It is finished!

The 5-part special edition! My annual March madness is over — after being even more headache-inducing this year, in a way, because this year, I actually sort of knew what I was doing ... AND knew what to expect!

Strike up the band! Break out the keg! Come on over and celebrate with me, won’t you?

: )

Now: If only I had Good Friday off. Wouldn’t that be cool? Ah, but no such luck, and here I sit, on Maundy Thursday with nary a religious thought in my head ... though suddenly, I have a memory of a warm spring Good Friday, 20-some years ago, walking toward the Quad with my pals, listening to some wannabe minister and Sister Cindy (I think that was her name) calling people names and criticizing us all for “premarital kissing!” (gasp!) and possibly a little “for-ni-KAY-shun!”

And someone told me, back then, how, every Good Friday, right around noon or some time coinciding with the crucifixion of Jesus (I actually think that, with the different time zones and what-not, that this could not possibly be right ... but then again, I sometimes think too much), the sky will go all cloudy and the wind will blow and rain will fall. And so, every year since then, when I remember to think about that, I check to see if this actually holds true, and as far back as I can recall: It doesn’t.

I am wondering, at the moment, if I were predisposed to do so, if I could even possibly think about writing a news/political blog. Doubtful, for as close to the news as I have been for the past umpteen years, I am sometimes the least news-oriented person I know. Not that I am apathetic about the world around me — it is simply that, sometimes the world around me is a very small enclosure, and I have neither the energy nor the inclination to take on the cares and the troubles of anything outside my not-always-comfortable enclosure.

And as for politics ... to return to the 1980s, once again: Gag me with a spoon!

: )

If I were writing a news blog, however, I would first say R.I.P., Barney Martin, a.k.a. Morty Seinfeld.

If you’re not a Seinfeld fan, then those names mean nothing to you. In fact, I am a Seinfeld fan, and if you had told me that Barney Martin had died, I probably would have said, “Who?” For of all the Seinfeld regulars or semi-regulars, Morty was the one whose real-life name I somehow did not remember.

I mean, hell, I knew that Liz Sheridan played Jerry’s mom, Helen, and I even knew, also, that Liz Sheridan’s only other claim to fame (in my eyes, anyway) was that, in her younger days, she was, according to her autobiography, hot ’n’ heavy with a certain someone named James Dean.

Yeah: That James Dean. (Lucky girl!)

: )

I have also tried to resist forming an opinion on the Terri Schiavo case because it is overwhelming. And for a while there, my thoughts were: Let her die. She told her husband she would not want to live in a state like this (and no, she was not talking about Florida ... or was she?). She cannot possibly get any better.

I had not read much about the case, and honestly, I still have not. It hurts too much. It makes me think: There but for the grace of God (“go I,” said in a Juliana Hatfield/My So-Called Life tone of voice).

Tonight when I was talking to The Lovely, we wandered onto this topic for the first time ever.

“They’re killing her,” she said. “They’re starving her to death. They’re killing her. What they’re doing is wrong.”

And I realized, in that moment, that I agreed with The Lovely.

Terri Schiavo is not brain dead. She is not being kept alive by a respirator. She is a living being who is incapable of everyday functions, and yes, obviously, she has severe brain damage ... but does that mean, without a clear, written directive, that she should be put to death?

Who decides such things — a husband who, clearly, has not abided by their marriage vows over these last 15 years, or parents who, clearly, want to do whatever they can to protect their daughter? (Kind of difficult not to let my so-called morals affect my judgment, I notice.)

Who decides?

Not long before my Grandma Evelyn died, she entered the hospital for the final time.

I had not been to see her for quite some time, probably a couple of months.

“She’s in pretty bad shape; she’s really out of it,” my mom said. “Don’t be upset if she doesn’t recognize you.”

No one wants to be told that, so before I entered her room, I most definitely was upset.

I saw Grandma lying there, her once stocky, solid body now withering away, small and fragile under her hospital gown. Her hair, which she had dyed dark brown until she was well into her 70s, was completely white now.

Don’t be upset if she doesn’t recognize you.

I walked up to the side of her bed, reached out and touched her thin, frail arm. “Hi, Grandma,” I said.

She looked at me. “Hi, Diana.”

It was the last conversation we ever had.