Holy Matrimony, Batman!

WHOA.

I am getting married in five days. Five. I don't even need two hands to count down the days now (at least I don't think I do, but as you know, I was never very good at math).

You must be shocked. I didn't think we would survive the election, either. It wasn't easy to be on opposite sides of the voting ballot, but Mark and I made it because our hearts are full of love (translation: our guts are full of wine).

So now I am stuffing my suitcase for our destination wedding and trying to figure out how to pack a wedding gown for a flight. I have applied for my wedding license and picked out earrings and some sort of uber-sexy, nude, stretchy, thighs-to-boobs undergarment that sucks in all the Halloween candy and hides panty lines. I have confirmed the preacher, the photographer, and most importantly, the hairdresser. I have had no less than 25 panic attacks. In other words, sh#t's gettin' real.

Unless I pull a Julia Roberts/Kiefer Sutherland wedding escape, I will be married before Thanksgiving. Then I can wear stretchy pants for the rest of my life, stop shaving my legs on cold days and stock up on granny panties. Just kidding, honey! (Pssst, ladies. You know I'm not.)

I was walking with my 10-year-old son the other day, and he quipped, "Well, Mom, are you ready for the best day of your life... again?"

Out of the mouths of babes, eh?

Honestly, I am scared. But I would be worried if I wasn't. This is the second time I have climbed aboard the marriage carousel, and I want to ride.. and ride.. and ride. I won't let go when the world whizzes by, and I feel dizzy. I won't let go on those days when I wonder if he holds the reins as tight as I hold mine. I won't let go when the music begins to die. I won't let go.

Why?

Because while neither of us is perfect (he's a Republican) -- and long-term relationships are a heck of a lot of work -- I love him.

He is my music...

 My cake companion...

And my dance partner...

He is the Harry to my Sally -- my old college friend, who stole my heart when he bought me a cookie (turns out, I'm easily bought if chocolate chips are involved).

We were friends for a long time. And then we weren't. And then we fell in love.

So while yes, I am scared, I also know Mark is the one. That guy who sat behind me in Constitutional law 20 years ago is the guy I want to spend my next 20 years with... and then 20 more.

I will take a deep breath next week; toss back a mojito; and walk across the sand to meet him by the ocean. I will trust that he we will take care of me. And I will take care of him.

It had to be you.

Here's to happy endings, Harry. Love, Sally.

Tricks for your Treats

Happy Halloween!

In case you're wondering, Halloween is actually the Scottish contraction of All Hallow's Eve, which, loosely translated, means free candy, yo!

I have bought the ghosts and goblins their candy and carefully arranged it on this most sacred holiday. Of course, I have a well-orchestrated plan for handing out treats. We're talking about candy, folks! Delicious, yummy, mouthwatering candy! You don't just hand that out without careful planning.

As you read this, please keep the following in mind, before you judge me too harshly:

1. I love candy. I'm not saying I'm a candy addict, but if I could lie candy down by the fire and make sweet love to it while Barry White sings in the background, I would.

2. I am the kid who literally ran home from school on Halloween, threw on a bed sheet (ta-da! Instant costume!), and raced Jon, my partner-in-crime-and-candy, to the number-one house on our Halloween hit list: the green house on Center Street. Get this. Those neighbors annually left a giant bowl of candy on the porch. A big ol' bowl of candy! Just sitting there! In the days before nanny cams!

Sure, those considerate folks put a note on the bowl that read: PLEASE TAKE ONLY ONE PIECE OF CANDY AND SAVE THE REST FOR OTHERS! Tsk. Tsk. Poor, naive, silly neighbors. In our excitement each year, Jon and I were convinced the neighbors meant to write: PLEASE TAKE THE REST OF THE CANDY AND SAVE ONLY ONE PIECE FOR OTHERS! So we would dump the entire bowl into our pillow cases and high-five each other. Yes, we felt a little guilty, so we left some of Jon's grandmother's cherry throat lozenges in the bowl for the next trick-or-treaters. We were good kids like that.

