In The Garage

Each year, my parents spend a great deal of time setting up the garage to be a temporary Shopaporium – our annual garage sale. This event generally takes place in the fall to allow apples from the orchard to be sold at the same time. There are a number of regular customers who have learned to watch for the garage sale signs, and who return year after year to make their produce purchase. These people tend to peruse our garage sale selection, and – more often than not – make purchases. This is good. This is very good. The more that we can eliminate from the selection, the less there is for my mother and I to repossess.

We have a problem, the two of us. We’re well aware of it, yet each year we succumb to our weaknesses and begin a reclaiming frenzy as we unpack box after box. The problem, you see, is that we both have such lovely things. That is – of course – why we acquired these things in the first place. It’s even worse when we have to confront not only our own personal discarded treasures, but those that the other has chosen to let go of as well.

Generally, it takes a great deal of willpower (or disgust with the sheer amount of POSSESSIONS that clutter our homes) to bring us to relegate items to the “garage sale” pile in the first place. As the boxes are unpacked, and we are exposed to such delights as vintage-floral serving trays, plastic celluloid boxes, planters in the shapes of assorted animals, and much, much more, our resolve progressively weakens. And really, who could withstand such an experience?

Our unpacking of things inevitably takes an ugly turn.

Me: [Holding up a large mixing bowl] Why are you getting rid of this?

My mother: [Glancing up, one of my discarded shoes in her hand and the other on her right foot] That IS a nice bowl. [She spends some time examining it from afar.] I have too many bowls, though. [She returns her gaze to her foot, turning it this way and that to admire the fit of the shoe.]

Me: Well, I’ll take it.

I place it carefully on a nearby table. Moments later, I happen upon a box of clothing that I had purged myself of a few months earlier. I hold up a lovely purple sweater, and wonder why in the world I had decided that I didn’t need it. I OBVIOUSLY need it. Disgusted with myself for my shortsightedness, I place it next to the mixing bowl. As I do so, I notice that there are a few other things that have accrued there as well. Some of them I must have absently set aside. There is a separate pile of my mother’s hoard, one of my shoes sticking out of the side. Hmmm. This is not looking good.

By the end of the unpacking, the contents of one table tower above the rest. It is – of course – our “holding” table. We know this is wrong, yet find it so very difficult to part with any of our recent acquisitions and re-acquisitions. We stall for a while, then – grudgingly – we pull a couple of things off the table and place them out among the general merchandise. We feel very noble for doing this, and allow ourselves to celebrate by quickly moving the rest of our stash indoors so we don’t have to feel guilty when we look at it.

Unfortunately, the struggle has only just begun. For the next few weeks, one or both of us will sit in that garage for hours on end. Hours that allow us to gaze upon lovely items and consider the hundreds of possible ways in with they might be “repurposed.”

Me: [Returning to the garage after visiting the house for a break and noticing a vintage bread box wedged behind my chair.] What’s this breadbox doing here?

My mother: [Averting her eyes.] I thought it might look nice in a kitchen.

Me: WHAT kitchen?

My mother: [In a defensive tone intended to warn me to back off.] MY kitchen, of course.

Me: But you already HAVE a breadbox.

My mother: Well, YES, but I don’t have to use it for BREAD. I can use it for something else. It’s a STORAGE piece.

My mother and I have implemented key words/phrases into our vocabularies that are intended to justify the obtainment and/or retention of material items. By mutual and unspoken consent, we have agreed that these words allow the user to proceed with the desired acquisition under the guise of having a “good reason,” and that the other shall comply with the ruse. “Storage” is one of these words, as is “basic,” “organization,” and the phrase “layering piece.” If one is going to question the use of one of these special words, one had better have a VERY good reason.

Me: [Working to keep suspicion out of my voice.] Ahhh…. What – exactly – are you going to store in it?

My mother: I haven’t decided. Maybe bird food or something.

This was weak, but I had no choice but to let it go. A key word had been used.

Time would pass, and my eye would happen upon something that I had failed to notice previously. Things would heat up.

Me: [Picking framed print off shelf and casually sliding underneath table.] What are you reading?

My mother: [Clearly not fooled.] What are you doing with that print? I thought you didn’t WANT any more “stuff.”

Me: [Gazing nonchalantly at magazine opened in front of me.] Hmmmmm? What?

My mother: That PRINT you just put under the table. What are you DOING with it?

Me: [Glancing under table and appearing startled to see print.] Oh! That. I’m THINKING about that.

My mother: [Relentless.] What are you thinking about? You said you didn’t want any more STUFF.

Me: [Beginning to suspect that she is bearing a grudge over breadbox incident.] I DON’T want any more stuff. Maybe I’m going to take this print and get RID of something ELSE.

This – we both know – is a lie.

My mother: [In a tone of obvious disbelief.] Uh-huh. Right.

We are distracted by a customer. By the time she leaves, we have moved on to another topic.

My mother: [In a highly offended tone.] Can you BELIEVE that woman? She wanted to pay a QUARTER for that wall plaque. That plaque would sell in an antique store for TWENTY dollars!

Me: [In a tone of disgust that matches hers.] I KNOW. Idiot. That is SUCH a nice plaque, too.

My mother: It IS a nice plaque! I had that in a box for five years before I decided to sell it.

We both sit, staring at the plaque. We are clearly thinking the same thing – that the item should not be sold – but neither one of us wants to be the one to say it. I consider the options that we have for removing it from the sale items without it appearing that one of us is keeping it. There’s the “maybe I should give that to (insert friend or co-worker name)” ruse or the “we could make more if we sold it on ebay” ruse. Those are both options… Before we can do anything, a new customer has picked the plaque up. Without batting an eye, they pay the full asking price. We watch, a bit forlornly, as they leave.

Me: That was a nice plaque.

My mother: Yes, and they got a REALLY good deal on it.

Me: Yeah.

With a sigh, we return to our magazines. As the garage sale season progresses, items will be removed and returned to the garage sale at regular intervals as we play out our internal battles on the garage floor. Each time one of our coveted possessions is purchased, we feel a mixture of loss and relief. By the end, we have so exhausted and confused ourselves that I resolve – every year – that I want to become a minimalist. Returning home, I feel a strong desire to shed myself of material possessions. I pack boxes and boxes of things, which I store in my parent’s attic.

There they remain until the next year, when it’s time to unpack them for the garage sale.

Flexibility

Monday evening, Dan and I had highly admirable plans to take ourselves to a yoga class (very good of us) and follow it up with a healthy dinner. (Dan had not been made aware of the “healthy” portion of this plan, but I felt it would be unnecessary to spring that upon him before the appointed dinner time.) As tends to happen, Life decided to mix things up a bit.

I will admit that I had not been really “feeling” the yoga class. I biked to work, and it felt unusually difficult. This was most pathetic, as it is less than two miles each way. I can only speculate that this lack of physical stamina is a result of my insomnia and subsequent sleep deficit. Regardless of the reason, I was feeling tired and not keen on additional physical exertion. In his typical manner, Dan had set things up in such a way that I could not modify our plans without looking like a twat. He had – that very day – gone out and purchased a pair of athletic pants for the EXPRESS purpose of attending yoga class with me. (It DID seem suspicious to me that he did not own a SINGLE pair of athletic pants, but I could hardly search his closet to make certain that he wasn’t making this up.) Sigh. I was forced to resign myself to sticking with the plan.

At the appropriate time, I trotted off to my car and climbed in. Turning the key in the ignition, I was a bit surprised to find that the vehicle seemed reluctant to start. Sure – it had been complaining a bit about turning over for the past few weeks, but Rob had assured me just a couple of days earlier that my battery would last until winter. Was he ever WRONG!! Within seconds, the battery was completely dead. Even the interior clock tracked the time no more. I considered this for a few moments. Was the universe agreeing with my theory that I should take the night off? The more I reflected, the less likely this seemed. How was I going to relax with a dead car battery? Now I was facing – instead of a yoga class and dinner – a night of greasy engines and complicated thing-ys. What was this about, then?

It all seemed a bit odd to me. On Saturday, I had been in the process of replacing a headlamp bulb (that had been burned out for over two months… some sort of weird mental procrastination going on there) when the other bulb burned out. Yes – at PRECISELY the moment that I was changing the dead one. Strange? Yes. Out of place in my life? No. If it’s weird, and a “freakish coincidence,” it will happen to me. But – once again – I have digressed. At this moment, I had a dead battery to attend to.

I called Dan to inform him of this new development. After giving me grief for some time (he’s been QUITE full of the comments since finishing his classes and finding himself free to sit about and think of smart-ass things to say), he agreed to be my knight-in-dirty-Buick-mobile for the night. An hour later, we were climbing into The Bubomb. I adore this car. It is ancient – a white Bonneville that has seen better days, but they happened so long ago that it has since lost its vision. The white exterior is set off by assorted battle scars, and the engine and internal parts – much like an elderly person – engage in an ongoing litany of all that ails them. Stopped at a streetlight, the car may spontaneously emit a loud and attention-grabbing rattle or squeal for the benefit of those surrounding. This is – in my opinion – a delightful trait. As I climbed in the passenger side door, I admired the black gaping hole where the side mirror once resided. I’ve been working – for a while – on persuading Dan to tear off at least a portion of the front bumper. I REALLY feel like this would add a lot to the Bubomb. Happily I settled back into the cracked finish of the bucket seat. In cheerful greeting, the radio went a bit crazy as we pulled out – refusing to actual “tune” a station in and ignoring all prompts related to volume control. I sent a warm mental greeting back.

