The World According to EDW

This is an unusual post for me. No song title, no theme. Just a request to my friends in the blogosphere.

Our little friend Nicole is in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit, and she needs any and all prayers and good wishes you can send her way.

Nicole is two months younger than Emily, and her favorite friend. They have been friends since they were six months old. Tuesday night Nicole's dad noticed she was having a problem breathing, and they went to the ER. She was transferred to a bigger hospital with a PICU almost immediately. She's on a ventilator, several antibiotics, steroids, painkillers, is heavily sedated, and getting treatments. They think she has bacterial tracheitis, which is to say her trachea is infected and was closing.

I was able to see Nicole and her mom and dad today, and Nick will be able to go tomorrow while I'm in Michigan. If you pray, please pray for her, her parents, and the staff taking care of her. She's a such sweet little girl, and she's going through an awful lot. It's basically a parent's worse nightmare come to life, and there are no words to make it right. Only time.

Thanks.

Some people pick the songs they will play for their child, the first music to usher them into the world. I've heard of classical, soothing nature sounds, wedding songs, favorite bands. I didn't pick music for Emily to hear, but Nick did. She rode home from the hospital listening to Marah's 20,000 Streets Under the Sky, and Nick proceeded to play it for her as much as possible. Her favorite song today is the second one off the album. Maybe I figured I had her entire lifetime to play music for her, or maybe I was still so drugged up and overwhelmed that it didn't even occur to me that she'd be listening to music, since I was too fixated on keeping her alive.

My car, however, is different. My car needs its first music planned out.

I'm planning the first six CDs that I will lovingly slide into the CD player. Welcome to the Monkey House, The Dandy Warhols. Pretty in Pink, Original Motion Picture Soundtrack. Why those two? No idea, I just feel like it. Maybe the Pretty in Pink connects me to my childhood and teen years, when the idea of driving around in a car I picked out was such a dream. Maybe I just love the songs on it. The Dandy Warhols could be one of those quirky things. Right now, I have them in my head.

But here comes the hard part. A Marah album, of course, but which one? (I'm leaning toward Kids in Philly.) Which Springsteen album? Which other two lucky CDs get to christen my new car, the music of a new start?

No compilations. No greatest hits. Mixes? Yes. A well made mix, or a mix made with affection, they are in the running.

The car, by the way, to help in naming and CD picking, is Glacier Blue with a gray interior. It's pretty. My salesperson is a woman, and I think she's sort of in love with our little family. You can tell she really likes us, and it's not just to sell us a car...after six weeks of us looking and not committing to anything, she never once pressured us. She might have a mom thing going on with us. She thinks her son is going to grow up looking like Nick, God help him, and she's super nice to Emily, tells us stories about her kids. When she called to tell me they had found the color, she was very excited and genuinely apologetic about not getting to see me before I left for Michigan.

Ah, yes, Michigan! I'm on my way Friday to lovely Ypsilanti, MI. That's not sarcasm; it really is lovely. They have an amazing deli for lunch and super cheap spa pedicures at the Aveeda training spa, and you know how I love a good pedicure. We're going on a trolley pub crawl, so that should be fun, but you know it's a little sad when I have favorite places and things to do in Ypsilanti. Well, some of them are in Ann Arbor. But still.

Music suggestions? Car name suggestions? Pedicure color choices? Bring 'em on!

On the playlist today: The Dandy Warhols

Have you ever had a moment when you are struck with a realization that you are not, in fact, friends with someone anymore?

Once, we were friends. But now, I guess we're not.

Once emails were sent, and phone calls returned. Once news was shared. Once, but not anymore.

Maybe it was you, maybe it was me. Have I so effectively put you out of my life that I didn't even notice I was doing it? I can push people away, I've been told, with my silence, my refusal to even talk about things. Or was it you, just moving away so slightly that although I felt distance, I didn't realize we had been relegated to acquaintances who catch up with each other through mutual friends.

