I know that on my salary I can't possibly afford to live in Massachusetts, and I figured if I sold my house and found something here in Portsmouth or Kittery, I could just commute as I've been doing from Sanford. I am not so naive as to think that the commutes are comparable. I have pretty smooth sailing between Sanford and Portsmouth and back every day, and long though it may be, I'm rarely if ever stuck in traffic. Commuting from Portsmouth to Boston and back every day has been reported as brutal and not recommended for any but the hardiest of individuals, say, those who climb K-2 on their holiday. It's a commute I was not looking forward to making, but my hands seemed tied. I would just have to toughen up.

Sure enough, we were told just a couple of weeks ago that the move is definite, and our office will be relocated by January 2009. I put in for another federal position here in the local area, interviewed for it, and was told a couple of weeks later that I had not been selected. Time to move to plan B - sell my house. In a panic I put my house on craigslist, at a rock-bottom fee, hoping to have it sold and a new home in place before that fateful date.

I knew I had no other alternative, other than to go looking on the civilian market for a job. If I were childless, this would be a no brainer -- I would be free to pursue any pipe dreams I have ever had - music, animal sciences, home based business, doggie daycare... But I am not childless and carefree, and having over 20 years in with the same company kind of leaves me - at the very least - hesitant to leave my time and benefits behind. Sure, I want to be a rock star, but at 39 years old, I'll have to be a rock star after I retire from the real world and my kid is out of school, and I've got 15 more years until I can do that.

I've been in a bit of a frenzy, trying to paste up the house as well as I can. I'm spinning around in circles, doing 1/4 of a room, tiling a floor but not finishing it, moving piles of crap I need to sort out from room to room. The problem is, I felt wrong. The whole thing felt wrong. I've been waffling about selling my house for about a year now, and although I felt determined to sell the house and make this location change work, it didn't ring true.

Enter, a small miracle, a small bit of karma that I'm still trying to figure out - a job offer. A week ago, I get a call from the organization with the job that I'd applied and been turned down for. They were now offering me a job, and it's right here in Kittery. I can start in February 2008.

I felt a wave of relief wash over me at first, but as the giddiness at not having to commute to Boston, at not having to sell my house wore off, a feeling of wariness was creeping in. A new job. A different employer. A different stack of duties. A big, big change. I have been with the same company for nearly 20 years and with the same office for 17. I'm not too embarrassed to admit that I'm scared out of my freaking mind!

It will be a big adjustment but you know what? It's something that I really believe I need. Even if my office announced that the relocation was off, I feel that I would have to move on anyway. It's time. There are so many changes that I have been wanting to make in my stagnant life and I just can't seem to get started on any of it. I want to pursue serious writing; I want to become involved in music again; I want to be more physically active; I want to start on my big list of things to do before I die.

This new job feels like a catalyst for something even bigger - for breaking out of my safe little chrysalis and transforming for perhaps one final time in my life. It's time to move on from my 20 year safe little habit of a job, it's time to sell this house which has become more of my life than I really meant it to be, it's time to start living my life rather than just getting through it.

I was in my basement last night, staring at my old octopus-style converted coal burner as I folded my laundry and found myself choking up with emotion over it. Do I really want to sell this house? After all, now that I'm not relocating with my employer, I really don't have to. I can hold on to it, preventing as much change as possible. Everything about this house meant so much to me at the time - my first house, my first bid at adulthood. I loved this house from the minute I saw it. This house was the first goal I set for myself as an adult and I mercilessly pursued it until I got it. I won. I've put so much into it, physically and emotionally, until it has eclipsed any other goal I might have set for myself.

But now, it's time. I won, and now I need to move on to another goal, another victory. The house no longer means what it once did for me. It has gone from a sweet triumph to a burden, as much as it hurts to admit it. I want to have time to explore activities other than caulking and painting and tiling.

I am also a little sad to say that this will be my final blog entry in Bullyland. It was fun while it lasted and the blog has served its purpose - proving to myself that I'm capable of holding an audience with my written words. I'd like to move on to a more fruitful writing career.

It's time to go for it, to shake off the moss and start rolling.

Veni, vidi, vici. And so, onward ho.

excerpt from "Never Die Young"
- Lori McKenna

TWO THOUSAND, NINE HUNDRED NINETY SIX

THREE THOUSAND SEVEN HUNDRED SIXTY TWO

SEVENTY EIGHT THOUSAND

ONE

In honor of my brother's love for big-production birthdays, and because he asked my mom to do it, we packed up the clan and headed to Fenway yesterday. We each had a button with my brother's photo on it, our Red Sox hats, t-shirts and other assorted get-ups, and piled into the narrow seating behind home & third. The Sox lost, but I think my brother would have appreciated the humor there. Never give up your faith! I could almost hear him saying it. My mom arranged the message in the following photo through the friends and contacts she made at Fenway while my brother was ill.

My mother wrote the following for her friends on a website for parents dealing with the loss of their children. She's made many friends through the website and I'm glad it allows her to channel some of her grief into creativity - another thing my brother would surely approve of. She let me read it and with her permission I'm printing it here. It brought tears to my eye but also a smile here and there.

