Yeah. So. I Do Like Gravy...

I do have some semblance of a life happening, 

though you wouldn't know it from looking around here.

And my fingers are not broken.

And my brain is, well, pretty impressive when it wants to be.

And it wants to be.

My heart? Still broken. 

But it's my brain that's working on spackling those cracks.

So.

Let's get to impressing. Ourselves, at least.

You? Well. 

That's gravy.

Semi-Wordless "You-Wanna-Put-That-WHERE?!" Wednesday

March is colorectal cancer screening month. 

Speak with your doctors about when colonoscopy is right for you.

It's not particularly pretty, and it's not exactly easy; 
but, all in all, it's really pretty easy.

Do it.

Because

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.)

Are You There Jen Lancaster? It's Me, Cathleen.

Yes, I know the device has been done. It works. So I'm using it.


Are You There Vodka? It's Me, Chelsea was a best-seller for comedian Chelsea Handler (big fan, BTW). Colossal success. I turned to vodka (even bigger fan of it) to get me through my current crisis. Colossal failure. (Although Chelsea still gets me through the insomnia. Thanks ... girl.)


Are You There God, It's Me, Margaret? was every adolescent girl's dog-eared coming-of-age primer. In it, and her other bestselling young-adult-all-human-no-vampire-or-wizards (no offense, Twihards and Muggles — I just didn't grow up in the days of sparkly skin and quidditch) fiction, Judy Blume taught me what I needed to know. I wasn't afraid to get my period or a bra — and I knew it was normal to be confused when talking to God.


Even though I never knew why He did or didn't let something happen — I knew enough to know I wasn't supposed to know — I never stopped talking to Him. I didn't stop while Mr. J was sick. I didn't stop when Mr. J was healing. I didn't stop when Mr. J was well. And I sure as hell didn't stop when Mr. J was dying.


And I still haven't stopped. But I still know enough to know I'm not going to get any answers from God. I get strength. I get patience. I get comfort. Every now and then, I get a little peace.


But I don't get answers. No one tells you what to do when you're only 42 and your husband's cancer returns and he's dead within two weeks. Two days after your 11th wedding anniversary, which he remembered even in a haze of Dilaudid. One week before his 48th birthday — and on his father's birthday. November 1st. All Saints Day.


Judy Blume didn't have a book about that. Chelsea Handler (thankfully) never talks about it on the Round Table. And it's not in the bottom of a bottle (or two) of vodka. Or pills, for that matter.


I started writing this blog while Mr. J was going through an excruciating cancer battle. But I never doubted he'd make it through. I was scared, but I always believed that he was strong enough to survive. Because he believed it — and because he survived anything God threw at him.


Until this.


So. Now what? God can't tell me what to do next. Judy Blume can't. Chelsea Handler can't, even though I'd love some vodka right now. So you're probably wondering how Jen Lancaster is going to help me.


Glad you asked. She's not. But she reminded me how to help myself.


Last week in Phoenix, my sweet CVZ attended a book signing for Jen Lancaster's If You Were Here. Unbeknownst to me, CVZ was getting a copy signed for me. So Jen asks, "So who's this Cathleen," and probably thinks "and why isn't she here?"


CVZ replied that I was in South Carolina, the tour wasn't. She went on to tell Jen that I was the one to turn her on to her blog and her books, adding: "In fact, you follow her blog on Twitter."


Jen: "Really? Which blog?"


CVZ: "my half-glassed life."


Jen: "She hasn't written in a while."


I don't know if she meant I hadn't written her in a while (I doubt she'd remember the one and only fan e-mail I ever sent). I don't know if she meant I hadn't tweeted her in a while (unlikely my name stands out among her thousands of followers). I don't know if she's actually ever read my words.


What I do know is — she's right. I haven't. What I also know is that the only way I'll ever find the answer as to how to get through this is to write about it. Writing has gotten me through every crisis of my life — and it will get me through this one.


My story is far from over. And I'm not afraid anymore to tell it.

"Really? Which blog?"

Hah! PROOF! It's on its way from Phoenix, but won't arrive in time for my flight to Chicago.
So. Guess I'll have to buy a copy to read on the plane and add to its climb up the bestseller list.
What's that? My flight to Chicago, you ask? My trip that coincides with the Governor of Jennsylvania's
return to the Windy City? Uh, yeah. Coincidence? Um, yes. Totally.

