What am I Supposed to Say?

When did it become the norm to congratulate individuals who have experienced a divorce?  I mean – seriously – there are people who have lived in volatile relationships or have found themselves in a relationship where every vow taken at the altar has been ignored.  I understand how these individuals are maybe experiencing a euphoria of relief.  I can see where congratulations are acceptable in such a situation, but regardless of the circumstances, don’t we still experience a sense of loss?  None of us goes into a marriage expecting it to fail.  I’ll readily admit that I entered my marriage with images of two old people walking hand in hand through a park.  Leaning on one another in sickness and in health – till death do us part.  But ever so slowly, one decision that felt right at the time led to other decisions that were so, so wrong.

A few weeks ago, I was searching for the perfect birthday card for my granddaughter.  Slowly traveling down the aisle, the cards changed from birthday to sympathy to coping to WHAT?  Congratulations on your divorce!   There must have been 10 to 12 cards to send to recent divorcees.  Each card carried a flip little message about how wonderful life is now that your chosen mate has hit the trail.  I’ve seen these cards before, but I never really paid much attention to them.  Most of the women I know going through divorce aren’t running around giving high 5’s to everyone.  Honestly, most of these women, like me, initiated the process, but that doesn’t mean we are happy about the situation.  At best, I would say we are dealing with life on a day to day basis and attempting to land on our feet.  It’s a scary place to be – maybe not as precarious as what we’re leaving behind, but standing on a swinging bridge isn’t exactly what can be considered security.

Through my life, I’ve lost a child and both of my parents.  Technically, a divorce isn’t a death.  Friends and neighbors don’t line up to offer condolences or a hug.  No one brings over meals.  There is no ritual where tears are free to fall and you say good bye in a civil manner.  There is no tangible closure that marks the end of the sleepless nights or excuses the words that have been cruelly tossed back and forth.  With a divorce, battle lines are drawn.  Friends and extended family simply disappear.  People that you once depended on to help out when times got rough – they are gone.  The death of a loved one pulls people together.  We gather to revisit memories of happy times and to tell stories that bring comfort.  We send cards and write messages filled with words of hope that acknowledge grief.  No one would dare to offer congratulations on the loss of a loved one.  Good grief, the loss of a pet is given more respect than the loss of a marriage.

My divorce is, as I’m writing, still very new.  I saw it coming.  Like a run-a-way train barreling towards a brick wall.  I’m in no way innocent.  Multiple situations where I should have spoken up and fought for US have passed.  Too many episodes where I should have forced acknowledgement of what was happening to OUR marriage.  Way to many times of remaining passive because that is what I thought was the supportive thing to do.  Realizing, finally, that “WE” had ended years prior to the date on a divorce decree.  I don’t want to be congratulated.  I don’t want to be reminded that WE are finished.  Perhaps it is to our benefit that divorce brings out the beast in those involved. Seeing that beast reaffirms that decisions made are for the best.  Accepting that at times we were the beast spurs us to refocus, center, heal.  It is exhausting and our actions have effected not only two people, but many.  We now have our baggage to unpack, and it consists of many extra – large bags.  One friend, who has also weathered divorce, summed it up so perfectly.  Get out of bed each morning and find a piece of you through the course of the day.  Eventually there will be a healthy person again.

So, as I write this, my brain is using my fingers to realign the fragments of me.  My family accepts that I’m not all here just yet.  They have faith I will return and have supported my decision.  My colleagues are aware of the events that have unfolded during the past year.  They know this wasn’t an easy decision, but it appears they saw what was coming far before I did.  Finally, to all those couples I know who are celebrating decades of marriage – Congratulations.  May you be blessed for many years to come.

Advertisements

It’s Almost Here Again

Everyone has defining moments in their lives.  Some of us can remember the day we got our first “real” job, the date of college graduations, the birth of our children and grandchildren.  Some of us remember big events because, “Oh – that was the day after I agreed to let the pedicurist paint my toenails with neon green.”  And then there are those defining moments that occur, and try as we may, not a single memory exist.  Nada.  Zilch.  All I remember from the day my mom died is the nurse taking her pulse, checking her heart, and shaking her head.  My mom was gone.

We are a tight group of little human siblings.  We all live within a mile radius of one another.  We rarely see each other; honestly, we schedule “Sibling Dinner Night” about once a month.  It forces us to put our lives on hold for just a few hours and catch up with one another.  It hasn’t always been like this.  That mile radius had a mid-point.  The mid-point was the home where we spent our childhood.  And sitting in her little corner on a little couch, was a fragile little women with an indomitable will to exist.  This teeny-tiny woman bore 4 children, worked with my dad to make sure we were decent people, and fought with every ounce of her spirit to remain.  Remain on her couch, in her house, surrounded by her children.

