The 3 Day San Diego Breast Cancer Walk

After 8 weeks of training, we finally hit the pavement in San Diego and started ticking off the miles. These weren’t training miles. Nope, these were the real thing.

Those 3 days were perhaps the most amazing, magical 3 days I’ve experienced. A microcosm of all that is good and right in the world. Three days of enthusiasm, of inspiration, of encouragement, of determination, of caring, of service, of support, and of laughter. And did I mention pink? There was lots and lots of pink. I have really never experienced anything quite like it before, but despite the crazy beauty of the event itself, I know one thing for sure. I am never, ever, ever, NOT EVER, walking 60 miles again. No sir. Not me. ☺

Still, the experience was amazing, in no small part due to the incredible cast of volunteers. There were nearly 5000 walkers and more than 550 volunteers, supporters and staff. I would love to see the operations manual for this event, because as near as I could tell, it ran flawlessly.

We arrived very early Friday morning at the Del Mar Fairgrounds, where we were met by volunteers dressed in their pajamas and fuzzy slippers. Apparently they had just rolled out of bed in order to help us load our luggage onto the trucks that would carry it to our campsite, some 20 miles south.

We made our way to the Opening Ceremonies where we quickly found our friends Steve, Jenne’ and Momme’. It was easy to find Jenne' as she is the national spokesperson for the 3 Day. If you can find the stage, you can almost always find Jenne’. In fact, Jenne’ is who first told us about the 3 Day and we initially signed up in support of her. As we began training and fundraising, it became so much bigger than that, but seeing her up on stage was a very cool reminder of how our journey started.

And then we were off. All 5000 of us padded our way through the streets and sidewalks of Del Mar. We climbed the hills of Torrey Pines State Park, wound our way down to La Jolla Cove and finally, 20 miles and 11 hours later, Sam and I arrived at camp which was in Mission Bay Park, right on the water.

Along the way we were cheered by countless numbers of supporters.
Office buildings hung giant banners along the route and hundreds of office employees came out to clap and cheer for us. Shops and restaurants put out bowls of candy, snacks, Kleenex, sunscreen, lip balm, balloons and buttons. Individuals dressed themselves, their children and their animals in pink and stood outside their homes waving and clapping for us. At the top of one particularly steep hill a couple spritzed us with water bottles, and at the top of another hill, a resident had thrown a hose over the fence so we could splash our faces. Still others put stereo speakers in their windows or boom boxes in their driveways to play music as we passed by.

And then there were the walker stalkers. These were dedicated individuals who followed us along the route to entertain us. They would stop in one spot, let us pass, and then drive several miles ahead of us, stop and do it all again. One guy sang to us through speakers in the back of his truck. Another handed out smiley face pins with his 4 year old daughter.



And this hilarious older gentleman wore a sign around his neck that proclaimed “I’m a Breast Man!”



Everybody loved the San Jose bicycle police as they flirted and popped wheelies for us.



But my favorites were these two women who dressed as cows, drove a black and white spotted PT Cruiser and road around telling us to “Moooo-ve it!”



There were 3 Day volunteers who dressed in crazy costumes and drove up and down the route honking and cheering. They drove sweep vans, which were vans you could take to the next pit stop if you were hurt or just too tired, and each van was decorated in a different theme, including this one which was covered in bras.








And every 2-3 miles there were pit stops with a medic tent, port-a-potties, snacks, Gatorade and water. Each of the pit stops had a theme and all of the volunteers dressed accordingly.


Needless to say, we were thoroughly encouraged and entertained, and the show of support from the community was particularly touching. Still, the miles were long and hard, and both Sam and I limped into camp that first night, certain we wouldn’t be able to do another 20 miles the next day. Despite our training, we both developed shin splints and muscle cramps, but thankfully no blisters that first day.

We set up our tent, organized our gear, ate dinner (Oh my God did it taste amazing even though it was just pasta and sauce). We showered in semi truck trailers and the showers were some of the best I’ve ever had! The water was hot, hot, hot, the water pressure ferocious and the trailers themselves were filled with steam, almost like a sauna.

Everyone watches for the last walker to come into camp, so we can cheer them. When that person arrives, everyone goes crazy with excitement! The last walker has the honor of raising the flag over camp, which signifies that everyone is home and safe.

And then - lights out at 9:00 pm. Sam and I slept like rocks, despite the sleeping bag and tent. I think I could have slept anywhere as tired as I was. I got up in the night to go to the bathroom (the worst part about camping) and it was really cool to look to my right and see the ocean and to my left and see a sea of pink tents.

People began getting up at 4:30 and 5:00 the next morning. Sam and I slept in (!) till 5:30am. Then it was breakfast, stretching and we were back on the trail. Day 2 wasn’t significantly harder than Day 1, but it was long. Our route took us through Ocean Beach and Sunset Cliffs. At one point, we looked down an alley and saw walkers going the opposite direction at the other end. We realized if we cut through it would be a huge shortcut. It was tempting, so tempting, but we talked ourselves out of it.

That night we went to the camp show which included a karaoke contest, a lost and found fashion show and believe it or not, a dance party. I would not have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes, but as Jenne’ so aptly put it, “Nothing says I’ve just walked 40 miles like doing the electric slide.” The stage and dance floor were crowded with people dancing their hearts out. Of course I’m convinced they all took sweep vans back to camp right after mile 6. Ha!


Sam and I visited the Remembrance Tents that night as well. There were 14 white tents that sat on a slight rise at the edge of camp, each illuminated from the inside creating a beautiful glow. 13 of the tents represented each city where a 3 Day walk had been held this year. The 14th tent was larger and inside was a smaller white tent, also illuminated from the inside. The large tent was lined with photos of women who had participated in a 3 Day walk whose lives had been lost to breast cancer, some only weeks earlier. There was a long table with journals to write in, and there were markers so that you could write the name of your loved one on the smaller white tent. It was beautiful and sad and put our sore muscles and aching feet into sharp relief.
Day 3 started with everyone taking down their tents. It was sad to see camp come down even though it meant I would soon be sleeping in a real bed.

Day 3 was a killer for me. My feet were hurting terribly after just 2 miles and I was so afraid I wouldn’t be able to finish. We saw a lot of walking wounded that day, people with bandaged knees, ankles and shins. People with entire sections of their shoes cut away to deal with blisters. Both Sam and I had shin splints, muscle cramps, blisters and sore, sore feet.

