uncertainty

I never knew at that age, in my 20s, that "I don't know" is actually a legitimate answer that you're allowed to say. You're allowed to say, I don't know, and you're allowed to ask for as much time as you need until you do know. And if somebody doesn't wanna give you that time, they're allowed to leave. But you're allowed to sit with your I don't know. And I never sat with it because it was uncomfortable. Nobody likes that place. And so I always said yes. Oh, sure. Let's move in together, let's get married, let's buy a house, let's do all this stuff that I was sort of half yes, half no.

- Elizabeth Gilbert

meditation

Quite often I feel myself tossed around by this world. Grounded and inspiring friends are the markers that steer me back to the path.

I started meditating again, after a long, long, long hiatus. Just one conversation with an old and sacred friend did it. She is so committed to herself and to her life. Just hearing the peace in her voice, and uttering my own intention to reconnect to self - that was enough to get me back on the cushion.

These are the kinds of people we need.

grateful

This weekend wasn't all that fun. I had a cold that made me feel like my face was melting off my skull and then there was a snowstorm and then we got stuck in New York, a city I've recently determined that I hate.

So there were some upsets. But when I finally got home somewhere around 1:00 pm on Monday, I was so grateful to see my house. I was so grateful to shovel out my car. I was so grateful to wash dishes and cut vegetables and make soup. Because even though I became utterly unglued in the City That Never Shuts Up, I saw clearly what kind of life I don't want - and what kind of life makes my heart sing.

unreasonable

Nicholas Kristof is a top-tier hero of mine. He is a writer but equally an activist, and "one ounce of action beats a ton of words." His book with wife Sheryl WuDunn called Half the Sky is one of the bravest books I have ever read.

I bow deeply to Nick and Sheryl.

And have to lift this quote from George Bernard Shaw:

Reasonable people adapt themselves to the world. Unreasonable people attempt to adapt the world to themselves. All progress, therefore, depends on unreasonable people.

Amen.

paramount

Bisogna volersi bene. You must love yourself.

It really is paramount.

dreams

Maira Kalman's Opinion in the New York Times dreams of Americans standing on the right side of (food) justice. Everyone who cares about food and the planet and our health as a species should read it. Especially Kristin. Kristin must read it... To clean, fresh, fair food. Salute.

liberty

Today is the first day of freedom. I woke at 9 - having been utterly unaffected by C clanking around, making breakfast, talking to Sita, washing dishes, showering and dressing. I didn't even hear the door shut. I was dead to the world - dreaming a mosiac of movies I've seen, incorrect faces put to significant names, MBA formulas, latent fears and desires, and other limbic burps.

I am drinking coffee now... I might go for a run later... There is nothing that I have to do.

It is waking up in a land of Technicolor after enduring black and white tornado-ravaged Kansas. Not only has it felt like a century since there was nothing I had to do, but recently - the last three weeks or so - there has been way too much to have to do.

Today is quiet inside. Today is slow. Today I start to feel myself again.

romance

Romance is really pretty deranged when you think about it. I mean, what is it in humans that makes them crave drama and uncertainty and passionate disfunctionality? A woman says she is miserable when she is waiting to see if he'll call, but part of her loves it. Because the heart is pounding and the world is tipping and it all feels so deliciously desperate.

But think about this: Has anyone ever said, "Gee, life would be more fulfilling if my friendships and family relationships were just a tad more fucked up. If they were just a splash less communicative and a splash more volatile."

Yet for some unknown and unquantifiable reason, we want a splash of volatility in our love lives. We want chase scenes and vampires and wind-swept Cliffs of Dover. We want period costumes and horses and final heart-wrenching reunions with bad guys on the way. We want the one we're with (sometimes) and we want a few dozen others who scratch certain itchy places on our thumpin' bumpin' egos.

If all this is left over from mating rituals on the savannah, we have a long way to go as a species -- and we should admit it.

number

Yesterday G. asked, "Rachel, how old are you?"

I said, "Why are all the men asking me that? Don't you guys know better?"

He said, "Oh, well, I am sure I am the oldest one."

I raised an eyebrow. (Actually, I didn't because I can't - which sucks.)

I said, "How old are you?"

"29."

I'm getting hung up on my number again.

I have to call it my number because it is as useless a measure as the numbers on the weighing scale. It is a number. That is all.

I feel healthier, more fit, more vibrant, more beautiful than I ever did at age 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, or 29. Last year I felt pretty hot. Last year I was 30. Now I am 31.

