I'm now leaving the community of Live Journal, thanks for having me.

I can now be found at http://prenspace.com/chloe

Come up and see me sometime.

School has been busy. The prison has been busy and exhausting. Life there is so strange and I'm grateful for the 20 minute drive I have both ways to reprogram myelf before I enter society again. How do they do that after years of being there? I don't know.

The women there take remarkable care of the gardens that surround each "cottage." The flowers that they grow are beautiful. A woman who is in for life because she killed her dad brought me a mountain dew can full of marigolds to "cheer up your office, Ms. Hanson." She likes me, I think. She is old and seems at peace with where she is. I think maybe because she's finally safe.

Group with them is intense and last Thursday people cried during the sessions. I feel so underqualified for this work... But it is an amazing feeling to get to tell them about their strengths and to witness the way they take care of each other and open up in just 90 minutes. Word in the yard is that they like my group...

I'm doing well in classes, one professor used a paper I wrote as an example of how to write the reading responses we're assigned. It's nice to be appreciated.

Life in the House of Men is going okay. Was rocky in the beginning and I got depressed and wanted to move out with a quickness but I got over myself and now things are ok. I've repossessed my bossiness and they let me get away with it. I hope it doesn't go to my head.

Yesterday was one year that I've been divorced. I've been gearing up for it since the beginning of September. Now, I'm right where I wanted to be and then some. It was a good day, very good.

I feel so much more at peace with everything, as evidenced by what I'm about to say next: in the class I'm TA-ing, I have been assigned the daunting task of researching web possiblities for a research forum about athletes and social work. It occurred to me today that it's a shame I don't talk to D because his stories about training and overcoming odds when he was power lifting and involved in jui jitsu would have been interesting.

I think I'm finally okay with myself about that whole divorce thing. It seems like a life time ago. Like it's relevant but not baggage anymore and I'm down with that.

I turn 26 in 11 days. This number makes me nervous because 25 has been such a ride, I'm wary of what may come next. Apprehensive, but in a joyous/curious way? Something like that.

Other things:

I'll be moving away from live journal soon. But I'll keep writing. Pren is adding me to her site and I think I will like it there. Keep you posted on the move and address.

I've discovered one feeling I like a lot is that of being needed and one feeling I fear more than anything is that of needing someone. Got to figure that one out...

Favorite things about grad school so far:

The beat sessions that the drummers from the USC band have on the corners after practice. Awesome.

Access to a ridiculously state of the art gym. For free! Well, for tuition, really...

New friends who call all the time.

Exploring a new city, which I will herein refer to as Soda City because someone called Columbia Soda City in an article I was reading and I don't know why but I like it!

That's all for now.

The gym is hot even though they have huge fans in every corner. The bleachers are stacked against the walls, I am teetering on the edge, my heels digging into the floor meant only for athletic shoes. They are all on the other side, waiting with their dogs. 6 greyhounds, all lithe and tall, beautiful brindle colors wearing muzzles because dogs freak some people out here.

They are all dressed the same, brown jumpsuits. When someone says the word, the dogs are let off their leashes and toys are thrown around. The dogs have learned how to grab their toys through their muzzles; they lope around and the women squeal with glee. I hear the echo of tiny baby voices, the kind we all know we use when we talk to animals. I am watching them just as closely as they are watching me. I have the the luxury of being blatant- I work here. It's my job to observe.

One woman is standing close to me, I ask her questions about the greyhound program. They get 6 new dogs every 2 weeks. It's their responsibility to socialize the retired racers and make them ready for adoption. They walk them, let them play and sleep with them in their cells. They love them. You can see the joy in their faces- at least these dogs don't know where they are. To them, running around in the gym is freedom.

I ask the woman next to me what she's in for.

"Murder," she says. "Most of us in the greyhound program are in for that. I killed my boyfriend. I don't know why I did it, I know it was wrong. I don't know why I just didnt leave, I left my husband who beat me and another boyfriend before that. I don't know why I didn't leave him. I just snapped. I just looked at him and the only thing in my head was that if he goes to sleep, he ain't never gonna wake up." She shakes her head and pets her dog.

I tell her it's a shame that South Carolina doesn't have a self defense law. She agrees. She says when she gets out, she and her girlfriend want to have a home for retired greyhounds. She says when she has her dog, she feels better. Things aren't as bad, as tough. She asks me if it bothers me that she talks about her girlfriend. I tell her no. She says she knows it's not ok here, homosexual activity in the prison is something that you can get charged and punished for. It's so rampant that most people look the other way unless a prisoner is caught in a sex act- then they have to wear a hot pink jumpsuit for a certain amount of time. I see quite a few hot pink jumpsuits. She says she loves her but it's been hard since neither want to jeopardize their good standing and the greyhound program- if they find out she's seeing another prisoner, she's out. I tell her she should be proud of her self restraint. She says thanks.

My first 2 days there were so emotionally charged it was hard to bear. Every time I encountered something I didn't expect, my eyes welled up. I can't say as though I had any clear expectations. I think what really got me was the things that they do in the prison that seem normal and even good. Slices of decency behind these walls. Women sitting at desks learning math and english for their GEDs, women walking dogs, women talking, smoking, gardening. Things that go on my life, your life. You start to phase the jumpsuits out of your vision.

Then you go into a "cottage." How quaint, right? 2 floors of cells. 3 people to a cell, 2 in a bunk and one mattress on the floor. They have a room called "crisis;" which when someone is flipping out or on suicide watch- they put them in this room where all you have is a toilet you can't flush (so you can't attempt to drown yourself) and a metal pallet for a bed. Nothing else. I don't about you but something like that sure as hell wouldn't make me calm down.

The people I'm working with here seem committed to the betterment of these women's lives. They are not naive nor are they disillusioned- they are also not burnt out. Not yet anyway. They are compassionate, effective and responsive as much as any government institution can allow employees at a facility like this to be. They tell me to ask as many questions as I need.

I am, around school, the best party trick. Hey, Chloe tell everyone where your placement is... And I do. I don't mince words and I don't leave things out. I tell them how when a women has "maxed out her time" ie time for you to go, they HAVE to, by law, leave the facility by midnight that night. The prison gives them 2 bag lunches and drops them off at the bus station. Even if there are no buses they can catch. We all know what kind of places bus stations are and Columbia is no exception. These women who have victimized all their lives and most likely fiending for drugs are dropped off, alone, at a bus station. 2 bag lunches will do them a lot of good.

