My Favorite Nugget Of The Day....

And I'm not talking McDonald's nuggets.  I'm not even talking chicken.

I'm talking fish, actually ... my niece's fish, to be exact.  She is four.  She is cute (my niece, not the fish).  I know all 4 year olds are cute, and that probably doesn't need to be said, but when someone is as cute as she is, one can really never say it enough.

Apparently, along with being cute, she is also brilliantly, hilariously creative.  Because my sister informed me tonight that my niece has named her Betta fish "Captain Meeshang."  CAPTAIN MEESHANG.  I feel like that may very well be the best name I've heard for a Betta fish ever in my whole life.  Heck, I feel like that should be the name of a band, or a boat, or anything cool, really.  I want to go out right now and buy myself a pet just so that I can name him or her Captain Meeshang.

But, it gets better.  This is Captain Meeshang's 3rd name.  Captain started out as BlueBlue - which, though slightly more obvious - is still a pretty solid contender.  BlueBlue; it rolls off the tongue and sounds like the name of a friend, no?  And sandwiched in between BlueBlue and Cpt. Meeshang, her fish spent a small amount of time going by the name of Firesnout Dragon.  Seriously?!  The girl can name.

That's all I've got for you tonight.  But it gave me a good, long laugh at the end of a very long day.  And for that, I felt that Captain Meeshang, and my absolutely adorable niece, needed their own blog post.

Long live Captain Meeshang!

(Or maybe not, as he is - after all - a Betta fish, but still....atleast she gave him a name that has the potential to live in infamy.)

2 Things

1) My view right now...

Can I just say how much I love Christmas and all that goes with it?!  I LOVE having a white-lighted Christmas tree in my house.  Makes me want to own a fake one and just keep it up all year long.  Life is more soothing with a tree in the house, especially a tree with lights.  And red bows.  And fires are soothing too.  I am soothed....

2) ... which is a good thing, because today sucked.  I'm not normally willing to throw an entire day into the "sucky" category.  And actually, now that I think about it, I'm not willing to throw this whole day into the sucky category.  In fact, what I want, no, need to write about is how much good can come out of the bad.  But in order to write about that, first, I have to tell you about the sucky.  A supervisor at work told me some things today that really stung me.  Now, I'm all for constructive criticism, and I try really hard to be a good receiver of criticism ... believing the words in the book of Proverbs that talk about a wise man (or woman, in my case) being willing to take a rebuke. But the way in which the supervisor said the things - and even the things themselves - felt wrong and ... unnecessary.  And kind of unkind.

After the conversation, I went back to my desk and stared at my computer screen and took in some deep breaths and calmed myself down.  But inside I was all wounded and trying not to cry.  And so I reached out to a few of my closest friends, wrote to them, told them what happened, and asked for their prayers.  And here's where I get to tell you about the good.  Love came pouring back to me.  Affirmations about who I am created to be.  Encouragement.  Honest feedback (Truth spoken in love is sooo much better than just truth, btw).  Words of so much love from people who *see* me and have known me at my worst.  And it's a funny thing.  As I read my friends' encouragements, my spirit slowly got lighter.  And I began to almost feel thankful that this had happened.  I treasure the words I got today.  I'll probably print up the emails and keep them and pull them out when I need reminding.

Before I go, I need to digress a moment ... to go back to a very distant memory I have that occurred when I was about 6 or 7.  Around that age, my city got a big snow storm.  The thing with snow is that it eventually melts, and then - as winter is so inclined to do - if it freezes again, you end up with a nice, thick layer of ice.  I'm kidding.  Ice is not nice.  And I did not just mean to rhyme.  Geez... it's getting late, and I'm tired.  Sorry for the rambling.  Anyway, back to the ice.  So, when one ends up with a thick layer of ice, one has to use an ice pick to break it up.  So, on this occasion, my mother was ice-picking, and I was outside hanging out with her.  I don't remember asking my mother if I could do a little of the ice picking, but I'm sure I must have begged her, because - against her better judgment - my mother agreed to let me do a few whacks of the ice and then give it back to her.  Let this be a comfort to any mommy who might be reading this.  My mother - a fantastic mother, a larger than life mother, a write-love-notes-on-napkins-in-my-school-lunches mother - gave me the ice pick.  And I proceeded to ice pick my big toe.  Not on purpose of course.  Just too young to be ice picking (Sorry Mom; totally not trying to rat you out on this one. ;).  

