my half-glassed life

Thank You, Betty Kirby

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 22:39:00 +0000

I stood up against censorship when I was 17 to my high school principal over the content of a fictional story written for Belles Lettres, our annual literary publication.

My voice — internally and externally — was shaking, and I didn't think my fellow editors and I even thought we'd be able to include our response statement, even though we had the full support of our adviser.

Our little fuck-you statement, was in retrospect, much — much — milder than that hypenated adjective I just used to describe it. (Well of course it was. We couldn't go getting our censorship response censored.) It simply said, at the top of an otherwise blank page:

"The Belle Lettres staff

would like to say everything good

there is to say about censorship:"

In fact, just a few years later, once I'd entered The Grady School of Journalism at the University of Georgia, I found myself embarrassed for its mildness. My 20-year-old self was full of I'm-gonna-change-the-world arrogance, and rightfully so. My 17-year-old self had spent a lifetime as an Army brat, 12 years in the DoD education system and was just grateful to be finally doing something against the rules that would bring her praise and not punishment. And rightfully so.

It wouldn't have surprised either version of the younger me that at 43, I'd still be proud of my instincts and responsiveness. Nor that I would have the freedom that I do to express myself in myriad public ways. Whether it turned out to be a column in The Chicago Tribune, or my own little nation that I've staked out on the Internet is irrelevant. This is America. My father fought to ensure we'd all have that freedom.

It would have shocked the hell out both of them, however, that at 43, I'd still be faced with censorship.

And it should shock you, too. Please check out the facts, and please vote.

Thank you. From every single one of me.

Saturday the 14th. Still Here.

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Sat, 14 Jan 2012 19:28:00 +0000

Um. Yeah. That counts as a victory 'round these parts.

In fact it counts as a big ol' "WOO-FREAKIN'-HOO!"

We take our triumphs where we find them these days.

And now Percy and I are going to settle in for a long (painless) winter's (it actually is cold) nap (yeah — snooze, sleep and snore — the whole shebang).

Carry on.

Wait. What? Yes. Yes, of course with your bad selves. Is there any other way?

Friday the 13th

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 21:18:00 +0000

So far, so good.

All necessary business done for the day. Clean, soft, smell-good outfit (READ: PAJAMAS) on. Any knocks on the door shall go unanswered. Any unknown phone numbers will be siphoned to voice mail.

If you really need me — you really know how to find me.

It's not that we're that superstitious (Really. Well, kinda sorta maybe not ...); it's just that odd, unusual, unexpected, unwelcome and what the hell, we'll just say it: Really. Fucked. Up. Things have somehow found their way to Halfglassistan over the course of the last 13+ months, and a random message from one of said things (READ: THE LITTLE BITCHES THAT PASS AS OVARIES — WHOOPS! — OVARY SINGULAR. ONE WENT BYE-BYE LAST SUMMER. HER TWIN HAS DECIDED TO DO A LITTLE CHA-CHA DOWN BY MY HOO-HAH THIS PAST MONTH.) was interpreted this a.m. A distraction that was most unwelcome, as we have plenty of other ... well ... really fucked up things to deal with already.

And now, the girl who looooooves alliteration is taunted by the two words, when used in tandem, she despises the most.

Watchful. Waiting.

Considering everything is on the inside and not on some nifty balcony below my bellybutton, I find the term "Watchful" especially taunting. I'd be much more relaxed for the "Waiting" if I had a little closed circuit TV down in my business so I could actually watch it. As it is, it's really just Waiting Waiting, which I typically despise in most any context.

(insert indignant snort of derision HERE)

It's 4:10 p.m. EST. I'm going to park my ass in bed, with Nurse Tilly, a good book, remote controls and magazines for at least the next eight hours. At least. To be on the safe side, I'm thinking ass-parking may be done the majority of the weekend. Especially since our buddy Percy is here to soothe the savage ~~beast~~ bitch doing a polka in my pelvis. And, being as controlled as he is, he does a rather good job of keeping me in one place.

Come midnight, and it's Saturday the 14th, I have a pretty strong feeling that Percy will have set the tone for weekend. It's the other twenty-odd days that follow.

My prediction for Halfglassistan: People will be Watching us as we put our fingers in our ears, close our eyes, sing la-la-la-la and continue Waiting.

Meh. It could be worse. It could always — always — be worse.*

*Holy crap.
Anyone else catch that flashback to the early days of Halfglassistan?
Where the hell did that come from?!
I. Don't. Know. But I like it. I like it a lot.

