Don't stand so close to me

Teen has always been...cool. She goes her own way, has her own style and is seemingly fearless.

Me? Not so much.

Case in point: we went out for a birthday party and drinks in Hollywood a few weekends ago. All dolled up in our snazzy duds and designer jeans, we had reached the point of the evening where you're contemplating sprinting the blocks back to the car if it means you can get out of those stilettos one minute sooner. But I was given another reason to contemplate running when a group of punk kids and one lonely-looking, middle-aged weirdo started following us a little too closely - close enough for me to realize that they were entertaining themselves by making horse noises at us under their breaths and then bursting into laughter at their own cleverness as our heels click-clacked on the sidewalk even more. I muttered my discovery quietly to Teen, who replied with, "Are you kidding me? What a bunch of bored losers!" At the intersection of Sunset and Vine, the punks went one way and Mr. Weirdo continued to follow...soon making the mistake of laughing when I stumbled in the middle of the intersection.

Teen whirled around so fast the guy almost walked right into the finger she was now pointing at his face. "What exactly do you find so hilarious about her stumbling in the street?! We're just minding our business! Who do you think you are?!" It went on from there... with me worrying that the light may change and we'd all still be standing there: Weirdo fumbling for the words he'd lost to shock, me reaching for my phone to call someone if needed and Teen looking like she was ready to rip a clump of his hair out and toss it to the wind just to show him she wasn't kidding. As he finally stammered that the hilarious part was that we were both wearing high heels Teen guffawed loudly, stuck her hand in his face to shoosh him and stated, "We're done here," before spinning around again with me trailing behind her and Weirdo purposely staying at a long, long distance back.

People can pick up on cool just as easily as they can detect that they may be about to get their ass kicked by a 5'7" spunky beauty. That's why I wasn't at all suprised when the paparazzi were so clearly tracking her down at the Brentwood Farmer's Market back in November while we shopped for Thanksgiving ingredients.

Wouldn't you know it though?... The one chance I've had at peripheral tabloid fame and Marcia Cross and her babies jump in the shot and totally block me!

Don't you hate it when Marcia does that?

Where to draw the line?

I officially have a work-wife. We've joked about it for months now as our projects have continuously intertwined, keeping us here till all hours of the night, forcing us to call each other even after we leave to talk about which vendor is sending proofs for approval to our personal emails at what time in the middle of the night. We eat together, text each other when stuck in morning traffic and basically spend more time with each other than we do with family. It's an uncommon relationship to have with a co-worker; lucky for me she's first and foremost one of my favorite friends. I've often wondered if it's because of our work situation...or in spite of it...that we continue to enjoy each other. Really though, I don't dwell on it too much because I'm usually too busy laughing at whatever it is that Stacy has just said.

A few weeks ago, close became on top of. Certain areas of the company are now under construction and as a result Stacy and I became refugees, relocated to a small conference room on the other side of the office for about 2 months.


I took this picture of Stacy and our...stuff...to show a friend of ours that we weren't exaggerating when we said we basically sat on top of each other. Upon closer inspection I realized that the sqaure foot of table we each have as a work space can quickly become a complete disaster. Also, we consume a ridiculous amount of beverages.

Today, the excessive number of cups, plus the fact that I'd lost my mind, resulted in Stacy asking, "Is this mine?" We'd recently come back from The Coffee Bean, she with a medium coffee, me with a small americano. With eyes glued to my monitor, my right hand had reached out and grabbed the wrong coffee, leaving my small cup on her side of the table. As I'd gulped down that sip of coffee, I had thought to myself that it tasted strangely different than the previous sips, but clearly I'm very busy and important...too busy and important to pause and wonder why exactly my tastebuds were telling me something was wrong.

Stacy: Is this mine?
Me: Whaaa?
Stacy: Huh?
Me: Oh, for crying out loud. I just drank your coffee! Sowrry!

Cups are exchanged and then Stacy removes the plastic lid and tosses it in the trash.

Stacy: It's not that I think you're yucky, I just don't want to take any chances with getting sick.
Me: I'm not at all offended. I drank your coffee because I'm a brainless imbecile right now, so you do what you gotta do.

Stacy giggles and seems to be inspecting for any cooties that may have jumped from lid to cup. I pretend not to notice and secretly wonder if it's because my lips feel particularly dry just then... Do they look as dry as they feel? Can she tell? And where's my bleep-bleep lip balm gone to?!