But here's the funny thing: I don't remember the pain.  What I remember is that she immediately scooped me up and carried me inside and held me in her lap and rocked with me in her rocking chair until all crying had ceased.  I remember laying there, against her chest and having her wipe my tears.  And I remember it feeling very warm and quiet.  And I remember feeling loved.  That's what I remember.

Maybe, sometimes, the blows of life are worth it ... just so we can experience the special kinds of tenderness and love that are especially drawn out by hard knocks.  Maybe.  But, either way, good comes from bad.  And love always seems to have the final word.

On This, The Eve Of My 31st Birthday

"Can I get a do-over?" the little girl asked her mom, and waited to hear her response.

"A do-over?" her mom questioned, puzzling at where she'd learned the expression, at what had prompted her to want the chance to repeat a bit of life, to change what she'd done previously.

"Yes, a do-over," she repeated, making it quite certain she'd known what she was asking.

"Why would you want a do-over, honey?" her mom asked. "Do you regret something you already did? Are you scared about what is to come?"

The little girl thought for a little while. And when she was thinking, it was quite quiet, so the minutes passed, and her mom waited.

And after a little while, she answered.

"Yes mom," she said, "I do have regrets. There are moments I wish I would have done differently. There are choices I'd re-choose if I could. I've made mistakes. And I am scared about what is to come. I don't usually like that I can't see around the bend. But that's not why I'd want a do-over."

At this her mom was even more puzzled.

"Well then, my darling, why do you want a do-over?"

"I want a do-over," the little girl went on, "Because life has been so good. If I could - for even a moment - rewind and watch my life... the people I've loved, the Saturday morning breakfasts, the places I've seen, the bowls of ice cream in summer, and pasta before a big race, and chili on a snowy day, the birthday parties and pets I've loved, and Christmas morning cinnamon rolls, the church camp roommates and college roommates and graduate school roommates and so much late night laughter, the feel of hugs from you and Dad, the Fall colors, the sacred knowings of my bestest friends, the weddings and bike rides and mountaintops reached and waterfalls seen and the moments that can only be fully shared and understood by my sisters..."

And as she went on, her voice got louder, her eyes lighting up and she stared off into the space of remembering....

"The boys I've liked, the men I've loved, the fears I've faced, the hills I've climbed, the steps I've danced, the first job and first kiss and first apartment all on my own and first nephew and first niece and first day of school," and then she paused,

"But it's not just the good stuff Mom, or even all the 'firsts,'" she said, though it seemed like maybe she was realizing it herself as she spoke, "There's been lots of lasts ... too many...the last day with my childhood pet, the last sight of one of my favorite people, the last time we all slept in the same house. There's been hard stuff, you know? But, strangely, it's all the hard stuff too, all the ways the hardest moments of my life have been inextricably knit together with the best moments, so that I've learned never to despair ... even when it's so dark you can't imagine sunrise. I've learned how to endure winter, trusting in summer. I've learned, Mom. I've learned so much from the hard stuff. And somehow, in the end, there's still good ... even in the hard stuff."

And by now, her mom was quiet, looking at her little girl, wondering at how grown up she'd become, wondering at how much growing she still had left to do.

But it wasn't just her mom. As she spoke, the little girl realized, too, that she wasn't so little anymore. She sat there, all full to the brim with memories, knowing too that those were just the highlights. There were days, weeks, months, and years full of ordinary moments she'd lived that she didn't remember, moments that had accumulated like snowfall, one after the other, to build a great big beautiful life.

She looked down at her hands and realized that they were the hands of a woman, and had her stories in them. They held the callouses from hours of playing harp, the scar from that cut from her old refrigerator she'd gotten during one of her many moves, the thousands of words typed as she'd pressed on toward her degree. They weren't sticky with popsicle juice anymore, didn't have dirt under the nails from playing in the backyard.