Our route took us past the Mission Bay Golf Course, Fiesta Island, Old Town San Diego, Mission Hills Park, and Balboa Park. The route was especially pretty, but still it was a struggle for me to maintain a positive attitude. I wanted to quit. I WANTED TO SIT DOWN! I asked everyone around me, “How are you doing? How do you feel?” They all said the same thing. “We hurt. We are tired. We want to quit.” But they didn’t. Everyone kept walking. One foot in front of the other. I did the same.

Left. Right. Left… ouch! Right. Every 15 seconds my brain asked me if I wouldn’t like to quit, if I wouldn’t like to end this insanity. Left. Right. Left. Right. I kept telling myself to walk normally, because as soon as I gave into the pain, I would begin to hobble which caused other parts of my body to clench up and hurt. Left. Right. Walk naturally. Good. Keep going. Left. Right. Ouch!




Finally, finally, it was over. When I saw the gate to Petco Park, which signaled the end, I burst into tears. Thank God we’d made it. The walkers who had finished before us had formed a long tunnel for us to walk through in celebration of completing the walk. They high-fived us and hugged us and cheered us. It was so cool.



Once everyone had arrived we walked together, arms linked, and wearing our white “completion” t-shirts, into the closing ceremonies. The staff and volunteers and supporters lined our path and it felt a bit like “This is your life” to see them all together at one time.

Once we were in, the survivors, all wearing pink t-shirts, walked in together. Everyone took off a shoe and raised it in the air to honor them. These steps were for you.

Closing ceremonies, and then it was over. There were hugs and tears as we all said our goodbyes and went our separate ways. I knew for certain as we climbed into our cab that we were leaving something remarkable, something much bigger than the two of us.

I thought of the women whose photos were on the walls of the Remembrance Tent. I thought of Rhonda, Katherine’s Mom. I thought of Katherine. I thought of my own grandmother. I thought of the women whose stories I learned from all of you, whose names are scrolling on my 3-Day webpage. And I knew my blisters would heal, my feet would stop hurting, and my muscles would relax. But until there is a cure for breast cancer, moms and daughters and sisters and grandmothers will not have the same luxury of quick recovery as I do.

Thank you for your exceedingly generous support and encouragement. Because of you, Sam and I were able to present a combined contribution of nearly $28,000. Because of you, we are that much closer to finding a cure.

Thank you. From the bottom of our hearts, thank you.

Crash

sweet smoke
full moon
Dave Matthews,
heal my wounds

Sometimes, music is required

This past Thursday I attended a funeral. Judy Eubank, the mother of one of my best friends, died unexpectedly.

I’ve known Judy for nearly as long as I’ve known her daughter, my dear friend Carrie. Carrie and I first met when we were both fresh out of college and new in our careers. Carrie was job hunting and was referred to me for an informational interview. Instead of talking about job opportunities, we gossiped about our respective employers and when our allotted appointment time ran out, we agreed to meet for lunch to continue our conversation. We became fast friends, developing a bond that has only deepened over the past 15 years.

I met Judy only a short time after meeting Carrie. Carrie was still living at home and I was instantly intrigued and enamored with the strong relationship she and her mother shared.

Over the years I came to know Judy in three distinct ways. She was first and foremost the matriarch of the Eubank family. At bridal showers, weddings, baby showers and holidays, she presided over the gatherings with the pride and confidence of a mother lion. One of my favorite memories is of sitting along side Judy and Carrie at Broadway Church on Sundays. Judy was a strong and independent woman, and to be included in her family brood, as I often was, was to feel safe and loved.

I knew her most recently as her banker. Judy called me several years ago to talk about her car, which was in need of replacing. I was both flattered and terrified when she called. That she was willing to trust me to help her through a financial difficulty was something I took very seriously. We worked out a rather creative arrangement and she moved her banking relationship to my bank. Over the ensuing years, she called to let me know each and every time interest rates rose. She also called regularly to ask questions about the minutest details of her account. To say she was high maintenance would not be an overstatement. But I never stopped feeling flattered that she trusted me to answer her questions.

I knew her most intimately through Carrie’s eyes. Judy, as a mother, was a strong force of a woman who loved her children with a fierce intensity. She was a mountain stream – beautiful and powerful, shaping and molding with her intensity all those within her embrace. As the youngest of 3 children and the only one who remained in Kansas City, Carrie has spent most of her adult years negotiating that fine line along which she is both an accomplished adult with a family of her own, and yet still and always her mother’s baby girl. Carrie has for the last 20 years, spent equal amounts of time trying to become closer to and stand independent from Judy. It is the dance mothers and daughters have danced throughout the ages and I’ve watched from Carrie’s side, mesmerized, and a little bit envious.

Judy died in her sleep, without warning to those who loved her. She’d spent the previous two days enjoying having her entire family in town for a reunion she'd organized. Always the matriarch, even unto death.

The funeral was bittersweet. The suddenness of her death meant that her friends and family were fresh with grief and shock. Photos of Judy throughout her life lined the back wall of the church. She was stunning as a young woman. A photo of her as a teenager sitting on a railing next to a sign that read, “Do not sit on railing,” was surely a sign of the independent path she would forge as an adult.

The service was filled with Judy’s favorite things. She loved simple pleasures: music, poetry, fresh flowers, a cool glass of water with a twist of fresh lemon. We listened to poetry that Judy had written over the years, and to classical music, a country song, and a beautiful, sad guitar piece that Tommy, Judy’s musician son performed.

I sat in my old pew at Broadway Church, and felt as if it had only been last week since I’d last sat there. (In truth it’s been more than 10 years). The space felt as warm and inviting and safe as ever. Paul and Marcia – co-ministers of the church – had aged, but their message was the same. “You belong. You are safe.” Its no wonder Judy loved this place as she did. And I loved it too, thanks to her and to Carrie.

I sat together with Carrie’s other best girlfriends. Each of us understood that this was big, very big. Judy's passing was a seismic event. There was just no other way of understanding it. We wept as Judy’s best friend read a letter that Carrie had written to her mom. Tommy’s band mates sat a few rows ahead of us. I watched as these big guys cried openly while Tommy’s song “Glassy Headlights” played.

I had a clear view of Carrie as she sat in the front row, flanked by her siblings Tommy and Mindy, her husband and her children. She was grieving, but throughout the service she was first a mom, holding her kids on her lap, comforting them, just like Judy would have done.

Mindy’s husband Scott took little Jackson to the bathroom and Tommy stretched his arm across the space between them and gestured, “Come here, come closer.” Mindy did, and perhaps the biggest flood of tears for me came as I watched Tommy wrap his arm around his sister’s shoulder and hold her tightly. Judy’s fierce love lived on.

