BEFORE MY TIME . . .

Sometimes, I fear my body is aging before its time. I have been fortunate to always have been healthy. My blood pressure is low, I exercise regularly, I eat healthfully, I take vitamins (even though Juice says I don't have to), I do yoga and stretch morning, noon and night, I sustain a mostly healthy and steady spiritual life, and I surround myself with loving and generous family members and friends.

But none of these things can ward off excruciating back pain and bum knees.

Every year that passes, it seems that my knees feel worse and worse. It used to be that they only twinged before rain or snow events. Now ... it feels like they twinge at everything. A brisker wind. A sunnier day. One more cloud in the sky. Too many hours in heels. Too many laps in sneakers. A few more minutes of sleep. Too many minutes of sitting with my legs crossed ... or extended. They are feeling less and less stable, and whereas before, they would hurt independently of each other, more frequent are the days when they hurt together, in tandem, as if in conspiracy against me. An x-ray seems inevitable; I fear what might come afterwards.

And lately ... my Lord, could I sound more like a whiny elderly lady ... I've been having the most debilitating twinges in my left lower back. Shifting in my seat while driving ... standing from a normal sitting position ... turning my head and upper body to answer someone calling out to me ... holding one of my precious little babies or picking up one of my precious little toddlers ... in heels, flats, sneakers, socks ... straightening from a bending position ... stooping from a standing position ... turning over in bed while sleeping ... reaching across the table for something ... receiving something that a person hands me ... through each of these things, and more, I suffer quietly, not wanting to wince aloud each time, lest I look utterly and stupidly fragile.

I keep stretching and massaging myself, in the hope, the vain hope, that the pain will go away. Maybe I just pulled a muscle. Maybe I just have to crack my back one more time. Maybe I need to sleep on my stomach, or my side, or my back, or sitting up. Maybe I need to walk instead of run, run instead of walk. Who knows?

I feel elderly. I feel fragile. I feel in pain about 80% of the day. I never know when I'm going to be reduced to holding my breath until the severity of the twinges pass. I hardly ever enjoy a self-pity party ... but the invitation is getting harder and harder to ignore.

***

CURIOSITIES . . .

I'm so happy to be having a rare, relaxing night in alone, despite multiple invitations otherwise -- entirely different but equally as pleasurable as a rare, relaxing time with the L.O.L.'s or the AJA's -- and after a full day of cooking and eating, I still have food on the brain. Here's me; tell me about you:

What is your signature dinner dish? Oh dear. Not that I'm some kind of uber-chef but I don't think I can name just one, because it all depends on the cuisine, the need, the time ... but when all else fails, I pump out a mean spaghetti with garlic, spinach and andouille sausage in a thick, sweet and spicy tomato sauce.

What is your signature dessert? I love to present an uncracked chocolate-swirled cheesecake (often unsuccessful), or a batch of crunchy-on-the-outside-chewy-on-the-inside cranberry-toffee-bittersweet chocolate-oatmeal cookies (often successful).

What is your signature drink? I am told that I make some euphoric coffee.

What food/dish holds the most meaning for you? Lately, crepes. Dinner crepes, filled with sausage, zucchini, garlic and tomatoes; or dessert crepes, filled with Nutella and bananas, topped with Edy's vanilla ice cream.

What food/dish would you be happy to never eat again? That cow's-blood stew (hae-jang-gguk) that I was suckered into eating during my second-to-last visit to the Motherland. I appreciate its cultural meaning and that it invigorates the body, but ... omigosh, I'm gagging at the memory.

What food did you dislike as a child, but now enjoy very much? Sushi and sashimi. I used to not be able to tolerate anything raw and fishy. Only in recent years have I enjoyed experimenting with different sushi rolls, and my repertoire now includes sushi rolls that do indeed contain raw fish. And my 2004 trip to Whistler and the sashimi that melted in my mouth ... oh, yum. It's not the same out here, but occasionally, I'll partake of sashimi or hwe-dop-bab and really, really enjoy it.

What food did you love as a child, but cannot tolerate anymore? I used to love marinated and sauteed anchovies. (Or at least, I think they are anchovies. I know the English translations of VERY few Korean dishes.) Now ... the saltiness and crunchiness and the eyeballs I used to savor just grosses me out.

What is your favorite street or fast food? You can't possibly ask me to pick just one ... dirty-water dogs anywhere in Manhattan ... pork fried rice eaten straight out of the carton ... McDonald's french fries ... anything purchased at a Manhattan street fair.

What is your favorite restaurant dish? The corn chowder at Xavier's ... the fried zucchini blossoms at Payard ... pad thai at Thailand Restaurant ... the sour-cherry cobbler at that place in Florida (L.O.L.'s: what's it called?) ... the coffee at MoMA (no, it's not a dish, but it's good enough to be).

What is/was your greatest restaurant experience? I feel fortunate to have had many, and doubly fortunate that the factors that made the experiences so great were NEVER the food (which only enhanced the meal), but ALWAYS the company.

What is/was your greatest restaurant disappointment? A pesto pasta dish at Il Buco, attempted about eight or nine years ago. I nearly broke teeth trying to crunch through the pasta; the waitress insisted THAT was al dente over my protests and the protests of my L.O.L.'s. Finally, she took it back, and I just KNOW that all they did was take the same pasta, rinse the sauce off, boil it some more, toss some more pesto in it and SPIT IN IT before they sent it back to me. Yucko.

What is/was your most upsetting culinary experience? Anytime someone hasn't fully enjoyed something I've prepared: the pasta that was too dry, the steak that was overdone, the cheesecake that cracked down the middle, the key lime pie that was too runny, the curry that was too spicy, the coffee that was too weak, the bundt cake that wouldn't come out of the pan even when I threw it against the outdoor patio floor at my parents' house ... how depressing that the list could go on and on.

What is/was your most satisfying culinary experience? Most recently, I've got to say it was making those two huge lasagnas for care group (thanks to Charlie for lending me the biggest pans ever known to exist; I don't even know where one would purchase those minivan-sized pans). I had the exactly right amount of ingredients, everything tasted exactly as I wanted it to, everyone enjoyed it and had seconds ... and thirds, and there was plenty to send home. AND the pans fit in my oven.

What is/was your funniest culinary experience? It would have to be a tie between the time I threw the bundt cake pan against the outdoor patio floor at my parents' house in a desperate effort to dislodge the cake (only chunks fell out, so my family ended up eating the rest of it straight out of the damn pan), and the above-mentioned lasagna evening, when foolishly unattended red pasta sauce exploded ALL. OVER. THE. KITCHEN. And then, all over me, when I ran to see what all the plopping noise was. Too bad I was alone -- it was really funny, and I wish I had had someone to share the hysterical (and desperate) laughter with.

If you had to eat the same dish for dinner every night for the rest of your life, what would it be? Again, I'm gagging at the thought, but I'll venture the following: Omma's kimchi jigae over rice.

SENDING THEM FORTH . . .

Two more of our baby doctors found out this morning that they'll be leaving us come June and heading to their respective residency programs. (Watch out, Maryland; beware, SoCal!)

Sigh.

Is this what parents feel like when their kids graduate high school and go off to college? Don't I just want to keep them snuggled up, right next to me ...

***

UNCOOPERATIVE . . .

Made a cheesecake today for dinner with the L.O.L.'s tomorrow evening. Damn thing cracked all over the top of its middle section. And I think I need new or additional lighting in my kitchen: I couldn't tell exactly how "lightly browned" the top of the damn thing was, so I let it sit in the oven some more. Now, it's a little more than "lightly browned" and it might end up being more cakey than cheesy.

Good thing we're not exactly the slice-n-serve kind of gals -- that only creates more dishes to wash. Better to eat right out of the pan.

***

CHARACTER . . .

Understood: saying, "S/he knows I'm just kidding" and "S/he knows I love him/her" does not make a joke or teasing right, funnier or less hurtful.

Resolved: I will try harder not to encourage or laugh at an unfunny joke made at someone's expense. I will try harder to stand up for the person being backhandedly teased. I will try harder to stand up for myself when I am made the butt of someone's tasteless teasing.

WHAT'S HAPPENING! . . .

Has Blogger gone mad? My most recent links are disappearing ... Must. Find. Them. ...

***

AVERT YOUR EYES . . .

The title made me stop in my tracks as I was heading out of Borders this afternoon (yes, stop short enough to make the man behind me trip over my boot): 1,001 Books You Must Read Before You Die, by Peter Boxall.

I resisted the very, very, very strong urge in me to buy it. I know that if I buy it, I will drive myself mad trying to read every single book listed. And then, I will feel bad that I can't or that I went blind from trying.

I did not, however, resist, the urge to peruse the 1,001 titles listed at the front of the book. I only got through two-thirds of the books that begin with "A." I was totally discouraged by the fact that I had not read A SINGLE ONE of those books.

So.

I'm probably going to buy this book and torture myself with it until I die.

***

HEALTH ALERT . . .

What does it mean when your body craves tofu? Fried tofu. Scrambled tofu. Spicy tofu. Boiled tofu. Tofu with kimchi. Tofu over rice. Tofu stir-fry. Tofu fried rice. Soft tofu. Firm tofu. I crave tofu.

HOME . . .

Climbing up on Solsbury Hill
I could see the city light
Wind was blowing, time stood still
Eagle flew out of the night
He was something to observe
Came in close, I heard a voice
Standing stretching every nerve
Had to listen had no choice
I did not believe the information
(I) just had to trust imagination
My heart going boom boom boom
"Son," he said, "Grab your things,
I've come to take you home."

To keepin' silence I resigned
My friends would think I was a nut
Turning water into wine
Open doors would soon be shut
So I went from day to day
Tho' my life was in a rut
'Till I thought of what I'd say
Which connection I should cut
I was feeling part of the scenery
I walked right out of the machinery
My heart going boom boom boom
"Hey," he said, "Grab your things
I've come to take you home."

When illusion spin her net
I'm never where I want to be
And liberty she pirouette
When I think that I am free
Watched by empty silhouettes
Who close their eyes but still can see
No one taught them etiquette
I will show another me
Today I don't need a replacement
I'll tell them what the smile on my face meant
My heart going boom boom boom
"Hey," I said, "You can keep my things,
they've come to take me home."

