Then I wandered off and set about writing a post for my blog, tweaking a few paragraphs on the chapter I was working on for my book, paid some bills online and then returned to my chapter yet again to hash out an action sequence of aerial combat with samurai swords.

Later, as I just so happened to be walking past the kitchen, I thought, “What is that awful smell?”

I glanced over and noted a dozen eggs stewing in less than a quarter inch of water at a rolling boil.

OHDEARGOD!

Racing to the stove I flipped off the burner and pulled the pan to the back of the range as the wafting scent of metallic sulfur and super-nova heated eggs filled the kitchen.

I’d boiled 2 quarts of water down to a quarter inch. And my tea was long cold and past drinkable.

I was irritated about it for the rest of the night, thinking, God! What if it hadn’t been eggs? What if I’d set the kitchen on fire while I was happily submerged in my chapter? Sure, when the eggs finally ignited they would have set off the alarm, but what if I’d left something in the broiler? What if it had been oil?

This goes way beyond the irritation I feel for myself every time I fall asleep at my computer desk as I’ve been writing and then wake up almost late for work and in the car I realize I left a load of gnarly underwear in the community laundry room of my apartment complex – because I was so engrossed in my chapter that I forgot to go get my laundry.

And I’ve tried setting timers. Setting the alarm on my phone and inevitably, it goes off and I switch it off because I can’t remember why I set it, OR I think, okay, gotta go get the laundry – after this paragraph – and the next day my holey load of period panties are in a pile on the community washroom folding table, because one paragraph became three pages.

Worse, as I was writing, the other night I remember thinking, “God! The neighbor is really loud tonight, what’s with all the clicking and tinking?”

Not the neighbor, Athena – your fucking eggs were boiling to utter powder.

This is how I manage to kill rosemary plants – the virtually un-killable herb dies repeatedly in my care. This is how I fall off the grid and my friends think I’ve moved back to Alaska, I forget to return phone calls. This is how my bills often forget to get paid, why laundry is often wrinkly, dishes in the sink start to reek, and why the kitchen trash could get up and walk out to the dumpster by itself – I swear to god it’s not intentional, I just get so caught up I forget to eat and I forget I even have to pee.

I just get lost in my work and fall asleep at my desk.

So I decided today, as I was cracking open one of these nearly rubber eggs… it’s a pretty good indication that even if I wanted to start a relationship, it would have to be with someone who remembers to rotate the laundry, or start the dishwasher, or who might remind me that my tea has been steeping for the last four hours.

Or someone who doesn’t mind rubber eggs in their lunch from time to time.

He volunteered his take on the chivalry of men buying dinner and a woman insisting on picking up her own check. “I figure if she doesn’t want me to pay for her food on the first date, she’s not that in to me so I don’t call her back.”

He explained in great detail this idea of his, that obviously, it depends on how it’s all approached, but that he typically thinks that if a woman insists on paying her own way, then she doesn’t want to feel like she owes him anything – even though she doesn’t – ergo… she’s not interested in him.

While there are all sorts of arguments that I wanted to throw his general direction, I had to wonder… maybe that’s the key for guys and why it seems to be such an issue that I like to pay my own way.

Anyway, while I was talking to him, the Alter Ego Society was meeting two tables over. And for those of you who don’t know Portland… The Alter Ego Society is a group of people who get together to battle it out with their superhero and or villain alter egos.

Simultaneously, the next table was full of three old ladies playing Mahjong, while a party of perhaps 40 volunteers for the Haiti Relief Fundraiser were eating snacks and taking donations near the stage. A couple of my friends from SE were playing Scrabble on the very same stage and just then – I shit you not, a super tall guy dressed in a cardboard costume like a giant peanut walked in and ordered a cup of coffee at the counter.

All this, did not even raise my interest. This is Portland and I was less surprised by a giant peanut and the Alter Ego Society, Mahjong ladies, or the hoard of fundraisers all more or less sharing the exact same space in un-natural harmony - as I was by the concept that a guy might not call me back because he thinks I’m not into him because I want to be independent.

Well. Fuck me running sideways in the rain.

Shortly thereafter I wandered down the street with the boys to get a burger and get caught up on dirt. Which is were I broke the news to them that the Hamburglar had resurfaced.

Yes, folks, believe it or not, this guy, pretty much a thief in the night – contacted me recently on an old dating profile that I left up on line.

