The Writing on the Walks

By the time I got home from work last night, the sun was already low on the horizon and the dark of the night was beginning to edge its way into the sky. I changed clothes, gulped down a couple of bites of peanut butter, grabbed Ollie and headed out for a walk. Looking at the fading sun, I decided to go ahead and walk on the trail, hoping that the dark wouldn't come too soon. I'm not sure that Ollie likes it when I'm in "Hurry up, Ollie, it's getting dark" mode ... it sure seems like he walks slower when I say those words. We had only walked about 15 minutes when the darkness tumbled in around us, so we turned and headed back toward home.

Yesterday was a long day, and I was mentally, emotionally and physically worn out when I got home. So much so that when we reached our street after our brief little walk, all I wanted to do was go home, eat some yogurt and go to bed. Ollie, however, made it abundantly clear that he wasn't finished walking by firmly planting himself on the sidewalk and refusing to move.

"I know I should keep walking, Ollie," I said to my determined little wiener dog. "But I've had a hard day, buddy, and I just want to go home and pull the covers over my head for a while."

I tugged on Ollie's leash, but he wouldn't budge. He just sat there looking up at me with his beautiful brown eyes, wagging his cute little tail and letting me know that he fully intended for us to keep on walking.

"Okay, buddy, we'll walk some more, but not far ... deal?"

I thought Ollie's tail was going to wag right off his butt as he jumped up and ran ahead of me ... this time he was the one tugging me along as I held onto his leash. We walked along the sidewalk on our usual "after it gets too dark to walk on the trail" route, and I smiled as Ollie knowingly trotted onto the drive that leads to the high school. Normally, we would walk around to the back parking lot at the school, but like I said, I was tired last night so I steered Ollie to the sidewalk that wraps around the front of the school. As we stepped up onto the sidewalk, I noticed some writing on the concrete surface beneath my feet. It caught my attention because it was a quote ... a quote that included the words, "pint-sized Godzilla" which immediately made me think of my granddaughter Amelie because the nickname her father has so graciously bestowed upon her is "Baby Zilla." I pulled out my phone and took a photo of the chalky quote so that I could send it to my daughter-in-law, and as the camera flashed, I noticed there was another quote a few feet farther along the sidewalk ... and then another and another and another and another.

I'm not sure how long Ollie and I spent on the sidewalk last night as I walked along reading the quotes and snapping pictures of them, but I do know that I bawled like a baby the entire time. Some of the quotes were funny ... some were silly ... some were sad ... some were soul-searchingly deep ... some made no sense to me at all. I cried because the quotes made me think about my old quote post at work ... I cried because some of the quotes hit very close to home for me ... I cried because I thought about the students who had written them and wondered why they chose the particular quotes that they did. When Ollie and I finally headed toward home, I knew it wasn't an accident that we ended up walking that way last night ... it was no accident at all. You see, it's raining tonight ... the rain is washing all the chalky quotes away. The quotes that must have been placed on the concrete walk yesterday since they weren't smudged or worn ... on the night that Ollie wasn't finished walking ... on the night I randomly chose to walk in front of the school rather than behind it ... on the night before the rain came and washed them all away. As surely as I'm typing this post, I was meant to walk that exact path last night and I was meant to see those quotes.

Maybe ... just maybe ... some of you are meant to see them, too.

One Step Closer

As some of you may know, there's a big baseball event taking place in Kansas City as I type this evening. Yep, KC's beloved Royals made it to the World Series for the second year in a row, and this town is over-the-top baseball crazy right now. From the Royals blue water in our famous fountains to the blue glow of the buildings in downtown to the sea of people wearing Royals t-shirts and caps to the restaurants serving up blue barbecue, you can hardly turn around without bumping into something or someone displaying the color of Royals blue. While I'm far from being a huge baseball fan, I must admit that living in a town that's hosting the World Series is pretty darn cool ... especially when that World Series draws the attention of the one and only Ellen DeGeneres.