As I looked around I was struck by the fact that for the most part, we had mostly first known each other as kids, or young adults. And now here we sat, with kids of our own, with grey in our hair, some of us with extra pounds around our waist, with mortgages and car loans, obligations and responsibilities, and we were burying our parents. Our parents! How did this happen? When did we become this grown up? Did we ever really believe the baton would be passed? That the role of family matriarch or patriarch, would fall to us?

I watched Carrie’s children, Sophie and Mikey, and remembered my own grandparents’ funerals. Had my parents wondered how it had come to this? How they could be burying their own parents?

Following the service, we gathered on the front steps of the church as Judy’s seven grandchildren – ranging in age from 6 months to 9 years – each let go of a single balloon in memory of their grandma Nani. Simple. And beautiful. As Judy would have wanted it. The seven balloons rose up in unison, free of earthly tethers, floating away into the crisp blue sky, undaunted by the blazing sun. I watched until they disappeared.

After everyone else had gone, I stood on the front steps talking with Carrie and her girlfriends until I was baked through from the heat. When we finally said our goodbyes, I decided to go home, even though I should have gone back to work.

At home, I peeled off my sticky clothes and stood under the cool spray of the shower. I redressed, went downstairs, poured myself a glass of water, with ice cubes, and lemon. I sliced a fresh tomato and ate it with a little vinegar, salt and pepper. Simple pleasures. Simply enjoyed.

Thank you Judy, for reminding me that in the end it is about how much you have loved, and that the greatest joy can be found in the simplest things.

You will be missed.


When spirits speak,
few words are needed.
Sometimes, music is required.

Judy Eubank
1942 - 2007

The Secret

As usual, Val has said something that got me thinking. She has that way about her. Last week Sam and I made a spontaneous trek across 63rd to share a bottle of wine with our favorite neighbors and we starting talking about the best selling book “The Secret.” Val believes in the power of setting intentions. I do too, but there is a place somewhere in there where I think it feels silly.

If I say I want a red Porsche, will it cause one to miraculously appear in my drive way? I don’t think so. On the other hand, if I say I want a red Porsche, and I really do, and I remind myself everyday that I want it, doesn’t it make sense that I will start organizing my life in a way that will allow me to acquire one? Well, I think it does.

Val told us that a year or so ago she set the intention that she would be earning $40M a year from her rental properties. Now she is. She laughed, “I think I have to set the goal higher!” That makes sense to me. Val & Vern buy houses in the hood, renovate them beautifully, and lease them out to Section 8 and other tenants. They really care about their houses, their tenants, and their neighbors. Slumlords they are not. Val says she can tell a real difference in some of the blocks where they’ve purchased properties in that the neighbors seem to feel a sense of pride at having a truly well maintained property on their block. She says she’s noticed that other neighbors have begun taking better care of their properties. And because Val has never met a stranger, she’s gotten neighbors talking to each other, where before they were not.

But anyway, I digress. Val wanted to make enough to live on from her rental properties. Though I don’t know the details, I imagine that with each house Val and Vern buy, they think through the income and expense potential to decided if it will get them closer to their $40,000 a year goal. If it doesn’t fit the plan, they don’t buy the house. That’s intention in action.

I get that, yet for most of my life I have been loathe to set goals or intentions for myself. That’s not to say I haven’t gone through the motions a hundred or so times. For most of my life, I’ve had employers urging me to set goals around things I didn’t really care about. I did it, but those goals didn’t motivate me, instead they felt like a weight hanging around my shoulders. Ugh.

But there have been other goals I have cared about. When I was younger (in my 20s and early 30s) I used to make long lists of things I wanted to accomplish in my life. I would organize them into categories: trips to take, friends to spend time with, classes to take, languages to learn, weight to attain, money to earn, debts to pay, etc. Each list was several pages long. I still have those lists and they are fun to re-read, but I am not sure they actually caused me to do anything differently.

In more recent years I’ve drafted a narrative that describes the values I hold most dear in my life. I holed away in a hotel room for a day and a half to do it, and put my entire heart and soul into the effort, but I couldn’t tell you off the top of my head what I came up with. Sigh.

I guess if I’m really honest with myself, I would have to say that part of the problem with goals is that I hate setting myself up for failure. In order for it to seem a worthy goal, I end up setting the bar very high. Lose 20 pounds before Christmas – and keep it off. Now there’s a new one, and also one I’ve yet to achieve, despite having set it year after year after year. I don’t even bother putting it on my list anymore. I want to weigh less, but I also realize I don’t want it badly enough to make the daily sacrifices needed to make it happen. There is a difference between wanting the end result of a goal and being willing to do the hard work of getting there.

Which brings me back to my problem with “The Secret” which contends that all that is needed is the desire and intent. If you set your heart upon your desire then magically the hard work disappears and what you imagined will appear. If that were true, I would have been a size 4 for the last 20 years.

Well, all this thinking about goals and intentions is really the result of Val’s suggestion that we start a neighborly tradition of meeting on or around July 4th each year and setting our intentions for the year – just to see what happens.

Both Sam and I sat down and wrote out our goals this morning (and I am happy to report that no where on my list is “lose weight”) We will share them with Val & Vern later today and then Val will keep them in a safe place until this time next year when we will do it again.

I have to say that the act of having this “assignment” from Val, who both Sam and I love dearly, makes it more meaningful, and as a result I am taking it more seriously than I have in a long time.

I am not going to share my goals here, but they will be in a safe place at Val’s house, and next year on the 4th of July, I’ll let you know how we did.

At the speed of busyness, the world becomes a blur

My friend Jack has been telling me for a couple of years that only about 20% of what we do really needs to get done. The other 80% is just busywork. The problem is knowing which 20% is the part that matters.

Jack's advice has not quite been believable until recently. My busyness is important. All 100% of it. Perhaps 10% could be left undone, but that extra 10% is what sets me apart, gives me my edge. I've never been afraid of hard work or long hours.

10% I can accept, even if I do find a way to justify it, but 80%? That would mean MOST of what I spend my time being busy with is really unnecessary. What would it mean if that were true?

I was interviewed by a reporter recently and he asked what motivates me. I answered without hesitation. Fear. For most of my life fear has chased me out of bed each morning and sent me scrambling to stay ahead of the growing wave of "things to do". Like a surfer, I've ridden that wave of busyness, exhilarated by its power and immenseness and all the while terrified that it will buckle and come crashing down upon my head.

