Every cook will tell you that...

Meshing groups of people who have never met can be a tricky business. By the end of this wedding process, I will either be an absolute master, or a total failure.

My whole life has pretty much been an experiment in juggling eggs. Having visited and lived in so many different places, I have made several groups of friends, each as special as all of the others.

During my bachelorette party in October, one of two things is bound to happen: Either we all make omelets, or I wind up cleaning a lot of broken shells.

So far, the groups I'm dealing with will consist of my Disney friends, family members, Naples friends, Stuart friends and college friends. And, possibly, friends of friends (that addition to the web makes my head ache). This list doesn't even include high school friends, most of whom probably wouldn't even believe who I am now, compared to then, anyway.

First, there's my Disney friends. This is a group of girls who saw me at my absolute wildest. They know me as a party girl. Someone who is always up for action. Someone who probably has no business getting married. (Thankfully, I've changed a bit!)

Then there's the Naples crew. Here, I am often referred to as "Jeremy's girlfriend/fiancee." It's strange for me, because I have always been the dominant person in relationships. Usually, everyone knows me, and I know everyone else, and Jeremy is often along for the ride. But here, I'm sort of quiet and domesticated. The kind of girl who will skip a night at the bar to stay home and cuddle with a significant other.

The Stuart group knows a bit of both worlds. They've done shooters with me on Sunday nights before having to go to work Monday. But they've also missed me at parties, because I was over on the other coast visiting Jeremy. They get a glimpse of both sides, and I'm sure it can get pretty confusing for them.

College is another story entirely. My college friends have met Jeremy a few times, and, of course, they think he's perfect for me. But I think some of them still have a hard time picturing me in a settled relationship.

At the last wedding I attended before our engagement, two of my friends were talking about the wedding we were at, and how natural it seemed for our friend to be married. Then they turned the topic to me, and how strange it will be to see me walk down the aisle. It wasn't meant in a mean way at all. They've just known me as an independent, free-floater for so long, and they don't know Jeremy all that well, so it's hard to imagine me on the brink of matrimony.

Plus, early on in our friendships, my friends learned to write down my address in pencil. Staying grounded has never really been "my thing." But as I now have more than one person to consider, it's going to have to become "my thing." Tough beans.

Finally, there's the family unit. These people have seen me through every stage of my life. They loved me when I cried, because I thought my dad was an alcoholic (for having ONE BEER!), and they supported me on my 21st birthday when I didn't know that tequila and vodka don't mix.

They remember me as a shy, little girl, who never wanted to talk to anyone, and they know me as an outgoing friend, who is always eager to talk to a nice person. They've seen the drama, participated in the healing, and, most importantly, they know that I'll be a great wife, because I will have a great husband.

At my bachelorette party, my friends will meet for the first time, which would have come to pass someday anyway, I'm sure. They, like I, will have two choices: omelets as a family, or egg shells on the floor.

Personally, I'd rather crack them, and mix them all together now than walk on them forever.

Normalcy, Any Day Now...

A friend of mine approached me with a question the other day, and my response was so quick that it startled us both.

My friend, K, has a boyfriend living several states away. Her boyfriend has a 7-year-old child. Her question: "How was it having parents in two states when you were a kid?"

Without a moment's hesitation, my response: "Don't do it."

Over drinks we discussed the reality of the situation. K wants her boyfriend to move down to Florida with her, and she feels like she's ready to be a step-mom.

The way she sees it, her boyfriend has two options: 1) Petition for full-custody of the child, or 2) Have the child come down and spend all major holidays and summer break with his father.

The way I see it, she's got only one option.

No court in the country is going to award sole custody to a father if the mother is even remotely stable. The boyfriend's ex is already remarried, which puts a father-figure in the equation as well. K's boyfriend doesn't stand a chance.

Which leaves them with option 2. Less satisfactory, for sure, but truly the only alternative.

Having lived through option 2 myself, I could descriptively depict the hell that awaits them all.

#1: It's never enough time.

Neither parent will ever be satisfied splitting their time with the child, and the child will surely see that. Because the dissatisfaction will be so obvious, the child will spend every moment wondering if he's hurting the feelings of one or both of his parents. He will spend the rest of his life trying to make up for lost time, not because he feels pressured to do so, but because he's just as upset as they are that his childhood was split in two, and he'll always feel like he's missed out on things.

#2: He'll never have normal friendships.

Because he will spend all of his vacation time and summers 2,000 miles away from his school friends, he'll never know the normalcy of what kids do during their time away from school. Every September will feel like starting at a new school all over again, because the other kids will have summer experiences that he'll miss entirely.

#3: Someday, he'll have to make a horrendously difficult decision.

There will come a day when the child has a girlfriend, or a job opportunity, or a chance to take a trip of a lifetime, and he won't know what to do. The experience will obviously cut into his time with one of his parents (most likely, his father's time), and if he chooses to take the experience, it will never be complete, because he'll always feel guilty for letting a parent down.

#4: He will always, ALWAYS miss somebody.

Trust me, it's no way to live, and it doesn't get any easier with age.

Having said all of this to my horrified friend, I added something that gave her some hope. Whether her boyfriend moves down to Florida with her, or whether he stays put for now, there will come a day when his parents can't live their lives according to the others' schedule. Someday, a decision will have to be made, and, even though it was never his fault, and it wasn't his parents' fault, all of their lives will be torn.

Being a step-parent who has stepped into a situation like this means life, for you, will never be normal again. You'll always be forced to play be someone else's rules, and even though it wasn't your choice to have a child, or to get a divorce, you will have to live with all of the consequences.

It takes sacrifice, bravery, and, most of all, understanding. Being a step-parent means being the bigger person -- ALL of the time. It's accepting that you will ALWAYS be #2 in your spouse's life, and you'll have to be gracious about it. It's never getting to call the shots in your own life without thinking of the lives of several others.

But most of all, being a step-parent means you will do all of these things without the gratitude of your step-child, because he won't think about you and the thankless sacrifices you made for him. He won't see that you've put your life on-hold, because you loved his parent so much that you would do anything for him, including put your entire young life on the shelf.

He'll never say "thank you" for all that you've done for him, and his family, because he won't understand it. He won't understand it, because he'll be too consumed with his own pain to recognize yours.

It won't sink in until he is much older. And by then, if you've done everything right, he'll realize that "thank you" can't even begin to cover his gratitude, and he'll feel horrible that it took him so long.

And one day, down the road, he'll hope that, for his step-parents, the wait was worthwhile.

Heeding Crosby, Stills and Nash (but not Young)...

Jeremy and I had a taste of parenthood last weekend, and we learned one very important lesson:

We're not ready.

My 8-year-old brother and 7-year-old sister stayed with us for five days while my mom and step-dad went on a cruise. While they were on their absolute best behavior, it was still difficult at times.

It wasn't because they were too much to handle. It's the responsibility of caring for two young people 24/7 that proved to be a burden.

Normally, N & J are quite a handful, but this past weekend, they were sweet, attentive and very well-behaved -- for children.

Over the course of five days, we took them swimming and tubing, played video and board games, went strawberry picking, watched countless episodes of The Simpsons, made multiple meals, played at the dog park and watched a show at a planetarium.

It was exhausting!

The conflict came when Jeremy and I had plans to go to a concert Friday night. We actually had to hire a babysitter for the babysitters!

In short, we couldn't even go a few days without needing some alone time.

Many of my friends have already dipped their toes in the lake of parenthood, and I applaud them all. It's hard work caring for someone else all the time. It's selfless; it's foregoing all of your own plans; it's forgetting all the things you want to do with your time.

It's not us.

Not yet, anyway.

At 26, I suppose I could be a bit more mature. I could wake up earlier than noon on weekends. I could make meals at appropriate times and limit my television intake. I could halt my many weekend trips and party plans.

But I don't have to. Not yet, anyway.

Jeremy and I both work hard. We're enjoying our time together, and we're selfish about it. It's not something we're ashamed of, and it's not something we should have to compromise.

I definitely want to have a child someday. And as much as I would like to be a young mother, spending as much time with my kid as possible, it's more important for me to just be me right now.

I learned something else this weekend, too. I learned that when the time comes for Jeremy and I to be parents, we'll be ready.

I discovered that little lesson during our dinnertime conversations with the kids, and the walks we took and games we played. In essence, in the quality time we spent bonding with the kids.

One day, God willing, we'll be parents. And when we're are, I know we'll be great. We'll love our kid(s); treat them well; raise them right. We'll be the adults that we need to be, so that we can mold him/her into the adult he/she needs to be.

When the time comes.

Just not right now.

Put me in coach, I'm ready to play...

Anyone who has a minute should click on the Web site below, and read Jeremy's fantastic story about the relationship he has with his identical twin brother. It will truly bring a tear to your eye.

http://www.naplesnews.com/news/2006/mar/28/boys_spring/

Common knowledge...

I'm getting married.

I can't think of a better opener than that. It is the ultimate beginning to this column -- which is my favorite way to communicate with friends, family and maybe even a few strangers who like to check in.

