Tomorrow my mom will have been gone 25 years.  I have officially been without her in my life longer than I was with her.  Which is weird.  And sad.  And sometimes it’s just nothing.

There are times when I can’t really remember what she was like in the everyday sense.  I have an image of her sashaying into a room, running a hand through her auburn hair and smiling as if she owned the room.  And she did.

She had what we kids called the “Dody strut.” We would tease her about the way she’d walk; as if she were on a runway, head held high, working the room.

I was in my freshman year of college when she was diagnosed with colon cancer.  She was 53. At the time she was diagnosed the doctors said she had a few months to live.  She survived for six more years due to sheer willpower.  At least that’s what I believe.  She fought that disease with her strength and faith until her last dying day.  By the time she passed away that tumor was literally growing outside of her body.

She complained once to her doctor, asking him why she had to go through chemo and radiation, countless surgeries and mildly succesful experimental treatments, more so than other patients it seemed to her.  He answered her point-blank, “Because my other patients are dead.”  She didn’t complain again.

To be able to be positive and feel lucky while going through such suffering is a gift.  And she had it.  She made cancer look easy.  She ingrained that idea so much into the four of us it was difficult to accept she was actually sick. When you are in the midst of an illness it is hard to see it clearly.  My mom had been so strong for so long that near the end none of us realized it WAS the end. And when your mom tells you she’s going to be okay, you believe her; it doesn’t matter how old you are.  It’s still your mom and you just believe her.  When she went on hospice I was more in shock than you should be when your mom has been slowly dying for six years.  But it’s hard to see the truth so close up.

Here is the truth I do know:

She was competitive.  Like, annoyingly competitive.  Like, let’s-check-the-dictionary-and-then-the-official-rules-to-the-game-so-we-can-prove-that-I-am-right-and-won-the-game sort of competitive.  She would have loved Google.

She had a great sense of humor.  Not only did she appreciate the humor of someone else, she could be funny herself, which wasn’t easy when you were married to someone as quick-witted as my dad.

She spoke her mind without worrying about the consequences.  She would stand up for what she believed in even if it wasn’t the popular thing to do.  She didn’t go along with the crowd.

She took 45 minutes to tell a three-minute story.  Even now when family members start to digress or give too many details you are interrupted with a terse, “Okay, Dody” and you immediately know to move on. She dominated the conversation with her stories.

She liked to be the first one to get the new gadget, but she was also cheap.  Which meant we had the first “car phone,” but weren’t allowed to use it.  (I do remember the one “emergency”: We called to ask if we could pick up a pizza on the way home).

After she would go grocery shopping she would come home and cross-check the receipt and the food and make sure she got everything she paid for.

Sometimes we would run out of milk and then she would “make milk” for us.  Which was instant dry milk powder that you mixed with water that ended up being a lumpy warm cloudy substance.  It was disgusting and my memories of this have made me wonder why she didn’t just buy more milk on a weekly basis.

She was a terrible cook.  I don’t know how she missed the “Greek mom” cooking gene but she did.  Everything was dry and overcooked, just like my dad liked it.

She was the first of her generation of Greek women to go to college.  When she applied to Michigan State University she noticed the brochure included pictures of co-eds frolicking on campus playing tennis.  At the end of her application the last question asked “Is there anything else you think we should know about you?”  “Yes,” she answered worried, “I do not play tennis.”

She was smart.  And she expected us to be smart.  And not just be smart but to be the smartest.  She was hard on me and expected me to succeed.  I once argued with her that she should be happy I wasn’t doing drugs or sneaking out like other kids.  “I EXPECT you to not do all of those things.  You aren’t getting praise for that,” she retorted.  And that was that.

She was creative with ideas and great at execution.  She could make a seven layer Jell-O, bake and decorate an R2-D2 cake, sew a bridesmaid gown and wallpaper the bathroom, all at the same time and usually at the 11th hour.

She could iron a shirt like nobody’s business.  She would stack those dress shirts of my  dads and work all day on the sleeves, the collar, the front and the back.

She liked to correct your grammar.  And she did it often.  Hers was impeccable.

She was the life of the party.

I remember when she died thinking “I will never truly be happy again.”  And in some ways that was an exaggeration, and in some ways it was true.  Somehow it was a loss of hope, or naiveté, or this sudden worldliness that was on my shoulders that I didn’t ask for and didn’t want.  How can you ever be truly content without your mother?  All the fun was gone.

