What've you got?

I love a good trade.

Last week, I was lucky enough to gain nineteen books from a friend's collection. She is cleaning house and decided to let her friends have their pick before giving the rest away. I ended up with a couple of psychology books, a pamphlet on the US Constitution, and a LOT of gardening books. I didn't have much to give in return as a thank you gift, except my last jar of pickled green tomatoes that I put up in November. She was glad to have them, and glad I thinned her piles considerably.

Last night, I traded two buckets full of daylily shoots and roots for some eggs fresh from another friend's farm.  Well, more precisely, her chickens. I do my best to supply her with empty egg cartons, too. My neighbor gives them to me, and I give she and her husband eggs in return when I get them from the farm. Her husband and her son love to pickle them and eat them when they go hunting. (Edit: didn't get the eggs, but I got a great night out with some incredibly hilarious women!)

My sister and my mom clean out their closets once or twice each year. When they do, they tend to ask me if I want anything. They let me sort through and try on as many outfits as I'd like. I have even less than pickled tomatoes and egg cartons to give to them. All I can give them is an ear to listen, a hug when I see them, and a fresh perspective on whatever troubles them.

When I lost my job a couple of years ago, I had to get used to receiving, rather than giving. I like trade a good deal better, but I don't always have much to offer. I hope that a smile, a good recipe, and a good story are enough. Some days, that's all I have to give, and it will have to do. 

Bottoms up

Tonight I'm going out for drinks with two friends.

It is rare these days that I go out for socializing. Most of my free time is spent doing laundry, cooking, gardening, grocery shopping, running errands, pretending to clean my house, visiting with family, or having quiet time.

One of the friends I've only seen for a few minutes since October, or was it September? She asked me to meet her a couple of weeks ago so that she could give me a gift. Hot pink unlined leather gloves with brown piping and vent snaps below the wrist. She brought them back for me from Italy as a special treat. Before she went on her trip, she asked what I'd like. I said jokingly, hot pink leather gloves. She is one in a million! One of my favorite birthday gifts of all time.

The other friend is another traveler whom I haven't seen in months. We were at a bat mitzvah together that turned into a Persian Shabbat dinner extravaganza with another friend's family. Prior to that, I think it had been since August when we played Mah Jongg by the pool with a handful of other ladies.

These two women are who I aspire to be. They are headstrong and smart and fearless. They take chances and make their own fun. They are creative and passionate. They are fashionable and love to eat. We laugh whenever we get together, talk about all of life's possibilities, and encourage each others' crazy ideas.

I can only hope to be as brave as they are with my own life. Tonight, I'll settle for looking fabulous and enjoying my friends' company. L'chaim!

Light(e)ning the load

Last Wednesday night heat lightning filled the sky.

The rain was coming down in a drizzle with the occasional group of large drops making me shorten the timing of my intermittent windsheild wipers.

The sky lit up in the distance. There was no thunder, just light. A single flash from the wall of clouds like an amorphous polka dot to the northwest.

I've always loved heat lightning. I know it is dangerous, as is all lightning. I just think it's pretty. And fascinating.

The best heat lightning is at night, when it really shows off. One night in 1993 I remember pulling over on my way home to sit on the hood of my car and watch the lightning shoot rays of light across the sky in the distance.  Not my most brilliant move, but I figured, if I got hit by some, at least the car was sitting on rubber tired and I'd be okay. Stupid teenage brain. Not to be counted on for brilliance when it comes to risk taking.

Heat lightning also tells me that spring is really here. Summer is hot on its tail, and I do mean hot. Heat lightning is often accompanied by oppressive humidity. Welcome to the leap from dead winter straight into summer. Spring is in there somewhere.

In the meantime, I will enjoy the light show.

Watch me now!

I look at my watch all the time.

It's basically an appendage. I got it years ago. At least 10 years ago, when a much nicer watch I was wearing popped apart when I snagged it on a keyboard tray. I didn't want that to happen again, so I got a sturdy looking Skagen with a stainless steel band and a rose face. The thing I was most excited about was that it had the date movement, too. Just the number, not the month or year or anything fancy.

I didn't want fancy. I wanted practical.

For these many years, it has been entirely practical. I've lost the occasional pin, had a battery or five replaced, and have beaten the stuffing out it. The scratched crystal and band are proof enough of that.

Over the past year, I've noticed that condensation has been collecting, like a small fogged window, on the interior of the crystal after washing dishes...usually at work. I asked a local watchmaker about it, and he said that the parts alone would cost more than the watch.

