Love, Jimmie

I Will Never Be The Same Again

03 Jun 2013 6 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Aack!, Outings Tags: WOLVERINE!

Dammit Todd and I went to the movies last week. I always have to go early so I can catch all the previews, the second best part of every movie.

During the previews there was a sudden flash of something on the screen. I couldn’t tell yet what it was but I knew it was huge because every estrogen-filled hormone in my body stood to rigid attention in an instant.

There was a second flash and with a thunderbolt it hit me. I sucked in a breath so hard that I ingested a piece of popcorn from the couple’s bucket in front of us. My ovaries flared into an explosion and then melted in a fiery blaze. I was irrevocably and helplessly disolved into a puddle of teenage longing.

I turned to Todd, my eyes huge, and stared beseechingly.

Already beaten and resigned to his fate, Dammit Todd sighed, “Fine, we’ll go.”

You guys, look what’s coming!

It’s going to a long, miserable, glorious wait!

Injury – Sniffle

01 Jun 2013 Leave a comment

by Love, Jimmie in Friends, I Will Cut You, Pets Tags: Humor

Y’all, I got injured last weekend.

I know what you are thinking. I know you are remembering my last post in which I told you that Woney and Squash and Nurse Bananahammock and I were going to drink like fish, and you are thinking “serves her right, big lush”. And I’ll be honest with you; this is exactly what happened in my kitchen Friday night:

Then this is what happened in my kitchen Saturday night:

And then this is what happened in my kitchen Sunday night:

And yes, a good time was had by all. Let the record show, though, that no bad decisions were made during any of these drinking incidents (unless you count my signing up and paying for a half marathon a bad decision. I am still unsure.) As I told you last time, I didn’t get to 40 by being a dumbass.

However! On Monday, when nothing happened in my kitchen at all, when none of us had a drop to drink other than water, when the sun was shining and when we were all calm and slightly subdued, I got hit by a car. Not my car. Me. *I* got hit by a car.

Let me tell you the story. See, Woney and I were dropping Squash off at the airport and as I was hugging her good-bye, I noticed that the area in which I parked my car was being encroached upon by a minivan with an old woman at the wheel. I thought to myself, “She’s awfully close there,” but then continued my sayonaras and arriva dercis with Squash. I made to return to my car and noticed that the old lady was even further encroached in the space where my back bumper sat. To avoid a tight squeeze between our cars, I walked around the front of my car to get in. As I did so, she gunned her motor, racing up to speeds of a half a mile an hour and she hit me. A person. She hit a person. With her minivan.

Ooh, I was Not Happy! I smacked her minivan and said “badword, badword, badword, LADY!” And do you know what she did? She gave me a finger wave and drove off. Like, “whoops, toodles, ta ta.” I’m here to tell you that her version of a finger wave after that sort of accident and my version of a finger wave after that sort of accident are two different finger waves.

Y’all, I was injured. I had not been drinking (again, not a dumbass), was totally in my own lane, was hugging a friend good-bye, and some nefarious wretched old person injured me. Probably I’m going to keep the nature of the injuries to myself until I see what kind of sympathy I can get from all of you, but ow.

And then! It gets worse! I have another story.

So Murphy, who is a bit of a slut, very much enjoyed the company of my nice new and old friends this weekend. All attention, all the time and Murphy is happy. Typically I’m alright with that as there’s only so much ear rubbing and fur scratching one person can give. Its only when he settles down into comfy Murphy, all wadded up amongst the covers, that I enjoy him the most. In those instances, when he’s snuggly and warm and purring, I’d rather have him all to myself. That’s the best Murphy, see. It upset me ever so slightly that Murphy decided to knead his biscuits on Woney’s blanket during all the girl movies we watched. I got a little indignant when he snoozed away the hours on her knees, but again, he’s pretty free with his love and I guess that’s what you expect from that sort of cat.

Seamus, though, is the one who did me in – this is the really injurious part (you see what I did there?). For three and one half years I have waited for that cat to come out of his shell. I’ve been patient, giving him peas and treats and space. I just knew that my persistence would eventually win him over. His shyness was the whole reason I adopted those two varmints in the first place. Well, his shyness and the hopes I could make him overcome it. I’ve waited for the day he would tentatively and shyly creep over to my side of the bed, settle himself in the crook of my arm and snooze away. And he did do that. He did. BUT WITH WONEY!

