Who's the Lucky Lady?

Apparently, only ONE Zionsville female is invited to attend the Holiday Shopping extravaganza.

This makes me crazy. Seriously crazy.

I realize that I make grammatical errors and typos on my blog from time to time. But my posts have not been through multiple hands. They have not been proofed and sent to a sign company. They have not been printed and distributed throughout town (at least to the best of my knowledge).

And most of them are heavily influenced by red wine consumption.

I'm afraid this is what happens in a town that doesn't support public education.

It's all downhill from here, neighbors.

26.2

A week ago today, I did it. 26.2 miles. My goal was to run the first 13.1, then walk/run the second half. I ran to mile 18 and then took the last 8 as they came. It wasn't fast, wasn't pretty. My time -- by most runner's standards -- was dismal.

But I was over the moon.

Many people along the way -- water station volunteers, spectators, police officers -- commented on my smile, told me how nice it was to see someone looking so happy after 20 miles.

And I was.

This marathon for me wasn't about "winning" in the traditional sense. It was about the experience, the journey. It was about seeing the smiling faces of my beloved husband and kids every six miles. It was about having my 14-year-old whisper in my ear as he ran beside me, "You've got this. You can do this." It was about smiling for Brian's camera so he could record this very important day of my life -- the one he so graciously chose to share with us. It was about hearing my friends cheer for me as I approached mile 26, and then having them run me to the finish line. It was about listening to a song on my iPhone that made me think of a very special person in my life. It was about greeting strangers along the way, encouraging them on their journey, congratulating them on their accomplishments. It was remembering and holding closely all the notes, cards, emails, text messages, care packages, and well-wishes from my dear friends and relatives.

Most people will never run a marathon in their lives.

I enjoy knowing I'm not like most people.

My friend, Shmee, wrote a brilliant blog post about gingerbread people and how they are so very ordinary. It's easy to be a gingerbread man, simple to do what's expected of you, safe to do what everyone else is doing.

I'm ready to be different, to do something unexpected, to take the path less traveled.

Less than 1% of the world's population ever completes a marathon. I want to continue to run with them.

Don't get me wrong -- I have no desire to complete another marathon. Friends told me I'd be hooked, that I'd want to continue spending my Saturdays doing 20-mile training runs. I've not yet felt that urge. Nor do I expect to. But I do want to break the mold, live authentically, focus on what truly matters in this life.

The failure of a school corporation referendum in our town has forced us into examining our personal situation, of accepting the reality of what the future holds (or doesn't hold) for us here, to create a Plan B. I believe that everything happens for a reason. And although I'm not quite self-centered enough to think that God smote our town with dissension and discord so the Willis's could determine their true path in life, I think He most definitely gave us some new material to work with.

And so, as we stride with assurance into our 40s, we get to make some big decisions and chart a course that most would consider a little off-kilter, a bit against the norm. Shmee, we're casting aside our gumdrop buttons and joining the less than 1% who follow the "traditional" path in life.

Just like my marathon pace, I intend to take this one in stride -- to enjoy the view along the way, to look forward to seeing the bright and shining faces of my family and friends, to smile at and thank the strangers along the way.

I doubt this journey will cause me to lose another toenail, but I believe the adventures in store will be even more unexpected, even more exciting. Will they be painful, too? Possibly. But I've pulled my own damaged toenail off with a pair of tweezers.

I can do anything.

An Article Conversation

I want a kinder, gentler world. I'm tired of the fighting, the blaming, the "I've got to be right which ultimately means that you have to be wrong" attitude. It wears me out. It really does.

I've always been kind of a "gray" person. That doesn't mean that I don't have strong opinions or beliefs. It simply means that I'm not a "my way or the highway" kind of girl. I realize that there are multiple sides to every story. There are very few hills I'm willing to die on.

After all, I have so much to live for.

What I'd like to propose is an article conversation. And because I must give credit where credit is due -- and so as not to be accused of plagiarism or intellectual property theft (right, Shmee?) -- I will tell you that my wise husband gave birth to this particular set of semantics.

The article conversation is simple. It is "a/an" versus "the."

This is "a" way versus "the" way.

This is "an" answer versus "the" answer.

This is "a" solution versus "the" solution.

The difference is vast, isn't it? And it plays out everywhere. In our churches, in our homes, in our schools, in our neighborhoods. In every conversation we engage in, we get to choose our articles.

I choose the kinder, gentler version.