This week, the watch fell off of my couch and onto my hardwood living room floor. That fall dislodged the crystal. Apparently an insufficient seal caused the fog.

For the next hour after my watch fell apart, I searched online for a new one. I thought that it might be time to update my accessory wardrobe, even with my still uncertain job future. I saw watch after watch. If they had the right band, they had the wrong face. If they had the right face, they had fake diamonds on them. If they had the date function, they were too fancy.

Finally, I looked up the warranty information on the Skagen website. Turns out that all they cover is watch movements, the internal mechanisms. I called to find out how much it would be to fix my watch, and it turns out that it is only $45. That's it. For that price, they will put in a brand new crystal, clean and provide maintenance for the movements and replace the band! They'll even re-seal the watch if need be. I just have to write "refurbish" on the form I send in with my watch and check.

Look out world, my watch will be shiny and like new in 2-4 weeks. Couldn't ask for anything better to make my day.

Shabbat sha-yum, y'all

I used to bake challah every Friday.

That changed last summer when i decided to cut wheat out of my diet per my doctor's recommendation.

My house used to smell delicious each Friday night as the fluffy, stringy dough baked its golden crust. The process of mixing the dough by hand, kneading it lovingly and with enthusiasm, working out the frustrations of the week and working in the hopes for a peaceful and restful Shabbat.

Now, I think about my food needs for the week. How many meals do I need to bring with me each day? Will I have time to make breakfast or do I need to grab something on the run?

These days, Shabbat is about cooking as much as resting. It's about finding a new recipe I want to exhaust, about learning a new ways to prepare foods I'm familiar with and have cooked repeatedly.

Last week, I got a new cookbook to add to my vast collection filling up the tall bookcase in my kitchen. Honestly, I'm not sure where it will physically fit. I have a feeling it won't be put away for quite some time.

Last Friday and Saturday I made two recipes out of Isa Does It. I've been a huge fan of Isa Chandra Moskowitz's cookbooks for years now, making vegan waffles and sausages, cakes and cookies. This, her newest cookbook, is a glorious tome, full of cute typefaces, great photography, and Isa's signature step-savers.

I made the olive-lentil burgers Friday night, and doubled the recipe on Saturday they were so good! On Saturday, I also made the enchiladas. Of course, I wouldn't be me if I didn't swap some ingredients. I left out the potatoes and mushrooms int he enchiladas and put in roasted butternut squash and sweet potato, and corn I had left over from my CSA. I also didn't make the cashew cream, but topped it with sharp cheddar cheese (Surprise! I'm not a vegan. That only lasted for a month in 1997.) and black olives.

I cannot wait to test out more recipes. My belly's going to thank me.

Petal to the...

Spring has sprung!

I know, I know, you already realize I can wax poetic about the bloom of flowers, the gentle, bright blush of green that springs forth each, well, spring.

The early magnolias were the first to break through their chilled branches. The crocuses came and went. The daffodils are unfurling their butter yellow and white and orange-hued petals. The single and double headed daffodils in my yard taunt me with their ability to stay outside when I must go to work...or anywhere inside.

The blue fritillaria I planted in all the wrong places are coming up around my water meter, where I inexplicably put them in 2006. Thankfully, they are also blooming where the other flowers will be...near the house and near the street, like a picture frame around the yard, or asymmetrical stripes of flora.

Over the weekend, I noticed peony stems nearly a foot tall, reaching their tender baby leaves towards the sun and clouds. I can only hope that their pink and white blossoms survive this month and any potential frosts we see. When they do, they will play host to a parade of ants, drawn by their perfume, their sweetness, their never ending cushion of layer upon layer.

The daylilies are expanding at a faster rate than I can theoretically divide them or give them away. The irises are showing off, coming up in new places and giving telltale signs of which group of green spears will yield blossoms beyond my wildest dreams. Edged in blues and browns and yellows, whites, purples, burgundies and pinks. Frothy petals brimming over with seductive innuendo.

The hyacinths from my birthday two weeks ago are opening one bud at a time. They fill my outdoor seating area with the fragrance of hope, of winds of change, of clean air and sunshine, of shaking off the dust and stagnation of winter.

I can't wait to see what happens next!

I'm really sensitive

"Do you have an adhesive allergy?" "Um, kind of."

One of the worst bandage experiences I've had was after I had biopsies on both breasts 2.5 years ago. Don't freak out. I'm fine. Lucky, and fine. The bandages, however, liked my skin so much that one of them tore off some it to keep forever. That resulted in an infection. Not my favorite part of the whole shebang. Actually, when the anesthesia didn't work on the right side, and there was a second, internal infection a month later that verged on being an abscess, that wasn't so cool, either.

