Author: Sarah Brewer

I know, this isn’t just one word. And I didn’t ask for anyone to give me this word – or, I suppose I should say, phrase. I’ve been stuck in a small rut lately and, while I’m not truly ready to come out of it, I know it’s time to do it anyway. My rut-loving self wants to stay in bed all day and pull the covers over my head and tell the world to leave me alone. But I can’t. I have to get on with my life.

Two weeks ago I went home. My primary reason was to go see Peter Frampton with my BFF, James. He bought tickets a long time ago so I knew I’d be flying back to Ohio  in early August to see my musical Idol (the concert was phenomenal, by the way, Peter never fails his fans). Anyway, the other reason I went back to Ohio was to go through my mom’s belongings that had been stored in my dad’s hangar. He just recently moved from German Village to Bexley and the house that he and my mother shared had been cleared of all the stuff he wouldn’t be taking with him.

Entry into the hangar was overwhelming. There were boxes and boxes of stuff to go through and while I often got discouraged with just how much stuff there was, I kept at it. Fueled by Mtn Dew and a strong will to find my mom’s Limoges collection (which I did eventually find).

There were things I knew I’d come across, like her china and glassware, but then there were small surprises along the way, like her collection of glass frogs that she seemed obsessed with collecting. I’m not talking about a frog as in the animal, but something that is used to to hold flowers in place in a vase. Look it up if you’re curious. Mom had a ton of these. The funny thing is, I don’t know if she ever even used them. Mom was a master gardener and had glorious flowers to display, but I’m not sure she ever cut her flowers in order to use her prized frogs. I wonder why that is?

Why are there things that we collect or hold onto that seem to fit perfectly into our lives yet we let them go unused? Just the thought of this stirs something inside of me that something is terribly wrong in my life. I’ve wasted so much time collecting for an event that is never going to come or is just waiting for me to grab it but I’ve been too afraid.

I’m getting ahead of myself. The true treasure in those boxes weren’t her frogs. She loved them and they made her happy but they were just something to collect to fill the hole she apparently had in her heart. But way in the back of the hanger was a box that was severely damaged. It was a box that had seen better days and I’m assuming had been in the hangar for a very long time. I started to precariously sort through a box that had been long abandoned – visited by mice – inhabited by spiders. Inside that box were treasures that my sister and I had created as children. At first I was a little offended that she had obviously moved this box to the hangar herself since it had been there so long. Why didn’t she want to keep these treasures in her home? Then, I dug deeper. I found pictures. Pictures of her high school friends. Then her yearbook. Unfortunately, that could’t be saved. It had gotten wet along the way and it was beyond repair – just like her graduation cap. Both had been destroyed.

Then the box. A Prince Albert cigar box that was obviously from the late 50’s. I opened it to find mementos. A long faded corsage. A rusted button from a pep rally. A program from a play she had been in. Removing these items one by one slowly revealed handwritten notes on the bottom of the box. Dates she had listed that had been important to her. Meeting a boy. A first date. Things that altered her life. Things that had been important to her. Things that made her happy back when life was a dream to be achieved. Before other things – like being an adult – got in the way.

I broke down. It wasn’t the first time I cried that day, but it was certainly the hardest. Where did her life go? And why was I finding it inside of a crusty, mouse-poop filled box?

I think the thing that hit me the hardest was that I have a box like this, too. And I thought we had nothing in common all these years. My box is filled with things that other people have given me. Notes that meant something to me. A smiley face on a post-it note from a friend on a particularly bad day. An uneaten (and now petrified) Power Bar from a pastor who saved me from passing out at the DMV. Things that make me happy. My box is beside my bed. I get it out every so often when I need a boost. I looked in my box as soon as I got back from Ohio. It didn’t take away the pain of my mother being gone but my box sure does have a whole new meaning now that I know my mother and I shared something so sacred.

We’re both dreamers. We kept our boxes to ourselves. The desires of our hearts. The love we hoped we’d never lose but inevitably did. I’m trying to learn from my heartaches and move on. I’m not sure what she did with her heartaches but I’m pretty sure it went into collecting things that really didn’t mean the world to her.

I want to use my collections. I want to use my gifts. I’m tired of hiding them in a box just waiting for someone to find them after I’m gone.

I’m sure someone might find that as a treasure someday, but why am I waiting until then? I’m opening my heart shaped box for everyone to see.

I have nothing to lose.

