My brother, G, and I have not lived near each other since I was in college and he was in middle school. About the time he went to college far from home, I moved even further to Pennsylvania. He moved from southern Illinois to Tennessee. Then to Alabama. And in a couple of weeks, he’ll be moving to Georgia. We’ve always been close despite the eight years and hundreds of miles between us. We talk on the phone and email several times a week. Most nights we catch each other on instant messenger.

G is the sort of little brother every big sister enjoys. He’s funny, he’s smart and he’s irresponsible in that envious, courageous way. He has changed jobs more times than I can count. He moves to a new state without so much as a second of hesitation. He stays during a hurricane when the local officials (and his big sisters) are telling you to evacuate. But he always comes out on top and I’m always jealous of his bravery even if it just comes from a lack of outside responsibilities and obligations.

Off and on all weekend, I’ve touched base (a family term for “checking in on”) with G to see what he’s up to and to just feel like he’s not so far away. Tonight, after finishing household chores, taking a hot bath and finally eating a bit of dinner, I sat down on the couch to enjoy my Sunday night ritual of football. G, on the other hand, turned on Extreme Makeover Home Edition. As we chatted back and forth about what we were watching, I realized he was REALLY into his show. He loves Eli Manning and yet is not watching the Giants? Something was amok. As the conversation went on I realized something about my brother. He is a softie.

G is in the construction business. He can build a house (if he wanted to). He volunteers for Habitat and has helped many people out during the hurricane recovery. He is watching this Home Makeover with his heart. He is captivated by the family situation (wounded veteran) and loves what the team produces to honor this family.

I keep posting updates on the game.

He asks for a tissue. He says he’s kidding, I’m not so certain.

I tell him the Giants just scored a field goal.

He says “shush, I’m watching the tear-jerking show.”

I tell him the Chargers are on the one yard line.

He says “they paid their mortgage off and gave her a scholarship.”

I tell him he’s missing fans with jeans so low they’re almost indecent.

He switches channels to catch the game but only because Makeover is on commercials.

I love my brother dearly. He is the first one to make me laugh when my life seems beyond salvation. If I tell him I fixed the toilet this weekend, he’ll be the first to say he wishes he were closer to do it for me. And if I get stuck on a project, he’ll lend me all the advice I ask for and not a drop more. Tonight, as he tries to laugh off and joke about his softer side, I know that this is the very part of him, the very heart of him that some woman is going to fall in love with someday. I know that his sentimental, almost romantic side is what gives balance to the rest of his hard-working, independent lifestyle. Tonight I might laugh at the irony of me watching football while he watches a chick show on ABC but I know, deep down that we’re both just expressing the sides of us often reserved for the opposite gender. I hope that my love of football will serve me as well with a significant other as his softer side will for his relationships. Somehow, knowing how lucky and unabashedly fearless my brother is, he’ll beat me out on that one, too. I’ll still love him anyway. But don’t think for a moment I’m going to let him get off scott-free for having teared up during a Sunday night show on network tv. This will come up again. I would be remiss as an older sis if it didn’t. My recommendation: don’t give me the mic during your wedding, G. It’s your own fault if you do. Ya big softie.

Every Saturday night that I have the Little Man we enjoy “Movie Night”. I started this tradition a few years ago in an effort to create quality moments and memories with LM before he decided parents were the enemy. It has been a huge hit ever since. He even introduced his grandparents to the idea over the summer.

Most of the time I surprise him with my choice of movie rentals. I introduced him to the Indiana Jones series, Back to the Future, War Games and Movie Night was the original introduction to Star Wars that got LM stuck on it for life.

