I’m delving into the personal today, so bear with me.  This is not an easy blog to write.  As you know, I feel much more at home staying away from home and looking at the world from a safe distance of at least 30,000 feet.  Hmmm, maybe that’s why I became a pilot.  That’s probably another blog and another few months of therapy, and I am not here to write about me…not really.

I’m a big believer in just letting it out there, in ripping off the bandage and getting the screaming over and done.  It only hurts for a second, right?  And then one can get on with dealing with whatever circumstance dares infringe upon an ordered life.  That philosophy has served me well over the years with the exception of that which is most personal.  I’m a compartmentalizer; I shove it to the back of my mind and think about it later when I’m sleeping…which probably explains why I never sleep, and that’s another session for Dr. Glass.  Not today, however.  I have a little public ripping and screaming to do in anticipation that perhaps our family journey can be of some comfort to others.

Deep breath, swallow that lump, and let the cutting loose begin…

Regular readers know, or at least have an idea, that I have been in a loving, committed relationship for more years than I am worthy.  In most states, that would legally be a marriage, but not for us.  We have long sense made our peace with the inequalities of wedded bliss in the United States, and we have bound ourselves legally in other ways…the pocket-power-of-attorney; don’t leave home without it.  Standing in the majesty of nature’s purple mountains, we made our own vows.  It is not a stretch to imagine that archaic “obey” oath being excluded to the preference of compromise and respect, but it was important to us both to include the traditional “in sickness and in health”.  You just never know…

*insert sound of flesh being ripped apart from the Band-aid*

A few months ago, at the age of 36, my Randi was definitively diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease.

*insert scream and four-letter expletives here*

Before I go on, I want you all to work through the shock and those images of Muhammad Ali and Michael J. Fox in your head.  It’s fine, we have.  In fact, the first year and a half with symptoms we expertly navigated the murky waters of denial.

“What do you mean you can’t work the computer mouse?  It’s broken, throw it away and we will get a new, more sensitive one…” 

“A tingling, and painful right arm?  It must be overly compressed cervical discs…and there’s a doc for that.  Surgery?  Sure…”  

“What, after all that, there is no change?  A neurologist?  A movement disorder specialist?  Sure, I’ll go with you…”

I sat there watching Randi struggle to tap her right toe, repeatedly wrestle with touching her right finger to her thumb, and try over and over with little success to “screw in a light bulb” with her right hand.  As the second opinion was announced, my scientific mind dropped the pretense and my heart sank into a silent scream…thus ending my own personal journey on the surface of denial.

I am certainly not one of those of the conviction that the onset of death and disease is God’s will.  My God doesn’t pull vengeful shit like that.  The human body, though miraculously created, is a complex, organic cluster of chemical reactions that unfortunately fail sometimes.  I admit there is a certain psychological comfort provided by blaming this on some higher power, but in my mind, I knew better…I know better.

We all plot our personal course of comprehension at different speeds, so I held my life partner as tightly as I could to her repeated chorus of, “no, no, no…”  Randi is a spreadsheet builder, a number cruncher, and an executive financial officer whose professionalism leaves no doubt why certain levels of her career choice are called controller.  She needed a picture, something definitive to point to, and then sum it all up.  In a couple of weeks, we got that opportunity.  From the Michael J. Fox Foundation website, Randi sent me a link to a new diagnostic tool, called a daTscan.  The Fox Foundation blog post was announcing the FDA approval of this particular brain scan in determining presence/absence of dopamine, a neurotransmitter released by nerve cells in the brain to send to other nerve cells in the body.  Parkinson’s is caused by loss of dopamine-secreting neurons in the mid-brain.

The search was then on to find a hospital and a daTscan.  The technology is so new that most of the instruments are for research hospitals only and are not commercially diagnostic.  We sat at the computer and kept searching.  New York City.  OK, there are a few friends that we owe a dinner and a conversation, so that’s doable.  Minnesota?  Ooooh, too cold right now.  Mayo in Phoenix?  That’s certainly manageable.  We can make a day trip out of it; call and make the appointment.  Upon making the call, we learned that the website had not been updated, and there is an instrument here in town.  Good news at last.  Here is an example of the scan.

The bright red comma shape of a healthy hemisphere compared to the stark, point of a Parkinson’s-like period, is all Randi needed for acceptance.  Now, I won’t voice my disdain here for insurance corporations and what five politicians in black robes might do to a limited but better than nothing Obamacare, I will just say that no matter what the out of pocket expense for the commission of this particular portrait, it was worth every dime.  That picture became the vehicle upon which we, as a family, could move forward together.  Well, after a small meltdown session, and a day on the couch eating ice cream and watching marathon house hunting on Home and Garden TV.

