Thankful

Since everyone else is doing it....
Today is November 2nd.    Election day.  I am thankful to live in a democratic nation, where elections have us buzzing and excited and stressed on the edge of our seats.  I am thankful for freedom of speech.  I am thankful to dream big dreams.

Pesky trolls!

So here's a new term I've learned:  blog troll. 
Here is the definition, according to the urban dictionary-
A pathetic and moronic person who maintains a blog with an unhealthy obsessive-compulsive drive, especially angsty goths (sorry to all the likable goths out there). The content of their blogs usually includes events that no sane person would care about. Here's sample of what a blog troll might write on their blog: "today, I ate a sanwich. It bad - it was just ok, mediocre, I guess you could call it. Then I took a nap. 2.(n) -A depraved individual who sits in front of a computer all day and posts flames of an idiotic or pseudo-intellectual nature on public forums and private websites. Many of these people actually become emotional about what is said on the afore-said mediums and feel it is their duty to punish those who disagree with them. They too may pursue this object in an obsessive-compulsive manner.

So why did I feel the need to look this up?  A friend has a little troll tormenting her blog site.  I am a very naive person.  What possible satisfaction would someone get inciting arguments, causing controversy, upsetting authors?  Blogs are a personal forum.  Personal, that's the key word.  This friend is not spreading her thoughts and feelings to the general public.  She has taken the time to share her wild and wonderful family life in a safe, creative way.  We go to her for the stories. 

So what is the answer to eliminate blog trolls?  An elaborate system of security, to measure your sanity before you are allowed to publish?  Individual blocking that challenges the very existence of blogs, and other forms of free speech?
Good news for this story... my friend may have found the solution.  Supportive followers and friends that chase the trolls away.  Reassurance that while these people exist, a strong circle of friends won't let them in.  Perhaps, at times, these trolls will provide an opportunity to challenge our own thoughts, forcing us to be honest with ourselves.  The best way to affirm your beliefs is to walk in someone else's shoes.
I guess the trolls aren't going away.  That's okay.  I think we can handle them.

Bearville

Many of you have asked for the bear story... so here it is.  Right after school ended, we spent 5 wonderful days on the Long Beach peninsula (Thanks Aunt Kathy and Uncle Brian!) near Oysterville.  The far north tip of the peninsula is Ledbetter state park.  Animals are aplenty in this area.  We decided to drive up near the hiking trails.  This story starts out with me yelling out "OH.MY.GOD."  There was a bear cub sitting on the side of the road.
The bear cub took off, and we continued on the drive.  When heading back down this road again, there was the same bear cub, sitting in the same place on the side of the road.  We chalked it up to what a stupid bear.

Let me interject with the excitement level in my children.  None of us, including the adults, had ever seen a bear.  Sure, at the zoo, but never in the natural element.  My children were giddy.  Thrilled. 

The next time we went down this road, we saw a bear cub, but this time it was black.  Then we saw the brown cub again.  Then we saw an older one sitting in a field.  We were pretty bear-struck by this point.

The children begged for one more visit to this area.  Our last visit.  We had barely started down the road when we spotted a FULL SIZE black bear, walking down the white line on the side of the road towards us.  We stopped and watched in amazement while he dumped a garbage can.  Owners came out yelling "No bear," and their dogs went into attack chase mode.  We watched the bear run off to a little turn off area up the road.

Interest peaked, we of course followed up the dirt road.  This part of the story is why I called this our last trip.  This was the full bear experience we lived through, and had no desire to go back. 

We quickly discovered that it was merely a dirt driveway into a camping area...FULL OF BEARS.  Two adult black bears, one adult brown bear, and four bear cubs.  Side note, little bear cubs are so cute!  The little cubs scampered up the tall trees, like a squirrel climbing a fence.  The big black ones stood guard at the base.  The big brown one came sniffing and snorting to check us out.  Of course we decided now was the time to back out.  That's when we noticed a car was blocking us in taking pictures.  We waved our arms and mouthed to move... to no avail.  She decided, instead, to continue snapping pictures.  I could see the headline now:  Tourist catches family of four being eaten alive by bears on film.  Clearly at this point, the only thing to do was...take pictures.

The brown bear backed right up to the bushes on our side...and pooped.  Seriously, pooped.  There's another first for the four of us.  Eventually, the car behind us came to it's senses, and we were able to back out.  The children begged and begged to go back in the following days.  We never went back.  I was unwilling to witness what would top that story.

