enough.

sometimes, most of the time really, when i write a blog it just pours out in one giant puddle. sometimes the idea will spark, and i'll just start free writing a draft so i don't lose my train of thought, then i'll come back and try to piece them together into some semblance of a story. today was more of a free writing kind of day, but i don't want to come back to this. so below is a little insight into a writer's first stage, into a girl's point of view on a pointless tragedy, into what happens before the red pen when emotion is just unedited, thoughtful emotion. i know it won't be for everyone, and i know it's not polished or well thought out. neither of those things have ever stopped me from running my mouth before, nor, clearly, will they now.

thoughts and prayers are not enough.
facebook statuses and cover photos and comments are not enough.
tv coverage is not enough.
a telethon, a celebrity concert, a ribbon on a dress is not enough. 
one stupid silly blog post is not enough. 

this is not a natural disaster. it's not a human accident.
this was a choice, not that someone was allowed to make, but that someone was empowered to make.

the definition of insanity is not men like this - which i say only because it's only been men, boys really, so far - who do these things. it's the rest of us who cluck and tsk and cover our mouths with our hands as we watch the news, as we demand action and change and something different and more and better for our children, and then we change the channel and it's gone until it's back.

our president called for "meaningful action." pick what means something to you. replace "newtown, ct" with YOUR home. imagine the news trucks and the police presence and your neighbors. if this happened in centerville, i would be there. go to the darkest side for a moment. go all the way to that side. tell yourself you're next. picture your children's kindergarten classroom. picture your own freshman homeroom. who sat next to you then? who do your kids paint with now? aren't we past the platitudes of "you just never expect it to happen here, in this kind of place, to you." does that sort of elitist naivete really still exist?

the second amendment was adopted ON THIS DAY, December 15, 1791. do you think this is what they had in mind? these inconceivable guns that rob human lives and innocence in fractions of a second, not even giving the most ill person a moment to think to themselves, amidst the chaos and noise, "what am i doing to the world?" these guns that land, not in the hands of militia or protectors or even sportsmen, but in the hands of the angry, the sick, the vengeful, the forgotten, the left behind, the misguided, the self-righteous?

at that time, it took an approximate, estimated 45 seconds for a trained, skilled shooter to load a muzzled rifle. most of the TWENTY children shot yesterday morning were probably already dead in 45 seconds.

people say it's not the time for politics. i understand the sentiment, and i respectfully disagree. if you want to affect change, you need to do it when people are paying attention. and as horrible as yesterday was, as glued as we all may be to cnn or msnbc tonight, tomorrow we'll watch something else. i'll probably watch a bad mel gibson movie, because that's how i tend to abuse my sundays when there's nothing more pressing to do and no one around to stop me. my friends with kids will probably be wrapping presents or baking something or wrapping baked stuff or whatever you people do the week before christmas.

no one in that town will be baking today. no one will be christmas shopping. those chores, those tasks we'll roll our eyes at and say we wish were already done? they don't get to do those things. they would probably give anything to be braving the mall traffic today. spending a little too much money. reprimanding themselves for the "one for you, two for me" approach to gift giving. from now on, this will cease to be a time of celebration for 26 families. it will be a time of grieving, of remembering, of questioning, of yearning. "sending our love," let's be honest, won't ease that pain. won't lessen the grief. not today. not a five-year-old's lifetime from now.

you need to talk to your mayor. you need to learn about the brady center. you need to take about 15 seconds to sign the online petition for gun control. now. we need to stop expecting this, and stop accepting this. something has to change for it to be different. that's just good common sense. we are better than this. 

how long will it take us to fix it?

some brightside words of brilliance and light and harsh truth on my facebook feed this morning:
"there is something heroic about joy."
"we are all asking God how He could let this happen. I think God is asking us the same question."
"there is still good in the world. go find it today. find it fast." 

Prayers for a hurricane. From a tornado.