Me: No wonder it tasted funny...it had Splenda in it!...yuck!...and non-dairy creamer!...ugh!
Stacy: AND I have the tickle of a sore throat! Hahahaha! That'll really teach ya!

I guess this means that we're extremely close friends, but not to the point of sharing hot caffeinated beverages. Considering our current arrangement of sharing whatever is on our monitors, whatever is said during phone calls, every yawn and outburst of frustration, and that - horror of horrors - there is someone there to watch you as your mind goes blank and you stare at the wall...well, I'm ok that we appear to have drawn the line at beverage swapping. I really do hate Splenda and non-dairy creamer.

Hot, sweaty & out of breath

I've done it again. I've puffed up a bit too much...maybe a lot to much. Pants are too tight and my cheekbones and collarbones have disappeared under soft layers of lightly freckled skin. I don't look great and I don't feel great, so something's gotta give.

Yesterday I took the first step and signed up for yet another gym membership. Clearly the last gym didn't stick...or rather, I didn't stick to it. In my defense of pure avoidance of that hellhole though, I'll share that I was once the unfortunate witness to a rat running across the gym and the manager chasing after it with his bare hands. As if huffing and puffing in a place that smells like an old sock wasn't bad enough, now rodents were in on the act. The blonde wood, personal televisions and stadium-style bicycles for spinning give me hope that the new gym will be a pleasant enough atmosphere in which to constantly feel like I'm gasping for breath.

Today, I took the second step and actually waddled on in and got my bootie moving. Sweet heavens, I'm out of shape. If only I could put on some tight stretchy pants and a sports bra and look like a gazelle while quickly skimming the surface of the treadmill.

And maybe one day I will, but first it's going to take an awful lot of sweating while looking like my true self...which is a lot closer to Bridget Jones. (Trust me on that. I caught my own reflection today.)

I only share this here because publicly humiliating myself is a tactic for a better bod that I haven't yet tried. Success is the only option - I don't relish the idea of shopping for larger pants.

Rejuvinating a slightly stale life...

Rut (n.) A track worn by a wheel or by habitual passage of anything; a settled and monotonous routine that is hard to escape; lately...my life.

When the good intention of penny-pinching combines with the winter chill and rain, it turns into a lot of nights cooking dinner at home and watching movies. And that's not a bad thing, but the predictability of a repetitive routine is starting to wear me down - just a bit.

Really though, a little rut is nothing I can't soon find my way out of. And I won't complain about a legitimate reason to buy more sweaters, such as this "dark clementine" little number (also known as the item of clothing that has garnered the most compliments ever).Paired with some long trouser jeans, the boots and a cute little clutch, I was ready to comfortably indulge in plenty of free wine at The Viceroy.

While sweater purchases and a few extra minutes of sunshine each day are great, a girl needs needs a little more to indulge in...a little more to make a winter rut not only endurable, but almost enjoyable. At least, that's what this girl needs. Luckily, I've found a few such things...

1) Jo Malone's spicy Pomegranate Noir cologne - the perfect scent to accompany chilly winter days. Lately, I've been a purist wearing just this scent alone - as opposed to my usual routine of layering it with the French Lime Blossom for a fragrance I like to pretend is strictly my own. And for the record, I also highly recommend the White Jasmine & Mint, Grapefruit and Honeysuckle & Jasmine fragrances from Jo Malone. Right now though, it's all about the Pomegranate Noir.

2) As a chocolate devotee I've spent a lifetime shunning fruity candy, finding it to be totally pointless. But in the past few weeks, I've happily bit off the heads of what must be pounds of these tasty little Haribo bears. Not overly sweet or rubbery, those Hungarians prove that they know what they're doing when it comes to sweet treats.

3) Ahh, the joy of finding a sleeping mask that is not only adorable, but tres comfortable to boot. Who says you can't find something fabulous and inexpensive in Malibu?

4) I can't say enough about my deep love and awe of The Office. Season two on dvd is start to finish pure genius that I can watch over and over again - always laughing, always swooning over Jim's puppy-dog sweetness and always wishing that I was smart enough to write something that funny.

5) This summer I finally gritted my teeth and bought the highly recommended (and none too cheap) Dr. Hauschka face products...and fell head over heels in love. So when in Germany this September, I stocked up on the stuff while patting myself on the back for noticing that it was substantially cheaper in it's native land. Just for fun, Mom and I threw into the basket a couple of the Dr. Hauschka Lip Balm. I now know that in that little white jar, there is lip heaven. Silky and soft, it feels like smoothing satin over your lips. The fact that it leaves my pout looking soft, not shiny, is just a huge bonus. (Now, if only I could go back to Germany, rather than fork over $15 for it here.)