This car is made all the more enjoyable because it is a car that Dan CHOOSES to keep for reasons other than necessity. Certainly he could purchase a conformist car if he so chose, but he has not – thus far – chosen to do so. The Bubomb and he get on quite well. I like this about them.

After fortifying ourselves with a tasty Thai dinner, we began our battery-seeking quest. It did not take long – actually – to procure the object that we sought. Really it required only a stop at the Sears auto center. Still, it was clever of us to know right where to go.

Back at the ranch, we descended into the bowels of the underground garage. Lighting was poor, and there might have been gang members lurking in the corners, waiting to pounce upon us. (Or not. I may be taking some creative liberties here, but who’s to know for certain?) I popped the hood of the Ravis and we took a look underneath. Unfortunately, there was a large piece of plastic covering the battery. Even more unfortunately, it was held in place by some sort of torture device clearly invented by the Japanese manufacturers SPECIFICALLY to frustrate the American consumers. As I cursed under my breath and twisted, pulled, tugged, and pushed at the plastic pieces, I pictured the Japanese designers giggling in delight as they imagined this very scenario. (For some time, Dan was NO help at all. He was – actually – a bit of an ANNOYANCE as he smirked and snickered at my efforts. That all changed when I turned the task over to him.)

As we worked, together, through the process of changing the car battery, I reflected on the similarities between what we were doing and what we had originally intended to be doing. In either case, we were – undeniably – forced to be “flexible” – both in mind and body. I watched Dan contort himself into a bizarre angled position that enabled him to use his “stronger” hand on a particularly resistant nut. Was this how either of us had pictured our evening? No. (At least I hope not…) Yet we were in good spirits, and enjoying the experience for what it offered. I don’t know that I could say that I would have chosen that the night go any differently.

At the end, when we had successfully replaced the battery and closed the hood, I paused for a moment. I looked at my hands, covered in grease, and at Dan’s, equally as grimy. I smiled. Whether on the mat or under the hood of a car, life was ensuring that I attended class tonight. For that I was grateful.

Lady In Red

During the end of my marriage and the months that followed, my life was filled with numerous tasks and challenges. I had legal and administrative tasks to tackle (these seemed innumerable and unpredictable), notifications to make, conversations to have, and problems to solve. Financially, my situation was altering for the worse, and I needed to make some adjustments to compensate. I needed to look for a new place to live, and I needed to rid myself of many of the possessions that I owned.

In the midst of all this, I became fixated on a particular item: A red flowered dress that I had spotted on a (non)shopping excursion. It was a vision to behold – at least in my mind. A sheer red overlay sprinkled with blue flowers, a long white lace-edged skirt underneath, sleeveless with lace-edged armholes and a slight v-neck. I don’t know how – or what – happened, but I became completely certain that this dress represented the “new me.” This was the dress that was a physical representation of the person that I was becoming – and would be – in this new phase of my life.

It was more expensive than I would have liked under normal circumstances, and certainly more expensive than I could afford in the circumstances that I was in. Still, I could not rid myself of the idea that I should have this dress.

For some time, I would have internal dialogues about the dress while I undertook other tasks. They inevitably went something like this:

Me: You do NOT need that dress.

Me: YES, I DO.

Me: Not only do you NOT need it, but you can’t AFFORD it.

Me: Shut up. Let’s go to the store right now. My life is effectively OVER if I don’t have that dress.

Me: Why are you SUCH a drama queen?

Me: Fine. If you want to live in this hell of a life, without a single ray of light, that’s your choice. I – however – won’t be speaking to you anymore.

Me: Good. Then we can finish cleaning the bathroom.

Me: THAT’S IT! If I don’t get that dress I will DIE!

This grew tiring, and – as it interfered considerably with my productivity – I made the decision to purchase the dress.

I have never – not once – regretting making that purchase. The dress, to me, really does represent the successful transition to a new stage in my life. It symbolizes my ability to transform, to adapt, to grow stronger. It is truly a representation of “my skin.”

Since that time, I have not put a lot of thought into the dress or what it represents. Not – that is – until now. One night this week, I was perusing a favorite website when I spotted The Dress. Until I saw it, I did not even realize that The Dress existed. The Dress represents the “me” now – the “me” that has emerged from this most recent (and in many ways, much worse) break-up. I stared, befuddled, at the screen. How could this be? How could a dress once again be a physical manifestation of my person? This time, I knew the importance of the garment. I debated only one night before placing my order. Certainly, this is a time for me to be fiscally conservative. I am about to undertake some significant changes in my life, and cannot afford to make frivolous purchases. This – however – is no frivolous purchase.

The dresses do – of course – mean so much more than their surface value. In life, many of us use our bodies as palates to express our “selves.” I am one of those people. My daily attire is quite telling, as a general rule. It reflects the mood, or the persona, that I have adopted at any given time. My wardrobe is huge and wildly eclectic, filled with the paper doll versions of the “preppy me,” or the “athletic me,” or the “feminine British me.” I am sometimes a wild western woman, and other times the All-American female. I express those personalities because they all exist within me, and might each be a bit more prevalent at different times. I “needed” each of the post-relationship dresses because they represent a “me” that did not exist in my closet before. Their presence is only called upon once I have finally achieved that new identity – the identity that I needed to reach in order to move forward with my life.

When my new dress arrives, I will place it in the closet with the rest of my wardrobe. One day soon, I will take it out. I will fix my hair. I will put on make up and shoes. I will wear The Dress.

Feeling Groovy

On Sunday, my family came to visit and we all went out to lunch. We were joined by N, a family friend who I had not seen for a couple of months. Shortly after sitting down, she looked at me approvingly. “You look,” she declared, “happy.”

I laughed, glibly responding that I didn’t know if I could call it “happy,” but she persisted, insisting that the last few times she had seen me I looked awful. Sure – she used nicer words, but the meaning was clear: I had looked like crap, and she and her husband had been very worried about me. (Believe me; this concern for my welfare had come through quite clearly the last time that I had visited them. I was – and am – eternally grateful for their heartfelt interest in my life.) The lunch went on, and periodically I would catch N discussing my improved appearance/demeanor with my mother.

Later in the day, I began to reflect further upon this. I thought about a conversation that occurred Thursday night, with Tiff. We were enjoying a lovely walk, and I remarked upon the fact that six months ago – at the end of last year – Tiff had told me (with no reservation) that I was “not myself” anymore. I had – she asserted – become a different person, and not in a good way. She agreed, remembering, but also noting that those days had passed. While I was still sad at times, she described it as a “happy sad.”

I know that my friends are right. I can feel my Self coming back. In fact, I know that my Self is back, but is tempered by the lessons that it has learned. I owe much of this return to my friends and family – whose affection and love is true and strong, and wraps me within its nurturing folds. This – I know – is a healthy love. I know this because I have been wrapped in unhealthy love, and it is stifling – snuffing, rather than growing, “my light.”

When I was at the worst point of last year (or well BEFORE the worst point, in Britt’s case), my friends noticed and did not keep silent. With their vocalizations and ongoing support, I knew had the strength to do what needed to be done in order to create a necessary – but painful – ending to a chapter of my life. With my friends by my side, I have moved into the next phase of my life, and it is a good one.

I thought about my weekend, and the week, and the way that I’ve been spending my time in general. Wednesday night with Cathy, Thursday night with Tiffany, Friday night on a double date (dinner and opera), Saturday filled with yoga, lunch/afternoon with Rob, and an evening with my friend Daniel (not to be confused with my friend Dan.) Sunday was spent with my family (featuring Special Guest Jared, on loan from Korea,) N, and an evening with Rob. Interspersed between these engagements were lunches, and phone calls, and emails with many other favorite people. When not with others, I am spending time nurturing my body in yoga, or biking, or in kickboxing. At home, I have an animal family that is endlessly delighted to see me, and is thrilled to bask in my presence.

I thought about all of the laughing that I’ve done recently, and the conversations I’ve had. I’ve loved every moment of them. What is the recurring, underlying theme in all of this activity? With each of these people, I feel a genuine and strong current of affection and care – and it goes both ways. Nowadays, the energy that fills my life is positive. It lies in the smiles, and in the gentle touches, and in the shared words and laughter.

Despite the frustrations that I find myself occasionally feeling (the inevitable side effects of life – pants too tight, new job, noisy neighbors, decisions to make), I am able to spend most of my time occupied with things that make me “me.”

I am – I realize – happy. N was right.

Toe-ing The Line

I have had the most difficult time concentrating on work today. The problem began when – earlier today – I read a news blurb about a man who had dialed 911 with his toe. Intrigued, I immediately clicked through to the story. It was tantalizing short and bereft of key details. What I do know is this: A man in Florida was somehow trapped in some sort of machinery with his arms pinned to his side. He managed to knock his cell phone off his belt, kick off one shoe, and then dial 911 with HIS BIG TOE.

Amazing.

It is OBVIOUS that this man is some sort of super-being. I stared at the computer screen, frustrated by the lack of answers. How had this man knocked his phone off? How had be pinned himself in the first place? How did he get to the phone’s keypad? Did he have to open the phone first? Most importantly, HOW did he dial the RIGHT number with a BIG TOE?? And then he must have hit “send,” no? I sat for a moment longer, overwhelmed by the magnitude of this man’s abilities.

Slowly, my eyes slid to my own feet, tucked under my desk. Could I dial a number with MY big toe? I lifted my gaze and looked around the office space. The cubicles around me were filled with co-workers, clicking away on their keyboards.

Stop it. I told myself firmly. You are NOT taking your shoe off, and you are DEFINITELY not putting your foot on your phone. That’s disgusting.

