An Attitude of Gratitude - My Thankful List

All throughout the month people in the social media world have diligently posted their daily gratitude. I have to say I'm just not that dedicated to keeping up with a monthly project, but it's not that I don't think about or try to live a way that I'm mindful of the blessings that I have in my life.

So, in the spirt of Thanksgiving, I composed a list of all the things for which I give thanks this year - from those things that make my life worth living to the simple little things that make me smile in a day.

Without further ado ...



 My mom
Every day I'm amazed that I was given such a gift as to have the mom that I have. She willingly accepted the role of single mom in a time when and place where it was rare. She embraced the challenge of raising me, she sacrificed her hopes and dreams to make my life better, and there was never a louder cheerleader in my life. No matter where my life has taken me - from the good to the bad, my mom has supported me. And these past years when she's been confounded by illness, she's been so graceful and strong, I can't help but admire her. Not to mention that when I was facing homelessness and poverty this year, on the verge of having to give up my dreams, my mom said stay, I'll take care of what you need. And that's what she has done my entire life.

My grandparents
I couldn't have asked for a better example of love in my life than the two people that made room in their home for my mom and myself and taught me that family never leaves family behind.

 My family
They drive me crazy at times, but I love each and every person in my small, but mighty family. And those three little ones (well, one isn't so little anymore) that have let me play "mom" and "aunt" are often times the light of my life.

My friends
The people that I call friend have continued to amaze me, but none so much as in the past few years. Through the revelation of my depression and my poverty and all the times in between, I have been amazed at the love and support that has been showered upon me from those that I expected it from and from those that I never would have guessed would be there for me.

My crazy Monday night internet family
I know that for many my dance night feed may drive them slowly (or quickly) crazy, but for 20 or so weeks a year, my sanity is saved by a hodge-podge group of friends from different corners of my life that join together to watch a dance show from around the country and mock it right along with me. I look forward to our Monday nights when we catch-up and make snarky comments.

 My job that makes an impact
For years I've said that I wanted a job where I wasn't simply making money for a corporation, but making a difference in lives. I have finally found an employer that lets me make a difference. And it helps that they stepped up and took a chance on me when I needed them most.

My best friend
I will always be thankful to this one special person that came into my life just when I need someone to show me that it was okay to be me.

My dance family
For so many years of my life the people that I worked with, taught, and danced with at Daryl Jervis Dance Studio were part of my life weekly. In between learning shuffles, time steps, pirouettes, and jetes, I learned so much more. I love that I was in a place where you could love and experience dance no matter your talent level, size, or professional aspiration. And if I instilled in just one student the confidence, love, and acceptance that my mentor there gave me then I'll have accomplished something in the world of dance.

My faith
I'll admit that for someone that attended 16 years of Catholic Schools I'm a very "lapsed" Catholic at best. But that doesn't mean that I don't practice and have a deep faith that I've pieced together from the years that means something to me. It might not be a recognized "religion," but I'm thankful that I have somewhere to turn deep within myself when I need the strength and resolve to get through a day.

 My internet connection
I know that it's "material," but the internet has actually brought me closer to some people that were mere acquaintances and has helped me find people from which I lost touch. I'm so thankful for the people that it has brought into my life and the way it helps erase the miles that separate me and some of my best friends.

My books
I've always been a reader. I've always loved to learn. But, at times in my life when life was the darkest, books helped me find my way. At times they helped me escape reality and at others they helped me find just the right message that I needed to move my life where it needed to go. I never knew when or where those moments would appear - the most unexpected revelation came when reading a teen novel, The Truth About Forever. Who knew that a simple escape would change me? And even when it's more of an adventure, I'm always thankful for the path where a good book leads.

 My Fighting Irish
I started watching Notre Dame games in the early 80s when I would wake up before anyone else in the house and found them reaired in the early Sunday morning hours on a fledging ESPN network. Become an ND fan during the Faust era prepared me well for the past 20 years when Irish eyes haven't smiled so broadly. But, this year my Irish have made my weekends happy ones - even if they have induced some heart-threatening moments at times.

 My Saint Mary's education
I've often been asked why anyone would attend a women's college, but Saint Mary's was the right place for me at the right time. I'll never regret my choice and I'll always love that I received an education from professors that challenged me, that made me think critically, and actually cared about what I learned. I may have stressed about passing my two writing requirements and my senior comprehensive in addition to all my classes, but when I look back today I'm so happy for those learning experiences. And I'm always proud to tell anyone that I'm a Saint Mary's College alumna.

