are floaties allowed?

Saturday, November 9, 2013

To see, or not to see

I am in a fight.  With my eyes.  I want to see.  My eyes want to sit there looking blue.  And not let me see.  My eyes are winning.

Awhile ago I was told I needed glasses.  And not just a cute pair of readers.  I needed big girl glasses. The kind you wear all the time.  At first I was kind of excited about this news.  Glasses.  A new accessory.  I'm great at accessorizing.  Accessorizing is fun.   I do it daily.  Wake up, have coffee, shower, get dressed, accessorize.   I got this.

I head to Lens Crafters to pick out my new accessory.  Five hours, three exhausted Lens Crafters employees, one long suffering husband and two thousand pairs of discarded glasses later, I have my new accessory.  Super cute, shiny black with little crystal flowers on the sides.  This is great.  I love my new glasses.  It's my new look.  I look smarter.  I am smarter.  I am a new, smarter, cute, glasses wearing woman.

I put my new, cute, make-me-smarter glasses on, admire myself in the mirror one last time, wave good-bye to the Lens Crafters employees (wow, they must really like me...they are cheering as I leave the store) and head out the door.  I have a spring in my step as I walk along in my new super cute fashion accessory.  I am smiling, admiring the world around me which is now suddenly all so vibrant and crystal clear.  I am loving this brand new world.  I am loving this new, confident, super smart woman I have become.  I am happy, I am carefree,  I am.....falling off the curb!!  

My new, cute, make-me-look-smart glasses are progressives.  Now, maybe you don't know what progressives are. Oh sweet, innocent, lucky you.  Progressives are glasses that have different powers in the same lens.  So you have one power in the top for seeing distance, another power on the bottom for reading, and a third power in the middle for...middle seeing.

Apparently wearing progressives takes some getting used to.  And it involves a bit of coordination.  Your eyes and your head have to work together in perfect harmony.  You have to get used to moving your head this way to see far, dipping your head that way to see near,  swiveling your head this way or that to see anything at all.  Well, apparently, my eyes and my head don't work well together.  There is no harmony.  They are not friends.  There is virtually no communication between my eyes and my head.  None.  I had not known about theses enemies within before my new venture into eyeglass world.  As it turns out,  my eyes move....a lot.  Glancing, darting, sweeping, surveying, scanning, giving the once over, having a look-see, taking a gander, and, of course, rolling.  My eyes move way before my head is ready.  In my pre-glasses life, this eye activity was perfectly acceptable.  I did it constantly and was happily oblivious to it.  Post-glasses, however, I became acutely aware of the horrible disconnect happening between my eyes and my head.  I became aware of it as my head was in a near constant state of whiplash trying to keep up with my ever moving eyes so that I could see out of my new glasses.

I've tried.  I really have.  They said it would take a while so I have tried.   It's been three years.

And so, dear 20 followers and 2 lurkers, I have entered the world of contacts.  Let's just say the entry has not been smooth.

It all started when I went to Monica for my contact lens fitting.   And made Monica cry.

To be continued.......

Tuesday, October 22, 2013

I am rounding the corner at the mile eleven mark.  I am cruising.  I am a well oiled machine.  My legs are turning over in glorious precision, each muscle tweaked to maximum performance, creating the perfect stride.  My body is the picture of efficiency, every movement propelling me toward the finish line in record time.  My months of training have prepared me perfectly for these last two miles.  I am breathing easy, my pony tail flying in the wind, my skirt sparkling in the sunshine.  I am calm, I am peaceful, I am zen.  I am...oh, who the **** am I kidding?   I am none of those things and where the ****  is the #!&*!%@$* finish line????

It was the hills.  There were HILLS in the race.  OK, not like huge hills and not like a thousand of them but still....a hill is a hill and add a bunch of them together and you get death.

The wheels came off at mile eleven.  The first ten miles were ok.  ish.  I mean, I got through them.

Starting line.  Well, for some, the starting line.  For me....ten minutes behind the starting line. There were approximately a bajillion runners in the ING Hartford marathon and half marathon this year.  A bajillion.   We take up ten city blocks at the start.  A lot of pre-race festivities, songs, announcements and then bang...the starting gun and we are off!!   And off down a hill.  Yay!  I love this race.  Starting down a time is going to be amazing.  I am going to crush it!

I should have known.  I should have thought it through.  I should have realized what was to come.  It should have dawned on me right then and there....we were going downhill.  Down a hill.  We had thirteen miles to go.    Something may be ahead.  Let's see.  Hmmm. Something, something.   What could it be? Oh, I know.  AN UPHILL.

