Words on...getting deleted.

An open letter to blogger:

Dear Blogger,

Thank you for shutting down for, like, 72 hours. Thank you for ruining my blog-reading schedule for the week. I have lots of reading to catch up on this morning. Thank you for revealing to me that over 50% of the blogs I read are hosted by Blogger. AND LASTLY, thank you for deleting my whole entire post written on Wednesday—it was a long, long, long passionate post on writing and a current political controversy. I put my heart and soul into and you erased it ALL! OK, not all, but this is all that you DID save, even after I continued to save throughout the writing process:

"It wasn't long after I arrived in Wilmington, NC for college that it hit me: I was born to write. I wasn't born to look good in a bikini, or..."

I'll just let the rest of your imaginations run wild with this one.

In the meantime, I need to hop to writing that blog about David, otherwise he is going to tear up all of my Colin Firth posters (and pillows).

Signed,

Angry in Aquamarine

A Few Notes for Wednesday

One. 2003 was timid little thing that began, simply enough, on a Wednesday. It was deemed "The International Year of Freshwater." On March 19, the Iraq War began with the invasion of Iraq by U.S. forces. June Carter Cash passed away, as did Katharine Hepburn and Bob Hope. But, that year, eight years ago today, something magical happened: This little sweetie pie—Aidan Michael Hoffman—was brought into the world.

It was a crisp Mother's Day morning, I was the ripe age of 16. Little did we know, it was the beginning of an incredible adventure for our family. Before Aidan came along, the youngest child, my brother Cullan, was 6. (Please give me a minute, I have fallen out of my chair due to oldness and I cannot get up.) OK. Sorry, so there was a 6-year age gap. My oldest sister Ashleywas 21.

How would we manage to start all over again? How could we backtrack into baby talk, talking toys, diaper changes and cartoons? The answer, as it turns out, to all of that was: swimmingly so. Overnight, simple everyday words and names were instantly transformed: the X-Box controller became "chade," Cullan became "bi-low," Aidan was called anything from Woobie to Aidy-Mac, Aidy Muckle, Schwabynab, Pudgey Lumpkins, Chooks. Spongebob Square Pants became a household staple, as did the short and stout bundle of blonde-haired, blue-eyed love and—energy—his little feet could be heard zooming in circles around the house at all hours. I have become an old sap today since he is no longer easily cradled in my arms, and he went off and had to turn 8. Thankfully, I still know his weaknesses: Slurpees, shooting hoops and cold hot dogs.

Two. Please be sure to check out the following things:

the novel, "A Single Man," by Christopher Isherwood (or the film)

(Oh, hey there suga' lips)

and...

the film, "Coco Avant Chanel"

Three. (See above) I have, after watching "Coco Avant Chanel" last night, decided that I missed my calling as a fashion designer. I want to break gender rules, define a generation (or twenty) and inspire women all over the world to express themselves through their fashion. First step: buy a sewing machine. Second step: Throw away clothes with holes in them, and actually make some semi-decent fashion decisions. Third step: Change my name to LiLi or Lolo or something catchy with which to brand myself. (Please note: LiLi has already taken off in several of my relationships.)

Four. What's for dinner? If you're looking to spice things up the kitchen, give this tasty, healthful recipe a try. I spotted it on SkinnyTaste.com, my go-to website for recipes for any occasion. I made this dish the other night, and it was so delicious. It would be a tasty, cost-effective way to "wow" dinner guests at your next dinner party, too.

• Broiled Tilapia with Thai Coconut Curry Sauce

Five. And lastly, have you heard this song? If not, give it a listen or two. If you have heard it already, give it a listen or two again. It has a tendency to put me in a good mood, no matter what's going on. Also, I think it sounds like summertime. :)

The Crash of '11

We all know about The Crash of '29, but do you know about The Crash of '11? No? Then gather 'round children to hear a tale from a land far far away, with a prince, three fat fairies, a few dwarfs, a dragon, a witch and... OK just kidding. (Sort of.)