My phone was one hot mess last Sunday evening ... between all the Facebook messages, tweets, emails and texts I was receiving, I'm surprised my old Samsung Galaxy didn't bite the dust. Why all the messages, you ask? Because Ellen tweeted that she might possibly be coming to the University of Kansas the following Monday, and KU is only a half-hour drive from my house. Everyone who knows me is well aware of my desire to one day be a guest on Ellen's show, hence the reason for the bazillion messages telling me I needed to be in Lawrence on Monday. Which is exactly what every ounce of my being wanted to do on Monday, but I felt that to do so on such short notice wouldn't be fair to my co-workers, plus, I brought work home over the weekend that had to go back to the office on Monday morning. You can't begin to imagine how sad I was by the time I got to work ... there was a very strong possibility that in a few short hours Ellen ... the Ellen ... was going to be only a short drive away and I was going to miss my chance to meet her. 

After dropping my things off at my desk, I went downstairs to return the work I had done on Sunday and was greeted by several of my co-workers saying, "Why are you here? Why aren't you on your way to Lawrence to see Ellen? Get out of here and go!" I ran back upstairs to my desk, sent an email telling everyone I was leaving and raced home to change clothes ... come on, I couldn't meet Ellen without my bow tie, suspenders, shiny shoes and royal blue dress shirt. I called a dear friend and asked if she wanted to go with me, and she said, "Of course!" ... she may not have agreed so quickly had she been witness to my incredible excitement firsthand ... I'm not gonna lie ... I was beyond excited and by the time she got to my house, I was bouncing off the walls and raring to go. 

I'll spare you all the details of our grand adventure, but it was one of the most fun days I've had in a long time. It turned out that Ellen wasn't actually going to be at the event, but she did do a livestream feed with the group that had gathered which made it kind of sort feel like she was there. I was interviewed by a couple of television and newspaper reporters and got to talk with one of the Ellen's producers for several minutes ... it was the bow tie and suspenders that caught their attention. Well, my attire plus the fact that I was one of only a very few older folks surrounding by a bunch of screaming college kids. In other words, I stuck out like a sore thumb, which for once in my life was actually a good thing. Though I didn't get to meet Ellen, I did get to meet some really cool people on Monday, including the two students who helped my friend and I find our way around the campus and get to the location for the taping of the show in time to be right on the front lines for all of the action.

I was thinking about Monday's experience as I drove home this evening and how glad I am that I followed my heart and left work that day to chase after my dream of one day being a guest on Ellen's show. And by the way, I don't want to be on her show because I want to be famous ... I want to be on her show because she could take my story and help so many people ... I want to be on her show because I don't want one more person to think the only way out of their pain is to die. I know I'm a long way from getting there, but Monday sure put me one step closer to Ellen. One step closer ... maybe that's what life is all about, getting one step closer every day to being the person I was meant to be. Maybe ... maybe indeed.

(Want to see me kind of sort of almost on the Ellen Show? Click here.)

"I Can Taste the Love"

There are some feelings people simply cannot begin to understand until they experience them firsthand. Like grief, for example ... it's impossible to truly understand the heartbreaking sorrow that accompanies the death of a loved one if you've never lost someone you love. Or the feel of your newborn baby in your arms if you've never been a parent. Or the pain of a broken heart if you've never been in love. Or the burn of saltwater in your eyes if you've never gone for a swim in the ocean. Or the joy of friendship if you've never had a friend. There was absolutely no way I could ever understand the very special love of a grandparent for their grandchild until I became a "Ghee" myself.

I've been missing my two little Canadians a ton lately ... there are times when I miss them so much it just plain old hurts. And when you put missing my little kids on top of missing my big kids ... well, that's one big old heaping chunk of missing the people I love most in this world. I've tried lots of different activities to ease my lonely Ghee and mom heart when I get a bad case of missing my little family like I have been recently. From putting in extra hours walking out on the trail to hanging out at my favorite bookstore to writing to sleeping to ... dare I say it? ... even shopping. Yep, sometimes I miss my bigs and littles so much, I even try shopping with the hope that it will make the missing go away. And you know what I've learned? I've learned that nothing ... absolutely nothing ... will ever make me stop missing my grandgals and my kiddos. But ... there is one thing I can do that at least makes me focus more on past memories than on present loneliness ... cookies ... lots and lots and lots of cookies.

