It originally started as Shifting Piles then diversified into various subject-specific blogs under AndyLien.com as an umbrella.  I thought it would be a good move to make it seem like a cohesive website with multiple pages–each with its own blog–but it really just diluted everything.  By spreading it out, it got really ugly on the back end.  Convoluted.  Daunting.

So, now it’s all living together again on one page…and, finally, with me.  It’s no longer hosted on WordPress, but on my own server.

Mine, mine, mine.

Please make the move with me and update your bookmarks.  I appreciate your readership so…and I promise to never change my domain name again.  Even if I should marry a Rockefeller or someone with a fantastic last name that would go perfectly with “Andy,” I will keep the blog at www.andylien.com so as to never make you do this again.

Yours,

Andy

A few of us were discussing the fact that it’s not only a full moon tonight, New Year’s Eve, but a blue moon…the second full moon in the same month.  This won’t be happening again on New Year’s Eve until 2028.  I’ll be 51.

One of us mentioned making a wish on this special New Year’s Eve.

I would like to, but I’m not feeling terribly wistful.  It’s not that I’m one of those “Good Riddance, 2009″ folks; I could be, but I’m not.

But, I’m not where I want to be.  To think about where I’d like to be when I’m 51…whoa.  That sends me reeling.

So, I will not make a wish tonight.  I will sit here watching “The Golden Girls” with turkey chili on the stove and Grendel on my feet as the year turns by the light of the blue moon.

I will be thankful that I am happier, healthier, and wiser than ever.

I will scratch Grendel’s belly, knowing that he won’t be with me the next time there’s a blue moon on New Year’s Eve.

Good night, all.

Happy New Year.

From third-floor apartment to basement garage space…hauling stuff is never an easy feat, but always well worth it. 

Usually. 

Sometimes. 

It was worth it today.  Okay?

That works.

I was turning grey.  A little tint of red.  A little bit black.

Weird.

I washed my hands and returned to my computer…and “You’ve Got Mail” on E!.

A little while later, after I had cleaned some pots and pans in the kitchen, I returned to my couch.  I was brownish grey again.  What?  I’d just been washing my hands.  How could they be dirty?  Even my fingernails were scummy.  The cracks in my fingers had gathered some brown in them as if I’d been rolling DRUM tobacco cigarettes.

But I’d quit smoking…and hadn’t rolled my own since Josh K. went through a DRUM phase during sophomore year in college.

I looked like I should be begging for alms.

After washing it off again, I put it out of my mind and went about my business.

I was blissfully ignorant of anything awry until I got ready to go to bed.

I brushed my teeth and I doused a cotton pad with astringent.  After wiping it across my face sufficiently, I looked at it…filthy.  I looked at the dirty white cotton against my hobo brown fingers and was shocked.

What was going on?  Was my new laptop toxic?  Did Grendel rub against some really dirty exhaust systems in the parking lot and carry some scum in on his furry body?  Why am I suddenly so very unclean?

I looked around…for a very long time.  I cleaned everything.  I gave up around 1:00 in the morning.

Uncle.

I woke up this morning and stumbled into my closet to throw on clothes from the night before.  Grendel’s morning walk doesn’t require glamor, but it does require that I wear a bra.  Grabbing the one from last night, I noticed its creamy lace was completely tarnished.  Looking down at my hands, they were also grey.  Walking over to my bed, my robin’s egg blue sheets were hazily darkened where I’d slept.  Pulling out the wrinkles showed a deep contrast between the grey sheen and the bright, sweet blue where my sleeping body hadn’t touched the high thread count fabric.

What.

(You know I’m ticked when my question is a demand, without a question mark.)

What is going on.

I looked in the mirror.  I breathed a heavy sigh.

I was the problem.

Let me rephrase that, I was wearing the problem.  I had been wearing it the entire time.

The cute black jersey camisole I’d purchased yesterday at a sample sale was bleeding pigment.

It bled pigment all over my life.

How’s that for dramatic?

I’d forgotten the lessons my mother had taught me as a child that we must check heavily dyed fabric for possible color transfer and–if need be–launder it before wearing the clothing.

So excited about my sassy new camisole, I donned it immediately.  Haste made waste.

I gazed at the carnage and walked over to the soft cream cardigan I’d worn over it the entire evening…and it was black.  The inside of the softer-than-heaven sweater is completely ruined.

There’s nothing much to do about it but look at the sunshine and be thankful that I caught it early, the black virus.

