Thank You, Betty Kirby

I stood up against censorship when I was 17 to my high school principal over the content of a fictional story written for Belles Lettres, our annual literary publication.


My voice — internally and externally — was shaking, and I didn't think my fellow editors and I even thought we'd be able to include our response statement, even though we had the full support of our adviser.


Our little fuck-you statement, was in retrospect, much — much — milder than that hypenated adjective I just used to describe it. (Well of course it was. We couldn't go getting our censorship response censored.) It simply said, at the top of an otherwise blank page:

"The Belle Lettres staff 

would like to say everything good 

there is to say about censorship:"

In fact, just a few years later, once I'd entered The Grady School of Journalism at the University of Georgia, I found myself embarrassed for its mildness. My 20-year-old self was full of I'm-gonna-change-the-world arrogance, and rightfully so. My 17-year-old self had spent a lifetime as an Army brat, 12 years in the DoD education system and was just grateful to be finally doing something against the rules that would bring her praise and not punishment. And rightfully so.


It wouldn't have surprised either version of the younger me that at 43, I'd still be proud of my instincts and responsiveness. Nor that I would have the freedom that I do to express myself in myriad public ways. Whether it turned out to be a column in The Chicago Tribune, or my own little nation that I've staked out on the Internet is irrelevant. This is America. My father fought to ensure we'd all have that freedom.


It would have shocked the hell out both of them, however, that at 43, I'd still be faced with censorship.


And it should shock you, too. Please check out the facts, and please vote.


Thank you. From every single one of me.

Saturday the 14th. Still Here.

Um. Yeah. That counts as a victory 'round these parts.


In fact it counts as a big ol' "WOO-FREAKIN'-HOO!"


We take our triumphs where we find them these days.


And now Percy and I are going to settle in for a long (painless) winter's (it actually is cold) nap (yeah — snooze, sleep and snore — the whole shebang).


Carry on. 


Wait. What? Yes. Yes, of course with your bad selves. Is there any other way?

Friday the 13th

So far, so good.


All necessary business done for the day. Clean, soft, smell-good outfit (READ: PAJAMAS) on. Any knocks on the door shall go unanswered. Any unknown phone numbers will be siphoned to voice mail.


If you really need me — you really know how to find me.


It's not that we're that superstitious (Really. Well, kinda sorta maybe not ...); it's just that odd, unusual, unexpected, unwelcome and what the hell, we'll just say it: Really. Fucked. Up. Things have somehow found their way to Halfglassistan over the course of the last 13+ months, and a random message from one of said things (READ: THE LITTLE BITCHES THAT PASS AS OVARIES — WHOOPS! — OVARY SINGULAR. ONE WENT BYE-BYE LAST SUMMER. HER TWIN HAS DECIDED TO DO A LITTLE CHA-CHA DOWN BY MY HOO-HAH THIS PAST MONTH.) was interpreted this a.m. A distraction that was most unwelcome, as we have plenty of other ... well ... really fucked up things to deal with already.


And now, the girl who looooooves alliteration is taunted by the two words, when used in tandem, she despises the most.


Watchful. Waiting.


Considering everything is on the inside and not on some nifty balcony below my bellybutton, I find the term "Watchful" especially taunting. I'd be much more relaxed for the "Waiting" if I had a little closed circuit TV down in my business so I could actually watch it. As it is, it's really just Waiting Waiting, which I typically despise in most any context.


(insert indignant snort of derision HERE)


It's 4:10 p.m. EST. I'm going to park my ass in bed, with Nurse Tilly, a good book, remote controls and magazines for at least the next eight hours. At least. To be on the safe side, I'm thinking ass-parking may be done the majority of the weekend. Especially since our buddy Percy is here to soothe the savage beast bitch doing a polka in my pelvis. And, being as controlled as he is, he does a rather good job of keeping me in one place.


Come midnight, and it's Saturday the 14th, I have a pretty strong feeling that Percy will have set the tone for weekend. It's the other twenty-odd days that follow.


My prediction for Halfglassistan: People will be Watching us as we put our fingers in our ears, close our eyes, sing la-la-la-la and continue Waiting.