I kicked around ideas. I could say something about how I've waited my whole life for this day. How this announcement is one I've daydreamed about making since I first laid eyes on my fiance. How strangely wonderful it is to use the word "fiance" in reference to Jeremy.

But when it comes down to it, there are few things more exciting than saying those three words in a row: "I'm getting married."

I thought for years (nearly 2 1/2, actually) about how thrilling it would be to tell everyone that I am engaged. How ecstatic my friends and family would be to hear the news, and how shocked all those who always considered me to be stubbornly independent would be to hear me say those words.

But when I called people to tell them, things didn't go as they always had in my head. Sure, there was some shrieking, and certainly loads of cheers and congratulations. But the first comment most people made upon hearing my fabulous news was: "I knew it!"

At first I was bored by that response. OK, so everyone just knew what was coming, and it's no big surprise. Ho hum.

But then, I thought about what they knew, and it's what Jeremy and I have known all along. And that's exciting stuff.

They didn't know when it was coming, or how (sunset on the beach on March 21). But they knew to expect it, because they saw it brewing within us.

I knew when I met Jeremy that he was the one for me. He knew when he first held my hand that he didn't want to let go.

I knew every car trip was worth the effort, and every mile put on my brand new car was just one that brought me closer to him. He knew that I was worth leaving work early for almost every Friday.

He knew when to ask me the biggest question of our shared life. I knew that the answer was so obvious that I don't even remember saying it.

And now, everyone knows. But apparently, they've been in on it for awhile.

Realizing that, I can't think of a better response to my news than: "I knew it!" Because I saw what has been so obvious to us for so long was clear to the rest of the world, too. And it was absolutely, 100 percent right all along.

As I picked up the phone again and again to call people and share the wonderful news, I recognized that the phrase "I'm getting married" wasn't the one that sent flutters through my stomach. It just didn't capture the excitement I was feeling.

What makes me smile the most, I determined, is to say "I'm marrying Jeremy." Without his name in that pronouncement, the phrase doesn't mean that much at all.

Because what good is a wedding, an engagement or a lifetime commitment without the man of your dreams?

At Least the Weather Was Nice...

I learned a lot about love last weekend, and it's a lesson I'll hold onto forever.

My friends -- we'll call them M & C -- got married, but not without many mishaps and obstacles along the way.

Gentlemen, in case you weren't aware, most girls spend their entire young lives fantasizing about their wedding day: Who will be there, what she'll wear, what songs they'll dance to. Such was especially the case in M's life, as it took her and C seven years to walk down the aisle.

Yet, a myriad of challenges unbelievably presented themselves on the "happiest day of their lives" that threatened to shake both M & C to the core.

Some were small problems -- a baked beans fiasco, a misplaced marriage license, a cheese ball that turned out too salty.

Others were much bigger -- missing bridesmaids, a missing deejay, missing guests.

And others, still, were caused more by people than events -- an inexperienced pastor, a bumbling wedding director, a pushy family member.

Here's how it all went down (in very rushed, limited detail):

The day began with a family fight, resulting in M locking the keys inside of her car. C had to come unlock the car while M hid inside, so they could avoid contact before the ceremony. The morning incidents resulted in both being behind schedule.

The baked beans fiasco occurred shortly thereafter, when a catering facility claimed to never have received the order. After an ugly confrontation, during which time M left her check card on the counter, M and a friend were left to jot back and forth between two food places multiple times to get the order right.

At this point, we've also managed to lose and locate the marriage license. The marriage would not have been legal without it.

Even more behind schedule, M narrowly avoided getting a speeding ticket as we hurried to the location of the wedding.

With T-minus one hour until the wedding, one bridesmaid was missing in action, and hadn't been heard from all day. Another was sent to another city to pick up a forgotten cheese platter. And the entire wedding party, including M herself, was downstairs -- not dressed -- putting centerpieces on the tables.

As guests began arriving, M's daughter, the flower girl, was pitching an unholy fit, and had to be removed from the wedding party. Missing bridesmaids finally arrived, and, with 10 minutes to go, it appeared the wedding would go on as scheduled.

Until we realized there was no music playing.

The deejay, who was supposed to have arrived at 2 p.m. for the 4 p.m. wedding, was nowhere to be found. And nobody realized it until it was almost show time.

After spending several minutes tracking down his phone number, the matron of honor reached him, and, following some harsh words and near death threats, the clod was said to be on his way.
Though 45 minutes behind schedule, the wedding began. The bride looked radiant; the groom, glowing.

Somewhere in between the botched song and the pastor's accidental missteps, the bride and groom recognized that the number of people that RSVPed to the wedding did not equal the number occupying the chairs.

After the couple was wed, a few other calamities presented themselves. The director removed the tin foil from on top of the food without lighting the burners below, causing the food to turn ice cold. Plus, in the middle of this madness, it became noticeable that the beautiful cake was beginning to lean uncomfortably to the left.

Rearranging the order of things aided the warming of the food, and the cake was cut and enjoyed by all. The evening was spent among close friends and family, and a good time was had by all.

Until the end.

Our unintelligent friend, the deejay, decided to ask M for his payment, prompting a furious response from all. After he refused to negociate with the matron of honor and the groom, the deejay got to deal with M, who screamed at him and offered him half of his payment or nothing at all (more than fair). The reception ended then and there.

As this was going on, the old couple who owned the wedding site was taking the decorations off of the getaway car, for some unknown reason.

M & C, along with their closest friends, were left to clean up the hall, before they escaped for what we all pray has been an amazing honeymoon.

If you've ever been in a wedding, or if the wedding was yours, this story probably made your skin crawl. It could have been enough to ruin the happiest day of their lives. It might have even been enough to cause tension between the bride and groom, or send both into depression and anxiety.

But it wasn't. Not even close.

Whether there were 2 people there or 200, M & C were married. They have the rest of their lives to find the "happiest day ever."

And they know it.

Throughout the day, anyone could have fallen apart. But not M & C. They were rocks -- not for themselves, or for friends and family -- but for each other.

They left their wedding smiling, with hopes of spending the rest of their lives feeling the exact same way they did at that moment. A day like that, they realized, could only make their bond stronger, and it would make for an interesting story to tell.

Someday. Many years from now.

When my time comes to walk down the aisle, I know I'll think of M & C. I'll think about the commitment they share and their unbelievable strength. I'll think of all they had to endure, and the fact that they have the rest of their lives to spend together, overcoming new challenges and succeeding.

And I'll think back to their wedding day and know, if mine goes anything like theirs did, the man I marry will need to be strong enough to carry me out of the looney bin.

Best of luck M & C, even though you've already proved you can survive without it.

** A quick update before getting to it: Nana made it through surgery, and, despite some difficulties early on, is recovering well. Way to go, Nana!

Sunshine gal...

When my clothes are sticking to me in the dead of winter, I hate Florida.

When my air-conditioning bill is just as high in January as it is in June, I hate Florida.

When the ocean is so warm, it feels like bath water, and ice cubes down my back fee refreshing, I hate Florida.

But when I spend the first weekend of March sunbathing by the pool and waterskiing and speedboating around a lake, beneath a cloudless sky, I remember why it is I came back here in the first place.

It's a trade-off -- Snow skis for water skis. Fortunately, falling face-first in water is a lot more pleasant than catching a mouthful of packed snow.

Sometimes during the winter, I get grouchy and nostalgic. I long for the days of turtleneck sweaters, hot chocolate and warm, sweet-smelling logs burning in the fireplace, all of which I came to know very well during my years in North Carolina.

But when my friends call me and complain about high heat bills, chipping ice from their windshields and dreary frozen rain, I remember just how good I've got it.

The truth is, you always want what you can't have. I want snow when it's sunny, whine for warmth when I'm chilly and yearn for palm trees or autumn leaves whenever I'm in the presence of the other.

I can't help it. I've tasted both, and now I reap the seasonal misery of desiring what is undesirable to everyone else.

I look at all the northern transplants around here, and, unlike other natural Floridians, I understand them. They bask in the 90-degree sun, while the rest of us pine for the slightest hint of winter. It's like they are still thawing out from years spent in Ohio, New York and Indiana.

I feel that.

Four-and-a-half years in the frosty Appalachian mountains, waiting for the bus while bearing inhumanly icy temperatures taught me a lot, as did my annual slip and fall on a patch of black ice (of course, right in the middle of a packed sidewalk).

But 3-and-a-half years away has taught me a lot too. Showing up for work with sweat marks all over my clothes is almost, if not just, as embarrassing as falling in front of your peers. Neither way works well for me.

So when you think of me lounging on a pool raft or cutting through waves behind a wicked-cool speed boat while you're bundling up in layers just to check the mail, you can hate me, if you must. But don't forget, I've been on your side of the weather front -- and I miss it, too.

Alright, alright. At the urging of my few loyal readers, I will continue to do my blogging (especially since I've been temporarily reassigned to boring night cops reporting). At the request of a certain hospital patient, I will begin with this:

A Toast to Old People:

My grandmother is going under the knife tomorrow morning for very invasive back surgery.

