The World According to EDW

Tonight there's a lot of things I wanted to write about; last night, before I went to bed, I thought about some things to write. This morning, I woke up with words dancing through my head all morning. Now, at night, watching The Office and Raines on Tivo and looking at my friends' blogs (yes, you; you are my friend) I can't think of a thing.

Except, and I'm loathe to write this as my offline friends tend to make note of these things, I'm home alone, Nick out and Emily asleep, having delicious beer. Ah, so good. It's Anheuser-Busch's answer to Coors' Blue Moon, and it's called Spring Heat Spiced Wheat, and it's like candy. Yes, drinking alone. You caught me. Bring it up over lunch one day and watch me deny it.

I'm sitting here, watching my excellent TV, drinking my yummy beer, and thinking about my day full of sunshine and light and air.

We went to the park with friends. We spent hours outside, so much so that my nose and cheeks and delicate, pale, hair-part got a little red. My white as a sheet and blonde as the sun daughter did not get any color. Maybe it was her deeply cool Beatles tshirt that protected her.

We missed our Texas friends today, the memories of them playing with us on the playground, running across the field, visiting the animals on the farm, with us as we walked those steps. I decided, driving to get the kids at school, that I'm dreaming my life into being.

I have tough days, of course. But I relish wearing jeans and my baseball tee's every day. I've got a freelance editing project I'm working on. I haven't struck my right balance yet, but I'm getting there. I needed this time, but I needed it wrapped in a package of care. This is when I start to think about my friends, and the very thought of them buoys me up in ways I cannot explain. I think about what I did and what was done to me, and I feel sadness for friendships cutoff or derailed...because I'm afraid that is the case. It's a shame, because if there's anything I can tough out, it's friendship.

I believe things happen for a reason. I believe people come into your life that are meant to be there. I believe that despite the overuse of the word "connection" on reality TV shows, there are people you have a connection with. I believe the most important things in life are not things.

I miss you, my friends of my heart, my friends of my soul. I miss you, and I reach out to you, the sunroof open, the music on, the air blowing, and I send you, wherever you are, all the light and love and joy you have given me. All you I speak to, all you who I email, all you who I am or have been estranged from...all you true friends, not the old mouldy ones, but you true light better me ones. I'm dreaming a new life, and you are in my dreams.

You either get it or you don't. No, not my love for the movie Cocktail, which is due to memories of my cousin and I watching it together. But the shake, the hippy hippy shake.

Say you go shopping at Kohl's for some new pj's that you probably don't really need, but you're with your shopping buddy, and that is what's on the agenda for this trip. You find some super cute lounging pj's, the sort of thing you'd wear to a sleepover, if you had sleepovers with your mostly married girlfriends. Or the sort of thing you'd wear if you were in some sort of socially acceptable extended convalescence during which you will be receiving visitors. Like you donated a kidney to a dying child who later grows up to cure cancer. That sort of thing.

These pj's, they are on sale for $9.99, and so you buy them. And you put them on, because your previously referenced shopping buddy is going out to dinner with her soon-to-be-convalescing-husband instead of seeing a crappy movie with you. And you wear them, and you like them, and yes, it's not bedtime, but they are lounging pj's and it's only the bottoms you're lounging in, around your house, on your computer, watching Gilmore Girls reruns on TIVO. And then, you need to remove them.

So you shimmy these brand new pj's down (in private, of course) and encounter something. Your hips. The pj's. They meet. The waistband is not as stretchy as the fabric around the hips and butt. No problem for wearing, your waist goes in. But your hips, they go out. Enter, the hippy hippy shake.

I'm sure every woman of every body type has something similar to this they do. Some trick. Some problem area. Although, truth be told, I suppose I could lose the hippy hippy shake. I could lose some weight, maybe make that move a thing of the past. But that's so beside the point. No matter our weight or body type, we all face trying to fit our unique bodies into a mass manufactured clothing item, and too often we put the blame on our bodies and ourselves, and not the clothing. It's something that was bought in a mass-market retailer for $9.99, and I'm going to measure myself against it? I think not. I got the moves, baby, I'll just have to use them.

I am basically a selfish person. Oh, it's true that I love deeply and that I open my heart to many. It's true, too, that I have no problem giving certain parts of myself out. I very nearly force those parts of myself onto my family and friends; I want to share. I'm sure, too, none of this is a surprise to anyone who reads this blog, either because you know me or because as a blogger, I am so obviously selfish and have a need to share.