There seems always far more to do than could ever be done. My fear of not keeping up, and my satisfaction at being able to check something off my list, provides the motivation for my daily churn.

My constant busyness allows for no experience of rest, save for the total exhaustion I feel at the end of each day. There is little room for spontaneity or reflection and even less for miracle or delight.

And as the speed of my busyness intensifies, the world around me begins to blur. Lives that move at a slower pace than mine begin to lose focus. Lives not scheduled on my calendar, their very existence begins to fade.

What would it mean if all this were just busywork? What would it mean indeed?

We Need to Talk

"We need to talk."

When I was single and dating, those were words I never wanted to hear. Generally they preceeded other conversation which included phrases like "It's not you, it's me" "I just need to figure some things out" "I need time alone" and my perennial favorite "I feel like you are one of my very best friends..."

Now that I am married "we need to talk" takes on a different tone, though no less ominous. These days it's more likely to signal a financial crisis conversation than anything else.

Today I heard the words from a customer. In writing. I've had a bad feeling for a couple of weeks, but nothing concrete to tie it to. When you've been doing this (lending money) for as long as I have, you start to develop a six sense about such things.

I read the email. A chill ran down my spine. I am pretty sure what's coming is a combination of both the dating and the marriage scenarios.

Damn it. This is the part of my job I really hate.

Farming

I've been farming lately, or at least I like to think of it that way. I know the more accurate term is gardening. I'm not growing cash crops. I'm not driving a tractor, or a bailer, or a combine. It's just me and my spade and the tiny containers of hopeful shoots and buds - their fate depending completely on my ability to connect them to the life giving earth. They wilt and moan and generally hang their heads with hopelessness as they wait for me to decide where they will go. Days pass. Their heads droop further. Finally I decide. I'm not good at preparing their nest. I don't have the patience. A turn of the spade and they've been dropped into their hole. A good watering. This I have patience for. I count to 20 or 30, or 75 if it's a tree. And then they are on their own. I check in everyday. I watch their progress, trying to figure out what to do if they don't take. Usually they grow. And it amazes me that I can do this.

On Retreat

Not long ago I spent 4 days with my dear friend Lynn in Salt Lake City. Spending time with Lynn is like being on retreat. We have long, deep, authentic conversations. We eat wonderful food and drink delicious wine. We hike in the mornings, soaking up the spectacular mountain views, and spend the afternoons pampering ourselves with massage or yoga or naps. We find lots of reasons to have dessert. We read magazines, share books, go to bed early and start the day again with steaming cups of coffee and tea in the morning light. We both hate to talk on the phone. And neither of us has much time to write. We might not have another meaningful conversation for 12 months, but when Lynn picks me up from the SLC airport next June, we'll start up exactly where we left off. And that is the beauty of our friendship.

Our yoga instructor read this poem by David Whyte at the beginning of class. I've read it every day since I've come home, and so I'll share it with you too.


SELF-PORTRAIT
~David Whyte

It doesn't interest me if there is one God
or many gods.
I want to know if you belong or feel
abandoned,
if you can know despair or see it in others.
I want to know
if you are prepared to live in the world
with its harsh need
to change you. If you can look back
with firm eyes,
saying this is where I stand.
I want to know
if you know
how to melt into that fierce heat of living,
falling toward
the center of your longing.
I want to know
if you are willing
to live, day by day, with the consequence of love
and the bitter
unwanted passion of your sure defeat.
I have heard, in that fierce embrace, even
the gods speak of God.

Two Figures

I’ve been strangely calm these last couple of weeks, like all the craziness of the weeks before have drained my reserves for drama. A water pipe is broken under the building, could cost $10M or more. Really? Too bad. We lose a good client at work. Bad timing. So sorry. I gain several extra pounds over night, and it turns out not to be water weight. Bummer. It all rolls off me like water off a duck’s back. My heartbeat stays slow. No sweaty palms, or racing mind.

Actually that’s not true. An e-mail last week sent me spinning. And that’s when I realized I’d not had that anxious feeling in such a long while.

It makes a difference. The anxiety is cumulative. And so is the calm. Every anxious day increases the chances that I won’t sleep that night. Which in turn increases the chances for more anxiety the next day. Every calm day, increases the chances for more calm days. And so on. And so forth. Forever and ever. Amen.

Sam and I bought a ceramic sculpture at the Brookside Art Fair. Two figures, male and female, looking out over a turbulent ocean. A tiny dingy at the edge of the tide. A white egret perched on its bow. Peace in the midst of struggle. Companionship in the eye of the storm.

Passage of Time

Not so much 40 as now nearly 41.
When did age become so important,
and the date of my birth call forth such intensity?

Today I mourned the death of a man whose phone calls I avoided.
Yet his absence has torn a hole too large to fill.

Twice I’ve called out to his spirit.
In the car, alone, where no one can hear.
"Are you ok?" I’ve asked, to no reply.

I told his daughters he was ornery and they smiled.
I meant that he was abrupt and arrogant.
Or maybe he just knew what he wanted.

Either way he is gone.
"A stinker," his wife said. "Such a stinker."

Not so much alive now, as merely dead and done.
Why did age become so important,
and the date of his death call forth such mourning?

Pushed ...

"The walls came down, it was a fucking disaster."

I said I was sorry.
I am not.

Leaving...

Linda is leaving. Moving to Oklahoma City. Soon. Like, by the end of April. And my life as I know it will be forever changed.

Linda works with me and is my number one reason for getting through the day. Every day. Truly, she has saved my butt on so many occasions. She is the yin to my yang. She remembers where I forget, is calm where I am anxious, and quick when I am slow. She received flowers last week, again, from one of the customers we work together to take care of. Our customers love her. And I love her. And how I will ever replace her, I just don't know.

I've been awfully lucky to have had the opportunity to work with her these last 2 1/2 years. She's set the bar incredibly high for anyone who dares follow in her footsteps.

I'll miss you Linda.

Twister (or Lucid Dreaming)

Sam and I have different appetites for risk. When we first met he was Captain Cautious, always on the lookout for potential dangers. I, on the other hand, loved adventure and exploration. I loved intensity. Sam loved calm.

Sam worried that Katherine, at age 10, might stick her fingers in a wall outlet next to her bed while she slept. Meanwhile, I was rafting white water and jumping from airplanes.

I teased Sam about his caution. He was aghast at my fearlessness. We were on opposite ends of the “risk taker” spectrum, or so it seemed.

