Celebrity Endorsements, Storm Statistics and Confessions

We reside in a cozy house situated neatly on the eastern shore of a lake in the southernmost reaches of the far-north city of Minneapolis. If you're familiar with Minneapolis, you know that it's a funky, cool, progressive, beautiful city with a funny accent, an abundance of flannel-clad hipsters, and a lot of quirk. If you're not familiar with Minneapolis, I owe it to you to disclose that in our lexicon of local celebrities, you'll find a couple of television meteorologists.

It's really strange, I know. But they're not there because we don't have anyone actually cool to admire. On the contrary, we've spawned a number of rather iconic individuals, like Bob Dylan and Judy Garland and the Coen Brothers. No one's asking Prince to be the keynote speaker at their gala events, though, and it's not just 'cause he's really flippin' strange. We'd just rather spend our time with that guy or gal from [insert your favorite channel here].

I have a theory about this. 

The climate here has the potential to be vicious in its extremes, and we mere mortals are entirely at its mercy. Except that there are these weather dudes and dudettes who somehow just sorta know what's coming next...with a huge emphasis on the "sorta." It's like they have a static-filled line in to whatever higher power decides it's time for baseball-sized hail. And if they really have face-time or whatever with the weather deities, then maybe they have some clout, see? Maybe they could chat us up with Thor, and convince him to, you know, blow the snow into Richfield instead? It's like climatological social networking. Or junior high.

If you don't live here, you might not understand why your Minnesota friends make such a big $%&@ deal about the weather. To us, it's obvious: It snowed yesterday. Like, a lot. Now I have to figure out where to park my car until Monday night. Except that it's buried in a four-foot drift. But plows can't get down the streets because they're not plowed. And they can't tow cars off of the streets so that plows can get through because it's too deep to get the tow trucks in until they plow. 

The net-net is that if you're from Minneapolis, everyone you know just spent seven hours shoveling little Habitrail paths for themselves, just so they could move their cars to the even side of the street. It sucks. And that is why we talk about the weather.

When I was a kid, I aspired to be a local celebrity meteorologist. I envisioned myself pointing effortlessly at a Chroma-key, gesturing naturally as I described this week's incoming low-pressure system in an informative-yet-engaging manner. I imagined our at-home viewers chortling aloud at my playful on-air banter with the anchors, their guffaws causing them to nearly choke on the frozen pizza they were noshing from their perch on the couch. In this fantasy, I singlehandedly forecasted the weather with unparalleled 80% accuracy. I wanted it all.

When I was 12, I was given the opportunity to spend an afternoon "shadowing" the iconic Paul Douglas, the Twin Cities genius who brilliantly pioneered--get this--outdoor weather broadcasts. He was the rock-star of the weather world, with a crisply starched shirt, receding hairline, and buttery-smooth voice. My mom took me shopping for a new pink silk shirt to wear to the KARE-11 studio, and I was sweating so hard from nervousness that I completely pitted out by the time my mother dropped me off. So deep was my awe for Mr. Douglas that I couldn't speak a word the whole time I was there. I just sat in his office, on a stool, staring. I must have seemed terribly creepy to him, dripping with perspiration and mute. 

I don't know if it's nostalgic exaggeration, or if my memory is accurate, but it seems to me that it was much, much snowier here in Minneapolis when I was a kid. Mr. Douglas pointed out in his Friday blog that remembering snow from our childhood is inaccurate, as we were likely much shorter then. And he has a point.

Whether it's "wear layers" or "bring an umbrella",  those damned TV weather people always have a point. Seriously. How do they do it?

This winter, we've been treated to the kind of snow I remember from my childhood. The kind that does things like this:

This weekend, my parents got snowed in at our house, so the extended Waffle-Clan spent the weekend baking Christmas cookies, playing with dogs, and shoveling. But that's not the only gift given me by this blizzard.

Though I never have lived my dream of becoming a charismatic major-market television weather personality, this weekend also gave me an opportunity to report on the storm from my perspective. 

Here are some neighborhood storm statistics:

Neighborhood Snow Total: Around 18 inches, according to Paul Douglas

Number of People Snowed In At Our House: 6

Number of People Snowed Out Of Our House: 1 (Sorry, Waffle Guy. We missed you.)

Total Dogs Snowed In At Our House: 4

Total Hours Spent Snowed In: 39

Cookie Recipes Used: 4

Total Cookies Made: Approximately 17 dozen

Total Cookies Stolen By Dogs: Approximately 1 dozen

Snow Angels Made:12

Snow Angels Visible After All the Snow had Fallen: 0

Hours Spent Shoveling: 7

Metric Tons of Snow Shoveled: Infinity

See? I can do it. No sweat.

Creativity

I've always been labeled "creative."

It's a fascinating label, considering that the analytical, logical parts of my mind are a much more obvious part of my persona. I notice tiny details. I solve problems. I take things apart and put them back together. I look for the source. 

Even so, compliments I receive from family and friends return again and again to creativity. Sometimes I wonder who they're actually talking about, but secretly I love it.

Sometimes I outwardly embrace the label. Having a "creative" personality is an excellent excuse for running a few minutes late, or for accidentally putting on mismatched socks in the morning. "Oh, yeah," I'll say, glancing nonchalantly at the flashback-inducing contrast of one purple plaid ankle, crossed neatly over an orange paisley ankle. "I'm feeling inspired today." I like to think I can work it.

