Pass It On Wednesday

I read this on my friend Heather's blog. Please keep Brandy and her man in your thoughts and prayers.
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My name is brandy. And I have a blog.

And a plea.

I use my blog to showcase the crazy I meet everyday, share the stories of the kids I teach and document my love for tequila, dairy products and the abdominal muscles of Ryan Reynolds. Rarely do I talk about personal issues on my blog- as personal as the dude that I adore (who I actually met through my blog- single ladies, let that be a very good reason to blog, the possibility of meeting someone as wonderful as my man), but I need your help. And it involves my dude.

He's a guy who made math comics for my class, so they would love learning about addition. He's the kinda guy who sends my friends gift cards when they are having hard times, who remembers every story I ever told him, who was the first person I celebrated with when I got a teaching job. He's the guy who sent flowers to me at school- dozens of my favourite pink roses just because he loves me. He's a guy who has spent a year patiently explaining (and re-explaining) everything there is to know about football during the important games when silence is preferred. He's made me word puzzles and comics and stayed up late playing Scrabble with me (even though I beat him almost every time). He's listened to me cry about school and family and jobs. He is everything I never knew I needed and everything I always knew I wanted.

The holidays have hit us hard. He's recently been told he may have something called multiple myeloma- an incurable cancer, that gives a person an average of five years of continued life. Though this news has came as a shock, he continues to be exactly who has always been- spending his time worrying about me, rather than worrying about himself. He's the most selfless individual I know- (he stayed late on Christmas Eve to work, so his co-workers could leave early) and a post like this would never be something that he would promote or encourage but when I'm overwhelmed and feeling helpless, the blogging community has always given me tremendous support and comfort, two things I desperately need at this time.

As I write this, the future is uncertain and we aren't sure what's happening. He'll need to see an oncologist soon, to verify what's going on in his body. My hope is that everyone who reads this think positive thoughts and if you are a person who prays, could you add him to your list? (You can refer to him as 'brandy's hot awesome dude'). If you don't pray, please keep him in your heart.This cancer is only a possibility and I believe that the prayers and positive thoughts of people can make sure it never becomes a reality.

I want to give a big thank you to the blog owner who scraped their original blog plans and graciously put this up. My goal is to get as many people as possible to see and read this post. If you are reading this and want to help, copy and paste my plea into your blog or send a link through twitter, so more people can keep him in their thoughts. I would be so very grateful (even more grateful than I am to my friend who first showed me the picture of Ryan Reynolds on the cover of Entertainment Weekly. If you haven't seen it, google it. You. Are. Welcome).

I realize this all sounds dramatic, a Lifetime movie in the making- but this is life. Right now. And I'm throwing away any hint of ego and am humbly asking for you to pray or think kind thoughts. If you are able to pass this on, thank you and if you know anything regarding MM- please email me (my email is on my blog). This isn't a call for sympathy or a plea for pity. It's just one girl hoping you can think positive thoughts for the person she adores. If my current heartache provides you with anything, let it be with the reminder that life is short, love is unbending and no one knows what could happen next. Maybe it is silly, but I really do believe that positive thoughts can make a huge difference. Thank you for reading this and if you haven't already? Please tell someone you love them today.

I did.

General Frustration

"They" say write what you know, and there are no two subjects I know better than whining and handbags.

I admit I have a handbag problem. It started in 1998 when I fell in love with the black nylon Kate Spade Sam bag. Everything was perfect in my mind - the size, the color, the shape. Everything, that is, but the price tag. If I recall correctly, it was an astronomical $199. Way out of my price range when I was making in the avenue of $25k a year back then.

Deciding I couldn't afford it, I went on a quest to find a replacement. I bought every cheap bag in the area - going from Payless to Parade of Shoes and from TJ Maxx to Target. Nothing satisfied me. One of my colleagues, bemused by my obsession, commented to me that if I just bit the bullet and bought the original bag I probably would have saved money.

So I saved and worked overtime, and finally walked into Neiman Marcus and bought the bag, and I even had enough left over to buy the matching wallet. Thus the obsession began.

I found the much lusted after Sam bag wasn't all I imagined it to be. No pocket for my cell phone. The hard edges slammed into my arm when I walked. But it was then I developed a taste for nice bags and matching wallets.

I guess it's better than meth, but probably more expensive.

Despite my collection, no bag and wallet combo is more important to me than the one I am using at any one time. My life is generally contained in those vessels. My checkbook, my check card, lipstick, lip balm, compact, drivers license, iPod, Blackberry & cell phone. Seriously, the list could go on and on.

Imagine my general disbelief when I went to figure out how much cash I had on Sunday morning to find my wallet missing. I ran out to my car to see if it had fallen out and under one of the seats. I checked my bedroom to see if I had slipped it in a pants pocket. I even checked the dog toys and dog beds to see if my klepto beagle had stolen it. No dice.

Sunday was spent making calls cancelling cards and going to the police station to report the wallet missing. I spent a good hour and a half retracing my steps from Saturday in a futile attempt to locate it.

So, two months after The Great Checking Account Debacle of 09, I am now awaiting the delivery of yet another check card, and looking forward to another round of updating payment information. Not to mention an exciting trip to the DMV to get a new license.

I guess there is some good news in all of this - I get to go wallet (and therefore handbag shopping) again the future.

Let the hunt begin.

12 Days of Retail Christmas (or Why I Drink)

12 Irritable Shoppers

11 Screaming Children

10 Out of Stock Items

9 Burned Out Cashiers

8 Defective Gift Cards

7 Days of Extended Hours

6 Clueless Male Shoppers

5 Maxed Out Credit Cards

4 Trashed Departments

3 Broken Registers

2 Last Minute Shoppers

And a Hangover on Christmas Day

Dear Santa

Dear Santa

I know it's been a while...something like, what, 27 years? Well, I've decided to believe in you again. I'm also welcoming the Tooth Fairy back into the fold in light of my recent dental work, so if you can let her know, I'd appreciate it.

You should know that I have been a very good girl this year. Well, not exactly very good, but definitely good. OK, good enough? Right, well, I haven't killed anyone this year, ok?

So...this is kind of awkward since I've sent quite some time denying your existence (my bad), but since there's only a few more days until Christmas, I need to get on the stick to let you know what I want.

- Another 5k in my salary. I hope you take into account that I could be greedy here and ask for another zero (the 35 year old equivalent of asking for a pony), so please, you're Santa after all. Nothing's impossible for you. And if you want to add another zero to my salary, I completely understand if you want to mess around with the first number.

- A boyfriend. Let me clarify - a quality boyfriend who doesn't live with his parents (ahem), has a good job, clean medical history and can provide 3 years audited financial statements along with a complete medical workup. Kids OK as long as the ex-wife isn't a nightmare

- An Hermes Kelly bag. Again, being reasonable here, but if you want to upgrade the a Birkin, I'll take that too. I know we're in a recession, so if resources are limited for you as well Santa, just as Posh Spice to give up one. She has like...a million.

- Gisele Bundchen's body. I know she just had a baby and I'd be willing to do the work to lose the baby weight. But let's face it Santa, especially if you see when I'm sleeping and know when I'm awake, Gisele looks better on her worst day than I do on my best.

Since I am a grownup, I guess I should ask for some stuff to help other people out.

- An end to this recession and sustained job growth. Please Santa let everyone have a job that wants one (or needs one)

- An end to the hostility in the world. Please bring our soldiers safely home

- An end to poverty and hunger in the world. That does sound a little beauty contestant, doesn't it?

- Heath care for everybody

- Oh, some toys for my dogs; a bottle of scotch for my dad and a Kindle for my mom. I'm sure you'll be hearing from the rest of the family and my friends real soon so I won't duplicate their requests.

Well, that's it. I hope it's not too much. You might have a problem with stuffing the boyfriend down the chimney, so I can leave a key under the mat for you. I'll leave the milk and cookies out for you.

Love,

Beth

P.S. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

Lamentation

Oh my poor neglected blog...familiar refrain, no?

For the two of you still reading (and yes mom, I know one of them is you), I guess I owe you an explanation.

But heck, that's no fun, is it?

Let me fill you in on what's been happening here at Chez Beth since we last chatted.

Still working two jobs. I left an unnamed big box home improvement store (think orange - sooo not a good color for me) for a low-cost retail chain. Liking this place more, a better fit than home improvement and video games. Absolutely better wine-infused stores to tell in my off hours. Let's just say that I am amazed at how slovenly people can be. Oh, I don't want this blouse...where to put it? Oh, the floor is quite convenient.

Holidays are around the corner, and for once I'm not planning a Dec 23/Dec 24 shopping extravaganza, although that is more due to the fact that I am paid once a month at my full time job and have to strike while the iron is hot. But hey, I'm done!

Still struggling with the depression - hard to stay positive when you're working your tail off and still at loose ends, but striving to stay positive. I have a great family and great friends, who I'm pretty sure would be happy with a hug if that was all I could offer at the holidays.

Anyhow, 3 more days of work before a 2 week vacation over the holidays. Hoping to come back rejuvenated and refreshed with inspiration for more blogs.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah and Happy Kwanzaa...

Update

I've got nothing right now folks...

• Restarted (for like the millionth time) Weight Watchers. I hope I can do it this time.
• Figuring out how to escape from the black cloud I'm under at the moment. I zig, it zags, and somehow it finds me again (or am I finding it? I am a pessimist by nature)
• Still wanting to find the bastard who broke into my car the other night. I want my damn iPod back you little bastard.
• Mentally preparing to turn 35 in a few weeks. My sister asked me what I wanted for it, I told her to be 27 again. Of course that would mean I'd have to re-do this year and I don't wanna
• And finally, working on my whining. But hey, it something I'm good at and "they" do say to play to your strengths.