Remember how I was committed 155% to posting here consistently, daily—when possible? I was all "never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down, never gonna run around and desert you?" Well, I'm sad to report that that—along with all of my Rick-rolling—came to a screeching halt last Tuesday night.

It was just after 10 p.m., and David and I left our friends' house to head home for the night. It is important to note that we live a mere three minutes from said friends. David was in the driver's seat and I was in the passenger seat, keeping up my usual routine of talking a mile a minute, while also texting (therein annoying David.) Anyway, David sees a car speeding up behind him in the right lane, so he turns his clicker on and gets into the left lane. About 30 seconds later—CRASH heard 'round the...county.

Me: *Screams* Oh my god, wh-what happened?! *Hyperventilates*

David: It's OK, It's OK, are you OK?

Me: *Crying* What? No? Yes? Yes, I'm OK.

David: *Superhero Mode* In a flash of light, he speeds to the other car, and pulls the driver out of the window of his now-obliterated car. Suddenly, Super David is in costume, cape and all.* (Despite the craziness, I was able to capture a photo of him in action:)

(In case you were wondering, his secret super powers are: caterpillar eyebrows and a scepter that shoots out poisonous stale Halloween candy from 1989.)

So I called 911, and after being asked 20 questions (which made me wonder, if my arm was falling off, would he do the same? Asking me how many drips of blood are falling per second, and which way the wind is blowing?) the operator said the police and an ambulance were on the way.

It's strange how emergency situations mess with time; somehow it seemed both in slow-motion and speeding out of control. (Oh wait, that was the other guy.) Before I knew it, my neck was being stabilized by a studly EMT—I'm talking Boris Kodjoe, here—and I was being put in a neck brace and transferred onto what has become known as "the board" in our house. The same was done to David, and in the pouring rain we were loaded into one ambulance and taken to a nearby hospital.

Aside from the EMTs corny jokes and unsuccessful attempts at keeping me calm, my favorite parts of the ride include: one of the EMTs declining his girlfriend's call on his cell phone and saying, "It's OK, when I tell her I was saving a husband and a wife, she won't get mad at me." And the other EMT finding out that I love to read and urging me to check out the latest collection of fantasy novels he's in to. And then the two of them telling every person we encountered once at the ER that we were husband and wife and HAD to be kept together.

Those boys didn't have much sway, because after being wheeled into the ER, I didn't see David again until almost 2 a.m.

What would follow included at least 4 hours strapped down to "the board." A word or two on "the board," is now needed. Have you ever been on the board??????? Who designed the board?????????? Has he/she ever been on the board?????????? Why is it legal?????? Does anyone really think that after falling, getting hit, passing out, etc., the board is going to KEEP you from being injured further????? It was by far the most uncomfortable experience of my life, and it should be known here that I had to have a catheter put in while in the ER. 'Nuff said. I would have done anything to get off of there, I would have even told my sweet Colin that we were living in a fantasy world and I could never see him again. I would have punched a puppy, maybe... OK probably not but I might have like, put it in its bed for a really long time with no snuggles. The board was death, and I soon understood torture and immediately respected every person who had ever lived to see life on the other side of the board.

We had CATscans and I had xrays, and we waited and waited, mostly we spent our time waiting, and then finally we were told we were all right, and were taken off the GD board, and taken out of the GD collar and we were semi-normal again. Aside from the fact that the driver who hit us was: not only going twice the speed limit and was under the influence BUT he had no insurance, and was an arse of epic porportions. (They didn't have to tell us that last part.)

What would follow would be pain killers, two days off of work, motrin motrin motrin, Rooney eating one of my motrins, emergency vet appointment, so.much.vomit, lots of sleep, lots of take out for dinner and PAIN. Mother-loving pain.

