Count on me. Count on my love.

Happy Birthday darling Paige!

There are so many things that I want to tell you and wish for you on your very special day, but you're turning a mere three years old, so for now I will write it all here - a place to keep it for a later date.

I remember holding you in the hospital the day you were born. You were wrapped up tight in a blanket, snoozing quietly as family members passed you around and lowered their faces closer to yours, trying to absorb that in our arms was the most beautiful little girl in the world. Your bitty face was made up of a button nose, two perfectly arched eyebrows, fluffy little eyelashes that rested on your rosy cheeks while you slept and a bright pink mouth that couldn't have been painted on more perfectly. Topping it all off was a puffy little mop of jet-black hair that your Auntie Teen and I enjoyed spiking into ladylike mohawks.

You were so adored. Still are.

When you were about 9 months old, Auntie Teen was swinging you above her head making you giggle, grin...and then spit-up all over her beloved Gucci sunglasses and down into her hair. And it may seem odd to you now, but oh, how we loved you for it. Even Auntie Teen...once she stopped laughing and got cleaned up.

A few months after that, your loving little heart started giving us all hugs and kisses. Two pudgy arms would wrap around our necks while your little face would close in on our cheeks with a mouth wide open like a fish resulting in wet Paigey kisses as a memento of your pure sweetness.

You went through an adorable phase for awhile that involved putting you down for a nap with one of those frightful Gloworm dolls, covering you with a blanket and slowly backing out of the darkened room. Then, waiting for just a moment or two for the sound of the "thunk!" letting us all know that you had ceremoniously tossed Gloworm out of bed. You wouldn't get into bed without Gloworm, but he wasn't allowed to stay. The Gloworm Toss Routine entertained me to no end.

Three years after being awestruck by your newborn beauty not one day has gone by where I haven't thought of you, missed you, wished I could hug you...

I love that you wear your sunglasses upside down, love that you're in a stage where you smile for photos by only pulling back the left side of your mouth, love that you nicknamed Charlie "Cha Cha" and my heart melts at the fact that when your mom surprised you with decorating the house for Christmas, you're big heart responded with, "Mom, you're the best." I laugh every time I think of you threatening to throw up in the car because you were too hot in your winter coat and trapped in a car seat. And I fight down a lump in my throat each time I hear your tiny voice from a thousand miles away telling me that you miss me and you love me (even when I know your mom is right beside you feeding you those lines).

Three years old is a major accomplishment! You've passed what adults have cleverly coined, "the terrible twos" - and you weren't terrible at all. You are a dream niece, daughter, granddaughter and cousin. And oh, what a wonderful big sister you are. I wonder if any other big sister has ever loved her two little brothers so much. As someone who is fully addicted to her siblings, I can tell you that every minute you spend with your brothers will be one you won't regret. I hope you always love Charlie and Gavin as much as you do now and as much as I love your mom and Auntie Teen.

Three years feels like it's gone by so fast, yet it's still hard to remember a world without you. Time is only going to go quicker. I'll blink and you'll be graduating from high school... so I'll let you know now every little thing that I hope for you and the life spread out before you...

I hope you try everything. Try all kinds of different foods. Try listening to classical and jazz, along with whatever is on the radio. Try to learn foreign languages. Try to play musical instruments. Try cooking and baking, ice skating and gardening. Try to do as many cartwheels in a row as you can. Try playing soccer and tap dancing. Try every flavor of ice cream.

I wish for you lots of courage. Courage to stand up to bullies and courage to not be a bully. Courage to dance when no one else is. Courage to do whatever it is in life that brings you joy. Courage to barrel right on down those slides even when it's uncertain if you'll be caught at the end... or land on your tush.

I hope you never stop running through sprinklers with your clothes on.

I hope you travel. The world is so big and there is so much to discover. I hope you get to experience the vastness of it. And in all your travels I hope you don't forget to visit me, wherever I may be, on a regular basis. We'll continue to have our slumber parties and make breakfast in the morning before you help make me pretty with makeup...making sure to rub all my lotions and creams on your smooth little cheeks. Because the truth of the matter is...I miss you so much now that it makes my heart hurt...and it's only going to get worse as you continue to grow into the loving, engaging, funny and sweet person that you already are and will surely become.

So, Happy Birthday sweets! Today, to me, you are the most fantastic 3-year-old in the world.

Eskimo kisses,
Auntie Sara

Let the holidays begin with laughter...

Born and raised in Minnesota, I've spent a lot of time since I was 18 being out of the state, enduring comments on how I sounded like an extra from everybody's favorite Minnesota movie, Fargo. For awhile I tried to shake the accent, but lately I've given up the fight. I am what I am. I sound how I sound. And that's just fine.

When I got back to Minnesota last night for a week of family Christmas fun, one of the first things my mother did was show me the Christmas cards sent by relatives. Flipping through I was really only half reading them, half talking to mom about the flight from L.A. and then it caught my eye. I had to reread it...and then I couldn't stop laughing.