Monday, August 20, 2007, is Mike's birthday---our first without him. A person's birthday is such a huge event in their lives; it celebrates their beginning, the arrival of a new spirit into this world, the moment of life's beginning for them. When they are placed in our arms, our happiness is almost indescribable---remember? "Hey world, this is my baby; isn't he/she absolutely the most beautiful baby you've ever seen? Isn't he/she the smartest, the happiest, the sweetest?" We all traveled this road when our child was born. We all reveled in the joy of it. We all were beside ourselves with pride and love and feeling so very blessed--life is wonderful.

Each successive year, when we celebrate the birthday of our sweet child, we are even more amazed. How tall they are getting. How beautiful their eyes are. How cute they are. The things they say are embedded in our minds--they are so smart, so cute, so wonderful. Surely no other child is as smart, cute, or wonderful. Even though we celebrate the milestones-- their first haircut, that first day of school, the first time they ride their bike, we are a little saddened at the same time, because we know their childhood is racing by, and we want to make it last as long as possible. We want them to grow, yes, but at the same time, we want them to stay small, and cute, and wonderful.

But as each birthday is celebrated, we see new things--another inch or three added on; another facet of their personality is coming through; another year of learning is increasing their awareness of the world around them. And we celebrate all of this. We are happy; we sing "Happy Birthday" to them and hug them, and love them, and everyone gets together to show them how much we love them and how much we celebrate their very being. This is how it should be. Loving and growing and being.

But when this sweet, precious, wonderful life we have brought into this world is ended early, what do we do when their birthday arrives? I don't know. I haven't been there yet, but it is closing in on me, fast. And what's left of my heart is imploding and my mind is exploding--with all of the memories, with all of the "Happy Birthday to You" songs that we've sung, and will sing no more; at least not with Mike sitting beside us, making us all laugh with some wry remark, jokingly—but with a touch of seriousness—looking around to make sure everyone there brought him something; after all, it’s his birthday, isn’t it? And no matter our age; we are ALL "children" when it comes to our birthdays, aren't we?

When a parent experiences the loss of their child by an early death, we know that life will never be the same for any of us. No more “normal.” Some day we will reach a "new normal” in our lives, or so I’m told by those who have been on this sad journey a lot longer than I have. A "new normal" that is not what any of us ever dreamed that we would live. And none of us want to be there. We go on, because we have other children and family to love and tend to and to be loved by and tended to. For this we are eternally grateful. But, each day is a new experience. Some are unbearably sad, some just "are," and some, every now and then, are threaded through with a memory here and there that brings a smile to our minds, a warmth to our heart, however slight, however swift, without the tears following, without the wrenching pain that memories sometimes bring. For these days I am so very thankful—how could we get to the next day if we didn't have these types of days now and then to bring us forward in our lives?

This Monday, I pray will be one of these days. I know we will remember Mike with memories of love and happy birthdays; we will remember how he really loved birthdays; how he must have invented the "this is my birthday weekend" if his birthday fell on a Friday, Saturday, or Sunday. We will remember his quirky sense of humor, his devotion to his kids, his love of movies and music, his love of being with family and friends, his passion for his tattoos, and most importantly, his passion for just "being”; just having the opportunity to be alive, to find happiness in whatever life was handing him at the time. And we will remember how, when he knew that his life was going to end soon, he comforted us, he told us that we were not to be sad about his dying, that we were not to sit around and cry that he was gone. He told us to celebrate our lives, to "Weep Not for the Memory," to LIVE.

So, how can I sit here on his birthday and cry, and yet, how can I not? This person, who showed us all what life is REALLY about, who said "I tend to be the kind of person who doesn't let much affect him; I roll with it and just take what I can out of it that's positive--there's always something--and learn from the negative..." and who, just a couple of months after learning that he had only months left to live, said, "I don't know why everyone is making such a fuss about my dying...everyone dies, I'm just doing it sooner than most. And I'm not afraid to die. I know where I'm going," will forever be alive in our hearts and our memories. But the absence of him from our physical lives brings pain that cannot be written about--there are no words sufficient to describe it, and though this too will be with us on Monday, we will still try to spend as much of the day as we can with sweet memories of all of those 31 years—the good and the bad—that we do have.

I haven't found much that's positive about this much too early end to Mike's life...I can't think of anything this early in our journey without him on this earth that could ever make me think that. And I think that Mike would understand that, at least for now; I just can't. Mike's leaving us early has turned our lives around, and though we try so hard to move ahead with our lives as he so very lovingly and courageously asked us to do, so far we can only take one day at a time, and try to make it to the next one.

We are, as Mike requested, going to Fenway Park on Sunday for his birthday, bringing his boys, as he asked me to, just weeks after his second brain surgery. Right in the middle of Fenway Park, in the middle of a game, he turned to me and said, "Mom, after I'm dead, I want you to keep coming to the games, to keep up this tradition that you and I have started; bring my boys, keep sharing it with them." As my heart plummeted to the ground at his frankness and simple yet profound request, he saw the look in my eyes and the tears spilling over my cheeks; he took my hand, put his arm around my shoulders, and said, "Okay, mom, I understand; but, please, at least promise me that you will be here for my birthday, with my boys—and I will be here, too." So, we will be there: myself, his dad, his sister, his two older boys, his nephews, and his best friend. The rest of us will all be there, wearing on our baseball caps a big button with Mike's picture on it, his smile jumping off of it to the world around us, with the words "Happy Birthday Mike" in a circle around his sweet face, and when we all stand up to sing "Sweet Caroline" in the middle of the 8th inning with some 36,000 other people, we will all know that Mike is "reaching out, touching you, touching me," and we will likely cry, and we will try to laugh, and we will remember...

