Motivating Tunes

Last night was my first experience at DrexelBrook fitness center. A 2-roomed facility next to the corporate offices (the place where I drop off my rent and bills), it is an OK gym. A few treadmills, 2 elliptical machines (1 of which is broken), weight machines, mats and yoga balls. For fifteen bucks a month, you really can't beat it.

Music is my primary motivator in life and the gym is no different. I am praying my iPod mini doesn't give out on me soon. I think I have crafted the perfect Thirty Minute Walking Playlist, if I do say so myself:

Warm Up:
F*ck You (Untouchable Face) - Ani DiFranco
I Wanna Be With You - Adam Hood
Starting to pep up a bit:
Jimi Thing - DMB
Jump into a fast walk:
CrazyBitch - Buckcherry
Mississippi (Cover) - Dixie Chicks with Sheryl Crow
Every Picture Tells a Story - Rod Stewart
In a good rythym:
I'll Fly With You - Gigi D'Agostino
Rythm of My Heart - Rod Stewart'
Only Heart - John Mayer
Get Money - Junior Mafia
Just Don't Happen Twice - Kenny Chesney
How Many Licks - Lil Kim
Slowing down:
Power of Two - Indigo Girls
Home Life (Acousitc) - John Mayer
Stop Falling - Pink
Warm Love - Van Morrison
I Just Don't Think I'll Ever Get Over You - Colin Hay
Clarity - John Mayer

Let's hope it keeps me going!

Animo Grato

grate·ful [greyt-fuhl] –adjective
1. warmly or deeply appreciative of kindness or benefits received; thankful: I am grateful to you for your help.
2. expressing or actuated by gratitude: a grateful letter.
3. pleasing to the mind or senses; agreeable or welcome; refreshing: a grateful breeze.
grate·ful·ly, adverb
grate·ful·ness, noun
—Synonyms 1. obliged, indebted. Grateful, thankful describe an appreciative attitude for what one has received. Grateful indicates a warm or deep appreciation of personal kindness as shown to one: grateful for favors; grateful to one's neighbors for help in time of trouble. Thankful indicates a disposition to express gratitude by giving thanks, as to a benefactor or to a merciful Providence; there is often a sense of deliverance as well as of appreciation: thankful that one's life was spared in an accident; thankful for the comfort of one's general situation. 3. pleasant, gratifying, satisfying.

grate·ful adj.
Appreciative of benefits received; thankful.
Expressing gratitude.
Affording pleasure or comfort; agreeable.

Any way you slice it...

Those who can't do, teach...

Sometime in the summer of 1994, as a somewhat chubby and totally shy 13 year old, I joined the swim team, only to appease my Mom. I went to my first practice and just about hyperventilated in the pool. One lap seemed like an eternity and I was supposed to complete how many? I was simply not cut out for this sport (or any sport for that matter) - in any way. I hung on the wall, panted and held back the tears that, along with the chlorine, stung my eyes. Maybe I did even shed one of those tears (0r 17 of them), as no one could tell the difference in the water anyway...

Saturday mornings were the most dreaded of days. Humiliated every week by my unimaginable lack of speed, poor stroke form, and general discomfort, I drug myself to each and every meet - only to finish last in every race. Yes, I was the kid in lane 6 (every time) who you cheered for as they made their way to the end of the race. Most likely, my competitors were out and drying off by the time I touched the wall. My biggest challenges were getting the rubber cap on my head and keeping my goggles on as I dove off of the block. Amateur was an understatement.

Don't worry, this isn't a pity story - I promise you will stop feeling bad for me any minute now. Somewhere along the lane ropes, I started to take to swimming as an activity and before I knew it, I was actually enjoying it. I had become a borderline mediocre breast stroker - sometimes even coming in a cool third place. How exciting it was for me to finish third (OK sometimes it was when there were only 3 girls swimming - any minute now...). Third place was equivalent to one point, and if I came in third place that meant that I had, in the tiniest of ways, contributed to the team. Now, it should be mentioned that we almost never won so my one point rarely mattered; still, I found a great sense of accomplishment in third place, always.

In addition to slowly but surely improving as a swimmer, I (along with my best friend at the time, Nichole) had also taken a place on the team as the coach's helper. Assisting with copying line ups, rounding up the 8 & under girls and leading most of the team in cheers before meets - I had found my niche. It was no longer a summer activity that I dreaded, but a part of my life that I truly loved, looked forward to, and was good at.

Somewhat predictably, when I was too old to swim on the team anymore (19), I became a coach. Assistant at first, I helped with the younger kids' practices and did a lot of the grunt work. When I took my place as head coach - I dove right in, so to speak. I bought books, using them and the Internet to create practices that, I thought, would help the kids learn the proper way to swim, thus making them faster and the team better. Every Saturday at the meets, I screamed so loud for the kids that I lost my voice and was hoarse all summer. I really loved every minute of it.

It wasn't until this past Monday night at dinner when Jackie helped me to realize that being a poor swimmer probably made me a better coach. My lack of ability in the pool forced me to concentrate on the strokes. Because it didn't come natural to me (another understatement) and it was imperative for me to swim well from a technique perspective; I could easily transfer that knowledge to the kids. I adopted the notion that swimming well didn't mean swimming fast, it meant true to form. If I could teach them the proper way to swim, I thought that the speed would eventually come. Whether I was right or not can be easily seen in our Win/Loss columns for those few summers.

It was certainly a learning experience for all of us, and what is life without them? I learned quickly that I'd never make it to Championships at the end of the summer and that MVP wasn't a trophy you'd find on my shelf. You will, however, find two Coaches Awards, pictures of and gifts from the kids on my team and many (many) third place ribbons.

