The cicadas are coming! The cicadas are coming!

One of the more charming things about Atlanta in the summer is the rhythmic buzz of the cicadas. I can’t imagine spending a more peaceful evening than sitting on a screened in porch with an adult beverage and a good book listening to their song. If you’ve ever had the pleasure, it’s a pretty hypnotizing thing. They begin their evening chorus out of synch and out of harmony, but as the moon rises and falls they find their melody and lull you with their tune.

This year, however, their existence isn’t being anticipated. Or rather, it is, but not in the same way. This year we have a special treat. Think swarms of locusts.

You can read more in an article on CNN.com with the snappy headline: “Like a yard full of chicken nuggets” or another one explaining that “after a 17-year nap, trillions of red-eyed insects are crawling their way above ground in 14 states and the nation’s capital.”

But aren’t they ADORABLE?

Once upon a time, the brilliant minds that control the yellow stripes in parking lots had the foresight to mix sand in with the paint. This way when it rained, the eye-sores that mark the walk / don’t walk / park / don’t park areas would remain grip-a-licious.

I’m not sure when it happened, but somewhere along the way the recipe must have been destroyed. Unable to replicate from memory or reverse engineer, they did what they could. They painted. Without sand.

My problem with this presented itself last night as one weary and hungry traveler (that would be me) wanted only to stop at Whole Foods, pick up something for supper, go home and collapse.

As I strolled across the parking lot in the thick air and black asphalt of the after rain, I found myself stepping on what we’ll call “The Yellow”. Now luckily, I didn’t wipe out, but I did lose my ground for a split second and was reminded of the black ice of my frigid home and the havoc it wreaked on the spine.

So there it is. On the way back to the car I played dodge-the-paint, which I shouldn’t have to. Isn’t it an OSHA requirement or something?

Maybe I’ll just start carrying a bucket of sand around in the back of the Jeep along with a can of The Yellow and make my own adjustments as I see fit. Or you could just buy me a paint wand.

Vigilante safety they’ll call it. There will be headlines everywhere. Maybe I’ll even wear a cape.

A duel?

Very well.

Sunday after the Bravos got their asses kicked by a bunch of boys from the land of Dubbya, a few of us went to a wing place. While Steve-O and I considered flavors and quantaties, the heckeling began.

“You can’t eat 20 wings” they said.

Clearly they didn’t understand what happens when a challenge is issued. Or, maybe they did and I played right into their hands.

Either way, never let it be said that Maigh cannot consume 20 wings.

The race Saturday was intense. It was powerful and magical and more than I could have hoped for.

It began with volunteering from 5:30am until precisely 8:30am when the gunshot marked the start of the race. Without warming up I found myself at the back of the herd with a few thousand people that should have gone for the 1k walk instead of the 5k run. Nonetheless, I made great time, a personal best.

Finishing in just over 30 minutes, I found a scene at the finish unlike anything else. Survivors were cheered in by name as the champions found their way triumphantly down a specially marked aisle. They were donned with a medal held on a pink ribbon and what I can only imagine was an even more valuable piece of splendor in their hearts.

I quietly observed the energy swirling around the bustling finish area, and reveled in my pride. Fighting along side so many brave women toward that common goal of cancer eradication left me marked with an emotion that can’t be articulated. The abundance of women going beyond the fight, many still showing the obvious signs of chemo and radiation. The husbands and children bearing “in memory of” tags on their backs that said simply “Mom” or “Nana”.

I absorbed it all, allowed my picture to be taken (to be posted upon availability) took my water, went home, and collapsed. There’s more to tell about the weekend, but I don’t want to detract from this message in any way.

From the bottom of my heart, a thank you to everyone who supported my effort either financially or emotionally — or both. With your generosity I/we contributed more than $700 to the cause, the events final financial success has yet to be announced. With continued advocacy like this, we just may see a cure in our lifetime.

Three things today, I’ll make the first two quick.

Anyone born before say — 1967 — should NOT attempt to use a cell phone and drive. The law of averages says that you didn’t grow up with call waiting or anything else that involved true multi-tasking. Don’t tax yourself. Old dogs + new tricks = doesn’t fucking work. Please, I beg you, at least if you’re in front of me on the road…don’t talk and drive.

Next, an open letter to the ladies. Seat covers were invented for a reason. Use them. Especially at the office (as opposed to a seedy bar) do not fucking hover and leave your DNA on the seat. Also, if the suction of the commode isn’t all it should be, there’s far less shame in flushing twice than leaving a present behind for me to discover. Alright?

On to a much happier and much furrier (is that a word?) topic: Miss Dixie! Last week, Kyle brought home what I’ll continue to refer to as his daughter. He likes to fight me on it because she’ll be a huntin’ dog when he goes to his place in Mississippi with the guys to shoot at stuff that flies. Either way, she’s adorable. Pictures of the Princess and her buddy Goose follow…

As the adult child of a couple of booze hounds, I’m what you might call codependent.

My friend Alison articulated it well – I’ll paraphrase. Simply put it makes me like the Crocodile Hunter of humans. I feel the need to collect injured or weak animals, nurse them to health and re-release them to the wild.

It also means I have a hard time saying no and it’s easy for people to take advantage of me. I’m generous by nature and overly generous by defect.

So, in my old age and with the encouragement of friends, I’m learning to say the new magic word. It’s not always what I want to say and when I do it there are feelings of guilt, but I’ve also learned that there are people out there who prey on my weakness. People that I give to without thinking or question who come back time and again and ask for more. Acceptable? Nah, I don’t think so.

These are the people you will never be able to call at night. Ones who will fail to consider returning any generosity you showed without question or expectation of return. These are the ones that will leave you empty handed and empty hearted and manage to make you feel as though you have done something wrong.

Having born witness to physical abuse I wonder sometimes if this isn’t worse. Would I rather have a black eye or a bruised soul?

Which leaves me here. Extracting these individuals from my life like thorns from my palm after squeezing the stem of ridiculously expensive shrub/weed/flower. I consider how I might have enjoyed it’s beauty and life force had it not been for the unavoidable and brutally painful wretched little daggers.

It’s funny. I might feel sorry for myself if I wasn’t so busy feeling sorry for them.