Not too deep!

Apparently, mothers do not like to have their evenings interrupted by the words "It's not that deep, is it?"

At least Mom doesn't.

I was in the bathroom and I wobbled a bit as I stood to transfer back to my wheelchair. My head smacked into the wall, which was fine -- a little love pat, whatever. I'm hard-headed.

But then my head slid down the wall as I sat on my chair. Uh oh. The grab bar near the toilet is mounted onto a 1-4 length of wood that has nice pointy corners. And my head ran right into one.

I figured I was OK because when I put my hand up to feel for blood it came away clean ... at first. Then the blood started to trickle out, but it wasn't gushing.

Still, I figured I better ask Mom.

I got the answer right away, when she answered my question with her own: "What's not deep?" It couldn't be too bad if it wasn't noticeable, right? Apparently, though, Mom didn't feel so good about it. She told my sister that it was at this point that she wanted to throw up, but I was relieved.

I had missed Sarah Michelle Gellar's return to TV on Tuesday, the online version was not close captioned, and I didn't want to miss the encore presentation of Ringer last night while I sat in an ER.

When she saw the cut she grabbed some tissue and agreed it wasn't too deep. She kept asking what I was doing. It took some explaining, perhaps because whenever anyone asks this, my first, second and third responses tend to be sarcastic reminders that I have Friedreich's ataxia.

She cleaned it up and added a bandage (two generic terms in one post!). It's fine, and most importantly Ringer and SMG were great.

Dear Lost writers, think about wheelchairs

I know it is just TV, but isn't Lost supposed to be the smartest show on television?

Perhaps, if the writers want to keep this reputation, they will shy away from wheelchairs in the future. (I suppose I have a spoiler or two in here, nothing dramatic.)

Don't get me wrong. Some of it is quite believable. More times than I can count I have been just like Locke: sitting there as person after person exited the plane until the plane was empty and they could bring in the aisle chair. It totally sucks, just like Locke's expressions said.

But why is Locke in a crappy airport chair? Surely, a man who cannot walk has his own chair?

And when he met Jack in the airport, I wanted to turn it off. (Not really,I like Lost, just don't think it is the be-all, end-all many fans think it is.)

I know Jack is a spinal surgeon who probably digs playing God, but when he asked Locke "Mind if I ask what happened to you," I was like: Oh, no he didn't.

He didn't just pop THE QUESTION, did he?

Sure, morons ask me, but doctors? .

And he said he only asked because he is a spinal surgeon, but even arrogant doctors know that people go in to wheelchairs for all kinds of reasons. Certainly not just reasons related to the spine.

I think the writers just wanted Jack to tell Locke nothing is irreversible and I hate that they used the wheelchair to get there.

Glee doesn't get a free pass

Anyone who cannot hear well or has a loved one with poor hearing knows that it is profoundly unfunny.

I am disappointed then that Glee played for comedic effect the half-deaf choir director last week.

Perhaps they were trying to show the difference between children, who seemed moved by the deaf choir's performance, and Mr. Shue, who acted annoyed and exasperated by the hard-of-hearing director. But I don't think that was it.

The disability of the director was played as a joke. Like Mr. Shue kept saying "your cellphone is ringing," only to have the director respond to some unasked and unrelated question. It was SO funny.

As someone who doesn't hear his cellphone 90% of the time I am now rooting against the Glee Clubbers, even if they do have a wheelchair user.

I'm itchy and I don't know where to scratch

I have no doubt the above title, taken from a blues song on a tape one of my uncles gave me, has a very high sexual connotation. But this is Matt we're talking about. Get real.

Surprisingly, I am not referring to the many bites from the f---king mosquito horde that lives around here. I cannot remember getting bit in such odd places before, fingers, thumbs and other places with essentially no blood.

But no, that wasn't it ... unless the damn mosquitoes have figured out a way into my body. My heart or brain have felt all itchy since Friday. I haven't felt like sitting still and writing (It is taking a lot to write this. I have already gone online to find the song, then download a few from iTunes and listen to them.) I haven't really wanted to watch TV either. I want to do something, go somewhere, be with someone or a group.

This is the challenge: figure out how to invite people to do something when I do not have a home really that people could come to and when I do not like to go out because it is so freaking hard to go out. And I am having to fight against my FA and almost 40 years of shyness. Plus, maybe internal mosquitoes.

