Dad(dy oh!)

Today is Dad's birthday.

He taught me that reading is something to be done constantly, that building relationships builds friendships as well as business, and that the stock market is not something to fear. He taught me that you have to respect your elders, even if they are horribly unkind. He taught me that poetry is beautiful and to be memorized and recited.

He taught me to listen carefully, observe closely and think of arguments from every perspective. He taught me to speak my mind, as long as I'm comfortable with the consequences of doing so. He taught me to bring life plants to someone who is sick (cut flowers are fleeting...something living means that you trust in the ongoing health of the person to enjoy it longer than a week).

He taught me to swim...by throwing me back and forth in the pool then intentionally dropping me and not helping me stay afloat. I still love to swim. He taught me to shoot...well, brought me to the pistol range and had someone else teach me, since the way he holds a pistol hasn't been used since dueling days.

He taught me to think for myself and be independent. He respects my privacy, even though I tend to overshare with him about my life and needs for his help and advice. He believes in me and is proud of my skills and abilities. He trusts that I am capable of doing whatever I set my my to do, and has seen me accomplish more than I anticipated again and again.

He taught me to play devil's advocate and debate him with all my passion and heart. He taught me to be an active part of my community, to engage in the political process, to embrace public servants, and to deal with people fairly. He taught me that if I am in Washington, DC, I should be able to meet with my elected representatives or their staff.

He taught me to laugh, to drive (by doing the opposite of him), and to speak up (since he doesn't always hear me the first time).

Looking forward to many more years of Dad's lessons, and sarcasm.

Step by step

The closer I get to my 4th decade of life, the less I want to be bothered by stress or other peoples' priorities.

I'm sure this will get worse with more years under my belt. I've seen what is in store for the world, and it is my elder relations. Get ready. It's not going to be pretty, but it's going to be hilarious.

At this point in my life, though, it's more of an irritation. My give a crap occasionally craps out. Mostly that happens after a repetitive conversation, a reiteration of my lack of value to an employer, or the realization that I'm being blown off by a suitor.

None of that is soul-crushing. None of it is life-threatening. None of it is earth-shattering.

It's just life. I can change the subject, quit a job (preferably with another lined up already), and move on romantically. The question is, will I?

Looking forward to learning from experiences and mistakes in order to grow into my old age and wisdom that is supposed to come with it. Then again, there is a certain amount of satisfaction I gain from setting my own pace, my own priorities and putting everything into perspective.

Ready to meander my way through another week.

Bookworm

I am bookish. Always have been.

The first book I learned to read was The Very Hungry Caterpillar. I taught myself, but consistently got stuck on the word cocoon.

My paternal grandma used to read me The Runaway Bunny in French. That was always a special treat. The same grandma gave me books as gifts. Books from her childhood,

When I was supposed to be napping as a little girl, I'd read instead. I still prefer reading to sleeping. Now, however, I read in bed. The special treat is reading when I wake up and don't have to be anywhere.

I started a reading project a in 2006 to get through the entire list of Pulitzer Prize winning fiction. I've bounced around the list, which begins in 1918. I couldn't imagine reading a slew of period pieces all in a row. Thankfully, I've had a really hard time finding several of them, so skipping around has been easy.

I've picked up books at used book stores, read a couple of handfuls of them before I'd started the project, and bought one or two of them new.

Recently, I realized I had quite an assortment of gift certificates to one of Nashville's independent bookstores. I'd been there several times with Grandma, and one of their staff members is trying to get an advance copy of the book she's been dying itching to read for at least two years.

When I went there this week, I exchanged a book that I didn't want, and got one I'd been hoping to pick up instead. I also brought in my reading list, and the nice man who is trying to get the book for Grandma went through it with me, finding the few reasonably priced out of print books on my list.

After they arrive, I'll add them to my bedside bookcase. When they're finished, they'll move to the large, living room bookcase. If they're not memorable, they move further...

Thankfully, I finished a great one last month, and am loving the one I'm devouring right now. I anticipate the arrival of the new-ish tomes. I guess it's cool to have books coming into my collection that none of my friends have read, unless they're into obscure Depression era novelists. Regardless of their current popularity or readability, they will at least be interesting to talk about later.  Can't wait!

If you want to be my lover...

I am grateful for my friends.

I've had friends cut out my stitches, be my ride to and from a colonoscopy, and make sure I didn't leave my oven on while I'm at work. My friends have helped me move, planned an entire day of farewell party shenanigans, and made sure I got home safely.

They've listened when I'm sad, given me space when I needed it, and invited me to spend quality time with them. They've hosted me, mowed my lawn, fixed my house, given me dozens of eggs from their chickens, loaned me their tools and gotten me involved in charitable enterprises.

My friends have inspired me to be more creative, more flexible, and more outgoing. My friends are passionate, hard working and dedicated in their fields and in their relationships. My friends are true and loyal and across the world, and we always pick right up where we left off the last time we hugged each other.

