Friday, November 8, 2013

Me and my big-ass-bone...

For the three people who are reading this (actually two because I am most likely one of the three), I am fine. No cancer, but the stress due to my outlandish imagination put my BP up to 153/92 for an hour ---afterwards --- it went down to the usual 128/80. I am writing this because they anestethized me for four hours this afternoon and I'm awake at 3:30AM.

I have the coolest family, the most joyful, spiritual girlfriends ever, and a marriage with issues worth ignoring, which is pretty damn honest after forty-five years together. We are so lucky to be who we are together (and apart). That is the only way to be together for that long.  *together&apart*  Oh, I could lie... but then you would know it, and I would get called out - kind of like a picture of me.

Photoshop after chemo is a must but... really? My neck looks like I am eleven.

I had this taken for my book. I wrote a story in 2004, edited it for another six years, and then, after publishing it, never felt like marketing it.. even though it sits alone on So sad. I didn't write it for money. I wrote it because I was compelled by the story. I heard about this same twisted obsession from the Twilight author about her series... bless her heart. 

I was driven. Put it this way: I AM the dog on the bone. I do it with everything... then I drop things and move to something else. I paint beautiful paintings, then I drop a brush for years. I joined a band and was obsessed with learning Jimmy Buffet. I don't even LIKE parrot music, but it was an opportunity to fail. And in falling on my face, I grew. I learned my instrument (piano) backwards and forwards. I found that I am a decent singer too, but didn't feel comfortable doing it. I am no longer afraid to make speeches or talk in a public forum because of the band. 

I started this blog, which I forget to look at or work on. I obsessively learned Italian for three months before my trip. I became a certified massage therapist just to try something new, and bury the death of my bitter mother.  I spent two months on labeling everything in my entire house (that's just a sick-ass dog) but now it's pretty great. But at this point, I am too lazy to put the batteries in the damn label-maker and will most likely give it to Goodwill. I'm doing charity work for an African-Amercan women's group even though I can't join because I'm Caucasion. Seriously?

But I will tell you this much: I have lived a life of being unafraid -->-of any of it. I'm pretty sure I will get a tattoo before I'm too wrinkley and go sky-diving before my knees give out. Frankly, I never wanted to be ninety and look back and wish I had done something crazy, hard, or scary. I have to live with my children's looks of confusion and wonderment, knowing that they might be happier if I acted like a "normal" mother, but...   guess.what.  you only get one shot, loveys. And once you get your wings after you die, sky-diving won't seem like such a terrifyingly, big deal.

Carpe Diem, kids!

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