It will be a long, somewhat risky, assuredly painful surgery that will require months of recovery, and does not even promise a complete cure for her back problems.

My grandmother, who most enjoys being called "Nana West," is a frequent hospital patient, and is no stranger to the knife. So then why is everyone who knows her so nervous?

Normally, I am kept completely out-of-the-loop about the goings-on in my paternal family. Only months after the fact do I usually receive calls regarding familial disputes, get-together plans or minor and major health problems.

But not this time. This time, I've received phone calls from three people involved, and on multiple occasions. Everyone's worried, and, judging by the number and urgency of the phone calls, I should be too.
But I'm not.

Each time my aunt (who is actually more like my sister, given our minor, 5-year age difference) and I get together to enjoy some wine and conversation, the evening always begins the same way. We raise our glasses and give a toast: "To old friends and new beginnings."

It's our little nod to each other. Having known each other my entire life, the toast represents our constant quests to better our lives and ourselves with a recognition that we will always have each other to lean on, even when our "new beginnings" result in old problems.

Shortly after the creation of the toast, my grandmother made a major alteration. At the tail end of the toast, after recognizing our continuous hope for the future and renewing our pledge to each other, Nana made a funky face and hand gesture and added "and to old people!"

We began to tack on the new ending (hand gesture included) as a joke, laughing at my grandmother's goofiness. Now, it comes out naturally, as if it had always been there and no regard had ever been given to striking her portion of the toast.

"To old people" is a nod to the wisdom Nana has brought us, and, more importantly, to the fact that, like it or not, she's always going to be a presence in our duo-turned-trio and in our family.

She's tough as nails, constantly involved in everyone's lives, sometimes by invitation, sometimes not. She's stubborn as hell. Once you've picked a fight, there's no throwing in the towel. Whether you feel like you're right or not, you will not leave the battle until she, even if it's only in her mind, has come out the victor.

It's what we all love, and often hate, about Nana. Her ability to place herself in the middle of a situation and her inability to leave it until she is satisfied.

We couldn't remove the line from our toast, even if we tried.

And this surgery, try as it may, could never remove Nana. For in good times and bad, no matter who or what interferes, her place at our toasting table will be secured solely by her for a very, very long time.

She wouldn't have it any other way. And anyone who tries to tell her differently is seriously wasting their breath.

"To old friends, new beginnings AND old people."

Only the good die young...

At noon today, my friend, Bob Betcher, lost his long battle against cancer.

And the world lost an incredible person.

The first time I met Bob, I never would have guessed he was 52. He had bounding energy, and a yearning to hang out with us "youngsters."

Though he had worked at The Stuart News for more than 30 years, he was never condescending, and it never even occurred to him to tell anyone else how to do their job, even though he knew the business like most of us know our own names.

Always the giver, Bob always wanted to hear your problem before bringing up his own -- even when he too weak to work full days and carried a chemotherapy monitor around on his side day in and day out.

I last saw Bob when I left The News in May. Though he was sad to see me go, few were more overjoyed than he that I was getting to follow my heart and embark on an exciting chapter of my career.

He carried our staff. When we all had nothing but bad things to say, Bob didn't tell us to stop whining. And he never just heard us -- he listened and he cared.

Even in his beleaguered state, Bob spent the majority of his time doing his job and taking care of his aging mother. He never seemed to have the time to be as sick as he was.

I heard last week that Bob was back in the hospital after contracting pneumonia, and they were concerned the cancer had spread into his lungs.

I bought him a card Friday, with the intent to send it sometime this week. I was too late.

But I don't think I was too late to tell Bob how I felt about him. I always admired his strength, character and patience, and I'm positive he knew that.

Now, a family of journalists is grieving. A community of readers is mourning. And all I can do is sit here and remember.

Bob, you were too good for this world. Rest well.

Blah...

Living with a boy -- particularly mine -- is great.

I go grocery shopping , do the dishes and laundry and cook dinner half as often. We share chores; we share money; we share bills; we share responsibilities.

But there comes a point in every relationship that the sharing goes too far.

That recently has happened for Jeremy and me, as we are now sharing a cold.

Before we could even board the plane to come back home to Naples from Raleigh two weekends ago, I knew I was in trouble. I was already scanning the back of Jeremy's throat for redness, and pulling napkins and tissues out of my purse for his use.

By Monday afternoon, he had a full-blown cold, and I knew that no matter how much Vitamin C I crammed down my throat, it would be my turn soon enough.

By midweek, as Jeremy's cold seemed to be on the mend, mine was just beginning.

With our original plans for a long weekend together out the window, I set myself up on the couch with Simpsons DVDs and plenty of throat spray.

As I was struggled to remain awake, I was all prepared to curse Jeremy for delivering his illness to me. That is, until he came home with flank steaks to cook and to cure me of my woes.

Though it was a bit more low-key than I had originally planned, our weekend lazing about in recovery-mode was just what we needed.

After all, getting comfort and cuddles at home is, by far, the best part of living with a boy!

The good 'ol days...

If going home again puts me back in a tiny dorm room with horribly dyed blond hair and biology homework to do, you can count me out.

Fortunately, going home again for me this past weekend was filled with fun, friends and, of course, there was some booze.

Homecoming weekend at Appalachian allowed us to take the best parts of the college experience, and leave the stress behind. For just one weekend, we weren't reporters, or lawyers, or accountants, or whatever professional label we now carry -- we were friends.

Now more than ever, I understand why I value the friendships I have with my ASU brethren. Here, more than 1,000 miles away from the mountains I called home for four years, my friends consist of fellow journalists.

That's it.

Not that it's bad to befriend those in your industry, but you should hear our happy hour discussions. Blah, blah, deadlines... blah, blah, editors... blah, blah, politics. We can never seem to leave work in the office.

I think it's great that we've chosen a career that we can be animated about; One that allows us to be, to some extent, who we are at home in the office. But sometimes, you need a break from the same 'ol, same 'ol.

Enter my Appalachian friends.

These are people who knew me, and loved me, before even I knew what I wanted to be. When my girls befriended me, my plan was to be an archeologist... then a theatre major... then public relations person...

But when those plans changed, my friends didn't care. I'd stake a wager that they probably didn't even know about it, because they liked me for who I am -- not for what I do.

Sitting here, a staggering distance from "home," it's clear to me that I need those friends in my life -- be it on the telephone, or in person -- more than ever. Because when things get hazy, and I start to forget that there's a world outside my newsroom, I count on them to remind me who I am and where I came from.

And that -- looking beyond my own nose -- will ultimately make me a better journalist.

The night that the lights went out in Naples...

Everyone expected the power to be out in Naples after Hurricane Wilma.

Everyone expected trees would fall down, leaving a wide open view of the sky.

Everyone expected there to be quiet and darkness throughout the night.

But no one expected how nice Naples would be when everyone shut up and looked up at the sky.

Last night was like a perfect camp-out at home. The air was cool and crisp (a first here this fall); the sky was bursting with stars that we could finally see with the city's menagerie of lights out; there weren't even any ticks or raccoons to spoil the experience.

Last night, we set up camp on our patio, cooking hamburgers, roasting corn on the cob and listening to classic rock music on our battery-powered radio. Candles burned softly inside and we snuggled up under blankets while we looked out into the darkness.

I even toasted marshmallows over the grill, just to make the experience complete.

I must say, if ever a hurricane decides to barrel through Florida again, I hope it'll restrict its visits to October.

Still standing...

For those of you who have been waiting anxiously on the edge of your seats to see if you still have a friend Jen living in South Florida, relax. All is well here in Naples following Hurricane Wilma's strike.

As expected, our power is out, but we still have water. Every tree in our apartment complex is down, and the parking lot has so many green leaves sprayed around it that it looks like Emerald City.

But, after a long day driving around and interviewing people in Marco Island and surrounding areas, everyone here seems to be fine, and the damage appears to be minimal.

The Naples Daily News is kicking ass and taking names covering this storm. We've gotten into places and talked to people that even the national media cannot get to.

If you want to know what I've been up to all morning, check out our Web site at www.naplesnews.com, and look for coverage of Marco Island.

Also, Jeremy had an interesting blog posted about his night in the Marco Island Fire Department, where he rode out the storm.

I'll be posting more about my night sleeping in the hallway of our apartment later on, but I just wanted to send a quick update to let everyone know we're alright.

Until I write again, just know I'll be busy reciting my new mantra: "Just 3 days 'till vacation..."

Extra! Extra! Read all about it...

For those of you who would like to read my news story about my flight with the Hurricane Hunters, click here.

You will have to log-in to the Naples Daily News Web page to get it. If you haven't registered before, it's free, and it only takes a second. They just want to know who is reading the paper.

Also, sorry about the difficulties with the pictures. I will try again to post them. There are a bunch of professional pictures accompanying my story on the Web too.

Picture pages, picture pages...