My friends take me as I am. The good and the bad. The happy and the sad. The chatty and the quiet. The political and the fluff. The drama and the zen.

My friends in Boston called ourselves an urban family. Several of my friends are closer than family. They haven't made my emergency contacts list yet, though.

Without my friends, I would be a lot less interesting. Despite not getting to see most of them on a regular basis, I feel close to my friends and would do anything in my power for them or their loved ones, and I expect they'd do the same for me.

I may not have a lot of time to share with my friends these days, but I value all of it.

You better shop around

I've got a fairly high tolerance for pain. Theoretically.

That changed recently when the third time my doctor told me to go to physically therapy (and I told her I hadn't gone on her other two recommendations), her nurse handed me off to the one down the hall before I could leave her office. Since that day, a few weeks ago, they measured my movements, poked and pushed and pulled me, and gave me exercised to do three times each day. Sometimes more.

The first guy told me to go to PT appointments three times each week. I started laughing. "Um, I work three jobs, a minimum of 46 hours per week, some days working 14+ hours until 10:30ish at night. You'll be lucky if I can get here once per week."

The next week I went to another office in the same chain of PT practices, and went back twice the next week to see the same therapist. Twice I felt better, once I felt worse. Apparently, feeling worse means you're getting better. Great.

Monday, I was able to get to yet a third location and yet another therapist. This guy's been in the business for 20 years. I could tell. I want to go back to him again. He wasn't gentle like the other two. He very nearly left me with bruises. I enjoyed nearly every minute of it. I cannot wait to get back there on Wednesday to have him manhandle my neck and spine, twist my arm, and electrocute the knots in my shoulder and neck. He may even talk me into sticking needles into my knots. Maybe.

Honestly, if he can make my neck feel better and do it in a way that makes me trust him while he's got his hands around it, I'm all for it.

Sweet dreams are made of...

I have the craziest dreams.

The first dream I remember is more of a recurring nightmare. I was Alice falling down the rabbit hole. I was probably somewhere between 4-6 years old, and when I would wake up with it, I would run into my parents' room and dive between them on the bed...snuggling into the covers and their combined warmth and protection. Their bedroom, in those moments, was a magical place for me, full of spots of light floating in front of my sleep-encrusted eyes not used to the darkness.

Later, I had other dreams. Lots of dreams, and lots of nightmares. Dreams about falling, hiding or being chased. Dreams about murderers killing everyone I know and love one by one and leaving me notes about who will be next. Me never finding the culprit or getting there in time to stop the violence.

Dreams about space travel, reunions with old friends from high school, college and all of my adventures.

Dreams about celebrities. Nick Stahl saved my life. Idris Elba was a pastor who was my friend. Matthew McConaughey and I got married, had a beautiful baby and lived at the beach.

My dreams are full color. They are exciting and terrifying and wonderful and out of the blue. Each night I look forward to whatever will bubble up from my subconscious. Apparently, it has a lot of explaining to do.

May flowers

I found out some good news yesterday.

My second job is secure for another two months. At least. The interim solution will ease my mind, at least until the beginning of May.

Here's to good news, and guaranteed paychecks. Oh, and work you believe in completely.

Over a (rain) barrel

Having a garden takes a lot of water.

For years I lugged watering cans and hoses to my garden beds. It was dirty work, and added up when I bought my home.

About three or four years ago I went to a Cumberland River Compact training about water conservation and learned how to make my own rain barrel. I'd been wanting one for a while, and was excited to bring one home to test out.

I was reticent to saw off one of the drain pipes on the house, so I connected it to one of the gutter downspouts at the back of the garage closest to the largest vegetable garden bed. Worked like a charm. When it rained.

Summers in Nashville can be dry or wet, seldom in between. With high humidity, there can be scattered thunderstorms in the afternoons, as the heat and humidity build up along with the daily high temperatures. When I lived here in the summers of 1993 & 1994, it seemed like the skies opened each afternoon at 4:00pm, just as the government workers were leaving their offices.

Last winter was particularly cold here, with sustained temperatures below freezing. That had an adverse effect on my rain barrel, which managed to split along the bottom from water freezing and expanding into ice over and over again.

It was a no brainer to get another rain barrel from the Cumberland River Compact. I'd rather give my money to an organization dedicated to protecting our rivers and streams for a re-purposed plastic barrel to feed my veggies for many years to come. I've also learned my lesson...turn the barrel over in the fall and empty out all the water.

It's easy to do your part for the environment these days. Just do one thing at a time.

Shattered glass

Thursday afternoon I finally got my sideview mirror replaced.

Nearly two months earlier, I'd cracked it pretty hard on a garbage can on trash day morning while driving up my street. It was a bonehead move. I should've been another foot to the left, and the giant plastic garbage bin should've been two feet to the right...off the road. Welcome to early morning lack of depth perception.

Needless to say, my trusty mechanic was able to get an aftermarket (aka used) part for much less than new. It only took the guys in his shop about 20-30 minutes to install it, and now I can see without piecing together a picture of the world behind and to the right of me while driving.

