It was only a dream...

I've been thinking a lot about the concept of home lately. Since I'm planning to sell my house and relocate into the city within the next year, it's something that quietly nags at the back of my mind from time to time. By the time I leave, I will have been in this house longer than any other; all of my life, I've been on the move. The last seven years have been a respite. So much has changed in that time, but this place has been a constant. I've done so much work to make it mine that it feels like an extension of self - my own shell, in which I feel safe and protected. It's a bit unnerving to think of leaving.

So what, I ask myself, makes a home? Everyone has their own definition, and each is meaningful. It always seems to have its own feeling, though. Something can smell like home, or sound like home. It can look homey, and it can invoke memories of home. But it always feels the same.

For many years, I thought of my grandparents' house as the closest thing I had to a home. We'd moved so often when I was younger that a lot of the places we lived just felt like houses after a while. My grandparents' house, though, was different. It smelled of Rose Milk hand lotion and fruit flavored Certs candies. The flocked wallpaper along the staircase never changed, and the faux black-bearskin bedspread in the bedroom where I slept always felt softer than green grass in the springtime. The chimes of the antique clock, the mystery of the laundry chute (from which Santa's voice would magically boom as Christmas approached), and the closet shelf filled with playing cards, dominoes, and a plastic bowling set were all so much a part of that sense of peace. I simply knew that at Grandma and Grandpa's house, there was happiness.

It's been a long time now since my grandma passed away. Nine years, which have been long and painful for my grandpa. The house is sad now, and he struggles a bit more every day to make it feel like more than a house. I still feel loved the moment I walk in the door, though. The memories are still there.

So again, I look at this house, which I have made into a new home. The bookshelves in the living room are packed with poetry and pictures, and the kitchen smells of cookies and spices. The clutter of A's childhood fills corners which are lit with sunlight filtered through wooden shutters. My big warm bed welcomes me in every night. Here, we have memories of our own, of good times and bad. We have laughed here, and we have cried. We have loved, and we have lost. We have done what needed to be done, and reaped the rewards of our efforts.

Finally, after so many years of searching for a home of my own, I now realize that it's not something you find - it is something you make. This house, in which we have lived for so many years, has been the first place that I've felt strong enough to pull together all of the pieces of my life and build something beautiful of them.

I have built a home.

And I can take it with me now, no matter where I go.

It's been so long since I've written that I'm almost afraid to start again. Time passes, life happens, and we settle into the grooves of existence. Writing seems less important - the need to create shape from thought becomes more of a curiosity, and all of those little moments that seem so poignant at the time just slip off into oblivion before they can be captured.

I want to write again. Not for you, my friend - for myself. It's amazing how much I enjoy reliving those moments that have been so neatly filed away in past entries. Having a record of the past ups and downs helps maintain perspective on the present, and...well, it just makes me smile.

I like smiling. Let's see if I can get this going again.

It was getting late as I sat outside on the patio. Finishing my second glass of wine, I closed my eyes and listened to the last of the birds wishing each other good night. The fireflies were out, blinking across the back yard. Everything was peaceful.

Catching up after vacation has been a challenge, and I'd stopped for dinner with friends after work. The quiet moment was blissfully sweet, and much needed. Inside the back door, the cat meowed quietly. I'm watching him while M & A are out of town, and I knew he wished he could come sit with me and feel the breeze in his face. I quieted him with a gentle word, and looked up at the darkening sky.

A single drop of rain fell upon my cheek. I smiled and took another sip of wine.

Gradually, the rain began to fall in earnest. I turned my face upward, and felt the cool drops as they landed. The warmth of the evening made them a welcome gift, and I sat for a long moment simply wishing that life could always be so simple.

Night fell, and the fireflies continued their lazy paths around me, through the falling rain. After a while, I stood to come inside. My wine glass was empty, and the breeze was getting cooler. I lifted the glass to the darkness, and silently thanked mother nature for the brief respite.

Stepping inside, I set my glass on the counter and picked up the cat. He purred happily, and settled in to be petted.

Never forget to take moments for yourself. Life is too beautiful to let it pass you by.