So, when my physical therapist asked if I had a problem with adhesives when he wanted to tape my shoulder/back/neck last week, I was honest. He said he did, too, but that there were two kinds of tape, and he'd put the one that works for him under the other on me.

That was okay the first time. Kind of tricky to remove it myself. He recommended pulling the skin from the bandage, which is hard to do when it is in the middle of your back and there is no one around to assist you. I did it anyway. No real damage. Coconut oil on the reddened skin seemed to soothe it. The next day, he re-taped me.

Two days later, I removed it again. I didn't have time to put on the coconut oil before heading to the physical therapy office and when I got there, the therapist who worked on me that day (a nice lady), said she wasn't going to tape me. I asked why, and she said she noticed some irritation. I looked at my right arm and saw what looked like a peeling sunburn. Um, I wasn't sunburned. Gross.

The redness lasted three more days, even with more oil on it.

I'm not saying the tape didn't help. It felt like a comfortable restraint, like a corset you don't have to wear all the time, or a bra. Like it was doing something important. Something necessary for support and strength.

That said, I may keep it on a little longer next time. Ripping off a giant band aid by yourself is no fun, but having to do it every other day is way, way worse. Looking forward to not needing it anymore.

Fool for love

I've decided to have a baby.

I'm actively looking for the father of my child. Ideally, he'll be handsome, intelligent, creative, love reading and movies, be kind and passionate and driven to succeed, no matter what he's doing.

He doesn't need to be in my life, but he does need to have strong swimmers. Bonus if he's already a dad. I'd like to have proof of purchase.

We can either conceive by traditional methods, or he can mail me his little guys and gals in a frozen container insulated in a retro Coleman cooler packed with dry ice. Enclosed should also be $250,000 for the child's first 10 years' child support. I anticipate needing to de-lead my windows, add a second bathroom, and pre-pay for private school and preschool.

After 10 years, I will expect annual payments of $15,000 for the next eight years. Following that, I will send the child to its father for college tuition, supportive parenting and the male perspective.

If the child decides to return to me at that time, it will be sorely disappointed. I will be gone until I am an invalid, in my 80s or need something, whichever comes first.



Wait, there's something else.

April Fool's! Or is it?

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?

Petal to the metal

Last weekend I had a lot of errands to run.

I stopped at a handful of grocery stores, to pick up a handful of items, and on my way home, I stopped at a florists' shop to buy myself a treat. I'd been sick all week and needed something to boost my spirits.

I looked at the ranunculus, snapdragons, tulips, some of the most beautiful (and expensive $54/dozen) roses I've ever seen, carnations, and eventually settled on a bunch of white daisies. I really wanted some of the other, more colorful flowers, but settled for simplicity...and durability.

While walking from cooler to cooler trying to make up my mind, I tried to figure out what I liked the best, what I'd want to see each morning and evening, each time I spent time in my living room, where the flowers would sit upon my tallest bookcase.

A week later, the flowers still look perfect, but they seemed a little lonely.

Thankfully, everything goes with a blank slate. Before heading home last night, I found a bouquet of 4" bright red gerberas. When I got home, I trimmed the daisies and arranged them with the gerberas in a vase that a friend's mother made, a tall, white ceramic vase with a rim of blue glaze and a smattering of green leaves here and there.

The flowers are not reflective of what I grown in my garden. They are too perfect, too bright. Outdoors, I prefer sunflowers picked over by the goldfinches the perch atop their buttery orbs, bee balm with their seemingly endless opening and closing miniscule flower heads, peonies overflowing with ants and whose edges are brown and crispy from exposure, irises of intense and washed out color that spread and blossom seemingly at random, daffodils with their ruffled tubes, day lilies with their orange and red triangular petals arriving and withering in quick succession, bleeding hearts with their dainty droplets falling along a thin stem towards the earth.

I'm ready to fast forward to spring and get those blooms abounding. I'd rather look at them outside, while I work in the yard.

Mom genes (continued)

Much of the dinner I had with Mom on Tuesday had to do with Grandma. She's turning 95 on March 6th, and we're throwing her a party.

The Chicago and Atlanta contingents of the family are coming into town for it, and all of us cousins cannot wait to see each other. Friday night will be at Sister's house, where all the kids will fall all over each other with joy at being together again, and all us adult cousins will catch up on news of the family and whatnot.

