I’m never ready for a new year. I always have unfinished business from the year before, and while I’ll put on my happy face for the sake of New Years celebrations, the truth is I always carry a nagging sense of failure as the year draws to a close. Another year that I didn’t accomplish or do one thing or another.

Cheerful and uplifting, huh?

I have to break the 2012 ice somehow, so I’ll do it with honesty.

Yesterday, John suggested we take a walk, and I took my camera along. I got some nice shots, and this one is my favorite. It’s not technically great, but I love the way the light hits the moss and illuminates the water.

Even though winter has just settled in, there’s still light. And there is still green. And I am still here.

Well, where do I begin?

Maybe with an, “I’m BAAAACK!”

Or maybe with just a whisper, “I am here. I am here. I am here.”

Or maybe I just start writing as though I never really stopped.

Truth is nothing much more in my life is any more settled, completed, worked out, or put into order than it was when I took this hiatus in August.

Truth is life is just as busy and complicated as ever.

Truth is that it was nice to have one less thing to fuss/tinker with and distract me from the things I should be doing.

Truth is sometimes I’m uncomfortable with the title of this blog because I know I’m not “Lucky.” I know that I am Blessed–and abundantly. But I hope that my friends know that I know that. But who am I writing for, anyway?

Truth is there isn’t much to tell. And what there is to tell, I haven’t really delved into very deeply myself.

Truth is that I’m not sure how frequently I’ll be writing here, but I am officially opening the door.

I am here. I am here. I am here.

Don’t worry, I’m not about to lose my job. But, the path within my career is dependant upon my developing resources and spending my intellectual efforts elsewhere. Also, my spiritual health depends on keeping things in the proper order and perspective. You, little blog, have been instrumental to that health, but now it’s time to make room for some other things. Anyway, you’ve probably noticed in the last month what I’ve had to do.

I promise you, if you will allow me to demote you from the back-burner to being taken completely OFF the stove for a few months,  I promise that we, you and I, we will both come back better than ever. I just know it.

Don’t worry about our reader(s), little blog. Most of them know where to find me even when I’m flying pretty low under the radar. And if they don’t, well, we’ll get them back. Somehow I know we’ll get them back.

See you around Christmas 2011!

With much love and thankfulness to anyone who has ever perused these pages,  xoxo, One Lucky Girl

But.

But, this afternoon when Little Miss G came to me in tears to explain that one of her most prized possessions–a jade bracelet that was recently given to her by her best friend, N, who purchased the gift while on vacation in California–was lost, of course I wanted to help her. LMG, she new precisely where she last put it… in the Michael’s bag they used to haul toys to and from Aunt Jennifer’s this weekend. The very same Michael’s bag that I tossed in the garbage yesterday before I hauled it to the big bin in the garage. My thought? Excrement. But I couldn’t look into her face and tell her she was excrement-out-of-luck.

I’ve never understood when television and movies show parents and children picking through garbage trying to find a retainer. Maybe I don’t appreciate how expensive retainers are, but the cost is not the only issue. Why would I want something that had been sitting in garbage to find itself back into my or my child’s mouth? I guess Karen Buckman had a good justification for digging through the garbage for a lost retainer when she pointed out to Gil, “They’re a $200. If you dropped $200 in here you would look, right?” My answer to that question has always been a skeptical, “I dunno… how close is it to payday?”

Maybe I have more money than common sense (I hope not, otherwise my common sense balance is negative) but retainers are replaceable. But I can’t replace or even come near the value of a bracelet that was thoughtfully chosen and given to LMG by a sweet girl who is a very good friend to her. I’m a sucker for sentimental things. You want proof?

These gifts were given to me by my two best friends 18 and 19 years ago. They have probably forgotten all about them, but I cherish them.

So after making LMG thoroughly inspect ALL the toys that were taken to Aunt Jennifer’s to make sure the bracelet wasn’t in/with/stuck to them, I sighed–heavily–and went out to the garage and opened the garbage bin. Let me take a moment to point out that the Midwest has had a heatwave the likes of which makes hell seem like a reasonable place to beat the heat. Heat indicies have been over 100 all week. And as we all know, baking enhances the smell of everything, for better or for worse. So, I open the bin and realize there is no way that I’m going to be able to hold my breath long enough to complete this task. At first whiff: She soooo totally owes me for this.

