The Alphabet of Love

It's been far too long since I've blogged. So I'll start back simply with the alphabet game.

Things That Make Me Happy... Alphabet Style

(...and by stream of consciousness even)

A- Albecore Tuna: it's dolphin safe!

B- Bacon. Duh.

C- Chelsey Lately nightly recordings. She totally makes me laugh at 5am when I get up.

D- Dancing on bars. Not quite Coyote Ugly style, but better: the way the girls and I did in college.

E- Eggs. Every which way but poached. Yes, even raw in a beer. Or pickled in a UWSP bar.

F- Fat Fridays! The day you can eat anything (even deep fried Kool-Aid) without guilt.

G- Ghosts. Love me my ghost tours. Someday I hope to actually see one, gaddammit!

H- Harley, the woman. Though the bike ain't bad either.

I- Ice cream. Chocolate. Of course.

J- Jammie pants. The first thing I put on after a long day at work.

K- "Killer Queen" by Queen. You give me a quarter at the bar, this is comin' on the Jukebox.
L- Lorita Zorrita Hammen. It's a blessing to find my sorority sisters; an honor to love my natural one.
M- Momma. No one else in the world like her.

N- Novels. There is nothing better than being smack in the middle of one.

O- Oy! (could this be anything else?)

P- Poking. Not on Facebook, but the ability to poke at someone to bring down walls.

Q- Quincy, M.E. Yup, random I know. But I remember watching it with my Dad.

R- Road trips with friends

S- Sisters. Natural. Sorority. Ones you're blessed with beyond belief (yes, that's you, Hilary.)

T- Tampa, Florida. Because I have never met someone from there who is not amazing.

U- U.S.A. Not a day goes by that I don't realize how blessed I am to live here.

V- Vagina! Crude? Perhaps. But I so love being a woman.

W- Whiskeybelles: 4 of the most talented women I've ever met (yes, there are 4 now).

X- "xoxo" - because it means something when you actually type it.

Y- You. Because you're reading this.

Z- Ziplock bags! hahaha, just kidding. This one's for my Zipsis.

And I didn't even consult a dictionary. The last letter - the hardest to fill in? Was "N." Huh. Go figure. For an English major even!

For those of you who dare...it's hash talk time!

A hash trash. :-)

There is a rumor that the Savannah Hash was dead. Or dying. Or at the very least hibernating. If that was the case, then their dead and rotting corpses did a mighty fine job of advertising the Full Moon Hash (biggest! Brightest! In 18 years!) that ran last Saturday night. Visitors came from near and far. If I remember correctly, there were three from Tampa, four from Jacksonville (gay, of course), one from Secession and even one or two from Washington State. There were two from Atlanta, one from the Trash, even two from Baltimore and of course, the coolest of the Savannah folks, nevermind the thousands of little nosees who showed up at the start but claimed they were leaving every 10 minutes.

Knowing that meet was 6:30, off at 7:35, those of us coming from the island were a little worried about making the start in time, what with traffic. Your scribe actually was stupid enough to ask Git In My Bed: “do y’all start trail on time here?” The incredulous look was response enough. And it was true. We waited for the sun to set and the moon to come up, it being nearly 8:30 before we actually headed out. The actual lunar body (biggest! Brightest! In 18 years!) was actually a bit of a let down; luckily (not so luckily?), Squats and Swallows provided his own bright pasty moon as substitute until it could rise to the occasion.

Our hares were Tequila Tony and Just Pauline (for now) and they promised us a true Savannah-style Full Moon hash –clothing optional—and a 3.5 on the shiggy scale. Half-excited and half-nervous, we watched our nekkid hares throw down some life jackets (“just in case you’re not a swimmer type”) and gave them their mandatory (“10 minutes!!”) 20 minute head start before following them. With the full moon providing less light than anticipated and the pack having about 2.5 flashlights total among them (RV’s breasts have to count for .5 on their own, no?), we all pretty much stuck together. Little did we know at this point that we would have no worry about a well-lit trail later on.

