Open Book

Something old, something new.

On Sunday morning, we packed up the car with chairs, a cooler full of beverages, my famous edamame bean salad, the Sunday paper and our tired selves for a three hour trip to Virginia. My future son-in-law's family invited us to their annual family reunion gathering at Douthat State Park, and since we'd never met any of them but will be joining forces come April, it seemed a good idea to attend.

I'm so glad we did.

His family is a lovely bunch of coconuts, much like our own, and I think the blended result is going to be a beautiful thing. It was especially fun to interact with the littlest, most adorable ones, each of whom bore strong genetic resemblance to my daughter's fiance', and to imagine what my forthcoming grand babies might look like.

Remember the days when my sweet little girl used to tell me she was never having babies, only monkeys? Well, her mind has evidently changed on this subject. A couple of weeks ago she mentioned having seven kids someday. SEVEN. KIDS. I cannot fathom the prospect, knowing her as I do, but at least there is hope of a happy medium somewhere between primates and the Waltons.

_____________________

It's going to be a very interesting year. Wedding planning via Google chat and late night phone calls is proving to be a challenge. Especially when you consider that I have zero experience in this realm, seeing as my own wedding was such a low-key affair. One day, my mother came home with a pretty white dress and a pair of high heels. Another day, my honey and I shopped for wedding bands - mine was $50, his $125. And finally, I showed up at the church to say, "I do." Pretty simple stuff, really.

My daughter's planned wedding is not quite as low-key.

As she likes to remind me, "I don't have an infant at home waiting for me to get on with it."

Yeah, well.

So ANYHOODLES...she's planning a little throw down for 200 of her closest friends with an outdoor setting for the ceremony itself. There are 14 bridesmaids and groomsmen (seven of each), a caterer trying to accommodate her vegan wishes, and pretty strong odds for the possibility of an April shower in the Blue Ridge Mountains. There are flowers to plan, a photographer to book, music to consider, invitations to ready. There are a million details within the details and the tightrope between champagne tastes and beer budget to be mindful of in the process.

Books, magazines and websites are all fine and dandy. Until they start BLOWING YOUR MIND WITH A THOUSAND NEW DETAILS.

Unsolicited advice from friends and family is always helpful. Until, you know, IT IS MOST POSITIVELY NOT.

I'm trying to plan a trip down Charlottesville way soon, so we can spend a couple of days eyeball to eyeball, making lists and assigning tasks, crafting flow charts and drafting prayer chains just to help us get through it all without forgetting something important.

Like securing an officiant, say.

And here's another fun little detail: the big day is only 229 days away.

Seven months.

Thirty-three WEEKS.

Two hundred and TWENTY-NINE DAYS.

I'M IN OVER MY HEAD HOURS.

I need a drink.

Wait - drinks! Alcohol! Wine! A "custom" cocktail (whatever the hell that is)! Bartenders!

More details!

Wheee!

Anybody out there have a magic wand handy? 'Cause I'm thinkin' a little *wave* of it in my direction might be the only thing to save me from myself over here.

Short Stories

I'm not gonna lie: working two jobs this week has pretty much kicked my ass. And that might have potential to be a bad thing, if both my jobs didn't kick ass. Being in the bookstore is everything I'd hoped it would be, and then some. The schedule will calm down, as will I, once the training starts to click into automatic mode.

There isn't much time at the moment (a hash brown casserole is baking off in the oven, destined for a cookout we're heading out to shortly), but I wanted to make note of a few early observations before I forget them.

Books and bookshelves attract dust like light attracts moths.

Every single one of my co-workers - including the store manager, but not including the lovely British couple who own the place - have "primary" lives beyond the bookstore. The vast majority are artists of some sort, but there is also a college student, a mother of two pursuing a Master's in nursing, and a chef-in-training. In short, they are a vivid bunch of interesting, disparate people.

Speaking of people...our customers are a fascinating bunch, as well. I've already met several of the store regulars, three local "celebrities", and even a unique character or two.

Behind the register lives a notebook that holds all the secrets. It is full of tales of whacky customers, odd authors, and miscellaneous mis-adventures in retail. I would lovelovelove to build a blog around its stories someday.

There are plans to host an immensely polarizing figure at an in-store event in the very near future. It should prove to be one interesting Saturday afternoon, to put it mildly.

Turns out I will be missing tomorrow's all-staff meeting, which I regret terribly. My new son-in-law's family has invited us to a reunion picnic near the WV-VA border, and propriety stipulates we attend. I'm looking forward to it, but was also primed to take part in the store brainstorming session. By request, I did offer up several ideas. I think they were solid ones, but I suppose we'll see.

Our book buyer gave two weeks notice yesterday. Based on a conversation today, I think this means I might be given the opportunity to contribute to this vital role, to include researching possible titles to carry, coming up with themes to market, and immersing myself in the world and ways of Independent booksellers. This excites me something fierce.

We have a great, great, great magazine section. Today, I discovered one titled 'Modern Drunkard' and spent way too much time laughing hysterically at its trippy contents.

Having access to all the free coffee a girl could ever want for the duration of every shift? Could be trouble, with a capital 'T'.

Speaking of trouble (I sure overuse this device, do I not?), I picked up a copy of this today, seen as I was wandering about, Swiffer duster in hand. It's nowhere close to the type of book I would normally select; there was something about it, though, that intrigued me. I have a feeling before all is said and done, I won't see a dime from the hours on my time card, and rather will be paid in trade. Books. But honestly...how bad a thing would that be?

And that's all I got.

For now, anyway.

Happy reading!

 

In an old house in Paris that was covered in vines lived twelve little girls in two straight lines.

1. Today's first line title comes courtesy of a classic childhood favorite, Ludwig Bemelmans' Madeline.

2. There are some days I'd really like to go back in time to re-live the simpler days of my youth, when finding a good enough hiding place in which to tuck away and get lost in a book for hours was the single biggest stress point of my life.

3. Not many days I wish it, mind you. But there are some days I'd take the opportunity if offered and never look back. Or is it forward? Do-over: But there are some days I'd take the opportunity and never think twice.

4. I'm pretty annoyed with a specific set of people and frustrated in a general sense today. Pay no attention to the grimace on my face. It's temporary, I promise.

5. And on the bright side? Today was my first day of training at the bookstore!! I loved it, even though standing on my feet for six hours is going to take some getting used to. It's been a lot of years since that was last part of my job description. I dusted all the bookshelves as a means of getting familiar with the location of things and the books in stock and...holy hell. I've already got a list of *muffledquantity* new titles I can't wait to read.

6. I helped close tonight. I'm helping to open in the morning. At 6:30 a.m., to be precise. This should be interesting, since it's no secret that all the coffee in Columbia couldn't turn me into a morning person. But I need to get used to it. It's likely I'll be opening a couple days a week. :-)

7. Ironically, this happens to be a big deadline push few days at my "real" job. To say I'm a little exhausted and brain fried right now is the understatement of the week. It'll all work out in the end, even though there will be a few patches here and there where the two worlds overlap. I can deal. Besides, when am I *not* a little exhausted and brain fried? I certainly should be used to the condition by now!

8. I honestly cannot ever remember a year so filled with the loss of iconic personalities as 2009 has been thus far. It's almost mind blowing, really. And the whole recent two-in-one-day phenomenon? What the HELL is that about? (Dominick Dunne passed away yesterday, too. Not that you'd know it from the news.)

9. There is no way I can adequately capture all of my thoughts surrounding the death of Senator Kennedy and the end of the era his passing represents. For better or worse, it feels very personal to me. Like a great many people in this country and of my generation, I have a shared fascination with this family and its place in the grand, sweeping American saga. Their story's impact on my political views cannot be overstated, up to and including a deeply felt responsibility to my fellow man and an unshakable belief in my obligation to endeavor to leave this world a little better place than I found it. Maybe someday I'll find the words to express the myriad of impressions, emotions and inspirations I've drawn about, on behalf of and directly because of the lives and contributions of the Kennedy clan over the entirety of my own life. But not today.