And then she looked at herself in the mirror. Wrinkles spread out from the corners of her eyes, etchings of laughter carved into the wall of her soul. Her hair was no longer fine and straight, like it had been she was little. And the mole on her cheek had faded since childhood.

"Huh," she thought, looking at the woman in the mirror. "Well hello, you," she spoke to herself.

And at that, she turned around, certain of just a few things.

One, she'd still love that do-over, would love to watch her life like a movie.

Two, knowing what she knew now, there were a few things she would've changed.

Three, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, that rather than wasting time on regret, her energy was much better spent living fully in today.

Four, she also knew that all of her life, the good and the bad, had brought her to this moment, and none of it was wasted. It all served a purpose because God has this amazing capacity to make all things new, to bring beauty from pain and good from evil.

Five, every day, full of opportunity, is a do-over. We write the stories of life in this moment.

Six, she wasn't as afraid of the unknowns any more.

Seven, but she was still a little afraid of them.

Eight, she'd been loved so much.

Nine, she'd loved so much.

Ten, and that had made all the difference.

And then she realized one other thing...although she'd grown into a woman, that little girl was still inside her and would remain there her whole life through. And that's why -- when she celebrated her birthday with her friends, and they gave her a crown -- she wore it ... just like she'd worn that paper crown at Burger King 25 years ago, celebrating her 6th birthday, with her friend Jenny.

Because this she also knew: no matter how old you get, life is too short to turn down a crown on your birthday.

The funniest thing heard today....

I am "Auntie SuSu" this weekend. Actually, I'm Auntie SuSu all the time. But this weekend, I'm actually in Denver BEING Auntie SuSu to my two nieces (ages 3 and 5) so that my sis and her hubs can have a weekend away ... their first full weekend away together since my oldest niece was born. She's now five. It's about time for them, I'd say.

So, for any of the mommies that may read this, I have only one thing to say to you. Bless you. And bless your stamina. It's been a good day, no major mishaps, broken bones, children lost, or natural disasters. But, Auntie SuSu is tired.

And speaking of natural disasters....

Storm crowds grew ominous today. And my sweet niece, being slightly on the fearful side, began to predict not just rain, but a tornado. Now you must understand something; my sis and her family just moved to Denver a year ago. And in this past year, they've already had several tornados in their area. So I think my niece is still trying to process this new-found threat.

So, trying to keep her calm and be the ever-optimistic and carefree Auntie, I smiled big and simply said, "Ooooh ... if there's a tornado, know what we're gonna do?" "What?" she said, eyes big. "We're gonna take the DVD player down to the basement and watch Mary Poppins as a special treat, even though you've already had your video for the day!!!" (Disclaimer: the basement plan came straight from my sister.) Both sets of eyes got even wider ... and then, little niecey said, "Oh! I hope there's a tornado!" And they both began to dance around.

I never knew a video could have THAT much clout.

I Think It's About Time For A Little Listy-List

1. I am off to Denver in a couple of days, going to take care of my two adorable nieces while my sister and her hubby take a Labor Day weekend away. While there, I'm also going to get to see one of my dearest friends, her husband, and their little boy ... who I haven't seen in far too long. I'm sooo excited to see them all. Though, I'm also a little stressed, because....

2. I am still trying to get this monkey of a class off my back. I have one last class to finish by September 18. That's when all the work is due. It's my very own much-less-important VG Day ... victory over grad school day. It's an independent study class, and there's a reason I haven't taken one until now. I am not ... what some would say ... disciplined. Actually, I am disciplined ... just not until I have only a few hours left to accomplish massive amounts of work. Then, I'm very disciplined. Too bad a few hours will never enable me to complete an entire course! Wish me luck, furious working capacities, perseverance, ability to work through the blurry-eyed hours and a few hours of sleep just for the fun of it.

3. Murphy struck today. I'm not running around nearly as crazily as I used to do. I'm taking an independent study class after all. And I'm only spending one day a week at the clinic nowadays. Wouldn't you know it that on the ONE day I have to be at the clinic for an 8:30 appointment would be the day that my car would have a so-flat-that-the-car-is-tilted flat tire. I mean we're talking FLAT ... not to be confused with "phat," which it is not. Flat is not phat. Phat or flat, my schedule and appointment were saved by the kindness of my roomie, who gave his car to me for the morning. Thanks roomie.