Surreality Bites

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Sun, 08 Jan 2012 19:34:00 +0000

You know those dreams that are so real, you find yourself convincing your conscious mind that your brain essentially just Punk'd you?

Yeah. They suck. Worse yet, they stick with you.

Carry on. I'm gonna go scrub my cerebellum with Clorox.

Smack My Ass & Call Me Sassy

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 01:26:00 +0000

I? Am feeling cheeky. And feeling hair that's a lot less brunette around my sizable cheeks.

Something spontaneous in me (uh ... CatCon) decided we needed an adventure. Posted above is not the best photographic evidence, but I was, well, feeling spontaneous (impatient) and snapped it in the parking lot while there was still available sunlight.

There aren't many pictures of me here in Halfglassistan, which is in direct correlation to the reason I'm starting Weight Watchers next week. Yeah. Haven't been happy with the way I've looked and felt for a while. However, the ones that do exist show my natural chestnut brown haircolor. I have experimented — poorly — with peroxide in the past (An almost-platinum streak down one side in high school. In the eighties. Oh. And at my sister's wedding. Niiiiccce.), but never told a professional to go for it.

Until today.

I love it. It's a blend of caramel and honey and a little creamy milk chocolate. I didn't want anything to clash with my brown Irish eyes, and my stylist didn't let me down.

The only downside? I came home and Mr. J wasn't here to say, "Oh. Yeah. Yeah. Turn around. I like it. She did a good job. Wait. Come here. Yeaaahh. I really like it. You look great." Insert kiss here.

That's just one typical male stereotype Mr. J didn't fall into. He never missed something new. That might have something to do with the fact that I made sure he knew something new was coming (I never understood girls getting pissed off because their significant other didn't notice that they just had an quarter-inch trimmed off their hair. Turn the tables. You wouldn't notice either.). Or it just might have something to do with why I love him. And miss him beyond description.

I'm going to be writing more about that. I'm going to be writing more, period. Those of you who are still out there reading — I'm hoping there are still folks reading — know that I've not chronicled much of life in Halfglassistan for the past year.

The reason is simple. Since Mr J's death, I've spent an awful lot of time in the other half of the glass. It's something he wouldn't have wanted. But — and this is up at the top of the list of "Reasons I Love Jamie Wedding" — he would have understood.

So I'm going to show up around here a lot more, regardless of in which half of the kingdom I'm residing. And I hope you will, too.

I need you.

And don't think that mention of Weight Watchers was inadvertent. No. A fab new 'do can only take me so far. I'll be posting WW progress here as well. (Aw hell. I've really gotta do it now.)

Hopefully, as time passes, my cheekiness will be more attitude, and less assitude.

Keep coming back. (See three paragraphs up. Really.)

Well. Thank You, Captain Obvious.

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 20:18:00 +0000

Above is a Christmas gift from my sisters.

In case you can't clearly read below "Middle Sister" (Yes. Me.), here's a closer look:

Yes. Yes it does say "drama queen." (Yes. Also me.)

However, you also must have noticed the disparity in fashion:

Yes. Yes, also me.
In fact, I am currently watching bowl games while sporting a chic little trench (um, grey yoga pants and black t-shirt), a classic black handbag (er, my iPhone in my pocket) and my hair in a chic twist on top of my head (uh, a ponytail contained by a Goody(TM) elastic) and pumps and Jackie O. sunglasses (no, really; that's the truth ... it's tres fetch).

I'm also holding a glass of the clever California vintage above. Oh, yes. And sipping it. Today's still officially a holiday, so daydrinking isn't quite as risque. But still ... there's a little thrill.

So Happy New Year's and chin-chin, my friends. May the coming year bring us all much more laughter, fewer tears and more love than you can possibly imagine.

Oh -- and plenty of high heels, comfy clothes, ponytails and tiaras, relaxing beverages and a diva attitude. All at once. Whenever you want.

Why the hell not?

Cheers, my dears.

(BTW, as far as accuracy in labeling goes, yes, my little sister does have bigger boobs than my older sister. Just in case you were wondering.)

A Thousand Words — And Then Some

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 22:06:00 +0000

It's not our intention to only post on holidays, despite the fact that the merry-merry header went up today, and we haven't been heard from since 'round Halloween.

Really.

No. It's simply that we've been speechless.

