I weighed in at 187 in January 2008. That was it, my number that made me say, “Okay, I gotta do something.”

I started exercising more and cutting out the sweets. I dropped to 184. Then I had trouble budging the scale.

I’m not sure when I got down to 177. My mom got sick March 2008 and my life changed into a big, surrealistic, nightmarish blur. I sort of was aware I was eating less. (Because I have a bad tummy that tends to explode at the most inopportune times. I was running all over with my mom, who was so out of it I feared losing her because she’d decide to wander off while I was stuck in a restroom somewhere. Can you just see the headlines? I could. I don’t mind publicity but I don’t want that kind of notoriety!)

Anyway, by the time we took our Alaskan cruise in August of 2008 I was down to 170. And I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I loved it. (I remember a time I almost puked when I saw the scale had reached the 170 mark.)

Not as much as I liked dropping to 160, then 155 thanks to chemo though. BAD way to lose weight, but hey. I had to enjoy something from all that misery, didn’t I?

But once I was off chemo, I sprung right back up to 168. That’s where I was last year for our Cape San Blas 4th of July beach vacation.

The scale has only climbed since. I’m now back to 188.

Yet, I really haven’t changed my diet much. (Well, okay from barely eating during chemo and throwing up pretty much anything I did, yes, that’s changed. But before that, like when I had gotten down to 170, no. My eating is about the same.)

Of course, maybe the cancer was eating up my flub then. That is one of the symptoms. Weight loss. And losing has never been easy for me.

But I do exercise. I walk Murph every day, I play tennis 2-3 times a week, volleyball is about 2 times a week. And sometimes I even walk without Murph. The past week I’ve been sneaking in some swimming too. (With plans to do more.)

Anyway, the doctor said if I’m not getting results I could always try phentermine. Most people have great success with it and lose fast.

Sounds great, except I’m not one to do drugs. I’m not on the pill and never have been because I think it just messes with the body too much. I’m more of a natural kind of girl.

Still, the idea of losing 30 pounds in 3 months with the help of this pill was awfully tempting.

My new plan is to ramp up my exercise and eating healthier regimen. One thing I’ve always sort of wanted to try is a mini-triathlon. I want to see if focusing on something like that, and putting the time in training, will help me drop pounds.

I don’t want to be stick thin. My ideal weight would be 160. If I could get to 150 that would be awesome. For my height I’d still be overweight, but I don’t look it as much at that weight.

Also, my driver’s license is due for renewal this year. I don’t want to look like the happy hippo I’ve been in this other one. I want my 170 face back. (At least. The less of a double chin the better!)

At any rate, I guess it’s good to know about this phentermine stuff in case I get very desperate. But I think I’d rather try a not cheating way first.

So…mini-tri training here I come!

No one was sure Aunt Flow would even come back after chemo (which threw me into a sort of menopause). But last August it did.

I’ve always had a pretty healthy cycle. It normally comes right on time. But when it came back it was a bit heavier than what it had been. And then around December/January my PMS started kicking in a bit more fiercely and earlier than normal.

Then the periods started coming more. Like every 3 1/2 to 4 weeks instead of 4 1/2 to 5. Then in May it was supposed to come on May 13. Or around there. Nothing.

I had some symptoms, fully expected it, but it never showed. A month passed and still nothing. But, again, I was starting to get symptoms, along with some wicked pains. I chalked that up to my period being late and making up for lost time.

We went to St. Louis to see friends 4th of July weekend and I thought I might die. The drive there wasn’t bad. I was doing so-so. But as the night wore on I felt the pain growing and growing until all I could think was, “This is it! It’s of course going to strike now, when we’re on vacation trying to have fun.”

But…nothing.

And that first night as we drove back to our hotel from our friend’s house I had to pull over and let Wayne drive. I was doubled over and was seriously considering a trip to the ER.

But a few Advil and sleep made things more bearable for the morning. I then popped more Advil because we were headed to Six Flags with our friends and their kids and no way was I going to rain on their parade.

I made it through okay, but I knew something was wrong. I was having too much pain, and a very weird smell (sorry, maybe that’s TMI but it’s part of my symptoms).

