This is not a funny blog-okay, maybe a little...

**Warning. This blog is not written in my usual humorous style. This is a more serious glimpse of my more evasive inner self. Reading it might just make you feel better about you. (Okay, there are some funny parts-and funny pictures.**
I've had this...affliction since I was very young.
Nobody "gets" me.
Admittedly, I'm a little odd. Marching to the beat of my own drummer is something I've NEVER wanted to do-but it just happens. Oh, I'm not some weirdo eccentric that collects belly-button lint and and sleeps with stuffed clowns, but I AM different. I've never been a part of the cool crowd, never been hip or with-it. Always, somehow, I was just a step behind-or sideways.
In elementary school I attributed it to the fact that I was smart (you know that's never cool). In middle school I blamed it on the fact that I was awkward, ugly, and had a tremendously awful home-perm for a good portion of that time. During high-school I was one of those really unlucky gays struggling with her sexuality (and mullet) while attending a very small, rural school in the 80's, and always with some really nice, respectful guy as a cover boyfriend. (All key elements of social disaster).
Community college-isn't everyone isolated there? Finally, at a state college FAR from my home town (okay-as far as away as I could get and still pay in-state tuition) I "came out" as a lesbian. There were other GAY PEOPLE!! Who knew???? I wasn't a total paraiah!!! Hoooray!!
But I still wasn't even one of the cool gays. I think I wore way too much flannel-even when flannel was cool. Or perhaps the wrong color-combo...maybe the wrong hat? The wrong rebelliously shaved head? Whatever it was, I had found my people, but I still felt I was on the outside looking in.
Don't get me wrong-through the years there have been ups and downs-just like in anyone's life. People have come, people have gone. I've had good friends, great friends, friends that make me laugh, friends that borrowed money, friends that watched the same movie over and over with me until we had it memorized, and I've had friends that make me cry. Some of these friends are still friends today. Through the magic of facebook, some of these friends have returned. And I really do have some super-amazing people in my life.
But I've never really had a lasting best friend.
At this point, some of you may be scratching your heads and saying "what about Lisa?" Yes, Lisa is my life-partner/best friend that sort of "gets" me, but she is also my spouse. For those of you in the straight seats, how many of you can vent about your husband's maddening quirks TO HIM? How many of you have a BFF you can giggle with and rant to when you need a "girls night out?" (AKA: get-the-hell-out-of-the-house-night). It's nice isn't it? It sounds nice. Often I will hear people talking about their best friend and describing how they've been besties since sorority/high school/cheer camp/grade school/birth. They talk about how they can tell each other EVERYTHING, and they are always there for each other, can count on each other, blah, blah, blah. That kind of friendship shows up in books, movies, talk shows, magazines and the illustrious made-for-TV movies on Hallmark channel. Even dudes have their own version of best buds (see bro-mance). It seems like everyone I know already has that BFF in their life. Why did I miss out?
My conclusion about this is three-fold:
#1-nobody "gets" me. I have interesting hobbies, I have ADD... (OMG-SQIRREL!), I play non-traditional sports for a woman, the lesbian thing seems to be a problem for some, I'm fascinated by all religions-but practice none, I select my wardrobe based on color-the ones that make me happy that day, my memory has more holes than swiss cheese, I can make/build/create just about anything I see that interests me, I read voraciously, I am a pretty good imitation of the Absent-Minded Professor, my politics are all over the board, and I've seen dead people. Seriously.
#2-I have been hurt badly enough that I deflect anyone from really getting to know me well enough to become my best friend. My deflection tool of choice is humor. Everybody loves somebody funny, but no one wants to hang around the tears of a clown. So, I stick to funny. It's safer there.
#3- I still have trouble accepting myself "as is" and that usually translates into others having trouble accepting me "as is." Some days I want to be super-feminine...but I have no sense of style and am painfully aware of that fact. Some days I just want to be comfortable-but I'm also painfully aware of how sloppy that can look. Bottom line-I'm not comfortable in my own skin and that keeps people at arm's length as well. But that's all about perception and self-esteem, huh? I can work on that...
So, here I sit after a VERY bad day, pouring my heart out to...well, no one, everyone-I'm not sure. I do know that I'm lonely. This hotel room in Plano, TX where I spend 10 nights of every month is too quiet. I also know that I would like to have a best friend. Boy or girl. Is it too late?
Or maybe I'm so absent-minded I totally MISSED the fact that one of you reading this is trying to get close enough to be my best friend-or already considers yourself as such. If you are that person, I'm so sorry. For the love of God-just tell me. I can be rather obtuse. Or maybe now that you've read this you're thinking that even with all my weirdness I might make good best friend material with a little work.
Or maybe this whole blog is just so sadly pathetic for a 39-year old woman to be writing that as soon as I hit "publish" I will have widened that rift between me and everyone else....
Awww, what the hell.

