Not to brag or anything, but 9 times out of 10, I’m excellent with directions. Most times, you can give me highway numbers, and I’m good. I’ve been known to take backroads just because I noticed the same road numbers in different cities and realized I could get from one place to the other by taking that route. So with these mad traveling skills, you can imagine the tizzy I’m sent into on the rare occasions I’m lost or can’t find a home/business/etc.

Such an occasion presented itself the day before my birthday about three weeks ago. I had an appointment for a massage — my very first hour-long one, that didn’t involve someone coming to the office and setting up massage chairs in the conference room. I left for the appointment 30 minutes early, even though I knew it would take no more than 15 to get there, just to give myself enough time to find the place.

I was born and raised in Greenville and lived here for almost all of my 35 years. I had done a quick Mapquest search when I made the appointment a couple of weeks before, and familiarized myself with the intersection. So I felt I had a pretty good idea where the place was and even though I didn’t have business card with me with the address, I was confident that I’d see the sign from the road and that there’d be no problem.

But there was no sign to see from the road. I drove up Augusta Road way longer than I should have and saw nothing. So I turned around and came back. Then I remembered that the street address was 1600, so I circled the 1600 block five or six times… nothing.

The appointment time came and went. I tried calling the massage therapist and got her voicemail. I left a message with my cell phone number. I drove around again for another 20 minutes. She hadn’t return my call, so I gave up, called again and left a message that I would have to reschedule, and went home utterly frustrated. Later, I learned that the street number was 1990, not 1600 :oops:.

As frustrated as I was after that fiasco, this past week I have felt completely, totally, hopelessly lost. I had this plan. I had applied to the PACE program — a three-year alternative teaching program that allows those with a bachelor’s degree teach in critical needs areas or in critical needs districts while taking three graduate courses and attending some training programs, which leads to certification at the end of the three years. To be eligible for the program, I had to take two Praxis II tests for English — one was a 150-multiple-choice-question test, the other a four-essay-question test. I passed the multiple choice one with flying colors. I missed the essay test by 10 points.

I took the essay test again on the last Saturday in April, but as I learned Wednesday, I came up five points short of the score required by South Carolina. That was a huge blow. I was supposed to pass this test so I could get a teaching job for this fall so I could finally leave the job that has become insufferable over the past two and a half years.

Now, I have to wait until August to take the test again, which means I’d have to find a teaching job for next spring — if one’s available. One of my first reactions was that perhaps I’d just quit my job, get a part-time deal somewhere, and then go to the college in the next county that offers a Master of Arts in Teaching degree. I could go straight through and be student teaching in a year.

Then I thought, “Why am I trying so hard to go back to school for a job that I’m wanting just to pay the bills while I write?” It’s not that I’m silly enough to think that once I actually publish a novel (which I realize could take another 10 years… seeing as how I have to actually FINISH one!) I’ll be able to sustain myself by simply writing fiction. It just seems… counterproductive to spend all this time and energy for this short-term goal. Why not try to find another job (because GOD HELP ME… I have GOT to get out of that office) that can help me afford the mortgage and the groceries and the dog and cat food while I write my own stories?

Writing jobs are impossible to find in this area. I’d have to go to Charlotte or Atlanta, and I’m not up for relocating right now — and I’m never relocating to Atlanta… sheesh (apologies to those who live there and love it; it’s just too big for me).

As for other jobs, I know InDesign, but I barely know Illustrator and have no knowledge of Photoshop or Quark or any of the Web designing software that design jobs require. Plus the fact that I’m not a “designer” anyway. I can layout a page — plug text and graphics in where they need to go — but I don’t have an eye for design. If you were to give me just two sentences of text and a blank 8.5″x11″ page and tell me to create something eye-catching, I’d ask you for a paper bag to breathe in.

While I have writing ability for market/advertising, those jobs want you to know Excel and Powerpoint and all those Office applications. I know only Word.

See what a catch I am?

I did get that massage this past weekend; however, I did have a moment of slight panic as I turned on the appropriate street but still didn’t see a sign for the name of the business. I turned into the parking lot and looked harder, but still couldn’t find it.

I circled the block and came back around and suddenly, I saw the street number “1990.” A-ha! I had the right building. I parked the car, and luckily, a woman was getting out of her car at the same time. I asked her if she knew the suite where my massage therapist was, and while she wasn’t exactly sure, she found someone who did know.

So I suppose I’m going to have to keep circling the block and looking at the road map and hopefully, someone might have some directions for me.

Today, on a very special 12 of 12, it’s Sappy Chick’s birthday! Join our heroine as she travels around the Upstate and deals with completing her 35th year!

9:30 am, Kitchen: The birthday breakfast… Anyone want an inflatable Shrek boogie board?

9:30 am, Kitchen: Loki looking very introspective this morning.

9:30 am, Foyer: And Domino is just tuckered out from the earlier playtime with Loki.

9:40 am, Kitchen: This is Mom-in-Law’s new kitten, Ozzy. Cinlach found him last Monday at his grandparents’ house. He must be getting the rep as a sucker among all the strays in their neighborhood.