Here by popular demand, here are the pictures from my Wilma excursion. As soon as I get the professional ones from the photographer that accompanied me, I will post them as well. Also, I will post my newspaper story on the trip when it runs in Sunday's paper. Enjoy!

LAND!...

Put down your rosaries, I'm back safe and sound!

All I can say is, "What a ride!"

Since I was incommunicado for the duration of the flight, I kept a computerized journal, beginning with my arrival at the Raytheon Aircraft Services hangar at Tampa International Airport. Enjoy!

MIDNIGHT -- Arrived at the hangar. Greeted by the flight crew and pilots lazing about on sofas, drinking all of the Starbucks they could get their hands on. I, having enjoyed four sweet teas, decided to keep up the caffeine kick, and gulped down a hot tea as well. It's going to be a LONG night.

1 a.m. -- Briefing in the pilots' information room. Right now, Wilma is moving at only 3 mph, and is still a strong Category 4 storm. Tour the plane and get basic safety tips about oxygen masks, etc. Sit around and listen to tales of hurricane flights past.

1:45 a.m. -- Very smooth take-off. Realized quickly that arm rests are the single most under-rated aircraft piece ever, as our seats have none. The seats all have computers at their terminals, but using the Internet costs about $10 per minute. Sorry guys -- you'll just have to wait until I hit the ground.

2:40 a.m. -- First major turbulence shifts me out of my seat so hard, that I would have been on the floor were it not for my 5-point seatbelt. The seatbelt has harnesses that go over each shoulder, across my lap, and between my legs.

2:45 a.m. -- Pilots and flight director begin discussing aforementioned turbulence. "We didn't even see that coming!" said the pilot. NOT what a passenger likes to hear...
The thrust from our seats was apparently caused by a cloud growth, which can sprout up like a slow volcano. As we are flying at 42,000 feet (the normal altitude for commercial flights is between 31,000 and 39,000 feet), it's hard for the pilots to see what's going on below them, especially in the middle of the night.

Sounds simple enough, but still -- yikes.

3:30 a.m. -- Encounter pretty bad turbulence all around coast of Cuba. We are not permitted to fly in Cuban airspace, and are forced to go around the western edge of Cuba, adding about an hour to our trip. Damn Castro.

4 a.m. -- Try for a nap as we head towards the Yucatan peninsula. Failed miserably. Too bumpy and the plane keeps shifting. No worries, though. Except that the research meteorologist comments this is the bumpiest flight he's been on during this storm (it's his third). Super...

5 a.m. -- Flying over Cozumel, Honduras and Belize. The meteorologists are beginning to get data that can be read. The way they collect data is by dropping small tubes containing global positioning devices, which read the air's atmospheric pressure, temperature, humidity and wind directions, among other things. These devices are dropped 24 times during the course of the flight in pre-planned locations near Cuba, the Yucatan and all over the Gulf of Mexico. Readings are received immediately and are transferred directly to Miami's NOAA Hurricane Center for analysis. All together, they will help determine predictions for the 11 a.m. advisory.

I also got to log in the coordinates that help the NOAA make their predictions. The ones I did were for the sensor drop on the southern end of Cuba. Cool!

5:45 a.m. -- Just took a few gulps of air in the oxygen mask overhead. The air is extremely thin here, making it difficult to breathe at times. Also have been warned to stay hydrated, as there is a risk of passing out once departing the plane. Again, super...

6:50 a.m. -- Have received our first comprehensive data readings from the previous drops. It appears that the winds from this storm will reach out for more than 200 miles, and will begin affecting SW Florida sometime later tonight. Tropical storm winds will begin whipping the coast by tomorrow morning. Research meteorologist predicts the storm will most likely hit Naples, or some area just north of it, head-on. All computer models thus far have lined up in agreement that Collier County is likely in the path of the storm. All could change, however, depending on how slowly the storm moves over the Yucatan. Meteorologists are beginning to see signs of a heavy front that will inevitably push the storm into Florida's west coast.

OK, so they told us that we need to stay hydrated, because of the intense pressure, but what goes along with hydration? Urination! A lot of it. In the world's smallest, most uncomfortable bathroom in the world. I think I may have been better off in a litter box. I swear, if I come off this flight with an injury, it will have occurred in that bathroom.

7:20 a.m. -- The sun is beginning to break over the clouds, producing the most beautiful red and purple sunrise imaginable. We are just south of Louisiana, and the coastline is lit with bright lights just below the horizon. Unbelievable.

7:45 a.m. -- For the first time, we are able to see just how high above the clouds we are. Everything below looks like little pillows, glistening in the orange sunlight. Soft, fluffy pillows. OK, maybe I'm getting a bit delirious...

8:30 a.m. -- After rather smooth sailing, we are back to extreme turbulence. Mostly bumps, though. Nothing like the drops we experienced in Cuba. The pilot just broadcasted over our headphones that the duration of the flight will likely be as bumpy. We still have 4 or 5 sensors left to drop. Great.

9:30 a.m. -- After another hour of turbulence, we finally touched down back at Tampa International. While the pilots got to debrief and go home to sleep, I have to drive back to Naples and write my article. Will post it when I'm done. Thanks for reading!

Crazy is as crazy does...

Let me go ahead and quickly answer everyone's questions/comments that I've been sent regarding my flight over the hurricane tonight:

No, it's perfectly safe. The governor of Florida even takes these hurricane flights.

Yes, it will be quite an amazing experience. I'm looking forward to it.

No, Jeremy doesn't mind. He thinks it's great.

Yes, this was my idea.

No, I wasn't born under power lines.

Hope that clears things up a bit.

So, here's the update on my flight, scheduled for 2 a.m. tonight: I received a call from the publisist who arranges these flights yesterday telling me to make sure I bring my own food and drinks for the plane (what, no steak or fish option?).

Which prompts me to ask what the length of the flight will be.

Response: "Oh, about eight hours."

D'OH!

Well, the good news is, we'll get to see the sunrise over the hurricane, which I'm told is quite an amazing sight! More good news: I'll have a wireless laptop with Internet connection and my digital camera with me, which means I may be able to update this blog from the plane, so you know what I know before the rest of the world.

If you happen to be up at 4 in the morning...

Regardless, I'll do the best I can to keep everyone informed. Right now, the storm is directly over the Yucatan Penninsula (Cancun and Cozumel, for those of you who know it only as a party spot). It's apparently stalled there a bit, bringing its possible hit to us sometime on Monday, as opposed to Sunday morning as originally thought.

Everyone here is in limbo. Gas stations are low on or out of gas. Stores are boarded up, but trying to remain open. And, to quote my new favorite singer, Jack Johnson, we're all just "sitting, waiting, wishing."

More tonight when I fly the horribly unfriendly skies!

Hurricane a-comin'...

So, for those of you who may have been in a cave for the past few days, there is a massive hurricane churning in the ocean, and it's headed straight for your good friend, Jen.

Again.

Yup, we Floridians are pretty well-versed in hurricane-speak. Phrases like "hunker down," "storm surge" and "cone of probability" are all too common-knowledge here.

We also know all the basics of preparedness. If fact, most of us start sounding like a how-to pamphlet every June.

We know it all so well, we could be experts, and, whether we should or not, we tend to treat hurricane threats with a high degree of complacency. Kind of a "been there, done that" outlook, if you will.

But this isn't most hurricanes.

Hurricane Wilma has a number of features foreign to even the most-experienced weather-watchers here. For starters, it's late-October, which is an unusually late time in the season to be experiencing these storms.

According to meteorologists here (and you're talking to someone who's interviewed them, so I have the inside scoop), the same thing that is going to weaken the storm is going to push it right into Southwest Florida. In October, cold fronts tend to drift farther south, which weakens the storms, but also causes them to drift northeast, right into us.

But that's not the worst of the news.

As of Wednesday, Wilma took a historic leap from a low Category 2 storm to the strongest Category 5 in recorded history.

I don't care if you're Jim Cantore or if you've been through every hurricane ever to pounce the state -- this is a big deal.

For those of you concerned about my safety, you should know that I plan to be perfectly safe -- in a military plane which will fly me directly into the storm.

At 2 a.m. Friday night/ Saturday morning, I will be with a team of meteorologists and pilots, and we will head to the eye of the storm to scope out its progress to report it to the rest of the world. So, for the duration of the flight, I will be among the most knowledgable people in the world regarding Hurricane Wilma.

And shortly after touchdown Saturday night, you will be too. As long as you are a loyal blog reader...

Wish me luck!

My Mona Lisa is a martini glass...

My hands and arms are completely covered with paint that I can't scrub off.

How cool is that??

I've always wanted to be artsy and creative, because I admire artists and their work so much. But alas, my hands are primarily used to type out stories, not to sculpt or paint a masterpiece.

I was talking with someone recently about an artists village that is in the works here in Naples. Jokingly, I asked if there was any room for "starving journalists."

With the straightest face in the world, the man's answer was "absolutely."

I guess what I do can be considered "art." I craft stories out of nothing, using the tools at my disposal and the world around me to create pieces that others can enjoy or reflect upon.