SHUT ME UP, PART II . . .

When people ask you what's going on, do you ever say "nothing" even though something is going on, because it's just easier to say "nothing" than to say "everything," because if you said "everything," you'd really mean a list of about 1,853 things, and when people ask "what's going on," they rarely, if ever, really want to know?

Yeah.
Me too.

(But then do you ever come across that one rare soul to whom you can say "nothing and everything," and they understand exactly what you mean, and so then you sort of feel like the "nothing" is less heavy, and the "everything" is just a tiny bit reduced by that one longed-for glimpse of empathy and care?

Yeah.
Me too.)

I guess all of us just want to be heard.

SHUT ME UP . . .

Do you ever just feel like throwing every ounce of maturity, knowledge, logic, dignity and faith right on out the window, and just whining at the top of your lungs:

I NEVER GET MY WAY. I JUST WANNA GET MY WAY, FOR ONCE!!!!!

Yeah.
Me too.

WASH ME CLEAN . . .

What a 180-degree turnaround: it's still sort of warmish, but it's also grey and wet today. I derive no small amount of comfort from hearing the pitter of raindrops arriving on my deck or spraying occasionally against my windows when the breeze decides to direct them thither. Half of me is charmed by the sensation that spring is right around the corner, and there is really nothing as satisfying and fresh as a spring's rain. But the other half of me ... is the exact same colour as the sky: grey.

Sometimes, I think I'm just too sensitive, and I wonder how I got this way. Occasionally, I'm sensitive in a good way, able to intuit how people are feeling, able to care for them, able to pick up on things that others don't, and able to fulfill my friends' needs without being asked. I can turn a bad situation around with a smile or a gentle word. I can be moved into compassionate action and service, picking up the slack or being proactive and thus helpful. Most times, though, I think I don't reign myself in enough, and I end up reacting to things, letting things hurt me more than merely move me, allowing people to pin-prick me in spots that are overladen with nerves, too soft. When I share about the things that hurt me, 99% of my friends don't understand; they don't know why I can't get over it, why I was hurt in the first place. It's usually no big deal. Are they right, or are they just thick-skinned?

In recent months, I have been taught a great deal about trusting people, about being open and real, about taking down fences that I knowingly or unknowingly have erected against those who are not in my inner sanctum. I haven't always wanted to trust, to be open, to be fenceless, but I've tried, because I've been instructed that it is "right." But now I'm questioning the rightness of being those things, and the wrongness of self-protection. What, exactly, is the inherent value of laying yourself bare for the world to see? What, exactly, is the virtue in being open to everyone, no matter who hurts you, no matter who takes advantage of your trust, no matter who doesn't care about you enough to put their own selfish motives aside?

I always bounce between these two extremes, I think: wanting so much to form deep connections with people, or being hurt by someone's betrayal -- great or small -- and thus withdrawing into wariness to lick my wounds. I have moments where I'm really open with a new friend, and then almost inevitably, I am kicking myself a few days later for having given too much of myself. It is a hard realization to understand that people are fallen, they are selfish, they care only about themselves, what they say is different from what they do, they seek to undermine you and make you feel bad so they can feel good, they are immature and young even when they pretend not to be, they are self-serving and self-aggrandizing, they are lacking in common sense and social mores, they are searching for ways to insinuate themselves into your life so that they can take what they know and use it against you. It is a harder realization to see these very true, very real characteristics in a woman, a woman I might once have called "friend," a woman I might once have thought I could eventually call "a close friend."

But it is the hardest realization to look at myself and know that I have been suckered once again. I don't know who to be angry at more: she, the immature backstabber, or me, the unwitting backstabbee.

... I love looking at rain. I love hearing it. I even love waking up to the sound of it. Today ... I wonder what its effect on me will be. I don't necessarily want to be grey all day, but maybe some wallowing and pensiveness will be good for me? Or maybe it will wash me clean, scour out the darkest and dirtiest and most bitter corners of my heart. Maybe it will flow me towards the friends in whom I have great security, and towards the Christ in whom I have the utmost of redemption and understanding?

***

ON A BRIGHTER NOTE . . .

Dr. Cheech comes home in four months!
It has been ages since our family was "whole," excepting the occasional major holiday.

A TASTE . . .

... left the gym, stepped outside, raised my arms, faced up towards the sunshine and twirled 'round and 'round in the parking lot, not caring who saw me.

... ate lunch outdoors, with the sun on our faces, outdoor noises in our ears.

... drove through town with the windows down and the breeze flowing in and out.

... perched on a bench in the park and watched children play, families picnic, loners read.

... sat by the river, a book open on the table before me, and gazed across the shimmer to the other side, soaking in the pleasurable assault of beloved memories.

... drove home slowly, letting the sun warm my hair and shoulders.

It's fading now and evening's chill is nigh, but I am still full from the day. Spring can't come soon enough.

IS THAT WHAT I LOOK LIKE?! . . .

Caught an episode of "What Not to Wear" with Mabel today. The makeover victim stood 5'1", a self-described "petite" woman. For a petite woman, though, she had a lot of curves -- big breasts, an accentuated and slender waist, wider hips and short, roundish legs. I could see why she would have trouble finding clothes that fit perfectly, and I was so happy that she ultimately found clothes that brought out all of her beautiful parts and made her look really stunning and confident.

But the one thing I couldn't get over was that this simply petite woman looked UTTERLY SHORT AND SMALL, especially pre-makeover, and especially standing next to the hosts, Stacy and Clinton. I had to ask Mabel, "Is this what I look like? Am I this short and squat compared to the rest of humanity?!??!"

I seriously think that I am taller than the 5'2" that I am. I've been told by various people that they also view me as being taller than I actually am (that is, until they stand next to me, and can rest their elbows on my head). They say it's because of my "tall" personality (whatever that means), or the fact that I nearly all of my footwear are heeled, or that I wear flattering clothing, or that my body is mostly proportionately balanced. Blah, blah, blah. There is definitely a premium placed upon being tall, and it's supposed to be comforting and complimentary to me that I am viewed as being taller than I am. It is not good to be short.

But I wonder why I think I'm taller than I am. It often surprises me to look at photographs and see the height difference between my companions and me. It often confuses me when I have to look up at someone I'm talking to. I often give inaccurate estimates of other people's heights because I compare them to myself ... and to myself, I do not stand 5'2". I am at least 5' 5". What am I thinking?!?!? Where did I get these three extra mental inches?

Anyhoo. I told Mabel that if I ever look squat and frumpy, she is to throw me a code word so that I can promptly go home and burn the offending outfit. Short, I can take. Squat and frumpy? No way.


***

WHY IT SUCKS, PART THREE THOUSAND AND TWENTY-EIGHT . . .

I am so, so sorry to all of you loyalists ... but New Jersey sucks. It just does.

I have an impeccable sense of direction. I can find my way TO anywhere, FROM anywhere, and OUT OF anywhere. I always know where the river is, where the mountains are, where home is. I can read signs from miles away, even the vandalized ones hidden behind overgrown shrubbery. My gut feelings while driving are never wrong, and I NEVER EVER EVER EVER NEVER get lost.

I got lost today, IN NEW JERSEY. It was supposed to be so easy, too: take this Route to that Route, then hop on the Parkway and go whee, whee, whee all the way home. An easy, breezy, thirty minutes, it was supposed to take. But NOOOOO, the evil forces of New Jersey conspired against me and made me take some random and lengthy tour along all these streets of all these towns that were RIGHT NEAR the Routes I was supposed to take, but never spit me actually ONTO these Routes. And did you know that you're not allowed to take a left turn in New Jersey? EVER?! So of course, I did because I was just so fed up, and by that point, I figured that at least if I get pulled over by a State Trooper (and New Jersey's state troopers are also notoriously sucky -- how appropriate), I could ask him for directions. And did you know that no car with New Jersey license plates will ever let you merge or change lanes in front of them? EVER?! So of course, I bullied my way into any space I could find because by that point, I figured that at least if I was in a car accident, the police would come ... and I could ask them for directions.

Well, I finally found my way home, without a ticket and without an accident, but I am still bitter, for the worst part was that the whole time, I knew exactly where I was. I just couldn't get to where I needed to go ... because New Jersey wouldn't let me!

OLD FRIENDS . . .

It's good to have old friends. I mean, literally. I don't mean elderly, necessarily, but ... it's good to have in one's circle of friends one person -- or two, if one is particularly lucky -- who knows him/herself well, who is secure and confident in the things s/he values and knows and feels, who is so rooted in who God has made him/her to be that it is easy, smooth and effortless to give of his/herself to friends. I have much to learn from my old friend, and I can't believe my great luck in being in this friendship. I have every fear allayed; every reassurance given; every care provided; every prayer prayed; every insecurity dashed.

Even as I write about my own luck, how grateful I feel and how I feel so blessed and loved ... my next thought is: how can I give this to someone else. Assuming that I reach this place of security and self-knowledge and maturity myself, I surely can't hog it. Pay it forward ... bad movie, great life philosophy.

***

SPEAKING OF . . .

... old friends, thanks to the Wonger for some nighttime blog-candy. I'm too wired to sleep, so I'll plod away at this for a bit.

1. What is your full name now? Oh please. Like I don't give enough information away in this blasted Internet.

2. What are you wearing right now? What I like to call my "Little House on the Prairie" pajamas: pink, red and white flannel, from Eddie Bauer.

3. What are you listening to now? Silence. It's sweet.

4. What was the last thing you ate? A slice of Asian pear.

5. Do you wish on stars? No. But seeing them causes me to be awestruck and pray.

6. If you were a crayon, what color would you be? Brick red.

7. How is the weather right now? Well, earlier, I know it was hella-warm. Right now, it seems sort of humid and it's seeping into my home. My flannel is not feeling cozy as much as it's feeling ... sort of damp.

8. Last person you spoke to on the phone? My old friend.

9. How old are you today? Thirty.

10. Favorite drink? Coffee in the morning; water the rest of the day; a Black Russian with Grey Goose when it's just too much.