I tell them that South Carolina does not have a self defense law when it comes to domestic violence and about 80% of the women on death row or serving 30 years to life sentences are there for killing their abuser.

I tell them that South Carolina is leading the country in the number of women killed by intimate partners per year.

That South Carolina has one of the highest rate of AIDS and HIV in the nation.

That 90% of the women in the prison have been sexually molested of systematically abused by someone in their family.

I tell them that South Carolina ranks 48th or 49th when it comes to amount of money spent on prisons. This is not a good thing.

And this, I tell them, is why I am interested in prison reform and changing the laws in South Carolina.

The dog is sleeping at my feet. Sometimes when I look at her sideways, she resembles a furry black manatee.

I think I talk too much. But don't say anything that matters. I get like this when I'm faced with someone that I desperately want to impress but don't want to look like I'm trying. You know how it goes. I spend the next day replaying the conversation over and over in my head and just... cringing.

I had an appointment last night to get my tattoo touched up (I keep wanting to say re-furbished). When I was there last week with the boys I found out that the guy who has done most of my work is back after a few year hiatus. Sabbatical? I don't know.

It's been 4 years since I saw him last. He has had a hold me like I have never known before. Since the day I met him 6 years ago he has haunted me in a strangely magnetic way. I saw him again last night and I swear when I walked in and he saw me, everything stopped. Just stopped. A vaccuum. I like to think this is how it went. It might have just been me.

He said my tattoo looked great for being 4 years old and that it didn't really need anything and if I did get it retouched everything else about it would look out of place unless I wanted the whole thing re-done. Which I don't- it doesn't need it. I had just been thinking about having the red intensified for a few months because I miss the way it was so bright like when I first got it. He gave me his card- he has his own place now but works part time at the only place I'll ever go for tattoos. Said he only gives his cards out to a few people but since we go waaay back...he touched my hand.

I am struck numb. I can't think of a single funny thing to say. It's like all the bigness of my personality just walked out the door, saying "You're on you're own now, girl." I get meek. It freaks me out. What? What's happening here? I am scared if I make any noise or sudden moves that he will dart away.

I talk to him about adding onto the wings on my back- I want them embellished. I like his style and tell him I would be interested in some custom work. He says to call him this weekend. I tell him I won't be here much longer. Grad school. But that I will be coming home for holidays.

I am wondering if my coming in there with the idea that my heart needed touching up was insulting to his craft. I am worried. Shit.

We talk a little more about where he's been. He asks where I was. Illinois. He doesn't ask why. I am grateful.

He hugs me goodbye. I want to hang on. I want to swoon. I want to fan myself.

I keep thinking one thing over and over about him.

I could rock his world.

The 3 of us are crammed into a black leather loveseat in the lobby. We are waiting. Patiently. My cousin, R is getting his first tattoo. He is 26. I am sitting with his brothers. They have been visiting us with my mother's sister- their mother, my aunt. Repetitive I know but I like clarity. He has chosen, after some deliberation, the pictorial representation of the Fibonacci Sequence. A box, divided in thirds over and over again with the curve of a nautilus running through the lines.

He is a nerd, much smarter than I am in some respects, but not all. R and I grew up together for awhile when we were younger and then he moved away. We kept in touch throughout high school, reaching out to each other in that self centered way that only high schoolers understand. Commiserating over the injustices of life and love, being torn up inside and not knowing how to deal with it. Torn up about what? Oh, you know. We talk almost weekly on the phone- he tells me about music, movies and books that I should be interested in. We keep each other in check.

The last time I saw L and M, his younger brothers- 18 and 16 respectively, was 4 years ago. They were at that most awkward age and I was a senior in college- there wasn't a lot of time to get to know each other nor were any of us really interested then. Not that we didn't like each other, it just wasn't... a priority.

Now that we have all grown up a bit, I see them for the people that they are. They both are the kindest, most pure of heart young men that I have ever had the pleasure to hang out with. They have cooler senses of humors than I do and more than once I find myself humbled by their intellect and graciousness. I get along especially well with L. We spent the first part of the week at the beach- playing in St.Augustine and also on the beach. L I can talk into anything. Catch more waves with me on the bodyboards eventhough everyone else has gone in? Sure. Go to the pool at 10 at night because we can? Why not? He is eager to share all the music in his iPod with me- and I am stunned to realize he likes infinitely better stuff than I do... He says, "Listen to this song." "Is it good?" "Nah, I have terrible taste in music."

This never stops being funny. We stay up late and he downloads tons of stuff I should like. And I do. He takes his camera with him everywhere.

M seems to be more puppy than human, a big sweet pile of a guy who will do anything you ask and loves to cook. He just got into mountain biking and is learning all he can about it. He truly has a heart of gold that I am a little afraid for; seems like not many people treasure that characteristic as much as they should.

Spending time with these amazing guys, I realized my experience with men in the last 3 years has been limited and, well, not very satisfying. I have been working with all women for such a long time- which I totally enjoy- but I forget what decent men are like and that they're out there. When you deal with and hear story after story about abusers all day long, you start to see from a certain perspective. You get really skeptical and cynical and you begin to scrutinize every behavior as though it were a potential Red Flag. This gets irritating- for yourself AND your friends... It's hard to meet men to hang out with when you work in a predominantly women employed field, add to that the fact that I worked in a courthouse... Not a lot of selection there...

And when I applied to grad school- I thought, "Heck yeah! Universities have tons of men! Man buffet, here I come!" Oh wait... my program is 97% female. Rats.

In the continuing adventure that is grad school- I have had to find a place to live. I checked out roommates.com to see what I could see and made up a profile and had to edit it several times after getting some interesting... offers. Apparently- should times get really tough I could totally move in with this one guy who will pay my rent as long as I'm okay with romantic involvement in return. Tempt-iiiing... But, No. Note: Do not put "likes to cook" in your profile if you are looking for a roommate. Even if you do.

So I found a place to live. I have 2 roommates. I will be living in house that is about 4 miles from campus. The house has a deck and a dog and I get the master bedroom. There is a basement, a garage and a big yard to play in. My roommates are USC students as well- one in the law school, the other in the second year of my program.