The worst part about it was that the computer system evidently matched us up as “a good match” and he sent me a note somewhat like so…

“Gosh. We sure to have a lot in common.”

Holy, Christ on a cracker!

He didn’t even recognize me.

ZackDaddy was of the 50% consensus that I mess with him. While BrandonCutie was non committal and I suspect he falls in the other 50% consensus that I get let him escape and he’ll never know how close to doom he came. It would be my gift to Karma.

Shortly thereafter, BrandonCutie bailed and as I was so exhausted from my workout I didn’t think I had much left in me, but I wanted a few picture of downtown lights so ZackDaddy came with and we bummed around checking out little nooks and crannies and catching up.

Around 8:30 or so I dropped ZackDaddy off at Backspace and was walking the four blocks to my jeep. It was dark and the streets strangely empty.

I put my camera bag and purse in the passenger side and was walking around to the driver door when a dude came out of the shadows. He was wearing a dirty fur coat and he was filthy from head to toe, his shoes both untied and full of holes.

“Hey, Baby? What’s a pretty little thing like you doing out all by yourself?” He asked as he ambled toward me with a cocky half gait. “Let’s you an’ me have some fun.”

I ignored him and walked around the front of the vehicle closer to the streetlight.

“You aint gots to run off. What you doin’ t’night?”

“Going home, thanks.” I replied opening my door and climbing in. “Have a good night.” I said and shut the door.

He knuckled my passenger window. “Hey, Baby? You can call me. My number is 971…wait, I come give it to you…”

As I was fumbling to get the keys in the ignition, he put his hands on the hood and walked around the front of the jeep and reached for the driver door handle.
“You’re so pretty. I think I just give you my number or we can go and…”

I jerked open the car door before he could put his fingers in the latch and snapped, “Step the fuck off, man. You’re freaking me out!”

He threw his hands up in the air and looked around, “I sorry, Pretty lady! I was jist trying to…”

“I don’t really care. Now good night.” I slammed the door and started the ignition.

“It weren’t like that!” He shouted. “It was a compliment. I was just givin’ a compliment!”

“I accept that. Thank you.” I said through the window, but I’ve been wandering around by myself downtown long enough to know - he wasn’t simply trying to hand out a compliment. With all the current anger issues I’ve been having, I was still surprised at the level of ferocity I felt and had to push down. My instincts said he was dangerous, but that to me, he wasn’t ACTUALLY a threat. He was just dangerous in general, and likely would not have been prepared for a full on confrontation with me. Not that it excuses him, from the poor choice of trying to open my driver side door – at all.

But he didn’t actually step off until I put Freya in gear, and he was waving his arms and shouting as I drove away.

As I hit the road to Aerosmith I thought all the way home about how, I barely leave the house for 3 months. I just sit home writing and caving and icing my aching muscles from the gym and how I venture out and it’s all still there – just waiting. Hanging out waiting for me to come bumbling in to all the mess of living in a social world of mini-adventures and stories. Portland is still weird. People are still strange.

Just then I decided, that despite my fatigue, I might actually go home, change my clothes and go back out. I hadn’t flirted with anyone in a while, so I texted the InfamousCoatCheckGirl to see if this guy we both knew was single – so I could go flirt with him.

Turns out he’s not, but in the course of texting I discovered she’d been broken up with a guy and might need some girl time. Change of plans, pick up some chocolate and head back in to town to sit with her at Dante’s and catch up on girl talk while the circus performed.

So, I pull into the gas station since I’m just gonna be doing a U-turn and heading back to downtown. I hand the kid my card and the conversation goes like so:

Me: 20 bucks on regular please.
Kid: How’s your night?
Me: Pretty good, how’s yours?
Kid: Well, to tell you the truth, I’m having impure thoughts about a female customer who just came in. She was wearing this shirt down to here and her skirt was so short I could see her black satin panties and I was like WHOA!
Me: Uhm….
Kid: Yeah, so she was with her friends and I was like, what can I get for you and she was like fill me up and I was like SURE! And -
Me: That’s nice. Uhm…
Kid: And she was so hot. She was hot like my cousin. And that’s not like freaky cuz my cousin is hot. In fact if she wasn’t my cousin I’d totally hit on her and this girl was like her.
Me: Can I have my card back?
Kid: Sure. Here. But I gotta tell you, I’m not gonna be able to focus for the rest of the night.
Me: Clearly.
Kid: God, my cousin is hot!
Me: Okay. That’sgreatIwishyouluckhavegreatnight.