About 6 months into our dating, I came across a magazine article on America’s appetite for risk. The article included a “find your risk quotient” self-quiz. I love taking these types of tests, and I was also eager to validate my superior “risk quotient.”

The first two questions were easy.

Q: If given the opportunity to skydive, would you?
A: Absolutely.

Q: Would you travel to a foreign country alone?
A: Of course.

And then they threw a curve.

Q: Would you use your life savings to start a business?
A: Huh? Um, well, I’d rather not.

Q: When you walk into a crowded room filled with people you don’t know, what is your first instinct?
A: Easy. My instinct is to run and hide in the bathroom.

Q: Would you rush into a burning building to save a stranger?
A: Definitely.

Q: Would you bet a month’s wages at a casino?
A: No way. (not even a day’s wage)

There were 50 or so questions, covering all types of risk, including many (like business and social risk) I had not previously considered. My score was solidly average. Hmmm.

I asked Sam to take the quiz. He also scored a solid average. In fact, our scores turned out to be exactly the same, but as we read through the questions we realized our answers were opposites in nearly every instance.

I embraced physical risk and situational risk, but stayed as far away as possible from social and financial risk. Sam kept a safe distance from physical and situational risk, but was hard pressed to see the risk in the social and financial situations presented. I’m a banker and he’s an entrepreneur. It made sense but it was also fascinating.

Over the years, we’ve adjusted to each other’s sense of risk, but not without some grumbling. More often than not I try to drag Sam along on one of my mini-adventures. The more he resists, the more stubborn I become. Generally he tolerates me and on more than one occasion he has saved my butt.

So the dream I had just before waking Saturday morning in Napa was particularly telling and entertaining. It went something like this…

We are driving down a 2-lane road somewhere in rural America. The skies are dark and menacing as a storm brews. We come to a fork in the road. It is clearly the road less traveled, which means it holds great allure for me.

“Let’s go down this road,” I suggest.

“I’d rather not,” Sam answers dryly.

“Why not!” I demand.

“Because there are tornadoes forming down that road.”

“There are not! Where?”

“Right there,” Sam points.

Sure enough, right there in front of us, but certainly a safe distance away, is a white tornado snaking toward the ground.

“Oh my God!! That is so cool. Let’s try to get closer! Go down that road!” I insist excitedly.

“I would really rather not,” Sam says deliberately and through clenched teeth.

“Come on! Go! Go! Let’s go check it out. It’s not that big of a deal. Hurry!” I am beside myself with eagerness.

Sam turns down the road and the tornado is straight ahead a couple of miles. As I watch, dumbstruck, several more tornadoes begin to drop from the clouds. I suddenly realize there are at least 7 tornadoes on the horizon and they are beginning to encircle us.

“Um, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.” I venture.

Without saying a word, but with a distinct look of “I’ve known this all along, and I can’t believe it took you this long to figure it out” Sam pulls hard on the steering wheel, whipping the car back around in the opposite direction. He floors it and I can hear the tornadoes close behind us.

“Oh man! I can’t believe all these tornadoes came out of nowhere! Good grief. Drive as fast as you can – ok?” I instruct him.

“I am!” he answers through a still clenched jaw.

We race down the road, just a mile or so ahead of the tornadoes, which seem to be in hot pursuit.

And then the dream morphs into something else.

I love that I had this dream. It was so perfectly lucid, it's hard to believe I was asleep.

With Friends Like These...

Relief! And thank God for it! I finally started feeling better last night. Sam and I went to dinner in Napa (my first meal out since we left Kansas City) and as we were ordering dessert, I realized I had gone nearly an hour and a half without pain. Yahoo! I am so full of antibiotics that my skin actually smells like the pills, but I don’t care. I am just so happy to be pain free.

This morning I woke up feeling fine and we have celebrated by spending the entire morning lying in bed watching the Food Network on the flat screen tv at the end of our bed. This is a special treat for Sam. Because I am an ornery and cheap curmudgeon, even when I am feeling well, I have drawn the line at spending $100 a month for cable so we can watch mindless drivel in the free time we don’t have. But on vacation, well that’s a different story! This morning we learned how to cook all kinds of tasty dishes just as soon as we get home. My favorite show of all was “Ham on the Street.” This guy was hilarious and proved that you can make a grilled cheese & jelly sandwich with any kind of bread, cheese and jelly and have it turn our deliciously. I think I’ll try it.

Anyway, I don’t have much time to post but I did want to thank a couple of friends for their supportive and loving comments over the last several days.

First – an email from my best buds Julie & Aaron upon learning that I was in such a bad state.

“Wish we could be there with you. Of course we’d be drinking wine. But we would be holding your hand with our free hand.”

And then a phone conversation Sam had with his friend Jeff Mott who, learning about my state of health, and also knowing about the “deal” Sam and I had made, quipped,

“Oh that is just awful, especially for you Sam. Do you think you’ll be able to get a rain check?”

Really, with friends like these, who needs enemies? Hee! Hee! Seriously, thanks guys, for making me laugh.

Well, I am off to enjoy wine country.

Living Large in San Francisco

I am so miserable. I have spent the last 2 days of our vacation lying in bed in the very pretty room of our swank hotel just off Union Square in San Francisco. There is plenty to do just outside my window and the weather has been beautiful. But I am afraid to venture more than 10 feet from the room, and even when I ‘ve been willing to risk it, I haven’t had the energy to walk more than a block or so.

Late Tuesday afternoon, I realized I was getting a bladder infection. This is the third one I’ve had; the last was nearly 15 years ago. It’s not hard to know you have a bladder infection. For those who have yet to experience this little bit of hell on earth, imagine a hundred fire ants crawling around inside your bladder, producing a constant and intense urge to pee, coupled with a burning pain that lasts several long seconds every time you try to go.

As soon as I recognized my symptoms I headed for CVS to buy some AZO Standard. These little red pills have, in the past, done wonders to stop the pain until I could get started on antibiotics. I popped a couple and felt pretty good for the rest of the evening.

Wednesday morning, Sam and I got up early to catch our plane. I didn’t feel great, but assumed my morning dose of AZO would help. I was wrong. I spent the next 4 hours in the air, in misery. There was a lot of turbulence, which meant the pilot kept the “fasten seat belts” sign on for long stretches of time. A woman a few rows ahead of me got up to use the restroom and the kind (not!) stewardess used the woman’s daring dash to remind us over the loud speaker to please respect the pilot’s opinion and stay in our seats. (I know Sam just posted about his enduring love for Southwest. For the record, I was feeling all kinds of things on that flight and none of them could be classified as love!)

