So I haven't posted here since September. I underestimated how much time and energy it would take to go to school full time and work full time and still attempt to have friendships, sleep, and keep up with Grey's Anatomy (priorities, people).

And so. I'm not here.

But I will be again some day.

Promise.

I am rarely stressed. I approach most of my life calmly. I don't process things on my own all that well, so I have to talk out loud to get to the heart of most matters. Members of my personal Board of Directors are chosen for their ability and willingness to listen to me prattle on, sometimes well past when I probably could stop, about whatever topic I'm not quite settled about yet. Some might think that my need to talk about most things may indicate stress about them, but really, it's what keeps the stress at bay.

Physical manifestations of stress is another situation. Since I was young, most fear, anxiety, and stress I feel has come out physically. Trembling, sometimes faintly and other times uncontrollably, back pain, headaches, stomach butterflies, exhaustion, and more have plagued me at different times of my life and in different situations.

This week - a low-grade headache most of the week coupled with ongoing back pain and aching jaw. Sleeping 11 hours Friday night and two spinning classes have helped some. But what really has helped is finally admitting out loud to myself and to two of my Board that I am worried about school. I don't have one of the syllabuses yet. I am still awaiting some books from the library. I don't have an English lit background and am going into an academic situation, for the first time in my life, under prepared. (Okay, so I'm not under prepared really. I'm prepared. But in the past, most of the time, I've had more information that the average person on the topics I'm faced with. This time, not so much.)

Yesterday, I received in the mail, a little Hello Kitty school bus colored in by Sonia, my niece. My sister had written on the top - Good luck on your first day (or something along those lines). I called Sonia and thanked her for the note and drawing, telling her "I'm a little scared about starting school and your note made me feel better." She beamed at this, reported my sister. She herself struggles with new things and so I think hearing that she made me feel better and that I, too, am struggling, was probably a nice message for her.

I am starting a new adventure. Each time I've done this before, I've been scared. This is no exception. I'm sure I'll be fine. But I want to be more than fine. I want to excel. It's this that worries me most.

I have slept on a lot of islands. I have even lived on two. I love them. I love being surrounded by water. I love that the sun rises out of the ocean on one side and sets into the ocean on the other. I love the sound of the waves as I sleep and sitting with a coffee all morning, looking at the tide going out or coming in. I love searching amongst the rocks for beautiful ones and searching amongst the flotsam for treasures. I love having to get on a boat to get there and needing a boat to go home. I love the smallness of island life, the community of it, the reliance of people upon each other for the things they need. I love not needing to lock the doors, or the car, or the bike.

Every single time I've been to an island, I have wanted to live there. It still happens, each and every time. I spend the next weeks or months plotting how I'll overthrow my life and move to the island I have recently visited, trying to figure out how to make it work. Twice, I did it. Once on Block Island in RI in college and once on Koh Tao in Thailand as an adult.

I have gotten to a lot of islands on my own; created my own paradise. But for the past two summers, I owe my mother for allowing me to once again sleep on an island. Long Island, Maine, off Portland, in Casco Bay, where my mother's grandmother once owned a house. She loves that island like she loves me and my siblings. She cares for it. She treasures it. She calls it hers - like she owns it. She is a pretty smiley person anyway - amused by most things, but on the island, it is like she is lit up from inside. She is untiring in her desire to show others the island, to tell her stories from her times there. She is blessed to have two cousins and their families who feel the same way and this summer, they all went at the same time. In three different houses, with three different family groups, but coming together for a morning walk, a morning chat, an afternoon at the beach, an evening s'mores fire. My dad loves it too. He loves sitting and reading in a rocking chair on the porch or having an evening cocktail in the last of the sun before it slips behind the trees.

I have never been the same since I first started going to islands, and it was when I was very small, thanks to my mother. And now that I'm grown, she continues to help me spend time on one. Thanks, Mom.

Mom, waving goodbye from the pier as I departed on the ferry.

I have always loved the poem "If Once You Have Slept on an Island," by Rachel Lyman Field. It says, in a lovely, provincial manner, exactly how I feel. It is entirely true. If you've never slept on an island, I suggest you try it sometime. You, too, will never be the same.

If once you have slept on an island

You'll never be quite the same;

You may look as you looked the day before

And go by the same old name,

You may bustle about in street and shop

You may sit at home and sew,

But you'll see blue water and wheeling gulls

Wherever your feet may go.

You may chat with the neighbors of this and that

And close to your fire keep,

But you'll hear ship whistle and lighthouse bell

And tides beat through your sleep.

Oh! you won't know why and you can't say how

Such a change upon you came,

But once you have slept on an island,

You'll never be quite the same.

The ocean from my bed on Long Island last weekend.

Dear Body,

If I had a friend or boyfriend who ever betrayed me like you do, I'd leave them. Break up with them. Do what I do best, and close an emotional door and never speak to them again. But there's no solution for my problem with you. I've tried ignoring you. I've tried goading you. I've tried using all my energy to please you. You give a little, sure; for a while, yes. And then you betray me again. Yet we are stuck with each other. Like a long-adult child and an overbearing mother - we're tied together. Like a ne'er-do-well son and an alcoholic father - there's no getting away from each other.

I just don't understand what you want from me. I eat well. I give you vegetables, and milk and healthy proteins. I feed you three times a day in balanced intervals. I don't fill you with too much garbage (a cookie here and there never killed anyone). I work you out. I run you and strength-train you and we ride my bike together so well (what with my common sense in the traffic and your strong quads and hamstrings - we're a match made in heaven on a bike). I give you vitamins. I protect you from caffeine. So rarely do we drink, and when we do: beer, mostly. I ensure you get plenty of sleep. I stay organized and keep clear eyes and a full heart and this results in very little stress. Seriously, what more do you want from me?

I know, I know. You would say you do your part. We're healthy. So very healthy. No real complaints. Cholesterol - great. Annoyances (like boils or hemorrhoids or hammertoes) almost non-existent. Skin? Yeah, yeah, it's great. Allergies? None. Generally feeling well? Absolutely. No digestive issues for us. Aging? We're doing well for the most part aside from those three chin hairs and the increasing white hairs on our head.

So why, oh why, dear body, can't you just stay trim? Why must you insist on gaining back ounce by ounce, pound by pound slowly to ruin the party? Why react so passionately to exercise and diet only to give up after a year and get soft again? (I've done my part! I've made sure we get up at 5:40 every morning for over two years now to go exercise! I've helped you sweat out your toxins and strengthen all your muscles!) And yet, you insist. Insist on our hips broadening again and our ass rounding out, and our stomach having that extra little padding.

I don't want to fight with you. Our lifelong argument has done a number on me and my psyche. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you? You're just flesh and bones and blood; you don't have to deal with the brain part - that's my area. You just show up and expect me to live with the fact that this year we're bigger again and don't fit in our cute dresses from last summer. You expect me to just put on a smile and hope nobody notices how much you've betrayed me yet again.

And I'll do it. I'll put on a happy face and shore up my confidence and I'll dress you in a bathing suit. (I will! Because we love the water and the sun and we don't want to miss that, right?) You don't care, do you? You like us this way. Why else would you keep going back to this?

You make me tired, body. I wish you'd just play nicely. But you won't. Fuck you. Happy summer.

Love,

Karen

Twice now I've encountered women in books who have no interest in being married and encumbered with the burdens of being a wife and mother. Both times in young adult fiction. Both times in novels written in verse. Both times in period pieces; in the past. One was a full-grown woman, completely ensconced in her life choice, the other a girl, headed toward her choice and destiny. Both times made me think about being single myself. Both times I was so drawn to these characters, it caught me by surprise.

The first is the character of Sara Chickering in Karen Hesse's novel, Witness. The narrative brings together the voices of multiple members of a small Vermont town in 1924 as they are dealing with the influx of the KKK. Each person's voice offers information that weaves together to tell a story. Sara Chickering is a single farmer-woman who chose to remain single after watching her own mother labor as a farm wife and mother. She has not "ended up" single and her aloneness is not the result of being shunned or not chosen by men. Instead it is a clear choice born in young-womanhood and followed to fruition, although it has made her stand out in her community. She is able, as an older person, during the time of the narrative of the book, to provide shelter through a government program for a recent immigrant and his young daughter.

The second is Muriel, in Helen Frost's Crossing Stones. This narrative brings together the voices of two families in rural Michigan in 1917 as their sons go off to war and their daughters struggle to define themselves. There is an easy symmetry in the families and an assumption that the boys and girls will match up and be partnered, but Muriel finds herself questioning this arranged destiny. "Mother: I have no intention of becoming the Mrs. Norman of your imaginary future. Who I am remains to be seen - and I alone intend to be the one to see it." Muriel tells us this on page 15! So early we learn this young woman in 1917 will not be molded easily. And luckily for her, she has a paternal aunt who is fighting for suffrage.

As the reader gets to know Sara Chickering better through her words and thoughts and deeds on Hesse's page, we see she is as maternal as any woman. Her spinsterhood has not rendered her unable to nurture; her singleness has not hardened her femininity. She cares for (the immigrant daughter) Esther as a parent would. As I have experienced myself, the desire to remain child-free does not necessarily mean one is unable to care for children, just that we prefer not to spend our lives doing so. But many assume there is an intrinsic link. "I am not going to have children," I often say to people I encounter in my life. "But you are so good with children," they cry. Yes. I am. I love them. And they love me. But my ability to be good with children and nurture them does not mean I must use that skill as a parent. I get to not do that if I want. And children will come into my life (and have) in other ways, just like Sara Chickering.

Muriel is still a child herself. At 16, she is already questioning the status quo at school and at home, and her parents, although supportive, are cautionary. They tell her she must learn to mind her tongue, to think before she speaks, to not be too forthright with her thoughts or questions. They are raising a daughter, after all, in 1917. When Muriel attempts to write to her friend (not boyfriend) Frank, away at war, her mother is quick - "I'm not aware I know this rule, until I'm embarrassed to be caught breaking it: The gentleman should always be the first to write, Mama informs me. A lady never writes before she has received a letter." Yet two pages later, Muriel's mother says to her daughter after a bout of questioning: "Maybe you won't rock the cradle, Muriel. Some women prefer to rock the boat."

My own parents raised me with similar seeming contradiction in the 1970s and 80s. They raised me that I could be whoever I wanted and do whatever I wanted. But they also asked me to dress more like a lady (in a pre-grunge and grunge world!) and Mom often asked if it would kill me to wear a little make up. They didn't admonish me so much as gently insinuate that being so opinionated might make the boys not like me so much. More than once, my mother said that chasing boys was not appropriate, and that they should call me first, talk to me first. It being a supposed feminist world at that point, I just told her she was crazy and went on with my life. And today, in a supposed post-feminist world, I sometimes wonder if my habits and choices and refusal to live by these rules has contributed to my singleness.

Unlike Sara Chickering and Muriel, I did not know when I was young that I wanted to remain single. I didn't watch my mother stay home, volunteer on the town's finance committee, found the PTA at my elementary school, cook every night of her life without fail, and raise three kids with distaste. I didn't see any of that as burden. I perhaps looked upon my father's life - two jobs and then a switch to a job he was good at but didn't get any real satisfaction from other than being able to provide for us - with a bit of disdain. All that work. Just for money. How tedious. I knew I was a girl, though, and would be a woman. In my family, with all its gender-based practices, I let myself believe I would follow in my mother's footsteps, becoming a wife and mother myself. It wasn't until high school that I started to realize that I wasn't going to easily fit my little square self into that seemingly perfectly round hole.

As I discussed Sara Chickering in class with my classmates this semester, all of whom were far younger than I, I found myself passionate about her. "But," I argued, "here she is, an outsider in her community because she's single and running a farm on her own, but she's got Esther and Leonora to care for. She probably didn't even allow herself before this to know she was so nurturing!" My classmates looked at me, nodded, and moved onto some other topic in the discussion. As I read the end of Muriel's arc of development, leaving home to head to Washington, D.C. to join the suffrage movement herself and to work as a kindergarten teacher (because she is so good with children!), I shed a few tears. There have always been women who have chosen different paths from the norm and there will continue to be.

As I get older and even less romantically attached than ever (if that is even possible), I keep wondering what this is all about. There are a slew of posts on this blog over the past 5 years on this very topic. The past year though, my thoughts have been less about lamenting this state and more about thinking that perhaps this is what was meant for me all along. Perhaps when my revelation came that I didn't want kids, when I was 24 years old, I just wasn't listening enough to catch the other half - that I wanted to stay single and have my life for my own. Is that possible? Could I join the ranks of Sara and Muriel?

Just over 2 years ago, in the heart-broken throes of another lost love possibility, I screamed at my family "If I stay single I will change and never be the same! I will be bitter and I'm so afraid of that!" I was hysterical that day. Losing myself in paranoia and fear and pain. What have I meant when I've said that? I think I mean that I have always wanted to be in a partnership; to be paired up and have another person with whom to face the world and all its adventures. And if I didn't get to have that, I would be so angry, so upset, so disappointed, I would morph somehow into a different person than I was supposed to be. This is a fair assessment, I think. I've never not gotten the things I want: school, jobs, travel opps, adventures. I dream up shit and then I go do it. But this one - not so much.

I think I'm wrong, though. I think I've been wrong. Because I am morphing. I am changing. And it's not for the better or the worse. It is just change. I'm settling into myself. I am feeling more and more like an adult every year. I'm starting not to miss what I've never had. I'm starting to wonder what my life might really be like if I stay single. I think it might be pretty awesome to keep on in this hedonistic, self-centered paradise I've created.

I make choices based on what I want. I love that I have time for things that most of my peers don't because they are so busy being married or being parents. I love that I rent and could care less about owning a house. I love that I can live wherever the hell I want and who gives a shit how good the school system is? I love that all my money is mine and every dime gets spent on me or on whoever I'm giving a gift to that week. I love that all my decisions are made by me and I don't have to check with anyone before I say yes to a request for dinner or a movie or going zipping on a Sunday in October. I love that only my sicknesses mess up my plans. I love that I don't have to worry about anyone else's eating habits. Or anyone else's family. I love all that stuff. LOVE IT.

Sara Chickering and Muriel were both so sure. I'm not. I'm okay with that. I'm often sure about stuff that ends up changing by the time I'm half-way through it. So no matter what comes along, I'll try hard to listen to the messages and not miss things. As I get older, I listen better, because I'm less scared of what I might hear. I can deal with anything. And so I'll carry on, and I'll keep building my rockin' life.

I can tell you this, though. I'm done wasting energy on worrying about it. And that, folks, is true morphing.

I'm going back to school! First there was this post from 2008 and then this one from last May. And now there's this one. The one where I get to say: I'm going! I'm starting with my first class in July and then 2-a-semester beginning in the fall. YAY! To honor the moment, I thought I'd post my essay for admission to the program.

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I’m a bit like Miles in Looking for Alaska, and I’ve been out seeking a Great Perhaps for most of my life. I’ve called it different things at different times, but when I recently read John Green’s novel, I got this new vernacular to describe what I’ve been doing all along. Through all the seeking, all the roads, all the choices, all the adventures, and all the work, there’s one central thread. One thing that never changes. Books. They are always there with me.

I did the traditional route. I went to high school, applied early decision to Simmons and headed to the residence halls in 1991 as an 18-year-old who had never spent more than a week away from my parents. I finished in four years with a double major, sociology added to communications after a distressing first-semester-junior-year discovery that I didn’t want to be a journalist after all, having ethical issues with the expectations in the field as I understood and perceived them. I held editorial positions on the student paper, was secretary of student government, and served as senior class president. Through my involvement in student activities and leadership development, I applied to go directly to graduate school for higher education administration and student development. I was admitted to the University of Maryland’s program, the best in the nation, and went straightaway. It was something I understood, something I cared about, and something I convinced myself would be my path for life – after all, that’s what we do, right? We find a career and stick? Recent studies confirm this isn’t so, but in the early 90s, there was still the idea that this was the expectation. Throughout my college and graduate school careers, I made time to read for pleasure, astounding pretty much everyone around me. I knew that if I didn’t read for me, I would lose something essential in my identity. So I made time. My graduate school roommate recently reminded me that she lamented not having time to read in grad school and I suggested she read children’s books as they were less of a commitment, but equally as good. She began with my collection and then headed for the library. She remembers me giving her this double gift – reading for pleasure and discovering children’s literature – during a stressful academic time.

By 1997 I’d successfully completed my graduate degree in the requisite two years and held the distinction of being the only member of my cohort to defend my thesis in time for May graduation. I’d taken a job at Occidental College in Los Angeles and moved across the country to work at one of the most diverse small colleges in the United States. Work was good, life was good, and I was creating programs, teaching leadership courses, building an on-campus ropes course, and advising a seemingly unending list of student groups. It was perfect.

It was here that I revisited Children’s Literature. I’d been so focused on other academic pursuits for so many years that I’d not looked seriously at this area for a while. I was still moving my books around with me – Charlotte’s Web, Alexander and the Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day, Harriet the Spy, Phantom Tollbooth, Trumpet of the Swan, The Trouble with Jenny’s Ear, Life Doesn’t Frighten Me, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, the Heidi books and more. And I was adding new ones – No, David (signed by David Shannon when I went to a gallery in LA featuring his artwork when the book came out in 1998), Series of Unfortunate Events when Snicket hit the scene, James and the Giant Peach when I realized I didn’t own a copy. I took a survey course at Glendale Community College in 2000. I always knew I liked to read, but I was an adult now, experiencing children’s literature as an academic experience. I had no kids in my life, so I wasn’t reading for anyone’s benefit other than my own. I would go to Storyopolis in L.A. and just browse. I started trying to discern what was good and why.

By the time I took that survey course, the Great Perhaps had already called to me again. Just as it did when I decided to go to a college for women. Just as it did when I moved all the way out to L.A. This time, it took the form of travel. Leaving. Going to see a world I was completely unfamiliar with, having never been further than L.A., assuming Toronto doesn’t count. So I recruited a friend and we planned for 18 months and we headed out on a one-way ticket to Beijing, with the intention to circle the globe in a westward manner until we arrived once again on home soil. The Perhaps got the better of me again when I decided, after 6 months on the road (China, Hong Kong, Vietnam, Malaysia, Thailand, Nepal and Thailand again) to stay on Koh Tao, a tiny island in the Gulf of Thailand and learn to be a divemaster and then a SCUBA instructor. I lived there, in a community akin to a model United Nations for 20 months using my counseling and leadership skills to teach diving to strangers (many of whom were learning in a language not their own) and help run a busy dive shop in a developing country.

While travelling, I kept children’s literature on my radar screen. I bought Adventures of a Nepali Frog by Kanak Mani Dixit in Kathmandu and read the Harry Potter books as they came out (the UK versions, which was great). Books are a commodity when travelling; meeting other travelers is imperative for many reasons, not the least of which is to trade for a new book.

Two things led me to leave Thailand and head back stateside. First, while I cared about my colleagues and students greatly, I was working in a hedonistic paradise with no intellectual curiosity or challenge. I found I was hungry for discourse – about anything, really. Second, I was relatively sure that if I stayed out of my profession – higher ed – longer than I’d been in it to begin with, I was going to lose it. And so I headed home and found a proper job again. One that required shoes. After a while longer in higher education, I translated my skills over to the non-profit world. And a while after that, I went back to higher education in a different capacity.

Because proficiency in another language is preferred the M.A. in Children’s Literature program, I’ll add that in the middle of all this was my pursuit of Spanish. I tapped out Brookline Adult Education on their offerings, spent two weeks in Sucre, Bolivia one summer doing intensive study while living with a host family and then three months in Paraguay doing the same thing. Between 2005 and 2010, I chose Spanish-speaking destinations for my travel with only one exception (Spain, Bolivia, Puerto Rico, Guatemala, Paraguay, Peru, and Turkey, the exception). The last time I was orally tested, in 2006, I was high intermediate. I never reached fluency, but I can hold my own in varied situations and places and I can read enough to get a full grasp of what I need to know.

And so here I am, at 37, back in the U.S. for nine years and in Boston for seven, trying to find my way professionally and figure out how all this seeking the Perhaps weaves together and how the constant of books fits in.

In 2008, when Simmons announced the dual degree with Children’s Literature and Library Science, I finally began to think seriously about how to finally make this thread into something. The constant of books and the hum of books for children that had been coursing through my body for almost 10 years needed attention. But I dismissed it after some brief fantasizing as too expensive, too crazy, too late. Here I am in 2011, and I’ve cycled back to it again. It’s not going away. It doesn’t matter how old I get or how crazy anyone thinks I am for knowing about Walter and Gossie and Martha and Katniss and Keesha and Jerry. This is what I’m supposed to do; supposed to study.

For the past six months, in preparation for applying and matriculating, I’ve delved back into literature academically again. I attended the Horn Book Simmons Colloquium on October 2. Because I work at Tufts and have access to free courses, I took Slavery’s Optic Glass, a 19th century literature course looking at slavery through the writing of authors such as Thomas Jefferson, Lydia Maria Child, Edgar Allan Poe, and Frederick Douglass. I am registered for Children’s Literature with Marion Reynolds for the spring semester at Tufts. I sat in on a session of CHL410 with Megan Lambert in October, doing the reading and participating in class. I get the Horn Book eNewsletter. I have read close to 75 picture books and young adult novels in this time, both new titles and classics I’d not read before. I read most of the reading list for the freshmen at Lowell High where my mother works after she passed the list along.

Yes, I will be 38 when I begin. And 40 when I finish. And no, I don’t know what’s next after I earn a liberal arts masters. That’s part of what excites me. What could I discover? What might I find out I care about that I don’t even know exists right now? What talent might emerge that will surprise me? What internship might I try out that scares me? As a life-long seeker of the Great Perhaps this kind of unknown is okay with me.

This essay is meant to be partly about how this program fits into my professional goals. I did some math. Let’s assume I will work until I’m 70. (This seems increasingly common, and I’m single and healthy.) That is another 32 years. And I’ve already worked 14 (not even counting graduate school). That’s a total of 46 years for my working life, of which I’ve worked 30 percent so far. That, of course, means that I have 70 percent to go. When I figured this out about 6 months ago, I was first horrified because I wondered how would I ever make it through the rest of my work life with no real career path or clear focus– the state I’ve been in for about 3 years now. Then I was elated because this was the justification I’ve been looking for to make pursuing another degree at this stage in my life less crazy than one would think.

I want, in the end, for books to be not only my center thread, but my career. I will better understand them; be an expert in them. I will work in publishing, or buying, or an agency or somewhere I cannot yet imagine and will work with other people who share my love. I will not be the weirdo with the book in her bag or talking about some book she just finished to a bunch of people who could care less. I am tired of saying “I love children’s books.” Who doesn’t? But, loving them versus making them my work and my passion and my Perhaps? Those are two very different things, and this degree will act as my bridge from one to the other.

I will give Simmons and the Center for Children’s Literature everything I have. All my focus, all my brain, all my heart. One thing about me as a seeker, I’m not a lazy one. I set my mind to things and do them, and do them well. I am a fantastic colleague and classmate and am a thoughtful and dedicated learner. I am organized and interested. I make mistakes and learn from them. I write what I think is a great paper and get a B- and diligently work to understand what happened and improve the next time. I get frustrated sometimes, and disappointed, but filter that energy as positively as possible and inquire to figure out how to avoid it in the future. I know and care about Simmons; I started my intellectual and professional career with you and hope Simmons will help me continue that journey.