So, here I am, one week later and my shoulder is still sore, my neck is tight, the back-end of my car is basically being rebuilt, insurance is covering everything (Big Ups to Progressive!) and I am being tested for thyroid problems because the ER called me back on Friday and said the Radiologist spotted inconsistencies in my thyroid in my xrays. Grand. At least after The Crash of '29 they still had Jay Gatsby and flapper dresses—oh and everyone looked good with bob haircuts. I have a sore shoulder and no clean clothes.

Did you ever read my post on Murphy's Law? I wasn't kidding.

Tonight David leaves again for a quick trip down to Wilmington, and I venture to small group alone. Here's to hoping I make it there and back in one piece. But, Lord, if I don't and something else happens to me, at least send Boris Kodjoe to my rescue again. That's all for now. Please and thanks.

P.S.: After my Colin Confession, I promised David I would devote my next post to him in all of his wonderful glory, but then all of this happened. So, even though I do highlight his courageous superhero-ness here (This is not the first time David's Spidey senses have emerged. In college he pulled a woman from a burning car, and also survived being car-jacked at gunpoint. More on that later.) please expect to see a fitting post on my wonderful hubby soon. <3

My Colin Confession

OK, it's time to get real. Real Talk with Lia Dee. (Maybe I should have gone with that for my blog title? Probably not. Here is why:) I have been keeping a huge secret from everyone for many years. Most of you know I am married. Very happily. But I can say, with much confidence, that very few of you know that I am really married to this man:

Hi, honey! (No need to get up, we're good here.)

I'm sorry that I have been keeping such a big secret, especially from my real-life (read: fake) husband David. For my "real husband" is none other than the foxy, the humble, the intelligent, the British-accented, the lean, the tall, the curly haired, the dreamy, the causal, the dimpled, the understatedly elegant, the masculine: Colin Firth, also known to me, personally, as sugar lips.

To clarify: Sugar lips is my "real husband" because if he were only my "fake husband," then that would mean my current conscious state is my "real world" and that just simply cannot be so because: 1. I am sitting at the NRA 2. There are fat rolls on my stomach 3. I am sitting at the NRA and finally, 4. Celery is my lunch today. Medical clarification: Firth, Firthy, the Firthinator is my "real husband" because I am in denial about the few depressing aspects of my life.

When I need to burn some cals—even though I really want to be stuffing my face with creamy pasta, or steak and seasonal cocktails—I've been forcing myself on walks, lately. So I trudge this big ole' body on up sidewalk, and I slip into my "real world" where sugar lips and I live for half of the year in a villa in the Italian countryside and spend the other half jumping back and forth between the different Greek islands. In case you were wondering, he looks the exact, perfect same way he always does and I look something like Penelope Cruz with normal-size hands and feet, standing on my yacht, holding my toy poodle, Marlee. (I could use my terrible photo-editing skills to show you just what that would look like here, but I'm too scared to take that giant step (down in my spiral).

On my walks, I talk and laugh with my "real husband" who thinks I am witty and adorable and sweet, and I let the wind blow my hair in a "dream world" free-spirited, beautiful way, that, in the "real world" makes me look like a crazy person who is in desperate need of a hair-tie. Talking to myself? Check. Laughing to myself? Check. Hair blowing in all different directions around my face so I can hardly see, as I stumble and huff my way through a less-than-half-mile walk? Check. Are you starting to pick up on my real world/fake would problem (read: delusions)? If you saw me walking like this, talking to myself like this, with a crazed look in my eye, would you call your local police? It's probably likely. But, I'll have you know that Colin and I don't care about that.

Nope. This kind of love is worth it, and anyone who doesn't understand us has never REALLY been in love in REAL life before. So you will just have to live with that, or we will. Either way we will continue to live together.

Before I go, I thought I would share one more photo from my private files. Here it is:

Jump in, the water's fine (and so am I).

I don't know what it is, but lately I am starting to enjoy "exercising" more and more. What a mystery.