Many good things have happened in the last week. I got my car back. My parents returned from Florida, and with them love, support, and babysitting, My fridge was finally, permanently, fixed. I saw one of my favorite bands of all time. I hung with my girlfriends, I drank my favorite beer, and my favorite mixed drink. I saw my extended family by marriage. I spent a whole day with my husband and daughter.

Tonight it is Tuesday, and it's a year since I wrote this post. Tonight, I should be at our friend's house, drinking wine and talking about whatever it is Nancy wants to talk about; her husband, his death, her life since it happened. Friday it will be a year since he died.

Instead of being there, I am here at home. Emily is not feeling well, and I canceled the babysitter and stayed home with our girl. Nick is there, and his stupid Blackberry keeps calling the house. It's driving me crazy. I wonder how he can not notice it.

I'm not adverse to leaving my child at any time or for any reason. Unlike many mothers, most mothers, I think, I'm still a pretty selfish person. As I have mentioned, I thought I was possibly too selfish to have a child. Perhaps it's not a miracle that I love my daughter as much as I do, but it feels like one to me. Perhaps it's not a miracle that she loves me, but as the weeks pass and I spend more and more time with her, the most I have since she was very small, I notice how much she likes me. How she responds to me, trying to sing the pop and rock songs I sing to her. How she imitates me, and calls me on my bad manners since hers are unfailingly polite, as I have taught her. She needs me and she loves me, but more importantly, she enjoys me.

I may or may not have another child; the jury is still out on that. Nancy, my friend who lost her husband, may or may not find another man to love. It's inconsequential. When I called her today to tell her I wasn't going to be making it tonight, she understood. Different things we've done, a friendship of two women at opposite ends of their life. Different things, but for the same reason. Maybe it's that shared understanding that unites us, after all. We do the best we can for the people we love, whether that's a life of love and a death of grace, or a cold washcloth and apple juice at night.

Last night when I went to bed I was thinking, I love Lisa, I love the Indigo Girls, I love gin.

We went to one of my favorite places to drink in the world, and please believe me when I tell you I take that ranking rather seriously. I love to drink in this particular place, and although it's expensive, it's worth every penny. They have a cocktail called Ten Thyme Smash, and I have dreams about this cocktail. Actual dreams where I'm drinking it and it's so good and I wake up on the brink of pleasure. But not as dirty as it sounds. I think dreams like this make me a boozehound, but maybe not, maybe it's just an extension of my otherwise passionate love for all things sensual, like music and food and nice pedicures. Speaking of which, I really need a nice pedicure.

So which to wax on and on about, friendship or music or booze? I think this is probably a very good sign, for those of you following along at home, of how I'm doing in my interior and exterior life. I'm doing so well that I'm back to my three favorite subjects of all time.

Sitting there, because we were indeed sitting in the plush, Town Hall seats, I thought about all the things I wanted to teach Emily, and the list was long and short and vague and specific all at the same time. I want her to learn the things I've learned up until this very point in my life. I want her to learn the things I've learned while listening to these two musicians on stage, the things I learned as they soundtracked my life. I want her to discover her own sweetly singing songstresses that reflect and challenge her. I want her to learn about women and friendship like I have been privileged to learn, and in fact this is one of my favorite things in the world, women and friendships. I love how and what women will do in friendship, what they bring to each other, how they support and challenge each other. Women will hold up your half if you need them to, if you let them. They will carry you like they do their children, if you need to be carried. They will believe in you, sometimes for you when you are doubting yourself. They will stand up for what is right, even at cost to themselves.

Since Indigo Girls have been soundtracking my life, I have learned this about women. I have learned, too, to be a women, not a girl. I have learned to think for myself, to question and accept, to love deeply, to survive sorrow. I have learned that I must stand up for what I feel is right. I have learned how to pick the people who will love me for who I am. I have learned to pick the people who will stand up for what they think is right, who will fight for love, who will follow their own path and their own heart.

I want my daughter to have someone who soundtracks her life at the heavy and light moments. I want her to keep finding those soundtracks, and new friends along with them. I want her to have the kind of women in her life that I have in my life, and that one is rather easy since she will grow up surrounded by these women, and witness for herself the small and big things they do for her mom, how their beautiful strength carries me through.