Another one bites the dust

I moved to Vancouver in 1980. Other than my college years, and a brief span early in my marriage, I have always been here. In elementary school, my best friend moved to Michigan. That was the first time I had to deal with a friend moving away, but it certainly hasn’t been my last. My best girls have covered the world. Literally.

Today was filled with bittersweet emotions as I learned that one of the best of the best is leaving us. It’s a happy story. Traveling husband will get to spend more time with his beautiful wife and wonderful children. This warms my heart, and saddens it as well. Our tight group will be feeling the loss of one. Even sadder, my boy will be losing his best friend. The other half. Our second son. I know we’ll still see this family.  No distance will change our dear love for them. And of course, there’s always face book.

On New Years Eve, I am so thankful that I remembered to tell this brilliantly inspiring woman that I believe she is all things goods. A wonderful person inside and out. And this she continues to prove on a daily basis.

When you welcome loving people into your lives, wonderful things happen. We are so grateful to include this family in ours, no matter where they are.

Update

Just a quick update on my wonderful children.  I don't usually brag about my kids... who wants to hear that.  I figure, however, if you are on this blog, you came to me.  You are my captured audience.  You have to hear me brag. 

The last day of school is always such a melancholy, bittersweet experience.  They have snacks at school, exchange phone numbers, and try not to cry.  Then they head home with the whisper of summer behind them.  Quite a lot for a kid to digest in one day.

Today they sprang through the door with their report cards.  Dominic had already ripped his open on the bus, as he always does.  Ripley, of course, didn't realize it was in her bag.   At our school, getting a "3" means you are good, you are smart, you've done your job.  "4" is gods score.  They do not part with these easily.  My brilliant son received...drum role please... 8 of them!  Couldn't be prouder.  Kindergartners rarely receive a "4."  Ripley got three! 

To top off the day, we joined Dominic's football team for an end of season pizza party.  There he received his trophy.  I asked him if it was a plastic trophy or a blood, sweat, and tears trophy.  He blushed, and mumbled "blood, sweat, and tears."

Congratulations to my beautiful and brilliant children.  I couldn't be prouder.

Class of 2022

Class of 2022? Is this what Ripley is? This week was Ripley’s kindergarten graduation. She was all tickly with excitement about this, shouting out things like, “I did it!” Hmm? I am always so proud of my daughter’s accomplishments. The first time she walked, poured her own juice, rode a scooter. I adore the wonder in her eyes as she embarks upon new adventures, thirsty for success. But this… I’m just not sure about.

The parenting pendulum always swings in opposition to the previous generation. We are always trying to protect and correct mistakes from our past, only to end up with new mistakes, and a child that will inevitably swing their pendulum the other direction again. Our generation, apparently, did not get rewarded for every accomplishment. We long for our children to feel victory, pride, and acceptance. But are we so worried about their self esteem, that we lower the bar of achievement? My son has learned to put his awards into two categories: 1. Mandatory 2. Blood, sweat, and tears. He know that participating in activities often results in gaining a mass distributed certificate or plastic topped trophy. He also knows that some rewards are truly earned. Not always the shiniest or biggest, these accolades you feel in your gut. This distinction, I hope, will allow my children to feel self esteem and acceptance simultaneously. My first graduation, from high school, felt victorious. My second graduation, from college, I wore a t-shirt under my robe and talked to my friends during the ceremony. My third graduation, from grad school, I went to the driving range and drove a go-cart, finishing the night at a sports bar. I didn’t need to go… even though I’d finally achieved the honor sashes. I finally figured out that success is intrinsic. I hope my children don’t burnout from these many graduations and plastic trophies. I hope they strive for greatness…viewed by others and themselves. I hope they soar. Congratulations Ripley, class of 2022

Quoth the Raven

The following is a true story. The nay-sayers will doubt, but I speak this from true experience. It’s about the bird. The crazy little beady eyed blackbird that lurks at six flags. I live to tell this story and spread a warning. Do not go on Magic Mountain’s Jet stream ride with your hair loose or messy. Don’t.