Feel Freely, Freely Feel

Given the sobering events of last night and today, there has been so much talk, so many facts to process, such intense emotional fall out, it's hard to make heads and tails of things. We were all affected by bin Laden's death, whether you're happy, mad or indifferent about it. Tragedies stick with us. Everyone remembers where they were during the 1998 Embassy bombings, and of course September 11th. I was in 9th grade. I remember feeling scared and hopeless and yet—united. I felt an overwhelming sense of being "a part of." I had never felt something so strong; I had never so deeply felt that I, as an American, was one small part of a greater whole. I was connected to those on the TV screens, scrambling from dust-covered fire trucks, to those gasping for air between choking sobs in the streets, to the others, like me, permanently affixed to living room couches, trembling fingers bent over their mouths wet with tears.

While we all remember where we were during tragedies, we all respond differently. Just like today. There are feelings of triumphant joy, vindication, concern, anger, confusion, apathy, judgment and much more. All of these things floating around in the air above and among us, bumping in to one another. We have to see and hear and process these differing feelings. We may be angry, but we have to witness someone else's joy. We may feel vindication, but have to read about how all that bin Laden's death does is beget more hate and evil and destroy any glimmer of hope left for peace. We may be reminded of the sacrifice or the loss of a loved one, while someone goes on about how they don't see what the big deal is. It's unsettling. It's not easy to juggle along with all of your own feelings.

So many times throughout the day I found myself shaking in anger over a post, a comment or a news headline that I just couldn't comprehend. How could that be your response to this whole thing, I found myself asking over and over. How is that your solution to all of this? How misinformed, insensitive can you be?

It just kept hitting me over and over in waves. I would swallow my pride and gather my wits, and go about my day only to be totally derailed again 20 minutes later. I thought we were part of a whole, I thought. How can we both have experienced x, y and z and come out of it feeling so differently?

I'm not on point here, I don't have a crushing blow to dole out, some poignant statement to tie all of this together and prove that I'm right. I'm only here to say that I was smacked in the face with a harsh reality today: I care way too much what other people think. (David will laugh when he reads this because he tells me this at least 5 times a week.) But it's so true. And it's never hit me so hard. Why do you care, Lia? What do you gain from caring? What do you lose? If this is a close friend going through a hard time, THAT is a perfect time to care "too much." But not something like this. A differing of opinions. A misinformed person. An accusation from an enemy. An attack on your character, your President. Shake it off like a rainy afternoon that cancels your plans.

I spend so much time and energy carrying the worries and thoughts and fears of the people I am connected to. I let their words creep under my skin, and work their way up to my head where they blast on repeat over and over for hours, days. I am mentally editing their words, their actions—striking through self-proclaimed mistakes and scratching bold red lines through patches of words. What a waste of time. I can't change them, I can't change their minds.

Starting today I am going to start pulling the attached wires off, disconnecting myself from negative connections. There is positivity, inspiration, motivation out there waiting to be grasped. And I am am eager—my mind open, my hands outstretched—poised to take hold of the real meaning of life, and let the rest of it slip right down off of my skin. And whatever you feel about today, and everyday: Let yourself feel that way fully, without embarrassment or condemnation or concern. Don't feel like you have to explain yourself all the time. Just freely feel. Accept it, accept yourself, stand firm on your own two feet and you can't go wrong.

Murphy's Law, AKA: Law of my Life

Some people have allergies, some people get sunburned easily, others have unruly cowlicks, but me, I have Murphy's Law. That's right. Good ole' Murphy. According to Wikipedia, Murphy's Law is defined as "an adage or epigram that is typically stated as: 'Anything that can go wrong will go wrong.'"

Sounds peachy as a way of life, huh? Ole' Murph is so annoying we have even considered (Read: I have considered) naming our first child Murphy in hopes that it will off-set this horrid luck. (Murphy Dangelico. Ick) But, alas, it would probably just end up in an epic, LOST-worthy catastrophe of remote desert islands, excessive nickname-calling and a ridiculously short, evil kidnapper with a God-complex.

