Open Mouth, Insert Foot

I'm not a big fan of reality shows. Really, I'm not. I do enjoy talent shows, though. Since I was a little girl I've loved shows like StarSearch... As an adult I fell in love with Nashville Star...and although it's nearly sacreligeous to say, I'm NOT an Idol fan. Mind you, after a few years of seasoning I've come to like Kelly Clarkson's music...and Clay Aiken isn't bad. I also enjoy the music of Carrie Underwood, Kimberly Locke, and Josh Gracin. I think maybe it's the judges and the format of Idol that turned me off.

Anyway...there was one show that intrigued me from the beginning. Maybe because for as long as I remember I've thought Ballroom Dance was beautiful...and Latin was not only gogeous, but stunning and dramatic and sensually, unapologetically sexy. So, of course, when Dancing With The Stars first aired I KNEW I was going to tune in. It called to me.

And then I watched Kelly Monaco grow, improve and win...only to have that wussy, pansyass John O'Hurley whine and cry foul and beg for a re-match. What a joke. I'm guessing he was never taught about what consists of unsportsmanlike conduct...or class. And adding insult to injury, Kelly wound up losing the re-match. That was season one. Which had me saying I wouldn't watch again next year.

Then they announced the players...and Stacy Keibler, Lisa Rinna, and Jerry Rice...and I say to myself...this should be GOOD! And I tune in. I fall in love all over again. And I cheer Stacy on...only to find her lose in the last round because she showed herself to be so good from the beginning that the judges expected "more" of her in the final dance. Bull crap. Especially with how long losers like Master P got to stay in because of his fan base...even with his blatant lack of respect and effort. Or the fact that Jerry Rice, although okay, didn't deserve to be in the final three...and I watched more talented dancers get knocked out simply because of his star power. And I found myself once again saying that I wouldn't be watching next year.

Until they announced that Emmitt Smith was going to be competing this year. I'm a HUGE Emmitt Smith fan. And an even BIGGER Cowboys fan. So I thought I'd check it out...and pray that he didn't look nearly as stiff as Jerry. Imagine my surprise and enjoyment to find that Emmitt had some style...AND rhythm...and that he knew how to play the crowd. And he had some good competition in Joey Lawrence and Mario Lopez... Against all protests...I'm once again drawn in.

I should have known better and followed my own advice..."Never say never..."

In Threes...

They say they come in threes... People dying. The thought has had me holding my breath. Grandma Plass passed on a few weeks ago, Grandpa has been ill, and he's not a spring chicken anymore...so..I've been concerned...and waiting for the other shoe to drop. I didn't want to think it, but I've been through a lot of loss in my life, so I realize it's just another part of the cycle. I'm able to be realistic about it, but it doesn't change that wish that maybe...just this once...things wouldn't have to be this hard.

And then I got the phone call. My sister called to tell me that my grandma was in the hospital. Now my grandma has a history of diabetes and heart issues. But she'd been doing pretty well. Somehow she must have fallen or something, because they took her into the ER complaining of pain on top of all her other issues. It turned out that she had a fractured Thoracic vertebra. Unfortunately it wasn't going to heal...and it would degenerate...pushing downward on her spinal column...eventually paralyzing her and leaving her in a lot of pain.

A decision had to be made. Do we put her on morphine to ease her pain? If we put her on morphine, are we ready to accept the consequences? The results would be that it would negatively impact all the meds she's taking for her heart and the rest....meaning that if we put her on the morphine, she'd be declining and eventually die...but she'd die painlessly, rather than live longer, but in more pain and paralyzed. So the family had a meeting and the decision was made. We took her off support, put her on morphine, and moved her to hospice.

The first day or two she did really well, and it looked as though she was going to be lingering for a while. But then the last few days she took a drastic decline...until this morning when my sister was visiting her and she woke up...grabbed her face, kissed her...and said "I love you, Christina." And then..."See you next time."

And this is the first time in about a week that she's been lucid. And she appears to be rallying...which strongly suggests to me that she's coming back to say goodbye and give everyone closure. In my gut, in my bones, I know that's exactly what this is. It weighs on me, making me wish I could be there...to say good bye...to let her know how much I love her. To make sure she realizes that I know that if it weren't for her I'd never have had a chance to know my dad's side of my family. That I appreciated her standing up for us, and fighting for us...even with my indifferent father. And yet I'm not able to be there. I have responsibilities here...and we don't know how long she has...and I need to be there for her funeral. So I'm torn up on the inside, aching...hoping and praying she knows just how much I absolutely adore her. She was the softest...gentlest...most loving anchor to the family. I'll be just a bit more devastated when she's gone...

I'm so grateful that she loved me... I'll always love her.

A Petty Bit Of Venom

I'm a die hard Cowboy fan. They were the first team I saw when I moved back to this country. I'm also a rabid sports fan...my favorite sport being football. I was absolutely thrilled to find out that the 'Boys were actually gonna be playing in Florida this year. On opening day in Jacksonville. Awesome. My roommate and I decided immediately that we HAD to get tickets and make the drive to see the game. The drive was over 4 hours, so we figured we'd get a hotel room.

As we made our plans, my next door neighbor chimed in that he'd like to go to the game and bring his girlfriend. Not such a big deal...he doesn't really follow sports, barely follows pro-football, and the only football he even half way knows (and I used that term lightly) it would be collegiate because he's a Gators fan.

To better understand my irritation I should probably elaborate. This is an example of how clueless he is about pro ball.

Him: What's that yellow line on the field out there?
Me: What yellow line?
Him: That one that goes across the field.
Me: (walks to the screen and points at the first down marker) You mean this?
Him: Yeah.
Me: That's the first down marker so that you know how far your team has left to go.
Him: Wow! Those guys paint it there awfully fast! How do they wash it away so quickly?