Being diabetic means I can't eat cookies, but it doesn't mean I can't make cookies. So when I'm missing my kids as badly as I have been in recent weeks, I bake cookies ... usually on Sunday afternoons because for some reason, that's when my quiet and empty house seems to be unusually quiet and empty. Even though I can't eat the cookies I make, the aroma of freshly baked cookies in the house helps with the missing somehow ... it helps me focus more on how blessed I am to be a mom and grandma than how much I miss my kids and grandkids. I know it's weird, and I can't explain it, but mixing and baking and smelling those cookies makes me feel like my bigs and littles aren't quite so far away.

Now I know you're wondering what I do with all those cookies I make ... and trust me, I've been making a ton of cookies lately ... since eating them myself would send me into a diabetic coma quicker than I could say, "Yummmm." So here's what I do ... I put all those cookies into containers and I take them to work on Monday mornings and put them on a table for my co-workers to enjoy. And nine times out of ten, the cookies are gone by mid-afternoon ... if I do say so myself, I make killer chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin cookie bars. Some people make a point of saying thank you to me, while some ... well ... some don't. But last week ... last week, one young man who hasn't worked at the company very long and who always thanks me for the cookies said something I will never ever ever forget.

"Terrie ... why do you make all these cookies for us when you can't eat them? That's got to be hard for you."

"I make cookies when I'm missing my kids and my grandgirls," I replied. "And I bring them to you guys because you're like my kids to me."

The young man wrapped his arms around me and gave me a giant hug as he said, "I can taste the love in every bite, Terrie ... in every single bite ... I can taste the love."

At first I thought he was referring to the love I have for my children and granddaughters, but later I realized that wasn't what he meant at all. He was telling me that he understood and appreciated the way I love and care for other people, and more specifically, the people I work with every day. That sweet young man had no way of knowing how desperately I needed to hear his words that day, friends, nor did he know how very, very much they would touch my heart ... not just on that day, but for all the days to come.

"I can taste the love in every bite, Terrie ... in every single bite ... I can taste the love."

Ollie is the New Black

Those of you who've been reading along with me for a few years may remember how my little wiener dog Ollie came to join my old girl Julie and I back in 2011, less than a year after my little fat buddy J.R. passed away. I miss those two sweet pups, J.R. and Julie ... sometimes I miss them so much it hurts. I'd like to believe they found each other in heaven and now they're romping and running and snuggling under the softest fleece blanket in the universe ... no more pain and no more growing old, just lots and lots and lots of playing and an endless supply of doggie treats and toys. Though they took different routes on their journey to come to live with Julie and I, J.R. and Ollie walked one road that was far, far too similar ... the road of abuse and torture by horrible, cruel, disgusting humans. Thankfully, they were both rescued ... J.R. by an organization in Nebraska and Ollie ... well ... my feisty, snuggly, owner of the wooden bridges, pee on every single tree and pole along the trail, sweet, precious, adorable little wiener dog was nursed back to health in a prison not far from where I live. 

I've wondered many times about the prisoner Ollie (a.k.a. Wally back then) was placed with after he was taken away from the jerk who tortured and abused him. For some reason, I always pictured Ollie's inmate as a small guy with dark hair and green eyes ... I have no idea why that's the image I conjured up in my mind, but that's what I imagined Ollie's prison pal to look like. I've thought many times about trying to find out about the man who took care of my little wiener dog, but I knew that the odds were slim to none that I'm ever be able to contact him to thank him for all he did for Ollie. But then a couple of weeks ago, I was contacted by the group who coordinates the prisoner dog-rescue program and asked if I would be willing to bring Ollie and tell our story to some inmates who are going through training to join the program. I was both excited and terrified as I pushed the button to end the call that night after saying I would come and talk to the prisoners. I was excited to share how grateful I am for my Ollie, but I was terrified because I'd never been inside of a prison before ... unless, of course, spending one night in the Red Bank jail back in Tennessee counts as a prison.