The ways in which Murphy's Law plagues me include—but are not limited to—the following:

• First year of being married, insane amount of money due on our taxes
• Multiple gray hairs before 25 (Shout out to my mom who, whenever I comment on my grays, says: "You know, your grandfather was completely white by 25." Please note that the number gets closer and closer to my current age each time she mentions it.)
• My job (Growing up in a rented farm house with no farm animals does not a cowgirl make.)
• Tall, big hands AND big feet ('Nuff said. And none of that "at least you're proportional," shite)
• Eight-kids, poor parents (Sorry Mom.) (You know the song "Everybody, everybody, everybody wants to be a cat?" -Aristocats Well, just think of it this way: All my friends are cats. I'm a gargantuan mouse.)
• Car repairs, always at the worst times
• Elbow holes (THIS IS ONE OF THE WORST)
• Fancy and expensive pizza stone breakage
• Excessive sleepiness (I have managed to stay up until 12 exactly once in this new year, at least.)
• Small teeth (See bullet number 4 = cruel combination)
• Honeymoon FAIL (Including: Food poisoning and other undesirable illnesses, excessive buginess, overweight nude sunbathers and lack of AC/fan/a freaking breeze?)
• Queso stain on my only white dress shirt (Cruel and unusual)
• Coupons expiring the day before I want goto use them (ALWAYS)

and finally...the most-current whammy:

• While trying to show a friend (Shout out to SJ!) how to to set-up an out-of-office reply, my email freaks out and sends an out-of-office reply to EVERY SINGLE EMAIL IN MY INBOX. What the? How is that even possible, right? (My boss got 100 emails. The DEPARTMENT HEAD GOT 47.) WHAAT?!

Someone please save me from the evil Murphy. Or just put me out of my misery. (Or just buy me a drink?)

P.S.: And, if, just if, you happen to be wondering what the little evil Murphy Dangelico might look like, Google has an answer for you. And (somehow, in God's name) this is what it came up with:

...I can totally see the resemblance.

All By My Lonesome

"All by mah-sey-eeeelf, don't wanna be alllll by myyyyysaaaaalf, anymo'." -NOT Carly Simon, but Jamie O'Neil (covering an Eric Carmen original)

***Did I also forget to mention that I will be using this blog as a jumping-off point for my new one-line concert series: "The Classics, In Just One Line?"***

Editorial comment: A big shout-out to my mom for fact-checking me and pointing out that it was not, in fact, Carly Simon who ever even sang this song. O'Neil covered it in Bridget Jones' Diary (double shout-out to Steph for picking up on that). Needless to say, I will have to do some studying before going on tour...

OK, so, it has just been confirmed by sources closest to myself (me) that I will be all alone this whole weekend for the first time in many moons. Sure, I've spent the occasional night huddled in our big bed, surrounded by dogs and probably wide-eyed waiting for an intruder to break in, or maybe just spent the night dreaming about it, but I can't remember the last time I spent 2 1/2 days alone. Now, don't be silly, I will see people. I will most certainly pay a long-overdue ice cream visit to my main man down at the Shell station on the corner. He laughs at my Half-Baked ice cream, telling me Cherry Garcia is better, while trying to convince me to buy a lottery ticket. In addition, I will be helping some friends out on Saturday, and going to a wine festival on Sunday. OK, so...not really alone. But it sounds dramatic, and maybe makes you pity me about as much as you pity celebrities for being so rich that they can't, you know, like go out and "do stuff" like normal people, so I'll stick with it.

To recap: Me, bed full of dogs, being helpful, ice cream, creepy-yet-charming gas station attendant and wine will comprise my weekend.

Now, what else did I come here to say?

