We picked a date (I think).  A semi-hard, seems to fit, probably-but-it’s-so-far-away-to-be-absolutely-certain date two years and some change from now.  Two years seems like such a far off place, yet the fear that I knew would come is bubbling up inside of me, threatening to tear me apart and send me running for the hills.  

I love this man with all my heart.  He is my perfect match.  He is the guy I always dreamed about but never thought really existed.  For lack of a better cliche, he’s the one.  So why am I scared?

Well, two failed marriages on both sides (yeah, two each).  Leaving any stories of his two exes behind, I know how horribly dysfunctional mine were.  I remember the screaming fights.  I remember the tears.  I remember the wretched things that were said and done.  I remember feeling trapped and unloved and miserable.  I remember the depression and the pain and the hopelessness.  I can’t unremember it.  And it’s causing a semi-paralytic fear in me.

What exactly am I afraid of?  I’m afraid that it’s too fast (knowing that by the time we say “I do” we will have known each other for over 4 years and dated/been engaged for over 3.  Besides that, our courtship was short, but very in depth.  We had both reached a point that we knew what we do and do not want out of life, love, and a relationship, and could communicate that effectively.  I’m willing to bet most relationships don’t start even half as openly and soundly as ours.).  I’m afraid we will fight (knowing that if either of us is human we will in fact fight).  I’m afraid we will be mean to each other, the kind of mean that we bore as well as dished out to our previous two spouses.  I’m afraid things will change between us once we settle down in the same house (in the same country!) and immerse in the daily grind of just being.  I’m afraid the ex-men were right about me, that it was all my fault, and that I will drive Mr. W away in the same trend.  I’m afraid I will fail, again, leaving one or both of us heartbroken, again, and damaged, again. 

How am I dealing with all this fear?  I am communicating with my man.  I am sharing my fears and letting him reassure me.  And I am diving so heartily into the planning (yes, I know it’s 2 years away, but it’s like shopping therapy on crack, really!) and, dammit, it’s going to be the most perfect wedding ever!!

What does all this mean for my readers?  You will constantly incessantly occasionally have to bear my ranting about my fears anxiety feelings, alternating, of course, with in depth descriptions of my wedding planning adventure.  Happy reading! 

As a single mother, I struggle with the roles of both mother and father to my kids.  Granted, both of their fathers are still in the picture.  The boy, however, has a father who prefers friendship over parenting and grandparents who do just enough to make sure he’s safe but spoiled.  Ex#2 does parent the girl, to the point that he doesn’t have to do too much, and much prefers yelling over fatherly interaction with her.  And, with in-house grandparents and a family who believes the amount of money you spend on someone directly correlates with the amount of love you have for that person, she too is spoiled. 

During my marriage to ex#2 I didn’t really have to be both mother and father.  Rather I spent a lot of time in the mommy-role, more often protecting my kids from the over-the-top yelling and temper of the daddy.  But now, without the need of protection or the daily daddy influence, I am trying to balance both roles in their life (more the boy than the girl)…and not doing very well at it.

This morning I smacked my son out of anger.  I have no excuse.  I feel like shit.  I know better.  It was horrible.

The morning started out ok.  He actually got out of bed and got dressed quicker than normal.  I was exhausted, not sleeping well since returning sans Mr. W to “real life,” slept late and woke up cranky.  He brushed his teeth, then began wailing in the bathroom.  I ran to see what was wrong and found him, tears streaming down his face, crying in the annoyingly whiny way that he does, straining to reach the toothbrush holder to replace his toothbrush.  I asked him what was wrong, thinking surely there had to be something more, and he just whined “I can’t.”  And my eyes glazed over red.  I hate whining.  I hate crying for no good reason.  And I hate the words “I can’t” when no real effort has been made to try.  He had the step-stool as far away from the holder as possible.  He was trying to flip the case open with the end of his toothbrush.  He was still standing flat on his feet.  He was bawling.  I couldn’t take it.  I put him in his room.

After dressing and calming myself, I let him out and calmly suggested he move the step and try again.  Success!  We went downstairs to get bundled for departure.  He started crying again when I reminded him to return his library book…something we had discussed the night before and (I thought) he understood.  Not freaking this time, I sat down on the floor and explained (again) how he only borrowed the book.  I reiterated that I would look for the book to purchase for him if he liked it that much.  He calmed, although I could see he was still verging.  Then I packed his lunch and all hell broke loose.