But I've grossed myself out buying into this ridiculous mass consciousness belief that on September 20, 2008 my stock price plummeted. What an insult to me and every other hot mama on this planet. There is nothing grosser (well, actually, sure there is) than discovering you have fallen victim to a doctrine that goes against all of your feminist might.

Believing - on any level - that I have lost shine because of my number is just plain stupid. Now I just have to figure out how to get over myself.

rub

Found another live one: Tim Kreider's Referendum. Read it; it will twist your brain into a yoga pretzel. So much of what I want to say in my script is covered with witty amusement in this piece.

In fact, I was just hounding my b-school classmates about this very topic: to have kids or not to have kids; to get married or not to get married; to be on the career track or not to be on the career track; to try to save the world or to leave the world to its own screwed up devices.

Who the hell knows, right? Ooof.

game

There's a joke with entrepreneurs: Instead of Ready, Aim, Fire! the order is Ready, Fire!, Aim.

Yesterday in Creativity Lab, we stuck Post-its of our ideas onto an archery target -- placing them in orbits of Practical, Innovative, and Fanciful. Then we had to connect all the dots and pitch our spontaneous new-business concept.

This is my kind of game. I love creating by connecting my and other peoples' dots.

Samrat and I once spent 4 hours crafting a three-act outline for a film in development. Our dots were: the title, the names and basic thrusts of the 3 main characters, and 2 requisite locations.

Complete boundless freedom is too vertiginous for me; I end up wanting to barf. Even in a sexy think tank like IDEO Lab - there are rules to the chaos: a deadline, an objective, and a boss who steps in when it's called for. Often, that's all you need.

Maude

An image really pressed into my mind is the expression on my stepfather's face when I handed him a birthday card. He looked the way a little baby does when it's surprised into ecstasy.

I maintain this look is why so many people want to have little babies. Because grown-ups, we can be dour. And after twenty or thirty years surrounded by gloom, who wouldn't want to lighten things up?

It was the simplicity of the gesture - giving him a birthday card - juxtaposed to the depth of response - that really struck me. I love watching people come alive.

'Cause seriously: a person who needs an expensive circus performance with bells and whistles and sequiny dresses and champagne just to crack a smile - I'm sorry, but this guy is almost dead. If that's how much it takes to wake up, you are two feet-one arm into the grave. All that remain are a few jaundiced fingernails feebly scratching at the earth above...

Okay, maybe a little harsh.

Back to the baby. Think about peek-a-boo. Stupid game, right? Not to a baby! The whole world exists between his mother's smile and her hands covering her face. To him, this little handmade theatrical spectacle is the entire universe in motion.

When someone lights up that way at something seemingly small, this is the kind of person I love. This is the kind of person I want to be.

It is my birthday today. I am effectively 31 years old. Ugh... But! While this might be the cumulative measure of time, I am determined to get younger each year. My goal is Maude.

splinters

I had my first business school case on Friday. Not my first reading of a case, one that someone else wrote, that we read and then discuss in class.

Side note for whining purposes: I'm already exhibiting the known behaviors of a blowfish when asinine comments are made in class. Stating that the main character in the case "is a moron and shouldn't have done that" is not my idea of scintillating verbal contribution. Chiudere il becco - shut your beak," as they say so fittingly in Italian.

Back to business: Friday was Team Process Day, which is a day-long exercise in exposing our tendencies in teamwork. By afternoon, I had rubbed up against another team member (metaphorically speaking) and received a few splinters. I know what I need to do: utilize the skills we were learning all day about feedback and conflict resolution. But I've still managed to stew about it all weekend.

Babson told us in no uncertain terms:

Get out of your comfort zone.

This is a learning environment - experiment.

Conflict is essential to change.

We don't expect you to always get along.

Diversity has its costs.

Get out of your comfort zone.

Ugh. I know, I know... I have to address the splinters.

value

My stepmother has started hanging out at the dump.

That's right, the dump - the place where people throw things away. She weathers the stench of diapers and rotting fruit to look for furniture and other household items that affluent neighbors are throwing away.

This morning, she sent me and her other children photographs of the pieces she recently snatched up, took home, and restored. I've seen comparable items in second-hand furniture stores along Mass Ave.

Value varies from person to person. A lot is learned from one's parents, some is acquired from major influencers like that rebel you glomed onto in high school or the sleak chain-smoking co-ed on the Italy year abroad... But one way or the other, we each develop an individual sense of value.