I took a pregnancy test because my 3 month oncologist checkup was this past Tuesday. They always have to x-ray me and I knew they’d need to know if there was a bun in my oven. The test was negative.

I mentioned my period problems to my onc nonetheless. They told me I better schedule with my primary.

I luckily got in the next day. They had me pee in a cup and confirmed, nope, not prego, but there was another cause for concern: there was some blood in my urine.

Say what? So what does that indicate?

It could be a cyst, a fibroid tumor, maybe even my kidneys. However, I should be in more pain if it was kidney related. Oh, yeah, and there’s always the possibility I could have another hitchhiker. They took some blood and scheduled a vaginal ultrasound for the next day. (Which was yesterday.)

Lovely.

Hearing the C word of course flipped me out. Especially since my aunt is dying of a female cancer. But Wayne surprised me and went to my ultrasound appointment with me. It really helped because otherwise I would’ve been freaking myself out in the waiting room. Instead, he was there distracting me with funny commentaries about stories on Today.

But here’s the part where “here we go again…” comes in:

Test was yesterday. The radiologist should have gotten them to my doctor by yesterday afternoon. But if they did they never called to tell me.

And of course my doctor’s office closes early on Fridays, so they never called this morning with results either. I tried them at 11:40 (thinking they closed at noon). Wrong. They close at 11:30. ARGH!

So now I have to wait all weekend.

Wonderful. That’s a lot like last time. Except I’m not in near as much pain and it’s not Christmastime.

Hopefully it’s something easier than another hitchhiker. But you better believe I am NOT ready to check out of this world yet. Bring it. I’ve got more fight left in me!

I’ve been seriously writing (serious meaning not only writing but submitting my work for publication) since 1997. The first contest I ever entered was the Glendale Public Library’s Short Story Contest in Arizona. My story, “Grandma Jo’s Alligator Honeymoon,” placed 3rd.

I thought that was a pretty good showing for my first contest. Since then I’ve entered dozen more contests, and have racked up several Honorable Mentions, 3rd Places and even a couple 2nd Places, but a 1st Place has eluded me. (Well, I did sort of get one for an essay I wrote. And I think $5 or $10 for it too. But I also think it was split between other winners. It wasn’t a true 1st place.)

But today I received a surprise package in the mail from Writers’ Journal. I’d forgotten I’d entered their Fiction Contest back in January. I submitted “Night of the Villistas,” a historical romance. I thought maybe I’d gotten another H.M., or maybe it was a package trying to solicit a subscription.

Nope, it was a winner’s packet, complete with my complimentary copy with my story in it, a certificate, and $500! Hot damn!

I’ve always loved the story but could never seem to get it accepted anywhere. It always got great compliments but it just never seemed to be right for anybody.

Until this contest. I’m glad I didn’t give up hope and kept believing in it. It was the little short story that could!

Americans increasingly are treated to death, spending more time in hospitals in their final days, trying last-ditch treatments that often buy only weeks of time, and racking up bills that have made medical care a leading cause of bankruptcies.

That was just one of the snippets from the article that resounded with me. The other was an anecdote about a 32 year old woman who’d been diagnosed with an incurable brain tumor. She’d undergone two surgeries, chemo, plus radiation. She spent months in the hospital, finally being released and able to spend time with her family, including her two year old daughter, before she died the very next day.

A stunning number of cancer patients get aggressive care in the last days of their lives, [Dr. Martha Twaddle] noted. One large study of Medicare records found that nearly 12 percent of cancer patients who died in 1999 received chemo in the last two weeks of life, up from nearly 10 percent in 1993.

Guidelines from an alliance of leading cancer centers say patients whose cancer has spread should stop getting anti-cancer medicine if sequential attempts with three different drugs fail to shrink their tumors. Yet according to IntrinsiQ, a cancer data analysis company, almost 20 percent of patients with colorectal cancer that has spread are on at least their fourth chemotherapy drug. The same goes for roughly 12 percent of patients with metastatic breast cancer, and for 12 percent of those with lung cancer. The analysis is based on more than 60,000 cancer patients.

The Woman in the Room Across the Hall

When my mom was in the hospice the woman in the room across the hall from her was young. Forties.