Do I care if we're not friends anymore? No, not really. There's some compelling reasons for staying friends, true. But I'm not sure if that's enough. What really gets me about this is not you, it's what you and this bring up for me. It reminds me of all the other friendships that could be on thin ice, the ones that are over, the ones that feel like they're slipping away. I'll miss you, and it's easier to have you in my life than not, because friendship adds, it doesn't detract. But I'll make it without you. It's those other friendships I'm concerned with now, the feelings that are throwing me off on this sunny, pretty day.

Tomorrow, back to the new car and other things.

I never really wanted to be known as sensible and practical. Organized, yes. Prepared, maybe. But practical? Practical sounds so dowdy and boring. Sensible sounds like an ugly pair of shoes. Neither of them sound fun.

I'm a big fan of safe, though, and good gas mileage, and not spending a ton of money on something that is, at the end of the day, transportation. So after six weeks of test driving cars, and many nights spent reading Consumer Reports and Car and Driver and every car information website, including , of course, Click and Clack from Car Talk's thoughts, I went to the Honda dealership yesterday and picked a car out.

I went with the redesigned 2007 CR-V, a safe, sensible, and practicable car as you can get, with good gas mileage. But, and this is important, it has a great stereo system and a handy little plug for my iPod. And in the words of CR-V project leader Mitsuru Horikoshi, the new design is after "cool moms".

Sold.

We pick it up this weekend, or rather, Nick does. I'll most likely be in Michigan by the time my new baby is ready. This week will mean saying goodbye to Otto, my red Jetta, also known as Baby Car. I love that car, but it's time. Just like it was time to say goodbye to our cute but too small first house, we have outgrown the Jetta. I'm going to take lots of pictures and probably cry, because I'm a sap like that. But when I get off the plane on Sunday, it will be to ride home in my new baby. That will be exciting. Now all it needs is a name. Suggestions?

It's really nice and sunny out, that's what that little ole lyric is about. Also, I am still high off my champagne and white wine and after dinner gin and tonics which Nick so thoughtfully ordered for me, because it's so very important to have a completely drunk wife instead of just a slightly drunk wife.

The thing-that-shall-not-be-named was a surprise retirement party for my father-in-law. Yesterday, I was a bundle of energy and craziness. Not nerves, exactly. More anticipation. We started out the day by test driving a car we are seriously thinking of buying, a car that is basically a glorified wagon, for women like me who cannot bear to think of themselves as minivan moms. All these cars we are looking at are not SUVs exactly; they're not minivans; they're not wagons. They're "crossovers", which means they are fronting as cooler, but still have the room to haul kids and crap. They are cars for slacker moms, or soccer moms who still get bikini waxes. (This makes perfect sense to me, but maybe not so much to you, the reader. Let me know; I'm happy to explain.)

Anyway, the point is I need a bigger car and I'm trying to get one and still keep my cool driving around-with-the-windows-down-sunroof-open-radio-on-loud thing. Although maybe that's impossible, because a certain friend of mine keeps making fun of these prospective cars, telling me they all look like minivans, even the ones I think are cool. And to her I say, your time will come and I will laugh.

So, we wake up and test drive a car. Because when you have a ton of things to do, taking the time to drive a car on the day of a big party is clearly the best use of your time. Nick and I are crazy, yes, But we're crazy together.

After the car, Nick went on numerous errands, child and brother in tow. (Our child and his brother, the famed BIL Matt from Dublin, Ireland.) I went and got my hair dyed dark red, the color of mahogany. Does this seem familiar? Why, that's because it is! Not only have I done this before, I've blogged about it before. I also got my nails done (French) and bought a new outfit at Target (oh, I'm not kidding about that.) I love Issac Mizrahi's line at Target. I really do, and I'm not ashamed to admit I bought my outfit there, down to the matching shoes, because when you see it you'll see that it is adorable, and you will also see that I have gotten fat. Because I have. Very, very fat. And don't comment and tell me I'm not fat, because you will be LYING and you don't have to make me feel better, I swear. I'm sitting here eating a Rice Krispie treat and drinking a Diet Coke - there's not a doubt in my mind why I am fat. The Rice Krispie treats are so very good.

