Not Yet.

"Made his final transition."

"Crossed the river."

"Passed on/away."

"Went to be with the Lord."

"Departed."

A euphemism is "the substitution of an agreeable or inoffensive expression for one that may offend or suggest something unpleasant" (Merriam-Webster). This website offers more than 200 euphemisms for death.

It's still hard, a year and a half later, to say the words, "Aidan died." They stick in my throat like a cinnamon challenge. When I say them, I have to clench my jaw and swallow to hold my facial muscles in place. I don't mind the tears one little bit -- but I hate my lack of control over the ugly, contorted facial expressions of grief.

But I refuse to make this unacceptable death more palatable with euphemism or spiritual platitudes. I don't want anyone to get the impression that there is anything right or OK about the fact that I have to live the rest of my life without seeing, touching, or hearing my son. Aidan, a fourteen-year-old boy on the cusp of manhood, gentle and kind, enthusiastic about learning, funny, quirky nearly to the point of diagnosis--this child died a sudden, harsh death; and we are left with memories, photographs, and flashes of PTSD.

Both C. Peevie and M. Peevie dreamed about Aidan recently; and both of them woke up sobbing into the reality that Aidan is gone. Euphemizing this death does not make it easier. In fact it makes it harder, in a way, by minimizing the harsh reality of our future without him.

I recently attended a funeral where the euphemisms, especially the spiritual ones, were on everyone's lips. There seemed to be a conspiracy to substitute spiritual bromides for real emotion and authentic grief. 

"He's in a better place," they said. "He's still with us; I can feel him."

At one point I offered my condolences to a relative of the deceased. He said, "It's OK. Everything is OK." 

I looked at him in disbelief. 

"No," I said, "It's not OK. Nothing is OK." 

Mr. Peevie echoed my words: "It's NOT OK," he said. 

I saw him two more times that afternoon, and both times he reiterated, "It really is OK."

I realized in retrospect that this was a coping mechanism--but at the time I felt so furious at those words I wanted to have a temper tantrum and say fuck a lot. 

I am still -- almost exactly one year and nine months later -- in the place where every death is Aidan's death, and every funeral is Aidan's funeral. Every grief, every sorrow, every loss is connected to Aidan in a way that I don't really understand. When the grieving relative said, "It's OK", it felt like he was telling me that I should feel that Aidan's death is OK. 

A few days ago the New York Times printed a letter in Philip Galanes' Social Q's column from a woman whose 18-year-old son died a year ago from an undiagnosed heart condition. She said she and her husband 

find it extremely distressing when people we haven't seen in the last year rush up to us at social events to tell us how sorry they are and how they 'just can't imagine' our loss. We know they mean well, but it makes us overwhelmingly sad and ruins festive occasions...What can we do to stop people from launching into their grief for us?

Mr. Galanes suggested a line to divert the conversation--but then took it one step further.

And for the rest of us, hold back, even though our hearts are pure. Sending a condolence note or even an email allows the bereaved to deal with our sympathy in their own time. Let them bring up their loss in conversation, not us.

All of this is very upsetting to me. If I see someone for the first time since Aidan died, I expect and hope that the first words out of their mouths are,"I'm so sorry about Aidan." Because guess what? This is in the front of my mind. All. The. Time. Someone expressing their condolences doesn't make me overwhelmingly sad because I'm already overwhelmingly sad. It doesn't ruin festive occasions because for me, there is already a damper on every occasion, festive or otherwise. We are never without the presence of Aidan's absence.

I find myself avoiding festive occasions not because I dread people bringing up our loss, but because I resent it when people avoid the subject. 

And this whole business of 'let them bring up their loss' is for the birds. I'm sorry, but it is. I will gratefully accept your sympathetic concern and your fond remembrances of my son. But I am not going to hijack the conversation at a social occasion by bringing it up myself. 

The letter writer, of course, gets to deal with her grief in whatever manner feels most helpful and appropriate to her. But please do not take Mr. Galanes' advice about avoiding the one topic that is foremost on the mind of any bereaved person. Say your words of condolence--and then follow her lead. Respect her choice if she says, "Let's talk about this another time." But chances are, she will be grateful you took the risk. For a brief moment, you will have given her a gift, and you will have made her sorrow a mite less lonely.  

Eventually, I hope, I will be able to keep my own grief separate, and allow others the comfort of their own coping mechanisms, rituals, and euphemisms graciously and without judgment. But not yet. Not yet.

Still Got It

I arrived late at the hotel one night last week, and as I waited for the elevator, I made small talk with a fifty-something guy who was also waiting. He mentioned Dorney Park, which evoked fond memories.

"I remember that place!" I said happily. "You have reminded me of my long-lost youth!" We chatted for another minute until the elevator doors opened on the third floor and we both got off.

"So," he said, as we turned in opposite directions. "You have your own room, then?"

"Um, yes," I said, a bit startled, but also a bit awestruck because that sounded like it might have been a pick-up line. "And there are three kids in it."

"Heh-heh," he said, getting the message. "Have a nice night."

I told Mr. Peevie about this conversation later. "Do you think he was trying to pick me up?" I asked him.

"Oh, yeah," he said. "Definitely."

"YES!" I Macauley Culkin-ed.

"I'm happy for you," Mr. Peevie said drily.

And he should be. I am a past-her-prime, overweight, mini-van driving softball mom with very few pick-up lines left in my future--so I will not pass up any chance I get to accept independent confirmation of my fading pulchritude.

Even if the pick-up line springs more from middle-aged lonely desperation than from any actual attractiveness on my part.

/ /

10 Shopping Days Left

I'm so glad I started blogging again just in time to post my birthday wish list.

And this is a big birthday, my friends--the Big 5-0--so please be sure to give your shopping the thought and attention it deserves.

1. Diet Coke, of course.
2. Dakota, by Kathleen Norris. I know it's old, but I haven't read it yet, and she's one of my favorite authors.
3. My left eyebrow, a portion of which is missing in action due to one of my many mental illnesses, trichotillomania.
4. Our soldiers to come home from Afghanistan and Iraq.
5. Some good tequila.
6. Soft pj's, no buttons.
7. A job for my friend Vicki
8. Music for my I-Pod:Plain White T's Rhythm of Love;
9. Martini glasses. Maybe something along the lines of this, or this. Or--surprise me!
10. Innocent, by Scott Turow--also one of my favorite authors.  
11. A Pandora bracelet. I made a wish list but I couldn't get it to open.
12. [I cannot figure out how to put in a new paragraph without numbering it]. So now you have all you need to show me some love.
14. But the simplest way to show me some birthday love, as always, is to leave me comments on my blog.
15. 
    
