eat your vegetables

You know when you were young and you pondered the more important things in life? Like what color you wanted your mom to make the play dough, or if you were going to walk home from school the long way or the short way. If you spelled all your spelling words right or what kind of sandwich was in your brown-bag lunch. You'd daydream about becoming this or that, having your own house, lots of great shoes, and say things like, "When I grow up..."

Kates and I had it all planned out. I'd drive a green Chrysler Town and Country minivan and she'd drive a blue one. We'd haul kids to tennis and soccer practice, music lessons and church activities. Our husbands would be successful. They'd take every other Friday off and we'd all go boating. I'd do the laundry on time, have a wreath for every holiday, always replace the toilet paper roll and take picnics. Summer days would be spent washing the car on the front lawn; nights under the stars, back to the grass, heart to the sky, pointing out constellations.

I'm wondering about this whole growing up thing. How does it work, exactly? Do you wake up one day and, just like that, you're a bona fide grown up? Certified. Legit. The Real Deal? Classy's your middle name and Responsibility's your game. Or, is it more of a gradual thing, like once you've read the obituaries so many times or eaten enough asparagus? When you lay off the Captain Crunch, or file your first tax return? Reason and experience tell me that's not how it works. I've turned off the porch light first thing in the morning. Refilled the BRITA water pitcher. Bought business suits. And yet, sometimes I wonder if I've missed some steps. If I'm any closer than the day before. If tomorrow I'll wake up, look in the mirror and finally see Miss Responsible staring back at me.

Nope. Reason and experience tell me that there are days when the empty pitcher sits in the fridge. Days when I can't find my keys to save my life (that may happen a little too often). Days when Life seems to be staring me right back in the face and all I want to do is sit in the back of a classroom with Kates and fantasize about the future.

Good days, bad days, I'm beginning to realize that it's the process that counts. The discoveries along the way. Discovering that, although you pledged you never would, you're turning out to be just like your mother. And, it's not so bad, because your mother found your father (who is pretty dang wonderful), which means she's pretty great and you hope hope hope that in some small way you can leave your mark on the world and achieve even an ounce of what she has achieved. It's the attitude that fronts itself in an "oh-great-now-what?" situation. And the lessons learned when your head hits your pillow.

So while the play dough recipe hasn't been out for years, and while I'm no where close to my asparagus limit, I've learned sometimes a good day still consists of good conversation and your favorite sandwich.

this is suz.

This is my dear sweet Suzanne. Today is her birthday. This is what we like to do: play soccer, break into apartments during Sunday school to steal large quantities of dice, go bowling (Team 23!), take ferry boat rides to the San Juan Islands, plan trips to London to "bash around London," watch movies at 10:50 a.m. after mission prep, drive down bike ramps on campus, read Suz's fan mail from Buddy, run through Disneyland, eat graham crackers and frosting, play Dance Dance Revolution, capture our lives on film, eat ice cream, speed through toll booths (don't worry, we paid), shop in Edmonds, road trip to stay with the Martins, drive 4 Runners, talk on the phone, leave post-it notes in each other's rooms, watch the Rev Al Green (aka Cappy), speak in German accents at innocent by-standers with lettuce, send each other mail, chit-chat...anything I do with Suz is bound to be fun!

I appreciate her because she is loyal, thoughtful, spontaneous, smart, beautiful, kind and because she is one of the happiest people I know.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SUZIE Q!

standing still

I decided last night that 23 isn't my favorite number anymore.

I spent much of yesterday and today pensive and pondering. I wish someone had a round trip ticket to certain destinations inside my head. To reveries and reflections. And, the great big Land of Wonder. Some seasoned tourist could land, ready to site-see and give their best interpretation on the origin and history of my latest thoughts. There are people who occupy my mind at times, so to speak, whether they want a free trip or not. There just there, lingering, with no anticipated time of departure.

The YTS has been powwowing-it in the name of Love as of late. We've spent hours, each adding our two cents to the discourse. We've sat fireside, chair-side, bedside and car ride, reading great lines from novels, past journal entries and emails, compiling our own Book of Love, stemming from our own experiences.

What are we to do with those to whom we've given fragments of ourselves? Our very soul? People who've made off with bits and pieces of us and left with us odds and ends of themselves? These people who are so much more than the word "memory?" They linger inside us; some sort of beautiful mess. Songs we'll forever know. Lyrics that won't leave our head. So we beat on, telling ourselves not to think about them, when all that really does is make it worse. With every turn, a memory, and with those memories, your heart begins to sting. Heartache. Actual heart ache. And, just when the stinging dies down, something surfaces - a line in a movie or a book, the same tattered baseball cap covering a head in a sea of people, or a tucked-away a post-it, with that signature scribbly-scrawl, becomes un-tucked, leaving you undone. You're caught living a life you can't leave behind.

