December 1, 2012

My Left Nut, Pam


Dear Tom Selleck . . .

Now I've gone and done it.  I wrote you this letter and sent it to The Selleck Stache, but I think some of the language was considered less than desirable coming from a lady guest.

Movember is over in 1 minute here in the Midwest, and I want to make sure you read this before you go man-scaping your 30 days of growth.  There's a to-do.  Down there.  It could save your life.  Kill two birds with one stone Tom, check your balls while you man-scape later.  After you read this.

I'm going out on a limb here by telling you a little story about my left nut, Pam.  And a little about my right nut, Barb, Pam's deceased cyst-er.

I'm a non-practicing hypochondriac.  What that means is that I'll tell you I have a brain aneurysm when I have a headache or that I have the rickets when I'm wearing new shoes that make my feet hurt.  I exaggerate a little.  I'm like a man with a cold.  But all of the time.

Except when I know something is really wrong with me.  Then I'm just full-blown man.  I tell no one.  I brush off the signs and symptoms of a bigger problem.  I justify each pain or change . . . I've worked too much lately.  I'm getting older.  I'm a little scared.  I am terrified of the doctor.  Of tests.  Of needles.  Of gloves.  Of lube.  It all scares me.  I'm a total man about it.

So I waited until my jeans are just too tight, I've lost 40 pounds because I've worked so much, I just can't eat rye bread or Arby's anymore, I am 40 years old, turned into doubled over, vomiting in pain.  I had to go to the ER.  There were tests.  And needles.  And gloves.  And lube.  I was terrified and acted like such a man about all of it.

There was something the size of a grapefruit hanging from my right nut.  But I had been such a damn man about it, I had not even noticed.  And now they weren't going to touch it until 'they knew what it was'.  Fuck.

More tests.  More needles.  More gloves.  More lube.  Only this time with doctors whose practices included words like Oncology and who said things like . . . one step at a time, it's grown, doesn't look good, we'll get through this together, are you here by yourself, you should bring someone with you next time, we won't know anything until next week, we'll go from there.

Fuck.  Fuck.  Fuck.  Why was I such a damn man about all of this?!

What happened next, I don't wish on my worst enemy.  They were keeping me comfortable.  Much thanks to good drugs, I felt pretty good that morning - except that nagging 'C' word in the back of my head.  I went to make coffee, and when I bent over the sink . . . the counter pressed into my nutsack, causing that 6"-ish grapefruit hanging from my right nut to twist my nut around, cutting off its blood supply.

(I'll give you a minute to grab your crotch and collect yourself.)

It hurt like hell.  And I went down to the floor like a fucking man.  Crying and vomiting and reaching for my phone because my right nut was twisted and I could not reach it to untwist it.

But just like some hard-headed (yeah, I said hard-headed - and giggled) asshole of a man, I did not call 911.  I called my best friend who had to break into my house through a window and rush me to the ER (again) because I had waited wwwaaayyy too long this time.  Like a damn man.

There were a lot of tests.  And needles.  And gloves.  And lube.  And cursing.  I was in pain and terrified.  Like a man.

And then, to make a long story short . . . I lost my right nut this past Memorial Day.  Barb.  May her bitchy, whiny, dried up soul rest in peace.  My remaining nut, Pam, seems to be thriving without her.  She cries and gets all hot and bothered sometimes, but Pam's an overachiever and a pleaser and has picked up Barb's slack.

Barb's cause of death was a benign cyst.  Gratefully.

Don't let this be you, Tom.  Check your nuts.  You're a man.  You and your 'stache represent real men.  Manly men.  Stop being a pussy and man up.  Check your nuts.

God made it very simple for you men.  They're hanging right there - front and center.  Right there at arm's length.  Checking them should be no problem.  No excuses.  Do it while you man-scape.

Me, on the other hand . . . My nuts (well one nut and a nub now) are on the inside.  It's a little more difficult.  I will always remain one chromosome away from being able to grab my own balls.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

November 17, 2012

Welcome to My World

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

I'm giving you a break today over at The Selleck Stache.  You're welcome.  You don't get off so easily over here.  I'm freaking out, Tom.  And I'll tell you why:

Just yesterday, I finished my bridge over the sailor's troubled waters.  Just yesterday.  I.  Let.  It.  Go.  I swear I did.  I do not lie.  Lying is my biggest pet peeve.  A deal breaker in my world.

