Image: Mr. Nephew

Harrison:

In a two days, you turn 1 year old. I can't believe that you're one, that you're walking, that you say Mama and Dada and you chase little boys around in daycare like you do those cats at home. Mostly, I can't believe how much you've changed my life, S +D's lives, my mom and dad, and all who meet you and love you.

I can't wait to see you this weekend and snuggle you up. I can't wait to peer into your blue eyes, and imagine all the possibilities in the world, open to you.

Happy almost birthday, baby boy.

Image: T laughing

T, are you laughing at my husband?

I'm not just married, I'm gay married!

I knew this would happen, I just thought it wouldn't happen where and when it did. You may think I'm being naive when I tell you this story, but seriously, I came out to a Texan. A Texan, and it was smoother with her than this was! Have you been to Texas? Do you know where Texas is? Well, it ain't a blue state. But Massachusetts sure is! You know, MaSsAcHuSeTts?! The political flip-flop state? Where people cannot only get married, but can get GAY married?!

I rock TANDAL so don't get into a debate with me about using gay as an adjective to describe married. GAY MARRIED. Don't buy the rhetoric that tells you it's the same as traditional marriage. It's GAY marriage.

Now that I'm done bossing you around, let me tell you what happened.

While I make it a rule to not talk about work in my blog, the story happened at work and being in the space where I work is crucial to the story, so here goes. I work in a very affirming place in a very affirming town, and since I am the only lesbian of color in the building, I get a lot of press. You know, people want to embrace me and shit because I add credible diversity to their stories about the kind of liberals and stange-folk whom they call friend. When T and I got married...aheam, excuse me...gay married, our wedding announcement from the paper made its way onto four different bulletin boards in my office. FOUR. And I was only responsible for putting up one of them. So, my gay-ass wedding announcement, with a picture of me and my beautiful wife, wearing the same halo of roses and white and all that, begins with:

VNH and TAL of Northampton were married July 25 at Childs Park in Northampton. The Rev. Dr. AA officiated the 11 am ceremony.

Pretty clear, right?

This afternoon I went downstairs to grab a yogurt and refill my Nalgene at the water cooler, and I ran into one of my coworkers. We chit-chatted a little, and then she said, "Oh! I just saw your wedding announcement upstairs! So, you were, I mean, I guess..." So I waited, and let her finish swallowing her own tongue and just let her work it out. You see, having grown up a mixed-race gal has taught me that often people don't know how to ask what they want to ask because they are uncomfortable, so sometimes you just need to give them a little time to work it out. That, or they continue to fumble with themselves in such an embarassing way that at some point you begin to get offended and pissed and annoyed that they didn't think about the uncomfortable thing they had to say before they had to say it or think about the observation they wanted to make before they opened their mouths and could articulate what they were thinking because you're reality is so crazy and perverse and strange that they can't keep subjects and verbs in agreement. That, and frankly, you are trying to boggle them with your queerness. Thanks for that, T.

She means no harm by anything she's saying, so, I wait, patiently, while she sorts out her tongue from her throat and her teeth, and hope that she can come up with some simple question or observation that can save her from this deep, dark lavender pit she's sinking into, and she continues, "Well, I couldn't...did you...I was confused because...did you get married with another person?"

Blink. Blink blink. No, I married myself, I'm thinking.

"Huh?"

"Did you get married with another person, because there is another person in the picture in the announcement so I thought you got married with another person, like..."

"Like a joint wedding?"

"Yeah, and I thought, how cool!"

"Yeah, cool. No, the person in the picture with me is the person who I married. She's my partner."

Nevermind the fact that nowhere in the announcement is there scarcely a mention of a groom (or grooms!), or very many male pronouns, for that matter. Forget the fact that some of the text refers to us as The Brides, plural. Hell, even forget that the announcement says, "After the ceremony, the couple honeymooned in Newfane, VT." I can forgive all of that. What I can't forgive is that you think I have the distaste of having a double wedding. I know my gay brothers have a reputation for being a little flamboyant, but jeez, even we're not that tacky!

See you in Hell, voluntary sinner!