There comes a time to empty the box of reveries and let the pictures fade. To delete the play lists. To cancel all flights and itineraries. And to finally stop living out of the suitcases of recollections. What you can't keep is a hard thing to lose.

Time has told me
You're a rare rare find
A troubled cure
For a troubled mind.

And time has told me
Not to ask for more
Someday (my) ocean
Will find its shore.

{Nick Drake}

reunion

President Gordon B. Hinckley 1910 - 2008

calm after the storm

The lights are out and the heater is roaring. I've been at the dining room table for thirty minutes now, reading and writing. The wind and the front door have some sort of game going. Every few minutes the wind whistles up the path and knocks on the front door. After a few moments silence, the door knocks back its own retort. Here comes the storm. I'm left to muse as the hour grows late.

There is much to reflect on tonight: a weekend reunion with dear friends - the kind of friends who epitomize the following C.S. Lewis quote, which K gave me and I tucked in a journal long ago: "In friendship… we think we have chosen our peers. In reality a few years difference in the dates of our birth, a few more miles between certain houses, a choice of one university instead of another… the accident of a topic being raised or not raised at a first meeting — any one of these chances might have kept us apart. But, for a Christian, there are, strictly, no chances. A secret master of ceremonies has been at work. Christ, who said to the disciples, “You have not chosen me, but I have chosen you,” can truly be saying to every group of Christian friends, “You have not chosen one another, but I have chosen you for one another.” The friendship is not a reward for our discrimination and good taste in finding one another out. It is the instrument by which God reveals to each the beauty of others." These individuals truly taught me what it means to be Christian. What it means to recognize the Secret Master of Ceremonies. I am forever better for knowing them. Each and every one. To be with them again was to be with family. Thanks, Sammy.

After our gathering last night, I was driving home a bit later (or earlier, depending on how you look at it) than I had anticipated. (Well worth it though, laughing with Valz and Meg after everyone else had gone to bed. Some things never change). I knew I was going to have to alter my tactics a bit to keep myself awake for the trek back to Salt Lake. My mind quickly went back to the people I had just been with; to their lives; to the time we spent together, living in the same place, experiencing the same things. I thought about them individually - what they have added to my life; what the continue to add, whether they know it or not. Bouncing from memory to gratitude and back to memory again, I finally fixed my thoughts on gratitude for the duration of my drive home. I felt undeserving of the blessings they have brought into my life, yet so grateful for their examples and the life-long bonds we share, which continue to strengthen me, despite the fact that the wind has carried us in many different directions.

Also, tonight my thoughts turn to the passing of our beloved President Hinckley. At such a time, words seem feeble. I'm grateful for paper and pen and the freedom to let my thoughts flow as I attempt to record any sort of private entry in my journal about a man who spent his entire life in selfless service to the Lord and to each and every one of us. Amidst seasons of change and uncertainties, I'm grateful to know that, near or far, no matter where the wind may take us, we have one another, and the knowledge that there is One who knows best.

through an open door

I've been chatting with friends lately about home. About what makes a place feel like home. What we wish for in our future homes - the elements, the feelings, the traditions. About the power of memory and sensory and how we long to go back, but know that logic and reason prevent us from really doing it.

I've long been fascinated with the idea of what makes a house a home. Is it a process? Arrived at after many years of living in one solitary place? Is there a blueprint to follow? How do you create that feeling you get when you walk in the back door? Home should be a place to not only lay your head, but your heart; somewhere to turn and not be turned away.

What makes us so anxious to leave the place we call home? To stretch our legs? To prove we can make it on our own, leaving the mark of our beloved home behind? Yet, no matter where we land, we long to make that place, near or far from our beginning, feel like the place we so desperately wanted to leave. We make homemade recipes, hoping that the smell of Aunt's cookies or Grandma's bread will disperse and infuse our surroundings, creating a semblance of sanctuary. We sing the songs of childhood, strumming out the chords on Grandpa's guitar. Wrapping ourselves in Mom's quilt, we reach for the tattered photograph taken with Sister on the front porch, brother's silly faces making us smile joyfully back at the lens. Searching for self, we grab the yearbook or the birthday card or the going-away well-wishes from best friends, our fingers tracing the hand-written sentiments. We yearn for days in school hallways and nights at weekend hang outs.