16. Go!

Birthday Gratitude

Ahhhh.  I love my birthday.  I wish I could have a birthday every month. 

Oh!  Oh!  We should totally do this.  Let's start a FB page called "I love to celebrate my Monthday!"  You would celebrate your Monthday like a birthday, on the same day of the month that your actual birthday falls on.  So my Monthdays would be the 2nd of every month!  Who's with me?

So anyway, my birthday brought me a great deal of delight this year, as it does most years.  (We won't talk about last year's birthday, mmmmkay?)  My birthday is a day when I get loved on by tons of people.  Some send hilarious or touching cards, some offer friendly birthday wishes on FB or email, and some!  Some give gifts.

Have I mentioned that my love language is gifts? Earlier in my birthmonth (two weeks before and two weeks after my birthday) I posted my birthday wish list.  Everyone should do this.  As Mr. Peevie wisely said, "I like to give a girl what she wants"--and what better way for people to know what you want than to use social media to get it out there?

So at this very moment, I'm listening to my new Bruce Cockburn CD, You've Never Seen Everything.  And tonight I will be creating a delectable dinner in my beauteous oval covered casserole dish, thanks to Mr. Peevie and the kids.

Other birthday highlights included:

• Being serenaded in front of my house by three neighborhood children.
• The softest fluffy pink slipper socks you will ever touch.
• A birthday note from a 10-year-old that read, "you are very nice, pretty, and very good at working things out."  I love that last compliment especially much.
• Reminiscing with a friend at dinner about Howard Johnson's clam strips and chocolate ice cream with tiny ice flakes, served in a chilled metal bowl with a buttery, crispy cookie.
• Having the same friend guess my actual age to be 41.
• Planting my flower planters on the deck.
• 37 birthday greetings on FB, including one in Pig Latin.
• Homemade cards from each of my children, including a promise from C. Peevie that I "get to watch (3) 24 episodes with me without any complaints (any!!)!"  He has started watching season 1 of 24, and for some inexplicable reason, he hates it when I plop down next to him on the couch to watch part of an epi with him.
• $49 from my thoughtful MIL and FIL--one dollar for each year.  You're never too old to get money for your birthday.
• Birthday coupons from M. Peevie, including ones for "unlimited kisses," 1 cuddle," "1 masage [stet] and spa treatment," "1 storybook night," and "1 kick in the butt."  Girlfriend has a bit of an attitude.
• Birthday coupons from A. Peevie, including these: "As many cuddles," "As many free hugs," "5 of anything you want," "20 takings out of the trash," "50 stories," and "30 foot massages."  

A. Peevie," I said, "Does this coupon mean that in 30 years, when you're 42 and I'm 79, you'll still give me cuddles?"

"If you still have the coupon," he said.

When I told Roseanne this story, she laughed out loud and said, "You can't even keep track of your keys for one hour, let alone a scrap of paper for 30 years!"  Ouch!  But I'm taking it to the lock box at the bank today.  So there.

14 Shopping Days Left

Time to get shopping, people.  My birthday is June 2, and if there's one thing I have learned in my short time on earth, it's that you're never to old to love getting presents.  Here's my birthday wish list:

1. Stephen King's Under the Dome.

2. Bruce Cockburn's You've Never Seen Everything CD.

3. One of those apple corer-slicer thingies.

4. Two silpat sheets.

5.  A digital camera. This wish-list item is actually for the benefit of my Green Room readers, so that I will be able to offer enhanced blog-reading enjoyment through pixels.

6. A covered casserole dish.

7. World peace.

8. Donations to any of the following organizations:

World Vision International

SaveDarfur.org

Children's Heart Foundation because of A. Peevie and his special heart.

9.  Comments on my blog posts.  I know this is hard to wrap, but it still counts, because it feels the same as getting a present.  It feels like love.

Twitter, Twitter, Tweet.

Do any Green Room readers Twitter?

I do. But I don't really know why.

Why would anyone care what I have to say in 140 characters or less? Who cares if I am trying to decide what kind of bread I will make with my KitchenAid stand mixer? Or what I think about John Hamm from Mad Men hosting Saturday Night Live? Or whether I don't really care to watch grown-ups sledding, no matter how fast they're going?

Twitter seems like a useful and fun tool if you already have a following, or if you have a business to promote. But what if you're just a fame-whore like me? It's just a silly vanity.

But you know me by now. I'm totally on board with silly vanity. I have five--no, six now!-- followers on Twitter. Six people ostensibly care about my minutest random thoughts. My most recent tweets were about Dick Button's shoes (that make him look like a Rescue Hero), the implicit irony of trash-talking in men's figure skating, and Jason Mraz night on American Idol.

Doesn't that make you want to set up a Twitter account and start to follow me right away?

My friend K-Squared, a brilliant entrepreneur and social media maven, gave me a copy of Twitterature, which brought me literally minutes of entertainment and hilarity. The authors rewrote literary classics (and some definitely-not-classics, like Twilight and The Da Vinci Code) "for the twenty-first-century intellect," in 20 tweets or fewer. It's not for young kids, because there is colorful language; but it is sort of brilliant.

Here's a sample, from Paradise Lost, by John Milton:

FALLING UNTO THE ABYSS!!!!! I'll talk more about why in several hundred pages to avoid any confusion.

OH MY GOD I'M IN HELL.

'Tis Pandemonium down here. Would ROFL but it's very hot.

I'm bored. I'm the chairman of the board. My compatriots are r-tards. Inaction? Is that the best we can do? We are fucking demons!

Sitting on our asses waiting for an apology from G-d isn't exactly renegade. Pussies.

OK, that's enough for now. Pick it up at the bookstore, read it while you're on the El, and then hand it to someone as you leave the train. You'll make her day. Or offend her, if she's profanity-sensitive.

Follow me on Twitter @EPeevie!

Deep Thoughts

I was having some deep thoughts in the car this morning. I thought I'd share.

1. Nothing is linear.

2. Except lines.

3. Everything is a back-and-forth, up-and-down, side-to-side process. Sometimes this feels a little bit like mental illness. Sometimes it IS mental illness.

4. You spend your life trying to get from here to there, and you think, OK, all I have to do is put one foot in front of the other, and I will get where I'm going. And then you end up somewhere else. And you don't know where the hell you are.

5. Or what you're supposed to be doing. Or why you're doing it.

6. Then you start to get depressed. Or angry, which is really the same thing.

7. Eventually, you go to see a therapist, who confirms what you've known all along: Yes, you are mentally ill. You are probably one meltdown away from being institutionalized.

8. Some days you feel like a reasonably functional human being. You take a shower and bake some bread. The smell of fresh bread makes you weep with happiness.

9. Other days you feel like an undiagnosed schizophrenic, living two or more secret lives, with a tenuous hold on reality.

