WHAT CAN'T YOU LIVE WITHOUT?

Tonight was Enrichment. Our theme was, What Can't You Live Without? The only restriction was you couldn't say your family or the scriptures. Those were a given. We had to bring what we couldn't live without in a paper bag so no one could see. We were then given 30 seconds to tell about it. It was a fun evening. The variety of what people can't live without was amazing. Our new Enrichment Leader did a fantastic job of organizing and making sure everything got done. Our food committee, ditto and everyone who helped make this evening a success, how I love them all.

What can't you live without?

MERRY CHRISTMAS, YOU WEIRDO

On Saturday, Gilmore Girl and I were shopping in two consignment shops. Home Again and Home Again 2, in Salt Lake City.

Home Again is on 1019 East 2100 South. Home Again 2 is found at 7490 Holden Street--on the way to Gardner Village. They have some very cute things in both stores. If you live in the area you should put them on your "to check out" list.


In Home Again Gilmore Girl found these delightful things. "I bought those for you for Christmas," she said.


I'm beyond thrilled.

SO, HOW DO I DO IT ALL?

Saturday I was in Salt Lake (not the actual lake, you know) with my daughter, Gilmore Girl, and I saw this neat-o set of steps. Immediately I had almost a complete story pop into my head. How do I finish the manuscript I'm working on, go back to the two that are half finished and write this new one?

And dust.

And cook.

And read blogs.

And do laundry.

And do my church job.

And, and, and....

PS Gilmore girl, send me the photo of the neat-o stairs and the photo of my my Christmas presents so I can share their furry beauty with the world.

CHECK OUT THE RHUBARB FRUIT LEATHER

If you want to make fruit leather but a quart or two of berries are just too expensive, consider this: rhubarb leather. The rhubarb is free, the sugar isn't expensive and neither is Kool Aid®.

Click here to get the recipe.

THINGS I DO WHILE WAITING FOR MY COMPUTER TO GET OVER ITS TANTRUMS

I pluck various hair in various spots on my face. They are black. They have no right to grow there. They must go. “I refuse to think of them as chin hairs. I think of them as stray eyebrows." (Janette Barber)

I sigh.

I paint my nails.

I press Alt-Tab.

Because I pressed Alt-Tab, in a sloppy angry way, I have to repaint my nails.

I drum my fingers on the keys.

I floss my teeth.

I get up and clean the cat box, thinking that by the time I get back the computer will be over its temper tantrum. Usually it is still holding its breath.

Because I cleaned the cat box with wet nails, I repaint.

I watch a rerun of "House."

After House has saved the person from leprosy or some other interesting disease I come back, and if the computer is functioning I have forgotten the story--email--blog and then I sigh and complain.

And then I go to bed. It is 1:00 AM. Or maybe 2:00.

TWINS

Sometime today, at the BYU Writer's for Young Readers Conference, these words came to me:

"She is as thin as dental floss."

Where that came from, I don't know. But, when you are around creative people odd things happen. You start to look at things in a different way. I love this conference. I love Claudia Mills. I love my class mates--boy, can they write. I will be sad when this conference is over for another year.

I had a two minute window of unfrantic busyness today, I was probably waiting for a lecture to begin so this is what I wrote:


She was thin, dental floss thin. Some of her internal organs were missing. At night she is hooked up to machines that softly beep in the darkness as they process the food that has been waiting in her patient stomach. In the morning she stretches, unhooks from the friendly beepers and runs her hands down her flat stomach. She smiles.

Her twin has all her organs and her sisters too. Two livers. Four kidneys. 56 feet of intestines. The intestines are usually full as her body squeezes every bit of nutrition from every mouthful of food. If the planet depended on her "fertilizer" to jump-start the world's vegetables we would all be dead within months.

Twins. So alike and yet so different. One has a great abundance of all the things that make the human body run properly and yet it's her sister who wears a size zero. The organ-deprived sister shops three days a week and the other four she accepts dates from lovely men.

The organ-rich sister? She writes.

I SHOULDN'T BE BLOGGING

I shouldn't be blogging. I'm dead on my feet. I still have manuscripts to read before my Writer's for Young Reader's class tomorrow. Claudia Mills is my teacher and she's fabulous. If you ever "do" Writer's for Young Readers and Claudia is teaching you should be in her class. She is also nice. How can anyone be so nice? Nice and talent sometimes don't go together but she makes it work. And she's a philosophy professor at University of Colorado. So she's smart, talented, nice and funny. She got several people's talent and they are left with only their bodily functions, functioning. Probably.