After all, aren't we all here to be the best we can be? To do the best with what we have? I grow weary of "I'm right and you're wrong."

That's just a story. And we all have those.

Maybe instead of an "I'm right and you're wrong" conversation, we should consider that "I'm right and you're right." Those conversations are the toughest ones to reconcile, aren't they?

While at the polls on Tuesday, I listened to a man behind me complain about the inefficiencies of the operation. He had ALL the answers. Within five minutes of waiting in line, he knew exactly how to eliminate the wait, how to expedite the process, how to fix the perceived problem. And he then verbally assaulted a poll worker with his expertise. He had his story and he was sticking to it. He didn't care what the poll worker had to say. He just wanted HIS STORY to be heard. Loudly. And emphatically. What's that they say about walking a mile in another man's shoes? Perhaps if he'd gotten up at 4:30 AM to volunteer his assistance at the polls, he'd have seen things differently, he'd have understood another viewpoint. But he didn't have time for that. He was BUSY. He was IMPORTANT. He was obviously the SMARTEST MAN IN THE ROOM. I was disappointed in myself for not taking a stand. I voted, I exited, and I sat in my car disgusted with that man's actions and with my own decision not to act.

What kind of a friend, family member, neighbor, community, state, nation have we become when we treat others with such disdain? When we fail to trust that perhaps someone might have a valid alternative viewpoint? Or that someone might know a little more about the situation than we do? Or that maybe -- just maybe -- both stories are accurate. And the yelling and screaming and berating gets in the way of understanding.

I'm a strong advocate of the Charter for Compassion. The opening of their mission statement begins like this:

"The principle of compassion lies at the heart of all religious, ethical and spiritual traditions, calling us always to treat all others as we wish to be treated ourselves. Compassion impels us to work tirelessly to alleviate the suffering of our fellow creatures, to dethrone ourselves from the centre of our world and put another there, and to honour the inviolable sanctity of every single human being, treating everybody, without exception, with absolute justice, equity and respect."

It doesn't say anything about making sure that we're right -- always and unequivocally.

If you're interested in a kinder, gentler world, I encourage you to explore the Charter for Compassion.

I'm starting in the only logical place: with me. I'll never claim that I've perfected it, that I've got all the answers, that I haven't failed time and time again. But I will claim to move forward -- with integrity and purpose.

And as a sidebar, here's our best bit of news this week...

Gus has "a" heart murmur. He does not have "the" kind of heart murmur that we need to worry about.

My favorite article, indeed.

Butts and Hearts

Jody and I were Facebooking each other yesterday about thongs. She was commenting on how much she enjoys the panty line free look they give her. I admitted that I've never owned one. If I don't want to have panty lines, well, I believe there's an easier solution.

The conversation then turned to our butts and cellulite and all the wonderful bodily flaws that come with age and Oreos. That's just the kind of friendship we have.

And then... BAM!

Out of nowhere, our lighthearted conversation changed.

Because I was sitting at the doctor's office while Gus got a sports physical. The doctor listened to his heart, frowned, listened some more, had him lie down, frowned a little more, and then invited me over to the examination table.

"He's got a murmur."

Umm, no he doesn't. He's seen a million doctors, my Gus. Yes, his lungs are battered and bruised, but his heart? Big and expansive and perfectly functional.

"Has anyone ever mentioned it before?"

Umm. No. NO.

She then gave me her stethoscope, positioned it over his skinny, scarred chest and told me what to listen for.

And I heard what she described.

She looked at me apologetically.

"I know this isn't what you wanted to hear, and I'm sure everything is fine. Most heart murmurs are perfectly normal. But I can't release him to play until he has an echocardiogram."

She then went on to explain what might be happening. And her explanation included words like "regurgitation" and "ventricle," but my brain was still filled with the lub-dub sound of Gus's kind and sensitive heart.

What I do know and understand is that we're going to Peyton Manning Children's Hospital next Wednesday. Back to whence we began. But I refuse to proceed with fear. I am choosing to believe that all is well, that his little heart is simply overflowing with love and happiness, that it's working overtime to support those gangly limbs and that larger-than-life, toothy grin.

And when we walk out of Door 4 on Wednesday morning with a clean bill of health, I'll call Jody and we'll resume our butt talk.

"All shall be well, and all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well." Yes, Julian of Norwich.

Yes.

Heartland Films and the Heart of Home

I just finished engaging in the most decadent, self-indulgent ten days of my life. The Heartland Film Festival finished its annual run on Saturday, and I consumed nearly 30 movies within the space of a week.

