Oh Atlanta!

I know, I know. I am constantly going on and on about how much I LOVE this city, LOVE my place, LOVE my life.  It's probably a tad annoying, I bet.  Usually when I read someone talking about something this much I actually doubt them.  Like, if you really liked it that much, do you need to talk about it so much? Are you trying to convince yourself that you do?

In this case, it's so...er, not the case though.  And you folks who have known me over this past decade and a half know it.  For the rest, I'll explain.

I loved picking up and moving to Atlanta - 15 years ago next month, actually. Wow.  It's not that I disliked Wisconsin or my friends and family there.  It's not like I felt an overwhelming need to go someplace else. I bet I could have been happy there, too.  But when that chance came for me that seemingly lifetime ago, I remember also not hesitating to just GO.  That although I had nothing bad to say about Wisconsin, there just might be something else out there and, well. Why not?

I remember telling my Mom I was thinking about going, and thinking about it now, knowing the "thinking" part was really already done.  It was just five months after my Dad died and I had been spending a lot of time with Mom just in that my siblings all were at college or with their family hours away and my apartment was only 20 minutes down the road.  We went to one of those Greek restaurants: you know, the ones that have the most awesome open-faced roast beef sandwiches?  And I sat across the table from Mom and halfway through the meal told her I needed to talk to her about something serious and life-changing.  I don't think she had any idea what I was going to say.  I don't think she even knew I had already flown to Atlanta for an interview and had an offer.  How could she?  We were still dealing with Dad's passing too, afterall.  I remember feeling all grown up and confident on the outside but still a little kid on the inside, hoping what I was going to say would make her proud of me and needing her assurance that I was doing the right thing.  I would be moving almost a thousand miles away, afterall.  Without a partner, on my own.

My Mom listened to my confident, rational voice as I explained the opportunity that had been presented to me and why I felt I needed to take it.  Looking back now, I know she probably also heard my fear and nervousness behind the bravado.  When I finished talking, she put down her fork, looked at me and paused for a moment.  And then said one word.

"Go."

It was all I needed.

So I moved here -- big girl now! Big city!  But I'd always lived on the outskirts of the city.  When I first moved here, I had an "Atlanta" address but was a good 15 miles or so from the real city and closer to the suburbs.  I was very close to work and that helped.  I was told that people often get frustrated with Atlanta because of the traffic issues here.  Since I didn't have to deal with that, I never experienced that frustration and instead found it nice.  It was like back home, kinda. Only with better weather.   And I was fortunate enough to actually know people here before I moved: two other colleagues who got offers, too; and friends I had known through an internet group (and, yes, actually had already met in person a few times).  I was OK. I was happy.  I was learning my new home.

But as the months turned into years and I started to explore my city, I realized I wasn't really a city girl.  Yes, my address actually said "Atlanta, Ga. 30341" and I took pride in that when I wrote letters home and scribbled my return address in the upper corner of the envelope.  But I wasn't really in Atlanta.  I wasn't that big city girl.  I wasn't Mary Richards.  Or even Rhoda for that matter.  

After a couple years, I got closer.  Got to a closer suburb with a great little rental condo and a job that sustained me.  Even got a boyfriend or two along the way.  I was becoming that single, amazing, independent city girl...but not quite.   And then the economy collapse happened.

I lost a job.  Moved in with a friend, got another job. But because of said economy, the commute was horrid so I moved even further away from the city than I had ever been before.  Learned to love my life there, but more out of necessity than really wanting to be there.  A couple years later, that company folded and I moved again: equal distance from that big city I wanted, but still in a place where I found new friends, enjoyed my work and had a good life.

But I still wasn't Mary.  I think the one thing always missing was that I really, really wanted to be Mary.  

Last year, it finally happened.  I found a job with a company that I know will not fold because the niche market we serve is thriving and that I actually enjoy.  I commuted from Way Far Out for a year just to make sure of it and then realized: it's time.

Through a friend, a year ago next week, I found the cute little place I'm in now, in the heart of the city.  And I became Mary.

It took me nearly a decade and a half, but I am now the Big City Girl I wished for myself when I sat across from my mom at the Greek diner that night.  On Friday nights, I park my car and don't move it again until Monday morning's work commute because I can walk everywhere I want: to restaurants, grocery stores, clubs. If I can't do that, I can walk all of two blocks to what passes for our subway system here and jump a train to meet friends instead.  I can throw a bag and the blanket my sister brought me back from Mexico over my arm, like I did last week, and walk the three blocks to Atlanta's "Central Park" (actually designed by the same family who did New York's, yo!) to curl up under a tree, read a book and take a nap. And I can have nights like I did tonight.

