When I was a kid, I had an adorable teddy bear hamster. His cage was on the desk across from my bed. Back in those days, I slept through earthquakes--literally--so Charley's frenzied nocturnal workouts on the running wheel never bothered me. By the time Iman was old enough to want a pet of her own and to be given the care of a hamster, the old saying that squeaky wheels get the oil had taken on a whole new meaning to me. It was then that I began to wish that I could experience the joy of running around on a wheel, joyfully going in circles and getting nowhere without a care in the world. Life with Chiari often leaves me feeling like a hamster on a wheel except that where the hamster enjoys the ride and doesn't care that there's no destination to reach at the end, I find running in circles quite frustrating and know that the more I run toward feeling better, the further away from that elusive goal I get.

I'm still not quite okay after the seizures and headaches of a few days ago. I stayed at home on Friday, thinking that I would get some things done around the house before beginning the grading fest looming on the horizon. Armed with a neatly organized To Do list, I tackled the chores: cleaning the cat boxes, dusting the ceiling fans, washing the curtains, scrubbing the bathroom fixtures. With each item that I crossed off the list, the more empowered and able to complete the next task I felt. It's been a while since I managed to maintain such focus without feeling like I needed to nap between jobs, so it was with a sense of exhiliration that I unloaded the dishwasher and made it ready for another load. And then, like some great cosmic joke with me as the punchline, something pulled the rug right out from underneath me!

With no warning ahead of time, my legs buckled, the kitchen rug slid across the floor, and I landed in a heap with a seizure well under way. Chiari patients sometimes have drop attacks during which muscle tone weakens suddenly and significantly enough that they drop things they are holding or fall if standing. I've had a few drop attacks, but they occur so rarely that I seldom think about them. I'm sure that what happened on Friday was a drop attack followed by, not precipitated by, a seizure. The whole event lasted 45 seconds or so, and I never lost consciousness. My dignity, on the other hand, didn't fare quite so well. :)

The seizure was intense enough that fighting off the need to sleep afterward was impossible, and I gave in to the need for a nap. For a few hours after the event, I felt weak, shaky, and a bit disoriented. I guess that my right leg must have been the one to bear the brunt of the drop attack because it still aches (it's currently 2:16 am on Sunday). I've had a couple of small electrical shortages, with headaches and stiffness in the neck thrown in for good measure, since the attack. Still, I haven't felt the need to bring out the big guns (Cafergot) yet, as I have an incredibly high tolerance for pain and the prescription strength Ibuprofen makes it bearable.

For now, my inner hamster has joined me on the pity pot and together, we're running like the wind on the Chiari wheel of life. Oh, how I wish I could be like Willie Nelson and sing about how good it is to be "on the road again."

I'm a winter person. When the clocks "fall back," darkness comes early, and a chill begins to fill the air, I am truly in my element. Whereas most people look forward to the warm months of summer, I eagerly await what a friend calls the "freezin' season." Granted, in Southern California we very, very rarely experience anything even remotely close to a "freezin' season," but you get the idea -- I prefer the colder months of the year. Lately though, I've been thinking about spring and growing things and hope.

I have a knack for growing things. The fruit in the photo on the left are guavas -- the end of last year's crop from one of two guava trees I started from seeds. When the guavas are in bloom, our house becomes one of the most popular destinations in the neighborhood as people stop by to check the progress of the growth. Ali, the guava fan at our house, enjoys sharing the fruit with family, friends, and neighbors while bragging about how his wife grew the trees from seeds that he got from a friend. We've also got an orange tree that keeps us supplied with oranges for months at a time and delights our senses with the regal display of gorgeous smelling blossoms for a month or so before the fruit comes in. And the grapevine that grows along the fence gives both grapes (the ones in the picture came from last year's crop) and the leaves to make mahshi (stuffed grape leaves -- one of my favorite foods in the entire world!).

Every year I have a small vegetable garden in the yard on one side of our house. I grow beefsteak tomatoes for the sole purpose of picking while green and frying, cherry tomatoes for snacking, and Roma tomatoes for cooking. Vegetables include Japanese eggplant, yellow squash, zucchini, and okra (the blossom on this plant is gorgeous, by the way). I've also grown some herbs: thyme, dill, rosemary, oregano, and parsley. Basically, I plant whatever strikes my fancy at the time.

I'm not ready for daylight savings time just yet, nor am I prepared for the soaring temperatures and electric bills associated with running the a/c during a SoCal heatwave. What I am ready for, though, is the hope that comes with spring -- the promise of something new, the excitement of watching life appear from a mound of dirt, and wishes for better days.

Aw, heck, I'm ready for a garden!

Do I hear the wail of a siren in the distance? I sure hope so, because I am in desperate need of a waaaambulance! Someone please call up the reinforcements before my fanny becomes permanently attached to the pity pot!

Ok, so yesterday was just plain terrible no matter how I look at it. The cluster of seizures that began in the middle of the night on Tuesday left me with clusters of headaches on Wednesday that rendered me just about as useful as plastic surgery tips from Jocelyn Wildenstein. I don't give in or up easily and genuinely believe that location matters very little to misery, so I went to the office. (Side note: Ali and I have a business, so "the office" to me means the location of my desk in one of our warehouses.) Besides, pity pots are portable!

Seizures and short term memory are not the best of friends. In fact, they really don't like one another at all most of the time. Thus it should not have surprised me that I completely forgot Ali's dental appointment yesterday morning or my own eye exam appointment in the late afternoon but remembered that I would be missing out on seeing Phantom of the Opera. Back in January, I posted about anticipation and mentioned that I had bought tickets for myself and the niece to see the show on, you guessed it, February 18th! In the heat of the excitement, I hadn't considered that (1) the show started at 8 PM, (2) I live in Orange County and the theater is 35 miles away in Los Angeles, (3) I can't see well enough to drive at night, and (4) I would have to find someone to drive me and the niece to LA then be willing to wait around for 2.5 hours until the show finished.

Ali volunteered to play chauffeur for us. But the closer the date of the show drew, the less I wanted him to make yet another sacrifice for me. I mean, really, the poor guy already hangs out in the car on Thursday nights while I teach a class, so why on earth would I want him to waste yet another evening stuck in the car while I enjoy musical theater? How utterly selfish is that?! Iman and Magdy (daughter and son-in-law) volunteered to drive us and hang around in Hollywood until the show was over, but it's a long drive and Magdy has to be at work very early in the morning. A solution to the problem came to me a couple of weeks ago when it hit me how nice it would be that two birthday girls (Iman on 2-4, Basma on 2-17), both of whom are as crazy about Phantom as I, share the evening together and gave my ticket to Iman for her birthday. It's a good thing I did, too, as I would never have made it to LA yesterday; however, that doesn't mean that I don't get to feel sorry for myself for having to miss out on the show!