I couldn’t get back to downtown fast enough to wash off the all the bizarreness of my day by just chillin’ with my girl and eating some chocolate. Something totally normal. Human. Ordinary. Harmless. Something that re-centers. Girl time.

And as we sat up in the lounge looking down on the stage, a 6 foot male cross dresser did a fabulous striptease, a female male-impersonator (with a striking similarity to my ex-husband) did a rendition of Flight of the Concord’s ‘Business Time’. The fire dancers, burlesque girls, belly dancers and acrobats made me forget all about my strange wonderland day, of walking peanuts, a parade of 80’s carnival costumes at the burger bar, leaning out of a parking garage 12 flights up, advice from a stranger about my concepts of chivalry, a random dude trying to get in my car and another tells me about the customer he lusts after – who also looks like his cousin. Nothing truly odd for Portland or for me in general in bits and pieces - but add them all up at once and it seemed like a day saturated in strange.

So I enjoyed sitting with the InfamousCoatCheckGirl talking about boys and love and life in general. We decided to join a women’s self defense class. We caught up on the dirt of the last few months.

It was lovely, and despite the convoluted nature of my day, I felt terribly blessed. Blessed to have good friends to visit in town, blessed to have weirdness that is truly interesting and harmless, blessed to have a life that fills with complexity when I step out of my cave. Blessed to have a girl friend to spend time with and she even takes me out to the circus (how awesome is that? Super fucking awesome.), which feels like a break from my life which is also happens to be a circus from time to time.

I smiled and looked down at the stage as the new act started and said, “It hurts the pride a little, when a man with a beard looks better in a wedding dress than I ever did.”

Just a day in the life. And frankly, I wouldn’t change a thing.

Call it aggression from being celibate, or high protein dieting, or switching to decaf, or being bone-tired and muscles aching from working out so much, or even the hormones I’m taking and combine that with sugar deprivation and low carbs and a helping of PMS– whatever.

The end result is a short fuse.

No tolerance for anything hinkey. At. All.

I’m not rolling well with sketchy, or vague or needy or passive aggressive or victimy attitudes. I’ve got no tolerance for unsolicited advice, or people getting in my business, or general nosiness of purpose or people trying to “mommy” me.

I haven’t got patience with slow people, ornery people, entitled people, fidgety people – fuck – I just don’t have patience with people in general.

Whether this is PMS or part of the overall conditioning and general pain/exhaustion, I dunno.

But I am getting pretty desperate and something’s gonna give – I don’t know what it will be first. A chocolate milkshake, a bottle of scotch or a booty call.

Maybe I’ll have an all nighter and get all three done at once.

Or maybe I’ll have to add kickboxing to my list of new workouts.

Even though I started Barracuda Bootcamp 4 weeks ago, I am essentially just finishing week three since I was down for the count with a terrible cold for a whole week.

Here’s the progress report for measurements at the end of week 3.

I’ve lost 1 inch each in my chest, hips and each thigh and 2 inches in my waist. The only thing to grow is my arms, which is mildly frustrating as my shirts are getting tight in the sleeve and baggy in the boob… go figure.

That’s nearly 6 inches at all my measurement points.

Furthermore my endurance is vastly improved. I’m now using heavier weights and the exercises, while being made more difficult are helping me to feel stronger.

An interesting discovery is that I am gaining weight, even though I am losing size. Nick assured me before we began doing the weight training that I was likely to gain weight from muscle mass and bone.

I shrugged at this and said, “I’m cool with that.”

But as it happens…. Evidently, I’m not. For days I’ve been stepping on the scale and watching it steadily climb. While Nick was excited about this – I have struggled with disappointment. Which is silly but once I puzzled it out it went like this.

We as women, and even people in general, are often judged by our weight. Not our measurements. Regardless of our measurements being somewhat normal, Body Mass Index calculates only on weight and height, not weight of muscle or weight of bone – it assumes fat.

“Don’t pay attention to the scale,” Nick encourages. “According to the BMI scale I am grossly obese because I am 5’6” and 200lbs with a percentage of body fat near 8%” He shrugged “The BMI scale is not designed for people who work out.”