Sometimes, creativity is essential. At more difficult times in my life, I've sometimes had to create something from nothing. I remember one Christmas, a few years ago, when a friend gave me a box of her daughter's old toys. That year, I spent a night in my garage, painstakingly inspecting story books, looking for the ones that were most perfect. Those with the fewest folded corners; those with the fewest fingerprints on the cover; those that could pass for new--those were gifts from Santa that year. I wrapped them in homemade wrapping paper, and tied them in ribbons I'd cut from an old pillowcase.  I cried that year at my fireplace, feeling like I'd failed my girls. But my children were young then, and their delight was palpable. I like to think that if they'd been older, I'd have found a way to rise to the occasion. I learned that year that no matter what, there would be a way to make Christmas for them.

Later, in a more prosperous season, I would find myself making big, puffy bows out of pine-colored dog-poop bags with Waffle Guy's youngest daughter. There wasn't any necessity. We were only doing it to prove that we could create something beautiful from a humble poo bag. But as I watched that Youthful Waffler accent her beautifully wrapped gifts with her fluffy, homemade bows, I recalled harder years, and I was grateful that creativity had become a luxury.

This year, we took a Thanksgiving ski trip with most of the Waffle Clan. The Eldest brought with her the Adopted Waffler, a native Texan who'd never experienced the sting of Lake Superior wind in November. To celebrate, and to keep warm, the girls had packed an arsenal of Heinous Sweaters, and we expanded the collection at the Duluth Ragstock so that every member of our posse could sport one for a day. When my brother, a North Shore resident, met us for lunch, the Young Wafflers even presented him with a Christmas Panda shirt. He wore it like a champ, and we all spent much of the meal giggling at one another affectionately. I found delight in the fact that on a whim, these two young women could so masterfully craft for us all such a beautiful memory from such an ugly source.

Nothing, it would seem, is wasted. 

And isn't that the very definition of creativity? To take something hideous, or to take nothing at all, and to turn it into something beautiful. When I see it in other people, I regard this sort of creativity as genius.

For some reason, I feel almost desperate this year to make the world just a little better. I'm an idealist, and I get this way from time to time. When I was a kid, I was convinced that if I tried hard enough, I could cure AIDS and end war. It was either noble or a delusion of grandeur. I'm not quite so naive, now, but I still believe that one person can make a tiny difference. And I believe a lot of people can make a lot of difference. It just takes some creativity.

When I mentioned in this blog last week that I wanted some help adopting an additional family, I got so much response that we were actually able to provide gifts for several more families. For a day or two, I realized that I couldn't want any more than to call people like you my friends. Maybe it's guilt for a time when secondhand books were the best I could muster that makes me feel so compelled to fix things. Maybe it's some deep-rooted need to prove to myself that I am a good person. But I'd like to think that creativity has something to do with it.

Waffle Guy and I have come up with a creative way to feed a few people who might otherwise do without. In the spirit of creating beauty from ugliness, it involves your most heinous and gaudy holiday attire. It also involves filling our truck with your donated non-perishables, and snacks for you. Email me if you want to know more-- wafflequest2009 (at) gmail (dot) com.

I do always brag about my amazing, creative friends. Let's make something pretty, huh?

Kindred Spirits and Sunday Silliness

I've been secretly stalking Dan, author of the astounding Waffleizer Blog, for some time now, and I thought it was time that I shared his genius with all of you.

Dan is a Web editor at the Chicago Tribune who shares our passion for waffles. His approach is a departure from our unabashed holier-than-thou, Sugar-Waffle-or-Die attitude. Rather, Dan tackles some of the Waffle Universe's heavier questions, such as the all-important "Will it Waffle?"

Armed with a trusty waffle iron and a lot of creativity,  Dan explored the waffling potential of 30 of his favorite foods, ardently journaling his successes and failures along the way.

Alas, Dan opted not to continue blogging after his 30th recipe was finished, which totally breaks my heart. I check the Waffleizer every week or so, just in case Dan happens to change his mind. He never does.

Even so, bear-hugging Dan from the Waffleizer has an important place on my bucket list. Waffle Gods willing, it will happen someday.

Jobs I Want: Cheese Analyst

If you're someone who knows me well, you know that I used to edit some magazines owned by this evil, horrible man named Tom Petters.

If you think you've worked for a worse boss, you're wrong. As proof, I offer you Mr. Petters' mug shot.

Does your  boss have a mug shot? Did your boss at least look at the stupid camera for his or her mug shot? Mine didn't, because he was really ashamed of the massive Ponzi scheme he'd created, and terrified of the fallout of bilking his employees and investors out of billions of dollars. Did your boss do that?

Okay, then. My boss was the Worst Boss Ever.

But that's beside the point. The point is, when a massive FBI raid began the chain of events that led to my layoff, I found myself a bit traumatized, and so I vowed to be my own boss as much as possible for the rest of my life.

It sort of worked. I've done some freelance stuff, and waited tables, and generally avoided additional Scary Bosses. Mostly, this is awesome, but every now and again I find myself pining for the days when I  did lots of really productive stuff, like changing out of pajamas or earning a living wage. 

Sometimes, I discover careers at which I'm entirely certain I'd excel. When this happens it can be very, very tempting to apply for the position, until I remember that I am a writer and therefore entirely unemployable if I want to be paid with, like, a salary. 