 My "pay it forward" angel
When I was facing severe financial strife this year, I mentioned this to one friend that felt comfortable telling. It was for no other reason than to just tell someone. I never, ever expected more than some heartfelt words and maybe some advice. So when an email appeared that a payment had been made to my paypal account you can't imagine how overwhelmed I was by her generosity. And while words will never be enough to thank her - and believe me I've tried to find them several times and they are never adequate - she only asked that I take the gift and when I could, pay it forward to someone like me. It's a gift that I will never, ever forget and will always be looking to repay in someway to others when I can.

My camera
I've always been a "picture-taker," but this year I've discovered the hobby of photography. Stepping outside the box of just taking photos of family and friends, I've found a way to explore my new surroundings and discover that sometimes if you look for it you can find beauty in so many places you never expected.

The little things
There are lots of little things that can and do make my days a little better. They aren't the big things that make me who I am, but they are sometimes the thing that makes me smile in a day. A small sampling of the little things that made my list this year: daisies, gladiolus, honeycrisp apples, the "things I love right now" playlist on my ipod, tap shoes, peanut butter, beads & wire, Pinterest, facebook (where so many of my friends live), the GPS on my phone that saves me in the hills of Cincinnati where I'm always "turned" around, Glee, Dance Moms (hanging my head in shame), Sarah Dessen novels which I reread and remembered again why I loved them the first time, West Side Story, the soundtrack to Wicked and Grease, The Hunger Games trilogy, the Picmonkey app, my "lucky" Irish T-shirt, streaming Netflix, Words with Friends, iced tea, my thumbie charms that bear the thumbprints of my Grandma & Grandpa, the thoughtful woman that sent us pictures of my Grandpa in the army, Napoleon Perdis make-up that hides my dark undereye circles and my "unflawless" complexion, my mom's handmade cards, and memories of my favorite family, friends, and moments.

Down to My Last $4

As I stared at the folded $20 bills in front of me tears began to streak down my cheeks. There was no controlling them, and I'm sure that more than a few people in the restaurant stared as we ended our late afternoon lunch. She didn't know exactly why I was crying about those five bills that sat in front of me. For all the times that I'd resisted taking help or argued, this time I didn't. But I couldn't help or stop the crying.

As I faced a long trip home from my weekend in Toledo to my home base in Cincinnati I was left alone with that $100 and my sad truth that I hadn't told yet.

The Wednesday before I'd received a letter in the mail - it was one that addressed an issue that I knew was coming, but I didn't realize how soon.

 I'd been unemployed for a while. I was doing freelance work here and there and volunteer work, but despite the number of jobs for which I applied and the fair amount of interviews that I went on, I still wasn't finding work. I thought I had found the answer a little more than a month earlier when I started a marketing job that was supposed to turn into steady part-time work, but what I found was that once the month was done and my check was due I was texted twice to tell me not to come in on scheduled days and then the employer refused to answer any of my emails, texts or phone calls. I knew the dark truth was that I would never see the money from that job and I didn't have the means to fight for the pay I was due. It was the same with a freelance job I had completed a few months before where the check that was "in the mail" never seemed to make it.

And here was a letter telling me that my time on unemployment was running out and it gave me some numbers to call to help with job services. Little did I know that that letter was a little late arriving. It seems that the slight uptick in Ohio unemployment was bouncing me from the system early - no more extensions. Where I thought I had two more months and had begun an aggressive search for jobs that included anything and everything, the state had a big surprise for me that weekend. Shortly after midnight as Saturday turned to Sunday, I logged into my account on my mom's computer and found my claim denied - my unemployment had run out the week before - days before I received the letter that it would be "ending soon." I stared at the computer, cried, and then found myself becoming instantly sick. I had rent to pay, a car note and insurance due. I found myself ill and in full-blown panic mode.

By the time I crashed on my mom's sofa at 5 a.m., I had completed many tasks that I never thought I would do. In between sending emails to a few people that I thought might help me find any type of job, I had also applied for federal welfare and food stamps. I, a long-time proponent of the programs for the poor, was now someone that needed them. I never once thought in all the times I voted, argued, or advocated for these programs that I might once need them. I'd never grown up rich, but I also never grew up wanting for anything I really needed either. I always had clothes and shoes that fit, a roof over my head, heat, and food. I went to private schools and was well-educated. I was not the picture of a woman that needed welfare and I didn't know what was going to happen in a few days when my rent was due.

As I drove home though a cloud of anxiety and tears that day with those five $20 bills, I kept thinking about what had happened the past few years. Stuck in a horrible job that I had let overwhelm me, I had then found myself in treatment for depression. I thought when I made the call for help then that I had sunk to the lowest point I could ever imagine myself, but now I knew that wasn't true. After six weeks off of work and intense therapy I came back part-time for exactly one week feeling better and on the road to recovery only to find myself jobless at the end of those five days. With no insurance I had to end my therapy sessions and find a way to cope and finish healing on my own between more prolonged visits with my psychiatrist that I couldn't afford. And even though I applied for jobs and went on interviews during that early stage, the truth was that I was in no shape to really job hunt.