Into the danger zone

My little sister pushed me far outside the comfort zone yesterday, but it worked out well and was fun even if I missed the Dr. Who season finale and had to stay up till 12:30 to watch the rerun.

It was sad, too, leaving me teary at the end as all the Doctor's friends went off with others and he was left alone but soldiers on.

The evening started with what was just a little get-together at my sister's (yes, right next-door to my parents), two other couples with their kids. Nothing big, my sister had told me, we'll just order pizza.

And we did, but then one of the couples had to leave to put their kids to bed. They live like three houses away so everyone else was like: Oh, we'll just bring the pizza to your house.

I said OK, I'd go but even as I said it I was getting scared and worried. I am using my power chair a lot nowadays so I was thinking: What if the backyard is inaccessible, what if I get bored, what if I have to go to the bathroom, will I get to see Dr. Who?

No one seemed to worry, so we went. The backyard was no problem, but people were up on a deck that was up six stairs. My sister offered to run home and get my manual chair so the guys there could lift me on to the deck. I did not want to, thinking I might want to leave to see Dr. Who.

That seemed OK. People sat on coolers or the steps or broke out lawn chairs and we sat in the yard. People brought me pizza, Claren water, and just made me feel comfortable.

I did not even go home early to watch Dr. Who even though it would have been easier to hear the Doctor and his gang; they have close captioning.

Recovery

I watched three hours of TV after my Nero incident.

First was Joan of Arcadia, in which Joan begged God to let her paraplegic brother walk again. God alleged that she (God was in the form of a little girl) put a lot of thought into the universe and its rules and now played by them. Handing out miracles showed favoritism.

Now I now Joan is not canon, but my problem then is what gives with Jesus? He showed favoritism left and right.

Next I watched Doctor Who, in which someone sacrifices herself for the greater good. We have to wait till next week to see if her sacrifice pays off.

I finished my evening with a totally silly and funny Psych.

I then went to bed and got up 12 and a half hours later.`

Dad, God and I are in trouble, 'Joan' is back

I need to get cable in the family room at Mom and Dad's ... for the sakes of both Dad and me.

It is usually not too bad in the summer because most shows are on break and all I really watch are shows that come on late, so Dad just goes to bed. But yesterday I discovered that Sci-Fi is running Joan of Arcadia reruns at 8 on Fridays.

Sci-Fi is showing the first season, when Joan was consistently good, not the second season when it became less special and started getting called "Joan the devil slayer" near the end. The first season was so good that I even was willing to overlook that a guy just out of high school could become fact checker and then reporter for the local newspaper. Journalism -- it's so easy anyone can do it! No training or editors required.

The pilot episode was last night.

I said for Dad's sake because he is more a Law & Order guy, with shows wrapped up in an hour. He doesn't like things that are serialized and he doesn't like shows that rely on unknowns and unsolved mysteries.

I said for my sake because this show, with God and a wheelchair user (the journalist), always makes me want to cry.

Here is what had me fighting tears last night (I got the transcript from here):

Thinking of her son, the wheelchair journalist, Helen, Joan's mom, asks a priest who is out in a parking lot collecting money - What is God thinking?
Priest - Excuse me?
Helen- What's He thinking? Um. What's He up too? You know, the parking lot version.
Priest - Well, it's not really something I'm prepared to answer.
Helen - Why not, you got the collar on. Says to the world you got some sorta handle on it.
Priest - What you're asking is complicated.
Helen - Well, give it a shot. Starting with why He lets people suffer? (The priest struggles to find the words) I'm putting you on the spot. Um, I'm sorry. I'll just be going. (Helen starts to walk away, then turns back and puts more money in the basket. She is nearly crying.) He's a father right? He's supposed to be a father. What father wouldn't fix his kids problems if He possible could? And He's master of the universe, so He's pretty capable. Is He out of ideas? Is He bored? What?
Priest - Maam, I can see youre in a spiritual crisis. (Helen laughs) and if you would like to make an appointment, you could come down to my parish, I would be more then happy to.
Helen - (cutting him off) No, no. I'm sorry, I'm pretty emotional right now. (She starts to walk away) Good luck with the homeless.
Priest - No, wait. Look, I'll pray for you.
Helen - Really! What will you say?
Priest - Help that emotional woman from the parking lot.
Helen - Ok. Sure. (She walks away)

Instead of crying, I opted for: "FUCK, yeah, Helen!"