11. Favorite sport? To watch, baseball. To play ... well, I'm horrible at actually participating in sports.

12. Favorite hobby? Reading, writing, cooking.

13. Hair color? Dark, dark brown. And two wiry strands of white!

14. Siblings? Yes.

15. Favorite food? Korean, preferably made by Omma.

16. What was the last movie you watched? "Crash."

17. Favorite day of the year? Thanksgiving. It's when my family is guaranteed to be together, and Appa prays aloud over all of us. *Sob.* Gets me every time.

18. What was your favorite toy as a child? Legos.

19. Summer or winter? Winter. It's snuggly soft.

20. Hugs or kisses? I shall be greedy and say BOTH.

21. Chocolate or vanilla? Vanilla.

22. Do you want your friends to email you back? Always.

23. When was the last time you cried? Two hours ago, but it was all good, really.

24. What is under your bed? The carpet.

25. Who is the friend you have had the longest? Nan, whom I've known for over twenty years.

26. What did you do last night? Indulged in Thai and conversation with Boms.

27. Favorite smell? Clean man, kimchi jigae, freshly-brewed coffee and sauteed garlic. Totally independent of each other.

28. Favorite TV show? "Lost."

29. Happy in life? Becoming more and more so.

30. What are you afraid of? Being ineffective, being complacent, being forgotten, being useless, being faithless. And clowns.

31. Butter or salted? Salt it up, baby!

32. Favorite car? I remain loyal always: Toyota 4Runner. (Although, if I were permitted to betray Good Girl, I'd say "Audi A4" in a heartbeat!)

33. Favorite flower? Dark red gerber daisies. Pure white calla lilies. Bright yellow sunflowers.

34. Number of keys on your key ring? Seven.

35. How many years at your current job? Omigosh, I am SO unemployed right now. I have been busy doing everything but paid work outside the home for six months! Thank God for this break ...

36. Favorite day of the week? Monday.

37. What did you do on your last birthday? The Saturday before, I was kidnapped for an alleged brunch with The Girls, driven through the Lost Lands of Tarrytown, and dumped in some random factory parking lot on the riverfront for an outdoor tailgate lunch -- awesome! It was so cold, but I couldn't stop laughing! Then the gang loaded onto a Hudson River tour/cruise up to the Buchanan area and back -- what a luscious autumn day and what a fresh, chilly breeze. The actual day of, I had lunch with the family of a sister suffering from breast cancer, then visited her in the hospital, recuperating from a mastectomy. Then a walk with my old friend in a riverfront park and a quiet afternoon of coffee and giggles, before heading home for dinner with the fam.

38. How many towns have you lived in? Six.

39. Do you make friends easily? Depending on the meaning of "friends" ... no, not really. But it's me, not you.

Okay, now you go.

IT'S TOO SOON . . .

It's too soon to be thinking about mortality. Dang, what a naive statement, if ever I made one! But it's true, I think.

She broke her ankle the other day and was surgerized (not a word, I know, but it's so fun and efficient to say) this evening. I have never seen her in a weak state before ... it boggles my mind to imagine her under anesthesia and having to recover from something, having to rely on others for strength and service she has always offered without complaint.

He is having heart trouble. He's been shaved, sedated, prodded, poked, stented, x-rayed more in the last month than anyone should have to endure in a lifetime. I have never seen his spirit tested this way before ... it pains me to see him being weakened thus in order to be strengthened later.

Car accidents, strained muscles, busted knees, persistent headaches, slips and falls, miserable colds, stress, anxiety, sleeplessness, forgetting to eat.

I felt tempted to feel like things are out of control, in my life and in the lives of thoe I love. It's bad enough when I grip tightly to my own days and find the hours slipping out of my grasp; I hate not being able to contain the days of those around me and hold their lives and bodies together as well. But this temptation, unlike others, is easy to put aside. Because I was reminded tonight that God IS in control, and His control is neither suffocating nor strangling; neither condescending nor misguided. His control is precise, benevolent, gentle, true, heavy in the way a favorite winter comforter is weighty and warm upon my body. Best of all, these reminders came to me via the hearts and mouths and email accounts of those upon whom I rely most, even when it's hard for me to take off my armor and ask for a friend to lean on. Especially when. Thank you.

HAPPY NEW YEAR . . .

Is it not January 1st anymore? Hmmm, time flies.

I woke up feeling like today is my New Year's Day. Hard to explain coherently, as are most things rooted deep within one's soul ... it's not that I've been asleep for the past two and a half months, but I feel more engaged, more capable now, today, to cope with life and all that comes with it. Many doors closing, many more doors opening from now on. A longer, more intense workout. A change in my diet. A clean, vacuumed, dusted, Clorox-wiped home. A resolved misunderstanding. A renewed devotion. A job interview. A viable route for a career change, if I wish. A new understanding of the word "family." An adoption of commitment to flexibility and openness and constant reinterpretation of love. A daily attempt to surrender and be led.

It is so good to feel this hopeful. Being out of work has been soooo great ... and soooo demeaning at the same time. Seeing all my friends get married and have babies has been soooo great ... and soooo painful at the same time. Having the time to write, think, create, pray, drive and wander has been soooo great ... and soooo tedious at the same time. In so many things, I have ridden a roller-coaster ride of extreme highs and turbulent lows. In just a short span of time, I've been led to question so many things about myself and the people around me, and it has been way too easy to forget the foundational things that are every-important: the constancy and love of Jesus Christ, my family, my friends. Somehow, in all of this, I've forgotten how to hope and I've let go of the joy of hoping and looking forward with a wicked smile on my face.

I feel the wicked smile coming back. The fenceposts being dug up and cast aside. The charming naughtiness (if I do say so myself) percolating again. The trust being rebuilt. The heart being made willing and able to accept all the good things given to me. Watch out ... my year has begun.

WHY IS IT . . .

... that you can't leave your pets in the car -- even with the window cracked open a bit -- on a super-hot day, but you can do so on a really cold day? Is that allowed? Will the pet be alright? Because if it's not allowed, and it's not alright, then the police dog sitting in the backseat of one of the patrol cars of my local police department is in biiiiig trouble.

... that every car I've seen with the "Merry Maids" logo on the side has been a complete mess on the inside? I mean, from my perch pulled up at a red light next to it, I can look into the car and see: random articles of clothing, fast-food wrappers, beverage bottles, assorted crumpled tissues and napkins, buckets of cleaning supplies, and other everyday detritus. The irony. It slays me.

... that I often seem to have these far-removed and vague interactions with people who later appear in the news for one reason or another? An attorney at a big white-shoe Manhattan law firm was arrested on child molestation and prostitution charges. If my memory serves me correctly, I think I did a couple of errands for him back when I was a paralegal there. Yucko.

... that some people are really bad at keeping secrets, and others aren't? I used to be really bad at keeping secrets myself, until I realized I didn't want people knowing my own. Now, my strategy is to forget other people's secrets, and to never tell my own. Sadly, it has become easier and easier for me to forget other people's secrets -- not because I don't care, but because ... I just forget. And also sadly, it has become easier and easier for me to not tell my own secrets -- not because I don't want to, but because ... people are hard to trust.

... that I can publish my life online for all the world to see, but I still harbor bitterness in my heart that I can't control who reads me? I would love to be able to block out certain people, for I feel they are living vicariously through me -- which is just annoying -- and/or they think they "know" me now because they read these snippets -- which of course they don't, but you can't tell them that because they are neither socially adept enough to realize the difference, or they are in denial. Do I sound harsh? I am. And now these people will think I'm a bitch.

POO ON YOU . . .

Screw you, betrayers and gossip-mongers. As long as the world turns, there will always be people like you: people who jump to conclusions, people who make up stories in their own heads, people who always want to be in the know even about things that have nothing to do with them, people who would perpetuate gossip for their own pleasure and game, people who feel no qualms about putting others on the spot and making them uncomfortable, people who have such little lives that they must live the lives of others along with them, people whose curiosity will kill them. But you know what? Screw you. I can't get rid of you, so I might as well co-exist with you. And frankly, all of these above qualities ... ultimately, they make you deserving of my pity, not my anger.

'Sides. I gots me things to say.

(And a BIG FAT HIGH-FIVE to all you who encouraged me and kicked me in the butt to keep writing. Rock on.)

***

THANKFULNESS . . .

It has been a long, loooong week. FOR THE SAKE OF PROTECTING OTHERS -- gosh, I hate having to do this -- I won't go into details, but suffice to say ... I am damn exhausted.

A lot of my securities were shaken this week, some shallow, some very deeply-rooted. Am I attractive? Am I smart? Am I a productive member of society? Am I a good friend? Am I loved? Do I love sufficiently and care-fully? Do I have a future? Will I ever get married? What will my next job be? When will my next job be? Where is all my money going? Do I give generously and selflessly of myself? How can I protect those I love? The questions went on and on without end.

A lot of my securities were rebuilt this week. Thank you, friends and loved ones, for your emails, your hugs, your blog comments, your company, your understanding looks, your prayers, your hugs, your trust and reassurances, your proving to me everything I needed proof of.

Tonight was singular. I feel like I was in the company of Jesus, manifest in the bodies of my friends. Relaxing with them, eating with them, providing bad Olympics commentary with them (no, we'll never get hired by NBC, will we?) ... in all of these things, I felt heavy and warm the presence of God, His comfort, His friendship, His love, His fire that melts even the coldest of brick walls. I then spent some time praying with a friend about the upcoming retreat for NHF's men ... what an amazing brotherhood they are, to me, and hopefully, increasingly, to each other. I am almost as excited for this retreat as I was for our own. There is nothing like ending an evening in prayer, for where two or more are gathered ...

I approach the end of my week with thankfulness being heaviest on my heart. I am still tired, I am still worn down, I have long roads to travel in healing and restoration, I still have much to continue to lay at His feet, I have much security to still receive and believe. But mostly, I am thankful.

THE END? . . .

(So many things are ending these days, it's hard to keep going without stumbling ...)

But that might be the last personal thing I say in this forum.

The unthinkable, but not entirely unexpected, has finally happened: I've been betrayed by my blog.

