Remission Rocks.

There's a girl I know.

She doesn't know me, but I remember meeting her some time in college. She was a friend of a friend. An absolutely gorgeous blond-haired, blue-eyed Southern belle.

Several months ago, I saw a comment from her on our mutual friend's Facebook page. I recognized her name, so I clicked on it.

Her profile was a mess of well wishes. Statuses about chemo, doctors' prognoses, prayers. I couldn't believe it. She had leukemia.

Twenty-five years old and she had leukemia. And there I was, that same day, worrying about my low paycheck and wondering if we were going to find a house to move into before we left for vacation. I was sitting on my couch, mindlessly checking a ridiculously meaningless website.

And she had leukemia.

I was shocked. From the looks of it, she was going through the works - intense chemo. I thought about her on random days after that. What she must be going through, the pain her husband must be feeling, how she probably couldn't even enjoy a good bowl of ice cream without feeling nauseated.

I've watched enough people go through chemo to know what it does to your body. What it does to your soul. It kills you softly, sometimes even worse than the cancer.

Today, I thought about her again, just like I had on all those random days. But this time, I thought I'd see how she was doing instead of just wondering. I got on Facebook, searched her name, and while the hourglass spun, I got scared that maybe I'd find a page lost in space. One like Brooke's - one that lingers idle after someone dies.

Page loaded.

Status - "remission rocks. :)"

It is amazing how people you hardly know, people who couldn't pick you out in a crowd, can have such an impact on your life.

There are other people like that - other people who have taken my breathe away, influenced me without even knowing it. I bet they have no idea what they've done.

Bloom for you.

When I first moved to Guam, Brent introduced me to a plant he bought at the Micronesia Craft Fair. It was some fancy schmancy succulent garden, planted ever so systematically in the holes of a large piece of wood, then cemented into a clay pot.

Sounds ridiculous, but it really was beautiful.

He named it our Tree of Love, and it quickly became our little joke. If you didn't water the Tree of Love one day, well, you can imagine the scrutiny.

No matter how much both of us wanted to keep the little guy alive, we sort of just lost interest. It's incredibly difficult to water a piece of bark with no soil. So, needless to say, the Tree of Love soon met its demise.

Before he left for deployment, we decided to invest in another, soil friendly Tree of Love, which we aptly named No. 2.

It was a plumeria, and if you know anything about plumerias, or most any other plants, you would know they love sunlight. And water. Imagine that.

My grandmother once told me that a good Southern woman knows her flowers. And grandma was right. We do know them, but that damn sure doesn't mean we all know how to grow them - or keep them alive for that matter.

Long story short, Tree of Love No. 2 quickly became a tall green stick in a pot of soil. The leaves fell off, the beautiful white bloom disintegrated, and I just wasn't in the mood for resuscitation.

I let it go for months. Every once in awhile, I'd pour some water in the pot, but Tree of Love No. 2 just would not reason with me. He refused to grow, and for awhile, I came to the conclusion he just wanted to be left alone to die.

About a month ago, when I put up the Christmas tree, Tree of Love No. 2 became more of a nuisance than a project. He was in the way of my prime holiday decoration. And I just wasn't going to have a dead piece of wood in a red pot messing up my Christmas spirit. "Well hell," I thought. "Maybe I'll just stick him on the back porch and see what happens."

He took instantly to the rain and sun. It turns out plants like that sort of thing.

I've been keeping an eye on him all these weeks, even pulling him inside when the rain or wind got to be too much. I left him by the bedroom window though, so he wouldn't be too far from his Vitamin D.

Eventually, leaves started to sprout. And today, when I came home from work, I looked out the window and gasped. Our Tree of Love No. 2 is in bloom again. It's a tiny bloom, just one lonely little white flower, but it's definitely there.

Funny how after 6 months of Brent and I being apart, our little friend decides to show his true colors just before my baby comes home. They say everything happens for a reason, and all that jazz.

I never thought a stick in a pot would remind me of that.

Beyond.

I had a friend that used to say that a lot. That he was beyond. He's French, so I always thought it was just some phrase that had gotten lost in translation.

How are you doing?, you'd say.
Oh, I'm just beyond, his reply.

Sometimes he'd elaborate. Beyond this or beyond that. I never knew what that meant until now. Turns out I was right. It is something lost in translation - but not how you think.

Last night I rang in the New Year with a group of friends. We bar hopped, I saw a few people I hadn't seen in awhile, and no matter where we went, it never failed. I bet you're excited about getting your man back soon, huh?

Everywhere I went, someone asked me about him. Or brought it up when I'd look at my watch to check the time. Or the few times in the night that I phased out and seemed to just be staring into space.

Beyond.

That's all I could think. I'm so beyond excited. Beyond being happy. Beyond feeling, really. Love, right now, is just pain to me. There is joy, of course, but with every joy there's hurt. I can't physically share anything with him right now. I can't touch him. I can't be touched. I can't look in his eyes. Or explain to him with mine how horrible or beautiful my days are.

Being alone and in love is so beyond what anyone can ever know. Separation is inexplicable. It seems like sometimes I'm the only one that does know. The only person who knows how tragic this has been.

