One of the curiousities of the young adult years is the lack of consistency of support network. We are transient finicky creatures that change our likes, dislikes, and locations as much as we skip songs on our ipod.

On of the curiousities of my life is that despite this innate quality of transition, my friendfam has an addiction to tradition. Enough of us have lived in close proximity to one another for enough time that we have developed traditions that make life more bearable, more exciting, and filled with photo albums.

We have the standard holiday parties with the standard fanfare, but we've created a few of our own side traditions, too. One of these traditions is something explicitly named: The Godfather Marathon. A few years ago, Nate and I realized our mutual affection for the movies and need to proselytize our friends with its goodness. So he found a spaghetti sauce based on a scene in Part One, we found a large screen tv, and hunkered down for a full afternoon and evening of mobstah lovin' and italian meals that will sustain you into the next millenium.

Nate has since moved on to new places but the marathon continues. Every year Godfather virgins fall into our traps. We teach them about the intricacies of the plot and talk throughout the movie, but only when it is appropriate. It is one of my favorite traditions with friends.

Now on to the store to buy meatball materials!!


when it drizzles you get wet

It was drizzly afternoon. The sun was shining. The sky was so blue, my eyes dimmed. But circumstances, results, realities still sank into the dry hard earth. Like a slow drizzle, dampening the concrete, dewing the grass.

A furrowed brow, a confused heart, an impatient, invalidated spirit. The sun was shining, but the atmosphere was overcast and seeping out what it could not hold back.


It was a slow morning. Realities hardened, encrusted, accepted. Confusion still lingers like dampness under the bushes. Present, but unseen.


Today, I am reminded that I don't belong here. I'm not from here. No one seems to understand that. But then, neither do I.


bello monte

like spain

I like yogurt. I like the way it tastes. I like the way a container slips into my lunch bag easily without hassle, thought, or mess.

Many people prefer variations on strawberry flavored yogurt, but not me. I like citrus-y and tropical yogurt. Lemon. Lime. Orange. Coconut. Pineapple. Mango.

But my favorite yogurt is whipped lemon yogurt. It tastes like Spain. Four ounces of it and I am transported to the all-white kitchen, the warming blending appliance that still mystifies me, my Spanish mom scurrying around making sure everything is in "su sitio." And the most delicious lemon mousse.

Whipped lemon yogurt is a poor substitute for her Spanish lemon mousse but its the closest I've been to Spain in a long time.

For now, it will do.


waves of regret and waves of joy

Where I grew up the ocean waves were too far away to see and the corn fields waved gently, smoothly, like gold. I didn't think about the fields of waving grain much until I moved into an urban area and never saw them anymore. Sometimes, on my way home from work when the sky is blue and the clouds are yellowed from the sunshine, I detour myself through a pocket of farms to see the corn.

It reminds me of what I've come from. The night we dangled our feet off the overpass and watched the trucks plow by underneath. The barn at her house that scared the bejeebers out of me but never ceases to be the barn I see in fiction's stories and tales. The music that we blared as we ripped out of the gravel parking lots on our way to make a series of bad decisions of varying degrees.

Waves come and go. Life is filled with the waves that make us hold onto our seat and pray the boat ride will end quickly. Its filled with the kinds of waves that make us want to go back and do it again like a child who just discovered body surfing. Try as we might, capturing the wave in film, in our memories, in words falls short of possibility.

Sometimes the waves die down and we are left standing there. Wondering. What do I do when I am not watching, surfing, surviving the waves?

I wonder.