As always, our camping trip was delightful. Hours of sitting by the campfire roasting things, lots of wild blueberries (which made for yummy pancakes over the camp stove in the morning), another canoeing trip I'll never forget (I might have to do a separate entry on that one), and all around total relaxation.

On the way home, we stopped at my parents' house for a barbecue. While we were there, my dad proudly announced that I had to take a look at the great DVD he had made of all of the family pictures. He'd categorized them all by person, and set them to music.

I knew this was going to be like watching slides from someone's cruise to Belize, but I humored him. After all, how bad can it be, right? Besides, I know he spent a lot of time putting it together.

So he popped it in, and selected my photos. They started with my wedding, and went on from there. About thirty seconds into it, I scrunched my brows and looked over at him.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"That music. Is that....'Candle in the Wind'?"

"Good catch! I knew you'd like that song."

Hm. My life, in all of its glory, reduced to Elton John in midi format.

"Let's go to A...." I said after a moment.

I hit the menu button, selected A, and pulled him up.

Again, a few seconds in....

"Dad!"

"What?!"

"'Tears in Heaven'? Really?!"

"What?! It's a great song! Alec loves Eric Clapton!"

I looked at A.

"So let me get this straight...I'm a dead drug addict?"

A piped up, "And I'm the dead son of a drug addict! That's perfect!"

My mother, bless her heart, immediately laughed whiskey and coke out of her nose.

"You guys!" my dad huffed. "You have no appreciation for good music!"

He stomped away. I looked at my mother forlornly, and shrugged.

"Aren't you glad you paid for all of those years of music education?"

My mom, still wiping her drink off of her face, simply said, "It could be worse. Your sister is the 'Dancing Queen'".

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

As I was standing outside this afternoon, watering my flowers in the rain with mashed potatoes between my toes, I smiled.

It appears that I've survived the last year (see past wailing and gnashing re: working in the financial sector during this recession), and things are better. For me, at least.

I'm fairly certain that I'm back where I want to be. I may even be stronger than ever.

This makes me happy, like mashed potatoes and rain.

Today is my son's thirteenth birthday.

Does it sound like a cliché if I admit that the time has flown by more quickly than I can fathom?

Yesterday, Mark and I took A and his best friend down to US Cellular Field to see the Crosstown Classic - Cubs vs. Sox in all of their collective glory. Halfway through the fifth inning, the boys wandered off to get something to eat, and after about 15 minutes, I was starting to worry. What if they were lost? What if someone robbed them, beat them, took them? What if....?

Mark laughed at me, and pointed out that we hadn't told them when to be back. "They're two teenage boys at the ballpark. Let them be."

Sure enough, they came back, having eaten a couple of hot dogs and explored half of the park. They were glowing - and enjoying a perfect day.

In my mind, they are still little boys. Look at these faces...





They stand on the verge of changing into men, and yet when I look at them, I still see the innocence of childhood. I remember taking A to the blueberry farm, and watching him set aside his little basket to eat as many blueberries as he could directly off of the bushes. I recall him begging to water the garden, and then spraying the hose into the dining room windows, soaking half the house. I see the worried face of a kid who was terrified of taking the training wheels off of his bike, in case he came across an unexpected hill.

This is the boy who still has the god-awful ugly stuffed bear I gave him as a baby, and was recently delighted when my mother sewed a new nose and mouth onto him - so much so that he took a picture with his cell phone and sent it to me.

This is the boy who used to finger paint in the pool, and make up his own words to songs...making me laugh until I fell over.



(I couldn't embed - grr. Click, and then hit 'play')

My little boy. My baby. Now a teenager.

Every day I love him more, and every day he gets a little closer to independence. Little by little, I'm learning to let him be his own little man, no matter how difficult it is to do so.

Happy birthday, little bug, and thank you for being the joy of my life.

From Pictures for Sad Children.

...as a hug from a friend who says,

"You feel like home."

I had a wonderful time this past weekend. I'm so very lucky.

Tomorrow morning marks the beginning of the Summer of Christine.