3. See #1.

With that in mind,  here's my handy-dandy-candy guide to handling your Halloween treats for yourself trick-or-treaters:

• When you buy your Halloween candy, buy only candy you like. This is very important. Do not question The Method. My jeans are very tight because I have only been buying candy I like throughout the entire month of October. That's proof that The Method works.
• As the above story illustrates, never, ever, ever leave a big bowl of candy out on the porch unsupervised. NEVER. People will take your candy! Who wants that? The point of Halloween is for other people to give you candy, not take your candy. I'm pretty sure.
• When you get your 25 pounds or so of candy home from the store, take the bag(s) of your favorite candy and hide it in the pantry behind something that looks healthy, so your kids will not go near it. For example, I like to take miniature Reese Cups and store them in a box of Grape Nuts. No one likes Grape Nuts. What the heck are grape nuts, anyway? I'm convinced Post only sells it so clever moms like me can hide chocolate in the boxes. Remember, this is your candy, and your candy only. Hiding your favorite candy is your reward for pretending like you are actually going to give the rest of your candy away.
• I love to see a ginormous bowl of candy in my living room. It makes me happy. Why deny yourself this happiness? Go ahead and fill your giant candy bowl and admire it. Keep in mind, there's always the slim chance that a few clever trick-or-treaters will make it past the elaborate security system you installed just for Halloween. But fill the bowl carefully. Remember, your Halloween goal is to have as much candy left over for yourself as possible.
• Fill the bottom of the bowl with the yummy, top-of-the-candy-chain treats, like Snickers, Kit Kats, Butterfingers, Reese Cups, Hershey bars and the like. These are placed on the bottom because they are your last-resort handouts, people! You only give this away to trick-or-treaters if you are out of, oh, say, those old restaurant mints you found in the bottom of your purse. 
• You don't want to take a chance of any little vampires or witches seeing the chocolate in the bowl and thinking it is for them (poor, misguided children), so dump all of those ketchup, hot sauce and soy sauce packets you have been saving all year on top of the chocolate. Kids love ketchup packets!
• Next, dump in the giant bags of cheap candy you don't really like -- but you can eat it if you have PMS and it's between that candy and the five-year-old chocolate chips you have in your cabinet (ha! Like I have leftover chocolate anything left in my cabinet! Oh, you people and the things you believe...). You can give this candy out if you absolutely must. You won't like it, but you know you have 15 pounds of chocolate stored in those whole-grain cereal boxes.
• And okay, for good measure, include a few packets of fruit snacks for the tiniest ghouls who win you over with their "twick-or-tweats!"  I am not a monster, people! I have a heart -- probably one clogged by Kit Kats, but still.

If you follow the above plan, at the end of then night, you should have plenty of treats left for yourself. Granted, you can always buy the candy, close your blinds, turn out all of the lights, sit on the floor and ignore the doorbell while stuffing yourself with mini candy bars until you're sick, but that's for Halloweenies. I at least go to the trouble of creating an illusion of generosity when it comes to candy. That counts, right?

Gotta go pour myself a bowl of "Grape Nuts" now.

(Please don't egg me.)

SQUIRREL! : Why My House Will Never Be Clean

Bet you $10 she's thinking, "I can hit him over the head with this."

I've finally figured out why I never get much accomplished around the house.

Case in point:

I decided to mop my floors.

I went to the garage to retrieve the mop, which is beside my CDC-approved zombie apocalypse kit. The lid was off of the kit, and my flashlight was sticking out of the box. Since I don't want any zombies sneaking up on me in the dark, I picked up the flashlight to see if the batteries still worked. They didn't, so I went back inside the house to rummage for batteries.

I didn't locate any batteries, but I did find light bulbs where the batteries should be. I suddenly wondered if I ever changed the bulb in the floor lamp by the couch, so I headed to the living room to check.