All through her illness she would tell us that she was going to be okay. In fact, a day or so before she slipped away she said to me, “What are you worried about? I’m going to be okay.” Looking back, though, her definition of okay was different from ours.

I was there when she died; and the look of peace on her face told me that, yes, she was going to be okay.  I’m just not sure about the rest of us.

Yes, that’s me.  In fourth grade. I am Pinocchio.  I am not exactly sure how this costume screams Pinocchio, but there it is.  If you look closely you can see that I am holding a paper nose in my hand and that I have “joints” drawn around my knees in marker.  Unfortunately, that darn Greek Sailor hat is throwing things off a bit.

Halloween was never that big of a holiday around our house growing up.  We probably got three trick-or-treaters each year. I remember trying to put together a costume at the last-minute and it ALWAYS stunk.  I am the kind of person that has lots of creative ideas for everything and successful execution for exactly none of them.  It just doesn’t ever come together as easily as it seems like it should.

Growing up, we lived out in the country with very few neighbors.  Those we did have were spread far and wide.  The exception was a strip of houses on the “main road” leading up to our house that were close together.  We creatively called this row of 11 houses the “eleven houses,” and this is where we trick-or-treated.  Yes, you heard it right: 11 houses.  So that means we got 11 pieces of candy.  And back then that probably included an apple that my mom threw out because this was the 70’s and she was worried that there might be a needle shoved in there and we might bite into it and pierce the back of our throat and then die.  Also, subtract all the Snickers bars my dad pilfered and we weren’t left with much.  Maybe a couple of Charleston Chews and Bit O’ Honeys.  Candy you never see for sale during the year that seems specifically revived for Halloween.

So these houses were set far back from the road and had long driveways.  My dad would drive me to the first one and I would hop out of the car and run from house to house, crossing lawns, hoping no one would jump out at me in the dark and kill me while he would inch the car along the road following me.  When I had hit all 11 houses, I was done trick-or-treating.  This was the 70’s before global warming so it was actually cold like it is supposed to be at the end of October so I was bundled up in snow pants and a coat and a hat so no one could see my costume anyway and also pitch black because again, boonies, and also trick-or-treating was like from 6:30-7:00pm not for all afternoon and evening like it is now and come to think of it maybe my dad just TOLD ME me it was only 1/2 hour-long because he didn’t want to be out more than a 1/2 hour and you know what that actually sounds exactly like something he would do.

SIDE NOTE

I do realize that so far most of my stories have made me sound like I had a miserable childhood or that I was a complete nerd, but I honestly don’t remember it that way.    It’s only in the recollection that I am seeing the absurdity of it all.  Although I am sure it’s the reason why I tend to go overboard with particular things now as a mother.  (Don’t worry, I have confidence I am still screwing them up in ways I am not even aware.)

And even though I didn’t think I was a dork, there does seem to be some photographic proof suggesting otherwise.  One Halloween when I was in my 20’s my good friend and I decided to attend the Greek Orthodox Young Adult Halloween party at the church.  I didn’t have a clue on what to wear.  Now, when you are in your 20’s, traditionally you should want to dress like some sexy cat or maybe one of the Spice Girls (during this era anyway).  Nope.  Not us.  I don’t know what I was thinking but I decided to go as a rooster.  Yep, you read that right.  A ROOSTER. My brother had worn this costume in 5th grade and during my desperate search for something last-minute I found it in his closet. Anyway, I head over to my friend Elaine’s house to pick her up. Elaine, of course, was not ready. (Someday I will do an entire blog on Elaine Not Being Ready.  If the party starts at 6pm you better tell Elaine it starts at 4pm otherwise you are not getting there until 9:30pm.)

So, when I arrived at Elaine’s house she didn’t have a costume ready either.  I will spare you the details and the process but for some crazy reason we grabbed a nightgown and robe from her mom’s closet (yes, one of those old-fashioned, full-length, chiffon, matching sets that everyone’s mom had), we made a wand out of aluminum foil, and–TA-DA–she was a fairy princess.  Off we went, the rooster and the princess.  (Shockingly, we did NOT find future husbands at this event, which in case you didn’t know is the only reason one attends these Greek Young Adult gatherings in the first place.) It wasn’t until we got home and Elaine’s mother saw us for the first time that we found out Elaine had been wearing her mom’s honeymoon peignoir.

Here we are: And yes, I am fully aware as an adult that this costume looks uncomfortably similar to a modern-day Furry costume but I can assure you this is not the case.

