Happy 2009!

Doesn't it seem like yesterday that everyone was bracing for the Y2K "disaster" that never came?

And here we are -- another New Year in its infancy. I'm not one for resolutions, but you're reading one of them. I resolve to get out my feelings more this year. They're disjointed, with no connection whatsoever, but here they are.

By this time next year I'll be the mother of an official driver-license-holding teenager, on her way to spreading her wings for independence. I've devoted so much of my being to this child that I'm not sure I'm ready for the empty nest.

She's beautiful, brilliant and sensitive -- exactly what this world needs for its future. Can I let her go? I don't know. She needs to be let go, and I hope and pray I'm not so selfish I can't let that happen. I love her fiercely. She's my life's joy.

I'm recovering from some funky stomach malady, so the first nibble of the day wasn't black-eyed peas and greens. I hope the New Year's gods can forgive this indiscretion and bless me with luck. It would be nice to win the lottery, but you have to play to win. If I can't swoop up on Powerball winnings, I hope I can at least keep my head above water this year.

My little dog isn't getting any younger. He's had eye and back problems this year. I wish him an easy, healthy year as we grow older together.

It's my fervent prayer that the economy pull out of this dismal slump. Uppermost in my mind, of course, is the fate of newspapers. So many good people have devoted their lives to the truth with very few monetary rewards. Please, for their sake -- for my sake, even -- don't let newspapers die. We're not perfect, but we're out there trying our damnedest to give the public an unbiased look at the events coloring their world. The same cannot be said of so many bloggers and citizen journalists, many of whom color themselves as objective but reveal their bent. Kind of like Faux News with a keyboard.

(And yes, I do realize I'm using a blog as my podium. I, however, make no claim to be a journalist here. This is where I blow off steam -- it's subjective, and I have no plans to change that.)

I have high hopes for our new POTUS. Barack Obama is no messiah, but he gives me optimism. New ideas are needed. The status quo is not working. I now count down the days to the end of the error -- a man neither elected by the people nor for the people.

Reading about the possibility of Ben Affleck and Jennifer Garner having a New Year's baby makes me smile. It's irrelevant to my daily life, but I think they're absolutely darling. So many times I've latched my hopes onto a Hollywood couple -- Brad and Jennifer, Reese and Ryan -- only to see it end in divorce. (I still haven't forgiven Brad for cheating with Angelina Whorlie.) I have faith in the Afflecks. They seem ... almost normal.

Why was Friends the last great sitcom? I love The Office, but there is still a void left by the six people who gathered in my living room every Thursday to make me laugh .. and cry. Though I've always loved Friends, I still mourn for the pre-Monica Chandler and the Joey who was dumb and lovable, not brain dead.

Of course, Jim Halpert does help ease the pain somewhat ... (Is he gorgeous or what?!?)

And speaking of guys who make you drool, I'd gladly be Rob Pattinson's cougar. Long or short hair, bald ... I don't care. Just in case anyone out there knows him and wants to pass the word ...

Happy New Year, everyone! Both of you.

I Will Always Love You

"Have you ever met anyone famous?"

That question was among one I answered on a MySpace survey a few days ago. I answered, "yep," with no explanation. I've met several famous people over the years, but the one I thought of initially was the first one I met.

I was in seventh grade on a field trip at Opryland when I caught my first and only real-life glimpse of Porter Wagoner. The rhinestone-laden suit, with sequined wagon wheels, were over the top in my young mind as the steely blue-eyed Wagonmaster, with brilliant, combed-back blond hair, weaved through us throngs of youngsters who were more interested in the Wabash Cannonball ride than the man who helped make Dolly Parton on her way to international fame.

I didn't ride the Wabash that day. And the image of Porter Wagoner never left me.

On Sunday, Porter Wagoner died at the age of 80. I knew death was imminent when it was announced on Friday that he had gone into hospice care. But I wasn't ready for it to be this soon.

I cannot claim to be a Wagoner fan. I know he was the face of the Opry over the past several years, but I didn't follow him closely. His face, however, is one of the etchings in my memory from childhood. Watching "The Porter Wagoner Show" on Saturday afternoons was what one did in rural East Tennessee in the 1960s and 1970s.

