CHARETTE! I’ve sent her an email to tell her about it, and then I’ll send the copy, and then there’s about to be much rejoicing at the Charette household.

—

And now, for your reading pleasure, I’d like to give you one of Becca’s Greatest Hits [1]

From April 15, 2010, for your edification or for to fill my page with words:

So I’m going to go ahead and blog about clothes.

Stop laughing.

I mean it. Stop.

I like clothes. I do. They certainly beat the alternative. (I know, right?) But fashion? I don’t get it. Even little-kid fashion. In fact, I was in Macy’s yesterday with all four Kids, and I had gag-reflex issues with the little girl shirts. Not all of them, just the ones in neon colors with what looked like paint splattered over a silk-screened animal head.* Hellllllooooooo, 1984. The fashion flashbacks were appalling. Skin-crawlingly so. (And not only because I wore that shirt, but because I probably had the whole themed set.)

Kid 3 was entranced. “Look at all these cute clothes,” she crooned. She really did. Maybe it’s because we don’t live within normal daily driving distance of a mall, and she’s very seldom been inside one. Maybe because she’s the poster child for hand-me-downs. Maybe because her new clothes all get picked for her (by me) in an effort at the beauty of “cheap and reusable.” Maybe she’s showing (heaven forbid) an innate sense of style. But she was in heaven and not at all amused when we went to the old lady section to look at dresses. (Which was a bust, by the way. No such luck.)

So here’s what I’ve discovered about me, you know, fashionwise. I need time to get on a bandwagon. Years, maybe. Part of that is my cheapness – I don’t want to invest in a trend that won’t last past this season (and how do I know this? I don’t. Also, I’m learning not to care, too much). But a bigger part is just not knowing how I feel about _____ until I’ve had some time to digest it a little. I read books several times, to be sure which parts I love best. I re-make (and edit) recipes over and over and over to find the just-perfect blend. Also with books, the really popular series ones, I often wait for several volumes before I’ll go ahead and read, not just so I don’t have to wait for the next installment, but so I can hear the buzz and decide if the second, fourth, sixth books stand up to the hype. So it is with clothes: I need to see if I’m going to still like it in a month or next spring.

Next, I know my limitations, figurewise. Fashion is about waiflike tall women without hips. I am not those women. I think I hit thirty about the same time I realized that no matter how cute the fashion, if it doesn’t work on my body, it’s a large waste of dollars. I am not a girl who can wear a drop-waist shirt or dress. Ever. The end. And anything made to highlight cleavage? Not for me. Pleats? Of the devil. And don’t even get me started on skinny jeans.

Color may be my friend, but I’m shy around it. Do you have friends that make you feel like this? My closet is strangely imbalanced in the direction of brown, black and gray. But I’m trying. I am.

Patterns? Shudder. Love them on other people. I do. Bright, patterny clothes are excellent. On you. My face isn’t interesting enough to compete. The patterny clothes in my closet get worn most often by Kid 1.

But do you know what I do well? Accessorize. I love me some earrings. And long, dangly necklaces. And scarves. And jackets. And shoes. Oh, shoes. Not that I give in to that particular love very often – because I don’t. But the love is there.

Are we done here? Because what I’m saying, really, is that I don’t know anything about Fashion, but I’m finding my Style. It’s a work in progress (one that’s a little jeans-and-T-shirts heavy most days), but it’s coming. And I’m not in a hurry.

*A horse’s head, covered in splatters of neon paint? “The Godfather,” anyone? Seriously? Go to the mattresses. (Disclaimer: I read the book. A long time ago. I do not recommend it. Also, I’ve seen this scene, and a few others, not the whole film. Again, do not recommend it. “I knew it was you.” Okay, maybe I recommend it, if you can get an edited version, one they’d show on an airplane. Ooooh. Another blog post is brewing…)

—

[1] We’ll do this periodically throughout the month, because I am lazy. And revising. And occasionally funny, at least in the past.

I’ll tell you how it happens.

You just go ahead and live a little of your life and your blogging time diminishes to a little sparkly crystal of preciousness which you hold near your heart and stare at in your quiet moments.

Or something.

But we took a little family trip (to a sunny southern city) and we laughed and we hiked and we sang songs and we told funny stories and Kid 1 may have poured her coffee-machine hot cocoa into the bottom of her mug, forgetting that little detail of Turning the Mug Over. We swam and we fogged-in the hot-tub room and we ate 5 pounds of gummy worms among us. And those were a few really fun days.

