Wordless Cancer-Warrior-Mojo-Turned-Up-To-Eleven Wednesday

(Don't try to tell me it doesn't exist — or work! — CVZ' ass-kicking grandmother, 1; cancer, 0. Yeah. That's what I thought.)

I Squee(!) For Glee(!)

I am tone deaf, can't carry a tune in a bucket, couldn't hit a high C (or any other, for that matter) if it slapped me in the face, and am more like Meadow Soprano than a mezzo soprano (whatever that means).


In short, I can't sing to save my life.


Note I said "can't," not "don't." Because I sing all the time. I don't let minor things like talent, or skill, or humiliation stop me. 


I did when I was younger. And wisely so. I may have rocked through the '80s in middle and high school singing in my room, and later in my car (OK, my friends' cars. I didn't have a car — or a driver's license — until college.) — but never on the stage. Oh sure, I was in the drama club (Really, with the surprise on that? Really?), but I favored and won the dramatic or comedic or even dramedic roles. Never the musical ones, because I knew better than to audition for them.


I have absolutely no desire to revisit my adolescence. It was awkward enough the first time around. But ... But ... If there were any way to go back and actually have the voice that I've always wished for — the kind of voice that brings an audience to its feet (and not to walk out) and tears to its eyes (for all the right reasons) and makes my peers (if anyone really could be my peer) so envious they have no choice but to misguidedly express it by throwing a Slushee® in my face — I'd do it in 4:4 time (whatever that means) and be more obnoxious than Rachel Berry dared dream to be.


But alas! No matter how fervently I wish for that alternate reality, it shall never be. My only hope to even approach that level of musical fulfillment would be to create an imaginary friend through whom I vicariously rock.


And what rational, sane, mature adult would be so desperate, er, silly, um, absolutely brilliant willing to do that?


Hmm.


glee logo ©FOX Broadcasting Company

Here I Am To Brave The Day

(c)2002-2010 natalie dee (who rocks, btw)

Tee Gee Eye Eff Eff

(lace up your roller skates and cue Donna Summer and a spinning disco ball here)


"Friday. Thank God It's Flashback Friday!"


Yes, my darlings, I am once again feeling:

A. Lazy; 

B. In need of yet another dose of alliteration; 

C. Smugly satisfied (see B); 

D. Like I am the undisputed queen of my universe and all that revolves around it (see C); and/or

E. All of the a-freakin'-bove

Ding-ding-ding! If you chose A, B, C, D, or even E, you also may revel in your own sense of smug satisfaction, for you are correct. Today we'll revisit the first appearance of HRH Princess Snarkerella and her establishment of one of Halfglassistan's many arbitrary and capricious holidays.


Enjoy.

By Royal Decree ...

As Her Royal Highness Princess Snarkerella, it is my duty (one of many) to consider (many applicants) and determine (eeny-meeny-miney-moe) the High Holidays of Halfglassistan.

[trumpets sound]
[trumpets sound again, as HRH is late to the podium]
[trumpets playing a light jazzy number while HRH is delayed behind the velvet curtain as she fiddles with her hair]

And ...
[TRUMPETS SOUND]
Ahem.

I — your humble leader — declare (-are, -are, -are) — today (-ay, -ay, -ay)  Overflow Day (-ay, -ay, -ay) — upon which (-itch, -itch — OK, kill the echo effect) — upon which we fill the official drinking vessels of Halfglassistan (Libbey®) until they overflow with hope. 

Why today? Why today? 

I say, "Why not today?" 
We overdose on hope, not because it is easy — but because it is hard. 

Hmmm? What's that, you say? Ummm, yeah — no, I can't take credit for that last turn of phrase — good catch. But — I like it. And — it fits. 

So — go forth, and — hope. 
That is all. Carry on. 

CROWD: "Snarkita! Snarkita! Snarkita!" 
ME: "Don't cry for me, Halfglassistanita ... " 

Oh, please — you didn't see that coming?

Wordless Glee(!)ful-High-School-Adoration-of-Madonna-Flashback Wednesday

Still Hopeful, Still Other Things

Dear Universe,

I've been talking to you a lot lately about my plans.

I'm pretty sure you're listening, because I hear an awful lot of laughter. I'm trying very, very hard to understand the messages you're sending back my way, but I'm having some trouble. The only one that's really coming through clearly is the repeated admonition to be patient.

I think I've got that lesson down, thanks. Well, I'm at least clear on the concept. The application is a little more tricky, but again, I'm working on that.

I'm certain you are well aware of my fondness for euphemisms, metaphors and symbolism, clever or otherwise. However, those means of expression tend to work best for me if I'm the one employing them. When communicating to me, perhaps a straightforward approach would be best.

