Normally I avoid these chain like things at all costs. But I simply can’t refuse you.

Four jobs I’ve had:
Ice Bagger
Wedding Caterer
Kindergarten Teacher
Pizza Hut Waitress

Four Movies I can watch over and over:
A Beautiful Mind
The Matrix
Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon
Amelie

Four places I’ve lived:
Daegu, South Korea
Cairo, Egypt
Wollongong, New South Wales, Australia
Rural Hall, North Carolina

Four tv shows I love:
I don’t really watch tv, so here are four books I love:
One Hundred Years of Solitude
The Unbearable Lightness of Being
The Time Traveler’s Wife
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

Four places I’ve vacationed:
Argentina
Cuba
China
Cypress

Four of my favorite dishes:
kimchi
fish tacos
fried chicken
pad thai

Four sites I visit daily:
Mightygirl
CNN
dictionary.com
Google

Four places I would rather be right now:
swimming in the ocean
snowboarding on powder
gazing at bright twinkling stars while camping in a most remote location
in magical New York City

Four bloggers I’m tagging/slightly alienating:
Cedric
Collin
John
Duke

Overheard, two very attractive hip young things.

1: I thought she was totally hot, so I asked her to join me for coffee.
2: Yeah? What happened?
1: She turns to me and says, “Why would I have coffee with you? I don’t even know you!” Duh! That’s the whole point of having coffee – to get to know each other…

While interviewing a potential employee, I asked her to tell me about a time when she was stressed at work and to explain how she handled that stress.

“Well,” she began, “we just had so many deadlines. Everyone was asking me to do so many things. They, they were just pressurizing me…”

That was all I heard. No matter how hard I tried, all I could imagine was her exploding like a pressure cooker left unattended. KABOOM!

Was the immediate sensation I felt as I began carving my way down the mountain. The snow was that exact perfect texture for a supreme day of boarding, just soft enough to give you the confidence to try those tricks never tried before, just soft enough to convince you that it won’t hurt if you fall, just soft enough to spray into a magnificent arc as you jolt to a stop.

When I arrived home, there was an Amazon.com box on my doorstep. I didn’t remember ordering anything, so I was especially curious to discover what had arrived. It was a gift from my dear friend Cedric, with this note attached:

“Hi dear – I picked up a copy of this book while at home and LOVED it. Before you read it though, make a list of what being Southern is to you! Happy New Year! xoxoxoxox, Cedric”

• My South is a blanket. A blanket of the senses that wraps itself around me and lets me know that everything is gonna be all right.
• It’s ordering tea in a restaurant and hearing, “Sweet tea, hon?”
• It’s watching fireflies twinkle on a warm summer night, one glow fading to velvety darkness before the next magically appears.
• It’s inhaling the subtle scent of honeysuckle, sniffing deeper and deeper and deeper to attempt to capture every last bit of the aroma.
• It’s the Moravian Love Feast on Christmas Eve, sharing warm buns and sweet coffee with neighbors I’ve known for years.
• It’s the propensity of strangers to share a sincere hello, a ‘how do you do?’ or simply a smile.
• It’s knowing everyone at church service. Or at least knowing someone who knows them.
• It’s crispy fried chicken after church on Sunday, accompanied by steaming biscuits dripping with real butter.
• It’s referring to houses not by their street address, but by the lineage of owners.
• It’s grits. With butter and salt for breakfast, baked with cheese for lunch, and stirred with shrimp for dinner.
• It’s the chunks of rock salt that confetti the patio after making homemade peach ice cream.
• It’s the energy of gospel singing and the thunder of hand clapping.
• It’s pink azaleas and white dogwoods.
• It’s wondering why weeping willows are sad.
• It’s neighbors bringing endless covered dishes, masking taped names on the bottom of the Pyrex, when someone passes.
• It’s knowing that neighbors are more than just neighbors; they’re family.

I don’t like having blood taken. At all. It makes me queasy; it makes me nauseous.

I sat in the chair. I turned my head, so as not to see what see was doing. “One, two, three…” then a sharp poke. She really needn’t count.

I felt my head get lighter and lighter as the blood flowed into the many vials she had waiting.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

I nodded my head. She finished and bandaged my arm.

“Thank you,” I offered. “That really didn’t hurt much at all. You’re quite good.”

“Thanks,” she said.

“How long have you been doing this?” I inquired.

“This is my first day,” she deadpanned. I laughed. “Oh, good,” she squealed. “I wanted to see you laugh.”

“Are you married?” he asked me as he took my three dollars.
“No,” I answered, turning down the radio.
“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever met. Will you marry me?”
“Thank you,” I said, smiling as I drove towards the city.