Someone read something in what I've written, and has used it to question me, the things I write about, and most importantly to me, the people I write about. I don't care if I'm the one being misunderstood or misinterpreted, or if I'm the one whose life is being questioned, used as fodder for gossip and tall tales. But when I can no longer protect the loved ones I write about -- these beloveds whom I describe and share with you because they are so integral to my life and my well-being that I can't imagine living and creating without them right next to me -- then ... I shouldn't be blogging. Not in this forum anyway. Not for your eyes, not even just to share something, someone great in my life. When these who are closest to my heart -- and such people are very, very few -- are ambushed by nosy people who can't control themselves to know better than to snoop, I'm thinking it might be time to shut down, so that I end up sharing only verbally, controlledly, carefully.

Tomorrow, I might wake up and think that I overreacted. After all, this is a public, Internet web log. Anything I put up here for mass consumption leaves my control the instant I hit "publish." I reserve no right to dictate how you should read and receive these words. But maybe that's the problem: I trusted too much the social wisdom of some of my readers (how strange to even say the phrase "my readers!"). I should have been wilier, or more reserved, less open to sharing myself and the amazing qualities of those I love. I should have known better. The control freak in me let go of a bit of control, and it came around to bite me and my friends in the ass.

No, thanks.

Thus commences a period of reflection. Do I shut myself down, or do I shift direction, or do I rebel against the stupid, insensitive and careless people in this world and carry on as usual? After all, I do hate being censored; I especially hate being censored by idiocy. Hmmmm ... I'll have to think on this a bit more.

As for you ... you think upon this a bit more too.
And for crying out loud, GET A LIFE.
Quit living vicariously through me and those dear to me.

(You know what the worst part is? I don't even know who "you" are. There, does that make you feel better and less guilty, and now you can hide behind anonymity? I know who you might be, but I am not sure, and so I won't accuse. And the worst of the worst part of all of this -- as if I could feel worse than knowing that my friend must convince himself of my loyalty and respect for him and his privacy -- is that any suspicion and distrust of people, even my "friends," that had melted away is frozen back up; any walls that had fallen between all of you and me are rebuilt; any wondrous belief I had in the goodness and purity of people's hearts and that people I would call friends would NOT fall prey to the lure of gossip and wanting to be "in the know" has vanished. I'm back to my old self. So you better sleep with one eye open from now on, and yes, you better walk on eggshells around me.)

THE RANDOMIZER STRIKES AGAIN . . .

Nan told me about a quarter-marathon (about six miles, apparently, right?) coming up, and invited me to run it with her husband and Jimbo. She, after all, can run actual half-marathons, if not an actual marathon. "Six miles," I thought, "I can totally do that." So I asked when this quarter-marathon would take place. "October," she replied. I was elated. after all, only I would relish having eight months to "train" for a quarter-marathon.

***

TinyCricket and I have begun 'firming up' our plans to head to London for a long weekend soon ... maybe in June or July or so. This is my dream come true. The accent. The tea. The clotted cream. The history. The churches. The British mentality and worldview. The irony. The literature. I can't wait. I am a bit worried about one small thing ... what if it's not all I imagined it would be, and more? What if I land in this place I have long considered my soul's home, and I discover that ... it sucks? That would be horrible.

***

I am finding it difficult to express myself these days. Even last night, hanging with the girls, there was so much I wanted to say, but every time I opened my mouth, nothing of any worth came out. Except for sighs. I was really full from eating continuously for an hour and a half, and I had to sigh periodically to relieve the pressure in my belly. I can't tell what my blockage is. It could be denial of the fact that I'm still unemployed and increasingly poor. It could be my brain having become dull from bordeom and lack of substantive activity. It could be fear that no one will understand me, or worse, that even my friends will shun me for being a little too weird, a little too intense, a little too not like them. It could be the laws of physics -- so much wanting to come out at one time, that only little droplets can be squeezed out through a limited-sized opening. I feel stifled, restless, unsatisfied, insecure.

***

I like to think that I'm a pretty well-adjusted and self-assured woman. And so, it surprises me to see myself be utterly insecure and completely disbelieving of people who would offer me uninhibited security. My disappointment in my own failings, the way I let people down, the way I misunderstand and misread folks, is so great at times, that I can't believe anyone would forgive me, or even think that there is nothing to forgive. I've lost count of how many times I've been told in the last two weeks that I'm too hard on myself, and that I take on faults and responsibilities that are not mine to carry. And so I wonder if it's some sort of sickness, that I carry these things and place these burdens on my shoulders when they don't belong there. Or are my friends lying to me? Are they just being nice and telling me falsehoods to make me feel better? Grace and unfailing love ... such difficult things to understand and accept ...

***

TiVO and DVR are great, great inventions. At the Alien's Spaceship last night, we were all over the crashes and the wipeouts in the downhill skiing and the snowboard-cross events. If people were in the kitchen or the bathroom and missed the sight, even better! "Rewind! Rewind! I wanna see the wipeout!" We watched Lindsey Jacobellis -- showoff -- wipe out over, and over, and over, and over again. And each time, our groans got louder, more dramatic, more emotional, more angry. "Oh." "Oh!" "Ohhhh!" "OHHHHH!" "OOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAARGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!" And of course, "SHOW IT AGAIN!" We are sick, sick people.

***

I crave the company of my friends these days. I think I need my insecurities to be alleviated, and since I can't do it for myself, I need my friends to do it for me. I need someone to laugh at my jokes. I need someone to hear my stories. I need someone to give me advice, a chuckle, a knowing smile. I need someone to exchange witty repartee with. I need someone to tell me about her life. I need someone to eat with, play with, watch TV with, snuggle under a blanket with. I need someone to be in the same room with me to make me feel sane and warm and welcome and real.

***

I love team relay sports. They make me feel warm and fuzzy inside. I like to imagine the affection and reliance and trust that flows between and among the team members, the unspoken words that pass easily from mind to mind, the reality of all-for-one-and-one-for-all being lived out in training, dining, exercising, maintaining a lifestyle. I often think of my spiritual life as a team relay. I understand that any relationship with Christ is personal and individualized. But without my church, my small group, my girls, my deacons, my co-leaders, where would I be? If Christianity was an individual life-sport, then who would catch me when I fell or tripped or injured myself? Who would nurse me back to health, who would run a little harder and faster for me to make up for lost time, who would put me back on the right diet and training regimen? Who would give me that hard push, like in the speed-skating relays, that I need to get into the right rhythm, at the right speed? Who would I slap high-fives with at the end? I think that's what I crave -- not just the company of my friends, but teammates. I crave the feeling of relying on my team, of loving them and being loved by them, of trusting them and being trusted by them for the purpose of staying alive. This craving ... it's like a big lion's roar building inside me, waiting to come out. Who are my teammates who will respond to this roar?

MEMORY . . .

Things I have to remember:

-- true: "I heard every word you said."
-- true: "I am not pulling away."
-- true: "You have every reassurance."
-- true: "This is me being true and self-controlled."
-- true: "It's not your fault."
-- true: "It's okay."
-- true: "I'll see you soon."

***

LAST FIVE . . .

Last five books I read/bought:
1. The Future of Freedom, Fareed Zakaria
2. Grammars of Creation, George Steiner
3. Gravity and Grace, Simone Weil
4. Don't Try This At Home ..., Kimberly Witherspoon, et al.
5. Holy the Firm, Annie Dillard

Last five CDs I bought:
I haven't bought an actual CD in a very long time, but here are the entire albums I downloaded onto iTunes:
1. "Extraordinary Machine," Fiona Apple
2. "Life in Slow Motion," David Gray
3. "Illuminate," David Crowder Band
4. "Spem in Alium," Tallis's 40-part Motet sung by the Kings' College Choir
5. "Suite Bergamesque for Piano -- the Complete Solo Piano Works of Claude Debussy," Michael Beroff

Last five songs I bought on iTunes:
1. "Just For Now," Imogen Heap
2. "Hide and Seek," Imgoen Heap
3. "Headlock," Imogen Heap
4. "The Wings" from "The Brokeback Mountain Soundtrack," Gustavo Santolalla
5. "Snow" from "The Brokeback Mountain Soundtrack," Gustavo Santolalla

Last five DVDs I bought:
1. "Emma"
2. "Sex and the City, Season Two"
3. "Sex and the City, Season One"
4. "Pride and Prejudice"
5. "Madagascar"

Last five items of clothing I bought:
1. dress
2. pair of jeans
3. pair of jeans
4. pair of yoga pants
5. pair of argyle socks

Last five tickets (movie/show/etc) I bought:
1. "Nanny McPhee"
2. "Rent" on Broadway
3. "King Kong"
4. MoMA
5. "Munich"

Last five food items I bought:
1. lunch at a mall food court
2. groceries for a curry dinner
3. Beard Papa cream puffs
4. McDonald's french fries
5. bottle of water

THE SLOOT IS BACK . . .

I missed the Koreans winning the short-track speed-skating events, and so I feel I have fallen in the ranks of my slootiness.

BUT, I'm back with a vengeance tonight for the men's figure skating.

That is, I was until I opened up the Internet -- my Safari homepage is set to The New York Times -- and found out that the Russian dude already won the gold.

Damn time zones.
Damn Internet.

***

REPRESENT . . .

We seem to be everywhere these days. By "we," I mean us pesky Korean-Americans.

We as a class have not been in this country very long. Even on the West Coast, the bulk of us have only been in this country for a maximum of about three generations. Four, if y'all got here real early. I feel like I, and many Korean-Americans I know and have met and have discoursed with, struggle -- consciously or subconsciously -- with feeling at home here. This is where I was born and raised, and I would not dream of picking up and putting down roots elsewhere, Shrubbery nothwithstanding. But there has always been something in me, something in us, that has not yet let us become fully integrated socially, politically, economically. Huge strides are being made, and I can't wait to be part of this wave of home-ness. Feeling like I belong here. Feeling like I am accepted here by the soon-to-be-no-longer-white-American majority. Feeling like I, like we, have a voice in society, in politics, in academia, in every sector of this great nation we all call home. I long for that.

