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I can feel the sun shining on me through the thick, clear plastic of my ultra cool umbrella, circa 1973. My umbrella is shaped like a giant mushroom. It’s one of my prized possessions. I’m dancing barefoot in the yard and I can see very clearly that I’m at my grandma’s house in Buckeye Lake. I also know that I was singing to myself. Uninhibited. Spinning madly. Fascinated by the mini rainbows reflecting on the ground. Knowing that Grandma’s watchful eye wasn’t too far away – an umbrella in and of itself – always protecting me from whatever foul weather was even remotely thinking of coming my way. She was always close by. Her umbrella was always such an all-encompassing feeling of love.

My grandma was an awesome lady. She didn’t mind that I was playing with my umbrella on a bright, sunshiny day. The typical rules didn’t apply to her. Not everything had a specific purpose. If I wanted to use my umbrella on a day with not a drop of rain in the forecast then I should have the right to exercise that desire. When I think of it, Grandma taught me to dream. We’d spend hours talking about the fantastic house that I’d buy for us in Hawaii some day – a place that she never got to visit. I’m sorry I couldn’t do that for her. I bet she would have loved that. Grandma always thought I’d be on TV someday. Not as a soap opera star or as a guest on the Dukes of Hazzard, but as a Weather Girl (hey… that was the term in the 1970’s). She always said I was very pretty and that I’d look really nice on the evening news. I wish I would have followed her advice. I’d love to get it wrong 80% of the time and still get paid handsomely.

There’s little five-year-old Sarah, though, spinning to the point of throwing up. Not able to stop for knowing that the spinning sensation will just get worse. Sometimes I wonder if I still do that? Do I spin just to keep spinning or should I just stop and let myself get sick? It’s okay to just purge. Besides, I have my umbrella to protect me. Whether it’s sunny or a torrential downpour, I’m safe under the watchful eyes of those who love me. Always protected. Always able to reach out. Thankful. Knowing that even though I love the rain and like to dance in it from time to time that I have all I need. My “umbrellas” have gotten me through absolutely everything.

I’m lucky enough to still have an umbrella just like the one I had in the 70’s. My daughter has one, too. I mentioned my love for my dear old umbrella once to a friend and the next thing I know I got a delivery of TWO amazing umbrellas. Now Madeline and I can spin incessantly in the rain – or sunshine – and fall down when we’re too dizzy, sharing our secrets and desires as we catch our breath. Both of us protected by our umbrellas, both physical and metaphorical.

Today’s word was brought to you by the incomparable Ann Ivory. She is one of my favorite people in the Universe. Ann is one of the most intelligent and interesting people I’ve ever met. I’ve known her since 1986 when we were “mod-mates” at Ohio University. She was witness to one of the most dreadful years of my life… also known as Freshman Year. One of my earliest memories of Ann was her posing the question “Who wants to go Uptown?” Being a shy girl I debated for a moment before taking the leap and stating “I’ll go.” I grabbed my fake ID and off we went, starting a friendship that has lasted for over 25 years. I love you, Ann. I love your stories. I love the adventures you’ve been on. I love your zest for life. I love you. Thank you for being my umbrella.

While I haven’t hit all the Daily National Holidays in existence over the last three years of writing this blog I think it’s time for me to switch gears. It’s true that I’ve posted just under 200 entries over the last 1,000+ days, which means that at least 150 holidays have not been recognized by my amazing wit and insight. I know, that is a true tragedy. I promise, though, that if I come across a holiday that speaks to me then I will pounce on it like a deranged serial killer at a summer camp full of sinners who deserve a painful, yet creative, death. Besides, I didn’t get to write about National Tap Dancing Day, which personifies me to the core. How could that not be an engaging topic?

So. What will my blog be about instead? In all honesty, I’m not changing that much. I’m just changing the daily topic. When I was in Mrs. Doran’s creative writing class at Watkins Memorial High School my very favorite exercise in the whole world was when she would write a single word on the blackboard and give us 20 minutes to write anything we wanted. Sometimes I would wander far off topic. Sometimes I would go places I never wanted to explore. Sometimes I would sit and stare at my college-ruled paper, pen in hand, with nothing flowing at all. But always, when I would re-read it (even the blank stuff), I was amazed by what I wrote. It wasn’t something premeditated. It just happened. My true thoughts beat me to the punch before I could second guess myself. I’m a second guesser by nature. I’m self-conscious. I’m insecure. I am a serial editor; in writing, in thought, in action. I get so confused and turned around that I forget what my original instinct was. Well, my friends, no longer.