4. The fires are still raging here in Los Angeles. My home, thankfully, is no where near the affected areas, but all the same, the air everywhere is full of smoke. I've gotten so used to these South California fires, to the Santa Anas, to seeing news story after news story about forest fires; it's a little bizarre and kinda sad I think ... that I'm so used to it. I was driving home from the clinic today and looked over toward the mountains to see plumes of smoke everywhere; there's so much smoke that it all now just looks like grey and white clouds. And I realized I hadn't paid any attention to it the whole drive until that point. But, two firefighters died yesterday, and I'm reminded now to pray for the firefighters and for the people who've lost homes. I went out of town this weekend, and here's what I saw when I was still about 30 miles away from home:



And then, when I zoomed in:



And, because it's a good round number to finish off a list, and on a much less important note,

5. Confession: I grew up watching General Hospital. I never even knew I was supposed to be embarrassed about that fact until I told someone that I was scheduling my college classes to leave 2-3pm open for "GH" as my sisters, my mom, and I all called it, and they looked at me like I might as well just have said, "I'm moving to Botswana." For any of you who know me, you know that when I get addicted to a show, I get, well ... addicted. As in, look-up-interviews-by-the-main-characters, learn-their-bibliographies, buy-magazines-about-the-show, subscribe-to-said-show's-website, research-show's-author, well, you get the picture. So, when I say I watched General Hospital, I mean I WATCHED General Hospital. I cried when Jax watched Brenda's crazy mother drive the car with Brenda in it off the cliff. I gasped when Jason Quartmaine woke up from his coma with amnesia. I cheered when Jagger and Karen rode off into the sunset on his Harley. And I sobbed when Scotty Baldwin held Dominque in that beautiful garden as she died of cancer. Are you feeling me? I was THAT kind of fan. And then I went and lived overseas and couldn't watch GH anymore, and I discovered that I was just fine. And I haven't really watched it since. But, all of THAT to say, speaking of Scotty Baldwin....



I was in a lounge this weekend with a few friends. There weren't many people there, and I looked over and saw Scotty Baldwin!! Actually, his name's Ken Shriner, but to me, he'll always be Scotty. After the "I can't bother him; that's rude's" and the "What if he's a jerk's?" and the "I'm a total dork to even think of speaking to him's," I gathered my gumption, walked over, apologized for my rudeness in bothering him, and told him simply that I'd grown up with him ... at which point my friend swears his face fell a little. Ooops. Totally didn't mean to make him feel old. Either way, he was very nice, and offered to take a photo with me. Luckily, like any good amateur photographer, I had my camera in my purse.

It's funny; I've met a few other celebrities ... probably more popular than Ken Shriner from General Hospital. But for me, meeting him was a bigger thrill. And I think it's because GH was more than just a soap opera to me; it was a silly, meaningless set of stories I shared with my mom and sisters growing up. It was bonding. All the women in my family would talk about this new character or that doomed wedding, about the fire at the warehouse, or the drug deal on the docks. And we'd giggle and surmise and take bets. I know soap operas are trashy and meaningless, and I know that actually, very little happens on them, and characters come back to life way too often. But, the silliness that transpires between sisters and mothers and girlfriends ... well, that stuff is not so meaningless. That's why, after the picture was snapped, I proceeded to text Mom and Sisters immediately to tell them about my run-in ... not with Ken Shriner, but with Scott Baldwin, and they texted back, totally delighted.

I'm just sayin'....

There's this funny thing that happens.

When I was 6, or something like that, and Mary Lou Retton got her perfect "10" in the summer Olympics, I stood up on the green, shag carpet of my family room and practiced doing the splits and back walkovers and other gymnastickey things and dreamed that someday, I'd be a great gymnast. Like one of those really good ones.

And then I watched Star Search, and I don't even remember exactly who I watched. But every time someone got four stars, or even 3 and a quarter, I wished to someday grow up and be an amazing singer. I dreamed of belting out tunes to enraptured audiences, of feeling my soul burst right out of my lungs and into my voice, and of feeling very, very alive every time I sang.

