Many moons ago when I started writing I frequented the site of a guy named Elden. That’s his given Christian name, but he goes by Fatty. And he’s not. Not at all. Unless you are discussing his huge heart for his family and specifically, his wife Susan. She’s battled breast cancer for some time now and it’s looking like they are holding hands toward some end that will not be at all what their family is hopeful for, but he is pressing onward like a soldier who refuses to give up the fight. He is, simply, a good egg and their love story is one for the books.

In yesterday’s post he posed the question of “What would you do if you only had six months to live?”

We’ve all played that game before and his answer is to record his wife’s voice in conversations they’ve had so he can replay them to honor her. Elden’s writing is spectacular and I urge you to read him. He mentions in that post a donation button he’s put up for anyone to donate. While I feel led to do so I know that it’s not a possibility for everyone. In the past, I’ve done my own donation collecting and it felt so wonderful to be able to do something for someone else. The intrinsic rewards are difficult to detail.

Since I wouldn’t pressure people to give I will ask three things here:

1. Visit Elden’s site.

2. Say a prayer for Elden and Susan and their four children and extended family and friends.

3. Leave a comment here in 6 words only about what you’d do in your final 6 months and I will use the number of comments to determine how much money I will donate.

Now go kiss your wife or mother or daughter and love the heck out of them. Do it tenderly.

*Thanks, Botched Experiment, for the urging to do something to support Fatty.

If you are looking for some sappy recap of how I blubbered my way through my eldest child’s college graduation, you will be sorely disappointed in this post. With that said, the facts are these: I cried three separate times at Mallory’s graduation.

The first time was when I saw her name listed in the graduation booklet next to the words cum laude.

The first time was when the bagpipes were being played leading the graduates into their seating area.

The third was when she walked across the stage. When your kid walks across the stage to receive her diploma you shut down the tears and get it together so you can get some good pictures.

Then, you make goofy faces as she gets nearer to where you are sitting so she makes a funny face back at you AND THIS MOMENT IS LOCKED FOR ALL ETERNITY.

During this last year of college Mallory had the smartest, worldliest, classiest, kindest roommates ever. From left is May from Bahrain, Claire from Fenton, Mallory from MY WOMB and Marianne from Chicago (Northside represent yo!).

It was as if the United Nations was present at their graduation party with May speaking Arabic to her father and the intermittent Polish from Marianne’s family and it was pretty fantastic. There’s something comforting and warming about all of our families coming together this way. Polite shaking of hands when we all met the morning of the graduation and the genuine hugging, kissing, and inviting one another to come visit by the end of the day. That explains why my mother is planning a trip to Egypt to meet May sometime this summer.

The four of them hosted their families and the girls ladies graduates cooked all the food and the Lord said it was GOOD. In fact, the Lord said it was STERLING because the Lord does use words like that. I just know it. Claire and Paul worked the kitchen during the Bloody Mary shift.

Probably my favorite picture of Mallory that day. Cute, relaxed, mouth full of food.

Paul and Mallory. She will miss the heck out of him when he goes back to New Jersey. But she has a place to stay! Free! Ok, so Paul? The deal works both ways. You can always stay with us, too.

Finally, when the day was winding down and the 30+ family and friends were doing their packing up and getting ready to go I found all four of the girls having one of their last meals together and there were precious final memories being made of their time in college.

I know I’ve been pissed at the universe for giving me both strep and mono all at once (so! not the flu! and all I can cry out is why? why? why?) but for these cherished moments amongst friends it’s pretty easy for me to give thanks.

Especially because now that she’s home I’ve found all those items I’ve been mysteriously missing for the past 4 years.

All’s fair in love and tagging. Or so sayeth Shakespeare. Maybe it was Marlowe? Hard to tell now. That English Lit. degree is lost somewhere in the depths of that junk drawer in my kitchen so it’s difficult to remember.

When I tagged Julie the other day she returned the favor and asked me and a couple of pregnant ladies and even some un-pregnant ones about when they were at their most ‘bangable.’ I’m going out on a limb here to suggest that means when we think we were at our prettiest. Like princesses. Like darling young ladies who felt really good about themselves. Or maybe she meant when I had bangs. Me and bangs just don’t get along.

You really don’t want me to start talking about hair because I’m a curly girl.

Tangent coming up! This one’s for the Curly Girls and Guys. I’m looking at you, Mr. Brilliant Malcolm Gladwell.