But sometimes there's hope. Sometimes, I find a job that seems like it was custom-made, just for me. These jobs meet all of my requirements. They're fun. They require no pointless meetings. I already possess the expertise required. Jobs like these, I'd probably do for free. 

Did you know, for example, that the Tillamook Cheese Factory in Tillamook, Oregon employs people called "Cheese Analysts"? According to Tillamook's Web site, a cheese analyst's duties are as follows:

Cheese analysts take core samples from a random sampling of cheese blocks every day. They taste and smell the cheese, checking flavor and texture to determine which cheeses need to be sent back for further aging into sharp and extra-sharp varieties.

Um, hello? Hire me, Tillamook? I'm smart, and I'm good at random things, and I for realz know when cheese tastes good. I won't ever complain about the job. Instead, I will show up on time, and eat tasty cheese all day long, just minutes from the pristine Oregon coast. When I am done analyzing cheese, I will go home and sleep it off, and then come back and do it again the next day. I'll be like Templeton from Charlotte's Web, and you'll be my veritable smorgasbord. We're a perfect match. It'll be great.

So please, if you're a hiring manager at Tillamook (or any other reasonably decent cheese factory, for that matter), consider that I dream of being paid to eat...or even just eating for free?

It's the holiday season, Tillamook. A time when dreams come true. So cut a girl a break, eh?

Wish List, Item 3: Stuff That Helps Me Cope With Snow

I'm presently hanging out at 36,000 feet or so, Portland bound.

Behind and below me, Minnesota is in the throes of the third Snowmageddon event of the year.

Each one has created a different sort of adventure for me. The first Great Big Snowstorm this year came unseasonably early, prompting a white-knuckled, low-speed trip to Hell Target, where I encountered every other parent who had not yet purchased boots for his or her child. We got the last pair of size 6 boots in any style or color and the last cute yellow hat. My children, who as children occasionally lack things like "common sense" and "nerves," paid me back for my valiant efforts by requesting that I take them sledding four times in two days. I'm working on regenerating the toes I lost that weekend. I'll keep you posted on progress.

The Epic Day-Before-Thanksgiving Travel-Stopping Blizzard-To-End-All-Blizzards of 2010 was a massive disappointment at my home. That's okay, because I wasn't at home. I was settling in for a ski trip with my kids on the North Shore of Lake Superior. We'd heard reports of an impending super-doomy storm, due to arrive at 4 o'clock on Wednesday. At 7 o'clock, nothing was on the radar. We decided to get dinner at the infamous Sven and Ole's, where we sat in a room that's looked exactly the same since 1970 and ate food that was possibly made in 1970. A few flakes were falling when we loaded into the car to drive the 22 miles back to Lutsen.

By the time we got out of the tiny town of Grand Marais and safely onto curvy lake-side cliffs, there was enough snow to make me nervously hum The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. I'm quite certain that it was my silent prayers, coupled with the gales-of-November jokes and abundant backseat driving, that kept Gitche Gumee from swallowing us whole that night. I was repaid for my heroics with a long weekend spent skiing with my children, which was difficult, as I'd lost all my toes sledding the weekend before.

Tonight's storm, however, was somewhat kinder. You see, it hit at the precise moment we left for the airport, which might sound like a bummer to you. It's not. We boarded on time, and only took off an hour and 20 minutes late, and in between, I got to watch them de-ice our plane. Dude. That machine is my new favorite thing on Earth. It looks like a robot-alien, all hard at work to make the all the little planes fly safely! So cute...

So, if you happen to be or to know Santa Claus, you might want to pass along that I'd really like a de-icing truck for Christmas*. If I've got to live on the tundra with no toes, it's only natural to want to spray large machines with green goo, isn't it?


*I would be totally content just to ride along in one, if Santa is too busy making Hex Bugs to build me my own de-icing rig in time for Christmas. Riding along in a Sno-Cat on the side of a ski hill would be an acceptable substitute, in a pinch.

**In the event that none of the above fantasies are possible, I would be content to receive a one-way ticket to Maui. Thanks, Santa.

Wish List, Item 2: A Bigger Magic Wand

I learn stuff from Waffle Guy all the time. This is because he knows a lot about a lot of things.

Before I met him, for example, I didn't know what the greater omentum was. I didn't know that a Gibson J-45 is my favorite-sounding acoustic guitar. I didn't know what it was like to drink a Bitburger in Bitburg. And I had no idea whatsoever that the maitre d' at Sanctuary is one of my favorite strangers in Minneapolis. 

I learned all of these things because Waffle Guy is extraordinarily generous in spirit. He shares all the time, with all kinds of people. He shares what he knows, what he has, what he does. Because of his unwavering propensity to give, I can see possibilities I'd never imagined before. I see the world from a different place, now that I know him. I couldn't be luckier. 

Sometimes,  I'm reminded again of this wonderful aspect of his personality. For example, the other day I was struggling with some stuff that life has thrown my way in the past few weeks. I felt disheartened and icky and sad, and I told Waffle Guy that I just wanted to do something that would make me feel like I was spending my time on something good. I asked him what he thought about "adopting a family" for the holidays. 

Of course, Waffle Guy agreed, and so we got in touch with an incredible organization called People Serving People.  They run a large shelter that provides transitional housing for children and their families who would otherwise be sleeping on the streets. The shelter provides a safe, sober environment in which families are able to rebuild lives that have been interrupted by any number of terrible, traumatic events. 