At the end of every song, Amy and Emily say thank you. "Thanks! Thanks y'all!" It's adorable, and I love that they do it after every single song. As a culture, we don't say thank you enough, we don't practice gratitude, and believe me, I'm not going to preach it to you right now. I don't want to practice gratitude sometimes, damn it, you can't make me. But today I do, so quietly and from my heart, let me say thank you to Lisa for slugging through the snow and ice last Friday and getting the awesome tickets we had. It was fun, and I'm glad we did it.

Sometimes I look around my home and wonder why I have so many damn purses and bags and purse/bag like things to hold my shit. And then I wish I had three perfect ones, to use on any non-wedding or holiday occasion. And then I wish I could invoke the WWRD? which stands for What Would Richelle Do? and the answer is, stuff it all in her Matt and Nat bag. This however, gets me nowhere, as I do not have a Matt and Nat bag. Also, the point about Richelle is that she carries a lot of shit without apology and only has one freaking bag to carry it all in. The point about me is that I sometimes feel I carry too much shit, and never have just one bag to carry it all in.

I think sometimes, in the midst of these quandaries, that if I just got a Matt and Nat bag all my problems would be solved. I'm saving that purchase until I go to Vancouver to visit Rob and Richelle, but in the meantime, I need to leave for the Indigo Girls concert, and all my shit is just sitting on my desk waiting for the right bag to magically appear.

I know, of course, that a new bag is not going to solve my problem. That the quest for the "perfect" purse/bag is just something you create. It's not real. It's not solvable. It's just silly. I should either stop buying purse/bags, or commit to having a million. Pick one.

But I'm running late, so for now I'll just stuff my shit into my Manhattan Portage bag and wait, hopeful, for the perfect one to show up next time.

Every year, it's the same. The day ends, and I think, Good God, I love St. Patrick's Day.

I love this day. Like I love popcorn, the music of Marah, and my husband. Like I love good writing, new books, and Bombay Sapphire gin.

I love St. Patrick's Day.

I love the friends who come along with me on this day. Teri and I had lunch. She drove us, stayed for a few diet Cokes, and headed home, just enough time for some stories and pictures.

Kathy and I had our first beers together, Guinness, of course. Rich and Steve showed up, too, the friends I only see on this day. I give Rich such a hard time, but he loves me for it. Steve is now a married man. Jodi came a little later, and Kara showed up with a friend.

I love St. Patrick's Day.

I wore green, of course, and gave everyone around me shamrocks for their face. The shamrocks didn't stick very well, so I ended up touching a lot of people a lot to smooth the stickers back onto their skin. I flirted shamelessly with the bouncers, boy, do I love bouncers. I asked for a necklace by saying "I'm cute and I want one" to the promotions guy. I did the shots offered to me, and smiled pretty to get the bartender to come over sooner. (It worked, by the way.) I lied about being Irish, although in an aside to my friends, can you just stop outing me? Let me embrace my inner Irish girl! I was, to quote a friend, an Irish princess.

I love St. Patrick's Day.

We went to Jodi's in two shifts, to eat corned beef and cabbage and there may have been a dry hunk of bread I must eat every year although it's never truly good even with loads of butter on it. There was a slight problem, as Kathy got a flat tire, but that was fixed. There was a little drunken texting but not too much. There was a car ride home, nice and short, and a 9 year-old girl waiting for me with stickers on her face and the desire to put even more stickers on mine. There was silliness and early to bed and nice dreams about yummy, yummy Guinness. I would do it all again, again and again.

I love St. Patrick's Day.

Pictures are up - and here's a few for your pleasure.

Christmas may be my favorite time of the year, and my birthday month is definitely my favorite month. But St. Patrick's Day is my holiday. It comes in possibly the most anxious month of the year - just when the weather can't make its mind up between 70 degree days and snow. When the promise of spring can be snatched from you at any minute, and the excitement of winter has worn off. It comes, in a wave of green and shamrocks, into a country built on the blood and sweat of immigrants, and says, "Today we will not be American. Today we will be Irish. And furthermore, we will co-opt Irishness in any way we feel like, and we will not apologize for it."

And then, it gives you a day to drink.

That's all you have to do on St. Patrick's Day. Drink. That's it.

You don't have to shop. You don't have to be nice to relatives you don't like. You don't have to pretend to like the ugly shirt you got from your mother-in-law. Hell, you don't have to see your mother-in-law if you don't want to! (Although, for the record, mine is invited every year.) All you have to do is drink.