Who would have thought a simple pb&j could cause so much drama?  He saw me packing what I thought to be a wonderfully pleasing (menu also discussed the night prior) meal for him and began tearing up.  I asked what was wrong, and the whiny wailing commenced.  Red again.  The boy has a habit of making grunting noises when he doesn’t feel like actually talking…or even worse, just staring blankly at you when you ask a question.  Two more items on my “I hate it when” list.  I said (louder than normal conversation) “Talk.  Tell me what’s wrong.”  He said he didn’t want his lunch.  I reminded him of our conversation the night before…how he wanted pb&j…how he wanted to use his new lunch box…and the crying increased.  I said “fine, you can buy lunch,” and snatched the box from his hands (misstep #1).  He wailed “NO!”  So I gave it back and said to put it away.  More, louder crying.  I told him to take out what he doesn’t want, thinking he would remove one of the snacks I included…but noooo, he takes out the pb&j that I got out of bed to make at 1100pm last night because he wanted it and I forgot.  Yelling some randomness, I snatched the box away from him again.  More crying.  More whining.  More seeing red.  And I smacked him.  (misstep #2..and 3..and 4..and)  More crying.  Understandably.  But at this point I was gone.  In shock and angry at myself.  Irritated and angry at the boy.  Late for work.  He got money in his backpack and silent treatment all the way to the sitter.

By the time we got there, I had calmed enough to talk to him, apologized, tried to explain the lunch thing and the book thing.  He accepted and left me with many extra hugs.  No harm, no foul in his world.  But my world is still a rosy-tinged blur…and not in a good way.

I can’t stand the crying and/or whining.  I just can’t.  Not from anyone.  But from my child…my son…it seems that much worse.  I feel I am harder on him than I am on the girl when it comes to crying.  He cries/whines more, and louder, and in a much more annoying way, but even beyond that he’s a boy!  And he’s older!  Am I being unfair?  I think yes.  I wouldn’t care if he grew up to be a homosexual hairdressing ballet-dancer.  I’d be ok with that, truly, completely, ok.  But the crying.  The whining.  I’m not ok with that, even at 5 years old.  And knowing all this.  Knowing I’m being unfair.  Knowing I’m being harder on him than his sister, harder on him than is deserving at his age.  Knowing I’m being a tad unreasonable and downright nutty…I can’t fix it.  I want to fix it.  I need to fix it.  But I don’t know how. 

How do I fix it?

I haven’t posted in awhile…I’ve been on a cruise…with Mr. W…in the Caribbean…ahhh, it was freakin wonderful!!  Ok, enough gloating.  Our first four painful months apart ended and we celebrated with his mom and his kids on a Royal Caribbean cruise, stopping in San Juan, Puerto Rico, St. Maarten/St. Martin, and Labadee, Haiti.  Warm weather, flowing rum, beautiful islands, and lots of love.  Heaven in a week!  I would love to (and probably will…later) write all about my fabulous trip, complete with photos to make you really hate me, but there is much more important news to be shared…

(in opposite order of importance)

1. I am officially a Miss.  The paperwork was signed by the judge on February 10th, and I am permanently and legally divorced from STBX ex#2!  Yea!!
2. My “Miss” status isn’t permanent.  Yep, Mr. W proposed!! 

There were bets and expectations that he was going to propose on the cruise, although I whole-heartedly argued against them.  Not that I didn’t want him to.  Just that I was sure he would wait a while.  While he didn’t exactly wait (quite the opposite actually) he did not propose on the cruise.

Let me set the scene:  We were at the airport, a couple hours early for our flight to Miami, drinking Starbucks and smoking outside in the designated smoking area, just chatting about our trip and what-ifs and stuff like that.  Out of  nowhere, he said “hold on” and started digging through his carry-on.  I had no clue what he was looking for.  When he found it, he spun back around to face me, and in one (pretty damn graceful) movement went down on both knees, opening a beautiful wooden box containing the most beautiful ring I have ever seen.  With sparkling love in his eyes (and a slight shake in his hands) he said, “So, you gonna marry  me?” 

Ok, ok.  I know this doesn’t sound like the most romantic proposal in the world, especially with Valentine’s day and a luxurious Caribbean cruise right around the corner, but if you knew us, you would know it was perfect.  Of course, no one really knows “us” except maybe his kids, and they don’t really know us-us, just a watered down kind of grody parentish us that we are around them.  The only one that kind of knows us is my friend Y, who only really knows “us” from me.  She knows Mr. W from years of working with him (and from her eerie likeness to him in their twins-separated-at-birth kind of way…not in physicality, but more in mentality and though processes).  Other than that, we haven’t really had time to foster any deep couple-type friendships that would yield to someone knowing how absolutely perfect his proposal was…for “us.” 

