Attention KMart shoppers:
Get your ass to KMart quick and buy 3 packs of Reese's pieces.
Why, you ask?
Well, because, my friend, upon purchase of 3 packs of ET's preferred candy, KMart will give you a free ticket to Batman!
Why are you still here?
I met with a bariatric surgeon yesterday. He seemed very serious and professional. His opinion was that I would do well because I am "not THAT old, not THAT big and not THAT sick." Silver tongued devil.
I left there with an oddly calm feeling. This is the first time I have gotten this far.
I've considered the surgery for years, but each time I attempted to move forward, something happened to stop the progression. Pregnancy, unemployment, lapse in insurance, or insurance plans that didn't cover it.
This time, everything seems to be clear sailing. Guess this is the time.
I've already gotten approval from my general doc. The surgeon has approved me. I've scheduled my appt with the dietician for this coming Monday, and all that's left is letting the psych guy into the depths of my crazy head. Once that's done, the surgeon's office will mail everything to the insurance co and schedule the surgery date.
I'm getting my gallbladder out at the same time. I wonder if Hub will ask the doctor for the stones for a keepsake. He has his kidney stone tucked away in a drawer, with my wisdom teeth and all the kid's baby teeth.
Don't ask me.
It's probably good that I waited until a year or so after my diabetes diagnosis. I've been saying my painful goodbyes to food for well over a year now. I've also gotten a taste of what its like to have to live every day of my life on handfuls of meds - something my doctor assures me will end if I have the surgery and lose the weight.
If all goes well, I will be much smaller by the time we take the kids to Disney World this Thanksgiving. How fitting . . . I'll be spending the most food-centered holiday doing something active and fun!
I'm hoping that is going to be a big sign of things to come.
Couponing is a serious game, folks. The more you do it, the more you get into it.
Everyone knows how to use coupons to get a few cents off groceries, but there are alot more ways to save, and I am searching them all out. I stumbled upon a pretty good one recently.
Unfortunately for me, I have to take medication. Lots of it. Up until very recently, my monthly drug bill was $200+ (and that is AFTER insurance covers their part.)
God bless Walmart for starting the $4 generic program. I don't get my meds there, but lots of OTHER places honor their prices now. After converting several of my meds to generic, I cut my monthly outlay to less than $100 (some of my stuff is still name brand).
But it gets sweeter.
There's a war going on around here for customer retention. All of the drug stores that DON'T have the $4 program in place are sending out coupons that give you $20 and $30 gift cards for every prescription that you transfer to their store.
The BIG secret is . . . every store honors every OTHER store's coupon.
What does that mean for me? Well . . . it means that I had my dr send my prescriptions to my grocery store (Kroger). Kroger has the $4 plan in place. I happen to have 5 Rite Aid coupons that give me $30 store credit for every transferred prescription. Kroger honors these, so when I pick up my prescriptions this month, I'll get $150 worth of groceries free.
And NEXT month, I'll go to Rite Aid with my empty Kroger prescription bottles, transfer my meds there, use 5 MORE Rite Aid coupons at Rite Aid and get $150 worth of Rite Aid stuff free, AND I'll make them price match the $4 drug program.
Of course, I'll use the gift cards I get to buy items that I have coupons for . . . so that's even MORE free money.
Don't hate the player . . . hate the game.
Well, this past weekend found me hip-deep in my precious daughter's room, wading through immeasurable and unimaginable junk, crap, clothes, toys, dolls, MORE crap, and various and sundry flotsam and jetsam.
In other words, it was Spring Cleaning time.
Along with the challenges my daughter already faces with her (slight, but ability-affecting) brain injury, my daughter has also inherited my penchant for hoarding. She struggles mightily with throwing things away . . . ANYTHING at all. To her, everything has value, even things that are obviously trash to anyone else (things like boxes that toys or dolls or shoes are packaged in, or pretty tissue paper, or school papers that have been long-ago graded and returned to her.)
