My Missing Nose and I Need a Plan

As I may or may not have mentioned, tomorrow night I have to go to a cocktail party-type dealio at the home of an executive at Tom’s company.


And, as I may or may not have mentioned (like I'd let the opportunity pass by), I have Stitch Nose from having a chunk of it removed last week.

(As an aside, thank you for your kind words and wishes and prayers last week. I’m not going to deal with the first dermatologist until I have the final lab results back next week. The second dermatologist said that there is always a chance that the lab results will be benign, and I’m really hoping that’s the case.)


So . . . in the interest of making the Best Possible Impression at Tom’s company function tomorrow night, I need a plan of action, to help further my husband’s career and all that. You know what they say, “Behind every great man is a great woman.” Of course, that saying came about before Tom married me before there were bloggers when someone painted it on the wall of a cave.


Plan A

I stop by the hot toe doctor’s office and borrow this ensemble:





Plan B

I forget about trying to hide my Stitch Nose. If you've got it, flaunt it. Or, in this case, if part of yours is missing, flaunt it. I could wear one sparkly white glove and moonwalk as I enter the cocktail party.





Plan C

Remember how I said that when I gave birth to Adam Lambert’s twins, they were going to be pulled out of my nose because that would have to hurt less than the way my first three children were pulled out? It didn’t. The stitches on my nose? C-Section.



So . . . if someone at Tom’s office party asks about the stitches, rather than be a buzzkill with the mention of skin cancer, I’ll just talk about how I got pregnant with Adam Lambert’s twins while he sang a Led Zeppelin song on American Idol to me, and that I gave birth to the twins through my nose, and, yes, the breastfeeding is going well, and I gained two pounds during the two-week pregnancy, and the twins were one inch long at birth, and, no, we still haven’t picked out names. I’m pretty sure this will both give me a great cover story for the nose stitches and really help Tom’s career at the same time.



Plan D

Tom takes my wife in my place. My wife? She’s quite the catch. And Tom? Apparently, he is quite the catch as well. Tom’s been getting a lot of offers from other bloggers lately. So, while I won’t out anyone or anything (you can guess all you want; beneath this stitch nose, my lips are sealed), Tom has had offers from a blogger who wants him to pose as her date at a high school reunion, and from another blogger who seems to forget that he has a husband. Some people. Sheesh.

On a more serious note, just because I’m all polyamorous and stuff does not mean that Tom isn’t a one-woman man. He is, and awfully patient allowing me to have a wife, a hot toe doctor, a conjugal visit with my soon-to-be multi-platinum-album rock star husband (which helped me get over the wee little infatuation that I had with the bass player at church), a secret crush, and a not-so-secret crush. So I probably could let Tom go on a date with his wife-in-law just this one time, right?



Eff that. My wife is too hot to be dating my husband.


Does anyone have an idea for Plan E?


(Pictures not of my Stitch Nose and the Curly Ponytail of Hotness are courtesy of Google Images.)

Before You Start Thinking That All of My Doctors Are Hot . . .

Did you ever have one of those days when you go to the dermatologist to show her a bump on your widow’s peak and she says, “Stop picking at it.” And you say (lying), “I don’t pick at it. It has been there for a while and it kind of hurts.” And she says, “Here’s some steroid foam to put on it and don’t pick at it?”

No?

Did you ever have one of those days when you go to the dermatologist on the same day that you showed her the bump on your widow’s peak and you also show her a thing on your nose and she says, “Stop picking at it.” And you say (truthfully), “I don’t pick at it, but when I wash my face or use a tissue it bleeds sometimes.” And she says, “Put some polysporin ointment on it and don’t pick at it?”

No?

Did you ever have one of those days when you go back to the dermatologist to show her that the bump on your widow’s peak has now turned into many more bumps and patches covering your entire scalp and you tell her that it all hurts and that you think the foam stuff is making it worse and she says, “The steroid foam is not making it worse, keep using it?”

No?

Did you ever have one of those days when you go back to the dermatologist to show her the hurting bumps and patches covering your entire scalp and you also show her the thing on your nose that is still there despite the not picking at it and daily application of polysporin ointment and she says, “The polysporin ointment will make it better, keep using it?”

