Notes on being born

It takes a lot to weaken my joy. And I think that's because, despite all the negatives we can find in life, I feel like I have the best thing a person can experience in this world--children. There's no greater gift than motherhood.

Larry once told me, "You have babies like Skittles." While fertility has come easily to me, how to have my child has never come lightly.

I think it's so important that a woman be informed of her birthing options. So I read. And read. And read. And read. And read. I asked questions. And I read. And read. And read. And read.

Whether a woman decides to have an OB or midwife deliver her baby in the hospital or in the home, it matters most that she decides what she wants. Hopefully that decision is based on what is best for mother and child, and not for bragging rights.

And for all the birthing plans you can make, there's always a chance of the unexpected, and you need to be pliable enough to work sensibly with your medical team.

A documentary I saw yesterday, "The Business of Being Born," addressed some of these issues, though I did find it to be a bit slanted and in favor of home births.

While I did choose midwives, I felt very strongly about delivering my children in a hospital, and with Ty, I learned why that's important. But every experience is individual. And most everything turns out OK in the end.

Which is why it's annoying when people instill fear into moms-to-be. The documentary addressed this a little bit, but I want to add to it. The documentary basically said that maternity care in this country is run as a business, moving laboring women through delivery wards as quickly as possible, drugging them up with pitocin and painkillers until it's time to push. But the documentary only interviewed people from maybe three or four hospitals--all from L.A. and New York.

There's a lot of country in between there with excellent care being offered.

I think it's unfair to blame the hospitals for this kind of bedside manner. As a society, we've kind of asked for it. So many women have come to expect painless, sagless births. The documentary even pointed to "designer births" in New York where women schedule their C-sections and tummy tucks in the same day, during the same procedure.

But I was lucky to have excellent medical care.

My experience with Cienna was incredible. There's nothing more amazing than the feeling of holding your child for the first time, after bringing them into the world, staring at them and not knowing what you feel more--love or happiness. In that moment, your whole life is better than you ever could have dreamed.

Tyler came a less natural way. I didn't get to hold him as quickly because of the surgery--a thought that still breaks my heart. But when I did hold him in my arms, the love was there. It was the same.

I didn't want to have a C-section, but I knew it was necessary because there was serious risk of harm to my baby.

What saddens me is that there are some mothers who aren't informed to know the difference, whether by their own lack of research or lack of information from their doctor.

It also concerns me, as I've said years before I ever watched the documentary, that the growing number of drugs given to laboring women coincides with the growing number of autism and ADHD diagnoses in children. I attribute all of that to women being made afraid of the pain of childbirth. But even with pitocin, it's really not that bad. It doesn't last long. There's a beautiful end to all of it. And, seriously, if it was that terrible, there wouldn't be so many of us on this planet. It's honestly the most incredible blessing a family can receive.

But the other side of all of it is that there really are some difficult patients out there--women who think they deserve all of the attention of the entire labor and delivery unit, while many other moms are growing through the same thing next door. Hospitals are constantly understaffed, and even with planned C-sections, birth continues to be a fairly-random medical situation.

I feel so blessed to have had the natural experience that I did with Cienna. And if I were to have another child, I would hope for it to be as organic as possible, avoiding all surgery.

However, what kind of birth I have matters little to me. It's about what's best for the child, and, yes, you start making those choices while you're pregnant--and even before. So women shouldn't be made to feel guilty or less powerful for whatever delivery plan they choose. Because sometimes baby has his or her own little plan!

There's nothing going on in that delivery room that's going to win you a medal. It's what you do after you leave the hospital that counts--that's what will determine the kind of mother you are.

Pi Kappa Mine

Dear D,

The first aid that night was a little shoddy. Then again, someone could ask why I was using a steak knife to cut through a 24-pack of water. For all that I've managed to face head-on, I could not look at the laceration on my thumb. It made me feel dizzy and nauseous. And after my parents and their friends got crazy with the kitchen faucet, it was clear that my wet clothes would need to be changed.

It was the first time the Pi Kappa Phi sweatshirt and I would become friends. Your suitcase was in our dining room, so I took advantage of the access. Somehow that souvenir of a fraternity party gave me comfort. And, OK, those shorts that said "Ski with the big dogs" would make anyone laugh until all wounds were forgotten.

You left after spring break, but that shirt did not. I've updated you from time to time about where it traveled in your absence, proving that it was of much more value to me in Pennsylvania than for you in Texas. That list continues to grow, as you will see:

-Slumber parties with the girls, while singing our rendition of Steppenwolf and Tina Turner. Thinking it was acceptable to drink Jolly Rancher Zimas during Spring 2000 B.V. (Before Vodka). Riding in Shathole. Pairing it with missed deadlines and light green pajama pants (which I still have).

-To Texas while visiting you, and I actually needed it because, with all that air conditioning, I've never been so cold in my life.

-Thursday nights B.V. which involved the Zilla show and hanging out in his room afterward. We weren't solving the energy crisis, but we were becoming best friends.

-THAT Summer. It wasn't really cold enough, but comfort doesn't yield to the seasons. I threw that on many nights after visiting Carrie, laying in my bed, staring at the ceiling, wishing I could breathe for her.

-I kept it in the car during the East Coast road trip I took with Beth, just in case. And I think I actually did put it on while we were in Maine.

-That fall which followed. 9/11 changed our world. And I wore that shirt while walking to the Point with friends, watching Saturday Night Live hosted by Derek Jeter and seeing "Playing by Heart" one more time with my best friend before she graduated and moved out.

-Even London donned it a few times through that winter--just because it made him more cuddly.

-It was the best maternity and postpartum sweatshirt a single mom could ask for. It went to the hospital with me, and it was actually on while we talked and you told me so bluntly, "You being a single mom may not attract as many men, but it will sure weed out the shitty ones." So true.

-It was the best maternity and postpartum sweatshirt a married mom could ask for. And while it did not go to the hospital with me, because I had become equally attached to some of Lar's hoodies, it got a lot of use during those first spring walks with the baby.

-Even Larry recognizes that it's more mine than yours. Some of our best conversations have happened while I've been wearing that sweatshirt, pajama pants and a ponytail. It inspires coziness. It's the fabric equivalent of sitting by a fireplace with a cup of tea. Such was the case while I was pregnant with Ty, and we'd stay up forever, talking about our dreams and wondering what our newborn would be like. Such was the case this weekend while I was sick--but not too much to lose our American Idol game! After the company had gone home, we found ourselves in another one of those conversations. And it was beautiful.

Hopefully, the next time I wear it, I'll be calling you from New York.

C

That is one batty bia

I'm sick, friends. It was bound to happen. I've been totally stressed, busy and beat down, and illness usually follows that.

My refuge has been found on an elliptical trainer, in my husband's arms and when my children smile. To a lesser degree, Joe, as in "nature's prozac," as in "The Godfather," has been amusing me with optimistic email, witty one-liners and great voicemail messages during the longest game of phone tag ever.

This weekend is all about healing and spending time with loved ones, as promised. Larry has a strict schedule laid out for me, but he needs a break too! I'm thinking he'll go get some guy time while Cienna and I curl up with "Enchanted." Otherwise the weekend includes MORE car repairs, a lot of movies, a lot of hockey, tea, my mom's soup, church and recovery.

Have I mentioned lately how much I love church? It centers me for the week, and I really need it this time around. Last week it was Easter, things were really busy there, it was a little more crowded, and my mind wandered a bit. But I can't wait for this Sunday.

No, no, no! I mean I CAN wait for this Sunday because I intend to make Saturday last as long as possible. It's also kind of like that last, winter weekend. It's supposed to be a sunny 48 tomorrow, which is both good gym weather and walking-outdoors weather. Sunday is supposed to be 50 and rainy. I may actually finish some reading that day. ("I Am America and So Can You" again)

I'm also doing a home show for my mother-in-law that day. It's that interior design decor thing I do on the side for extra money, and people are loving the spring line. I have high hopes that my MIL will earn some much-desired product and that I will earn some much-needed commission. And it's the only company of this genre that has equally-amazing benefits for its hostesses and representatives.

Totally off the subject...do any of you know anything about analyzing dreams? I think MB had a book about that in college. But she had every book... Seriously though, I've been dreaming about bats. Crazy, right? It's not the first time in my life that I've dreamt of bats. They are a fear of mine. Last night I dreamt that I was laying on a blanket under a tree and trying to cover my face with another blanket because there were a bunch of bats hanging upside down in the tree above me. I understood the bats were black. I also dreamt of Lil' Kim this week. I can't remember what really happened in that dream, but I know she was mad at me. Perhaps I gave the wrong guess as to how many licks it takes to get to the ...