With the constant pressure, banging, and throbbing going on in my head, I didn't accomplish anything at the office except to make Ali feel terrible that I was there at all. Ours is a genuine old-fashioned "mom and pop" business. Ali, I, and Iman are the only employees and between us, we manage two warehouses, a brick and mortar shop, a couple of websites, and all the wholesale and retail customers they bring. Since Iman got married last month, she cut her hours by half to make it easier to manage a full-time load of classes while working and adjusting to married life. Add to this the time I spend away from the business to take care of my teaching responsibilities both in and out of the classroom, and you'll see quickly enough that Ali is one heck of a busy man all the time. How could I add to te burden he already carries so willingly?

And so, I spent yesterday on the pity pot lamenting the misery that came in the wake of an avalanche of seizures that triggered an eruption of headaches, mourning the loss of much of my independence, and bemoaning the burdens that Chiari forces me to dump on my family. For now, I'm going to try my best to play like Scarlett O'Hara because, "After all, tomorrow is another day."

As if to remind me of yesterday's discussion about invisible illnesses, my brain took it upon itself to have an electrical surge a couple of hours ago. Of course it couldn't have come before I went to bed because that might have made it much too easy for me to sleep through the night, something I seem to have forgotten how to do.

When it comes to seizures, most people automatically think of the worst type -- the kind that causes eyes to roll to the back of the head, tightens muscles so that they twitch and spasm, and leads to an unconscious flailing about of the body under assault. I used to conjure the same image of a seizure -- until I learned that scar tissue on the parietal lobe of my brain indicated that seizures had long been a part of my life without me even realizing it.

I have complex partial seizures that occur on the right side of my brain, in the parietal lobe, and seldom cause me to lose consciousness. It may look as if I have mindlessly drifted off into an alternate universe, but I remain very much aware of what goes on around me during a seizure. I do, however, lose the power to respond while neurons perform the jive across the stage of grey matter in my head. The seizures often occur in flurries or clusters, meaning that the first one acts a trigger for others. My husband describes them like an earthquake and aftershocks; those of us who live in Southern California know that after an earthquake, aftershocks are a given. My seizures act the same way.

So, what happens when I have a seizure? Some people who deal with seizures have an "aura," or a way of knowing that one is coming. I am one of those lucky folks. In fact I'm doubly blessed because I have two signals to alert me that my brain is about to experience an electrical overload. The first aura is a burning smell. When I start sniffing the air, checking out the stove and appliances, examining electrical outlets, and asking if anyone else smells something burning, look out -- a seizure is on the way. With this aura, I never know when the event will happen, just that it will. The second way that I know to prepare myself for a seizure happens very quickly and when it does, I know that a seizure will hit me in a hurry. This is the most frequent beginning to a seizure for me.

A gentle tingling sensation at the bottom of my feet is the first signal. I'm not ticklish (except between my toes), but I can imagine that the feeling must be similar to what those who do have ticklish feet feel. In a matter of a second or two, the tingling in the feet is followed by the strongest feeling of nausea I have ever experienced without actually barfing my guts up. As soon as the nausea happens, I know what to expect and sit down if I'm not already seated. I've only gone down twice during a seizure, but those two experiences seriously traumatized me. Lying in a heap on the floor and drooling all over oneself is not very pleasant, nor is it particularly graceful looking!

After the aura pays me a visit, a light film of sweat will break out on my upper lip, saliva will begin to fill my mouth more quickly than normal, I may feel hot or flushed, then the right arm will begin feeling numb. At about the same time that the arm goes numb, I just drift off. To those who see me when it happens, I appear to be daydreaming or staring off into space. When the electrical activity in the brain starts to settle down, I will begin to cough -- sometimes quite violently, especially if the seizure has lasted longer than 30 seconds -- and shake my arm to relieve the numbness. The coughing spell sometimes lasts 5 or 10 minutes, during which time I am coming out of the seizure.

The length of the seizure determines the amount of time it takes me to come out of it. On the days when I have clusters, the seizures themselves don't last any more than 30-45 seconds but with each one, coming out gets increasingly difficult. No matter whether the seizures occur in clusters or not, I am compelled to sleep afterward. I've tried to fight off the need to sleep but doing so only exacerbates the problem and often triggers additional seizures.

My neurologist assures me that once we find the right medicine in the proper dosage, the seizures will be fully controlled. I can't wait until that happens!

If you overlook the luggage under my eyes from chronic sleep deprivation, the wobbly walk that comes with disequilibrium, the funky way I step down from curbs to avoid falling off them, or the way I have to tilt my head to avoid seeing double, my very serious and very real illnesses are invisible to most of the world. I'd never thought much about this invisibility before reading the latest post on Prof S's blog and following it up with Michelle's post, the one that got Prof S thinking on the subject. But now that I'm contemplating the subject, it's clear to me that I've been damn lucky. Instead of getting "But you don't look sick!" comments, I receive accolades for "holding on so well," "fighting bravely," "overcoming obstacles," and setting an "inspirational example" for others. My illnesses are as invisible as fibromyalgia, chronic pain, Lupus, and migraines, among others, yet when I tell people about them, the response I receive is always positive and sympathetic. Why?

Strangers who look at me won't see the piece of brain that hangs down in my spinal column, nor will they see the majority of the symptoms this miniscule protrusion causes. Arnold Chiari Malformation is an invisible yet progressively debilitating condition. Unless I am actively seizing, people will never know that I have Epilepsy, either. On the surface, I look fine, peachy keen, hunky dory, and above all, healthy. But perceptions can often be deceptions, and I think this may be the case with most illnesses.

Society has conditioned us to look for physical signs of illness such as a cough and stuffed nose for a cold, withered and twisted hands for rheumatoid arthritis, or tics and outbursts for Tourette's Syndrome. The reality, though, is that most illnesses -- even the ones we know best -- are invisible! Can you look at someone and just know that (s)he has cancer, diabetes, or heart disease? Not likely because although we know and fear these illnesses, they are every bit as invisible as Lupus, fibromyalgia, chronic pain, ACM, and epilepsy.

I believe that the positive feedback the explanation of my illnesses draws from strangers has to do with location, location, location more than anything else. ACM and Epilepsy originate in the brain, the body's epicenter. No other organ, except maybe the heart, inspires as much fear and awe as the mass of grey matter that lives in our heads. When I have a bad day and people hear about it, I get positive responses and sympathy because my conditions are neurological. And when people hear that I've had brain surgery, their reactions are even more kind and sympathetic. But I'm sure that if I were to tell strangers that I suffer from chronic pain, their reactions would be mostly negative. Aches and pains are a normal part of life, right? We all have them and ought to learn how to cope instead of concocting a condition for them. Sound familiar? This is where ignorance comes into play.