So armed with my high-class outfit, my bundle of energy and ball of stress, and accompanied by my brother-in-law, I set out to make my father-in-law's party a great night. And it was. I gave a toast that was both nice and funny, and maybe I'll even post it here, so you can laugh at my words and see my fatness and cuteness in action (because those are not mutually exclusive things) and I can be embarrassed by the sound of my voice, which always horrifies me. I sound so much better in my head, you see.

My father-in-law was very surprised, and he had a great time. In the end, that's what matters, That's why I did the things I did and stressed about them like I did, and dealt with what I had to deal with, so that he would have a nice party. It was fun, and I drank quite a bit after my toast, and enjoyed myself thoroughly, and I am so, so glad it's over. Now as soon as I finish the rest of these Rice Krispie treats, I'm going to get right on that diet. Right on it.

Pictures are up on flickr, and I had a look at the video - it's pretty good! So maybe I will post it, eventually.

When I was a kid I used to sing the entire Annie soundtrack. I could do the whole thing, start to finish. I thought that was the height of fun. My parents took me to see the show on Broadway, and I can't remember who was in the lead, but I like to think it was that girl from Kate and Allie. (Mom, if you're reading, let me believe this, okay?)

The last week has been incredibly busy, thus the lack of blogging. I've been doing a variety of things, including, but not limited to, researching a new car purchase, editing a manuscript and writing an editorial letter, seeing visiting relatives, and something else that I can't name yet. Something that will be over with tomorrow.

Well, the letter is out. I think I am nearly done with the sharky car salespeople. Although, I have to say, I had two women and liked both of them very much. The men? Not so much. Buying cars is soo stressful. I'm surprised by how stressful it is. but I have high hopes it will soon be over, in a very easy, happy fashion.

Today I have only the final things to do for the last, it-shall-not-be-named-yet thing. And tomorrow, a round of last minute things, but mostly fun - hair cut, nails, that sort of thing. Hopefully, come Monday, I will be full of good stories to tell and showcasing great photos. But until then, let me wish you a very happy weekend. I promise to read your blogs and return your emails when this is all over!

I'm not one to blog about current events. But I feel compelled to share this book with you, a book that changed my life and might save my life one day.

The book is called The Gift of Fear by Gavin de Becker, and it is widely available. You can buy it on the web, from your local bookstore, or get it from your local library. You can listen to it on audio. You can read other books he has written, but this one is essential. I mean that. Everyone should read this book.

It will not bring you money or power, and there's no secret to it. But it might save your life, or the life of someone you love, or the life of someone you know.

It's about, very simply, the stuff we worry about but don't need to, and the stuff we try not to think about but should, and the stuff we know to be true but talk ourselves out of. It will not keep you awake at night worrying, it will help you sleep better. It will make you feel powerful instead of powerless. It will help make some sense of the senseless, tragic things we see on TV all too often.

Pick a topic we worry about, any one. Daycare for kids. School shootings. Bad dates. Stalkers. Terrorism. Pedophilia. A harassing coworker. Teens on MySpace or in chat rooms. Guns in schools, homes, or the workplace. Car jacking, robbery, and other threats to personal safety. Being a woman, walking alone to your car at night. Being a parent, sending your kid to school. Being a person who can't control what happens to the people you love during the day. Doubting versus trusting our own intuition. This is only a small sampling of the things Gavin de Becker writes about in this book.

When my book group and I read it, we had a powerful experience. I know, after reading this book with these women, that they will support me if I ever need to act to keep myself or my family safe. No matter how "crazy" it might sound, if I follow my instincts, and with the support of my friends, I can make a difference in the safety of my life and my family's life.