The fractured mirror reminded me of something I'd done mistakenly a month or two prior.

I was getting ready for bed and took a hot drinking glass out of the dishwasher. I walked the step across the kitchen to the fridge and pulled out the Brita pitcher. I set the glass on the bar cart by the fridge and poured water into it.

Fewer than three seconds later, I heard a pop, pop pop pop pop. The glass cracked and cracked and cracked again, spilling water all over the cart, the floor. Big pieces of the glass fell out of my left hand that had been holding it steady.

I've broken my fair share of pitchers over the years while making iced tea. But, this was the first time I broke a think glass with cold water.

It reminded me how fragile the world around me is, how fragile we all are within it. It reminded me to be kind, to pay attention, to look for the fissures in others and be careful not to widen them. It also reminded me that things are fleeting. People make impacts, not stuff...unless it's my sidemirror with the neighbor's ill-placed trash bin.

Be good, y'hear?

A couple of months ago someone asked me what, as a Jewish person, my beliefs are.

The conversation got started a few weeks earlier when the same person asked if I believed that Jesus was the messiah. "No," I said. The follow-up conversation began when the same person stated that I believed he was a prophet. "No," I said. "We believe that he was a false prophet."

I think that was what sparked this person's snide remark, "What DO you believe in, then?"

My response was, "Be nice and live a good life." By live a good life, I meant, be a good person. Be nice to others. Live in a way as to celebrate each day.

I didn't think it was necessary to go into the concepts of halcha (living a life following a righteous path...basically, being a good person), the 613 mitzvot, or the teachings of the rabbis and the idea that we are taught to question our teachers while at the same time respecting them.

As the only practicing Jewish person a lot of people I come into contact know, I should be comfortable with uncomfortable questions. I'm not. I refrain from making broad assumptions about other people's beliefs or lack thereof. First of all, it's none of my business. Also, beliefs tend to be very personal. They change throughout our lives. They are influenced by family, friends and coworkers, by environment and trauma, by adventure and experience.

I am very comfortable in my beliefs, whatever they are. I just don't want to talk about them all the time.

Hunt and (wood)peck(er)

Each morning, I hear a woodpecker tapping away on my neighbor's maple tree.

For weeks I tried to figure out which house had the bird, and which tree was its smorgasbord.

Yesterday afternoon I spied him. He was across the street, checked around once or twice, then found some food in the bark.

There is something comforting about the same bird finding sustenance each day in the same tree, like going to your favorite restaurant for breakfast, or like my dad's habit of ordering roasted chicken if osso bucco isn't on the menu.

There is something comforting in the fact that this bird can find enough to eat in a neighborhood surrounded by concrete and asphalt, that used to be farmland. The robins and mockingbirds and bluejays find similar meals in the worms and grubs in the garden soil I turned on Saturday afternoon.

There is something comforting in the sunrise, in the blooming flowers, in the repetitions we find each day, each season, each year.

Looking forward to the dawning of a new day.

Moon(ing)

Last night's moon was spectacular.

Upon leaving work a little before 11pm, I walked to my car and saw this egg-shaped, orange orb in the sky. Hovering above the single-story buildings in Green Hills. It was like the nighttime sun shining on my face.

This moon seemed to follow me home, always staying in my line of sight, acting as a balm to heal the mental and physical aches from the 14.5 hour workday I'd just ended. Being able to drive home with all of the windows down helped, too. The shift from winter to spring was clear. The moon announced it. Winter in Nashville is officially over.

I think that, and the daffodils, early magnolias and redbuds kind of gave it away.

When I got home, I could hardly stand to go inside. Remaining in the light of that glorious moon seemed to refresh me, bring me calm and joy.

Happy spring. May your flowers bloom brightly, your vitamin D be on the rise and your allergies be minimal.

The great unknown

The life of a nonprofit employee is often rife with uncertainty.

In nine days, I may be out of one of my jobs. Despite surpassing all expectations, I am not guaranteed renewal of the grant that pays half my wages.

In years past when faced with this scenario, I have freaked the eff out. I got worked up, harangued my boss about whether or not I'd still be on staff a month later, two weeks later, a week later.

This time, I am less concerned. Don't get me wrong. I love the work I'm doing, and I think it is important, and most definitely not finished.

It's more that, while my other job pays less, I think I can still squeeze by on a single salary (plus what little I make from my 3rd, 1-2hr/wk job). I'd also love to work 5-10 hours less per week. I might have the chance for a social life or a vacation in that case.

I'd gladly continuing working my grant-funded position if it is renewed. I would worry less financially. I will be able to put something away for that theoretical vacation. For my retirement. For a new pair of sneakers.

Either way, I will celebrate. Both scenarios will turn out positively. Thankfully, I'm staying that way, too.

Making a big stink

Despite my complete failure to plant garlic last fall, I have a feeling I will be lousy with the stuff come harvest time.