Ignorance of an illness does not make it any less real to the people whose lives are wrapped up in it. Just because we can't see what causes the pain of fibromyalgia doesn't make it a figment of someone's imagination. Unless I went around flashing the now faded red badge of courage that extends from the midpoint of my skull to slightly below the point where my neck is connected to my shoulders, nobody would know that I have an illness, either. But because I can say that a skilled neurosurgeon alleviated some of the symptoms associated with ACM, I get slack that others don't. Pain and misery are pain and misery no matter where they originate!

I've mentioned before that I am a fan of documentary films and that when I struggle with sleep, the collection of them that I have amassed keeps me company through the night. We recently got a new satellite -- ok, it's an additional two satellites to the one we already had -- to make it possible for Ali to receive the programming from a plethora of Arabic language channels now available. One of the benefits of this new service is that it picks up the signal from PBS stations across the country and for someone who watches documentaries like I do, this bonus makes the fact that our roof now looks like an alien communication center much easier to accept.

Although a little better than a few weeks ago, my sleeping habits still resemble those of a cat for the most part. Still, I've been more functional and better able to face the world with the recent addition of a couple more hours of shut-eye during the night. That is, until last Friday. It had been a long day at the business, which meant that a nap was out of the question. Ali kept insisting that I just put the work aside and sleep for at least an hour, but I was hoping that the sheer exhaustion would help me to stay asleep through the night and refused. One of these days I'll learn to listen to my husband's concerns instead of fighting against the tide of the inevitable. Long story short, I fell asleep before 8, woke up shortly after 10, and could not go back to sleep to save my soul. It's at times like these when I rely on documentaries.

One of the many PBS stations on our new service was showing an episode of American Experience called "The Trials of J. Robert Oppenheimer" at 2 a.m., so I flipped to it and settled in for an educationally entertaining diversion. The story of this once heroic figure's fall from grace so fascinated me that I googled his name to learn more. When I discovered that Robert's brother, Frank, also a physicist, had sold a Van Gogh painting he inherited from his mother and bought a cattle ranch in Pagosa Springs, Colorado to escape McCarthyism, my heart fluttered. But when I read that Frank Oppenheimer had taught at the town's high school, the excitement that caused the flutter quickly grew to a heart stopping event. Pagosa Springs is my dad's hometown, the place where my family trekked every summer of my youth! Even better -- Frank Oppenheimer was teaching at Pagosa Springs High School while my dad was still a student there!

At 2:47 a.m., I sent my father an excited email. Pagosa Springs, before the influx of displaced Californians began arriving and changing its entire atmosphere in the 80's, was Mayberry in Colorado. The town was small enough that everyone really did know everyone else. So I send my dad an email asking if he knew Frank Oppenheimer. Much to my delight, he responded (several hours later because he does sleep at night, LOL) that not only did he know Frank, but that Frank's daughter, Judy, was in the same high school class as he and that Frank had been his science teacher! (This 1957 address to the Pagosa Springs High School PTA establishes the motivations and objections that became the foundation of Frank Oppenheimer's Exploratorium several years later.) A follow-up phone call with my dad revealed that the townspeople knew about the communism charge and the McCarthy hearings against the Oppenheimer brothers, but he said that as far as everyone in Pagosa knew, Frank had not been a Communist. According to Dad, Judy Oppenheimer was the "ugliest girl at school" and often the butt of jokes as a result; however, she was very, very good at math and science and was the person Dad turned to when he needed help with his math homework. When I asked if the Oppenheimers still lived in Pagosa, dad said that the family just kind of "disappeared" and that he didn't know where they went.

Oh, the connections we make in this increasingly small world in which we live. My dad's high school science teacher was none other than the founder of the Exploratorium! How cool is that? Even better, look at what I discovered by watching a documentary at 2 o'clock in the morning!

I love orchids and my husband although every now and then, it's hard to tell which one ranks first on my list. Both require specialized care and attention; yet, both of them keep me delighted and entertained with a minimal amount of effort. Yesterday, hubby retained the number one spot because of an orchid.

I've always had a green thumb and have loved growing plants ever since my high school days. Back then, my bedroom was filled with the most popular plants of the 70's: pathos, spider plant, ivy, creeping Charley, wandering Jew, asparagus fern, ficus, and coleus. Plants lined the shelf under the window and dangled from the ceiling in macrame hangers that I made for them. The only plant that I recall having no success with was the African Violet. But I have conquered that obstacle and now have one, along with several of its offspring, that my sister gave me in 1996. I figured that if I could keep one of those temperamental plants alive for such a long time, I was ready to move on to the more serious blooming plants. Enter the orchids.

It started with a miniature phalaenopsis that I purchased six years ago. The magic of my green thumb has worked its charm on that plant, too. It has produced at least one spike of flowers every year since I brought it home. This blooming season, it has surprised me with a double spike -- surely a testament to my ability to provide adequate care. But as much as I enjoy that plant and its pretty little flowers, I truly prefer the showy cattleya orchid.

Cattleyas are neither cheap nor easy to grow. Whereas the phalaenopsis likes water once a week or so, a spot under the kitchen window where it gets plenty of sunshine, and a bit of fertilizer every once in a while to produce the blooms that you see in the photo on the right, cattleyas need humidity, frequent and regular fertilizing, and a specific watering schedule in order to bloom. Give them too little or too much of water, humidity, light, or fertilizer, and the plant dies. The thought of spending a hefty amount of money on a plant that I might inadvertently kill due to lack of knowledge or experience has prevented me from getting one and reduced me to admiring them from afar. That is, until a new business moved in next door to ours.

Our new neighbors own a wedding planning and floral service business. Their warehouse is filled with incredible bonsai trees, fantastic smelling roses, baby's breath, corn plants, hanging pathos, and -- you guessed it -- orchids! These people grow the most amazingly large phalaenopsis orchids I have ever seen. Yesterday, when I saw the Valentine's Day display they had prepared, I decided that Ali was going to get me an orchid as a symbol of his affection. Bless his heart, he never questioned me; he just went next door with me while I chose the plant I wanted. It's not quite the showy cattleya that I adore, but I'll settle for a stunning cymbidium for the time being. The blooms look similar to the cattleya, but the plant doesn't require as much hardcore care.

For now, I will enjoy the seven -- yes, count them! -- spikes of blooms on this new plant and learn what demands it will make of me. And when I've learned how to care for this one properly, I'll move on to the grand prize in orchids. I've already got the grand prize in husbands.