So here’s the plan: Each day, on one of my outlets (could be facebook, google+, or I just might text you and ask you personally) I’m going to ask for ONE WORD. The first person to respond on, let’s say, facebook, will be the chosen one of the day. I’m not going to look for my “favorite” word, just the first word that appears. And then I’m going to take 30 minutes to write about that word. Wherever it takes me. Wherever it doesn’t. The person who comes up with the word will get special credit somewhere in my post. Get ready to challenge me, friends. And you know I’m coming for some of you specifically.

My reason behind this is that I want to start writing more. I’m going to do this daily. As I get stronger, then maybe I’ll write more about other things. We’ll see. But I want to make writing a daily exercise. Gotta start somewhere. And it will guarantee me at least ONE reader. 🙂

Ah. The annual pilgrimage to the dermatologist to have my yearly review. The doctor carefully making notes of the changes that my aging skin has decided to make. It’s a much needed activity – especially with my fair skin and all the times I’ve been badly burned – but it’s still slightly humiliating to strip naked in front of whatever 12-year-old is newly on staff to let him take a long, slow look at the paleness interspersed with freckles and moles. Seriously, I have a lot, so it takes a while to complete this exam.

My mind kinda turns to a loud buzz as I listen to him murmur “hmmmm” under his breath and ask questions like “how long has this been here?” Now, I look at myself every day but I have no idea when any mole in particular popped up. I didn’t exactly write about it in my journal. So, I think about saying something like “It’s older than you, but not quite as old as my high school diploma.” I’m continually amazed by how young everyone is these days. People born in the 80’s should still be babies… not driving around and holding down real jobs and checking out my moles for crying out loud. I have a feeling that words like “whippersnapper” will be entering my vocabulary very soon.

Doogie continued his excruciating journey perusing my skin. Along the way I pointed out things that bothered me on an aesthetic level, which I felt no embarrassment in doing since the walls were covered with BOTOX ads and leaflets about cosmetic surgery. Apparently, this joint was all about being pretty, which made me turn my thoughts to the possibility that maybe Doogie wasn’t 12 at all. There was a very real chance that my doctor was actually a senior citizen. He had access to all sorts of fillers, after all. He could be as smooth as he wished.

The loudness of his voice broke my fantasy about the secret closet they had on site… where they all went at the end of the day to plump up any sinking holes in their face or freeze off any age spots from their hands. He said “I’m worried about two things.” He pulled out a blue felt marker from his pristine white jacket and yanked the cap off, making a loud pop that pushed my head back as if a firecracker was begin spent. He made a circle above my left breast around some skin had been flaking. I knew he was going to target this area. I was prepared for that. But then he leaned down and circled a mole on a toe of my right foot. You know, the toe wedged between the “one who had roast beef” and the one who cried “wee, wee, wee all the way home.” I stared with disbelief as the blue line materialized around the offending spot. No! Not that one! My mind cried out as his muffled voice explained about the irregular shape. The uneven color. The possibility of *gasp* cancer.

I didn’t really hear him though. I was in shock. I’ve had this mole for as long as I could remember. It had always been there. I’m sure I’m glorifying it to some degree but I’m pretty confident that this particular mole was how I learned my left from my right. Without that mole I would not know how to walk. I wouldn’t have known how to perform in the marching band. (Oh, Okay, I wasn’t that good of a marcher anyway.) But I am an excellent tap dancer. And I know that mole had a defining role in that success. Now, the “little piggy who had none” would Truly. Have. None.

Doogie’s assistant motioned for me to get on the table. The doc came back in and froze the area above my left breast. I also encouraged him to freeze an area on my left arm. Nobody really ever saw that particular mole but I still didn’t like it. I figured if he was already at it, what would a couple more squeezes on the old liquid nitrogen bottle hurt? So, while he was freezing me, his assistant was numbing up my toe for the “procedure”. I couldn’t believe that they weren’t going to give me a few moments to say goodbye. No final respects. No last tender moments. He went straight from freezing me to cutting away on my toe. Doogie’s head was in the way of me seeing what he was doing. I saw a few nasty tools that he was using but felt nothing. I was numb. Numb to the physicality of it all and numb on an emotional level.