A ton of uphills actually.  It was these mini Kilamanjaros that got me.  And so there I found myself at mile eleven, hot, sweaty, my legs screaming to stop, my feet barely managing to lift off the ground, my face contorted in all kinds of ugly pain, my mind on the brink of giving my failing body permission to stop running and start crawling walking.  And then it happened.

I was running this race for charity.  I was running this race for all those brave kids living with Crohn's disease.  I was running this race for Christie.  A lot of very wonderful and generous people had donated their hard earned money to me, to this cause, putting their faith in me, trusting that I would cross that finish line.

I tried.  I really tried to think of all of that.  To think of all of those kids with Crohn's, to think of Christie, to think of my sponsors.  I wish  I could say it was those thoughts that carried me to the finish line.

It wasn't.


That's what got me to the finish line.

Guardian angels can come in all shapes and sizes.

Mine happens to be a hulking, screaming, very scary looking african american man.

Thank you, big, scary, screaming guardian angel for appearing when I needed you most.  Mile 11.

I did it.  I crossed that finish line.

Thank you to all of you who donated to my run.  I am extremely grateful and humbled by the generosity of my wonderful family and friends.

Thank you Hoka One One.  My feet may have been shuffling but they were blister-free and in a happy marshmallow cloud the entire time.

Thank you Rock City Skirts for making me sparkle and get a ton of attention and cheers of "go, Sparkle Girl, go" along the way.

And finally, thank you to Christie.  You may be "drama" about everything else in your life but you have never been drama about Crohn's.  Your quiet determination and positive, never complaining attitude are truly inspiring.  You are amazing and make me proud every single day.

And so, dear twenty followers and two lurkers, that is my half marathon story.  What a journey it has been.  Thank you for sharing it with me.  And don't worry!  If you meant to donate but somehow forgot, good news!  There's still time.  (You didn't think I'd let you get away that easy, did you??).  The fundraising site will be open for a while longer.

To donate go to: 

Stayed tuned for more adventures in the life of Peach.

Tuesday, October 8, 2013

T minus 4 days.

It's Tuesday.  My race is on Saturday.  This Saturday.   Oct 12th.  The day I have been obsessing about forever. The day that seemed so far away when I originally had this crazy little idea to run a half marathon.  Like, so far away it was never going to actually get here. So far away that it was never going to be an actual day with an actual race. That I had to actually run.

Well, it's actually happening.

All that running.  All those long runs in Stratton.  All those runs in the heat.  All those runs when I rocked and the runs when I....didn't.  All those months of training.  It's all been leading up to this.

I got this.

I'm ready.

And by ready, I mean I have my outfit picked out.

Thursday, September 19, 2013

Why just walk through life when you can SPARKLE through it?

Thank you, thank you thank you to Amy Maust from Rock City Skirts ( for sending me this totally awesome running skirt:

Isn't it so cute??  I was a princess on my run today.  Princess Peach.   Running through my kingdom Stratton.  Giving a royal wave to my subjects fellow runners.  Adjusting the tiara sweatband on my head.  Making my Prince husband take my picture when I got back.  (Well, that last part is true, actually.  He really is my prince).

"I can't help it if I'm lucky,"  Bob Dylan.

I'm lucky.  I know I'm lucky.  But you make your own luck.  I put myself out there all the time.  That's what life is all about.  I said I would run a half marathon and I will.  In a pink sparkly running skirt that Amy from Rock City Skirts sent me.  Because when you put yourself out there, luck finds you.


Sunday, September 8, 2013

When I was in Stone Harbor, Amy told me I should try her running shoes.   They were these funky, BIG, clod-hoppery looking things called Hoka One One.  I was skeptical.  Very skeptical.  But Amy's cool...she's super smart, is a surgeon and in her spare time is going to law school (in my spare time I go to sleep) and has competed in half ironman triathlons.  Yes, I said half ironman.  You know how I am training for a half marathon?  Well, a half ironman is a half marathon, too.  AFTER you've finished a 1.2 mile swim and a 56 mile bike.

So if Amy told me I should try her running shoes, I should try her running shoes.

I laced up, went out the door and...... RAN ON A CLOUD.  I am serious.  These running shoes were the most amazing things I have ever put on my feet (and that includes those drop dead gorgeous Gucci boots I tried on in Nordstroms).    I don't know how they do it but it's like running on air.  I think there is some kind of magic involved.  I felt light and bouncy and free.  They were simply wonderful.  Perfect run start to finish.  Thank you, Amy.  This sure was a treat.