Simple ride… jet boat goes up, jet boat comes down. Splash. You get a little wet. The course runs along a giant fiberglass chute, like a giant hot tub. Painted a beautiful Caribbean blue, so as not to notice the dinginess of the swamp water. On our second trip down this ride, while laughing and surveying the water damage, I felt a tingle on my head. I reached up and found… a bird foot. I touched the foot of a bird. The words I uttered are stuff of legends. “There’s a bird on my head.”

We ran quickly through the exit to view the said bird. There he was… staring at us, in the same spot of the occurrence. For a moment, I thought he was one of those fabulously real auto-animatronics that Walt Disney was so fond of. But come on, this is Six Flags. A few minutes later… we saw a group of boys have the same experience. We decided it best to put this out of our minds. A few days later, we braved the ride again. No bird. But as we watched from the platform we saw this bird land on heads in the same exact spot not once, not twice, but three times. So if you find yourself at Six Flags Magic Mountain, on the jet stream ride, beware the bird. Creepy bird.

Victory versus Defeat

Defeat:


Webster’s theory:

To win victory over; overcome; beat. The act of defeating, or gaining victory. To undo; destroy



My son plays on a parks and recreation flag football team. The Vikings. Cute blue shirt, beanie hat, and a little mouth guard he insists on wearing all the way to the game, making all his words sound a little Cindy Brady-ish. This league does not keep score. Believe me, the league is the only one. When asked, “Who won,” I always answer “they don’t keep score.” As one of Dominic’s teammates recently quoted, “That’s not possible.” So my question is this: what defines defeat? What defines victory? I try to instill in my children the morals and guidelines necessary to survive in life. Always try your hardest. Be kind to others. Be the change you wish to see in the world. Get an education. Love with all your heart. I missed his game last week, where according to the league guidelines, nobody won. According to everyone else in the world, the other team did. My son takes everything he does very seriously. Every event he faces in life is done with the most intent effort, the most compassionate heart. He gains skills, and practices them until they are perfected. He walks in others shoes instead of passing judgement. He bravely challenges defeat head on with courage and passion. At this game, the other team received penalties for taunting. Seriously? I feel for these children who have gained this skill. This is not a victorious skill. All my son and his BF could talk about after the game was the amazing touchdown the BF got. And the 5 (yes, 5)!!! times Dominic got the flags. He is my little defense boy. Man on an island. In the zone. Cheers for my boy and his victories.

thirsty-two ouncer

Six Flags Magic Mountain.  It sure ain't Disney.  My BFF (actually it's BFAAFNMW... we were so ahead of the texting world), and I just finished our pilgrimage to our mecca. 

Being responsible and serious coaster riders, we dress the part:

fanny pack

 

Sports bottle with belt clip

We love the inconsistent rules enforced by the six flag "carnies."  Put all your loose items in a locker?  Make sure items are secured to your person?  Just put it over there?  Each ride has it's own rules, changing regularly with the shift change of the super-trained idiots that push a button ride operators.  While boarding the infamous Viper, we had just starting sipping our refilled bottle of cherry coke.  Trying to set it down... now mind you, there are cubbies on the ride platform... a useless carny  skilled technician insisted INTO THE MICROPHONE that we take the bottle with us on the ride.
Seriously?

This ride goes upside down 7 times.  7 TIMES.  The first few loops I held on pretty well, by the third I was actually losing my grip.  Is this a safe scenario?

We hit the brake station, and I regain a firm hold.  Then comes the corkscrew.  Imagine the old movies where someone dumps their drink while checking their watch... over and over.  G forces throwing us around, cherry coke filling our laps.  and crotch.  and seats.  and floor.  and perhaps the people in front of us.  I missed the sign that states: "May get wet on ride."

 

Too many dreams... not enough roads

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;



Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,





And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.



I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost (1874–1963)

This poem has always inspired me to be different.  Drunk with power from non-conformity.  Brilliant beyond my years with my incredible evolution.  I'm almost relieved that Mr. Frost does not see our colloquial society today.  Follow your dream?  Follow your heart?  Ahh... is there any true path to both?  I'm not suggesting we prostitute our souls out to have cell phones, designer jeans, and a gi-normous mortgage.  Or we must live in a cardboard box by the river to demonstrate our quest for justice.  Life is all balance.  And balance, as you know, is hard to achieve.  When do we make concessions?  The quest for financial freedom isn't fair.  Does true love exist?  Are dreams reality or... well, dreams?  Here's to Robert Frost, who I believe earnestly wants us to find our path.