While turning the soil in my vegetable bed on Saturday, I came across what may very well be hundreds of garlic seedlings. I must have missed one or two flower heads from last year's crop, and they were apparently quite prolific.

I even found three additional alliums, either leeks or onions, and replanted them in hopes they will re-root and add the my pantry when ripe.

Half of the fun of gardening is seeing what comes back from last year. While the vegetables I grow are not perennials, the seeds they produce provide me with foodstuffs without any effort. Or, very little effort.

I'm a big fan of volunteer gardens. I expect to find scads of tomatillos, tomatoes and various winter squashes popping up all over my garden. My compost will also provide who knows what else.

I can't wait...to eat it!

One to grow on

Today is my birthday. It's none of your business how old I am.

Suffice it to say that I am old enough that I have almost as many doctors as close friends. My hair has enough grey in it that Locks of Love probably wouldn't take it as a donation. I've lived in two cities since I was in high school...and just had a reunion that was for more years than the age I was when I graduated.

I'm a multiple of the age I was when I had my bat mitzvah. Haley's comet came around when I was in middle school. My first concert was  Michael Jackson's Victory Tour.

I remember commercials for Freedom Rock, and had the cassettes. Pan-Am and Eastern Airlines were part of my childhood. I wanted to be a Solid Gold Dancer SO badly.

I wore neon and ruffled bobby socks and scrunched crew socks and pegged my jeans. I listened to records before they were ironic, remember when beta and vhs and laser discs came out. I spent hours picking out what to rent at the video store.

My mom sent me out to play and told me to come back when it got dark or I got hungry. We used to roam the neighborhood in packs, all the kids hanging out together, wandering the woods behind our first house, walking miles to friends homes from our second.

 My first cell phone was just for emergencies and lived in the glove compartment of my car that was only nine years younger than myself.

I was present when Al Gore, Jr. was announced as Bill Clinton's running mate, both times. I was in elementary school when the Challenger exploded, was well out of college when the World Trade Center and Pentagon were attacked.

I had key skates, remember learning computer codes before html, and took videos on cameras that weighed nearly as much as I did at the time.

I have spent time in Israel, Denmark, England, France and Italy. I've done costume design, supported an Oscar Nominated screenwriter, worked at one of the world's most famous universities (and for their largest employees' union), walked an 1/2 marathon, been stepped on by a donkey in the Negev Desert, worked for social justice in the US and Burma, spent 3.5 hours in a holding cell for hosting a really great party, was the call screener for a late-night love talk radio show, introduced myself to Don Cheadle in the middle of Central Park, hitchhiked with strangers in Tel Aviv--twice, and have had countless adventures with friends and on my own.

I love the life I've had to date and look forward to the chaos and calm that lies ahead.

All dressed up

Purim is one of my very favorite holidays.

When I was a little girl, I would dress up in my sister's old ballet costumes, don my mom's 70's scarves and take the Best Queen Esther prize home from the Purim Carnival every year...for five years running. They banned my entry into the contest after that. I don't remember winning all those times, but I do remember dressing up and having a great time each year.

There was only one Purim when I couldn't make it to the Carnival. That was when I turned seven years old. I had the chicken pox and was a hot mess. I was covered, inside and out, with itchy scabs and wasn't allowed to go near anyone who hadn't already had it, or anyone who wanted to have it. Luckily, my brother and sister asked for my guess of how many M&M's were in the jar that was put up for penny guesses each year, and somehow it ended up in my hot little hands. I'll never know if I really guessed right, or if everyone just felt sorry for me. Either way, I shared. I hope.

Of course, the holiday isn't just about dressing up. It's also about reading the Book of Esther, making and eating Hamentaschen, making a LOT of noise, and drinking until we can no longer tell the difference between good and evil.

Personally, I'd be cool with just the reading, the cookies and the costumes. Then again, a party to celebrate that we didn't die at the hands of someone plotting to kills seems justifiable. Party on, y'all.

Spring cleaning

I lived in a party house right after college.

We threw legendary parties, and we'd clean the house before and after each. I think we threw parties, at least in part, just to have an excuse to wash the floors and scrub the toilets.

After being cooped up inside all winter, I generally get the urge to purge...my house. I clean out the closets and dressers, I take all the glass recyclables to the drop off center, I make sure my condiments and canned goods are still edible. My compost pile grows, as do my tax deductible donations.

The house feels bigger when it's clean. There is more room to breathe, and less dust. The lack of clutter in the house seems to shake the dust out of my mind as well. As the world opens up into color, my focus sharpens with the vibrancy that surrounds us.

I always hope to keep the cleanliness year-round. But if I did that, would I have the same feeling of delight with the annual cleanse every spring? Maybe this will be the year I find out!

Picking up an adult toy

Tomorrow I intend to finish preparing my garden for spring planting.