Anyway, although I certainly respected the pilot’s opinion, I was pretty sure that staying in my seat was going to result in much embarrassment so I screwed up my courage and made a run for it. The stewardess who had used the loudspeaker to demand respect got up from her jump seat as I neared the restroom door. For the love of God, could this woman not see that I was in a serious hurry? She started to tell me that the pilot… blah, blah, blah…but I slid around her and into the bathroom, tossing a sharp, “If I could have waited, I would have!” over my shoulder.

The problem with a bladder infection is that it tricks you into thinking that if you could just reach a restroom you will be ok. But, oh no, that is simply not true. Instead you are met with this unbelievably ridiculous amount of pain, and typically, very little urine. You feel better for about 60 seconds before the entire thing starts over again.

I climbed over my seat-mate several times before deciding I might as well just stand in the back next to the bathroom door. This was not a popular decision with Stewardess Ratchet, but she tolerated me.

Four long, miserable hours later we made it to San Francisco. We hired a cab to take us to a Walgreen’s near our hotel, where my doctor had called in an antibiotic prescription. I was nearly in tears by the time I reached the pharmacist. I ripped open the package and swallowed a pill, then begged to use their non-public restroom. I think I scared the young Asian boy who was waiting on me as he knocked over a display stand of pamphlets in an effort to get me into the restroom.

I spent the rest of Wednesday in bed, and in the bathroom, while Sam attended the advertising conference that brought us here. The only bright spot in the day was the NY strip steak with French fries I had sent up to my room for dinner. It was staggeringly expensive, but I was feeling so sorry for myself that I could hardly muster up the energy to care. And I’ll tell you, that was one damn fine steak! And the French fries? Those who know me know I like a little food on my salt. Those fries were so hot and salty and crispy! Mmmmm..

Thursday I expected to feel better, and for the first hour I did. But as the morning passed I felt worse and worse. I tried to venture out, but found I had no energy. I took a walk around the block and then came back and recovered with a 2-hour nap. The entire time those fire ants were gnawing away at my bladder. At times, the pain was so intense that I could feel the pulse of my heart in my bladder.

I read all the magazines I had and even turned on the TV for a bit, (my disdain for television programming was quickly reconfirmed).
I napped and watched the clock, waiting for Sam to come back to the room between meetings. I started writing this post, but the pain was so intense that the only way I could get comfortable was to lie flat on my back. Finally, I took an ativan and went to bed, hoping I would wake up feeling better.

This morning I awoke to more of the same. I called my Dr. in Kansas City. He is not working today and the nurse suggested I go to an urgent care facility.

I checked the internet and found an Urgent Care office just 2 blocks from our hotel. The office opened at 9am and I was there waiting when they unlocked the doors. You know, I have never had this feeling before when visiting a doctor, but this was the coolest doctors office I have ever visited. The office was painted ocean blue with black trim and all of the furniture was retro stainless steel. The staff wore fashionable clothes instead of scrubs, even the docs had traded their white coats for regular, trendy wear.

I was seen within 10 minutes of arriving by Dr. Jessie Davis, who took a urine sample and then loaded me up with drugs. I got an injection of antibiotic (because it works faster) and another prescription of antibiotics to start taking as soon as I could get it filled. He also gave me Norco to knock me out for the flight home in case I still wasn’t better. And a prescription for Diflucan. I had the sense he would give me whatever I asked for (this is California after all) and I briefly thought about all the other drugs I would like to have, but stayed focused on the problem at hand.

Dr. Davis said I should be feeling better by tonight and sent me on my way. I was so happy that relief was on its way I practically skipped down the street to the pharmacy.

Which brings us to the present. Three hours have passed since a healthy dose of drug was injected into my hindquarter, and I don’t yet feel one bit better. In fact, I hurt as bad as I did last night. But I am hopeful. Apparently the particular strain of bacteria that I am growing is resistant to the first drug I took. Dr. Davis thinks this one should do the trick, but I realize that the bacteria could be resistant to this variety of antibiotic as well.

Sam will be back from his meetings within the hour and then we are driving to Wine Country for a couple of days. I really hope I am feeling well enough to enjoy it. And I hope there are lots of places to use the restroom along the way.

A Thousand Birds...

When I was 26 and newly divorced, I moved from my grown-up “married” house in Brookside, to a tiny apartment in the upstairs of a house at 48th & Holly. It was like living in a tree house. The rooms were small and the ceiling in the bathroom was so low I had to duck my head to step in to the shower. But I could lie in bed and look out my window and see nothing but trees. The branches tickled my window in the evenings and the rustling of the leaves soothed me to sleep on many lonely, anxious nights.

I have many memories of that apartment, but the one that stands before all the others was the way those tiny rooms allowed me to fall in love with music. I had always loved music, but my exposure was limited and my tastes ran mostly to top 40 hits.

I had a lot of time alone in the year after I moved and I began spending my Saturday afternoons at Penny Lane Records in Westport. I bought a “serious” CD player, tuner and speakers and spent any extra money I had on books and music. I lived alone and spent hours lying in bed reading and listening to music.

Because my apartment was so small, I could hear my music from any room. I turned it on as soon as woke up and fell asleep listening. There were times when I felt I might die from the intensity of emotion the music stirred up in me. The songs I loved, played like a soundtrack to that part of my life.

I eventually moved and bought a home not far from the tree house. It too was small, an airplane bungalow, and I could listen to my favorite songs from any room in the house. And again, I (mostly) lived alone so the music that played was always my favorite music.

I remember meeting a guy I liked and after several dates and an evening of feeling particularly connected, I invited him home to listen to my music. I am sure he had something else in mind, but I remember sitting on the floor, my CDs surrounding me, as I played one favorite song after another. I was sharing one of the most intimate parts of myself.

My music collection grew, as did my sense of connection to life through the songs I loved.

Then I met, and fell in love with, Sam and Katherine. And everything changed. I spent a lot of time with them in their house up north. It was a big house, a ranch with rooms the size of tennis courts, or so it seemed. Sam had a stereo, but you couldn’t hear the music in other rooms of the house, and if you wanted to, you had to turn the volume way up. Which was ok when I was listening to the Cowboy Junkies or Lisa Loeb, but not so ok when Katherine was listening to Britney Spears or Sam was listening to classic rock.