I’m sure you’re thinking that I’m overreacting, but I’m being truthful here. I was in mourning. Technically all of my moles are a part of me but there are just some that are more dear to me than others. I can’t liken it to becoming disfigured or losing a limb or anything like that. It’s drastic to no one but me. But that doesn’t lessen its impact. I’m affected. Deeply.

For now, I have a painful reminder in the way of a scab. My dear old mole really was in an unfortunate spot. Now that it’s gone I’m not able to wear many of my shoes until it’s healed. I’m not able to bend it at the joint. I have to be very careful until the scab goes away. Until the hole fully closes. Until there’s no reminder left.

Isn’t that always the way? Things that we’re so used to… we never think we’re going to lose them. And then, one day, they’re gone. We’re left with the shock. The disbelief. The hole. Then a scab forms and the healing begins. It’s really tender and there’s a constant reminder of the hurt but in actuality it’s healing. It wasn’t good for me. It could have been potentially hurting me. But I was used to it. It felt safe. Now that it’s gone, it is truly for my own good. For the betterment of my health. I will move on. I will get used to it. The hurt will dissipate.

And then, someday, I will be able to look back on it with a certain fondness. Until that day comes, I will miss it desperately.

My mother was born May 21, 1943, which would have made her 69 today. I’m always floored every time I remember that she was born during WWII. The turmoil of the world. The persecution of the Jews. The terror that must have lived in the hearts of so many. And how much the world has changed in 69 years. Or, for that matter, hasn’t changed.

Mom was the youngest of eight children. There were four boys and four girls. Two of the boys died while they were very young and then another brother passed away well into adulthood. He died of a massive heart attack and while I’m not sure of his exact age I would guess that he was in his late 50’s or early 60’s. So, for mom to die at a fairly young age – and seemingly healthy at that – well, it was shocking. Unbelievable. Ridiculous. I know I’ve explained the challenges of our relationship in the past but it doesn’t make me miss her any less. I miss her more than I can say.

One of her greatest pleasures in life was gardening. She was AMAZINGLY skilled. She was so talented at having a vision in her mind and making it come to life. She was wise enough to know that by planting something today that in a few years it would be stunning as it covered an arbor or armillary or whatever she was training it to cover. Her gardens were beautiful. I went home not too long ago and stood in the glass conservatory of her cottage in German Village just staring out at her beautiful creation. I couldn’t help but cry as I thought about the fact that someone else was going to own her gardens. My dad has sold their house and I won’t have the luxury of seeing it whenever I travel home. I probably won’t ever get to see it again. So, a lot of pictures were taken so I can remember it as it was. I understand my dad’s need to move on. The need for change. But it’s still a loss I’m not quite ready to deal with. I do know, however, that the new owner is in love with mom’s yard and will hopefully make every effort to maintain it to mom’s standards.

Even though mom passed away at a fairly young age, I’m grateful that I had her for as long as I did. Despite our difficulties there will always be moments of my thinking “Hey! I want to tell mom!” only to remember that she’s no longer here, which nearly always breaks my heart. I will always remember building frog houses in the sand with you. The joy on your face when I told you I was expecting Ben. The 9’s that you cut out of the funny pages and hung from my canopy bed for my ninth birthday. Your exasperation while trying to teach me how to drive a stick-shift. The yellow flowers you added to your garden just for me. Taking me to buy my first bra. Picking out 8-track tapes together from the Columbia House Record and Tape Club flyer. The moment you discovered I had a tattoo. That trip to Boston when I was 12. Doing our annual Christmas Day movie marathon together. And helping me take care of Ben and Madeline when Ben was so desperately sick.

I DO remember the good times, Mommy. And I appreciate all the sacrifices you made for me, even if I acted like a typical teenager who didn’t give a crap. I’m sorry for that.