A simple Google search for dreaming of bats produced this:

"To see bats in your dream, symbolizes uncleanness, demons, and annoyances. Alternatively, bats also represent your need to let go of old habits for your current way of life no longer suits your new growth and outlook. It is symbolic of a rebirth. It may also mean that you are entering blindly into a situation. You need to evaluate the facts more carefully The dream may also been a pun on feeling "batty" or feeling crazy.

To dream of a white bat, signifies death of a family member. To dream of a black bat, signifies personal disaster.

To see a vampire bat in your dream, represents that a person in your life may be draining your of self-confidence and/or your resources."

Awesome. :-(

Excerpts

Sometimes a signature is the hardest thing to give.

I was holding the pen and staring at the paper before me. And my grip became tighter the more I tried not to cry.

Simultaneously wondering how long it would before someone asked what I was doing, I began to think of all the times I had signed my name when it meant nothing.

Born the only child of an only child, I was spoiled by my grandparents. I had an incredible bedroom suit when I was a kid--complete with the princess-canopy bed. Included was a tall desk with many compartments. I loved to hide diaries and doodles in all the nooks, among sheets of MASH games played to determine my future.

I should tell you now that I did not end up in a Boca Raton apartment with Jordan Knight and three children.

But there's still a lot of game left.

I signed all those diary entries, full of fears and dreams that could only be experienced during the innocence and idealism of having single-digit birthdays, like my name meant something. I never added any hearts or stars around it, or pretty swirls from an elongated "Y." It was always very serious, as though Anne Frank had penned it.

When I grew older, I was happy to have my name become a byline. I was proud to sign it on my first paycheck, college applications and apartment leases. Just as I grew, my signature grew with me, and it's weight became greater too.

It's easy to forget during this electronic age, but there are still many places where a pen and paper can change lives. Birth certificates, wills, mortgage titles, marriage licenses.

I was actually sad the first time I saw my married name. I never felt like sharing his name was the same as sharing his heart. And I felt like it was a silent disassociation from everything I had ever written--words that spoke for me when I did not.

But there are actually as many people who still call me Candy Gola as they do Mrs. Woodall. And they are all people I've met through writing.

Names are a big deal to writers. For some of us, it's the beginning of a character or story. It's the slug on an article. It's what people remember long after they've forgotten us.

That's why I had such difficulty signing my name that morning. I knew that, just as I was writing my name, I was writing someone off. I was changing lives, histories, futures with a signature.

So I signed it like Candy Woodall and then walked to The Point like Candy Gola.

Once upon a ridiculous day

Mom: I know, honey, but we can't listen to "please don't stop the music" right now because there's an important song on
Girl: What's the song?
Mom: I'm bringing sexy back
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Boy: You may sautee the best ingredients, but who shapes this shit into the best meatloaf you've ever seen?!
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Boy: So do you think Madonna and J. Timberlake could save the world in 4 minutes?
Girl: I think they already have.
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Boy 1: You need to get your junk checked
Boy 2: Seriously?
Boy 1: Yeah
Boy 2 to Girl: He says I need to get my junk checked
Girl: You should. Take some friends. That's what your brother and his friends used to do. And after you know you're OK, buy condoms. That's what self checkouts are for.
-----------------------------------------
Girl: Am I supposed to care that Britney Spears was on TV last night?
Boy: No. I taped it for you though.
Girl: OK. Good!
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Boy: Do we know what the theme is on Idol later?
Girl: Hmm...Beatles Week 3? When Danny returns to sing "Norwegian Wood"
Boy: And the Horse Whisperer and Hannah Montana destroy "Hey Jude" to the arrangement of "Achy Breaky Heart" while doing the Achy Breaky Heart
Girl: And David Archuleta saves the world in 3 minutes, beating Madonna and J Timberlake by one
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Rules and fools

There's been a lot of talk lately about rules and regulations.

On "The View," they've been talking about the rules of racial equality. In church, we've been talking about the rules of loss. At home, we've been talking about the rules of crossing the street. In email, with a friend, I've been talking about the rules of writing. With friends, I've talked about the rules of friendship. With women, I've talked about the rules of submission. And Progressive and I have been talking about state regulations regarding windshields.

Only one thing has proven mutual among all those issues: the rules will always be broken.

You can expect to have rules in life, but you can't expect people to follow them. People are human, and they make human mistakes. The most we can do, the best we can do, is be friends to each other when we break those rules.

Since the beginning of the year, I've felt like I've been moving toward something. A lot of things have happened that made me say, "There's gotta be a reason for this, so I guess I'll wait and see." Now I feel like I'm happening upon this peaceful sort of place that's all about live and let live.

I don't want to be anyone's moral compass. And I don't want anyone to be mine, unless you're my pastor.

Even my pastor gets questioned.

This Sunday his sermon, "Why are you weeping?", was all about why we shouldn't cry about loss. It was, of course, tied to Christ being risen and the celebration of Easter. I understood what he meant. I felt what he meant. It's a story I've heard several times, and it's a story I believe.

But even beyond Easter Sunday there's an unspoken push during loss, especially death, to "remember the good times," "go on with your life" and "be happy that they're in a better place."

And, let's be honest, when you lose someone, you don't want to hear that shit. Even if it's true. Even if it's the best thing. Because sometimes you don't want to remember someone or be happy that they're somewhere else, happy and well. You just want them with you. You just want to hug them, and there's no replacement for that.

There are many other rules we ignore in life too: Don't borrow money from friends, don't talk to strangers, don't date unavailable men, don't have unprotected sex, don't eat after 6 p.m., don't meddle in other people's business. Don't discriminate. Treat others as you would want to be treated. Love unconditionally.

We're all guilty of at least one. Or all. Because, sure, we know better. But sometimes we can't help ourselves. Sometimes we're sick or scared or stressed, or just lonely. And those things drive us to foolishness.

We know it's foolish. We don't need someone else to remind us it's foolish. We need someone to remind us they are our friend, they are there for us and they love us unconditionally.

Even though I'm all live and let live these days, it doesn't mean I don't have any fight left in me. I've been called outspoken, "hell with the lid off," "testy," "combative" and "confrontational." All charming compliments, I'm sure.

Hey, I come from a line of battered, broken women. Except for one--my grandmother Erla, who really was hell with the lid off.

When I was very small, I remember hiding in a closet as my great-grandmother got smacked by a man she married after her husband died. I was only 4, Cienna's age, but I refused to call him "Pap." I told him paps were nice people and that he was not a nice person. My great-grandmother knew it was true, but she was able to look past it somehow. She begged me never to tell my grandmother or mom what I saw. Of all secrets to keep, I kept that one. They were still together when she had a stroke in 1993. I remember sitting by her hospital bed, holding her hands, staring at them, tracing the lines with my eyes. Her hands always smelled like dish soap--back when dish soaps all smelled the same. Her hands looked so young, too young for one of them to not feel anything anymore. Too young for one of them to never be able to hold mine back. I kept tracing words on them, hoping she would feel it and wake up and play Scrabble with me. But she didn't. Just like she never hit him back.

She eventually woke up, and we used magnet letters and tiny notepads to communicate. She couldn't talk. She could just shake her head yes and no.

I begged my mom to let her live with us after her stroke. I couldn't live with the idea of her getting hit by him when she didn't have a voice--even if she never used it when she could have. But my mom said she needed better care than we could give her, and so she went to a nursing home.

She lived for four years after that, until I was a junior in high school, and I've often wondered if those were the four best years of her life. She was away from abuse. Nothing was expected of her. She wrote little, meaningful notes. "You are a strong girl." She wrote it when I was 16, and it's still in the jewelry box that she passed down to me.

When I got older, I took self-defense and used it to defend other women I loved, other women who couldn't seem to defend themselves. It came in handy for me once too. I may want the war in Iraq to be over, but I'm not a complete pacifist. I believe in hitting back, physically and emotionally. I'm sure for one of Cienna's young, teenage birthdays that she will get a gift of professional self-defense classes. Women are strong, and we have strong voices, and we should be able to use both.

But despite that strength, I'm a huge screwup at times. I've made a series of poor choices, even when I've tried my best. I've made many mistakes--some of which can never be taken back or fixed. And I've hurt people I loved the most.

In fact, some might say my children are all I've done right, and that the Easter Shot Hunt is my one redeeming quality.

It's not that I set out to fail at the rest. It's just that I asked what Jesus would do and decided to answer in the morning.