Once in the living room, I spied some dirty socks on the floor, picked them up and carried them to the laundry room. Of course, I discovered a load of clothes still waiting in the dryer to be folded (duh). I turned the dryer on to "iron" those clothes and decided to collect the laundry from the kids' rooms.

On the way, I made quick detour into the hall bathroom to gather any dirty towels or washrags. I realized the bathroom could use a scrubbing (torching; whatever), so I skipped the kids' rooms and returned to the kitchen to get the cleaner (gasoline) from the cabinet under the sink. That's when I spied the pack of light bulbs I had left out on the table.

While they were still out, I figured I should go ahead and change the bulb that's over the kitchen sink.

I pulled a chair up to the sink to change the bulb and groaned when I saw the dirty breakfast dishes. I decided to wash them while I was there, but first, I'd have to put away the clean dishes. And that's when I saw the empty water bottles on the counter by the dish drainer.

I ignored the dishes, gathered the bottles and carried them to the recycling bins in the garage.

On the way to the bins, I spotted the mop against the garage wall.

I decided to mop my floors....

Up with the love...

I have standards.

Not high ones (if you've been here before, you already know this), but I do have some.

When it comes to love, however, the bar for my standards is pretty dang high. It's up there.

I want love that triumphs. That sacrifices. That rolls with the punches. That laughs. That lasts.

Filmmakers and writers alike try to teach us what love is.

Not long ago, love was a whiny girl with a vampire. No, thank you. I have already disclosed that I am a lousy housekeeper, so I sure as heck don't want to vacuum all that dang vampire glitter.

Then love was as a fiery Appalachian girl with a poor bread maker. Better, but Hunger Games is more a story of survival than true companionship. If you have to forgo the fireworks for love, though, a girl could do far worse than ending up with a baker. At least she'll always have cake.

Most recently, love was defined as a young college student seduced by a wealthy entrepreneur who likes to, um, spank her. I don't judge here on the Porch, but I don't even like belts around my waist. They remind me that I eat too many snack cakes. If you really want to turn me on, Mr. Grey, tie me to the couch, put on my favorite show and go unload the dishwasher.

Nope. None of those definitions of love speak to me. Nor do Romeo and Juliet. Or Heathcliff and Catherine. Or Lancelot and Guinevere.

I'm Team Carl and Ellie.

I'm deeply in love with the Pixar movie Up. Sure, it's a few years old, but is a perennial favorite in my house. The kids and I pile up on the couch, eat popcorn and pretend we aren't crying while we watch it for the umpteenth time. Up defines love beautifully, perfectly, in a mere few minutes of film. Just watch the four-minute clip below and try not cry. Go ahead. I dare you:

Gulp. It still gets to me. I claim my tears are from allergies (hard to explain the racking sobs), but my kids smile knowingly. I'm a sap.

Although they are animated, Carl and Ellie remain my favorite love story told via film. (Also, it's funny because the squirrel gets dead.)

We love it so much that we recently decided to create our own adventure book, a la Carl and Ellie.

I can't wait for us to fill the pages, write our own story and earn our Wilderness Explorer badges.

Here's to new adventures. Up with the love, people. Up with the love.

Adventure awaits!

Thank you, Lane

photo credit: Prayers for Lane Goodwin

I have fought writing this story. I have started and stopped it numerous times. Dismissed it. Firmly said "No" to whatever has compelled me to write it.

You see, it is not my story. Not at all. No, this is a story of heroism, courage and conviction beyond anything most of us have ever known -- and it is not mine to tell.

Yet, here I am, telling you about Lane Goodwin.

If you don't know who Lane is yet, the odds are very good that you soon will.

