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The stress test today was interesting. It was my first, as I have never had any heart trouble, except for some bruises and the occasional heel print. It started an hour late, which was good and bad. The Good: it gave me time to read another hundred pages of my book, Game of Thrones (we'll talk about that another time) but The Bad: it also made me anxious that there wouldn't be enough time to finish my test. I was only able to have a small breakfast, nothing after 10 am, and my nervousness was burning up my protein shake pretty quickly. By the time they finally called me in, I was ready to jump out of my skin.

And then I sat and waited another half hour. Really? I totally forgot about the multi-stage waiting rooms the major doctors have and the cardiologist, well, that would be one of them. So when they called me from the second waiting room, I was running on empty and I hadn't even started.

Facing one today, a stress test on my heart. Not sure why I'm so nervous, just know that getting shot with radioactive isotopes isn't my favorite pasttime. One step closer, though.

I was up early this morning, first to get a THS bloodtest and second to meet with my outgoing principal at her new school. For both I had to come clean and admit something I didn't want to admit out loud. For both, I think I did a fairly good job, only shedding a few tears with my Principal, who has become more of a friend this year, which would explain why I allowed myself to tear up.

What was I admitting, you wonder? Had I robbed a bank in college? Had I killed a man? Nothing so dramatic. But it was big and dark and something that I have held on to for months now.

A lot is going to be changing for me over this summer. Since I'm very connected to work and friends and family on Facebook, I'm going to be documenting the changes here. Only those that knows me best know about this place and the changes I'm making are not exactly for everyone to know about. Eventually, everyone will know, for it will be right there in their faces, but for now, I'm keeping some things under wraps.

Why? Let's just say I feel there are people who would not exactly wish me well on my journey. People that like me just the way (they think) I am ... a complacent, docile doormat. I have bitten my tongue for a long time, letting injustices and slights go unchallenged. I've taken an awful lot of toxic shit from family members, supposed friends, team-mates and exes, all in the name of taking the high road and allowing karma to drive. And it worked, to a point ... except for that toxic part.

Ah, all posts restored and things can get back to normal around here.

Except for the look of it which, I have to say, isn't horrible but it doesn't feel like it's mine. I miss the old style. It was time for a change but I didn't have anything in mind to replace it with yet so this will have to do.

Guess I'll have to think about it.

Right now, I'm watching the F1 race from Korea and pondering work on the Delta Xi website. I will probably opt to browse through themes for MT and waste the evening. I've gotten very good at that. 

So what I have noticed it that between FaceySpace and Twitter, everyone I know and/or would talk about is privy to my every post so ... I need to use this more. Because no one comes here or cares what I have to say here. And maybe that's a good thing. Being too linked is bad for the creative process ... I find myself editing, sitting back, changing my words so that no one will be offended.

When did I start caring if I offended someone?

I know exactly when it was. When I realized that by speaking out, I had been black-balled.

I'm not going to change any of that here. It's been done. I'm not moving up here, no matter HOW much I achieve and I've accepted that. Those that have put me here will have to deal with the repercussions someday just as I have had to deal with them every single day of my life.

Karmageddon, bay-bee. Good luck with that.

Anywhooo ... I'm back. I think. Still trying to figure out where and how I fit. Still trying to raise my kids. Still having to remind myself to breathe. SSDD.

Perusing my old favorite haunt the other day, I found The Ink Tank, a daily roundup of editorial cartoons. Now, I appreciate in-depth analysis as much as the next girl (reading through the very lengthy New Yorker articles online during my lunch is a guilty pleasure) but there is something to be said for trying to tell a story with a picture and very few words. This one does it without any words.



Well done, Mr. Luckovich. I could not have said it better myself.


Might I add that I find it incredibly endearing that the President Elect and the First Lady-in-Waiting fist bump, just like T & I do. It's a sign of the true friendship that underlies their marriage, an indication that they have each others' backs. Keep it up, you too. It has been a long time since we have had a real "First Couple" that this country can fall in love with.

There are certain people in life that shape the structure that you cling to in tumultuous times, people who are constant and stable, people that are there to catch you up when you most need it.  Through my childhood, my Aunt Sue and Uncle Ritchie were those people for me.

