Too Comfortable Seating

Two friends of ours, Renate and Helga, came over this afternoon for coffee and cake. Helga's son was in the same rehabilitation hospital with B after their respective accidents and Renate is the mother of our friend, Tina. And Tina is married to Helga's younger son, Ingo. Following all that?

I completely overlooked it when they arrived a half hour earlier than I had expected them. Yesterday Helga had told us that she was meeting Renate at 2pm at the market square and then they'd walk on up to our flat. I figured I had at least until 2:15pm before they arrived. Instead they caught me at 1:45pm with the table not yet set and the coffee not made. No problem - I just got things ready as they talked with B.

We were having a pleasant visit together and eventually the conversation turned to a discussion of how Renate is very disgusted with Gerd. She took over his old flat when Gerd moved in with my MIL and there's some bad blood between them - too long to explain here and frankly it's something that likely would cause you to go in search of two aspirin and a Bloody Mary with which to wash them down. Suffice it to say it was interesting, dishy gossip.

Around 4:00pm Helga's sister came by to go home with Helga and before leaving she sat with us to have a drink and to chat for about a half hour. Finally they got up and asked Renate if she was leaving with them and Renate replied "Oh I'll stay around for a while if they'll have me.".

I thought she was just being amusing. Instead Renate was dead serious.

It was only 4:30pm and I figured she'd hang out another fifteen minutes or so. Suddenly I began to get sleepy and was having to stifle yawns. Renate stayed longer and I was mentally begging for her to go. I picked up my knitting to work on as we chatted, hoping it would send a subtle message. It didn't. I was now hiding yawns with my hand and my contribution to the conversation was restricted to a lot of "Ja. Ja. Uh huh. Ja". That's one thing about Renate - you don't have to worry about any dead spots in the conversation. She'll gladly do all the talking and if you let her she'll answer herself as well.

I like Renate. She's a little quirky but likeable. In that way she's like Gerd - not a bad person, just quirky with some quirks being more tolerable than others.

It got later and finally I was on the verge of open yawning but, as I was not raised by wolves, I resisted. I finally began to panic when in conversation Renate mentioned that she liked to watch on Mondays Who Wants to be a Millionaire? and when B said he did too she replied "Oh good! Then I won't have to watch it by myself tonight!". And I'm 99% sure she wasn't kidding.

I knew that if I was getting tired of this visit that B must really be suffering but, frankly, I suck at hinting that people should just go home. Luckily B has a ready made excuse - he's handicapped. Finally just before 6:00pm he said, in a very casual way I might add, "I must be getting very tired. My legs are starting to get bad spasms.". Renate, thankfully, picked up the meaning and said she would head on home.

Four hours and fifteen minutes. Renate was here for coffee and cake for four hours and fifteen minutes. I hate to sound all anti-social but damn! Unless you're someone I only see once every three years, a four hour and fifteen minute coffee and cake visit from you is too long. I sure as hell wouldn't inflict myself upon someone for that long unless it were planned head of time and I'd traveled from a distant city to make the visit. I didn't spend that long at my siblings' respective wedding recptions. Hell, I didn't spent that much time at my own wedding receptions. Either of them.

A year ago when I was back home in Mississippi and my girlfriends came to visit me for a weekend, we all went to visit my mother at the care facility where she lives. In my mother's room is her bed, her recliner and one wingback chair so we had to find seating for all of us as best we could. My mother apologized that she no long had her couch but it wouldn't fit in her room. "And anyway", she added, "if you have a couch, folks just sit on down to visit and you can't get rid of them!".

At the time my friends all laughed heartily at her comment and I chuckled along in that "Oh that wacky mama of mine! Miss Virginia will just say anything that pops in her mind!" way, but now I'm beginning to see her point.

Just Happy

Someone who is very generous and very kind and very, very sweet has sent me a great big ol' box of yarn. Not plain Jane stuff. Really gorgeous, luxurious and interesting yarns. Yarns for socks, scarves, wraps and blankets. I am so overwhelmed by her generosity that I can hardly describe how special she's made me feel and how grateful that I am.

And I cannot leave this box of yarn alone. It's getting ridiculous. I keep looking at it and petting it and reading online about the qualities of each kind she sent me. I look up projects made with this yarn and think about what I want to knit with it.

What's worst of all is that I want to knit it all. Right now. All at the same time. I can't decide on what yarn to grab first and cast on. I can't make up my mind which project I want to tackle now and which ones can wait a month or two.

But what I think about most is how lovely people are to me. How sweet and thoughtful they are. The lady who sent me this wonderful gift wished to make me happy but I'm not sure if she knows how deeply her kindness has touched me. But it did. And I just had to brag on her (and, I'll admit, show off about the fabulous additions to my yarn stash) and once again affirm that there is a lot more right with people than there is wrong. There is a lot more generosity than selfishness. There is much more joy taken in the happiness of others than joy taken at the misfortune others experience. The world may make us feel more cynical but I'm convinced that in the end we're better to one another than we give ourselves credit for and that's most reassuring.

Because She Wants To Know

Lisa, who I always call "Sugar Fluff" - I am not allowed to call anyone else that! - is a dear friend of mine. Some of what I really love about her is that she loves to just chat with no agenda in mind - we just talk about whatever comes up and our conversations always come from the heart. Often Lisa and I discuss how we'd love to be in her kitchen or mine having coffee (or tea, in my case), eating cream horns and just talking to hear each others voice.

So I really had to smile when today I got this email from Lisa:

Hey Dix,

I got up early and was thinking about you today and missing you. I thought....if I were sitting next to you, what would I be asking you? So, I thought since I can't sit next to you, then I'll just email it. You can answer on your blog or just in an email or however you want to.

I love and adore you.

Lisa

So here are her questions and how I answered them:

What would I have seen, heard, eaten and experienced if I would have eaten at your dinner table when you were 13 years old?