Really.

There is much truth to the the cliche "a picture's worth a thousand words," because I have been trying to come up with the proper ones to accompany the following images since November 1. Yes, All Saints Day, another day of observation, and from 2010 on here in Halfglassistan, Mr. J. Celebration Day, as well.

The images that follow are posted in no particular order, have not been edited, altered or enhanced in any way, and are all ©2011 caryn bowen/halfglassistan. The only common denominator, to me, is that they make my heart swell every time I look at them. But every time — every time — I see something different and different words and ideas come to mind. And none of them seem worthy of what my eyes see and my heart feels.

So I'm just going to stay out of the conversation and let them speak to you, too.

I hope as many — or more— words came to you, too.

Up, Up and Away ...

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Thu, 27 Oct 2011 03:20:00 +0000

"This one's for you, Uncle Jamie ..." - Caryn Conley Bowen
©2010 cliff bowen/halfglassistan

Sometimes truth just happens. It just happens and can be a beautiful accident. And it just sucks at the same time.

This unprompted photo of my nephew J.C. was taken last year on Halloween night in Atlanta. His mama, my baby sister Caryn, was 300-something miles away in South Carolina, fielding phone calls, fetching fast food, giving Nurse Tilly much needed breaks and — along with my big sister, Chrisie — basically making sure whatever was happening around me just happened. If without my knowing, at least without my worrying about it. Because in less than 24 hours, Mr. J would be — I choose to think — in the heavens where the above almost-two-years-old John Conley Bowen is looking. And, it must be noted, saluting with a Tootsie Pop, my favorite simile for describing Mr. J's personality. Hard outside. Soft inside. Meltable parts always much closer to the surface than he'd ever have you believe.

Caryn didn't caption this photo until a week later, November 8, what would have been Mr. J's 48th birthday. Mr. J did not like to celebrate his birthday, but as he was reminded every year, " ... you knew what you were getting into when you married me. Birthdays are not ignored in my world ..." Last year, it was celebrated on Facebook, where still-stunned friends and family posted simple messages.

Mr. J's death was surrounded by what I am choosing to call — instead of cruel coincidences or circumstance — beautiful accidents of truth. He died two days after our 11th wedding anniversary. He died the day after Halloween (Trust me, there's a story here and it's coming, too. Soonish.). He died on his father's birthday. He died on All Saint's Day. (I would have gone to light a candle for him for the rest of my days regardless. Way to go, baby, dying on a Holy Day. Now every year, you're gonna get that full-blown ritual of Mass that you dug so much.) He died a week before his own birthday. I choose — I very definitively choose — to see poetry rather than pity in these coincidences.

Except the truth that just sucks. My brilliant, beautiful nephew J.C. will only know his brilliant and beautiful Uncle Jamie through stories and pictures — as will so many of our Munchkins. And the eerie poetic quality of this undeniable circumstance of suckitude? When I had just turned three, my Aunt Betty Ann died of cancer. She was, as my beloved Uncle Ray has so often expressed without anyone contradicting him, "The best of them all," meaning my mother's siblings. That phrase repeated itself a year ago when my beloved brother-in-law Rob said many times of Mr. J, "He was the best of all of us," meaning his siblings.

I'm not equipped to pass judgment on either declaration. But I am all too familiar with the pangs of loving — deeply and desperately — someone you never knew. The blessing in Betty Ann's death ... Wait. What's that you say? Yes. Yes, more coincidences. ... Betty Ann left behind a teenaged daughter, Lynn. Who just happens to be my godmother. And as a too-early-widowed woman herself, she is also a guide, a comfort and everything I've needed a second mother to be. Lynn is also the mother of the mothers of many of my oft-mentioned Munchkin tribe who has given me so much joy over the past year — Mommies and Munchkins alike. And finally, no coincidence at all, her latest grandchild's name, James. Whose two-month birthday does just happen to be today.

So. I've decided that every year, the November chapter of The Ballad of Uncle Jamie will be about happiness. About love. And I will think to myself about the way all of these independently unconnected dates and details are pressed into a imperfectly perfect tale.

November 1 marks the one-year anniversary of Mr. J's departure from this world. I'll be Atlanta for the week, receiving very much needed sister, parent, puppy and J.C. therapy. And the opening page of the story to come will be a sky filled with bright, free-flying symbols of weightless — and painless — shiny, happy messages to Mr. J.

