WanderingAmylessly 2.0

Danica Patrick. Remember that name. Remember I was the one who told you to remember that name. I predict that by next week, she'll be everybody's darling. Car racing's equivalent of Tiger Woods. Patrick, rookie female driver, starts fourth at the 89th running of the Indy 500 on Sunday. Three other women have raced at Indy Motor Speedway in the legendary Memorial Day event, dubbed the "greatest spectacle in racing," but none has revved the engines of sportswriters and fans the way Patrick has. Chatter in the media expects her not only to compete well...some suggest she has a damn good chance of winning. Even more exciting to some—she's driving a car owned by late-night jokester David Letterman. Hopefully we won't be seeing a segment on his show, "Stupid Indy Driver Tricks," anytime soon. She's hardly the picture of an IRL grease monkey. Pink-polished fingernails, long flowing hair, determined hazel eyes, petite, barely out of her teenage years...

You name it, there's a web site devoted to it. Baseball cards. Toe fungus. The Brady Bunch. Frozen peas. It's mind-boggling. Or, maybe, mind-numbing. Today I happened upon a site that I think more people should know about. KeepYourSecrets.com. It's a site that provides "candid, practical, and effective guidelines and techniques for keeping your private life private." Generally, I'd like friends and family to feel comfortable enough with me to share their lives—thoughts, hopes, dreams, opinions, loves, and so on. However, those people who yap deafeningly loud on their cell phones in public—usually revealing way more information than I needed to know, about who did what to whom or with whom and/or how—might be encouraged to incorporate a tip or two from this site. Better yet, they can skip the site and simply read these two words: SHUT UP. For those who choose to check it out, the site defines "privacy" as the condition under which an individual has th...

It's that time of year when people hit the beach, or at least a lawn chair in the backyard, for some sun and a little light reading. Nothing too serious. Usually, nothing too interesting, either. I invite you to read my absolute-favorite-of-all-time books, the Tales of the City series by Armistead Maupin. It chronicles the lives, the loves, and the friendships of the residents of 28 Barbary Lane in San Francisco. The novels, developed from Maupin's critically acclaimed, groundbreaking newspaper serial in the San Francisco Chronicle, were developed into a series of movies that aired (or didn't air, depending on what corner of repressed society you may have lived in) on PBS and then on premium-cable TV. But the movies weren't any match for the witty prose and rapid-fire pop culture references of the books. Maupin's my kind of writer—a sucker for indepth character development, insistent on breaking the rules and more than willing to make up many of his own. Here's...

It looks like Baby Joe's going home today! Please think about my cousin and her family as they begin a new, and a bit frightening, journey outside the safe, secure walls of the hospital. Click on this post's title for the latest info, and be sure to check out the new photo of Joe at 8 weeks. The jaw distraction device and the trach may be disturbing for some to look at, but every time I see that picture I smile as I note that he looks alert, calm, and ready for cuddles.

I think my love for song lyrics goes back to my teen years, when I was filled with angst and confusion and their accompanying flood of hormones. Songs are poetry you can dance to, cry to, forget with, remember with. Sometimes songs just exist like background noise and other times they become such a part of the moment that if your life were made into a movie, they'd be on the soundtrack. I'm sure you've thought of it...who'd play me in the movie? Who'd play my friends, my family, my enemies, my lovers? Only in fiction could Natalie Portman be me, surrounded by Mom Glenn Close and Dad Harrison Ford, with friends Katie Holmes, Maggie Gyllenhaal, Topher Grace, Gael Garcia Bernal...and two men duking it out for my affections—Colin Farrell and Rob Lowe. *sigh* So if I were to make the ultimate mix tape, with the theme songs of my life, these would be on it: It's a Sunshine Day — The Brady Bunch Here's Where the Story Ends — The Sundays These Are Days — 10,000 Mani...

I heard a song this afternoon that I just cannot get out of my brain. I've been humming it for the past half hour. I'm sure that my office mate would have preferred I either 1) learn to carry a tune or 2) jump out our third floor window. If the windows actually opened, she might have helped me out onto the ledge. At any rate, I don't know why this woman isn't wildly famous. She's incredible - Tracy Chapman meets Sheryl Crow. Have a peek at the lyrics. If you want to hear it, you'll have to buy the CD yourself or illegally download it (ssshhhh...I didn't say that.) L.A. Song by Beth Hart She hangs around the boulevard She's a local girl with local scars She got home late She drank so hard the bottle ached & she tried but nothin's clear in a bar full a flies So she takes She understands when she gives it away She says Man I gotta get outta this town Man I gotta get outta this pain Man I gotta get outta this town Outta this town & out of L.A. Sh...

