I did my job

I had a toddler at home...and I did my job.

I welcomed foster animals and sent them to adoptive homes...and I did my job.

I lost grandparents...and I did my job.

My husband contemplated a job in Atlanta...and I did my job.

I grieve for three babies...and I do my job.

I adopted horses...and I did my job.

I gave birth to a living baby...and I did my job.

I lost my dad...and I did my job.

I lost pets...and I did my job.

I opened (and closed) a photo studio...and I did my job.

I have adapted to four different management styles over the last 18 years...and I did/do my job.

I'm not perfect...But I do what I can.

I dare you to come at me about my job performance.

Healthy and happy

"I just want my kids to be healthy and happy."

And then your teenage tells you he want to be an engineer who designs weapons.

You spend countless hours sifting through your memories and wondering where the missteps were.

Suddenly you realize that you've been lying all this time.

You don't want him to be happy if his idea of happiness will bring more pain into this world.

You have to admit that you really just want him to be someone you can be proud of.

You have to recognize your failure...because he doesn't give a shit about making you proud.

So you're a failure and a fraud.

Who am I? How did I get here?

When I was a kid, I collected unicorn collectibles.

I have no real idea why.

I think it started when someone gave me one as a gift and I said I loved it...to be polite.

Two days ago my mom (currently in rehab following foot surgery) told me she was feeling sick...and my mind immediately went to a very dark place (thank you coronavirus).

Yesterday I had to tell my 12-year-old that a sleepover with three of his friends wasn't worth the coronavirus exposure risk and he has to stay home.

Today I have to consider whether to take legal action to stop a local festival from creating a coronovirus exposure risk for the public by opening this weekend.

Tomorrow I get to watch my 18-year-old asthmatic son don a surgical mask and head off to his minimum wage job at Dollar Tree...where he will undoubtedly be verbally abused by strangers...and potentially exposed to coronavirus.

Later this summer we get to discuss whether on-campus college life is worth the coronavirus exposure risk.

Nothing makes sense anymore...and I'm tired of being polite.

I've always really hated unicorns.

Wear a mask if you must go out.

But better yet...

DON'T GO OUT IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO!

War weary

I remember when I stumbled upon my grandfather's war photo collection.

I remember him waking up screaming.

I remember him pacing the floors of their old house because he couldn't sleep.

I remember sitting on the sofa in the common area on the first floor of Darrow Hall at BGSU and watching Operation Desert Storm begin on the television.

I remember sitting in the court administrator's office on 9/11 watching the second tower fall on a tiny black and white television.

I remember the meeting to determine to close the Home and Garden show in our county in the earliest days of the coronavirus pandemic in Ohio.

I remember working from home while my children's school was closed for months.

I remember answering impossible questions like, "Do we allow the COVID positive patient back in the nursing home? If not, where does he go?"

But all of these things are not equal in my mind.

Framing the coronavirus pandemic using war terms makes me very uneasy.

• Platooning
• Frontline
• Invaded
• Fight/Battle/War
• Hero/Enemy

These words simply aren't appropriate for what we're facing. Not every scary challenge requires militarization. It serves no purpose but to create conflict where there is none.

I was in the room that first week...

• Were we overreacting?
• Were we underreacting?
• How does this virus spread?
• How lethal is it?
• What should we do?

I can tell you that there was no use of force that would fix it. No military...no political party...no God...had the answers. It was just a group of average people who wanted to do something to help the people in our communities.

It still is.

I wonder what my grandpa would think.

I am damn sure he wouldn't make a stupid war analogy.

Assistant Prosecutor, Civil Division

For 16 years and five months my job was generally the least exciting job of anyone in my office. Sure, there were occasional moments of great satisfaction that made it worth the seemingly endless string of nonsense "legal questions" I was expected to answer. The time I played a part in assisting the elderly woman who was trapped alone in her bed while her "guardian" checked on her twice a day...the time I played a part in rehabilitating the neighborhood so that raw sewage no longer flowed into the creek...the time I assisted the township to build a new garage and town hall...and a few others...

But normally the bulk of my job has consisted of administrative enforcement of regulations that a lot of people don't understand the need for (unless/until they need it to protect their own interests)...and answering questions about how local government is to operate. Who buries the indigent? can a township transfer money from one fund to another? is this or that subject to open meetings/public records laws? can a township sell excavated ditch dirt for profit? It is, most definitely, not headline grabbing material.