To say that going inside the prison a few nights ago was a surreal experience would be a gigantically huge understatement ... it was freaking over-the-top like nothing I have ever done or experienced in my entire life. Even though I've never committed a crime ... except for shoplifting a few pieces of booze candy from the Hickory Farms store at Northgate Mall when I was in junior high ... I was shocked by the intense wave of guilt and shame that washed through me as the first set of doors inside the prison locked behind me. I had anticipated being nervous and even frightened, but I sure didn't expect the sheer panic that pounced on me that evening ... and I most definitely didn't expect to feel like a criminal simply because of my surroundings. By the time the guards had escorted me to the room where the prisoners were gathered for their training session, I was sweating profusely and shaking like a leaf. Yep, that's right ... you can add the fear of being held inside a prison against my will to my list of irrational fears right next to my fear of flying and my fear of grass.

But when the guards opened the door to the room filled with prisoners, an inexplicable calmness settled over me ... the kind of calmness I've felt only a few times in my life ... the kind of calmness that made me know beyond the shadow of a doubt that my being there at the prison that night was no accident. I'm sure a couple of things go without saying, but just in case, I'll say them anyway. Ollie was a huge hit with the inmates that night, being showered with more love and attention than a wiener dog could ever dream of getting. And the other thing that probably goes without saying? I cried my eyes out as I spoke to the group of prisoners, as some of them did as well. Oh, and by the way, I was wrong ... as it seems I so often am these days ... about the man who nursed Mr. Oliver Chance Johnson back to health. He's a giant of a man ... a tall, muscular, bald, African American gentleman who looked absolutely nothing like I had pictured he would look. I was right about the eyes, though ... his eyes are a piercing green, and they're filled with far more compassion than a whole, whole, whole lot of people who are aren't living every day locked inside a prison.

As I drove home that night, I couldn't help but think about how many of us spend each day in our own prison, locked behind the bars of hate or greed or jealousy or anger or pride or deceit or fear or any of a million other chains we drag around every single day of our lives. And as I turned onto my street, I was overwhelmed by an even more troubling thought than the recognition that there are many different types of prisons ... I was overwhelmed by the thought that so many of us don't even realize that we've locked ourselves up and thrown the key into the darkest depths of the ocean.

Ollie is the new black ... hmmm ... sounds like a good title for a new Netflix series, eh?

Peek-a-Boo ... I See You

In case I haven't said it yet this season, fall is my favorite time of the year. I absolutely love the cool weather, the explosion of color on the trees, the crunch of the leaves under my feet as I walk on the trail, the mums and the pumpkins and the hay bales on the porches of my neighbors ... yep ... fall is most definitely my favorite time of the year. It's been a picture-perfect fall day here in KC today, so extraordinarily perfect that Ollie and I took two long walks ... one early this morning and one just before sunset this evening, which explains why my tired little hound is snuggled in behind my back sleeping like a baby.

Those of you who've been reading along with me for a while know that Mr. Ollie has quite the vicious streak when it comes to rabbits and squirrels. I won't recount all the gory details, but suffice it to say that if you see some three-legged bunnies and squirrels around my neighborhood, my ferocious little hunter dog is probably responsible for said animals' missing appendages. We haven't seen any rabbits out on the trail for a while, but every evening we see tons of squirrels scurrying about as they gather acorns and other nuts for the coming winter. And every single time he sees one, Ollie almost rips my arm out of the socket as he takes off after the furry little beasts while they make a mad dash for the trees. Well ... except for this one particular squirrel we encountered this evening, that is. Instead of racing over to a nearby tree to escape the barking, obviously crazed and not to be trusted wiener dog who was in hot pursuit of his hide, this particular squirrel had a different idea altogether.

