All Juiced Up

Breakfast: Two carrots, two apples, one stalk of celery. Lunch: rinse and repeat, but with an orange in the mix, carried handily to work in my new stainless steel Thermos. Yes, folks, I'm juicing! And to make sure I keep it up, I'm going to write about it here from time to time. 

After just one day (yesterday), I woke up this morning with memories of one of the most vivid dreams I've had in years. I won't bore you with the details, but it involved an extra Christmas tree someone brought into my house and left in my dining room, a high wind that kept blowing my front door open, and a guy from high school I kept calling an unsavory name. I don't know if at this point he deserves it - I hope not - but he sure did then, and in my dream he was still 18 and a jerk. (Hey, I just realized HE was 18 and I was... more than 18. Not fair!) I can only attribute it to the juice, which, according to my extensive research (I'm not kidding - I really checked this out) helps you absorb most of the nutrients from fruits and vegetables, makes you think more clearly, adds energy, boosts positivity, revs up your immune system, blah blah blah more good stuff. What none of my research said is "makes your dreams so real you have to fight off a monsoon to close your front door, and then run down to your garage to get tools to fix the door, and then you fix the door, and it blows open again, and you say to yourself, 'I really need to call Boo to get that door fixed.' " (Boo is my house doctor. He's brilliant.) 

So now I'm wondering: if I change the fruits and vegetables, can I control my dreams? Will beets make me feel more grounded (you know, because they're a root vegetable) and will grapes make me a more "raisinable" person in my sleep? (This is getting really bad. I'm going to stop soon, I promise.)  One thing's for sure. I'm going to keep changing up the ingredients until I start having dreams where I'M the one who's 18. 

Embrace Your Inner 13!

We're going to have an entire year that holds this number, so if you've got triskaidekaphobia (extreme superstition regarding the number thirteen), read this! For years, multi-floor builders and airlines and countless other customer-facing businesses have worked around the number 13. But now we can't ignore the fact that every single day this year will have a 13 in it. (There are two additional challenges for triskaidekaphobics, too: on Friday, September 13, 2013 and      
Friday, December 13, 2013!)    

There's no stopping it - we have got to find a way to love 13! If you're Italian, or want to adopt one of the aspects of this amazing culture - which I just happen to be a bit partial to - you'd know that 13 is considered very lucky. I knowingly bought a condo on the 13th floor of a building (can't fool me - even though my address says it's on the 14th floor, the elevator doesn't stop between 12 and 14). It's been a place of beauty, peace and joy for me - not a speck of bad luck in the place. Give me a good old 13 any time, and I'll find the luck in it.

Don't forget that the American flag has 13 stripes in honor of the first 13 colonies. Colgate University has positive roots in the number 13, too - according to Wikipedia, the school was "founded in 1819 by 13 men with 13 dollars, 13 prayers and 13 articles."  And remember how exhilarating it was to move from twelve to earn the magical "teen" on your age? 

I'm more interested in what this year brings me than what it might take away. I know that I may feel a little differently in a few weeks, a little less exhilarated when I'm back to a routine that isn't broken up by holidays and celebrations. But for now, I'm reveling in the start of a shiny new year that makes me feel totally loving and hopeful. I'm going to take full advantage of this feeling to tell my friends and family something I don't say enough: you make a profound difference in my life - you really do. I'm embracing my inner 13, and wishing you a year that is spectacularly surprising, productive, delightful, connected, compassionate, warm, purposeful, enriching, educational and healthy.

(Still having trouble with the number? Feel free to pretend you're Italian for the next 12 months.)

The Best Wrap Session Ever

I've been doing some volunteer work in December that is not "work" at all. I wrap presents for one night for D.C. Candlelighters Childhood Cancer Foundation, an amazing Washington, D.C. metropolitan area support group for families who currently have or recently had children with cancer, or have been touched by cancer in some way.

I say this is not work because I love, love, love to wrap presents. I beg my friends to let me wrap their gifts. I have a ribbon habit that is hard to keep under control, I buy wrapping paper when I have too much already, and I am a firm believer that a beautifully wrapped package makes a birthday or anniversary exponentially better. If there were a 12-step program for obsessive wrapping, I would be standing up in front of the group telling how I backslid - again - because I couldn't pass up a Costco deal on an industrial-sized spool of holiday trimming.

So when a pal asked me a few years ago if I wanted to wrap for the Candlelighters, I said "yes" before she finished her question. And it's my favorite thing to do before the holidays, because in the rush of getting my home ready, making holiday plans with friends I don't see often, and shipping my own gifts off to family in California and Arizona, it makes me stop and appreciate the lives of people who are facing fears and medical issues most of us can only imagine.

D.C. Candlelighters creates many warm and wonderful moments for the families they help - throughout the year, they do such good deeds as creating new patient care bags, providing age-appropriate books about cancer, and sponsoring family "meet and greets." For the Gift Wrapping Party, the organization makes it a very special night - parents bring their gifts to be wrapped and then they gather for dinner, fresh-baked cookies and a relaxing massage or reiki treatment, while I and a few other elves cut and tape and attach bows and gift cards to their presents. It's one night out that relieves a little stress and removes a task from a long to-do list for parents who are burdened with worry about their kids, both the sick and healthy ones. It's one night that I, too, am just as grateful for D.C. Candlelighters, because they honor me by sharing the exceptional stories of these brave moms and dads, and allowing me to make their holiday season just a little bit easier. And that's a gift that doesn't need a bow to be beautiful.