We have a core group. Three of us, and we call ourselves the Trinity. Me. Jodi. Kathy. We come every year, and stay until the end, whatever time that is. We always start early and cut out early- there's no last call for us. Of course, "early" might be 7pm, or it might be 10pm. Depends on when we started.

Teri comes every year, too, at least for one drink. Sometimes she's in the back of the car on the way home, putting on lipgloss and shouting out the window with me. Other times she's the sober one who drops us off, has a coke, and gets the hell out of the madhouse.

We have drivers. A drop-off, a pick-up, never the same person for both. We never, ever drive ourselves, except that one year when I was pregnant, and terribly sober, and eating everything in sight. Then I drove there and back, because there was no chance of me imbibing. But even without the booze, it was a good time.

We're fun. We're super fun on St. Patrick's Day, because inevitably, it comes just when one or all of us really need to kick back.

So feel free to call me tomorrow. If I have your cell phone number, chances are I'm going to be drunk dialing you. Sad, but true. I'm told I'm very amusing, though. And I'll probably be buzzed dialing, because once drunk I have to put my cell phone away so I don't lose it. And there will be pictures, lots of pictures. And green. And stories. And maybe I'll decide I no longer care if I ever get my car back or if my fridge ever gets fixed, because life is not about those trivialities, it's about drinking with your friends in a crowded bar with a bunch of lushes, yourself included, and as long as we can be there together, things ain't too bad.

I've had a pretty good week. The weather is beautiful and that's awesome. I've been busy and industrious and positive and all that good stuff. The last two nights I didn't sleep well, and it really threw me off. Like, really, in a major way, threw me off. Feeling tired makes it harder to get through any small difficulties in a day, but I tried to push past that.

My car is still not ready, and it looks like it might not be ready until well into next week. Meanwhile, I had returned my mom's car, and had to rent one on Monday. The fridge is not fixed and there's no repair person in sight. Like, ENOUGH already. Something get resolved. Something work out.

I'm frustrated. This is rough time, and I know that. I know it's unusual, and I had weeks of non-stop shit, and it 's probably okay if I don't grin through every single day. But I don't want it to be a rough time, and I don't want to be a train wreck or a mini-wreck or anything of the sort. But it's blatantly obvious that my usual life of chipper! and happy! and bouncy! is none of the above currently, and I need my friends more than ever.

Maybe in a day or so I can write about what this really is, where this started. But like last time, I knew it, I just knew it. I will sometimes become absolutely convinced of something that shows no definite signs of turning out that way. And I'm right. Maybe I'm just good at reading situations.

I'd rather not be right. I'd rather be met halfway, a break caught, and hand held out and onto tightly. I'd rather it be like I remember, the slow spreading of a feeling that all is right, down to the song playing.

But that's not the case, so on I move. Into the rental car, the soundtrack created by my friend, the music doing what the circumstances can't. The air outside, the sun beating down, my sheer force of will prying open the possibilities again.

I can write.

This week, I have the urge to purge. I am going through my books, ruthlessly letting go of the ones I'm not going to read again and again. I'm going through the boxes we have downstairs in the basement/laundry room, the ones waiting to be filed or gone through. I have a work box from two job ago sitting there. I have work stuff from this last job I'm not ready to get rid of. I have bills from my old house, the ones I sold in 2003, sitting unfiled, unneeded, collecting space.

This is a lot of work, and it can only be done piecemeal. The books, for instance, need to sit in a maybe pile for a few days, while I decide if they are goners. I can only take so much of the paperwork. and the boxes of stuff - well, Monday, I unpacked our old junk drawer from the old house. You can imagine the amount of useless stuff in there.

It's slow going.

But sometimes, you get a reward. A picture taken on vacation, of Nick and I, Andrew and Jackie, and Caroline and Andrew, who are 9 and 13 now, but in the photo, they're 2 and 6. I remember how sweet and adorable Carol was at that age, but to see her picture - oh, it's a wonder. And my little man who could barely go on amusement park rides, who's heading to high school. Sigh. The memories of an aunt.

And more - a note from a friend, a once beloved bookmark. The start of a story you'd mapped out.

Wait.

Stop.

Read.

And then...a thought.

It's good.

