Easy like Sunday morning

It's Sunday morning, and I'm sitting on my couch with a towel on my head and my cat perched on the cushion behind my neck. I'm drinking a homemade iced coffee that I put in the freezer for a while to get slushy with an orange bendy straw. Both the air conditioner and the ceiling fan are blasting. It's 88 degrees, but it could easily be 10 degrees hotter in the next few hours. It's been an unbelievably hot week for June. No rain for days, and none in the forecast.

This morning I slept in until about 8 and got dressed for my bike ride. This involves putting on my new biking shorts (expensive but worth it), a quick dry shirt, my sneakers, and my helmet. I set off for my 13-miler and sweat my face off. One day I will work up the nerve to reach down and grab my water bottle and swig from it while riding. That day was not today, however. I had to pull over about halfway through and sit on a bench and guzzle some water and then set off again. It was mostly a pleasant ride despite swallowing a mouthful of gnats and taking out a small branch with my helmet. I tried to focus on my beautiful surroundings and not on how slow I truly am. I am hoping that getting some brackets for my pedals that I can slip my feet into will help me to move a little faster. But the truth is just that my bike is kind of heavy and slow. And so am I. But I am getting better, and for the most part, I really like it.

I am re-reading The Book Thief after a recent commenter reminded me how much I loved it. It is still really wonderful.

I am feeling really lucky today to be able to prepare and enjoy a meal with my family and to celebrate my dad. I am feeling for my friends who no longer have their dads and hoping today is not too hard for them. I am feeling grateful for my very fat cat who is now pressing herself against my side and arm just because she likes to be close. I got to play with a six-month-old baby last night while his mom tucked in the other kids and, to be frank, we fell in love. We rocked in a rocking chair, and we played a hilarious game of peekaboo with a throw pillow. In fact, he found mostly everything to be hilarious -- the dumber and more ridiculous the better. It is amazing how it literally only takes a few minutes alone with a little baby or kid for the first time to stage a rootin' tootin' love fest.

(Later...)

Today a very large meal was cooked for Father's Day. I made a vegetable pasta dish with whole wheat angel hair with garlic, purple onion, zucchini, yellow squash, teeny tiny tomatoes, red and green bell pepper, and fresh basil with grated romano cheese sprinkled on top. All but the garlic and purple onion were grown either in a neighbor's garden or at a local farm, which I felt great about. My mom and I peeled shrimp and cooked them with a little olive oil and Tony Chachere's, all they needed to be perfect. We heated up a loaf of whole wheat bread baked by a lady across the river, another farmer's market purchase. The crust was super hard and chewy and the inside was squishy soft and delish. I ate a piece (or two) (or three) with real butter. I made these for dessert (with sugar cookie instead of peanut butter cookie dough), which we squished into vanilla ice cream from a local dairy. My older brother's new fiancee brought salad and warm from the oven banana bread.

It is hours later and still I am so full I feel drowsy. My eyes are drooping and my belly is round. I ate more than one person should, but I ate very happily. Over and out.

Catching Up

Before it gets away from me, I want to get a little down about a wonderful weekend. I've already posted about the concerts, which were both amazing, but I want to record what else went on. It was a rare weekend when the whole family was in town -- my sister and her husband (they live out of state) and my brother and his new girlfriend (they travel a lot). My sister had the inspired idea to rent out a private karaoke room at a Thai restaurant in an early celebration of my parents' 40th wedding anniversary. We thought about inviting other people, but in the end, it was just us, and we had what can only be called a blast. There was dancing, there was drinking, there was so much eating, and there was plenty of singing. One of my favorite parts was watching my mother watch my brothers sing together. Their harmonies were admittedly beautiful but she was just blown away. Many pictures were taken, some of which I will eventually get around to posting. We also went to one of my brother's gigs, had boiled crawfish, had beignets and cafe au lait, and just had a merry time. I loved having everyone here. Just sitting around eating my mom's crawfish etouffee or lying around on the bed with my sister and brother-in-law were delightful. It was a really wonderful weekend and one I will not soon forget.

Randomness: The Great Performances special In the Heights: Chasing Broadway Dreams is excellent, even if you are not familiar with the show. Definitely worth checking out.

Meanwhile. I am still watching season two of Chuck and loving it a lot and am thrilled it has been renewed. I am reading The Wednesday Wars, finally, and loving it.

I got from Netflix the DVD of the Rent: Live on Broadway special that my brother and I went to see last fall. The special features are indeed quite special. I highly recommend both the live stage show itself as well all of the featurettes, which are VERY WONDERFUL. Seeing Jonathan Larson's parents and sister, all kinds of backstage goodness, the longtime crew members, the closing cast, the original cast (except Adam Pascal -- where were you, Adam Pascal? What could have been more important than this?). Everyone crying and laughing and singing and embracing and remembering, forget about it, it was too much, the tears poured like rain. Rent, I thought I was all cried out over you. But I was wrong.

Once again I have found myself engaging in last minute triathlon registration ridiculousness. A few days ago, I signed up for one that is tomorrow. The distances aren't terribly long, so I think I'll be okay, though I am a bit apprehensive about the biking part since the farthest I've ever gone in my life was seven miles. I'm just going to take it slow, try not to fall off or crash, and try to enjoy myself. I'm viewing it as a chance to road trip with a friend and as good practice for the one in August. I know myself, and I know my anxiety over that one will be greatly lessened over the summer by having this one under my belt.

This morning I went to the farmer's market and came away with fresh eggs, cucumbers, strawberries, bell peppers, yellow squash, and carrots. I feel really good about this. The dogs also approve.

Catching up & rambling

A few more words on Chuck: I finished season one and loved every second of it. I spent way too much money for a season pass for the second season on iTunes, but it's worth it to me. I'm two episodes in, and it continues to delight. One of the miracles this show has worked in my life is that it's actually made me like the actress who played the much hated Madison on Everwood. I never would have thought this to be possible, but Chuck is just magical that way.

Last weekend was a nice one. I spent Saturday morning at a little women's retreat led by my mom, and I was so proud. She did a wonderful job. She was funny, assured, inspiring, and wise.

Mother's Day was good. Morning mass followed by an afternoon gig of my brother's, where we ate boiled shrimp and had a merry time. After that, I went on a bike ride for the first time in at least 15 years. I borrowed my friend's bike and rode in her peaceful neighborhood with little to no traffic, which was a good plan. Only once did I end up messing up a turn and rolling inadvertently into someone's front yard. I'm still not entirely sure how to brake and turn, but I didn't fall down and rode for a solid 30 minutes, so I feel great about it!

(A few days later...) Ow. Ow, ow, ow. So cried my back for the next four days. I think leaning over the handlebars and clutching them in a death grip due to being someone nervous on the bike pulled some muscles in my back. It's finally feeling somewhat normal again after not exercising in several days. O Lord.

One night this week, I celebrated my dad's birthday with my parents. Fresh green beans with real butter, corn on the cob, whole wheat spaghetti, fresh pineapple, broccoli salad, and some kind of pounded meat cutlet-y thing. And limoncello! It was good to visit with them and celebrate the wonder that is my dad.

I've read the first section (CORN) of The Omnivore's Dilemma and a little bit of the next section (GRASS). It's a book club assignment, and I had to think long and hard about actually starting it because I feared it would make me more neurotic about food than I already am. I have to turn a blind eye to most of the things I put in my mouth because the freaked out germophobe in me can't tolerate to think about where any of it came from. I'm like, hello, little grape. Did a cow ever take a poop on you? (I know that makes no sense.) I'm not sure that's so healthy, especially when I've been trying to for the most part eat whole and natural foods this spring. That's really a movement towards eating more consciously for me, and I don't want to avoid a book that will shed light on where some of that food comes from. I have to say that the corn section has basically made me never want to think about ever touching any part of any animal fed with corn ever again. Even though last night I ate and enjoyed a giant ear of corn on the cob. Wha? It made me actually mad at corn. Like, how dare you, corn, for being so insidious and being in everything human beings eat and drink? I don't want to be mad at corn. I like corn. Especially when it's boiled with a bunch of crawfish. Which are born in ditches as far as I know. So that is obviously an acceptable grossosity to me. It's hard to decide what is acceptable and what is not.

It's a lot to process. I eat beef once in a blue moon. Hardly ever. Maybe three times a year. Including last night at my parents' house. And it was tasty, but it's just not my thing, unless it's my mom's famous roast. But I do eat dairy products and lots of them. And I eat a lot of chicken, and I eat a lot of eggs. I would really like to go cold-hard vegan, but I don't really know what that would solve for me. I don't want to start eating Boca burgers and fake-ass food like that. I know I could live without beef and chicken and possibly even shrimp though that would be hardest for me as I truly love shrimp. But I do not think I would do well without eggs and cheese.

I don't know. It's a lot to think about. I don't want to obsess about food, but I also want to. I want to know what I'm eating and really think about it and really savor what tastes good and is good for me. But I don't want drive myself crazy. I'd like there to be balance. I'm not sure how. As I was reading the corn section and contemplating the wrongness and badness of "processed" food and food pesticided and horomoned and chemicaled and antibioticed out the wazoo, I comforted myself by thinking, well, there's always Whole Foods. But then I got to the GRASS section. Which so far basically boils down to the fact that Whole Foods and everything sold under its roof is a big fat lie. And it galls me that I've never given much thought to trying to only eat produce that's in season and local hasn't been shipped from a million miles away. I want to be better about this, to do better.

I want to eat healthy things that don't harm my body or the earth. But what are those things? Seriously, what are we supposed to eat? I would really like to know.

(Still more days later ...) I can't seem to wrap this up! I bought a bike! My classmate was selling her gently used bike, a bike that looks like this. I have no idea if this is a good bike or a bad bike, but my sister and BFF tell me it is, and my classmate is nice and trustworthy, and it looks fine to me! My dad gave me his gently used helmet. I am ready to start really learning how to ride it even though I am kind of spastic and scared. This is not exactly a bike-friendly town, though some people are trying hard to make it more so.

Another weekend has gone by. So busy! Spent yesterday in French Quarter with my cousin, attending mass at the cathedral (banging gong drum in choir loft ... so crazy ... I loved it!), running through the rain to brunch at Muriel's, where we ate crawfish hash and crawfish crepes with goat cheese and drank mimosas and yum, and a couple of bars where we nursed family wounds and more mimosas and laughed and remembered. It was a drizzly but nice day. Early Saturday morning, I went biking, and it was very painful and I need some good padded biking shorts right away. Between the cars, bikers, and joggers (even at 7 a.m.) and the crippling nether region pain, I basically rode in constant fear of collision and death and permanent groin paralysis and only made it 3.6 miles. Biking is scary. But I have to learn, and I will!

I am very, very, very excited about Glee.

Meanwhile, some very sad things have happened to some of my friends, and I am thinking of them & love them very much.

Avetts at Jazz Fest

Clearly I was thrilled to learn a few months back that my beloved Avett Brothers would be at Jazz Fest. My brother scored tickets and tent passes from a friend, so we headed to the city after lunch on Sunday, squeezed into a parking spot on a side street, and waltzed on into the Fair Grounds on a beautiful and sunny day. The tent was really swell -- couches, beers, big screen TVs, speakers, and best of all, misting machines. We parked ourselves on bar stools at tables and enjoyed Blue Moons with orange slices and felt like we were living the life. As the mist spewed forth upon us, I wondered aloud, "Do you think the chemicals making the mist cold are getting into our beer and poisoning us?" He pondered this for a moment and then sighed contentedly, "It's worth it."

Soon it was time to head over to their stage. There was already a pretty big crowd there, but we were able to get pretty close. What can I say? I love this band. They started with "Shame," one of my favorites (you have to scroll about 2 minutes into that video for the song to get started), and they played lots of songs I knew and several I didn't, my favorite of which by a mile was "Salvation Song." (Link is here. Be sure to click "HD" if you can on any videos I've linked.)

Something I love about the Avett Brothers is that they are, I've decided, fundamentally optimistic. Their songs are openly emotional and honest and not afraid to be boldly and proudly emotional and about family and about making the world a better place. That might sound super cheesetastic, but it doesn't come across that way. It's not that their songs don't also have darkness and sadness because sometimes they do. But sometimes they are so nakedly hopeful and romantic and I can't help but believe that they mean every word.

We came for salvation
We came for family
We came for all that's good, that's how we'll walk away
We came to break the bad
We came to cheer the sad
We came to leave behind the world a better way

I am not conveying this well. I just think that there's a time for music that makes you feel dark and twisty, as Meredith Grey might say, and there's time for music that lifts you up and makes you want to shout and sing and feel brave and happy.

I waited in a long line at the merchandise tent following the show so they could sign my CD and I could shake their hands. I have always regretted not waiting in line to meet Anne Lamott. So I decided what the hell. I moved across the table really quickly and they scribbled initials or signatures or whatever on the CD, and I thanked them for coming and told them that their music means a lot to me. I wasn't sure what else to say. They were nice.

And I took a lot of pictures. And I said this over at Flickr and want to say it here. These were not taken with a great camera or with great skill, but they were taken with great affection and joy.

If I had to pick one song as my favorite of theirs, and it would be difficult if not impossible, I think "Murder in the City" would be it. (Here's an excellent video of the song at the fest. Click "HD" and let her load.) When the opening chords started, I turned around searched the faces in the crowd for my brother's ... he'd ended up a little ways behind me in the crowd. We waved and nodded and smiled.

It was a wonderful day.

Sunday

I love the Internet sometimes, I truly do.

Last week, I followed Matt Logelin's link to this video. The video itself is gorgeous -- amazing footage and photos of a father and daughter whose story I've been following for the past year or so -- and I fell in love with the song. I looked up the artist. I downloaded her album. I've been listening to it all week. She might be a new favorite. And I am so interested in ways that we discover music, and I like to remember how I discovered music I love. So, this is how I discovered Amy Seeley. Since then, the line "been realistic about love, been optimistic about the weather" has been floating through my mind pretty much 24 hours a day. Not sure why.