People Serving People actually sent me a list of families from which we could choose. It was gut-wrenching to pick just a family, and so I asked my daughters for their input. They decided that they'd like to help kids their own ages, and so they selected a family comprised of a 29-year-old mother and her three young children. I'm elated. 

It's like I've been given a magic wand, and I can wave it, and for just a few minutes life might feel better for someone. I have the first names and ages of the family members on a sheet of paper in my pocket, and I've been thinking hard about what to give to them. 

I've also been thinking hard about the other families on the list. 

One, in particular, stood out. A 43-year-old woman has two teenaged sons and a pre-teen daughter. I wonder if it's harder for teenaged kids to adapt to life in a shelter than for younger children, who so readily roll with the punches. I wonder if we picked right. 

I don't know anything about this family except for their first names and ages, and that they're homeless. But I can't stop thinking about those kids. It's hard enough to be a teenager. They're forever comparing themselves to everyone else. Other kids can be mean. Under the best of circumstances, it's so hard to feel like you measure up. Can you imagine what it would feel like to navigate that, without even a home in which to find sanctuary? 

I've thought about it, and decided I want to try an experiment. It's risky, because it will either reinforce or dent my faith in humanity, but I want to give it a whirl. 

I want to use my social network to adopt that family. If you live in the Twin Cities, and you're in my online sphere, and it seems like it would feel good to you, would you commit to purchasing one gift for either a teenaged boy or an 11-year-old girl? 

I'd love nothing more than to send an email to People Serving People to tell them that a few more kids might feel the warmth of possibility for a few minutes on Christmas.

What if a little collective generosity of spirit could remind these kids that one's view of the world can change? 

Email me if you're in at wafflequest2009 (at) gmail (dot) com.

No pressure, friends. Just thought I'd see anyone else wanted to make the magic wand a little bit bigger.

Wish List, Item 1: Belly Laughs

At the request of her parents, one of Waffle Guy's daughters sends out a holiday wish list to a few key relatives. It's a very exciting thing to get, not only because her wishes are adorable, but because it instantly prompts my inner six-year-old to feel gleeful and joyous. Did you do that, as a kid?

 Remember sitting down with a toy catalog and circling every imaginable toy? Remember wondering what sort of magic you'd discover on Christmas morning?

Remember being certain that there would be magic?

In recent years, I've been an ardent subscriber to the "it is far better to give than to receive" school of the holidays. I'm sticking to it, for the time being, because there's a thrill in giving that is unparalleled, and I will continue to selfishly seek that high as often as possible.

But when I looked over the wish list in my email inbox, it occurred to me that a wish list is perhaps an exercise in faith. That Waffle Kid sits in her apartment, and compiles a collection of things that she believes will enhance her life. And then she sends them to people that she knows are waiting for it, wishing to make her happy. She is certain that there will be magic, too. Her list is proof.

And so, I browsed a Web site or two, looking for silly things that would make me smile. And I compiled my own list, imagining opening each of those ridiculous items and guffawing so hard that I ached. Really, it doesn't matter one iota whether I get any of them or not. The point is, I learned some important things about wanting.

First, it's not greedy to wish for things. Wanting exciting and new things in our lives is what keeps our lives exciting and new. It's possible to be generous and to want.

I know what I want for Christmas this year: A house full of people, a great big dinner, and a whole lot of laughs.

And also, this marshmallow gun.

Welcome, December.

Intently she gazes out the window for hours. Everyone else in the house assumes she is watching passers-by as they walk their own dogs, but I know better. Since we put the tree up, Gracie has been watching for Santa.

I have, too.

This is a vibrant and abundant life with which I'm blessed. I have my family, and opportunity. It's warm in my house, in every way. There is food and music and laughter and love. In here, there's almost nothing I'd change.

But this has been a month of contradictions, and the world isn't always so perfect outside of my doors. There are some things going on right now that terrify me. They're not fair, and they're not nice, and they break my heart. Yet somehow, in this season, I cannot let go of the belief that any second, it could all get better.

I love Christmas because it's so representative of the resilience of the human spirit. I'm stricken by how, on our darkest days, we dress our homes in twinkly light. When it's coldest, we gather close our loved ones to sit by the hearth. We feast, even as the fields are most barren. It's a beautiful sort of defiance.

Christmas, to me, is evidence that in our nature is a refusal to be overcome by darkness and cold. Instead, we seek shelter in the security of our homes and families. We notice the magic around us. We celebrate that which is important and real.

Spring will come soon enough. It always does, and everything becomes new and alive and promising once again. But for the time being, I'm content to sit here with Gracie, watching for miracles.

Love, Defined.

Atop my fiance's shoulders, the littlest Waffler explored Amsterdam from a vantage point high above the city. But it was a long day, and travelling had worn her out, and soon enough, she fell asleep. 

On his head.

Hilarious though it was, I worried that 43 pounds of limp, floppy kid might cause Waffle Guy epic chiropractic consequences. "I can carry her, if you want," I offered. "I'll help you get her down."

"It's no problem," he explained. "This way, we're moving forward, and she's getting some rest. That's about as good as it gets, isn't it?"

Maybe. But it still seemed like it might hurt, eventually. "You're going to get tired!" I insisted.

"Or I'll get stronger shoulders," he said. 

And in that moment, love made perfect sense. 

At once intricate and simple, the truth was there, as clear as water: To find it in one's self, day after day, to carry the ones who matter, and to find strength in that, is the gift of love.

Tomorrow, Bruges.

