I may have mentioned before that I’m a wee bit challenged in the fashion department.  Torri (who is a 14 y/o fashionista) is eons better at the whole mixy-matchy thing than I am.  That’s not to say that she and I see eye to eye on all of her picks.  Take, for example, these little gems.

These were at the the tippy top of her clothing wish list for awhile but I just couldn’t bring myself to actually, well, you know, spend money on them.

Anyway.  Back to my dilemma.

Torri’s 8th grade, and Kennedy’s 5th grade promotions are quickly approaching.  I’ve got the menu all planned for our post promotion barbecue celebration.  I’ve got sleeping arrangements made for all the visiting family.  I’ve even got a dress to wear.

(This was the biggest picture I could find.  Sorry!)

The shoes though?  An enigma.

I would LOVE to wear these.

Unfortunately for me though I’m not willing to part with the $135 it would cost me to own them.

So I’m in the market for a look-alike pair.  Or even something entirely different that would go with the dress.  I’m thinking along the lines of a wedge sandal because apparently those are all the rage right about now.  And since the color might be tough to match, it wouldn’t be terrible if I went with something brown would it?  You tell me.

Anyway, I’m looking to spend about $50.  Less preferably.  So what do you say?  Help out a footwear challenged girl in need.  Leave me links my friends.

Seriously.  I had the mother of all migraines settle into my poor mistreated head this weekend.  It started on Saturday morning when I was on my way to Target for a quick errand.  I’m one of the lucky ones whose migraines are preceded by what’s called an aura – a brief period of disrupted vision and partial numbness on one side of my body.

Trust me, it’s a fabulous experience.

All the more fabulous when I suddenly develop blind spots whilst driving.

I started having them about five years ago.  They are typically very rare in occurrence (like twice a year rare) but this weekend I was graced with back-to-backers.

I’m so going to the doctor this week.  I’m sure he’ll want me to do an MRI like they had me do five years ago.

I’m hoping he’ll also give me some magic pill to keep on hand.  All those years ago the doctor gave me this prescription for a pill I was supposed to dissolve under my tongue the moment the aura came on.  Supposedly it would head the headache off at the pass.  Lucky for me, though, I misplaced the pills long before I had another migraine.  And since they come so few and far between I didn’t bother going to the doc for a new prescription.

All that changes this week though.

So I’m wondering if any of you migraine sufferers have any advice for me.  Any particular brand of medication that works or doesn’t?

At this point, I’ll take all the help I can get.

A couple of weeks ago I called the small business owner who cleaned our windows last spring to schedule an appt.  The man with whom I spoke didn’t sound familiar and so I asked if he had recently bought the business.  He proceeded to tell me that the former owner had “passed away.”  I was shocked by that news because the former owner had been only a year older than I (that would make him 32 today if you’re curious).  He was young and vibrant and seemingly very healthy.  What’s more is that he was a very, very cheerful kind of guy.  While he had cleaned my windows last year he’d been nothing short of delightful, engaging, and so very positive.  You can imagine, then, how puzzling it was to find out that he’d committed suicide.

I didn’t know him really.  We spent just the one afternoon in conversation as he scrubbed away at our grimy windows.  But I’m saddened at the loss of him.  Mostly because–judging from my own experience with him and that of the people who signed an online obituary guestbook–he hid his pain so well.  My short encounter with him left me with the impression that he was an adventurous spirit.  The kind of guy who would skydive on his 80th birthday.  An optimist.  An encouraging friend.  A lemons into lemonade kind of guy.

Clearly I missed something.

The whole thing makes me want to pay more attention though.  Offer more smiles.  Extend more patience.  Spread more joy.

Not that a simple gesture from a stranger would have changed anything in this case.

But then again, you never can tell.  You never know how a warm smile or an understanding glance or a moment of conversation might change someone’s outlook.

Someone whose outlook you didn’t even realize needed changing.

When we moved into this house I had each room pre-planned.  I knew exactly how I wanted every square inch decorated.  Every square inch but the laundry room that is.  And because I had no ideas as to how best to utilitize/beautify that small space, it quickly became a no mans land.  A catch all.  The dump it room.

And I hated it.

What’s worse is that the laundry room serves as an entry/exit space for us and, as such, I pass through it numerous times each day.

Did I mention I hated it?

See for yourself.

I’m a big believer in changing that which you can though.  And this laundry room?  I knew I could change it.

So we saved.  And scrimped.  Our cause was even donated to in the form of Christmas cash towards the laundry room.

There were setbacks of course.  Like when the monsoon obliterated our patio table.  Or when Jeff hit that dog and cost us the equivalent of pedestals for the washer and dryer.

But we prevailed.  Eventually.

The heavens may very well have parted on the day my new front-loaders were delivered.  Add paint, some fancy Wall Words, colorful rugs, and a few cutie patootie bins and voila: the laundry room of my dreams.

