One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

I used to be a Licensed Professional Counselor. I earned my LPC in 2001, and was quite proud to have achieved something so important to me.

But now, I'm back at (not quite) square one. I allowed my license to lapse in 2007 with the intention of earning a license in Florida when we moved. Strangely enough, I ended up back in Texas, in a bit of a pickle without my license. Unfortunately, it has not been quite so easy to get my license back as I had hoped.

I had to take the National Counselor's Exam. The state exam I took in 2001 is no longer in use, so to qualify for the license, I took the NCE. I studied by butt off for quite a few months, and passed the exam in August 2010. As I looked through the paperwork for the LPC Internship license to apply, I realized that I was missing some classes from my college transcripts. When I previously applied for my LPC, the requirement for college credits was a specific number of graduate hours. Twelve years later, I have to have specific classes, and I'm missing four. One - multicultural counseling - I did take but it is listed on my transcript as "Seminar In Counseling." If the University will verify it was the appropriate class, I shouldn't have to re-take it. Three other classes I know for a fact I DID NOT take.

So I am back in school. Fall semester 2010, I completed the Techniques in Counseling course. This course teaches specific counseling techniques, and we students had to role play being a counselor and a client. I felt confident I could handle the counselor role (I've had a little practice). I used my client role to vent my frustrations as a parent, and felt that the weeks of free counseling was a benefit. This semester, I'm in the Ethics and Professional Orientation course, which is just a semester-long seminar in ethics - a good thing for everyone. Finally, this summer I will have to take a Vocational and Educational Counseling course. So HOPEFULLY by August 2011, I will be able to send in my application for my new LPC Intern license.

Additionally, I earned my LPC under the 2,000 hour internship guideline. As of my investigation last year, I had to make up the difference between my earned internship hours and the new 3,000 hour guideline. New twist, which just came to light this week: The state of Texas is now going to follow the CACREP recommendation of 4,000 hours. So, by the time I send in my LPC Intern application, I'll have another 1,000 hours to earn. Whew!

Good news: I have a job. I like my job. My life is pretty stable, so as long as I just "keep on keepin' on" I'll eventually get there.

I'll follow my Supervisor Molly's advice: "Never, never, never let your license lapse again!"

Here it is, February, 2010, and I realize I haven't blogged since about August of last year. I still have lots to say, I've just been very busy.

I'm still working as the Coordinator for the Battering Intervention and Prevention Program in Amarillo at Family Support Services - seven months now. I never thought I would enjoy working with men accused, and guilty, of hurting the women they purport to love and protect. However, it goes back to the default statement that so many people in social services say: "If I can help just one person make changes. . . If I can help just one person find a better road, a better path to pursue, then I will have made a mark, and it will have been worth it." I feel those moments when I teach class often, because the men I work with actively participate and contribute to the discussion. I'm sure I'm getting "snowed" sometimes. But my hope is that some of those men are sincere.

I love what I do. In working with perpetrators, I advocate for victims.

I am in the process of studying for my LPC (License in Professional Counseling). It's work. I earned my license in 2001, so was an LPC in Texas until 2007, when I allowed my license to expire. I was living in Florida at the time, not thinking I'd return to Texas, and planned to get licensed in Florida. June 2009 rolls around and back to Texas we go. So now, I have to retest in order to apply for my Intern License. As an intern, I must make up the difference between my first internship (2,000 hours required) and the current requirement of 3,000 hours. Once completed, I'll get to have my LPC again. No matter, I don't think we're moving away again, and I anticipate being at my job for a long, long time. Yay!

Sometimes I think that at my age, I should be farther along in my career, more successful financially and personally. . . But I can't begrudge what and where I am. I am who I am ("I yam what I yam"), and I'm perfectly fine with that! Again, yay for me.

Cassandra turned 16 last week. I thought I'd be a little more freaked out, but it's a good thing for her. She's very excited. . . Of course, I would have thought MORE excited - I told her we'd do a driving lesson this past weekend, and she was really excited, but she spent the whole weekend with her friend, so we never went. Would it be selfish of me to say I was both sad and relieved at the same time?

Marcello will be five years old in March. What a great age - pretty much everything makes you happy, and it's just great to be oblivious to the stress of grown-up life. I made the mistake of actually asking the question, "Do you want to have your birthday party at the Discovery Center or at Chuck E. Cheese?" Pizza wins out, of course. I'm already nervous about it - We haven't thrown Marcello a big birthday party yet, and those old fears "What if nobody comes" are racing through my head. How ridiculous, since everyone seems to LOVE Marcello. The challenge will be if Cassandra will take two hours out of her precious teenage years to attend. I'm thinking, "Not."

The picture I posted is my family, during Thanksgiving (2009) as a Christmas gift for mom and dad. After Thanksgiving Dinner, while I was helping clean up, all of the Holdgrafer children took turns going to the Tortoreo hotel room / temporary photo studio and took the family pictures that each of us would give to mom and dad. Tom orchestrated the whole affair, while Sarah's BBF (Best BoyFriend) Steven took the photos. Mom and Dad never suspected a thing. They were quite overwhelmed when opening gifts on Christmas Eve.

I love this family photo, especially since Tom finally consented to actually have his picture taken. Kelsey and Cassandra look beautiful, and Marcello looks adorable. We Tortoreos feel very fortunate.

My worst day with my family is better than my best day anywhere else. I'm very lucky!

August Update and Musings. . .

The Tortoreo's have been living in Amarillo for about 2 1/2 months now. I've been busy with my job, extra side work for the family business, engaging in interactions with my children, and reveling at how tired I am at the end of every day. "End of every day" is about 6:30, when I realize I am too tired to go on. How pathetic is that?

It's mid-August, and six weeks into my employment, my supervisor offered me a full-time position. I am, of course, elated and looking forward to the additional work and additional pay. And as of last weekend, I have begun the long and arduous task of studying for the National Counseling Exam, so as to earn my License in Professional Counseling (LPC) in the state of Texas. I remember how time consuming studying was, and am currently wondering how I will navigate the need to study with the needs of a four year old child. Tom's going to have to be my "wing-man" - Jeez, I hope my head doesn't explode!!

While we get on our feet, we are still staying with mom and dad. They've been gracious enough to open their home, and are always loving and positive about it. I pray that our mess doesn't beat down their desire to be hospitable too soon. Tom and I have been trolling neighborhoods for homes, looking at bank repossessed homes and fixer-uppers. I have my eye on one old house, I think it is about 90 years old, in the historic downtown area of Amarillo (yes, Amarillo has "historic" downtown). It's charming, and WAY too much money, but I'm desperate to see the inside. I'm actually hoping the owners are desperate to sell it, or perhaps it needs so much work we can get it for a good deal. Being 90+ years old, I accept the possibility that the home is haunted, so I've got to come to terms with that little "characteristic." As a woman afraid of the dark until age 30, that could be a SERIOUS deal-breaker. Regardless, we're keeping our eyes open for any deals.

I discovered the fun of FACEBOOK, which partly explains my absence from my blog for the last couple of months. It's fun to write little snippets for all my friends to see, but strangely I haven't been motivated to write on my blog. I wonder if people are interested enough in me to check my facebook and my blog . . . hmmmm.

I haven't been writing lately. I read my sisters' Sarah and Kristi's facebook about how they are writing and progressing, and I get jealous, wondering if I'm missing MY boat. Well, since it IS MY boat, I can't really "miss it" so I'll just have to realize that I'll write when I want to (for instance, at midnight when I can't sleep and get some sort of inspiration to share personal information with whoever wants access to my blog) and accept myself for what I am: a Part Time Writer. Authors of the world, forgive me.

That's all for now. Say "hi" to me if you read my blog, even if you don't know me. I love little notes!!
Always, Kathy

Don't Be So Mean

I dislike people who are mean.