Happy Birthday, bro. I hope your first in Heaven was your best one yet.

Other than that, I've never really tried to QUIT. I have bouts of guilt now and again, but I am really great at denial when it comes to smoking. I won't get cancer, I won't have a heart attack, I won't develop C.O.P.D. - which my dad does have - even though he quit over 20 years ago, my hair doesn't stink, my breath doesn't stink, there's no smoke residue in the car to harm my child, etc. You name it, I'll deny it, when it comes to smoking my Camel Lights. I make Jesus cry with my denial when it comes to smoking. I would jog five miles and light up afterward. I would eat organic salad and light up afterward. I would pay $4 a pack - at the cheapest store - and put only $16 in my gas tank if I only had one twenty dollar bill left to my name. My legacy for my 22 year old son? Camel Lights. Yes folks, he won't even smoke a different brand. "Mom, do you have any smokes, can I get one?" The truth is, my habit is disgusting. It's pathetic. It's time for a change.

Guess what? After 25 years, I'm finally ready. My youngest son has never seemed to notice my smoking much. I didn't really "hide" it from him, as so many smoking parents I know do, but I don't smoke in the house, or when he's in the car with me, etc. The other day, however, out of the blue, he called me out on it. "MOM! You have to quit smoking! You're going to die." He paused, and if I didn't know better, I'd swear it was for dramatic effect. "I'm going to be a kid whose Mom died young." I tell you, it was like a cinder block to my heart. You may know I lost my brother last fall. His brain cancer was not caused by smoking, but by a random twist of fate. His kids ARE kids whose Dad died young. I KNOW the tragedy first hand. And yet here I am, tempting death head-on, selfishly taking the chance that my kids lose their mother early. My oldest son would be an orphan if I died. My youngest... well, I don't even want to think about how he'd react.

After my son layed this on me I had a revelation. Yes. I would quit smoking. I would pick a date, and I would never light up again. Period. I said to him, "Guess what? I'm going to quit." He stopped and looked me in the eye. "What? Really? Do you mean it?" Another cinder block - it hadn't occurred to him at all that I would agree with him.

For the first time, I feel good about quitting, I mean - always before, I'd think about it but with a big sense of dread. Of course, I'd never get around to it. Now though, I'm feeling happy about it, I'm looking forward with a giddy feeling to the date I chose to quit.

I'm quitting August 20th, my brother's 32nd birthday. The Gatorade jug he and I used as an ashtray on my mom & dad's porch last fall is still on the porch. I'm going to bury that Gatorade jug in the woods on August 20th. I know my bro will have my back on this; he is my mojo. Wish me luck!

Runners up for most cheesy ads would be tooth whitener and Botox. I've never seen scarier smiles. As if anyone walks into a room grinning ear to ear with every tooth exposed at a party (tooth whitener). And who the hell jumps up and down while tossing their heads back, laughing riotously at the thought of Botox? Please, we all know Botox freezes your face no matter how animated the model's smile is.

I found myself wondering also if there's a law that prevents minorities from looking stupid in commercials. Family #1 (white) is upset because their incompetent mother/wife didn't use the good baggies and now their chicken is all freezer-burned. Family #2 (Asian/black/Hispanic/Eskimo) is ecstatic and going to eat well tonight, because their savvy mother/wife went with the good baggies, and Family #2's chicken breasts are vacuum sealed and airtight. Or blonde WASP-y woman walks all the way to the end of the driveway only to have her trash bag burst all over her feet - and AT THAT EXACT MOMENT, as if she were waiting for blondie to take the trash out so she can rub it in - an Hispanic woman trots out her bag which plops neatly into the can. I am ashamed to be a white girl, I will try to improve myself by buying the right bags.

I love the Law Offices of Joe Bornstein ads. I am always tempted to call the 1-800 number and when they ask me how they can help me, I'll say "I don't know, you tell me. Robert Vaughn just told me to call RIGHT NOW."

Honestly cute is the Aquaboggan water park ad with the three big kids in goggles & trunks sitting in a baby pool, waving. "Wave pool." Get it?

It seems unfortunate that he isn't as immersed in diversity as I was growing up as a military brat, but when I take a closer look at things, I can't help but wonder if he's actually fortunate to be avoiding stereotypes and racial tension. He doesn't have a clue that some white people still hate black people and vice versa. I hope when he's grown up and ready to do some traveling himself, he'll take his untainted, "everybody really is equal" attitude with him and spread it around.