In 1993 I was a social worker for a mental health facility in Columbus, Ohio. My job was to rehabilitate people living in the state hospital – mostly schizophrenics – to the point where they could function in the community. Why would I do this, you ask? Well, state hospitals cost a lot of money to run, so the Reagan administration threw out a big word called “deinstitutionalization,” which basically means “let’s throw all the mentally ill out on the street”. Many of the folks I worked with had been in the hospital for years. They had no idea how to do laundry or to balance a check book or cook a meal, so that’s where I came in. After all, I was in my early 20’s. I had finished college two years before. I knew how to clean up after myself and cook my own meals, but interestingly enough, I still lived with my parents. I hadn’t been deinstitutionalized myself.

In July of 1993 I was sitting in my psychiatrists office. I was still reeling from the deaths of a couple of my clients who had no business being released from the hospital. That was, unfortunately, part of the process. Release all these people and see what happens. Some will fly. Most will sink. A few will die. I just couldn’t wrap my head around this particular job. I hated it. I wanted to leave it so I came up with a plan. I was going to take a break and move to Colorado for one ski season. I would come back to social work – perhaps in a different capacity – after one ski season. As I was working on this plan with my doctor I kept fiddling with a lump in my neck. My psychiatrist noticed that I was poking at something and mentioned that I should get it checked out soon. I told him I would.

Within a week, I was diagnosed with thyroid cancer. Don’t worry, it wasn’t a “bad cancer” – I mean, it wasn’t neuroblastoma for crying out loud – but it still required me to go through treatment. I had a couple of surgeries and some radiation therapy. Five year follow-up. Anticipated that I would survive for a long time. Blah, blah, blah. But to my 25-year-old self, I decided that it was time to get on with my life.

I quit my job and, as soon as I had enough range of motion to turn my head, I drove all the way to Colorado. I got a job with what eventually turned into Vail Resorts. My first job was as a hostess. Then I moved to the front desk, which lead to a management job. Then I got my dream job as an interviewer in the HR department. I love to talk. I love to match people with jobs. I love to talk people down from their fear of taking a drug test. I had reached my job nirvana.

I got a call from my supervisor stating that the marketing department was going to a trade show and one of the marketing folks had come down with a cold and couldn’t go. The company had already paid for two employees to go and they didn’t want to lose out on the airfare/room so they made a really weird decision to send an HR person. I was the chosen one. My supervisor told me that she didn’t expect me to hire anyone while I was there – this trade show was geared toward condo sales and selling season tickets – so there was absolutely no pressure on me to perform. Wait. You mean I’m going to get paid to go on a road trip, have an expense account, and there’s absolutely no expectations of me? Sign me up!

The next day, I jumped a plane to Portland, Oregon. I immediately fell in love with this place. The beautiful shades of green. The constant precipitation. How clean everything smelled. It was beautiful. I checked into the hotel and met my “teammate,” a super suave dude named Mark. He was all about making the sale and, while he didn’t really understand the point of my being there, was glad to have the company. We went out for dinner and planned our line of attack: he was going to sell a lot of condos and lift tickets. I was going to look cute and pass out candy (this trip just happened to fall on Halloween).

I’m not sure what happened once I arrived to that big room filled with tables and booths. I was in my element. Every person that came to us got an earful of how much I loved Keystone Resort and how it changed my life. I would give them a tootsie roll in exchange for Sarah’s story of How I Became An Adult. By the end of my yarn people were so entranced that they wanted to buy a condo AND a season pass. And, lo and behold, five people wanted a job. I told them, of course, that they’d have to pass a drug test.

Five Portlanders came to me that ski season. They had the time of their lives and two of them returned for a second season. I was never so proud. I feel like I taught them how to fly. And that was something I was never able to teach my schizophrenic patients.

I am confident that I truly knew who I was when I lived in Summit County, Colorado. My one ski season turned into eight years. Of course, I didn’t have the cares that I have now, but that time of my life is when I truly became an adult. I knew what I wanted. I understood “Sarah”. I don’t know when I lost sight of that, but I often mourn that I didn’t stay in touch with that girl….

I think I’m going to have to look her up.

Sean Reid gave me this word. It’s technically two words but I knew I had to write about it. I generally don’t like to do too much thinking about the words I’m given but I went into a bit of a mourning period when I saw “trade show”. I’m so sad that I’ve given up so much of myself to things I just can’t control. I’ve forgotten how to live.

I haven’t known Sean for very long. I’ve met him a couple of times and we talk often enough so I know that I sincerely like this person. He’s smart and funny and ultimately very caring. He lost his young daughter a few years ago and understands what it means to face adversity and struggle with the tough stuff life throws at him, yet he’s still standing. I admire that. Plus, his mom and dad are super awesome. I put in a bid to be adopted by them over a year ago, I think we’re still tangled up in paperwork. Thanks, Sean, for your friendship. I sincerely hope to call you “brother” some day.