My cousin was explaining that she'd be leaving her husband and stepchildren behind in Michigan this year and returning south to her childhood home in South Carolina because, as she says, "I've really got a hankering for my momma."

A. HANKERING. For. Momma!

Whether she meant it to be funny or was dead serious about it, I care not. She used the word hankering and I adore her for it. This girl from Minnesooooota bows down to this relative from the South for being exactly who she is. I've got a hankering to spend time with my family - momma included.

May you all have safe travels back home to your mommas for the holidays.

Under his spell

On the phone with my mom this evening she was recalling all of the funny little things my niece, Paige, said and did while staying with her and Popi Saturday night. To onlookers in Literati, I was the imbecile in the corner with the phone glued to her ear, silently grinning off into space. I love Paige stories and so I was drinking in the details of how she snuck into my mom's office, got on her computer and deleted a file before being discovered. Well done, young one!

Then Popi got on the phone to disclose that Paige and mom had decorated Christmas cookies and that each cookie was now buried under approximately 4 pounds of sprinkles. He says it as though this is an unbelievable atrocity to cookies the world over, but I can hear the smile behind the sarcasm.

Later, when mom tells me that Paige wants to know where Popi (or Papa, to her) is at all times, my smile gets bigger. And I can't help but laugh out loud when she says in disbelief, "She actually said to me, 'Gam, where's Papa?' and I told her I wasn't sure, so she said, 'Well, I better see what he's up to!' She said that Sara! And then she trotted off looking for him in the porch!"


And so it is that another female has fallen victim to my father's charm.

Popi has been the only man living with females since whenever it was that his older brother left their childhood home decades ago. Poor guy has been outnumbered by sisters, a mother, wife, daughters, dolls, bows, New Kids on The Block paraphernalia, curling irons, handbags, shoe collections, tubes of lip gloss and all other things girlie. Even our pet gerbils and fish growing up were always female. He's spent the majority of his life with all of us following him around, shouting out "POPI" whenever we couldn't find him. And lord knows he's seen more than his fair share of dance recitals, synchronized swimming competitions and gymnastics meets.

With me and Teen out of the house for a few years now, I think he got used to the semi-solitude of only having to hide from my mom if he wanted some alone time. But now there is Paige, and it starts all over.

His secret is that he's indifferent. Most of the time he's puttering about the house doing his own thing, not hunting you down. He has a routine of grabbing the paper and going for a morning coffee and on Sundays during nice weather he's golfing with his group of 3 other troublemakers. So, if you want to talk to him or spend time with him, it's up to you to track him down. It's like that act that singles try as an attraction mechanism - hanging back, acting uninterested in order to pique your interest in them - except he means it.

This is a man whom I can't recall having picked up the phone to call me since 1999. He just waits for me to call home demanding that my mother put him on and is then ecstatic to hear my voice - his voice letting me know it's about damn time I called him. Ahh, my complex Popi.

It helps that he's sweet, witty, kind, giving, funny, gentle, sharp, easy to talk to, able to converse with squirrels and birds through a bizarre series of whistles and is on the list of World's Best Huggers. So Paige follows in the footsteps of me, Teen, mom, the pets (they always liked him best) and countless other women in the greater Twin Cities area. It was only a matter of time. He is the flower, we are the bees.

And so to little Paige, a few weeks shy of her third birthday and at this moment sound asleep somewhere in freezing cold Minnesota, I say, "Welcome to the Popi Fan Club." It's no surprise that you've joined; he's a good Papa to you.

However, wee Paige, my own insecurities urge me to remind you that while you are obviously much cuter, I'm his first born, and therefore, clear favorite.

A little something I've been trying to remind him of ever since I was two and Teen came along to share my spotlight.

It's just lucky for you all that I like you enough to share him. Very lucky, indeed.

The noise that silence brings

There is a time for talking, and a time for being quiet...and then there is the time when you really need your voice because it's another horrendous and important week at work...and your body just doesn't care, because you made it work a 13-hour day on Tuesday, and you don't let it sleep enough, and you keep feeding it take-out rather than fresh vegetables...so your body gives up the fight. It breaks down. It lets you get that nasty sore throat and achey muscles. And that rattling cough? Yep, bring that on too. And don't forget the kicker - non-stop fevers and a fond farewell to your voice.

Thanks to years of practice, I'm pretty good at taking care of myself when I'm sick. I can't rub my own shoulders, which I detest, but aside from that, I get by.

This week, however, has knocked me out. By Thursday afternoon I'd sunk into the depths of ill hell where everything hurts...teeth, eyes, shins, hair, every muscle and a throat so swollen I swear it was trying to strangle me.

Staggering around work, home and the doctor's office was like an out of body experience. With pain. Still, I could manage it (barely). But not being able to talk? Oh my monkey, how friggen annoying! I've been lying around ("resting"), which I know is what leads to getting better...but hours of not moving, trapped in my own head and a body screaming cold/flu/fever horrendousness...well, that's a surefire way to go insane.