And then came the COVID-19 global pandemic. GLOBAL. The problems affecting us are affecting everyone. And people look to me for answers. ME! hahahahahaha! (ok...sorry for that mini breakdown there)

Public health regulations aren't new...and they affect just about every aspect of your life without you usually noticing. Your neighbor can't dump his/her sewage onto your property. Why? Public health regulation. Your water company has to provide you with potable water. Why? Public health regulation. The guy making your cheeseburger has to wear a hair net over his hair and/or beard. Why? Public health regulation. The guy giving you a tattoo has to use clean needles. Why? Yep...you guessed it...public health regulation.

And public health orders during times of contagious illness outbreak? Yeah...those have been in our laws for decades (centuries in some regards). In Ohio, the authority is found in Title 37 of the Revised Code. Chapters 3707 and 3709 are like old friends at this point. These are mechanisms by which public health identifies and corrects threats to the general population. At the risk of delivering a lecture on the appropriate uses of governmental authority, let's just say that the control of infectious disease is considered a legitimate public interest.

90,000 Americans are dead. 26 of them from my county.

And people don't seem to care.

I'm at a loss how to keep doing my job after this.

What's the point?

If people die and nobody cares...the rest seems like a waste of time.

Welcome to my mid-life crisis.

Seriously? A worldwide health pandemic now?

One day I'm going to write a book that nobody will believe could possibly be the truth.

Oh no Thomas Rhett

Ain't it funny how life changes
You wake up, ain't nothing the same and life changes
You can't stop it, just hop on the train and
You never know what's gonna happen
You make your plans and you hear god laughing
Life changes, and I wouldn't change it for the world, the world, oh no
And I wouldn't change it for the world, the world, oh no***

***there's always going to be that asterisk

I hope they forgive me

I hope my husband will forgive me for not being able to give him his dream of six kids.
I hope my son will forgive me for not being the mother he needed.
I hope they will forgive me for not making our home the place they wish it was.
I hope my mother will forgive me for keeping score.
I hope my father forgives me for missing who I wanted him to be...and not who he was.
I hope my friends forgive me for not knowing how to bridge the gap.
I hope my co-workers understand how I was...before.
I hope they will all forgive me for my unrelenting anxiety and the effect it has had on our lives.

Anxiety

So here's the thing that happened after my father-in-law, my babies, and my dad all died suddenly (without any explanation)...

Anxiety.

I cannot outrun it (I'm not kidding...I've actually started walking/running).

I am terrified I am going to die suddenly (with or without an explanation).

Every little ache or pain is now a harbinger of death (and Dr. Google is not helping).

It's irrational...but I can't NOT think about it.

So I'm starting projects again.

Fake it till ya make it, right?

Not sure this blog will be one of those projects...but I think there is something cathartic about writing out all the garbage that's floating around in my brain.

In the meantime, I just hope I don't die.

Home

Yesterday, the pink walls of my sisters old bedroom whispered to me about the life we had...about what we have...and I was overwhelmed.
Friday night records played on the stereo Dad built himself from a kit.
Mom in the kitchen making hamburgers and fried potatoes.
Roller skating around the pool table.
Dad going golfing every Saturday morning.
Scuffing slippers on the carpet in order to build up static and zap each other.
Sundays with Dad lying on the living room floor watching football or baseball or basketball (and usually falling asleep and snoring).
The long gone swing set put together by Dad and Grandpa, with it's barbershop pole color scheme...white and metallic blue and metallic red.
The purple of the guest bedroom...changed from cheerful yellow after my sister moved into her pink bedroom the basement.
Dad pulling out his guitar and playing a song or two. I only know the refrain of Delta Dawn.
Staying home with a babysitter while Mom and Dad went to bowling league.
The metal roof of the old doghouse in the backyard sitting on top of what remains of the rotten wood structure that seems to have melted into the ground.
Homemade birthday cakes.
Riding bikes up and down the street.
Mom in her bedroom reading a romance novel.
The yellow and white bench at the kitchen table.
The blue of the office...once my brother's room.
Saturday afternoon trips to Kmart and the carton of Whoppers shared during the car ride home...before he was "too tired from golfing."
My husband tightening the wrought iron railing for my mom...who used to tell us, "Don't lean over the railing."
The shelf my Dad built me to hold my ceramic unicorn collection.
The Smuckers box that came from Dad's employer one xmas...filled with little ice cream sundae cups and Smuckers ice cream toppings.
The laughter while writing "Griswold Christmas lights" on the outside of that Smuckers box after the ice cream supplies were unpacked...to store the xmas tree lights.
The xmas party where my sister and I wore matching long blue dresses our mom had made. I got Colorforms from Santa Claus.
The station wagon trips to Indiana (the barf coffee can for the trip home where I had the flu).
The organ I taught myself xmas carols on.
The big soft couch that came from my aunt and was way more comfortable than the one my parents had in the living room...but they put it in the basement.
Sitting on that couch with my only high school boyfriend and watching the little black and white tv while making out.
Coming home from school to an empty house on my 16th birthday...but there was a balloon and a card and a gift on the kitchen table. Mom got me the Timex watch I'd been begging for.
Dad's chair...that nobody but Mom will sit in now.