While I always want to give people the benefit of the doubt and believe in the good in all people, it is difficult for me to overlook when someone is mean. And it affects me. (This may be why I hate politics so much.)

The thing is, I guess I just don't understand why it is necessary to be mean. Thinking back to being a child, I can remember moments when I wasn't nice (and believe me, as a "people pleaser," I wanted desperately to be liked, so meanness for me was usually about my own ignorance), and to this day wish there are certain things I could take back. But I guess that's how we learn, and there are those lessons that are burned deep within because of those regrets.

Kids are mean. I wish most of it was about ignorance, but I suspect it's not. Kids know at an early age how to hurt people as a way to get revenge, a method to get what they want, or as a way to derive pleasure from watching other people hurt. They grow up into adults with the same ignorance, and pathetic desire to see others humiliated, then take pleasure in it (I don't know Omarosa personally, but her name springs to mind).

"Mean people suck." I don't remember where I heard that. I think it may have been a song title or a lyric by Bill Russell, founding member (I think) of the Forbidden Pigs. This was many, many, many years ago (early to mid-eighties). But I agree with the sentiment, these many years later. Bill, hats off to you and your perceptive platitude!

Mean Girls. Never saw it. I don't derive pleasure from watching people be mean. That's why I don't watch most reality shows - just a bunch of people wanting attention, and being mean as a way to stand out in spite of the mediocrity of their existance. Movies and sitcoms with characters who are mean are not entertaining to me, and I can't tolerate them. I know Seinfeld was a huge hit, but George Costanza was just clueless about how mean he was, and I never found that funny.

Lots of practical jokes are just plain mean. I can't tolerate those, either. I have to send my eternal gratitude and respect to Jim Womack, a friend and former colleague. He is a consumate practical joker, and when I began working in his office, I mentioned to him that I don't respond well to practical jokes, I am often just hurt by them. He never once targeted me. He's not a mean guy.

I suppose my own ignorance and insensitivity at times has come across as mean, and hurt other people. For that, I am eternally sorry. Even as an adult now, I'm sure there are times when I come across as a Mean Girl. In fact, I can think of several specific examples over which I could be accused of being mean. A stupid joke, a statement that sounded "funny" out loud but later hurt someone's feelings. Phylicia was gracious to accept my apology, but it didn't erase whatever hurt she may have felt at the time. And althought she forgave me (if I remember correctly), I still have guilt over it, these many years later. I wish it could be possible to be perfect. I would never want to hurt anyone. I would never want to be mean and have someone hate me for it. I would never want to be seen as insensitive. I can't imagine that I would ever derive pleasure from someone else's pain. And yet, I'm as guilty as anyone.

That's what forgiveness is for. I've been on the receiving end of that, many a time. It is a powerful thing, and I've been overwhelmed emotionally as a result. I must follow the example of those who have forgiven me, and open myself up to forgive others. I can think of two people in particular - the hurt is dulled or gone, the emotional ties no longer exist, but I'm not sure I've actually "forgiven." A request for forgiveness is not necessary in order to forgive, although for me, it makes it much easier to let go of the hurt. My first Love apologized for any hurt he caused me, and suddenly the wound was healed, and forgiveness was easy.

Forgiveness when it is not so easy - that is a true test of one's character. I suppose I need to make sure to work on that.

How Do I Love Thee. . .

With all the challenges I have to face in my life, there is one thing that is never an issue: my husband's love for me. It gives me strength, holds me up when I feel overwhelmed, touches me at random moments, provides security when all else seems so unstable.

How doest thou love me?
I see it in your eyes when you look at me - a singular deep stare that tells me I still infatuate you, encompass you, entice you.
You touch me, every time you walk past me.
A hug for no reason, a kiss just because.
Knowing that my most insecure moments revolve around the unknown, you share everything with me, giving me information so I won't be afraid.
You trust me with your inappropriate jokes, knowing that I know you so well as to never doubt your true meaning.
You trust me with you inner most feelings, exposing yourself to me in a way many men are unwilling to allow themselves to do.
Playing on our "inside jokes," you give me laughter every day.
You see that beautiful, svelt, 130 lb. me, regardless of what I weigh.
You get me, see my humor, laugh genuinely at my silliness.
Your love for my children is first, always.

You give my life such joy, I'm thankful every day that we found each other.
I love you, Tommy T.

Deep, Dark Secrets - Shhhh. . .

Dear Friends: I share this with you because I love to be silly and I have a sick and twisted need to let you all in on my darkest secrets. If you are faint of heart, or would lose your respect for me to read TMI, STOP NOW, or forever hold your peace.
Love to all, Kathy

The Deep, Dark Secrets of Kathleen Marie Tortoreo:

1. What are you most afraid of? Smelly, poopy things. Hairy, smelly, poopy things. Big, hairy, smelly, poopy things. Big, hairy, smelly, poopy things that move of their own accord toward me with bad intentions and malice in their eyes - or eye, depending on their planet of origin.

2. What is the most recent movie that you have seen in a Theater? In a theater. . . Hmmm. You mean that big, dark place where I used to make out with my boyfriend before he became my husband, got me pregnant, and became so busy with the "parenting-thing" that we don't have time to go to a theater anymore? That theater?

3. Where were you born? San Diego, California

4. What is your favorite food? Italian. Same answer for "Favorite Men"

5. Have you ever been to Alaska? Ah, yes. When I was young and in my "goin' to the club" days. The female to male ratio was 1:10, so I had lots and lots and lots and LOTS of fun. I never "did" the football team, but the fishermen sure knew how to handle a woman. You just have to get past the smell.

6. Have you ever been toilet paper rolling? What? Is that pre- or post-usage?

7. Have you ever loved someone so much it made you cry? Yes, and I am a better person for it.

8. Have you ever been in a car accident? No, unfortunately I can't blame my problems on a severe head injury.

9. Do you prefer croutons or bacon bits? Bacon, baby!

10. What is your favorite day of the week? Sunday, . . . I don't know why.

11. What is your favorite restaurant? Italian. Same answer for "Favorite Men."

12. What is your favorite flower? Roses from my lover.

13. What is your favorite sport to watch? Naked Bodybuilding. Hard to find, even on cable.

14. What is your favorite drink? Chocolate Milk Shake

15. What is your favorite ice cream? Mint Chocolate Chip, never changed since I was a kid

16. Disney or Warner Brothers? Disney

17. Have you ever been on a ship? U.S.S. KittyHawk Aircraft Carrier, where I was first introduced to Naked Bodybuilding.

18. What color is your bedroom carpet? I can't remember, can't see through my husband's piles of dirty clothes.

19. What's under your bed? Electronic audio equipment, attached to seven strategically placed video cameras in the bedroom, which are reviewed and edited at a later date, then posted onto our website "MarriedButWeStillDoTheNasty.Com."

20. How many times did you fail your driver's test? I was supposed to take a test?

21. What do you do when you are bored? Pick my nose, but if you ever tell anyone, I'll deny it.

22. What is your bedtime? About 7 minutes after my 4 year old son's bedtime (That includes husband/wife conversation and any possible sex, which makes for expedient and efficient viewing on the "MarriedButWeStillDoTheNasty.Com" website).

23. What is your favorite TV show? Friends, Star Trek: Voyager, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Ace of Cakes, The Office (Just a bit of the single-sci-fi-nerd left in me.)

24. Who is the last person you went to dinner with? Hubby. I have no other friends.

25. Who is your greatest love? TomTomTomTomTomTomTomTomTomTom, . . . okay maybe the kids a little bit.

26. What are your favorite colors? Purple - it signifies royalty, which has absolutely nothing to do with me - I just like to put myself and royalty in the same sentence.