Amidst bread crumbs, quilt squares and old Christmas cards we sit, longing for it. If we are quiet enough, still enough, home encircles; swathing in sounds and smells. We hear Father's footsteps at the back door and the breeze through the upstairs window on a rainy night. Or, a chorus of children's voices shouting night-game "You're-it's!" and "Come-out-come-out-where-ever-you-are's!" Whether we're near or far, our senses take us back to the place we started from. The place we left. The place we can always return, by land, by sea or just by memory.

"Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration." {Charles Dickens}

Going home, going home,
I'm a going home.
Quiet-like, some still day,
I'm just going home.
It's not far, just close by,
Through an open door.

Work all done, care laid by,
Going to fear no more.
Mother's there, expecting me,
Father's waiting too.
Lots of folk gathered there,
All the friends I knew.

Nothing's lost, all's gain,
No more fear or pain,
No more stumbling by the way,
No more longing for the day,
Going to roam no more.

Morning star lights the way,
Restless dreams all done.
Shadows gone, break of day,
Real life has begun.
There's no break, there's no end,
Just a living on.
Wide awake with a smile,
going on and on...

Going home, going home,
I'm just going home.
It's not far, just close by,
Through an open door.
I am going home...
I'm just going home...
{Dvorak}

One Not So Fine Day.

At exactly 9:15 am this morning, my little laptop was laid to rest, forever, after a head-on collision on the evening of Tuesday, January, 22, 2008. She was pronounced DOA (dead on arrival). May she rest in peace in Mac Land.

The Associated Press is unable to post an image with this story. The editor is unaware how to carry out this process on a PC.

*Please note: There is no connection between the death of my laptop and the death of Hollywood heart-throb/actor Heath Ledger, although both the accidental death of Ledger and the accidental death of my laptop are still under investigation. Toxicology tests are anticipated to take up to ten days. Lack of sleep and anxiety are expected.

One Fine Day.

At exactly 6:12 this evening, I put my laptop on the floor, my tired hand trying to steady it as it touched the carpet beneath my bed. My head hit the pillow. Sheer exhaustion set in. The best kind of exhaustion. For two nights, I had not let sleep come until all the laughter escaped and the wicks blew themselves out; until the cobbler had been gobbled, the firelight had dimmed and all blankets had been stretched over cabin-cozied bodies. All was quiet except for falling snow. It was time for sleep. Actual sleep.

Down in the valley, it came in like a storm. Reality. My cell phone was beeping with messages for work and my appointment book seemed to be shouting for attention. If I left my laptop open and on, the light streaming from the screen would be enough to keep me from falling fast into a full-surrendered sleep. Or that's what I told myself at laptop touch-down. I awoke one hour later to the sound of groceries hitting the kitchen floor and the feeling of cold air filtering through the hallway.

I'm back in bed after fending off sleep long enough to get some real food in my body. I've been laughing to myself all evening, thinking of fussball victories, color-contacts, shining statues, The Real Secret, and another few days worth of YTS theatrics. My appointment book is table-top, to my right. Closed. And, it's staying that way. After all, it's still a holiday. For a few minutes more.

Enough Bookshelves

Normally, I'd post this on THH. I probably will. Upon its discovery, I couldn't resist mingling my two lives. I adore what I do so much, that sometimes I have to remind myself that I'm actually working. What could be better than that?! (Besides a library like this?)

Happy long weekend. Hope you can find time for a little reading.

"I would be most content if my children grew up to be the kind of people who think decorating consists mostly of building enough bookshelves."
~Anna Quindlen, "Enough Bookshelves," New York Times. 1994.

tuesdays with

His car would always be in the first slot. Except on Wednesdays. On Wednesdays, he was a slacker. On Wednesdays, his car was in slot three, which wasn't all that far away from one, or so I tried to tell him.

We liked to eat tomato soup, get dressed up and go to company parties and, he even took me out for steak. We ate cereal at 10 p.m. every night for almost a month. We would waste time building my dream truck online, (my idea, not his, but he was thrilled I like to talk cars), and I'd help him build a pretty sweet BMW. Once, we went to look at one. He looked good behind it, too. A natural.