When my mom first was checked in the hospice that lady was vibrant. Her room was decorated with pictures, flowers, all kinds of neat personal knicknacks. Friends and family often were with her, laughing and playing games. You’d never have known the woman was dying.

The next week her door was often closed, a note posted on the door: “I love visitors but please limit visits to 15 minutes. My energy is down today.”

The next week her door was closed, there was a book on a table outside her room, and the note on the door said, “Unable to see visitors. Please sign my book so I know you were here. I appreciate you stopping by.”

I’m not sure when she died. That’s when my mom took her turn. But I sure admired that lady. I often found myself thinking, “That’s how I’d like to go out. If I have a chance, and know the end is coming, that’s how I’d spend my time. Celebrating my life with the people who’ve touched it.”

The American Way

I’ve really been struggling with my aunt’s diagnosis. But this article Chris sent today helped me understand in part why. (Besides the obvious reasons.)

The American way is “never giving up, hoping for a miracle,” said Dr. Porter Storey, a former hospice medical director who is executive vice president of the hospice group that Morrison heads.

“We use sports metaphors and war metaphors all the time. We talk about never giving up and it’s not over till the fat lady sings …. glorifying people who fought to their very last breath,” when instead we should be helping them accept death as an inevitable part of life, he said.

I’ve really struggled with my aunt saying, “You know what? The time for treatment is past. I’m going out on my own terms.”

I am most definitely American through and through with respect to the “fight to the bitter end” mentality. Ain’t no way I was going out without a fight.

But I also had hope. If my treatments worked I might just be cured, and the odds were in my favor for that. If that had not been the case…well, I still would have fought. I would’ve held out hope for a miracle.

But now? I still might fight. I’m still young. I still have a lot to do.

Not Quitting, It’s Transitioning

But if I went through aggressive treatments, the tumors didn’t shrink, or, worse, spread, I’d opt to spend my last days peacefully. No needles. No drugs. (Except ones to keep me comfortable.)

Comfort. That’s the key. If I’m lucky enough to have the luxury of knowing my estimated end date, I think I’d do like my aunt. I’d opt for comfort. And a higher quality of life and goodbye time with my loved ones.

Because, lucky for my aunt, right now she’s not in much pain. She just wants to enjoy her kids, grandkids, and her husband during the time she has left. Running to doctor appointments, hospital time, dealing with treatment side effects…it sucks all the good time away.

Like she has all her life, my aunt is living –and now dying– with her trademark style and grace.

This article really helped me put some things in perspective. Chris, if you read this, thanks again for sharing it with me.

Dina’s comment really resonated with me because anyone who has ever met me always has the same comment eventually, “Are you always so happy?”

No. But I don’t let my sad or mad show very often. Not in public. Not if I can help it. I keep that behind closed doors if at all possible.

People often tell me I should let it out more. Time and time again I’ve heard, “You know, it’s because you smile so much and are always giggling and bubbling that people don’t take you seriously. You’re too nice.”

Too nice…

Yes, sometimes I am. I’m also too respectful and too compassionate most times. Here’s why: I know what it’s like to have my feelings hurt. If I can at all avoid doing that to someone else, I will.

However, sometimes I get extremely miffed at not being taken seriously. Most times I figure it’s their problem if they can’t take me seriously, but on some occasions it gets the best of me.

In the past few months, I’ve had several repeated run ins with people at volleyball because they mistake my nice for weak. This time, because it kept happening and I couldn’t avoid it, it got the best of me.

But now that I’m getting away from all that (YAY! What a relief!) and I’ve had a chance to have some distance, I’ve realized something else: I happen to view bitchy, grouchy, and sullen people as weak.

Or maybe lazy is a better word. After all, waking up every morning and putting on a happy face and trying to maintain it throughout the day is a hell of a lot harder than giving in to the dark side and just being grumpy. That’s a cop out. And no one can ever accuse me of that!

(At least not when it comes to my attitude. Now about housework? Um, I’m not the best about keeping up on that…)

THE DREAM: GORILLA IN THE MIDST

I had one of those dreams that’s a combination of places I’ve lived. In this case, it was a combo of my current home and the one I grew up in, which I often refer to as the Akron Street house.

I dreamt of my neighbor’s tree across the street. The house looked like the neighbor’s house across from us now, which is on a corner, but the lot was the corner lot across from the Akron St. house.