As I am now listening to my thimble-sized washer spin the color out of all of my new black clothes, I am also listening to “Paint it Black” by the Rolling Stones.

When I switch loads and throw in my sheets, the cardigan, and my tarnished bra…I’ll switch to Simon and Garfunkel’s “Hazy Shade of Winter”…

…performed by the Bangles.

I think it’s only appropriate.

My therapist gave me a model that was easy to understand.  I can react to something I don’t like three different ways. I can react as a Parent, a Child, or an Adult:

In the role of a Parent, I would respond by scolding and taking on authoritative airs.  Something I might say would be, “How dare you do that?  Who do you think you are?  You should know better than to do that.  Where did you learn to do such a thing?  Why would you do that?”

In the role of a Child, I would respond by tantrumming and playing a victim.  I’d carry on and say things like, “That’s MINE!  I didn’t take yours…you shouldn’t take mine!  I’m going to take yours now!  I’m telling.  You’re wrong.  I hate you.”

In the role of an Adult…well…that’s a bit more nebulous.  I think that I got the gold star for reacting like an adult in many different situations, but mostly for thinking things through.  Waiting to respond than pouncing as a reaction.  Sometimes, I even chose not to respond.

Believe me, taking the role of the Adult also takes most of the tools in my toolbelt that I’ve gotten through Therapy Thursdays.  And, I got to pull out those tools again tonight.

I went to see a show tonight at a jazz club in downtown Minneapolis.  If you don’t live in Minnesota, you might not know that we’ve got the beginning of a blizzard on our hands right now.  Being a savvy single woman, I drive a Jeep.  Leaving the show at 10:00 tonight wasn’t going to be much different from any other night except for watching out for other drivers flailing in the snow.  So, I went on my merry way and gave them wide berth…making it back to my apartment complex in Minnetonka about 25 minutes after leaving the Dakota.

My apartment complex has many amenities, one of which is the underground heating parking garage.  In Minnesota, it is a very valuable amenity when the vehicle gets to sleep in a 70-degree dedicated parking spot at night, rather than have to be heated and scraped of snow along a curb in the morning.  The price for these parking spots are built in to my rent, I’m sure, and residents are given the option to rent additional spaces for $60 a month.  Many residents choose to pay the extra during the winter.  I don’t blame them.

Apparently, one resident hasn’t chosen to rent an extra one.  One asshole resident.

I am usually on auto pilot when I get to the garage.  I know I’m supposed to drive to the very end of it and veer quickly to the right before I crash into the cinderblock wall.   Easy.  Well, it’s easy when my parking spot is empty.

Tonight, there was a Maxima in it.  I recognized it as the car that is usually directly to the right of my Jeep.  In her spot was an alien Camry.

Asshole.

I went through a short list of options.

First, I thought of parking behind the Maxima.  As far as territory was concerned, I’d marked that spot.  It was mine.  She should pay for her crime against humanity me and get pinned in.  Then, I should call the police on the Camry.  I hate that person and the Camry should be towed.

My second option was that I would park behind the Camry as this was the asshole who started all of us down the slippery slope.  If they thought that they didn’t want their car to get snowed on, they’d find out the hard way that my wrath is worse.  And, being that the Maxima was still in the wrong for parking in my spot, I’d leave a note on her car saying something like, “You should know better.”

How’s that for Minnesota guilt?

I thought about it.

Sigh.

My college friend Sarah once told me, “Andy, you’re one of the nice people.  You don’t get to not be nice.”

Dammit.  She was right.

Not only would I have continued the chain of assholish behavior to tick off the next Andy, I would’ve done myself damage in the process.  My karma would be quashed.  I wouldn’t sleep well worrying about their horrible mornings trying to figure out how to get out of the holes they’d dug for themselves.  I don’t have a job right now, if I can’t park inside tonight I’d have plenty of time to dig out my Jeep in the morning.

On a neurotic note, do YOU think a person who has no regard for who they’re displacing by parking in the wrong spot would have ANY qualms over slashing my tires?  Going Monster Truck on my Jeep?  Smashing my windows?

I’m not saying that disregarding ethics necessarily leads to vandalism.

But I might be thinking it.

So, I did the Adult thing.

I parked my Jeep in the car wash bay and left a note inside the back hatch saying: “Tuesday, 10:30PM: I’m parked here because someone else parked in my spot (#70).”

Why’d I do that?

