Feel Freely, Freely Feel

Given the sobering events of last night and today, there has been so much talk, so many facts to process, such intense emotional fall out, it's hard to make heads and tails of things. We were all affected by bin Laden's death, whether you're happy, mad or indifferent about it. Tragedies stick with us. Everyone remembers where they were during the 1998 Embassy bombings, and of course September 11th. I was in 9th grade. I remember feeling scared and hopeless and yet—united. I felt an overwhelming sense of being "a part of." I had never felt something so strong; I had never so deeply felt that I, as an American, was one small part of a greater whole. I was connected to those on the TV screens, scrambling from dust-covered fire trucks, to those gasping for air between choking sobs in the streets, to the others, like me, permanently affixed to living room couches, trembling fingers bent over their mouths wet with tears.

While we all remember where we were during tragedies, we all respond differently. Just like today. There are feelings of triumphant joy, vindication, concern, anger, confusion, apathy, judgment and much more. All of these things floating around in the air above and among us, bumping in to one another. We have to see and hear and process these differing feelings. We may be angry, but we have to witness someone else's joy. We may feel vindication, but have to read about how all that bin Laden's death does is beget more hate and evil and destroy any glimmer of hope left for peace. We may be reminded of the sacrifice or the loss of a loved one, while someone goes on about how they don't see what the big deal is. It's unsettling. It's not easy to juggle along with all of your own feelings.

So many times throughout the day I found myself shaking in anger over a post, a comment or a news headline that I just couldn't comprehend. How could that be your response to this whole thing, I found myself asking over and over. How is that your solution to all of this? How misinformed, insensitive can you be?

It just kept hitting me over and over in waves. I would swallow my pride and gather my wits, and go about my day only to be totally derailed again 20 minutes later. I thought we were part of a whole, I thought. How can we both have experienced x, y and z and come out of it feeling so differently?

I'm not on point here, I don't have a crushing blow to dole out, some poignant statement to tie all of this together and prove that I'm right. I'm only here to say that I was smacked in the face with a harsh reality today: I care way too much what other people think. (David will laugh when he reads this because he tells me this at least 5 times a week.) But it's so true. And it's never hit me so hard. Why do you care, Lia? What do you gain from caring? What do you lose? If this is a close friend going through a hard time, THAT is a perfect time to care "too much." But not something like this. A differing of opinions. A misinformed person. An accusation from an enemy. An attack on your character, your President. Shake it off like a rainy afternoon that cancels your plans.

I spend so much time and energy carrying the worries and thoughts and fears of the people I am connected to. I let their words creep under my skin, and work their way up to my head where they blast on repeat over and over for hours, days. I am mentally editing their words, their actions—striking through self-proclaimed mistakes and scratching bold red lines through patches of words. What a waste of time. I can't change them, I can't change their minds.

Starting today I am going to start pulling the attached wires off, disconnecting myself from negative connections. There is positivity, inspiration, motivation out there waiting to be grasped. And I am am eager—my mind open, my hands outstretched—poised to take hold of the real meaning of life, and let the rest of it slip right down off of my skin. And whatever you feel about today, and everyday: Let yourself feel that way fully, without embarrassment or condemnation or concern. Don't feel like you have to explain yourself all the time. Just freely feel. Accept it, accept yourself, stand firm on your own two feet and you can't go wrong.

Murphy's Law, AKA: Law of my Life

Some people have allergies, some people get sunburned easily, others have unruly cowlicks, but me, I have Murphy's Law. That's right. Good ole' Murphy. According to Wikipedia, Murphy's Law is defined as "an adage or epigram that is typically stated as: 'Anything that can go wrong will go wrong.'"

Sounds peachy as a way of life, huh? Ole' Murph is so annoying we have even considered (Read: I have considered) naming our first child Murphy in hopes that it will off-set this horrid luck. (Murphy Dangelico. Ick) But, alas, it would probably just end up in an epic, LOST-worthy catastrophe of remote desert islands, excessive nickname-calling and a ridiculously short, evil kidnapper with a God-complex.

