Why we don't play with matches (warning, graphic ....)

Although I can rush to assure you that no-one was playing with matches. Or lighters or torches or flame throwers or pyrotechnic devices of any kind. It was an honest-to-goodness, no-fault-of-anyone, nothing-more-than, ACCIDENT.

An innocent accident that can happen when a child (in this case specifically, my 11-yr old nephew, Landon) trips and falls into a fire during a Labor Day celebration at the lake. And a burning plastic water bottles sears to his arm and continues to burn, and his hand and knee suffer the most damage.

So no fault -- no blame. But still, how scary is this???













Things to be grateful for:

That it was not worse.

That we still had an ice chest full of water sitting on the patio to immediately submerge his hand in. Not the most sterile on the planet, but cold ... and full.

That honestly, it was an accident, and no one had to feel guilty for causing the injury through carelessness or disregard for safety.

That he has a 12-yr old female cousin whose first instinct was to scream her bloody head off and alert the adults, one of whom (me) saw it through the window and couldn't quite make my brain work as quickly as my eyes.

That he has an 8-yr old brother who helped pull him from the fire.

That he is still here with us, only a little worse for the wear, and when enough time has passed, he'll have an awesome story to tell about "remember that time I was on fire?!?!"



And on a much, much, MUCH more selfish note, I am grateful for the amazing freaking BOKEH I am getting with my new birthday lens, 50 mm 1.8. Check out these pictures! (assuming the content doesn't turn your stomach .....)

I love birthdays and new photography toys!!

Most of all, I love Landon.

The Big 4-2

Yep, I turn 42 this weekend. Except for commemorating the milestone with a party hat and a mammogram (remind me to make that appointment, would you?) I was all set to pretty much let it go without any fanfare. I mean, it’s not like the big 4-0, which can be celebrated, justifiably, with lots of liquor and karaoke. When you’re turning 40, people EXPECT you to make an ass out of yourself, and Lord knows I didn’t disappoint anyone that year.

But 42? Meh. Just not so special.

Blaine, I think, wanted to do something nice for me. He runs very hot and cold when it comes to birthdays. I never know whether he’ll painstakingly select a gift weeks in advance, giving it much thought and consideration, desiring to pick the perfect-ultimately-right present ….. or if this will be one of the years he snags a People Magazine and box of Milk Duds from the checkout stand at 7-11, and hands them to me with best wishes.

The first birthday of mine we ever spent together was when I turned 19. We had only been dating a month, and he sent flowers, which I thought was lovely. He confessed later that he didn’t want to buy any kind of expensive gift in case it was a short-lived relationship …. So basically, he didn’t want to be out very much cold-hard cash in case I turned out to be a hag.

The second birthday, after we’d been dating about a year, he stunned me by planning a huge surprise party. Emphasis on the word "Surprise". To this day I can remember walking in to the house, and honestly not understanding what all those people were doing there. For me? Really!?!?!?! He planned it to take place a week before my actual birthday, which threw me off a little. Mainly, I remember thinking, “if he can get all this accomplished behind my back, without me having any idea, what ELSE could he be doing and I would never know???”

In the years since, he’s bought everything from hot rollers to books to gift cards to suitcases to jewelry. Like I said, some years he splurges, and some years …. Well, some years I wonder if he even remembered at all, or simply noticed the Labor Day Special signs at Wal-Mart, realized with a jolt, “Hey, Kristie’s birthday is around Labor Day, isn’t it???” and grabbed an orange juice squeezer out of the dollar rack.

This year? I’m pretty sure he remembered.

This year? He bought me a little something that I like to call a cruise. A cruise to Alaska.

Depending on when you’re reading this, I’m either sitting in the airport, or flying overhead on my way to Vancouver.

The bad news is my fear of flying isn’t lessened knowing my husband and kids aren’t with me. In fact, it might be worse.

The good news is *this* is why I bought that stupid laptop last week, so I can keep you updated as soon as I arrive, and blog about all the beautiful, wonderful things I’m getting to see and do. As long as I don’t go down in a fiery crash and plummet to my death before I even cross the Canadian border, that is.

Gosh, let’s hope for the first scenario.

It’ll be a pretty depressing birthday, otherwise.

