I can't tell you why....

Did anyone know that May is Mental Health Awareness Month? Yep. May 01-30 to be precise. Surely we all are aware that October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month, with it's total barrage of media attention and Pink ribbons everywhere. The celebrity support is stronger than even the powers behind the Aids Awareness. But, mental health, probably with all the stigma attached, seems to be lost in the shuffle, shrouded by fear and misunderstanding. It is thought that 1 in 4 adults are effected in some way. I think it would be impossible for anyone to not know someone or even themselves that are suffering. This statistic is based on adults and does not include the incredible number of children with autism and other disorders and disease. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from our useless wars have left millions of veterans struggling. But what is being done, if so many of us are unaware? Growing up, mental health problems have plagued my family and friends from depression to eating disorders. I had an uncle who was simply locked up in the Traverse City "Mental Hospital", with the key thrown away. There was then and still, 40 years later, not enough awareness and funding. Just trying to find a therapist now is nearly impossible because the case overload has them booked for weeks in advance. Mental illness is more rampant than ever, due to social and economical pressures. Money and insurance--or lack of it is appalling. Even the very best of insurance covers only half of most treatments. The thing that always confounds me that if you do not care for yourself thru basic ways--such as diet and exercise--and have resulting problems, most likely these issues are generally covered 100% minus co pays, etc. You have to be suicidal to be admitted into basic mental health programs- with not much help in between. Anorexia is both scary and usually fatal. Again-crummy insurance coverage. Obviously, I could go on and on. Exact research numbers are hard to obtain. In the book, "Strange Son" by Portia Iverson, I read figures from 1995 that showed that Autism was getting around 5 million a year for research, Alzheimer's--60 million a year, Breast Cancer--600 million, and Aids--900 million a year. I was unable to even find even a spongy number for Bipolar Disorder. One more startling fact, and I will stop my rant. Over 15% of the burden of disease in established market economies-- such as the U.S.- is due to mental illness and suicide. This is more than the disease burden caused by ALL Cancers. Now don't get me wrong--ALL diseases and their research is very important to me. ALL is am asking, is that you reconsider maybe what your "cause" may be and try to be aware of this awful problem. I will be back with a regular and normal, fluffy post soon. Just had to get this in before the end of the week!!! x0 P.S. Go Wings--you are our last hope!!

I'm as free as a bird.....

A past beau gave me a Harley Owners Group jacket as a parting gift for the demise of our relationship. It symbolized freedom and was his way of saying that it was time for me to fly. It's the requisite black leather and wool affair with the logo proudly displayed. Okay with me, we were gonna wrap things up anyways and I've worn the hell out of the jacket . Makes me feel reckless and exotic and, okay, free. Harley dudes feel some kinship with me and always want to know what bike I ride. I have to then explain that I am, in fact, a wannabee, and the jacket was a gift given to symbolize my freedom. This is always met with support given that the lifestyle and attitude are what's really the important thing. Growing up near a gorgeous beach and state park campground gave me an early vision into this lifestyle. Once a year, the "bikers" came to the beach and set up camp for a long weekend. This was met with much trepidation from my parents, even then realizing my curiosity. We were warned to stay away from the beach during that time as surely drugs and debauchery were the main purpose of their visit. They will rape you and get you hooked on drugs. (Reefer Madness--hard at work!) As you can well imagine, you could not KEEP me away. Like a moth to a flame I was drawn in, and totally enthralled by all of it. I sewed myself a little halter top and wore it under a sweatshirt as I fearlessly strutted down to the beach, only to strip down once I got there. Copious amounts of Sun In made my hair the proper color with a sorta straw like texture--again more sneaking. It was imperative that I look like the girls hanging out by those beautiful bikes, a feat not easily accomplished by a naive little 14 year old. If only I could pull off the black eyeliner without getting caught. You know me--forever in search of anything "glamorous." I was totally unafraid and starved for that attention--and knowledge. I would have given anything for some leather chaps or maybe even a vest to appear more in the style. Smoking ciggies and drinking beer with dangerous looking guys seemed so romantic, not to mention the idea of hitting the highway for wherever the road takes you. As a small town girl dying to get out, this was the shit. I imagined that ANYPLACE had to be more exciting than this. With the smell of campfire and pot and the sounds of Lynyrd Skynrd and Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, I sidled up to the party. Somebody would invariably ask if I was "from here?" Yes, was the answer but I assured them that I was leaving just as soon as I could. Why? Where the hell do you want to go? They would laugh and try to tell me that THIS place was it. Paradise. And they looked forward all year to coming back here. At the time I thought they had to be kidding. This was it? Hmm.mm.mm. At the end of their vay cay, as I watched everyone fire up those bad boy bikes and roll out of town, I imagined myself with that same freedom someday. Years later with lots of "notches in my lipstick case", it finally occurs to me. Paradise is wherever you are as long as you feel free. xo

I ain't got time for the flip flop kind....

