Finding Passion

I long to create. Not the written word, mind you. I figure I’ve done enough of that. But rather I yearn to make something from nothing – something tangible, that you can see and feel and be proud to say, “I made this.”

I think the last time I truly made something from my own two hands, of my own initiative, I was in grade school. I learned a few macramé knots and went to town making macramé plant holders for my mother. They weren’t anything fancy. Some of them even had beads, some of them didn’t. But they were functional pieces that I had made. It was some semblance of a skill that I had. Of course, it’s long gone now. (Oh well. Wasn’t macramé kind of a ‘70s thing, anyway?)

Maybe I wouldn’t be so sensitive to it now if I didn’t have such a handy husband. He always has some project going on around our house. Last winter he remodeled our downstairs bathroom. Tore the walls out to the studs, he did, and started from scratch. I couldn’t really help him. I don’t know much about those sorts of things.



Ed's Masterpiece: Our New Patio

This summer he tore down our old, dilapidated deck and set about building a new patio. He started about Memorial Day and finished it up just after Labor Day. Almost every day he was out there doing something with that patio, paying attention to every meticulous detail, even laying the pavers in a way to where the rainwater would run off in a particular pattern. The rock wall surrounding the patio had to be just perfect. I would watch him examine stone after stone and arrange them as if they were puzzle pieces. And if one just didn’t work to his satisfaction, he’d pull it out and try another, or maybe arrange the stones another way.

And of course, what’s a patio without the landscaping? The finishing touch to a summer’s worth of work. Three luscious evergreens dot the one side; hostas adorn the other side. A holly bush is among the plants, along with some others, which I can’t name because Ed only refers to them by their Latin names. But whatever they are, they’re pretty.

So now we have the grand patio. And it not only represents my husband’s enormous skill, but also the passion that he puts into each project he undertakes.

That’s where I’m lacking. I really have no skills, no interests, really. No passion. And that bothers me. When I see someone like my husband create something so grand, so profound, so practical, it’s a bit intimidating. Don’t get me wrong – I’m lucky to have him. And I’m not sure what I’d do without him. But sometimes his many talents remind me of my own shortcomings. And it makes me wonder what gifts do I bring to this world?

I can sew a torn button back onto a pair of pants. Yippee. But I can’t sew to save my life. Funny how now’s the time I wish I would have taken home economics in high school. When I was in high school, I considered myself too “career-oriented” to fool with such things.

In particular, I always thought it would be nice to take up quilting. To me, quilts are a work of art. A handmade quilt represents love, and caring, and comfort, and security, to me. And I thought combining various colors and patterns of material would be fun.

But guess what. You have to know how to sew to take up quilting. A couple of years ago I received a sewing machine for Christmas (it was on my wish list). A few months ago I finally pulled it out. I learned to thread the bobbin fairly easily, and threading the machine was no big deal, but getting the little bobbin thing in and out was more complicated than I thought. Fortunately, I actually happened upon a YouTube video on how to put the bobbin into my model of machine. Once I accomplished this, I attempted to sew a few stitches on a scrap piece of cloth. Not bad for a first attempt, I thought. Then I put the machine away.

Now I have it out again because I desperately want to prove to myself that I can make something with my hands. Maybe not a full-blown quilt to begin with, though I do have about a half-dozen books on how to start quilting, but I don’t think I’m ready for that yet. And it might take more than looking at visuals in books. Maybe it will take somebody actually showing me how to do some of the stuff. So no quilts yet.

Baby steps instead. Also for Christmas a couple of years ago I received a small “getting started quilting” kit complete with the supplies for a small project – a small wall hanging. It’s not even that pretty of a wall hanging – pretty generic if you ask me. But that’s my project. I have the sewing machine out again, the materials that came with the kit and the roller cutter. Last night I completed the first step – cutting all the material pieces down to size with the roller cutter. Now the sewing starts (YIKES!).