Uncle Ritchie, my father's brother and a big gentle bear of a man, married Margaret Sue, a tall Texas belle with a hearty laugh and a quick wit over 50 years ago. They had a long, happy life together, raising three kids of their own and occasionally pulling me and my siblings into their fold. When my own parents' marriage began falling apart, they were quick to scoop us up and take us away from their drama.

Uncle Ritchie was the antithesis of my father, filled with gentleness and humanity, a quiet man who enjoyed just making kids laugh. My dad, while charming to most people that met him, was a narcissist with a mean streak a mile wide. He was quiet, too, but his quietness was sinister, a weapon that he would use to manipulate anyone he could. And kids? Umm, yeah, my dad didn't like them very much once they got old enough to question him.

Aunt Sue was the perfect mate for Uncle Ritchie. She was bold, funny, loud, solid as a rock and honest as the day is long. You always knew where you stood with Aunt Sue and she would defend us kids whenever we screwed up as just being kids. She was accepting and loving and understanding and never seemed to be put out by any request. My mom was loud, too, but in a different way. A more desperate, strident way. My mom was the prettier of the two (and Aunt Sue always told my mom this) and my mom loved it. Mom wasn't the most loving or accepting parent, still isn't.

I learned how to cook and paint ceramics and sew and knit and crochet while at their house, but these hobbies were never jobs I needed to learn so I would be a good wife someday. These were things that everyone in their house did together, things that they learned and did because they LOVED to do them. Creativity was encouraged, hugs and laughs were liberal, and you always knew you were loved with them. They even said it. Out loud. A LOT.

At my house, on the other hand, I had 2 self-absorbed parents who did not laugh with us (unless they were teasing or they were drinking), who did not encourage our creativity, who didn't hug or ever say they loved us.

At my house, we were sent to our rooms, doomed to listen to arguments late into the night most evenings. At their house, everyone sat in the den together and watched TV together or played board games until we all went to bed.

At my house, it was clear what a burden we were. At their house, even extra kids were no burden and most summer afternoons would find most of the neighborhood kids hanging out in their yard or in the pool.

At my house, you never knew who would be there in the morning (or what kind of mood they would be in) when you woke up. At their house, you were greeted by breakfast and hugs as soon as you got up. 

When we kids screwed up (and we did), my parents didn't like to talk about it. What would the neighbors think? This left us all dealing with shame issues, even today.

When their kids screwed up (and they did), their parents rolled up their sleeves and helped them out, accepting advice from whomever would give it. They understood the concept of "It takes a village" long before it was in vogue. They even offered to take in my troubled older brother after one particularly nasty fistfight he had with my father but my mom was mortified. She still is to this very day

I would have lived with them if I could have. In a heartbeat.



Last night, I was driving to pick up my daughter when my phone rang. My mom called to tell me that Aunt Sue had passed away. Pneumonia. I had to pull off the road. Sue, the strong, larger than life, smiling rock of my childhood, one of two adults that I knew loved me unconditionally, is gone. Even though I haven't seen her for a couple of years, if I close my eyes, I can still hear her laugh, still feel her hug.

It breaks my heart to think of Uncle Ritchie alone but I can't do much for him from here. He does have his 3 kids up there to watch over him but he may not last long without her. We O'Neills have a history of dying of a broken heart.


Aunt Sue, thank you for being the Mom I wished I had, the Mom I try so hard to be like with my own kids. Thank you for helping my understand my flawed parents ... your insight always helped me gain perspective and let me know that it wasn't MY fault that they were broken.  I am a healthier, wholer, happier adult for the memories that you and Uncle Ritchie gave me and the world is a sadder place today.

then felt nauseous.

"[L]earning how to think really means learning how to exercise some control over how and what you think. It means being conscious and aware enough to choose what you pay attention to and to choose how you construct meaning from experience. Because if you cannot exercise this kind of choice in adult life, you will be totally hosed. Think of the old cliché about quote the mind being an excellent servant but a terrible master.

This, like many clichés, so lame and unexciting on the surface, actually expresses a great and terrible truth. It is not the least bit coincidental that adults who commit suicide with firearms almost always shoot themselves in: the head. They shoot the terrible master. And the truth is that most of these suicides are actually dead long before they pull the trigger."

David Foster Wallace, novelist and essayist,

from a 2005 speech at Kenyon College

RIP

Via Gawker , Reluctant Habits, Originally from LA Times

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