Friday, July 30, 2010

Able To Form Complex Rationalizations In A Single Bound

"here she comes to save the day ... or the day after tomorrow" 
(whoi am so loving lately)

Thursday, July 29, 2010

3 Girls + 4 Days - 25 Years = Priceless

CVZ 1985

CVZ 2010

SPG 1985

SPG 2010

CCW 1985

CCW 2010

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Wednesday, July 21, 2010


verb to express delight; noun term of endearment for one who squees; usage: "She squee'd when she realized she'd see her squees soon." Frequently adapted to form new words, as in squeeunion

Yeah. Call me cheesy. Call me silly. Call me goofy and girltastic.

I don't care. 'Cause you're right — on all counts — and you can also call me happy. And excited. And grateful beyond belief.

Tomorrow, Halfglassistan is hosting the inaugural Squeeunion.

Yeah. That's right. You can now call me what I'm currently (um, okay, always) calling myself: All. Kinds. Of. Awesome.

Over the past year, there have been few things that I could count on unconditionally, so those things on which I could rely became very precious. One of those things was a little red dot. Day after day, week after week, month after month, very little in Halfglassistan was certain.

(Kinda the whole point of founding this little land of mine. If you're new in this parts, I recommend starting here and taking a look around. I promise that for every anxiety expressed, there's equal or greater happiness to be found.) 

That little red dot, though, was a constant. A simple indicator that a message was waiting became so much more. A reconnection of three high school friends quickly evolved into a sisterhood whose story was being written in Facebook message threads. Seemingly random subject lines give no clue to the content within. We write of our pasts and our presents, of laughter and love, of tears and triumphs — and most importantly — how all of those have become intertwined.

Tomorrow after months of virtual hugs and hand-holding — and 25 years since the three of us have shared oxygen — my sweet SPG and CVZ are arriving in Halfglassistan.

Let the squeeing begin.

Saturday, July 17, 2010

Summertime, And The Livin' Is Easy

(oh, how I heart my Bowen babies!)

Friday, July 16, 2010

In Which We Wonder What To Do

"You can't stay 
in your corner of the forest waiting 
for others to come to you. 

You have to go get them sometimes." 

Winnie the Pooh, A. A. Milne, 1882-1956 

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Wordless "People-Let-Me-Tell-Ya-'Bout-My-Best-Friend" Wednesday

(sing it with me)

Thank You

If you joined me in voting on behalf of To Write Love on Her and The Kristin Brooks Hope Center to fund IMAlive, thank you.

If you told a friend, or two, or twenty, thank you. It helped IMAlive win $100,000 in valuable funding.

And if you just read my post and took just a moment to care about people who may have forgotten, or never knew, how to take care of themselves but so desperately know that there is a light, somewhere, if they could only find it — then thank you for that. 

Thank you for caring.

Sunday, July 11, 2010

I'm Alive

click. vote. spread the word. soon.

One hello says a million words, and can scare a million hearts for a million different reasons. That's why millions of people in crisis may never — no, will never — pick up a phone, too scared, too pained, too absolutely unable to even speak. Too afraid of the voice on the other end. Will it be judgmental? Dismissive? Perky and dripping with misguided "but-you've-got-so-much-to-live-for"? Or worse yet, bored?

Now imagine just one of those same scared, pained, speechless hearts, online, seeking out someone, anyone who might begin to understand what they're feeling. Through the powerful social media presence of To Write Love on Her and The Kristin Brooks Hope Center, they find IMAlive.

And they find the strength and the courage to respond to a blinking cursor typing:

What difference might that make in just one life? What difference might that make in hundreds, thousands, millions of lives? Lives that might otherwise be lost forever to suicide?

The Kristin Brooks Hope Center — founder of 1-800-SUICIDE — has partnered with To Write Love on Her Arms and to develop IMAlive, the first live online crisis network with 100 percent of its staff certified and trained in crisis prevention. If The Kristin Brooks Hope Center wins the $250,000 prize, 100 percent of the proceeds will go directly toward IMAlive

Please vote — and soon — by clicking any of the links in this post, and you can help someone be able to say "I'm alive," because they sought and found help, and didn't follow the dark shadows in their hearts.

I know. Because even though I once followed my dark shadows, thankfully they didn't win. 

I'm alive.

The Kristin Brooks Hope Center is a non-profit organization founded in 1988 after the tragic death of the founder's wife, Kristen, by suicide. From the beginning, Reese Butler and the Hope Center have been dedicated to suicide prevention by providing easy access to a large network of crisis line workers, while helping to break down the stigma and other barriers to accessing help and hope. For more information, visit 

Friday, July 9, 2010

Because All-Awesome, All-The-Time Wears A Girl Out

"if i'm not huggin ya don't stand close enough for me to hug ya" 
(whoi am so loving lately)

Saturday, July 3, 2010

Flashback Fireworks

Hey, hey, hey — happy, happy, y'all!