Much of my value was picked up from my parents. A lot has to do with conservation of resources as I'm rather obsessed with my eco footprint. But beyond trying to live greenly, I have a deeply lodged belief - an impacted doctrine, if you will - that if something still fulfills its purpose, why go out and get a new one?

I worked for over a year in advertising, right out of college. A "career building" computer program spat out Advertising after I entered my likes/dislikes, strengths/weaknesses and expectations for an employment setting. But I quickly learned that I don't have the stomach for consumer product advertising; for telling someone they need a shiny new one when the old one still works just fine.

We all know that there are some major economic troubles today, and that people are tighter with their money than the government and economists would like. But it is simply the easier view to say: "America is run on consumption. We have to get people blindly buying again, or the engine on our economy won't start up."

But I would like to a reinvention in Americans' sense of value. And I'm proud that my stepmother has been shopping at the dump.

swim

We finished a three-day business simulation this afternoon. I can't believe how much I just learned - simply by being thrown in the water and screamed at to swim.

strategy

I love my MBA program so far. Despite - perhaps because - my brain is being stretched like a yogini in pigeon pose.

During our business simulation this week, I commented to a teammate, "I never imagined I would be this excited to see a giant PowerPoint projection full of lines of red numbers." But I was.

Yet in all the excitement, I plan to stay grounded and to conserve energy. I've taped Ruiz's Four Agreements above my desk. They are very powerful, so here they are:

Be impeccable with your word:

Speak with integrity. Say only what you mean. Avoid using the word to speak against yourself or to gossip about others. Use the power of your word in the direction of truth and love.

Don't take anything personally.

Nothing others do is because of you. What others say and do is a projection of their own reality, their own dream. When you are immune to the opinions and actions of others, you won't be the victim of needless suffering.

Don't make assumptions.

Find the courage to ask questions and to express what you really want. Communicate with others as clearly as you can to avoid misunderstandings, sadness and drama. With just this one agreement, you can completely transform your life.

Always do your best.

Your best is going to change from moment to moment; it will be different when you are healthy as opposed to sick. Under any circumstance, simply do your best, and you will avoid self-judgment, self-abuse and regret.

sphere

The way I look at the world has been transformed by the poems of Mary Oliver.

I have never been much of a poetry reader. I'm too impatient and end up speed-reading, irritated by the line breaks and punctuation and nonsensicalness. e. e. cummings with his erratic spacing and capital and lowercase letters makes me want to break out a red pen and scratch all over his page.

But with Mary I find myself slowing down and luxuriating in the sounds of words. She is the only poet that I want to read out loud. Even when I'm alone. And I don't feel foolish doing it either. I re-read her poems again and again - slowly - and these are the stillest moments of my day.

I don't have the Truro Bear or Blackwater Pond, but I have Cambridge. Running is how I explore and today I discovered a new pocket of town: the area around Harvard's Divinity School. Irving Street, where Julia Child lived, Francis (called "Professors Row"), Scott (where the loathéd e. e. was born).

Sprinting into an ivy brick section of the campus, I came upon a statue either snatched or copied from somewhere in the Far East. Near it was an enormous stone sphere on a brick path surrounded by mulberry bushes. The significance of it I do not know. But I ran to it without pause and made several laps while dragging my hand across its smooth side. It seemed quite a natural thing to do.

Not forcing or demanding anything extravagant; just the feel of stone under my hand and the lull of easy repetition. A moment of ordinary joy in an ordinary life.

I think Mary would be proud.

chinese

Bad Chinese food is bad. Even if it's vegan. Even if it's free.

nature

Yesterday morning running on Huron Avenue I saw a bird lying on its back in the road. Another bird stood near, hopping up and down like a cheerleader, seeming to encourage its friend, why don't you get going? But the fallen bird was having back problems.

Its beak opened and closed rhythmically to cry out, but no sound came. I wondered: do I feel less compassion when a creature makes no sound?

The bird couldn't stand so I took off my tank top and wrapped it up and carried it to the grass. Once down, it started to flap its wings furiously. I thought it might piss itself off into a standing position, but after one final push for life, it lay still and accepted its end.

I come across many animals. (Perhaps it's because I walk and take the bus, and insist on leading a reasonably paced life.) But this was the first time I didn't feel an overwhelming need to rescue it - to finding someone or something with a solution. To fix this bird, dammit, come hell or high water!