Yikes. Probably nothing good. My sister wouldn't have been there - she was away at college. My oldest brother may or may not have been there - he was very unfocused and jumped from one thing to another at that time. Funny to think now he has a PhD. Back then he couldn't set a goal to do nearly anything. My other brother would have been there eating anything that wasn't nailed down - he would have been 16 years old then. I'd have definitely been trying to fly under my dad's radar - we did not get along with each other then at all. But the food would have been great. I can imagine us having fried chicken or steak or ham. Fresh vegetables from the garden. Lots of iced tea. Peach cobbler for dessert. If no one was fussing about anything my mother would have been quite charming. If not, forget it. Someone's meltdown would be imminent.

When did you absolutely know you were going to be with B for the duration? Was there anything that made you think, "Ok, now I know for sure."?

It was when I saw him for the first time after spending a year talking with him online and on the phone. I don't know if I can describe the look on his face but it was a mix of sheer joy and a look in his eyes that said "I am completely yours. I'm trusting you with my whole life.". The feeling it gave me felt so right. I knew it was the way I was supposed to feel with someone I was in love with. And when I still felt that way after seeing first hand what it took to care for him, I knew that we really did belong together.

What is the first three things you're going to do when you get to heaven?

1. Be overwhelmed by the feeling of love and contentment and the feeling of really belonging. I know heaven is the one place where everyone there is absolutely wanted and loved.

2. Find my father and tell him I'm sorry. And tell him that now I understand a lot of what I could never understand about him when he was alive.

3. Find Heather [Lisa's niece]. Laugh about the whole hiding-the-Christmas-tree thing. Find a good spot to sit. Eat cream horns and red velvet cupcakes until you and Darling Mollie get there.

What are 3 things that make absolutely no sense to you?

Let me first say that just because something makes no sense to me it doesn't mean that I don't like it. It is simply something I don't understand.

1. Ice hockey. I don't get the rules. It's too fast. I know there's strategy involved but it only looks like skating, bumping into others and chasing a puck around.

2. The universe. I don't get how there's no end to it. I don't get how we see light that's an almost unbelievable distance away - so distant that its source may not even exist any longer. How the universe constantly expands but if it's expanding then what is it expanding into? Doesn't that mean it has an edge? I look up at a star filled sky and contemplate these things and become nauseated by the sheer complexity of it all.

3. Why anyone would rather be famous even after having never accomplished anything of any consequence rather than do something that enlightens or inspires or makes others better or makes our world better even if their name remains obscure. Why being known is better than being accomplished?

Why are you always so surprised when we make such a fuss over you at the Peach Pilgrimages?

For the unenlightened, the Peach Pilgrimages are what we call the get-togethers I have with my friends when I get back to the US for a visit. We meet up for a weekend, talk, laugh, eat, and in general just love on each other. Lisa's the one who dubbed it The Peach Pilgrimage.

I think I get so surprised when y'all make such a fuss over me because I feel unworthy. I think most of my life I've struggled with idea that I feel left out and I've always wanted to feel as though I fit in and belong. I struggle with the idea of rejection and really, really wanting to be liked by people I like. I get together with y'all and I have to keep pinching myself to believe it's all real. That y'all uproot yourselves for a weekend, travel hundreds of miles and then proceed to spoil me like crazy. I can't get over that people whom I'm not related to by blood or marriage would really do that for me. I have to say though that the last Pilgrimage reinforced the idea that:

A. I really am loved by y'all.
B. You wouldn't do it if you didn't really want to.
C. Y'all enjoy it when I'm enjoying it.

Y'all love it best when I relax and just enjoy so I'm working on putting away the hang ups and just getting in to the bliss.

Describe Darling Mollie in 5 words.
Darling Mollie is my best friend, fellow Peach Pilgrim and also a dear friend of Lisa's. We just adore her. And if I have to limit myself to five words for Darling Mollie, they'd be these:

1. Gorgeous. This isn't an exaggeration. Mollie is so, so beautiful. The sort of beautiful where she walks through a room and all heads turn to look at her. And she always knows the right thing to wear and has incredible taste in fashions and decor.

2. Faithful. Mollie is so strong and sure of her faith that I can feel it strengthening my own.

3. Witty. Darling Mollie has a great sense of humor but it goes beyond that. Her humor is smart and witty and she has such an great turn of phrase. I could be in the black hole of depression and Mollie could get me to laugh. She's humor with a brain.

4. Smart. And she's always eager to learn more. Mollie's always curious and enjoys searching out answers. She's a joy to talk with because she's well beyond talking about mundane, forgettable crap.

5. Reliable. If I needed Mollie - I mean really needed her, she'd move a mountain to get to me. Literally. Busted flat in Baton Rouge, waiting for a train? I'd call Mollie. Dead body in my trunk and I didn't put it there? I'd call Mollie. By coincidence sit next to Nikki Sixx on an airplane and don't know what to say to him? I'd call Mollie. If I need cheering up or advice or comforting, I know I can call Mollie at any time and she'll be there for me, no question about it. She's one of the very few people I would trust not only my life with but my husband's life - and when it comes to him that sort of trust is very rare.

That was fun. Thanks you, lil Sugar Fluff. I love you. And the cream horns are on me.

Nourishment of a Different Sort

I was thinking that five years ago today I was in the hospital, fresh from having surgery.

Know what the worst part of it was? It wasn't being away from my husband. It wasn't being in a room with four other women and no privacy (here's a trick - snore extremely loud and they'll move you off by yourself). It wasn't being stuck in an un-air conditioned hospital during a 95+°F heat wave. It wasn't, during said heatwave, having to wear thick, tight, hot, anti-thrombosis stockings that went from my toes to my upper thighs. It wasn't the burning and painful anti-thrombosis injections I had to have in my leg each day of my two week stay there at the no privacy, no air conditioning hospital. And even though it's a close second, it wasn't even the surgery where my abdomen was sliced open from navel to the beginning of happy land so parts that I was fond of and to this day miss could be removed.

The worst part was the vile swill served to us three times a day that they laughingly called food.

I'd alway heard stories of hospital food but since the last time I had been hospitalized was when Lyndon Johnson was president and most of my nutrition came out of a bottle, I wasn't familiar with it first hand. At first it didn't seem so bad. On the day I was admitted I had eaten breakfast at home and my lunch was some sort of macaroni in cheese sauce fare that wasn't so bad. I was denied food for days after that because of tests I had to have and because of my surgery so it wasn't until days later that I found out how terrible hospital food really is.