But also. There was this other thing.

I’m querying, you see. And for me, querying is a mad mixture of exciting and horrible, much like cheese fondue or deep-fried anything. It feels so awesome right up until it starts feeling barf-inducing.

I’ve sent out several queries. I’ve gotten about 10% positive response. (No, Dad, that doesn’t mean offers of representation. That means people saying “That doesn’t sound too bad. Send the manuscript – or part of it – to me and I’ll have a look at it.” Which is so very, very positive. To me.) And I’ve gotten several very polite rejections.

Rejections, polite or otherwise, make me sad.

Because as much as I’d like to say I can separate myself from my work, it’s PERSONAL. You know? It is. And a tiny part of me wants to knock on the metaphorical doors of these nice people and say, “But LOOK at me. I’m nice. I’m groomed. I’m wearing accessories. And also, I know how to write a book that is Good.”

Which, naturally, I can’t say to them, because that’s not how it works.

Which, naturally, causes ulcers.

Naturally.

So I live with it. I put on a happy face and I do a few deep sighs once in a while. I send out five more queries. I eat a piece of something delicious (which was, up to yesterday, a square of almond toffee, but from now on until later, it will be something sugarless and without white flour, because also the one-pound-a-week thing isn’t working no matter how many positive thoughts I send its way. See note above re. gummy worms) and I move on.

Also, because I have had some successes (remember those positive responses?) I bought myself a book. “The Fault in our Stars” by John Green. I hope it’s glorious. I have reason to hope. Because he’s brilliant, and stuff. (But mine wasn’t signed. And I might have to do something about that. If you’re not a Nerdfighter, you may not know that JG signed like 150,000 copies of “TFIOS” for the first run. Who gets a first run printing of 150,000? John Green does.) **UPDATE: I looked it up. Only the PRE-ORDERED 150,000 books are signed. Pre-ordered. 150,000. Signed. Go, John Green. You go.

So, on we go, ulcers and rejections and smiles and carrot sticks and all.

Rumors, you know.
I chose not to believe them.

But I saw it today.

With my own eyes.

Pleated jeans. In the store. On a hanger, facing front, for all the world to see. As if there was no shame in it.

Oh, the humanity.

—

Don’t do it, people.

Trust me. I was alive in the 80s. I know.
I know this can only end in tears.
Fashion designers are PLAYING WITH YOU.

Together we can stand strong.

We need not give in.

Unite against the pleated jeans.

—

Who’s with me?

I can’t describe it to you, because I’m not that good a writer. Just kidding. Because I don’t want to offend any more people this week. It’s a goal. Let us just leave it at this: The hair? It’s weird.

And here’s the thing. I found myself trying not to stare at the weirdness thereof. So much so, that I sort of found myself missing the person’s words. Most of them. Like I couldn’t focus on the conversation, because I was Distracted.

Which begs this question: What’s my Weird Hair Issue? I’m pretty sure I don’t have generally weird actual hair. I have way more than my share of bad hair days, but not a noticeable penchant for doing strange things on top of my head. People are much more likely to be moved to sympathy/empathy by my hair than to be struck dumb and deaf with wonder at the bizzarrity of it all. But what is my thing? The thing that gets in the way of communication? Or completion? What is The Distraction?

I have a tendency to write far too many shoulder shrugs. My characters shrug a lot. A lot. This must cause some readers to throw my books across rooms in frustration. Although no one has ever actually approached me with this particular complaint, I imagine it’s out there. And I am working on it. I have a little shock-collar-and-siren arrangement hooked up for when I slip into shruggery. (That was a lie. I don’t have any such thing.)

Also, I lie. Mostly here, on the blog. Is that distracting?

Sometimes I make lists, and I find great satisfaction in crossing things off these lists. (Is that a good thing, like being organized? Or a bad thing, like serious overdependance on outside validations? Both? I’ll take it.) But sometimes I find my lists distracting me from actual completion of things. For instance: Can I count the words I write on the blog as part of my 1,000 words to be written today? The answer is NO. I can’t. But sometimes I do. Because I get to cross it off my list, and that is connected to a thoroughly distracting thrill.