It's pretty difficult to call for a doctor's appointment when you can't talk, impossible to answer the phone, and trying to tell someone what hurts just becomes a game of charades. We've moved beyond aching shoulders wanting to be squeezed. Never before has being single seemed like such an impediment.

Surprisingly, I've found it's the silly little everyday things that I'm aching to share. The work stuff can be handled with enough grunting and pointing (says a lot for work, when you think about it), but I haven't yet been able to tell Teen about the truck that smashed into the entire row of parked cars outside my apartment, haven't been able to try to talk on the phone with an almost-3-year-old Paige, wasn't able to call Tuck on his moving day and tell him how brave I think his decision to leave New York is, and tomorrow night before going to The Nutcracker, I may just end up being the worst dinner date Teen will ever have. Poor girl.

My mind whirls with the things I cannot say - everything I cannot say. And while I'm happy to be on the mend and no longer confined to my bed, I'm looking forward to no longer being confined to myself, either.

If tomorrow I wake and am able to croak a little more than today, well, then swapping this year's festivus party for 2 tablespoons of NyQuil will have been worth it. After all, it's only weeks before Christmas (also known as my favorite time of year) and I've got a lot of shopping and talking to do.

My city is waiting.


My life is waiting. Time to hop to it.

Rub-a-dub-dub, thanks for the grub

Thanksgiving used to be the holiday that I spent in my pajamas watching the parade, putting up the Christmas tree with my dad and eventually eating turkey, stuffing, green bean casserole and pumpkin pie. It was an ok holiday that was really just a stepping stone on the way to Christmas. Although there was one year where the snow was piling up outside and Teen and I spent the waning daylight hours rolling around in the white stuff making a little snowlady we inexplicably named Gertrude. That Thanksgiving was awesome, because a snowlady named Gertrude clearly rocks.

Now that I'm sort of an adult I appreciate Thanksgiving as a day to do nothing but cook, eat and relax with friends and family. This year it was just me and Teen, a lot of Christmas carols, some ridiculously awesome dance moves, Charlie Brown's Thanksgiving, mounds of food and bottles of wine.


It was a great Thanksgiving spent with one of the people I am most thankful for: my best Teen.

I'm also thankful that mom gave us for Christmas last year those special ingredients to prepare some of her holiday recipes that are seemingly unavailable in the LA area: soup mixture for Spinach Dip and butterscotch pudding for her caramel rolls. You gotta love Minnesota cooking.

I'm thankful that when these Gingered Cranberries came out tasting more like ginger than cranberry, there were other delicious side dishes to indulge in. (Because really, it tasted like I would imagine jamming a hunk of ginger root into your mouth would taste. Not the best.)

Am I thankful that Teen will jump around and dance with me to Mariah Carey belting out "All I Want for Christmas is You"? Hell yes, I am! And I'm oh so happy that when I snapped this photo of her during the middle of our performance, something wonky was going on with her right arm making it appear to be extra long and stick thin, with a giant ham-like hand dangling off the end.

It's been a pretty good year and I'm just so very thankful. So, it may be 5 days late, but Happy Thanksgiving! We had one for the books...hope you did too.

"Somebody's got a case of the Mondays"

Ugh. It was just one of those days today. One of those days where I was just irritated and on edge all damn day. Aside from oversleeping by a half-hour, something is suddenly wrong with my coffeemaker. It still made my steaming cup of caffeinated-vanilla-eye-opening-loveliness, but it also suddenly made a big mess...water everywhere...and I was already late...and I'd just spent 5 hours this weekend giving the apartment a deep clean and now there was water coming out of my coffeemaker and spreading across the butcher's block that it all sits on...and it was just. so. aaaaaaah!

So, I made a hasty attempt to absorb and pat said mess semi-dry before grabbing my bag, running out the door and down to the parking garage - all the while aware that I was being watched by a man sitting in his car, which naturally creeped the crap out of me. In my car I reached for my phone to make one of my morning phone calls home to Minnesota...but wait...where was my damn phone? Shit. Keys yanked out of the ignition, I ran back up 2 flights of stairs and started a manic search for phone. Realizing that it must be buried in my work bag after all, I tear back down the stairs feeling as though I should now wave to Staring Dude In Car while he witnesses my second mad-dash to get my morning started. Instead, I proceeded to curse like a sailor when I finally started the car and the clock told me the horrid truth of how tardy I was.

Why I drive to work as though I'm Pacman being chased by that marshmallow-looking ghost is something I wonder 5 days a week. I rush like hell to get there, only to wish I was anywhere else. And today was a day I wish I'd never walked into.

I even had parking garage annoyances today! First, when walking to the stairs from my car, I attempted to take a shortcut through two other cars, only to realize too late that I'd misjudged the space as my wide hips swiped the side of both cars clean. Awesome. Second, when I went to retrieve my yogurt for lunch it was nowhere to be found, which meant it fell out of my bag during the great race to work and was now on the floor of my car somewhere. Wanting to avoid the smell of warm dairy product hours later, I marched all the way back up to level 3 just so Stacy could stand behind me and witness my ass in the air as I dug around looking under the seats for the little scamp that had tried to escape its destiny in my tummy. Again, ass in the air that had only hours before been cleaning other cars, well, that's just friggen fantastic, isn't it?

