You...YOU

Beyond the normality of love lies you; thankfully so. It, whatever it is, lives within the spirit of your soul, directing and leading by one twinkle of your eye, and the all embracing comfort of your smile. Communication far outside that of verbal is what draws people in and validates the impact of what you offer. In those moments, it is that look, that smile, which leads us all to not just hear what you say but feel who you are. You are the bridge between knowledge and inspiration. If but only once, humility aside, step from yourself in order to see what we do. Your voice carries because your heart amplifies the message. You are genuine. I couldn’t be more proud of who you are.

To friendship, and beyond.

About the time I had a microphone in my hand, I knew the point of no return had been crossed. Sadly, I have no recollection as to what songs lyrics I was forgetting. But what I do remember, is that I wasn't alone. Together, we made fools of ourselves, a forgotten memory, that won't be forgotten; a moment shared among three friends.

Birthday parties, Midnight omeletes, last second trips to tempt fates luck, and waking up more tired than when you went to sleep; these are the weekends of friends, old and new.

Times like those are the fabric in the quilts that cover our lives. Those memories, with those friends, aren't what defines us; they enrich our soles. I know they have mine.

So, to all of my friends, I say thank you. Without you, my life wouldn't be the same. What you offer is much more than friendship. You offer love, and advice, your home, and a couch when it's too late, your compassion, and your heart. You are the first ones to help peel away the pain, and stay until it's healed.

Everyone, has their own definition of what friendship means to them. To me, for what you all offer, that doesn't define friendship; it defines family.

2010 is (about) looking up.

Outside the window, frost sparkles atop frozen grass blades of green. The sun is shining, deliberately teasing those who view it, for there is no warmth; just sun. What once were puddles in the driveway, have become expansive ice rinks for teams of hockey playing ants. I sip from my tea, and realize that not even ants were that dumb. Looking down inside the cup of tea, I almost expect to find traces of mind altering drug residue. Ants? Playing hockey in my driveway? Confident I am merely crazy, and not drugged, I shrug my shoulders, while sipping another drink. Wool lined slippers, with leather bottoms, keep my feet warm, and a cream, cable knit sweater keeps the rest of me cozy. It is Saturday morning, the day after Christmas and six days until the New Year. Six days, before the turning of a yet another page, of yet another chapter, in the chronicles of wet ink, that is a life.

Thinking, in a deliriously glass half full mode, the frost of the morning signifies the year past, while the full, golden glow, of winters' sun hails in hope. Not unlike a lighthouse, the sun doesn't promise warmth, nor can it decide your path, it is a tool of luminance to identify the shoreline. I conclude, those that choose not to see the sun, but focus on the frost, subject themselves to wander at sea; lost, pilot less.

I make my way back to the kitchen; it is humble with its' whites counters, and veneered cabinets. My tea, now cold, and almost empty, is in need of a refill. As I walk between the couch, and the half-wall that separates the living room from the kitchen, a nightstand displays my Bible. The black leather cover is dusty, its' pages still crisp and new. It has been months, maybe even years, since it had caught my attention. This day, a frosty, sunny metaphor of a day, though, it has thrown itself at me; demanded my attention, not to be ignored.

The cover finds itself in my hands, even though I don't remember picking it up. My cup, now replacing the Bible on the nightstand. The pages flip through my fingers, opening itself, surely not by my command or control. I find myself in Psalms, “The Lord is my light and salvation; whom shall I fear?” Re-reading the passage, admittedly more than once, I find it to be true; not only spiritually, but succinctly to the morning. Sun from above, frost below, suddenly, miraculously, it became clear.

This year, the New Year, will not smell of forgotten resolutions, lost promises, or searching faith. A simple 'look up, not down' principle will dawn 2010, because I know what frost looks like, and what it feels like, and where it doesn't lead. This is the year, I ask to bask in the glow of the light, seeking it, using it to search my shoreline; wherever it may lead.

.

Army vs. Navy vs. Politics

I stood in the middle of the living room, my eyes transfixed upon a Saturday morning football game. Not unusual. Today's game though, is everything but usual. Not every game finds me choking back emotions of pride, hope, and those of prayer, during the pre-game monologue. It is a game like no other. One, in which, epitomizes the times, the world, and the very heartbeat of our country. Today is Army vs. Navy.

The pageantry embedded in this game is enough to raise every last hair on your neck. For the Seniors of, both, West Point and the Naval Academy, today will be the last time they face one another as adversaries. Soon, they will be deployed, as brothers in arms, defending their country, their beliefs, and one another. Some won't return home; a fact we all know, but one in which they embrace. The perils of our greatness as a human kind, is the burden in which they live and die.