Because it was the only option short of parking outside in the blizzard.  I couldn’t pin them in.  I couldn’t take someone else’s spot who’d show up 10 minutes after me and have the same problem.  I could only park in a neutral, unused space and leave a note explaining my own actions…and hope someone might learn by my example.  At the very least, I could live with the consequences of the choice I made.

See?  Another gold star for Andy.

I did the Adult thing and then promptly stomped upstairs to write a blog post about it for revenge.

No…I did the Adult thing and then promptly wrote a blog post about it to ensure a pat on the head for myself.

No…I did the Adult thing and then promptly wrote a blog post about it to show you how much my Therapy Thursdays are helping me to become a productive member of our society.

No…I did the Adult thing and now I’m going to go to bed because it’s past my bedtime.

Sleep well.  Let me know if you want to borrow my toolbelt.

It’s adjustable.

_________________________________

Update: 12/11/09

I am happy to report that I made a really good decision.  The next day (after I parked my Jeep in its rightful place), I ran into a guy parking his vehicle in the car wash bay.  He was grumbling something about someone parking in his spot and that he wished he had that Jeep’s sign from the night before.  I smiled and told him I’d be happy to let him use it.  As we walked to my vehicle to fetch it, he explained that he was assigned a temporary parking spot by the management company for $60/month but that someone else was parked in it.  The green Camry.  Next to the Camry was the Maxima.  Next to the Maxima was my Jeep.  It appeared that the Camry owner and this guy both staked a claim on the same spot.  Huh.  And, the night before when the guy parked in his rightful spot, the Camry bumped the Maxima and the Maxima bumped me.  It was starting to make sense.

When I switched apartments, I was assigned a new parking spot, but found out quickly that someone else was using on a temporary basis; the management company hadn’t recorded the parking spot as being used and re-leased it.  Sounds like the same thing had happened in this case.

Sure, the Maxima gal shouldn’t have parked in my spot after being bumped from hers just as the Camry shouldn’t have parked in her spot when bumped by this guy…but I am so relieved that I didn’t do anything like leave a note or pin someone in (like I really, REALLY wanted to).  As it just so happened, it was a mistake made by someone other than the people parking in the garage.  All we could control was how we reacted to the situation.  I chose to only act on the information that I had (that someone had parked in my spot) and not what I had incorrectly assumed to be going on (that people were selfishly nabbing parking spots during a snowstorm).

Because of that Adult decision, I didn’t make myself into the real asshole of the underground parking garage.

Just of my blog.

Phew.

I think I still get to keep the gold star.

As I was thinking about my hair, I pondered its length.  I tend to hear from people I haven’t seen in a while, “Oh my gosh–your hair is SO LONG.”  I smile at the comment, tuck it away, and go on my merry way.  Sure, my hair went a fair ways down my back, but since one of my childhood aspirations has always been to be the next Crystal Gayle, I’d never consider it to be “long” until I was tripping on it.

On my way to the Institute early that morning, I thought about Crystal Gayle and how there just couldn’t be another one of her (especially with the bleach I’d require to keep my ankle-length hair blonde).  I decided to cut my flaxen locks.  No big deal, I think my hair has been somewhere between my chin and my shoulders for the majority of my waking life.  It wasn’t a decision of epic proportions or anything that would end hunger or bring about world peace.

But, it was a decision that would help someone.

I was talking about my vision for my hair with the student and instructor at Aveda when the student said, “And she wants about eight inches taken off the length of her hair.”

EIGHT INCHES?  Holy horse farm.  I had eight inches to cut off? A random fact flew through my head and I blurted out,

“Do you do ‘Locks of Love?’  Don’t they require ten inches?”

The instructor smiled and nodded.

I smiled and said, “Do it.  What’s another two inches?”

Locks of Love is something I’d only heard about from the sidelines.  It’s a nonprofit organization that takes hair donation braids to make into wigs for disadvantaged children who have suffered hair loss for various reasons.  I’d just run across it again on another blog only days before where I read the length requirement.  Other than that, I’d seen women who had very, very short hair after they’d donated their hair to the organization…shorter hair than I’d want to sport.  And, I’d also heard that color treated hair was not accepted.  So, it never occurred to me that I was a candidate for hair donation.  As it turns out, I was.  Being that the instructor gave my hair the go-ahead as “an excellent donation,” I gave my own go-ahead without a second thought.