Now I love Woney, don’t get me wrong, but are you f-ing @#$$%@#@ kidding me? I said “badword, badword, badword, SEAMUS!” Want to know what he did? He gave me a finger wave and went to sleep.

Feel sorry for me, won’t you?

Cinco de Drinko

22 May 2013 1 Comment

by Love, Jimmie in Friends, Home Improvement, Pets Tags: Humor

So this past Saturday night as I was snaking a drain, I began a deep process of reflection over the state of my life. I reflected that I have two very bad cats, one of which sheds an entire cat in fur every day. I reflected that this same cat takes every opportunity he can to eat grass outside and then sprint inside to barf on my carpet. I reflected that I was at home, alone on a Saturday night, using a screwdriver to lever the drain stopper out of the sink. I then reflected fondly on the last few months of Saturday nights when I spent quality time with new and old friends, boozing it up and making merry and not staying home on a Saturday night to use a screwdriver to lever the drain stopper out of the sink. Then the stopper came out and I reflected that I sure do get awfully mad at a cat that does unspeakable things to my house for someone whose own shedding process has stopped up a drain beyond all hope (almost).

Speaking of quality time with new and old friends, boozing it up and making merry, I realize I never finished my Trip to Tampa story. Remember that trip I took to meet strangers back in January? I flew down to Florida on someone else’s dime (because people are nice) and met up with Woney and two strangers, Nurse Bananahammock and Squash, all three of which are coming to visit me this weekend. I never told you about it because I’m a big fat liar. However, with the looming holiday visit and the potential for alcohol consumption, all involving my new and old friends, I decided to stop being a liar and start being a writer. (For the record, Nurse Bananahammock coined the title above and while I do understand that the Cinco de Mayo holiday has passed, I was enamored of it and had to use it.)

The trip to Tampa was truly one of the best trips of my life. I had no idea how much I would genuinely like these new girls. Squash and I snuggled on a bed and fantasized about what our last meal would be if we got the chance to choose it. Nurse Bananahammock told the story of how she met and married her husband which will most likely be my love story next February. We played putt-putt and all discovered that I’m just as adept at putt-putt as I am at bowling. We also drank. A lot.

Now I’m not a big drinker. I’m a rare drinker. I’m also a total lightweight and a complete flirt when I drink. It does not matter to me one whit if you are a normal-looking person in a bar or a stranger in an alley missing some crucial bits of enamel from your mouth, I’m going to meet you. I’m going to introduce myself and tell you that I’m your favorite and if you ask me for a kiss, I’m going to give you one. Nurse Bananahammock has a husband that I shall call Rick, and Rick makes these margaritas that make you want to hurt yourself, and I had about three of those Rickaritas and all my new acquaintances became my new best friends and I loved them all. The fact that Nurse Bananahammock has a husband, Rick, and Squash has a husband, Bob, did stop me from kissing their wives (I do respect boundaries after all), but boy did I have a nice time. A lot of fond memories there . . . .

Rickarita

Now let’s move on to the Mississippi trip. I didn’t tell you about that either, did I? I’m such a big, fat liar. Remember how Woney moved to Mississippi? Remember how she used to live in California? Remember how California is one of those sophisticated places with fancy bars and trendy eateries and general niceness? Well, turns out Mississippi has some nice things to offer as well, and Woney took me to one.

Daiquiri World!

Y’all, this is a drive thru daiquiri place. Did you get that? DRIVE THRU. DAIQUIRI PLACE. You drive around the side of the building, up to the window, peruse the menu and holler, “I’ll have the Pink Panties, please,” and the woman at the window serves it right up. And then you can just DRIVE OFF with that daiquiri in your paw. Mind you, the driver of the car is technically not supposed to put the straw in the cup (this is how they get around the drinking and driving law, I guess), but I didn’t see a single person leave without that straw firmly ensconced in that cup.

I took a few swigs of my DRIVE THRU DAIQUIRI before leaving the place and during that time, Woney and I were called “Baby” by no fewer than fifteen people. The bouncer at the door, the guy playing pool (who also told us that we were the best looking things to ever grace the place – and I agreed with him), the server of the daiquiris, a guy in the parking lot, a girl in the parking lot. The list continues. By number fifteen I was feeling the effects of the DRIVE THRU DAIQUIRI and started to become enamored of those affectionate folks. I’d hear “Baby” and turn expectantly, Iips puckered, and flutter my eyelashes. Woney, who knows me well, sensed this turn of events and hightailed me out of there. It was a fantastic experience. I very much want to go back.