Birthday Letters to Myself -- Part 5

The Final Installment --- Year 2007

Dear 41 yr old self: Yeah. Um, you didn’t do it, did you? You made all those grand, sweeping statements last year about priority and goals and not wasting time, and then what did you do? Wasted a whole damn lot of it. Right here on this computer. You had plans, my friend, plans. What happened??? You bought a scrapbook kit to make an album marking your 40th year --- it’s still sitting over there in the box, unopened, along with all your Europe vacation photos you never got around to scrapbooking. You bought a DVD burner to make copies of all your old home movies --- you’re not even half finished yet. Your treadmill is still covered with clothes you intend to ebay, but haven’t gotten around to yet. Did you walk on it a single time this year? No, I didn’t think so.

Most pathetically, how many times did your kids ask you to do something or look at something or watch something … only for you to turn around in your computer chair and say, “Give me one second” …. Only to look up and ten or twenty minutes had gone by? Yeah, that’s what I thought. You switched from Caringbridge to Blogger, only instead of saving time, I think you’re spending MORE time online. In between typing the updates, and proof-reading them, and good heavens, trying to simply THINK of something to type about sometimes, and downloading and resizing and uploading photos, and updating Flickr …. I’m not sure this Blogger thing is working out. I think for this, our 41st year, we need to re-establish some guidelines. The end.

**************************************************************


And that is where my birthday letters to myself ended earlier this month. And I have to tell you, in all honesty, that the gift I gave myself last week was permission to shut down this site. Because as much as I enjoy it, DANG, can it ever be time consuming! The composing, the updating, the work with the photos. It’s fun, but I felt like there were so many other things I *could* be, *should* be, doing with my time.

The flip side is, I still have things I’d like to share with you all. You know, if you’ll have me. Some travel this fall, our upcoming move, personal stuff --- it’s really a lot of fun to write, and definitely worthwhile and rewarding when people actually respond. And it’s a great, convenient way for people all over the country, especially those who have been kind and gracious enough to follow us since Kendrie’s CB days, to keep up with us if they still want to. But I was starting to think, “Is it worth it? Am I enjoying it enough to justify continuing?”

Blaine, actually, is the one who swung the pendulum in favor of me pressing on. I was bemoaning the fact that since I started online a few years ago, my all-time favorite hobby, scrapbooking, has really taken a back seat; how I felt like I was failing to document my kids’ lives like I wanted. Blaine looked at me and said, “Isn’t that what you’re doing with your blog? Just in a different way?” and I realized he was right. So what if my little blog isn’t setting the world on fire? So what if I can’t think of something to write every single day? So what if I don’t get a hundred comments on every entry? (Although seriously, people, I see my site counter going up, so quit lurking and say hello every now and then.)

I blog because it’s (mostly) fun. Because I get (mostly) positive feedback. Because it provides me with an actual, physical copy of the activities and happenings of our lives, both good and bad. Because *I* enjoy it. And people enjoying it with me are an added bonus.

So my birthday gift to myself is now revised. Instead of gifting myself with permission to shut down this blog, I now gift myself with no more stressing if I can’t think of anything witty or wise to say. Gifting myself permission to skip a day or two here and there -- especially weekends -- if I want. Gifting myself permission to save time and type a one-liner every now and then --- not every post has to be ten thousand words or anything, even though they usually are, just because I'm so chatty and once I get started I can't seem to stop and then, ooh, I always think of something else I want to tell you and something else and I'm so guilty of abusing the run-on sentence and then ... wait, what was I saying? Oh, yeah, gifting myself to feel OK about moving “Update blog” farther down on the priority list each day. Allowing myself to do other things I also enjoy, and do them first if I want. In fact, do them first because I *should*.

I’ll admit -- I’m leaving my original gift (of shutting down the site) to myself in the cabinet. I’m not going to pull on the shiny bow and un-wrap it just yet. I’ll go a couple more months and see how this new, relaxed attitude works out. Maybe some of you will still be interested in what I have to say and be willing to stick around. Maybe I’ll come to a perfect happy medium with my other hobbies and not feel sucked into this computer all the time. Maybe I’ll decide I’m too OCD and make it a New Years Resolution to quit, instead of a birthday gift. But I’ll stick it out at least until the first of the year. So if you’re willing to join me for a while longer, well, thanks.