I did my research and followed all the advice of job coaches that I could find after a few months. I began volunteering in my field to keep my resume fresh and to regain some confidence in my skills. I began writing again for me as both therapy and to practice my craft. I freelanced when I could find jobs. And I tirelessly applied for work and went on interviews. And then after advice that I received from many, many "people in the know," I packed my bags and moved to a city where I was more apt to find employment. And what I found was more jobs for which to apply in my field and more interviews offered, but again I kept finding myself to be the one that was not offered the job. I followed up on these, tried to find new leads and advice, but nothing seemed to work for me. And when I applied for jobs outside my sector - even retail ones, I found employers tell me that they wouldn't hire me because they didn't want to spend the time training me when it was clear that I would likely keeping looking for "real" work and leave when I found it. I was at my wit's end with my job search.

And all this time, fighting to make ends meet on the small amount I was receiving from unemployment I drained my meager savings. I trimmed every expense that I could so that my monthly bills only consisted of rent, electric, food, gas, a car payment (that was too large for my new income, but I was stuck since I owed more on it than I would recoup with a sale), and car and rental insurance. I didn't have cable and my internet access was included in my rent. I had sat in a psych ward at University Hospital for more than eight hours so that I could get a plan to discontinue my medication for depression because the county advised me it was the only way I could get fast and free health services because they couldn't refuse me service and I could default on the bill. And I, who loved to shop, hadn't bought one piece of clothing in more than a year. And despite all my money woes, I was lucky, because I didn't go into my unemployment with any credit card debt.

And yet, no matter what I had done right or wrong, I was still here, driving in my car that day knowing that the five $20 bills my mother just handed me and $78.74 in my checking account were the only money I had left to my name.

I finally broke a few days later and through an avalanche of tears told my mom that I had no money for my rent. She drew from her savings that were supposed to help in her retirement to help me.

A week later when I went for my appointment at Hamilton County Job & Family Services I had $10 left after paying for food and other bills. I had no idea where I would find the money to make my car payment in a few weeks or my rent the following month. I paid $6 to park in the cheapest lot I could find after trying to find a meter within a mile of the building with no luck. I walked into the building now with $4 left to my name.

As I stood in the office and surveyed the scene around me, I kept wondering how I was here. In the crowded lobby, I was in the midst of a few people there that some would label "welfare queens," but there were far more people there that would surprise most. I wasn't the only person there in that lobby that I felt looked "out of place." For the few that didn't look embarrassed to be there, for the few that seemed to feel they were "entitled," there were ten times more people that just looked like me - desperate, sad, embarrassed, and wanting to be anywhere else if they could be.

When I arrived for my 9:30 a.m. appointment, the overworked, overextended office that was also the victim of state and federal budget cuts for staff was already more than an hour behind. In the end, I would be called by my case worker at 11:45 a.m.  And during that time I had more than enough time to look at all the people that came and went that didn't want to be where they were. Most were people that I was assuming were like me, down on their luck after having worked many years. In fact in April I had just payed my taxes - a whopping 35 percent since I had not one exemption - no earned income, no children, no home, and no interest to deduct. I had paid taxes since I was 16 years old. Never once had I complained until this past April when the burden of those taxes stripped me of the last of my savings plus a few dollars of my mom's.

And as I waited in that office, I did pass some of the time on my "fancy" cell phone - like that urban myth welfare mom that everyone always claims they see in the grocery store with the iphone and Coach bag - it was on a cell phone that my mom had paid the bill for the year as my Christmas present the year before. It was also my only phone and the only number I could give the employer I was hoping to find. On my shoulder was a Vera Bradley bag, not a Coach, but still a nice bag that I received the year before as a birthday present. And, I suppose if needed I could sell it for groceries for a week, but it was hardly a solution to my long-term needs.

When my number was finally called I was greeted by a very kind social worker. She pulled up my case on the computer in front of her and began telling me that I qualified for food stamps and Medicaid part B (which only covers birth control and no other healthcare). And, because I was single and had no children, that was it. No other welfare is available in the state of Ohio. So, I could eat, but that was about it. So, yet again, as I cried and asked questions, exhibiting my ignorance about the welfare system that I always assumed existed, I found out there was no safety net for me.