I followed a link at kottke.org to this site, which is clever, funny, and ultimately very moving. The numbered rules are in red, and the accompanying quotations and photographs and captions are delightful lagniappe. This site is full of basic life advice that we'd all be better off following. So many of the sports-related ones reminded me of my dad and brothers. I love this site; it just kills me.

My friend Grace wrote a really nice post recently about food. I have more to say about this, but it can wait.

This video caused me great amusement and delight, possibly because I also have a dog named Daisy. She does not jump like this often, but Zuko does, every day, while outside, on the sliding glass door, wanting to come inside. Weirdo.

And now, random rambling. This week has been a blur of I don't even know what. Sushi & beer at happy hour (fun). Stressing about school (not fun). Stressing about work (SO not fun). I am sad about the end of ER. Even though I missed many-an episode over the 15 year course of the show, I saw a whole lot of them, and it's certainly the longest running show I've followed in my lifetime. I chose Chicago Hope over ER in 1994 and stuck with it for a long time, but I always ended up back with ER, and it obviously long outlasted its initial competition. I have a real fondness for many of those County General characters; I think the softest spot will always be for Carter. I don't know why. I also have never forgotten that sweet and sad scene when Carol tells Luka goodbye and explains that she's been in love with Doug since she was 23 years old. It's weird to think that was in season 6, and here we are, at the end of season 15. I never cared for Sam or Gates despite really liking the actors who played them. I loved Neela. I was very taken by this new, foxy, tortured Dr. Brenner and I'm convinced he will be a big star. This show has been on forever. I don't know why it's affecting me, but it is. I loved how they used old school-style opening credits for the final episode. How could America not break out in simultaneous smiles and tears upon seeing Benton kneel down and do that familiar punching move.

And once again I killed my iPhone. It stopped syncing or charging after an unfortunate encounter with my ceramic tile. The genius bar girl regarded me knowingly after shining a light into the base of the phone and said, "It appears to be a hardware problem." I nodded guiltily in silent acknowledgment of its contact with the floor. She noted that my original warranty had expired. I sighed, "Yes." Then she kept typing and her eyes widened and she broke out into a giant grin. She was obviously delighted to discover that I had five days left on my replacement model's warranty. "I'm so happy for you!" she smiled. "I'm so happy for me, too!" I said. It was a smile fest. Thanks, Apple. Tip: She said that we should only plug our iPhones into the car charger in emergencies. She said it's a "trickle charge" that is not good for the phone and to use the wall charger whenever possible. I told her that I plug that thing into the car charger every time I get in the car. "Oh, that's NOT good," she said. So -- word to the wise, straight from the mouth of the genius bar girl. Chill with the car chargers.

Yesterday evening I did a 5K with some friends, and I have to say, it was a great time. A big street party before and after, basically. My friend and I might join the running club that put it on. It was inspiring to see all of the super-fit runners and also the not-so-fit ones who were there pounding the pavement. It was a beautiful night and the pink azaleas were blooming along the route and the sun was lowering in the sky and it was just swell. The live music, the amber beer, the visiting. Excellence all around.

This morning I went to visit with my parents for about an hour and a half while they prepared to depart on their trip to Sicily. It is funny to sit there as an observer as they pack last-minute things and call across the house about remembering this and that. They pack funny things. Zone bars and Triscuits and large styrofoam cups so my dad can have bigger cups of coffee than they serve in Italy. My dad was in full-on travel garb; it looks like his pants and shirt were designed by Rick Steves himself. We got into our cars at the same time and I happened to have Josh Groban singing "Mi Mancherai" from my dad's beloved Il Postino on the mix CD in my car, so I queued it up and played it loud in honor of their trip, and that beautiful violin played the opening bars of that beautiful music. (The ones starting at 0:26 of that clip.) They started slow dancing faux-dramatically in the driveway. I am excited for them. They love Italy so much.

Finally, I can scarcely recall being more excited for any concert event in recent memory than I am for Brandi Carlile. I was excited to see the Avett Brothers last April, sure, but my love for them was in its initial budding stages when I saw them onstage for the first time, so I had not built up that much pre-concert excitement. My Brandi love has only intensified since first discoving her, and I just know in my heart it's going to be one of those concerts where tears start leaking out of my eyes the moment the artist steps on stage and don't cease until possibly when I'm driving home or falling asleep that night. In between then and now, I'm seeing the Avetts again, and I just learned yesterday that the Indigo Girls are playing the night before Brandi, and I haven't seen them in concert in this state since the mid-90s, and I just feel like April and May are going to be two glorious months for live music in my life, and it feels like just what I need.

34

The night before my birthday, I went out for Thai with my parents and brother. We had a nice visit over shrimp toast, nam sod, and various shrimp/chicken/vegetable entrees.

On my birthday morning, I was inexplicably wide awake at 4 a.m. I decided to roll over, flip on the bedside lamp, and open Harry: A History by Melissa Anelli, which (Melissa was right) is pretty fantastic. I spent a couple of hours with it before falling back asleep, only to be awakened at 8 by Zuko's staccato alarm bark. Oh well. I ate breakfast and headed out on a run. It was gray and very breezy out, the wind whipping the leaves (and me) all over the road. I got diverted by a train at one point, but overall, it was a fairly satisfying run.

After showering and all that jazz, I stopped for an iced coffee and headed to the farmer's market, where I bought some birthday gifts for friends. It started getting colder and colder outside, which was weird considering how warm it's been lately. I had a nice lunch with B. and headed to my massage appointment. It was my first time with a male massage therapist since Arturo in Costa Rica. I was a little nervous but got over it quickly. As he dug into upper back with great force, he noted that I can take more pressure than most. Then as he dug into my neck mightily, he said that some people have a tight spot here and there in their necks but that mine was tight all over. "Your neck ... is a rock," he said. "Yeah," I sighed. He worked on it for most of the hour, moving onto my hips at my request because they are always super tight, I think from running and squatting during the f-ing Jillian Michaels' DVD, and hard to stretch. He did all sorts of stretches, pushing my knee onto my chest and saying, "Wow, you are flexible. I mean -- wow. You are FLEXIBLE." I told him that was the only thing I scored well on during my gym fitness test a few years ago. Then he held my hip as he stretched it the opposite way across my body and sort of lay on it. This is hard to explain and sounds sort of obscene, but it was all very comfortable and professional until I screamed when he massaged the IT Band area of my hip with a little too much vim and vigor. Then he worked my upper back underneath my shoulder blades and so forth and it was basically an hour of complete heaven. It felt like a great gift to give myself on my birthday.

After my massage, I lay like goo on the couch and popped in my new Dr. Horrible DVD, a gift from my little brother. It was awesome, of course, as was the musical commentary, which just knocked my socks off. This whole enterprise is so delightful on so many levels to me. I bought myself the soundtrack and made a copy for him so we could continue to share the Dr. Horrible love. It was fun to check the mailbox and get some really nice cards. Overall, it was a lovely morning and afternoon.

The day shifted into evening, and I headed out for a girls' dinner. Stupid me did not think to make reservations, so our group of six faced a two-hour wait. Oops! So we sat outside on the patio, which was challenging due to the fact that a sudden Arctic blast was blowing through. Luckily there were heaters, and it gave me an excuse to wear my new school bus-colored coat all night long. We shared potstickers and pizza and fried rice and pad Thai and drank wine and gossiped and laughed and it felt really good to be surrounded by women I've known so long ... one I've known since kindergarten. They all brought me very wonderful and thoughtful gifts, which I didn't expect, and picked up my tab. It was all very special! I can't really describe it without lapsing into sentimentality so I'll stop there. One girlfriend and I headed out to watch my brother play for a little while but didn't last very long as apparently 34 means you have to be in bed by 11:00.

It got down into the thirties last night after a long string of days in the seventies, so that was a little bizarre. I woke up this morning and went to the grocery store, story of my life. Then I baked a ton of St. Patrick's Day cookies to freeze for my parade party. I've never frozen cookies before and hope they come out okay. I have to say that the green shamrock-shaped cookies are pretty cute even though some of them look more like amoebas than shamrocks. Then I decided to go out to World Market and look for some aqua curtains for my bedroom. I bought these and like them a lot. I also bought a new rug for the foot of my bed. My room, I have to say, is looking very different, and I am happy about it. I decided to go all white for my new bed (more on the new bed soon!), and I think it's all coming together.

Today I made this in my crock pot. I drained that m-fing tofu for like 36 hours and it still felt a bit moist. But I had better luck with the cornstarch and browning the tofu than last time; I think tofu just feels damp no matter how long you drain it! I used olive oil instead of butter and took my time getting it nice and brown, and it turned out perfectly delicious. I cooked it longer than the 3 hours instructed because I checked it at 3 hours and the carrots were still too hard for my liking. I also added a little more water than the recipe called for and when it tells you to add a little water and shake up the remnants of the sauce in the jar, I added 1/4 a teaspoon of cayenne pepper and some salt and shook that up with the liquid. I also added two cloves of chopped garlic and a pretty hefty chunk of chopped fresh ginger. Fascinating, I know! Anyway, I ate it over basmati rice, and it might be my favorite thing I've made in the crockpot thus far. Success!

Overall, it's been a very nice birthday weekend. Today is the beginning of a new month and a new year at a new age. I am determined to live well and work hard and, as Maria instructed Liesl, look for my life.

Fat Tuesday / Ash Wednesday

Yesterday we had a holiday. I woke up early, of course, and headed to the grocery store for a big shopping trip and was home by 9 a.m. I don't really remember what I did. Oh yeah, I went on a run. 3 miles on a beautiful day. Then I had an impromptu lunch with M. and my favorite five-year-old, her daughter. We ate BBQ chicken pizza and drank frozen lemonade and it was great to have some girl time. I went to a cooking store where the owner fussed at me for not having cash, snarling that she might as well give me the shamrock cookie cutter for free for what running the charge would cost her. Made mental note not to return to stores where owners fuss at you for buying something. Eventually, I headed to my parents' house, where my mom and I ate king cake and watched Slumdog. (A copy on DVD arrived in my mailbox one day last month, a surprise from a friend. No idea where he got it; didn't ask!) I was able to watch the entire movie with my eyes open this time instead of shielding them at certain tense moments, and I caught things I missed the first two times around, including one really big thing involving Salim and Latika when they were kids. It was great fun to watch this movie with my mom, who covered her eyes, shrieked, writhed in her chair, laughed, and cried in all the right places. It is always fun to watch someone you love fall in love with something you love. I tell myself that I like sharing things I love regardless of how they're received, but it's always a bit deflating when something falls short of what you want it to be for someone (which is as awesome to them as it is to you). So I was unspeakably psyched to see how psyched she was to watch this movie. She actually called it "a gift." Good times.

Today is Ash Wednesday. I am giving up junk food for Lent. This feels like a monumental undertaking. My mom says that Lent, in part, is about emptying yourself of bad things in order to make room for good things. I think she meant spiritually, but I am taking this sort of literally, in that I am emptying my body of food that is bad for me and hoping it makes room for me to feel better, sleep better, look better (always a bonus), and most of all, live better. I realize it's only day one, but I feel oddly freed by this decision. Of course, in a week, I will probably be all "my kingdom for a Twix!" We'll see. Also, I abandoned my no-coffee resolution after less than a week, and I've decided my morning cup of coffee will have to be pried from my cold dead hands.

A few co-workers and I went to noon mass today for Ash Wednesday. It had been so long since going to Ash Wednesday mass that I was thinking you get the ashes the same time as you get communion. But no. You file up separately for each act. I have to tell you. I could not believe how many people showed up for noon mass in the middle of a workday. I mean, I could believe it, but I couldn't believe it. People were pouring into that cathedral like ants. We were squished together as tightly as possible in the pews, and still a huge group of people was standing in the back and people were lined up standing on the sides. Hundreds upon hundreds of people is what I'm saying. And it's not like this is the only service around ... all of the parishes have multiple masses throughout the morning, day, and evening today. The ash getting took a very long time. At communion, they ran out of communion wafers. The bishop gathered a few of us who were left around and started randomly and somewhat apologetically blessing us after they ran out. One of the ushers, a wrinkled old man, leaned over, realizing they'd also run out of wine, and whispered to us, "If we'd known there'd be this many people, we'd have brought more liquor!" Eventually someone ran in with a plastic bucket of more wafers and we all were able to receive them. At the beginning of the mass, before the processional, the cantor was announcing the song pages and then said, "Oops, I forgot to mention this mass is being presided over by the bishop. Sorry, Bishop!" and started waving her hands in the air like she just didn't care at the bishop who was in the back of the cathedral. It was all very comedic in a way, this solemn holy day.

What struck me about sitting there around these bazillions of people was not only the reminder that I live in a town of a bazillion Catholics who will march through the streets at lunch time to fill a cathedral on Ash Wednesday and what a possibly peculiar thing that is but also the reminder that maybe it isn't so much about what you necessarily believe but about rituals and tradition. I never know what I believe on any given day, but I believe in family and in growing up with certain traditions and that it's important to revisit those traditions sometimes. Thinking about that made it all a bit easier to stomach when the bishop went on and on about how we are all going to die physically but live on spiritually. It was a bit much to take on an empty, growling stomach that was dreaming of ordering a stir-fry as soon as this mass was ended and we went in peace. I found myself wondering about the people around me and the reasons why they were there. Was she a fervent believer with all of her heart? Was he there because he wanted to remember his mom or dad or grandma who used to take him to mass when he was little? Were they praying for sick relatives or friends? Were they there hoping that God exists and will save our country from this mess we're in? Were they there in case God exists so they won't go straight to hell? Who knows? Whatever the reasons, I did feel a little sense of community in that big church and with my colleagues as we returned to work with big black smudges in the middle of our foreheads.