10. Related:, if you have HBO and get the chance, the documentary 'Teddy: In His Own Words' is a truly remarkable piece of film making on the life and times of the man, and the triumphs and tragedies of his life, as told in his own voice.

11. Have you seen this website? It's called Hunch and it's incredibly cool. Not to mention a fascinating time suck. I've had big fun playing around with it and am enamored of some of the suggestions it has offered up thus far. Where should I visit before I die? Based on their analysis of me based on my responses to a plethora of questions, St. Petersburg, Russia should be at the top of my list. They were a little off with the #1 suggestion on what I should name a dog. Tiny? TINY? I'm sorry. Ain't gonna happen.

12. We're going to meet my future son-in-law's family on Sunday. They've invited us to a family reunion at Douthat State Park in Virginia, about a three hour drive from here. I'm a little nervous about being outnumbered by about 100 to 2, but am mostly really looking forward to it. We are fam-i-ly, after all.

13. Nine days until opening day, baby! BOO-YA. And I only mention it because I care, knowing as I do that you are all as fired up about Mountaineer football as I am. I could never forgive myself if I let you forget such a momentous date. *cough cough* Let's goooooooo....

This has been the weirdest* day.

Last week, I noticed a Facebook post on the page of my favorite local independent bookstore announcing their intention to hire a new someone and asking for applications via their website.

You know me, right?

After years of harboring grand fantasies of owning just such a shop all my own, do you think I hesitated? Even for one single minute?

Of course I didn't. I gave into the whim - as I am often wont to do - with barely a blink of an eye. I clicked on the website link, filled in the blanks and hit submit. Took me all of three minutes.

Yesterday I got a phone call from the lovely British woman who owns the place, inviting me for a cup of tea and an interview.

And today? I am newly employed at the most magical place in town.

How freakin' BIZARRE AND AMAZING is that?!?!

I can't stop grinning. Not over the money - it's barely minimum wage and two to three six hour shifts a week max. But over the whole bloody wonderful, trip-the-light-fantastic, dream a little dream fantasy of it all.

Just think. I'll be surrounded by books of every description and am encouraged to READ ON THE JOB. I'll have my fill of all the caffeinated beverages I can drink and scones (muffins, soups, wraps) I can eat, courtesy of the store's own little cafe'. I'll be in the center of the downtown action in one of the most popular "let's wander on over to" destinations there, with a front row center seat to the best people watching going. I get significant discounts on all the shop's wares, which includes the handiwork of several local and regional artisans. I get to set my schedule around my current professional contract position, no questions asked. I NEVER HAVE TO WORK WEEKENDS, but can if I want to, should a co-worker be in need of a shift change. I'll be helping to expand their social media presence. I'll be mingling with fellow readers and lovers of the great Indies and intelligent, conversant, inquisitive people of every stripe.

I'll get the chance to plan events and author signings and...

....and I just can't imagine a more fun, more perfect, more invigorating, more enchanting opportunity.

It's over the top, that's what it is.

I start training tomorrow afternoon. I'm invited to an employee gathering on Sunday at the home of the owner, who lives in a massive apartment right above the store, where I have been asked to come prepared to brainstorm ideas for brisking the place up. She may not know exactly what she's in for with that graciously open-ended offer, but prepared I shall be.

It seems a little surreal, actually.

And that's a very cool thing!

______________

* Did you know the first definition for the word "weird" is: "of, relating to, or caused by witchcraft or the supernatural" according to Webster's? I did not, until today. But now that I do...how perfectly appropriate to the whole mystical feel to this day!

Scenes from a Life: The Julia Experiment

When last we left our intrepid heroine, she was making apologies for best laid plans gone tearfully awry. Never fear! The grand preparation of Boeuf Bourguinon, otherwise known around these parts as The Julia Experiment, may have been delayed a day or two, but was never forgotten. In fact, it finally took place just last night.

Exhibit A: Ready!

 

This is your chef and hostess, fired up and ready to go. And also wearing her grandmother's hand-stitched apron for a touch of (much needed) luck.

I am a collector of cookbooks and a clipper of recipes, but the truth is, I rarely follow them exactly. Instead, I tend to view them as "suggestions" and often take creative license with their precision in order to turn them into something...similar, yet different. Something my own. But people? This is Julia Child's 'Mastering the Art of French Cooking' we're talking about here. I was determined to follow her instructions down to the last intimidating letter. It should be noted that this experiment involved not one, but three recipes from this massive tome in order to pull the dish off as written.

By this point in the afternoon, the aromas wafting through the house had me imagining I was in a country kitchen in rural France. My internal running dialog began to feature the odd comment like, "Oui, oui, s'il vous plaît!" and "Bonjour, mon cher!" and "Enchanté!" (What can I say? I took six years of Spanish. Je ne parle pas français.) But in all seriousness? Divine. A small village could have made a meal off of the smells emanating from the oven alone. 

In addition to the main dish prep, the recipe also called for braised onions and sauteed mushrooms to be added to the stew near the finish. Far and away the most awful part of the entire endeavor: peeling two dozen pearl onions for braising. The. Worst. And yet? Totally worth it in the end. Which brings us to...

...the meal. Magnifique. It was a hit, in that special occasion dinner sort of way. An incredibly rich dish, it was flavorful and stick-to-your-ribs hearty. It's not something I'll be cooking with any frequency, but the making of this meal, and the sharing of it with my family - the "getting there" as it were - made The Experiment a memorable one. And the experience of walking a few miles in my kitchen with Julia for four hours on a sunny afternoon is one I will always remember fondly.

As the inimitable Mrs. Child herself once said, "Life itself is the proper binge."

Indeed.

Bon appetit!

Because misery loves company.

It's barely noon on the Monday after a perfectly brilliant weekend, and I'm already doing yoga at my desk in an attempt to stave off the massive knots of tension working their way up my neck.

*sigh*

I realize we all march to the beat of a different drummer, and am also well aware that this is what makes this place called earth such an interesting place to inhabit.

However.

When you and your drummer decide to take the lead position in the parade, it would be nice for you to facilitate a bit of rhythm we can all get in step with, if you know what I'm saying.

Since I am feeling so very put upon and peevish this otherwise fine sunny day, it feels like as good a time as any to share a woefully incomplete compilation of things that make me want to find the nearest chalkboard and scrape my inch long fingernails down its entire length.

Pet peeves? Yeah, I've got a few.

• "I ain't got no..."
• The radical right, the extreme left, and the apathetic
• Drivers who merge at the last possible second
• "It's not my job."
• Lame excuses
• Political over-correctness
• Bloated egos and/or false modesty
• Forms, in single or in triplicate
• Black jellybeans, anytime, anywhere
• An empty box where a 12-pack was thought to be
• Backseat drivers
• "It's not my fault."
• Little yippy dogs dressed in sweaters
• Mumblers, interrupters and interjecters
• Cold soup, unless intended that way
• Gmail serving up links to recipes featuring Spam
• People who think the rules don't apply to them
• Poor sportsmanship
• Late birthday cards, both sent and received
• Sean Hannity and Chris Matthews, but, oddly, not Bill Maher
• Ketchup on hot dogs
• Women who hover, drip on the seat, and leave in public restrooms
• Arrogant know-it-all hypocrites
• Overly familiar waitstaff who won't leave you alone
• Movie theater TALKERS
• Cell phone etiquette, or the lack thereof
• Last minute rewrites
• Chronic whiners and the perpetually perky, in equal measure
• Judgmental attitudes, most especially my own (see: irony)
• Dirty laundry on TOP of the hamper
• Mondays
• Bloggers relying on lists like this one when they've nothing to say and no time to say it

Deep breath.

And...exhale.

There.

I feel a little better already.