And then Dirty Dancing came out. And I don't know if I should've been watching it or not, but I did. In fact, I went through a phase where I watched it every Saturday morning for, like, weeks. Maybe even months. And without exception, when Baby and Johnny did that final dance, I dreamed of being in a beautiful pink silky dress that swirled out when I spun. And I thought for sure, someday I'd grow up and never stop moving, and I'd be a terrific dancer.

And then,
And then,
And then,

And then one day I realized that I was much older than the gold medal gymnasts, and a little piece of me got very sad inside -- not to mention, a little shocked. When did I grow up? How did that happen?

But the thing is, nothing has really changed. I mean, yes, now I know that I'll probably never get a perfect "10" in the Olympics (unless I take up fencing or something). And I don't expect to win on Star Search, partly 'cause it's no longer on the air. But I still get inspired by people living out their passions all the time ... especially those of the creative kind.

I watch live theater and wish I could act ... wish I could yell and scream and cry and be a thousand different people on the stage, entertaining others, helping people to slip away into someone else's world for a few hours. I watch Grey's Anatomy and wish I were a doctor ... that I knew all about how the human body works. OK, OK, so I know in reality, all the doctors at hospitals don't have dreamy hair. They don't makeout in stock rooms (probably). And they don't have all those heart-to-hearts with their patients. But still...

What it really comes down to is that I think I just want to live 100 different lives. Or 103 and maybe. I wrote my best friend about it yesterday, and she agreed with me. She said she'd like that too. And neither of us can. Hmph.

Maybe it's a good thing. Maybe to have to choose how we spend our time (because we can't do it all) helps us to appreciate what we can do. But knowing that still doesn't quench the desire I have to never sleep ... to just study and practice and learn and write and sing and dance and act and doctor and travel and and and and.....

But it's 11:35 pm, and I am tired. And, the thing is, I'm gonna go to sleep. Maybe I'll get to do something fun in my dreams.

C-A-D-E-N-C-E

Cadence ... K-A-D-E-N-C-E

That's how I spelled it in my 4th grade spelling bee. I used a K. And I lost. And I was sad. But not for too long, because then my mom took me and my friend to frozen yogurt, and I got frozen yogurt with those little mini gummy bears that get all hard and chewy next to the yogurt, and I was happy.

But, I never have forgotten how to spell "cadence," and I learned very quickly what it meant. It refers to rhythm, to a constant, steady beat.

And I have to tell you, even though it's the word that bumped me out of the spelling bee, I love it. I love that it sounds like what it is. "CA-DENCE." Two syllables. Evenly measured. Like a heartbeat. And I love what it symbolizes. Constancy, steady, rhythm. And I love things with cadence. They make me feel connected to something larger than myself. Ocean tides, heartbeats, the turn of hands around a clock. They make me feel connected to God somehow, because they are far more dependable than any of us humans. Anyhow...

So, why all this talk about one silly word?

Well, because all day long, I have been serenaded by the cadence of rain. ALL DAY LONG. And let me tell you, this is no small feat for California. Weather in California means that it is not between 75-90 degrees. And I am jubilant. That's right ... down right jubilant about it. It is SUCH a gift to have days off, finals over, Christmas coming, and rain ... on a day where I didn't have to be anywhere.

So, I had to share. Because when you are jubilant, sharing is a necessity.

jungle gyms and freefall

In the town I grew up in, there is a park/playground. I spent many an hour there -- throughout my childhood -- during last day of school outings, family barbeques, and with friends. I could go and on and on about it, because it was full of ginormous toys, and picnic tables, and merry-go-rounds. And any place you go ... just to play ... is a special place. Anyway...

So, one of my favorite toys at the park was the jungle gym. It was this great massive half-planet of a thing, planted firmly into the ground like half a giant cantalope, knotted together with hundreds of metal rungs. And you could climb to the top, rung by rung, if you were brave and perserverant and didn't look down. And perhaps my memory betrays me; perhaps if I were to return to it, I would find that it stands only 6 feet tall. But, if my memory doesn't betray, and if I do really remember it accurately, it seems to me that if you reached the top, you were at least 10 feet tall ... a true thrill for little bodies that normal looked up at everything, not down.