Ooops. Yesterday at church, I realized right before the reading from the Hebrew Scriptures that I, um, forgot my bible. Again. I say again, because, as T will attest to, I never, ever remember my Bible when I got to church. Ever.

Well, I remembered it once. And that's only because I put it on top of my clothes.

T, my lovely lady, gave me the NRSV Bible and Apocrypha for my birthday this year. Each Saturday night, I pick up the Bible off of my night stand, hold it in the air like a favored southern baptist preacher and proclaim, "I will remember you (speaking to the Bible here) tomorrow. I WILL remember you!" And then I look at T, hand still raised in the Alleluia position, and repeat, "Do not let me forget this tomorrow. God with smite me with all his mighty powers if I do!" I can usually remember to read the daily lectionary. Heck, I've even been trying to practice prayer daily, if not at least some meditation. But remember the Bible when I got to church? FORGET IT.

I think I finally sealed the deal, when, exasperated in this most recent episode I turned to T and mouthed, "I FORGOT MY FREAKIN' BIBLE." Yeah, I think you officially go to hell of you say a sentence in church that uses both "freakin'" and "Bible." Um, yeah.

Image: Proud to be an American

Sorry I've been MIA. I just got back from a work trip to lovely DC! Will update soon, y'all.

I was almost right.

X = - b +/- √ b2 – 4ac

2a

Image: CLAWS!

It's a Little Boo foot when Little was LITTLE. What a peanut!

Bad News/Good News

Bad news:

There was a 7 inch long hair the sandwich I had for lunch today.

Good news:

I'm the one who made my sandwich this morning.

Image: Coexistence

Think about it.

Family

T and I had a very late night last night hanging out with some friends in Holyoke. We had an amazing time, and the cherry on top was that we won the Pictionary game with both teams poised on the last square together. It came down to an all play, and T rocked the house and we won. For anyone who knows me, you know that I am not competitive at all. And winning a game doesn't increase the amount of fun I have. Oh, and I actually like losing and handle it well. Right.

I've been thinking a lot about family lately: my new wife, my sister as a mother, my mother as a grandmother, preparing to lose my last grandparent, two new brothers-in-law, reconnecting with a long lost cousin, another set of parents, planning a family of my own. I've also been thinking about friends as family, family of origin v. creating a family. When I was coming out, and as I've comforted friends who are coming out, there was a lot of time to think about people who are not related by blood, but for whom you have such unconditional love that you can't imagine they were not, in some former incarnation, your sister or brother. To those people, and to my family, I love you. Thank you. Endlessly.

To Mom and Dad, thank you for everything you've given me, even if what you gave me was not giving me the thing I thought I needed that I didn't actually need. For making me sit at the dining room table and do homework, and giving me chores. Thank you for all of the driving vacations we took as kids. Thank you for endless hours of sitting on the porch playing jumprope and eating homemade popsicles. Thank you for teaching me how to cook and love flowers and hard work and responsibility. Thank you for driving me to softball for ten years, and paying for college, and for the cross-country trip. Thank you for teaching me about Vietnam and taking me to tet celebrations. Thank you for the unfettered joy you show around H.

To S: Thank you for being my sister, my best friend like no other could be. Thank you for sharing a brain, for completing my sentences, for all the counsel. Thank you for being my go-to gal for opinions, ideas, thoughts. Thank you for the united front when were kids. Thank you for teaching me about feminism and love and forgiveness. Thank you for your wit, bringing D into our family, for your son. Thank you for the infinite hours we've spent laughing, crying, talking, chatting, being catty. Thank you for allowing me to see H being born. Thank you for opening your arms to T and letting me hog H in Florida. Thank you for making playing with Dad's army guys at 27 and 30 just as much fun as when we were 10. Thank you for teaching me to laugh until I cry.

To H: Thank you for teaching me how love can be so complicated and so simple at the same time. Thank you for teaching me about a depth of love I could not have fathomed before you came into this world, the kind of love that allows me to love others more deeply and freely. Thank you for letting me watch you discover things, or watch you fixate on the smallest, apparently most fascinating thing in the world. Thank you for your blue eyes, your laugh, your squeal, the mole on your arm. Thank you for making it through surgery like a rock star. Thank you for all of the million things I'll discover with you as you grow older.