Projects become tangential, and that’s distracting from the goal. Like, I need to deep clean the pantry (always), so I start taking things off shelves. I find a Halloween bucket in there. (Don’t judge. It’s a big pantry. Plus, I may have suggested that Kid 4 use a Halloween bucket as his Easter basket this year at Grandma’s house.) So I take said bucket to the basement, where there is a great storage room full of strange and wonderful and distracting items. Such as my high school yearbook, which is for some reason open on the floor, right next to a carton of powdered milk. No, I can not explain that. Thank you for asking. Eenie, meenie… I choose to pick up the yearbook. And look at a few pages. Two hours later, I pull my wretched bones up from the concrete floor, determined to reconnect with at least seven Dear Friends who must, must be on FaceBook. Cue the forty-five minute time-suck. Meanwhile, the pantry isn’t getting any cleaner. See the problem?

I could go on (and on, and on) but I’ve already passed half my necessary word-count for today. (Just kidding, Husband! Working! On the Manuscript! That’s what I’m doing! Completely!) But really, it’s an interesting thought to me – what’s the “weird hair” that gets in the way of my goals, wether they’re health-related, or parenting-based, or writerly, or something else altogether? And would it be helpful to me if someone pointed out that I do, in fact, have really weird hair?

—

NOTE: It would NOT be helpful. I have plenty of issues already. I do not need another one. Thank you.

—

Is thirty-seven really that old? My Kids think so. They’re quick to reassure me – “You’re cool, Mom.” But it’s the following eye-roll that sort of negates the compliment, you know? My knowledge of obscure eighties music might win me points with some of the Kids’ friends, but it always comes back to “Wow. You’ve been around here a while, haven’t you?”

Yes. Yes I have.

I recently reported that I’m annoyed with my old-lady eyesight. Update on that: I was waiting for Husband to meet me for lunch last week. I went into a bookstore and browsed through a section of biographies and memoirs, which I don’t read enough of these days. I would read a back jacket copy, put the book down, and read another jacket cover. After seven or eight of them, I looked up toward the exit door. And I couldn’t find it. I knew it was roughly that-a-way (the shafts of sunlight were a pretty good clue) but I couldn’t see the door. At all. I stood staring at it for a while, and it gradually came into focus. Whew. I was simultaneously relieved and annoyed. Which is pretty much where I live these days.

And then there’s movies. I love movies, remember that? I love going to the movies. I love watching films at home. I love it. Really. But why is almost everything c-r-a-p now? I think it’s because I’m old. My Dad said once (or maybe a thousand times) that a PG-13 rating translates to “Guaranteed to offend your mother.” Oh, shoot. I’m that mother. But I have to say, as offended as I’m likely to get by a PG-13 rated film, I stay far away from anything R-rated. It’s one of those commitments I made a long, long time ago that has proved itself useful to me. And now that I have teenaged daughters, I am glad I’ve stayed true to my commitment. Glad, that is, until “The King’s Speech” came out. I pounded my fists and whined. I moaned. I may have even cried. I got on every one of those websites for parents that tell you precisely which material you might find objectionable and why. I shook my head at ratings people. I moaned some more. But when it came right down to it, I said, “Here is my choice. It’s a movie that is – by all reports – stunning and uplifting and spirit-building. Except for that one scene. And even then, it’s only language. But there’s the principle of the thing.”

Principles.

Sheesh.

And so I didn’t see it.

UNTIL… the film company re-released it with some comically non-creative dubbing in That One Scene, which brought the rating down to a solid PG-13. (Which, under the circumstances, totally did NOT offend this mother.)

I went. I saw. I cringed for poor Bertie. I shook my head in wonder and awe at Mr. Firth. And Mr. Rush (oh, my). And Ms. Bonham-Carter. I cheered (inside). I adored this story and this film and the acting and the historicity. (I think that is a real word. Even though I might have made it up if it’s not.) I wasn’t even tempted to reach up and pull the camera down to actors’ head-level (like maybe Husband was).

And I was glad I’d seen it. And I was more glad that I’d waited.

Is that a sign of being comfortable in my old skin?

Speaking of my old skin… Oh, must we? No. We needn’t. So let’s move on.

For most days in the past several months I’ve replaced 2 meals with green smoothies. Want to know how much weight I’ve lost?

None.

Not a bit.

It kind of makes a girl crave some caramel popcorn, if you want to know the truth.

—

Question of the day? How can you tell he’s a King? (If you choose to answer, keep it PG-rated, will you?)

–

Also it’s raining. Not snowing. And daffodils are coming. I see yellow parts. Yipee.

And that is the Baby Taylor guitar that Husband bought when he was driving a Miata, because a regular-sized (read: CHEAP) guitar would not fit in his trunk. But it’s a nice guitar, and occasionally one of us strums around on it.