10. But your therapist reassures you that you are not really schizophrenic, or bipolar, and you don't really have obsessive-compulsive disorder, although you might, indeed, have a tiny case of ADD.

11. But the real problem is this existential angst (see numbers 4 and 5), which is essentially the human condition.

12. What to do, what to do? Think. Talk. Become more aware of your interior life, so that you make intentional choices which are driven by meaning and purpose. It's a process.

13. This process takes time.

14. And it is not linear.

I just thought I'd share.

Toothless

My tooth fell out when I was chomping a piece of Red Vines licorice. I was all, chomp chomp, and then something hard was rolling around in my mouth, and then I was like, hey! what's this? and then I tongued it away from the masticated Red Vines and pulled it out, and it was a tooth! Weird. I felt like an Appalachian.

So I called my dentist, Dr. Frank (the one I love because she is very understanding about my complete lack of tolerance for even minor discomfort) and left a message.

"Should I put it under my pillow?" I asked her. "Maybe the tooth fairy will bring me the thousand bucks it's probably going to cost to fix it!"

"Where is it?" she asked, when she called me back.

"Well, that's kind of a weird question," I thought to myself, but out loud I answered, "Upstairs on my dresser."

"No," she said patiently, "where in your mouth did the tooth come from?"

Aha. That made a lot more sense. From my description she was medium confident that the tooth was actually an old crown which could be re-cemented without too much trouble.

"Put the tooth in a zip-lock bag and bring it in," she instructed. "We'll take care of it." I made an appointment for the next day, and obediently put my tooth in my purse.

The next day I got ready to head out, checked my purse one last time to make sure the crown was in there--and suddenly, I couldn't find the damn thing. Gone! My tooth was gone! I checked every pocket of my shiny green purse. Then I checked every pocket one more time. Then I turned the shiny green purse upside down and dumped everything out.

Still no tooth.

OK, ok, ok. Calm down. Think. I put in in my purse, right? I know I did. I checked the lost purse again, but it was still empty.

Aha! I know! When my tooth fell out, M. Peevie asked me, "Mom, can I put your tooth under my pillow tonight, and see if the Tooth Fairy gives me money for it?" I'll bet that little stinker took it out of my purse and put it under her pillow! I raced upstairs and checked her bed. Nothing. I checked under A. Peevie's pillow for good measure. Nothing.

Think. Think. Aha! I remember! I took it out and showed it to C. Peevie when I was in the kitchen! I ran downstairs and rifled through the three-foot pile of crap on the kitchen counter. Nothing! I checked in the office: Nothing. The bathroom: Nothing.

I called the dentist and cancelled my appointment, and then I started looking again. I called Mr. Peevie, who said he saw the zip-lock bag on the bed the night before--so I ran upstairs and started tearing apart the bed. Nothing. Under the bed? Nothing. (Well, nothing, if by "nothing" you mean two-and-a-half pairs of shoes, three socks, lots of used dryer sheets, and a coffee-table-size book of Bruegel prints and commentary in German, published in 1932. But no tooth.)

Frustrated to point of Resorting to Colorful Language, I jammed my hands into my pockets. Lo and behold--there was my tooth! Right in the zip-lock baggie and stuffed down into the linty bottom of my pocket where I had put it THAT VERY MORNING.

I'm an idiot.

So then I called the dentist back, and she still had time to re-attach my crown.

"At least you didn't swallow it," she said.

"What then?" I asked, joking, "I'd have to wait until I pooped it out?"

"Yes," she said--and she WAS NOT JOKING. Apparently this is a not-uncommon occurrence in the disgusting world of dentistry.

But now my tooth is back where she belongs, and all is well again with the world.

Bleah. (How's that for a title?)

Don't you hate it when you just feel bleah?

I feel bleah. For no reason. Just...bleah. Tired, enervated, aimless, disinterested. A little wobbly, emotionally, like a small wind could push me over into depression.

Yuck.

I know there are strategies for coping with the bleahs, like Gratitude, and Remembering, and Doing Kind Deeds. I'm trying to work up the energy to try one of them--but in a vicious-cycle kind of way, the bleahs have drained me of the energy and effort it takes to employ those strategies.

I had this conversation when I dropped off the youngest Peevies this morning:

Mrs. Pitt: How are you?
Me: Bleah.
Mrs. Pitt: I'm sorry.
Me: Yeah.
Mrs. Pitt: Your hair looks cute!
Me, laughing: Thank you. I haven't brushed it in three days.
Mrs. Pitt: At least you're smiling now!

The Peevie household is no longer in crisis, so that's not the problem. We're coping with the thigh-high cast for another week, and hoping that the doc will switch C. Peevie to a weight-bearing cast after that.

We're coping with homework times three. I'm working on a couple of small projects, trying to dig up some new business, and nagging my non- or slow-paying clients to pay up.

Mr. Peevie is five days out from Marathon Day, and is feeling pretty good about his chances for winning the whole thing. Go, Mr. Peevie! I'm proud of him for being so committed; and also? In the throes of my self-centered bleahtitude, I can't wait for it to be over.

But nothing in our lives is hugely disturbing; there's really nothing to complain about, in relative, Western terms. My bleahs are not even hormonal, I don't think--at least, not this week. It's just one of those hopefully brief seasons of bleah. I probably just need a salty, crunchy snack.

OK, that's enough self-absorption for one day. Stay tuned for slightly more edifying posts about critical thinking, bosses, and a lying child.

Separated at Birth

Mr. Peevie and I were both futzing around in the bathroom the other day, and I was looking at my astonishingly attractive reflection in the mirror.

"I think I look a lot like the Cowardly Lion," I said. "Do you think so?"

The correct answer, as you might guess, would be an immediate negative: "No, honey, of course not. You're beautiful." But my lawfully wedded husband, my constant friend, my faithful partner, who has too much integrity for his own good, did not take the safe route.

"Hold on a sec," he said, "Let me get my glasses."

Oh, I held on a sec, all right. And another, and another.

Then: "You have to get your glasses in order to tell whether I look like the Cowardly Lion or not?" I asked, not quite believing that our marriage had survived 25+ years.

"Well, I can't see a thing!" he said, digging himself in deeper.

"Think about it, dear," I said, patiently-but-with-an-edge. "I'm asking you if I look like the Cowardly Lion. The COWARDLY LION."

"Oh," he said, penitently. "No, of course not." Good boy.

"But wait!" I said, changing the rules, as I am allowed to do, thus keeping Mr. Peevie off-balance and on the defensive (an excellent marital tactic for you newlyweds out there), "look at this!" I put on my best Cowardly Lion face. "Now look!" He looked.