To T: Thank you for your love. For holding me at night. For waking me up tenderly in the morning. Thank you for sharing your life with me, and inviting me to share mine. Thank you for househunting, cooking, vacationing, walking, lounging with me. Thank you for teaching me how to relax, how to trust, how to love someone so fully I almost burst. Thank you for squabbling with me, and helping me think through problems. Thank you for listening to me when I talk about my hardships and the other things I struggle with. Thank you for holding me and letting me cry when I found out my grandmother is dying. Thank you for waiting on the other side of the train tracks for me that day I came home to you. Thank you for always being there. For never checking out. For being steady and laughing.

For J: I'm not sure I tell you enough how much I love you. Being with you is like being with myself. I can share with you from the most unrestrained place of myself: give no context, background or story. You get it. Thank you for working hard, for your perspective, for allowing yourself to heal. Thank you for teaching me how to take care of myself, or at least try. Thank you for telling me I deserve things and taking good care of me. Thank you for allowing me to grow. Thank you for Lori McKenna, your chocolate chip cookies, and mix tapes. Thank you for making me laugh, especially at myself. Thank you for sharing your vulnerability with me, for letting me love you even when it's hard for you to do so, for your sarcasm. Thank you for how graceful you've been shouldering some of the most difficult things a person can face in this world. Thank you for appreciating this stage of the cocoon. Thank you for going to the prom with me my senior year, and for not allowing us to go tearing out of that parking lot together at the last moment. Thank you for letting my family accept you as our own. Thank you for trusting me.

Without all of you I would not be where I am in my life. I love you all.

Reading and Enjoying

Why I should probably be back in therapy.

Bzzzzz!!

I submit, in my defense, that the spider was approximately 1.5 inches FROM MY FACE, and while I am totally cool with both spiders and the flinging of spiders when the spiders are at hip height or below, I am NOT cool with spiders, or the suggestion of flinging of spiders BY MY FACE. Certainly not while driving. I am always the inside-the-house flinger and the outside-the-house flinger, but NEVER the by-my-face flinger. Hell, yesterday I even repotted several plants while numerous wasps were circling around my head. And for any of you who knew me in my childhood, those who know I would stop wearing an article of clothing FOREVER if there was a bee on it when I took it down from drying outside, know that I can catch NO FLACK for my arachnophobic freak out.

Sorry, Joe Rogan. Fear evidently IS a factor for ME.

My baby's daddy

Potentially. Hopefully POTENTially.

Reading, but not enjoying

"Any conscientious individual afflicted with homosexuality should acknowledge that a healthy society requires a model of sexual behavior to be held up and maintained without assault. Like other humans suffering from various disabilities, homosexuals should not attempt to infect the rest of society with their particular illness."

Right now I hate ...

... RING TONES

... when people call me at work and leave messages that say, "Hi. This is First Name Last Name. My number is (XXX) 123-4567. Thanks." TELL ME WHY YOU'RE CALLING PEOPLE OR I CAN'T HELP YOU IN THE FASTEST WAY POSSIBLE.

... being at work when it is going to be in the mid-eighties most of the week

... not having my next vacation planned

... having a bad case of the Moooondays. Oh, and Moooondays.

... overhearing people humming. I think that's one of the more annoying things in the universe.

... going on one last work trip for the season in a week. Please, oh Gods of Work and Travel, I am ready to REST.

... when people call me at work and leave messages that say, "Hi. This is First Name Last Name. My number is (XXX) 123-4567" at a speed that is nearly impossible to discern at what number I should return their call. And then I have to listen to the message again. And maybe again. And I just don't have time to make up for other people's mistakes.

... that I feel the need to complain about my really nice life because I'm a selfish brat.

Image: CB Friday

Peeking.

The final word on tandal

Dearest Brother-in-law:

This is the final word. I responded to someone the other day when they asked me how Florida was, while pointing at my foot, "It was great, very warm and sunny...I got a wicked tandal!" Pause. Blink. Pause. "Do you know what that means?"