And the ring:  the ring is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.  (yes, I realize my heart may possibly have taken complete control of my eyes in this particular case…but still…stunning.)  It is a ring I never would have picked, or even looked at were it not attached to the love of my life asking for my hand in marriage.  But brought into focus, it’s perfect.  It’s a half carat marquise diamond set on a white gold band.  But there is more.  The band is fairly thin, but kind of overlaps under the diamond, sticking out about a quarter of an inch on either side.  Kind of like part of a spring’s coils.  (In case any of you are scoffing at the size of the diamond…I have very petite fingers…size 4 1/4…so anything bigger tends to look like a little girl playing dress-up with mommy’s jewelry on me.)  I love the ring because it is simple, yet still unique.  I prefer princess cut, but something about the way the marquise sits is just…perfect.  I prefer yellow gold, but the white gold just shines perfectly on my finger under the diamond.  I love the vintage looks, but the simplistic uniqueness of this band is, well, perfect. 

It’s the ring I never knew I always wanted.  There is no other word but…perfect. 

Perfectly in love.  Perfectly engaged.  Perfectly happy (except maybe that he’s back to being 6000 miles away).  Just perfect! 

I had a pretty bad bout of anxiety tonight, but thanks to a happy little white pill left-over from my anti-depressant days, I’m feeling a little more like myself.  I’m not sure what was going on.  Work was ok.  No confrontations.  No stress.  No irritating assholes to get me down.  As a matter of fact, the day I was sure would drag on and on, was over before I even realized it.  I looked up and thought I had lost my touch at converting military time (1500? it can’t be 3pm already?)  After picking up the kids, I ran to the drug store for some milk and on the way back home, it started.

The kids started…or did they really?  Were they really yelling and getting into everything, or were they acting like my normal, wonderful kids just like normal?  Was the Internet conspiring against me to make me repeatedly go back and forth between the same pages numerous times to accomplish one simple task, or was I just making simple key errors?  Did my homework get exponentially harder overnight, or can I just not concentrate long enough to read a sentence, let along comprehend a section on Quantum Physics?

Or is it something else?

Mr. W will be home, here, with me in less than 10 hours.  The only word I want to use to describe my feelings is excited, but more and more often, the word anxious comes to mind.  I miss him terribly.  I think about him every minute of every day.  I would give almost anything to have him next to me right now.  I love him with my whole heart and want to spend the rest of my life with him by my side.  But instead of joy, elation, excited, I’m surrounded by feelings like anxious and apprehensive.

What the hell, man??!!

I am a vivid dreamer.  My dreams regularly overlap with my waking moments, leaving me in a daze, trying to decipher what is real and what is not.  I remember conversations from my dreams which I am later so sure that I had, much to the confusion of my friends.  My emotions are so real that I often live for hours, or even days in their wake with no choice but to ride them out, knowing all the while that it was just a dream but completely unable to shake loose of their hold.

I dream about my love, and him hurting me so viciously through cruel words or despicable acts.  I dream about my children getting hurt or dying and wake up shaking with tears in my eyes.  I dream about a lost love, and spend days missing him and dredging up all those old feelings.  I once dreamt of him, and was stuck in the loss for weeks, remembering, mourning, wondering, googling.  Months later, he found me on Myspace and seeing his picture and his happy family let me put all those feelings behind me once and for all.  I have also dreamt about intimate situations with co-workers (not just current ones, but over the years).  They are never about anyone that I would ever have any interest in, unfortunately.  Most times, it is the one guy that I totally despise and/or am repulsed by.  But of course the dream lingers, and the following day(s) at work are uncomfortable and strange with the all too real memory of my dream haunting me in his presence. 

Last night, I dreamt of a co-worker and it was just too strange.  It wasn’t a sex dream.  It wasn’t even a romantic dream.  There was no nakedness or kissing or romantic interest from either of us.  It was comfort, and the feeling has stayed with me through the morning.  The guy in the dream, E, is someone I don’t talk to often, and interact with even less, even on a working level.  He is a nice enough guy, but he’s fairly quiet and stays to himself, as do I, so our paths rarely cross despite the close proximity of our desks and workspaces.  I’m not sure what was going on in the rest of my dream, except that I was upset about Mr. W…probably missing him terribly as I’m apt to do under the current circumstances, and E was there, for whatever reason.  He was kind and understanding, saying all the right encouraging words that I can’t remember now.  What I do remember is the hug.  Yes, he hugged me (in my dream).  He is taller and bigger than most guys I’ve dated, kind of southern-burly with his beard and Georgia background (ok, I just made that classification up, but it works) and his arms so perfectly enveloped me into his chest that I felt complete peace and safety there.  It was a hug to end all hugs, and dipite my over-sized personal space bubble at times, I do so revel in a good hug. 