I left the office that day with a nine-page document of charities and organizations to call for help. I went home and worked my way through page after page. This program no longer had money, I lived in the wrong zip code, wrong zip code again, I could only get food assistance because I didn't have children ... on and on the rejection continued and continued from each and every one of the programs listed.

And what I found was the reason that welfare and other programs that help and aid the poor and disadvantaged shouldn't be left to the private sector, because your zip code shouldn't be the deciding factor in who gets help. And for every person that I've heard that has said they believe there should be some safety net, but talks about abuse in the system, I'm pretty sure that I would be one of the people that they would want to help. Down on my luck, I had worked and paid taxes for years. In high school I worked. During college I worked two jobs, took a full-time course load and graduated in four years. And for 12 years I had worked a second job in addition to my full-time one. I wasn't a person that was lazy, entitled or afraid of work - I was the definition of a person that had been down on her luck and just needed aid and a break. If in that welfare office she had told me to get to work here's a job, I would have gladly earned that food money they would load on my EBT card rather than have to take it.

As I called the last organization listed - the United Way, I was told that the only organization that would help where I lived would be the Saint Vincent de Paul Society at the local Catholic Church and the Salvation Army. When I called Salvation Army, they referred me to Saint Vincent de Paul as the only help for my zip code. When I asked them if there were any resources for someone "nonreligious" I was told no. It wasn't that I was uncomfortable with the Catholic Church, but I was just curious if there was anything for single, non-religious citizens in the country that prides itself on the separation of church and state. I had to leave a message for them and was called back a few days later by a male representative that wanted to come to my home and talk. As a single woman I was just too uncomfortable to let that happen without investigating. I later found out that the help they would offer would be in the range of $100 - hardly the amount that would help me make rent. And during one more desperation call to an organization that wasn't for my zip code that I'd skipped, the very kind social worker advised that I should start knocking on every church door I could and beg.

What did happen was that my mom found a way to pay my rent for one more month and one of the few friends I confessed my hardship to made me a loan that I was to pay forward once I was back to work that paid my car for one more month. And then in what might be the greatest act of charity I've ever received, my volunteer job offered me a permanent one (for which I'll always be thankful and always left wondering if it was because of the financial wreck I was facing).

It was only two months that I lived on this edge, but it was enough.

Only once when I shopped for groceries did I not watch the cashier at the register morph before my eyes from friendly to something much less when they saw EBT in the tender line.

I watched memes, stories, and rants appear in my facebook news feed talking about welfare, entitlements, cell phones, and Coach purses - essentially complaining about people like me.

 I felt so ashamed and humiliated and through it all, all I really wanted was a job and my dignity.  I didn't want to be the person that had to take those five $20 bills or that paypal donation from my angel friend. I didn't want to be the person that had pay for food with an EBT card. And I didn't want to be a person that had to explain to anyone I heard talking about how there were programs to help "those kind of people" that knock on church doors or stand on street corners with "will work for food" signs, that sometimes there aren't programs when you end up penniless in the wrong zip code.

Now, more than ever, I know what I always believed - that almost anyone can find themselves in circumstances they never anticipated and that I want to live in a world where we help and protect the people that do. And if in the process someone cheats the system, I'm okay with that, not because it's right, but because for everyone of those people that feels "entitled" or really is "lazy," there are so many more that are just looking for a hand-up.

As the wise man, Ghandi once said,  "A nation's greatness is measured by how it treats its weakest members." And, I for one want to live in this great kind of nation. I want to know that the next time a single woman that lives near me finds herself dealt a bad hand that she has a way to survive.  I don't want to be the one that tells her that just because she rented in what was once the right place that she now has to suffer because it's the wrong place to find help.

Actions Will Always Speak Louder Than Any Word Ever Can

After tossing my alarming amount of laundry and backpack into the trunk of my grandparents Chevy, my Grandma offered me the front seat where there was actually leg room thanks to the classic bench seat that my Grandpa had pushed back as far as possible. I settled in, secured my seat belt and was ready for the 2 1/2 hour ride home for fall break. It was mid-October and I hadn't been home since I left in early August. But the drive seemed to pass in an instant as my Grandpa and I settled into an easy conversation where I talked about my job at the newspaper and the stories I'd covered, my midterms, my classes, and eventually where we settled in to debate politics and current events. It was familiar and these types of rides, with their conversation and debate were by far my favorite memories of Grandpa.

It was funny a few days later to hear my Grandma retell the story where she sat quietly in the back of the car, watching cornfields, listening to us talk and not saying a word, because oddly neither of us noticed, because these conversations were ours. And yet, while one of the things that I miss most about my Grandpa, the man that was the closest thing to a dad I will ever have, is those talks and debates, the lesson that endures from him is that in the end your words can and will be nothing if you don't live and embrace the life those words reflect.