A very short post, just to prove to myself I am capable of producing a short post. Because I am, honest. Cross my heart. I may not do it often, but I truly can. Just watch me. Here I go. And also? Finito!

Because sometimes the road to a lovely weekend is paved with them, too.

Despite my best intentions, this has turned out to be quite an accomplished weekend. The house is sparkly clean, up to and including the windows, inside and out. The dust bunnies have been defeated and the beds have been made up with fresh linens. The gardens are de-weeded, pruned and freshly mulched. The once bare cupboards are full again. The laundry is done.

And the upstairs bathroom door? It actually closes. As in latches. As in a person can get some real honest-to-goodness privacy in there now.

It's a small thing, I guess. But it really doesn't take much to make me happy.

Take this morning's weather, for example. Overcast and cool. Gray flannel sweats and long sleeved T-shirt wearing weather. Prelude to autumn weather. Two-pots-of-coffee-worthy Sunday morning weather, if ever such a thing existed.

Makes-me-happy weather.

See?

___________________

Owning this big old house tends to make a person a little less inclined toward laziness. Which sounds pretty sad, all typed out like that, seeing as it is my natural nature to be lazy inclined much of the time. But it's not sad at all, really, because even though the running list of things to do, repair, clean and renovate is one without end, it's also one with endless benefits. It's labor of love stuff. Home making, happy making, life affirming, joy confirming stuff.

The job jar, perched on a shelf in the kitchen, overflows with tiny slips of paper, sometimes dictating the completion of mundane tasks and other times inspiring the beginning of a beautiful idea. It sits in a prominently visible spot, this job jar, and will not be ignored. And even though it includes the occasional piece of folded goodness giving me permission to "Take a break! Read a book!" or "Go play in the studio!", I somehow never manage to draw them. Doesn't seem exactly fair, but then again, whenever I do manage to turn a cold shoulder to the job jar's entreaties and "Take a break! Read a book!" all of my own accord, the siren call of The House plays on an endless loop in the background of my mind. 

I'm not complaining. I love doing all the things it takes to make The House our home sweet home. Every time a folded slip from the job jar is tossed aside, finished, I feel full. Accomplished. Excited. Ready for The Next Thing.

Besides. There will come a time when The House will be appeased. When the pictures are all hung, and the cleaning is all done, and the gardens can be enjoyed rather than worked in, and the back door is replaced, and the boxes of Christmas stuff are organized in their final storage spot, and the last room is repainted, and the kitchen remodeling is complete, and ...

... won't there? There will, right? Come a time?

Okay. So probably not.

But there might come a time when those things can wait. For a minute. For the time it takes to read a chapter or four. Or to work the Sunday crossword.

What?

There might.

Really.

Right?

___________________

I kissed my husband good-bye a couple of hours ago and sent him on his way to some less-than-exotic job site location in the middle of nowhere, where he'll remain into the wee hours of tomorrow morning, entranced by the dancing of drill bits and hooks with 68,000 pound loads. Don't ask me what it all means, because while I can feign a good game of lingo speak and should have a degree in what he does via osmosis by now, the truth is I have no real clue. And like it that way. Between you and me, of course.

Anyway, the point is, he is gone and the day is mine to do with as a I please, and I just spent a good ten minutes in the kitchen debating with myself the merits of brewing that second pot of coffee. The devil on my shoulder urging "Do it! Do it!" won out, and as I sit here listening to the pot gurgle its magic, I have to laugh. Because I'm wondering if there is anybody out there who debates with themselves as much as I do. Which is to say, virtually constantly, over anything and everything, a running dialog with my internal crazy lady without end.

Never mind me over here. Half the time, I am talking to myself. The other half is spent responding to myself in kind.

And so it goes, until it ends up spilling out in a rambling collection of words here, in a cool Sunday morning caffeine-fueled stream of consciousness about nothing. A junk drawer of a post with no beginning, no middle and no end, and more to the point: no point.

You're welcome.

Or I'm sorry.

Whichever. ;-)

___________________

And on that note, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take this hot, fresh cup of coffee and the Sunday paper to the porch. Where I will stay, by any means necessary, until the cryptoquip is solved and every last square of the day's crossword puzzle is filled in with the appropriate letter, in bright red ink...

...while visions of job jar slips dance in my head.

Nothing doing.

For the first time in many-a-weekend, we have absolutely no plans. Nobody to meet, nowhere we must be, no schedule to accommodate, no commitments, no obligations, no nothing.

And it's a downright delightful thing.

I am looking forward to this nothing doing weekend with wild abandon, confident we will manage to fill all its hours, even while hoping we manage to blissfully lose one or two in the process. My mind is already working against itself, trying to fill in the blank to-do list with a running internal dialogue of options. But I'm fighting the good fight, so far refusing to give in to the forces of my neat and tidy tightly wound tendencies to plan, plan, plan. Or, at a minimum, list.

So far.

Inasmuch as so far...so far...my only plan is to let spontaneity rule the weekend.

Que sera, sera! Whatever will be, will be.

After all, nothing doing is hardly the same as doing nothing, as I'm sure you would agree.

_______________

This town, I've come to discover, is full of words. Signs greet me everywhere, from the office elevator to the local grade school marquee, from the bumper stickers gracing the cars of my more artistic neighbors to the silly notes we leave for each other on the chalk board in our kitchen. 

Maybe it's been the same everywhere, but I don't think so. In any case, I certainly notice it more here. Now. These days. I am surrounded by short bursts of brilliance, mighty mottoes, esoteric advice and encouraging words of, mostly, wisdom.

Today's favorite word find is inspired, indeed. Spotted on the side of the Catholic high school down the road on my way home from work, this one is a long-term keeper, going straight onto the pages of my overstuffed quote journal for safe keeping.

I also leave it here for you, to do with as you please:

A mind, once expanded by a new idea, never regains its original dimensions.

_______________

Speaking of words, there is a very good book calling my name. And there is a porch swing flirting with me through the front window.

There is a bottle of Ciroc vodka in the freezer. It's the good stuff, the sippin' kind, a gift from my very best friend in all the world, and I'm pretty sure it is also attempting to get my attention.

There is a breeze outside, tickling my wind chimes' fancy. There is a cat perched by my chair, waiting rather impatiently for me to move to some location more conducive to lap sitting.

There is an hour - at least - before the house fills with the movements and noise and energy and testosterone of the two men in my life. 

Which is to say, there is a short window of blissful opportunity wide open for the leaping out of, if you know what I mean.

I'll leave it open behind me. You know...just in case. 

To know me you have to fly with me.

1. How great is today's first line title? It struck a chord as soon as I saw it, and while I've never heard of Walter Kim or his novel Up in the Air, I do so love a first line that grips you until you have no choice but to want to read more.

2. I am in the full throes of a major deadline this week. There is no rational reason to explain why I have subjected myself to this line of work, given my utter disdain of the dreaded deadline. Leaving only, I suppose, the utterly irrational but all too truthful explanation: I am a glutton for punishment.

3. Not for nothing, but Typepad has been doing wonderful things with their user interface of late. I'm really liking the changes. And, as much as I love the six trees in the snow, I'm sorta kinda itching to undergo a complete blog makeover.

4. But then there are those days when I start to post and wonder, "How is it possible that I have anything left to say here?" and thoughts of going through a blog overhaul just make me tired. Maybe actually doing it would have the opposite effect and I would be inspired anew. Who knows? Hey...stranger things have happened.

5. We have had so much rain here this summer, it's ridiculous. Not light little afternoon showers, but pounding all day long storms. In other words, when it rains it pours. But on the flip side, the sunny days have been, truly, indescribably glorious.

6. Remember in kindergarten when, just after snack time, everyone rolled out their little mats for a mandatory lights out nap time? Who was the genius who decided age five was a good cutoff point for such a brilliant idea? Imagine what a happier place this might be if grown ups practiced a little coordinated downtime in which to shut up and re-group every day.