You will not regret reading this book, I promise you. You feel safer, more in control, and you may even start to trust your instincts.

Let me know if you read it, and what you think of it. But please, I urge you, pick it up. There's no book I'd recommend more strongly, and that is saying something coming from me.

May you and all your loved ones be safe tonight.

I've been working on my editing project and I've been working on saying "No!" but every working girl needs a break. So, for fun, I thought it would be great to take the three kids to see King Tut's treasures. Because nothing says "break" like a day trip to a museum with a toddler, nine year old, and thirteen year old. All day long. Nope, nothing says "break" quite like that.

Jackie (she and her kids are on spring break) and I planned carefully. We loaded up the car with snacks galore. We plotted out parking garages and alternate parking garages. We took special note of nearby restaurants and how to get to the good cheese steak place on the way home. We were, in short, very prepared. I even made a mix for the car.

So how did it go? It kicked our asses. I even made a cheer for us to do on the walk back to the car about how it kicked our asses. It took our names, and kicked our asses. For a museum catering to families, it had stairs and stairs and more stairs, just for fun, from one room on a floor to another room on the same floor. This made no sense, and even less when you consider the amount of strollers there. Yet, it was nearly impossible to walk from one floor to another floor - instead you had to take the elevator, which meant that everyone took the elevator, not just us poor saps with strollers. Nope, everyone and their grandmother. Literally.

I guess the exhibits were good, but honestly, I spent more time on the sheer inconvenience of the enterprise. The cafe closed at 3pm while the museum stayed open until 8pm. Sense? Logic? Nope. Another "cafe", which was actually a snack stand, was open but seating was in the open atrium, on steps crowded with people and drink spills and popcorn. I'm not picky about where I sit or where I eat, and hell, I'm Perky! and Happy! in museums, but this was gross.

I liked the King Tut exhibit, a lot. But if I had to do it over, I would have come for that, done that, and had a nice dinner, preferably with a glass of wine. The kids seemed to have fun, but Jackie and I felt mummified by the end of the day. We needed someone else to drive us home and put all the stuff away. One unexpected bonus was that I discovered all my stuff works. My shoes were comfortable, my bra straps never needed adjusting, the bag I brought was the right one. My clothes and accesorries performed perfectly, and there's something to be said for that.

We have agreed we're never going back there again. We've done it. Nick can take Emily when she gets older. He has a lower tolerance for annoying people, but he moves quick, so he's got that advantage. And he probably would have gotten more vocal with the woman who scolded me for taking the stroller up a ramp as instructed by museum staff. I wanted to shout "You can't even say your vowels right!", but I didn't. (The area's residents have a distinctive accent, turning the word "home" into "hooome". ) I simply said that I was only doing what I was told by a member of the museum staff and did not add, and who the hell are you, anyway?

But it's all a memory now, another adventure to add to the "remember what we did when you were kids" for the kids - all three of them. We laughed, a lot, about the crazy annoyances. That was fun. And the cheese steaks...those were worth the trip. However, I'm going to think twice about those "breaks". Back to work for me!

The really unfortunate thing about using this song for post titles is that then You. Can. Not. Get. It. Out. Of. Your. Head. Which means you listen to it non-stop, and that's alarming in many ways, one of which is that you do not want your toddler singing "this my shit, this my shit" like you are, and believe me, this kid? She sings what you sing. And it's really hard to sing "B-A-N-A-N-A-S" without singing "this shit is". But do I love Gwen Stefani? Why, yes, I do.

Also, this song gets me totally pumped in a good way. Maybe I should put it on a mix called "Ass-Kicking Music" and listen to it when I try to weasel out of BOUNDARIES and SAYING NO.

Oh, the "no" saying, it's so hard! I, believe it or not, want to be nice. I want to be the Good Girl. I am so bad at saying NO, it's a joke.

I'm trying. I'm really trying. I will be strong!