I eavesdropped on Maxy’s morning prayers. I don’t think he’ll mind if I share. I’m paraphrasing, but it went mostly like this:

Dear Sweet Baby Jesus,
Thank you for letting mommy cuss at something other than me for once this morning (she hates the snow).
Thank you for helping her not be afraid of being a spinster and listening to all the haters who told her she would die alone if she got two kittens at her age.
Thank you for letting me and my brother be hers. We try very hard to make up for the spinster thing by giving her lots of love even when she doesn’t have any makeup on and she looks old as dirt.
Thank you Lord for letting us be indoor kitties. Mommy has people she loves in Virginia, Maryland, DC, New Jersey, New York, and Connecticut. She’s worried about them. I’m worried about all the babies there who don’t have someone to feed them and pet them and furminate them and so they have to sleep outside and try to stay warm and dry in this scary storm. Please Baby Jesus keep all the baby animals safe and send angels to love and look after every cat and dog and rat and ferret and bunny and sheep and goat and monkey and
(mommy: “he gets it, max. all the animals.”)
Not all the animals. Not the squirrels. I hate those assholes. Thank you Lord for taking care of the animals and giving me lots of toys and please Lord don’t let Oliver take my baby bunny toy anymore because it’s my favorite thing in the whole entire universe and he slobbers on it and then it stinks and I have to bite him and
(mommy: “just say ‘thank you,’ max.”)
Thank you Max.
Thank you dear sweet baby Jesus.

ps and thank you thank you thank you for q-tips my really very favorite thing in the whole entire universe.

Stay safe, my East Coast loves.

Bonus dad.

As many of you know - and I know you know, because you tell me - I am a bona fide daddy's girl. Fine. I'll take it. I don't think that makes me spoiled; it just makes me... special. The difference is appreciation, and not a one of you could tell me (or would tell me, I hope) that I don't appreciate my exceptional, blessed life. But I was my mom and dad's only kid, and when they divorced - I was five - I stayed behind with dad, where it remained me and him for the next decade. We had a living room with no furniture (just a stereo and a bay window that doubled as a full-sized mirror, making for one bad ass dance studio), we ate a lot of McDonald's, we had a pretty good run, me and him.
But what a lot of you may not know is that he's not my only dad.  Nope. I have an extra one. Like a bonus dad.
When I was eleven, my mom married my stepfather, Ric.With that, I became a big sister to my three younger siblings, and I learned how to share everything from attention to personal space, how to babysit, how to gang up on authority figures, and how to care, fiercely, for a big, loud, raucous, wayward group of people who were, in every sense of the word, my family. It was a different sense of family from what I was used to, but it was family nonetheless.
And he was our fearless leader. He was our calm. He was our center.
We're all grownups now, more or less, and he still is.
Let me tell you a little about Ric, because he'll be mortified if I tell you more than that.
He's in his early 60s, and he still runs bizarrely long distances.
He has had the same long hippie hair since the moment I met him.
He loves the mountains, especially the ones surrounding Lake Lure, North Carolina. 
He has maybe the most contagious laugh ever, and when someone says something really funny, he repeats it.
He absolutely hates it when my mom buys him ties and shirts for Christmas, which she does every single year. 
He loves my mom. He is so very, very good for her, because she is exactly like me and we need men in our life who can figure out how to accommodate us, put us in our place, tolerate us, and adore us, all in equal measure. 
He is an exceptional father, which his children prove just by how they live their own lives.
He is an exceptional stepfather, and I take pride in being the only girl in the world who can attest to that. It's a designation unique to me. From early on, he figured out how to be there for me, while never overstepping bounds and boundaries. I already had a dad, one he respects very much I think, and not a lot of kids need extra people telling them what to do. Not even a bonus parent. So he just loved me, and accepted me, hung out with me, and figured out how to make me part of the family without making a big deal out of it.
And tomorrow, he starts radiation and chemo for stage three lymphoma, which came out of nowhere and blindsided the fuck out of us all. He cried about it I'm guessing four times - each time he called his children to tell them about the diagnosis - and by the next day, was pretty much ready to "knock this mofo out" (mom's words).
Which he will, because that's what he does. No fuss, no drama. Just feet to the pavement, running on.
You are loved, Ric. You are appreciated. You are your children's hero, and you are an ass-kicker. Go get it done.

Reflect.

Eleven years ago today, New York became my home.

I’d already lived there for nearly six months.

I’d learned the subway (sort of), and the concept of cross-streets (a little bit). I could get from home to work to happy hour and back again. I tried really, really, really (way too) hard to just fit in.

I made a routine, a PATH, a familiar walk.

And then that day, this day, a beautiful sunny Tuesday, I ran and cried and hid and clung to my friends and pressed redial and crossed a bridge and walked to Brooklyn and somehow found my way home.

Home.

All our stories are different, but they’re all exactly the same.

Yes, eleven years ago today, I became a New Yorker.

But didn’t we all?