Even though I thought I was fine with gaining weight – I seem to still have it associated in my mind that weight equals fat – even though the measurements of my waist show otherwise. Silly. I know. But there it is.

So currently, I am working to rewire my way of thinking about weight versus size and the only way I’ve been able to do this is by putting my scale away and just going off the measurements alone.

Other things of note are my increased cardio endurance. I’m noticing an increase in energy lately, a higher body temperature and a stronger hunger for protein rich foods. My complexion is also becoming smoother and for the first time in quite awhile I feel held up by my muscle structure rather than leaning against my bones.

That’s my news to report for the end of week 3.

Also some of you have been wondering what I eat and how that’s going. Here’s a picture of my fridge.

Week 3 fridge shot

I eat 180 grams of protein a day. Depending on which days I’m lifting and which days I’m doing cardio, I alternate my maintenance calorie depletion (to maintain my weight I need to eat 2400 calories a day) by 10% on lifting days and 30% on cardio days.

While the diet is actually really easy for me, the part I struggle with is WHEN to eat. I work odd hours and remembering to eat at specific times is difficult and twice now I’ve eaten too close to a workout and gotten sick. A couple times I ate too far away from a workout and got dizzy and a little delirious. And a few times I haven’t eaten enough carbohydrates to get me through the bulk of my lifting days.

So the timing seems to be a tricky component that I haven’t quite figured out yet.

On average this is my fridge.

1. Cream
2. Blueberries or fruit (this is a new addition this week after I discovered I need more carbs)
3. Smart Balance and peanut butter
4. Apples and Grapefruit (new this week)
5. Cheeses and smoked salmon (string cheese, brick cheese, salmon)
6. Cottage cheese (a primary staple)
7. Vegetables that are for snacking or going into my chili tomorrow
8. Turkey patties (or steaks or salmon or chicken)
9. Eggs (another staple) I go through about a dozen eggs a week
10. Butter
11. Salad (in this case Swiss Chard)
12. Vegetables, etc. (celery, carrots, ginger, lettuce, potatoes, etc)
13. Not shown Medifast protein meals (my supplemental protein shakes and meals to grab and go.

I haven’t been struggling with the diet really. That part is okay. I’m never at a loss for something good to eat. Tonight I had turkey steaks and garlic asparagus.

For the moment the biggest issues are really rooted in my way of thinking about weight and my timing around when to eat for optimum performance around my funky schedule.

When I asked myself, in total seriousness, “Would you rather be this weight and strong or weigh next to nothing and not have the muscle?”
My answer was immediate and there wasn’t any hesitation. “I’d rather be strong. No contest. I don’t want to be petite.”

That’s what I really need to hold on to as my body continues to evolve back to that form it used to know. Which interestingly – I think it remembers.

As I am building calluses on my hands from the dumbbells and my body aches at night from the burn – I think, “Oh, right. I remember this.” And when I wake up in the morning I’m smiling because I feel literally tighter everywhere and it’s like my younger version, the athlete, is breathing a sigh of grateful relief.

And I gotta say, bruised muscles aside – it feels FUCKING SPECTACULAR to feel like I’m becoming an athlete again.

Week 3 face shot

Week 3 body shot

He’s:

Somewhere between the ages of 28 and 40. Confident. Patient. Impatient. Independent. Smart (world or book) Creative (or gets people who are) Willing to cause trouble at the drop of a hat (or be ready to haul ass the second I start it first) Like road trips. Says yes to most things at least once, twice if you aren’t sure. Enjoys being home and making a fresh pot of homemade chili on a cold night with some movies and a stiff… drink. But also able to rock the house if we feel like going out to hit a club.

Someone who enjoys sitting on a rooftop in the city with a glass of wine and talking till the sun comes up, or having coffee with a morning of scrabble and a game of where’d I leave my pants last night. Maybe he likes to go camping and play in the mud with the jeep then come home, wash up, dress to the nines and go fine dining.

Someone who is full force in to their own life passions, following their dreams or building great plans on how to do so. Someone who gets the need for 5th gear and open spaces, ocean and the zen of mountains. Someone who gets the way I communicate - snarky, a little flowery but always brutally honest.

An observer, who enjoys the unexpected. Physical. Dreamer. It would also be great if he loves dogs, horses and is a little bit of an exhibitionist. Funny is also a plus, man doesn’t have to be a comedian - but a giggle from time to time is nice.