I'll be flying out to DC to visit the glorious Ms Whirledpeas, where we will likely eat, drink, and be ridiculous :) I've been desperately looking forward to it for weeks...I so need to get away and relax for a while.

Throughout the summer, we'll have baseball games, camping (yay!), festivals, and maybe even a trip to Vegas. I'm going to have fun this summer if it kills me :)

Have fun while I'm gone. There's beer in the fridge, and chips in the basket. Just remember to leave a light on for me.

This afternoon, as I sat in my office, minding my own business - working, even - my phone rang.

It was my mother.

She and I had a bit of a tiff last week (Don't get me started on the GM bankruptcy. Please.) and things have been a bit strained. But she was laughing wholeheartedly as she said hello.

Giggling, even.

I knew I was in trouble.

A is at their house visiting, and they went to the beach today. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that she'd figured out a way to eke out some horrible revenge upon my household.

I think the woman hates me. With the passionate heat of a thousand suns.

Between the hysterical gasps, I made out only this - "Here, talk to your son."

The phone fumbled on its way to his ear.

"Mom! Guess what!"

Really, could the anticipation get any worse?

I cringed.

"What, baby?"

"We went to the beach, and I brought home a pet!"

This is the point at which I should remind you how difficult it is to render me speechless.

But...yeah.

"A....a pet? Exactly what sort of pet?" There was a knock on my door. It was unbridled panic, looking for an excuse to come in.

He giggled like a four year-old girl. "It's a clam! I named him Sheldon!"

A clam?

"A clam?"

"Yeah, and he's really cute! He's about the size of a quarter. We made him a tank where he can live."

I was already googling "lifespan of freshwater clams" and starting to sweat. I remembered the gerbil, the mice, and the fish tanks. I thought we'd made it past the 'pain in the ass pet' phase of life. I couldn't believe this was happening.

My mother is a crafty wench, it seems.

"So, um, tell me about this tank. How long do you think he'll live?" I pictured a mason jar filled with murky lake water. No oxygen infusion, ammonia levels through the roof....it'll be gone in a matter of hours, right?

"Oh, mom. It's the coolest thing. Grammy and I went on the internet and learned everything we needed to know. His tank has to be the right pH, so I added a few drops of vinegar to the bottled water. He's a filter feeder - do you know what filter feeders are?"

I frowned. "Yes, I know what filter feeders are."

"Okay, just checking. They eat plankton and stuff! But we didn't have plankton, so we found a website that said yeast and baking soda would do just fine. I fed him right away so he wouldn't get hungry."

I refrained from asking if he would like to add a bit of lemon juice and tabasco, because I'm not all about scarring my child for life (unlike MY mom).

"And we're rigging up a motor, so that I can give him a current!"

Okay, so maybe I can't help but scar him just a little. A tiny giggle escaped.

"A current...? With a motor? Like.....in the water?"

"Mom!"

Then it hit me.

"Sheldon? You named him Sheldon?" I got it. Shell. Don. He's a clam. Oh, wow.

"You're going to love him, mom! He's so adorable!"

"I love you, sweetheart. Let's see how Sheldon does over the next few days, and then we'll talk. Okay?"

"Okay. You're the best, Mom!"

Now please excuse me. I have to go buy my mother a rabid wolverine.

...to be taken in any context you would like.

A diabetic goes to visit the doctor. The doctor tells the diabetic to cut back on the indulgences, to exercise often, and get regular checkups.

The diabetic scoffs, then continues laying on the couch, eating cookies, and neglecting those checkups.

After a while, the diabetic doesn't feel so great. Extremities start turning strange colors, time mysteriously disappears, and the diabetic is eventually rushed to the hospital in a coma.

The doctor shakes his head sadly. Amputation is unavoidable, as is an insulin pump. A life is saved, but at an incredible expense (both physically and monetarily).

How does the story end?

Does the diabetic sue the doctor for taking his limbs? Is the doctor publicly chastised as a butcher who ruined the diabetic's life?

Does the diabetic learn to change unhealthy habits, becoming a more healthy individual, who has learned lessons the hard way?

Is the diabetic found dead in a gutter months later?