I’m guessing that Memorial Day weekend will bring loads of similar good stories about me and my nice friends. I’m also guessing that it will bring lots of alcohol consumption. We’ve got this spreadsheet going on which we list all the things we want to do while they are here. There will be snuggling on beds discussing our chosen last meals. There will be girlie movies out the wazoo. There will be a visit to the Opry. And finally, there will be many, many tasty beverages. I’m alright with that. Bring it on, nice new and old friends. I am so ready for you! (And I even have clean drains!)

(Just because I know my audience and know how much you luff me, please know that mostly I’ll be the DD so please, no worries and no lectures. I didn’t get to 40 by being a dumbass.)

Silence Broken

02 May 2013 5 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Family

“You seem quiet. Are you alright?”

I get that question a lot lately. In many ways I am quiet now. I don’t write. I talk, but maybe not with the same exuberance anymore. I want to write. I want to talk. I want to be my happy self, but I’ve not been exactly in that place for the last month. I feel like there’s a giant elephant in the room yet despite doing my best to avoid him, he is not going away. So let’s discuss the elephant.

Losing Poppa has me thinking a lot about life. I picture it in my head as a river, strong and steady, moving rapidly and forcefully to the final destination which is what? Here on Earth I don’t know. But along the way life runs into strainers. A tree stump in the stream. A pile of logs that beavers arranged into a dam. The loss of a parent. In my head I’ve been stuck on that strainer for the last month, pressed against that tree stump by the force of the current and it makes me lose my breath. I see the life swirling around me and people floating by but I’m held by the swift movement of the water against the wood. Truthfully, I haven’t wanted to leave the safety of the stump and swim out into life again. Not yet. I can see that the water will knock me loose eventually and swallow me up but I haven’t been quite ready for the swim.

I miss Poppa. For 35 years I got to call him mine. I was one of those spoiled children who had two fathers, both exceptional men, who loved me. I was already lucky with Daddy. He didn’t get to choose me. I was born to him. I know, though, that if he could have chosen me he would have. Poppa, on the other hand, did choose me. He met my mother and then met me and Martie and then he asked us to marry him. We did, when I was eight and Martie was six. We don’t have a lot of life without him as part of the framework.

There are so many memories of him to sort through. I’m crying as I type this. I cry every time I’ve typed this, because I’ve been working on it for weeks now. These memories are too big for me sometimes. My mother says a lot, “I’m not sad but I just miss him.” I get that. I just miss him. How do you encapsulate a man and everything he was to you in a memory? In a book of memories? It’s just too big.

I think of Poppa in two parts. At least I did. First is the Poppa that I knew from the beginning. He was the man who accepted Martie and me as his own from day one, even though we were kids who probably resisted sharing our mom after having her all to ourselves for a few years. He fixed our hair when my mom was out of town, those brushes and ponytail holders he was so unfamiliar with looping through his hands. He brought us two brothers that Martie and I adored, even if it meant sharing our mom with two more people we were not expecting. I remember Poppa teaching me how to shoot a variety of guns over the course of a weekend because he wanted to make sure I knew how to take care of myself if the need ever arose. I remember him teaching me my spelling words and because simple memorization was not enough, he made sure I knew what they meant. We all remember him making us walk the right path and follow the house rules even if we thought he didn’t know them. He made my chicken pen. He built my mother a barn. He gave us his car and his time and his heart. This Poppa makes me cry now because I want him back. I don’t want to lose any of that, any part of him.

The other Poppa is the one who left us. That Poppa was the one who got so sick so fast and dealt with a tremendous amount of pain and confusion in a short amount of time. He desperately wanted to go home and when he asked if we’d let him, we had to say no. It was a hard time for all of us and we all felt terrible, telling him that the only thing he wanted, right or wrong, could not happen. Even through his anger, though, and the confusion and the delirium, he never stopped loving us. He never stopped saying, “I love you too, babe” when we said “Poppa, I love you. I’m so sorry.” He never stopped squeezing our hands when we just needed that connection to let him know we were there. He never stopped until he did. It was okay to allow that Poppa to leave. It was okay to release him because we all knew that the release was coming and that it was right. This Poppa also makes me cry but it’s okay.