I believe strongly in the idea that “when you want something, the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it,” a theory I’ve appreciated from Cuelho’s The Alchemist for many years. I also believe that …”when you really love something, it loves you back, in whatever way it has to love,” one of Phineas’ theories in Knowles’ A Separate Peace. I am sure that today, as I write this, the universe is telling me it is time for me to seek the Greatest Perhaps and to honor the love affair that children’s books and I have been having for many years. I can’t wait to get started.

Customer service is officially dead. Check this story:

I go into the bakery to pick up the cake for my mother's birthday. It is 11 a.m. and I'm in a tad bit of a hurry and there's a cast of thousands of kids and moms in there all lined up. So I hunkered down to wait patiently. And wait I did.

The final mom/child pair in front of me ordered two plain bagels toasted with cream cheese. The child was about 2 and was climbing all over everything and mom was trying to get out of there. When she placed her order with the woman behind the counter, she said "Whoa! You smell good! Are you wearing perfume?"

The mom said, while chasing her child, "No. It's not me." (Believe me, that woman was likely smelling like last night's dinner since she probably wasn't able to even bathe that morning with all the work the child was.)

"Well, someone smells fantastic! I just got a whiff of it!" and she fanned her hand in front of her face to show how the whiff came through, as if we didn't understand how whiffs work. Finally, able to focus again, the counter-woman said "What did you want again?"

And the poor, exasperated mother repeats "Two bagels." "Toasted?" "Yes." "Cream cheese?" "Yes." And so, the order placed completely over again, this time in parts, the girl finally gets the two bagels, saunters back to the cooks and tells them what she needs. She comes back, rings the woman up, and it is finally my turn.

"I'm here to pick up a cake," I said. A blank stare.

"A cake. I ordered it." Blank stare. "Can you get it for me?" I allowed about 5-10 seconds to pass between each utterance on my part. "I'm in a tiny bit of a hurry, and this is taking a while, could I give you my name?"

Finally, she speaks. "No." She walks around to the cake counter and says, "Are you Amanda?"

"No."

"Are you Anne?"

"No. I'm Karen if that helps you."

"Oh! 66?" "Yes, that's mine."

Oh my god, I'm thinking at this point. I should've just pretended to be Amanda. Perhaps Mom would've gotten a cake with a Winnie or Minnie on it, but she would've gotten it that day.

She puts the cake in front of me and goes to get the box. When she arrives back, she has to build the fourth side of the box, but the top is not folded yet, so it keeps flopping back on her. So she flips it up and it flops back 3 times. Finally, unable to contain myself, I say, "Here, I'll hold it for you." She does the fourth side of the box and then places the cake inside. I hand her my credit card and tell her I'll finish off the top of the box, lest the flip-flop gets the best of her.

She runs the card and hands it to me along with the slip that requires my signature. I stand there for a couple of beats and then say "Do you have a pen?" She hands me one and says "You are in a hurry, huh?" What? Well, yes. But more than that, my strongest state at this point is not hurriedness. It is complete amazement at your idiocy. But what I say is "Yup! Gotta go." And I sign, grab the cake and head out the door.

I realize it's a coffee shop/bakery. I realize at 11 in the morning, perhaps folks are more leisurely than at 7:30 during the morning commute when everyone wants in and out of there. But I don't need to hear all about the smells you're smelling, I don't need to watch a tortured parent have to order twice, and I don't need to know every woman in JP who ordered a cake for that morning. When someone says, "I'm here to pick up a cake" the answer is generally "What's your name?" or "What's your order number?" or "Do you have your order slip" or "What does it look like" even. Not a blank stare and a poll of women's names.

This is just the most recent in a long string of lunacy that seems to be attacking the service sector. The week before, I'd called the delivery service that Delta uses to deliver lost bags, looking for 8 missing bags belonging to Singaporean students who had travelled for an event at my work. I dialed the number. The woman said only "Hello." Not sure I had the right number, I said "I'm trying to locate 8 suitcases." She responded with "I don't know who you are!" So I apologized for calling the wrong number and dialed again. Same lady. Same exact exchange. Holy crap. The bags ended up located and delivered, but only after I heard every address of every person in the entirety of Massachusetts who was awaiting a bag delivery and asked her a few times to please stop yelling at me. And this was AFTER I'd told her our reference number for the bags, which she claimed the entire time was attached to an order going to Sudbury.

The economy sucks. Lots of people are out of work. Perhaps some of them want these jobs at the bakery or the delivery service or any of the other places people have been idiots lately. I think they might do a better job than these folks are.

I'm taking a Children's Lit class this semester through the Child Development department at Tufts. It's focus is on picture books through juvenile novels (up to 6th grade). Here's some of the highlights of what I've read so far this semester, all of which is new to me.

1. Re-tellings of Little Black Sambo. This incredibly controversial book, published in 1850, written by a white woman living in British-ruled India for her two small children, has been re-told uncountable times. These are my two favorite modern versions:

The Story of Little Babaji, Bannerman and Marcellio and Sam and the Tigers, Lester and Pickney. Both are done wonderfully. The art is beautiful and the stories are awesome. The first is completely original in the text save for the names of the characters and the second is completely retold.

2. Picture books by Tomie de Paola, my new favorite children's book author. His books are really really wonderful. He is an artist and author and grew up and still lives in New England. He had an Italian father and Irish mother, and some of his books are autobiographical. Seek him out! Here's some titles: Bill and Pete, Oliver Button is a Sissy, many books featuring Strega Nona, Nana Upstairs Nana Downstairs, and more.

3. Ruby, by Michael Emberley appears to be out of print, but you can get it at the library. What a wonderful, modern retelling of Little Red Riding Hood with a clever twist at the end! His site is here if you want to visit it. I've not read his others, but they look great.

4. Anything by or illustrated by Ed Young. Look for the hidden embedded art in his books (is that a mountain or a donkey head?). See his gorgeous site here.

5. The Seer of Shadows, Avi. I'd never heard of this author prior to this, and I will read some of his others when I catch up a bit. This one was phenomenal. A ghost-story so cleverly done. He's won a lot of awards. Check him out here.

6. Good Masters! Sweet Ladies!: Voices from a Medieval Village, Laura Amy Schlitz, was written for her students at the Park School in Baltimore. She wrote this book in monologue parts that children can learn and perform while learning about medieval village life. The set up is very interesting and it's really beautiful.

7. Chicken Boy, Frances O'Roark Dowell tells the story of a young man with problem parents, not enough taking care of, and a slightly lunatic grandmother. It's realism for young people and it's good.

8. Al Capone Does My Shirts, by Gennifer Choldenko takes place in 1935 on Alcatraz, back when the guards' and workers' families lived on the island with them. Moose is a boy with an autistic sister in a time when autism isn't known and is a wonderful story that any child can understand and appreciate.

9. Going Bovine by the formidable Libba Bray is a whirlwind of a trip through an ill young man's delirious dreams.

10. The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate by Jacqueline Kelly was so good, I emailed her when I was half-way through to thank her. This one takes place in 1899 and is just awesome. Callie Tate lives in Texas with her parents, lots of brothers and an aging grandfather, who she befriends and learns from. It's really beautiful. I kept having to stop and re-read passages because they were so well written.

"The winter loves me," he retorted, and then, disliking the whimsical sound of that, added, "I mean, as much as you can say a season can love. What I mean is, I love winter, and when you really love something, then it loves you back, in whatever way it has to love." -Phineas, A Separate Peace, John Knowles

I have always loved this quote. I just wrote it up there from memory and only had to make a couple small changes after I Googled it to check for accuracy. 'Course, in the book, Gene doesn't buy it. But he honors that Phineas thinks it's true and so he doesn't argue. He says his 17 years of experience has shown the claim to be more false than true. I am squarely in Phineas's camp. Not only do I love winter and winter loves me back, but I think this applies to other stuff, too. But that's a different post. This one is about winter.

How I love winter. Truly love it. It's my favorite season. Has been for just about my whole life. There are lots of reasons for this. Some of them:

- I hate the heat. HATE HATE HATE it. When it is over 78 degrees, I am uncomfortable. I run hot anyway, so this makes sense.

- My birthday is smack in the middle of winter. And I love my birthday, too.

- There's something to be done about the cold (unlike the damn heat). You can put on more clothes, walk faster to warm up, and stay in by a nice fire. (I can hear the arguments already about air conditioning. I will say that it is expensive, not everyone has it, and a fan is just not the same. And, not being able to go outside sucks.)

- No lost sleep. It is so hard to sleep when it's hot. But when it's cold, bring on another blanket and snuggle in!

- It brings SNOW! And snow means skiing and snowshoeing and snowball fights and snow angels and sledding and so much great stuff that ANYONE can have. You don't need a ride to the ocean or lake and you don't need a boat and you don't need other stuff that leaves out people who are poor or struggling. It is fun in an equal way that anyone can access.

We had the second big storm of the season yesterday. I missed the first one - being away in Puerto Rico (where it was too hot) for Xmas. I had the aftermath - had to clean off the car and shovel some when I got home, but it was nothing in comparison, and it melted very quickly afterwards. This one is epic. The snowbanks are huge! The piles of plowed and shoveled snow are tall! The entire world looks like a winter wonderland. It's so beautiful!

Yesterday afternoon, a friend and I carried our snowshoes over to the Arnold Arboretum, which is across the street from where we live and we put on our snowshoes and grabbed our poles and headed out. I wasn't really prepared for how amazing it would be. I've snowshoed before, in Vermont, in the woods. But here I was, in the heart of Boston - in the 'hood, actually, surrounded by trees and snow and untouched fields. There were people with sleds, people on cross country skis, people on snowshoes. Sometimes we were with or around other people, sometimes we were all alone for a long while as we trekked.

I know the Arboretum quite well. I know the main paved roads that run through it as well as some of the other paths and trails that go through the forests. Yesterday, though, we were totally turned around - a few times. Everything being white, we had no idea where we were. At one point, we cleaned a foot of snow off a sign so we could at least try to get our bearings. We climbed up hills, we trekked through big fields that had marshy grass underneath (we could see a couple of tiny exposed spots) and we found places we'd never been before. Because when there's a foot or better of snow, you can walk ANYWHERE! Even places you could never walk otherwise, because you'd be trekking through the aforementioned marshland.

There are so many different types of trees in the Arboretum, from many different countries. There are some with red tones to their bark. Yesterday, they were practically glowing red. With low light because of the cloud cover and no competing colors since everything else was black/brown and white, the red really stood out. It was very cool.

This morning, after the gym, I was driving home at 7 a.m. The sun had just come up and the sky was not quite blue yet. It was pink and orange and green and blue. Looking through snow covered trees with this background made me stop. I wished I had my camera. Then I pulled over to mail something and got a look at the city in the distance. JP is lined up with the Pru and that other building with the dome top. The sun was reflecting off them and the orange behind them with the snow in the foreground was spectacular. Little moments make the big ones more bearable.

Next weekend, I go skiing and then do some more snowshoeing in Vermont. And hopefully, this snow will last for a while so some more Arboretum snowshoeing can be had. One of the downfalls of living as far south as Boston and so close to the ocean is that our snow often melts away as quickly as it came. Temps this time around sound like we might hang on to this for a while though.

I am not bothered in the least with the effort snow takes. It means shoveling out the driveway and the hard piles of snow the plow leaves at the end of the driveway - often more than once. It means shoveling out the car - chipping off the ice - making sure I always have enough windshield wiper fluid in the car. It means driving slower and more carefully. It means looking more carefully at intersections lest I miss a car or a kid behind a huge snowbank. It means dirty shoes that have to be taken off at the door instead of just waltzing into my house as usual. It means a car covered in salt residue and having to wash the car more often. It means looking harder for a parking spot because in Boston, you do not park where there is an end table or a lawn chair or a trash can. This is a mark of pride someone left, signaling that they worked long and hard to dig their car out, and when they return, that spot should be there for them to park in again. (Mayor Menino keeps threatening to send out the garbage men to pick up all these markers and haul them away as a message that this practice isn't acceptable, but it's never happened, and most of us support it, anyway.)

I am not bothered by any of that effort, because when you love something, that love takes effort. And the winter loves me back - it gives me gifts. It makes my body feel better, it allows me to snuggle under my three blankets at night in my favorite jammies all warm. It allows me to drink hot tea and chocolate. It lets me stand at the top of a mountain and then fly down at speeds I otherwise never experience. It gives me weekends with my family and friends in Vermont, something I've had since I was a baby and that has continued for over 30 years. It brings the occasional snow day with no work and being shut in the house with nothing to do but watch 8 more episodes of Rescue Me or read the rest of the book I'm loving. It gives me my birthday, which each year I celebrate somehow with friends and family. It gives me WinterFest at Cobbett's Pond. And as its final gift, it gives me Spring when it finally decides to close up shop for the year and allow the leaves to bloom again and the crocuses to pop out and the flowers to grow again.

I know not everyone loves the winter like I do. And in return, it doesn't love you very much. That's okay. Summer doesn't love me, and I'm fine with that. Winter is my boyfriend. And so far, its given me years of happiness. I expect a lot more of them to come.

My mother works at a large, public, city high school. She works in the building set aside for first-year students, who are separated from the general population to help them better make the transition from middle school to high school - it works, too - their attrition rate has dropped since they moved to this model several years ago.

She is not a teacher anymore. Now she is a specialist who supports teachers, supports the administration, and does a lot of MCAS (state testing) stuff. Even when she was tied to a classroom all day, she was a team player and generally helpful, but now that she is more free to roam freely about the building without kids in her care, she's taken on that role even more. She is the one who convinces the janitor to help haul boxes upstairs and she's the general problem-solver for things from how to organize the testing materials to putting away the Christmas tree.

Hence this story. I'm hoping I can do it justice in writing, because when she told me the story, the two of us were laughing so hard we could barely talk.

The Christmas tree that had been decorating the main office in her building had been taken down and put back in the box but it had been sitting there for days and nobody had put it away in the closet where it belongs. Finally, Mom got sick of looking at it, and bent her 5' 3", slightly overweight, 65-year-old body over and hauled the tree up onto her shoulder. The box was about 5 feet long, and the tip of the tree was sticking out the end like a javelin. She stood there for a moment, and then asked if someone would please open the door for her. Someone did.

She headed down the hall, likely moving as quickly as she usually does. Mind you, she may be only 5'3", but I've spent my entire life, with my 34" legs and 5' 10" self asking her to slow down so I can keep up with her. So she's hauling ass down the hall with the giant box on her shoulder, passing by teachers watching this whole thing as she goes. She gets to a 50-something guy teacher, and instead of offering to take the box for her, he says, "Hey, got a nickel?"

At this point in the story, I stopped her. "What?" I asked. "What does that even mean?" She said she didn't really know, other than his way of giving her shit, asking her to do something that would require using a hand to dig in her pocket for a coin. Just a way to mess with her further as she made her way past him.

"What did you say to him?" I asked. "I don't know," she said "Something like, 'I'll get you later.' What I wanted to do was poke him in the chest with the tip of the tree." I pictured that in my mind's eye and started cracking up again. My mom, as tiny as she is, using the tree as a sword and poking this guy in the chest with it. HILARIOUS!

I asked her to continue the story. When she got to the end of the hallway and to another door, she had to ask someone to open it again. She had to ask! Nobody just opened the door for her! She may not like that I'm going to say this, but she's a damn senior citizen. I know she doesn't look or act like one. But she is, for fuck's sake!

So that door gets opened, and she asks someone else to open the closet. They do, and then they watch as she throws the tree up over her shoulder onto the top shelf of the closet in one movement. And then she closed the closet door and went about her business.

Now I ask you, what is the most amazing part of this story. Is it:

a. That my senior citizen, almost midget, slightly overweight mom is really a hidden superhero, mover-of-heavy objects?

b. That nobody offered to help her?

c. That she didn't actually assault the idiot asking for a nickel?

Up to you, my friends. You get to decide which you think is the most amazing. Me? I just wish I had video of the whole thing.

NB: Our little picture wasn't this cute.

So off I go to Puerto Rico with 4 of my girlfriends for a week for Christmas. Can't get much better than that, right? It was pretty great. We rented a little villa with a kitchen, full-size fridge, bed, pullout couch and a loft. We chose our spots, unpacked our stuff, walked on the beach, checked out the hotel and environs, and headed right to the grocery store to get all the supplies we'd need to eat breakfast and lunch each day.

We also needed a few toiletries. One person needed toothpaste, we needed some sunblock, and since we knew we were going hiking in the rain forest later in the week, we needed bug spray - you know, like Off or something.

Let me back up for a moment and say that of the 5 of us, two are fluent in Spanish. One person routinely conducts group sessions for teens in Spanish in Boston and one has lived and worked in Mexico and Colorado and majored in Spanish. Two others of us are proficient. We can get along and basically be understood, but get a little lost when the conversation gets complex or higher level verb tenses are used. And the fifth of us has little to no Spanish at all. Of course, we sent the one with no Spanish to the toiletry aisle to get the sunblock and bug spray.

We were in a big modern grocery store, Amigo, which appeared to be a big chain in PR. It had anything you'd need, basically. Nobody working there spoke English, but they carried a fair number of products written in English from the Equate line, which is Walmart's. Christy found the sunblick fairly easily because it was Equate and in English.

While three others of us were waiting for the dude to come back to tell us if they had anymore half and half, finding out they didn't, and deciding to get the Tres Monjitas milk because it was so cute with three little nuns on the carton, Christy was finding the bug spray.

She came up to the rest of us and said "This is all they have" handing us a little tub of yellow gel. On the tub, it said it was para ninos (for kids) and that it was to "repelar piojos" with a picture of a bug with the red circle and cross through on top. Sure, we said, this must be some crazy version of bug repellent for kids. We checked the shelf, and there wasn't anything else.

"But it's Tutti Fruity! How will that repel bugs?" someone asked. Someone smart asked that. But we just moved along, not really thinking about it, tossing it in the cart and buying it, along with a big bottle of rum, a bunch of mixers, and breakfast food. Ah, the life of 5 single women let loose in paradise.

The day arrived to go hiking in the rain forest. Someone went and got the bug gel jar and prepared to slather it all over their body. Suddenly, Kate said, "Wait. Piojos. That's the word for lice!" She looked at the jar again and suddenly we realized it was for kids' hair! You were supposed to use it regularly in their hair to ensure they didn't get lice! HAHAHAHAH. Much laughing and hilarity ensued as we tried to imagine if we'd put it all over our bodies and then hiked through a forest, just inviting the bugs to dine on our delicious tutti fruity selves.

As it turned out, we didn't need it anyway, because it was raining so hard in the rain forest, no bugs were even out. And, we'd escaped this mistake, but I'd still been the one to buy a small bottle of what I thought was body lotion, at Target, in Boston, and used it for two days before someone else noticed it was actually body wash!

We left the jar, unopened, in the bathroom of the villa. The girl checking us out at the register at Amigo probably wondered what our deal was, and so might the woman who cleans it - Amalia, who we met when we arrived. Will the next people who stay at the villa wonder too? Hopefully, they'll understand enough Spanish and won't open it up and use it on their arms and legs when they head up the mountain to the rain forest!

For my class this semester at Tufts, which had a fancy name but I lovingly call "Slavery Lit", I read Harriet Jacobs Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl. It's her slave narrative, published under a pseudonym, Linda Brent. It was the first written document by a slave that discussed the sexual abuse that women slaves endured at the hands of their masters (and others). She says in the narrative: “Slavery is terrible for men; but it is far more terrible for women. Super-added to the burden common to all, they have wrongs, and sufferings and mortifications peculiarly their own.” As a feminist, of course I agree, right? Everything is harder for women than for men. But facetiousness aside, her narrative really got to me.

I have no idea how anyone endured what she did and didn't come out broken. Instead, she was able to escape, mend relationships with her children, and go on to do great things. People break in much less horrible circumstances.

In summary, she was born into slavery, sold after her mother died, and then bequeathed from a kind mistress to that woman's niece, who was only 5 at the time. So, while she was technically owned by a child, the child's father was her actual master. In the book, he is called Dr. Flint, but in real life he was Dr. Norcum. When Harriet was only 14 or so, he began following her around through her daily tasks, whispering filth in her ear and making sure she knew to be afraid. Soon afterwards, he took his infant child into his chambers at night, which then required a slave to be there to help so he could get her without interference from his wife. When Harriet confessed everything to his wife when questioned, instead of being protected by the woman, it never came. In desperation, she became pregnant by a single white man in town who was sympathetic to her situation. Dr. Norcum didn't care and the treatment didn't cease. Finally, when she realizes he is going to sell off her children to mess with her, she escapes. For seven years (SEVEN!) she hides in a crawl space above her grandmother's porch. Very few people know she is there, not even her own two children, who are living below her with the grandmother. After 7 years, she really does escape and winds up in New York and eventually Boston. Once Massachusetts passed the Fugitive Slave Law, which they had been holding out on, she was in real danger again. Dr. Norcum had been making trips north looking for her over the course of a decade and once he died, his family continued to pursue her. She was finally bought by friends in the north who then freed her.

I realize slaves were beaten. Horribly. To their death, often. But Harriet shows a different side. A side where your psyche is beaten. Horribly. And die a sort of death because of it. Some would even say a worse kind of death. But Harriet didn't succumb. I have no idea how. And the thing is, when young women are subjected to psychosexual abuse, it's bad; but when it continues into adulthood and then motherhood, it becomes even more powerful.

Anyway, I've been really affected by her story. And so I went to visit her yesterday. I parked at Mount Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge, MA and walked through the 25 degree sunny weather along the rows, searching her out. It was easy to find her stone, since I knew through emails with the cemetery people that it is getting some work done to it, so it's laying on the ground at the moment. I didn't know her daughter was buried beside her. That was a nice surprise. I hung around for a bit, took some photos, and had a moment with her. I was having a rare and particularly snarky bad day and thinking of her made me put my shit in perspective and remember what other people have endured.

She says in the introduction to her narrative: “Rise up, ye women that are at ease! Hear my voice, ye careless daughters! Give ear unto my speech.” -Bible, Isaiah 31:9. This is so huge. Before she even begins her writing; a pouring out of her heart in a way a slave women has never done before - she appeals to those not enslaved to hear her story and react to it. To use their innate power to somehow help. And she appeals to women specifically. This isn't unlike some of the female fiction writers of that time (Harriet Beecher Stowe and Lydia Maria Child to name two - the latter of whom edited Jacobs' narrative). They too appealed to Northern white women to step up and get involved with abolition.

I fear that I would've failed. That if I had lived in Boston in 1850 I might've just thrown up my liberal, abolitionist hands in complete defeat. Let me imagine myself then - mirrored from what I am now. I'm a spinster at 37 - having not married, there is no longer a question I will. I have a job, since I must in order to support myself, having moved from my farm-home north of Boston in Chelmsford in my mid-twenties after spinsterhood was clear but my willful ways wouldn't allow me to remain under my parents' roof. I'm not well connected enough or weird enough to have rubbed elbows with Louisa May and her ilk but I'm adventurous enough to have made my way in the big city. Being an abolitionist - an ardent one at that when talking with friends and family - perhaps I do some writing in some of the newspapers focused on that. But, like myself now, do I actually DO anything? Do I protest? Do I participate in the underground railroad? Do I use every extra dime I have helping people get from the South to Canada? Or do I just sit in my little rented room and hope that soon it will end? That's mostly what I do now. I rant. I write a bit. And I throw up my hands in defeat. I hate to think that I would've done the same then.