Until later - Peace Out

Loss

This has been a rough year, even rougher than last, and I thought 2008 would go down in history as a bad year for me.

2009 has been the year of loss and death. No other way to put it. Too many people have died this year, and I'm not talking about Farrah or Michael. I'm talking about people I know - Lou, Joe, Uncle Ed, Sandy and now Bobby. There were also people on my "social periphery" so to speak - Patrick, Scott & my friend Margie's dad.

I'm not going to lie, Bobby's death has shaken me up, and has made realize what a gift life is, even more so than the deaths preceeding it. I glibly mentioned to a few people after Sandy passed a few weeks ago that I was too young to read the obits regularly, and not only that, but to recognize the names. Now I feel like I'm afraid to read the paper.

My recent problems seem trivial, and I'm glad for that. Life is a gift, and I don't want to squander it.

Second Verse, Same as the First

Here I go again...time to admit that I need to go back to Weight Watchers.

I don't want to.

I really don't want to.

But I need to.

Wish me luck.

Another Open Letter

Dear Jon & Kate:

For the sake of your children, I implore both of you to please grow up. That's it, that's my simple request.

Ideally you'd both fade back into obscurity, Kate being the kind of nurse that makes people stay away from doctor's offices and hospitals despite bleeding from both eyes and ears, and Jon being the kind of IT guy that my friends and I openly mock.

But in the words of Mick Jagger, you can't always get what you want.

So with that in mind, I'd like to ask that you keep your divorce proceedings, financial disputes and dalliances out of the press.

There are a lot of children of divorce out there, and I'd likely wager that the majority of them didn't have to read on the web that their parents "despise" each other, or that the other parent is acting like a teenager. I'd pretty much bet the ranch that most children of divorce aren't able to look forward to the inevitable boxed set of the dissolution of their parent's marriage that the +8 are going to have.

Marriages end, people change, couples grow apart. It happens every day in America. Regrettably in your case it happened on TV with America watching.

The past can't be changed. What can be changed is how you choose to co-parent in the future.

At the end of the day, you've brought 8 lovely children into this word who have no power and little capacity to understand what is happening around them. I hope you both prove themselves in deed that you are the loving parents you profess to be by hashing out your differences in private, and letting their children be children.

In the meantime, can you both please get the hell out of my People Magazine? Kate, your hair and Jon, your bling are giving me nightmares.

Thanks,

Beth

9/11

Indulge me for a moment, while I share my 9/11 story. I still remember where I was (and actually what I was wearing - a knee length flowered dress - my weigh in dress actually since Tuesday was WW) on that day.

I had called my father around 8:15 to harass him about an email he didn't reply to, when he picked up the phone with "Yeah, I'm watching it".

"Watching what?" I asked

"A plane crashed into the World Trade Center."

"Was it an accident or..."

"Gotta go, there was an explosion at the other building" and he hung up.

I went to get on MSNBC.com and my computer went into ultra-slow mode, clearly hosed by the bandwidth. My boss, Barbara, then came around the corner to tell me she was getting on conference call and to interrupt her if a particular call came through. I told her with my father told me, and that I was trying to get more info. She paled and told me to keep her posted.

About 10 minutes later she came out of her office, she told me that she had heard about something happening at the Pentagon and that she was off to find a TV. I hopped up and followed her. As we walked up to the conference room, she turned to me and said "Beth, we have people in there". The company I worked for at the time had around 40 people working for one client in the South Tower, 5 more for a different client in the North Tower and 15 at the Pentagon. We also had friends and colleagues who regularly flew out of Newark and Logan.

We went up to the conference room and joined others watching CNBC. The whole time I had one thought - don't cry, do not cry

Suddenly we saw the south tower collapse, and heard an anchor report that a plane had crashed in Pennsylvania. I looked over and saw Kim wiping tears from her eyes, and Laura blurted out "You guys, I am so scared" and I allowed a few tears to pop out. Barbara got up, and true to her take charge attitude said she needed to start making some phone calls. I followed her to help.

She said we needed to start calling people who could get information - if Dave, who lived in Connecticut and flew out of Logan regularly, was in the office today; to find out where Dick was and if he was flying out of Newark; to get a list of people on projects in the Towers, the Pentagon and anyone who would be flying out of the airports the flights originated from.

The first call I made was to the only person I knew who lived in New York, my friend Ashia. I tried to call and got a busy signal. I kept at it and burst into tears when she finally answered. She told me she was OK but freaked out. I felt better knowing where she was and that she was safe for the moment.

My overriding thought that day was that I wanted to go home. Once I realized that Barbara and I couldn't do anything (corporate had stepped in and set up a command center to account for affected employees), I told her I wanted to leave. Not knowing if Philadelphia would be attacked, corporate center management closed all of the buildings.

I drove home listening to KYW, not wanting to believe what I was hearing, irate at the news of dancing in the streets in some countries that the US was attacked. I came home to an empty house, mom was at home with my sister and then 3 month old niece who had been home from the NICU for about 1 week, and dad was at work. Me and my dog Murphy sat watching TV, numb. I tagged along with my parents to pick out carpet (of all things) and we went for dinner at a small pub, swapping what we had heard with the waiter, not wanting to believe it was true.

It's been 8 years and it still doesn't seem real in some ways. I feel odd scheduling things - hearing, "ok, so we're set for 10:00 on 9/11" come out of my mouth when confirming a meeting. The day feels sacred to me.

I know tomorrow will be a different day - no, I didn't lose anyone. Fortunately all of our employees survived. But our country lost something - our innocence. Our sense of security. That it couldn't happen here.

But we also gained something I think. We all united that day and the days after. I practically rolled around and wrapped myself in the American flag - and a part of me is nostalgic for the days that we all seemed a little kinder to each other. When hearing the Star Spangled Banner or America the Beautiful would stop people in their tracks.

Let's take a few moments tomorrow to remember those who died that day, those who died defending our country and those who now serve our country.

God Bless America

Wired for Sound

I had a sleep study last night. Let me start off by saying, in my semi-delirious state, that I think it's funny that they call it a "sleep" study, since that's the last thing I felt like doing.

Let me get back to be beginning. For the past few years, much like a 9 month old, I've had problems sleeping through the night. Falling asleep (eventually) isn't the problem, but come 2:00 am, it's me and the clock having a face-off. Also, I've joined the ranks of the snorers in the family, that is if you believe my sister and my father, the two people who rattle the windows when they sleep.

I mentioned it to my doctor the last time I went in, and sure enough, she suggested a sleep study. I snarkily told her that I suspected it would confirm I can't sleep with crap hooked up to me, but she insisted.

To be fair, the folks at the Center for Sleep Medicine in Lafayette Hill kick ass, even if they didn't let me finish watching the 10:00 episode of Law & Order SVU on USA. Michelle made me feel like I was just checking into a spartan hotel, and Mark definitely took the weirdness out of being plugged in to go to sleep.

The getting "put to bed" part took roughly 30 minutes. Let me paint you a picture...

I started by shoving wires down the shorts of my PJs, then I had a band put around my chest, another around my abdomen. Then I had sensors put on my chest and abdomen. We went into another room from which I emerged looking like something from a sci-fi movie. I had more wires attached to me then I ever imagined possible. Here's what I can recall from the top of my head (literally)- one behind each of my ears, another under my jaw. Two at my temples, one under each of my eyes, and then three on various parts of my head. Add in the two mics put in my nose, and the pluse/ox monitor on my index finger, and I was, literally, wired for sound.

I was then escorted to my bed where I was plugged into a PC, and then put through a bizarre version of the hokey pokey to calibrate the machines - look left, look right, flex your left foot, flex your fight, blink five times, etc. I eventually fell asleep and for the first time in my life, I was actually happy I woke up in the middle of the night. A part of me felt validated in my sleep issues despite having to lay in a strange bed, in a strange room with an infra-red camera pointed at me, trying to go back to sleep.

7:30 came way too soon, when I was rousted from bed, disconnected and sent on my way. I made it back home, got through both my full time and part time jobs, and instead of going to bed like a normal person, I'm updating my blog and wishing I had the foresight to have had my cell phone closer to my bed so I could have taken a picture for posterity.

I should know in a week or so what exactly the deal is - my money is on sleep apnea and general insomnia.

Until then...sweet dreams.

Who's in the Dog House?

Anger, shock, disgust and sadness are some of the things I felt last night when I read that Michael Vick was signed to the Philadelphia Eagles.

I'm all for second chances, but so far, Michael Vick hasn't walked the walk. I read Wayne Parcel's blog about how he met with Vick on more than one occasion since his departure from prison with great interest. So far, I'm not impressed. Maybe Vick (and I leave out "mister" intentionally) is genuinely contrite for having been involved with a dog fighting ring. Maybe he is just sorry that he got caught.

I wanted to vomit when word first broke of the activities at Bad Newz Kennels, and I am a person that is not a pit bull fan. Certain breeds of dogs immediately strike fear into me and pit bulls are one of them. But hearing about Georgia, the dog who had her teeth surgically removed, theoretically to make her more breedable, made my heart weep. Cherry, the dog who couldn't walk on a leash, probably because he never went for a normal dog walk, broke my heart.

I wanted to adopt a pit bull. Specifically, I wanted to adopt a "Vick" pit pull.

Needless to say my mother was not happy.

I'm glad to hear that with the exception of the two dogs who were euthanized, most of Vick's victims are living in safe environments. They are now able to be dogs, not fighting machines.