10:40, Dining Room: My mom’s is coming to pick me up for lunch with my grandmother and two aunts — a Mother’s Day tradition. Mom is going to the beach next weekend with the women from her office, so I’ve collected a stack of suggested viewing for them.

2:00 pm-ish, Belk: We’ve had lunch, and now we’re shopping. Apparently, they’ve found a whole case of earrings missing from the ’80s, because these are just…. da-yum.

2:45 pm, Mom’s Car: Mom asks me to look in the glove compartment and hand her the pair of sunglasses that are less dark. So I open the compartment and ask “Which one?” There are five — FIVE! — pairs of sunglasses in here. And that doesn’t count the pair sitting on her nose. So I told her, “That’s it. You’re going in my 12 of 12.”

5:45 pm, Just Outside of Subdivision: We’re on our way to dinner, and I wanted to show you guys these oak trees that these people stripped of all branches. They looked naked for months, and now the little new branches that are sprouting make the trees look like they’re fuzzy.

5:55 pm, O’Charley’s: Here we are for dinner. I had the best dessert — Creme Brulee Cheesecake. It was divine! My brother, his wife, and his stepdaughters joined us, and they gave me a set of four martini glasses (since they know I love my cosmos).

7:40 pm, Golden Park: I’m late to my own birthday party… good grief! We had another bowling party, but we included my friend J from the office since her birthday is Wednesday.

9:35 pm, Bowling Alley: Me and J, the birthday girls. Look at the shine on my forehead! And I should have taken my glasses off.

9:45 pm, Bowling Alley: My step nieces have tuckered out. They’ll get up to bowl at this point but then go lay back down when they’re done.

BONUS! Dreamscapes: Stormy Afternoon

And there you have it… my 35th birthday. This guy is the creator of 12 of 12. Go here to see what people all over the world did on May 12th.

12 of 12 post will come tomorrow morning, but right now, a couple of bits of conversation:

Cinlach: (after I took his picture to make him stop yammering) I don’t care if you take my picture. It’s not going up on 12 of 12. You could take a picture of my cock for all I care.

Me: (pointing the camera at his crotch) okay…

Cinlach: You think I’ll care? I’ll flop it out right now. Better yet, here we go (sticks finger up nose).

Later on…

J: You want T____ to buy you another shot? (because she mistook J saying “anything but goldschlager” to mean “get goldschlager”)

Me: No, it’s really okay, I promise.

J: Well, do you wanna make out with her then?

Go here to see the photo and rules. I decided to write a scene from a novel I’ve been working on for years.

It could have been the rain. It could have been Sara’s presence. Whatever it was, Alex felt recharged, invigorated. In that instance, nothing he had done in the past mattered anymore. He felt each raindrop carrying away every despicable thing he saw when he looked in the mirror. The water dripped from his fingertips, the ends of his hair, his eyelashes, his chin, his clothes. It swirled around his feet on its way to the storm drain to his left.

He stretched out his arms, hands balled into fists, and opened his mouth, tasting each delicious raindrop on his tongue. He held the pose for 30 seconds then laughed and gazed at Sara, this girl who refused to leave him, who loved him with a desperation that surely was not healthy.

Perhaps he could do this. He could love her the way she needed. He walked to her, ran his fingers across the drops of water streaming down her cheeks and into her hair. The anticipation in her eyes made him all the more eager to kiss her, to show her that he was ready.

She put her hands on his wrists and eventually pulled his arms down so that they could circle around her waist and pull her closer. She felt as if she had just observed a metamorphosis. For the past year, he had existed in this cocoon, and he had never expressed any motivation for breaking out of it.

Part of her wanted to know what had changed his mind, but she wasn’t willing to sacrifice these moments of being so close to him — feeling his hand press into her lower back, letting her fingertips run along the back of his neck. Hearing him say that she was the one he wanted to talk to each night before he went to bed, that she understood him better than anyone, that he was attracted to her had made her ache for this moment.

The kiss was over, but he still held her next to him. She listened to the raindrops as they splattered on the leaves, the stream of water rippling toward the storm drain, the sound of his exhales into her ear. With each inhale, she took in the smell of wet earth, his faint aftershave, and mustiness of his jacket.

If something existed that could have made the moment any better, they had no idea of what it was.

I turn 35 tomorrow… 35… thirty… five. I’m not sure I had this much trouble with 30. Those of you who are older are probably rolling your eyes right now and waiting for your 25 or 30 seconds to tick away so you can click the next number and get your precious surfing credit, but I know you’ve been here.

My younger brother turned 33 almost two months ago, and I thought, “Good lord, that was just a blink of an eye ago!”

And 25? That seems like yesterday. Ten years ago this week, I was hobbling around with a cast on my leg thanks to some goldschlager on Bourbon Street. 15? That was last week when I was close to finishing my freshman year of high school and chasing after the boy I would hopelessly agonize over for the next five years.

Something that didn’t make me feel any better: A couple of weeks ago, I went to see In the Land of Women while Cinlach and his two brothers went to see Hot Fuzz, something we had seen the week before. I loved Hot Fuzz, but I just didn’t want to pay $9 to see it again. I’ll be all over the DVD, though.