I follow 42 blogs plus there are several more I check daily that don't have the "follower" feature, but I only read three tonight. I read my daughter's , because she's my daughter and she blogged about me, my daughter-in-laws, because I love her like a daughter and then there is Shan, who's title pulled me right in: The Three Pound Poop. I had to read that one. I looked at all the others with longing but had to save them for tomorrow.

Lord Bumhampton had a friend once who had a similar problem as Shan's little friend. He left an offering in the downstairs toilet. It wouldn't flush. That is the honest truth. It was impressive! It wouldn't flush for many times. He was a good sport about it and later told me, "All my family have the same problem but we solved it. We now take fiber!"

So, if you have a poopage problem, take a little fiber. And if you don't you should probably write something. Or blog. Or be a philosophy professor. Or at least be nice.

And when this week is over I have another Mrs. Bird story to tell you. Stay tuned.

PS I probably shouldn't say the word, "poop" on a blog should I? When I typed it into the "labels" I see I've talked about it before. I really should repent. Probably.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME

How many candles? "Set the da** thing on fire!" (Movie, Murphy's Romance)

A friend sent me to this web site. You type in your birth date and it gives you a bunch of useless, but interesting, information.

For instance, in Spanish my name means "pretty," but in German it means, "snake!"

Other useless facts:

My number is 11. The number 11 is associated with idealistic concepts and rather spiritual issues. Accordingly, it is a number with potentials that are somewhat more difficult to live up to. (That's right. I want to be idealistic but the spirit of nonsense keeps getting in the way.) You have the capacity to be inspirational, and the ability to lead merely by your own example. (Right again, many a unsuspecting follower has found themselves someplace they didn't know they were going.)

The positive aspect of the number 11 expression is an always idealistic attitude. Your thinking is long term, (darn right) and you are able to grasp the far-reaching effects of actions and plans. (That's right. I'm planning a hostage takeover--everyone will be forced to come with me on a nonsense trip to do nonsensical things. Like checking out all the restaurants that make good chocolate cake. We will have a rating system. And we will eat cake many times. The far reaching effects will be laughter and fun--and probably pounds but let's not think of that right now. Well, the Scottish Dreamer won't gain any--she inhales eclairs by the half dozen and never gains an ounce.)

Who could resist this?

I can boil 7.31 ounces of water with the candles on my cake. With all those candles I can probably heat the whole house. So, if you're cold--it's cold, here in Utah today--come on over, I'll light the candles and warm you right up.

And we'll eat cake.

THE SPEED EATER

If I didn't know better I'd think the Scottish Dreamer and Mrs. Bird were sisters. A few days ago the Scottish Dreamer bought eclairs for dinner and...oh, you just have to go read it yourself. The Scottish Dreamer is a Speed Eater.

I may not be blogging much. The computer is having a identity crisis. It thinks it's a smelly armpit. A real "turn off" if there ever were one. And that's what it does. Turns its self off. Continually.

When it's not turning its self off it thinks it's a husband whose wife had a list of things that need to be done around the house. It ignores commands.

It also thinks it's the smaller side of a side-by-side fridge. It freezes.

So, if I don't check your blogs and comment it's not because I didn't want to. I probably have sweaty armpits and have icicles hanging off my nose while holding a deaf mouse.

It could be worse. This I know but.... But, for a blogger and wanna-be writer, who has a writing convention next week, and doesn't have her chapters edited yet, I wonder how.

REVENGE OF THE ROBINS

Ever since I glued thumbtacks on the lawn swings we have had bird-poopless lawn swings. It has been nice. Until today. On each lawn swing was a random bird dropping. Not where they would have stood on the bar, singing and having a moment. No, in a random place. Here's how I think it happened.

Bird one--The Culprit: Ouch, ouch, ouch.

Bird two: Whaa's the mattah? (He's a New York bird, blown off course by a nasty freak wind. Maybe he's from the Bronx or maybe he's even from Yonkers. I love that name. Yonkers. It just kind of plonks off the tongue. Yonkers.)

The Culprit: My feet hurt. I flew down to my favorite bathroom spot and now my feet hurt and I didn't even have time to....

New Yorker: Ah, ya fool. Ya've been thumtacked.

The Culprit: Thuntacked, what does that mean?

New Yorker: It means "keep off" in human language. They are a naughty species and probably think it's funny to see ya hopping around, holding yer foot up fer inspection..

