However Although Thus Several Several

Eulogy for my daddy - one year later

Today marks one year since my daddy left this earth. In some ways it seems like he left yesterday - the pain still so fresh at times that it stops me in my tracks. Other times I remember that he started fading away months, maybe years before he left, so living without him seems more normal (what even is normal?). 

So anyway, I decided to remember/honor him here today by publishing the eulogy I wrote that was read at his funeral. He actually had two funerals (of course, Bill Markham had two funerals) - one smaller service in Alabama (that's where this eulogy was read) and later, a service at the Chattanooga National Cemetery where his ashes are buried. Both services were overwhelmingly emotional for me and I remember the most random details from each one (that's another post for another day), but mostly what I remember is this feeling of being surrounded by light and love. It's difficult to describe, but it was everything at the same time - beautiful, broken, awful, sweet, gut-wrenching, uplifting - all the feels. And that's exactly how this year has been for me. As recently as yesterday, a stranger contacted me on Facebook to say he had just heard that my dad had died and that he worked with my dad years ago and loved him. He talked, as so many people have, about what a mentor my dad was to him as he was starting out in the news business. I hear it all the time and it still means so much to me that people want me to know that they also loved Bill Markham. 

Here's the eulogy - you'll need to excuse the formatting - it's in this format to make it easier for the minister to read. And there's one more grandchild now. And his sweet dog, Bruster, passed away last week. Other than that, it's still pretty accurate. Especially the parts about how much we love him and miss him. 

William (Bill) Markham, age 76, passed peacefully into Heaven surrounded by his loving family early Monday, April 15th at his home in Decatur. Bill, a veteran of the United States Navy, was born in 1942 in Huntsville and is preceded in death by his parents, Odis and Estelle Markham.

Bill is survived by

• His wife of 35 years, Gail Rodgers Markham
• Five children:

1. Mandy Markham Johnson and her husband, Phillip, of Tuscaloosa, AL
2. Marianne Markham of Moody, AL
3. Matthew Markham and his wife, Amanda, of Murfreesboro, TN
4. Stephanie Gamble Greenlee of Chattanooga, TN
5. Veronica Gamble Pettus and her husband Patrick of Hartselle, AL

• 14 grandchildren
• And his loyal canine companion, Bruster.

Bill also leaves behind:

• A number of cousins and other family members who were more like close friends,
• Many close friends who were more like family members,
• Several co-workers who were also friends,
• Hundreds of friends and acquaintances he made along the way,
• And thousands of viewers who felt like they were his friends even if they never met him in person.

Bill was the evening news anchor and Crimestoppers reporter for WRCB-TV in Chattanooga, Tennessee from 1983 until his retirement in 2009. Bill and his co-anchor, Cindy Sexton, were one of the longest-running television news teams in the nation.

Bill began his career in radio in his home state of Alabama and later switched to television – reporting and anchoring in:

Montgomery, Alabama

Huntsville, Alabama

Paducah, Kentucky

West Palm Beach, Florida

Baltimore, Maryland

and Nashville, Tennessee

Upon his retirement and to mark his 25 years of service at WRCB, Chattanooga Mayor Ron Littlefield and Hamilton County Mayor Claude Ramsey proclaimed November 24, 2008 as "Bill Markham Day" in the city and county. The proclamation included some of Bill’s biggest achievements while working at WRCB including:

• His promotion and support of the annual Pat Boone Bethel Bible Village golf tournament that raised thousands of dollars to benefit the children of Bethel Bible Village
• His service on the frontlines of the annual Share Your Christmas food drive that collected an estimated two million pounds of food for the area's hungry
• And his dedication to solving hundreds of crimes in the Chattanooga area through his weekly Crimestoppers reports.