Today, isn't about being Republican, Democrat, or Independent; it's about Patriotism. Ideology doesn't ease the worry for loved ones, it has never cauterized a wound, nor can it revive the lost. The men and women of our Armed Forces believe in something greater than themselves. A belief based upon honor, duty, and love of country. They volunteer their sacrifice, the blood and breath of their soul, for that belief. A belief they have in America. A belief they have in us.

To believe, in them, isn't a departure from the values that guide us, as individuals, it is what makes us a united coalition of Americans. May God guide them down a path of peace, with a beacon of light to show them home, whether it be of this Earth or otherwise.

Guns in Heaven

Before 8:30 am, it was an ideal Sunday. The sun was trying to poke through perpetual gray sky, the rains of the last two weeks catching its breath; it was almost nice. Almost.

With the echoes of four fatal, senseless blasts, Sunday turned into anything but nice. By 8:31 am, four police officers lay dead in a coffee shop. By 8:32 am, a city, a region, our state, and friends from around the Country watched in horror, unable to comprehend, unaware of tears streaming down our faces, looking for answers where there were none. We mourn, continue that today, and will tomorrow, for a loss to our community, our sense of security, and the humanity for the families of heroes lost. We rage at the system, the hate, and the evil that lurks in the dark. We pray to God. We cry, because it hurts. We seek justice befitting a monster.

Unfortunately, none of it can bring back the fallen four of yesterday, or the loss from three weeks ago in Seattle. Their families forever lost without an anchor.

We can love. We can honor. We can donate. We may never know why it happened, certainly won't understand it, or ever forgive it, but, we can do those 3 things.

The families should know their sacrifice is not forgotten, appreciated, and forever indebted to us all. Though they may have perished, let their memory live within each of us. Let our hearts incorporate their families as ours. Let them know as they protect us from above, love lives on.

A Shamrock Thanksgiving

So here we are, the eve of yet another Thanksgiving. Since this is my blog, and you were curious enough to stop by, here is what I am thankful for in 2009:

I am thankful to my children, Josh, Peyton, and Kenzie, for teaching me far more than I teach you. You are my backbone, and I love you.

I am thankful to have a wonderfully, dysfunctional family. Mom and Dad, thanks for hooking up that night in ’69, and everything since. Stacy, I love you….truce. To the Texas clan (Uncle Rod, Aunt Yo, Tavia, Gary, Rod and Amy)- I love you, miss you, and GO TECH! GUNS UP! PaPa and Gran Gran, I am thankful for your love and support, though sometimes I probably don’t deserve it.

Grandma Katie and Kimbers, I miss you. I am thankful that I still cry thinking of you.

I am thankful for Ed, my brother- The best friend anyone could ask for. And, Yes ladies, he is single.

Fife Posse- You guys rock! I love you all. Thank you for everything, I couldn’t have made it through these months without you.

Becky, thank you for allowing me to come over daily to be with the kids. Thank you for Peyton and Mackenzie, and being a good Mother to them.

To all my AHS and Facebook family, you have filled me with hope, laughter, inspiration, and Applebee’s quesadillas…..thank you. I love you guys.

Sonja, thanks for kicking my ass to the curb…I needed it. Thank you for sharing your family with me.

Thank you George Strait and Dierks Bentley for poetry I actually get.

I am thankful for pepperoni sticks, Coke Zero, Copenhagen, Wrangler’s big enough to fit my ass, and chorizo nachos.

Thank you God, for giving me talents. I will try to put them to better use.

I am thankful to Muscular Dystrophy Association, Dr. Greg Carter and Phyllis….having useable legs because of your compassion and care is pretty damn cool. Oh, and the Green Card prescription works too! Now, if I wasn’t so chicken to use it.


Happy Thanksgiving everyone! I hope it finds you around the ones you love, and ones that love you back.

100 miles to nowhere.

The song on the CD says it far better than I could ever imagine. I replay it like a hundred times, thinking of you with every press of replay. Little White (The name adorned to my truck) is pointed in no particular direction, every mile one step closer to you; another mile past yesterday.

“I can't wait for this long, hard day to be over.
So I can rest my head right here on your shoulder”

Poetic justice, seeing how it is just as I imagine. Friday nights giving way to Saturday mornings without the need for time, or day planners, or email. Dawn brings soft caresses mixed with admiration as I watch you sleep.