So off we went, starting down a bit of road until we shimmied over a concrete wall and went down into the woods. These woods on a shiggy-rating were NOT the 3.5 we were promised (warned of?). But given that a good quarter of the pack were crazy cool enough to actually shed their clothes (oh! The things we do for a free t-shirt!), this was not necessarily a bad thing. There were some step-overs and what we here in Atlanta call hamsterland (or maybe it’s just your scribe). And at one point, Goo Lite Special did run ahead and warn us into a detour so we all wouldn’t fall on our faces like she did (or was it the person in front of her? Hmmm. Well, in this story, it was both of them). We twisted and winded through the lightly-covered trees and shrubs, the pack pretty much all staying together and chatting along the way. Every once in a while there was a call of “let the nekkid people go ahead!” only to have those behind (with the flashlights) then call out “egads! Why did we let the nekkid people get ahead?!” Nonetheless, we all pretty much got safely into the beer check/stop without too many bumps, bruises or cuts.

Beers were had and there was fun chatter. Then off we went again – and in this scribe’s surprise, there was beer left! We distributed them for the rest of the trail, making sure to take our garbage with us. Cause, hey. We’re cool like that.

And this is where the fun began. Remember that a good quarter of the pack was nekkid? And there was no light? Well, that changed quite quickly as we shimmied around some woodlands, over a bit of sand dune and into another (quite young or thin) wooded area. Because this is when the night lit up in bright light!

Was it finally the moon? (biggest! Brightest! In 18 years!) Was it just Squats again, bending over and lighting the way? Nope. It was a Coast Guard helicopter, secretly arranged by the hares so we could have light for the rest of the trail.

Or, rather, not.

Props to the Coast Guard for noticing a dozen plus vehicles at the start and thinking something must be going on in the area (seriously, though. Four “no trespassing” signs are not nearly enough!). They circled around until they hit us spot on – and hopefully got blinded right back by all the full moons not in the sky but a couple feet from the ground…and moving at that! The pack froze; we “hid” in the trees that proved not to be trees at all; we were pretty much in full view. And we were at a point where we were to cross a completely clear, er, clearing, before we could get back undercover again. So, of course, we froze.

After about a minute of that (the ‘copter circling closer and closer), we realized we were being ridiculous. Like they couldn’t see us? With their bright-as-the-sun light right in our faces? There were shouts of “oh my god! They’re gonna land!” (hee!) and “Crap! What are we going to do?” (um…finish trail, I reckon) and then we realized: most of us have been through this before….they really couldn’t arrest all of us.

Could they?

Awesome clothed harriers whipped off their shirts to cover the nekkid harriets up and we all hastened back to the start (some folks moving the fastest they had all night!), fully expecting to see a cop there when we arrived. Surprisingly, no. In fact, everyone came in and had a beer or three; we even cracked out the orange food and hot dogs and set up a table in the middle of the road where we were going to start ceremony. I’m guessing now, but it had to be at least 30-40 minutes until an officer finally did show, and then it was only to ask us to leave. Score! No arrests!

But it did mean we had to find another location for circle. After all, Savannah was alive again! And Just Pauline was to get named this night. We packed up (probably everything but Goo’s red vessel – who the heck had that anyway?) and headed to a McSomething bar in the western end of the historic district. At this point, RV remembered her friends owned Blaine’s Backdoor Bar and arranged for us to have a semi-private area of the place (on a Saturday night even!) in order to continue the festivities.

We lost the Baltimore harriets on the way (if I ever see them again, they’re getting punished for leaving us), but most of the pack made it there. We did trail talk and then came the naming. Questions asked, deliberation ensued and long-time named hashers took it outside to come up with a perfect, albeit “pretty” name for Just Pauline: now and forever known as Innocent Until Drunk (OMG! She’s another IUD!). I personally wanted to add “and always drunk” to the end of that, but it didn’t fly. RV, realizing there was no flour, quickly thought on her feet and got some instant potatoes from the kitchen for the naming. She also quickly got a mop when Innocent Until Drunk took her tequila shot (hey! She asked for it!) and then promptly spewed all over the floor.