And really, why does the Sr. Vice President of North American Marketing have to take breaks from his horrendous board meeting by constantly surprising me at my desk? Take a break in your own office, buddy! And stop touching all the papers on my desk! When I present you with projects, that's when you touch, but not now...not when I'm unprepared. Shooo!

Four of these little visits later, I was ready to run screaming from the building. At 5:30 I was ready to pack it up for the night, knowing full well I'd be there late the rest of the nights this week, but my better judgment didn't win and I stayed when the design firm promised the latest round of Current Monster Project by 6:00. By the time the Xerox printer had refused to print all of it at 6:30 and I'd flipped through the electronic files enough to realize that design firm seemed to have returned it in a sorrier state than it was a few days ago...well, I had 2 instincts to choose from. 1) Call the now-closed design firm and leave a message that was a combination of exhaustion/frustration/and demands not to be charged for the rubbish I'd just received, or 2) take the bits that had actually printed, shove it all into my bag, take it home to do what I could with it...but for now, just shut down my computer and get the crap out of there. I chose option #2.

The little black cloud stayed over my head the whole drive home. It was just as I'd shifted the car into park and was about to turn it off that I finally listened to one of the lyrics coming from Dido, "Take time to catch your breath and choose your moment."

I did as I was told; I took a deep breath for the first time today. The day was over, I was home and the rest of the night was all mine. This was not a moment to ruin with stress or agitation. I usually try to remember to pick my battles carefully and it was suddenly clear that continuing to be irritated was just a way of fighting myself and a surefire way to ruin the rest of my night.

In under 5 minutes dinner was heating, a glass of red had been poured and I was on the couch in my pajamas and slippers watching Lee Pace (one of my newest TV crushes) struggle with murder mysteries and impossible love on Pushing Daisies. Good things do come to those who wait - or at least to those who make it through a day of wanting to claw your way out of your own life.

I even made time to sit at my computer and indulge in putting words and sentences together to tell the uninteresting story of my terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

One of my happy places made happier with a favorite photo of Teen, Laura & Me

Now, it's time for a bit of sleep before getting to do it all over tomorrow. Again, ugh. If I was a little more optimistic I'd be comforting myself with some load about how tomorrow is another day...start fresh...blagh blagh blagh....but that's just not me. At least not tonight. Eh, nobody's perfect.

Like riding a bike

When I was younger I loved to ride my pink Schwinn. Sometimes I would take off on rides around the neighborhood by myself with only my speedometer to keep me company by tracking the miles I'd pedaled through. Other times, I'd be riding a long distance (really a couple of miles) with my sister to the corner store for candy or to a friend's house. I loved it. It was freedom and mobility and the rush of wind on my face and being outdoors...it was exhilarating.

As an adult, I can only think of two times where I've been on a bike. One was while Teen was working on the television show Studio 60 and late one Friday night during a visit I "borrowed" one of the bikes that was used by production people and set off for the mostly empty streets of the Warner Brothers lot. Not only was it my first time on a bike since...I couldn't remember when...there was something magical about riding in the black of a late Friday night through the fake suburban boulevards of the Gilmore Girls set with Burbank's mountain glowing in the moonlight as a background. Again, exhilarating.

Time number two was this past September at Pete's Labor Day party in Manhattan Beach. After a few hours of chowing on burgers, drinking some frightfully delicious Brazilian cocktail as fast as they could be served, losing a few rounds of ping pong to a seven-year-old and eventually getting into the bikini/sun dress combo, it was time to go out into the sunshine of a late summer day. Teen and I borrowed the bikes of Pete and a roommate, told the others we'd be back in a bit, and off we went down the boardwalk, headed for the street fair in Hermosa Beach. Sparkling ocean and sand to the right, best friend in the world in front of me and a warm September breeze cooling me off more and more with each rotation of my out-of-practice legs. It was one of those days where you hear yourself say, "Oh...This is why I live in California."

Both times it occurred to me that the old saying had been proved true. "It's like riding a bike," was exactly, well, like riding a bike. I didn't forget. I may have wobbled some, but I didn't fall. And it only took about a block for the smile to spread the full breadth of my face.

The past two weekends have been wonderful for very different reasons, but at the end of each Sunday I've found myself thinking, "Huh. I didn't forget. It was kinda like riding a bike..."

Last year at this time, there was a group of friends that had quickly bonded and held onto each other for all of the smiles and laughter and hugs that those friendships resulted in. There were a few people whom the group centered around and there were those who were more like drifters because of some kind of connection. Teen was the core, I was a drifter and Mark was a permanent result.