I noticed as we traveled down through Massachusetts, Maryland, Delaware, NJ, et al that the diversity at the rest stops was steadily growing. My son asked me at a restaurant "Mommy, how come there are so many brown skinned people here?" I explained to him that for whatever reason there just aren't that many other colors in Maine, but he should expect a lot more different people as he travels the country. He was happy with that. He was fascinated by all the colors, languages and accents that we encountered as we traveled southward. He was particularly taken with a young Mexican boy about his age who had a brindle colored Chihuahua on a string. As the child's father and brother spoke to one another in Spanish, the boy's lilting accent accentuated his speech as he told my son, "We call him Tiger because he has stripes like the tiger." My son could identify with this child completely. Skin color, accents, and parents who speak another language were not a factor for my son when sharing his love for tiny dogs with this other boy. It was heart lifting.

Anyway, once we settled in Virginia, I couldn't help but notice that things weren't all melting-pot brotherly love. My sister and her family are in the minority in most parts of her town. I could sense the tension in casual comments made by white people I encountered.

At the beach, I noticed a family had left behind empty bottles, wrappers and cigarette butts in the sand. There were five trash cans within tossing distance of this mess! I made a comment about how disgusting that was and heard, "They don't care about making a filthy mess for others to clean."

"They," was I supposed to surmise, were black people? But what about the family to our left? They were black people. I observed the mother chasing a stray Kleenex for about five yards and they were meticulous about cleaning their mess.

As I got into an elevator at the hotel, a black man entered with me. He was wearing tourist casual - nice jeans, a polo shirt and some loafers. He was about my age. At the next floor, a middle aged white woman boarded the lift and glanced toward the black man but not at his face. "To the lobby please?" she said to him. I had to stop my mouth from falling open. I could not believe this woman assumed that this black man on the elevator was actually working the elevator. To this guy's credit, he did not even blink. He simply grinned and pushed "L" for her. When she exited the lift she tossed a meek "Thank you" over her shoulder at him. The guy must have an unbelievable tolerance level.

It has been a long time since I lived anywhere but New Hampshire or Maine and I forget what it's like to be immersed in cultural diversity. I forget what it's like to be directly exposed to black American culture - i.e., rap music, bling, ebonics, etc - all of which were present in crowds of teenagers in Virginia. I don't know any black people in Virginia and didn't hang out much and so I didn't get a fair and balanced view of racial tensions.

Having only spent a week there I am not exactly reeling with culture shock but I am a bit disoriented by it. I don't really remember a lot of racial tension when I was growing up in the racially integrated Air Force, other than the usual cliques which were more defined by musical tastes and class than by race.

Aside from the bubble of weirdness that was the realization that racial tensions do in fact still exist in this country, I had a spectacular time in Virginia. I got quite attached to the hotel pool, which turned out to be an oasis in the heat wave where children get along famously, get lots of exercise and get tired out enough to fall asleep without a hassle. I got to know my sister and my nieces again and finally meet her fiancee, who is definitely a keeper. My sister in her new relationship is more like the old girl I grew up with - silly, happy, funny, and loveable. My nieces are such personalities, with the oldest grabbing my heart because she is so much like I was at that age, and the youngest overflowing with comedic possibility. Virginia was beautiful, the skies were fantastic, the countryside ravishing and the prices low. But, I love New England and could never move. I wish so much they lived closer to me in New England. I wonder how they'd handle the culture shock!

Sorry 'bout that.

???
(Sorry 'bout that, too.)

We'll visit my sis and my adorable neices, we'll eat out every night, swim in a pool, take in Busch Gardens and the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. We'll forget how to spell "homework" and we'll work on our tan lines. We'll spend over a week away from home in Forget-About-It Land.

Oh, I'll bring a little home along with me of course. I'll fret about my pets and plants and house, although each pet is getting a "vacation" of its own with my friends & family. I think I'm going to sneak up on my dad with my potted plants. "Dad, you don't mind babysitting about 20 different planters, do you? And while you're at it, feed my fish, okay?" Hey, he's getting a whole week alone to spend as much time in his recliner as he wants, I'm sure he'll oblige me.

I haven't gone out of town for more than a couple of days in so long that I'm kind of in a panic. Will my fish die? Will my house burn down? Will I pack enough underwear? I only own one decent bra, will I remember the Woolite? Will I have enough clothes for my son? Better head to K-Mart. Do I have enough "Virginia" summer clothing? I have lots of "New England" summer clothing, but as you may or may not know, Virginia summers are quite a different story than up in these parts. A walk from your front porch to your car can challenge all but the most aggressive anti-perspirants. Black pocket t-shirts just won't do; better to have plenty of spaghetti straps and tank tops, and keep a bottle of Arid XXX in my purse. Will I have enough spending money? Well, the answer to that is obviously no, so why worry? Will I be so worried about packing for my son that I forget my one decent bra and my Arid XXX?

We leave in a couple of days, and I'll let you know how it went. Hopefully I'll return relaxed, refreshed, and ready to go back to work.

Weeelllll, maybe two out of three anyway.

Aaaah, that's more like it!

