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' ... 

(Not)Wordless Magical-Mystery-Flower Wednesday

©2011 ccw/halfglassistan

So. As if enough signs from the universe haven't already been telling me to get my glass in gear (I'm talking about you, @altgeldshrugged at your PHX signing. Stay tuned. I've got something coming with your name all over it.) — this popped up. 


Mr. J bought random plantings because he liked how they looked at Lowe's, and then subsequently in the yard. Never paid attention to whether they were annuals or perennials. No particular planning or coordination. What mattered was a funky shape and an unusual color. The leaves on this what-appears-to-be-some-kind-of-lily are what attracted Mr. J to the above bloom. That and the hot pink ombre petals.


In the five summers since it was planted, it hasn't returned every year. Just a couple of times. Thus, the name we gave it. This is my first summer without the magical Mr. J, yet the flower is out in full force.


Mystery? I don't think so.


Thanks to CVZ, the Governor of Jennsylvania and the amazing Mr. J for the kick in the glass. I needed it.

Wordless "Breathe, Breathe, Breathe" Wednesday

Wordless Oh-Sweet-Irony Wednesday

(relocation site selected by gracious owners of smoke-filled squee quarters 

after famously hot hotel became flamingly hot)

3 Girls + 4 Days - 25 Years = Priceless

CVZ 1985

CVZ 2010

SPG 1985

SPG 2010

CCW 1985

CCW 2010

SQUEEUNION 2010

(more to come)

Squeeunion

SQUEE

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.

Carolina In My Mind

Sitting on the beach, overwhelmed with a glorious sensory overload, I thought of two dear friends whom I knew were there with me in spirit. Given that they weren't actually within earshot to hear either a squee of delight, a sigh of contentment, or an alternating rhythm of the two, I decided to text them a simple message.

In my immediate short-term memory, or within my direct line of sight were several captivating images.

Like this one.

Or this one.

Or this one.

Or this one.

And definitely this one.

So. I scrolled to their names in my cell, composed a simple three-word text message, and hit "send."

My phone buzzed me back almost immediately with a response from sweet CVZ, with the simple advice to "enjoy" and her always-appropriate admonition to "breathe." (I do need reminding. To breathe. It's a problem.) A few minutes later, my phone buzzed again. Absorbed with all my my enjoying and breathing, I reached for it with a smile, certain it would be an equally happy response from sweet SPG.

Hmm.

Apparently, I only had SPG's landline programmed. The notice was from Verizon, kindly offering to transmit my text as a voice message. For a split second (Or two. I can be impulsive. It's a problem. Ironically, SPG is the one who has talked me down off that particular ledge.), I considered it. I thought, "Wow-isn't-that-cool-you-can-send-a-text-to-a-landline-and-it-magically-turns-into-a-voice-message." Just as my finger was headed in for a landing on the "send" key, two things occurred to me.

One: It wouldn't be my voice. It would probably be some skeevy computer-generated voice. Or worse, a voice like the lady who lives inside the voicemail box. Who doesn't sound like me, but might sound enough like somebody to make SPG wonder, "Do I know this chick?"

Two: Context. Not only would a disembodied, unknown voice be delivering the message, but those three words would be delivered in the absence of any frame of reference.

I started to imagine picking up my own phone to hear something along the lines of: "the following is a message from meaningless-number-number-number (I don't know anyone's actual phone number anymore. Do you?) ..." followed by my well-intentioned, share-the-moment three-word text. And then I decided against it.

Because I may be overly excitable, impulsive and even delightfully obnoxious, but even I know hearing a random voice on the phone saying "greetings from heaven" is just creepy.