So I went to the Meg Ryan and That Guy Who Was on The OC movie. As I sat in the theater with hardly anyone else, I began to look forward to the movie starting. I enjoy seeing well-written dramas like this by myself. Then the teeny-boppers came in — the ones who came to see the movie just because of That Guy Who Was on The OC. (Yes, I’m well aware that his name is Adam Brody.)

There’s a scene about halfway through when (SPOILER ALERT!) That Guy Who Was on The OC kisses Meg Ryan. Now, that wasn’t in the previews. In fact, one look at the movie poster makes you think that he falls for the girl who plays Meg Ryan’s daughter, but ah-ha-ha… there’s a little red herring for ya.

And in the instant when That Guy Who— oh alright, Adam Brody — kisses Meg Ryan, there was this collective gasp among the teeny-boppers. You would have thought two guys had just kissed on screen (not that there’s anything wrong with that, but no one should gasp at that either — however, people do).

And if that gasp wasn’t enough, one nitwit exclaimed out loud, “She’s old!”

One of the few times I had not indulged at the concession stand turned out to be one of the times I most desperately wanted to have something to throw — because I would have unleashed a barrage of confectionary goods at her highlighted, texturized hairstyled head.

Whining and pining aside, I do realize that I’m lucky. I could have ended up like a girl I knew in high school, killed several years ago while horseback riding when her head struck a low tree branch.

Or the guy I used to work with, whom I saw just last October (smiling and looking like the picture of happiness and health), who was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer in February and died two weeks ago.

I’ve lived three years longer than Rhonda did. We used to compare our skin tone and fingernails — to see who had the better tan or whose nails were longer. Having some Native American in her bloodline, Rhonda kept a year-round tan; and being five years older, she had the discipline to not pick at her fingernails, so they were always longer than mine. I never really thought a day would come when I’d have to think about who would live longer.

I know I am blessed with people who love me, a job that pays the bills, a roof over my head, and relatively good health. It’s just that every once in a while I look back and say, “Holy shit! Where is all the time going?” and then, “What am I doing here?”

I just don’t feel 35. Maybe it’s because I don’t have kids yet (something that my biological clock is now pissed about and is no longer speaking to me). Maybe it’s because I’ve been working the same job that I started at age 23 and have gotten absolutely nowhere in 12 years (although I am in the final steps of a career change).

Is there something that’s supposed to make me feel more like an adult besides a mortgage and a stack of bills? Will this career change — which requires me to go back to school — make me feel older? Wiser? More mature?

I don’t intend to become a stick in the mud or anything. I just feel like I don’t have it all together. Of course, maybe no one ever really does.

Anyway, happy birthday to me…

Since I am firmly planted as a member of Gen X, I am a lover of almost all things ’80s — except the parachute pants, I can proudly say that I never owned a pair of those — and how much more ’80s can you get than Dirty Dancing?

That’s right, dear blog buddies, I went to see the 20th anniversary showing of Dirty Dancing tonight at my local theater with about 100 other women and maybe 10 men (who must have made their significant others sign a contract promising sexual favors after the movie). I swear there was so much estrogen in that room that I was surprised that every female who still gets her period didn’t start this month’s cycle right then and there in the theater.

I never got to see the movie when it was originally released in the theater. The first time I saw it was when I went on a church youth group trip to Daytona Beach. We spent the night with families from our minister’s former church, and two teenage daughters lived in the house where my friends and I spent the night. So we got to watch Dirty Dancing and two days later we were preaching the gospel to heathens at beachside resorts. And no, the irony is not lost on me — in fact, it makes me giggle quite a lot.

And to those of you who, like myself, had been nowhere near giving up their virginity the first time they saw the movie: when you saw the movie again after getting rid of the whole chastity thing, did you not see it in a totally different light? Was it just me or was that viewing after becoming more experienced suddenly like, “Yep… done that. That was fun.” And if you were single during that particular viewing, didn’t that just suck?

Ahem…

Back to this evening, I’ve never heard so many grown women giggle like 12-year-olds. During the first love scene, you would have thought we were a group of elementary school girls getting our first lesson in sex ed. During the scene where Patrick Swayze gets out of bed and you get the slightest glimpse of his bare hip, (I even heard a woman say 30 seconds before it happened, “Ooooh, this is where you see his butt!”) there were catcalls and whistles.

And there were cheers too. When Patrick Swayze delivers his famous line (say it with me), “Nobody puts baby in a corner,” we were saying it along with him and then clapping and cheering. I haven’t experienced that much bonding and camaraderie since going to see the re-release of the original Star Wars trilogy. It was totally awesome. Check your local theaters because there might be a showing tomorrow night. I highly recommend it to all the ’80s ladies. Maybe take a tampon with you, though, just in case.

I know there are many of us who have been almost addicted the news from yesterday and today. I include myself in that. Every time I walked by the TV in our break room, I found myself pausing at some news conference or interview with a student. My heart goes out to all victims and their families, not to mention students, staff, and even alums. I know that had happened on the campus of my alma mater, I’d have been devastated.

And can I just say I’d like to whack reporters upside the head with their “What’s the mood on campus today?” What the f*ck do you think the mood is, bitch? People were murdered senselessly. You think someone is having a party about that?