7. Last night, we went to a bar & grille situated on a floating dock right on the river. It was the perfect evening for it, with the setting sun glinting on the water as it played peek-a-boo with the bridges before settling down beyond the horizon. We sat watching a gaggle of ducks parade by hoping for a tossed treat or two, and several boats coasted right up to the dock's edge, passengers disembarking for a quick bite and a beer.

8. I only mention the above because I find it inexcusable that this particular floating pub is the only business in town that takes full advantage of the waterfront. There are zero - count them: ZERO - other entrepreneurs who have taken the plunge toward creating a destination atmosphere along the banks of the mighty Kanawha, a fact I find remarkable in its short-sightedness. If it weren't for the occasional musical performances staged at Riverfront Park and the multitude of bridges all travelers through town must cross to get from here to there, you might be inclined to believe that having a river run through its center is more an afterthought than asset, to the City's way of thinking.

9. Bumper sticker seen everyday, on my neighbor's car: Don't believe everything you think. Words to live by, are they not? 

10. Wedding planning is a fairly stressful process, made more so when you are trying to do your part long distance. And the wedding industry? A giant racket, designed to take advantage of sentimentality and high spirits, couched behind a belief that brides know their parents are suckers. Aside from that? Wedding planning is fun. At least it is when the countdown clock in my head takes a break from reminding me we are a mere EIGHT MONTHS AWAY FROM THE BIG DAY. Gah.

11. In other countdown news, we are sixteen days away from Opening Day of the 2009 Mountaineer football season. One of the very best rewards gained from moving home, hands down, is knowing we will be tailgating live and in person at every single home game, for the first time in sixteen years. Fun fact: we have friends who haven't missed a home game in twenty-eight years, and one who made it to seventeen games in a row - home and away - spanning the 2005-2006 seasons. 

12. I have been invited to, and will likely attend as a favor, a jewelry party of some sort. Tonight, I will be in the company of a house full of long time girl friends and a few new faces, sipping wine and trying on a "funky, eclectic mix" of accessories while feeling pressured to purchase some of it. For fun. Did I just say for fun? Oy vey.

13. Work calls, and I must answer. But first, I must de-fog my gray matter. Some mornings, with apologies to Don Henley, there's just not enough coffee in the world. Know what I mean?

Let's be careful out there.

There came a time when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom. ~ Anais Nin

Change is complicated.

It moves at its own pace, dictated by mitigating circumstances and the messiness of real life and the temerity of the decision making process. One big decision leads to a million smaller ones. Choices beget choices, and no matter how enthusiastic the embrace of the idea of it, change gets mired in the details, just like everything else worth doing.

Change is constant.

Or at least it should be. Because if you aren't changing, you aren't alive. Because if the world you inhabit isn't changing, it's standing still as death. Because every person you meet, every situation you encounter, every thing you see or hold or contemplate, every experience you have...all of it leaves a mark, changes you in ways large and small, profound and obscure, for better or for worse.

To stay unchanged is to wither on the vine, but to embrace its inevitability is to flourish.

Change is scary.

Doors close, and old worlds begin to fade to sepia toned memories, out of mind before they're even well and truly out of sight.

But change is good.

Doors open, and a whole new world appears, like a blank canvas awaiting the artful brush of possibility.

The more things change, the more they stay the same - have sadder, more cynical words ever been uttered, really?

I love change. Even change just for the sake of it, but most especially change of the purposeful sort, designed and orchestrated, planned and executed, imagined and played out.

It keeps life interesting. Its reality forces me to always be in a state of thinking ahead; its ambiguity enables me to dream big, ferocious dreams. Its existence means there is always room for hope and optimism. 

__________________

Been thinking about change a lot lately. Maybe you can tell. It's been a year full of them, already, with more on the horizon, waiting their turn.

But I keep going back to those saddest of words: The more things change, the more they stay the same.

And it frustrates me, because there is some personal truth there about myself that I would rather deny. Ignore, in hopes it will go away. But it won't. It never does. That truth looks me in the eye every time I stare at my reflection in the mirror. For all the change, important things have stayed the same. Whole pieces of who I am have grown stagnant and weary and old and entrenched, while I've made the choice to feign oblivion.

Whole pieces of who I want to be have been stifled by complacency, while I've lulled myself into contentment at swirling through the changes going on around me.

It's not like I don't know this. It's not like I don't recognize the sameness in my habits, or comprehend the feebleness of perpetual immobility, or feel the heaviness of desires not yet satisfied.

It's not like I don't understand that I am my own worst enemy in this regard, throwing up obstacles to internal change at every turn, focusing outside myself with deliberate intent, while casting a closed eye toward things I'd rather not see.

It's not like I don't get tired of letting myself down.

But I think I might be ready to change that.

I think I might be ready to bloom.

Please make my excuses to Julia.

Tears are God’s gift to us.  Our holy water.  They heal us as they flow.  ~ Rita Schiano

___________________________________

Lord knows, I am wholly invested in that sentiment. 

Yesterday was supposed to be the great Julia Child experiment. It was to be the day I would prepare one of her most famous recipes from her world-changing cookbook, and, in turn, forever change my family's own culinary world as they knew it.

I'd been talking it up as such for the better part of a week. Maybe longer.

But yesterday, I woke up exhausted. Disgruntled. And grumpy. Out of sorts, you might say. It was hot. I was restless before my feet hit the floor. The day may have been brand new, but my spirits were stale, and I knew it was going to be a nothing doing, no good thing kind of day.

So yesterday, I decided to suck up whatever vanity I have left (which is to say: not much), tucked my dignity into the darkest recesses of the upstairs closet, and put on my bathing suit for the first time this summer. What can I say? It was hot. I was restless. There is a local pool nestled under the trees of a city park less than two miles from my home. I went there.

It felt like a good idea at the time. And it was, in some ways. I soaked up the quality, nature-made Vitamin D, splashed around in the cool blue water, and managed to finish off the last chapters of a book, all in the space of a few idle Sunday afternoon hours.

But then I got restless again. It was still hot, and my mood was still prickly. There was a pile of unimportant (yet apparently vital to my inner nag) to-do's waiting for me. So I packed up and left. I went home.

Within minutes of walking through the door, my husband made an innocuous offhand remark about nothing, and can you guess what happened? No? Well, I'll tell you.

I shattered. Into bits. And tiny pieces.

Tears poured out of me like so many shards of glass and can we talk about the sobs? Oh, the sobs. Great, heaving, chest imploding sobs, seemingly generated from the very center of my core and released like the steam from an overheated tea kettle left, all but forgotten, atop the stove too long. 

I sobbed my way up the stairs, threw myself across the foot of the bed, managed (miraculously!) to find golf on TV through the streaming tears, and slowly drifted off to sleep to the sound of my own not-so-soothing hiccuping lullaby, an absolute mess of a human being.

I have no earthly idea where it came from (although the cramps that started up soon after might be some indication), but I do know one thing: that crying jag was long overdue. And clearly, much needed.

Because I woke up with a smile on my face. Cleansed. Free of the ennui and lethargy and pent up junk that had been clouding over my every passing thought, shaking my reserve and leaving me listless.

Because I woke up feeling as fresh as the morning dew, as giddy as a school girl, and as right as rain.

Is there anything better for refreshing the soul than a full-bodied, timely cry? I would argue that no, there is not, and I will believe in that truism with every fiber of my being until my dying day.

Can't explain it to my husband for the life of me, but there it is. It is what it is, and he just needs to trust me when I say, "It's a faith thing. Something you know to be honest and real, even if there's no comprehending the hows or whys of it."

On the seventh day, I cried.

And it was good.

Forever and ever, amen, eh?

Somehow I think Julia would understand completely.

Downtown

When I was a kid, going downtown on a Saturday was a very big deal. I'll never forget the first time I got to ride the bus there all by myself. I must have been about 12 years old. I would catch it at a stop near my house and fifteen minutes later, it would deposit me at the downtown corner where my grandfather's restaurant sat, a landmark in its own right. The rule was: as long as I checked in with my grandparents at the Diner every hour or so, I could explore the city to my heart's content.