I had no intention of weighing in on the "Octomom" furor that has been raging in the media for the past couple of weeks. Gossip, especially of the celebrity type, doesn't interest me. But something happened yesterday that made me change my mind about having my say.

After collecting the mail from my department office, I waited for the elevator so that I could leave that building and head over to the one where my class is held. As soon as the doors opened on the floor where I was waiting, a cacophony blared into the hallway: "I'm grateful she's not in our department!" and "How are we supposed to deal with the inevitable media blitz that this will bring?" and "What the hell is she thinking?" were the first intelligible comments I heard as I walked in. Without saying anything, I observed my colleagues engaging in a very lively conversation, the topic of which I remained happily clueless for two floors. When we reached the first floor and began to exit the elevator, I learned that the discussion I had heard was about Nadya Suleman, the now infamous "Octomom." Why were my colleagues' knickers in such a twist? Because Ms. Suleman is an alumna of our esteemed institution and plans to return in the Fall 2009 semester to finish the Master's degree in Counseling that she began prior to her last pregnancy!

Celebrity is not unknown at our university. Kevin Costner is, by far, our most famous alum, but he isn't the only well known person with ties to our school. Heck, we've even experienced our county's only serial killer! Students and faculty have been bombarded by the press more than once in the recent past and while it is disruptive when camera crews park themselves in the Quad and news helicopters hover overhead, we've dealt with it just fine. So why the upset that I heard in the elevator?

Nadya Suleman's fifteen minutes of fame and glory will, clearly, take a bit longer to fade away. With her return to our university will come the aggrivation of the media onslaught but even worse, experiencing her story firsthand will, no doubt, bring out the worst in our students and faculty. Reporters will illicit responses to questions about her decision to have eight more children by IVF when she already had six at home; they will want to know our reactions to her being on campus and using the child care center; they will hound the often irresponsible for comments on the irresponsibility of an unmarried and unemployed woman having 14 children. In short, the media will seek our judgment on an individual who seems to have some significant psychological issues. What good can come of that?

Honestly, I am glad that I will retire before the lions and tigers and Nadya overtake our campus.

It was bound to happen sooner or later. So when it did finally happen this afternoon, why was I so unprepared for it? Why do I feel so embarrassed, ashamed, and humiliated by it?

The inevitable happened in my afternoon class today. I had a seizure. It wasn't bad and didn't last long. The usual coughing fit that lets me know I'm coming out of the seizure was mild by comparison to what usually happens. I didn't drool this time, nor did I freeze up completely during the event. And although this seizure was really not a big deal, I was left feeling absolutely and utterly embarrassed and humiliated by it.

Class was about halfway through when I started feeling the all too familiar tingling sensation and nausea that are my body's way of announcing the onslaught of electrical hyperactivity in my head. Right in the middle of discussing John Stuart Mill's essay, On Liberty, and explaining the influence that Mill's "no harm" clause has had on our own incitement laws, I very calmly announced, mid-sentence, to my class, "Please don't be surprised if I start to drool and stare off into space because I'll be having a seizure in just a few seconds." Because the seizure was mild, I skipped only a couple of beats before regaining my composure and continuing the conversation while the electrical wiring in my head misfired for a few seconds. And when it had finished, I coughed and shook my right hand to rid it of the tingling sensation, and went on as if all were right in my world.

Thankfully, I warn my students at the start of each semester that the possibility of me having a seizure is quite real. But I also let them know that (1) it has never happened on campus before (it hadn't until today) and (2) I have two different auras to warn me a few seconds before the event happens. I explain what happens when I have a seizure, let them know that I will warn them before it happens, and reassure them that they don't need to do anything except wait until they see me shake my hand and cough as that is the signal that the seizure is mostly finished. Thus when I announced the impending seizure this afternoon, they remained cool, calm, and collected. Perhaps it helped that I didn't panic despite my embarrassment.

Having a seizure, no matter how mild, in front of my students is something that I had prayed would never happen. Now that it has, I need only to find a way to deal with the sense of shame that the experience has left behind.

I've had a song running through my head for a couple of days now. It just kind of emerged from the fog that lives in my head when I haven't had enough sleep. Where I heard the song before, I honestly can't say. Why I remember only the "hallelujah" part, I have no clue. Thank God for YouTube in cases like this one! All I had to do was type in the one word I remembered from the song and like magic, video connections to it filled my screen.

The lyrics are quite fascinating for someone whose career has been built around analyzing words, images, and symbols for deeper meaning. Once I get fully settled into a comfortable rhythm for the semester, I fully intend to play around with them to see what I can come up with.

So, what is this mystery song that has haunted my head? It's Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah," and I've chosen my favorite performance of it to share with you. Enjoy!

The last movie I saw in a theater was Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Well, technically, I didn't see the movie because I fell asleep within twenty minutes after the film started. Considering that the same thing had happened with the two movies I went to see before Harry Potter, I figured it was best to wait until the movies I wanted to see became available on DVD so that I didn't waste any more money for the privilege of sleeping in a theater. After hearing many positive things about Slumdog Millionaire, I just had to take a chance one more time and convinced Ali to take me to the mall to see it last night. Amazingly, I managed to stay awake through the entire film! Considering my recent sleeping issues, that the movie kept me awake and alert until nearly 10 PM is a true testament to its entertainment value in my book.

Both Ali and I thoroughly enjoyed the film. I find it quite easy to understand why it has either been nominated for or won several awards. The film portrays the darkest side of poverty and a corrupt government while, at the same time, providing a glimpse of the resourcefulness of the impoverished children who populate the slums of India.

Jamal and Selim, "slumdogs" whose mother is killed in a surprise Hindu attack on the Muslims who live in the slum, must find a way to survive as orphans in a society with such a rigid social structure that people are pigeon-holed at every turn. The story is told through a series of flashbacks that explain how Jamal, with very little formal education and a product of the seedier side of life, knows the answers to the difficult questions on India's version of the Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? game show. At once tragic and comic, Jamal's life experience has provided him with everything he needs to know in order to answer the questions and win the game. But in the process of winning the game, he loses something that is far more important than the millions of rupees in prize money.

This is one film that was definitely worth the $11.50 that we paid for each ticket. Better still, it will be well worth the investment of the DVD when it is released because this movie is one that needs to be seen more than once.

Computers, and all the wonderful things they do, have been an integral part of my life since Ali brought home our first PC way back in 1985. He was learning programming and was quite comfortable with the clunky box and funky-looking TV screen that he placed on our dining room table, but I had no clue how it worked, what to do with it, or why I should learn anything about it. Thanks to Ali's excellent teaching skills, I learned how to use the computer, some basic programming skills, and could soon do things with the machine that Ali knew nothing about.