When it came time to cut, it was completely without ceremony.  No cameras, no reporters.  The instructor showed the student how to put my wet hair into three different ponytails to be cut in three different places.  Huh.  I didn’t expect that.  I’d seen examples of braids being cut off in one fell swoop.  So, I asked the instructor why she’d chosen this technique.  And, I was pleased with the answer.  She explained that when people braid it first and then cut off the braid, the remaining hair on the head has few options for a good, stylish cut being that it was all pulled back to one central point for its removal.  By cutting the hair in three locations at more even lengths to each other, I would be left with more of a bob.

And, I was left with quite a bit of respect for the instructor, having the best interest of both the donation and my appearance in mind at the same time.

Snip.

Snip.

Snip.

Kind of anticlimactic.

My three wet hair ponytails looked really pathetic on the paper towel.  They were to hang out there until the student dried them and braided them together…then they’d join three more braids to be sent to Locks of Love by the instructor later that day.  Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who ended up leaving behind more than floor sweepings.

At the end of my time at Aveda, I had a great color and a great cut.  I would’ve left that way regardless of Locks of Love.  But, because of some serendipitous figures in a discussion I didn’t have to overhear and a website I didn’t have to pay attention to, I also left with a sense of satisfaction.  Helping myself helped someone else.

I didn’t set out with the intention of committing a charitable act, but was allowed to be part of one anyway.

A happy accident.

I’ll take it.

________________

Upon reading the Locks of Love donation requirements, they mention that bleached hair is not acceptable.  Locks of Love says to ask the stylist if bleaching might have caused a particular chemical reaction that occurs during the processing and renders the donation unusable.  I’m going to go on a little faith that the Aveda instructor knows the guidelines, but I guess I’ll never really know if my donation passed muster.  Ah, well.

Here’s my list:

2 Jeep payments to Chrysler Financial – 1 current, 1 past due
3 electricity payments to Xcel Energy – 1 current, 2 past due
1 water payment to my Apartment management company so that they don’t turn off the water (it’s that late)
2 Cobra payments to ensure I continue my medical insurance coverage – 1 current, 1 almost past due
1 rent payment for December

Fun, huh?  Like I said, THOUSANDS of dollars will leave my wallet today.  I look at that list and I cringe.  Past due payments.  All of those finance charges.

It’s not easy being unemployed. 

Those aren’t even all of my bills.  The list doesn’t include the payments I’m not owing at this moment, such as internet connection, telephone, and my three credit cards with low balances (Thank God for small mercies).  The bills in the list above are the ones that I can sort of fudge without hurting my credit score…but are sort of necessary to live.  The sort of scary ones.

How might I find a couple of grand to go on my shopping spree today?

Easy.  I won the lottery.  A lottery of my own money.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.  I cashed out my 401(K).

Extreme?  Absolutely.  Necessary?  No doubt. 

I admit that I do not cut all the corners I can, money-wise.  I go for lunch and buy coffee.  I download the new Weezer song into my iTunes.  I buy the new cookbook and issue of InStyle.  Not spending that money could definitely add up to a hefty sum, but not a hefty enough sum to cover rent, Jeep payments, and medical insurance.

Yes, I took a hit.  There’s a penalty.  Taxes were taken out.  I no longer have my retirement savings.  Those are facts not to be glossed over.  But, it’s not a decision I’m going to choose to regret.

Though I’ve never had this much money in my bank account–ever–it’s time to make careful decisions.  It’s time to make sure that my unemployement does not leave me with big, bad financial scars that require seven years of recovery.  It’s time to pay up and it’s time to save deliberately (rather than just passively receive less per paycheck as abstract money is rescued from my grubby clutches and ferreted away from my own bad judgment).

It’s all the money I have in the world and there’s no promise of a job or a real lottery win in the near future.

So, this Black Friday, I give thanks that those 401(K) checks I deposited on Tuesday night didn’t disappear from my hands as I feared they would, but made it into the bank and finally showed up as real money in my account this morning.

Now, I shall attack my Black Friday shopping list and take no prisoners.

Marcella Lorna Lorraine Kiviaho Katainen 1921-2009

My grandmother, Marcella, passed away this week.  Last Wednesday, I’d gotten a text message from my cousin Heather, who is nine years my junior: “Gma is in hosp they dont know if shell make it what is ur mom n dads number so we can call them[.]“

I got a text message because I didn’t answer her telephone call as I had guests over for lunch.  Rather than deconstruct the text too much, I’ll assume that an actual phone conversation would’ve been a little smoother.

