A couple of months ago I joined hundreds of New Yorkers in celebration of Margaret Atwood’s birthday. I sat in the audience, by myself, as Margaret Atwood and Neil Gaiman engaged in witty conversation, running the gamut from books to politics to film to America. Something Ms. Atwood said resounded so poignantly, it moved me. Mr. Gaiman told her that he counted her as one of the few role models he could look up to, for she was a poet, a screenwriter, an inventor, and an author of speculative fiction as well as historical fiction.

The sermon from church yesterday really resonated. I know that's a very “churchy” thing to say, but the fact that I am still thinking about Brian's words and am wanting to look over my notes means it is a legit thing to say in these circumstances. And in this advent season, we are supposed to be focusing on preparing the way, our hearts, our lives, for what's to come.

If I were someone who used profanity on a regular basis, I believe I would be cursing at least twelve times a day. Yes. Twelve. Twelve seems to be the average number of times my strength is tested throughout the day. Not my patience, not my physical prowess, not my intelligence, but simply the strength I possess that keeps me from breaking into tears.

And so I wonder, which one are you? Are you the one who believes that there is another person walking this earth meant for you and you alone? Are you the one that thinks that God has created another half, just for you, and that you will one day meet this person and suddenly you two will fit together like no other, making you realize that those people before were great, but not right, puzzle pieces that could be finagled together if you cheated a little bit with a bend here or a squeeze there, but it's not the same as when two designated pieces slide in together just so.

Yesterday I went to the doctor for a physical. Seeing as how I have not had insurance for awhile (I know, I know . . .it's on my list of things to do) this was my first “check-up” in awhile. The man was professional, thorough, and friendly, save for his fixation on my color.
Weird, right?

When I cry. When I sob, I sound just like my mother. I look in the mirror and the tears have magnified my eyes, making them less squinty than normal, less Telles-like, and that face in the mirror is a mirror of my mom's. It's moments like these, when I see myself and hear myself gushing pain and heartache, that I feel most like her daughter.
There are few foods as comforting as spaghetti with red sauce, or as filling. Spaghetti fills everything.

Dear God, And so I live in a time and place where my letters to God are typed on my iPhone inside an arctic subway car. But surely You are used to this-followers and children squeezing You in when they can, doling out snippets of time in between. In between anything and everything that supersedes a relationship with You. And I am happy. And I am worried. But I am happy. And that girl is something else, God. Did you create us for each other? Or is she one of many created with me in mind, and vice versa?

The following is yet another Craigslist ad that appears to be for reals, and is basically my worst nightmare:
“ Hello girls we are an upscale foot fetish company specializing in foot fetish
parties where you get paid to party, have fun at a cool stylish party, and make
$400 a night on average while having your feet massaged and kissed! This job is
100% legal and you do NOT take your clothes off this is only about your feet, and
we immediately fire anyone that breaks any rules or laws. This party is held