White girl problems of the beach variety

Um, okay, clearly there are some misconceptions about how I'm spending my week "on vacation." A few of you seem to be under the rather hostile delusion that I'm living some kind of easy-peasy-life's-a-breezy kind of existence down here on island.
So that you might carry on unjealous and a little more grateful about your own sad, sorry lot in life, allow me to clear up a few key points under which you are falsely laboring.

1. Most importantly, I am not down here gallivanting with my beloved girls or, better yet (sorry girls) some hot cabana boy. No. I am down here with my parents. My dad and his wife. I am a thir... I am a non-teenaged girl, and I'm on vacation, alone, with my parents. Any one of you who doesn't tilt your head slightly to the side and make that "aww" face is a heartless bastard.

2. Yes, I've gotten to spend a little more time in the sun this week than I might normally. But an underdiscussed side effect? I have these weird elbow-crease tanlines from where my arms are slightly bent when I hold my book in my beach chair. It's a real thing people. Look it up.

3. As I mentioned, no girlfriends, no boyfriends. Which means there's no one to document my super cute beach outfits. My dad tried, apparently. My dad, also apparently, does not quite know how to work the iPhone. I call this series "Daddy's Thumb":

4. I like birds. I like all kinds of animals. I am a known animal lover. But the birds on this vacation have been kind of a buzzkill. First, there are a lot of scenes like this: 

You do not have to be a Hitchcock fan to take one look at that picture and know something's up.

I believe, from sheer size, this one is their leader. I call him the Birdfather. It's not clever, or even very funny, but that doesn't make it any less fitting.

He is freakishly big and he makes me very, very uncomfortable.

And lastly, there's this little fellow, who has broken my heart so thoroughly that he may very well have ruined this beach for me forever.

He has one leg, you guys. One leg. I can't look at him without hearing strains of Sarah McLachlan.

5. It was sort of windy one of the days I think.

6. And the water is sort of cold. In a refreshing kind of way, but still. Chilly.

7. For many years now, my dad - the man who brought me to this beach as a baby and back nearly every year since, the man who taught me to take it like a man when each summer I would burn to a crisp, peel off a few layers of skin, then carry on bravely and uncovered with sunscreen - has been warned by some kind of stupid "skin doctor" that the sun can, like, kill you. Or something. So this is what a day at the beach looks like for him now:

He's boldly declared that all bets are off when he turns eighty and he's marching right out into the broad daylight with a burger, a cigar, and some baby oil, but until then, look at him. I mean, that's humiliating. For me.

8. Everyone says seafood isn't that fattening, which is true I guess in theory, but what that theory leaves out is that seafood also isn't any fun to eat without a trough of drawn butter, a few beers, and some hush puppies. Plus opening crablegs is a LOT of work, but doesn't seem to burn hardly any calories. A full seven days and I may come back downright pudgy.

9. Those same people are probably the ones who say that sand is a good exfoliate. Not true. I've probably never been in more dire need of a pedi. And a wax. (That sand gets in some inexplicable places.)

I feel like I could keep going, but I think you get the picture and I trust you will all ease up a little on me. Your prayers and wellwishes are appreciated. I need to go lay down.

Lost in Translation

Boys think girls don’t listen. It’s just not true. We do. We do listen. We hear. Every. Single. Word. Even the ones (especially the ones?) you don’t even remember saying. The issue - “problem” if you will; flaw if you must - is that we listen, we listen to every single word... and then we keep going. You think you’re speaking clearly. Speaking complete sentences and everything. You think, what is there to decode? I’m not speaking in code. We beg to differ. In fact, we’re so sure you’re speaking in code and maybe just a little tiny bit too stupid to know it that we go ahead and code it up for you, so we can decode it for you. We’re all too happy to complicate. Analyze. Overthink. You’re welcome. Some examples. Some obviously arbitrary, pulled-from-thin-air examples.

You’re so great. I’m just afraid I’m going to hurt you.
What girl hears: You’re so great. I’m just afraid I’m going to hurt you as all the overwhelming emotion I feel for you comes bursting out of me like a sunbeam. 
What boy means: I am going to hurt you.

Seriously, you are great. I really like you.
What girl hears: Seriously, you are great. I really like you because I think you might be the one. 
What boy means: I am going to hurt you, but I’ll probably feel deeply sorry about it.

God you’re sexy.
What girl hears: God you’re sexy. You definitely should not lose that last 8 pounds that you’re obsessed with. I will never look at another woman again for the rest of my life, unless it’s to compare her unfavorably to you. 
What boy means: Fuck me.