But what’s been upsetting me most is the almost immediate pounce on our gun control laws. I do say that I am in favor of some gun control, and I’m not getting into that debate right now because we just found out who the victims are. No one’s even had any real time to grieve, and others are leaping to forward their political cause — whether it be to listen to the sound of their own voice or have some bonus blog visits.

Let these people have a chance to say good-bye before you make your grandiose step onto your soapbox.

Why can’t all lip gloss brands taste as good as they smell?

That’s right, here we are again — 12 pictures on the 12th day of April.

This guy is the creator, director, and executive producer of 12 of 12.

It is not filmed before a live studio audience.

And we’re off…

7:58 am, Bedroom — My outfit for the day. I’m a jeans kind of girl. And um… we’re running pretty late.

8:00 am, Bedroom — Wook at dat cute face. She’s such a sweetie!

8:13 am, Bathroom — This stuff is the best thing for keeping the frizzies out of my hair, especially since I straighten it 75% of the time. For a couple of weeks, I couldn’t find this stuff, and I turned into some kind of mad scientist, using the bathroom as my laboratory to test the right combinations of products to make my hair behave. Finally, I found this at Ulta, they had two bottles left… I bought both. Oh, and we’re still pretty late.

8:31 am, Bedroom — White sandals to complete the outfit for the day. I’m supposed to be at work right now.

11:44 am, Miller Road — On the way to Lieu’s Chinese Bistro for lunch. This is Frankie’s Fun Park. They’ve got putt-putt, an arcade, laser tag, go-carts, and three of rides that make a parking lot carnival look safe. But four out of six ain’t bad, I suppose.

1:00 pm, My Desk — Must. Have. Tunes. For. The. Afternoon….

5:53 pm, My Desk — “Are you sure you want to shut down?” I need a “hell” and a “yeah,” please!

6:47 pm, Bedroom — Here’s my reading stack. I’ll be finishing The Hours by the time I go to bed. Wow… I’d never seen the movie or knew how anything would end, so… wow… loved it.

8:19 pm, Living Room — Cinlach rented Eragon on the way home from work. Nothing would do him but to rent it. Yeah, that was a bad movie…

8:50 pm, Living Room — Loki examining the outside world.

9:14 pm, Living Room — This is the lily my brother and his wife gave me for Easter… very pretty.

9:31 pm, Bedroom — And now it’s time to cave in to peer pressure and read Harry Potter. That’s right; I haven’t read any of them. No comments from the peanut gallery (namely Cinlach).

BONUS PIC — My word was “socket.” Easy enough…

Hope you’re not looking at my day while you’re at work, because I’ve probably just put you to sleep!

Wanna see what other people all over the world did today? Go here.

April 1st marked my two-year blogaversary, and as I start writing this post, this site has had 29,955 visits. Through WordPress.com’s stats, I’m seeing a lot of visits come from searches about gall bladder problems and stomach viruses. Perhaps I should change the name of the blog to “Sappy Chick’s Digestive System.”

I haven’t been to the blog exchanges in a while. Every couple of months or so, I might surf around to get a few credits, but mainly, I just don’t have the time. Blogs on the level of dooce and other “celebrities via blogging” are going to be harder and harder to come by as so many people start their own sites.

I’m definitely not aspiring to that level of popularity. I mean, it’d be awesome to pay my bills by writing about my life. I’d love to log on here one day and see 859 comments on a post — and have each one be from a different person, mind you, not some conversation between a handful of people.

Technorati says that around 20 blogs that link to this site, which means that, hopefully, those 20 people are stopping by on a regular basis. I feel pretty good about that. According to one blogger (with whom I no longer associate), that if we bloggers aren’t growing our audience by posting entries filled with passion and magnitude, we should be banned from having our own site altogether.

This blogger — let’s just call him Douchebag Wacko Bowels, perhaps Wacko for short — believes that in order to start a blog, you should have some sort of license, and to obtain said license, you would have to provide “a need that you are meeting” as well as “a publication plan for 7 day a week [sic] coverage.”

I can only assume that megalomaniac Wacko would love to be the head of the “Blog Police” that could “arrest” those who fail to be interesting. In actuality, Wacko would be most likely to delete the blogs he disagrees with, seeing as how he deletes or blocks comments on his own site that contradict the belief system. However, if you disagree politely enough, you’ll get a “Thanks for the comment [insert name here].”

Never mind the fact that he contradicts himself all the time. Here are some quotes supplied by a newfound blogging buddy and former Wacko reader:

• “I love radio. It is Theatre of the Mind. I was raised on radio. Every time I hear those simpering, ill-spoken interruptions I change the channel. The most pernicious decline in the American news media newsroom, however, is that of MSNBC.”

• “I am a big MSNBC fan.”

• “Let me go on the record to say I love Don Imus on MSNBC in the morning.”

• “I completely despise Tucker Carlson for his interruptive, smarmy, pseudo-intellectual style.”

• “MSNBC is becoming unwatchable during the day. Tucker Carlson, Chris Matthews and Keith Olbermann are the only good shows.”

Let me also give you a version of what transpired between me and Wacko. For the better part of a year, I was a daily reader and commenter on his site; however, twice he wanted to ban me from his site because I tried to joke around and he took it so personally. I chalked it up to the impersonal nature of the Internet, apologized both times, and was graciously welcomed back into the fold.

