Finally, an open spot appeared at the end of the curb. Pulling in like a pro, he brushed from his chin the last bit of crumbs from breakfast—it's Monopoly season at McDonald's, you know...and there is nothing more American than a gluttonous hunger in the name of financial gain. Breakfast on the go? No problem, with pleasure. He grabbed his cappuccino, I, my coffee, and we all but bounced from the SUV.

The air was electric. I had never been, and the sizzling air took my breath away. We sauntered on almost jaunty rubber feet down the misleadingly quiet streets. The air was crisp, almost biting, but the sun shone and washed over our faces and made me, by all shadows' appearances, very tall indeed.

I felt tall...excited. The thrill of something new is indescribable, and, unfailingly, it melts the world away. You're no long a this-many-years-old person who's been through this-life-event-and-that—you're just you in all of your purest glory. I felt like a little kid who didn't want to blink for fear that I'd miss something truly spectacular in that split second. Gradually, sounds reached my ears...voices, music, laughter...joy.

Nick, already holding my hand, tugged me along as I gawked around at the gatherings of people. He had foretold the night before that I would be drinking well before noon this day, and I laughed sardonically at his play for a joke. And, as we rounded a corner, tossing our empty java cups in a wiry trash receptacle, he led me to a beer garden. "Guess what time it is?" he smirks. I shrug...when faced with such newness, time becomes the x-variable...and like much of the algebraic equations on those grimy-once-glossy textbook pages, completely fruitless to solve. I submit a guess at 10:30.

"NINE-FIFTEEN!" he cries with his wide, sparkling eyes. He toasts his Bloody Mary to my Honey Weiss, and I nod quietly to my mother looking down at me and then again as I order a second. She'd be enjoying this, this foray I've had with living here in 2006. I can see her laughing so clearly, loosening the buttons at my neckline and rumpling my shirt. If we learned anything with Cancer, it's that life is serious enough on its own...for Pete's sake don't add to the mess!



Football. I was going to see my first Badger game, and the Homecoming game at that! I try to tell people that I don't like sports, but there's just no cloaking the fact that in the past several weeks of watching college football, I truly get into the game. I'm not proud, but there you have it. I'm outed. Be gentle with me.



I was into all of it—the sounds, the scents, the traditions—the existence of a fifth quarter! I think it was within the first five minutes of play that I leaned into Nick and said, simply, "I get it." Nick is a Badger fan through and through...disturbingly at times. I'd never understood the allure of college sports where the players cycle so frequently...but I understand now—for it's so much more than a game.



I wore a smile well into the night, and of course the 48-12 win didn't hurt the excitement one itty bit. But, I was tired. I whined that I shouldn't be so tired because I did absolutely nothing all day—Nick said in a relaxed, "I've done this before" mentoring way, "Games take a lot out of you." And, with that almighty proclamation, we spent the night like sober little drunkards, half passed out on the furniture and only resisting an early night because it required the task of climbing stairs. It was such a wonderful day.

But, I must stand firm that while I get the draw of game-day excitement, I don't necessarily understand why Nick found it necessary to re-watch the game on ESPN once we got home (he TiVo'd it) and then again on the late PBS broadcast with local announcers. His mother is the same way when she goes to a hockey game, I'm told. Nope, don't get that one at all.

And I don't know how the pretty hi-def ESPN recording came to play the other morning before work when I wanted to fold a quick load of towels before heading out...no idea whatsoever. (clears throat) So...uh...look! Over there!

After a somewhat exhaustive effort, a referral to a non-plan geneticist was finally approved by my HMO. The importance of going to this non-plan geneticist?—he was the very same such professional that saw my mother two and a half years ago...and as a testament to her winning personality, both he and his assistant remembered her fondly, offered sincere condolences on her passing, when I spoke with them over the phone. We weren't thinking the approval would go through, and from the side of her mouth, an administrator at the hospital relayed that chances were that the geneticist would slip me under the door, free of charge if that be the case. See, my family doesn't just have a rare genetic disorder—oh-ho-ho!—we have the distinction of having a rare mutation of a rare genetic disorder. My mother is somewhat famous in the medical community's library—you might know her under the stage name "Subject X". Good read.

I took the above self-portrait last Thursday I think it was, planning to display the new hair, stating how Nick didn't seem to be overly gaga with the darker shade and chunky highlights...and how I didn't care because I got a totally unsolicited compliment on it from Brenda the other day and that's all I care about. (Gotta go with the fashionista of the family on that one.) I didn't get around to posting it, though, because I was so taken aback by the change in my blue-with-a-bit-of-hazel eye...which has now become my hazel-with-a-bit-of-blue eye. Sad. Every girl of Scandinavian descent wishes for the eyes...the icy Norwegian blues of my father. It isn't often that one looks at their own eyes, and I did not notice the transition.

So, along with my long list of questions—Can we get a group/family discount on pelvic scans? Do I really have extra organs, and if so why couldn't I have gotten an extra inch or two of height as compensation? Where do tailbones go when they run away? And the eyes, dear lord, the eyes...please tell me they aren't going to go all mustardy or orange one day. My grandmother, the 100% Norwegian biddy, always thought I should get a blue contact lens to hide the icky hazel DOT in that right eye...thank God she hasn't seen me lately. Honestly, if I've got no choice but to be all messed up on the inside, can't I at least look normal on the out?