For a while I traveled around with those two Poppas in my head. Both made me sad in different ways. I was talking with my brother about it one day, and he simply said, “But he’s in a new body . . . ” And just like that, I got a third Poppa. This one is whole. He has no pain. His hands and his joints and his body are not broken. His spirit is not broken. His heart is not broken. Instead, he is ALIVE and joyful and rejoicing! That Poppa makes me the happiest of all. God, in this plan, makes me the happiest of all.

So a note to Poppa, to the man who shaped all of us and loved us and who is still in us, I say this:

I love you, Poppa. I loved you from the start and I loved you all the way through it and I loved you more at the end. Thank you for being a father to me. Thank you for being a protector for me. Thank you for accepting me and choosing me and loving me back. Rest and Rejoice, Poppa. Soon I will kick off from that tree stump and swim out into life, joyful and embracing and living the way you’d want me to because I know this is not the end. This is just the beginning. I will see you soon.

Back In The Groove?

09 Apr 2013 3 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in I'm Going Somewhere, In Which I Throw Myself Under The Bus Tags: Humor

In 91 days, Woney and I are leaving for Ireland. Actually, we are leaving for New York first, then two days after that we are leaving for Ireland. When things are on an even keel, it is pretty much all I talk about anymore.

So I was on the elevator, talking about Ireland with a co-worker, when one of the maintenance guys riding the elevator with us asked, “Are you of Irish descent?”

I said, “Of course. Can you see my freckles? That is the Irish part. The giant calves I have, that is the German part. So I’m both.”

Here’s where my story takes a tragic turn. The maintenance guy twinkled at me and said in his best flirty voice, utterly proud of himself, “There is nothing wrong with a sturdy woman.”

Sturdy. Woman.

Sturdy.

I don’t even want to talk anymore.

The end.

Rest, Poppa

28 Mar 2013 6 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Family

James David Rhea, III

1940 – 2013

How To Write A Book Proposal, By Jimmie

25 Mar 2013 7 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Aack!, Family, Imparting Wisdom Tags: Humor

Step One – November 2012

Receive news that a publishing company is accepting full book proposals from women writers. The deadline is midnight, March 15, 2013. Get excited and yap about it to everyone you meet for three solid days.

Step Two – December 2012 thru February 2013

Push book proposal far from your mind. You have plenty of time.

Step Three – February 28, 2013

Realize in a sudden panic at 3:00 a.m. that you only have two weeks to complete the book proposal. Berate yourself mightily for an hour or two then phone all friends and family members (at a reasonable hour, of course) to explain why you will be unavailable to them for the next 15 days. Tell them you love them then turn off your phone. It is also best if you shut all off social media sights like Facebook, Yahoo, Google, etc. but everyone knows you would never do that in a million years.

Step Four – March 1, 2013

Begin your research on what a full book proposal entails. Understand with a slow, sickening realization that this is worse than any term paper you have ever written. Understand that as much as you talk about yourself on your blog and to your friends, a book proposal is a more narcissistic and self-involved project than you have attempted to date. Did you guys know you have to sell yourself? I didn’t. I do now.

Step Five – March 1 – 14, 2013

Write like mad. Massage your fingers when they cramp from the typing. Dream of your book. Leave a notebook beside your bed so that when you have a revelation at 2:00 a.m. you have a place to write your thoughts. Make arrangements to stay late after work every night so that you have two giant monitors and fantastic internet service at your disposal. You also want no distractions. Save your proposal in no less than three locations. Losing that work is something you don’t even want to think about.

Step Six – March 1 – 14, 2013

Do research. Focus on what others have done before you and how it can help you now. Realize that everyone who has ever written a book before you is a genius and you are an idiot. Wonder how 50 Shades of Gray ever got published (Gray? Grey? I have no idea. Didn’t read them). Reread some of your work and laugh out loud and then continue on with the proposal because you know that most of what you have is very good and that if you never pursue this, you will never succeed at this. Repeat this step a minimum of five times. You must second-guess yourself and then take pride in your work alternately. It’s how you keep your weight down during this process.