I hope you've also found plenty of ways to smile through the winter days.

Me vs. the meatloaf & The Feed Bag

My family likes to tease that I'm a picky eater, pointing to a history of vomit threats at the prospect of having to eat my mother's Seafood Bake. Seafood Bake is a vat of goo consisting of canned tuna and baby shrimp, water chestnuts, celery, cream of mushroom soup and instant rice - all mixed together and heated until steaming and nauseatingly odoriferous. It is not food, it is torture. I love my mother and I love a lot of the things that she's been kind enough to feed me all these years, but Seafood Bake is at the top of my Do Not Ingest list, followed by coins, dirt, rat poison and Cinnabuns.

Minnesotans love to make Hot Dish. A clever way to cheaply deal with the crippling cold of winter, you take a bunch of canned ingredients, mix together and bake, then serve with a ladle and you have Hot Dish, one of the local culinary treasures of this great state. Now, don't get me wrong, this cooking technique can result in some very yummy dinners, and my mother is doing her part to make sure that Hot Dish is not completely lost to the trends of say, grilling, roasting, poaching or Chinese take-out. Unfortunately, she is also trying to single-handedly save the good old country home cookin' staple grotesquely named...meatloaf.

Blagh.

One of mom's more popular ones, Hamburger Corn Hot Dish

Ground hamburger mixed with crap and then packed into a bread pan? No No No. Why is this appetizing? A loaf of meat?...you've got to be kidding me. And the idea of a meatloaf sandwich...2 pieces of bread holding a dry and pathetic misstep of a hamburger that was intentionally shaped as...a piece of bread! It boggles my small, feeble mind.

Still, mom and Popi are meatloaf lovers, which I tend to think categorizes them as non-picky eaters. So it wasn't too surprising when I asked mom where they had dinner with new friends during their stay in Mesa, AZ and she replied without hesitation, "The Feed Bag."

"What? What did you just say? Did I hear right? Did you dine at a restaurant named The Feed Bag? THE. FEED. BAG???"

"Yes! Good old home cooking!"

"Except not home cooked, because you were at a restaurant called The Feed Bag with some 83-year-old duffer named Lloyd."

"Well, the other night we went to a better restaurant with your aunt and uncle. The Weather Vane."

"What the hell, mom?! How big is Mesa, AZ? What's with all the ridiculous restaurants?"

"Mesa has over 400,000 people, Sara! It's big! There's lots of restaurants..."

"So, it's just a matter of you and Popi hanging out with the only 6 people in town who constitute mass produced meatloaf and instant mashed potatoes as a night out on the town?"

"Yep."

"Mom, if you go back to The Feed Bag I may never stop laughing."

"Well, ok then."

She's sticking to her guns. They have weeks left of this vacation and I do not doubt that I will be hearing of The Feed Bag again. In fact, I'm curious if they can top it with an eating establishment even more horrendously named. I put nothing past my parents, and now, after The Feed Bag and The Weather Vane, I put nothing past Mesa's dining community.

The start of March will bring with it my parents for a stay in L.A. after their 2 months in Arizona. Apparently Teen and I will have to gently reintroduce them to food with texture and taste. Seeing as it is California, there will likely be meals featuring yummies from the sea, but this meatloaf rehabilitation program will have nothing - and I mean nothing - to do with Seafood Bake. That's just me sticking to my guns.

The rock, the sea and this year's me

2007 was a dang good year, providing more happy moments than I could have wished for. The last couple of weeks kept in tune with the rest of the year and were like the big shiny bow on top of the Lexus in those cheesy Christmas commercials I always wish I was starring in.

Christmas at home in Minnesota was full of surprises…quiet, lovely, smiley surprises. Setting the pace for the week was a girls lunch years in the making where a couple of hours of laughter and stories and getting acquainted with the current versions of each other all served as a reminder of why I’ve loved these friends so much for the past decade, regardless of the fact that I’m not the best at keeping in touch.

And the snow, oh, the snow! While a white Minnesota Christmas is nothing new, it was the first time in a long time that I actually got out into the stuff… Teaching Paige that when the snow is too deep for her shorty toddler legs, I'll walk in front so she can walk behind in my footprints. Making snowmen for the first time in years. Standing outside chatting with Popi, buried under layers, feeling the tickle of the falling flakes and loving how silent a slow snowfall makes the world...allowing only for the crunching of boots and the distant scraping of shovels. White peace.