That will be a feat, especially if the handful of people who I've invited over to help decide not to show up. Over the winter, I managed to dig about 5 sq ft  and have at least 15 more to go before I can get my salad fixin's sowed.

I have a couple of decent shovels and hoes. I have a trowel and a few rakes of varying stiffness. I've got manure and peat moss and humus. What I didn't have was a pick ax.

Gardening in Tennessee can be challenging. Our dirt is either rocky or clay with little top soil, or both. I am able to dig about 12" before hitting clay in the bed I've been working on for the past eight years, but anywhere else in the yard I'm lucky if I can dig 3" before hitting clay.

I'm a big fan of clay. It's great for pulling impurities from your pores, and it makes fabulous pottery. I just don't love it in my soil. In the past, I've even gone as far as adding sand to my dirt to aerate it. I've lugged leaves and grass clippings from all over town. I've even put coconut husks on it and tried to incorporate it into the soil.

There is very little organic matter I won't put onto my garden bed before planting. The problem comes when I want to work all that stuff into the clay. The stuff is just too dense to break up with a simple shovel. That's where the pick ax comes into play.

Thankfully, I knew just where to go to get one: my local hardware store. The best part of the purchase was when I pulled it out of the back of my car when I got home. Just at that moment, a neighborhood dad passed my house with his child in a stroller...while drinking a beer.

I guess we both had some fun today.

(Not so) careful

Yesterday I was a disaster.

I don't mean that my clothes were mismatched or anything horrendous happened. I just wasn't paying attention and ended up accidentally hurting myself repeated.

It started off with banging my shin on the corner of my coffee table when I went to put my shoes on and head out the door for work. Next I got stabbed by the corner of a plastic package of ravioli in the palm of my right hand.

Shortly thereafter, I sliced two fingers open while picking up a case of sparkling water...on the cardboard. Welcome to three more paper cuts.

When I finally got home from work, and was about to begin another three hours for my other main job, I spilled some boiling water from my tea mug onto my stomach, and while trying to wipe off the mug, I ended up spilling more all over my hand. Genius.

Luckily, it wasn't worse. It's all a lesson in paying attention. Guess I need to do more of that!

Work it out

I come from a family of people who live until they are really, really old. Odds are, I will too.

Theoretically, that means I have the luxury of wasting some of that precious commodity. Is that even possible when you juggle three jobs over a minimum of 46 hours per week that span schedules that range from 7am-10:30pm?

I'd like to think that I'm a laid back person, and if you took my blood pressure, you'd find out it's pretty darn low (last doc visit it was 98/64...and yes, I was conscious). I don't rattle easily. I think through problems and look for solutions.

These days, I make lists. I've mentioned those before. Lately, I've been making lists at work, too. It helps with prioritizing more than remembering what I need to accomplish on any given day or week.

Since my work lists are generally written on a computer, I go with the stepped dot method. I find dots less intimidating than Roman numerals and a little easier to manage than alphabetical order. Breaking down tasks into manageable parts in a simple format, rather than a flow-chart, allows me to use my non-linear brain to the best of its ability.

I haven't always been this way. I used to want to do everything at once. Or I would focus on one thing until everyone else left the room out of boredom. These days, I try to stay more connected to the here and now, rather than putting everything towards the future. That said, I always have the big picture, the future goals in mind.

I like to make a plan and check everything off my list. I'm also not going to sweat an incomplete list. There's always more work to be done tomorrow. I want to make sure today's work is done well.

I got my sister with me

Yesterday was my sister's birthday.

She and I have not always had the closest relationship. She is six years my senior, and for kids, that is an eternity, a wide generation gap that cannot be bridged until adulthood.

When we were little, she was my protector. She would tell the best stories on our road trips to visit the grandparents in Florida. I still remember most of one that involved a leprechaun that rode his bicycle up a rainbow to his pot of gold. Or did I ride my bicycle up a rainbow and to a leprechaun's pot of gold? Either way, it was a great story, based on my favorite past time and Irish lore...since my birthday is St. Patrick's Day.

As we got older, my sister had a series of adventures that made me want to protect her. We seemed to switch birth orders for about 20 years. That didn't stop her from bringing my favorite pizza to middle school to celebrate one of my birthdays.

She was always cool, and helped frame my musical tastes. She is the reason I love the Violent Femmes, likely one of the reasons I pursued an interview with them in 1991. I wanted to impress her (among other), obviously. She also helped shape my fashion sense. I BEGGED her for her bleached jean jacket with the ribbons threaded through holes and beaded safety pins.

When she settled down and got hitched, we even took a vacation together...to see the grandparents. She came to visit me in Boston. I spent two summers with she and my brother-in-law.

Eventually, we became friends. We commiserate now. We help each other, when we remember to ask for help.

Hopefully, we'll be able to celebrate our birthday month together for at least another 60 years. Couldn't imagine doing it any other way.

Spoon(ing)ful of...

It seems like at least once each day I run the dishwasher. How can one person produce SO many dishes?