The computer has become a part of my everyday life and integral to my job. But as comfortable as I am with the more creative aspects of computing, I must confess to being an absolute imbecile when it comes to using it for functional things like calculating grades. I have very little knowledge of Excel and if it weren't for Ali's niece, who set up a gradebook for me, I would still be calculating grades by hand. Entering names, scores, and assignments into a pre-designed form is easy; creating that form is another story altogether. And here is where I find myself in a dilemma.

I need a new gradebook and can't figure out how to set it up! Hours of googling "grading spreadsheet template excel" have not yielded the desired results, so I'm left with the daunting task of designing my own gradebook. Even more hours spent staring at a blank workbook has done nothing more than convinced me even further that I am doomed to return to grading by hand.

No, no, no -- I will not give in so easily! I can conquer Excel, I'm sure of it. Well, almost. A little bit. We'll see.

We Will Not Go Down (Song for Gaza)
Composed by Michael Heart

A blinding flash of white light
Lit up the sky over Gaza tonight
People running for cover
Not knowing whether they're dead or alive

They came with their tanks and their planes
With ravaging fiery flames
And nothing remains
Just a voice rising up in the smoky haze

We will not go down
In the night, without a fight
You can burn up our mosques and our homes and our schools
But our spirit will never die
We will not go down
In Gaza tonight

Women and children alike
Murdered and massacred night after night
While the so-called leaders of countries afar
Debated on who's wrong or right

But their powerless words were in vain
And the bombs fell down like acid rain
But through the tears and the blood and the pain
You can still hear that voice through the smoky haze

We will not go down
In the night, without a fight
You can burn up our mosques and our homes and our schools
But our spirit will never die
We will not go down
In the night, without a fight
We will not go down
In Gaza tonight

I'm pleased to report that I successfully completed the first week of the Spring 2009 semester without any major issues -- yeah me!

My schedule is completely screwed up this semester. For the past four years, I've had a consistent schedule of Monday and Wednesday morning classes on the main campus. For someone who wakes up as early as I do, this has been an ideal situation for me. This time around, however, I am teaching one class on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, and one on Thursday nights. In addition to the days and times being off, one class is on the main campus and the other on our satellite campus in a city approximately 15 miles away. Under normal circumstances, fifteen miles is not a terribly long commuting distance; but when the class begins at 7 o'clock and the commute involves traveling down one of the most congested Southern California freeways at peak traffic time, a commute which ought to take 15-20 minutes becomes a stressful trek of, at the very least, double that time.

It has been at least five years since I taught a night class and equally as long since I taught a class on the satellite campus. Driving such a distance at night is not an option for me thanks to the Chiari induced problems with depth perception and night blindness, so Ali is once again playing the role of chauffeur. I think he likes the idea of napping peacefully in the car while I'm in class!

The two classes are as different as, pardon the pun, day and night. The afternoon class is quite small (16 students), while the night class has nearly met its cap of 45. If our state budget weren't such a mess and dozens of classes hadn't been canceled as a result, the enrollment of the night class would never have been raised from the standard enrollment of 25. But it is what it is at this point, and I will deal with the situation as best I can.

Both classes have, based on first impressions only, some really great students who are actively engaged in the learning process. This alone will make for a truly enjoyable semester.

And so it goes. . .

The last time I posted, I expressed my concern about sleep deprivation. I saw the neurologist on Tuesday, and she confirmed my suspicions. The overwhelming majority of my current misery, including the breakthrough seizures and headaches, is coming from a lack of sleep. Easy problem to solve, right? Just add sleeping meds to my list of prescriptions and all will be right in my world. Not so!

I won't willingly take medications that impede my ability to think clearly. Heck, Ibuprofen is the strongest pain med I feel comfortable taking. Even after 8 major surgeries, I never used pain medication. It's not because I want to suffer unnecessarily or to prove my strength that I refuse pain medications, I just don't like the way they make me feel. An allergic reaction to codeine in my early twenties was enough to convince me that conscious-altering drugs were not the way to go, and it's been that way ever since.

So, how to tackle the problem of not sleeping through the night without using a sleeping potion? Dr. S suggested 25mg of Benadryl at bedtime. You'd think that because I don't take medications that can cause drowsiness, it shouldn't take very much to knock me out since my body isn't used to them. No such luck! Thus far, 25mg doesn't do the trick, so I need to up the ante to 50mg. If the 50mg dosage doesn't work, then we'll try Elavil. We'll see what happens. . .

I remember watching Sybil, starring Sally Field, way back when I was in high school in the 70s. Sybil, the victim of physical and sexual abuse as a child, developed a multiple personality disorder as a result. She didn't know why, but Sybil often lost track of time -- whole days, sometimes several at once, went missing from her memory and left her confused -- when an alternate persona took over to help her deal with whatever crisis she faced. I'm beginning to feel a bit like Sybil.

For the past several days, I seem to have lost the ability to keep track of the day of the week and the date. On Saturday, I called my dad, who was scheduled to have hip replacement surgery on January 19. I don't know why, but I thought that Sunday was the 19th and was shocked that my dad would be having surgery on a Sunday. Nobody has surgery on Sunday unless it's an emergency! Dad set me straight on the day and date, and I made a mental note of the correction. At least I thought I did. . .

I've been waiting a few weeks to see my neurologist. I even mentioned it in my last post. Armed with my list of concerns, I waited in line for my turn to check in. Imagine my surprise when the receptionist, with a surprised look on her face, said, "Ma'am, you have an appointment with Dr. S, but it's not until tomorrow." Tomorrow? Ironically, as I left the reception area and headed for the car, the reminder notice that I had set on my iPhone calendar flashed across the screen.

As I looked over my last post, I see quite clearly that despite my dad setting me straight about the day and date on Saturday, the confusion continued. For God's sake, I've even got the day of the inauguration all wrong!

Is this what happens when one suffers from sleep deprivation?

Patience is a quality that I have learned through the years. "Patience is a virtue," my mother used to tell me and my sisters, and it used to make me crazy as a kid. As an adult, however, I understand the wisdom in her frequent recitation of the old adage. Now I know that patience is definitely a virtue, but anticipation is a heck of a lot more fun! So what am I anticipating? Let me count the ways. . .

1. The Spring 2009 semester begins in about 10 days. I just checked the roster for each class and know that one class has 33 students and the other has 6. The anticipation and excitement that typically go hand in hand at the commencement of a new semester are now overshadowed by the anticipation and anguish over the staying power of the class with only 6 students enrolled.
2. I've been crazy about The Phantom of the Opera for ages but never had the opportunity to see it on stage. That will finally change on February 18th! Basma, who is also hooked on the show, will be turning 15 on February 17th and when I discovered that Phantom was playing in Los Angeles, I decided to make both of us happy on her birthday by getting us a pair of tickets to see Phantom! Talk about old adages -- how about "killing two birds with one stone"?! Of course I couldn't keep this a secret from her; what could be more fun than torturing the niece with the anticipation of a night on the town at the theater?
3. Inauguration Day is just two days away! The level of excitement and anticipation at my house has reached fever pitch. Thank goodness the ceremony takes place early in the morning because if it were in the afternoon, I'd have to cancel my appointment with the neurologist. Sorry Dr. S, but President Obama trumps you this time!
   