Harriet, thank you for your strength and courage. Thank you for leaving words for me. They are more powerful than anything else you did: your school, your programs. They allow me, now, 150 years later, to check myself and make sure I am doing enough, which I've determined, I'm not. For what is the real difference between slavery and gay rights? What is the real difference between slavery and predatory lending? Other forms of injustice and prejudice and oppression? (Don't anyone jump - yes - I understand ownership of people versus other things - but I am tired of discounting injustices because, well, they aren't as bad as fill-in-the-blank. This is not a hierarchy of horrid - it is ALL bad.)

I shall reflect on this over my much needed break in the next couple of weeks. While I am basking in the sun and sea of Puerto Rico, which I can afford, with my friends who love me and talking with my family who will miss me over the holidays, I will remind myself how lucky I am. And what a responsibility I have to do for others because of it. And I will maybe decide that this year, to step it up a bit. To consider my role as a "careless daughter" and what that really means.

The first time I saw Brokeback Mountain, in 2005, in the theatre, I sobbed so much I had to wait to get up at the end until I had control enough again to walk. I was touched by the story, touched by the pain of Ennis and Jack, men feeling something they could do nothing about. I was mad at a world that continues to attempt to keep gay men and women from loving, even though my state had legalized their right to marry just the year before. I wept for lost time, lost love and for people not being able to be who they are. I wept for gay men and women, but especially men, who are violently tortured and killed just for being gay. I was amazed when it didn't win Best Picture that year, losing out to Crash, which was a good movie, but not even remotely as good as Brokeback. (I was consoled a bit by the fact that Larry McMurtry and Annie Proulx won for the screenplay and Ang Lee won for direction - even after all 3 nominated actors were also snubbed.)

A friend mentioned last week that she'd watched it again, and how good it was the second time around. We talked for a bit about the things that can be noticed on a second viewing of a movie that affronts every sense the first time - once you are prepared for it. We talked for a bit about the loss of Heath Ledger; about how the world is a little bit less wonderful without him in it.

I watched it again yesterday. It affected me even more than I thought it would this time. This is not the "gay cowboy movie," it is a serious love story, as serious and important as any other love story ever told; perhaps more serious and important than many others. It is a story of hidden love - of love that cannot be fully realized or enjoyed because of fear. Ennis says, "If you can't fix it, Jack, you have to bear it." And in this line is the crux - two young men in 1963 and through almost 20 years of stolen moments - bearing it is really all they can do.

There are some incredibly poignant moments in this film, and clearly the writing, acting and direction are to thank. When Jack finally contacts Ennis again, 4 years after their first summer together, Ennis waits for him like a child on Christmas morning, sitting in the window and getting more and more anxious as time passes; the viewer can feel the anticipation. Jack finally arrives, and although it was clear that Ennis was the one who needed to be convinced the first time around, he takes one look at Jack and his body and his emotions take hold of him and he is lost. He takes hold of Jack's face and looks in his eyes and in that moment, anyone can see that this is real. This is the love Ennis has missed while he was busy trying to build a marriage and rear his kids and earn enough money for their keep. He leans in to kiss Jack, holding onto him with urgency. My entire being was affected on this second viewing - I wanted to cheer and cry all at once.

The scene where Ennis and Jack first discover sex together, while violent and abrupt and a tiny bit scary, is equally as poignant. How perfect that the writers and director and actors understood that scene must be that way - that without it, we would never had bought into the story as a whole. Two men, cowboys, no less, in 1963, one with a fiance waiting at home end up having sex in a tent on a mountain? We have to understand the stretch that was - that there was something important behind it in order for the entire story to follow to work. Jack is clearer in his sexuality. He has already fallen for Ennis and it likely took restraint on his part to wait as long as he did before he reached for Ennis's hand and arm to wrap it around his own body. But Ennis? Ennis we know could've gone his entire life without ever having an encounter with a man - sexual or otherwise. He would've just accepted his life as it was dealt to him, and would've passed up the love with Jack if Jack hadn't've been brave enough to offer it. It's what makes the rest of the movie so brilliant. Because this isn't just a passing thing; it isn't just another fuck. It's real love on both their parts, but especially Ennis'.

The scene where Ennis meets Jack's parents and finds their shirts - carefully threaded into each other in Jack's childhood bedroom shatters me. He's there, hoping to catch a last moment of Jack-ness, in his room, his boots, his clothing, and yet, he finds love again. In the form of two bloodied shirts, kept by the love of his life as a reminder. Jack's mother, who clearly knows Ennis is her son's lover, must be aware of the shirts' existence and is quick to offer Ennis a bag to carry them when he returns downstairs with them. In her "Come back to see us again" line, she says so much. She says to Ennis that she loved her son, that she knows how much he loved Ennis and that she can see Ennis' pain in the loss of him. She validates Ennis' entire being - for here is someone who knows his secret and accepts it about him. (Jack's dad is not as understanding - but he doesn't throw Ennis out; he doesn't punish Ennis for loving Jack, he allows him a moment's grace - a far cry from what many men in his position might've done.)

As the movie progresses, Ennis' marriage fails, Jack continues to try to convince Ennis they can build a life together if they just tried, and ultimately, Jack dies, deep sadness takes hold of me. How many times can Heath Ledger, with that gorgeous face speckled with freckles evoking innocence, cry in complete despair before I too, break down? How many times can Jack, with a pure, unadulterated love for Ennis, beg him to build a life with him? How many more times can society refuse to allow people to love each other? People who aren't hurting anyone? People who just have love - piles and piles of love - should be allowed to share it with whoever they want to, wherever they want to, however they want to. Yet. Here we are - much as we were in 1982 (the last time Jack and Ennis spend a week together) - with people not allowed to do just that. I would venture to guess that if two men met next summer in Wyoming on a ranch and fell in love, they would feel just as compelled to hide it as Ennis and Jack did. Sad world we live in.

I am so grateful that Annie Proulx wrote this short story for us and that Ang Lee and Jake Gyllenthal and Heath Ledger decided to make the film. It is a gift. A beautiful, heart-breaking, amazing gift. One I will watch many more times in my life, now that I've reminded myself just how important it is.

The latest brouhaha in the US this week is airport security checks.

The TSA has never had a very good reputation. Everyone can tell stories about what happened to them in the security line - pre-9/11 and post. Not everyone knows why we take off our shoes and coats and sweaters that count as coats, but we do it. Introduce something new and some people will complain, bitch, and cause problems. They will mess it up, bring the wrong sized Ziploc bag, get their brand new 12 oz. lotion confiscated, forget their pocket knife is in their pocket and have to use one of those mailer envelope things to mail it home and hope it is there when they get back. Introduce something new and there are also real facts to point to about why it isn't working. An agent makes a mistake, someone's urostomy bag accidently gets torn, too much force is used. Absolutely all of this is true. Shit happens. It happens all the time, everywhere, this is no exception. (See the time the MBTA agent at Back Bay who confiscated the university credit card I had an authorization letter to use and told me I was a criminal and made me cry. That was fun.)

But I just don't get it. I don't get how people can see these new machines and optional pat-downs as assault or invasive. You get in a machine, which my home airport, Logan (Boston) has had for a while now, and hold your hands up "stick-up style" for about 10 seconds and then you walk out. This is what the image looks like that someone in another room somewhere sees:

Apparently there is some concern that these images are invasive and show too much of a person's body. And, that they aren't being erased from the system and could end up on the internet. Okay. But who can tell who anyone is? If someone wanted to take my image from the xray machine and print it somewhere, go ahead. Nobody can tell who I am from it. And before you go off yelling about it, even if I had one boob and two belly buttons, the chances are still slim someone could attach my name to it.

The level of radiation in the machines is supposedly safe. People are concerned that it isn't. Okay. Well, lots of things they told us was safe wound up not being and lots of things we thought were unsafe wound up being just fine. This has gone on for as long as we can remember. Lead paint anyone? Asbestos? Not sitting on the toilet seat to avoid AIDS? Saccharin is still up in the air and has been since the 70s, yet millions of people reach for the Sweet n Low every day. The list would be as long as you cared to make it.

So choose not to go through the machine. That's fine. You can do that. But if you do, you get the pat-down. That's the way it goes, peepers. And if you now complain that's too invasive, go back for your dose of radiation. Those are your choices. And if you don't like those choices, you can choose to not fly. If you're lucky, your airline will be handing out refunds.

A pregnant friend of mine who travels A LOT for work has been bypassing the machines and getting the pat down for a while now. She described the experience to me. She said the lead-in verbal info was so long about what they were going to do, she finally interrupted the poor woman TSA agent and said "I'm not modest, just go ahead." Then the woman told her every step she was going to do before she did it. She said, I'm going to run my hands up your arms. I have to run my finger under the underside of your breasts. I am going to put one finger into the waistband of your pants and go around. I'm going to run my hands up your leg until I "meet resistance" - apparently the nice way to say "hit your crotch." I asked my friend if they cupped her crotch. Nope. None of this description sounds invasive to me.

The little boy in the video who was supposedly being harassed at the airport needed the pat-down. Some dude recorded the entire thing with the father asking the boy to cooperate and then taking the boy's shirt off for the TSA agents, which was entirely his doing, and entirely unnecessary. The boy got the normal pat-down and went on his way. The dude who videoed it was asked to delete it since it violated the family's privacy but he refused and instead made it viral on the web. Who in this story violated someone's rights? My vote is for the a-hole with the video camera.

New security measures have continuously been put in place for flying since airlines have existed. In the 70s, with the hijackings that were happening, they began to step it up. As more and more people accessed air travel in the 80s, more security measures were necessary. And of course, we all know the post 9/11 measures and those that have followed. And every time someone figures out how to breach the measures in place, we come up with new ones. This is just another natural step in the progression. And it's one I think we can live with. In 5 years, we won't even remember when we didn't have to go through the xray machine. I can barely remember when I didn't have to take my shoes off.

I am not fully addressing the fact that some people are subjected to repeated "second checks" at airport security because of how they look. This type of profiling happens all the time. It happens to a number of people I know, both people of color and scruffy or hippie-looking people. And this is super annoying for them. And I'm sorry it happens.

I am fully aware that there many people who don't agree with me on this. I'm not asking you to. This is my opinion. Women have been subjected to cat-calling on the street for basically all eternity and it continues today and nobody's up in arms calling that assault and abuse and trying to stop it. So.

On the whole, I think there are better things to worry about than this. People are hungry. People are going in this holiday season with absolutely no means to provide even a modest gift for their kids. I would love for people who can afford to fly to be with family or enjoy a vacation this holiday season to consider the privilege that goes with that and then be respectful and helpful so we can all get where we are going safely. I wish we'd swallow some of what I see as our over-sensitive modesty and just move along. Perhaps eventually, we'll all be as non-chalant as these people:

I don't really care about music. Let me put that out there right from the start. I'm a book person. A movie person. I don't own an iPod (my 587kb shuffle I got as a gift hardly counts), I don't have an iTunes account, I own about 50 CDs and almost all of them are from college or before. I listen to NPR a lot. I skip the music section in my Entertainment Weekly.

But something weird has happened to me in the last 8 months. I have found a reborn delight in pop music. Top 40 music. Katy Perry, Lady Gaga, some dude called Tiao Cruz, Rhianna, even Brittney. I seem to like it all. When I don't have NPR on in the car, I have on Kiss108 and when Ryan does the AT40 on Sunday morning, I'm actually interested in which song is number 1. It's like it is 1985 again and I'm 12 and we're begging Mom and Dad to let us stay in the car until the announce the number 1 before we go into 12 o'clock mass. Or we're rushing out from quarter of 11 mass so we can hear the last 5 or so. Back then, though, of course, it was Casey Kasem making the big announcement.

It all began last February, during the planning for the international symposium that my institute at Tufts does each year. I was still new in my job and was learning trial by fire. My days were 8-10 hours of pure hell, sometimes with both my landline and cell each on an ear and emailing at the same time. There were seemingly hundreds of students in and out of my office all at once. So I turned to Gaga. I created a station on my Pandora called "Poker Face" and rocked to pop to calm my soul. Prior to that, my Pandora stations ranged from Jack Johnson to Ben Harper to Michael Franti to Tori Amos. Not really pop stuff.

And now I'm lost in it. I love it. I know a lot of the songs by heart. (This is partly because Kiss108 tends to play the same songs over and over and over ad nauseum.) I actually enjoy them. I got all excited when I saw the video for Willow Smith's single "Whip My Hair." I sometimes feel like going clubbing.

I'll admit. I don't know all the artists' names. And I don't know from whence they came. I don't really care, actually. I just dig the beat and dig the songs. My Katy Perry Pandora station keeps me going all day long. Flo Rida makes me smile, even if I have to look up what applebottom jeans are. Jason DeRulo makes me want to keep riding solo and be proud of it. Kelly Clarkson is the bomb. Gaga - oh, Gaga how I love thee. Katy - you go girl. Marry Russell Brand in India with your crazy blue hair self. Bruno Mars, yeah, you stole the title "Just the Way You Are" from Billy Joel, but your version is also kick ass, so you're forgiven. And all the cool pairings! Rhianna and Eminem, Katy Perry featuring Snoop, Elton John and the Gaga. So great.

So, there you go. I have no idea what's happened to me. And my taste. But my booty wants it some pop. So I'm going to go with it. And maybe actually go clubbing one of these weekends.

I am known as someone who does things the whole way. Obsessively, perhaps, but never entering the psychotic. I get into things and I do them and talk about them incessantly. I tend to leave things behind just as easily once something is over or the next best thing comes along. In any case, television is something I'm a little obsessive about. The television I watch I get a little passionate about. I lure others into watching shows I like. I talk about shows with other fans as if the characters are not only real, but our buds. I've done this for as long as I can remember. (My real relationship with television didn't begin until college, because my mother regulated our television viewing so stringently, even through high school, that anything prior to 1991, I've heard of, but don't have an intimate relationship with, unless I caught up through syndication, which I did with some things.)

For your reading pleasure, and perhaps viewing pleasure, here are my current obsessions and recommendations for television worth watching. In this age of Hulu and Netflix, I've managed to watch entire seasons in a weekend and entire series in a month or so. You, perhaps, might space it out some more: up to you! For the record, this isn't in any order of preference or best to worst. All of these I've deemed worth my time over the long haul, so they are all good!

Dexter, Showtime, Seasons 1-4 available on Netflix, Season 5 currently airing, twelve 52-minute episodes per season

This show, about a vigilante serial-killer blood-spatter expert is brilliant. It is well written, well acted, the scenarios are not so crazy that you can't buy them. The supporting cast members are great and the seasons are awesome in that each episode has elements that stand alone, but there is a story line that follows through the entire season as well. You will love a serial killer and cheer him on.

Grey's Anatomy, ABC, Seasons 1 - 6 available on Netflix, Season 7 currently airing, between 15-24 42-minute episodes per season

I have watched every episode of Grey's Anatomy in order the week they aired. I have cared about Meredith, Cristina, Alex, Izzie, George, Derek, Chief, and Bailey since the start. I have cared for Lexi, Mark, Callie, Arizona, Owen, Tedy and the others as they have joined. I have mourned deaths, wondered how someone would survive, cheered successes and cried with characters. I feel as though I could walk into Seattle Grace and know what everyone was talking about. Some say this show jumped the shark a while back, but I either don't care or don't believe it. I'm sticking here until this show ends.

The Amazing Race, CBS, Seasons 1-9 available on Netflix, Season 10 currently airing, twelve 42- minute episodes per season

The only reality show worth watching, TAR doesn't have any downtime for anyone to be a poser of any kind. The tasks and pace and exhaustion level requires people to be themselves, good or bad. The locations are great, the tasks are always culturally related, and watching 24 Americans make their way around the world is always good fun. As a traveller, nothing is better than this!

Breaking Bad, USA, Seasons 1 & 2 available on Netflix, Season 3 just finished and coming to Netflix, Season 4 slated, 7 eps Season 1, 13 after that

The lead actors in this amazing show keep winning awards. Walter is a high school chemistry teacher who is way too smart for his job and trying endlessly to make ends meet for his family (a wife, a disabled teenager and a new baby). His DEA agent brother in law introduces him to meth, and he finds an ex-student Jesse and begins cooking the best meth Albuquerque has ever seen. A tangled web of lies, crazy violence, some pretty dodgy characters and some edgy storylines ensue. I never knew I'd know so much about meth. Just this morning, there was a story on NPR about CVS being in trouble for selling too much Sudafed to repeat customers, and I knew why that was a problem before they even said that it was a major ingredient in meth! See what TV can teach you?

Friday Night Lights, DirectTV and NBC, Seasons 1-4 available on Netflix, Season 5 to air on NBC next spring, 22 42-minute eps Season 1, 13-15 thereafter

This show is about three things: football, Texas and Jesus. And I could care less about all three of those things (except that my sister lives in TX, but that aside...). People recommended this show to me for years and I laughed them off. And then I watched the pilot one night in a fit of boredom and I was hooked. On the pilot. This show is also about kids, and struggles, and marriage, and trust and love and hardship and selflessness. I have cried during approximately half the episodes and I sobbed (sobbed!) during one. I feel as though I know these people and I want to move to Dillon, TX and hang with them for a while. I miss characters who have moved on, and I"m worried about the fate of others as I await the final season to be available, because alas, season 5 is it for this beauty of a gem of a show.

Modern Family, ABC, Season 1 available on Netflix, Season 2 currently airing, 24 23-minute eps per season

Winning the Emmy for best comedy in their freshman year as well as an acting award for Cam, this show is hilarious and poignant at the same time. Everyone I know loves this show. No more need be said.

30 Rock, NBC, Season 1-4 available on Netflix, Season 5 currently airing, 22 23-minute eps per season

Tina Fey is genius. Alec Baldwin is brilliant. The rest of them are amazing. This show is esoteric, weird, hilarious, and just plain fun. Rumor has it Alec is leaving after this season and we'll see what happens after that, because Tina is no where near the end of her career and I can't wait to see what else she cooks up as we grow old together. Liz Lemons of the world unite!

The Office, NBC, Seasons 1-6 available on Netflix, Season 7 currently airing, 22 23-minute eps per season

The funniest shit on TV. Hands down. And when Steve Carrell leaves after this season, the rest of this ensemble cast will hold their own and whatever new person joins them will likely be hazed to hell and back, all for our pleasure.

United States of Tara, Showtime, Season 1 available on Netflix, Season 2 finished airing July, coming to Netflix soon, Season 3 in the works, 12 30-minute eps per season

Toni Collette is Tara, a suburban housewife with two kids, a husband, and bunch of other personalities. John Corbett is in this (I have been in love with him since his Northern Exposure days) pretty great series about how the family and Tara herself handles multiple personality disorder. Since I've only seen Season 1 so far, I can't completely vie for this one, but my roommate and I both loved it and I watched the entire of Season 1 twice, so there you go.

Big Love, HBO, Season 1-3 available on Netflix, Season 4 coming soon to Netflix, Season 5 in the works, 10ish 58-minute eps per season

I wrote an entire post about this. Check it out here. I'm anxiously awaiting the next season of this to come out so I can rejoin this interesting family.

Glee, Fox, Season 1 available on Netflix, Season 2 currently airing, 22 42-minute eps per season

Everyone loves Glee. It's fun, campy, important, and fun. It has a kid in a wheelchair, a gay kid, geeks, cute boys, pretty girls, pregnant teens, unconfident adults, mean people, and diversity. And singing. The singing is pretty great. It's broken all kinds of records and is totally worth watching.

Family Guy, Fox, Seasons 1-8 available on Netflix, Season 9 (I think) currently airing, lots of 24-minute eps per season plus a few bonus 2-hour specials

I know I already said that The Office is the funniest shit on TV, so I obviously can't say that again. So I will say this is the funniest offensive perverse shit on TV. For me, this sits on the right side of the line that SouthPark sits on the wrong side of. I love every gross joke, every reference, and every time my mouth drops open and I yell out, alone in my room, OH MY GOD! I can never believe what they get away with on this show and I can never get enough. Peter, Lois, Meg, Brian, Stewie and Chris are awesome. I hope Seth keeps making this for a long time coming.

Parks & Recreation, NBC, Seasons 1 & 2 available on Netflix, Season 3 airing (not sure when it's starting), 22 24-minute eps per season

The first season of this show was only okay. Season 2 was awesome. It really found its footing, Aziz Ansari really got funny and Amy Poehler really sat into Leslie Knope and made her the bumbling small town bureaucrat we all love. The side stories are funny, the small town feel is great, and Leslie is just an idiot, but a funny, sincere, loving idiot. Rob Lowe is staying on for Season 3, so we'll see how this rolls out.

The Middle, ABC, Season 1 available on Netflix, Season 2 currently airing, 22 24-minute eps per season

I was told that this is hilarious recently and just started watching in Season 2. I will likely never see Season 1, since its a sitcom and I probably won't bother. But it is great! Patricia Heaton, the mom from Raymond is the mom and the janitor from Scrubs is the dad. They have three idiot kids. Seriously - idiots. They live in the middle of the U.S., hence the name. Mom and Dad have never lived anywhere else and are trying their best to raise their three kids amongst no money, jobs they hate, and regular day to day craziness. It's the perfect show for a bad-economy US.

Woah. And to think I keep up with all of this, plus I read about a book or so a week. Remember that I don't have cable in the house, so I don't have access to stuff like HGTV and then waste hours watching Curb that House or whatever that stuff is called. I don't get pulled into Barefoot Contessa and watch her cook for an hour. I only watch stuff I mean to be watching. There's some perks to being single, too. Tons of disposable time. No kids or partner to care for. I don't even own my house, so I barely have to take care of myself, let alone anything else. Lots of time to experience media!

Happy watching!

One of my favorite topics. I used to be a keeper of many momentos. Less so now, in my old age and after about 20 moves in 10 years. One of my craziest memories about momentos is that I had a basket with a top of all the things that meant something to me in high school under my desk. It had everything from notes from boys to cards from people to rocks from the beach to dried rose petals. To a 17-year-old girl, it was the basket of dreams, hope, belonging, love and future. One morning, in a huff because he was pissed he had to do the chore, my brother, eleven at the time, emptied the entire thing into the garbage and threw it all out, mistaking it, in his rage, as my trash basket. Admittedly, my trash basket was also a basket, but obviously had no cover and was bigger. I didn't find out until after school, and it being trash pickup day, we were unable to recover any of it. I was a raving maniac for a while. And then I got over it.

Okay, today's Friday 5: MOMENTOS

Do you still have your senior yearbook? Where is it?

Yup. On my bookshelf. It was missing for a number of years and then magically reappeared, I have no clue how. I've actually pulled it out recently in this age of Facebook when people friend me and their profile photo is of their kids and I can't even remember what they look like or who they even are. (Why, by the way, are those people friending me?) I was the Business Editor of my book (why? no clue. why?) and it is GORGEOUS. Granted, it's 1991 gorgeous, but still. It's got a suedey/velvety cover and gold embossing and a cut out on the endpaper and the theme is Greek-God-inspired. It's pretty awesome. And so, yes, I keep it.

What souvenir did you bring back from your last trip?