By request, props Marty dear, I have to let y'all in on my fabulous and locally famous, shoe collection. And no Mart, you cannot steal the green and black patents! Yes, it is a fetish-- it's mine and I own it. Hey, for the most part, ya gotta wear 'em every day anyways, right? I cannot resist and am rendered totally powerless to their allure. Just the sight of 'em makes me weak in the knees, while raising my heart rate to fat burning mode! Zeroing in on the perfection warrants a sharp inhale and pursed lips. Your comin' home with me, Baby, I've been known to coo. Or as Carrie on Sex and the City would say, "Hello, lover." And can we talk about the smell of good leather? Woozy. Oh, and the feel of it too. Slippin' into 'em and I can envision the total outfit and occasion where wearing them would be appropriate. As transporting as chocolate and sex, I tell ya! I've got boots in Italian leather, long and short, chunky heeled to spike. Cowboy boots in 4 colors. Pink mucklucks. Hell, the only reason I look forward to fall and winter is the whole chocolate suede of it all. The long, cold season simply warrants a varied selection, as long as they are warm and CUTE. But mostly just cute. Closed toe pumps with patent and bows can warm my heart as well as a hot, buttered rum by the fireplace. Sometimes I have said cocktail with JUST my sexay shoes by the fireplace--a little situation that warms someones elses heart! Hey, I do what I can. And with these long Michigan winters, it's imperative that the selection be just massive.. Ahhh, but then comes the spring, (eventually). Who Hoo for pedicure time! Mr. Lee keeps the tootsies fit for viewing. Little peep toe wedgies and pink jeweled heels, polka dots with rattan soles, maybe some marabou trim. Patent leather and leopard print. Thong styles and strappy types. All with giant heels. Hey, I am only 5'3", and I need all the help I can scare up. Which brings up the point that shoes are not nearly so fickle in the size department as say, a pair of jeans. I've never been brought even close to tears(only happy little ones) by trying on a pair of Franco's. Shoes stay faithfully the same size give or take a little for a good bloat here and there. So here's a picture of my say 60 favorites so as to give you a visual aid. Don't offer therapy--I don't want it and it won't work. Unless you want to get a pedi and hit a DSW!!! xoxo

Somewhere over the rainbow....

I think of him on spring days with warm rains--mushroom growing weather. My Grampa loved those days. With a small pail in hand, He would head to his favorite spot and ferret out morels. As kids, we were free to and encouraged to join him at any time. We learned the technique of bending to pick and peering around for more. We may have been gone for hours and walked miles, but it never ceased to be fun under Grampa's patient tutelage. Afterwards, if we begged enough, we might be treated to a coke and chips while he had a cold "shell" at the local watering hole. Everyone knew and loved my Grampa. He grew up sadly, a poor and abused orphan that ran away from foster homes till he was old enough to support himself. The lore is that his Grandma was a Native American that married a French man. With his snowy white hair, hooked kind of nose, and bronze tanned skin--he certainly looked the part. He kept his whiskey bottle in the basement and was known to indulge a couple of times a day. He referred to Grandma affectionately as "the war department", even though they were married nearly 60 years. I remember being all trussed up (yes, like the Christmas goose) and ready to go out and wow 'em, when Grampa would comment, "what do you call a get up like that?" Or "did you mean for your hair to look like that?" "Looks like you been runnin' in the wind!" One time I was out for a run when Gramps pulled up next to me to ask if I needed a ride somewhere. When I puffed out that I was running to drop a few pounds, He asked me to let him know where so He wouldn't hit it with his car. Always the comic, that one. He was an avid Tiger fan and went to Tiger Stadium for most home games when he was living in Detroit. Able to quote stats and such at any time, He never missed a televised game. We always kept him in current yearbooks, and he pored over them. Grampa was healthy till he had a massive stroke and even then he religiously did the prescribed exercises till he could walk, talk and had most use of his arm. Grampa cooked all meals in the same cast iron skillet. Cholesterol was a foolish notion. He would fry a half a pound of bacon for breakfast along with 3 eggs or so. Then saving the bacon grease, he would use it to cook up a good greasy burger for lunch with a side skillet of fried onions. I will never smell the smell of fried onions without thinking of him. Once a month, during my "woman time", my Grandpa would have me over for lunch. A big helping of his famous liver and onions would give me the shot of iron I needed, not to mention nearly clogging my last artery. He would start getting things ready around 9:45 a.m. and would anxiously wait for my arrival. Gramps loved the old home remedies. A poultice was advised for most maladies. And regular kerosene would work if we were ever cursed with lice. Many times upon arriving home, I would find cabbage, tomatoes, zucchini , corn and potatoes-- vegetables from his well tended garden. His baseball prowess was well known locally for both his playing and coaching abilities. He could be found in the stands for cheering and advising-even on those long, boring t-ball games, because nothing was more important than baseball and grand kids. He taught us all to play cribbage and would even sit through long, riveting games of war. He could be counted on to ferry children to and from preschool or kindergarten. My colicky son was lovingly threatened to be "sent back to the Indians." "Put him on some old squaws back--that'll fix him!" Grandpa was a reverent man and never missed Mass. As a God fearing man, He was not afraid to die. On his deathbed, He asked St. Paul to "please call this old man up. I've done it all and twice if I liked it." Of course, I had to ask how He was so assured He was going in the direction of the sky. His faith had made him ready to see his Lord's face--a sentiment I am sure was mutual. So Gramps, whether you are mushroom hunting, enjoying a shell, or playing cards--I know that heaven is more fun with you there. See ya when I see ya. xoxo