Movie Night is also Pizza Night. We make ours from scratch, another effort to create bonding moments that will serve not only to strengthen our relationship but also to teach my son some basic cooking skills so he can impress the chicks later in life! The Little Man has progressed from just getting drinks and napkins, to gathering the ingredients to his new position of Head Saucier. I make the dough for the crust and he works the sauce. He knows exactly what spices to use, and chooses to follow his mother and ignore basic measuring tools. He knows that we prefer to go a little heavy on the garlic, but not too much crushed red pepper. When he is finished shaking and stirring, he proclaims each and every time with all the pride of a nine year old boy, “That this is the best sauce ever!” Later, while we’re eating, I will tell him how amazing the sauce is, that it is perhaps the best ever, and he will humbly declare that it must be in his genes to be such a good cook.

We make individual pizzas, each big enough for one with plenty of leftovers for Sunday lunch. He makes his with a tiny bit of ham, green pepper and pineapple. I leave off the pineapple and double up on ham. Each makes their own to their own preferences and tastes and then into the oven they go.

Both of us look forward to Movie Night all week. Sometimes we plan in advance what movie we want to rent. Often times we shop together for pizza ingredients ahead of time. Every now and then I take him out to a movie at the theatre just for something different. We enjoy our pizza and movie in our jammies, curled up on the couch together. We’ll make a little toast to a great night together, and say a prayer for all the people we love before we eat. I’ll have to remind him his pizza is hot and to wait and then blow on it a little. We’ll giggle and talk about the weekend and life in general. We’ll do “H.A.L.T.” a daily discussion of our Highs, Lows and Thanks. The dog will try to steal our napkins. Later on we will share either a bowl of popcorn or some ice cream to top off a night of indulgence. And at the end of it all, when I tuck him into bed we’ll both relish the feeling of knowing we are loved.

As we sit here tonight, smelling the great heart-warming smell of homemade pizza cooking, as I enjoy a glass of wine and he reads another chapter in his Star Wars book while we wait, I know that there is no place I would rather be on a Saturday night than right here. There is no one I would rather be spending the evening with than the love of my life. There is nothing else that heals my soul and makes the love in this house overflow than the time we spend together, side by side on the couch for Movie Night.

So as not to leave the impression (at all) that I do not enjoy every single moment of being a mom, I wanted to share a quick anecdote from my evening. After watching football with me for about a half hour tonight, the Little Man headed into the bathroom to change into p.j.’s, brush, floss, gargle, etc. When he came out of the bathroom he said, “Hey mom, wanna hear something funny? I have a bug bite on my BUTT!!” “My Little Man, have you been sitting in the grass naked again?” “MOM!!!” This amused him for more than 10 minutes. He is the sweetest, funniest, smartest kid I have ever known. But of course I’m going to say that, I’m his mother! (postscript: He’s STILL laughing about this as he turns out his light singing, “I’ve got bug biiiiiites on my butttttoooooockksss”)