Now I have no doubt that this project will probably be chock full of screw ups. That’s okay. The important thing is that I do it and learn along the way. And in the end I’ll have a generic (and likely imperfect) wall hanging that I don’t even like. But it will be mine, and I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that I made it. And maybe this project will be the springboard for better projects to come. Maybe I will be able to start that quilt someday.

Or maybe the experience will prove to me that I have no business being behind a sewing machine. (I have to admit, it is a strange sight.) Then what? Then I’ll be in search of another creative outlet. Some other hobby or activity that can bring passion to my life. Photography, maybe? I always thought I’d like to dabble in that.

Or maybe it’s not necessarily a hobby or a skill I seek, but the passion itself. I suppose you can find your passion in many different ways. For instance, I consider my children to be my passion. I’m not sure I’m always the greatest mom, but I do know that I love my boys more than words can describe. But unlike my husband, who has a passion for home projects and a passion for yard work, I can’t really say that I have any strong personal passion beyond love for my family.

That’s it. I yearn for passion. Passion for something. I’ll ponder this as I’m working my way through my mini sewing project. Maybe I just need that quiet time to explore my inner self, dig deep and discover within myself whether I even have passion, and if so, passion for what?

What a journey this should be. And I hope to find something within me – something in there. I guess the fact that I worry about it at all makes me more than an empty shell.

Yes, there has to be something within that shell. And if I’m lucky, as I explore within my shell I’ll discover there is a pearl or two wedged in there, ready and waiting to come out.

Time with the Boys



My three boys, basking in the sun on the beach of Cape Charles, Virginia.
From left: Sam, Clay and Luke.

For the record, I really, really love my boys. All three of them. Like any mother, I want to give them the world – all of their hearts’ desires. I want to spoil them silly. I desire that they want for nothing. Of course, I realize I’m doing them no favors by spoiling them. They need to learn that in this world you don’t get everything that you want.

But I have to admit that the past couple of summers I have felt especially guilty that I haven’t been able to treat them to some sort of grand vacation. For several years a lovely resort in Vermont was our destination, and many memories were made there. But financial constraints of late have limited what we can do as far as trips go.

Last year it was a three-day primitive camping trip on one of Kentucky’s pristine lakes. I think the spot cost us about $40 total. But I’ve decided after that escapade that I’ve had my fill of primitive camping for about the next five years or so. Sweltering in a tent in the heat of summer and walking 10 minutes to the nearest bathroom when you have to go in the middle of the night isn’t my idea of fun! And did I mention the downpour as we were trying to cook our burgers on the grill? Never mind the boys. I’ve decided camping’s not for me.

But I digress. What about this summer? I have to say when my brother invited me to come spend a few days at his place on the Eastern Shore of Virginia (just across the Chesapeake Bay Bridge from Virginia Beach), I jumped at the chance. It wasn’t so much for me, but for my desire to provide some sort of adventure for the boys this summer.

We embarked on our 12-hour journey at 6:30 on a Friday morning. And I have to say it didn’t start out so well. I’m chalking it up to the early morning hour, but somehow I managed to tear the siding off the garage door as I was pulling out. Damn, got too close. And now white scuffs all over the front of my car. No sweat though. It’s just paint. I’ll scrape it off later. I figured I’d try to explain the issue with the siding to my husband later. Nonetheless, I suspected it was a bad omen for the trip to start out this way.

As it turned out, there were no other mishaps. And after more than 12 laborious hours of driving through Kentucky, West Virginia, and clear across Virginia, we finally reached our destination. I have to say, though, I was getting somewhat bleary-eyed going over that big-ass Chesapeake Bay Tunnel Bridge – only about 21 or so miles long. After such an exhausting drive (of which I drove the whole way), I was concerned I might flip over the bridge or something. (Just in case you might ever find yourself going over that bridge, the toll is $12 – cash.)