No?

Did you ever have one of those days when you go to a different dermatologist and she says that you have a bacteria infection in your hair follicles and that the steroid foam probably suppressed your body’s natural immunities and caused the infection to spread from a few hair follicles to the hair follicles all over your scalp and she prescribes you a 30-day course of antibiotics to get rid of it?

No?

Did you ever have one of those days when you go to the different dermatologist on the same day she tells you the hair follicles all over your scalp are infected and by the way you show her the thing on your nose and she says that has to come out now, and she uses a hole puncher to remove a chunk of your nose, and blood spurts out and lands across the room and in your eye, and she stitches up your nose, and she looks at the thing that was hole-punched out of your nose under the microscope in her lab and tells you it is Basal Cell Carcinoma, and you don't even bother to ask her if polysporin ointment cures skin cancer?

No?

Well, I had one of those days yesterday.



I will know more when the lab results come back next week where know more equals know if they have to remove more of my nose next week. Also, stay tuned to find out how much fun it was to go to a Really Important Event for the executive types at Tom’s work a couple of days from now with My Stitch Nose, large pores, grease face, eyebrows in dire need of tweezing, and possible baldness due to hair follicle infection.

Meanwhile, the point of this post . . . and I do have one that isn’t all about me, is that Basal Cell Carcinoma is the most common form of skin cancer and it is most typically caused by exposure to UV rays. So, use your sunscreen and get regular skin checks by a doctor who isn’t a moron.

I Am Not Making This Up

True Story #1

I was getting a breast ultrasound recently. There was a woman in the waiting room sitting next to me. I heard her tell the receptionist that she was stepping outside in case they called her name. Through the glass doors I saw her go stand next to a sign by the entrance that said "[NAME] Cancer Center" and light a cigarette. Not that I'm judging. I kind of wanted one too because breast ultrasound. (Everything is fine, by the way.)


True Story #2

I saw an SUV driving down the road, and noticed that it passed by a house with a sign at the curb that said "Bank Foreclosure." Then I noticed what was painted on the back and side windows of the SUV. It said: “[NAME]’s Doggie Deli. Healthy Food for Your Pet Delivered Fresh to Your Home. 800-XXX-XXXX”


True Story #3

A while back I posted Jesus, Jason & Kate, a true story about a man who asked me to give him money at a gas station. I was on my way to meet Kate at the time, Kate who gives the homeless guy in her neighborhood $20 bills. I mentioned in my post that the man to whom I gave $5 was driving a new Jeep, and some discussion was raised in the comment section of that post about giving. Nobody has asked me for money again until last week when I was on my way to meet Kate again. Another man approached me and asked if I would give him money. I also give him a $5 bill. This man was listening to an iPod. I'm starting to get suspicious about Kate, but in a good way.


True Story #4

We can totally start with the premise that stainless steel water bottles are better for the environment and don't cause cancer. We don't buy plastic water bottles at home any more because we don't and that's all I'm going to say about that for purposes of this post. However, today I was buying a case of plastic water bottles for a potluck gathering this weekend for which I said I'd bring a case of plastic water bottles. As I was hoisting the water bottles into my car, a man approached and stood next to me. He said, "I see you just bought a lot of plastic water bottles. I don't think you realize how bad plastic water bottles are for the environment. I'd like to talk with you that. Do you realize what is happening to our environment?" I told him that his concern was appreciated, but that I didn't want to have a talk with him. He made a huffing noise, turned on his heel, walked a few spaces down from where I was parked, and drove away in a big red Cadillac.


C'mon. Tell me something strange that happened to you recently so that I don't feel like the only one.

The iPhone Boyfriend's Guest Post

* * *

It seems like it's been one thing after another around here lately, and I'm just not getting the attention that I once enjoyed. I've been sitting alone, feeling like I'm being taken for granted.

Today I thought, "Nobody's gonna put me in a corner."
I decided to do something about it.

I donned a clever disguise, slipped out of the house . . .

. . . and headed downtown to a cozy rooftop bar.