In an effort to pay homage (you may read that as “rip-off”, but truly, I copy her with the utmost respect) to Tequila Mockingbird, whom I believe (only through reading her blog) to be a kindred spirit and worth the read, here is my list of 100 Things I Know About Me.
1. I snack according to a genetically predispositioned salty, sweet, salty, sweet pattern.
2. I do not like beer or coffee but I have recently learned to appreciate the bagel.
3. I suffer from an ever-increasing fear of abandonment.
4. I can play the piano. In a pinch I might recall how to play the flute and oboe, too.
5. I graduated with a 4.0 in my degree from college.
6. My favorite book is “The Chosen” by Chaim Potok.
7. I am, for good and for bad, a middle child.
8. I give great gifts.
9. I hate grasshoppers more than most any other insect.
10. I love Sunday Night Football even more than Monday Night Football.
11. I have nearly 40 plants in my home.
12. Jose Cuervo and I are on a first-name basis.
13. Although I am a natural redhead, I have more blonde moments than I’d like to admit.
14. Despite being religious, I enjoy Sunday mornings at the Bark Park more than church.
15. My favorite flavor of ice cream is Ben and Jerry’s Heath Bar Crunch.
16. I am addicted to Texas Hold ‘Em poker (but I never play for money).
17. My favorite day of the week is Thursday.
18. I was a virgin when I got married.
19. I would rather be adamantly vocally wrong about my rights than silently right.
20. I can be overly-analytical of myself, my relationships and others.
21. I am a candle burner, not a candle duster.
22. I listen to Sarah McLaughlin at least once a week.
23. I have never learned to appreciate hockey, despite briefly dating a Canadian.
24. I believe a first date should never cost more than $20 or involve a chain restaurant.
25. I balance my checkbook to the penny.
26. I have watched a person die.
27. My dream job would be to be a photographer.
28. My biggest worry is that my son will be gay like his father.
29. Once every 3 years or so I cut 10-12 inches off my hair and donate it to Locks-of-Love.
30. I drink a Diet Coke almost every day.
31. I love country music and country dancing.
32. I am incredibly disappointed that I will more than likely never celebrate a 50th wedding anniversary.
33. I watch The Amazing Race religiously.
34. I love that my son thinks I’m crazy funny.
35. Pineapple lifesavers are my favorite.
36. I believe ice cream should be a food group.
37. I own books on finances, divorce and meditation that I have never read.
38. When I count my blessings, my son always tops the list.
39. “Serendipity” is one of my all-time favorite movies.
40. so is “Seven”
41. I cheered for the Patriots and Matt Kenseth before they won championships.
42. but I jumped right on the Red Sox bandwagon.
43. My sister and I are absolutely nothing alike.
44. A man with a goatee automatically scores extra points with me.
45. Even more if he also drives a truck.
46. If I had to choose between a man and my dog, my dog would win. Paws down.
47. I strongly dislike two out of three of my co-workers.
48. I would rather travel to Maine than Florida.
49. I rarely, if ever floss, despite insisting my son floss every night.
50. I could subside entirely on Italian food.
51. I’m a soda-pop wine drinker. If it has a cork, you paid too much.
52. I refuse to watch boxing.
53. I am Pro-Life. Without exception.
54. When I fall in love, I fall hard.
55. I have been truly in love only once in my life.
56. I will kill anyone who ever hurt my child.
57. I have never broken a bone.
58. I have, however, undergone all the shots for rabies.
59. I drink orange juice with breakfast, never milk.
60. I have never played competitive sports.
61. I would rather read the book than see the movie.
62. I have a lot of acquaintances, very few close friends.
63. I have more male friends than female friends.
64. My favorite foreign word for hello or goodbye is ‘ciao’.
65. If I could only have one channel on my TV, I would want ESPN.
66. The girl name I had picked out when my son was born was “Emily Claire”.
67. When I get to Heaven, I plan on asking God why He didn’t make chocolate as good for you as broccoli. Or why doesn’t broccoli just taste like chocolate.
68. I also want to ask why he let my friends lose two babies at birth. Two.
69. I do not own or watch porn.
70. I am not always proud to be an American.
71. Despite being otherwise great at math, I cannot figure out how to give a cashier an extra nickel or a dime to make the change they give me round off better.
72. It’s a moot point anyways, because I never give a cashier change, only bills.
73. I’m one of those annoying people who knows that ‘moot’ actually means “debatable”.
74. Suzy Kolber is the only female football announcer I can stand to listen to.
75. The only time I ever doubted the existence of a God was when my mom was diagnosed with Cancer. The way she handled it and lived with it demonstrated to me that there WAS, indeed, a very loving God.
76. “Mad About You” is one of my all-time favorite sitcoms. They got married when I did (almost the same day) and had a baby shortly after I did. I loved it.
77. I was married for exactly 8 years and one day.
78. Selfishness is the personality trait I have the least amount of tolerance for.
79. Patience is the personality trait I have the least of.
80. My “love language” is “Quality Time”.
81. I know all the lyrics to “American Pie”.
82. Every spring I have an innate desire to get my hands into dirt.
83. I am the best singer to have ever sung in my car.
84. I can’t stand talk radio. I have little tolerance for dj’s talking at all.
85. I would rather email than talk on the phone.
86. I have always wanted to be the girl someone loved so much they fought for.
87. I still hold onto the hope that I will have more kids.
88. I refuse to buy any book that has “Oprah’s book club” printed on it.
89. I didn’t appreciate how fun college was until I graduated.
90. I am deeply afraid that I will never be a success in my father’s eyes.
91. My two biggest fears are outliving my child and dying.
92. I eat sweet pickles in my chili and grape jelly on my grilled cheese.
93. I don’t like celery or coconut.
94. Kissing is an art that should be taken as seriously as sex.
95. Sex should not always be taken seriously.
96. Living within 20 miles of a Wal*Mart or McDonald’s is way too close for my tastes.
97. I not-so-secretly wanted a girl when I was pregnant, but am ever so thankful God gave me a boy.
98. I miss talking with my mom.
99. I do not posses the right chromosome to program my high def remote.
100. As head coach, I would never punt on fourth and inches even if it was the smart play.