One of my earliest memories is of watching Porter and Dolly on my aunt's tiny black-and-white TV. They sang together and hawked Black Draught and other products. (I can still hear Dolly extolling the virtues of Cardui.) And I remember Speck Rhoads, the comedy relief for the show. Can't remember a darned thing he said, but the man deserves a nod for the Comedy Hall of Fame for simply wearing that bowler hat and loud plaid suit in public. It actually made Porter's garb look ... well, kind of normal.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XqmyfQDN6ik

In Dolly's autobiography, she reveals that her song, "I Will Always Love You," was written for Porter. That, in my opinion, makes it all the more poignant.

If I should stay
Well, I would only be in your way
And so I'll go, and yet I know
That I'll think of you each step of my way
And I will always love you
I will always love you

Bitter-sweet memories
That's all I have, and all I'm taking with me
Good-bye, oh, please don't cry
cause we both know that I'm not
What you need
I will always love you
I will always love you

And I hope life, will treat you kind
And I hope that you have all
That you ever dreamed of
Oh, I do wish you joy
And I wish you happiness
But above all this
I wish you love

I love you, I will always love
I, I will always, always love you
I will always love you
I will always love you
I will always love you
Source: LyricsFreak

Rest in peace, Wagonmaster.

AFK ... or, It's Always #$%@^% Hot in Tennessee

I realize I've been neglecting my blogging duties. I hate it, too. I actually enjoy sharing my thoughts and views with all two of my readers.

Life, however, has intervened. It's brought some surprises, some pleasant, some not so pleasant, and one that totally caught me offguard.

The not so pleasant first: That feeling I've had in my gut for months turns out to be physical. Pending the results of an ultrasound, there may soon be less of me as some surgeon gets the opportunity to wield his laser-surgery thingy and extract my gallbladder. With all the misery the damned thing has been causing me (if it is indeed that), I'd let him take it now. I sure as heck don't want it anymore.

The Girl is growing up way too fast for me. Now in high school, she's exploring her career options and, to my consternation, is exploring a profession very close to mine. I've guided her away from this field all her life, only to find her attracted to it. Sigh.

I helped chaperone her and 60-something teens to a band competition yesterday. It was hotter than seven hells in July. I wound up getting sick during their performance and sought solace in a shady area until sundown.

Personally, I have never thought a band festival was a place to take a date. Apparently, The Ex is not of a like mind, for he squired his latest to the one and same. It was my first look at her. And -- I'm cuter and look younger! Ha! I was even cuter with my sweaty hair, pulled back oh-so-unelegantly in a ponytail with strands falling unevenly around my face. And that's the end of this oh-so-mature and meow moment.

My good friends (and you know who you are) can read all about the offguard thing if you e-mail me. :)

I'll try to do better here. Promise!

At peace

July 5 has come and gone, and Tommy didn't visit.

I can draw only one conclusion: He's at peace.

Tommy was my cousin -- rather, he was my mother's cousin. Their mothers were sisters. Tommy, however, was closer in age to me.

From the moment he grew tall enough to reach a gas pedal, Tommy was a frequent visitor to our house. Mom served as something of a surrogate parent to him. He sought her advice while reserving the right to take it.

Two of those times he went against her stick out in my mind. He had barely turned 18 when he decided to join the Army. One week at Fort Jackson, however, quickly made him how sage Mom's advice had been. He called and wrote letters, begging Mom to find him a ticket out.

Of course, she did. She and others worked to prove how Tommy was the only help his elderly mother had. His mother doesn't drive, and to this day she lives a sad existence in a little house in my hometown. Tommy, who had become quite adept behind the wheel, promised to help out his mom any way he could.

He was as good as his word after the Army granted his hardship discharge. Not wanting to completely bail on Uncle Sam, he chose to stay in the National Guard and cherished those weekends once a month and the yearly training that were part of his commitment.

Which brings us to another incident when Tommy chose to shrug off Mom's sage advice. One day, he was accompanied on his visit by a shy, brunette girl. That girl, he declared, was the one he planned to marry.

His betrothed was a sweetie, but Mom knew that a marriage at their ages would be doomed. Tommy, however, would not be denied his brown-eyed beauty, and they exchanged vows a short time later.

In mere months, Mom's prediction came true. Tommy was shattered. He vowed to win back his bride and, to her credit, she tried. She was often with him when he visited, but never were they to live under the same roof again as husband and wife.