Don't try suicide

Mom just told me that at least part of her Mother's Day will be spent with her brothers at a service for a family friend's son who killed himself.

Suicide always makes me feel so icky, mainly because I worry that some part of me will see it as a good answer to my problems. No, that's not right. Part of me already thinks suicide is a great answer to my problems. I worry that all of me will think suicide is the answer.

Don't worry, I am not going to do anything to myself. I don't trust everyone to take proper care of my toys and Claren, and who would give the comic industry my monthly stipend?

But how can "the big sleep" not appeal to me, someone who is always tired? Or to someone whose legs from the knees down are just one scrape after another from various falls or missteps?

I would never leave my family. That would be unfair to them after all they have done to me. I'd miss them, too.

Also, I am curious to see how this ends. Life is almost like a TV show in that regard, or a comic book, or any story. There are cliffhangers galore, and I want to see how they turn out. It just better all turn out awesome.

Tired and I didn't even give birth

As I was wandering around in a daze Friday at work (or should it be "wolling around"?), I put together just how much sleep a week of working late costs me. Just sleep, this does not count the other problems: like the "Dr. Who" episode I turned off with 15 minutes to go because I was too tired or the "Battlestar Galactica" episode I missed in its entirety, which I am watching now online, but few online shows have closed captioning and BSG is not one. It also doesn't take into account my stomach, which is just today getting back to normal.

I normally work 8 a.m. to 4 p.m. When I work late -- 11 a.m. to 7 p.m. -- I go to bed a half-hour to an hour later than my usual 10 and get up an hour later. That is about a half-hour a day gained. But I lose about a half-hour a day because I am not able to sleep on my trips much because it is later in the day.

The real pain is I lose my daily nap, 1.5 to 2.5 hours a day. By Friday I am lucky to be alive, having lost 7.5 or more hours total.

Maybe that explains why on Saturday, I slept till noon-ish and was still too tired to take a shower. My little sister tried to make me feel better by saying she had not showered much after she had her first baby. Of course, I don't have things shooting out of my womb. Heck, I don't even have a womb.

My name is Matt

I just watched a very special episode of "My Name is Earl." Actually, it wasn't that special; it was just wheelchair-centric, and at least the woman was a real wheelchair user.

Not only that, like me she is a challenged athlete, although she is a real one. Katy Sullivan - a bilateral above-knee amputee and U.S. Paralympic Track Team hopeful and now my favorite track star (sorry, S). She had a line that someone kiss sent a tingle down half her spine.

It was a funny episode, for me at least. I wonder if non-wheelchair users appreciated it as much.

Make me over, Ty

I applied to Extreme Makeover Home Edition last week.

It was very last minute. One of my sisters-in-law sent me an application that said they were looking for Virginia people. I kind of put it off and then finished it the day it was due.

We'll build a house, regardless, of course, but how cool would that be: to get a home built on TV. Here is the little story I wrote to show we are deserving. I wrote it with some help from my newspaper sister and some last minute editing and fact-checking from Mom. It is a little schmaltzy but not untrue at all, and it is from my heart.



When I was growing up in Falls Church, Va., I quickly got used to people saying: "Oh, you're Simone's grandson" or "Oh, I know your family."

Gram came to Virginia at 23 and made her home here. She married a man who built her a home in Falls Church , and she began to make the community her own.

She more than succeeded. I lived next to her for much of my life, and I never saw her turn away someone in need. Grandchildren, their friends, visiting students and many others took up residence in her back room when they needed a place to stay. One of my favorite stories about her "boarders" is about Mark. The police showed up at Gram's house to arrest Mark for something stupid he had done. Gram didn't hide him or anything like that; she just wanted to know if Mark could finish his dinner before the police took him off. To Gram's chagrin. Mark did not get to finish his hamburger pie.

When she died 16 months ago at 94, the number of people who gathered or wrote to say goodbye was incredible. Everyone, it seemed, had a story to tell about Gram's kindness and loving influence on them.

Even in death, Gram is a help to me. It used to drive me crazy that when she was alive, she used to say how alike we were in our abilities. Isn't it awful, she would say, that we have to rely on your mother to drive us anywhere. I could never point out to her that she was a 90-year-old woman who had lived a wonderful life and I am a thirty-something in a wheelchair with a ravaging genetic disease. Now, though, I can talk to someone who understands what I deal with.