Getting Committed

When I was a little girl, I didn't spend a lot of time dreaming about my wedding and what it would be like.  I did spend several nights falling blissfully to sleep while my sister planned her wedding out loud. (We shared a room-sisters did that back then).  She would go on about flowers, dresses, punch bowls, printed napkins, prince charming and blah blah blah.  At 8, I was already pretty sure I wouldn't be getting married. It just didn't fit in with my plans to be a football player, or a fighter pilot, or a veterinarian. Marriage seemed like a distant, far-away idea that had to involve an icky boy and somewhere down deep inside I already had a faint inkling that the whole idea wasn't a part of my fate.

Now, here I am, "getting committed." In my opinion, many brides are deserving of the other version of "getting committed."  They lose their minds, dwell on details, completely forget what the focus of the whole wedding is about, and generally go completely the hell overboard.  Bridezillas even have their own TV show now.  Based on a fear of this whole fiasco, I have successfully avoided having a ceremony of any kind until my 39th year.  Then, Lisa put "get committed" on my bucket list and now I either have to have a ceremony of some kind with her, or go to the state mental hospital-I have yet to determine which one she meant. Either way, I get to cross it off the list.  :)

Once the decision to get hitched was made, we had to decide on all the particulars.  When? What? How? These are things I had avoided thinking about for most of my life. In our situation, none of the traditional stuff applies. I mean, when do we do this-how do we set a date? 

 "Well, your brother is getting married next year, and my nephew this summer, and I think you have several cousins getting married soon....can we slide ours in somewhere?  Maybe the fall?"

What do we do?  What kind of wedding do we want?  Traditional?  

"I'm not wearing a tux," Lisa said. "And I'm not wearing a dress either."

I asked, "What are you going to do?  Get married naked?" 

"HOW ABOUT A STAR WARS WEDDING!!!??? I could grow my hair out and be Princess Leia." She was so excited about that one.

"Only if you agree to march into Darth Vader's theme music," I bargained.

There will be no Star Wars wedding.

We both come from fairly conservative families and backgrounds. We wanted to make sure we didn't demean of or sully the idea of traditional man/woman marriage while still having a fun and valid commitment ceremony.  Lisa and I just aren't traditional "you wear the tux, and I'll wear the dress" kind of people.  Our modes of dress are based on the day, the event, if it's a good hair day, the angle of the sun, and sometimes the phase of the moon.  We reside in that amorphorous, hard-to-pin-down gender space that keeps us happily away from defined roles and labels. There is no wedding cake topper for that. It was also very important to us to keep the ceremony light, fun and totally comfortable for our guests. What's more fun than a costume party?  A costume wedding!!  That single decision made all the other decisions fall easily into place.  Okay, I'm lying, but it did make the invitations and the decorations pretty easy. 

Nothing prepared me for how much crap goes into wedding planning.  Good Lord! No wonder happy brides turn into scary versions of the devil in white lace. There's too much stress in worrying about who you might offend if you don't invite them, and who it would offend if you do invite them. So we went with the "Screw it! We are inviting who we want" school of thought. Then we had to figure out if we wanted people IN the ceremony. Luckily, Lisa only has one brother, and I only have one sister, that made it kind of easy. No harm, no foul, and neither of my brothers is going to be hurt that they don't get to be a matron of honor.  :)

Next we had to split up the work.  I'm doing the flowers, the decorations, lining up the official, lining up the costumes, lining up photography, and putting the music on the ipod. Lisa is in charge of the venue, the food (including a spectacular cake), the invitations, the registry (at Target-pronounced Tar-Jay), me, and anything else that comes up.  I have blueprints, spreadsheets and maps.  She has a Rainman-like mind.  We make a good team.

Lisa did an amazing job designing the e-vite and the paper invitations that went out to family and certain friends.  She had the added task of putting a "coming out" letter in each of her invitations.  This took courage and I'm so impressed with her. It's one thing to announce you are getting hitched...entirely another to tell your Catholic family you are getting hitched to that "friend" that always comes along to things. As the RSVP's come in, all but one or two family members have been fabulously supportive of her. It's wonderful to see and has been great for Lisa. 