On July 5, 1979, I was with Mom and my sister en route to my grandmother's when a radio broadcast was interrupted. There was a horrific auto accident south of town. A car was involved in a head-on collision with a coal truck. No names were available but, in a rare move for the veteran newscaster, he reported that both occupants of the car were dead.

We barely got in Grandma's door when the phone rang. It was Tommy's mother, and what she was saying was impossible. Tommy -- her baby boy, the closest thing Mom ever had to a son and the cousin my sister and I looked to as an older brother of sorts -- was dead.

He was only 21 years old.

A friend driving a powder-blue Ford Maverick had stopped by to pick Tommy up early in the morning. They were planning to go south of town to look for ginseng -- "sang diggin'," as my grandmother called it -- in an attempt to make some big bucks from herbalists who view the root as gold. Back en route to town, the friend decided to pass a slow-moving car in front of them. Unfortunately, he was on a curve, and he and Tommy likely only saw the coal truck that hit them only seconds before their lives ended.

It was my first closed-coffin funeral. A portrait of Tommy in his National Guard dress uniform sat on the coffin. That was, I think, the reason I couldn't accept that Tommy was gone.

I didn't sleep for days. I looked for Tommy to come in, roll his eyes and tell us how silly the authorities were to believe it was him in that car.

I held on to that fantasy as Mom helped his mother sort through the legal tangles of his estate -- left messy because of his tender age and the fact that he left a widow who was legally his wife but hadn't lived with him for almost a year. I looked for Tommy every time a car pulled into our drive.

It never was him.

Then, as July 5, 1980, dawned, a strange thing happened. Tommy made his presence known that day. I can't remember exactly how, but I knew he was with me that day.

It happened again and again -- each time on July 5. The most memorable is July 5, 1984. I had been expecting Tommy all day, but he so far was a no-show. Maybe it was because I was in Florida with friends, I thought.

I was padding along a deserted beach on the Gulf after dark when I began hearing footsteps echo with my own. I stopped many times and looked for someone behind me, only to find a beach vacant except for my presence.

Then it dawned on me: Today is July 5. I smiled, flush with peace. I knew who was with me. We walked along that beach -- Tommy and me -- for several minutes before one of my friends showed up. I was disappointed -- for Tommy, three was a crowd.

I received a few more annual visits from Tommy. Then, on July 5, 1989, they abruptly stopped.

That has left me bittersweet. After pondering on it for a while, I came to the conclusion that Tommy had made it to the other side and found the peace that for some reason had eluded him. I've often wondered if it was because Tommy was taken so young -- that he had been denied the life that was in front of him, so he came back once a year to claim just a scrap of it. I'll always be grateful that it was me he chose to share those moments with.

I'm thankful he's at peace, but I miss him. On July 5, and every day.

He didn't visit this year. And though I know in my heart he won't next year, I'll still be looking.

My home and heart are open any time he decides to drop by.

I'm in love!

With my new grill.

I spent a good part of my holiday putting it together. And it works! Without explosions! Yay me!

So, naturally, we used it to prepare dinner on last night. It was just hot dogs (The Girl's choice), but they were spectacular!

Afterward, we lounged outside with King o' the Pekes. He developed an affinity for ice; it was hilarious giving it to him, then watching him treat it like -- well, a doggie treat.

We bought a few fireworks. (Unfortunately, they were out of my favorites -- sparklers.) We had a grand display in our little corner of the world -- the neighbors did their fireworks at the same time. One of them spared no expense, so we got to see some of the huge splashes of light from our front lawn.

It was one of the best Fourths I remember in a long time. Good food, good company, and the weather couldn't have been more cooperative. I hope your holiday was just as great.

On a side note: The Girl has a boyfriend. Hold me.

Getting old sucks

Three weeks ago: While detailing my car, I threw out my back. It was impossible to find a comfortable sitting position. After weeks of drugs, it's finally better. Mostly.

Monday: To keep from getting a citation for an unkempt lawn, I decided after work to toil on cutting the grass. I hauled out the mower from the storage building, started to gas it up, and a bumblebee, or something that looked like one, decided my task pissed him off. Bad. He came attacking -- a sting to the right hand, another to the right elbow and a third to the left thigh. The result? A swollen, FAT hand that I had to keep on ice for 24 hours. Damned bee. I hope he's dead.