See for yourself.

You’re loving it aren’t you?  Especially my WallWords.  This isn’t the first time I’ve used WallWords; they also adorn the accent wall in our formal dining room.

It says (in English) – It is written: Man does not live by bread alone.

I loved the concept of a message on the wall so much that I had to borrow the idea for the laundry room.  And ohmygoodness it was so easy to slap these babies up on the wall.  It’s basically a vinyl sticker, or rub-on.  The hardest part about using WallWords is ensuring you get your phrase level.  Seriously.  SO. EASY.

The phrase on my dining room wall is a Bible quote, translated into Italian.  It was a custom order.  That ‘drop your drawers’ genius, though, is a WallWords ready-made quote.  I only wish I could take the credit.  Not that I can take the credit for the Bible verse itself, just the inspiration to put it on the wall.  You know what I mean.

They have every color of the rainbow available for quotes, not to mention a ton of fonts from which to choose from.

Wouldn’t you know that the kind folks at WallWords have graciously offered a $5 discount (on a purchase of $10 or more, expires 60 days from today) for any of my readers who might have a word or two in mind.  Just enter the code (0409SPOT ) at checkout.  Easy peasy.

So there you have it.  The most recent object of my decorating obsession.

Whatcha think?

I got to go to the gyno’s office today.

Notice how I said “got to”?  It’s sort of like how I “let” my husband run to the store for me.

So anyway, off I go for my annual exam.  I even arrive 15 minutes early.  And I’m pleasantly surprised when they call me back after only a ten or so minute wait.

In the exam room I proceed to undress and redress in the seafoam green gown that opens in the front and ties on the side.  And then the white sheet goes over my lap just like the nurse lady told me to do.

He’ll be right in.  She promises, before leaving me alone and shutting the door behind her.

Once she’s gone I look around and notice that there isn’t a single magazine in sight.  Just jars of gargantuan one swab Q-tips and a 3-D model of a baby in utero.

About this time I was wishing I’d smuggled the magazine from the lobby.  Especially because I hadn’t even read the cover story about Jon and Kate and their eight.

Tick tock went the clock.

More ticking.  More tocking.

And then I started to get antsy.  I could hear the doctor in the next room and based on what he said I could tell he was doing another annual.

Am I weird that I was relieved by that?  I mean, if he’s going to be coming in and taking a gander at my nether regions and stuff at least I can take comfort in that mine aren’t the only nether regions he gandered at today.

Weird or no?

Anyway, I heard him finish up and call the patient by name when he told her goodbye, see ya next year.

And I knew I was next because she was the one who’d been called back from the lobby just before me.

So the doctor comes into the hallway and asks the nurse if he’s supposed to go into room 2 or 3 next.  I didn’t know which number I was but I knew I was next.  So I corrected my posture and checked to ensure I wasn’t unnecessarily exposed.

I wasn’t.

Not that it mattered because the dyslexic nurse sent him into the wrong room.  UGH.

More time to obsess.

I remembered something then.  And FYI, if you’re squeamish you may want to take your exit now while you still can.

I remembered that I had a lone, relatively long black hair at the edge of my areola.  TMI, I know.  But you were warned.  And don’t ask me where that thing came from.  Hormones gone awry or something.

So I remembered that the doc would be doing a breast exam and I suddenly was happy that he went to the wrong room because I’d have been mortified if the doctor who has seen my nether regions more times and in more unflattering positions than I care to reflect upon saw that lone black hair on my areola.

So I attempted to pluck it.  But it wouldn’t freakin pluck.  My attempts at plucking only served to curl it up so that it no longer looked like a relatively long black hair but now it looked like a misplaced you-know-what hair.

NICE.

Anyway.  Eventually it plucked.

And I let it fall to the white sheet on my lap.  But then I looked down and saw it and ohmygoodness I was so glad I caught sight of it before the doctor did because you and I both know what it looked like.

And then the AC shut off and it started to get warm.  So warm that I began to sweat.

Fabulous.

We don’t even want to think about the ways in which sweat manifests itself in our nether regions do we?  Not to mention the fact that he’d be checking my armpits during that breast exam too.

The alternative, though, would have been a cold room.  A room possibly cold enough to leave certain parts of my anatomy a little too poised if you know what I mean.  And what would be going through his head if I was too poised as he did my breast exam.

Great.

The moral of this story is that the less time you’re left sitting next to naked in the doctor’s office to obsess about what-ifs, the better.

Here’s the clincher though.  The doctor finally made his way in and I managed to get through that breast exam part with very few awkward silences.  So he has me scootch to the edge of the table and get all stirruped up and knees fall apart yada yada yada.  Here comes the spotlight from hell.  He assumes the position.  And guess what?  No speculum.

AWESOME.

So we wait for the nurse to go fetch one from one of the other rooms.  Yeah.  That wasn’t awkward.