27. How many tattoos do you have? Seventeen: I have two breasts drawn on my back, an arrow pointing to my rectum with the word "hole", my name tattooed on both feet in case I can't be identified by dental records, the lyrics to Vanilla Ice's "Ice, Ice, Baby" on my left butt cheek, eight letters across my fingers spelling "buttface," an unnamed Alaskan fishing boat on my left shoulder blade to commemorate my sexual glory days, Dwayne Johnson / "The Rock" (post-wrestling) from his naked torso up on my belly, and, last but not least, a delicate script just below my C-section scar that reads "No one under 21 admitted."

28. How many pets do you have? Five: Birdie the Dalmatian, husband Tom, daughter Kelsey, daughter Cassandra and son Marcello.

29. Which came first, the chicken or the egg? Thanks for the headache!

30. What do you want to do before you die? Travel to distant lands, learn to scuba dive, write a best selling novel (no joke), run a marathon (oh, wait, I did that already) and . . .

31. Have you ever been to Hawaii? No, my car is acting up, I'm afraid that long drive would kill it for good.

32. Have you been to countries outside the U.S.? Yes - only the Dominican Republic, on my first honeymoon, during which my then-husband told me that getting married was the biggest mistake he'd ever made. I've been afraid to leave the country ever since.

33. What would you like inscribed on your grave's headstone? "Engaged in silliness often, and was deeply loved for it."

JOB HUNTING SUCKS

I dislike change, although I've come to accept it as part of the life cycle. New and interesting things generally pop up, and they can be fun to address, and certainly amusing "dinner table stories" for a later date.

Changing jobs is another story. Especially in today's economy, it can be hard to manage the fear of never getting hired. Fear . . . nervousness . . . TERROR . . . whatever.

Job hunting sucks. For those of you desperately sucking hard right now, here are a few issues to consider:
Resume: Definitely get one of those.
References: Remember, little "financial incentives" may be a plus.
Networking: By all means, be sure to let everyone know how desperate you are - surely at some point, a true friend will have pity and go the extra half-mile for you.
Honesty on your Application: How seriously "checkered" is your past?
Internet Resume Submission / No Initial Face-to-Face Application: According to recent studies, how ethnic-sounding or gender-neutral your name is can have a significant impact. Turns out, Jamie Fox is a GENIUS!
Nepotism: Use it if you can get it!

Should you score that elusive job interview, please be mindful of the following:
* Put on clean underwear!
* Deodorant. . .
* Smile and make nice with the other children. . .
* Do not fart (the silent ones especially).
* As you feel the "nervous sweat" drip down your skin between your breasts, do not allow the resulting tickle to distract you from the interviewer's questions.
* The tickle at the end of your nose is more than likely a speck of dust or an eyelash gone astray, but do yourself a favor and engage in a little "scratch and rub" just in case.
* Eat lunch after the interview, especially if you have a penchant for spinach salads, or breads with dark seeds (stay away from poppy-seeded-anything, as this may affect your random drug test results should you be lucky enough to get hired).
* Halitosis Prevention Month is EVERY MONTH.
* If sandals are in season, for the love of Pete, make your toenails presentable.
* If the weather is cold, NEVER WHITE SOCKS - NEVER. Do I really need to emphasize this?

And, finally,
* Ladies - Deodorant feminine hygiene products. Strangely, this is not a given for some people.

I wish myself, as well as all of you, every good thought and prayer in your quest for gainful employment and satisfaction in your work endeavors.

Live Long and Prosper!!

Amarillo's Where I'll Be

As many of you know, the Tortoreo's - Coconut Creek Division - recently relocated to Amarillo, Texas. Some may consider this a step backward (we only moved away four years ago), but I suppose it really just depends on individual priorities.

There are reasons to dislike Amarillo (there are reasons to dislike any locale, frankly), but I choose not to address / focus on / think about these, because my happiness really only relies on my decision to be happy. And I choose to be happy.

* My parents are here, and we're close. They are ecstatic that two of their grandchildren will be close by, and Marcello has already begun bonding. Cassandra, in Tallahassee for the summer, will get her chance when she gets here. (Kelsey, we miss you terribly!)
* I met and married my husband here, so there are many good memories, many places that touch me because of him. First lunch date - Johnny Carino's Italian Restaurant, where he fell madly in love with me. The little Baptist church outside of the city limits where we married in a small ceremony, with only my parents, the girls, and the two photographers in attendance. No reception, just a quick dinner in our wedding garb at Olive Garden. We were a little afraid our heads would explode, as we are both Catholic, but the little Baptist church served us well.
* I became a mom to two beautiful girls here. Ages 12 and 8 when we married, they were funny and silly, and happy, and so very clever. They immediately fit into my Holdgrafer Family, and my parents just fell in love with them, too.
* My son was born here. You can read his story on Baby Home Pages, "The Miracle of Marcello." He aspirated on meconium, and his delivery began a 19 day oddessy in the NICU of the hospital, and an emotional roller coaster that is still quite clear in my memory. He had a rough start, but I just always knew he would be okay. He had been "promised" to me, so I wasn't worried (Kristi knows what I'm talking about!!).

So the decision to move back was not the difficult part of our most recent story. I suppose the most difficult part is putting into perspective a human piece of ourselves and trying not to see this as a "failure." It just is what it is. I loved South Florida, and would definitely consider moving back, should the opportunity present itself.
What do I miss already?
* The Cove Restaurant, in Deerfield Beach, just off Hillsboro on the intercoastal. Great food, lovely ambiance, and great food. Never had a bad meal there.
* Anne's Beach in Islamorada, in the Keys, not quite halfway to Key West. Tom talked about driving to the Keys shortly after moving to Florida, describing the vast beaches, open space, and his plan to drive the car onto the sand and just hang out all day there. He was born in South Florida and spent time in the Keys as a kid. We drove down through the Keys, and saw NO public beaches. We drove for at least an hour, and finally stopped at a convenience store to - YES - ask for directions. The cashier directed us to Anne's Beach, a little public beach with about 12 parking spaces and dock-like picnic areas on the beach surrounded by trees and plant life. Fun day, interesting area. I was breast feeding six-month-old Marcello at the time, so the privacy was appreciated. We had a great time, and still tease Tom about assuming that 40 years later, the beaches wouldn't have changed a bit.
* We only ventured to Miami Beach twice, to do a little sight-seeing and soak up the atmosphere. Such a charming area, with all the sidewalk restaurants and hotels, stylistically throw-backs to an era of art-deco. We oogled at Madonna's Hotel, the Delano, and other pricy attractions, and drove by looking at all the beautiful people. It's quite the show down there.
* We lived in Coconut Creek, and on Sundays I'd get up early to try to beat the heat, and Rollerblade until I was exhausted - I had a specific 17 mile trip I used to take. One day (okay, it happened a few times) I was unable to beat the heat, and had to call Tom to pick me up. I took the Blades off and sat on the sidewalk, and a Parkland Police Officer asked me if I was alright. I NEVER dressed to look as if I could afford to live in Parkland, but I like to think the officer was just being concerned for my health, not concerned I was casing the joint.
* Pizza Time Restaurant, an amazing Italian food place. Tom always raved about the lobster pizza, but I don't know if he ever had any during our four year stay. The food was wonderful - the Chicken Franchaise just melts in your mouth, and was the only thing I could ever bring myself to order.

So our move commenced on Saturday, June 6th, the first day of a three day drive from South Florida to Amarillo. We stopped the first night in Tallahassee, and were greeted by Tom's sister, Debbie and the scent of lasagne and chicken pasta alfredo. She snuck in a Key Lime Pie also. Debbie is the consumate hostess, always concerned with feeding you and making sure you are comfortable. She should own a Bed and Breakfast!!
Sunday, we traveled 700+ miles to Shreveport, LA, only to be greeted in the last two miles by a brake problem on the front passenger tire. We stayed with a good friend, Joseph, who we hadn't seen in maybe over five years. So the visit was unfortunately short, but very nice. Monday morning, three hours behind schedule and $68.00 later to replace a brake bolt that mysteriously disappeared, we were back on the road, headed for Texas. We arrived in Amarillo about 8:30 p.m., tired, but glad to be finished with the driving.