And she is helping bring me back to the community I grew up in and giving me strength and comfort at the same time.

Gram loved everyone with a great heart, even my sister and me, the two youngest in our specific family, who probably got along the least well as young children and young teens. Then in college, we found out more about ourselves and about each other. Now we are the closest of all of the family in some ways.

We are about to become closer.

My brother T and I have a genetic condition called Freidriech's Ataxia. It's a progressive neuro-muscular condition that has landed us both in wheelchairs and affects very waking moment of our lives. For me, having a disability means having to struggle almost every second, whether it is to holding my head steady or swallowing water. T is married and lives with his wife in a fully accessible condo. I live in a condo that is kind of accessible about 30 minutes away from my parents, who do more than I can say to make my life flow as easily as possible. But it is far from easy. I take public transportation to my job, but it is not convenient or even safe sometimes so Mom or Dad drive out to drive me in some days and drive me home most days. Then there is the time I am alone. Every single thing I do requires many times the effort it would require a healthy person. I fall regularly and hurt myself. Alone.

Everything is about to get easier, or at least easier to deal with. My sister and her family plan to build a home on property we inherited from Gram, a home with an accessible apartment for me and a yard for my service dog My parents will be next door. I will again become "Simone's grandson," or maybe the torch has been passed and I will become known as "Joe D's uncle."

I know it won't solve all my problems, but it will be huge. I will have family and love seeping into me everywhere I turn. And I'll always have Gram.

Oh say can you wobble ...

I am thinking of asking my congressman to propose that Friedreich's ataxia be made the national disease.

It does not discriminate by race or sex, although I read that is rare among Africans and Asians. As long as you get two bad genes from your parents, though, you still win the effed-up life contest.

But I am not even thinking about FA's accessibility to everyone.

It is the way FA allows, encourages even, all your body parts to try to kill you. If that isn't a democratic disease worth celebrating like we do the bald eagle, I don't know what is.

If you name a body part, I will tell you of a nefarious plot to do me in, all of which so far have failed. Elbows: They get banged up on my chair and then I touch one somehow and wince. Wincing, of course, could unbalance me. But the Elbow Plot has been disarmed (HEE) by my seatbelt and tough-as-nails exterior, which allows me to ignore pain. (It's the interior that is as soft and vulnerable as a baby sea turtle just hatching.)

Last night my swallowing system made a run at me – twice; two of my shirts proudly gave their lives so I could live. It wasn't the coughing fits, I am used to them. So is everyone who knows me. Yesterday I started coughing so hard I spit a bunch of water on my desk. None of my nearby co-workers even bothered to look up. One who sits across the way did ask if I was OK. My 5-year-old niece also keeps a close eye when I cough. Well, unless her eyes are closed because she is laughing too hard. I really hope it is a nervous reaction or something; otherwise she is just mean.

I was on the floor brushing Claren and watching Psych last night when I took a sip of regular water (One of my rehab doctors recommended Thick-it, but c'mon! That just looks nasty). The coughing unbalanced me, and I fell, first on Claren, then on the cup of water. I squirmed to get out of the puddle of water and mostly succeeded. My shirtsleeve was wet, so I took my sweatshirt off and wiped up the rest of the water. Then I had Claren bring me a bottle of water using the Velma command – I keep the water right near my Velma action figure – and got resettled. I took a sip and was knocked over by more coughing, this time my long-sleeve T-shirt took the brunt, falling right into the pile of Claren hair that I had just brushed off her. Even after I got off as much hair as possible, I was still grizzly-esque (I tried to find someone to complete the phrase "I was still as hairy as …," but googling "hairy arms" gives you info on whether guys like gals with hairy arms).

My hope, then after all that, is to hear the National Anthem wind up like this: " O’er the land of the free, and the home of the FA."

What a game

I was going to write about walking into posts or my similarity to the Rock Bottom Remainders, but instead, it's Friday night and time for America's favorite game show "What body part screwed you over worst today, Matt?" (Yeah, we have to focus group that name; it's a little wordy.)

Contestant No. 1, are you ready to play?

Well, heck yeah, Wink. (Wink Martindale. Chuck Woolery is my second choice.) I am Matt's legs, and if anyone deserves the title, it's me. I mean, I am the one that gave out on him when he was transferring to his chair from his couch. Plus, I mean who kept him on the floor by continually slipping? That was all me.