Birthday brunch will be Saturday, where Grandma will be the guest of honor, and thankfully, it will be where she lives. She will then be able to take a nap without feeling guilty, and have her friends included without having to worry about how they would travel to another venue. The plans for this have been in the works for months. Last week when I asked what she'd like for her birthday, she said, "I just want everyone to be together."

Saturday afternoon it looks like we'll have a pool party at the out-of-towners' hotel, which sounds like heaven! I cannot imagine anything better than playing tag with the kiddos, that will rival snuggling Thanksgiving weekend in adorableness.

I cannot wait to see my cousins. We don't have the chance to visit often enough, living in different cities.

I grew up hearing stories of my parents' families all living in the same cities, well, not all, but there were extended visits when they didn't. I've been lucky to meet many second cousins, and consider my Boston cousins my second family. They took me in for the holidays each year and always made me feel at home.

It's also nice to have a reason to celebrate with family for something other than a holiday. I'd say 95 is definitely something to celebrate. Happy almost birthday, Grandma!

Mom genes

Yesterday was one for the record books.

I slept somewhere in the neighborhood of 12 hours, managed to do very little on my chores list (one load each of laundry and dishes), and spent four hours with Mom without arguing or getting on each others' nerves.

That last bit is shocking and hopefully something that will continue.

I love Mom. She's given me a lot to be thankful for in life. She instilled in me an early love of the arts by taking me to the opera and ballet and symphony, as well as a great appreciation for visual arts by bringing me to her art history classes and museums whenever possible. Mom was my academic advocate, making sure I was given a chance to enter gifted programs in elementary and middle schools, as well as pushing for my entry into advanced courses in high school. She also negotiated with school officials so that I could spend a semester of high school in Israel.

Mom is persistent, which is something she passed along to me. She sets a goal and goes for it. She is a 33 year entrepreneur, and showed me that women can cook, sew and own a business...and often put me to work.

I called her yesterday afternoon to see what time and where I was meeting she and Grandma for dinner. She said, "Let's have an early dinner at Nordstrom, I'm at the mall already. If you're not busy, come on over now. You need a new pair of jeans, right. I'll get them for you. Call me when you get here."

And so, put the dishes in the dishwasher, put on a sweater and some shoes and headed out the door.

The jeans were an easy find. And, they were a size smaller than the last ones we got several months earlier! Mom mentioned that she saw some cute outfits I should try on, while we were there, to wear for Grandma's 95th birthday party next week. Who was I to say no?

We perused the copious options, and selected a wide array of floral prints, variations in navy and tan, sweaters, cardigans and one or two blouses. We even brought a few crazy patterns into the dressing room. The kind and helpful woman who helped us also selected a few pieces to go with random tops and skirts we thought might work well.

A couple of hours later and what seems like a thousand outfits and combinations tried on, we were pleased to have found what could be described as a new wardrobe for me for the next several months. I mean, I'll have to get a few sleeveless items for the summer, but I now have skirts and tops that actually fit my now smaller frame in a flattering way, and are versatile enough that I can wear them to meetings, on dates, and to synagogue or out on the town with minor tweaks to accessories and combinations of top layers and shoes.

While I'm really grateful for the clothes, the best part was the quality time I got to spend with Mom. Once I established that she didn't need to go on past one comment on the ill-fitting nature of an outfit, we went through the afternoon in peace, joking about my inability to wear the color mint near my face (although we did get a mint checked skirt), discussed our chests at length (especially our inability to tuck in a shirt due to the short distance between boobs and waist, along with her continuing commentary about how we should get a two-for-one reduction rate--or would that be four-for-one), and the common sense approach we took to the outfits ("Your father would love that on you." That was the line that always went along with a yes number).

One of the biggest successes of our shopping adventure is that I didn't let Mom into my dressing room. While I am pretty comfortable with my body, I am not comfortable with being judged about it. That's a hang-up I've had with Mom since I was young, likely stemming from my Weight Watchers membership at 11 years old. My family is not great with setting up boundaries, but this one was a winner. Mom had a comfortable couch to sit on, and could see my feet...and whatever I was stepping into at any given moment. We could hear each other, and we talked the whole time. It was really lovely. It was a bonding moment without being forced or having too many expectations.

We also had dinner together after making our purchases. We each had salads, and I ordered us a basket of sweet potato fries to go along with them. We shared them, both enjoying our dinners, and more conversation, about life and death, about planning and letting go, and about how people can surprise us. We even called Dad (so Mom could get his sweater size and buy him one before we left the store), and I was able to share my gratitude with him as well. Apparently, he's been telling Mom to take me shopping for a while. I will choose to see that as a statement of generosity, rather than as a statement of embarrassment at my shabby attire.