Tears welling in my eyes, I realize that I can write. I really can. This blog not withstanding, because any monkey that types out a post a day will get lucky once in awhile. But for real, a story, words, sentences, paragraphs.

Holy shit, I can write.

A gift, from my past.

Sean tagged me, so here goes. Ten random songs in rotation in my iTunes (should be on my iPod, but I'm a carry-the-laptop-around kind of girl lately.)

"You Can't Always Get What You Want" - The Rolling Stones (A happy tune for me. The Stones remind me of Richelle now, because they're her favorite band.)

"The Drugs Don't Work" - The Verve (Please don't listen to this song unless you want to ball your eyes out. Although, it's amazing. So listen with caution.)

"Danny Boy" - Black 47 (St. Patrick's Day is fast approaching!)

"Raspberry Beret" - Prince (Adore this song. I'm totally trying to get the godchildren hooked on Prince.)

"East" - Marah (I am required to sing this song to Emily at least once a day. Usually a capella, and I sound dreadful.)

"Rehab" by Amy Winehouse (I think I heart her.)

"No. 13 Baby" - Pixies (My post about the bra situation? The title came from this song.)

"All These Things I've Done" - The Killers ( I LOVE this song.)

"Lonesome Day" - Bruce Springsteen (For a mix I'm working on. I can actually listen to it and not cry - big step, if you recall my reaction to that album.)

"Satan is My Motor" - Cake (Nick and I were singing this one going into a church supper Saturday night. That sounds like the beginning of a joke, right? It's true, I swear, we met his mom, dad, and aunt at the Crosses and Sauces pasta dinner!)

Alrighty, I tag...anyone reading this blog who hasn't done this. You! Yes, you. Get to it.

Thank you for coming to my party yesterday. Remember to shoot me an email if you want a CD.

You may have noticed, or not as the case may be, a new button on my blog. It's for the site Indie Bloggers, a collection of writing from independent bloggers like yours truly (and like all of you who blog). Independent in that we don't fit into the categories of Mommy bloggers, or Daddy bloggers or Political bloggers, or whatever other categories are out there. You submit your writing, and it goes up on the site. The three moderators pick from the submissions the posts they like the best and they become featured posts. You can submit material you've already posted, or something entirely new.

So, the news for today is...I have a featured post on Indie Bloggers! Whee!!!

You have most likely already read my post, but go to the site anyway go and join, too. You'll find lots of new, cool blogs to read.

Oh, and you can get the song titles. They're right on my blog. Think music.

When my daughter turned one, I had a party for her with all her baby friends. We had balloons and cake, and we played games, although I nixed the goody bags. What can you give a bunch of one-year-olds, anyway?

One year ago today, I started my blog.

So today is the one year anniversary of my blog. My blogoversary, if you will. The birthday of The World According to EDW.

This is the first post I ever wrote, one year ago today. It's a rant, which seems so very appropriate, and it's also still true for me today. This year, I've written about 300 posts, and published 245. Seems like a lot, doesn't it? Some of them I like. Some needed my editing skills. But I wouldn't take back any of them...except for that one I deleted, of course.

I've made it to a year, and I have you to thank for that. It's knowing you're reading that keeps me writing and hitting the publish button. I might still write without you, but I wouldn't do it with the frequency or the honesty or the intention I do now.

Never in my life have I kept a journal so faithfully. Never have I written so much, so personally, in one year. Never have I fessed up so honestly to fears and failings, my sorrows and joys.

This blog has brought me many things. New friends. A means of staying in touch with old friends. An outlet. Fun. Support. Gratification. Acknowledgment of my feelings. And yes, some trouble, all minor, and mostly my own damn fault. Mostly.

I used to think I had nothing to say. I used to think I wasn't a writer. I introduced this blog to my friends tentatively, handing them myself on a platter, and asking them to be kind. What I got back stunned me, with its love and support and generosity of heart. Then you came, and it stunned me even more. Knowing that sometimes you can relate to what I write, that sometimes what I write strikes a chord in you, is so immensely gratifying. You make me laugh, you make me think, you make me feel like I'm not alone.

Today, I want to thank you for coming to my party. Thanks for taking the time to stop by, whether it's been one time or every week or every day. Your comments, your emails, your presence matter to me, because I know they come from the generous part of you.