“I just want to lay here and hear you breathe,
listen to the rhythm of your heart beat,
and see where it leads.”

The splash of raindrops against Little Whites' windshield, become the only distraction to what has become a surreal dream. Do you exist only within the boundaries of my mind; alive for only me to see? Love has bitten me before, ravaged my soul empty, left it dead, and I fear this is the same. A particular accomplishment considering your existence is that only of a ghost.

“We're wide awake, and baby, I want to make you close your eyes,
and say my name like only you can say it, sit and hold me tight.
All I need is you and me alone tonight.
I wanna make you close your eyes.”

The song plays on as I close my eyes imagining you doing the same. A horn blasts. I decide to drive on my side of the two-lane highway for awhile. Not sure if its the song causing my heart to race, the dream, or the adrenaline of the oncoming headlights, I drive on. Maybe, it's all three.

“You can make me work for it girl if you want to.
Just leave a trail for me to follow you into the bedroom.
And if you need a little bit of help from me,
Babe, there's not a button I can't reach.”
Let's see where it leads.”

The band picks up pace, but nowhere near fast. The singer smooth but determined; perfect. I can feel his passion, as he describes mine. This is my song, the words a translation of the unexplainable. They head into the chorus again as I imagine that bedroom. Would you be seductively clad only in a white dress shirt? Right now, you are. I figure an imaginary woman can be dressed in anything I want. I choose this. While I am at it, you smell like spring.

“We're wide awake, and baby I want to make you close your eyes,
and say my name like only you can say it, sit and hold me tight.
All I need is you an me alone tonight.
I wanna make you close your eyes.
I wanna take you somewhere
out there,
'til the world fades out of sight.”

This is the moment of dreams, inspiration, the culmination of four minutes, as the band dies down. Now it is only the singer and me. He slows his delivery, as the band fades away. He wants me to know, to understand, to feel. For the hundredth time, I am but a captive audience to the sermon he speaks.

“We're wide awake, but girl, I wanna make you close your eyes.
Say my name like only you can say it, and just hold me tight
Just hold me tight.
All I need is you and me alone tonight
I just want to make you close your eyes”

I come to a literal tee in the road. I face two choices, East or West. My friend on the radio, now done crooning, awaits a replay as I mindlessly head East, figuring it is one mile closer to you.

Psycholgical Spanish

Tonight, a million things have entered, and exited, my mind. Some thoughts were, introspective, others used to realize just how good life can be, but for the most part they are incosequentially random. As you read on, I have to remember to drop off my absentee ballot before my trip. Thought number one million and one.

Hard to imagine it is now 2:18 in the morning, but it is. These thoughts, all of them, seem to share a common purpose, culminating in Darwinian, super nova, self-psychotherapy. They have evolved to understanding I don't spend enough time evaluating myself. Honestly.

Let's face it though, honesty is clad in bias, especially regarding oneself. Often times, to our own detriment we over analyze; leads me to believe the answer isn't near as important as the question.

Prevailing answers merely but a product of the process, I ponder love, and parenting; wonder if any of the stewardesses will be hot, but fear they won't. In my experience, two dollar Dr. Pepper mixed with $6 dollar whiskey always seems to taste better served by one fairly easy on the eyes. That same knowledge leads me to believe that Mile High Club fantasies, will surrender to You Would Have To Be High Club reality. Odds are, Barfbag Betty might reciprocate that same thought. One million two.

Crap, now I'm thinking of other people thinking. A million three.

I think of school, my place in the world, friends-new, old, and in some cases both. Reminds me, I need to send an email. One million and 4.

My guess is I will never truly know the answers, even understand them fully. What I have managed to draw from this Naches de No Sleepo, is that reality is but a figment of our imagination. Being ready, willing and able to submit myself to the normalcy of randomness affords me comfort. In the end, knowing that comfort makes me think (number one 1,000,005) that everything is bueno.

'Hallowmean' vs Stephen King

The argument I have isn't with ghouls being replaced by ankle biters in Spongebob costumes. I get that. The gripe isn't even with trick or treaters flocking to the mall in droves, despite my assumption the candy bowl next to my front door will remain full Halloween night. Religion doesn't play a role; in fact Happy Samhain (New Years) to our Pagan friends. No, my beef is with Hollywood. More directly to the directors and producers churning out Halloween inspired “horror” movies.