Warning: Could be deemed as PG-13+ material!

Ah, the old double entendre. A word that in a straight forward manner means one thing but then alternately takes on a more risqué meaning, much to the delight of 12-year-old boys everywhere. I can see them now, huddled together in the schoolyard snickering to each other as they say, “hee hee, she said “plow.”

My dear friend, James, states that boys are suddenly faced with arrested development of a sexual nature when they hit the seventh grade. Oh, they can go on to become intellectually astute and worldly and all that jazz, but when it comes to girls, they can’t get past the maturity of a thirteen-year-old. I don’t know if this is true but, I guess when it comes down to it, I cannot think of a single boy I’ve dated who has progressed past this chronological milestone. Oh wait! My first spouse is an excellent example. He never talked about sex at all, which I’m not sure if that is better than a relationship with a perpetual 13-year-old who jumps up and down at the sight of boobies.

In order to maintain my PG-13 rating I’ll stop with this. I mean, I just wrote “boobies” for crying out loud. This can only go one way from here.

So, let’s talk about the more straight forward meaning of plow. Growing up in Ohio I experienced snow once in a while, most notably the Blizzard of ’78. I was nine at the time. We were without power for several days but luckily we had a fireplace, loads of sleeping bags, and a cribbage board to see us through. This was an important phase of my life because I realized that toilet paper waved over the flame of a candle ignites and burns rather rapidly. It was one of the scarier moments of my life, not because I was afraid of catching on fire but I knew my mom would kill me if she ever found out that I singed the rug behind the toilet in the back bathroom. As far as I know, she never discovered my secret. Once the power came back on and the plows came out, our lives could carry on. I remember that the first thing on TV when the power came back on was the Mary Tyler Moore show. I’ve loved her ever since.

Somewhere along the way I developed a severe fondness for the white stuff called snow. After my set-back with thyroid cancer in 1993 I decided to head west to spend a single ski season in what I thought was the most beautiful place on earth: Keystone, Colorado. My single ski season turned into eight years of mostly bliss. One day while I was at work the snow started dumping. We got several feet within a couple of hours. When my shift was over I got in my little Ford Escort with studded tires to start my seven-mile journey home. At this particular time in Summit County I lived up in Wildernest, which is a fairly steep drive up the base of Buffalo Mountain. I lived near the top of the developed portion of the mountain. As I crept through the deserted streets of Wildernest I became more and more concerned that my sweet little Escort just wasn’t going to make it. I kept repeating words of encouragement to my Escort, asking – no, pleading – for her to make it just a few more blocks. But then, she stopped. There was no going forward. No going backward. I was smack in the middle of the street. I sat in my Escort not knowing what to do. Just before the mounting snow entirely covered my windshield I saw a snow plow round the corner and head in the opposite direction. I bolted out of my car and started waving my arms like a maniac. I had my stupid little work flats on, which had minimal traction. It was much like Fred Flintstone trying to find his footing before taking off in a run. I finally caught the driver’s attention and motioned back towards my car. He turned around and started heading my way. Whew!

Unfortunately, I had to leave my car in the middle of the street but the nice plow driver gave me a ride home. As I was getting out of the truck and was nearly knee-deep in the new fallen snow, I looked up at my hero and said “I just can’t keep up with how fast it’s coming.”

And thinking back on it all I’m quite confident he said to his 13-year-old self, “That’s what she said.”

YIKES! I almost forgot to thank Nancy VonMinden for today’s word choice. THANKS, NANCY! I’ve known Nancy for about six years. She was Madeline’s preschool teacher but, thankfully, our relationship continued to grow over the years. Nancy is one of the most REAL people I know. She LOVES life! It’s just not possible to be in a bad mood when you’re around her. I love how she is passionate about her beliefs but never judges anyone if they don’t agree with her. She is intelligent. She is funny. She is infectious. She is giving. She does a mean monkey impersonation. And she loves me back. How cool is that? You’re the cat’s pajamas, Nancy. I love you lots.

“Say Cheese!” The photographer shouted his command at me, which made my cat’s claws sink deeper into my shoulder. Mom warned me that taking Prissy to be photographed was NOT a good idea. I thought her negativity revolved around the fact that Prissy would shed all over my sweet JC Penney velour pantsuit, not the fact that Prissy would rip me to shreds under the harsh lighting and crying babies at our local Olan Mills studio. I insisted we take the temperamental Siamese cat who was famous for not playing well with others. But what did I know? I was only 11.