We shall see, my friends.

We shall see.

• Sometimes, it's okay to stop and re-evaluate everything. In fact, it's often a good idea.
  
• If you can't do everything, then just do what you can do well.
  
• Every twelve year-old in the world should be named Sybil.
• Breathe.
• You must keep your perspective. Without it, everything else falls apart.
• You don't owe anyone anything. But giving freely where you can is what it's all about.
  
• Keep breathing.
• Hot Single Guy Night at the grocery store has been moved from Sunday to Monday. Please make a note of it.
• Home is where you feel at home. This isn't as obvious as it sounds.
• I have attachment issues. I can admit this.
• You really can hate someone, and love them at the same time. Especially when they are almost thirteen.
• Saying, "I don't need anyone" doesn't necessarily make your life a defiantly melancholic Simon & Garfunkel tune.
• I don't belong in the suburbs, but living here for a while longer is good for everyone involved.
• The auto industry will never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever learn.
• Ever.
• There are some things I will never learn, either.
• Breathe more.
• Keep evolving. Every day. A step backwards now and then is okay, but never stop pushing forward.
• How to catch a polar bear: Cut a hole in the ice. Place peas all around the hole. When the polar bear goes to take a pea, kick him in the ice hole.
• Never leave A alone with pizza.
• Do what you love. Every day.
• Love what you do. Every day.
• Just love more.

Happy summer. Keep smiling :)

I'm taking a blogging sabbatical.

I'll be back when things get slightly less insane. In the meantime, do a whole lot of stuff I wouldn't do, k?

Have fun storming the castle.

Call me easily amused, but the bbq cracks me up every time :)

I'm doing something totally out of the ordinary today. I'm having a barbecue. With friends over.

Like, at my house even. Maybe up to ten of them. That's a lot for me.

And I made a lot of food.

Not quite sure what I'm going to do with that many people in my space, but it will probably involve consuming a lot of alcohol. Maybe we'll even break out some cards or games at some point...nobody knows, anything could happen.

It's 70 degrees, sunny, and beautiful outside. My flowers are coming up, the grass is getting green, and I've got a kitchen full of food. A lot of it.

It's a good day to turn 29 again. :) I've done that a lot of times now.

Happy Spring, and feel free to stop by if you're in the area!

Did I mention I have a lot of food?

...entries that are really angry.

They're saved as drafts. I'm sparing you....you can thank me later :)

Instead, I'll keep up the funny.

You see, I got my hair cut on Saturday. I walked in, looked at Dina, and said, "I'm SICK of it! Do something. I don't care what. Just something."

She's never steered me wrong before.

As a bit of background, it's been getting harder and harder to keep up the sleek, straight look lately. All of those curls that plagued me when I was younger have decided to start making a comeback, and it had gotten to the point where I was spending 20 minutes on my hair every morning.

We all know that is not something that could ever make me happy.

And it still wouldn't come out straight.

Hence the plea for change.

So she cut my hair. Not terribly much off the length, but she added layers. Lots and lots of layers.

And now, all of a sudden, I have big hair again.

1988 called. It wants its hair back.

This is going to take some getting used to.

Oh, and the worst part?

Stephan, my salon eye-candy boytoy, got fired. No more porn-shampoos for our dear heroine.

Boo.

Christine is a Giant Squid that was Constructed in a Laboratory, shoots Electricity from its Eyes, has Heavy Metal Armour, and carries a Ray Gun and a Samurai Sword. Strength: 6 Agility: 3 Intelligence: 8 To see if your Giant Battle Monster can defeat Christine, enter your name and choose an attack: fights Christine using Strength Agility Intelligence

The Union Station Parking Garage Elevator Lobby*



*Luckily, only one of the two elevators was working.

Comic relief has been necessary as of late, don't you think? Just in case you haven't had enough, I'll share mine with you. I've been compensating for the times by being really, really funny, just so you know. I'm sure you won't find that terribly surprising....I'm funny, damn it! (at least that's what I keep telling myself)

• This morning, as I was driving into South Bend, Indiana, it occurred to me that something smelled really good. As a matter of fact, it smelled downright tasty - like someone was cooking delicious sausage. I looked around to see where the savory aroma could be coming from...and saw it was the hospital. I honked and waved.
  