Shiva, The Destroyer

I thought I had finally hit my stride. That's when it always happens, isn't it?

My ex, who is a nice enough guy, is not terribly reliable when it comes to things like child support. I'm over that. On one hand, there's principle: It's a parent's responsibility to feed and clothe and support his or her children. On the other hand, for the time being, there's nothing to be gained by being The Enforcer, really. The girls and I are doing okay without the help, and simply accepting what is means that there's none of the conflict that can so crumple children. We're fine.

When he got fired and lost the kids' insurance benefits, it was harder to adapt. COBRA for the Little Waffles was just shy of $2000 a month, and freelance work doesn't come with benefits. I was going to have to get a "real" job.

The problem is that all of this occurred at a point when I was sort of on the cusp of having exactly the career I wanted. My pet project, Of Scars, was getting tons of attention as we finalized arrangements for our opening on October 1. I was working with someone on developing The Novel. A bunch of crazy things were falling into place. It seemed a shame to have to abandon all of the work that had gotten me there to take whatever job would pay me benefits.

Somewhere in a conversation with Waffle Guy, it occurred to one of us that this might represent a unique opportunity. Student insurance policies are a great value for the money. With a little bit of planning, it was possible that I could go back to school and insure the kids, for less than the cost of COBRA. I'd be able to go to school, plus freelance and nurture Of Scars on the side, right? And it represented a unique opportunity to set something right in my life. I was a very, very young mother, and so I got the education I could complete most quickly, and not the one I wanted. Maybe this was an opportunity to stop spinning my wheels, and to start embracing the things that move me.

We hatched a plan on a Thursday evening. The following Monday, I started classes.

It's so hard. Juggling a full course load, three school-aged kids and work is much more difficult than I thought it would be. My kids, used to having a highly responsive mom, must now learn to be more independent so that I can study. My dogs, used to daily trips to the dog park and endless games of Fetch, sit at my feet and look up at me with eyes that clearly say, "Can we go play now?" There's minimal sleep and a maximum amount of stuff to do. I feel like I am being pulled in a million different directions.

I'm not entirely sure I can do it.

Here's the strange part: It's stressful, but it's delicious. I feel like I finally have a chance to see what I'm made of, and for the first time in my life, I suspect that I might really like what I discover. Someday, anyway, when I've got time to think about it.

I'm taking a class called "Perspectives in Non-Western Art", which I thought would be an easy, fun way to get myself back into the groove. In reality the class is super demanding. There's oh-so-much to memorize, and it's all built on history in parts of the world that mainstream American academia pretty much ignores, so there's no reference point for the memorization. Analyzing artistic techniques on slides in a lecture hall is much less exciting than seeing those pieces first-hand. The prof, who seems like a lovely person, is unbearably dry as a lecturer.

Strangely, I'm starting to absolutely love that class.

It's where I met Shiva, one of the gods in the Hindu trinity. He is called The Destroyer. In class, we have analyzed dozens of images of the many incarnations of Shiva. I really like him.

Often, we see Shiva with many faces. He bears a crescent moon on his head, and his hair is matted. In paintings, he smears himself with ashes. Sometimes, he holds a trident. Most often, we see him pictured in meditation. In my favorite incarnation, Shiva as Nataraja, or "Lord of the Dance", spreads his four arms and dances the Tandava, the dance that is associated with the destruction of the world. Always, his face is serene.

At first, I thought Shiva was spooky, but I'm beginning to understand that perhaps he and I have met before. For all his destructiveness, he is a benevolent force, seen as the cause of regeneration and renewal in the Hindu world. Perhaps this is why he smiles as he dances the Tandava, stepping on Apasmara Purusha, the demon of ignorance, while he moves. Perhaps he knows that sometimes, we are content to exist in our ignorance until our way of life is shaken.

In Hindu temples, it is commonplace to circumambulate--to walk in a meditative, circular path--around sacred objects. In Buddhism, circumambulation of Buddha's relics is practiced. Sacred texts in Judaism and Christianity recall divinely ordered circumambulations of the walls of Jericho. On Islamic pilgrimages to Mecca, the devout circumambulate the Kaaba. It seems that a meditative need to explore sacred spaces is engrained in human existence.

A month ago, I had a plan, and it looked nothing at all like my life looks today. I'm grateful for the opportunity that this situation has presented, but the transition is really difficult some days. The truth is, sometimes, Shiva visits. Plans change. We don't have a choice. This time, I was able to immediately recognize that the outcome would be worth it, but that's not always the case. Sometimes, we lose people who are dear to us. Homes are taken. We get sick. Families split up. Sometimes, Shiva is devastating.

Looking around at the remains of my plans, I'm trying to be conscious of the sacred space that my life has become. I'm trying to circumambulate the confines of my situation, meditatively exploring the new boundaries and possibilities of this chapter of my life. This time, I can't wait for what's next.

Moving Right Along

Most of the time, life strolls along at a predictable pace. You wake up, you go to work, you come home, you go to bed. Rinse, and repeat. There. I've summarized most of life, in two easy-to-read sentences.

Sometimes, though, for whatever reason, life propels itself into some kind of bizarre hyper-speed.

Waffle Guy and I went to New York this weekend to visit his Eldest, and it was a head-spinning whirlwind of a wonderful weekend. For all the amazing travel adventures the Guy has had, this was only his second time in the city--and the first time, he only stayed for 18 hours. I felt obligated to provide him with the comprehensive New York City tourist experience in a single weekend.