Sometimes the flavor was so terrible I couldn't determine whether they were feeding me a meal or simply trying to get rid of medical waste. I recall a meal of goulash that had the same flavor that I would expect to find if I licked my bathmat. On a Sunday we had a "fancy" dinner of pork roast in gravy and I'm fairly certain the gravy had a previous life as rinse water in the laundry. Other times the food wasn't bad tasting at all. It wasn't good tasting either. It simply had no flavor whatsoever. Now I understand that hospital food has to be cooked with little or no salt and whatnot but the food itself should have a flavor of its own. It was so disappointing to be served a dish that in appearace looked fine but when put in one's mouth it was like eating hot nothing. I was often given yogurt and fresh fruit as part of my meals and damn if even they were flavorless. Bland, runny yogurt, half-ripe, tasteless pears, mealy apples devoid of any aroma at all. Mealtimes were an exercise in disappointment. Is there any wonder I lost twenty pounds in two weeks while I was there?

Luckily I had my friend, Kirsten. Kirsten is anorexic but damn if she doesn't know what's good. She'd visit me every couple days and would always sneak in a treat or two for me. Once she came to visit me and before coming by dropped by a bakery to get me something. Many bakeries here sell finished sandwiches and Kirsten brought me one, apologizing as she gave it to me because it was late in the day and the sandwich had probably had a couple hours age on it. I remember that sandwich vividly. Whole grain bread with boiled egg, tomatoes, cucumber and remoulade sauce. Just as she gave it to me one of the nurses came in to give me some medicine or to stab me with something or whatever so I quickly put the sandwich in my bedside table drawer. After Kirsten left and I had eaten yet another disappointing dinner and I knew the nurses wouldn't be in to check on me for a couple more hours I pulled the sandwich out. Despite being wrapped in plastic the crusts of the bread were dry and the remoulade had gotten the bread slightly soggy. I'm also not a big fan of boiled eggs. I like boiled egg whites but if I can taste the yolk I get a little wiggy. But so intense was my desperation that still I gleefully bit into the sandwich. And it was lovely. The remoulade hid the taste of the egg yolk and the cucumber and tomato wasn't even watery and bland. I quickly gulped down the sandwich, leaving the dry crusts behind and then slowly shuffled all hunchbacked into the bathroom (it was still less than a week after my surgery) where a large trashcan was that would enable me to hide the crusts from the prying eyes of the nurses.

I still had over a week to go before I would be released from the hospital but that one sandwich made me feel so wonderful. It made me feel that even though I was away having surgery in a strange place with strange people, I wasn't forgotten and I was still loved. A dear friend threw me a lifeline and it was in the shape of a boiled egg sandwich.

Brutal Honesty

Darling Mollie wanted me to knit some baby socks to give as a gift to a family member who's expecting a baby. She asked me about it last night when she called me.

"Do you know how to knit baby socks?"

"Sure. It's like knitting big people socks but you don't knit them as big. Basically the same structure though."

"Can you make green and yellow ones?"

"If I can get some yellow and green yarn."

"Can I get you the yarn?"

"Just go to the yarn shop and tell the sales lady what you want - sock yarn for baby socks. She'll get you the right stuff."

"Okay. So do you need me to send you anything else? Are you out of Hellmann's? Do you need me to send you Hellmanns?"

"Oh boy, I've been out of Hellmann's since February!"

"Okay. Do you want to try that new olive oil Hellmann's?"

Time to make a snap decision. I know I probably should be eating the olive oil stuff because it would be healthier for me to eat - if the word "healthy" could be attached to whipped oil and eggs anyway - but I've never before eaten it.

This is how it sounded in my head:

"Hmmm....ewww...olive oil. Maybe it's good though. Maybe it tastes the same. Maybe it's a little different. Olive oil tastes different. Remember the time you accidentally got too much olive oil in the Spanish rice? It was gross. Maybe it's gross. What if it's gross? I can't have Mollie send me Hellmann's and then me not eat it because it's gross! Maybe it would only be gross if I had it on a sandwich but not so gross if it's in potato salad. Is it worth it to try it? It could be very good. I thought I read someone say it was good. Mollie wouldn't know because she hates mayonnaise so I can't ask her. Perhaps I should have her send just a tiny jar of it but that's stupid because if I hate it, any of it is a waste. If I say I don't want it am I going to look like a pig? Maybe I should get it and learn to like it. Maybe all I need to do is try it. It would be better for me than regular mayonnaise. But that light mayonnaise would be better for me too and that stuff is vile. This stuff could be vile. Should I try it? Maybe I'll try it."

What Darling Mollie heard:

"Uhhhhh....no."

Mollie howled laughing and she said "I knew you'd give me an honest answer! Someone at work was asking me if I had someone in my life that I could be absolutely up-front with and who would always give me the absolute truth back and I told her it was you. You won't even mislead me about mayonnaise!".

And that's true. If you've got a friend who won't even bullshit you about something relatively unimportant (I say "relatively" because while mayonnaise is important to me it's not quite in the same catagory as "Should I marry this guy?"), you can trust them to tell you the truth when it comes to something crucial. Things like "Should I get the Chanel bag or the Louis Vuitton?".

...and then it's gone.

I think anyone who knows me, even from here, knows that I tend to stick to a routine. It simply works out better since I'm responsible for B's care. If I do certain things every day then what really needs to be done gets done.

For the last eight-and-a-half years one of my daily routines has been to participate on an Internet bulletin board. It's through the website for the author, Rebecca Wells, and it's called Gumbo Ya-Ya, or just Gumbo for short. I joined it just over two weeks after B and I were married and with the exception of when I was traveling or when I was hospitalized I was there virtually every single day.

When I joined I never intended to stay around for this long. I figured that once the novelty wore off I'd move along to the next thing to catch my interest. I never imagined that I would find there some of the most wonderful friends I've ever had.

Back when I joined it was a fairly small board. It moved rather slowly and a day's worth of new threads could be contained on one page. New members joined with regularity and I loved that people from all over the US joined as well as people from Canada, England, Australia, New Zealand and one lone American lady living in Germany. Pretty soon I went from being a newbie to a long-timer and over the years our ranks grew, especially after the premiere of film The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood.