Can you even imagine such a thing today?

We had three major department stores in the city then. One was a six story behemoth called The Diamond, with escalators, a restaurant, a cafeteria, and a department for everything from furniture to makeup to the best 'juniors' clothes in town. They also had a fully stocked Girl Scout shop and the biggest selection of Nancy Drew Mysteries around. Mom had a charge account there. How cool was I on those rare trips when I got to pick out an outfit, or a couple new badges for my sash, and charge it to our account on the basis my good looks and my word?

A couple of blocks away from The Diamond was the Peanut Shoppe. For seventy-five cents, I could take my bag of nutty goodness across the street to sit on the steps of the county library and spit red pistachio shells in the gutter while I watched the crowds go by.

When I got tired of that, I'd go check in at the Diner, grabbing a treat from the 'Lollipops for Good Kids' box on the wall behind the counter and giving Grandma a smack on the rear to let her know I was there while she never missed a beat, chatting up a customer as she refilled his coffee cup. Then I'd be gone again, walking past the hardware store where the pink banana seated bicycle I coveted - festooned with sparkly streamers on the handle bars - taunted me from the display window as I made my way.

My next stop was always S. Spencer Moore's, family owned for more than fifty years. To this day, I've never been in an office supply store that could match it. Paper, paper everywhere - notebooks, loose leaf, mimeograph, legal pads, ledger books, stationery. Boxes of pens in blue, black, or red. Fat pink erasers. Paper clips and staplers. And envelopes! My god, the envelopes! To me, everything in the store screamed: "grown-up". My goal in life was to have a desk filled with a glorious mother lode of office supplies and there is no doubt in my mind my love of such things was born from the hours spent perusing the aisles of Moore's.

And then, back to the Diner. I'd bop into the kitchen, waving at Ron the cook as I let myself into the walk-in refrigerator, lifted the lid from the barrel of dill pickle slices and helped myself to a handful. Then I'd make my way up the tiny back staircase, just beyond The Rose Room, to Grandpa's office.

There he'd be, in suit and tie, ever present cigar in his mouth, using the big old adding machine to tally the day's receipts. He'd always stop what he was doing mid-stream when he saw me coming. I'd sit and spin circles in the office chair at the desk next to him, and we'd chat about anything that came to mind. The tomatoes in his garden, or tomorrow's family Sunday dinner, or how high the river had gotten up on the banks of his back yard. Then, off I'd be again, past Mutt's Fruit Stand next door at the corner, and on with my adventure.

Woolworth's was a favorite, too. With the five dollars I usually had in my pocket to start the day, plus the added five or so Grandpa would inevitably pass me from the Diner's cash register ("because you're sweet as sugar candy"), I could walk out of Woolworth's loaded down with bags and bags of new purchases. Lip gloss. A big purple 'fro comb for my back pocket. A gold(ish) ring with my birthstone in it. Tennis socks with red and blue and yellow poms at the heel. Bubble gum. A new pen and notebook. A bobbin of ribbon, just because it was pretty and caught my eye. A new Archie comic.

Finally, money spent and feet tired, I'd make my final trip back to the Diner, where I would settle myself and they day's haul in one of the big red vinyl booths. I would read Nancy Drew, or carefully open a million little packages, and Suzie the waitress would bring me a Diner burger, fries and a milkshake. Vanilla - thick and creamy. Then she'd sit across from me to take a break, smoking a cigarette and sipping on a soda while she told me funny stories about the patrons sitting around us. After working there for more than twenty years, she knew them all, and she would always make me laugh out loud.

---------------

Our downtown today bears little resemblance to the one I roamed with such wide-eyed wonder all those years ago. The building facades are still in tact, but its heart beats to an entirely different drum. The local department stores couldn't survive when pitted against the convenience of the "new" mall, anchored by national chains, and their buildings are now occupied by government agencies, or, even worse, sit empty. The old retail storefronts that used to house small, family run businesses have been taken over by law firms and accountants. The architecturally grand movie theaters have been demolished, the screens consolidated into one giant cement box of a megaplex. Even the people bustling about the city's streets have changed, and are less social consumer, more rat race participant.

Small metropolitan downtowns just don't exist anymore, at least not like they used to. And it's a shame, really. Once upon a time, they reflected the heart and soul of the city itself, and the people who lived there. Now, each one is as nondescript as the next, giving way without much fight to the cookie cutter malls, super-sized retailers, and chain restaurants with their forced personalities - all designed to lure the residents of a city away from its heart and deep into the blandness that is 'Everywhere'.

Sometimes the old adage that states "the more things change, the more they stay the same" just doesn't hold true.

I wonder if we ever realized - as we not only allowed, but actively encouraged this evolution to happen - what we were really giving up?

I wonder if we'll ever succeed - as we take proactive baby steps toward resuscitation efforts - in bringing my downtown back to the glorious life it deserves?

Scenes from a Life: Part 2

After spending several hours piddling around in the dirt, today seems as appropriate a time as any to show you around my gardens. My "gardens." Sounds awfully grand, doesn't it? My gardens are far from grand, but they are lovely tiny patches of the planet, lovingly tended to by my own hand. So a little overstated grandeur? Okay by me.

Anyway. Where was I?

Yes, yes...my gardens.

The previous owners of this old house apparently had a yard man at one time who took care of everything, from mowing to planting to weeding to mulching. And while there was some evidence of his handiwork - massive rhododendrons, an interesting mix of ground cover and vines in certain areas, approximately 10,000 (or so) bulbs I dug up from various beds, layers of weed barrier fabric buried under mounds of, well, weeds - by the time we moved in, there was a whole lot more evidence of how sorely his unexplained absence had been felt. Everything was overgrown and, for the most part, unrecognizable as a "planned" space. While it was all lush and very green, it was nearly impossible to tell the flora from the weeds.  

So, I dug in. As it were. I started at the front curb and have spent the past four months slowly working my way toward the rain forest untamed jungle backyard. I've made it as far as the gated entrance to the backyard, up to and including the back deck, where pots of herbs are planted within easy reach of the kitchen door.

I rather suck at the whole "before" picture thing. But here are a few of the "afters" thus far.

These shots are of what I like to call the 'Tanning Bed.' It started as a big circular dirt patch in the front yard and here you see it at planting, at one month, and today. It is home to a blend of perennials and annuals that enjoy the full on sunshine, and everything has bloomed in its turn, bringing us color all summer long. Plantings include coneflowers, black-eyed Susans, petunias, fancy leafy things, day lillies, creeping Jenny and more.

This is the small garden I like to call Slim Shady, as seen in full length, and up close and personal. This is the patch of earth down the side yard of the house that makes me smile while I'm lounging on the porch swing. The Gerbera daisies struggled at first, but seem to be holding their own now.

A mosaic of the miscellaneous. (Top left): We were able to find so many cool things on the property, in the garage and basement to re-purpose, including this massive stone pot. She has a sister you may recognize from her place in the Tanning Bed shots above. This one is overflowing with delicate, abundant impatiens. (Top right): A glimpse of the massive rhododendron that guards the front of the house, and just one of about a dozen potted plants placed all around the porch that include hanging ferns, geraniums, begonias, and two newly added yellow mums in big blue containers (LET'S GOOOO, MOUNTAINEERS!).

(Bottom left): My herb garden: two kinds of basil, Marjoram, Rosemary, mint, parsley, cilantro, sage, etc. and so on. These will be transplanted to their own special bed off the deck as soon as I finally start making progress in the backyard. (Bottom right): This is the spot down the front side of the house. There are three of these beds, in total, although no two look alike. I planted my first hydrangea this year in the bed closest to the back gate and am hoping, hoping, hoping it survives and flourishes. Let it be known that I de-forested most of this section, moved all those border stones from a big pile behind the garage, built, filled and planted the bordered spaces, and placed seven bags of pea gravel before this stretch of landscaping was done. I am WOMAN GARDENER, hear me ROAR! Ha!