With so much to look forward to in the next few weeks, I think I need to remember that old saying about patience -- even if it will make me as crazy now as it did when I was a kid.

"I'm going to California where they sleep out every night," sang Jimmie Rodgers in his "Blue Yodel No. 4 (California Blues)." In 1929, when the "singing brakeman" recorded this song, California was still the Golden State and attracted tens of thousands of new residents each year. Whether it was the lure of a mild climate, the promise of job opportunities, or visions of the silver screen, people wanted to come to California. But that was 1929, eighty years ago. In 2009, not many people are "going to California where they sleep out every night."

For the past four years, California has lost more residents to other states than it has gained from them. And although a net loss of 144,000 in 2008 isn't such a large number considering that our population is close to 40 million, it does give us the dubious distinction of ranking first on a list of states whose residents are leaving in search of greener pastures at a higher rate than residents of other states arrive here in search of them. Thanks to births and immigration, both legal and illegal, California's population is still on the rise overall, but it has lost some of the appeal and attractiveness to people considering a state-to-state move.

The past four years of steady flight out of state is just one more reflection of the obvious: something is dreadfully wrong in California! I love the state where I was born and raised and because I do, I worry about its future. The November 2008 unemployment rate for California reached 8.4%, placing us third behind Michigan (9.6%) and Rhode Island (9.4%). Our budget deficit, according to the Governator's State of the State speech (1-15-09), has shot up to $40 BILLION through 2010. California's deficit is larger than the operating budgets of every single state in the Union but New York! The San Jose Mercury News has a fantastic article putting the numbers in their proper perspectives, and all I can say about it is that they are frightening.

Toto, we may not be in Kansas anymore, but we're not heading for California!

It all started with a trip to Costco. We needed a few things for home and the office and since Ali, who usually does the Costco shopping, had a large wholesale order to get ready, I volunteered to go. With a full shopping cart, I got in line to pay and started unloading the items onto the belt for the cashier. Before I even got half of the stuff out of the basket, a lady moves in front of me, places a divider bar on the belt, and plops her purchases down!

"Ma'am," said I, "please take your things off the belt and wait until I finish unloading mine before you put them back on it. I'm not finished!"

She looked at me like some alien life force had thrown me in her path for no reason other than to test her patience. "How am I supposed to know when you're done?" she asked without moving anything off the belt. She turned to look at the elderly woman who must have been her shopping companion, raised her eyebrows, and waited for my answer.

It didn't require the brilliance of a rocket scientist to figure out that the woman had been shopping before. It didn't require the deductive reasoning capabilities of Sherlock Holmes to figure out that if she had been shopping before, she knew the rule about waiting for her turn to check out. Or maybe it did. . .

"Keep your eye on the cart I'm using," I responded. "When it's empty and I've pushed it to the side of the belt where the cashier is, I'm finished. When I'm finished, it's your turn." I picked up one of the items she had so rudely plunked on the belt and handed it to her. "Now, if you'll get the other things, I will finish unloading mine in less than a minute."

Insulted, she heaved a clearly audible sigh, grabbed the rest of her purchases off the belt, headed to another line, and the remainder of my day went downhill from that point.

When I was five, my Aunt Naomi introduced me to . I've loved The Beatles' music as far back as my pitiful memory stretches, and today I feel as though I am living the lyrics to one of their songs:

Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away.
Now it looks as though they're here to stay.
Oh, I believe in yesterday.
Suddenly, I'm not half the man I used to be,
There's a shadow hanging over me.
Oh, yesterday came suddenly.

Yesterday was good and for several hours, my troubles were far away. I dropped the kids off at the train station and wished them well as they rode off for their honeymoon in Santa Barbara. Heck, I even managed to pack and prepare shipping labels for 19 post office packages yesterday! I was tired -- really, really tired -- but managed to function quite well in spite of the nasty Santa Ana winds and the need for a nap. For the majority of the day I forgot about Chiari, and it was wonderful!

Like Cinderella whose fairytale day ends at midnight, mine came to a painful end right about the same time, reminding me that my troubles are here to stay. A pressure headache woke me from a sound sleep. This is the worst of the Chiari symptoms for me. I've never experienced anything as painful as a pressure headache. The CSF (cerebrospinal fluid) flow is sometimes blocked by the protruding tonsils of the brain with the result being a build up of pressure in the head. When these headaches occur, it feels as though my brain is swelling to the point that it will no longer fit inside my skull. It hurts to breathe, so my breathing becomes strained and somewhat shallow. The pressure behind my eyes is so intense that I could swear they will soon pop out of my head to make way for my gargantuan brain. The muscles in my neck and shoulders tense up in response to the pain in and the weight of my head. Even the slightest twitch is agony because all movement originates from the spinal cord which is connected to the brain which is trying to free itself from a space too small to contain it comfortably.

Ali usually fetches the medication and a glass of water for me when I have a pressure headache, but he had come home from the warehouse much later than I and had fallen asleep on the couch. It was up to me to drag myself out of bed and make my way to the kitchen. With no lights on and me seeing double and disequilibrium making me very unsteady on my feet, I managed to shuffle my way there and back without stepping on a sleeping cat or tripping on the edge of a rug. Sleep returned once again, and all was right with the world until the second headache struck just a couple of hours later. Because I had already taken the medication, I had to wait out the second one. And then, shortly after 5, the third one struck. It isn't as bad as the first two, so I took some Ibuprofen and determined to just work my way through it. So here I am.

It has taken me more than an hour to compose this post, but the good news is that the headache has disappeared Grendelesque into its cave where it waits for the next opportunity to strike in the dark.

A very unfriendly weather condition has come to visit Southern California. The Santa Ana winds pay us a visit every year, usually in the fall, and wreak havoc on sinuses, eyes, temperatures, and dry brush. They herald the start of our fire season and have been responsible for some of the worst wildfires we've ever experienced. Santa Ana winds are not fun, no matter how you look at them. The name of this awful weather condition comes from Spanish and means "devil winds." Take it from one who lives through the huffing and puffing every year, that Satan dude is full of hot air!