A friend told me this week that she was having friends over to her front yard tonight; she set out chairs and tables and bottles with colorful drippy-type candles. Bring your own beverages; I'll have snacks, she said.  I told her I was in.  Today, another friend told me she was "on her own" tonight and had nothing to do for a few hours. I responded: "well... let me tell you what's happening...."

All of us live within a few blocks from each other.  Because that's where I am now.  I'm Mary.  We're all Mary.

We gathered.  I saw friends I hadn't seen in years (literally, not figuratively) because I had been So Far Away.  But after champagne glasses and Leinenkugel-filled solo cups, the laughter and stories flowed. I didn't have to go to a bar or a club or drive to some remote location and worry about a thing.  Oh no. I had to walk *across the street* to a friend's front lawn for this gathering.  Because that's what you do when you're centrally located.  That's what you CAN do.... when you're home. 

And I'm finally home. :-)

A woman showed up tonight that I hadn't seen in a year.  She reminded me she still had the books I loaned to her then and didn't forget that she had them and would get them back to me.  I joked I knew where to find her if I needed them.  [Seriously, though: books are meant to be gifted to those who would love them. I don't care if I ever get them back.] A couple showed up tonight that I hadn't seen in probably four or five years, given my time So Far Away and I so enjoyed seeing them again.  My aforementioned friend who had had no plans? Is now out singing karaoke with the folks from the aforementioned front lawn and having a good time at, yes, another walking-distance bar from all our homes.   

So if I go on and on about how I love my life and how I love my silly broke-down apartment and love where I am and how life is now?  I'm actually not trying to convince myself of it.  I'm just that joyful that I can't keep it in.

I'm finally Mary.

I'm home.

God bless Atlanta.   :-)

BirthdayGANZA

It boggles my mind sometimes to realize that I have a group of friends who have been in my life for so long and still make me laugh as hard as I did tonight, already counting the days until we can all meet up again.

Born out of an internet Listserv of two decades ago (yeah, today's youngins would have no clue what that is) and at at time where we could say "we met on the internet" and got clueless looks as opposed to scornful or freaked-out ones, the chances of this not only happening but lasting this long is really nothing short of glee-worthy. And not that silly show. Sheesh! Who on earth would bond over a *TV show*, anyway?

I just got back from an evening with these folks. It was great that Aron had a birthday (er...13 days ago) that gave us an excuse to gather.

Some thoughts from the evening, before I forget them:

1) As I parked, I Foursquare-checked in (um, do you know me?) and to no surprise saw Phil was already there. The shock was that Jacki WAS too! Ohmygosh. Now, that would never have happened fifteen years ago. ;-)

2) Even Anne made it on time - with 3 minutes to spare! Holy cow! Do I not know these people anymore?!

3) One of the best lines of the evening came as we were discussing movies. Someone dissed on "Gladiator" and the response was: "hey, I liked Gladiator! (pause) But, then, I like movies about gladiators." Laughter ensued. I'll let you guess who that came from. [Hint: wasn't one of the girls.]

4) There were some tender moments, remembering and talking about lost friends. We're nearly 20 years older than when we first met, but we're still far too young to have to be discussing lost friends our age. Jacki raised her glass and sweet toasts to those on our minds.

5) Keylime pie was claimed for Stacy, for Spain, for France (that fork quickly fell over; go figure) and then got in our bellies. See photo above. France is obvious. :)

6) I'm apparently vertically challenged. Aron's the oldest of all of us. Viggle is going to be Jacki's and Phil's newest obsession (you're welcome) and the quest to find the first weeping angel is on.

7) BBC really needs to have us for their marketing team. Seriously, wouldn't Oods make a perfect string of Christmas lights?

8) Scott is by far one of the most clever, funniest men I have ever met. No wonder he and Jax have just celebrated their 15th Anniversary and still going strong. He makes me laugh like there's no tomorrow and we all know there is one. Well, at least until the end of the world comes in December, that is. What's wicked cool is he makes himself laugh too. I SO tried to capture him laughing uncontrollably tonight (it was something about a pie. And it's love for me. I think. Heh. I think I'm finally understanding it, actually).