I can remember climbing it, the feel of cold metal against my palms, the way my fingers barely stretched around each rod. I can remember hoisting my body up, rung by rung, can remember push and pull of arms then legs then arms that climbing it required. Methodically, reach by reach, I'd lift myself toward the top. And when I got there, I'd rejoice.

I was driving home from classes today, feeling a blend of tired and anxious. And I began to think about what would be causing such a strange combination. There were a few things. But I thought I'd share one of the reasons with you.

I want life to be like that jungle gym. And it isn't.

I'm willing to climb, to push and pull and sweat. But I want to know what rods to reach for, where to put my feet, what path I need to take to get on top of it all. And so far, in my experience, life is not nearly so clear and concise. And I think I was just bugged about it.

I think that a lot of life is nebulous and foggy, and paths are much clearer after you walk them. And, yes, great shining moments do occur sometimes. The fog lifts, and the landscape shifts into focus. And you hold on to those moments as you go along, because the fog inevitably returns.

The longer I live, the more I realize that life is much more about trusting than it is about knowing ... no matter what you believe.

The whole thing reminds me of a poem that I've posted on here before. But it truly one of my most favorite poems in the whole wide world. So, posting it twice can't be bad:

The Avowal
by Denise Levertov

As swimmers dare
to lie face to the sky
and water bears them,
as hawks rest upon air
and air sustains them,
so would I learn to attain
freefall, and float
into Creator Spirit's deep embrace,
knowing no effort earns
that all-surrounding grace.

Maybe life is about leaning into what you can't see, into Who you can't see, falling and trusting you'll be caught by Grace Undeserved ... instead of hanging on to only what you can and climbing with your own strength.

I don't feel so bugged now....

#6 - Tell Me Who You Love, And I'll Tell You Who You Are

I'm not sure who said this, but my mom has the quote taped on something in her bathroom. I can't remember where it's taped, or what it's taped on, but I swear I've read it a thousand times in lots of ordinary, daily moments, while talking to her.

So, I was thinking, as I approach a new decade, it'd be kind of fun to look back on my crushes over the course of my life. I bet each one says a little about who I am, or was at the time.

6. The Crushes

As a young child ... I wanted to marry a pink man. Seriously. Like, all pink. I can remember seeing him in my head, before any of the associations about pink and manliness and sexuality were taught to me. He was tall, slender, and he was entirely pink. Pink skin. Pink suit. Pepto Bismo pink. And he was lovely, in my eyes. And pink. OK, you get the picture.

As an elementary school girl ... I wanted to marry Mr. Castro, my 4th grade teacher. He had a loud trumpet voice, and worked out a lot, such that his biceps were so big that his arms laid away from his body, and they swung, kinda monkey-like when he walked. And he adored me.

As a preteen ... I wanted to marry James Dalton, or atleast I think that was his name. He was the love interest in the classic film, "My Father, The Hero," starring a very young Katherine Heigl, before she became "Izzie," on Grey's Anatomy. He had great hair and was super confident. And he gave Miss Heigl her first kiss, and I wished that he would be kissing me instead.

As a middle schooler ... I wanted to marry Wesley Zlotoff. Wesley was smart, sporty, musical, witty, and had me wrapped so far around his finger that I could touch my toes. Or something like that. Oh, and let's not forget that he was, well, totally cute. Really, truly, I had it BAD for Wesley, for several years. He was taller than me (no small feat in Jr. High, where girls hit their growth spurt way before boys, and so you end up dancing awkwardly at Jr. High dances, and the boy's eye level is directly across from your underdeveloped boobs). Anyway, he could compose amazing songs on the piano without any sheet music. And he was good at baseball. And he flirted with me just enough to keep me completely ga-ga without ever actually dating me. And one day, in 9th grade, he called me after school. When he told me who it was, I asked him to excuse me just a moment, and I screamed into a pillow and tried to calm myself down and then returned to the conversation all non-chalant-like. Anyway, he told me that I was beautiful and should become a model, and I melted into a puddle on the floor and wrote confessions of undying love to him in poems in the back of a notebook.

As a high schooler ... I still wanted to marry Wesley Zlotoff, until he started dating girls that were not like me at all. And I realized that I didn't want to be like them. And that kinda put an end to that.