And at long last, almost two weeks after the actual birthday, the letters are finished.

Birthday Letters to Myself -- Part 4

"The Big Four-O"

Dear 40 yr old self: OK, self, you’re 40 now – statistically, your life is half over, half gone, fading into the sunset like the geriatric you are .... so let’s set some priorities for this last half. Everyone, EVERYONE, gets 24 hours in a day. People who complain (hello, mirror? And I'm sick of hearing it from you. I mean, from me. Whatever, shut up about it already) about “I’m too busy” or “I don’t have time” are simply spouting synonymous for “I’m not managing my time properly” or “Quite frankly, although I talk the talk, it’s just not a main concern." At least that's how I feel about it. So, first of all, quit spending so much time on the computer. Get outside and play more with your kids. One of these days they won’t WANT to be with you so you should enjoy it while you can. Instead of talking about exercising, get up and do it. Don’t chat about eating healthy with a box of Milk Duds in front of you. Rather than talking about scrapbooking, get up and do it. Instead of complaining about laundry, get up and ….. well, ok, you’re always going to complain about laundry. But my point is, I know you’re thinking about shutting down Kendrie’s Caringbridge page and moving to Blogger because you think you’ll spend less time on the computer. Your daily/weekly calendar is no longer determined by doctor’s appointments, chemo schedules, blood counts, and constant driving to and from Atlanta. Utilize this gift of time --- spend it wisely. Otherwise, this milestone year will go by and you’ll be left wondering, “What the heck did I DO, anyway???” Also, one last piece of advice: Remember at your 40th birthday party, when you finally, finally work up the amount of alcohol courage necessary to karaoke, that volume does not necessarily equal talent. And that if you serenade scream the entire drunken rendition of “Total Eclipse of the Heart” -- the long version -- to your best friend in Oklahoma, on a cell phone, there is the possibility it will be saved as a .wav file and endure, to your embarrassment, forever.

Birthday Letters to Myself -- Part 3

The Thirty-Something Years

Dear 31 year old self: Yes, I know your days and {sleepless} nights are filled with diaper changes and breast pumps and soiled baby clothes and strained peas and formula. You have bags under your eyes, your hair is in desperate need of a cut and color, and some days you never even make it out of your pajamas, let alone into the shower. But secretly? You will look at these two kids, and the mountain of laundry, and all the baby paraphernalia that has overtaken your living room, and think you are the luckiest girl on the planet. Guess what --- you’re right.

Dear 32 year old self: Congrats, you’re about to get pregnant again! For the first time ever, in your eight years of trying, on purpose! You have a beautiful one year old daughter, a handsome (if, albeit, a little chubby) baby boy, a great husband, and you’ve made some dear friends in Ohio. This will be one of the happiest years of your life. But do not, I repeat, do NOT spend an entire week painting and sponging and bordering your kids' bedrooms in your base house. Because as soon as you find out you are pregnant, you will be moved to a bigger house (yeah!) and have to un-do all that hard work decorating you just did, back to “basic housing white walls”. (boo!) Well, ok, technically, *Blaine* will have to un-do it because hey, you’re pregnant, and you can’t be around all those paint fumes, right? But he won’t be happy about it.

Dear 33 year old self: Holy cow, if possible, your life just got even better with the arrival of your third child. Your family is truly complete. You are blessed. Take a deep breath and look around you because really, it doesn’t get much better than this. But for God’s sake, woman, STEP AWAY FROM THE TATTOO PARLORS!!!!

Dear 35 yr old self: Good for you for listening to your instincts about being a surrogate. Look at that beautiful family over there you helped to create and feel happy about that. But, there is a dark wind blowing. Batten down the hatches and get ready.

Dear 36 yr old self: Your husband will be diagnosed with cancer this year. Pretty much, it will suck. For all of you, but mainly for him. But, those wonderful twins you will deliver will remind all of you that there is much more joy in life than hardship. Much, much, more. Try to remember that, because although you don’t see it coming, and will be completely blind-sided, things are about to get worse.