The Culprit: Well, I'll be. What a mean thing to do.

New Yorker: We'll get revenge. Here's what we'll do.

Then New Yorker proceeds to whisper into The Culprit's ear and soon The Culpret is making a pass over the lawn swings and we hear New Yorker yelling, "Bombs away!" and that is how the lawn swings happen to have bird poop in random places.

Later:

The Culprit: How's that?

New Yorker: Perfect! Tomorrow we'll fly off and get Zelzee's car. Her regulars are gettin' tired and I told them we'd bring in fresh ammo.

I'M THEIR HERO 'CAUSE I'M THE FINDER OF THE KEYS

A couple of weeks ago Lord Bumhampton and his charming wife, Nurse Giggleswitch were down for the week-end. We had a glorious time--photos of the fire pit to come sometime soon. We went to dinner at Heaps and then, after the fire had burned to coals, AND the neighbor's sprinklers came on and reached twenty feet and sprinkled us, right on the lawn swings--remind me not to sleep out there anytime soon--we came in and they watched TV and I computer'd. Phil had already gone to bed.

Lord B. started to look for his keys. Nowhere. They were nowhere. He needed to look outside but the flashlight was dim. I found new batteries for him, I'm helpful like that. He looked through the car windows--the car was locked. The keys were not inside. He looked on the lawn. Nothing. He looked everywhere and finally said, "Mom, I may need to borrow one of your cars and drive home--2 1/2 hours away--and get the extra keys and drive back."

"That would be fine," I said and since he wouldn't leave until morning I didn't worry about it much. Lord B. and Nurse G. continued to look.

I finally took pity on them and went upstairs to help. "I've come to find your keys," I said.

He didn't say it out loud but I could read his eyes. "Fat chance!" Since the word "fat" is a forbidden word, kind of like the Forbidden Palace in China--that's how obnoxious that "fat" word is--I didn't look at him anymore.

"Have you looked in Nurse Giggleswitches' purse?" I said, looking at the ceiling.

"Yes, many times."

"Have you looked in my purse?"

"Why would we do that?"

I walked over to my purse and pulled out his keys.

"Are these yours?" I asked.

I know he wanted to kill me or at least shake me until all the "forbidden word" body parts jiggled mightily, but he restrained because he's a good boy. I raised him that way.

"Why," he said through clenched teeth, "would MY keys be in YOUR purse?"

"Well, because," I said, widening my eyes in a most innocent way, "I guess I saw them on the clerk and thought, what if Phil locks the keys in the car? I better take mine, just in case. So I picked up your keys, thinking they were mine, but, ha ha, it's funny isn't it, they were really yours."

"Mom," he said, "my keys have a total of two keys on them. What do your keys look like?"

I fished them out of my purse. "They look exactly the same, don't they? Well, except for the extra three keys and the automatic car door opener and the Eiffel Tower. I saved the day for you, didn't I? Now you don't have to drive all the way home and all the way back. Aren't you lucky?" I paused so he could contemplate how lucky he was. "And you're welcome," I said.

He didn't even smile. That boy need to cultivate his sense of humor.

And I don't think he said "thank you," either.

WHAT GOES AROUND, COMES AROUND

This is one of the lawn swings that EVERY FREAKING DAY has bird poop on it. A robin, maybe a whole herd/gaggle/pride of robins, sit here every morning, noon and evening and sings so delightfully, so happy and then they relieve themselves. On both of the lawn swings. Bird poop, lots and lots of bird poop.Until today, because last night I put flat head thumb tacks on the bar on top. I hope he didn't hurt himself. (Sarcasm, a lot of sarcasm.)

I took care of him and now, someone took car of me.

My computer turns it's self off umpteen times a day. It wipes out whatever I've been working on.

It wiped out ALL my email since May 16th. I hadn't read today's yet, except for a couple.

I have a novel I am trying to work on. Nope, computer won't let me.

I have emails that need to get sent to the students in the class I'm attending for the Writer's for Young Reader's symposium at BYU. I'm already four days late in sending that and now the computer has wiped out the names and email addresses of all the students.

I fixed that Robin/that flock, fleet, flight of Robins.

I'm getting paid back right where it hurts--in the computer. And oh, it hurts. I'd rather sit on thumbtacks.

Gotta hurry and post this before the computer turns it's sel

WHAT SHALL WE HAVE FOR DINNER? AND CAN WE HAVE A NAP TOO?