The Gumbo board, over the years, became a big part of my social structure. I live a life that can be isolating - I have to stay home most of the time and I live in a foreign country - so socializing with the other members of the board became important to me. They became my social connection and people I could share my life with. It didn't matter that most of them lived nearly halfway around the world - they're my friends. They know me and I know them. I don't feel lonesome knowing that my Gumbo friends are out there. Most are women but we have a few fellas there that put up with us and add something special to our ranks.

I wish I could describe to y'all how strong and true the friendships that are made on Gumbo really are. I know they've been there for me when I needed them. When I was sick and needed surgery, they never forgot me and knowing they were praying for me eased my heart. When I needed advice they were glad to tell me what I needed to know. And three times when I came to America to visit, my friends from Gumbo traveled hundreds, in some cases thousands, of miles to see me because it was important for them to give me a real hug after years of cyber ones.

Over the years real life happened on Gumbo. Some of us married, some divorced. Babies were born and family died. We graduated from high school and college and our kids did the same. We moved, we got fired from jobs and we got new ones. We got sick, we got well, and many times our spirits healed as well as our bodies. We talked about what we loved, what we hated, what we were afraid of and what we couldn't wait to do. We talked about movies, books, music, hot-looking actors, what's for dinner, what's a good diet, our hobbies, our favorite pie, politics, and current events. We supported one another when one was feeling lost and we prayed when we needed some guidance. We laughed at the goofy pranks we'd play and if some troll would show up and harass us and tell us to get a life we'd answer that we did have a life. This was life. Everything that could be found in a life was right there on Gumbo.

Unfortunately living also means eventually dying and it happened on Gumbo too. We lost some members over the years - some through illness, some through accident - and our hearts broke every time. We'd feel the loss to our core and we'd do our best to keep the memories of those we lost alive.

Gumbo is dying as well. We were told by Harper Collins publishing that it would no longer be included on Rebecca's website as of April 21, 2008 and now there are a lot of heartbroken women and men. Now everything is changing. No longer will my comfortable Gumbo home will be there. The place where everyone knew me and I could count on these people to be a part of my world. It's going to be gone.

We're trying to set up other bulletin boards so we don't lose touch with one another but it's not going to be the same. The same structure, the same dynamics, the same niches we had will be gone. It's like high school. You spend years and years with the same people and then suddenly it's graduation day. You promise to keep in touch but you know that you won't in every single case. You'll see some again at your new stop in life but there are others you'll never see again and you'll regret not having spent more time with them.

I won't have trouble keeping in touch with those who I'm already close with and I'll admit that there are some I won't miss seeing but what makes me sad is the loss of what was possible. I'm losing the possibility to get closer to some and I'm losing the possibility of meeting new folks. Folks that I could grow to love as much as those I already do. There will be stories left unfinished for me. How's her pregnancy going to go? Is she going to find a new job? And her - will she find love again? Is she going to graduate from college and start her dream career? Will her illness be cured? I want to know the next chapter of the story but now it seems that it won't be written - or what does get written will always somehow be incomplete.

I wish somehow someone would find the magic wand that could be waved to stop all this. We just want to go on with the Gumbo life we've created. And it hurts to think that corporate decisions made by those who don't know about us is going to end a life that was real and vibrant and good.

She Knew Me When

Waking up at 6:30am on a Sunday is not something I'd normally do but when given the opportunity to meet up with an old and dear friend, it wasn't a hardship at all.

I caught the train shortly after 9am and arrived in Berlin at around 10:45. I had been a little nervous that I wouldn't be able to find Elaine on the rail station platform. After all, I hadn't seen here in over 25 years - would I still have the memory of her face in my mind enough to recognize her? Would she recognize me? But those nervous moments were wasted because as soon as the crowd thinned enough where I could see who was leaving and who was staying I saw her. And from a distance Elaine recognized me right away. We hugged each other and both of us marveled over how long our hair is. Elaine always had fairly short hair and my hair was seldom ever past my shoulders and now both of us have long hair. Both of us figured that we didn't do it while we were young so we may as well now. And the other thing that struck me at that moment was how Elaine's voice sounded exactly the same. Not changed in the least. To me she sounds the same as she did when we were in high school together.

With Elaine was her niece and and a friend of Elaine's who lives in Berlin who had her boyfriend with her as well. We hopped onto a local commuter train and rode down to where Berlin's Karneval parade was to be held. Berlin isn't a typical Karneval city like Cologne or Düsseldorf but it's catching on and the parade drew a big crowd. Any worry we might have had about the weather was also worthless because it was a sunny, clear day. A bit breezy and cold but for early February it was very good.

Since it was right there we walked over to the Gedächneskirche, a famous Berlin landmark, so Elaine could see it and get some pictures.



And afterwards since the parade hadn't yet started we ducked into a nearby restaurant for some warmth and a quieter atmosphere for conversation and lunch.

What do you talk about when you haven't seen someone in over 25 years? The answer: everything. The conversation jumped from childhood and school memories to mutual friends to what we're doing now to family to current events and back again. She bought up people I hadn't thought about since Jimmy Carter was president and it was fun to hear about what mutual acquaintances are currently doing.

The parade started and we headed outside to see it.





It was fun and loud. Crazy loud. And still the conversation kept going. We'd watch the parade and shout in each other's ears and tried as best we could to stay warm in the biting wind. Finally after about 90 minutes we gave up and went back to Berlin's main train station.

We still had plenty of time before I had to head back for home so we found a nice pub were we got seated and drank beer and had some more to eat. And never did the conversation lag. Not even after we left the pub and walked around the station some before heading up to the platform for me to catch the train for home.

We had over 6 hours together and it wasn't nearly enough. Not even close. There are so many things we never got around to discussing. People and memories and events - we needed another 6 to get to them all. No. We could have used another 60 hours and I'm still not sure we could have covered everything.

Elaine was a big part of my life when I was growing up and I'm glad we've been able to reconnect. Here we are. It's not the best picture of me but nevertheless, it's precious.