I've even noticed if I've gone too long without washing the dishes, which items I use the most. Apparently, that's spoons. I use an inordinate amount of spoons.

When I first moved into my house (8 years ago in April), I didn't have a stove, so all of my food was either cold, made in the toaster oven or microwave. I meant eating a lot of salads, and the occasional microwaved ravioli. Needless to say, most of what I ate involved forks. It was a surprisingly good way to lose weight, as well as a bizarre test of culinary agility.

I guess my spoon usage makes sense based on my diet. I make a lot of chopped salads, curries, soups and bean-based dishes, not to mention the honey I put in my tea each morning.

Makes me thankful that someone invented the first spoon. And knife. And why forks didn't come until much, much later.

All together now

There is always a lot to learn from family dynamics.

My family teaches me that each time we interact.

We are a family of strong willed, opinionated, insistent, sarcastic, manipulative, impatient and sensitive folks. We take everything personally and don't always see each others' perspectives. We are judgmental and complain about our mothers. And, we're consistent.

I love my family. I love the mental illness, the physical illness, the competition when none exists, the curly hair, the short women, the athletes, the intellectuals, the screw-ups.

I love that far away cousins connect instantly. I love that we hug. I love that the kids are wild things. I love that we manage to pull together when required, and sometimes when not required. I love that we have more in common than we admit, and less in common that we'd like.

We are cut from the same cloth, and yet lead very different lives.

I am utterly grateful for my family. We're not like families we see on television. We're not like families in the movies. We're just a family, with quirks and imperfections, and that's what makes us normal.

As my youngest niece told me yesterday, "I love you because you're weird and awesome." I feel exactly the same way. Always have. Always will.

Sugar sugar

This week I learned that the past nine months of diet change have made a bigger difference than weight loss.

I didn't stop eating wheat in order to lose weight, although that has been a nice benefit. I did it to get out of the diabetes danger zone. Yup, I was one of the many Americans at risk for developing diabetes if I didn't change something.

Last spring I noticed that I was gaining weight. It was gradual, but my pants were getting tighter and tighter. It was uncomfortable, both mentally and physically. I changed my diet by adding a salad or stir fry each day. I had hoped that adding more vegetables would spark my metabolism, or at the very least add more fiber and shed more poundage.

It didn't work. I kept gaining.

I had a check-up and when I spoke with my doctor, I told her that the only thing that had changed, and was bothersome, was my unexplained weight gain. She ordered blood tests and found that both my insulin and blood sugar levels were high. She suggested that I try going gluten free, or at least a low glycemic index diet.

While I love toast -- mean, I really love toast, with butter especially -- I was enjoy not having to test my blood sugar and give myself shots of insulin even more. I have watched friends with diabetes struggle over the years with a wide range of issues and do not want to add them to my list of medical frustrations.

So, I went for it. I stopped eating bread and cake and cookies. For the most part. I've had a matzah ball or two, and couple of tastes of challah, but overall I don't miss what I'm not eating. I miss the process of baking, though. I have done away with my weekly challah and pizza dough preparation. I've ended my love affair with making cookies chock-full of chocolate chips, pecans, dried cherries and coconut. I've put aside my experimentation with cakes.

Now, I focus on making protein-filled vegetarian meals for the week. I eat more beans and tofu. I eat more eggs. I eat less cheese, fruit and dried fruit. And, as you know, I eat more chips. Oy, the chips are my downfall! Good thing they haven't retested my cholesterol.

The big news this week is that not only am I out of the danger zone, but my insulin levels have dropped by more than 1/2. Pretty big deal, y'all. Pretty. Big. Deal.

(Im)patience is (a) virtu(al)e

Grandma turned 95 yesterday.

I was lucky to be able to join her with Mom and Dad at a little restaurant with exactly what she wanted (even though she hates the decor and complains about, even while going on and on about the coconut cake).

The soup of the day was a lamb and braised beef stew, which happened to also be a specialty of Grandma's mom (aka Reb). Reb was a kind and inspirational woman who I remember as always active in whatever community she was in, and was an avid do-gooder. She believed in making things better, and apparently also couldn't stand to eat the skins of fruits and vegetables. Grandma told us that when her mom made lamb stew, she peeled the skins off of the lima beans that went into it. She also peeled her grapes...while comparing herself to May West! Gotta love the chutzpah in my family. At least I come by it honestly.

Grandma told us about some of her mom's family, too. She started naming her long gone relatives: Ida, Fannie, Sam(uel), Max, Jack/Jacob, Sarah, Katie, several Hermans, Lillian. It made me with I had a passel of kids so I could give them all those fabulous names! I guess I could name my bookcases or my garden implements, but that doesn't seem quite right. The names came up, because I asked about the story of how Grandma named me. The funny thing is, no one at the table remembered the story I've heard my entire life. Maybe it's just the story I wanted to hear. Either that, or the almost 70 year-olds and the 95 year-old are forgetting more than they're willing to admit. Kind of like how Mom forgot how old I was last week. Awesome. This is going to get more fun as they get older. Um, yeah.