Regardless, I miss you a whole real lot. Happy Birthday, Mom. You were certainly one of a kind. <3

Music is my food in life. Don’t take it away. ~Peter Frampton

I love, love, love music. I can remember music being a part of my life for as long as I can remember. When I was a wee little person, I can recall listening to music on our super-sweet stereo system that was bigger than our television. Seriously. The console was a large piece of furniture that dominated the living room. The top of the console lifted up to reveal a kick-ass turntable. There was a penny glued to the top of the needle to prevent skipping. Tons of those little yellow inserts used to secure 45’s were scattered about. And albums. We had everything. My step-dad liked classical. Mom liked musicals. I loved Peter Frampton. Frampton Comes Alive was my very first album. I asked for it for Christmas in 1976 (I was eight). I played it so much I wore it out. As well as the copy after that. And then yet another.

I did eventually expand my horizons to include other artists but I have struggled in trying to let go of that particular genre. Classic rock is what I love the most. Back in the day I had an impressive collection of vinyl. And I totally played the crap out of every single one. What brings a smile to my face today is when I hear one of my old favorites on the radio and I can still recall the slight hiss of my vinyl or where the record had a permanent skip. It’s so ingrained in my memory that the flaw on my album has become a part of the song. And no one gets it but me.

Maybe there’s one boy who gets it. I’ve known this boy nearly all my life. He’s got a bazillion albums – a collection I used to know many moons ago – but haven’t seen since the late 70’s when I used to sneak into his room and peruse his collection without his knowledge. I understand that his collection today requires its own zip code so he’s expanded considerably. Anyway, I used to be friends with his younger sister. Back then, he had little use for me. But when I saw his albums I was transfixed. Most girls would be enamored with a closet full of clothes or perhaps a collection of dolls. But not me. Those albums were what drew me in. I remember sitting in the basement of their house listening to “Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy” through those gigantic earphones that only the 70’s could make popular. Oh, the music then was so wonderful. And I was secretly in love with the boy who owned all those albums.

So, I followed him around like a puppy. And over the years we began to like each other as people. We’d talk about music. We’d contemplate the seriousness of life. We’d laugh over the ridiculous. And, eventually, our friendship surpassed the one between his sister and me. His friendship became a priceless treasure. There was nothing we couldn’t talk about.

Then, nearly 20 years ago, I made the poor decision to not marry him. I guess I was afraid that it would screw up our friendship. I didn’t fully understand that friendship was the most incredible foundation you could have for a marriage. We liked each other. We loved each other. And I couldn’t stand the thought of losing that by marrying him. See, I’ve had a total of EIGHT marriage proposals over the past 25 years. I guess I have a hard time taking proposals very seriously (in my defense, I’ve only accepted three and acted on two.)

So I took off. But not before “borrowing” his VHS tapes of the X-Files. Unfortunately, we were out of touch for a while.

Then, over a decade later, we reunited. And it was as if nothing had changed. At least from a friendship standpoint. We still contemplated life. We still laughed at the ridiculous. He had moved on with his life as I had with mine. We were in different places but still the same people who had a deep respect for one another.

Until he asked me about his X-Files tapes. I had no response for him other than I had saved him from a dying technology. VHS was out. He would have had to upgrade to DVD at some point, I just saved him a step. Right? He didn’t buy it either. 😉 Truthfully, I had simply lost the tapes along the way, most likely during one of my many moves in Summit County.

This last year he has been instrumental in helping me maintain my sanity. I’ve had so many heartbreaks that if it weren’t for him, I would have drowned. Interestingly enough, I didn’t fully realize that until just recently. See, I’d been seeing someone who used me terribly. Lied to me outrageously. And the whole time, my dear, sweet friend saw right through him. Never once did he try to dissuade me from following my heart. He told me what he thought but then left it to me to make my own decision. And the beautiful piece of it? He remained my friend. He didn’t abandon me because I was making what was – in everyone else’s eyes – a very bad decision. And when it all fell apart he handed me a bandaid and told me to get on with it. We make lists of songs that will help me get over the hurt and nearly every day he encourages me to do the best I can do. Each day it gets a little easier. And then – maybe not soon, but one day – the pain will be gone.

That right there, my dear readers, is a friend. He has forgiven me for the hurt I caused him (mostly over the X-files tapes – not the marriage thing). He loves and accepts me as I am. He supports me no matter what. He encourages me. My life is better because of him.