So, this morning, I find myself looking at him a little sideways (literally cocking my head a bit to the left like a confused dog) with the all-encompasing feeling of comfort playing at the back of my mind.  It will pass, but until it does, the curiosity lingers.  Dreams are a very strange thing.

I am having such a hard time getting out of bed lately.  I’m so tired all day, but no matter what time I go to bed or how tired I am when I get there, I simply can’t fall asleep until around about 11pm.  This makes my goal of getting up earlier so I’m not rushed in the morning and can actually get a decent breakfast in completely unattainable.  Something about the freezing house, the thought of another crap day at work, the knowledge that I will have to fight with the boy to get him up, dressed, brushed, and ready for school, again just makes me want to sink deeper into all that warm cushy softness that is my bed and join the legions of bears for the remainder of the winter. 

In an attempt to fool myself into getting out of bed earlier and build in a little more time, I have even gone as far as to set my alarm clock 10 minutes fast (sorry Mr. W…we can change it back when you get home).  Of course in those waking moments I still know it is 10 minutes fast and proceed to hit the snooze one more time in response.  This kind of personal undermining is pretty much par for the course in my world. 

Every night, the kids go to bed at 8pm.  I go downstairs, clean up a bit, do whatever homework needs done, and face the TV wondering if I could manage to fall asleep if I went to bed.  Usually I don’t feel tired enough, so I put in an hour or so in front of the tube.  By the end of a couple DVRed programs, I’m dozing, so I head upstairs, take off the contacts, brush the teeth, put on the pj’s, check on the kids, and jump into bed.  And then I’m wide awake.  My mind suddenly turns on and all the thoughts of my day come flooding back.  All the things I need to do tomorrow, all the things I forgot to do today, all the things I should have done differently, all the things I should have said, all the things I need to remember for the future, all the plans, all the hopes, all the fears.  An entire lifetime of thoughts fills my head in the moment I close my eyes and I just can’t turn it off.  I can sit for hours during the day and not have a single glimmer, but at night, when all I want is the sweet bliss of silence and sleep, the flood gates open and it all comes rushing in to drown me in a sea of thoughts and ideas.  There are days when I stare at this page and can’t think of a single thing to say.  There are days when I stare at my homework and can’t come up with a single answer.  There are days when I stare at my office work and can’t put together a decent email, let alone draft a training plan.  But my nights, ah, my nights.  My nights are full of inspiration and contemplation and clarity.  My nights suck ass! 

I grew up in a less than affectionate family.  We weren’t huggers.  We didn’t express our love very often or very well.  We just kind of went through life knowing we were a family and that was that.  It was just my parents and me, moving around the country and the world, losing and regaining touch with various family members and friends around the world as we went.  My parents grew up much the same way.  I was the first child that my Opa (my father’s father) hugged or played with (my dad has 3 brothers and sisters).  He was old school, a man’s man.  He had no time for love and affection.  His job was discipline and it was the mother’s job to coddle the kids.  I remember visiting my Ama (my mother’s mother) in Malaysia when I was 15.  I walked up to her and gave her a big hug and she just stood there, arms at her side.  Needless to say, it was a little uncomfortable and I quickly backed away never to try that again.  Apparently the Chinese aren’t an affectionate people either.  My parents went though a rough number of years.  They probably should have never ended up together in the first place, and in the end, they stayed together way longer for the sake of the child: me.  So, there wasn’t a whole lot of affection or declarations of love among any of my family when I was growing up.

This upbringing explains a lot about me.  I’m not a hugger.  I don’t express my feelings well.  In my dating history I’ve ended up with a lot of men who were, but my  aversion to tons of PDA and my hesitance to declare my undying love caused many the dissatisfied mate.  With my kids it’s different.  When the boy was born, I smothered him with kisses and hugs and I love yous.  I tapered down a little by the time the girl was born, but still, serious showering for them both.  I never want them to doubt that I love them, and I would rather it be too much than not enough.  With Mr. W, I think the months of not being able to express my feelings to him (out of fear on both our parts) caused the flood gates to open after that first “I love you.”  But today, now, not so much. 