Dear 37 yr old self: You know what’s funny? For some bizarre reason, “37” has always been your favorite number. I have no idea why, it just has. And so you’ve always sort of thought, in the back of your head, that this would be a banner year for you. Instead, your 4-yr old daughter is about to be diagnosed with cancer. This will be the single, hardest thing you’ve ever gone through. Thank goodness for the Internet and online support groups and a little thing called Caringbridge, because the hours and hours you spend on the computer will make things easier, but it will still be the hardest year you’ve ever endured. This year, when you awake each morning, and the first, stomach-clenching thought that goes through your head is “Is my daughter going to die?”, allow yourself two minutes to give in to the fear. Let the anxiety wash over you, feel nauseous, terrified, pray, bargain, plead, cry if you need ---- but then suck it up. She needs you. She needs you to be strong for her, because she is only four years old and doesn’t understand what is happening. And, you better be up to the challenge or I will personally kick your sorry ass all the way to the curb.

Dear 38 yr old self: You made it. It’s not over yet, but you made it through the first horrible, dreadful year. I can see you starting to relax, and life is getting back to a new sort of normal. That’s good; keep it up. Also, you need to somehow acknowledge the unbelievable, amazing, wonderful, incredible shows (plural!) of support you have received from friends, family, and even complete strangers. Their prayers and meals and cards and kind thoughts and packages and good wishes and comments have certainly lifted you up more times than you can count and made this journey easier to bear. Remember to always, always appreciate that. The kindness and caring from strangers make it worth every hour you sit on that computer updating her Caringbridge site. Plus, hey, it’s good therapy. Maybe someday you’ll get your shit together and write a book about it.

Dear 39 yr old self: Your nightly prayers are longer than usual because you have so much thankfulness to give. After twenty-six long, hard months, your daughter will finish her chemotherapy treatment later this year. Although the worry won’t go away completely, you will be so proud of her and all she has accomplished. You are going to give birth to a sweet (although unusually big-headed) baby boy and will get to help make another wonderful couple parents for the first time. You are blessed, blessed, blessed. But don’t get too comfortable, because your husband’s cancer is about to come back and you need to load up for bear again. Also, during your visit home this summer, try to spend as much time as you can with your dad. I know it will be difficult because he will be on a respirator in the hospital, but it will be your last opportunity to tell him you love him, and when those are the last words you ever say to him, and him to you, it will be a gift you treasure always. And losing your Dad will remind you how family is the most important thing in the world and wow, you’re sure spending a lot of **your** precious family time on the computer.

Birthday Letters to Myself -- Part 2

"The Young Adult Years"


Dear 19-yr old self: Fine. You win. Happy? Now you’re saddled with a new car and an even bigger car payment, rent for your apartment, a full-time job, a part-time job, and you’re trying to go to college at night. Does the phrase “burning the candle at both ends” mean anything to you? By the way, that new guy you’re dating is a keeper. But cut him some slack for the dorky haircut, he said he’s going in the military. Also, there will be a very unfortunate St. Patrick’s Day episode this year. Put away the green food coloring NOW, or you will never be able to drink beer again. Not that it's a huge loss, but ugh. You don't want to have to re-live the Night of the Green Ugly every March for the rest of your life.

Dear 20-yr old self: Deep breaths. I know it’s scary, but he’s a wonderful person and will make the best husband ever. And I know you’re worried about moving away from home, but you’ll just have to trust me that except for a few dark years in Los Angeles, it will be an adventure and you’ll really, actually like it, plus, make some of the best friends of your life. Also, be kinder to your parents. They are having a rough go of it and it would be nice if you weren’t so self-absorbed.

Dear 21-yr old self: Although I know you think you have to work to help make ends meet, you need to understand that this is the first and only time your husband will be knowingly stationed somewhere for four years. There is a four year university in that town. You do the math. Go back to school. I don’t CARE that you don’t know what you want to be when you grow up --- just pick something and stick with it!

Dear 24-yr old self: Pat yourself on the back for getting up and going to the gym on a regular basis -- don’t stop! As “big” as you think you are, what you weigh now will one day be your “goal” weight. Keep working out! But lose the Sally Jesse Raphael glasses. And lose the naiveté that the first time you have sex without birth control you will get pregnant – you’re just setting yourself up for a lot of disappointment and heartache.