Scary movies, once a staple of the season, have found themselves the real disappointment of Halloween. Every year what is dubbed as this years 'scariest movie' is nothing more than an over gratuitous blood festival with unrealistic violence. The art of direction, leading one to a suspenseful dramatic conclusion, is gone. No, horror movies aren't about scaring anymore; they are about grossing you out. Perhaps the narrative of arousing fear doesn't pay as well as producing a visual manual for future serial killers.

It's hard to believe the story tellers of Hollywood have gone missing in the foggy cemetery of corporate studios, but the plot of horror movies has. Movies such as the Saw franchise, while incredibly ingenious, do not scare you. Stephen King novels scare you. They raise your blood pressure, and leave an unnerving need to look over your shoulder. Even most of the movies inspired by King's prose have turned out lame, the Shining notwithstanding. Think if you will, a King novel, directed by Gus Van Sant, produced by Steven Spielberg; now that would scare you. Yet, we pay for substandard product, based on overly hyped marketing, directed towards a scare craved audience. Not this year though, not me.

Call it my Halloween stimulus package. When Hollywood decides to make Halloween movies again instead of Hollowmean shockers, then maybe I will return to the box office. Until then, my plan is to eat Spongebob's unclaimed candy, read a Stephen King book, and be far away from the mall.

Little girls, and pink ribbons

Breast cancer, the very term is numbing to most, horrific to those living it. While cardiac disease continues to be the number one killer of women, it is breast cancer that fears the heart. Every woman is at risk, without discrimination; every woman a daughter. I have a daughter myself, she's eleven, far too young to worry about mammograms and self examinations. The same ambivalence isn't true for her worrisome father. A worry perpetuated, rightfully so, by constant reminding. Perhaps more so than any other cause, the drive to cure breast cancer remains at the forefront of a nations conscience. Corporate sponsorships and philanthropic trusts shine light on what has become an American obsession. Even the temporarily pink-clad National Football League has joined the fight, and so to it seems has Tacoma Community College.

The home volleyball match on Monday, October 26th featuring the number one ranked TCC Titans and Pierce College is reason enough to show up. In reality though, it almost serves as a backdrop to the nights main event. To honor National Breast Cancer Awareness month, TCC Volleyball will be hosting a donation driven benefit supporting the Susan G. Komen Foundation for a Cure. Laura Reichert, Vice President of Legislation ASTCC, Jennifer Manley, Coordinator of Student Life, and Student Leadership members will set up shop in the gymnasium accepting donations, passing out candy, and distributing a breast self-awareness handout.

Expectations are high, despite normally low attendance at volleyball games. “We would like to make this an annual event. With the support of faculty and the students, we could make this a blowout event,” Reichert said. “We will be in pink. We want a pink out [referring to all in attendance wearing the color],” Reichert said, describing her end vision for the night, “We want it packed.” Game time is scheduled for 7:00pm in the TCC gymnasium. Students displaying TCC identification, as well as Faculty members will be admitted free. Donations are being accepted prior to game day as well, coordinated by Reichert, and Manley upstairs in building eleven.

Throughout the day, TCC's campus will be colored pink. A breast cancer awareness march, the Pink Parade, will emanate from the Child Care Center and weave its way around campus to the Student Center, where a fashion show will follow. Anyone wishing to join the walk, are asked to meet outside Early Learning, building 2, at noon. The most creative, pink adorned outfit will win a very special prize. While Reichert wouldn't elaborate as to what the prize was, she did say that by purchasing the prize from a breast cancer sponsor, it afforded the donation of one free mammogram. Imagine that; one purchase possibly saving a life.

The simple math of October 26th is this, if every student and faculty member donated one dollar, 75 women could get a mammogram. Seventy-five. One dollar. A life saved, for less than the price of a Coke. Some will donate more, some less, but every penny counts in the end. Think of it as a really important, one day piggy bank.

My daughter understands that the more money she puts in her piggy bank the more money she has: What my daughter doesn't know is that breast cancer runs in her family history, possibly even her DNA. She doesn't remember her Aunt in Texas who survived, or met the great-Grandmother who didn't; she was only six as she watched the ravishes of the disease work its horror on a step-Mother. All she knows is the innocence of immortality in the eyes of a middle school student. By the age of 12, she will find out yet another family member will undergo chemotherapy. I want her to understand, to be weary of the dangers, and foresee the implications of what may lie ahead. My hope is she will never have to know. Most of all, I don't want to see her strung up with tubes of radioactive life support probing her veins. For that reason, I will march at noon, and be there at 7:00 pm on Monday. I will be grateful for survivors, remember loved ones, feel anger, and seek hope, sitting with my daughter, explaining the unimaginable, while she watches a volleyball game.