So, at T-minus 12 days and counting, the costumes are done (I'm sworn to secrecy and have been threatened with scalping if I tell anyone about them), the hall is rented, the cake is ordered, the decorations are 75% complete, the RSVP's are coming in, the food is planned, the family is ready, we're hitting right on the budget, and the flowers are in the works. Best of all, my blood pressure is normal.  I'll probably forget something. A few things might not go according to plan, but I don't really care. Because the end result is all that matters to me-that I'm finally committed to the Cleaning Fairy, and that everyone had a great time at the committing.  

I Just Diet In Your Arms Tonight

Diets were created by the devil. Period.

Yes, I agreed to embark on the "BEST DIET EVER!" as convinced by my partner-and I was pretty gung-ho about it. I am now convinced that she may have been hypnotized or lost a small part of her mind. Here are a few of the things I learned during my experiement with the HCG diet (which lasted 4 days total for me-2 for "loading" and 2 for actual dieting).

Thing Learned #1. Never start a diet with your partner if there is a certain amount of initial starvation involved. You may soon be single. It's a little bit like wrapping PMS up in a bad hair day and serving it up with a heaping platter of "Fuck YOU" and a side of "Yes, those pants make you look fat," and washing it all down with a big frosty mug of ANYTHING AND EVERYTHING you've ever done wrong. (I'm lucky to be alive...but then, so is she. We're even more lucky to still be together).

Thing Learned #2. NEVER, and I mean NEVER start a diet while on vacation. Especially a road trip vacation. Not only are you trapped in a car together with no escape for MILES AND MILES, but all that frustration, anger and hunger will manifest in hostile ways at some point. I'm pretty sure that in the middle of nowhere, right around 3 pm, my lovely bride's head spun around three times, her eyes turned red, and she hissed, "I'M GOING TO EAT YOUR SOUL!!!" But I could've been hallucinating, I was pretty hungry and was eyeballing her right arm and considering BBQ sauce at the time...

Thing Learned #3. Dieters are under constant assault and seek escape only to be assaulted again. I tried reading a book-the characters were having fantastic Thanksgiving-type meal (I had to stop reading because drool tends to make the pages stick together). I tried reading a magazine-that was just stupid. Restaurants spray themselves all over magazines like dogs on a park trail. I tried staring out the window and daydreaming. (Did you know there are approximately 3,000 restaurants along the freeway between Keizer, OR and Albany, OR alone)? I tried sleeping, but woke myself up snoring before I devoured that giant Sonic burger of my dreams. I turned on the radio hoping to lure the cleaning fairy into a sing-along. (If I had heard that phrase 'I'm loving it' coupled with cheery music one more time, I feel I would've been justified in my express need to commit homicide-the cleaning fairy saved the radio just in time). I even tried doing the road sign alphabet game with the cleaning fairy (pre-head spinning incident). "Okay...I'll start with A....Applebees!" "B...Boston Market!" C...Chili's! God damnit!!! Are there any road signs NOT sponsored by or tied to a restaurant???" For an idea of where the rest of the game devolved to, see Thing Learned #1.

Thing Learned #4. Dieters LIE LIE LIE LIE LIE LIE to themselves. "Oh, this sliver of steak with a side of raw radishes is FANTASTIC! I really do feel full!" or... "I can eat 28 large strawberries to round out my calories for the day and everything will be great!!" (Thank God for frequent rest stops, YIKES).

Thing Learned #5. You can not make up for the lack of calories with varied and abundant spices. "Could you pass me the Fiesta Lime, Carribean Jerk, Garlic Herb, Chicken Delight, and regular Mrs. Dash bottles, please? Oh, and send over the Perfect Pinch and a cup of parsely leaves too while you're at it?" Some flavors, no matter how famished you are, just don't go together.

Thing Learned #6. Losing 7lbs in two days is exhilarating, but getting dizzy and falling off the scale is just dumb.

Thing Learned #7. As much as I hate to admit it, mother and my trainer know best. Balanced calories with regular exercise do the trick. Fad diets are just that-fads. Upon hearing of my latest dieting foibles, Mom told me this wonderful story about how her older sister, my Aunt Carol, ordered these "diet caramels" back in the day. You were supposed to eat a caramel, wait an hour and then eat the diet as a prescribed and exercise every day. Mom said, "Any damn fool would've lost weight doing the diet and exercise alone. And Carol did lose weight, but did she eat just one caramel? Noooo, she polished of the whole damn box in one day...I know, because I went looking for them to 'try' one." Gotta love Mom. :) Mom's moral: to lose weight, one must do it sensibly.