Well, it appears that the magic wasn't over in Stone Harbor.

Look what arrived at my doorstep recently:

Thank you to the AWESOME people at Hoka One One for sponsoring me in my half marathon with A NEW PAIR OF RUNNING SHOES!!  Can you believe it??  I know!!  I can't either.  I am so totally psyched.  And very, very grateful.

Hoka One One (pronounced Ho-kah Oh-nay Oh-nay) means "Time to Fly" in Maori.

Thank you, Hoka One One, for letting it be my time to fly.

Saturday, August 31, 2013

I'm going to run a half marathon.  What?  I'm serious.  Stop laughing.  I am!

I sort of have to.

It was Monday a few months ago.  I had had a great run on Sunday.  One of those perfect weather, perfect outfit, perfect Stratton days when everything comes together and it's just a great run from start to finish.  And so on Monday, when I saw the email about a team forming from the hospital for the ING Hartford Marathon, inspiration hit.  We should form a team from our own department and not only invite staff to participate but patients and families as well. And we should make it a fundraiser.

"That's a great idea!' my boss said.  "Make it happen."


Sidebar:  I love my boss.  Dr. Hyams is an amazing, awesome, world renowned gastroenterologist.  He is an expert in his field.  He takes excellent care of his patients and does cutting edge research.   He travels the world and gives lectures to other doctors.  He literally wrote the textbook on pediatric gastroenterology.  Dr. Hyams was also my daughter's doctor until two months ago when she finally got too old and had to "graduate" from his practice.   He diagnosed her with Crohn's disease when she was 14.  He said he would do everything in his power to get her healthy and keep her healthy.  And he did.  He took amazing care of her.  And I am forever grateful.

So, the fundraising marathon is happening.

I can do this.  I know I can do this.  I have been here before.  And it was a full marathon, not a half.  Of course, that was before my legs fell and before I had angel wings.  Before my bones started making funny creaking noises. Before it took me two tries to get out of my little red car.  Before I hit that magic birthday number.   But still, it happened.  I did cross that finish line.  So I can do this.  Right?

I can do this because it is for a cause I really, really care about.  Crohn's disease is yucky.  It just is.  Nobody should have to deal with it.  Think back to a time when you had an upset stomach or some kind of bad food reaction and couldn't get out of the bathroom.  Now, multiply that by a thousand and add a bunch of other symptoms like canker sores, achy joints and constant fatigue just to name a few and you have Crohn's disease.

Dr. Hyams and the other doctors I work with are determined to find a cure for Crohn's disease and ulcerative colitis.  The research they are doing is truly amazing.  I honestly believe they will find a cure in my lifetime.  I want a cure for the sake of all the kids I see everyday bravely battling these stupid diseases while trying to live normal kid lives.  They shouldn't have to deal with what they have to deal with.    I want a cure for Christie.

So I am running a half marathon.

And I am coming right out and asking for donations.  If you already have donated, THANK YOU!!  If you haven't donated yet, now's your chance.

Thank you.

Saturday, August 10, 2013

I looked super cute as I headed out the door for my run today.  What?  I did.  I can't help it.  Cute white ruffle running skirt, lime green tank top, hot pink sports bra, peach tattoo peeking out, matching lime green headband, pink socks.  See?  So cute.  (Well,  something has to look good when I'm running because it sure the heck isn't me.  Might as well be my running clothes).

Out the door (looking cute), down the street, across to Stratton.  Looking good, feeling good.

The first couple of miles were fine.  Nice, easy, not too many creaking parts.

It was around mile three that the wheels came off.  Perhaps it was my two (or five) days of "rest."  I don't know.  I just didn't have it in me. I started to slow down.  At this point I believe a turtle passed me. I looked around. If I went right I could go up that path, cut through the parking lot and be home in five minutes.  If I stay on course I have to go straight,  run for a while, turn around, then run some more.

Uggggggg. I go straight.  Bleckkkkkkkkkkk.  Grrrrrrrrrrrrrr.   Aaarrrggggg. Why? Why do I do this to myself?  What is wrong with me?  Why do I run again?

I manage to get myself to the end of the path and turn around.  I am overheated, farther from home than I want to be and cursing all those potato chips I ate at lunch.

A runner is approaching, about to pass me going the other way.  All of a sudden, out of nowhere, she shouts out to me: "YOU ROCK!!"  Huh?  I look around.  Nope, nobody else there.  Are you talking to me?  I rock??  Me??  Right now?