And so it's incredibly gratifying to see faces like mine everywhere, all of a sudden. Not the least of whom is Hines Ward, he of the Super Bowl MVP award. Folks like him continue to be reviled back in the Motherland for being not only 'merely' half-Korean, but half-black, and half-the child of an American G.I.. Well ... they were reviled. Now, it cracks me up in a sad and bitter sort of way to see how my people are lauding him and offspring like him as being "Korean heroes." The irony. Slays me every time. But here, in my country, it warms the cockles of my heart -- really, truly, deeply -- to see his face, to hear his story, to see his name.

And of course, just the other day, Korean-adoptee Toby Dawson gets on up there and brings home a bronze medal for the United States. He's on the lookout -- driven by curiosity, he says -- for his birth family back in Korea. I had to do a double-take; we can recognize each other anywhere, and I'm often asked, "how can you tell Koreans apart from Chinese apart from Japanese?" I dunno. We just can, mostly. And so when I saw him up on that podium, I knew, and I was proud. And I was glad for his family here, and for his birth family back in the Motherland, and for all of us who can look at people like him and think, "now, it is beginning to be true: anything is possible."

It's such a small thing, really. Some will think I make too big a deal of it, this whole race thing, this whole assimilation thing, this whole "am I or aren't I a real American" thing, this whole culture and Motherland thing. But it is a big deal, and it should be a big deal ... until it ceases to be.

Originally uploaded by chaesq.

A lovely hostess gift from my bro JC, self-proclaimed King of the Lemurs. What a beautiful thing to waking-waking up to every day ...

POST-SCRIPT TO LOVE . . .

If this is not among the most sweet engagement stories you have evah heard, then you are a cold, dead soul. Mister Man, I have only the vaguest ideas of who you are, but two snaps in a big fat circle to you!

And because it shouldn't be restricted to just one day a year ... Happy Love Day Again, folks. Be lovely to someone today.

LOVING ME . . .

Okay, I don't want to brag, but I will, because I'm having a really good self-confidence day for the following reasons:

* I'm really capable, speedy and productive in the kitchen (thanks, Omma, for the good training)
* the edible products that come out of my kitchen are generally of good and tasty quality
* I'm efficient
* I get ready in record time (for a girl, that is)
* I am able to make my friends feel comfortable in my home
* I can read and understand difficult reading material
* I am a good driver
* I have lost my voice due to my recent cold, but when it starts to come back, I will have a sexy husky voice
* my guitar callouses are coming along very nicely
* my family loves me
* my friends love me
* it is real to me that Jesus loves me

Take a look at yourself -- do you love what you see? Do you love what you can't see? I hope so.

Know also that Jesus loves you, died for you and His love is enduring and unshakeable. Would that our love for ourselves and for each other could be the same ...

Happy Valentine's Day.

GRRRR ON ME . . .

(I am such a lazy bum. I have checked my email three times. I have checked everyone's blog twice. I have responded unnecessarily to two emails. I have made a second cup of tea. I have eaten a bowl of cereal. I have gone to the bathroom. I have read every online newspaper. I have gotten up for a throat lozenge. I have washed the dishes. I have made the bed. I have done everything except sit down and start working on more cover letters. I am such a lazy bum.)

SLAYED . . .

The irony slays me, it really does.

How is it possible that I could spend an entire day and evening, soooo glad for the chance to be snowed in, to rest, to just lay around, to give into tiredness and sleepiness, to allow my body to slowly recover from this wretched cold ... but then, when it's time to take a night-time cold tablet and drop off into sleep, I DON'T?

I wonder -- horror of horrors -- if I've built up a tolerance to night-time Comtrex. GASP. I live and die by night-time Comtrex. For my entire life so far, whenever I have caught a cold, all it took was one, maybe two nights of being felled by one wee night-time Comtrex and sweating it out under heavy blankets to recover fully and bounce back to my old peppy self. The last two bouts of sickness, however, I have discovered that instead of falling deep into sleep (albeit riddled with the most bizarre dreams evah), I have remained WIDE AWAKE. For HOURS. Into DAWN.

What the ...

I don't know how to face life with a cold without an effective night-time Comtrex. I feel slightly betrayed, actually, by this normally trusty pill. (I feel even worse because I tout its glories to everyone I know, and now, if it doesn't work for me, why the heck would it work for them? And if they end up staying up all night because of this wretchedly faulty formula ... oh, I can't bear the guilt.)

Of course, it doesn't help that I'm simultaneously thinking of: finances, jobs, writing cover letters, wondering when I will get married so my parents will be happy, how hard the snow is going to be to clear off of my car in the morning, how long it's going to take me to get through Grammars of Creation, why I find myself always in the position of caring for others more than they care for me, how I can better love this person I have a really hard time loving, if I want to switch careers and go into teaching, how long the night is and how much better tomorrow will be ...

And then there's this eternal problem: the blankets are too hot. But if I kick them off, I'm too cold. So I gingerly replace them upon my body, and it's a furnace again.

Seriously. What is a whiny sick girl to do?

MY ACHING SLOOT HEART . . .

MIchelle Kwan has pulled out of the Olympics. Oh, my aching, aching heart.

I'm not being facetious. I feel and have always felt a great affinity and care for Michelle Kwan, a 25-year-old woman I have never met and probably never will. No, I'm not going to start stalking her or anything like that. But I have always been a fan of hers. Maybe because she's Asian? Maybe because she's an immigrant's daughter publicly living out an American dream? Maybe because she just seems like an intelligent and nice person who deserves great things?

Whatever it is, I am deeply sad for her. At the same time, I'm also glad for her. The world is full of people who are not humble and realistic enough to let go of something when it's just not going to work out for them. Michelle Kwan skating through injury and pain -- that would've been dumb. Giving up her Olympic slot for Emily Hughes, who might be a medal contender for the American team -- that's smart, and gracious, and humble, and just the right thing to do.

Still ... the Olympic sloot in me will miss Michelle Kwan terribly when ladies' skating night rolls around on the 21st. She had something that hasn't been seen on the ice in a long time. Sarah Hughes had that great exuberance, Sasha Cohen has an aloof sort of grace, Emily Hughes has a youthful vigor, Nancy Kerrigan had pure strength ... but Michelle Kwan had it all. My Winter Olympics experience just won't be the same.

IT'S FLUFFY . . .

I love that word: fluffy. We got about 16 inches of fluff so far, with another 2-4 inches slated to fall. That's a lot of fluff.

Church is cancelled today. This is wise, given that a large bulk of our congregation arrives from a good distance away, some driving upwards of an hour just to join our familial gathering each week. Hmmm ... just writing that sentence, I am made to pause and ponder the wonder of it. That we are so connected to each other, that we love each other so, that we need each other enough, whether we recognize it or not, that we would come from near and very far, just to be part of the same congregation each and every Sunday. It is truly humbling to recognize the unique and special family of which I am a member ...

I'm bummed that church is cancelled, though. Not just because I love driving through inclement weather in Good Girl and feeling completely invincible when I arrive at my destination. But I also love the "Little House on the Prairie" feeling that is evoked within me whenever I have to do anything in heavy snow. Traipsing through the banks of snow to stumble through the church doors, shaking myself off like a giant collie, undoing my scarf and hood to reveal a completely reddened face with my eyebrows and lashes fringed with snowflakes, greeting others who have been through the same amusing ordeal ... it's very Ingalls family, don't you think? (I'm also bummed because going out would have given me an excuse to stock up on orange juice, which I am suddenly and desperately craving, damn my sick self!)

Still, the words of truth and wisdom are correct, especially for me, especially at this time: "He says to the snow, ‘Fall on the earth,’ and to the rain shower, ‘Be a mighty downpour.’ So that all men he has made may know his work, he stops every man from his labour." (Job 37:6-7) I am stopped from my labour. Heck, I'm stopped from everything -- I'm still bleary and achy enough to not want to go anywhere, even if the roads were clear and I could. But truth rings loudly ... I am glad to have this day of rest, a real day of rest. I am glad to have this day to have my own church, to be forced to be still -- without meetings or greetings or practices -- and to think upon His work. Rare is this opportunity, even on Sundays.

(And of course, after I have my own church, I can tune into women's speed-skating.)

SUCKER . . .

I am a bigger sucker than I thought.

First, some background. My body just ain't what it used to be. Time was, I'd catch a cold, pop some Comtrex, sweat it out through one night, then bounce right back the next day. Over the years, that "one night" has turned to two, then three ... and now, I need a whole week to kick a cold. And of course, it goes in waves of feeling fine one day and being completely felled by exhaustion the next. Today was an exhaustion day. I sat down on the couch after breakfast, just to rest, you see. And next thing I know, it was five hours later and I found myself groggily rolling over on my side to open up a whole day's worth of important emails. Of course, replying to said important emails when you are half awake and sweating feverishly is probably not the wisest of things to do ... but bygones.

So after I shook myself fully into consciousness, I slapped on the television to do my daily Olympics sloot check. An hour later, I thought to myself, "my mind and heart just are not what they used to be," for lo, I had been utterly sucked in by the men's Nordic combined individual race. Yes, my friends, CROSS-COUNTRY SKIING. A whole bunch of men, none of whom I can tell apart from the other, just sort of ... skiing. And there I was, sitting up straighter and straighter, my heart beating faster and faster, my bleary eyes opening wider and wider, wondering with bated breath, "is the German going to win or will the Norwegian overtake him in the last few seconds?!?!?!?!" Well, the German won, and my heart rate returned to normal. Never thought I'd see the day that cross-country skiing got my blood moving ...

***

SIDE-NOTE . . .

Thank you, area sanitation workers. I still don't believe that it's going to snow that much. In fact, I won't believe it until I step out of my home tomorrow and right into a humongous snow bank. But even that ... I don't believe it's going to exist for me to even step into. And I'm not going to look out the window during the night, because I firmly and delusionally believe that if I can't see it, it's not really there. But still. You men and women are out there already, spreading preventative rock salt and sand, and y'all are going to be up all night in this crazy cold and awful weather. You do this because it's your job and because you need the overtime pay, and Lord knows, y'all would rather be home sleeping, or at least warm. And I wonder if anyone ever thanks you? Probably not. So I'm thanking you. You guys work hard and you keep us safe and for that I am eternally grateful. Be safe tonight, y'all.