I guess that's really what art is -- taking the things that you feel, that you see, that you know and making them into something others can appreciate.

All the same, I feel like my work is just too literal, as newspaper articles don't (and shouldn't) leave things to the viewer's imagination.

I've had the extreme privalege of visiting some of the finest art museums in the world: The Louvre, Musee' d' Orsay, the Tate and Tate Modern and the National Gallery of Art. In each of those places, I was able to marvel at the works of revered artists, who seemed to be bursting with things to tell me through their works of art. Though not of all their messages were clear, I always felt inspired by the genius of creative art and its deeper meanings.

This weekend, I visited an art festival in Naples, and, as usual, I was mesmerized by many of the works I saw. When I came to a neat (albiet, very literal) painting that didn't look too difficult to recreate, I decided to try my hand at the painting game.

I stayed up nearly all night mixing paints, trying new techniques and just having a blast creating very amateurish works of art. In the end, I had two paintings of a wine glass and martini glass to show for my efforts. They're certainly never pieces you'll find hanging in any gallery, but they gave me a sense of accomplishment and glee to do.

I took a blank canvas and, for the first time ever, made it my creation.

Cool.

The Music of the Night...

Sitting five rows back, I felt like I might as well have been on the stage for the production of Phantom of the Opera I saw this weekend in Ft. Lauderdale.

It was the fourth time I've seen the show live, and the very first time I've actually had a decent seat for it. And the experience was incredible.

Seated that close, I could actually see, for the first time, the phantom's distorted face. I was so close, I could actually feel the musical notes pounding into my head, raising goosebumps on top of the goosebumps already on my arms and legs.

I was even close enough to wonder why all of the actors had make-up covered lumps on their heads (until I realized they were strategically placed microphones).

The evening's production was magical, and completely unforgettable, but it wasn't my favorite.

No, it couldn't hold a candle to the first time I watched the phantom row across the stage on a magical lake filled with candles, or heard Christine hit that high note I thought would surely shatter the chandelier that I had no idea was doomed to fall.

I remember it well: I was a senior in high school, and it seemed as though everyone I knew was going to see the show during its run in Raleigh, N.C. Everyone except for me, of course.

After hearing far too many of our friends rave about the magic of the opera, my friend and I pooled our money and bought the only tickets we could find on short-notice: obstructed viewing.

The demand for tickets was so great, we found, that even our terrible seats, which were nowhere near one another, cost about $50. That's a lot of money for an 18-year-old, (hell, that's a lot of money for me now) but we were determined to see the show.

We got all dressed up in formal attire, and even treated ourselves to dinner at the Olive Garden. (Hey, if you're going to go broke, might as well do it all at once!) After we arrived at the theater, we bid each other goodbye (until intermission), and set off to find our awful seats.

I was greeted by an unwelcome feature at my seat -- a large pole blocking my view. Realizing nothing could be done about it now, I shrugged, cocked my head to the left, and settled in for the performance.

Despite the crick in my neck, which lasted the rest of the week, I knew I'd witnessed a masterpiece. I laughed, cried and gasped at each scene, and when it was over, I realized gladly that I had completely lost touch with the outside world for the duration of the play.

Even more amazing was the lingering effect the phantom had on me. So blown away by its power, I found myself unable to sleep that night. The songs kept dancing around in my head as I laid awake trying to make sense of each scene I had enjoyed.

The power of the performance was so real, in fact, that I took home with me the fear portrayed by the characters, and found myself scanning the room for weeks, checking for any man/ghost that might be stalking me. Sadly, I wasn't quite lucky enough to be visited by the angel of music!

Every time I see the play, it's a new experience; a new memory imprinted on my mind forever. But it'll never compare to the first time the phantom rocked my world, and I never saw it coming.

Working to tears...

I wish I could make sense of why bad things happen.

I suppose if I could, the Nobel prize committee may be knocking down my door, or I'd have to start my own religion or something. As it is, I do not hold the answers, nor do a have many theories.

Unfortunately, in my business, it's so easy to get jaded. Human tragedy fades into the background of routine "work stuff," and we become numb to the things that horrify unsuspecting others.

Even in the aftermath of devestation and uncomprehendable anguish caused by Hurricane Katrina, I found myself blocking out reports that seemed to be running on an eternal loop on CNN, MSNBC and other news stations.

I'm not proud of this.

Maybe I was just over-inundated. Maybe I've just seen too much of it all before. Maybe I just can't relate.

I've written countless stories about hurricane destruction; stories about the massive tsunami that swept portions of Asia earlier this year; stories about murder, rape and child abuse. And yet, these things seem foreign to me.

Am I being cold, or am I just doing my job?

Staying objective should be the responsibility of every reporter, but compassion should be the responsibility of life. We're granted daily glimpses of tragedy; reminders that any day, any second, it could happen to us.

So, how can we, a society overloaded with images of death in Iraq, drownings in Lake George and flooding and poverty in New Orleans really "let it in?"

For me, it's a matter of relativity. When I'm writing a story about a girl who was snatched from her house and raped by 14 men, who has it worse -- the rape victim, or me, who has to take time out of her busy day to write a story about it?

It's a no-brainer.

I can't force myself to tears every time I see a disturbing image flash across the television, and I can't (won't) live my life constantly feeling sad for the pain in the world, or constantly worrying that I or one of my loved ones could be the next to be hurt. But I can show compassion by treasuring each gift that I have -- knowing their are people worse off in the world than I can ever imagine being, and being grateful for the people and things I've been blessed to receive.

After the news story is run isn't the time to tell someone how you feel about them. Show your compassion for the world through the small few whose lives you impact everyday.

Is autumn in Boone a color?...

There's something completely magical about October -- even in Florida.

OK, so the leaves here don't change color; the breezes don't turn crisp and chilly; we don't even get to experience that invigorating smell that permeates the air when a fireplace is lit for the first time in months. It's too early to dig into the bins beneath the bed in search of moth-eaten sweaters; too soon to schedule golf games at noon; and we're a lifetime away from a premature snow flurry, indicative of a chilly winter to come.

So what is it that makes October, and, in essence, the arrival of fall, so wondrous for me?

Memories.

Thank God for Jeremy's patience. He's not quite to the point yet of threatening my life if I "tell one more damn Appalachian/Boone/North Carolina in the fall story."

But I'm sure he must be getting close.

In my mind, they're great stories: Stories about football games in a stadium surrounded by majestic mountains, dotted with patches of burnt sienna, lush auburn and shimmering gold. (Sorry, the colors are far too awe-inspiring to be called red, orange and yellow.)

I've got stories about pumpkin beer in an underground cafe'; ones about walking out of my way to crunch wayward leaves that have fallen ahead of schedule from towering trees above; and even tales about smelling snow in the air before it has even thought of falling from the sky.

But my favorite stories, the ones I will always treasure, and the ones that make people want to toss me off the beautiful mountain overlooks I keep babbling about, are the ones about my friends.

I've been privileged in my life thus far to enjoy many spectacular moments: A first kiss with my true love; the first times I got to hold my brothers and sister; two graduations with all four of my parents, a handful of grandparents and my great-grandmother Grums nearby; the first time my puppy nuzzled his tiny head into the nape of my neck.

And now, the moments of coffee and conversation in a cozy coffee house, the times we walked, instead of driving, because the weather was too nice, the cooking together and the Frisbee games on the lawn occupy my mind each time a taunting wisp of cool air slides through my hair.

It was around this time last year when I looked up to see a grayish sky, and that cruel wind sent me a chilly reminder, raising goosebumps on my arms and legs. It was about the same time that a frigid tear streaked across my wind-whipped cheek.

But this year is different.

This year, I can't stay away. This month, I'm going back to where the memories were made.

My friends are all different people now. I'm a different person now. Yet, we're all going back, seemingly for the same reason: Not to remember, but to make new memories we can store up and unwrap on those warm or cold fall nights whenever we need them -- wherever we are.

Welcome baaaack...

Well, it's been almost a year since I've updated this site, and a lot has happened. I've been through two jobs, moved from the east coast of Florida to the west coast of Florida (where the sand is finer and the water warmer) and moved in with my wonderful boyfriend, Jeremy.

At the urging of some -- sadly, not many -- I've decided to pick up where I left off, publishing my columns on the Web so you can pretend that you're interested. (Hey, I appreciate whatever verbal petting I can get -- even the insincere kind!)

So I thought I'd begin with a general update. When we left off, I was moving to my paper's main office in Stuart. After six months, I left what turned out to be a very frustrating job as a religion/social services/features writer in pursuit of personal and professional happiness in Naples.

In May, I accepted a position as a general assignment writer for the Naples Daily News. It's been a fantastic challenge, because the area that I cover is more than 100 miles long (from West Miami to East Naples). Being that I'm general assignment, I get to cover a little bit of everything, so it's never boring.

