I don’t personally know the majority of people who read this blog. I don’t know where you live or your real names. So it goes without saying that I don’t know your religious beliefs. With the exception of a few of you, who I know can’t eat bacon.

I don’t know your beliefs and I don’t really care. I tend not to judge people because I feel that in the end, the judging will be done by someone slightly more powerful than Momo Fali. I think all human beings are flawed, including me, and that’s why I never write about religion. Except for today.

Something happened yesterday that I can’t really describe in any other way than to say I was slapped in the face and then kicked in the shins by God Himself.

I have a reader, named Alison, who hasn’t been around here much lately. It may be that she’s tired of my writing, but a more likely reason is that she just had her colon removed because of Crohn’s Disease. Oh, and she has Lupus too.

So the slap came in the form of a comment from Alison on my post in which I was complaining about my ongoing sinus infection.

A month ago, when Alison was desperately in need of medicine and was dealing with insurance atrocities, she asked her readers to pray (not for her) but for the woman at the pharmaceutical company because she might be “stymied and frustrated” in her job. Yeah, she’s that nice.

The kick in the shins came when I found a brown, tattered, piece of paper laying on my living room floor. I picked it up to find an old Dr. Abby article I cut out over a decade ago. It’s been on the side of my refrigerator ever since…exactly right where I never see it. But there it was on the floor of a different room where I needed to pick it up and look at it. How it got there, I will never know.

Things to be Thankful For

-Be thankful for the clothes that fit a little too snug because it means you have enough to eat.
-Be thankful for the mess you clean up after a party because it means you have been surrounded by friends.
-Be thankful for the taxes you pay because it means you’re employed.
-Be thankful that your lawn needs mowing and your windows need fixing because it means you have a home.
-Be thankful for your heating bill because it means you are warm.
-Be thankful for the laundry because it means you have clothes to wear.
-Be thankful for the space you find at the far end of the parking lot because it means you can walk.
-Be thankful for the lady who sings off-key behind you in church because it means you can hear.
-Be thankful when people complain about the government because it means we have freedom of speech.
-Be thankful for the alarm that goes off in the early morning hours because it means you’re alive.

Me? I’m thankful that I can still recognize grace when I see it.

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Somewhere around mid-December my husband brought home a nasty cold. After two days of sniffling and sneezing he was better. For my son, and for me, this cold turned into a sinus infection and we both have been through three rounds of antibiotics to get rid of it. My boy is finally better, but the last two days have left me feeling even worse.

I am typing this with a raging headache, which is a frequent occurrence. I have to use an inhaler before I exercise thanks to my asthma and I take medication and use two different nose-sprays and a rinse for my sinus problems. I am sick. A lot.

I am also a klutz. I have broken the same ankle three times. That stuff they say about the bone getting stronger after it breaks? Not true. I have suffered two concussions and now keep prescriptions in my cabinet for dizziness and nausea.

My ailments over the years have ranged from adhesions from my two c-sections (ow), to pleurisy (more ow), to meningitis (mostest ow). I had meningitis, I can say mostest if I want to.

I once played a board game with two of my sisters where they had to guess the answer I would give to certain questions. One of the questions was, “How many days a year are you sick?” One sister answered 300 and the other one wrote down 350. They were both wrong. My answer was 365.

At the beginning of 2009, my husband said he was going to start a journal to keep track of all my illnesses. Last night, I called him at work and said, “Go ahead and put down that today, on top of my lingering sinus infection, I had dizziness and a sore throat”.

He replied, “I stopped keeping track. I figure it’s easier to write down the days you are well.” That’s how often I am sick. I didn’t even make it a month-and-a-half before he gave up.

My poor health probably just boils down to stress and insomnia, but you know what boys and girls? It’s getting old. I am sick of being sick.

I wish they could give me a pill for that.

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Let me set the record straight right here at the outset, I am not a goodie-two-shoes. I like loud music, I like beer. And when it comes to addiction, I have a long and sordid history with chocolate.

But I am not a national champion. I am not a role model to millions of children, and even if I were, I doubt my indulgence in Corona and Dove Bars would bring my image crashing down. Though, I would probably get some flack for Cadbury Creme Eggs and the occasional Schlitz.

When is it going to be okay for me to tell my children they can look up to an athlete? Ever? Performance enhancing drugs (also widely known as cheating), recreational drugs, infidelity, outlandish salaries and yet always asking for more money…the greed, corruption and excess is not okay.

It is not okay, because Billy down at swim club is watching you, Michael Phelps. And, now? Billy’s mom is not real pleased. “What, Billy? Oh, him? That’s your idol, and that there is his bong.”

I can keep my kids from watching trash television, I can keep my daughter from listening to Britney Spears, but now am I supposed to ban them from the Olympics too? For those of you who say Michael Phelps is just a regular guy having fun, that’s bunk. He is not a pop-star, he’s an athlete. He’s an American superstar. If he didn’t want kids to look up to him, he shouldn’t have gone and won eight gold medals.

Which is why this guy has been, and will always be, my hero. This guy, all his teammates, and especially his coach. This is the person I will tell my children to look up to. Someone who never complains, someone who gives it his all, and someone who probably won’t be passing a peace pipe anytime soon.

Watch the whole thing. It will make your day. Warning: Tissues required.

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I normally don’t touch on anything too deep around here, but I am about to reveal some very troubling information from my past. Really, really bad music choices.

It all started when I was five years old and would lock myself in our bathroom where the acoustics were best. I would take my handy-dandy tape recorder and belt out “The Way We Were”, and my childhood theme song, “Rhinestone Cowboy”. Also, whenever Donny and Marie were on you couldn’t peel me away from the television.

When I was seven, I got an 8-track player. One with a shoulder strap so I could walk down the street, looking cool, while The Village People, Olivia Newton-John, and The Bee Gees blasted from the speaker.

After that, I moved on to Journey, Loverboy, Prince, and Pat Benatar. Wait. I was Pat Benatar. Then Night Ranger, Van Halen, and Bon Jovi.

In high school, I was all over the place. I listened to pop music, like U2, but obscure bands played on the sound-system at my very contemporary, retail sales job and I liked that music too.

This is also when I developed my love for Led Zeppelin, Joni Mitchell, and what my best friend refers to as “hippie music”. My husband calls this my tree-hugger period. Whatever, dude. If that’s the case, I will forever be hugging trees. Trees are groovy and Stephen Stills rules.

My husband is also a Zeppelin fan and he’s more than fond of Metallica, my son likes classical music, and my daughter gets her kicks from country. We have learned to get along. We have learned to appreciate each other’s music. Well, except for my daughter’s taste in country tunes. Unless, of course, it’s “Rhinestone Cowboy.”

Tell me, boys and girls, what do you listen to?

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