It wasn't long before I spotted this little hottie sitting alone.

Things were starting to look promising as we took in the view . . .

. . . so I bought her a drink.

The next thing I knew, her boyfriend showed up.
Three or more is a crowd. (I ought to know.)

I hung around the bar a while longer,
but I didn't meet anyone who was my type.

So, I went home, took a cold shower,
and thought, "Tomorrow is another day."

I wonder if there's a Match.com iPhone app
that I can download to myself.

(Gaslamp photograph courtesy of Google Images.)

Q & A with Mrs. Adam Lambert: Our Coming Out Party

Now is as good a time as any to answer some of the questions I've received via email following my recent posts about my marriage to Adam Lambert and the expected arrival of our twins after the American Idol finale show.



Q: Did you really lie to the security guard before your conjugal visit with Adam Lambert at Mt. Carmel High School?

A: Yes. The conversation happened as I wrote it. So, what this means is that I lie in person, but not on my blog. Heh.



Q: Do you think Adam is gay?

A: I truly don’t mean to be evasive or cheeky, but how is this relevant to anything?



Q: How do you and your wife feel about Adam being gay?

A: I feel fine, thank you. Kate doesn’t know that Adam is gay.



Q: Does it deter you knowing that Adam has a boyfriend?

A: No more than it deters Adam knowing that I have a husband and a wife.



And then someone emailed me with a question and these photos:


(Click to enlarge, print, and place under pillow)

Q: Are you aware that Adam has been photographed “like this”?

A: Yes, I was aware. I sleep with these photos under my pillow.



Q: How can you support gay rights and say that you’re a Christian?

A: Personally, I couldn't say that I’m a Christian and do otherwise.



Q: Will you be attending the live American Idol Finale Adam Lambert Watch Party event in San Diego with other Glamberts?

A: I’m not a Glambert, silly. I’m Adam’s wife. As such, I only deal with crowds when Adam is there. At the season finale, Kate (Adam's wife-in-law) and I will be seated in the front row of L.A.’s Nokia Theatre with Anoop Desai (Kate’s husband) and Adam’s parents. Adam’s boyfriend will be seated with us, too. Kate will still not realize that Adam is gay.



Q: What will you do if Adam doesn’t win?

A: After Adam wins, I will give birth to our twins. (Here’s a shout out to Michael and Janet for signing up to be midwives.) FYI: The babies will be pulled out of my nose because that’s gotta hurt less than how my first three kids were pulled out.



Q: What will you do when this season of American Idol is over?

A: Pack to go on tour with Adam and the twins. Duh.

Now it is time for a question from me. I’m thinking of packing this for when I take the twins on tour with us this summer, you know for nursing them in my front-row-center seats at every show:




What else should I bring on tour other than a licensed mental-health professional?


(Images of Adam Lambert rocking the guyliner courtesy of TMZ.com. Picture of Led Zeppelin nursing poncho courtesy of Google Images. American Idol Tour image courtesy of American Idol.com)

Will the Real Mrs. Adam Lambert Please Shut Stand Up?

There are less than two days until I shut up about the birth of our imaginary twins, and the most recent addition to my stable of spouses, Adam Lambert, is voted the next American Idol.

Meanwhile . . . .


I was recently asked whether I really went to see Adam Lambert at his alma mater?

YES.

I'm embedding the video again because I'm freakishly proud of my editing (as opposed to camera) skills in case you missed it. Heh. (Here's the direct YouTube link in case Blogger is being cranky because freakishly proud.)


(Be sure to watch it in HQ by clicking the HQ button on the bottom right of the video window after you click the PLAY arrow. I watched it blurry repeatedly until someone, who may or may not be a nine-year-old, told me about the HQ button.)


I was also asked whether I saw myself on television last week when American Idol aired coverage of the event.

YES.

If you watched my video (did I mention that I'm freakishly proud of my editing, as opposed to camera, skills?), you may recall that Adam Lambert had the camera dude point the camera at ME (his beloved wife and mother-to-be of his twins, who will be born tomorrow night when he's voted the next American Idol, in case I didn't mention that before).