It’s been a few months now, and life goes on.  I know there are probably a few questions from those who know us about symptoms, so let’s get to it.  Does Randi shake?  Not noticeably, but yes, she shakes when she gets emotional, and you can pretty much blame me for much of that.  Just like any spouse, I am exasperating at times.  I leave my shoes on the floor, my bowl in the sink, and my coffee cup(s) everywhere…not to mention on the very rare occasion, I can be a bit of a smart ass.  Sometimes, though, I think she picks a fight with me on purpose…there seems to be a direct correlation between our fights and the sound of ice in the martini shaker.

Does Randi drag her arm when she walks?  Sometimes, but I bought her a fabulous new purse with a shoulder strap that seconds as somewhat of a sling…but who notices the arm with that gorgeous purse around it?!  And some people say shopping is a waste of time.  Does she limp?  Only when she walks.  Randi also has an impressive, but unfortunately unnecessary, scar from disc surgery that runs horizontally across her neck.  I have to say here, honey, please stop telling people you got your throat cut wrestling me out of a biker bar.  I’ve had my rebellious years and I still love leather, but the Harley drivers I know presently are mostly attorneys.  The closest I ever get now to the real Sons of Anarchy is following Kurt Sutter on Twitter.

Is there pain?  Yes.  Only about one percent of patients have associated chronic pain with PD, and unfortunately this is the mega, low-chance lottery she hit.   Having been recently accepted into a clinical trial for a new drug, however, we are hoping within a few weeks the pain will subside.  On the bright side, for now, Vicadin is prescribed in the party pack size as if we purchased it from Costco.

I write this blog not to embarrass Randi, though I’m sure it will.  She understands that this very personal account is to let others out there with Parkinson’s Disease and other movement disorders know that they are not alone.  In contradiction to some very worthwhile campaigns, it doesn’t always get better, but in having others to help you share your burden, the tiresome effects of carrying that weight in isolated totality become tolerable.

A couple of years back, I interviewed entertainment reporter and breast cancer survivor, Lisa Bernhard.  I am inspired by all that she and Matthew Zachary have done with, Stupid Cancer, and the advocacy they provide to young adult cancer warriors.  It is Randi’s and my desire to take a page from their playbook and do something productive for others.  Let’s face it, there are just so many days the two of us can spend on the couch with Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Therapy and annoying home improvers.  So why not channel the times of frustration into something that can make a difference?  From what the doctors tell us, only 3% of diagnosed Parkinson’s Disease patients are in their 30’s, and there is very limited patient resources in the form of support groups and communication sites for those with early onset PD.  There is our outlet; see a void and fill it.  We are pretty savvy at social networking and websites, and when we approached the Brain Center with the idea, they immediately voiced interest in partnering.  Lisa and Matt have “Stupid” pretty much to their own, so what do you think of putting F*cking Parkinson’s on a t-shirt?  Or the “heroes of FUPD”?  We’ll work on it in the next few months, and of course, we welcome any feedback and assistance we can get.

How are we? Oh, we have a new normal based around cell phone alarms signaling the appropriate pill popping times, but we can do that.  As the doctor said, this is not a death sentence, and I’m going to hold him to it.  I have a very strong faith and I believe in the power of prayer, but I am a scientist, too, and just as strongly, I believe in the God-given gift of beautiful minds and research.  I believe with all my heart there are breakthroughs on the horizon.  To say that I go to bed at night without any fear to hide away somewhere, I would be lying, but every night as I lie beside her and feel the effects of a tremorous consciousness fall victim to the welcome stillness of rejuvenating slumber, I am not afraid.

We spend quite a few hours in hospitals and waiting rooms now, and as we sit there, hand in hand, and observe so many of those suffering around us, we feel so very fortunate.  We have each other and all those wonderful years ahead of us.  Sure, they make look a little different than we imagined them six months ago, but time spent together with the person you love is precious time…no matter how shaky it gets.

We are blessed…and have been from the beginning.

For the better part of a week, my friend, Adele, has been sending me texts and pictures filled with the color and character of New Orleans.  She returned to her home town of big sin and an even bigger easy to spend a few days with family and to celebrate Mardi Gras.  With each remembrance delivered across virtual space, I miss that wonderful city of peccant song, food, and spirit.

I used to see a girl from New Orleans whose Cajun grandmother was an absolute love.  We would travel for miles, top-down, and wind in our hair, deep into bayou country…where the state bird is the mosquito.  There’s no way I could miss one of Mamma Toula’s home-eatin’ events.  Upon arrival, the thick, damp, air wafted my way the most wonderful of olfactory sensations simmering in large, cast-iron pots over an outside open-fire.  It was too damn hot to cook that much food inside the small, clapboard house the family matriarch had lived in for decades.

On no too few occasions, I summoned the courage to ask for the tightly held secret family jambalaya recipe.  Each time, Mamma Toula declined, but would joyfully quiz me on the contents of that one-pot wonder.  I passed with flying colors when asked to list the vegetables, but the meats, I have to admit, were sometimes a mystery.  She would shake her head at my eventual surrender and say with a wink, “Dats alma dillon, Sha.”  I never asked if she was kidding with me.  I never really wanted to know the truth about the alma dillon.