The ways in which Murphy's Law plagues me include—but are not limited to—the following:

• First year of being married, insane amount of money due on our taxes
• Multiple gray hairs before 25 (Shout out to my mom who, whenever I comment on my grays, says: "You know, your grandfather was completely white by 25." Please note that the number gets closer and closer to my current age each time she mentions it.)
• My job (Growing up in a rented farm house with no farm animals does not a cowgirl make.)
• Tall, big hands AND big feet ('Nuff said. And none of that "at least you're proportional," shite)
• Eight-kids, poor parents (Sorry Mom.) (You know the song "Everybody, everybody, everybody wants to be a cat?" -Aristocats Well, just think of it this way: All my friends are cats. I'm a gargantuan mouse.)
• Car repairs, always at the worst times
• Elbow holes (THIS IS ONE OF THE WORST)
• Fancy and expensive pizza stone breakage
• Excessive sleepiness (I have managed to stay up until 12 exactly once in this new year, at least.)
• Small teeth (See bullet number 4 = cruel combination)
• Honeymoon FAIL (Including: Food poisoning and other undesirable illnesses, excessive buginess, overweight nude sunbathers and lack of AC/fan/a freaking breeze?)
• Queso stain on my only white dress shirt (Cruel and unusual)
• Coupons expiring the day before I want goto use them (ALWAYS)

and finally...the most-current whammy:

• While trying to show a friend (Shout out to SJ!) how to to set-up an out-of-office reply, my email freaks out and sends an out-of-office reply to EVERY SINGLE EMAIL IN MY INBOX. What the? How is that even possible, right? (My boss got 100 emails. The DEPARTMENT HEAD GOT 47.) WHAAT?!

Someone please save me from the evil Murphy. Or just put me out of my misery. (Or just buy me a drink?)

P.S.: And, if, just if, you happen to be wondering what the little evil Murphy Dangelico might look like, Google has an answer for you. And (somehow, in God's name) this is what it came up with:

...I can totally see the resemblance.

All By My Lonesome

"All by mah-sey-eeeelf, don't wanna be alllll by myyyyysaaaaalf, anymo'." -NOT Carly Simon, but Jamie O'Neil (covering an Eric Carmen original)

***Did I also forget to mention that I will be using this blog as a jumping-off point for my new one-line concert series: "The Classics, In Just One Line?"***

Editorial comment: A big shout-out to my mom for fact-checking me and pointing out that it was not, in fact, Carly Simon who ever even sang this song. O'Neil covered it in Bridget Jones' Diary (double shout-out to Steph for picking up on that). Needless to say, I will have to do some studying before going on tour...

OK, so, it has just been confirmed by sources closest to myself (me) that I will be all alone this whole weekend for the first time in many moons. Sure, I've spent the occasional night huddled in our big bed, surrounded by dogs and probably wide-eyed waiting for an intruder to break in, or maybe just spent the night dreaming about it, but I can't remember the last time I spent 2 1/2 days alone. Now, don't be silly, I will see people. I will most certainly pay a long-overdue ice cream visit to my main man down at the Shell station on the corner. He laughs at my Half-Baked ice cream, telling me Cherry Garcia is better, while trying to convince me to buy a lottery ticket. In addition, I will be helping some friends out on Saturday, and going to a wine festival on Sunday. OK, so...not really alone. But it sounds dramatic, and maybe makes you pity me about as much as you pity celebrities for being so rich that they can't, you know, like go out and "do stuff" like normal people, so I'll stick with it.

To recap: Me, bed full of dogs, being helpful, ice cream, creepy-yet-charming gas station attendant and wine will comprise my weekend.

Now, what else did I come here to say?

Oh. This sort-of-kind-of aloneness that will (not-really) plague me this weekend has spread to my work life. I am currently sitting in my teeny cubicle, and I don't hear anything. Not the annoying girl with the INSANELY pitchy laugh down the hall. Not my antagonistic coworker chiding the new guy. Not even the click of my boss shutting her door to shut the world out. Everyone is gone this week at the annual meeting of gunny minds of EPIC proportions in Pittsburgh, Pa. I won't go into it any further than that. So it's just me here holding down the E-Media fort with my black coffee and colored pens. Not only that, but the disturbing full-circle fact of it all is that, the reason I will be alone at home is because David will be in—that's right—Pittsburgh!!! this weekend, attending a funeral. (Tip-toeing away from sad/depressingness.)

Alternative tasks to keep me busy this lonely weekend include:

• Clean our despicably dirty carpets (Thanks to 3 pooches, and my unsteady pouring hand)
• Wash the car/vacuum out all of the dog hair and dirt (See above)
• Buy new bed sheets
• Paint a picture
• Re-mulch the backyard
• Start my novel
• Brush the dogs' teeth
• ...World peace?! (Miss. Congeniality, anyone?!)