Not to sound callous (oh, why do I even bother with that disclaimer?), but I’ve gotten a message like that before from my family in Northern Minnesota.  Grandma has suffered from Congestive Heart Failure for a few years.  Sometimes, the messages come immediately.  Sometimes, I’d find out a month or two later that she’d been in the hospital for a couple of weeks with dire health problems.

I tried to manage the information about Grandma’s latest trip to the hospital as best I could.  As a communicator (um…nobody else in my family has a blog), I usually end up in the hub of some sort of communication network.  Reread the text message above.  It says that my own mother doesn’t know her own mother is ailing.  By age 32, I know better than to assume she’ll find out by the implied means, so I got on the horn, too.

I had some decisions to make.  Do I put my life on hold and head to the hospital to see Grandma Marcy?  It’s not an easy one.  If she’ll tuck and roll like usual, it might be a rather ill-timed trip in terms of both money and commitment constraints.  If she is truly at Death’s door, I may regret not driving the 4 hours to see her.  I grappled with it.  Hardcore.  There’s a very real burden that comes with being unemployed.  It makes me feel like I should be available.  I should be able to leave my inconsequential life at the drop of a hat.  I should be able to pack up and go wherever I’m needed at a moment’s notice.

With such distorted thoughts on the brain, I made the important decision to wait to drive north until after Therapy Thursday.  I’m not paralyzed without therapy; quite to the contrary.  What therapy gives me, though, is a chance to sharpen the tools in my toolbelt.  Nobody needs to go to a family crisis with dull tools…those can hurt more than sharp ones.

Bad analogy.

After my session with my therapist Thursday morning, I returned home to write, do some laundry, pack, and keep on communicating.  Having had too many opportunities to be in hospitals in the recent years, I’ve learned that the nursing stations are great liaisons.  Family members in a heightened state of fraught may not collect and convey information accurately, so I go straight to the health care providers.  I’d learned later Wednesday evening that Grandma Marcy was conscious and talking…and was able to speak with her myself.  She was feisty and in good spirits; doing well.  I told her I’d be up to see her by the weekend.

Therapy gives me the tools to say, “It’s not that I don’t believe my family members, I’m just trying to gather the most accurate information to be able to make informed decisions.”  But, know this…that particular statement was something I hadn’t seen for myself until I went to Therapy Thursday.  I had been vacillating between feeling guilty and doubtful about whether or not I should uproot and head to the hospital.  The guilt was because I doubted the accuracy of the information I was getting about my grandmother from family members.  On the flipside, I was convinced that it wasn’t an immediate need.

As I remained in cahoots with the hospital, I found out just after noon on Thursday that Grandma wasn’t reacting well to the diuretics she’d been given to reduce some of the fluid around her heart.  She’d suffered a heart attack and the diuretics were lowering her blood pressure to a dangerous level.

Those facts were, indeed, alarming.

It was time to pack and go.  No guilt, doubt, or questions; I prepared to set the plan in motion.

But, what was I preparing for?  Was I going up for a few days or was I going up for a funeral?  The information from the nurse in the Intensive Care Unit did not provide a pleasant prognosis.  There was no “getting better” for Grandma.  She can’t go on a new exercise regimen to build up her heart muscle.  If she couldn’t get rid of the fluid, she would die.

She wasn’t getting rid of the fluid.

Death isn’t like the weather.  There aren’t meteorologists to forecast a death.  To some extent, there are signs and inklings…but that’s about it.

So, I packed black.

Being single, I don’t have anyone to call if I forget something at home.  No, “Honey, can you grab my black flats?  I stupidly only brought my heels for both the reviewal and the funeral.”  No, “Dammit, can you bring my black patent purse?  I’ve only got my brown Eddie Bauer mini-suitcase.”  No, “I need my winter coat, it’s freezing up here.”

That was not a self-pity campaign.  Those are matters of fact.  Using my toolbelt, I know that I have certain information and can only base my actions on what I know…and can, perhaps, predict.  What I can predict has mostly to do with myself.  By now, I know that I like to be prepared; hence, packing black.  I do not like my dog to be an afterthought, so I will send him to the kennel where he will be at the top of their list.  I do not find comfort in leaving loose ends.  My next moves would be based on controlling what I could and finding serenity despite what I couldn’t.

