Because I’m a girl and a good cry from joy can make me happier than anything. And I’m ok with being a wuss.

When I don’t know that anything is coming to my post office box, I check it less frequently. Honestly, I don’t need Hardees coupons or local flyers. When I opened my box this week, I had a gift. It was a slip of an envelope that had Kurt Halsey’s name on it.

One of my first blogs, in a much different time of my life, was about a custom Kurt Halsey piece that Leon had commissioned for me for Christmas. I love his work and lately had been longing for something that represented where I feel I am now.

I mentioned in my twitter that I was wishing for the postcards of his most recent works. I had no idea what I’d do with them, but I would find something creative. In my mailbox this week were these.

Thank you, mystery gifter. You have no idea what kind of week I’ve had and what they meant. Kurt included a couple of handwritten post its that made me weepy.

And I cried.

Like the little wuss I am.

And I loved it.

However, it flickers. Oh, how it flickers. Like a flame just looking for a little encouragement to grow, it flickers and sparks and waits for the opportunity to shine. Unlike many adults, children don’t necessarily need to shine in front of others or with the purpose of recognition, or even allow their flame to grow at all. Sometimes, they just flame away without even thinking about it and move on. Such simple love and kindness.

I’ve seen this happen repeatedly in my life. Often during my time with my son and his friends and during my time in the school system. A few weeks ago, I saw it during a warm evening at the ballpark.

I was standing in line for one of the forty or so gatorades I buy every year at the concession stand when I saw him: the blonde little boy in front of me who was patiently waiting his turn. He couldn’t have been more than 8, at most, and was clutching three dollars. It was a school night and his eyes looked tired and sad. It was approaching 9 and he must have been at one of the early games and stayed for a sibling game.

I saw his eyes scan the menu. Hamburgers, Chicken (our stand serves Chik-fil-a!), hot dogs, french fries, sodas, energy drinks and many various candies. His little blonde head nodded slightly downward as he looked at the canisters in the front of the stand. Air heads, $0.25. Ring pops, $0.75. Tips for good service, please. Condiments. Napkins. Forks.

He looked carefully back to the menu and then to the canisters again and softly said, “French Fries, please.” The boy at the counter said, “Sure, kid. Anything else?” The little boy looked down at the canisters again, looking hard at the ring pops, and I saw him swallow. “No, no thank you.” He handed the concession stand worker his two dollars and waited for his french fries. They came promptly. He smiled, said thank you and deposited his $1 in the tip canister.

Generosity of spirit can be found in the most unexpected places. I am a lucky woman to find it in so many.

The only child would go down the well-kept knoll to the house of the children of a divorced home who were well-adjusted and liked the only child a great deal. They treated him well, for the most part, with few spats.

However, the hippie parents were those permissive kind. You know, the kind whose kids would NEVER do anything to hurt a fly and who can stay out as late as they want and burn puppies. The kind of parents who raise little smart alecks who don’t have a problem talking tough and being mean to sensitive little only children by throwing water on them while they are playing their mom’s very expensive Nintendo DS. Or who throw stuff at the fun loving dad’s new Honda Element that he loves more than whiskey. Or who ring the doorbell just to upset the four precious, beloved dogs who live in the house and then run away so the fun loving mom can’t smack them in their fool head.

So, the knoll has become volatile as the fun loving dad has sent email after email only to have hippie dad say “boys will be boys” and “I don’t take secondhand information as fact.”

So the fun-loving mom is keeping her eye out. And the hippie parents are gonna get smacked in their hippie heads and the hippie kids are gonna get hit with fun loving paint balls that the fun loving mom is going to go out and buy this weekend because private property is private property and a hippie kid looks an awful lot like a fox or a coyote.

Little hippie brats.

And we’ll all live happily ever after.

Frankly, I knew it was coming. I’ve been a bad girl and I was due. When it came, it came and hit me horribly. Without going into all the details, life came crashing down and the effects are long-lasting and hard. Sickness and horror upon friends and acquaintances, hard times, school frustration, you name it. The business of life has been quite a lot to bear lately.

However, I’ve taken my licks like a woman and not a child and I think that I have just about had enough. Tonight, we’re in the black, karma. In. the. black.

I just went to take a shower. I was stank. Truly. My hair was greasy. I have been inside with the dogs all day due to snow and I just needed to feel clean. I leave tomorrow for a conference and if I don’t shower tonight, my long, thick, wavy hair will never dry in time for me to make my flight. It’s why I take my showers at night unless I want to have a bad 80s perm all day.

After making my way upstairs, I gathered my pajamas and went to the bathroom where I noticed that one of my two major sources of light was out. This wouldn’t be a problem but I needed to shave my legs. I know this is too much information, but bear with me. You have to know this part of the story. I’m 5’11″ and my body is all legs. I need that light to see and, quite frankly, I’d been waiting to shave until the night before the trip so I’d be silky smooth. Ladies, you know what I mean.

With a dubious look to the light, I started the water and figured I’d soldier on. How difficult could shaving be in the semi-dark? I could still see the legs, just not the hair.

This is the part where karma laughs at me loud and long.

We’re all good until the shaving part. I’ve put my conditioner in to set while I shave. With the first stroke, I know I’m in trouble. My blade is dull. It’s the last blade I have left before a trip I’m going on tomorrow and all I have is a dull blade, hairy legs and a dark bathroom. I make the unwise decision that if I shave MORE SLOWLY the blade will still do the work of a sharp blade.