"OH!" he exclaimed. "OH! HAHAHAHA!"

"See?" I said, "I DO look like the Cowardly Lion!"

At this point, Mr. Peevie was so confused that he walked out of the bathroom and mixed himself a dirty martini.

But what do you think? Vote in the comments. Does it look like the Cowardly Lion and I were separated at birth?

Update, Plus South Dakota Tales

Mr. Peevie asked me to point you to the update at the bottom of this post.

And I thought I'd also take this opportunity to show you a few photos from my trip to South Dakota. Here are the five kids atop a smallish Badlands formation (l-r: A. Peevie, Samwise, C. Peevie, M. Peevie, and E-Dude):


And here is my beauteous angel, M. Peevie, totally owning the Badlands:


Here's how A. Peevie spent approximately 50 percent of his time in the car. I don't know if you can tell or not, but that's Manny the Manatee in his lap. It's probably the first time a manatee, stuffed or otherwise, has been within 1000 miles of the Badlands.


I wish I had a photo of the Wagon Wheel Bar, in Interior, South Dakota, population 67 according to the sign at the edge of "town." We went there for "dinner" on our first day in the Badlands. To get there, you drive into town on Highway 77, and turn right at the gas station/"mini-mart." You'll know you're headed in the right direction because the sign on the corner points toward the "Business District." Pass the town jail (photo credit: Murrax on Wikipedia), which Dr. Paradigm Shift insists is not currently used as such because "the ACLU would be all over it," but which I think is totally where they throw the obnoxious drunk guy on Saturday night.

Anyway, as we walked into the Wagon Wheel, our feet stuck to the tacky floor and the smell of cigarette smoke immediately saturated our hair and clothing. But we were starving, and the bartender/waitress was smiling and helpful, so we ordered burgers and chicken fingers and home-made pizza, and beer for the grown-ups, and sat down at two small, slightly sticky tables.

The kids asked for money for the jukebox and started playing Johnny Cash songs, plus a little U2, Bon Jovi, and Toby Keith. There were no Killers songs on the playlist, unfortunately, or I'm sure we would have heard Leave the Bourbon on the Shelf, which is absurdly inappropriate for an 8-year-old to sing along with, or perhaps Human.

Anyway, while we ate, a cowboy walked into the bar, followed by his large dog. The dog walked up to us, smelled us, and then strolled over to his water dish and got a drink. Apparently, he's a regular.

Then, a bunch of Native American pool players stopped by the bar for their evening sport. They were wearing blue jeans, cowboy boots, and flannel shirts with the sleeves cut off. They sat around the table talking and laughing and sipping chardonnay from long-stem wine glasses. No lie. It seemed a bit incongruous, but maybe that's just me.

It's Killing Me

It's killing me.

Right before my birthday I went out of town to visit my family in PA, leaving Mr. Peevie in charge of kids, school, homework, baseball, ballet, laundry, meals, and birthday parties, plus his regular day job which actually pays the bills. He had a lot on his plate, and so I said to him, with unprecedented maturity and consideration, "Honey, don't worry about my birthday. I know you'll be handling a lot of things while I'm gone, and I don't want my birthday to add to your stress."

I'd love to get a present, of course (I told him), but it can wait until you're less stressed.

Apparently, he's still stressed, because: no present yet. Three weeks later. It's killing me.

I know that I am the most materialistic, shallow person on the planet, and I'm not proud of it. But a gift, to me, is love. It doesn't have to be big; it doesn't have to be expensive. It just has to be TIVO.

Oh, I'm just kidding. I can be happy with something other than TIVO.

I did ask him once, maybe twice, in the last two weeks or so if he thought I might be getting a birthday present. He said yes. He knows me well enough after 25 years of virtually unmitigated marital bliss to not kid about such a thing.

Virtually unmitigated. One time, early in our marriage, Mr. P came home from work carrying a mysterious package. "Ooo," I said, "What's that?" "I bought you a present," he said cheerfully, handing it to me. I was excited to open it, as I always am when I receive a gift. It was an album of music by an artist that I had never heard of in a genre that I didn't particularly enjoy. My balloon of happiness deflated rapidly, and I not-very-graciously said, "Oh. Thanks."

Mr. Peevie didn't notice. He opened the album and headed to the turn-table. (I do realize that my younger readers will have to get out their History of Electronics textbooks to understand some of my archaic terminology.) "I've been wanting this for awhile," he said.

"Really," I said. "Well, then, why did you say it was a present for me?"

"Um, because I thought you might enjoy it too?" he said, with the beginnings of fear in his voice.

"Let's take this opportunity to reach an understanding here," I said. "I love gifts. When you say to me, 'I brought you a present,' I feel happy and loved because you spent time thinking about me and about what I would enjoy." I paused for soulful effect.

"But when you give me a gift which is really a gift for you," I continued, "I feel cheated and tricked instead of loved." I know what you're thinking: boy, is this woman high-maintenance. And perhaps I am.

OK, there's no 'perhaps' about it. I will own that I am, indeed, high-maintenance. But I would argue that in this case, I was being the opposite of high-maintenance. I was communicating clearly and honestly, and asking merely for gift-giving integrity, which, if I recall correctly, was included in our vows, right after "love, honor and obey."

OK, slash that. There was no 'obey' in our vows. But I'm sure gift-giving integrity was in there, in spirit if not in so many words.

I said, hey, Mr. Peevie, it is perfectly appropriate for you to buy yourself some music! If you had come home and said, hey, look, I bought myself a CD, isn't it great!, I would have been happy for you, I said, and not at all disappointed for myself. Where he went wrong was in saying, for some inexplicable reason, that it was a gift for me.

Mr. Peevie is a very quick learner. He never made the same mistake again; and in fact, over the years has become the master gift-giver. He understands me and loves me, and I can tell that it gives him pleasure to show me love by giving me gifts. He puts himself into the gifts he gives, and I adore being on the receiving end of that.

Which is why this situation--no birthday gift--Is. Killing. Me.

It's killing me not to ask about it. It's killing me, wondering if maybe he forgot.

Doesn't he love me anymore?

Why can't I just let it go?

Have you ever known anyone so shamelessly shallow?

UPDATE: Mr. Peevie came through. When I returned from the Badlands, there on the dining room table were two wrapped gifts: a Jason Mraz CD, We Sing, We Dance, We Steal Things, including my new favorite song, Lucky; and a large, very promising wrapped box containing a Williams-Sonoma pizza pan and cookie sheet. He loves me, he really loves me!

Going Home Again

Last week I visited my parents (and sister) for the first time in over a year. (Bad daughter!) My trip was a medley of hilarity, sweetness, deliciousness, shopping, and napping. Here are the highlights:

• Shopping with my mama for a snow-white purse with two outside pockets with snaps, not too big, not too small, that doesn't requires the use of a paper clip to close the zipper.
  