I travel a lot. And I have rituals now of what I get as mementos. 1. Always a flag of that country. In little fabric version, if possible. Like the kind you get a the 4th of July parade. If I can't get fabric, I get a patch or sticker as a last resort. 2. A keychain that is relevant to that country and it goes on my great travel carabiner of keychains. 3. A piece of locally made or locally inspired (or better, both) jewelry. I have some amazing pieces I've collected over the years made by people in cities, villages, art communities, and more. To truly answer this question my last trip was to Peru. I got a little fabric flag (which took FOREVER to find) of both Peru and of Cusco (which is a rainbow like the pride flag although they are not fond of this likening)), a little porter shoe keychain, and a very cool coca leaf set in silver pendant and as a bonus, some earrings in Lima made from dyed seeds for the equivalent of about a dollar.

What visible signs are there of your most recent injury?

I am always covered in bruises. At any given moment I have anywhere from 1 to 10 of them. Mostly on my shins. I bruise very easily and always have. Now that I ride my bike a lot, I get them on my shins all the time just from a tap of the pedal.

What’s the neatest wedding favor you’ve ever seen?

Huh. I have to think on this. Mostly they are lame, right? I guess something interactive is best. Like the one wedding that had a photo booth and you got a strip of four little photos and a little stand up frame. That was good (thanks Matt & Danielle). My friends Sara and Chris actually made, themselves, strawberry rhubarb jam and jarred it up for everyone. They ruined the first batch and had to completely start over. That was pretty cool. My sister and her husband made CDs for everyone of music they care about with little recorded intros. However, burning 400 of those puppies sucked. And they were still doing it, on three computers, the night before the wedding. Insanity.

What do you do with playbills and movie-ticket stubs?

Keep them in a little pile of crap on top of my desk for a while and then I throw them out because why the hell am I keeping them? I do, however, keep all the tickets to museums from trips, bus tickets, maps of cities, subway tokens and tickets, little stirrers from coffeeshops, and the like in this cool journal book made entirely of envelopes that my friend Kathleen gave me. There's an envelope for each trip and I stuff all the stuff in there and I have no idea why I keep any of it either. Maybe if someone visits Cusco soon, I can give them al my tips and hints by going through that envelope.

HAPPY LONG WEEKEND!

This week's Friday 5 is DROPS.

What was the last thing you dropped on the kitchen floor?

Food. Onion pieces, specifically. I am a very messy cooker, trained by an even messier cooker, my mother. I routinely drop food all over the floor when I'm cooking. Then I have to clean it all up afterwards. Which I'm not very good at either. Sometimes I find old pieces of whatever when I'm sweeping two weeks later. I know: gross.

What cough drops do you like, and do they work very well?

I usually buy those natural ones, store brand. Cough drops are expensive! I like ones with menthol in them, because I don't really use cough drops very often but it's nice to get a clear nose to go with my soothed throat.

Who was the last person you dropped off somewhere?

Um.....it's been a while, which is weird. So I'm turning this around. I picked up my roommate from the airport on Saturday when she landed from Stockholm via London after a two week business trip. Then I dropped her off at home, but that doesn't work because I live there too so I went inside with her.

When were you ever dropped like a bad habit?

Never that I know of. I would rather this read "Who have you ever dropped like a bad habit?" And so, I shall answer that question. Almost 2 years ago, I found out an ex-lover/friend had cheated on me all along and had lied to me for over a year. I called him up, told him I found out, read him the riot act, hung up and I have never spoken to him ever again. We have mutual friends, so I've been aware of some of his comings/goings since then, and he actual emailed me about 11 months after everything went down, and I ignored/deleted that. He can still bite me. Bad habits be damned.

What are your favorite kind of raindrops?

Absolutely none. I hate the rain. Anyone who knows me knows I hate the rain. I hate getting wet when I don't mean it. (I even hate being wet a little even when I do mean it.) This is only in this decade. I think it's because for 2 years when I was living in Thailand and teaching diving, I was wet all the time. Wet bathing suit, wet clothes, hot and sweaty weather. And my skin hated it. So now I've developed a psychological reaction to it. There have been days when I have had to walk to the T in the rain and am almost crying by the time I get there because I'm getting so wet and I hate it so much. I know: crazy.

HAPPY FRIDAY! RABBIT, RABBIT!

September 20, 2010

Dear Mr. Putz:

I am writing to tell you of my disappointment in my recent experience with writing a letter to the editors of Boston Magazine. Let me begin by telling you how much I enjoy your magazine. I read it cover to cover every month and await its arrival at my home since I’m a subscriber. I think the in-depth reporting is fantastic and the subject matters covered are always interesting and well done.

When I received my September issue, I identified right away the Glee take-off on the cover. At first I thought it clever as a way to highlight the annual school report by using pop culture. But then I read the article and with even more interest the article about the charter movement and Roxbury Prep. I am very familiar with Roxbury Prep, having worked with their students and staff quite a bit when I was on staff at Boston Cares. I also care a great deal about the charter school movement. I am not a parent, but I care about education and about the students in our community. The more I considered the importance of this report each year and the impact it can have on area students, parents, communities and schools, the more annoyed I became that the cover was so fanciful, and if you’ll allow me to use the word: cheap.

It bothered me so much that I wrote a letter to the editor through your online mechanism. I’ve never written a letter to your magazine before, although I’ve written other publications. This is the letter I sent:

“Dear Editors,

I am a big fan of Boston Magazine. I await my copy each month and I love the in-depth articles and fantastic reporting you do, as well as the little tid-bits. I read it cover to cover and I am a fan on Facebook and I get your Weekender enewsletter as well.

I am so disappointed in your choice for cover for the Best Schools issue. While I watch Glee and I love it, I do partially because it is so campy and the things that happen on the show hopefully aren't happening in real schools (athletic directors starving cheerleaders and being generally mean, principals being blackmailed, teacher battles, treatment of students, guidance counselors needing counseling themselves, etc.). For you to parody the show on the cover to highlight a feature article that we look forward to each year which is serious and important seemed to me to cheapen the reporting.

I would've loved to see the Roxbury Prep students on the cover. What an amazing experience that would've been for those students, for the charter school movement overall, and for a neighborhood/community which is usually seen in a negative way in the media.

I continue to look forward to receiving my magazine each month, but felt compelled to share my feelings on this cover with you.

Best,

Karen

Jamaica Plain, MA”

Later that same day, I received a response to my email from Jason Schwartz, identified in his email signature as a Senior Staff Writer, asking me for my express permission in order to publish my letter in the magazine. I realize this could’ve been a formality, something done with every letter received. I responded straight away, giving my permission. Between the time I’d written the letter and was now writing the permission email, I’d read more of the magazine, so I added a P.S. to my email to Jason. My email in its entirety said:

“Hi Jason,

You have my express permission to print my letter to the editor if you wish. I live in Jamaica Plain, MA and my daytime number is xxxxxx if you need to reach me.

Thank you!

Karen

P.S. Just read the Gods and Mobsters article which was awesome and the Dunkin' article is one of the best things I've ever seen in print. What a great way to do that article. :)”

Imagine my surprise when I opened my October issue yesterday and found that I was indeed printed under the letters section, but not where I expected. Instead, under the section dedicated to the Dunkin’ Donuts article, there was my parenthetical post-script comment to Jason “’the Dunkin’ article is one of the best things I’ve ever seen in print’” wrote Karen of Jamaica Plain.”

I didn’t give permission for that to be printed. Don’t get me wrong: I loved the Dunkin’ article. But that wasn’t why I wrote you. And I didn’t give permission for it to be printed. I wrote a letter because of something I saw as an injustice. It was something important enough to me to sit down and write it out. And instead, that experience was also cheapened by your staff’s decision to pull a P.S. from an email and print that compliment instead of the criticism I was offering. I would rather have seen nothing from me in your magazine than to have this comment printed, since it was the complete opposite of my original intent.

I’m so disappointed again. What a bummer of an experience with your magazine. To first be disappointed in your cover choice and now be disappointed with how someone handled my correspondence.

I, of course, will continue to be a loyal reader. But my enthusiasm is dampened. I will anticipate delivery of your magazine with a little less verve than before.

I thank you for your time in reading this letter.

Sincerely,

Karen

________________________________________________________

I'm not sending the above letter because this morning I also emailed Mr. Jason Schwartz, and said this:

Jason,

I just received my October edition of Boston Magazine. I was shocked to see that you didn't use any of my letter to the editor, but did use something that was typed in a P.S. in my permission email to you. I gave you permission to use the letter to the editor I wrote. I didn't give permission to use a parenthetical line from an email to you. I'm even more disappointed now than I was when I wrote the original letter. I took time to write a letter about an injustice I saw (which you were welcome to ignore and not print at all) and instead you printed a compliment I made as a side note. I love your magazine, but I'm disappointed in this staff decision.

Sincerely,

Karen

Jamaica Plain

______________________________________________________

And he said this:

Hi Karen,

Thanks for the note. I think we owe you an apology. This is just one of those things that happened in the wash of putting that page together—it sometimes happens that we need a line in one spot for something or have to cut for space on another thing. It was totally not our intention to make it look like we were ignoring your criticism and just including the kind words (and we really do appreciate both). That page—like all of them in our magazine—goes through a lot of editors and it just sort of happened. I realize that this might not be the most satisfying explanation, but please know that we really do value your input as well as your loyal reading of the magazine.

Thanks again.

Best,

Jason

AND SO, THEY ARE FORGIVEN. And the Editor need not know.

Last year, the Boston Book Festival was revitalized. (It appears to have been a Globe run event years ago and then it just died completely.) A nonprofit was established and for a full day in October, Copley Square and the BPL were overrun with people who write, think about, write about, and care about books.

This year, they are back for a second go at it and it looks like a spectacular line up. Check it out here. I missed it last year because I was away in Turkey, so I'm really looking forward to this year.

As a new initiative, they have selected and produced a One City One Story publication with a short story by Tom Perrotta. They are giving out 30,000 copies all around the city prior to the October 16 Festival. Perrotta is local and wrote Election (movie made famous by Reese Witherspoon and Matthew Broderick) and Little Children (movie made famous by Kate Winslet and three Oscar nominations - including a writing one for Perrotta). He's got a new book coming out this fall called The Leftovers. The One City One Story is called "The Smile on Happy Chang's Face" and it is pretty great.

I was worried about how I would get a copy, since I bounce between JP and Tufts and hardly ever get in between - to the heart of Boston. But then I went to the free Pops concert on the Common on Sunday and there I noticed the huge orange BBF logo on a table across the grass. I ran over and got my copy of Perrotta's story, all happily bundled up in a little white booklet with staple stitching and the same awesome orange ONE CITY ONE STORY on the cover. I went right back over to my seat, and since Keith and Co. hadn't started performing yet, I read it right then and there.

Wow. Now, I realize I could've read this story before now. Perrotta wrote it in 2005 and it has been published in some other places, most notably in the Best American Short Stories of 2005. But I never came across it before.

I can't wait to attend the Town Meeting that is happening at the BBF to discuss the story (or hear it discussed, more likely) with Perrotta himself. (As an aside, there is nothing better than talking about a famous author's work with the famous author!) I'm really hoping I can make it to that - I'm waiting for the final schedule to be announced on the BBF website.

The story is about a little league game. The protagonist is one of the umpires - Jack. It's a town where little league is a big deal, and the umps and coaches and players all take themselves seriously. There's a fantastic pitcher named Lori Chang, a little slip of an Asian girl who just guns one pitch after another into the plate. Interwoven into the story is the backstory of the Jack's life, which has fallen apart in recent years due to some major mistakes on his part. He's full of anger and full of hope and just a giant mess overall. And he's trying to redeem himself through his actions during a town little league game.

As I was reading, I gasped at one point and my phone rang at that exact moment. I ignored it, because I couldn't stop at that particular time in my reading. And then I read forward with a vengeance, because I desperately needed to know what the outcome was going to be. I've no idea how many words this story is, but you wouldn't think it was long enough for me to care about the characters that much. That's Perrotta for you, though. He creates characters who are flawed - often drastically or irredeemably so - and makes you care enough about them to stick it through to the end and beyond. (Here I am writing a blog post about his story, right?)

I hope Bostonians (and those who venture into our fair city) will pick up a copy of the booklet and read it. Here's where. You can also download it here. Even if you aren't going to the event (which I also hope you'll do), it is great read. And it's a neat feeling to know that a whole bunch of other people are reading it too. Common experiences are cool. Common intellectual experiences are even cooler because they are pretty rare after leaving school; as an adult. The people at BBF knew this and made this happen for us as a city, which I love. Thanks for that, BBF!

Today is the autumnal equinox. The first day of fall. The beginning of the annual end. The season when things die and fall down and fall off and shut down for the winter. The season of letting go and moving on and preparing for the glory of what comes next.

There are a few things I should let go of. Perhaps we should start a tradition, wherein we make "Let Go Resolutions" in the fall something akin to New Year's Resolutions in January. (Considering I hate those, I have no idea why I'm advocating for even more.)

My list is thus:

1. Let go of body issues. I am not fat. I am a big person, bigger than most women. I am tall, and broad, and strong and heavy. I am also curvy and voluptuous and healthy and strong and not hard on the eyes. I should just let go of feeling bad about my body.

2. Let go of annoyances I have with certain people. Those people are in my life. I love them. And the constant annoyance is not helping me and it's not helping my relationship with said people. And really, the word annoyances is right. These things I harbor are teeny-tiny in the grand scheme of the world. My life would be smilier if I let go of these.

3. Let go of hatred. I hate a couple of things/people. Like, really harbor anger. I should just get over this. This one is a tall order. I don't take anger lightly and I never have. It's not something I like having. But it's getting stronger and stronger instead of lighter in this instance and it's time to try to let go of some of it.

4. Let go of worrying about money so much. I have enough. More than enough. Plenty. End of story.

Letting go is easier said than done. The leaves seem to have it down much better than we people do. But, ever notice those last couple leaves still hanging onto the branch after most of the others are already rotting away on the ground? I'm one of those. I just am. It's who I am. But I can always reiterate my desire to change and try it again and again. On this equinox, I pledge this.

This week's Friday5 is NAGGING.

What kinds of nagging injuries do you have?

I have lower back pain that started in high school, disappeared for a lot of years and is back now. I also have stupid plantar fasciitis, especially in my right heel, so I always have to wear sensible shoes.

What long-procrastinated task is nagging at you lately?

I really need to save all my photographs on some kind of back up (external hard drive, online, something). I need to get on that.

In what way have you been a nag to someone else?

I'm a nag all the time at work. I am the one who is always pointing out that now the event is less than 3 weeks away and nobody is invited.

Who in your life is a world-class nag?

Nobody really. I'm lucky like that.

Nag is such an ugly word. What would be a nicer way to describe someone who exhibits nagging tendencies?

Asshat. I love that word!

And so, in the end, the pastor in Gainesville didn't burn any Qur'ans.

But he managed to draw enough media attention for the whole world to know that there are Americans who would think of doing such a thing, and on 9/11 to boot.

Whose fault is this? His or the media? Me, for checking out the Facebook page incredulously? Obama and Petraeus for even deigning to issue a comment? I'm not going to point fingers. It's everyone's fault.

This post is about the actual act of thinking of burning the Qur'an. Who even considers burning a holy book? I mean, seriously. I am horrified by the idea of burning books at all, regardless of one's reason, but at least if you are going all Fahrenheit 451 and you think you are ridding the world of filth, you have a reason that is potentially sound, in my opinion. It doesn't make it right, but you could argue your point and I'd listen. But burning a holy text of a legitimate religion practiced by approximately 1 billion people on Earth? As an act of hatred? C'mon.

Yes. Terrorism exists. Yes, the 9/11 attacks were claimed by Muslim extremists. There are extreme sects of pretty much any organized religion. Some of them practice violence and some don't. Some practice violence in very opaque ways (such as refusing to recognize the sexual orientation differences amongst people). And there are terrorists who don't act in the name of religion; see Timothy McVeigh and the Unibomber, amongst others.

You know what, whatever. I shouldn't even have to make any of those above points. The only point needed here is that whether we are at war with a country or not, whether we have a problem with a certain religion, whether any action we take would potentially cause problems for us, whether or not we've been wronged by a group, there is no justification for burning the holy book of other people in an act of defiance or as a statement or really, for any other reason.

The Muslim religion is very close to Christianity. Muslims pray to the same God that Christians do. (And Hindus and Buddhists for that matter.) I've not read the Qur'an, but I've read the basic tenets of Islam and really, is there much to argue with? Yes, Muslims adhere to some strict rules that are hard for some free-wheeling Americans to really understand. They have ritual around eating. There is Ramadan and fasting. There are dress requirements that some participate in. There's a strong sense of belonging. In Muslim countries, this is the norm. It is the air, as much as Christmas and Easter is here. And I'd argue that those countries are much more religious-based than we tend to be. I'm not sure if many Christian Americans could tell you the history of some religious rituals they participate in without a second thought.

I spent time in Turkey last year and I loved hearing the call to prayer 5 times a day as it wafted through the air over the loudspeaker wherever I was: the biggest city or the smallest village. I found it as beautiful as I do "All Come All Ye Faithful" sung in my childhood church in Chelmsford on Christmas Eve. I'm not a religious person, but I know faith when I hear it or see it, and I respect it, no matter what form it is taking. No matter what form. No matter by whom.

I'm not thrilled that a sect of a religion has chosen to attack us - to hate us. But there is no excuse for anyone using that as an excuse to justify hatred of an entire religion and group of people who have done nothing wrong. Especially a religious person. One who supposedly preaches the tenets of Christianity, which last I checked included the Golden Rule.

Good job getting your 15 minutes of fame, pastor in Gainesville. Media, are you sure you should've covered this quite so much; to have given it so much credence? And me: here I am, waxing on about it, after the fact. I guess we're all guilty, in the end, of something. We all get burned.

With each passing year, I enjoy making this list more and more. My annual "What I Did This Summer" post!

bought a bike - started to commute to work on it - visited Todd & Kate in STL - was a First Thursdays artist (three times!) and sold magnets made from my photos for the first time - rode a 25 mile route from JP to downtown and through Southie and back - went to my 15th college reunion - fell in love with Dexter - watched the first two seasons of Breaking Bad (love!) - took Mom & Dad zipping - did a bikeathon for Bikes Not Bombs (25.75 very hilly very hot miles) - enjoyed another year of CSA - went to an info session and meeting for a MA program at Simmons - rode a 25-mile route along the Charles out to Watertown and back through Newton - suffered through some serious back pain - passed my one-year anniversary at FitCamp - went on a motorcycle date - cared for someone in a lot of pain - spent another awesome 4th at Chez Boss at Cobbetts - visited Christy in NJ - went to the JP Lantern Festival - did a sprint triathlon - found out about Aquabikes, which is like a triathlon without the running part, perfect for me - biked to Deer Island (40 miles round trip!) - realized I have the capacity to really really hate someone - read more young adult novels than I can count - fell in love with Katniss from Hunger Games/Catching Fire/Mockingjay - acted as a reference for a few people doing job searches and helped them get offers! - saw the first two Dragon Tattoo movies at the Coolidge - found out a 'hood friend is happily pregnant - wandered around Cusco, Peru for three days - hiked the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu - spent a week on Long Island, Maine - kayaked Casco Bay Harbor from Peaks around Cushing to Portland Light, along Cape Elizabeth, over to Little Diamond and back to Peaks - saw my first Cirque du Soliel, Ovo - was rejected for the first time from donating double reds because my iron was 2% too low - took iron pills for 2 weeks and went back and happily donated double red blood cells - biked, LLBean style, through the rural hills and coastline of Freeport and Brunswick, ME - learned that LLBean's name was Leon Leonwood Bean - found lots of seaglass on the beach - made a necklace from a piece of blue printed porcelain rubbed smooth by the sea - made an amazing tee-shirt for Sonia after spending a day walking around JP looking for the letters of her name (see photo above) - grew beans, zucchini, basil and cukes - grilled everything you can think of - visited Sonia, Susan and Suneel in Houston - went to a cool Eugene O'Neill & e.e. cummings tour in Forest Hills Cemetery - had great networking lunches with a few people new to me and one or two old to me - made it to one Sox game at the last minute on Labor Day weekend with SRO tickets for the Coke Deck for only 25 bucks - went to the "End of the Summer" Party at Cobbetts & stayed over one more time - had a great, HOT summer.

2009's post

Summer 2008

Summer 2007

A blog linked to my blog, written by growing-up friend, Marla, had this post today. It's a super cool idea and is brought to us by http://www.friday5.org. My answers are below. Check out Marla's here.

What are the coolest and ugliest tattoos you’ve ever seen?

I love sleeves of any kind. I don't even really notice what designs make them up. I just love that people have the balls to do it and how awesome they look. For those of you who don't know what I'm talking about:

Ugliest? A woman I saw yesterday had dots tattooed up the back of her legs, like the seams in stockings. They were weird and I wasn't a fan.

Have you ever had a meal in which squid ink was an ingredient? How was it?

If I did, I didn't know it. But if I did, I wouldn't mind. I love all kinds of weird food and will try anything.

Are you one of those people who has a favorite pen, or one of those people who just uses whatever’s at hand? What’re your favorite pens like?

Totally. I have a serious addiction to Pentel Twist-Ease .7 mechanical pencils and cannot live without mine. This summer alone, one got lost and another stopped working. I had to go out and get more that same day. Pens, yes. I vary a lot, but I like black better than blue and hate ink rollers that write too quickly. I dig a really good ballpoint. I still like writing long hand, but it tires me out. I generally only do it when travelling.

There’s a box of colored markers on the table, and someone tells everyone assembled to grab one. If you have first pick, what do you take?

Red.

Have you ever written on a wall in a public place?

I don't think so. At first I thought "Well, surely I've done that," but now I'm second guessing. I think not. I've stolen so many signs (street, traffic, restaurant, ski-area, etc) that all the petty criminal activity begins to blur together.

Happy Friday!

I haven't ranted on this blog in a while, so I figure I'm due. That and the yelling and screaming to myself in the car is getting really stressful. I'm hoping that someone in City Hall has a Google alert set up, and I'm going to use every phrase I can think of that THE CITY OF BOSTON might have used in said Google alert so they somehow come across this post.

I've been riding my bike to work 2-3 days a week since April, which has reduced my car-driving stress considerably. But, last week, after getting home from vacation, I was lazy and drove every day. And then it commenced raining like hell for 3 days straight. So, I drove through the city for 8 work days in a row, something I've not done since last winter.

Keep in mind, folks, that it is still technically summer in Boston. There are some students dribbling back this week, but there are still no school buses or little kids on the streets. Traffic is still "light".

Boston drivers are notoriously shitty. Shitty in their skills, shitty to each other, shitty on reaction time, and they make shitty decisions. This actually applies to most Massachusetts drivers. A friend and I were driving to Maine, and when you cross the border from Mass into New Hampshire, there's a sign that says "Drive Courteously. It's the NH Way" on the side of the highway. We decided it was just for the Massholes crossing over as a warning to stop driving the way they usually do and remember they are now visitors in someone else's home.

I learned to drive here in MA, drove mostly in my small hometown and then headed to college and didn't drive at all for 4 years. Then I went off and became a Maryland driver and a California driver and a Pennsylvania driver before returning to Boston. And I am still a Boston driver at heart. I'm fast and aggressive, and I can look in 12 directions at once if necessary. I can bob and weave with the best of them. If you don't have these kinds of skills, you are probably that idiot stopped at the Storrow Drive entrance ramp waiting for an opening. It ain't coming, honey, let's go. Stick your nose out.