What's next, you might ask?

Well, a bit of a challenge, that's what, as you can see here. This photo shows one tiny piece of the fun that awaits in the backyard. Once the weeds and long forgotten plantings are cleared and the patch is tilled, this will become the herb garden.

Maybe not today.

Maybe not tomorrow.

But soon, and for the rest of my gardening life.

The sun did not shine. It was too wet too play. So we sat in the house all that cold, cold, wet day.

1. Today's edition of Thursday Thirteen is brought to you by one Theodore Giesel. I would tell you the name of the particular book it is from if I didn't feel it might insult your intelligence to presume you don't already know. Related: here is a small gift, from me to you.

2. Everybody seems to be mourning the waning days of summer. Not me. I enjoy summer, but I've always loved to see it pass into fall...then winter...and spring. Even when I was a school girl, I grew bored with summer quickly. Besides, don't you kind of feel like the beginning of the traditional school calendar ushers in a real life sort of new year?

3. Even though my kids have outgrown the need for back-to-school supplies, I can't help it. I inevitably find myself among the throngs, poring over notebooks, pens, pocket folders, colored pencils and erasers in the aisles of a local Super Store at least once during the end of summer rush. In my world, it 'tis the season, and scoring a new box of crayons, some whiteout and a fancy roll of double-sided tape makes me feel well-armed and ready for anything. Crazy? Maybe a little.

4. Besides, you know what the end of summer and advent of fall entails, right? Are you ready for some football? I AM READY FOR SOME FOOTBALL!!!!

5. As I strive to re-enter the bloggy world, visiting old haunts and long time favorites, I'm taken by how many voices have quieted or slowed in my absence. I shouldn't be surprised - after all, I've done it myself - but it tugs at my heart, nonetheless. I miss them. The flip-side, of course, is the overwhelming task of catching up with those I haven't "seen" in months! I'm getting there!

6. In my travels around the blogiverse, I occasionally bump into folks who tell me I am their favorite writer. And as incredibly, mind-blowingly lovely a sentiment as that is, I just can't help but cringe a little inside upon hearing (reading) it. It makes me want to take them by the hand and get them verily to the nearest library.

7. Yes, I do realize this says much more about me than it does about them, at the end of the day.

8. I am wearing a nicotine patch on my left arm today, and have been since midnight last night. A word of caution: do not get overly excited just yet. It still feels more like a suggestion than a directive. The way I convinced myself to go down this path was by giving myself permission to smoke five cigarettes a day. This may seem twisted or half-assed to some, but if you knew what a chimney I am out here in the world, you might be impressed. I don't know. Impressing you isn't really the point, is it? Eventually ridding myself of this nasty, unhealthy, expensive and ignorant habit - that is the point.

9. Everybody says that if you can just find tools to help you get past your "I need a cigarette" triggers, the rest is easy. This is sound and practical advice. Unless your triggers, like mine, are the ubiquitous morning, noon and night.

10. I have been buried in a deadline for going on three weeks now. But it is evidently a moving target as the client has pushed back the due date twice already. This is maddening for several reasons, not the least of which is that just when the team builds steam toward a finished product, the addendum comes along, serving to impart a collective "whew! well, no rush, now!" on their attitudes. So....I've been sitting on a 3/4 complete product for days now, with missing parts and pieces. Waiting, impatiently, for the rest of them to catch up and to regain some focus.

11. As you may have been able to discern, I tend to be a "get it off my desk" kinda worker bee. I see no reason not to finish a project weeks before it is due if one is capable of doing so. Especially when you know the next deadlined initiative is on its way, to be followed by another and another and, still yet, another. Just because there is a deadline does not mean we have to wait until the last second to hit it. Am I right? AM I RIGHT? OF COURSE I AM.

12. Throwing this out there, because I can: we have plans to spend a five-day weekend this October in the lovely New England state of Vermont. I could not be more excited about this little adventure. That said, seeing as this is one part of the country I've never been to but have created grand fantasies about - complete with the accompanying enormous expectations -  in my mind for going on forty years, I'm wondering if any of you have any tips or suggestions?

13. It occurs to me that these thirteen Thursday mini-blurbs are akin to Facebook status updates. Except not really.Welcome to my brain. See how it churns. Against its own stream, more often than not.

This is my home.

A lovely compilation of West Virginia scenes set to the song "This is my Home," written by Larry Groce, who is an honest-to-goodness beloved state treasure, as well as the founder and host of the nationally renowned NPR show Mountain Stage.

Gives me chills, it does. In all the right places.

It ends today. I swear. Probably maybe.

I am ready for the party to be over.

For all intents and purposes, my birthday celebration was an eleven-day affair. It started two Saturdays ago with the little soiree we threw and extended straight through last night's good-bye dinner and drinks with my very best friend in all the world, with nary a beat missed in between.

I am sated. To put it mildly.

There has been an extreme abundance of food, wine, more food, beer, cake, more food and - you guessed it - more food. There has NOT been a proportionate balance of exercise, movement, restraint or common sense. At some point, a girl has to be strong enough to scream, "ENOUGH!" and mean it.

Today is that day for me. I swear.

Since the first of the year, when the transition from Raleigh to home began in earnest, I have packed on the pounds at an astonishing clip. I'd say twenty pounds, at least, and even then I'm probably - almost certainly - being a little too kind to, a little too easy on, myself. This, despite daily walks and bike rides and weekly yoga. This, despite a husband who has managed to maintain his trim girlish figure. This - this! - despite all best intentions, up to and including signing on at the local Weight Watchers headquarters my second week in town.

I am seriously OVER this love-hate relationship I've developed with food. I love to cook it, serve it, relish it, savor it and, clearly, eat it. But I abhor my tendency to abuse it (in good times and bad, in happiness and sadness, for better or for worse, 'til death do us part) and its subsequent inclination to abuse my body in return.

It ends today. I swear.

Bolstered by the fact that my best friend hit the road for home this morning. Helped along by the fact that the cupboards are bare of leftovers and heart attacks in a package, ready to be re-stocked with all things healthy and light. Determined by the fact that my clothes are more snug than usual. Self-willed by the fact that I feel fat and bloated and generally disgusted with my physical self.

And yet...it's also clouded by the fact that the West Virginia State Fair and its incumbent array of fried foods is imminent. Muddled by the fact that our social calendar continues to rattle and hum.

Self-sabotaged by the fact that I have serious plans to crack open my new copy of 'Mastering the Art of French Cooking' and whip up a succulent batch of Julia Child's Boeuf Bourguinon (page 315) in honor and celebration of the lady's infectious joie de vivre, this coming Sunday afternoon.

Oh, yes. Indeed I do.

*sigh*

So.

It ends tomorrow.

Or Monday.

But not a day later!

(Probably.)

I swear!

(Maybe.)

Worlds collide.

Collide is one of those funny little words that never quite looks correct when all spelled out on the page. I've typed it into the title box, deleted it and then typed it again half a dozen times. I even looked it up. Twice. Finally, I decided that such a word is perfectly apropos for a post about things not always being as they seem.

Every now and then, I get a tiny wave of visitors here commenting on my optimistic outlook. And every single time I read a comment like that, I can't help but smile. Because if you knew me, live and in person, you would know that optimism is rarely, if ever, my first instinct.

No matter the quandary or situation - what's for dinner? how many people did you say would be here? is there any way in hell I can get out of this company / social outing? should we pack up and move our lives back where we started? - my initial reaction is always to fret. Or freak out, as the case may be.

I am a hand-wringer. A worrywart. An envisioner of every bad scenario that could possibly - and to my mind, will likely - occur as a direct result of said quandary. In short, my natural instinct is pessimistic panic. To very nearly everything.