Here is where I also point out that our city has a trash and recycling program. If she had thrown that bracelet in a cardboard box this would have been no problem whatsoever because out recycling is only “clean” stuff like cardboard, washed soda cans, cereal boxes and paper. And two years ago before we started to recycle, chances are that digging through the trash would have meant encountering mostly “clean,” recyclable stuff. But, no, the suspected whereabouts was in the dirty trash. So, she held a fresh trash bag while I picked through apple cores, yogurt containers, coffee grounds and, ewwgawd, discarded chicken and rice. Yes. I did. So I think I am totally justified as I repeated to myself: She totally owes me for this. Unfortunately, we didn’t find the bracelet.

While scrubbing my hands with hand soap and bleach I remembered that I have an unopened package dish gloves under my sink. Well, excrement, that would have been useful information 10 minutes before, wouldn’t it?

So, as I sat here typing up the second paragraph to this post, LMG came downstairs and happily told me that she found her bracelet under a pile of stuff on her dresser. The same pile of stuff–but I’m tempted to use another word here–that I’ve been after her to get cleaned up for a week now. She totally owes me TWO for this.

But I am glad she found it.

Thanks for sharing, Sweetney.

I am from the sunny, single-wide trailer with wood-paneled walls and yellow shag carpet. I am from an orange linoleum kitchen and yellow appliances that gleamed with a Windex shine.

I am from the cottonwood tree leaning and sheltering, sometimes threatening as it swayed in Midwestern thunderstorms that terrified me. From the chicks-and-hens neatly potted that graced low-sitting coffee tables next to ash trays and drink coasters. I am from the Big Muddy’s bend.

I am from 10-speed Schwinns blazing down the hill on Old Town Road before they put the good sidewalk in. From under the disco globe at Ziggy’s roller rink, and Klein’s candy counter, and the deep end of the pool where the boys got handsy.

I am the child of a people who keep few traditions. From parents who unraveled themselves from the painful past and took care not to pass it on. From brothers and sisters who go for years without speaking because love and hurt are too hot to touch. I am from people who pulse with passion, but keep it under wraps. Who might be dying to be ignited, or who may not realize what they’re missing. I am from brilliance, and bullshit, and people who make no sense.

I am from Nerds and Rollos and lemony drops sticking to tongues. From The Muppet Show and Walnut Grove and WKRP. I am from the cold, green, faux leather backseat at midnight waiting with my pillow and blanket for my daddy’s shift to end. I am from Clark stations with attendants who wore blue polyester pants and shiny metal change dispensers on their belts.

I am from the bunny rabbit in the moon. From Santa being so fat he fell through the floor. From Hayley’s Comet and from PBS’s Stargazer. From Hall and Oates and Conway Twitty on the dial. I am from the sun-dappled front porch swing with Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy, and from the leaf-littered back patio perfect for French kissing privacy.

I am from that little place in my soul that lived when the rest of me died every time those cruel girls looked at me and told me I was ugly and stupid. Cutting words that changed me forever. I am from Baptists who lavished love upon me. From people who taught me as a child about God’s fullness of grace and who urged me as a young woman to trust in it. I am still working on that.

I am from town people who are still country at their roots. From a teenaged bride who brought me forth eleven months later. I am from uncles who were like big brothers. From sweet and tangy cucumber salad, from milk gravy made with pork renderings, and bread and butter sprinkled with sugar. I am from my own generation, really—too young to be their sister, too old to be their child.

I am from no-nonsense and no drinking and definitely no pre-marital sex. I am from the list of those good girls who tried so hard to get all the As, be the nice friends, and make the right teams, and sometimes suffered for it. I am from high expectations that I can still feel chasing me down at night.

I am from the margins of that scrapbook of memories. From that melody that echoes in your head in your quiet hours. I am from the quiet breeze and the moonlit path and the smell of honeysuckle when dawn breaks. From hazy warm memories of friendships and first loves and whispered promises of no one could ever take your place. I am from that sparkling moment of nothing can get better than this right here right now.