Her response, "Yes, of course! It means you got a tan on your foot, in the shape of a sandal!"

So I've done some thinking, and I've decided, once more: I'M RIGHT. Here are my examples:

Grapermelon: Grape gum combined with watermelon
Webervations: Using the web to make a reservation
Guesstimate: Guessing an estimate
Tandal: tan from a sandal.

SUCK IT.

Image: 11 months ago

Happy 11th month birthday, H. I love you.

Image: Chopper Bob Fridays!

The Worm

Image: S and H

My family.

What I mean when I say I hate America

Lately I've been on this kick. Every other phrase out of my mouth to T is, "You know why I hate America?" And then I proceed to give today's (or that minute's) rant. The answer to my frequently asked question varies greatly, and depends on my mood, mostly.

Now, please don't get me wrong. I LOVE AMERICA. I love that I have more liberties than pretty much any other human being on earth (though more Americans should work to provide those liberties to ALL people). I love the beautiful landscape and varied geography of the US. I love that I've had to privilege to be born, go to school, remain with my family, and work in the US. That I can earn money. That I've met people from all over the world because people from all over the world live and travel here. I love that there are truly good people who work on behalf of others. I love that I can worship in my church, freely and without fear. I love that I can sit here with a notebook sized computer on my lap and write leisurely about my own interests/irritations while watching the Amazing Race. There are a million reasons why I love America.

But I love America for all of the good reasons, and resent the bad things about this country. In a culture of choice, we often don't choose what is ethical, moral, or responsible. Not because we don't have the option or interest, but usally because we don't have to, because we're lazy, because we live in a culture of excess. We spend millions of dollars meddling in the choice to die peacefully, a choice that should be left between a woman, her doctors, and her husband. We preach a culture of freedom and liberty, yet disallow those in loving relationships to be married and have recognized families. We have children who die from lack of proper health care, are failed regularly by their schools, live in neighborhoods that are too dangerous to play on the front lawn -- all while multi-millionaire CEOs consider purchasing their next vacation home.

Those are the big things.

The small things that I hate are things that really just grate on my nerves. The most recent example is this. Yesterday, I went to the grocery store on my lunch break to pick up some milk and something for lunch. Two things. TWO THINGS. So I grabbed the things I needed and went to the self checkout. I scanned my trusty shopper's club card, the milk, my lunch, and paid with my debit card. I pressed all the necessary buttons, bagged up the groceries, and cashed out. Then it came. IT. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. sixteen. SIXTEEN INCHES OF RECEIPT. for TWO items. 16. sixteen. These are trees, here, people. LIVING THINGS. And, because I'm considerate of the earth, I recycle. Many do not. But 16 inches? People died today because American pharmaceutical companies don't make HIV medication available to people who cannot pay for it, and we're literally throwing money away on printing eight inches of receipt per item purchased in the supermarket. Is anyone else bothered by this?

So, yesterday, I hated America because I had a sixteen inch receipt for two items purchased at Stop and Shop.

I don't really have hate in my heart. I have hope. I hope that we can overcome all of our self interest, and envision and participate in a world that considers all people, the earth, and all of our futures. I think we can all contribute to changing how we regard our resources. I think it can start with something small, even by just refusing, or at least recycling, that first 16 inch receipt.

Image: Sunset on the Gulf

Yeah, I took this. Booyah.

Crispies

I'm back! After March-the-month-of-whirlwind-vacations, I am home, feet planted firmly on the ground, not at all what-so-ever in any way-shape-or-form AIRBORNE. Oh My God. I will never fly again. Ever. Well, at least not until the end of the month...DC here I come. David, are you ready?

March roared in like a lion with me literally in the lion's den: the heart of all noise, commerce, bustle -- Times Square. A mere week after returning from NYC and a very looooong conference, I headed to Texas. You've seen the pics -- it's proof that I went AND survived. I even enjoyed myself, for God's sake! I got back from Texas on March 15, then on March 26, T and I went to FLA with my family. We got back the 30th. It was a fabulous trip, and I am tanned and happy and my core temperature is relatively normal. In fact, it's about 55 degrees out here right now, which means Spring, the sweet little lamb, is on its way. Thank God. 80 degrees and beach for five days certainly spoiled me.