I laid there, on the stone wall, taking in the unexpected rays of sun on the chilly January afternoon. Stas sat inches away, enjoying a fine cigar, looking out over the bay, lost in thought. The biker stopped right next to us, resting after the steep incline he had just pedaled. I’m not sure who began the conversation, but shortly he asked us, “So, where are you from, Australia or England?” I lazily opened my eyes and turned my head towards him. “I’m American. And my friend is Russian.” “Oh, I thought you both spoke with an accent. You know, a funny type of English.” I smiled and closed my eyes, content to enjoy the warmth radiating from the rays.

He continued. “So, you both look like the academic type. Are you writers? Professors?”

At this point I realized he was going to be there for awhile. I sat up. I smiled. “No, I’m in Human Resources.” Stas responded, “And I work in Banking.”

He proceeded to explain to us the best nude beach spots, where secret hot springs are that you can only find at the low tide of new and full moons, and why he considers himself an “evangelical agnostic.”

As he pedaled off, I smiled at Stas before returning to my reclining position. “I love California.”

I listen to the Lou Reed song and think, that is a perfect day. Today, I had my own version.

Awakening to sun streaming in the windows
Driving through San Francisco in Stas’ convertible
Singing Elvis songs to each other, much to the bemusement of pedestrians
Enjoying fried egg, bacon and cheese sandwiches on crispy sourdough toast at our favorite Sunday brunch spot, Hi-Dive
Relaxing at our favorite overlook, Point Bonita just across the bay, perfect blue skies above us
Marveling at Rodin’s masterpieces at the Legion of Honor
Hearing an impromptu pipe organ concert, feeling the reverberations of the pipes in our bones
Sharing pickles from the Russian deli, savoring the perfect combination of onions, garlic, and dill
Then home, glad that I spent it with you.

I love my grandma. I really do. But sometimes it’s hard watching her grow older. Grow different from how I so fondly remember her.

I love my memories of her from when I was a child. Of my four grandparents, she was my favorite. She was always so good-natured, so loving, so indulgent, the most permissive. She always plaited my long hair and told me stories of growing up in the south during the Depression, working in the mills, raising her siblings. Anyone who knows me knows that I love stories. Enrapture me with a story and I’m yours forever. Of my four grandparents, she’s the only one still alive.

Her health has deteriorated rapidly over the past several years. First my parents had to hire someone to check in on her in her house in South Carolina. Then she fell and broke her hip. After hip replacement surgery they moved her to an assisted living facility, much to her chagrin. She lost use of her legs and became confined to a wheelchair. After a year or so, it became evident she needed more care than that facility could offer, so my parents looked for a nursing home. They couldn’t find one in her hometown, so they moved her to our hometown in North Carolina. She cried the whole way.

Now she vacillates between the sweet, caring, loving grandma I remember and a bitter old woman I don’t recognize.

At Christmas dinner we were all laughing, joking, anticipating what Santa would bring us and she was right there with us. She ate her meal, settled just so on her wheelchair tray, commenting about how you never got a bad meal at Sybil’s house. We finished dinner. As mom and I were clearing the table, the phone rang.

Dad answered. It was his sister, grandma’s daughter. I hollered at her (she has thrown away her hearing aid) that Gloria was on the phone. She sat there, unmoved, staring into space. I thought maybe she hadn’t heard me. “Granma!” I shouted. “Gloria’s on the phone!” She slowly turned her opaque blue eyes to me. “Gloria’s on the phone!” She grunted. “Well, good for her.”

Oh no. Bitter grandma had arrived.

“Don’t you want to talk to her?”

Another huff. “‘pends on what she got to say.”

I glanced at my mom. “Here granma, we’ll take you to the bedroom so you can talk to her.”

We heard her on the phone, complaining about how much she hated where she lives, how no one comes to visit her (dad visits her every day), how we kidnapped her away from her family, how she’s just miserable.

She finished her conversation and we wheeled her back to the living room.

She huffed again. She stared at me. “Cain’t believe you took me way from my family. You ain’t got no idea what’s it like to be so far from family.”

I laughed. “Granma, I live in California. Remember? I know what it feels like to live far away. It just makes the times we’re all together so much more special.”

Grunt. “I jus’ hate it. I hate all of it.”

I hold her hand, massaging the ropey blue veins that poke forth. “It’s okay, granma.”

After a few minutes of silence, without any warning, good grandma is back, commenting on how she loves to watch my nephew, her great-grandson, run around. “Chil’ens what gives you energy. Just watch him. Makes me feel good, just watchin’ him.” She smiles, staring into the space beyond my nephew.

I smile, cherishing this, knowing it may not last, but enjoying it while it does.