Anxiety

March 2010


I have always been the strong one in crisis. Bring on the blood, tornado, or angry neighbor, and I will have my bandages/survival kit/pitchfork ready. Enter the new chapter in my life: my daughter Ripley. Oh, she seems all blond and sweet, but under that lives her asthma and peanut allergy. (Here’s where I enter deathly allergic to peanuts, but I just don’t care much for drama).

One wheeze from her, and I have heart palpitations. A child at the park eating a peanut butter sandwich sets me into full panic attack. I have bothered my friends and family with questions like: Does this jello have peanuts in it? Would you mind sanitizing that peanut butter covered counter in a natural cleaner as to not set off her asthma? I finally have found that panic feeling mothers all over the world experience. At an after school meeting recently, she was running around the playground, then came to me, with slightly discolored skin under her eyes and around her mouth with the fateful words: I need my nubby (name attempted to make an abuterol inhaler seem less scary). Searching frantically, this turns out to be part of that 1% of the time I’ve left it at home. I run to my car, hoping for the lost “nubby” under the seat. No. I call my husband to see if he had by chance decided to leave work an hour early and be standing ready with medication in hand. No. Then I look up and notice a light on in the school. Here’s where we chime the heavenly revelation sounds--- the secretaries hadn’t gone home. Nearly out of breath from sprinting, I beg them “ can---I get--- Ripley’s inhaler--- from---- the health room?” Yes?!  While it would not make a good screen play for an end of the world, earthly destruction movie, it sure feels like that for a moment. Ripley uses the inhaler, then throws a ‘bye’ over her shoulder as she heads for the swing set. Huh- I guess it’s just me.

edit.. editti...editting...editing!

February 2010

I love all my modern word processing friends. The abc-check, the big book with magnifying glass thesaurus, the googly eyed paperclip that is so much more interested in my work than anyone else. The question mark man. Red squiggly underline that has yet to learn my last name.

Watching my son work on his advanced third grade work takes me back to learning about the dictionary. The dictionary that will always appear in my mind the way it did in third grade, at Sacajawea elementary, divided on the cover as dic-tion-ary. My face book friends from Sacajawea will remember. Then comes the doomed sound of my hateful third grade teacher “look it up in the dictionary.” Line---oh, that’s right. The same line all third graders across the country, across the world say -- “how can I look it up in the dictionary if I don’t know how to spell it?” I was trying to use the word emphasis in previous writings. Infases? Inphaces? infasses? Enfases? Unphases? Did you notice that in the history of the world, no third grade teacher has ever had an answer to that question?

Tenacity

January 2010

I didn’t do well in school for most of my life. I wasn’t stupid, I just didn’t care much. My parents never put any emphasis on grades, so why bother? I took in what I felt important in high school, community college, and then at the big state U to stay out of academic probation to enrich my mind.  I finally started getting good grades at the end of my higher learning stint because I actually found it interesting! Then came my masters. Here’s where my dad says “It makes a big difference when it’s your money.”

My first summer taking grad classes at PSU I got all A’s. It felt great! I became obsessed. I checked my grades online for minute updates on posting day. Then I would see all my AAAA’s in a row, and do the “YES” dance. Enter professional and personal journal keeping. Piece of cake, right? I did the work, I did the reading, I humored the class with my brilliant and witty observations. I dazzled with my lighthearted and at the same time awe-inspiring musings. Then came judgement day. A… A…. A…. AMINUS!!??  I practiced my speech to give the instructor on how she must have accidentally looked at the wrong line in her grade book. Or how I secretly had food poisoning or biopsy surgery during the quarter. My long departed grandma had died? She had a secret oppression against…. Educated middle income women? I had nothing. I had to face the fact that I had messed up and in so earned *shutter* an A- Shortly after, I gave birth to my son and left the academic world indefinitely. Several years later, I decided to finish those last few credits and complete my action research/ master’s thesis project. I worked with my previous journal keeping professor on a paper I wrote entitled: Personal interpretation of journal keeping.  SAME TEACHER. SAME TOPIC.  I got an A this time. So the next time my little man looks me square in the eye and tells me no, then rattles on the universe of reasons as to how I have served injustice, I will remember this. And fear for his future teachers.