Here are some totals from the month to consider:

Number of nights spent in places other than my home: 12
Number of hotels or guesthouses visited: 7
Number of single legs of flights taken: 8
Number of modes of transportation taken: 7
Number of different airports visited: 9
Number of cacti seen: too many to count
Number of miles driven: approx. 1,500
Number of times my heart jumped while watching Harrison: too many to count
Number of margaritas consumed: 3
Number of times stupid sucky people made themselves evident in airports or on streets: 9
Number of times I came out to Texans: 1
Number of times I had the opportunity to come out to Texans: 2
Number of shades darker my skin is after Texas and FLA: on a scale of 1 to 10, 6
Number of weekends free between now and this time next month: 4
Number of shows on TiVo that need watching: 9
Number of GIGS on my *new* iPod mini: 4.0
Number of GIGS used on my iPod: 3.85
Number of times I went back and forth deciding on the color before ordering my iPod mini: 6
Number of times I regret picking pink: 0
Number of days out of the year I miss being able to see my family whenever I want: 365
Number of days out of the year I am endlessly thankful for having T in my life: 365
Number of times I've scratched my boob in public because the peeling skin from a mild sunburn is eating my soul: 4
Number of times I've written the words number this post: 24

Image: Chopper Bob Fridays, Part deux

Ridiculous.

Image: Chopper Bob Fridays, part I

Bob loves OB tampons.

Sunshine

I am GOING someplace where it will be EIGHTY FIVE degrees when I get there.

EIGHTY. FIVE.

Do you have any idea what that means? EIGHTY FREAKIN' FIVE.

ahhhhh.

McDaddy

Generally speaking, I hate McDonald's. I don't like what they stand for, the abuse of their workers or the animals used for their food, the poor quality of their food, the relative expensive nature of the low-quality food, the "food-like" food, and, well, the food. Yuck-o. Often when I am driving home or traveling for work, I'll stop to get something to drink, but I could probably count on one had the times I've been to McDonald's in the last 10 years. If I'm ever tempted to eat there during a weak moment of craving grease, I'll just think about the woman who found a whole chicken head in her chicken mcpuckets.

When I was a kid, my dad worked at night, so when my sister was at school and my mom was at work, I got a lot of quality time with him. He was and is the best daddy EVER. With him I have always felt loved, cared for, and I have learned so much from being his daughter. Our morning ritual was usually the same: my dad would come home early in the morning, load me, still asleep, wrapped in pjs and a blanket, my sister, and my mom into the car. We'd drop them off, then dad would put me back into bed and he would get some sleep. Before he laid down, he would always put a bowl of dry cheerios on the kitchen table in the blue metal bowl and fill the plastic sesame street mug with milk and leave it in the fridge. He'd put the TV dial on PBS, so when I turned it on it would be on the right channel.

So each morning I'd get up, get my cereal, my milk, and go watch sesame street. Sometimes, I'd sneak into the basement, note where my sister stored her Emergency! fire helmet, then steal it out of the toy box until just before she returned from school. I'd entertain myself until I got kind of bored, then go stare at my dad while he was sleeping. One of his favorite stories to tell is waking up to two big brown eyes two inches from his face, staring at him face to face, my eyes perpendicular to his gaze.

On the days when I had nursery school, we used to walk the ten or so blocks from our house to the church that hosted my program. Some days we'd start out early and stop at McDonald's for a hamburger and milkshake. Other days we'd go early and play in the playroom together. These were times that both in that present moment and in retrospect I treasure dearly. They are some of the most dear memories of my childhood. I remember one occassion when my dad was the parent volunteer, and was responsible for bringing snack and an activity. We brought graham crackers (my father's signature snack cracker) and a Harry Belafonte album. I remember sitting there eating graham crackers, listening as Harry sang, "Day-o! Day-ay-ay-o! Daylight come and me want go home! Day! Mis-say-day Mis-say-day Mis-say-day-ay-ay-o!" I felt proud of my cool dad, and still love graham crackers to this day.