That same proclamation also mentioned Bill’s impressive tie collection and the fact that he had his own clothing section in the Channel 3 newsroom. Some estimate Bill owned over 800 ties when he retired. His family can assure you that his shoe collection was equally impressive. Bill’s fashion sense was legendary. His mentor and friend, Alex Dryfoos, who owned WPEC where Bill worked in West Palm Beach, said that Bill always looked pristine on the air. Alex wondered for months how Bill could have such an impeccably ironed white shirt night after night. He said he later realized that Bill never tucked in his shirts and he often wore shorts instead of pants with his coat and tie. “Fortunately,” said Alex, “he sat behind a news desk.”

Bill was best known in the news business for being easy-going and fun to work with. Or maybe he was best known for his great stories. Bill had some great stories. He was a natural storyteller and he entertained everyone in the newsroom daily with funny tales and accounts of his adventures. We could spend all day here sharing Bill Markham stories, but you’re here because you know those stories already. You’ve likely heard each of them more than a few times. The stories and the memories of Bill telling them will live on forever in the hearts of those who loved him. Channel 3 reporter David Karnes said, "Bill Markham was one of the kindest, least egotistical newsmen I have ever known. He was gracious, quick with a joke loved his family, and loved his city. He will be hugely missed by the WRCB family and by the city he loved."

And oh how Chattanooga loved Bill. The viewer comments and stories keep pouring into WRCB this week – all indicating that Bill never met a stranger and that he was kind and respectful to everyone. The stories, the tributes, and the thoughts and prayers have overwhelmed his family with love, but they were not at all surprised by the number of lives Bill touched.

More important to Bill than any of his work achievements and career accolades were his family and friends. He loved his wife and children deeply and enjoyed spending time with them. His daughter Mandy said, “Our dad had a huge and magnetic personality. He was funny and adventurous with a lightning-quick wit and infectious laugh. There was rarely a day spent with him that didn’t leave a great story to be shared, a physical scar to show off or a memory to cherish. He made me ride every roller coaster, jump off every diving board, and try every food at least once – resulting in great lessons in self-confidence and fearlessness.”

In addition to ties and shoes, Bill loved Alabama football, country music (real country music – not the new stuff), cars – buying them, selling them and racing them, dogs, vacations, homemade mashed potatoes and coconut cake. He enjoyed golfing with Don, boating, fishing, playing practical jokes, and riding motorcycles. He never turned down the opportunity to meet for breakfast at the Waffle House or the chance to take a quick nap.

Bill waged a brave battle against amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS) also known as Lou Gehrig’s disease. It’s a progressive disease that affects nerve cells in the brain and spinal cord. With no known cause or cure, ALS challenges the human spirit and tests the courage of everyone touched by this devastating disease. Bill, the bigger-than-life husband, father, grandfather and friend faced ALS with his typical courageous and positive attitude. He remained grateful for the life he had lived and he cherished time with his loved ones until his last breath.

Bill would be the first to tell you he lived a wonderful life. Just days before he died, he told Gail and Mandy that good and amazing things had happened to him all his life. His son Matt said that Bill seemed to always be just a step ahead and in the perfect place at the perfect time while pointing out that in his dad’s case, “wonderful life” was really an understatement.

So in typical Bill Markham style, Bill Markham is once again a step ahead and in the perfect place at the perfect time. We can carry on because we know we will see him again one day and we’re sure he will have some really good stories when we get there.

Note: If you want to see more photos of all of us (we're all pretty cute thanks to him) and/or want to leave a tribute or memory, please visit billmarkhamlegacy.com.

My daddy: He's kind of a big deal.

For over a year I tried to decide on something special for my dad's 70th birthday. Do I buy a fancy gift? Do I throw a party?  Do I make a scrapbook? In some ways he's easy to buy for. I know his style pretty well, and usually if I like something - he likes it, too. But he has everything he needs and more. So no regular old gift would do. I knew that a party would be difficult to pull off given his birthday falls in August which is quite possibly the busiest month of my life every year. And since his retirement a few years ago, Daddy's just as likely on any given day to be in Chattanooga, Tennessee as he is in DeLand, Florida. So no party. Seeing as how I never had finished the scrapbook from his 60th birthday party, I didn't think it would be appropriate to start a new one. So no scrapbook. 