Because it is a party, there's cake:

A balloon:

A goody bag: If you leave a comment today, I will happily send you a CD of Music from The World According to EDW. Even if you don't leave a comment, just shoot me an email at lizwalter at yahoo dot com, and I'll gladly send your goody bag to you. Don't forget to include your address.

And there's even a game! Name, without using google or any other search engines, the songs from whence these five post titles come. They're pretty easy, I promise:
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Hint: the answers can be found on my blog. Good luck!

Thanks for coming. It's been fun.

Have I mentioned how much I hate doing things over email? I hate it. There are very very few people I really love to email. I'll settle for the phone, because we don't all live in a big slumber party-type Reality Bites house. (Jackie and I went to see that movie when it came out, and she turned to me afterwards and said "We should all live together!" At the time, she had a husband and 18 month old, but she was so caught up in the feeling of friendship those details sort of slipped her mind.)

But I digress. The fact is, I need to have phone conversations sometimes, although I alternately love them and dread them. I prefer to be in person, where you can see their face, their reactions, know what their body is telling you, the emotions hidden behind the words. Phones are great, though, if you're going to cry, because it's so unbecoming to cry in front of someone, I will do anything so as not to let you see me cry. On the phone, though, I can ball like a baby.

A few months ago, I wrote this post. The irony is, everything I talked about changing on my own has been changed for me. Change has hit me hard and fast, and caught me unprepared, even as I predicted it.

Something bad has happened every single week for the last six weeks. Every single week. That's not an exaggeration; you can go back and read through the entries if you don't believe me.

I spent some time the past two mornings on the treadmill, walking, listening to music, working, of course, on a mix. This mix is for a friend, and it's about the end of something, a mourning. It's also about moving on, and the beginning of something else. It's the right music for me to be listening to now, and I hope it's the right music for her, too.

I like to walk when I'm dealing with something difficult; a conversation, an emotion, a problem. I've cried in the car, in the shower, but there's nothing like crying when walking. Moving forward while trying to move forward. I recommend that you hold onto the treadmill, though, if you try this at home.

I have some things I need to deal with. Conversations I need to have. Boundaries I need to establish. Situations I need to put to rest. They're not all going to turn out the way I want them to; in fact, most of them won't. Talking about them might not make me feel better, but having them unsettled rankles around my head and heart, little jabs that can't heal until the words are spoken.

And of course, I miss you like hell. I feel like you're so far away from me right now. But you've got you own things going on, and I'm not going to impose myself anymore than I have to. I want to talk out every single thing with you, but I can't. How do we get so that our lives look like this? How do we get so far away from the very people we are intimate with?

The space stretches and looms and I walk and breathe and feel. I write out some of it, I keep the rest in my heart and head. I miss every connection with every person in my life. I'm desperate to say how I feel, and afraid at the same time. But very late at night, when I wish you could talk to me until we fall asleep, I am proud that I'm not too afraid to try. I am proud that I have hope for tomorrow.

Tomorrow is cake and balloons and goody bags...come on by.

I got this from Paperback Writer, who got it from Rob.

* Look at the list of books below.
* Type "READ" beside the ones you've read.
* Type "WANT TO" beside the ones you'd like to read.
* Leave blank the ones that you aren't interested in.
* Type "AGAIN AND AGAIN" beside the ones you could read again and again.
* "Tried" for those books that you've tried to read...again and again. (This one
Rob put in)
* "??" For those books you haven't heard of (This one, Paperback Writer put in)