Meh. It could be worse. It could always — always — be worse.*


*Holy crap. 
Anyone else catch that flashback to the early days of Halfglassistan? 
Where the hell did that come from?! 
I. Don't. Know. But I like it. I like it a lot.

Surreality Bites

You know those dreams that are so real, you find yourself convincing your conscious mind that your brain essentially just Punk'd you?

Yeah. They suck. Worse yet, they stick with you.

Carry on. I'm gonna go scrub my cerebellum with Clorox.

Smack My Ass & Call Me Sassy

I? Am feeling cheeky. And feeling hair that's a lot less brunette around my sizable cheeks.


Something spontaneous in me (uh ... CatCon) decided we needed an adventure. Posted above is not the best photographic evidence, but I was, well, feeling spontaneous (impatient) and snapped it in the parking lot while there was still available sunlight.


There aren't many pictures of me here in Halfglassistan, which is in direct correlation to the reason I'm starting Weight Watchers next week. Yeah. Haven't been happy with the way I've looked and felt for a while. However, the ones that do exist show my natural chestnut brown haircolor. I have experimented — poorly — with peroxide in the past (An almost-platinum streak down one side in high school. In the eighties. Oh. And at my sister's wedding. Niiiiccce.), but never told a professional to go for it.


Until today. 


I love it. It's a blend of caramel and honey and a little creamy milk chocolate. I didn't want anything to clash with my brown Irish eyes, and my stylist didn't let me down.


The only downside? I came home and Mr. J wasn't here to say, "Oh. Yeah. Yeah. Turn around. I like it. She did a good job. Wait. Come here. Yeaaahh. I really like it. You look great." Insert kiss here.


That's just one typical male stereotype Mr. J didn't fall into. He never missed something new. That might have something to do with the fact that I made sure he knew something new was coming (I never understood girls getting pissed off because their significant other didn't notice that they just had an quarter-inch trimmed off their hair. Turn the tables. You wouldn't notice either.). Or it just might have something to do with why I love him. And miss him beyond description.


I'm going to be writing more about that. I'm going to be writing more, period. Those of you who are still out there reading — I'm hoping there are still folks reading — know that I've not chronicled much of life in Halfglassistan for the past year.


The reason is simple. Since Mr J's death, I've spent an awful lot of time in the other half of the glass. It's something he wouldn't have wanted. But — and this is up at the top of the list of "Reasons I Love Jamie Wedding" — he would have understood.


So I'm going to show up around here a lot more, regardless of in which half of the kingdom I'm residing. And I hope you will, too.


I need you.


And don't think that mention of Weight Watchers was inadvertent. No. A fab new 'do can only take me so far. I'll be posting WW progress here as well. (Aw hell. I've really gotta do it now.) 


Hopefully, as time passes, my cheekiness will be more attitude, and less assitude.


Keep coming back. (See three paragraphs up. Really.)

Well. Thank You, Captain Obvious.

Above is a Christmas gift from my sisters.

In case you can't clearly read below "Middle Sister" (Yes. Me.), here's a closer look:

Yes. Yes it does say "drama queen." (Yes. Also me.)

However, you also must have noticed the disparity in fashion:

Yes. Yes, also me.
In fact, I am currently watching bowl games while sporting a chic little trench (um, grey yoga pants and black t-shirt), a classic black handbag (er, my iPhone in my pocket) and my hair in a chic twist on top of my head (uh, a ponytail contained by a Goody(TM) elastic) and pumps and Jackie O. sunglasses (no, really; that's the truth ... it's tres fetch).

I'm also holding a glass of the clever California vintage above. Oh, yes. And sipping it. Today's still officially a holiday, so daydrinking isn't quite as risque. But still ... there's a little thrill. 

So Happy New Year's and chin-chin, my friends. May the coming year bring us all much more laughter, fewer tears and more love than you can possibly imagine.


Oh -- and plenty of high heels, comfy clothes, ponytails and tiaras, relaxing beverages and a diva attitude. All at once. Whenever you want.


Why the hell not?


Cheers, my dears.


(BTW, as far as accuracy in labeling goes, yes, my little sister does have bigger boobs than my older sister. Just in case you were wondering.)