If you know Bill, you know that he has a plethora of friends. Friends all over the country. Hundreds of friends. He's met many people over his years in TV, and he rarely loses touch with the people he likes. The one thing that all these friends have in common is the fact that they all have a story or two (or 10 or 12) about the time they spent with my dad. I love that he has always been the funny one, the sarcastic one, the practical joker, and the most memorable one in any group. So I decided that there were probably lots of folks out there who would love to wish Daddy a happy birthday, and there were probably lots of folks he would enjoy hearing from on his big day. So I created this two-sided card to mail to over a hundred friends and family members. The bottom portion of the card is actually a detachable stamped and addressed postcard that could be used for writing a little note or birthday wish to my dad. I encouraged recipients to share their favorite Bill story, and I gave them a suggested timeframe for mailing the postcard.

Daddy and Gail were on vacation in Hawaii the weeks prior to his birthday, so my hope was that his mailbox would be full of greetings when he returned. And boy, was it! He was very surprised, and he loved reading all the cards he got. In fact, he had so many cards, I decided to make a little book for him to keep them in.

My favorite postcards were the ones from the grandchildren. Like this one from sweet Sissy:

The stories and memories shared on the cards were great fun. He heard from friends he hadn't talked with in years. I loved that he enjoyed it so much. 

PJ, Bobbie Jo, and I wanted to see Daddy and Gail on his birthday, but we weren't sure if they would be in Florida or Tennessee, so we couldn't plan very far in advance. Once we figured out where they would be, we arranged with my brother, Matt, and his wife, Shannon, to meet up in Chattanooga and surprise Daddy with a weekend visit. We just donned our celebratory tutus and party hats, and rang the doorbell. He was shocked, to say the least.

It was a great weekend with delicious cake (to match the cards) and visiting with special friends and family. 

So I managed to pull it off. I'm pretty sure it was a fun birthday for him, and I had a great time putting it all together. Oh, and I even finished that scrapbook from his 60th birthday! I wrapped it up, and gave it to him as his gift. Thankfully, we all look just as good 10 years later. 

Happy Birthday, sweet Daddy. I love you. 

Before I die I want to...

Remember my confession about being a little too focused on death and grief lately? Yeah, well, this woman took the same problem and did something really amazing.

When I grow up - I want to be Candy Chang.

 

Channeling Carrie Bradshaw

Today was one of those perfect almost fall kind of days...amber sun shining, big puffy clouds, deep blue sky, and a temperature that's just a notch or two cooler than it has been in months. It was the kind of day that Alabamians use to reassure themselves that summer will indeed end at some point. You know, it's like Mother Nature tossing us a bone. 

These are the days that I most love working on a college campus. The hustle and bustle of students hurrying to class; professors gathered in small groups chatting over coffee; bicycles and buses whizzing by; squirrels acting a fool on the Quad - it's all a bit magical in the fall. And so I typically choose to walk to meetings and classes on these days so that I can soak it all in. Breaking free from my windowless dungeon of an office is a treat any time, but on a day like today, I was downright gleeful as I started my trek across campus for my 2:00 class. I mean, who wouldn't be giddy to be counted among Alabama's best and brightest? For a few minutes I can go back in time to the glorious Samford days...when I was one of the preppy sorority girls meandering through life with all my beautiful friends...

I was thinking as I stepped on to the sidewalk that I really should try to lighten my load. I tend to carry way too much stuff in my hands. I had both my Vera bag (with my MacBook Pro in it) and my ridiculously heavy purse on my shoulder. I also had my phone in one hand and my Tervis tumbler of unsweet tea in the other. "Maybe I should stop by my car and drop some of this off," I thought to myself. Before I had a chance to make a decision on that, though, I began to lose my balance. "Oh God, NO. I am not falling. NO." I started to panic. The sidewalk was crowded with students. Young, beautiful students. Students who were having no trouble with their balance. "Do NOT let this happen. Do not fall." I kept walking trying to steady myself. Then I knew it was going to happen, and I knew I wouldn't be able to prevent it. 