Step Seven – March 15, 2013

Receive an early morning phone call from Martie that Poppa is gravely ill and in a helicopter on his way to Vanderbilt. Begin to cry at the office and then work like a dog so that when he finally gets to Vanderbilt you can leave and drive 90 miles an hour to the hospital where you sit for hours in the CCU. Rub Poppa’s head and talk nonsense, as he is, about anything you can think of, just to make him stop hurting, just to calm everyone down. Mention that you wrote a book. When Poppa shows the merest sign of lucidity, he will say, “You wrote a book? What is it about?” Tell him then, and explain about the book proposal and say “Yes, sir” when he says, “Make sure you turn it in.”

When Brother Bear gets to the hospital, you hug him then leave. You have 90 minutes to put the finishing touches on your proposal. You thought you were going to have five hours. You were wrong. You italicize everything, add commas, write the query letter and send it off three minutes before the midnight deadline. Then you go to sleep with acid in your stomach worrying about Poppa. The next morning you check your email to see that the proposal was received. Then you wait for two months before hearing who won the coveted prize of a publishing contract.

Monkey wrenches you might encounter:

You will think that Twizzlers will aid in the writing process. They do not. Do not be lulled into the false sense of security they give with their unique waxy strawberry flavor.
You will feel that you have enough time to make healthy dinners during this process. You do not. Subway needs to become part of your dietary plan during this time.
Never forget the ponytail holder. Your hair will annoy the ever-loving shit out of you during this process.
Do not answer the phone, even for a quick question! This is bad! The person on the other end of the line will have every interest in eventually ending the call and you will not. You will drone on for as long as they let you until they finally just hang up while you are in mid-sentence. For those of you not in the know, this is called Procrastination.
Give yourself a pat on the back for staying late every night at work to really focus on your project. Then take it back when you find yourself alone in the office with the one person who also is working late, the person who sits right next to you, and the person who is so quiet during the day that you are surprised when everyone leaves at how she begins a running monologue for one and half hours. She is talking to you, telling you the same story over and over again, only changing a word here and there so it sounds different. She does not take a breath between sentences. She is relentless yet sweet so you can say nothing other than the occasional “mmm hmmm”. Go to the bathroom and when you get back, you’ll find that she is still talking, loudly and with force, and that she didn’t even realize you were gone. Go to Subway, get some dinner, eat it, and when you get back, she will still be nattering on as if you never left. When she finally leaves for home and all is quiet at the office, weep a little for the lost time.
That might be it. That whole process is a bit fuzzy now as time has passed and I cried a lot.

So that’s how it’s done, people. A book proposal in seven easy steps. Piece of cake.

I got this, right?

Update

22 Mar 2013 2 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Family, Health, Weight Loss

Poppa is home! I am so happy to be able to type that sentence. On Tuesday I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to and on Thursday they began the discharge process. Poppa wanted to give the teams of specialists at Vanderbilt a challenge, I think, because he tested all of them: heart, lung, head, gastro, ortho, circulation, janitorial, nutrition, laundry, medical supplies, etc. It was a scary time but God is good, and while Poppa is tired and sore and weak, he’s sleeping in his own bed now. All the nurses loved him, by the way. He is a charmer even if he looks and feels like death.

Brother Bear flew in for our hospital party last Friday and while he was here, I remembered why I hate his very guts. I’ve been working hard these last few weeks to get rid of the fat that likes to embrace my body in a giant bear hug. I’ve lost something like 13 pounds overall (the exact same weight Poppa lost in two weeks when he started feeling poorly), and it’s because I’m picky about the food I eat and because I go to the gym a lot. Brother Bear waltzed in off the plane with his lithe, thin whippet body and during the three days he visited, he ate the following:

Donuts
Poptarts
10 piece Chicken McNuggets
Some bready, cheesy, saucy, fat-filled sandwich from Au Bon Pain
Some floury, cheesy, saucy, fat-filled wrap from Au Bon Pain
A footlong Subway something or other
Mountain Dew
Chocolate
And this monstrosity

Do you know that that is? It’s a Monte Cristo which means it has the fat content of four sandwiches and that it has ham and turkey and lots of bread and two kinds cheese and then some more cheese and then some batter and then it is DEEP FRIED and then it has powdered sugar AND JAM. Are you kidding me? He ate it all. I had some grilled chicken and green beans and broccoli. And then I got bloated and he lost a pound.

Brother Bear, I don’t even want to talk to you right now.