As a drifter, it's easy to feel out of place at first...easy to be uncomfortable...easy to wish you'd stayed at home with a bottle of wine and a chick flick instead of trying to meet new people. But if Mark was there, then I was going to be fine. I'd always have someone to talk to, because he is ridiculously easy to talk to. (Well, at least those first few times. After that, they were probably all hard-pressed to shut me up.) And while he's great for the standard LA "industry" talk, he'll also indulge me in conversations about books, politics, relationships, family, work, creative passion...life...all of it...the full menu. I'd guess that not just in our group, but every group of friends he has, Mark is a core person.

Last December, when he moved back East, everyone took it hard. Eleven months passed in which things changed a little, as they inevitably would, people changed...and then...he came back for a weekend. And I discovered that friendship with him is like riding a bike - I didn't forget how.

He still makes me and Teen laugh until we're dabbing tears out of the corners of our eyes, still does heart-to-heart sessions and is still remarkably easy to talk to.

Teen, Mark, Lemon Tree, Yours Truly

Laughter...for real

Sometimes it occurs to me that Mark sees me like maybe no one else does. Most people think I'm a softy with a side of sarcasm; Mark once told me that I tend towards quality over quantity and that when I cut, I cut to the marrow. He seems to think that I'm full of hard edges and biting cynicism, whereas I prefer to think I truly fall somewhere between the sap and the bitch, but that I'm just so damn good at portraying both, most people peg me for one or the other. He's in the minority and I'm intrigued by that, amongst other fabulous qualities of his.

Just a few days ago, however, I was neither of my alter-personas, but instead was back to my sixth grade self.

You see, Teen and I went rollerblading for the first time in 14 years. At a hut near the base of the Santa Monica pier we were handed pairs of rollerblades and nothing else. No protective gear, no instructions on how to strap these contraptions on, no helpful tips, no reminder that the brake is on the back of the right skate...nothing. Eventually memory kicked in as far as getting the cankle-makers on, but then I stood up and Teen had the joy of watching me flail about and attempt to take down an entire row of parked bikes, only to be stopped by her grabbing the first one of them and telling me to relax, let go and not to touch anymore bikes for balance. When did little sisters become the wise ones?

Clearly, this is the beginning. Teen is hugging immovable objects with the Santa Monica Pier in the background

The first few minutes were a little rough. It's hard to enjoy the gorgeous sunny scenery when your eyes are clouded over by images of yourself splattered on the sidewalk, or a repeat of that bike crash from the fifth grade that left you with a funny elbow scar. But then we got onto a smoother bike path and our bodies adjusted to this new way of moving...and before we knew it, we were zooming on ahead, me constantly turning around to smile at Teen and shout "Sister!" with sheer happiness. Or, when we were able to skate side-by-side, coming up with memories of childhood long forgotten.

We weren't skilled by any means...our arms still displayed a bit of a flail and I could occasionally be heard exclaiming, "Ohhh Booooy!" while lurching backwards, forwards and whichever way the bump in the path indicated. Somehow though, we got all the way down to the Venice Beach pier after gawking with wonder at all of the colorful characters filling the Venice markets on the way. Is this Venice? Wait, how did we get down here?! Oh my gosh, we're amazing! I can't believe we just rollerbladed all the way to Venice Beach! Oh...crap...we have to turn around and go back...

Here she comes, folks!

Trying to take a picture Teen rolled right on through my shot...and then we almost fell over laughing

As we turned to head back north, the conversation turned to how much fun we were having, how gorgeous the day was, and that experiences like this - blue ocean, sailboats, palm trees, yellow sun and warm November breezes - were why we lived in LA, despite it's many pitfalls. Oh, and we were also discussing how unbelievably sweaty I was, while also being very excited over the fact that we were actually really enjoying an aerobic activity. A few minutes after discussing how we wanted to buy our own rollerblades and make this route a part of our weekend routine, we were whining about the fact that we couldn't feel our feet, our knees hurt and every muscle below our belly buttons seemed to have joined the strike. Whatever proper blading form we had gained was now lost to muscle fatigue that had us clomping along like rusty robots on wheels.

Still, when we finally rolled triumphantly back into the rental hut, only these things mattered:

1) Neither of us fell!

2) We were both sweaty and happy about it

3) We'd had a total blast

4) We went six miles round trip! On ROLLERBLADES! We are athletic superstars! (No wonder our muscles were screaming and freezing up!)

Turns out that rollerblading with your sister is kind of like riding a bike...with your sister. We didn't forget - we had as much fun rollerblading as adults as we did rollerblading or bike riding as children. In fact, we may have had more fun, because I don't recall as a child continuing to talk about our latest bike ride days later and the fact that we had to do it again as soon as possible. I suppose that has something to do with the difference between childhood and adulthood. As an adult, you have to hold onto the moments and the people that make you that joyful. You have to make a conscience effort to be happy and enjoy life - the full menu of life.

The fundamentals are like riding a bike. Once you've learned how to be a friend or rollerblade, you've got that skill set buried somewhere in muscle memory (even heart memory), waiting to be shaken awake whenever you decide it is time to do so. It's taking it all one step further, turning the people you know and the experiences you have into your own form of bliss, that takes the effort. If you're very lucky, it takes minimal effort.