Then we moved into my house and although the acoustics were right again, I realized I couldn’t start their morning with Marilyn Manson, just because I was in the mood for it. And I found that after 6 years of listening to the music I loved most, it was very hard to listen to music that didn’t move me, even when it was the music that Sam or Katherine loved.

Gradually, I stopped listening. And the music that had been such an important part of that part of my life grew dusty and old. I still pulled out my old CDs from time to time, but when I listened, it was different. That sense of knowing - that sense of the song being so connected to my life, that sense that the song was my life and my life was that song – that feeling was gone.

Several months ago I saw the Leonard Cohen Movie "I'm Your Man" and I was reminded of how powerful a force music could be in my life. A friend gave me a copy of Cohen’s “10 New Songs” and another friend gave me a copy of Antony’s “You are a Bird Now” and I listened in my car to nothing else for weeks.

The music had a powerful effect on me, but it wasn’t until tonight that I remembered the brute physical force of connecting with a song. I had forgotten that feeling of being crushed and exploded into a million pieces all at the same time – all because of a piece of music.

But tonight I found a band called ShearWater. And I listened to this song, and this one, and this one. And I felt my chest rip open and a thousand white birds flew out.

You scratch my back and I'll... well, you know.

So, a couple of months ago Sam and I made this deal. If he gives me this thing I want, then I'll give him this thing he wants. (wink, wink) I set the bar pretty high in terms of what I wanted and I'll be damned if he didn't go and pull it off! Guess I'm not going to have much free time this month. :-)

The Color of Money... the Same as Lost Dreams

Sam’s words hit me hard. An expense I wasn’t expecting. A big one. That’s all it took and within minutes I was trembling with anxiety and the old argument, the one we’ve had 100 times since we’ve been married, the one about money, was in full swing. I said all the same things I always say and paused long enough for him to say all the same things he always says and for the 100th time we found ourselves spent and exhausted and frustrated and once again at an impasse.

We played our assigned parts and followed the script we’d carefully worked out for this particular argument, except at some point, after we’d moved from the kitchen to the living room and refilled our glasses, and thrown our early rounds of punches, Sam said something off script.

“What did you mean by that?” I asked, caught off guard by his comment. He didn’t know what he’d meant. I didn’t either, but we both realized it was significant, and the room regained some oxygen.

Not ready to let the argument go so easily, I held on with my teeth and shook my head, but the fight had already gone out of Sam and it just wasn't fun to argue by myself. So we switched gears and starting talking about this random comment he’d made. And we dug and talked and questioned and dug some more, and suddenly there were tears. The sort of tears that come when something deep, deep down is brought to the surface. The sort of tears that remind you of when you were a kid. The sort of tears that are primal and kind of scary because you know you are experiencing something sacred.

And we realized, through those tears, that although our stories are very different, we'd both made a similar sacrifice. Our sacrifices had been made grudgingly, and we’d been harboring anger and regret ever since. Neither of us felt safe talking about it, and it had felt too selfish to imagine the opportunities we’d lost. And in nearly nine years of being together, this was a conversation we had never had.

It was late and we’d already drunk a lot of wine so we went to bed and I woke the next morning with a feeling of trepidation. Had it been too much? Had we gone too far? Sometimes it’s better to leave things well enough alone.

As soon as we were both awake we starting talking again. And my worry soon faded. We talked and we talked and we talked. I understood him in a way I had never before. And for the first time he understood what I had been trying to say all these years. And we both realized it had really very little to do with money, although that’s what we’d always called it.

I love that after 8.5 years of being together we are still learning about one other. And I love that what we’re learning brings us closer together and reinforces what we’ve long believed, which is that we are twin souls. I especially love that we aren’t going to have to argue about money any more. We’ll still be subject to the same triggers I am sure, but now we’ll know what it’s really all about. And that’s a good thing.

All That Shimmers Is Gold

I absolutely love Claire Kramer's photography.

The Walls Came Tumbling Down

1811 Walnut will never be the same.

We picked up the keys this past Thursday and tomorrow demolition begins. We got a head start this evening though. We invited our families, our closest friends and all those people who have been working along side us to make this building dream of ours a reality to join us at the building. Then we gave them sledge hammers. Golden sledge hammers to be exact. And boys being boys (and girls being girls it turns out), walls came tumbling down. Well, they didn’t actually tumble, but there were a few gaping holes.

We had help from some little people as well. My niece and nephew Chloe’ and Garrett, and my friend Michelle’s son Tanner took turns at the wall with a golden hammer. They made surprising progress.

We billed it a demolition party but really we just wanted to give every one a chance to see the “before.” The after becomes so much more meaningful when you can see where it all began.

It was also a thank you. We have been so lucky to work with such an amazing team of people. A quick shout out to:

Suzie Aron –Nicholson Real Estate - our realtor
Elizabeth Rosin – Rosin Historic Preservation – our historic buildings consultant
Jay Tomlison, Brad Kingsley, Joe Jimenez – Helix – our architects
Brett Gordon & Tab White – McCown Gordon – our contractors
Mark Westerfelt – our owners rep
Bob Long – Economic Development Corp - our tax abatement consultant
Mike Marsh – CPA – our historic tax credits accountant
Kathy Hauser – Lathrop & Gage - our attorney
John Geiger – United Bank of Kansas – our banker
David Long – Heartland Business Capital – our other banker
Mark Lowe – Contract Furnishings - our furniture contractor
Kathy Luetkenhoelter – our bookkeeper & business manager

We could not have gotten this far without the talent and generosity of these amazing folks!

So it all begins tomorrow and if it goes as planned the shootin’ match should be over by June 1st. I am not holding my breath. I’ve yet to be involved in a construction project that finished on time although we’d like to be the first. Still, a lot will be happening at 1811 Walnut over the next 3 months. And soon, Meers Marketing will have a new home.

Hold onto your hats! We’re off!

Tree Spirits

http://www.paulindigo.blogspot.com

On Being Forty

I kind of like it.
I feel more relaxed, not as volatile. More centered and grounded.
I am more likely to say the right things at the right times, instead of blurting them out.
I am more likely to say nothing at all, and that is often a good thing.
I am less likely to care that other people disagree.
I am less likely to put up with drama.
I can get my emotions to work for me, instead of being overwhelmed by them.
I can do a lot more good in my 40s, than I could in my 20s.
I think I will.

Weekend Redux

• Sleeping in until 11:00am sure felt luxurious

• Completed the FAFSA – finally!

• A trip to Costco -I couldn’t be persuaded to wear shoes, so wore my slippers instead.