9) And, no, Phil, I did not find a Democrat in the Kroger parking lot and turned him in. I know we Republicans can be brutal, but we haven't started roundin' up our opponents for exportation yet. (But thanks for the idea! I'll start talking to my people.)

10) One of the best things about the evening (well, for us; probably not them) was all the evil glares and glances, the "evil eye" half the group got when walking out the door. Yes, because we were loud (hey, it was already loud in there) and we laughed uncontrollably. Repeatedly. I guess in the future we *could* ask for a private room (or they'll just learn to put us in one), but my joy from this doesn't come from annoying others but realizing that, deep down? Their annoyance was probably rooted in a little envy. To look at a table of six very different, very unique individuals who were not drunk, not even really that obnoxious, and think: wow. What an amazing group of friends that must be over there. I wish *I* had that.

Because it's what I'm thinking right now too. I wish everyone had what we had tonight.

The greatest thing for me tonight is that I had not one drop of liquor while with them and I still laughed so much my side kinda hurts right now. :) It's that "good hurt" - you know, the one your personal trainer will tell you you'll feel the next day and you pretty much just want to punch them in the face? Yeah, that. It was only as I was driving home did it occur to me to think they might have thought I had a DUI or something and that's why I wasn't drinking (gasp! Stacy not with a drink? OMG, things HAVE changed!). ;-) Haha. No. It's because I knew I didn't NEED it with these people, these amazing friends. And I AM often insecure enough that I DO need a glass of wine, a cocktail or two to loosen up. Not with these folks. I love that.

(Oh, and, shit, let's face it: I could NOT have been on my game with Mr. Scott up there in #8 if I had been. Too friggin' clever for his own good, that li'l shit is.)

The thing is: with this group, it doesn't seem to matter how long you've been apart or the ups and downs you've been through or anything else: it's always like Coming Home. And this was one homecoming I had truly been looking forward to and wanted to remember every moment of so I could write it now, here. The whole drive home, I had a grin on my face. And the little geek in me couldn't wait to get home, even if it meant having to leave them, just so I could post pictures and write about what a lovely, lovely evening I had. Because I never want to forget.

Thank you, my companions, my friends. I'm looking forward to many more of these in the future.

Kamlesh

Kenny. Kamlesh. You Bastard.

Son. Friend. Colleague. Gentleman.

Gift. Treasure. Blessing. Love.

The world lost an amazing heart, a truly special human this week when the gentleman above left our world for the one that comes next.

You may have known him by one of the names above. You may have known him as more than one; maybe them all, even. I'm going to guess that most of you who know Kamlesh even have more words to add than I just did. That's just the man he was.

I almost feel a little like a fraud writing an entry about Kamlesh when I haven't seen him in a while. I almost didn't write this because of that: for fear of folks thinking that I had no right to write about a man that I haven't seen in person for a few years now. But I wanted to anyway, because of that very fact: that he was just that rare type of person that you actually could go years without seeing each other and still feel close to him. Because he always had a way of making you feel close, even if you weren't physically together.

Even though I didn't get to be with him lately in presence like we had for many years, we always still kept in touch on social sites and shared private messages and emails about things that mattered, or things that made us laugh or things that were just plain silly. I always thought that was just a way to keep in touch until we could get together again. I always thought that would happen.

And I still know it will.

Someday.

I have memories of Kamlesh that, even now as I'm tearing up writing this, I'm laughing too. Like the time that his best friend Phil took me out to this specialty running group with him and Kamlesh actually looked at us after our first time doing it and told us he had actually been doing it for years and was crazy tickled we were now doing it too. We were all surprised! But happy! So we all ended up in Wisconsin, 900 miles from here, 6 months later to do a run there together. And then others after even.

And then there was the time, on many a Thanksgiving potluck, that Kamlesh would bring the extra special something. After a few years, he asked if he could make the turkey to help us and we were so happy to let him have that task -- until, when he saw the instructions to "wash turkey before baking" and thinking of salmonella and all, decided to wash it with *anti-bacterial soap.* You know, to make sure everyone would be safe and healthy and not get sick, right? (Yeah, is that not Kamlesh, seriously? Thinking of others always?) But, heehee! One of my favorite memories to this day is the sight of that turkey, bubbling in the oven. He was sheepish and even a little bit horrified about it, thinking he ruined dinner; I found it adorable. Phil did too. Kamlesh so did not ruin dinner; instead, he made an amazing memory for us all that we'll never forget.