Her love of Hello Kitty is legend. At any given time, her room appears to be the aftermath of a bomb that has gone off right in the middle of the Sanrio factory. She has an equal love for Cabbage Patch dolls, Build-A-Bear animals, American Girl dolls (even the knockoffs), and Webkins. I admit that I have played a hand in this . . . no one enjoys a trip to Build-A-Bear more than I.
I saw tears of worry begin to well up in her eyes the minute I announced to her that we were going to clean her room. She equates "clean" with "give her dolls away", and she usually dissolves into a complete meltdown.
I had to clean it, but I hate (HATE) upsetting her. She is such a sweet child, and so attached to her things. But . . . drastic times call for drastic measures.
Rather than do what I usually do (bitch, shovel, argue with her over each thing that I think is expendable), I switched things up a bit. Taking a cue from "Clean Sweep", I entered her room with several large, brown packing boxes and with NO discretion at all, I swept up armfuls of crap and dumped the offending stuff into these boxes, with absolutely no rhyme or reason. I continued in this fashion until there was nothing left in her room except the furniture and curtains. Every surface was clean, and I could see her purple carpet for the first time in months. We ended up with better than 9 boxes full out in the hall.
I decided that one of the biggest challenges in her room was storage space, so I ordered 2 large white bookshelves, each about 6 feet tall and 5 feet wide, giving the room an additional 60 feet of shelving space. Who knew what a transformation and miracle this would bring about . . .
Once the new shelves were in place, and the bed was nicely made and the floor was vacuumed, I had my daughter begin the arduous process of visiting the boxes out in the hall and bringing items in that she absolutely wanted to keep. Of course, this ended up being mostly her dolls, which were arranged by kind on the new shelves. Even I was flabbergasted to see just how many she had. She had no idea that her collection was as vast as it is.
When she was done, every inch of the 60 feet of shelving was full. Every . . . single . . . . inch. There were also lots of leftover junk in the hall that she didn't bother to rescue, filling 2 large black garbage bags and 2 big brown boxes. The good part was that it seemed absolutely painless to her to leave all of that behind. Choosing what to keep turned out to be much easier for her than choosing what to give up.
We cycled her clothing through the laundry and sorted the clean items into her drawers, and paired her shoes in her now-clean closet. I bought her some lavender scented room freshener, and fluffed her curtains and pillows.
The transformation was amazing.
With all of the clutter gone, my girl's eyes and attention seem to be able to focus on the things that she really loves. She has spent more time in her room in the last few days than she has spent in the last several months. She can now recline in her purple butterfly chair, talk on her Hello Kitty phone, line up her Cabbage Patches on her bed for new ponytails, and dress and redress her American Girl dolls in endless outfits (we made a doll closet too).
Even the boy finds his way in there, although he says he doesn't like all the "girly" stuff in there, he does admire the cleanliness and organization.
His room is next. I've already ordered a new dresser and nightstand for him.
I'll post some pictures soon.
Store 2: Kroger
Store 3: PublixA twofer for you:
After a shocking trip to the Kroger this past week, I now realize that its time to start couponing again. Damn near everything has gone up (this is probably not news to any of you, but I'm just commenting here for posterity). When oranges are 70 cents each, things are rough.
What's strange, though, is that restaurants aren't getting any more expensive. If groceries keep going up, it will be just as cheap to go out as it is to stay in.
So, during my grocery excursion last week, I was perusing the cereal aisle, when I noticed an older couple coming my way. I excused myself as I pushed my cart to one side of the aisle, and they were all smiles and cheerily kept exclaiming "Oh, you aren't in the way! You are just fine!" etc etc, which was nice, I guess, but a bit of overkill. I was taken aback for a minute, then resumed my cereal search.
On the next aisle, the same couple approached me again, but this time, the husband approached me directly and began talking to me (my pet peeve - this shit happens to me ALOT in the grocery store.)