Vick and his co-conspirators went through the justice system, and did their time as the law stipulates. But does that mean that Vick gets to make seven figures in the NFL? In my mind, I think not. At least without doing some hard time working with the very creatures he victimized.

I think it's ironic that he's been signed to a team in the same city as Chase Utley, one of the heroes of the 2008 World Series. He and his wife Jenn are well known in Philadelphia as animal lovers, and paid the veterinary bills of a puppy who was beaten and tortured by her former owners. I read today that Jenn Utley was protesting outside of the press conference announcing Vick's signing with the Eagles. I wanted to give her a virtual high-five.

I really hope that Vick makes amends - and not with his words. I hope he reaches out to Mr. and Mrs. Utley and actively works to improve the lot of animals in the city of Philadelphia. I guess what I want is for Vick to lead by example. I want him to see the reality of dog fighting. Make him comfort an abused animal, who doesn't know how to communicate their fear, their pain.

I hope I'm not disappointed in Vick, or in Eagles Coach Andy Reid, Quarterback Donovan McNabb (who vouched for Vick) and Tony Dungee.

How Not To React

It's no secret I really want to be nominated to be on TLC's What Not To Wear.

I'm pretty sure there wouldn't be a problem with getting good footage of me. I think it's perfectly acceptable to run out to the supermarket in ratty shorts and a t-shirt, no make up, hair in a sloppy ponytail and cheap sneakers. Would I like to dress better? Sure. Do I want to spend my own money on fabulous clothes when I refuse to believe that being a size 20 is a permanent state? No.

Yes, Stacy and Clinton can be over the top while trying to make their point. But that's their job. I look at them like guerrilla stylists. I love the passion they bring to the show and how they make their "victims" feel great about their bodies no matter their size.

The part of the show that grates on my last nerve is the hair makeover part. No, it's not Nick Arrojo. I think he's great. I'd like to pick him up and put him in my pocket so I can have him with me at all times. What bothers me is the way some of the subjects react to the concept of hair change.

I'm admittedly behind on my DVR watching. I'm watching an episode of WNTW that aired in mid-June featuring a single woman from Texas in her fifties. To say she had quintessential Southern hair is an understatement. You know the saying "The higher the hair the closer to God"? Well this woman should have been canonized in her bedazzled leopard print.

She took to the rules about clothing from Stacy and Clinton better than I thought she would. I was on her side - I really wanted to see the reveal.

Then she sat down in Nick's chair. He explained to her that he wanted to tone down the brassy hair and make her 'do sleeker. When he was done I thought she looked great. She cried for the balance of the show because her hair was shorter and that men wouldn't like it. Seriously - that was her main concern - a man's reaction to her hair.

Huh?

I dumped a guy because he kept at me to grow my hair out from a chin length bob. I explained to him that if he liked long hair so much he could feel free to grow his out, but that I wasn't at a point in my life where I wanted to spend 45 minutes a day washing and drying my hair. He didn't let up. I suspect he is still living in Johnstown, PA, now with a Crystal Gayle look alike.

Getting back to the show, Carmandi, the makeup artist, had to get someone else to restyle the woman's hair and she was still bitching, again citing that men wouldn't find her attractive. Mind you, she didn't get a Sinead O'Connor circa 1989 buzz cut, but an age appropriate chin length do.

The show ended with her going to her salon in Dallas and getting extensions (Great Lengths, which cost $3k - I once priced them out while growing out my own hair), pushing aside the reactions of her friends and family about how great she looked, including the new hair style.

Maybe I'm the strange one, but I just don't get it. I can count on one hand the number of times I've cried about my hair (and I cry about other things a lot). The last time I got overwrought about a hair cut was in 1995 and I had a style I couldn't figure out how to do - I threw the brush at the mirror in frustration. I decided then and there that it wasn't worth it. Guess what? My hair grew back.

I abuse my hair - I cut it, blow it dry, flat iron, curl and color it. I once tried to chemically straighten my heavily highlighted hair with a DIY kit. I had a pixie a week later which I am just now growing out. Did I love how my fried hair look before I got the salon, and was I happy with an uber-short cut after trying to grow my hair for a year? No on both counts. But I dealt with it and a super cute cut.

Sometimes my hair looks good, other times it doesn't, but I try not to let it define me. If I had the opportunity to have a well known stylist who charges 3 figures for a cut do my hair free of charge, you can bet I'd let him (or her) do whatever the heck they wanted.

You have that on record now. Feel free to start taping the submission reel for TLC.

I can even lend you a video recorder.

Getting Real - Another Rambly Blog

Sigh...my poor neglected blog.

I didn't want it to be like this. I wanted to post frequently, with witty, insightful posts. Not whiny self-serving diatribes about how things suck, or with pointless wandering posts about books and movies.

But here I am. I'm sure both of you still reading have just about given up on me by now, and I don't blame you. But, for what it's worth, here's where I'm at.

The weight loss train has come to a dead stop I'm sad to say. For those of you who have supported me, I'm sorry I may have disappointed you. Know that it is nowhere near as much as I've disappointed myself.

I have no excuse except for the fact that I like food and I hate bad feelings. When I feel sad, or mad or otherwise not "jolly" (as people expect us fat folks to be) I eat to numb the pain. I guess it's slightly better than drinking a fifth of vodka, but not as good for my waist-line or my arteries.

I wish I could stop the negative feelings. I'm not a nice person when I'm like this. I lash out at everyone: family, friends, loved ones. Especially family. A wise person once said you always hurt the ones you love. So, look at the bright side, if I've been a bitch to you, that means I love you. Yes, even you Kelly.

So, what are the negative feelings? I'll lay it on the line, here's some insight into what that ugly little voice says. "You're fat." "Your career's a joke. You'll never amount to anything without a degree." "You're ugly." "No one will ever love you." "You're going to die alone."

Not nice to read, is it? Really not nice to have to constantly tell those little voices to shut the hell up. It's one hell of a lot easier to eat a cheese steak and an order of fries. At least that keeps the voice's mouth busy - it can't tell me what a loser I am.

So, where to go from here? I don't know.

I do know that have some work to do - repairing relationships, getting my life back in order. Getting a gag order for that little annoying voice. Clearly communicating what I need when I ask for help.

To anyone still reading, who I haven't hopelessly alienated, I need your support. Not necessarily advice, not even your physical support.

Is it strange to say I need happy thoughts? Ok, how about moral support. I need you to support my morals...what?...wait...that doesn't sound right.

Ok, you know what I mean.

Thanks :)

Adaptation

I love books, and I love movies, so it would stand to reason that I would j'adore books turned into movies. Unfortunately, like many a blind date, I've been disappointed with what has been in front of me.

Like a lot of people, when I read a great book I start casting the main characters. I'm still ticked off that the casting director of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire didn't read my mind and know that Sean Connery was born to play Professor Moody.

In no particular order, I wanted to share my top 5, bottom 5 and some books that I love so much I'm not sure I ever want to see a move made out of them.

By the way, the jury is out on My Sister's Keeper - I've heard the ending has been changed so that makes me nervous. Very nervous.

Top 5 Awsomest Book Adaptations

1. Bridget Jones Diary - I can't say for sure that I had even read the book before I saw the move. What I do know is that I love this move, and not just because apparently Bridget and I share the same birthday (November 10 - seriously). The fight scene between Mark Darcy and Daniel Cleaver was one of the best "pretty boy" movie fights I've ever seen, and the reality of wanting to improve oneself yet somehow falling short in the execution is so true.


2. A Time to Kill - amazing movie that at the time I read it I couldn't imagine that a move would (or could) be made out of it. The opening scene in the book is the brutal rape of a child, and the repercussions of that echo through the movie. No easy way to film something like that, yet it was handled in a way that you knew the father had no choice. It was also cool to see Matthew McConaughey before the naked bongo playing fiasco.

3. The Princess Bride - so many quotes, so little time. There is a part of me that wants to have the officiant start my wedding with speech impediment. No, not really. OK, maybe a little.

4. Interview with a Vampire - I struggled with including this one. There are parts of this movie I hate, hate, hate - see below. But the point of redemption for me is at the very end. If you haven't seen it, I won't ruin it for you. If you have: Tom Cruise driving a convertible, Guns 'N Roses covering the Stones on the radio. Made the previous 90+ minutes worth it for me.

5. The Devil Wears Prada - Meryl Streep...Anne Hathaway...Gucci...Prada...sigh. Perfection - truly porn for the Vogue set. I also get to laugh because my father DVR'd it thinking it was something very different. I'm not sure he was prepared for Stanley Tucci playing someone in the fashion industry.

Honorable Mention: The Stand - ok, technically a TV movie, but still captured the book pretty well, even if Molly Ringwald was Frannie. True confession, the book scared me so much that when I read it I would throw it under my bed when I was done reading for the night. Not as bad as Joey on Friends putting The Shining in the freezer, but close.


5 Worst Book Adaptations

1. Confessions of a Shopaholic - I'll never forget the first time I read this book in 2001. Back when Bridget Jones Diary came out, there were so many people proclaiming that they felt Bridget Jones was the story of their life. This was mine. I was at first thrilled when I heard a movie was being made - less so when I heard Becky was going to be American, and even more disappointed when I found out they were smashing the first two books together. Ugh...

2. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - Ironically one of my favorite Harry Potter books, but I didn't love the adaptation. The lighting was too dark and strange and I didn't love some of the casting. Just overall not my fave.

3. Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason - too much of the second book was left out of this move (hello? Where was the contractor?). Some people have cited the fact that Helen Fielding didn't write a 3rd Bridget Jones book as an obstacle to a 3rd movie. I say the fact that the 2nd book was for the most part ignored didn't stand in the way of the second movie. Maybe the the 3rd movie could be the film the 2nd one should have been.