I love looking back on that picture and remembering the outtakes: me holding Prissy at arm’s length as she turned into one of those cartoonish balls of movement – scrambling so fast that you could only see lines and color – kinda like Andy Capp when he fought with his wife. I just know I turned my head to save my eyeballs from corneal damage, or better yet, actual loss. She was NOT a happy cat. We traveled back to Olan Mills two weeks later to look at the proofs, which only documented her severe unhappiness. If you put all the pictures together and thumbed through them at top speed it would make for a hysterical “flip book.” I scratched around the bandaids protecting my healing flesh wounds as the photographer begged us to choose “the best one”. A “best one” didn’t exist. But since this was a Christmas photo – I had my sweet velour pantsuit on – we had to choose one in a timely fashion. We went with the one of me looking like I was about to get my eyes scratched out with Prissy’s claws embedded into my vest, a look of pure evil emanating from her eyes. I learned my lesson after that session: NO MORE CATS IN PROFESSIONAL PHOTOS. But I have to admit that I’m glad to have proof that I lived through yet another crisis. And, I think that’s the only picture I have of Prissy.

I love pictures. I have thousands of them. Even before I had children I was a shutterbug. I especially love my photos from the 70’s. I took a lot of pictures of my best girlfriends while having one of our famous sleepovers. Nearly every single party had at least one girl running off to the bathroom to cry over something somebody said. I was always right there to comfort them (early proof that I would eventually go into social work) and then once everyone made up I’d take a picture of all of us. It was a weird little ritual but pre-teenage girls ARE weird. Ugh. I’m reminded that I’ll have a pre-teen shortly. Anyway, I loved gathering my group of buddies and yelling out “Say Cheese!” before snapping a pic.

In going through my pictures from days gone by I love coming across photos of people who have died. It’s always bittersweet and overwhelming when I realize just how many friends and family members I’ve lost. But how wonderful to have the memories preserved to remind us that there was a time when we could smile when someone asked us to “Say Cheese”. Before the heart attack. Before old age. Before suicide. Before cancer.

In my mind, when I look through these pictures, it reminds me I have to keep living. I have yet another day to “Say Cheese.” And that is priceless.

Thank you, Laura Lukacs, for CHEESE. I know it didn’t go along the lines of curdling and molding and all that jazz, but my mind rarely operates that way! While I didn’t know Laura at school, we both attended Watkins Memorial, and both of us have moved far away from “home”. Her favorite quote is “I reject your reality and substitute my own.” I couldn’t agree with that more! Thank you for sharing, Laura, and thanks for supporting me on my new journey. <3

Historically speaking, when a Dalai Lama dies, a very lengthy process takes place in choosing the next one. It involves quite a lot of mystical stuff, like which way the smoke of the funeral pyre blows and then – most importantly – what toy the child picks from the line-up of the former Dalai Lama’s personal artifacts. See, the Dalai Lama is believed to be reincarnated, so when the child who gets through the initial interview process for the Lama-ship is presented with the Former Lama’s toys, he should say “Hey! That was mine!” Then, after he chooses what was previously his, he is rewarded with a life full of exile and strife, and, of course, a book tour of the United States.

Now, on my 30 minute exercises I don’t have time to research my writing, so I don’t know if any of this is true. I’m relying on what I’ve learned in my earlier studies and I’ll be the first to admit that my 44-year-old brain is a little rusty. All I know is if I’m reincarnated (which I don’t believe that I am) I keep choosing the wrong freaking toy. I’m trying to leave a post-it note in my rusted out brain for my next trip into this realm (for when I’m wrong about the whole reincarnation thing) to remind me to step away from the freaking Fisher Price toys. They haven’t served me well at all.

I know that I’m incredibly hard on myself. It’s been a trait that I’ve fostered my entire life so I’ve become quite an expert at self-deprecation. I was never as pretty or smart as my sister. I’ve not measured up to my education; I’m an overqualified for and under experienced for everything. I’ve failed more than I’ve succeeded. It’s a chore living this life. And I think I’ll blame it on Fisher Price toys.