And you know what? I feel a bit younger today.

Genuine is Always Best

Darling Mollie's Christmas present to me arrived the other morning.

By the way, I believe this past week should be referred to as the Darling Mollie Marathon.

Anyway, it arrived and when I told her that it did she told me that I could open it. Very unusual for Mollie as she's a strict adherer to the "Christmas morning only" school of gift unwrapping. She also asked me to call her as I unwrapped it so she could be fully in the moment with me.

I could see that the German customs agents had already opened the box as I cut the tape used to reseal it. First was luggage tag that had on one side "I'm pretty sure this isn't your bag.", which is exactly what Mollie's luggage would say if it could talk. I then saw a tiny envelope with my name on it.

"Mollie, did you close this envelope and then slit it back open again?"

"No."

"Well evidently Hans-Dieter in customs at the Frankfurt airport did. And I know why. They're searching for the plastic vagina."

Let us pause here to consider the plastic vagina. A mutual buddy began a discussion of why in a gay oriented sex shop would there be plastic vaginas for sale. Gay men wouldn't want one (and he would know this) and lesbian women wouldn't need it. The discussion went on - too long to recount here - but at one point the buddy said he'd considered sending it to me for a giggle. Mollie got a laugh out of the conversation and in the next two packages she sent me there was a reference in the notes enclosed that she was not including a plastic vagina in the shipment.

"I told you they are on the lookout for you to send me a plastic vagina! Or they're simply into plastic vagina talk!"

Nope, no girly parts, real or plastic, was in the box. The beribboned, clever box with the pull tab and the tissue paper that was practically like origami and the sweet little cloth dust cover inside. Instead, there was this:



Yikes! I was not expecting that. I was not expecting a Louis Vuitton key and change holder. I would have sooner expected a plastic vagina than that!

I love it when friends really know you and know what you'd love to have. You see, I have this love/hate thing with purses. I love purses. I love cute purses and classic purses. Beaded bags and leather messenger bags. I love clutches and backpacks and doctor's bags. I just hate to carry them. In my world I like to buy great purses, pack them all neat and tidy (because while I may be a slob in my home at times, my wallets and purses are always ultra organized) and then let them sit where I can admire their wonderfulness. I will carry a handbag but if I can avoid it, I will and most of the time if I'm not driving then I just want to carry my keys and a bit of money with me. I got started with that habit when I was in college. Once, while in a bar, some guy threw up on a brand new Coach bag of mine and afterwards I would do my best to only carry some money and my ID and keys and a lipstick on me. I've had other key and change holders in my time but this will be my last one. I dare say this one will likely last me forever.

And holding true to my tradition, I have named my adorable little key and change holder Franck. Double points to you if you know from where I took his name. The name of my iPod should be a clue.

Halfway Yarn Talk

No knitting projects photos to show but the theme today is still about knitting so it's just semi-yarn today.

I'm still working on the Pink Ribbon Socks that I donated for Boob-Ha-Ha. I've ripped it back for the third time now because I wasn't pleased with how some of the cables looked on my second try. I'm honestly trying to make this sock, if not the best sock I've ever knit, at least one of the best socks. While I'm used to knitting for friends, this is a bit different. This time it's not a sock going to a friend and even more to the point, it's a pair of socks someone has paid for. I realize that technically the person who's getting the socks really is making a donation to the Susan G. Komen Foundation and the socks are more or less the impetus to donate but still, if someone is going to make a generous donation based upon them receiving in return something they wish to have, I want what they receive to be really nice, hence me ripping this yarn threadbare. No worries - I happen to have a pantload of this same yarn. So as of right now I don't have any new knitting to show you except half a cuff. When I have to rip something back, I generally have to rip it all the way back to the absolutely beginning.

You know I'm looking forward to my trip to Mississippi in October and one of the big reasons I'm looking so forward to it is that I'm having a girls weekend with some friends of mine while I'm there. I am so loved by these women that they're coming to Mississippi from all around the US to see me for forty-eight hours. We shop and eat and talk and laugh and shop some more and one of the things I'm looking forward to doing is knitting with them. Not all of them knit but what's great about knitting is that when you're just sitting around and grooving on the great vibe and talking from the heart you can still knit. Poppy will be there and she knits and seeing her with needles in hand working on a project is something I really want to see in person. I'm looking forward to going to yarn shops with them and picking out new sock yarn - the non-knitters picking out what they want me to turn into socks for them. I hope I'm able to show Poppy and Michele how to knit socks with two circular needles or make short row heels if they haven't already learned by then because some of what's so magic about knitting is teaching it to others. I have a bond with all the ladies who will be there and the extra bond I have with the knitters is an added joy.

Do you have something in common with your close friends that creates an even deeper bond? Something you share each time you get together? Tell me what it is because I can't help but be fascinated by people who have a passion for something and they share that passion with people they're close with.

The Fixer

I'm one of those fixer types. I see something wrong with a friend or family member and I want to fix it for them. It's not because I think I have all the answers - it's because I can't bear to see people out of sorts or in needs or standing on the tracks as a freight train bears down on them. I want to move them out of harms way or take on for myself what they can't bear or whatever it is I have to do to set their life back into balance again. I have a hard time sometimes recognizing the difference between lending a hand and really helping and simply taking on something for someone and it not being able to make any real difference.

Kirsten is a good friend of mine and B's. She's B's oldest friend. She was his girlfriend from the time he was 16 years old until he was 19 and they've remained close over the years. When I first moved to Germany she reached out to me immediately and did all she could to make me feel welcome. Kirsten was one of the witnesses at our wedding and to B and me she's like a sister. And now I'm scared we're going to lose her.

Kirsten has always been a driven sort of person. She's a great mom - her daughter is 20 and is a wonderful young woman - and she's always worked hard at her job. Even when they've cut back her work hours and increased her work load, she's worked her heart out to do her job right. She remarried 7 years ago and her husband (and I'll admit it right now, I'm not really crazy about him) works in another city that's about 70 miles away and is only home on weekends. They built a house about 6 years ago and like with all houses, it's a lot of work to maintain. Kirsten would never think of letting her house look like crap so she would spend her time away from work keeping it clean and the garden looking good. She so seldom has an idle moment and while some would just let something slide, Kirsten won't.