4. Interview with a Vampire - before Brad Pitt became my fantasy baby daddy, he did some movies that I didn't love. The character of Louis in this move was a tough one to even like. Whiny, mopey, hair was way too long - I wanted to shove him out of the house and lock him outside at broad daylight.

5. The Firm - saw the movie, read the book, had to go back and see the movie again to make sure it was the same animal. My biggest beef was the completely different ending. In my opinion, all that the two had in common was a title and character names, other than that, two different animals.

Honorable Mention: P.S. I Love You - I read this book and sobbed. I saw the move and fell asleep. Again committing the mortal sin of changing venue, this time from Ireland, and setting the main action to the US. Harry Connick couldn't save this movie for me.

This is the list with the longest title, and the hardest for me to write

Books I Would Like to See Made into Movies, but With Strict Supervision

1. Bitter is the New Black - if you haven't read Jen Lancaster's hilarious books, then go read them now. Seriously - I'll wait. Her voice sounds like mine (at least I wish it did). Her sarcasm should be licensed and her knack for story telling made me laugh out loud on a flight from Philadelphia to Seattle, complete with snorking. People were staring at me I was laughing so hard. I read her latest book, Pretty in Plaid in roughly 24 hours it was that good. I wanted more and can't wait for her next book.

2. Everywhere That Mary Went - one of Lisa Scottoline's first books. As a suburban Philadelphian, I love reading Lisa's books and noting the city scape - her mentions of the Round House, the Blue Route, Philly accents - if you aren't from Philly, you might not get the references, but her stories are great, and her steady characters like Mary DiNunzio and her family, Mary's friend and co-worker Judy and her boss Bennie Rosato are all memorable. And who the hell names a character Pigeon Tony? Only a Philly girl would.

3. The Queen's Fool - another one of Philippa Gregory's books was made into a movie - The Other Boleyn Girl. This tells the story of Queen Elizabeth's court from the eyes of an outsider. This was the first book I read by this author and it had me hooked.

4. Jemima J - a great book by Jane Green about an overweight single woman who creates a fantasy dating profile. She enters into a virtual relationship with a man who believes her to be something that she is not -oh and just so happens to own a gym, and then has to deal with the consequences when the time comes to meet him in person. Side note - I'd like to see Hollywood made a move about a fat girl starring an actual fat girl - not Cameron Diaz wearing a size 6 or Kate Winslet in a size 8.

5. One Hit Wonder - the title is just what it implies - it's about a one hit wonder, estranged from her family, who is never heard from again. She is found dead in her flat in London 15 years later. Her half-sister, long estranged, travels to London to find out more about her sister. By Lisa Jewell.

So, how about you? What books made into movies do you love? Which ones were you disappointed in?

Recap

So it’s been a little while since I’ve blogged, aside from my admittedly odd Kenny Rodgers homage. For the record, The Gambler is a great song, and one that I wish I had really listened to a few years ago.

Anyhow, I’m going to try not to get bogged down by the negative, but if I’m being honest, here is where my head’s been at over the past few weeks.

The Run
I ran a 5k about three weeks ago. To be honest, the wind was zapped from my sails before I had even run the race. Someone close to me hurt me in connection with the race, and I never really recovered my enthusiasm. I know that this person never intended to hurt me, but there it is.

Nevertheless, I ran on race day, but the joy wasn’t there. I still haven’t quite found my mojo again, but I’m working on it.

The Diet
Sadly, the run and the diet are pretty closely connected. Let’s just say that once I recover my mojo there will be a bit more of me recovering it. ‘Nuff said.

The Darkness
Not just a fairly awesome Brit band, but also what I call my depression. For the record, I also call it The Blackness. When I get like that, the world sucks. I feel like food has no taste, even though I eat enough of it. Water doesn’t quench my thirst, sleep doesn’t refresh, and coffee doesn’t wake me up. I’ve been in that pit for the past couple of weeks.

People offer to help, but I don’t know how to accept it. If I’m being totally honest, there is a part of me that doesn’t want to accept it. I almost relish the feeling of despair while hating it at the same time. I want people to want to help me, but not actually help me. I’m a mini Sylvia Plath without the gas oven. I feel as if I am marinating in a pit of self-pity, not to put too fine of a point on it, and I like the pruny fingers.

I’m just a big old ray of sunshine.

Fortunately, I’m finally coming out of it.

Once the cloud starts to lift I can see how miserable I’ve been, and feel regret for the bitch I’ve morphed into. If I have hurt you, let you down or otherwise disappointed you, I am sorry.

I wish I could say it won’t happen again, but I’m pretty sure it will. Fatalistic? Maybe. Realistic? Yep.

I’ve been this way for a long time – easily since the age of 12. I like to think that as I’ve gotten older I’ve gotten a little bit better at masking the symptoms, but nobody’s perfect.

Life is noting but a series opportunities to learn.

I’m still learning.

I have a great deal to learn.

Wisdom

An update to my sorry little blog is sorely needed, but I'm out of time, more importantly inspiration. Until inspiration and a time turner show up on my door step, I'll share with you some words of wisdom imparted to me by a prolific singer/songwriter...

"Just dance...gonna be ok...da da doo-doo mmm...."

Ok, not that singer/song writer, but another one. One that some may find a bit out of character for me, but the words resonate.

I tend to hold on longer than I should...things, relationships, etc...it's cheesy, but still truer words were never spoken.

Here goes....

On a warm summers evenin on a train bound for nowhere,
I met up with the gambler; we were both too tired to sleep.
So we took turns a starin out the window at the darkness
til boredom overtook us, and he began to speak.

He said, son, I've made a life out of readin peoples faces,
And knowin what their cards were by the way they held their eyes.
So if you dont mind my sayin, I can see you're out of aces.
For a taste of your whiskey I'll give you some advice.

So I handed him my bottle and he drank down my last swallow.
Then he bummed a cigarette and asked me for a light.
And the night got deathly quiet, and his face lost all expression.
Said, if youre gonna play the game, boy, ya gotta learn to play it right.

You got to know when to hold em, know when to fold em,
Know when to walk away and know when to run.
You never count your money when youre sittin at the table.
There'll be time enough for countin when the dealins done.

Now ev'ry gambler knows that the secret to survivin
Is knowin what to throw away and knowing what to keep.
cause ev'ry hands a winner and ev'ry hands a loser,
And the best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep.

So when he'd finished speakin, he turned back towards the window,
Crushed out his cigarette and faded off to sleep.
And somewhere in the darkness the gambler, he broke even.
But in his final words I found an ace that I could keep.

You got to know when to hold em, know when to fold em,
Know when to walk away and know when to run.
You never count your money when youre sittin at the table.
Therell be time enough for countin when the dealins done.

You got to know when to hold em, know when to fold em,
Know when to walk away and know when to run.
You never count your money when youre sittin at the table.
Therell be time enough for countin when the dealins done

© Sony/atv Tunes D/b/a Cross Keys Pub

Hell with Pizza

My aversion to large groups of children is well documented. I get nervous when I’m out-numbered by people under the age of 16. Heck, when I was a kid I was nervous pretty much all the time while in school, girl scouts and summer camp. I think it explains a great deal.

It’s not that I don’t like children – I’m quite fond of individual children one on one. It’s just the large groups where the adult to child ratio is not 1:1 (or 2:1 for that matter) that I get uneasy.

This past Saturday was hell. On the one hand, there was pizza, on the other it was being served at 11:00 am. And on yet another hand, there was no beer. To top it all off we were at Chuck E Cheese for my niece’s 8th birthday party. Including Tara, there were 19 children in just our party. That’s not counting the two parties that were also being held at the same time, and the kids there that were not part of the parties.

Truth be told, I kind of like Chuck E Cheese. The pizza isn’t all that bad (it’s that good either, but I’ve had worse) and there are games. I’m not gamer per se. I have a Nintendo Wii and a DSi, and from what my friends “in the know” have told me, that doesn’t mean a whole bunch in the gaming world. But give me a game of Ski Ball or Wheel of Fortune and I’m in my element. I actually made up excuses to go to the arcade at Disney so I could win more tickets. By the time we left, I had won a two foot tall Mickey for Tara, two Matador Mickeys and a load of random arcade crap. I was a bit worried the staff thought I was a child molester.

It’s the surplus of knee-high children hopped up on a mix of caffeine and sugar along with carbs and cheese that makes the experience less than palatable. Add in a camera happy sister and mother (mom at least understands my camera aversion) along with the general lack of coffee, and I was not a happy camper. I drove, so my original plan of bringing a flask wasn’t going to happen. You can say a lot of things about me, but I at least try not to drink before noon, and I absolutely don’t drive when intoxicated.

All told, I blew about $15 of my own money in tokens, and was given a fresh infusion from my sister. I became the game ringer, earning tickets for the kids who didn’t have the attention span for the less interesting but higher ticket yielding games. At one point I resembled a gerbil hitting the food bar trying to get more food pellets. I knew I was out of control when a cherub came up to me and told me she wanted to play the game I had been hogging – I checked myself, wiped the sweat from my brow (hey, competitive Ski Ball is hard!) and yielded control of the game to her. I went back to my other favorite past time, stuffing my face with pizza and diet coke.

During the break, I got to sit back and watch the kids. When Chuck E Cheese made his appearance, it was pretty cool, even I have to admit that. For those kids it was as if David Beckham had descended shirtless from on high, but less sweaty and a bit furrier. They paraded around, sang along with the party crew and feasted on cake. Ahhh…to be 8 again.