And then I thought about it.  She was right.  I do rock!  I was out there. I was trying.  I was gutting it out, going the long way instead of taking a short cut.   So I may not look pretty (except for my still looks amahhhzing!), so my face may be so red it's almost a shade of purple not found in nature, so my running form stinks and I am slower than molasses..... I am here, at Stratton, in my cute little running outfit, putting one foot in front of the other.

I give her a big thumbs up and kick my run into gear.  I finish the path, race up the hill, run out of Stratton and head back home.  Feeling awesome.  And very rock-star-ish.

That fellow runner's two little words changed my whole run.  Complete one eighty. My entire attitude changed.  I went from having a really bad run to having one of my best runs of the summer.  And she probably had no idea the effect her words had on me.

I know I have already given you this assignment, dear 20 followers and two lurkers.   I am giving it to you again.

Words matter.  A lot.  I want you to use your words to build somebody up today.  It can be somebody you love, somebody you like, somebody you don't like or a complete stranger.  Use your words.  For good.

AND....if you are willing, I would love for you to share with the group exactly how you used your words to build someone up.

 Please leave a comment.  (I think there may be a problem when people try to leave comments, however.  I mean, I can't believe it is working properly.  There were zero comments after my last post.  Zero. So it must be broken.  I mean, there can't possibly be any other explanation for having absolutely no comments, right?).  Ok, ok, I'll come right out and say it:  Leave comments!!  Always!!  After every post.

Words matter.  Positivity is contagious.  Start now.

Saturday, July 27, 2013

Vacations are all about food.  I mean family.  Family.  Vacations are all about family.

I just got back from vacation.  Which was all about family.  

Stone Harbor, NJ.  Doesn't get any better.

One night after dinner (with family) I was in the mood for something sweet. Well there's a surprise.  But not ice cream.   Definitely not ice cream.  No reason, just not in the mood.  Absolutely nothing to do with the two scoop oreo sugar cone with jimmies from Springers I had after lunch.  

Let's try out that new bakery across from League Shore.  After we go into League Shore. (Sidebar:  I'm obsessed with  League Shore. I can't help it. It's just a little clothing store conveniently located right next to Springers.  I limit my trips to League Shore.  I can only go when I happen to go to Springers.  So like, twice.  A day.   Anyway, I think League Shore has invented some kind of new fabric for their clothes. Some kind of cotton mixed with heaven.  They have the softest, cutest, comfiest clothes ever.  Like, you put on one of their tee shirts and a pair of their shorts  and you can't stop touching the fabric.  You just can't believe how soft it is.  For me, this is perfect timing.  Vacation = tee shirts and shorts.  Sale rack.  1/2 price.  Obvi.  So I'm feeling soft and comfy 24 / 7.  But.... I am starting to get some funny looks.  Better keep the whole feeling my clothes thing under wraps.  But watch out when it gets a little colder and the sweatshirt and sweatpants come out. And all bets are off when I splurge on that blanket.  I will want to be wrapped in my heaven blanket all of the time. I will never want to get out of bed. I will never want to leave my heaven blanket bed and get dressed.   Hmmm... What can I do?  What can I do?  I will have to go to work.  I mean, I can't very well call my serious, important doctor boss and tell him that sorry,  I am wrapped in my heaven blanket and cannot possibly drag myself out of bed and into the hospital today just to take care of sick children. What can I do?  Wait,  I know.  I know what I can do.  I can set a new fashion trend at work.  Yes, that's it!   It will be called the blanket look.  It will catch on.  It will be awesome.   People everywhere will be wearing nothing but blankets (with underwear, of course. Semper ubi sub ubi).   I will be famous. I will be in People magazine.  They will have me as a guest judge on Project Runway. OMG.  I have to start saving my pennies.  I have to get that heaven blanket.  My future, not to mention the entire fashion world's future, depends on it!! ).   