There wasn't much connection in that house. Maybe that's why these random things seem to suffocate me when I am there. I have these "nice" memories...but that house is not home. It's not a place I ever felt totally comfortable. "Because I said so," and, "As long as you live in my house," were phrases I heard often. It was like I was a visitor throughout my whole childhood...just stopping by on my way to something else. Not allowed to ask questions. Expected to mind my own business.

And so I did.

So now I go there and there are so many things I don't recognize. Maybe that's why the things I do remember stand in such contrast.

First born

You think I'd be good at this for all the saying goodbye and letting go I've had to do. But I read this and was reduced to sappy sentimental tears.

 

I miss my son. My living, breathing, 14-year-old, full of opinions, addicted to video games, first born who used to share everything with me. The Wiggles. Thomas the Tank Engine. Pokémon. Hating reading. School. Loving reading. His love of comfort over fashion. His inherited tendency to expect too much from everyone and everything. Ways to cope with his perceived shortcomings. His unshakeable faith in me. His growing belief that he knows everything.

 

Adolescence has now taken hold and he has become much less inclined to share. Given enough time, asking the right questions, I can usually wheedle information out of him. Tell me one thing you learned today. Tell me one thing interesting that happened today. How are your friends doing? What did you have for lunch? What happened in band today? Is there anything you need for school?

 

He's in high school now. With high school classes and high school friends and high school activities...and I never see him. There's just no time to persuade him to share with his old mom. He's always working on something or going somewhere or too tired to talk to me.

 

Today is Friday which means marching band at the football game. I'll see him for the ten minutes it takes to drive to the stadium...and then after the game I'll cart his exhausted body home where he will promptly brush his teeth and fall into bed. And I'll stand in his doorway and watch him sleep and wonder how to deal with this letting go. It's not the same as the permanent goodbyes that fate has forced me to experience. It's a slow goodbye that is supposed to happen.

 

I know this.

I do.

I'm working on it.

May redux

I made it through May! and June! and I thought I was in the clear for another year! and then we had to put Rory to sleep. He couldn't stand, was incontinent, filled with tumors all over his bony body, and he stopped eating and drinking...so it was definitely time. But at the vet's office, he still tried to wag his tail. The vet tech said that's what they do...they try to stay with us as long as they can...even when their bodies fail them. I wanted to take comfort in that...but it just started my mind turning. He WANTED to stay...but his body wouldn't let him.

 

Anyone else hear that old familiar song playing in the background?

 

I know...I know...the frailty of the human existence and all that. It's tragic and beautiful all at the same time. There are forces that no amount of love can defeat. That's just life. And death.

 

From the moment Sam came home from the hospital, he was Rory's boy. Sam's 14 now...and Rory is gone. Life moves on...without regard to what we want.

 

 

Rest in peace, Roo-Roo. I hope there is love and light wherever you are. We love you and we will miss you.

Anniversary or midlife crisis...take your pick

April 8th is here...so I'm going to complain here about some other things...in the hopes that they might distract me from...well...ALL OF IT.

Bankruptcy is over. But I messed up my bookkeeping and we owe a hefty federal income tax bill. Good thing we weren't planning a vacation this year. And good thing my husband isn't the "WTF were you doing?" type (which seems totally unfair...because I've realized I AM that type and I criticize WAY TOO much...but I digress). The thing is this...I have things I want to do...but I have ZERO patience and ZERO money. I want it all NOW. I don't want to have to plan and save and work (sheesh...I sound like Veruca Salt...but I'm not asking for luxury things...just normal everyday things).

My shower's been busted for more than a year. I have to use "the cats' bathroom." You know the one...with the kitty litter that is ALWAYS on the tile to step on...no matter HOW MANY TIMES I sweep it up. And I have to walk from one end of the house to the other...which is..."invigorating" is a good word for it.