They are both guys. I will be living in a house with 2 guys. Everybody I tell this to goes, "Whoa... So. Are you gonna be ok with that?" Or, "WHAT?" Personally, I think it will be great. I've only met the MSW student so far. When my mom and I ventured up to Columbia to scout out new places to live, I had a few people to "interview" from roommates.com and MSW's house was the first one we went to. MSW and I had talked on the phone prior to this trip- a 45 minute conversation in which I learned a great deal about him and he learned not a whole lot about me. He is ambitious and accomodating: offering to drive me to school if I needed him to, loan me his books from the 1st year and if my mom and I didn't have a place to stay in SC for the weekend, we could most definitely stay at the house. Ok, thanks. At the end of the conversation he tells me, "You know- I feel very comfortable with you. If you want the room, it's yours." Thanks again.

Saturday, we went to the house to meet MSW. I have never been more nervous in my life- I didn't even really sleep the night before. What? It's just a potential roommate, get a grip! I couldn't, though. We spent about an hour and half there. 15 minutes of it consisted of a house tour. The rest? Spent sitting on the deck talking. My mom calls him Mr. Charming McChattypants. Is he ever. She asked him if I liked the place, what should I do. He says, "Say the word, it's hers."

We left the house a bit giddy- everything was seeming to fall into place so well. The house is about a mile from the huge Farmer's Market where you can buy all the watermelon, peaches, plums and tomatoes you could ever want. We went to lunch and talked about the house- did I even want to check out the other places? Not really. Then call MSW. I did- I left him a message that I wanted the room.

We went to the Art Museum (I saw my first Botticelli!). MSW called back- telling me that it shouldn't be a problem at all me moving in. He just needed to get in touch with Law Student to let him know that he had found a third roommate. MSW went on to say that he has learned in the past that it's not the best idea to speak for someone else but it should not be a problem at all. I told him I understood. After that I felt a bit deflated. I just wanted one less thing to worry about. MSW said he'd call me as soon as he'd gotten in touch with Law Student.

My phone rings about 15 minutes later, it's MSW. "Chloe, it's MSW." "Yes?" "I just wanted to let you know that really, it should NOT be a problem at all that you move in." "Okay?" "Well- I was just going over our conversation in my head and I was thinking that you sounded a bit unsure and I didn't want you to worry that you didn't have a place to live or that it wouldn't work out. Like I said, I just don't want to speak for someone else when they aren't here. I just didn't want you to think anything was wrong, Law Student and I already decided that if someone checked out the place and only one of us was here, that person could make the executive decision if they felt confortable with the person." "Right, I understand, thanks for calling."

He called a little bit later, again. Having gotten in touch with Law Student whose phone was off, everything is a go and Law Student will email me a copy of the lease which I will sign and mail to the landlord with my 1st month rent + deposit.

I have since been in mail contact with Law Student who appears to be really cool and have gotten a few messages from MSW on my cell phone which start like this: "Hi, Chloe, it's MSW. Your roommate in South Carolina!"

This year is going be great!

So, as I was driving home from the gym yesterday something, rather surprisingly, occurred to me:

Seems like I was having a lot more fun when I had a boyfriend.

I'm sure it's just the whole home alone all day-friends working-no school yet-having moved-no job-feeling useless weird loneliness limbo that I've been living in for the past few weeks...

But damn, it's been like, 6 years since I thought something like that.

Alternatively, I just remembered my most favorite modern art installation.

It was a large blue cage housing about 12 containers all labelled HAZARDOUS WASTE just sitting on the floor of the museum.

The title of the piece?

I Love Everything About You.

There are a few things that give this property away for what it really is. The green rolling hills and the cattle, the greenhouse: they are no match for the barbwire on top of the fences or the circling helicopter.

I read the sign on the 8 foot fencing. "Press Button or Entry." I do that. I am buzzed in. I sit in the reception area. Though, I have to say "reception" is too warm a word for a room that consists of a few guards, a metal detector and some molded chairs bolted to the floor. They page the person I have an interview with. I have to sign in, document my car color, make and model along with my driver's license number. I sit. I am getting the up and down from everyone who walks by me and these are just the employees.

They ask me where I am from and what am I doing here. "Interview," I say, "For the MSW program at USC." That seems satisfactory, but barely.

He comes out of a pair of formidable looking doors. He is a small man with large hands and a big smile. He certainly doesn't look like Foghorn Leghorn. We find a meeting room to talk in. He is holding my file. I have a file? Mostly my resume and info from the grad school. He tells me before he even gets to know me that the warden has OK'ed my placement here and that I will be co-facilitating (with another student) a group for inmates who are sexual abuse/rape survivors.

I clench my teeth, unclench them and work hard to look unfazed. "Right," I say, "Sure." And then, "OK." "At least I won't be doing this alone," I think.

We talk about expectations in group and of group members and facilitators. We talk about paperwork and experience- his and mine. We talk about self care and hours. I ask the appropriate questions about supervision and who to go to with problems. I ask how the inmates recieve the groups.

He laughs and looks at me. Hard. "Well, they may recieve you just fine, they may say how much they love your group and want to go everytime but never forget- never forget where you are and who you are dealing with. You are dealing with people who are manipulative and... and..."

"Have the potential to be dangerous?" I finish.

"Exactly," he says.

We talk about modalities- a word I am starting to hear a lot- about micro and macro social work. I tell him I am leaning towards macro but I believe you can't be a good administrator without direct service experience. He agrees. We talk about behavior modification- he introduces me to his catch phrase: "Keep it healthy, keep it legal." We talk about choices and about not falling for... stories. He tells me my group will most likely be women aged 17-22. He says I will learn the language that they use here and shadow him when I start. He tells me that should I ever want to write anything about my experience here, about social work and therapy for incarcerated people, they encourage that.

If only he knew...

He asks me what made me choose Illinois. I take a deep breath and tell him that I went there initially to pursue a relationship that ended up not working but was committed to my job at the time and chose to stay.

He laughs again and says, "Oh- so you broke someone's heart. You broke someone's heart, didn't you?"

I tell him, "I'll just let you think that." I'm not giving up anything. Yet.

He tells me he makes the best banana pudding but doesn't eat it. He is a vegan. And also a pastor- part time.

We've been talking for an hour. It has been a good conversation. I like him and am ready for this next... assignment.

I ask him one last thing, about dress code.

He says, very seriously, "Nothing revealing and no jeans. "But mostly," he emphasizes, "nothing revealing."

Right.

Could I even begin to describe what it's like to be back in Florida? It's one thing for where you're from to be just an aspect of your personality, something you draw on for charm and stories when you're living out your life somewhere else totally different.