• Our junior high school does special classes on the trimester - A had Home Ec for the first session, and just finished the second, which was music. The teacher's name was Mr. Schmidt. My understanding is that he's an odd gay man in his late 40's who often used phrases like, "You kids know what frosts my cookies?!" Now that they are out of his class, I'm finding out more than I wanted to know. Like..."I am so glad we don't have to go to that piece of Schmidt's class anymore!" or, "Holy Schmidt, that class sucked." I don't know whether to smack him or give him a high five.
• Yesterday was a bad day at work (not a shock) so I came home and drank a lot of rum (slightly more shocking). As I tried to go to bed around 8:30, A came in to my room in a more-chatty-than-normal mood. For some reason, the night's lecture involved my dear old teddy bear, Herman. "You know, Herman is a koala bear," he said. "Technically speaking koalas aren't bears. They are marsupials." I stared blankly at the boy, having heard this speech repeatedly in the past. "You should also know that Herman is obviously not a girl bear, because he has no pouch. All female marsupials have pouches." It was at this point that my rum kicked in. I replied, "Well, yeah. But he doesn't have any boy parts, either. I think he's technically androgenous." A had the nerve to look shocked, and hold Herman up to my face in a piteous way. "Herman, did you hear that? She just called you a he-she!" I started to laugh. First it was a slow giggle, but it built into hysterical sobs as I choked out the words. "I most certainly did not call him a he-she. I called him a Her-man!" A left.
  
• Tonight is the school band concert. A dressed up all nice in his black pants, white button-down shirt, green sweater, black socks, and the dreaded black dress shoes. He just came down the stairs complaining about how his shoes hurt his feet, because the tongue keeps getting stuck. I looked up at him and said, "I Hae whe dat happas!" He stopped, looked at me in a perplexed fashion, frowned, and then got it. He hung his head and headed back upstairs. I suppose I should go get him now so we can leave :)
  

The house was quiet this evening. A was in the basement with friends, working on a school project. I was restless.

I found myself turning on every light in the living room, hoping to ward off the threatening dusk. Spring can't come soon enough to take away the chill that still lingers in the corners and creeps under the doors, it seems. My obsessive search for green things poking up in the flower beds remains fruitless, but today's warm afternoon was enough to sprout a semblance of hope.

Still I paced, like a beast too long caged.

After straightening the coasters on the end table, adjusting the lamp shades, and wiping the thin layer of dust from the television screen, I stood staring at the bookshelves for far longer than could be considered rational. Concentration has been difficult lately, and I needed something both simple, but absorbing to hold my attention.

As so often is the case, I found myself standing before the shelf of poetry. Over the years, so many of those books have become old friends. Dog-eared and well loved, a few contain secrets that will never be told. Others followed passing fashions and simply look more impressive than I honestly believe them to be. Each, though, has its place.

I buy poetry when I crave connection. Vivid pictures crafted from perfect metaphors are sometimes the only ways I can find to bridge the gaps between myself and...just about anything, really. People, events, situations - when I struggle to find where I belong in the mix, poetry lends the perspective for which I long.

Tonight, as I stood pondering the row of titles, I debated which would best settle the day's commotion. I flipped through Nikki Giovanni, Margaret Atwood, and Kahlil Gibran. Nothing was jumping out at me. Poe, Williams, Piercy, Benton.

Bah.

But then, tucked between Sandra Cisneros and Mary Oliver, was a thin brown paperback with white letters on the binding too small to read without my glasses. Puzzled, I pulled it out.

I swear to God, I have never seen this book before in my life. I have no idea where it came from, or when it found its way onto my shelf. Exchanging Lives, poems and translations, by Susan Bassnett and Alejandra Pizarnik - the back cover said it cost £7.99, and it looked s if it had never even been opened.

Was it a gift? Did I grab it randomly at a corner bookstore with the forgotten intent to peruse it later?