Overall, a fantastic time. The shiggy meter was incorrect: most of us who have been hashing for years realized it was more a 1.5 than a 3.5….but, again, considering nekkidness and scrapes on boobs and balls? Not such a bad thing. A big thanks to our hares for laying trail, fellow hounds for making it a blast, the GM/RAs who ran a great circle and the Savannah Hash for letting us all invade your city with our own personal little madness.

If Savannah is “dead?” Stay dead, my friends. Because you rock that way. And until next time? On-on!

Screw you, Savannah, Georgia. I hate you.

With a passion right now.

So I got a frickin' parking ticket this weekend -- and lemme tell you, folks: I'm innocent. I know, I know, we all are, always. But I really am. Like, to the point where I took photographs and everything of how the car was positioned, what they wrote on the ticket, etc. They leave a little number that says: "you have the right to contest this - call 651-6470, yadda yadda." So I do. (bloody backwards city, you might want to use an area code too.)

And I'm told: "oh, that was an *officer* who left that; we can't do anything. we would have no idea where you were parked."

I tell them: "oh, I do. guess what? It even has the address on this form! and I have photos, too."

I'm still told to call the police.

Oh, and she was a complete bitch about it. She didn't even know the police number (yeah, right) so gave me an info number instead.

Okeedokee then.

So, I call 411 instead, get the Savannah police number, who, in turn, tell me that they have nothing to do with it. And guess who I should call? The number on the ticket. I actually mention that I did go the other route and they were a little dumbfounded that I was directed to them. I'll give them credit: the POs were nice. But they, too, said that there really isn't anything they can do. That I could ask for a court date....but that usually because it's only $15, people just pay it.

Uh-huh. Exactly. What a frickin' scam. Which is what I told her, too. She was actually very nice and kinda agreed with me and said something relating to the fact that it is kind of a ruckus.

But because no one will actually let me talk to someone, I have no way to even ask for a court date.

I hate you, bloody city of Savannah!

Not only that, but if you don't pay within 5 days? You get a $15 fine on top of that. So, yup. It's 4 days ago now - and because I don't live in fucking Savannah - I will now owe $30 for something I didn't do. Because the backasswards city doesn't even have a website you CAN just go pay it at. Oh now. You gotta mail in a fucking check. Who has checks these days?! And, in any case, how the heck is it going to get to another city and processed in 5 days if you're from out of town? (Even PO agreed that was kinda lame)

If I HAD done wrong, I get it. But I didn't. I have about 20 photographs to prove it. But I can't do buttkiss[sic] about it.

Screw you, Savannah. I hope y'all choke on yourselves and your bloody citations.

And The Song Remains the Same

Somebody did a song not too long ago. I think it was Kenny Chesney with "I Go Back" or whatever it's called. I should find a link for y'all, but it's not really so much the point as an illustration to what I'm saying in this entry. And if I sent y'all there, you wouldn't keep reading now, would you? You'd go there instead. So.

There are certain songs that will always, always remind you, and in this case, ME, of times and places in the past. We all have them, I'm sure. And even the "bad" ones are still good in some ways: they remind you of that moment and that place in time. And given enough time? Even those are positive. But I'm not meaning to wax poetic here; I'm just fixin' to give you my list.

1.) "It's All Coming Back to Me (K) Now" - Celine Dion. Oh, hells yes, haters: I have the Celine on my iPod. But for a reason.

Back in late fall of 1996, my dad, who was very sick, took a turn for the worse. As his sister was a retired nurse, she knew someone who could get him a quick in at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota. I took a leave of absence from work and my sister did from school (my brothers not able to at that time) and we drove with Momma from Milwaukee up to Godforsaken Minnesota in a cold November as, really, "one last hope" that someone could do something for him. If it wasn't there, it wouldn't be anywhere.