When I'd take him to the airport, we had a little routine. We liked to make fun of the silly boyfriend-girlfriend types who would hug and hug and hug alongside the curb. He'd park the car, leaving the keys in the ignition because I'd be driving home. We'd meet on my side of the car. He'd pick me up in one giant hug (this is the making fun part) and, as I got a mouth full of his fleece jacket, say into my ear, "Are you going to miss me?" To which I'd always give him an overly-dramatic, "Desperately!" He'd nearly squeeze the life out of me and mutter a soft, "Good." Then back down on the ground I went. He'd let go, grab his carry-on and his golf clubs and head across the cross walk. As he walked away, I'd wait for one last signal. A small gesture. He'd turn back towards me, bend his arm up at the elbow, and open his palm for about three seconds. He'd smile his cute half smile, which for any body else would be considered a full smile, then close his hand up again. I'd do the same from the other side of the street. And, turning, he and his navy hat would disappear into the sea of travelers. We did this for years, so long in fact that towards the end, we both fessed up that we weren't kidding about the missing desperately part.

Now I have no clue where he parks. He's 400 miles away. I haven't had Captain Crunch at 10 p.m. (let alone at all) in about a year and there's no one around to help me make fun of cheesy airport couples. Mr. L, wherever you are, come back. I'm feeling like tomato soup and it just doesn't taste the same without you.
Love,
Your M of M

Action! (In the Name of the King)

Rebath. Not exactly a designer's choice as far as a remodel goes. And their whole "one-day-to-a-new-bath" credo? Yeah, well, that's a hoax. But what can you do when you're renting and your landlord has hired Rebath? Seriously. I'm asking. What can you do?!

As of today, their huge truck has parked in our driveway six times. Six! Whatever happened to one? When the doorbell rang this morning and "Tony" was on the other side (yet again), I was so out of there. I packed up quick and decided to do my usual morning routine of checking emails and returning phone calls at my parent's house. They don't have a Tony, nor do they want one anytime soon. On the way, I was going to do a quick work errand.

It's not rare to see a film crew on 15th and 15th, so I didn't think anything of the two guys hauling gear out of a black suburban. I got out of my car, zipped up my jacket (I was still wearing the same t-shirt I had worn to bed, but who would know?) looked at my reflection in my car window, curled the fly-aways around my hair, and walked in. I was the first customer at the King's English this morning, having waited five minutes for the owner (Betsy) to get her things out of her car and unlock the door from the inside. We exchanged morning pleasantries, then I headed right for the architecture/design book shelf. I'm helping a few people with libraries (as in home libraries, so curb your urge to sing "Marian, Madam Librarian") and I've been hunting all over town for a few books about living with books. The design/architecture section at King's English is always quite unique, so I honed in and was hopeful.

Not finding what I was looking for (but finding a great book on kitchen renos!) I headed back towards Betsy and asked her to look up a few titles for me. Just as she began to take down my information to place an order, in walked the two Men In Black. One of them was carrying the camera, which was already on, his eye snug up against the peep-hole. The other was manning the cord, letting it slip through his hands as they walked towards us. Betsy was business-as-usual. I resisted the urge to stare right back at the camera with What-The-Heck?! eyes. I see people do that on TV. It's very unprofessional. "We're rolling," one of the camera men said, in a hushed tone. Betsy didn't even glance up, she just kept pencil to paper and continued to take my information, which was delivered at a whisper. As if (under the circumstances) I'm going to speak my personal contact info at regular decibels!

The two-man crew was done before Betsy finished helping me find books about living with books on the online catalog. There was an obvious reason I didn't bend over the counter to look at the titles on her screen as she pointed to them. My posterior is a bit camera shy. My anterior isn't too keen on face time, either.

Impromptu cameo in the wraps, I made a pit stop at the travel section, searching for the Fodor's and DK Travel guides for Italy and Southern France. Any reason to take a trip in the opposite direction of the camera team. As I came down the stairs, one of the MIB approached me. "You were in some of the shots we took this morning. We need to get your permission to use that footage." He had a pen in hand. I looked down at my wardrobe and shrugged my shoulders as my eyes came back up and said, "Sure. The morning I come in no make-up, un showered and basically in my pajamas. Sure. Sure, you can use the footage! Where do I sign?" He pointed to the "X" and I sloppily (very un-Martha, but you've gotta act the part, right?) signed my Herbie Hancock on the space provided, using the door casing as a support. "Oh. This will air next week. Just FYI. Primetime." "Great," I said. "Great." With another shoulder shrug, I rolled my eyes and walked up to the cash register as the MIB went out. There go the Men In Black. And...Scene. (Thanks, K. I'm stealing that from your screenplay).