So, on National Record Day, I want to thank my best friend, James, for standing by me during some really jacked up stuff. You’ve shown me what a true friend is and I’m so blessed to know you. In your honor, I’m going to come up with the five best songs to describe how I feel about you. I’ll forgo the obvious Queen selection. You really are, without fail, my best friend. And maybe someday you’ll leave all of your beautiful albums to me. Except that J. Geils crap. You can leave that to Scotty.

ILUNBS.

*NOTE* I also have a super awesome female friend named Steff. She’s never asked me to marry her or anything but we have a connection that is just as special. I’m just a lucky, lucky girl to have two best friends. 🙂

Oh, how I want to tell you a funny story. Unfortunately, I just don’t have it in me today. I’m being a bit introspective at the moment and life is just weighing me down like you wouldn’t believe.

See, the last twelve years of my life I have done it all wrong. I returned to Ohio after receiving my MBA in 2000 thinking I was going to make a fresh start. Instead, I ended up getting pregnant and marrying someone I simply did not love. He seemed to be a nice enough guy, I’d known him for a long time, but he just wasn’t well suited for me. No matter, I was pregnant. And my mom highly encouraged me to marry him, despite my initial desire to just have the baby and never tell him. After re-thinking that scenario, I decided to enter into a relationship with him. I tried to make it work. And, for a while, it did. We had Ben. For the first two years, things were okay. Then Ben got sick as I was expecting Madeline. The stress of a not-so-strong marriage intertwined with a critically ill child and a newborn was completely overwhelming. Add to that the financial devastation from Ben’s illness, Matt’s job losses, difficult family issues (on both sides), and the stress that Ben just might not live.

The initial 15 months that Ben was in treatment was hell on earth. Given the circumstances, neither one of us knew what to do. I would have to say that most families who enter into the world of having a critically ill child either grow stronger or fall apart with most of them doing the latter. Seeing how we didn’t have the foundation that many marriages had, we were lucky to still be standing, let alone make it through that first round of treatment with our marriage still intact.

After a year and a half of intensive therapy, Ben was in remission. Matt got a job in Colorado. We seemed to be starting over and doing better. Then, Matt lost his job again. This was the beginning of the end. Without going into dirty details, life with him became unbearable. I wanted to leave him. I made plans to leave him. I should have left him. Because I had met someone else.

But Ben got sick again. His cancer returned. I lost all hope in having any sort of normal life and knew that I wouldn’t be able to face Ben relapsing the same way that I had to muddle through it all on my own before. I knew I wouldn’t make it through without support. Oh, sure, I had family and friends who were supportive, but not in the way that a spouse should be. I didn’t have that from Matt. And to be fair, I’m sure Matt felt that he didn’t get it from me. But I did have a man who was very supportive and led me to believe that he was my knight in shining armor. I wanted to believe it so bad that I fell for it hook, line and sinker. He was a precious bit of levity that I so desperately needed during my own personal hell.

It was wrong. I was wrong. It was ultimately very hurtful to everyone involved. It is over now and I’m moving on, but it doesn’t change the fact that I was so very wrong. Despite our being formally separated, I should have left Matt entirely before moving on to someone else. But given the change of events with Ben’s health, I didn’t make the right choice. I didn’t want to hurt the children by getting a divorce in the midst of Ben’s treatment.

The affair was a wonderful distraction. Something that took me away from the pain of my abusive husband. Something that sheltered me from the heartache that I might possibly lose my son. That he had to go through this trauma yet again. My new love helped me see the good in what was a seemingly horrible situation. I once again found hope in life. I felt restored and ready to fight again. I was stronger.

And so it went for nearly three years.

I believed he was my soulmate. It certainly felt that way. But, ultimately, it was all a lie. I can honestly say that I’ve never, ever loved anyone like I loved him and oh how it pains me to know that he didn’t deserve it. I know that someday I will emotionally move on, but it has been stinging for a while and I don’t anticipate that it will stop anytime soon.

I guess I got what I deserve.

The one benefit of it all is that I’m finally free from the marriage that I was in, despite the continuation of the emotional turmoil. I’m sure that his emotional abuse will go on for many years to come. While I had done nothing to deserve his emotional tirades before having an affair, I am now a whore, which gives him carte blanche to treat me however he chooses.