Honestly, it doesn't matter. I love my folks, regardless of their ability or interest in taking me shopping. Love has never been on condition of stuff for me. It's much more about having connection, about caring for and about each other, and about being present.

That said, I'm really excited to look pretty in my new duds!

Thought (less)

I've been writing this blog for nearly two months now.

You've been privy to my insecurities, my nuances, my passions and my peculiarities, many of which you share.

Today, however, I am drawing a blank.

Then again, it may just be writing fatigue. I've been writing and editing a piece for a national Jewish food blog, a grant report, narratives about meetings I've had over the past year, and an inordinate amount of data entry and maintenance.

Basically, I want to stop staring at a screen and typing.

I have a feeling that tomorrow you'll have something more interesting to read. In the meantime, you might want to start one of my favorite books, "So Big" by Edna Ferber. Just don't Google the title...you're likely to get the same unintended results my sister did when she forgot the author's name. You don't want to see that. Or, maybe you do!

(E)v(o)acati(ve)ion

It has been a while since I took just a vacation.

I don't mean the 3-4 day trips to see friends or family. I mean a week or more off of work with no plans, other than to relax and enjoy wherever you are.

Thinking back, there haven't been many of those since embarking on working adulthood. Post college, there aren't natural work stoppages in the calendar year that make it acceptable to shirk responsibilities, turn off the phone, hold the mail and skip town.

I've taken a handful of trips to Boston to see friends over the past 8.5 years, slept on couches, pull-out couches and air mattresses galore. I do remember one or two beds for a night each, as I played the game of see everyone you know in short amount of time.

There was one trip to Florida for fun with one friend that was just for the sake of fun. We sunned ourselves, had plenty of cocktails, and mocked the vice presidential debates in real time.

I think the rare trips for the sake of enjoyment have been with family. Sadly, the enjoyment has come mainly because of the ability to pay for good meals, decent places to sleep, transportation and entertainment (museums, spas, shopping, music, dance, theater). I am grateful for those experiences and hope to be able to enjoy those same luxuries from my own pockets at some point.

 It's funny, I have friends who love to take extended trips to kayak, white water raft, stand up paddle, hike or camp. I always thought of that as something to do in the short term, more recreation than vacation. I always thought of vacations as the time to catch up on light reading, a time to give yourself a break, not break a sweat. I love the idea of learning while on vacation, expanding my mind and exploring a new culture.

I do recognize the joy in exploring nature, in experiencing the wonder of water lilies on a lake, of eagles soaring overhead, of cooking over an open fire. I had that during summer camp. I also had lots of mosquito bites, mystery meat and cabin mates with eating disorders.

I prefer clean sheets and hot showers. Doesn't make me love nature any less, just makes me more of my father's daughter.

I really want to see Morocco, India, Thailand, New Zealand, Hawaii, and any number of other waterfront destinations. I want to smell spices in the food stalls. I want to walk on the beaches and swim in the oceans. I want to hear new music and learn new languages. I want to explore cultures outside of my own and experience them outside of literature.

Bring on the savings account and the travel brochures. I have too many suitcases to stay home for long!

Hey, Taxman!

One of my favorite tax-related movies is Stranger Than Fiction.

Will Ferrell, Maggie Gyllenhal, Queen Latifah, Dustin Hoffman and Emma Thompson couldn't make tax preparation more appealing. Seriously.

That's about as excited as I get about taxes. Mostly, I just dread having to do them each year.

I used to do paper forms by hand, by myself. It was tedious, and involved my looking up small print in the big book of forms and instructions, and occasionally calling my accountant cousin for help. Often, I would procrastinate and simply file an extension...as I learned to do by example throughout my childhood and adolescence.

The advent of telephone filing was a tremendous achievement. Then came e-filing, of which I was a late adopter. One year, I knew I was owed a refund and ended up going to the local IRS office for assistance after April 15 for help. They were great. Kind and efficient.

Last year, my taxes were excruciatingly complex. I had to file for two jobs, two occasional jobs, and unemployment, along with a myriad of itemized deductions. It took hours, but in the end, I received a sizable refund.

This year, I only filed for two jobs, one occasional job and a lesser myriad of itemized deductions and ended up owing 10% of what I received from the government last year. Not sure where I went wrong, other than taking home 36% more income than the previous year. Definitely not going to shake a stick at that.

Let's hope I owe more in taxes every year for the rest of my working life if that's how it works.