They were my favorite. I had the village (which was surprisingly similar to my hometown, minus the jail), the A-Frame schoolhouse (and the bus), the boat, the airport, the house, the farm… I loved them all dearly. And, for some reason, I liked to chew the braids off the little blonde girls’ hair. Maybe that’s why this life hasn’t worked out according to plan? I’m poisoned by ingesting all that plastic. Surely that affects the old brain waves.  I know that Fisher Price has stopped manufacturing the little girls with braids. Perhaps there’s a whole slew of girls like me who haven’t had their lives work out according to plan because they chewed the hair of their Fisher Price dolls? In my quest to further my education so I’ll become even MORE overqualified and under appreciated, perhaps I will do my doctoral thesis on that very topic.

I’m still big into toys, however. I graduated from Fisher Price to Barbies (very short-lived) which made way into music. Music, you ask? Yes, it can be a toy of sorts. Collecting albums, cassettes, CD’s, and, of course, making sculptures out of those yellow disc inserts for 45’s. Those were also good to use as plates for Barbie. It just takes a little imagination.

I guess that’s what it all comes down to: imagination. And I have that in spades. My brain is my very favorite toy. It might be a little rusty and becoming a bit antiquated, but I have no intention of setting it on a shelf in its original packaging waiting for someone to pay me a fortune for it on eBay. Nobody will ever pay me what it’s truly worth. It’s mine. I’m keeping it. And I’ll use it until I get some terrible brain dissolving disease from eating all that plastic during my youth.

Thank you, Annie Adler, for supplying today’s word. You are a sweet and sensitive soul and I’m glad to call you my friend. We’re alike in many ways (although I’m sure you were smart enough to not eat plastic) so the connection we have is very special to me. You’re smart, funny, and appreciate the difference between they’re, their, and there. That means more to me than I could ever express.

Thanks for being my friend for all these years. I treasure our conversations and look forward to knowing you until our brains rust out completely.

“Let me see that again,” I questioned my seven-year-old son as he was brushing his teeth. There was a white spot was on his tongue, something I hadn’t noticed before, and something I knew shouldn’t be there. I took his toothbrush from him and tried with all my might – short of making his tongue bleed, of course – to get that white spot off of his tongue. It didn’t respond. But as Ben started to gag from my overzealous wielding of his toothbrush I decided to give it a rest.

Honestly, I put it out of my mind for the next few hours. As we were eating lunch I asked him again to stick out his tongue. The spot was still there. Now, I have a wildly overactive imagination but I could have sworn it had grown in size since brushing his teeth earlier in the day. I was hoping that my persistence with scrubbing the affected area wasn’t the reason why it appeared to be larger. I was confident that if we didn’t get in touch with his doctor before the day was over that it would grow to astronomical proportions and perhaps even be speaking by the end of the day. I could imagine it saying “Feed me, Seymour,” or “Hi! My name is Cancer!” Either dialogue was completely unwelcome.

Before the week was over we had visited his pediatrician and had a surgical consult lined up. The word “biopsy” was put out there which made me run to my panic room with my tail between my legs. Ben had technically been cancer free for three years but with the amount of treatment we had to subject him to they warned us that secondary cancers could rear their ugly head at any time. Not only were we threatened with the fact that Neuroblastoma was more than likely to return (which it unfortunately eventually did), we had to live with the fear that other cancers might decide to move in, too.

He’d been through the process before – at least 50 times – and I’m always slightly offended when the surgical department asks during their initial round of questioning “Would you like a tour of the facility?” or “Is your son nervous about his trip to the hospital?” Are you freaking kidding me? We’re not newbies to this world of surgical procedures. I have his medical record number memorized from all three facilities where Ben has been treated. In my wildest of daydreams I envision a ceremony where they retire his “number” and all the kids can look up at his “jersey” and say, “Wow. That Ben Brewer. He’s my hero. He is one of the greats.”

So, back to the tongue. The biopsy relayed the fairly benign news that it was leukoplakia. While it’s not a threat on its own, it is a condition where cells multiply quickly (gulp) and can be a precursor to cancer. We were right to get it taken care of immediately. In usual “Ben fashion”, he sailed through the procedure without issue and came away with a single, solitary stitch right in the middle of his tongue. He wasn’t happy about it. Later, before bed,  he decided that he’d had enough of that stitch and pulled it right out of his tongue. I know! HE PULLED IT OUT HIMSELF! Kinda makes me wonder why they didn’t offer us a “cone” after his procedure so he’d keep his hands away from it. Regardless, it healed just fine, and – despite an eventual relapse of the original beast – he’s gone on to live a fairly normal life. He is one tough dude.

And, he’s got a conversation piece to get girls close to his face when he reaches the age when that might be appealing.

Holy Cannoli, Joe Grande. Tongue? I was horrified as my initial thoughts swirled around the task of writing something that wouldn’t be rated NC17.