Dear 26 yr old self: Slacker. What is that, like *another* fifteen pounds you’ve put on in the last year? What happened to going to the gym? And no, two, two-year degrees do NOT equal a four-year degree. Good grief, what am I going to do with you?

Dear 27 yr old self: I know you’ve been trying for almost three years to have a baby, and you’re beginning to despair that it will never happen. I’m not going to ply you with platitudes about “just relax” or “all in God’s plan” because goodness knows you’ll hear that enough from others. What I would like to remind you is bitter + resentment = ugly.

Dear 28 year old self: Traveling to a foreign country and getting a tattoo from someone who doesn’t speak English is not really a good idea. I’m just saying.

Dear 29 year old self: You are scaring away your friends and family with your baby obsession. Take a deep breath and trust that there is a plan. Otherwise you will wind up alone, in a rocking chair, with nineteen cats, complaining to yourself, because no-one else can stand to be around you. And getting another tattoo to correct the first bad tattoo? Equally bad idea.

Dear 30 year old self: Later this year, God and an angel-on-earth named M. are going to place your daughter in your arms. The circumstances will not be ideal, and if you’re not careful, you will have such a chip on your shoulder that you will not cherish those first few months like you should. When you look at her beautiful, perfect face, focus on the “how amazings” instead of worrying about the “what ifs”. Also, much to your shock and surprise, you will get pregnant later this year. Although your OB won’t step up to the plate and tell you to your face, I will: Gaining sixty pounds is NOT the best thing you can do. You will never, ever, ever, EVER lose all of it again, so just don’t gain it in the first place, ok? Also, celebrating your 30th birthday with another tattoo? What the hell is wrong with you???

Belated Birthday Letters to Myself

(Idea blatantly stolen from The Cheeky Lotus, Aug 8, 2007)

"The School Years Edition"

Dear Kindergarten Self: Just accept the nap and quit fighting it. Believe it or not, when you grow up, you would like nothing more than for some nice lady to give you milk, a cookie, and then a soft mat to sleep on for a few hours every afternoon.

Dear Second Grade Self: I realize you call it a “game”, but stop chasing the boys at recess. And especially, stop kicking them in the shins when you catch them. Because one of these days a boy named Brian Archer is going to turn around and kick you back and guess what? That shit hurts. So just stop it already. And remember, the retainer is your friend.

Dear Fifth Grade Self: You are going to take part in a spelling bee this year, and you are going to mess up the word “lace”. Not only will you be annoyed with yourself, and embarrassed, but this will be the starting point for a life-long fear of public speaking, which will put a rather large crimp in your karaoke fantasies. Learn how to spell lace. Get over your paranoid, resulting phobia of microphones.

Dear Seventh Grade Self: Dear Lord you are embarrassing. And extremely pathetic. Is there any boy within a hundred-mile radius that you do NOT have a crush on? Get a grip, and put your nose back in a book. Also, you’re single-handedly destroying the ozone with all the hairspray you’re using to maintain your perfect feathered hairdo.

Dear Eighth Grade Self: This is the year you start putting on weight, after that disastrous church camp experience when you came home certain you had been starved all week. Get a handle on it NOW otherwise you will fight this, and despise it, for the next forty years. Also, your parents paid a lot of money for that French horn; take better care of it.

Dear Ninth Grade Self: Stop chasing boys. Seriously, the way you act makes me cringe. Dork.

Dear Tenth Grade Self: Well, what do you know, you actually caught one. Appreciate him, because he is a good guy and will set the bar very, very high for every relationship that follows. But lose the poodle perm.

Dear Twelfth Grade Self: Don’t be in such a hurry to grow up. That full-time after-school job you JUST HAVE TO HAVE will cut into a lot of your senior activities. The minimum wage you are earning now will not be worth the sacrifice. Slow down. Enjoy it. All those obnoxious people who keep telling you this is the best time of your life? Well, they might not be **exactly** right, but they have a point. You are running as fast as you can toward adulthood and you will regret it later.

Dear College Freshman Self: Hello, weren’t you listening? You are going down in academic flames in school because you’re so busy driving back and forth to your job, and working full-time, because you need the money, to make your car payment, because you have to have a car, to get to and from work. This is what adults mean by “vicious circle” and if you don’t snap out of it, you’ll wind up quitting after your freshman year. And believe me, it will be one of the biggest regrets of your life. Your parents paid a lot of money for you to live in that dorm, so make some friends and enjoy it.