If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn't have believed it ... Mr. Squirrel scampered over to a bench near the side of the trail and climbed onto the top and watched Ollie as he strained against his leash, barking like a banshee and trying with all his might to reach him. Nothing Ollie did rattled the squirrel ... he just sat there wiggling his tail, acorn in his mouth, watching my about to have a nervous breakdown dog with a calmness that only served to make Ollie even more frantic. Just as I was about to force Ollie to get back to walking, that stinking squirrel did something that stopped me dead in my tracks ... it started playing peek-a-boo with my dog. Really. Seriously. That squirrel held on to the top rail of the bench with his front paws and bobbed his head up and down behind the bench playing with Ollie. It worked, too ... my bark-o-maniac hound was so mesmerized by the game that he not only stopped barking, he sat down on his butt and watched for several minutes.

I know you're thinking I've finally crossed over into the land of lock me up and throw away the key crazy, but let me assure you that I'm well aware that squirrels and wiener dogs don't really play peek-a-boo. But I also know that the scene that unfolded before me this evening has caused me to really, really, really ponder how much I play peek-a-boo with the people I love and care about ... and I don't mean in a fun and playful way. I'm selective as to when, where and how I allow the people I love to see the real me ... to see who I really am ... to see what my mind really perceives to be truth ... to see the thoughts and feel the feelings that reside so deeply within me ... to see the love and concern that fills my heart ... to see me ... the very real me.

When I Skype with my granddaughters, we often play peek-a-boo ... I put my hat over my face or I pull my shirt up to hide behind, and then I say, "Where's Ghee?" And as Coraline and Amelie giggle and squeal, I reveal my face and shout, "Peek-a-boo! I see you!" Here's the thing, friends ... I think that's the only kind of peek-a-boo I want to play from now on. I don't want to just show up from time to time with the people I love or for the things I care about ... I want to be there every single moment, fully present, fully transparent, fully me.

Peek-a-boo ... I see you ... do you? 

Safe and Sound

Most days during the work week, I eat lunch at my desk ... except when I bring tuna for lunch, and then I eat in my car so the folks who sit near me don't have to smell it. But today, I ate lunch at The Mixx, and I had a quite delicious salad ... field greens, grilled chicken, feta cheese, edamame and sliced almonds, with blue cheese dressing on the side. I didn't eat there alone ... if you know me, you know I don't go out to eat alone ... I had lunch with an amazing young woman I met last year at a conference where I was speaking. She's a former professional soccer player and a successful businesswoman, owning one of the fastest growing gyms in Kansas City. I love the way she describes herself in her role as a personal trainer ... "I am one part best friend, one part sensei, one part street fighter, and final part cheerleader." She's an inspiration for sure, but even more, she's one of the nicest, kindest, most genuine gals I've ever known.

We talked about a lot of different things at lunch today, and I quickly realized that I could learn much from my young friend about what it means to accept who I am and live a truly authentic life. I nodded in understanding as she spoke about all the years she begged God to change her ... all the years she tried to pray the gay away. My heart swelled with emotion as she told me of the day when she was 17 and God let her know not only that He loved her, but that He created her to be exactly who she was. I smiled as she talked about her upcoming wedding to the love of her life, and I laughed as she giggled about where they're going for their honeymoon. I sat mesmerized as she spoke about the need we as women have to feel safe, of how we are always aware of our surroundings and of the intuitive sense we have when we're in a dangerous or threatening situation. I listened intently as she talked about how often she and her fiancee are asked if they are sisters and of times when they feel they can't hold hands or put their arms around each other because of what others may say or do. I nodded ... I empathized ... I smiled ... I understood ... I listened ... I learned.

Sometimes it's easy to get so wrapped up in all the stuff I've had to deal with since I came out that I don't always think about the stuff other gay folks go through every day of their lives as well. I told my friend today that I would have never known she was gay had she not told me ... and yes, a big gigantic shame on me for assuming she was straight because she's a beautiful, feminine woman ... and her reply shook me to my very core. 

"I have to come out every day, Terrie ... people look at me and assume I'm a straight female with a husband or boyfriend. Because I'm feminine and don't 'look gay,' I have to come out every time I meet someone new."