• Ran into my artist friend Nicole Cawfield who told me she has a great job, but wishes she didn’t have to work every day. Her and me both!

• Bought a $100,000 Bar at CVS and shared it with Sam, ‘cause he’s worth at least $50,000.

• Researched candidate websites for Mayor and 4th District City Council. Now that I’ve been through city politics for our PIEA, I actually care who gets elected.

• Coughing and sneezing and coughing and sneezing. Not sure how much longer I’ll have this, but Sam is on his 13th day of being sick. It’s been 5 days for me.

• I want a grey kitten.

• Made plans to visit Lynn Wylie for a long weekend in June. It can’t come soon enough!

• This weekend felt like a 4-day weekend. Wonderful. It’s a shame it takes being sick to slow us down, but God has it felt good to step off the hamster wheel. Even with all the coughing.

Winter Colds

Sam has been blowing his nose non-stop.
I’ve been coughing.
We are a mess, he and I.
We’ve watched some movies, read magazines and slept.
It’s good to have company when you are sick.

Lost in Translation

Hello? Any one there? Oh hi! I didn’t know if I would find anyone here or not. It’s been so long since I’ve posted you know. Thanks for checking in - it’s very nice of you.

I feel like I should explain my long absence, and I wished it were a better story. I’ve been busy. Very, very busy. That’s a new one, right? First time you’ve heard it? Well, candidly, I get tired of hearing myself talk about how busy I’ve been. When I die the most true thing my friends and family will say about me was that I was always very busy. Good grief.

But it hasn’t only been that I’ve been busy. It’s also been that I’ve been feeling rather private of late. The ying and yang of blogging is that while it can feel incredibly cathartic to post something that a few will read and many more could potentially read, those few and potential many may not be the most ideal audience for my catharsis.

And so that little voice that lives inside my head, the one that usually nags and pesters me, has actually been looking out for me lately, although I wish he would adjust his attitude a bit.

“You are really going to write that? Well, I guess that makes you a f*#king idiot then.”

See what I mean? I have threatened to send that voice in my head to an Emily Post seminar to brush up on manners and graciousness but he reminds me that I should save my money for that day when I become homeless. I might need it then. He’s sly like that.

So anyway, for the last month or so, I’ve written dozens of posts in my head, but exactly none of them have made it past the editor. And that is probably just as well.

My friend Rita attended a writing seminar a couple of months ago and came back with a good tip. She reminded me of it again this week and so I am going to try it here. She suggested that rather than writing a whole long post or journal entry, I try writing in bullet points. I kind of like the idea and because I think Rita is the Boss, Applesauce, I am going to give it a whirl.

But not today. Tomorrow.

Let's Dish

Yesterday I spent the early part of my afternoon at Let’s Dish, the place where you assemble meals to take home to your freezer. My friends Susan and Jennifer got me a Let’s Dish gift certificate for my birthday this summer and the three of us went to try it out in August. Since then I’ve been hooked and yesterday was my fourth return visit.

Let’s Dish exists especially for people like me. People who say they like to cook, who perhaps even boast an extensive collection of cookbooks and recipes, who appreciate a home cooked meal and who feel even more strongly about spending family time around the kitchen table, but who, when asked at the end of a long workday, “what’s for dinner?” consistently respond with something like “whatever cereal you can find in the cupboard.”

That’s me.

So Let’s Dish appealed to me from the beginning. Instead of pointing my family to the half empty box of Raisin Bran Crunch, I could open the freezer door, pull out one of the yummy sounding meals I had prepared, pop it in the microwave to defrost, then on to the stove or oven to cook and voila a “home cooked” meal was magically ready to serve.

The whole process is only slightly more complicated that warming up a tv dinner, but to anyone who ends up sitting at the dinner table, it appears that I actually cooked something! Yet there is no trying to figure out what to make, no scrounging through the cabinet for the right spices and no trips to the grocery store for missing ingredients. Who couldn’t love that!

What has surprised me is how much I love the actual experience of “dishing.” For all the benefits of easy meal preparation at home, the actual assembly of the meals, or the “dishing” as they like to call it, is where it’s all at for me.

The experience starts with registration online. You choose either 4, 8 or 12 meals from a list of about 16 and select a date and time to “dish” that best fits your schedule. When you arrive at the store, you are given a list of your menu choices along with an incredibly cute apron and bandana to wear as you prepare your meals.

There are 8 salad bar type stations, each with 2 menu items and exact instructions for “assembling.” If the recipe calls for 1 Tbsp of oil, you’ll find a 1 Tbsp measuring spoon next to a bottle of oil. If it calls for ½ cup of chopped red peppers, you’ll find a ½ cup long handled measuring scoop lying in a container of freshly chopped red peppers. You have permission to vary the recipes to your own tastes, so its perfectly ok to add a little extra garlic powder or to skip the onions altogether. Everything gets mixed inside freezer bags and foil pans and when finished, your bag or pan gets a sticker with a description of the meal and simple instructions for preparing it.


The company suggests that “dishing” is a great activity to share with friends and I’ve seen couples, friends, and mom/daughter pairs there each time I’ve visited. But I like going alone best. I find myself deep in the “zone” almost as soon as I’ve started assembling. There is something about it that really appeals to the way my brain works. Some people get a runner’s high - I get a “dishing” high!

The mood of the place is always relaxed and happy. People are having fun. And they know they are cutting by ¾ the time they would spend making the same meal at home. Who wouldn’t smile about that? And when you’re finished – there are refreshments and desserts you can nibble on while you look at next month’s menu.

So this month this is what we are having for family dinner at our house…

Potato Crusted Tilapia Filets
Barbequed Boneless Short Ribs
Lemon Herb Chicken & Parmesan Green Beans
Herbed Steaks with Blue Cheese Butter
Cheesy Spinach and Black Bean Enchiladas
Mediterranean Shrimp & Pasta

And it will be no trouble at all!

New Year, Same Restaurant

Kin Lin’s for the 3rd time this week.
Green beans, tofu, mushrooms and red pepper oil.
Three diet Dr. Peppers to share.
A box to take home.
Always someone we know.
I love the comfort of routine.

The Most Expensive Earrings I've Ever Owned...

I bought after seeing Francie wear them. She told me she was done listening to me ooh and ahh over hers and she sent me straight down to Embellishments in Parkville to buy a pair. You pretty much do what Francie says. I didn't think twice about it. I went.

I'll miss you sweetie. This world won't be the same without you.