Just a cotton picking minute there, Wink. It was not all the legs. Sure, they suck, but why in the name of God is Matt still wearing those shoes? They have no traction and are the real reason why he looked like one of the Banana Splits with all the sliding. You got to give it up for me, Matt's bladder. I am the one that all of a sudden had to go and got worse and worse while he was on the floor. And did you see that arc? Matt looked like a damn Greek fountain there, well except he was lying on the ground.

Whoa, there, babe. You mention that beautiful arc? That was all me, Matt's brain. I am the one who had the brilliant idea to pee in a water bottle, which I still say was awesome. If the bottle was not three-quarters full before we started, it would have totally worked. It is not my fault he filled the bottle and then had more to do.


I really, really wish this was not true, but it is. Well except the part about the talking body parts and it's not North America's favorite game show. Ever hear of a little thing called Press Your Luck?

So what did I do? I dealt with it, like I always do.

I finally got into my chair and then the bathroom. I changed my clothes, going commando briefly since no shorts were handy. Then I put things in the wash, wiped up the floor, washed the floor with vinegar, put the rags in the wash and had dinner.

Surprisingly enough, there was minimal cursing. I did think about this comic strip one of my sisters emailed me.

How am I supposed to ask anyone to be friends with me? I don't want to live in my pee-soaked world; why would anyone else? It sure seems too much to ask anyone anyway.

Putting a hurting on folklore

Doorways are very liminal. You know, a threshold between worlds and dimensions and such, a place full of the uncertain.

I learned this in my Scandinavian folklore class at college years ago. As I recall, newly married women and dead people did not pass through doorways in some cultures. The dead people got passed out a window. I forget about the brides.

The liminality of doorways was hammered home a few years ago when Phoebe, the third-cutest Halliwell sister, was transferred to another dimension when she passed through a doorway on Charmed.

Two quick asides: I just searched Television Without Pity to find the episode of Charmed, and apparently doorways were used like every other episode to effect change. And for all you curious minds, it goes Piper, Prue, Phoebe and Paige.

It seems, then, that doorways can be dangerous places. I know about that. I doubt there is any doorway I use regularly without a black smudge at wheelchair arm level and a scrape at footrest level.

With the doorway danger in mind, I decided to take decisive action, to show my bedroom doorway who's boss, to shock and awe that sucker.

Actually, I was hungry and still half-asleep after my nap tonight when I bashed into the doorway and ripped part of the frame several inches out of the doorway itself.

I'm not ready to go to another dimension or be attacked by dimension-travelers or whatever

Maybe I need a new remote

I cannot decide if the visions of Chuck Norris (the reason why Waldo is hiding) bouncing through my head are good or bad, but Walker, Texas Ranger is stuck in there.

Once again, my remote failed. I don't think it was batteries this time either.

I turned on the TV in the bedroom the box and sat on the floor to brush Claren while I watched Psych. Then House came on and I was trapped. It seemed an interesting one , and Riley from Buffy was the patient. I never actually was a huge Riley fan; mostly it was jealousy -- he played Buffy's post-Angel serious boyfriend. But now out of love of Buffy I had to watch.

I got into bed without checking the remote. It had worked Wednesday night. By Friday, it was dead apparently, and after recalling the struggle to turn the TV off last time, I just tried to ignore it and go to bed.

That worked ... until I woke up at 6 and Walker's friends were infiltrating an old-age home and you knew they were going to get caught and that Walker would have to save the day.

But I could not watch because I had to get up and feed Claren. So I have been imagining the fight since.

Explain this, please

I see my neighbor so little, one might wonder if she maybe is avoiding me. After tonight, we can remove the "maybe."

As I was heading out to walk Claren, Carissa came out. (I only remember her name because it reminds me of Clarissa, who explained it all.) My neighbor, without the "L," had a brace on her forearm.

I asked what had happened and she said she fell. She said she was going tomorrow to get the X-ray results, but she didn't think it was broken. She didn't sound all that broken up by it (hee), and when I said sorry, she said: "It's OK, what are you going to do?"

I really replied: "Yeah, I know about falls."

Nervous laughter and a "yeah" ensued.