Tuesday: I was strolling through a bookstore with The Girl and a friend, when my leg started hurting. Sharp pain. Nothing unusual; I have a bum knee, and it often throbs with pain. Only, about 10 minutes into the pain, I realized it's not my knee! It's my shin, and it hurts like a mofo. (Am I the only one who freaks out and thinks "blood clot" when I get weird pains? I think that's my biggest fear of dying.)

Today: It. Still. Hurts. And my hand, while slimming, is still fat.

Incredible

Incredibly sickening, that is.

The Girl is on throes of the four-year life's journey known as high school. Naturally, friends want to know my impressions as the first-time mom of a high schooler.

The latest contenders are a couple of her father's friends, who have a son a year younger than The Girl. As the mother and I chatted, the father informed his wife that their son likely would not be going to high school next year.

Apparently, that was news to her, for she replied, "Really? Why?"

"My son," this baboon declared, "will not go to a high school where a f** is the principal."

(My apologies to baboons. It's the first metaphor that entered my mind that was family friendly.)

The mother, who normally is not my favorite person, became my hero with her next carefully chosen words:

"Uh-huh." Insert huge pregnant pause here. "Well, you'll be homeschooling him, then, because I'm not going to do it."

As much as I love my little corner of the world, I abhor these attitudes. Said principal is a caring man whose priority is the students. I don't know his sexual orientation, nor do I care.

The students in this district couldn't be in better hands. I'm proud and delighted my daughter will be in high school with an exemplary leader at the helm.

Unfortunately, The Baboon's attitude is rampant here. If the principal were African-American, I have no doubt he would have inserted the n-word in place of the f-word.

Disgusting. It truly is.

Did I mention that The Baboon has a highly regarded job? Yeah. Scary thought.

Asshole.

***
Dark ages attitudes aside, mornings like this one remind me why I love East Tennessee.

After a much-needed downpour yesterday, it is sunny and beautiful outside. The lush greens are showing off, and the mugginess has lifted.

It's a clear, beautiful day. Enjoy it.

Happy birthday, Grandpa!

Had he lived, my dear grandfather would have been 90 years old today.

I know everybody thinks their grandfather was the greatest. But mine really was. I'll put him up against anyone.

I can't remember a time when I didn't adore my father's father. By many standards, he was an unexceptional man. He didn't finish elementary school. The Army rejected him for having flat feet. In all his 71 years of living on this planet, he had traveled no farther than Kentucky -- and Georgia, for the great reject the U.S. Army issued.

Those people who would dismiss him on those terms don't know my Grandpa.

He was loving, loyal and kind. He loved a chaw of Red Man, mixed with Beech Nut. Nothing was more restful to him than sitting on the front porch on a summer's evening with a bowl of vanilla ice cream. And no meal was complete without a spoonful of Peter Pan peanut butter.

(I'm glad my grandfather didn't live to see the Peter Pan recall earlier this year. It would have crushed him. Choosy mothers may choose Jif, but grandfathers loved Peter Pan.)

Grandpa's childhood was rough. He was 6 when his mother died, and his father sent him into the bowels of the earth as a coal miner at age 14. He was paid in scrip -- or rather, my great-grandfather was. Grandpa didn't see any of his pay for years.

He married my grandmother in 1940, and together they raised five children. My father was their second born, and the second son. While he worked in the sawmill by day, he, my grandmother and the kids worked to build what became the family home. Grandpa designed it himself, and it was the place I thought of as home for my first 25 years. Even today, the word "home" conjures up images of the house my grandfather designed and led his family in building.

I was the first grandchild, and I freely admit my Grandpa spoiled me rotten. One of my first memories is of being devastated because I couldn't marry him. I thought then -- and I still think today -- my grandmother got the last good one.

My childhood memories are filled with Grandpa, who served as a surrogate father when his own son abandoned me, my mother and my sister. He was a consummate storyteller who could keep me in stitches. I double over when I regale others with his stories, but they look at me with stony silence. That storytelling gene, undoubtedly, died with him.

I was in college when my grandfather began having health problems. The coal mines took their toll, and combined with years of smoking, he suffered from emphysema. He suffered a heart attack while in the hospital for pneumonia, and while he recovered from that, it was another stealth disease that robbed his mind and eventually claimed his life.