Otherwise, I'm gonna sit around and deconstruct every little message you send me, analyzing your tone, facial expressions, posture, eye contact (or lack of), what you're wearing, what time you showed up (or didn't), and just why you chose that bit of news to be delivered at that time. Or why it hasn't been delivered yet. Or ever.

Because I'm a girl. And that's how I operate. Perhaps you should consult my instruction manual. You wrote it.

You'd think one of us would have figured all of this out by now, and clearly, it's not me.

Something to think about, Universe.

Sincerely,
Me

p.s. I did get the message about the amount of snark I'm putting out there in your atmosphere. Seeing as you have this increasingly annoying habit of being vague in your missives, I am not quite sure though if you, too, were being snarky. So. Until I'm convinced otherwise, I'm sticking with what I know.

Under Pressure

(cue David Bowie and Queen here)

This is my one hundredth and ninety-ninth post. Or 199th, depending on how (melo)dramatic you're feeling. Whatever shall I write for the oh-so-monumental two hundredth (200th) post?


Should I be inspiring (or at least as inspiring as I aspire to be)? Should I be sentimental (or as sappy as I can tend to be)? Should I be retrospective, introspective (or at the very least, somewhat circumspect)?


Should I celebrate my awesomeness (or should I exercise a little restraint)? Should I celebrate all those who have recognized said awesomeness by bestowing awards and recognition on Halfglassistan, and whose acknowledgement is sorely overdue (or should I continue to feel guilty — forgive me, Dame, Belle and Laura — for not having composed the perfect appropriate response yet)?


Should I stop shoulding all over myself? (And, thank you, Stuart Smalley for that kind reminder.)


Or — before I get all worked up about how I've procrastinated considering this monumental topic until now — should I check my figures? And realize that I've composed 199 drafts. And published 179 posts.


Oh. Well. Whew! That gives me 20 more posts to continue procrastinating figure this thing out.


Or finally figure math out. Whichever comes first. Hmm.


Carry on.

Employing Humor

I certainly can take the mythical credits this tax form touts. I cannot, however, take credit for its content.

A Tax Form for the Marginally Employed (via Sam Potts in The New York Times)

Enjoy.

(and thanks, SGC, for sharing)

Wordless Omigosh-SO-Cute-In-The-OshKosh-B'Gosh Wednesday

Color Me Hopeful

I have many strengths. I do.


Clearly, modesty is not one of them, or I wouldn't have founded my own imaginary nation ... queendom ... empire community and invited you to adore join me in it.


Patience also is not one of them. But I'm working on that.


Nor was humility, for quite some time. But I have been humbled, just like millions of other folks just like me looking for work in this strange new world.


I have been interviewing with Anonymous Communication Company (ACC) and Anonymous Public Service (APS). Many times throughout my career I have found myself progressing through round after round after round of interviews. And I have have felt many things, both pre- and post-process.


Confident. Excited. Invigorated. Certain. Proud.


And, more often than I'd like to admit, I have felt entitled. Because of my education, my experience, my background. Hell, maybe just for being me. I don't feel that now.


I feel lucky. I feel scared. I feel anxious.


Perhaps one day soon I'll be able to report that I'm a proud, excited and confident new employee of either ACC or APS. Or, perhaps it will be of some other arbitrary acronym.


But until then, I'm trying really, really hard to just focus on one emotion: hopeful.


And I'm hoping really, really, really hard the whole patience thing kicks in, too.

Because I'm (Feeling) Lazy (Again) And I (Always) Like Alliteration ...

And, of course, because I can, I declare today another Flashback Friday.

If you are new to Halfglassistan — and many of you are (which is, by the way, awesome) — you may not have been fully briefed yet on Mr. J. 

He is one hell of a cook, music aficionado, sounding board, cheerleader, partner in crime and the object of my pure adoration. 

He is also the object of my admiration, and with good reason. Pay attention to the last two lines of this post from last summer, as I am even more sure of the sentiment today. 

Enjoy ...

Can't Keep A Good Man Down

Jamie is 46 years old with Stage 3 bladder cancer.

We are told this is an old man's cancer. Jamie has every intention of becoming an old man who had cancer.

Bladder cancer is not a common diagnosis. But, as you'll see, there is nothing common about Jamie.

There is no telling why it hit him. The greatest risk factor is smoking. Well, yeah, there is that. He smoked from his early teens up until the diagnosis. But it is still a rare formation of cells. Millions upon millions of people smoke and not very many have bladder cancer. Hell, they don't all even develop lung cancer, much less this one.

One suspicion is that his urinary tract may have been susceptible because of a birth defect.