All day Tuesday, we unloaded our possessions into a storage facility, and cleaned up the mess we made at mom and dad's house. They're hosting our stay until we get jobs (pronounced "money"), and we hope to do our best not to wear out our welcome. Having Marcello charm them will go a long way to preventing them from getting sick of us.

So here we are. Happy, with family, and no worse for the wear.

Come for a visit soon. We'd love to see ya'll. (Nooooo, I did not just say "ya'll"!!)

My Typical (Genius) Four Year Old

I'm sure every parent is filled with pride when speaking of his or her child. And while gushing without end is a mindless inconsideration in which some people can't help but engage, I'll do my best to keep my ramblin' to a tolerable level. (Alternately, you are visiting my blog, so if I am a-ramblin'-ramblin', feel free to log-off. I wouldn't want friends and family regretting the loss of precious minutes in their lives!) :-)

So today, as Tom is moving some furniture downstairs and organizing our "moving truck staging area," while carrying a bookshelf, he steps in a wet spot on the carpet. Watching his balance and aim with the heavy piece of furniture, he absently asks Marcello, "You alright, son?" to which Marcello responds, "Uh, yes." We know four year olds spill things, so Tom makes a mental note to clean up whatever little wet mess has been left on the floor. He returns to what is later determined to be the scene of the crime, to find out what, exactly, is the nature of the little wet mess:
Marcello stands over a little plastic wagon (usually the container for his big Lego-type blocks) with a large plastic cooking spoon, stirring. He has poured the better part of an entire gallon of milk into the wagon (capacity roughly two gallons), along with the remainder of a package of shredded cheese and some yogurt, and informs his daddy that he has made some soup. The wagon bucket has a little latch on the bottom (so a child with his BLOCKS can tip the bucket back to dump his load), so there is a little hole right at the bottom of the bucket. Through which leaks the milk. Into a little wet mess on the floor. Positioned strategically for daddy to step in. Ahh, youth.

Last week, Marcello informed Tom and I that he is "allergic to chicken noodle soup." As my son is not allergic to anything so that word isn't used in my home often, my best estimate is that he learned the word "allergic" from a SpongeBob SquarePants episode. My four year old, the genius.

Speaking of sponges, did you know that children are sponges when it comes to hearing, learning and repeating everything!? Tom and I both had a time in our lives when we watched Beavis and Butthead. Three months ago, Tom (yes, my love, I unequivocally blame you for this) began referring to Marcello's BUNGHOLE. We never explained what a bunghole is, never discussed the issue in detail. Never used "bunghole," "butt" or "butthole" in the same sentence. However, Marcello has correctly deduced what a bunghole is. We'll ask him simple, serious questions like "Where is your train?" or "Have you seen daddy's other shoe?" and Marcello now replies, "It's in my Bunghole!" And then he laughs - Oh, he knows it's funny. He even has a Bunghole Dance. He bends over, touches his toes, and wiggles his butt. It's a little disturbing when he does it naked.

Genius. . . Typical. . . An Absolute Doll!
How about:
When he just comes up to his mommy, and says, "I love you, Mommy" without provocation?
or,
when he kisses my forehead when he knows I have a headache?
or,
when he says "Sorry, Daddy, for making soup on the floor?"

My precious boy.

OMG, HOLY MOLY, and other EXPLICATIVES!!

On May 13, 2009, I wrote about Amarillo, Texas, specifically stating I did not anticipate ever moving back.

Guess what. Saturday, May 23, 2009 (a sad and pathetic TEN days later), the decision was made by the Tortoreo Clan - Coconut Creek Division - to move back to Amarillo.

Hmmm. What, you may ask, inspired this shrewd and calculated move?
1. Winters are lovely in Amarillo, a stark comparison to the drab, breezy, 70-something days of Fort Lauderdale.
2. The beauty and spectacle of the elusive and rare Tornado is something not to be missed, and quite harmless in nature, contrary to popular belief (and those darned misleading news reports).
3. Really, how many palm trees does one person need to see in his or her lifetime?
4. There's too much money in South Florida. The spectacle of BMWs, Mercedes, Ferraris, (and on and on) is just the sad attempt of people with money to find happiness in material things, when truly they should be looking for the inner beauty in themselves, and in those people driving 20-year-old, beat up Toyotas and the occasional Fiat.
5. When the polar ice caps melt because of global warming, all of our sun-loving friends will be dead, buried beneath the flooded low-lands of this everglades state. The Tortoreo's will be safe, warm (or cold in winter, depending on when this occurs), and dry.

Oh, Amarillo. Where else could you possibly want to live!

Movie Nut

I love movies. They're an escape, an escapade; a way to touch laughter and lust; historical and hysterical; a way to lose myself to it, or find a piece of myself in it. I suspect that's why people who love movies get into the business. Some early footage of George Lucas shows his work and the passion he had for it. Some might say (I'd like to remain on the fence for this one) that American Graffiti was George Lucas' most enduring and most truthful piece, and we all know it was one of his first. (Some nights when I write, I feel a little like Steve Martin - I'm a ramblin, ramblin. . . )

So, come on, you movie freaks! Give me your thoughts!

I'm a huge Star Wars fan - Episodes IV, V and VI. I'll have to vote for Episode V, since it is the one in which Han Solo get a little dirty and lippy with Princess Leia. Let's be honest - who wouldn't want to get a little lippy with Han Solo? Episodes I, II and III were fine, although I still think casting Hayden Christiansen was a HUGE mistake - he just didn't do it for me.

In about 1990, I went through a 12 to 18 month period during which I watched ALIENS virtually every day. I can still recite the lines verbatim: "We're in some real pretty shit now, man. Game over, man. Game OVER!" "They mostly come out at night, mostly." "He can't make that kind of decision - he's just a grunt. No offense." "None taken." "I may be synthetic, but I'm not stupid." Bunch of badass marines in space, Newt the first real survivor (wait, it's in the future, but. . .), and Ripley KICKS ASS. Who couldn't watch that movie over and over and over again? I wanted to be tough like Vasquez, a smart aleck like Hudson, and what woman wouldn't want to be stuck in an elevator (being chased by a swarm of Aliens) with Hicks? *I will be forever grateful to my sister Sarah for giving me the ALIEN Superpack for Christmas one year. It's the gift that keeps on giving! THANK YOU, SARAH!*

I'm a huge Harry Potter fan, so the saga of Harry Potter is still very fresh and easily watchable for me. I can sit and watch any of them, and am now beside myself with joy after having seen, just this evening, the commercial for the next Harry Potter film, Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. While it is true that Daniel Radcliff is charmingly handsome, plays his character to perfection, and frankly now is no longer a minor (so I don't have to feel guilty for this little crush I still have), I am in touch with the ridiculousness of such a thing. (Don't worry - my husband is still my Hunka-Hunka-Burnin'-Love.) I love the idea of magic and witches and wizards, but more specifically, I love the story of good triumphing over evil, and the courage of the human, albeit wizarding world, spirit. GO HARRY!!

All right people - the all time, greatest, no-holds-barred, fat-lady-sings Spielberg TRIUMPH: Goonies! I remember the trailer in the theaters (I worked in a theater at the time, so I was. . . intrigued): Black screen, skull, then only the word "Goonies." I thought it was a pirate movie. No, no, no. . . it was even better. A bunch of kids on an accidental treasure hunt. What genius came up with this idea? Brilliant! "Bullet holes the size of matza balls!" "Mikey, I don't think this is the kind of place you want to go to the bathroom in." "Ruth! Ruth! Ruth! Baby Ruth!" "If you don't get it right, we'll all b-flat." "The octopus was very scary!"

