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.

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...