This evening, I lay on the floor of my bedroom taking my bed apart, cursing and shaking out my throbbing hands as they turned purple from trying to unscrew totally shot screws with all sorts of sub-par tools. I wondered if there were some I would never be able to unscrew and about taking a hammer to them in blind rage. Finally, I got them all out. It was an Ash Wednesday/pliers miracle. Even though it was a huge pain, it felt good to do it all by myself, a very Mare Winningham in St. Elmo's Fire/her own peanut butter and jelly in her own apartment moment. My new bed is arriving tomorrow after 3.5 weeks of waiting for it; more on that later. I hope that it radically changes my life.

Parade weekend

It was a busy weekend. Sometimes it's good to be busy. My cousin arrived Friday evening; we had hummus and beers, went to see my brother play an excellent set, and then had Italian sandwiches. We turned in early in order to prepare ourselves for the next day.

The next day was parade day, and it was a long and fun one. We ate egg sandwiches at my neighborhood deli for breakfast and headed to our first destination, a party at my classmates' house on the route. There were mimosas and bagels and the cookies I brought, sugar cookies colored pink, the parade's signature color, with pink sprinkles that accidentally made them look a lot like boobs. It was all in good fun! We visited and hung out in the grass and caught beads and it was mostly sunny and very pleasurable. My cousin LOVED the neighborhood and had many intelligent things to say about urban design.

After the parade, we headed to the next party of the day, where there were margaritas and red beans and rice and homemade French bread and a front porch and more good company. Then we went to our third and final party, another classmate's birthday party, where there was another spread of great food and fun. By this point, I think my cousin and I were a bit delirious, so we headed home in the rain and basically turned in early.

This morning we were up with the birds and went out for cafe au lait and beignets. Then he returned home, and I put my fixins in the crockpot and didn't leave the house for the rest of the day. I worked on homework for a billion hours in a row and am proud of myself for getting a lot done. The food smells amazing, and I'm ready to relax with the Oscars. I'm watching Mickey Rourke on Barbara Walters right now, and can I just say, he would still be a pretty handsome guy despite his bludgeoned face if he did not have such RIDICULOUS hair, such silly glasses, and such a hideous striped gray suit, purple sash, and blue and orange striped shirt with an enormous collar. What is he thinking, and can't someone close to him stage some sort of intervention? This is his moment! And it is a shame that someone doesn't step in and whip his look into better shape for his step back into the sun. It genuinely saddens me.

It was fun having my cousin as a houseguest this weekend -- there is something really special to me about talking about family with someone who really gets it and likes to talk about family, too, and about where and whom we came from -- and I look forward to the next parade! I plan to get over myself and throw a party for it because it runs close to my house and life is short. I think I will cook something Irish-themed in my, what else, crockpot. People always get kegs for parade parties, but I feel like I might be a little too old for a keg? Maybe I can think of some other fun drink to serve. Anyway, I can't think about this anymore right now because I need to see what my movie star girlfriend Kate Winslet is wearing.

Monday Catch-Up

And now for more thrilling catch-up. I finished A Mercy on the plane, and I liked it very much. There was one particular part that made me well up with tears; it involved a character changing her name. I think this is a Biblical concept if I'm not mistaken, and it always moves me to contemplate it. I also finished The Reader, which was beautiful, gripping, and sad, and I can't wait to see the movie now.

Speaking of books, I've posted a few more reviews over at Kidliterate, Melissa's book review site. I'll hopefully be continuing to do so, probably focusing on graphic novels for now.

Okay, I guess that brings us to Saturday night ... it was crawfish etoufee, shrimp and corn soup, stuffed shrimp, seafood gumbo, cheese fries, and beer with old friends, followed by a girls' night out at a bar where we watched my little brother play. I had enough beers to screw up the courage to sing a duet with him, "Falling Slowly" from Once. Ridiculous but fun. It was great to hang out with my girlfriends and stay out late and cut loose for the first time in a long time. There was something about singing songs and sharing frozen sangria that took me back to the old days when all we ever did was act silly and stay up late and have fun. It was nice to realize that it's still possible! Seriously. I'd like to plan another girls night out soon with all the peeps who couldn't make it that night.

Sunday morning, I woke up to bid my houseguests adieu, and eventually I collapsed back into bed, tossing and turning and rousing in time to head to the dog parade with the same girlfriends and some kids. It was a nice afternoon, and we stopped on the way home for frozen yogurt. Sunday evening, I went to my first-ever book club meeting. I'm not sure how I made it to almost 34 without ever being in a book club, but there you go. We discussed A Mercy and drank red wine and ate homemade French bread and it was very relaxing.

It's now Monday and a new week. I'm cooking some whole grain quinoa (is quinoa supposed to be crunchy?) and defrosting some frozen curried vegetables I made in the crockpot last week. After a week of dismal and abysmal sleep, I hope to start fresh tonight and actually sleep more than a few hours. I feel this is important towards the overall positivity of the week ahead. I'm not sure what else to say, so I guess I'll post some pictures of parade dogs. There's nothing like a neon green labradoodle to sing that spring is coming.

2 days into '09

Ah ... 2009. So far, so good. New Year's Eve was spent turning in early after turkey and sausage gumbo and spinach pie with B. at my parents' house. On day one of the new year, I slept in and then treated myself to a matinee of Milk, which I'd been wanting to see for months. It did not disappoint. My most powerful encounter with the story of Harvey Milk will always be catching the documentary The Times of Harvey Milk on TV by accident and learning the story for the first time, but this was an excellent movie and I'm very glad I saw it. It made me very sad, both the way it ended, of course, and thinking about how little things have changed despite how hard Harvey Milk and his colleagues fought. I mean, sure, a lot has changed, but clearly, as we saw so disgustingly this year, a lot also hasn't. I wish this movie were getting more press and were open on more screens because I think it's important. The cast was great ... Emile Hirsch particularly impressed me -- it was hard to recognize him as the same kid who played Alexander Supertramp. 

After going to see Milk, I went over to my parents' house to continue to feast on leftovers. My mom wrote thank you notes for wedding-related kindnesses while watched Enchanted. She, unsurprisingly, found it delightful. Later that night, we continued eating still more leftovers and watched Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day; both of my parents really liked it, as I knew they would. What is not to like? I've now seen that movie four times and could easily watch it again today. It's wonderful. Kymm Zuckert, I am not sure what you are waiting for! This is your kind of movie.

After packing in three movies in the course of one day and falling asleep to Sarah Vowell's story of the Puritans, this morning I got up relatively early and headed out for a run. After about a mile, I decided that the morning fog, while very cool looking, was a bit creepy. I argued with myself for a while about whether turning around due to basically zero visibility was neurotic or sensible, and I came down on the side of sensible, ran a mile back home, and turned on Jillian Michaels for the rest of the workout. Oh, how level one still pains me so! My arms basically burst into flames, but I soldiered through. 

I showered and headed to the coffee shop to meet my old friend Herpreet, with whom I had a nice two-hour visit out on the patio. It is always nice to see her and to catch up with someone you've known for a million years. Old friends are so important, and I need to never forget that.

Then I headed over to S.'s to help get ready for a gathering at her parents' house tonight and eat handfuls of her mother's amazing white chocolate peppermint candy. I have to say, when the holidays well and truly come to a close and all friends and relatives have finally returned to their homes far away and all of the leftovers are gone and I return to work and real life, I might have to cry a little bit. 

I hope to post some pictures soon ... now I must get ready to head back to S.'s house for the gumbo event, which leads up to the Party of the Century tomorrow night. 

Maid of honoring

It's a good thing I took off this week so I could devote full attention to my duties as my sister's maid of honor! Phew! This might be the most fun job ever, though. It involves accompanying her on errands, lunching, drinking half cafe au lait/half hot chocolate, folding programs, arranging table cards, opining about sash tying methods, searching for toeless panty hose, making playlists, scanning pictures, attending fancy brunches with mimosas and cheese grits, watching parents cry, eating all of the treats people keep dropping by, sharing lovely sisterly gifts, and so forth. Being the maid of honor means you participate in the action without the pressure of getting married. Not that it's pressure! It's a wonderful thing. But you know what I mean. The week is already flying by, and the big day will be here before we know it. I kind of want it to slow down so we can keep accomplishing fun tasks together.

So, it's been a hectic but enjoyable week so far, the freezing weather notwithstanding, which I HATE. It is allegedly warming up later today as God meant it to when placing us in the South.

I've had a little revelation about my running training. After having to take another 9 days off because I could barely breathe without coughing so hard it felt like my lungs were about to fall out onto the floor during the '08 Cough of Doom, I found myself running three miles on Saturday and two miles yesterday and enjoying this concept of shorter runs just for the fun of it. I realize that though I could keep amping up the long runs to train for the half-marathon, maybe I would be a much happier person running what are normal lengths to me (like 3 miles) on a regular basis and still doing my videos, which I miss. Maybe I should just do the 5K instead of the half-marathon and start enjoying running and life again. The whole point in my mind was to force myself back into a regular exercise routine, and I have. So ... I haven't made a definite decision, but that's where I'm leaning right now. It's sort of anti-climactic to train to accomplish a mission I already accomplished two years ago. I'd like to just stick with exercising regularly in whatever form that takes. That would feel like an even greater achievement at this point, frankly!

(Later ...) It has indeed warmed up outside! Thank goodness. Most of today was spent working on a slideshow. In between scanning and selecting pictures and making my mom watch different slideshow versions over and over and eating an awesome grilled cheese sandwich she made for me, I went through my iPhoto albums and deleted 2,000 pictures. I still have 5,000. It is absurd, and I know I need to delete lots more. Most are already backed up on discs, on my external hard drive, on Flickr, and in Kodak Gallery albums ... there is no need for them to just be hanging around cluttering up my hard drive and making my sweet little iBook stall and freeze and sputter all the time. Meanwhile, for the life of us, my dad and I could not figure out how to connect my iBook to his LCD projector so the slideshow would actually play. This caused a near heat stroke because LCD projectors burn at about 1,000,000 degrees. At one point I actually sat underneath the kitchen table to escape its blare and sweltering exhaust. LCD projectors are nothing to trifle with, apparently. While working on this project, I consumed approximately 6 caramel pecan pralines, and I am surprised my teeth are still intact.

I think I need to lie down and read Sarah Vowell now. I'll close this one off with some recent pictures o' holiday family fun.

Catching Up

It hasn't been the healthiest week in the history of my life. Last night, I woke up at 2:30 a.m. and was wide awake. I think this insomnia resulted from a week of no running (resting the shins), which resulted in major restlessness, along with the consumption of a steady diet of chocolate mint brownies, Thanksgiving leftovers for about a dozen meals in a row, and Fa La La La Lifetime. I decided to turn on the light and read Coraline, which I did in its entirety. I'm not sure if this book is normally terrifying, but it definitely is in the middle of the night. Terrifying and AWESOME. I can't wait to read the graphic novel version of the book and to see the movie.

I haven't written in so long that I'm not sure where to start. The past few weeks have been filled with running, then abruptly not running. Worked a Habitat day one Saturday. Got to help build and raise walls, which was pretty great. Thanksgiving was small but very nice. I saw Atonement, which was both very lovely and very annoying in ways. Today I took my favorite almost five-year-old to see Bolt 3D, which was fun, especially when she did cute child things like reach her hands out try and touch the 3D-ness. I've been spending the past few days working on homework, which has been a drag but a necessary one. I'm in the middle of reading Watchmen, which I only understand about every other page of, but I'm sticking with it.

My little brother and I did year two of our pre-Thanksgiving afternoon movie tradition ... this year was Role Models, and it made us laugh and laugh and laugh. Mostly because of McLovin, who has to be one of the most endearing kids every to be on screen. I don't remember his name in this movie, but he was adorable, and the movie, though stupid at times, actually had a sweet gooey center, largely to due to long, ridiculous scenes of role-playing wars and kings and knights and whatnot.

Today is December 1. I hope to start the week and month off on a healthier note and hope my shins don't break when I try to run on them tomorrow. I need to get my school shit together. I need to not freak out at the monster work holiday project because it always works out somehow year after year. I need to not kill my dog when he wakes up in the middle of the night two nights in a row to go out and potty but refuses to actually potty but rather stands there and looks at me like, "Who, me?" while I stand shivering in my pajamas. I need to get into the holiday spirit and get pumped for all of the fun events of the coming month, mainly my sister's wedding which should be grand. I guess that's about it for now. I'm gonna shut this down because I have a date with a David Sedaris book. But first, a few recent pics:

Pre-storm update

Taking a moment to take a moment. I got up and ran three miles this morning outside and it was the best three miles I've run in a long time. I kept telling myself, "Be happy the sun is shining and you are outside." Anticipating a hurricane is no fun. I finally found battery-operated fans in a Bed, Bath, and Beyond miracle. Then the challenge became finding D batteries. This is a situation where employees laugh in your face when you ask them if they have D batteries. My dad finally found some at Office Depot, where he literally filled his shopping cart in triumph. He's working on his generator right now. My cousin from Houma is coming, so I'm washing bedding and trying to de-pet hair his room as much as possible. "I like animals!" he insisted when I warned him that they can be a bit much. Everyone thinks they like animals until they go from living with zero to four overnight. I guess in the grand scheme of things, a few pets and their antics are small potatoes compared to your house being covered in water. I haven't gone overboard on buying groceries. I figure we can live on peanut butter by the spoonful for a few days. Right now it's sunny and you'd never know a storm is coming. It is very strange. I think a lot of people around here are having serious PTSD flashbacks from three years ago this weekend. Today is the five-year anniversary of my grandmother's death. She loved weather. She loved weather events, weather forecasts, and the weatherman. Everyone is just basically running around like a straight-up lunatic. Many gas stations are out of gas. One of B.'s school friends just informed me there is nary a loaf of bread left in the city. Every Wal-Mart in town closed at 11 a.m. this morning. Which was kind of weird. I was in a nearby parking lot after having coffee and beignets with my parents and sister and there was a giant emergency loudspeaker from Wal-Mart droning, "THIS WAL-MART IS NOW CLOSED. EVERY WAL-MART IN TOWN IS NOW CLOSED." If you ask me, they closed a little too early, but I guess the employees needed to get home and prepare, in which case, I'm glad they got to go home and do that. Being a town that people evacuate to rather than from is a bizarre experience. I'd certainly rather be in the situation I'm in than a person fleeing my home and not knowing if it's going to be there when I get back. I do worry about things like telephone poles or trees falling on my house, but I have been told and know that I am a catastrophizer. School is canceled for days to come. The power will probably go out tonight or tomorrow morning. I want to be a good hostess for my cousin and make him feel safe and comfortable. I want to help B. not be stressed about school and other things. I want us all to be safe. I want this hurricane to weaken and not hit my state or anyone else's.