Today, our temperature peaked at 83 degrees and although it is currently 11 PM, it has dropped to only 78 degrees. As if I don't have enough sleeping issues already, trying to fall asleep in such warm weather is difficult at best. We've got central air in the house, but I find it really hard to justify cranking up the AC in January! I started up the fan that I keep in the bedroom instead, but it was only cool enough to give me a nap.

Santa Ana conditions are extremely dry so add an unusually high temperature to the dry air, and you've got an easy to make recipe for discomfort. Mix in some pollen, dust, dirt, and various other microscopic gunk that the winds kick up, and you've got watery eyes, runny noses, dry throats, chapped lips, and itchy skin. Best of all, we'll have another outbreak of colds and flu within a week after the winds die down.

I suppose that I should be grateful that the winds are howling at under 30 MPH at the moment and that they haven't ignited any major wildfires, yet. The winds will be here for the remainder of the week and although we did have a couple of really big fires in the fall, the long-term drought we've experienced has left the canyons full of chaparral to burn.

I never did find my iPhone cord, so I snagged Iman's this morning. As promised, here are a few photos from yesterday's festivities. Enjoy!

The house is quiet for the time being. Iman, Magdy, and Basma are out for some last minute shopping; Ali has his headphones on and is watching an old Egyptian movie on his laptop; I am trying to regain consciousness after a nap that followed a seizure. Life is good, except that I can't find the darn cord to hook my iPhone up the laptop so that I can download the pictures I took this afternoon!

Today, in the presence of her parents, his father, her uncle and his wife and daughter, and my and Ali's best friends, Iman and Magdy completed the kitab (translation: writing in the book) portion of the wedding. So what's this kitab thing, you wonder? It's not too complicated, really -- it is the signing and witnessing of the marriage contract between a bride and groom. Marriage completes half of a Muslim's religion and to safeguard and protect the rights of both spouses, they set out a contract in which they stipulate things like the dowry (marriage gift) that the groom will give to the bride, the compensation the bride will receive should they divorce, and any expectations they may have for their married life. Basically, it is much like a Western style prenuptial agreement. Before the contract is signed, the imam asks both the bride and the groom if they are entering into the marriage willingly and without coercion. If they say that they are willing to be married, he continues with the ceremony by reciting some verses from the Qur'an about marriage, talking to them about the importance of being kind to and patient with one another, and asks them again if they are marrying willingly. With their agreement, they each publicly pronounce their willingness to marry. When this ceremony is finished, they are halfway there.

The second half, the announcement of their marriage to family, friends, and the community at large, in the form of a party and celebration, will complete the marriage ceremony. That's what's coming tomorrow.

As soon as I find the darn thingie to connect the iPhone to the laptop, I'll post a few pictures of today's events.

With the wedding nearly here (one part this afternoon and the other tomorrow), let's just say that hectic has taken on a whole new meaning around my house. As a result, I haven't had time to check my email as often as I normally do. So yesterday afternoon, in a brief moment of respite from the whirlwind while Ali went to pick up his suits, Magdy went to fetch his tux, and Iman went to get her wedding gown, I took a moment to check my personal email.

Like most people who use the internet far more than they probably should, I have email addresses for different things: one for work related matters, a personal one for family chats, one for groups, etc. To coordinate these various email accounts, I rely on Gmail to pull all of the messages into one single account which makes it much easier to manage them all. And while Gmail does a great job of sorting and filtering all the messages, the majority of them end up in a folder called ALL MAIL. I don't always remember to check this folder because most of the mail that ends up there is junk anyway, but for some reason I decided to check it yesterday and much to my surprise, I found a message from my department chair asking if I could take Tuesday/Thursday afternoon class.

Excuse me?! Can I take the second class that I was begging, and I do mean literally


for so that I don't lose my health care coverage? The one class for one semester that I begged for just so that I can retire at the end of the semester with my benefits and never have to worry about being able to afford medical treatment and medication ever again? You're kidding, right?

I responded with a single word: "Gladly."

Pull out your violins and prepare to play the saddest song you know. I need it. I've earned it.

The health insurance issue is hitting home in a big way. Stress is the primary trigger of my seizures and like my neurologist said, "If you're alive, you have stress." I just seem to be a lot more alive than usual these past two days, as the seizures are coming on full force. On the bright side -- yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus and a bright side to this otherwise crappy situation -- the seizures are not coming in clusters, and that makes them easier to deal with. For that, I am genuinely grateful.

While there is a bright side, I would be remiss to ignore the dark side of this force that grips the electrical system that controls my body. The nausea that accompanies seizures and often lingers long after, has intensified incredibly. Same for the need to sleep afterward, although I won't complain about that one. With the nausea comes drooling and the stronger the nausea, the more I drool. I'm thinking that a bib would be a nice thing to have right about now.

As I write, I am coming out of a seizure that happened 2.5 hours ago. I slept for 40 minutes and am fighting sleep now in the hope that if I can stay awake for a little bit longer, I might actually sleep through the night. Wish me luck!

I found a wonderful meme at Necromancy Never Pays, and I've been saving it for a rainy day. Ok, it's not raining at the moment; however, I need something to help lift the funk, and a visit with the Bard just might do the trick.

What was your first introduction to William Shakespeare? Was it love or hate?
It was 1974 in Mr. Capalungo's Freshman English class. Mr. C was quite the character with an amazingly snarky sense of humor. To prepare us for our first foray into the Bard's world with Julius Caesar, Mr. C "latinized" our names. The guys got "-us" added to their first and last names, while the girls got "-a" endings; thus for the entire first semester of the year, I was called Carleena Willetta. Mr. C always emphasized the final syllable of the names, irrespective of where the stress really belonged. He entertained us by performing "Singing in the Rain" in Latin, and acting out Caesar's death scene from atop his desk at the front of the classroom. I have to say that it was Mr. C's obvious love of Shakespeare that sparked my infatuation with the Bard.

Which Shakespeare plays have you been required to read?
Since my M.A. is in Renaissance Literature with an emphasis on the drama of the period, I have been required to read all of Shakespeare's plays at some point in my academic career.

Do you think Shakespeare is important? Do you feel you are a "better" person for having read the bard?
Yes, and yes! The main body of Shakespeare's work, the plays, are meant to be seen; I must admit to a preference for reading them, however. I take such pleasure in reading, processing, and analyzing the Bard's masterful use of language! With a printed copy of the play and a variety of colored pens in hand, I can get lost for hours in mapping connections, marking sibillants in the speech of villains, noting the meticulous and deliberate plays on words. Reading and analyzing Shakespeare has proven one of the best mental exercises in which I have ever engaged. As long as I am able to exercise the noodle and continue to make connections between the situations and characters that Shakespeare created to those I witness in my own life and times, I am definitely a "better" person.