A sampling of Ron Paul quotes from www.brainyquote.com:

A system of capitalism presumes sound money, not fiat money manipulated by a central bank. Capitalism cherishes voluntary contracts and interest rates that are determined by savings, not credit creation by a central bank.
*********
All initiation of force is a violation of someone else's rights, whether initiated by an individual or the state, for the benefit of an individual or group of individuals, even if it's supposed to be for the benefit of another individual or group of individuals.
*********
Astonishingly, American taxpayers now will be forced to finance a multi-billion dollar jobs program in Iraq. Suddenly the war is about jobs. We export our manufacturing jobs to Asia, and now we plan to export our welfare jobs to Iraq, all at the expense of the poor and the middle class here at home.
*********
Capitalism should not be condemned, since we haven't had capitalism.
*********
Cliches about supporting the troops are designed to distract from failed policies, policies promoted by powerful special interests that benefit from war, anything to steer the discussion away from the real reasons the war in Iraq will not end anytime soon.
*********
How did we win the election in the year 2000? We talked about a humble foreign policy: No nation-building; don't police the world. That's conservative, it's Republican, it's pro-American - it follows the founding fathers. And, besides, it follows the Constitution.
*********
I am absolutely opposed to a national ID card. This is a total contradiction of what a free society is all about. The purpose of government is to protect the secrecy and the privacy of all individuals, not the secrecy of government. We don't need a national ID card.
*********
I believe that when we overdo our military aggressiveness, it actually weakens our national defense. I mean, we stood up to the Soviets. They had 40,000 nuclear weapons. Now we're fretting day in and day and night about third-world countries that have no army, navy or air force.
*********
I have never met anyone who did not support our troops. Sometimes, however, we hear accusations that someone or some group does not support the men and women serving in our Armed Forces. But this is pure demagoguery, and it is intellectually dishonest.
*********
Legitimate use of violence can only be that which is required in self-defense.
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Our country's founders cherished liberty, not democracy.
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Setting a good example is a far better way to spread ideals than through force of arms.
*********
The moral and constitutional obligations of our representatives in Washington are to protect our liberty, not coddle the world, precipitating no-win wars, while bringing bankruptcy and economic turmoil to our people.
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The most important element of a free society, where individual rights are held in the highest esteem, is the rejection of the initiation of violence.
*********
Throughout the 20th century, the Republican Party benefited from a non-interventionist foreign policy. Think of how Eisenhower came in to stop the Korean War. Think of how Nixon was elected to stop the mess in Vietnam.
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War is never economically beneficial except for those in position to profit from war expenditures.
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When one gets in bed with government, one must expect the diseases it spreads.
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You wanna get rid of drug crime in this country? Fine, let's just get rid of all the drug laws.
Ron Paul

So what do you think? I love this guy. What he has to say paints red circles around the rest of them, complete with slanty line through the middle.

I'm not normally very political as far as stumping for a candidate or being involved in a particular party. But frankly I've had it. I want a change. I want our country back. Don't you? Ron Paul wants to give it back to you and I. I want people to once more be confident enough in their country and leadership that they don't feel the need to vote for control freaks for protection. I want Ron Paul for president.

Holiday

- green day

Well, we decided to have my birthday cake on Mother's Day, since my actual birthday was on a Monday. On Sunday, I sat on my parents' porch and had a "moment." Toward the end of his life, my parents' porch was on some days, highlights of my brother's day. He'd be watching TV and I would say, "Are you ready?" and his face would usually light up, or alternately, he'd roll his eyes at my ridiculous question. Of COURSE he was ready to go outside. I would help him out there and into a patio chair for some fresh air and an American Spirit ciggie. Sometimes my older son would join us. Sometimes we'd play the stereo loud enough to hear on the porch. He wasn't very talkative at that stage and I'd spend the time outside rambling on and on, hoping that I was entertaining him. He'd either laugh at me (I'd told a good joke), or roll his eyes at me (I'd told a bad joke), or raise his eyebrows (he doubted my story).

On Sunday as I was sitting on the porch, I could practically see him sitting there under the sun umbrella. I could see him stubbornly trying to get his cigarette butt into the narrow opening of an old Gatorade jug, hands shaking but making it into the hole nonetheless. The jug is still there, his butts still in it. I cried like a baby.

I shouldn't have let myself get so melancholy at my birthday cake, since the kids were there, but I couldn't help it. I was born on the fourteenth, the same day that my brother died. I don't know if I'll ever want to celebrate my birthday again, so for the time being, I'm 39 and holding.

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I could see the guy was more shook up than he should have been. I mean, I didn't have to look twice to see that the guy was a bit of a drama queen. At first, I thought he looked familiar, like I may have met him before. Then I realized that was because he looked a little like James Spader, if Picasso had imagined him. He had unusual facial angles, and eyes that kind of rolled about even when he wasn't rolling them about on purpose. Anyway, I said, "Are you going to be okay? If it'll make you feel better, there's no damage to your car." He continued to freak out but eventually got out of his car and made his way back to the bumper. "You're right! I can't believe it. There's not even a scratch! You've got to love a Nissan!" I said, "Yes, man, that'll be the next car I buy. What luck."

I'd already written my insurance info down for him, not really knowing what for because there was no damage, but it was clear I had to, since he'd already called his insurance company. He went back to the front of the car to get his info and at that moment an Amesbury EMT truck pulled up. The EMT came over and asked me if everything was okay. "I'm fine, the cars are fine, but he says his back hurts."