Meanwhile, I'm working on aforementioned project, which is interesting and engaging and going well. And right now, I'm totally avoiding my mess of things purchased at Costco in a fit of panic, the I-have-no-snacks panic. Well, I've got snacks now. Come on over for snacks! Snacks for everyone! So many snacks, scattered across my counters. I must go put them away. And work. And practice saying no. And listen to Gwen. I'll be back very, very soon.

For fun, go add this to your blog. You can see mine on the right. Love it!

This is the post where I tell you that I'm off to get some boundaries.

It's kind of like meeting the Wizard, but without the Yellow Brick Road. There's singing and a munchkin, though. I'm rather fond of green, so the Emerald City should be a good fit. I'm crossing my fingers for the opium fields - those could be fun. And if you see Glinda, for the love of Pete, send her my way. I could use her magic, and her direction.

I have always had a well-honed belief that if I just express myself clearly and properly, other people will respond. If I use the right words in the right way at the right time, it will be okay. The right words, those enviable, yet achievable, darlings. That standard by which I judge everything I say, by which I can judge myself and come out okay. I can find the right words, I can study the person and situation and I can express myself properly. This, I can do.

But sometimes it doesn't matter, and that stuns me. I say the right thing in the right way at the right time and it doesn't make a damn bit of difference. And then what do I do?

In addition to needing to get a major psychological hurdle out of the way RIGHT NOW, I also have a rather demanding freelance project to work on and a toddler to raise, or at least not sell to the gypsies, although if you have their number send it to me, okay? She's showing some signs of wishing to be sold. I'll either be replying to emails from last week right away in order to avoid these things, or I'll be holing up, trying to find these elusive things called boundaries. Wish me luck.

Appetizer
When you travel, which mode of transportation do you prefer?

This really depends on where I'm going and for how long. I like the car or plane - not fond of train travel, although my husband, my darling beloved husband, is constantly trying to get me to travel on the train to places. The exception, of course, is the train into NYC, which is my preferred mode of transportation from home to Manhattan.

Soup
Have you ever met a blogging friend in person?

Salad
When was the last time you were really, really tired?

This week. I felt like I couldn't even stand up on Wednesday night.

Main Course
If you could have dinner with any one fictional character from a book or movie, who would it be?

Oh, the choices...do I go with Elizabeth Bennett, the Little Prince, or maybe Kate Reddy from I Don't Know How She Does It? Nah, I've got to pick Mary Russell from the Mary Russell books by Laurie R. King

Dessert
Fill in the blank: One day, I hope to see _______________.

My daughter as a happy, healthy adult with a life she loves.

My first boyfriend was named E., and I met him at arts camp. Art, Music, Acting, Dance, we used to sing, in the morning assembly. I loved it there, and I looked up to the older, cooler, talented interns, which was what we called the teenage counselors. In time, I became a pre-intern (junior counselor) in the Art program. The head intern there was a funny, smart, wisecracking junior in high school. He was popular with all the little kids and all the interns, too. The director of the program alternately loved and hated him, the kind of kid who was probably too smart for the adults, and not smart enough yet to hide that. He appeared to be able to sail through life and its situations with an ease I couldn't muster in my wildest dreams, because I spent most of my time feeling incredibly awkward and tongue-tied.

After a summer of desperately hoping he would pay attention to me, it finally happened. We started dating, and I, a freshman in high school, had a boyfriend who was a junior in high school. Oh, so very cool. We went out for four months, broke up amicably, and stayed friends for years afterwards. He was the one who drove me to buy hair dye so I could go black for the Ramones concert. He was the one who took us to see The Cure. He dated one of my friends in high school and one in college. We lost touch after college graduation. He was a good guy, and he was super nice to me, but we weren't the loves of each other's lives or even teen years. He was, however, a perfect first boyfriend. Even if Jackie hated him.