But ... if by any chance ... you're actually reading this, um, Jen, please do know I am well aware
of how weird it would be to hunt you down try to run into you. Besides you're all up in the 'burbs now and
I'll be down in Bridgeport with family, so not likely it's gonna happen. I'll also be at Lincoln Park,
the Shedd, the Art Institute and across the water at Indiana Dunes.
Just sayin' ... 

Validation. Free With Egg Rolls. (aka Step Five)

Inside today's fortune cookies, in order of opening:

All progress occurs because 

people dare to be different.

If you always do what you've 

always done, you'll always get 

what you've always gotten.

What's that?

No. No, I am not in the habit of making life decisions* based on the contents of my fortune cookies. But to get a little unexpected wink from the universe and a life-lesson reinforcement — and wrapped in cookies, to boot? That's just, well, what passes for awesome these days in Halfglassistan.

*(keep tuning in)

Hmm? What's that, again? 

How long am I gonna keep up this "Step #"-thing?

I'll let you know when I know.

"the only true fortune cookie you'll ever get" 

(c)2002-2010 natalie dee 

Wordless "Breathe, Breathe, Breathe" Wednesday

Wordless Drip-Drip-Drip-Of-Mojo-Splashing Wednesday

BOLO on MOJO

MOJO ADVISORY
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

HALFGLASSISTAN, USA, August 20, 2010 — Be on the lookout for missing mojo. HRH Princess Snarkerella reports it was last spotted approximately two weeks ago. She added it may have been missing for at least three, but no more than four weeks. When pressed, she acknowledged it sometimes slips away without her noticing.

Cat Con, Snarkerella's official press secretary, stated: "This is the longest we've noted mojo's absence from Halfglassistan. However, we have no reason to believe it will not return. Be assured that we do have a transfusion protocol ready to implement, if necessary." Con went on to say that all citizens of Halfglassistan are in good health, and all non-reporting operations have been continuing without interruption.

If mojo is spotted, please advise the authorities as soon as possible via suitable communication channels.

###

Of Blocks and Blanks

"Better to write for yourself

and have no public,

than to write for the public 

and have no self."

– Cyril Connolly (1903-1974)

(better yet to just write)

(words, where are you?)

Because I Believe In You Even When You Don't

"You gain 

strength, courage and confidence 

by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. 

You are able to say to yourself, 'I have lived through this horror. 

I can take the next thing that comes along.'

You must do the thing 

you think you cannot do."

- Eleanor Roosevelt, 1884-1962

Cyber Cheer

On day three of life here in Halfglassistan, GolfGal showed up. She never left. And I hope she never does. Her quiet determination as she fully lives and loves life despite cancer recurrences is an inspiration.

Today, over in her little corner of the universe, she shared a message from a friend about women and how we take care of each other when we " ... share from our souls with our sisters, and evidently that is very good for our health ..."

So now I'd like to share it, and GolfGal, with you.

Cheers!

Go Me, Go Me, Go-Go-Go Me!

me: physically, long ago and far away; mentally, alive and well inside my head

I am good enough, I am smart enough, and doggone it! — people do like me.

Hope

hope: (noun) 

what lies between the dark and the light,

see also faith

IMAGE ©CCW/HALFGLASSISTAN

"Wishin' and Hopin' and Thinkin' and Prayin' ..."

wishin'

hopin'

thinkin'

prayin'

"Wishin' and Hopin'" lyrics © Burt Bacharach and Hal David

wishin', hopin', thinkin', prayin' images © ccw/halfglassistan

I Like What You've Done With The Place

Dear Universe,


I must say, you've been sending some good stuff my way lately.


I could wax poetic about what's going right here in Halfglassistan, but we both know how I feel about jinxes. So I won't go getting cocky about what's good. And I also won't go getting overwhelmed about what's bad.


In fact, I think I'll just shut up right about now. As soon as I say, "Thanks."


Sincerely,
Me

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.

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.

Cheesy Is As Cheesy Does

Thank you, Al Franken. 


Thank you for creating Stuart Smalley.