Lately, I've been very, very lucky. I hope it lasts a little longer, because I haven't always been so fortunate, which only makes me feel all the more blessed in my current state of happiness.

I wish all of you the same, plus a pinch more.

Europe...The Friends

Oh my, it has been a long week. Work has snowballed into 11 hour days, no lunches, spreading work out on the kitchen table while I wait for leftovers to heat up for dinner and soothing my frustration with glasses of red wine. Eventually, I fall asleep after midnight, sitting up, trying my hardest to stay awake for another chapter of Harry Potter (and I'm not ashamed to say that I love Harry Potter).

I had a fantastic, yet exhausting, weekend to break-up the monotony of being a corporate slave...but that weekend deserves proper mention that I am currently too tired to attempt. For now, I find that all my hazy eyes want to rest on are pictures of my favorite friends from my time in Europe. Ahh...still dreaming of Europe...

In my list of great meals, this lunch in Passau will be in the top 5...

Norm and his harem...(L to R: Elaine, Norm, Diane, Mom, yours truly)

All together now... One of the many dinners where bottles of wine and our laughter made us the 6 noisiest diners

Norman and I making each other laugh, as per usual. Say, "ha! ha!" Bamberg!

Something to the left is captivating me and Elaine

Smile! Al, Diane and Norm

The group meets up again in the town square of Rothenberg

With our other favorite new friend, Valentin

And, with my #1 girl, Mom

So tonight, I guess I raise my glass of vino and toast those friends out there who have been a wonderful surprise this past year. To Norm and Diane in Los Angeles, Al and Elaine in Detroit, and my mother, who I'm sure is missing me constantly dragging her around on foot while trying to read German signs, I dedicate my exhausted evening of sappiness to you, my dear travel companions.

One day, you find yourself at LAX dreading the many hours between you and Prague, wondering how your mother and you are going to survive each other for 3 weeks...when suddenly, those 3 weeks are gone, you're back at LAX and you've hugged friends goodbye who you now can't imagine life without. And no 26 year old goes to Europe expecting to hang out with 5 people all over the age of 60, much less to love every second of it.

It's like I said to Teen this weekend, "Life is funny." You just never know what you're going to get if you go with the flow.

What flow am I meant to be going with today? Hmm...

Europe...The Food

I adore pictures of food. The colors. The memory of laughter shared over that particular meal. The mindset that what you are about to indulge in looks so fantastic, you want to capture it in a photograph.

I wanted to take pictures of everything during my few weeks in Europe. Sometimes I forgot, just diving right in. Luckily, sometimes I remembered.

Vibrant fruits in Passau, Germany

Beers sipped on a sunny afternoon in Amsterdam

A latte with sugar cubes in Vienna

An unexpected pineapple in Nuremberg

Sitting on the sidewalk with chocolate and hazelnut gelato

Yum.

Have you hugged a tree today?

I don't know when exactly it happened, but somewhere along the line, I became what my father likes to call, "A Tree Hugger."

I'm that girl who scolds if you leave the water running while brushing your teeth, insists on recycling, reuses paper shreddings as package stuffing, buys organic everything whenever possible, dreams of a hybrid car, wants to know why her parents don't save water by putting a brick in the back of their old toilets and has books around the house advising which foods are most contaminated by chemicals and how best to avoid buying fish that are farm-raised and fed a diet of other fish bits (ew). And that's just a sampling of my "This World Is Going To Hell & By The Time I Have Children They'll Have To Deal With The Toxic Wasteland We Left Them" mentality that has been the voice of my conscience for years now.

In waves I start to read more and more about certain subjects, resulting in outrage that urges me to share factoids on whichever subject I've just become a self-appointed expert. Unfortunately for my immediate family members, I usually dump it all on them.

I am aware of how annoying friends or acquaintances are who constantly yap at you about their beliefs and/or opinions, while you really just wanted to go out for a beer or make a Target run. So I try to swallow my opinions in order to avoid being that person. For the most part. However, my family is required to love me no matter what, so they are often the sacrificial lamb to my rants of injustice, wrongdoing and rectifying solutions. Especially my parents, because as parents, they're obliged to at least pretend to be listening, whereas with sisters...well, they sometimes just let their eyes glaze over moments before turning around and walking away.

There are enough sites out there and stories on the news giving helpful tips on how to lighten the footprint you leave behind, so I won't do that here. At least, not today. I will say though, that if you want your dad to crack you up with comments like, "Oh look, Sara! A tree! Do you wanna go hug it?", or "Hey Tree Hugger, I had to dig the elm out of the front yard. Did you want me to bring you the stump so you can cuddle with it at night?" - well, then it's time to start demanding organic milk, low energy light bulbs, recycled paper towels and the reusing of Christmas wrapping paper.

And as an end note, yes, I sense the irony to be found in my sometimes-environmentalist ways converging with life in LA, a city infamously covered with a layer of smog resembling the color of fire-roasted marshmallows. Gah!