The EMT told the guy that if his back was hurt he shouldn't be up walking around and led him back to his driver's seat. The EMT then proceeded to radio for local help. Next thing I knew there was the ambulance, the fire truck and a cop on a motorcycle.

I watched from the other side of my car as the medical personnel had the guy answer some questions, do a few duck squats, reach for the sky, and then someone determined that he was good to drive off, or he refused the ambulance, I don't know which. I heard him complain to someone that the firemen seemed more concerned about my dogs than him. No one wanted to tell him, well dumbass, that's because the dogs are sitting in a hot car in the middle of the sun because you have to be a drama queen about absolutely nothing! No one had the heart or the balls to tell the guy he was wasting everyone's time and valuable resources, and that he needed to shut up and get moving. No one (myself included, I'll admit!) had the heart or the balls to tell the guy the truth. "THERE'S NOTHING WRONG WITH YOU, GO HOME." The cop looked at the cars and said we could pull our cars over to exchange info. The guy asked the cop if we did the right thing by not moving the cars, and the cop replied that since there was no damage, it would have been fine to move them out of the way.

The guy, Paris M. as I found out when I gave him my info, was still half-heartedly emoting about his back after the EMTs and firemen had left the scene. I was at a complete loss as to how to handle him. I was absolutely speechless over everything that had transpired. Had I had the luck to hit a normal human being, we would have looked at each other's cars, laughed, said how lucky we were and drove our separate ways.

I hate drama. According to my friends, I've turned into a virtual hermit and the main reason may be that I hate drama. I can't understand anyone who likes it. I can't understand anyone who creates it. I can't understand Paris M.'s desire to make a mountain out of a molehill, to want to go through paperwork and red tape.

I got a call from our insurance company - turns out we share the same company - and was asked to make a recorded statement about what happened. As I told my story I really bit my tongue and held back the negative adjectives regarding Paris. When I got to the point about being lucky there was no damage, the agent stopped me. "Mr. M. said there were some scratches and scuffs, and he's taking it in to get an estimate. We'll be taking care of all that for you, so you won't have to worry about anything."

"Wait a minute," I said. "You don't understand. I know I'm at fault, but there was NO damage. Not even a smudge you could wipe off with a cotton ball. How could he claim there was any damage?"

The agent said well, he had. I said. "Hold on one second. Since I'm being recorded, I just want to say for the record that Paris himself said - quote - 'You're right! I can't believe it. There's not even a scratch! You've got to love a Nissan!' - unquote - and frankly I don't understand how he had the nerve to get an estimate. What's he going to say to the body shop? Paris: 'I'd like an estimate on repairs for my car.' Bodyshop guy: 'For what?' Paris: 'To see how much it'll cost to buff out those invisible scratches.' I mean, if I were him, I'd be embarrassed. I'm embarrassed for him. What a drama queen."

The insurance agent laughed a little, a little taken aback by my forthright comments, obvy. He mentioned that he would have it looked into. Clearly, he as well as everyone else in this world has been conditioned to "be nice" instead of telling it like it is. Someone should have probably called Paris on his melodrama when he was 5 or 6 years old, then maybe he wouldn't be a forty-year old loser who has to make a big deal out of nothing, get the cops, the ambulance, the fire department all involved and tax dollars wasted for nothing - save a little attention.

The more I thought about it, the more angry I became. I had Paris' contact info in my hand. I grabbed my phone, planning on getting him on the phone and calling him on his lies and his drama.

Then I remembered a long talk me and my mom had just had with my 8 year old about his anger. He's been losing his temper a lot lately, and a lot of drama has become of it. I'm trying to nip this bad habit in the bud - that habit of jumping the gun and getting angry or melodramatic over small, everyday things.

I felt as though I couldn't very well call Paris and chew him out if I was preaching the exact opposite to my son. So I took a few deep breaths, relaxed my clenched fists, hung up the phone, and forced myself to laugh. I started giggling, then laughing, then got the hiccups, then I started feeling - gasp - empathy for Paris. This poor dude has such a boring life that he not only had time for - but created - the extra footwork for himself making a big deal out of this nonissue.

Then I picked up the phone again and instead of dialing Paris' phone number, I dialed the insurance company.

"I forgot to mention the fact that there was a motorcycle cop at the scene, along with four firemen and two EMTs. You may want to get the police report as I'm certain it will include the fact that there was zero damage to either car - as well as the names & contact info of the six other professionals who witnessed the car and the fact that Paris was doing duck walks and refused the ambulance. Just in case you really did want to investigate, you know, to save your company from a little fraud by not pandering to the drama queens."

"Thanks - we didn't know about the police or the fire department or ambulance. We are definitely looking into it."

You're welcome. I'm just doing my part in preventing America's enabling of melodrama.

Post script: My friend Heather is an EMT in Manchester. Upon hearing this story, she declared, "Welcome to my world, sweetheart."

"No problem!" I breezily replied. I was gung ho for red walls.