Catching up

How can it already be Thursday? Flashing back ... I enjoyed my weekend. On Friday night, I watched the amazing mid-season finale of Battlestar Galactica. I woke up early on Saturday morning, went to the library, where let's face it I am going practically every day these days, and headed to the gym. I planned to walk briskly on the treadmill in my first visit there in eons, but after a five-minute warm-up I decided to try to run for a couple of minutes. And I ran for a little over a mile! It killed me, but I just kept going and told myself to suck it up. Then I walked some more. It was a great work-out, and I felt so proud of myself to know that I am still capable of running (slowly) and might even possibly be able to build up to several miles again. It was the best feeling I've had in a long time.

Then I went to the produce market and stocked up on butternut squash, acorn squash, little red potatoes, sweet potatoes, carrots, broccoli, brussel sprouts, onions, garlic, oranges, apples, bananas, green beans, whole almonds, and probably some other stuff that I'm forgetting! I know I need to eat more protein, and I'm going to work on that. I spent the next seven hours or so working on school work either at the coffee shop or at home, and then I headed to a different coffee shop for a game of Scrabble with a girlfriend. I tried to steam some green beans for dinner, but I let it go too long, the water all boiled away, and the bottom of the pan turned into a bubbly black mess. The green beans clearly did not taste very good. Oh, well.

On Sunday morning, it was time for brunch with the family. My brothers, parents, and I all loaded into one car and headed about 20 miles down river to the restaurant where B. and I ate a few weekends ago. We had a nice visit if you count all crying at a letter my dad wrote and read aloud about being a father as a nice visit, which I definitely do. (Of course my sister was very missed.) After brunch, I headed back to the gym to do the weight machines. When I logged in, the screen flashed ALERT! CAUTION! to warn me that I hadn't logged in for more than a year and a half. Nice. I did one set of 10 reps on each machine and it took every ounce of determination and strength in my body to make that happen. My muscles were quivering and my teeth were clenched and I still feel like I've been beaten about the arms and legs with a baseball bat. But I'm going to try to keep at it.

The rest of this week is blur of work and homework ... I've started referring to my graphic novels class in my head as The Class that Ate Summer '08. It's an unholy amount of work, and I'm just trying to keep up. Favorite new reads: The Walking Dead by Robert Kirkman (a zombie story with heart) and Astonishing X-Men by Joss Whedon (just because it's Joss) and Runaways by Brian Vaughan and Amelia Rules! The Whole World's Gone Crazy by Jimmy Gownley -- it was just really sweet and funny. I actually got up at six in the morning yesterday to Turbo Jam, which was unheard of, and I felt pretty great about it. I still don't have all the moves, but I think I'm getting a little better. I am slightly uncomfortable every time the teacher says, "Do you feel that? I know you feel that," but I laugh every time she instructs to "Make that W!" (with your arms) "...because you're a WINNER!" She is so upbeat it is unreal. But I like her, mostly. I am waiting to get the weighted gloves in the mail, so we'll see how that goes! I find that sometimes in bed at night I still hear echoes of the Turbo Jam music, like I used to do with the Super Mario Bros. 3 music as a kid, sort of like the way the bed rocks after you've spent the day on a boat. Last night I was lulled to sleep by the beat of "bump and grind, bump-bump and grind."

Last night I made a stir fry for dinner -- in olive oil, I cooked up red, green, and yellow bell peppers, tofu, almonds, broccoli, and carrots and ate it over a little whole wheat pasta. Yum! Overall, I am really trying to embrace this whole healthy routine and find that I am not even craving junk food because I am not nearly killing myself taking almost 400 stairs every morning just to squander that fitness on a goddamn Reese's peanut butter cup, you know?

I guess that's about it for now. I can't get my camera to turn on, and I miss taking pictures. It might be time for a new little pocket camera or time to buy a DSLR. I can't decide. So I just take blurry pictures with the iPhone and call it a day.

Meanwhile, I continue to love So You Think You Can Dance beyond reason and cannot understand why everyone in America doesn't start watching this show.

This is going to be one weird summer.

Weekends!

This past one was an early birthday/bon voyage celebration and started with a mix-up of Elizabeth's famous bourbon slush. I decided to halve the recipe, so it went like this: 4 cups of water, 1/2 cup of frozen lemonade (thawed), 1/2 cup of frozen orange juice (thawed), 1/2 cup of bourbon, 1/2 cup of sugar. Freeze in plastic pitcher. It was frozen by morning, and we enjoyed it all weekend. This is the perfect summer drink treat.

Friday afternoon, we headed out for pizza with one of B.'s school friends and his fiancée. Blue moons and pizza were consumed and presidential politics was discussed. Then we watched Battlestar Galactica, which frankly was as dull as dishwater. It seemed like a lot happened, but it all happened so utterly boringly that I could not care. We also started The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, but I slept through most of the first half. I blame the Blue Moons.

On Saturday morning, we headed out to the farmer's market for muffins, lemon scones, garlic cheese biscuits, and coffee. At some point, we finished The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, which was so utterly gorgeous and profoundly moving that I wept throughout. I loved every performance in the movie, especially Max von Sydow's. Highly recommended. We had lunch at one of our favorite sandwich places and listened to the guitar man play the theme from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly on his fiddle very beautifully. B. went for a massage, and when I went to pick him up, I saw the teacher of my old circuit class!!!!! He gave me his card and I really hope to check out his new gym. B. said, "She loved that class," and I said, "I did. I really did." In the immortal words of my teacher, "Love yourself!"

That afternoon, we went to a reception at an art gallery where for some reason I almost had a heat stroke even though normally I'd be all about visiting a labyrinth, and then we went out to dinner. We had shrimp over eggplant and angel hair pasta and some other stuff. I can't remember. Oh yeah. A fried ball of crabmeat with little fried strings shooting out of it that looked like the flying spaghetti monster. Sazeracs. Cake.

A new dog park opened, so when we woke up early on Sunday morning, we decided to head over there.

I first brought Zuko home a little more than seven years ago because the shelter people told me he gets along with any dog, any time, and I didn't want a dog who would snap back at Daisy. They were right, and it seems this is his essential nature and hasn't changed. He just rambled around at the park and had a great time, not really engaging in serious play with the other dogs, but being unfazed by it all and peeing happily on every fence post he passed. Daisy was nervous, but she didn't snap at anyone and seemed to appreciate the wide open spaces she could retreat to. It was a good time.

Later that morning, we headed down the river for brunch. I got us hopelessly lost and was an asshole about it. But brunch was divine.

"Why don't we eat here all the time?" B. asked. "I was just thinking the same thing," I said. He had some kind of black bean soup with shrimp and bacon, and I had the best food on earth, otherwise known as a bread bowl with shrimp, yellow/red/green bell peppers, and purple onions in some kind of buttery, spicy heavenly sauce and a mimosa.

Then we split eggs over a fried grits cake topped with BBQ shrimp. All of this took place in a little old wooden building that used to be a general store right across from the river. This place is almost too perfect.

After that, we stopped at my parents' house so B. could look through their multiple boxes of crazy travel accessories. On our way out the door, my dad asked him if he had a pedometer. When he said no, my dad shrieked, "YOU CANNOT GO TO EUROPE WITHOUT A PEDOMETER!" and ran back into his study to fetch one. One of my dad's favorite things to do when traveling is to measure and then report how many miles he walked that day.

Early that evening, we met a couple of friends and their dogs back at the dog park. It was way, WAY more crowded this time, and while Zuko continued his easygoing wandering without caring where I was, Daisy was not as relaxed and stuck pretty close to my side. I think it was because she was pretty tired from the outing that morning and kept looking at me wearily while surrounded by fetching, spazzing dogs with an "I am nine, and I have had it" face. If she felt cornered and didn't appreciate it, she definitely let the other dogs know. B. kept reminding me that she picks up on my nervousness, so I tried to keep my distance, but usually I'd just walk away from the scuffle and call her to come with me to a less crowded area of grass, and it would work out okay. I really want to keep taking them, but I do worry about her sometimes. The funniest sight of the evening was seeing four large dogs sniffing the belly of a yorkie who'd rolled over and seemed to be loving the attention -- either that or seeing our friends' floppy, adorably clownish boxer / mastiff mix bound over, come to a face-to-face stand-off with a chihuahua, and lick it delicately on the nose.

The reason behind all of the festivity this weekend = B. is going to France for the summer. I just waved goodbye in the driveway and cried a lot. I am now consoling myself with cold cashew chicken and a Gossip Girl rerun.

I miss him already.

Catch up

Last week, my mom called to announced that there was a Camelot special on PBS. Of course I turned it on right away, and behold, there was Live from Lincoln Center: Camelot. I could not believe my bloomin' eyes. Marin Mazzie as Guinevere? LORD. Perfect. I've loved her since 1998, when she created the role of Mother in Ragtime (even though I never saw her in it, I feel like I have, you know?), and seeing her in Kiss Me, Kate was something I'll never forget. I thought she made a fine, fine Guinevere.

Anyway, I'd never seen the guy who played Lancelot before, but I understand he's an opera star and I was pleased to see that he had both comedic and dramatic chops as well as a great voice. Christopher Lloyd as Pellinore? Too good. I have no idea who Mordred was, but he was great. And Gabriel Byrne as Arthur was wonderful. Sure, he spoke through many of the songs, but that is what Arthur does, since it's not a singing part and it never has been. (Hello, Richard Burton.) And sometimes he rushed and didn't speak the words with the proper musical timing. But you know what? I didn't care. He made me cry so hard during the "Proposition" scene that B. could hear me from the next room even though I was sitting on the bed in the dark with the door closed. It was wonderful, wonderful, wonderful to see this show that I have loved so much my whole life reinvented in this wonderful way.

Of course I called my parents crying during the show to tell them it was the best thing I'd ever seen, and a few nights later, while B. and I were over at my parents' house visiting my sister who was in town, my dad busted out his Camelot script from his college production (he played Arthur) and performed the "Proposition" scene for us, stopping to explain how the notes from "I Wonder What the King is Doing Tonight" play in the background and so forth, and it was a beautiful, beautiful thing.

On Saturday, I was running around buying gifts, and I stopped at the Catholic bookstore to buy my dad a gift certificate and next-door I spotted a Mexican bakery. At least it looked like a Mexican bakery. Seeing as I don't speak Spanish, I wasn't sure. But I was so hungry that I ran and not walked inside. I was not really sure what to do, procedurally. This was definitely a Mexican-Mexican bakery and not an American-Mexican bakery. Should I order at the counter even though I could not translate any of the menu items on the wall? Should I stand at the large rack of unlabeled baked goods and inspect them carefully until someone came over to take my order? I did the latter, and the friendly counter guy asked me what I would like. I pointed to a big pastry and said, "I'd like one, please." He said, "It's chicken!" Because I think he thought I thought it was dessert. I said, "Great!" He told me, "Americans always taste that one and come back for more." $2.65 later, I walked outside, got into my car, and tore into it. It was so good I moaned. I ate the whole thing with my hands, while driving. And it wasn't small. I took my sister back the next morning, thinking she might want to speak some Spanish. She explained that if she were in Mexico, sure, but that the general consensus among bilingual types and those trying to be so is that as Mexicans operating a restaurant here, they might not want to be used for us to practice Spanish on, but rather might want to use us to practice English on. Which made sense, I think. So they spoke a little Spanish and a little English and all was merry and gay. We loaded up on stuff and it is now my favorite food establishment. They've only been open a month; I hope they're a wild success.

Spending some time with my sister when she was here was nice. We went shoe shopping, which is not either of our things, but we survived. Mother's Day was good. We also celebrated my dad's birthday, and my mom cooked an awesome meal of crawfish etouffee, broccoli casserole, and of course ice cream dessert. It was nice to have the whole family together, plus fiery B. I forced everyone to jump in the air for pictures because I read that it's a good way to spice up a group photo. I feel everyone was slightly annoyed, but these pictures will make me laugh forever.

My mom, sister, and I watched P.S. I Love You, and I'm not sure I have the words to aptly capture how much we hated this movie. Just when we thought it couldn't get any stupider or more unrealistic, it would. IT WAS BAD. I am still kind of in shock that it ever got made. I think we started hating it immediately when Hilary Swank's character complained about how small their apartment was and it was a big, lovely NY walk-up that was bigger than any apartment my NY friend ever lived in. I also hated: her fancy up-do for her husband's funeral [not really a spoiler; his death is basically the premise of the whole movie] and the way she went to bed after it in the most uncomfortable type of bra possible (corset) and sexy black panties. Who dresses like that for her husband's funeral? I hated ... everything about it. EVERYTHING. Except for the beauty of the Irish countryside. That was the only good thing about it. What a slog of a movie ... the worst I've seen in years. Possibly in my whole life.

Don't know what else to say. So ... pictures.