Both of us are slack-jawed-yawning-tired. We both need a nap. We were debating about what to have for dinner. How could we have a nap and have dinner too?

"I'll go get something to eat--a Costco chicken or something else, already fixed--and you can have a nap while I'm gone," I said.

"No, I'll go get something to eat and you can have a nap," Phil said.

"Okay," I said.

His little face got all brow-furrowing and he said, "Shoot!"

Ha ha. Dinner and a nap. How nice for me.

MY TWO DADS

Both of my dads were veterans. My birth dad served in the islands. My stepfather—who I never ever considered a “step” anything, he was Daddy to me—served in France. Both men were in jeopardy. Both saw things that made them frightened and weary and sad. Both came home tired but ready to do what it took to make a life for themselves. Mostly that took hard work, which they knew how to do.

My birth dad married Mom and took over the raising of my two sisters, whose dad had died several years earlier. I was born a couple of years later and two years after that he was killed in a small plane crash.

Mom married Daddy a year and three months later. He took over the raising of three girls, but mostly he provided for and loved us—and put up with us—, mom did the raising.

There are only wilting flowers on graves to mark both of my dad's passing. That and the memories two of us girls have—our other sister is gone, too.

I am sad tonight, sad for my losses. But I am happy, too, because I know a bit about my first dad and I know a lot about my second one. Both had integrity. Tonight it will be enough.

I want to have integrity like my two dads—to honor them. This is the best way I know how.

NAKED LADIES AND MRS BIRD

Dear Gilmore Girl,

Calm down. The Naked Lady's got replanted by the fence in the garden, but this is the worst time to move them and they possibly may never bloom again. I still have some to move but they will have to wait. I'm too stiff to dig another blasted hole. And our garden is STILL not planted and it is raining like Noah is the precipitation manager and he thinks everyone should build a boat. It is not a garden, it is a mud hole, waiting to devour anyone who turns a shovel in it's back. Mr. Smith should be our garden manager. We'd be eating tomatoes and zucchini by now.

Dear Everybody Else,

About Mrs. Bird. Every word I write is true. I promise. She is one of a kind. I have more amazing stores to tell. You will come to adore this interesting woman as much as I do. I will post a photo soon. She has forgotten more stories than you'd believe because she is always living another one. If you miss talking to her for a month or so you miss a whole volume of funny stuff.

IT'S NOT FAIR

I worked for an hour this morning, digging up the Naked Ladies. I got less than half of them done. I also sweat like a sprinkler system in "spurt" mode. This afternoon Phil dug the rest up. In five minutes. He was dry as the Mojave.

He is more efficient at everything. Except one thing: my body is more efficient with food. It runs on roughly 285 calories and stores the rest. His body runs on every stinkin' calorie he eats (4,500) and then threatens to digest his stomach if he doesn't put huge quantities of food in it, immediately. So he does. Another 1,500 calories.

All the while, I look on, sucking on a rock. Sweaty. With bulges.

MRS BIRD FORGETS SHE IS WEARING NO PANTS

Mrs. Bird called last night. I told her I needed another story and of course she obliged. I could hear her husband in the background, laughing his head off, saying things like, "Oh, dear, don't tell her that, oh my, hahahahaha."

For those of you not familiar with the anatomy of her house it's like this. The garage is on the bottom level. The laundry room/furnace room/storage room--which she calls "a scary place"--is down there. They have a couple of family rooms on that level, one of which is sometimes used as a bedroom. They have NO bathroom!

She comes in from the garage and almost always has been out way too long for her bladder's comfort. She dashes into the laundry room and pees in a cup. It used to be a mason jar but then she found The Training Table's plastic cups. They are big and flexible and as she says, "conform to any shape you need it to." So, now she uses one of those. There is no sink in the laundry/furnace/storage/scary room and she found out the floor drain does not go into the sewer, it drains into gravel under the foundation so there is no way she is emptying the Training Table cup there. She takes it upstairs, empties it in the toilet and then sanitizes it for her next emergency.

The other day she came home, barely made it to the laundry room, pulled down her pants and, well, you know. Then she took all her clothes off and put all her underwear in the washer along with all the whites that had come down the laundry chute. She looked at her tennis shoes and decided to soak her shoelaces in some bleach but she was out of bleach so she went to the garage to get an extra bottle. Oops, she thought, I'm naked, so she put her T-shirt back on and then went to the garage. She got the bleach, soaked her shoelaces and then dumped the bleach into the Training Table cup.