Again, a conversation I cannot quite explain but for different reasons altogether.

For the past five years since our separation, my ex husband has shared custody of our son with a typical every-other-weekend and one-night-a week arrangement. This conversation went EXACTLY like this: A voicemail was left from my ex while I was out walking the dog. All he said was, “hey, I have a question for you about Jacob, can you give me a call as soon as you get in?” Thinking it’s quite important, I call.

Me: “Hey – got your message, everything okay?”

Ex: “Hey – sorry to bug ya, I just wanted to know, does Jacob eat Hellman’s or Miracle Whip?”

Me: (pausing long enough to let him listen to his question and try to get him to realize we WERE married for 8 years and our son is now NINE years old, and I’m sure that overnight his mayonnaise preferences haven’t changed dramatically – but, he still awaits my answer.) “I buy Miracle Whip. But… Jacob eats mayo at the deli, and was at your folks’ all summer, so I think perhaps he’d eat about any kind.”

Ex: “Okay, so Miracle Whip. Do you buy the Lite or the Fat-Free or just the Regular?”

Me: (Okay, I did NOT think this question could get worse. I mean, seriously, he is so concerned about his son’s preference in mayo that he called his ex wife on a Tuesday night to ask?! I think, I’d just ask the kid – but hey, that’s just me.) “Whatever is on sale, I guess. I don’t think it matters.”

Ex: “Oh, okay, great. THANKS!!”

This conversation is really just one in a series. I have received at least two other thematically-related calls in the last couple of years, one about Jacob’s preference in syrup and one about what Caesar dressing he’d like.

Now, I know what some of you are thinking, he’s not actually calling about mayo. Maybe he just wants to talk to me, the mayo (syrup, dressing) is just an excuse. Silly, silly, blogmates. If you really think this is at all remotely true, please refer to my Bibbity-Bobbity-Boo blog to better understand how I am NOT my ex’s type and he’s certainly not looking to reconcile.

Now, can someone pass the mayo?