Seriously though, I cannot tell you what you and your wife mean to me. You two know how to rock the unconditional love! I admire the strength of your relationship and the love that you shower upon your children. I’m so happy and honored to be a part of your extended family.

Thank you for encouraging me to let my light shine. Thank you for opening my eyes to new outlets to showcase my creativity. And when I finally get up the nerve to do my stand-up routine, I hope you’ll be in the audience (but don’t let me know you’re there before I do my set!) I love you guys. Unconditionally.

“Any kind of love without passion ain’t no kind of lovin’ at all.” ~The Eagles

That first electric spark that melds into a soul redeeming kiss that makes you forget the concept of time. Everything stands still yet rushes with great urgency toward the moment you know is coming but can’t bear to face – the moment you have to let go. Trying to memorize the way it feels. Physically. Emotionally. Spiritually. Capturing the scents and sounds. Begging for it to stay forever. Knowing it can’t. At least, not until the next time you’re together.

I believe that I’ve loved as best as I can in my previous relationships but admittedly, it’s been far from perfect. I think the reasoning behind that is that I haven’t been passionate about those I’ve been in serious “committed” relationships with. Except one. And that’s a story I’m currently trying to work through. With the other boys there wasn’t a deep need or desire. There wasn’t the connection. They didn’t win my heart. I’ll be the first to admit that my heart isn’t easily won. My heart has a soft and gooey center but is surrounded by chainmail with a necklace of barbed wire that occasionally has the electric fence engaged. It’s pretty difficult to get through to the good stuff… and beating at it like a pinata will get you nowhere. Unfortunately, I don’t always pick the best boys. That’s my fatal flaw. So, until I can feel secure in knowing that my heart doesn’t need to suit up like it belongs in medieval jousting tournament I guess I’ll just have to muddle through. It’s coming though. I can feel it. Or maybe it’s just gas.

But passion isn’t just about boys. I have many other passions, two of them being my Ben and Madeline. I’m so grateful for my incredible children. We’ve made a “summer of fun” list and are diligently making our way through it. It’s fun to cross things off our white board that we’ve put up. I’m passionate about making this summer one to remember. Plus, there’s so many cool things to do in this state that we haven’t done yet.

I used to be passionate about Colorado. I loved the majestic beauty of the mountains and the peace I felt whenever I was reveling in the glory of the outdoors. Unfortunately, much of that has gone. I don’t know if it’s because the last few years have been so physically and emotionally exhausting or what. I am disappointed. I just don’t feel the peace here that I once did. I think it’s because I’ve been living in so much fear. It’s suffocating, which is ironic because there’s so much wide open space. Maybe we’ll make up someday, but for now, we’re just roommates. We can only co-exist.

This new writing exercise has restored my passion for creating. I love this new format and I love incorporating my friends into my little project. It’s energizing! Passion renewed! I love the 30 minutes I spend on each story so much that I’m always disappointed when it’s over. And I love thinking about the people who are encouraging me along on this journey. I’m reminded that I have so many people who love and care for me. I enjoy thinking about these friends in more than just passing. I think we’ll become more passionate about those we love if we just take a little extra time to be grateful for them. I know I am.

Time’s up!

Andy Felty, for whatever reason I could not get you out of my mind when I was writing about changing the format of my blog. I knew you’d be on my list of people to solicit a word from and this topic was, indeed, extremely challenging. It was so difficult to not edit and re-edit as I was writing. Thirty minutes was definitely not enough. I love that we’ve known each other for eons. I love your confidence and your sense of self. I love that you’ve offered your support over the years. Showing your bravery through similar trials – in your fight with cancer as well as your son’s battle was more helpful than I could ever let you know. Thanks for supplying me with hope and encouraging me to be brave. You ROCK!

It’s no secret that I’m a rural girl, having grown up in a village of about 500 folks in the middle of Nowhere, Ohio. Kirkersville was a one-stoplight town. At the time of my upbringing it had two bars and three churches, a carry out, an ice cream joint, a funeral parlor, a fire station, an elementary school and an Exxon station about a mile outside of town that eventually got flattened by a tornado. Oh, and corn fields as far as the eye could see.