1. The Da Vinci Code (Dan Brown) Read
2. Pride and Prejudice (Jane Austen) Again and again
3. To Kill A Mockingbird (Harper Lee) Read
4. Gone With The Wind (Margaret Mitchell) Read
5. The Lord of the Rings: Return of the King (Tolkien)
6. The Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring (Tolkien)
7. The Lord of the Rings: Two Towers (Tolkien)
8. Anne of Green Gables (L.M. Montgomery) Again and Again
9. Outlander (Diana Gabaldon) ??
10. A Fine Balance (Rohinton Mistry) ??
11. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (Rowling) Again and again
12. Angels and Demons (Dan Brown)
13. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (Rowling) Again and again
14. A Prayer for Owen Meany (John Irving) Again and again
15. Memoirs of a Geisha (Arthur Golden) Read
16. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone (Rowling) Again and again
17. Fall on Your Knees (Ann-Marie MacDonald) ??
18. The Stand (Stephen King)
19. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (Rowling) Again and again
20. Jane Eyre (Charlotte Bronte) Read
21. The Hobbit (Tolkien)
22. The Catcher in the Rye (J.D. Salinger) Again and again
23. Little Women (Louisa May Alcott) Again and again
24. The Lovely Bones (Alice Sebold) Read
25. Life of Pi (Yann Martel)
26. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (Douglas Adams) Read
27. Wuthering Heights (Emily Bronte) Read
28. The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe (C. S. Lewis) Want to
29. East of Eden (John Steinbeck)
30. Tuesdays with Morrie(Mitch Albom) Read
31. Dune (Frank Herbert) Read
32. The Notebook (Nicholas Sparks) Read
33. Atlas Shrugged (Ayn Rand)
34. 1984 (Orwell)
35. The Mists of Avalon (Marion Zimmer Bradley) Want to
36. The Pillars of the Earth (Ken Follett)
37. The Power of One (Bryce Courtenay)
38. I Know This Much is True (Wally Lamb)
39. The Red Tent (Anita Diamant) Read
40. The Alchemist (Paulo Coelho) Read
41. The Clan of the Cave Bear (Jean M. Auel) Read
42. The Kite Runner (Khaled Hosseini)
43. Confessions of a Shopaholic (Sophie Kinsella)
44. The Five People You Meet In Heaven (Mitch Albom)
45. Bible Again and again
46. Anna Karenina (Tolstoy) Want to
47. The Count of Monte Cristo (Alexandre Dumas) Read
48. Angela’s Ashes (Frank McCourt)
49. The Grapes of Wrath (John Steinbeck) Read
50. She’s Come Undone (Wally Lamb)
51. The Poisonwood Bible (Barbara Kingsolver)
52. A Tale of Two Cities (Dickens) Read
53. Ender’s Game (Orson Scott Card)
54. Great Expectations (Dickens) Read
55. The Great Gatsby (Fitzgerald) Again and again
56. The Stone Angel (Margaret Laurence) ??
57. Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (Rowling) Again and again
58. The Thorn Birds (Colleen McCullough) Read
59. The Handmaid’s Tale (Margaret Atwood) Read
60. The Time Traveller’s Wife (Audrew Niffenegger)
61. Crime and Punishment (Fyodor Dostoyevsky)
62. The Fountainhead (Ayn Rand)
63. War and Peace (Tolsoy)
64. Interview With The Vampire (Anne Rice)
65. Fifth Business (Robertson Davis)
66. One Hundred Years Of Solitude (Gabriel Garcia Marquez) Read
67. The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (Ann Brashares)
68. Catch-22 (Joseph Heller)
69. Les Miserables (Hugo) Want to
70. The Little Prince (Antoine de Saint-Exupery) Again and again
71. Bridget Jones’ Diary (Fielding) Again and again
72. Love in the Time of Cholera (Marquez)Read
73. Shogun (James Clavell)
74. The English Patient (Michael Ondaatje) Read
75. The Secret Garden (Frances Hodgson Burnett) Read
76. The Summer Tree (Guy Gavriel Kay) ??
77. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (Betty Smith)
78. The World According To Garp (John Irving) Tried to
79. The Diviners (Margaret Laurence) ??
80. Charlotte’s Web (E.B. White) Again and again
81. Not Wanted On The Voyage (Timothy Findley) ??
82. Of Mice And Men (Steinbeck) Read
83. Rebecca (Daphne DuMaurier) Read
84. Wizard’s First Rule (Terry Goodkind) ??
85. Emma (Jane Austen) Again and again
86. Watership Down(Richard Adams)
87. Brave New World (Aldous Huxley)
88. The Stone Diaries (Carol Shields) Read
89. Blindness (Jose Saramago) ??
90. Kane and Abel (Jeffrey Archer)
91. In The Skin Of A Lion (Ondaatje) ??
92. Lord of the Flies (Golding)
93. The Good Earth(Pearl S. Buck)
94. The Secret Life of Bees (Sue Monk Kidd) Read
95. The Bourne Identity (Robert Ludlum)
96. The Outsiders (S.E. Hinton) Read
97. White Oleander (Janet Fitch)
98. A Woman of Substance (Barbara Taylor Bradford) Read
99. The Celestine Prophecy (James Redfield)
100. Ulysses (James Joyce) Want to

Tonight it's Friday. You know what that means. It means picking up my niece, Carol, age 9, and nephew, Andrew, age 13, from school. It means errands, music, food, and at least one crazy moment. It's the busiest day of my week, and my favorite day of the week.