(Image sent by Dad & titled, "Where's Sara?")

The change of seasons, states of heart & mindset

There's something about fall. Even in LA, where the seasons just feel like varying degrees of summer, there are indicators subtly pointing to the fact that, yes, fall is in the air. Scarves are suddenly available for purchase, football is once again on tv, some leaves drop from their trees knowing that the warm weather is only trying to to blind them to what nature has intended, the days insist on getting shorter and the nights get down right chilly.

So, even though the only football I've seen this season was viewed over margaritas during a Sunday afternoon happy hour in Santa Monica with Christine (also known as Sister, Sissy, Teen & favorite person in the world)...I had purchased a scarf that day (same one as Teen, of course), it was in October, and the sun was about to set all too soon. It may not have been raking leaves or picking my own apples, but it was about as seasonal as I was going to get.

Yes, fall is here. And, in most cases, fall is about to turn to winter, which only becomes a reality for me when I return to Minnesota for Christmas and that first gust of icy wind slaps me across the face in the airport parking lot.

Whatever it is about the fall season, it always makes me reflective. It is always my most introverted time of year. I'll drive home without the radio on - just me and my neurotic thoughts coasting along in the golden glow of late afternoon. I'll happily burrow into a sweater, jeans and my beloved flip flops and sit on a Starbucks patio sipping a soy chai for hours on a Sunday afternoon - just me, my book, my journal and the breeze rustling through the palm trees.

What I still haven't figured out is this: is all this reflecting what makes me miss those select friends with hearts of gold, or do I miss them most at this time of year because they are so far away from me, and with all this introvertedness I've made myself a little lonely? Probably a bit of both, but whatever it is about fall, I find myself aching for the company of certain people.

Today, it hit me so hard I was practically in tears. I needed a big dose of Randell in my life. I was inexplicably sad and all I wanted was to turn back time 5 years and walk out of my room and upstairs to find Randell drinking a latte she'd made herself and watching TV in the living room we shared with our 4 other roommates. I spent more than half of my time in Boulder living with her and there is something about this girl that is just so...good. She has the mystical ability to be the nicest person in the world without also being a pushover. I don't know many people like that, do you?

So, after weeks of being "in a mood" I woke up today and desperately wanted something to change. And deep down my heart cried out for the friend I hadn't talked to in months. Randell's smiling friendship is like a blanket to wrap your soul in on a fall afternoon - cozy and safe, soothing and comforting - a good place to stay for a long time.

I got my soy chai, positioned the chair so the 4:00 sun would warm my face, dug my phone out of my bag, called my old roommate and felt my body breathe deep and relax at the sound of her excited, "Hey, Sar! I was just thinking about you today!"

Magic.

I don't know how she does it. (I also don't know how she teaches high school math, but that's another kind of mystery.) I don't know why I react to fall the way I do. And why it sometimes feels good to be melancholy, well, I don't know that either. I do know that I plan to keep Randell forever. We met at 18 and I hope that at 88 we're still running to the grocery store to buy a 4th of July sheet cake that we will bring home and eat on the living room floor with no plates, just 2 forks.

For the love of Randell

"No distance of place or lapse of time can lessen the friendship of those who are thoroughly persuaded of each other's worth." - Robert Southy

Mood-enhancing footwear

For many, there is The Little Black Dress. That one magical item that you slip on to automatically transform yourself. With the right swathing of dark fabric you are no longer a girl with a few self-doubts hard at work to strong-arm the much wiser inner voice reminding you of all you truly are: smart, witty, kind, strong, generous...beautiful both inside and out. It is often said that in The Little Black Dress, the neurosis fade away so that the truth can shine through.

I do have a black dress, though I wouldn't refer to it as "little." And last week when I masked it's semi-plunging neckline with a white tank, and punched up the color with my magenta pink ballet flats and a multi-strand turquoise necklace, I looked in the mirror and had to grin at the outfit I'd created for the day. Simple, yet fun, it may not have made me feel like a supermodel, but it did convey that I at least put in a little more than minimal effort for the office that day. So, maybe my black dress isn't a member of the Drool-Worthy Clothing Society, but that's okay, because I have something else, too. I have The Boots.

After an extensive search for the perfect height, color, softness, round toe and lack of heel, I have recently indebted myself to quite possibly the most glorious footwear of my 26 years (which is saying a lot, as I am an avid shoe shopper). The Boots, ah, The Boots!

The color of chocolate and butter soft, they were quite possibly intended for Goldilocks - not too tight, not too loose, not too high, nor too dowdy.

They. Are. Perfect.