Here is Adam at the moment that he pointed at ME, immortalized forever, from my perspective:



Here is Adam at the moment that he pointed at ME, immortalized forever, from the television viewers' perspective:



Here is me at the moment that Adam had the television camera point at ME, immortalized forever, from the television viewers' perspective:



What?

Here, allow me to help you find me in the crowd:



Answer to the question now forming in your head:

YES. That is really ME. (I am holding my camera up over my head.)

Oh? That wasn't the question? Then:

YES. I really am this insane.

When Children Cheat on Their Moms

I'll get to the cheating child part in a sec.

Now that I have you here, which shirt should I wear to watch Adam Lambert sing in win the American Idol final tomorrow night?

I'm thinking of going with the Led Zeppelin shirt because I got pregnant with Adam's twins while he was singing "Whole Lotta Love" two weeks ago:




Then again, I will be giving birth to the twins on Wednesday night following the finale of American Idol, so maybe I'm better off with something a little more understated, something that sends a subtle message to America that Adam Lambert won:




What do you think?


Back to the cheating child. Look what it says on the Mother's Day letter that Laura made for me at school:

"She cooks, bakes, and makes delicious foods."

She's obviously seeing another mother on the side.

However, I suppose I can overlook her indiscretion since the letter was delivered in this envelope:

"Adam Lambert says: Happy Mother's Day!"

(Click on picture for close-up view of guyliner and black nail polish.
And, oh my gosh, I love love love my child.)

I can only imagine what Laura's teacher must think of me, and I feel a bit bad about it. I never wanted anyone to get the impression that I cook and bake.

I Idolize My Husband, Actually

Raise your hand if you thought this was going to be about Adam Lambert.

That was so last week.

I idolize my actual husband, yo.

Which brings me to the question I have been asked on more than one occasion, i.e., what Tom thinks about my polyamorous proclivities where polyamorous proclivities means Deb used the word polyamorous once in a comment and I looked it up and thought it was cool.

Let’s examine the facts. (I learned that “examine the facts” stuff in law school.)

Facts: I am a woman who blogospherically married another woman, became pregnant with twins from hearing a Led Zeppelin song performed by the next American Idol (heh, I worked that in again), writes tell-all posts about visits with her hot toe doctor, has a wicked crush on this guy, has a don't ask/don't tell crush on this guy, finds her relationship with her iPhone boyfriend oddly erotic, and is lured to the screen of her MacBook Pro lover like a perimenopausal woman to chocolate.

Question: What does Tom think of this?

Opinion: Tom doesn’t read my blog, isn’t on Facebook, and doesn’t tweet so he can’t catch me. Tom reads my blog. And he loves me, Kate, and Adam Lambert (but not in a gay way).

I have evidentiary support for my opinion. (They taught me to do that “evidentiary support” stuff in law school.)

Exhibit 1:

Tom got me a Mother’s Day gift that I really, really wanted. It is something totally flippin' awesome. But I can’t tell anyone about because it was one of those impossible-to-get things that required Tom to pull strings and call in favors and
know the right people and obtain it covertly .


The best part?

Tom pulled strings and called in favors and
knew the right people and covertly obtained two of them because my wife wanted it, too. That’s right. Tom gave me and Kate matchy-matchy somethings that I can’t tell you about but it rhymes with fool bee dirts.


Exhibit 2:

On Tuesday night after American Idol was over, I was texting the word VOTE to 5703. Repeatedly. What? Laura was getting ready for bed. VOTE. VOTE. Tom was making sure she flossed. VOTE. VOTE. VOTE. Tom made sure she brushed. VOTE. VOTE. VOTE. VOTE. I may or may not have mentioned to Tom that I would be abandoning my texting duties to the father of my twins if I were to go sing to Laura before she went to sleep. Then I went to go sing to Laura, like I usually do. When I came out of Laura’s room, Tom was holding my iPhone boyfriend and texting VOTE to 5703. Repeatedly. VOTE. VOTE. VOTE. VOTE. VOTE. Oh, yes, he did.