Gifts

Best gift I got for my birthday yesterday:

Tickets for the Trans-Siberian Orchestra's 2007 Winter Concert Tour, woohoo baby! (even if those online ticket vendors do totally take forever and I am fairly confident that despite checking "best available" we actually are seated five rows behind the janitor's bathroom at the back of the arena, near the place where they store the rat traps, cleaning supplies, and hot dog buns.)

Worst gift I got for my birthday yesterday:

An invitation in the mail to join Weight Watchers. I'm going to hope that was part of a national promotion or something, and not a personal response to one of these Internet pictures of myself on this blog that a WW representative might have seen and thought, "Wow, that chubby girl could use our help!"

Cheese or Pepperoni?

Today is my birthday. I decided to treat myself to an extra hours sleep this morning, but only fifteen minutes into it, Blaine woke me up, certain I was oversleeping and that by waking me, he was doing me a favor. Instead of being annoyed, however, I was grateful, because he interrupted a dream in which he had asked me for a divorce, and in order to support myself and the children, I had to get a job working at the local pizza parlor.

Um, that sucked.

And was “not quite” how I planned to start my birthday. I sure hope I don’t open my present from him later today and find annulment papers inside.

LOVE IS ….

Thanks very much to so many of you who have taken the time to write in the guestbook the past few days with your well wishes and good thoughts for Blaine. He tried reading the notes on the hotel computer but wasn’t able to get through them all …. A pretty nice problem to have. :) He’ll read every one when he gets back home and I know he appreciates them as much as I do, so again, thanks.

I *did* send him, just for the record, with a list of questions for the oncologist. Unfortunately, they were all relevant for either scenario #1: “Yippee the cancer is gone now what do we do?” or scenario #2: “Oh dear its not gone now what do we do?”. Like Chandler’s mom Kim said, Blaine and I were both expecting a declaration of NED “No Evidence of Disease” and when they tossed out the word "dormant", I think it took him a bit by surprise as well. And then the doctor started talking in that Charlie Brown-Teacher voice, “Wah, wahh, wahh” and all the questions I had written down flew right out of his brain.

He is meeting with the oral surgeon today to discuss plans for reconstruction, which he is really excited about. Kind of like the way you get excited to have a huge boil lanced off your butt ---- you know it’s going to hurt like hell while you’re doing it, but in the long run, you and your tush will feel much better. While he’s at the clinic, he is going to ask for the oncologist’s e-mail address so I can write him with my laundry list of questions. You *knew* I couldn’t just let it go, right?

And that, officially, is two and a half journal entries dedicated to Blaine and his cancer. Plenty of time, I believe, in between journal entries about me, myself, and I. Because as anyone who follows this journal can tell you ---- IT’S. ALL. ABOUT. ME. My mother should have named me Mimi.

So, with that out of the way, let’s go back to the second half of my birthday entry, which I didn’t get to write about when it was happening.

When you turn 40, Love is:



Love is pretending to believe your wife when she tells you she could really, truly, HONESTLY start working out if only she had an iPod to listen to some jamming tunes while exercising.

Even more importantly, love is not pointing out the fact that the iPod is still sitting in it’s original packaging a week later, and your chubby wife hasn’t downloaded a single song or as much as walked to the mailbox. Luckily, Blaine is polite enough not to mention these things.





Love is having a great group of girlfriends who not only invite you to lunch on your birthday, but even pick up the tab and bring you really cool presents. Hmmm. Wonder if they'd believe me if I claimed to be turning 40 again next year?????







Love is having neighborhood friends who think it will be funny to position 40 pink flamingos on your front yard, along with a “Lordy, lordy” sign. Actually, I must confess, it *was* pretty funny. :)





Love is coming to visit from OKC and bringing two dozen delicious gingerbread men from your daughter’s favorite bakery …. Cookies that your daughter makes you bring every time you visit, because she loves them so, so, so, so, so, so much, even though thanks to the new airline travel restrictions about food and water on the plane it meant you had to totally check your luggage so you could get the stupid cookies to Atlanta and then fight the crowd at baggage claim all for two dozen stupid cookies.