I sighed and looked back at my computer, trying to focus on the project in front of me. A few moments later, I felt my left foot slip its shoe off. Wicked thing. Well, I thought, my spirits lifting, since it’s off I might as well check out my toe’s dexterity. No sense in wasting the opportunity.

Sliding away from my desk, I peeked underneath into the foot space. There was no phone down there, but there was a bundle of cords. I could work with that, I thought. My foot reached toward a bright orange cord, and my toes wrapped themselves around it. I lifted my foot, but the cord stayed where it was. I poked my head under the desktop for a better look. There was clearly not enough “give” in the cord, so I wedged half of my body under the desk and tugged at it. Mission accomplished, I popped back out and smiled at the co-worker staring at me from across the divide.

Serenely, I pulled my chair back into place and pulled up an important-looking screen on my computer. Purposefully, I scrolled up and down the page, endeavoring to look occupied with strategic sorts of things.

A few moments later, after confirming the “clear coast,” I once again reached for the cord with my toes. Success!! I nearly chortled in delight.

Unfortunately, the glee was short lived. Within minutes, my mind began tormenting me again. Sure, it said, you can pick up a CORD. But who can’t do that? What does that prove? You know what would be REALLY impressive? If you could dial a phone number. Yep. That would be cool. But I guess we’ll never know if you’re capable…. Oh well.

You may be getting a feel for what sort of day it’s been. While I’ve resisted the “lure of the phone experiment” thus far, I have serious fears regarding what might happen when I am safely ensconced in the privacy of my own apartment.

The more I think about it, though, the more I’m feeling as if I almost have a RESPONSIBILITY to see if I can dial a number with my toes. After all, I have no idea of how that man became trapped. What if it happened to me? If I am one day trapped, my arms pinned, I am positive that I would regret that I never practiced dialing my phone with my toes. When put into perspective, it seems that it should be required training, like CPR. I can feel my toes valiantly straining against the interior of my shoes, eager to do their duty in learning this lifesaving skill. Yes, I reassure myself, we will be prepared. Tonight, we will arm ourselves with preparation. No machinery will hold us hostage without reprieve. No tiny keypads will thwart us. We (the collective body parts) are survivors. The phone, unfortunately, will have to be disposed of, as it will be contaminated with toe germs. This will prove tricky when I need it to call for help, but I suppose I’ll have to cross that bridge when I come to it.

Original story: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/24434271/

Alignment

Today’s exercise: Realign my focus.

I have decided that I am focusing on all the wrong things these days. In an attempt to alter this, I shall undertake the following exercise: Identify a positive learning experience that has come out of each and every day.

Because I have found myself to possess poor powers of recollection of late (at least in the areas that I WANT to recollect things) I shall only be able to capture one week’s worth of days. Even that will prove to be quite a challenge.

Tuesday, April 29

Well. I’m relatively certain that this is the day that I had an early dinner with Rob at the Hubbard Avenue Diner. I’m almost positive. Following dinner, I’m pretty sure that I went home and did….something….. And then went to candlelight yoga, which turned out to be a lovely, lovely practice. So, a couple of lessons from that night:
1 – There is nothing quite like the ease that is felt when in the company of one who knows you incredibly well, and accepts you completely. There are very, very few people like this in one’s life. Generally you’re either raised together (family) or you marry them. When you are fortunate enough to have such people in your life, you should never forget to put yourself in their presence on a regular basis. It’s therapeutic, all-around.
2 –Allow for the possibility that you are better/stronger/more capable than you believe yourself to me. I distinctly recall feeling as if I did not have the strength for yoga that night. That is, in fact, why Rob and I met for dinner. I had every intention of skipping class. Bizarrely, I found myself in my car, found myself driving my car, and found myself parking in front of the studio without every making the conscious decision to attend class. It ended up being a wonderful practice. My body felt surprisingly strong and it all felt very, very right.

Wednesday, April 30

A rather routine day. I had lunch with a co-worker. After work, I attended a kickboxing class. (This is normally a Thursday night activity but was shifted for social reasons.) Class was REALLY, REALLY hard. After class, made a quick stop at Marshalls and ran into Laura! [Side note: Laura is the ONLY one of my friends that I appear to randomly connect with in various shopping locations, on a semi-regular basis. Weird.]
Lesson: Life has a way of balancing things out. Sure, kickboxing sucked. Quite a lot. It was really hard, and I got really sweaty. However, I am now physically and mentally stronger (Yes, from one class. You should TRY one of those classes.) Also, life aligned in such a manner that I was able to spend time with a friend just when I needed a bit of rejuvenation.

Thursday, May 1

After work, Jennifer and I drove to Monroe Street where Tiffany met us for “Active Women’s Night.” If you’re asking what “Active Women’s Night” is, join the club. We were there, and we’re still confused. My best guess? A ruse to lure innocent women into a store with the hopes of persuading them that they’ll be unable to live a healthy fulfilled life without purchasing vast quantities of the store’s merchandise. Luckily, the company was good and we had a nice dinner.
Lesson: There are times when you’re doing something that could not possibly described as “fun,” but it mysteriously becomes “fun” because you’re with good friends. Had I been with “fake friends,” this would have been a miserable time. Thank heavens I’ve rid my life of those. I think…

Friday, May 2

Well. This was interesting. Met T downtown, went for coffee, walked through a number of gallery-type establishments for “gallery night,” had dinner at Peppino’s.
Lesson: Be open to new experiences and see what comes of it. (I’m still in the “seeing” part of this lesson.)

Saturday, May 3

Farmer’s market with Stacy and Rob, miserable weather. We were PELTED with cold rain and gusty winds. Saturday-type errands – grocery shopping, catching up on emails, napping. Took a quick bike ride to the pet food store, battling fierce winds the entire time, and took the canine out for a bit of a jaunt. Saturday night had dinner plans, but my date did not show. One could describe this as irritating, especially when one considers the fact that one might have stayed home in pajamas and been VERY comfortable.
Lesson: What the fruit, or: Que sera, sera. (Mentally insert accent marks, which I am currently unable to find.)

Sunday, May 4

A beautiful day, to be certain. I went to yoga in the morning, which was a satisfyingly difficult and challenging class. After yoga, came home as I had designated the entire afternoon as “cleaning day.” Was in the process of rearranging my bookshelf when T called to see if I’d like to take a walk. Met T at the nature preserve, walked and talked, went to the Hubbard Avenue Diner. Came home, did turbo-pseudo clean in preparation for Tiffany and Laura’s arrival for dinner. Lovely ladies, lovely meal, after which we walked to the Hubbard Avenue Diner for dessert. [Okay. I KNOW what you’re thinking, but – BELIEVE me – this diner business is an anomaly. I’ve barely even been eating out lately!!!]
Lesson: Life’s little currents are full of pleasure, if you allow yourself to be carried by them. I could have stuck to my plans of devoted housework, but to what end? Tiffany and Laura were not there to admire the spotlessness of my residence, but to enjoy each other’s company, which we did QUITE successfully.

Monday, May 5

Monday was the 21st Anniversary of my new employer, which apparently translates to “big party.” After work I met co-workers at Pedro’s for free food and alcohol. Interestingly, all day long I had been receiving emails promoting “free cab rides” to and from the event. Yikes. Was wondering what kind of place I work for, which I continued to wonder as I saw the “prizes” raffled off. I didn’t even know that tequila was sold by the gallon. As I planned to go to yoga, I did not imbibe. I ducked out early, took care of the kids, and went to yoga. Class was nice.
Lesson: I work with some pretty crazy people. This morning has driven this point home even further. One of the games that we “played” last night involved guessing how many beans were in a jar. First thing this morning, this was posted to our internal WIKI (and yes, the fact that we have an internal WIKI is also an indicator of our collective insanity):

Last night, I used the bean counting contest to test a theory I read about in The Wisdom of Crowds. In the book, the author says that when groups of people guess things like the weight of a cow or the number of jellybeans in a jar, the average of the group guesses will be very close to whatever is being estimated.

The number of beans in the jar last night was 2,310. The group average guess was 1,618.


I think that says it all, don’t you?

Just Breathe...

I decided that it was time to write when I found myself – in boredom – experimenting with the speed with which I could whirl the arrow (the mouse pointer) on my computer monitor by using the little red controller in the center of my keypad. After a few moments of this, I had achieved quite a high level of speed, but had also made myself a bit dizzy. Take a break, I advised myself. You can work on this some more later this afternoon.

I’ve learned that this position that I’m in vacillates between periods of “dead time” and periods of “urgency” – when all deadlines seem to fall within the same hour or so. Currently, I’m waiting for nearly the entire world to get back to me on one thing or another before I can progress in my own work. This “waiting” has improved my mousing abilities greatly, but done little to stimulate my mind.

When left to its own devices, my mind tends to busy itself in dangerous manners. Thus far today, it has spent a significant period of time compiling a list of all the potential health reasons for my current stiff and painful neck. Last time I checked, it was leaning heavily toward a diagnosis of meningitis. This is annoying, as it will continue to pester me with the dire prognosis until it has been assigned something else to occupy its time.

Also this morning, it spent a (very) long and (very) boring meeting pondering a recent email communication regarding the theory of evolution. This email has taken my mind off in wild directions in its attempt to identify the reasons for – and support of – beliefs that it definitely has, but has never justified to the degree that is now being asked. Unfortunately, a department meeting is NOT the time to be considering such things, which we were harshly reminded of when called upon to answer something work-related.

Focus! I scolded my mind. I TOLD you that would happen.