I am also from that lonely moment despite the fullness of the passing days. From the bittersweet irony of a life that is well lived but feels strangely inadequate. I am from the place where your mind dwells when the words are just out of reach and you sigh at the beauty and the sadness of it all.

One year ago:

Today:

Tender-hearted. Compassionate. Attached. Cautious. Intelligent. Loves horses and Doctor Who. Favorite color: Turquoise

Two years ago:

One year ago:

Today:

Charitable. Curious. Independent. Affectionate. Witty. Overheard today singing that she’s going to change her name to Larry. Favorite color: Purple

I’ll spare you the up-close and uncomfortable details of the mammogram, because let me tell you, they are up-close and uncomfortable. But, since I’m not 25 anymore–or even 30 anymore–my doctor said it was time to get a “baseline” done so that when I hit 40 (the age at which boobies begin to change faster), they have a younger picture to compare it to and identify any potential areas of concern. No problem. Especially since the imaging center was efficient, courteous, and running on schedule. The technician told me I would receive a letter in about a week with my test results. She said about 50 percent of the time patients are asked to come back for a follow-up test because the doctors want to take a closer look, and it is really nothing to worry about if that happens to me because of that 50 percent who have to come back, like, over 90 percent are given a clean bill of health. Okay, duly noted. I am not a worrier-over-nothing by nature, so I was cool.

So off I skipped away from that appointment noting how funny it was–these coincidences. Six weeks ago when my mom asked me if I wanted to walk in the Komen Race for the Cure with her this year, I had no idea that my doctor was going to recommend a mammogram. Funny how these two firsts would happen within 72 hours of each other.

The Race was, to put it simply, amazing. I live near a major metropolitan area, and this city’s annual Komen Race is one of the largest in the country–as in over 64,000 participants, over 4,900 survivors, and millions of dollars raised for breast cancer research. I was walking that day with my mom, a few of her good friends, my uncle Eric, and my uncle’s wife, Brenda, who is a two-year breast cancer survivor. The significance of this event was not lost on me. First, just the sheer size and energy of the crowd is enough to make an impression. Then I began looking at all the t-shirts. There were teams with t-shirts bearing the images of women, young and old, some with children on their laps, with the words, “In loving memory of…” These women were beautiful, vibrant, even joyful in their pictures. Some people wore the names of individual women and men on tags pinned to their shirt. No pictures but names…. “my beautiful mama Joyce,” “my auntie Suzanne.” One woman had five names listed on her tag. Five. All in all, it was a joyful atmosphere, but one could sense an underlying solemnity in some of the groups and teams that gathered. I saw some teams shedding tears together. Some teams were jubilant. Babies, survivors in their pink-shirts, men, women, young and old, all colors, all ethnicities. Mom and I were impressed by how many how many young men were walking in groups together. You know, guys who were old enough that their moms could make them be there, yet they were not walking with girlfriends, moms, aunts, whoever. Maybe they were there because their employers sponsored a team. Who cares? The point is they got their butts out of bed at a crazy early hour on a Saturday to get downtown to walk with 64,000 other people the the heat. They were there.

Once the walking part of the race got underway, because you know 64,000 people aren’t all going to run, just the movement of the group and jockeying to stay with your team becomes the focus, but everybody was very sweet. Once the crowd found its pace, and spread out into comfortable groups, it was possible to separate the walkers from the bystanders, and the bystanders cheered for everyone as if we were actually running. Everyone had pink in their clothing, but all-pink shirts are reserved for breast cancer survivors, and when a survivor walked by, the bystanders really cheered like crazy. It was wonderful to see my Aunt Brenda get that kind of support and affirmation from complete strangers.

At a certain point in the route, there is a slight hill, and I could finally see what was ahead of me.

This is what I saw behind me.

All those tiny, white dots? That river of white up ahead and behind? Those are all people. And that wasn’t even everybody. At that point in the race route, some people were already past the finish line. This was the point where the goosebumps and the tears came for me. It was amazing to see so many people from all walks of life, young and old, every color, every ethnicity, some walking because their employer sponsored a team, some walking because their families and friends have been stricken with this disease. In the end, it doesn’t matter why a person was there. Everyone was united for a common cause for a few hours that morning. That felt so very good to my heart and spirit.