Conclusion:

I idolize my husband even more than I did before he obtained matching fool bee dirts for me and his wife-in-law, and repeatedly texted VOTE to 5703 to make Adam Lambert the next American Idol, which Adam will be, next week Wednesday night, right after I give birth to our twins and paint their tiny little fingernails with paraben-free black polish.

(Photos and clipart courtesy of Google Images.)

Adam Lambert & Blog This Mom: Our Conjugal Visit, With Video

I read in the newspaper earlier this the week that the most recent addition to my stable of husbands, Adam Lambert, would be visiting his (and my daughter, Kristen’s) alma mater this week. I called Kristen.

Me: Kristen, when you went to Mt. Carmel, did you know Adam Lambert?

Kristen: Yeah . . . how do you know him?

Me: Clearly you haven’t read my blog lately, I married him.

Kristen: Oh God, Mom.

Me: He’s on American Idol.

Kristen: He is? You’re kidding.

Me: How did you know him?

Kristen: Mom, I didn’t really know him know him, I just knew of him. A lot of people knew of him, he was in theater and stuff. You probably even heard him sing the national anthem at a football game.

Me: Ooooo.

Kristen: Remember my friend, Sean? He was a friend of Adam’s. And Jenny was in theater with him. So I knew people who knew Adam. I didn’t personally know Adam.

Me: How does Sean spell his name?

Kristen: Oh God, Mom.

Meanwhile, it has been a busy week here at Blog This Mom!.

On Tuesday, while Adam Lambert sang Led Zeppelin’s "Whole Lotta Love," I got pregnant with our love child.

On Wednesday, I shopped online for a black leather layette.

On Thursday, the ultrasound revealed twins.

On Friday, Adam Lambert’s people scheduled time for him to come to Mt. Carmel High School to have a conjugal visit with me.

Naturally, I had to figure out a way to get on campus. Standing outside in the hot sun, peering through the fence wouldn't be good for me in my condition. Sitting in the stands with the general public would not be suitable for the imaginary wife of a star. So I called my people where my people equals my friend, Helen, who is a teacher at Mt. Carmel. Helen told me I could come to her classroom before the event and then go sit with her in the stands on the Mt. Carmel side.

Despite morning sickness and swollen feet, I arrived at the Mt. Carmel campus about an hour before Adam Lambert was scheduled to appear.

There were all manner of big guys in red security jackets swarming the parking lot and blocking all the entrances. I approached the front entrance, and tried to appear very non-stalker-y.

Security: Ma’am, where are you going?

Me [looking around]: What’s going on here?

Security: Adam Lambert is going to be here.

Me [wondering if this would be going too far, but I’ve never been known to quit while I’m ahead]: Who is Adam Lambert?

Security: [Looking me in the eye.]

Me: [Looking back without blinking.]

Security: He’s an American Idol contestant.

Me: Oh. He’s coming here today?

Security: Yes.

Me: Why?

Security: He was a student here.

Me: Oh. No wonder I couldn’t get in the parking lot.

Security: Where were you headed?

Me [knowing that I’m about earn the hottest room in hell]: I’m volunteering for a teacher. She sure picked the wrong day to ask for my help, didn’t she?

Security: Yeah. Go ahead.

Me [relieved that they didn’t check my purse with camera, binoculars, and iPhone with my custom-designed Adam Lambert wallpaper]: Thanks. Good luck today.

I made a video of my conjugal visit with Adam Lambert. The audio is craptastic because hello high school sound system. And the video is only slightly less craptastic where slightly less craptastic equals holy hell is she kidding? because I shot it with the little Canon PowerShot SD1100 I'd hidden in my purse. The video is also jumpy because I could feel the babies kicking where feel the babies kicking equals standing in a crowd of screaming high school students. It can be watched in high quality though.

(Special Instructions for People Like Me: After you hit the play arrow on the video below, be sure to click the HQ button on the bottom right.)



In case anyone in my family needs last-minute Mother’s Day gift ideas, clearly I could use a new video camera. Oh, and some paraben-free eyeliner and black nail polish for the twins.