If you're trusted and people will allow you to share their inner gardern...what better gift? - Fred Rogers A friend let me in today. She and I met several years ago and our friendship has slowly and steadily built upon itself through each phone call, meeting at the coffeehouse, lunch outing, drink after work. Bit by bit, I learned the stories of her life, the ones that reinforced my ideas about who she is as a person, the ones that served as mortar between the bricks slowly building the foundation of our friendship. We've enjoyed each other's company, shared each other's laughter, sympathized with each other's worry, offered a shoulder and open ear and open mind. And today, she - without much drama or fanfare - shared a part of her life that not everyone gets to see or know or be a part of. She trusted me with a piece of her history, her world, her soul. I feel blessed to call her my friend. And even more so, I'm truly honored that she considers me one.

My H-man made me a Mother's Day card last weekend, with a little help from his daddy. I will share the quote that he included. I'd never seen it before. But it's my new favorite quote. It makes me cry and smile at the same time. "Life began with waking up and loving my mother's face." --George Eliot

The latest with my cousin's baby Joe, who was born with Hypo Plastic Left Heart Syndrome six weeks ago: The jaw distraction procedure didn't help Joe breathe on his own, so after five unsuccessful extubation attempts, doctors performed a tracheostomy. He could have it in up to two years. I didn't realize all the dangers it poses. It does allow him to breathe, and he's off the vent. But the risk of infection is very great. His parents have to learn a long list of safety procedures and steps to keep his environment as sterile as possible. They will have to give up their family pets. Joe won't be held, or maybe even visited, by very many people because the risk of infection and illness won't allow the contact. The average infant could probably handle infections or the sniffles, but Joe's heart is so delicate and in such a precarious situation that an infection could prove fatal. My cousin Kerry is overwhelmed. There's no other way to say it. She's also ...

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia: Intelligent design (ID) is a controversial set of arguments which assert that empirical evidence supports the conclusion that life on Earth was deliberately designed by one or more intelligent agents. ID advocates argue that the standard scientific model of evolution by natural selection is insufficient to explain the origin, complexity, and diversity of life. More specifically, ID adherents believe that there exist instances of irreducible complexity, which in their view are impossible to evolve and therefore must have been created by an intelligent designer. While characterized by its advocates as a scientific argument, critics regard ID as a form of creationism supported by pseudoscience. •••• The Kansas Board of Education is at it again. Members of the 1999 Kansas Board of Education voted to play down evolution and allowed local boards to decide what students would learn. A board elected in 2001 overturned that decision, but a new gaggle of wa...

When last I wrote about Joe, he was in the midst of "jaw distraction" procedures in an attempt to open his airway and get him off the ventilator. Several days later, we're finding out that it probably wasn't his jaw at all that blocked his breathing. Doctors plan to do a tracheostomy very soon. While we understand the necessity of getting him off the vent and breathing like a regular kiddo, the trach procedure has many risks. The risk of infection is 100 percent, which makes it a certainty, rather than a risk. Joe may need the trach to stay in place for two years, which means he will run that risk of infection for a long time. Heart babies are at greater risk of complications; infection can wiggle its way into his vital organs and further compromise his health. I detect a great deal of frustration and negativity in posts from mommy and daddy on Joe's web site . In fact, they readily admit to being exceedingly tired of the setbacks and the grueling day-to-day rout...

It's itchy. It's irritating. It's annoying...especially when it comes three months after the vaccine that was supposed to keep it from ever rearing its ugly head. It's chicken pox. And leave it up to my kid to have weak immunity to it. We're taking turns staying home with him, since he's a bag o' germs and infectious until his sores scab over. How disgusting is that? Anything that features pus-filled blister-like sores that must pop, ooze, and crust over before the sufferer can safely re-enter society without infecting others...well, it just can't be good. My husband and I are whining about it a lot more than our kid is. He's playing and jabbering like there's nothing wrong, until we change his diaper, at which time he sticks his hands between his legs, grabs at his private parts which have bore the brunt of the pox, and pulls and tugs and kneads as though he were molding dough into intricately braided bread. He pokes. He scratches. He giggles. C...