Back to dinner...Grandma doesn't like to sit around. She gets uncomfortable. She is, after all, 95. Her spine is crumbling, and S shaped. Her legs and back and arms hurt. Her teeth keep falling out and have finally gotten a partial denture so that she can chew soft foods again.

I think the most uncomfortable thing for her at dinner was after it was over...when she had coconut stuck under her dentures from the cake. She couldn't wait to leave and rinse out her teeth.

I hope we get to enjoy dinner again next March 6th. If not, I'll just smile and think of Grandma.

Keeping watch

When I was in middle school, Swatches were all the rage.

I think I had two, but honestly, who can remember back that far?!

Over the years, I've had a smattering of other watches, mostly cheap numbers with plastic bands and various clock faces, both digital and analog.

While living in Boston, I had what I thought at the time was a cool analog watch, but I consistently couldn't tell time on it. That was a giant failure of technology, combined with my eyesight and kindergarten skill set while reading a clock.

I temporarily switched to digital, tired of missing trains and buses. Upon visiting home in 2001, I found the watch I'd received as a bat mitzvah gift from my parents and one of my great grandmothers (mother's father's mother: maternal-paternal great grand?). It is a delicate Movado with a simple, blank face and a dot of gold at 12. I decided it was time to dress things up and started wearing it to my office job.

That resulted in my catching the crystal on my keyboard tray, prying it off and sending it and all the other parts that kept the crystal attached careening across the room. I took it to a watchmaker in Harvard Square for repairs, and while there found the watch I've been wearing nearly every day since. It was a gift to myself, a not outrageously expense Skagen with a stainless steel band and rose-colored brushed metal face. The hours are represented by raised dots for each number, 1-12.

This watch is a workhorse. It is scarred and scratched. At least one pin falls out of the band each year. The crystal fogs up if I wear it while washing dishes.

A Nashville watchmaker told me it would be more expensive to fix it than to buy a new one. How can I let an old friend fall apart or get tossed aside? Do I stop wearing a watch like so many others and start carrying my cell phone with me constantly? I don't think so.

I'd rather get distracted by glancing at my wrist than get distracted by checking email  or social media 24/7. I'll add watch to my growing list (HVAC unit, car, home repairs, vacation). For now, I will hold onto the Skagen, gaining pleasure from the fact that it still runs, and gets me where I need to go on time.

Guilt Scout Cookies

I was a girl scout. Many, many years ago.

I was also a go-getter. Not much has changed there.

One of my favorite things was busting my hump to sell the most cookies when it came time. I'm sure some other girl beat me to the punch, but I was tireless in my efforts. At least I think I was.

What I remember more than selling those cookies was that my absolute hands down favorites were a tie between Thin Mints and Samoas, with Tagalongs coming in a distant third, and only when they were frozen.

There was always a love/hate relationship with the cookies, as they were prized possessions, and I could not stop eating them once I started. I was never a savorer. If I have a cookie, it vanishes. Quickly. Something delicious should be in my belly, not sitting in front of me. Or, at least that's what my hands and pie hole think.

I used to be able to make my way at least 1/2 way through a sleeve of Thin Mints before I could pour myself a glass of milk to wash it down.

This year, I got a message from my youngest niece (with my brother in the background prompting her) asking me to buy some Girl Scout Cookies from her. How could I say no to anyone that adorable?! So, I called my brother and told him I'd take four boxes. Two each of the Thin Mints and Samoas.

Having been gluten free since last summer, I wasn't about to derail myself for some sugary treats I'd soon regret, but I also wasn't going to disappoint a little girl trying to meet her goals. So, I brought them to work. One workplace employs at least 90 people. The day the cookies arrived, I brought two boxes to the breakroom to share. When I left work a few hours later, there was still 1/2 a sleeve of Thin Mints. I was shocked that any were left.

A week later, I brought the rest of the cookies to my other workplace, where there are fewer than 10 employees. When I left a few hours after arriving, they'd demolished 1/2 of all the cookies! I was impressed, and glad that the cookies brought so much joy to so many bellies.

Hot hot hot

Sunday night there was a bad, bad storm in Nashville.

The miserable snow that covered much of the nation last month somehow missed Nashville, but this time we weren't so lucky. We got rain. Lots of rain. And then, the temperatures dropped below freezing...while it was still raining.

Welcome to the skating rink, y'all!

I was working at the retail gig until 8:30pm, 30 minutes prior to the forecast for the ice to begin forming on the roads and trees and everything else exposed to the elements. By the time I got home, the roads were wet, but perfectly driveable.

There was something off when I got home, though. Every once in a while, there was this loud banging noise, kind of like sneakers in a dryer. The noise was off-putting, but I figured it was a truck somewhere nearby. That is, until I felt the house shake. Loud noise plus house shaking? Homeowners nightmare. Great.