I know, without a doubt, even though he's another place, he's with me. With all who love him. But when I think of him, when I talk to him, when I stop whatever I'm doing to just breathe, I look to the sky. So that's where the messages are headed.

With J.C.'s help, I'll be releasing 50 balloons — 49 for Mr. J's birthday that I still will never ignore — and truly one to grow on for Baby James. To them, I'll tie names, messages, anything that's light enough to float and from whomever would like them attached.

CatCon will be fielding and organizing any requests. (I know. I've already had to tell her three times: "No. Glitter.") Comment here on the blog. Click on the e-mail the author link below. Email me here. Post it on my half-glassed life's Facebook page.

As I've said before, here in Halfglassistan, we welcome all. And as we say here in South Carolina, "Y'all come." Bring on the love.

The Wonder That's Keeping The Stars Apart

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Fri, 21 Oct 2011 03:52:00 +0000

Every child of the military knows where home is. Our mothers taught us that "home is wherever Daddy is."

That's been true all of my life and luckily, still is today. The SGM has been retired for decades now but just as Mom did for 30 years all over the world, she has maintained that one constant security for her children.

I've also been blessed to have the comfort and love of many others whose doors are open to me, providing not only safe haven — but also that undefinable, yet instantly recognizable essence that is home. Sisters. Cousins. Aunts. Friends. Even the familiar voices of faces I'd not seen since adolescence — one in Memphis, one in Phoenix and one in Kentucky — can reach through a cell phone and wrap me in a cloak of solace as surely as if they were tucking a blanket around me as I curled up on their couch.

But as safe — and perhaps much more importantly, loved — each of these make me feel, none has erased a singular longing.

I want to go home. My father holds me and tells me in his living room, "You are home."

I lie with my head in my big sister's lap, as she strokes my hair while I weep and long for home.

My baby sister holds me tight, both of us crying in her driveway. "You have so many homes. So many people who love you."

"No. I want my home." She holds me tighter.

I look at my godmother, who 15 years ago was also widowed in her early 40's. "I want to go home," I sob. Her shining eyes mirror mine.

And she says: " I know."

On a quiet November afternoon, in the home we had made, I peacefully held my husband in my arms as I waited for the gentlemen in the dapper suits to arrive. I calmly walked outside with them as they prepared to take him for one last ride. I kissed his beautiful face and watched as they closed the heavy black door. I turned to walk back inside, still determined and head held high. I summoned the same posture of dignity I'd tried to maintain throughout every challenge of the previous years.

I stood straight and tall until I recrossed the threshold of what was now just walls and floors, windows and doors. Just a house. Mocking me. I have no idea how many steps I took before I hit the floor. I have no idea how quickly, or how many, arms wrapped around me. How many I reached for and clutched.

In the moment, I had no idea where the grotesque sounds I heard were coming from. Sounds I'd never heard and hoped I never would again. I soon realized they were coming from me, and all too soon, realized I would hear them again. And again. And again as the months passed. Even if only in my mind as my mouth formed silent screams. It could have been at 3 p.m. and I was locked in the restroom in my office, hoping the running water would mask any gasp that escaped. More often, it was 3 a.m. and I couldn't stop long enough to catch my breath, much less think — or care — about what my neighbors might have thought if they heard.

More days than I care to admit, at the end of the day, I'd pull my phone out as I walked to my car and punched 2 to tell Mr. J that I was on my way home.

But there was no home.

Because my best friend, my confidante, my cheerleader, my protector whose eyes and arms could erase fears in an instant and my playmate who could make me laugh and sing just as quickly was no longer there.

Over the past year, it's taken me a long time to realize that the same metaphor that marked the first twenty-odd years of my life is still true.

Now Jamie's heart equals home. And home is, was, and always will be where he is.

"... and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart. i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart.)"

And as long as I can keep sight of that wonder, I'm safe at home.

excerpt from i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart) ©1952 e.e. cummings

Wordless Beginning-To-Turn-A-Corner Wednesday

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Thu, 20 Oct 2011 01:07:00 +0000

(... and breathe X3, and repeat ...)

Procrastiperfectionation At Um, Work

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Mon, 20 Jun 2011 18:37:00 +0000

Consider this post a coming attraction.

[Insert booming announcer-guy voice here ... aw crap. He died.

Rest in peace, booming announcer-guy voice man. (sigh) Go ahead and and use your own voice.]