So the conversation went something like this…

Rob: “’ello?”
Me: “Hey Bear, is Jules around?”
Rob: “Yeah, I’m in the barn, let me holler for her”
Rob: “JULIE!!! JULIE!! PHONE!!”
Rob: “JULIE! GET THE PHONE!”
Rob: “JULIE! GET THE GODDAMN PHONE!”
Julie: (away from the phone) “What?!”
Rob: “PICK UP THE PHONE! IT’S FOR YOU! IT’S YOUR SISTER!”
Julie: (picking up the phone) “How am I supposed to know it’s for me?!? I heard it ringing and though you wanted me to answer it, but then it stopped ringing!”
Rob: “It stopped ringing because I answered it and I hollered for you because the PHONE IS FOR YOU!”
Julie: “Well GODDAMN IT, how am I going to know that? I can’t hear you from the barn!”
Me: “Um, hello?”
Julie: “Hey. Sorry. Don’t know why he answers the phone if he’s going to be all the way out in the barn.”
Me: “Well, I just called for a second,..”
Julie: “GODDAMN IT, WHAT?!? I CANNOT HEAR YOU! WHAT DO YOU NEED?”
Rob: (says something away from the phone)
Julie: “How am I supposed to know that’s what you wanted? I have no idea where it is RIGHT THIS SECOND. Can it wait until I get off the phone?!?”
Julie: “Sorry.”
Me: “It’s okay, I just wanted to ask…”
Julie: “Hang on a second. He can’t seem to wait until I’m off the phone.”
(All kinds of yelling in the background while they sort out where Julie left the tool she had that Rob now needs.)
Julie: “Ugh, sorry. He’s trying to get that loft broken apart before we head to Andrea’s tonight and he can’t wait for TWO SECONDS until I get off the phone..”
Julie: “WHAT?!?! Emily and Robby if I have to come up there you two are going to be sorry! What is the matter?!?! WHAT?! COME DOWN HERE! She did what? Robby, if you’re going to cry over every little thing that Emily does…. So don’t play with her anymore!”
Julie: “Sorry”
Me: “So, I wanted to know if I could…”
Julie: “GODDAMN IT! EMILY! COULD YOU PLEASE JUST HELP ROBBY WITH HIS SHOES? IS THAT ASKING TOO MUCH?? WE’LL GO TO ANDREAS IN A HALF HOUR!”
Me: “Seems like you’ve got a lot going on, I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Julie: “No, it’s okay, we’re just trying to get to Andreas so we can all go swimming but Rob had a bee up his butt to suddenly tear apart the loft even though it’s been sitting in the barn since we moved, what is that now, 8 months? Why he has to do this TODAY I’ll never know.”
Me: “So, I called because you mentioned that Bear’s company was matching..”
Julie: “I’m so sorry, can you hang on for a second?”
Me: “Sure.”
Julie: “EMILY GRACE! IF I HEAR ONE MORE WORD OUT OF YOU WE ARE NOT GOING TO ANDREAS! GODDAMN IT JUST HELP YOUR BROTHER. HE JUST WANTS HIS SHOES PUT ON!”
Julie: “Sorry. They can’t seem to get along at all today. They’ve been fighting the whole day and I’m about ready to cancel the whole swimming thing except we haven’t seen Don and Andrea in about 3 months and I know they’d be really disappointed if we didn’t come over tonight, and besides it’ll be nice just to sit and relax. Evan and Abbey always play with Em and Robby so well, so I’m sure we won’t have any trouble once we’re there, we just can’t seem to get out the door.”
Julie: “ROB!!! Are you about ready?! WHAT?! I can’t hear you in here!!”
Rob: (says something away from the phone that I am sure should not be repeated)
Me: “Jules, I just need to know about the donations for Katrina…”
Julie: “Hang on. He needs something again. WHAT ROB?!”
Julie: “Sorry, what did you want to know?”
Me: “If I send my donation for the Red Cross to you…”
Julie: “GODDAMN IT KIDS! THAT’S IT! I’VE HAD IT! NO ONE IS GOING SWIMMING IF THE TWO OF YOU CAN’T EVEN GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER! NOW GET YOUR SWIM BAGS, GET ROBBY’S SHOES ON AND COME DOWN HERE!”
Me: “Jules. If-I-send-my-check-for-the-American-Red-Cross-to-you, can-Rob-take-it-to-work-so-his-company-matches-the-donation?”
Julie: “Yeah, I’m sure he can….ROB?!?! SHE WANTS TO KNOW IF SHE SENDS A CHECK CAN YOU TAKE IT TO WORK SO YOUR COMPANY MATCHES HER AMOUNT, TOO? WHAT?!?! HANG ON, I CANNOT HEAR YOU. GODDAMN IT! Why does he think I can hear him all the way in the house? OH! He has to have it by Friday. Just tell me how much you’re sending and we’ll take it to work and then we’ll just deposit your check when it arrives.”
Me: “Great. Will do. Have fun at Andrea’s.”
Julie: “IF we ever get there! Hey, listen, I gotta go, the kids still don’t have their stuff together…EMILY!!! ROBBY!!!”
Me: “No problem” Click.