Well, it turned out it wouldn't be anywhere. But for the trip up, I made a CD of music to play and this song was on it. Out of all the other crap I had (mostly Grateful Dead, Floyd or 80s hair bands) at the time, this was one my baby sister - four years younger than I - also knew. So we sang it in the backseat together when Momma took her turn driving and Dad was sleeping restfully in the driver's passenger side. I think it was a hit at the time. So, yeah, not necessarily a good song or a good memory if you consider the situation. But, in a way, it still was. It was three to four minutes of us forgetting why we were on the road and where we were going and just singing to a terribly girl-y silly song for a brief moment of time and laughing about it. I'll always remember it for that.

I did the (K) now in the header because when I finally downloaded it for my iPod, it was actually labeled that way. And sister Lori was even the one who pointed it out to me, I think: she and I both have English degrees and cringed at the mistake. But it still adds to the whole experience now. Especially because half of y'all reading don't even know what I'm talking about in this last paragraph. ;-)

Onward!

2.) "Cecilia" - Simon and Garfunkel The setting: Freshman and Sophomore years, Smith Hall dorm at the University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point. At my campus, if you lived away from home, it was mandatory to stay in the dorms for the first two years of your college life. I stayed in Smith Hall (chosen blindly for the fact that when I was in high school I had a crush on a guy with the last name "Smith." Yup. That's how I roll.). When I went off to University, I ended up choosing one that only one other person from my high school went (and she left to pursue a higher calling after one semester). So I knew almost literally *no one.* And I was SO fine with that. I knew none of my dorm "wing mates" until I lived there; not even my roommate. In a 10x6 little room, that's a lot of trust, is it not?

Well, in the dorms - if you remember - there was always the "quiet time." It typically was weeknights about 10pm. At that time, you had to close your doors, turn down your music, make sure you were courteous of others. You certainly weren't on lock-down (it wasn't prison, for pete's sake!), but it was the wind-down time out of respect. No more running willy-nilly, screaming in the halls.

I don't know how it happened or when it started, but as this song mentioned ("Cecilia," if you've already forgotten) is just five seconds short of three minutes long, it stared being played at 9:56 *every weeknight.* Even folks who were already behind closed dorm doors studying would take it as a sign to open their doors. And *everyone* on the wing would get up, get out into the hallway, and DANCE! We twirled, we sang and we laughed and sang at the top of our lungs as our RA stood at the end of the hall, blasting this song from her boom box for us (it was 1989 afterall). And, then, as quickly as it started, it ended. We all smiled, hugged each other, said "good nights" and returned to our own rooms, shutting our doors and leaving a quiet common hall behind.

It was, in a word: magical. :-) And I will never ever hear this song without getting a big grin and wanting to dance. And I usually do.

3.) "December 1963 (Oh What a Night)" - The Four Seasons. Fast forward a couple of years. I'm still in college, but now I'm crazy in crush with a guy who is in my sorority's brother fraternity (got that?). And, for once, looking back? I don't remember an ounce of drama. He was just about the easiest man I ever fell in love with. I don't remember a back-and-forth or a "does he like me or does he not, can you check for me please?"or playing games type thing. It just suddenly was *there.* And it worked. We dated seriously my final two years of college and even lived together after we both graduated. But this song will always remind me of how we first got together.

I had my sorority sisters; he had his fraternity brothers. It was like one big family, as any of you who are brothers or sisters know. And at our college, we all always hung (hanged? *grin*) out together - be it at a house party or at the local bar (Buffy's) that one or two or six of us always worked at so the rest of us could always get in, even if under-age. (My first fake ID had me blonde, blue-eyed and from Florida, for pete's sake!) I actually don't even remember when Andy and I first met or first started talking. But I do remember that there was a bar right across the street from said Buffy's that was about 8x smaller and dirtier but had the best jukebox in the world. They also let all of us sisters dance on up on top of it to our favorite song -- and years before that movie Coyote Ugly movie came out, thankyouverymuch. And, on said juke? Was this song. "December 1963 (Oh What a Night)."