I can play something in the neighborhood of seven songs, all in the same key.

Proficient, I am.

(Also, I’m working really hard here to be positive, and looking at the eyes, which look great thanks to the awesome rental lens, and the lipstick, which is precisely the right color, and the hair, which is fun. So I will say only this: if you’re in your 20s – or even less – appreciate your beautiful neck.)

—

I hope the sun shines in your windows today.

I know. Stunning, right?

Wow. You probably weren’t planning to see THAT this morning. But here it is – a page out of my long-repressed history.

I have an uncle – a really wonderful one – who is an historian. (He’d have me put the “an” in there, I bet. So I did.) He is a pro family history guy. And he sent me the remarkable photo you see before you. And I swore. (Not like that.) I mean, I promised. That I will never, never tease a kid about her glasses (can you see the fine, fine rose decal in the corner? I remember pondering over the merits of rose vs. ladybug in the eye doctor’s sitting room, but somehow I never pondered the ill-advised glasses frames). And I will lay off my Kids about their hair issues, because, honestly? Has any Kid in my house ever had hair issues like these? I think not. The clip? I made that with my mom. I remember her patience in teaching me to weave that skinny ribbon through the bendy clip (the only kind that would stay in the aforementioned skinny hair). There were matching plastic beads on the ends of those ribbons. They made clicking sounds every time (Every Time) I tossed my head. Those teeth somehow pulled through, and I never needed orthodontia (blessing, that). And can you see my birthmark? It’s much harder to see these days. In the photo, it’s on the right side of my neck, kind of below that adorable cheek curl (because I can admit, those were some great smile lines and perfect, sweet cheeks). The birthmark that seriously marked me, in physical and emotional ways. Because, hey! Look! It’s a HICKEY!

Which of course it was not.

Ever.

But it didn’t stop people from double-taking. I remember being a small person, 7 years old (I only remember that detail because I know I was in D’Agostino’s deli in my Boston neighborhood, and I only lived there for that second grade year) and having a woman stare, leaning over to make sure she was really seeing a little girl with a great big hickey on her neck. I smiled at her. She looked horrified.

I dealt with it.

And everyone wore turtlenecks in the 80s.

It became a different story in high school. T. D. who was a senior when I was a freshman, called me Hickey Woman (which was a combination of thrilling and embarrassing, since he bore a passing resemblance to Tom Cruise, and was the star of the football team, and noticed my existence enough to use the word “woman” to describe me… but also, “hickey”). Then, a few years later, in a different state but still in the world of high school, I was sort of dating R. We had fun. He was hilarious and carefree and charming and had a whole houseful of adorable younger brothers that looked just like him. Then I met his mom. She took one look at my neck and decided that I was a WOB* who was corrupting her son, and he’d better get out of this thing if he wanted a roof over his head and access to the thrashed black VW Bug. To defend both his honor and mine, I feel compelled to tell you that R. never even kissed me, much less… well, anything else. And our dating thing didn’t last many more days (but we’re still Christmas-card friends).

The birthmark continues to fade. Most people can’t even see it. (They’re distracted by my stunning, straight teeth. I know it.) But strangely, I still feel like the birth-marked girl. It’s become part of my identity and that is just weird. Because it’s not really physically there anymore. At least to the casual observer. I’m sure there’s a deep insight floating here, something that ties this post into building a character in a novel. But I’m not interested in depth today. Just interested in strolling down memory (amnesia) lane with the rest of the photos I received from the Historian Uncle.

And possibly doing my hair.

* WOB = Whore of Babylon. I know. It’s another Brother Thing.

There were some drafts.

Clever drafts.

But, alas, now I’m flying from the hip.

But I wanted to tell you this story. I’ve been reading and trying out some healthy-foodie things over the past few weeks (and it’s excellent, thank you) and one of the things I read about was Coconut Oil.

–

Side note: Husband was in advertising for years. I know what advertising is. I do. It’s all about holding up the ideal whatever and saying, This is for you. Buy it. But when certain people say it, I can’t see through the glamour. I just go ahead and believe it. Yes, I say. True. You are right. This is for me. I must buy it. I am, in other words, a sucker.

–

So Coconut Oil. It will give me the skin and hair of the gorgeous brown Islanders. It will turn my life around, inside and out, but mostly it’s that Polynesian skin and hair I crave. That thick, wavy, flowing blackish-brown hair. That lustrous, glowing brown skin. That’s what I want. So the coconut oil is the answer. Obviously.