There was a huge tree (maybe it was from the Jacksonville house neighborhood because there are no big trees here like that and certainly not in Denver). Something was falling out of the tree or being thrown and it caught my eye. (Like leaves coming down that shouldn’t be.)

I looked up and saw an enormous black creature. At first I was like, “Big foot is real!” All I could think was I had to run to get my camera because what a post that’d make for Haunt Jaunts!

But as I looked closer I realized it was a gorilla. Still, I needed to get my camera. A gorilla on the loose in a suburban neighborhood? What a story!

I got my camera and Murph came out with me right as the gorilla was climbing out of the tree. But there wasn’t just one. There were two. Baby was coming out of the tree, but Mama (a big ol’ mama at that!) was still up the tree.

But mama had her eye on Murph, who spotted baby, got all excited about making a new buddy and made a beeline for it.

All the National Geographic and Animal Planet shows I’d ever seen about moms being protective in the wild slammed my mind. I didn’t want to call out to Murph and cause any mama any undue alarm, but I didn’t want her viewing Murph as a  threat and attacking either.

So I started running to try and catch him, but as I did mama slipped down out of that tree. She headed toward Murph and her baby, but the baby was pointing at Murph all excited and went to pet him. Then mama kind of smiled (or that’s how it looked) and my heart kind of melted. It was clear she was thinking the baby making a friend with Murph was as cute as I thought it was.

Murph even went to say hi to her, then he kept going on one of his Sniff Missions, oblivious he was heading toward the busy street. Worse, baby was following. That’s when I started shouting for him to stop and come back, but he wasn’t listening. I think he was in bunny hunting mode.

I ran after him, and sort of skirted the outside of the mama gorilla, but even in my panicked state trying to catch Murph I still had “photo op” on the brain. As I dashed past her I flipped on the video function of my camera, pointed it in her direction and hoped I was getting some kind of footage of the gorilla on the loose.

But all the while I was yelling at Murph to come back. I yelled myself  awake trying to get him to listen to me.

7:30 A.M. REAL TIME: “NEW YORK’S CALLING…”

Okay, the dream was weird and left me shaken. I looked up “gorilla” in my dream book because that’s a new one. I don’t think I’ve ever dreamt about a gorilla before.

Here’s what my Dreamer’s Dictionary had to say about gorillas:

To dream of this frightening big ape portends a painful misunderstanding, unless the animal was very docile or definitely friendly, in which case the dream forecasts a very unusual new friend.

Before I could get too worked up today trying to figure out if I’d said anything to anyone that might be painfully misunderstood, the phone rang this morning at 7 a.m.

Wayne was watching TV and eating breakfast before work. He saw the caller I.D. on the screen.

“New York?” He groaned and ran to answer, figuring it was one of the New York office partners needing something.

This is what I heard: “Yes, Courtney Mroch lives here.” Pause. “She’s here now if you want to talk to her.”

To me he says, “New York’s calling…”

I don’t know anyone in New York, so I figured it was a sales call of some kind. I was sort of miffed Wayne didn’t just take the call, but there were ways to get even. My mind was already working on them.

In 100 years I never expected to hear, “Hi, my name is Josh and I work at CBS Radio. My producer gave me your name and wanted me to call you about a blog you once wrote about your choice not to have kids. There was a new study that came out today about how the numbers are increasing. Would you mind answering a few questions about your decision?”

Turns out the article was one I wrote while writing for Families.com: Another Reason I’m Married Without Children.

I answered the questions right then. I wished I’d scheduled it for later and had a chance to reread my article. I may have given better answers.

But I did the best I could having just woken up and being caught off guard. The interviewer was really nice, but most of all…how many times in my life have I ever gotten a call like that? Exciting!

But also interesting: I can see how the gorilla dream interpretation (all of it) can apply to the call. And how the dream about the mom/kid theme even goes along with what the call was about.

But what’s funniest of all. My period is super late. First time I’ve been late since it started back up after chemo. How crazy would it be if, surprise!, I’m pregnant right now? I think that’s an example of irony…

Next season (summer, which starts in a couple of weeks) will be the first season I have not played on a team on purpose.