In college ... I wanted to marry Jake Saylor. Jake smiled a lot. And was nice to just about everyone. And he was always busy, running somewhere, doing something productive. And he seemed totally content with his life. And kind of mysterious, like there was a lot about himself that he guarded and showed to only a select few. He was gentle, and smart, but in an unassuming sort of way.

And also in college, and post college ... there were a couple of men, men that I kissed, and watched stars with, and told stories to, and laughed with, and cried about ... real life men that carved their way in to my heart. They were both much deeper and wider than crushes. And at one point and time, I wanted to marry each one of them, but I didn't. And I won't say anymore about that, to protect their privacy and mine.

And now, almost 30 ... I would like to marry Patrick Dempsey, but he is already married. And that is just dumb luck. But the way he looks at Meredithe (another Grey's Anatomy reference), so tender and vulnerable, oh ... sigh ... it's the kind of look that dictates a sigh.

So ... looking back, I notice a few things. One, I must have a thing for good hair. Dempsey, Dalton, Zlotoff, they all have full heads of hair. Two, I enjoy a man that can hold up his side of a conversation, because he takes interest in the world around him, and thinks about it, and has opinions. Three, if he were musical and could sing to me, that'd be great. :) Four, I seem to like strong, confident men. Hmmm. Five, I'm glad I no longer want to marry a pink man, but I find it rather endearing that I was so clear about my desires at one point in time. Six, my crushes changed from being make believe (pink man), to being unrealistic (4th grade teacher), to being real (eighth grade boy), to being even more real (real relationships). And I can tell you now, that the "real, real" ones, the relationships with two "reals" before their names, they are much messier and more complex than the pink boy kind. But there is beauty in the mess, beauty unlike any other kind of beauty. And the mess is worth the beauty. Most of the time. :)

So, tell me who you love, and I'll tell you who you are.

I guess, like all of us, I am a hodge podge of things, some changing, some staying the same ... like a tree.

#7 - So....

The date on this entry will probably show Sunday, October 12, because that's when I started it. But really, it's Thursday, October 17.

7. Apparently, my next "almost 30" reflection should be about how old habits die hard.

You see, I have -- and always have had, as long as I can remember -- the tendency to start things and not finish them. I've made several New Year's resolutions about finishing things; I've journaled about finishing things. Heck, I've even talked to a therapist about finishing things, and why I struggle to do it.

So, if you could look at my "blogging dashboard," you'd find several unfinished blog drafts from the last few days. :)

I think a lot of it has to do with perfectionism. I'm not nearly the perfectionist I once was. But, remnants remain. And when I think about things to write, the challenge of translating them -- so that they authentically communicate the original idea -- seems, well ... challenging. Like you know how when you stand staring at a sunset or at the droplets of rain on leaves, and then you try and take a photo, and it doesn't really capture the beauty you were seeing?? Sometimes I think I don't finish things because it feels too difficult to make them true to the original intent. Now, that's not to say that all my thoughts and plans are sunsets and raindrops. Sometimes I suppose they are probably more like old t-shirts or applesauce or -- on the bad days -- vomit. Wow. I digress....

Anyway, all of that to say, old habits die hard. And being an adult doesn't mean you stop being a child.

#9. L-A-M-E

OK, so I am feeling completely LAME right now, because really, how hard can it be to blog 10 days in a row? Just ten days. Maybe I'm not ready to turn thirty. Some days I really just don't feel like an adult at all. :) Are thirty year olds even allowed to use the word "lame?" OK, almost thirty year olds....

Well, either way, one thing that I have learned thus far is that focusing on one's inadequacies really only takes you so far. And it's not very far at all. So, I'm gonna keep on keepin' on and hope that I can be consistent for the next seven! :)

So, for my #9, I thought I'd start with Labor Day. A follow up on Labor Day ... the last blog I wrote before my long break away from the blogging world.

9. I want to share some photos:

We had a WONDERFUL weekend together, doing mostly nothing.... That's when you know you've got true friends, you know? When eating together, and visiting, and playing a few games of cards ... when that's all you need to be entirely content.

Here are a few of us before breakfast.



And, this is affectionately known as "The Kids Table," only now, very few of us are actually kids. But I guess it's all a matter of perspective....