Good Grief – I could write chapters about this woman.  She managed everything.  She was beautiful, intelligent, stubborn to a fault, and she always knew just what to say.  If any one of us had a problem, Momma knew what needed to be said.  She would be blunt without being cruel. When we actually allowed ourselves to dissect her well-worded advice, we knew she was right. Our achievements were hers.  We shared everything with her.  I’d like to believe that everyone loves their mother dearly.  I realize this isn’t so, but with our mom, who was slowly fading into that couch, we gathered on a regular basis to celebrate, listen to one another, and just be.  Just be with our mom, in our home, filled with memories of growing up.  Even at her weakest, she found humor in the evils that her own body was throwing at her.  She refused to admit she might be leaving soon.  With our sick little sense of humors (that is obviously a genetic trait passed from our mother)  we joked about knowing that one day we would walk into that overheated house and all that would be left of our momma were her pajama pants and fuzzy slippers.

As a group, we cared for her.  We all had our own little individual skills that pretty much covered everything she needed.  The only skill we lacked was the one that we all wanted the most.  We didn’t want her to go.  None of us could accomplish this monumental task and none of us could truly accept the fact that her time with us was limited.  That’s another trait she passed along to each of us – if you can’t deal with something life is handing you – deal with it later.  Chances are the unwanted event will miraculously solve itself.  Also, she was a true believer in pills.  Not in an abusive way, but my mom taught me many years ago that if I thought I might be getting a headache, take the maximum dose of aspirin allowed.  It worked every time.

So this is how it went.  We each did what we could.  For over two years, we took care of her, got her to doctor appts, filled prescriptions, fixed her meals, and (believe it or not) took her shopping.  My daddy always said that if Momma died before he did, he would load her into the car and take her to the nearest mall.  He know she’d snap out of death to spend unlimited hours touching every object that was for sale.  And she’d buy them all just because they were pretty.  If Daddy had outlived mom, I swear I think he  seriously would have tried this.  If I could have lifted Momma from that hospital bed, I would have rolled her down to the gift shop.  Maybe it would have worked.

My mom left on April 14th, 2015.  I remember the date because it’s the day before taxes are due.  I do remember a nurse.  I remember we were all there around the bed.  That’s all I remember.  I don’t remember leaving the hospital, planning her funeral (because she refused to do this), and I don’t remember the actual funeral.  I don’t remember the drive to the cemetary or the drive home.  I don’t remember the next few days.  I don’t remember any of it.  But the two-year mark is bearing down on me and I’m remembering so many other things.  I’m remembering things  my mom did and said that actually make me cry from laughter. I remember her touch.  I  still hear her voice telling me that everything is going to be O.K.  Everything happens for a reason and sometimes we just have to sit back and find the reason.  I remember her telling me to go to the doctor and get some pills (because then all would be good).  I remember my mom telling me she loved us all the most because we were four individuals who had our own strengths and weaknesses, and how could she ever choose a favorite?

I would give my soul to just see my Mom one more time.  I need a hug from her right now. So Momma, if you’re reading this right now, please know you are not forgotten.  I still cry sometimes and I know that’s my weakness, but you loved me anyway.  If I ever grow up, I hope I grow up to be like you.  Yep momma, your death was one of my defining moments.  But your life defined me.  Love you to the moon and back.  Give Daddy a kiss from me and then the two of you can return to tending the roses.  I hope that this year God gives you a nestful of cardinals that the neighbor’s cat can’t reach.

She suggested that I find something that relaxes me.

And this is it.  Writing.  Allowing my thoughts to sweep across a keyboard.  I tried keeping a journal but journals are rather tedious.  For starters, it’s really difficult to write with a pen that relies on gravity for ink flow.  So I tried a pencil. Pencils require a perfect tip.  You know, a precise sharp point that leaves a clear, concise mark on the paper.  These tips tend to dull rather quickly and this really bothered me.  I tried a mechanical pencil, but the tips kept breaking off.  Then, I realized that when the paper was coming to an end, my hand had a difficult time writing on the last few lines.  There was a completely fresh page available for use, but my mind just couldn’t grasp the concept that these last few lines could be left blank for the sake of convenience.  Writing in my pretty little journal wasn’t relaxing at all.  It was turning into a problem solving lesson of biblical proportions.