I never once remember my Grandpa telling me that he loved me, yet he showed it in so many ways that it was never in doubt. Standing by his bedside in the hospital on the scariest night of my life thus far in March 1996, tears streaming down my cheeks, I choked out the words "I Love You," just before the nurses made us leave the room to preform some procedures and he looked at me and just said "Thank You." I think he knew that even then, facing what would be the start of the end of his life, that he'd shown me time and again, even through our many arguments that he didn't need to say that for me to know, but he appreciated hearing it from me.

So, what I did know was that if you looked back at how my Grandpa lived, he loved and cared for his family and those close to him fiercely.  I would jokingly refer to our home as the "halfway house, no stray relatives left behind." In that small, old, modest three bedroom, one bath home, so many family members had slept for varying amounts of time. At it's most crowded, my mom and her two sisters shared one room, my grandparents another and the third, very small room was shared by my grandpa's brother and his nephew. At various other times brothers, sisters-in-law, mother and father, and then grandchild would live there. My Grandpa, a product of the depression and a family that moved from home to home as they lost one after another from the bank would never not open his door to family - some for short stays as they shopped for a home and others like his brother, for the duration of his life. No family member was left behind. And holidays were the same - everyone was welcome, the "sides" of our family intermingled often, because it was more important to him that no one be alone than it was worrying about where someone "belonged."

And while my Grandpa could be opinionated and blunt, at his core, he was loving, caring, and a man that would never let anyone down. He did things for others and would talk about them, but it was never in a bragging, "look what I did way," it was simply in a way of showing that all through his life he had found ways to do his best to love and comfort people through what he did and not just by paying lip service. He just simply seemed to know what people needed and if he made a promise to do something for you, he kept that word.  And that love and dedication to people is what made people love him so much. You could hear when he would tell stories how much love and empathy he had for those he held close. Sometimes the gestures were more simple than others, but always they came from that same place deep in his heart.

One of the many such stories I remember being told was about my Godfather who lost his father at the end of 8th grade. Exiting the church at the funeral, following the casket, my Grandpa noticed his nephew and watched his eyes travel from the moment that was his current reality to the stream of his classmates getting on the bus to head off for their trip to Cedar Point. He never said that in that moment how much he must know about what it was like to lose a parent as he had when his mother died from illness when he was in elementary school. Instead of offering the same words that everyone else did of condolences, he simply looked at the bus and then at his nephew and told him that he would take him there soon. And a few weeks later, I think when he sensed that people had stopped asking if he was doing okay and life was continuing on, even though for him, the one dealing with the loss, it was somehow empty, my Grandpa picked up the phone, told his sister-in-law to get everyone ready and he drove his family and theirs for a day at Cedar Point. In that moment he was keeping a very simple promise, but really it was so much more than that, he was picking a moment to give his nephew and his siblings a day to smile a little when he knew that there hadn't been many. To show them that while life would be different, it would go on and that they would find their way to laughter and fun again. Years later when so many of their friends would begin becoming widows and widowers, my Grandpa would go out of his way to not just make a blanket invitation, but to call individuals, invite them places, reassure them, pick them up, take them places with the group, and make sure that regardless of their loss that they still felt a part of their friend circle. He knew it was so easy for people to issue an invite or tell someone to call anytime, but another to actually take the time to check-in and make sure that someone was doing okay. They were simple gestures, but it was the type of ones that my Grandpa was so good at - he was remarkable at not letting anyone down and making moments for everyone.

It was that spirit that I would watch when he re-purchased countless toys for my youngest cousin, because she would wander into the house with many a broken, mangled toy, declaring in all her 3-year-old confidence that "Grandpa can fix it, Grandpa fixes everything," and he just couldn't bring himself to destroy that image. I miss witnessing those moments, the ones when larger than life, my Grandpa would fix things any way he could. When he would fix our family and hold them together time and time again. And I miss those talks, where regardless of how much we argued or agreed, underneath it all was the understanding that we didn't only have those words, because he cared so deeply about the person that he was conversing with in that moment.

 As people visited those two long weeks in the hospital where we spent countless hours in the waiting room for the few moments the ICU would let us in per day and then that long day at the visitation, I heard countless stories from people about how much my Grandpa meant to them, the things he had done for so many people they knew and about how much they had heard stories about me and his other grandchildren.

He was such a special man, one that would never say the words, but always, always demonstrated the meaning of "I Love You" in his everyday life. And so, I miss the talks, but even more, I learned that all those words, everything you say, will mean nothing to anyone if you don't back them up with your actions. But if you live and act in an "I Love You" fashion, you never, ever have to say those words for people to wonder how you really feel.