We have the most amazing chemistry.
What girl hears: We have the most amazing chemistry. It’s clear we are supposed to be together, monogamously and forever. 
What boy means: Fuck me, please?

You should come over.
What girl hears: You should come over. I love spending time with you and it would be so great just to have you near me, to be able to talk and learn about each other on a deeper level. 
What boy means: You are next on my list.

I’m sorry.
What girl hears: This was a trick. Even girls aren’t stupid enough to believe this one. 
What boy means: I’m not sure what I did to piss you off but I’m willing to say what I think you want to hear if it means you’ll chill the fuck out and stop yelling at me.

I can’t believe we can have such a good time without even drinking.
What girl hears: I can’t believe we have such a good time without even drinking. It’s like our souls are connected to one another and we are drunk on love. It would be cheesy, except that it’s true. 
What boy means: I would really love a beer right now.

You’ve put a spell on me.
What girl hears: You’ve put a spell on me. You are magical. Ethereal. I literally couldn’t have dreamed you more perfectly. 
What boy means: Is there such thing as a sex coma?

Anything at all with the word “relationship” in it.
What girl hears: This is a relationship. 
What boy means: Boy has no idea what that word means. But whatever you do, girl, don’t you be the one to say it. Boy will flip out and run, literally run, away from you.


So really. I think it’s clear who’s at fault here, in this epic planet-spanning communications breakdown between us. I think it all comes down to this: if a boy tells you he’s going to hurt you, believe him. If he tells you you’re the best, believe him. Because he probably will. And you probably are.

I know what you're doing in there.

Corporate life is still relatively new to me. I’m still getting used to the intricacies and politics of navigating this weird big world. There’s a lot of politeness, which is good. There’s a lot of self-importance, which is less good. Power struggles are an interesting thing to watch, made more fascinating when they are completely passive-aggressive in nature.

But the best part, for me, most days, is the water machine. Its benefits are twofold: first, I am wonderfully hydrated. Secondly, I fundamentally cannot sit in my seat for more than about 15 minutes at a time before my mind wanders and my butt sleeps, so it provides a much-needed destination. The only downside, obviously, is that my time in the bathroom has increased exponentially.

I’m not sure if this is a corporate thing so much or not, but weird stuff happens to women in a public bathroom, particularly one where you know the folks on either side of you fairly well. It’s the oddest space of all for one of those passive-aggressive standoffs, and it happens all the time.

It’s like a cold poop war zone in there. Since passive-aggressive really isn’t my style, I’m going to come right out and tell you, I know what you’re doing. So:

• You don’t need to fake cough. I know you’re there. The door is shut. And you have feet.

• You don’t need to blow your nose. I know you’re there. Door shut; feet. And that has got to be wreaking havoc on your kegel muscles, trying to hold in and blow out at the same time. Eesh. Ouch.

• Or unroll the toilet paper incessantly. Are you bored in there? Are you just trying to get my attention? You know who plays with toilet paper to get attention? Pets. My cats do that. Actually, only one of my cats does that. The other one knows that’s just a plain stupid way to try and get someone’s attention.

• Or continue the small talk, as if we were sitting across from one another at a charming café table. Concentrate, lady. Task at hand. Eye on the prize.

• Or hold a seated stand-off. I’m sorry, the rule should be: first one in gets to go. If you need to... you know... and someone is already in there, coughing and blowing her nose and unrolling the toilet paper, you need to wait. First come, first served. It applies in nearly every other scenario, and it should apply here as well. Don’t sit down and then start your own coughing/blowing/unrolling assault. It’s not your turn. It’s rude.

• And finally, and I can’t believe I have to say this to a bunch of grown-ass women, the courtesy flush. It’s not just an expression, people. It’s not a myth. It’s not an option. It’s a real thing. Push the button. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. If you’re going to sit there for 45 minutes ensuring no one has to hear you go, why oh why are you going to make sure that, once you leave, everyone knows you’ve gone?

Okay. Fifteen minutes is up. I need water.


When interviewing subjects for this post topic, which I didn’t actually do, a co-worker (The Funny One, obv) reminded me that I've actually already written about this.

Class and chocolate don't mix.

Clearly, most things I do are done with class.

And also clearly, most things I do are completely and entirely situation-appropriate.

So it should be clear to you that, one, all my known associates are equally classy, and two, I can be trusted to act honorably at a work function.