So I spent time explaining to him that it only appears on TV so that the fans at home can follow and that there isn't an actual yellow line that goes across the field.

Anyway, so we agree to go with him and his girlfriend. And the other neighbor guy gets in on the action despite being a Rams fan. We discuss getting 2 hotel rooms or 1 suite with 2 big beds and a sleeper sofa and booking the room for two nights. We decide to go with 2 nights so that we're not rushed. The initial idea was that we'd get to Jax early, hence the hotel, giving us time to relax and goof off. And we'd stay the night after the game so that we wouldn't have a long drive immediately following.

And this was planned MONTHS ago. So, of course, since it's not as important to THEM, this is what happens. Both guys wind up working. Neither bother to get the time off. The Rams fan has his own business and could've planned around it. The other guy...he says he's got a couple of jobs to do. So instead of leaving at 2 or 3 like roomie and I wanted, we wind up leaving after 6...which meant we got here after 11. Without having had supper. And I was fuming. It was inconsiderate of them. Had we known they were gonna pull this crap, we could've left on our own and met them here. Even more irritating is that the neighbor guy and his girlfriend haven't paid for their tickets or share of the hotel yet. And I know if this had been important to them, nothing would've kept them away. Worse, we HAD to wait for them because if we hadn't...they just wouldn't have bothered coming...and we would've been out the few hundred dollars, etc.

So I was already irritated about that, right? What else could piss me off? The fact that this guy decides to "be" a Jags fan today. Of all days. Not because he knows anything. Simply because he used to live in the area as a child. And then he was sitting there trying to act and talk like he knew what he was speaking about. It took quite a bit to hold myself back from making a fool of him and proving just how little he knows of football. And he was getting arrogant like he had a right because a team he suddenly claimed was winning. There we die hards were in the rain, cheering our team, and he was rubbing our noses in the fact that our team was losing to "his team"... As if!

I'll say this much...Going forward, he can decide to go to his own damned games. Because he really is clueless...and his disrespect was grating. And no, I'm not reacting that way because we lost. We deserved to lose with the shitty way we played. I'm saying this because I didn't appreciate his arrogant attitude and his flaunting a game his team was winning although he couldn't, not in a million years, explain how. I could've accentuated to the world what an ass he was, but I didn't. I behaved.

But I'm not inviting him to a football game again.

It's In The Rain

Tonight it's raining out, and it's got me restless, wreckless. It's always done this to me...the rain. The tap, tap, taping against my window pane, the light howl of the wind, the way the lightening cuts across the sky. It's always seduced me. Even before I understood just what it meant...the way I reacted.

When I was younger it was great for drifting off into my own little fantasy world...opening my mind to daydreams, to stories. I loved curling up in bed, letting my imagination soar into whatever book I was reading...or whatever story I was creating in my head. The rain was a comfort, a friend. It opened me up to endless possibilities. I was just a little bit more bold when it rained. And when I'd finally drift off...it was the most relaxing sleep.

And as I got older I noticed...the rain gave me that itchy, twitchy feeling...a different kind of restlessness. I'd ache for something I wasn't quite sure I fully understood. Until Shawn. Don't get me wrong...I wasn't naive. I've never been naive where boys were concerned. If anything, I was all too aware. I noticed that my "gentleman callers" called a bit more frequently and kept me on the phone a bit longer when it rained. Where I was a natural flirt, when it rained I was downright uninhibited. I was open to whatever you wanted to talk about. And they loved it.

And yet it was Shawn that drew me out. I still remember...he'd moved away by then. I missed him. He got me on a level that no one else came close to. Then or now. So his moving away affected me. And I looked forward to those days when he'd come back to visit. They were few, but priceless moments to me. On that day I was coming home from work...it was misting out...and I was walking through the courtyard of our apartment complex to my apartment when I saw him. Standing in the mist...near my door...in his jeans and black trenchcoat. Looking at me. It had only been months since I'd last seen him. How was it possible he'd gotten so tall? He towered over me.

God, there was nothing that got to me quite the same way that quiet, shy smile did when it lit up his face. Knowing that I'd put that gleam in his emerald eyes. Knowing that look was all for me. That was powerful. And then he opened his arms to me...that's all it took. Pulling me into that welcoming hug...hearing the comfort of his heart beat, seeing that mischevious gleam in his eyes. I missed him. I knew he'd only be mine for a few hours...but I asked anyway.

So we went for a walk around town...the way we used to when he lived there. Hand in hand, his arm around me. He asked me if I was sure...it was starting to rain. I looked up at him and knew. I was sure. I wanted nothing more than to kiss this boy in the rain. So he took my hand. We walked. The mist built slowly into drops...cool against our skin. I still remember what I was wearing. A T-shirt and jeans and sneakers. As the strength of the downpour grew, the cooler it got. He pulled me into his side...sharing his trench with me. He felt me shiver, turned and pulled me flush against his chest...warming me with him, wrapping us up in his coat. The rain continued to drip down our faces, we just smiled...he kept me warm...and then he kissed me. There in the rain, he kissed me. And if my heart hadn't already belonged to him...I'd have lost it again. Right there. In that moment. Nothing ever felt sexier to me than kissing him in that cool Chicago spring rain.

Now as an adult, so many things have changed. I've lost touch with Shawn, but never with that memory. Thoughts of him still make me smile. And now, it never fails, rain entices me and seduces me. There's not much that's sexier to me than the rain. And it doesn't matter how much time has passed...for me, Shawn and rainy days are indellibly intertwined.