So I let it go.  Let him go.  Yesterday.

A friend even asked about him and I told her I had made it over.  And I meant it.  I did.

And then I cleaned my room last night.

I've lived in my Magic Cottage for just over a year and my room will forever be a 'work in progress'.  I think I like it that way.  But it was out of control.  Has been for quite some time.  Like over a year.  Every time I start to clean it, I 'hear' . . . clean it and they will come.  There.  I typed it out loud.  Doesn't sound as crazy now.  Except that it does sound just as crazy.  Because it is!  I've only told Beth this.  Even she cocked (speaking of - check your balls) her head and laughed.

I just jokingly told her the other night I was going to clean my room so they would come.  So it would come.  So he would come.  So something would come.  So far, only I have come.  (too much?)

When I finished cleaning my room last night, I just sat there and took it all in.  It's not perfect, but I'm happy with it.  And then I did the unspeakable.  The thing I know better than to do.

I

challenged

the

universe.

Accidentally.  I swear.  I was only kidding.

I sat there after taking it all in and said (out loud):  Ok, send them.  Or it.  Or him.  I'm ready.  And then I laughed at the ridiculousness of it all and half expected there to be a booty call text come in as the punchline.  So then I decided to beat The Almighty Universe to the punch and said (also out loud because I will never learn):  The next boy to text wins.  I cleaned it, so now he can come.  And then I laughed out loud a little more.

I wish I were kidding about all of this.  But sadly, I am not.  I'm that girl.

And then I put on my warm pj's straight from the dryer and got a good clean sheet night's sleep in my very clean bedroom.

I awoke early ready to take on the world.  Or at least the mound of laundry I created when I cleaned my room.  I heard my texter ring from the other room.

It was him.  The sailor.

My world stopped.

All I could hear were Ray Charles and Bonnie Raitt belting out 'Do I Ever Cross Your Mind' from my ipod speakers.  Nice touch Universe.  Not only appropriate, but one of the songs I put on his driving CD years ago and he brought up to me this summer.  Which was his way of saying . . .

Never mind.  Let's just move on with this story.

I opened my texter (yes, I still carry a flip Blackberry) and it read:

Thanks Edie

Brilliant.  Did it take him 3 fucking days to come up with that?  I texted him 'happy birthday' at midnight Wednesday.  (I left that part out yesterday, didn't I?  That's selective omission, not a lie.)  No pomp.  No circumstance.  Two capitals.  No period.  And he used my name.

Damn him.

I'm not texting 'you're welcome s' until Tuesday.  Late Tuesday.  All lower-case.  No period.  And I'll only use his initial.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl


November 16, 2012

We All Deal Differently

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

By yesterday afternoon, I couldn't take seeing the sailor's name in the top righthand corner of my Facebook one second longer.  So I wrote this on his wall:

happy birthday.

Brilliant.  I know.  It took me all day to come up with that.  No pomp.  No circumstance.  All lower-case.  With a period.  I didn't use his nickname, his name, or even his initial.  THAT will show him!  Or not.

Clearly, I have moved on.

So now, let's have some sex to prove it!  Not you and me, Tom!  Just me.  Well, me with a partner.  Hopefully.

prostituted myself out made the announcement of my sexual intentions over at The Selleck Stache.  My guess is Mike, the Stache Master over there, regrets the day he ever invited me to crash his site.  I'm sure my access will be revoked before the sun goes down.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl


November 15, 2012

Let's Catch Up

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

I was going to stop writing to you until someone's people contacted my people about your people.  I guess you really do like hearing from me.  So, I guess we should catch up.

How was your summer?  Mine had its ups and downs.  The sailor visited and it was the best visit ever! EVER!

And the last.

It's a long, beautiful story with a sad ending.  You'll sometimes have that in an amazing life.

Today is his birthday, so I've had him on my mind.  Especially since Facebook keeps reminding me in the top righthand corner of my screen that it's his birthday.  Since midnight last night.  And all day today.  It's driving me mad.  There is no way to make his name disappear unless I wish him a happy birthday or de-friend him.  I suppose a simple 'fuck you' on his wall would make it go away.  But I'm not bitter.  At all.  Anymore.

I also lost an ovary this summer.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

November 14, 2012

Told You So

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

I told you things were about to get big.  Are you in or are you out?