365 days until I get to do it all over again.

But please tell me now so that I can take a little nugget of comfort with me next time: am I the only freak who obsesses about these things as I’m left waiting?

Or do we all hide our bras and underwear under our discarded clothes?

One last thing.  If you happen to be a male reader (of which I know of only two) then I deeply apologize for that misleading title.

Carry on.

I’m baaaaaaaaaaaaaack.

I hope you’ll excuse my absence as of late.

And I hope that you’ll excuse me in advance when it happens again.

I’m still working on some hefty manuscript changes in hopes that I’ll get it published at some point in the not so distant future.  Those creative juices tend to zap my will to blog.

Sorry.

But I’m here to report on the weekend.

You might say it was Kennedy-centered around here.

It started on Saturday morning when the whole fam-damily was up at the crack ‘o’ dawn to get dressed and ready for a trip to the airport.  We had to be up and dressed and out the door by 6:45.  Which, by the way, is not tops on my list of fun stuff to do on a Saturday morning.  Just for the record.

Have you heard of Wright Flight?  It’s an awesome program.  We were fortunate to have it offered at Kennedy’s school this year and she was fortunate to be one of the limited number of students to be accepted into the program.  She faithfully attended the after-school program twice a month all year.  The reward came on Saturday – Fly Day- when she got to be co-pilot of a small airplane for a forty minute flight around town.

The message was that if you put your mind to it – you can do anything.

Pretty awesome, no?

And then today she and I slaved over cake pops.

Are you familiar with Bakerella?  She’s the queen of all things laden with saturated fats.  Only she doesn’t stop at making things tasty.  She makes them irresistably cute too.

So for Easter, Kennedy’s basket was stuffed with the fix-ens for cake pops and the promise that we’d brave a new baking frontier together.  I would love to report back saying that these are easier than they look but I’d be lying if I did that.  And surely you wouldn’t approve.

Hers look like this.

(I zoinked this photo from Bakerella’s site).

Ours looked like this.

In all honesty, these puppies are not easy.  At all.  But they are cute.  And cute counts for something right?

So.  What’d you do this weekend?

Cass has been a part of my life for nine years now.  And in those nine years I’ve become accustomed to the nuances of parenting a child with special needs: translating for people who can’t understand her, looming disasters that can occur if I take my eyes off of her for even a second in public, strangers who feel compelled to offer her a hug.

These are things we face and deal with each day.  Things I’ve come to understand.  Things that have become habitual.

And then there are those things that throw me for a loop.

Like hearing the doctor say that Cass is developing cataracts.

Cataracts.

Not such a big deal in the grand scheme of things.  But something that caught me quite off guard.

I expected a routine visit, maybe a stronger prescription.  But cataracts?  C’mon.  Really?  As if she doesn’t face enough as is.

I wish I could lift those struggles from her–take them on myself.

She’s been poked and prodded more times than any child should be.  She’s faced hospitalizations and therapies that exhaust her.  She struggles to learn the most basic concepts.

And those things don’t even touch on her future.

Yet I’ve always parented her as if there is no difference between her and and her siblings.

Little things like what the doctor told me today serve to draw an undeniable comparison.  One that I can’t ignore.

She is different.  In so many ways.

I still don’t understand why she was born into the body she was.  Why it had to be her.

And though I don’t understand, I’m not angry.  Or bitter.  Or regretful.

Just heartbroken.  Sometimes.

Happy Easter!

When I was very little, I went to church most Sundays.  As I got older that slipped a bit and we became more like the Easter/Christmas church family.  But Good Friday services were always included in our Holy week churchgoing.  And it’s something I’m very grateful for.  Attending that dark and somber service on Friday night made the sunrise service on Easter morning that much more joyful.  I truly believe that in order to fully appreciate the miracle of Easter, you have to be “witness” to the event that occurred three days before.  Only once you see and feel the contrast can you even begin to grasp the magnitude of God’s grace.  That’s why my family and I will be headed to Tenebrae services tonight.  To remind us why we don our Easter best and spend Sunday celebrating with eggs and bunnies and new Spring toys.  To remind us that–like at Christmastime–there is deeper meaning behind the gifts and the big family meal.

One of my favorite worship songs says it best:

I’ll never know how much it cost
To see my sin upon that cross.

That is why we celebrate.  That is why we remember.

I hate it when my brain is so fried I can’t come up with a blogging topic.

My brain is precisely that fried though.

Because I’ve been writing.

A lot.

A whole, whole lot.

Just not here.

I’ve resumed a local paying writing job.

But more importantly…

I’m doing some major revisions on my novel.

It’s taking all the brain power I have.

The blog is suffering.

The kids are suffering.

And Jeff is most certainly suffering.

But it may just be worth all the suffering in the end.

Please bear with me.

I miss you too.