My brother Brent was the perfect host, having even rented a golf cart for the boys to take about town and down to the beach if they want. (Though Clay was the only one who could drive it, since he is the only boy who is a licensed driver.) Apparently, Cape Charles is the only town in Virginia that allows golf carts on the city streets. I have to admit, carousing about in the golf cart was a blast.

But the best part of my trip was just the time with the boys. Unfortunately my husband couldn’t come because he had to work, but at least I got some of that quality time that I so long for so much of the time.  Perhaps the quiet times were the most poignant. Last week Virginia was not immune from the same heat wave that afflicted the rest of the country. But a dip into the Chesapeake Bay was enough to bring your body temperature down a good 15 degrees. It was there that we as a family splashed around, passed around a football, and frolicked carelessly. Life was good.

Brent, of course, introduced my boys to a host of unique culinary delights that are not normal fare at home. Grilled tuna steaks, which they surprisingly devoured. (Okay, Sam was a little timid, but the other two ate up.) Grilled beats. Steamed clams, which were a hit.

My brother took the boys fishing off the pier at Cape Charles. Did you know that you don’t use a bobber when fishing in the ocean? The boys caught crabs galore (it is, after all, the Chesapeake Bay). But Sam went the extra mile and caught two baby red drum fish. Good eatin’ for the next night.

We departed Cape Charles the next Tuesday. Only on the way back I decided to make a two-day trip out of it. We spent the night in Covington, Virginia. It was a simple night. We dined at a local pizza place, then back to the hotel for swimming, then back to the room for showers. We then proceeded to watch the All-Star game. A quiet evening it was. But precious to me.

We headed home the next day.  The boys proceeded to sleep through half the trip – all the way through West Virginia. But as I reflected on our days together, I knew that they had a blast and I had provided this summer’s grand adventure. A small adventure at that – but something to remember.

There are so many places where I would like to take my boys – so many destinations to explore. Disney World. Washington, D.C. The West Coast. Maybe take them on a cruise someday. Perhaps Hilton Head, which seems to be a popular vacation destination. Hawaii? Well, maybe I’ll reserve that just for my husband and me.

But this year, it was Cape Charles, Virginia. Budget vacation extraordinaire. (For me, that is. My brother went above and beyond to be an exceptional host.) I even took the Saturn instead of the minivan to save on gas – something I’m sure my tall boys’ legs didn’t appreciate.

Budget vacation aside, though, I hope my boys appreciated it for what it was – my attempt to give them what I could as far as summer adventures go. And for them to know how much I really, really love them. I can’t give them everything. But for a few days, I gave them the sun and the surf. The sandy beach. The soothing saltwater.

And hopefully – at least for a short time –  a sense of peace that all is good in the world.

Beefing Up My Bucket List

Ever make a bucket list? I haven’t – at least, not ‘til now.

A couple of weeks ago, as I started to work with a consultant who is helping me get a writing business off the ground, she gave me one of my first assignments – start putting together a bucket list. I was confused. I e-mailed her back for some clarification. “Do you mean the type of list of things that I want to do while I’m still in this world?” She replied in the affirmative, so hence, over the past couple of weeks I’ve been writing out my bucket list.

One would think it would be sort of a morbid thing to do. I mean, who makes out a bucket list? The elderly? Those who are dying? I’m not either (at least I don’t think). And to make things even more challenging, my assignment wasn’t to merely list out a few things – say, a “top 10” list. That would be easy. No, my charge was to come up with at least 100 things. That takes some thought.

Actually, even though I’m stuck right now with only 83 things (17 more to go!), I have found the process to be somewhat enlightening. I never knew I wanted to do so many things. Of course, the regular things are on there – go to Hawaii, be thin, have the kitchen of my dreams. But what I found was that some things that I wanted were so simple and other things somewhat elaborate. Allow me to share some of these things on my bucket list:

·        Go to visit friends I haven’t seen in years – Paula or Ronni in Tennessee, or Brenda in Alabama. And how I’d love to see Marta in North Carolina, too. Fortunately, today’s technology (e.g., Facebook) enables me to always be a click and a few keystrokes away from these dear friends, but how I miss seeing them face-to-face. I long to be able to get away someday to reconnect with those who have been such a special part of my life.

