Reconstruct This...

One day while driving home from work, I called my friend Kyle in tears. "My daughter hates me." "If it makes you feel any better," she said, "I have two daughters. Double the hate. In fact, I made [honey] kosher chicken noodle soup last weekend and she gave me shit about it." "?" "We're Jewish, but [honey] is orthodox. She only eats kosher. And she has to have her kosher food made in separate pots and pans and served on separate dinnerware. I make [honey] kosher chicken noodle soup every Friday night to make sure she'll have something kosher to eat for the weekend." "Wow. That's really nice of you." "Except for the fact that I was chopping the carrots and celery with my bare hands, which made [honey] wretch and gag and proclaim me disgusting." "You asshole!" "I know! I feel horrible!" A couple of days later, I was telling my boyfriend about an incident with my daughter. "You know,

I know. I take off an entire year, now I just can't stop writing. So much to document. The Walk. The Man. The Kids. Of course, people used to read this blog. Now, it's just me. No worries. I have reached that point in my life where I understand what's truly important. Who'd have ever thought that an angst-ridden, self-conscious chick like me would get to the point where other people's opinions don't matter? Or, truth be told, matter less? True story: My brother, his wife, me and my kids were in my brother's Honda Pilot last Christmas, going to Stanford to return Christmas presents. My brother and I share a love of Alison Krauss and Shawn Colvin. But lately, my brother's taste in music has devolved, as evidenced by the Glee soundtrack streaming from the Pilot's speakers that day. Mike: "Uncle Dennis, your music sucks ass." Uncle Dennis: "You know what's great about being middle-aged, Mike? You don't give a shit what other people

When I was 10, shopping at Sears Roebuck with my mom, I would wander around the men's section and pretend I was a grown woman, shopping for her man. I would ruffle through the rugged red and black plaid shirts, looking for that rare extra extra large. My man was very big and outdoorsy. A guy's guy, but bighearted and true. I'd find jeans, socks, underwear and undershirts, and maybe a surprise: socket wrenches from the tool department. Later, while setting the table for dinner, I'd lift the lid on the big pot on the stove and stir, letting the steam from Mom's vegetable soup fill the kitchen. How homey I make my home, our home, for my man. I lay out the Parmesan cheese. Salt and pepper. Saltines. Big blue and white bowls. Big spoons. Glasses for milk. Cloth napkins. I ladle the soup into the bowls and anticipate my man's appreciation. Hi smiles at me and tells me he loves me. And my soup. It's been almost 11 months since I met Kevin. When he reads this, I'

You can get blisters between your toes. Bet you didn't know that... I didn't know that, but I found out last weekend when I did the Avon Two-Day Walk in San Francisco with my friend, Sophie. Highlights of the event: 1)Sophie. She had me laughing from Mile 1 to Mile 44 (I know they said it was 39 miles, but the GPS said otherwise). 2)Kevin. My last post was in September of 2009. On September 1, 2009, I met Kevin. Since then, I've been showered with love, acceptance, generosity and patience. Kevin got to Sausalito at 8:00, waiting for me and Sophie to walk by and cheer us on. We didn't get there until 10. He had a big smile for us and big kiss for me :) 3)San Jose Cops. They were our mountain bike escorts. Great guys. Ridiculous calves. 4)Rest Station Nurses. Saved my feet, actually. And, later, my knees. 5)Wellness Village dinner. Big, piping hot plate of spaghetti and meatballs. Rivals dinner in Rome, Italy, as my best meal, ever. 6)"Freelance" roadside well-w