Should you ever find yourself in need of Chicken Little's services, I'm your girl.

But there is a cure for what ails me with regard to the physical stress, emotional overwroughtness and verbal stammering that comes so naturally to me. A pretty simple one, actually.

I write it down.

An overwhelming number of things that must be accomplished? I compile a massive and overly detailed to-do list, and suddenly I can conquer the world. A deep seeded frustration in the ways and means of the greater populace around me, over which I have no control? I tweet, and all is right with the world. A paralyzing decision to be made, outcome uncertain? I blog it. Or pen a letter about it. Or scribble a collection of random stream of consciousness blather onto the pages of a well-worn notebook, and suddenly, my perspective crystallizes and my view of the immediate world I inhabit shines with stunning clarity.

I'm not sure why this is, exactly, but I do know that it has always been so. Something happens to my thought processes when they are permitted to be properly filtered from my head through my fingertips and empty themselves on the page. They sit upright, take deep cleansing breaths, and begin to sort themselves out. They start to make sense, pushing the non-sensical synapses out of their way like so many foam barriers on an obstacle course.

Only then can I truly see what's real. What matters. Why it matters, and how it makes me feel, and where my power within it lies. 

And usually?

It's all good.

In fact, usually, it's all better than good.

It sounds too ridiculously simple, doesn't it? But it's an inalienable truth of my life.

When I take the time to let the rumblings of my brain release themselves in writing, it's rare that I still see the glass as half empty or half full.

Instead, I come to understand that my cup does indeed runneth over.

Scenes from a Life: Part the First

It occurs to me that the old saying "a picture is worth a thousand words" was first uttered for a reason. Sometimes, photographs are the best way to tell a story. Of a move. Of a new home in an old familiar place. Of a life, and how it's lived.

So today, I've decided it might be fun to begin to share a few scenes from my journey back to home thus far - the new routines, the rediscoveries, the wanderings and the every day delights - to give you a little perspective and sense of place. My place, anyway.

This is my new bicycle. She really needs a name. Ideas welcome! I ride her everywhere, and that's no exaggeration. And believe me - with my trusty helmet and protective goggles, you can be sure I do not tool around on her under some false impression that I look *HAWT* while doing so. I tool around on her because when perched upon her cushy seat, I get to see our neighborhood and city in wholly unexpected ways. 

This is a view of the mighty Kanawha, the river I get to walk by, peddle by, be calmed by and charmed by several times each day. It flows through the center of town, a mere block from the house, and there is nothing quite as romantic as an evening stroll along its banks in the early evening hours. The building you see there is the University of Charleston.

This is my favorite building in all the world and also, in my not-so-humble opinion, the most beautiful State Capitol building in the United States. It was designed by Cass Gilbert, an architect who also designed the world's first skyscraper (the Woolworth's building in NYC) and the US Supreme Court building in Washington, DC. Its sheer magnificence fills me with stirrings of hope and pride and...I don't know, maybe even a sense of comfort. I enjoy its vast lawns, its fountains, its bustle and its majesty as often as is humanly possible. Which, now that I live two blocks down the street from it, happens to be quite often, indeed. Fun fact: my house was built 19 years before the first wing of the Capitol was completed.

We are fortunate enough to live in a neighborhood that has been designated, in its entirety, a National Historic Landmark. This particular house, The Grey House, captured my imagination from a very early age, and I'm happy to say, it has lost none of its powers in the intervening years. It gazes out over the river in all its Victorian glory, holding stately court over the passers by. Over the course of my life, I've created a multitude of stories about this house, its imagined occupants and goings-on. Our entire neighborhood is filled with gems like this, each with their own story to tell.

Four pictures, and I've barely taken you around the block. But even so, hopefully you've gotten a small sense of why I adore it here in our little corner of Charleston. The "where" of it.

Maybe next time, I'll show you more of its personality and heart, and you'll begin to gain an understanding of the "why" involved.

Sunday morning. Ish.

There are signs indicating this is going to be an absolutely stunning day, weather-wise. It was probably a beautiful morning, too, although I'd never know, because me and sleeping late whenever possible? We're *likethis*. And after what turned out to be a week long celebration of my 46th birthday, me and sleeping in decided we needed a little bonding time this morning.

_______________________

My parents came to town for the weekend. On Friday night, my dad and I resurrected our time honored tradition of a father-daughter birthday dinner date. It was something he started on my fifth birthday when he called to invite me out and I dressed in my snazziest duds, right down to the patent leather shoes on my feet, and was whisked away to a Very Fancy Restaurant. I had prime rib on that very first dinner date with dad, followed by my first ever slice of cheesecake, a meal that has become as much a part of the tradition as the outing itself.

It was a yearly ritual, right up until I got married, and was always one of my favorite nights of the year. A month or so ago, I got a phone call from my dad, inviting me out to dinner for my birthday. I accepted wholeheartedly, and on Friday night, we dressed up, went to a Very Fancy Restaurant, and spent three hours eating, talking, reminiscing. It was beyond wonderful. Beyond sentimental. Given the circumstances, it might even be said it was beyond miraculous.

And the best part is that now, the tradition lives again. Words to describe my appreciation of this oh so special gesture fail me completely.

______________________

Yesterday afternoon, we hosted a gathering of family and friends at our house. As I looked around at everyone laughing, eating, gabbing, hugging, and just generally enjoying themselves, I felt a pang of gratitude. It's what this house was made for, these little get togethers, and it is my fondest wish that they take place here with great frequency in the coming years.

I was slaving away in the kitchen, putting out a spread of BBQ sliders, cole slaw, baked beans, deviled eggs and more, when the doorbell rang. I looked up at my husband and said, "Doorbell!" He looked back at me blankly, holding his wine glass, and said, "Can you get it?"

I stared at him for a second, threw down my dishtowel and muttered a sarcastic, "Sure. I'm not busy or anything." I marched all martyr-like to the front door and flung it open. And there stood my very best friend in all the world, all the way from Charlotte, just to see me. I screamed, hugged her neck, and then promptly sought out my honey for an apology kiss.

I'm pretty sure I was forgiven. The big trickers. :-)

Between my family and friends, this week has served to remind me how well and wholly I am loved. There is no telling what I have ever done to deserve this most treasured gift, but I hope to live my life attempting to be worthy of it, returning the sentiment in full.

______________________

And here it is now, Sunday morning. Ish. Both of my boys had to head out to work early today, leaving me to a couple of lovely, lazy, languid, self-indulgent and guilt-free hours of sleeping in. I finally roused myself from the comfort of my bed to be greeted by a sunshine filled day, a sink full of wine glasses, a pot of hot coffee, a couple of good books, the Sunday paper and a nice shady spot on the porch swing.

My heart is a full and happy one.

Because life?

It has been very, very good to me.

And not one day goes by that I don't give thanks for how incredibly lucky I am.

Here is Edward Bear, coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump, on the back of his head, behind Christopher Robin.

1. Having remembered it is Thursday, the day to move my parked car from its curbside spot in front of my house to a more inconvenient location across the street, the number 13 managed to slide into my thoughts as well, reminding me of something else altogether. Writing here, in point of fact. This edition of Thursday Thirteen is brought to you by the inimitable A.A. Milne.

2. I am on a mission to disprove my personal theory that Facebook and Twitter addiction / overuse has caused my blogging muscle to atrophy beyond repair. Which means, I plan to write here every day (or so) in an effort to exercise said muscle back into usefulness. Which also means, I'm afraid (and sorry!), quantity over quality. For a while, anyway. 

3. Moving my car from one side of the street to the other on Tuesdays and Thursdays is part of the charm of our new urban life. Obstructing the city's street cleaning efforts earns you a $25 parking ticket, which blossoms to $50 if not paid within 10 days. A lesson I learned the hard way when I delayed opening the little green envelope tossed onto the passenger side seat and had to swallow the bigger amount, along with a tiny bit of my pride.