I spent the whole week thinking, “I love that this is my family.” (Now, that wasn’t a surprise, but is just too wonderful a sentiment to go without mention.) We did some coffees at The Bean, a couple of dinners with a couple of drinks, a movie, Chicken Salsa Chili at our favorite St. Paul haunt and Paige’s birthday party, but that was it for activities. For the most part, we were hanging out at home, playing in the snow, making each other laugh and doing nothing in particular. It was fantastic.

When we got to the airport both Teen and I had the blues. It had been too good and gone too fast. We weren't ready to go just yet, so we consoled ourselves with the knowledge of how remarkably refreshing it is to see the palm trees of L.A. after a week of cold; it would be good to be back, we were sure. However, standing at baggage claim in the wee morning hours of Dec. 29, we were both starting to feel rundown, both whining about a sore throat threatening to damper our post-Christmas glee.

And so it was that on New Year’s Eve we were not feeling up to any kind of grandiose plans. Seeing as I am not New Year’s biggest fan to begin with, a quiet night with Teen sounded perfect. And it turned out to be exactly that.

We began our fond farewell to 2007 on the Santa Monica Pier at sunset, each with a rock in hand. After watching the last bit of sun drip down into the ocean, we poured into our rocks everything from the past year we were ready to let go of – everything we wanted to change. I silently visualized it all going in until the rock felt just a little heavier…and then the toss…in that split second while my rock was airborne, I exhaled and my hopes for the new year were swept out into the wind, now swirling around the city with those supposed angels. The things from the past year that brought us down were now just tiny ripples in the Pacific. With them lost at sea, we were free.

So, with freshly lightened hearts we doubly indulged: we tried a new restaurant and it was The Lobster. The last peachy tints of daylight were spent with drinks and tuna carpaccio, sitting under twinkle lights and watching the ferris wheel spin and the waves roll. Then, as supper time rolled around, we headed off for our reservation at our favorite restaurant, where we again treated ourselves – this time to three scoops of gelato for dessert.

A couple of hours before midnight, feeling as though we’d already had a complete evening, we were back at Teen’s, happily popping open champagne, having a PJ dance party and gabbing the rest of the year away. As New York’s 3-hour-old confetti began to fall on the TV screen, we heard loud, distant booms outside. “Fireworks! Get your shoes on. I’ll grab our wine glasses, you grab the keys! Hurry! Get to the rooftop before they’re done!” So, the first few minutes of 2008 were spent on a rooftop in West L.A. wearing my pajamas with polka-dot ballet flats (i.e. looking ridiculous), clinking glasses of Sauvignon Blanc with Teen while fireworks went off all around us. And I thought to myself, if this is an indicator of things to come, it is going to be a spectacular year. But oh, how the mighty do fall.

The next day I woke to what turned out to be the beginning of strep throat hell. By Friday afternoon I was too loopy with fever to drive myself to the doctor (I was too weak to even walk or stand for more than a few minutes at a time). As the doctor said of my “severe strep throat” and 102º fever, “Wow. You’re really sick!” And while good old 102º had me clammy with sweat and my head resting on the wall behind my chair, my days-of-fever cooked brain was screaming, “Stop pointing out the obvious and give me drugs! NOW! Or so help me I’ll get my sister from the waiting room to come in here and slap you around a bit!”

That’s been the best thing about 2008 so far. Teen. My savior in a little red Honda picked me up and drove me to the doctor in the mess of rainy L.A. traffic, sat in the waiting room with no good magazines for company, took me home, made me soup and burrowed into a nest we made on the couch for hours of Sex and the City, handing me tissues at the beginning of episodes where she knows I always cry. If it wasn’t for her, I’d be back down on the pier right now with another rock, hastily jamming the past 4 days in, demanding that the universe allow me to start the year over and imagining myself as a major league pitcher while flinging that thing as far away from me as I could get it. But my worst bout of illness in years opened my eyes a little more to how lucky I am to have Teen…and that’s just too good to toss out to sea. That, I’ll keep with me for quite awhile.

So, this year may have gotten off to a rocky start, but I believe that it’s salvageable. I remain hopeful. And dear little newborn 2008, I’ll give you some advice patented by Popi, “Shape up, meatball!”

For last year's words belong to last year's language

And next year's words await another voice.

And to make an end is to make a beginning.

- T.S. Elliot, "Little Gidding"

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.