In an overly happy voice, he exclaimed "My, you look pretty today!" He went on to compliment my sundress, and my hair . . . which, again, was nice, I guess, but a bit of overkill. He appeared to be in his late 50s/early 60s, and other than saying these things to me, he was utterly unremarkable, otherwise. He could have been any random near-retirement middle management guy in any white collar company. His wife appeared to be the same age. She was quite small, and could have easily been either a kindergerten teacher or maybe a librarian.
I thanked him and pondered this, as he continued talking . . .
"My wife and I moved here just this past year. We've been trying to meet someone like you (like me, wtf? Fat? Redheaded? ) Where we used to live, we had a close circle of friends that we would invite over for private parties." At this point, he seemed to have a little glint in his eye, and the wife was staring at me, a fixed smile on her face, clutching the handle of her empty grocery cart. He didn't do the whole "nudge, nudge, wink wink" thing, but it was implied, right there next to the Hamburger Helper and Rice-A-Roni, the San Francisco treat.
It dawned on me . . . slowly. In equally slow motion, I think I wished them luck, I'm not sure, but I quickly got myself to another aisle.
Once I was home and safe, the first thing I thought was that no one would believe this story, because I often have creepy encounters at the grocery store. The second thing I thought was what I might have stamped on my forehead that attracted the creepy encounters. Still pondering that one. The third thing was . . . maybe they had a gimp in their basement that had died, and I was the right size for the zipper suit.
It did dawn on me that maybe they were into Amway, but that's just wishful thinking. I'm pretty sure I met myself some real-life swingers. Some saggy, elderly, real-life swingers.
That's what happens when they start airing shows about swinging on the basic networks. Assholes.
Zippety do dah! We are going to Disney World this Thanksgiving! (I don't think they allow you to SAY "Zippety Do Dah" when you are on Disney property, though, since Song of the South has been banned for its, um, politically incorrect themes, etc.)
. . . the horse is something that I really tire of. Especially since I am deathly allergic to horses.
Even metaphorical ones.
I seem to endlessly climb on and fall off . . . and over the years, it has become tougher and tougher to pull myself up, dust myself off, and muster the courage and energy to get ready to climb on again.
2008 has been a tough year. I'd like to say something positive, like . . . "2008 has helped me reprioritize," or "2008 has taught me humility and patience."
The truth is . . . 2008 has made me want to pack my shit and start driving. I thought about that when I was laying in a hospital bed last month. That's when I realized that I wasn't even well enough to run away.
That was a stunning reality - it burned right through the morphine drip.
Besides, I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep. I have small people that rely on me like you rely on the lights to come on when you flip the switch. You don't hope the light will come on when you flip that switch . . . you don't even think about it. Of COURSE it will come on - it always does, right? Well, I have prided myself on being that reliable light for my little people and despite my self-absorbed wallowing, I will continue to do that.
It's harder these days, I have to admit. It's harder to get up in the morning. It's harder to face that needle every day that reminds me that my body is dysfunctional. It's hard to look at the row of medications that I pop every day, lined up like soldiers, ready to help me battle a silent enemy.
Despite all of those hindrances, I still haven't been able to tame the beast that keeps making me sicker. I still eat the wrong things. I still don't exercise. I have to make these changes, but sometimes my cravings get the better of me. Most of the time, my lethargy and pain keep me from doing anything except sitting. Sometimes it hurts to move.
But I have to. I have promises to keep . . . and miles to go before I sleep.
I am resurrecting this post in honor of what would be Mr. Rogers' 80th birthday.
For some of you, this will be a repeat.
But I think it bears repeating.
It's You I Like
Fred M. Rogers
It's you I like,
It's not the things you wear,
It's not the way you do your hair--
But it's you I like
The way you are right now,
The way down deep inside you--
Not the things that hide you,
Not your toys--
They're just beside you.
But it's you I like--
Every part of you,
Your skin, your eyes, your feelings
Whether old or new.
I hope that you'll remember
Even when you're feeling blue
That it's you I like, It's you yourself,
It's you, it's you I like.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
I got a great present for my birthday from my husband. Proof positive that this man knows me inside and out. I received an audio book "The World According to Mr. Rogers: Important Things To Remember".