Instead I sat with it and thought of my friend Jeffrey who told me a story - filled with wisdom and compassion - about sitting with a dying animal, without trying to stop it or change it or fix it... I thought about how death naturally pressed in, regardless of how I feel about it.

Mary Oliver's poems nod to some meaning, some hint of God, some peace, in the natural world.

My mother read "Black Oaks" in church the other day. Here is the second half:

Today is a day like any other; twenty-four hours, a little sunshine, a little rain.

Listen says ambition, nervously shifting her weight from one boot to another -- why don't you get going?

For there I am, in the mossy shadows, under the trees.

And to tell the truth I don't want to let go of the wrists of idleness, I don't want to sell my life for money,

I don't even want to come in out of the rain.

metta

Metta मेत्ता means loving-kindness, a meditation that several members of my KM group practice regularly. (KM stands for Kalyana Mitta; it's Pali for "spiritual friends.")

I've never been taught metta, but I've made up my own version, which basically just boils down to 10-20 minutes per day where I do my damndest to be a good friend.

I think everyone must go through trials by fire. The mind eating away at you both consciously and unconsciously. Anger, fear, pain, self hatred. The Dalai Lama said that self hatred does not exist in Tibetan culture. Only after he met with western Buddhists did he learn about the obstacle of self hatred.

A lot of change brings a lot of fear and I'm just trying to stay afloat. I believe I need self love and self care now more than ever, but allowing it seems nearly impossible. Whose permission am I waiting for?

vacanza

I'm not always great at giving myself a break (my last post a case in point). But right now I am deeply thrilled. C and I leave this weekend for our first real vacation together. Costa Rica has been high on the Must Visit list for ages. I am so excited. I just can't hide it.

meditate

These days it's crucial that I listen, pause, and then take my next step. And meditate. Oh yes.

Knowing that I am afraid of change, of feeling out of control, of spinning down a tight tunnel of tension and anxiety - is not enough. I have to take action to redirect myself. I have to calm down. I can. Even with my mind screaming at me that I am a failure.

Yesterday, I took an online accounting assessment for school. When I hit "Grade," the computer gurgled for a moment and then reported back: I'm sorry, but you failed.

Which, at the time, I read to mean: You are a failure. You can't do anything right. You aren't smart enough. You're going to screw everything up.

Where do these thoughts come from? Looking over my life, I find no evidence to suggest the fruition of any such prophecy. So it can't be logic that hammers away at me at 6:30 in the morning, as I lie awake wide-eyed like a nervous guppy.

Kristin broke it down. You are being a bitch to yourself. Be sweet to you like you are to me.

This is a good idea.

Congratulations

I just got off the phone with Leah the Linksys Lady. I always feel a little sick when I call tech people. It's the sensation of impotency that comes with needing something from a world that seems almost extraterrestrial - and thus needing someone else to go in and get it for you.

Forking over my credit card details so that some unknown entity could remotely access my computer was intense. But the Linksys Lady solved my issues, and as I watched her click around on my laptop and type codes with lots of periods into fields that I didn't even know existed (let alone what the eff they mean) - I watched my investment pay off.

When my Google page appeared - to replace that most odious of pages: "You are not connected to the Internet" - I exclaimed, It's up! It's up! and Leah said, Congratulations. And I really did feel like a new mother.

At least for this little Late Adopter, high tech is as mysterious as the birds and the bees.

swap

I am a huge fan of what my friend Dan calls PTOT or Put This Over There "if you're not into the whole brevity thing." (Name the film this quote comes from.) PTOT means when you have something you don't need anymore, and someone else needs or wants it, you find them and give it to them. It's the highest order of recycling. Trade it, swap it, hand it over. No mess, no fuss; just joy, and mindfully reallocated resources.

Bottom line: I made out like a bandit at Celia's clothing swap last night. I have a fierce new wardrobe, for which I paid $0.00. Whoever said there's no such thing as a free lunch wasn't very creative.

MLK

Friday morning was the start of the MLK Summer Scholars, a program funded by The Boston Globe and John Hancock that coaches under-privileged youth in interviewing, writing, money, and other business skills. As a volunteer mentor, I sat at a table with my 9 students amongst 650 kids from all over Boston.

Students talked about what MLK stood for and the most pressing problems facing teens today. "Indifference is more dangerous than ignorance," one boy shared. "Indifference is more dangerous than anything."

I thought about this while reading Krugman's Boiling the Frog. Excuses, indifference, and the status quo are killing our economy and the environment.