the reality of reality

January, 2009
Reality shows. Hmmm. I’ve never really understood the popularity of them. They seem drawn out and boring- even the cliffhangers are just, sort of, real. I enjoy a good scripted laugh or cry. I enjoy the audacity of stupendous things. When the reality show drama happens, it’s just too believable. Of course it is-- it’s real (barring the obvious editing and camera angle, of course) After stewing about it for awhile, though, I realize this actually happened to someone. If these things happened to my friends, I’d be showing up on their doorsteps with ice cream and Kleenex. Where are the reality shows shoulders? Are they in the many blogs, with unknown authors, ridiculing and demeaning them? Is it their own mother, whom they call, while all of America watches the tearful call? And what about the fact that as spectators, we WANT these bad things to happen. To real people? Seriously? Clearly happiness and calm do no make for good TV. So, if you’ll excuse me, I have to finish my Harry Potter book before Desperate Housewives comes on.

the naked facebook-er

December 2009
Ahh, facebook. So ruthless, useless, hurtful and spectacular at the same time. I originally didn’t include my maiden name, so my former ghosts couldn’t catch up. After finally being outed by someone that still recognized me, I gave up and included the Williams. This is the name I was burdened with before I knew who I was, was responsible for all my actions, and found essential happiness in my life. I’m typing this knowing I can go back and edit. And rewrite. And edit. And finally publish. When I was a Williams, everyone saw this. These people saw my rough drafts, and could judge me by them. They could give opinions and criticism on every potential idea I had. It was hard, and sometimes painful. Then I realized-- I saw their rough drafts, too. Remember people-- this is like those horrible middle school forced PE showers we had to take. Sure, I’m naked, but so is everybody else.

So now that we’ve all gotten dressed, I think we can put this behind us. I’ve delighted in seeing all the amazing adventures life has given my long lost friends. And enemies. I’ve enjoyed finding out that we’ve all been in love, had broken hearts. I’ve relished in finally feeling that if I sat at the popular table, I would not be disgraced. So here’s to adulthood. May we all enjoy the ride.

Peace Prize Outrage

December 2009

Perusing face book, I find endless comments concerning Barack Obama receiving the Nobel peace prize. Why do people speak out with such fierce cries over what is basically a good thing? I say hooray for peace. Hooray for pushing global boundaries that exist to hurt. Hooray for recognizing that politics and money are not the same thing. Hooray for finally defeating the ideals we received in elementary school that the most popular should win instead of the smartest, bravest, or gentlest. Hooray for disbelieving that “they don’t count because…” is a suitable way to live. Because they are poor? Wear a veil? Are hungry, homeless, illiterate, gay, mentally ill, or surviving abuse? Because they are a woman?  This is a large world, and instant peace is not attainable. Perhaps the belief that breaking social, political, religious, and racial barriers doesn’t seem worthy of a prize. I believe that the momentum is enough.

Curse of the SI Swimsuit edition

I've never understood why Sports Illustrated releases their swimsuit edition simultaniously with Valentine's Day?  

In the past, my excellent husband always scoffed at this ridiculous-nothing-to-do-with-sports edition.  I watched his loving gesture of throwing it directly from mail box to recycling bin.  (See-- he even loved the earth). 

Four years ago, yes- I actually remember  when it started, he didn't recycle it.  He thumbed through it.  Stay with me, the curse begins here.

The NBA All Star game that year promised to be wild-- It was in Vegas!  The glitz soon disappeared as statements like, "...advised to stay indoors," and "...fatal shooting," gained attention.

The following year, New Orleans hosted the game.  Enter Chris' friend and co-worker Zach.  Days before leaving, my husband not only perused the magazine, but my 7 year old son did, too.  This is like soft porn for a first grader!  Zach ended up with severe food posioning.  Couldn't leave the hotel room for days.

Last year, after the magazine came, my husband got sick.  Those of you who know Chris probably realize he NEVER GETS SICK.  He spent last year in Phoenix high on flu meds the whole time.

This week, the SI swimsuit edition came in the mail.  I commented that the girl on the front was toppless and holding the swimsuit.  My husband replied, "she had a swimsuit."  He then tucked the magazine into his luggage for "something to read" in Dallas.