But those are stories for another time.

God, I never wanted to write about any of this. It’s hurtful. My time married to Matt was an embarrassing mistake and my affair even more so. I am a smart girl who has made some seriously fucked up decisions when it comes to men. I am guarded when it comes to relationships. I always have been. I have serious trust issues because of exactly situations like this! I didn’t marry until I was in my 30’s because I wanted to do it right. That didn’t make a bit of difference. I tend to be attracted to the liars and abusers. I swear, they need to develop a chemotherapy to rid the world of these cancerous men.

I understand that I need my own therapy to not make poor relationship and personal choices. I know I was wrong. I take responsibility for that.

There just ain’t nothing funny about any of this. But there it is. My confession. I am free.

Apparently, our current Gregorian calendar has only been in use since 1582 when it was introduced by Pope Gregory XIII.  The “old school” calendar that was used prior to his creation recognized March 25th – the Feast of the Annunciation – as New Year’s Day. I was surprised to learn that Russia and several other countries held out on adopting the Gregorian calendar until the early 1900’s.

Today, however, will always be known to me as the day my mother died. I’m struggling to grasp this fact, because despite it being an entire year ago, it sometimes feels very surreal. During the final few years of her life we had more downs than ups. We struggled on so many levels. She was spiraling into her world of dementia and I was spiraling into my world of… whatever. So many things were falling apart in my life that I just accepted that we were falling apart, too. I’m not going to rehash all of the hurtful things that occurred because there’s just no point to it now. But I have come to the realization that there are times that you always want your mother, no matter how old you are and no matter how dysfunctional your relationship has been.

2011 was a very poopy year for me. Mom’s death was just the beginning of a chain of many other devastating events. Some of them I’ve explained here on my blog but many of them I haven’t discussed at all because they’ve just been too much to deal with in a public venue. But on more than one occasion, I know I’ve said to myself, “I want my mom.” And I’m genuinely grief-stricken to realize that she’s gone. Slowly, event by painful event, I’m realizing that she is gone. No longer can I put my head on her lap and feel her stroke my hair and tell me that everything is going to be all right. She’s not there to kiss away the boo-boos. Or warn me of the poor choice I’m about to make. Or encourage me to do the right thing.

Oh, okay. Those events were few and far between. I constantly struggled to make my mom proud of me. I know I’m overly critical of myself, but if she ever was proud, she was reluctant to say anything to me about it. She had told me on more than one occasion, “I love you, but I don’t like you very much.” Maybe it was because we were both stubborn. We both shut down emotionally when we were wounded. We both struggled with feeling loved. Maybe those issues played into our combative relationship. I don’t know. But whatever it was, we were more at odds with each other than not.

Regardless, there was a time last year where my skin was crawling and I had absolutely no hope of escaping a harrowing situation. My mind swirled with who I could possibly reach out to who would understand and offer me something – anything – other than what I was playing on a constant loop through my head. I wanted to die. I wanted my misery to end. And I knew the only person who would understand was my mom. Never in my entire life had I needed her more. And of all times for her to be unavailable, well, this was really not a good time for me to be without her. I knew she would be the one to help me. I knew she would encourage me to find the humor in the bad. That is one thing that we had in common and were able to share: a biting sense of humor. I knew she could help me if only she was here. But she wasn’t. And I felt as if I had no one.

In actuality, I had so much but didn’t realize until after the fact. I had so many people loving me and helping me and encouraging me, but mom’s glaring absence made the experience so much more painful than it needed to be. I missed her sense of humor. I missed that she would have made me laugh about it. I miss that maybe, just maybe, she would have been proud of how I handled myself in the midst of something truly horrific.

But I never told her that I needed her. Never once. And I think that broke her heart more than anything else. Now that she’s gone, well, that hole can never be filled. Something that could have been so easily reconciled if only she knew how much I needed her. But now, it’s too late. And I’m still stubborn. I don’t need anyone. I shut people out and turn people away and decide that I can do it by myself.

And for the most part, I can do it all by myself. But that’s no way to live. I’d like to think that I’ve learned my lesson – her last lesson to me – that waiting to say what you really mean is a waste. Each moment is precious. We only have right now.