In 2008 I had to bow out of spring when I moved my mom in with us. I had to drop out of the rest of fall 2008, and couldn’t sign up for winter or spring 2009 because of my hitchhiker.

But other than that I’ve always played. And I’ve always wanted to.

But now…I’d rather play pick up games as I find them. Unless I find a team with an attitude more like mine.

And that’s really the key: attitudes. I’ve watched people’s attitudes deteriorate the past couple of years. Everyone thinks they’re better than they really are and are now playing only to win. They’ve forgotten about the fun. (Because, yes, winning is fun, but as the saying goes, winning isn’t everything. However, try telling that to a lot of these people I’ve been playing with the past few years!)

I like to win as much as the next guy, but even more important I like having fun. Volleyball here, as opposed to Jax Beach, has never been what I’d call fun.

There’s not a lot of off-court camaraderie like what we knew playing with the regulars at Jax Beach every weekend. Some people have formed friendships and get together outside of games. We’ve developed very few of those friendships.

I think we got spoiled in Jacksonville. Swim team we had near instant friends. Everyone hung out, we’d have group parties, and after practices we’d often go get dinner or breakfast (depending on if it was a Saturday morning practice or a weekday evening workout.)

Volleyball was the same. People just getting together to hang at the beach during the day. At night we’d meet for dinner or maybe a movie or to hang out at someone’s house.

The volleyball scene here just hasn’t been conducive to that. Sure, we hang out at Hooters sometimes after and eat together. There have been a couple of outside parties. There was the group trip to Destin.

Granted, because our games are at night and never at a set time like our swim practices were, it makes it harder to plan things with friends on other teams.

But it’s the attitudes I can’t seem to stomach anymore. I think a lot of it has to do with what I went through with my mom, my cancer, and now seeing my aunt’s cancer coming back. Life truly is too short. I don’t have time to deal with people who take something like our volleyball games so seriously. Since I can’t reconcile my nerves to stomach the attitudes I decided to take a break.

Tennis also has a lot to do with it. I haven’t even been playing for a full year. I was maybe six months into clinics when I was asked to play on a team. I’ve enjoyed a lot of the camaraderie I knew from Jacksonville volleyball and swimming with my tennis friends.

They’re supportive, fun, and above all friendly. We’re all pretty good and we play to win, but we don’t take it too seriously. I’ve rarely seen the kind of attitudes at tennis that I’ve seen at volleyball. (Thank goodness!)

Plus, tennis gives me the better workout. So…I decided to focus more on that, as well as a few other things, and see if I suffer terrible volleyball withdrawals or if not being on a team is something I’m perfectly fine living without. It will be interesting finding out how this experiment pans out…

I really wish I could remember when she was first diagnosed. I want to say September 2008. I know it wasn’t terribly long after my mom passed, nor was it terribly long before I discovered mine.

My aunt (Alice Kotso is her name if you care to send love and light her way or keep her in your prayers) is a rare breed of woman. On her outside she’s as coiffed, polished as poised as they come. But inside she’s tough as nails. There’s not much that gets passed her, and not much she’s afraid of.

If anyone could beat cancer into remission, it was her. But she was always afraid her cancer treatments would affect her already existing health problems. She reluctantly agreed to chemo the first time around.

This past May they found another tumor. They operated and told her she needed chemo again. She refused. They suggested radiation at the very least. She refused again. She said she was putting it in God’s hands. She left for a three week trip to China with her husband, but instead of getting better she only got worse.

She had ovarian cancer to start with. She now has leukemia, which they suspect was caused by her initial cancer treatments. The very thing she feared most happened.

Now the cancer has now spread. They’re running tests to find out if it’s the ovarian or the leukemia that’s spread. They’ve basically said it’s definitely terminal, but there may be some kind of treatment to slow it down.

Except she doesn’t want to do it. It’s not that she wants to die exactly. As she tried to explain it, she’s 75, she’s lived both a very full and blessed life, and if it’s her time to go out she wants to go on her own terms. She already experienced the indignities and hardships chemo brings. She doesn’t want to put her body back through that. Nor does she want to be treated like a sick and dying person.