Alma dillon

I firmly believe that little old woman was a seer…or as my daddy would call her, a diviner.  I remember as if it was yesterday walking up to Toula while she stirred those big pots, blackened by seasoning.  She always wore her hair in a not-so-tight bun that allowed errant silver strands to wisp across her face…and she smelled of lye soap.  When I leaned down for a tight hug, she would put her thin, work-worn, liver-spotted hands up to my face, look directly into my eyes, say something in a dialect that I didn’t quite understand, and then she would smile a gapped-tooth smile.  I had the eery, but warm feeling that she was looking right through my soul, and for a brief moment, I felt an anxious relief at her touch.

I’m smiling right now as I remember sweet Toula and her family.  I sit at my kitchen table with an Abita beer in one hand and a worn brown paper bag in the other.  On that flattened grocery sack, in a faded, almost illegible scrawl, are the ingredients to the best pot of Cajun cooking the angels ever left behind.  Yes, eventually, after many late night conversations around a liquid concoction called tunda an’ lightnin’, Momma Toula “saw” that I was worthy of many family secrets.

Squinting my eyes I read tomatoes, onions, garlic, peppers, celery, chicken, shrimp, sausage, ‘gator, and my sweet Cher, alma dillon.  Wonder if Whole Foods has a reptile section?

Let the good times (and good food) roll…

Regular readers know that I am not a big fan of Valentine’s Day.  It’s not that I am lonely and bitter and prefer to wile away a cold February night in a dark room sipping tepid soup from a can and lamenting my lost loves, I just hate being told what to do…especially by corporate America…especially about matters of the heart.  Luckily, I have a better three-quarters who feels the same way I do, or I would be one of those “she went to Jarrod” schmucks standing in line on February 13th.  Wait, there is no “she” in Jarrod, is there?  Alas, the point of this post.

After a long day at work and after working our asses off (literally) at the gym, Randi and I decided to spend Valentine’s night dressed in our respective PJs and in front of the television.  Qdoba Mexican Grill is right around the corner from the gym and just around the next corner from our house, so we decide to pop in, grab something fast and naked, and avoid the Valentine’s holiday hullabaloo.   Jumping from the car and running into the fresh food served fast restaurant, I was stopped still in my Asics.  The line for service wrapped around the inside of the dining area.  I know this is the Colorado ‘burbs, but I would have expected this more on coupon night at Chili’s…or Chick-fil-a.

Too tired to turn around, we took our places in line and contemplated our culinary wait.  To the employees’ credit, the line moved remarkably quick, and it didn’t take long for me to realize why the queue was longer than a Santorum book-signing at Focus on the Family.  To help spread the love, Qdoba was offering a BOGO deal, yes, buy one gigantic, feed-a-family-of-four burrito and get one free.  No coupon necessary, no phone app required…just a pair of lips, well, two pair.  Yep, a sign next to the ORDER HERE section of the counter read, BOGO when you kiss your significant other, family member, or a willing stranger.  I nudged Randi’s attention toward the sign, and I immediately knew what she was thinking…A FREE MEAL!  I gave her the raised eyebrow “look”, and then I saw the light bulb.  Yes, this could be interesting.  On no too few occasions, kindergartners in this county have been suspended for PDA hugging at recess, so what do you suppose ogling two lesbians kissing in broad almost-daylight would do?  Turn you to a pillar of salt?

Seeing Randi and me laughing, the two women next to us in line assume to be in on a joke.  One of them looks at me and says, “I know,” pointing to the the female beside her.  “This is my cousin, so it’s OK; we’re gonna do it for a free burrito.”  Being raised in the South, and a regular viewer of Downton Abbey, I’m pretty familiar with kissing cousins, so I replied, “We’re lesbians, and we’re gonna enjoy it.”

As an observer of life, I have to admit I was toying a bit with her in order to get a reaction.  Much to my surprise, and to my pleasure, she burst with the most pleasant of laughs.  “Please,” she said.  “It’s pretty conservative around here…and these elected officials.”  Then she rolls her eyes.  “It’s all good with me,” she pauses and leans closer, “my home office is in San Fran.”  I think I fell a little in love with that woman.  She goes on to kiss her cousin, has the cashier record it on her phone so she can show her husband, and then she wishes me and my life partner the happiest of Valentine’s evenings.

Having kissed and cashed out to surprisingly little fanfare, my significant other and I take our naked bowls of goodness home, sweet home.  I was turning to take the stairs for a quick shower when a friend text to ask if we were watching Glee.  That question could only mean one of two things about Fox’s offering of iTunes downloads wrapped around a plot or two; it was either good…or really, really bad.  The red light on the Tivo signaled the singing show was recording, and the clock indicated it was more than twenty minutes into the telecast…yay, I can skip through the commercials without catching up.