Jeremy, Pickle and I moved into an apartment in North Naples, and it's going great. We have a guest bedroom, so anyone who wants to come visit is welcome anytime. In fact, for those of you up north, Southwest offers fares of $39 each way to and from Florida. Just a suggestion...

I no longer write personalized columns that run in the paper, and I miss it a lot. That was the greatest outlet I had for creative writing, which is why I've decided to continue doing that here for you bloggers to enjoy. My columns will be a lot like they were in The Jupiter Courier, but maybe a bit more personalized, since you all know me (or, hopefully, know of me). My goal is to update the blog with a column at least twice a week -- maybe more if I can swing it.

A lot of people have also expresed an interest in checking out the articles I write for the paper as well, so I will post those from time to time too (unless they're boring government pieces). If you ever want to read up on my work, the paper's Web site is: www.naplesnews.com. A search engine will be in the bottom righthand corner of the page. To view my articles, just type in my last name in all lowercase letters: brannock. You will have to register the first time you sign-in to view the articles, but it's free, and you'll never have to do it again after the first time!

Well, I'm off to work now. Just wanted to post a first entry. Please feel free to e-mail me with comments, questions or column ideas at JenBrannock416@yahoo.com.

Happy reading!

So long, farewell...
Read my farewell to the Town of Jupiter, here.

Ode to my sweaters...
Read about the "leafer" I have become, here.

Halloween "Whore-or" Nights...
Read about why hurricanes and holidays should come together, here.

Mind if I get a lock of your hair, Tammy?...
Read about my celebrity stalking, here.

Step aside Jim Cantore...
Read about my new language, here.

SPIT...
Read about how I entertain myself during hurricanes, here.

Thar she blows...
So some of you may be wondering if I have been blown off the face of the Earth by one of the many hurricanes that have invaded my home state. Just to let you guys know, I am here (not queer, get used to it), and (halleluia) I have just regained power at my home! Needless to say, the past week has been as rough as I have probably been looking.

The reason there wasn't a column last week was because The Jupiter Courier ceased to exist last week. Our presses were down, so I was writing articles for the daily paper up the road from here. But, good news! We are back in business, and there will be a column of mine to check out on either Wednesday of this week or Monday of next. Thanks for all the calls from those of you who were concerned about my safety! Hopefully Ivan will take a bite out of some other state this time.

Jen

Poker? I don't ever know her...
Read my plan for world peace through the dealing of cards, here.

Me versus Charley...
Read about my experiences during Hurricane Charley (and see a really humorous picture of me), here.

FORE...
Read about my first golf outing, here.

But it wasn't raining a second ago...
Read about my new outlook on tourists, here.

Almost paradise; how could we ask for more?...
Read and be jealous about my jaunt to the Florida Keys this past weekend, here.

Oh story idea...where for art thou?...
Read about wanton wenches and mortal fools, here.

That's NO...No sir...
Read about my obedience training, here.

Suck it up, you wussy kids...
Read about my grumpy, old man ramblings, here.

Just a little prick...
Read my non-gory story of platelet donation, here.

Logging In...

Some of you who read my column regularly may have noticed that you now need to create a login account to view my articles online. Unfortunately, there is no way around that. The setup of an account takes about two minutes. They will ask you to fill out a quick survey about yourself, so that they have an idea of who is reading our papers. Logging back in is easy once you have an ID and password. I hope those of you who enjoy reading my blogs will not be detered by the extra step. Thanks, and please let me know if you have any ideas for future topics you'd like me to cover. I'm always looking...

Jennifer
JenBrannock416@yahoo.com

Can't hear yourself think? Let's be best friends!...
Read about my concert friendships, here.

It's quiet...Too quiet...
Read about my family's antics, here.

I'm good enough, I'm smart enough and, doggone it, people like me...
Read about how workshops are the ultimate ego-booster, here.

Val Kilmer wins again...
Read about my "need for speed," here.

The many hats of Jen...
Read about my quest for a new hat that turned into a trip down memory lane, here.

Knee jerks and jerky knees...
Read about my very traumatic knee issues, here.

Black and Gold? That doesn't match...
Read my wordly advice for students seeking higher education, here.

Can't we all just get along?...
Read about young employee/manager relations, here.

End of the road...
Read the touching conclusion of an MS patient's battle and her love for her husband, here.

Baseball been berry, berry good to me...
Read about how baseball brings the world together, here.

Till death do us part
A touching feature piece I wrote on a terminally-ill woman and her husband renewing their vows. Thought others would like to read a heart-warming tale of true love.

Lurking creatures in Stuart...
Read about my brush with an alligator, here.

Taking out the trash...
Read my trash talking, here.

The sane link...
Read all about my witty, wonderful great-grandmother, here.

Don't drink the water...
It's wedding fever! Read all about it, here.

I see the tables have turned...
Read about my trip back to the classroom as a "career day" speaker, here.

Life 101, between lunch and P.E...
Read about the school schedule I wish I'd had, here.

Saddle up!!!...
Jupiter residents picked their ponies during last week's election. I got to stand in the middle of the madness. Check out my thoughts, here.

Anthony should stay at the grocery store...
Read about my latest move, here.

Rocks and beads rise to the surface...
Read about the joys of packing here.

It's an Amber Alert...
Read about my thoughts on being an "aunt," here.

Raising my voice...
Read about the time I got my president's attention here.

I'll take margaritas over hot chocolate anyday...
Read about my compassion for my Northern friends here.

Differences unite...
Read about some of the "different" things about my maternal family here.

Doo doo doo, lookin' out my back door...
Read about my wonderful walk down history's beaten path here.

A tornadic scene...
Think you're the only one who hasn't taken down the Christmas decorations yet? Click here.

Woah, I'm getting old...
Read all about my reflections on the past 24 years here.

Grape expectations...
Looking for a New Year's Eve tradition? We do ours Cuban-style! Click here.

It's a, fam-lee tradition...
Read all about my family's Christmas antics here.

A smurfy time in Care-A-Lot...
Read about my irritation with today's teens here.

Just a-swingin...
To read about my adventures in swing dancing, click here.

It's alright, cause I'm saved by the bell...
Read about the craziness that is my frantic life here.

Hustle, bustle, toil and trouble?...
Read my adventures as a holiday shopper here.

Omygosh, that's MY life...
To read my thoughts on reality television, click here.

City sidewalks, busy sidewalks...
Sorry I've been a little slack with the postings lately. It's been a tad bit crazy around here. Anyway, here for your viewing pleasure, my thoughts on Holiday Frenzy Fever.

The ringing sounds of the great outdoors...
To read my family camping trip saga, click here.

If I had a million dollars...
To read my thoughts on life as a rich girl, click here.

Change of plans...
In case you're wondering why I haven't posted in the past week, there is a reasonable explaination. Due to the fact that my columns run in The Jupiter Courier, where I am employed, they are owned by the E.W. Scripps company, and it would be a copyright violation for me to run them on my own site.

Before you break down crying, and feel there is no longer a reason to live, I do have good news! I can post links to the Courier Web site that will take you directly to the column. The only pitfall is, you will not get to read them before the rest of the general public, as you did before.

I will be able to post other things on this site that are not published in the paper. I know I have been slack about that, but I've been a little busy... I will try to be better, though.

Anyway, I hope those of you who are loyal readers will continue to read my columns. It's only one extra mouse click away. C'mon, you can do it! Thanks for all your comments and support! They are always appreciated.

Those with criticism, bugger off!! Just kidding... Enjoy!

Fins to the left...
On my first low-key weekend in longer than I can remember, I decided to do something very risqué and dangerous- test drive cars at a dealership.

And if that was not daring enough, it should be noted that I was by myself and am a first-time car shopper.

Crazy, you say? Foolish, am I?

Perhaps. But I was completely locked into the mindset of not purchasing a car that day, so I figured that I was safe.

Furthermore, I do not have the appropriate funding to just jaunt out and by a new car on a whim at the present time, thus increasing the potency of my safety net.

So, I figured, it’s the perfect crime. I’d get to peruse the cars, test them out and then leave, because there is no way I could conceivably be talked into buying one.

I must say, I severely underestimated the shrewdness of pressure salesmen.

The salespeople were like sharks mulling outside the door of the dealership. In fact, they couldn’t have been more obvious if they had fins taped to their backs.

I did not even have the chance to lock my car door before I was offered something to drink, a business card and a pen with which to sign the contracts.

I was really hoping to just lollygag around. I wanted to look over the cars, make some notes on the reporter’s notepad that I carry with me wherever I go and then let a salesperson know when I was ready to test one out.

Shame on me for desiring some space and independence. I’m guessing that notion was rookie mistake number one, because the sharks, bull sharks I’d presume, in their clean polo shirts and pressed khaki slacks, began to twitch with excitement over my faux pas like I’d just dripped a spot of blood into their holding tank.

With little delay, I was steered towards my “dream car,” which the salesman and I would be driving and discussing. As I climbed into the passenger’s seat, I looked longingly at the stylish, less expensive car I’d wanted to try a little further down the lot.

Guess we weren’t meant to be a match made in Heaven, old boy.