Yes, I’ve discovered over the years that I’m a teeny-tiny bit obsessive about teeny-tiny things.  I’m working on this.  The biggest issue (as I see it) is that my list of teeny-tiny obsessions is no so teeny.  It doesn’t even qualify for reasonable.  This being said, I have been forced to accept the fact that age does not breed pearls of wisdom.  Rather, it forces us to look at all of the lessons life has forced down our throats.  Then, life requires that we rearrange this schema to fit every situation.  I may be speaking only for myself, but I’ve grown to a point in my life where I want my schema to slow down, just for a few hours, and allow my body to meld into the day, allowing my brain to recharge and giving my emotions a much needed vacation.

For almost six decades, I’ve looked upon everything as a new challenge.  When one challenge was met, I’d find another.  Then at some point these challenges became goals.  For the past few years, my frame of mind has changed my goals into issues, which is actually just a fancy word for problems.  Currently, the looming issue, is running the show.  Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, this problem does have past experience creeping from the folds of my memory.  The past has taught me that I have to let events unfold; truth will prevail, and all will be fine.  This challenge is actually no greater or disconcerting than other areas of my life have been.  However, I am beginning to realize that the issue isn’t the real problem.  The real problem is my reaction.

This being said, I chose to talk with someone who was perfectly unbiased.  Her response was, “Find something that relaxes you and go for it.”  Then she laughed.  She doesn’t know me.  She had just recently  met me.  And she laughed.  She laughed because in the short amount of time I spent with her, her knowledge of people told her that I have not relaxed in many, many years.  It would take many, many posts to unload the past eight years.  Some would make you laugh, some would make you angry, and many would make you cry.  But this is now my goal.  This is how I will find that tiny pearl of wisdom that tells us that everything will be alright.  We can live through anything and come out stronger.  This is my goal.  I hope I do it justice.

For the present, I’ll continue to carry my little angel imbedded in a perfect oval of some sort of plastic-glass.  She belonged to my mom.  And whenever I feel the tears threatening to become sobs, I’m going to clutch that ridiculous icon and hear my mom say, “Well, aren’t we having the pity party.”  Thank you mom.  You made me furious when you said those words to me.  But you knew exactly what you were doing.  I stood up then and I’ll stand tall now.  Bring it on Life – I’m ready.

 

Having a Moment

My brain was groaning.  “Just stay where you are, today is gonna suck big time.  You already know it will, so give yourself a break and just stay where you are.” I paid no attention to the brain and opened my eyes.  The sun slinked between the slats of the blinds creating light stripes on the wall and chirpy birds warbled outside.  Most folks would take assurance in this that life is good, but not me.  It irritated the hell out of me.  I’d obviously gotten enough sleep, good Lord, it was 9:30.  That was reason enough for being ticked off.   Nobody needs to sleep until 9:30.  I prefer to wake up around 6:30, do some housework, get a couple of loads in the washer, and then, lay down for a nap. Honestly, in my present physical state, taking a shower and getting dressed is exhausting, and today I’d slept right up to nap time.  9:30 a.m.  The house needed to be cleaned, laundry was growling from the laundry closet, and Craig just walked into the bedroom.  Good grief.  He said something to me; I didn’t listen.  He was downright cheery.  Ya know, if I just had a dart…

There was a time in my life when I could have stayed in bed all day long just because it wasn’t a good day for others to exist.  That’s why God invented big, thick blankets.  They pull right over your head creating invisibility.  In the comfort of this dark cave, one can escape all of life’s problems.  However, now that I have a family, it’s unacceptable to stay in bed all day.  Once you have a family, you’re expected to get up and wile away the hours with friends and family. How sweet.  Ruin everyone else’s day right along with yours.  I do however have a few social graces. My husband is a sweetheart and regardless of how mean I feel, I’m not taking it out on him.  So I did the decent thing and went about my morning like he didn’t exist.  No speaking, no touching, no eye contact – I just stood in front of the kitchen window and sulked.  I was conscious of totally unreasonable anger pooling it’s forces inside my body.  My jaw literally ached from clenched teeth, heat radiated from my skin, fingers strummed on the counter top.  I was being totally violated by unreasonable anger.  Breaking something would feel so good right now – like glass.  Glass makes a good sound when it breaks.  The window was right in front of me – but that would hurt, I might bleed. There’s a stinking sink full of glasses, but the dishwasher has already broken so many that I can’t afford to purposely sling one across the room.   OMG that would feel so good!  Then I did the unthinkable.  I started to cry.