Weight loss woes

Sitting on the train tonight, next to two girls about my age, I couldn't help but listen in on their conversation. Not only were they speaking loudly, but all the words they said sounded like they could have come come right from my mouth. Transit checks, the train, pay day, New Year's Eve, work, shoes, interns, the list goes on. Typical twenty-something female Septa gabfest.

Only when the topic turned to weight loss did my ears really perk up. With it being the month known notoriously for new beginnings, the subject on every one's lips is what they are, or are not, putting in their mouths. Commercials boasting success with a super pill, gyms at their highest enrollments, even the Food Network runs episodes of "light" fare and reduced fat/calories/carbs menus. It is everywhere.

I suppose it's a good thing that society shoves the idea down your throat. One of my resolutions every year is to lose weight, it's almost an unspoken supposition. Isn't it every body's? You'll definitely find that it is a minority of people who would say "oh no, I am fine at the weight I am now" or who haven't made the necessary changes to make this year the year they drop that 20 pounds.

There is talk at work of a mock "Biggest Loser" contest which would pit me against my colleagues to see who could lose the biggest percentage of their body weight. Initially, I was skeptic of revealing my weight (a number that I don't even know, I don't own a scale!) to my co-workers. It wasn't the chicks I work with every day who intimidated me, no way. They are my girls, I'd be fairly comfortable with them knowing. It was the girls in finance, who are orchestrating this whole thing and mostly resemble stick figures and wouldn't weight 100 pounds soaking wet. I mean that in the nicest way possible, really.

Eventually, I pushed past these fears which I convinced myself this afternoon were silly and somewhat juvenile. This isn't about a number, or the finance stick figures or what anyone thinks. It is a challenge, motivation, participation in a group effort and a chance to maybe win some money! Accountability has always been my issue with any weight loss effort. I'd keep a food journal and "forget" to write certain things. I'd log my meals on WeightWatchers.com and change the portion size, therefore changing the number of points.

Clearly, nothing has worked. Well, not nothing. I've had minimal success with the aforementioned Weight Watchers. Also, I've done really well on the Abs Diet, a plan developed by the editor of Men's Health. I honestly enjoy healthy food and I know how to eat well, I am educated, which is half the battle.

I am hoping that we really do the Biggest Loser contest at Richardson. I dare to say I am looking forward to it. I am also still doing research and keeping my ears open about Alli, the new FDA-approved weight loss drug. The things I've heard aren't sitting too well, so I am waiting to see if I run into anyone, real life, to tell me about it. The commercials and the websites are good info, but I want someone with experience also. In any event, I am starting again, starting over, and trying to adapt a healthy lifestyle and eating habits. Here goes nothing...

"Everything Happens for a Reason" wins again...

I flip between 30 Minute Meals and Friends reruns at every single commercial, usually reciting all of the lines from Friends out loud.

When I do dishes (notice I said 'when'), I leave them in the drying rack for days, thus letting more dirty plates and glasses pile up in the sink.

I never make my bed. Ever.

I listen to Preston and Steve very loud every morning. The radio goes on first thing, when I get in the shower and stays on until I leave at 7:30.

Most of the time, the only things in my fridge are condiments (salad dressings, ketchup, salsa), wine and my medicine and in my freezer all you will find are ice cube trays.

I have way too many picture frames and not enough bath towels.

When I inject my medicine, I scream like a baby.

After a year of living here, my windows are still covered with "Redi-Shades" from Home Depot.

While watching Jeopardy!, I yell out the answers from wherever I am in the apartment.

I will watch America's Next Top Model over and over (and over and over).

I sleep with a box fan, on high, every single night.

Living alone has its benefits...

A little help on my resolutions...

I don't exactly know what made me pick up My Sister's Keeper in the bookstore some 2 or 3 years ago. Most likely, I was wandering somewhat aimlessly around Border's, browsing the new releases and best sellers. Before I found Jodi Picoult and came to love her, I had no rhyme or reason to choosing a book. Depending on my mood you could find me anywhere, from self help to fiction to music - even cooking.

Upon risk of sounding dramatic, I dare to say that reading My Sister's Keeper was a literary awakening for me. Everything about the book spoke to me. I couldn't put it down. Each morning on the train, I was so disappointed when we pulled into Suburban Station and I had to put it away. I couldn't wait to get back on and open it again.

I was, and continue to be, mesmerized by Picoult's language, her prose, her descriptions. Every sentence she writes paints you a tiny portrait of the thought behind it. Almost every line has this amazing dual meaning - it is truly how I aspire to write. She has inspired me more than any other author ever has.

The topics of her novels center around complex human relationships (are there any other kind?), involve a moral issue and follow a legal matter through the course of the book. The story usually ends with the verdict of said trial being revealed.

Picoult's novels are written from many points of view - of almost all of the major characters. The plot thickens and she spins this web of conversations, hidden meanings, revelations and discoveries. If I am reading one of her books, the strangest thing happens to me. I begin to think, on a daily basis, like one of her characters, and in turn, like Picoult, the mastermind behind the fictional beings. I move through the day and envision my thoughts in the pages of a novel - which, in turn, inspires me to write.

So here I am, trying to put one of my New Year's Resolutions into practice by writing a little something each day. Another resolution is reading more, the two go hand in hand so easily. I just finished A Perfect Match (which I started on the plane to Graceland) and this morning started Mercy. Hopefully, by filling my brain with her work, I will get to and stay in a place of inspiration and ideas. Bare with me as I might stumble onto some mundane topics and, as always, feel free to comment!