Someone's people contacted my people and your people are going to want to see this:




true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

August 18, 2012

1.7 Degrees of Separation

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

It's been an odd couple of weeks.  I'm not sure how to even explain it but, something has just been 'off' a beat or two and yet things are more in sync than ever.  Do you feel it?  Just me?  Just crazy?

Big things are about to happen Tom.  Big big things.  Either you're in or you're out.  I'm not going to beg.  It's about me now.

I can almost physically feel the shift in the universe, in my life.  It kind of feels like when you're trying to pull-start a mower.  You keep pulling, and sweating, and cursing, and the damn thing just won't completely catch.  You have two choices - if you say fuck it and walk away, you know it's out there haunting you and you'll dwell on it and dread it every second of every day and regret not doing it when things get out of control OR if you just keep going and putting everything into it at that moment, it's going to catch and purr like a lion with bronchitis and when it does you'll be off and running with the music blaring and the breeze blowing and the sun shining.  And your yard will look great in the end.  And you'll look great doing it.  With each step, your yard and your complexion and your hair just gets better and better and better.

Your name has come up a lot lately.  It's like we're closer to one another than ever.  I feel like I owe it to you to let you know I've been writing a lot lately - just not to you.  Sorry.  I've been writing a storybook.  It's more story and less book, and I think I love it.  But I need another opinion.  Know anyone?  I know you do.

In or out Tom?  I fell like I also owe it to you to let you know I met a Hollywood producer and director this week.  I still don't remember which one did what.  But the cool one - the tall, cute, quirky one - stepped into my magic cottage (after stepping in dog shit) and shook hands with his big break - Mary - whom upon meeting him, promptly told him goodnight and that she loves him and then strutted her pull-up wearing ass off to bed.

We are SO close to one another Tom!  Have your people find the guy with the dog shit on his shoe because I forgot to ask if he knows you.  Plus I was playing it cool.  As cool as I could play it with dog shit on my own shoe.  And no paper towels.  And a severe phobia of fecal matter.  And a Hollywood producer standing in my kitchen.  I was totally cool with it all.  Just any other Thursday night.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

July 12, 2012

Sometimes

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

Do you sometimes miss our little game?  Me too.  That doesn't count as our 'confessions' tonight.  I get another question.

Do you sometimes put your knees in your shoes and pretend you're short?

Sometimes . . . I imagine you pulling up in front of my house, swaggering up my front walk, and standing on my front porch with a handful of gerber daisies.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

July 11, 2012

The Questions I Ask Myself

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

Every day I ask myself the same question:  What if this is as good as it gets?

In the years since seeing the movie, 'As Good as It Gets', that question has plagued me by randomly popping into my head.  Most times it would evoke a sense of dread that the best of my days had already passed.  I would obsess over finding 'the best' moment of my life so far and know there was little chance it could ever be better than that, and therefore the future seemed dull.

It took a good long time, but my thinking has shifted in the last couple of years.  Now, I make it a point to ask myself that question every single day.  What if this is as good as it gets?  Most days, the answer is - then ok, everything is going to be alright.  I'm content and happy and feel extremely grateful and fortunate to be living this amazing life.

And then one day I asked myself:  What if I really can have it all?

Ask yourself that in the mirror in the middle of the night!  At first I laughed out loud at the thought of literally having it all.  And then I got a little scared.  Having it all is a lot!  Just imagine being able to have everything you've ever wished or imagined for yourself.  Wow.  That would be a lot to have.  I was terrified that just by asking myself that question, I would get exactly that - it all.  Knowing the sense of humor the universe surrounds me in, I thought I better start getting specific.

So then I started imagining what 'it all' looks like - to me.  I couldn't picture it.  At all.  Blank.  And then I remembered my 'vision book'.  Yes, I do have one.  Yes, I do like to cut things out of magazines and stick-glue them on pages.  Yes, sometimes I am still 15 years old on the inside.  But it works for me.

Anyhow, I got it out and looked through the pages of what I have always envisioned for myself.  I'm well on my way to having 'it all'.  Most of the 'all' I don't have yet, I can see the path to and know it's coming soon, but there is one section of the book I can't see a clear path to - the relationship pages.

I've done a lot of over-analyzing about the who's, what's, where's, why's, when's, and how's lately in the relationship pages of my life.  Still, no clear answers.  So I turned to my favorite part of my 'vision book' . . . two blank pages with big, bold letters in the top left corner that read:  "What I Know for Sure".  As big and open as I am in my thinking, I am also a natural born cynic and skeptic.  And I'm a Libra.  This personality combination makes me know nothing for sure.