My first memorable exposure to Sean Astin was as Mikey in Goonies. Ten-plus years later, he emerges in another favorite of mine that I just can't pass over if I find it on t.v. while channel-surfing - Rudy. True story - here is a guy people liked but few believed he could ever make of himself what he wanted to make of himself - a Notre Dame football player. He believed it, and tried, and tried, and failed, and tried, and failed, and tried. . . then succeeded. I brought this movie to the classroom in which I worked on "fun Friday" and the kids - middle school, mostly boys, behavior problems, smart alecks, and sometimes little "jerks" - watched it. I'm thinking, "football movie, all the kids around, I'm busy working, no chance I'll cry today!" WRONG. Rudy gets passed over to suit up for the final game he has eligibility to play in, and every football player on the team parades through Coach Parsegian's (I tried to spell it right, I really did) office, vowing to give up his spot just so Rudy can suit out for this one game. The coach tells the team captain, "You're the captain. Act like it." And the captain says, "I believe I am." SEE, I'M TEARING UP JUST THINKING ABOUT IT! OMG, if you haven't seen this movie, you have to see it.

Ladies, let's get estrogen-ized. The BBC's version of Pride and Prejudice, starring Jennifer Ehle and Colin Firth. I know it is about ten years old now and didn't get near the American press that Kiera Knightly's recent movie did, but I don't believe there is a true-er (is this a word?) or more visually stunning rendition of this novel. Granted, it's about a five hour commitment, but so is the original Star Wars trilogy. For me, some days chosing between the two is simply a toss up.

These and many other movies are story-telling masterpieces of fun and I can, and do, watch them over and over again. Then there are others, so moving and powerful and emotionally overwhelming that, while I have to own the DVD, I can't commit to watching them too often.

Schindler's List is so believable that it is hard for me to separate the art from the story. I'm tearful and in terrible emotional pain at the end. I love the movie. I love the beauty of the hope that emerges, even through the most desperate of moments. But in watching a truthful telling of a tragic time in history, I find I immerse myself in what I interpret to be the emotion of each scene, and I cry with deep sorrow every time I watch it. Well done, Mr. Spielberg. Well done.

I've only been able to watch Mississippi Burning once. I feel devastated by man's inhumanity toward man. I can't imagine trying to live my life having to break through barriers, watching people hate me with a malice almost too deep to comprehend. The story is again a reality, and when I watched it, I was overwhelmed emotionally and haven't had to courage to watch it since. I suspect that was one of the intended messages of the movie.

The Passion of the Christ. Having been raised a Catholic, attending Catholic schools for 11 years, and attending the mass every year during lent and Easter, I am keenly connected to the story of the passion because it is so much a part of the Catechetical teachings, the curriculum of religious studies. As my spirituality evolves during my (terribly, ghastly, achingly slow!) aging process, my focus is less on Jesus' mission as the Son of God as it is on the sacrifice of one human for another. Our lessons taught us that Jesus was man and God, but my focus during the experience of The Passion of the Christ was very much about Jesus' manhood. A man has anger and fear and pain. What kind of fear and pain does a person go through being whipped and tortured, beaten to an inch from death, then nailed to a cross and humiliated in front of friends, countrymen, adversaries, and his mother? I become immersed in what it could potentially feel like, and I become overwhelmed emotionally. This movie is one of the only movies during which I didn't just cry. I sobbed.

There's lots of other movies I am affected by, or that are simply good fun. I'm sure I've left out some good ones. Tell me a few from your list!!

When I was a Kid

I think about my childhood a lot - I always have. I don't know why. I wonder if it is because I'm getting older, or I can't believe I'm as old as I am (although 43 is no great tragedy!), or if, in general, I just like those memories.

With the help of the internet, I Google-search for friends from the past, and usually see a name or two, but not much else. I'm not yet on Facebook (although Tom is), so I have only utilized that resource a little bit. But the memories are always there, and the photos are still in my albums, and my hopes are always that my old friends are alive and well and propsering somewhere.

I attended Nazareth School in San Diego, California, from the first to the eighth grade. It was, and still is, a private, Catholic school, and most of my memories from that time in my life are good ones. My longest friends and my first crushes are all centered around that setting, so in my childhood, the school was it's own character, supporting the endeavor's of this story's hero (me!).

My first and longest-lasting friendship was with Gina DiVeroli. We met in the first grade, and quickly became the "Giggle Box Twins" because we apparently were always giggling. I don't remember the giggling so much, although I do remember that she was my best friend for much of my eight years at Nazareth. Slumber parties, Halloween contests, and suffering through some difficult school work gave us the bonds of friendship and the many memories I find to be still prevalent. The only reason I went to Our Lady of Peace Academy High School was because Gina didn't want to take the entrance exam alone. Can't think of a better reason to go anywhere!

Gene John Villagrana was my first crush, the first boy I ever thought about in a romantic way (I suspect I was not alone in this yearning). He also attended Nazareth for eight years, and in our eighth year, I finally got to kiss him. I've always kicked myself for how that event played out, because I ABSOLUTELY blew the chance to really get a good kiss - I was so niave at 14 years old. He went to kiss me with a gently opened mouth, and I was overwhelmed with fear, making some ludicrous statement about how I'd never french kissed before. Seconds later, I hear my mother calling (Gene and I were hosting the eighth grade graduation party at my house, and mom realized quickly that we had both disappeared - that woman didn't miss a THING!) and we had to emerge innocently from our private room, never to resume the kiss I so desperately wanted then, and for years after. What a shame!

Debbie McCutcheon was a friend from our earliest years, as her parents and my parents were friends before our births. My older brother and her older sister were born two days apart. As I grew older, I grew to dislike her because I thought she was "stuck up" and "she thought she was so big." Strange how our little minds work. . . What I realized as an adult amounted to my acceptance of my insecurity and intimidatability (still checking to see if that is a real word), and my view of Debbie was really about my own lack of confidence. Debbie just came across as so self-assured, and I was intimidated by that.

Jorge Carillo also attended Nazareth for eight years, if I remember correctly. Over time, I developed a dislike for him. He had a sharp tongue and teased people relentlessly. Again, as an adult, I can see that he may have behaved that way because he was insecure, or rebelling, or actually liked the girls he teased. I never assumed he liked me - I was sure, in fact, that he at most times disliked me. But my fixation on my dislike for him is now very clearly about the intense crush I had on him from about the fifth grade to the eighth grade. One of my most mortifying moments (believe me, I've had many!) was in our eighth grade year, as I walked up the steps to get to our classroom, he was walking toward the classroom from the other direction and I tripped on the steps in front of him. Oh, he saw it all right! Joked about it. It was worse than those dreams people talk about in which they go to school naked. And all I wanted to do was kiss him.

Darcy Hammons was a friend who arrived at Nazareth during our fifth or sixth grade year. She was from a far away land - Wyoming. Jorge and the other boys used to tease frequently - "This is Darcy" and do the woman's curvy outline with their hands; "This is Debbie" and do two straight lines with little "boobie bumps" at the top; and "This is Kathy" and do two straight lines all the way down. As I've said before, I was a late bloomer (Thanks, God, for that really funny joke!), and everybody noticed. For anyone who didn't notice, Jorge and the boys pointed it out. Darcy was great fun, smart, and interesting to be around with her stories of Wyoming. I always thought it was weird that a non-Catholic person would attend a Catholic school. We were close friends for a long time, and I used to spend the night at her house. My parents were out of town one week, and Darcy and her mom had me stay at their home. We decided to play "hookey" one day, and I lied about being sick, because Darcy said her mother would never believe her. And so I pretended to be sick, and her mother gave me Pepto-Bismol. I was none-too-happy with Darcy that day.