Easter feaster

For Easter lunch my mom made crawfish fettucini, dirty rice, cabbage crunch salad, a ham, a turkey, ice cream dessert, rolls, and apple pie. I can't decide if it was over-the-top excessive or just right. I think just right.

On Friday night, B. and I attended a bowling birthday party for a friend. After another 70-hour work week (not complaining; many of my colleagues worked possibly twice that), I was a little delirious and did not get too into the bowling revelry. I contemplated posting a video B. took of me taking a turn but I might be just a little too proud for that as my technique is rather spastic. I saw some school pals there, which was a nice surprise.

Yesterday, we woke up early and went to the farmer's market. We bought grapefruit and cranberry cream scones and brussel sprouts and peanut butter fudge. I tried to nap but it was futile, as usual. I went to my friend M.'s house for a little while to hang out with her and her girls. The Annie soundtrack reigned supreme as usual lately. B. and I got sushi take-out for dinner and watched Michael Clayton, which was better than I thought it would be.

I've been watching a lot of behind the scenes features on the Across the Universe DVD, and the more I delve into this movie, the more I like it.

This morning, I was being lazy and watching The Goonies before we went to lunch. Of course I have seen it one billion times and own it on DVD and loved it so much as a child I used to dream about it, but that doesn't mean I won't stop flipping and watch it if it's on TV. Anyway, I understand that at the beginning all of the kids have their backs turned or are distracted when the Fratelli chase is going on so nobody will believe Chunk at first when he tells them about it. But I don't understand what the giant vat of water is that Martha Plimpton is sticking her head into to cool off. What is that about? It certainly doesn't look very clean. Mystery. Okay -- according to this version of the script: "Stefanie, known to her friends as Stef, is at the docks. The chase passes behind her while her head is immersed in a fishing barrel. She surfaces with a crab in hand and tosses it aside, oblivious to the commotion. " -- but why would she be sticking her head in a fishing barrel? Can someone please explain this to me?

I watched Barack Obama's speech of this week this morning. I had tears streaming down my face for approximately 35 of the 38 minutes. I tried to bring it up at Easter lunch but my mom said even though she heard me and understands that it was a great speech that she does not approve of Obama, basically. I feel like maybe she buys into the idea that he's a great speaker, but so what? I tried to explain that reading his first book really showed me what's behind the great speeches and how much more deeply I understand where he's coming from now. She said a lot of people don't understand why he would stick with that preacher for the past 20 years if he disagreed with him so much. She wasn't saying she thought that; she was saying a lot of people are saying that. I was so out of everything happening in the world because I was working so much that I haven't really heard the reactions. I didn't know what to say, so I just said, "People are complicated." She thinks it's really going to hurt his campaign. My dad said he doesn't think it will have as much of an effect as she does. He thinks Obama will get the nomination. Both said they don't know if he can win. It was kind of baffling. My dad is careful not to say too much, I think, because I think they get that I love him. I guess I just don't understand how my mom of all people doesn't understand why Obama would not want to stick with someone who helped to bring him to his Christian faith and in whose church he was literally converted even though sometimes he says messed up things. I just do not know. It's sort of confusing to me. I love my mom and want to understand where she's coming from.

It makes me sad to think about it, so I think I'm going to eat another piece of peanut butter fudge.

Update

I worked 70 hours last week, something I hope not to repeat any time soon, though I might. That's nowhere near the number of hours some of my rockstar warrior colleagues worked, so I won't complain.

Here are some things that have made me smile recently:

Standing around the island in my friend's kitchen with her, her husband, her mom, her sister, and her four-year-old daughter as we adults started randomly singing "Dumb Dog" from Annie (her husband making the tinkly doo-doo-doo-doo background notes quite impressively) and the little girl just sat there looking at us like we were all nuts. I started laughing as we wrapped it up, and she said, "IT'S NOT FUNNY!" not unlike this kid, which just made me laugh harder. Then she said to me, "Why do you sing so weird?" and I just had to shrug.

Watching The King of Kong: A Fistful of Quarters, which I found entirely hilarious and strangely riveting.

Going out for a nice dinner with B.

Seeing my mom's azaleas in bloom.

Hearing about how my dad cannot tolerate the small cups of coffee in Rome so, on a recent visit, brought several large to-go coffee cups from his favorite coffee shop here at home and took one with him every time he ordered coffee. He ordered a café Americano, an espresso, and a cappuccino and poured them all together into his large Styrofoam cup. At first he got weird looks from the locals, but then, he said, they began to envy his giant cup of coffee deliciousness as he strolled out with his cup. When they sat in the audience before the Pope, he aimed his camera at the man but not before placing his coffee cup on the railing. Coffee cup in the foreground, Pope in the background.

Hearing the theme music begin in the trailer for the new Indiana Jones movie. My sister says she does not remember the movies well; I do, especially the second and third - I think I spent a lot of time watching them at a friend's house. I am super pumped about this one.

Spending yesterday in its entirety with my sister on a warm and sunny Sunday. We went to see Definitely, Maybe, which was very sweet and cute, ate soup and salads outside on a nearby restaurant's patio, got coffee, walked to an estate sale, went to the bookstore and posed dorkily with Rob's book, drove around listening to showtunes, had heart-to-heart conversations, and went to the pottery painting place. It was very nice. Then we went to my parents' house for a dinner of shrimp & corn soup. Glorious!

Boys & girls

Last night, B. and I watched Friday Night Lights, and Smash's little sister was receiving obscene phone calls from the complete jerks who were harassing her at the movies in last week's episode. And it made me remember something that I hadn't thought about in a long time.

I'm not sure how old I was ... I think it was sometime in 6th, 7th, or 8th grade. I woke up one morning and there was an envelope with my name written on it taped to the outside of my bedroom window. I opened it, and it had some rude, foul things written in it. The main thing I remember is that it asked me to circle my lingerie size and leave the note out for the sender to retrieve. I remember that it freaked me out, and I threw it away. Some time later -- not sure how long -- I got another note. For this one, I remember that my parents were out of town and the older sister of my older brother's friend was staying with us. She was a really nice woman, and we loved her. I remember she always smelled really good. Anyway, I got another note and this one had something about wanting to do something that rhymes with top my ferry. And I was SO completely mortified and horrified and I don't even remember if I knew what that meant. I don't think I did, actually. At least not in those terms. I remember sobbing and sobbing and the babysitter holding me and telling me it was okay and not to be scared. I remember saying through bawling hiccups that it was probably just some stupid boys from the bus, several of whom lived in my neighborhood and would have been in walking distance or biking distance from my window.

I know that it was probably one or more of them, and I knew that then, and that the notes were harmless, but I still remember being so upset and so scared by them. I did not like the idea of someone talking to me like that, thinking of me like that, even if they were just being stupid and playing a joke. Maybe to them it was funny, but to me it was so mean. And though we had our afterschool arguments and dramas on the bus, I thought that we were all friends at heart and that it was mean to do something like that to a friend. Maybe somewhere deep down I worried that it wasn't one of them and that it was some grown-up weirdo, but I don't think I allowed myself to entertain that possibility. After all, only the boys on the bus would know my house and know which window was mine and all that jazz, right?

Anyway, the minute I remembered these notes last night while watching Smash's sister cry over those mean phone calls, I started crying, too. And I cried for Smash's sister and for me and for all the little girls who are taunted, harassed, bothered, and scared by mean little boys or big boys who might think they're being funny but who are really just being awful. I've been thinking about it all day, and it just makes me so angry, thinking about how in 2008 we still live in a society where boys being lewd and disgusting to girls is something that happens and makes girls cry. And it makes me feel frustrated that the way this makes girls feel is something that men will never be able to understand, even the best men.

I never found out who left those notes on my window. I ended up going out later in life with one of the neighborhood boys, and I wish I'd thought to ask him if he knew anything about it. I remember knowing then that the notes weren't in his handwriting and trusting that he was my friend and would not treat me that way. I remember not recognizing the handwriting at all. Again, I know they were just jokes, and I know they were put there by kids, but they were still gross and made me feel so heartbroken and terrified inside. I don't know if I can explain it, really.

I don't really have anything else to say about it. Except that I understand why Smash wanted to smash those boys' faces in. I hope my brother wanted to do the same thing for me.

Game

So that was really fun.

I was not feeling all that excited about going to the game at first. I was stressed about taking off at work when I’d just taken off for the holidays and I had a pretty major assignment in the works, and I was bummed my boyfriend wasn’t going, and I was wishing we all could have made a big weekend of it instead of just showing up for the game and heading home. But on game day before heading out, I started to get more pumped and put on my grateful hat and knew I should quit my inner bitching and remember all the people who wished they could be going, hello.

It started with a trip to the city with my parents, which went smoothly (I listened to the new love of my life, Brandi Carlile, on my iPod) until we parked. My mom started singing the Tiger fight song opera style in the Superdome parking garage and stepped off lots of curbs into the paths of many tour buses. I think she was just so excited she lost her mind a little bit, bless her heart. We kept running into people we knew – in the hotel bathroom, walking down Canal, in another hotel lobby, randomly on the side of whatever road we were walking on, in restaurants, in the Superdome bathroom. Everywhere! So that was fun.

It rained on our way into the Dome, and I got actually manhandled and shoved by a policeman, which was so infuriating that I cannot think much about it or I start to seethe with rage, but by the time we settled into our seats with big buttery, salty pretzels and miniature pepperoni pizzas, I had calmed down. We inevitably bonded with the people around us – a guy with his elderly parents and a row of drunken lunatics plus one of their lunatic wives in front of us. They were pouring beer into each other’s seats, into each other’s baseball caps. It was just kind of insane, but my sister, brother, brother's girlfriend, and I definitely enjoyed the hilarity.

As for the game itself, we started out with the blues when we were down 10-0 at the start, but soon things were turned around and all was fun. At first I was a little morose about the seats (I hate sitting underneath other seats; the concrete ceiling makes it kind of dark and you can’t really experience the mass brightness of the Dome), but one of the drunks in front of me argued, “But we’re in the game. We’re IN THE GAME!” And I was put in my place. I wasn't drinking at all, but finally I got so thirsty from screaming that I accepted a beer from my sister, who accepted it from the drunken wife, who said, "They're buying it faster than I can drink it!"

(I want to just say that I am ashamed of the way some of our fans were acting. Just purely and horribly ashamed. What is with booing the other team's band? How classless can you be? I understand there is no stopping the booing of the team, even though I think that is disgusting, but the freaking band? They are just out there in their costumes lining up and marching their hearts out, and they get booed by us? I am sorry, band. I was not booing you! I tried to be really nice to all of the other team's fans. I was so nice to one lady in the bathroom after the game that I'm not sure she believed I was being genuine. But I mean, come on people. It is a game and we both went there wanting to win. And they lost two years in a row! Can we not show a little peace, love, and understanding? However, one very rowdy fan in red, during our march to the Dome, actually yelled "F*ck you!" to an old man who was holding up a bible and talking about how Jesus loves us, not at all in a hellfire and brimstone kind of a way, just a nice sidewalk standing kind of a way. So I guess fans in all colors can be disgusting. We all shot that drunk bastard a death glare. As far as I am concerned, he and the brutal policeman can go straight to hell!)

I think the beer made me a bit teary when the chants of "SEC! SEC!" would start. I don't know why I found that so moving, but I did. I don't know much about the politics of college football, but I have gathered that people look down on the SEC somehow and think we're all a bunch of losers? Can anyone clarify this for me? I don't know. But I felt like the whole Southern United States of America was cheering with us, even our rivals whom we hate and who hate us, and even if I totally made that up in my mind, it made me really happy.

The best thing about the seats was being so close to the band, which played constantly and kept everyone dancing and yelling in their seats. At first I was watching the time closely and feeling like it would go on forever, but then I felt like I was in another world, what with the screams and the thundering stomps of the people that made the ground vibrate steadily throughout the game, and time lost all meaning. While no game could top the feeling of four years ago, I don't think, this game was very fun, and it was special to sit with my sister and brother, and I’m so glad I got to be there.

You call, you call, and I'll come running

I have been waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting for Once. It is an odd feeling, loving something so much that so many people you love have never experienced. My sister & her Irishman saw it (and sent me the soundtrack without even knowing I wanted it, in a moment of destiny), and of course B. and I saw it. But not my brothers, and none of my friends. I feel like I have been talking about it since the afternoon we walked out of the theater. The other night over Vietnamese food with my classmates I announced that the best movie of 2007 was coming out on DVD the next day and they all needed to give it to themselves for Christmas. They looked at me. "What? Once?" They resumed slurping their pho. I made a copy of the CD for my co-worker who loves music and good movies. I basically forced it upon him. I have been forcing this movie and this music on everyone, but no one has been able to see it, because it's tiny and hasn't been out everywhere like God knows it should be. Sometimes I wonder if I am overhyping it, but then I remember that's not possible.

But now it's out, and everyone can see it, and everyone should. Tonight I brought it over to my little brother's house. We ate pizza and watched it. He laughed out loud. I cried out loud.

(Spoiler) I love how the reaction of the guy in the studio beautifully mirrors the reaction of the audience. That moment of realizing that you are watching and hearing something amazing. (End of spoiler.)

He asked me as they sang "When Your Mind's Made Up" in the studio if all the songs were on the soundtrack, and I said yes. When the movie ended, I said, "God, don't you just wish we had the soundtrack to listen to right now?" He said, "YES." I pulled it, gift-wrapped, out of my purse, and said, "Happy Birthday!"

He laughed some more. He hugged me when I left and said, "I loved the movie, Eliza. It made me really happy."

Monday

My sister brought me some amazing handmade gifts from Bolivia - a dress, a skirt, a purse, and a wall hanging with little pockets. I love them! Before wearing the clothes, however, I will need to invest in some spanx.