• My BIL sitting on the couch eating frosting from a can, while we watched a Jeff Beck concert on cable and speculated about the age and origins of the bass player, Tal Wilkenfeld. (Photo credit: www.gibson.com)
  
• Raising eyebrows with the story of my stalker former boyfriend.
• Eating a Franconi's authentic Philadelphia cheesesteak. If you haven't sunk your dentures into one of these, you haven't lived. Culinarily, that is. (Photo credit: www.nymag.com)
  
• Shopping unsuccessfully for a rectangular pre-planted window planter to hang from mom and dad's patio railing. We went to four stores, with no luck. Finally, we went to Lowe's, bought the ingredients, and planted red and white petunias right there in the store's garden center.

"How are you going to plant flowers without a trowel?" asked my in-the-box daddy.

"I'll use my hands, Dad," I said.

"But you'll get all dirty!" mom worried.

"Yes," I replied. "And?" Have they ever met me? Dirt and I go way back.

• Shopping (again!) for button fly/button waistband PJ shorts for dad. Guess what? They don't exist. Every single pair of men's PJ shorts in captivity has an elastic waistband. But my dad remembers the PJs that mom bought him for their honeymoon 61 YEARS AGO and wants exactly the same thing. Which is sweet, but deluded.
• Visiting with my beautiful niece, her crazy husband, and my handsome nephew. Sadly, it appears that my sister's kids both chose spouses with personality disorders similar to their father: controlling, manipulative, and narcissistic. My nephew was visiting for less than two hours, and his wife called him four times to find out where he was and when he'd be home. Four times.
• Avoiding conflict with my opinionated parents. This was my personal favorite of all the highlights.

I asked my therapist for a script that I could use when my parents said something provocative, because in 48 years I have not yet learned how NOT to take the bait. He said, "Why don't you try saying, 'Uh-huh' or 'Hmmm.'"

So I tried it. My dad said something politically charged--I can't even remember what it was, but it was probably something about Barack Obama being personally responsible for millions of babies being killed--and I said, "Hmmm." He said something else along the same lines, and I said, "Uh-huh," and then I changed the subject to books.

It worked! I experienced a minor miracle first-hand. Essentially, I paid $150 for two words--and they weren't even words, just sounds! But as my friend Q said, that was the best $150 I ever spent. Hooray for therapy. (But seriously, why could I not come up with those responses on my own? That is messed up.)

The moral of the story: You can't go home again, but I guess you can shop there.

(Bonus points if you identify the source of the quote without googling it.)

Bad Clients

I love being a freelance writer, and if God and Mr. Peevie allow it, I will never go back to a regular full-time job, ever.

That said, there are some things that suck about being a freelancer. One of them, as I have noted, is that there is no guarantee of a regular paycheck.

Another is that sometimes clients are slow-to-pay, or don't pay at all. Why is that? I currently have two clients that I produced work for who are not paying my bill. One is a former colleague; we used to have lunch together periodically; we are friends. She signed off on my quote in February, and I delivered the first draft of a resume to her about a week later, along with an invoice.

We went back and forth with emails for a few weeks: first she wanted to do a conference call, then she didn't, then she asked for a different resume format. By this time it was late March, and she still had not paid my invoice, nor did she pay the up-front half that my contract required; but I still delivered the second draft on April 3. Five days later she asked me for another re-write, and this time I insisted that I talk to her mom--the actual subject of the resume--to make sure that I understand from her exactly what she wants.

Now it's a month later--three months after we made the contract--and my former colleague has not put me in touch with her mom, nor has she paid my invoice. I had asked her after the second draft was rejected if I could just call her mom directly, but she wanted to set it up herself. She is now ignoring my emails.

Grrr. Bad client.

The second non-paying client is a huge IT consulting company in Florida. They probably do millions of dollars of business every year--but they are stalling, or reneging, on paying my lousy $150 invoice for consulting on and re-writing a marketing brochure. WTF?

This client I got through E-Lance, a website that allows people or companies to post freelance projects online, and subscribers pay a monthly fee to have access to the job listings and bid on the projects. Since it's a virtual international marketplace, I'm bidding against writers in countries where the dollar is worth a lot more than it is here; and without exception, all of the jobs I've bid on have had minimum bids of $50. In other words, someone in India or Bulgaria is willing to write 50 articles for a grand total of $5, which, bully for them. I'm not.

So this IT company, which will remain un-named unless it turns out that I really am not going to collect any money from them, asked me to turn around a first draft of this brochure copy in 24-36 hours, which I did. I did some research on the company, researched their competition, made some recommendations for how to improve the piece they were producing, and wrote a concise, peppy first draft.

They hated it.

It's fine for them to hate it, though, because that's what a first draft is for. Anne Lamott calls them "shitty first drafts." This company is apparently unclear on the concept of a first draft, because, as it turns out, when they didn't like what I produced, they gave the project to another writer to finish up for them. They were planning on just dropping the project and not paying me, because, as the client said to me the other day on the phone, "I didn't get what I wanted."

But let me backtrack. At first, I didn't get any feedback from the client himself, but his representative told me the client was unhappy with what I had done for him and that there were grammatical errors in what I had written. Now, I might not be Noam Chomsky, but I do know my way around a p-ante, if you know what I mean. Which you probably don't, but stay with me here.

(Oh, and just as an aside, I did wear Noam Chomsky's name on my back during one of those meet and greet games in college where you have to go around the room asking people questions to figure out what name has been scotch-taped to your shirt. Every time I asked a question--am I a male? Am I alive? Am I in sports?--people would look at me with a blank expression and say, "I have no idea." This was Mr. Peevie's hilarious idea, and yet I still married him.)

So back to my point. When I pressed my client to point out the alleged grammatical errors in my writing, he admitted that they weren't so much "grammatical" problems as they were concerns about word choice. Effing word choice. That's like telling an engineer she made structural mistakes in designing a bridge, when in fact she painted it a color that you're not quite comfortable with.

He also said that what I wrote wasn't long enough. So for word choice and length, he figured it was just fine and dandy for him to breach his contract with me. In fact, I believe he considered that by not delivering a perfectly acceptable first draft, I was the one who had breached.

I told him, look, Mr. IT Guy, you're a billion dollar company. I'm a sole proprietor operating out of my home office. Are you really going to cheat me out of $150 dollars? He replied, without any irony, "We're not a billion dollar company," which missed the point by approximately 26.2 miles.

At one point he said, well maybe we can still pay you to produce another piece for us. Of course I'd love to get more business from you, Mr. IT Guy, but I'd like to get paid for the first job FIRST, I told him. (I can be very direct when I need to. Some people call it combative.)