Today I hung out with Andrew (the godson) and his ex-not-girlfriend K. She is turning 16, a sophomore in high school. He is turning 14, an eighth grader. They became friends last summer, and by the fall they were an item. For months, she's been his not-girlfriend, the "not" present because her parents didn't approve of her dating a boy in grade school, a boy two years younger. But they went out in a group, bought each other Christmas presents, and presumably declared their feeling for each other. She was his girlfriend, whether or not her parents knew it.

Then, a few weeks ago, she ended it. She couldn't lie to her parents, she said, and it just made things too complicated for her. He told me the night of the Marah concert I took him to, and we spent the night telling horrible break-up stories, one classic one about his dad that is too good not to tell, and all my most pathetic ones. He laughed, we ate hibachi, we saw Marah and rocked out. And then the oddest thing happened. Nothing changed with K.

After a bumpy week or two, they went on as before. Hanging out, talking on the phone...at first Andrew spent more time with his grade school friends, who he'd neglected for this cool new group of high schoolers. But then today, he asked her to hang out with his grade school friends, and as it turned out, me aka his driver.

First boyfriends are one thing, but first loves are another. I had the former, and he has the latter. They are so comfortable with each other, so unselfconscious. I think I was 25 before I felt that unselfconscious with someone I cared for in front of other people. The way she looks at him...oh, my. If her parents can't see how she feels about this boy, they're just not looking.

And in addition, she's a lovely girl. Intelligent, looks you in the eye, can carry on a lively and interesting conversation with an adult she's met only once before. Good taste in music. Kind to the little sister. The kind of girl who's self- assured, reads a lot, embraces the more alternative aspects of teen girlhood - less pink, more punk - and is a Good Girl, in the Catholic school sense.

You never forget that first heady love, the first person you feel gets you and likes you and thinks you're cute and cool and totally rock and roll. That's the person that makes you feel like you might be as awesome as you want to be. You don't always get it with your first relationship, or even your second or third or fourth. Sometimes you get lucky, though, and someone looks at you in that way, and maybe you don't realize it, but your aunt? She sure as hell does.

Oh, man, don't you just love Stockard Channing? I do. I love her. I love her in West Wing, which I just love, love, love, and soon I'll have to write about Bradley Whitford, who I love, love, love. Although to be honest, it's Sam for me over Josh, if forced to pick. Rob Lowe. Sigh. Back to Stockard, I love her in Grease, of course, and basically everything else, ever. Love her. But I digress.

I am a ticket whore. Not a full-time ho, but a bit of a ticket whore, still.

Sure, it could be worse. I could be a crack whore. That's definitely worse. I could be a clothes and shoes and purse whore, except I am, or rather I would be if the opportunity presented itself. And that's just it - I didn't intend to become a ticket whore, it just happened.

I have weaknesses. I'm only human.

It was a Monday, the Monday of yesterday, following the weekend in which I did nothing social. Not one happy drink out with friends, not a movie, not a meal out other than breakfast in the diner after church, not to diss breakfast in the diner, one of life's great pleasures and a reason to move to Jersey if there ever was one, but still. High on the sick child, low on the merry-making.

And we all know I love my merry-making.

Yesterday I got a text message, from someone I barely know, and only from (let me say this fast so you don't stop and laugh) goingtoMarahshows. Yes, yes, I know. She texted me to tell me she had an extra ticket to see an artist I'd heard about but never seen, at a club only minutes from my house. Butch Walker. The Stone Pony.

So I went.

And it rocked. Literally.

I like to go see bands I've never heard of, music I've never listened to. I want to hear them live, at their best, most rocked-out, total performance mode, the crowd singing along. If I like them, I can buy the CD. If not, it was still a night out with friends and live music, and of course, beer. Most bands I think are okay, and can see their appeal to my friends or acquaintances, but very few really rock, or really make you say, I like this music. A few. Not all by any means.

This guy just rocked out. Total stage presence, the crowd feeding off it, the band feeding off the crowd. Hands outstretched, guitars loud, played up in the air, played in the crowd. This guy loves what he does. Just loves it, and the fans love it, too.