It's another for you to return. And start living there again. I have been called sensitive more times than I could count; and it's true, I am and I'd like to stay that way. With increased sensitivity comes a thick undercurrent of sentimentality. Being back here, I am realizing something: I was raised by my mom and dad and I think something else: Florida.

Growing up here, you are so aware of the environment because your backyard is swarming with vegetation; kudzu vines climbing up the kitchen window and covering the fence, the tiny rootbeer plant you bought as a girl and planted that is now rampant throughout the back and frontyard with stalks over 7 feet tall and 4 inches around at the base, rain lillies, dandelions, camelia bushes, azaleas bushes big enough to camp out under, oak trees, pine trees, pecan trees and an idyllic magnolia out front. This is true even if you live in one of the pre-fab subdivisions because those are often nestled into dense areas of trees, bushes and verdant murky swamp areas not safe to build on.

Everytime I see something new going up; a new apartment complex or another grocery store, it's like an insult to me. I remember the cow pastures that used be where the cluster of hotels or new housing develoments are now off I-75, both Waldo and Archer Rd. exits. I remember when the Hippodrome was the only thing downtown that mattered and Kesl's Coney Island where you could get carrotdogs (though I never would). I remember when Gainesville didn't even have a Hooter's. I remember when Hawthorne Rd. was 2 lanes and Kate's Fish Camp was just a shack and some christmas lights. I remember Putt-Putt Mini Golf. I remember the old public library where I could spend hours perched on the ledge of the cement ponds watching the koi swim. I remember when parking was free. I remember the Covered Dish where I first saw Ani DiFranco in 1996. I remember when The Common Grounds used to be Insomniacs and before that it was Caffiend's. Meeting friends at Eckerd's at 1 pm on a Saturday and wandering the streets til 5 when my dad would take us all home. We spent those weekends in high school downtown playing pool at Sharkey's, browsing at Hyde and Zeke's, Schoolkid's Records, Vamp, Packrats, Babalou's and that recycled denim place I forget the name of... Bowling and Killer Death Cut Throat Uno at the Reitz. Later in life, shows at Market Street or the Arc. Kanapaha Botanical Gardens where friendships evolved into other things or faded away- it was always the constant backdrop; frisbee in the fields and boys with guitars under the trees. That little gazebo in the asian garden where I spent hours with my first boyfriend, wmaking idealistic plans for our collaborative futures: 2 children and a dog. Golden retriever? Maybe. I like mutts. Finding shelter under the trumpet flower vine covered arbors when it was raining.

The smell of earth here is still the same. Stifling almost when it's muggy and wet; you can smell it in your car even when the windows are up and the AC is on, it's unmistakable. So is the smell of water- rain, lake or sea. Rowing taught me that- the smell of storms coming and also the prickly pear reward of teamwork.

The way things look when it has been raining for days is still the same, like it's tripled in size and depth of color. I wonder now if the gators are going to walk out of the prairie because the water levels meet the road. It's been like this before- when lakes overflowed and 441 shut down to one lane across the prairie because the right lane was swamped. It was colder then when it happened the first time, gators safely tucked into mud beds.

The pungent smell of wet leaves and the slippery-cool feeling under my bare feet. There's so much here that's just saturated with memories... I haven't even gotten to how the people are, how there's "oil" and there's o'el, the way people just talk to you- in the grocery store and smell the plums and tap watermelon. Maybe I didn't notice those things as much in Illinois, maybe life was moving too fast there to notice these things. I walk around town here with my eyes squinted- Do I know you? Did we go to school together? Did I babysit you? Every face looks possible for some degree of recognition...

But I'm different now: I see how my driving has changed. I hear myself saying "That's not how we do that in Illinois." I'm less patient now and people walk too slow for me here. They tell me I talk too fast. Don't they know I have things to do? Places to be? Things to buy? Oh, wait. That was my other life; the one where I had so much to do all the time... Or so it seemed.

There's no hurry here- it's too damn hot to be rushing around! Sit down, have some tea, want a snack?

Welcome home.

Waiting on the train platform, listening to the sounds of the Chicago traffic swell and fade- it reminds me of the ocean.

I have spent a hot weekend downtown with Mara. I met her at Millenium Park where we wandered around and briefly considered shirking it all and jumping into Chicago's socially acceptable version of opening up a fire hydrant. Two huge structures that are part fountain, part art exhibit featuring the Regular Chicagoan, giant rotating faces of people in the city where rumor has it would take years of watching non-stop to see your face repeated there are so many; serve as a playground for children and the daring parent. The kids know this fountain well, they time it out based on the facial expression of the person on the screen which signifies either a giant faux waterfall from the top for which they all stand lined up, backs against the artwork, shoulder to shoulder as tight as they can be- squealing with delight when they are soaked by the downpour or alternately sitting and facing the screen for when a firehose like blast of water sprays them. The game never gets old and it is oh-so-tempting on a too hot to breath day like today.

We hover at the edge, wishing we had small children for an excuse to go in. The hems of our skirts are splashed by kids skating around on the slick slate that makes up the groundwork of this installation.

We wander over to the Blues Fest and rest in the shade a bit before we venture on what turns into an hour and half hike down Lakeshore drive in search of refreshment. We settle on a restaurant that is perched on the sand of Lake Michigan. We drink and talk and catch up. I have missed my friend and will miss her even more in the weeks and months to come.

We walk through Lincoln park, sunkissed and radiating heat in search of the El station. I am only mostly familiar with the subway of D.C. and the subterranean levels of Chicago make me think of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movies (of which I saw all 3, in the theaters, no less) or any other mutant movie where there is ultimately some throwdown between good and evil. I think these places are prime spots for such battles.

We find spots to sit on the El- you know it is hot when you recognize the smell of other people who have also been outside- it can be both simultaneously intimate and repulsive- depending solely on how many of you there are. I sit across from an indie hipster looking guy who is very involved in the music he is currently listening to. I inconspicuously crane my eyeballs and read the cd- Jay Z.

We hoof it from the El stop to Mara's 3rd floor apartment that does not have AC. It is almost 7:30 pm. That's barely anytime to recover before we go out again. We sit on the couch in front of the TV with our skirts hiked up and all the fans she owns pointed at us, drinking glass after glass of ice water.

2 hours later we are cool enough to consider moving again. We mix cocktails and begin the process of Getting Ready. Hair and make up, outfit consultation. An impromptu fashion show and we are ready to go in search of a cab to deposit us downtown again.