All six feet of me went sailing through the air and landed face down and flat on the sidewalk. My bags flew one way. My phone ended up in the street. My Tervis rolled up the sidewalk. I'm pretty sure I screamed like a girl when I was falling. Three students stopped to help me. Thirty or so looked on in horror. I jumped up rather quickly while two young men gathered my belongings and repeatedly asked if I was OK. They really were sweet, but I couldn't even express my gratitude because all I really wanted was for the ground to open up and suck me in.

It wasn't until I was several hundred feet away that I realized the palms of my hands and my elbows were bleeding. My right knee was throbbing. (This is the same knee that my doctor stuck with the world's largest needle of cortisone last week.) I made it to the building where my class meets, and tried to cobble myself back together in the ladies' room with the two Hello Kitty bandaids I managed to find in that ridiculously heavy purse.

As I was leaving the restroom I overheard a young lady telling her friend, "My mawmaw fell down the stairs this weekend." 

 

She's scootching

I wish grace and healing were more abracadabra kind of things. Also, that delicate silver bells would ring to announce grace's arrival. But no, it's clog and slog and scootch, on the floor, in the silence, in the dark. - Anne Lamott Grace (Eventally): Thoughts on Faith

"Well, if that's your thing then go with it. Write about that."

This was her answer to my reason excuse for not writing lately. I was explaining that I felt like every time I show up at the page (or the Mac, in this case), I write about death or the emotions, circumstances and general crazy surrounding death.

“Ahhh,” she said, “Grief.” 

Yes. Grief.  It hangs there over my head like one of those speech balloons in a comic strip. It showed up when my mother died, and has lingered far too long. And so, for the last few years, everything I write seems heavy with sadness. Everything I say sounds like something an old woman would say.

Just as I would start to feel a little better – something else would happen. There was the tornado. And then PJ’s daddy died, and then Bobbie Jo’s brother, Wesley, died, and then my Gran Gran died. I started to worry all the time about my own mortality. I began to imagine the worst if PJ was even five minutes later coming home than usual. Maybe he had a wreck. Or I would flip out if I didn’t hear from Bobbie Jo after work. What if she’d been shot? Oh dear God, what if PJ was in a fiery crash because he was driving recklessly on his way home to let me know Bobbie Jo had been shot?  Holy Mother of God. It went on and on and on. It was maddening.

 “Right,” she said. “That’s anxiety.”

Yes. Anxiety. It smothers me like an itchy wool blanket. It showed up when I was too young to know it was even there. I don’t remember a time that I didn’t feel like everything I accomplish just isn’t good enough. Or that everything I love seems likely to slip away while I’m not paying attention.

She didn’t bring up the subject of depression per se. I think we were just focusing on the recurring symptoms at this point. I realize my depression isn’t likely to just go away.

Yes, depression. We’ve talked about this before. It’s quite likely the root of all of my issues. And it’s the reason I found myself this day sitting across from my therapist spouting off a long list of reasons why I haven’t blogged. My not blogging (or not writing in a journal or not crafting/creating) is a red flag. It’s the notice to me (and everyone who knows me well -all 3 or 4 of you) that something is wrong. That I’m headed down the rabbit hole.

So maybe the way out is to write about it. Maybe that’s what I’ve been trying to do here. Although I haven’t posted anything in over a year, I’ve written many things that I abandoned midway through for fear my voice had become maudlin. I worried I was becoming the Joan Didion of blogging. (Not that this would be a bad gig – I rather love her work.) But I started finding it difficult to read my own stuff. After all, I was trying to cheer up. The cynical ramblings of a melancholy middle-aged woman with clinical depression and free-floating anxiety were not helping.