While my earthly loss dictates that it’s too late for us I feel that I have to say it anyway: I need you, mom. I’ve always needed you. And I need you now more than ever. I wish we could have been better at being a mother and daughter. I’m sorry for being so stubborn. But I truly did learn from the best.

Our love was not perfect by any stretch, but I treasure it anyway. You have no idea how much I miss you. More than a million and twelve.

I know I covered this in a prior post so I won’t go into all the dirty details of how my name has evolved over the years. Only “Sarah” has remained intact, everything else just comes and goes. I’m a collector, I guess.

Today is also National Grammar Day. Now, I am not always perfect in my sentence structure but I do have trouble with basic grammatical errors. Knowing the difference between your and you’re is important to me. I also struggle when people confuse there, their, and they’re. While I love texting with my whole heart, I despise the “short cuts” of UR and using the number 2 to communicate the word “to”. It’s just one extra letter for crying out loud. But my real struggles come with grammatical errors in verbal communication. For instance, just two days ago I heard a grown man say “I don’t want no soup.” I tried not to shudder, but it was an involuntary reaction. I had no choice. I’m not a snob, I just don’t understand why grammar is so elusive to some. We learn it in the very beginning of our academic lives. It’s not like one needs an advanced degree to use correct grammar. Then again, I’m sure there’s a person out there who feels the same about Math. I suck at Math. I struggle with basic multiplication facts. I’m sure the Math Whiz watches me using my fingers to figure out 8×9 and thinks, “What an idiot.” And they’d be right. I can speak a good game but in reality I have no idea what I’m doing.

What it comes down to is that every single one of us has a deficiency in one area or another. I’m frowning on the grammatically incorrect person sitting next to me, while they’re frowning at someone for not knowing how to do something that THEY find to be important, and so on and so on. We all have faults.

No matter what our names happen to be.

Did you know that our National Anthem has four verses? Holy crap. We, as Americans, are challenged to remember just one verse, let alone memorize all four stanzas of a poem that has such tricky words like ramparts and perilous and, and, and red. Tough stuff, that Star-Spangled Banner. We’d rather sit on the couch and watch “The Real Housewives of WhoGivesARat’sAss” than face the verbosity of a poem written by a lawyer in 1814. And, mistakenly, I always thought the song ended with a rousing yell to “PLAY BALL!” I had no idea that there were other verses. My bad.

As I was writing this first paragraph I thought to myself, “How cool would it be to have a Real Housewives of Historical Figures?” I can totally imagine Susan B Anthony (I know, she never married, but that never stopped BRAVO from casting their choices), Harriet Tubman, Annie Oakley and Mary Baker Eddy getting together and having some Victorian throw-downs. Oh, okay, my timing might be off, but it’s a good argument for reanimation of the dead. Ooooh! Real ZOMBIE Housewives of Historical Figures. This idea just keeps getting better. From there it can spin off into Real Housewives of American Presidents. I’d love to watch an episode where Martha Washington, Eleanor Roosevelt and Hillary Clinton scrap over whose china is prettier, wouldn’t you? Of course, we’ll have to throw in the occasional Whig. I’m so pitching this to BRAVO. I think this is the big break I’ve been waiting for. Now I just need to find someone to help me with the reanimation piece.

Okay, I’m pulling back from my warped fantasy land where my “brain director,” Steve, reigns supreme and giving myself a little reality check. Let’s see. I only posted once last month… THAT will be changing. I’ve been writing daily – thanks to the encouragement from my good friend, James, but it’s not really stuff that’s fit for posting. I need to get back in the groove but so many things have been making my needle jump track. Life has been so distracting lately, with trying to organize my apartment, doing the job hunt thing, planning the next trip to NYC for Ben’s therapy (hopefully there will only be THREE MORE of these torture sessions for him!), and just all the stuff that doesn’t want to cooperate with the flow of daily life. Like my dog forgetting how to poop outside. And laundry.

Speaking of which, I need to go. Laundry is staring at me and I’m quite confident that if I don’t take Yoshi out in the next five minutes he’s going to leave me another surprise. He has gotten better. I’m sure it’s simply an adjustment period to the new apartment, but we’ve still got a little work to do. Honestly, we’re all working on adjusting.