Alzheimer's disease. It was a funny-sounding term I remember reading about in John Irving's Cider House Rules. Now, we were living it. Thoughts and functions that once seemed involuntary were taking their toll on my wonderful grandfather. Nine months before it would claim his life, the disease erased any memory of me. I -- and the rest of the family -- became mere faces hovering over his bed.

His hard-fought battle was lost in 1991, and a day doesn't go by that I don't think of my Grandpa. I honored his memory a couple of years later by naming my daughter after him, and I tell her often about the great-grandfather I wish she had known -- the great-grandfather who would have poured all his love onto her.

Happy birthday, Grandpa. I'll love you forever.

I'm not alone

My mother's death left me with more questions than answers.

Bipolar disorder, the mental illness that prompted my mother to take her life, is genetic. Could it be that I'll be afflicted with it somewhere down the road. What about my beautiful daughter? Could this horrible disease affect her thoughts and addle her peaceful existence?

Could I, by calling my mother earlier that day, have prevented it?

Is there some way I can talk to her? I just want to hear from her one more time.

I found out a week or so ago that someone else is having the same kind of thoughts.

Anyone who watched "The Young and The Restless" in the 1980s is familiar with Thom Bierdz. The name may not be familiar, but his role as Phillip Chancellor III has been pivotal since the early days of the soap.

(This is the part where I admit that I was an unabashed fan. I thought he was just about the most handsome thing I'd ever seen walk across the TV screen.)

That's why I immediately recognized his name when I came across it while doing some online research last Sunday. I always wondered whatever happened to the guy whose smoldering good looks lit up my TV screen daily and whose demise has me carrying a grudge against "The Young and the Restless" almost 20 years later.

What happened was an almost indescribable horror.

After Thom's character was written off in 1989, it looked like he was headed for a career to match Tom Cruise's. His fast track to stardom was stopped weeks later, however, when his baby brother bludgeoned their mother to death with a baseball bat. And some years later, his other brother committed suicide.

Thom reveals all those feelings and his search inside himself in Forgiving Troy: The Art-o-biography of Thom Bierdz. I found excerpts of the book on his Web site, and I was mesmerized.

He had the same feelings I do. In reading those few pages, I found someone who looked into my soul.

That feeling was even more validated when I received the book in the mail today. Now an acclaimed artist, Thom uses some of his paintings to illustrate the feelings he describes in words. It's a heart-wrenching, soul-searching read, and one I highly recommend.

For me, it's therapeutic. By reading about Thom's trials and tribulations, I'm discovering myself -- and my mother.

Thanks, Thom.

Back atcha, babe

I decided yesterday that I was tired of driving a trash can. So I cleaned out my car.

Cleaned the windows. Vacuumed, which sucked up the dirt but left most of the white dog hairs clinging to the seats. (The fact that this dog isn't bald -- and has no bald spots -- is one of the great mysteries of life. I continue to clean up enough hair to knit a new litter of pups.)

I even used Armor-All on the dash. I haven't done that since high school, which is longer ago than I care to remember.

My car is now spiffy on the inside.

And my thanks? An aching back, just in time for work on Monday.

Excuse me while I moan and adjust the heating pad.

Men's Health

Apparently, Men's Health magazine decided I have a subscription.

I ask you, WHY would I subscribe to Men's Health? I am not a man. The only male in my life is a 4-year-old Pekingese, and while he's adorable, the only use he'd have for Men's Health is to chew on its pages and maybe provide me with paper should he have an accident.

I found a toll-free number inside the magazine, so I called to cancel my "subscription." (I'm still rolling my eyes. Ye gads!)

I'm probably going to give the two issues they kindly sent yesterday to a co-worker. Lord knows I don't need them -- well, unless the dog has the aforementioned accident, and there's plenty of unsolicited junk mail lying around here to take care of that.

To the grandmother of my progeny

Anyone who spends any amount of time with us knows within minutes that our feelings for one another are exactly warm. I tolerated you for years because of your son and granddaughter. But guess what? I don't have to do that anymore!

Your granddaughter is old enough now to choose where she wants to spend time, and your house isn't even in the top 50. Rest assured, I didn't say anything to turn her against you. No, my dear, that was all your doing.