And there were many times I was in mouring that I found comfort in questioning Him.

So it's never been about having faith or abandoning it. Not knowing right from wrong. Or leaning toward the former in for better or worse. It's just that there's a little piece of all of us reaching for that apple, you know. And the most we can hope for is that someone is behind us when we lose our balance.

Friends don't have chains of command. They have each other. And they don't need a judge or jury. They just need a pardon.

So that's what you'll get from me in this newfound, peaceful place. Thank you for your inspiration, whether through your presence or your absence.

I hope spring's eternal

When I think of spring--what it feels like, smells like, tastes like--I think of the following memories. Here's to wishing you all a wonderful spring!
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Look At Me.
One of the worst days of my life was followed by the best days of my life. I was coming down from a breakup of my longest relationship to that point, and I learned quite young that the best way to mend a broken heart was with drinking games. So there I was, with my best friends, happily losing a round of Kings. I'm not sure I could tell you how to play that game today, but I'm confident I could still chug the cup of booze in the middle. I lost a lot.

But that night I also lost my V-Card. It was April 20, 2000, and it was Good Friday. Like Ice Cube once said, "Today was a good day." Like Ice Cube also once said, "It's Friday, I ain't got shit to do."

It would help to know that I had been in a long-distance relationship for a year and a half prior with a wonderful boy who went to Texas A&M. We lived for breaks and holidays, exchanged many emails and had phone bills as long as 10-gallon hats. In fact, if I'm being truthful with you, I probably still owe Point Park money for our correspondence. And it would also help you to know that I was the ultimate good girl, sleeping with teddy bears, waiting for marriage.

Well, maybe that's not true either. I basically did everything you could do without doing everything.

But on that wonderfully-good Friday, folks, I did everything.

It was nothing like I had imagined. There was no romance. There was no planning. There was no pressure. It was just a very drunk me, a very brave me, who decided--after unsuccessfully stealing a Jolly Rancher from Joe who had already left for Easter break--that it was time to stop flirting with Joe's sexy neighbor and start getting real.

But how seriously could you take a girl in pigtails at midnight?

Me: Hi. I think you need to come to my room.
F.R.: Why?
Me: So we can talk?
F.R.: Why?
Me: Because we've flirted all semester, and I'm done flirting. And I'm also very drunk, and I'm certain that's to your advantage.
F.R.: Well, we can talk in here. My roomate is gone all weekend.

And we actually did talk for two hours before we stopped talking.

He studied filmmaking, and he had that whole creative writer thing going on. He had original ideas, a realistic view of the world, and he liked to tell me bedtime stories. He was witty, sarcastic, had a great taste in music, was raised in the same state as Bruce Springsteen and Bon Jovi, and he looked at 19 how Jordan Staal looks at 19.

I'm not sure if it was performance-based or not, and I've never asked, but he told me some things that I've never forgotten. He said:

"You're going to grow up to be one of those wives who goes to her husband's work and has sex with him in his office during lunch."

"You throw yourself into everything. You're passion personified."

"Never sleep with a guy who can't look you in the face, in your eyes, while you're having sex."

It was one of the best conversations of my life. Until...

Me: You're my first one-night stand.
F.R.: You're my sixth virgin.

It ended up not being a one-night stand. And I was not his last virgin.

To this day, we are friends, and he emails me every Good Friday. And whenever I see his name in my inbox, I know it's spring.


Centerfield. During the most pivotal summer of my life, the summer of 2001, I worked as an intern for the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review. It was merely a spanse of three months between my sophomore and junior years of college, but never have I grown or changed so much in such a short amount of time since.

My best friends and I still refer to it as That Summer. There seemed to be no better way to describe the last season before 9/11, the last summer we all lived in the same city together, the last summer I shared with my friend Carrie, the last summer we could take a coastal road trip on a moment's notice.

Most of my days were the same. I'd wake up in my Oakland apartment, catch a bus Downtown, walk across the Clemente bridge to the North Side, walk to the Point for lunch with Mary Beth, walk across the Clemente bridge in the evening to catch the bus home.

The latter was my favorite part. The ballpark was new. There was excitement in the city, as families lined up to get in. Grown fathers and sons. Young fathers and sons. Dads with little girls on their shoulders. Happy, sun-tanned moms. John Fogerty's "Centerfield" played in the background. The view from any seat was incredible--especially along the third baseline where you could see the best view of the game, rowers and boaters along the Allegheny River, and the most majestic picture of the city's skyline.

It just made you want to fall in love. And it was that feeling that told me it was spring.

I'm ready to play. An honors English teacher once told me that we should all fall in love with the wrong person at least one. After I did that, I decided to not fall in love with the wrong person a bunch of times. And so began my summer of shame.

I had a fun job, a fun wardrobe, a fun list of contacts in my cell phone and a fun attitude. The only drawback was that I knew way too many boys whose first names began with the letter "J." So I was really happy when I met a Larry. :-)

A lot of things happened that summer that weren't in line with my moral or political values, but I don't know what they are. I'm sure I'm supposed to feel really guilty about having sex in parking garages or after 18 holes of golf or in the boss' office without the boss or under the table in the boardroom and all the other places that weren't a conservative bedroom. But I don't feel remorse or regret.

Nor does my husband.

I did what I needed to do. And because of that recklessness and selfishness, I think I'm able to have a more fulfilling and lasting marriage.

It was a time riddled with impulsive choices, all of which were based on good sex. And that's how I knew it was spring.

A moment in the sun. Whenever some politician or athlete is in the middle of some scandal, and psychologists across the country point fingers at all men, I simply think of Texas and remember some of the greatest guys I've ever known.

I was fortunate to spend May there in 2000, traveling with my ex-boyfriend to all the major cities and then staying at his frat house for the rest of the time. Even though we were already broken up, and I had already had my Good Friday, we had a wonderful time and learned we could be wonderful friends. I also made some wonderful friends while I was there, who I still keep in touch with. We went to bars, and I drank local beer--Pearl Light! We went dancing, but not line dancing. We rode roller coasters. We stood on the grassy knoll. We went to a shot bar, and I drank shots of Jager from waitresses chests. We had a midnight picnic of fruit and wine. I slow danced in a fountain. I made out at a presidential library. I kissed under a century tree, which means my love is supposed to last a hundred years.

But most of all, I was just a kid, and I really believed in love. And that's how I knew it was spring.


Put me in Coach. There's something about the fashion district of New York that makes every woman feel a little more glamorous. And there I was with my best friend, an interior designer who took ridiculously good care of me. I perused fabric stores with him, like I understood the significant difference between imported silk and organic silk. I wore fabulous hats and scarves, and we talked with accents just for fun. We laughed our way through stoplights and walk lights, and we shared New York cocktails the way New York cocktails should be shared.

Thankfully, I've lived my life in such a way that I always know someone else somewhere. Maybe it's a business contact, a writing contact, family or a friend, but I can get in touch with them. It's one of my strengths--to relentlessly pursue communication.

On that particular trip, I chose to communicate with a cute boy from Brooklyn, whose only flaw was his love for the Yankees. He was, and still is, a fantastic writer who is at his best in games of Scrabble, chess, conversational tennis and actual tennis. He loved The Beatles and his Irish roots. He named his plants after his favorite book characters. He could host 18 people in an apartment designed for two. He made drinks so that you forgot where you were. And why. He had the best t-shirts to wake up in. He kissed you, and it felt like you were having sex. He read poetry like a lullaby.

All we did was make out vigorously, but it felt like more.

Before he got out of the taxi, the last time I would ever see him again, I slipped him a note that said, "Thanks for the Whitman."

Later that day, he left me a voicemail that said, "That was the greatest note I've ever received."

And we've never talked since.

That actually wasn't spring. It was January. But it felt like June. And that's how I knew it was spring.

Let It Be

You might ask why I'm so happy today, despite recently watching one of my favorite bands' music get destroyed. My joy is born from hours and days of hilarous conversation, not to mention the remarkable insight of my friend MacBeck yesterday.

But, sure, I have an opinion about American Idol as well. I think it's worth it to keep in mind that there are so many nerves on that stage. Undoubtedly that's part of the industry--being able to get in front of people. But that's a lot easier when you have confirmation that you're good enough, and for many of them that confirmation won't come unless they win it all. Unless you're David Cook, who has basically just proven that he can sort of play a guitar, mimic Eddie Vedder's vocal tone, sport a modern combover and has enough ego for all the high schools in America. However, I'm thankful that he did not destroy any of the greatest songs ever recorded.

Could the horse whisperer go now?

