sure. But every time I put them on, I'll smile out loud and carry on some myseterious bit of history.

Cheaters Never, You Know...

I have for some time now pondered whether to blog about my karmic view of the universe as it relates entirely to the sports world. This past NFL weekend gives me the perfectly ironic chance to do so.

Tom Brady injured his knee mere moments into the premiere contest and effectively knocked himself out of play for the rest of the season. It is always a sad thing to see injuries that end a player's time on the field, if only because the truest competitions are the ones where all the best people show up to make it a real game.

But really, aside from the die-hard New England fans and those poor souls who gleefully picked Tom Brady for their Fantasy Football teams (sorry Dad and Steve) I don't think too many folks cried in their icy-cold Budweisers on Sunday when it happened.

And mostly I think that's because the Patriots have sat upon their pedestal long enough. There is a lot to dislike there in my opinion - which, of course, is biased since I am a Steelers fan whose disappointments late in the playoffs have often been in direct relation to the success in Foxborough.

However, cheating allegations, "Spygate" if you will, cast a shadow down on the Pats that began to ruffle more than just those fans of rival sports clubs. Bill Belichick's blatant disregard, cloaked in a hoodie of denial, only compounded the issue as everyone pointed fingers and refused responsibility and knowledge. Such audacity to even suspect it, even with evidence!

It's easy to just dismiss it all with a sweep of the hand and a blithe statement about cheaters' chances of "winning" in the end. It's harder to reconcile within yourself what it means when prominent sports figures win championships, dance in confetti, rake in millions of dollars - and do it all as they allegedly bend the rules in their favor. The idea lingers unpleasantly in my palate and I try to hold onto my basic fundamentals of fairness.

Slowly, it began to come clearer. Early this year, the Patriots' perfect season ends in defeat at Eli Manning's once-shaky hands, shocking 99.9% of the media and throwing their fanboy love into question. Now, a few plays into a renewed quest for dynasty, perfection's poster boy collapses to the turf.

Is it karma -or just bad luck? Does it mean anything about behavior and consequences? Perhaps these notions simply make us feel better, the ebb and flow of what goes around and all that.

Perhaps, though, there is something to it. In my years of following sports teams, it does appear that karma plays a role in wins and losses, often to my personal dismay. In the "real world" I do believe that how I treat others eventually comes back to me. I have seen that happen when I least expect it.

Why should it be different with sports? It can take years to realize what you're due, but it usually does occur. One day you're up, the next you are not. This does not appear to be avoidable, no matter whether others hold you up as a deity, or you believe it yourself. All good things shall come to an end.

Just watch a few minutes of SportsCenter. You'll see.

Guess Who's Back?

Peg your pants and grab some hot pink spandex 'cause 90210 is back, baby! Last night, when I watched Kelly and Brenda reunite at The Peach Pit, I squealed like it was 1990 again! Only better!

Even with all the hype, I would not have predicted my own overzealous reaction. In fact, from the start I've been a bit concerned about West Beverly's legacy. Even after I knew certain all-stars would return, I've tried to keep the skepticism healthy, so as not to be overly disappointed by my wildest high expectations.

That all flew into the night faster than David Silver transformed himself from geek to, well, geek with a keyboard. About five minutes into the pilot, I knew I was hooked in a big way. Hannah Zuckerman-Vazquez does the news and Erin Silver is a bundle of broodish confusion? And did I mention Kelly AND Brenda? Where do I sign up?

Really, not much of those two hours forged new ground. Plagairism? Please, Brandon and Steve had that tussle with Mrs. Teasley years ago. Pill-poppers? Not only did Donna and David separately beat that demon, Steve got addicted to, and detoxed from, marijuana in one hour, including commercials. Illegitimate children? Hello, Gina!

To boot, it's all as preposterous this time around, too: the high-schoolers are way savvy and chic, even for a Spelling-inspired soap; the adults appear halfway brain-damaged, with hints of felonies to come, and everyone's air-brushed within an inch of their lives.

And...who cares? I ate it up and craved more. (Maybe not as much as I craved a DVD marathon with several choice girlfriends and too many cocktails, but...) Some of it certainly improved with time. I can assure you won't find porn productions or drunk grandmothers in the first go-round, though I sadly doubt this version will include a Valentine's Day 'Sex Out!' or anything comparable to "Donna Martin Graduates!"

