I received a jury summons over a month ago, and felt sure my “stand by” group wouldn’t be called.

I was wrong.

My first thought is: are these people effing crazy? My second thought is: this could be fun…

It’s unfortunate I take myself so seriously, this would be a great time to test drive my impression of someone with Turrets, or pick my nose and examine the findings or pull a Jodie Foster and just recite lyrics from an Eminem “song” sans style.

I’ve got a space on my new back porch where I spend my mornings now – a porch that isn’t just mine but is mine – there are two cafe chairs and a little bistro table with ivy in a green pot and an empty red one beside it waiting for an inhabitant.

I can’t watch the sun creep up the horizon from here the way I used to, but I can sit comfortably with the laptop and my cup of coffee and ignore my neighbors cat as it zig-zags around me and bumps its head into the table and talks in a language I can’t translate while the sky changes from deep blue and black to a sorbet inspired mess.

I’m sitting here replaying the scene from 12 hours ago when  I arrived “home” to this place that still doesn’t feel like “home” to find that my pet of nearly two years – Grover – didn’t survive the weekend.

Grover never did tricks for me, he never curled up with me in bed or looked at me funny when I cried or gave me a warm welcome when I opened the door at the end of the day. He never got table scraps or had to go to the vet or needed to be groomed, but he was sweet and low maintenance and swam laps around his own glass home for my zoning out pleasure.  His presence alone lowered my heart rate, his deep blue scales lit up a room and his antics with the snail/maid this winter were legendary.

This weekend as he was slipping away unsupervised, my dear old friend Codie turned 31 in his new world, my boy Ken revealed more of what makes him whole (and in doing so became more remarkable with his tender places revealed) and my solar urticaria reminded me yet again that even spectacularly comforting and familiar things must be dealt with in moderation.

You and I are wandering.  There’s no set course or definitive finish line, there’s no way of knowing when you’ve “won” the game so the best we can do is be real and true and move forward with great force and passion issuing love and acceptance and forgiveness (to others and ourselves), and if we’re lucky, we will be loved in return.

This is my wish for you.

Grover
2004-2006

Taking the rest of the weekend off.  Until Tuesday – be safe.

Guten morgen my stinky little bratwursts!

Around the time that you east coasters wander away from your desk for your second cup of joe and your morning visit to the throne, my ta-tas will be flattened in a cold, metal vice. It’s mammogram day! Woo hoo!

I’ll meet The Mc for a cup of over priced coffee before we roll north to see the good doc and her squadron of medically trained torture specialsts.  When I arrive I’ll do the usual pre-visit check in bits, making sure my insurance information is up to date and the like.  They’ll call me into the back and I’ll leave my companion with a stack of well worn waiting room magazines – because despite my encouragement he won’t have brought a book.  I’ll be escorted to the other waiting room, which will be inhabited by ten or so women in varying stages of discovery and treatment.  I’ll step into a stall and change into a navy blue cloth gown that ties at the waist and then I’ll join my sisters in tumorville for some idle chit chat…not unlike your single serving plane buddy.

After a short wait, I’ll be called back to the mammography room, where I’ll position myself and reposition myself with the help of a nurse and cold latex gloves 8 different ways so they can get good, clean pictures of my breast tissue.  It will hurt a bit, but the pain is temporary and well worth the minimal discomfort given the alternative.

I’ll go back to the waiting room. I’ll fiddle with my BlackBerry and try to read and ignore the others.  Twenty minutes will pass and feel like an eternity as they develop my films and call me to the ultrasound room.

It’s dark there, and I’ll lay on an exam table with my arms taking turns being positioned over my head, and I’ll roll on my side for the technician so she can see my lymph nodes.

You know there’s this great new invention that warms the jelly they use for ultrasounds? It’s still cool and sticky and when she’s found what she’s looking for she’ll hand me a towel so I can clean up the mess she created.

I’ll go back to the waiting room and wait again, then move on to what will be the last stop of the day. I’ll sit on a table in a much smaller and much more brightly lit room before Dr. Amerson comes in. She’ll throw my films on the wall, and point out the residue from tumors gone by.  Then she’ll point out any abnormalities.

If we see a cyst, I’ll have the option of allowing her to aspirate just to make sure – which will also flatten it like draining a blister. I’ll take it. If we see “a bad guy” (her words) we’ll make an appointment for me to come back in a week or so.

If it’s a “bad guy” and he’s still small, we’ll remove and biopsy…which is really kinda neat to watch.  We go into the ultrasound room and she shoots my boob full of lidocaine so I can’t feel it.  Then she makes an incision of about a quarter of an inch, which is the perfect size for the drinking straw like device she needs to insert.  All the while, the ultrasound gal is doing her thing, locating the lump we’re targeting. So the straw is inserted and I can watch it as it wiggles its way toward the tumor, and when it hits gold, this little probe type metal hand thing comes out and just starts pulling – gobbling the thing up.  At least, that’s how it is for me, because we [usually] find mine early when they’re small and consumable.

She’ll tape up the incision with nifty disposable sutures and show me what she took out. It’s floating in a vile of clear liquid and doesn’t look unlike…worms.  Or maybe – well – have you ever jammed a straw into Jell-O or ice cream and pushed it back out? It’s perfectly cylindrical and a consistency you used to recognize but don’t anymore.  That’s what it looks like.

So that’s my morning.  Then maybe I’ll go see The DaVinci Code, and drop the Jeep for service and take a nap and have some sushi.

Because I’m alive, and I can.

Sorry kids, the spam bots found me…which is not as neat as having the fem bots find you.

I never had an issue when I was on HaloScan for comments but such are growing pains.  Sorry to say I’ve had to enable moderation for commenting – not because I want to be your mommy and wipe your ass for you, but because I am without other options at present.

Don’t be scared, sweethearts. Even when it’s just a smidge of geekery in the form of an on-line facelift, change is good. It’s okay, I promise.

There’s considerable work yet to be completed, plug-ins to be plugged-in, buttons to fix, posts to be categorized, buttons to be added…it’s like having a kid, I imagine. You’re never really ready until you just do it, then you figure it out as you go…unless you’re Britney Spears in which case you don’t figure it out, you dress like a whore and you rival Jacko for crazy parenting antics. I digress.

The good:
~One click subscription to the site feed
~One click subscription to comments
~Header images no longer mark me as a brazen floozie, NSFW
~Rotating header image – refresh a few times, you’ll see (only two pictures right now, don’t break your finger)

The bad:
~Still converting some older posts
~Haven’t tagged/categorized most posts (it’s like darning socks)
~Haven’t figured out how to import old comments without breaking something else
~Content column width vs. old images

Features and plug-ins to come:
~Daily entries delivered to your mailbox
~Last commented on / commenting elsewhere (like Dave)
~Calendar view of my schedule

Thoughts? Hopes? Dreams? Note: the first time you post a comment it will be held for moderation – it’s a one time toll on the Maighalicious Superhighway. Pay up.

Thanks, for coming along for the ride and BIG thanks to Dave for pushing me over the finish line.

What’s the single most romantic spontaneous thing you’ve ever done or had done for you?

I don’t necessarily mean romantic as in groin inspired – I mean innocent and liberating and nearly free of selfish motives.

Spill it. I need your fuel.