Let me share with you what may be the two exceptions to those otherwise clearly accurate claims.

I met a cute boy a few weeks ago. We've spent a little time together, but not much. I don't hear from him a lot and I'm playing hard-to-get (whoever just snickered, screw you) (mom if that was you that's just rude) so our communications, mostly texts, are sporadic. Last Friday night I was out for a happy hour cocktail with a friend, celebrating my new black-out curtains and discussing the situation. Her take: forget him. Someone should dote on me. Adore me. Pursue me, goddammit. (This was, clearly, well into happy hour. And she's oddly emphatic about my love life.) Bottom line, I shouldn't waste my time on some guy who comes and goes without much thought. He wasn't worth talking about for one more minute. So we started talking about Adam Levine instead. Cute boy was not mentioned again.

It goes without saying, then, that she was less amused than I was the next morning - about 11am on a lovely, peaceful Saturday - when he texted me this picture:

with the simple caption: "yay or nay?"

Well, come on. Really. That's just funny. I like funny. I like clever and witty and flirty. She pointed out I don't actually know him well enough to have any idea at all whether he was even trying to be any of those things. Her unique and unexpected take on it was perhaps he was kind of a perv, and/or had a very particular opinion on what kind of girl I am. Hmm. Well. When you put it that way. So I decided to be grossly morally offended, and I haven't given him a moment's thought since then.

Until today, when my team had an outing to a chocolate factory. (Yep.) We could taste chocolate, smell it, write on it, even fill molds with it and have fun chocolate-shaped things to play with. Kelly made a baseball for her son. Tiffanni made flowers for our executive assistant who couldn't be there. Marissa made a guitar. I made this:

Which was really funny in theory, until I realized my boss - and my boss's boss - were there, and perhaps they wouldn't think that was very funny at all. No worries. I'll just keep it on the downlow. There's a lot going on and there's just chocolate flying everywhere. Who's going to notice a silly set of chocolate handcuffs? No one.

No one except Tom the owner, who loudly announced, "Hey, are you making handcuffs?! That's great! I have this special box I'm trying to give away!" (You've no idea the willpower it took not to respond, "Me too, Tom. Me too.") So Tom set about tracking down the special handcuff box (?), while hollering at me from the other side of the room, "So, do you know a cop? Is this a present?" I mumbled it was for my dad. Seriously, you guys, I said "my dad." No amount of therapy will ever let me take that back.

I finally got the damn things hidden away and out of sight, when Tom, love that guy, noticed the only thing I'd made from the mold were the handcuffs.

So now I have a chocolate badge, a chocolate walkie-talkie, and a chocolate fucking billy club.

So... this is happening.

Three bits of backstory I think might be helpful to know before we get into this.

     1. While my character quirks are many, I am not a particularly flaky person. I’m not overly forgetful, I’m relatively well organized, and on most days, I can at least fake it pretty well that I’ve got my shit together.

     2. I do not enjoy my own nakedness. I just don’t spend an excessive amount of time naked. Ask any of my exes.

     3. I have kittens. Kittens who like to play and bat at anything, especially string. Like the strings that hang down when the blinds are closed. So, they stay open. You can already see where this is going, can’t you smart reader.

Okay. I think we’re ready.

Yesterday at lunch, I reached for my darling little Rebecca Minkoff change purse that doubles as my wallet so I don’t have to haul my giant ass suitcase of a handbag around everywhere. It wasn’t there. Huh. I didn’t really panic – I’d gone to the grocery store late the night before, so I knew it couldn’t be too far – and I just banked on the fact that I’d tossed it on the kitchen counter and forgotten to put it back in my purse.

So when I got home from the gym last night, I dropped my gym bag on the floor, jumped in the shower, put on my awesomely unsexy single-girl PJs, and went about the business of looking for my wallet. Not on the kitchen counter. Hmm. Not on my dresser, or in the little spot where I toss my keys and work badge every night. (See point 1.) Not in the refrigerator, or the bathroom, or the bin in the spare bedroom where I’d put away the toilet paper. Not on the arm of the couch, or in between the couch cushions, or under the couch where all non-cat-toys-that-the-cats-play-with go to die. Not in the apartment, apparently.

Panic was coming. I hate panic. But, because I’m not used to losing things, I lose my shit when I lose shit. I started pacing and making weird little whiny whimpering noises. Maybe the front seat of the car? Ah yes. Of course. Must’ve tossed it onto the passenger seat after loading groceries.