I have GOT to get that girl back on email.

If there is a strange white-ish object on the floor that you can barely make out in the dark, don’t reach down to pick it up. It’s the dog’s half chewed rawhide, still gummy and slimy that will gross you out so badly that you’ll still shiver thinking about it a week later.

Do not use the phrase, “so I was talking with this friend of mine the other day…” to an older sister. They smell out the truth, no matter how hard you try to hide it and will KNOW that you have spoken to an ex-boyfriend that you swore to her you would never speak to again because you realize she was right all along and he was bad, bad, bad for you.

If you have an empty bottle (or two) of Smirnoff Ice sitting on the coffee table when the Little Man goes to bed, he will ask you if that’s beer. When you tell the truth and say, “No” he will know better and you will still get a lecture on choosing to “Just Say No to Drugs.”

The amount of vomit a creature produces is directly proportionate to their body weight and how recently you shampooed the carpet. If you are accustomed to the hair balls that come out of a ten pound cat, do not underestimate the results of a 200 pound dog who got into the trash. Buy the steam cleaner, don’t just rent it.

Tequila and tunafish don’t mix. On either the intake or the output.

A week or two after you start talking with aforementioned ex-boyfriend, you will stop, for all the same reasons you originally thought he was a jackhole (thanks, poka, for the word) however, a couple weeks after that, when you are starting to regain your sense of direction and progression, you will be staggeringly caught off guard by your cell phone bill from that conversational period and will have to donate bone marrow for two years to pay for it.

A younger brother will not remember your birthday, his niece’s or nephew’s birthdays, the day you got married or divorced, not even vaguely how old you are to begin with. He does, however, know the birthday of Nascar Rookie, Kasey Kahne.

Tequila and chocolate pudding don’t mix.

Donating bone marrow, while charitable, is painful.

In the midst of cleaning up said vomit, when you are in your sweats, hair hastily pulled back out of your way, smelling like a beast, your new, attractive, single neighbor will stop by to introduce himself. He won’t stay long.

When you finally realize your social life is in a slump and remember prior to Friday night to stop by Blockbuster for a flick or two for the weekend, and end up over-doing it a bit with a stack of movies taller than you are, you will return home to three messages on your machine asking you if you have plans for this weekend.

Tequila and gummi bears don’t mix.

Despite not having chewed a roll of toilet paper in well over a year, on an evening when it is pouring down rain, you just put the Little Man to bed and you have $. 37 until next Friday (literally) your dog will completely devour the last roll in the house.

Ex-boyfriends never creep back into your life because they recognize what it is you needed all along and are ready to give that to you now. They are really just back in communication because they recently bought stock in Verizon Wireless.

When you spend the summer months desperately trying to restock your son’s fish tank as a surprise gift when he returns home from a summer at Nana’s, upon arrival back home, he will kill all 6 of the fish in one massive over-feeding incident.

When you wake up in the morning, it will be a new day. You will open your eyes, stretch and jump eagerly out of bed, stepping directly onto the slobby, slimy rawhide left there by your pooch as a Monday morning present. As it turns out, Tequila can help you forget all about rawhides.