At least I didn't tell her this:

I was cold this morning. I don't know why because it is so nice out I didn't even where a coat to work. Still, I was cold, so I stayed in the shower too long. I also was in the shower extra because my new bottle of shampoo didn't just have a cap, it had a seal, which I had to peel off with my teeth.

I don't know if that is why I fell – because I was hurrying. I don't know why I fell; I just did. I swept half the stuff off my sink on the way down, too, as I tried to catch myself. It didn't work. I hit the ground, and my head smacked the toilet, luckily I hit the plastic seat parts, not the porclien. But I had some trouble getting up. There was lots of howling, and I called myself or my legs a word that I am not sure even exists but sounds really bad. I didn't really want to shimmy up the wheelchair backward because I was shirtless and that would cause scratches from hell. I finally got up but was so tired.

I went to brush my teeth and my brand new electric toothbrush was dead. It works tonight, but seriously it was powerless this morning. I dragged the dead toothbrush across my teeth a few times, then put on my shirt and went to zip up my pants, and no, I also don't know why I did it in that order. The zipper was totally wedged down in the pants fabric and would need pliers to get out. No time for that, though, because at that point my ride called to say it was outside. I rushed to the kitchen, grabbed some food (not even my normal breakfast muffins) and left. That is actually why I didn't have my coat, not because it was really warm.

I was more or less on time for my ride – it had called early – and we left by 7:10 a.m. for another pickup. We got there in five minutes and waited until 7:45 a.m. I rushed, nearly killed myself, left my coat and preferred breakfast all so I could sit in a GODDAMN bus for 30 minutes. Clarissa would have had an explanation. But I sure don't.

Aquaman is no virgin

It is with some embarrassment that I admit I spent almost 20% of my waking hours this weekend watching "The 40-year-old Virgin."

I was not checking for discrepancies, Smartie, I am only 36. And I wasn't watching to see his awesome action figure collection, though Mego Aquaman is tops on my want list.

It's not like I had never even seen it before. I saw it when it first came out in the theater.

I spent more than a little time watching it because it is quite funny and more than that I was astonished at all I had missed in the theater.

I know my hearing is bad, but I followed the movie in the theater and thought it was funny. It wasn't till I watched it with captioning that I heard Andy tell Aquaman they were sending him to a farm "So, you and other Aquamen can run around and play in the Aquafields." There was also the confusion between "butt" and "but."

I could point out more hilarious scenes (I missed the Jewish kid in the sex-ed session), but it would get difficult with Mom reading this. Let me just state for the record that not being able to hear is one of the worst symptoms of this crappy disease.

Don't believe me about the 20% number? Let's say that the weekend lasts from when one gets home on Friday to when one goes to bed on Sunday. I got home Friday at 7:30 and went to bed about 11:30, four hours. Saturday I slept till 12:30 and went to bed about 11:30, 11 hours. I got up about 6:30 Sunday and went to bed about 11:30, 17 hours. This, of course, does not take into account the naps I took on Saturday and Sunday. That is about 32 hours waking total. Of those I probably spent six watching "Virgin." Six divided by 32 equals 18.75%.

Suck on this, depression

On a day when my antidepressant was getting back up to speed, a friend provided me almost all the energy and good feelings I needed.

I told her yesterday that my Thanksgiving was good but had ended poorly. I forgot to take some medicine, I told her, and felt horrible. She asked if I was OK and I told her yeah, except for my throbbing head.

She said she never knows how I feel because I always seem happy, more or less. I didn't hear her that well. I could not believe this, not because some was saying I seem happy (well, not just that) but because I has been meaning to talk to her about this very thing.

I was reading something she wrote last week about superheroes. She was talking about how we all have so much capacity for saving others, how there is courage in love.

The next night one of the aunts on "Pushing Daisies" talked about the heroism of a smile. "Daisies" probably strikes some people as hokey; I love it. Everyone is nice and kind, and Chuck is one of the cutest dead girls I have seen. It is a tossup between her and George. Why do cute dead girls have guy names?)

I told my friend I would rather have a cooler superpower than appearing happy but you take what you can get.

When I struggle with unhappiness, Mom tells me to smile even so. Not to ignore my feelings but for practice, she says, and who knows I might get used to it.

I guess I am getting used to it.

"I have never seen you not make the most of a day," my friend wrote me when I IM'd her to thank her. It was like when another friend called me "vibrant." These people see in me more than I realized was there.

Pretty astounding.