Let there be peas on earth....

...and let them be eaten by me!

Ah yes, another Thanksgiving weekend has come to a close, and with it another cycle of binging on turkey and turkey accoutrement. In particular, I have this insidious desire/custom to relive the childhood epicurian experience of taking a mound of mashed potatoes, shoving a spoon down on it to make a concave area and then nestling peas into the potato mountain. This was commonly known in the Sawyer family as "making a bird's nest." No doubt this was an evil plan of my parents to get me to eat at least one vegetable that was green and, I imagine, was a technique not just relegated to my clan. Oh sure, I could plop potatoes on the plate and have peas normally resting beside them, but would they really taste as delicious? I think not. Next year, I'll celebrate my 52nd Thanksgiving (hopefully) and my 52nd+ helping of bird's nest.

Romance Pre-9/11

As I was looking back of this week's events and the news on Bink, I was reminiscing about the first time we met. I was coming back from a business trip from somewhere and happened to mention that I had an extremely long layover in Cincinnati. Upon that news, he announced that he intended on meeting me when I came to the airport. For one of the few times in my life, I was actually excited about having a long layover in a city I knew nothing about. So, when the plane landed and I came out of the gate at the Comair concourse, I see this smiling face walking toward me carrying a bag. It was definitely Jim (I didn't call him Binky until much later in our relationship). After we hugged and sat down and stared at each other with goofy love puppy eyes, he handed me the bag and told me he had bought me a present at the airport. Much to my surprise when I opened the bag, there was a small stuffed blue Eeyore. Jim said to me "I wanted you to have something that reminded you of this first meeting. You see, people tell me I'm like Eeyore because I speak in a monotone fashion and I'm always depressed." Oh my god, there I was sitting there in front of this curly haired, eye glass wearing, dimple in chin, I want to rip his clothes off cutie pie of a PhD. And I was laughing out loud. The layover passed quickly. We held hands just like we had known each other for years and even managed a peck on the mouth before I had to hop on the plane to go back to Memphis. When I got home that night, I had a letter from with subject line that seemed very foreboding. If I recall it was something like "I need to tell you this." With dread I opened the email only to find out that he thought I was just as adorable as I thought he was....and the love blossomed.

I think about the tragedy of 9/11 and how it has totally changed the way we travel. No more meeting people at gates. Last minute kisses and then running off to the plane as something we only see in movies. Now everything is much more logistical, and cold, and downright boring. Had I started talking to Bink online later, we might have never met because we would have never had the chance for the quick first date at the airport.

They say timing is everything and, just this once, the timing was right for Janie.

In memory of Bink...

Although I'm not one to think of the spiritual realm that often, I'm not one to dismiss occurrences as pure coincidence. This week has been a trying week for me, as most are, and I slept fitfully last night. When I woke up at 4:30, my thoughts drifted to a man who I had lost touch with over the last year or so but who I considered a dear friend. Oh sure, I had made lazy attempts to contact him but to no avail. You know how it goes. Send email. Email comes back rejected. You think "stupid spam killers" and then you make a mental note to pick up the phone in the next hour, or day, or week or month. When I would finally get around to calling him in those moments when I either couldn't stand work anymore or just needed a break, the number would automatically roll to "you've reached the voice mail of ."

At that point, I didn't want to leave a message and would vow to call back in a few days, weeks, months. This happened a few times over the last year and with each successive time, I considered various reasons that I wasn't able to find my friend. The simplest explanation in my head was I knew he had had eye surgery and I was thinking maybe he was out on long term disability. Then, the psyche would start pondering and go from 1) something went wrong with the eye surgery and he can't see and therefore had to give up his job or 2) he hated me and had figured out some secret way to ignore me. Neither one of the preceding options would be something a rational person would think so, once I level set my head, I would go back to thinking that he's busy, I'm busy, that's life.

But what made me think about him this morning? I don't know, but it was enough that before even grabbing coffee, I walked to my computer, booted up Google and plugged in his name to see what I could come up with. The first thing that appeared was a description of a University of Cincinnati publication so I figured I had hit the mother lode and could figure out the whys and wherefores by opening the UC pdf. Once in the 37 page pdf, I typed his name in the Adobe search bar, and it took me to almost the last page. There he was listed, receiving an honor, under the heading...