The teachers remain emblazoned on my memory. Sr. Thomas was my first grade teacher, so gentle and charming to a bunch of six and seven year olds. Sr. Anscar was my second grade teacher, and about as short as we were. She was the classic singing nun, and everyone looked forward to her Shadow Passion Play every year at Easter. Sr. Bridget was our fourth grade teacher, and everyone thought she was goofy, and for the life of me now, I have no idea why. Mrs. Neville was our fifth grade teacher, and that woman was ancient at the time, and had no business teaching. Kevin Hatfield, a fellow fifth grader, received regular palm-beatings with her ruler, and one day she assulted his palm with a yardstick that broke during the whacking. I found Kevin annoying (as an adult in the mental health field now, I can say with much confidence that he was definitely ADHD) but it broke my heart watching him constantly under physical attack by that old woman. Strange how some of my teachers' names and faces have escaped my memory - I'll have to look them up in my photo albums after I unpack them.

I liked those school years. I have a lot of good memories. I'd love to have an elementary school reunion, but that seems unlikely, since that is not something people really do. I'll have to enlist my husband to start searching Facebook, to see how many of these old friends I can find. Maybe I should get my own Facebook.

Amarillo, Texas

Amarillo, Texas.

People make fun of Amarillo, Texas - I'm sure for lots of reasons: Mid-sized city (yes, it IS, Honey!) with small town attitudes; Route 66; Cowboys, and rednecks, and pick-up trucks and dualies; dry summer heat, and snow storms in the winter. What's not to poke fun at????

I used to complain about it too, until a dear friend (we were 19 at the time), said "You're an adult. If you hate it so much, you can leave. Really, Kathy, I'm tired of hearing it." Thanks for the reality check, Tracy!! Anyway, I realized she was right. I eventually did leave. . . then moved back. My own personal journey led me to realize that it's all in the attitude (thanks, Dad), and you can be happy anywhere, if you choose to be.

So after a while, Amarillo "wasn't so bad." I liked it for a lot of reasons. Still do.

I had my First Love in Amarillo. Harold Moses, big muscle-man, who, as it turns out, was the TWIN of Russell Crowe with a mustache, (before RC was a household name), and "a few" years older. Surely, I'm not the only one who has noticed this! Loves had and loves lost don't always leave you with a great taste in your mouth, but you can't just forget your first love. I've always been a late bloomer and I didn't have my first love until I was 19 years old - no jokes, please, I was just finally glad someone wanted to date me! So hats off, to Amarillo, and Harold, and LOVE.

I owned my classic Ford Mustang (1964 1/2) in Amarillo. It was a COOL car - dual exhaust, powder blue (until I had it repainted royal-sparkley blue), a little trashed but sexy with the young blonde driver. I have special memories of driving little Sarah around, and her safety slogan learned at school: "Buckle up, buttercup!" And all my cassette tapes (man! am I old?) being stolen out of the front seat while my baby was parked at the Tascosa Country Club - what is up with that? Parking in a lot where the Mercedes and BMWs are, and MY trashy little car gets JACKED. Poor little Mustang had a weak heater, so the snowy part of winter was BRUTAL, like driving a motorcycle in the 40 degree weather, but not.

I earned my Master's Degree in Psychology while in Amarillo (okay, the college was in Canyon, but you can't really count that, can you?) . I felt smart, competent, and ever-so-collegiate, and was able to graduate with a respectable GPA. I can't hold my B's against Dr. Gary Byrd - I mean, after all, I'm no genius and I worked damn hard for those B's. (I'm sure I'm not the only one of Dr. Byrd's students who drove home to Amarillo in tears after one of his tests - what doesn't kill us makes us stronger!) I walked across a collapsable stage in the Amarillo Civic Center, proudly carrying my leather diploma case, never having worked so hard at anything in my whole life. My advisor, Dr. Don Johnson (no, not THAT Don Johnson), gave me sound advice early in my post-graduate career, and for this I am eternally grateful: "It's not the smartest people who succeed in a Master's program or in life. It's the people who don't give up." Well, by God, if I can't be the smartest, I can at least be the most persistent! Thanks, Dr. Johnson.

I met and married the love of my life in Amarillo: my husband, Tom Tortoreo - another of the many who has never been a big fan of Amarillo, Texas. My first marriage tanked (that's a whole 'nother story), Southern California brought me no real contenders, and a few mis-steps later, I found myself single at 35, thinking the man carrying the "little swimmers" (sperm - duh) I needed must have long ago made his escape. I had one tearful night, again lamenting my exile into singlehood, but then had a brilliant idea. I joined a dating service - coincidentally started and formerly run by my own former-whatever (that's ALSO a whole 'nother story), and the third man I selected for a date turned out to be the perfect fit for me. After a couple of dates, I realized I had even typed up and prepared his information sheet when he joined the dating service when run by my former-whatever. Cracks me up, even now.

I became a mom to two daughters in Amarillo, when I married Tom. Kelsey, 11 years old, was Tom's "Best Person" in the wedding, and Cassandra, 8 years old, was my Maid of Honor. I couldn't have asked for a better fulfillment of my dream, than to be a wife and mom all at the same time, since, at 36 years old, I was running out of time to start a family - worked out well for me. Hopefully, I haven't damaged them too much in trying to be the perfect mom (no-such-thing, never-gonna-happen, what-the-hell-was-I-thinking?, etc.). I still wonder how my mother kept her sanity with 5 kids, when I struggle with it with fewer than that. But then I remember, mom did have to get counseling at one point. Hopefully, she's forgiven us for that.

I had my baby boy in Amarillo. After two miscarriages, the third pregnancy "took," and I got knocked up, much to the delight of the girls, the husband, and my parents. Yes, my mother did give me the question a couple of times (even when I was still single and looking) about when I might get her a grandchild, but only in good fun, with always a pinch of seriousness. I knew I would have a son, for several reasons. The reason I like the best is when my sister Kristi sent me a recording of her Spiritualist's reading that she felt a male energy anxious to cross over to me. My pregnancy was excellent. I knew it was a boy before the sonogram confirmed it. I threw up only once (but that could have been more about the shrimp and asparagus wrapped in bacon than about the boy), had ZERO headaches after the second month of pregnancy, and have vividly fond memories of Halloween, 2004, during which the baby's kicks and movements were so distinct as to be my "first" movements of the baby. Many of you know about the story of his birth (19 days in NICU, see TheMiracleOfMarcello at BabyHomePages for the full story), and he's been a joy ever since. He loveslovesLOVES his big sisters, and adores his dog, Birdie the Dalmatian.

My parents are still in Amarillo, so a piece of my heart is still there too. I miss them a lot, and wish we could visit more often. I know they miss the three grandchildren more than they miss the daughter and the son-in-law, but we feel the love often. We'll probably never move back, but we'll certainly buy a Spring/Autumn home there if we ever win the lottery (summers - too hot; winters - too snowy). I don't need to see the Cadillac Ranch - I've seen it too many times while riding my bicycle on the access road on I-40, heading west into Adrian. I don't need to go to the Big Texan for a 72 ounce steak - that much beef scares me. I don't need to see Palo Duro Canyon too many more times, although I might like to. The musical Texas is always charming, and you only get rained out from it about half the time!!

Maybe if I'm lucky, I'll get the chance to visit again soon!

Assigning Value

My sister Sarah used a great word recently - well, to be fair, she's probably used A LOT of great words lately, but this one stuck out in my mind when she responded to my blog. * Arbitrary *

Because we're moving soon, my dictionaries are packed, so I had to go to Dictionary.com on the internet to verify the definition. Now, I'm very wordy, so I kinda/sorta (real intellectual terminology, right, Mom?) know the meaning, but I wanted to make sure I wasn't too off-base. Turns out I was right.

Arbitrary: undetermined; not assigned a specific value.