Poor Michael Johns. The minute I knew he was singing "A Day in the Life" I knew it was going to be unfortunate. I said to Larry, "You just can't do that in a minute and a half. It's more about the music than the lyrics anyway." Simon basically said the same thing.

Paula, again, said nothing constructive.

Actually, I'm not sure any of them say anything constructive anymore. If they do a ballad, they say it's not interesting. If they rock out, they say it doesn't show enough range.

It's amazing what people get paid for.

I'm trying to think of one performance that I liked, not that anyone cares, but I just can't. And I don't blame the performers, I blame the show's executives. They never should've done two weeks of The Beatles. Everyone would naturally gravitate toward doing their best song during week one, immediately setting up week two for failure.

They should've let it be.

Holy Week

Friends, there is nothing holy about my week:

I'm a little stressed, but a charming someone is helping out with that. There are just some people who can make you smile and get excited no matter what, and, well, I'm lucky to know so many of these darlings.

I have plans and things to look forward to, coming out of the wazoo (admit it, you think "wazoo" is a fun word too), but the spacing between these things is a little awkward.

Sleep has forsaken me. Seriously, I'm so tired right now that I could cry. Yet I will stay up college-late or get up geriatrically-early to watch my DVRd Larry King Live and AC360.

I'm sort of getting annoyed at all of these "experts" analyzing sex and adultery. It's annoying because they either make it sound like to have wild, or even fulfilling, sex, people need to go beyond their marriages to satisfy urges. It's annoying because they make it sound like every woman or man who has a sexual appetite must've come from a dark past. Now, I'm not denying that people can be addicted to sex. And I'm not denying that some women end up prostitutes because they've been abused and haven't learned to respect their bodies. BUT there are many people with very normal, very healthy sex lives, people who feel free to live out fantasies with each other and don't need someone on the side. Also, I maintain that most men cheat just because they can. It's not always about a lack of something at home. In fact, it's usually just about getting more. And I think women cheat to get attention, (a false sense of) validation and simply to get laid! Why do these talk show hosts always make it seem like men are the only cheaters?

Larry and I got into an actual argument on the way to work today. I suggested that he might enjoy watching "Enchanted" with Cienna if the Easter Bunny delivers it. He said he would watch it but would never enjoy it. So I reminded him that on a rainy summer day two years ago that he suggested we watch "The Princess Diaries." He says he didn't suggest it, that I did. So I reminded him that he owned the movie to begin with. He claims it was his mom's that he left on the shelf, and I said it was funny that he just didn't leave it at home when he packed his things to move in with me. In the end, he maintained he would not like "Enchanted," calling it "one of those musicals."

I'm excited for girl time on Saturday. Jes is coming over. Wine may be involved. Girl talk may be involved. Viewings of the chic flicks may be involved. Blackberry sorbet in lemon cups will definitely be involved. Stop by or call if you're free. We're a welcoming duo.

Am I pathetic if I'm a little giddy on Tuesdays because of American Idol and Jericho, and on Thursdays because of Lipstick Jungle? It's the season finale of LJ this week. What will I DVR now? Or am I just pathetic because I genuinely like Mariah Carey's new song?

Wow! I actually feel a little less stressed now that I've babbled. Hopefully I'll write something real on here this week, but I'm sort of putting all of my energy into another writing effort these days. But Easter weekend is coming up, which is always one of my favorites and is always a platform of inspiration for new beginnings.

I love yinz,
Candy

One Bracket, One Shot, One Deer

My friend Pitt won the Big East Championship on Saturday night, starting a media frenzy and inspiring a bold prediction by Bob Knight--that our Panthers will win it all. I regret to say I'm not revealing who I've picked yet in all of my brackets (keep those invites coming, Friends!), but here's hoping! In Pittsburgh, we like to celebrate every big victory like a holiday.

My friend St. Patrick's Day was a good time. I sang Irish music, had the best salad and nachos of my life from Atria's, got sad that my camera died, got happy that Pitt won, and I still made it up in time for the early church service on Palm Sunday, which was shared by Easter Shot Hunt.

My friend Easter Shot Hunt was interesting. As Larry put it when it began, "There are people at our door, and I don't know who they are." They were strangers who became friends, and I was lucky that they helped me hide shots. Not that it mattered. It eventually just turned into people standing around the kitchen, refilling shot glasses--except for Larry, Ryan and Ryan who drank from the living room while they watched the Pens game. And Jes, who won the prized chocolate bunny, also drank shots from the Stanley Cup replica, which was straight Stoli and earned her bonus points. Because she did it four times. We definitely had fun, even though we didn't really advertise it. It was a successful first run, with bigger plans for next year, when Easter and St. Patrick's Day aren't so close together. (Next year, Easter Sunday is April 12, 2009)

My friend Husband Larry is incredible. Seriously. He's been more amazing lately than I can even describe. He wakes up so early for work, usually after staying up late with me so that we get in a lot of QT during the week, and when he comes home, I'm sure he wants to sleep. But he doesn't. He drives us all to the gym, makes dinner when we get home (unless it's my turn) while I get ready for work, and while I'm at work, he really holds it down. The kids are bathed and tucked in with storytime, and then when he's probably ready to sleep he makes sure I go home to a clean, stress-free home. We usually chat each other's ear off half the night, and he just says these unbelievable things sometimes...And when I know how tired he is, to think that he's making an Easter basket for me is just so touching. Because he's always so thoughtful and loyal and loving. And every time I say that, I think of this card that his friend Spence sent us for our wedding, in which he wrote a message telling me that he knew Larry would be a great husband because he was such a great friend. It's just so true. And, well, amidst all this Spitzer scandal and articles about corrupt men, I just thought it would be nice to remind you folks that there are great men out there. And I'm a lucky girl to be living with one.

My friend deer...Larry says amazing things, it's true. And he also says things like this: "Oh, look, a deer crossing the street during rush hour. Normal. Move, dumbass!"

House of Cards

"Nothing lasts forever. Even the longest, the most glittering reign must come to an end someday."--Michael Dobbs

If you google "house of cards," you'll find an all-encompassing Web site about everything you need to know, or don't, about card games. You'll also find a reference to a TV movie based on a book of the same name by Michael Dobbs, who wrote a timeless story of power and corruption.

A few links to Radiohead's "House of Cards" will also be listed, but those results were much less influential to this blog.

Of greater influence was the origin of the whole idea of "House of Cards" which was best portrayed through Shakespeare's "Macbeth" and "Richard III." The characters are so well developed to tell stories of corruption, self-interest, selfishness and deception. These are longtime themes that spawned the cliche, "When the house of cards falls...," poignantly pointing to the fragility of being on top.

The first time I had ever really heard it used about my own life was while I was pregnant with Cienna.

I was engaged in intellectual warfare with a man who selfishly changed the course of my life--but I let him--and he constantly reminded me that he had the upper hand in every aspect. He had more money, a great job, his own home, a new car and a depth of resources that I could not match. He often told me that once I had my daughter I would end up working at 7eleven, never getting married and would end up as white trash.

People who knew me, apparently better than him, were well aware such ill wishes would only strengthen me.

A mentor, who knew both of us quite well, assured me that his words were empty. "Candy, his house of cards will fall."

And they have.

While I take no pleasure in it, it does serve as a strong reminder to me that what goes around, comes around.

He put me in a position to fight for everything I have. It made me stronger, it taught me to adapt, and it reminded me of an old lesson from a teacher in high school.

"Big shots are often low caliber." --Budd Grebb, my former World Cultures instructor

Though it bears the same meaning, I prefer Mr. Grebb's words to the cliche "big fish in a small pond."

I couldn't help thinking of so many lessons I've learned when I had this conversation this morning.

BigFish: Wow. How enterprising of you. What happened to your perfect world, the cinnamon and flowers, and romanticism of everything.
Me: You happened to that.
BigFish: You can't seriously expect me to say yes to this.
Lawyer: We're not here to ask your permission, Mr. _. We're here as a courtesy.
Me: Not that I owe you that.
BigFish: So you're making another unilateral decision.
Me: I'm making the right decision. I'm following through with dreams you derailed. I'm building a future for my children.
Lawyer: Here's a copy of information you may find useful when questioning my client's right to disclose facts.
BigFish: You love this, don't you. You showed me, right?
Me: To no surprise, you think it's about you. But it's not about you. You're really not on my radar anymore. There's just a strong market for my product.
BigFish: Product? Give me a break. This is about you proving how great you are and what a piece of sh!t I am.
Me: I have nothing to prove. I think I proved enough when I raised a child on my own. And it's not just about this. The end talks a lot about how people from broken homes often go two ways--they either have a strong respect for family and an intense desire for their own, or they have no respect for family, fidelity or loyalty at all, and they try to avoid such commitments intently. To the point that they don't even like to be in the company of people who value those things.
BigFish: Well this doesn't paint a very sympathetic view of me.
Me: I told the truth. If you want to be a sympathetic character then go write yourself. I was honest about my actions too.
BigFish: Have to admit I'm a little surprised you included some things that people won't find very becoming.
Me: I've done some unlikeable things.
BigFish: Why did this have to be the most honest thing you've ever done?
Me: Because it's about the best thing I've ever done.
Lawyer: My client was able to finish the project without using your name.
BigFish: Oh please. Like it matters. Everyone will know.
Me: Only the people who know both of us, and that's certainly not everyone.