About two years ago things started getting harder for her. She's always had a delicate stomach and it's always been easy for her to lose her appetite. Pressures at work got worse and she was doing all she could to keep up with what was expected of her and not put one toe out of line lest she lose her job and that would mean eventually losing her house. Keeping up with her house was always a challenge and her husband never seems to be very interested in pitching in with yard work. Kirsten was always busy and we wouldn't see her very often. We would speak on the phone but that was the best we could do to keep up with one another.

In February Kirsten had some time off from work and she came to visit us and it was a shock. She was so thin and drawn looking and while I tried to pass it off and act like she didn't look bad, B knew something was really wrong. Kirsten told us how busy she was and how she wasn't eating well and how exhausted she was all the time. We didn't speak to her again for a while - Kirsten would work all day and then when she'd get home she go straight to bed so it was hard catching her when she could talk - but then she called for B's birthday last month. Instead of the bright, talkative Kirsten we knew, we were talking to someone who sounded as though every word spoken was an effort and who had to be prodded into talking. Normally when talking to Kirsten one can't get in a word edgewise but this time she was the opposite. And then I got scared when she told us that since the last time we'd talked to her she'd lost another 12 kilos and her clothes - what would be a size 4 in the US - hang on her. Every time she eats she gets violently ill and she is down to eating only a bit every couple days. It's not that she doesn't want to eat - she's afraid to eat because it makes her sick and hurts.

Kirsten's on sick leave from work now and goes every weekday morning to a clinic here in the city to receive psychological treatment because there's nothing physically wrong with her to keep her from eating. She's depressed and has anxiety over work and her home and I can't help but think it's killing her. Kirsten is on medications to help with this and has her daily therapy sessions but any progress is very slow to come. We spoke with her today and she could hardly talk but she did say that for the first time today she spoke in group therapy - spoke for an hour - and it felt good to her. But she's sad and it broke my heart to hear her crying on the phone. Kirsten isn't a crier. You could hammer her with a shovel and she wouldn't cry but she cried today.

We tell her every time we speak to her that she means the world to us - that she's like family to us - and that we'll do whatever we can for her. We tell her not to worry that the grass has gone brown and that she hasn't planted any flowers and not to sweat what the neighbors might think. We tell her that she's more important than any house or job and that she's got to care for herself first. We tell her that she can call us any time she needs to talk and that she's never a bother and that we don't care what time it is. We tell her that if she needs me to come over there for anything to just call us and I'll get my MIL over here and I'll come to Kirsten. We tell her not to give up and to let the therapy and medications work and that it can take a long time but she can get the relief she needs.

None of it feels like enough. The fixer in me wants to take all this pain and fear away from her. The fixer in me wants to cut through the morass of depression and make her understand that nothing matters but her. And I know I'm not going to be able to fix this for her. It scares me to have to realize that I can't fix this for her no matter how much I want to do it. I know I can't just talk someone out of depression and then there's that little bit of very recognizable Kirsten that depression hasn't snuffed out - the prideful Kirsten that doesn't like to ask for help or favors anyway.

I get so worried that her therapy and medications aren't going to work fast enough. I get worried that Kirsten will become discouraged and give up. I get worried that she'll starve herself - that her body will shut down bit by bit until it's too late to bring it back. I want to scream that I have to watch this and know I can't just take it way from her not matter how much I want to. Isn't that the most sinister part of depression? Of any illness really? Having to watch it slowly chip away at someone you care about while you hope they can recover before it's too late.

I can keep telling Kirsten that we're there for her. I can keep encouraging her to not give up. I can try to encourage her to learn to change things in her life so that she can manage her depression but I can't fix it for her. I can lend a hand but I can't do her recovery for her.

I'm going to Kirsten's house on Sunday for about an hour for her birthday. I want to be able to look in her eyes and tell her as plain as I can that we're not giving up on her and she can't give up on herself either. I hope I reach that bit of Kirsten that's deep down inside that can recognize that we love her and won't abandon her. Because if we lose Kirsten I'll never be able to fix that.

Only Hope

I'd like to thank y'all for the cheering up y'all gave me yesterday. It's hard to feel alone and unloved when others around the world are so eager to pop in with happy thoughts and comforting words.

And as bad as my week has been it was nothing. It was a whole lot of feeling tired and irritated and annoyed and today it's gone. All of my self-pity has gone out of the window because I've been reminded of how lovely life really can be if you just let it be and tonight I'm remembering someone who helped teach me that lesson.

My sweet friend Paula has passed. A good woman who was the embodiment of strength, love and loyalty is gone. A woman who insisted that we only be hopeful, never negative.

Poppy is the one who called me and broke the news to me. I know she didn't want to do it but that's what friends do for each other - they do what they can to soften what they know will be a blow to you. It was hard news to give and hard news to take and both of us loved Paula and knew what she'd been enduring for months now.

Poppy and I talked for a while about how hard it is to lose someone you care about, especially when it's someone who had so much to give to others and someone who had worked so hard to survive. It's hard to know that there's a man who's lost his loving wife and two kids who have lost their beloved mother. And it's hard for those of us who counted Paula as one of our friends.

After a while Poppy and I started talking about life in general and as is true to form with us it evolved to us telling one another hilarious stories. Stories we already know and new ones as well and we laughed and laughed. Silly, wheezy laughs. Poppy and I both can be incredible chatterboxes and when talking we tend to do it fast and furious, stepping over each other and not even noticing because we listen as fast as we talk. God, it felt good to laugh. We both have had lousy weeks and we needed the levity.

After many minutes passed Poppy mentioned that it seemed a bit weird to call to deliver bad news and end up laughing and running out mouths like sewing machines but that it was still the right thing to do. If those who didn't know us heard us they might think it was bad form. We might even think it was bad form. But Paula was all about enjoying life. Paula was all about loving your friends and she was all about having a good time with them and laughing. I know Paula was with us both and she was laughing along. I know that like I know my own name.