On the days when we went to McDonald's, the ritual was always the same. I'd order a hamburger and milkshake. My dad would order the same. When I got the hamburger, dad would take his buckknife and scrape off the onions and pickles onto his burger, then return the semi-naked hamburger back to me to eat. As much as my disdain for McDonald's has grown in my adult years (see Supersize Me for confirmation), my childhood memories of the place, and those times with my father, are those memories to which I return with fondness and softness in my heart.

Image: The One

On Tuesday, during breakfast at Las Manitas Avenue Cafe in Austin, T was sitting facing the door. We were already disappointed to be leaving Austin since SouthBySouthwest was just rolling into town, but we were not disappointed when from this vantage point, T sees the ONE and ONLY MR. LYLE LOVETT stroll through the front door with his entire band. It was so cool, and VERY vErY Texas, and while I've always thought Julia Roberts was crazy for marrying such a strange looking man, he actually, in a really quiet, weird sort of way, was very, very sexy.

Ga-gunk. Ga-gunk.

Image: Republic of Texas

Republic of Texas

Image: The Alamo

A few years ago T and I were playing Pictionary during one of our notoriously heated game nights. It was my turn to draw, and seeing the clue ALAMO, I proceeded to collect my thoughts and at GO! I started to draw.

If any of you know me very well, you know that while I can be very, very Type A, that sometimes I can lose details. That means, often things go in one ear and straight on out the other one. It's just how I am. I'll tell T I'm frustrated because I can't find the lip balm in my purse. I'll look and look and look and look. Finally, I'll hand it over to her, and there it will be, plain as day.

So, anyway, back to Pictionary. Here I am, gearing up to draw my awesome clue. Except, the only details I've kept in my head as I move forward into my turn are, "Starts with 'A'" and "Historical landmark." I draw the most beautiful map of the United States. Peninsular Florida, Gulf of Mexico, Maine, the norther US-Canada border -- they're ALL PERFECT. Remember: TYPE A. So, on this little lovely compulsive map of mine, I draw a perfectly tiny little island off of the perfectly tiny little coast of California. T, brilliant as ever, yells, "ALCATRAZ!"

For a hot second, in my head, I'm thinking, "Yes! She got it!" And then I realize...oh crap -- WRONG HISTORICAL LANDMARK BEGINNING WITH A!!

So, time runs out, we don't get it, and I hang my head in shame amid pointing fingers and much laughter. As it turns out, apparently I never really learned about the oh-so-famous creed, "Remember the Alamo."

Image: Big Texas Sky

Big Texas Sky

Image: Hands of Guadalupe

Hands of Guadalupe

Image: Guadalupe

Guadalupe

Image: Guadalupe River

This is one of the most beautiful state parks I've ever been to. Ever. We sort of went on a whim one our way from San Antonio to Houston, but it was well worth the stop, and the ten bucks it cost to get in. Beautiful, rushing limestone-green water, and you could walk right up and stick your toes in. We went here right after eating breakfast at Milgrito, where I had the most impossibly delicious chorizo and egg taco. MMMM.

Image: Gram

I love you, Gram.

Grandmother

Tonight I talked to my sister and learned that my grandmother's health is failing beyond all recognition. It was an interesting contrast to the planning my sister and I are doing for our family reunion -- the contrast between celebrating family and life, and our matriarch, and preparing for the impending loss of her in our lives.

I cried all evening, and T held me and rocked me while I cried. I am sad thinking about her passing, but have been preparing for her departure for a couple of years now. I am relieved to think that she will find the peace she has been waiting for, and hope that these next few weeks allow enough time for everyone to gain the closure necessary for true healing when someone passes.

I cried thinking of her lying in her bed, fragile, tiny, confused, weak. I cried thinking of the woman I have known all of my life who was always sharp, strong, vibrant, gritty -- who is now gone. I mourned that woman's passing a long time ago, but facing the impending death of the woman who is left is not lessened.