My mind, chastised, paid attention to the meeting for approximately 2 minutes before fixating on the nail polish of the girl next to me.

Ooh! It enthused, excited. Look at that color! That’s nice… coral-like. Perfect for spring. Do we have a color like that at home? Shouldn’t we? That reminds me… you should paint your toenails for yoga. It grew quiet for a moment, then started up again. Don’t you think, it asked, that brown hair looks best with that color? You know what would REALLY bring it out? A nice bronzer….

By now I was disgusted. This line of thought was NOT what I expected – nor desired - of my mind. As a team, we should be well above such frivolities. We should be solving social and global issues, or contemplating existential questions. At the very least, we could be pondering cultural symbols and how they interrelate.

I sighed heavily, causing a couple of people to look curiously in my direction. There was no denying that the contemplations of evolutionary theory were a much more worthwhile investment of my mind’s time and energy, but the real issue was that THIS WAS NOT THE TIME.

How many different thoughts/trains of thoughts should I reasonably have in my head at any given time? I think I’m averaging 5 – 10 at any randomly selected point in time these days. It doesn’t seem quite right. In an effort to change this, I’ve begun breathing exercises. Feeling a bit silly, I sit at my desk, channeling my mind.

I am breathing in….. I force it to think. I am breathing out…..
Feel my stomach rise….. Feel my stomach fall…..

In a far corner of my head, I hear what sounds like a heavy sigh. As if in a whisper, I can just pick up a quiet, but clearly irritated, thought. This is NOT what I EXPECT of us…. It begins.

I inhale loudly, ignoring the inhabitants of the cubicles around me, and exhale with force.

Ahhhhh….. I am breathing in……

Dreaming In Metaphors

In the dream, I was in a dark bedroom. It felt like I was kneeling, on the floor. The carpet was plush under my knees, and the air was cool. A draft blew across my back, and I realized that the closet door behind me was opening. Someone began slipping through, and I knew that the person intended to kill me. I felt the solid presence of the intruder’s body against my back, and felt an arm wrap around me.

I became aware of a large knife – a chef’s knife – sliding around the side of my hip and stopping at my right inner thigh. Silently, I moved my hand toward it. My other hand moved toward it as well, and with a sudden motion I reached for both the knife’s handle and the assailant’s fingers. With all of my strength, I wrenched at the knife and bent the fingers away from the hand. The knife became mine.

With absolute certainty, I knew that this person would not stop until I was dead. I turned toward the figure and – without hesitation – began stabbing the knife repeatedly into the inner thigh, and then the chest. It was a woman. She had long, dark hair, stark white skin and brown eyes. She collapsed back unto the bed, eyes closed. I moved toward the door to the room and stepped through.

I was on a landing in front of a set of stairs. It was still dark. Very dark. As I approached the steps, the door opened behind me. I watched the woman lift herself from the bed; saw the look of evil intent in her eyes as she came toward the open portal. Heart pounding, fear rushing through me, I turned toward the stairs, a feeling of doom hanging over me.

So strong was the pounding of my heart that I awoke with a start. I could feel the organ thumping against the front wall of my chest. My breathing was fast and shallow. I looked at the clock. 5:30 am.

And so began today….

My mind is in a bit of a fog this morning. I know that I was having other dreams last night, and that I was waking up regularly, my mind bothered. The contents of those dream is still a mystery, which – if they’re anything like the one I do remember – might be a bit of a blessing.

It’s obvious that I’m working through something. If only I knew what it was, I could assign my conscious mind to it as well. For now, I’ll sip my coffee and wait.

Absence Makes...

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about “missing” - about the emotional ache that is felt that can be attributed to the absence of something that was once present. I’ve been thinking about this because – obviously – I’ve been feeling it quite a lot.

There are things about this emotion that I’m grateful for, things about it that concern me and things that I’m just confused about. I’m disturbed, for example, about the tendency to “romanticize” things that are lost. Why does a mind do this? Wouldn’t it be healthier to retain a true memory of reality, a vivid recollection of the sum of both good and bad that would prevent the feelings of loss from becoming overpowering? Rather than such a reasonable approach, I am in a constant battle with my mind over the desire to remake my mental documentaries into blockbuster Hollywood romances.

My mind has a tendency to become fixated on the most random of memories, and convert them into great symbols of “all that once was and could have been.” Case in point: Routine car rides with Someone Who Shall Not Be Named. Rather than recall the regular disagreements over choose-a-topic-don’t-worry-we-fought-about-it-unless-it-was-a-tv-show-or-movie, my mind plays a screen shot of a turning head, a beautiful smile. Over and over and over. More than irritating, this is befuddling. Am I to learn something that I have not yet learned? Is that why my mind is stuck on repeat?

Similar scenarios race through my head throughout the day, with variations in location/props/dialogue. Always, I have to reason with myself. Yes, I say to myself. You’re right. That was lovely. I can see why you would want that back. Yep, those were enjoyable – those THREE MINUTES. IDIOT. Think. Do you not remember the preceding SIX HOURS???

Well, no. Actually, I DON’T seem to remember the preceding six hours. That’s part of the problem. Even stranger, if I do force the memories to return, they seem to pale in significance next to those three minutes of glory.

What the fruit? What kind of crappy malfunctioning mind did I get in the brain lottery?

There are other times that I feel gratitude for these feelings of loss… times that I use them to justify time spent, emotions invested, dreams sacrificed… If I were not feeling the way that I do, I might question whether or not I had been truly invested, or whether or not I had really “lived” the experience to the fullest. These moments of gratefulness are fleeting, because – frankly – the ache is unpleasant. Still, they are like flickers of light – indicators of a stronger light that may come, when I am ready.

Here is another disturbing thought: Something is happening in my life, right now, that I am going to miss later.

How do I know what it is? I’ve learned that you can’t predict the specifics of absence that will trigger pain. Who would have thought that today – more than fifteen years after letting go of my pony – I still miss the feeling of his body standing behind me, of his nose softly blowing warm air down the back of my neck as I sat on the ground before him? At the time, I never realized the gift that he was giving me. What other gifts am I failing to notice right now?

Perhaps the answer is that I can’t know with certainty. I will – inevitably – feel the ache of loss. It is a part of life. This I can accept. What I cannot accept, however, is that there is no way of channeling it - of embracing it and feeling less pain and more gratitude. Undoubtedly some of this comes back to a recurring theme – that of living “in the present.” Now is the only time that I have to appreciate the things that I have – with any assurance – only right now. If I know that aspects of today’s life will be gone, I either enjoy them to the fullest or wish – later – that I had. And perhaps that leads into another aspect of the pain… regret.

I think that the “missing” that I feel most acutely is that which is mixed with regret. Perhaps regret is a magnifier of emotion, an element that creates mental disproportion. It would explain quite a lot of my own personal experiences and lingering, persistent thoughts. I have regrets, and they – undeniably – have me. I am, for the moment, caught in their grasp. Perhaps the regrets that I have accumulated thus far will always have me, to some extent. That is a topic for a future contemplation.

Today, though, I have a goal. Today I will accumulate no new regrets.

Right Now

Tuesday evening, I had dinner with my friend J. As tends to happen in discussions between us, our conversation meandered through a maze of existential thoughts that paused, periodically, to reassess and change directions. At one point, I found myself describing my marriage and the manner in which I “lived” through it.

“I felt,” I said, considering it, “as if I was always waiting for my REAL life to begin.”

J watched me for a moment, then reached into his pocket for the notebook (or – as he calls it – his exto-cortex) that he carries with him at all times.

“Say that again.” He directed. I did, and he wrote it down.

Today, in an email, he mentioned the quote again and how it had struck a chord with him. “Anyway,” he wrote, “I guess my point is that I am getting the feeling that my real life really is the collection of things that happen to me from the time I wake up to the time I go to sleep.”

These are not new thoughts – likely not for either of us – but because he is giving them such reflection I find that I am considering them with new attention as well. I am quite aware of my tendency to live out of the moment – always in the past or in the future – but allow myself the delusion that because I know that I SHOULD be in the moment I am MORE in the moment than most people. This – I think now – is not true.

As I look about me, seated in my apartment, I see all of the signs of my inability to secure myself to the present. In the business card holder in front of me rest a stack of cards that label me as a Communications Director – an identity that I shed nearly two months ago. To my right is a stack of papers, magazines, artwork and all sorts of confusing and disjointed items that I have lumped into a category that I call “to address.” Within this pile, I know, are remnants of times that I have been unwilling to leave behind. To my left rest a couple of stacks of books. There are similar stacks in my bedroom, and in the bookcase behind me. Many of these books have placeholders in them, marking the spot that I chose to abandon the path that they offered. In my mind, I am still reading them. In reality, many of them have not been opened for months.

There are known pockets of items that I need to dispose of, labeled in my mind, and multiple tasks that need to be completed. These responsibilities are the physical manifestations of the weights that that burden my mind.

I am, you see, a compulsive planner (with a healthy degree of “bend” in my personality.) At all times I have a mental list of each of these tasks that I have identified. Most of the time, I have multiple paper lists as well. I know all of the deadlines that lie ahead of me in the year, I secure living arrangements months in advance, I know what I will be doing on weekends (to a logical degree) for the rest of the summer. That’s the part of me that lives in the future. I’m quite comfortable there. A bit of that is healthy, as it allows me to be secure in the “right now.” Too much of it just keeps me in a place that does not exist.