Don’t get me wrong.  I love them all with the same fervor that I always have.  Nothing has changed in that department.  But the expressions of my love, and their expressions of love have been taking a toll on me.  Yes, sometimes I do simply need  a hug, or someone to tell me they love me, or just simple human contact…but not all the time, and not too much.  In the past month or so my kids have picked up this game of “I love you more…no, I love you more…no, I love you more…” and while it was cute in the beginning, it’s damn annoying now!  I just want to say I love you and be done with it, dammit!  And, they are constantly hugging me and climbing on me and kissing me.  I’m feeling smothered.  Too much!  Too much!  Mr. W seems to be on the same kick.  I love to hear him tell me how much he loves me and misses me, etc, etc.  But lately, it’s every other word out of his mouth and it’s driving me a little batty.  I want to talk.  Endless declarations of love are great and all, but nothing beats a good conversation with the one you love.  Of course I can’t tell him this because he’s 6000 miles away and he will be hurt.  (On the other hand, he does occasionally read my blog…so I guess the cat’s out of the bag…)  It’s just that everyone around me, my mother (the now-queen of the I love yous since leaving my dad), my kids, my boyfriend, is constantly barraging me with love and affection and I just don’t know what to do with myself!  I know, people have bigger problems in this world than being loved…but I’m seriously going a little nuts!! 

I do have to give one honorable mention to one of the ladies at work, D, who doesn’t seem to be an overly emotional hugger type, but she does give the best hugs.  Not too many, but she just seems to know when I need a hug, even before I do and she is there.  I’m really not cool with the whole hugging random people thing, and initially it freaks me out a little.  She is taller than me, and she just corners me and wraps her long arms around me, completely enveloping me and all I want to do is push her off and run away screaming…at first.  But then, that hug that lasts just a little to long for comfort crosses the threshold into that place of pure comfort and peace and I just want it to last forever.  She seems to know this too because she always stays until I’ve made it to that place and I’ve sunk deep into the comfort, letting not only her arms but the ease that they bring fully envelope me before she whispers some reassuring words in my ear and lets me go.  Damn, she’s good!

Of course, three weeks from now, when I’m home from my vacation, missing Mr. W again, wallowing in the loneliness and self pity, all I will want is a hug and an “I love you”…go figure!

My maid canceled again today for the estimate.  Argh!  For those of you who are wondering why the hell I need a maid…let me fill you in:

1. I work full time.
2. I am a full time college student.
3. I live alone with one full time child (5 yrs) and one 1/2 time child (3 yrs).

Now, anyone who is not a parent…especially a single parent, will not really understand the last reason.  Let me illustrate:  view the video below (hilarious!) and keep in mind that the baby in the video is 1) only one baby, and 2) cannot walk, run, climb, break things, destroy small countries, wreak havoc on the planet…you get the idea.  Now enjoy!

My very first interview/meme, courtesy of The Girl From The Ghetto:

• What’s the most romantic gesture you’ve ever made?
  

In an attempt to work on/save my marriage, I booked a cabin in the mountains for a weekend away with Ex#2.  I arranged for his parents to watch the kids, and searched far and wide for the perfect spot for us to “reconnect.”  I found the perfect spot, in a little town about 3 hours away right on the Blue Ridge Mountains.  There wasn’t a lot of civilization around (although they did have a Wal-Mart in town) so romantic dinners weren’t a possibility, but the cabin was perfect.  It had a big porch out front, a full kitchen, livingroom, big bathroom with a tub, and a decent bedroom with the most comfortable bed I’ve ever slept in.  Once we got into town, I made a stop and got some steaks (his favorite) and stuff for smores, along with charcoal as I knew they had an open-pit grill at each cabin.  There were only 7 cabins in the area, nestled cozily in the woods on the side of a small mountain…just beautiful.  Were went in the summer, over my birthday weekend, so the weather was just right for morning walks and evenings spent sitting on the porch enjoying nature as it meandered by in its various forms of deer, bird, and small furry animal.  The owners, a retired cop and his wife, made gourmet breakfasts for all the guests and delivered them still warm to our doors.  I’m talking eggs benedict, belgiun waffles, freshed squeezed orange juice, fresh fruit…the works!  I even arranged a day of horseback riding during our stay, something he always wanted to try.  The weekend was perfect in almost every way.  Beautiful surroundings.  Wonderful food.  Quiet solitude with that one special person.