Oh. My. God. He was not kidding. I mean, after two coats of gray primer (specially tinted), three $9.00 roller pads, and SEVEN coats of the perfect shade of red later, I had my red walls. Well, two of them anyway. After 4 straight weekends of painting, I decided that two opposing red walls were just lovely next to the two opposing off-white walls. Really. The kitchen was cake, comparatively - even taking off all the cabinet doors and hardware and cleaning the beadboard with vinegar before painting was easy compared to the dreaded red experiment. But, I got my desired red walls which indeed make a nice backdrop for my big fish tank and are, for me anyway, extremely aesthetically pleasing.

I also began a task that seemed easy at first - tiling my kitchen floor. My floor and my bathroom are covered in the same ugly ca. 1950 linoleum that I'm sure used to be white, but is now several different shades of yellow. The effect is a hideous pee-stained look. My best friend Heather, who has been my renovation muse since I bought this money trap of a house, motivated me to purchase black and white tiles and supplies with some of my meager tax return and get going. That first weekend we worked with a manic vigor, making a few newbie mistakes and finally getting the hang of cutting the tiles and laying the adhesive. Of course, all during this kitchen floor project, everything that had previously occupied my kitchen floor - the island table, microwave cart, dog food bin, trash can, litter box, etc - was rehomed in either my dining room or the living room. We'd been living around these items uncomfortably all week, but with the goal in mind. The second weekend she came over again with the intent of finishing the project. I popped out to procure some refreshment and before I even stepped into the store my cell phone rang. "I need to go to the emergency room," I heard a plaintive little voice say. "I cut my finger." I rushed home to find that Heather in her haste had gotten sloppy for a moment, not using the metal straight-edge to guide the knife, and sliced her fingertip to shreds. Needless to say the project was off for the time being. (note - Heather is okay and amazingly took only three stitches.)

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There is another reason besides lack of pay why I've been unmotivated to write. In late February (after painting my walls) I fell directly on my knees on the ice at my parents' driveway. It hardly hurt; I felt lucky to only have to dust a little snow off my pants. Almost an entire week later I woke up in agony. One of my knees was swollen like a cantaloupe. I tried to let it heal on its own, knowing that for knees - like toes - there's really nothing the doctor can do. After a week of excruciating pain I gave in and made an appointment and sure enough, there was nothing they could do for it.

Now, I'm overweight, that's no secret. In fact, in the past 6 or 8 months I've put on even more weight. However I have always been relatively active. Even though 5 mile jogs - hell, any jogs - are a thing of my thinner past, a nice walk on my lunch break is a daily routine for me. This knee thing was really deflating my spirit. Having to hobble up and down stairs was a total drag. Laundry was a nightmare. Getting in and out of the car was a hassle. Getting up and down from my computer chair at work was particularly painful. Even sleeping was uncomfortable. I started developing pain in my other joints with the effort it took to readjust my movement. I started to despair that I would ever be normal again, that I would always walk with a gimpy gait.

After many, many weeks I'm finally about 95% healed. Since this orthopedic nightmare has ended, I am raring to go. This past weekend's lovely weather was the launchpad I needed to get going again. I spent it raking year-old leaves, sawing through gianormous pine tree branches that have fallen in my yard, riding bikes and walking to the playground with my son, etc. I have been walking daily, and with a renewed energy. I've dropped seven pounds without even trying to drop seven pounds.

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I'm feeling pretty good, and I can't wait to get out in my garden. Last summer through fall when my brother's tumor returned, I spent as much time with him and my family as possible. Gardening and home improvement were the last things on my mind. For the first time since I bought my house in 2002, I left leaves on the ground to be covered up by snow.

This spring, I have a determined sense of purpose. I've decided to sell my house and move closer to where I work in Portsmouth. I have a new goal, one that is very important to me, and I know I must get off my ass and finish these renovation projects if I want to make any money at all on this house. I need to make that garden look as beautiful as possible. I need my floors and walls to shimmer with beauty.

My knee is healed, my garden is beckoning, the kitchen floor is nearly finished and my waistband is looser.

And I finally feel like writing something.

Maybe it's the futons. I mean, most people have slept on futons, right? It's like padded wood under your back. No springs, no fluff. This could contribute to the discipline of the Japanese - having to sleep on a hard surface such as a futon. Maybe it's the rice paper walls. You've seen them right? One can see through them, hear through them, and fall through them if one wasn't careful. Those walls must encourage quiet, focus and discipline. It could be the food, too. Eating steamed veggies with minimal amount of meat, usually fish, must keep the body upright and demure. Making intricate presentations of meals, using chop sticks, tiny tea cups, etcetera is all very practiced, very deliberate.

I wish I were so beautiful and delicate as the Asian women I see in movies and read about in literature. Even the uber bitchy Hatsumomo from "Memoirs of a Geisha" was a fragile butterfly compared to me.

I know I'm probably being a bigot by assuming that the stereotypes in movies and books are true. For all I know, the average Japanese or Chinese household has sheetrock walls and sleeps on memory foam instead of rice paper and futons. For all I know, they are eating spaghetti with plastic forks and knives instead of sushi with chopsticks. For all I know, their children run through the house colliding with every third object they encounter, the women are sneaking ciggies behind the porch between loads of laundry, and pet hair gathers in little balls under their loveseats.