Walking In Memphis

In the spirit of doing something different for New Year's, and in an effort to capitalize on her US Air perks of flying for free, Peg decided she wanted to go to Graceland this year and see the home of her beloved King of Rock and Roll. As many may know, once she decides to do something, nothing really stops her and she usually does it. For this particular jaunt, she needed a partner in crime. I am usually up for anything, so on Monday, Dec 31st, we boarded a plane headed for the Land of the Delta Blues.

Only staying for one night, we packed light and had minimal trouble with getting there, despite the layover in Charlotte. The small plane from Charlotte to Memphis, I think, was the first time I was ever on one of those. We landed and hopped in a cab to the Days Inn Graceland - which runs Elvis movies 24/7 on their TVs and has a guitar shaped pool.

I love to travel and there isn't anywhere I wouldn't go. There is something inside me that wants to see everything, even if it is nothing to somebody else. I can't explain it, it's always been there. Driving through the area of Memphis where Graceland is wasn't what I expected at all. It is a very industrial, run-down area with abandoned buildings, storage facilities and factories. As we turned onto Elvis Presley Blvd., I expected much more than a Taco Bell and a used car dealership.

It wasn't nearly as tourist-y as I had imagined either. If there wasn't a sign saying "Graceland Parking, Right Lane", you might actually miss it. The house itself could qualify as a mansion, but it's smaller than I pictured. For some reason, I envisioned something like The White House.

By no means was I unimpressed! Stepping through the front door and seeing the insides of where a legend lived was surreal. Exploring the rooms and walking through his hallways - this was his HOME. He ate, slept, entertained, sang, lived and sadly, died in this place. To me, the most interesting things to see were his real things like Lisa Marie's swing set and a Christmas card from Connie Francis. The Meditation Garden, where he is buried, also gave me that sense that it was a special place.

We enjoyed the tour, listened to our audio and heard the voices of Lisa Marie and the narrator, and took tons of pictures. After shopping for souvenirs, we ate dinner and went back to the room. One hour of an Intervention marathon, we were sleeping by the time it was 2008.

Seeing Graceland was a great way to start a new year, and a trip I will always remember. I want to make a tradition of this, visiting a new place each year with my Mom. New Year's Eve is the ultimate in overrated holidays, if you ask me. You spend tons of time (and money) making big plans and it usually turns out to be a bust. Although, I do have a special place in my heart for the Mummer's parade on New Year's Day, which I missed this year of course, but even that gets tired. Wandering around Center City in 22 degree weather with a bag of Bush cans...having to pee ALL day...always losing the people you go with...OK, I guess I do miss it. There is always next year for meeting at the Clothespin and starting at the Trophy at 9 am...

This year - it was me, Elvis, and his number 1 fan...and I wouldn't have changed a thing.

All I want to do is write....

But I have such a hard time getting started. I turned to my new friend, Henry Rollins, for inspiration and he has delivered, boy has he delivered.

"I've always seen it as the role of an artist to drag his inside out, give the audience all you've got. Writers, actors, singers, all good artists do the same. It isn't supposed to be easy."

I am relieved that Henry feels this way, that the art of expressing yourself through word isn't supposed to be easy, because I find it so incredibly difficult. I have at least 6 half-written, somewhat thought-out attempts at blog entries and nothing to show.

The silly Friday's Feast that I've done in the past (OK, once) is easy. I like easy today. And it's almost Thanksgiving, so I am digging in.

Appetizer
What was your first “real” job?
My first job was at the BVM rectory. I answered the door and the phone and helped to cook and clean up dinner with the cook. The cook was very tall, kinda overweight woman named Bernie who told me stories of when she was young and spoke so fast that she almost couldn't breathe. My guess is that she truly enjoyed having someone there, to talk at, to listen to her, and help her. Her knees were bad. I wonder if she is still living. Morbid, I know.
My first "real" job as a college grad was at V-SPAN, Inc., a videoconferencing company based in King of Prussia. I was a Reservationist in a huge call center. It was like college all over again, a very dorm-like environment. It was a great place to be for that year right out of school.

Soup
Where would you go if you wanted to spark your creativity?
I like the beach, because it is quiet and serene. It is hard for me to write on the beach though, because of the elements. Elements like the wind and the sun and the families with kids running back and forth from the waterline to their circle of chairs. My creativity comes at strange times: on the train, in bed right before I drift off, at the doctor's office. Capitalizing on these instances is what I struggle with.

Salad
Complete this sentence: I am embarrassed when…
Recently, I am embarrassed when I go to the rhuemetologist and I have to do any of the following:
-Remove any part of clothing. I just experienced my first Humira injection and my doc had to administer the first shot. (I will do the rest at home, on a bi-weekly basis.) I had to pull down my sweatpants just a teeny bit and I was mortified.
-Answer questions about my personal life. Dr. El Creepo asked me on Wednesday at the aforementioned appointment, "scale of 1-10, how is your libido?" At the time, despite my giggle (sexually, I feel 13 on most days), I didn't think that the question was that absurd. It was not until Jackie pointed out the absolute flagrant inappropriateness of this question that I realized something is definitely off about my doc.
-El Creepo makes jokes, of any kind. They are usually somewhat crass and never funny, not in the least. I have to produce a quasi-laugh and do my best not to roll my eyes or make a disgusted face. Complete embarrassment.

Main Course
What values did your parents instill in you?
Easy. Amazing work ethics. My Mom, to this day, works 3 jobs and she is literally a magician when it comes to money. My Dad made a point to do whatever he did well.