In other news, I just got an email from a coworker with the subject line: "Breaking News." The body of the email reads: "A tornado watch has been issued for the region. ================." I imagine that the dashed lines that follow the brief, but important, sentence are like the typed version of those beeps that always follow a statement from the Emergency Broadcast System. (Nice touch, fella'.) So, after all, maybe I will be spending the weekend in a bathtub with the doggies, or maybe huddled in a bomb-shelter with strangers, or maybe I'll get lucky and spend it like this:

Please, GOD, let it be option #3!!!!!!!!!

Makeova'

Have I mentioned here before that I have a tendency to get discouraged and bored of things quickly? Well, tis true. But in an effort to revamp this very neglected blog and reawaken the writing spark within me, I have given the old girl a bit of a makeover. I may have gone a bit overboard in the "girly" department, but thankfully, I am a girl, so we're all good there. (In other news: how many times can I say "girl" in one breath? Oy)

How will I force myself to write more, you few followers ask?

Well, the answer is simple, but following through with it is not. The pen-and-ink answer is that I have expanded the purpose of this blog—even if just within the realm of my own mind. I am attempting to take away the stage fright I feel each time I log on, by lightening the mood (and look) and opening up the conversation. Not every post has to be poetic, or meaningful...or include something about my family. (Guilty as charged.) For the first time in a very long time, if ever in my life, I have time on my hands, time to kill, nothing to wear and nowhere to be. So, in the best possible sense, I plan to wallow, wander aimlessly, make a big fuss about some of the more beautiful things in this world—-oh, and likely, very likely, tell some bad jokes here and there. With such a winning recipe—from now on will we ALWAYS think of Charlie Sheen when we hear "winning?"—I cannot go wrong; I will surely devote more time and passion to my girl. A big part of it may, in fact, include me referring to my blog as "my girl" from now on.

So, what do you say? Same place, same time next week?—er, tomorrow? (I think I can, I think I can.)

I hope you will enjoy my future ramblings of all things-Lia: cooking, eating, puppies, not-exercising, talking too much, fashion, relationships, flowers, politics, forgetting to brush my dogs' teeth everyday, books, film, music, decorating and much much more.

See you on the other side!

Anniversary

Today is a bitter pill to swallow. March 8th marks the two-year anniversary of being at my current job. I find it hard to celebrate (or be happy about) any part of it other than the future prospect of a new job and the paychecks that helped feed us. It has been a rough two years, though quick, and there have been periods within the span when I just wanted to hide from everything, escape the bad, escape the good. Start over. I have been tested beyond belief, tired beyond belief, but also blessed beyond belief.

The good certainly outweighs the bad, and thankfully that is what comes to mind regularly. I try to forget the confusion, hurt and disappointment and stay focused on what's ahead of me: Freedom.

I need all of the prayers and encouragement out there. Simply coming to work and sitting here for 8 hours a day has even gotten tough. There are times when I let the pinch of responsibility go, and I clasp the handle of my purse and think about rising and walking down the hall to the elevator. Fleeing. Never turning around to wave goodbye, or even scream. Other times I am fully lost in fantasy of how I will go when given the opportunity to leave for good. Will I make a list of wrongs and post it publicly, will I speak my mind and shout and kick and be escorted out by security guards, or will I go silently and let my absence speak volumes?

It is a very unfortunate thing to have a treasure in your possession and to let it go to waste. To let it fall by the wayside, neglected. Untended crops cannot grow. Cannot find joy in their work, or feel valuable, and capable and worthy. But if, just if, she has a solid-enough head on her shoulders and a bit of conviction, in time she will break through the soil—up and up, roots tearing from dark brown earth, jagged strands of life plunged into limbo, uncertainty, but: fresh air—and move along to a better plot of land.

And once she goes, she will never return, never give a single thought to you and all that happened here.

Sweet Stuff

I live for holidays that fall on weekdays. While the initial statement may seem to make little sense, there is more. I live for holidays that fall on weekdays/work days. As much as a day off is highly appreciated (please & thank you), a holiday that falls on a work day promises treats. And as we all know, treats are "where it's at."

I've been told I got my sweet tooth from my father. "The garbage disposal" who would finish off left-overs from our childhood dinner plates, was also the only one of my parents who would buy sweets when he went grocery shopping.

Taking delicate, silent steps into the pantry after the groceries were unloaded, our small brown eyes burst with excitement. Oatmeal Raisin Cookies! Chocolate Kudos Bars! Marshmallows! Mint Chocolate Chip Ice Cream (the white, never the green kind). Even Nilla Wafers got us going.