And moments like this happened....




The Original: "Generation A"




"Generation B"




"Generation C"




And here's the WHOLE gang (minus a few who couldn't be there)...my "village"

Top 10 ... a blogging committment

Ok, so you know how when you mean to call someone, but you just don't, and then days pass, and then weeks, and then -- one day when you're looking up a recipe or making an appointment -- you realize that it's been months, and then you just feel so bad that you don't call, and then more months pass, and then you realize that it would have been better had you just called the first time you felt bad about not calling??

You know how that happens?

Well, that kinda sorta happened with this blog. My own blog. Weird.

I got back from my weekend in Tucson, and I meant to post pictures and write stories, but I got busy therapizing (that should be a word if it's not) and summer schoolizing, and so I didn't. And then I thought, 'Gosh, it's mid-September, I should get on my blog.' But I didn't because I felt like enough time had passed that now, when I did write, I needed to write something pretty substantial. And then school started, and tutoring started (the side job because I am just not busy enough), and therapizing continued, and somewhere in there I kept showering and trying to exercise and, you know, live.

And so, my poor little bloggy blog just sat here, all by her lonesome, outdated.

But I'm back. And I've decided to implement a lil' idea to keep myself blogging consistently ... at least for the next ten days. Why ten days, you say? Because in exactly ten days, I will be bidding bon voyage to my 20s, breaking the champagne bottle against my 30s, that's right ... celebrating the 3-0. And sometimes I'm excited about it, and sometimes I'm sad. And so, what better topic to get me back into the blogging swing of things than a countdown??

So, for the next ten days, I'll be posting EVERY day. Ten thoughts about turning 30.

So, without further ado....

I think I'm gonna started light-hearted, but it probably won't last long. The impending new decade brings out my sentimental side pretty quickly.

10. I am getting fine lines.

Growing up, every time I bought a new face wash or face lotion, I would read the backs of the containers to see what fabulous promises they'd make for me. And I'm not gonna lie, sometimes those impossible promises were the deal breakers for my purchase. And I can remember reading the phrase, "reduces fine lines," but I never really thought about what fine lines meant. I just knew that I didn't care too much about them.

And here's the thing: I've always said that I wanted laugh lines, little badges of life well-lived. And I still do, but it is weird to look in the mirror and see a slighty older version of me. I think I am just now beginning to believe that someday, I will get old (if I'm lucky). Which is probably good, because I think that belief will probably (hopefully) cause me to live more consciously.

BUT, in spite of my savoring of laugh lines, it should be said that now, I pay more attention to the face lotions that reduce fine lines.

Roots

I am headed to Tucson this weekend. I've been going to Tucson every Labor Day weekend since I was an infant. But this will probably the last Labor Day that I will go.

30 years ago, four sets of young marrieds (one of the them being my parents) decided to meet up at one of the couple's homes over Labor Day weekend. They had so much fun together that they decided to make it an annual gathering. The next year, I got to go, as a 10 month old baby. I don't remember it. :) And I've gone every year since. The gathering has seen all the little babies grow into adults. And those adults started having babies. And now some of those babies are entering college. We've named each generation in alphabetical order, such that the original four married couples constitute Generation A, their children are Generation B, and their children are Generation C. The group of families has walked through big life moments together: marriages, divorces, betrayals, suicides, engagements, new babies, you name it. The mother of the house is getting tired ... the group, after all has grown from 8 to about 48! And she's decided that this will be the last year she invites everyone. I completely understand. But still, I am sad.

I was telling one of my colleagues at work about it today, and he teared up. That's right. HE. A man ... teared up.

"That's really special, Susan, that you have a group of people like that in your history."

I've always known it was special, this village of people that raised me. But, somehow, seeing the way it impacted him, well, I was hit by a fresh realization of it's worth. In this fast-paced, ever changing world, roots are harder and harder to come by. I am flooded with gratitude to have this set of roots, these voices and life stories and personality idiosyncrasies carved into my heart, my story.

Thanks, Mom and Dad, for forming deep, abiding friendships, for raising us in their shade and shelter. I pray that as I grow, I might plant roots myself ... that the next generation might be blessed....