It started as an acceptable cry.  Just a few really hot tears popping out of my eyes – no sounds.  I HATE to cry.  It’s like the lowest form of fighting.  I cried regularly when my Dad was sick and when he died. But that was different; it’s not a sign of weakness to cry because someone you love is leaving.  But to cry from frustration or pain or anger is just plain weak, and when I am totally overcome with frustration or anger, I cry.  Not intentionally, my emotions attack and turn me into a lump-in-the-throat pansy.  To make matters worse, when that durn faucet starts running, there is no off switch. So, here I stand in front of a window, silently crying like a crazed woman.  I am a really ugly crier too. My face gets blotchy, eyes swell shut, and my nose runs.  From appearances, you would think I was having a reaction to a deadly allergen.  Then Craig realized I was crying, and to make matters worse, as if that was even possible, Craig understood WHY I was crying.  That was just the icing on the cake.  I cried harder.

Heck, I didn’t know why I was crying.  All I knew was that I was SO mad.  I was mad at the house and the grass and the dogs and their fur – I was just mad.  I’m a full grown adult (practically old) and right now, the cat is more independent than I am.  I am being held prisoner by my own body, and if one should have complete control of anything, it should be your body.  I’m being forced to realize there are long term consequences from accidents.  My skeleton must have stiffened before metal whacked metal, jarring every single joint upon impact.  Initially, I accredited most of this discomfort to the thwack of the air bag, but this is different and today, well, I’m not handling it very well.

My body feels like it has been starched.  It has been starched with the heavy duty stuff that dry cleaners use on uniform pants.  Ligaments, tendons, muscle – all of it petrifies when I sit or sleep. Standing up is a lesson in perseverance; legs yelling, “No! No! We don’t want to move!”  Little cracked metatarsals in angry little feet attempt to support weight.  The shoulders and back curl over imitating a comma.  Then there are the knees; the knees steal the show.  They are the chief jokesters.  Grinning, the knees allow the legs to bend and lower the body to the ground.  Then, guess what?  The elevator only goes down; it requires everything I have to claw my  way back up.  I could continue, but I can hear Mom’s voice, ” Well, aren’t we having a little pity party today?”  There goes that brain again, “Take a few deep breaths and get control of yourself Julianne.  Good God, you broke your neck and you’re walking.  Don’t even think about what could have happened.  Say a little prayer and stand up straight – hold that head up.”

Ya know, it’s really helped just getting this off my chest.  My Dad was a proud man, he worked hard all his life.  His expectations of us were high.  My mom is tough.  OMG, she’s a little southern lady with a cast iron will.  Anything less than our best isn’t allowed.  We come from really good stock.  If I was a bottle of bourbon, I’d be the good stuff.  I wasn’t raised to let a little ol’ car accident knock me down.  So here we go, me, my brain, and genetics.  Think I’ll stand up now.  I have things to do.

 

A cocktail of chemicals

If the human body is 70% water, what percent of the human psyche is emotion?   Can we become emotionally dehydrated?  I can hear the prescription now – “Just run on home Ms. Mental, take a long hot bath, have a really good cry, and say three Hail Marys.  If you can’t cry, watch a Hallmark special.  Just whatever you do, don’t concern yourself with any situations that are disturbing or upsetting.  If you find yourself faltering, take one yellow pill three times a day, a pink geltab each morning, and a blue capsule before going to bed.  You’ll feel nothing in no time at all.”

What happens?   What happens when your very own brain is the enemy?  Television commercials show actors pretending to be emotionally challenged.  Grasping a pill, hope in their eyes, smiling. Why are they smiling!  For Pete’s sake, what’s in that pill?  Seconds earlier they were clutching their hands with listless eyes and limp hair.  We never actually see the swallowing of the source of renewed life, but suddenly, in Commercial Land, all is clear skyed and rosy.  Emotionally distraught women now float on tree swings and men, who just seconds ago, had their head buried in their hands, jauntily toss a sport’s jacket across their shoulders like it’s an invincible shield.  How misleading to the poor souls battling splintered emotions; they are unaware that darkness is stealth.  It creeps into the abundance of folds that is the anatomy of our brains. Slithering in, it’s journey begins to the land of aching eyes and heavy limbs.  Once the average person realizes emotions are the enemy, the brain-bulbs have fizzled.  There might be 25 watts still burning somewhere, but that sucker is one of the new fangled twisted “green” bulbs that doesn’t actually emit 25 watts of light and it has a short in it.