Eventually, I began contributing a couple of articles. At his suggestion, I asked for an “assignment” for the site. He wanted me to go to the local homeless shelter and interview three families/individuals about their situation — how they got there, what their days are like, what their hopes and dreams are.

I declined the assignment and told him that I felt I would be invading their privacy. I politely told him that I believed I would be exploiting their situation. He responded that I was “shallow and cruel” and that he no longer wanted me to write for his blog.

That was more than a year ago, and in the past few months, I have continued to read his blog to witness the gradual inflation of his ego by his own stroking and the consequential dwindling of his regular readers.

But enough negativity! I’m ending this on a positive note! I want to thank those of you who have stopped by over the past two years, and especially those who keep coming back. That means that I must be entertaining someone… and that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

P.S. Thursday is the April edition of 12 of 12 2.0. Charge your digital camers/cell phone cameras accordingly.

So I go see a therapist once a month. I started going four years ago because of panic attacks, and I have dealt with a couple of scary bouts of depression over the years. Luckily, the medication and exercise regimen have kept the depression and panic attacks at bay for quite a while.

But, you know, I still go because I still have issues about stuff — hey, don’t we all! And I don’t want to just go buy some self-help book. I want to talk to another human being about it, one who’s had some sort of training to help people with issues.

This week’s session turned into a powwow about weight and body image. I’ve always been overweight. I first remember going on a diet when I was in the fourth grade. It was something my mom and I were going to do together — one of those diets you were on for four days and off for three and ate weird combinations of food because that was supposed to burn calories.

When I was a kid, there weren’t a lot of overweight kids, and there weren’t a lot of sports leagues, unless you count the church softball team. And you didn’t have these child psychologists writing articles and giving tips to parents about how to get their kids to lose weight without harming their self-esteem.

So my mom, though her intentions were only to make me as healthy as I could be, made the weight loss more about looking better. When I came home from school upset because I had been teased about my weight, her suggestion was that maybe we could both go on a diet. If I didn’t have a date for the prom, maybe I should lose weight and guys might notice me more.

I know to read it, her method sounds horribly mean, but it was never presented that way; however, the fact that she suggested I change created this subconscious thinking that something was wrong with me, that even my own mother thought the teasing was warranted. But those were my thoughts. I know now that was nowhere near what was going on in her head, but I was a kid.

And let me get this out there: I don’t blame her for what she did. I think for a short while I did, and if I tried to lose weight, I would say nothing to her about it. Then I realized that at the end of the day, I’m the one stuffing my face and parking my ass on the couch.

My therapist and I discussed all of this on Thursday. What brought the topic up was my mentioning a post I read on a blog I keep meaning to put on my blogroll. In this post, he asks, “…what if you don’t have to reject this body in order to change it?”

That just floored me. I pondered on it for days because that went against everything my subconscious had thought all these years, and I couldn’t figure out how to change my body without rejecting it. If I’m trying to change it, aren’t I rejecting something about it? Don’t the two of those things go together?

So after going ’round and ’round about it. I realized that I have to start thinking of this whole process as something that will make me the best I can be — instead of beating myself up for thinking that my weight problem makes me inferior.

The good news is that, according to my therapist, my exercise regimen (especially my power yoga) is something that will help me appreciate my body the way it is. She also said that I could try writing letters from the adult me to the me at younger ages — to nurture that area that has lacked self-esteem for so long.

And that’s where I am right now with all of this. I keep plugging away, taking it day by day. Just don’t be surprised if this page pops up with a post that starts, “Dear Me in the Fifth-Grade Picture with the Metal Mouth and Hideous Blue Shirt with the Butterfly on It…”

Cinlach: So are you going to tell [Name of coworker] that you blogged about her?

Me: Um… no

Cinlach: (shaking his head) “Do-It-Yourselfer”

Me: What?

Cinlach: You should’ve told her that we make those things at home around the dining room table.

Coworker (whispering): Do you have a tampon?

Me: Sure (Because I don’t trust the machine in the ladies room to be stocked or functional, I keep a stash in my cabinet at work. So I take an OB tampon and hand it to her.)

Coworker (looking confused I suppose from the lack of the applicator): What is that?

Me: (pause) It’s a Do-It-Yourselfer.

Coworker: (starts laughing) Are there instructions with it?

Me: (after laughing with her for a minute) It doesn’t have an applicator.

Coworker: Ohhhh… (She starts to walk away.)

Me (calling after her): Hey, you can’t be choosy in your situation!

That’s probably the last time she’ll come to me next time she’s caught off guard!

So, I’ve been trying hard (okay, pretty hard… most of the time) to adjust my eating and exercise habits since January 2nd. I didn’t win the Biggest Loser Contest at work. I came in second in my group. The woman who won weighed a bit less than I did and lost one pound more than I did, so she had a higher body weight lost percentage.

I was kind of disappointed, especially since I would have loved to use the $200 to pay for some personal training sessions with the Pilates instructor, while the woman who won said today that she’s not really motivated to stay on track anymore. Great…

However, I didn’t really lose the $25 I put up to enter in the competition. The company pitched in and gave each contestant a $25 gift certificate to his/her choice of a massage or a meal at the Olive Garden. I took the massage. I figure I’ve rewarded myself with food enough for this lifetime. Perhaps I should take a different approach.