We spent a little time driving around on Saturday listening to Mary Chapin Carpenter. My sister said that every song brings her right back to specific time and place in her life. I agreed. One reminds her of being in her friend's car learning to drive a stick shift. One reminds me of sitting at a red light thinking about forgiveness. The entire album we were listening to reminds us of the summer of 2004 because we both had it on our iPods when we were in Europe. There are a few artists like that, I guess, for everyone. Those whose work has followed you for years through the entire human emotional spectrum. Adventure, romance, heartache, healing. I said, "Mary Chapin Carpenter is important." She said, "She really is so, so important." Then we just went ahead and agreed that Mary Chapin Carpenter is one of the most important people who has ever lived.

I've been coming around to the idea of thinking maybe I should start running again. Not following any program or time requirements or mileage requirements. Just doing it a little at a time if only to be able to fit into my winter pants and feel like a worthwhile person again. Is it insane to tie in one's sense of self worth to whether or not one commits herself to exercising? Because I totally do.

What else? Waitress really holds up upon third viewing. Once will be out on DVD before we know it. My little brother, of all people -- OF ALL PEOPLE -- has never seen it or even heard of it. I told him, "I don't mean to go overboard and say it will make your life complete or anything, but it totally will." School remains a mystery. I like the people I've met (most of them), though, and I'll miss having classes with them next semester. I am really enjoying the Across the Universe soundtrack these days and some old, live Ray LaMontagne. I'm excited to see Juno and The Golden Compass. In completing my unplanned but somehow neverending theme of war film and literature this year, I just finished The Things They Carried, which was beautiful. I'd like to close out the year with a really excellent book or two, but I can't decide what to read next.

And now, random pictures from the past few weeks.

Aw, yeah.

Wow! What a weekend.

Let me think back. I have no memory of Friday night. Oh yeah! I went to a white elephant work party with my girlfriend and watched Friday Night Lights. (Sigh.)

Saturday, we woke up pretty early ... B. hit the books, and I headed to pick up my sister from the airport after her 27-hour trek from Bolivia. We had a joyous reunion over Reese's Christmas trees and iced coffee. We stopped in the airport to buy her coffee, and we struck up a little casual coffee counter conversation with the barista, who, after hearing why she was in Bolivia, declared, "Those people who come over here and don't even try to speak English? I don't like them." We had a good chuckle over the irony of the first person she spoke to besides me upon her return to the U.S. being someone who doesn't like the very people she left U.S. to learn how to speak to when they come here. God bless America!

We spent the afternoon eating pizza and watching LSU win the SEC championship, which was of course great. It is always very amusing to me to see my parents get so worked up over a football game when they get to watch it at home together. There was a lot of cursing from my dad and my mom screaming things like, "He's totally FREAKING open!" and "MORON!"

Also yesterday, my sister bought an iPhone, which is really fantastic and I drooled over it. After the game, we headed to Target so my sister could pick up some essentials and played with her phone a whole lot. We also watched the #1 and #2 teams in the nation lose and thought, "Huh." But not really because what were the odds?

Well, the odds were better than we thought as we discussed over grits this morning. Hello? Wow! The polls came out throughout the day and soon enough it became clear that we are the luckiest team in the world because we are going to the national championship again even though we lost two games. It is a beautiful, beautiful thing, and I am so glad my sister is home for it. I can't wait to do four years ago all over again.

Thoughts before midnight

Tonight my little brother and I drove to our aunt's 70th birthday party. It took us way longer each way than it was supposed to because both times we took the wrong route. It took, like, ridiculously longer that it was supposed to. We had been driving for an hour or more when we came to the sign that said we had 61 miles left -- the trip is only supposed to take an hour and 20 minutes -- and we burst out laughing because it was all that we could do. We passed towns we'd never even heard of. It was surreal. I thought we were driving to the ends of the earth.

Here are some songs we sang to pass the time, either along with a CD or the radio. I just want to write them down so I will remember.

--The first CD of the Rent soundtrack (original Broadway cast). He went to see Les Miserables on Broadway recently, after Daphne Rubin Vega had left, and he said, "If I would have had to hear her sing 'I Dreamed a Dream,' I think I would have died."

--"Vogue" by Madonna.

--"Don't Take the Girl" by Tim McGraw.

--"Hold On" by Wilson Phillips.

Already I am forgetting all of the songs. It was pretty great to see our cousins, aunts, uncle, and so forth. My sister wanted to come but was felled by a horrid cold that I think was brought on by her body's revolt of being driven from New York city to here on very little sleep. Hopefully she is sleeping soundly and will feel better tomorrow because she surely needs to go out for a pizza bagel. Soon she will be out of this country and far too far away from me. I am choosing to ignore that at the moment.

I am sleepy but awake. Overwhelmed with uncertainty following a school orientation about what the hell I am doing taking these graduate classes and what it would really mean to change careers at this point in my life when I don't even know if I want to? What? The hell? Is the color? Of my freaking parachute? Feeling so amused by my little brother with whom I have so much utter fun. Feeling moved by all of the old photographs at my aunt's house and awash with memories of my late uncle standing over the stove making really good baked beans and watching my cousin get dressed for her wedding in an upstairs bedroom when I was eight years old. Telling her daughter this as the memory occured to me, wondering immediately after if it caused her hurt to tell her I watched her mother get dressed for the wedding to her father to whom she is no longer married. My cousin's daughter is a very sunshiney person, and I like her quite a lot. My other cousin showed me all of the wonderful artifacts in that upstairs bedroom -- the bed his father was born in that he is now sleeping in, a tackle box his father made as a little boy, an amethyst rock he stole from Pike's Peak one day in July when it was snowing, the toys belonging to his mother, my aunt, and her sister, my other aunt, that were found in his grandfather's car after he was killed in an automobile accident when the little girls were babies. That kind of stuff is what life is made of. They are "just things," but they are so precious.

It's all so precious. All of it, all of us.

Take this sinking boat and point it home

It's Sunday night, and I'm listening to the Once soundtrack. Glen Hansard is singing "Say It to Me Now."

It was a full and lovely weekend. On Friday night, I did a lot of chores aroung the house that were long overdue. I woke up on Saturday morning, watched a little bit of Return with Honor, got packed up, stopped for a frozen coffee, and headed to see my boyfriend. On the way there, I had a nice long talk with my sister, who was stranded curbside in Queens with a dead car battery and a spilled iced coffee just trying to get the hell out of New York about religion and faith and whether it's possible to have faith in a higher power without having a religion and whether it's possible to believe in a higher power while deep down knowing that it's all pretend even if it's just to make yourself feel better about rotting in the ground vs. living on. It was a good talk, and it was good to talk to someone who understands where I am coming from in this realm probably better than anyone else ever could because we grew up in the same house believing the same things and now have many of the same questions and doubts.

Once I got to the big city, my boyfriend and I had lunch and went to see Once, which I loved. Loved, really, in italics. There was not a moment of it I did not love.

The next paragraph will be full of Once spoilers. I would not read it if you have not seen the movie and plan to because it will ruin it. Okay. Don't ruin it.

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Beginning of Once spoiler space.

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Don't read this next paragraph. I mean it!

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I started crying the first time she sat down at the piano in the back of the piano store and they sang "Falling Slowly" because not only is it a beautiful song, it was such a beautiful moment. It basically blew me away. And then I cried and cried and cried at the end, when it was clear she wasn't going to show up, when the piano got delivered and she smiled that huge smile, when it showed her with her husband and their daughter through the window, when he called his ex-girlfriend who looked perfectly nice in the old home movies, when their lives went on without each other. My boyfriend and I agreed that if for some reason you don't like the music in the film then you won't like the film, but I reckon, how can you not like the music? It is so beautiful. I thought their performances were so incredibly natural and real and moving. It was such a moving film. Even though part of me of course wanted them to live happily ever after, I think I liked that they didn't, or at least if they did, they didn't do it together. Even if their lives didn't dramatically change due to their meeting, at least on the outside, they changed so much, clearly, on the inside. And they'll always carry the secret of their experience and their lives will be better for it. GOD, THIS MOVIE IS AWESOME. I loved it so much, and the tears I cried weren't really sad tears. They were the good kind of tears, the tears of beholding something beautiful, the tears that make you feel cleansed.


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End of Once spoilers.

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After we saw Once, we went out for Vietnamese food and then went to see the Police! My knowledge of the Police is limited to basically whatever songs of theirs made it into the top 40. Which is clearly a lot of songs, because I knew most of them that they played. It was a very exciting concert on many levels. Part of it was my boyfriend about to dance out of his seat next to me, singing along to every word. Part of it was seeing his friend, a drummer, playing the air drums in his lap along with Stewart Copeland. Who, by the way, is one intense individual. He did not just play the drums. He PLAYED! THE! DRUMS! With total concentration and maniacal energy. It was pretty amazing to behold, actually. And Andy Summer, guitarist, was very interesting to watch. He did not really seem interested in putting on any kind of a show, breaking a smile, or in any doing anything but playing the living shit out of his guitar. It was almost like he was thinking, "I am Andy Summer. There is no one in this arena and possibly the universe who can play the guitar like I can, and I am getting paid a shit load for this, and everyone can really suck it." But then at one point he totally broke out of that blase, stony-faced attitude and started doing herkies across the stage. Which was so out of the blue that it made me love him a little bit.

Meanwhile, there was Sting. On the way to the concert, I said, "I hope that Sting wears a shirt that shows off his guns." And my boyfriend looked at me like I was crazy and I said, "Oops, did I just say that out loud?" And the admiration I feel for Sting isn't so much lust as it is just straight-up admiration that the man is 55 and still has the body of a very in-shape 21-year-old. I only wish I were in half as good of shape. Seriously. And the thing is, he obviously knows it. Copeland was insanely wailing on his drums with focus and the occasional burst of silliness, Summer was mostly just playing, like, "Eh, I rock," but Sting was such a natural showman. He smiled, he played his bass like he could do it in his sleep, he encouraged audience sing-a-longs, and he exuded such ease and such cool. Sting is just very cool. That is what he is. And yes, he did show off his guns. And he took several opportunities to promenade around the stage so people in all directions could take in his sunshine and light. At one point during "I Can't Stand Losing You" there was lots of singing along with the crowd and he said something about New Orleans being alive and that maybe if we sang loudly enough, they could hear us in Washington, DC, so I sang as loudly as I could, and I hoped Elizabeth could hear me, because she loves Sting more than anyone I know, and because I was singing to her.

This morning, we went out to brunch, where the best things were the fried green tomatoes crusted in parmesan with crawfish tails and remoulade sauce and my boyfriend's sazerac. We talked a little about faith, non-faith, and the place in between.

After hundreds of old video tapes cascaded upon my head when organizing my closets with contents ranging from many episodes of Life Goes On, Beauty and the Beast, The Rosie O'Donnell Show, thirtysomething, and such things as the 1991 People's Choice Awards and Bill Clinton's first inauguration celebration and the high school graduation episode of 90210, I decided to grab those featuring home movies of friends and family and head over to my dad's machine that lets you record VHS tapes onto DVDs. I only made it through one tape, but it was a great one, indeed. It has our 1991 family vacation where we spent two weeks driving from San Diego to San Francisco, recording every beautiful and annoying moment, and then my brother's 8th and my sister's 15th birthdays that December, then all of the Christmas festivities of that year. Visits from friends and relatives, a legendary rendition the rap song "Friends, How Many of Us Have Them?" by my older brother's best friend at the time while my friend gasped in laughter in the backround, my brother's recitation of inspirational speech after inspirational speech about American free enterprise, my sister telling me to get the camera out of her face repeatedly, my mom looking gorgeous and being infinitely patient, my sister being secretly filmed by me while sitting on our bedroom floor belting out Chicago's "You're the Inspiration," and my dad being hilarious and showing his dad how to use his new razor. Most of all, though, my little brother steals every show on this 1991 tape, being the most adorable 8-year-old ever to live, dressing up as Peter Pan and wearing his Terminator 2 t-shirt, singing "Happy Birthday" to himself, having a tantrum when my older brother took his bullsye-hitting dart off the dartboard to the point where he lay face down on the floor and screamed, "JERK! JERK!" at him, and then recovering and sitting calmly at the dinner table narrating about the whole affair: "He took my dart off the dartboard on purpose, and I pitched a fit. And then I spilled milk on my pants." And he was just sitting there, eating diced-up pieces of hot dog, milk all over his pants, matter-of-factly admitting his fit pitching, like, totally over it already, demonstrating at age 8 the mellow chillaxity that he still displays on a daily basis.

Watching the tape from that year, the year I was seventeen, when I was mostly behind the camera, and seeing that little glimpse into our loud and busy house and how we laughed and cried and yelled at each other -- and watching so much of it tonight with my parents as they said things like, "Woman, you had some hair back then," and seeing how they got bundled up on Christmas night to go walking around the neighborhood with my dad as the instigator and my mom going somewhat reluctantly but merrily along and how they still do the same thing every night fifteen years later ... it was too much. We are all so different now but also so the same.

And that was just parts of one year. And does not even begin to touch the hours and hours I have from filming my friends in high school and college being ridiculous and doing ridiculous and often dangerous things that I will definitely not be re-watching with my parents in the room like today. I called Maryelizabeth to tell her what she was doing on this one tape I was reviewing from New Year's Day, 1993, our senior year of high school (lecturing, "All of my friends' kids are going to have birth defects because all they do is SMOKE!" and lying on the couch under a blanket singing "Welcome to the Jungle") and I was laughing so hard that when he answered the phone her husband thought I was crying.

I think I would like to buy a new video camera.

And now, a scan of a card I bought at Jazz Fest that I love.

Tears

I think what it boils down to is that I am incapable of coping with the enormity of life.

So I either live in denial of the incomprehensible fragility and finality of it all, forcing myself to live in oblivion and be numb.

Or I find myself in a period of time, like the past few weeks, when I am so overcome by moments of beauty, sadness, terror, joy, and love that I feel completely raw and I cry. I cry every day, multiple times a day, over big things and small things. For short spurts of just a few tears or for prolonged periods of gentle weeping or blubbering sobs.