It's the new question I ask myself all day, every day:  What do I know for sure?

Usually, the answer is still nothing.  Except . . . If he ever has a child to raise, I want it to be with me.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

May 15, 2012

The Votes Are In

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

I am the world's greatest playlist namer ever.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

P.S.  Granny died 6 weeks ago.

March 17, 2012

Paper Please

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

I hope it doesn't make you uncomfortable to talk about 'girl things'.  Because I'm going to tell you anyway.

I'm pretty sure at THE very moment the sailor started talking about me having a baby, I went into menopause.  How many people can tell you down to the minute when they entered menopause?  It's like my reproductive system heard him, slammed on the brakes, seized up, and died.  I started forgetting things because my head started swirling a lot.  Then I started getting hot flashes complete with sweat.  And I don't sweat.  My mood and emotions went crazy.  Crazy I say!  Damn hormones.

Or maybe it was just anxiety.  No, probably menopause.

As I tried desperately to sleep the night he asked me to have his baby, I began to have a heart attack.  Full blown cardiac arrest, massive coronary.  My chest hurt SO badly and I couldn't breathe.  At all.

Or maybe it was just anxiety.  No, probably a heart attack.

Today I proposed he come stay the summer with me.  I'm waiting on a response, but I think maybe I should give you my username and password for my email because I am about to be in NO shape to read it.  Not because I'm celebrating St. Patty's Day.  No, if I live I'll be slinging the beers instead of drinking them in a few hours.  But because I'm having a stroke.  I can feel half of me going numb, and I'm pretty sure I can't speak or walk.  All I can do is beg for help with my eyes.

Or maybe it's just anxiety.  No, probably a stroke.

It is nothing less than a miracle I have survived this week.  I just wish I had objected to the plastic bags at the grocery store.  A paper bag to the face would likely save my life about now.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

March 16, 2012

Clear Blue Easy

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

You're probably wondering how I responded when the sailor asked me to have a baby with him.  After telling him I had my tubes tied five years ago and some awkwardness, we still decided to think about the options.  I told him to google it and email me later and I would freak-out and obsess over it do a little research and think about things.

When I wrote to you yesterday, I really didn't know the right answer.  But after a visit to the shrink, multiple discussions with each of my friends, a lot of googling, a call to my OB/GYN, some soul searching, and a baby that projectile vomited in front of me at the grocery . . . I decided babies are for other people - not for me.  Not for us.

I haven't broken the news to him yet.  It truly was a pleasure just to be nominated!

I have no reservations about sharing my decision with him, but I am a little nervous about what I'm about to propose to him.  I shouldn't be, but I am.  I wonder if this is how he felt.

He's currently a teacher.  I'm going to ask him to come and stay with me this summer.  If at any time either of us decides it's not working, he leaves - no hard feelings.  But . . . We just may find neither of us want him to ever leave.  Then we work on our next big plan.

Wish me luck.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

March 15, 2012

Oh Baby

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

Remember the sailor?

Seemingly out of the blue, I received an email from him last Friday.

Him:  There's a movie out called 'Friends with Kids'.

(I hurriedly go watch the trailer and freak out a little - or a lot - for a million reasons.)

Me:  I got asked out on a date tonight.

No response, so I try again.

Me:  I told him to ask me again on Tuesday.  Did you take a date to see the movie?  Maybe mine will take me.  Looks intriguing.  But if this is some sort of metaphor, we need to put on our big boy and girl pants and talk about it.  If so, call me.  I'm not going anywhere until at least Tuesday.

Him:  My cousin is getting married and we're having a bachelor party this weekend.  If I survive, I'll call you.

waiting
Saturday
waiting
Sunday
waiting
Monday
waiting
Tuesday
waiting
Wednesday
waiting

Me:  It's Wednesday.

He called.

He asked me to have a baby with him.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

March 7, 2012

What Are You Drinking?

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

I had to get a jobby job job.  Seems this non-profit business can be less than profitable and there are always WAY more expenses than cash.  I just need a little walking money to keep my hooptie running.  So I'm slinging beers.  And I LOVE it!  I rarely drink, hate beer, don't know a damn thing about wine, and couldn't mix a slippery nipple if my life depended on it.  But that's our little secret, Tom.