"In a world full of uncertainty,

and a mind filled with chaos,

she sought just one thing —

to go home ..."

Trust me when I say there's something coming worth tuning in for, but it's currently trapped in a rampant but-not-so-random bubble storm in my head.

As soon as the procrastiperfectionator who also lives up in there pops all the bubbles, catches all of their splashes and organizes them,* the feature presentation will begin.**

Until then, eat your popcorn and stick around.

*It's both easier and harder than it sounds

**No, my ~~annoying~~ dear literalists, it's not actually a movie, just a metaphor,

which is also both easier and harder than it sounds.

What's that?

Yes. Yes, even for me, the self-declared ruler of my own kingdom,

rampant neologismist and self-important chronicler of ~~all of the~~ ~~perverse~~

most thoughts t~~hat hopefully won't get her committed to a psych ward~~

that pass through my head.

With Apologies to Misters Simon & Garfunkel

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Sat, 11 Jun 2011 15:27:00 +0000

"Hello bronchitis, my old friend.

How I detest feeling you again,

With your hack-ing a-a-nd wheezing,

You pre-vent thinking o-o-or sleep-ing ...

But now with two shots in my bum,

z-pac and codiene on its way —

It's safe to say (I pray),

I'll hear the sounds ... of silence."

This post has been brought to you by CatCon,

who is quite used to finding herself among

"people talking with-o-o-out speaking (to her),

people hearing without-o-o-out listening (to her),

and people writ-ing songs that her voice should never share,

and yet she dares, disturb the sound of of silence."

Wordless "Yes. Yes, I Am Happy You're Home"* Wednesday

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Wed, 08 Jun 2011 21:54:00 +0000

*"Are you done playing with your new toy?

I'm behind on my 19.7 hours of daily required beauty sleep."

*"Until you have iFood in that hand, I'll thank you not to wake me."

Back Home Again In Indiana

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Tue, 31 May 2011 18:08:00 +0000

I do love me some gritty city:

[picture the El platform with folks bundled up in hats, boots, coats, gloves and scarves. I'd actually post the pic I had to take to capture the 40-something degree weather on May 26, but I can't actually figure out how to do it yet on this itty-bitty iPhone. Quite frankly, I'm amazed I've figured this much out. The bundled up pix are not of me. Oh, no. I was wearing khaki capris, an adorable little cardigan and open-toed flats. I'll choose cute over comfort every time. I did throw on a windbreaker (um, stylish...not stupid.) but I promptly checked it upon my arrival at the Art Institute.]

And some not-gritty city:

[picture the green patina of the iconic lions standing guard over some of the world's greatest masterpieces. And, my favorite place in which to lose myself. Beyond them, picture pot after pot after pot of brightly bloooming flowers following the same line of perspective as the just-lit spherical streetlamps.]

But today? Today I may as well be in a whole other world: Northwest Indiana. Imagine, if you'd like, steel mills and small-town life. I don't see any of that. Well, I do, but not right now and not in my heart when I depart the Calumet Region. Today I see a rolling pasture, a red barn, flowers and the rich green leaves of hardwood trees. In. Every. Direction. I. Look.

And I see this, too:

[picture the majestic Leo, a Palomino whose blond mane is whipping through the wind as he comes in to nuzzle my neck. And the petite Scarlett, who shyly comes over for a carrot only after Alpha Horse has had enough and decides that, yeah, this little solid black mare with a tiny white star on her forehead can have a snack, too.]

I hope you can picture it, because it's pretty freakin' awesome. And who knows when the hell I'll figure out how to load pix through this portal?

Oh, and Jen Lancaster? I told you I wasn't a stalker. I know there's no way in hell I'll see you in Indiana.

Cathleen Day 2011 Is Here

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Sat, 28 May 2011 06:56:00 +0000

Today marks the 43rd anniversary of my arrival on this planet.

In 1968, my Nana received (her words) "the best birthday present ever" when my mother delivered me on the date of her mother's birth, a happy twist of fate that has always made me feel a little more special, a little more lucky and a lot more blessed.

The date of my birth is also only two days prior to my mother's, which has also always felt like a gift, as well. The symmetry of a mother and daughter each birthing a daughter within two days of their own birthdays has always felt, to me, like a multigenerational trifecta. The fact that the three of us look exactly alike (Yes. Really.) is, in my not-so-humble opinion, no accident. Although I chose not to have children, I do admit to wondering if Mr J and I would have created a brown-haired, green-brown-eyed, Dorothy-Judy-Cathleen clone. And born on May 30, of course.