·        Interview my grandmother about her life. Though I have time – she’s only 91. I can only imagine the stories she can tell. Would hate for them to be lost.

·        Make at least one quilt in my life. This means I would actually have to learn to sew, use a sewing machine (finally figured out how to get the bobbin in mine), and develop the skills for quilting. Not sure I have the patience for that. But I’ve always loved quilts. To me they are art. And they embody love and comfort. Nothing like cozying up in a handmade quilt. I have the sewing machine and the how-to books, and even the material to make that first quilt. Still, this one may have to wait until retirement.

·        Take my kids to Disneyworld. They’re growing up on me, and they haven’t experienced Disney yet. I don’t see it happening any time soon due to financial constraints. But it doesn’t mean I don’t hope to do it someday. They may be well into their 20s before it happens, though.

·        Travel the Loveland Bike Trail with my husband. Of course, my husband would actually have to get a bike. But I think we both developed an enthusiasm for biking while we were on vacation in Vermont. The Loveland Bike Trail is the only one around here that I know of that is long enough to make for an all-day affair. Would make for some good quality time between us.

·        See Rockefeller Plaza in New York City at Christmastime. I love Christmas. I love Christmas tree lights. I’m sure it’s a spectacular sight.

·        Read the Bible all the way through. I know people who have done this. I strive to do it too. Someday.

·        Be a philanthropist. This would mean I’m rich!

·        Go on a hot-air balloon ride. I had actually planned to take my husband on this adventure for his 50^th birthday celebration, but lost my job just before I could plan it. So it will have to wait, but it’s still on my list.

·        Have another couple over for dinner. This one sounds doable. Believe it or not, we haven’t really entertained for various reasons over the years – kids at home, relatives living with us, too busy with our lives, etc. Maybe this is one I can cross off the bucket list this year.

·        Travel the Pacific Coast Highway. Never been out West. I hear the scenery off the Pacific Coast Highway is beautiful.

·        Go whitewater rafting. Hey, I’m middle-aged. I need excitement in my life. I seek the rush!

·        Attend the world’s largest Oktoberfest in Munich, Germany. We have so much fun at the world’s second largest Oktoberfest here in Zinzinnati, I can only imagine how much more fun the real thing would be (though I hear they serve the beer warm over there).

·        Get satellite radio. No commercials. Good stuff.

·        Make a difference in a despondent person’s life. Sometimes we question our own worth in this world – whether we really have any impact at all. How nice it is when we know that we do make a difference.

·        Put my children through college. Don’t know how that’s going to happen. Will just keep praying.

·        Host a foosball tournament. We have one rockin’ foosball table, but it gets very minimal use (probably because it’s set up in our basement). The thing needs some action!

·        Purchase a car with heated seats. My ass tends to get cold in the wintertime. No other reason.

·        Refinish my cobbler’s table. The one I bought in 1990 at Goodwill. I’ve already stripped off most of the paint (I did that in 1990). And now it’s sitting in my office. Nice table. Just need to finish stripping the paint off the legs and refinish it. My husband would bet his life on this one that I’ll never finish it.

·        Learn how to fold a fitted sheet. Whenever I attempt to do it, it always ends up in some sort of massive clump. But Aunt Millie can fold a fitted sheet to perfection. I want her to teach me how to do it right. She’s also 91, but in good shape. So I have time.

·        Climb a rock wall. I was a miserable failure the first time I tried to do it (and of course my husband breezed through it). Would like to give it another whirl someday.

·        Learn to shoot guns. Just so I get over being intimidated by them.

·        Go to a Josh Groban concert. Definitely a chick thing.

·        Keep at least one house plant alive during my life. Plants don’t like me. No matter how much (or how little) I take care of them, they die.