And that's okay too. It all reminded me of my younger self, rushing home from dance class in high school to swoon over Brandon Walsh in my parents' living room. These new kids might not make such a deep impression on the current generation - there's far more from which to choose nowadays. But as for an out-and-out guilty pleasure? Nothing cheesier comes to mind.

And I'll take it. Sure, I can dream of a future where all the newbies are slowly shipped out and the old cast filters in to completely take over. But for now, I have scores of unanswered questions: Is Ethan the new Dylan sans sideburns? Are they going to move into the beach house anytime soon? Is Kelly's son Brandon's kid? Did Nat gain any social skills in the past decade?

It's cathartic to realize that as much as I've grown in eighteen years, I'll never outgrow 90210. The more things change, the more they absolutely stay the same - both in my zip code and that more famous one.

Think About It

Every so often I consider it a good idea to re-think that which I believe. Why do I adhere to this notion or that idea? For what purpose? Does it still work for me, or do I hold on for the sake of consistency, or easiness? Have I changed and grown as an individual, past and/or above my belief system?

Usually, I find myself making changes when I do this. Whether big or small, it's an integral part of our personal evolution. We don't just organically wake up one day to typify our authentic, true selves. It takes introspection, work, and often a good hard look into what lies behind our deeply-rooted thoughts.

Sometimes this scares the bejeezus out of me. I don't like looking past the obvious to focus on the issues underneath. It could potentially rattle my world and nobody wants that. But questions like this must be posed to keep me in constant self-analyzation. I don't wish to stand stagnant - I want to thrive.

If it all sounds a bit too hokey or like a bunch of hooey, that's okay too. Sometimes my thoughts are just that. But even those ridiculous notions tend to get me to a higher plane of thought eventually. It all keeps my brain churning on to the next revelation.

It could be bad to think too much, I suppose. But it sure beats the alternative.

Obsess Much?

One time in college, a friend glanced around my bedroom and remarked, "Wow. When you like something, you really, really like it!" At that time, my walls were covered with photos of Pittsburgh Penguins hockey stars, Steelers posters, WVU gymnastics' schedules, and bulletin boards of movie tickets and the like.

Over ten years later...these things still grace my walls. (Although, in that ultimate grown-up move, they have moved from my bedroom to the basement gameroom.) And it is still true - when I find something I like, it becomes a bit of an obsession. Only a few weeks ago, my husband commented on that very thing when I kept going on about "Mamma Mia" while my iPod remained stuck on the "ABBA Gold" album.

I embrace this facet of myself whole-heartedly. And I'm proud of it, too. Usually, my obsessions can be categorized simply: sports, movies, television, books, clothing and accessories. When listed like that, it appears I am not so complicated.

So, I decided to delve into this a bit and find some other things about which I am super excited - and, as a personal rule, I can not include any of the above. So...

My dogs - and dogs in general. It goes without saying that, in addition to those things already named, my friends and family are tops in my life. But add in my dogs and things skyrocket. Ever since I was...well, born, I have loved pooches. My face lights up when I see a dog with its head out the window of a car, someone walking a dog...you get it. When it comes to my dogs, I will do just about anything. Seriously. Obsession is a word that does not do justice to how I feel about the Beagle and the Chessie.

The environment. Okay, not to be cheesey, but I am a bit cuckoo with my recycling and vow to never use another plastic bag ever again. I'm not perfect, but I've changed my habits considerably. You will always find me with my cloth bags in hand wherever I go - and it amazes me how positive the reaction has been, with numerous inquiries into where I got them. (Hint: The Fresh Market.) Go Earth!

Multi-culturalism. After my grand adventure to Australia, I have found I'm more interested in other cultures than ever, and have begun to pick fantasy vacation plans accordingly. My one goal for the near future is to learn Spanish, so that when I visit Mexico someday, I can get into the real society and communicate. After that, I would love to do the same with other countries around the world: Germany, Spain, Russia, Amsterdam, Brazil. I know my scope is quite large, but if I could accomplish one trip, that would be fabulous.