I have never really been all that open about how I felt about Mr. Rogers. Mostly because everyone made fun of him, and because I watched his show years after I was too old to watch, and because the production values were somewhat cheesy. For me, none of that mattered. Fred Rogers soothed my soul.
I read a quote from him that went something like: "The older I get, the more convinced I am that the space between communicating human beings can be hallowed ground.” For most kids, Mr. Rogers was silly, and had very little impact on their lives. If you ever wondered why that show lasted as long as it did, it is because that show was for me, and kids like me.
Even though I enjoyed the puppets, and the trolley, and the entire Land of Make Believe, the real draw for me was the man himself. Fred Rogers provided a window into a life that I had no concept of . . . one where a grown man was kind, and gentle, and loving and understanding.
The early 70s was a very very tough time for my family. I was the last kid, born years after my brothers and sister, and my house was chaotic, to say the least. I learned firsthand what violence was, what drug abuse looked like, what abuse felt like, and how scary being left alone felt. Finances were stretched too thin, and patience was stretched too thin.
I knew every nook and cranny of our house. I knew where to hide when I heard my dad's key in the lock, and I heard the begging cries and earsplitting screams of my brothers and sister when they were beaten by his belt, day after day, when he returned home from another day of debt, and pressure, and pending financial ruin that he could do nothing to stop. He was a bully, and he was crazy, and for some reason, he had some kind of moral objection to beating a baby, but no problems whipping the others. They were older, and they were sacrificed for me, and I could do nothing but run and hide, heart in my throat, and cover my ears and rock and cry until silence signaled that it was over, again. There was nothing that protected me from this horror, nothing except my hiding places and Mr. Rogers.
Mr. Rogers was the voice of calm and reason for me back then. Every day after first grade, I was the first one home to a dark house. There was NO money for daycare, my mom worked all the time, and luckily for all involved, I was a kid that could be trusted to be left alone for hours at a time, and so I was. I remember staying very still and quiet during those hours, wondering if there were monsters in our basement, and wishing that someone, anyone would come home soon, and dreading that at the same time.
I can't tell you how comforting it was to watch Mr. Rogers. Seeing him coming in and singing, smiling at me and telling me that he was glad to see me meant the world to me. Having him explain the world to me through Picture Picture and his gentle, unhurried words was like balm on my scared, tiny soul, and I loved him dearly. I never understood why there were men like my dad, and I never believed there were men any different until I found Mr. Rogers.
After I grew up, I learned a little more about Mr. Rogers. It didn't surprise me to learn that he was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom for his commitment to the well-being of children, that he made over 900 shows or that he had been awarded more than 40 honorary degrees. He was an extraordinary man disguised as a very humble, fragile, quiet person.
Fred Rogers died on February 27, 2003. I was 37, married, with two children of my own, and I cried like a baby. My grandparents had all passed long before I was born, but I can't imagine that losing a grandfather could have been more painful than that was. Explaining my reaction to my husband was nearly impossible, and seeing the look of pain on his face was heartbreaking.
It pleases me to no end that my kids love Mr. Rogers. We watch him together and I am able to experience him all over again through their eyes. Fortunately for them, his kindness is nothing out of the ordinary. And I am proud of that.
I love you, Mr. Rogers.
So . . . life is funny.
Anyone that has been married for as long as I have (soon to be 13) might be able to relate to this. There comes a time when you re-evaluate things . . . try to see where your priorities are versus your partner's. You try to see if you two are even looking at the same book anymore, nevermind whether or not you are on the same page. You try to figure out if you are both rowing in the same direction, or if your boat is just spinning in the water, or maybe even sinking.
That has been happening here.
As you might imagine, this led to many long talks, some civil, some not-so-civil. Everything was on the table: divorce, trial separation, sharing living space as parenting partners only, counseling and staying together. About as fun as a broken back.
Funny enough, just about the time we were reaching some pretty final agreements, my sugar went through the roof (no idea why) and my back went out. And when I say it "went out", I mean WAY out.