Right now, there is no counting down. It's beyond that. It's beyond watching the calendar or trying to figure out how many minutes have to pass before I can see him again. It's like being lost in space.

I just want him home. I want to feel like I'm not some zombie just going through the motions. I want to feel like my days are about more than just staying busy. I want to feel like everything I could ever want is within my grasp again. Not beyond my control.

Resolve.

This year, I resolve to write more, complain less, and love just as much.
This year, I want to be the best wife and the best friend.
And this year, I want to be there for my family. Even if I have to be 8,500 miles away.

In a jar.

I think when most people look back on their childhood, they think of what went wrong. Their parents' divorce, being the unpopular kid at school, not getting enough hugs, whatever.

The sadness isn't there for me though. We played kickball in the front yard until the street lights came on, caught fireflies in our hands at night, ran around barefoot, made homemade ice cream on the back porch, raced our bikes to the bottom of our cul-de-sac (or "the court," as we called it) everyday.

I don't know why I forget all the bad - the divorce, the absent father, being one of the only white kids in an all-black elementary and middle school. I guess my family made up for it.

My Papa, who we spent most of our time with in the afternoon when my grandmother and mom were at work (he owned a construction business, so he took off when we needed him), made life magical. He - along with my mom and grandma - gave us so much love we couldn't help but be happy. I'm sure all the after school Happy Meals from Mickey D's helped too.

We didn't have everything we wanted. And we didn't do all the things we wanted. But damn if we weren't thankful for what we were able to do.

That new video - Fireflies by Owl City - makes me think about that time. When everything moved at a slower pace. When I spent my time daydreaming about how my toys would play with each other when i was away at school. When we'd race home to watch "Saved by the Bell," then all meet outside for a game of kickball.

I'm so thankful for the way my life has unfolded. And for all the fireflies that hugged me along the way.

A Room Full of People.

I've been watching Intervention for a couple of years now.

I've seen meth addicts run butt naked down the street, alcoholics sneak away from work to refuel at the liquor store, fathers passed out on the couch after a three-day coke binge while their babies play nearby. Even one girl who couldn't stop huffing Duster long enough to eat a meal with her mother.

I've seen it all - well most of it. All from the confines of my living room.

It's devastating. Sometimes funny, but largely devastating.

Families are literally destroyed by drugs everyday. People die. They go to jail. They sit in a room full of sisters and best friends and mothers and fathers that love them, and they laugh in their face. "I'm not going."

Usually, they do. Usually, they at least try. A lot of the times, they relapse and fail. They go back to drugs or alcohol, and they fail. But, you know, at least they try. And if they tried once, they'll probably try again.

But what about all those other people? The ones not in front of the camera. And the ones that just say no? What about the anorexic that cannot and will not admit she has a problem? What about the heroin addict that looks millions of people on the other end of the camera right in the eyes and says, "I'd rather be dead." What about them? What about their room full of people? What do they do?

I've lost people - some living and some dead - to drugs. Some who won't even admit they have a problem. Some who don't even know that I've given up on them.

It's devastating. Heartbreaking. Something I will never, ever get over.

There's a part of me that's still mad at Brooke for getting behind the wheel. A part of me that still can't forgive Zack for not asking for help. And there's a part of me that cannot and will not ever forgive ... him. Or her. I can't say it, but I know I mean it.

I will never forgive them, but I would sit in their room full of people any day of the week. And I will still love them like crazy even though they'll do the same things over again. That's the painful thing about the drugs, and the unforgettable thing about family.

Everyone does stupid shit at one point or another. It's whether you grow from it that counts. Whether you have that day where you wake up and say, "Enough." That's what really matters. That and how much love you give your room full of people back.

Up Your Dot Com.

Irony does not translate well on paper, a wise man once said.

I’m not quite sure who that wise man was, but I read that quote back when I was a journalism student. It resonated even then, even before I joined Myspace and Facebook. And even before I LinkedIn to the unforgiving cyber community.

You know, back before “paper” turned into walls and photo comments and status updates.

I don’t know if I’ve just been in a bitchy mood lately, or if I’ve just fallen victim to one too many Internet arguments. But irony has not been translating well for me. … Hell, it hasn’t been translating at all.

I swear, if one more person tries to tell me one of my photos is inappropriate or that I shouldn’t post so many of me in a bar, I’m going ape shit. I mean, seriously. I’ve literally left lunch with a person, only to return to my desk and find an e-mail in my inbox criticizing something I said or something I did. Something they didn’t have the courage to say when I was sitting right in front of them.

Grow some balls, asshole.

If I wanted to be philosophical, I’d probably ask what has made us as a society feel more comfortable clicking “Send” than picking up a phone. What has given us the courage to call someone out on their politically charged status updates (et al) but when confronted, just nod, smile and say, “Hmm-mmm, you’re right.”

That’s if I wanted to be philosophical. Right now though, I just want to bitch and maybe kick some ass.

I’ve just about had it with Facebook, Myspace, LinkedIn, Twitter, your blog, your mom and your face.

You can all take your Dot Coms, blogs, profiles, lists, bookmarks, private photo albums, status updates and videos and shove it up your asses for all I care. I don’t want you in my life.

That being said, if it’s all right with you, I’ll probably keep you on my Friends list. I’m a big fan of stalking.