But it's nice to imagine that they are like the beautiful Asian characters I see in movies, and that their gentle discipline and understatement is something I can aspire to.

I've been reading "The Poisonwood Bible" by Barbara Kingsolver, and this passage from a mother's point of view who just lost her youngest child halted my breath, tripped my little hairs, made my heart ache for my mother and not for me or my sister, or my brother, or even my father.

It's different for her.

"As long as I kept moving, my grief streamed out behind me like a swimmer's long hair in water. I knew the weight was there but it didn't touch me. Only when I stopped did the slick, dark stuff of it come floating around my face, catching my arms and throat till I began to drown. So I just didn't stop.

"The substance of grief is not imaginary. It's as real as rope or the absence of air, and like both those things it can kill. My body understood there was no safe place for me to be.

"A mother's body remembers her babies -- the folds of soft flesh, the softly furred scalp against her nose. Each child has its own entreaties to body and soul. It's the last one, though, that overtakes you. I can't dare say I loved the others less, but my first three were all babies at once, and motherhood dismayed me entirely. The twins came just as Rachel was learning to walk. What came next I hardly remember, whole years when I battled through every single day of grasping hands and mouths until I could fall into bed for a few short hours and dream of being eaten alive in small pieces. I counted to one hundred as I rocked, contriving the patience to get one down in order to take up another. One mouth closed on a spoon meant two crying empty, feathers flying, so I dashed back and forth like a mother bird, flouting nature's maw with a brood too large. I couldn't count on survival until all three of them could stand alone. Together they were my first issue. I took one deep breath for every step they took away from me. That's how it is with the firstborn, no matter what kind of mother you are -- rich, poor, frazzled half to death or sweetly content. A first child is your own best foot forward, and how you do cheer those little feet as they strike out. You examine every turn of flesh for precocity, and crow it to the world.

"But the last one: the baby who trails her scent like a flag of surrender through your life when there will be no more coming after -- oh, that's love by a different name. She is the babe you hold in your arms for an hour after she's gone to sleep. If you put her down in the crib, she might wake up changed and fly away. So instead you rock by the window, drinking in the light from her skin, breathing her exhaled dreams. Your heart bays to the double crescent moons of closed lashes on her cheeks. She's the one you can't put down.

"My baby, my blood, my honest truth: entreat me not to leave thee, for whither thou goest I will go. Where I lodge, we lodge together. Where I die, you'll be buried at last."

from The Poisonwood Bible, by Barbara Kingsolver

As I was telling my sister blogger Internet Geek, I can no longer hide from the fact that at best, my life is half over. I know it sounds alarmist, defeatist and pessimistic to proclaim, but it's only the bald faced truth. I have another forty years on this planet *if* I'm lucky. And as this fact hovers in front of my consciousness like a swarm of no-see-ums on a muggy day in August, I am forced to confront the reality. I'm in a rut. I've been in a rut. I need to do something, and fast, to get myself out of this rut.

I brought these observations to my shrink. She suggested I make a list of things I want to do before I die and choose the one thing I can work on right now. ( Why didn't I think of that? What a simple but incredibly astute suggestion.) If I want to be repeating myself 10 years from now, when I'm closer to fifty than forty, I'd better take the bull by the horns (snort!) and get busy. I know once I get started doing new things I'll break out of this terrible state of suspended development for good. I want to absorb all the culture of this planet that I can possibly absorb. There are things I want to do - things I've always wanted to do, and I need to get started doing them. As terrible lessons have taught me this past year, I've only got one shot here in this life. I need to start making it happen.

So here are the beginnings of my list.

I want to learn Spanish. One of my best friends is planning on settling in Argentina - her fiancee has purchased a winery there and I would love to mete out my golden years assisting her with the place.

I want to travel to Alaska and the mid- and southwest, the sections of America that I have either never seen or only driven through; I want to see the vast portions of wilderness that still exists in this country (before they're gone).

I want to be able to jog 5 miles like I used to. This may seem petty but it's really not. When I was jogging a few years ago I had so much more engery, mentally and physically. I don't think I will accomplish much else on my list if I don't get into that kind of physical shape again. I used to live for crystal winter days, chilly fall days, new spring days, all SORTS of days when it was perfect weather to jog. Now, when one of those days occurs, I just get melancholy thinking about how pumped up I used to get with anticipation of my lunchtime jog. I want it back.

I want to learn more about the arts & humanities, subjects I adored in school and still do. I want to study individual artists and study different eras of humanity's development.

So, that's what I have so far. There are more things to...mundane things like, keeping my house in order and getting out of debt, but those are boring and predictable so I won't bother listing them.

I haven't made any progress toward any of these lofty goals yet; I figure my first lofty goal is to finish the list which will take a lot of thoughtful effort. I don't want to haphazardly throw a list together that will end up under a leaky coffee cup or something. I want it to mean something. I'm going to print it in 18K gold when I'm finished and frame it.

I have started working toward the jogging goal, though. This is one thing I can do in the meantime, while I complete my list. I upped my effort on my daily walk yesterday, going another 5 or 10 minutes and never slowing down. Today I plan on doing the same, only actually break a sweat. That'll be new.

Happy New Year's, y'all.