You see, Lane, a sweet, brave, 13-year-old Kentucky boy with cancer, is quickly becoming a global sensation. His amazing story has gone viral, urging folks from all over the country, and beyond, to give him a "thumbs up" -- a classic Lane pose no matter what he has faced in his long, brave battle with a rare form of cancer known as alveolar rhabdomyosarcoma (or his mother so aptly calls it, the "monster").

Facebook and Twitter have exploded with thousands of well-wishes and photos from ordinary people like you and me, as well as athletes and musicians, news personalities and celebrities, all giving Lane a "thumbs up." Thumbs have been raised by the likes of Courteney Cox and Garth Brooks, as well as by Ugandan orphans, half a world away. Lane's name has been lovingly plowed into fields by farmers, written on the back of dusty interstate trucks and incorporated into national news stories.

I'm sure those close to Lane are humbled by the outpouring of love for him.

Those of us who have followed his story the past few years are smiling at each other through tears, nodding across the intertubes at one another. Like you, we are simultaneously brokenhearted and uplifted.

I must confess here that I do not know Lane or his family personally. Lane's mother, Angie, and I are from the same small Kentucky town and graduated not too many years apart from each other. In a way, I suppose that connects us. We also have many mutual friends, some of whom began the Prayers for Lane Goodwin page on Facebook when he was first diagnosed in March of 2010.

I, like many others from my hometown and the surrounding area, joined his page then at the request of a friend and began to follow sweet, young Lane on his journey. He is like any boy. He is like my boy. He likes playing soccer; cheering on the St. Louis Cardinals; fishing; building with Legos; and swimming. He enjoys spending time with his friends; goofing off with his little brother; and playing video games. He is not too big to snuggle with his mom or fall asleep in his dad's arms. He loves to visit the ocean and have new adventures. He fears nothing, it seems: not the sharks (he swam with those); not heights (he flew airplanes and parasailed); and not even the cancer that has ravaged his young body. He hates cancer, but he looks his enemy in the eye and he fights it.

Though we grieved for the difficult path, we knew he would be triumphant. He would. We prayed it. We believed it.

And beat it, Lane did. This kid is one tough cookie! We rejoiced and praised as scans came back negative after his first battle.

But then last summer, that ugly, horrid beast of childhood cancer returned. Once again, after we shed tears, we rallied the troops and prayed even harder. Lane himself gave us the rally cry. When confronted with difficult medical choices, he told his parents, doctors and all of his friends that he wanted to bring out the big guns and "nuke it."

We cheered him on again as he went to war. Along the way, we met other far-too-young soldiers who have courageously fought and lost their battles with childhood cancer. Ethan. Savannah. Too many others.

For a while, it seemed Lane was beating the odds through new medical trials. Though initially diagnosed with Stage IV cancer, he would be triumphant yet again. We willed it so.

But our hearts were so heavy this summer when we learned that the cancer was back and spreading. And those heavy hearts grew heavier when Lane had a seizure recently and was rushed to the hospital. That's when they -- and we -- discovered the cancer had spread to his brain.

Lane is now home with his wonderful mom and dad, Angie and George; his incredible little (but big-of-heart) brother Landen; and other family and friends. Wise beyond his years, Lane has told the doctors that he understands that they can no longer do anything. He has told his parents that he is ready to go to God.

Though he is physically weak, he is spiritually strong. Like a true and triumphant warrior, he raises his thumbs to us.

To us.

Even in his most troublesome times, Lane encourages us. He gives hope to those of us who don't even know him -- but wish we could. His story grows because he gives this weary world what it seems to lack: grace, courage, peace.

Personally, perhaps selfishly, Lane makes me appreciate even more the blessings of life.

I once saw Lane's mom on a night out in our hometown. I wanted to approach her, but I hesitated. She was at a reunion with friends on what I am certain was a very rare outing. She has been by Lane's side every step of the way. I shied away, just happy to see her smiling with others.

I wish I had talked to her, told her that my children and I were praying for Lane, that he was and is a true hero to us -- and that he reminds us of what is important.

