From slavery unto freedom

Tonight Passover begins.

I've always loved this holiday. It meant going on vacation to Florida as a kid, to have seders with the entire extended family. To swim in my great aunt and uncle's pool, to swim in the ocean, and of course to find the Afikomen.

It was a time to learn about my family history, to spend time with great grandmothers who were immigrants from Kiev and Warsaw at the turn of the 20th Century. To watch them cook, to hear the stories of how they came to America, how they met their husbands, how they spent time with my mom, where they lived in New York City and the businesses their husbands went into.

Later, Passover became the holiday to come home to from college. The holiday to find a friend's home to go to after college. To host my own seders for many years afterward.

When I moved to Nashville, it became the holiday to spend at my sister's house. I gave up the role of singing the Four Questions to my niece, then nephew, then another niece, and another two nephews.

Now, we have seders early enough that the kids can last the night, or most of it...and so can Grandma.

We coordinate over email and text about who is bringing what. We take into consideration that someone can't have salt, someone isn't eating gluten, and another one can only have plain food, and not much of that. We have three kinds of haroset: with wine, without wine, and without cinnamon. I bring at least one dessert and the mock chopped liver.

I love the philosophy built into the Hagaddah. I always want to talk about the teachings of the rabbis and the ideas about the number of plagues. Everyone else is really, really ready to eat by then. My sister is studying how we all put the drops of wine on our plates: are they in a line? random, a single puddle? lining the rim of the plate? 

Dad assigns the reading of the four sons according to whom he thinks is being the wicked son that week. It's his little joke on us. Good one, Dad.

I love Passover. It's a holiday with some serious meaning built into it. We have to read the story each year and it reminds me not only of the injustice the Jewish people have survived and overcome over millennia, but of our obligation to stop injustice when we witness it, to be a part of undoing racism, of creating equal opportunities, for freeing each other from the bonds of slavery of all kinds.

Maybe that's why I embrace social justice work so whole-heartedly. I grew up feeling like a part of the story. Miriam was one of my heroes. She protected her brother. She liked to dance, sometimes at inappropriate times. She was the water bearer. She was also a little too honest about how she felt about her sibling's sweetheart. When she was punished, her people stood by her. She may not have made it to Canaan, but Miriam sure enjoyed the journey. Shake your timbrels, y'all. Shake your timbrels.

Open(ing) up

Each day I inspect my garden...at least once.

What I hope comes up again this year.

I walk to the front of the house and see what has come up overnight by the mailbox and the street. The daffodils have come and gone. The fritillaria have their little blue belled flowers stacked along the their stems, which have all fallen over into the grass from weight and wind and rain. The iris leaves are green swords rising from the Earth like the underside of the stone in which Excalibur was thrust. A single red and white striped tulip survived my planting of many similar bulbs six or seven years earlier. The rest have likely rotted or been eaten by moles whose homes I trip over every time I walk through the yard.

The precursors to this year's single, stunted tulip.

The flowerbeds by the house are overflowing with ever-increasing daylily leaves, lazily flopping over next to their stiffer cousins, the irises. A single iris  bud has formed in the bed under the living room window. That bed is home to gorgeous and gag-worthy iris color combinations. It will be a surprise to find out which will emerge. It could be one of the frilly pink guys, or one of the variegated tan numbers. Let's hope it's a purple and white or yellow blossom. Honestly, I'll be happy with any of them. Geez, it's like I'm pregnant with them or something. "I'll love my flowers no matter what color combinations they show when they open up."

Will the mystery blossom be a purple one or the tri-color weirdo up front?

Moving on, the bed on the other side of the front door is home to what will soon be peonies. The white ones are just fronds pushing their way skyward through a layer of tulip poplar leaves I patently refused to rake or mow last fall, knowing that they'd get blown by nature into their true homes, as mulch for my flowers. The pink peonies are thigh high and growing, the buds are multiplying daily and within a week or two they should show the world their seemingly endless array of petals, perfuming the air and attracting a long line of ants to their fruity centers. The daylilies and irises in that bed are spreading out and digging in, making their bed and lying in it.

There's the peonie last year...with far fewer blossoms...and later in the spring.

Once I've seen what's new and wonderful in the front of the house, I check out the back yard and vegetable bed. Last fall I meant to plant a full bed of garlic. Interest and reality did not merge. Somehow, however, despite my lack of actual gardening, my garden is completely full of garlic. I don't mean one side of the garden, I mean the whole, giant bed. All 6'x20+' of it. Some are tiny nubs of single cloves just beginning to make their mark as actual plants. The others are clearly going to be meaningful heads of garlic, eventually to make their way into hummus, stir fries, pickles and sauces over the course of 2014/15.

2012's garlic harvest.

These daily inspections are currently without the need for watering. Spring in Nashville is still maintaining reasonable temperatures and enough rain to make my hoses and rain barrel obsolete. June, July, August, September and October will be different, but for now I can spend as much time as I like in my garden, admiring the hard work of previous years that I put in each weekend, surrounding my home with beauty the calms my nerves and feeds my soul.

One of many double petaled daylilies transplanted from my parents' house eight years ago.

Can't wait to see what's new tomorrow.

Sunshine day

There is very little more soothing than watching the clouds drift by on a sunny day.