Boston drivers are also notorious law-breakers. As a matter of course, they run red lights, take rights on red even when the sign says they can't, change lanes without signaling, travel in the far left-lane with no intention of moving, and cut people off as often as possible. They also flick each other off, yell out the window, call each other names, honk a lot, and tailgate. We would win the gold every time if tailgating was an Olympic sport.

Mayor Menino should be held responsible for the horrible light system in Boston. There aren't any weekend settings, so you sit at lights downtown on Saturdays for three cycles while the invisible, non-existent pedestrians do their crossing. There are badly set lights in Boston and all the surrounding communities so only 3 cars can get through a whole busy clusterf*ck. A friend of a friend who moved to Boston from NYC once said he was going to run for Mayor of Boston just so he could change the effed-up light systems. He went back to NYC.

But this entire rant is about one thing. One. BLOCKING THE BOX. Don't know what that is? You're probably a Bostonian.

Blocking the Box is when someone pulls forward into an intersection but is stuck in traffic and can't move forward through the intersection, so when the opposing traffic gets their light, that someone is still sitting in the middle of the intersection. They are blocking the "box" made by the intersection and now nobody can move across. This is bad for so many reasons. SO MANY; here's three:

1. It's freakin' unsafe. Now an emergency vehicle cannot get through. People are dying in those ambulances, you know.

2. It's freakin' annoying. I have been waiting patiently for about 3 light-cycles already, and now that I'm the third car back, I still can't get through the damn intersection because you are SITTING IN IT. Like a moron.

3. All the people behind me are piling up into the intersection behind them. And there are probably morons just like you blocking the box back there. And the cycle continues.

In NYC, there are signs everywhere that say DON'T BLOCK THE BOX. In Guiliani's time, they probably pulled you straight from your car and hauled you off to jail if you did it. Now they just give you a big whopping ticket. Facts are, people don't do it. Certainly not taxis, which are some of the worst offenders in Boston. New Yorkers know they have to behave on the streets in order for life to keep on keeping on. Why the hell don't Bostonians know that? (And don't even tell me that NYC's streets are straight and easier and so that's why they don't have to do it and we have to do it here to get anywhere. Bullshit.)

In Boston, police officers often just watch this happen and do nothing. NOTHING. The stupid Boston Police Department has officers on the street standing around WATCHING this happen. Pull these f*cknuts over and ticket them. It's a pretty easy concept.

This happens in snowstorms. That's super fun. You know, the roads are already horrible, and everyone's moving at a snail's pace, so let's inch out into the intersection and then just play chicken to see who can force their way through instead of actually allowing the light to do its job. That'll be fun. Maybe we'll slide a bit and hit each other! We can sit in the dark and the snow well past 7 p.m. and into having to pee and being super hungry to add to our frustration and our asshole-ness! Woot. Fun times.

The two most offending intersections I come across regularly for this are the intersection of The Fenway and Brookline Ave (especially during Sox games) and The Riverway and Longwood Ave. The Fenway and Brookline Ave is a virtual corridor to the hospitals and this is very dangerous. Yesterday, I was the SECOND car back when the light turned green for me to cross Brookline and only the FIRST CAR got across. I couldn't go. When people take a left onto Longwood from The Riverway heading east, there is another light right away which is timed badly (BROOKLINE CITY HALL, get on that). So people pull that left anyway, knowing everyone is stopped and then they block anyone who is travelling west's ability to go forward when the light turns green. It's a real mess, considering The Riverway can get backed up all the way back to the Landmark Center.

Boston needs to do something about this. Boston needs to do something about a lot of things, I know. This is likely very low on the list. But the CITY OF BOSTON and MAYOR MENINO should know how completely and totally annoying it is. And the BOSTON POLICE DEPARTMENT should probably at least tell the cops that if they see egregious instances of this, they should do something about it. Instead of say, standing on the corner chatting to each other. (Possibly reword to eliminate the word egregious, lest they don't know what that means. Snark.)

I'm going to wear my horn out long before I stop driving this car. I just know it. In the meantime, I'm back on the bike.

The house was a combination of beautiful and eerie. I whizzed by it on my bike, headed down Highland Road, deciding not to stop and take photos although both of us were yelling about how beautiful it was and how we wanted to own it. It was early in the ride and we had another 28 miles or so in front of us. That and it had begun raining a bit and the group was mostly still together. Stopping would have been all kinds of a mess. And so we rode past.

Another bend in the road and another small hill found green rolling pastures and rolled bales of hay on either side of us. Again, beautiful, but the stop was not happening. Instead I told Deborah the story about the time on the Amazing Race when the teams had to unroll bales of hay looking for the next clue and one pair looked for 8 hours or more and finally Phil just came out in the dark to tell them they'd been eliminated. It passed the time as we waited for the rain to stop. But it reduced the pleasure that this road could have brought us in all its rural glory had I remained silent and listened to it as it spoke.

We carried on, in and out of the fingers of this part of the coast of Maine, supported by the LLBean van following us to replenish our water and give us snacks and meet us for lunch at mile 19. We stopped to check out a vista point and watched a cormorant, surely a male, stand on the end of a canoe and hold his wings outspread, perhaps to impress the others around him.

Our bellies were still full from the blueberry pancakes that were our breakfast after a night of what can't rightly be called camping since, even though I did sleep in a tent, it was on a cot with a mattress on a wooden platform with a bedside table. Deborah noticed a swimmer way out in a bay and awaited his return to ask him about his workout. We visited with turkeys and goats and ducks at a farm. I stopped to take a photo of a tiny yellow, wooden, painted shed at an intersection in the middle of nowhere with a sign proclaiming it Symphony Hall.

After lunch, Deborah asked the guides about making a sidetrip back to Highland Road before returning to camp. She got directions and told them we'd be late. Off we went.

Amazingly, although it had only been about 4 hours since our first foray down the road, neither of us really remembered the lay of the land all that well. We were surprised by the first steep-ish hill and got confused by the first edifice we saw, unsure what it was. We stopped to take a few shots of the rolled bales of hay against the green of the grass. We had no sun, but also no rain, and the lighting was perfect to capture the colors.

Another bend, another hill and around the corner was the house we remembered. We stopped on the road to get a few shots, and then Deborah headed up the grass path towards the front door. I remained on the road, liking that Deborah was bonding with the house and got her in the frame, listening to the story it was trying to tell us.

The grass path looked freshly driven upon. The roof was newish. Almost no window pane had glass remaining. The wooden slats that made up the outside walls of the house were there, but the wooden siding slats were falling every which way in many spots. The front door was almost entirely covered by a large, unruly patch of blackberry bushes. The wildflowers were taking over in every direction.

I approached. I squatted, I listened to the house. I saw the light through one window and through another to behind the house. I wondered what had happened here. I hoped I wasn't going to get ticks when I kneeled in the brush to get a different angle. We were silent mostly, but also wondered some of this outloud.

We turned around and rode back towards a hot shower and the car to take us back to the city. But I looked back over my shoulder one last time at the house as I hit the first downhill and anticipated another uphill to get us to the end of Highland Road once again.

We noted the address. Deborah wants to know who owned this place and when. An advantage of a really good zoom on your camera is that sometimes you can see things in the photos that you couldn't even make out when you took the picture. I looked slowly through the images when I got home and suddenly stopped short, afraid that I'd see a face or a ghost or something else I couldn't explain in one of the shots. Alas, this doesn't end with a ghost story.

Instead it ends with the willingness to take some time to revisit somewhere that spoke to us and listen. The house was clear with us. It has a story. We may never know what it is, but now we are part of it. We didn't just whiz by on our bikes. We didn't just assume it was abandoned. Because I have a friend who, like me, is willing to wonder.

Dead Woman's Pass is at 4200 meters (13,860 feet) and it lies in the middle of Day 2 of hiking the Inca Trail.

It is imposing as hell as one stands at the rest stop below, the last place to buy anything until the end of Day 3. Each day, two local Peruvian/Quechuan women hike up from the village way below to sell Gatorade, M&Ms, snickers, bottles of rum, cans of Cusquena beer and more to those of us hiking up beyond this point.

As I look up, I can see the line of porters dressed in blue (ours) and the line dressed in red (another group's) hiking up towards the pass. They are impossibly small. I wonder how I will ever make it up that high, up that far on a day when I am already exhausted from lack of good sleep at altitude and winded from my lungs' constant request for more oxygen. We head off, following our Peruvian, tri-lingual guide through the valley, even though everyone else was headed up the trail.

We hike along the valley, through the scrubby brush-like grass amongst the llamas for a while. Dead Woman looms above us in one direction; over to the right, a huge craggy mountain top brushed with snow; and behind us, a huge, glacier-topped mountain that's been following us for two days already.

Suddenly, we stop short as an Andean deer, endangered/vunerable, and not seen all that often appears. She's a bit away from us, and decides not to make a run for it. Our guide, knowing I have a camera with an amazing zoom requests I get some shots. When your local guide reacts to an animal as special, chances are it is. I take it out and begin snapping. And then the buck appears. Runs to her and whispers sweet nothings coupled with a warning against humans, perhaps, because they take off together as quickly as he had arrived.

We make a sharp left and scale the side of the valley wall to reunite with the trail everyone else was on. And the worst huffing and puffing of my entire 4-day trip begins. Our group had naturally split into three during the first day and we remain this way on Day 2. There are the youngsters, those with super clean, super capacity lungs and strong legs and ligaments yet to be destroyed with the continued dawning of another year. They stay with our lead guide in the front of the pack, hiking in a neat line along the trail. Then there are the middlers, those of us in our late 30s and early 40s. Fit and able, to be sure (I mean, we WERE doing this after all), but a little worse for the wear. Lungs perhaps compromised by some early-90s college smoking and knees that'd had seen a fair bit of action over the years. And then those behind. A couple of older folks needing to be sure of footing, a couple of less-fit folks determined to enjoy their vacation instead of killing themselves, and the poor youngster with three-year-old knee surgery. It was a clear and natural split.

I find myself gasping for breath in a way that scares me. I don't have any lung issues, but as a scuba diving professional in my late 20s, I had a number of incidents where I got out of breath underwater which is the scariest thing in the entire world, because if you can't catch your breath and calm down underwater, there's a good chance you'll die. So when I get really out of breath, even on land, my brain sometimes automatically tells the rest of me that if I can't get it under control, we'll die. Some super-id part of me must know this isn't true, because my brain and I have an understanding where it listens to reason. But it takes a moment.

As I gain on the top of the pass, named because they found a mummified woman at the very top when they cleared the trail after Machu Picchu was found by the outside world in 1911, I realize I can't just keep walking. The trail isn't a trail, but a massive stone staircase. I am not just putting one foot in front of the other up a hill, I am stepping up each time onto a new stair. It's hard. Very hard. It's worse psychologically than physically.

I set a goal. Take 25 steps up and then stop and get my breath back. It takes only a few seconds to regain my breath and wonderfully (and due to some serious exercise regiments), my quads are not complaining in the least. So again, 25 more steps up. Breathe again. Good. Keep going. I catch up to another "middler" and share my methodology with him. He decides to join the 25-at-a-time club because his own 100-and-stop method was beating him down. Together, we make the summit.

It is cold. Colder than I had anticipated, especially now that I've stopped moving after so much effort for so much time. I have come to 4200m completely ill-prepared. I have no fleece, no hat or gloves (the porter carrying my sleeping bag, mat and other clothes has those things and he's long gone). I have only my rain poncho, which I don since it's sort of spitting and it offers me a bit of warmth. (I am still better off than my new Kiwi friend who is shivering in his t-shirt and board shorts.)

We wait for those behind to join us to make our group whole again, and together, we each take a capful of rum, let one drop fall to the ground to honor the Earth and drink the rest in a toast to our accomplishment, to this mountain and to the nature around us. It warms our tummies from the inside, a welcome phenomenon.

The descent begins now, our biggest yet (our first real one). Down, down, down into another valley. Steps again. Big, stone steps and with each one I wonder if my knees will survive this, as I wondered about my lungs. And I also wonder about the Incas and how they did this. And I wonder about the porters, who make quick work of what is so difficult for me so when I arrive hungry for lunch, they already have it cooked. And I look around in wonder really, of it all. For a Pantheist, there is no place more hallowed than the top of a mountain in the crook of a pass with my lungs burning or my knees aching as yet another hummingbird flutters by and yet another, different colored orchid peeks out at me.

This I Believe was a part of the Edward Murrow radio show in the 50s. They invited people to share what they believed in 500 word essays. Check out the current site here.

There are two books in print, collections of essays. Tufts just selected one as the Common Reading for the incoming first years. And they are inviting people to write their own 500-word essays about what they believe.

Mine is below. Regular readers of this blog won't be surprised by this. But it was a nice exercise to boil it down to 500 succinct words.

THIS I BELIEVE

I believe that I only get one life and that I should do as many things as I possibly can during it. I am collecting experiences, not money. I am having adventures, not stability. I believe there are amazing things to be done and seen, and I’ve made it my life’s work to do them and see them.

I was raised in a stable, happy family with a mom, a dad, two siblings and the dog. I came home from the hospital to the same house where I still go to visit my parents. I was lucky enough to be born into privilege. I had enough of everything I needed and an abundance of love and opportunities. I got to go to camp and then to college and then to graduate school. I was well on my way to creating a stable, settled-down life for myself. I was the opposite of the slacker-type Gen Xer. I was ambitious and goal-oriented.

But I stopped short one day when I was about 23. I figured out I wanted more than a regular life. I wanted a big life. I wanted to see and do and try. Life is only once. Once. That’s it. And so I moved to new places. I went kayaking and camping. I took classes exploring new topics. I took jobs that scared me. I made friendships with new types of people. I studied a new language. Anything put in front of me I tried; anything not in front of me I sought out.

I quit my heard-earned job at 27 to travel around the world for a year. That year turned into 2+ years and I wound up teaching scuba diving on an island in Thailand. Friends and family started to look at me funny. Where was my 401K? Where were my kids, my husband? People continue to look at me funny today. Where is your condo? You have another new job? You’re going where for vacation? You’re thinking about doing what next year?

I’m 37 now. I’ve had an unconventional 10 years since I threw in the “normal” towel and began looking for something different. I’ve found lots of cool stuff in the corners of the world and in the corners of my own life that I otherwise may have missed. I stop to read the exit signs on the side of the road of my life. Sometimes, I swerve quickly to take an exit, lest I miss it. Other times, I see the pre-sign for the exit and have more time to make a decision first. Sometimes, I pass by an exit, deciding that one isn’t for me.

I believe it is my responsibility to listen to the Universe when it speaks – when it suggests something to me. I believe these unconventional experiences make me a better person, a better community member, a better aunt, sister, daughter. And I know they make me a better me.

Sex.

I have never had enough sex. Ever. Except for one two-week period once which was bliss, but painfully short-lived.

I used to be grateful that if I was going to be single so much, then at least I hadn't had a lot of sex, so I didn't really know what I was missing. That was when I was about 22. Now I have every idea what I'm missing, having had a tiny bit of lots. And so I lament. Often.

I love sex. Love it. I know some people don't. That's fine. I don't judge. But I don't get it. How can anyone not love sex? It's awesome. It's fun and physical and dirty and messy and loud and wet and smooshy. And it can be emotional and deep and meaningful and actual shift your perception in another direction. It feels great. The hormones released are super good for you and make you healthier. What's not to love?

Okay, sure. There's the dangers associated with sex. Disease, unplanned pregnancy, UTIs, yeast infections, and regular old pain from overuse of body parts. Most of these things are preventable with a little bit of planning or a little bit of monogamy. I'd go out on a limb and say all the risks are worth the journey. I don't stay home because I might get in a car accident - I just do the things required of me to avoid one and hope everyone else is doing the same. In this case, I actually have some more control over whether others are doing the same.

One of my primary complaints about being single is that I don't get enough sex. My awesome body (I have a regular body - it's no finer than anyone else's really, but I dig it) gets no regular use. My boobs, which have maintained much their perk well into my 30s are going totally unadored. My skills (some that are pretty good) go unused. It's a sad state of affairs (or no affairs, as the case may be).

I wish I could have someone to have sex with over time. Someone to learn with. Someone who I get to know so well, I know everything they want and like and can try new things with. Someone who I know just the button to push at just the right moment. Of course, it'd be nice to have someone provide that to me, as well.

I know a number of people who are partnered and I know don't have lots of sex. I get silently annoyed with them. They should have having as much sex as humanly possible in order to make up for those of us who don't get to have any. And to make sure the Universe knows how pleased they are that they have access to regular sex. (Partnered people: get on that. Have more sex.)

I have, at different times, yelled at both my siblings about the fact that they get to have sex and I don't. I once told my sister she had no business questioning when I choose to first have sex with someone new because she knows where her next f@&k is coming from and I don't and have to get them where I can. (Those were the actual words used.) I yelled at my brother to ask his wife what to pack to go to Vermont, not me. I basically said that the person you have sex with owes you help with these kinds of things since they get sex and since nobody was having sex with me, I'm off this hook. (Granted, I was having a major fit at that point in the conversation, but my point was made and taken.) See? Lack of sex will make you a crazed lunatic.

One final note: I am not one of those women who is confused about how to be the master of her domain. Believe me, I would've been paying up right after Kramer.

First in a series of things that I don't get enough of.

Water.

I just don't get enough of this. I suck at it. It's just not that hard. Drink 8 cups of water a day for a regular person, and for an active person, drink twice that. This means I should drink at least 4 of my water bottles full each day, to get 96 ounces. I should really add one more water bottle since I'm riding my bike 18 miles roundtrip to work most days. If I'm lucky, I get 2.5 bottles down. One during my work out and another 1.5 through the day. I often end up having to stock up in the evening because I've not drunk hardly any all day. (And that, to say the least, does NOT help with my small-bladder-pee-at-least-once-a-night-in-the-best-of-times problem.)

If I manage to keep Crystal Light individual packets around, that definitely helps. Any kind of flavored water goes down easier than regular boring water. I buy them often, but they are expensive! I don't use a whole one in a bottle of water so they last longer, but still.

If I drink room temperature water, that helps too. Very cold water does not work for me. And ice? Forget it. Too annoying on my mouth, my teeth, and rumor has it that your body has to exert energy to warm the water up in order to hydrate from it. And then, I just proved that rumor untrue by finding this: "Cold (40 - 50 degrees F) water is absorbed more quickly from the stomach. Also, if cold water is drank during physical exercise has the dual effect of also cooling the internal body temperature along with sweat produced by exercise. Since sweat is your body's way of cooling itself, leave sweat on your skin and you should feel cooler." And so.

Now, my family will tell you that I've been dehydrated from childhood. I figured this out a few years back and have been giving my mother hell about it ever since. We were given juice and milk. And when we played outside in the snow for a long time, hot chocolate. My dad mowed the lawn all afternoon and then drank a beer (a Bud Light, usually, so yeah, but still). My mom had a half a glass of soda for dinner and didn't even finish it. I think in the 70s, they didn't know the human body needed water, or something. I have no other explanation since my parents are super responsible in every other way - feeding us correctly, breast feeding us when it wasn't en vogue, keeping us safe from the cars in the street, making us bundle up, knowing where we were when we went out even in high school. My mother once said "What? My pee is always almost orange." This from a woman with a master's degree.

I had horrible headaches and backaches all through middle and high school. I was ferried off to every doctor under the sun. Although not sedentary, I wasn't an athlete, and there was no real explanation. "Stress" was the final word. I don't remember any doctor asking about liquid intake. I seriously believe I was severely dehydrated all those years. I have not had headaches with any regularity in my adult life, since I started being responsible for my own hydration.

This is a struggle though, I think for many people. I'm pretty sure that most people don't get enough water. I read an article recently about how it's a myth that coffee or soda is actually working against hydration. The author was positing that any liquid is better than none. However, I just found this statement: "The drinks you mention — beer, coffee, and cola — are all water based. Even though they contain carbonation and caffeine, they are still a form of fluid. So if you were stuck in the middle of a desert, you would probably last longer drinking coffee and/or cola than you would if you drank nothing."

The next time I'm stuck in a desert, I'll have all the coffee and soda I want. Until then, I'm going to work harder at drinking more water every day.

I am a woman of cycles. I get a thought or a feeling about something and often, for whatever reason makes sense, I shake it off. Then it comes back, again and again. It takes a while before I listen well enough or the message is loud enough to actually do what the Universe has been trying to tell me. Sometimes I drive by the signs on the side of my road of life without pausing to read what the options are down the side roads. Sometimes the cycles are short and sometimes they are years long. There's at least a dozen examples of this in my life that I could point to where these cycles and messages have played a huge role in how I've made decisions and why.

I'm in a cycle now about something I've been getting messages about for at least 12 years now. Again, in the past month, I can't stop thinking about it again. Remember this post? (Go look and come back. You need it for this story.) Yeah, I didn't really either, until I re-read it last week. I remembered having that whole thing happen, but not the details. (Reason #47 to blog.) I'm working through this again right now, and I've put pieces of what might end up being a plan into place already. I might be really serious this time.

Then, today, I found the handwritten version of what I emailed all my friends and family on January 28, 2001 from Thailand about the culmination of another cycle I'd been in for years as well. (I had pulled out my travel journal to get some notes about Nepal for a student headed there and this fell out this morning.) Here it is in its entirety:

Last July, my good friend Adam and I went out to Block Island, RI for the day. I'd lived there a summer during college and hadn't been back in about 5 years. The second I set foot on the dock I thought "I need to live on an island again - maybe I'll do a year here."

In 1996, my parents took Susan, Stephen and I on a cruise. The minute we landed on St. Thomas, I thought to myself, "I need to live on an island." I told my mother I was moving there after grad school.

I sat with Dr. Susan Komives at the University of Maryland 2 weeks before I graduated and asked if I'd be committing Student Affairs career suicide by taking a year off to move to St. Thomas. Not so much that I was burned out or not interested in S.A., but I kept thinking "I need to live on an island."

Becky and I arrived in Southern Thailand in October and began to visit island after island. Each one, I loved in a different way and I remember saying to Karen & Kelly, my new Vancouver friends, "I have to leave Koh Pha Ngan TODAY or I'm afraid I'll never leave."

I left. I ignored, AGAIN, the big ole sign on the side of my road that said "Stop here. Stay here. Live on an island."

Then I learned to dive. You all know from previous emails how much I have enjoyed learning this new sport and how much I've loved the challenge of it. What's the best place to live on an island and scuba dive? Thailand. Where's the best and cheapest place on the FACE OF THE EARTH to get further diver education? Koh Tao, Thailand. Where can I find a dive shop I already know and am comfy with? Big Blue Diving, Koh Tao.

The last time I looked, the sign on the side of my road said "STOP. STAY. LEARN MORE. BE A DIVEMASTER. HIGHER EDUCATION WILL NOT GO ANYWHERE." Below that sign was a little bitty sign that said (after I got close enough to read it), "Are you crazy?"

Screw that sign. I tore it down. It's gone. The big, noisy sign remains and so will I. I'm staying in Thailand, on Koh Tao, and I'm starting a 4-5 week Divemaster (the first professional level in diving) training. After that, I'll most likely stay here and work for a while (assuming they'll have me). How long? Not sure. 2 months? 3? More? I never know anything. And even when I do - like being SURE I'm going to South America - things change. This message is too loud to ignore.