In the end, we agreed that he would send me his comments on my original first draft, and I would revise it so that they could use the material for another purpose. This is what should have happened in the first place. That conversation occurred two days ago. I'm still waiting for his edits.

Bad client.

My Downward Spiral Into Probably Fatal Lung Disease, or Maybe Just Self-Pity

I learned a new word today: spirometer. Those of you with lung disease or asthma will know what I'm talking about. It's a device to measure the amount of air you can push out of your lungs in one deep breath.

As you may be tired of hearing, I have been having a little trouble in the lung department ever since my overly generous son A. Peevie shared his flu with me three weeks ago. My illness developed into bronchitis that makes my chest feel like a prop on Million Dollar Baby. You know, a punching bag. Did I really need to explain that?

I've been calling my doctor about every four or five days, complaining about the cough and the chest pain, and she keeps telling me it's a virus, it's going to take time, chillax, mon. I bullied her into giving me some prescription cough medicine the first week, and the second week she finally gave up some antibiotics.

(BTW, this is my normal MO with doctors. You can't just take their word for stuff, and wait for them to give you what you think you need. You need to be proactive and assertive. Essentially, you need to manage your own health care--and, IMHO, a good doctor will listen to you, and encourage this kind of participation in your own health care management. Sermon over.)

But four days after starting the antibiotics, I was still feeling the hurt, still making myself puke with coughing fits that made people in the grocery store herd their children away from me because I was probably contaminated with an airborne bio-agent that would soon be sweeping the country.

I called her AGAIN, thinking maybe this time, she'd take pity on me and pull the plug. But no. "More waiting" was her prescription, although she did offer to write me an order for a chest X-ray if I wanted one.

"If I want one?" I said. "What does that mean, if I want one? I'm not the doctor here. What I want is to know what's going on. What I want is to get better. Are you recommending that I get a chest X-ray? Do you think I need one?"

No, she said, your lungs sound clear and I don't think you have pneumonia. But if you want a chest X-ray to rule it out, I'll give it to you. Well, I didn't want to pay the co-pay for an unnecessary chest X-ray, so I said I'd wait it out.

But a few days later my friend Roseanne gets on my case, along with a bunch of my other friends, telling me stories about people dying from not taking care of their coughs, and she made me promise that I'd get an X-ray Monday if my chest still hurt and I was still coughing.

So, still coughing, still clutching my achy-breaky chest like Jack Bauer after dying from too much torture and being brought back to life with an adrenaline shot and electric heart-starting paddles (24: Season 1), I called my doc, but ended up seeing her on-call colleague, Dr. Kim. She listened to my lungs from about 25 different spots on my chest, sides, back, thighs and butt, and said they sounded clear.

Then she pulled out the magical measurer of lung function, the spirometer. "Take a deep breath, put your lips around the tube, and breathe out as much as you can," she said. I did so, and the little red marker on the spirograph barely moved.

I looked guiltily at Dr. Kim. Dr. Kim looked at the red marker, looked at me, and looked back at the red marker. "Are you even alive?" she said, hilariously. "Try again." The marker had gone up to about 200, and according to Dr. Kim, a woman of my age and height should easily push that marker up to 450 or 500.

The next time it hit 280, and then 230. "Let me try again," I said, feeling my competitive spirit kick in, "This feels like a test I'm flunking." This time it was 220. There is no fooling the spirometer.

What does it all mean? I've been doing research on spirometry, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD), asthma, and bronchitis, but I'm not ready to propose a firm diagnosis. No one really knows what's going on, but before I go for the promised chest X-ray, I'm starting a week of tapering steroids to chase the suspected inflammation away.

Oh, goodie: steroids. Those immuno-suppressing, face-puffing-up, rage-inducing clever little pills. Everybody better stay the hell out of my way.

Oh, and happy Holy Week!

A Portrait of Unmitigated Wedded Bliss

A trivial meme about my marriage:

What are your middle names?
Brian and Christine. Guess which is which.

How long have you been together?
Married 25 years in May. I know, right? It's like we were twelve when we hooked up.

How long did you know each other before you started dating?
We met in September(ish) of 1982 and hung out for maybe six or seven months before we started dating. At least, that's how I remember it. Mr. Peevie is more clear about these things.

Who asked whom out?
Mr. Peevie asked me out. Our first date was at Redwood West, the most expensive restaurant in town. Dinner cost $30, including tip.

When the waiter seated us, I chose the seat with my back to the wall, facing the restaurant, because I like to observe people. Mr. Peevie sat across from me. I apologized for taking the best seat, and said, "I took the seat with the best view," and he said, looking into my eyes, "I think I have the seat with the best view." Awww!

How old are each of you?
I'm 47, he's 48. But he's way older, maturity-wise, and way younger, fitness-wise.

Whose siblings do you see the most?
We see Mr. Peevie's one brother more than we see any of my four siblings, because we take a vacation every summer with his family. My four sibs and I are spread out in three time zones, four states, two countries, and two continents; and we only see each other when we all visit my parents in Pennsylvania.

Which situation is the hardest on you as a couple?
Sometimes money, sometimes kids. If we had more money and fewer kids, we'd never argue.

Did you go to the same school?
Undergrad, no. Mr. Peevie got a good education from a liberal arts college (DePauw), and I got an adequate education from a state school (Oklahoma State). But grad school, yes: we both got master's degrees from OSU.

Are you from the same home town?
No. Mr. Peevie grew up in Peoria and Pekin, Illinois. I spent my formative years in Warminster, PA before being dragged, kicking and screaming, to Broken Arrow, OK for my last two years of high school, where I promptly developed a prejudice against southern accents.

Who is smarter?
Probably Mr. Peevie, who retains information like a person on Prednisone retains water. He can also figure things out and solve problems way better than I can. I can think on my feet and talk circles around him, though, which sometimes makes it seem like I'm smarter--but really, I just do great PR for myself.

Who is the most sensitive?
Mr. Peevie and I are both very sensitive about my feelings.

Where do you eat out most as a couple?
Vaughn's Pub, on Northwest Highway, with half-price email coupons, almost once a week.

Where is the furthest you two have traveled together as a couple?
London, for our 20th anniversary.

Who has the craziest exes?
Me. Mr. P. doesn't have any. And after 25 years, really, neither do I.

Who has the worst temper?
Me. We like to say, when Mommy's happy, everybody's happy, and when Mommy's not happy, nobody's happy.

Who does the cooking?
Mostly me, although Mr. Peevie has been known to make a mean grilled cheese sandwich from time to time, and can be counted on to prepare a bubbly roux for the making of gravy.