Oh. This sort-of-kind-of aloneness that will (not-really) plague me this weekend has spread to my work life. I am currently sitting in my teeny cubicle, and I don't hear anything. Not the annoying girl with the INSANELY pitchy laugh down the hall. Not my antagonistic coworker chiding the new guy. Not even the click of my boss shutting her door to shut the world out. Everyone is gone this week at the annual meeting of gunny minds of EPIC proportions in Pittsburgh, Pa. I won't go into it any further than that. So it's just me here holding down the E-Media fort with my black coffee and colored pens. Not only that, but the disturbing full-circle fact of it all is that, the reason I will be alone at home is because David will be in—that's right—Pittsburgh!!! this weekend, attending a funeral. (Tip-toeing away from sad/depressingness.)

Alternative tasks to keep me busy this lonely weekend include:

• Clean our despicably dirty carpets (Thanks to 3 pooches, and my unsteady pouring hand)
• Wash the car/vacuum out all of the dog hair and dirt (See above)
• Buy new bed sheets
• Paint a picture
• Re-mulch the backyard
• Start my novel
• Brush the dogs' teeth
• ...World peace?! (Miss. Congeniality, anyone?!)

In other news, I just got an email from a coworker with the subject line: "Breaking News." The body of the email reads: "A tornado watch has been issued for the region. ================." I imagine that the dashed lines that follow the brief, but important, sentence are like the typed version of those beeps that always follow a statement from the Emergency Broadcast System. (Nice touch, fella'.) So, after all, maybe I will be spending the weekend in a bathtub with the doggies, or maybe huddled in a bomb-shelter with strangers, or maybe I'll get lucky and spend it like this:

Please, GOD, let it be option #3!!!!!!!!!

Makeova'

Have I mentioned here before that I have a tendency to get discouraged and bored of things quickly? Well, tis true. But in an effort to revamp this very neglected blog and reawaken the writing spark within me, I have given the old girl a bit of a makeover. I may have gone a bit overboard in the "girly" department, but thankfully, I am a girl, so we're all good there. (In other news: how many times can I say "girl" in one breath? Oy)

How will I force myself to write more, you few followers ask?

Well, the answer is simple, but following through with it is not. The pen-and-ink answer is that I have expanded the purpose of this blog—even if just within the realm of my own mind. I am attempting to take away the stage fright I feel each time I log on, by lightening the mood (and look) and opening up the conversation. Not every post has to be poetic, or meaningful...or include something about my family. (Guilty as charged.) For the first time in a very long time, if ever in my life, I have time on my hands, time to kill, nothing to wear and nowhere to be. So, in the best possible sense, I plan to wallow, wander aimlessly, make a big fuss about some of the more beautiful things in this world—-oh, and likely, very likely, tell some bad jokes here and there. With such a winning recipe—from now on will we ALWAYS think of Charlie Sheen when we hear "winning?"—I cannot go wrong; I will surely devote more time and passion to my girl. A big part of it may, in fact, include me referring to my blog as "my girl" from now on.

So, what do you say? Same place, same time next week?—er, tomorrow? (I think I can, I think I can.)

I hope you will enjoy my future ramblings of all things-Lia: cooking, eating, puppies, not-exercising, talking too much, fashion, relationships, flowers, politics, forgetting to brush my dogs' teeth everyday, books, film, music, decorating and much much more.

See you on the other side!

Anniversary

Today is a bitter pill to swallow. March 8th marks the two-year anniversary of being at my current job. I find it hard to celebrate (or be happy about) any part of it other than the future prospect of a new job and the paychecks that helped feed us. It has been a rough two years, though quick, and there have been periods within the span when I just wanted to hide from everything, escape the bad, escape the good. Start over. I have been tested beyond belief, tired beyond belief, but also blessed beyond belief.

The good certainly outweighs the bad, and thankfully that is what comes to mind regularly. I try to forget the confusion, hurt and disappointment and stay focused on what's ahead of me: Freedom.