Everything about Kamlesh is unforgettable like that.

When he laughed, you couldn't help but laugh. If you were in a down mood, his very presence picked you up. Everyone has bad, ugly or down moods: but I never ever saw one with this gentleman. He had just as many challenges as the rest of us do in life (if not more), but he never let them affect how he was going to live out his day or treat you when he was with you.

For example: it was nearing my birthday once and I was unemployed, poor, in a bad place. In a funk even. I had mentioned once in a group setting how I really just needed to get myself out of my funk and at least start working out again. I very barely knew him then. But the next day? I got a brand new beautiful Eddie Bauer gym bag (in my favorite color no less -- that's Kamlesh, he knew!) on my doorstep with a little note of encouragement that I'd get over "this time I was going through." I still use it to this day.

That's what Kamlesh is, though. He's everything I said in the opening of this blog, but so much more that, even as a writer, I can't put into words. He knew how to make a person feel special and unique and precious and worthy. And it's because all of those words I just wrote exactly explain him and his soul.

Special. Unique. Precious. Worthy.

I'd say rest in peace, my friend, but I already have a feeling you're not resting, dear Kamlesh. You're watching over all of us and still making our lives a better place even if you're not here with us. It's who you are, afterall.

One amazing man.

Ode to the Lost Art of the Curse (er...-ive)

Today, January 23, is "National Handwriting Day." I know this because each day I start my morning by posting something like this on my Facebook page: it's either a celebration of the day, something that happened in history this day or sometimes a combination of both. And then I go research and investigate it before posting. Yes, I'm just that much of a geek. I guess it's the "teacher" in me, wanting to educate in some small way.

So I started with this today (and the photo above):

"Your handwriting is an excellent method of identifying you or your documents, as well as conveying feeling and personality in your work. Unfortunately, in today's super busy world, for most people the act of writing is slower than the act of keyboarding, so it's slowly becoming obsolete.

I say: let's not lose the ability to communicate more personally! Computers are great, but the act of learning to write plays a special part in the development of young brains, and is a great way to convey warmth and a personal touch to the recipient of your message.

Today is National Handwriting Day. How about we celebrate with a handwritten note or card to someone?"

And my friends, as always, commented brilliantly on it to help me think even more about it than I had just then. I guess they educated me, too. (I have some pretty darned good friends.) And as I wondered what to write about today, I knew this was it.

I understand that times change and technology is often the focus of that change. And technology IS good. Hey, I adapt to most of it pretty quickly and easily, even if not immediately. I embrace it even. But sometimes technology is not always a good thing. Families gathering around a radio to listen to programs and talk about them together in front of a roaring fireplace turned into families sitting in front of the TV instead, eating off TV trays with parents telling junior to "move your head and quiet down" because they couldn't see or hear the box. Do I want to go back to the day of no television? Heck no. I love my TV. But can I reminisce about a time that wasn't even a part of my life and imagine how specially unique and now completely lost it probably is? Yes.

And that brings us back to the cursive handwriting.

It's quickly becoming a lost art; and I do mean art. Each of us who grew up with sharp #2 pencils in hand and that tell-tale paper in front of us were taught to do our lettering the exact same way. Oh, and that paper! With its series of strong dark lines and softer dashed ones half between! You knew your lower cases had better meet the dash our you'd get points off your penmanship grade. You knew the letters with "tails" had to come down a certain distance below the solid, oh! but not far enough to affect the letters in the next line! And you knew darn well those i's and t's better be dotted and crossed absolutely correctly. It was a skill, folks. An art they were teaching us.

And, yet, a few years later it was OK to make that strict cursive writing into something of your very own. You may have still done the capital Z properly or enjoyed doing the little "hooks" on the big S and F....but no one ever stuck to "the Q as a 2." (Am I right?) Everyone who learned cursive handwriting the exact same way also somehow then adopted it to their own style, too, and it was allowed. It's like folks speaking the same language but adding their own dialect. We all learned the same words; we just pronounce them differently...but still could understand each other.