After the chaos, I grabbed my mother and we high-tailed it out there, thrilled that there was no guilt in skipping out on helping with the clean up. As I type this, I’m actually craving rubber pizza and wanting to play games that I know I’ll never hit the jackpot on. I’m wondering what it would take to get a liquor license for them and have the next work happy hour hosted there.

Oh well, a girl can dream. Maybe AC is more up my alley.

Off to the Races

Today was race day – A Brother’s Love 5k in Collegeville. As I’ve shared, I went into the race woefully underprepared. If I’m being perfectly honest, I had decided to bail, and changed my mind around 10:00 last night, after several glasses of wine. I think I just wanted an excuse to eat pasta at 10:00 in the evening, but whatever gets you out the door.

I woke up to a humid but chilly rainy day. Ate an egg, thin slice of pork roll on toast, drank half a cup of coffee and drove to Ursinus. I picked up my race number – ugh, #1. I was hoping that wasn’t an omen. First to start, last to finish?

Met up with my nervous sister (who was extremely chatty, so not what I need pre-race), along with my brother in law and my niece. Tara’s 8th birthday is today, so she was bouncing off the wall, more so than usual. That’s saying something.

We went to the starting line, and the air horn blew. I started strong for a 200+ pound woman who hasn’t run in 3 weeks (I told you I wasn’t prepared). Perhaps a bit too strong, but I pushed. I made it about 10 minutes before I had to take the first of many walk breaks. I followed that pattern. Run for as long and steady as I could, walked when I needed to.

My goal stayed the same as when I registered – try to finish in under 45 minutes and on my own two feet (or knees and palms if I had to crawl). I have to admit the unoccupied running car on one corner was awfully tempting.

I picked out landmarks, run to that black mailbox, then you can walk. Get through this hill, then you can walk. Pass those two little girls who were walking, then you can walk. This went on for a while.

I crossed back over Main Street and got into the home stretch. I popped in a fresh piece of gum, big mistake - cookie toss #1. I pushed on – got a little lost. No arrows, and nobody in front of me to lead the way, but I figured out the rest of the train and ran toward the finish line. The folks who had finished before me were along the sides encouraging me.

I gave one last push, ran across the finish line, went behind a trash can and tossed my cookies for a second time. Classy, aren’t I? I was happy I didn’t finish last. It may not have been pretty, and it may have been 4th or 5th from last, but not last.

So, what’s next? Get back on the WW Wagon and exercising regularly. Thinking about another 5k in July, and am definitely doing another one for the LiveStrong Challenge for Team Mak in August. But for now, I’m going to be proud of what I accomplished.
For the record, I’d still rather drive 3.2 miles :)

Going Back to the Well

My name is Beth and I'm a food-a-holic.

I've been off the wagon for two and a half weeks now.

Sure, I've tired - oatmeal with brown sugar and one (or two) slices of bacon for breakfast and not a sesame seed bagel with full fat cream cheese and three slices of bacon. A turkey sandwich (with cheese (and sometimes even more bacon)) for lunch and a quasi-decent dinner. An improvement over the cheesestreak and fries and medium pizza. Still, nowhere near where I should be.

Curves has been more hit than miss, and the treadmill is getting that layer of dust back on it.

I knew I was in trouble when I got one of the specials in the cafeteria today for lunch - chicken breast with cheese and bacon (have I mentioned how much I love bacon?) on a kaiser with a side of fries for lunch. To be fair, I didn't take the full portion of fries - the "boat" was about 1/4 full as opposed to overflowing, but still, there were fries in it.

Where did it all go wrong? Two weeks ago I got a new car, fairly stressful, at least for me. I'm not sure where it ranks in the new job, new house, death of a loved one, etc. ranking of stressful events, but seeing as how I live with the 'rents and I consider myself one step away from living in my car, it's up there on my list.

The worst part? I lost just under three pounds the first week I was quasi-off the wagon, and down 1/2 lb on my second week off of the wagon. My large ass is pretty much fully off the wagon this week.

I wonder what the scale is going to say this Friday?

Still, I'm determined the pay the piper, and I'm trying to focus on the positives.

I ate 1/3 of the superfluous bag of Cheese-Its today, and not the full bag. The fry boat was only 1/4 full. I haven't gone over to the bagel with cream cheese side - yet. So I'm trying to stop it now.

To paraphrase Usher, these are my confessions...

I have a 5k this weekend. Nowhere near trained for it, but I've signed up for it and I suspect that rather than running I'll be walking. That's OK. The fact is, I'm going to haul my ass 3.2 miles by foot when I'd much rather drive.

I'm also down 18 pounds since I've started on this journey. I may have gained some back - I'll know on Friday - but it stops now.

I'm rededicating myself - I'm committing myself to losing 30 pounds this summer via www.biggestloser.com, the Pounds for Pound challenge and Weight Watchers. I'm going back to the well for inspiration before my 18 pound loss becomes a 25 pound gain. I hope this qualifies as change.

Elizabeth Edwards

I have a lot of faults, I know that. I have a potty mouth (my favorite word begins with f and ends with k, and I ain't talking about a firetruck), I suck with money management and I'm an inconsistent friend, sister, daughter, etc.

One of the things I pray for each night is to be less judgmental. Amongst all of my flaws, I struggle the most with this. I try to give freely of my time and resources, and when I see that those organizations or people aren’t acting in a way I understand, I get bit hostile. I know, it makes me an asshole, but at least I know it, and I’m trying to work on it.

I’m the first to admit that relationships aren’t my forte. I’ve always perceived myself as a bit of a black sheep, and I know that I project that, so the number of serious relationships I have been in is fairly pathetic.

However, I’m at a loss to understand Elizabeth Edwards. She and her husband have admitted that he had an affair with someone he had hired to work as a documentarian on his campaign, and he may or may not have fathered a child with her. In the midst of this, Mrs. Edwards was diagnosed with terminal cancer. She has said that she and her husband are working on their marriage, and citing her illness she did not want to spend what time she has left fighting.

Me? I’d rather be alone than wonder if my husband was telling me the truth this time.

I wonder just how far we have come as a gender that in 2009. Mrs. Edwards is placing a great deal of the blame for this relationship on the other woman. Wasn’t her husband the one who was married? Yes, he was and still is a public figure, so one would imagine that the other party would have known that he wasn’t “on the market’ so to speak, but who knows what he was telling her.

When asked about the paternity of the child Mr. Edward’s mistress gave birth to, Mrs. Edwards, naively in my opinion, stated that it wasn’t a part of her life. Fair enough, but wouldn’t this child be the half-sister of her children? Doesn’t that make it a part of her life?

At the end of the day, this truly isn’t my problem. I’ve never been involved with a married man, at least not to my knowledge (let’s just say my last significant relationship occurred when the phrase “I did not have sexual relations with that woman, Ms. Lewinsky” was in the national vernacular).

I am sad that woman with Mrs. Edwards experience and education wouldn’t walk away from a man who would not only cheat on her, but lie to her about it. I hope I’m never in her situation. There is part of me that wants to get on the phone and tell her to come to my house and move in with my parents and crazy dogs. Better to be “alone” than to be with a liar, but then again, who am I to judge?

Sigh. I guess I still have a lot to work on.

No Words

I saw Face/Off at the nail salon a few weeks ago, and I’ll admit that the concept sounded pretty cool. John Travolta, a government agent of some sort (ok, I wasn’t paying close attention to it) went through a face transplant in order to catch a villainous Nichols Cage. Through the wonder of movie medical science, he looked and sounded just like Nic Cage. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I wished such a procedure existed. It’s not that I hate how I look, but I wouldn’t be devastated if my acne-scarred face with a slightly bulbous nose suddenly morphed into the twin of Gisele Bundchen or Heidi Klum (of course, I’d want the neck down to match, but that’s another blog for another day).

A few months ago, the Cleveland Clinic announced that they had successfully performed a full face transplant. At the time, the family of the patient didn’t disclose details, only saying that the woman had a life altering injury.

Today the patient unveiled her new face to the word. The after picture isn’t pretty – yeah, I’ll say it. But the before was nothing short of horrific. Apparently her husband shot her in the face, then shot himself. Apparently he survived because he served, what is in my opinion, a paltry 7 year jail sentence. She had a much longer sentance.

A story was recounted at the press conference of her encountering a little girl who chided her mother saying “Mommy, you said there were no real monsters and there’s one right there”. Bravely she said to the little girl that she had been shot in the face and that she wasn’t a monster. I hate to think how I would have reacted.

I watched the video of the press conference, and I’m ashamed of my Heidi Klum face transplant fantasy. I’ve never been mistaken for a monster and I’ve always been able to taste, smell and swallow. Even on my worst body image day, I’ve been able to leave the house.

May God bless you Connie Culp – and may God bless the doctors at the Cleveland Clinic and the work that they do.

Puppy Love

I heard a story the other day that made me sad. My friend’s neighbor adopted a 9 month old Lab/Rhodesian Ridgeback mix. After having “Baby” for three weeks, he decided to surrender the dog. His major complaint? The dog followed him around the apartment and “cramped his style”. His solution to the following him around the apartment was to chain the dog to his bed. He also alternatively disciplined/showed affection by smacking the dog. On one hand, I’m glad the dog was given up. Mixed messages and a life confined to a limited space is no life at all. On the other, I’m sad. He was probably the world to this dog, and she doesn’t understand why she is now in a cage. I wanted to share my story with dogs...