Dessert
Name 3 fads from your teenage years.
*Disclaimer - I was a huge geek in my younger years. Who am I kidding? I still am. Any of all of these "fads" may or may not have been hip, so to speak, I may have been the only weirdo sporting them. I probably thought I was so cool too.*
1.) Sock layering, like one color on top of another, to match your outfit.
2.) Biker shorts. Spandex biker shorts. I had the best pair of black biker shorts with a hot pink stripe down the side of each leg. I wore them with way too much pride.
3.) Colored braces. What a terrible idea.

There, that felt good. Just to get something out. Thanks again Henry - more from you later.

Becoming him?

Saturday night.
9:25 pm.
Lazing on my couch, as I have been doing for the better part of the day.
Crickets chirp outside the window.
Only moving to get more water.
Yawning loudly.

Harry Kalas' voice, smooth and always strangely calming, leaks out of the TV. The Phils are down 7-4 to the Braves in the bottom of the 8th. I flip between the game and Cops, and as I do, I realize I am becoming my Dad.

Summer nights with him were spent laying on the pull out couch in the living room. Huge pink pillows surrounded me. The single room air conditioner blasting, the sheet hung from the doorway to keep it freezing. We watched the Phillies game and listened as Harry narrated the plays and provided endless stats. Next to him, I drifted in an out of sleep, extremely relaxed and feeling the safest I can ever remember feeling.

Cops was a preferred show for him. He was hooked. Prostitution stings, drug busts, high speed chases - whatever the flavor, he was interested. Flashing lights, toothless women reporting domestic abuse, the infamous theme song (you're singing it in your head now), oh Cops was a favorite, a guilty pleasure perhaps. Or maybe, and I feel a little bad for feeling this way, he identified with the people on the show, as unfortunately his criminal record was far from perfect.

Different ball players on a new field...
Fresh episodes of Cops...
My apartment instead of our house in Darby...
Different but the same. He is still here.

The Phils are still losing, but now by 2, Dad. It's the top of the 9th. I'll keep watching. Harry keeps me company.

My First

For a brief period of time in 2nd grade, we (my Mom, Jenna and I) moved out of the house and into an apartment. We lived in the Presidential Square Apartments on South Avenue and I attended Our Lady of Fatima. I was miserable. I was away from my friends and my school and stuffed into a 2 bedroom apartment, forced to share a bedroom with my younger sister. This didn't last long. Once it was decided that we'd move back home with my Dad, my best friend Kellie was ecstatic. She counted the days until I returned to BVM, the school we attended together since Kindergarten. It was the first time in my life that I remember feeling like I had a true friend in Kellie, that our sister-like bond was going to be around forever. Her anticipation was truly flattering.

Now, some 20 odd years later, my anticipation is mounting - anticipation of the arrival of Kellie's baby. In the 26 years of our friendship, we've shared almost every "first". We've done everything together, even down to the day of our own births. Kellie and I were both due on March 17th of 1981, St. Patrick's Day. Kellie was late (March 23rd) and I was even later (April 4th) much to the dismay of my Mom. We went to our first school together, All Saints Nursery School on Main Street in Darby. We were dropped off every morning and instructed to color a picture - a different animal each day. Kel and I made sure to match each other's colors and one day, when I colored an owl using every color of the rainbow, she was not happy. Have you ever seen a multi-colored owl?

The next 7 or so years were chock full of "firsts" as well. Second grade brought to me the predicament of the first boyfriend. A towhead boy named Billy told Kellie that he liked me. One day while walking home, Kel asked me if I liked Billy Scaggs.

"Sure, he's ok."

"No, but do you like him?"

"I don't know, what does that mean?"

And, in front of the gas station on MacDade Blvd., Kellie and I had our first like him conversation, followed by many more, I'm sure.

In 4th grade, Kellie got braces and presented us with our first instance of dealing with vanity and cruel 11 year old kids. She came to school and refused to open her mouth. With the help of a teacher, I convinced her that she'd have to open her mouth sooner or later and she might as well just get it over with. She was still gorgeous, even with the braces. Which were blue, if I remember correctly. In 6th grade, I got glasses and Kellie convinced me that wearing them made me look smart and she wanted a pair of her own.

Summer after 6th grade - my first heartbreak. It was not a boy who broke it, it was surely not Billy Scaggs, it was the news that Kellie's family was moving and she was transferring to a different school for the remaining 2 years. Shocked and extremely sad, I wondered how I was to survive undoubtedly the 2 hardest years of grade school, minus my sidekick. In 7th and 8th grades, you have to change classes! How was I supposed to navigate this daunting task without her!?! We had spent almost every day together since birth and now she was moving a whole mile away from me and attending St. Joe's. Surely, she'd find a new friend, tons of them actually, and forget about me.

Forget about me she didn't and we were reunited in the intimidating halls of high school. Faced with a brand new set of firsts (first locker, first formal dance, first make out session), Kellie and I found formed new bonds with different girls and groups. College brought more of the same. Our lives had taken us on different roads but that didn't change the fact that we started out in the same car. Through the changes, I always had a sense of confidence that she'd always be in my life. Not only in my life, but she'd always have the same familial role, the same deeply rooted connection, the same place in my heart.

Recently I have met the ultimate in firsts - the first realization that I am abruptly an adult. My friends are getting married and having children. Kellie is due on Sunday and very soon, she will be responsible for another life. She is no longer my childhood comrade, but my oldest and dearest friend whose life is about to drastically change. When Kellie broke her ankle in 6th grade, I was there to steady her, to hold her books and her hand. I'll be there this time to steady her, to hold her blankets and her teething rings and her bottles, and anything else that comes along.

Signs...

(No, not the Mel Gibson movie.)