Is the fact that I’m here today any indication that I’m getting better? I think so. I’ve made conscious decisions to focus on the happier things in life, and I’ve made real efforts to nurture the more positive relationships in my world. I finally made a decision about grad school, and took a year off from the doctoral program. I’m back now, and I will finish my course work next semester. We recently bought a house in a super cute historic neighborhood, so I’ve been enjoying all the Pinterest hopping and magazine flipping that comes with decorating a new space. I’ve gotten healthier (and thankfully, leaner) from a physical standpoint as well by upping my protein intake and lowering my wine intake.  My doctor hasn’t changed the medication I take for depression and anxiety in years. We discussed and considered increasing my dose at one point during all this, but I wanted to try and just work on it all from a more cognitive or emotional angle. I’m not sure why I decided to handle it this way – I think it took much longer than it would have had I just let an increase in medication balance me out. And I’m not even sure that I’m completely out of the woods yet.

Just yesterday on the way home from work I was listening to 70s on 7 when I heard “Come Monday.” Immediately I was in the passenger seat of my mother’s 1972 red Malibu Classic sitting at the light at Parkway East and Roebuck Drive. She was singing along. A year ago this memory would have left me in a sobbing mess. My evening would have been ruined. But yesterday, I sang along, and remembered her tan legs on the white vinyl seats and that she had her flip-flops at her side just in case she needed shoes for some reason. (She rarely wore shoes in the summer. We spent most of our time by the pool.) And I was OK with that memory. My evening wasn’t ruined at all. I didn’t even think about it again until I sat down here at the Mac today. 

So maybe I’m back.  I hope so. I have to admit - I've kinda missed me. 

This one time when I was visiting my dad...

Did I mention I went skydiving? I'm thinking I did not. Because that was a Monday, and we came home on a Tuesday, and then the very next day was the tornado. So the roller coaster of emotions that week set me back a little. To say the least. 

I made this little book and ordered it today from Shutterfly. If you see a big blank white space below it's because you don't have Flash so just click on the link at the bottom to see the book. I have a video, too. Maybe I will share that later. It's pretty awesome if I do say so myself.

I love creating photo books with Shutterfly. It's a quick and easy way to satisfy my scrapbooking urge when I don't have the time or space to drag out all the scrappy stuff.

I will look at this book when I need to be reminded that I can do anything.

Any. Thing. 

 

 

Click here to view this photo book larger

 

Words when there really are none

There’s a bit of guilt that comes along with escaping any harm or damage from a random natural disaster like the killer tornado that ripped through here 12 days ago. Guilt? I’m not sure how else to describe it. It’s not like I’m wishing that our home had been reduced to mere rubble or thinking I should have died in the place of one of the 41 people who did, but more like an aching sense that something is not fair about it all. 

Why do innocent and sweet babies die? Why should young and beautiful students experience such horror or even die such terrifying deaths? Why are those who already live in the projects struggling just to get by forced to deal with the most destruction and left with absolutely nowhere to call home? Why are the most historic of neighborhoods able to disappear from the map in less than a minute? 

I have no answers, of course, but that doesn’t stop me from fretting over the questions. My stomach and my heart are still in knots. It’s almost more than I can bear to watch. I know it has been said a thousand times, but really, the pictures don’t do it justice. To see the destruction with your own eyes is surreal. It’s impossible to describe. So I won’t try. 

There are two specific moments, though, that stand out for me in all that has transpired since that day. The night of the tornado, I had a really tough time getting home. It’s a crazy story that I do want to tell at some point, but for now, let’s just say I was terrified. So there I was trying to get home, and I ended up on this road that I soon realized was impassable. There were literally hundreds of people walking in one direction – all with these dazed and twisted looks on their faces - some in pajamas, some in nothing but pants, some with shoes, some without. Some had children and pets following along with them. I don’t know why but my car windows were down, so the screaming and crying was really loud. One large woman in a tight knit yellow dress looked at me and yelled, “You can’t go down there! People are dead down there! DEAD! People are dead!” Then she kept on walking, barefoot and waving her hands in the air. I wanted to vomit. The next day I figured out I had been just up the street from Rosedale Court – the housing project where many lives were lost and almost every home was completely destroyed. Again, I wanted to vomit.