In less than two full days, we went to dinner with the Eldest and her BFF, walked around the Upper West Side, went to the Empire State Building in the middle of the night, explored Chelsea on foot, visited Ellis Island, bought a light meter at the Hell's Kitchen Flea Market, saw +/- 0.3% of the Met, ate at a darling little Basque joint, had brunch at an old friend's place (To be clear, he's not old. Our friendship is.), and came home. I'm so tired that every word I type looks misspelled to me.

And yet, I want more.

I wish that we had the energy to wake up every single day and sustain that level of enthusiasm and adventure, and to make the most of every minute, and to remember to appreciate the people we meet along the way.

I hope that, when it's our time to go to the Great Nuthouse in the Sky, we will leave behind a list of full-throttle adventures like this one. I hope that people will understand that this is why we go to crazy places and do crazy things and obsess about making crazy-good waffles.

Life passes by awfully fast, you see, and I can't think of anything that matters more than whirlwind weekends and the memories that they create.

Worth Doing: Meteor Madness

Stay up a little bit late tonight. It's worth it.

The famously active Perseids meteor shower peaks tonight, and between minimal moonlight and a relatively clear forecast, it looks like conditions should be ripe to see between 45 and 60 meteors per hour. Head outside after midnight, look Northeast, and start counting.

Anything measured in meteors per hour has got to be good, right? 

Lessons from a Tourist's Photos: It takes awhile, sometimes.

First, my Letter Writing Campaign fell miserably flat. This is primarily because I had a massive two-week bout of writer's block, but also partly because it was a dumb idea. This is what happens when one drinks too much coffee and stays up until four o'clock.

Second, I'm learning to make peace with the obstacles. Sometimes there are obvious reasons you can't move forward, and sometimes it's a mystery. But we're all stuck, sometimes. And when it happens, there's no point in wishing you were somewhere else. You've just got to listen to the music of honking horns, and notice the lights and the colors and the patterns around you, and stay behind the wheel, and wait.

After all, we all arrive at the same place eventually. It's what we see along the way that matters.

Buenos Aires, May 2010

Letter #2: The Waffle Guy (aka "Crush/Boyfriend")

Dear Waffle Guy, 

Once, when we were still pretty new, I had a very bad day. You listened while I babbled, and held me while I cried, and talked me through to the other side of my tears. And when it was all done, I looked at you and said, "I don't deserve you."

Do you remember what you said next? Because I'll never forget it. You said: "Love isn't something you can earn or deserve."

I looked at you, all confused, and you continued to explain, "If you could do something to earn love, then you could do something to make me stop loving you. It's not that way. I just love you."

It was the first time in my life I didn't feel like I had anything to prove, perhaps the most liberating moment I've yet experienced. You didn't want the cleaned-up, spiffy, polished version of me that I'd always tried to sell. You wanted ME. 

It was in that moment that I finally started to understand who I am. I finally stopped performing, and started living. Thank you for that.

For the record, I just love YOU, too.

Letter #1: The Best Friend

Dear M:

I could say so, so many things to you. In fact, I could tell you anything. But frankly, writing lots of things for the sake of writing lots of things feels a bit like writing a yearbook entry. It's completely unnecessary. Everything you need to know about me, you already know. If you don't know, you'll ask. If I forget to tell you, it's okay. We are past the point of secrets or games, and besides, soon enough, we'll remember. We always, always remember soon enough.

You know that I think you are strong, beautiful, brilliant, insightful. You know that I admire your spunk, your gift of impeccable timing and wit, and your damn fine vocabulary. You know that I treasure the memories we've made together. You know that you are my family; that we're bound together by decades of  shared history. You know that I simply would not be Me if there wasn't a You.

And so, rather than tell you the things you already know, I'll leave you with a secret.

When I think about you, I wonder: Do you know what you are worth? 


I hope so. I hope that every day, when you look in the mirror, you see that radiant, sparkling soul of yours beaming right back at you.

When I look at my life, I see that spirit everywhere. Thanks for that.

I love you.

An Exercise in Exercises

I've met Britni once, at a going-away party I attended in Boston, when my best friend Molly was moving home to Minnesota. I'd flown to Boston to help Molly pack up her car and drive halfway across the country. I'd heard innumerable stories about Molly's Boston posse, and they proved to be exactly the sort of people with whom I'd expect Molly to associate: dynamic, free-spirited, fiery and feisty. I had little time to say more than a cursory hello to any of them, but Molly's people definitely made an impression to me. Oddly, I can still remember what Britni was wearing that night--a white tank-top, baggy jeans, a great belt and really cute shoes.

Somehow, Britni ended up as a Facebook friend, and I started to notice her insightful, comical and occasionally snarky posts. These I followed to her blog, where I am delighted to kill a few minutes of any given week. Funny how connected strangers are in this tiny world of ours.

At any rate, Britni found a 30-day letter writing challenge on someone's Tumblr, and opted to undertake the challenge herself, posting the list for anyone else who wanted to play.

I'm in. First, I think it would be fascinating to try to do ANYTHING for 30 days. I can hardly shower every day. I really need something to get me back in the habit of writing daily, and I think this could be just the habit-forming exercise I need.

Second, it just looks fun. Here's the list, in case you want to play, too. Thanks, Britni, for making enough of an impression then for me to blog-stalk you now, and for giving me something with which to occupy my brain.