While she was in the garage she noticed some plants she wants Tom Cruise to plant for her. (His name isn't really Tom Cruise but she can't pronounce his first name so asked him if she could just call him Tom as his last name is Cruise. He, of course, is delighted.) (This is also how her stories go, when she is telling them to you, full of side stories.)

So, she took her training table cup full of it's concoction, thinking she would just dump it on the "hill." (The hill is uninhabited and full of weeds where feral cats mark their spot. She wondered if her concoction would change their minds.)

She gathered her plants in her other hand and went outside to put the plants where she wanted them planted and then and only then did she remember she was practically naked. She looked around, sheepishly, and backed slowly into the garage. She doesn't think anyone saw her, in just a T-shirt (Mrs, Bird is well endowed under her T-shirt so that's another reason she would have been interesting) but if they had they would just shake their head and say, "Crazy Mrs. Bird," in the most lovingly sort of way.

Mrs. Bird, my pant-less, underwear-less, bra-less friend. How I love her willingness to let me share all the bare facts with you.

NATURE, IMITATING HUMANS

This is in honor of the Scottish Dreamer--yesterday's post.

Doesn't this look like this Dandelion seed head has it's arms raised over it's head and is yelling, "Woo Hoo!?"

INTRODUCING A NEW PLAYER--THE SCOTTISH DREAMER

I have a new Scottish friend. She is intelligent, savvy, funny, spiritual, patient, and, let's face it, she's bilingual. (You ever heard any deep-Scottish person speak their version of English?)

She is a dreamer. A real dreamer and she talks during her dreams. Her husband sometimes records her dreams and they are hilarious. I will wait for her to post her latest and then I will give you a quick version.

She and her husband sleep on a waterbed. She is tiny, about 90 pounds with a mop of blond curly hair, not that her hair has anything to do with this post but her weight does. Her husband is not tiny. He could stop a locomotive. (I will call him Clark Kent.) One night she had gone to bed first and was asleep when Clark Kent got in bed. The waterbed did it's "wave thing" and the Scottish Dreamer put her arms straight above her head and yelled, "Woo hoo!" Just as if she had gone over the edge at the top of the roller coaster. Then all was quiet. She didn't even wake up.

I've been thinking about this. I think she expects the best out of life. The fun. The good stuff. If that had happened to me, my hair would have stood straight up--what hair I have left after this week's Internet outage--and I would have yelled something like, "Ohmygosh, I'm gonna die!"

Yup, the Scottish Dreamer is an optimist. She is going to enjoy the ride that this earth life offers. What she has is Optimistitis. I hope she's contagious.

THESE ARE ON MY COOKBOOK SITE

Zippy salad--Phil loves this and so does our darling daughter-in-law, Nurse Giggleswitch.

Crunchy sweet and savory salad

I made these two salads this week as we are trying to eat a more healthy diet and are eating a lot "raw."

Cookbook blog here.

WHY BLOGGERS MUST USE ROGAINE

Because, when their Internet connection is down--as it was earlier here. For. EVER!--they tear their hair out.

New hair should be back in by fall.

MRS BIRD GETS AN EARLY START ON LEARNING TO "GO" IN ODD PLACES

Mrs. Bird was just a tiny girl when her dad started taking her and her brother fishing. Her dad was a patient man. Translation: he could sit in a boat all day, waiting for the mountain lake trout to bite. Sitting in a boat all day, with a lunch and canteens of water and, if they were lucky, some bottles of pop, made for some interesting bathroom needs. Mrs. Bird's dad and brother were equipped for easy disposal of full bladders. "Turn around," they would say to her and in half a minute, "Okay, you can turn back."

But for a little girl it was a different situation. That is why her Dad took two cans in the boat. One was full of worms and the other was empty. Mrs. Bird learned to go, even in the middle of Fish Lake.

Mrs. Bird's learned nonchalance about bathroom duties in odd places at an early age. This will help you to understand future posts about Mrs. Bird.

SOME OF OUR FAMILY MEMBERS ARE "SPECIAL."

Yes, some of us are special, indeed.

Try not to be jealous.

I HOPE HE WASHED HIS HANDS FIRST

I CAN ONLY POST ON ONE BLOG A NIGHT. TONIGHT WASN'T THIS BLOG'S TURN

To see what this is all about hop on over to my cookbook site. Click here.