As far as who these chaps with a camcorder were, well, I'll tell you this, they hail from a nationally-owned TV station. We're not talking KSL or KUTV. So, set your TiVo, pop popcorn, get a date, hire a sitter and wait for my silver screen debut. It will change your life.

When all was said and done, I would have rather spent the morning at home collecting dust with the rest of our furniture, while listening to Tony talk on his cell phone. For any do-it-yourselfers out there, just and FYI: trying to talk on a cell phone and caulk a shower at the same time isn't the best idea. (After all said caulking had been "completed," (whatever) we were strictly instructed to point the shower head away from the walls. What shower can't get wet?! Hold tight, little caulking!)

Speaking of TV, I think I'm onto something. No more "Designer on a Dime" or whatever those silly shows are called. (I've never bothered to watch them). The next thing to hit Reality TV by storm will be "Caulk n' Talk: With Tony the Shower Dude - Six Days to Your Dream Bath, Duckie!" Look for it in the fall lineup. It's gonna be huge. Now, if you would, please, quiet on the set. Tony just got out of hair and make-up and we're ready to roll. And ..."Action!"

Thinnovation.

Even if you're not a Mac lover, watch this. You have to admit. It's pretty cool.

The Silver Spoon

Scott cooked dinner tonight. Pollo all'uva. It wasn't food, it was art. A masterpiece of a meal; too pretty to eat. Everything sounds so much better in Italian. We ate Italian, spoke Italian (well, only when I read recipes out of his dream of a cookbook and even then, I wasn't doing the speaking, just the bad pronouncing) and, after absorbing every last bit of it, we talked about Italy. Now, I'm off to read about it. I'm sure everything looks better in Italian, too - like sunlight streaming through the Duomo, raindrops falling into a courtyard fountain, filled with lemon trees.

As of now, we're thinking Paris to Nice to Venice; a pit-stop in Cinque Terre before Florence, then Rome. Lots of bel far niente and food, food, food, all along the way!

Mythicus Cronus

The Titan Way.

Recent (and not so recent) events have us wondering: What, exactly, are they drinking over there in that Titan Town? Isn't there a limit on free refills?

p.s. O, you owe me an ending!

fill me up.

Hearts that never lean must fall.

Laughter through tears is quite possibly my favorite emotion.
YTS forever.

you cannot bring the sea

I fell in love with this saltbox house in Maine last summer. (I've fallen in love with dozens of saltbox houses over past summers, but at the moment, one in particular comes to mind). Its shingles were weathered and gray from sipping the salty air. The entryway had an arched portico, the ellipse adding a softness to the square-ish six-panel red door. Above the door was a transom window with a starfish in each of the five panes. The sidelights added just the right entry oomph. And, to top it all off (this was the selling point for me) the door knocker was a gold anchor. It was unlike any I'd ever seen. Simple. Nautical. No fussy rope or scrolling ends. Just a plain golden anchor. This was indeed the perfect house by the sea.

I wanted to clasp my hands on the knocker and give the door a good rapping; To explore inside and find the drawer of sailing maps leading from port to port; To drink in the hydrangea blossoms that grew up the side of the house; To walk on the dock out back and furl the sail on the 12-meter sailboat; To tack and come about and never look back.

Today, I miss the sea. I miss the sound the wind makes as it passes through the tall yellowed grass, poking up proudly from the sand. I miss the sailboat silhouettes against the hazy night sky as the sun sets. I miss patio dining with twinkling white globe lights and fresh lemonade. I miss walking on the two-way road between Portsmouth and Kittery, snapping my camera at every saltbox house in site. I miss the car rides, the togetherness and our perfect watch tower at Hyannis Port. I miss seaside ice cream shacks, sand between my toes and sun on my face. Today, I miss the sea.

Home, Sweet Home

A few days pit-stop-recovery at my parent's has been exactly what the doctor ordered. Literally. Sleep. Movies. Actual food. And someone to draw the curtains in the morning. There's no place like home. Nor the voices and noises that fill it.

The jingle bell on the back door chimed as R and O arrived home from school yesterday afternoon. I was sitting in my pajamas in the dining room, still feeling a bit under the weather, watching the clock on my mom's laptop. 2:15. Any minute. With the scuff of bare feet, O and I reunited between back door and dining room, Susan scurrying in behind her. Mom and Susan imitated our emotions, as Steve, Christmas cold and all, stepped in from outside. Dr. R was quickly checked in, asking for blood sugar facts and discharge orders while my Mom handed Susan her gift, unwrapped, and unusable until next year.