We start at a club where some of Mara's friends are- we are waiting in line for a place that is sub-par at best but located in a basement and therefore cooler than anything else right now. We keep getting passed over because there apparently is a bachelorette convention downstairs and veils get you in faster than a $20 handshake. There is a some pint sized guy behind us talking up a pair of girls, his boys from the ad agency are downstairs, yo. They are just in town for a convention and out for a night of carousing with the locals- wanna hear about the ads they're putting together? He is from Detroit. It is hilarious only to me as I think of the scene in Out of Sight when Jennifer Lopez is sitting in a hotel top bar in Detroit waiting for George Clooney when she is barraged by assholes that just flew in from "The Apple" to pitch the new Hiram-Walker sale. Ad-boy is dying a slow death.

We finally get downstairs sans veil or palm greasing and I am bored already. We make our own fun dancing and get tired of it as both of are wearing the least sensible shoes possible. We are told of another bar and cab it there. It is nicer here, well-lit and the music is good. We notice there is Booty Shaking Contest later in the evening. Prize, $100. We walk back to where the contest is- the bartender says it will be in a bit- they will announce the sign up. We survery the competition- it is almost empty. We assume no one would really come here, right? Fools. In an hour I commence with the first and last time I ever dance on a stage for money. I didn't do too badly! There were 6 groups of girls, about 4-6 girls per group. I think if it were overall- I bet I would have at least gotten 7th. Definitely top 10.

Mara's boyfriend shows up and drives us home, but then re-routes with the grand idea of watching the sun come up over Lake Michigan since when am I going to be able to do that again? Mara falls asleep and we are left in the cool air, light breaking through and making everything look approachable again. It is 6 am by the time we get home.

I fall into bed- not remembering the last time my legs were so sore. (Did I say 7th? Maybe top 5.) True to nature, I wake up about 5 hours later, unable to get back to sleep. Mara's boyfriend leaves for a soccer game. We are starving and get down with the sounds of homemade big breakfast. Showered off and feeling human again- we venture down to a street festival in Mara's neighborhood. A cover band paying tribute to the best of the 80s is rocking out and listen for a bit. Weaving through the people, I feel comfortable here and Mara is proud of where she lives, delighting in the vendors and couples of all lifestyles. We get temporary tattoos from a doctor's booth: Mara a cobra and me a stegosaurus.

I buy a t-shirt that has the metra symbol on it and says O'Hare. I have been to that airport more times in 3 years than is normal.

We wander back to her apartment and I get ready to go. She and her boyfriend drop me off at a metra station down the line. We walk up to the platform to say our goodbyes. This is getting harder everytime. I am crawl into my headphones and settle down with David Byrne for the ride home. The train isn't half as crowded as I had expected and I am thankful.

When we roll into my stop, it has just rained and there is a clearly visible rainbow.

I feel like a Degas painting today.

I have ballet flats on and a moderately full skirt- my shoes make me want to walk very softly and also with my toes slightly pointed outwards. Catie makes fun of me because for some reason- even though the only time I was ever a ballerina I was also in the single digits- whenever I wear ballet flats I stand in 2nd position.

I have been feeling so overwhelmed lately. I have so many things on my plate that all seem to have to get done by the same time but in different states. I feel like I have so many more questions than answers about this whole grad school venture and I am getting more than a little irritated by the ambiguous answers I get from the people I am supposed to be in contact with.

Also- and I know I will love it more when I am there- for the life of me I cannot even understand what these people are saying…

Apparently, at USC you do a sort of internship in addition to your normal coursework so as to get “field experience.” You send them your résumé and fill out their questionnaire and they assign you to an agency.

About a month or so ago they emailed me my assignment: the County Sheriff’s Department.

I guess I was a bit let down for a few reasons; as much as I love my job now and the variation of my position in terms of who I get to work with, what I’ve learned being able to work closely with police and the contacts I’ve made, I was always very secure in the fact that I was safely on the non-profit, do-gooder side of the fence.

The list of agencies to choose from was enormous: sexual assault centers, crisis centers, domestic violence shelters and agencies, everything! But Nooo-ohh, they stick me with the cops.

Can you imagine that conversation at orientation and future classes?

Setting: group of students at a certain university in the South Eastern United States…

Student 1: “Hey, I am so excited about my fieldwork! I am working with abused children at an advocacy center- working with the art therapist.”

Student 2: “Wow- that’s so cool! I am at the local crisis center, answering the hotline and observing counseling sessions. Hey Girl from Illinois/Florida, what are you doing?”

Me: “Well, I’ll be participating in a research project at the Sher-…”

Students 1 & 2: “Oh, that’s right, we heard about you. You’re doing your field work with… THE MAN.”

(Insert wicked laughing and no friends here)

Now apparently, this field placement wasn’t really meant to be because my contact lady never really got back to me in reasonable amount of time whenever I called and one time we had a phone interview scheduled and she never called me and I left a message for her trying to confirm the appointment… My phone rang at quarter to 8 the next morning and it was her, asking me if I was on my way to her office.

Uhhh… “I’m in Illinois,” I tell her.

She is thoroughly confused and mumbles something about my message not even appearing on her voice mail until this morning. Lady, it’s voicemail, it’s not like it’s a sentient being that decides when and what it wants to record for fun. We schedule another phone interview a week out.

We had our phone interview where I think that they tell me they want me to compile statistics on the effectiveness of their department- read reports and go to court and see if victims are returning for trial and why or why not.

Sort of exactly like the job I already have.

At least, I think that’s what they said. My mom asked me how my interview went and I honestly couldn’t tell her. I had NO IDEA what these women were saying to me- their accents were so thick combined with the fact that I was on speaker phone… So I think it went well? But you might have to ask them if you want to know for sure.

So my fieldwork placement director gives me a call a week ago to see how things are going… I tell her that I haven’t had much luck staying in touch with the lady from Sheriff’s department and that I’m not so sure that I really want to work there (they require a credit report, driving record AND polygraph test before they’ll even give me the placement)… My director says she will look over what’s left and see if she can find me another placement just to have a back up.

I miss the call and when I pick up the message this is what I hear:

[yeah that's right, I changed it. Because this more how it sounded.]

“Hi, Chloe we thank that yew should try anothah avenue. Since yew been workin’ with victims this whole tahm, maybe yew should experience the othah side of criminal justice. We would lahk it if yew gave __________ a call at xxx-xxx-xxxx, the Women’s Correctional Facility here.” Let us know whut yew thank, we look forward to workin’ with yew. Bah."