Case in point: the past few weeks at work have been insanely hectic. There are major projects with major design work and scheduling to deal with - and they're all due at the same time, of course. But if that weren't bad enough, one must attempt to manuveur around the corporate politics and executive egos which are best treated like active landmines...step ever-so-slightly in the wrong direction and they will blow! It's enough that I'm working straight from the moment my butt hits the chair in the morning until I stumble out into the darkness of night way more than the standard 8 hours later. But today - though I huffed and puffed in exasperation, day-dreamed of a hundred different ways to torture my boss and listened to Stacy punch the letters on her keyboard so violently I wouldn't have been surprised to find myself driving her to the hospital for a hand cast at the lovely hour of 7:00 pm when "the attack" began - I wasn't bothered as usual.

Well, I shouldn't get carried away here. I was still bothered, just not to the extent that I usually am. I mean, they're not magic boots, afterall!

What the boots did do is make me smile every time I looked down and gave me the attitude of, "You know what? This isn't the real world - this is a less-humorous episode of The Office. Oh, and my outfit today is adorable and my jewelry is fun and I'm more than whatever you think I am. So, what else do you want to throw at me or say about me? Cuz it's all just going to roll right off my fantastic boots and down into the gutter."

Wait... oh my goodness...maybe the are magic!

So, the fashion magazines may be convinced that every woman needs that figure-flattering black dress and that perfect shade of rouge lipstick to wear like a red badge of courage, but I say this: Ladies, don't give up the search. Try them all on, because out there somewhere is a concoction of loveliness waiting to wrap itself around your ankles and convince you that serotonin indeed may not come from the brain, but from your very happy boot-clad feet.

Oh, and gentlemen, I'm sure the boots of the world don't discriminate by gender. Go ahead, get yours!

I wish you a million happy steps, skips, hops and jaunts away from the bits of life that want to drag you down!

Much like Where's Waldo...just try to find the boots amongst the mess!

A first time for everything

To blog, or not to blog? It was never a question I'd considered until I met Stacy and Ashley.

In a lot of situations, there is a certain amount of heckling I can take. The merits of Angelina Jolie? - yeah, I'm not buying it. Bangs in 2004? - hell no. Facebook? - no. you wore me down with myspace. facebook ain't gonna happen too . Sheer leggings under an ass-grazing skirt? - I'd rather stuff sausage casings for a living than try to stuff my sausage thighs into those unflattering footless tights, thank you.

Yet, with all of that stubbornness buried in my core, something clicked when it came to my dear-hearted friends consistently insisting that I needed a blog. The nagging, along with my boredom and supreme hatred of my job, combined into a super-force that today I could no longer ward off.

These friends - these LA heartmates of mine - have led by example with spectacular blogs of their own that I can't help but compulsively check out.

Stacy - my friend of friends in LA. I see her 5 days a week at work, and that still doesn't quench my thirst for her company. More than a perfect companion for shopping, drinks, dinner, concerts and endless weekday lunches, she is that rare one whom you allow to really see you. Chomping down burritos and frozen yogurt. Reclined in your sweats, laughing your ass off at The Office. Talking about various foods that gave you various kinds of stomach issues. Spraying her with beer as she makes you laugh so hard that your pursed lips cannot stop the force. And the one where conversations actually happen without words - a secret language of the eyes is all that is needed to convey, "Oh yes, I absolutely heard what our giant HamHole of a boss just said. Meet you in the hall to debrief. Go out separately so as not to raise suspicions of our venomous rants." Not that long ago, while looking at her own blog she scolded, "See!? See here where all of my best friends' blogs are listed? Where are you? Why don't you have a blog for me to read?!"
She is a total jeanyus and you can find her occasional outbursts at Brains.

Stacy discovers coconut margaritas in Santa Barbara

Ashley - whereas Stacy seems to oftentimes live in my brain, conjuring up the exact same thougts I am brewing, our girl Ashley is like no one else we know. It's so easy to get caught up in the side of Ashley that loves baking, subscribes to Town & Country, takes fall roadtrips for the sole purpose of frolicking in an apple orchard, lives in the cleanest and most organized apartments I've ever seen, and keeps a box full of goodies like glitter, Elmer's glue and Crayola markers just in case of "creative emergencies." And while all of that is fantastic, it is by no means her full story, which makes me love her even more. This is a girl who went to the US Naval Academy, where amongst other things, she was forced to sleep with her rifle for a week after accidentally dropping it, and where she had her personal space invaded by a sergeant sticking his face into hers to scream that she and her peeps were, "Mickey Mouse Cotton Candy Faggots." (Mickey and gang are a bit offended, I'm sure.)

Totally unpredictable and constantly entertaining; such is Ashley. And now that she's gone and done the unthinkable - moved away from me to Chicago - I get a regular dose of her fabulousness at A Bird's Eye View.

Ashley loves Starbucks and scarves even more than me

Which all leads to me sitting in front of my computer starting a blog about nothing in particular. Someone wise might advise me to stick to what I know, but I am an expert on nothing (aside from spending money and annoying my younger sister). My clumsy accidents, my family, what makes me laugh and what makes me mad, my friends, my triumphs and failures, and my stumble through this uncertain life with arms stretched out before me feeling my way along...these are the things that I'm sure I'll be writing about, because if I had to pin it down, I'd say that really, all i know is this...