Now, I had a funny feeling that a Glee episode entitled, Heart, that airs on February 14th would be an obvious ploy to pull both of those under-represented Nielsen family lesbians away from Rizzoli & Isles and their set meters back to Fox.  Networks are famous for sweeps shenanigans showering us with girl on girl double entendre all the while doubling down on the double standard.  I prepared myself for what surely was to come, more nauseating displays of PDA by Finn and Rachel, a possible sticky hook-up for Sugar and Artie, and Mercedes and Trouty will most certainly spawn while Santana and Brittany will eye gaze, head butt, and shoulder nudge themselves until they need glasses.

And so it begins…or so I thought.  There seems to be an evolution…or in this case, I’ll say intelligent design.  Take a look.

CLICK HERE

I can’t believe it.  Did Brittany just real-kiss Santana in the middle of a restaurant (like “Finchel”) with no fade to black and no network disclaimer?  Or did I get some bad pork?  Of course not, Qdoba is aces (thank you Bomb Girls vernacular).  I was beginning to believe I would never see a major US network apply their standards and practices equally, without regard to gender, in a loving, intimate storyline.  I know it’s Glee, and when it comes to social messaging, it has been pushing the envelope from the beginning, but this episode, entitled Heart, pushes the message right through the front door of millions of homes in the American heartland…love is love, and two female Valentines are equally as deserving of a superseded 60’s pop song as any pairing…and then react accordingly.

I have to say, I started out this Valentines Day of 2012 with a willful disregard for the pomp and circumstance of a retail, Hallmark holiday, and I ended up celebrating a couple of corporations whose standards encourage two lesbians to walk into a restaurant, get naked (so to speak), and kiss for their supper just like any other patron.  That’s not just progressive; that’s progress.

Note from ‘Schmootz:  I wanted to call this blog Naked Burritos With a Side of Santana: Equality With a Hispanic Flavor.  It didn’t turn out that way, but I didn’t want to waste this great title.  LOL

I am a Christian.  No, not the Tim Tebow kind.  I don’t strike the overly publicized prayer pose when I score a new pair of sale shoes at Nordstrom.  I’m just your everyday, run of the mill Methodist who wears nothing on my sleeve but the occasional well-tailored jacket.  Among other things, I embrace altruism, criticism, patriotism, and thanks to years of partnered cohabitation, Judaism.  Yes, we are a culturally and religiously blended family.  Last year I wrote about our combined efforts in trimming the best Christmas tree ever, but this year I think it only fitting to wish my Jewish friends the happiest of Hanukkah celebrations over the next eight days.

On Christmas Day, we eat Chinese, but tonight we will sit down to lamb shanks with pears and pistachios, butternut squash latkes with sage and pine nut yogurt, and a pea spaetzle with mint, chives, and tomatoes.  And who will cook this culinary extravaganza?  The Christian, the one who historically ate ham at every religious holiday.  Yes, in the beginning, God (and my mother-in-law) begat a steep learning curve.

My favorite holiday Hanukkah meal was prepared a few years ago by me and my good friend, Chele.  I use the terms “holiday” and “prepared” lightly as Chele was raised Catholic, is now an agnostic, and tends to multiply everything by large whole numbers when converting in the kitchen…which explains my near alcohol poisoning this summer.  Anyway, under the strict supervision (and bottomless wine glass) of the household Hanukkah expert, the runaway former Southern Baptist and the fallen Catholic put together a brisket and fried potato pancakes (it’s all about the oil, and that’s where the Southern part came in handy) that would make you wanna slap your mamma (ok, that, too).  Before we sat down, though, and before the sun set, Randi, put aside her wine glass and picked up a match to light the shamash, the attendant candle that lights the other candles in the menorah.  She recited the blessing over the candles while lighting them.  The blessing is in Hebrew, but you don’t have to be Jewish, or religious for that matter, to appreciate the beauty in the message.  Count your multitudinous gifts and be thankful for each and every one.

I look around the holiday table each year and offer my gratitude for the many miracles reflected in the faces in front of me, and in the faces foremost in my memory.  I am constantly amazed at those who love me not only for what I am humanly allotted, but for eight times more than the expected.  I am truly blessed.  In return, I can only offer you my expressions of thankfulness and my vow to watch over you, to be your advocate, your shamash…so that I might give back some of the abundant light you bring into my life.

Happy Hanukkah!

As regular readers of the ‘Schmootz blog can attest, I don’t write about myself very often…at least outside of my political ponderings or entertainment selections that I deem personally worthy (or unworthy) of a viewer’s time.  I tend to observe the world from thirty thousand feet looking down, instead of from ground level looking up and out.  I know, it’s safer that way, and I don’t pretend it as anything else.  I’m not above a few Freudian defense mechanisms of my own.  Lately, though, I have been writing from the deep, personal trenches, and whether the results will ever see the light of day, it remains to be seen.  What I do know is that this reflective experience, coupled with a few curves life has thrown at my family as of late, has compelled me to reflect upon my good fortunes and to appreciate more the plentitude of which I am graced.