In Memoriam

I stared at the text. I read the paragraph 4 times at least trying to figure out if this was truly him. It said that the day before he was to receive the award from the school was when he passed away. I kept reading again. Because his first name was quite unusual (one he hated and didn't want anybody to call him), I knew that was him. It was too early to cry. In fact, I didn't even know how I felt. But I did know I wanted to know more. So, I went to the Cincinnati newspaper web site and opened the obituary tab and started my search. How fitting that his obituary listed his name without the horrid first name he had hated, a name his father had given him based on his American Indian ancestry and which probably, had I probed him more, caused irreparable damage when he was in elementary school. The obituary said "died suddenly on May 6, 2006, at the age of 42. A blessing will occur on May 9 at the xxx Funeral Home."

Now I had corroborated what I already knew was true. My beloved Binky (shortened to Bink), as he was nicknamed by a friend of mine, had left without saying goodbye. Soon after the tears came, welling up inside me from places in my heart that I didn't know about. I had lost a friend, a former lover, and one of the most brilliant acquaintances who brought great joy, giggles and energy to my life. I feel such guilt of having lost touch with him. How could he have been gone that long and me not know or care? How could I have not known that he would never go this long without calling me or sending me a "just checking in on you" email? By now, his family is healing and my tears are new.

I still think back to a dark time in my life. I called Bink and told him what was going on. He listened patiently, offering advice and then asked for my mailing address at work. I gave it to him thinking that he was going to send me one of the funny, obscure cards that he sometimes sent just to cheer me up. In a few days, a package arrived. In it, there was a Barbie doll, with a post it note attached. It said simply "Janie, I know you always wanted a Barbie and I figured it was time that you finally had one. This is Reva's (his daughter) favorite." The thing that made that gift so special was that I had told him many, many months ago that, as a child, we were poor and every year I would wait for Santa to bring a Barbie. When Santa didn't, I would always be sad. Granted, I could buy 20 Barbies for myself now but it wouldn't be the same. Bink remembered that, and with his lovely way of comforting me, sent the Malibu chick to watch over me since he couldn't. To this day, Barbie adorns my desk..in her box..with the note from Bink still attached.

I mourn you, Bink. You were someone that I know never fell out of love with me and the feeling is mutual. Life and distance complicated matters and we moved to different levels of relationship. I think I'll end this blog entry in the same form as many of our funny emails that we sent back and forth to each other -- haiku. I think you would chuckle to know that my last tribute to you is in this matter. My love to you wherever you are.

Binky has left me

No more Buck LeSabre or

Pinky Flambe jokes

His laugh and his spark

His world domination plans

Will not be missed soon

I cry for you now

But Barbie will watch over

We will meet again

Happy talk, keep talkin' happy talk...

Today, albeit it Sunday, marks a stopping off point during an extremely tumultuous period in Jane's life. In the past three weeks, I feel like I've had an inordinant amount of responsibility not placed, mind you, but bitchslapped against my face at work. In addition, I got to spend three hours at an orthopedic surgeon's office only for him to rush in, say, well, you've got a frozen shoulder, you wanna prescription for Vicodin? Imagine the proverbial angel and devil sitting on my shoulders battling it out. Devil "Jane, come on, Vicodin? Man, that's some good shit. Go for it." Angel "Now, Jane, you know drugs are bad for you. I mean, look what it's done to your Lindsay Lohan and Jerry Lewis. Don't be a wimp, suck it up and ask for the Tylenol with codeine instead. And by the way, you wouldn't be in this situation if you hadn't stopped doing baton twirling, you know." Needless to say, the Angel wins out because the Devil walks off, throwing up his hands, and proceeds directly to some bar in the fiery bowels of Hades where he can forget about his latest encounter with angelic personna of me.