I don't take her to visit you. That's your son's responsibility. I don't expect him to take her for visits to my father's house. He's aware of the arrangement. He even signed papers saying as much.

No matter what we do, we cannot change that I'm your granddaughter's mother, or vice versa. However, we don't have to be in one another's faces, and we don't have to be part of each other's lives outside your granddaughter. That's a caveat I am delighted to live with.

So when my phone rang today with a familiar number on caller ID, I couldn't place it at first. Your granddaughter didn't recognize it, either. So I answered.

I recognized your voice immediately. Apparently, you did the same, but you asked who you were speaking to anyway. I gave my name, and you hung up.

Let me add right here that I'm about as delighted to hear from you as I would be to learn that I have rickets. But I'm willing to be nice. If you had been civil and said something like, Oh, I'm sorry! I thought I called someone else! I would have understood. I would have taken the call with a wink and a nudge, and it would have been our little secret.

But you didn't. You hung up instantly. So I'm telling everybody.

I'm telling your hairdresser. I'm telling the ladies in your art league. I'm telling my neighbors. Hell, I'm telling the world right now on the World Wide Web. Guess what, planet? My offspring's grandmother is a rude doofus!

Oh, and before I forget, it's plastic, not plaskick; Wal-Mart, not Wal-Mark; Kmart, not Kmark.

Thursday haiku ... and other ramblings

I'm tired this Thursday
But there's laundry to do--
My closet's bare.

The other editor
Makes hateful accusations--
Her life must be sad.
***
Anyone who knows my bleeding-heart liberal leanings should bookmark this for future reference, because I'm about to jump to the defense of a conservative Republican.

We're in the midst of a war, at the end of the bloodiest and deadliest month in the years since Dubya decided to jump onto an innocent country because "they picked on mah Daddy." Health care in this country is a joke. If gas prices continue to escalate I'm going to have to get a second job in order to afford to drive to my first job, and I'm not alone.

Now why, in the midst of all that needs fixing in this country, are some people picking on Mitt Romney's faith? Admittedly, I know next to nothing about Romney. I know he was governor of Massachusetts. (Wasn't he? Maybe I'd better go look -- yeah, he was. Thank goodness for Wikipedia and a tip of my hat to Michael Scott.) I'm sure I could find something I didn't like about him, what with his right leanings and my left ones.

Why do many in America have a problem with a person's religious affiliation? I would have never known what Romney's denomination was if it hadn't been for all the "Oh, gosh, he's Mormon!" squeals. Hell, I've supported John Edwards in two presidential races now, and I wouldn't even begin to guess which church he drives to on Sunday, or even if he goes to church.

Nor do I care. I want to know what a future insert-elective-office-here can do to make our world better and how dedicated he or she is to the job at hand. Their faith is between them and their God, god, goddess, Magic Conch or whatever.
***
I am so freaking tired. A vacation isn't too far away, and I can't wait. I just want to rest; the hell with the rest of it.

Even though time off will be glorious, I can't help but worry a little bit. The first few days back at work usually consist of putting out fires. I say "I'm sorry" a lot to folks who call and want to know why their insert press release here didn't make it into the newspaper. Sigh.

Time to toss in some laundry. "Clothing optional" is not a dress-code option. Although ... it would be dressing down. Of course, I'd probably get a dressing down for it. Wonder if I could formulate a persuasive argument about Casual Fridays?!? ;)

Human-interest story

Want to know how to turn off a reporter and/or editor from your idea for an article?

Tell them you have a "human-interest" story.

I've been in the business for longer than I care to admit. I've seen babies whose births I typed up grow to be doctors and lawyers. I've typed up their children's births.

And in all that time, I've never heard an idea described as a "human-interest story" that would interest any human other than the one presenting the idea. Never. Not once.

Any interest I might have in what you're saying is out the door when you utter those three words. I hear nothing else. You might as well talk to a tree.

Over the years, "human-interest stories" pitched to me include:
-- Caller's divorce issues.

-- Caller's custody issues.

-- Caller went to bank for change for a $20. Bank wouldn't give change.

-- My granddaughter is prom queen/homecoming queen/insert-your-own-title-here queen.

-- A bailiff was rude to me.

Divorce sucks. Custody battles suck even more.

Banks have the right to make their own rules, including denying your change. Go to the convenience store down the road; I'll bet you your $20 they'll give you change.