Clancie was a part of the family before I was born. She was a mutt – her mother was the pet of a colleague of my dad, and her father, as my mother put it, was a “traveling man”. Clancie was the sweetest dog. When I was born, I had three mothers – my 2 ½ year old sister who believed she was my mom, my actual mother, and Clancie. My mother told me that when I cried, Clancie would pace between my crib and my mother as if to inform her something was amiss. Personally, I think the shrieking was driving the poor pup up the wall. When I became mobile, my cash strapped parents didn’t need to invest in a walker. My sweet natured mutt allowed me to grab a fistful of her hair and toddle along, glancing back when I let go to make sure I landed safely. Clancie died shortly before my sister took the test for her driver’s license. My parents didn’t tell her for fear she would be too upset, although we both knew from the state of our distraught father. Clancie’s death left a hole in the family that went unfilled for a few years.

Flash forward to 1990. My neighbor mentioned her ne’er do well brother had a friend with Lab/Irish Setter pups. The time was right, and my mother went over with our neighbor’s year old daughter, who picked out an adorable female. Murphy Brown starring Candice Bergen was on the air, and I suggested Murphy as her name, and it was accepted by the family. Murph was a sweet, dopey dog. On more than one occasion I came downstairs to a black Murphy-shaped mass on the dining room table, mid-chase after one of the cats. She also believed the sofa was her space during the day - leaving the cushions scattered on the living room floor. She and I truly bonded when she was hit by a skunk in the face one night. I’ll never forget her sitting in front of me, her body stinking and her eyes tearing, pleading, as of to say “You have opposable thumbs – DO SOMETHING”. She died in April, 2002 and I cried for a week. My grandmother’s death a month later was nothing compared to how I felt when Murphy left us. It was that bad. I still regret that I ran from the room when she was euthanized – I couldn’t take the pleading look in her eyes, not understanding why she was in pain and what was happening.

A month later, I went to the SPCA – "I miss Murphy" I told my mother, "the house isn’t the same without her." My mother was thrilled to have a dog-hair free house for once. Dad and I over-ruled her – she went along for crowd control. The three of us walked into the SPCA the Friday before Memorial Day. In one of the cages sat a beautiful, 6 month old black lab – male, a first for us who always had female dogs. My father likes to say Jazz (as he was known then) was the poster child for pet rescue. We walked up to the cage and “talked”’ to him – he approached us, licking our hands, tail wagging. I went out and informed the volunteer that we found a dog we liked – they took him out of the cage so we could meet. The little guy promptly jumped on us, giving us sloppy kisses. We were then told we might not be able to take him that day. My mother, who by then was in love, gave a look as if to say “no you didn’t”. Fortunately, we were able to bring him home that day and christened him Bogey. Upon entering our homne, he ran into the living room, peed on the rug, humped my father’s recliner and barked at my dad who by then had lit up a cigarette. "Hey, you have smoke coming out of your mouth" he seemed to be saying.

That weekend was a long one – one of Bogey’s favorite games was to stick his paw into the water dish, overturning it, and splashing around. He also liked pulling the table cloth off of the dining room table, and standing in front of you and barking for no apparent reason. But things got better – slowly. He was amazing with my then 1 year old niece. He sniffed around her – not quite sure what to make of her. When she started walking, he hovered around her like a nervous nanny. We were alarmed at first when he knocked her down, then we realized he was only knocking her down when she went hear a door or a stair. I was his human chew toy – he cracked one of my acrylic nails with his enthusiastic chewing and pulled me backwards off of stairs when he decided to greet a neighbor instead of going back inside. My quick maneuver to the rain soaked lawn saved me from serious injury. One night, after one such impulsive action, I sat at the kitchen table, sobbing after a long frustrating day made longer, dabbing at my wound. Bogey sat in front of me, licking my bleeding knee – all he knew was that I was sad and he wanted to make it better.

Bogey’s 7 ½ now and getting older – grey hair flecks his ebony fur. He’s still my baby – when I pat my knee to call my smaller beagle up, Bogey hops right up at the first sign of hesitation on the beagle's part. He eagerly enters my bedroom when I leave the door open and hops up to sleep next to his mommy. He doesn’t quite understand that a 90 lb dog isn’t a lapdog, and I believe truly thinks he is my baby.

Owning a dog can be trying – my beagle thinks that peeing inside is her right rather than something that should be avoided. Bogey stands in front of me barking each night, defiant if I don’t supply him with unlimited treats of his liking. I fostered an adorable dachshund this past summer who was child-averse and used his feces as a weapon. All things being equal, I’d still have the dachshund in my home, but he went back to his mommy, who he adores and protects as if he was 5 times his size.

Dogs aren’t a cake walk – they aren’t stuffed animals to be put in a closet to be trotted out at your convenience, they aren’t accessories to be stuffed in a purse. In a perfect world, the SPCA and the Humane Society would be obsolete – animals wouldn’t be abused, and the only dogs being born would be the ones who have homes and people who would commit to them like the babies they are. Until then, my heart aches for every Baby out there, who is sitting in a cell, not knowing what she did wrong, missing the owner she loved.

Stay strong Baby – I know that help is on the way.

An Open Letter to Congressman Steve King (R - Iowa)

Oh boy...I'm sure this isn't going to gain me any fans, but here goes...

Dear Congressman King:

I was speechless when I opened up the enclosed letter with your name on the return envelope. As a registered Democrat, who regularly contributes to Planned Parenthood, I take offense to being asked to lobby my state’s representatives asking them to support the reversal of Roe v Wade. While I have never terminated a pregnancy, and hope and pray that I will never been in a position where I need to do so, I do not believe that I am able to dictate to another person what they can and cannot do with their body.

In addition, having never heard your name, I Googled you, and found what I read on your website with regard to your position on HB 1913 to be particularly offensive. Can you honestly tell me that Matthew Shepard was brutally tortured and murdered for any other reason than his sexual orientation? Protection of gay, lesbian, bi-sexual and transgendered citizens is no different from protection of Catholic, Jewish or Muslim citizens. To that end, I find your stated stance against this bill as it is a transgression against religious expression concerning. Did Jesus not preach love and tolerance? I do not believe that Jesus would condone or encourage the persecution of another person because of who they love. Frankly, I would hope that a religious leader who advocated violence against any person, be it for creed, race, gender or sexual orientation, be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

In addition, although I am heterosexual and have the right to marry whomever I choose, sadly my gay and lesbian friends to do not have that same right. While I respect your stance against same-sex marriage, I do not agree with it. Love is love, and it should be celebrated no matter what form it takes.

In closing, while I fully understand that you will most likely not read this letter, I feel the need to respond to your presumptuous mailing. I support a broad number of causes from the Humane Society to Catholic Charities to The American Red Cross, so I am sure that my name appeared on a mailing list that was sold to you and your organization. Please remove me from your mailing list, and please inform the group that sold you my address to refrain from doing so.

Dreams

I met up with (another) old friend last week. I hadn't seen her since I ran into her a pharmacy where she worked when I was picking up a prescription for my dad. Thanks to the "magic" of Facebook, we got back in touch and met up at Houlihans for a beer.

We did the usual catch up chit-chat: college, boys, jobs. Our drink came to an end, and as we were walking out to the parking lot she asked me if I had my dream car in light of the fact that I still lived with my parents. Sheepishly, I said no, and pointed to the injured, cursed, silver car in the parking lot.

Unless you've just crawled out from under a rock, you have probably heard me complain about my car. I purchased a used 2007 Dodge Caliber in October, 2008, convinced I had scored a deal. OK, I thought it was a bit loud, but that was cured by blasting my radio.

Five months after the purchase, I was driving to work when the car in front of screeched to a halt. I followed, and was immediately slammed from behind. Fortunately, only the cars were hurt, and the other party was a complete gentleman. My car was fixed, and I went merrily on my way. So what if my sister had to go that last 2 miles into Rehoboth with a box on her lap after stopping off for supplies on our way into town for our girls weekend...

Seven months later, still not one full year into ownership, I was broadsided leaving my street. Again, nobody was hurt, and strangely enough the events of that day set me on the path of self-discovery I still find myself on. A few weeks later, I got the car back, and headed down to Baltimore to adopt the newest member of the family, my beagle Candy.

I made it those 300 miles from home to Batimore and back without incident, if you don't count the carsick new addition to the family. Later that afternoon, I dashed out to drop off some clothes at the dry cleaners - less than a mile away. I could have walked. I should have walked.

Sitting at the corner of my street, turn signal on, I was rear-ended a second time. My first instinct was to laugh - for a moment I thought Ashton Kutcher and Justin Timberlake were going to emerge from the car. I didn't get around to getting the repairs done - I had to hound the guy who hit me, and frankly once I had the cash, I didn't want to arrange schedules to be without my car.

Flash forward to last week and there I was, walking out of Houlihans, pointing to my car. Cracked bumper, essentially useless trunk. I mumbled an excuse about my "dream car" and we went our separate ways.

This past weekend, as I went about my Saturday errands, I noticed a grey piece of plastic on the floor mat of the car. A piece from the newly repaired door had fallen off. I went to roll the window up on the passenger side, and the button didn't respond. To add insult to injury, my car sputtered when I cut the ignition, as if to flip it's gasoline powered middle finger at me.

I know there are more important problems out there, but it grated on me. I got online and started checking out cars. The snowball was rolling down the mountain. After a few nervous hours, I got word that I had a car loan (no small feat these days), and took ownership of a brand-new 2009 Jeep Liberty - it had 4 miles on the odometer when I took it out for a test drive.

I had flirted with the Liberty when I bought the Caliber - I opted for the smaller, more fuel-efficient car. Now I have a shorter commute to work, and gas prices are lower. Not exactly green, but I don't have far to go these days.

Now I can answer "yes" to the question. Yes, I do have my dream car. Now, to get my dream life :)

Something Interesting...

Humans learn only by trial and error, and that includes you.