Following my parents divorce, I would look forward to weekends at my dad's when we would go grocery shopping after he picked us up. We always knew we could convince him to buy a sugar-y sweet ending to the evening.

There shouldn't have been a problem. We were healthy eaters; the point was that treats were a once-in-a-while thing. A reward for eating heaping spoonfuls of vegetables throughout the week.

But, there was a problem. Like my father with dinner, I became a racing motorboat determined to gobble as many scoops of Breyers as I could. This dessert will be your last dessert EVER, I would hear in my head—I swear, the voice was very, very clear. One scoop, two, three. One more mound of the creamy white stuff. I have never been able to shed this sweetness obsession. One Dove chocolate becomes a handful—my work desk littered with crumpled tin-foil wrappers. I stuff them into my trash can before anyone comes along and notices my gluttony.

One cookie, three more. I can't stop. In the grocery line, I spy a Kit-Kat. My weakness. King-Size. My weakness on 'roids. I slip the over-sized candy bar into my cart, temporarily detached from my own body and brain (which is telling me STOP! NOW! Resist the urge!). I peer over the lanes, as if pondering a dairy purchase, unaware that a stranger has slipped delicious sin into my cart—and oblivion. It's all the same. For as long as I can remember, packages of candy always seemed to disappear just as quickly as they were opened.

The old metabolism seems to have faded without my noticing, too. Here today, must-work-out-incessantly-and-slap-hand-when-it-reaches-for-sweets tomorrow. I have to train myself to quiet the overzealous sweet tooth. But, when a delightful holiday comes around, the ladies in my office bring in baked goods. The men play it simple and bring in bags of themed chocolate. Even the ultra-thin secretary indulges, so I tell myself: it's OK. After all, it's a holiday!

The one upside to all of this is that my unruly tooth transcends baked goods and candy, to all things sweet. Puppies, my sleepy man in the morning, anything mini, babies, Dads with their kids, a much-needed card from an old friend, small arms hanging around my neck, the smell of fresh flowers. All of these things bring me to tears and soften my often-cold-hard heart. Somehow my love for the sweet helps me notice the little things everyday—edible or not. And so I thank my sweet tooth, and I pat my round, soft belly and rejoice for the silly, overdone holidays that bring me and this old tooth of mine so much delight.

Let's Be Adventurous!

We started off the new year with a short and sweet visit up north, to Vermont, to ski, drink and meet new friends. Yes, we traveled 9 hours to meet new friends. (If this gives you any idea of our current situation, please pity us.) But, thankfully, what could potentially have been a dangerous experience turned out to be extremely fun and relaxing for both of us. (And, we hope, for our "real life" new friends!)

I'd be lying if I said it didn't take some convincing to get David to go along with my plans. I think he thought they were pipe dreams at first, and as they became more of a reality, he seemed in shock. We would discuss it, and he would doubt my sanity, and I would say: don't you want to go on an adventure?!

David always laughs at me and maybe rolls his eyes when I launch into one of my "put yourself out there" sermons. It is "so important" according to, well, me: to go, to do. To live outside your comfort zone!

ADVENTURE! I shout at him.

What exactly do you mean by adventure? he asks.

To go somewhere totally new and strange. Just imagine! Somewhere you—WE—have never ever been! Experience life, a culture you didn't even know existed! Doesn't that just sound thrilling?!?

He's not so sure. (Translation: he is very sane and normal.)

My half-hearted pep talks don't usually convince him, or anyone other than me—for one fleeting moment. And in that moment, I feel wonderful and powerful and in command, at the wheel of my own life.

So whether or not I should become a motivational speaker is still being debated, but in the meantime, for now, I can convince both of us to take little risks: hop in the car, jump on a plane and go somewhere new. Meet new people. Use the little time, little money, little energy we have to "be adventurous" by taking little adventures.

So I guess for now, that will be enough to keep my sweet man sane. And enough for me, too, standing here on my own two feet.

A New Year

A new year. And I can't help but ask, who decided this? To clearly distinguish between one year and another. A heavy reminder of a clear beginning and end to everything in this life. Call me dramatic, but it seems like there's so much pressure attached to it. "That's the end of that..." says ticking-ticking Time, making a hand gesture that resembles brushing something off. "'That,' you know, the old way of doing things. Why, yes, 'old' as in...yesterday."

Yesterday is yesterday and today is today? Well, I could have told you that.