There are a whole bunch of high schools out there. They all have prom queens, homecoming queens and probably real queens who I think are OK but you'd probably demand be kicked out of school not because they're causing problems, but because that's the kind of hateful in-the-name-of-Christianity pig you are.

Maybe the bailiff was having a bad day. Or maybe you're a rude bitch. My money lays with the latter.

You've got to be there!

The News Sentinel has a big splash about The 1982 World's Fair today. As part of the coverage, all these people have given their memories about the fair -- even those who were about 3 at the time.

I was there -- once. And how bad is it to admit that I have no memories of the fair itself?

I was 18, and it was one of the last hurrahs before I graduated from high school. I went with my FHA chapter. (That's Future Homemakers of America.) Here's what I remember:

-- While on the bus, we passed a bus from the Tennessee School for the Deaf. They were using ASL and, being smartasses (dumbasses is more like it), we pantomimed what we thought was sign language. We should have had our heads slapped.

-- Minutes later, we heard a helicopter overhead. One of the girls dropped the bus window, stuck out her head and yelled, "Hi, Pete!" in hopes that she'd just spotted Pete Michaels, traffic watcher from the sky for our favorite radio station, WOKI-FM.

-- We all talked about trying to get free beer from the pavilions. Talk is all it was. I was a good Baptist girl and my mom would have tanned my hide smartly if I had followed through. It didn't matter that Mom was 60 miles away. She would have known.

-- I was with my friend Wilma. Don't remember what we did or saw. I just remember her being there.

-- We stopped at a McDonald's on the way home. The place was decked out in sea theme. The biggest chuckle of the day was when one of the girls pointed out the restrooms which were, in bad punese, marked "Buoys" and "Gulls."

It was a trip I'll never forget -- even if the fair was forgettable.

Should it stay, or should it go?

My divorced friend once confided that a woman usually changes her hair after a divorce.

Maybe it's a reflection of change. So it was with her, and now with me.

My tresses, once cropped short and styled with a simple shake of the head, are now to my shoulders. I can almost tuck what used to be my bangs behind my ears. And I can scoop up all my hair and pull it back into a sizeable ponytail.

In an attempt to disguise the grey that seems to sprout like dandelions on a golf green, I have an appointment in two weeks for highlights. And, like every other appointment I've had in the last two years, I ponder:

Should I cut it? Or let it go?

I actually toy from time to time with growing enough hair to donate to someone like Locks for Love or Wigs for Kids. While a worthy cause, I think my self-restraint with dealing with my hair will be long gone before it gets to a decent, donatable length.

And that time may be soon. I'm starting to feel like "American Idol's" Sanjaya. My hair tickles the back of my neck, falls into my eyes and annoys me in general.

But I'll probably keep it when the time comes for a decision. Probably.

Or maybe not.

Outrage

Meredith Vieira is outraged.

She's not alone. Talking heads are filling the airwaves with their perplexities, wondering why on earth nothing was done to treat a disturbed young man before he went on a rampage that left 33 dead, including himself.

This is no surprise to those of us who have dealt with mental illness personally. Nobody takes it seriously -- except those living with it.

Insurance companies -- including Medicare and TennCare -- will only pay for so many days. I literally counted the days until the end of a six-month period, when Medicare would again pay for my mother's stay at a mental hospital.

Even those trained to deal with mental illness don't recognize it. Time and again, I would beg them to keep Mom for further evaluation and treatment.

"She's OK," they'd tell me, practically pushing the poor soul on me to take home to wallow in her personal hell.

Except she wasn't. My sweet mother, who only completed the seventh grade and spent her life doing menial jobs to support first her aging parents and then my sister and me, could give an Academy Award-worthy performance in front of others. My aunt and I, however, could look into her eyes and see the troubled soul that lurked underneath. And no matter how much we protested, they continued to tell us she was OK.

We begged her to take her medicines. She wouldn't. We'd rat her out to her doctors. They'd rail. She'd promise to do better. She wouldn't.

That's the roller coaster of mental illness, folks.

And HIPAA -- what a joke. There were times I couldn't talk one-on-one with my mother's caregivers because -- SURPRISE! -- I wasn't listed as one of the people they could talk to. THE WOMAN WAS MENTALLY ILL!!! Putting my name on a form wasn't uppermost on her mind in the river of misery that led her to treatment.