As a small girl my favorite ways to pass the time were as follows: popping the tar bubbles in the asphalt on a hot summer day; playing down at the creek; hiking back to the old quarry; riding my banana-seated Huffy on an endless loop around town; batting tennis balls against the wall of the elementary school; finding a way to climb onto the top of the school building to retrieve my tennis balls; and getting lost in a corn field. I was alone most of the time and I had no issues with finding ways to entertain myself. And I can’t even say that times were “different” then – that it was completely safe to wander such a small neighborhood in the middle of nowhere. It wasn’t. You see, Central Ohio was terrorized by a couple of brothers known as “The .22-caliber Killers” and one of ’em lived in my neighborhood. I played in that house once in a while. And this was at the height of their reign. I had no way of knowing – no one did. It’s frightening to think that we really don’t “know” each other. Despite our best efforts we, unfortunately, find ourselves in the midst of bad people on occasion.

On the flip-side, Kirkersville is also the home of Southwest Licking Local’s own Antsy McClain. This name embodies an incredible persona that has made a success of himself celebrating our small-town, trailer-park loving type of Americana. He’s an amazing singer/songwriter/humorist and I think he more than cancels out the negativity that The .22 Caliber Killer brought. You MUST visit his website at www.unhitched.com. He’s quite a talented feller and I’m proud to say “I knew him when…”. In fact, I might commission K-ville to make a new sign to post at the edge of the corn field before you enter town that states: Welcome to Kirkersville. Home of the .22 Caliber Killer BUT cancelled out by Antsy McClain. Maybe someday my name can be added to the sign, too. Not as a National Best-selling author, mind you, but as the girl who raised money to get all the tennis balls off the roof of Kirkersville Elementary.

You might not think that a small village like Kirkersville has the capacity to generate TWO awesome people AND an infamous murderer, but our neighboring town of Pataskala was able to churn out one John Holmes, so I do believe there’s something “special” about our neck of the woods.

Maybe it’s the corn.

Thank you, Lynn George, for supplying “CORN” as the word of the day. Lynn has been a long-term supporter of my son, Ben, via facebook. She’s one of my favorite “online” friends. 🙂 Lynn has a blog at butyoucancallmecrazy.blogspot.com, which features amazingly yummy recipes that I couldn’t even begin to duplicate (not because she’s complicated but because I’m not that talented). Thanks, Lynn! You’re awesome.

Today’s word is brought to you by Joyce Hamilton Webster, WMS Cheerleading Coach Extraordinaire. She is the first on my long list of people I will be personally soliciting for a special word. I wasn’t sure what to expect from Joyce, but am totally enthralled with her submission. And I’m not talking the Christian Grey type of submission, Wink, Wink. So, Glitter, here I come. And I’m not talking THAT type of c…, well, never mind.

So, let’s talk about Joyce. I’ve known Joyce for many, many years. While we were only a year apart in high school we didn’t exactly run in the same circles. We knew “of” each other at best. WMHS was not a large school so I think we were all technically aware of each other in some way or another. Anyway, Joyce was a cheerleader. I was not. She could make really awesome posters. I kept my writing skills to journals expressing adolescent angst. She had spirit. I had bi-polar disorder. She was perky. My “highs” came from potential gateway drugs. Glitter poured from her soul. My soul was looking for a new owner. I admired Joyce for making the most of her high school years because I totally regret the way I tried to blend into the background and pretend like I wasn’t there. I definitely needed more glitter.

Fast forward several years and the onset of the Facebook revolution. I got in touch with so many people. It was way more fun than a reunion because I wasn’t drunk and making an ass of myself at a single event. I could make an ass of myself every day! But one person who surprised me was Joyce. We learned that we actually had some common interests. And I learned that she holds a PhD in sentence structure! While I had learned some new things about Joyce there was one thing that remained the same – Glitter. That girl is an amazing cheerleader.

Shortly after reconnecting with Joyce on Facebook, my son relapsed with neuroblastoma. My world fell apart. I was fortunate to have my Facebook community to rally around us, support us, pray for us, and love us. Joyce was one of the ringleaders of this effort. When we started our treks to NYC, Joyce was always making sure that Ben got a card while we were at the Ronald. She took good care of Madeline, too, making sure that she felt like the special princess she is. For Ben’s 9th birthday, Joyce pulled her cheerleading efforts into a call that brought an amazing onslaught of birthday cards from all over the world. Ben received over 250 cards. The love he received – and felt – was absolutely priceless.

In addition to sharing her glittery spirit with my kiddos, she was present when I lost my karaoke cherry. I was so scared getting up on that stage to belt out my rendition of “Some Kind of Wonderful,” so she stood up close to the stage so she could be my focal point, much like a Lamaze coach. Karaoke has turned out to be one of my favorite sports and Joyce makes an awesome cheerleader for that, too. I have to state here that NOBODY, not even Stevie Nicks herself, does a better Stevie Nicks than Joyce. You rock the mic, girlfriend.

