Shout Out, Quietly

You know who you are.

Among other things, for the kindness and for the company, I am grateful.

Thank you.

Art, Culture, Music, Life

I know, I know. The posts are coming fast and furious but, no worries, it won't last long.

My mom "encouraged" me to participate in a variety of activities when I was young. By "encouraged," I mean that she bought two tickets and I'd better get a skirt and tights on 'cause I was going.

Some I really enjoyed. We saw Baryshnikov dance Don Quixote, stalked Andy Warhol in New York city, (really!) and ate Japanese food on authentic tatami mats.

Other events, I played along because I knew they were important to her, but at best I was disinterested. I didn't know who Grant Wood was and was supremely irritated to wait in line for a three-minute viewing of some painting of an old couple and a pitchfork. Juried art shows were also particularly painful for my twelve year old self. Looking back, I see how fortunate I really was to have this exposure.

My girls are pretty cooperative about ethnic eating, exploratory road trips and urban foraging. They're also good sports about attending live theatre shows and even sat through countless hours of recent World Cup soccer.

An evening spent at the Tivoli Theatre watching shorts from the 48 Hour Film Festival yielded uncharacteristic enthusiasm from my former gymnast while writing and artistic collaboration on a 'zine seems to have lit a fire under the teen planning a career in medicine.

Where am I going with this? I don't know. Gratitude to my mom and dad? Hopefulness that my children learn to be true to themselves? Fascination with the never ending opportunities for learning?

Yeah. I still don't know.

It's An Irish Thing

I have said, frequently, that I am a lucky person.

Last October, an ancient man in a brand new Cadillac Seville t-boned the car I was driving on the passenger side. He was cruising along at about fifty miles per hour and my vehicle, known as Elvis, was decimated. Every day, I deal with the injuries from that accident and they have truly impacted my life, but my kid was totally unharmed.

Tonight, while stopped at the traffic light at Kingshighway and Arsenal, a loopy woman dressed for the club scene plowed into the back of Elvis' successor, breaking the rear axle and knocking the left back tire off completely. She then swerved and hit the two cars in front of me as well. Luckily, I had adequate space between my front bumper and the van next in line, and there was no chain reaction of rear-endings. I walked away, with only a bump on the head and a seatbelt bite on my chest, from another SUV requiring a lift from a flat bed tow truck.

Am I disappointed about yet another car accident? You bet. Is this a really inconvenient time to have to deal with having no ride and insurance companies? Hell, yeah. Will I be sore tomorrow? Absolutely.

But.

Each day I feel immensely grateful to be alive, to be walking and to have two incredible daughters. My parents cherish me. I have a few friends and a couple of bucks. I am loved.

And for all that, I am lucky.

Pardon My French

I was totally amped up to play trivia tonight for my favorite St. Louis magazine, 52nd City. And even went so far as to assemble an all-star team of assorted professionals and academics. (Okay, they're my rowdy buddies but they're also really smart!)

Little did I know that the jokesters planning the game played on the coincidence of today being Bastille Day. That's right, French themed trivia. My crew won't be able to answer a damn thing unless the topics involve kissing, potato preparations or people who allegedly hate Americans.

You'll see me moping about tomorrow, new print issue in hand, looking embarrassed.

(Check out

52nd City

for the online issue of "Faith." The site will also tell you where to buy the latest 52nd City magazine.)

Too Much Information

Funny, the things one learns accidentally while staying in another person's home.

Let me state this: I am NOT a snooper. I'm not tempted to peek in other folks' medicine cabinets, I don't care what sort of DVDs they keep in their bedrooms and their U.S. post carries no interest for me. If it's not sitting out in plain view, I ain't lookin' for it.

On the other hand, if I need to put my wet clothes in the dryer and someone else's stuff requires unloading, I can't avoid seeing what's in my hands. Namely, undergarments. I'm too adolescent to handle underwear not belonging to me without a fit of giggles and the occasional "Oh my god!" However, I am proud to say that I resisted the powerful urge to sling-shot the skivvies around the room or at the dog.

Another unavoidable area is the refrigerator. Hey, a girl's gotta eat. I'd like to know why there is a water glass filled with water and whole carrots? And why is there a gigantic pitcher filled with what looks to be juice but is labeled "bird food- do not drink"? The dairy drawer contained no less than seven different kinds of cheeses. Who needs that many cheeses? And finally, why, in the middle of every organic product known to man, is there a giant box of cheap-ass corn dogs?

Curiosity killed the cat... and the housesitter.