I’ve no intention of alarming anyone.  There has really just been an overload of “think time” recently. Reviewing memories can be an uplifting experience; or it can be an education of emotion. It’s quite plausible that anyone engaged in medical combat will understand this.  Is it the memories or the emotions that cuts us to the core?  Are the two so closely intertwined that they can’t be looked upon as separate entities?  Minds are capable of storing hordes of memories, good and bad, and since the beginning of time, the multitude of characteristics defining who we are is specified by DNA.  Yet, after centuries of study by some of the most intelligent minds known throughout mankind, emotions are still relatively misunderstood. Modern medicine has linked them to chemicals being fired into our bodies like little bullets.  So, realistically, we are a cocktail of water and chemicals.

Sunday the 31st was day one of week 9.  For one of my friends, it was day 6 after round 4 of radiation therapy. For a former classmate, it is 3 months since his death; I hear he fought bravely. For a sweet, sweet former co-worker, it was week three since her husband chose to leave this world. Darkness is swooping all around me  and it’s trying like the devil to seep into my pores.  How does it know that we’re fragile?  Do we elicit a scent?  At one time, I lived in a place where survival required that emotions be turned off.  Did you know that’s possible?  The problem is that emotions are all twisted together and when you deliberately shut down emotion number 1, you’ve numbed emotions 2, 3, and 4.  Emotions make us vulnerable to the hits of everyday life, but they also add a vitality to our persona.  Time passed and changes occurred.  One day  I cautiously allowed a single little emotion to yawn, stretch its arms, and reawaken.  Wow – talk about living dangerously.   Now all the pretty little emotions had rosy cheeks and glowing skin.  Anger wasn’t the leader of the pack anymore; everyone appeared to have an equal voice (sort of like the government).  Lightweight scarring had occurred on some of the DNA connections during this internal Civil War.  No one survives a battle unscathed.  I call these little beasties “the ghosts.”  Every now and then they still howl – but they’re not allowed to hassle me anymore.

Looking back, it’s amazing that any of this was allowed to occur.  About 20 years ago, I had a friend describe me as “intense”.  I was so insulted – certainly she could have summed me up with a single word better than “intense”.  Maturation has played it’s card now, and while I still balk at being intense, I’ll admit to being passionate.  Did you know that according to the thesaurus, a synonym for intense is passionate, and a synonym for passionate is emotional.  What a hoot.  I’ve come full circle.  Seriously, I doubt that anyone is aware of how passionate I am about simple things.  It really borders on obsession.  Relax, I’m not the chick loosing her cool over the long lines in the grocery or going postal over some imagined slight.  I was taught early enough in life that you never make a scene in public and that there will always be someone better at everything than you are.  In other words, you are allowed to be passionate, but be quietly passionate.

Unfortunately, darkness defies passion.  How ludicrous is it that an overload of emotion shorts the sanity circuits allowing dark to invade and void reasonable reaction.  Huh?

Gone to far – entirely to far.  Time to rope this filly.  Keep the lights on – burning bright.  Learn something new every day.  Don’t hide from adversity.  The glass is half full and it could always be worse.  We’ve heard all the little quotes to spoil a good pity party.  They are ingrained in our memories by past generations.  But if it’s a beautiful day outside, and all you want to do is sleep, you could just be exhausted.  If the exhaustion doesn’t go away – take one yellow pill three times a day, a pink geltab in the morning, and a blue capsule before going to bed.  Oh, and don’t forget the Hail Marys.

July 23, 2011 11:14 p.m. The Haircut.

I’ve been sitting here attempting to categorize myself.  Running to the grocery store in pajama pants isn’t a problem for me.  Staying in my pajamas all day long isn’t unthinkable, and it’s nothing at all for my face to be totally naked.  Life is way to important to take issue with minor actions like impressing strangers I see in the grocery.  However, one area can completely mess with my world, and it’s growing out of my scalp.  Quickly growing.  I don’t fertilize my hair; it isn’t necessary.  After I’m dead my hair will continue to grow.  There is no doubt that if my body were exhumed 10 years after death, my skeleton would have long hair entwined through my bones.  It will have woven through my ribs, twisted around my ankles, and matted between my toes. All this hair from an individual who schedules cuts every 3 to 4 weeks. Bad hair equates with an unbearable day.  My haircuts are meticulously chosen to create an illusion of carefree and casual. Achieving this look requires time, patience, and hair products.  There is a very fine line between controlled casual and looking like a bed head.