I called health officials and said, "Look -- you can't talk to me; but I can talk to you." And talk I did.

"Please don't let her out."

"Please. I found a noose in her apartment. I'm afraid she'll kill herself."

"She's not taking her medicine."

"She's conning you."

They listened, all right -- they signed release forms and sent her back to continue her path of destruction.

I wrote my congressman and begged him to re-examine the HIPAA law in relation to the mentally ill. He didn't even bother to respond with a form letter thanking me for my interest. Bastard.

The demons that haunted my mother were quieted just over two years ago. It was no thanks to the society that was meant to protect her or any physician or health-care worker who finally saw the light.

My mother took matters into her own hands. One sunny Sunday morning, she pointed a handgun between her breasts and squeezed the trigger.

The woman who gave me life silenced her demons by taking her own. A victim of a system that didn't take her illness seriously.

Now 33 are lost for the same reason. Meredith is outraged -- and so are many others.

Maybe a national outrage will force people to listen. Maybe it will lead to better care for the mentally ill.

It's the prayer I lift while asking for strength for the families of the victims -- including the parents of the gunman.

There is life after The Bug

The Bug is bad.

As one who lived to tell the tale, The Bug is debilitating. It's tiring. And it makes you feel like a queen because your new favorite seat is a throne that needs a royal flushing.

It can be beat -- but you'll never recognize that when The Bug is in your life. It turns a heating pad and Pepto into your best friend.

Kaopectate? Kid's stuff. The Bug laughs in its face.

Immodium? Don't waste your money. It's like pouring water onto The Bug.

The one good thing about The Bug is that it lives only about a week. But it's the longest, toughest week of your life.

Bet on it.

White rabbits ... and KISS

The Girl has proclaimed her passion for white chocolate.

Whatever. More of the good stuff for me.

She said weeks ago that she wanted a white chocolate bunny for Easter. Do you know how hard it is to find a white chocolate bunny? Most of them either are "milk flavored" (pass the puke pan, please) or stuffed with peanut butter. The latter sounds like a winner to me, but no go for The Girl, who is a white chocolate purist.

Finally -- FINALLY! -- on Friday, I found it. At Wal-Mart, The Evil Empire (and the closest of any empires to my home). There were two left -- one was broken, the other teetering on its base. I opted for the latter, and paid for the cheap thing.

Yeah, I said cheap. I love a bargain -- except when it comes to chocolate. I'm a chocolate snob. If it's inexpensive, it's most likely lousy chocolate. Experience plays on my side in this.

As Easter morning dawned cold as Christmas and clear, The Girl discovered her Easter basket on the kitchen table. She loved the Little Miss Sunshine DVD, was ecstatic over the black bunny I managed to snag -- and was over the moon giddy about her white chocolate bunny.

Whatever. Pass the Cadbury's, please. And they'd better be milk chocolate.

* * *
When it came to getting rid of Easter eggs -- the real, hard boiled ones, that is -- God said, "Let there be deviled eggs!" (God would never say "stuffed eggs," regardless of what the religious right would have you believe.)

And it came to pass, and they were good.

Then Man (and Woman) started "improving" them.

Like all things Divine, humans have messed up deviled eggs. The simplest culinary concoction there is, and humans have to "perfect" them.

Deviled eggs, in their purest form, are perfect. Like my mother and grandmother, I don't measure anything when it comes to making them, but here's the rough idea:

Desired quantity of hard-boiled eggs
Mustard, to taste
Mayo, to taste
salt, to taste
Paprika

Slice eggs vertically, then scoop out yolks. Smash yolks, adding desired amounts of mustard, mayo and salt. (I go light-handed on the mustard.) Put mashed-up concoction into a Ziploc bag, and snip off one of the corners of the bag. (Cook's note: It's less messy if you snip off a corner where the concoction doesn't lay.) Squirt concoction through snipped corner into hollow egg whites, filling to top. After filled, sprinkle eggs with paprika. Refrigerate, and consume at will.

Now, how hard is that?

I love shrimp, pickle relish, onions, vinegar and other flavorings, but they have no business in deviled eggs. Save the relish and onions for a hot dog, use the vinegar for one of the many reasons God intended, and grill the shrimp on the Barby. Just KISS.

***
Have a blessed Easter, everyone!