I’ve lost 14.5 pounds since the beginning of the year, and I’m happy about that. At the beginning of February, I had to go for follow-up bloodwork so they could do an a1c hemoglobin test, which measures the amount of sugar that’s been in your blood for 2-3 months. My level had apparently dropped to 6.0, which is the cusp of normal. The doctor was pleased with that, although he did say he’d like to see it drop to 5.5 just for some cushion.

(For those of you who may have forgotten, last November, my doctor pretty much mandated that I lose weight because he felt that while I wasn’t pre-diabetic yet, he believed my pancreas was working at capacity. Sugar and glucose tests came back peaking just above normal, and unfortunately, the doctor just doesn’t believe that it’s my sweet disposition. What an ass…)

The main thing is I’ve been trying to keep up an exercise routine, which thanks to the city’s sports center, has been relatively easy to do. I’ve been going nearly every morning at 5:30 am and going 45 minutes on the treadmill, and on Tuesday and Thursday evenings after work, I go back and make the rounds on the weight machines — which, on the way home, always makes me want to do the Pacino “hoo-aahh” from Scent of a Woman. Then on Monday and Wednesday nights I take a power yoga class — which Kicks. My. Ass.

My previous experience with yoga has been a Yoga for Dummies DVD, one I totally recommend to anyone looking to do some easy poses at home. Let’s just say that this class is like that DVD on steroids. We do a series of sun salutations going from standing to bellies on the floor and back to a standing position, all while focusing on doing the inhales and exhales with the proper movements. I’m lucky if I’m not hyperventilating at the end of them.

During the second half of these classes, we do a series of poses designed to torture work the abs. Some of these moves involve bringing your knees in to your chest — something that’s hard enough for me anyway because of The Gut — and it’s during these poses that I have my greatest fear… the fear of farting in class.

Fortunately for me (but unfortunately for another woman), I was not the person to break the silence (pardon the pun). Two weeks ago, an older woman was taking this class for the first time, and when the instructor told us to bring our knees in to our chest and slowly rock up to a seated position, this woman followed the instruction, and as she rose up, her gas went down… and out.

And I mean, it wasn’t just a short toot. It sounded like it came from as far up as her esophagus. My initial relief at the fact that I hadn’t been the first one to pass gas, however, was quickly replaced by feeling sorry for the woman as I saw her wipe a couple of tears away. At that point, I wanted to work one up, just so she wouldn’t have to feel alone.

The woman was there with a friend, and when class was over, the instructor proved her awesomeness by going over to the woman, putting a hand on her shoulder, and giving her some quiet words of encouragement.

If it ever happens me, I’ll probably just keep the embarrassment rolling by strolling through the men’s locker room naked once class is over with. Why stop with one mortifying moment when you can go ahead and get several more out of the way?

Ok, I missed February. I forgot to take my camera to work, and my cell phone takes crappy pics. Then I started taking some when I came home from work, but then I got too busy and forgot to get the rest.

But here I am for March with a batch of fabulously boring pics to put you to sleep with.

This guy is the creator, director, and executive producer of 12 of 12. Enjoy!

8:21 am, Front Yard — The tree in the yard is starting to bud. I took one shot of it, and then this little fella perched on a branch for me. How nice of him/her. I’m running a bit late for work. I had all intentions of going to the gym, but I woke up with one of my sinus headaches this morning. Looks like I’ll be breaking out the Claritin again.

12:29 pm, My Desk — I lost track of time at work; however, you’re not missing anything. I thought I’d take this moment to show off my adorable pink and red socks.

1:05 pm, My Desk — Leftovers from Sunday dinner at the parentals. Meatloaf and green beans. My mom’s meatloaf is the only kind I’ll eat.

4:31 pm, My Desk — This was my last newsletter of the day. Actually, this is the insert document. The empty boxes are where photos will go once their completed. There was a newsletter and calendar that went along with this one, but it took me only a couple of hours. *sigh*

4:44 pm, Office — This is the progress chart for our Biggest Loser competition. I’m in second in my group, with a long way to go to pass the person in first. I’ve got a lot of work to do in two weeks!

4:44 pm, Office Parking Lot — These are the bradford pear trees across the street from our office. They’ve just started to bloom in the past week. I love seeing the blooms, but I believe that’s why I’m waking up with sinus headaches.

5:13 pm, Kitchen — Supper’s on the stove. Two beef fillets (one for supper and one for lunch tomorrow) with my special seasoning blend (salt, pepper, onion powder, garlic powder, Italian seasoning, worcestershire sauce and olive oil). I’ll sear these on the outside and then cook them in the oven at 350° for 25 minutes. Perfect!

5:13 pm, Foyer — Domino thinks if she looks cute, she’ll get a bite. Well, she succeeded. Could you resist this face?

8:08 pm, Kitchen — I’m back from the gym where I tried out their Fitness Yoga class. It definitely kicked my butt, but I’ll be going back on Wednesday. This paper explains their Fitness Challenge, where you get points for various things — attending group fitness classes, doing a cardio workout, doing a strength training workout, having a personal training session, etc. And you get free stuff when you reach a certain amount of points. I’m all about free swag, baby.