When we returned to the dealership, I wondered if it was just my imagination, or had all of the female salespeople vanished from the premises? Not a single woman was in sight, and in the interest of time, I will resist the urge to turn this story into a “Women’s Lib” issue, and assume that the men just wanted the female prey all to themselves.

As I sat at the salesman’s desk awaiting a price quote I didn’t even know that I had asked for, I was approached by every man in the store. Each claimed to be a manager of some sort, and after a mere ten minutes, I had enough business cards to fill a rolodex.

I glanced wearily at the salesman that had taken me on the test drive. He apologized profusely, and explained that no matter how much he knew that I did not want to buy a car that day, his managers did not believe such a person existed in the world.

So for forty minutes, I sat like a freak exhibit at Ripley’s Believe it or Not. One that everyone had to attempt to discredit before shaking their heads and surrendering to the acknowledgment of my disease.

I’d had quite enough, and asked the friendly salesman (an oxymoron, I know) to pass me a post-it note and a pen. In large letters I wrote, “I do not want to buy a car today!” and stuck it to my forehead.

Well, that maneuver was enough to make them bring out the big guns. Up strode a man with a smile like Jack Nicholson, a walk like Elvis and the presence of Clint Eastwood.

A hush fell over the crop of salesmen assembled around me. The saloon-keeper ducked below the bar. The general manager had entered the scene.

I could feel my knees weakening as he offered me incentive after incentive on a new car. He was a smooth talker, and he was whittling away at my ability to think rationally. I pulled out my last weapon; my one and only line of defense.

“I don’t have any money,” I muttered feebly.

Then all at once, I was snapped back to reality when he uttered one remarkable phrase, much to his own detriment.

“Well, what if you didn’t need money to buy a car today?” he asked slyly.

Well, that did it. I hobbled out the door with a salesman attached to each of my legs. A defeated manager scampered to remove the “for sale” sign from my poor old car before I could get to it.

What was it about his inquiry that made me see the light? Well, I reasoned as I started up my clunky old Honda, if I didn’t need money to buy a car, I’d be at the Lamborghini dealership right now.

Hail, alma matter...
Some say that you can’t go home again.

After attending my college alma matter’s homecoming celebration this past weekend I learned that this sentiment does not always ring true.

I spent a long weekend at Appalachian State University, and I quickly found that while many things and people were different than I remember, some things never change.

During the week, I stayed with close friends who had all migrated to another city after graduation. I visited new apartments and homes, met new husbands and wives, and chatted about new jobs and higher education.

At first it took a bit of adjusting to see my college folk as the same crop of people with whom I shared triumph and tragedy in our first dorm rooms or during our first classes. Everyone seemed so much older and more mature and settled than I recalled.

It was difficult to witness the same people who could pull all-nighters in our dorm lobby only to scramble to an early morning class, yawning at 9:30 p.m. and complaining about “an early day at the office tomorrow.”

I must admit, at times I got a little downhearted and began reminiscing about the “good ol’ days.” But as quickly as it came, my sadness dissipated into a whirlwind weekend of memories and laughter.

By the time we reached the school, homecoming had indeed become just that. As the mobs of students created unique spectacles of themselves in the middle of Boone’s main street, my friends and I knew it: We were home again.

At game time, we stood on top of the bleachers until our legs felt like jelly and yelled for our team until our voices were long lost. Familiar faces filled the crowd, and everywhere I turned, someone from my past was shouting my name.

My friends and I got caught up in the memory of student life, and for one flickering moment we left our adulthood behind and slipped into a comfortable time warp. We remembered the way things were, and were grateful that those days were not lost forever.

Sometimes it’s easy to lose touch with a good friend. Sometimes when the circumstances under which you became friends disappear, it’s hard to view a friendship in the same light as you once did. Sometimes too much time can create a rift that only a trip to the past can repair.

I was fortunate to have that trip this week, and I know it. Not everyone gets to make the journey home, but at the week’s closure, I was quite glad I did.

Looking back now, I am able to reflect upon my time at “home” and savor several revelations.

Yes, sometimes people change, but that is not always a bad thing. It is possible to change with someone, and changing together can only make a friendship stronger.

Yes, sometimes situations change, but if your relationship is strong enough, it will withstand the tests of time and place.

And yes, we may not have as much time for each other as we would like, but as time becomes more scare, the time you do have to share with others becomes that much more valuable and sacred.

As my short time with old friends drew to a close, I noticed that I started to appreciate their adult selves just as much as I did their college selves. We’re all in the same boat — still growing and trying to find the things in life that will make us happy.

The most important thing to remember, no matter where you go or what you need to do to make it to the next level in your life, your friends will always be there to give you a boost.

My friends were there in the planning stages of my life. Not only do they know my past victories and struggles in life. They also know my dreams and aspirations, and they will be there to remind me of them when I can’t remember myself.

Football: Bringing world peace to many...
The roar of the crowd. The collective chant of an audience. The beer bottles flying overhead.

Okay, so there are some things that are slightly unpleasant at football games, but for the most part, there are few things I enjoy more.

Packed into a stadium with 73,000 fellow Dolphins fans last weekend, I couldn’t help but smile at the scene.

People everywhere were decked out in jerseys commemorating their favorite player, and they exchanged a nod and a smile with others sharing their opinions. Strangers slapped hands and exchanged hugs at the slightest hint of victory and produced a collective sigh when times were bleak.

For a brief moment, everyone around you has something in common, and that is a thing to be celebrated. In the grand scope of things, football is a trivial event, but I have come to embrace it as a means of brotherhood and community.

Before non-football fans discard my notion of togetherness, it is important to understand that this feeling can be accomplished in many arenas in life.

In my own experiences, I can recall trips to a theater production where the audience laughed and cried together and became one body of awed viewers. Many times I have turned to an audience member beside me at intermission or at the play’s conclusion and exchanged sentiments about what we had just witnessed.

During my study-abroad program in London, I was fortunate enough to find myself utterly lost in a crowd of thousands celebrating a “football” victory in Piccadilly Circus. I stood fascinated by the masses of people cheering and yelling, and it wasn’t long before I too was caught up in the spirit, embracing my neighbors as we herded down the street.

The term I’ve always used to describe these phenomenons is “choreographed chaos.”
On the outside, things may appear out of control, and an apprehensive person may not look to see what’s within the hustle and bustle. But an insider knows that they are safe, because they are with people who understand.

Be it a concert, a movie, a rally or anything where people are gathered with common interests, nothing compares to the unique bond that can exist in those situations. Anyone knows from experience how a great event or an amazing feeling can get muddled in the retelling. Too often the phrase, “Guess you had to be there,” can escape a disappointed storyteller’s lips.

After a great scene in whatever production in life you witness with another, there is no greater satisfaction than being able to look at someone else and without so much as a sound, be able to understand their feelings completely.

Some people are afraid of crowds, and that’s to be understood. As with last weekend’s game, some people will break the peaceful choreography, and that’s a shame. Those people will never understand the unspoken bond that they have disrupted, but rest assured, more people will get it than not.

I cannot tell you how many crucial connections I have made with fellow audience members from various events that I have attended. I’ve met strangers turned to friends, received information on good mechanics and bad doctors and even received a deal on a car.

The point is, opportunities to congregate are abundant. No matter what our differences in this world may be, there will always be some place where someone else can share your thoughts, hopes and happiness, and we should grasp those occasions whenever we can.

Happiness can come when we embrace that good ‘ol “Cheers” mentality and find ourselves in a place where everybody knows our name. There is security to be found in places that may look disorganized and dangerous. Sharing a priceless moment of joy or sorrow with others who can relate is a liberation that can be, and should be, enjoyed by all.

Unless you were a Bills fan at the Dolphins game- Then you were on your own.

Party till your dogs ache...
I celebrated my puppy Picadilly’s first birthday last weekend.

I worked late into the evening making a special cake and cookies with doggie décor to serve to all of our family at his birthday party.

I even went so far as to send out invitations and buy “happy birthday” balloons with Clifford on them (every dog’s hero).

Okay, before you start thinking I’m nuts and petition my editors to have me committed, let me explain my motives for throwing my puppy a birthday party.

I must admit, though quietly so that my beagle boss doesn’t hear, I had ulterior motives for throwing the birthday bash.

For many years, I have traveled to birthday parties, holiday gatherings and football get-togethers held by various members of my family.

I have just moved into my first ever self-subsidized, roommateless apartment, and now, it’s my turn to show off my new digs and entertain those who have done so for me over the years.

As my family sat around on my couches, in my apartment, watching the Dolphins beat the Jets on my television, a deep sense of pride washed over me.

Sure, some had to sit on the floor in my tiny living room, but it was my floor! And okay, so the furniture was all donated, but it’s mine now- no take-backs!

Despite the fact that I have to wipe a few tears from my eyes when I’m writing out that rent check each month with no roommate to defray the cost, I can’t help but think that it’s worth it to be able to come and go as I please, leave dishes in the sink and not take the garbage out the second it gets full.