You've got to live life, not think about it. Step into the midst of things, try and fail and learn and stand up again. The question is not whether you will or will not make mistakes - you will. The question is do you want to learn and grow, or do you want to shrink back and be stuck? Take that step you've been avoiding. You can succeed, or you can get

I got this today via Facebook. I usually shy away from the zillion applications I get, especially the religious ones, but I opened this one. I wanted to save this for posterity because I can't forget this the next time I screw up.

Planning on running outside tomorrow instead of on the treadmill. Not sure how far I'll get, but the important part is getting out there an doing it. Have a great weekend all!

Am I Thin Yet?

I've been on Weight Watchers for a little over seven weeks now. While it took me 2 years to gain 90 pounds, I'm getting impatient with my progress.

So far, I'm down 12 pounds, an average of 1.7 pounds a week. I have a spreadsheet to track my progress. Seriously - a spreadsheet. I'm 13% to goal, and I've lost 6% of my starting weight. I know - makes me want to cry too.

Rationally, I know this is respectable progress, but I'm not happy. The first number on the scale is still a 2. My Wii is still telling me I'm obese, and will continue to do so until I lose another 40 pounds.

I should be proud of what I've done. My suits are fitting a bit better, my jeans looser. I'm able to run for 15 minutes in a row. That's an improvement over the 5 minutes intervals I started out at.

I'm registered for a 5k that is taking place in a little over than a month and I'm freaking out a little. I lost a week of training time recovering from bronchitis and now have an arsenal of medications to control my asthma.

I'm trying to remember my original goal - finish the race. Just finish - run, walk, crawl - finish under my own power. I told my doctor about the race, and when I was leaving, she wished me luck on my journey.

That's what I'm focusing on - not how fast I lose the weight, not how fast I finish the race. My plan for race day is to enjoy the run - look at the sights, enjoy the music on my iPod and focus on what really matters, not how I get to the end, just that I get there eventually.

I need to apply that philosophy to my weight loss journey. Actually, I need to apply that to life - embracing the journey, not just the goals I set for myself.

Your Next American Idol?

I knocked two items off of my life list on Saturday night:

2. laugh at myself & mean it
8. do karaoke in public – this may include # 2 (above) for me & earplugs for everyone else

I went to Alley Gators at Limerick Bowl on Saturday night with my girls, and after several drinks, filled out a slip for karaoke. The song: Rehab by Amy Winehouse.

People who know me know that I can't sing to save my life. It's an inherited trait - my mother said that when she sang to me and my sister we would cover her mouth with our hands. My niece does the same thing to me, and I completely understand why.

I saw the song title pop up on the monitor before I heard Renee call my name, so I had a few moments to collect myself, and more importantly, chug down some more booze. When I heard my name being called, I gamely got up and attacked the song.

Thankfully, my buddy Renee stood up there with me helping me out. I think I did more laughing than singing. I am fully aware of how horrible I am, but I enjoyed myself. To my surprise, no garbage was thrown, and there was no booing. I actually had fun.

Now I'm planning on massacring another song - anyone up for a rendition of "Shoop"?

What Have I Done?

First in a continuing series…

When I last wrote I talked about how I had started running again, not for long periods and not very fast, but still definitely a running gait. One of my friends Heather (a/k/a Wonder Woman) asked if I was training for a race. At the time I wasn’t, the plan was to run a race at some point in the fall, when I had shed a considerable amount of weight, after I had done more training.

But it got me thinking why not train for a race? Who says I have to run the whole distance? Who says I need to run it in record time?

So I’ve signed up for a race on May 17, A Brother’s Love Memorial 5k in Collegeville. My goal is to finish. That’s it – just finish under my own power, whether that’s running, walking or even crawling, I want to cross that finish line.

I’m putting more concentration into running now. Was able to do 15 solid minutes at 4.3 – 4.4 on the treadmill tonight. Weather permitting I’m going to do some outside training this weekend.

I’m still wondering where my head was on Sunday night when I registered, but thanks Heather for the kick in the rear.

Overshare Much?

It's no secret that I'm trying to get back into shape, and Gosh-darn-it, it's going to happen or I'll die trying.

In my continuing denial in just how much weight I've gained, I've attempted to start running again.

Let me fill you in, back when I was "thin", I was running every day, even with a sprained ankle, for 3 + miles. I divided my time between the treadmill and outside, and had a constant blister on either one of my feet. In March 2007 things reached a boiling point. In all honesty, I was binging and purging almost every day, and was running despite the fact that my right ankle was extremely swollen. I was desperate to maintain my new figure, even though I still thought I was fat.

I called my sister one night and tearfully confided. I went to the doctor the next day at her urging, I didn't have time to think about it. My doctor's message was clear - you're getting help, and you are telling you family, or I'm going to tell them. She painted a grim picture of what my future would look like if I continued down this path - rotting nails, rotting teeth, heart attack, esophageal cancer. I wanted to run away, but it was too late. Pandora's Box was opened when I uttered the words - I think I have a problem.

I started seeing a therapist, at first twice a week. I told her my routine, and to this day I can't forget the look on her face. I told her about the running, and the race I had entered despite my sprained ankle. I told her about the strictly regimented meals. All of it was normal for me. She asked me what I did for myself, and what would happen if I had a scone, and just digested it. I told her that I didn't know. I couldn't answer either question - being nice to myself? eating something "bad"? My idea of a splurge was a Tootsie Roll Pop, or an extra piece of diet bread with butter spray. A "cheat" day was unheard of to me. I made excuses not to see friends - and to little surprise they slipped away. I was most comfortable with my food scale, treadmill and computer. Joy told me that she thought I was angry. I didn't know what to say.

It's been two years since that first session, and I hope a lot has changed. I've gained all of the weight back, true. The treadmill and I took an extended break, while scones and I have had a frenaissance. I've also started opening up - telling someone when I'm mad or hurt. I started venturing out of the house for reasons other than work and shopping - I reconnected with old friends. I admitted to Joy that I was angry with trying to maintain a facade of perfection.

I'm back on the weight loss wagon again, and I'm trying to keep the old demons at bay. About a week ago I tried to start running again, and when I did I pushed it too far. I sheepishly admitted this to my therapist - running to the point of sickness more than once - she wasn't thrilled. I'm taking it slow now, and I was surprised tonight when I found myself running for 10 minutes and not feeling sick. I almost enjoyed it - and I stopped before it got to be painful. I'm enjoying a day off once a week from watching every morsel that crosses my lips. I'm making time to meet up with friends.

I'm not going to lie, it's difficult for me. A part of me wants to go full throttle even though I know it will hurt me. I'm also asking for help, something that's not in my nature. I'm so grateful for the support that I've found now that I've opened myself up.

I hope I can continue and find that happy medium. Maybe I don't need to be a size 6. Perhaps a 10 is perfectly OK. Maybe being me is perfectly OK.

I certainly hope so.

Barbie and Me

When I was a kid, one of my favorite toys was my Barbie. If there was a new version and I happened to see it, I wanted it. The Barbie Penthouse, Winnebago, Skipper, Hispanic Barbie (she looked Italian Grandmom - really!) - you name it, if I didn't have it, I wanted it.

My sister had (and still has) a sci-fi obsession, so there were times that her Han Solo action figure hitched a ride in the Barbie Corvette if we played together. Kelly had an antagonistic relationship with my favorite doll, later admitting to pulling the heads off to try to rid me of my obsession.

As I got into grammar school, the fascination didn't fade away. I vividly remember the handmade dress my grandfather bought for one of my dolls - it cost $14 - a fortune for 1982. But I treasured that piece of clothing, and can still see it in my mind's eye.

In later years, Kelly intimated that she thought my body-image issues were rooted in my early play thing. I scoffed at the the time, but looking back, I wonder. I was, and still am, a short hazel-eyed overweight brunette -what could be more glamorous than a buxom blond-haired blue-eyed doll with the perfect figure? So her boyfriend was androgynous, we all have our crosses to bear. Did I develop my idea of how I should look from a doll? I honestly don't know.

When Kelly's daughter was born, she told me that under no circumstances could I buy her a Barbie. Good Luck, I told her. We negotiated a one doll a year agreement. I immediately bought my then 5 lb 3 month old niece her very first Barbie as a coming home present when she came home from the NICU. How can she have only one when she was ready to play?

Since then, the one a year rule has fallen to the wayside, especially in light of Tara's love of all things pink and most things Barbie. What makes me happy is that she also loves playing outside and desperately wants to be able to hit a baseball as well as her neighbor Nicky. She loves playing with her dolls, although I suspect that this has more to do with riling up her mother than anything else. She has a stubborn streak, and I hope that carries her through to her adult years.

On many levels I know that my body image is something I developed as a result of many things - not just my dolls - and it's something I struggle with daily. From playing with Barbie, I developed a sense of imagination, a knowledge that I could do anything - be a veterinarian, astronaut, teacher or physician, as well as be a sister, friend and girlfriend - all while having a rocken' rack and flawless hair, but I digress. I'd hate to take that away from Tara because Barbie's proportions are unrealistic.

I hope Mattel catches on - maybe Barbie can have an off-shoot - Bad Hair Day Barbie, Holiday Weight Barbie - or better yet, Realistic Barbie - with a bit of cellulite, some roots and some slightly smeared eyeliner.

After all, we girls can do anything, right Barbie?

Grey Matter

I discovered my first grey hair this time last year. I’m not suggesting I starting going grey then, I’m sure it started long before, but up until March, 2008, I was blissfully ignorant. I believed I was coloring my hair because I wanted to, not because I felt I had to. After all, I used to say, life’s too short to have one hair color.