Friends Don't Let Friends Declutter

“Mindfulness comes from the state of your psyche, not your closet.”
~Raina Kelley, “The Zen of Cleaning,” Newsweek, March 2009

Last month, I began a mission to declutter my house under the misguided notion that decluttering would be a good thing. I was promised a clean house, wealth, a thin butt, and a cathartic experience resulting in a Zen state of mind. Now that I have a little decluttering experience and a fatter butt under my belt, I will debunk these myths and tell you the truth about what can happen to you if you choose to declutter your house.


Decluttering Causes Clutter

Decluttering an area in your house is like tilling soil an area of your garden. It merely creates a fresh, clear space for new piles of junk to spring forth and grow.


Decluttering Costs Money

Once you’ve decluttered, you will no longer be able to find your stuff because someone (namely you) has moved the piles and your stuff was in those piles. Then you’ll have to go buy new stuff.


Decluttering Makes You Fat

In the process of decluttering, you might notice that a bag of chocolate chips leftover from holiday baking is cluttering one of the shelves in the pantry. You might make the bag smaller to declutter the shelf. Similarly, you might free up needed space in the freezer that an entire box of Thin Mints is cluttering. Note that the Zen feeling after decluttering chocolate chips and/or Thin Mints is temporary.


Decluttering Causes Mental Illness

Speaking only from personal experience, it turns out that the time time spent decluttering, and money spent on garbage bags and plastic bins from Target, probably would have been better spent in my therapist’s office. Most experts who aren't on the Oprah Winfrey Show agree (if you’re published in Newsweek, you must be an expert, right?), see, e.g., The Zen of Cleaning.

So, while I did declutter my desk (and the inside of a box of Samoas) today, I’m going to stop for now and start working on decluttering something that really matters: My Google Reader.

Before:

After:
(No, it isn't.) (Yes, it is.) (No, it isn't.)




Actual After:

This post has been a public service announcement.

(Pictures of the Pottery Barn desk that real people don't own and Samoas crack are courtesy of Google Images.)

By the Way, We Have a Winner . . .

And the $25 Amazon gift card goes to . . .

Michael Barrow

By the way, just in case anyone is thinking that the photo caption contest was rigged just because Michael Barrow is the smartest and hottest real estate mogul in San Diego Michael Barrow is my friend, I printed out the comments, blacked out the names, and Tom picked the winning caption.

By the way, Tom said that there were many excellent entries, but Michael's was the clear winner. (And I agree with Tom, as I always do, which you might have imagined if you were stoned.) Go back and check out the comments, they were a riot. San Diego Hermit gets honorable mention for the most entries. He's pretty darn funny, too.

By the way, if you have real estate questions or needs in the San Diego area (commercial or residential), contact Michael at Neely, Barrow & Associates or keep your finger on the pulse of the real estate market with Michael by checking out Buy, Sell or Blog?

By the way, I was neither offered nor paid to say any of that nice stuff about Michael. In fact, that little plug for Michael actually cost me a $25 Amazon gift card, so clearly I learned NOTHING about monetizing my blog at the tweetup.

By the way, how many paragraphs can begin with "by the way" before Officer Strunk and Officer White come and haul me away?

(Grammar police car photo jacked from Google Images.)

Tom is Annoying and New Toe Symptoms Have Developed

If you were expecting to find out who won the photo caption contest and $25 Amazon gift card, come back tomorrow. When the contest ended at 11:59 PM last night, could Tom be bothered to get out of bed and pick a winner? Pbffft! And then this morning? He was all, "I have a 9 o'clock meeting." Whatever. I can't believe he'd let a little thing like earning a living interfere with my photo contest. Annoying.

In other news, the partial toenail that remained after enduring various procedures and an injection started to come off over the weekend.

Sure, I could have booked my standard Monday morning pedicure with the hot toe doctor to have him remove the nail for me, providing me with more post fodder and possible photos.

But I opted to remove the toenail myself.

You may be wondering why.

I had to teach the hot toe doctor a lesson.

At my last appointment? I found out he's seeing other patients.

You might be wondering how I found out. I used my CIA skillz. When I was lead into the examination room? The paper on the table was crinkled. Someone had been in there before me. Also? There was some casting material residue on the floor. So I'm guessing it was serious.