I'll be back. No worries. They can't possibly pay enough in Thailand to keep me here forever, can they? :) Love & Missing, Karen

That decision was one of the scariest I'd ever made. And it ended up being one of the best. Perhaps THE best decision of my entire life. Imagine me if I'd NOT stayed in Thailand. I can't even do it. Can you?

I don't know yet what my decision will be about Children's Lit. I'm going to an info session (again) in June and I've made some financial move-arounds this week to start more aggressively saving money. I've checked out the lit classes I could take for free at Tufts this fall and next spring as self-imposed pre-reqs. I've done some research into careers (publishing, curriculum development, teaching). I've looked into loan information. I've talked with full-time student friends about how they've swung the finances. If I'm nothing else, I'm thorough.

Lots of people think I'm nuts, I know. I continue to change my pursuits even as I get older. I am seemingly refusing to "settle down" in any way that most people understand that term. I'm not normal. I've known this for a long while. But here's the thing. I still know, with all my being, that I only get one life. One. And I refuse to waste it. I want to do lots of stuff. LOTS. I have so many interests. So many dreams. So many "wouldn't that be amazing" thoughts. Why kill them? I don't care if I ever own a house. I don't care if I ever make lots of money. That gives me a lot of flexibility. I figure that I'll be working until I'm at least 70, so that's 33 more years of work. 33! And up to now, I've worked 13 years. That's only 28% of my projected work-life. So if I've got 72% still to go, I surely could make a change and it wouldn't be insane. And if that change cost some money this time around, so be it. I didn't pay for grad school the first time and mom and dad paid for college (bless them). I've never had a student loan before. There's a first time for everything.

Anyway, as you can see, I'm musing. I'm trying to figure out what this sign on the side of my road says this time. It's not visible yet. But I'm getting there. And this time, I'll surely read the small type too, to see what the caution is. And I'll make a decision. Stay tuned.

My new current obsession: Mormon polygamy.

I put Big Love: Season 1 in my Netflix queue a few weeks back at the recommendation of a friend. We were talking about series, and I shared I had watched some United States of Tara and loved it, and tried out The Riches and hated it, and The Wire and couldn't even get through Season 1. She was right about this; this is something different entirely. I fell in love with a bunch of polygamists right away.

Big Love, for those of you not in the know, is about Bill, who was thrown off his Mormon polygamist compound where he grew up when he was 14 (apparently this often happens to young men who show strength or pose a potential threat to the patriarch). He married Barb and practiced regular Mormonism in the LDS church for a while until Barb got sick with cancer and was nursed with the help of Nicki, a daughter of the Prophet of said compound. At this point, it appears Bill decided to break with the LDS church and practice "The Principle," albeit in the regular world instead of a compound, and convinced Barb they should marry Nicki. A few years after that, they all three married Margene. The main concern of those who live The Principle is to create a family on earth who will be bound together for eternity in the afterlife. The men are "priesthood" holders who have the ability to perform holy things (such as baptism) and the women work together to run the family and produce as many children as possible so their family can prosper in the afterlife. What goes down here on Earth is not really as important as the set up for the future after death.

I absolutely love every character on this show. I am currently watching Season 3 (Season 4 is on HBO right now) and at this point, there are 8 kids (three from Barb and Bill's original union, two of Nicki's (and she's secretly preventing more at the point I'm at), and three of Margene's). The two oldest, who are 16 and 18, are very divergent in their own dealing with going from being regular LDS kids to plyg kids halfway through their lives. Sarah, the girl, isn't digging it, while Ben, the boy, was recently given priesthood status by Bill and is all talk about practicing The Principle himself. (Course, this was AFTER he had pre-marital sex with a non-LDS girlfriend and was found out.)

There's all the drama of the compound and the heightened crack-down on polygamist groups going on, and Bill's ongoing contentious relationship with both his parents (still on the compound) and Nicki's father the Prophet and his business dealings at Hendrickson's Home Plus, his Walmart/Lowe's-like stores in Salt Lake. His business partner, Don, is also living The Principle. Since polygamy is illegal, the family has to keep it pretty secret, only taking an occasional very good friend or person into their confidence. At the point I'm at, the entire group is dating Ana, a potential wife number 4.

The actors are great. Jeanne Tripplehorn (Barb), Chloe Svigney (Nicki), and Ginnifer Goodwin (Margene) are perfect in their roles. Bill Paxton (he of Weird Science fame) is pretty good too. Sarah is played by Amanda Seyfried (known best as the daughter in Mama Mia). Sarah's friend Heather is Tina Majorino, the girl with the side pony in Napolean Dynamite. The writing is pretty good, the story lines believable, and although a bit dramatic sometimes when the compound is involved, my guess is that the shit that goes down at those kind of places is probably pretty dramatic.

Ever since I read Under the Banner of Heaven, I've been a little afraid of the Mormons. I'll admit it. I already wonder about the potential for cult-like behavior from strong religious groups, and this one has more rules and such than most. But, the dude that wrote that book, Jon Krakauer, is also suspect (to me) after the hullabaloo surrounding his account of the '96 Everest tragedy in Into Thin Air. So, when I began watching this show, I wasn't sure what I would think.

The friend that recommended it to me knows her religion, and noted that something she really likes about the show is seeing a true depiction of how they practice their beliefs. I have found I really like this too. It's compelling and interesting and it's done respectfully, in a way that makes me appreciate it and wonder for the difficulty of it all rather than be able to write it off as craziness. I dig fictionalized stuff that is clearly based on something real. According to Wikipedia (which you know I love for these bits of info), Mark Olsen and Will Scheffer, who created the show, spent almost three years researching the premise, with the intent of creating a fair portrayal of polygamy in America without being judgmental. In my opinion, they have definitely succeeded.

I find myself wondering how someone chooses this life. Barb doubts it all the time. She wasn't sure she wanted in to begin with, and when she married Bill 18 years ago, thought she was getting into a regular LDS monogamous relationship. But then I watch Nicki, who grew up with something like 37 brothers and sisters and 14 mothers and how clearly she believes in the entire system and what it means for them celestially, and I'm like, "Yeah"! And Margene. Margene who is very young and very fresh and just wonderful. She fell in love with Bill. And she just went for it. And now she loves Nicki and Barb so deeply, she just knows this is where she's supposed to be and accepts it. She wasn't even Mormon before all this. Even Bill, a prominent business man who was invited to the city's leadership council but had to turn it down out of fear of exposure, recognizes that living The Principle means making sacrifices that aren't always easy. But you do it so you can reap the rewards later.

So here I am, totally immersed in this show; this family, really. And I'm reading along, minding my own business in my Entertainment Weekly recently and here's The Lonely Polygamist by Brady Udall. Two good reviews and one bad review later, and it's in my library queue. I picked it up last week. It's about Golden Richards, who has 4 wives and a load of kids and is relatively uneducated, working construction jobs at far off locations from home and who can't even remotely keep up with his wife-schedule. I am tending to agree with the one bad review I read as it's just not gripping. He's sort of boring and whiny. I'm more taken with one of his sons, 11-year-old Rusty, who features prominently. I'm about halfway through, so maybe it'll redeem itself.

I think I have to search out some nonfiction something about The Principle and learn more about it. I'm just fascinated by this. In the same way I'm fascinated by disaster stories, I think. Like I'm standing on the sidelines of something crazy, taking it all in. But in this case, those in the middle of it don't think it's crazy. Well, that's not true. They do, but they think it's crazy with a purpose that's more important than any worry they have about it.

I can't wait to finish up Season 3 (8 more episodes to go) and am going to await the release of Season 4 on DVD with bated breath. There's nothing better than a show where I really care about the characters. And this is definitely one.

In honor of Earth Day, I post this today!

I have finally found my religion. I've been practicing it for a number of years now, but all of sudden I have a name for it. Pantheism.

I was raised Roman Catholic. And all that goes with that. I got faith and education and rules galore. I went through all the motions: weekly church, the requisite sacraments (Baptism, First Communion, Confession, Confirmation), years and years of CCD. I have been a professional wake-goer since a young age. We went to mass on important holy days (Feast of the Assumption anyone?), kept the Baby Jesus out of the manger and wished the little clay babe a happy birthday before getting our presents on Christmas morning, and told tons of non-Catholic kids that we knew we had dirt on our faces on Ash Wednesday. Right around high school, I either started listening better at mass or I started thinking better in general, because that was when I started wondering what I was doing there. I didn't like what I was hearing, all of a sudden. First year of college, I stopped going completely and when home for summer or visits, told my mother I wasn't going with the family anymore. I told her (and meant it, even if it sounds like a good way out of it) that I didn't want to go and disrespect all the people (including her) who really believed and wanted to participate by standing there hating every minute and not believing any of it. I kept going on Christmas and Easter, but that was it.

Through the years, I've considered finding some other organized religion. Episcopalian would make sense. You know, Church of England. Created by Henry VIII out of the tenants of Catholicism so he could get divorced. Basically the same deal as Catholicism, but with far fewer rules and a lot more tolerance. I tried it. Felt weird. I've never really considered anything beyond that, since I finally figured out that I really don't dig the organization of coming together in a room on a schedule to worship. I just don't get anything from that.

There's been a few times when I've felt really lonely and I've sought it out. Once, I went to an entire Catholic mass in Hanoi, in Vietnamese. I had no idea what was being said, obviously, but the cadence of the mass made sense and I knew when to kneel and what was happening during the consecration (what Catholics call turning the wine and bread into the actual body and blood of Christ). It was a cool experience. I also finally cracked and went to a mass in Ita, Paraguay, since every damn week, they played it over the loudspeaker anyway and it woke me up. All in Spanish and Guarani, so I didn't get much, but again, the cadence felt familiar.

As we all know, the sex scandals hit the church. By then, I was already disillusioned enough. I somehow had turned out pro-choice, pro-birth control and pro-tolerance for just about anyone and their lifestyle. All those things are in direct opposition to the teachings and beliefs of the church in which I was raised. And I started hearing more and more of these big-church preachers on TV and in the media promising people that as long as they were saved, all would be well. For almost all of the 2000s, we had a president who pretty much believed that God was telling him what to do, and many of those things weren't all that nice. So all the God talk added to my further disillusionment.

I just don't go in for organized religion or God in general. I have been speaking of the Universe and its plans for me for a very long time. I tried out using "The Goddess" in place of God for a while, but that just felt false to me. I went diving on Easter Sunday one year and told my mother that I felt closer to some other being or God doing that than any visit to a building would do for me. She still tells people about that as evidence that I actually have faith.

As far as I'm concerned, my faith has never been in question. I've been telling my mother that my relationship with God is between me and him and does not need an intermediary (church, mass, priest, etc.) for years. Slowly, I've figured out that my faith is less in some unknown guy in the sky and is more a core belief that everything is interconnected. My actions affect others. My actions affect the Earth. My actions and my attitude affect me and how I experience the world.

When I want to feel connected to something bigger than I, or when I want evidence that there is indeed something bigger in charge or that my faith in fate is not unfounded, I head for nature. I head for the woods. I head for the sea. I head for a mountain. Gimme a tree in bloom and my ability to sit under it any day over a hard wooden bench and speaking in monotone with 200 other people.

I have just recently learned that I am, therefore, a Pantheist. I was explaining that I don't really have a religion but believe in nature to my new supervisor, and he said, "Pantheism!" (He knows a lot of things, many obscure.) I then promptly forgot to look it up for a while until somehow it came up with my mom. And so I did a little research. And I found out I am indeed a Pantheist.

What Pantheists believe is basically summed up easily by the beginning of the Wikipedia entry for it: "Pantheism promotes the idea that God is better understood as a way of relating to nature and the Universe as a whole - all that was, is and shall be - rather than as a transcendent, mental, personal or creator entity. Pantheists thus do not believe in a personal, anthropomorphic or creator god. Although there are divergences within Pantheism, the central ideas found in almost all versions are the Cosmos as an all-encompassing unity and the "sacredness" of Nature."

Some of the Transcendentalists were Pantheists. You know, Thoreau, Emerson, Whitman. Those guys who sat in the woods and wrote stuff. Makes sense. Apparently, it was such an up and coming religion in their time, the Vatican got all threatened and issued the Syllabus of Errors to decry this and any other close iterations. (Fit throwers, those Catholics.) And so, Pantheism didn't move from a heyday into an actual day. There have been some other famous Pantheists, too: novelist D.H. Lawrence, scientist Albert Einstein, architect Frank Lloyd Wright and some other dudes I've never heard of. Apparently Avatar (a little movie recently) has been accused of being Pantheism-ish.

All I know, is that when I get off the ski lift and I start down the hill and I look around at the snow and the hills and the ice crystals, I know something's out there. And I believe in fate, and faith and the Universe's plan for me and I believe that what I do in synch with that, matters. I know that in the breath of the dogs as they race across the silent frozen lake in Maine, there is peace. I know that being a visitor under the ocean when I dive allows me to participate in the world of the fish and the animals and that seeing them interact (such as watching the shrimp and goby share a home) is because Earth says it is so and so it is. I know that in the early morning, in the silence as I canoe across the pond there is hope.

I can sit and look at a heron on the dock at my aunt & uncle's house in New Hampshire and wonder at its being and its shape and color in a way I don't wonder about much else. I believe all is linked and that we are all responsible to each other and to every being and that I am lucky the plants provide me with oxygen. I feel really light in the spring, when everything is blooming. It's all big and whole and a circle that creates energy and us and a system that sustains.

I'm pleased to have a name for this. This feeling I've had for a long while now. This motivation for asking someone to turn off the tap when they aren't using it. This desire to plant a garden and delight when it grows. This energy I have to spend time in nature. This strong belief in the Universe and it's plan for me, which I have the ability to help mold. Pantheism.

I am meant to fly to Reykjavik next Friday night.

There is a giant ash cloud from the recent eruption of Eyjafjallajökull about 75 miles outside of Reykjavik.

There's no imminent danger in Iceland, really. Assuming that Katla doesn't blow.

If I were trying to go to Europe, I'd be SOL. Since all the air space is shut. The cloud is hovering over Europe and slowly moving eastwards. It is made up of rocks and glass and shit that, if it got into a plane engine, would destroy it.

I'm not linking to any news story because every single one says something different. Nobody really knows what is going to happen with this volcano or Katla or anything really. Because it's the Earth. And nobody can ever figure out what it is going to do next.

Apparently, tourists and scientists alike are hanging out looking at the volcano.

When this volcano last blew in 1821, it kept erupting for over a year, until 1823. Woah.

In 1821, there was no air traffic to worry about. There are also only 320,000 people in Iceland right this minute, so there were probably far fewer in 1821.

I am not really worried about my trip to Iceland. Flights from the US are uninterrupted. Seems there's nothing really to worry about.

Dude, though. This is interesting.

I have begun a new daily adventure which I absolutely love. (It's amazing, actually, how many things I try that I end up loving.)

I get up in the morning, and I go to fitcamp or to the gym or to the pool to swim or whatever. I bike to get there, in the dark, with my flashing red safety light on the back of my bike and my regular head-lamp wrapped around the front handlebars since I haven't invested in a front light yet. (That will be taken care of this weekend.)

After whatever workout I'm doing that morning (or, in yesterday's case, my extra hour of sleep!), I have a shower. Then I don what have become my spring biking clothes. These are the things I've discovered I like to ride my bike in - my long running/workout tights and a t-shirt with my yellow light-weight LLBean anorak that I've had for a million years, and my Keens. (A word on Keens. They are the bomb. If you don't know what I'm talking about - check them out here. I got them years ago when they first hit the scene. My mother bought them for me for my birthday, saying "You want ugly shoes for your birthday?" Yup! Yesterday afternoon, a woman who I passed caught up to me at a light. She said, "Aren't they the best shoes to bike in?" as she glanced down at her own Keens. Totally.)

Then I pack my courier bag, which I've also had for years. (I got a stupid gift once at Gettysburg from my boss and was able to return it to the bookstore on the sly and get this bag instead. I've used it intermittently over the years and am thrilled that I own it now.) In the bag goes my regular purse stuff (wallet, keys, lip stuff, phone, vitamins, planner) and whatever clothes I'm going to wear at work (this week - a dress or skirt and top). Also packed is deoderant (although I need to get one of those to just leave at work) and make up (which for me is just base, mascara and an eye pencil). All of this doesn't weigh very much. (The first day I also had shoes, but I'm pretty much going to leave those at work from now on.)

I refill my water bottle, put on my helmet, and drag the bike from the front hall of my house (where it lives now, my upstairs neighbors finally giving me enough space to store it there so it doesn't have to live in my bedroom anymore). Pick it up, walk it down the front steps, and off I go.

The route is pretty great. I follow the Jamaicaway out of my 'hood and pick up the bike path that takes me through JP and Brookline and the Fenway along the Riverway, but in the woods. It dumps out at Park Drive/Landmark Center right by the Fenway T-stop. I turn left here and get on the road. Cross Beacon Street and around the corner to get into traffic to get to the BU Bridge. I'm about 15 minutes into the trip at this point.

The major intersection at Comm Ave by the BU Bridge is pretty crazy at rush hour, but there are always cops there. And the best part is that usually, we bikers can get in the front of all the cars at red lights, so when the light turns, we are the first across the whole mess. This takes some paying attention to start moving AS SOON as the light turns and to pedal hard to get through the intersection and not annoy too many cars. The BU Bridge is under perpetual construction and there are huge signs that say BIKES MAY USE ENTIRE LANE. So, I just join the line of cars as if I was one. Stop, start, stop, start. Then hang out at the red light afterwards, trying to get across Mem Drive to head into Cambridgeport.

I follow along for a short time and then take this awesome road called Putnam which a former boyfriend showed me a long time ago. I don't really know Cambridge all that well, but I'm pretty pleased I know about this road. First of all, hardly anyone is on it (I think they are all fighting it out on Mass Ave, which runs parallel a bit north of Putnam.) Secondly, it's quiet and pretty. There are a bunch of lights, but when you are a bike, you can cross a red if the pedestrian crossing light is on in your favor while the cars just sit there. There's a school along the way, and I love watching all the kiddies arriving - some in cars, some on bikes themselves, some walking along with Mom or Dad or whoever.

Putnam dumps out on Mass Ave just shy of Harvard Square. I am LOVING biking through Harvard Square. It's busy, but not crazy busy. I love that once again, I get to go to the front of the line of cars and then book it when the light turns to get around the little fake-rotary thing and off to the right to get back on Mass Ave. And GOD BLESS Cambridge, which has the best bike lanes ever. Clearly marked, and well positioned all along Mass Ave. So GREAT!

So onwards down Mass Ave and through Porter Square and then turn right to get to Elm and into Davis Square. Around the Square and up College Ave towards Tufts. Powderhouse Rotary is another awesome bit, as again I become like a car and enter the rotary like any of them and make my way around to the other side. (I love the looks I get from some of the cars - surprise that I'm actually riding in a rotary makes some of them just stop and wait for me - others just treat me like a car, looking for my signal of where I'm going to exit.)

The last bit sucks. A long, slow hill along Broadway until I hit Packard and then a more steep hill, albeit only for about 500 yards to the house I work in. Both directions of this commute involve hills right at the end, when I'm most tired and almost there. Ah, well. I have the motivation of almost being there to get me through the hills.

The whole trip is about 8.8 miles. Has consistently taken me 50 minutes, only 10 minutes more than my car commute. So far, the mornings have been cool and I arrive at work barely sweaty. A little bit, but nothing requiring a shower. Eventually, I'll need to shower when I get to work, which is fine - since I work in a house with a full bath on the third floor. Very convenient.

There are moments in the ride where my thighs are burning because of the effort required to get up a hill. Most of the hills I encounter are long rather than steep. I have no idea, being a new biker, which is harder. And there are moments when I have to stop for something and I take one leg off the pedal and place it on the ground to balance and I realize I'm shaking with exertion. And there are moments where I am totally out of breath. But this isn't a race, so I just take it easier for a short bit until I can breathe normally again. I am consistently passed by men. Sometimes I catch back up to them at a light or intersection, but they then blow me away again. There is no way for me to keep up with any man I've encountered so far. But other women? Them I usually pass.

This morning, when I arrived at work, a bunch of dudes were doing the landscaping around the house. I greeted them with "Buen dia!" and they responded in kind. I was out of breath from that aforementioned last hill and as I carried my bike up the stairs to the front porch to lock it up, one of the guys said "Cuanta millas?' ("How many miles?") And I said "Nueve" (9) and he said, "Nueve?!" And I felt like a badass.

Because you know what? I'm a badass. Let's just call a duck a duck, shall we? I-AM-A-BADASS. That's how I feel all the time now. Fitcamp makes me feel great and I love that I consistently work out and gain strength. But it doesn't really make me feel like a badass. But biking across the city, through 8 neighborhoods and towns for 50 minutes makes me feel badass. And I look forward to the ride home all day long. I can't wait to get back on my bike for the return trip. In the afternoon my muscles are tighter, not having had some pre-workout to warm me up, so the first mile or so is tough. But once I'm all warmed up, about when I get to the far side of Davis Square and make the turn to head out to Mass Ave, I'm good to go.

The plan is to ride to work as often as humanly possible from now until it's snowing or so cold that I'm shivering on the bike. There are a lot of people in Boston who commute year round on their bikes. I'm not sure I'm one of them. I suspect I'm not. But we shall see. There are days that I won't be able to bike to work - days when I have night commitments or somewhere to be right after work that's too far to bike to. This week, today is my last day biking because I have to work until 9p on Thursday and until 10p on Friday. I suppose I could ride home that late on my bike, but those are going to be long work days and I need the car for things happening on those days. And so. But next week, it's on again.

I cannot wait.

I would rather read than do almost anything else. Been that way since I was small.

I learned to read before I started kindergarten. I don't know how or why. Perhaps I was just ready for what my gut knew was going to be the best part of my life.

I have absolutely no way to estimate how many books I have read in my lifetime. I could guess, but I think I'd likely be way off. When I was in elementary school, and there was the summer reading program at the library, I was one of those kids that needed something like 8 sheets to keep track of them all. When going away for a week or more on vacation, my mother would take me to the library first so I could get 15 or so books to last me.

I read in trees. I read on the lawn. I read in bed. I read under the covers. I read in the middle of rooms with chaos ensuing, completely oblivious to it all. I read in the car. I read on planes. I still do all of these things. I can read while walking if necessary. I've even been known to read at red lights while driving if I'm at a particularly compelling part of a book.

I've read everything. I read fiction and nonfiction. I read stuff that was on the 10th grade curriculum list when I was in the 7th grade. I made time to read for pleasure all through college and grad school on top of my required reading. I have a penchant for disaster stories (floods, trepidatious adventures, natural disasters, man made disasters). I love sociology and anthropology - especially when it reads easily. I am on the constant hunt for the great contemporary novel, reading new stuff that comes out. I have a queue set up in my library account similar to my Netflix account. As soon as I read a review in Entertainment Weekly, The New Yorker, Time Magazine or the newspaper, I put it in my library queue, sometimes while the book is still marked "on order" by the library. Then I wait for it to get to my branch. I called once after not getting to the library quickly enough for a pick-up after getting my email notification and the librarian said "Oh, I know you're coming. No worries."