I found a new product line called Ouidad and if you visit their site you’ll find where they offer free trials of products after you let them know about your own curly hair. FREE TRIALS, CURLY PEOPLE.

With that said, I suppose I’d better get back on track here, except I feel another left turn coming up ahead.

Growing up with a beautiful, athletic, popular sister it was hard to ever feel ‘pretty’. One story in particular comes to mind when I think about how I’ve viewed myself as a girl, a young woman, and eventually a woman. My father was active in the Jaycees and helped to coordinate all of the events where we lived and, since he was big on staying active, he signed us up for all kinds of marathon runs for charity. We were about 12 and 13 years old at the time. In one of them there were all these celebrities and my sister and I were quite overwhelmed with meeting these people who our parents talked about. We weren’t all that much into Frankie Avalon or Connie Stevens, but we couldn’t wait to meet Smokey Robinson.

After the marathon there was a dinner at a banquet hall where my father took both of us after we’d cleaned up from our sweaty runs and we stood close by our father in the hopes that Mr. Robinson would shake our hands. Maybe we’ll get an autograph!

As we sidled up to him my father very proudly presented his two daughters and he did shake our hands. Smokey, known for his sparkling eyes, noticed that mine were about the same color as his and told me, “Pretty eyes!” and I probably stopped breathing for a second there. Then, my older sister was presented to him and he gasped. “Oh! SHE’S beautiful!”

There was enough of a difference in the way he said that for everyone to notice. I continued to hold my breath except now I was also holding back tears. I knew that everyone thought she was pretty, but I wanted that, too. What little girl doesn’t? My father’s hand was squeezing mine tightly and, in a rare moment of complete understanding from him, he pulled me back into the circle where Smokey Robinson was salivating over my sister and firmly said, “Both of my daughters are beautiful. Thank you for meeting them.”

In what would become a pattern for us, Erin would take me off to the side and reassure me that we looked the same and that none of this mattered and look! Shrimp cocktail! Let’s distract you with food!

If I could fast forward to being 17 I recall having this strange thought that feeling good about myself wouldn’t really happen until I hit my stride in my 30s. It took that long to drop the baby fat from my kids, gain strength from weightlifting, and finally getting control of pimples and wild hair. (See above)

Now that you know how Smokey Robinson helped blow my self-esteem for my teen years, you’ll understand why I like myself much more now and that it took until I was 34 years old to actually have a good picture taken of myself.

I forgive you, Smokey. But you had no idea looking at me how much worth I had on the inside anyway. Now, sing me a sweet lullaby and we’ll call it even.

My blog is wearing a new dress. I got to choose between an A-line, an empire waist and a sari.  I’m going for comfort, though, because I’m past 30 and I don’t have to put up with that crap anymore.

It’s all cleaned up on the side and I have a new way to display photos which I’ll work on figuring out soon.

I know the comments are too light (Thanks Betsy!) , so Karen will probably be fixing that soon.

This flu is slowly killing me with the aches and clamminess. I continue to change blankets and sheets because my icky sick sweat is all over them and I’m pretty sure a nice family of badgers has taken up residence in my hair because looks like a hot mess. They’re leaving crumbs everywhere, though, and I might have to give them an eviction notice. Since I have enough hair for ten people you can only imagine how attractive that looks.

Just look at the pretty new format. It looks much better than my current condition.

Today I woke with a nasty version of the fuckyou flu. Symptoms include having the feeling of an enormously inflamed throat, goosebumps from The Chills mixed with a feverish temperature, and the inability to turn my head past my shoulders. Normally, I do a full turn-around a la The Exorcist just to crack my neck in the morning. I went into work anyway and by noon I was sent home where I slept for enough hours to produce dreams wherein I worked at a pony ranch and sold sunflower seeds at a roadside market.

If you’ve read me with any regularity you’ll know that I write weird stuff when I’m sick because my brain leaves my body for a parallel universe where I am the President of Strawberry Shortcake Productions and where my business card simply reads I’M THE DECIDER.

What I’ll write later this week: how Mallory graduated from college on Sunday on the coldest graduation day in the history of the world, how Mallory moved back home and that while unpacking her “kitchen stuff” box I found THREE, COUNT ‘EM, THREE of my travel mugs that I’ve been missing for a few years, how Mallory is back home and in need of a full-time position with dental and a 401K.

Here I am over at BlogHer where Rita interviewed me.

Here I am over at this new website called “Thank A Stranger”.

Here I will lie upon the couch and request peanut butter and banana sandwiches that my kiddo makes me on her G5 grill that she got for Christmas.