This year, I also realized something that made itemizing much, much easier. I went to my health insurance provider's website, as well as my prescription benefit provider's website and found the totals of my out of pocket expenses for doctors' visits, lab work, and medications.  It made the whole process much less painful.

I'm really happy to contribute to most of what my taxes pay for, especially the things that continue to be cut from the federal budget: help for low-income families, public education, veterans' benefits, infrastructure and social security.

Our new Constitution is now established, and has an appearance that promises permanency; but in this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes.

—Benjamin Franklin, in a letter to Jean-Baptiste Leroy, 1789

 I'm looking forward to a long life as a taxpayer. 

Daff(y)odils

The daffodils have bolted in my front yard.

The sudden rise in temperatures from below freezing to low 80s and back into the 50s has confused them, as well as the rest of us. They are not alone. A few doors down, purple crocus are fully open on a neighbor's lawn.

My irises and daylilies are starting to shoot up their greens once more. The irises are trying to recover their withered and dried appendages while sending up new leaves.

The bluebells will be next, followed closely by the tulips and the iris blossoms in succession. The daylilies and purple cone flowers will erupt with the peonies, which I hope have not only survived, but expanded their reach to the left of my front steps.

If the rain and sun have anything to do with it, my garden will take care of itself.

Bring it on, spring. Bring. It. On.

Birds of a (shake a tail) feather

You've already been privy to the flock of starlings in my trees, but I haven't told you about the birds I love to see.

My grandma who has already passed on--the one who shared with me her love of gardening both vegetables and flowers, and who taught valuable lessons in how to be nice (because she wasn't all the time) and about the importance of caring for yourself before others (a lesson I am still trying to learn)--taught me about bird watching. We used to sit at her kitchen table, which doubled as the dining room, and look up birds in her guidebook while finding finches and cardinals, bluebirds, bluejays and woodpeckers.

Those sweet moments are some of my most cherished memories, and I still smile when I see birds in my yard, their colorful plumage brightening the winter landscape, portending the spring and summer colors ready to bloom from the landscape.

Weeks ago, I spied my first cardinal of the season. He was sitting atop the chain link fence separating my yard from one of my neighbors. I knew it was a he, because his feathers were bright red. Another lesson learned early on. Male birds are generally more colorful, in order to attract the females, whose colors are more muted, if not entirely different.

It begs the question, why do human women don ourselves so lavishly, preen and bejewel in order to attract a mate? Why aren't men working harder to attract us?

I have been single for a long time, often choosing to be alone, rather than putting myself in situations where I would have the potential to date, to meet someone with whom I'd like a relationship. It is easier in some ways to care for myself than to allow someone in my life to help me, to be a partner, to build a life together.

Maybe I should take a cue from the birds. It doesn't matter what I wear, but that I show up, that I hang out in the right place, that I look for a man who will attract me with his showmanship, his interest in me, his attention-getting schemes. For me, it's more simple than fancy outfits or gifts. For me, it's more about spending time together. It's about reaching out to me. It's about being there consistently and sharing in communication and commitment.

I wish it were as easy as being a bird. Then again, I don't love the idea of throwing up to feed my family. I'm much better with a frying pan.

Off (helter s)kilter

I've been off my game lately.

Yes, I've been slowed down by asthmatic bronchitis and pleurisy, but there have been other things.

Last Wednesday, I was driving to work and shattered my passenger side mirror when it hit a garbage can on my street and flipped into my passenger window. Thankfully, the window is intact, and my mechanic has found a replacement part that should arrive tomorrow.

I got my Valentine cards out, but at least a dozen of them were in the mail or hand delivered belatedly.

I didn't drain my rain barrel and it no longer holds water, just allows it to leak out of the enormous crack along the bottom edge.

The last of my papaya seedlings has finally started its descent towards the compost heap. My dishes have taken over not only the entire sink, but most of one counter top. I spilled soup all over the stove, the floor and a bit of myself today. And, I had a hard time finding fresh ginger at THREE different grocery stores today.

Here's hoping that the massive storm heading my way tonight washes everything clean, including my slate. I'm ready for the shifting winds, even if they are going to be tornadoes.

Turn the stereo(typical) up

Every once in a while I am amazed at the ignorance and assumptions of people.

As a kid, I had a strong identity. I listened to stories from three great grandparents, four grandparents and a handful of great aunts and uncles. I knew we were from Eastern Europe, that our families all left for a better life in America, and that in some cases, we left because of anti-Semitism.