I need all of the prayers and encouragement out there. Simply coming to work and sitting here for 8 hours a day has even gotten tough. There are times when I let the pinch of responsibility go, and I clasp the handle of my purse and think about rising and walking down the hall to the elevator. Fleeing. Never turning around to wave goodbye, or even scream. Other times I am fully lost in fantasy of how I will go when given the opportunity to leave for good. Will I make a list of wrongs and post it publicly, will I speak my mind and shout and kick and be escorted out by security guards, or will I go silently and let my absence speak volumes?

It is a very unfortunate thing to have a treasure in your possession and to let it go to waste. To let it fall by the wayside, neglected. Untended crops cannot grow. Cannot find joy in their work, or feel valuable, and capable and worthy. But if, just if, she has a solid-enough head on her shoulders and a bit of conviction, in time she will break through the soil—up and up, roots tearing from dark brown earth, jagged strands of life plunged into limbo, uncertainty, but: fresh air—and move along to a better plot of land.

And once she goes, she will never return, never give a single thought to you and all that happened here.

Sweet Stuff

I live for holidays that fall on weekdays. While the initial statement may seem to make little sense, there is more. I live for holidays that fall on weekdays/work days. As much as a day off is highly appreciated (please & thank you), a holiday that falls on a work day promises treats. And as we all know, treats are "where it's at."

I've been told I got my sweet tooth from my father. "The garbage disposal" who would finish off left-overs from our childhood dinner plates, was also the only one of my parents who would buy sweets when he went grocery shopping.

Taking delicate, silent steps into the pantry after the groceries were unloaded, our small brown eyes burst with excitement. Oatmeal Raisin Cookies! Chocolate Kudos Bars! Marshmallows! Mint Chocolate Chip Ice Cream (the white, never the green kind). Even Nilla Wafers got us going.

Following my parents divorce, I would look forward to weekends at my dad's when we would go grocery shopping after he picked us up. We always knew we could convince him to buy a sugar-y sweet ending to the evening.

There shouldn't have been a problem. We were healthy eaters; the point was that treats were a once-in-a-while thing. A reward for eating heaping spoonfuls of vegetables throughout the week.

But, there was a problem. Like my father with dinner, I became a racing motorboat determined to gobble as many scoops of Breyers as I could. This dessert will be your last dessert EVER, I would hear in my head—I swear, the voice was very, very clear. One scoop, two, three. One more mound of the creamy white stuff. I have never been able to shed this sweetness obsession. One Dove chocolate becomes a handful—my work desk littered with crumpled tin-foil wrappers. I stuff them into my trash can before anyone comes along and notices my gluttony.

One cookie, three more. I can't stop. In the grocery line, I spy a Kit-Kat. My weakness. King-Size. My weakness on 'roids. I slip the over-sized candy bar into my cart, temporarily detached from my own body and brain (which is telling me STOP! NOW! Resist the urge!). I peer over the lanes, as if pondering a dairy purchase, unaware that a stranger has slipped delicious sin into my cart—and oblivion. It's all the same. For as long as I can remember, packages of candy always seemed to disappear just as quickly as they were opened.

The old metabolism seems to have faded without my noticing, too. Here today, must-work-out-incessantly-and-slap-hand-when-it-reaches-for-sweets tomorrow. I have to train myself to quiet the overzealous sweet tooth. But, when a delightful holiday comes around, the ladies in my office bring in baked goods. The men play it simple and bring in bags of themed chocolate. Even the ultra-thin secretary indulges, so I tell myself: it's OK. After all, it's a holiday!

The one upside to all of this is that my unruly tooth transcends baked goods and candy, to all things sweet. Puppies, my sleepy man in the morning, anything mini, babies, Dads with their kids, a much-needed card from an old friend, small arms hanging around my neck, the smell of fresh flowers. All of these things bring me to tears and soften my often-cold-hard heart. Somehow my love for the sweet helps me notice the little things everyday—edible or not. And so I thank my sweet tooth, and I pat my round, soft belly and rejoice for the silly, overdone holidays that bring me and this old tooth of mine so much delight.