Last night I found more grey. I was brushing my teeth and looking in the mirror at my hairline (in the words of the British, as you do). I’m getting close to my next color appointment and was checking out the re-growth. I had my hair in a very odd, not for public viewing hairstyle after my nightly workout, and I noticed some silver near my hairline. Much to my surprise, I found myself looking for more.

Last year, when I saw that first silver strand, I called friends and family, and marched into the hair salon, asking all the same question - why didn’t you tell me?!?!? My beliefs were shaken. I felt middle aged.

Things feel different now. I’m more aware of the brevity of life. Yeats wrote “What made us dream we could comb grey hair?” I’ve heard of two peers dying this year, and it’s only March – I wonder if they got to comb grey hair. I look at my grey as a badge of honor – as a symbol that I’ve lived – like rings on a tree trunk.

Make no mistake, I still have an appointment to get those suckers covered, but I know they’re there. They’re all mine, and I’ve earned every one them.

Everything I Need to Know I Learned from Wii

I have to thank God for Nintendo, because if it wasn't for this game system, I would not know the following:

1. I'm obese. OK pretty much knew that already. I'm working on it, and that's why I bought Wii Fit. Hearing it in a chipper pixie-like voice doesn't make it any easier to hear. But thanks - now go away annoying little pixie voice.

2. I'm also apparently unbalanced. Physically too. Huh.

3. My weight fluctuates daily. Pretty much knew that too, and that's why my therapist, doctor, Weight Watchers Leader and just about everyone else knows that you shouldn't weigh yourself daily. It took me about 33 years to figure that out, so I guess it's going to take a while for Wii to catch up. Until it does, I'm taking my daily weigh in with a grain of salt. That's progress ladies and gentlemen.

4. Virtual bowling is easy. Tara has taught me that real bowling is hard, especially when you don't have bumpers.

5. Guitar Hero is the great equalizer. I suck at it - pimply unemployed squeaky voiced 14 year-olds are good at it. I have a job and make decent money. They are in the middle of puberty. Therefore, we are equal.

6. I suck at pool, both virtual and real. I'm still not going to stop using it in my flirting arsenal, but it's much easier to flirt with real pool.

Three weeks and I have a wealth of knowledge. Now who says that video games are bad?

Fantasy vs. Reality

I think I need to get a reality check, or at least manage my own expectations of myself.

I went bowling with my 7 year old niece. Since she views me as her older and much larger peer, we were of course in direct competition. No problem - I started bowling when I was 8, and I was raised by a man who didn't let the fact that he was playing against children ruin his competitive drive, so why should I let the kid win? Yes, I stopped bowling when I realized that bowling balls + acrylic nails = massive breakage, but still...

The reality of today was that I had my ass handed to me by my 7 year old, 4 ft tall 40 pound niece, in front of cute Army guys no less. Did I mention that today was some kind of Army Bowling Tourney at Facenda Whitaker? The fact that I regularly kick ass on Wii Bowling didn't help me, and I might have been better off aiming for one of the lanes next to me instead of the one I was assigned to based on the gutter balls I was throwing.

So, I guess my invite to join the pro bowling circuit isn't going to be in the mail. Until then, I'm going to continue to be Queen of the Wii.

On a side note, I joined Twitter for those of you who need to know what I'm doing every minute of every day. (See? Fantasy: I'm much more interesting than I really am; Reality: I'm pretty boring). For those of you keeping track, down another 1.2 lbs, bringing the total weight loss to 7 pounds. Enjoying "treat" day - small personal pizza with mushrooms and spinach for dinner, Yum!!!!

StickKing to It

My second weigh in is in two days.

I've been staying on program so far. I had a "cheat" day (still hate the name) on Saturday - a petite vanilla scone from Starbucks (3 freakin points!), and went to a dinner dance on Saturday night. Two words: chocolate fountain. Two more words: cocktail wienies. No, I didn't stick the cocktail wienies in the chocolate fountain, but yes, I partook of both, along with the open bar. The good news is that the rest of the day was in reason, a departure from other social occasions.

Soooo.....Sunday was back to the program, sticking to my allocated points, trying to leave the flex points alone. Did Wii Fit everyday, even if for only 10 minutes, and got treadmill time in twice as of today. Not great, but not horrible - a definate improvement.

I've decided to utilize another tool, one with both financial and social implications. My friend Cheryl mentioned a website back in January in relationship to New Years Resolutions, www.stickk.com. The concept is this: you publicly state your goal (losing weight, quitting smoking, meeting your parter's family), set a time frame, choose a referee, impose a penalty if you don't meet the goal and add supporters.

I opened up an account. I put in my goal weight, what weight I want to end up at and what my penalty will be if I don't meet the goals. The cool part is you can give the money to a friend, foe, charity or anti-charity (the anti-charity works this way, if you're a Republican, and you fail to set you goal, the money goes to the William Jefferson Clinton Presidential Library. There are several options). I decided to be charged $5 every week I don't lose at least one pound, and the money goes to one of several charities the website works with - it only costs me money, not my supporters.

I didn't mention the worst part - my starting weight is out there for my supporters to see. Yeah, that's info I want out there. I also want it to be a thing of the past. For added incentive, I added a before picture that I've suppressed - I've untagged myself on Facebook. That's how bad it is. No, I won't post it here.

So it's all out there now, hopefully as part of my past. If you'd like to be a supporter (and seriously, I can use all of the support I can get), please drop me a line and I'll add you.

4 points left for the day (whoopie!!!) - need to figure out something else to eat - great problem to have!

Cancer Still Sucks

I consider myself a bit of a Subject Matter Expert (or SME in consulting speak) on the subject of British tabloids. I first discovered them when I spied a copy of Heat magazine at Tower Records (RIP) in King of Prussia, with the grinning visage of Robbie Williams on the cover back in 2001.

Since then, I’ve become well versed in the travails of Kerry Katona, her marriage to Mark and her feud with Jordan/Katie Price; the marriage troubles of Cheryl and Ashley Cole; why Fern Britton has alienated many of her fans and I can tell you all about the comeback of Take That – the British New Kids on the Block.

I first read about Jade Goody in 2002, shortly after she became a “personality” on Big Brother, a British reality show that was also adapted in the US. Jade is what one might call “white trash” in the US. Not all that bright (she had ever heard of asparagus) with a big mouth and an even larger personality. She outshone the eventual winner of the series, Kate Lawler (I told you I knew a lot about British tabloids). Her relationship with Jeff Brazier, the man who would father her two children, was headline news. Everything about her was out in the open for all to see – her diets became fodder for workout videos, her life was the subject of a weekly column in Now magainze, even her attempt to earn her driver’s license was part of a reality TV special. She wrote an autobiography in 2006 at the age of 25, and launched two successful fragrances.

In 2007, she entered the Celebrity Big Brother house (basically The Surreal Life for those of you who watch VH1). She and two other house guests sparked a race war, bullying Bollywood star Shilpa Shetty. She left the house in shame and entered rehab to deal with the public rejection.

Her star was definitely in the decline when she entered the Bigg Boss house in August 2008. (Bigg Boss is India’s answer to Big Brother and was hosted by none other than Shilpa Shetty, Jade’s victim who went on to win Celebrity Big Brother.) Jade was in ill health, having suffered a miscarriage shortly after leaving rehab and was undergoing medical tests. Her income was down – her autobiography and fragrances were pulled from store shelves after the race war – and she was hoping for a comeback.

Shortly after entering the house, Jade was called into the diary room, basically a confessional/interrogation room for the contestants. There isn’t any footage of what she was told – but her reaction when she emerged was heart breaking. While in the diary room, Jade was connected with her doctors and was told that she had cervical cancer at the age of 27. I watched the footage on You Tube, and I felt myself getting teary. Watching what should have been a private moment, the aftermath of learning one has a potentially terminal disease, was hard to watch.

Jade returned to the UK for surgery, but not without first giving exclusive interviews about her diagnosis and prognosis, and inking a deal for a reality TV show. I’ll be honest, I was skeptical. I’m not sure if I would be on the phone to the editors of People after getting diagnosed with cancer, but as she pointed out, she couldn’t earn any money while undergoing treatment.

In December a bald Jade Goody was photographed with her two young sons, aged 4 and 5. She said that her prognosis wasn’t great and that she was planning her funeral. She explained that her interviews and TV shows were to earn money for her son’s future.

In February of this year it was announced that Jade’s cancer had spread from her cervix to her liver, bowl and groin, and that her life expectancy was weeks rather than years. A cure was out of the question. She cameras continued to follow her - recording the toll that cancer and chemotheraphy had taken on her body.

Over the years, I’ve been lax with getting my annual pap smear. The excuses have been varied – I’ve got my period, I don’t have time, and, ready for that old chestnut? I’ve gained weight and I don’t want to hear my doctor scold me.

I had my recent pap smear in November 2008 and thankfully, it was normal. I have it on my calendar now to schedule my appointment yearly. I have been eligible to get a pap smear every year since the age of 17, in the UK, only women between the ages of 25 and 64 can get one every three to five years. I’m ashamed that I haven’t always availed myself to this test even though it has been at my disposal. I’ll make sure that I will get one yearly now.

27 is too young to die. For that matter, so is 33. Cancer has had way too much of a presence in my life this year. I owe it to myself, my family and my friends to take care of this body that I’ve neglected.

Joe – thanks again for reminding me how much smoking sucks, and for giving me the strength to resist that desire to puff away. Jade – we’ll never meet, but I thank you for having the guts to live out your remaining days to show what cancer does to someone. Bob – my friend who is recovering from a bone marrow transplant – you will win. You are stronger than Cancer.

Cancer, you are still officially on notice. Game on.