Paula lost her battle with cancer and yet it sounds so wrong to say that. I hate to think that the last thing that Paula did was lose at anything. Maybe her body lost the battle but Paula was more than her body. She certainly was more than the cancer that took her life. Paula was warm and loving and so filled with hope and optimism. When the doctors would tell her that her body was failing she'd say to us "Oh what do they know? I don't feel like I'm dying. Shouldn't I feel like I'm dying if I were?". She'd do what ever she felt she needed to do to keep going. To feel better even if it wouldn't save her. She fought on and every day she kept up hope. Even when she enlisted the help of hospice she didn't do it because she felt defeated. She did it so she could keep control for as long as possible. Paula did it because she wanted to be the one who would call the shots - not cancer.

Perhaps you'll remember that I knitted a pair of socks for Paula a couple months ago. I'd emailed her and asked her if she'd like me to knit her a pair and she was so tickled that I wanted to do it. It seems that she'd always wanted a pair of my socks and was too shy to ask. I knit her a pair of cotton/wool blend socks that were so soft and pretty and had striped in it that reminded me of the color of hydrangeas. I knit them extra fine and when I tallied up how many stitches I'd made the number was over 35,000 stitches. When I sent the socks to her I told her that every single stitch contained hope and prayers and love. I thought of her every minute I knit those socks. I didn't give a damn if she ever wore them - I wanted her to have them as a reminder of how loved she really was and always would be.

About a week after I mailed her the socks she told me she received them and asked her son to help her put them on. She told me how they fit so beautifully and how pretty she thought they were and how they soothed her sore feet. It was the most lovely compliment I think I've ever received and it meant the world to me. To give Paula back an ounce of the happiness and love she's shown me was so important to me.

Paula was strong. She lived her life with grace and dignity. She loved her husband and children unendingly. She was hopeful and determined and loving. She was brave and strong and unselfish. She was taught me what it means to hope, what it means to keep the negative things at bay and how to take charge of one's life. Paula never wanted people to pity her or treat her differently because she had cancer. She was straightforward and amazingly forthright with her thoughts and intentions and didn't suffer fools kindly. Paula was joy and love and I will never forget the incredible example she set.

Paula told me not too long ago that when she felt stronger she wanted to clear out an area on her property and make a park. There was a big tree out there for shade and it was peaceful and pretty there and I told her that if she finished that park I'd love to come see it and we'd have a party. Paula never got the chance to take her beloved John Deere tractor out to finish clearing the land and make her park and that makes me sad. And yet I know that Paula has returned to whom has created us all and when I get where she is that park will be there. And that's where we'll sit with others that we both know and love and we'll feel whole.

The Single Twin

I try to be a woman of my word. When I say I'll do something, I do my best to do it. Except answer email. That takes about five promises from me to get me to do it.

I had every intention of finishing my latest sock creation today so I could show you a picture of it. I'd promised to keep knitting talk to Tuesdays. I'd promised to post a photo. The goals were set and all was on track until 1:30 this afternoon - my pre-determined knitting time - when the doorbell rang.

I normally despise unannounced visitors but this turned out to be a nice treat. My first German tutor - an American lady married to a German man and now living near Erfurt - happened to be in Magdeburg visiting her husband's family for the Easter holiday and since they were in my neighborhood shopping they decided to drop by.

Heather and I had lost touch since I'd moved to this apartment. I meant to send her our new address but when I went to send her a card I couldn't find her address. I kept hoping that I'd run into it sometime but as the months went by I didn't have any luck. Believe me, I looked for it. Heather finally figured out that I'd moved when the last card she sent me was returned to her and so when she and her husband were here at a post office they grabbed a phone book and found our new address. As luck would have it they were at the post office that's just a few blocks away from me so they took the chance that I'd be home and dropped by for a brief visit. As is par for the course my apartment wasn't in shape for visitors but we were so happy to connect with one another again it didn't matter. We had to cram in a lot of talk in a short amount of time so my knitting was put aside for the time being.

By the time Heather and her husband left my knitting time allotment was gone and I had to plunge into my other Tuesday duties and errands. But as I said, I try to be a woman of my word. I was determined to have a finished sock to show you today so I've spent the last couple hours furiously finishing the toe and grafting it closed. All to show you this:



Now that's a bad ass sock. Look at that heel! That's the most perfect flap heel I've ever made. And the toe? Does that toe not kick some ass or what? When I'd started the sock I had some concerns that the colorway wouldn't be suitable for the Jaywalker socks pattern but just look at it! That colorway and that pattern could not compliment one another any better. I am simply in awe of my knitting genius. Or perhaps it's just knitting luck. In either case, that's one perfecto sock.

And unfortunately it seems destined to remain so. I mentioned last week that I can't find the other skein of yarn to make this sock's mate so perhaps this poor sock is destined to remain single. A solitary example of knitting joy when everything came together just right. Well, almost everything. There's a place on the sole where a couple stitches are wonky but it lends a bit of character to an otherwise gorgeous sock.

But this single sock shall not go unwanted and unloved. Ginnie gave me the yarn that produced it - Regia yarn that always knits up so lovely - and so this sock is going to Ginnie as a keepsake. She will love this sock as if it were a part of a pair even though it may be destined to remain unworn forever. Unworn but never unloved. If there's anyone who can appreciate a single sock, it's Ginnie. Ginnie finds joy and beauty in everything.

The other skein of yarn isn't lost forever. It can't be. I know I haven't thrown it out. That's my problem. I am terrible at throwing things out and things, needed or not, tend to get tucked away in whatever space I can find and therefore become very difficult to locate later on when they're needed.

When I find that other skein I'm going to knit it up to be just as perfect as today's creation, minus the wonky stitches on the sole, and I'll send it on to Ginnie as well and at last it'll be united with its earlier created twin. I'm gonna want to see a picture of them both on Ginnie's feet when that day comes.

What do you want to bet the misplaced skein of yarn is holed up somewhere with Heather's address?