4. Indulging in one of life's little ironies, I rode my new bicycle downtown to pay the parking ticket. Of course, riding my bike so much is one of the reasons I got the ticket in the first place. I don't use my car that often, and it tends to get stuck in place without a thought. A fifty dollar fine works wonders to change that.

5. Speaking of the living the urban life...I LOVE IT. We walk or ride bikes everywhere - including to work, most days. We eat and shop local. We live two blocks from the State Capitol, one block from the river, six blocks from the middle of downtown and about half a mile from Capitol Market. And we live in a beautiful old neighborhood, full of eclectic life. I honestly think this relocation adjustment has been such an easy success because of our decision to live exactly where we do.

6. Another advantage of living downtown is the sheer pleasure to be had by watching the community unfold before our very eyes, every single day, from the vantage point of our big front porch. It's just an amazing sight to behold. I keep threatening to shoot a photo series entitled 'Scenes from the Porch' and honestly? The never ending parade of the variables of life would blow your mind.

7. My job is, in a word, perfect. I'm still under contract; the company has "purchased" half of my time, and that time is typically concentrated around deadline projects. I work a lot of hours in a bunch and then? My time is my own. There have been weeks when I've worked four hours and weeks I've worked forty - it just depends on the need. Having the flexibility to sleep in, piddle around the house, run errands, garden, people watch from the porch with a book in my lap, test recipes, take a spur of the moment Jennyventure to Charlottesville and still make good money? Well...like I said, it's perfection in a contract and I'm in no hurry to see it change. 

8. Speaking of books and recipes, and also speaking to the fact that I am as susceptible as the next guy to getting into the pop culture buzz of the moment, I had a very Julia Child birthday. My son got me her memoir, My Life in France - un-prodded. My mother got me her cookbook, Mastering the Art of French Cooking - upon special request.

9. I am planning to see Julie & Julia tomorrow afternoon - its first day of release - and am beside myself with anticipation. Even though Julia herself disdained the entire 'cook every recipe in one year' stunt, deriding Ms. Powell as an un-serious cook. Even though. Because Meryl? As Julia? MERYL? As JULIA? I'm sorry. No...I'm actually completely unapologetic: I can't fork over my money for a ticket to that fast enough.  

10. We threw our first small "tester" party last weekend, and I have to say, it went very well. Well enough that we are already planning another, on a larger scale. The only bad thing to come out of the entire evening were the unfortunate homemade blue cheese crackers brought by a friend. Damn things are STILL sitting on the kitchen counter, in all their smelly awfulness.

11. My parents are coming in this weekend. Another positive outcome of this move has been that I've seen my folks about a dozen times since we came back to Charleston. I cannot tell you how beneficial and wonderful this has been for all involved. In fact, instead of sitting here at this keyboard, I really should be cleaning this big old house in preparation. We're hosting a ton of family here Saturday afternoon, and now that we've got a sturdy rail and a plan of action, it will be the first time my dad has actually been able to get inside the house. I'm very much looking forward to it.

12. One of the grand traditions of my childhood was an annual dinner date with my father in celebration of my birthday. I would get all dressed up in my Sunday best, he'd bring me a corsage, and off we'd go to a fancy restaurant - just the two of us. We did this for years and years and it was always so incredibly special. To both of us. When I got married, the tradition faded. Until now. Because this year, we are resurrecting it in grand style. We have a reservation for Friday night at the Chop House, and I can't wait. But as excited as I am about the evening, you should hear the anticipation in my dad's voice. It thrills me to the core to hear him so happy. Sometimes the smallest of gestures turn out to be the most significant. 

13. And, speaking of significant! My baby girl is getting married! Let me just say that this is a very fine turn of events indeed. Our little family is growing by one, all official like - and we are bursting at the seams with joy. Beyond that, this news surely deserves a post of its own (and would you look at that - something to write about tomorrow!) but I'll just leave it here with one final comment...

 

... he already fits in pretty well, don't you think?

Better than the alternative!

So.

Today is my 46th birthday.

But it's a whole lot more than that, really. It's the culmination of a wild and crazy year, full of change and movement and craziness and excitement. It's the day my husband is responsible for dinner plans. It's the day my mother calls and says, "Happy birdo, precious pup!" It's the day I feel zero guilt for doing absolutely nothing, if that's the way the hours roll. It's the day I feel entitled to do absolutely anything that comes to mind, if that's the way the blood flows.

More than all of those things, though, it's the day I celebrate my own personal New Year, with an out with the old, in with the new, anything is possible optimism. The day I can pause for a look back at where I've been and the day I can turn fresh eyes forward, and let myself wonder where the next roads might lead.

I have no idea what this life will look like exactly one year from today. But looking ahead, some things are crystal cIear. I see options. I see seeds of ideas beginning to take root. I see opportunity. I see growth. I see a clear path from here to there, with room for a little meandering along the way. 

And I don't mind telling you, I'm very much looking forward to filling in the details as the year rolls on.

_____________________________________

Yesterday, around lunch time, I was chatting online with my daughter. She lives in Charlottesville, and at some point in our conversation, I remembered that Jackson Browne was scheduled to perform in her fair town that very night. In the space of about ten minutes, I decided to go for it. I ordered two tickets, threw some junk in an overnight bag and hit the highway. Not many hours later, I was sitting under the stars, being serenaded through two encores.

If you've read here very long, you know about my great love for Mr. Browne. If you haven't, I'm not sure I can adequately explain it in a few short words. Suffice to say this: it was worth every last mile of the 8+ hour round trip. Especially when you throw in the part about getting to hang out with my daughter and my soon-to-be son-in-law. And the karaoke.

Not even one full day into my 47th year, and already there is a successful Jennyventure in the books. Can't beat that with a stick, can you?

Happy birthday to me!

Better yet - scratch that.

Happy New Year to me!

I have a feeling it's going to be one helluva ride.

Attitude isn't everything; it's the only thing.

There was a sweet comment left recently on a very old post here, and it gave me pause. It also provided a convenient excuse to wander through the archives, to take a walk down my self-created memory lane, and, in the process, to remember what it is I value about having this place. This space, all my own; this repository of verbal snapshots of a life lived, a life endured, a life loved, a life in full.

I've missed visiting here. I've missed laying down my thoughts in words, dusting off the cobwebs that tend to collect in my head and shaking them out here, for safe keeping.

I used to believe a modicum of misery was required for me to write well, with meaning. Something dark, small or large, that would squeeze all other purpose out of its way unless, or until, it was released on the page, freeing the rest of me to move onward and forward.

Reading through these pieces of my life left here the past five years, I realize how absurd a notion this truly is.

Darkness need not fall in order to spill words onto the page.

It's passion that is the required element.

Passion, white hot or passive, propels it all, from words to life itself.

Everything else is just derivative, really.

_________________________

We've been home for four full months now, and in many ways, it feels as if we never left. Had you asked me two years ago where I'd be today, it's highly doubtful my answer would have approached anything close to the current reality. But that's the fabulous thing about letting life take its course - you never know what can happen when you stay open to the myriad of possibilities.

Granted, there is planning and effort and some self-actualization at play. But in the bigger scheme of things, I have come to believe that life takes us where it wants us to go until - suddenly - there you are, right where you were meant to be.

I love being home. I love our life here: the friends and the family. The natural beauty and the inherent hardships. The limitations, waiting to be breached, and the opportunities, waiting to be seized. There is a certain perspective that our journey up to this point brings to bear, one that makes me appreciate the little things - the slower pace, the smaller pond, the people and the place.

For whatever reason - maturity, maybe? - I don't think I was ready to give that perspective its full due before now. For whatever reason - the great mystery of life, perhaps? - our journey led us back just when the time was right, and not a moment sooner.

I guess what I am trying to say, in my typically verbose and over-word-ly fashion, is much more simple than I'm making it out to be.

It's good to be home.

And it's even lovelier to be back.