I started thinking about this blog entry as "What is Beautiful" or "Who is Beautiful" because I think that's an interesting concept. But if you examine it, as the aeons-old phrase notes, "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder," you understand even at an early age that what is beautiful to one person isn't so beautiful to another. Why? You know why - because we're all different. What we notice is different, the value we assign to something is different, so consequently, we view beauty as diversely as we view everything else.

So this blog, "What / Who is Beautiful" becomes "What / Who is Beautiful to Me."

My family is beautiful, because I value them beyond what I value anything else.
My sister-in-law Sean is beautiful - she is deeply intelligent, loves my brother, and raises my terribly clever nephew.
My parents are beautiful - they love me beyond my mistakes, and always forgive me.
My sisters are beautiful - Kristi is fearless, bold and graceful / Jen is confident, funny and sharp / Sarah is daring, expressive and adventurous.
My brother is beautiful - he is opinionated, devoted, and so much like my father.
My brother-in-law is beautiful - he is witty, intelligent, and made quite the adorable little girl with my sister.
My husband is beautiful - he is devoted, goofy, and in love with me!
My daughters are beautiful - Cassandra is grounded and genuine / Kelsey is strong and caring.
My son is beautiful - he is sweet, talkative, and loves to hug me.

But, what else? I mean, really, let's expose what is really beautiful to THIS beholder:

Patrick Stewart (Captain Picard, Star Trek: The Next Generation) - I used to tell my friends I wanted to take his bald head and rub it between my bare breasts. If you can't handle the visual, just don't think about it.
Hugh Jackman (X-Men: Wolverine) - Come on, have you looked at his body? Wow!
Angela Basset - Stella got her groove. . . and might have stolen a little of mine.
Lake Mead, Nevada - Waterskiing? In the desert? Ah, memories of when I was cute and trim, and could out-waterski most of my family. DO NOT DENY IT!
Jeep Wrangler - THE coolest car ever made.
Jimmy Hendrix - Dancing to Fire on a four-foot stucco wall, when I was single, living with Roxie and Yvonne, learning that there are some songs and some musicians who will never wilt under the passage of time. (No, Roxie, not Led Zepplin)
Harry Potter - Imagination becomes real, becomes a movie, becomes an industry, becomes the one sweet thing that makes some of my headaches go away. Thanks, Ms. Rowling.
Movies that make me cry - If even the most ridiculous movie reminds me about the importance of humanity and love and connection, then it is beautiful. Rudy - Go Sean Astin! Finding Nemo - Did you see how much Marlin loved his little boy? Cars - I mean, Lightning McQueen gave up the Piston Cup to give another man (okay, another car) his dignity back. That is beautiful! Scrooge (Albert Finney version), It's a Wonderful Life (Duh), virtually any Christmas movie that doesn't have Tori Spelling. . .

Seriously, I could go on and on, but. . . as my brother might point out, I already have.

Beautiful is witnessing the learning moment of a child. Beautiful is working your ass off for a year and completing a marathon (you knew I would eventually mention that, right?) Beautiful is walking across a portable stage and receiving a diploma for which you suffered blood, sweat and tears (you're damn right, TEARS!). Beautiful is finally understanding Shakespeare, even if it took three movie versions of Hamlet to get there.

What is beautiful? You tell me.

The Number 11

Do you ever have stuff that happens more often than you would think "average" and wonder if it is some kind of cosmic message or real-life foreshadowing? - No, I'm not an idiot!

The number 11 is like that for me. That I can think of, it's only been since I've been married to Tom, but strange nonetheless - Yes, yes, Tom IS very strange, but that is a whole 'nother blog!

I wake up several times every night, which has always been pretty typical of me - yeah, I might need a Sleep Number bed. When I wake up, I check the time, then I know if I can snuggle back into my covers and go back to sleep. Three or four times a week (sometimes less), I look at the clock and the display is 11:11. How wierd is that?

I suppose that's maybe not so "wierd" as it is. . . well, I don't know. I mean, statistially speaking, how likely is it that three times per week I would look at the clock at exactly the same moment? From the time I go to bed, usually about 10:30, to the time I wake up in the morning, usually about 6:00, there is an accumulation of 450 minutes - yes, I did have to get a pen and paper for that. Now, I'm no statistical genius (obviously), but the likelihood of looking at the clock at the same time several nights per week is pretty low. So, what kind of freaky, paranormal thing is going on?

Some (the logical thinkers in my family - dad, Mark - no, not Tom) might say that my body has just become accustomed to waking up at this average time, meaning nothing, really, except that's just how my body works! This is a legitimate theory, but leads me to ask "Why not some other type of typical-Kathy-body-function such as strangely high metabolism or boobs-that-aren't-starting-to-sag (I am 43 after all!)"? Some other more creative thinkers (Kristi, Sarah) might speculate that something in the life-forces of our universe are pulling me toward something, suggesting I should be aware of what may come. Interesting, and supports much of the spirituality behind the myth of Star Wars. (I could elaborate on this, but this has already been done more eloquently in a book entitled "The Spirituality of Star Wars" - can't remember the author, I packed the book already in anticipation of our move.) Still others (Mom, Jen, Tom) might slap me back to reality with a quick "What. . . are you kidding?"

So let's examine this. (1) I may have been about 11 when I finally kissed a boy for the first time - Armondo Flores. He was very cute, and a year younger than myself. It happened during lunch or recess at school, and I had one of my friends take a picture of it. I have no idea what happened to the picture, which is a shame. I mean, how many of us actually get to visually document our first kiss? (I may have been 12, but for this working theory, I'm being a little liberal.) (2) I was born in 1966, which, similar to 11, has two of the same digits. Hmm, very interesting. (3) More significantly, as a fan of the Indy Racing League, my favorite driver is Tony Kanaan, whose car number is - you guessed it - 11!

The evidence of cosmic intervention is mounting! This, my friends, is why I buy lottery tickets. Little signals from the beyond. . . beyond. . . beyond. . . that I must heed for my own livelihood - nay, survival!! Hey, maybe I'm supposed to be making sure the number 11 is in my lottery tickets! Geez, no wonder I never win.

* Addendum: Tom checked our PowerBall Lottery tickets later this afternoon. We won $1.00. The winning digit series had an 11 in it. *

Thinking about God

I have random thoughts about Spiritual Stuff, and also random-or-consequently-linked thoughts about being Catholic. Having been raised a Catholic, I am anchored in the traditions of the church and Sunday Mass, but as a human in this time / era, I've developed Spiritual thoughts which don't really support, or aren't supported by, the religion.

The reason this comes up today is because I was stressing pretty hard about the transition in which my family is currently mired, and I got a little overwhelmed with fear about things not working out. * Side Note #1 * I have demonstrated over the last near-seven years of marriage that I am quite capable of FREAKING OUT. What I've learned is that freaking out never solves the problem, it just makes me feel worse. And ultimately, I end up having to address the problem in some way, so let's cut out the freaking out part and just make a plan. (I still react emotionally, but much better at not freaking out.) *And I'm back * So, I needed comfort, and turned to the rosary I keep in my purse. I needed someone to tell me not to worry, and although Tom (husband) told me that several times, I just needed more. I was driving, and put the rosary around my neck.

* Side Note #2 * Rosaries are not necklaces. Contrary to the Eighties-era photos, it is inappropriate to wear them as jewelry, and most Catholics know this (I think). They're prayer chains, not jewelry. But, let's be honest - You don't go to hell for wearing a rosary around your neck. * And I'm back * Even though I have never done this, I slipped it over my head, thinking that just for today, maybe the feeling of the rosary close to my heart would remind me that I'm not alone, that everything will work itself out. I noticed it all day, kinda sweaty against my skin in the South Florida pre-summer heat. Truthfully, I didn't feel comforted, but feeling the beads just made me remember that things will get worked out.