Where?

When?

I opened to a random page, and read the first passage I saw.

Salta con la camisa en llamas
de estralla a estralla
de sombra en sombre.
Muere de muerte lejana
la que ama al viento.

_______

Leaping with her shirt in flames
from star to star
from shadow to shadow.
Dying a distant death
the woman in love with the wind.

Surely I'd not have set this idly on a shelf without a second thought.

I bent the corner and flipped to a new page.

"Shapes"

I don't know if I'm bird or cage
or murderous hand
a young woman dead amid candles
an amazon panting in the great dark gorge
a silent woman
but who sometimes flows with language
sometimes entertains
or a princess in the highest tower

Another bent corner.

And another.

And another.

It seems that out of mystery, I've made an unexpected new friend.

And spring is coming.

dawn strikes in the flowers
leaving me drunk with nothingness and lilac light
drunk with stillness and with certainty

Maybe tomorrow I'll check the garden again...

Me? Well....

• my son
• love
• music
• diversity, in the fact that we all have our own priorities, and that is a GOOD thing. If we were all worried about the same shit, the world wouldn't really work right, would it?
  
• beauty
• humor
• character
• peace
• striving towards perfection wherever possible
• giving back
• gaining perspective
• personal evolution
• naps
• did I mention love?
• maximizing strengths, and minimizing weaknesses
• acceptance
• grace
• knowing when to speak up for what one believes in
• knowing when to keep one's mouth shut
• humanity
• giving kids a fair shot
• giving adults a break now and then
• not giving anyone too many breaks
• occasional solitude
• ice cream
• friendship

Here's the thing (a somewhat related, but also tangential topic).

Life is too short to spend a lot of time criticizing others. Lead by example. Teach by doing what is right. Change what you can, in a positive manner where possible. Recognize what you can not change, and don't obsess over it.

I will not be cowed into believing that I am stupid or weak because I have values that are different from someone else's, whether it's professional or personal. I will choose not to fight battles that can't be won against people who refuse to consider any picture but their own. Choosing not to fight does not automatically make a person a loser. Unless you thing Gandhi was a puss, in which case you need serious help.

Life is hard enough, don't you think? Be compassionate. Have empathy. (These qualities are very different from pity and weakness)

I'm exhausted, and I'm hurting right now. My bet is that you there, reading this? You are, too. So do what you love. I'll try to do the same.

Doesn't that make the world a tiny bit better, in and of itself?

...people like me who are so easily influenced by their environment shouldn't be allowed to read "The Bell Jar" on the nearly two hour train commute home from a job at a bank during a financial meltdown on a freezing, dreary windy day at the end of a very long winter.

I'm just sayin'.

Sign on the inside of the door of the bathroom stall at the Ogilvie Transportation Center, Chicago...

As if I didn't have enough to worry about while peeing at the train station. What are they going to do, recruit my shoes to join their gang?

My kid rocks, just so you know.

The boy, who is currently a mere 12 years old, just scored a 24 on the ACT test. That's in the 77th percentile of graduating seniors in the state of Illinois.

Please let this mean I'm not going to have to pay for very much when it comes to college....

I'm thinking about sending him out on the street in a suit to see if he can get a job. Maybe he can fix the banking system or something.

...and I spent three days with my hair in pigtails. Need I say more?



We're home and happy, but I'm too tired to remember everything I wanted to write. In the meantime, I uploaded photos.

Heck, even I'm jealous looking at them.

...and hopefully I'll be much nicer when I get back :)

Have a great long weekend. Happy Lincoln/Washington/Darwin and all of that to you!

And my son will never let me forget it.

When I got home from work tonight, A wasn't feeling well - and I didn't feel like cooking. So we popped over to Boston Market for some comfort food. As we pulled into the parking lot, A started to giggle.

"What?" I asked.

"I'll never forget the last time we were here!" he said.

"Huh?"

He laughed even harder. "YOU remember. The woman...?"

Then I remembered.

She was large. And not just large, but like....Large Marge. And she didn't just have camel toe going on. You could hear the camel screaming in agony from a mile away. Her pants looked as if they could 'splode at any second.