My kitchen. One word...gross. There is a HOLE in the floor under my refrigerator. Not a small one...but one that critters obviously can fit through. The wall that my son divested of wallpaper SIX YEARS AGO is still in the same post-peel state (and yellow...SO yellow). But oh-my-heck...the THOUGHT of tearing it all up and re-doing it...yuck!

I desperately want a photography studio. I've found several options. But thanks to that hefty tax bill, I no longer have the money. Add to this the fact that I am not happy in my job and today is April 8th...and you have one surly b**** on your hands.

My body has widened and/or my husband has shrunk a lot of my clothes...so nothing fits (and I hate whatever does fit). So I need new clothes for work (at home I'm perfectly satisfied to wear pajamas).

I want to go bike-riding with my family. My husband has a broken bike tire. WHY WON'T HE TAKE IT IN TO BE FIXED?!?!

Both cars need repairs.

The horses need their hooves trimmed (*My husband is taking care of this this morning!).

I need to go to the DMV...it doesn't even matter why...I mean...it's the DMV...kill me now.

I need a camera battery and high-quality SD cards for my weddings this year.

The floors are filthy because it's spring thaw time and I have nine dogs. WHY the f*** do I have NINE dogs? Oh...I love them...but SOME DAYS...sigh...

I know, I know, I know...take it one thing at a time...

Dear Spring...f*** off!

It's that time of year again. I feel it headed at me like a freaking freight train. April 8th...May 8th...May 11th... 

I don't want to wish time away...there is so precious little of it. 

So I'm trying to be busy.

Paying taxes. Planning the summer. Creating welcome gifts for my photography clients. Binge watching Supergirl with my boys. Eating takeout way too much. Wearing sandals even though it's only 37 degrees out. Yelling at my family over stupid stuff. Thinking about gardening again (that's a whole other post). Searching real estate listings for a photography studio space. Faking my way through meetings at my day job. Figuring out my new camera. Surfing Pinterest for kitchen remodel ideas. 

More good than bad. I just wish it wasn't such work to enjoy chirping birds in a bright blue cloudless sky. Maybe someday I'll get there?

Life after loss with an 8-year-old

Myles: "Mom, what does TLC mean? Oh...yeah...right...Travis Leo Colgan. What's Dad bringing home for lunch?"

Where we are today

So...I can see I've only used this place as a dumping ground for a while. I know it's no fun to read...so I locked it down so nobody can read. I'd say it defeats the purpose of writing it...but I'm not sure what the purpose of writing it actually is anymore.

The last we left our little hamlet, the older boy was entering middle school and the younger was entering kindergarten. Then there was a lot of random grief and self-pity here for a couple years. And now here we are. The older boy is on the verge of graduating middle school and the younger boy is astonishing us all with his mastery of second grade skills. So here's the roundup 2016 Xmas letter I didn't send...for my benefit and yours.

Sam has not adjusted well to the demands of middle school. For the most part, his grades are average because he is not motivated and he has ZERO organizational skills. I'm hoping he'll get there...to that point where he "gets it" and is willing to make the personal investment. But I fear he's a little more laid back than that (like his father...which is very distressing for me/the planner-and-rule-follower). He plays the trombone really well for his age...and he seems to enjoy it (we just paid it off yesterday...so I hope he enjoys it for a while longer). In exchange for a car ride home from school every day, he is now practicing...which I hope will serve him well in high school band.

Myles proudly told me that he is the BEST reader in his class and he is reading at a FIFTH grade level (he is the ONLY one in his class who is allowed to read that level). He has terrible handwriting...an inherited trait that no amount of practice is going to overcome, I'm afraid. That's ok...he's learning early that it's ok to not be perfect. He has decided that this year our new year's resolution is "to be more positive (yay!)." I'm along for the ride...and it has definitely helped me find a smile a couple of times I probably wouldn't have otherwise.

Steve is Steve. Unshakable. Unbreakable. Like a rock. This is good and bad...but neither of us is a saint...so I guess I'll leave that alone.