So. With all this magical thinking, is it any wonder that I treat my birthday like a national holiday? It doesn't help matters that it always falls within close proximity to summer's first fireworks, parades and hamburger/hot dog event (Which, bee-tee-dubs: three of my favorite things. Next to cake, anyway, but we've covered that topic...)

Or maybe I'm just a raging narcissist. Hmmm...

I'm gonna call it a draw.

Cake. It's What's For Dinner. (And Breakfast. And Lunch.)

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Mon, 23 May 2011 20:11:00 +0000

HRH Princess Snarkerella has declared today the official start of Birthday Week 2011. Typically all of May is Birthday Month, but everything in Halfglassistan has been wonky these past six months.

(CatCon and Tilly, however, would like it noted that they began celebrating my existence at 12:00:01 EDT May 1 and haven't stopped. Which isn't much different than the way they act every day. So I've got that going for me. Which is good.)

I may be getting a bit of a slow start, but by the order of HRH (you might not think so, but she can really be a bitch when she wants to), I am commanded to have fun. So a little less than 36 hours from now, I'll be with one of my ATL munchkins, who just happens to be the most awesome boy one of my siblings has ever birthed. The fact that I get to watch the eerie reincarnation of my sister as a toddler giving herself hell is just icing.

Then less than 24 hours later, I'll be on my way to my Midwestern tribe of munchkins in Chicagoland — provided the TSA, ATL and MDW all cooperate. And no random atmospheric activity mucks it all up. (Iceland? I'm talking to you.)

You can call it running away from home. It's OK. I am and I'm lucky enough to have my choice of awesome homes to which to run. I need tickles, giggles, oohs & ahhs, sister, cousin and munchkin therapy. And lots and lots and lots of love.

And cake.

Are You There Jen Lancaster? It's Me, Cathleen.

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Mon, 23 May 2011 00:50:00 +0000

Yes, I know the device has been done. It works. So I'm using it.

Are You There Vodka? It's Me, Chelsea was a best-seller for comedian Chelsea Handler (big fan, BTW). Colossal success. I turned to vodka (even bigger fan of it) to get me through my current crisis. Colossal failure. (Although Chelsea still gets me through the insomnia. Thanks ... girl.)

Are You There God, It's Me, Margaret? was every adolescent girl's dog-eared coming-of-age primer. In it, and her other bestselling young-adult-all-human-no-vampire-or-wizards (no offense, Twihards and Muggles — I just didn't grow up in the days of sparkly skin and quidditch) fiction, Judy Blume taught me what I needed to know. I wasn't afraid to get my period or a bra — and I knew it was normal to be confused when talking to God.

Even though I never knew why He did or didn't let something happen — I knew enough to know I wasn't supposed to know — I never stopped talking to Him. I didn't stop while Mr. J was sick. I didn't stop when Mr. J was healing. I didn't stop when Mr. J was well. And I sure as hell didn't stop when Mr. J was dying.

And I still haven't stopped. But I still know enough to know I'm not going to get any answers from God. I get strength. I get patience. I get comfort. Every now and then, I get a little peace.

But I don't get answers. No one tells you what to do when you're only 42 and your husband's cancer returns and he's dead within two weeks. Two days after your 11th wedding anniversary, which he remembered even in a haze of Dilaudid. One week before his 48th birthday — and on his father's birthday. November 1st. All Saints Day.

Judy Blume didn't have a book about that. Chelsea Handler (thankfully) never talks about it on the Round Table. And it's not in the bottom of a bottle (or two) of vodka. Or pills, for that matter.

I started writing this blog while Mr. J was going through an excruciating cancer battle. But I never doubted he'd make it through. I was scared, but I always believed that he was strong enough to survive. Because he believed it — and because he survived anything God threw at him.

Until this.

So. Now what? God can't tell me what to do next. Judy Blume can't. Chelsea Handler can't, even though I'd love some vodka right now. So you're probably wondering how Jen Lancaster is going to help me.

Glad you asked. She's not. But she reminded me how to help myself.

Last week in Phoenix, my sweet CVZ attended a book signing for Jen Lancaster's If You Were Here. Unbeknownst to me, CVZ was getting a copy signed for me. So Jen asks, "So who's this Cathleen," and probably thinks "and why isn't she here?"