Which we can do in a typed word, of course. But where's the personality in that? The thing is: the understanding is important, sure. But the *personality* was just as important. You can put in writing a personality that you can't do with a keyboard. Sure, you can pick different fonts to try to illustrate it (there's a comic sans joke in here somewhere), but it's not the same.

Within the past year I came across my old journals from college and I was both amazed and tickled to see my own handwriting from 20 years ago: what had changed, what was the same. It was interesting to pull out book after book and see my moods and dreams and emotions just by how I formed the letters: big and loopy, small and slanted, no matter what words I was even reading. I think I would still appreciate my old journals today if they had been typed, but there's something much more intimate in reading them in the art form of the letters that really were what brought those words initially to life.

I heard today that this art is dying. I think I already knew it, but the comments from my friends solidified it. Many schools are not even teaching it anymore because it's becoming "antiquated" and folks now type faster than they can write. It makes me sad, even as I embrace this fact: afterall, I'm typing this blog instead of writing it, yes?

But as I said in my Facebook entry, it got me to thinking. Thinking about, say, folks a few decades from now, coming across their great-great-great-great-grandfather's WWI letters back home to his beloved, all ribboned and boxed carefully up in an attic somewhere that no one ever knew about and not being able to curl up on the couch and read them without a translator two generations older there because they *can't read cursive* on their own.

[On an aside that illustrates this? On my last trip home, I found some of these same sort of letters my Dad wrote to my Mom even before they were married. Oh! To see my now-passed father's handwriting! And in sweet correspondence with my Mom! Oh, you cannot get the feelings I had as I read them in a typed-up, printed-out letter, folks. You just can't.]

So, yeah. I get it; I do. I think the only thing to which I can relate it for my own generation is the lost skill of shorthand now. I know Mama knows how to do it. I'm sure some of you may even. But when I was in school, it was no longer taught; there was no need for shorthand anymore with new developments that let you record or click keys or whatever else faster than that. I now wonder if anyone felt the same way about the death of shorthand as I do now about the death of the cursive hand?

And so I will keep writing, friends. I'll keep typing to you all here, of course, but I'll also keep writing my letters, postcards and journals. It can only "go away" if we let it go away. I think it's an art form worth cherishing. If it has to pass, it does. But I, for one, will be hoping for a slow and peaceful death.

I'm boiling eggs. Just because I CAN.

When I moved into my cute little apartment last May I was warned by a friend and wicked close neighbor "gas here? expensive!" It's the deregulation of this utility about 10 years ago in the ATL that did this. It was supposed to help folks: give us a choice who we wanted to provide our gas service based on pricing, right? Yeah, unfortunately, the *piping system* is still owned by one and only company. And so gas prices took the opposite turn: they're redonks.

The only thing in my glorious little apartment that needs gas is my stove/oven (heat is: but it's radiator gas controlled and included in rent). I'm not sure what's the difference between a stove and an oven. Is the stove the top and the oven the inside? Either way, it's gas. And either way, it would cost me $40 a month just to have a line in, even if I never used it. So either way? It's now just a storage unit; extra shelf space.

Now, folks. Contrary to popular belief, I like to cook. I do! I just don't often cook just for myself because, well, it's just myself. But I do like to cook. But I also do not like to pay that fee every month PLUS whatever gas I use on top of it when it just seems outrageous to me. So, being me, I got creative.

Convection ovens? Oh yeah, that does casseroles, pizzas, anything the "oven" would do. So I bought me one. Soups and stuff? Microwave. Had that. Stews and chili? Nice big crock pot. Had that, too. But the one thing that I missed -- that I couldn't do in ANY of that?

Hard boiled eggs.

Dammit!

Oh, I do so love me a good hard boiled egg. Add the devil to that and I could eat them up like there's no tomorrow.

So, finally, after all this time (8 months and 10 days, to be exact), I finally got myself one of them little coil burner things this Christmas. You know, the ones that were "illegal" in your college dorms? And Mama sent me home with two pots I still remember her using when I was just a youngster.

So I'm making a batch of hard boiled eggs now.

Because I CAN.

Oh, it's SO game on come Easter!

O Tannenbaum: to my dear Aunt Angie

My parents did the best thing ever for me when they got married: they moved out of the little Pennsylvania town Mom grew up in and settled in Milwaukee instead. Not sure if it was by conscious choice or because of the fact that in the mid-60s, a woman followed her husband as opposed to a man following his bride.