Okay, this isn’t all 83, but a good selection. As I said, some things are small, others are more elaborate.

But the experience of thinking about it and putting the list together has been an interesting one. To be honest, when I was given the assignment to do the list, I was perplexed. And I’m still not sure what the purpose of the exercise is. Perhaps it’s just a way to get me thinking in more broad-based ways – sort of “outside the box.” Or maybe it’s supposed to stimulate my senses, or my creativity. If so, I think it’s had its intended effect. But now I’m stalled as I attempt to go for number 84. Certainly there’s something else. I’ll just have to think that much deeper.

The truth is I’ve actually enjoyed putting together my bucket list. It turned out not to be the macabre chore that I suspected it might be, but rather an enlightening and stimulating experience.

So no matter what age you are – young or old – or what state of health you are in, consider putting together your own bucket list, and don’t stop at just a few things! Go for 50, or 75, or all the way to 100! Open your eyes. Search your soul. You just might be surprised at all the things you have left to do!

Gotta Hang With the Slang

When I was a sophomore at the University of Dayton many, many years ago, I became friends with a girl named Amy who was from Puerto Rico. Her native tongue was Spanish and while her English was proficient, it was clear she had not mastered the language. No big deal, of course.

My one attempt to learn her native language – in an Elementary Spanish 101 class at UD – turned out to be a bad experience due to an awful and evil-spirited professor who actually expected you to know the language prior to taking the class.

Turns out that half the class did speak or know the language either because it was their native language or they took years of it in high school, so they took the class for the easy A. This didn’t bode well for me, who didn’t know much more than to count to 10 in Spanish.

So for those of us that couldn’t keep up with those who were more fluent, this horrible professor took great pleasure in humiliating us in front of the whole class when we (or I) couldn’t translate the words from English into Spanish in my head to answer her questions (which she asked us in Spanish). Getting stuck would mean having to weather her accusations that I wasn’t studying or trying hard enough. The fact was I probably studied harder than anyone in the class because I was so behind the majority of the class.

The “professor” clearly had no patience with the students that she was actually going to have to teach the language to. That was my misfortune.

Fortunately for my friend Amy, her friends were much more patient when she didn’t understand something. One memory had to do with a popular song at the time – Stuck on You, by Lionel Richie. She didn’t understand the meaning of what Richie was singing about – the whole concept of being “stuck” on somebody. From Amy’s understanding of the language, it the song would be about one person literally being glued to another. We had to explain that the phrase was slang for being infatuated with someone else.

I realized then that while it must be challenging enough for a non-English speaker to learn proper English, it must be that much more daunting to get a handle on our American slang.

The Wall Street Journal made this very point in a recent article. The article cites business people who have moved to the United States and once they got here realized they had a lot to learn about the way Americans talk. (For instance, one dude had no idea what “I’m peachy” meant.) The article further implied that getting comfortable with slang is essential for communicating and building relationships.

Because of this emphasis on slang, more English as Second Language courses are being mindful of the need to teach a certain degree of slang in their courses for the benefit of those just trying to function in the United States. Still, others turn to the “boob tube” (is that slang?) to get their fill on how Americans really talk. In particular, The Wall Street Journal article mentioned Family Guy as a great show to watch for this purpose.

I recently had to be mindful of slang myself, but in the opposite way. I was doing a freelance assignment – an article on a specific personality test. This was a content article that would appear on the Internet and was meant for an international audience. And because this piece was going to be targeted to a much broader audience beyond the United States, I had to be careful not to use slang that might be confusing. For instance, in one part of the article as I was describing the characteristics of one of the personality types, I wanted to say that this type of person tended to do things “by the book.” It occurred to me, though, that “by the book” might be slang that would not be understood beyond the United States or North America, so I ended up having to use different words to convey the description.