8:22 pm, Living Room — LOOK! It’s the episode of Friends when Michael Vartan guest starred! *sigh* I still miss Alias.

8:28 pm, Living Room — Loki thinks he sees something outside. He’s loving having the sliding glass door open, and frankly, I’m thankful that the weather is warm enough to have just the screen door closed.

8:42 pm, Living Room — Loki whoring it up in Cinlach’s lap. I think I’ll start calling him Hoki.

Bonus Pic: Green — Here’s my $1 St. Patty’s Day hat that I picked up at Tar-jay. Cinlach rolled his eyes at my when I put it in my cart, but I was like, “It’s only a freakin’ dollar! Why pass it up?”

So that was it for me on Monday, March 12th. Wanna see what people around the world did today? Go here.

Wanna join the fun? Mark your calendars for April 12th!

Dear Digestive System,

First off, I’d like to thank you for using the Immodium Advanced that I took this morning. I’m glad to see that you saw reason and realized that there was indeed nothing left to expel out of my body other than vital organs. I’m sure a thorough dredging of the sewer would find bits my appendix and perhaps my spleen because I feel certain something had to have been secretly broken down to meet the demands of whatever organism decided to use my innards as a campground for 48 hours.

You got all tricksy and thought to yourself, “For god’s sake, this virus still wants stuff to send out! Hell, let’s send the appendix; she’ll never know. And throw in the spleen if it still wants more.” Go ahead and blame it on the Small Intestine, but I’m looking at you, Large Intestine.

I understand that fighting these viruses must be difficult, and I commend you for not letting it get as bad as The Stomach Virus of 2003 when I was one puke away from going to the emergency room for some sort of relief (only because it was on a Sunday). But I do want to express my disappointment in the fact that you let this virus corrupt us. I take garlic and vitamins every day. I’ve been eating healthy and exercising, and I’m diligent about washing my hands. I held up my end of the bargain, Mr. Digestive System.

And I don’t want to hear any crap about how you were thinking it would give me a boost in the Biggest Loser Contest at work. I had already lost 6 pounds, I would have been perfectly capable of losing those 6.5 pounds through diet and exercise — not a virus that forced me to get up from a perfectly comfortable couch yesterday morning during Today to change my underwear because I sneezed and doodled on myself. Was that really necessary, Mr. Digestive System? You set me back at least 30 years on that one… thanks.

In the future, I’d really like for you to beef up your security on things like this because it’s becoming so frequent that I’m considering coming up with a name system similar to what NOAA has for the hurricanes. I won’t count last year’s issues because I realize it was the Stomach’s fault, but he couldn’t help it because Gall Bladder had to jump ship. (Note to Stomach: I am still giving you Nexium for that problem, so I don’t expect to hear anything from you.) I’d like to set a goal of at least ten years of being virus-free. Hey, 1995-2002 were seven glorious puke-free years; I think ten is a perfectly realistic goal.

Thanks for taking the time to read this letter.

Sincerely,
The Chick Who Sends Food to You (And don’t you forget it.)

1 — Good news, I’ve lost 4.5 pounds in the Biggest Loser contest at work, 3 of those pounds were this week alone. (And the grand total since January 2nd is 6 pounds.) Of the six people in the group I’m competing in, I’m third. But the new sports center opened last week, so I’m in my second full week of walking three miles a day in around 45 minutes. So the top two should watch out!

2 — Don’t you hate it when the birthday cards make their rounds at the office and you end up one of the last ones to sign? Because then you have to go on the hunt to find the one person who HASN’T signed the frakkin’ card yet all without letting the birthday guy/girl know what’s going on. I found one coworker who said she hadn’t seen it, so I handed it to her. Then she said, “No wait, I have signed this.” I, however, was halfway to my seat and said, “Too late, it’s in your hand and I’m three steps away.”

3 — Monday is the February installment of 12 of 12 2.0, so mark your calendars and take your camera with you! Go here to read the rules.

4 — Hate to end on sort of a downer, but I had a random flashback today. Someone cleared his/her throat at work, and the sound took me back almost three weeks to my visit with my grandmother the day before she died. She was all but in a coma, although it seemed like she was just sleeping. About every 20-30 minutes, the drainage collected in her throat, and because she couldn’t swallow she kept trying to clear her throat. That was such a weird thing to witness. You’d think someone doing that would be able to wake up.

An internal dialogue after seeing the promo pictures for Equus — the play that Daniel Radcliffe (Harry Potter) is starring in:

Me: (Seeing People.com headline link on my Google home page that says: “Daniel Radcliffe stars in sexy new photos!”) Hmmm… (clicks link and stares at a bare-chested Harry Potter)

Perv Me: Oh… my… wow… um… he’s been working out.

Prude Me: Oh God! This isn’t right….

Perv Me: Look at the happy trail…

Prude Me: He’s half your age! UNNATURAL!

Perv Me: But…

Prude Me: STOP IT!

Perv Me: Well, I’m at least e-mailing the link.