On to the subject at hand -- what I'm referring to is Happy Talk. No, it's not some melancholy reference to South Pacific, but that psychological philosophy wherein someone (usually with a copay) tells you that you can talk your way to happiness. Sometimes it's referred to as meditation and sometimes it's referred to as talking to oneself. You know -- getting the id in line with the ego and super ego and super duper ego. Well, I've been trying to practice this approach because I've been in a deep dark bluish grayish purpleish funk lately. Could be that God is trying to utter last rites to my ovaries and it might just be that I'm, well, depressed. Or both. So, here I am today, beautiful skies, driving to downtown Norfolk to an outdoor art festival. The air is blowing through my hair as I enjoy one more great ride in my convertible at a time when I should be wondering if my winter coat needs to really be cleaned this year. About 10 minutes out of Norfolk, I start the meditative happy talking. It goes something like this in my head.

Jane Head (talking to manager): Bossperson, I've been under a lot of stress and it's impacting not just my interaction with you but my whole life.

(Wait...didn't she say this was happy talk? This sounds like work.)

Jane Head: Well, bossperson, I'm having difficulty with your communication style and expectations. I never know what you want because I'm not clear on your direction. Are you sure you know what your wanting when you ask me sometimes?

(ok, not sure why Jane is going down this path. Didn't she say she was meditating? Blue skies? Sunshine? Man, she's dull. Wait, why is Jane referring to herself in third person. She really needs help. Maybe blogging will do it.)

Jane Head: I can't deal with this anymore, bossperson. Maybe a few months ago, I could, but now things are starting to multiply. Work, health, bp 175/120. I'm not going to die at EDS.

Jane Head (tears starting to assemble at forefront of lower lids): I'm supposed to be thinking HAPPY THOUGHTS! STOP THIS!!! THINK OF THE ART FESTIVAL! ANYTHING!

I guess you get the picture. I think what's going on here is that I'm afraid of failing for one thing. I'm lucky in the sense that I tend to do a halfway decent job at most things I try; it's just that now it seems to get harder and harder to accept that I'm not this uber project manager that at any given moment knows everything about everything. Happy talk would suggest that I can 1) give myself permission to get a B instead of an A in the school of life, 2) surround myself with stuff other than work (not food!) and 3) not overdo it on the Tylenol #3.

They say half the remedy of a problem is to admit you have one in the first place. I'm writing this. I have a problem. I need to think, act AND talk happy again. I need to quit obsessing about things I can't control. I need to remember all the things I used to like (my piano, my friends, men, understanding that this last one is a veritable Mt. Himalaya of a challenge) and try to forgive me and others a bit more.

Here goes.

Remember when I wrote...

...I'm going to blog "day and night?"


Well...



I was just kidding



....myself.

"There's a reason for everything..."

CANCER. It's big, it's bad and it's attacking my friend, Lynn. Today, I received one of her infrequent letters giving me progress on her life. I was waiting to hear about an update about her prognosis and hopefully good news about her passing her medical boards. This email was nothing of the kind. It was the proverbial white flag of defeat. Oh sure, plenty of people get cancer and continue to live every day lives..well, at least that's what the Edwards' presidential campaign is touting. But Lynn has no slick media people to tell her what to say or not to say. Her words were from the heart and her heart in this letter is fucking pissed off. The cancer is worse than she thought and she's sick already of the platitudes of "things happen for a reason" and "you're a strong woman". The cancer diagnosis was just one in the long line of insulting life situations that has seemed to follow her like some perverse, psychotic admirer. And she has chosen, due to her homeopathic training, to pursue a more natural way to fight the beast. I've been thinking about her all night long. Her words saying "I'm not going to do chemo or radiation" and wondering if I would know what to do in her situation. But, it's not my life to choose, is it? My words back to her tonight were simple . There were no calming words saying "let's fight this." I simply said "give me a weekend and I'll send you plane ticket." I cannot make this big black bo bo go away nor would I try. She has a medical degree. She knows the risks more than any googling the Mayo Clinic I could do. Now it's time for me to be a friend, talk openly and frankly with her, drink wine, paint our toes, talk about men together, and listen.

And it all began like this...

Ok, I succumb. I will join the masses of articulate, shallow, counter-culture, prom-dress-wearing, males and females of the world who have absolutely everything and nothing to say. Beginning today, I shall blog. Night and day. Heck, I'll blog until the cows come home. In fact, I've left little cow crackers all along my street just in case they're hungry.