On the flip side, there’s the part of me that’s quite attached to the past. It likes to think about it – a lot. It brings it up during business meetings, during yoga, when I’m trying to sleep, when I’m in the shower… pretty much anytime. Once the topic is raised, my mind likes to consider the past for lengthy (VERY lengthy) periods of time. It considers how I – as a person – might have done things differently, or (even MORE constructively) how OTHERS might have chosen to live differently, and how that might have impacted me.

The problem – of course – is that all I really have is "right now." Technically, the past is just a concept in my head. No one else shares the same idea of the past that I do, so how can the reality of it even be validated? Beyond taking the time needed to learn what I need to in order to live a healthier life, there is no purpose in being there – no purpose, that is, other than to avoid the present. The future is a similar delusion. There is no guarantee that it will ever arrive. What is assured is that I am here at THIS VERY MOMENT. This is the time that I have to savor, and right now I am safe, warm, and have a full tummy. I am surrounded by the noises of my pets, and I have a cozy bed in the next room waiting for me.

I know that this chaos around me is sending a message that I should heed. I know, also, that I am human, and that I am flawed, and that there is great value in the act of trying. Tonight, I will allow myself to ponder the past – a bit - and will spend a small amount of time considering what my future will bring. I will also – however – take five minutes to absorb the sensations of where I am RIGHT NOW, and when I finish I will remove the old business cards from my desk and tuck them in the drawer, where they belong.

Stairway To Heaven

In Barcelona, D and I went from the plane into a taxi that sat – waiting – in front of the airport. I addressed the driver in Spanish, greeting him, and he grunted in response. Undeterred, I gave him the address of the apartment that we had reserved. With no response, he pulled out into traffic. As he drove, I kept trying to communicate – to no avail. Finally, a few hundred yards away from the pick-up spot, he pulled over. Reaching across the passenger seat, he pulled glasses out of the glove compartment and put them on before pulling a small black book out as well. I felt a touch annoyed. Why hadn’t he indicated that he needed to move away from the airport, and also that he was apparently of poor vision?

Resolving to give him the benefit of the doubt, I started talking again. At first, the driver seemed determined to persuade me that the road in question did not exist. When I insisted, he grudgingly located it on the map, but pointed out that no vehicular traffic was permitted. He would need to drop us off a block away. At this point, I was feeling more than willing to get out of the taxi at the earliest convenience.

Despite his gruffness, I have fond memories of the Barcelona taxi driver. We had – after a plane delay – landed in the middle of the night (literally.) Considering his age, and the time of night, and his occupation, this man had every right to be a grump. No doubt I would be as well, were I an elderly taxi driver working the night shift from the airport, hauling tourists about.

As promised, we were dropped of on a main street. We walked down a side street that closely resembled an alley, and worried that we had been dropped in the wrong part of the city, and that – even worse – possibly we would be accosted, burdened as we were with our giant suitcases and numerous bags hanging off of our persons. Fortunately, we spotted the correct doorway before our panic could truly set in.

We had been directed to ring a specific number, and we did so. The door buzzed open and we walked into a high-ceilinged entryway constructed of smooth, light-colored marble. There were two sets of a few steps, and each set had a smooth, stone ramp built into the left-hand side. This was fortunate, as – like I mentioned – it was the middle of the night and we were heavily burdened. The gratitude that I felt, however, was brought to a screeching halt as we turned slightly to the right and spotted the stairway.

The stairs seemed to go up…and up…and up. At least four small, narrow, stone double-flights up. I was transfixed with horror. Looking about, I could spot nothing at all that resembled an elevator. This could not be happening.

Neither D nor I saw any evidence of the party that had arranged to meet us. Logically, we had to assume that she was present – somewhere – since she had buzzed us in. Her precise location, unfortunately, was a mystery. We were not even certain of which floor the apartment was on, as the numbering system in Barcelona – as it turns out – is entirely wonky.

Things were looking bad. They began to look even worse as D began, luggage bouncing about awkwardly, to climb the stairs. I watched in stunned disbelief for a few moments, evaluating my options. Finally, with a sigh of resignation, I began to follow.

It was awful. My arm – injured from a previous stair-climbing, hill-climbing, tram-boarding torture – was struggling valiantly to pull my heavier-by-the-moment luggage over the narrow steps. We reached a platform filled with doors and – as I gazed longingly back at them – started up the next flight. Next we reached what would be – in a normal country – considered the third floor. We looked at each other, uncertain of our next move. There was no one in evidence, which was a touch concerning. With trepidation, D approached the door numbered “1” and knocked softly. No response. We looked at each other again.

From above, a voice floated through the air, questioning us as to our whereabouts. Startled – and now concerned that we might have woken someone up in the middle of the night – we quickly moved toward the next flight of steps. I looked up – to the very top – and saw a face looking down at us. She gestured, beckoning us, and continued speaking. Focused – as I was – on making it up the Ascent From Hell – I had no energy left to make out her words. Breathing heavily, I climbed…and climbed…and climbed.

At the top, I nearly collapsed. D – who had reached the summit moments before me – was already following the woman toward the door of the single apartment on this level. As they moved away, I finally made out the woman’s words.

“Why,” she was asking, perplexed, “didn’t you take the lift?”



The stairs from the landing outside our apartment. Note that I was NOT joking.



The inside of the front door of the apartment. It was AMAZING. D found it. GREAT job!!

If You've Ever Wondered

[Sung to the tune of WKRP in Cincinnati]

Baby, if you’ve ever wondered
Wondered whatever happened to me
I’m stuck in this hotel in Cincinnati
And worst of all not even the water is free


I’m writing this from my hotel in Cincinnati. As it turns out, there is a “bad neighborhood” in Cincinnati, and it covers most of the city. My co-worker (S) and I were warned to “not go out at night.” Well, S was warned and he mentioned it to me as we pulled into the hotel. Nice. No matter, I’ve no desire to go out as I’m located – essentially – in this bizarre University Campus/Veterans Administration/University Hospital conglomerate of buildings. There are no other obvious types of business. Dinner – clearly – was eaten in the hotel. Tomorrow should be interesting, as S is making reservations for us to take the clients out to dinner. I cannot wait to see where we end up.

Cincinnati is so much more “Southern” than the northern parts of Ohio, which is where I’ve focused my previous travels. After walking through (what must have been) 10 miles of airport hallways this morning, S and I were shuttled over to Avis to pick up our rental car. As S took care of the paperwork, I stared at the counter, transfixed. There were four female employees “working” (euphemism.) All in their 50’s, they had eerily identical hair (short, shellacked, bottle blond), eerily orange skin (BAD foundation), and excessive eye make-up.

Propped up against the counter on one end was the cleaning man, also “working.” He held a dishtowel in one hand (clearly a prop) and a spray bottle in the other (see previous parentheses.) A few feet away from him stood an elderly gentleman, occupying a spot that one would expect to find a customer in. It appeared – however – that he was there for the guaranteed audience that he found in the Avis employees. He was talking, and talking, and talking…. As it turns out, he served in the Marines for many years. When he left the service, he tried to get a job but was 49 and no one wanted him. (This caused a great uproar among the Avis ladies, who agreed passionately. “Uh-huh!” They exclaimed in their southern accents. “They don’t SAY that, but they think it!” They all shook their heads in commiseration and the cleaning man chuckled into his fake cleaning rag.)

Eventually, the elderly man found work driving a dairy truck, which – he informed everyone, repeatedly – was HARD work. Having exhausted the subject of employment the man moved on to his life in Kentucky/Cincinnati. (As it turns out, this was only a temporary pause. It seems that this fellow just recycles old material as needed in order to keep a constant stream of chatter going.) I learned that he had resigned himself, originally, to five years here, but was now in his 22nd year. This caused another wave of excited chatter among the Avis gals. “Isn’t that how life goes!” “Uh-huh!”

On and on the conversation went, and the entire time I was bothered by one thing: The man’s belt. It was a leather belt, and it had letters pressed into it. The first letter was covered by his belt loop, but I could clearly see the next four. They were: a-r-g-e. I was perplexed. The most logical assumption would be that the covered letter was an “m” and that the word was the name “Marge.” But why would this man be wearing a belt with a woman’s name on it? I’ve never seen that done, and I’ve seen a lot of tooled/embroidered/pressed leather belts in my time. (Spend a little time with a Hispanic population and you’ll realize what happened to me…) I couldn’t figure it out, and – obviously – still can’t. Just as I was debating actually approaching the man, S came toward me, gesturing for me to follow him out the door.

I took one final look at the mysterious belt, and turned to leave. Perhaps I should not have done that. Perhaps I should have satisfied my curiosity. That would have avoided such lingering effects as this blog, for one thing. I’d probably sleep better than I will now, the belt floating before my closed eyes…

Still, maybe it’s for the best. There's something very appealing about the idea of leaving this city with this image burned upon my brain. In my head, I see an audience of aged Southern women, behind an Avis counter, lined up before a mysterious white-haired man known only as A-r-g-e.

I Don't Understand The Parisians

I don't understand the Parisians
Making love every time they get a chance
I don't understand the Parisians
Wasting every lovely night on romance

- Leslie Caron as "Gigi"

On my first night in Paris, I took a long walk. Meandering rather aimlessly, I strolled farther and farther from my hotel. At length, I found myself at the end of the Champs d'Elysee – a rather famous designer-boutique-lined shopping avenue in the heart of the city. It was a long street which was punctuated – at one end – with an impressive masterpiece, the Arc de Triomphe.

The entire experience was amazing, and I was caught up in it for some time. It was only after I noticed that it had grown dark that I began to give some thought to my return to the hotel. No problem, I thought to myself, I’ll just take the metro. I had not yet taken the metro in Paris, but I had used similar systems in countless other cities. How hard could it be?

