Today, just a few minutes after noon, my cellphone rang. It was my cousin Melissa. She never calls me during the workday, and so immediately, my throat tensed. I picked up the phone and gave a tentative, strained “hello,” expecting that she was calling to say that her mother was in the hospital, or that her aunt and partner had had some terrible accident on their trip across country.

My fears washed away as soon as I heard her voice. She sounded positively upbeat.

“I am having the loveliest day, and I thought you’d like to know! I just had a doctor’s appointment, and now I’m at the Santa Monica farmers’ market, eating a white chocolate and raspberry scone. I wish you were here, because you would just love all the beautiful food.”

She was simply calling to, as she put it, “share her happy.” She just wanted to tell me that the weather was perfect, she felt good and that she was eating something delicious. That was the sole point of the call, and it helped to lift me out of my cold medication fog, and for a second, I felt like I was there with her, two blocks from the beach.

I love being this person. The person that people call when they are happy or when they’re in love or they’ve just seen a really amazing flower. The person who can be counted on to readily jump in and share the joy they are experiencing. Who will absolutely validate that having one really excellent moment is worth celebrating. If I could find a way to make this what I did with my life, I would do it in a heartbeat.

I had thought I’d kicked it, but the cold of 2006 is fighting back, and so I’ve spent most of the day on the couch, trying to convince the mucus that is gathering in my head to go elsewhere. I’m not entirely sure if I’m winning.

This weekend, in between rounds with the cold, I did get out and do some fun stuff, including attending the Elfreth’s Alley Fete Day. I took a bunch of pictures (as I am wont to do), and I offer them up in place of a more substantive post.

Last night, around 9 pm, I started bustling around the apartment, straightening couch cushions, gathering crumpled tissues and stacking abandoned magazines. Shay, a friend who has been my roommate while I’ve been between roommates, looked up at me from her computer on the dining room table, and said with bemusement in her voice, “Oh, that’s right! It’s time for the Sunday Night Routine.”

I paused, half bent over one of the throw pillows that belongs to my brown, secondhand loveseat. For a moment I felt self-consciously naked, caught in the act of a mildly compulsive habit, but then I relaxed again and said, “It’s just that I like to start the week out organized.”

For years now, I’ve reserved an half-hour or so on Sunday nights, to get myself in order for the coming week. It’s a time to fold and put away laundry, return to their homes the seven (or so) pairs of shoes that lay where they were kicked, wipe the kitchen counter of crumbs and throw away any food that’s started to curl, mold or mush. I put books back where they belong, gather the trash from several cans and empty the recycling bin. I heartlessly toss junk mail and typically find a couple items that belong in the Goodwill pile, an empty brownpaper Trader Joe’s shopping bag by the front door.

I realize that some people might find this habit suspect, akin to repeated handwashing or door locking. For me, it is a way to reset myself for the coming week, as if my life and home are a clock that requires weekly winding. When the apartment is neat and all things are back where they belong, I feel comfortable, ready to welcome the coming Monday and the days that will inevitably follow. I don’t worry as the clutter mounts throughout the week, because I know I’ll tame it into submission once more.

Saturday morning I got up early to take my friend Seth to the airport. I don’t have the world’s best track record with Seth and the airport and so, for the sake of our friendship, it was doubly important that I get to him on time. Thankfully, I woke up to my alarm and was even a couple minutes early pulling up in front of his apartment. As I sat in my car, parked in the median lane of South Broad Street, I had a moment to sit and appreciate the peace of early morning.

After I dropped him off, driving back into Philly over the 95 bridge, I was entranced by the sky. Had I been talking, I would have been rendered speechless. In that moment, I wished for another person to be in the passenger seat, so I could have shared the view with another. Center City was small in the left-hand corner of my windshield, and the sky was blue with waving ripples of white. It was vast and expansive and made me wish that my car had wings, so that we could have flown off the beaten path and into another world.

All my life, my father has been one to notice what the sky is doing that day. As a young teenager, I would be in the car with him, when he would say in a voice tinged with awe and honor, “Will you look at that sky!” I would reply in bored tones, “It’s just a sky, dad. It does that everyday.” He was never phased by my attempts to toss cold water on his enthusiasm and continued to point out the moments when nature was particularly spectacular.