Ideally, I’d like to be with someone I admire a little, am frequently amazed by and would hope to be able to return the favor. In my wildest passions I imagine that someday I’ll be with someone who looks forward to a little mischief and is naturally a boat rocker.

I hesitate to say “rebel” but I suppose that’s not too far off the mark. Mostly, despite the cliche, I just dig a guy who does things his own way, less interested in convention and lives according to his own code of honor, despite the social discomforts of self-hood. I’ll even satisfy the cliche by saying I’m hot for guys who ride motorcycles and have long hair.

My deal breakers are dishonesty, dishonorable behaviors, entitlement and generally poor attitudes.

Aside from all that, I don’t care if he’s tall or short, so long as he’s comfortable in his own skin. I don’t care if he’s educated or not so long as he has an open mind. I don’t have a preference whether he has been married before, has kids or has a history of not being a “committer”. I don’t even mind if he’s got baggage, who doesn’t, but hopefully he’s working on it, cuz I’m working on mine.

So there it is.
Wish me luck!
I can last till May 10th. I think I can. I think I can!

Celibacy has its perks.

Then again, it also has its drawbacks as writing highly erotic content when you don’t have someone to maul afterward is potentially problematic.

So the race is on. The sooner I finish my book, the sooner I can get out there and date and ease the tension –so to speak, but the more writing I do on erotic scenes, the harder it is to try and stay antisocial – because all I want to do is put out a booty call.

Then again, the second I do – I also know, my focus for writing is totally shot, and I do my best erotica writing during sexual drought.
I also haven’t met a man who is okay with a sexual relationship and doesn’t bring his funky baggage and therefore if I let them have one foot in… they pretty much camp out with all their needs and I never get any writing done.

So celibacy has made it much easier to get my work done.

Then again, the celibacy is taking its toll in that I’m ridiculously horny and writing erotica and burning out small appliance motors and molesting vegetable and tossing and turning all night with feverish sexual dreams and waking up unfulfilled and cranky but grinning with the hangover of sex that never actually happened.

OkayOkayOkay.

Clearly. I am conflicted.

There are benefits to celibacy, and benefits to non-celibacy.
I’m frankly going a little out of my mind. Thankfully I have not committed any felonies, but I fear that’s not far off.

The plan was to make it to May 10, 2010… and if I lose – I owe Kenya 20 bucks.

It’s getting much harder as I go along and I’m starting to worry I’m not gonna make – and if I don’t make it – I might not make it to the end of my next book.

Suggestions anyone?

Pony up the 20$ to Kenya and find myself a friends with benefits arrangement? Or hang on a little longer, don’t leave my house, just write while I can and plan an uber bash on the 10th of May?

The high protein diet is helping m feel stronger and more empowered, but admittedly, I am struggling with the process of remembering to shop and pack lunches. However, I try to remember I’m still in the habit building phase.

I’m off to the gym tonight. Progress. Small and even, but progress anyway.

Visit Nick at bootcamp@pdxweightlifting.com

or go to his site Barracuda Boot Camp

Sondra has always sort of made me think of a blond she-bear. Born of earth and primal forests, and nurtured on the snowy slopes of mountains perfect for boarding – she is not content to sit still unless it’s time to hibernate. She’s playful, protective, exuberant and optimistic. And loyal. Deeply loving and loyal.

So it is, that every time she decides to emerge from the wilderness long enough to play in the city – I feel immensely blessed. I always feel kind of lucky to be out and about with her, albeit a bit more mindful of the potential that she steps out in front of moving cars or mishandles the trappings of city dwelling. But you can’t really blame her; she spends most of her life in the forest or wilds of the north. This is not her favorite place to be – she only visits because she loves me. And I adore her for the concession she makes to stay in my world just a little while and catch up.

We were joined by Carrie on Friday night and decided to make an evening of hitting up some of my favorite places around town in succession. Martini’s. Sushi. Desserts.

Carrie is another one of my high school friends from Alaska, but she lives in Seattle now with her husband who also graduated with us. Carrie has, in all my memories of her, been the boisterous social butterfly that glues many of us together via her hard work not to let any one of us slip through a radio-silence crack.

That being said, even though she is a modern business woman, running a foreign language school in Seattle and operating a profitable MaryKay outfit – her roots as an Alaskan wild woman surface almost immediately when she’s back with her people from up north.