CVZ replied that I was in South Carolina, the tour wasn't. She went on to tell Jen that I was the one to turn her on to her blog and her books, adding: "In fact, you follow her blog on Twitter."

Jen: "Really? Which blog?"

CVZ: "my half-glassed life."

Jen: "She hasn't written in a while."

I don't know if she meant I hadn't written her in a while (I doubt she'd remember the one and only fan e-mail I ever sent). I don't know if she meant I hadn't tweeted her in a while (unlikely my name stands out among her thousands of followers). I don't know if she's actually ever read my words.

What I do know is — she's right. I haven't. What I also know is that the only way I'll ever find the answer as to how to get through this is to write about it. Writing has gotten me through every crisis of my life — and it will get me through this one.

My story is far from over. And I'm not afraid anymore to tell it.

"Really? Which blog?"

Hah! PROOF! It's on its way from Phoenix, but won't arrive in time for my flight to Chicago.
So. Guess I'll have to buy a copy to read on the plane and add to its climb up the bestseller list.
What's that? My flight to Chicago, you ask? My trip that coincides with the Governor of Jennsylvania's
return to the Windy City? Uh, yeah. Coincidence? Um, yes. Totally.

But ... if by any chance ... you're actually reading this, um, Jen, please do know I am well aware
of how weird it would be to ~~hunt you down~~ try to run into you. Besides you're all up in the 'burbs now and
I'll be down in Bridgeport with family, so not likely it's gonna happen. I'll also be at Lincoln Park,
the Shedd, the Art Institute and across the water at Indiana Dunes.
Just sayin' ...

(Not)Wordless Magical-Mystery-Flower Wednesday

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Thu, 19 May 2011 01:44:00 +0000

So. As if enough signs from the universe haven't already been telling me to get my glass in gear (I'm talking about you, @altgeldshrugged at your PHX signing. Stay tuned. I've got something coming with your name all over it.) — this popped up.

Mr. J bought random plantings because he liked how they looked at Lowe's, and then subsequently in the yard. Never paid attention to whether they were annuals or perennials. No particular planning or coordination. What mattered was a funky shape and an unusual color. The leaves on this what-appears-to-be-some-kind-of-lily are what attracted Mr. J to the above bloom. That and the hot pink ombre petals.

In the five summers since it was planted, it hasn't returned every year. Just a couple of times. Thus, the name we gave it. This is my first summer without the magical Mr. J, yet the flower is out in full force.

Mystery? I don't think so.

Thanks to CVZ, the Governor of Jennsylvania and the amazing Mr. J for the kick in the glass. I needed it.

BREAKING NEWS: Renovations in Halfglassistan

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Sun, 01 May 2011 22:16:00 +0000

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
MAY 1, 2011 - HALFGLASSISTAN

HRH Princess Snarkerella has announced that Halfglassistan is expanding and undergoing renovations to better express its ideology and full potential. Immediate increases to the kingdom's Gross National Product will be largely fulfilled by Half-glassed Design.

"The time is right to go public with our graphic design for print, web, wearables and home decor," stated HRH's official press secretary CatCon. "Lucky customers also receive three decades experience of professional writing and editing." The outspoken CatCon went on to add: "Win-win, no?"

Improvement projects are already underway, and announcement of official launch date is expected imminently.

###

F & F, Redux*

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Fri, 22 Apr 2011 10:51:00 +0000

*AKA in which we revive the "Flashback Friday: Because I'm Lazy And I Like Alliteration" device. Although this has little to do with laziness and all to do with love. (Like how I slipped that one in there?)

From April 2, 2010
"Of Faith And Friendliness"

Here in Halfglassistan, we welcome all.

Love whomever you want to love. Believe in whatever you'd like to believe.

We do. Love and believe, that is. We love to acknowledge it. We don't debate it. That would kinda-sorta go against the whole"love-and-believe-who-and-what-you-want" thing we've got going here. Don't you think?

In fact, we don't talk much about what we believe. It's not that we don't care. It's just that it's ours. Just like your beliefs are yours. And if we go throwing them around and putting them up for discussion, that kinda-sorta negates the whole "no-debate" thing. Don't you think?

And I'm not looking to change that today. But, for all of the arbitrary and capricious days of observance I've declared here in Halfglassistan, today is one that transcends all of my varied and overlapping worlds.

Today is Good Friday. And, as I've acknowledged before, there are times when the best construction of words to express what is in my heart already exists.