Once I had kids I stepped up my game and started to get into the spirit a bit.  It’s always better if I can get Ted to dress up with me.  Below are some fun ones from years past.  (Not included is the one where I went as Little Red Riding Hood and Ted was the Big Bad Wolf, as this is a PG-13 blog.  I had borrowed the costume from a friend who is considerably more petite than me in all areas.  Let ‘s just say my brother and brothers-in-law would not stop referring to me as “St. Pauli Girl” and were shouting at me to get them beers all night.

2018: Mary Poppins and Chimney Sweep/Greek Fisherman/Super Mario (there is that versatile Greek fisherman hat again; apparently a staple in the Greek household costume box.)

2017: Tippi Hedren from The Birds.  No one under 45 understood this costume (which is basically most of my friends).  Ted put his foot down on being Hitchcock.

2014: Dora and Diego. It was cold that year and Ted wanted to wear pants. I told him “Diego does not wear pants.” And that was that.

2013: This was a leftover costume from an 80’s party; I was Madonna.  Ted was my bodyguard.  (For loyal readers, Ted is wearing the Matrix coat). Franny was just beginning to read and asked me why my belt said “BOY TOY.” 

2012: Vincent Vega and Mia Wallace from Pulp Fiction (Note the Matrix coat again!)

2011: Building around Franny’s Scooby Doo costume. Daphne/My mom in the 50’s and Fred/Andy Warhol.  Someone should have told me to put on some Spanx. 

There comes a point in every stay-at-home parent’s life when you hear your spouse say the words that will stop you in your tracks:

“I think I’ll work from home today.”

Ted knows I don’t like it when he works from home. But he truly thinks I am the only woman out there who feels this way.

He’s wrong. He refuses to believe me when I say that out of the 452 friends I have (that’s what Facebook says anyway) that none of them, NOT ONE OF THEM, likes it when their husband works from home.  Now, I realize this may be a slight exaggeration.  Maybe there is a newlywed out there who still really enjoys hanging with her husband ALL day and then ALL evening too.  I mean, I’m sure Amal Clooney and Meghan Markle aren’t doing any complaining.  (Although they are newlyweds too so let’s give it time).  And before the feminists come at me… I realize that there are also some situations where the MOM works and the DAD stays at home.  But guess what ladies?  HE HATES IT WHEN YOU WORK FROM HOME TOO.  This is not a gender thing.  This is a stay out of my way and out of my “office” the same way I stay out of yours and quit bugging me with your talking and your breathing and your eating cereal in such a noisy slurpy way thing.

So the other day Ted chose to work from home because Teddy was leaving for the 8th grade D.C. trip directly after school.  He wanted to say goodbye and “help” see him off.

Let’s just say I’m pretty sure that’s the day Franny learned the word “sh**show.” It was a hot mess of a morning.

In the interest of time and space I will skip over the not being able to find the sandwich bread for lunch and the pushing of the wearing of the coats and hats on a 60 degree day and most importantly the suggestion of carrying an umbrella to a 13-year-old boy and will just say I really don’t know how I manage without him in the mornings.

So because we had Teddy’s luggage with us, I was going to run him into the school and help him get his things in order.  All we had to do was drop off Teddy first and then Franny, whose school is next door.  Let me add that the schools are close enough to our house that we are considered “walkers.”  It is maybe a three-minute car ride.

Do you remember the movie Mr. Mom?  This was Ted.  The three of us in the car yelling “YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG!” to him as he attempted this rather simple task.

First, the street where we would naturally turn is blocked by a large truck so he continues driving straight.  We are late.  We are nervous.  He passes the next street.  And the next.  WHERE ARE YOU GOING?  YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG! By now he is closer to Franny’s school so he attempts to drop her off first.  But it’s too early and she can’t get in the school.  And its raining.  So now he goes in the school driveway but guess what?  YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO GO IN THE DRIVEWAY!!  YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG! Back to Teddy’s school, back to Franny’s, and believe it or not back to Teddy’s to pick up Ted who stayed to help Teddy unload since I no longer thought it would be beneficial for him, me, the kids, or mankind if we continued in the same car together for much longer.

After the disaster drop off, Ted decides to accompany me on my errand to deliver some donations.  We stop for a coffee on our way.  There’s Creepy Gerald sitting outside at Starbucks like he always is.  I make a comment about how he bugs me and I’m tired of being nice and having to say hello and Ted says in his most manly and serious voice, “Do you want me to talk to him for you and say something about him bothering you?”