I love the Fourth of July, and can always find a reason to celebrate. A reason, that is, beyond the Army-brat-infused overwhelming pride of all things red, white and blue. Reasons as simple as a bright sun in the sky, a cool drink in my hand and the promise of a firecracker night.

Or reasons as simple as last year's: That Samuel L. Chemo was on the job, some chick named Neulasta was joining in, and Tilly was pulling LIVESTRONG duty right beside us.

Wow. This year's reasons to celebrate are that I'm feeling all kinds of awesome being back on the job, Mr. J is continuing to kick cancer's ass all over the damn place, and Tilly is still wonderfully Tilly. And just like last year, we're still celebrating simply being able to celebrate. Which is reason enough, in my not-so-humble-opinion.

And — because it's still a damn good story (check back next year; you'll probably see it then, too), from July 5, 2009:

Saturday. In The Yard. Think It Was The Fourth Of July.

I love the Fourth of July. This year, it will be a relatively quiet celebration, except for any neighbors in good-old-fireworks-legal-South Carolina who may be putting on a show. We can usually count on a few teens nearby to pop off more than a few sizzlers, and Jamie and I will venture into the backyard, beers or sodas (or bourbon) in hand, to watch the show. 

Remembering our first July in this house, I think that the kids thought we were coming out to complain about the playing-with-matches-and-what-not already in progress:
A round goes off, we take our swigs and holler a hearty "WOO-HOO!" their way. They think (or so I like to think), "OK, those old farts are gonna be cool." Then a real old fart (who, surprisingly, is younger than we are) comes outside and throws off a few passive-aggressive huffs and puffs, only to be ignored. She (it's always a she) even walks over and says something to the teenagers, and then arms crossed, head down, still huffing and puffing, she radiates bitch-energy as she skulks back to her house.
There's a pause in the show and we think that maybe the kids have bowed to young-old-fartista's will. Now I know they're thinking, "Crabby old fart," because we're saying, um, thinking, it, too.
But, no. They're just stockpiling whatever mini-munitions they have left in a pile in the center of the cul-de-sac. One by one, their cars fill up and drive away. We notice, however, they've only barely driven outside the neighborhood gate and pulled over to the side of the main thoroughfare, still a good vantage point.
When just one vehicle and two kids are left, our suspicions are confirmed. Ready ... driver starts the engine. Set ... passenger is poised at the end of a fuseline of sparklers. GO! Match is lit, dropped to the sparklers, and passenger hops in car, which pulls up even with our yard (I told you they knew we were cool) to watch the fuseline burn toward the pile'o'pops.
And ... BOOM! HISS! CRACKLE! SNAP! POPOPOPOPOPOP! SSSHHHHCCCCOWWWW-OW-OW-0W! (that's what it sounds like to me; feel free to suggest alternate spellings below ...)
The finale! 
We cheer! The kids beside us cheer! The kids on the road cheer!
Just as it ends, a chorus of car horns starts up and they speedily retreat ... probably to buy more fireworks (it's only 10 p.m.)and go to someone else's neighborhood (the night is young) and piss off some other old fart (they're everywhere, you know).
Our one-time "new" neighborhood is filled with homes now, with no more open cul-de-sacs in which to host impromptu sky shows. Not sure where Ms. Young Old-Fart is. She didn't venture out and complain much anymore after that night. She still may be huffing and puffing, peeking out her window every time someone's music is too loud, someone's dog barks, or someone laughs just a little too heartily. I feel sorry for her, and she doesn't even know why.
Those same kids have grown up and have better things to do than hang around someone's yard on a hot summer night, drink beer or soda (or bourbon) and shoot off fireworks. They won't ask, but if they did, I'd tell them that one day they'll learn.
I'd tell them: "Twenty, 30 — hell, if you're lucky enough to keep a laugh in your heart, 40 or 50 — years from now, you'll learn that walking into your backyard, holding hands, sipping on beer or soda (or bourbon); watching fearless teenage boys impress breathless teenage girls; oohing, ahhing, and woo-hooing while the grumpy neighbors harrumph wa-a-a-a-a-y before their time; telling each other stories of summers long ago, stories you've heard already, but love to hear again and again because of the twinkle in the eyes and dimples in the cheek of your storyteller; kissing in the moonlight before going back in the house  ... You'll learn. You'll learn there is nothing better to do than just that."
But they won't ask. And they wouldn't listen. I wouldn't have.
Happy, happy, y'all.
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