Happy Father's Day to the best male role model I could wish for ever. I miss you Grandpa, everyday.

To My Cheerleader

Shortly after I graduated college and started drawing my first "real world" paychecks, I started noticing a change in my mom. She was starting to wear a lot of new clothes. I'd never noticed her being all that interested in clothes or fashion, so when I spied yet another new outfit when I was home for a weekend, I finally asked. And it was a pretty simple answer that I hadn't contemplated much before that point - now that I had graduated and was on my own, my mom had money to spend on herself. And there was just one small insight into much I had never contemplated about my mom and her sacrifices for me and it led me to a conclusion that I would arrive at many, many more times since then - I have by far the best mother in the world.  I know a lot of people say this, I know that today especially it's a sentiment that is said by many, but in my case these are more than simply words. And yet words will never accurately express just how wonderfully strong and loving my mother is. They will never quite capture all the sacrifices she has made for me. They will never tell the champion that she has been for me in all I have tried to accomplish in my life. And they will never, ever, be enough to repay her for being the person that she is to me.  In many ways, I shouldn't be surprised. My grandmother was also the best, and she learned so much from her and clearly inherited her heart, soul and spirit. And when ever someone sees any sort of selfless giving, kindness or generosity in me, they can thank these two women for planting the seed in me that I witness in its full-grown splendor in them.  It amazes me any time I consider what my mom sacrificed and gave to me to try in every way to make my life the best one she could. In a time when the single mom was not common, she blazed the trail in spectacular fashion. She was the best example of sacrifice I will ever find. I'm sure that my mom had hopes, dreams and plans for after college, but I don't know what they were. She edited them when I came along, and never once to me did she complain or ruminate on what might have been. Instead, she did what she could to make the best life for me. She worked, finished school (only a semester late) and took care of me when she was home. She left me in the best care of my grandparents when she couldn't be there.  And this didn't end there. She did all she could to afford private schools for me and to keep me in the dance lessons that I enjoyed. She worked hard, she came home, she cared for me, helped me with homework and repeated that everyday. She sacrificed her social life for me. Everything she did was a strong example for me on how to overcome, succeed, and do the best with what you were given. I learned so much more from her. I learned by her example not to give up even when life deals you a lousy hand. I learned that there is much value to gain from giving rather than receiving. I learned to manage. I learned to judge people by the person that they are and not by the color of their skin, what they wear, where they live or what they can give to me. I learned to be an independent woman. I learned that family matters. I learned how to care. I learned the value of knowledge and education and its value as the one thing that no one can ever rob you of even if they take everything else. I learned what love looks like. And I learned what it means to be selfless.  Life hasn't been easy as of late. Since 1999 my mom has suffered from ulcerative colitis. I watched her in the hospital, scared that I might lose her as they came in to take her vitals far more often than other patients because they were so low. I watched her overcome the extreme blood loss she suffered and continued to suffer from the ulcers. I've had only admiration for how she healed herself with sheer determination at times while suffering from the side effects of medications. And two years ago when she started having extreme fatigue, I watched as she drew from within to fight with her doctors and tell them something wasn't right. I watched her not accept the answers she was given and resolve to solve the puzzle of her health despite the wounding fatigue and then the pain. And when she was diagnosed first with a blood disorder and then with a rare liver disease, it took her a while to admit to me that she had ever asked the question "why me?" even for a few days. She has handled even this chapter that has scared me beyond belief with grace, resolve and dignity.  And when I feel on hard times and finally confessed to my mom my struggles, she supported me without question. She didn't pry and knew that I would tell her what I needed to when I needed. And then when I told her I wanted to make a reckless move to a new city she supported me and enabled me when so many other people didn't understand. And even when I couldn't put voice to my need, she defended me. And even now when times have become even tougher, she's been right here, by my side in spirit, supporting me, helping me and bailing me out yet again.  She's my biggest cheerleader and my one fan on which I can count. And while we both lament that neither of us seems to have much luck, there was one day in my life when I was very lucky - the day that I drew my mom in the lottery of life. Even though I can not adequately convey how much you mean, I love you, Mom. Happy Mother's Day.

A little inspiration at the end of the finish line

Today when my alarm sounded, one of my friends was already up and running.  At 6:30 a.m., she began a 26.2 mile journey from her "pig pen," through the hills and streets of Cincinnati to fulfill one of her dreams. She was going to, from this day forward, be able to use the term "marathon runner" as a badge of honor to describe herself.

And so after I watched the men's marathon winner cross the finish line on television, I got in my car and headed toward her finish line. 