Where was I?  Vacation.  Food.  Family.  Oh, yes, the new bakery, Maryanne's.    We walk in.  We are the only customers.  That's ok.  It's so pretty in the bakery.  And all those baked goods.  Pretty, pretty baked goods.  So many baked goods.  Everything looks so good.  And smells so good.  One of the girls behind the counter comes over to help.  "What would you like?"  Oh dear.  What would I like? What would I like?  So many choices.  Maybe that pie.  That pie looks amazing.  "What kind of pie?"  I hope for peach.  "Apple" she says.  Hmm.....really wanted a peach pie and I know if I whine enough my sister will make one sometime this week.   Every year she says she isn't going to make one and every year she does make one. (And I am not too proud to admit I eat half the pie.  Because vacation is about family.  And I love my sister.  And so I just need to show her that I love her.  By eating the pie she makes).  So I move on from the pie.  Cookies, brownies,  eclairs....  My sister calls me over to another display case.  "Petra, what about these?"  "What are they?" I say.  "They are little shot glass desserts."  Huh?  "You know, desserts in little glasses."  I don't understand so the girl behind the counter pulls the tray out of the case to show me.  She puts the tray of little glass desserts on the counter.  The girl is so cute and helpful.  She patiently points to each glass and explains its contents.  You see, each little glass has about four or five layers of yuminess.  She goes through each layer.  There are a lot of little dessert shot glasses.  Like, a real lot.  A full tray of teeny tiny little dessert shot glasses.  She doesn't have to explain each one as there are repeats but still, it was a lot of work.   

A few shot glass desserts will be good, but I still want something else.  They are shot glasses after all.     Richie had 72 shot glasses on Happy Days for pete's sake.  Teeny weeny.   And we are on vacation. Which is about family.  So I really have a downright obligation to provide enough dessert for my family.

 I head back over to the other counter to pick out something else.  

I hear it before I see it.  A slight tinkling sound that quickly grows into a louder tinkling slash horrible omg-I-can't-believe-what-I-am-hearing sound.  I turn my head just in time to see a hundred teeny tiny shot glasses, each filled with five layers of yummy dessert and topped with whipped cream, fly up into the air, the tray that held them two seconds earlier bouncing off the display case door.   Chocolate and lemon tart and banana cream and cherry something leap up out of the shot glasses and shoot out in every direction.  All those shot glasses fly up in the air,  seem to stop for a split second then, as if in very slow motion, come crashing down to the ground.  All of them.  All of the teeny tiny glasses.  All five layers in each teeny tiny shot glass.  And all the whipped cream.  The whipped cream goes everywhere. I mean everywhere.   I have never seen so much whipped cream in so many places it really shouldn't be.  

After the crash there is complete and utter silence.  Nobody moves.  Nobody says anything.  We all just stand there, frozen,  eyes bugging out, jaws dropped open. 

I can't help it.  I just can't.  I try so hard not to.  But there is no controlling it.

I burst out laughing.  I laugh and laugh and laugh til tears are streaming down my face.  And before you know it, everyone is laughing,  We are all just standing there, clutching our sides, laughing.  Even poor 
Alex ( because sharing dessert catastrophes automatically put you on a first name basis) starts laughing. Although, to be honest, hers is a bit nervous and possibly on the touch hysterical side. 

We stay long enough to make sure Alex is ok, write a note to her manager pleading leniency for her, make another dessert choice (we tell Alex to just grab the closest, easiest thing...a chocolate cake which was amaaaazing by the way) and stuff the tip jar.  

I tell Alex this is the highlight of my vacation so far.  

 And that, dear 20 followers and 2 lurkers, is life.  Accidents happen.  They just do. 

 Dessert shot glasses fall.  You hit "reply all"  instead of "reply."   You add cumin instead of curry to the shrimp curry.  Your shorts fall down when you are riding your bike.

Accidents happen.   How you react to them is up to you. 

Sunday, June 30, 2013

It is now 4:30pm.  I went for a run at 9am.   Seven and a half hours ago.  I am still trying to recover.

My run was awful for a number of reasons.

Number one:  I was running.

     Yes, yes, I know.  I love running.  I write about how much I love running, my wonderful runs through Stratton Brook, my great long runs.....  blah blah blah.  Today was torture from the second I started to the last painful, god-awful step.

Number two:  I was running using my legs.  You know, the legs that fell.

Number three:  It was a bajillion degrees out.