I never thought about that before my friend said what she did today ... I never once thought about the stuff that LGBT people who don't fit the stereotypical appearance mold that society dictates for those who are straight and those who are gay. But I can tell you I haven't been able to stop thinking about the stuff that she deals with every single day ... at least most people look at me and immediately pull out their gay card. I simply cannot imagine how difficult that must be ... having to come out time and time and time again ... saying that she's marrying a woman in a few months ... explaining and, in some cases, even justifying her sexuality over and over and over again. I never thought about it before, but you can bet I'm thinking about it now and you can also bet that I'll be thinking about it for a very, very long time.

So to you, my friend, thank you for lunching with me, but thank you for so very much more ... thank you for teaching me, for listening to me, for sharing with me, for  inspiring me. And thank you most of all for being the wonderful, kind, compassionate, giving person you are ... thank you for being you ... awesome you.

Not Just A

Last week, someone told me I was "just a proofreader" and that was all I would ever be. And those words hurt my feelings ... well, at first they hurt my feelings anyway. But the more I stewed on being hurt, the more I shifted from being hurt to being angry. And believe it or not, sometimes I do my best, most down to the core of my soul thinking when I'm angry. Maybe it's because I don't get angry often ... maybe those deep thoughts are there all the time but they're locked away, waiting for those rare times when I get downright good and pissed off. (Sorry for using the "p" word, but it's really the only one that fits.)

Here's the thing ... the person's "you're just a proofreader and that's all you'll ever be" statement last week has made me think a ton about all the times I've either been told I was "just a" something or, even worse, when I've used those words ... those "just a" words ... to describe myself. And in thinking about those times when I've been defined by others or defined myself according to those "just a" words, something unusual happened ... something kind of cool, I think ... something ... well ... something like this ...

I'm not "just a" mom ... I'm a mom to three successful, intelligent, loving, caring adult children. I'm not "just a mom" ... I'm a mom who raised my kids on my own. I'm not "just a mom" ... I'm a mom who worked my rear off to provide for my kids. I'm not "just a" mom ... I'm a mom who will always be there to listen to my kids no matter what. I'm not "just a" mom ... I'm a mom who would die for my kids if they were in danger. I'm not "just a" mom ... I'm a mom who loves my kiddos more than I love myself.

I'm not "just a" grandmother to my two sweet granddaughters ... I'm their Ghee. I'm not "just a" grandmother ... I'm their Ghee who buys double copies of books so that we can read together on Skype. I'm not "just a" grandmother ... I'm their Ghee who got on an airplane for the first time in 25 years because of them. I'm not "just a" grandmother ... I'm their Ghee who tells them stories and plays princesses with them. I'm not "just a" grandmother ... I'm their Ghee who will always listen anytime they need to talk. I'm not "just a" grandmother ... I'm their Ghee who loves them more than I ever knew I could love anyone.

I'm not "just a" friend ... I'm a friend who is loyal and faithful to a fault. I'm not "just a" friend ... I'm a friend who will be there when everyone else goes away. I'm not "just a" friend ... I'm a friend you can call in the middle of the night if you need to talk. I'm not "just a" friend ... I'm a friend who will hug you simply because you need a hug. I'm not "just a" friend ... I'm a friend who will listen even when you have nothing to say. I'm not "just a" friend ... I'm a friend who will cry with you when you're hurting. I'm not "just a" friend ... I'm a friend who loves you just because you're you.

I'm not "just a" lot of other things, too ... I'm not "just a" whole, whole, whole lot of other things, too. I'm not "just a" sister ... I'm not "just a" Christian ... I'm not "just a" speaker ... I'm not "just a" writer ... I'm not "just a" doggie mama ... I'm not "just a" co-worker ... I'm not "just a" neighbor ... I'm not "just a" woman ... I'm not "just a" patient. Oh, and by the way, I'm not "just a" proofreader ... I'm a senior editor, and a really darn good one at that.

Words matter, friends ... they matter so very much. Think before you speak ... care before you talk ... love and don't become the "just a" rain on someone else's parade.