As I found a place to park, I thought about the last time I saw her when she'd just faced one of her last long runs before she began to taper in preparation for today. As we sipped coffee, she was sore and achy, and I couldn't imagine how she was going to get through the heat and humidity that were gracing her race today. And as I thought about what she was doing and the first time we sat over coffee and she put voice to that dream that she wanted to run a marathon and decided which one, I caught a tear running down my face, because it's not often that you get to see someone fulfill their exact dream. She's always been a runner, entering 5K's and more recently a half marathon, but for ages she said that for her to be a marathoner pigs would have to fly, so when she amended her running dream, she found the place where that exactly happened - The Flying Pig Marathon.  The goal was simple, just to finish the grueling race.

As I found the finish line and worked my way up to the ledge of a bridge around U.S. Bank Arena that overlooked the "Finish Swine," I found myself watching so many stories and dreams make there way across that arbitrary point in the pavement. There were the stories that they highlighted on the news, like the woman finisher that vowed 18-months ago to run again after a horrific accident where she was hit by a car while riding her bike. Several surgeries later, she volleyed back and forth in first and second place before she crossed in fourth. But somehow, you could tell that as each and every person running the half-marathon and full crossed that line that there was a story there for them to tell. I watched a man finish and collapse a few steps later - pushing himself to stride across the line no matter what. There were those that were clearly running for causes and people - dressed in shirts that promoted their passion or pointing skyward as they hit the line. I watched children join a parent to jog the last yards across the finish. Many lifting their arms in victory or sharing a high five with the swine mascots, celebrating their personal accomplishments. And each and every one of them, as hundreds (and along the way thousands) watched, had a story. Somewhere during the race they had to draw the strength and courage to keep going and see it through. 

 And after scanning the crowd and watching from above, almost out of nowhere I saw the bright pink socks and then registered the black tank, black running skirt and bandanna and then the face, crossing the intersection and nearing the finish. As I snapped a few pictures hoping that one of them would be good, I felt my eyes well up with tears of pride. It's not often that you see someone live a dream - not a simple easy one, but one that they work for months training for, one that involves sacrifice and one that they play a  mental game with themselves to finish when their body just wants them to quit. And also today I saw pigs and dreams fly, and I'm so happy that I could witness just a little bit of the triumph. 

Congratulations, T. You are an inspiration (even though it will never inspire me to run, it does give me faith and courage to keep running the race of life)!

A whole other war on women

Growing up I often heard the mantra of "you could be pretty if ..." with the blank being filled in by numerous words from "lose weight" to "you kept your mouth shut once in a while." 

I've fought to define beauty in a better light in my life, to come to grips with the person that I am and to define myself in my own terms. But the forces were not as simple as a few people in my life, magazines and movies and the "media," all played a role. In my day I remember clearly the "controversy" surrounding the stars of Facts of Life that were all but one told to go on diets. Blaire could not be the coveted if she possessed too many curves. And so, I'd look at myself in the mirror and wonder, if she's fat, then what am I? 

 But that was just the tipping point. The average size of women on television and in movies continued to shrink. And because men actually like curves, women began buying them, making them look more and more like a Barbie doll with unrealistic dimensions that the average woman couldn't compete with even in the best of times. 

So recently there have been so many examples of how far we've come - in a bad way - when it comes to women and beauty. There was a report recently that 43-year-old Jennifer Aniston spends roughly $141,037 on her beauty routine a year (which does include her trainer and special diet food), with roughly $1,180 on her skin care regime monthly alone. No normal woman can compete with that. That's why many women her age have age spots that she admits she's had zapped by lasers. 

But it doesn't stop there. There are so many examples of how celebrities and models are photoshopped that you don't have to look far. When I typed the keywords "photoshop" "models" and "pictures" into Google, I generated 71,200,000 results. So today models can't even look like models. No amount of make-up or dieting made them "beautiful" enough without professional retouching. 

The other day I listened to a conversation on The View where they were discussing the phenomenon of "hairlessness" as a new beauty attribute. And women pay dearly to have themselves waxed and plucked all over to maintain a vision of beauty.

But today for me was the tipping point - because now that women are hairless, it's not enough - today I happened upon the second news story in as many days about vagina bleaching - because now that the hair is removed the discovery is that the skin underneath is not always as pristinely white as would be desirable.  

And who are women doing this for anyway? From where does this idea of unnatural "beauty" proliferate? 

There comes a point when all this vision of beauty becomes so ingrained that even those of us that don't buy into that image catch ourselves judging and evaluating other women. We dissect and discuss. And while I've had countless conversations that talked about weight, beauty, plucking, waxing, breast implants, diet, exercise, gray hair, age spots, wrinkles and more, never, once have I ever had a conversation with a male or a female about how someone's vagina needed bleaching because it wasn't a light enough color. It isn't something that women have ever mentioned noticing about themselves, it's never been something that a male friend said he dumped his significant other over and it's just not something that anyone I know has ever mentioned. But two stories in two days means that somewhere this is either a trend or it's something that someone wants to be a trend. 

