Dear Diary,

"I'm sorry."  A statement that seems to be coming out all the time lately.  And I need to stop, unless I mean it.

I'm the oldest of four and hit many of the stereotypes: I'm bossy and aggressive (I still contend that it helps us get things done).  It's my role in the family and I'm okay with that.   

The youngest, Jake, who is probably the most like me.  He's a film maker and into radio (he's actually the new producer of The Jill Spiegel Show Saturday nights, The Polichicks, Good Enough Moms, and Katie K-9 Sunday afternoons).  The two siblings in the middle: accountant and biomedical engineer! 'Nough said! 

Jake always said he was sorry for everything.  He's not as bad as he used to be.  I remember how annoyed we'd get.  When he really was sorry (or should have been) and said sorry, we wondered if he really meant it.  The value of his "I'm sorries (is that how you spell it -- the plural of sorry...?)" lessened.

I think I'm there now.  I'm saying sorry and not really sorry.  Someone hurt his toe over the weekend; I said I was sorry.  Why?  I didn't do it. 

So I'm going to take my own advice and say sorry only when I mean it!   

Love, The "I'm sorry for things I'm not -- no more!" Princess

Dear Diary,

I know I dream every night.  But I rarely remember them.  So when I do, it's a big deal.  About a week ago, in my dream, I gave birth to a small liquid sack about the size of a quarter.  (I'm not sure how I did; I was completely clothed).  In the sack, there were two black circles and a red one.  I had it in the palm of my hand and started poking it with my finger and it burst and the liquid and the circles started to swirl together.

In about one minute, two tiny black lizards developed.  I just stared and stared at them.   Then I realized that they continued to grow and I got scared and tossed them into a quart-sized ziplock bag.  When I did, they stopped growing.  I opened and closed the bag a few more times until the lizards got so big that they were pressed against the sides of the bag. Smooshed. 

I asked my dad to look at them.  Instead of carefully opening the bag, he pulled them out and started to examine them.  As he's holding them they continue to grow.  When they got about forearm length, they started to change color from midnight black to beautiful, metallic, bold and bright colors --like a rainbow.  

What does that mean?  I'm not sure what the experts would say, but to me it's about living.

A couple days before, a family member revealed that he was gay.  I know, the rainbow colors/symbol signifies the gay community.  But I think it's more than that.  He said he's known since he was 12.  And for all these years, he's been keeping it inside and trying to work through his own feelings.  He said he was afraid because it's not socially acceptable, but most of all, what would his friends and family think?  And, of course, why me?

Now that he is out, he is different.  He's happier.  Same guy, just with less of a burden.  He said he was tired of pretending to be someone he wasn't.  He was ready to be his authentic self.  Sharing with others can be healing and freeing.  He's not one of the lizards smooshed into a bag craving oxygen to grow.  

There's a lot of personal growth going on all around me.  Look at this website and this community we are building. 

I look at Kevyn Burger today.  She shaved all the hair on her head off.  She was scared.  She was wondering what people would think of her, what they would see, would they see her as less of a woman?  But she did it; chemotherapy is her friend she says.    

I'm a lucky person to have such wonderful, vibrant, colorful, amazing people in my life who aren't afraid to face their fears and share their truths!

Love, Princess

P.S.  The Get Real Girls will be talking Sweet Dreams on Saturday morning from 8-10. 

Dear Diary,