Thing Learned #8. I don't diet well. I was on VACATION for God's sake. AND we stopped in Reno! I had made it two days with my melba toast and 500 calories. I admit, I was not strong. Boy, when I hit that buffet I probably scared people with my glazed over eyes and Ethopian physique. Okay, I obviously didn't get all fence-rail in two days...but I felt like it, and I was freaking HUNGRY! I paid for the buffet, loaded up my plate with fantastic-ness, and got all settled down with my guilt and my giant glass of Dr. Pepper (aka manna from heaven)-totally determined to partake of the best of everything. Wouldn't you know it? My traitor-ass stomach had shrunk. Meh. Stupid effing diet. I went to the dessert table anyway.

So yes, I fell off the diet wagon. Jumped, really. But, I didn't feel dizzy, sick or really pissed off at the world anymore. AND, the 2 day stint of starvation coupled with the guilt I felt anytime I ate real food in front of the cleaning fairy did something amazing for me...it broke my addiction to fast food. We made it through the rest of our LONG LONG LOOOOONG road trip and when we returned home, I didn't have the craving for fast food any more. I've improved my diet, I'm eating cleaner, healthier food, and I'm exercising daily. I see a steady, yet not drastic loss when I step on the scale. I feel pretty darn good. And the dreams of food in all forms have ceased.

As for the cleaning fairy, I'm very proud of her. She has gutted it out (pun intended) and stayed on the diet. She's either a trooper, or just plain stubborn. This diet really seems to be working for her. However, I do have my suspicions...some of my low-calorie fig bars are missing and someone besides me ate the curl off the new jar of peanut butter. But I won't judge. There is still that "PMS/bad hair day/I'm freaking starving wrath" to consider. For now, I'll just duck and cover and tell her how great she looks. :)

And Let the Diet Begin!

A few weeks ago I went to the doctor. It was time for the standard check-up, and I hadn't been feeling my most stellar. This was a new physician to me as the PA I regularly see was out of town. This new guy was a bona-fide, actually-earned-the-DR-behind-his-name, white-lab-coat-wearing, dude. Naturally, I wanted him to find me healthy and spectacular and send me on my way. So, I wore my best bra and underwear (do guys do this too?) shaved everything that needed shaving, and made sure I smelled good in all the correct places.

When I arrived, I only spent about 10 seconds in the waiting room chair before the slender, attractive nurse called my name, smiled at me, and then directed me to the scale. I Go-Go Gadgeted my spine up to as tall as I could as she drove the white measuring paddle flat against my skull. Shooo, I made it! 5'5" and a 1/4!!! Triumph...no shrinkage yet! Then that snotty wench of a nurse, who probably weighs 100lbs and eats Diet Air for lunch, hmmphed just a little as she wrote down my weight. 215lbs! Fatter than I've ever been in my life. I no longer find her attractive.

After giving the scale a mighty, one-fingered salute, I followed the scrawny troglodyte into the examination room she indicated. (Okay, I'm being harsh-the nurse was actually super nice) and hopped up on the table. Then, the real fun began. She took my temperature-normally, felt for my pulse, and measured my blood pressure-and hmmphed again. Just as I was about to tell her that she could go "hmmph" herself, she told me she'd tell the doctor I was ready and disappeared through the door.

I must admit to being a little freaked out. What did the hmmphing mean? Just then, Dr. K walked in to the exam room, and in his rumbly-made-to-be-a-TV-doctor-voice, cleared it all up for me. He asked me an interminable amount of questions about my health, health history, and the health history of my family...and practically made me sign a statement assuring him THERE WAS NO WAY I could be pregnant. (Wouldn't that be an interesting little twist?)

**At this point I should take a moment to tell readers who don't know my family medical history that my dad died in 1996 of a massive heart attack-he was 57. Only one of my relatives on my dad's side lived past 60-he died at 62. My older brother and sister are on high blood pressure meds. Several of my cousin's are on high blood-pressure meds and/or high cholesterol meds. And, for all intents and purposes, I seem to take after dad's side of the family...minus the butt chin. Having this medical history did not bode well for what Dr. K had to say to me next. The pic is my dad, not Dr. K. :)***

Dr. K didn't pull any punches. "You're fat." Okay, he actually said, "You're blood pressure is high-too high for a 38-year old. And you are carrying more weight around than you need to be." I heard, "You're fat." Dr. K decided I needed to have blood tests, a pee test, a chest x-ray, a breathing test , and a tetanus and protussis shot. Cue singing: "One of these things is not like the others..." Dr. K was kind about it. He said that I am an athlete, so I am more solid than I am flabby. That's a win. He told me in his nice, rumbly voice that I'd have to make some changes though. This didn't seem like a threat...well, not at least until the test results came back. I still had to get the tetanus shot.