Later conversation with Cinlach:

Me: Did you get my e-mail?

Cinlach: Yes, but I didn’t click on the link.

Me: But it’s —

Cinlach: I don’t want to look at sexy pictures of Harry Potter.

Me: (opening up the link in another Safari window) They’re not that bad.

Cinlach: (almost whining) I really don’t want to see this. (People.com page loads) Wow, homeboy is ripped.

Me: I know!

Cinlach: Look, I don’t want to see his Harry Peter!

Me: (moving the arrow to the happy trail) Well, apparently he has one.

And then I think Cinlach threw up a little in his mouth.

But if it were Hermione, he’d have it as a desktop. If she’s legal, of course.

My grandmother died Saturday morning a little after 8:00. In a way, her passing was a relief because my father and aunt had agreed to let the hospital staff disconnect her IV and feeding tube. The neurologist had said that the stroke had done too much damage. Her brain would never heal; the blood was simply not getting there to get the job done. She was moved to a hospice room on Thursday evening and could have lasted as long as two weeks.

(With my grandfather; taken around 1956)

Saturday, Sunday, and Monday were spent in this bubble of grief. On the drives back and forth from Woodruff, I felt so disconnected from everything. If it’s ever possible to make time stand still, I’m sure the feeling will be similar to what I felt those three days. Saturday night, as we made our way out of town, we passed a house with a chimney churning smoke into the air, and I marveled at how the smoke wasn’t going anywhere. The brick spout on the house pushed more and more of it into the air, but it simply hung over the road as we passed under it.

It’s one thing to see your mother cry, but for me it was totally surreal and heartwrenching to see my father break down. I could say it’s the stereotype of how men aren’t supposed to cry, but the experience was more than that. His mother was his heart. My aunt was her caregiver, but my father was her protector. He had done so all his life.

(My dad and my aunt with her on her last birthday)

My aunt had to call and get them to correct her obituary. They had her age as 79, which would have made her 13 when she had my aunt. Of course, even when the corrected version ran yesterday, it still didn’t represent her. Sure, she worked at Mills Mill in Woodruff for more than 30 years. She was the fourth of 12 children, and she survived all but her youngest sister. She also left behind a son, a daughter, five grandchildren and eight great-grandchildren. But there are so many things the obituary left out.

(With her grandchildren on her last birthday)

She had a love of tomato sandwiches surpassed by no one else I’ve ever known. Of course, she had to because she planted so many tomato plants in her garden. One year she had 96 plants! And when she pulled them from the vine, she always put them on the dryer on her back porch — so many that you could step back there and breathe in the smell of them. She planted so many, and she was always giving them away. All summer long, when you visited her, she sent you away with tomatoes. Even when she couldn’t have what she considered to be a full garden (tomatoes, corn, green beans, butter beans, okra, strawberries, and probably several others I’ve forgotten), she always had at least a row of tomato plants.

She was a widow for almost 35 years. She once sat in her back yard and silenced teasing about finding a new man with this statement: “I don’t need no man. I come as I please, and I go as I please.”

If we misbehaved, she would threaten to “go out and cut a hickory,” but I don’t ever remember her putting a hand on us. I remember going to spend the night with her and her taking me and my brother to the grocery store and buying us whatever snacks we wanted. Speaking of snacks, you could always find a jar of dry roasted peanuts, Ritz crackers, peanut butter, and a box of Little Debbie Raisin Cream Pies on her counter.

I’ve never found anyone who could make okra like she did. It wasn’t really breaded and fried, but somehow she cooked it with a little cornmeal and make it crispy. She slow-cooked her hamburgers in the oven so they came out moist. She cooked cube steak that way also, and it turned out so tender that it fell apart.

Her yard had the most unique layout of any house on her street. It sloped from the front to the back and then leveled off. She had two monstrous oak trees in the back yard — perfect for hiding Easter eggs. On one side of the house, where the slope must have been particularly steep, there were steps made of rock, but not individual rocks, just one large rock mass. I’ve never seen anything like it.

(On her 80th birthday with her birthday present and one of my aunt’s neighbors)

And that yard was immaculate. When she was outside, she was constantly picking up leaves, twigs, and trash. She would water her garden at 10 o’clock at night. I still remember being out there with her, the smell of wet earth and fresh water.

She loved the beach. She’d walk along the edge of the water with her pants legs rolled up and pick up seashells.

(With me on the Battery in Charleston in 1992)

(With one of my friends from high school on a trip to Hilton Head in July 1990)

I could fill entry after entry with stories about her, but I’ll stop with the one thing I’ll miss the most — the chance to make her laugh. She had this quiet chuckle, and her hazel eyes would squint so tightly that they looked like they had closed. Her shoulders would shake, and you couldn’t help but laugh at her laughing. It was fun making her laugh because there was no way for her to fake it. There was nothing fake about her.

Ladies and gentlemen:

Here it is — your first Bread and Milk Warning of 2007.

This is not a drill. The National Weather Service still has NO IDEA how much precipitation we’ll get and in what form it will be, so GO NOW to the grocery store and stock up on bread and milk.

Maybe toilet paper too…

Because you never know how long we could be stuck inside our homes in SOUTH CAROLINA!

Remember, you were warned.