Does this make me vain?  Categories have been flitting through my mind like fire flies.  Vain, snotty, obsessive/compulsive, dumb brunette?  This is another of those areas that has arisen due to a UK blue neck brace.  The lower back third of my head is concealed by the brace.  Maybe you’ll recall, or perhaps a reminder is in need, but this lovely piece of medical tortureology cannot be removed for approximately 6 months.  Bullets are necessary to clarify the problem:

  • Hair is growing (rapidly) under the brace
  • Leaning back to have my hair washed in the sink at the hairdresser’s is an impossibility.
  • Evette, my hairdresser, can’t cut the hair concealed under the brace
  • Highlighting my hair is unthinkable. It can’t be washed unless I’m in the shower.  I don’t think Evette wants to know me that well.
  • My brows can’t be waxed because, once again, I can’t lean back.
  • Are you feeling my pain?

Let’s elaborate on this dilemma.  God blessed me with hair that adheres to my head when I sleep. It creates roadmap parts all over my scalp – complete with little landforms of sticky-up hair.  This means that a daily scrubbing is a must.  Wet hair requires a blow dry and at least a little bit of effort to ensure a pleasant day.  The only obstacle to washing the upper portion of my head is stamina; washing hair that is trapped under plastic lined with padding required a lot more thought.  Through trial and error, I’ve learned that the most effective way to clean under the brace is to put shampoo on an old toothbrush, slide it under the apparatus, and scrub the scalp.  Strategically place the shower head as close to the scalp as possible and flush everything down and out.  Neck braces are designed to pull moisture away from the skin, so all water from the shower is absorbed into the padding.  Modern science and gravity directs the fluid to drain towards the front and back center.  For approximately the next hour water seeps from the padding.  Once again, thank goodness I’m a problem solver.  Wash cloths and paper towels strategically stuffed under the brace absorb the gallons of water attempting to dribble down my body.

Seven weeks have passed since the accident.  When I go walking, my body feels strong and vibrant. There is an ache that develops across my shoulders, but I feel that with time this will subside.  When I’m lifting my little two pound hair dryer to blow my hair dry, this minor shoulder ache is searing.  It is absolutely laughable, but drying my hair is utterly exhausting.  I’ve tried just applying some mousse and letting it dry by itself, but my hair has no natural volume and I end up looking like my brother’s twin.  Finally, I knew something extreme had to be done.  You know there’s a problem when your 80+ mom informs you that she is calling the hair dresser and taking you to get your hair fixed.  Not fixed as in styled, fixed as in broken.

The obvious path here was a mohawk, but Evette laughed at my trauma, whipped out her scissors, razor, and thinning shears and proceeded to give two-thirds of my head a haircut that I haven’t had for about 25 years.  When my face was young, this cut was good on me.  The cut is still excellent, but over the last 10 years or so, my face has been sliding off of my skull.  Enough said. Luckily, with my new cut, I can massage mousse through my hair, fluff it with my fingers and let it go. However, with hair this short, highlights are a necessity, and as I pointed out earlier, professional highlights aren’t going to happen.  Funny thing about hair, when we are young and the skin on our faces is intact, we are  blessed with natural highlights in our hair.  As we age, these natural highlights turn into a dull gray that is far from attractive and screams for professional assistance.  My professional assistance is coming in the form of my 26 year old daughter who lived in a sorority house for three years.  Her other credentials are that she has spent the past 4 years of her life rooming with other young professionals who can’t afford to get their hair colored at a salon.  Next Saturday is the big day and I get a shiver of anticipation every time I think about it.

As I said before, good hair equates with a blue-ribbon day.  Being a glass-half-full kind of person, I am certain that after next Saturday, I am going to have weeks worth of blue-ribbon days.  Hopefully the color we select from Walmart will be as attractive on my head as it appears to be on the box. This could prove to be tricky, but anything has to be better than monotone.  I do feel confident that you’ll be reading about this event at a later date.  For now, the time has progressed up to 5:07 a.m. and I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow morning in Lexington.  Hopefully the prognosis will be good.  Should probably mention the shoulder thing, but really feel this is just expected with a broken neck.  Guess I shouldn’t take any chances.  Hope all of you have a good day, don’t watch the news, it’s really depressing.  Say hello to a stranger today and don’t stare at anyone having a black ribbon hair day.  It might just be contagious.