So I call her back- a bit apprehensive; I mean I’ve been in the jail here a few times working with clients and it’s a bit of a environmental shock, a shock that sort of lingers for awhile, like an awkward hangover. But, ok, I’m always up for learning something new- so “I’ll do it” I tell her, “I am excited. Thank you.”

The number they give me just rings and rings and rings… I call them back and they say that that’s the right number… I try again the next day to no avail. I call the field placement office the next day to get a new number, the guy I talk to says that he will check out the number and call me back within in the hour.

That was last Tuesday. I sent him an email Wednesday trying to follow up, no reply. I call information during the weekend- it’s a prison- someone’s always working, right? Information gives me the number for the prison and I call. They tell me to call during the week. I leave a message Monday morning before I leave, asking the guy I am supposed to talk to call me at work.

He calls 2 hours later. He talks JUST LIKE Foghorn Leghorn- it’s great. I think he even said “I say” at least once.

My field placement lady calls later on Monday wondering how things were going since they hadn’t heard from me. I want to tell her check her email and tell her co-worker to call people back sometime. She says that Foghorn apparently is pretty excited about me potentially working there. Foghorn works with the women coming into the prison who are pregnant, with the mentally ill and “intellectually challenged” population and coordinates the transitional services at the prison.

I think I will actually really like this potential new adventure even with the shivers mentioning it entails.

I say, I think I will, son.

Should you ever have the opportunity for a granola flavored vacation- in that you will be spending much more time outside than in and staying in easily portable living quarters- I suggest you do so with some biologists.

I feel like a small child with every step we take on our hike. I am transfixed by the size of the trees and the decision the earth made to stop so abruptly with the forest and start with the ocean. There are slugs! Slugs, slugs everywhere slugs! They are long and sometimes black and even some that that didn’t get the memo that leopard print is so 5 minutes ago. They have eye stalks.

I love the way she describes the west coast and how the beauty is so big that it’s hard to hold all at once- that you keep blinking your eyes to make sure it’s still there. I can’t think of anything closer to the truth.

Our hike was damp- it rained for most of the weekend and we were indeed living inside a cloud. There are exits from the trail for hikers to go and be close to the ocean, to walk the fallen driftwood trees like tightropes- hoping you don’t go crashing into mud or rocks. I almost tossed my cookies on an ill-advised hop from a rock to some decking they used to form the trail. Luckily a few years of walking on ice every winter helped me regain my balance before I went careening off into the muck.

On one ocean exit, there are tidal pools teeming with life. I touch anemones- even though I am not supposed to. There are tiny fish, hermit crab and barnacles; tons of bitty eco-systems just there for the examining. Keri and Boz educate me on all that these little creatures can do.

Another trail exit has huge ocean-hollowed shallow caves. Two cave openings side by side look exactly like a giant elephant head, trunk resting on the beach.

Keri and I run for the rocks, Jess and Boz yell to us to turn around. I scream.

There is a huge body on the sand. We come for a closer look. It is a sea lion, female. She has not been dead long and evidenced by the foot prints; we are not the first to find her. She is huge, a good 6 feet long and weighing in at about 400 pounds if I had to guess. She is on her back, we touch her flippers. Her lips are hanging open- she has a face and teeth like a dog. Her coat is sleek and so very soft. We were silent for a time- unsure of how to fill the space with this creature in the background.

We have hearty snacks of natural peanut butter, banana and honey sandwiches on sprouted wheat bread which you have to eat with loud smacking noises as it is sort of the consistency equivalent of stale cardboard; yet so very good for you! Keri is not impressed with our smacking- citing benefits of the protein your body gleans from sprouted wheat. "It has as much protein as an egg, guys!" Mmm, sprouty egg protein bread...

It’s strange when you don’t see your friends for a few years- even though you talk fairly regularly- you realize you don’t know so much about them anymore. Without the opportunity to ride in cars together- I have no idea what my friends listen to now, I don’t know what has really gone on in their daily lives; the intricacies. Maybe I don’t ask the right questions… There was much sharing around the fire and I am filled in. There was some crying and some things that were hard to hear- but on the whole they are taking such good care of themselves and doing so very well. They are happy.

The trip home from Canada is long and towards the end we are worn out and a bit snappy- it’s been a few days since a shower, a bed and dry clothes.

In the morning we get up early (again) but this time to see some of Seattle. After some vegan cinnamon rolls and soy chai- we hit the Pike Place Market where hot sailor men in bright orange coveralls throw fish and yell unintelligible things. I touch the tentacle of an octopus and take a picture of a monkfish.

It is sort of a huge Farmer’s Market- tons of free samples of awesome food. I try chipotle peach jelly, BBQ-ed peanuts, fresh cheese curds, dried organic apples and fruit logs- which I buy. On the bag that the guy puts my fruit logs in someone had scrawled: "What do I want? Affection.”

I buy a large pumpkin cookie and a Polish something with cheese and beef in it for the plane.

After some pictures on the porch and creative packing, Jess and I honk our way to the airport as Keri had to go to work and Boz is heading back to Portland.

Jess drops me off at departures and tells me to take care and that she loves me and to call when I get in. I tell her I love her too, thank you for having me and that I’ll see her again.

As I fly away from Washington my eyes well up a bit and I think that there is nothing more important than family.

*From my secret favorite thing about Seattle: The XXX movie theater on the way to Jess’ house- they were showing Star Wars Peepisode 2, Revenge of the Stiff. Yes!

It is a hazy wake-up, I can hear the crashing of the waves. Twisted up in a sleeping bag that isn’t mine and amazed that I am even in pajamas- the realization that I have to pee is crushing my bladder. I lean over and unzip the tent and attempt to climb over Jess- but it ends up more of a clumsy roll. She doesn’t wake up. The air is chilly, like we are in the middle of a cloud. I can smell the sea in the air and make a beeline for the little out house.

Some events of the night before are a bit blurry- but I do know that much fun was had.

I am in Port Renfrew on the Juan de Fuca Islands off of Canada. A hasty invitation was e-mailed to me about a month ago- “Hey, I successfully defended my Master’s thesis and we are going camping in Canada and you should come!”

Camping? Canada? Master’s degree! My friend Keri has finished her degree- the degree that has taken her on a fishing boat around Alaska, down the coast of California- by boat again- and in and out of ports for the last 3 years. She has been studying the evolution and eating habits of different species of rockfish- research for her fellowship. I remember the call I got in 2001- “Chloe- I got a job working on a ship for an Alaskan fishing company! I’m going!” She would be leaving in November and hitting Alaska just in time for winter.

