The one in which I contemplate my own mortality

From time to time I like to stroll through cemeteries. Morbid? Yes. But it's also oddly calming - for a while. Then you start noticing names and dates on the tomb stones and you start to realize that one day, you too will be taking a long dirt nap.

We're all going to die. It's that whole cycle-of-life thing. But my strolls through cemeteries bring me a jolt of reality. No matter what your religious beliefs, it's what you do between the time you come into this world and the time you leave it that matters.

Something that struck me was the "titles" that some people had on their tomb stones.

FATHER

WIFE

SON

Surely there is more to us than that? How about DEDICATED PHILANTHROPIST? Or maybe TALENTED TEACHER?

WIFE just seems so ... archaic. Then again, I guess we live in a different time. Maybe more recent tomb stones will read, JOHN SMITH, AVERAGE BANKER & FRUSTRATED ARTIST. Or JOE SOAP, AMATEUR ARSONIST & CARTOONIST.

Either way, cemeteries are very comforting places, as they should be. And maybe that's why I like to take an hour or two to stroll through them, looking at tomb stones and summing up people's lives in one or two very short lines.

When it's my time to go, I want my tomb stone to say, HE CAME. HE SAW. HE ALMOST CONQUERED. INTREPID WORLD TRAVELER, LOVER OF THE SIMPLE LIFE, FRIEND TO ANIMALS, AND CONSTANT EXPLORER OF THE GOOD LIFE. BROTHER, UNCLE, SON, FORNICATOR. And I want the date to read something cool like 1492-???

It would have to be a pretty bloody big tomb stone to fit all that in though.

No-one likes a prick

It's true, no-one likes a pick. Let alone thousands of them. But unfortunately, they're necessary if you're having a tattoo. And that's exactly what I did this past Sunday night.

Thousands of small, sharp needles dipped in black ink shot in and out of my skinny upper arm as I endured the most excruciating pain (slight exaggeration here) to have three little letters etched onto my body for eternity.

But these are the things people do to keep the ones they love close - especially when they live on another continent.

These three letters each represent the first initials of each of my three siblings. So now no matter where in the world I am, they will always be close to my heart.

Major lump-in-the-throat moment here.

Apparently everyone is entitled to a tax break

Yes, even kidnappers. We live in a society where everyone needs to be treated equally and fairly. That includes that strange old creeps who hang around outside elementary school offering your kid sweets and candy.

At first, I thought this was a joke. Then I went onto the IRS website and as true as God made shiny red apples, the IRS is offering tax breaks to people who steal children and then claim them as dependents.

Something is either VERY messed up with our system, or the greedy tax man has just become greedier in the hope that he will get even more tax dollars by turning the other cheek if ol' creepo decides to file taxes this year.

This is definitely one for the 'weird' folder.

Once upon a time

Once upon a time, when things weren't so f***ked up and people didn't get things like herpes from sharing a bottle of Coke, or children were snatched from shopping malls, life was simple. For the most part, life was good.

But then as time creeps up on us and we start getting things like the internet and landfills and holes in the ozone layer, the incidence of cancer also seems to be on the rise. And nowadays, you seem to be able to get cancer from just about anything. Too much sun. Drinking water from plastic bottles. Eating too much fish.

Funny thing, cancer. You look around and see all the people around you and you can't tell who has it, who has survived it, who will get it.

You look around and see you all these people and you think to yourself that all these people are other people's people. Their fathers, their sisters, their brothers. Always other people's people. Never your own people.

I found out two days ago that my mother has breast cancer.

No more news or updates about its level of seriousness. Just the text message from my sister in South Africa.

"I would call but I am at home with a very sick baby. Mom has cancer. They're starting with chemo asap."

BAM! Like a brick to the side of the head, let me tell you.

My sister told me that she'd had a lump biopsied and that they were sending it to be tested. And so now, all I can do is hope and pray that they have detected it early enough. All I can do is be there to support my mother who I am sure is scared shitless by what lies ahead.

They say the chance of a woman having invasive breast cancer some time during her life is about 1 in 8. The chance of dying from breast cancer is about 1 in 35. Dear God, please let my mother be one of the 34 who makes it through this. Please let her be one of the survivors, because as much as her and I have had our differences and difficulties, she is my mother and I love her and I am not yet quite ready to say goodbye.

I have already said goodbye to an uncle, an aunt and a grandmother to cancer. Please, please, not my mother too.

Dear God, please.

Oh flip, it's Phipps

Okay so that was terrible. But it's late and I'm writing this post, and yes, I'm a little tired. But it must be done.

On Saturday, D and C and myself trotted off to the Phipps Conservatory here in Pittsburgh. And since spring has sprung, Phipps was like a peacock flashing all its bright colors in pomp and ceremony.

I even came a across a few plants from my home country.

If you get a chance, go out, see the plants, learn something new, rekindle your love affair with life and all things new. Sometimes a cold, grey day needs a little brightness and color. Sometimes the best remedy is to take a deep breath and just smile.



(this is where chocolate comes from)

(woohoo, a South African plant in Pittsburgh)

(this is where coffee comes from - we like coffee)

Today is the first day of ...

Hark! Rejoice! For yes, you're smart as a whip and that's how you figured out that today really is the first day of spring.

It may not feel like it, but it is. Trust me.

So, what is there to do in spring? Well, this Saturday I'm off to the Phipp's Conservatory - of flowers and plants and stuff, not music.

What else is there to do? Put away your winter coats, hats and scarves. And then go skydiving.

PDX, OR

The hippies don't only live in Vermont.

There are many here in beautiful Portland, Oregon, up in the northwest region of the U.S. They wear woolen hats and ugly shoes and hug trees. And if you've been to Portland, you'd know why.

It's beautiful here.

I'm judging yet another another advertising awards show. One long flight from the east coast to the west, but here I am. And tonight we were treated to an amazing dinner at Marrakesh, a Moroccan restaurant in the northwest area of the city.

We were plonked on the floor on soft cushions and watched a belly dancer shake her booty - literally! Great job gal.

I would like to live here. It has the ocean, it has forests, and it has Starbucks. So I would be happy. But we shall see what the economy has in store for me. Until then, I shall gladly take my unemployment checks.

On Tuesday, I'll hop on a plane and head back east. Back to the cold, back to the steel.

Snap. Crackle. Pop.

Sometimes we are made to wonder if some people are born with one of these bendy thingys. Fortunately, I was born with one, and today the Chiropractor dude went CRACK CRACK CRACK to mine.

But we need to ask why I decided to see the Back Cracker in the first place.

My friend D told me he saw this very same Back Cracker and felt marvelous afterwards. I too wanted to feel this marvel. So I went to see this marvel maker. He took x-rays of my curvy back bone, took a nutrition test, and all sorts of wonderful things. But no readjustment (as they call the back cracking procedure).

Today I went in and saw the x-rays. Yowza. Apparently I am developing "horns" on three vertabrae in my neck and there's a pinched nerve in my lower back.

"You'll need to come in about three times a week for the first 12 weeks," said Back Cracker.

Mmmmmm, three back crackings a week? But why? Because apparently if I don't have these sessions, I could develop arthritis as an old man. And this is something, along with incontinence and erectile dysfunction, that I do not want.

So off I go to the Back Cracker three times a week. It's going to cost the same as the annual GDP of a small South American country. And I no longer have health insurance because I got the axe from my previous saltmine.

Oh well, I guess it must be done.