I guess I can be empathetic to the plight of those struggling to learn English, or who maybe know English but maybe not the idioms characteristic of the language here in America. For non-English speakers, I would surmise that learning the slang in many ways is harder than learning the proper English itself. So, my hat’s off (figuratively, not literally) to anyone that puts in the effort to learn the ropes (slang) on how we Americans speak.

Considering that I was a miserable failure at learning Spanish (which apparently, is a simpler language than English), those that take the time to learn our language have that much more admiration from me.

Not that I didn’t learn any Spanish. That is, thanks to my friend Amy.  While the detestable Spanish professor never taught me a thing (she just stressed me out too much), I did ask Amy if she could teach me a sentence, which I remember to this day: Mis maestra de Espanol es una j***a p**a.  Notice that last two words I blocked out. That’s because in English, the sentence translates to: My Spanish teacher is a f***ng b*tch. Certainly the meaning is evident.

Funny that of all the Spanish that went through my head that semester, that’s what I remember.

Guess the sentence just sort of “stuck” with me.

What's in a Name?

The memory is still vivid. It was 1979, in Greeneville, Tennessee. I was in the eighth grade and part of the Mosheim Elementary girls basketball team. Our team emerged victorious in the end-of-season Northside county tournament, having earned a big fat trophy that may or may not still be on display to this very day.

From Greeneville, Tennessee: The 1979 Northside
Girls Basketball Tournament Most
Valuable Player -- Lisa Carpenter

And every tournament has its star – the individual that garners the coveted “Most Valuable Player” award. Probably one of the biggest surprises I ever experienced in my lifetime is when the announcer called my name as the tournament’s MVP. I was honored. I was humbled. And most of all, I couldn’t wait to see the official documentation of my achievement the next day. That is, my name emblazoned within the pages of the city’s highly respected daily newspaper, the Greeneville Sun.

So when the paper arrived the next day, I expediently flipped through the sports section to the very page that contained the article on the tournament results. And there, in black and white, was the name the paper had listed as the girls tournament MVP – Becky Carpenter.

There’s only one problem with that. My name isn’t Becky.

My heart sank as I realized that the paper had gotten my name wrong. (How does one mistake Lisa for Becky?) My brief moment in the spotlight was spoiled. My brother actually called the paper to inform them of their mistake, but no correction was ever forthcoming.

I guess it seems minor, but to an eighth grader your name in the paper is a big deal – especially for such a major accomplishment. And it must have been a big deal, being that I still remember it.

If nothing else, though, I can take solace in the fact that newspapers screw up people’s names all the time. (Though the screw-up usually entails misspelling a name rather than getting the name entirely wrong.)

According to a recent article by Poynter.com, news organizations frequently run corrections for misspelled names, and in the case of famous people some have misspelled the same name dozens of times. Of recent: Warren Buffett, Michele Bachmann, Elliott Gould, Kanye West, and even Edgar Allan Poe! According to the Poynter.com article, anywhere from 14 to 20 percent of corrections that news organizations publish involve misspelled names.

So what’s the big deal? A lot, actually. Because it’s all about identity. Really, it’s a psychological thing. Take my case. I’m not Becky, I’m Lisa. So when the Greeneville Sun got it wrong, I felt deprived of my identity and the fact that the paper didn’t take the time and the care to get it right. It was as if the paper itself had poo-pooed my achievement.

One person who understood the psychology of this was my Journalism 101 instructor in college. He was an adjunct who was an actual journalist, and to this day I remember his one rule of thumb – a misspelled name was an instant “F” on an assignment. So you can bet that all of us in the class were particularly meticulous when it came to getting those names right.

And to this day, I’ve always been conscious about getting the names right in my writings. But in conceding that I’m human and make mistakes, there was an instance where I screwed up not one, but three names in an issue of an employee newsletter in one of my previous jobs. I really don’t know how it happened, as I thought I was being careful to get the names right. But in that instance I did screw up. And knowing how important it was to spell the names correctly, I guess I was fortunate not to get fired for that one. Fortunately, I kept my job and made amends by sending apology letters to each person whose name I got wrong (and, of course, I printed a correction in the next newsletter).  Okay, nobody’s perfect, I guess.