I'm considering telling the hot toe doctor that I've taken up with someone else, too. You all know that I've already married Adam Lambert in my mind. (Laura was the flower girl. She wouldn't wear a dress. But Adam did. Tom caught the bouquet.) Of course, after finding out that Adam Lambert and Kristen went to high school together (as in the same high school), I might be better off keeping news of this particular imaginary marriage on the down low. Except that Adam Lambert graduated from high school two whole years before Kristen did, so that makes it okay, right?

Meanwhile . . . back to my toe because this supposed to be about me.

After I removed my toenail, new symptoms were uncovered:

There is a vaccine being developed for this, right?


(Wedding photo of Adam Lambert courtesy of Google Images.)

Sunday Message: Will We Be Goo?

Did you think there was a typo in the title of this post?

Was goo supposed to be good?

I meant goo, but we may decide that goo is good after all.

“The old cheese actually wasn't that good when compared to the new cheese.”
~Spencer Johnson M.D., Who Moved My Cheese?

“When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be.”
~Lao Tzu, author of Tao Te Ching

“Our patterns are well established, seductive, and comforting. Just wanting for them to be ventilated isn’t enough.”
~Pema Chodron, The Places That Scare You

"The seeker embarks on a journey to find what he wants and discovers, along the way, what he needs.”
~Wally Lamb, The Hour I First Believed

He opened the door and walked away,
Sometimes a selfless step is all it takes,
From the mountain, he can watch it all burn,
Welcome friend, to the point of no return
Once in a life, you can find a time to see,
and you get to turn it down, turn around, temporary sanity
And then the mountain disappears without a trace,
All it took, was a sudden leap of faith.
~Kenny Loggins, Leap of Faith

I heard a story a couple of weeks ago on the topic of change, and it challenged me to change my thinking on change, so to speak . . .

We all know that a butterfly starts out as a crawling caterpillar. The caterpillar eventually closes itself into a chrysalis. Later the chrysalis opens and the butterfly emerges.

But what would we find inside of the chrysalis if we interrupted the process?

If we were to break open the chrysalis, would we find on the life-cycle continuum a caterpillar with wings or a sixteen-legged butterfly?

If the chrysalis were actually cut open at just the right time during the metamorphosis, we would discover no discernible caterpillar or butterfly inside. During the caterpillar-to-butterfly transformation, the insect’s distinctive features dissolve into a gooey mess. The caterpillar gives itself over completely for a bit, not to the emerging form of a butterfly at first, but rather to a state of utter goo. In order for the caterpillar to be transformed, it must lose itself not only to what it was, but even to any semblance of what it will be.

Here is the truth: Many of us have trouble with the idea of change, much less transformation. We may be willing to tweak a few nonworking parts, but often we opt to stay “safely” ensconced in our old patterns -- even when old patterns don’t serve us in any way except to provide familiarity.

Is there something in your life you want to change, or are you ready to take a leap of faith, become goo (no matter how messy it might look and feel), and experience transformation?

Transformation Meditation:

I will release what I believe will be in order to make room for what could be.
I will begin by having a compassionate relationship with myself,
even when I do not feel worthy.
I am willing to step into unknown territory.
I am willing to just keep moving, even when moving is uncomfortable,
even when I don’t know the destination.
I will not be undone by fear.
I will look directly at fear, embrace fear, and act in the face of it.
I will accept the feeling of falling.
I will let go of what I want.
I am open to the belief that what I have inside of me is exactly what I need.

At Tucson Botantical Gardens
Butterfly Magic Exhibit
February 2008

Idolize Me, Adam Lambert

If you don't watch American Idol, each week a musician of note ("musician of note" is pure literary genius on my part, huh?) mentors the contestants in conjunction with a particular theme. For example, this season, Smokey Robinson was the mentor for Motown week. Randy Travis was on hand to mentor the Idol hopefuls during Grand Ole Opry week. Filmmaker Quentin Tarantino . . . wha? Quentin Tarantino mentored the contestants in "Idol at the Movies" week. Yes. It's true.