Now, many beagle owners will tell you that this particular breed, especially the males, are extremely difficult to train. They are highly stubborn, very possessive and do not take rebuke well.

After mine cost me a considerable amount of money in carpet damage payments at our last place, a lot of people thought I was crazy to continue to put up with him. My friends griped each time I had to leave a get-together to take the dog out and my family grumbled whenever he accompanied me to one of their homes.

On countless occasions I have been asked, why would any free-spirited, carefree person anchor themselves to something as demanding as single-puppy parenthood?

Every time, my response is the same: because the very creature that introduced such responsibility and commitment into my life is the same that set me free.

I come home everyday to the healthy, exuberant puppy that I raised single-handedly, and he brings a sense of joy and accomplishment to my life that I have never known.

When he is sick or in pain, he looks to me to protect him and make things better. He is, in essence, my child, and I treat him as such.

It’s not just me I’m providing for- his life is my responsibility, and this home is just as much his as it is mine.

I would not be so shallow as to say that I always have everything under control and that I can handle everything life throws my way. Life is full of big failures and small victories, but eventually you find a way to make each your own. You may even grow to learn that freedom and responsibility are one in the same.

In celebrating Picadilly’s birthday last week, I was actually commemorating more that my pup’s first year on Earth. I was reveling in my first year of being responsible and free through the eyes of someone who needs me to be.

Plus, how often do you get to make a cake with icing dog bones on it?

Life in the bitter barn...
Murphy’s Law, rule number three: “Anything that can go wrong will go wrong.”

I live my life according to Murphy’s Laws. Rules such as “If anything simply cannot go wrong, it will anyway” and “If everything seems to be going well, you’ve obviously overlooked something” are abundant features in my life.

I say this as I am sitting in an auto repair shop, 40 miles from home, awaiting the fateful prognosis on my battered little car. I shouldn’t feel sorry for the car, though. He (yes, I personify my car) has had all week to break down on me. At any time, he could have decided to give out on me, but he had his own agenda.

In accordance with Murphy’s Laws, he suddenly heaved a tremendous sigh and decided to take an expensive nap- right in the middle of U.S. 1.

And not just anywhere on U.S. 1- in Stuart, where I had an extremely rare 9 a.m. new employees meeting.

When the tow truck men arrived on the scene, they asked if someone was coming to pick me up. The same question was asked of me when I arrived at the repair shop.

As I am sitting in the car repair waiting room working on my laptop, the obvious answer to both is no.

In the six weeks that I have called Palm Beach County my home, the area and I have been engaged in a little game of “getting to know you.”

So far, I am losing…

I have tried a number of methods in an attempt to meet new people in the area, and each of my efforts have been thwarted. Admittedly, many of those undertakings have resulted in rather humorous outcomes, making it very difficult to curse the situations as I so often desire.

The site of my first expedition to meet people was an obvious choice: church.
In church, people have to be nice to you, or they will get smoldered. Okay, maybe that’s a bit extreme, but they do have to actively recruit you for their ministry.

Right after work one Wednesday, I sprinted over to the church for a small group single’s discussion meeting. I figured that narrowing the church mass into a smaller group of people that I could relate to would be the best plan for making new friends.

When I entered the room that evening, I immediately recognized my logical error- and so did they. Several pairs of eyes peered questioningly at me from behind out-dated spectacles, and one brave soul inquired, “Aren’t you a bit young for this group?”

Only about four decades too young, I thought, but who’s counting? They filled me in on the background of their 60+ widower’s group, and I quietly slipped out the door as they jabbered on out a potluck dinner of shepherd’s pie.

Attempts two and three left me high, dry and soaking wet, if you can imagine that phenomenon.

I called around looking for an adult softball league to join, figuring that some outdoors time after work would lead me to fun friends with similar interests. I sought the advice of two different people in charge of organizing the leagues, and their suggestion was the same: go out to the field and ask a team manager if they need an extra player.

I can’t tell you how dopey I felt walking onto the field that Friday afternoon. I felt like that little kid walking up to the posse of bigger kids, asking, “Can I play with you?”

Unfortunately, there was no one there to answer my juvenile request, because neither league organizer bothered to inform me that there were no games during the holiday weekend.

Given my track record, I guess I should have sensed disaster in the air the following Friday, but I was foolishly optimistic. I drove out to the field in drizzly weather, hoping that the games were still on for the evening.

As a torrential downpour began to unleash itself during my drive, I started to wonder if the storm cloud was simply following me or if it was affecting everyone else in the county. When I arrived at the field, people hustling to the parking lot shouted to me, telling me games were cancelled.

I took advantage of the situation and dashed through puddles of slippery, red mud across the field. I decided that I would corner some unsuspecting manager huddled under an awning and make them put me on their team.

The manager I encountered was in fact looking for players for the upcoming weeks, and I am now awaiting notification on my request to play with the Saucy Kitty’s Lingerie team. Don’t ask…

At this point, I feel obliged to tell you that I love this area. I am not resentful or upset that I haven’t found my niche yet, because I know that Jupiter and its surrounding areas have so much to offer someone like me.

Maybe I’m just looking at things the wrong way. I guess having your car stall in the middle of a busy highway and getting two men to rescue you by pushing your car to safety is an icebreaker for future conversation with them. It wasn’t what I had in mind as a way of meeting people, but at this point, I’m open to non-conventional alternatives.

Regardless of my trial and error follies, I have no plans to resign myself to a state of hermit-hood just yet. I will keep taking strides to find my place here, and I will not be bitter when failure seems inevitable.

Okay, maybe I am a little bitter right now, but I promise to have a brighter attitude if I ever leave the car repair shop.

Ode to Marco Polo...
When I was younger, I could think of no better way to spend a Saturday than in the pool.

What could possibly beat a ten hour pool day featuring a raucous game of Marco Polo, chicken fights and diving contests?

As a child, my friends and family and I would spend a marathon number of weekend hours completely water-logged and with pruned fingers. When our parents finally hauled us out of the water, our lips chattering and blue from the cool night air, we would enjoy sandwich dinners under the stars, wrapped in sopping towels.

As I recall, there was no greater spoiler of a water fun day than the inevitable one or two teenagers or adults who would lounge by the pool working on their tans and yelling at the kids for splashing or being too noisy. I couldn’t imagine how anyone could waste such a day loaded with fun in the sun potential, and believed firmly that I would never squander such opportunities when I was older.

As I sprawled out in my lawn chair a few weeks ago with an icy drink in hand and a relaxed grin on my face, I thought to myself, nothing could be better than laying here in the sun, letting the beating sun rays drain all of my weekday cares from my head.

I furrowed my brow at the neighborhood children splashing around, and even stifled a lecture when I saw a pack of kids running around the perimeter of the pool. I wondered, why can’t they just be still and enjoy the simplicity of their surroundings?

Woah! Could I have possibly sounded any older?

I have to recall with a laugh how many times my parents threatened to tape record my proclamations as a child. Everything was so definite back then, with no gray areas. “I will NEVER like boys!” “I will NEVER wish for a naptime!” “I will ALWAYS enjoy getting dirty!”

I have, of course, come to believe the opposite of all of these. Mmm... daily naptimes... But I digress.

As “grown ups,” we come to find that life is filled with gray areas. Decisions aren’t always as easy as which color crayon to use. Sometimes instead of choosing between a good option and a bad one, you are forced to make a difficult decision to determine which is the lesser of two evils (for example, choosing mechanics, presidential elections, etc.).

When you are a child, you want to make your own choices; choose your own destinies. As an adult faced with a problem, you want nothing more than to make someone else decide.

On the plus side for adulthood, as a child, you lack the power to choose to dine on jelly beans for lunch. As an adult, you can have them for dinner too!

The most rewarding privilege of adulthood is the ability to choose how you want to view the world. Sometimes being a “grown up” is necessary, but that’s only because throwing paper airplanes during board meetings is not sociably acceptable. When you want to cut loose and have a little fun, you have the option to choose between being an adult and exposing your inner child.

I spent this past weekend at the pool again, this time with a different attitude. I played with my younger siblings, throwing them up in the air and into the water. I watched and applauded their efforts to add a new twist to each dive they did into the pool. I even instigated a dangerous game of Frisbee (my apologies to everyone whose head I hit).

I enjoyed mealtime outside, wrapped in a sopping towel and loving every minute of it. For one moment, I remembered what it was like to be a child, thinking of nothing but poolside fun and a long weekend, and it was great.

When I went to work on Tuesday, I felt more worn-out and water-logged than I have ever felt before in my life. My mind may have been able to relive a slice of childhood, but my adult body just can’t hang with the young ones.

After last weekend, I know I will still fulfill my midweek daydreams of lazy Saturday sunbathing. I can’t promise that I will join in the next neighborhood game of Marco Polo I come across, but at the very least, I will lighten my scowl and enjoy the loud shrieks of childhood.

Maybe I’ll hide a water gun under my towel and spray them periodically. MY parents won’t be there to punish me!