***

BACK TO WHY I AM A SUCKER . . .

The American ice skating pair of Inoue and Baldwin just landed the first ever throw-triple-axle in Olympic competition. "Like butter," one commentator, Sandra Bezic, stated rapturously. "Olympic history!!!" exclaimed Dick Button, tears colouring his voice.

I, of course, got verklempt, and had to reach for another Kleenex. I choose to blame my overworked tear ducts on the overload of cold medication and feverishness ... but you and I both know it's just because I'm a big Olympics sloot.

***

I love watching the luge competition ... but I just don't understand it. Luge and skeleton are among the most counter-intuitive sports, to my mind. Who was it that was sitting around one day and thought, "Let me lie down on something the size and relative weight of a large cutting board, and hurtle myself down an ice chute at speeds of up to 85 miles an hour"? And the inventor of the skeleton -- that genius decided to face the racer head-first.

Of course, I don't have to understand something to viscerally enjoy it. And the awful, sadistic part of me wants to viscerally experience something else: a major crash. I keep hearing the commentators talk about these awful crashes that the racers are involved in during their training runs, but I have yet to actually see one. I know, I know, this is deeply sick ... but it just seems to me that if you're going to chat about it, you should at least show me what you're chatting about.

***

I'm watching, through increasingly droopy eyes, a Chinese pair skating together. These are a powerful lot, these Chinese atheletes, for sure. But there's just something a little off about a skating pair where the woman and the man are the same height, same frame, same build, and apparently the same weight. I recognize that this is an utterly superficial and vapid observation ... but I know C.o.S. would agree with me. It's just an extension of how we both felt about Suriya Bonali back in the day ... remember her?! Powerful, yes. Dainty, no. Definitely no.

***

Must. Stay. Awake. For. Speed. Skating.

SLOOT! . . .

The unthinkable has happened: I have turned back into a huge Olympics sloot.

Yes, I watched the Opening Ceremonies last night. NBC advertised it as starting at 8pm. NO, NO, NO, my friends. Their bizarro telecast of all things cliche and sappy began at 8pm. The actual coverage of the ceremony (which, incidentally, was long since OVER by the time prime-time rolled around on the East Coast) started at 9pm, but I'm the big bonehead who didn't figure this out until it was too late, so I was stuck watching ridiculous interviews with Bode Miller who is just as sullen as sullen can be and Michelle Kwan who now is supposedly going to quit the Olympics because of injuries and I just think that's too sad. Because I'm an Olympics sloot.

So finally, 9pm rolls around ... and I can't help but determine to attend an Opening Ceremony one of these days, because no matter how grand and expensive and culturally significant and well-planned these things are, they just look dumb on television. I think the ubiquitous close-up camera shots and trite voice-over commentaries just ruin everything for everyone. I don't need or want to see every dancer flub every step, and I don't need or want Bob Costas explaining the symbolic importance of dancers wearing cow-spotted costumes. I want my imagination to take flight and I want the child in me to be stunned at the visual cohesiveness of what I'm seeing. This, I believe, can only be achieved if I'm actually in the stadium itself, seeing with my own blurry eyes and hearing with my own non-commentated ears.

I was bored. Sorry. I hate to say it, but I was. Still ... isn't it amazing that heartstrings can be pulled, even through boredom? When those Olympic rings went up white and transformed into the five colors of the world ... alright, alright, I teared up. I always do. It's just what I do -- the Olympics begin, and I start to cry. Even in this jaded, terrorized, politicized and polarized world, does it not mean anything anymore that human beings of all manner of differences can come together for two weeks of peace and pure competition (French ice-dancing judges notwithstanding)? It still means something to me.

I stuck around long enough to see the two Koreas march in as a united team. Buzz has it that in upcoming summer games, North Korea and South Korea will even compete as one country. The prospect both frightens and thrills me. What a perfect underscore to the concept of the Olympic Games.

Then I had to turn it off. I'm sick, after all, and my fog-filled brain can handle only so much visual stimulation. I didn't even watch the torch being lit, because ... well, it already happened and I already read about it in online news. Damn the Internet.

So now, I find myself eagerly awaiting the chance to watch some of this competition. Speed skating, downhill skiing, and yes of course, ice skating. Oh, gotta love that ice skating competition. I wish C.o.S. was here so we could judge the competitors together ... but I don't think our standards would be the same as those for international competition: "Her outfit was horrendous!" "What was that expression of straining on her face when she did that jump?" "Are his pants too tight?" "And what is WITH the overload of sequins?"

WHAT'S MY MOTIVATION . . .

It's a draggy day today. Fridays always are, for some reason. It is hard for me to be motivated to do the things I needed and wanted to do today. It doesn't help that the first thing I did this morning was slice my index finger wiiiiide open on a knife that was hidden in the kitchen sink. Blood and guts don't make me sick or nauseous ... but they do make me feel entitled to sit here and gaze stupidly at the Band-Aid on my finger, unable and unwilling to do anything else worthwhile.

"They" say a major winter storm is going to come swooping into the area tomorrow, into Sunday. Well, what the heck ... there are things I wanted to pick up at the grocery store, but now the anti-establishment rebel in me is refusing to step foot into any sort of food market, because I know that there will be hysterical storm-watchers in there stocking up on water and canned goods, because you KNOW that when the snow passes, there will be no more water or beans left in the world so you best get them all now! And I just refuse to be that person. Of course, I could just nonchalantly stroll on in there and buy one single Snickers bar, just to rub it in the noses of the people in the non-express checkout lane whose carts are chock-a-block full of gallon bottles of water. But I don't want candy and that would be a waste of my lame energy today.

SpiderBat and Mabel will be working together soon. Well, not together, but mostly together. They'll be in the same building. That's so cool; I am somewhat envious. I've made great friends in my different past workplaces, but I wonder what it would be like to work with, or in the same place, as long-established pals. Weird. But fun. It would be difficult to call in sick when you're not really sick, though.

Do I want to be a teacher?

Or would I rather be a student-for-life?

I have begun reading three books at once: The Future of Freedom, by Fareed Zakaria; Teaching a Stone to Talk, by Annie Dillard; and Grammars of Creation, by George Steiner. Talk about intense. Yesterday, after five hours of reading these three books, my brain was a-jumble, and I came home and turned on the television to untangle the jumble, only to find that the TV was just too loud and just too stupid. There is nothing stupider on television than your local evening news. Seriously. I had to turn it off and let the brain jumble about in silence.

What do you do when you want to ask someone lots and lots of questions, just to figure some things out, just to clear the air, but you don't feel you can, because you don't want to face the consequences of (1) rocking the boat; and (2) receiving an answer you may not want to receive?

Momentum ... I feel like momentum is being lost. This impending snowstorm, be that as it may, is like a sudden brake on so many inspired things. A long-awaited M/O team meeting on Sunday morning ... might have to be cancelled. The W/M meeting on Sunday evening ... will women even come if the roads are slick and icy and they'd rather be home sipping hot cocoa with their kids? My cover letters are sounding lame and trite and fake again. I am torn, because for once in my life, I face too many opportunities, instead of just the one that I am confident God put before me to grab ... and I see how true it is that having too many choices can be paralyzing sometimes. I'm still young -- I'm not supposed to know what I want to do next year, two years from now, five or eight or ten years from now. Do I take this job or that job? Do I commit to this or that person? Do I go back to school or just take some classes? Do I save up for this trip or that trip? It's too much; it's easier to sit here and stare at my Band-Aided finger -- not my guitar finger, thank goodness. And so, the momentum is lost.

Flacon says I don't talk much when I'm with him. That's not true; I'd just rather listen to him most of the time that we spend together. He says it wasn't an attack on me or my ways; I took it as such. But I talk so much with and to other people who need me to respond to them ... I just need the break to listen and absorb and let myself rest and be spoken to and trusted without feeling the pressure and social burden of responding. And some things are too precious to respond to; the best I can do is receive them in silence and try to convey my own gratitude for being the one receiving.

I really should get out and about, and face this Friday head-on. Confront if before it confronts me. What's my motivation?

WHEN IT'S TOO MUCH . . .

I am overloaded with thought lately. Thoughts about church, jobs, careers, friends, family, love, hate, faith, God. It's too much to write about just now ... even my most private journal is a jumble of non sequitur phrases. It will take me weeks to iron these things out. So for now, I occupy the surface of my mind with senseless quizzes.

***

MY FACE . . .

What Your Face Says

At first glance, people see you as warm and well-balanced. Overall, your true self is reserved and logical. With friends, you seem thoughtful and interested in ideas. In love, you seem mysterious and interesting. In stressful situations, you seem cheerful and optimistic.

What Do People Think Of Your Face?

***

MY MAJOR . . .

Your Scholastic Strength Is Deep Thinking

You aren't afraid to delve head first into a difficult subject, with mastery as your goal. You are talented at adapting, motivating others, managing resources, and analyzing risk. You should major in: Philosophy Music Theology Art History Foreign language

What Should You Major In?

***

MY HIDDEN TALENT . . .

Your Hidden Talent

You have the natural talent of rocking the boat, thwarting the system. And while this may not seem big, it can be. It's people like you who serve as the catalysts to major cultural changes. You're just a bit behind the scenes, so no one really notices.

What's Your Hidden Talent?

***

MY TEMPERAMENT . . .

You Have a Melancholic Temperament

Introspective and reflective, you think about everything and anything. You are a soft-hearted daydreamer. You long for your ideal life. You love silence and solitude. Everyday life is usually too chaotic for you. Given enough time alone, it's easy for you to find inner peace. You tend to be spiritual, having found your own meaning of life. Wise and patient, you can help people through difficult times. At your worst, you brood and sulk. Your negative thoughts can trap you. You are reserved and withdrawn. This makes it hard to connect to others. You tend to over think small things, making decisions difficult.

What Temperament Are You?

FIGHTING A COLD . . .

And totally NOT self-inspired, so here's a questionnaire to occupy my muddled thoughts:

1. Grab the book nearest to you, turn to page 18, find line 4. Write down what it says.
"But he said to them, 'Do not detain me,..."