Thank you for providing snickers, eye-rolls, and laugh-out-loud moments when your satirical self-help guru dispensed his saccharine words of wisdom from his easy chair at 30 Rockefeller Center.


Thank you for creating a catchphrase that 20+ years later is embedded in my subconscious. It's so ingrained, I hear your character's whispery voice, measured cadence, and joyous lilt in my mind every time I think of your words:

"I'm good enough, I'm smart enough — and doggone it! — people like me."

Thank you very much. Because, however ridiculously mocking your character and his bon mots were intended to be, they both contain kernels of truth — as all good satire should.


And today, that pithy little punchline got me through the day. One more day when this lifelong overachiever weathered through a lingering fog of uncomfortable underachievement. One more day when this self-proclaimed attention whore announced her self-affirmation and greedily accepted others' acknowledgements. One more day when minor victories, once too trivial to be remembered a moment later, will instead be noted in the win column.


And that, sir, will push this ordinary Tuesday across the finish line and squarely in the category of A Good Day.


And I thank you, very kindly, for that.


P.S. Thank you also for clearly demonstrating the undeniable power of a teddy bear hug.

STUART SMALLEY CHARACTERIZATION AND QUOTATIONS © AND ™ AL FRANKEN

Holy Hero Worship, Batman!

Mr. J, circa long ago and far away

I love that little guy up there. He makes me smile every damn time I look at him. 


He looks a little different now, but I'd still know him anywhere. Same blue eyes that pierce right through to my heart, but they're darker. His smile doesn't come as easy, but it's worth the wait. The masks he wears are not as obvious, but I'm able to see through them. 


And the cape? It's not as bright, or shiny, or as crinkly and fun as I imagine that blue plastic one up there is. It's not even visible. To most people, anyway. But I know it's still there. And there's always room for me under it. Along with space left over to protect and care for far more than he should. But there is. And he does. Gladly.


I love that guy.

Thanks. I Needed That.

A few months back, I spotted a fellow blogger posing the question: "Do people really want to read personal posts?"


My first thought was: "I sure as hell hope so, because that's all I write about."


Curious, I clicked over to her site. While she has since built a thriving mommyblog, on that particular day she was new to it and full of questions. Suddenly I felt full of answers. I don't know how helpful my words were to her, but I do know that by the time I'd finished them, I'd helped someone. Me.


Back to now. I've been blocked lately, trying to figure out how to evolve this story of our lives along with the evolution of our lives. I thought about the words I wrote that day and tried to remember why they'd inspired me. But I couldn't. I tried to recreate the message and the mood. But I can't.


So, I went looking for those words. I found them and realized why I hadn't been able to improve on them. Because I can't.


So this time I'm keeping them here:

"Intrigued by your post title, I clicked over here from SITS.

My perspective: I'm a lifelong writer, stringing my own words together as soon as I learned I could. I worked hard to have one of the nation's top journalism schools give me a degree that has served me well. I've been lucky enough to have people pay me to string their words together for more than 20 years.

Still, I kept my best words inside, or, seen only by me, scribbled in too many journals to count.

A life-changing event last year gave me the impetus I needed to get those words out. What started as a daily chronicle on Facebook to keep family and friends informed of my husband's cancer treatment became a blog where I could say more than a FB status update would allow.

I promised myself I'd write in my voice, and write for me. I promised myself it didn't matter if people read it. I promised myself that even if I did want to be the next Heather Armstrong or Jen Lancaster, it didn't matter if I wasn't.

I promised myself I'd just keep writing. And I have. Sometimes sentimental, sometimes snarky. Sometimes about cancer advocacy, sometimes about cancer fears. Sometimes about love, sometimes about losing it.

But always about me, my life and my world. Because that's what I know.

And I do want to be as big as dooce™ and Jennsylvania™, and I do crave (more than I'd like to admit) the connections, the feedback — ahh, who am I kidding? — the pure, undiluted attention-high that comes from someone actually reading and responding to my words.

But I have to write like it doesn't matter. Because, now, I just have to write. And now, I have to figure out how to evolve from a cancer treatment story to life after it.

Thanks for this post. Thanks for reminding me of something I needed to remember. Be well."

So. That's it. 


I'll keep writing. And I hope you will continue reading. Thanks for hanging around this long.