I'm trying to look back and pinpoint what set off this latest period of ceaseless tears. I think it might have been reading The Book Thief. I think I started crying then and haven't stopped since.

Sometimes I cry because I'm moved by beauty and sweetness, like when Keri Russell sings the pie song to her baby in Waitress. But then those tears morph into those of grief and anger at the senselessness of it all when thinking about how the woman who wrote that song, whose actual daughter played the little girl in the movie, got murdered. And those tears all mix together while I feel how beautiful and ugly the world can be at the same time.

Really, these days I'll cry over anything. I cried over Planet Earth and the Battle of the Bulge. I cried yesterday in our director's office while talking about how much I love my boss. She then teared up, because she loves her, too. Tears are so contagious. They're like yawns that way, or laughs.

Yesterday I also cried when my mom sent an e-mail to her four children after attending the funeral of a guy my older brother's age who had a stroke right after his honeymoon. "I know that there is a message to reflect upon in all that happens to us in this life," she wrote. "Today for me--and I pass it on to you who are dearest to me--is that life is precious. Every day, every minute is too precious to waste on anything that does not have meaning or is not life-giving. Let none of us put mindless TV, trash movies, resentment, worry, envy, regret, money--above being with those you love and those who love you. Dearest ones of my life, I prayed today that you will reflect on the suddenness of his death, that such reflection will call you in a new way to live your life to the fullest--loving others, serving others, spreading God's love and kindness within you to all whom you meet, seeing the preciousness in yourself, each other, your special friends, living, not in a morbid way, but with an adventurous, energetic spirit--each day as if it were your last.....because it just might be. Some of his last words to his wife: 'Don't worry, honey. God will take care of us.' May you grow in trust of this, too. May that beautiful young man rest in peace ... and may you, my precious children, live in peace and joy in all that you do."

The tears over that e-mail will be unending, probably, partly because I have a mom who would send an e-mail that loving and profound and because I feel what she was feeling -- being seized with that dread, that panic that we're not appreciating every moment and that it can all end so suddenly. I feel that on a regular basis, and it's an awful feeling, and I cried because I knew she was feeling it, too. I feel like I've always felt that way, that sense of urgency about the preciousness of life, but it used to be a much more positive thing. It used to feel like a blessing, a gift, even a joy. But lately it's felt like a burden, like a goddamn albatross, and I wonder if that's just part of getting older. Or part of losing belief in God and in heaven and that we'll never be apart from those we love even in death. I wish I could still believe that. I think I was much less afraid.

Today's crying jag started when cleaning out a closet. I'm doing some rearranging and organizing and I opened one of my grandmother's old journals. She had one for every year for about 12 years or so, late in her life. Maybe she had more, I don't know. But there's a week on each page and entries for each day of they week. Her handwriting is horrendous; she was raised when you were taught to write right-handed even if you weren't, and she wasn't, and it shows. I think maybe the scratchy scrawl adds to the melancholy of her prose. But her entries are so spare and so simple and they cause my heart to clench in despair. I know she wanted me to have them; she told my mom, and my mom told me, years ago. My grandmother loved each of us the most on varying days; I guess that day it was me. So I am glad to have them but also feel the weight of her loneliness and sadness with every word I read and I can never read long before I have to close them and cry a hundred tears. And I wonder if I should scan parts of them and share them with other relatives, like her children, when she wrote something kind or wonderful about them, but I worry that it will become a whole possessive mess because I have them and that reading them in full will make them dissolve in pain. They are so hard for me to handle, and I am her granddaughter. I don't know if it would be a gift or a cruelty to share the journals with them. Today I happened to be on the phone with my friend who knew and really liked my grandmother when the boo-hooing wave commenced, and she said something like, "Well, if you believe that we all carry pieces of each other inside ourselves," since her daughter has my grandmother's name as her middle name, "then she carries part of her inside." And that just made me start bawling, because, well. That's really it, isn't it?

Meanwhile, I decided the music I had to listen to while doing all of this closet cleaning and journal reading and crying was the Broadway soundtrack to The Lion King, and I don't care what anyone says about the Disneyfication of Broadway, this soundtrack is a thing of beauty. And it opens, "From the day we arrive on this planet, and, blinking, step into the sun, there is more to see than can ever be seen, more to do than can ever be done." And I thought, yes. "There is far too much to take in here, more to find than can ever be found." And I thought, yes. There is far too much to take in here. And maybe that is why I am crying every day. And then, "It's the circle of life, and it moves us all, through despair and hope, through faith and love. Till we find our place, on the path unwinding ..." And yes, it's from a Disney show and I think it might have been written by Elton John and I realize it comes from a cartoon, but this song kills me. The Broadway recording, it is stunning. I feel like all my heart has been doing lately is blinking into the sun and trying to take it all in. And THEN the song "He Lives in You" came on, and I thought about what my friend said about my grandmother living on in her little baby, my godchild. And that also is truly a beautiful song, I am telling you.

I might need to rethink tonight's plan to watch Downfall and watch something else instead. Something with singing and dancing. Like Grease 2 or Waiting for Guffman.

And hi, I'm crying some more, typing this right now, big shocker. And I am grappling with accepting that surely it must be better to feel everything than feel nothing.

It's not like I am going through each day sad or depressed. It's not that way at all. It's just that as I told my boyfriend tonight, I feel like lately I just have an overflowing heart. And it's overflowing and exploding so much that it's always close to the surface and the tears are so accessible and I can't help it, and before I know it, they just come, and my heart is running down my cheeks, trying to understand life and death and the world, trying to get free.

Ice cream cake is important.

First things first: big shout out to reader Jana who has finally solved the mystery of those damn five notes from the Planet Earth theme that have been driving me insane as to where I've heard them before. They are from the theme to Somewhere in Time! If you listen to this, you can hear the five notes from about 3 seconds in to 5 seconds in. Thank you, Jana. You have no idea how this has been torturing me.

On Friday night, we went out for honey wasabi shrimp, pad thai, and the best spring rolls in town. For dessert, we had ice cream cake. This was a very easy and tremendously yummy dessert if you like ice cream sandwiches, oreos, and cool whip, which I do.

The next morning, we went out for breakfast. Later that afternoon, we got take-out from the same place and watched Venus, which was alternately good and kind of disturbing. I liked it, though, mostly. It kind of made me think about my grandfather. He really kind of had a rebirth in his later years when he moved into the retirement home. The men were vastly outnumbered by the women, and a number of the ladies adopted him and crocheted for him and showered him with cards and attention. But mostly he liked the young women. The young women who worked there, the young women at his favorite coffee shop, the young women at the Y, the young women my brother dated. He LOVED them. He took pictures of himself with them and scotch taped them around his apartment. And I really don't think it was a perverted sort of lust he felt for them. I think it was mostly that they were young and alive, and they made him feel young and alive, too.

We took the dogs on a walk around the neighborhood after finishing the movie, which they definitely enjoyed if their near hysteria was any indication. For dinner, we went out for Japanese food. He had a sushi roll with coconut shrimp, avocado, mango, and pineapple sauce, and I had grilled shrimp and vegetables over fried rice and some miso soup. We also split some gyoza. That might be my favorite meal, honestly. Rice, veggies, shrimp, some soup, some dumplings. Perfect. More ice cream cake was had for dessert, enjoyed over about five episodes of season two of The Office. I realized I never saw most of season two, and I laughed until I almost cried, especially during the Olympics.

On Sunday morning, we went to the baptism of my friend's baby. (Thanks again to all who e-mailed or commented with advice!) It went very well. I did my godmotherly duties, amounting only to draping a little white garment over her after her head was doused with the water. She was uncharacteristically quiet and serene, and her dad said, "It must have been all that original sin that was giving her a stomachache." We went out for a very nice lunch after, and a good time was had by all. B. had poached eggs over crab cakes and english muffins with remolaude sauce, and I had seafood crepes. We both had shrimp and corn soup with andouille sausage. I had a cappuccino, he had a Newcastle. I don't know why I like to record what was eaten, but I do. It helps me preserve the memory of the experience somehow. As for being her godmother, I can't pretend that I will be able to advise her about faith or things of that nature, but I definitely promise always to be here for her because holy shit, she is cute, and I love her.

Speaking of memories, a veritable flood of them hit me while in mass for the baptism. I don't know if it was being around other people who went to school there or what, but I felt so nostalgic about the school and I felt SUPER nostalgic in the church. My parents were there, which was nice, and my dad took his volunteer photographer duties very seriously, darting around furtively during the actual baptism taking shots from various angles through breaks in the crowd and barking officially such commands as "Stand by!" My mom looked like some kind of radiant goddess in her blue and white checked shirt. Anyway, it was the first time that B. came to church there, and I found myself wishing for the songs to be really good. Sadly, they used versions of the Amen, Holy Holy Holy, Christ Has Died, Lamb of God, etc. that I didn't know or particularly like, and the opening hymn, closing hymn, and responsorial psalm were not all that. Thankfully, the choir came through with "Here I Am, Lord" during communion, one of my all-time favorites. I don't know how I know every word of every verse of that song, but I do. I guess it goes back to how permanently things are cemented into your brain when you do them over and over as a kid. I had a flashback to being in the choir loft way back in the day and singing at the top of our lungs a very rousing song called "Go Ye into All the World and Preach My Gospel to Every Creature!" There was lots of exclamatory singing in that song. My family is in full agreement that the best mass parts are by Bob Dufford. Two examples are the "Amen" and the "Holy, Holy, Holy," which you can hear (sung rather hideously, I'm afraid) here if you click on "Listen." I think these are from the St. Louis Jesuits Mass, whatever that means.

I guess my point is that even though I don't believe in God like I once did, I still like going to church sometimes and hearing the music I grew up on and being surrounded with so many memories of special times, like our fifth grade Christmas pageant where I played an angel with wings made out of coat hangers and aluminum foil, singing in the choir loft as a kid, all of the Christmas masses where my siblings and I stifled laughter over some crazy off-key choral nonsense going on, and all of the school masses and Sundays spent finger spelling whole conversations in the pews with my friend or my sister and how my friend and I used to pick out Eucharistic ministers who looked like movie stars, such as Tom Hulce, Diane Wiest, and the grown-up Yahoo Serious. I wished I could somehow take a picture of my heart while we were sitting there and show it to B. and say, "Here. Here is so much of my childhood and so much of who I am."

Looking forward to: a rock concert and, at long last, seeing Once.

Strawberry love

I spent the weekend out of town at my sister's law school graduation. It was a whirlwindy but very fun weekend. It involved eating both local and national chain pizza and sushi. And watching The Office and laughing as my brother declared he'd rather die of tetanus than hang out in the emergency room. (He cut his foot by kicking the corner of a low-lying heater in her apartment.) And going to the student health center instead for his shot and killing time in the waiting room discussing the presidential candidates, abortion politics, the Rosie vs. Elisabeth feud, and the ins and outs of Lost. And going to a big family reception with an amazing buffet spread and greeting and meeting my sister's friends and professors. And eating gelato and Italian ice. And it was, for the most part, a very merry time. (We missed having my older brother there; his stand-by ticket plan didn't work out.) My sister looked radiantly lovely, and we were all very proud of her.

(Speaking of Rosie, I love what Nora Ephron wrote about her leaving the show.)

And we saw Waitress, which I loved and adored, and whose song I cannot get out of my head to save my life. ("Gonna be a pie from heaven above, gonna be filled with strawberry love.") It was so simple and funny and sweet. I think I loved it more than they did, because when I announced that I thought Keri Russell deserved an Oscar nomination, my sister looked at me like I was nuts. I loved watching Adrienne Shelly talk about how the movie is a love letter to her daughter, though that makes me unspeakably sad.

I also read two books during two very long days of travel. What Is the What was quite good and intense, and I'm very glad I saw Lost Boys of Sudan before reading it because I think it really informed and enriched my reading experience. I read it on the way there and would not shut up about it while my sister and I spent a while waiting for her car to be washed to the point where she drove us to the bookstore afterwards and bought it for her human rights professor.

On the way home, I read The Book Thief. I hadn't cried so hard while reading a book since my last airplane emotional breakdown, which was coincidentally also on the way home from visiting my sister. This was a very similar weeping extravaganza. I blew my nose into napkin after napkin from Au Bon Pain, and the woman next to me in the Chanel sunglasses kept looking at me out of the corner of her eye and shifting away from me uncomfortably. But I could not help it. I was so moved that what started as quiet tears running down my face dissolved into hiccups and blurred vision and whimpering and a runny nose, and it went on for page after page after page. I put my head in my hands when I finished it and kept on crying, partly because it was so beautiful and partly because I was so sad that it was over and I was leaving Leisel and her dreams and Papa and his accordion and Rudy with hair like lemons and Max with hair like feathers and Rosa and her curses behind.

I made the mistake of reading a few less than raving reviews of the book when I got home. I decided to ignore them and write the reviewers off as insane. I think I'm going to stop reading reviews of any book or movie I love because there's just no damn point. If they're positive, great. But if they're even remotely negative, I get irrationally protective and defensive and then secretly wonder if I'm crazy to have loved it. In this case, I know I am not. Sure, I can see why some of the aspects of the book would be annoying to some, but they worked for me. I loved the story and the characters so much that I don't care that the author employed some unusual and possibly gimmicky methods. It moved me utterly and profoundly, and I will love it forever.

Now I'm home and settling back into real life. My brother sat behind Lance Bass at Les Miserables last night. And here are some pictures.

(a little excited about her Friday Night Lights shirt)


(making his best Jim Halpert face)


(pretty building)

(posing for one too many pictures before heading to the reception)


(giant piles of sushi at the reception buffet)

(the graduate and me)

Jam-packed

This was a pretty jam-packed weekend, I cannot lie.