The thing is, I'm struggling right now with the "power of prayer." When Marcello was born, and consequently in the hospital for 19 days struggling to survive, so many people prayed for him and his health, and I appreciated every moment of that prayer. But at the same time, what was more important for me was that he was in the right place at the right time, in the right hospital, being treated by the right doctors with the right experience. I don't think I prayed as much as I should have, but I was convinced Marcello wouldn't die. Thanks to exceptional medical care, and lots of prayer, he survived.

Two years prior to this event, Tom and I were struggling financially, making bad decisions based on bad information. Night after night, I prayed to God, begged for intercessions on our behalf to the Virgin Mary, my three beloved and deceased grandparents, Tom's beloved and deceased father. Night after night, I cried while laying in bed, and only finally falling asleep while saying the rosary, each hard little bead clutched in my fingers. My humble and pain-filled prayers never eased the suffering, never brought about a job offer, never fixed our stupid mistakes. The praying focused my mind away from my fears and allowed me to relax enough to sleep.

So I'm operating on the theory currently that God doesn't reach his hand down very often to intercede in our human trials and tribulations. * Side Note 3 * Oh, I absolutely believe in miracles! There are moments when things occur that are unexplainable by human science of any kind. But I think those are few and far between. I believe that Marcello is alive because of exceptional medical care, and hopefully devine inspiration, but definitely scientifically explainable medical care. "The miracle of life" is explainable by the biology and chemical explanations of our earth and humanity (I stilll think the start of life from non-living is a miracle), so while the birth of every baby is an absolute good and wonderful thing, it is explainable by science, and therefore not a miracle. * And I'm back. * So who am I to be so bold as to request God's hand intercede in my life, when many more humble and more worthy people need His hand much more than me.

I think God put us on this earth to learn, the make the journey and see what we would and could do with this life He gave us. We have to utilize every resource we have, every working and intelligent thought, and every moment of sentience to (forgive me for being cliche) make the journey. I don't believe God has a set plan for me, that I was "meant to do" something. I think this life that God gave me allows me the opportunity to experience love, joy, sorrow, growth, error and forgiveness, and every choice I make affects me and those around me. The theory of a destiny takes away any notion of my freedom of choice. If we are responsible for choosing right and wrong, then we have the choice. If there is no choice, and we walk only a predestined path, how can we be held responsible for our wrongs, for pain and suffering we inflict upon others?

I do fervently believe in God, in That-Which-Is-Much-Larger than myself (yeah, I could call it The Force). I want to believe in the power of prayer, but I think I more realistically believe in the power of each person's choices affecting the rest of us. One man's choice to go to medical school, focus on neonatal care, move to Amarillo and spearhead the development of the Neonatal ICU, as well as many other people's choices to devote their lives to the medical care of newborns, enabled my son to live. However God fits into their lives is unknown to me, but they healed my son, with the talents God gave them.

I still pray - my rosaries still mean a lot to me. I still talk to God sometimes. But I don't wait for him to fix things. Frankly, I don't even ask. I utilize whatever talents God gave me to work, along with my husband and family, toward fixing things myself. I don't think that's a rejection of God, I think that's what God wants to see us do. Yeah, I'm still a Catholic, and I think I am a good one. But more importantly, I consider myself a good person, and I think that is ultimately what a good Catholic has to be.

Mental Health doesn't pay squat!

So, I am a therapist. My position doesn't allow me to have counseling with families. What I do for a community agency here in South Florida is Intake Coordination. This means that I screen the referrals, offer the families services, and open the cases if they choose to participate. Our program focuses on in-home services, so I go to the families' homes and sign paperwork and complete a Psychosocial Assessment, then turn the case over to the assigned counselor. I tell my colleagues, "I get to hear everybody's dirty laundry, then hand it off to someone else to follow through." I'm nosey. I'll listen to people's garbage if they'll let me!

Some days are better than others, but what makes it rewarding are the days I meet with families who really need help, and are appreciative of our efforts. Last week, I was having trouble reaching a young mother who seemed to want services. I stopped by her house on Saturday after working to confirm our Monday appointment, and mom was distraught about her daughter being sick, she had no money to purchase medicine or Pedialyte as instructed by her doctor, and her "baby daddy" was nowhere to be found. My heart broke looking at this precious baby, whiny and sad, not feeling good, and mom with no resources to make her baby feel better. I went out and spent $12.00 on some Infant Tylenol and Pedialyte so mom could care for her baby. When I showed up at her home with the supplies, she all but cried in my arms. All I know is, if I couldn't have given my infant son simple medicine to make him feel better, I would have died inside. I had people to turn to when my son was an infant. She has no one who can help her. So our agency pays $12.00 and mom is relieved and baby is better. Thank God.

Then there are those days when my referral is about two feuding, divorcing parents who are emotionally scarring their children by putting them in the middle of their bitter, berating, insult-filled rants. But even after my most professional and "for the benefit of your children" speech, they use excuse after excuse to refuse to allow their children to receive FREE counseling from my agency. "I can't do anything without consulting my lawyer." Please!! You are your child's parent - if you want her to have counseling, YOU give the "okay," not your LAWYER. And these people think they are being good parents!

So I learn not to take it home, and get past it. I have to let it go, or my heart will break. All I can do is all I can do. I love what I do, even the hard days, because I feel like I make a difference, even if it is only for one moment, for one person, bringing relief for one temporary issue. It better mean that much to me, because working in Mental Health doesn't pay squat!

So, that was my week at work. Home is good! I have a 4 year old boy who LOVES me, a husband who pampers me, and a couple of teenage daughters who grace us with their presence when convenient - they're leading their own exciting lives - please!! - we're lucky if they stop by and say hi before going to bed. Whew! So, those are my thoughts for today. Thanks for listening, and have a great evening.

So what do you want to know?

Here I am, blogging, April 26, 2009. I have every intention of being profound, but I'm not sure what to say. So I'll just start with the basics. Here are some facts about me and my family. (1) I'm a big Star Wars fan. I saw the movie along with everyone else when it was first released, and I was about 11. Liked it a lot back then. Thirty-some-odd years later, I LOVE it and am probably one of those people you could call an avid-and-consistent-fan, but not one of those psychotics who dress up and embarrass themselves - although I do have a healthy respect for those people. (Contrary to some schools of thought, that is not a mental health disorder). Anyway, I have a couple of Star Wars stuffed animals, and am imparting knowledge regularly about Star Wars to my four year old son - young, impressionable, and so attached to Mommy that he would never think to object. Not yet anyway. I influence my son behind my husband's back, so he has minimal opportunity to object. Don't judge me - he's doing the same thing with our son, trying to get the boy addicted to racing! (2) I enjoy doing laundry, because I find it therapeutic. (3) My two daughters, ages 18 and 15, are beautiful but unfortunately I can't take any credit for that since I'm not their biological mom. I am lucky enough to have been their mom for the last six-plus years now, and I can only hope that they don't hate me for it. I mean, as most parents can confirm, in my efforts to impart wisdom, I find that I learn much more about life and and humanity from them than they learn from me. In my attempts to be the perfect parent (impossible, I know - don't judge me!), it is abundantly clear every day how terribly short I fall of that goal. I can only hope they will forgive my mistakes, sooner rather than later. (4) Someone told me once (I was about 19) that I could have been a really good dancer, because I have such high arches in my feet. I took it with a grain of salt, since I'm pretty sure he was trying to get me to have sex with him. I didn't. (5) I'm madly in love with my husband. He's a good man with a gentleness and love that is genuine and consistent. He loves me for who I am, even though I like to watch television a lot, love being comfortable in sweats, and just can't seem to grow my hair long. He accepts all my flaws and loves me anyway. He looks me in the eye when he talks to me. He tells me the truth. He's outrageously funny, crosses that "appropriate" line as often as possible but is never disrespectful. And he thinks I am beautiful, and tells me so all the time.
So this is my first entry. No earth-shattering depth, but just me talking about things that mean something to me. Thanks for tuning in.