She’s been asking me to visit her and our friend Jess in Seattle/Portland since she moved there in 2002. Finally I got my act together and bought myself a ticket to go see my friends. Keri and Jess and I rowed together in college. There is a bond that forms among rowers that often boggles the mind of people who never rowed. Something about the daily close proximity to people (you are often not more than 6 inches away from your teammate- lined up vertically in a boat that isn’t more than 20 inches across at the widest part) combined with a stupid level of competition and grueling, ego crushing practices that make us a bit wackier than the norm. Needless to say, when I get around these women we become the human version of a litter of puppies.

Much of my holiday was spent in transit; driving to the ferry, riding the ferry for 3 and a ½ hours from Washington to Canada, driving through Canada to our camp site which was about 2+ hours of the most beautiful and treacherous winding road ever. And that was just Friday.

We spent a lot of time in the grocery store on Vancouver Island. We were amazed at the amount of things you could buy in bulk. It really made us look bad with our fixation on pre-packaging. They had barrels of tea bags you could buy by the pound and the selection of chocolate would make you weak in the knees.

Along for the trip was Keri’s good friend Boz. They met when they were both working for the same fishing company, I believe. It is a brave, brave man who would gladly accompany 3 girls on a camping trip- he even drove 5 hours through the night to get to Jess’ house at 3 a.m. when we had to get up at 5 the next morning to catch the ferry.

He also cooked for us and made us coffee. He is definitely in my Top 5 Favorite Guys Club forever. He’s crazy about Keri- but the good kind of crazy- the kind of crazy that makes you jealous and full of hope at the same time.

We picked a spot that was about 40 feet from the waves, bordered on either side by little mountains. It was amazing. Jess and Boz were exhausted and in need of naps so Keri and I took a barefoot walk on the beach, collecting rocks and driftwood and climbing on the trees that had been uprooted and washed white by the ocean.

We made burritos for dinner- cooking potatoes, black beans, mushrooms, onions and peppers on a small camping stove- they were topped with fresh avocado, tomato and Canadian brand salsa. Jess made a fire and there were drinks all around. FYI: you can mix ginger ale with a liquor of your choice and it will taste great. Gin- check. Whiskey- check. Almond flavored Tequila from Mexico- oh just drink that straight from the bottle and pass it down. And we did.

Breakfast on Saturday was preceded by a polar bear dip in the swimming hole.

Hey- I was just in Canada. Camping. By the ocean. Between some mountains. More later.

Talking to my cousin, R the other day and we were discussing his younger brothers: L and M. They are an endless source of amusement to the both of us. One of my most favorite stories is when R was playing hide and seek with L and M and R was about to look in the clothes hamper for L- who was clearly IN the clothes hamper and M yelled, “Don’t look in there, that’s not L, that’s a hamster!”

Now that L and M are 15 and 17 or 16 and 18, I can never remember- they are even more entertaining. Apparently M is into drama and is currently set to play Dr. Frederick Chilton in his high school’s musical rendition of Silence of the Lambs.

That’s right. I couldn’t even make that up.

Can you imagine the sequence of events that lead to that idea? A high school, putting on a made for the stage musical adaptation of Thomas Harris’ novel about a cannibalistic psychiatrist and one brilliantly ambitious FBI trainee’s hunt for a serial killer who peels the skin off plus size women. For to wear them later.

Catie and I were trying to make up songs for this play the other day. They consisted mostly of lyrics in the vein of “I like to wear skins, women’s skins! How do I look in your face?” I sure hope there’s some choreographed dance numbers.

L has been a freakishly good artist since he was a fetus and is most likely going to study with some comic book illustrator in college or something like that. In the meantime he skateboards and listens to AC/DC. These kids are so my favorite people.

What kind of children can you expect from a woman who makes her own soap and touts it as Soap So Good, Your Skin Will Scream If You Use Anything Else; which I can totally vouch for.

Another cousin I have drives cars in Demolition Derbies.

Oh yeah, R is a copy editor of sorts for some company that builds security systems for nuclear power plants, government clearance type stuff. His boss is Russian and he says the desire to respond to this guy in a faux Russian accent is sometimes unbearable.

How awesome is my family?

I finished my shrug thing. I like it but it's sort of muppet-y weird. I think working with the mohair wool scratched my knuckles up, so I can’t really imagine what it might do to my body should I choose to wear it… Perhaps a bath in some fabric softener will do it some good.

This weekend is a lady squad weekend and we are going to a drag show in the city and other fun seeking. Who couldn’t use a mini-break full of crafting, cocktails and fancy outfits?

It is a strange thing when a friendship evaporates. I tend to think that at this age, one is kind of over that whole we’re so not friends anymore thing. I guess I just think that after a certain amout of years, you get better at picking out people who you want to keep in your life. I can be so delusional sometimes. Self preservation, maybe?

The worst thing about this one minute it’s there, the next it’s not issue is that I am so confused about where it went. Most times, when a relationship ends- I can pretty much pinpoint exactly what went wrong and get over it. I understand that sometimes you outgrow people or realize that your lives don't really converge anymore or maybe something just happens and the friendship dies.

But I have a hard time letting go of things when I don’t understand them; I keep turning it over and over in my head- examining the hell out of it. I tell myself that if I just think about it long enough, I will be graced with an epiphany.

Right.

It feels like I broke up with someone. We were only friends for about a year- but we did so many special things together. She sat with me during my divorce, I taught her how to crochet, we had music taste in common and I could always count on her to go see comic book movies with me. We used to talk every week. She was always invited to our dinner parties.

Then something happened. I’m not quite sure what. Life got busy and then things sort of fell away and we were left, perhaps, in a rut; talking about the same things, stalling, trying to milk the last drops of each other. Maybe we never had anything in common after all? But I don’t want to say that- to discount the friendship we did have. It’s peculiar what proximity and age can fool you with.

I’ve said before that I come on strong and I do and I’ve tried to tone that down but I think it’s too much of who I am. I chalk it up to being an only child- you are left to your own devices when it comes to entertaining yourself and if you want friends- you better go out and make some. I have this other, uhm, trait where when I see someone who appears to be wanting in the friendship department, a Under Dog-esque voice in my head goes, “I’ll Be Your Friend,” then I force myself upon them with all the friendship powers that I can muster.

Sometimes it works out and sometimes it doesn’t. This is one of those times where it didn’t.