A new year. And we're all supposed to dress up, put on a new face, kiss at midnight and transform POOF! into new-year beings; waist-lines instantly slimming, better looking and resolutions to just be... BETTER, to boot! Then again, maybe I just have a bad attitude. Perhaps we need it, that yearly reminder that nothing lasts forever, that change is often the answer, a hopeful idea that just around the next corner your success, your one true love, your big break...your happiness is waiting.

"Change is the law of life and those who look only to the past or present are certain to miss the future."

—John F. Kennedy

If everything is being amended, improved by resolutions then why does it all feel the same? It is just a transitional period? If so, why does the same outlook, the same route, the same faces, the same feeling in the pit of your stomach—something is not right—last all year long?

CHANGE is such a great word, that is, when used as a verb. Change is too great to be just a noun, tossed around, given a few good tries before ultimately getting tossed out. Change must be cannot-breathe-without-it action, a failure to settle, a refusal to stand still. Change, Kennedy said, is the LAW of life, what dictates wrong and right. The difference between dormant life and a prosperous, sprawling one. So why are we so scared to say, "This year, I'm making some changes. I'm going to clean up the mess I've made." Instead it's made to seem that this year all of the things that have been done TO us will be fixed with a few simple New Years Resolutions—empty and emptier, like the dull repetitious hum of a shallow drum.

For me, it can only be change. That is the answer to every whine, every cry, every burst of anger that I spill out. I must change. And I know it is a process.

I see: me, standing alone in a dark, empty room filled with mirrors. I'm having a conversation with myself. I'm listening to the conversations I have with other people. I'm laughing at jokes I don't find funny. I'm watching myself cowardly shy away from saying what's really on my mind, what I really think—that you're foolish. I'm waiting for my turn to share what I think, how my day was. You keep going. I'm still waiting. I'm shielding my eyes from the blinding light of criticism. You're too harsh. You need to relax, take people for who they are. You can't expect them to be more than that. I'm being dependable, but the favor is never being returned. I'm giving much, taking little, dreaming of more, much much more. I'm being jealous, ungrateful. I'm staring at my body, willing it to change. Watching the way my skin stretches in places, folds softly in others. When did you get so round, so soft? I watch myself apologizing, and forgiving but not forgetting. Pretending things are fine, "totally all right," when they're not. Say something. Stop being so afraid of being a "bitch." You should really speak up. I watch my lips, still, silent. Coward. I watch myself faking it, putting on a show, smoothing things over. I'm really good at it. Take a bow. But then I see myself in his arms, happy—a mirror within a mirror—so happy, not disappointed, not feeling fat, attached, feeling warm. I am happy. And even still there are clouds on the horizon. I made them. Created them, brought on the rain. Remember to breathe, deep breaths. I have the power to clear it all away, and I'm waiting on nothing, no one but myself. No one around with anything to offer, no one to blame but myself. In the corner of my eye, at the base of the room of mirrors, I spy them. Yellow rubber gloves—size Large. I open them up and slip my hands in, each of my fingers finding their corresponding hole. Be brave. Don't be so scared all the time. The gloves are on now, and I raise my eyes to...me. Eye to eye, no turning back, honest. And just like that, someone flips on the lights.

My December Girls

Many years ago, as a young pre-teen, my friends and I used to giggle inside of a tight-knit circle as we calculated—based on our birthdays—when each of us was conceived.

"Valentines Day baby, Valentines Day baby," we would squeal in delight and curiosity at one born in November. (After all, we likely didn't know how exactly a baby came to be.)

"Ooooh, New Years Eve, Oh la la," one would say to the other.

I sat here today at my desk quietly, half doing tasks, half eying the calendar, but mostly thinking that this year, for the first time since my own birth, you won't be here to celebrate your day. And as I scatter to plan for your daughter's (my mother's) birthday which falls tomorrow, just two days before yours, I couldn't help but strategize ways to keep her mind off of the fact that now hers is the only December birthday. Your mother, my great grandmother Honey, came first on the 19th, then you on the 17th and then my mother on the 15th. How amazing that three generations were born within 5 days of one another, only separated by the 20-year age differences between you. The closeness always felt special to me. I could easily group the three of you together: conceived in March, early springtime babies, all spring showers and lilacs, and roses. How fitting for the three of you, I thought, always with a song underfoot, a twinkle in your eyes, a little bit of something special on a tough day. Three peas in a pod, you grew from the same seed, the same attitude, hope, love (and poor planning).