"Four things you can't recover: the stone after it's thrown, the word after it's spoken, the occasion after it's missed, the time after it's gone." --- Deanna Wadsworth

Pick Me

Though I'm abundantly certain that some of you were completely convinced when you saw the title of tonight's post that it would be about the utter grossness of picking one's nose, please allow me to assure you that is not my subject matter for the evening. However ... it feels almost cruel for me to dash the hopes of all you nose-picking story lovers out there, so I'll share just one little bitty thoroughly disgusting nose-picking story just for you. 

One of my three children, who shall remain nameless, was somewhat obsessed with picking his or her nose when he or she was young. I remember telling said child time and time again that nose picking is nasty and telling said child to stop, to no avail. In fact, said child took nose picking to a whole new level when he or she would pick his or her nose and wipe the boogies on the edge of his or her pillowcase in a perfectly straight line, hence the nickname that was bestowed upon said child ... Booger-I (pronounced "Booger-Eye") Picker-I (pronounced "Picker-Eye"). Before you ask, I don't know why that was the chosen nickname for the nose-picking kiddo ... it just was. And yes, said now adult child still receives a great deal of razzing from his or her siblings concerning the pillowcase booger lineup.

I know you may find this hard to believe considering my current athletic prowess, but it wasn't until my late junior high years that I was actually considered to be a good athlete. In fact, in the spirit of being open, honest, real and transparent, I was more of a dork than a jock when I was a kid. Don't get me wrong, I wanted to be good at sports ... I desperately wanted to be the one who was first pick for the kickball team at recess rather than the embarrassed, skinny, shy little kid who was without fail always the one last chosen. Yep, I was that kid ... the kid the team captains dreaded having on their team. I remember watching the group of kids get smaller and smaller as the captains made their choices ... I remember wanting to scream at the top of my lungs, "Pick me! Pick me! Please, please, please pick me!" 

Now lest you go feeling all sorry for me, I would remind you that I ended up being the best second basewoman on a softball team that won several championships, and ... this one's for you, Matt and Brad ... I played a mean game of tennis in my day. But ... but ... but ... I had to work hard and practice day in and day out to become a jock ... I wasn't by any means a natural-born athlete. I've thought a lot about those days over the years ... those days of not being picked for the teams at recess ... and I've come to the conclusion that those times of rejection and ridicule actually made me more determined to try with all my might to get better. It was not being picked that made me spend countless hours shooting basketball on the driveway ... it was not being picked that made me smack a tennis ball against a concrete wall until it was too dark to see ... it was not being picked that made me throw a baseball a million times to one of those old-fashioned pitch-back net thingies in the backyard. It was not being picked that made me try harder ... it was not being picked that made me all the more determined to get better ... it was not being picked that made me appreciate it so much more when I was.

As I drove home from work on this damp, chilly, gray evening, I couldn't help but think about how some things never change. In so many ways, we're still the little kids on the kickball court at recess begging not to be the last one picked. The teams are different, but the feelings and emotions are the same ... we don't want to be that kid ... the kid no one wants ... the kid no one sees ... the kid no one appreciates ... the kid no one believes in ... the kid no one thinks is good enough. Not one of us wants to be that kid, and yet we've probably all either been there at one time or another in our lives or are still there even today. Looking back, I'm not sure why I didn't just throw in the towel on playing kickball ... perhaps it was because I was destined to learn some valuable lessons about perseverance ... about being different ... about not giving up. Or perhaps it was because the teachers made me play ... maybe it was because they saw something in me that I didn't see in myself ... maybe.

Pick me ... two very powerful little words those are ... pick me.

Of Mites and Men

I've learned a lot of lessons along the way since I began writing this blog way back in 2008, not the least of which is that there is absolutely no way to please everyone who reads my posts. There are people who complain about what I write about and those who complain about what I don't write about. There are people who think I write too often and those who think I don't write often enough. There are people who fuss that my posts are too long and those who fuss that they're too short. There just simply is no way that I can please everyone no matter how hard I try. Which is why tonight, following an especially rousing round of email reading earlier this evening, I've decided to write about a subject that many will find controversial or not in good taste or perhaps even offensive ... sorry, but it's a subject that I quite literally need to get off of my chest before I go insane. 