Picture this: After my shower last Wednesday morning, I was stepping into my PANTIES, for God's sake, and a lightning bolt seared through my spine, taking me immediately to the ground, breathless with pain. For the next 2 hours, I crawled, naked, through my house, dragging my useless lower half with me in a vain search for a telephone I could reach.
By the time Hub came hustling in the door, I had been on the floor for 3 hours, 3 dogs nervously sitting around me. He calmly assessed the situation, dressed me, and called 911. He then sat with me through the following days of bedrest, hospitalization, pain, transport home, and aftercare. He even bit his tongue as I slept, drugged, through his ENTIRE birthday.
As I sit typing this, I am resting here at home, waiting for my very very dicey, bulgy lower back disc to calm down enough to attempt therapy.
This morning, it sort of seems like the worst of the back issue is behind me (ha ha). After being off work for so many days, Hub has returned to work. Today is the first day since last Wednesday I have been able to get out of bed and bathe and dress myself completely. I wisely decided to sit on a bench before attempting the high wire act known as "putting on my panties". Yea, me!
So, as I was sudsing up this morning, I ruefully decided that life had shown me really quickly that maybe I need my partner way more than I thought I did. Maybe there was more left here than we thought there was. Maybe one more chance is warranted. Maybe this had happened for a reason, to give us both a chance to slow down and reconsider things.
As often happens, music started running through my head as I lathered up my hair.
Forgive me, David Soul.
Don't give up on us, baby
Lord knows we've come this far
Can't we stay the way we are?
The angel and the dreamer
Who sometimes plays a fool
Don't give up on us, I know
We can still come through . . .
(followed, of course, by my NEW verse)
Wash my ass with that loofah
Because I can't reach there
I can't put on my own underwear
I'm pretty much a slug now
and I depend on you . . .
But don't give up on us, I think
I can still blow you . . . .
Romantic, huh?
Editorial note: After reading this, Hub commented that he thought I was glad he was still here just because I was hurt, and as soon as I was better, I would be unhappy again.
Hmm. Fair enough.
You might recall that I posted a bit earlier about the idle chitchat that happens virtually between coasts . . . I am lucky to have online friends that have access to chat, otherwise I might end up on the roof some days with a rifle.
Days like today are the Gold Standard of entertaining chat (names changed to protect her from said brother):
Rita: you know what my pet peeve is?
She Who Will Remain Nameless (SWRN): what?
Rita: Dumbass guys that post endless pictures of models on their blog or MySpace with captions like "Anywhere, anytime!" like they have that fucking choice
SWRN: "anywhere, anytime in your dreams, sir"
Rita: like these women would allow them to lick their shoes clean
SWRN: yeah really
Rita: no shit
Rita: that just irks the shit out of me
Rita: I mean, fine . . . if you want to say "what a beautiful woman" or whatever, fine
Rita: but to make comments like that, it just shows the height of their delusion
SWRN: god I hope I'm not delusional like that...
Rita: I mean, Jesus, its fine to THINK it
Rita: but don't fucking post that endlessly, for pages and pages
Rita: its just creepy
SWRN: oh yeah, that's just retarded
SWRN: actually the sad reality is most of those dorks think they CAN get any chick they want anytime anywhere
Rita: they think that when they spend year after year alone?
SWRN: they think they do it by choice
SWRN: like my dumbass brother
Rita: Like I said, the height of delusion
SWRN: I want to point out the blaringly obvious
SWRN: "dude, you're fat, you're an asshole, you wear sweatpants and you live with mom and sleep on a cot. You think Charlize Theron is chomping at the bit to hit that?!"
Rita: Oh my fucking God
Rita: I just wet my chair when I read that
Rita: I am dead serious
SWRN: whoops!!
Rita: I laughed too hard and leaked!!!!!!!!!!
SWRN: oh no!!