My writing. More and more, I hope to continue doing more of it and in a better way. It's hard, especially when I'm overly distracted. But I push on the best I can.

Maybe above all, I am most obsessed with this desire to get my voice out there, no matter how broad. Because along with my passionate obsessions in life, I've always been a writer. It's nice to know some things will never change!

Country Roads, Take Me Home

This weekend is a holiday on two counts. Of course, it is Labor Day weekend with the obligatory day off. But, much more importantly, it is the official start of the college football season.

And on an even more detailed note, the Mountaineers kick off at 3:30 on Saturday afternoon. Bring on the blue and gold, the Natural Light at unnaturally early morning hours, the Pride of West Virginia, Pat White and his quick scamper and all the rest of the glorious aspects of WVU football. I am ready to witness first-hand how Bill Stewart and the 'Eers can prove we don't need Rich Rod with all his drama and lies.

It's always a bit of a jolt to realize that, after all those years in Morgantown, with Mountaineer Field literally in my backyard, I am now so far removed. No more walking to the stadium with beers in my pockets, no more celebrations at Kegler's after a win, no more weary fans crashed on my couches after a day of football madness.

I still watch every game and cheer as fervently as ever. With DirecTV and some clever programming luck, I never miss a snap. But I do miss the comraderie that came with a whole town of crazy WVU fans united for one common goal. It's somehow not quite the same.

But, things change all around us, all the time. We can either roll with the punches or stubbornly dig our heels in to fight the inevitable. I know there are countless fans out there who can relate with relocation and a touch of loneliness this time of year. We can empahize with one another when we have to watch the games from a living room hundreds of miles removed from the campus.

But we can also take comfort in the realization that we're not alone. That passionate spirit will follow us no matter what. And that's the important thing.

Well, that and a winning season, a BCS bowl bid, and the ultimate dream of a national championship. Let's go Mountaineers!!

Dress Up and Get Going!

As a small child, I wanted to somehow transfrom into Laura Ingalls from "Little House on the Prairie." To accomplish this goal, I carried a wooden bucket as my lunch pail (which was actually the top of a snazzy ashtray - oh, to be a child of the early '80's with an avid imagination...) I had two brown braids and a bonnet, which I hung down my back when not on my head. I prayed for buck teeth while I drooped my own alligned teeth over my bottom lip. I ran down hills in a prairie-inspired dress. (This description surely will allow you to understand the difficulties I endured in school.)

Eventually, I aged out of that behavior and grew out of the clothes. In the years since, I have come to understand that Laura Ingalls was just one in an impressive line of characters I copied and modeled.

For years, I wore a red wig and belted along with the "Annie" soundtrack, orphan-ish in my mom's aprons on a windowseat. When I left for my freshman year of college, the last thing I did in my hometown was take a picture of Brenda Walsh to my hairdresser for 90210-like tresses. (You know, with those delicious bangs and wispy face-framing edges.) To this day, I study Carrie Bradshaw's fashion choices in envy and have develped a dangerous shoe collection.

Does all this prove my inability to simply be myself? Am I hiding some pain behind my misplaced identities? Is it time to call the psych ward? None of the above, I say. At one time, I would have believed I am alone in this sort of emulation. Now, I think all sorts of well-respected folks behave similarly at times.

Maybe I am the only one who will come out and admit that, yes, I do sometimes want to be a fictional someone in a more perfect world than mine. Television and movies were often my best friends. Just as we certainly find real-life people who strike our fancies and inspire us, we can do the same with characters.

It's harmless, really. We are all influenced by outside sources in one way or another. But at least it is only my ouside persona I copy from others. Deep down, I know who I am and am hardly swayed from my standpoints and opinions.

And it's always been that way. Whether donned in red wigs and bonnets, or maybe because of them, I have consistently been a strong personality. And I'm proud of that. From wherever that might have come, be it a book or a movie or my very own family, I can be sure it is here to stay.

For that I am proud. I still enjoy wardrobe suggestions from time to time. But as for important personality traits, like loyalty and standing up for what is right and being a good person, I'll take all the credit. The shoes on my feet or the bonnet on my head is trivial. It's how you behave while you walk through life.

And I walk with my own convictions.