His love of clouds, sunset and sky has seeped into my consciousness, and now I find myself noticing what is happening above me all the time. Living on the 20th floor, my windows are closer to the clouds than those in the houses I grew up, and I find that I can lose hours watching the sky tapestry change and shift. I’m grateful that my dad was never put out by my uninterested replies, and kept reminding me to look up, because it adds beauty to my experience of the world, everyday.

It’s Friday once more (being out sick two days in a row sure makes the week go fast) which means its time for another edition of the Friday Random Ten. The rules are simple, set your pod or digital music device a’shufflin’ and report back the first ten songs it spits out. You are not allowed to skip, omit or ignore songs as the shuffle gods are trying to bestow upon you some wisdom via the random nature of shuffle and it’s best to listen to them. You don’t want to anger the shuffle gods!

1. Meditation Mama, The Mamas and the Papas (The Papas and the Mamas)
2. Mobile Line, Jon B. Sebastian (King Biscuit Flower Hour)
3. The Lucky One, Alison Krauss and Union Station (Live Disc 1)
4. Wild Honey Pie, The Beatles (The White Album)
5. It Makes No Difference, The Band (The Last Waltz)
6. Seven Bridges Road, The Eages (Eagles Greatest Hits)
7. Illegal Smile, John Prine (Great Days: Anthology)
8. Dancing Shoes, Rachael Davis (Live in Bremen, Germany)
9. Cry, James Blunt (Back to Bedlam)
10. World on Fire, Sarah McLachlan (Afterglow)

Favorite Song: Seven Bridges Road. I’ve always loved the harmonies that the Eagles laid on their version.

Favorite Album: John Prine’s Great Days: Anthology is hands down one of my favorite collections of music on the planet. I’ve always been drawn to John Prine, for his simple folk/country music and his sharp, sometimes cutting lyrics. He’s an amazing musician and I’m happy that’s he’s on the planet.

Seen Live: Alison Krauss and Union Station (4+ years ago at the Keswick), John Prine (6 years ago at Oaks Park), Rachael Davis (2 years ago at the Sedgwick Cultural Center) and Sarah McLachlan (8 years ago at Lilith Fair and 2 years ago at the Spectrum).

Personal Connections: Seven Bridges Road was written by a guy named Steve Young. Steve Young used to live in Marin County, CA back in the 70’s and ran a music store. He also drove a Volkswagen, at the time when my dad was a Volkswagen mechanic, and so my dad used to work on his car. I realize that I may be stretching the connection just a bit, but so what.

If you need more Random Friday that I can give you, check out these folks:

Andrea
Ashley
Ben
Brian
Coffee Girl
Ellen
Howard
Kate
Luna
Mark
Matthew
Sherri

Today is the two year anniversary of the day my ex-boyfriend and I broke up. He was my first significant love, and I was not prepared for the end when it arrived. I realize that this isn’t the type of anniversary that is traditionally circled in calendars and celebrated with gifts or cards. But it feels significant to me in that it marks a day that sparked big change in my life. Change that I ultimately came to recognize as good, positive and greatly needed.

The relationship officially ended on a Tuesday, but process of disentangling our lives took all summer. It took him more than a month to find a permanent apartment, and so I rattled around the apartment living with his possessions while his person resided elsewhere.

The morning after the break happened, my boss and I were scheduled to meet with the community liaison at South Philly High School. I took the subway down Broad Street, and reemerged at Snyder Ave., blinking at the harsh June sun, slightly confused as to where I was. I made a quick stop at a nearby Dunkin’ Donuts for iced coffee, and when I asked for a large, was handed what seemed to me to be a bucket of liquid. I didn’t know what to do with that much coffee, and when I walked into the meeting, it’s unnecessary size made me start weeping. To their confused faces, I managed to hiccup out the words that made sense of my crying jag. I am grateful to this day that the two women who were in that meeting were friends as much as co-workers. My boss turned to me as we were driving back to work and said, “Remember to be very kind to yourself through this. Dark chocolate does help.”