Yesterday afternoon, I was lucky enough to get off work at 4pm and rush home to pull my lounge chair out of the garage and set it up on my patio between the carport and garage. This is the one flat-ish spot I have to place it in the late day sun.

I went inside and changed into sunbathing attire, grabbed a book, my cell phone, a pair of sunglasses and some water. Smiling, I propped up the back of the chair and cracked open my book. It took less than a second to realize that I wouldn't be reading. The book went to my side. The back of the chair went flat, and I closed my eyes and took a nap.

When I woke up, the sun was playing peek-a-boo with me behind thin white clouds that crisscrossed each other in the sky. They were fluffy and full of promise. There was a light breeze that belied the 80+ degree temperature, and I did nothing but enjoy it.

When the clouds turned grey, then charcoal, I took my things inside, re-folded the chair and put it back into the garage. I came into the house warmed from the sun, feeling refreshed from the vitamin D, the fresh air and the snooze.

It was a lovely way to start the weekend. Looking forward to continuing springtime wonders reminding me why I love this season so much.

Wind me up

There are a lot of things I like about spring.

Daylight is extended a little bit more each day. The weather is getting warmer. The world is full of color and life. And, the wind blows. Oh, my. How the wind blows!

As the weather warms, I find myself turning off the fan inside my car and rolling down the windows. Even if it is cold outside, I turn on my seat heater, and the wind makes me feel like I'm on an adventure.

I lean my left arm on the windowsill. My head leans a little bit to the left, towards the air. Towards the movement that I fail to feel when the windows are closed.

My hair lifts from the back of my head. It swirls forward, up and down and towards my eyes. I tuck one long curl behind my ear, away from my line of sight. I lean my head closer to the air. Closer to the wind. Close to the outdoors.

Sometimes I think I must have been a dog in a former life. If it were possible, I'd stick my head right out of that window, catch some bugs in my teeth, wind pushing my hair and my skin backward.

The closest I get to that is sticking my hand out the window and riding the airwaves. Surfing with my palm. Finding the rhythm of the unseen and my place within it.

Family plot

We all have crazy families.

Seriously. Don't think yours is so special. I hear about the wildest family relationships and dysfunction on a daily basis. Some make me laugh while others make me sob.

So many of us have recovering, or active, addicts in our lives. Parents or siblings who have nothing nice to say, ever. Family members who do not know the meaning of the word support, regardless of its context as emotional or financial. We have liars and attention hogs, narcissists, golden boys and lost children. We have abusive relationships, physical, verbal, emotional. We have heartbreak and sorrow. We have aggression and grudges and cutting people off and out.

We also have unconditional love. We have forgiveness. We have letting it go. We have moving on. We have our chosen families, our friends, our coworkers, our meaningful conversations and passing smiles to strangers. We can choose to wallow in the black hole of ludicrous actions and reactions that we were all born into (despite what you think is the perfect family...I've seen the underbelly of some of those, and they are truly, truly ugly), or we can raise our heads to the sky, let out a primal scream and live our own lives.

That's right. I said it. Your family is just that, family. You are your own person. Do that. Be that. Live like you count, on your own. You do.

I believe that we have something to learn from even the worst family dynamics. I try to turn my own around. It has taken me a long, long time, but I have learned forgiveness. I have learned to identify the positive, even in the meanest, most hateful and most cowardly people who were supposed to be my role models, my heroes.

I also choose to take my family as they are, with their limitations, rather than expecting them to be the movie or television versions that I've lived my life hoping they would become. We could have a sit-com. Maybe a dram-edy. We're not quite Dallas, but we're definitely not Nashville. We're more like Matlock meets Designing Women meets Melrose Place meets Seinfeld meets The Wonder Years meets The Victory Garden meets The Barefoot Contessa.

Not a bad combo, especially since we're not anywhere close to The Sopranos or Justified...or Shameless. Although, an argument could be made that we have a little bit of each of those, too. Could always be worse! Love 'em or leave 'em. I choose to love my family. With all of our quirks, at least we're interesting.

Sugar and spice

I love to cook.

I tend to cook something I love over and over again until I am thoroughly over it. I think that's why I like dishes that are holiday specific. Hamentaschen are for Purim. Anything with matzah is for Passover. Latkes for Hanukkah.

Usually, I pull out a handful of cookbooks from the giant bookcase in the kitchen, and pore over them for hours...or days. On big holidays, like Passover, I try to incorporate at least one new recipe into the mix, revamping the tried and true dishes that seem to be crowd pleasers.

For the past year or two, I've been in a bit of a cooking slump. Soup was about the most exciting thing I made all winter. My spices haven't veered much from cumin, turmeric, oregano and pepper. I was starting to get bored. That leads to rotten eating habits, like making soup more interesting by eating it with potato chips. Thankfully, I've kicked that habit.

A little over a week ago, I got a new cookbook that I cannot stop using. I've made olive-lentil burgers, butternut-sweet potato-pinto bean enchiladas and tofu sloppy joes with coconut creamed spinach. I'm salivating just thinking about them!

The next recipe I'm slated to try is a chickpea-zucchini kofta recipe. Is it wrong that I'm so excited about cooking? If you tried this food, you wouldn't think so.

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.