My memories of Carrie are of an otter-like playfulness and social networking. Trying to entertain and include, nurture and socialize. I remember thinking of her as being an escape artist, somehow managing to explore the world through the exchange student program to Japan. I was totally envious of her ability to jump in and out of two opposing elements, city and nature, equally comfortable in either realm, at home in both places without the disorientation of skipping back and forth. She seemed so fearless and willing to just jump, swim and make any environment, however unfamiliar – her home. Then once she’s mastered her new space, she always reaches out to invite you in.

She has been a trail paver, road blazer and my memories of her when we were kids always circle back to her laughing. Somehow, most of my memories are of her giggling, chuckling, or all out laughing or setting something on fire. I also think she has her work cut out for her, in the constant herding of a bunch of wild folks – trying to keep us from vanishing utterly into the thick of wilderness and also somehow trying to keep us from being sucked into the jungles of society. She is a creature of balance and is good at making sure none of us stray too far from safety in either direction. Not an easy trick.

Friday night I called Jordy and we all set out to hit the town for goodies. I imagined, I suppose, that if I hadn’t managed to horrify Jordy in the last three years I’ve known him – then certainly, the three of us at once, could somehow find a way to astonish the poor guy.

As it happens, he’s pretty damn unflinching.

We told stories the better part of the night of our misdeeds as teenagers. Renditions of Carrie ending statements with, “Oh, that party! That was awesome.” And Sondra piping in with, “I slept with that guy.” And me saying, “I don’t know how I got away with that.”
Jordy weathered it well, shaking his head from time to time, as we three girls giggled and reminisced and burst into shocked laughter as we remembered escapades that left us startled that we weren’t somehow maimed or worse in our days of growing up in a place where there are hundreds of natural ways to die, even before you factor in the general stupidity of teenagers.

Also during this time, I realized – I have been away from home too long. Being with my girls from home brings back the sharp tangy scent of ice, the lush Berber carpet texture of mossy hillsides and the diamond clarity of the dozens of waterfalls around y home town.

As we talked I felt like I was back up Mineral Creek racing along the roadside on a Quad or jumping off the dock, or swimming through glacial water in nothing but my birthday suit.

“Oh my god. That was the summer you drove the Volkswagen bug across the school lawn. Twice….”

“No. That party on the pass, when the truck was rocking and Sondra’s head popped up…”

“No that was the time the van got carjacked….”

I remember also, that the quirks I get a lot of shit for here in Portland such as; not letting men pay for my food on the first few dates, talking back to authority, not taking crap from people, bucking convention, needing to forge my own way….

These are traits also of my girlfriends from my youth. We are not dissimilar and I couldn’t contain my grin when I realized – I am not weird, I’m simply out of my element here in Portland. That I am not unusual in Alaska – but I stick out here in Stumptown by insisting on the kind of independence I flourished on back home.

This sudden understanding, that my ways are not that ridiculous – made me resolve that I will no longer stress it when guys think I’m a feminist freak for picking up the check, or when people comment that I’m just a trouble maker for not being conventional.

Because I might not be conventional HERE – then again, what I am works perfectly for where I belong. With my Alaskans. In the woods. Free.

As we were leaving Pix, Sondra and Carrie made it out ahead of Jordy and I. I was thinking he’d been such a great sport about all the reminiscing and hooting.

Jordy shrugged, “It seems there are a lot of interesting stories about you growing up in Alaska that I haven’t heard yet.”

I grinned, “Yeah, remind me one day to tell you about the time I set my snatch on fire during a bonfire walk.”

I turned in time to see our waiter, who was walking toward us pause and frown then mutter a flustered, “Have a good night.”

As we walked out the door to join the girls I thought, “Okay. Maybe I’m never really going to be a good candidate for polite society.”

Sondra, Carrie and I stayed up till nearly 5 am laughing and catching up. Telling stories and bemoaning our youth. It was a fantastic visit and I am forever grateful that they made it down to see me.

I always feel lucky to have my friends from school still. The bubble of time that happened in 92-96 in Valdez, Alaska resulted in some of the tightest, most unusual relationships that I’ve ever encountered. Not a day goes by that I don’t feel blessed to be a part of that odd conglomerate of folks that still somehow manage to glue together, all these years later.

They are my home.