But back to my point. What’s in a name? As I ponder this I recalled that naming each of my three boys was an incredibly daunting task. Why? Because I had to get the name just right. I had to give each boy a name that would “fit” him. In fact, my policy about naming my babies was that I would wait at least a day before naming them, so that I could look at them and assess their temperament. It was only after taking this time to “get to know them” that I felt comfortable with issuing a name. In fact, my third boy was going to be either an Allen or a Ben. But after undergoing the get acquainted process, he ultimately ended up being a Sam. And his name fits him to a tee.

And now I have the three boys – Clay, Luke and Sam. Or, to get formal, I have Clayton, Lucas and Samuel. They are three solid, yet relatively basic names. And the last name is Huddleston (not Huddelston, a common misspelling for our seemingly simple surname).

So, for the reporters or writers who may someday write about any of my boys’ major conquests and awesome achievements (and believe me, you will), take note. They are all destined for greatness, so don’t screw up their names. The annals of history would be cheated.

And their mama would be a mighty bit miffed.

Probing for Answers

My husband sees it as a rite of manhood. But I reminded him that we all have asses, so the procedure isn’t just a man-type thing. It can, however, be seen as a rite of passage into middle age. Once you turn 50 you are supposed to have one.  And  I believe the old hubby is mustering all the manly courage he can to get through the next couple of days.

The Noxious Concoction

It’s the dreaded colonoscopy – his first. And the prep begins in just a couple of hours. I’ve already mixed the noxious concoction  (having added his choice of flavor packet – orange). And now it’s chilling in the fridge. The directions say it won’t taste as bad if you drink it cold.  It’s four liters of what appears to be a seemingly harmless solution. But watch out! You wouldn’t want to drink this stuff accidentally, as it will clear you out from stem to stern.

Hubby savored his “last supper” last night – his favorite take-out pizza and a large salad. No supper tonight – he’ll be “clearing out.” Good thing we’ve got the all-night candle going in the powder room.

5:20 p.m. – What a sport. He started a the process a little over an hour ago by taking two Dulcolax, and now he’s started on the concoction. He’s already had his first glass and is ready to pound down another one. Still a long way before he hits three liters. Two glasses down and he’s barely put a dent in that jug. “Can you taste the orange flavor that I put in it?” I inquire.

“It tastes like shit,” he responds. Guess it’s gonna be a long night for hubby. But since he’s going to spend most of it in the bathroom, I guess I’ll be oblivious to it all. (Okay I feel for him, but better him than me.)

One instant silver lining to this: since hubby will be “indisposed” for the rest of the day, he managed to get our oldest son to mow the grass this evening. You have to look at the bright side when it comes to these things.

Then comes tomorrow.  Hubby still has another liter of the potion to drink – I guess to make sure he’s cleared out clean as a whistle. And then at 12:30 in the afternoon, I take him for the procedure.

I tell him that after going through the “prep” of the night before, the “procedure” should be a piece of cake. But maybe it’s just the idea of having his backside probed with a foreign object that doesn’t set well with him. As a woman who has to undergo annual exams that include pap smears, I’m used to being probed, though maybe not as intensely as what a colonoscopy entails.  (Yes, since I haven’t reached that rite of passage yet, my only knowledge of this is derived from watching my loving hubby endure it.)

Seriously, though, such “probing” tests do yield important answers. My hopes are that tomorrow’s procedure will net results that translate into a clean bill of health for my husband. I choose to be optimistic and expect that his test will reveal a completely healthy colon. Or, if there is a polyp or two, that they will be benign or that they will be polyps that can be dealt with right then and there.

The sad reality is that too many people who should have this procedure don’t.  And some of them may be people who desperately need to find out what’s going on with their colon – as there may be pre-cancerous polyps or full-blown cancer lurking within those bowels. Often by the time the cancer is found it has already advanced beyond the colon.