Me - "Wow. She's like The Grinch."

A - "Huh?"

Me - "Her pants. They're two sizes...."

*hysterical laughter*

Me - "You think if we gave her some roast beast, it would take care of the problem?"

A - "I think she already tried that. And, well.....FAIL."

*more laughter*

Me - "I am so burning in hell."

A - "I'll send you care packages of roast beast."

For the last month or so, I've often found myself longing for the annual summer camping trip. The peace and quiet, the warmth of the sun, and the complete freedom from the everyday worries are just what I need to bring me back into focus. No phone, no computer, no bills to pay, and no work to do - just the ability to relax and enjoy each moment.

I've also been thinking that this may finally be the year that I take A on the long-awaited trip to Costa Rica - but it's become more and more obvious that right now is not the time for someone in the financial industry to take a $5,000 vacation. Call me crazy, but I figure it's probably best not to spend a ton of money - for all I know, I may not even have a job at this time next year.

So Thursday morning, as I was sitting in my office looking out over the mounds of gray snow that covered the city, I made a realization.

I don't have to go to Costa Rica, but I do have to get away. I need sun. I need warmth. I need a break from the daily suicide watch over our stock price, and I need to stop worrying about what the markets and economy are doing to my psyche (and that of my clients).

I'm not rich by any means, but I have a little bit of money. I can splurge just a little. I can afford....something.

That something is a deal on a Travelocity last minute weekend trip to Puerto Rico. I'm going with P & A, and we're leaving this coming Saturday morning. Three full days and nights in Isla Verde, complete with hammocks on the beach, palm trees, a rain forest tour, and moonlit kayaking through the bioluminescent lagoons.

I will not be bringing my blackberry.

My laptop will be staying home, feeling abandoned.

I will bring my phone, but will only turn it on if I fall into a well and find myself haunted by the ghost of Ponce de Leon.

I am packing two decks of cards, a crossword puzzle book, my camera, and enough sunscreen to prevent A from spontaneously combusting.

I will drink rum.

I will nap on the beach.

I will follow the guys to whatever stupid-ass historical sites they want to visit when I'd rather be drinking rum (hey, I'm a giver.)

I will find a place to sit outside one night and listen to live music under the stars.

I will buy fruit I've never heard of, and wear a very silly straw hat.

I will learn to snorkel, and I will not drown. *

I will swim in a pool beneath a waterfall in the rainforest.

I will get ripped off buying trinkets in the Rio Piedras market.

I will come home sunburned and miserably happy about the fact.

I will fill you in when I get back. **

*hopefully
**I promise

One fine Christmas morning nearly thirty years ago, my parents bestowed upon me a gift which, in all of its popular glory, would eventually try my patience more than almost any other item known to man.

It was, in fact, a simple Rubik's Cube.

I hated that damn thing. Just like every other eight year-old on the planet, I was convinced that if I tried hard enough, long enough, unfailingly enough, I could figure it out. First, I solved one side. Then I figured out how to get two. After that...

...I was done.

There was no way in hell I could make that stupid cube come together the way it was supposed to. The harder I tried, the more frustrated I became. For God's sake, I was eight years old! Why couldn't I make it work?!

Then it hit me. Maybe, just maybe, if I turned it just so...and then twisted it a little bit here, and nudged it that way a bit.....

Bingo.

The entire thing fell apart into pieces in my hand. All I had to do was make sure no one was looking, and I could reassemble the cube into an orderly slate of perfect colors. No one would ever know.

Unfortunately for me at the time, my family was not composed of idiots. They were immediately skeptical, and demanded I do it again while they watched. Unable to do so, I retreated to my bedroom where - magically - I figured out how to solve it again! I brought it back out to the family room, triumphant. My sister was the first to notice that the mechanics of the cube seemed somehow...looser than before.

"Did you take it apart and put it back together?" She demanded.

"NO!" I insisted. I was belligerent. How could she accuse me of such a thing? Why didn't she believe me? Wasn't I smart enough to solve a Rubik's Cube? What gave her the right to call me a cheater?