Now, I don't think anything is wrong with that town. I love that place. My family is still from there and around there and I am blessed to have my roots there. I'd be proud to say I was from there. But I'm not. And this is not about that. This is about my surrogate aunt.

"Aunt Angie" was one of my Dad's best friend's wife: they lived right down the hill and across the street from our home growing up. Aunt Angie and Uncle Les were not related by blood, but they were still my aunt and uncle. At that time in the 70s, in the Midwest? Their proper titles: Mr. and Mrs. Ermis? Was too formal. Because they were family, after all. So instead of calling them by that, Mom and Dad told us they were our Aunt and Uncle. Angie and Les were then and will always be my aunt and uncle, and mean as much to me as those who are by bloodlines.

I learned just a few minutes ago now from Uncle Les in an email that Aunt Angie passed away yesterday. It's a blessing and she's in peace now. I just got off the phone with Mom to make sure she knew too; she did. And it got me to thinking about how my "Aunt Angie" was such an amazing, loving substitute for the ones I had living 800 miles away I rarely got to see. She didn't ever try to take the place of them; she just filled the need I didn't have because of geography.

Angie was German-American and spoke in an accent and language sometimes my siblings and I would giggle about respectfully. She could not pronounce my Mom's name, for example: "Dorothy" sounded like "Dordy." We'd decorate cakes for my Mom reading "Happy birthday, Dordy!" and Angie would laugh over it, knowing we weren't mocking her but almost lovingly including her in something silly to laugh about.

I still remember one time when I was in second grade and the church wanted us to learn how to sing "O Christmas Tree" in German. Why? I have no idea. But Mama reminded me then that Aunt Angie was German and so for weeks I went down the hill, across the street and she taught me how to sing "O Tannenbaum" in her language. After weeks of practice, I was so proud to know I could go into our Christmas pageant and actually sing the entire darn song in German.

Unfortunately, no one else bothered to learn it. And I was afraid to sing it on my own. Um, I was in second grade, afterall.

But? I can still sing it now. :-) I took Spanish for 5+ years and can't even speak that as well as I can sing this German song. Because of Aunt Angie.

And I'm going to sing it tonight, whether out loud or in my head...or both. I'm blessed in a million ways to have known her and thank my parents for giving me that. I wonder sometimes still if Mom feels guilty about having to distance me from my biological aunts and uncles because she moved 800 miles away to be with Dad to provide me a better life. I hope she knows, no matter what, that she gave me a huge huge blessing in her sacrifice to allow me to have Aunt Angie in my life too. Rest in peace, my dear, dear Aunt. I look forward to seeing you again someday.

Welcome, Mat. Happy you're in a *secured building.* :-)

We were young. Silly. Stupid. Obnoxious even.

I was 19 and she was 17 when we met; she turned 18 a month later and I turned 20 a month after that. We happened to meet on accident/coincidence/divine intervention that summer. From two different worlds we came: I was a college student who grew up three hours away. She was from Stevens Point, a new graduate from high school. We answered the same ad in a newspaper (back then, in 1991, it was newspapers, not Craigslist, kids) to share a broke-down house for the summer for $250. Not a month; the entire summer. It was 1991, afterall.

We were underaged but we still drank (gasp!) -- I know, right? Harlots! And we'd walk from our brokedown palace on Union Street in Stevens Point out to the Square with $2 in our pockets, knowing we could get boys to buy us drinks. And after, with sweet little kisses on their cheeks (not so much harlots afterall!), we'd stumble home through the back of the Shopko parking lot since we were always too smart to drive drunk. And, well, we didn't have cars.

On the way, we somehow fixated on folks' welcome mats. Don't know why, don't know how. But it was a college town and we knew the difference between the locals and the college students who got the crappy ones for free. So our game (to keep us awake? sober? vertical until we got home and crawled through the window?*) was to "take" someone's welcome mat...and then switch it with someone else's. We never really stole one in that sense (er... Bartles & James sense anyway. Remember: it was 1991!)... everyone who had one at their door the night before still woke up with one again. Just maybe a different one.

And so when she gifted me with this one this Christmas? Oh, hells yes, it's incredibly awesome. It's a little fox saying hello. But it's also a throwback to the summer we met: two girls on paper who had nothing in common and had no reason to ever meet. Except by accident. Or coincidence. Or, as I really believe, divine intervention. :-)

Love you, my Sue!

*story for another day *grin*