THE 30-DAY LETTER-WRITING CHALLENGE

Day 1 — Your Best Friend

Day 2 — Your Crush/ Boyfriend (*)

Day 3 — Your parents

Day 4 — Your sibling (or closest relative)

Day 5 — Your dreams

Day 6 — A stranger

Day 7 — Your Ex-boyfriend/girlfriend/love/crush (*)

Day 8 — Your favorite internet friend

Day 9 — Someone you wish you could meet

Day 10 — Someone you don’t talk to as much as you’d like to

Day 11 — A Deceased person you wish you could talk to

Day 12 — The person you hate most/caused you a lot of pain

Day 13 — Someone you wish could forgive you

Day 14 — Someone you’ve drifted away from

Day 15 — The person you miss the most

Day 16 — Someone that’s not in your state/country

Day 17 — Someone from your childhood

Day 18 — The person that you wish you could be

Day 19 — Someone that pesters your mind—good or bad

Day 20 — The one that broke your heart the hardest

Day 21 — Someone you judged by their first impression

Day 22 — Someone you want to give a second chance to

Day 23 — The last person you kissed

Day 24 — The person that gave you your favorite memory

Day 25 — The person you know that is going through the worst of times

Day 26 — The last person you made a pinky promise to

Day 27 — The friendliest person you knew for only one day

Day 28 — Someone that changed your life

Day 29 — The person that you want tell everything to, but too afraid to

Day 30 — Your reflection in the mirror

Ooooh, fun! Ima start right now!

*On the grounds that I'm not nearly young and hip enough to be doing something like this, I reserve the right to change this language to something like, "Life Partner/Spouse/Love Interest"

New, Improved.

I am a daredevil. I will try anything once. I am fearless. I'm reasonably good at most things that I try. Above all else, I am not afraid of failure.

At least that's what I'd like you to believe. And unless you get to know me very, very well, I'll probably convince you quite thoroughly. After all, I'll gladly jump out of an airplane, or climb a very tall structure, or spelunk lava tubes. To drive the point home, I'll smile while I'm doing it.

On the surface, those things look very brave. They are not.

My Knievel-eqsue antics are merely a thinly-veiled, smoke-and-mirrors, over-hyphenated attempt to convince you that I am a woman of great valor. I am not.

Here is a list of things that scare me tremendously:

1. Snapping Turtles
2. Cottage Cheese
3. Commitment
4. Failure
5. Office Jobs
6. Misogyny 
7. Clowns (I know it's a trendy phobia. No, they don't make me scream or sweat. But if I'm walking down a sidewalk and I see a clown, I'll cross the street so I don't have to pass close by the painted freak.)
8. People who Yell
9. Waking up one morning and realizing I'm past my peak
10. June Bugs 
11. Judgment of Any Kind

There are at least 10,000 other things that render me petrified, but you get the point. I am a great big scaredy-cat and an even bigger hypocrite. I am the opposite of plucky. I just go through the motions.

I see courage everywhere, and I strive to emulate it. In one project with which I'm involved, I routinely talk to women who've survived breast cancer. Talk about ferocity. These women have been to hell and back, and they almost universally shrug off their experiences as if they were no big deal. "It was just my cross to bear," said one survivor. "Everyone has to deal with something." 

I don't know if I would be so brave.

My own daughter just finished her first triathlon at the ripe old age of nine. I sobbed as she crossed the finish line, overcome by the nerve it took for her to undertake her mission. Though she is a shy child, she worked really hard to raise nearly $500 for the Miracles of Mitch Foundation. And then she swam and biked and ran her heart out, despite the fact that the whole ordeal terrified her. If a child can have such determination, I wondered, why do I crumple so readily in the face of day-to-day life?

I've always been a little bit fragile, a little too sensitive. And so I do things that you will think are brave, like skydiving or bungee jumping or wearing a costume in public on a random Tuesday. The problem is that those things don't scare me. Not one iota. And so they're not really brave, are they?

I'll tell you what does scare me. New.

"New" is terrifying, because I am a control freak. That is why I say no to nearly everything that I can't predict. 

Sure, I'll slap on a parachute, because I can tell you exactly how it will end: Statistically speaking, I'll return to the ground. Not very scary.

But to get up in front of a group of people and sing? What if they don't like me? What if a mighty wind blows my skirt off and everyone laughs? What if I die of a heart attack caused by the anxiety induced by puking from nervousness on the stage?

I'm trying to challenge myself to break the shackles of perceived security, and so over the past few months I've made an effort to give up control and Just Say Yes.

That's why I said yes to a friend who asked me to paddle on his corporate Dragon Boat Team. I mean, it was highly possible that I'd cause the team to fail (Fear #4), thereby inciting the judgment of potentially misogynistic teammates from his office, causing them to yell at me sternly as they threw me into the waters of Lake Phalen, where my toes would be chomped off by snapping turtles (Fears # 11, 6, 5, 8 and 1). It could have been really ugly.  

Instead, it proved to be an unexpected highlight of my summer. I learned a new, somewhat useless rowing technique and obtained some righteous bruises. Best of all, on the shore my beautiful daughters watched us lose heat after heat, and they loved me anyway. Clearly worth the risk. So why did it cause me such tremendous fear? 