RUNNING FROM TROUBLE

Today my visiting teachers gave me a message out of the Ensign--the May, Conference Report issue. It was Be of Good Cheer by President Monson. My visiting teacher said she wanted us to have a positive message, but there were three terrible-suffering-sad stories in there. I was not positive or cheerful or nuthin' when she read them. In fact she cried and I was glum.

President Monson advised us to, "face our challenges, to meet them head on, and to emerge victorious."

Now I ask you, what's wrong with not meeting our challenges head on, but running like blazes and hoping to outrun them? Do they always catch up? Are they stronger and bigger if they have to puff and pant to keep up? Can we still be victorious later?

These are the questions that keep me up at night.

WENT TO A GARDENING CLASS TONIGHT

This is a darling woman who lives in my neighborhood. She has an amazing garden, you would never know it is in the middle of a city.

She has three ponds.

And many fish.Here and there are working garden tools and implements that are beautiful little still life's.

She is a school teacher and so doesn't begin to garden until June. You could have fooled me and all the other woman that attended the class.

I learned a lot, the most important bit--because our soil has so much clay in it--is to add every bit of organic matter to the soil that you can get your hands on.

Many thanks to a generous woman, generous with her time, her talents, and her plants--she is going to let us have starts, bulbs, etc, and perhaps most important she is generous with her laughter. You just can't help but feel good when you are around her, this amazing gardener.

BEFORE AND AFTER--RHUBARB BLISS

Yesterday the grandkids picked rhubarb. Some of them made hats and then... ...the rhubarb was peeled and salted and they had their first bite.

They loved it. They loved it so much they had more.

" Oh, my. This is so good we can hardly stand it."

So they had some more.

Yes, those girls ate a whole piece, bit by bit.

A younger grandchild had some.

"Humm. Not bad."

" Yup, actually it's pretty darn good."

This youngster knows how delicious rhubarb really is.

Yes indeed. Rhubarb, the fruit of the Gods.

PS Remind me to teach you how to make rhubarb fruit leather. It's fantastic. Really, it is.

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY

I will share my sidewalk chalk Happy Mother's Day greeting with you. Thank you, Her Excellency of Mousehole and The Boarder. May each of you know how much our Heavenly Father and the Savior love you. May this year be a wonderful one for each of you, married or not, with children or not.

And if you have children, may they someday know how much you love them, as much as I love mine, I'll bet, which is an unimaginable lot.

Happy Mother's Day.

A SMALL ACT OF KINDNESS

Tonight we took Her Excellency of Mousehole and The Boarder to dinner at Heaps. When Phil paid the bill he tipped the waitress very well. She didn't look at the check, just took it, along with the bill and said, "Thanks for coming in."

It took us a few minutes to leave and on the way out she came up to Phil and--with tears in her eyes--said, "Thank you so much."

It was no big thing, but maybe tonight she needed to feel appreciated. Her appreciation made Phil's day. And because it made his day I realized--once again--how tender and caring he is and I'm so glad he belongs to me. It was a win-win experience, all around.

THE SAFE PLACE

Tonight I was having feelings of impending doom, hovering just out of sight. Phil and I went for a walk--that is often just enough exercise to snap me out of it.

Some of our neighbors saw us and came out of their house to talk. After we left another neighbor drove into the cul-de-sac and stopped to talk.

We had a magazine article to give to another neighbor but when we got there they had just received a long distance phone call from their son. "We'll let you go," we said but the husband stayed to talk to us for a few minutes. He was so gracious, even though we knew he wanted to get back to the phone.

We came home and I got online and checked blogs. Some are funny and some tell of suffering. Some bloggers are suffering and still they write funny. Then I remembered a quote I put on this post. I decided not to surf the feelings I was having.

I decided to remember my neighbors. I decided to remember my friends, to think of you, out there, connected to me via the Internet. I thought of your goodness, the goodness of my neighbors and friends.

I decided to think of my family--which I consider my greatest blessing--I decided to think of Phil, who is my rock and gave me the chance to have a family. I remembered my original family, the one I came from, the one that goes back and back through the generations. I decided that you--neighbors, bloggers, family, Phil, especially Phil--are my safe place. I know many of you love me. I know you want my happiness. And so I got some. Sounds simple doesn't it, but it's true. I thought of all of you and I got happy.

Thanks for being there, for hanging on through tough times, for helping others by sharing your stories, your photos, quotes you find, and the wisdom you have. Thanks for making me laugh. Thanks for sharing your love.

You are my safe place.