A friend of mine has said in the past something to the effect of "it's amazing the things people will believe or think, just to comfort themselves." I think he was talking about religion, a topic I (after 20 plus years of friendship) refuse to discuss with him. However, his statement hit a chord and I often return to it. I am a self-proclaimed believer in signs and always have been. In the past 2 years since my Dad's death, signs appear everywhere. Or are they? Am I squinting my eyes and looking too hard into the universe?

Shortly after his death, after the shock, the mourning period, the short work hiatus and the return to normality, I found myself praying one night. I was talking to someone (God, Dad, whomever was listening) and I asked for a sign. I asked for something to tell me that he was ok. That he was safe and I could be sure that he was safe. The next day in work, I read online that Hurricane Dennis had hit Cuba. I took it as my first official sign that he was gone from this life but still with me. Like him, the sign was anything but discreet and I was absolutely sure it was him answering my prayer.

Jump to exactly one year after his death, Father's Day 2006. My Dad's first anniversary was upon me, and I had overwhelmingly mixed emotions. I found myself alone in my house in the morning and I didn't want to be. So I donned my bathing suit and hopped in my Acura and headed to the shore, more specifically to Sea Isle, to see Aunt Jeanne. A day on the beach chatting with my Dad's sister was what I thought I needed.

I drove over the Girard Point Bridge, aka the Double Decker, a bridge that reminds me of him. With the music blaring and tears dripping off my chin, I cruised barefoot over the Walt Whitman and onto the 42 Freeway into Jersey. While going about 80, I was completely lost in thoughts about him and the last year of my life. My car shook a little and my tires felt a bit unsteady, but I kept flying down the left lane. I remember the exact lyric of the Kenny Chesney song that was playing as I started to smell burning rubber. No sooner was I able to process the thought "burning rubber, I hope it's not my car" before I started spinning. The steering wheel was no longer in my control and I just yelled at the top of my lungs. The car and I spun to the left into the grass divider and then back across 3 lanes of southbound traffic. The traffic was not heavy, but certainly steady. Spinning, spinning, yelling, gasping for air. I landed on the right shoulder, facing forward as if I had pulled over normally.

All I could do was cry. I was stopped, safe, alive. Cars raced by me on the left, un-phased and unaware of the bullet I just dodged. As soon as I was able to pull air into my lungs again, I called my Mom in hysterics. She was heading to AC that day with a friend, they hadn't left yet. I tried to tell her what happened and, through my tears, she finally understood what I was saying. We spoke briefly, and then a truck was pulling up behind me. I told her someone was there to help me and I'd call her RIGHT back. We hung up. Shaking from head to toe, I carefully stepped out of my car and around to the passenger side. I looked at the back right tire and saw that it was all torn and separated from the rim. I learned the technical term later, a tire blowout.

A man got out of the NJ DOT truck and rushed up to me. He didn't see what had happened on the road. NJ DOT Emergency Services patrols the Jersey thoroughfares and helps people in need. When he reaches me, he puts his hands on my shoulders and asks if I am ok. A rush of hysteria came over me again as I tried to explain what happened.

"Take a deep breath ma'am; I am here to help you. My name is Dennis."

Dennis was extraordinarily calm and collected as he put a donut on my car. I told him exactly what happened and he was in awe. We agreed that with all of the traffic that was on 42 at the time, this was nothing short of a miracle. No guardrails on either side of the highway, and if there were I would have slammed into not one, but both of them. As Dennis worked on my tire, I told him that he shared my Dad's name and this was the 1 year anniversary of his death. A slow smile spread across his face. "Now that's pretty weird, huh?"

Weird wasn't the word for how I felt about the incident. Amazing was more like it. I was fully confident in my Dad's presence as I evaded a serious accident and a possible tragedy. I drove home on the donut in silence.

After that, the second big sign that came to me and affected (really affected) me, there have been other, smaller ones. Earlier this summer on the 68th street beach in Sea Isle with Aunt Jeanne and Uncle Joe, as we settled into our beach chairs, a plane carrying a banner buzzed across the sky. The words read, "Hi from Dennis at Hair Cuttery." I smiled to myself behind my shades and magazine and felt the warm sun and his presence once again.

Signs of my Dad are absolutely comforting. And if they are what I need to handle the fact that he is gone, I will keep my eyes (and my heart) open to them forever.

My Next Reads....

Let's hope these haunting, real-life drug tales don't end up to be a farce too. Damn you James Frey, you had me in tears every morning on the train.

Anxiously awaiting purchasing these 2 books: one by a father of a meth addict, and one by said meth addict. I read about them in Oprah's magazine today. I couldn't find an exerpt from both, just the father's.

Tweak: Growing Up on Methamphetamines (Hardcover) by Nic Sheff

Excerpt from 'Beautiful Boy: A Father's Journey Through His Son's Meth Addiction' by David Sheff