So I took my awesomely unsexy PJ’ed self outside and was bent over the car seat feeling a lot of crumbs but no wallet when I noticed I had an audience. An adorably pudgy neighbor guy was walking his dog, and clearly afraid I was ransacking a car. I’d gotten a little frantic, made worse by the enormous plastic bag taking up space and visibility in the backseat. (My wedding dress. Another time.) My boxer shorts had ridden up and my tank top was askew. He’d given up all pretense of tending to the Shepherd muzzled at his side and was just staring. Even the Shepherd was staring. I slammed the door shut and started to scurry back inside, when I thought, I should go look where I was parked last night. Maybe it was in my lap and fell out. So I wandered over, shoeless and braless, and turned in circles around an empty parking spot. Now he just looked fascinated, and I became acutely aware that I looked not unlike a homeless crackhead.

“Excuse me.” Nice boy. Wants to help me look for whatever I’ve misplaced. Or perhaps to offer me a stint in rehab.

“Um, this might sound weird, but I, gosh, I just wanted to tell you that, well, when I was walking my dog earlier, I saw you changing.” Sweet, embarrassed chubby boy who probably doesn’t talk to a lot of girls.

I instantly burst into tears. Obviously. I live on the second floor, and my bedroom window faces the back of the property, so I just don’t give a lot (enough) thought to the fact that I’m not alone in the world. But really, someone would really have to have wandered off the beaten path to see my window. Unless it was dark out and the light was on, I guess. Shit.

“Oh god. I’m mortified. Thank you so much for telling me. Seriously, I am so embarrassed.” Crying, crackwhore version of me.

“Oh, don’t be. I didn’t tell you so you’d be embarrassed. I wanted to tell you... you are very attractive.” Fat, sweaty boy who clearly doesn’t talk to a lot of girls.

Whaaaaa?

Blink, blink, sniffle. “Thank you?” I’m happy to know about myself that even when stunned into tearful confusion, my impeccable manners don’t fail me. Thank you, mom and dad, for teaching me to be polite. Indiscrete, maybe, but polite.

“So, like, do you have a boyfriend?” Obese, crazy-eyed boy who has never had a girlfriend ever.

Wait, WHAT? What the fuck did you just say? Did you seriously just tell a crying girl that you’d looked into her second floor window, watched her get buckass naked, and then try to hit on her?

“I mean you probably do because I feel like most girls who look like you always seem like they have boyfriends.” Creepy, creepy, creepy boy who apparently thinks that what is upsetting to me about this entire situation is the implication that I might not have a boyfriend.

Manners gone.

“Uh, yes. A big one. Two actually. And a husband see there’s a wedding dress in my car to prove it. And a dad and a couple of grown sons. Even my cats are boys.”

Seriously, you fat fuck with your dumb dog, who opens up a conversation that way? Was the thought process that you’ve already seen my goodies, so why not let you touch them? That you did me a favor by telling me I was exposed to all of The Farms’ late-night dogwalkers, so I should do you a favor in return? I mean, on one hand, way to play the statistics, dude. You throw enough out there and the odds just tell you that eventually, something’s got to stick. I, however, do not wish to stick to you.

I ran inside, turned off all the lights, put on two bras and a sweater, and slept under the bed.


How does this stuff happen to me?


Epilogue: my wallet was at Kroger.

Wednesday's Observation

For those of you not familiar with Ohio, there's this particular time of night, at this particular time of year, when the sky is just perfect. Dusk, twilight, sunset, whatever you call it, it marks the subtle beginning of another wonderfully hot, seemingly endless Midwestern summer.
Sure, there are sunsets everywhere. Every state. I've seen a good share of them. And they're all beautiful, in their own way. But none are quite like here. None have whatever it is Ohio puts into its air to make you feel young and carefree and open to life. The blue mixes with the yellow and the orange, and the world settles into soft light.
And as the color changes, the sounds change. Cicadas and crickets start their songs. Kids laugh and shout and splash and play in yards, because even though tomorrow's Thursday there's no school. All those sounds are lovely.
But I feel like I should stop here, to clarify and before I head too much further down that path. 
This is not about that.
This is about that perfectly right time, that perfectly right light and temperature, when you can put down the windows in the car and go really, really, really fast because the perfect song is playing, and it's compelling you to move.
You know that feeling? The wind (it's not a breeze. it's wind. seriously, i drive really, really fast.) coming in from every direction. Goosebumps, but good ones.
Crank it.
I propose we should all get a free pass - like in relationships, you know, when you get a few celebrities that you're allowed to sleep with if the opportunity every presents itself, as long as your significant other knows they're on The List? - for certain songs. No speeding tickets, no red lights, no douchebags that flick you off when you swerve around them screaming, "douchebag, fucking move." They aren't dancing songs, or slit-your-wrist songs, or memory lane songs or breakup songs or housecleaning songs. They're songs that are made for driving, fast, on nights just like this one.