I pouted. I stomped. I huffed and puffed, and then went to sulk in my room.

If only I had known that I was a terrible liar, it all would have worked out much differently. The red face, stammering speech, and inability to look people in the eye while making up ridiculous stories was, it turns out, a dead giveaway. Who'd have thunk it?

Anyway, shortly thereafter, I became aware that people could always tell when I was lying. I would never make a decent spy, and I'd have to give up my lifelong dream of being a professional poker player (okay, I made that part up. how did you know?) It turned out that I just wasn't the kind of person who could create a credible fabrication to save my life. I learned my lesson.

There I was, at the ripe old age of nine, with a broken Rubik's cube, the eternal scorn of an older sister, and a healthy sense of respect for puzzles that were smarter than I was.

So my question to you, my friends, is this.

When do I get to be governor?

Ms. peas' blog is so funny it damn near killed me. Is it any wonder why I love this woman?

Now somebody go get me a cookie.

A - "Hey, Mom."

Me - "Yeah."

A - "You know what I love about you?"

Me - "What's that?"

A - "You're not retarded."

*copious laughter*

Me - "That's the nicest thing anyone has said to me all day."

A - "That's because they're all retarded."

Me - "You know that's horribly mean to the developmentally challenged population."

A - "You know what I mean. Not real retarded. Just retarded-retarded."

Me - "I know. Just don't talk like that at school, okay?"

A - "Yeah. Because then they'd be like, 'Wow. He's retarded.'"

*more laughter*

Me - "My brain just 'sploded."

A - "My work here is done."

I have been listening to this album, Ma Fleur, almost constantly lately.

This song haunts me.

Wow, it's been a while. Hard to believe I haven't found the time to write over the last month, but here I am. It's probably time to catch up a bit.

Christmas was much as it always is, with a few exceptions. A and I both ended up with strep throat, which we (luckily) didn't pass on to anyone else. P's birthday coincided with the holidays, and the joke was, "Happy Birthday! You might want to call your doctor and ask for some antibiotics..."

I made it in and out of Michigan in less than 36 hours, which may be a record for me. I was delighted to spend time with my grandpa, took my sister's girls out shopping for 'girl things' (shoes, crafts, and such), and somehow managed to tolerate my brother-in-law's insistence on watching football while we opened presents. The roads were horrendous around the lake and we were both fighting to stay a step ahead of the strep, but we made it home in one piece. Whew.

After the holidays, it was time to start settling in to my new office, which is really quite nice (with the exception of the commute of over an hour and a half each way). I have a 34th floor view of the city, a real door that I can close, and plenty of space to spread out all of my chotchkies (I wasn't sure how to spell that...can you believe the firefox spell-check suggested crotchless? Hmm.) I just have to somehow get used to standing out on the train platform at 6:45 AM in the below-zero weather every morning. That might take me a while.

Also on the work front, it's getting scarier every day to work for a bank. We've been informed that there will be no raises this year, no long-term incentive compensation, and our sales goals have tripled.

Because yeah, everyone is looking to rock the boat in their investment portfolios right now.

Other than that, I've just not felt like writing lately. Between car problems, the mind-numbing cold, some frustrating financial issues, and trying to keep up with the seventeen schedules I have to follow, writing just hasn't been on the priority list. Now the guilt is catching up with me, though, so I'll try to be better.

On a lighter note, A is now playing his guitar in a rock band. It's a program through the local guitar shop where they put a bunch of kids together for rehearsals twice a week for twelve weeks, then throw them up on stage at a local bar (closed and alcohol-free for the event) for everyone to go see. His best friend is playing in the band with him, and they're having an absolute riot. I can't wait for the concert.

Also, P and I are doing well. He continues to make me smile. And have I mentioned that he's hot?

Just checking.

If you haven't heard from me and feel you should have, just call me. If I don't call you back, send a messenger with poisoned darts. That will get my attention, most likely. If you know me at all, though, you know that I tend to hibernate in the winter, and I don't get out much. This doesn't mean I don't love you...it just means I am very busy getting mentally poised for spring.

More soon...