These days, when I think about that relationship, it feels more like a dream, a memory seen through the ancient, wavy windows of a 19th century house. It is muted and foreign. I don’t entirely recognize the girl I see through panes. I am appreciative that I had the experience, and I acknowledge the gift I was given when it concluded.

When I was growing up, I faked many a cold or sore throat so that I could stay home from school.  Grades 5th through 8th were some hard years for me, and I dealt with the uncomfortable and often snotty social situations of West Sylvan Middle School by avoiding them all together.  Although it was a habit I slowly shook off as I got older and as I found my place in my school world, a piece of those days of faking remains with me.

These days, even when I am truely, justifiably, honest-to-God sick, I feel guilty about staying home.  It’s like all those years of bending the truth and claiming a scratchy throat have left me feeling like I used up my life time allotment of sick time before I was old enough to drink.

I mention this because I am currently down and out with the nasty cold of June 2006.  It started with a sore throat that traveled from one tonsil to the other.  Then my chest started to feel heavy and congested and finally my nose and ears stuffed up.  It’s been altogether unpleasant, and yet, I dragged myself to work on Monday and Tuesday, propelled by an overabundant sense of responsibility as well as a feeling that I wasn’t quite sick enough to call out from work.  By Tuesday afternoon at 3 pm, I finally caved, told my boss there was no way I could make the deliveries around campus I was supposed to do and dragged myself home instead.  I slept for four hours and woke up feeling incrementally better, and so very grateful to be at home as opposed to dragging myself through my work day.

Admitting to myself that I couldn’t work any longer on Tuesday was hard.  I had to poke my head into a meeting to tell my boss that I was leaving, and I felt the censuring stares of the others in the room weighing heavy on my head.  I was sure they were thinking that I was pathetic for being sick, or that I couldn’t possibly be sick enough to go home.  As I slowly walked to the trolley I reminded myself over and over that no one else has the power to make me feel guilty (I do that all on my own) and that no one else will look out for me the way I look out for myself.  It’s those thoughts that I will keep in mind tomorrow, when I make the decision as to whether to go to work or not.  And if I’m still feeling crappy, then I’m staying home.

There are several phrases I could go through the rest of my life without hearing. The first that instantly springs to mind is, “The dog ate a 2 pound bag of pitted prunes.” The other is, “your sister has been taken to the hospital.”

In August 1997, my family was out in Spokane, WA for the Subud World Congress. I was a counselor in the childcare program, and my sister was 15 and in the high school group. We were spending the day at an amusement park (although I can’t imagine that it was a very good one, being that Spokane is not a very big place), and I was with my group of 8 kids, ranging in age from 6 to 10. We were standing in line for some ride, when a friend of my sister’s came running up to tell me that she had been taken to the hospital in an ambulance.

It turns out that what had happened was that while walking through a spring-mounted gate, her foot had gotten caught near the hinge. It had ripped her big toe nail almost entirely off, and she needed to have it stitched back into place, so that her toe nail would know how to continue to grow in the future. There weren’t any adults with cars to spare, so the ambulance had been called. She was the most notorious person at the Congress for about a day and a half after.

The last couple of times I’ve talked to my mom, I’ve asked her, “hey, have your heard from Rain?” We’ve both been on the edges of our seats, waiting to hear what’s going on with her and the boy who continues to pledge his undying love. Today when I called, before I could even ask how Raina was, my mom said the phrase I’ve now heard twice to many times in my life. “Your sister was taken to the hospital.” It turns out that she got the stomach flu while camping out at the Kerrville Folk Festival, had been lying sick in her tent in 96 degree weather and got really dehydrated. Thankfully, she’s now at a friend’s apartment in Lubbock, TX, recouperating in the air conditioning.

I’m deeply relieved to know that she’s okay (although since I didn’t learn she was sick until I also was told that she was recovering, I didn’t get a chance to worry too much).  Now I’m just hoping that I will get through the rest of my life, never having to hear that phrase again.