This is one of those times:

I believe in one God, the Father, the Almighty, the maker of heaven and earth, of all that is seen and unseen.

I believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ, the only Son of God, eternally begotten of the Father, God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, one in Being with the Father.

Through him all things were made.

For us and for our salvation, he came down from heaven: by the power of the Holy Spirit he was born of the Virgin Mary, and became man.

For our sake he was crucified under Pontius Pilate; he suffered, died, and was buried.

On the third day he rose again in fulfillment of the Scriptures; he ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father. He will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead, and his kingdom will have no end.

I believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the giver of life, who proceeds from the Father and the Son. With the Father and the Son he is worshiped and glorified. He has spoken through the Prophets.

I believe in one holy catholic and apostolic church. I acknowledge one baptism for the forgiveness of sins. I look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come.

That's just me.

Love whomever you want to love. Believe in whatever you'd like to believe.

Here in Halfglassistan, we welcome all.

Amen.

Validation. Free With Egg Rolls. (aka Step Five)

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Sun, 17 Apr 2011 04:12:00 +0000

Inside today's fortune cookies, in order of opening:

All progress occurs because

people dare to be different.

If you always do what you've

always done, you'll always get

what you've always gotten.

What's that?

No. No, I am not in the habit of making life decisions* based on the contents of my fortune cookies. But to get a little unexpected wink from the universe and a life-lesson reinforcement — and wrapped in cookies, to boot? That's just, well, what passes for awesome these days in Halfglassistan.

*(keep tuning in)

Hmm? What's that, again?

How long am I gonna keep up this "Step #"-thing?

I'll let you know when I know.

"the only true fortune cookie you'll ever get"

(c)2002-2010 natalie dee

Cat Con's Show Tune Applicability Axiom (aka Step 4.5 and/or "So Change Your Dream")

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Sat, 16 Apr 2011 01:15:00 +0000

"There is no life situation to which a show tune (or tunes) does not apply. Find one, two, 10 or 20 and sing them. Loudly. Repeatedly." — Cat Con's Show Tune Applicability Axiom

"What do you mean, amend that to add 'Sing well'? Are you implying that I don't sing well? (Insert withering eye-roll here) Really?" — Cat Con, when approached by a quickly retreating editorial board.

What we're singing most lately is I Dreamed A Dream from Les Miserables.

Applicable? Check.

Belt-it-out-loud-able? Check.

Tear-inducing? Abso-freakin'-lutely.

Able to get through it four or more times during traffic-jammed commute without tears? Finally.

Able to do the above without giving a thought as to what anyone around us thinks? Puh-lease. Give us a hard one.

Able to do all of the above and appreciate both its apparent applicability and simultaneous lack of same? Check.

"I dreamed a dream in times gone by

When hope was high and life worth living

I dreamed that love would never die

I dreamed that God would be forgiving.

Then I was young and unafraid

And dreams were made and used and wasted

There was no ransom to be paid

No song unsung, no wine untasted.

But the tigers come at night

With their voices soft as thunder

As they tear your hope apart

As they turn your dream to shame.

And still I dreamed he'd come for me

That we would live the years together

But there are dreams that cannot be

And there are storms we cannot weather —

I had a dream my life would be

So different from this hell I'm living

So different now from what it seemed ...

Now life has killed the dream I dreamed."

So Cat Con and I do what we always do. When we're challenged. When we're confused. When we're sad. When we're happy. When we're wondering. And especially when we're figuring it all out.

Like now.

We sing.

©1980 CLAUD-MICHEL SCHOENBURG (MUSIC); ALAIN BOUBLIL (LYRICS); HERBERT KRETZMER (ENGLISH TRANSLATION FROM FRENCH) Any errors are wholly mine and, by no means, any responsibilty of Cat Con's.

So Make The Freakin' Most of It (aka Step Four)

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Fri, 15 Apr 2011 03:02:00 +0000

"it's called the circle of life, folks"

Step Three

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Tue, 12 Apr 2011 22:27:00 +0000

"Twenty years from now you will be

more disappointed by

the things you didn't do

than the ones you did do.

So throw off the bowlines.

Catch the trade winds in your sails.

Explore. Dream. Discover."

— mark twain

("and never forget you may not have 20 years to wait" — cat con)

Step 2 and a Half

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Mon, 11 Apr 2011 23:37:00 +0000

(uh-huh)