Love in an Envelope

I love mail. Not so much email though. Well, I do like email but I'm really bad at answering email in a timely manner. Still at the risk of never getting email ever again ("I'll fix her! Last time I write that wench an email if she can't appreciate it!") I have to say that for all it's convenience and immediacy, it still doesn't give the same charge one gets when one opens their mailbox and finds mail in there that's not a bill, advertisement or credit card offer. My mailbox has been a bit barren lately - in the past ten days the only thing I've gotten was my debit card statement, a catalog and an offer for a loan - but today made up for that.

First was a postcard from our family doctor. She was in the US for fifteen days - skiing in Utah and touring around Las Vegas and San Francisco and she sent us a postcard from Las Vegas. She always sends us postcards. Thailand, China, Iceland, South Africa, USA - if she goes there, she sends a card. Now how many of you can say your doctor sends you a postcard when he/she's on vacation?

Then there was a small package from my dear friend, pkb. I've been expecting this package for months now. She originally send it to me last October but she made an error in my address and it was sent back to her. Caused quite a panic between us when the package was missing for weeks on end because what was in it can't easily be replaced. She had gone to see Mitch Albom last fall at a book signing for his book, For One More Day, and pkb had him sign a copy for me and sent it to me. You can perhaps see why having such a thing missing would upset us both. Originally it was to be a big surprise for me but pkb is a lot like me in that when we find something really wonderful and perfect for someone and we get it for them as a gift it's nearly impossible to keep it a secret or not give it to them immediately. I was very excited to get this book because the topics of Mitch Albom's books are things that are very meaningful for both pkb and me. It's one of the bonds pkb and I share.

pkb had told me that when she resent the book that she simply shoved the original envelope into a larger envelope because something very special was on the original envelope - a surprise for B. I knew what it was and I couldn't wait for him to see it. I tore open the outer envelope at the tear strip and carefully removed the inner one and showed B his surprise - a smooch for him from pkb. A great big lipstick print right on the back on the envelope - and in a gorgeous shade of lipstick, may I add. Next to it she'd drawn a heart and wrote "For B". He was over the moon. I can't even describe what a big smile he had on his face when he saw it.

I should pause to explain that all of my friends adore B. Well, honestly I don't know anyone who has met B and doesn't adore him. As my sister once said "He is the most delightful person I've ever met.". It's only natural that pkb would send him a lipstick smooch.

I was eager to get the second envelope open so I could see the book and see how it was autographed to me. I know that signed books aren't exactly uncommon and I have a couple other books autographed by their authors but I get such a charge out of seeing my name and the author's signature.

"Rats. The tear strip on this envelope goes right through the lip print."

"Don't tear that smooch! That smooch is mine!"

"I know but the tear strip goes right through it. It's going to tear it in half when I open the envelope."

"Then leave it closed."

"Get out of here! My book is in there! Do you know what pkb had to do to get that book autographed and sent to me?"

"The smooch is more important. Do not ruin it. It's mine."

"Oh for Pete's sake. Well I can't tear the end, it's all taped shut."

"Do not tear that smooch."

"Alright. Here's the scissors. I'll just dig it in here by the tape and snip through the end and open it that way. Dang. These little scissors I use for my knitting don't have very long blades and it's hard to work in here. Okay. Here we go. Look, I'm cutting it open and saving your precious smooch. Look at you getting all worked up over a lip print! You are so silly! It's just a... Ow! Owwwww!! Mother scratcher, that hurts! I just cut between my fingers with the scissors! Oh you Martha Focker! That fucking huuuurrrts!!!".

"Watch the smooch! Don't bleed on it!"

"It's not bleeding that much! It just hurts! Damn, that hurts like a bitch on fire!"

"You okay?"

"Yeah, it's hardly bleeding but I cut right into that soft space between my fingers and it hurts like holy hell!"

"I'm sorry sweetie."

"It's okay. The pain's fading now."

"Better wash it though. And when you get done, can you do me a favor?"

"Sure. What?"

"Cut my smooch out? I want to save it."

Who can say no to someone so charming and delightful?

Thank you, pkb. You made us both very happy. We love you.

For Paula

Today was one of those really perfect January days. Cold, but the skies were clear and dry and the sun was bright and hanging low in the horizon. As I went for a walk this morning and enjoyed the crisp air I thought of my friend, Paula. She's been on my mind almost constantly these days.

I thought about what Paula and I would do on a day like today if she were here in Germany to visit me. I'd take her down by the river to walk along its banks, the sun shining off the water. Maybe we'd feed the ducks that gather by the shoreline looking for stale bread handouts. We'd walk along with our arms linked, helping each other stay warm. After a while we'd duck into a cafe to warm our fingers and faces over steaming cups and we'd laugh and talk without a break. Maybe we'd take the streetcar down to Hasselbach Platz to see the restored Baroque buildings. We'd have to go back to the market square and have lunch at my favorite restaurant and we wouldn't be able to wait until our currywurst and fries are served.

I'd like to take Paula down to the cathedral. In January it's always cold inside but it's quiet and being there gives a sense of strength and serenity. I'd tell Paula the story of how Magdeburg was sacked in 1631 and how only a small amount of its citizens remained to rebuild the city. It's a story about hope and faith and survival.

I wish that someday Paula really could visit me here. I'd do anything she wished, take her anyplace she'd want to go. Paula's also a story about hope and faith and survival. She's working hard at survival and her commitment to it never fails to amaze me. Paula's quite possibly the bravest person I know. Her sense of dignity and her straightforward approach to things encourage me. Whenever I get lazy, I think of Paula and how hard she works to get better. When I get intimidated, I think of Paula and how she faces her challenges head on. Whenever I feel like quitting and thinking that the effort isn't worth it, I think of how Paula keeps going even when the road ahead is difficult. I love her no-nonsense approach to people and how she doesn't want pity but wants lots of positive thoughts coming her way because she knows the power they hold.

I believe in that power too. I believe in it so much that I wish that every person who took the time to read here about Paula would take a moment to send some good thoughts her way. Prayers, positive thoughts, light and brightness, strength - every good thing that has the power to overcome fear and darkness and pain. I want for Paula every good thing in the world so that the world gets to keep a good person like her. A devoted wife. A loving mother. A loyal friend.

And on the day when Paula really does visit me whether it's on a perfect January day or a summery day in July or a twinkling night at the Christmas market, we'll share it with y'all too.