Digging My Ditch

What a melancholy day. Leroi Moore, saxophonist extraordinare of the Dave Matthews Band and all-around cool cat, died yesterday. I feel a little numb, a little angry, and a lot sad. No more dark sunglasses on the side of the stage, no more ominous baritone at the start of "Bartender", no more crazy solos to drive the masses wild. Truly, a grace is gone.

Leroi's passing only reminds me that life is short ("But sweet for certain!") As a perfectionist procrastinator, I often waste hours fooling around online or engaged in ridiculous tasks like the rearrangement of the shoes in my closet. Often, I look back at my day and focus on places I could have done more, been better, accomplished something greater. Guilt will at times set in, and I remind myself that there is tomorrow.

But there isn't always. And that scares me. Leroi, only 46 years old, likely did not believe while he rode his ATV last month that he would die as a result of his injuries that day. At such an age, death would appear a blip in the future, unavoidable for sure, but far away on the horizon. Just as it does to me.

How many times can you hear "don't take it for granted?" Sure, we all know that and pledge to hold onto each moment. But, do we really? I pride myself as one who will soak up moments and hug joy at all turns - but I know deep down I don't act this way each and every day. Somedays I simply pout my way through in a self-contained pity-party for one. I often go to sleep while thinking of a new day's better and brighter promise.

So far, my tomorrows have been bountiful. Today, I am smacked in the face with a horrid jolt of reality and I know I need to grasp on to the lesson. Leroi Moore touched millions of fans; his contribution to the band mattered to the music community and to the world and to me, on a level of my soul I can't properly convey with words on this page. His legacy will continue on forever, preserved on our iPods and in our lovely memories of live shows. His talent will not pass on with him. It's here to stay.

I hope the same can be said of me. I will work hard to make it so. The scale will certainly be far less grand, but the passion will not.

Rest well Leroi Moore. Today, we all live on the corner of grey street.

Don't Believe Your Own Press

Sometimes I really wonder about my fellow bloggers. (Don't worry, the irony is not lost on me.) Minute-to-minute updates on their lives, strewn about the "internets" far and wide, for all to see.

I carefully calculate what I personally reveal, both on my blog and in real life. I am private (again, the irony) and choose to keep it that way, to divulge the deepest corners to my closest peeps. Some read this blog for sure. Besides them, who knows - maybe no one else reads it. However, paranoia is one of my most consistent character traits and I'll keep it that way.

Lately, I have found some very interesting "bloggas." Topics, though varied, were highly personal, complete with family photos and semi-gory descriptions of kids' births and lots of "tooting one's own horn." I felt strange peeking in - after, of course, I read any available posts and inspected all pictures.

I can understand sharing such info with your family and friends via e-mail or the like. But to splash it all upon a blog? Something is funny to me. I learned more about these people than I know about actual friends and family!

Then, it hit me. I also know more about Brangelina's twins than I do about real people around me, and I can name all their siblings. I shake my head at Suri Cruise's Burberry coats and couture, waiting for Katie to stop drinking the Kool-Aid. I kept tally of Britney's custody battle and her psychiatric admissions. This over-saturation in regards to superstars has become normal, a way of life. It is not unusual to be more highly-informed about celebrities than to know what your spouse did at work today.

So, in light of this, what if strangers stare in on your family photos and revel in (or mock) the minutia of your life? If it's good enough for the Lohans, it's good enough for us, right? It's like a self-created TMZ.com where you post your own press - this idea could be pure genius after all! Everyone wants the attention of the masses nowadays - blogs just give us all our own little spotlight.

Hats off to the fancy pants who can do this, I say! Good for you! Just don't expect me to follow. I don't want to pretend the paps are following me to the grocery store, to catch me without makeup or in an unflattering shot to "red-pen" my cellulite. I don't want to play that game, or pretend on my blog that people actually care.

But, in the privacy of my own home, I'll continue to rehearse that Oscar acceptance speech in front of the mirror. Because that's not the same thing, you know. That's just being prepared!

Game On!

So, I basically don't sleep in my own bed anymore because the Olympics run into the wee hours of the morning, but that's okay. Just like the tremendous athletes, I make sacrifices for sport. (At least, in my case, for watching sport - as I am woefully horrible at participation.) Anyway, I often fall asleep on the couch in the middle of the coverage, only to have to startle awake and rewind on the DVR to catch up.