Here are mine. For this drive, anyway.
1. The Cure, Just Like Heaven
2. Kings of Leon, Sex on Fire
3. Bush, Alien
4. Adele, Rumor Has It
5. The Verve, Bittersweet Symphony
6. Jakob Dylan, Something Good This Way Comes

**truly lovely photo, i think, found on flickr. thanks for sharing your images for those of us who only work in words.

A Fresh Perspective on Cancer

You guys know me. Pretty much everything I do is done in mostly melodramatic fashion. Inopportune moments and scene-making snippets.
So it almost wasn't even a surprise last Saturday morning when I was stretching my sore hamstrings after racing (which might be an overstatement) for a cure for cancer, and, reaching down to pull my nose closer to my knee, felt a lump on the back of my leg.
Argh.
Of all the 5Ks in all the world.
I swallowed down the panic, along with the urge to don something pink and re-run the last 50 yards in the special coned-off lane for survivors.*
Obviously, I was going to beat this. It would be a struggle, but it was born, or at least discovered, here amongst these strong, capable fighting women who were fighting the good fight. My fight.
I looked over at my friends, still happy, laughing and smiling and cheering, innocent of how my life change was about to change their lives. Every race they ran after this point would have new meaning. They'd probably shave their heads because God above knows I am not walking around like that by myself. I wasn't ready to rock their worlds quite yet. I wanted them to enjoy these last few moments of blissful peace, happily unaware of how close trauma was about to strike. As my eyes swelled and my vision blurred, I leaned down to stretch again, using my pant leg as a Kleenex.
Hmm.
Hold up.
On second touch, that didn't feel like what I would expect a gigantic, citrus fruit-sized tumor to feel like. It was... sort of soft. One might even say mushy.
And it smelled... fresh.
Okay, back up. Take it back. Not a tumor. Actually a wadded up dryer sheet stuck to the inside of my pants.
Phew. Dodged that bullet.
Two actually; at first second touch, I thought it was underwear. 



*I always want to think of myself as a real, live grown-up funny girl. The kind who can make really inappropriate jokes about the most sensitive of topics, and do so unapologetically. I'm getting there. But I'm not quite there yet. So I feel compelled to say that, duh, I don't think cancer is any laughing matter. And I would never, never, want to belittle the fight. So to all the exceptional people at Saturday's Race for the Cure, and all the magnificent women who will benefit, I honor you. I applaud you. I'll run till there's a cure, and probably keep right on making bad jokes and telling ridiculous stories long after.

Monday('s) Observation(s)*

It's not possible to wipe down the handles of an elliptical machine at the end of a good hard workout without invoking suggestive images of ... you know... good hard workouts. 

*I'm not sure yet if this'll be Monday's Observation, or Monday Observations. I suppose it'll depend on the Monday. And let's be honest. Consistency isn't really my thing. It could just end up on a Wednesday next time.

Stretch before you blog.

So, apparently, the problem with taking a fourish month hiatus from writing a modest, humble little blog of rants and raves about not much at all is that, when it comes time to start doing it again, there's pressure. It's self-imposed pressure, for sure - it's really not like any (okay, many) of you have been wailing and gnashing teeth to get me to pick up the pen. But it's like going to the gym. Or Flossing. Or a rock star's sophomore slump. You think it's no big deal to take a break, to rest up, to get unsore. But then, probably without even noticing, you get lazy. It's a vicious cycle. Inactivity breeds laziness, and round and round you go. I go. Blogless.
But it's a lovely, sunny Sunday, and I don't feel like exercising. Interesting conundrum, when one element of laziness trumps another.
Maybe if I get rid of all my floss, I'll finally finish my book.
That's all for now, kids. It really is sunny out there, and I really do like the sun. And I really don't want to overexert my creativity all at once, and risk a blog-ending injury.
Oh, and I (clearly) have nothing to write about, even by my standards. But I'm open for suggestions.