So now, on top of worry about the grays that have appeared in my hair and the crow's feet and the strays that I'm constantly plucking from my eyebrow region and the hair on my legs, now I'm supposed to have a new worry - am I pristinely light enough. 

Just when I thought I'd tallied all the possible things I had to worry about along comes this. I have to say that I have no idea what to expect next, but I know that I'll be at least one trend behind. 

The War of Words

The most beautiful man that I ever encountered in person was in my Catholic Social Thought Class sophomore year in college.  I, and just about every other young woman in the class, was enthralled with him and he was fully aware of that fact.

A few classes into the semester we began talking about the Catholic-controversial issue of birth control and beautiful man raised his hand and contributed what he believed to be a very sound argument in favor of it with a cocky grin on his face. I'm not sure how much of his argument he believed, but I could tell that his thought was "now they know a pretty face has a brain behind it." 

And so everyone sat in class, nervously looked around and the professor tried to catch the eye of a brave soul - which one of us was going to take him on and shoot his argument to shreds. I sadly admit that it took me a moment before I, never afraid of a fight before, slowly and tentatively raised my hand and caught his sly smile. I did the congenial debate tactic of acknowledging his argument. "While I don't disagree with your premise, the way you arrived at it was a little flawed," I said slowly easing in for the kill and feeling bad about it for the first time ever that I still remember the words today. "But, to say that 'God gave man the ability to make and use latex for this purpose' and therefore it is morally unobjectionable, only ignores the existence of every negative man-made invention ever used for harm. What about cop killer bullets? Or Agent Orange? Or biological weapons? ..." And then I hit my stride and didn't shut up. I watched him slowly deflate and the smile on my professor's face grow wider and wider. I never had a shot at him anyway and I'm not sure that I would ever be able to live with a man that couldn't argue his away out of a paper bag. 

Sadly, beautiful man never once raised his hand again the rest of the semester. Most of the women in my class looked at me that day like I was crazy and the few other men in class, well I know that the smile two of them flashed me was for taking down their competition. 

But, that is me - never afraid to walk away from a fight. Always armed with the knowledge that I can construct an argument with the best of them and tear someone's down if there is even a small fallacy contained within it. I'm the young woman that passed her argumentation class easily. The one that will talk about how you need claims, grounds, warrants and backing to put up a war of words. 

Until now I've never been afraid to voice my opinions, to fight the good fight. But, somehow I've lost the will as of late. I sanction my words and I am now one of those scared young women that doesn't raise their hand in class when I know that there is a statement that I could tear down in a second. 

Why is that? Because it seems that the war of words has turned very, very ugly as of late and it's littered with insults rather than sound statements. 

Don't agree with someone's view on birth control, well it's far easier to call her a slut than to have a pointed debate on the issue. Someone has the audacity to look at the same situation and come to a different conclusion - call them an idiot and walk away. No longer are discourse or facts important, just throw out an insult and keep doing so until the person walks away from the fight - and not because you won, but because they realize there is no winning in this kind of war of words.

I've always been a political junkie. I remember being excited when I turned 18 and on that very day registered to vote. In third grade when others were turning in clippings of whatever was on the front page of the local paper for current events I was obsessed with the Iran-Iraq war and found stories from my mom's U.S. News & World Report. My teacher even once quizzed me, not sure that I was doing my own work in this area and she later told my mom in our discussion of said topic that I told her that her opinion on the issue seemed very "elementary" to me.  The Bush - Clinton election, my first presidential one as a voter, I actually teared up as I cast my ballot. 

But today's political climate leaves me cold and quiet on almost every issue. Sure, I still have very informed, strident opinions on the candidates and platforms, but even now I'm afraid to voice them. Because while I can read on every side of the issue, come to an informed opinion, voice said argument and the response will be someone calling me "brainwashed" at best. 

There are times when I see a fight so insane that I can't walk away without throwing in a little sanity to the mix, but for the most part I find myself tiptoeing in this political landscape. Even things that I wouldn't think would drum up such a response have. It just seems that things have become more polarized and less rational - there is no more agree to disagree. There is no conceding the point of someone else when they are armed with facts and figures. There's no debate any longer. Just a war of words - insulting, horrible ones - not the type of war of words in which I like to engage.

Just know that if you lob an insult upon me and I don't respond - I've virtually walked away, but it's not because you won.