Anywho.

If you do watch American Idol, then you know that each week the mentor stands next to the contestant at a grand piano and says things like "lower the key" or "this arrangement works" or "keep your hands in your pockets." Keep your hands in your pockets? Um, that would be Quentin Tarantino. And Randy Travis' reaction to Adam Lambert's black nail polish? “I don’t see men wearing nail polish that often so it caught me off guard,” said Travis barely concealing his distaste. Priceless. So, natch, I immediately gave myself an Adam Lambert tribute manicure because I like-y, I like-y!

Okay.

So.

It is widely rumored that Slash, the former Guns N' Roses guitarist and current lead guitarist of Velvet Revolver, will mentor the top four contestants in next week's show.

Who thinks Slash will advise Adam Lambert to go with a Frankie Valli & The Four Seasons song for Rock Week? Raise your hands.

Whatever.

It could happen in my imagination.



Don't forget! Submit your entry in the photo caption contest and be eligible to win a $25 Amazon Gift Card ends tomorrow, Sunday, May 3 at 11:59 PM. Go check out the entries thus far. There are some really funny captions over there, yo.

if you didn't already love my wife, this will seal the deal

[As an aside (or in this case is it an atop?): The deadline for entering the photo caption contest to be eligible to win a $25 Amazon gift card is Sunday, May 3! Enter! (Entries are like orgasms; multiples are encouraged. I can't believe I just wrote that.) Win! Spend! Stimulate the economy before the pig cooties get you! By the way, I'd totally like to shoplift the credit for that one, but the term pig cooties originated with a tweet from Sarah J. Clark. She's funny. Click the pink pig cooties link. Suburban Correspondent is funny, too.]

Ahem.

Where was I?

Oh.

Yeah.

What you came here for . . .

With katydidnot's express written consent (I saved the email, so don't even try to sue me because I still have mad laywer skillz, and, also, California is a community property state so the story is half mine anyway.), I am sharing with you the love story she wrote for Laura's birthday (earlier this year).

once upon a time there were two lovely girls who were very best friends and swore a pinkie oath to be best friends forever.

they grew up and lived together in new york city, where they were very busy, important people with no time for cat's cradle or shrinky dinks or paper chains. they often felt caught up in the rat race, but they never called it that, because it offended their sensibilities on behalf of the rats of the world. the girls often bemoaned their lack of time to enjoy the simplest and best things in life.

until one january, when on a whim, one girl bought the other a duck for her birthday. you see, the other girl had always loved ducks. rubber ducks, duck pancakes and duck sculptures. but this? was a real duck. a quacking, waddling, fuzzy yellow baby duckling.

the duck lived in their loft apartment in soho, frequenting the bathtub and kitchen sink until she was three months old, and had lost her downy baby fuzz and grown into a beautiful tawny duck.

the girls were always sad when they saw their duck sit on the windowsill day after day watching the city. they imagined that their duck was wishing she could be a pigeon, even if just for a moment.

these two girls knew things. they understood things more than ordinary people. and they knew that the duck needed her own pond. they knew it was time to let the duck go. and on one cool march day, on the one girl's birthday, actually, they drove to a beautiful country farm in vermont to set their duck free.

it was getting to be spring and the farm's pond was lovely and warm and still, seemingly waiting for the city duck to arrive.

the girls each gave their duck a kiss on the head before they set her down on the bank, and they held hands while they watched their duck spread her wings and run clumsily to splash into the still water.

one girl laughed as she watched her duck push her head under the water while her tail bobbed on the surface. and the other girl cried when their duck looked back at them only once before before swimming away to the other bank.

as one girl wondered why her friend was able to watch duck swim away without a tear, the other girl took a very small box out of the pocket of her coat. it was wrapped in yellow "quacky birthday" paper and was tied with a lovely red ribbon. she handed it to her friend who pulled the ribbon off, looping it around her wrist, and eased the lid off the box.

inside, was one very old looking key on a flimsy ring with a cardboard circle attached to it by string that said "the cabin". one girl turned the other around and pointed to a small, ramshackle little cabin on the far bank and said only "happy birthday".