Can I Call You Mom?

There are few things that break my heart - in a good way - like a crystallized moment with a child I love. I am an aunt to five great kids - three over 18 and two under 10 years. Recently, my 6-year-old niece "J" and her 9-year-old brother were visiting, and I got them all to myself for a weekend. We spent Saturday at my pool, and all around us, children were yelling for their moms to get them a towel, to come in the water, to throw them a toy. J swam over, wrapped her little self around me, cupped her hands to my ear and whispered "Can I call you Mom just while we're at the pool?" Oh, geez. What a rush. (I told her it might hurt her mother's feelings if she called me Mom, but I sure would love to have a little girl like her.) Later, driving to a store with the kids in the back seat, buoyed by the earlier "Mom-ent," I'm listening to the Jersey Boys' "Oh What a Night," and rocking out as only someone with my hidden talent is able to. The kids are having a blast, I can tell - they're laughing up a storm together. Then I glance into the rear-view mirror and see J making fun of me with her brother. And in that instant, I really did feel like someone's mom.

Are You Still Writing It?

I don't know why I stopped writing my blog last fall - I think the holidays intervened, or I used up all my words with my daily business writing, or some blog-interrupting thing happened at some critical blog juncture and that stopped the blog train. Yeah, that's it - that last thing.

So when a friend sent a note today and said, "Are you still writing it?," I didn't want to say no, because in my mind, I still AM writing it - I just haven't crafted anything in months. But it's all up here, my friends (I'm pointing to my creative instrument, that pocket of gears and thoughts and brilliance that resides at the top of my noggin, and because I just got a new 'do last Saturday and my hair is all perfect and shiny and soft, I took the opportunity of my hand being close to my head to give it a swipe and think, again, how much I love this haircut). I know, I lost you at "noggin."

Anyhoo, I'm back. Without fanfare, and like a friend walking right into your kitchen to visit because I've done it before and I think I'll be welcome back. Or I hope I will. And if not, remember that you're the one who left the door open.

You're My Cocoa

It might be a winter scarf, or a pair of glasses, or a handwritten card  that brings your memories flooding back. In my case it was a can of Hershey's cocoa. It's the day before Thanksgiving, and I'm picking up a few additional items, and I see this damn can of cocoa staring at me from a grocery store shelf... and all I can think of is my mother, who has been gone almost three years now. Why cocoa? At first I didn't make the connection, but all of a sudden I remembered a Christmas many moons ago, when my mother wrapped up a can of cocoa each for me and my three sisters, with one of her favorite dessert recipes. At the time we thought it was silly - a mom thing - and I'm sure we also felt gypped out of one of our "real" presents. Today, I see the love behind it, the desire to give something she did well (baking) to her girls. Today, it seems that can of cocoa held all kinds of messages and affection. And today, the day before we will gather without her (again), I'm thankful to have had a mom who was a little quirky and offbeat, but also generous and funny and sweet and unpredictably delightful.

It makes me think of all the other people in my life, here on earth or peacefully departed, who have helped shape my intellect and heart, and made me laugh or made me funnier; who have given me such gifts of kindness and knowledge and indescribable kinship. The longer I live, the more magical it is to have had a lifetime of such riches. So if you're reading this, you're in my life for a reason, and there's something you should know: you, too, are my cocoa.

A Brilliant Conversationalist

I talk to myself. Not like an insane person (I don't suddenly rise out of a reverie on a train and scream things, and then quiet down again). But I'm a bit of a mutterer, and it gets worse when I'm anxious about work or have too much going on in my personal life. Which is just about all the time.  

I tried to trace back when it started, and I think I was around 27. Or 21. Or 15. It started simply, maybe with me saying, "Now where did I leave that jacket?" and has evolved into entire conversations that go way past the location of a missing garment. 

I don't always realize when the dialog that's happening in my brain finds its way out into the world. Like when I was traveling with a colleague, and she called my hotel room (she was next door) to ask who I was speaking to. Or when I thought I'd finished a cell phone call with my sister while we both were driving (before the crackdowns), and she and her passengers listened to me continue talking for two minutes (yes, it would have been nice if she had shut off HER phone, but reverse the situation and I absolutely would have eavesdropped, too—how delicious to catch your sibling in a lapse of normalcy). Or in the ladies' room at work, which is especially tough to carry off—sometimes I find myself speaking (to be fair to me in this confession, I'm just listing the things I still need to address that day, and not reciting lines from Monty Python or wondering aloud how many miles are left before I need an oil change) and—gasp!—I hear someone else come in.  Then I wait behind my stall door so the intruder can't identify me. Like they would never recognize my voice, or my shoes, or my name on the datacard I left on the sink.

I know that this was cute 20 years ago, is mildly concerning now, and will be de rigueur if I make it to 90. Provided the actual chatter stays at a minimum, I can keep the crazy at bay. But to be safe,  if you ever see me on a train, you might not want the seat right next to me. Just in case...