And I couldn't help but laugh about that later. Some people have such a small universe, and they really do live as though their popularity and power among eight people mean something. It's always fragile. It always comes back around. It always fails. And it always falls.

Cashing in

"One person's downfall is another person's rise."

There's a sort of theme to my life right now. Something that I used to believe was just a matter of time has proven that timing is everything. Yet that very success is linked to avoiding all cliches, despite that last sentence being one big cliche.

The field narrowed for me today during a short conversation, which not only confirmed my instincts on the thing (and I promise I'll stop being vague in a month) but also that writers like to communicate en mass. Technology has only encouraged this.

Imagine what the texts messages between Sir Walter Scott and Jane Austen would have been like? How would they have signed their email?

"Ivanhoe rocks OBVI,
Jane"

"Emma is even better, GURL!
Scott OUT!"

Maybe it's better that e-stuff and iStuff transpired after their time.

But if this week is proof of anything it's proof that even time is time-sensitive.

Eliot Spitzer probably thought it was his time.

Then he made some poor life choices.

Now it's Ashley DiPietro/Dupre/Youmans' time. The professional escort known as "Kristen" to Spitzer's "Client 9" is just a few interviews away from a book deal and a Sunday night, TV movie.

Fame is so fickle. It takes so little to lose it and even less to gain it.

The New York Times quoted her as saying, "I just don't want to be thought of as a monster."

Excuse me, now, while I write this letter to Ashley:

Let "I just don't want to be thought of as a monster" be the anthem of all mistresses across the world. Have shirts printed. Start a band called Wives Hate Me, and go on tour. But you won't change minds with any of that.

There's media at your door, unreturned messages on your phone and memories bringing you some level of guilt right now. But you can't change the past.

Of all the things being written about you, I think The Mercury News did the best job so far. Here's the link to check it out http://www.mercurynews.com/celebrities/ci_8562973 As fair warning, it basically says that you won't likely have a record contract out of this. The shameless publisher of O.J. Simpson's book "If I Did It: Confessions of the Killer" even said that he wouldn't publish you because you don't have enough of a story.

That seemed a bit premature, considering that you haven't even told your story yet.

The article did say, however, that you have the cover of Penthouse waiting for you. That would be a nice payday for you, but it certainly wouldn't help you avoid being thought of as monster.

Scorned women across the world will see it as arrogance, and it would be a slap in the face to Silda Spitzer. I'm sure it's enough of a nightmare to begin with, knowing that she was cheated on multiple times with a prostitute, but now she has a face to put to all of that. So do her children. I'm sure the last thing his teenage daughters need is for their male peers and teachers gawking at the front cover on newsstands to see just how hot the girl is that destroyed their lives. The worst thought is that Eliot Spitzer might buy a copy for himself, sneaking into some public restroom with it--a thought that makes even my stomach turn.

And, you know, in all of those videos of Mr. and Mrs. Spitzer walking into the state dinner at the White House on Saturday, just days before this all came out, with him knowing that it would, and his wife not knowing, she was glowing and beautiful. She was happy.

The most recent photos show her in a very different light and understandably so.

She's been through enough. And I'm sure you have too. When you signed on with the Emperor, I'm sure you didn't imagine this.

I'm not passing judgement or providing a moral compass. Even I'm not capable of that much hypocrisy. All I'm saying is, if you really don't want to be thought of as a monster, then be careful of how you cash in.

Candy

Behind Closed Doors

This is about personality differences. It's about feeling like everything you've ever known has abandoned you and having society expect that you make life-changing decsions. It's about Eliot Spitzer. It's about character. It's about friendship. It's about something we can all relate to.
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"Your life is only as good as your character." --Anonymous

At some point while you're reading this, or after you've finished, I hope you ask yourself if you believe that. Does someone's character determine how good their life is.

By now you've heard all about the alleged sex scandal that has removed a New York governor from office and has aged another scorned woman in just a few days. There have been high price tags and witty headlines associated with this and many unanswered questions. These aren't questions any of us really have a right to. We're not owed the fulfillment of those answers. It's not our business. The minute Eliot Spitzer resigned, it became a private matter.

This isn't a new story anyway. We've heard similar talk in the past about Bill Clinton, Jim McGreevey and Larry Craig, to name a few. But there have been more. This one involves different characters. And the most sympathetic character in this story is Silda Spitzer.

To me, what sets her apart from other public women who were cheated on is that she truly looked stunned. Sure, Hillary Clinton and Dina Matos McGreevey looked embarrassed when the truth about their husbands came out. But I think it was just the humiliation that comes from the world learning a secret that you already knew. Like Silda, Hillary and Dina stood by their husbands during apologetic speeches. Something was so much different about Silda's face, though, than those of the other ladies.

She looked devastated--the devastation that ages you in hours, giving you new lines and scars that don't come from laughing or raising children. These wounds come from hours of crying and realizing how many lies were told when you assumed the best in someone. They come from facing the truth that the person you love the most has hurt you the worst. And what simply sucks (because there's no honesty in eloquence) is that even when you're hurt by someone so deeply, you still love them.

And so all of these questions are surfacing, as they did and continue to do with Hillary, about why a woman would stand by her husband after he cheated.

I used to think the answer was simple because I've always been so firm in that I would leave a man who first left me. That's just how I view it: If you want to go outside of this marriage for something, then be outside of it.

"No reason to stay is a good reason to go." Cap 'N Jazz

But I've learned that many other women don't think it's that simple. And maybe others just don't know. I'm not being clear here. I'm not sure you can know what that confusion feels like unless you've ever felt the bottom drop out of your life. It's your personal ground zero, and you're left to rebuild yourself. So maybe these women just don't know why they stay. Maybe they believed in their vows, in being one with someone, despite their husbands broken promises, and maybe they think to leave their men would be to leave themselves. Maybe they don't have a logical reason. Maybe staying is all they're capable of.

Maybe it's about forgiveness.

From what I know about affairs, Silda has one thing going for her. Based on the public reports, his straying seems to be of an emotionless nature. You don't spend a total of $15,000 on sex in hotel rooms, across state lines, with someone who doesn't know your name if you care about them. You can almost imagine him reasoning to his broken-hearted wife that it was just sex, and despite the biggest mistake of his life, his heart is still with her.

And if it was just about sex, then people always wonder if that meant their sex life was bad. It probably wasn't. The majority of men who cheat simply do it to have more or something different, not because what they're getting is bad or not frequent enough.

"What goes on behind closed doors is never as good or bad as people think." --Munch

You know who I feel for the most in this? His daughters. They're all teenagers. They're all at such a developmental age, emotionally. Think about yourself in junior high and high school. Think of your views on relationships and love. How might something like this have shaped or changed your beliefs? And if you're a girl, and you can't trust your dad, it's hard to trust any man.

I'm praying for them that they will heal. That they won't be jaded for too long. That they will believe in love. They they will know there's such a thing as a man who doesn't leave. That they will go on to be strong and trusting and not afraid of everything that feels good. And I hope they have good friends.

"Having respect and having friends is two different things sometimes."

People respected him. As he put Wall Street behind bars as attorney general and battled state republicans, he made enemies of the criminals he prosecuted. Throughout his war on ethics, he did manage to gain the respect of his peers. But now that he is portrayed as a hypocrite, he's likely lost that respect.

It would've been nice to have some friends.

The only people he can really count on now--his family--are the people he's hurt the worst.

Undoubtedly, because people will be people, there are folks out there taking pleasure in this. Maybe he prosecuted or persecuted them. Maybe he won an election they lost. Maybe he just has more personal and professional success. Now, things have changed. And they probably enjoy that.

But taking joy in someone else's pain is usually a bad move. It'll only come around to you.

Your life is as good as your character.