 Seriously.  A bajillion.  At least.  (Sidebar:  it has been a bajillion degrees out for the past week.  We are in the middle of a heat wave.    A bajillion degrees every day for a week.  Normally, that would be bad enough.  But not this time.  This time it's been even worse.  Why you ask?  Well,  Let me tell you.  It was Robbie's graduation (congratulations, Robbie!!  Don't leave me!!!!!).  We had a house full of guests for Robbie's graduation.  A house full of guests.  What fun!!
Our air conditioning  broke.  Our air conditioning broke and we had a house full of guests.
Graduation was moved indoors due to the threat of thunderstorms because that's what happens when it's a bajillion degrees out.  We were given three tickets for an indoor graduation.   Three tickets.  Three.  Mike, me and........Now I know how William Styron came up with his idea for Sophie's Choice.  Graduation in the gym.   Hot.  A bajillion degrees hot.  So, so hot.  At least I was too dehydrated to cry.  We head home for the party.  Streamers, balloons, presents, good food, good times.  Turn on to our street.  Fire trucks on the street.   Fire trucks, police cars, firemen, policemen, tape.  Tape up everywhere.  Can't get down the street.   Wires down. Live wires down.   Because of the bajillion degree heat.   Walk home.  To a house with no air conditioning.  And now a house with no air conditioning and no electricity.  A house filled with guests, half-cooked cheeseburger pies, melting ice cream and warm wine.  Turns out, warm wine isn't half bad and melting guests with good attitudes are even better).

 But it wasn't really the heat that did me in on my run.  It was my old nemesis, the humidity.  As I have mentioned before, I don't do well in the humidity.  And no, three other runners who  passed me, it doesn't really help when you give me a thumbs-up with a "you can do it" or "almost there" as you breeze by me looking cool as a cucumber with your 22 year old non-fallen down legs in your size two running outfits with your long blond pony tails flying through the air while I pant up the path with my face so red it's purple,  my hair  plastered to my head and my bat wings dripping sweat.

Number four:  a bug flew into my mouth as I was gasping for air / breathing.

Number five:  The bug that flew into my mouth as I was gasping for air / breathing made me stop, scream, spit, hop up and down, spit some more, choke and cause the size two, pony-tailed 22 year old cool as cucumber runners who had just breezed by me to turn around, see the purple-faced, plaster headed woman waving her bat wings around doing some sort of tribal war dance,  look at each other, shake their heads pityingly and run off.

Number five:  I was running.  In the heat.  The bajillion degree heat.

I am still recovering,  I think an ice cream cone from Tulmeadow will help.

Saturday, June 15, 2013

My legs fell.

No, no, no...don't worry.  I'm okay. Really.  It didn't hurt.  In fact, I didn't even know that it had happened.  I have no idea exactly when it happened. But it did.   Happen.   My legs.  They fell.

And they aren't the only things.

I now have angel wings.  Only they are not on my back.   They are under my arms.  And they are not angel wings.   They are bat wings.  Bat wings like, if you are standing behind me and I suddenly decide to wave at someone across the room, you are going to get slapped in the face.  By my wings.  By my not angel wings.

A few weeks ago I found myself googling "how to get rid of ginormous bags under your eyes."  A lovely, very pretty young British man popped up.   He had an elaborate, multi-step tutorial on youtube with surprisingly dramatic results.   Quite a convincing before and after.

 One trip to Sephora and $95 later I was ready to go.

I spread the four different concealers and five brushes out in front of me.  I opened my laptop so the pretty British man could talk to me.   I  diligently and meticulously followed him through all fifteen minutes of "take concealer number one and apply it here," and " use number three brush and lightly feather two shades lighter concealer here," to "dusting of finishing powder here."  There.  Done.  Whew,  I was exhausted.  And sweating.  Which was probably not good for concealer number two.   But it's ok.  It'll be worth it.   Anything to get rid of these suitcases bags under my eyes.  Just have to remember to get up half an hour earlier every day.  Which won't be a problem because I now know how to conceal how tired I will be.

I  step back to survey my results.  Huh.  Must be the light in here.  Something is a bit off.  I turn on the second light and take a long, hard look at myself in the mirror.

And scream.

There is a ghost in the bathroom mirror.

You see, dear 20 followers and 2 lurkers, something happened since the last time I saw you.  Something big.

I turned 50.

And so, I did the only thing I could think to do.  The only thing that made sense.

I got a tattoo.

Saturday, April 20, 2013

So, I've been thinking....

I may start writing this blog again.  Maybe.  Thinking about it.  Testing the waters here.  Wondering if my 18 followers and 2 lurkers have any interest in hearing about pterodactyls, falling legs, space age contact lenses and, of course, my own personal summer moments (yes, STILL happening).

I KNOW I'm supposed to write for me, for personal satisfaction alone.  I KNOW blogging is supposed to be fun and easy, that I should be happy just writing.... that should be enough.  That I should use this blog as an outlet and who cares if anyone reads what I write.   Um, hello??  I CARE.  I'm not spending the time to write all this stuff if no one is reading it!!  Are you kidding me??

So....are you still out there 18 followers and 2 lurkers?