Once, early on in this whole love affair, a handful of us took a side trip to said bar before heading to Buffy's and someone dropped a dime in the jukebox ala Joan Jett and THIS song came on. Andy and I both lit up at the time (I think it was because of nickel taps and pickled eggs by the dozen, but still) and then danced like two idiot drunk white kids for the first time (meaning: badly. but we didn't care. We were in love!). And as we were getting to know each other, any time we were with our fellow fraternity brothers and sorority sisters in crowded Buffy's, we'd pretend that we "just wanted to hear that song on the jukebox! Should we go across the street just for a minute to play it?" Oh yes. Good excuse. Let's go.

*grin*

And, of course we did. It was our shy little excuse to "get away" in order to be together alone for a minute without actually having to come out and say it. And then we'd sit for hours talking and laughing instead of ever going back to the other bar. Inevitably, our other cast and crew of characters would wander over too to drink cheap beer and dance on the bar and we liked it. We'd typically get the normal 20-year-olds' type teasing ("ha! you two are over here again?") that we knew meant they were happy for us as opposed to really razzing. And, then, the whole family was there again. :-)

Andy and I didn't ultimately work out, but we parted with nothing but affection and good wishes for each other. So this song will forever bring a smile to my face and remind me of my first real deep true love whenever I randomly come across it when scanning through the radio stations in my car.

4.) "Animal" - Def Leppard. This goes way back to high school. I went to Catholic school up until 8th grade, then transferred to our local public school: Muskego High. In that we didn't get Confirmed until our Junior year, we had to take Catholic Confirmation classes outside of school since there were no religion courses during our daily schooling anymore.

This song reminds me of a time our Junior year when we went on our Confirmation retreat. I remember walking along the big white boulders on Lake Michigan's shoreline and someone playing this song. I also distinctly remember my friend Kelly singing it along with me as we were walking; someone must have had a radio playing it at the time. (Aside: I'd be really interested to know, if she reads this, if she remembers this too!) The memory is not as clear as the past few I described, but it is still vivid enough somehow that whenever I hear this song, I think of that day, down at the Lake, not but 16 years old. And I still smile every time.

And that brings us to #5. But I can't post a fifth, because if y'all know me as much as you're starting to, you know why I have to end at four and definitely not five (though I could have gone to six). :-) Of course, there are other songs. You have more than four as well, I bet. There are those that got you through heartbreak and those that helped you rise above that same thing. There are those that remind you of good times, of random memories, of things you may want to forget but, ultimately, may be a good thing you don't. I still remember my 8th grade class's theme song ("We Are the World") as well as my sister's ("Forever Young"), and they each make me think of that. These all make me smile and laugh and cry and even sometimes scream. But these four I just shared? Helped define important times in my life. So I will always, always love them.

And I know y'all have them too. The songs that make you, to quote Kenny from the very beginning, "..Go Back." I love that music does that. And I can't help but wonder if any of the people in my stories above might have some of the same memories as I.

A little bit of the Christmas Spirit

It’s Christmas and here I am, writing a blog, thanks to some very persuasive sistas who hold me accountable for such things. It’s snowing here in Atlanta on Christmas Day for the first time since before the birth of Christ (or 1880 something… I can’t remember; Mom just told me on the phone. She likes to tell me these things from up where she still is). And I’m home, in a cozy room with candles burning and my kitty at my feet, he who is getting high on the catnip I keep feeding him so he’ll stop pawing at me to play while I’m trying to write. Bad cat mom! See? This is why I keep tellin’ y’all that I’d make a bad Mom. Kids bugging you? “Honey…where’s the Benadryl again?” Probably not the right route to go.