Of course, they are not my "real" niece and nephew, they are my best friend Jackie's kids. But, in fact, they are as real as it gets for me. Jackie is my family, and while it may appear to her that I am doing her a favor, getting her kids three days a week after school so she doesn't have to pay for the aftercare program, it's the other way around. They are obviously Emily's most beloved people in the world. They are two extra sets of hands, errand runners, fetchers, toddler watchers. They eat me out of house and home, listen to everything I say, behave incredibly well, dance to my most-loved songs and sing along in the car. They are simply, my joy and delight. I have loved being an aunt since I was 18 going on 19 and my best friend gave birth on her 19th birthday. I have been part of their lives since the day each of them was born, but this past year has been the most concentrated time I've ever spent with them, and I love it.

I like who these kids are. I like Andrew's taste in music, even when it differs from mine. I like Carol's exuberance about the world. I like their little quirks and the way they laugh and act silly with me. I love them, deeply and dearly, but I also really, really, like them.

We spent nearly the entire day together today. Emily got out of school at 11am, the kids at 12. We went to Chuck E. Cheese, Costco, and A&P. On the way home, the sun broke, and the temperature was 60 degrees. We put the top of the convertible down and cruised home to Richelle's CDs. Carol was beyond thrilled. Emily fell asleep. Andrew and I DJ'd. We sang along and soaked up the sun.

In twenty minutes, we had the convertible unpacked, the myriad groceries put away, the house straightened and vacuumed. We ate the veggie platter and Boursin cheese for appetizers, and made popcorn shrimp, jalapeno poppers, and cookies for dinner. Andrew manned the oven; Carol handled the arranging of cheese and crackers. Jackie relaxed and picked out books from my stash to take home. (Does that dinner sound kind of disgusting? It was, sort of, in retrospect. But it was just perfect then and there.)

After dinner, with Emily packed off to bed, we played cards. Jackie read on the couch, and I taught Carol 500 Rummy, a time-honored tradition among the women in my family. We played two games Andrew picked up at summer camp, and went back to Rummy. I had a glass of wine and some Diet Coke; the kids drank water. Andrew made popcorn, and he did a damn fine job of it, too. I was proud. We listened to music, of course, with Carol asking for Prince, Andrew the Beastie Boys, and all of us agreeing on Cake. All three of us sang "I Want You to Want Me", the Letters to Cleo version, loud and fast, and decided that was our favorite recording of that song.

Finally, at 10:45pm, long past bedtime, Jackie dragged them home. It was a great night. It's times like this when I thank God things turned out the way they did. Who would have thought they would have? How many similar situations do? But, oh, thank God for it, really and truly. I'd be less of a person if not for those kids.

I know I have very few, if any male readers, and that most of them know me in my offline life, and thus are used to the way I talk and the things I talk about. And since I have clearly scared off any other potential male readers by alluding to my period, I feel confident that I can write now about my bra situation.

The problem is thus: Victoria's Secret has stopped making my favorite bra. I bought up all the available ones they had, but yet it remains in a limited personal supply. I know my stash is not going to last forever, and I can already see instances of wearage.

I looked long and hard for this bra. I rejoiced with choirs of angels when I found it. I braved dressing room after dressing room. I earned this fit. And now, I am left back at square one, kicked off the board in a horrible "Sorry" move. (What a cruel game Sorry is. I always felt bad knocking people off the board.)

So here I am, and what to do? Finding a bra is not as easy as going to Kohl's or a department store. I require both sexy and supportive, and motherhood has left me better off than I was before, which is to say, wave goodbye to C cups and finding your bra on sale, cutely displayed in the front of the store, and have fun trudging to the back to look through ugly white monstrosities. Which is why I no longer go to Kohl's to look for bras. Warner's has abandoned me. I don't want a "Just My Size" box. I don't need 18 hours of grandma's underwear, I need 12 of hotness.

But Victoria's Secret, they came through for me before. They had a beautifully sexy bra that looked great and felt great and did the girls justice, framed their beauty, if you will. So now all I can think to do is spend another hour or two of my life in their pink dressing rooms, trying on all their new bras, demanding demi cups, hoping they make the cute ones in my size. Unless one of you ladies has a make and model for me to try?