In a couple of days, I’ll sit down to the American holiday of Thanksgiving, where pepper spray seems to be this year’s condiment of choice.  As I occupy my thoughts, I surmise that I am certainly not one of the richest of Americans when comparing bank accounts, though let me say here, I am extremely relieved and much obliged that I have a good job that provides an ample surplus for my actual needs.  Where I do find an obscene abundance of wealth, however, is in the indices where monetary estimations are difficult to apply.  It is here that I find myself in the fortunate 1% of love, family, and friends.  As a result, I feel that I should be liberally taxed to expound upon my thankfulness in proportion to my earnings.

My partner and I, though legally unwed and filing separately, have been together for quite a few years.  I believe in a Kardashian matrimonial timeline, we have been in power-of-attorney bliss something synonymous to the Pleistocene era.  I often refer to her as my better three-quarters because I believe a realistic relationship it is never 50-50.  Just like the Dow Jones, there are emotional ups and downs, mostly due to speculation, but there has never been an extended period that I didn’t receive a special dividend like hearing the garage door go up after a long day and knowing she will walk through the door at any minute; like waking in the middle of the night to a head on my shoulder and an arm across my chest; like her mother’s difficult chicken soup recipe when I have a cold (the only time she ever cooks); like that extra vote of confidence to push me over the top and that honest shot of humility to pull me back from the edge.  For that, I am eternally thankful.

Over the years, I have made quite the capital gain in friends, and I can honestly say that  we anxiously rely on common shares of each other’s company.  From technical advice, to new grilling techniques, to obscure pop culture trivia, our investments in these mutual corporations of real personhoods have certainly paid off.  What might have started from some obscure individual fund, now matures as virtual writing advice over mutual morning coffee or hours long Skype exchanges half the world away.  There is a saying that you can pick your friends, but you can’t pick your family.  As far as I’m concerned, no statement has ever been more true, but speculation has served me quite well over the years, and I have a few friends who are more of a family asset and thankfully come with a lifetime guarantee…one in particular, an inheritance over several lifetimes.

So, yes, I am a one-percenter.  I am blessed with a wealth of intangible assets that have been created by a loving work effort yet defy physical measurement.  I say tax me more so that that there is such a thing as an equal share of a grateful, giving heart.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone…it is my sincere hope that you add goodwill and kindness to your balance sheet.

What the hell happened to Thanksgiving?  You know, that once famous holiday located nicely on the calendar between All Hallow’s Eve and the Christian celebration of retail tidings of great cheer.  I went shopping yesterday, and what to my confused and wandering eyes should appear, but a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer.  Towering, fake evergreens are spruced up with twinkling white lights, and beneath, varying sizes of wrapped packages, and boxes with bows.  Huh?  What?  It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas is being forced down our throats.

I love Thanksgiving.  I remember as a child the satisfaction of outlining my hand with a pencil…and with a few colors of broken crayons, a little glue, a piece of brown construction paper, and a little imagination, a beautiful turkey appeared.   My kid creation was proudly placed upon the refrigerator door, a familial place of honor underneath that slightly chipped magnet shaped like an ear of corn.  I remember waiting anxiously for my father, my uncle, and my male cousins to return from the morning’s hunt.  Not because I had any real desire to see Bambi’s dad strapped to the hood of the truck, but because their arrival from over the river and back through my grandmother’s vast woods signaled the countdown to sit down, a time when we gathered around the large, dining room table, held hands, told the story about the first Thanksgiving, and expounded upon the givings we were most thankful.   At this innocent point in my life, I was thankful most that God created Goo Goo Clusters.  As you can imagine, it didn’t take that many years, for me to realize the symbolism over substance of these choreographed family dinners and the fact the Pilgrims exchanged small pox with native Americans more than they did turkey and stuffing.  That being said, the exercise of being thankful, never lost its significance for me.

These are tough, weary times in which we now live.  And though our retail giants would like us to believe that to lighten the mood we need a little Christmas right this very minute, I don’t believe that for a second.  True, at times I, too, feel Mame’d from this greatly depressing recession, but what I need more right now than skinny Elvis singing about a blue Christmas, is a little congealed-and-compressed, canned cranberry sauce (found somewhere between the 75% off candy corn and the caned peppermint sticks), and a swift kick in the ass.   I need that historic Macy’s paraded reminder to be extraordinarily thankful…for my family, my friends, my health, and a myriad of life’s other small, but priceless, gratuities.

People, let our voices be heard.  We don’t need eight weeks of Hallmark hooey.  Occupy Thanksgiving and keep this significant day of reflection from becoming roadkill on the corporate causeway.  Raise your hands in thankful solidarity and peacefully protest…and then draw a turkey around them.