2. Stretch your left arm out as far as you can. What do you touch first?
Nothing but air.

3. What is the last thing you watched on TV?
An iTunes downloaded episode of "Monk," from the fourth season.

4. WITHOUT LOOKING, guess what the time is.
1:12a.

5. Now look at the clock, what is the actual time?
Not bad: 1:11a.

6. With the exception of the computer, what can you hear?
A friend washing his hands in the bathroom.

7. When did you last step outside? What were you doing?
An hour ago, returning from "Nanny McPhee."

8. Before you came to this website, what did you look at?
The Unlimited Mood -- thanks for the inspiration.

9. What are you wearing?
Grey yoga pants, lavender camisole, dark grey cardigan, and a rubber-band in my hair.

10. Did you dream last night?
Several times, about cooking, about eating sushi, about decorating and painting a friend's house, ...

11. When did you last laugh?
A few minutes ago, when my friend made a funny.

12. What is on the walls of the room you are in?
Three framed Kandinsky prints: "Untitled," "Counter-Gravitation," and "Frolicher Aufstieg (Merriment Rising)."

13. Seen anything weird lately?
Always, for my attention is drawn to weirdness. Most recently: a video display at the movie theater of cartoon popcorn popping. It was mesmerizing; I literally stopped mid-sentence to stare at it with my mouth open ("ooooh, look at the popcoooooooorrrrrrn") and I literally had to be led away from the screen.

14. What is the word most often used in your vocabulary?
"Oh, crrrrrrap."

15. What is the last film you saw?
"Nanny McPhee." One of the most charming, sweetest, warmest movies I've seen in recent memory.

16. If you became a multi-millionaire overnight, what would you buy first?
A condo for my parents. Then, Cheech's medical school tuition. Then I'd get to work on the list of books I've been wanting to read. And then a new Springform pan so I can make square cheesecakes. And then ... a pair of J.Crew jeans.

17. Tell me something about you that I don't know.
I have an Oscar award acceptance speech all written out and ready to go.

18. If you could change one thing about the world, regardless of guilt or politics, what would it be?
Make everyone receptive to at least hearing the Gospel of Jesus Christ.

19. Do you like to dance?
Oh yes. Yes, indeed.

20. Do you like to sing?
Oh yes, very much.

21. Imagine your first child is a girl, what do you call her?
Madeleine.

22. Imagine your first child is a boy, what do you call him?
Micah.

23. Would you ever consider living abroad?
I never thought I would, but more and more, the thought is not repulsive to me ... but I am a baby. I would prefer to go to an English-speaking country (my "native" England always beckons), or someplace where the language will be easy for me to pick up: Russia, Spain, or Italy.

WEDNESDAY AND THURSDAY IN ENEMY TERRITORY . . .

(Pssst. Pitchers and catchers report in fifteen days!)

***

Sometimes the greatest "hardship" (yeah, I know, my life is so tough that I would actually term this a "hardship") about going away for a bit, either on business or pleasure, is the shower situation at the place to which I am going. My shower at home has incredible water pressure, and the water quality is such that soap suds are quickly rinsed away and I'm left with that nice, squeaky feeling. (What is that? Hard or soft water? I always get confused.) Wherever I go, usually, the shower just is not the same, so I am either in the shower for hours trying to get all the suds out of my hair and off my body, or I'm walking around the whole day feeling like I have a layer of soap scum coating my entire self.

Not at C.o.S.'s place. Her house is like my house. Her shower is like my shower. So enjoyable.

***

I dropped C.o.S. off near her workplace, then headed back to my old 'hood to loiter at Starbucks until it was time to meet up with Ems.

The 'hood is the same. My wine shop, my takeout Thai place, my bookstore, my CVS, my stationery store, my gourmet deli, my bagel shoppe (yes, with the extra 'pe' at the end), and lo, my old Starbucks. Starbucks outlets look and are the same wherever you go -- it's really an amazing feat, if you think about it.

I grabbed the cushy seat in the corner, the perfect vantage point from which to look out and see the entire interior of the store in one glance. And next to me .... ahhhh, it took me back. A young woman dressed in a suit, pored distractedly over her Constitutional Law textbook. Girl, I feel that.

***

I almost ran over a pedestrian on Longwood Ave this morning.

***

After seven long years ... Ems!

Don't you feel like there are people in your life whom you don't have to see all the time ... but then when you do finally see them, you find out they are living the exact life you always imagined they would? Thus were Ems and her husband and their two kids.

She looked the same, except for two very stylish streaks of white framing her face. Her mannerisms, her sayings, the lilt in her voice, the direct way she looks at you -- all the same. Her house was exactly as I thought it would be: small, cozy, homey, comfortable, green (the kitchen, anyway) and filled with healthy foods and a supply of red wine. Her kids were exactly as I thought they'd be: precocious, smart, witty, wriggly, laugh-inducing, round-facedly adorable. And good ol' Dr.Phil ... I have such vague memories of him, but I'm so glad to have made these new ones.

It was strange, though. I often experience deja vu and I often daydream about days, events, people in the past. But I don't often feel the past so viscerally, in my gut, and I don't question my own vision and wonder if I'm seeing something from the past before my very eyes. Chatting and laughing over a bottle of cabernet with Ems and Dr.Phil, I felt completely and bodily transported back to our college days, when wine and laughter and looking directly and honestly into each other's eyes were a consistent part of our collective diet. Putting our memories of commonly-shared experiences together, I remembered so much of what has made me the woman I am today. It was, in a word, a breathtaking evening.

Ems and Dr.Phil might take their clan south to New Orleans for the next few years. That's good, because that's just one more place for me to plan to visit. But that's bad, too. I have just rediscovered Ems. It will be hard to let her go.

***

I didn't know whether to laugh or feel offended.

Dr.Phil proclaimed himself to be a Lostie. I was, naturally, immediately excited, and wanted to go over every single episode, every single passing comment, every single incidence of Black Smoke, and every single theory with him. But then I found out the truth, because these were the next words, more or less, out of Dr.Phil's mouth:

"So, there's that rodeo guy [hand movement imitating a gunslinger] with the long hair and drawl and he's in the water with that Korean dude who's all up in handcuffs or something, and the black guy with his son WALT who was taken by the pirates ["THE PIRATES?!" I interrupted with a shriek.] And so the pirates take Walt and the black dude is all mad and stuff. And then there's the Latina girl with the big lips, you know ["Yeah. ANA LUCIA." I stated sullenly] and she's got her own squad, and she's all thinking this one guy in the pit is the bad guy and she all kills him, but then goes up the mountain with this other guy and she knows he's the real bad guy so she [insert hand movements imitating stabbing someone], you know, with a big stick or something and then he's all dead and stuff. And then there's that big tall black guy who doesn't talk and isn't he something? And before that, I saw this one episode where that Korean chick lost her ring or something and she's all [insert loud weeping and moaning sound] but then Locke says something really wise to her ... dang, I wish I had written it down; it was really deep. Something about not being lost because he wasn't trying to be found or something like that. And then oh yeah, I saw the hatch, basement, whatever, and that muscleman who's all working out and stuff. And the numbers on the wall with the really old DOS computer and those bizarro numbers, and he's all got a gun to Locke and the sexy girl's head and then Dr. Matthew Fox jumps on down in there and he's all, "What do I do? Where have I seen this muscleman before?" But then the muscleman freaks out [insert frantic movement of arms above head] and runs away and Dr. Matthew Fox has to handle everything. So see? Now I'm all caught up and know everything."

Seriously.

***

The greater Boston area is ... cozy and charming. In my less-than-24-hours with Ems, we walked to a garden, an arboretum, and the grocery store (selling, of course, all manner of health foods and organic/natural products). This morning, Ems walked Junior to his elementary school bus stop and back. I just love all that walking. It's like living in Manhattan all over again ... but cleaner and nicer and crunchier.

I really envy that. I'm lucky enough now to live in an area where I can walk everywhere, too -- the grocery, the cafe, the library, the post office, the deli, and if I was really ambitious, the video store (I'm never that ambitious). But it's just not the same. There isn't the same feeling of houses sitting up against each other, neighbors knowing each other, that friendly granola/nearly-Oregonian healthiness. I can't explain it; you have to witness and live it for yourself.

I would never relocate up there ... and New York will never turn out like that, unless you live in the chic-chic parts of the Village or Brooklyn (and please, like I'll EVER live in BROOKLYN) ... but the idea is charming enough for me to dwell upon it and admire it the whole drive back.

***

There is something wrong with society when you're already driving 85 mph in the middle lane of a major highway, and (1) you are being passed on both sides; and (2) the cars coming up behind you are honking and flashing their highbeams at you to get out of the way.

REALLY WRONG.

***

I crammed so much into the past three and a half days. Three home visits, and none of them were nearly long enough for my taste (can't speak for my hosts). I long to spend more time with all of them. All of our lives, simultaneously, are in such flux right now. What I would give to be able to talk more, laugh more, cry more, pray more, hug more and generally more often be in the presence of these beloveds ...

WE INTERRUPT MY VACATION TO BRING YOU A SHORT DISSERTATION ON … CONFIDENCE . . .

Listening to a friend talk about some of his many fields of expertise the other night, it occurred to me very strongly and woundingly: I place waaaaay too much of the weight and significance of my identity in the confidence (or sometimes the lack of confidence) in my own intelligence, and I am waaaaaay too emotionally tied to what people think (or what I think that people think) of my intellectual capabilities.

He was talking about literary theory, linguistics, philosophy, hermeneutics, psychiatry. All areas in which I have little or no knowledge or expertise, or even exposure, but all areas in which I have great interest. If I could, I'd go back to school to study all of these things (and more) at length. Given my current situation and understanding of the reality of my current circumstances, I must instead settle for reading whatever I can and hearing whatever I can about these subjects from less direct sources.