One of my maternal great grandmothers fled her family's farm in Kiev, because the Cossacks were burning it down. The family hid under beds at a neighbor's farm and made their way across the Atlantic to settle in Philadelphia, New York, New Orleans and Los Angeles.

We were lucky. Most of our family fled Europe for America at the turn of the 20th Century. We escaped before things got really bad. Not that they hadn't been bad before. My other maternal great grandmother's ancestors fled Northern Portugal during the Spanish Inquisition (around 1509) for Poland. She was from Warsaw and arrived in New York as a child with her family.

I have friends whose grandparents and great grandparents survived concentration camps. I grew up with survivors, some willing to speak about their experiences, others reluctant even to show the numbers tattooed on their arm. In elementary school, I was obsessed with learning about the Holocaust, about the camps, about the survivors' stories, about why anyone would want to wipe out an entire group of people.

I was obsessed with injustice and persecution, and wanting to end it.

I endured any number of unsavory comments growing up. From someone I thought was my best friend telling me I was going to hell because I didn't believe in Jesus to being harassed by one boy nearly all of my 8th Grade year with swastikas.

As an adult, I've had less of that. At least less overt sentiments voiced in my direction. Recently, however, I had a customer ask if I was Jewish, and when I said yes, she commented on the smallness of my nose. She went on to say that most Jews have more hawkish features. She was from Eastern Europe. She is one of the reasons why I am not interested in seeing where my family lived until a little over 100 years ago.

I did tell this woman, who seemed in other ways to be intelligent, that we come in all shapes and colors. I try to see every such interaction as an opportunity to educate someone rather than shame them. They already have preconceived notions about the Jewish community, and it is my duty, as part of that community to be a good representative.

Sometimes it's about more than getting mad, it's about making a good impression.

Fruity and delicious

I love fruit.

Mango and pineapple are some of my favorites, but I go for nearly every fruit.

Apples, with their crunch. Pears with their subtlety. Watermelons for their sugary dribbles. Lemons and limes for the brightness they add to baked goods, soups and sauces. Plums and apricots for their tartness. Peaches and nectarines for their embodiment of sunshine.

During winter months, I love any and all citrus. Recently, I have been indulging in mineola, heirloom and blood oranges. Each with their own succulent tang.

The blood oranges in particular, remind me of my trip to Italy in 1999. I was working for five days with a private high school's modern dance troupe that was booked for performance in Ravenna, one of my favorite places on earth. After my gig was over, I met Mom in Florence and we traveled for an additional 11 days. Each morning we had a glass of blood orange juice, something neither of us had tasted previously. I was hooked. It was sweet and tart and deep purple in color.

The mineolas I love for their tartness as well. I love to use them in baking. Their zest and juice add a special touch to Hamentaschen in particular, filling and dough alike.

Last but not least, I adore grapefruits. I have a tendency to overindulge in them, though. I like them plain, messily separating the flesh of the fruit from the membranes. That means I don't eat them in front of other people, or very often.

Citrus reminds me of Israel. My high school experience there was full of pommelo. Their thick rinds, their sweetness. The joy of sharing them with my friends and room mates.

Blackberries always remind me of summer camp in Wisconsin, picking wild berries by the side of the road while on canoe trips and behind the clinic, snagging my clothing and slicing my arms on the brambles. Strawberries remind me of our first home, and sneaking berries off the strawberry pot when Mom would send me outside to play.

Just keep the bananas to yourselves. They have a weird texture, taste and smell.

Sunshine day

California is suffering the worst drought in recorded history. The rest of the US is buried under a barrage of blizzards, and Nashville has clean streets and sunny skies.

Last week, while most of the rest of the country was suffering from horrendous weather, we were sitting pretty. It was chilly, but no snow, no ice, no cancelled schools.

Having spent so much time in Boston, I was happy to have the respite from winter weather. After all, that is much of the reason I moved back to Tennessee.

My parents, in Knoxville, had seven inches of snow. All of which melted the next day.

I remember having snowsuits as a kid, and sledding in the neighborhood, making snow forts and snowmen.

I remember wearing tights under my jeans since we didn't have long johns. There was hot chocolate and pants thrown straight into the dryer as we came into the house through the garage and into the laundry room. Disrobe, dry off, get warm, go back outside with hot jeans burning our snow-stung legs.

Sweet memories of childhood and adolescence. Now, bring on springtime!

Paging Dr. (Feelgood)

Friday I finally caved and went to the doctor.

After enduring a mostly sleepless night, interrupted by frequent coughing and attempts at rinsing out my repulsively full sinuses, I called in sick to work and made my way to my internist's office before 9am, which was lucky, since they close at noon on Fridays. This is an important point to note later.