It's after eleven and Nic isn't home. I had been so tired, but now I'm wide awake in bed, feeling more and more uneasy. There are a million harmless explanations. Oftentimes, groups of people at AA meetings go out afterward for coffee. Or he could be talking with his new sponsor. I contend with two simultaneous, opposing monologues, one reassuring me that I'm foolish and paranoid, the other certain that something is dreadfully wrong. By now I know that worry is useless, but it shoots in and takes over my body at the touch of a hair trigger. I don't want to assume the worst, but some of the times Nic ignored his curfew, it presaged disaster.
I stare into the dark, my anxiety mounting. It is a pathetically familiar state. I have been waiting for Nic for years. At night, past his curfew, I would wait for the car's grinding engine, when it pulled into the driveway and then went silent. At last — Nic. The shutting car door, footsteps, the front door opening with a click. Despite Nic's attempt at stealth, Brutus, the chocolate Lab, usually yelped a half-hearted bark. Or I would wait for the telephone to ring, never certain if it would be him ("Hey, Pop, how're ya doin'?") or the police ("Mr. Sheff, we have your son"). Whenever he was late or failed to call, I assumed catastrophe. He was dead. Always dead.
But then Nic would arrive home, creeping up the hallway stairs, his hand sliding along the banister. Or the telephone would ring.
"Sorry, Pop, I'm at Richard's house. I fell asleep. I think I'll just crash here rather than drive at this hour. I'll see you in the morning. I love you." I would be furious and relieved, both, because I had already buried him.
Late this night, with no sign of him, I finally fall into a miserable half-sleep. Just after one, Karen wakes me. She hears him sneaking in. A garden light, equipped with a motion detector, flashes on, casting its bright beam across the backyard. Clad in my pajamas, I slip on a pair of shoes and go out the back door to catch him.
The night air is chilly. I hear crunching brush.
I turn the corner and come head-to-head with an enormous startled buck, who quickly lopes away up into the garden, effortlessly leaping over the deer fence.
Back in bed, Karen and I are wide awake.
It's one-thirty. Now two. I double check his room.
It is two-thirty.
Finally, the sound of the car.

"a light, that shines...special for you, and me"

On my keyring, I only have 2 keychains. A Coach butterfly charm, a birthday gift from Courtney that I love, and an Energizer flashlight covered in tan pleather. When you squeeze it, it lights up. A simple little gadget that has prompted Jackie to mock me about, because, apparently, I use it a lot. Not only do I use it a lot, I am very cautious and concerned about its lifespan. I don't like it when people play with it - switching it on and off with a gentle push. I take this little convienence tool very seriously.

My Dad gave me this keychain several years ago. He most likely got it for free when he bought cigarettes or found it in a parking lot somewhere. He was always finding random objects and trying to pawn them off on us. One year, he found a gold Flyers charm and tried to convince me to wear it to school.

"This is nice Kris - look, 14 karat gold!"

I think he ended up sporting it - to support the Flyers? To show off his find? To prove me wrong? Who knows...

Back to the keychain - I am sure when he gave it to me, I mocked him. "Gee, thanks Dad," I probably said. He always took it in stride, my teenage ridicule, laughing right back at me - knowing he was goofy and enjoying it. It's the same way I am now, I am always laughing the hardest at my own jokes.

It probably made him feel good to give it to me, like it was something I'd always have with me. And I am sure he gave me about 14 uses for it at the time. Five or so years later, I think of him everytime I pull it out. When I am rooting through my bag on the train, when I'm trying to fit my key in the door of my apartment, when I am finding my way through a dark area...there it is, to my rescue, so to speak.

My Dad didn't impart volumes of knowledge upon me in the 52 years of his life. He wasn't always around for that, for the advice, the pep talks, the guidance. But he got his snippets in, here and there. There are very poignant nuggets that I've retained - some trivial and some much more significant.

I can still hear his scratchy voice each time I put the cap on a 2 liter bottle of soda. "Twist it tight! I don't want it going flat!" I don't even have 2 liter bottles of soda in my apartment that often, but when I do, you can bet I probably only drink from it once, as after I've put the cap on again - I can't get it reopened for the life of me.

I used to drive an old Chevy Cavalier wagon in college, for freshman and sophomore years at least. It was powder blue. The back door did not close, so in order to keep our belongings in the back during our rides to and from Washington D.C., my friends and I used to have to hold on to a thin rope. One day, in our nation's capital, I ran out of gas. The car just stopped dead somewhere in NE Washington D.C. We trekked to the station and filled up a container, then back to the car to put it in. A conversation with my Dad later that night ensued:

"Yeah, I ran out of gas today, it was so annoying!"

"Is your gas gauge broken?"

"No."

"Then for what good reason did you run out?"

I had no good reason. Maybe laziness, or lack of money, or simply just not paying attention. In any event, I am considerably aware now of the amount of gas in my car at all times.

Growing up, I remember having a lot of "stuff". Whether it was toys, books, electronics, bikes...I always had my share of things to play with. My Dad was a stickler for making sure I took care of everything. When a kid from the neighborhood stole my bike from our driveway, my Dad and I drove around for hours looking for it. He didn't want to retire to the house. He never gave up on finding it, even when I did.

"Take care of your things Kris, you want them to last a long time, right?"

Of course I did. Now I find myself wishing he took his own advice and took better care of himself.

At many times during the day, he enters my head and sets up shop in my thoughts. Like the silly little keychain, he comes into my life in small, but useful and meaningful (to me) ways. I am worried that if the light runs out, I will lose a little part of him, 2 years later. I don't want the light to fade like my memories might.

I need those thin rays of light, leading my way...

Friday's Feast

Appetizer: Name a sound you like to hear.

Absolutely the ocean, especially early in the morning when there is no one on the beach. Waves roll in and out, serene yet powerful.

Soup: What is your favorite kind of cheese?

Cheddar? I am simple when it comes to cheese. Not to say I wouldn't try any exotic brand of fromage.

Salad: Do you sleep late on Saturday mornings? Why or why not?

No, I cannot sleep in on the weekends for either 1 of 2 reasons:

1.) I am severly hungover, so much so that it wakes me up. I need water, air and love. I am like a plant.

2.) I do not like to waste the weekend hours with sleep. I love my apartment so much that anything I am doing in it makes me happy. So I savor the moments, even the ones before 9 am.

Main Course: When was the last time you forgot something? What was it, and how long did it take to remember it?