Ummm. Is it 1956?  Then no. No, I don’t need you to say something.  He is an old man who I’m pretty sure I could take, so simmer down.  Also, sometimes women just want to complain and not have their problems solved so just listen and also this cannot be the first time you have heard that observation because it is practically the first thing you learn when you meet a female.  WE COMPLAIN. YOU LISTEN.  STOP TRYING TO FIX IT.

Now, when I am trying to get work done at home, I don’t like to talk just for fun.  If you don’t have anything really important to say then let’s just be quiet.  I have to listen to kids talk all afternoon about dumb things that happen on their TV shows and in their fantasy books and watch Fortnite dances and listen to made up Recorder songs.  I have to do ALL those things and also have to BE INTERESTED.  Or as the experts say, “BE PRESENT,” because one day one of my kids is going to be in therapy complaining that “My mom really never seemed interested when I showed her my Fornite dance or when I was telling her EVERY DETAIL of the plot of Bizaardvark.” And you know what? I wasn’t interested!!  Now that you are grown up (and in therapy) I will tell you that I WASN’T.  And you won’t be either when you have kids.

But I digress. So while I am trying to work, Ted is trying to make conversation.  To hint to him that I don’t want to talk I answer inaudibly or sigh loudly as if I am annoyed and tired.  This does not work.  I am going to tell you what Ted said to me out of the blue in order to stimulate a conversation with me.  I am not making this up.  He actually said to me, “Hey, let’s rate all of our favorite Reese Witherspoon movies.”  THIS IS WHAT HE SAID TO ME.  I AM NOT LYING. I am pretty sure even REESE WITHERSPOON HERSELF does not find it interesting to rate her own movies.

To change the subject, I tell him about the plot of the new television show Manifest.   He is intrigued. I suggest he watch the first two episodes and catch up so I can get some work done. But no. He prefers I tell him the entire plot of the story.  He really does.  Ever since I’ve known Ted, when I suggest articles or books to read he will say “just tell me what it’s about” and then has me do my own version of an audiobook for him.  I mean, maybe he can’t read.  Is it possible?  No. He has way too many church books on his bedside table so I know he can read.  Is it my soothing voice?  I can’t believe that’s true.  I find a good solution and tell him I will catch him up on the first two episodes tonight at dinner so we have something to talk about.  Oh, did I mention just the two of us are going to dinner tonight?  Yes, we already had an evening together planned yet he stayed home from work so we could have some sort of all-day pre-party I guess.

I recall a conversation I had with my retired aunt and uncle recently.  They are in their mid-70’s.  “But what do you DO all day?” I said with fear and panic in my voice. Apparently, a lot of their day revolves around grocery shopping, eating meals, and helping out at the church.  Also, they seem to go to “The Show” a lot. Someone shoot me if Ted and I start referring to the movies as “The Show,” “The Pictures,” or God forbid, “The Talkies.” How are these the Golden Years?  Dear Lord help me.

But here’s the thing: They used to bicker a lot and now they seem to get along pretty well.  So maybe we just get more patient as we get older.  Or maybe we just start losing our hearing. Who knows.  Perhaps retirement won’t be so bad after all.  But for now, I would appreciate it if Ted continued to work from his office.

And by the way, I guess if I HAD to pick, I would say “Sweet Home Alabama” rates number one for me.

I love dogs. Big Dogs. Little Dogs. Black and White Dogs.  Dog Dogs Dogs.

DISCLAIMER: Just because this post is about dogs does not mean I do not like cats.   It’s just, growing up we only owned dogs so I really don’t have any cat stories to tell.   Let’s face it, it’s a rare occasion to just run into a cat.  You hardly ever see anyone on the sidewalk walking their cat.  People don’t bring their cats to the park or to their kids’ soccer games. In fact, sometimes you can know someone for years and one day you are at their house for the 100th time and they say something about “the cat” and you stop in your tracks and say, “YOU HAVE A CAT?!?”

Actually, my kids would love a cat but my husband is (supposedly) allergic to them even though we have told him they now have hypoallergenic cats.  This is a man who grew up with a pet bird who did not live in a cage so I’m not sure what the issue with cats is.

Moving on.  I am dog obsessed. If I see a dog there is a good chance I am going to stop what I’m doing and go pet it.  I will probably ponder what breed it is out loud and in my head pretend I am with the American Kennel Club.  And if I know you, there is a good chance I am going to rile up your dog which will annoy you. I don’t care. I like doing it.

Growing up we had several dogs.  Not all at the same time.  One after another. You know how you just think something is normal growing up and it’s not until years later you revisit it and you realize Hey that is kind of weird and no one else I know did that and maybe I shouldn’t be saying this out loud and what if PETA sees this and then I am in trouble?  This might be one of those times.