I love to learn from reading. If I can read a story or an account and really learn something new, I'm that much more pleased. I love good character development; I can do without a lot of scenery description (this is why I never finished Wicked although I loved the stage show - I don't care for that much description of the lands around Oz - get me to the story, Greg!). I love anything that makes me cry; tell a story to tug at my heartstrings and you've got me. I love (love, love!) a good children's book or young adult novel.

I am obsessive. If a book really matters to me, I will talk incessantly about it and badger others into reading it. Sometimes people are glad I've done this, other times they sort of cock their heads afterward and try to not be too mean about the fact that I've stolen time from their lives.

I write to (and now email) authors. The first I really remember was Nathan McCall about his book Makes Me Wanna Holler. It was a letter, since it was the early to mid-90s and I didn't have email. I write them mostly to say thank you. Once I wrote to Junot Diaz to find out about a reference he made to a short story in his book The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. I once got in a fight with Jody Picoult about her reason for ending Handle With Care the way she did. Most of the time, authors respond back with lightening speed. It's pretty satisfying. I've gone to lots of readings, sometimes in intimate settings where I get to say hello afterward. I have a bit of hero worship for authors in general.

To go back to that guess, I'd venture to say this: I've been reading since I was 5. So that's 32 years. I think it might be safe to say I could average - over all those years - 40 books a year. So that's 1280 books to date. Is that a lot? A tiny little internet search just now found that there was an article in the late 80s that said the average American reads 1000 books in their lifetime. Then a dude responded to that and said that he keeps track and is at just under 4000 books read and he reads 2-3 a week and he's 49. So, I will use this (very scientific) information to say that my 1280 is pretty good. (I also think it might be conservative. It might be more accurate to estimate that I've read more like 45 or 48 a year.)

People often pose that question: would you rather be deaf or blind (if you had to pick one). I've always chosen deaf. People are always amazed. I always say that with deafness, independence is not a problem, but with being blind, it seems to me that one would really need to rely on others to live. I think though, the other reason is that if I were blind, reading would change so drastically, it would be hard for me to handle. That book in my hand, the words on the page, the speed with which I can get through the pages - to lose that would be real tragedy for me.

I have no interest in a Kindle. I love the heft of a book in my hands. I love the turning of a page. I love that books are company no matter what I'm doing. There's no line too long or wait to annoying as long as I've got my book in my bag - and I always do.

Gotta go now. Some more of Assassination Vacation by Sarah Vowell awaits!

I went on a date last night. It was pretty spectacular. And it was pretty fancy. Involved dinner (it's Restaurant Week in Boston!) and then the theatre (the production of Stick Fly). No expense was spared. Dinner involved a cocktail and a coffee and dessert. Theatre ticket was bought late for one of the added shows for this sold out production and was not cheap. Treating like that feels great!

Who was this date with? Myself. Me. I.

I take myself on dates fairly often. They aren't always this swank, but they usually involve something really cool I read about or heard about. Sometimes I can't find someone else to care about whatever it is, but more often, it's just because I feel like doing something cool by myself. I've been doing this for a long time now.

I tried to remember this morning as I was thinking about this post if I did this in college. I can't remember. I don't think it was deliberate if I did. It was probably sad and pathetic when I couldn't find anyone to hang out with or when I was so tired out by the maintenance of friendship that I just needed a break. I know for sure it began when I left Boston for the first time to head to graduate school. I often spent time alone - at a coffee shop, out to dinner, at a movie - because I didn't have a lot of friends. I didn't know a lot of people when I first got anywhere and I've done that A LOT! I've arrived somewhere new without knowing anyone 6 times in my adult life. That's a lot of times to move somewhere and not know anyone. Sure, I had bosses and colleagues or what have you, but that's not the same.

As I've gotten older, I've chosen to do things alone more and more. I travel alone almost exclusively. I really love it. And usually, I'm alone for all of 42 seconds before I find people to spend time with wherever I am. I'm still in touch with a number of people I've met during trips (especially now because of Facebook).

My mother has often commented on this ability I have. She thought it was pretty weird for a while. Now she admires it, I think. She's often told other women she knows about how I do this (sometimes she has to -"Who is Karen going to Peru with?" must be answered with "Alone."). She had one woman tell her that she has to get food takeout and eat it at home because she could never eat alone in a restaurant. My brother once told me he feels so sorry for people eating alone in restaurants that it makes him want to cry.

I thought up a whole curriculum once for women specifically about how to enjoy yourself in a space alone and to gather power from it. It was going to be an 8 week class and participants would each week do something by themselves and then journal about it and talk about it in class. The "big" thing at the end was going to be individual for each person. For one it might be going out and sitting in a cafe alone for an hour or for another it might be going out to a nice dinner alone or the movies by herself. I never followed through. I should.

I LOVE doing stuff alone. LOVE it. I don't have to meet anyone or wonder where they are or worry about being late. I don't have to eat faster or slower. I don't have to worry about whether what I'm eating makes me look like a pig. (Not that I really care about that, anyway.) I don't have to make conversation or be entertaining. I can read a book or a magazine or look around wondering about the other people around me. I don't have to make decisions by group consensus. I can do whatever I want, whenever I want. Set out to bike through the Emerald Necklace and end up in South Boston - great! No worries that someone else agreed to this under duress and is exhausted. It's only me!

Don't get me wrong. I also LOVE doing stuff with other people. I've got plenty of friends and they are of every variety. The ones who want to go dogsledding and winter camping and the ones who wouldn't dream of any such thing. The ones who are super low maintenance and the ones who need a little more planning. The ones who are single and can do whatever and the ones with kiddies who have to arrange stuff to find 2 hours. And I love them all and love being with them all.

And I really dig me. Last night's date was really wonderful. A three course meal, a few chapters of a new book, and an amazing theatre experience. I don't need more than that.

If the universe means for me to meet someone and finally have that partner who I long for, that'd be really great. And I'd love doing things with him. I'd revel in that, I'd think. But I know, beyond any shadow of any doubt that the man who chooses me will know that occasionally, I'll need to go on a date with myself. Because although I'll love him with all my heart, I will have to keep that other relationship going - that mistress on the side who needs attention and energy - me.

And if the universe means for me to not meet someone and to not have a regular partner to walk through the world with, it will've done its part making sure that I am equipped for that life. Because I am. I enjoy my own company enough to be forced into it for a long time to come.

I often end posts with a comment about how blessed I am. Don't you see why? Because here again I am. Blessed. I'll take it.

I claim to be civically engaged. I vote. I volunteer. I read the community newspaper. I attend community events. I pay attention to the crime in my neighborhood. I give money when it's needed for causes I care about. Sometimes I wonder if I do enough.

Here's a story. You tell me, civic engagement or not?

I drive the same way every morning to work. It first involves getting out of my neighborhood, which is not readily accessible to a highway. (This, as a side note, is thanks to lots of other folks' own civic engagement in the 1980s to keep the Southwest Corridor Highway from running smack through the middle of some of the poorest and already marginalized neighborhoods in Boston.) So first it takes me 12 minutes to get from my house to the entrance to 93N. This entrance is at the intersection of Mass Ave and Melnea Cass Boulevard, a huge, very busy intersection near Boston City Hospital. Everyone trying to get on 93, North or South, ends up in a giant 4-lane road. Those going South peel off to the right about half way up this feeder road. Those going North stay on the road, going up a hill and around a very small bend in order to eventually take a hard left onto another feeder road that could take you to Downtown or South Boston, but has a left exit to gain entrance to 93N. At the top of this hill is a traffic light. This is because the crazy intersection where the traffic light is happens to also be where those coming off of 93N from the south must exit to get onto Mass Ave and Melnea Cass Boulevard (where I just came from). They have to exit, go straight and then take a hard left themselves to get where they are going. Sound confusing? That's because it is!

Although confusing, most morning commuters know what they are doing here and the light is timed well, and traffic keeps moving in both directions, rarely backing up very far.

Monday, March 15, day three of the crazy Nor'easter Monsoon. I arrive at the intersection of Melnea Cass Blvd and Mass Ave and see that the traffic going up the hill to the traffic light is worse than usual. This is weird, considering that there's been hardly any other traffic on my 12 minute commute from the 'hood to this point. I think a lot of people just stayed home that day because the flooding and storm were so bad. I slowly progress up the hill and then see the light is blinking red. In both directions.

And so now, folks, I enter the biggest game of chicken ever in traffic history. Those going straight have the advantage. They are coming straight and therefore it appears they have the right of way. But us left-takers, we have got to have a turn or eventually we will be backed up onto Mass Ave, and let me tell you, that would be none-too-pretty. The people who end up as the front cars on either side after a stream of the other lane has been going for a while must seriously have balls or grow some, because the fate of the rest of us lies upon their shoulders.

On Tuesday, when I arrived and the light was still flashing red in both directions I figured it must be broken because of some complication due to the storm. Makes sense, right?

Wednesday. Same deal. Okay. That's it. Time to do something. While I'm still half-way up the hill, I start trying to remember the Mayor's Hotline number. I know that the city offices exchange is 635 because of all my work with them during my Boston Cares days. So I try round numbers after that. 635-2000. 635-4000. Nothing. They just ring and ring. I remember that the Mayor doesn't let anyone have voicemail at City Hall (folks are supposed to answer their phones) and it's before 9. I try 635-4500. I get Massport. I tell him I'm trying to get the Mayor's Hotline. He says, "Oh, it's 635-3500." (He must get that a lot.)

So I call. And I get one Ms. Terri G, whose name I learned later. Also, at this point, I've completely forgotten that it is a city holiday in Boston. It's March 17. Most of the world knows this as St. Patrick's Day and nobody gets that off from work. But, it just so happens that on March 17, 1776, the British were driven from Boston following the Siege, so-called Evacuation Day. And city offices, schools, libraries, etc. in Boston are closed that day. Super convenient for a city full of Irish peeps. But I digress.

The woman who answers the Mayor's Hotline listens to my tale as I ask her who I need to talk to. She says she's not sure, so she patches me through on a three-way call to some department (I don't remember which) and I tell that dude my story while she stays on the line. When we determine it is the wrong place, she confirms with him what the right place is and then we hang up with him. She patches me through to the next place and waits while she listens to my story for a third time. Once we determine we've got the right people, she hangs up. I am assured by these people that my concern will be registered.

I call the Mayor's Hotline back again. I must get her name and thank her. This is the best customer service I've received practically ever. I thank her. I get her name. Now realizing it's a holiday, I thank her even more as she's clearly drawn the short straw at the Mayor's Office that day. (I refrain from making an ethnic joke since she tells me her name and I realize she's Italian - that's right, Irish peeps, stick the Italian with working on Evacuation Day. It was a coincidence, really!)

I got to work and went to the Mayor's Office page online and I emailed the Mayor a commendation for this woman as well as thank him in general for the Hotline. Super great idea. (I've used it before - got patched through to animal control one night at midnight when I drove into my street in the city and had to stop because there was a lurching, frothy-mouthed raccoon in the middle of the street.)

And today, folks? Today, Thursday, the light is fixed. No more blinking red. (The timing appears to be off, in favor of those going straight, but it could be that I was later driving to work today than usual.)

And so, is this civic engagement? Is my call to the Mayor's Hotline to change a problem in which I saw potential danger, definite annoyance and delay civic engagement?

I think so.

I just finished up my requisite three weekends in Vermont for 2010. And as always, as I drove down the windy road through the woods headed for Route 30 and ultimately Route 91 in Brattleboro, I felt sad. I always feel sad when I leave Vermont. Been feeling it for about 25 years now.

I was raised by a village. Hillary knows what she's talking about, and my parents and their village made it work long before folks knew the phrase. My dad has a group of friends he first met at the pond house where he grew up with his grandparents, and they translated into ski friends. They began renting houses at Mount Snow, Vermont together in about 1965 or so. The mountain was still relatively new, and dad was one of the ones in college at the time. They kept renting together (different houses, always for the whole season) straight through till they got girlfriends, and wives, and the first round of children. I was in that first round, along with Tracy and Kristyn.

These same folks also continued to be pond people, too, so my exposure to them was year round. I know it was a conscious decision to choose to have us kids call the adults by their first names and to eliminate the formality that a Mr. or Mrs. or Dr. creates. They also decided the "Aunt" or "Uncle" that many kids grow up using for people not actually related to them was not what they wanted. And so I have a pseudo-parent I call Barbara, and one called Eddie and one called Charlie, and one called Renee, as well as some real Aunts and Uncles in the group - the list goes on - to go with my regular Mom and Dad.

And at some point, they decided they could all speak up and discipline us all. I posited to the group this past weekend that perhaps that was because Mom/Cheryl was one of the first to have kids and she was willing to discipline just about any child within a mile radius of her, and others followed suit. Nobody argued. However this got decided, it was a pretty great way to grow up.

And while I have only 2 siblings, I actually have about 15 people I would consider almost-siblings. Some of them I really like, others I have learned to stay an arm's length from - sort of like some real sibling relationships. We fought/fight, we cry and love and we talk to, annoy, yell at and bully each other with no holds barred. Just like real siblings.

At some point in the mid-70s, people started buying houses, having more kids, and slowly figuring out that skiing was expensive, especially with small kids, some of whom wanted no part of the whole thing. So they stopped renting a ski house. The pond continued, since all those houses were owned by grandparents or parents or aunts or uncles and were sort of free for the using. So I've never spent time in my 37 years out of touch with this group of people.

And then everyone got more stable financial lives, and taught their kids how to ski at Nashoba or somewhere else close to home. And we began renting again - in 1986. At the one of houses where they had rented before - the one where I had taken my first steps, in fact.

From 1986 through 1995, I participated. Every weekend through high school graduation; less frequently once I went to college. Then I moved to Maryland and LA, but they kept renting the same house together until 2000. (I'm the oldest kid with my sister being the next by a lot of years over the other kids.) I actually don't know why they stopped in 2000. There was a break for a few years. I think a number of the "First Generation" stopped skiing, and with fewer kids around, the novelty wore off.

For those 14 years, though, on any given weekend, there was between 8-10 adults and between 10-15 kids in that house. For a while when we were younger, each family had a room and we slept 5-up in a 12x12 room complete with Dad snoring like a buzzsaw. As the years progressed, we slowly migrated from our parents' rooms into the loft, a large furniture-less room at the top of the house. There were some fun nights in that loft. I distinctly remember one night when Dad, all 6'4" and 220 lbs of him, made his way up the stairs to the loft. We all had heard him coming and had lapsed into a stunned, breath-held silence. He was Dad to three of us, but he was Fred to the other 8 or 10 kids in that loft. I'm not sure who is scarier when he's annoyed, Dad or Fred, but we all knew the jig was up. When the curtains that acted as the door to the loft parted and my hulk of a bear of a Dad stood in the light coming through the plate glass windows behind him, it only took "BE QUIET!" for us to be all done. Dad/Fred doesn't get upset or involved in disciplining us all that often, but when he does, watch out. I think we were all asleep about 10 seconds after he left.

I spent two spring breaks during college in that house with friends. We stole more signs (from the mountain, homes around the valley, stores and restaurants) than we can count. People put cars in ditches on snowy nights, got stuck in the mud and rescued by the likes of Hans Mueller, and ate a lot of hot dogs. There were many hilarious drunken moments as well. Some by parents when they were quite young - before and after they were parents. Some by the "Second Generation" as we approached and passed legal age. Mom/Cheryl was Carol Bottom of the Barrel and I once had quite the evening involving Sunny Delight and vodka. One parent who shall remain nameless for the purposes of this post would climb up on a bar stool, plop a 30 pack next to him and make his way through it in a night. That same dude fell asleep once in his steak out to dinner and was mad the next day when we kids had eaten his doggie bag.

We learned to gamble. Skat, or 31 was always one game; for quarters at first and then dollars. Kids would arrive with cups full of change and be begging Butch before he had even finished unpacking the car for a game. I am a pretty good Blackjack player in Vegas because of my Vermont-based training. To this day, Skat is one of this group's favorite ways to pass 2 hours or so. And the last one standing walks with 30 or 36 or 14 dollars in ones, depending on how many people play. Great fun!

A word on money. The family we rented from all those years gave us some sort of deal, I've never known how much. And I know that one member of the group who shall remain nameless for the purposes of this post subsidized the rent for a number of years with help from his parents so we could all enjoy the house. And, one member of the group was able to secure drastically reduced ski passes for a number of years as well, so we could all ski for only $25 a pop. This, I know, is the main reason our family was able to participate. I owe a debt of gratitude to these folks for making this possible for me and my family. And I'm really glad my parents made sure we understood that we had guardian angels in the form of people who loved us enough to help out the group when needed.

When I returned to Boston in 2004, it was winter. I had been gone since 1995 and I had largely left skiing behind during those 9 years. I longed to ski again, with the folks I know best and associate with skiing. And so, that 4th of July, at the Pond, I said to the "Second Generation", "We should rent a house." And we took a pulse on who could afford such a thing. Kathleen wound up buying a house instead, and we all kicked in toward her mortgage. She only had that house for 2 seasons, but it was great while it lasted. After that, I did a season-long share with 19 strangers, and while it was a great winter, I missed my peeps.

The next year we did Killington for a change of pace and because my brother-in-law, who grew up skiing in Colorado, has a hard time enjoying the tiny Mount Snow. We had a great year that year too, but decided no Killington after that - it was a further drive and my sister and brother-in-law moved to Texas. We wanted others to join in; those who didn't want to do a season-long rental. And so, for the 2007-08 year, we gathered the same group back again and rented a place for 3 weekends. And this appears to be our new tradition, as we just finished up the third year of this.

I have to say, I love it. I get most weekends in the city in the winter, and everyone can afford to go in for one or two or three weekends. We've kept costs very low doing it this way. And when I announced my retirement last year as the house organizer, Fran stepped right up and took over.

I love Vermont. I relish every minute I get to spend there each year. And I love to ski. And now I love to snowshoe. I love when it snows, I don't mind when it doesn't. Even when it's -23 degrees and we can't go skiing, I still love being with that group of people in a house in Vermont. Oh, we have our ups and downs. We've had our bumps in the road. We've had to navigate unpleasant moments. But that's what families do.

Amazing thanks to the "First Generation" - the ones who started it. Who taught us how to ski, play pool, steal signs, drive in blizzards, skip lunch on the mountain in favor of the shorter lines when everyone else is in eating, drive in ski boots, play cards, drink, and make community dinners. Amazing thanks to the "Second Generation" of which I am the oldest regularly participating member. We've carried it on, brought our own traditions, and made time for each other and "the mountains" even when we didn't really have the money or the means. And here's to the "Third Generation" of which there are only two born so far (my counterpart, the oldest: Mia, and my niece Sonia). I hope that you too will be able to participate in something akin to what we have had.

It's not everyone who can tell their friends they were raised by a village. I get to tell people that. And I get to add that I still live and love in it every day. What a blessing.

UPDATE:

Well, so there you go. Nothing lasts for long, right? One of our students was admiring my globe and took on the challenge of dating it from memory. And of course, he notices that Israel is on it. AUGH! Israel wasn't so named until 1948.

So I do what I always do, which is to email the source: the company that made the globe. I sent them this about 10 days ago:

Hello there.

I got one of your 10" globes for my birthday from a friend. I spent some time figuring out how old it is and then came across your chart to be used to age globes.

My problem is that I had determined it was made sometime in late 1945 or early 1946 and then someone else had a spin around it and said it can't be that old because Israel is on it - named Israel, which didn't happen until 1948.

Ceylon, Baluchistan, Phillipine Islands, and Trans-Jordan are all on my globe, all of which had changed by 1948. Any idea why these 4 would be on there, but so would Israel be?

Also, my globe has Lithuanian SSR, Estonian SSR, and Latvian SSR on it, all three of which should have changed by 1940.

I"m super confused now.

If you're interested, I wrote a blog post about my adventure in aging my globe. I'd love to update it with some more information now that it's all been called into question.

http://karenadventures.blogspot.com/2010/01/globes.html

Thank you very much,

A happy globe owner in Boston, Karen

No response still! And here I thought it was so nice!

Today, I found this:

http://insidepublications.org/blogs/writinglife/2010/01/25/dating-a-globe/

This dude knows his stuff. Thanks, dude.

So now I'm the happy owner of a globe from 1949 instead of 1946. That's okay. It's still over 60!

I got a globe for my birthday from my friend Sara. She got it at a little farm/antique store. I opened it from it's paper bag wrapping and instantly fell in love.

First of all, it's small, only 10 inches in diameter. Second, it's this awesome faded blue color that I remember from the globes of my childhood. None of that fancy stuff they have now. Third, it has a super metal base and arm and on the top is a metal circle that moves with timezones on it so you can line it up and see what time it would be one place if it was another time in another place.

I, being the egghead* that I am, immediately took a quick spin to the legend and found that there is no publication date. Nothing. It tells me the diameter, and all the colors and symbols and their meanings. It tells me where it was produced (USA) and what company authorized it (Replogle Globes, Inc.) and where they are (Chicago). A quick search shows this company still alive and kicking in the Windy City. They began producing globes in 1930.

But, apparently, they didn't date the publication of each globe.

And so, with 5 beers in me at midnight with Sara on the couch trying to go to sleep to face her early morning and three children, I opened up Google and tried to figure it out. First thing I noticed, of course, was Siam. Well, this'll be easy! When did Siam become Thailand? So we looked. And it said 1939. Bingo! This globe is from before 1939. Wow, cool! But then something contradicted that. I don't even remember what. So we read the Siam/Thailand Wikipedia more closely. (Note: Wikipedia is a godsend. Not for citing in your research paper, but for anecdotal info like this, surely.) Ah! How about that? Siam became Thailand in 1939 and then went BACK to being Siam from 1945 through May 1949. And then it became Thailand again. That explained the contradiction.

Well, okay then. 1945-1949. Well, on this globe, Germany is whole. And it was split after WWII, in 1949 actually. So that doesn't help narrow it down. Tibet doesn't help. It's on this globe, but it wasn't taken by China till 1950. And Indonesia doesn't help either. It's on this globe as the Netherlands Indies, and it became Indonesia in 1949 as well.

That's where we finished and went to bed last Saturday night. And just yesterday, with a free moment at work, I decided to narrow it down further. The globe is on the front corner of my desk now, looking great. And so, here we go.

Nanking is on here, and it was only in use as the name of Nanjing until 1949. Big year, that one. But no help.

Wait, Korea! Korea helps. It's whole on here. When the heck was Korea whole? Before the Korean War I would imagine, right? A quick search finds it split in 1948. Narrower: 1945-1948.

Bangladesh! I don't see Bangladesh! (The fact that I'm even aware of Bangladesh is a direct result of working here at Tufts now, as this year's theme for the IGL is South Asia and I just happen to have booked two students tickets to Dhaka, Bangladesh in December!) That gets it a bit more narrowed down. It's not here on this globe and it was created in 1947 from part of India. So now we're down to 1945-1947.

Onward to Africa. Will this help? Djbouti doesn't. It didn't come along till the 1970s. Anglo-Egyptian Sudan was so-called until 1956. No help. Northern Rhodesia became Zambia in 1964, so no help there. Chad came into being in 1960 out of French Equatorial Africa, which is on my globe. Here is Dahomey, a sub-area on my globe, part of French West Africa, independent in 1960, now Benin. No help. Morocco, on my globe a part of French West Africa as well, achieved independence in 1956. I think Africa isn't going to help, since much of the movement there happened later than this globe was produced.