Who is the neat-freak?
You're kidding, right? Neither of us, but Mr. Peevie usually gets disgusted first.

Who is more stubborn?
Me.

Who hogs the bed?
Me, but it's by mutual agreement. Mr. P. gets one-third, I get two-thirds. It works for us.

Who wakes up earlier?
Mr. P. gets up at the crack of dawn, and I sleep until well after I should be up and getting the kids ready for school.

Where was your first date?
Redwood West; see above.

Who is more jealous?
Neither of us feels the need to be jealous.

How long did it take to get serious?
Me or him? It took Mr. P about six days, and it took me about six months. I know that sounds creepy and arrogant, but I think it's close to the truth.

Who eats more?
Definitely me.

Who does the laundry?
It turns out that I have some, let's say, firm preferences (some might say neuroses) about how our laundry gets done, and I don't like other people putting bras in the dryer, forgetting when sweaters need to be laid flat instead of tumbled, not pre-treating stains, etc. etc.

Who's better with the computer?
Mr. Peevie is a tech-whisperer. He talks to computers gently and gets them to do what he wants. I just get pissed when something goes wrong, and start swearing.

Who drives when you are together?
Me. Always me, which is fine with both of us. Well, 99 percent of the time, unless we're driving on country roads, in which case Mr. P likes to take a turn.

Anyone else want to play the marriage meme?

Book Review: Deliver Us From Me-Ville

With admirable transparency and a readable conversational writing style, David Zimmerman examines our need for redemption in the recently published Deliver Us From Me-Ville. He takes on an entire culture of narcissism, born in the Garden and bred in every human interaction since.

Zimmerman argues that superbia (the Latin word for an inordinate sense of self-regard; pride; or self-satisfaction) is common and calamitous, a "besetting sin among all God's children, nipping at the church's heels throughout its history, and as such it must be met by the vigilance of the people of God to hold it at bay." Superbia "sounds like a place," so Zimmerman dubs it Me-Ville, and urges us to endure vulnerability and the pain of re-training in order to allow God to deliver us.

Occasionally, Zimmerman enjoys his own sense of humor a tiny bit too much, and the resulting literary quirks become a bit distracting. He opens, for example, with a story about his niece that includes the colloquialism "yo," and then he continues to "yo" us for the next several chapters.

Also, there are times when the book makes assumptions or generalizations about people that obviously ring true in the author's life and personality--and often in my own, as well--but which do not necessarily hold true for across humanity. For example, Zimmerman looks at Biblical history (the Tower of Babel) and contemporary culture (and I use the word "culture" loosely, since I'm referring to American Idol) to illustrate his point that "...becoming famous is the holy grail for people steeped in superbia." Everyone is steeped in superbia, but not everyone seeks or desires fame.

In general, however, Zimmerman illustrates our condition with an engaging combination of contemporary culture and spiritual classics. His theme is clear and straightforward: "The way out of Me-Ville is unavoidably through Jesus, who visits us, displaces, us, delivers us, and sets us within the bounds of his city, his community."

His transparency is disarming: "My greatest fear in making my writing public...[is] that an audience will read what I write and disregard it as insignificant." This fierce desire to live a meaningful life, to produce something meaningful, or to be considered important or significant in the eyes of other people--this, not the desire for fame, is a universal human condition. It's why we start out in Me-Ville, and why we need Jesus.

Zimmerman dips into the writings of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Thomas Merton, and Henri Nouwen, among others, to develop a modern perspective on ancient Biblical themes; he takes the words of those writers and thinkers and connects them to our contemporary dilemmas. I love this about Zimmerman's book, because in giving me a taste of great thinkers and writers of the faith, it reminds me to pick up the source materials myself for some challenging reading and deep thinking.

Each chapter includes a section called "Escape Routes," practical applications of the preceding theoretical, exegetical material. These sections include activities and questions designed to move the reader to a deeper and more personal connection with the teaching of the chapter. Zimmerman often includes scripts for what we can say to ourselves in order to get more "in the way" of Jesus, such as this:

Before you get together with a group of people, imagine it as a mission, and consecrate it with missional language such as Isaiah's cry, "Here I am, Lord, send me." Be careful not to set a missional agenda for the time together; just make the effort to consecrate the moment.

Deliver Us From Me-Ville is a solid, helpful text that has the capacity to reach you exactly where you are today, and bring you more deeply into God's kingdom here on earth.

Hair Today

I got my "hair did," as our young black foster child used to say. Here's what my hairdresser chopped off, ready to be stuffed in an envelope addressed to Locks of Love, or possibly Pantene's Beautiful Lengths program:


It's 10 inches long, and thick like a horse's tail. I found myself fighting the urge to swish flies off my own back. After my hairdresser had macheted the ponytail, my head felt 20 pounds lighter. Then he spent another 40 minutes cutting and snipping and measuring and re-snipping, until I thought I'd accidentally asked him to give me the Sinead O'Connor--but, no, I actually had hair left, just barely long enough to brush my shoulder.

Then I sat for highlights, and the customer in the chair next to me admired my thick, blunt-cut locks. Now if only my chins could stop trying to take over my neck and chest, I'd be all hot and smokin', at least from the shoulders on up.

I've been going to the same hairdresser for about 17 years. I've had my hair long, medium-length, butch, permed, straight-ironed, naturally wavy, layered, bobbed, and highlighted. I've had the Farrah Fawcett, the Katie Couric, the Jennifer Aniston, the Beyonce, the Matt LeBlanc, and the cute young professor on Numbers.

And now, here's what my New Hair looks like:

I am fully aware that I am not the most photogenic person in the world, and I tried my hardest to take a picture that would not frighten off Green Room readers left and right. Mr. Peevie walked in on me while I was flirting with the camera, looking back over my shoulder and flipping my flippy new do like America's Next Top Loser. He just looked at me.

"What?" I said, a trifle defensively. "I'm just trying to take a cute picture of my new hairdo, but I'm not the most photogenic person in the world."

"Ah," he said, and then he added helpfully, "Do you want me to take the photograph from the back?"

And that, Ladies and Gentlemen, wins the prize for The. Most. Awesome. Inadvertent. Insult. Ever.

There was a giant pause while I tried in vain to remember why I married this man.

"Yes," I said. "Please do. Please take a photo of the back of my head. And be sure to not get any of my hideous face in the shot. Yes, yes, great idea. Just the back. Thanks."

Whatever. I totally feel like a new woman, ready to take on the world with my flippy new 'do.