I hate to think of the last message I left on her cell phone, hoping that everything was ok, asking her to please call if she needs to talk. It hurts me to know that plea is out there- floating around, lost in phone space, an un-requited request for friendship. But I want to call her again, just to make sure, to ask: is this what you really want? Because I can’t believe that it might be.

I guess I feel uncomfortable as well, because it forces me to scrutinize myself as much as I am this failed friendship. Is there something I did wrong- something I should be apologizing for, something about me? I hate that question.

In other news- I am making a shrug from an odd pattern- no finishing- it’s all one piece and I have ideas for modifying it already. I am using some excessively mohair-y yarn in a weird gold-turquoise-purple variegation and sort of fear that it may end up looking like I skinned a muppet and made a stole from it’s fur. It feels good to be making again- I really haven’t done so consistently and with any enthusiasm since Christmas.

I cooked all day Sunday- BBQ-ed chicken (with my own BBQ sauce!), corn bread and I made potato salad for the first time- any semblance of summer in this weather is welcome to me.

The high today is 55.

Memories of you

1. Reply with your name and I will write something about you. (even if you are not of the lj world- just post anonymously and put yer name.)
2. I will then tell you what song/band reminds me of you.
3. Next, I will tell you who you remind me of, celebrity/animated or otherwise.
4. Last, I will try to name a single word that best describes you.

some child on my street has lost a small plastic dinosaur. it is under the stop light, in the middle of the road. i am careful not to run it over.

last night, someone i greatly respect called me a shining star.

this morning, when i was walking to the passenger side door of my truck, a sparrow flew out from my wheel well- it was seeking shelter from the rain.

today i have discovered that while i like poetry a lot; i like poetry about love and relationships the most.

the high today is 45 degrees and there's snow forecasted for this weekend.

yesterday when i was walking to my car after work, it smelled like winter.

chances are that if i do something that

a. dissapoints you
b. hurts your feelings
c. pisses you off
d. all of the above

i will torture myself about it much longer and more brutally than you would ever think to, unless you are the kind of person who holds lifelong grudges. in which case: you win.

Talking to a friend on the phone recently and she asked me what I was up to. I said “nothing- just working really.” Then she proceeded to tell me all that she was into and it was a list that made me desperately wish for more excitement in my life (driving through railroad do not cross bars excluded).

We ended our conversation shortly as she was busy being interesting and active and had to go attend to said excitement. I hung up feeling sort of dejected and sorry for myself because, really, what have I been up to, anyway?

I feel like I begin a lot of posts that way, like what the hell AM I doing with myself?

Here’s what I neglected to tell her because I think sometimes once I do something, I completely forget I ever did it. Weird, I know.

Last Monday I went and spoke to our Senator about responsible and comprehensive sexual education for schools in the state of Illinois. We told her about Bush and his push to stack schools with abstinence only curricula regarding safe sex practices for teens and the worst part about this is that the majority of schools end up using this material because it is furnished to the schools FREE OF CHARGE and since education gets little to no love money-wise anyway, this is all that teachers are left with. However, in Illinois a surprising majority of voters are against abstinence only education entirely and that same majority support comprehensive Sex Ed. These include moderate republicans, as this senator is. I did this with a few women from the county pro-choice activist group I belong to. I volunteer with this group from time to time at business expos and the county fair as well, they have a booth set up where we can spread the word of reproductive rights and get yelled at by right wing men who consistently ask us about the baby’s rights. Yeah, okay, show me your uterus and then we’ll talk, Slappy. I am the youngest in this group by a good 30 years.

The senator heard our plea for consideration of this bill and agreed to sign it as long as it does not call for the schools to create their own funding for it, provided it is attached to a separate grant that supplies the money necessary, which it does. The rest of that day I sort of floated around, feeling a lot better about the world. It’s a small thing, I know, but come on- even though IL is a blue state our county is overwhelmingly conservative- we don’t even have a Planned Parenthood because people are so scared that it will encourage teens to have sex. Because they totally don’t already. It also means that access to reproductive health services to poor and indigent people is comprised. That we are only sixty-some miles from Chicago is embarrassing. Thank goodness for the public health department.

My main focus at work has been co-organizing and co-facilitating the day long domestic violence training our program does bi-annually for the law enforcement officers which happened last Wednesday. We had 18 officers respond! 3 from departments who aren't even part of our program. It went really well and included, this time, information about the lethality of strangulation in domestics. We showed pictures and talked about the long term and often invisible damage strangling someone entails. It’s sad how often this is overlooked in the reports we read. More hope for the victims as police are often their first link to help and those officers can heavily influence the likelihood of someone taking the next step to getting safe.

Last weekend, I did what I did last fall and volunteered to answer phone for WNIJ’s seasonal membership drive. I love going there because I meet the most interesting people and sometimes they even remember me- saw a lot of the same volunteers from the fall who were all, "Hey Chloe!"

I sat next to Guy Stephens who anchors Morning Edition at the station. We got to talking about Florida and he told me about traveling with his orchestra in high school and college (he plays oboe) and how he played in this building in Sarasota that was inspired by Frank Lloyd Wright's wife. This building was entirely purple; interior and exterior. She loved purple and loved the idea of a purple building and I guess ol’ Frank, he said “Sure.” He talked about eating conch fritters in Tampa at roadside stands and the taste of seafood on the coast and I understand why he is such a great anchor- the way he tells a story; you can’t help but listen.

Chris Lehman is apparently engaged and getting married in a few months. Whatever, Chris. I thought we had something what with the reaching for hi-lighters simultaneously and the sitting next to each other. Heartbreaker.

I met this guy’s fiancée and we talked movies and she does the same weird single squeaky hiccup thing that I do which is sort of creepy/cool?

And then there was this other guy who anchors the classical station sometimes and he and his wife just had a baby- life sure has changed for them- they never leave the house anymore. Never fear though, they have reserved a babysitter for the opening night of Star Wars III. Oh yes, priorities.

So, WNIJ did pretty well with their annual membership drive- as part of our donation sheet we have to ask if there are any comments they want to share and one guy said “I like to think of my donation to NPR as the tip after a delightful meal. I’ve eaten my fill and now it’s time I pay for what I’ve had.” And he promptly gave me his credit card number for a $365 donation.

Today's post brought to you by the reading of a lot of news and hearing a lot of things that are pretty dismal as far as my own community, the country and the environment go and just general lack of reported good things in the world.