I am so over the "old folks" looking to the young ones to get out there and redirect the great lumbering behemoth of human progress. I am so over everyone (including me) staring at Obama on the TV and hoping he fixes it soon.

We are not victims. Obama said as much when he started the United We Serve Challenge, which is going on right now, by the way.

For those in the Boston area, I urge you to check out Boston Cares (I've been a member since 2007). The amount of service you do is flexible, and you can sign up for projects last minute. Becoming a member takes about 45 minutes of your time while you attend a new volunteer orientation session.

If you're unemployed, as many of us are, this is an enlivening and inspired way to spend your free time. Volunteering creates connection and a sense of purpose, a nice reprieve from the vast sea of mass media terror and paralysis.

Start somewhere. "It won't make a difference" is a lie.

MLK's inspiration M.K. Gandhi said it best: You may never know what results come of your action, but if you do nothing there will be no result.

Erika

As I stepped through the door last night armed with 2 bottles of wine and some parmigiano reggiano from Wisconsin (Italian immigration is never letting me through again), Erika greeting me with her usual squeak and squeeze. She was sporting a tight black tank top with an image of three sequined cocktail glasses and the caption: Group Therapy.

She immediately advised me that there were 2 Romanian seamen in her back yard. Knowing Erika, of course there were.

Erika likes Show (not Tell) so I was presented to the two strapping, twenty-something Romanian lads lounging on the back patio. One had just sailed across the Atlantic in a Tall Ship. The other is a first-year graduate at the U.S. Naval Academy.

Justin, Jess, and Jeremy (yes, three J's; no, they haven't had t-shirts made) arrived and were duly presented. Waker finished cooking, dinner and wine were ingested, and Essential Romanian was practiced (don't ask about course content).

Then, before they hit the deck as it were, Erika gave them ice pops. You know, those retro treats that look like giant toothpaste tubes of Drano. The fact that she even had them on hand - and that it was important to her to offer them to the Romanians - is just an example of her charm. Erika is the great unifier. Adopter of the universe. Mama to all. Cheerful Shakti. World traveled multiculturalist I-will-not-be-shhhh'd! trail blazing minx.

Doru tried to pull rank at the table and command Marius to eat his scary-looking ice pop.

I said: Don't listen to him. He is not the commanding officer here. Erika is...

To which Waker replied: Erika isn't the commanding officer; Erika is God.

In her world, she sure is. Don't mess.

apple

The moment I can't get out of my head is of the chirpy student in yesterday's language class - the one who worked so hard to say Friday. At the break she came up to me and the full-time teacher and said Teacher, teacher! and held out a perfect apple. She mimed a saw; we should cut it in half to share. The teacher didn't want to take it and politely repeated no thank you. But she kept trying to give it to us, so I put out both hands and accepted.

I'm eating the apple now and it feels like something holy. Because someone who has next to nothing - who had her roots pulled out and was roughly transplanted in foreign soil with strange f-sounds and endless paperwork - somewhere, she learned that you should bring an apple to the teacher. So she did.

These are the kinds of moments that knock me over.

service

This morning I biked through the rain to downtown Boston. As I smashed through puddles and trucks surged past me I thought, Why am I doing this? It's disgusting out here, and now my butt is soaked. I don't have to do this.

No, I didn't. It's true. But I showed up (with a soggy ass) to tutor refugees in vocational English.

Pretty much on arrival I was left to my own devices with a basic literacy group of 8. I have next to no teaching experience, but the teacher who threw me in said "this is trial by fire."

So we hammered through the days of the week. One initially silent woman lit up when she got the hang of the word Friday. She chirped with joy: FRY DAY. FRY DAY. Another woman covered her face and wept.

Then we pulled out the calendar, and I pointed to squares while the class chorused the day of the week, month, and numerical date for each square. The weeping woman uncovered her face and chimed in. The shy ones mouthed along.

During the last hour, I sat with a woman who spoke and read English well. She was practicing for job interviews. When I asked, Please tell me about your work experience, she took off her glasses, bravely held my eye, and explained that she had been a gynecologist in Afghanistan for 17 years. But she believed that she had the skills to be a good cashier. As she listed her skills and an applied example of each, my heart broke a little.

But a cracked heart is a good thing. It lets more light in. And suddenly something as trivial as a soggy ass doesn't matter a bit.

food

In Italy, food is love. If you love someone, you feed them. So it follows that all these Italians loving up on each other at dinner parties are probably not dishing growth-hormoned, Eboli-infested, faux-organic, battery-caged crap. Italy never went there with food because that's not love. That's poison.