I respect that. Chemo sucked. The first two treatments weren’t too bad. The last four almost killed me. Or that’s what it felt like. Uncontrollable throwing up. Shitting myself. Having so little energy just trying to eat a couple of spoonfuls of soup used up so much energy I’d nap for three hours.

She had it even worse. She had to have a blood transfusion when her white cell count fell too low. And losing her hair was a devastating blow. She’s always been a beautiful woman who prides herself on her vanity. Suffering the indignity of her looks being totally robbed from her was much harder on her psyche than it was on someone like myself who’s never known what it’s like to have looks matter like she has.

Sunday I was pretty torn up about it. Mostly because she’s the only one who understood what I was going through. Even after I hit remission I confessed to her that I, too, feared the future. The day when I might not start feeling quite right again. Or worse, feeling just fine but on a check up visit being told “It’s back.”

She understood the anxiety that gradually starts escalating about a month or so before the next scheduled check up. She understood the mood swings and impatience with “healthy” people. (Meaning, non-cancerites.)

Better than anyone she understood me ranting about how we get this one shot at life, and, yes, you can go at any time. In a car accident, being in the wrong place at the wrong time and being done in by some wacko on a shooting spree. Or maybe just having a massive heart attack.

Those are terrible, sudden ways to go. But learning you have cancer is worse. I was so, so, so lucky to have a kind that could not only be treated, but potentially cured. I’m not fully cured though yet. I won’t reach that status for another 4 years –if I’m lucky.

Aunt Alice understood that. She was in the exact same boat. She’s now transferred to another one. One we’ve both been made painfully aware exists thanks to others sharing their cancer horror stories.

Like her good friends who lost their son after his brief battle with pancreatic cancer. He lived maybe four months after being diganosed.

Or our neighbor who just lost his brother. He’d gone to see the doctor because he was constipated. He thought he’d get an enema or something. Wrong. He, too, was diagnosed with cancer. A late stage one. He was immediately referred to hospice. Just two weeks later he succumbed.

There was also the lady at tennis. Her sister went in for fatigue. She’d been stressed, working hard. She expected the doctor to tell her she needed a break. Nope. End stage breast cancer. Three weeks later she was gone. She had just turned 37.

It can happen that fast. And when you’re confronted with that kind of death sentence, even if you get a bit of a stay like myself, it changes everything.

People often tell me having a baby changed how they viewed the world. That’s what cancer’s done for me. My aunt is just another example and reminder to myself that I’m living on borrowed time at this point. Maybe my stay will become a full fledged pardon and it won’t be cancer that takes me out.

I don’t know. All I do know is I can’t take anything for granted. Not my health, not those I love, not my passions, and most of all not my Authentic Self. My life has to honor that and be a tribute to all those who’d love to have their lives back and chance of fulfilling their heartfelt destinies restored.

This weekend I took some much needed downtime and recharged watching two movies: Orphan and Beverly Hills Chihuahua.

ORPHAN

I rented Orphan from Netflix. It had looked interesting when it first hit theaters, and it got decent stars/reviews on Netflix so I went for it.

I didn’t have high expectations for it, though. It certainly looked like it had room to turn into a complete disaster.

To my surprise, it only held one scene where I was like, “Really? That’s how he’d act? It doesn’t ring true to his character but let’s see where this goes. I’m too far in now to turn back…”

The scene I’m talking about was when the father, John Coleman (played by Peter Sarsgaard), broke down late in the movie to his adopted daughter, Esther. But after that the movie picked back up on pace. (It could’ve swerved completely out of control at that point. Luckily it didn’t.)

Especially since that was the only glaring near miss the movie had for me. Otherwise, I thought the acting was excellent. Vera Farmiga (who played the mom, Kate Colemna) always delivers a great performance, and except for that one scene Sarsgaard was on target too.

But it was the kids, Esther (played by Isabelle Fuhrman), Daniel Coleman (played by Jimmy Bennett) and Max Coleman (played by cutie patootie Aryana Engineer), who stood out. So young, yet they portrayed BIG feelings and emotions.

Also unexpectedly enjoyable (and just plain unexpected) was the storyline, which threw in a bit of a twist they set up perfectly, didn’t hide, and which I never saw coming. I like when that happens. It’s rare, and the writers pulled it off brilliantly.