Lying in bed last night, saying goodnight to my mama via cell phone, I mention that I have plans to meet Cindy for a bagel and lox brunch the next day.  This casual comment triggers a memory from her past and she starts telling me about her memories of Saturday morning breakfasts at summer camp.

The summers that she was 11 and 12 years old, my mom went to Camp Wonderland.  It was a sleepaway camp just outside of New Hope, PA, only a half hour’s drive from the Philadelphia suburb where she was growing up.  Aunt Alice ran the camp, and had one hard and fast tradition.  Every Saturday morning the campers had to sit through a 15 or 20 minute Shabbos service (it was a mostly Jewish camp) before they got their weekly breakfast of lox and bagels.  In my mom’s memory, the bagels were excellent (toothsome exterior and yielding interior) and the lox was salty perfection.  There were also the requisite platters of sliced tomato and onion, bowls of olives and mounds of crisp lettuce leaves.  For the kids who didn’t like the lox, they could always cover their bagels with cream cheese and leave it at that.
One year, they held a contest among the campers, trying to come up with a new name for the camp (many were concerned that the name “Wonderland” kept the boys away).  Without consultation, several kids submitted the name “Camp No Hope,” inspired by the proximity to New Hope.  Soon after, it was renamed “Camp Olympia.”

Sitting outside of DiBruno’s this morning, munching my bagel, I thought of Saturday mornings at Camp Wonderland and felt delight that something so simple as a breakfast/brunch item could tie my 27 year old self to my mom at age 11.

I’m about twelve hours late with my Random Friday Ten today, but I do have an excuse. I spent all of today in a workshop. I went back to my office around 4:30 pm, just to check email and finish up a few things, and was there until almost 7 pm (I really don’t understand when I became responsible, but suddenly, there it was). I got home and collapsed and just came to a little while ago. But it doesn’t feel like Friday without a Random Ten, so here we go.

You know the rules, but for the sake of the game here they are. Set your pod or other, less popular, digital music devise a’shufflin’ and report back the first ten songs it fishes out of it’s murky depths. All those who play take an oath to neither skip nor omit songs due to their less favored or humiliating statuses.

1. Out of Range, Ani DiFranco (Out of Range)
2. Can’t Hang, Leo Kottke & Mike Gordon (Sixty Six Steps)
3. Marilyn, Dan Bern (Dan Bern)
4. Plane, Jason Mraz (Mr. A-Z)
5. The Diner, Ani DiFranco (Out of Range)
6. You Had Time, Ani DiFranco (Out of Range)
7. Lay Your Hands On Me, The Thompson Twins (Living in Oblivion)
8. When You Come Back To Me, World Party (Reality Bites Soundtrack)
9. Are You Ready?, Sly and the Family Stone (The Essential Sly and the Family Stone)
10. Oh Daddy, Fleetwood Mac (Rumours)

Initial Thoughts: I’m beginning to think that my iPod has a crush on Ani DiFranco. Almost every week it pulls at least one song of her’s out, but what are the chances that three from the same album show up? Freaky. (I do realize that it can only produce what I’ve put on there, and there is lots of Ani, but three songs!). I also find it interesting that just this week I was having a conversation with Shay about Reality Bites, and here a song from the soundtrack shows up. Never underestimate the power of the mind over the pod.

Favorite Song: I have always loved the song The Diner by Ani. It starts out with the clinking, busy sounds of a coffee shop that slowly grow more rhythmic until they form music.

Favorite Album: The Essential Sly and the Family Stone. Sly can pull me out of a foul mood faster than just about anything else in the world (although Chuck Berry holds a similar power over me). I’m a sucker for old funk, have been ever since my Uncle Andy gave me a plastic shoppin bag filled with the cassette tapes he made in the 70’s designed for play at parties. They were all funk, and they are terrific.

The rest of the Random Friday spinners:

Andrea
Ashley
Ben
Brian
Coffee Girl
Ellen
Howard
Kate
Luna
Mark (okay, it’s not officially a random friday list, but it’s still musical in nature)
Matthew
Sherri
As always, if you have a list up, and would like some link love, let me know.