As part of my parental requirement to teach responsibility to my only offspring, my son gets the mail from the box on his way to the house from the bus each day after school. I arrive home shortly after he does (the continued age of the latch-key children) to a pile of mostly crap that may or may not include one valid bill. My son, in his infinite wisdom and maturity has already taken account of everything in the mail and will quickly point out pieces he deems “important”. If perhaps, Chase Financial sends me two identical credit card offers, the Little Man firmly believes it doubles its priority. He has learned over the last two years that anything that arrives with my former married name on it is indeed as much junk as my marriage was. Pieces of mail that read “Open Immediately”; “Dated Materials Enclosed” or “Special Offer” he stacks on top. As I quickly rip up each piece and place it in the trash pile, his eyes get wider and wider in disbelief. He will even stop to say, “Mom, that one there is from your college.” as though it will change my mind on using my single-mom budget to support a small liberal arts college in Illinois rather than putting money aside for his collegiate education. All this from the same child who once called my cell phone on my way home to alert me to a message on the answering machine. “Mom. Don’t erase this one until you’ve listened to it the whole way through. The man says he can reduce your interest rate on your MORTGAGE payment!”

I must admit, there was a time when I was as enamored with the U.S. Mail System and all that it delivered. But somehow, during that mythical and intangible time when you stop being a child and start being an adult, when you stop having the ability to hand off the bills to someone else to worry about, you realize something has changed about the mail. Those envelopes with handwriting on them are a thing of the past. No packages arrive unexpectedly anymore. The mail rarely holds any good surprises. It is full of bills, useless catalogs (you would not believe the obsession the former home-owners here had with mail-order everything) and offers to put myself further and further into debt if only I’ll sign here, or cash this. What a sheer joy it would be to sort through my mail to see my name handwritten on an envelope. When the Little Man receives a letter from a pen-pal many states away, I am often more excited than he is. Perhaps because I don’t have the task of sitting down to pencil and paper to write him back, the absolute, most inconceivable form of torture known to a nine-year old boy. I am sincerely jealous of this small treasure that he has received.

In the back of my closet, in a worn old shoebox I have a collection of letters. The letters themselves, I’m sure are unremarkable except for the label on the box itself. My mother, whom I lost to cancer 12 years ago, wrote on the box full of letters my sister and I wrote to her from college in the years leading up to her death, “Letters Saved for a Rainy Day”. Not only does it touch my heart to know that she saved letters from the two of us to help cheer her up during the rough days, but it touches a deep part of me to know that I am remarkably like my mother in the way that I covet handwritten tokens of love. I intend this week to put ink to paper and send off a few sentiments to old friends. I hope to find a return letter on top of the pile one day, but even if I don’t, I will treasure the thought of my friends finding their name handwritten on an envelope mingled in with the bills. Maybe they will brighten up another rainy day.