Me? Well...I'm not sure who I am anymore. I hate my job at the Prosecutor's office, but I can't afford to quit it without causing further financial damage (our bankruptcy was just discharged...so I should at least pretend to be an adult for a while). I love my job as a photographer...but my business is not at the stage I would like it to be...and that is frustrating me somewhat. I'm overweight and I wear a fitbit...but my treadmill is very very very quiet. My children would love to eat meals at the dining room table...but when I sit at the table, I see all the things wrong with my house [the home improvement sort of stopped for a while]...so I eat upstairs in bed or in the office (I REALLY want to modify this behavior...I think it will be good for all of us...but the house just needs so much work and it's exhausting just thinking about it). I don't think this is depression...I think this is mid-life...and, quite honestly, it ain't all that wonderful. I know I could do things to live with more intention...be present...create meaning...zzzzzzzz. It's hard to get excited about anything when you realize the best Christmas gift you received was a humidifier. I mean...really...I love that thing...and now I feel OLD!

This is fun...I think I'm going to try to make this a habit. I feel all kinds of guilt and sadness that so many years were lost in grief and sadness. So I'm working hard to make up for it. Disneyland in 2014. Washington DC in 2015. Goal...Ireland in 2017 or 2018 (fingers crossed). But I also need to do better with the daily record. I need to create something so my children will know that I wasn't always this miserable creature with a broken heart. Honestly...the BEST moments of every day are when I arrive home and I hear, "Is that mom? MOMMY!" [and they come running to greet me with hugs and kisses...both of them]. I love those moments...and I want to remember them forever. And since my mind is less and less likely to actually REMEMBER anything...I think I should write these things down.

Yeah...more fun...less woe-is-me! Here we go!

We did it!

We survived the first go round of elementary school! (*HIGH FIVE*)

It was touch and go there more than a few times...but we managed to kick ass effectively parent an A/B student who tested for advanced placement in middle school. Sam refers to himself as our "test subject." No doubt this poor kid is going to need therapy at some point in his life.

Holy crap...middle school!

And before anyone rains on my little one-person parade and reminds me that my baby starts kindergarten in the fall, let me warn you that I WILL hurt you.

And yes, I'm well aware that I probably need therapy too.

Happy summer!

Grown up choices

So I'm still here. Still have three dead babies and two living boys (who are TEN and FIVE now!). And I'm feeling like maybe I want to write again. Aren't you thrilled?  I have all these things I need therapy for want to say...and my husband and my facebook friends are tired of hearing them. I'm not sure when/where the mood to write might take me. I've never been good at putting any sort of structure to this thing. So...yeah...anyway...
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Sam has always chosen his own clothes to wear to school...as long as the clothes are clean and neat.

During that first year of school when we were adjusting to the new roles life had imposed upon us, and trying to navigate the insanity of elementary school rules, I remember the kindergarten teacher saying, "Samuel is making some poor choices in who to imitate in class." Aside from the obvious I-really-don't-want-my-kid-IMITATING-anyone thought that ran through my head, in that moment there opened up an entire world of letting go. My kid was going to make choices...on...his...own.

In the first grade there was the book fair. Where I gave him $20 and he bought pencils and a bookmark...but no actual books. We talked about choices then. But the truth of the matter is that the rule became, "you can choose from the BOOKS." There was still some limitation...some structure imposed by me.

A week ago, Sam was feeling that horrible fifth-grade pressure to get all the homework done the other night and I said, "Life's about choices. If you feel like you want to make the choice to turn in the homework late and take a lower grade, then that is on you. Nobody will die. We will still have food to eat and a house to live in. Just so you know the consequences and you don't try to explain it away as anything other than your choice."
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A little over a year ago, 2/27/12, something awful happened in my hometown. A young man took a gun to my high school alma mater and shot up the cafeteria full of students, killing three and wounding three. He pled guilty on the last possible day the prosecutor was to hold the option open.

Yesterday, the young man responsible was sentenced to three consecutive life sentences in prison (plus some for the non-lethal injuries/attempted murders). His behavior at sentencing is the stuff of TMZ or Dateline. I won't say his name here or describe his behavior because I refuse to perpetuate his fifteen minutes of fame. He is not worth it. But it got me to thinking about this boy...so obviously broken. By what? That will be the subject of professional analysis for years to come, I'm sure.
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I feel like the process of letting go has really ramped up here during this school year. And I don't mind telling you that I'm terrified unprepared. Everyone has all the answers when it comes to the boy who killed. It was the parents...the grandparents...the lack of God...the friends...mental illness...pure evil. I am not so sure. I no longer believe that life hands you one singular thing that will determine who you will be. Even in the darkest times, you have choices. They may not be the choices you want...but if you search hard enough you will see the options and make the choices that will get you through (one way or another).