As I said, I can remember several dogs from my childhood.   The first one was George the schnauzer. And then when he was gone we got another schnauzer.  He was also named George.  I don’t know if my parents were just trying to pull the wool over our eyes like you do when your kid’s hamster dies and you just run out while they are at school and replace it, but there were definitely two.  (In truth,  my dad just really liked the name George.  My mom once said they almost named me Georgia or Georgiann and then changed their mind which is good because I don’t think I’m a Georgia kind of gal. Also, I would have been named after a dog.  Which is not as bad as being named after a horse which is what actually happened.  Not a Joke. )

After George I and II there was Rex.  Somewhere in there was Silky.  By the way, have I mentioned this was all before I was three?  So although it seems as if we had these dogs forever and I can remember them all, we couldn’t have had them for too long.  Honestly,  I don’t even know where we got all these dogs.  Probably “the pound” as my dad called it.  What’s even more curious, I don’t know where all our dogs went.  I mean, I can give it a good guess, but I don’t think I will put that in print all over the interweb.  My mom’s answer was always, “they got stolen.”  Now, there is a good chance this is not true.  Unless dog thieves were on a perpetual stake out near my house focusing on the highly desirable and rare breed of “Mutt.”   (She probably thought I wouldn’t notice they were gone what with my bad eyes and all.  Hey, maybe this is why she waited so long to get me glasses!)

My theory is that they all ran away.  This hypothesis is based on two facts.  First, we lived out in the boonies on a couple of acres that backed up to some woods.  There was lots of room to run wild and no fence to keep them from wandering.   The second reason was the way my dad “trained” our dogs to stay in the yard.  He would put them on a leash and then walk them around our property line.  Any time they inched over the line he’d yank them back.  He did this one time for the dogs.  This was Sam Savas training at its best.  The dogs did not learn.  Neither did my dad.

I don’t remember when we stopped getting dogs.  But I do know that I wanted one desperately through grade school and that it had been a long time since we’d had one. My dad would consistently say “no.”

Here comes the part where I start to remember things more clearly.   It’s around the late 70’s or early 80’s and The Golden Boy starts asking for a dog.  He is 5 or 6.  I have been asking for years. I am 11 or 12, clearly more responsible.  One day my dad arrives home with a dog.  For guess who?  It’s a smallish, Beagle-ish, brown and black mutt.  My brother is ecstatic. I am upset but not shocked. My mother is FURIOUS.  F-U-R-I-O-U-S.   She did not see this coming.  She is not furious about the dog.  No, she is furious because this was not presented as the family dog, or my dog; my dad announces that this dog is specifically for The Golden Boy.

So what does the average Greek woman do when the very man who has been saying no to his daughter for years suddenly without warning brings home a dog for his son?  She retaliates passive-aggressively by going the next day and getting a rival dog.  For me. (I’m thinking she did not think this one through. ) These dogs could only be described as WILD ANIMALS.  They ran in a pack around the property.  They destroyed things.  They made noise.  I am sure at some point my mom looked back and wondered if this was really a victory for her.

No one stole these two. They did not run away.  We did not have them for long.

That is all I will say about their end.

Which leads me to Jynx.   Some time around high school we got Jynxy Baba Savas.  Yes, that was her full name.  Acquired on April Fool’s Day, we called her Jynx and added the Baba because she looked like a fluffy sheep.  When she was in trouble we called her “Jynxybaba!!” But she was never in trouble.  There has never been nor will there ever be another one like her.  She never wandered off.  She hardly ever barked.  She listened.  This is a dog who when I was locked out of the house once jumped so high with excitement (as my best friend and I egged her on from the other side of the door) that she landed on the door lever consequently unlocking it for us.  She slept at my feet each night.  She was quite simply the best dog ever. We loved her. And though many came before her, SHE is the dog of my youth.

When my mom died Melissa took Jynx back home with her to live in Rhode Island.  I wanted my dad to keep her as she was 10 or 11 and it just seemed right she should keep him company and live her remaining life out with him.   But my dad’s immediate reaction to his grief was to get rid of everything of my mom’s.  He didn’t want any reminders.  And I think maybe that’s what Jynx was.

She was still around when my dad passed away 6 years later.   She lived until she was almost 19.   I remember Melissa calling me the day she had to put her down.  Her grief seemed inordinately intense.  But Jynx was the last tie to our old life.  The house was gone, my mom was gone, and my dad was gone.  When we let go of her, we let go of the last remnant of our childhood.