So, it’s no surprise that Joyce has been nominated for WSYX’s community segment called “Champions”. They’ll be filming her tomorrow as she coaches her group of cheerleaders at WMS. I’m so excited for her… the fact that she might get adopted brought tears to my eyes. Oh, wait. That’s Wednesday’s Child. Wrong segment. Anyway, I couldn’t be prouder of you, Joyce. You’ve got SPIRIT. Yes, you do.

Oh no! Time’s Up.

Thanks, Joyce. You have glitter coming out of your You-Know-What. I love how we’ve reconnected and how you’ve showed your love and support. And when I was released from jail, which you are one of just a handful of people who even KNOW that story, I imagined there was a gigantic sign emblazoned with “CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR RELEASE!” in that special print that only cheerleaders know how to do. The guards were holding either side as I ran through the middle (in my XL blue jumpsuit and shackles), ripping your beautiful sign to shreds. The glitter covered me as I ran through my sign to the other side where my brand-new life was waiting. Your support definitely took away some of the fear I’ve faced in so many situations. And I still have some of the glitter in my hair – a reminder of your love for me.

Love you, sister.

I’ve never understood the attraction of olives. Sure, they look cool adorning each finger like some extraterrestrial with their suction-like fingers (I’m assuming here – I have no proof that aliens exist OR what their supposed fingers look like) but to eat them? Ewww. Those creepy little red pimientos contrasting against the green skin of the olive just makes for an unappetizing combo. I like my food to be more complementary in color. Just kidding. That’s rarely an issue for me or I wouldn’t eat a hotdog with ketchup, mustard AND relish. Those colors don’t go together at all. I guess I am forgetting that there are black olives, too… that shoots my attractiveness theory in the face. But I don’t like them either.

There are certain foods that I just can’t entertain. Like most seafood. Or any meat still on the bone. So an olive and salmon sandwich is completely out of the question! But I’ll eat a nitrate-laden hot dog. How twisted is that?

You’d think that I’d be all over olives because they are soaked in brine – and I’m like a doe in constant search of her salt lick. But no. I just can’t do it. I think it might be the texture. That is what actually deters me from most foods on my “no way” list. I don’t think it’s the smell (unless it’s tuna) or the taste. It’s all about texture. I used to have a strong dislike of mashed potatoes because I couldn’t take the texture. I’d gag every time I’d put a forkful near my mouth. It got to the point where I just refused to put them on my plate at all. Then, at one Thanksgiving get-together, my step-sister (who, incidentally, only has three toes on one of her feet) laughed at me about something and spit mashed potatoes all over my eight-year-old self. The shower of potatoes had me running at top speed, knocking over random relatives, in search of the closest bathroom so I could spew my Thanksgiving dinner in a private environment. Overly dramatic? Perhaps. But ewww. I just couldn’t take it.

I have to state here that I am NOT a fan of Thanksgiving… mostly because I don’t like Thanksgiving food. A big turkey full of bones. Gross. Mashed potatoes… I’ve come a long way but I’m still very particular about my potatoes. And then the other items… casseroles (ewww). Marshmallows on food (gross). Deviled eggs (oh, dear Lord). I just can’t take it. The only items I’d put on my plate at Thanksgiving dinner (as an eight-year-old, mind you) would be a single dinner roll with butter and celery adorned with *gasp* pimento spread. Ack! I guess I’m okay with at least part of the olive after all! I just realized something about myself that I’d buried down deep. Gosh. This exercise has been totally therapeutic.

In addition to – evidently – liking pimento spread, I do like Olive for a name. I find that to be fun. My favorite movie of the moment happens to be “Easy A” and the protagonist’s name is Olive. If you haven’t seen it yet, it’s a lot of fun. Plus, there’s a lot of references to 80’s films, which is totally my era. If you do happen to watch it be sure to be on the lookout for oranges. The director has them thoughtfully placed in nearly every scene. I love random trivia like that.

Time’s up!

Thank you, Dara Ickes, for a fun little topic. Dara and I attended the same high school way back when.  She graduated a couple of years before I did (but that does not make her older, right?) I’m fairly confident that we were both in the marching band but she did not play an instrument. Rifle? Flag? Ugh. My memory is going. I played alto sax and could barely carry it around let alone notice what other people were doing. 🙂 What I know of Dara today is that she is very sweet and caring, she’s totally kicking my butt at Words With Friends and we’re doing awesome at Draw Something. We’ve hit 126 turns!  Thanks for your friendship, Dara.