Those of you who know me well know that there's nothing I love more than a good movie -- except perhaps, a good book. And as luck would have it, the screening theatre was right next to a Borders book store. You know what that meant? Movie... then bookstore browsing until the next movie... then movie... then bookstore purchasing until the next movie... then movie. Yes, my friends, life was indeed good.

Although I went to each screening alone (except the ones Chris attended with me), I rarely sat by myself. I found many friends to enjoy my time with. Some shared their Tinkys, some gave popcorn eating recommendations, some reminded me of my maternal worth, some warmed my heart with inside tales of my own kids. Some began as strangers and left as friends -- those who shared their tissues, their hearts, and their experiences. It was a community that was second to none.

During the course of this adventure, my poor husband was diagnosed with pneumonia. Pneumonia!! He's normally akin to a cockroach or a Twinkie -- nothing can take him down. Having spent the last 13 years in a public school setting, he's developed every immunity known to man. But apparently, this was one bad ass bacteria that settled in his lungs. When he finally went to the doctor, she said, "I'm pretty sure you don't have meningitis..."

That's not my favorite way to start a sentence.

That poor man didn't leave his bed for an entire week. He fevered, sweated, fevered, sweated some more, and then he slept. And then he slept a little more. And then the coughing began.

My kids were essentially on their own. But trust me when I say that they weren't complaining. Unlimited TV watching and XBox playing? Bring it on. Breakfast for dinner and Subway on the run? Manna from heaven.

Once Chris was actually diagnosed, I did offer to stay home with him.

"What are you going to do? Watch me sleep?" he asked. "Go. We're fine here."

So, I listened to some Michael Buble as I cleaned the kitchen and caught up on some laundry, and I heard him shout weakly from our upstairs bedroom, "For God's sake, Katrina, you're killing me! Go to the movies! Go! I can't take the Michael Buble any longer!"

And that's when our friend, Larry, threatened to call Husband Protection Services.

I may not receive the Mother of the Year Award (well, we all knew that was a pipe dream anyway), and I'm probably out of the running for the Wife of the Year Award now, too. But the messages from some of those movies were a great reminder of what's truly important in this life.

Kindness for the sake of kindness. Existing for a greater good. People you love -- and who love you --unconditionally and without boundaries. Living your life as a blessing to those around you. Remembering, always, what's important and vital and right.

Yes, I may have abandoned my family for a week of popcorn overindulgence and steadfast support of the Kleenex industry, but when I returned to the heart of my home, I was rejuvenated. And when I speak of my home, I don't mean these walls, these furnishings, these things.

I mean Chris, the unwavering love of my life. I mean Sam, Gus, Mary Claire, and George. They are all bits of my own heart walking around outside my body.

Even when they balk at Michael Buble remakes of Willie Nelson classics.

Even then.

Licking My Wounds

So, whatever God was bringing my way? You know, the thing I'd been waiting so patiently for? I found out today that it wasn't grad school at Bennington. The dreaded letter arrived in the mail. When I fished it out of the giant pile of bills, I was certain it was going to be the perfect ending to a fun-filled day.

Damn.

There's nothing like a ding letter to take the wind out of your writing sails. As a writer, I receive them constantly. I've grown accustomed to papering my walls with them. But grad school? Really? I've always been good at school. Perhaps I should have sent my A+++ Haiku. If my shiny, happy college transcripts didn't do the trick, maybe that would have tipped the scales in my favor.

I'm more disappointed than I thought I'd be. If I'd been accepted, I'm not even sure whether I would have gone. It's incredibly expensive, it's more than demanding, and it would have required a lot of time away from my family. But ultimately, I wanted to be the one to make that decision. I wanted to tell them "no," not vice versa.

Yes, I know that's an issue.

The word that keeps popping into my head? Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Because sometimes nothing is as effective as the F-Bomb at conveying my emotions. Eloquent? No. But effective nonetheless.

The good news is that I didn't writhe around on the floor in agony and defeat like I did when I received my ding letter from Hallmark at age 22. I guess that means I've grown up a bit since then. I know it's not the end of the world. But blows like this are tough on the ego. I had planned to come home and work on my novel tonight. Now I'm pretty convinced that it's nothing more than mindless drivel. I was just talking with Jenny today about my resistance to self-publishing or e-publishing because of my need for validation from The Publishing Experts. I need someone else to say "yes" before I can say "yes" to myself.