As I sit here typing this post, I'm desperately fighting the urge to scratch the multitude of bug bites on my neck, back, arms and yes, even my breasts. That's right ... from my boobs up, I've got the most painful, itchy bug bites I've ever had in my entire life. When they first started popping up a couple of weeks ago, I thought they were chigger or mosquito bites ... but I typically get bites from those two types of critters on my legs or around my waist rather than on the top part of my body. And for all the chigger and mosquito bites I've had, I've never had even one that itched like the bites I have now ... I've gone through a whole large tube of Benedryl cream just since Saturday in an attempt to keep myself from scratching my skin off. And there's another thing about these bites that's different ... on top of being the bites from hell when it comes to itching, they're painful. These stupid bites itch like crazy and they hurt ... they hurt like a zit hurts, only worse.

Just when I was beginning to think the bug bites weren't actually bug bites at all but rather zombie venom that was somehow being injected into my upper torso while I slept, my two walking buddies told me about oak mites. Oak mites ... not mosquitoes, not chiggers and certainly not zombie venom ... oak mites. Apparently, the microscopic little jerks fall from the leaves of oak trees, and this year in the Midwest there's an infestation of the creatures that hasn't been seen in more than 10 years. The little suckers are so small that you can't see them and worse still, you don't even know you've been bitten until a couple of days later when you're scratching and clawing like a crazy person. I've officially come to the conclusion that I really hate oak mites and should I get to heaven one day, I fully intend to have a strongly worded conversation with the Big Guy himself as to why He created such loathsome creatures.

So what's the lesson? What's my "here's the thing" for tonight's post? Stay away from oak trees ... you just might have a whole flock of oak mites jump on your head. Go ahead ... think about that one for a while ... think about it for a good long while.

Maybe a Motorcycle

When I was a kid, I had a blue and silver mini-bike with a black leather seat. I loved that crazy mini-bike and I thought I was totally hot stuff when I rode it back and forth on mom and dad's long concrete driveway and all around the yard. That's right, people ... I was a mini-bike stud back in the day, especially when I was dressed in my green Army pants and hiking boots. I'd bet my old mini-bike's top speed wasn't more than 25 mph, but it may as well have been the fastest Harley ever made as far as I was concerned. Though in reality I never left home on my mini-bike, in my imagination I was riding over the hills in Ireland or down cobblestone streets in Mexico or across the beaches of California or through the snow in Iceland. Yep ... I had many a grand adventure on that little blue and silver mini-bike ... many a grand adventure indeed.

A few weeks ago I was asked the following question: "What one word would describe how you feel about your life in general at this moment in time?" Almost immediately I replied, "Unsettled." I didn't pause to contemplate ... I didn't hesitate from uncertainty ... I didn't need time to think it over. "Unsettled," I said again ... "I just feel unsettled." I've thought a lot about both that question and my answer as well, and quite honestly, I'm a little troubled by how quickly the answer presented itself in my mind. Unsettled isn't the word I want to describe how I feel about my life ... I'd rather the word be happy or excited or fun or blessed ... but unsettled? Really, seriously ... the first word that pops into my mind is unsettled? What does that even mean? Routine or dull or even lonely would be better words than unsettled.

Me being me, I looked up the definition of unsettled, and I was more than a little surprised by what I read ... "feeling nervous, upset or worried" and "not yet finally decided or dealt with." Don't worry, I'll say what we're all thinking ... that's just plain old downright creepy. I was still rolling all of the info about the definition around in my head as I drove home from work when another thought pushed its way into my mind. "I know what I need ... I need a motorcycle." I'm not quite sure what a motorcycle could possibly have to do with making me not feel unsettled; in fact, more than likely, it would just make me feel more unsettled. It's probably a good thing I'm too chicken and too broke to buy one ... it's probably a really good thing.

But then again ... maybe a motorcycle ...