As it turned out, it could be very hard. The only option for purchasing a ticket – which one needed to get through the gate to the train platforms – was from an automated machine. Despite my best and vigorous efforts (all of which were watched from the corners of many curious eyes) I could not get the machine to even register my presence, much less dispense anything to me. Optimistically (this I say because – by night 1 – I had already realized that practically NO ONE in Paris spoke English) I approached the information counter.

“Do you,” I asked politely of the grim-faced woman behind the glass, “speak English?”

Of her response, I only understood the first word, which was “no.” After that, the speech was reminiscent of those that I’ve seen played out by vagabonds on street corners all over the world, punctuated by waving arms, clenched fists, and fierce facial expressions. I'm not certain of what I was meant to take away from the encounter, but I suspect it might have something to do with the idea that perhaps I should learn the language of a country BEFORE I attempt to navigate its subway or bother its people. As I’m relatively certain that this woman is the French version of the American disgruntled DMV employee, I didn’t let the experience bother me.

I emerged from the underground station and joined a crowd that moved in a promising direction. As I did so, a man met my eyes and said something as he passed. I had only been in Paris for the day, but this had happened multiple times. I’d also noticed a number of “double-takes” as I made my way about the city. I was not certain of the reason for this, but had adopted a policy of ignoring all such actions. Not so difficult, since I couldn’t understand what was being said if I did hear it.

I did not, therefore, put any more thought into the passing man. Imagine – then – my surprise when, as I stood in a group waiting to cross the street, he suddenly spoke into my left ear. I jumped and turned to face him – recognizing him – and he spoke again. In French, I spoke my most useful phrase – “I don’t speak French.”

“Ah….” He said, and nodded. Then he rattled off another ten sentences in French. Again, I pointed out the obvious language barrier. He stared for a moment, then began speaking in French again, drawing the words out v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y and using hand gestures to accompany them. I sighed. This was obviously not a situation that was going away, and it was going to require some serious effort to work through.

Eventually, we concocted – between us – a hodgepodgy language of hand gestures, select French words that I understood, and select English words that he understood. Thank heavens for that, or I never would have learned that “when his eyes met mine his heart leapt out of his chest.” This comment – which was oft repeated throughout our time together – was always accompanied with a motion that involved both of his hands starting at his chest and moving away in a dramatic arc. I also learned that my eyes were “so blue” that he could hardly bear to look at them. This comment was accompanied by a ducking of his head and a hand placed over his eyes, to shield them.

As it turned out, I had plenty of time to hear ALL of the reasons that we were meant to be together. My new comrade took it upon himself to accompany me to my hotel. When I first understood his intent, alarm bells began going off inside my head. This is precisely – I thought – the sort of situation that I pride myself on AVOIDING. I quickly evaluated the options, and realized that it was either use this fellow to convey me through a safe mode of transportation, or wander the streets of Paris alone, in the dark, and hope to find the hotel. I went with option 4-alarm – my new friend. I would, I reasoned, only allow him to travel with me in areas that were full of witnesses.

To that end, I launched a gesture campaign to communicate my desire to take the metro, and my failure to procure a ticket. Five minutes later, we were on a bus. Hmmm. On the bus, the conversation took a turn toward family, and I learned that this fellow lived with his cousin. According to him, his cousin was a fine man. I had no reason to doubt this claim, but really felt no desire to meet said man. The next thing I knew, we were getting off on a stop that was NOT my hotel, and were walking into a different hotel, where his cousin sat at the front desk. Fortunately for me, his cousin spoke English. As reported, he was – indeed – a fine man, and very helpful. He spoke in French to my new friend, clearly enlightening him as to my actual destination goal.

We once again climbed aboard the bus. As it drove through the city streets, my companion launched a litany of all of our commonalities and all evidence of our obvious shared destinies. No matter what qualities I demonstrated, they became a confirmation of our “soul-mate” status. I didn’t smoke? Neither did he!!! EVER!!! That’s GREAT that I don’t smoke! REALLY great!!! The enthusiasm with which he carried on was almost embarrassing. (To be fair, I will point out that in all of Europe, I was definitely in the minority when it came to smoking preference.) This went on until we reached the stop from which I recognized the street leading to my hotel. To say I felt relief would be an understatement. I had begun to have horrible visions of spending the next 10 days going round and round on the bus with this self-professed enamored man.

We walked the final few blocks to my hotel together, my companion spending the entire time trying to persuade me to have dinner or coffee with him. Much to his disappointment, I refused quite adamantly. At the hotel entrance, I thanked him genuinely, ignored his forlorn “puppy” look, and made my escape.

In the room, I contemplated this bizarre experience for a bit while I allowed enough time to pass that I felt it might be safe to venture back out. After such a strange night, I felt a need to connect with a world that I understood. Earlier in the day, I had used a cybercafé not far away. I made my way there and took a seat at my assigned computer.

As I sat, staring at my monitor, my attention shifted to the woman who had taken a seat to my right. Her skin was a lovely olive color, and she had dark eyes rimmed in kohl. Her hair was long and black. She was yelling at the front-desk attendant – who sat at the other end of the room – and he was yelling back at her. There appeared to be some trouble with the web-cam that she had rented and placed on the top of her monitor. This turned into quite a production, but was eventually sorted out.

I settled back into my seat and prepared to refocus on my screen. This might have worked, except that the woman was now letting her hair down and tossing it artfully about her shoulders. I peered sideways at her, trying to make sense of this behavior. She pulled a lipstick out of a mysterious location and applied it, then evaluated herself in the camera window on her screen. Suddenly, words popped into her chat window – in English. “You’re beautiful” they said.

“I know.” She replied.

I was intrigued. An image appeared to accompany the chat. It was an obese man, and he was naked. I tried not to jump, but I’m pretty sure that my head swiveled to take a look straight-on. I forced my head away and tried to refocus on my screen, but my eyes would have none of that. They had spotted something interesting, and they were determined to see more. I was helpless to stop them as they began reading a dialogue that was – obviously – between a dominatrix and her submissive.

I will spare you all the details, but let’s just say that I have a new insight into a lifestyle that is far more interesting than some others I’ve seen. The conversation between this “couple” continued for a few minutes, and then she signed off with promises of more to come. I refused to let my mind entertain speculations of what the next conversation might cover.

The woman left and I finished up with my own computer. As I walked through the streets back to my hotel, I considered the two experiences that I’d had – already – in this city of “love.”

Love, indeed.

Japanese Take Out

This past weekend I attended the Tenth Annual Wisconsin Film Festival. I watched 12 films in four days... not bad. Normally, I might have taken a bit of time off work to allow myself to rest/breathe/eat/care for pets... you know, those unnecessary things that I like to indulge in. Unfortunately, as the film festival fell at the end of the second week of my new job, I did not feel it entirely wise to request the time off. I am, therefore, very tired. But enough of that...

I shall, this week, report out on all the films that I watched. For tonight, I only wish to mention the one that has - unexpectedly - been very much on my mind all day. It was a film that I saw the very first night of the film festival, titled Big Man Japan.

The movie was - true to its asian roots - bizarre. [Bit of a background: I purchased my tickets the very day that they went on sale, which was nearly a month ago, and a few days later departed for Europe. Upon my return to the country, I immediately started a new job. My mind, as you might imagine, has been on topics not related to the film festival, and I did not review any of the film descriptions prior to attending the festival. This made for an even more interesting experience.] As the movie began, it had the distinct feel of a documentary.

Hmmm, I thought to myself.... I could have SWORN this was a feature film. Odd.

The film continued to unroll, and I began to feel quite sorry for the central character. I was not certain of what his job was (there were many odd references and allusions to "the job" and "work calling") but he was clearly not supported by the community. Just as I began to consider contacting human rights organizations, the film took a surprising turn. The man - whose name escapes me - was called in to work. He promptly zipped over to the local power plant, where he was juiced up with electricity and inflated to gigantor proportions. He put the Incredible Hulk to shame - particularly with his fabulous Don King-inspired hairdo.

Ah... I thought, feeling a sense of recognition as the Asian film elements began to fall into place. It got much, much better. The central character ended up - throughout the film - battling an astounding array of Japanese monsters. These were fabulous and creative creatres that had the most INTERESTING features. There was, for example, the "stink" monster, and the "rubber band" monster, and all SORTS of other impressive monsters. They each possessed horrifying features that one would never find in American cinema. One - for example - was essentially a (very realistic) human face bouncing about on a lean and muscular leg, which ended in a clawed foot. Most impressive. I was quite taken with the creativity, and the insane nature of it all tickled me no end.

There is something about the juxtaposition of the serious, documentary-feel of the film contrasted with the insanity and grotesque nature of the monsters that appear throughout the story. This wasn't the best film that I saw - in fact, it was far from it. I'm relatively certain that it's not even the film that I will - eventually - put the most thought into. It is, however, the film that I am working through first, and there must be reason for that. I think that I know what it is:

In many ways, this film is one of the best depictions of real life that I have seen for a very long time.

For more information (but not very much of it) visit:

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0997147/

Flying Flock Style, Part 2

This is part 2 of 2. If you have not read part 1, this will not make a whole lot of sense. It is not - therefore - recommended that you begin reading of this segment without first reading the previous post.



___________________________________________________________________
I learned many things about my new companion. As a young bride, she had lived in Paris. Her husband had worked in many different countries after that, and she had traveled with him. This had provided her with many years and many experiences upon which to base her numerous opinions.