(Okay, I’m not asking much here, but if you could just take one second to look at my photo in the header bar of my blog. Yes. That one. The one at the top of the page. The photo where I’m standing in the full sun, and you can see right through my thin, blond hair. Also, you can see most of the way through my skin. Translucent skin. Like Wilbur’s ears in Charlotte’s Web.)

So I bought the Coconut Oil and followed the directions. It said that if I wanted the perfect hair, I just needed to melt up the oil, rub a bit on my head, wait an hour and rinse it out. No problem. I did it. Just like that. Here’s the part where I made a mistake. “Rinse it out.” Remember that part? Operative word: Rinse. As in, not shampoo. Holy oil slick, Batman. Truly awesome. Truly. Forget napping, I’d ruin the linens. Napping? Heck, forget getting dressed. On the plus side, my hair did look closer to brown. Not Islander brown, more like rodent brown, but it must have been a step in the right direction.

As a result, I’ve decided to forgo following any more directions.

Ever.

I’ll let you know how that goes.

And in my quest to look like a gorgeous Islander woman, I’ll work on smiling with my whole face, wearing bright-colored clothing, offering food to everyone who enters my house, and giving lots of hugs.

I’ll let you know how that works out, too.

I’ve been wondering how/if I was going to say this. And whether it mattered to anyone at all (besides me). And you know, when you come right down to it, it’s not like I tell you guys Everything. I keep a whole lot of the boring parts of my life to myself. Also some of the other parts. I do.

(So much for Diving In.)

Here’s the thing. I had this dumb little spot on my head, right inside my hair line over my right ear. It was scar-ish. Small-ish, pink-ish, and raised. A little. Nobody really had to see it, except when my hair was wet, which, honestly, happens every day, but usually in private moments.

One day this fall, I came downstairs in the morning with my hair wet, and Kid 2 said, “Ewww. What’s up with that thing on your head?” To which I responded, “None of your business. Eat your breakfast.” But then, of course, everyone wanted to see my little scar. Which, apparently was growing larger, as opposed to following the growing-smaller plan that I had for it.

I’m afraid this might be a long story, Feel free to skip to the end. Or grab a handful of pistachios. Or declaw the cat. Whatever.

When Husband took a good look at it, he said, “You’re calling somebody.”

I placated. “It’s nothing.”

His eyes widened as he poked at me. “Bec, it’s growing,” he said, in that voice that oozes menace. As though the little scar was going to take over my face or something.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll call.” Which, by the way, I did, after only a few days and some email-style prodding.

A few weeks later, I went to the dermy. Nice guy. Well, if you like your doctors efficient and businesslike, which I do. He said, oh, hey, we see things weirder than this every day. The sun probably just damaged your skin because you are old.* Let’s just scrape it off.

So I got biopsied. Cute Megan the nurse/assistant told me I’d feel a little prick (that was for the numbing shot). I squeezed my fingers together waiting for it. I think I might have even been holding my breath, waiting for that little prick, when Cute Megan said, Okay, all done. Keep this lubed with this greasy polysporin gunk. (Or she may have said something possibly slightly more science-y. You get the point.)

They shuffled me out the door saying yadda, yadda, thanks, we’ll call you if it’s anything, blah, blah, keep it moist, whatever.

A week later, I got the weirdest phone call. “Hi, Becca,” the nurse who was not Cute Megan said, “We just wanted to call you because we got your biopsy back, and it’s skin cancer.” She kept talking. I heard words, but they didn’t mean anything. It was one of those moments when the time continuum sort of opens up, and you think, right there in that space between syllables, “Huh. Cancer. That really, really stinks.” I felt hollow in my brain and in my guts. I let her calm voice and her words wash over me and I started hearing things like “a million people a year” and “really simple” and “not dangerous” and “Basal cell” and “carcinoma” and “removed” and I reminded myself to breathe.

Then I sat down on the floor and didn’t get up for a long time.

I have cancer. I have Cancer? Are you kidding me?

Apparently not.

– and then, into my head:

remember the sunblock you don’t wear? you have no right, no right at all to mourn this news. you deserve this because you worship the sun. you are like the chain smoker who moans about lung cancer. you are the worst kind of lame. you may not feel sad, only guilty. and not only that, it isn’t even real cancer (that word again, oh, that word makes my guts sick) because you don’t have to have treatments. you just go in and they cut out the spot and they stitch you up and you drive yourself home and you go back in six months (forever) and over and over you face the full-body-scan humiliation and the doctor will keep taking spots off your skin and you will be grateful that it isn’t on the end of your nose. yet.