But evidence of the biggest, most all-encompassing love of all:



Photographic proof that I shared the cookies with my children, and didn’t even complain when they left a bunch of crumbly arms and legs, and one half of one gingerbread head, in the bag. THAT, my friends, is love.

To "Gentle Reminder" in my guestbook:

So many thoughts on how to respond; so little time.

Thought #1: If you are correct, and I offended anyone with the contents of my “Birthday Bitching” post, I’m truly sorry. I have to assume you don’t read this site regularly, or you would know that my self-deprecating sense of what (I hope) passes for humor is the norm here …. but it is never intentionally hurtful or insensitive or disrespectful. I would be crushed to think I had insulted the families of Haley, Jay, Cameron, Marcus, Clare, or anyone else I “know” through Caringbridge and consider a friend. If I did, I’m genuinely, truly sorry.

Thought #2: You bring up a valid point …. Caringbridge is a service provided for families in need. Another reason I assume you don’t read my journal regularly is that if you did, you would know that I’ve mentioned several times in the past month or so leaving Caringbridge and moving my journal to a more traditional “blogger” platform. However, although I don’t mention it much, my family is still in “need” thanks to Blaine and his stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid times infinity head and neck cancer (see Thought #3) and so I’ve decided to stay here a while longer. And, while I don’t want to give anything away prematurely, I’m collaborating on a writing project with someone that I hope will be beneficial to the CB community and eventually allow me to give back some of the kindness that has been shown to me and my family.

Thought #3: Cancer sucks. I could tell you about the half hour I spent with Kendrie and her ONCOLOGIST yesterday, talking about LATE TERM EFFECTS of her CHEMOTHERAPY regimen, and RELAPSE SIGNS of LEUKEMIA but that’s not too cheerful. I had an entire journal entry ready to go about Blaine, and how he’s feeling, and what is happening for him next week, because people have been kind enough to ask in the guestbook. I could write about how he hasn’t slept through a single night in the past four months due to the extreme burning and pain from the radiation. How he wakes up at midnight, or 2am, or 4am, and has to sit on the side of the bed for ten minutes before he can even get up and walk, and then he spends hours sitting on the sofa all night waiting for his pain meds to work so he can go back to sleep. Or about the frustration he feels about not being able to go outside and play with his kids because the heat and humidity wreck his sinuses and he’s so fatigued and exhausted and depressed all the time. But then I wonder if griping about the crappy parts of our life would be better or worse than poking fun at the good parts of our life, which thankfully, the latter outnumbers the former. Crappy = bad. Funny = good. At least to an insensitive person like me. And then I think about how you can’t please all the people all the time. And then I think about why do I care what you think, anyway?

Thought #5: {{{{{ internet raspberry to you }}}}}

Thought #6: You’re not the boss of me.

Thought #7: The beauty of Caringbridge is that it’s a VOLUNTARY community, meaning I VOLUNTEER to write about my life and you can VOLUNTEER not to read it.

Thought #8: Wow, that was really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really immature of me to say. But it made me feel better. And that’s all that matters here in Kristie-ville. Me, feeling better, about myself. Well, I’ve got to go. I’m a very busy person, you know, with lots of things to do. Like knock some blind, crippled people over, or flatten the tires on some wheelchairs. (Oh, shoot. Now I’m being all disrespectful again.)

Although, in all seriousness, see Thought #1.

Can You Guess What Day It Is?

Well, can you guess what day it is? Can you? Do you need a hint? Do you maybe need FORTY of them????

On a side note, thanks to those of you who reminded me that I *can* purchase the Jon Almett CD online, directly from his website. I tried to find it at iTunes and when it wasn’t there, I panicked a bit. Because I didn’t remember the very website I had recommended to others, so many times. Nope, not a clue.

They say the mind is the first thing to go.

The body is running a close second.

I have an appointment for my “annual” exam next week and decided since I’m getting so old and decrepit turning 40, I would go ahead and meet with my new, extremely-good-looking-according-to-Blaine physician for a whole physical, head to toe. I can’t even remember the last time I had a physical. Ten years??? So I grabbed a post it sticky-note and started jotting down things I wanted to ask him about. I’ve now graduated to a full-length sheet of notebook paper.