Not last night, though. Last night, I paced (quietly, so as not to wake Scott or the pups) as I anxiously watched Nastia Liukin (my personal favorite gymnast the past few years) and Shawn Johnson compete against the world and each other and the pitiful scoring system to make their dreams come true.

At times, it was so tense in my own little world, I hid in the hallway and peeked around the corner, through my fingers. This is a familiar routine - I have spent many football moments in the hallway, crawling the floor as I could not bear to watch. Luckily the gymnastics meet turned out in my favor. (The football games - can you say Pitt Panthers and Jacksonville Jaguars? I thought as much...)

It is awesome every four years to relish a few weeks in the joy of athletic superstars dancing on the grandest world stage. Michael Phelps, with his carbed-up diet and bazillion gold medals and cute mom crying in the stands, never gets old for me. I watch those beach volleyball girls, with the shoulder tape and lost wedding ring and crazy consecutive winning record. I probably watched that men's 4x100 swimming relay about fifty times in complete disbelief. I adore the fluff pieces on hard childhoods and obstacles overcome. Heck, I watched the equestrian trials. And I liked it. (Question: How do you think the horses enjoy the plane flight across the world? And what does that cost? I'd even enjoy more fluff in the equestrian trials!)

It also makes me warm and fuzzy to think that in this crazy world, maybe we can all get along. My cynicism creeps in every now and then, but I try to stuff it down in the spirit of the games. I cheer on America, certainly for my favorites, but I also love to see how excited people get when winning a medal for their country's first time. That is good stuff.

So, only a little over a week before this all goes into hibernation for another four years. I'll enjoy it while I can. And when it's done, I'm sure my husband will have my side of the bed ready and waiting for my return.

Go Team!

Brett Favre, Get Off My TV

This morning, I am innundated with stimuli and all of it rotates around Brett Favre. (For those non-sports lovers, bear with me as I rant - and get ready because football season is on the horizon and little will matter more here in about a month! And if you are a non-sports lover, well, my condolences...)

What the hee is wrong with Mr. Fav-ray? Make up your flippin' mind already, will ya? And now, he jumps ship to the Jets. All because, after years of threats (or promises, if you're on my side of that fence) he finally followed through with retirement, captivating headlines for weeks with his puss-face. He even edged out news of Big Ben's legendary $100 million Steelers contract - and now, he has the nerve to not simply go away (as he tearfully pledged) and is all over my TV yet again!

It occurs to me as I listen to all this, I'm most bothered by the waffling, the inability to make a choice and stick to it. This, cooincidently, is the same gripe I have about my husband. So, Brett Favre is the Scotty P. of the NFL! Now, that is something about which to think!

I take (sometimes) inordinate time to make a decision. When about to purchase a new pair of fairly-pricey shoes, I will at times leave them in the store for weeks as I silently ponder whether I need those shoes or not. (This is not the case with clearance items, which must be snatched up fervently, lest they end up in a rival shopper's closet - everyone knows this.) To paraphrase Alicia Silverstone's "Clueless" character, "Think about it. I'm that picky about my shoes - and they only go on my feet!"

But, really, what is so hard about a step back and a moment to consider before you announce your intentions, whether to your family - or the world? And what is so difficult about sticking to your guns once you decide which way those guns point?

Then again, that is my own view of the world and the way in which it should work. I know some of this comes from my internal need to have stability and consistency and to be able to count on what I am told will be the truth. Some people might not feel the same - clearly that is the case.
No matter. My husband's indecision is a minor drop in the bucket compared to all the glorious qualities he holds - and we have gotten to the point where it is a funny joke of sorts, which actually (believe it or not) has lessened it quite a bit!

Now, if only Brett Favre could learn the same lesson. I guess all we can collectively do is sit back and hope karma works its magic, whatever that may be. And, if you are anything like me, you can secretly hope Aaron Rodgers comes out like gangbusters in Green Bay.

Not that any of it matters. Everyone knows the only pigskin that's relevant is played on the shores of those three rivers in the 'Burgh. Even Scott is firm on that point!