Do you have a favorite Shakespeare play?
Hands down, it would have to be Othello; however, A Merchant of Venice runs a close second. I pity and understand both Othello and Shylock. One of these days, I'm going to put in writing my theory that a careful study of these characters and the weaknesses that make them all too human could bridge some of the gaps of misunderstanding between East and West.

How do you feel about contemporary takes on Shakespeare? Adaptations of Shakespeare’s works with a more modern feel? (For example, the new line of Manga Shakespeare graphic novels, or novels like Something Rotten, Something Wicked, Enter Three Witches, Ophelia, etc.) Do you have a favorite you’d recommend?
Honestly, I don't pay any attention to the contemporary adaptations. At my daughter's urging, I did capitulate and watch Romeo and Juliet with DiCaprio and Danes; I hated it!

What's your favorite movie version of a Shakespeare play?
Hmmm.....it's a toss-up between Zefferelli's Romeo and Juliet and the version of Othello with Lawrence Fishburn in the lead role.

For the past few days, I've been in a funk. The health insurance issue is eating away at me, worrying me far more than I am used to worrying about anything. For the preservation of my mental health, I strive to follow a basic tenet of Stoicism. In a nutshell, the Stoics argue that our misery stems from the fact that we focus our energy on the things that happen to us, things over which we often have little or no control, instead of shifting our energy to reacting to the things that happen because we do have control over our own behavior. For example, I had no control over whether or not I would get Chiari, I just did. However, I can control how I react to having it; I can choose to sit on the pity pot and make everyone around me as miserable as I often am, or I can deal with the situation, do what I can when I can, and go on with my life. But this worry about health insurance is a tough one to work with! I've done everything that I can at this point and now must wait to see what happens.

I don't usually linger on the pity pot and hope that I'll soon be able to pull myelf out of the funk. Maybe it's time to look for a new hobby?

In the age of electronic and digital media, the human element can be lost in the shuffle of pixels. The list that follows is similar to one that I use in class to help me and my students get to know one another on a level beyond student and professor. I thought it might be a fun exercise for the first blog post of a new year.

1. I can't stand to touch hair after it has fallen off the head. That includes my own. Eeewww!

2. Minty fresh toothpastes are fine, but I prefer the green apple flavored one that Ali brings me from Egypt.

3. I use Hazelnut flavored cream and no sugar in my coffee.

4. In spite of my medical condition and the several surgeries I've had, hospitals terrify me. It's an irrational fear, I know, but a very real one to me.

5. I'm a big fan of Bath and Body Works products but every time I find a scent that I really like, they discontinue it! To wit: Orange Blossom, Stress Relief (the original one, not the one they have now), Brown Sugar and Fig, and Gardenia Lily.

6. My stress level is easily measured by the number of exczema blisters on my palms and fingers. Without fail, the little blisters pop up within 24 hours of an especially stressful time or event. Lucky me!

7. I love cats, and cats love me. A feline companion or two or three or four is an absolute must to maintain happiness.

8. Climbing a staircase is not a problem for me, but I can't go downstairs without stumbling or falling. It's even difficult to negotiate a safe landing from a curb thanks to the balance problems that are part of Chiari.

9. Until I was about 8 years old, there were 5 generations of women on my mom's side of the family alive simultaneously. It's cool to remember family gatherings with me, my mom, my grandmother, my great-grandmother, and my great-great grandmother all in the same room. Even more cool -- we are all the firstborn in our nuclear families!

10. When I drive, my toes, not the whole foot, manage the pedals. I have no idea why I use my toes instead of the whole foot, and I don't even remember when the habit began or even why it did.

11. I had my first broken heart at the age of five when my Uncle Jerry, whom I planned to marry and watch Batman with for the rest of my life, dumped me and married someone else. I was so traumatized by this event that my Aunt Juanita had to work really hard to convince me that she was likeable. She succeeded quite well. :)

12. 1976 was the most traumatic year of my entire life to date. On September 9, 1976, my maternal grandmother died in a car accident as she and my grandfather were making their way home from vacation to help my mother because my father was in ICU and not expected to live. My dad survived the staph infection he had gotten following surgery, but three months and three days after her mother (my grandmother) died, my own mom died on December 12, 1976. She was 37, and I was 17.

13. My favorite book of all time is Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte.

14. Being the oldest grandchild on both sides of the family meant that I grew up quite spoiled. How many other kids got to take two road trips most summers?

15. I will be 50 years old in May of this year.

16. My maternal grandfather spawned a fascination with the American Civil War in me. Our summer road trips always, without fail, included stops at nearly every historical site along the way from California to New York. My grandmother, who did not share our interest, didn't appreciate the frequent side trips, though.

17. Ever since I began the habit at the age of three, I have been a prolific reader. The habit must be genetic because I got it from my mother, and my daughter got it from me.

18. I must have taken on some of my grandmother's genes because I have two moles in the exact same unusual spots that she did: in the middle of my forehead and about two inches above the hairline on my skull.

19. I graduated from high school at the tender age of four. Ok, I didn't get a diploma that time, but I did get to walk with my Aunt Naomi when she graduated!

20. Long before "Jessie's Girl" or the creation of the General Hospital character, Noah Drake, I was crazy for Rick Springfield. It was 1972. I was 13, he was 23, and his first hit, "Speak to the Sky" had just made the charts. I've kept up with my very first celebrity crush for the past 37 years.

21. Musicals are my preferred film genre. South Pacific, Calamity Jane, Paint Your Wagon, Bright Eyes, Lullaby of Broadway, On a Clear Day You Can See Forever, Porgy and Bess, Gypsy, Funny Girl, Meet Me in St. Louis, The Jazz Singer, Hello Dolly, Fiddler on the Roof, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, Annie, Little Shop of Horrors, Hairspray, Cabaret, A Star Is Born, My Fair Lady, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, The Rocky Horror Picture Show, Grease, The Wizard of Oz, Mary Poppins, and The Sound of Music are among my favorites.

22. For having completed my M.A. in 3 semesters with a 4.0 GPA while publishing and presenting papers at professional conferences overseas and at home, I earned the honor of being my university's Outstanding Graduate Student.

23. The McIntosh apple is my preferred fruit.

24. I've been to 46 of the 50 United States and 11 countries. The places I have most enjoyed visiting are Pagosa Springs, Colorado (my dad's hometown); London, England (I'm not a big city person at all, but I fell in love with London); Copenhagen, Denmark (I don't think I've seen a cleaner city anywhere!); Louisiana (I haven't found a city/town there yet that I don't like); and Cairo, Egypt (what's not to love about all that history?).

25. I have a thriving African Violet plant that my sister gave to me in 1992. From this single plant, I have shared cuttings and its offspring with more than a dozen people.