Four days after the Race, I got my letter from the imaging center. My mammogram showed an area of concern. I wasn’t worried, like they said, no need to at this stage. I was more bummed that I would have to make two more phone calls and schedule another appointment. My first call was to be to my regular doctor. Her nurse talked me through the whole need for the follow up. There is an area on the left side that is of some concern. It is probably just thickening tissue which happens as we get older. The radiologist just wants a clearer look at the area. She assured me that there was no need to worry. “I understand,” I told her. “The technician who did my first test told me this happens quite a bit with baseline tests, so I wasn’t too surprised about the letter.” “Oh, good,” the nurse replied. “Okay, well if you have any follow up questions, just call us. Go ahead and schedule the appointment for whenever it’s convenient for you. This is not an emergency, so don’t worry.”

Dude.

Didn’t I just say I wasn’t? I know they probably have to give this same news to a lot of women who jump to scary conclusions, so they’re just being professional and doing their job and being reassuring, I get that. In fact, they probably say it out of habit, really. This is what I told myself as I hung up with the nurse and dialed the number for the imaging center to schedule my appointment. The scheduler is an old acquaintance way back from my softball years and is very nice. We set the date for the follow up, and she told me that the radiologist would read my tests that day and I would leave that appointment with my results. She too assured me not to worry.

Okay, maybe I’m a little bit of an emotional rebel, but the more I’m told not to feel a certain way, the more I’m going to wonder if I should be feeling that way. Again, I know that these women are being kind, and I take their kindness as such. I’m not criticizing them at all. I’m merely pointing out that telling someone not to worry often has the opposite effect of what is intended. But even still, I wasn’t too worried. All these assurances of don’t worry made me curious how other women took this news, and if that was why the assurances were offered so quickly and readily at every point along the way.

Thanks to the freedom of not working in the summer and a dad who is retired and can watch the kids anytime, I was able to get my follow up mammogram scheduled for the very next day. Again, my experience at the imaging center was smooth, efficient, professional. The technician was very sweet as she hurt me and made my body into shapes that I never thought possible all in the name of good health care. At least her hands were warm. As promised I got my results back in a matter of minutes.

The “girl” looks okay right now, but they want me to come back in six months just to make sure nothing is changing. And this time, there was no don’t worry assurance.

Huh. Which, okay, this is good news. Clearly, if they were still concerned about what they saw, they would have given me an MRI that day (they told me so). And I don’t want to make a mountain out of a molehill, because as I learned at the Komen Race, hundreds of women receive a much more serious and heartbreaking diagnosis every single day. Still, what should have been a baseline test for five years in the future is now a baseline for six months from now. I’m not worried, but I would have preferred the result that goes, “see you when you’re 40.” Ya know?

Exhibit A: My kids’ initials spell G.E.E.K.  That was totally unintentionally done, but now that it is so, I have a necklace that proclaims it. I’ll post a pic and a link someday when I’ve showered and don’t look like what I am–a summer SAHM mom who doesn’t give a rat’s patootie what I look like when I’m blogging in my basement.

Exhibit B: Little Miss G is ever so slowly giving up her Nickelodeon crap for this: <a href=”http://www.youtube.com/embed/uvwCLGCozIk“>The best science-fiction-fantasy series going right now. And it’s British! YAY! I really have to thank my brother for this. If he didn’t come and commandeer our television at least once a week, none of us would have taken the time to watch. I’m ashamed of this, because staying up late with my dad on Sunday nights to watch this Doctor <a href=”http://www.youtube.com/embed/PwkYhLiY_fM“> is one of my fondest childhood rituals.

Exhibit C: I went to this guy’s concert last Friday, and loved every single minute. Every time I hear a Lady Gaga, Justin Bieber, or Katy Perry song, I want to stab myself in the ear, but this? This is good stuff. I’ve been humming this song all weekend.

Guilty as charged.

bouncing up the stairs

in her cowgirl boots and skirt

her ponytail swaying

to the rhythm of her happy heart