My mother remains. Solitary, she is the lone December birth. I'm not surprised she's boarding a plane on the day that separates her day and yours to flee this coast, to hide out beneath the warm California sunlight for a few days, wearing a new face, an old dress and, undoubtedly, one of your scarves.

So, I guess I'm just here to say I'm missing you, and thinking of you on this windy December day. And I'll sing a little Happy Birthday tune every day this week to fill in the spaces and the new-found emptiness in this silly old month.

Happy Birthday, my sweet Grace.

Who's Got Spirit?

Here we stand, two weeks from Christmas, and while it's simply freezing out, it just doesn't feel like Christmastime. Maybe it came too fast, maybe it snuck up on me while I had my back turned; but after a long, stressful, sometimes heartbreaking year, it arrived and I am still standing, despite cold fingers and toes, but left reeling.

Christmas, this year, feels like heavy workbooks—my father's—that are too big. I've got them on though, I'm trudging, my feet sliding forward and back with each step. Something doesn't feel right, the fit is off. But I don't want him or anyone else to know it. I've got a smile on. This is fun, it's just a show. Everything's going to be all right. Falling is impossible. I guess I just wonder if someone can pick up on the traces of fear hidden on my face—fear of being found a fraud.

There are lights in my front window, and a colorfully decorated tree in the corner of my living room, but it all feels like a set dressing. Props inside of four walls that come apart at the corners, and can be packed away for next year's display.

I blame myself. I don't spend enough time with family. I don't plan fun, festive activities on the weekends. I don't bake enough. I don't get outside enough. But no one's to blame, and I guess I'm realizing that now. The only thing to blame is the notion that Christmas has to mean the same thing for everyone. It doesn't have to be painted red and green, or be summed up in a few kitschy lines; it might not even be worn with a smile and a "ho ho ho." So, maybe I'm growing, or grown, now finding my fit. My Christmas. And I'm finding it's more of a bluish gray, but with an overwhelming warmth to it, too. Mine is less of a "party" and more of a time for reflection of the numbered days behind me, the memories of the year. What we've been through. Things gained, and lost.

So here's to: starting gates and finish lines, jumping off porches and almost breaking your foot, hungover breakfasts with best friends, crowding in for family pictures, Grandad Bill's "1, 2, 3," air conditioning and clean water, big screens, fireworks and flavored Sake, new acquisitions, losing someone you thought would always be around, thieving dogs, turkey trots, "Amazing Grace," marathon tears, spoiled brats, The Arcade Fire at Merriweather Post Pavillion, waist-high snow, shoveling, butt dials, weight loss, the South Beach diet, two weddings in a year, becoming a wife, rallies on the National Mall, Treme, 7-year-old break dancers, date nights at Hooked, Hilton Cancun, Lou's monthly visits, LOST, Mariah's soccer games, dinner dates with Callie, accomplishing goals, our Israeli HM friends, free Christmas trees, generous bosses, "kanye reupholstered my p*," getting wine wasted, Cullan getting too tall, wedding ring debacles, a Judge Idol star, The Social Network, becoming "old news" on facebook, dramatic readings of Kanye's tweets, "special time" with mom, no longer living in sin, calling Whit and once in a while having her answer, the knot obsession, business trips, internet friendships, shaun john and al, bridal showers, nail polish, turkey sandwiches, Donald Draper, bankrupt airlines, generous parents, "right in front of your eyes," having money again, stingy wedding guests, gay or straight?, human kindness, Williams Sonoma shopping sprees, utis, Win Butler's Air Force Ones, house-hunting, carpet stains, back rubs, "missing you," happy tears, 3 cups of coffee, polite 5-year-olds and "Roo Roo," married friends, cooking confidence, pre-wedding beach house, Michael Scott's last season, losing touch, letting people you love down, stoners, SP is an idiot, kissing for fun, running tights with a pee hole, masters theses, long-distance relationships, book clubs, work spouses, Marley and Me, "The Force is With You, Katie," dive kisses, gremlin dogs, breaking records, Cabanas Copal, Real Sports with Bryant Gumble, Ree Drummond/Pioneer Woman, recipes, fibromyalgia, Kanye on a stick, tinky Mar, rummy, jalapeno corn bread, the Biltmore, "Types of Bitches," radio mixes, Bibis, "the cars that go BOOM," having kitchen-table chairs.

And here's to a Merry Christmas, and to next year and all that it promises. And to everyone in my little life and this enormous world: wishing you more hope than you can even stand.