Bottom left: Jynx on my bed.  Bottom right: Jynx and me apparently trying to match our hairdos and hair bows.

Top picture: Athena, our current dog.  Who I hope and imagine will be the dog of my children’s youth.

I am as blind as a bat.  At least that’s what the optometrist told me when I was 9 years old.  When you are 9 and a doctor tells you that you are blind, you believe them. The fact that he had a heavy foreign accent made it more legitimate and scary. I don’t mind saying it was traumatic for me. My poor mom always felt terrible that she hadn’t taken me to get my eyes checked sooner. I have no idea what the catalyst was for her to finally take me, but she was probably around 5 years too late. My guess is if I were born in current times I would be one of those babies with the bendy glasses peeking out from my crib.

So there I was at 9 years old seeing 20/20 for the first time. I could see the clock numbers on the microwave!! I could see the individual fibers that made up the carpet! We had a dog??? Who knew?

Side Note:

After it was discovered I needed glasses my mom said “I wondered why you always asked me what time it was.” It’s true. I would ask numerous times a day and she would answer, “Go look at the clock.” Apparently me getting up from the couch, walking across the room to the clock, and pressing my face right up to it was not a clue. (In her defense, she was busy doing A LOT of crossword puzzles during my formative years). And it wasn’t like anyone noticed or thought it was unusual that I sat right in front of the television. When you are the human channel changer for your dad, you are just naturally two inches away from the tv anyway.

I’m not sure why out of the several pairs of glasses I had over the years my mom always chose to get the lenses tinted. I know, I know, this was the style in the late 70’s and early 80’s; but I when I say tinted, I mean if my glasses were car windows they would be illegal. It was as if non-tinted wasn’t an option. One year she chose purple for me. I am not kidding. They were so dark we had to send them back to have some of the color bleached out. Add this to the hexagon shape and curvy temples (this is the straight part that goes from the lens to the ear. I bet you didn’t know that. Why would you? You have probably never had to write a blog about them before) and you have the makings of a real babe.

Now let me explain some things to you seeing-eye humans. The worse your eyesight is, the thicker the lens. And contrary to what it would seem, a big frame is worse. Instead of the lens thinning out as it gets bigger, it actually thickens near the edge. So I was stuck with big, wide, thick, purple-tinted glasses. I looked like the love child of Charles Nelson Reilly and Elton John. (Google them. It makes more sense than you realize).

You know those hypothetical questions like “If your mom came back to life for one more day what would you do?” I would not be one of those people to take a long walk in the park and discuss death and heaven and the meaning of life.   I would be holding up pictures asking, “What in actual hell were you thinking?”

(Follow up questions would be 1) Why did I have to get the kind of braces that went around your whole tooth? 2) Why didn’t you introduce me to tweezers and razors earlier? 3) How could you just let me put my autographed Johnny Bench baseballs in the Goodwill Box?)

Five years later I got contacts. Thirty five years later my eyes are getting worse again. Or better, depending on how you look at it. After years of being near-sighted I can now see much better when I hold a restaurant menu as far away from me as my arms will stretch.

People ask me why I haven’t ever gotten LASIK surgery.  My eyes are a part of my identity.  I have no idea what it would be like to wake up and see clearly.  To not have that feeling of annoyance on a night where I am exhausted but I have to get out of bed to take out my contacts.  To not occasionally “lose” a contact in my own eye.  These things make me feel like me.  They have been me for almost my entire life.  So for now, I will stay the way I am.  Looking at life through rose-colored glasses.  Just not literally anymore.

Left: Fifth grade. 1979.  I look like a boy.  Actually, with that collar and sweater combo PLUS the brownish tint of the glasses I look like a MAN.  Maybe a man getting ready to go to a work party.

Middle: Sixth grade. 1980.  If you are a follower of this blog you will recall seeing this photo a few posts ago. Someday I will write an entire blog dissecting how it all went down that day. I remember it vividly.  That oversized hexagon shape was all the rage. Fun fact: Believe it or not, the first sentence in my diary from that year reads “1980 was the best year of my life.”  I mean, what was going on that was so fantastic while I looked like that? Maybe with the long hair and earrings people now knew I was a girl?

Right: Seventh grade. 1981. Still going for the preppy look. Middle school agrees with me. Relative to the other pictures and years I am a stone cold fox.  The glasses are somewhat smaller and better suited to my face.  Notice: LENSES STILL TINTED.