Back to Asia. Outer Mongolia is on here. A referendum was passed in October 1945 to recognize Outer Mongolia's independence from Inner Mongolia (China). So that puts us back in 1945 again, although this globe has to have been produced after October 1945 and that means likely in early 1946. So let's take a point for this one and say we've narrowed it down to 1946-1947. Pleasing. But I want a year. One year.

Alaska doesn't help. It became a territory in 1912 and is marked as such on my globe. Juneau is there, with a little star, but it has been the capital of Alaska since 1906. As a side note, I wasn't even sure Juneau was on the map it's written so small. And Anchorage isn't even on this globe. Apparently, before they were a state in 1959, we didn't really care about their major cities.

I spin aimlessly for a while. I check out South America and Central America and everything looks like I know it to be. I spin some more. Greenland is there, check. Iceland, check. A little piece of cardboard is missing at the top of the UK, blocking Northern Ireland. Oh well. Spin some more.

Hold on. Go back to Asia! I got it! I found it! On my globe, the Philippines are marked as Philippine Islands. They achieved independence following WWII and became the Philippines on July 4, 1946. Finally!

So there you go. This globe was produced between October 1945 and July 1946. A 9-month window. I'll take it! Very cool. A globe that is over 60 years old for my 37th birthday from a friend I've had for 22 years. What a treat. Thank you, Sara!

END NOTE: As I was just looking for an image of a globe that looks like mine, I came across this link. Jeez. Who knew? And hello! If they just printed the year on the legend, no need for that. On second thought, though, all this fun and this post wouldn't've been necessary, so I take that back. No image is good enough, so I'll just update this later with a photo of my actual globe.

*From above, next to the word "egghead": I am currently in love with Julia Child, having just finished her memoir and she loved this word. I am bringing it back!

Well folks, it's almost time for another new year. I can hardly believe it.

2009 was a bit of a struggle. But it also had brilliance and happiness in it. As I think about it - and I've been sort of peripherally thinking about it for a few days now - the good far outweighed the bad this year. Or maybe I'm feeling so great this week or month that I can't be bothered to even go back and worry about the hard parts.

This decade is being touted as one of the worst ever. No wonder, with Bush as president for 8 of the years. How could it not suck? And now that we're out of the single digits, we get to say the year easier again. Twenty ten. Much easier than Two Thousand and Nine. Someone on Facebook was wondering the other day what we call these 00 years. The Aughts. That's the answer. And now we are entering what, the Teens? Or the Tens?

Tonight I will attend the second year of my 'hood peeps getting together for poker played for random things. "I see your q-tip and I raise you a contact case." It was fun last year and I think it'll be fun again this year. I have quite the little stash of curious bits to bet with.

As always at this time of year, as Christmas winds down and New Year's hits, I start to think about my birthday. I'll be 37 in a mere 4 weeks. Holy crapola. I have no idea how the hell that happened. My 15th Reunion for college is in June. How have I been away from college for 15 years? I have lived more than half my life independent from my parents. I have been driving for more than 20 years. These silly milestones sill amaze me.

Things that were great about 2009:

- Getting fit. Finally and completely.

- Launching Never Cease Photography.

- Getting to know Sonia as a real little person.

- Starting a new job!

- Dogsledding for the first time (and winter camping too)!

- Another great trip - Turkey!

- Getting to share the joy of a new Cobbett's house.

- A new camera.

- A big garden!

- Finding Jackie, my trainer.

Goals (not resolutions) for 2010:

- Keep on keepin' on the fitness wagon.

- Take even better photos.

- Visit Kate and Todd in STL.

- Go to Houston when there's no event happening.

- Grow an even bigger garden.

- Take a summer course and think about fall courses.

- Buy a bike (! - I'm not entirely sure about this one!)

I hope 2010 proves to be pretty good. I have no reason to think it won't. Here's to another new year!

I meant to post this weeks ago and got sidetracked.

I clarified with my friend in the post below about his reasons for wanting marriage to remain between men and women only. His reasons are religious.

I respect that.

I wish it could be different for us as a society, but I respect those who have beliefs in religious marriage and want the sanctity of that to remain intact.

I am bothered by gay marriage.

I have been really passionate about it for a long while now. Perhaps for the past 10 years. I was aware that gay people weren't able to marry and then happily moved back to Boston just months before Massachusetts legalized it in 2004. I worked on the campaign to save it when the opportunity to overturn it was offered to the voters of Massachusetts in 2006. I celebrated when that failed. I mourned when Californians lost the right in 2008 and I cheered for Iowa. I most recently mourned again about Maine.

I am not gay. I am not married. I would like to be married someday: I believe strongly in the idea of it. I don't want children, so for me, marriage has nothing to do with procreation. I believe in the separation of church and state - more than our government does, I think. I don't understand why the word "God" is on our money or why our President has to say "So help me God" when he is sworn in. I understand why the government chose to regulate something that is actually a religious institution; economics, inheritance, decision-making rights, etc. require it.

I think we made a mistake though. By adopting the word "marriage" when enacting laws, we chose a word that has different connotations for everyone. Instead of choosing a secular word, we went with the religious one. Now we're stuck with it. I have to go get a marriage license, even if I don't intend to be "married" in the religious sense; in a religious ceremony or in the eyes of a religious being. My religion is allowed to regulate who it marries based on their own rules, even if these are in opposition to laws of the government because marriage is a religious institution first (example: I cannot marry in the Catholic Church if I don't intend to have children; I cannot marry in the Catholic Church if I am divorced - neither of these restrictions are of concern to the U.S. government and I cannot "sue" the Church to force them to marry me.)

So now, we have semantics. Some hide behind reasoning that relies only on the definition (or connotation) of a word. Marriage. Those who "believe" that marriage is between one man and one woman choose that as their reason for why gay people should be denied equal legal partnership rights. They do not see any reason to have to have a more developed reason than that. It is what they believe and it is what is true and right and then, for them, the discussion is over.

Recently, I was caught by surprise by someone who I thought was in support of gay marriage who clarified that actually he isn't. He is for "civil unions" for gay people, but not marriage. I was floored. What? I asked why. I got the above answer largely based on semantics.

But it got worse. He offered up that gay people are fighting a losing battle they will never win and they should choose some alternative to fight for. If I was floored the first time, I was astounded at this. I asked if black people should've given up the civil rights fight early on, since it was clear they couldn't win and should've come up with some alternative form of equality to try for instead. This was declared to be a completely different argument. No, it isn't. It's exactly the same.

I offered up that women should definitely just have realized that college/university is for men. Women should've asked for some other type of educational system instead. Again, this was denied as anything remotely resembling the gay marriage argument.

I think the reason this person claims those other examples aren't the same is because then he is committing an "ism" with his gay marriage stand. Because if someone was or is against the racial civil rights movement, that makes them racist. If someone was or is against women going to college/university/work they are sexist. Clearly.

But if someone is against gay people marrying, they somehow don't have to be homophobic. They can just have it "be my opinion" or they can reach into some non-secular doctrine and support it that way. It's cowardly.

Heterosexual people are not at risk of anything by gay people having equal marriage rights. The same way that by a black person having equal rights to me, I as a white person cannot lose mine. Family values are not at further risk by gay marriage. Family values are already at risk enough by the behavior of heterosexual people. There's no way it can get worse.

Before writing this post, I read a number of essays on the topic, mostly from the "no gay marriage" side of the fence. I wanted to see if there was anything I was missing. Was there a compelling argument that I might actually agree with? Unsurprisingly, no. It was all the same either religious or fear-based bullshit I've heard before. Not one compelling argument.

Someone said to me recently that conservatives argue with facts and liberals argue with emotions, and this is why conservatives are so much more successful and logical. In the moment, I retorted something along the lines of being fine with that if it meant that I exhibit care for other human beings.

Another friend clarified further, though. She said conservatives believe they have facts because they form beliefs based on faith or economics or something they care about and they stay true to those beliefs regardless of circumstance. Liberals think openly, fluidly, and are always looking for a better answer. Conservatives see that as weak and flip-floppy and as an inability to make up our minds and therefore name it as emotion. This makes SO much sense to me. I already knew why I think conservatives are idiots - who would settle on a belief and then stay there regardless of evidence? But now I know why they think I'm an idiot. Who would take so many things into consideration and change their mind or wait for more info before forming an opinion?

I am so proud of the way I develop opinions. I am so proud of my openness and my ability to always see the next thing around the corner as a potential help to fix a problem. I am proud of my desire to help whoever needs it in whatever way I can; perhaps in a way I haven't even thought of yet. I have no need or desire to develop a set of "facts" and then hide behind them. I have no need to be afraid that by others receiving a bigger piece of "the pie" (or even a first piece of "the pie") that my piece might get smaller. I'll still have a piece.

Gay people deserve the exact same civil rights for partnership as heterosexual people. The U.S. government should not choose this group to back off on simply because religion is involved - because it isn't. We shouldn't be voting on this. Seriously - if men had voted on women's right to vote? I think we all know what the outcome would've been. If we had voted on the desegregation of schools? Yeah, that too. We need a Supreme Court case or a federal statute or something that stops all this nonsense and just grants rights to Americans, the same way we've been doing for a while now. Why have we changed the game?

In our history, we have had affirmative action to ensure people of color were, in practice, afforded the rights the government gave them legally. We had to enact a law to give girls equality in sports programs and we still have athletic directors who begrudgingly create the girls rugby team under Title IX in order to get funding for the boys team (and the Winter Olympics still have one sport that does not allow women to compete and that's being fought now since it goes against Canadian law where the winter Olympics, including ski jumping, will happen in 2010). We have yet to adopt the damn ERA, which was introduced in 1923 and ran out in 1982 and failed to be ratified.

I ask for those hiding behind semantics and fear to own your cowardice and just stop. Think for a moment if you, for some reason, couldn't have all the rights you are currently allowed by our government - supposedly one of the best and the most free in the world. Think for a moment whether there really is a threat to you.

Support your neighbors, your friends, your relatives, your co-workers, your service providers and strangers. Because even if you think you don't know any gay people - you do. Perhaps they are just not telling you who they are because you've been so clear about how you think of them. As lesser than you.

Turkey. What an amazing country. What an amazing trip. And how lazy I was about blogging. I journaled a fair bit though, which for my past two trips I didn't do because of the blogging. So there you go. I don't pick the method - it seems to choose me.

I won't bore you with chronological details. Rough itenerary was Istanbul, Goreme in Cappadocia, Pamukkale, Selcuk and Ephesus, Canakkale/Eceabat, and back to Istanbul. 40 hours total on buses. Three nights accommodation saved on night travel. Seven nights total in one of the coolest cities I've ever been to: Istanbul. 8 nights elsewhere.

Two visits to ancient city ruins (Heirapolis and Efes - I skipped Troy). One hike up a hill to watch 30 hotair balloons. One hike up a mountain barefoot over calcium carbonate deposits. Two plus nights spent smoking nargile (flavored water pipe). Three American travel companions. One BBQ on a rooftop terrace in Istanbul. One night of major Raki drinking (Turkish anise alcohol). Countless tuvka sis (chicken shish) eaten. One series of backgammon with a skeevy Turkish dude in Selcuk and one with a good friend in Istanbul. Visits to 4 or 5 mosques. Approximately 80 calls to prayer heard in 5 cities and towns. Two pieces of local jewelry purchased. Countless flirtatous Turkish men - one of whom got the flirting returned.

Five bodies of water (Bosphorus Strait, Sea of Mamaras, Black Sea, Golden Horn and the Dardenelles). One pair of shoes packed that I never wore! One lost article of clothing - my favorite brown sweater/jacket/duster thingy - left on the bus in Denzili when changing for Pamukkale at 5:15 in the morning. 5 books read. Many Efes (the local beer named after the most famous ancient city) drunk. About 200 YTL (Turkish Lira) (about $130) spent getting into sites, attractions and museums. One load of laundry done. Two pair of underwear bought to avoid having to do laundry again!

Countless cups of cay (tea) drunk with two sugar cubes each time (more refined sugar than I've had in probably two years!). One slightly hungover day spent sightseeing. One Turkish daylight savings time observed. 45 minutes spent humoring the carpet-salesman guy explaining the history and making of kilims to me without buying anything (I told him I wasn't going to from the start). Approximately 42,000 older Europeans and Americans paths' crossed in Topaki Palace and Ephesus combined from cruise ship trips. One motorbike ridden on while wearing my pack because I didn't understand the hotel owner and was randomly standing in the street when I really belonged 100 yards down at the bus company place! Repeatedly awakened on the trip from Istanbul to Goreme by the woman next to me trying to ask me questions in Turkish and offer me food - nice, but I'm sleeping here!

Many jetons bought (small blue plastic tokens used for the metro system). Repeated amazement of the systems in Turkey: buy your ticket at any site, stick it in the turnstile reader, an automated voice says "Please Pass" and you walk through the turnstile. This was especially interesting when the turnstile was outdoors and after walking through you're in some holy ruin. EZPass on the highways and one of the most clean, efficient city lite rail tram systems I've ever seen.

178 YTL ($120) spent on bus fare. Approximately 20 YTL spent going to the bathroom. Most places you must pay between 50 kurus and 1 YTL to use the toilet. At least there's always paper and soap! A few Turkish words learned: merhaba-hello; teshakur ederim-thank you; bay/bayan-man/woman; tavuk-chicken; tuvalet-toilet; cay (said chi)-tea; tamam-okay/no worries; checheve-cheers!

Zero times my life was at risk (this is unusual as I usually think I might die at least once while travelling, usually transport related). One fresh squeezed pomegranate juice drunk (too bitter!), a few grapefruit juices drunk (delish!). Two nights spent sleeping in a fairy chimney, which come to find out is an ancient term because people from afar saw candlelight flickering and thought that humans couldn't be living in these stone turrets so it must be fairies. One scraped elbow suffered when stumbling out of aforementioned fairy chimney to descend the 14 steps to my shared bath in the middle of the night. Approximately 580 photos taken. Doner (schwarma) sandwiches eaten for only 1.5 YTL. Delish! 15 free Turkish breakfasts eaten (all rooms/hostels come with breakfast) consisting of cukes, feta cheese, tomatoes, boiled egg, bread, jam, honey, olives with tea or coffee. Way to many clothes packed! The comfort of sneakers as travelling shoes re-realized. Buses that serve drinks and snacks like on a plane!

Totally overwhelmedness in a bazaar like I've never been before. Two hellacious days of pouring down rain. One of the best dates of my life. More Christian/Jesus/Mary depicting mosaics and frescoes than I can count. Successful and mostly hassle-free shopping. Being known by name and I them, at one little bar/restaurant in Istanbul. Free towels, soap, breakfast and internet at every hotel/hostel I stayed at. Being in Istanbul on 29 October - Republic Day - celebrating the founding of modern Turkey (and modern it is)! Turkish yogurt (better than Greek).

Tons learned about WWI and Turkey. Left with a bag that weighed 27 lbs and am returning with 33 lbs. Not bad! One city bus trip navigated in a downpour - totally sucessfully! One trip up a tower to see the city from on high - one of my favorite things to do everywhere I go. Two obscene pastries eaten (one day after the other) as a rainy-day-in-Istanbul activity. One ancient hill-carved monastary visited. Orange tights purchased for 4 YTL. One very early shuttle bus to the airport to begin the journey home. 6 hour layover in London.

SUCH A GOOD TRIP.

Other thoughts that I think are important:

When I travel, I am a different person than I am at home. I'm calmer, I worry less. I go with the flow. I'm open and friendlier. I'm less opinionated. I listen better.

I need to adopt some of these things for my regular life, which it seems to me now is a misnomer anyway. For am I not a traveller in my life? Am I not discovering and learning every day? Should I not be as open in my day to day as I am when I am a foreigner? Should I not take in stride whatever happens in the way I am so willing to when I am away? Yes. The answer is a big yes.

Living in Thailand taught me to relax. Before my years of mai pen rai (no worries!) I didn't know how. I failed at relaxing, but now I do it well. It is time to take another lesson from the world and make it mine all the time. Because why do I travel if not to learn more and then integrate the lessons? Just to say I've been places? Not I. I want more.

And so, I will try to be more open at home. To look around more, not hurry to no where so much, to smile at people and be friendlier. I will try to worry less. I will attempt to stop living so comfortably with annoyance (one of my favorite defaults) and instead will take a moment to determine if energy could be better spent another way (my guess is yes). I will attempt to be more free of myself - of my own self-constraints that keep me from feeling all the time the way I feel when I travel.

Just a little post to say that İ've obvıously decıded not to post from Turkey. I'll do a bıg trıp-roundup post when İ'm back statesıde.

It's here! The blog about missing pants. It's called Find Your Pants and it's the brainchild of one of my illustrious Boston Cares co-workers.

She's collecting photos, so start snapping those missing pants chicks on the street and submit! Click here to check out her blog, called Find Your Pants!

There is a disturbing phenomenon happening at the moment in fashion. People keep forgetting their pants.

I started noticing this last spring. Women on the streets of the city with what appeared to be shirts, with no pants or skirts. Some were button downs, like they stole them from their boyfriends or their dads, belted. Some were what looked like long t-shirts. Sometimes they were dresses that were shirt-sized. But each and every time, legs up to here and more often than not, a piece of butt now and then peeking out.

This summer, my parents and I were walking through the city and I pointed one out to my mom: "See that girl, she forgot her pants." My mother looked at the woman, looked at me and said, horrified "Oh my god, she did!" I laughed and explained the phenomenon. She was doubtful. But then the next one and the next one and the next one walked by. Each time, my mother pointed and stared. By the time she was getting on the T to go home, she was as disturbed as I was.

Let me clarify on age and size of these women. Varied. All over the map. Young and cute and small. Not-so-young, not so cute, not so small. Sometimes one would have tried to have sense by putting on tights or nylons (not leggings, mind you). This, while a valiant effort, often makes it worse. Now your ass cheek is peeking at me through purple nylon? This is supposed to be better?

Sitting down is always a challenge. On the T, crotch shots abound. What are these women thinking? Do I want to see your underwear? No, not really. And especially not at 7:30 a.m. And where are you going? To work or school? This hardly seems appropriate attire for either. If you want a bare ass at the club, fine, but I think your teachers and co-workers would appreciate a fully clothed person to show up.

Now, I'm a pretty conservative dresser, I'll admit. Not as conservative as some people (I'm considered in my family to be a little on the trendy side in comparison). But I cover up my bits. Fully. Maybe I'll show a little cleavage now and then, but boobs are not orifices. Stuff does not accidentally come out of them. (Graphic, I know, but seriously people!) I realize that I am not the best judge of what's hip or appropriate. I came of age during grunge, where we wore flannel and 4 layers and jeans with tights and big boots and long underwear under skirts. All our clothes were 2 sizes too big. I borrowed my dad's jeans in high school (he is 6'4" and weighed 215 at his skinniest) and his sweaters whenever he wasn't looking. I understand this. But this swing so far in the other direction is problematic, I think.

Boys aren't dressing like this. I don't ever see a guy out walking around with short shorts on. Or a dude with his package somehow highlighted for the world to check out. There is no equivalent to this for men. Women are expected to leave nothing to the imagination and walk around half naked (literally), but men are allowed to continue to wear cargo shorts hanging down to their mid-calves that are so baggy I can't even tell if they are fit or not. Let's not turn this into a feminism argument, but women continue to be objectified and objectify themselves through fashion. It's a problem.

My female co-workers, who are all far younger than I, agree with me. None of them would be caught in an outfit like this. They joke that they want to get stickers made up that say "This is where your pants should be" and then stick them on people's legs as a public service. I am pleased that there is this group I know who show me that it is not every woman who is willing to bear her ass in public. Because I'm certainly not going to any time soon (even though my ass is much smaller than it used to be these days).

So, women of the world. Put on some pants. Or a skirt. Anything on the bottom that covers up that half of you somewhat. Be risque if you like. I had a long, black, see-through skirt in college. I wore it with black tights. You could see my legs right through it. It was sexy and fun. But it wasn't obscene. There's a difference. The man who is checking you out on the street should be wondering what you look like under that cute dress you're wearing. He should be striving towards getting you out of it to enjoy his first look. But he doesn't have to do any of that, because he can see it all already, right there on the street. And then he goes home and masturbates to the vision. Hardly romantic.

Start a movement. Get some pants.

Feeding America is asking bloggers to post in the month of September about Homelessness Awareness Month. Since I am on the board of a soup kitchen in Boston, I thought I'd write about that.

The Friday Night Supper Program is in its 25th year of serving hungry and homeless people every Friday night in the basement of the Arlington Street Church. It was founded by the Church and Dignity Boston, a group of GLBT Catholics. It then became its own 501C3 nonprofit organization and has operated that way ever since. It has only two part-time employees and relies on volunteers to serve a nutritious meal to approximately 130 people each week. A Friday night has never been missed or cancelled, ever, in 25 years. Come rain, snow, hurricanes, holidays, power outages and more, Friday Night Supper is there.

The meal is served restaurant style. Guests begin with bread and butter and water on their tables and can go up to get coffee and juice and soup during the first hour. At 6 p.m., volunteers serve the meal to the guests at their tables, accommodating special requests for vegetarian options and other requests. As soon as the meal is served to everyone in the hall, the door is opened again to late comers, who receive a meal at the door as they come in. Dessert is also served to guests at their table at 6:30. Guests are welcome to spend time in the hall until 7 and then the hall closes so volunteers can clean up, sweep, mop, breakdown all the tables and chairs and do all the dishes. Without fail, all the volunteers leave by 7:30. It's like clockwork.

We serve guests who are homeless and those who live in subsidized housing or low-income housing. Some work, but many cannot for varied reasons. Some live only on disability or on social security. At the beginning of the month, our numbers are often lower, but come the end of the month, it can get very busy. On cold or rainy days, folks tend to stay longer in the hall, protected from the weather.

We also have a "Clothing Closet" which provides whatever we can to guests when we can. Clothes, shoes, socks, underwear, toiletries, and more are given out each week to folks with requests. Often, we cannot meet all the requests we get, and are constantly looking for donations. We always need men's things - we get about 90% male guests at the Program. If you have things to donate, let me know! Or, adopt FNSP for the holidays or for your birthday, and do a drive for us!

Homelessness is pretty horrible. Sleeping on the streets, on a bench, in an ATM vestibule are all risky, cold, and uncomfortable. People are homeless for lots of different reasons - many of them their own responsibilities, but many that are more luck of the draw than anything else. Undereducated, under resourced, under supported people struggle across the United States every day to be sure they can keep a roof over their heads.

Is running a soup kitchen solving the problem? Nope. It's not. We aren't doing any work at the root of the problem. We aren't working to change the source of the problem. But, for only $70,000 a year, we can serve about 7000 meals to people who can't wait for the system to catch up - because they are hungry right now.

Want to come volunteer with me? Let me know. You can come anytime! It's easy, fun, and rewarding.

And this month, when you walk past a homeless person, say hello. Or give the dude on the corner a dollar, even if you usually wouldn't. Or get your extras wrapped up at a meal and give it to someone who's asking on the street. Or, make a donation to a homelessness serving agency (FNSP!). Or volunteer. Before I served my first meal at FNSP in 2007, I had never worked in a soup kitchen or homeless shelter. I had no idea I would care so much. But I do. And you might too.