Two days later, PJ and I took supplies to Rosedale Baptist Church. A row of old houses next to the church also had major damage. Many of the houses were left as just walls with no roof and no belongings, many were just piles of wood and brick. One house had its top level sliding off the front of it as if it had been sliced with a knife that stopped just short of finishing the job. There was no roof on this house, no front door, no windows. You could see the attic of the house because it was now dangling above the porch. In the attic was a Christmas tree, complete with fake snow on the branches. Beside the front porch in a lawn chair sat an elderly woman with bandages on her arms. She was just sitting there watching people come and go. This was her home, and I could tell by the look in her eyes that she was not leaving. She was there to protect what was left – even if all that was left was a cheap artificial tree and a rickety old lawn chair. 

I haven’t cried yet. I’m afraid if I start, I may never stop. 

The worst part for PJ and me right now is feeling like we want to help, but not ever feeling like what we do is enough. So we do what we can and we pray. How can you help? Please pray for these people. Please consider giving to the Mid-Alabama region of The American Red Cross to help. 

And right now - please tell those people that you love how you feel. I believe more than ever that we are not guaranteed a tomorrow. I will never be the same as a result of this. And I think the sweetest way to honor those who lost their lives that night is to learn to live like we are dying.

Love deeper, speak sweeter…

 

Fair Trade

"The price of anything is the amount of life you exchange for it."   Henry Thoreau

I’m pretty sure we’ve discussed this before since I seem to have this unending chatter going on in my head about what I’m trading or giving up in life in order to accomplish this or that. The “this or that” I’m currently pondering is more accurately described as a PhD. I’m in my second year of classes – a somewhat critical point for me since I feel like completing another semester or two would mean there’s no turning back. I mean, who in their right mind would spend that much time and energy only to quit just before obtaining the illustrious prize? I realize plenty of people get all the way to the end of course work and never finish a dissertation…it’s actually pretty common. But that’s not gonna be me. The looming dissertation seems like a piece of cake to me. It’s the course work that’s killing me. The sitting in a classroom listening to excruciatingly boring lectures, the reading of chapter after chapter of blah, blah, blah, and the pretending to be impressed or enlightened by any of what I’m hearing or reading. I’m not saying I haven’t learned a lot because I certainly have. I’m just saying I don’t really care all that much about what I’ve learned. I think I’m supposed to be more interested than I am. I think I’m even supposed to be somewhat passionate about what I’m studying, but truth be told - I’m not. And that concerns me for several reasons - not the least of which is the amount of time I’m spending on it all.

Time.

Let’s talk about time, shall we?

A couple of weeks ago Bobbie Jo and I took the four nieces to The Great Pumpkin Patch for a day of adventure. It was one of those gorgeous October Saturdays that makes you acutely aware of your surroundings and causes you to remember every other beautiful fall day you’ve ever spent outside in the loveliness. I caught myself daydreaming about childhood afternoons spent crunching around in the leaves with my neighborhood peeps, remembering crazy fun nights at the Alabama State Fair with my high school pals, and reminiscing about autumn evenings sitting on the front steps of Vail dorm making out with my boyfriend when I should have been studying. Certainly you know the kind of stuff I’m talking about. It’s the kind of stuff that makes up our lives – the time spent. Time spent with those we love.

So anyway, we’re at the pumpkin patch and I’m a little overwhelmed by it all. Here are these four beautiful children who are just so open to love and fun and...life! They were just soaking up every minute of it all without even knowing it. And the things they say and do all remind me of the things we all said and did as children. Their laughter, and even their whining, is all too familiar. More than once I felt like my heart was going to jump out of my body and dance around in the pumpkins. For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t thinking about a paper that was due tomorrow or a book I was supposed to read in less than a week. I wasn’t thinking about anything. I was just with those children and Bobbie Jo in that moment. It was brief, but it was oh so powerful. Over the last couple of weeks, every time I think about whether or not I should register for spring semester classes, I’m reminded of that afternoon at the pumpkin patch. I’ve wondered why the two were connected, and the only thing I can figure is that what I’m really trying to decide is if the price of a PhD is worth the amount of my life I’m exchanging for it. Is the time I’m spending worth the end result? I wish I could say I’ve had a revelation and I know what I’m going to do, but that’s not the case. I’m stuck. It’s not as simple a decision as I would like for it to be, but nothing ever is with me. (I’m cursed in that way.) Maybe if I were excited about what I’m studying I wouldn’t even stop to wonder if I should go on. Maybe if I knew I could have 10 more afternoons in a pumpkin patch with those girls I would give up the idea of a PhD. I don’t know. I guess that’s the real problem with time, isn’t it? We don’t ever know how much of it is left.