The only thing that matters is my passion and personality and great hair of course.  It certainly doesn't hurt that I can bullshit with the best of them.  And flirt.  And listen.  Oh!  And I'm funny!  Some may call me quirky.  Even a little ditzy at times.  But definitely charming and brilliant.  Sometimes cocky, but more often confident.  I even had a little 'experience' from 15 years ago.  Plus I used to run two continents for a fortune 500 company.

It only makes sense that I'm the best damn bartender there ever was at this pub place that serves a lot of beers.  This is the kind of place beer snobs thrive on.  And I don't know a thing.  Not a damn thing!  But I always start with an introduction:  (hand outstretched)  Hi!  I'm Edie, but you can call me the new girl.

And then . . . Whether someone wants a lager, an ale, a stout, an IPA, a wheat, or a porter recommendation I just give the same answer:  Have you tried our Kentucky Bourbon Ale?  Some cock their heads, but most have not tried it, so I give them a taste and 99% of them buy a very expensive, very small glass of it.

Who's a beer snob now?!

I don't know whether people think I'm an idiot or an even BIGGER beer snob who just trumped them. But they tip me well.

You want a what?  A black and tan?  Ok, but I'm going to make it a little differently than you've ever had it but I will use black-ish and tan-nish colored beers.  Trust me?  And they do . . . every time!  It may look nothing like a black and tan and taste like nothing you've ever had before, but you will love it.  And pay a lot for it.  I promise.

If nothing else, I will just look awkwardly cute while I pull on the tap.  Or the keg.  Or whatever that big beer handle spout thing is called.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

March 5, 2012

There's a Smoking Section in Heaven

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

For months now, Granny has been given days to weeks at the most to live.  She is strong and stubborn and if we're being honest, a bit of a drama queen.  Much like yours truly.

She hosted a dinner party last night and I was on the very exclusive guest list.  Mind you she has been bedridden for months and while there have been small rallies, she has clearly been declining.  I had visited last Monday and she was barely responsive.  She had not eaten since the previous Thursday, had some nasty bed sores, and I was sure that would be the last time I saw her alive.

Throughout all of this I have kept my emotions in check except when I'm alone or with my closest friends.  It's how I roll.  On Monday, I could barely hold it together long enough to get out of the door and cried in sobs the whole ride home.

And then I got a text at work on Saturday, inviting me to a dinner party Sunday evening.  Certainly this was some sort of bad joke.  In my head I imagined her barely and deliriously squeaking out the idea of having a few people over for dinner and my aunt going into 'make it happen' mode.  The thought of standing around Granny's deathbed with divided plates and red Solo cups, making small talk and corny jokes is not my idea of fun.

And then I got a call from my cousin, Granny's favorite and mine too.  She had talked to her on the phone!  The weird just got weirder and was about to get even weirder before it was all over.  Apparently all of the bed sores were gone when they bathed her, she was no longer on oxygen, was eating better than any of us, and was thinking and speaking clear as a bell.

She remembers very little of the last two months, including her favorite grandchild being by her side 24 x 7 for 10 straight days.  We can't blame morphine because she's refused to take anything stronger than an extra-strength Tylenol.  She's pissed because she's living with my aunt and no longer has an apartment or any belongings . . . because she gave everything away to us already.  It's as though she's been asleep and just woke up with one other little quirk.  She sees and talks to dead people.  Especially my dad.

Needless to say, I couldn't wait to get to the party and pump her for information from the other side.  I was still hesitant to walk through the door, having NO idea what to expect after what I had witnessed earlier in the week.  And there she sat . . . watching NASCAR, talking, joking, laughing . . . same old Gran!  My mind was blown!

Of course I hugged and kissed her and told her how much I love her!  But did she know some of us already had memory bears made from her nightgowns and sweatshirts?  There were plants and flowers sent in her memory?  We had her funeral planned and her money spent?  Was she just fucking with us?!

While everyone around me acted as if this were any other dinner party, I took the opportunity to ask Granny the tough questions starting with . . . Are you or were you just messing with all of us Gran?  Which is it, were you fake dying or are you now faking getting/being better?  She didn't know what had happened, just that "no one should ever tell her she can't do something!"

Then I went in for the kill.  (pun intended)  So Gran . . . I hear you talked to my dad.  And as if we were talking about the corn pudding being served in the other room she said yes!  The clarity in her eyes and tone of voice took my breath away.  I had to know more.