The week ahead

Maybe I shouldn't feel guilty about the sacrilege that will be the Easter Shot Hunt on Palm Sunday. After all, Palm Sunday is a moveable feast, and we will be moving as we hunt for shots. Likewise, our new tradition can move with the seven days before Easter, just as Palm Sunday does.

Plus, I'm sure I've committed worse sacrilege--like losing the V-Card on a Good Friday. (I've heard all the jokes. But you can give it another shot. I like to be amused. Just not, "How good was your Friday?" That's lame.) It's one of my favorite stories to tell, but I don't know if I should do it in a blog or not. And I was a college freshman, which was nearly 10 years ago. And I really don't need another reminder that I'm not 19 anymore. So...

The week ahead will be interesting. I'm going to be juggling the religious with the sacrilegious--by the way, does anyone else want $3 margaritas on Wednesday?

And while I'm so excited about new recipes, decorating EVEN MORE eggs with the kids, making baskets, filling baskets, hiding baskets, creating maps for hidden easter shots and buying the coveted chocolate Easter bunny for the winner of Easter Shot Hunt, I can't continue without giving my 2 cents on American Idol.

First of all, could Paula be any drunker this season? Seriously. Is Harry making her drinks--8 parts liquor, 1 part splash of soda? And could all of the judges talk over each other a little bit more? You're on air, folks! We can't hear even ONE of you if you're ALL talking at the same time!

I don't know why they continue to call this the best or most talented group ever because I fail to see how any of them are more talented than last year's group. Danny Noriega, who at least kept things interesting, is gone, which has disappointed many of us, I know.

On the girls' side, I really like Brooke White. She's a sweetie, and I think she's really consistent. She earned her spot, and I'm interested to see how far she goes. Carly Smithson can sing. I don't think we've really seen how she's different or unique, but she can sing. She'll be around for a while. I'm pretty much over it with the horse whisperer and rocker chic, who just growls all of her songs and pretends it's the blues.

The boys are loaded a little better than the girls so far. If you didn't already assume this, David Archuleta is one of my faves. He's such a sweet kid. I really believe that he wants to save the world, and I love that he's been putting a message out there since he auditioned. How adorable of a concept... I'm expecting good things from Michael Johns. I don't think he's been too impressive yet, but I have faith in him. Rocker David Cook blew him away last week with Lionel Richie's "Hello," but I think we'll see Cook struggle when they go into different genres that he can't rock out. That's when we'll see that Michael Johns is more versatile.

We love to have Idol parties in the Woodall house. It's fun to laugh and critique with friends and each other.

Ahem! I also love the idea of "Lipstick Jungle" parties. Please tell me more of you are starting to love this show! I promise if you're still just liking it, after you watch it with me, you will love it. Come over! We will do it up!

OK! It's now time to bake some yummy things to put in baskets...wish me luck!

Have a great week everybody! Love yinz!

10 Years Tomorrow

In March 2004, I wrote a story for my previous email group, Cinnamon and Flowers, that was a sort of dedication to my grandparents' love on the 6th anniversary of my grandfather's death. As we reach 10 years without Pap, I thought it would be fitting to re-post the article I wrote on the same day four years ago. I'll love you always, Gram and Pap! --C
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Six Years Tomorrow
March 8, 2004

She stares at his picture every night at 9:30, when the trees are still arching their backs like young girls in a pinnacle moment. She's saying goodnight to the first and only man who gave her a pinnacle moment.

Tracing the familiar outline of his face, even through a photograph, he still makes her heart hold itself briefly when she looks at him.

"I could search the whole world over and never find another Jess," she said.

Steadily and simply, she returns the portrait of her late husband to its home on her nightstand, letting her fingers fall back to grasp emptiness--the same emptiness that has occupied the "other half of the bed" for the past six years.

It's easy to imagine her laying there at night, her own arm draped over the arch of her hip instead of the known touch of the man she was married to for more than five decades.

Sleep is only one thing that is different without him. Laundry loads are lighter, holidays are quieter, and the TV is only on for background noise.

"Even dinner tastes different sometimes after you shared it with the same person for so long," she said.

So long is "52 years and 18 months. We dated for 18 months before he asked my daddy's persmission to marry me.

"He said we were going in the jewelry store because he wanted to buy me a string of pearls, but I knew what he was really up to, " she said, smiling the same girlish grin she must have worn the day he added a ring to her outfit.

Jess was the one in uniform though, as an army sergeant stationed in Europe during WWII. It was during his six-year stay there that he met Matilda Dargie--a Scottish-born girl without a middle name, a girl who loved to dance.

"When I was with him I forgot altogether about the war or why I was working in a factory [to help build airplanes]. We just went to dances and visited the English countryside when he was off. He was my sweetie."

There is no doubt their story is her favorite to tell, and that her memories provide comfort and laughter through yet another time of global disharmony.

"Oh my goodness, and I was wearing these pink rain boots and one of those, you know, Betty Crocker dresses when I met him while he was proper in his soldier's uniform," she said. "And oh my how he hated to dance. I tell you I don't know how he put up with me. A waltzing Matilda...I really was!"

But he would only know her as his "Tilly", and he came to love her as a beautiful lady, his dutiful wife and mother of their five children.

In the quiet moments she has now without him, she is reminded of the placidity they shared for four years before they had their first child. She remembers the nights when it was just the two of them, planning which house they would make a home or, more commonly, what she would make for supper the next day.

"My Jess was good to me," she said, making it clear that when she was one with him she somehow felt closer to herself.

Then babies made seven, dinners got bigger, housecleaning took longer and money grew thinner.

"And can you believe out of all those years we only had two fights," she said. "Couples today seem to fight all the time...and over problems that would've been luxuries to us then. I know there were two, but I only remember one of them."

She was 9 months pregnant, due any day, with their fifth child, and he wanted to travel four hours north for a fishing trip. Ironically, she was also frying fish when he announced plans of his forthcoming sojourn.

As family legend has it, it didn't take long for her to swing around with her delicate, 5'9", 130 lb. frame (and that was pregnant) to hurl a cast-iron skillet toward him and promise, "This is the only fish you're going to have."

And it certainly was.

"I made sure it didn't hit him though," she laughed, making sure the whole world knew hurting him was always the last thing she would ever do.

"We had such a great time together, even when we had our two fights. Being married to Jess, our life together, the family we created, was just the best part of my 80 years. I tell you I can't believe it'll be six years tomorrow. It doesn't feel that long. But I guess it's true that a part of a person stays with you even after they pass on.

"Who could forget him though? He was such a character," she said, as rainwater and melting snow burst from a stormdrain outside.

Good thing she still has those pink rainboots.

My friend Easter Shot Hunt

My friend Joel once wrote a something about a girl, and one of the lines was, "I'm raising my hand in class because I know all the answers, and they all begin with your name." It was beautiful. And, well, after dinner tonight, Jes, Lou and I--especially Lou--couldn't stop answering things without saying "Easter Shot Hunt." It's not beautiful. But it's original, and it's the best idea we've ever had. Make of that what you will. It will probably just be me, Lou, Jes, Larry and presidential candidates Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton, but we've grown to accept the things we cannot change.

Here's the description, per our Facebook event invite:

Hello, America:

There's an important, national race going on, but the most difficult challenge is this--finding shots under plastic, pastel Easter eggs throughout Candy's house and then following it up with a brunch, Irish coffee and Monty Python. There will be three-to-five types of shots offered, all hidden throughout the house. Whoever finds and consumes the most shots wins a chocolate bunny. Afterward we will sober up, and press up, with a brunch of eggs (duh!), ham, bread products, tater tots and Irish coffee (OK, maybe we were wrong about the sobering up part). Following that, we will watch Monty Python--a good, Christian Easter movie. You won't want to miss this! It's an original idea and the best idea that Jes, Lou and Candy have ever had. Bring your top friends, bring your non-top friends and, most importantly, bring your game.

My friend Jim Cromie once told me that his mother took her Catholicism so seriously that she wouldn't eat meat on ANY Friday--even beyond Lenten. Today I realized I'm becoming his mom, even though I'm not Catholic. I, too, equate the fish sandwich with absolution. The more fish I eat, the more balanced my sin. I'm not alone, Friends. Many good folks line up at church social halls to get their oversized fish on an undersized bun. Some places take it a step further. In fact, there's a bingo hall--not naming names--that has a BYOB Fish Fry. People drink beer from coolers and eat fish sandwiches wrapped in foil. Others partake in the 2 filet-o-fish meal at McDonald's. Hey, it may be gluttony, but AT LEAST THEY'RE NOT EATING THE BODY OF CHRIST!

If people put half as much concern into anything else as their fish fry, the world would change immensely. Think about it: What would happen if people exercised every Friday, or made a new friend every Friday, or wrote a love letter every Friday. This is my next Facebook event. This is my first book: One Fish Sandwich away from Heaven.

My friends Friends reminded me of the special events coming up--St. Patrick's Day, Easter Shot Hunt, Easter weekend, Pirates opener, an April wedding, the most important interview of my life, Cinco de Mayo party, Larry's birthday, the beach vaca, Lou's birthday/going away party/not really, Red Wyko & Blue, NYC trip with the girl(s), California weekend, an August wedding, our anniversary, a September wedding, and then the fall holiday/birthday scene starts over again. I'm looking forward to all of them, and to all of the special days in between! :-)

My friend (and mom) Miss Linda reminded me that it's daylight savings this weekend! And now I'm reminding all of you! Who says I'm not useful?

My friend (and daughter) Cienna shared her genius again today during the following family conversation.

Larry: Do you know how many times I read Sleeping Beauty last night?
Me: Wow. What's that like? I can only imagine what you sound like while you read fairytales. It's probably like Eeyore reading a fairytale.
Larry: Can't you get her a book about the Penguins?
Cienna: I have that, Dad. They sit on the eggs, you member?
Larry: Uggghhh. Yeah.
Cienna: Are you mad like my friend, Daddy? My friend was mad at school last night.
Me: Not last night, honey. Yesterday.
Cienna: My friend was mad at school yesterday because she was sad because she said we weren't playing with her.
Me: Even grown-ups have those days.
Cienna: I always play with her. I always play with my friends.
Me: I believe you. I know you do.
Cienna: Do you ever make your friends cry, Mommy?
Me: I'm sure I have.
Cienna: Why?
Me: I don't know. Because we make poor life choices sometimes.
Cienna: You made a mistake, Mommy?
Me: Yeah, I really did.
Cienna: Did your friend forgive you, Mommy?
Me: She claims to. But no. I mean, we'd be talking, hanging out, calling, writing, being friends if we were friends, right?
Cienna: My teacher says to forgive, Mommy.
Me: Your teacher is right, Cici.
Cienna: Mommy, will your friend every forgive you?
Me: Not until she realizes it wasn't a question of loyalty. It was a matter of actual health. Or maybe I'm just an idiot.
Cienna: Mommy, did you say you were sorry? My teacher says we're 'poughsta' say sorry.
Me: She doesn't want me to say sorry. It wouldn't change anything. What she wants is what she had a long time ago, and nobody could give that to her. Plus, she's enjoying the alternative too much--not being friends, me not being friends with her friends who also were becoming my friends, all of which is destroyed now. She probably thinks I'm suffering, and that is justice in her mind.
Cienna: Are you suffering, Mommy? What's suffering?
Me: Suffering is like sad. I'm OK. It doesn't hurt like it used to. I used to be sad for your dad because he learned a tough lesson--one that surprised all of us. But the thing about lessons is they make you stronger if you choose to learn from them. And it inspired us to reach out more to our other friends. And the mistakes we made with our old friends are mistakes we can avoid with our new friends.
Cienna: My teacher says we all make mistakes.
Me: Yes. You'll grow to find out that we're all remarkably the same. I learned that the hard way. We all want the same things. We all need the same things. Some of us hide it better. It's a lot like Sleeping Beauty and your other books. They have happy endings, right? They all start out like young boys, girls or animals, and they grow into sad, educated creatures until they find love. They get sad if they think they're going to lose that love. Their friends and families help them, and they live happily ever after.
Cienna: Sleeping Booty has a blue dress. Cinnarella has a pink dress.
Me: Yep. But they both wear dresses.
Cienna: You have a dress, and your friend has a dress. That's the right fing, Mommy?
Me: Yep. We're just two girls, who both wear dresses, who both make mistakes.
Cienna: Did you forgive her like the right way?
Me: There was never a question of my forgiveness. In fact, I'm the only one who they can't seem to forgive.
Cienna: That's silly.
Me: Yep. But sometimes when people are hurting, they want other people to hurt. When they can't forgive, that's how you know they're hurting about something, usually some type of loss or inability to get what they want out of their lives. And if it makes those people feel better to think they're hurting me, so be it. It's on them. That's their emotional response. That's what's going on in their lives, not mine. I've distanced myself from all that. Sometimes that's the only option.
Cienna: Did you friend ever hurt your feelings?
Me: Yes.
Cienna: How'd she do that?
Me: We were at a party with girls, like how you have play dates, and another friend said that I looked skinny, which I clearly was not. But the girl was trying to acknowledge my weight loss from having your brother and working out. And the friend whom I thought was my closest of all of them couldn't keep a straight face. She actually had to bite her lips to keep from laughing I think.
Cienna: What did you do?
Me: I just kept working out. I kept losing weight. And I'll keep on doing it because I have the love and support of real friends and people who care about me.
Cienna: You're pretty, Mommy.
Me: You're full of unconditional love, and you're much too clever for your age! I've got my hands full!
Cienna: Clever? What's clever?
Me: It's being smart in a fast way.
Cienna: I like smart.
Me: Hopefully this conversation didn't stop that. Do you think you learned anything from our talk, Cici.
Cienna: I don't fink so. Grown-ups are like little kids, I fink.

Seriously. I'm astonished daily.

My friend Jonathan is the most forgiving person I know. I became frustrated with him once and told him off. Later, when I realized that, true to form, I said too much, I apologized and asked if he forgave me. He said, "Candy, I forgave you before it happened." And it was true.

Here's hoping we all have a little more of that in our lives.

I love Yinz,
Candy

Most valuable thing in Wal-Mart

We first saw them in the linens. I was looking at valances, wishing that sage was the same universal shade shared by all manufacturers. She was looking at Cars bedding. My children were both sitting inside the shopping cart. Her little boy was walking beside her through the aisle, touching all of the blankets and pillows he could reach.

They both seemed very happy, very pleasant, taking comfort in each other and an afternoon of browsing. Both were incredibly adorable with bright smiles, light hair and blue eyes.

We smiled the mom smile at each other, which is similar to that wave that bus drivers and jeep owners share. And I couldn't help but notice that her spirit seemed as bright as her smile. Her love for her child was so obvious and plenty that she even seemed to hide it between her teeth.

She said hello, and we spoke for a few brief moments. Mostly about character shows and how you unavoidably hum theme songs while doing laundry.

But then we passed, and I never expected to see them again.

We found our way to frozen foods and nearly had a head-on cart collison with a woman who was clearly drugged up like I've never seen someone drugged up in Wal-Mart. And that's saying a lot because I grew up near a Westmoreland County Wal-Mart where young adults liked to walk off their weed after midnight.

But this wasn't weed. After seeing her companion, who could barely keep his eyes open, and taking notice of the way she didn't want to look at anyone, I reasoned it might be heroin. In the interest of honesty, I felt uncomfortable being in the same place as them. Just the way everything seemed to be moving in slow motion, and downward, in their lives made me not want to be part of their environment.

Then I thought I might be overreacting. Then another woman, holding a bag of frozen corn, must've read both my face and mind, and said, "I just hate to see that. How do you become a junkie? These candidates fighting today better starting fighting to stop the drug problem in this country." Then I knew I wasn't alone if I was overreacting.

Moments later, in my attempt to get out of that environment, I made my way to the baking supplies and saw the family from linens. The little boy was reasoning with his mother that, even though he doesn't like strawberries, he would like strawberry cake. Cienna said, "I don't like strawberries eeever."

The little boy's response?

"I don't have a dad."

And we all stopped shopping for a minute.

"Aw, buddy, but you have a Junior and that's just as good," his mother said.

"Yeah," he said.

His mother and I both had tears in our eyes.

"Aw, buddy, you're making me sad."

Cienna, as always, was a voice of reason.

"I didn't have a daddy eeever til I was 2. Now I'm 4. I had a mommy since I was this many," she said, making a zero with her hand.

"Me too. I'm gonna be 5," he said.

"Maybe when you're 5 you'll get a daddy. Wanna play with me?" she said.

Amidst play dates, friendships were starting, but mostly I was just feeling like a proud mom. We can all stand to learn something from the children we love--like reaching out when people need us.

Conversations, which may or may not have been recent

Immortal Wisdom from Saved by the Bell

MaleFriend: Hey! Some people go skiing to ski, some people go to talk about you. Guess that makes you interesting.
Friend1: Or them very sad. But at least they continue to prove me right.
Friend2: I totally thought you were going to use the Jessica Spano line about "if you're going to share a brain, get one that works."
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Sexless dating

Girlfriend1: So I'm listening to this thing on the Today show about sexless dating...
Girlfriend2: Why is the Today show on at 2 o'clock?
Girlfriend1: Um, I dunno, because Passions isn't?
Girlfriend2: So who dates without having sex?
Girlfriend1: At least this one woman. She says it has enriched her life, even though she has had many failed relationships...
Girlfriend2: They failed because she wasn't banging them.
Girlfriend1: This other lady says it's OK to have sex on the first date or not for years, that it's up to the woman to decide.
Girlfriend2: What does the sexless lady say?
Girlfriend1: That you can't find permanence in impermanence.
Girlfriend2: Maybe they should've left Passions on
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Freedom

Hotel Patron 1: What brings you to Youngstown?
Hotel Patron 2: Freedom.
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Lipstick Jungle

Girlfriend1: Did you start watching Lipstick Jungle like you promised?
Girlfriend2: Yes, it's pretty good
G1: Yeah, the only real weak link is Andrew McCarthy. It's just hard for me to wrap my head around him as some suave billionaire. A starving journalist, searching for the meaning of life in St. Elmo's Fire--believable. A douche bag with a best friend named Blaine in Pretty in Pink--believable. Surly in Weekend at Bernie's--believable. A billionaire dating Victory Ford, who is so hot, not so much.
G2: That Kirby guy is de-lish!
G1: You know, I often find myself watching that show for the visual effects, as well. I love the fashion, the set, the New York backdrop. And that's actually not why I watched Sex and the City. I really watched that show for the great writing. That show was really well written. LJ is very very predictable, even more so than SATC, but with far less witty moments. But how do you not love these lead girls.
G2: Do you feel like you related to SATC more because it was mostly about being single when you were single, and LJ is mostly about being married while you are married?
G1: Not at all. In fact, I was highly annoyed--and still am--with the number of girls who thought they were Carrie Bradshaw while that show was running. But I can't ignore that this show is targeted at the demographic who loved SATC and grew up with it, and now a lot of those people are getting married and all that.
G2: Do you think it's realistic? Is that Niko-Kirby storyline realistic of an affair? How do you know you'd never have an affair?
G1: I think it's realistic in that affairs happen every day. I think it's unrealistic in that the writting is pretty unoriginal and extremely predictable--not creative at all there. Also, the cheaters are never as hot as Niko and Kirby. And I know I'd never have an affair because it's a mistake you can't take back or make up for. It just hangs over a relationship forever. And did you hear what Wendy said about intimacy? So true. Once you have and achieve true intimacy, you don't want to give it up or rebuild it with someone else. It takes time to get to that point with someone. And unless you have it, you have no idea what I mean. It's a lot about being able to, and being comfortable enough, to share everything. I mean, everything. Not to mention that when you respect and love someone, you don't do that shit.
G2: We should have a Lipstick Jungle party.
G1: We definitely will.
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Bullshit and inspiration

Person in Youngstown1: Can you ever remember being this inspired?
Person in Youngstown2: Yes. But not by a politician.
PiY1: Do you think any of it's bullshit?
PiY2: Do you know anyone who has led without a certain amount of bullshit?
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Dress-up

Candy: Why do you have three sets of Mardi Gras beads on, and why are there stickers wrapped around each of your fingers like tribal tattoos?
Larry: Cienna and I are playing dress-up.
Candy: Oh.
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One for the books

A college friend once told me that he wanted to write a book about all the women he had ever met, that he felt lucky to have known so many great ones who had inspired or changed him in some way--regardless of how slight it may have been.

I didn't bother telling him that it had been done, or that a better story might come from Amanda and me because, while the cast of characters we have known haven't always been "inspiring" per se, they have certainly been unforgettable. It is the first of many of our imaginary collaborations.

And I couldn't write that without including Dr. John Rankin, best known to many of you as the reverend who baptized Cienna and married Larry and me. He died early this week. Upon hearing the news, my first thought was selfish. "Did he know how much he had done for me? The strength he gave me when I was a single mother? The wonderful words of advice he shared during meetings before our marriage that Larry and I still talk about?" It definitely felt like the loss of family.

I've been given two pieces of advice that I think are important to share. The first comes from my aunt when I told her how I was feeling about the loss of this man, who was known to some of us as The Rev. She said, "I don't think you had to make a special point of telling him how thankful you were right before he died. His whole life was about sharing the love of Christ and doing things that would make you feel thankful. It was his calling."

The second came a long time ago from Joanne Grimes, following the death of a high school friend. Her son and I were both taking this death hard, and she said, "You have to live a little more each day." I found that advice particularly comforting, and I let that guide me. I learned to really live in the moment and appreciate each day I was given. It's a way of honoring the time my friend did not have. So I live a little more each day for her, and she's in good company.

I know The Rev didn't just touch my life. He touched so many lives in so many ways, including that of my husband and children. How special it is to me to remember the conversation I had with him about Larry, telling him I was going to be married, asking if he'd officiate the ceremony.

"He's just a good guy, you know. And you really do know when you know because when it's the right person there's no room to question the love. You just wake up every day sure of it. Like instinct," I said.

"Well, get him in here, and we'll have a little talk, and we'll see if I can approve," The Rev said jokingly.

I think it's different, special, when the reverend who marries you is one who watched you come of age--to see you through your failures and triumphs, and then to see you on the happiest day of your life. For a girl who didn't have much of a relationship with her father, it was nice to have a man there who watched me grow up.

Larry and I met with him a few times, talking about what marriage is, what it means and how it should not be entered lightly. Not bad advice for two people who pretty much went from being hookups to hitched.

The Rev's advice was unique. It was Christian in base, but he couldn't help but draw from his decades of experience in marriage to his wife Barbara. There was no question, simply by the way he spoke her name, how much he was in love with her after so many years. He'd frequently say, true to his playful nature, "Even at 70-something, she has the sexiest legs I've ever seen." It was a beautiful love--the kind that comes from spending more of your life with each other than without, and never growing tired of someone's presence in your space.

I haven't said this before to anyone, but The Rev asked Larry a question during one of those meetings: "Why do you want to marry this girl? What makes her the one over any other girl you've been with or known?"

And Larry, who surprisingly spoke as relaxed as if the two were sharing a beer together, said, "Because I've never wanted to spend every day with someone the way I do with her. It's fun with her even when it's not supposed to be, and I just know."

To be honest, I may not have been sure until I heard him say that and just...felt the truth--maybe for the first time in my whole life.

"And what about you, young lady? You always said you didn't want to get married. What about him changed your mind?"

"Him. He changed my heart. I didn't want to get married to anyone. I didn't care about the dress or the registry or the colors. I still don't. None of those things make for a lasting relationship. But I want to wake up with him every day and know it's right. I want to build things with him--a family, a savings account, a retirement fund, photo albums full of family vacations and birthdays and memories. For a girl who never really trusted in marriage or forevers, he's inspired me to believe in both. And the most intimate relationship I've ever shared has been with God, and I want to share that with Larry now, and that's really why I'm here," I said.

Of course my answer was long. Luckily, I wrote it down in my journal that day so I could share it again here.

And for that moment, we all had tears in our eyes. Instinctively I knew that The Rev was remembering when he and Barbara were that young, just starting to chart their course. And Larry and I were hoping and praying that our life together would be as full, and right, as his and Barbara's had been.

We talked a lot during our meetings, and I'd like to share the three things I think of most often.

He said:

"Whenever there is a problem in a marriage, it's in one of two places--the bank or the bedroom."

"Never tell anyone about your sex life. If you want to feel a cold bedroom, buddy, that's the way to do it."

"Say thank you. For the big things, for the little things, every day."

I still laugh to this day, remembering how many times Larry said "thank you" that morning after we left The Rev. He still says "thank you" a lot, just not every 10 minutes.

After we were married, between photos and more photos, the ceremony and the reception, The Rev called me into his office and gave me a copy of my marriage license and the verses in the ceremony. I still look at those things from time to time, along with the photos, and remember the day we said "I do" which I like to refer to as "the day we did." I think of how far we've come. I think of all the changes we've endured. I think of how close we felt that day and how much closer we are now. I think of what it really means to be intimate with someone. I think of love.

And I'm so glad The Rev was there when it all began--for me, and for my marriage. To say I'll never forget him is an understatement. I think of him every time I say or hear two important words: "thank you."

Thank you, Rev.