Friends For Life

Last night, Scott and I celebrated our anniversary. We chose to try out a new-to-us Mexican joint in Asheville called "Papa's and Beer" - great name, even better food. While we sat on a bench outside, we discussed our time together as husband and wife and looked on at a group of girls, all dolled up and gossiping amongst themselves as they, too, waited for a table.

At that moment, I mentioned that when I see girls like that, all fancy shoes and purses out for dinner and drinks together, it makes me feel a twinge of sadness that I don't have my good girlfriends here in North Carolina. I sort of feel a bit left out.

After I assured Scott that, yes, I do indeed appreciate doing things with him just as much, we began a discussion about our new lives here. It only took a few moments before I re-evaluated my initial statement and decided that I would much rather spend time alone than with some flighty friends I only partly enjoy.

In my younger days, I would take any opportunity to party and hang out, even with less-than-loyal buds who, quite frankly, were back-stabbers and sabatours. (A fact I seemed to repeatedly learn too little, too late.) Now, though my best girlfriends are miles away in both distance and, at times, lifestyles, I know I am far richer indeed.

I don't really need a Tuesday night out to know they are a phone call away if I ever truly needed them. I am certain they feel the same way about me. Sure, it would be grand to see one another more often, to prolong the laughter and relish longer in our bond.

The way I see it now, it's more valuable to have those kindred friends close to my heart, rather than "frenemies" close to my home. I would never trade my present for my past, no matter the temporary highs I used to get from the hectic pace of social reckless abandon.

Those several times a year when I am blessed to share a cocktail and a smile with a good, old friend, my heart fills with the kind of joy that can't be brought with come-and-go drinking buddies. My soul giggles for weeks afterward.

And as for my husband? He really is a captive audience for those fancy shoes and purses. So, for what more could I ever hope?!

August 5, 2000

Eight years ago today, I married my husband Scott and officially removed my "single girl" status. Everything about the day is clear in my mind and I could not have hoped for a more fabulous fairy tale. My dress, the party, our friends and family together in celebration - all pitch-perfect. (No doubt you'll find me today in the gown. After all, I am still a girl who loves frilly things and crowns!)

On those first few anniversaries, when things were all romance and flowers and cards, Scott and I danced and laughed and shared the sort of tender moments which are expected of "newlyweds." Lest I lead you astray, our marriage was hardly a walk in the proverbial park - but, we held eternal optimism of our bright future together. The anniversary was tinged with an expectation of Hallmark perfection and we tried desperately to deliver.

In the past few years, our lives have truly transformed, both as individuals and as a couple. We literally grew into a new version of our old selves - which took both practice and therapy in order to properly adjust!

And here we stand, eight years into this antiquated idea of "til death do us part." Greeting cards will appear today, a dinner out is planned, there may even be a gift or two. However, it's beyond that now, moved into the realm of comfortable contentment, and I am safe to say we are both good with that. The emphasis on simple, everyday affection is lovely. Today is only affirmation of that which we feel all days.

Beyond the ceremony in the ever-important wedding day is, of course, the marriage. As logical as this should be, it does tend to get lost sometimes in our culture of throw-away unions. While I will never judge the choices of others, I am happy to say I get it now, more than ever. It makes me glad to be loved in such a special way, to appreciate the struggle and reward that comes with sharing your life with another.

Happy Anniversary for sure!
(Now, off to try on the dress...)

Beautiful Days, Lessons to Learn

Sometimes, on beautiful days like this one where the sun shines high and the sky burns the bluest blue, it is hard for me not to hearken back to another sunny and perfect day: September 11, 2001. It is not the actual details of that day that haunt me, though of course it is in my mind. It is more the feelings and thoughts in my own life, before those planes hit the buildings, before we all changed forever.

On the way to law school that morning, while I admired the breathtaking brightness of the day, I rounded a turn in my Grand Am and was met with a semi-truck barreling toward me, across the center line, in my lane. At just that minute my breath caught in my chest for that milli-second I wondered if we would collide - and then, the truck righted itself and continued safely past me.

There never appeared a serious threat, only that glitch in time when I didn't know if the truck would veer left or right, to safety or catastrophe. I inhaled in relief and thought, "That's how fast it happens. People die in those seconds. I wouldn't die like that, right? Because I live a charmed life. But, still, I bet the people who die in those seconds believe they live a charmed life, too, right up to the moment of death. Wow. You just never know."