I was sitting at my desk listening to the radio when I heard a familiar DJ say “we’re looking a live shot of New York, it appears the World Trade Center is on fire.” I called my sister in Michigan and before I could even tell her to put on the news to see what was happening, the radio announcers moved from local to Katie Couric and Matt Lauer on NBC. They, too, seemed puzzled by what was going on. As the nation watched, slowly turning their attention to the events transpiring, we heard and saw and felt the second plane hit the towers. Within the hour, another highjacked plane went down in my state, Pennsylvania. My phone rang, my sister begged me to go to the bank, take out my money and get in my car with my son and leave. “Leave now,“she said. “It is not safe to be near Philly. Get out”. “They” won’t come to Michigan. Even as I recall her voice, I cry. She was so scared for me. Today I watch for the second week in a row news about Hurricane Katrina. I hear stories of police forces being shot at by vandals. I hear about suicides and families who don’t know where their children are. I see rescues of babies and children without parents. I see the images of homes underwater. Survivors with nothing but what they had with them. This is America. This is my home. Refugees are what you see when you fall asleep with the TV on and wake up to see advertisements touting “for pennies a day…” They are not people in my country. They are not people who live 30 minutes from my brother. They cannot be. It cannot be the Trade Center that was struck – it couldn’t be intentional – someone is mistaken. But they aren’t. And it was. And it’s reality. I have sent money but it felt so empty. I have helped gather clothes, toys, books to send. I don’t even begin to feel like I have helped. How can I sit in my beautiful home and see plants, animals and my child, not to mention all my belongings, every memento from my childhood and his intact; how I can sit here and feel peace, feel as if I deserve to have this more than those on the Gulf Shores. I do not know how to help. It seems I only know how to sit and mourn and cry and feel completely overwhelmed with complete devastation happening here at home. Just a few days ago, I overheard someone tell a joke about New Orleans. I was stunned. Infuriated, I commented, how insensitive that was. The man seemed to act as if the Hurricane did not effect him at all, and besides, it’s over now. Flipping the radio last week all I heard were voices of locals complaining about the rising gas prices. “How can we be paying $.30 more today than yesterday?” I could not believe how small the world seemed to get, and how remarkably selfish people seemed to be. People don’t have water to drink for days on end and we are upset over the price of gas? Our nation rallied behind the effect of 9-11. We donated, hung out our flags and sought to hold accountable those who led the attack. The Gulf Shores need us even more. The rescue workers themselves do not have homes to return to at the end of an 18 hour day. They have nothing. Their own families have been transported to another state for safety. Thousands of people are still in their homes, too frightened or stubborn to leave. Their lives are in danger. And the hundreds of thousands that have temporarily relocated need permanent homes, permanent jobs, new lives with nothing to start from. I do not know where to begin. All I know is that I know someone who does. And I have to turn things over to Him now, turn these peoples’ lives over to Him, to put this crisis in His hands and allow him to work through the devastation and into the heart of this nation. If ever, we as a nation needed to realize and respect these words, it is now, for we truly are, One Nation, Under God. God Bless America.

I am in love. I didn’t realize it until today when the rush just fell over me. I’ve known him for quite some time. Our relationship comes and goes with the seasons, but today, the moment I heard his voice I knew. I am in love with Chris Berman. I might not like his entire pre-game staff that joins him at the ESPN sports desk on Sunday afternoons (3 out of 4 ain’t bad, but man, that ONE) – but Chris more than makes up for it. On the opening day of the 2005 professional football season today, Chris handled with grace, eloquence, wit and charm the games of the day. Beyond that though, he handled the recent events of Hurricane Katrina, not only as it affected football teams and games but how it has affected us all. He did not overlook nor overplay the anniversary of September 11th, either. Reminding us all that football is just a game, and yet in many ways today it brought hope to the hopeless and simple joys in times of great sorrow and upset. Watching news clips today of Brett Favre’s mom trying to reach him after the hurricane leveled her home was tear-jerking. And that was Sunday pre-game material. There is no crying in football! Today he handed a primetime game ball to the New Orleans’s Saints simply for bringing something to the refugees in our own country that no one else is as capable of bringing…a distraction, laughter, joy, hope. On any given Sunday, Berman sings, jokes and out-smarts any other announcer in the sport. He knows his history, his players, his movies and his audience. He is never insulting or cruel. He is not quick to give too much credit until it is well-earned, either. He is balanced and poised. Sure, there are more attractive men in football that I could shine my admiration upon. In a pinch, Howie Long will certainly make some cerebral comments, but overall, no one combines the humor with the smarts like Berman does. There are many many players that captivate my attention on the field, but none holds a candle off fiel to Chris. Sunday nights in the fall are a favorite of mine. Dishwasher and dryer are done for the day, Little Man is in bed, puppers is sleeping at my feet, cat curled up on my lap, glass of wine, bowl of popcorn and football. In preparation for the game, I listen to Berman recap the days events in football. He has educated me in the game of football. He is my coach. He puts it all into perspective. I love football. But I love the game because Chris Berman makes it what it is. He keeps it from being taken too seriously. He allows the game to enter my home as entertainment, fun, and lastly, almost, as an athletic challenge. Welcome to the 2005 football season. Chris, my love, I’ll always wait up for ya.