But, as typical, I’ve already digressed from my topic. Which was… Christmas. I think. I was supposed to spend it with a friend today but, due to the aforementioned weather, decided to stay in instead. If I hadn’t spun out on the interstate a couple weeks ago (still think His finger was on my cartop on that one), I’m sure I would have, as I was looking forward to it most of the week. But, as situations changed, I’m home. And I also have to admit: I do not mind.

For many, many years I did not like this season. I still don’t like Christmas music even (the iPod’s on…but it’s very doubtful any Christmas tunes will show up on Shuffle). And I know that makes me sound all scrooge-y and bah-hum-bug-y, but it is just that at this time of year, 14 years ago, Dad passed. We had learned that Thanksgiving back in 1996 that Dad only had “weeks to months” to live, when the year had opened without even knowing he was sick. He passed away not three weeks later, smack between Thanksgiving and Christmas. I was so entirely self-centered and bitter and sad for years. I didn’t celebrate. I didn’t send out cards. And Lord knows I didn’t want to hear a darned Christmas song, for pete’s sake.

Slowly but surely, I grew out of that. I met good friends who pulled me out of that self-centered world and helped me to learn to like the season again. I am a card freak; they’re usually written out before Dec. 1 these days. I love ornaments and lights and presents and gatherings and trees and the snowman figure I get from Mom every year (opening photo is this year's addition). Still hate the Christmas music (though iTunes did just pop up Dar William’s live version of “Christians and the Pagans” – ha! Well done, fates!)…but I reckon that will come at some point, too. Or not.

The thing is, I don’t mind being alone on this holiday. Back when I was in college, I worked security and often had to work the shift in order to keep my job. As I was three hours from home anyway, I would take on double shifts so that others closer could actually spend their day with family (it wasn’t completely selfless; 32 hours in two days makes for a nice paycheck for a 20-year-old college kid). It was just "what happens" sometimes and for some folks. And for as much as I didn’t like “the season” for so many years, I do tend to keep the spirit in my heart all year ‘round. (Plus, this year it doesn't hurt that I get to see my Mom and little brother in Phoenix 4 days into the new year!)

Again, I digress. In the past 24 hours, I have been tickled beyond belief. Have been on the phone non-stop (and for someone who hates being on the phone, that’s a feat), talking, texting up a storm and, okay – yes – Facebooking, too. But I had so much company even on a day I didn’t really need it, that I feel so entirely blessed. I got random messages from friends I hadn’t heard from in a while and invites to gatherings I never expected. I did get sentiments of sympathy for my solo state, but I understood those too: I get that this time of year does make people feel a little lonely and they might not understand that I wasn't feeling the same. I fully expect some of those who did may not be doing so again in the Spring. And that’s okay, too.

I guess what my rambling is coming down to is that, alone and cozy in a place I love, in the home of friends I adore and surrounded with tweets and messages and camera phone sends that weren’t here this time all those 14 years ago when I first lost touch of my love for this time of year? Well, I didn’t think I missed it. I learned this year how blessed I am to have actually found something I didn’t know I lost.

Merry Christmas, my dear friends!

Babies Just Ain't My Thing

I love my friends. And by friends here I’m being specific. Because although y’all rock, these are very specific friends I’m talking about for one very small, but ultra-important reason: they don’t think everyone should love children just because they do. And by everyone, I mean me.

Folks don’t understand why I’m opposed to be a parent. And it’s because I’m not. It’s not something I oppose; it’s just a choice. It is as conscious of a choice for me to NOT become a parent as it is for many of you TO become one. I don’t judge those who decide they want to be one…yet, somehow, I am judged for deciding not to be.

Why exactly is that? Why don’t we honor those who make this choice as much as those who do? I mean, it’s not as if we have a population problem and I am needed to carry on the race. (Granted, I’m so gifted and gorgeous that it may be my duty to….haha!) ;-) I’m sometimes told, “oh but you’d make such a great Mom!” And I think: Um…really? How do you know that? Or there’s the “just wait. You’ll meet someone special someday and want it.” And I wonder if their magic ball might could tell me tonight’s lottery numbers along with that bit of prophesy as well. I find it amusing that these people seem to think that they know me better than I know myself, that they could say something so inane.