“Why everyone go to Paris?” She asked – at that point – looking around the plane with an expression of mild disgust. “What about Paris? I no like.”

She looked directly at me. “Americans like to fly.” She asserted.

“Oh?” I questioned mildly.

“Yes.” She nodded with emphasis. “Fly too much.”

At this point, the conversation veered back to Paris, or – more specifically – to the “French people.” It appears that my seatmate considered the French people to be incredibly rude and unhelpful. “Not,” she stated with a loud voice, “like Americans.”

“No?” I asked, uncertain of what she meant.

“No. Americans simple. You know?” She looked at me, clearly assuming that I DID know, being an American and all. I wasn’t sure of precisely her meaning, but thought that I would just “go with it.” It didn’t seem like an insult. She said it rather as if it were high praise.

I might have gone on to voice some sort of agreement, but realized that we were already on to a new topic: the grandchildren. I considered this: It did make a sort of sense, since they were first generation Americans. I slowly began to tune in fuzzily to her words, only to snap my attention sharply back to her when I realized exactly what she was saying. Surely she was mistaken??

She was telling a story – laughingly – about how much her grandchildren adore their father. So much, she said, that when they stay with him (he and his wife are divorced) they each insist on sleeping in the same bed with him at night. That alone was odd enough – but then she mentioned that his daughter is SIXTEEN and son is EIGHTEEN! SURELY she could see how strange this was?? But no, she didn’t seem to think much of it at all. Oblivious to my incredulous stare, she continued with her narrative. Now she had launched into a description of how affectionate her 18-year-old grandson is.

“When I leave,” she said, shaking her head and smiling, “he kiss me here, and here, and here, and here…” She pointed to spots all over her face. “He say ‘I love you [insert Lebanese word for Grandma], I love you, I love you. So many kisses.”

She smiled fondly at the memory, and then began to talk about how he has a habit of resting his head on his father’s shoulder and cuddling with him.

Hmmm.

I was feeling a little off-kilter. This seemed SO strange and bizarre to me that I began to wonder if I was the one with the warped view, rather than her. My mind just could not make sense of it.

Luckily, I was given very little time to think about it before we were “off” again – launched into a new conversation.

And so passed the flight, through the night, over the dark ocean and to a foreign continent. The plane landed in Paris, and – as we began the preparations to disembark – I wished my new friend safe travels. She looked at me, and I saw the concern in her eyes. With one hand, she reached for the back of my arm and squeezed it.

“You too,” she declared, in a soft voice. “You too.”

As I walked off the plane, I took a bit of my Lebanese companion with me. I felt – for a moment – sheer gratitude that I had spent those hours with her, that she had been my companion as I launched my solo journey. Stepping off the metal and unto the firm floor of the Paris airport, I sent a silent prayer for her continued well-being into the air around me. I thought for a moment, and then – for good measure – said a prayer for her seatmate on the connecting flight from Paris to Lebanon.

Flying Flock Style

The flight from Chicago to Paris was long – over 8 hours. Fortunately for me, my seatmate – a Lebanese woman in her 60s – took it upon herself to befriend me. Perhaps it was the fact that I was traveling alone, or the fact the we were both women… more likely, however, it was the fact that I happened to be assigned the seat next to her, and I was stuck there for the whole night.

She was already seated when I boarded the plane. I learned, later, that she requested special assistance at each end, and took her seat separately and in advance of the general boarders. This did not surprise me.

As I took my seat next to her, I could feel her inquisitive gaze upon me. I ignored her, as I was busying myself with my bag and jacket, and then fastening my seat belt. Settled in, I began observing the other passengers as they arranged themselves into their assigned spaces. My seatmate observed them as well, but not nearly so silently. Not – in fact – silently at all.

“Ah!!” I heard her exclaim as a couple claimed the central strip of seats ahead of us. “A baby!” They placed a baby seat between them. My new companion turned to me. “Is a long flight for a baby.”

“Yes.” I concurred.

She turned back to the other passengers. “Why,” she began in a disgusted tone, “so much luggage? Why you need so much luggage? What you have in there?” The question was apparently directed at a man five rows ahead of us, but he obviously did not hear. She turned to me. “Why everyone need so many bags?”

I admitted that I did not know. In truth, I had thought this myself – many times – as I observed passengers trying to outmaneuver the carry-on regulations by packing all of their belongings in the most massive “allowable” bags possible.

The woman shook her head sadly, but perked up when she spotted the next passenger boarding the plane. He was rail thin. Really. His waist could not have been any more than 24 inches around. He accentuated his slim build with a pair of the smallest and tightest skinny leg jeans that I have ever seen. These were topped with a tight t-shirt and blue and gray striped cardigan. His skin was deathly white (I think make-up may have been involved) and his hair – which was at least 6 inches long – protruded from his head in many artfully constructed layers and angles. He was a vision to behold, and I could feel the Lebanese woman practically vibrate with excitement.

“Is a man.” She hissed.

I looked at her, trying to determine whether or not she really believed that I might not have realized that, and she nodded wisely at me. “Him.” She gestured with her shoulder. “Is a MAN.”

I looked back at the Depp-esque character. He was seated, clutching his carry-on coffee. My neighbor, however, was not done. Her son, she informed me, was FRIENDS with “some of them.” She launched into a long and colorful story about the previous Saturday, on which she had accompanied her son to the local Wal Mart. There she had spotted a statuesque black beauty, resplendent in dress, heels, and loads of gold jewelry. She described this – and the person’s massive physique – with many hand gestures. Then – she informed me – her son had revealed that THIS PERSON WAS A MAN. She looked at me, eyes wide.

“Americans!” She exclaimed. “Strange.”

I did not hold this against her, as she had made it clear that overall she was fond of Americans. She did – in fact – spend two to four months a year in the states. Her son had moved to Louisiana, married, and had children. He was now divorced, but stayed put for his kids. This topic got more interesting as the evening progressed.

There were lulls in our conversation, during which I noticed the frequency with which she fingered what appeared to be a rosary in her hands increased. This was particularly noticeable during takeoff, as she also became silent. As the evening progressed, I could tell that she was developing a fondness for me. This seemed to increase her involvement in my life. She began to ask me a number of what might – to some – be considered personal questions.

When she asked who I was going to Paris with, I told her I was going alone. She stared at me for a long moment. “And that,” she pronounced, “Is crazy too.”
I was momentarily taken aback, but primarily because I appeared to have missed the first part of what was crazy. What was this “too” business? I didn’t have a chance to consider it for long, because she had developed a burning worry.

“You have muzzer?” She leaned toward me, her face nearly in mine, and clutched my arm.

Yes, I assured her, I have a mother. She sighed in relief and her body relaxed a bit. “You live with her?” she asked in a slightly more cheerful tone.

No, I told her, I did not live with her. I could see her begin to tense up again. “You live with family?” She asked.

No, I was forced to admit, I lived alone. She looked quite concerned and wanted to know how far from my family I lived. I told her two hours, and she shouted in despair.

“Ahhh!” She exclaimed. “Is FAR.”

I felt very glad that my mother was not there at that moment. I could not even begin to imagine what a force the two of them could be together. My seatmate then began a detailed description of her living conditions in Lebanon. The key point – stressed over and over – was that NONE of her family members (including her sisters and daughter) lived more than 10 minutes away from her.

Fortunately for me, there were natural conversation-breakers periodically throughout the night. Beverages were served, food was served, announcements were made, movies were shown. It was all commented upon. “Ah!!” She would practically shout, every time an announcement was made by the pilot, “We heard you!” She was especially put out by the fact that he would make his statement in English, but then repeat it in French. As he talked, she would open and close her mouth in an apparent imitation of what he might look like. I sincerely hoped, for his sake, that she was not skilled in the art of imitation.

There were regular flare-ups of worry on my behalf. When I revealed – after quite a lot of questioning – that I had been married in the past, she began a rant against the Mexican men that “married poor American girls” for their green cards. I should not worry though, she assured me, someday I would meet someone who would be good to me and I would fall in love. I thanked her and tried to look as if she had lifted a weight from my shoulders. I thought that she would appreciate that sort of effect.

As the night grew later and later, I would occasionally doze off. I had entered just such a dreamy state when I felt a violent jab in my right side. My companion had elbowed me to alert me to the fact that the thin spindly fellow had lifted out of his seat to use the restroom. “Did you SEE?” She hissed as he walked by. I had not only seen, I had felt. My rib was throbbing a bit. My seatmate, meanwhile, was shaking her head again, nearly overwhelmed by the state of the world.

[Part 1 of 2 – to be continued.]

The Spice Of Life

Ways to "spice up" one's life:


1 - Travel to foreign country, preferably with at least a portion of the trip alone, even better if you don't speak the language of said country.

2 - Include as many countries as possible in itinerary, preferably ensuring that each country speaks entirely different language.

3 - Overpack, thus ensuring even further difficulty in moving from location to location.

4 - Be vegetarian. This is most exciting in previously mentioned countries in which native tongue sounds like Klingon to you.

5 - Travel with all pre-purchased airline/train tickets under slightly different name than that which is displayed upon passport.


6 - The night before flying out of the country, accept new job. To increase excitement, agree to begin job the first business day after returning from trip, thereby allowing yourself only one day to make full recovery from trip.


My life, these days, has become absurdly exciting according to these standards. I have much to say on the matter, but won't say it tonight. Instead, I'll offer a few photos from my recent Tour O'Europe. MUCH more to come.



This is an example of why I loved Paris!



Part of my most recent art project... a series of self portraits. Very experimental, with some disastrous results that will NOT be posted.