Rita: Welcome to life after 40 and 2 kids
SWRN: that's what (another online Friend) tells me
Rita: sad but true
SWRN: she has to wear Poise pads when she gets a cold
Rita: but THAT was fucking hilarious
Rita: that needs to be blogged
SWRN: haha
Rita: I am STILL laughing
Rita: Jesus
Rita: ok, I can go pee now
Rita: tell (Friend) that one
SWRN: ok!
SWRN: FRIEND: hell, welcome to life in your 30s after 3 kids
Rita: alrighty
Rita: whew
SWRN: good thing you work at home, no?
Rita: absolutely
Rita: I have to blog this
Nope, not a killing spree, unless you count my checkbook. It was a shopping spree . . . a rarity for me, but since the entire house was bare of any semblance of food and my daughter's ankles and belly were beginning to show from her recent growth spurt, it was time to take out all the stops.
I'm not sure when this happened, but my girl, who measured a modest 5'2 in Sept 07, is now nearly 5'8. It's a source of delight for her to take any opportunity to "measure up" to me and giggle, since she is beginning to tower over her mom. That's a pretty cool thing for a 12 year old to be able to do, actually. I usually play it off, telling her that her tennis shoes are taller than my sandals, or that I can always get taller with more hair teasing, but even I have had to relent this past month or so that she is definitely taller than me. I just wonder how tall she WILL be. It will be fun to watch.
Now that we have 3 dogs, we have to provide adequate sustenance for them. The little chihuahua girls have a bit of a tough time with dry food, so we found little packets of gravy and soft meat squares (Pedigree Little Champions) that they love very much. Weenie the Wonder Dog loves them, too, so what it boils down to is that we use 2 packets a day (the little girls split one) along with a sprinkle of dry Science Diet. All of that equals expensive . . . the packets are about 79 cents each, and the dry dog food is 10 bucks a bag. Doing some quick math, I figured that we are spending $65 - $70 a month just on their food, not to mention their heartworm meds, and flea drops (and adorable clothing, another requirement).
And one of the BEST deals I found was on Pilot Dr. Grip pens. I use these pens at trivia every week, and when I could find them, they were 8-9 bucks apiece. For no discernible reason, I have been unable to find them anywhere. Good ol Big Lots had them for 3 bucks apiece, and I got one in every color!So . . . I have decided to launch a new feature here at Diary-a. This is my introductory "Asshole Of The Week" segment. As Lauren said, there are so many assholes, 52 weeks hardly seems enough, so I am going to have to be really selective. I think this week's pick is perfect.
Of course, nominations are always welcome.
Let me introduce Stephen Grant. Steven is not only an asshole, he just happens to be a GIANT, smelly asshole. How giant, you ask?
Let me count the ways . . . .
Stephen had a beautiful successful wife that had to travel extensively for work. He also had 2 beautiful children. He and his wife were successful enough to have a nanny care for their children. SO . . . you might imagine Stephen was a happy man.
Au contraire. Steven managed to fuck everything (and everyone).
He fucked the nanny.
He murdered his wife and hacked her to bits after an argument over how much and how hard she worked, and he left her torso in his garage in a barrel.
He lied to the police, causing a huge manhunt.
When he was finally caught, he stole his neighbor's truck and ran away.
His children have now lost TWO parents forever.
What a fucktard.
Congratulations, Stephen! Enjoy your 50 years of assrape in prison!
What does one do when the spark is seemingly gone?
Why, get a makeover, of course!
I love this little blog, I swear I do, but I have not been motivated to post much of anything lately. I click on the page now and then, and see that familiar layout, and that same picture, and the same old fonts and the same old lists.
And then I end up posting the same 'ol dumb crap.
Where is the fire? Where is the intensity that we once had, in the early days, when I couldn't wait to create a new post? What happened to that woman that had to limit herself to a post a day?
I'm hoping that by making the blog look different, I'll be more eager to interact with it again, and I'll get the ol' creative juices flowing. Kind of like a bored husband putting a blonde wig and hooker shoes on his old saggy wife, I guess. Hope springs eternal.
You probably didn't need that image, I am guessing.
I hate change.
Not the silver, shiny kind. I like that.