As those sweet, familiar faces filled the dining room, it was as if Christmas simultaneously commenced and concluded all within a matter of seconds. They're home.

The age-old adage rings true:

There's no place like home for the holidays
No matter how far away you roam
When you pine for the sunshine
Of a friendly face
For the holidays, you can't beat
Home, sweet Home!

*and, with the return of E sometime soon (hint, hint) all will be right.

The State of the State

It was M's idea. In fact, I had no idea where he was headed as we turned out of the parking lot, but a downtown detour is always acceptable. As we approached the top of the hill, the classical architecture and symmetrical fenestration seemed all too picturesque to pass up in the moonlight, even if we were cutting it close in terms of regular business hours. Turns out, M is more of a kindred spirit than I thought, our eyes locking with excitement as we parked in the empty lot out side of the newly-renovated Capitol building, just hours after the rededication. We were already in formal attire, so why not give it a go? The two of us had a skip in our step as we scaled the steps looking for a still-open door.

A burgundy-shirted, Pizza-box-carrying security guard caught onto our game and happily played the on-the-spot doorman. He used his dolly to prop the door open, balancing pizza boxes in one hand, giving us an "okay-but-make-it-quick, you-two" gesture with the other. (Very "Sleepless In Seattle" - The Empire State Building Scene, as EM pointed out the following day when I told her the story). M motioned for me to go ahead, charming the security guard by lightening his Post-rededication Pizza Party box load, allowing me the first look inside the Renovated Lady, in all her Glory. The marble was pristine. The granite glistened and my boots made the perfect echo as we approached security guard numero dose. M, still aiming to enchant, handed the guard his bag of bread sticks and asked, "You mind if we take a look?" The reply from the "security guard" (obviously our junior) "You got ID?" M reached for his wallet. "Yeah, but probably not the kind you're looking for." Feeling bold, I let my boots click-clack their way a few steps past the red tape, looking up into the moon-lit rotunda. My mind wandered - past, present and future, thinking of elegant evenings and important occasions held within those stately walls. I looked back just as M was putting his wallet back into his suit-coat pocket. That was my cue.

Out we went as other burgundy-clad pepperoni-eyed guards brushed past us. I have to hand it to M for thinking of such a worth-while diversion between company party and Twizzler-Treat Puzzle-Fest at Mr. and Mrs. B's before calling it a night. Little America was a delight and the Super Bowl Puzzle highly entertaining, but our impromptu trip to Capitol Hill was the highlight of the evening. Next time we'll be sure to wear burgundy. Thanks for a fun night, M. And, I agree with your mother: No more puzzles. Even if she can spot all the corner pieces.

today skies are painted colors of a cowboy cliche

Dear Les and Trev,
In the spirit of aspiring photography, I thought I'd pass this sight/site on. I believe you two are the only two who can fully appreciate this. "What a dream," as we like to say. The credit goes to Sarah. Oh, and by the way, Winns, I think you're there. As in, your photos are fab. Keep clicking!

365 extraordinary days

no more sevens

There is something about an odd number I'm not too keen on. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because I'm not good at math and, with odd numbers, there are remainders and decimal points and nothing comes out without something left over. I like things whole. Round. Complete. And, I hate leftovers.

Sitting at our table yesterday with some friends, I excitedly pointed out that its square shape could be made round by lifting the leafs. I grabbed for the runners and did an on-the-spot demonstration. "Look! Our table folds out the be a circle! I love circles!" I sat contently back in my square-back chair, rubbing my hands in a circular motion over the grain of our now-round table. Not a moment later, M piped in (in all seriousness), "Oh! If you love circles, are you so excited for two thousand eight?!" I gave a noiseless "huh?" as did the other by-sitters, our faces all bearing the same expression. M picked up on our inquisitiveness, raised both hands in a "what-gives?!" manner and said, "All the circles! No more sevens! I'm so done with sevens." I went into the kitchen to grab a felt-tip pen and paper and scribbled out over two-dozen 2008's. Such a sight; all those circles! So round. So complete.

As the clock chimed 11:50 last night, the crowd got excited, pulling out cameras, donning "Happy New Year" crowns as Mandy and I mixed Shirley Temples. Ten minutes left to celebrate the year gone by. We couldn't really change the year gone by; the memories; the moments we had or didn't have and made or didn't make the best of. We could only celebrate it.

Now we usher in this perfect New Year. No remainders from 'o7. (I'm so done with sevens). Start the way you wish to continue. Be the way you wish you were. Round. Whole. Complete.