Or try this one on for size: Waffle Guy's youngest has an unbelievable voice. It's the sort of talent that most people never get to have. So when she asked my Guy and I if we'd sing backup vocals for an audition she wanted to go on, the logical answer was yes. But then it became clear that she wanted us to dress up in early '70s garb a la The Pips, and do Motown choreography, and do it in front of an audience with judges (Fears #11 and possibly 9), and I wanted to die every time I thought about it. 

We did it, though. And Waffle Guy and I TOTALLY blew the choreography, and we don't know yet whether we made it with her or ruined it for her. But it was absolutely hilarious in a way I never could have predicted. If I'm really honest, I'm strangely glad we did it. 

A childhood friend and fellow blogger recently drew my attention to a Huffington Post article talking about perceived happiness, specifically referring to parenthood. The article set every little synapse in my brain to life. Parents, the piece contends, are simply too busy to recognize what makes them happy until they stop to think about it later on. Is it possible, I wondered, that this is not limited to parenting? Is it possible that we truly don't realize what makes us happy until after we understand the events in context of The Big Picture?

And if this is the case, is it possible that we are also somehow programmed to fear the wrong things? Perhaps Fear #2 is something I should drop, opting instead to fear a flavorless, dull and utterly predictable life?

Maybe it's time to start ignoring the things that scare me, and welcoming the sweet, unexpected outcomes of just letting go.

(I'm standing by the fear of june bugs, though. Those little bastards are mortifying.)

Independence

The Middle Child made a proud declaration this morning, as she plated up her Sunday waffle. "We got blackberries and strawberries and whipped cream, Mama," she said. "For Independence Day."

July 4th has always been among her favorite days. I remember holding a baby, five weeks old, who stared in rapt attention to the bursts of colored stars. When she got older, she'd rest her head on my shoulder as we stretched out on a blanket and watched the sky. "Those ones are my favorite," she'd whisper, her hands on my cheeks. "No. Those are my favorite."

It's interesting that she enjoys the festivities so much. Any other day, crowds and noise and explosions  incite irascibility from this child. But not on Independence Day. Perhaps she understands that to find the meaning of freedom, one must embrace that which is unpredictable.

Waffle Guy assumed the role of executive chef this morning, with The Middle Child acting as prep cook, leaving me free to observe. Under his direction, she mixed a batter that yielded the most delicious waffles we've created in the year since this journey began.

Sweetest of all was watching her, nine years old and thriving, at the dawn of her own independence.

She's developed a fascinating new habit, as of late. "I'm going to save up $200," she'll tell me. And then she'll do it.

Last month, she informed me that she'd be participating in her first triathlon  on July 17th. This wasn't the same child who confidently stated she was going to be an Astronaut Cowgirl when she grew up. There was no childish ignorance, no irrational logic. This time, she knew what it took and intended to succeed. Day after day she swims and runs and bikes, completely driven to accomplish her mission. The force that drives her confounds me, rising from the mystery that is her soul, entirely independent of my influence. Suddenly, she is her own woman. It is both victory and defeat, that she needs less and less of me, and it speeds my pulse to think of it.

She didn't macerate the strawberries this morning, although macerating strawberries is one of her very favorite things to do. Today she decided to leave them whole; to pile them atop whipping cream along with tangy, firm blackberries; to add her very own, sweet spin to a tradition that we've come to love.

I scraped the last crumbs onto my fork, lost in all of the things I wanted to tell her. It's your life, too, Little One. 

But there was no need to say it. She already knows.

Back to the Beginning

Enough with the random sappiness. There are three incredible waffle-related developments that must be addressed.

1. A little over a year ago, I mentioned in this post that the Aster Cafe in Minneapolis desperately needed waffles. It was a beautiful, quaint space that just needed something more, and waffles, I contended, would save it. Through a bizarre series of coincidences, my friends Matty O'Reilly and Tom Peterson, owners of the amazing 318 Cafe in Excelsior, Minnesota, have acquired the Aster Cafe, and I'm happy to report waffles on their delightful breakfast menu. You can order them topped with either fresh berries and creme fraiche, or with bananas and Nutella (omg). While there's still nowhere in Minneapolis to find a delicious sugar waffle, I'm happy to report that these will sustain me when I'm too lazy to make my own. I'm also very happy to report that when I say a place should get waffles, sometimes it happens. Behold, the power of blogging...and serendipity.
2. We're running out of Hagel Zucker, and I was trembling in my bones at the thought that I'd have to return to waffle making without it. But if there's a god, it loves waffles, and so it's all going to work out fine. Our friend Nikki, who was instrumental in our decision to go to Bruges in the first place, has been living in Belgium for the past year, and will be visiting next week. She very kindly offered to bring home a stash of Belgian pearl sugar for us. Waffle Guy and I laughed a bit as she said, "I picked up two kilos for you, so you should be set for a long time." Little does she know how much sugar we put in those amazing waffles.
3. Waffle Guy is THE BEST. I mean, we already knew that, but he's really, really, really THE BEST. See, I'm celebrating a milestone birthday in the fall, and Mr. Incredible decided that for my birthday, he would offer me the opportunity to share the magic of Waffle World with those who mean the most to me. And so, come October, we'll be taking my three amazing daughters and my highly cool mother to Europe. The plan at this point is to start in Amsterdam, then go eat waffles and ride in horse-drawn carriages and drink lots of beer in Bruges, and then venture into Germany.  I'm so excited that I'm not sure I can stand it.

Lest you think I'd forgotten the original purpose of my blog, I'm going to leave you with this: It's a good year for waffles.

I'm-a go eat one right now...