I expressed my continued interest -- piqued and encouraged even more after my friend's long verbal dissertation(s), actually -- and received in response what was meant to be a kind and supportive statement, something akin to: "I don't mean to question your intelligence at all, but some of this stuff might be a bit much to simply read about, without devoting years and years of study to the background and history and classic languages that preceded it." This was and remains obvious to me. Of course I just can't KNOW literary theory after reading just one or two books about it. Of course I just can't KNOW linguistics or hermeneutics after reading a primer on them. I KNOW this. But the kindly and true statement took my piqued interest and growing excitement about learning something new, and deflated the big balloons both had become. It took along with it the big fat head that had grown from the roots of my own ego and belief -- exaggerated or not -- in the strength and competence of my own intellect.

I don't really think that I can read one book on a subject and be rendered conversant in it with someone who has made the subject his life's work. I promise I don't think that. But I guess a very large and unconfessed part of me did defensively think this: "Well, you don't have to point the obvious out to me." I felt so discouraged. I felt so questioned. I felt he condescended to me. I felt like MY expertise and MY experience were so paltry, insignificant and unimportant compared to the wide, grand, unintelligible world (at least to the average-minded such as myself) that had been explored and conquered by my comparatively-highly intelligent friend, he who had spoken kindly and innocently and knew none of the things roiling through my thoughts. I felt like he had taken the seed of something that I believed I could accomplish with a certain degree of integrity and respectability, and had tossed it into the wind. I felt he didn't believe in me. I felt utterly and humiliatingly stupid, as if I hadn’t been educated and groomed in one of the best high schools in the country, as if I hadn’t graduated from an Ivy League college, as if I hadn’t earned a law degree from a top-tier law school, as if I hadn’t acquired a variety of skills honed by years and diverse experiences and hardships and incredibly talented and smart colleagues, as if I hadn’t been raised by brilliant parents who placed a premium on learning and education and knowledge and street- and book-smarts.

I know none of these feelings are true or real, at least not in the source that I would impose upon them. I KNOW THIS. I KNOW -- in my head -- how my friend views me and how he thinks positively of me. Still ... my heart twinges and my indignation rises and I react poorly to being told, in essence, what I can and can't do, what I can and can't handle. I so wanted, in that instant, to say, "I can handle it," or worse, "Don't you tell me I can't understand this stuff; you don’t know." That would have been horrible and wrong and so, so childish. But that's me: a thirty-year old child, I guess. And the thing is, I understand … he did know, which is why he said what he said.

I'm over the comment; I really am. What I'm not yet over is the understanding of myself: the harsh realization that I place my self-worth and root my confidence not in Christ, not in the way that God created me, not in the way that He moves in my life and reigns sovereignly and lovingly over my life, not in the fact that He delights and sings over and because of me, and not even in the truth that whatever I know and whatever I am capable of is because of His grace and His provision ... but in my own miniscule capabilities, in my own meager intelligence (be that as it may), and in other people's perceptions of me, positive or negative. I wish and pray that I could and would be grateful, humbly and deeply grateful, for the intellect, the education, the knowledge, the skills that I have been given and have been able to hone, by the grace and providence of God alone. And then have done with it. Use what I am and what I have for His glory, and just let it be. And not always wish for what the other guy has -- his intelligence, his expertise, his background, his knowledge, and most of all, his esteem for me. I wish I could let go of this false reliance on my intelligence and my intellectual abilities, and rely on true things instead. I wish I had the heart and will to defend my faith and my God as fervently and feverishly and passionately as I would jump to defend my brain power.

(Psssst. I’m going to read those books and primers anyway. Not because I’m going to, or even want to, become an expert in linguistics or literary theory or post-modern philosophy. And not even for the purpose of entering into another conversation with my friend about these things, although that would not be unwelcome. It’s just interesting to me, is all, and since I know I can at least read words and understand them … I just might as well.)

TUESDAY IN ENEMY TERRITORY . . .

I just love movie-theatre popcorn. There's something so digustingly tasty about it ...

***

C.o.S. and I saw "Brokeback Mountain" this afternoon. First of all, I must know why there were so many people in the theatre for a 1:00 p.m. showing. Doesn't anyone work?

Ahem.

No one back home wanted to see "Brokeback Mountain" with me, for a myriad of reasons, all of which I understand but none of which I fully accept. I come up here and C.o.S. tells no one here wanted to see it with her either, for similarly understandable but unacceptable reasons. Then she waggles her eyebrows at me. Well, of course we're going to see it together, duh.

It was JUST. SO. SAD. From the moment the first shot opened, my heart sank into my belly and stayed there for the entire film. It was beautifully shot ... in a very sad way. It was nicely acted ... in a very sad way. It was well-written ... in a very sad way. So sad.

The only thing that occasionally distracted me from my sadness was the fact that Michelle Williams used to play Jen on "Dawson's Creek" ... and that she received an Oscar nomination for her VERY NOMINAL and not-that-interesting role in this film. Slim pickins for female actresses in 2005, I guess ...

(P.S.: the soundtrack -- the instrumental parts of it -- is gorgeous. Check it out; I already did.)

***

It's snowing here. It's cold. New York seems like the Deep South to me now.

***

After spending two-and-a-quarter hours devoting our brains to high-brow art, it was time to turn them off. Tonight, as promised, we turned into boys and watched "Kicking and Screaming," starring our very favorite Will Ferrell, and "Wedding Crashers," starring our very favorite Vince Vaughn. Then we scratched ourselves and went to bed.

Actually, we did neatly avoid Shrub's voice. We were sort of fascinated by the entry of the Cabinet and all the glad-handing that was going on in the chamber of the House. I am always extremely moved when I see this gathering on television. It is rare and unnatural, I think, for a government's political 'enemies' to gather in one place at one time, paste smiles on their faces, shake each others' hands, and sit for almost an hour in civility and respect (if not agreement) listening to their leader speak about things with which they do or do not agree or disagree, with varying levels of conviction and vehemence. After all, politicians in the various former Soviet republics are constantly throwing chairs at each other during their meetings. We here in the States ... we don't have it half-bad. Still, my main concern: "I wonder if they like each other or are they really that fakey-fakey? SURELY some of them must be friends. SURELY." I just don't know why it's so important to me that the members of Congress be friends with each other.

We were also exceedingly charmed by how frazzled and awed and exhausted Sam Alito looked in his new robe. Come to think of it, the robe sort of didn't fit right; poor guy probably didn't have his fitting yet, even. It was adorable -- as far as Supreme Court Justices can be adorable -- to see him tilt his head as far back as it would go and gaze about the chamber with his mouth slightly agape, seemingly disbelieving still that he was there, that he had been confirmed, that he was now a United States Supreme Court Justice, that he -- from wherever he came -- was now in the chamber of the United States House of Representatives, witnessing a presidential State of the Union address. It sort of made me think that perhaps, despite his years of training and hobnobbing and politicking and advocating ... perhaps he was still able to be awed and to be in awe of his life and his career. Perhaps there was a touch of innocence still left in him ... I think that might bode well for the rest of his tenure on the High Court. But of course, my main concern still: "I wonder what Sandra Day is doing right now."

When the chamber door opened up and Shrub started to walk in, C.o.S. and I started shrieking at her husband: "Don't let him open his mouth! Put in the DVD! DO. NOT. LET. HIM. OPEN. HIS. MOUTH." Poor SC. "Kicking and Screaming" went right in, and I was SO ready to be charmed anew by Will Ferrell ... but he just didn't do it for me tonight. The film was nearly unwatchable. So we didn't. "Wedding Crashers" went right in; it was mildly enjoyed, although the foremost question on our minds was, "how many uppers is Vince Vaughn on exactly?"

Bonus: Will Ferrell appears at the end of "Wedding Crashers."

***

Life with the L.O.L.'s -- all of them or one of them or any combination thereof -- is immensely comfortable. If you are an L.O.L., you can eat whatever you want, sit wherever you want, drink wherever you want, read whatever you want, say whatever you want, do whatever you want. And when you vacation with the L.O.L.'s -- all of them or one of them or any combination thereof -- you are also immensely comfortable, because everything is predictable in the best, most ideal and sweetest sort of way. You're going to eat a lot. You're going to have a serious discussion or two. You're going to laugh quite a bit and roll your eyes at the silliness of everything around you (not including yourselves, natch). You're going to go grocery shopping and rustle up something to eat. You're going to keep on eating. And then you're going to smoosh into a couch (or bed, if you're on vacation at Hershey Spa & Hotel) and watch it's-so-bad-it's-good television or a DVD.

Life is grand.

***

C.o.S. told me the other day that she loves her job because she gets to do what she knows that she's good at doing.

Huh. I never thought of it that way. I always believed that I should love my job, whatever I do, because I would work hard at it and it would be "fulfilling" and "meaningful" and would result from me applying my training and education. It never occurred to me to just do what I know I'm good at, and love my work because of that. It makes so much sense -- the satisfaction, the confidence, the comfort of doing what you are good at must be incredibly rewarding.

Talking about my upcoming interview, she told me that she suspects I will be good at advocacy-oriented work. I never thought of myself in that way ... but I am increasingly thinking that she is right. And I think that fortunately, my skill sets would happen to mesh with me being good at advocacy. So that got me to thinking ... what else am I good at? Here is the grand master list:

* cooking healthy and hearty meals for large groups of people in a short amount of time
* baking
* organizing (although the state of my study right now would not testify convincingly to that)
* planning events, parties and get-togethers
* reading
* taking care of people
* grocery shopping
* making coffee
* intuiting how people are feeling and what they are needing
* giving massages (I am merely assuming this because I have yet to receive absolutely negative feedback)
* finding and encouraging potential in others
* doing things on the Web (finding unimportant factoids on Google is a particular specialty)
* taking notes
* giving loved ones what they want without them asking
* driving
* walking (yes, despite the fact that I often trip over nothing)
* multi-tasking
* washing dishes
* remembering
* packing
* purchasing appropriate and meaningful gifts
* purchasing significant and educational children's books
* following current events
* being defensive
* purchasing things at The Container Store, Williams-Sonoma, Borders Bookstore, J.Crew and Whole Foods Market
* thinking and mulling
* writing emails
* holding grudges
* keeping a musical beat
* snuggling

There are more things, I hope, but I just can't think of them right now. I don't know how this list is going to guide me in my ever-continuing growth as an attorney. This could turn out to be very, very interesting ...