The second time it happened, I was in my bedroom, 1/2 way into my flannel pajamas, the ones with the squirrels on them, and I heard the noise coming from just outside...and the house shaking again. I knew immediately what it was. My HVAC unit was having a fit. It sounded less like simple banging than like something thwapping the inside of the mechanism's metal casing each time the fan rotated. It was unsettling at best.

I got dressed again, turned off the heat, put on a raincoat, grabbed my flashlight and put on my stepping outside clogs. I made my way quickly to the side of the house and saw that  the top of the unit was covered in ice. I went back inside, grabbed a container of coarse salt and went back outside to pour it on the ice. I don't know if that actually helped, but when I went back inside and turned on the heat, very slowly, there was no more banging. No more thwapping. No more house shaking.

There is still ice covering the unit, but I am breathing a sigh of relief. My house is warm while it is cold outside.

It is a chilling reminder, however, that my HVAC unit is from 1981, and I have yet to have it serviced...in nearly eight years of home ownership. Chilling reminder, indeed.

The end of an era

Apparently there is a line. I have a boundary, and I realized it on Saturday.

I cannot eat potato chips for breakfast.

There. I said it. I suffered for the love of crunchy, salty, starchy food. I won't do that again. Lesson learned. Stomach upset and queasiness is not worth the deliciousness of the moment. I should've made an egg. Or a breakfast taco. Or a salad.

Learn from my mistake. Don't go there. Put down the salt and pepper ridged potato chips in the giant bag. They will come back to bite you, just like you bit into them.

Now, where's that broccoli?

Reunion

I can get a little sappy sometimes.

Friday night I got to see my junior year room mate for the first time in 17 years. We lived in a dorm which I think has since been demolished, with five other women, or was it six? Eight? I didn't even remember that we lived with two of them.

This room mate, however, I definitely remember. We used to play middle-of-the-night Boggle tournaments with another roomie, since we were all studying insanely challenging subjects (Arabic, organic chemistry and neuroscience). It wasn't that we couldn't sleep...we were still doing our homework at 2 or 3 o'clock in the morning.

It was great be able to catch up, and to see what kind of adults we've become. While my focus has been more on social science as a community organizer, her focus has been on medical science, as a doctor whose focus is on geriatrics.

We talked about everything from the importance of story and taking the time to listen, to the difficulty of having an end of life plan and making sure to begin those conversations as early as possible.

We went to dinner at one of my favorite local watering holes, sat outside (in our winter coats), and on the way back to her hotel, I gave her the five minute tour of downtown Nashville.

I think we could've talked for hours. When we got to her hotel, I hopped out to give hugs we agreed that we were lucky to be in each others' lives. The passion and care that the people I remained connected with show to others is one of the things that feeds my own passion. Lucky, indeed.

Reasons 2-28

As of today, Black History Month 2014 has ended.

 

This year, I decided to read The Confessions of Nat Turner by William Styron in recognition of slavery in America. I have been reticent to begin the novel and have been holding onto it for several months.

It wasn't because it was difficult material, it was because it was a book about a slave revolt that was written by a middle aged white man in the 1960s. That didn't sit well with me.

I know, I know, it's just a book. But, it's a book that won the Pulitzer Prize. I've been working my way through the works of fiction on that prize-winning list, and have very few that have given me pause...especially when it comes to beginning.

I don't think I intended to read this novel during Black History Month, but in doing so, it served multiple purposes. I was exposed to the story through the perspective of Nat Turner, the leader of the revolt, a perspective that opened my eyes to the viewpoint of a young man who had ambition and was waylaid, in multiple ways, by the cowardice and deceit of his white owners and the white neighbors he was loaned to for work on their properties.

The book was a harsh reminder that there was a time in our relatively recent past when the color of your skin determined your place in society, determined if you were considered worthy of education, determined if you were allowed to live in safety and comfort, determined if you had sufficient nutritious food and drink.

Wait a minute. Have we changed? When I first moved to Nashville, I was told to stay away from certain poor parts of town (subtext=black neighborhoods).

How long did it take to elect a person of color as President? Why is his competence constantly questioned and why is he called a "subhuman mongrel"? Are we really still demeaning people of color with correlations to animals, inferring that they should be treated as lesser beings? Really?!

This is clearly the same mindset that has led to multiple murders of African Americans in the last year with self-defense as the plea. Stand Your Ground laws are the new horsewhip, the new way to put people in their place and mind their masters. Is this the world we want to create for our descendants? Is this the lesson we want to teach?

Let's not forget the advent of public housing developments and Urban Renewal that destroyed historically black neighborhoods, displaced residents and drove off middle class business owners leaving a void for those who remained. That void resulted in underserved schools, criminalization of young men, and limited resources including healthy affordable and fresh food.

I see the remnants of slavery all around us. We do not have to stand idly by while injustice reigns. We need to join in efforts to stem the school to prison pipeline, create food oases and address the roots of inequity wherever we see them.

I'm ready. Are you?