He arrived in Salt Lake with a cancelled connecting flight.  NO flights into Dallas.  Snow was settling on the city, as were thousands of NBA related people.  He begged a flight to Houston, where he could rent a car and drive to Dallas.  "It's just like driving to Seattle," he assured me.  Yeah-- if Seattle was in Canada, and the road looked like a ghost town-- with a blizzard.  Ahh-- and the missing luggage.  Where was his luggage- on a flight to Dallas.  Picture him asking the gleeful ticket agent why his frickin' bags could get a flight to Dallas, and he couldn't. 

Almost 5 miserable hours later, driving 40 MPH on the highway, dodging trucks kicking up snow on his mini suv, he arrived in Dallas.  Quick check in, followed by a simple phone call.  His luggage was in...HOUSTON.

Why didn't you start a missing luggage process in Houston?

Houston told me it was in Dallas.

You have to fill out the paperwork in person at the Houston airport.

I'm not driving back to Houston.

We'll let you fill out the paperwork in Dallas, but it has to be done in person at the airport.  (Any of you ever been to the Dallas/Fortworth airport?)
Bless my tired husband for taking a town car to and from, instead of his already exhausted rental.

Fine-- your luggage will be on a flight at 10 tomorrow morning.
(Okay, I'm sure it wasn't that easy, but this story is getting long).

So Chris slept in the clothes he wore since 4 a.m. on his flight, and his drive.  He brushed his teeth with his finger.  He called the next morning to check the status.

We have no record of you requesting the bag.

Seriously?  Is this a taping for a Saturday Night Live sketch?

So my poor husband is wearing THE SAME CLOTHES to meet with fellow sports marketing people, and many others-- players, coaches, agents, media?
A suit would have looked nicer than the hoodie and sweats.  He skipped the ESPN party last night-- due to looking fugly.

Luckily, his luggage is supposed to be on a flight into Dallas this evening.  Oh, but the bag will not make the 7 p.m. shuttle.  You don't need it before 10 tonight, do you?  He is heading to the airport to personally pull his luggage off the carousel.  His last statement to the airline agent-- It better be there or I'm going to hunt you down. 

Ahh, the curse.  Hope you enjoy reading your SI swimsuit edition, honey!  Well, if you ever get your luggage, that is.

we've all been there

I am completely obsessed with another blog.  It is the completely heart-wrenching reports from a mother in Utah that is battling with the prospect of losing a child due to a completely avoidable accident.  Every morning, I rush to the computer to see what has happened, how he is doing, how SHE is doing.  You must read this blog.  We've all had those moments in motherhood of guilt, shame, regret.  It is horrific to read, and intoxicating to follow.  I remember when Dominic first fell down the stairs.  When he cracked his little chin open on the side of the bathtub like a grape being dropped from the roof.  When Ripley fell out of her carseat onto the pavement.  Riding in the ambulance with my brave daughter, as she refused to let the EMT's hold her oxygen mask for her.  It is altruistic to feel what this woman feels, and wish with all your heart that she will forgive herself.
www.stakerzxposed.blogspot.com/
Scroll down to February 1st to read her harrowing tale.

Too many friends, not enough labels

Christmas this year was extra bright, with the addition of my support group-- The Smart Girls Club. Although never planned, we all gave and received small, thoughtful gifts. I am concerned about the impact my gifts have caused. To clear up any concern of how one is viewed, or not viewed, here is the course of action my brain took upon sighting these trivial mugs. There were four different mugs...I have four dear friends. duh. Had I been given the chance to create my own mugs for each of these warm and spectacular women, it wouldn't have fit on a mug. or a billboard. or the Goodyear blimp. However, I was limited to text blips to convey my feelings. Therefore I feel the need to expand on these simple acronyms.

BFF-- Jen, you are a truly giving soul. You are the best example of friendship. Ironically, you are the one in need of friends the most right now. So for all you give to others, I want you to remember that I've always got your back, and you truly are a BFF.

XOXO- Is it any wonder that this reminds me of Lisa. You are sugar and spice, and all things nice. You ooze love and kindness, loyalty and humor.

OMG- Stephanie is the champion storyteller. Sure, she's sweet, loving, a great friend, and an all around wonderful person. But... to describe her without her ability to make me laugh and cry with her stories is impossible. So OMG, Stephanie, you can sure spin a good tale.

LOL- Holly, you have a contagious laugh, a zest for life, and a quick wit. An endearing friendship that challenges my mind, feeds my soul, and warms my heart. I would be lost without your LOL.

The last mug that I wish I could find would be for me:
LUCKY- for all my gals.