His voice didn't rumble in a friendly manner as he sternly said, "We ran a test on your blood. Greater than a 1.0 is cause for concern. Greater than a 3.0 and you are at high risk for an early heart attack. You are a 9.0"

I thought, "Shit, I'm dying."

Apparently I said that out loud, because he said, "you're not dying. But you could if you don't make changes. NOW. If you make the changes now, you can bring the numbers down to normal and there will be no reason to worry." I heard, "You're fat, and you stop eating like shit." Dr. K went on to outline the expectations he had for our October update, and how to reach them. "You have until October-if there is no change, I'm going to slap your ass on meds quicker than fleas jumping off a drowning rat." He actually did say that. I knew everything I needed to do before, I've just been too lazy to do them. But now I have pretty darn good motivation.

Enter the HCG diet. The cleaning fairy has put her foot down. She is not marrying a girl who can't hold her fish oil. Since I did rob the cradle a bit with her, she is highly conscious of my health and the need to pickle and perserve me for as long as possible. :) Since I only have a grey hair or two so far, we've obviously done a good job on my scalp. As a further measure and an act of solidarity, she researched this diet and ordered what we need. It will help us lose weight and get disciplined about tracking our food and showing our internal workings some respect. (What? Sonic burgers aren't respectful?)
So, here is fair warning and disclaimer. Today, I am copacetic with the world. For the first two days of the diet, you can eat anything you want. So I'm eating EVERYTHING I want. Why the warning? Because in two days I'm dropping to eating only 500 calories a day of stuff that is on the approved list. So please do not be alarmed if I am a tad grumpier than usual, am suddenly gnawing on your leg or hallucinating that you are a giant pork chop. :) Seriously though, other than gagging on a grissini (I had to look that up-it's a fancy word for dried breadstick) I think I'll be okay. This diet demands discipline, and I'm not putting 10 drops of stuff that tastes like Elmer's glue under my tongue 3 times a day for nothing. Added bonus, we do this for 60 days, which will just about put us at wedding time. We won't be skeletons dancing the hornpipe by any means, but the hope is that I will get a clean stamp of health from the rumbly, made-for-TV doctor, brand-new wardrobe, and the ability to live past 60. :)

Here is the before picture...Let it BEGIN!!!

Oh N'awlins!! Who Dat??

My work takes me to places I might not have gotten a chance to experience on my own. Recently, I was sent to New Orleans. As luck would have it, my hotel was just four short blocks from Bourbon street. Sharon; a short, fiery, red-headed ball of piss & vinegar, is the supervisor for the region. She decided/demanded that I needed to have a "Large" time on the town during my stay in New Orleans. Three of Sharon's employees, Leigh, Nick, and Michelle, joined us. Leigh is from Alabama and Michelle is a local Cajun. Nick and Sharon are both from other parts of Louisiana. All four have accents that require an interpreter and skillful guessing.

For dinner we went to a local Italian/Canjun restaurant (which I didn't know could exist together until that moment). As we walked from the parking lot to the eatery, Sharon nonchalantly waved her hand toward the other end of the street and said, "we ain't a gonna go down thaw...it's all mafia owned-never can tell when they're a' gonna shoot one anotha..." So casual-like all towns have those pesky mafia people. Inside the restaurant an Italian man dressed in a double breasted, pin-striped suit, with slicked back hair and a New York Italian accent asked us where we would like to sit. I immediately began scanning for the nearest exits. It really isn't on my bucket list to get caught in a mafia shoot-out. Stangely enough.

The menu included a wide variety of options...including several dishes with veal, and the very Southern turtle soup. Now, I'm not a vegetarian, but I was really struggling with memories of baby cows and my pet turtle, Isoceles. I opted for a nice chicken/mushroom dish as I have long since made my peace with the demise of chickens, and I was pretty sure I didn't have any strong emotional ties to mushrooms.