I mean, I hate when people or things that I have come to rely upon change. It's hard for me to cope with. Character flaw, I guess.
So, yeah . . . the older I get, the more I find that I hate change. Strangely enough, though, I sort of constantly crave new things - as long as the new things don't take away any of my OLD things, that is.
For example, I have never lived outside of Georgia (probably because I hate change.) I don't mind traveling; I enjoy seeing new places, but I want to come back to my OLD place.
Another example, you say? Well . . . I embrace new technology (I started thinking of Kip singing his "Technology" song at the end of Napoleon Dynamite, and actually laughed. The dogs are still staring at me.) I love my iPod, and I like being able to carry tons of music with me. Tons of OLD music, that is.
As I pen this, there are lots of changes afoot for me personally and for some of my close friends and family. Some are moving on to new things, and some are just flat moving on. It's hard for me to sit back and see them struggle, even when the change is probably for the better.
All change is hard for me, but it's the changes that lead to loss that are the hardest for me to accept, I think. Even when someone has a good excuse for leaving (like, say, dying), I still feel a little resentful toward them.
Evidently, I don't like being left. Again, yeah . . . character flaw.
You know, I always thought getting older would make you wiser and able to accept what comes more gracefully. Not so, evidently.
Motto for 2008: "Embrace Change"
My inner monologue, in response: "Fuck you, I'm not changing a damn thing"
Yeah, I gotta work on that.
Who in the hell would call Mary-Kate Olsen when someone's life is on the line?
According to the latest on Heath Ledger's untimely death, he evidently died in the afternoon.
The housekeeper heard him snoring at 1:00 pm, when she was changing a lightbulb in his room, so all was well, evidently.
THEN . . . "At 2:45 p.m., the massage therapist showed up for Ledger's appointment, knocked on his door and got no answer. She later noticed Ledger was unconscious and called actress Mary-Kate Olsen, whose number was programmed into Ledger's cell phone, to seek advice, police said."
Uhhhhh, what?
My buddy Kirk surmised that maybe the masseuse was a Full House fan. Maybe that's the way it went down. Maybe Heath was already stone-cold dead, and the masseuse was star-struck.
I can just imagine that conversation, "Uh, hi . . . you don't know me, but (ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmyGOD!!) I'm here in Heath Ledger's bedroom (trying to contain squeals of delight) and um, I saw your name, like, on his phone, and um . . . I KNOW, he is so HAWT! but, um, anyway, he's like, blue or something. (pause) Yeah, blue. Is that bad? (pause) So . . . Do you ever talk to Uncle Joey?"
Jesus.
. . . last night.
Which is sort of strange, because I really NEVER dream.
This was kind of a good dream.
Wierd again, because when I DO have dreams, they are ALWAYS bad, or scary, or at the very least, just me trying to fight my way through confusion to accomplish some impossible task, or find some un-findable something or other.
THIS dream, however, was neither bad, scary or frustrating.
It was simple. Me and some unknown, but very nice and appealing man.
I'm not really sure of the entire dream, I just remember snippets of it. At one point, The Man and I were just talking and laughing, and it seemed like wherever we were, it was really sunny, and I remember feeling really happy and relaxed, and not anxious or worried or rushed, like I usually do. Then I remember following The Man onto a trolley or train of some kind, and he turned and lifted me up like a child and kissed me for a long, long, time.
Which is kind of neat, cause no one has EVER lifted me (seeing as I am a lifelong big girl.)
Maybe its a sign that I will finally get on the wagon and stay there and reach my goals this year.
Keep your fingers crossed for me.
Believe it or not, Christmas didn't end for me until yesterday afternoon. We had a get-together at my parent's "community room" - they live in a senior apartment complex these days, which doesn't sound nearly as nice as it really is.
Check this out: This place has a library with internet access, a media theater with widescreen and current movies and a popcorn machine, an "entertainment suite" with a full kitchen (that's where we were), a wellness center, workout room, rocking chairs on the outside patios, and a club room with a fireplace where everyone gathers for poker, bingo, or potluck dinners. 