On Friday evening, my friend and I went out to an art hop, each having a cocktail and walking through various shops and galleries. We met her husband for dinner and each had a raspberry margarita, which I hadn't had in ages and which was the most delicious thing I have ever tasted. My crawfish burrito wasn't bad, either.

The next morning, I got up early and dropped off a bunch of giveaway stuff to a local charity, got a frozen coffee, stopped at the spa to buy my mom a pedicure gift card, and got my hair cut. That afternoon, I babysat for my friend's three-year-old and six-week-old, which was fairly uneventful except for the three-year-old's hiding under a blanket during the prologue of Beauty and the Beast and announcing loudly, "I DO NOT LIKE THIS MOVIE." She later explained that the part that sent her over the edge was when the Beast scratches the picture of him as the prince with his claws. We then watched part of Toy Story 2, The Velveteen Rabbit, and Lady and the Tramp. The newborn was pretty sedate and chilled out except during her diaper change, when she screamed so loudly I thought the windows might shatter. She immediately went into a blissful swing-induced nap after that.

That evening, I took my mom out for a Mother's Day dinner. We had a nice and fairly intense talk. Somehow we got onto the subject of how one of my deepest sources of anxiety and grief is thinking that my parents are worried about me, worried about their kids, and I felt compelled to assure her that no matter what happens to us, we will all be okay. We have each other, and we have them, and they made us strong. She said that was the best Mother's Day gift she could ask for. She shared how it is easy for parents to become obsessed with their kids' choices and become convinced that what they wanted for their own lives and what they need to be happy is also with their kids will need, but that she has learned gradually that what they need is not necessarily what we need and that they have no control over their children's choices. Like I said, it was intense. But good, ultimately, I think. Our waitress, I swear to God, was on speed and that was kind of nerve-wracking, but our food was excellent.

On Mother's Day morning, we ended up going to three different restaurants for lunch because wait times were so insane. My dad said, "Why don't we just drive up to New York and have lunch with your sister? It'd be faster." (My sister moved to New York yesterday; wow.) We also celebrated my dad's birthday, and I gave him some of these coasters, which he really liked. We settled in for a Greek and Lebanese feast, where my dad amusingly ordered a cheeseburger on whole wheat pita bread.

After lunch, my mom suggested that I come over to watch The Heart of the Game with her and I said sure. It was just as good the second time around, and she loved it. During the movie, we passed back and forth my dad's giant plastic bubblegum tub that he filled with chocolates for the class he teaches in wrappers in the school colors, which was enjoyable.

I spent the rest of the afternoon watching Music and Lyrics ... it was pretty dumb, but it had its cute moments, and I actually liked the music a lot. Seeing Jason Street as Hugh Grant's partner in the Wham-like 80s group was admittedly hilarious. (You can watch the video here.)

The bulk of the rest of the weekend was spent reading Ellen Emerson White's new book, Long May She Reign (the galley). All 708 pages of it, thanks to Melissa and her connections. I will save my "review"-like comments for when the actual book comes out in October, but I will say now that I never thought that I would see these characters in a new book, and the mere fact that one was written is thrilling. It was great to see Meg and the rest of the Powers family again, and Preston and Beth. I could say a lot more about it, but like I said, I think I should wait until the finished version is released.

Last night my boyfriend arrived safe and sound from his backpacking trip in the Smokies. He did not see any shooting stars, but he saw fireflies. Also, bears.

I wish I could tell you the story of my little brother in Vegas, but I don't think I can. Suffice it to say that it left my entire family in an ecstatic frenzy of text messaging, phone calls riddled with guffaws and screams, and hysteria.

Parents and children

Lately I've been thinking about parents and children.

One of my two closest friends just had her second baby, and I'm watching her take care of a three-year-old and a three-week-old simultaneously, and it's all very baffling and inspiring to watch. She is a mom, their mom, but she is still totally herself, the same person I've known since the age of 10. She still reads many books, likes celebrity gossip, is faithful to Gilmore Girls even when it has long ceased to deserve it, still likes peanut butter, still likes cheese, still speaks in the same evolving nickname- and abbreviation-riddled language with me that we have always spoken. How people change and stay the same after having kids is something that interests me. Obviously she has changed in ways internally that I cannot fathom, but in many ways, to me, she is exactly the same.

When you are fully grown, to what extent should you follow your parents' well-meaning advice? When it goes against what you want for yourself or what you think is right for yourself, is it possible to turn your back on their advice but not on them? Is it possible to go against their wishes for you and feel okay about doing that? I adore my parents beyond measure and don't like doing things that I know worry them. I think that knowing someone who loves me is worried about me might be one of the worst feelings in the world.

Does that nagging ache of knowing your parents are worried about you ever go away? Do parents ever have a moment's peace from the day their children are born? How can you watch your children grow up and send them off to college when they could be blown away in their dorm room or in German class?

I think a lot about parents and children, about my friends and their babies, about my parents and my siblings and me.

Anne Lamott has a lot to say about parents and children. She talks about how the reason that a teenaged boy becomes an awful beast toward his mother is that it's the only way he can distance himself from her so that it won't break his own heart when he has to grow up and leave her. And that makes a lot of sense to me. I guess part of why we separate ourselves from our parents, from their religious faiths or their political beliefs or how they would plan a wedding or clean a house or cook a meal or whatever else, is because we know that we have to leave them eventually, or that they will leave us eventually by getting old and sick and dying, and because that we think that being less connected to them and less intertwined with them will make it easier to lose them, for them to lose us.

It's thoughts like these that sometimes make me believe that I am in no way ready to be a parent and sometimes make me wonder how I could ever doubt wanting to have a child. Which is just one of the many contradictions in my life that make me feel mildly crazy.

And I wonder how other people think about parents and children.

Pickles and Screws

My mom called me when I was at work the other day.

"I'm at the store," she said, "And I'm buying some pickles for Dad and just wanted to know if you needed any."

She knows that this store (that I rarely go to) sells my favorite pickles.

I told her I was all stocked up on pickles but thanks.

Last night I went over at her request to pick up a plate of leftovers, and she presented me with a scarf she'd bought on sale that she knew I would like. It is a very cute and warm scarf.

When I got home from Target the other night, my car's headlights fell upon my dad, who was bent over in my carport looking for something on the ground with a flashlight. Upon my questioning what he was doing, he explained that he came over to change my outdoor lights and had dropped a screw. He was afraid I would get a flat tire if I rolled over it with my car when I got home.

Love is your mom fixing you a plate of leftovers, buying you a scarf, calling you to see if you need pickles.

Love is your dad in his sweatsuit in the cold with a flashlight, searching for fallen screws, standing on ladders, changing burned-out bulbs, letting there be light.

Weekend update

I guess it's time for a weekend update. On Friday night, I drove to the city to have dinner with my boyfriend and his sister, who was visiting for the first time. We ate and ate and ate. Then we had gelato. Then we played Scrabble. The next morning, we had brunch and took a walk on the levee. The weather over the end of last week and the early weekend was unbelievable. Sunny and in the 70s. Bliss. That night, Maryelizabeth and I attended the wedding of J., whom we befriended in Latin class our sophomore year of high school. It's strange to think we've known him for 17 years. How is that possible? What the hell?! Then boy, now man, now husband, always friend. Life is crazy. He seems happy, and it was fun for Maryelizabeth and me to have a night out as each other's dates.

I got up on Sunday and headed outside for my first nine-mile run. It was no longer sunny and blissful. It was mostly grey, but it was still pretty warm. The first 4.5 miles were okay. Knowing that I'd planned the route to stop by my house to speed-pee and down some Powerade at the half-way mark was definitely psychologically helpful. My break clocked in at under two minutes, and then I hit the streets again. By about mile seven or eight, I started to seriously dissociate and it took on the out of body experience feeling. My feet were killing me. But I just kept telling myself that it was nothing and that I was not allowed to quit. So I didn't, and I spaced out to the point where I had to remind myself to watch out for cars. I could barely walk for the rest of the day, but I did it. I had a massage yesterday, and that was glorious. It felt like such a gift to my body. I asked her to spend extra time on my glutes and hips because they're wound up so tight that it's painful and I can't seem to stretch them very well, and my only complaint about the massage is that instead of doing deep tissue work with her hands like I'd hoped, she karate-chopped my butt and hips with her elbows. Other than that, it was decadent and very enjoyable.

I finished Letting Go of God, and I thought it was great. It made me laugh and think and was very moving at times. It brought me back to my childhood and my Catholic education in ways that I can't even articulate at the moment. Like Julia Sweeney, my memories of being raised Catholic and going to Catholic school are really mostly positive. I laughed and laughed at her memories and her re-exploration of the tenets of the faith and the Bible as an adult. She really did a brilliant job with this, I think. I liked it so much that I just ordered another monologue of hers called In the Family Way.

Last night, we gathered at my parents' with Thai take-out to celebrate my mom's birthday. As usual, there was much football talk. They weighed in on their opinions; my parents seem to think he did his job here and we can't begrudge him his desire to succeed somewhere else, no matter where it is; my brother's girlfriend said she doesn't care what he does but is disgusted by the way he leaves other people to clean up his messes; my little brother could do nothing but turn red, shake his head, and mutter, "Judas."

In other football news, people are so excited about the Saints that you can feel this sort of underlying hysteria boiling underneath the surface that could explode at any moment. Everyone's disappointed that we're playing in Chicago instead of in the Dome, but my little brother observed that so insane would be the experience in New Orleans that sheer mutiny might break out and maybe it's for the best that the city is not subjected to that at this time. But who knows? I fear the effect of the snow and cold on our players, but my dad said in his way that is somehow both steely and rabid, as he stabbed at his pad Thai, something like, "Do you think our guys, knowing they are playing for the Super Bowl, will be cold? They will be on fire." Awesome. (And by the way, Anonymous, did you really think I would post your rude comment about the Saints? Maybe if you'd left your name, but of course you didn't. Give me a break.)

The weather is now ass. I know I've no room to complain compared to what the rest of the country has gone through this winter and what still lies ahead, but I can't deal with the high temperature of the day being in the 30s and rain, rain, rain, rain, rain for days on end, which is what we're facing this week. It makes me unspeakably morose and yet again I wonder how my sister and Shelley can survive in the northeast without taking permanently to their beds. I was so in love with my bed this morning that I thought, "I could stay in you all day. I really could. I have never been so warm and comfortable. Flannel sheets are the world's best invention. Bed. Love. I love you, my bed. Love love love. I never want to leave you. You are my soulmate." But I got up and shivered through my cereal and bundled up and headed out. Again, I know this is faux winter to many, but it's winter to me, and I hate it.

I was so glad when Ugly Betty won the Golden Globe, and I cried when America Fererra did. I think it's great that everyone seems to be talking about what a great message this show has in terms of people, especially women, having more to offer the world than what they look like, but I wish that more people were talking about how this show is a lot more than that "message." It's really mostly just highly entertaining and completely hilarious. I saw Michael Urie, who plays Mark, who I think is my favorite character, on The View recently, and he was so delightful. (I love this photo of him and Becki Newton, who so deliciously plays Amanda, posing in character.) This is a great show, but don't be put off by the reports that it's all about some kind of sociological moral. It's also sweet and funny and over-the-top and I love it.

30 things about my sister on her 30th birthday

1.) She has always been really good at sports.

2.) She played basketball and volleyball when we were kids.

3.) Now she runs and bikes and has done a marathon and triathlons and stuff.

4.) She sang "On My Own" as the senior soloist at her high school concert and got a standing ovation.

5.) She taught herself to play the guitar.

6.) She got sick on Chinese food at the 1984 World's Fair and she was still such a miniature person at age 8 that she got pushed around in my baby brother's stroller.

7.) She is a fierce, rabid, lifelong Tiger fan.

8.) One of her eyebrows is formidably difficult to tame.

9.) She went backpacking through Europe by herself one summer and became best friends with a couple of Greek guys in Athens with whom she stayed up all night celebrating in the streets on the night that Greece won the World Cup.

10.) She left a high-paying, high-powered corporate job to go to law school.

11.) She was always being ranked first in her group at work and stuff like that.

12.) She was valedictorian of her high school graduating class.

13.) She bakes good brownies.

14.) She speaks pretty good Spanish.

15.) Once, when she was a little kid, she wrote a song about Chris Jackson to the tune of Carly Simon's "Nobody Does It Better" and performed it for a video compilation of his greatest basketball moments.

16.) She also wrote several poems about a few of her favorite athletes when she was young that had unbelievably slammin' rhymes going on in them.

17.) My sister loves Domino's cheese pizza, Coke, bagels with cream cheese, candy corn, pasta with marinara sauce, and McDonald's caramel sundaes.

18.) My sister sleeps like she's dead.

19.) I have always been very jealous of this ability.

20.) She never wants to return to the corporate world but wants to help poor people here and abroad with things like housing and finances.

21.) My sister is one of those people who is freakishly brilliant with both numbers and words.

22.) My sister and I shared a room for most of our lives and lived to tell about it.

23.) My sister cries with beautiful ease and this print reminds me of her.

24.) Every time I listen to music I love in the car I wish with a sad stab that she were there to sing it with me because chances are she loves it, too.

25.) She is refreshingly honest and will tell you the truth about whether or not those pants in fact do make you look fat.

26.) She is very talented in the art of painstakingly organized spreadsheets for all aspects of one's life.

27.) The time we spent together in Europe was one of the best times in my whole life even though once we had to stop and scream at each other in the streets of Edinburgh.

28.) She has great girlfriends whom she's had most of her life, and she also has really great friends she's made as an adult who would seemingly walk through fire for her.

29.) I'd walk through fire for her.

30.) I chose this picture of my sister for this post not only because it's one of my favorite pictures ever taken of her. I chose it because I really do see my sister as a fighter. She's always fought to succeed at whatever she's tried to do, and now that she's facing the search for her next path in life, she's fighting to find her way, fighting to be happy. I can't wait to see what happens next.