I got to school safe and sound. During that first class, our professor said the following in regards to why late court filings would be excused: "For example, when the World Trade Center was bombed some years ago, those days would not count." Strangely, a few minutes later I would emerge from that class to a different world, to a new kind of example of tragic circumstances.

All the death on that day reminded me repeatedly of my earlier experience: Right before something really bad happens, in a moment that separates life from the beyond, does everyone hold out hope it won't happen to them? Because they live a charmed life? When do you realize that, charmed life or not, things are not going to veer back to safety at the last second?
Before I laid down to sleep that night, I reached for a "dream journal" so that I might recount my thoughts on the day, detail what I learned about the relishment of life. But I could not get beyond my own slight scare that morning, eons from where I was that night. I could not rectify what had happened a few hours after that, could not wrap my brain around the things I had seen on television, the stories I had heard, and how it all seemed eerily cooincidental.

I still can't, except to say this: How mundane go the days when our reality shifts beneath us forever. Beautiful afternoons like this one are meant to be breathed in deeply and used as reminders to be grateful for the charmed lives we do indeed live.

And to never lose sight that, yes, sometimes things do change in a second.

Summer Reflections

Remember in elementary school, on the first day of that new grade, when the teacher would request a recantation of your summer vacation? Well, in honor of those childhood days gone by, I hereby post my summer highlights up to this point and extend an invite to everyone to do the same - it could be kind of fun to share our experiences via the world wide web! (It might be even better to continue the updates through the end of summer, into fall and winter and spring, and back again!)

Summer, 2008:

I spent three glorious days with my bestest friend in the universe (excluding those who share a bloodline or to whom I am legally betrothed) and relished every second together. At one point, we looked to each other and realized we had transcended friendship and were now family. It is nice to know I have that kind of connection in this uncertain world, and it made me appreciate my entire circle of friends, which would be incomplete without each individual link. All hail fine friends!

Dave Matthews and his band did not disappoint yet again - it is not summer in my heart unless I see a DMB concert at least once. Such perfect music swelling in the heat of dusk can't be beat, and I was fortunate to hear two magnificent shows. Each held special moments, but the best culminated in sharing one of my new favorite songs, "Sister" with my little sister in the encore of the Pittsburgh show. The clincher? Two major fans in front of us, high on life and music and other natural aids, declairing honestly, "And they really are sisters, too!" as we all shared the specialness. Blissful, really.

Tucker County, West Virginia, is likely not high on many vacation wish-lists, but for my husband and me, visits to our cabin on the Cheat River are truly "almost heaven." To bathe in the river surrounded by nature is another indication of summer and it hardly gets better than a float down the water on a hot summer day. So many memories that have now morphed into traditions to be savored into the future. Wild and Wonderful, indeed!

Summer isn't over yet, so neither is my list. How to identify each savory memory? The list would simply be endless. I won't subject anyone to that, but do please add your own summer touches! Stay cool!

Heal Yourselves!

Sometimes, in my over-contemplative nature, I wonder how it is exactly that we change - become one kind of person from another. These changes can be teeny-tiny or massive, but they are present everyday. It is hardly true that we put our minds to transformation into a new type of person - though, that can be true at times, like when I moved to college my freshman year and put my mind to turning into the type of person I always knew I was deep down inside.

More typically, the change sneaks up on you and whacks you on the head one day when you suddenly realize it's happened. I might be at "an age" where this is common (or it could just be me) but it seems to happen near-daily to me.

Over the past two years, things in my life changed quite a bit - the sorts of changes that are impossible to miss, no matter how many days you spend with your head under a pillow. The pace was furious for a while, and not in the good way people speak about in reference to new love or babies.

But lately, the changes are totally internal - my soul has shifted. I didn't know it happened, didn't feel any different at the time, but now, afterward, it feels I am a brand new individual. A metamorphasis occurred without my knowledge and here I am, the same but not.

And the strangest change of all? I like it. I am healthier. I'm not completely alien - I have the same interests and passions and loves as ever before. But my perspective is clearer. And I'll embrace it, for now.

Because I am sure the changes will continue. And when that happens, I'll be ready to be surprised all over again.