Taken in MONaco, land of MONey.



And insanely beautiful, as well.





Taken in a TASTY tapas bar in Barcelona!! TASTY.

More photos will follow, but my new life requires a much more regimented schedule... this means that I have to go to bed. I'm actually a bit behind on my pre-created timeline. Sigh.

Parisian Adventures

Ahhhh... Paris. It is nightime here, which means that it is afternoon in my body's motherland. This is something that my body is refusing to let go of. It is not being a good sport at all, my body. It has also developed - on only DAY 2 of my trip - horrendous shin splints. I cannot see how this could have happened unless my body is being unreasonable, which I suspect is the case.

Yesterday I did walk quite a lot, mosying alone about the streets of Paris (not a single person tried to attack me, Mother, although I did receive an exuberant profession of love. Details will be covered in a later blog, when I can type at an acceptable speed on an ENGLISH keyboard.) It certainly wasn't enought to account for these shin splints, though. So that's another unexpected development. Those (unexpected develepments) have ABOUNDED already on this trip.

But back to my body's bad attitude. I'll admit that it did do without sleep for quite some time, but does that justify it falling asleep in the bath last night? I think not. PARTICULARLY when the bath was an appeasement effort for the whiny legs. Also - today when I was taking a tour of Paris, it decided that it was sleepy AGAIN and I ended up riding the entire route twice. (Not a bad thing, really, as it allowed me to see a lot of things and absorb everything in a way that I would not otherwise have been able to.)

I will write lots more when I am home, and post pictures. Now, though, I cannot take much more of this keyboard! Tomorrow I am scheduled to take the train to Nice, although I've been told that there is a rail strike! Hopefully it is over by tomorrow.

So much more to come! Stay tuned.

Conundrum Compromise

Current Conundrum:
I WANT to write. Really I do. I have things to say, and I want to say them here. Unfortunately, I am also tired (this tends to impair the writing ability, and also makes me think that I am saying clever things that I actually am not but generally don't realize until several days after I've posted something when I bother to re-read it.) Plus I have to get up early to meet friends for breakfast, after which I have to load the car up with the pets and all their accessories, then race to Sparta. It has been communicated to me (by the Maternal Unit) that it is ESSENTIAL that I arrive in a timely manner, as there are all sorts of apparently URGENT things that must be accomplished. (The urgency of these things is a TOUCH unclear to me as the agenda appears to include such non-life-threatening items as "pedicure.") Obviously, if I stay up to write tonight, I will be writing stupid things poorly, but I will think that they are brilliant and well-written. I will also be at risk of getting behind schedule tomorrow, which - apparently - would be VERY bad.

Solution:
I will still post, but will try to entertain you all with meaningless and random things that will not necessitate that I write. Photos are always good for this. Here you go:


Okay... here's a good one. If you like that blurry, "is-she-high-or-drunk" sort of look. For the record, I was neither. This was Becca's wedding, BEFORE we even got to the reception.


All I'm going to say is this: You haven't been to a party until you've been to an EIGHTIES Party. No, it is NOT fair to others that I posted a photo that does not include me. That's the way it goes when one has SUPREME control over one's own blog.



There. Does this help make up for the photo that doesn't include me? How does a photo like this even get taken??? Halloween, many moons ago. MANY moons ago.

This is not a happy face.

But at least I didn't have to wear this outfit!!!

That's all the lame filler that I have the energy for tonight. Maybe next time there will be some sort of logic or order to my photo selections - but that could be the fatigue-induced delusion talking.

Fasten Your Seatbelts

A birthday is just the first day of another 365-day journey around the sun. Enjoy the trip.

~Author Unknown


Today I begin my 31st journey around the sun. What I find most disturbing, as I consider this, is how very spotty my memories are of the 30 other trips that I have taken. There are – undeniably – huge gaps in my recall. It is the celebration of the birthdays themselves that has made this painfully clear. I cannot, for example, remember any of my birthday celebrations – in any detail – before the age of 21. (And no – that one does NOT stand out for the reasons that you think it does.)

What the fruit? The more I think about this, the more feasible the possibility that I am actually an alien seems. Or perhaps I have undergone some sort of brain erasure/false memory implant procedure – like in Men In Black or Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Hmmm. Actually, that second possibility is beginning to seem VERY likely. It would certainly explain why I am not independently wealthy right now, yet FEEL like I should be. If I am actually the rightful heir to a HUGE fortune, there would be a great many people who would want me to believe otherwise, and who would not only want me out of the picture, but would want to ENSURE that I stay distracted by this “other life.” Yes – I’m pretty sure I’m on to something here.

Tomorrow I shall have to hire an investigator to uncover my true past.

Since I can only remember a handful of my birthdays, it would stand to reason that in a fair and just universe those memories would be spectacular, to offset the disappointment of not having others. Unfortunately, this is not necessarily the case. Here, in order, the birthdays that I can remember:

1 – 21st Birthday, Calvillo, Aguascalientes, Mexico
I was in a bar/restaurant in a tiny town in Mexico (population DEFINITELY under 1000.) I was the only female at a table full of young men, and was one of two white people in the entire town. The beverages offered consisted of cheap alcohol cut with random substances intended to “flavor” the drinks. Somehow I kept ending up with something called a “vampiro” (vampire, for those of you oblivious to obvious translations) which was – essentially – salsa mixed with tequila. Enough said.

2 – 29th Birthday, Hubbard Avenue, Middleton, WI
“Girls Night” (AKA “Adios Rigo” Party.) Hmmm. That sounds kind of awful, in retrospect. Really a celebration of the first 365-day trip – in many years - sans a testosterone-ridden companion. A lovely group of women in attendance – women who faithfully honor my birthday each and every year. It was – perhaps – the first year that I realized how much female friends enrich my life. (Not that male friends don’t – but one could NEVER ever argue that they are at all they same. If one did argue it, one would be an idiot. Or an antagonist. Or perhaps both. Regardless, one would annoy me and then I would not want to spend time with one. Undoubtedly this one would be a male. See my point?)

3 – 30th Birthday, Ginza’s, Madison, WI and Sweeney Dr., Middleton WI
A two-day blowout. Well, one evening and one day, actually. Hibachi and a giant flame-lit beverage (NOT my idea, and no – I did not drink the entire punchbowl as requested.) The following day I was honored with a visit from the parental units. Even here, you can see how my memory fails me… Seems as if a number of details are missing from my recount. Sigh.

4 – 31st Birthday, Various locations, Chicago, IL; The Great Dane, Madison, WI; and Various locations, Madison and Middleton, WI
A full-weekend affair. I have chosen to include Saturday in the equation, because then it means that I managed to see nearly ALL of my favorite people in the span of three days. (Parental units ARE included on the list of favorite people, and will be seen at a later date. There is NO need to call with accusations of ingratitude and/or lack of emotional investment. Also included: Anita, the Colorado resident who should REALLY move back to Madison.)

Day 1: Chicago – My favorite Chicago residents – Becca, Nick, and Finnegan. A lovely day, with lovely company. I will spend much of this next 365-day journey visiting with them. New resolution.

Day 2: The Great Dane. A roomful of lovely and generous friends, who I cannot thank enough for being so fabulous and thoughtful. (Note: I hope that some of us learned – from experience – that it really is not a good idea to take photos of someone from six inches away. That is all I will say on that subject.) (Note 2: See included photo that is an EXAMPLE of why it is not a good idea to take photos from six inches away.)

Thank you to: Laura for being lovely – as always, Cathy for being clever – especially with the cupcake card (What are the odds???), Tiffany for being so thoughtful and cute, Stacy for her boundless energy and enthusiasm, Rob for being Rob (a plug-in part of me, what would I do without him?), Michelle for being so sweet AND for squeezing past twelve chairs in her VERY pregnant condition to make it to the far side of the table, Ted for his unflappable good humor, OJ for giving up ice fishing to be there (HOLY CATS!!), Katy for her smile – one of my favorites, Britt for making me laugh, and laugh, and laugh (like always!!), Dan for… well, it might be easier to try to think of things to NOT thank him for… so we’ll just say “for being Dan” and for providing the MOST FABULOUS, beautiful and delicious cake that I have ever seen/eaten in my life, and Mike for being the evening’s photog and for managing to retain a good mood despite Stacy’s constant antagonistic behavior. Crap. This sounds like an awards-ceremony speech, and not even a good one. Plus it got really hard to think of different descriptors (that were all equally good) for everyone… especially since you’re ALL so great. I’m going to stop now, because I’m practically spewing Hallmark card. Seriously. I’m starting to think it may actually be a blessing that I can’t remember my other birthdays, because look at what happens when I do!!! Obviously a mind-safety mechanism, this memory failure. Some sort of release valve.

So, on to Day 3: Various locations – A day of leisure, which felt very, very natural. SUSPICIOUSLY natural. (Once again – this confirms my new theory that I am genetically INTENDED for a life of leisure.) Spent the morning having “bird time,” and then met another of my favorite people for coffee! Doing so much in one morning was exhausting, so I recovered by spending over an hour on the phone with an airline representative who had an interesting obsession with name pronunciations. I lost count of the number of times that I repeated my last name and she parroted it back to me, giggling and making comments about how she liked name pronunciations (as IF I could have missed that…) Wrapped the day up with a lovely, lovely dinner.

If these past three days are any indication of what the next 364 days of this particular trip will be like, then I am READY. Best of all, I’m taking the rest of you with me.

Look at that cake!!!

And here we have it... THIS is why we generally position ourselves some distance AWAY from the subjects of the photos.

Undeniably a great success.