Yeah, I realize that's an even bigger issue.

It's been a rough week at the Willis abode. Sam got cut from the 8th grade basketball team. Mary Claire didn't get the detective job she wanted at BizTown. (She was, however, named CFO. I tried to explain to her that this wasn't the colossal disappointment she thought it was, but she REALLY wanted to be a detective.)

And therein lies the message for all of us, right?

Whatever we have in mind for ourselves isn't always part of the Bigger Plan. Bennington wasn't meant to be for me. At least not now. Maybe not ever.

I know there's a reason.

But tonight, I'm fighting those damn demons that say, "You're not good enough. You're not talented enough. You'll never make it."

And what do we call that, Shmee? Resistance? He's taken up residence in my house. I just fluffed the pillows and brought him a glass of warm milk. Tomorrow, I'll commence with kicking his ass to the curb.

I know life goes on. I realize that in the big scheme of things, I am more than blessed. I have more than my share. I am one damn lucky woman. I may not have been the right fit for Bennington, but I'll figure out where I'm supposed to land.

On to Plan B...

Not Much

I've been getting some feedback from readers who are disappointed with my blogging pace lately. Some are outwardly verbal and don't mind posting their concerns in my comments section (Nicole, Shmee, Jody...). Others like to wait until they see me in person and drop a quick sidebar comment about how long it's been since I've posted (Karen...). All are much appreciated, much loved, and very much listened to.

But here's the thing.

I haven't had much to say lately. (Shocked silence, I know.)

My days have been set on auto-pilot, we're wandering aimlessly in limbo, and nothing earth-shattering has rocked our worlds.

Some might call that a state of bliss.

Yes, we have big changes on the horizon. They're kind of loitering in the front yard, however, talking amongst themselves and refusing to make eye contact. The dogs bark at them, of course, but those life changes pay no mind. Someday soon, I think they'll come knocking on our front door. But I'm letting them take their time. I want them to feel comfortable. They'll be guests in the beginning, but ultimately, they'll become part of our lives. I don't want to scare them away with the macaroni and tuna casserole just yet.

And so, life meanders on. I'm writing a great deal these days. Well, I should reiterate that I WAS writing a great deal until the nearly-catastrophic spilling-of-the-water-on-the-laptop incident occurred. For two days, my beloved Mac stood in an upside-down V formation while she dried out -- sans battery and hard drive. Today, she's back with us. It was touch and go for awhile, but she rallied. The back-up power cord didn't fare so well, but at least we still have one. One is enough.

You're probably wondering why I chose to have a glass of water beside my laptop. I have, as you might recall, performed the same water trick within the last 18 months. That time, the price was a brand new laptop and a Trail of Tears from Spring Knoll to the Apple store that rivaled any arduous and heart-wrenching cross-country journey. (Well, almost.) But, friends, I'm all about hydrating right now. The drive to hydrate overcame the need to protect my livelihood. I lost my mind for a moment.

I have a tendency to flail about. I drop things, spill things, break things, knock things over. Chris likes to call me his favorite train wreck. I'm no match for my dear Molly, but I do have my unrivaled moments. I speak with my hands -- sometimes I speak with my entire upper body and multiple back-up parts. When this particular water incident occurred, I was scanning pictures, singing to Lady Gaga at the top of my lungs, and dancing around the kitchen. Who knew those activities were conducive to water spillage?

I've since enacted a new house rule: no edible or drinkable objects on my desk. EVER. (The peanut butter M&Ms sitting beside me right now are the exception to the rule. They don't crumb, they don't spill, they simply self-sabotage my weight loss journey. And that has nothing at all to do with preserving the integrity of my laptop.)

We'll see how long the house rule stands. I tend to forget these minor details...

The rest of our lives have been just as uneventful. Mary Claire recently recovered from a bout of bronchitis. Sam is finishing the last of his Z-Pack for a double ear infection and bronchitis. We left Sam's ailments untreated for at least two weeks. Why? Because he doesn't complain. And he doesn't run a fever. He might cough hard enough to lose a lung, but if he's not feverish, he's not sick, right? RIGHT? The doctor comforted me with tales of sending her own broken-legged son into three football games and on a hike through the Smokey Mountains before taking his leg pain seriously. That's become my new baseline: "At least I didn't take you hiking in the Smokey Mountains WITH A BROKEN LEG!!"

Neither the good doctor nor I are currently in the running for Mother of the Year.

See? It's just our normal modus operandi over here.