My process was more like:  Call kennel.  Wear jeans and sweater.  Pack black pants, black skirt, black blazer, black blouse, black wrap blouse, grey blouse, black corduroy jacket, red scarf.  Crap.  Pack black undergarments.  Pack black tights.  Black heels.  Black flats.  Pick a black purse.  Pack it.  Dammit.  Pack tampons.  Dry laundry load.  Cancel Friday and weekend plans.  Make sure to speak personally to goddaughter about missing her birthday party.  Load and run dishwasher.  Empty and rinse coffeemaker.  Flush all toilets.  Throw out any iffy food in the fridge.  Find out if Mom is riding with me.  Pack make-up and hair stuff.  Charge iTouch.  Find phone charger.  Pack phone charger.  Grab book.  Pack Grendel’s towel.  Pack Grendel’s food.  Update all computer statuses.  Keep answering phone.  Track down mother.  Relay information to brother.  Shoo Grendel off black clothes.  Pack lint/hair roller.  Find travel size shampoo and conditioner.  Pack pajamas.  Remember to stop to get gas as the tank is on E.  Skip supper.  Turn off everything in apartment.  Make two trips to Jeep.  Load dog.  Hit the road.

I got to the kennel as it was closing.  I picked up my mother.  I ate supper at 8:45.  We arrived at our hotel room at 11:15.  We slept as best be could.  We rolled with the punches.  We said goodbyes.

It turned out that the black wasn’t needed yet, but having it in my suitcase meant I was prepared for anything that could be thrown my way, at least wardrobe-wise.

I am so grateful I made the trip and spent time with her before she passed away early Wednesday morning, a week after the whole drama began.  Now, as I pack four days after her passing, I just have to reach for all the items I only unpacked five days ago…plus my winter coat.

My head is clear, my laundry is clean, and my gas tank is on E.  Always and forever.

Some things never change, regardless of therapy.

Oh, and just so you know, there aren’t any today.  Gotcha.

I’m still working on the ugly back end of this new mess venture.

Thanks,

A

P.S. I’ll let you know when I drop the WordPress portion of that address.  It will be the “RAH!” heard ’round the world when I do.

Shifting Piles has changed.  I’ve been talking about a new website for so long…and, yes, this is it.  Kind of.  I know–wow!  What a snazzy site!  Not really.  Visually, it’s not much to write home about.  But, behind the scenes, its blueprint is a buxom bombshell.

As you may notice, Shifting Piles is now a part of a larger collection of blogs, all of which will fall under the AndyLien.com umbrella.  And, once I can get my host to make AndyLien.com into a WordPress blog, I’ll be good to go and will start using that as the one and only official address for my work.  The other pages and their names (which are pretty fun…explore a little) will be accessible and searchable on their own as well as by way of AndyLien.com, to double the marketing and visibility efforts.

Let me give you a quick tour.  There is a bit of new material within the AndyLien.com pages, but much of it will also be familiar to longtime readers.  I know I’d originally said that I would have each page titled by a verb, but I saw a local hack rag had done that…and I couldn’t do the same.  It’s one thing to copy something…it’s another when it’s not even a desireable source from which to copy.  So, I went with six basic concepts: People, Places & Things; Marketing & Communication; Design; Food & Eating; Woman Things; and Shifting Piles.

People, Places & Things: Nouns.  I want to introduce you to people I meet, places I go, and things I experience here.

Marketing & Communication: Shop talk.  It’s my professional background and I’m a goon for it.  You might find yourself skipping this page…or being pleasantly surprised by how interesting its contents can be.  We can form an A/V Club together.

Design: My portfolio.  This is hard.  I’ve been in Marketing, Communications, and Design for over ten years now.  What constitutes my portfolio will always be changing.  This is entirely new content at this point and I’m not thrilled with how all of it pulls off, but it’ll improve.  I promise.

Food & Eating: What a can of worms.  You may or may not have known this, but I had my stomach stapled at age 17 and a gastric bypass surgery at age 21.  My history with food and recipes is 32 years long and it hasn’t always been pretty.  This page is to both acknowledge as well as completely ignore that history.  And, it’ll be tasty.

Woman Things: I was surprised to find that most of my favorite writing fell onto this page.  Becoming and being a woman is the best part of being me.  I almost wish I weren’t typing right now as I really want to reread those posts.  Right now.

Shifting Piles: My baby.  Ever shifting things around, I’m not planning to take away any of this page’s content to date.  It is how it always has been.  But, from here on out, its content will probably be a bit more arbitrary…perhaps it’ll catch what doesn’t fit into any of the other pages.

Because I have very distinctly different experience in each of these areas, yet there is obvious overlap, I’m going to have plenty of fun with this new format.  It could change, but this is what I’ll stick with for now.

It’s a grand experiment.

Thanks for coming along for the ride.