Ok, first I thought, what shoes will I wear?!  I mean, come on…the book is called Changing Shoes, right?  As long as you can change your shoes, you can change your life.  My catalogue of pumps, platforms, and peep-toes began to race through my mind.  And then I thought, what car will I drive?  I can’t show up in that little red thing of mine and ask her to fold herself up and get in, it’s Tina Sloan.  And what if she has “people”?  Ok, I’ll take the SUV…not great for maneuvering downtown streets, but greater seating capacity and more comfort.

As luck would have it, Tina arrives to the first snow storm of the year, a twelve inch blanket of nature’s frozen beauty.  Yeah, it’s beautiful, but it sure puts a crimp in the shoe choice.  Out are the black, suede peep-toe, 4-in heels…in are the motorcycle styled Uggs.  Ugh!  Luckily, I have read Tina’s book and I followed her advice.  Being confronted with some act of an inconvenient god, I just changed my shoes.  Sure the ugly Australian brogans are the appropriate pick for an unplowed parking lot, but knee high, new-copper-penny-colored, crocodile-embossed, boots are more applicable to Driving Miss Tina.  I simply made the modification in the car.

I arrive early to the hotel, as any daughter of a Junior Leaguer and graduate of the Miss Pittypat Southern school of manners would.  Yes, you can take the girl out of the South, but you never quite take the Southern out of the girl.  I circled the block a couple of times, and giving further credence to the idiom, third times a charm, standing on the sidewalk outside the historic hotel is a strikingly beautiful blond woman dressed in winter white, a pale, lime green jacket, a cream-colored scarf with just the hint of sparkle, and off-white ballet flats…yes, Tina, I noticed.  With a wave of acknowledgement, and a graceful climb into the steroidal kin of the family station wagon, our journey begins.  Cue the Hans Zimmer soundtrack, I’m driving Miss Tina.

It’s rush hour, so I avoid the freeways and cut a determined transversal through the heart of the city by way of the financial district and Capital Hill, honking in solidarity to the #OccupyDenver sidewalk encampment and the 99%ers.  Most assuredly, I am an excellent driver, and display my tour guide skills Liberally.

Let me just say at this point in the conversation, Tina Sloan is an absolute pleasure, and it gets better from here.  She is kind, funny, gracious, giving…and patient.  Southerners should come with a warning label, “CAUTION: If you ask a storyteller a question, you will get an answer…a long one.”  As a result the forty-five minutes of drive time into the suburbs were filled with personal stories of parents, family, significant others, home towns, education, Twitter, and politics…just like new old friends.

Arriving early at the book store, we have plenty of time to grab a bite to eat after checking in.  Now, it must be coupon night in suburbia, because all the places nearby where we could grab a nice bite and a good glass of red (for me) are packed.  When I offered a few more places, or as I nodded to the bright yellow sign above our heads, the unlikelihood of a burger, be still my heart when Tina said she loves burgers.  Fatburger it is!  Inside we walked, ordered two Fatspecials and noshed like girlfriends over greasy protein and Game 6 of the World Series over our heads.  Now, for all you Venice fans out there, I got a bit of scoop on Season 3, but what happens in Fatburger stays in Fatburger.  Plus, though I may relish the fantasy of it, I’m not willing to risk the reality that Crystal Chappell might cut me.

After introducing Tina to my better three-quarters, we dashed through the snow over to the bookstore across the way.  Indie bookstores are usually quite small and intimate, but these are the suburbs, so the combined square feet is comparable in size to that of a WalMart.  Never fear, Tina’s personality fills every square inch as she recites for the crowd, raucous re-tellings of the live soap days of yesterday.

Looking around the room, I am observing who is sitting around me.  The ages range from near 20 to near 70.  They are Tina’s Twitter friends, actual friends, and all friends in between.  They are breast cancer fighters, domestic abuse survivors, and yes, even lesbian survivors.  One young man in a wheelchair announced to Tina that he was very jealous when “Lillian” kissed “Buzz”.  These are the people who were touched every day by the social significance of Guiding Light and the other daytime dramas that have been snuffed out to game shows, weight loss shows, and cooking shows.  These are the people Tina speaks to in her book signings using the example of “Lillian’s” yearly regression to behind the scenes, culminating in a Christmas episode where the character is relegated to a position behind the tree.  After the obligatory wallowing in a bag of M&Ms, Tina announces, “Hey, I’m in the room!  I’m tired of being invisible.”

She changed her shoes that day, letting us all know that we don’t have to walk around in the orthopedic, white nurse shoes life gives us.  We can don pink hiking boots and conquer Mount Kilimanjaro.   We can put down the bag of M&Ms, and put on those Chanel pumps, the ones reserved for relationships and romance.  We can put on our comfortable shoes, #Occupy(anywhere), and stand up for our Constitutional rights.  Or, we can put on those running shoes, and race for the cure.  Don’t like where you are standing?  Change your shoes.