I didn't.

But I think she knows.

There is something incredibly special about her son. Not many people can move the world; but her son has.

Lane is her son -- so closely, deeply, her God-given and wonderfully-crafted boy -- and I hesitate to encroach on the sacred space between a mother and a child.

As I see post after post, though, I realize that, in some ways, he is like our son, too. I do not want the Goodwins to hate me for saying that, as they struggle to hold on to all they hold dear. I pray they do not misunderstand.

What I mean is that there is something about a parent's love and desire to protect a child that makes us all protective of Lane. We all hold him now.

While we know we cannot fathom your pain or understand the depths of your despair, we stand with you, George and Angie. We surround you. We reach our hands out to you. There is an army of us, loving you, Lane and Landen.

I have two children, a boy, 10, and a daughter, 15. My heart beats for them, as they are the best of me. Even though they are older, I still sometimes watch them sleep at night. I pray for their safety. I panic if my son slips out of sight, or if my daughter is past curfew.

Once, when my daughter was little and fighting an inexplicable string of infections, she was tested for leukemia. For a weekend, I lived in a dark, black place, fearing the Monday phone call with test results. As Mat Kearney sings, "I guess we're all one phone call from our knees." Life is like the morning mist -- a fine, fragile sheath separating all that grounds and holds us to Earth from the ethereal and unknown.

Thankfully, my daughter was okay. But I ache for other children and their parents, whose lives are forever altered when doctors deliver the diagnosis of cancer or other serious ailments. Why must any child suffer? I will never understand.

Yet I have watched Lane's parents say, over and over and over again, "God is good."

If they can believe that -- even now -- then I can, too.

As Lane's story gains momentum, I find myself talking more to God. The truth be told, I'm arguing with Him.

I say, "God! LOOK! Lane's story is gaining worldwide attention. This is a MAJOR PR opportunity for you! So many are focused on this young man and praying for him. This is your chance to prove who you are and what you can do, to give his family the joy of watching him grow up, to give the world the miracle it so desperately needs. Please grant Lane his miracle. Let the entire world see him healed in this place, in this time, so that his parents can watch him play soccer and fish and swim and wrestle with Landen."

I have this conversation repeatedly with God, like many of you do. I know He hears. And those of us who believe know that He also understands well the grief of Lane's parents.

I don't know what God thinks of my feeble attempts to be His marketing guru. All I know is that while I was lying in bed with all these words running through my head, I initially refused to write them. I am not worthy to write Lane's story. Heck, I'm not even sure it needs to be written. What's happening worldwide is proof that Lane and his parents have told his story quite beautifully.

Still, I felt pushed to write as I prayed. I know this about Lane Goodwin and want you to know it, too: the world is better because he graces it. A child is bringing out the best in us. The globe suddenly seems smaller; our differences diminutive.

Together, we stand strong for Lane. One friend said he gives new meaning to the name "Goodwin." Good. Win.

I see that.

I also see a chance here to make an incredible difference.  Friends, it just so happens that September is National Childhood Cancer Awareness month. If every person who is touched by Lane's story or who likes his Facebook page or posts on Twitter would give even one teeny-tiny dollar to a reputable program dedicated to curing childhood cancer, it would be yet another beautiful way to honor Lane, the Goodwins and all of those who have and continue to struggle with this cruel disease. I am sure Lane's family would give that a big thumbs up.

In the meantime, I thank them for raising an incredible boy, who has touched the world, blessed our lives, opened our hearts

Lane's story is about him -- but so much more. He has become the face, or more appropriately, the "thumbs", for childhood cancer. This brave boy has brought compassion and awareness to all who struggle with disease. I love and pray for Lane, but in his plight, I see others who hurt and fight. I do. I see you, too. I want you to know that.

That is Lane Goodwin's gift to all of us: Benevolence. Empathy. Kindness.

Thumbs up, Lane.

Two thumbs way, way up.