Another update: Woney moved. Remember, she lived all the way across the country in CALlFORNIA while I live all way on the other side of the country in TENNESSEE and that makes gossiping with her face to face very difficult. However, Woney has now moved to MISSISSIPPI. Yes, I know. I don’t understand it either. The culture shock may kill her so we all need to think good thoughts for her as now she has to learn how to say “y’all” and “bless her heart” and also how to make tea with four cups of sugar per gallon. I really wanted to ask you guys to remember her in your prayers and whatnot before she left as she was driving across the country by herself but since she did it quicker than I was expecting, she’s already there. It won’t be long until she begins complaining of the heat and the humidity and I’ll feel compelled to buy her a box fan which I will totally do and then personally hand deliver it because now she is no longer a $400 plane ride away. Now I can go visit her on the weekends. Do you know how happy this makes me? Oh, we are going to get into so much trouble.

I have some other requests for you. Loads of my friends are in transition now, so while you are lifting up Poppa and Woney, I’d also like for you to remember Lynnette, Freddie, Kindle, Quan and a new-to-you friend I shall call Happy. And then throw Madre on the list because life with Poppa will be a bit different now. Madre will take that on as she does everything else: fiercely and with great vigor, but still, transition is hard.

As for me, I turned in my book proposal. Yay, me. I would be far more enthusiastic about that but my family and I just spent eight days being terrified and so it is enough for me to type all this up tonight. I really am proud and once I get my house in order and my laundry done, I’ll write with much more finesse and with many more exclamation points.

Thanks, all, who were supportive in any way. Prayers, good thoughts, hugs, phone calls, offers of assistance, emails. Thank you for all of it. I’m proud to call you mine.

These Hands

16 Mar 2013 8 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Family, Health Tags: Bittersweet

See these hands? I know what you are thinking. You are thinking, “What in the world happened to that guy? Why do his hands look like that? What are you doing, showing us a picture like that?” Hang on with me here.

Those are Poppa’s hands. Yes, they are gnarled and they look beat all to hell. They look weak and sick and like they can’t do much, I know. I’m here to tell you that that isn’t true. Those hands have done amazing things over the course of his lifetime.

See this eagle? Poppa made that for me. Carved it with his own two hands.

See this knife? Poppa made it. He carved every single curve in that handle by hand.

See these gun stocks? Poppa made them. All of that shaping was done by hand, with a tool and some sandpaper.

Poppa’s hands have always looked like knots of inflammation and bone, and they curl inward more with every year that passes. They hurt him but mostly you never know it. Give him a glass with no handle and instead of asking for another that is easier for him to lift, he hooks his thumb and forefinger onto to lip instead. Give him some jeans that are too large and instead of fighting to run a belt through the loops, he attaches a pair of suspenders and hitches them over his shoulders. Give him a cheek and he will reach up to touch it, soft and gentle.

Poppa needs your prayers again. Please. My brother calls him the Man on the Mountain. It is accurate. Our Man on the Mountain is giving us another scare, and we truly are afraid. Please think of him. Wish him peace. We need that.

What?

08 Mar 2013 4 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Health, Weight Loss Tags: Humor

I made the unlikeliest friend today. I’m not even sure what to do with this story.

I’ve had the funk all week. I’m not saying I’ve ever had the flu but I’m not saying I’ve never had it either. Whatever this was, this throat/ear/ache thing, I relied heavily on ibuprofen and sleep and thus missed three out of the last five gym visits. It has not been fun.

Today I basically went to the gym to take a shower and to weigh in (had a loss!). I was hoofing it around the indoor track for a fifteen minute walk to justify my shower when snooty snothole Bianca jogged up beside me. She reached out and touched my arm and said, “Jog with me?”’

Now remember, Bianca does not speak to me. The last conversation we had was really more of a monologue in which Bianca said, “I come to the gym to work out, not to make friends.” My surprise at her request was so great that I began to jog with her except what we did could in no way be classified as a jog. It was a half mile sprint. My poor Advil-weary lungs were burning but I sprinted on for six whole laps. Then I walked a few and when I was able to stop gasping, Bianca and I chatted. It was . . . . nice.

I know I’ve been seen sparingly here this week and next week will be no different. I’m working on a book proposal. It’s my first one and there is a deadline attached to it. I have no illusions about my success but I will never get anywhere with this if I don’t try. Let me get this done and I’ll be back with you. I still have more stuff to tell you.

Your favorite,

Jimmie