Live music is so different than what you hear on a CD in your car, or on your iPod walking around the block. Live music is about being there, and that doesn't always translate into an audio file. I hope his songs translate, I hope the passion and soul you see on stage comes across in a song recorded in a soundproof studio. In any event, I think I might be owning this ticket whore thing. It's working for me. So if you're stuck with an extra ticket and your actual friends have a life or just aren't hardcore? I'm your whore, I mean girl. Definitely your girl.

I can't imagine you reading this and not having a guitar riff in your head. Let's move past that, now that we both know this song may be stuck in your head for the whole day, prompting Internet searches on the life and death of Hendrix.

I spend a lot of time thinking, which is why people who make me laugh have such currency in my life. Left to my own devices, I will think, read, nap, compose long unsent letters to friends, and take hot showers using the maximum number of beauty products available. I will wander from room to room, showered, reading, thinking, applying moisturizer and hand creams in a distracted, dreamy way. Note that eating is not included in this list, and that loss of blood sugar might account for the dreaminess more than anything else. Lots of thinking takes place in the shower, a nice combination of beauty products ands deep thoughts mingling with the steam.

Today I was not left to my own devices, but I did my random thinking in the shower anyway. It might be my only time today, so I've got to seize it. Hours later, I write this post, about my vague, lotion-scented thoughts. So bear with me.

The titles I come up with do have something to do with the posts; they're not just meaningless lyrics, pulled for my own amusement. Often they are shout-outs as well - Marah lyrics for my Marah friends. The lyric from a song you put on a mix for me. The lyric from a song you and I discussed recently, or an artist I know you love. This title is a lyric that makes no sense to me. The song, I get as a whole. The lyric? Whatever. Much like this post.

It's weird writing this sometimes, knowing the people I write about will read it. Doesn't stop me, and doesn't make me edit much, but it does sometimes occur to me that what I write may not be perceived in the spirit it's intended. Like those posts on red wine drinking were nearly always written right before Moira walked in the door for tea and wine and conversation, but they didn't always say that, prompting some lunch-time interventions on the perils of drinking alone.

Sometimes, I'm writing to someone in particular; a letter, a note, a memory, an explanation. I've written to persons present and past, known and unknown; to friends, loved ones, enemies. If you think it's about you, it probably is. Unless, of course, you're paranoid. Then there's nothing I can tell you. But if the lyric matches up, the emotions seem familiar, the story is like one I'd tell you in person, then yes, assume it's you. Or ask me.

It's weird, too, not to hear from a friend but know they are reading your blog. Weird, because it's a question left unanswered. What did they think of it? Did they get the inside joke? Do they recognize themselves? Are they judging me? Also, why read my blog but not stay in touch with me?

And this brings me to thoughts about friendship in general, and some in particular. I write a lot about friendship, and my good ones. I do this because while I have lots of friends, maybe more than the average person, my good ones are still remarkable when compared to the rest of them. Like everyone else, I have relationships I don't understand, ones that trouble me, others that are imbued with characteristics that will spell the doom of them. I have friends whose loss I mourn, and friends I can't wait to get rid of. I have friendships I'm secure in and others I question.

I wonder about emails gone astray, messages not received. I know that I don't reply sometimes, for a variety of reasons; time, place, circumstance, desire. I wonder which of these is the cause of my questioning. Are you too busy, or do you not care? Is there something else keeping you away from our friendship?

I don't let sleeping dogs lie. I want answers, reactions, to know. I'm the girl who reads the end of the book, remember? If it's sad, I can deal with it, but I want to know. Bad news first, please.

I don't devote days to this thinking, only minutes in the shower. But still. Throw me a bone, if not a meal, for my mind to digest. I can take bad news, but bad news it may not be, just your news. That, I can take, too. I am not always a good friend. Frequently, I am not. But if I have any care for you in any bone of my body, you will know it unequivocally. I think I know. But tell me anyway.