I also get questioned why I think twice about dating someone who has kids not in their home. This one is a little trickier: I wouldn’t discount them, but it would take a lot to get past that. And it’s simply because I’m a realist. A part-time parent can become a full-time parent in the blink of an eye when that car pile-up happens on the interstate or a routine doctor’s check-up turns up a terminal illness. Knowing what I know of myself, wouldn’t it be naive – even wrong – not to consider these things before getting into something serious with a man with kids?

But, as usual, I digress. Back to the present. A couple of weeks ago, I had the pleasure of spending time with friends who have three darling little girls. What I love about them is that they are parents, but also people. And though their girls are adorable (as, I admit, most kids are), after a few hours, I’ve had enough. I was pooped. Seriously pooped. And instead of having to make up some lame excuse to leave, I was just honest with them: I had had just about as much kids as I could that day. And God bless ‘em, do you know what they said? “We totally understand.” They did not make me feel bad – intentionally or otherwise. They did not try to convince me to stay. And I honestly think they were not insulted, did not take it as a slight, or did not judge me a bad person for feeling the way I did. Gotta say it again: God bless ‘em!

So, folks, I guess what I’m saying is this. Love who you are and what’s right for you. But let’s stop judging us non-breeders for what we are and what’s right for us, too. ‘K? Peace out.

Holding Out for a Hero

"Where have all the good men gone and where are all the gods?
Where's the street wise Hercules to fight the rising odds?"
-- Bonnie Tyler, Holding Out For a Hero

Going cheesy old school with y'all on this quote today. But while sitting out in the sun reading, I came across this line in Stephen King's Dark Tower V (Wolves of the Calla): "Eddie thought that Calvin Tower was, in the words of the song, holding out for a hero." And something told me: Get up. Time to write.

So I came back outside with a spiral-bound, college-ruled notebook (what makes blue lines closer together on a white page "college-ruled" anyway?) and a brown Sharpie. And here we are.

I always thought this song was about a woman pining for the Ultimate Man. After all: "HE's gotta be strong; HE's gotta be fast; HE's gotta be fresh from the fight." She wants a savior, right?

No.

In fact, in the very beginning - the quote I opened with above - she doesn't ever even mention a real man. She mentions gods and mythological figures. White knight saviors and whatnot. A hero to save that doesn't really exist? Please.

She needs to be her own hero.

If you remember back, think of when the song is even played in "Footloose." Country boys playing chicken with tractors? Really? Hero much? No.

Now, there are heroes - every day heroes in our lives, like our firemen, policemen and military. There are heroes to our children, like the baseball stars who take the time to actually autograph the game ball and light up their faces. And there are heroes in our every day lives: those who take the time to wish us a good morning, or call us when they know we're having a bad day. Folks who bring you a cupcake for no reason, or take that extra shift from you at work when you really want to be with your family instead.

I think the "woman" in the song can't find her hero because she doesn't realize she's her own. And she doesn't realize she is also someone else's.

A woman at work and I were talking the other day about whether true altruism exists. Because, I do think most folks want to do good and make others happy. But do we not also want to see the results of our actions? To see their faces alight, to see their change in mood? Because it gives us pleasure to make others happy. And as it should. But are our actions altruistic if we also feel happy and good about ourselves by doing them?

If true altruism doesn't exist, I'm very okay with that. How is that a bad thing anyway? Because if an act of nicety - being someone's hero however small - results in not only one person being happy, but two? Well, then. Mission accomplished x 2.

Friends, I say go on out this week and be a hero to someone. Wait for that hero if you need it, but be one of your own in the meantime for someone else who needs it, too. In that way, you are your own hero. And more that amazing for it.