2008 in Review

OK, you guys. Here goes: my 2008 Top Nine Miscellany (but don't expect it to be as comprehensive and hilarious as Dave Barry's 2008 wrap-up):

9. What I missed most: Season 7 of 24. Cancelled because of the writers' strike. Let's hope an extra year gave the writing team for 24 enough time to come up with a story arc that outperforms Season 6--or gave the producers enough time to hire writers with some new ideas that don't involve cougars. It shouldn't be hard, since season 6 completely jumped the shark.

8. Biggest "yay" moment: This one's easy. Election night 2008. I know that many Green Room readers were not infected with Obama fever, and that's OK. But seriously. Was that night not totally excellent? Even John McCain's thoughtful, touching concession speech, with its tone of reconciliation and honesty, added to the overall touchy-feely-ness of the evening.

[Too much champagne...must finish the list tomorrow...]

7. I only read about 18 books in 2008*, but several of them deserve to be mentioned here:

a) Empire Falls by Richard Russo, reviewed here.

b) Garlic and Sapphires: The Secret Life of a Critic in Disguise by Ruth Reichl--a book that will make you hungry and make you laugh.

c) Infidel by Aayan Hirsi Ali, reviewed here.

d) The Translator: A tribesman's memoir of Darfur by Daoud Hari. From my review on LibraryThing: "...[the events are] real, and frightening, and sad, and inspiring. And the author, Daoud Hari, writes with a sweet, matter-of-fact style, and never overplays his emotional hand, even when the subject matter is deeply, compellingly emotional."

(*You can check out the entire 2008 list on my LibraryThing catalog by searching for books with the 2008 tag.)

6. Best new recipe that I tried: BBQ pulled pork with apple chutney. Holy tangy tastebuds, Batman! This meal has earned a spot in the regular rotation at the Peevie domicile.

5. Top thing I learned about myself: I am consumed by guilt. "You can't say more than two or three sentences without dumping on yourself for something you did that you shouldn't have, or something you didn't do that you should have done," my therapist told me. I'm sure this will be a topic for a future blog post.

4. My best accomplishment of 2008: Hmmmm. Still thinking about this one. My accomplishments are mostly prosaic and quotidian, like getting the basement cleaned up or getting rid of a nasty carpenter ant infestation.

3. Funniest TV moment: Equal opportunity photo finish between two brilliant SNL moments--Tina Fey as Sarah Palin (all of the sketches) and Ben Affleck's hilarious over-the-top Keith Olbermann.

2. Most meaningful spiritual truth learned: I am the Avon Lady.

1. My favorite post of the year: Stinky and the Giant Poo. (Those with delicate sensibilities might want to avoid this one.)

What were your top moments in 2008? What books did you read? What was your "aha" moment?

Thanks for tuning in to the Green Room in 2008. Here's to a New Year of contentment, self-awareness, and lots of great television!

99 Random Things

I hope to come up with something profound for my End of the Year post (I know my Green Room readers have high expectations), but for the moment I'm just going to borrow this list of 99 things from Elbee at Sew Little Time. Play along: bold what you've done in your comment, or on your blog (but don't forget to link back to The Green Room so I can check out your list!).

1. Started your own blog
2. Slept under the stars
3. Played in a band
4. Visited Hawaii and danced on a lava cliff with the roar of the Pacific below.
5. Watched a meteor shower
6. Given more than you can afford to charity (what is more than you can afford?)
7. Been to Disneyland/Disneyworld
8. Climbed a mountain
9. Held a praying mantis - I remember doing this as a child, but today I'd be too scared to try it. Those suckers look menacing.
10. Sang a solo as a child in the church choir
11. Bungee jumped
12. Visited Paris
13. Watched a lightning storm at sea
14. Taught yourself an art from scratch
15. Adopted a child - not officially, but sometimes there are so many extra kids in my house for so long, that I might as well make it official.
16. Had food poisoning
17. Walked to the top of the Statue of Liberty
18. Grown your own vegetables
19. Seen the Mona Lisa in France
20. Slept on an overnight train
21. Had a pillow fight
22. Hitchhiked
23. Taken a sick day when you weren't ill
24. Built a snow fort
25. Held a lamb
26. Gone skinny dipping
27. Run a Marathon
28. Ridden in a gondola in Venice
29. Seen a total eclipse
30. Watched a sunrise or sunset
31. Hit a home run
32. Been on a cruise
33. Seen Niagara Falls in person
34. Visited the birthplace of your ancestors--England, but not Holland or Germany
35. Seen an Amish community
36. Taught yourself a new language
37. Had enough money to be truly satisfied
38. Seen the Leaning Tower of Pisa in person
39. Gone rock climbing
40. Seen Michelangelo’s David
41. Sung karaoke
42. Seen Old Faithful geyser erupt
43. Bought a stranger a meal at a restaurant -It was McDonald's and it was a homeless guy outside, same as Elbee
44. Visited Africa
45. Walked on a beach by moonlight
46. Been transported in an ambulance with the siren wailing, no less, when M. Peevie was threatening to be born 15 weeks early.
47. Had your portrait painted
48. Gone deep sea fishing
49. Seen the Sistine Chapel in person
50. Been to the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris
51. Gone scuba diving or snorkeling
52. Kissed in the rain
53. Played in the mud
54. Gone to a drive-in theater
55. Been in a movie
56. Visited the Great Wall of China
57. Started a business
58. Taken a martial arts class
59. Visited Russia
60. Served at a soup kitchen
61. Sold Girl Scout Cookies--but I'm going to help M. Peevie starting next week! Leave a comment and let me know what kind and how many you want!
62. Gone whale watching
63. Got flowers for no reason from the awesome and sweet Mr. Peevie
64. Donated blood, platelets or plasma
65. Gone sky diving
66. Visited a Nazi concentration camp
67. Bounced a check
68. Flown in a helicopter
69. Saved a favorite childhood toy
70. Visited the Lincoln Memorial
71. Eaten caviar
72. Pieced a quilt
73. Stood in Times Square
74. Toured the Everglades
75. Been fired from a job
76. Seen the Changing of the Guards in London
77. Broken a bone
78. Been on a speeding motorcycle
79. Seen the Grand Canyon in person
80. Published a book - this is on my to-do list
81. Visited the Vatican
82. Bought a brand new car
83. Walked in Jerusalem
84. Had my picture in the newspaper - here's the proof
85. Kissed a stranger at midnight on New Year's Eve
86. Visited the White House
87. Killed and prepared an animal for eating
88. Had chickenpox
89. Saved someone’s life
90. Sat on a jury - an experience that I totally loved.
91. Met someone famous - Oprah, Robert Ludlum, John R. W. Stott
92. Joined a book club
93. Lost a loved one
94. Had a baby
95. Seen the Alamo in person
96. Swam in the Great Salt Lake
97. Been involved in a law suit
98. Owned a cell phone
99. Been stung by a bee

Play along!