White Girl on the Move

I have moley skin, of which I have been acutely aware these past months, well,…years.  Moles are a real cancer hazard and since I have had the big C word once, I am diligently doing what I can to not have it again.  Like, going to the dermatologist and cutting moles out of my skin.  Good golly, YUCK!

This is the story of my skin.  My white, moley skin.  My mousey, blonde hair, (that I highlight twice a year).  My green eyes, (which are my unique-sake’s claim in a genetic sea baby blues).  And my Dutch thighs.  This is how I became a middle class, white girl living in Denver, CO, wearing a hat on my daily walks to manage risk factors.

Dad is from Montgomery, Alabama.  When he was a teenager he worked at a trailer weighing station off the highway where his creamy skinned tanned to low-milk latte and he burnt his lower lip to a crisp.  His pouter still is very vulnerable to blisters.

Mom is from Arizona.  Dry, hot heat is her love language.  She combined baby oil and a tar roof to help any lost UV sink in.  All the boys loved her.

They met at a Southern Baptist church in Phoenix that Mom’s parents attended.  Oma being from Arkansas and Sir, (my granddad’s ironically surly title), being from Dutch-reformed Iowa, they found their faith’s home in the Wild West.  So did Dad’s brother, who introduced the star-crossed lovers in Sunday School. 

Two weeks and several tennis matches later, they were secretly engaged.  One full ocean’s distance and a year later, they were married.  Several military, trans-Atlantic moves, and one, two, three, and four kids later, they were parents to a brood that had a patent on their nose. 

And when the second child grew up she left Virginia, to the call of the west, Colorado skies.  Wearing SPF 50 chapstick, for having re-created Dad’s teenage woe.  But this time it was on a ski slope.

My Last Best Year: Grown Up Christmas Wish

I’m not quite sure what this rendition of my blog will be, except posts about my life with more openness on a not-so-journey to …Humanhood?  Somethinghood.  I also hope that it will include some posts from friends about life going unexpectedly: things showing up late…or early,  or on time but different than the norm.  Whether current, past, or vicarious.  Whether resolved, raw, pain-filled, or joyful.  So if you have something to post, email me at lizzycasey@gmail.com.  I will be up front that I value two things in blog posts: honesty and brevity.  Anonymity is okay.   Profanity is fine, as long as it speaks to the amazing grace where Holy and human meet; humor is definitely included in that.  Consider submitting something.  This is my grown up Christmas wish.

Last Best Year: Step One, Two, and Three

Step One:  Get a new, impulsive haircut (which, inevitably will cause an emotional crisis).

Step Two: Go to an awesome dinner, with awesome people.

Step Three: Get an amazing birthday present from Dan the Man.

My Last Best Year: Deeply Personal Very Public Information

Today I turn 34.  Ever since my health went haywire at 25, I have welcomed each birthday as a gift; thankful for more time to be with people and live more fully.  More time to give, love, and heal.  I have truly celebrated aging.

That is, until sometime in the last year or so.

Although I have not made a public announcement of our desire to have children, some things are apparent: we are in our mid-30s, happily married for 5+ years, financially stable, in good health, we welcome children in our home and lives…so…”Do you have kids?”  Family building is such a deeply personal affair, yet so very public.  The answer, plain-as-day, is no.  So maybe this isn’t an announcement after all. 

We have a deeply personal story here.  Complete with joy, pain, sex, surgery, giving, receiving, herbal teas, financial worries, love growing, sobbing, chromosomal testing, medical specialists, anger, you-name-it analysis, prayer, hope, travel, drama, applications, helplessness, empowerment, fixing, waiting, castor oil, dreaming, needles, resting, discipline, licentiousness, counseling, tinctures, test kits, and God, God, God.

Any western woman knows the line the medical community draws in the sand: 35.  Frankly, I think its BS for a jazillion reasons. Nonetheless, this damn statistical line is hovering in my peripheral vision…and this is me giving it the finger.  (See that?  That’s my middle finger).  And, mysteriously, less loudly, I want to give it a warm embrace all at the same time.

Happy 34^th Birthday to me!

Here’s to being unashamedly, (but appropriately?), open in my 34^th year. 

My Last Best Year. 

Selling Out This Christmas

I had a boyfriend in high school that was into the straight edge, hard core scene.  It was there that I learned you could “sell out” to “mainstream” music.  It was cool to use this language.  While I get that there was an element of not “selling out” to big business, the comments were primarily reputation and socially driven.  We wanted to be unique and have our own little corner of coolness.  I laugh.  After all, we were in high school.

This morning I surfed the Internet with the “Occupy Christmas” lense and continue to be delighted with the growing number of companies and entrepreneurs that are launching fair-trade, artisan craft businesses and the like. 

At the same time I have been hearing social media and social circle murmurs of how it is now “trendy” to go this direction for the holidays…negatively-ish.  As if, now – crap – more people are getting intentional about their purchasing power…???...!!!  Lets just go ahead and put a big old BS sign on that bull.  It reminds me of high school.  Praise God for this social trend, that really does justice to our society.  Jump on the bandwagon, friends.