Jamie was born with a moderate spina bifida. With damage to and underdevelopment of his urinary and gastrointestinal tracts and pelvic nerves, it was possible he would not live to be a teenager. He became a teenager with frequent kidney infections. It was possible he would not live to see his 20s. By 20, the kidney problems had stopped and he continued to live his life. Spina bifida still affects him, but not in any way to which he hasn't adapted.

Growing up as a red-blooded American boy may not have been easy, but it was real. And it was fun. And there was real fun. Jamie's mother Wilma, God bless her and rest her soul, was determined that if her son was on this earth then he would have as normal a childhood as possible. Jamie grew up playing football, basketball, swam competitively and played varsity baseball while still in middle school.

And he played stuntman. At the age of 12, Jamie and friends stood on the roof of a house under construction and wondered who could jump off and hit the sandpile below. Jamie went first, overshot the pile, and broke his ankle.

The joint was reconstructed, but as 12-year-old boys do, Jamie continued to grow. And as he did, the bones were rebuilt again and again, resulting in more than five surgeries over seven years. His 20s were not plagued with the systemic problems of his childhood, but rather osteoarthritis and a lowered immunity from years of surgeries. By 34, osteomyelitis was unbeatable and his left foot was amputated.

Jamie's reaction: "Hell, I should have done this years ago!"

I tell you all this because my husband has been a survivor all his life. A hole at the base of his spinal cord did not stop him. Bones broken and rebroken again and again did not stop him. An amputation and a prosthetic foot does not slow him down.

And cancer will not stop him.

I am sure of it.

Wordless "Yes. Yes, I Did Just Bury My Brother In The Sand." Wednesday

Don't Make Me Call Your Mother

Dear Summer,


Please refrain from showing up and persuading spring to emulate you. She is quite impressionable and, I must say, I am very disappointed in the influence you've had on her. It is far too soon for her to be sizzling the way she is. She should be sweet, not sweaty.


I'm going to have to ask that you not come around here anymore. Or, at least not until the date on your invitation. In fact, it would be ever so lovely if you were fashionably late.


Sincerely,
Me

Take It Down A Notch

Dear Spring,

You're nice. You are. Cute, perky — it's hard not to smile when you show up.

Actually you're downright adorable. Always sporting a bright sunny outlook, gorgeous outfits — really, your taste in colors is divine — you've got an infectious personality that really just blows people away.

And your perfume? It's delightful. Truly.

But you try too hard, kid. Ease up. This happens every year. You get all excited and overheated, and it's just too much too soon. Don't move so fast. Seriously. Summer really owns the whole sultry persona, so just leave it to her. She's always going to be hotter, so although you're doing an incredible job of matching her numbers, please stop trying to compete.

While we're on the whole "a-little-goes-a-long-way" topic, enough with the yellow powder. Please. I know you can't help it. I know you get all worked up and before you know it — poof! — it's everywhere. But if you're going to put it all over yourself, can you at least indulge in a shower a little more often? Really. People are talking.

I just thought you'd want to know.

Sincerely,
Me

Of Faith and Friendliness

Here in Halfglassistan, we welcome all.

Love whomever you want to love. Believe in whatever you'd like to believe.

We do. Love and believe, that is. We love to acknowledge it. We don't debate it. That would kinda-sorta go against the whole "love-and-believe-who-and-what-you-want" thing we've got going here. Don't you think?

In fact, we don't talk much about what we believe. It's not that we don't care. It's just that it's ours. Just like your beliefs are yours. And if we go throwing them around and putting them up for discussion, that kinda-sorta negates the whole "no-debate" thing. Don't you think?

And I'm not looking to change that today. But, for all of the arbitrary and capricious days of observance I've declared here in Halfglassistan, today is one that transcends all of my varied and overlapping worlds.

Today is Good Friday. And, as I've acknowledged before, there are times when the best construction of words to express what is in my heart already exists.

This is one of those times:

I believe in one God, the Father, the Almighty, the maker of heaven and earth, of all that is seen and unseen.

I believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ, the only Son of God, eternally begotten of the Father, God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, one in Being with the Father.

Through him all things were made.

For us and for our salvation, he came down from heaven: by the power of the Holy Spirit he was born of the Virgin Mary, and became man.

For our sake he was crucified under Pontius Pilate; he suffered, died, and was buried.

On the third day he rose again in fulfillment of the Scriptures; he ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father. He will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead, and his kingdom will have no end.

I believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the giver of life, who proceeds from the Father and the Son. With the Father and the Son he is worshiped and glorified. He has spoken through the Prophets.

I believe in one holy catholic and apostolic church. I acknowledge one baptism for the forgiveness of sins. I look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come.

That's just me.

Love whomever you want to love. Believe in whatever you'd like to believe.

Here in Halfglassistan, we welcome all.

Amen.