Streaming Through Life

You know, I always wanted to be one of those writers who could string along my stream of consciousness into thoughtful and coherent renderings of reality, ala Virginia Woolf. Alas, my stream of consciousness is so quirky and odd, I can barely keep up with it myself, never mind any further attempts at written eloquence. (Doesn't mean I won't try, though - one blog post today, a world of literary opportunity tomorrow...or some such nonsense!)

So, this morning I habitually turned on the tv first thing and flipped around to find something worthy of my coffee-drinking hour. The news won't do (too depressing - severe weather and soaring gas prices), Mike and Mike in the Morning on ESPN won't do (too depressing - all my passionate sports are mid-season), and there wasn't one episode of Law & Order on any channel (just plain depressing.) I settled on Logo, the homosexual-friendly channel, and watched "And the Band Played On," the 80's docudrama about AIDS and its entrance into our society. It then occurred to me nothing could possibly be more depressing than this - why was I putting myself through it?

I think because I knew how it turned out - not well, by any means, but it is somewhat better today than it was in the early 80's, so I think it restored a bit of faith in my askew view of our world. And faith is not something I have in bounds, believe me.

Faith got me thinking about George Michael, and since I was watching the gay channel, I started to remember a piece of paper I discovered deep in a box of late adolescent mementos. While re-organizing my downstairs office, I stumbled upon old writings - one in particular written between my freshman and sophomore years at WVU. I had just discovered a good friend was gay, and I lamented the bigotry and closed-mindedness he faced - and explored my own opposition to such hatred and my vow to love him and support him and fight intolerance at every turn. I wonder whatever happened to him. I hope he's still okay.

George Michael also reminded me of how much I miss "Eli Stone" on Thursday nights. I do love that Johnny Lee Miller. Hard to believe he was once married to Angelina Jolie. I love her too. And I love Brad tagging along with all those kids. I think if she wants to have a whole gaggle of kids, she should. She's rich and seems to truly love them. I wonder if Johnny Lee ever regrets letting her go - I saw in a tabloid that he still spent a lot of time with her pre-Pitt, so I bet he's kicking himself right about now.

I hope someday I can have a better grasp on my faith in myself, and those around me, and my life as a whole. I bet everyone has times when they have to simply "let it go" and see what happens. It's challenging, but I will hold onto that faith.

I hope George Michael guests on "Eli Stone" in the fall, too. It wouldn't be the same without him.

Mad Skills

I had a job interview this week, for another type of work-from-home position. During the discussion, one of the two interviewers asked me why I had applied, with all my education and experience and "skill." He actually used that word. I hope the shock did not show blatantly on my face, as I rarely associate myself with one who is "skilled."

I thought a minute and replied, honestly, that it was because the job had absolutely nothing to do with the court system or the law. I am pretty sure that is not what employers want to hear - that they are the default backup choice. But it is true, so I put it out there. I haven't heard yet if I've been hired. Shocking, huh?

Seriously, I spend hours of time doing internet searches for employment as far from the legal field as possible. Fear sets in randomly when I think of a legal career as my destiny. My husband thinks I am a flat-out kook - and he is likely onto something. While on sites to post resumes, pop-ups abound proclaiming "Go Back to School and Get Your Paralegal Degree!" and "Continue Your Education Online!"

It is a sign. And I do believe in signs, as we all know by now. When I think logically, it is insane - armed with law degree, girl attempts to break into bottom-level position as most-educated person in room. It does not even make sense to me!

But it also does not make sense to be miserable and feel disgusted with your life because you chose a degree program which turned out not to be the dreamy, respected profession you had hoped. The world is to the brim with miserable people, for whatever reason. Everyone has their burdens to bear and problems with which to deal. I realize I am fortunate at this moment to take the step back and ponder my future - most don't even get that small luxury.

So, I embrace it and refuse to be one more unhappy person in an increasingly unhappy world. I feel guilty sometimes that I am in this position - the money and time I spent to reach a goal I now disdain. But, no regrets. That is more in line with the misery of this world and I will not have it! Sooner or later, I'll figure it out. (Let's hope sooner, rather than later.)

And if not, it's not the worst thing either. I can always make my way somehow. I've got "skills" remember?