And so I wonder...if I told my son the right thing about the book fair...what clothes to wear...or his ability to choose to not do his homework.
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Why am I nervous to hit "publish?"
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It's not you, it's me

I am hard on people. Too critical. Too demanding. Too negative...no matter how hard I try not to be. This often leads me into uncomfortable situations where my expectations do not match up with someone else's perspective, opinion, or abilities. I fully recognize that I do this. And as I have gotten older I have tried very hard to stop, take a breath, and manage my expectations in order to maintain relationships. My husband will tell you that I'm still not very good at this and I am still WAY too demanding (but that's a whole OTHER story).

I know who I got it from. I know why and how I became this way.This isn't about blame...because in the end, it's like everything else...it's all about how I choose to be.

I recently left the Ashtabula County Animal Protective League, where I was a member of the Board of Directors for 2 1/2 years. I didn't leave because I didn't care about the cause or because there was a lack of work that needed doing (for the love of all that is holy, people, spay/neuter your pets!). I left because of the people...because they didn't respect or like me (and yes, I recognize how absolutely juvenile that sounds).

Oh, they appreciated what I could do FOR them...but there was no feeling for ME as a person. I didn't expect thank you's or awards or anything like that. I only expected that the relationships I had built entitled me to a certain level of respect and kindness. I was apparently very wrong. In the end, I found that those relationships weren't what I thought they were.

So I quit.

I can't tell you how much it pains me to say those two simple words. I quit. I am NOT a quitter. When the going gets rough, I work harder, longer, stronger. I don't quit.

Except this time, I quit.

With a couple months distance, however, I realize that maybe I was deluding myself the entire 2 1/2 years. I was forcing people into roles (in my messed-up brain) that they were never actually in. My participation in the group coincided with much larger events in my life and I think I was trying to find some kind of salve to heal the wounds I was nursing. And if they weren't willing to participate...well...there must be something wrong with THEM...because I am charming and smart and motivate...there couldn't possibly be something wrong with ME.

Are you surprised that I never really had a LARGE circle of friends? I've never had a "best" friend...the kind you call up and talk to for hours about anything and everything...or go out for margaritas with just because you've had a long day and need to laugh and be silly. That's not to say I don't have ANY friends. I have friends that you don't see for years and years...but when you are together it's like you never missed a minute. I have friends in the computer...friends who live all around the world and share this space filled with word and thought as if they are sitting at my kitchen table sharing a cup of coffee.

For a long time I thought I was missing out on the friendship thing. And then I had a family...and then I was swallowed up by a LOT of grief...and my circle got smaller and smaller. To be honest, I much prefer hanging out with my boys talking about Pokemon and ninjas and which is better, McDonalds or Wendys. It's not that I wouldn't enjoy friends, it's just that I don't feel like I NEED them all that much. And even if I did, I don't really have time for them. That's not entirely true...I could make time...I'm just too tired to do it. Let's face it, friends take a lot of work.

And so that's where I failed. That's why I quit. Because ultimately, it felt like too much work to evaluate my relationships and determine which ones were worth trying to salvage and which were beyond repair. It was easier to walk away completely and shrink my circle of friends, yet again, to a comfortable level.

I did, to some extent, secretly hope, "My real friends won't let me walk away." Like some kind of teenager with an irrational crush, I thought, "My real friends will knock on my door or pick up the phone and tell me they love me and ask me what we could do to fix things." And like a teenager with an irrational crush...that just didn't happen. My stupid test of those relationships failed because I wasn't realistic, then or now, about who I am and who my friends are (or should be).

I wonder if I've made a mistake. I HATE being a quitter. But then I feel such relief when someone asks me an APL-related question and I can say, "I'm sorry, I'm not involved with them anymore." And that relief reassures me that I've made a good decision for now.

I clearly need some time to decide who I am...to choose who I want to be and who I want to be friends with. Friendship can't be forced. But it must be nurtured. I suspect there was nothing there to nurture in the first place. But I will always wonder if I was just too hard on them...if I expected too much.

I suppose it doesn't really matter. The end result is the same.

Onward and upward.

The size of your next step doesn't matter as much as the direction.

Happy New Year

Things were going along JUST fine...gallbladder had calmed down after the holiday gluttony...my house was getting back in order...had sushi with a friend...and then I found myself passed out on the bathroom floor.

Mega-migraine.

After 40+ unconscious hours, I'm up again...

...only to have Steve tell me he had a little accident this morning and messed up the steering on his car.

So far I am not impressed with 2011.

But instead of complaining I'm just going to post a cute picture of our foster puppies...aren't they cute?!?!