Thank you, Ms Sloan.  Though I may have been the one driving Miss Tina, it was I who was taken on a journey…what a ride.

Birthdays.  I have reached a point in my life that I sometimes forget my birthday.  No, it is not senility, though I imagine some would beg to differ.  It’s just that I have had so many.  And before you begin to wonder just how old I am, I am not referring to the collective anniversaries of that traumatic trip down the birth canal that scared me so badly I didn’t speak for a year and a half.  (Thank you, Gracie Allen.)  I am referring to all those other times I have been born.  Those times when life was breathed into me instead of those first few gasps of instinctual inhalations.

I remember my awakening to prejudice and discrimination and making a conscious decision to eradicate those sequences from my DNA.  It was a long, hot, lazy summer day in the northern reaches of Atlanta.  It was June 14th, Flag Day, the displays of polyester red, white, and blue hung limp in the stale, humid air.  I remember it was unusually hot for June.  Having quickly exhausted our supply of ice cold and freshly squeezed lemonade, my parents decided the only thing to break this heat was a day at the swim club.  Now, the swim club was really just a bogus beach built around a lake, but that was no ordinary lake; it was bottomless.  As a kid, I hung on every word of the tall tales told about that lake.  From tragic to sinister, the message was always the same…”and they never found the bottom”.  Whether true or not, that was one deep, cold, lake.  Headers off the high dive were met with layer after layer of chilled exhilaration.   On a steaming day like this, you can imagine my anticipation for immersing myself in that water.

Upon pulling up, I noticed an African-American family getting out of their car.   A girl about my age was climbing through the window of the way, way back of a station wagon…I always wanted a station wagon with a way, way back.  The family was waiting patiently in line in front of us, the girl and I exchanging “hey’s” and giggles.  When they reached the window, they were asked for their membership card before they could enter.  Membership card?  We were never asked for one of those.  But wait, we don’t have one either, hey, Dad, we don’t have one.  Where are they going?  Wait!  Frustrated at my elevated persistence, my father snapped at me exactly where they were going…and why.  It was at that moment that I realized though we live most of our lives in various shades of gray, this time, life was very black and white.  I took a deep and cleansing breath, and I defied my father’s order to get inside.  If not my new almost friend from the way, way back, then not me either.  It was a very long, hot, but personally motivating summer day…in the parking lot of the swim club.

Though I have never marked this day with any celebratory hoopla or even used this awakening as an excuse for chocolate cake, every June 14th, way way back in my memories, I think of my almost friend and the birth mark I received as a result of our meeting.  It is just one of the many longevity stains that make up who I am, each renewal a new layer, a new growth ring in this tree of my so-called survival.  Birth happens, over and over and over again as life cannot be lived by abstinence only.

Honestly, though, I have been in rapture of late, and that is why I have been distracted from commenting on life’s little happenings.  In the non-biblical sense, I have been carried away with a project that began out of the insistence of a good friend.  I was asked to consider writing a short story that could be self-published as an experiment for a possible business venture.  After a couple of conversations, I agreed.  The problem is that once I got started, I couldn’t stop.  What began as a request for a few pages, turned into a few hundred.  There is only a small pun intended when I say it’s like the proverbial hole in the dike.  I can plug the creative flow with work and family distractions, sure, but I find the personal pressure to put pen to paper is just too forceful to be stoppered.  As a result, I have a book.  Well, almost.  I have a couple more chapters to wrap it up.

What will I do with it?  Who knows?  All I know is that I have been on an emotional journey with characters that are part of me and part of my imagination.  It’s up to the reader to decide which part is which…that is, if it ever sees the light of day outside my hard drive.   I may just write a short story about a moment in time and keep this personal catharsis to myself.

In other news, this is the ‘Schmootz on:

The death of daytime soap programming – Let’s face it, the soap bubble has lost its luster.  The daytime serial, like the dinosaur, has met its meteor in the form of fewer stay at home moms and reality TV.  I agree with Oprah, and who doesn’t, that the American soap opera is an institution…but one whose time has come.  Dwindling ratings make it easy for networks to choke the lifetime out of a genre so dependent on the advertising sales of laundry detergent and toilet paper.  No amount of gimmicks or gay pairing pandering will ever sale enough Pampers to pay for this many actors, sets, and writers, and still make a profit.  Especially when it cost about a buck fifty to put on another inane talk show.  (Sorry, Oprah.)  So, I’m telling all my children that you only have that one life to live, and like sand through the hour glass, the days are numbered.

NBC’s The Voice – I started out a fan after the first few episodes, but after last week’s third round of head to head competition I was left shaking my head.  The song choices were puzzling, and the performers had more pitch problems than the Chicago Cubs.  I’ll try to stick it out until the live shows, because I like the premise, but if it doesn’t get better, I’ll be as surprised as the look on Reba’s face if I stick around much longer.