While we did have a great time, there was no reconnection, except maybe finding the friendship we had before we became a couple.  We laughed and chatted and enjoyed the surroundings, but nothing more.  We did talk about some of our problems, including that (at the time) we hadn’t so much as kissed for at least 6 months…and after about an hour of discussing why we didn’t have sex anymore…he walked inside, crawled into that wonderfully comfortable bed…and went to sleep.  No romance.  No intimacy.  No reconnection.  I tried.  I failed.  We ended 3 months later.

• What is one thing about you that would surprise your readers?

This is by far the hardest question.  I’ve striven to be 100% honest in this blog, so finding something that would surprise anyone has left me pretty blank.  The only thing that comes to mind is from my teenage years…not so much as a surprise, and not that I’ve purposely hidden it…just that it’s never really come up.

For about 2 years in high school, I had a boyfriend who was in a gang.  We were together on and off for 4 years, but during my Sophemore and Junior years, we were mostly inseperable.  His friends were my friends, and that included many less-than-savory characters.  I knew what they’d done in their past and what they were doing in their present.  I knew that they weren’t likely to change anytime soon, and while I certainly didn’t condone their actions or feelings, I understood them (the boys, not the actions).  I even wrote a pretty controvercial paper in my Junior English class about the “other side” of gang life.  I went to a college prep school full of kids and teachers who were rarely exposed to the other sides of life, and in no way were they willing to see through the surface ugliness to see the tender hearts inside.  These poor boys (not that there aren’t girls in gangs, but the ones I knew were all boys) were left to fend for themselves at very young ages.  Some by virtue of their parents struggling to make ends meet and forgetting about the importance of connecting with their children, some grew up in foster care, living a life I could never wish apon my worst enemy.  At some point in their life, they sought out acceptance and love and found it in a “family” with alternative rules and ways.  This “family” provided them the love and belonging their young souls so sorely desired.  Unfortunately, the lessons taught were the same that the “elders” had learned in their childhood of violence and street war.  But when those same lessons are carried from generation to generation with seemingly no alternative, these boys had little choice or desire to stray from their “teachings.”  I loved them as brothers and wanted to make them see that there were other alternatives, but the pull was too strong.  Some ended up in jail, others dead, and some are still struggling through life, with children of their own.  I wonder where those children will end up…

• Are you ever embarrassed when people catch you singing and rocking out to a song in the car, or playing air guitar, or playing the steering wheel drums?

Constantly!  I do it all the time, and I have found that if I pretend to be completely oblivious to those around me, it’s not nearly as embarrassing to get caught.  Of course, I do tone it down when I’m sitting at a red light or stuck in traffic.    The only time I completely let loose and do the whole car-dancing-singing-at-the-top-of-my-lungs-playing-steering-wheel-drums-and-air-guitar-simultaneously is when my kids are in the car.  I can sacrifice my dignity for a good smile from my babies any day!

• If, for some reason, you were to be chosen for the reality show “Survivor”, what would be the one luxury item you would bring?

Ooohh, hard one.  Ok, so I only watched one season of “Survivor” so I have no basis on what a “good” thing to bring would be or if there are any rules or restrictions.  That said, my first instinct is my iPod since I can get through just about anything with the right music, and besides, who can go 4 months or 6 months or whatever it is without music?!  But, alas, no electricity, so the iPod would die and become useless and I’d probably toss it at that point…so basically a waste.  Next thought…my blue blanket.  My mom made it when I was a baby.  Its a simple denim patchwork blanket, but it’s warm and comfortable and has that memory attachment thing to it that makes it that much better.  And I do hate to be cold.  I did think of my camera, as I imagine there are some fantastic photo ops on those beautiful islands, untouched by man (for the most part) and that would be enough to keep me occupied for months.  But I’d be worried about damages to my other baby, and couldn’t bear to chance it. In the end…coffee.  Yeah, I’d probably be stuck sucking on the beans for a while until we managed to get fire…but damn if that first cup of hot coffee wouldn’t taste like heaven…and bring on a decent buzz after being deprived! I do love my coffee!

• If you could do anything for a living, what would it be, and why?

I would be a professional photographer a la a cross between Ansel Adams and Annie Leibovitz.  I love the natural world, including the people in it and their natural beauty, so I would have a hard time sticking to just one or the other.  Ah, to travel the world, meet wonderful, interesting people…and of course the fame and fortune is a bonus.

So there it is…my interview.  And to pass it along…