It’s not a totally “fresh” movie. There was a lot that has been seen and done before in other movies, but all in all I really enjoyed it. That was a pleasant surprise.

BEVERLY HILLS CHIHUAHUA

This was another pleasant surprise, particularly because animal movies kill me. I don’t know what it is, but even when nothing bad’s happening to the animals in the movie I want to cry. That’s why I rarely watch them.

Even if  didn’t have my little tearing up problem, I for sure didn’t want to see anything called “Beverly Hills Chihuahua.” Stupid!

Well, that’ll teach me to judge a movie by its title. The joke was on me because it was cute!

Wayne DVRd it for some reason. I guess he got to watching before he left for work Friday and thought it was cute. I ended up watching it with him Saturday morning and was all set to heckle the hell out of him. I don’t think it even took two minutes for the dog stars to enchant me.

I love Drew Barrymore and she once again brought to life a fantastic character. (She played the voice of Chloe, an all white chihuahua.) Through her Chloe grew from a spoiled, pampered pooch to a pup with poise and panache.

Papi (voiced by George Lopez), the landscaper’s chihuahua who’s in love with Chloe, had me doubled over with his one liners. Go Papi! I haven’t been smitten with a character like that since Robert Benigni’s Guido charmed me in Life is Beautiful. (But **SPOILER ALERT** – unike Guido, Papi doesn’t die at the end!)

Delgado (voiced by Andy Garcia), the ex-police dog German Shepherd who becomes Chloe’s protector when she gets lost in Mexico, had me cheering, laughing and crying as his sad tale of how he came to lose his scent –and then find it again–unfolded.

It was a fun movie. A true Disney type movie. The kind I grew up on. One full of heart, heroes, and hope. It was just the thing a weary soul needed for a recharge movie watching weekend.

Have you seen any movies lately that you unexpectedly enjoyed?

Don’t get me wrong. Being crazy’s not all bad. But it depends which kind you are:

1. Institutional
2. Everyday
3. Extraordinary

There’s meds and facilities to control the first kind.

The everyday we all have and is relatively harmless. Usually when this shows (and we all have it and have shown this kind before), it’s like farting in public. We get red in the face, laugh it off, and apologize. Sometimes our friends might even tease us about it. (i.e. “Girl, you so crazy!”)

Then there’s number three. Again, we all have this. That dark part of us bred mostly by our insecurities and hurts from past injustices. This is the kind of crazy we used to not want people to know about.

I’m talking vanity, jealousy, narcissism, overly judgmental and opinionated, or chronic bitchy (some bitchy is okay, but chronic bitchy is a nasty case).

Maybe it’s just because I’m getting older and so are those around me. We’re of that certain age where we don’t worry about the crazy coming out more.

For example, I’m noticing those who were once beautiful (still are, but they are starting to show their years or have gained weight, etc.) are realizing “beauty doesn’t last forever.” People (mainly men) don’t treat or notice them like they used to. Good God the crazy that breeds! Interesting wardrobe choices, affairs, divorces, and other midlife crisis mayhem.

Then there are those who have to have their every flipping opinion validated and approved, which they then want to stuff down the throats of anyone with a different opinion. Why isn’t it enough to agree to disagree? No one cares to see anyone’s else point these days. And that doesn’t mean agreeing with it. It just means saying, “I hear what you’re saying, but I believe X.” They’re not asking anyone to accept their differing opinion as gospel. They’re just asking them to respect that’s how they think or feel.

And don’t even get me started on what the “keeping up with the Jones’” has warped into. There’s no more keeping up. It’s all about out doing. I’m astonished at how many people want to be “better” than someone else. The looking down the noses and passing judgment on what others don’t have…wtf?

I blame all the reality TV shows. People see regular Joes and Janes having hit TV shows about their lives and think “They’re no more unique than me. They should make a TV show of my life. Now that’s entertainment!”

Not likely. I vote less reality TV. (And this coming from someone who’s a reality TV junkie!)

I can try and break my addiction to reality TV, but I can’t change my age. Does that mean I’m doomed to let my crazy show more too? Am I already doing it without even knowing? And do all these other people even realize they’re letting their crazy out?

They can say they don’t care, but they should. Crazy’s not always something to be proud of.