Hmmmm, does the fact that I cannot immediately remember prove that I'm typically forgetful? I forgot it was a co-worker's birthday this morning. It was not until another co-worker mentioned it that I remembered. How much does this matter though? I would feel much more guilty if it was a non-work related friend.

DessertFill in the blank: I notice ____________ when _____________.

I notice how strong my legs are when I exercise. More recently, when I partake in my new addiction, riding bikes with Lex.

This Was Fun

1) CHOOSE A BAND/ARTIST AND ANSWER ONLY IN TITLES OF THEIR SONGS: gotta go with Rod the Mod

2) ARE YOU MALE OR FEMALE? Maggie May

3) DESCRIBE YOURSELF: Forever Young

4) HOW DO SOME PEOPLE FEEL ABOUT YOU? Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?

5) HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT YOURSELF? You Wear It Well

6) DESCRIBE YOUR MOST RECENT EX: I Don’t Wanna Talk About It

7) DESCRIBE YOUR CURRENT BOYFRIEND/GIRLFRIEND:Infatuation

8) DESCRIBE WHERE YOU WANT TO BE:Sailing

9) DESCRIBE HOW YOU LIVE: Have I Told You Lately (That I Love You)

10) DESCRIBE HOW YOU LOVE: Fooled Around and Fell In Love

11) WHAT WOULD YOU ASK FOR IF YOU HAD ONE WISH?Stay With Me

12) SHARE A FEW WORDS OF WISDOM: The First Cut is The Deepest

13) NOW SAY GOODBYE: Farewell

I Dig Music.

"Baseball is what gets inside you. It's what lights you up, you can't deny that."

A favorite quote from Jimmy Dugan in A League of Their Own, played tremendously by Tom Hanks.

Do you want to know what gets inside me, what lights me up? It is music. Music inspires me and motivates me. I have to be listening to it constantly, some may say to a fault.

"Kris."

"Kris?"

"Kristen!"

"KRISTEN!"

My co-workers repeatedly have to call my name in getting my attention in our quad. I yank the ear buds out of my ears and respond to them. Apologizing profusely but immediately getting back into my zone. I am listening to whatever incredible tune is blaring out of my laptop via a perfect little invention called Yahoo Launchcast Radio.

Nestled in my big tan couch in my vanilla little apartment, I am hysterically crying. No, I am not upset, I did not receive some unfortunate news. No, it's not a tear jerker movie on Lifetime or even Grey's Anatomy. American Idol is on. (Insert Judgement Here) I know how corny this show is, for lack of a better term. I know how much "fluff", product placement and general CRAP is involved. I do not care. I love music and anyone who makes it (or tries to).

My love for music has always existed, but in the past few years it has intensified. The aforementioned Yahoo Launchcast has aided this effort. For just 30 bucks a year, I can listen to unlimited hours of My Station, a radio station customized for me. Much like Tivo (another gem of modern technology), Launchcast recommends to me artists that I might enjoy, based on my current preferences. How much do I love the little man inside my laptop who sees my love for Rod "The Mod" Stewart and introduces me to The Faces, Rod's former band? In minutes, I am rocking out to "Stay With Me" and completely oblivious to the world of work / gossip / negativity around me. I am certain that if, for some reason, the company I work for no longer allows us to listen to music via the Internet, I will metaphorically jump ship.

Along with my profound affection comes the constant need to defend my eclectic taste and the urge to introduce people (my friends) to songs and artists that I have recently fallen in love with. Again, some may say to a fault.

Heated debates about "how much country music sucks" have ultimately ended with me getting up and making a beeline for the restroom. When one of my only male co-workers (ignorantly) proclaimed that "Bruce Springsteen never made a good song, and they all sound the same anyway", I nearly choked on my Diet Coke. How can anyone make such blanket statements? Further, is anyone forcing these people to listen to country music or The Boss? Exactly. Don't knock what I am listening to unless I am blasting it out of a boom box a la Radio Raheem in "Do The Right Thing."

When a song gets inside of me and lights me up, I want everyone in my life to feel the same light.

"No, but listen to the words, they're amazing."

"Wait, gobackgoback, listen to this part."

"Here it comes that line I was telling you about."

"Didja hear it?! I love it."

Sometimes it works! Jackie is musically impressionable and holds no discrimination. Driving in my car, she now requests Kenny (Chesney) and John (Mayer). Man, I love that about her. Justina has much of the same tastes and when I send her an instant message with a line from some obscure indie love song, she eagerly replies with "amazing." These women know good music and are open minded. Donna Summer? Absolutely.

Lately, I've noticed that my passionate affair with music has increasingly begun to infiltrate the rest of my life, namely my relationships. I am never without my iPod (if I am alone) and there are constant lyrics in my head for every situation I encounter. The words "it's just like that song..." are way too often falling out of my mouth. Consequently, I am comparing the lyrics to my current favorite song to the ups and downs of being a 26 year old, single, working woman living alone. Bad idea? I had never really thought about it. Is my life ever going to live up to a romantic rock ballad by The Fray? To use a tired cliche, only time will tell. In the meantime, I'll at the very least enjoy the soundtrack of my world.

BACK

I needed a revival.

Justina has inspired me.

I am back.

Big Den

“He made us laugh and he made us cry”. (Thank You Colleen, for so eloquently capturing my Dad, his life and his impact on all of us). Such a simple phrase and yet holds so much truth.

Anyone who knew my Dad or was in his presence for a brief amount of time knew he loved to laugh. It was a loud and hearty laughter, the kind that makes your face turn red and your body shakes. Anyone who knew him also knew he was usually laughing at his own jokes & antics. He filled any room he entered with energy and noise. Timid he was not and I don’t think shy was in his vocabulary. He was loud, in your face, in your business and ...dare I say, a little bit nosey. However, it was these traits that I believe made him lovable.