– and then:

not only that, but you really can’t play in the sun anymore. you can’t make it worse than it already is. who cares that you have stupid sensitive skin that reacts with welts and hives when you wear sunblock? nobody, that’s who. the tan portion of your life is over. learn to love white fat. yes, brown fat is prettier. deal with it.

– and then:

oh. cancer. that word is so big and powerful for a collection of just a few letters. none of the letters are even tall. but the word – it takes a bite out of your soul, doesn’t it? it makes you sink to the floor and stay there. it gives you visions of your very own body, the body you have never loved enough, fighting against itself for cellular domination. cancer is a word that brings its own bags and moves in and lives on your couch and never, ever goes away.

And then I held my knees and said, just in my head, “I have cancer.” After that, I tried it out loud. “I have cancer.” I said it three times. Each time, it pinched my mouth. It tasted like charcoal dust.

Then I breathed for a few minutes.

After that, I called Husband. And do you know what happened when I made that call? I turned into The Protector. Does this happen to you? I decided who absolutely had to know (only Husband at that point) and I told the story with as much cushioning as I could manage. It started with the demand that he not worry. Because this was not a big deal. I wonder now – did I mean that AT ALL? I echoed the nice nurse’s words about a million people a year, and basal cells, and ease. I mentioned the part about driving myself home (a big deal, because I had made an appointment for the next day, when Husband was locked into a film shoot that he couldn’t miss). I probed for fear, for concern, for worry, and I swept them all away with the power of my words.

But underneath, there was the other word. The heavy word. The one that tried to pull all my cushy comfort words down and drown them.

I decided to tell the parents. Again with the cushioning. Again with the careful protecting. Again with the making sure that they were all fine. And then I asked them for prayers. That this small thing not turn into a big thing. Which prayers they promised. And I felt.

And for the rest of the day, I sat. I thought. I allowed myself the day to mourn. To grieve. To let go forever the thought of my mortal immortality. To set aside my delusion of wholeness. I asked myself for forgiveness. Which is a whole different discussion.

–

The next day, I went and had the spot removed (which was weird, because after the biopsy, it was pretty much gone). My mama came with me. She held my eyes with hers so I could try to miss the scissors and the needles and the no-longer-white gauze that danced around my periphery. I asked a few questions. I laughed with the doctor (or maybe it was only me laughing) and with Cute Megan the nurse.  I tried to pretend that I couldn’t hear the scissoring, but who was I kidding? There was that unfortunate knicking of the temporal artery and the subsequent mess. I walked out with a pressure bandage that stuck out of my head a whole inch, but could be covered by hair much thicker than mine. I carried on.

But inside, there was that word. Oh, that word. Cancer. It still sits there, heavy in my brain (metaphorically, okay? this is still about “just” basal cell carcinoma), and I carry it everywhere. There are days when the weight of that word makes writing hard. There are days when I want to say to all my demands, Hey, don’t you know that there’s cancer in here? But I can’t. Because, remember? It’s the “just” kind. The kind that isn’t dangerous. The kind that I brought on myself. The kind that is so much more an emotional cancer than a physical one. I think that is the final balance-tipping piece. I would allow myself to mourn more, to grieve more, if the physical were as big as it could be – if there was a treatment, or a medication, or a horrible chemo in my future. But since there’s not – just an occasional bald spot from lesion-removal (there’s that other word, that “just” again) – I feel like I’ve had my moment to mourn and now I have to get back in the saddle.

–

So for those of you who wondered about the sad things, this is one. It gets in the way, sometimes. But not every time. And carrying on is what we do. We who are strong and weak, and we who are whole and damaged, and we who are powerful and frail, and we who are fearless and daunted. We carry on.

We pray.

We listen.

We learn.

We feel.

We forgive and seek forgiveness.

We carry on.

And some of us seek to channel the power of other powerful words. The healing kind.

*I’m not old. I’m thirty-seven. And he is clearly older. Besides which, he didn’t say that Old part at all.

and the Maybelline Superstay lipcolor #774 (which goes on wet and dries gluey, then you spread on the included gloss-thing, and I swear, this stuff stays on for 24 hours. Eating, talking, kissing… it stays).

And that is all (hooray for a tan). Lasts all day, even through the nap.

Not that I’m totally condoning the lifestyle of the super-market-makeup buyer, but… oh wait. Yes I am. Go, grocery store makeup.