I’m just glad my anxiety manifests in other ways besides little piles of poop.

I hate tequila. It’s Boston’s fault – yes, the entire city of Boston, Massachusetts, is to be blamed for my disdain of the blue agave based spirit. I bet you’re dying to know why.

Here’s the scoop.  It was Spring Break, 1987. I was a freshman in college and had just suffered a major life-trauma: the unexpected death of my step-mother. Actually, the anniversary of her passing was just a few days ago. It’s been 25 years since she died, which is just so hard to believe. Anyway, her death was completely unexpected (a suicide) and it left me severely shaken. Luckily, I had some awesome girlfriends (Ann and Rhonda) who were planning a trip to the East coast during Spring Break to visit our Resident Assistant, Maurianne (aka: Mo). They invited me to come along, which I whole-heartedly accepted.

Off we went. Three girls hitting the open road in a sweet white Camaro. Rhonda drove the entire way since it was her ride, Ann sat shotgun, and I rode in the back seat. Being the shortest of the three dictated that I was the wise choice to squeeze in with the luggage. Oh yeah, and my hermit crab, Alvin, was along for the ride, too. Seriously. I couldn’t leave my hermit crab at Ohio University for an entire week all by himself. Who knows what sort of trouble he’d get into?

Pittsburgh was Ann’s hometown so we made a stop there for a couple of days before making our way to Rhode Island. Pittsburgh was a lovely stop in our line of travel and certainly took my mind off what had been going on in Ohio. Then we continued our journey east. When we arrived in Barrington, I fell in love. I decided that it was the most beautiful place I’d ever seen and swore to myself that I’d live there some day. This was a couple of years before I stepped on top of the Continental Divide and decided to live there instead. 🙂 I walked the rocky beaches, saw the sites, and took comfort in knowing that I was with three of the sweetest friends I’ve ever known and still have the pleasure of having in my life.

One night we decided to go out in Boston. I brought my fake ID along  – yes, I had a fake ID – which gave me the new persona of a girl named Wendy instead of the Sarah we all know and love. “Wendy” was a newly minted 21-year-old from Marietta, Ohio. She had blonde hair and brown eyes but was approximately the same height and weight that I was. I don’t remember the specifics of how I gained this new identity but it doesn’t matter. The ID did what I needed it to do. The bouncer didn’t even look at the stats. All he asked was for me to recite “my” social security number, which I had memorized.

We were in! It was my first time in a real live non-campus bar. Some guys at the end of the bar offered to buy us drinks. Since I was really only familiar with beer, I thought I’d be cool and order a shot of the only other alcohol I’d heard of – tequila. MISTAKE! The first whiff had me gagging but I bucked up and quickly tossed back the shot before I could change my mind. Besides, I didn’t want to appear wimpy in front of our generous benefactors.

A few shots of tequila later, we piled into Mo’s mom’s Buick to head back to her house. On the way, we stopped to take a quick tour of Mo’s old school. Upon getting out of the car I saw what looked like a dog. I called out to it, making kissy noises, slapping the tops of my thighs and begging it to come to me. It didn’t. One of my girlfriends said, “No. That’s a cat.” So I slurred, “Here, kitty kitty kitty kit-TY!” Still. No movement from the animal. We started inching closer – trying to be quiet so we wouldn’t scare it away. Once we were within 20 feet of it we realized it was a freaking tree stump. We fell down on the ground crying with laughter. Something like that can only be funny thanks to the effects of tequila.

On the way home I threw up in the back seat of Mo’s mom’s Buick. Maybe it’s not such a surprise that I was never invited back to Rhode Island. Actually, that’s not true. Despite my severe faux pas I was immediately forgiven. But I haven’t been back to Rhode Island since. Stupid tequila. You mess up everything that is good.

I spent some time as a cocktail waitress when I lived in Summit County, Colorado. I always dreaded the times that a rowdy group of people would order a round of shots because it was almost always tequila. The smell of this demon juice teleports me straight to the back seat of Mo’s mom’s poor Buick. I have absolutely no love for tequila. Not even diluted into a margarita.

So, on today’s holiday, I will stick with what I should have ordered 25 years ago… beer. I don’t know why I decided to deviate from what I know and love but I do know that I will never do it again.