HBO’s Game of Thrones – It’s so bad, it’s good.  From murdering, incestuous brother-sister relationships to breast feeding nine year olds, to a dagger through any orifice, this drama is so wrong in so many ways…so much so that it keeps me coming back for more.  I find myself flinching at the gore, excited by the sex, and laughing at the humor of a whore-mongering imp, who just happens to be a little person.  HBO just has a way of making the wrong, just so right.

NFL Lockout – What can you say about a fight between billionaires and millionaires that would make the average Jane sympathetic to either side?  This is a time in our country when so many of us feel lucky just to have a job.  So to hear the word “fairness” fumbled around by those with two or more commas in their salaries, seems like a personal foul.  I understand the health concerns of the players and their desire for a secure future, but I also understand the average Bronco, Cowboy, and Ravens fan’s difficulty to process why a player can’t manage an adequate healthcare policy with a league minimum of a few hundred thousand dollars.  And as for the billionaires?  Don’t get me started.  The bottom line here is just find some common ground…any common ground…and get on with it.  No matter what happens the real loser is the ticket holder.  The owners won’t take the loss, they will drop back and pass the accounting on to the backs of the common fan.  If the NFL isn’t careful, America might begin to drop this organized Sunday religion, too.

Focus on the Family Concedes Gay Marriage (Well, almost) – Yep, as a real sign that the world could be coming to an end, one of the more realistically focused of The Family stated that after millions and millions and millions of dollars and hundreds of resulting Family jobs later, the high altitude haters are focusing their energies elsewhere.  Though back-peddling a bit now, he admitted the latest polls continue to show overwhelming American support for same-sex rights, including marriage.  Now, it would be folly to expect The Family to change their positions on gay bullying (for it) or sexual reprogramming (for it), but for now they are going to take my advice and focus more on their own damn family…for at least a day or so.

Now, back to the book.  Hell, if Snooki can do it…

I was catching up this weekend with my friend and rocker, Jeryl Orsino, and she brought up in conversation the 2011 “end times” prediction.  Being the astute and in-the-know blogger that I am, I replied, “Huh, what?”  Jeryl went on to explain that a Christian group in Florida is predicting the end of the world to be May 21, 2011.  Well, hell, considering that’s a couple of weeks away, I thought I would take a look.

For those of you (like me) now pondering the worth of purchasing those extended service agreements, here is the 411.  Christian radio host and President of the Family Radio Christian network, Harold Camping, is predicting, with certainty, that pious and worthy followers of Jesus Christ will be taken into the heavens on May 21, 2011, and the end of the world as we know it (thank you, REM) will be October 21, 2011.  Good news for those who recently purchased those six month extended warranties.

According to Camping, “I know it’s absolutely true, because the Bible is always absolutely true.”  But humans make mistakes, right?  This must explain Mr. Camping’s first attempt at end-point prophecy.  He published a book in 1992 entitled 1994 where he predicted the coming of Christ and eminent end to world as September 4, 1994.  On September 5, 1994, Harold Camping admitted he must have made a mathematical error.  A civil engineer by trade, Camping used modern mathematical equations to interpret God’s intentions in numerical symbolism recorded in scripture over thousands of years.  Hey, if those Mars rover scientists can forget to convert to metric, surely we can forgive a Baptist, radio talk show host a decimal point or two.  Apparently, Camping’s new and improved, rapture 2.0, must be using a conversion factor.

As a Christian and a scientist, I am wary of those who proselytize with an extremely literal approach to the Bible.  We have to considering the distinct possibility that the earth is more than a few thousand years old and was not created in six, 24 hour periods.  The modern world agrees that women are not property and should not be traded, sold, or beaten.  Who would argue that it is good 21st Century practice to dash the young children of our enemies against rocks?  Though with the growing Islamophobia in this country, this practice may be making a comeback.

And come on, enough of us have seen Shark Week to know Jonah probably didn’t take up residence in the belly of a whale and live to tell the tale.  Not to mention, a majority of people now believe it is just fine to consume shell fish AND have a gay friend design their man cave or a lesbian fix their plumbing.  Therefore, isn’t it a much more logical approach to believe the Bible contains the word of God, but also the word of humans, who were limited by the culture in which they were writing?

As for Mr. Camping and his predictions, I have to take this nouveau-Nostradamus with a pillar of salt.  To him, the ancient number 5 equals “atonement”, the ancient number 10 equals “completeness”, and the ancient number 17 equals “heaven”.  To me, in my not so ancient youth, the number 3 meant “ecstasy”, and I can honestly say I was in heaven…with a little rapture on the side.

Many times over the years, I discovered religious elders like him to be too heavenly minded to do us any earthly good.  Preying, sir, is not pious.  Just one more reason I detest camping.

Party, my house, May 22, 2011.  Bring shellfish.