I am flat-dab falling apart.

The funeral music is appropriate, no?

So I will go next week and bombard the doctor with a laundry list of things that are wrong with me. Because that’s what old people do. We complain about our health a lot. And gripe about the cost of everything. And wonder what the hell is wrong with young people these days. And knit. And tell anyone who'll listen that "this crap isn't music!" And start lots of sentences with, "Well, back in MY day ..........." And reminisce about the past. And tell my kids about having to walk to and from school, uphill both ways, in the snow, in my bare feet because we couldn’t afford shoes. Then, and only then, when I’m done doing all that, I’ll make Blaine take me to dinner at Luby’s at 3pm.

Speaking of Blaine, when I woke up this morning, I said to him, “Let the mocking begin. You are married to an old lady.” He replied, “Don’t feel bad, honey, 40’s not old.” At the look on my face, he said earnestly, “Really! It’s not so bad.” “Oh really?” I said, “You got cancer when you were 40”. “No,” he responded, “I got cancer when I was 38. When I turned 40 I got bifocals, high blood pressure medication, and had hernia surgery.”

OK. Good. That makes me feel a lot better.

Well, I should go now, and fix myself some Cream of Wheat for breakfast. And complain about my rheumatism to someone. And have you seen how much a pound of hamburger meat costs nowadays????

Ack. There’s no hope.

AND THE ONLY THING MORE MORTIFYING WILL BE ………………..

Well, it’s that time of year again. The time of year women everywhere dread … the yearly physical. Add in the fact I delivered a baby in May and never went back for my post-partum checkup, and the fact that I turn 40 next month (OH MY GOD I’M TURNING FORTY!!!! As in, half of my life is freakin’ OVER and I haven’t accomplished **anything** on my “Things To Do Before I Die” list and holy crap have I mentioned that I’m turning forty?!!??!!? ---- deep breath, deep breath) so it’s time for my first ever mammogram, and I should probably have some blood work done and all kinds of other fun stuff. I mean, I’m not having any problems, but for Pete’s sake, the chassis was produced before Nixon took office, and probably needs some body work done and to have the engine checked out, if you know what I’m saying. Wow. Forty. I’m old AND depressed.

Anyway, the military has assigned Blaine and me to the same primary care doctor ever since we moved to Georgia, but since the doctors are active-duty military as well, they have a tendency to move away every few years. First we had Dr. H, who helped diagnosis both Blaine and Kendrie with cancer (Bet we were his favorite family, huh? Those Escoes, we're regular good luck charms!) then Dr. F, who we loved and who actually made house calls for us, and most recently, Dr. A. Dr. A just arrived here in Georgia last week. Blaine, as an “ongoing care” patient (read: permanent damn fixture in that office) had an appointment with him last week so they could meet and touch base regarding Blaine’s current and continuing care. Obviously, as Blaine’s first point of contact for the ungodly amount of referrals, surgeries, consultations and prescriptions he gets, it’s important they have a good, respectful level of communication. I was thrilled when Blaine came home from that initial appointment and told me that he liked Dr. A and that he seemed like a nice guy. Blaine’s next comment made me laugh: “You’re not going to want him to be your doctor, though, and ever see you naked. He’s way too good-looking.”

Ha! (Blaine knows me too well.)

So, fast forward to this morning, when I called to schedule my appointment for my yearly physical. I asked Dr. A’s nurse if they wanted to do it all in one whack, or if he wanted to simply do the blood work part and send me to Women’s Health for the “annual” exam. Oh, no, she replied, Dr. A can do it all at one time for you.

Remembering what Blaine had said about him, and knowing that the nurses in that clinic all know Blaine very well, I thought I would be funny and piped up with, “Oh, great … Blaine said I wouldn’t want him to do my pap smear because he’s way too good looking to see me naked!”

{crickets chirping -- no reply whatsoever}

She totally didn’t think it was funny. And I was left feeling like an idiot, who was trying to be funny, but wound up saying something completely inappropriate. When I told Blaine what had happened, his comment? “Oh, great. You told them I said he was good looking? Now he’s going to think I’m GAY!”

I don’t know which is more dismal. To be married to a gay guy, or be turning forty.