My Dad made it into the hearts of almost anyone he met. He found his way in there and somehow, he stayed there. If he loved you, he made sure you knew it everyday. I never doubted my Dad’s love for his family or me. It was always there. His honesty, though sometimes brutal and unwarranted, was completely sincere. He wore his tired heart on his sleeve in such a brazen way. I admire that in people and I admired it in him.

Dennis had such a particular way of doing everything. Everything had its process, complete with its own set of little rules. So detailed, even down to the tiniest of ordinary tasks. If we ran low on mustard and the messy yellow bottle was squirting and sputtering with every squeeze, Jenna and I dare not throw it away! I can remember I got yelled at a few times and he’d take the plastic bottle of Gulden’s out of my hand, pull open the drawer, take out a sharp knife and cut the bottle in half to allow for easy access. We’d then proceed to scrape the plastic with a butter knife until it was gone.

My Dad was very hard worker. I think when did something – anything– it was in his nature to do it well. He not only taught me to work towards a goal, to earn good grades and better myself but, for a long time during my childhood, he showed me. For that I could never thank him enough.

From approximately the ages of 8-13, I could probably tell you every football team and the city that they represented. I was trained and drilled repeatedly and I would by lying if I said I didn’t love it. Every evening in the living room my dad and I would sit for hours and sharpen my skills, every team from the obscure and not so popular to his beloved EAGLES. If only they had won the Superbowl this year…his life, in his mind, would be complete. We’ll get ‘em next year Dad and we know you’ll be watching as the Birds take it home.

Everything that was truly my Dad – his meticulous nature, his booming voice, his infectious laugh and his understanding spirit, will always be with me and with all who loved him. The painful reality of his last few weeks is indeed hard to shake and unfortunately serves as a grim reminder of his weaknesses. He ran and ran and ran until his soul gave out. Yet he never ever stopped loving. He never wavered in his sincere love for his family, especially Jenna, my mom and I. My dad is someone who deserves to be cried for.

He leaves behind a loving Mother (Mom Mom Jeanne) and a courageous sister (Aunt Jeanne) both of whom are to be admired for their tremendous strength. He was very sadly predeceased by his father and his amazing brother (Uncle Jimmy), who I know if he were here today, would be a pillar of strength and stability.

As for Jenna, my mom and I, I know we’ll be OK. We watched him struggle and grow tired for a long time and I think how we can finally breathe a comfortable sigh of relief, for he is enjoying the ultimate peace.

In the movie “Shawshank Redemption”, the character Red is reflecting on the character of Andy Dufrane. He says:

“I have to remind myself that some birds aren't meant to be caged. Their feathers are just too bright. And when they fly away, the part of you that knows it was a sin to lock them up does rejoice. Still, the place you live in is that much more drab and empty that they're gone. I guess I just miss my friend.”

We, too, will miss our friend, brother, son and Dad.

1254 Wycombe Ave.

Leaky Eyes is my grandmother. We call her Leaky for short. I made up that nickname for her after Jackie turned to me one day, one of the first times she had met my mom's mom and said,

"Kris, do you know that your grandmother's eyes constantly leak?"

Of course I knew that; they had been leaking for as long as I could remember. Ever since I would go to the house she shared with my Grandpop everyday after school. Their house, the end row home, was surrounded by a huge yard and around the yard was a green chainlink fence. I would arrive at the house after a long day of 3rd grade and ever-so-quietly open the gate. I tried to never make a noise, so that I could sneak up on my Grandpop in his chair as he watched The Price Is Right.

On days where I must have had a lot to drink at school, I would race up the cement steps, through the teeny foyer and into the living room of their house, the plush red carpet at my feet.

"Here she comes!", my Grandpop would yell. "Her shoes are off, her backpack down, and she's right up the stairs, that was a record folks!" And I was up the narrow stairway to the bathroom.

It's funny the things you remember.

Leaky is moving soon. No, she doesn't know that we call her that. Her name is Margaret, like my mom, more affectionately known as Babe to her sisters and friends. So Grandmom Babe is moving soon. Settlement for a little condo in Boothwyn is Friday, May 26th. I find myself over at her house more and more often. It is like I know it won't be there long.

Down the basement steps, in place of a banister, are long, beaded hangings. Things you might see in some sort of Tarrot readings place, or a hippie's bedroom. These...beaded hangings (hangings is the only word I can think of to use) have been there forever also. My Mom said they'd been there since she was a little girl. She used to grab a handful of them and pretend they were her hair. I did the same thing and often.

The smell of the house will never leave me. It's cooking and garlic and moth balls and permanent solution. This may be a good time to mention that Babe is a hairdresser (just like Mom) and has a small saloon in her basement. My Grandpop won the lottery and had it built for her and then he won again and put a bathroom down there. It's small, but serves its purpose of a meeting place for all of her friends to come and have their silver hair washed, cut, dried, dyed and curled. During those afternoons after school, I would venture down there and sweep the hair from the floor. The old ladies would dote. My Grandmom would boast. She still does.

Yesterday, I came for dinner and had to rush in to go to the bathroom. My Grandpop was not there for the play-by-play and there was no schoolbag on my back. It was eerily familiar.

It's funny the things you remember...

Happy Birthday Dad

May 3 is my Dad's birthday. He was born on 5/3/53. He would have been 53 today. He was really weird with numbers, he always made a big deal if numbers matched up in interesting ways. On my birthday in 2004, he made a big deal because it was 04/04/04.

I am playing the lottery today. Do I think I will win? Hell no....

I just want to.