So as much fun as my boys and I are having with their dad’s “situation” this evening, I know that the hassle that he is going through is really an essential part of ascertaining whether his health is up to par. Cancer is a serious thing, and he owes it to himself and to his (very dependent) family to take part in such a preventive measure to ensure that he sticks around a while.

I’ll try to remember this in a few years when it’s my turn to down the Dulcolax, drink the noxious concoction and spend an evening perched upon the porcelain god.

And just to humor him, I’ll let hubby think that this colonoscopy thing is indeed a rite of manhood. It does, after all, take a real man to do the right thing for the benefit of self and family. Yes, that’s right. Even though the process can be crude and unpleasant, there is honor in this.

And it’s his honor that I will be thinking of later on this evening – as his “EUREKA!” moment hits him and he runs for the facilities.

Yes, an honorable man he is. But just allow me a giggle, a snicker or two for humor’s sake.

My Wildcat Identity

Go Kentucky Wildcats! I can’t wait until the NCAA Final Four hits this weekend when Kentucky plays the Louisville Cardinals for what I deem the “Battle of Kentucky.” What a fantastic game that should be! I’m sure the likes of such local places as Shakey’s Pub & Grub will be packed for this one. I have a fondness for Shakey’s myself, especially since they went nonsmoking a couple of years ago. But not sure I’m willing to go three hours early just to get a seat. Maybe I’m not such a die-hard fan after all!

But I sure like watching Kentucky basketball – so fast-paced, so thrilling, so exciting! The three-pointers, the dunks, the sound of “whoosh” as the ball sweeps only the net. It’s my kind of game – much more conducive to my thrill-seeking preferences than the slower paces of baseball and football (though I have been known to get excited at an occasional football or baseball game or two).

Of course, if Louisville happens to win this weekend, as a dutiful Kentuckian I suppose I will root for Louisville in the finals. But right now my heart is with the Wildcats.

I think that Wildcat fever has emanated so much throughout the state that being a fan is just an essential part of being a Kentuckian. Making this point is really the purpose of this post. I’ll give you a perfect example.

I recently graduated with my master’s degree in communication from Northern Kentucky University (go Norse!). I spent a little over four years there earning this hard-earned degree. Anyway, there was a certain communication professor on campus that would become furious if he saw a student wearing any type of spirit wear that wasn’t NKU garb. I know this because this became a topic of conversation one evening in one of my classes.

It got me to thinking whether I had ever committed such an infraction. And indeed I had. Just the week before I had attended class wearing a University of Kentucky t-shirt. Good thing I didn’t run into that particular professor!

The thing is, though, it really didn’t occur to me that wearing a “Kentucky” shirt in any way countered my allegiance to NKU. It was just a given that as Kentuckian the very fabric of my being entailed that I don “Kentucky” attire. Not that I didn’t have NKU t-shirts and sweatshirts. I did. And I made sure to wear those plenty to class from then on. Of course I’m fond of NKU. Just like I have nothing against Louisville. It’s just that I assume most Kentuckians by nature of their very being “bleed blue.”

Now, as I say this, NKU is preparing to move from Division II to Division I in the next couple of years. I have to ask myself – in the event that NKU ever plays Kentucky, which team will I cheer on? Will I be torn? After all, NKU was an essential part of my life all those years. NKU did give me the piece of paper (which I traded oodles of cash for).

Or what if Kentucky ever took on the University of Dayton, where I received my first degree? Would I cheer on the Flyers? I certainly did when the Flyers made the Elite Eight in 1984 (when I was a freshman in college). Now I’m seriously torn.

Well, I’ll just assume those matchups will never happen. So I’ll never have to decide. Why worry about something that’s purely hypothetical? For now I’ll keep my head in the current game. This weekend’s current game, that is.

And I just know that at my house this weekend, we’ll be in Wildcat country!