Unfortunately, America went there. And after three months in Italy, my relationship with American food is strained at best. I constantly ask, "Where did this food come from?" and rarely trust the answer. (The Italians look at me like I'm asking where babies come from.)

What I love about America is our wide-eyed, dog-eared optimism. Woven into our national fabric are stories of the Little Guy demanding a better world. It's the "Dagnabit! Let's get out there and do something about this" approach. Today's Times Magazine story Street Farmer is an inspiring example.

Last night, 6 of us prepared a feast and ate it in Kristin's back garden. I made bruschetta and a quinoa with peppers, cilantro, and soy croutons. Kristin made bluefish and salmon filets and a bountiful salad of arugula, avocado, tomatoes and red onions. Ian made homestyle mojitos with fresh mint. Catherine made a knock-your-socks-off salad of watermelon, feta, onions, parsley and olives. Chris and John grilled chicken sausage topped with yellow peppers and onions.

Cooking and sharing food together. Simple. Tribal. True.

Sun

If I could cross stitch, I'd sew a wall doily that reads:

Today was a tough one. I get it.

But take a deep breath

And remember,

Tomorrow you'll feel different.

The sun might even come up.

Thank You to the sun today. And Happy Fourth.

Tribe

A striking Trinidadian girl who works at Cambridge Savings Bank misses her family. "You know," she told me, "I'm just tired. Everything was fresh and exciting when I first got here. But now I want things that I never really noticed when I had them. Like my sister cooking me dinner. Or my mom doing my laundry."

"I get it," I said. "You want to be with your tribe."

I'm a revivified native species. After 6 1/2 years in Oz, I'm happily kicking cow patties in Kansas. Life in San Francisco could be chaos or merriment, but I never sensed the ground under my feet. My social network might spurn me at any second - or I might get tired of them. What was our bond made of? Often, of silly string.

This past weekend my extended family - uncles, aunts, cousins, cuz-nieces, cuz-nephew - the whole kit and caboodle - we had ourselves a family meeting. And it wasn't simple or entirely pleasant. But I found myself thinking: Okay, this might get ugly -- oops, there it just did -- but these people cannot kick each other out of the party. Or un-friend on Facebook. Or send-straight-to-voicemail and hope the other guy takes the hint... This is a FAMILY. We're stuck with each other.

I love that.

In the age of 10-minute marriages and high-speed internet break-ups and blocked profiles and websites for ranting about your crappy ex-FWB, people you cannot shake off are a sober blessing. We are so far from the thatched village compound and the shamans and the whole primordial thang (and I'm not saying I want to go back, mind you)... But tribe is still crucial.

Sure, you need both for healthy development. Like rotating the plant so it doesn't bend over trying to reach the light source. But there's no place like home.

Plenty

Today I am in the experience of plenty. Plenty of time, plenty of space, plenty of cleaning products, plenty of money, plenty of love - plenty of rain! (The rain ceased for precisely one hour so that I could go run around the reservoir. Thank you!) It's certainly a nice place to be. The state will pass I'm sure, but since I was in it today, I can create it again.

Rain

I don't feel like doing my accounting homework right now and Kristin said "always write." So here I am. The year is 2009 and I'm starting my first blog. I am truly a slow processor. Late adopter. Rubber stopper.

It's wet out there, man. Erno said the jetstream stalled and that's why it rained the entire month of June. What if it doesn't start up again?!? It's not like we can take it to the shop.

Would make it easier to move to Italy. I got back a week ago - from 90-degree sun and tomatoes that would make you cry. Now I'm wet and cold and everything tastes like nothing.

I'm on a strict new diet: Italian cinema only. Listening - even to rumbly mumbly Roman - helps me hold on to la lingua madre. Started with the Master. La Strada is beautifully dark in that broken soul kind of way. His bride Giulietta Masina was a vision.

An old friend from San Francisco just invited me to the Dutch Antilles at the end of this month. No, it's not a scandal; it's a group vacation proposition. He got laid off and wants to travel. Bless his heart. (Meanwhile I'm rooting through loose change debating whether it's wise to order take-out tonight.)

Bizarrely, his proposed dates of travel match the time that Mr. C wants to go on vacation. I would love to see Michael again. Plus he worked at Geo and has a few tricks up his sleeve to keep airfare and lodging costs down. Bonaire is famous for diving and for not being a tropical vacation hell hole. Maybe Mr. C will go for it?