I would be willing to bet, though, that it’s not nearly enough. 

 

I make no promises

I'm a list person. Surely, you know the type - I make a list for everything. For example, I just made a list while waiting on coffee at Starbucks, and here's what it says:

• wash clothes
• read
• buy father's day cards
• post to blog
• finish uploading 365
• buy wallflowers

Because I was extensively trained in the Franklin Covey sort of way, I will prioritize this list with the ABC method, and I will go about checking things off as I do them. What doesn't get done today will get an arrow (i.e. -->) beside it which means I will move that task to the next day's list. I typically finish all the A priority tasks in a day, and I usually finish most B's, but the C's? Not so much. It's rare that I get to a C task. Suffice it to say that "post to blog" and "finish uploading 365" have been C's for a while now. And so that's why I haven't posted very much. 

I had a roommate in college who told me my lists were annoying. She claimed I was "showing off" because I would have these legal pad pages all scattered everywhere with lists. At that time, I didn't use the ABC method, I just drew a line through things I had accomplished. So there were these long lists of all the things I had done in a day staring her in the face while she watched All My Children and flipped through the latest issue of Vogue. Here's the thing, though - I wrote all sorts of things on those lists - and not just stuff I needed to do. The most mundane and insignificant of tasks went on the list, and the majority of the time, random thoughts went on the list, too. Once I had pondered the random thought for a moment, I would mark it off the list. For instance, I recently found a list I had made in college inside an old journal. Here's what it said:

• Shower
• Class
• LAURA!
• Mktg reading
• Work  2-6
• Where's my bangle?
• CFA or EC?

I've spent several days wondering what was so exciting about Laura that day that made her deserve all caps and an exclamation point. Because I have to tell you - I do not like exclamation points. Additionally, did I have a bangle? Is that a bracelet? And if so, how did I lose it? Why don't I remember it? I must have found it because I marked it off the list. 

And seriously, did I really need to put "shower" on the list? And "class?" I mean, why did I need to be reminded to take a shower and go to class? What else mattered then? (Thankfully, both tasks have a line through them.)

What has driven me the craziest is the last thing on the list: "CFA or EC?" What is that code for? I've tossed it around in my head for days, fallen asleep at night thinking about it, and even tried writing it down to see if I could remember. 

Nothing.

Well, today, in the middle of a very long lecture on the effectiveness of various pedagogies in higher education, it hit me. 

Chick-Fil-A or El Chico? 

HA! 

Where did I want to eat after work? Chick-Fil-A or El Chico? 

It's marked off the list, so I'm assuming I finally decided. I'm also assuming I chose El Chico because it's rare that I turn down an opportunity for a chip or a margarita. 

Oh, that life were so simple still. 

But hey, I can mark "post to blog" off my list now. 

By the way, I hope my former roommate is reading this, and I hope she is annoyed. 

Disco will survive

I'm currently sitting in the hall waiting on class to start and eavesdropping on an undergrad psychology course. The professor just played Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive" for the class and they're analyzing the lyrics. Based on the comments being made the majority of these students have NEVER even heard this song. One girl just asked, "Is this woman still alive?" The professor was very concerned and asked if she wanted to know if the character (woman proclaiming she will survive) is still alive or if Gloria Gaynor is still alive. Of course that completely confused everyone. And now they're off on the subject of dead disco singers. No one knows the answer about Gloria, by the way.
I feel like busting in there and performing the entire song for them complete with dance moves and drama.
Instead I will finish my reading.