I’m a smart person. This was not a smart moment.

I cannot see the leg, so I shave some areas and not others and then shave over some parts and make them sensitive and tender to touch. Nicks are everywhere.

This is when karma and I become even.

Someone in my house, either the 9-year-old or the 32-year-old, makes the unwitting decision that I need to be put in my place once and for all: They turn the water on. As I’m sliding the dull blade up my leg, yet again, the water goes from luke warm to scalding in about 2 seconds. I jump, the blade skips up my leg and…you can see where this is going.

I still have conditioner in my hair.

I’m hurt.

I’m angry.

And this is not funny.

Eventually the water turns lukewarm and I throw the razor across the bathroom and wash my hair out.

We are even, karma. Even Stevens. Do you hear me? It’s over.

Those in my life that know me best know that I’m generally quite apathetic on most issues and due to my profession, I support people as to their decisions. With that said, I am adamantly pro-life for many personal reasons and many well thought out ones. As a humanist, a scientist, a mother, a woman, a friend, a social science major and someone who cares deeply for others…I can be nothing else.

My husband wrote a post today, on the anniversary of Roe v. Wade. I’m linking it here. My personal whys will remain unsaid… Sometimes it is better that way.

In Memoriam

blamestorming
(verb) : to gather and discuss who is to blame for a given failure
(noun) : a meeting held in order to come up with a name of a person to assign guilt to a certain incident

So, as I was saying, I was recently allowing my brain and my stomach to do some blamestorming and they have decided that THIS IS ALL MARTINA MCBRIDE’S FAULT. That’s right. That shameful woman placed a craving in my head for weeks that wouldn’t go away and I decided to just go ahead and stop it with the most effective means possible: fulfilling the craving.

Let me present you with the evidence. In Ms. McBride’s song, the effervescent, catchy girl-power filled tune, “This One’s For the Girls,” she states:

This is for all you girls, about twenty-five.
In little apartments just tryin’ to get by.
Livin’ on, on dreams and Spaghettios.
Wonderin’ where your life is gonna go.

Did you see it? Did you? The evidence is right there. Ms. McBride placed the idea of having them there, cotton-picken ‘Os in my head. And it wouldn’t be right if I didn’t.

So, as we walked through Walgreens the other day, lo and behold, the ‘Os were ON SALE. It was a sign from God as sure as he’d stood in front of me and passed me the ‘Os and blessed them Himself. I told my husband and son that they were for our son and placed them in the cart.

Honestly, I gave A.J. TWO WHOLE DAYS to eat them…while they were stashed away in a plastic sack in a cabinet. And, when he didn’t eat them, the heavens opened and I sucked those suckers down.

And then I paid.

Oh, I paid.

I’m so, so sorry. It wasn’t blessed by God. The sale sign was a TEMPTATION. Yes, yes it was, and so are Ms. McBride’s evil ways. Because, now that I’ve had the ‘Os, I’m mighty sorry.

As a child, I remember lovingly scooping these into my mouth and enjoying them greatly with no ill after-effects. That is NOT the case right now.

Your Honor, I’d like to request the harshest punishment possible for both the person who put the idea in my head, Ms. McBride, and the supplier, Walgreens. In the interest of the way society is, as a whole, I take no responsibility for eatin’ the ‘Os myself, as there was no warning on the label that those over the age of 18 should not consume these for fear of their bodies blowing up. Please don’t make me go into details about my pain and suffering. If you’d really like to know, the ‘Os are still on sale down at your local Walgreens and, boy, they sure are tasty.

Claudio Vitale is an Italian brain surgeon who has recently made headlines after exhibiting extreme bravery in his field: he completed brain surgery while having a heart attack. Why is this a big deal?

As a surgeon, Vitale was aware that he was having a heart attack and that for every minute he delayed his own help, a part of his heart was losing function that would not be restored. In other words, he was killing himself to save his patient. His only comment was that he couldn’t leave the patient at such a delicate time (in the procedure). Other stories have commented that if he’d left the patient, the patient would have surely died.

So, let’s break it down. Vitale was dying. The patient was dying. Vitale saved the patient at loss of his own heart functioning permanently.

Amazing courage. I’m in awe of this man. I want to believe that I would do the same for people, but I’m not sure I’m there yet. Regardless, he’s tugged on my heartstrings and some days I need to be reminded of the humanity of the world we live in.

April 18, 2009
I want to heartily thank the person who decided to flush the toilet/start the dishwasher/start the wash machine while I was in the shower this morning. At that point I was still so asleep that I was cleansing myself with one eye closed and was in the middle of a deep condition for my back length hair, which takes approximately the same amount of time it would take me to read Moby Dick and slay the beast myself. I would like to take this sidebar to remind you that Karma is a fierce mistress and I will be courting her with a passion until she shows you the error of your transgressions.

April 20, 2009
The other day I was driving to school and I saw a really large African American man who looked completely “ghetto.” He had on his head-kerchief, his football jersey and walked with a swagger that would scare an U.S. Ranger. I drove up behind him and noticed something hanging from him hand. I looked off to his side and saw the smallest wiener dog I’ve ever seen in my life. As I drove in front of him, I watched him in my rearview mirror. He was cooing at that little dog like it was the most important thing in his life and dragging it along behind him while the poor thing tried to pee. Ah, love.