After registering, I was quickly called to make my way to an exam room, making a quick stop at the digital scale. "Wait, that is 1X7.8lbs, NOT 1X8lbs! That .2lb makes a big difference!" Blood pressure, pulse, medications list all checked.

Doc walks in the door, notices I've lost weight since I last saw him...almost two years ago. He was complimentary of my progress then talked at length about obesity, drugs to curb it, and asked what I am doing to keep weight off. It was kind of like a back handed compliment. I am not THAT big. Could be, but I'm not. Sometimes it is okay to stop with a compliment.

Describe symptoms with cough-rasped whisper voice, throat checked, swollen neck glands checked, diagnosis: asthmatic bronchitis. G-R-E-A-T.  Antibiotics and the good cough syrup are to be called into my pharmacy. Great!

Not so fast.

There is also a steroid shot in my left butt cheek. Happy Valentine's Day to me. Joy.

I pick up a note for work, and head there to drop it off and grab some groceries on the way to the pharmacy. No prescriptions were called in. This is now 11am. Pharmacy says they'll text when the meds are called in and ready for pick-up.

I go home, make a bowl of lunch and some herbal tea, and tangerine juice, fold the laundry on the small couch, and and lie down. By 2pm I still hadn't received a text. Call pharmacy. Prescriptions still haven't arrived. Call doc's office and get hung up on after being transferred three times. Call back and ask to be transferred to on call doc's office. Leave lengthy, pleading message to please, for the love of Valentine's Day, call in my medications so I can start feeling better.

Two more hours pass. Call pharmacy. They promise to page the doc and get me on the well-wagon. Moments later, doc faxes in the scripts...six hours after I left the office. Gee, I'm so glad you are concerned about my health.

Of course, I'm grateful for the gift of persistence and having enough energy to be my own health advocate. I hope others have the same strength for the simple and complicated things that life brings.

Brotherly love(d)

Last week I found out that my brother really likes me.

I mean, I know that, but we don't always get along. We are a lot alike, but we are miserable at having conversations with each other. The funny thing is that we're usually coming from the same perspective, and with good intentions, but the words get lost in translation and interpretation.

Monday night, though, he stopped by my physical job while I was downstairs eating dinner, and apparently asked every other employee he saw if I was there. Not only that, he let them know that we hadn't seen each other in a long time, and he really wanted to say hello.

Finally, one of my coworkers took pity on him and took on the burden of tracking me down. A manager paged me, and I made my way upstairs to find my brother. We were about to spend about 10 minutes catching up, giving hugs, and being entirely cordial.

I really love my brother. He is tough and sentimental. He is adventurous and measured. He is intense and goofy. He is supportive and wants to the best for me. He will always look at my choices through the lens of someone who is three years old, with more experience, and more perspective.

While I may not see my brother often, I cherish our relationship, and am glad for it.

Love it or leave it

Valentines 2011...floating hearts.

I adore Valentine's Day.

I know, I know, what's a nice Jewish woman doing celebrating a holiday named after a saint? Whatever. It's all about spreading the love!

I have been making this year's hand crafted cards for weeks now, painstakingly gluing miniscule strands of tinsel to slivers of card stock, creating the illusion of flames shooting out the back end of a rocket ship.

The first iteration of the cards looked more like sperm than rockets, but I fixed them. Easily. Art sometimes takes a little tweaking now and then before it's just right.

The 2014 Valentine card.

I've already given one card in person, but due to a bit of laziness on my part, most will be a little late on delivery. No matter, a card is a card is a card, unless you're one of the lucky few to get one of mine!

Happy Valentine's Day, y'all. May you find love, have it requited, and share it (appropriately, of course) with everyone you know. I sure hope my love and I find each other this year.

Oh, and Shabbat Shalom!

Valentines 2010...hand embroidered felt coasters.

Crowning glory

Monday night I was able to leave work a little early...at 10pm.

When I got home, I retrieved my mail before unloading the car and heading inside. As I started walking back up the driveway, I noticed the moon trying to shine through the hazy night sky. It wasn't the biggest moon, nor the brightest I've seen, but it was surrounded by a giant halo that took my breath away and put a smile on my face.

After texting a friend in Boston about it, he told me that the phenomenon I saw was caused by ice crystals in the atmosphere. Leave it to a distance hiker to know about outdoorsy stuff. I was grateful that the ice was staying put, rather than coating the ground.

The ring around the moon was the silver lining to my long day.