As we waited for our meal, the waitress came around behind me and tied a bib around my neck. Now, I know I'm messy, but there is no way that knowledge has gone national. My confusion was cleared up when she put bibs on everyone and placed a platter on the table that contained huge cooked shrimp that still sported all their original anatomy. They were staring at me accusingly with their little black eyes...all of them. Or at least they would've been if their wee little lives hadn't been cut short by a swim in boiling oil and garlic. Eager to seem like the well-educated, worldly trainer willing to try anything once, I endured a "how ta peel da shremp" lesson from Michelle. They weren't bad. Then I had to peel my own. I may not be quite right again after all the cracking noises. The shrimp were extremely delicious though. And the bib was a welcome addition I may have to install permanently to save my shirt fronts from errant spills.

After dinner we drove back to the hotel and dropped Nick and the car off. Nick had a migraine and squinted his way into the hotel after wishing us four ladies a safe time. We headed away from our hotel, crossed Canal street (against all the lights and in peril, because that's what they do here), and made it to Bourbon street. You could hear it and SMELL it from blocks away. It had been over 100 degrees all day and the sewers were putting forth odiferous emantions that had to have come from the lowest circle of hell. And there is nothing like the smell of hot shit to get a party started, right? We strolled down the cracked and uneven street, past the brass band, past the people throwing beads (minus the flashing-much to my disappointment) and past Larry Flynt's Hustler bar. <-----For this picture I was still completely sober...I think. We wended our way into a corner bar with a very loud, but killer 80's cover band. Bliss.

Normally I don't drink and am perfectly content watching everyone else get sloppy and more and more amusing as the night wears on. But you remember the ball of piss and vinegar I mentioned earlier, Miss Sharon? She was having none of it. "Y'awl don't come on down to N'awlins and not have yoreself a large time. Drink this here, y'all were made for each other." She handed me a super-size cup that smelled suspiciously like pure alcohol with a dash of fruit. Just one couldn't hurt me, right? As my eyebrows began to burn and I'm sure hair was growing on my chest, Michelle got a call from her mom. Her dad was in the hospital and she needed to hurry out. We all got up to walk her back to the hotel, but Sharon and Michelle both INSISTED that Leigh and I stay out and experience Bourbon Street.

So we did. And apparently we did it with gusto!!!! Because when I woke up the next morning...hung over, miserable and really wishing the light fixture would just stay STILL...this t-shirt was hanging over the chair in the hotel. It must've seemed way more amusing the night before. As I tried to make the room stop spinning, my liver coughed and called out from the hotel room door-"I'm leaving you, we're over. You won't do this to me again..." Okay, maybe I imagined that, but I didn't imagine the mushrooms putting an end to our culinary relationship at the throne of the porcelain god, or trying to act like I really really cared about the training I was doing that morning. :) Leigh came to training looking like she also got hit by the hang-over bus. Neither of us could remember crossing Canal street or entering the hotel. Which I take to mean that I have MAD navigational skills even when soaked in alcohol and fruit. Leigh doesn't remember when I bought the t-shirt either. Although she has one that says something about being surrounded by ignorant assholes.

What did I learn from this fabulous "opportunity?"

Number one, that I apparently love my penis enough to buy a shirt to proclaim that fact. Which would, of course, make more sense if I had a penis.

Number two: That my liver and I need to go to counseling and will need to agree to make some changes.

And the surprising number three: Later that afternoon, the universe sent me a warning. After I felt better and could stand the thought of food again, I took the trolley out to see all the crazy, above-ground cemeteries. Of all the cemeteries and all the rows of crypts and all thousands and thousands of family plots...this is the first one I came across.... creepy, huh?

Moral of the story, kids? Well, I'll let you decide that for yourselves...I need to go track down my liver.

Why it Began

My life takes random twists and turns. This is not something I imagine, this is fact. This has been fact since I was just a wee whippersnapper running amok as only whippersnappers know how. When things went south, or haywire, or completely beserk, I learned that the only way to maintain a certain level of sanity was to find the humor in the situation. This is a priceless skill I learned from my family. Through the toughest times, there was still always a way to sit around and tell funny stories, or share hilarious memories. This skill has stayed with me. Now that facebook is here, I choose to use it as a tool to share with my friends all the laughs that accumulate in my life . It came as a total surprise that the stuff that happens to me doesn't happen to everyone. Due to the urging of many people, I finally decided to start a blog...a place to pictures, and a more in depth look at the foibles and fabulousness that is my life. Welcome, and enjoy-at my expense.

Oh, and about the name. Well, I AM the Sand in my Shorts, right? And nothing says good story like sand in the shorts. :) Also, some of these blog posts will be short. So, it's like a series of shorts...about Sand. :) Follow that...I dare ya!