When I was growing up my grandmother would talk to us about death, her death, and what happens when you die. She doesn't believe in God, nor does she think anything happens to your physical body when you die. That's it: your body, lying there, in a coffin. That's it. She could sense this didn't comfort me at all, and when I asked her if she was afraid of dying, she told me it didn't scare her. She said she could see parts of herself carried on in her children, in S and I. She spent her life passing parts of her on to us, and we would carry them on to people in our lives, essentially achieving immortality. It was how she believed in a soul. You spent your life passing your soul onto others.

I've spent a lot of time thinking about God recently, and the meaning of life, death, and living. I've come to realize that despite the teachings of my strict Catholic upbringing, the notions of God and life are much more radically different. I believe that Godliness is mobilizing masses of people, each with individual action, towards goodness, wholeness, peace, and love. I believe that what that energy and effort and belief puts forth in the world changes what each one of us is able to accomplish and contribute. I do believe that God is love. I believe that loving God is love.

My grandmother taught me many things in my life. She taught me to love crafts and creating things with my hands. She taught me to appreciate birds and flowers and cats and reading. She allowed me boundless, childlike creativity throughout my life. She taught me how to think and love and explore. She taught me how to sew and make mudpies and cook. She taught me how to can pickles and pears and bake. She tucked me into bed every single night I ever stayed in her house, and kept a nightgown just for me to wear when I was at her house. She taught me about the human capacity for love and generosity. She taught me about sarcasm, feminism, and wit.

I know that Gram doesn't believe in God. But my belief in God, in the power of love that God holds, tells me that her spirit will be as well loved and cared for when she dies. She is and always will be treasured. She is and always will be loved. And soon, she will be at peace again and finally gathered to God.

Chopper Bob Friday

I don't think you're ready for this kitty. I don't think you're ready for this kitty. I don't think you're ready for this. My kitty's too kitty-liscious for your babe.

Image: M and the Burrito

Who really paid for this burrito?

The Whites

A while ago, one of the major laundry detergent makers created a new detergent specifically for dark clothes. I'm not exactly sure how it is supposed to work, but I guess it preserves the darkness of your darks, maybe eliminating that annoying white layer that forms after one too many, or many too many washes.

Because we live in a comsumerist society, T and I were swayed by a commercial for this detergent, though we have resisted buying it up to this point. During the commercial, T innocently looks up at me and says, "We should get the detergent for blacks!" In response, I gave her a knowing look and we caught eyes and both cracked up laughing, knowing that we she said and what she meant were totally different things, but her mis-speak was hilarious. THE DETERGENT FOR BLACKS. Darks, honey. DARKS. D. A. R. K. S.

This past weekend in New York, we were making our way through Times Square. Actually, we did that over and over and over again. Our hotel was on 45th and Broadway, for God's sake.
Times Square is filled with tourists, and sometimes things in Times Square take longer because there are more people moving around and a higher percentage of those people are not from NYC. At one point during a particularly crowded foot commute through Times Square, our enjoyable but purposeful walk through the intersection of Broadway and 43rd, we were interrupted by a loud, commanding woman making her way up from the back of the crowd. It wasn't until she got closer that I could distinguish what she was saying. At the top of her lungs she was shouting:

They're slowing me down! The whites are slowing me down! The whites are slowing me down!

T and I looked at her, then looked back at each other. Then we looked at her again, and back at each other, both questioning whether or not what we thought we were hearing was what we were actually hearing. After a few moments of looking back and forth to one another, I thought what I imagine T was also thinking: You know what she needs? She needs that detergent -- the detergent for blacks!

Image: The Gates

On Sunday we walked from the hotel to Central Park to go see The Gates. We had heard both positive and negative things about them, but what we decided is this: the enormity of the thing IS the thing. It was refreshing to see such bright colors in the dead of winter in the cold and gray park, and while the installation was not brilliant, it was beautiful and definitely worth the blister on my right foot. We even got to see Jean-Claude and Christo riding around in a limo.




The Gates.

Image: NJ Transit

The train.

Image: The View

This is the view from the hotel room we stayed in the NYC. Let's just say: it was AMAZING.