She told me for over a week now, every time she closes her eyes my dad pops up and they talk all of the time. She described him in great detail, wearing his old blue shorts and faded blue t-shirt, barefoot, his long skinny legs crossed, sometimes sitting in a lawn chair and others in a rocking chair, and get this . . . smoking!  She told him he wasn't allowed to smoke up there and he told her 'the head angel lets him have one a day to make up for all of the distress he lived under while here on earth'.

We didn't get much past that before someone asked her what else she wanted to eat.  She tried to tell me more later and again, someone interrupted wanting her to tell old stories, reminisce.  Yet again we tried to talk about it and others wanted to sing, laugh, talk about her getting better.

What the fuck people?!  I know they heard her!  I don't understand how someone can have a front row seat to death and dying, to communicating with the other side regardless of what you believe, and completely ignore it!  How often do we get the chance to ask about what else is out there?  To only have one degree of separation when communicating with our loved ones who have already passed?

With everyone pretending Granny isn't seeing and talking to dead people, I knew I wouldn't get all of the answers until we could be alone.  So I kissed her before I left and whispered in her ear that I believe her 100% and to tell my dad hi and that I love him.  She knows I talk to him everyday, so he would already know I love him but it would be really cool if she could tell him for me.  I told her I knew he was waiting for her and that I hope we can talk more about it when not everyone is around.

She squeezed my hand, kissed me, told me she loves me, and looked at me with those eyes that know ALL now and told me she'd tell him and we'd talk about it later.

I called to check on her today and she couldn't wait to tell me she told him!  As always, he popped right up last night and after she talked to him about me he said, "That's my girl!"

I believe her 100%.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

February 11, 2012

Love Will Save the Day

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

My granny is dying.  There.  I said it.

*deep breath*

I'm going to miss her.  A LOT!  She has practically raised me, you know.  After my almighty dad hopped that train for heaven, she and I grew closer and closer while my mother and I grew farther and farther apart.  While my granny was a big part of my childhood, she's been an even bigger part of my adulthood.

I don't know why she waited until I was pushing 30 to teach me to cook, or if maybe I just didn't pay attention to her until then.  Either way, I now know my way around the kitchen thanks to her.  I will be forever grateful to have her pot roast secret.  Now that I'm 40, I've almost mastered it!  Or not.  But I give it my all every time I try.  That may be one of the most important lessons my granny has taught me.  Don't do something half-assed!

She's not even dying half-assed.  She's doing it her way and it's the most beautiful experience to have the privilege of being a part of.  She's been preparing for her Big Day for quite some time now.  We are at peace and she has given me all of the tools I need to survive and thrive.  I just acknowledged that to her a couple of months ago.  Gran and I are good.  There is nothing left unsaid or undone.

When she first got sick, it seemed to everyone this was just par for the course with her.  After all, she is nearly 94 years old.  But I knew.  I looked around me one night and saw her crocheted scarves and afghans piled in my room to keep us warm and her veggie soup and green beans in my freezer to keep our bellies full and warm through the winter.  I've always had these things, but I saw them in a different light that night.  That's when I knew it was the beginning of the end.

I didn't deny what was happening, but instead tuned in to watch it all unfold in the most amazing way.

All of this end of life hoopla has seemed very deja vu like.  There are times I have questioned my own sanity.  This afternoon as I sat speaking to my man (dad) upstairs and to my granny who is coming and going between our worlds, the song 'You Gotta Be' by Des'Ree came on.  As cheesy as this sounds, it's my 'Life Song'.

In the early fall of 1997, I was hurriedly packing my bags to fly home and care for my dying dad and that song came on.  I stopped.  I listened.  I tried to embody every lyric.  I promised my dad to be all of those things and more.  So began my journey with my dad through the end of his life and beyond.  Even though my dad was still here physically, I can remember that being the first time I spoke to him 'out there'.

My granny knows I'm all those things . . . and a bag of chips.  I am her second favorite after all.  But today is the day we really honed in on the art of communicating for a lifetime.  Thanks to my dad.  A dad and a granny with me at all times?  Priceless.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

January 18, 2012

Sometimes

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

Remember this game?  Do you sometimes wish you had a finger mustache tattoo?

Sometimes . . . I make my friends take pop quizzes to see how well they know me.  I often time them and always score them.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl