The Gratitude List

Forty-two weeks into drumming up content for Real World Wednesday, there's some part of me that wants to admit defeat and just accept being a bit shallow and ignorant of the larger world around me. Then, there's a larger part of me that simply wants to keep the day as it is: Something I created, that I control, that I can use as I please.

Today's Real World Wednesday is The Gratitude List.

What's that?

Well, again, forty-two weeks into drumming up content for Real World Wednesday, I have learned that there are plenty of people in the world who do not lead lives as obviously blessed as my own. So, last night, as I was pondering how I could run around moaning and groaning about a few pimples when there was a twelve-year-old with burn scars all over her body asking for help at the reference desk, I thought about a gratitude list.

This is different than a love list or a 100 things list. No, this is a simple way to start each day. For May, each Real World Wednesday will consist of a gratitude list, a list of no less than 20 things for which I am grateful. Feel free to join in here, or on your own blog.

It's April 30. That gives everyone a week's start to get thinking.

And just to get us on a roll.

Thankful

1) For a mother who understands me and a father who protects me.
2) For a boyfriend who challenges me to stand up for my beliefs and not just roll over and let someone else win.
3) For friends who put up with whining and moping and groaning and complaining from me and then complain when they haven't heard from me in a while.
4) For a job that requires me to use my brain and keep on my toes.
5) For a roof over my head, a car to drive and food in my fridge.
6) For the unfailing love that is devotion from my cat and dogs.
7) For an income that affords me the gas I need to have the social life I crave.
8) For a healthy body that lets me run, jump, swim, climb, snowshoe and breathe.
9) For a faith in God and a curiousity about faith that keeps me learning about my religion.
10) For a private high school education that let me learn without fear.
11) For the degree from UC Berkeley that has opened countless doors.
12) For eyes that see the world from a slightly innocent perspective.
13) For fingers that type 90 words a minute, letting me express my thoughts as fast as I can think them.
14) For co-workers who listen to my tales, emphathize and work with me to come up with solutions.
15) For healthcare that allows me to get the care I need, when I need it.
16) For feet that dance and bounce and prance.
17) For supervisors who have faith in my abilities.
18) For strict but flexibile parents who made sure that the best I gave them was really the best I could do.
19) For the strength to have open, honest conversations with WG about the future.
20) For friends across the country who care about what happens in my life.

In Between

I'm 27.

And I've just realized (again) that this means I'm an adult.

Yes, yes, I have an apartment, and I bought myself a new car four years ago, but it's only been in the past two weeks that I've realized that, as an adult, I have some say in the way things go in my life.

On the lighter side, that means that I can choose to go get a coffee with WG after my photography class has spent an hour and a half freezing outside taking action pictures of soccer players and police cadets. Correction, I can choose to go to Starbucks and get a warm beverage instead of going back into the classroom.

On the deeper side, I can stand up for my rights at work. I can admit that my health is more important than someone needing to hire an extra help worker to cover my shift. I am adult enough to work hard on not letting the guilt get to me when a supervisor asks if I can reschedule the appointment. I am adult enough to stand up and say that out of the four appointment times offered, this was the least intrusive on the schedule.

And, on the "Hey, I know I look young..." side, I can request more opportunities to be the lead worker. I may look young, but I've got more seniority than several of my co-workers, and that seems to get pushed aside.

I'm also adult enough to examine my own behavior and realize that there are some days when I am incapable of acting any older than the age of twelve. Sometimes, when I really need a nap, I'm five, and I do require someone, often WG, to tell me to go sleep, or I'll continue to be a kindergartener.

I'm still on the cusp in between adulthood and adolescence, viewing more and more from the adult perspective, these days. Happily, my newly discovered adulthood allows me to make more proactive choices and to pay attention to how I behave and to think about how others might interpret my behavior.

This growing up thing is hard. Maybe I should go take a nap...

Real World Wednesday

Go Do Something

My union is in negotiations with what I shall refer to as "management." Both sides have points to declare, but many employees feel left without an unbiased opinion to guide them.

I know that's how I feel.

Still, it's my job, it's my co-workers' rights at stake. Well, our jobs aren't at stake, but issues of health insurance, disability coverage and alternate work schedules are at stake. There are big issues and small issues.

The point, though, is that I need to go do something. I'm starting small. I wear purple on "purple Tuesdays," I talk union talk with co-workers in the know, and today, well, today I signed up for a weekly e-mail newsletter. Baby steps, people, baby steps.

You may not be able to dive in headfirst to an issue. Taking action can take the form of taking an interest.

So, take an interest in something local.

Poems from a Poet I Heard Speak

I was blessed to get to hear Czeslaw Milosz read aloud from his poetry during a lunchtime poetry session at the Doe Library at UC Berkeley. My father has long admired his work, and I was so happy to invite my dad to visit me on campus and hear this amazing man speak. I never took my dad to a Cal football game while I was a student, but I did take him to a poetry reading by his favorite poet. That's got to count for something.

Milosz is, perhaps, my father's one connection to a vague cultural inheritance. His Polish-speaking grandparents died long ago. His Polish-speaking father lives in a rest home in Arizona, mumbling his throughts in that slavic tongue, letting none of us know his secret thoughts. But Czeslaw Milosz translated his poems, allowing those of Polish background but not linguistically inclined, the chance to see inside the often - though not always - depressive Polish mind.

Father Explains

"There where that ray touches the plain
And the shadows escape as if they really ran,
Warsaw stands, open from all sides,
A city not very old but quite famous.

"Farther, where strings of rain hang from a little cloud,
Under the hills with an acacia grove
Is Prague. Above it, a marvelous castle
Shored against a slope in accordance with old rules.

"What divides this land with white foam
Is the Alps. The black means fir forests.
Beyond them, bathing in the yellow sun
Italy lies, like a deep-blue dish.

"Among the many fine cities that are there
You will recognize Rome, Christendom's capital,
By those round roofs on the church
Called the Basilica of Saint Peter.

"And there, to the north, beyond a bay,
Where a level bluish mist moves in waves,
Paris tries to keep pace with its tower
And reins in its herd of bridges.

"Also other cities accompany Paris,
They are adorned with glass, arrayed in iron,
But for today that would be too much,
I'll tell the rest another time."

A Poem For The End Of The Century

When everything was fine
And the notion of sin had vanished
And the earth was ready
In universal peace
To consume and rejoice
Without creeds and utopias,

I, for unknown reasons,
Surrounded by the books
Of prophets and theologians,
Of philosophers, poets,
Searched for an answer,
Scowling, grimacing,
Waking up at night, muttering at dawn.

What oppressed me so much
Was a bit shameful.
Talking of it aloud
Would show neither tact nor prudence.
It might even seem an outrage
Against the health of mankind.

Alas, my memory
Does not want to leave me
And in it, live beings
Each with its own pain,
Each with its own dying,
Its own trepidation.

Why then innocence
On paradisal beaches,
An impeccable sky
Over the church of hygiene?
Is it because that
Was long ago?

To a saintly man
--So goes an Arab tale--
God said somewhat maliciously:
"Had I revealed to people
How great a sinner you are,
They could not praise you."

"And I," answered the pious one,
"Had I unveiled to them
How merciful you are,
They would not care for you."

To whom should I turn
With that affair so dark
Of pain and also guilt
In the structure of the world,
If either here below
Or over there on high
No power can abolish
The cause and the effect?

Don't think, don't remember
The death on the cross,
Though everyday He dies,
The only one, all-loving,
Who without any need
Consented and allowed
To exist all that is,
Including nails of torture.

Totally enigmatic.
Impossibly intricate.
Better to stop speech here.
This language is not for people.
Blessed be jubilation.
Vintages and harvests.
Even if not everyone
Is granted serenity.

Are you celebrating National Poetry Month?

A Case of the Wednesdays That Spilled into Thursday

My mother can't stand Tuesdays.

Baz Luhurmann would agree with her:

The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that
never crossed your worried mind; the kind that blindside you at 4pm
on some idle Tuesday.

Mondays give you the benefit of moaning and groaning about it being Monday or braggin' on your weekend. Wednesays are midway through the week. Thursday is so close to Friday, it might as well BE Friday. And Friday's Friday.

But Tuesday? What's Tuesday?

You have to acknowledge my mom's point, and she made it long before Baz every did.

Me? I have come to loathe Wednesdays.

I don't so much hate all of Wednesday. It's Wednesday evening that bothers me.

Since WG and I started our photography class in January, I've gotten a case of the Wednesdays nearly every week. What's a case of the Wednesdays?

Well, let me tell you, and be forewarned, it mostly involves hormones and my own special brand of crazy.

On Wednesdays, WG and I have dinner together in the school's parking lot. We get about 1/2 an hour to eat and talk. Half an hour.

I require nearly an hour to get used to the company of someone who knows me well. Crazy? Uh huh. No doubt about it. But it's true.

So, in half an hour, I hardly have time to register who this person is beside me and why on earth he wants answers to questions like, "Why were you so secretive about the fact that your work didn't reimburse you for the hotel room when we went to Seattle for a library conference in January of 2007?" Huh?! It's a real question, though not worded quite so...oddly. I can hardly get past, "Here's your sandwich, dude," let alone answer difficult questions about something I can't remember that happened over a year ago.

So, the half an hour thing? Not working for me.

Then, we go to class for a couple of hours or so (when we are released from class depends on the whim of our otherwise informative instructor). By the time class gets out, I've just gotten used to WG again, and it's time to kiss goodnight and go our separate ways.

Usually, by the time I've driven back to my apartment, am greeted by a loud orange kitty and have changed into workout clothes or pajamas, I'm often over the feeling of unfulfilled anticipation.

This week was one of the bad ones, though, and it didn't help that I finished reading Marley and Me and cried over a dog I didn't particularly like, but still, a family dog died. What else could I do but cry?

That crying led to other reasons to cry, as a crying jag almost always does, and as Dane Cook so poignantly explains.



I awoke confused as to why my eyes felt heavy and sandy and my chest felt sore. Then I remembered that I'd been crying when I fell asleep. I don't think I've cried myself to sleep in about eight years.

This week, that feeling spilled into Thursday, and I arrived at work not ready to face the public, let alone answer their questions as I walked from my car to the employee entrance (seriously, if that's how annoying it feels to have ONE person nagging me as I walk out in the open air, my already low desire to ever be a celebrity has completely tanked).

I soon realized I didn't have my trusty, pink water bottle, then went upstairs to buy a (no!) plastic disposable bottle of water, only to have several of my dollars soundly rejected by the soda machine, and that made me want to slam doors and stomp down stairs, but I refrained.

And that's what happens when a case of the Wednesdays spills over into Thursday: Soda machines reject me, and I find myself wondering if there's a way I could sometimes just call in crazy and not go to work.

Real World Wednesday

Buying Organic

As a follow-up to last week's post about Michael Pollan's newest book, I checked out To Buy or Not to Buy Organic by Cindy Burke.

In addition to talking about organic vs. local and the politics of organic agriculture, Ms. Burke includes a helpful quick list of the foods that you really should buy in their organic food and the foods that can come from the regular produce section at Safeway.

The Dirty Dozen are the twelve types of food you should exclusively purchase from organic and, hopefully, local farmers:
1) Strawberries
2) Red and Green Bell Peppers
3) Spinach
4) Cherries
5) Peaches
6) Nectarines
7) Celery
8) Apples
9) Pears
10) Grapes (especially those imported from Chile)
11) Raspberries
12) Potatoes

Really, most berries, because of their proximity to the ground and their attractiveness to bugs (and thus their generally great need for pesticide treatment) should come from the organic produce section.

The Clean Fifteen are the foods that, for one reason or another, either don't require as much pesticide treatment or don't absorb as much of the harmful chemicals.

1) Asparagus
2) Avocados
3) Bananas
4) Blueberries
5) Broccoli
6) Cabbage
7) Garlic
8) Kiwi
9) Mango
10) Onions
11) Papaya
12) Pineapple
13) Shelling Peas
14) Sweet corn
15) Watermelon (domestic)

So, now that you have a list of safe and not-so-safe foods, how should you go about obtaining these foods? We'll save that for next week.

On Set

Walking around downtown Sacramento on Saturday evening, I felt like I had walked into a movie set. Blame it on the heat, the dehydration or my general sense of exhaustion after working all day, but the Second Saturday Arts Festival felt like a scripted event.

Four of us walked in the humid evening past a closed hair salon, in front of which four tight-jeans-wearing dudes played thirty second songs at full volume with lots of screaming. For some inexplicable reason, I was reminded of movie scenes in which kids in Brooklyn break open fire hydrants to release the cool water on blistering summer day.

Passing the screaming rockers, we crossed the street to enter an antique store full of everything antique stores should have. Vaguely 1940's furniture, the smell of dust permiating everything, an overload of crystal-ware, packed aisles, with an item in every corner. Of course there was an old television that WG and Irene's boyfriend talked about turning into an aquarium. Why wouldn't there be?

After this, we were lured down an alley and up the stairs into a tiny, overheated apartment to look at teensy photographic prints, while a sweaty but clean guy sat on the sofa playing his guitar, with the amp not five feet away. The whole room was the size of my closet, and with a good fourteen people in the narrow room, it felt like a hot, musty, sardine can.

Down the stairs, we found an open garden area filled with the first real cast members of this art festival, those punk/country/rock kids, complete with a confused John Mayer wannabe in a red-checked shirt playing country music on his electric guitar. A girl with green hair trimmed in a pixie cut (could she have been a real pixie?), and a tight shirt and short skirt, shimmied and shook in front of him, but to a different beat than he played. The art down this alley consisted of pieces of broken mirror cemented onto tiles. The artist slithered around the brick pavement in a toga, with her red-tinted hair piled high on her head. We turned and walked out, past the bone mobile (who would hang that over their child's bed?) and the Metal "Love" sign, with its red, glowing heart in the center of the wheel-wagon "o".

A couple of blocks later, nearly panting with thirst, we were invited to view some art in a hair salon, and I barely resisted asking if this salon had air conditioning. It did. And we stayed a while in the cool, crisp air, sipping white wine from plastic cups and eating tiny little white-chocolate chip cookies.

Walking around and looking at the collages on the wall, I felt comfortable. I saw that I could make this kind of art, that, in fact, I already make something along the same lines as this art. All I was missing was a giant piece of wood as my canvas. The "cast" in the salon/gallery consisted of women with perfect, but quirky, hair - bobs with hard angles and harsh highlights - and fashionable, low-cut, empire waste tops and jeans.

Eventually, the four us meandered down the stairs and out into the now-less-oppressive heat to continue our tour of the galleries.

More people were crowding the streets, and I felt my mind begin to cloud over. As we passed through a large group staring at the fire dancers in front of a Mexican restaurant, I grabbed WG's arm and said, "I'm going all Vegas, and I need you to hold on to me." For, you see, in Vegas, I am overcome with the people, the crowds, the noises, the smells, and a part of my crawls up and goes away to a safe place, leaving the rest of me without much guidance. WG held on but also tried to talk me out of my crowd-trance.

We waited in line to get into a gallery that was so stuff I felt like I was breathing underwater. On the walls hung close-ups of cacti. We left quickly and went next door.

In the aisles of a magazine shop, we wandered for quite a while, flipping through pages, commenting on covers, laughing at the quirky magnets available for sale. I paused to gape at Paris Hilton on the cover of National Geographic but looked a little closer and saw that it was actually the Harvard Lampoon...sighs of laughter and relief all around.

Hoping to find a cozy spot for a drink or some dessert...or both, we turned back through the waning crowds to locate a restaurant with open seating. And ran into one more gallery, filled with the final group of stereotypical art gallery frequenters. Lured into a well-lit brownstone by the sight of visitors exiting with cookies in their hands, we found ourselves in a brightly lit gallery filled with metal statues of faces, splotchy but appealing paintings by pre-school students and one giant, wire goldfish. This place felt like an art gallery, and the aging hippies in Hawaiian shirts and women with carefully died blonde hair and thick-plastic framed glasses fit exactly into what I would expect to see.

I know that, of course, the City of Sacramento didn't hire stand-ins at each gallery, but I had not realized how possible it was for someone to look so much like they belonged just where they were at a given point in time. I think that stereotypes focus on extremes and rarely encounter someone who, on the outside, at least, fits right into my expectations.

I ended the evening feeling like a person who wants to both make and buy art. I was more than happy, though, to return to my own, beige apartment and revel in the fact that I'm not easy to pin down into any one stereotype.

You know, unless you're counting sexy librarian, because, clearly, I fit that one to a T.

Because There Are Days When I Forget

The past couple of weeks have been a challenge. The woman who makes me want to tear out my hair and possibly tear off my ears has returned to my workplace. It's not her fault that she drives me crazy. This month is going to be a mish-mash of not enough time with WG, and that makes each of my workdays seem even longer.

So, because there are days when I forget how lucky I am, here I am, jumping on yet another bandwagon.

I love hugs from my mother. I love a light breeze tickling my toes as I walk barefoot in the grass, or on my carpet. I love when I can get stubborn stains out of the carpet. I love cuddling with my cat, especially on a "sleeping-in day." I love that my cat is waiting at the door for me when I get home.

I love squishing my head against my dad's chest, knowing that he'll always make me feel little and safe. I love kissing my dog on the head. I love getting head-butted by Bailey the German Shepherd. I love that the new guy, Tosh, rolls himself over spread eagle and begs me to scratch his belly.

I love getting to talk, nearly uninterrupted, with my teen volunteers. I love that I have some wisdom to share with them. I love the color pink. I love my bed.

I love the feel of the water against my skin when I dive into a pool. I love the way my body feels on that first lap, as if I'm one with the water. I love settling in the couch, cuddled in a blanket my mom made me, and watching just about any one of my DVDs.

I love the sound of my boyfriend's laugh. I love his arms. I love his smell. I love his smile. I love that I love him so much.

I love watching my parents together. I love driving in Napa. I love crossing the bridge into San Francisco. I love the Giants. I love baseball. I love knowing just enough Polish to make for an interesting conversation. I love the stride in my walk. I love love.

I love baking. I love especially baking things I know will turn out to be absolutely wonderful. I love ice cream. I love homemade ice cream, even more. I love my friends. I love that I can say absolutely anything to Irene, and she will understand. I love dancing in my living room. I love dancing, period. I love getting dressed up and feeling like the most beautiful woman in the world.

I love John Cusack, Jeremy Piven and whoever plays Eric on Entourage. I love college football. I love Berkeley. I love my car. I love losing myself in a good book.

I love packing for vacation, deciding what I need on the airplane and settling in with my iPod and a book I probably won't finish.

I love when someone else gives me an idea for a blog posting at just the right time, and I jump all over it.

I love talking library talk with people who understand. I love talking about video games with people who understand. I love talking.

I love my mommy and daddy. I love my friends. I love all of my pets. I love my boyfriend. I love God.

I love Thursday mornings and Friday night.

I love treating myself to something yummy when I have to work early or on a weekend.

I love photography. I love my camera. I love getting just the right shot at just the right time.

I love wearing colorful clothing.

I love flip-flops.

I love bright red toenails.

I love comfort music, comfort food and comfort conversation.

I love.

Real World Wednesday

Eat Food. Not Too Much. Mostly Plants.

Michael Pollan's book, The Omnivore's Dilemma was the inspiration for an earlier RWW post, and now another of his healthy reads, In Defense of Food has inspired me.

Eat food. Pollan talks about the ingredients of yogurt, and I almost ignored that passage, thinking I know all there is to know about yogurt. Then, yesterday morning, I sat down to a healthy breakfast of yogurt and an orange.

On a whim, albeit an educated whim, I took a look at the ingredients list, and this is what I saw:

Cultured pasteurized grade a reduced fat milk
Sugar
Nonfat Milk
High Fructose Corn Syrup
Modified Corn Starch
Kosher Gelatin
Tricalcium Phosphate
Natural Flavor
Vitamin A
Acetate
Vitamin D2

Whoa. That's a lot of ingredients for what should probably be sugar and milk. Apparently, my yogurt is actually candy. Who knew?

Not Too Much. Americans eat some of the largest portions in the world. We eat based on plate size. We eat based on when the TV show ends. What we don't do is eat until we're full and then stop. And we wonder why our pants don't fit.

Mostly Plants. I have a hundred and fifty reasons why I don't eat the fruits and vegetables I love. None of them matter. I need to go to the store and buy more and eat them. No excuses.

Pollan makes a good point, though. He says that not everyone can afford to eat healthily. That's true. Organic food. Fruits. Vegetables. Grass-fed beef. It all costs more.

But there are those of us who can afford it, and we have to be the ones who start the trend. If we buy more, perhaps the costs will go down. If we buy more, perhaps we'll encourage more growers to diversify their crops. If we buy more, perhaps we'll help the little farmers and put the ones who insist on turning yogurt into candy on their toes.

In the end, our bodies, and, indeed, our planet, will be healthier for our efforts.

So.

Eat food.
Not too much.
Mostly plants.

Think about it!

Because Lists Really Are the Best Way to Express How I Feel

This weekend was a marvel amongst weekends...probably because it's one of the last two day weekends, let alone three day (woot!) that I'm going to have until May.

So, here goes. The best parts of this weekend.
1) Having WG and Sarah time after two weeks of having to share ourselves throughout the weekend.

2) Watching The Illusionist while eating pasta he cooked, sipping yummy red wine he bottled and otherwise enjoying a Saturday evening in.

3) Dancing with my mom to ABBA in the living room after she'd opened up her birthday gift from me...tickets to see Mamma Mia. We were truly dancing queens.

4) Screaming my head off for the Giants, even though they lost. Even when they lose, it's still such a treat to see my boys. Especially on opening day. And, yes, Bengie Molina does look just a bit like Forrest Whitaker.



5) Overall, just spending a weekend feeling utterly and completely loved.

Love Poem

if i love You
if i love You
(thickness means
worlds inhabited by roamingly
stern bright faeries

if you love
me) distance is mind carefully
luminous with innumerable gnomes
Of complete dream

if we love each (shyly)
other, what clouds do or Silently
Flowers resembles beauty
less than our breathing

e.e. cummings

I'm celebrating National Poetry Month, and you should, too. What's a poem that inspires you?

Jitter Bug

After a happy morning singing songs, reading books and blowing bubbles with a group of toddlers, I returned to my regularly scheduled work.

As I went to make my usual turn into the parking lot, I looked for oncoming traffic. I started to go. Stopped. Looked again and saw a motorcycle cop coming right at me. I remained stopped. The cop did not. Instead, he immediately flipped a u-turn and "lit me up." I pulled into the lot, but I couldn't get into a space, because that would have required backing up, and considering the cop was riding my bumper, that wasn't going to happen unless I felt like running over his chopper. The copper's chopper. Heh.

He strides over to my car window all Mr. Tight Pants I'm a Cop and Can Make Your Life Hell and asks if I have a license. Note that he didn't say, "License and registration." He asked me if I have a drivers' license. Anyway, he asks me if I know why he pulled me over.

Yes, because of the turn. I wouldn't normally say that I know way, but in this case, it didn't seem like it would help me to be coy about the whole situation.

He then proceeds to lecture me. I did say, "But I stopped," and he responded, as only Mr. Tight Pants I'm a Cop and Can Make Your Life Hell could, "I almost became your hood ornament."

That's not true for two reasons. 1) I STOPPED and 2) I was going a maximum of 2 mph before I stopped. No harm would have come to the precious copper chopper.

Now, he eventually let me pull forward into a parking space, but not before both the library director and the assistant director drove out of the lot.

So, the fact that he gave me only a "formal warning," is somewhat dampened by the fact that two major players in the future of my career saw me with the butt-end of my car hanging out of a parking space with a motorcycle cop behind me. Fun.

I started bawling after he left, but I got myself together, freshened my makeup, and went into the library head held high.

But I do have no intention of purposely visiting the executive offices anytime soon.

And just because the day hadn't made me nervous enough, on my way out of town to join Mr. WG for our forty minutes of quality time before our photography class, four teen boys decided to beat up on each other with big wooden sticks. Right in front of my car.

Where was Mr. Tight Pants I'm a Cop and Can Make Your Life Hell when I needed him?

Real World Wednesday

You may disagree that this is news.

You may shake your head and say, "Oh, Sarah, this isn't real."

But if you had the day I did, then you would just smile, and know that to a lot of people, this information Matters, with a capital M.



Now, I dare you to not start singing, "Oh oh oh ohhhh oh."

In Which My Mom and His Mom Squeel Like School Girls

It was a good idea to have WG's mom meet my parents.

People kept trying to stress me out, saying things like this:

"Oh, wow, that's BIG. Are you ready for that?"

and

"My goodness. Your relationship must be really serious!"

No, folks, it's not BIG, and let me tell you why. This wasn't an official pow-wow like sit-down, in which parents duke out wedding budgets. You know why? Because we're not engaged. We're dating.

WG's mom came to California for a weekend, and, honestly, I simply thought she and my mom would enjoy each other's company.

And, you know what? They did.

We sat down for dinner at a fab restaurant in Napa (known as much for its $5 burger nights as for it's changing monthly menu of gourmet treats). A WG-selected bottle of wine was opened and poured. My mom and WGM (WG's mom) settled in next to each other and promptly became the best of friends.

My dad, left out of the girls' conversation, talked to WG and me about various topics but mostly let his attention drift to the March Madness game being displayed in the bar area.

By dessert's end, Mama and WGM had created a new dessert by combining their two treats (a chocolate torte and an apple crunch) and declaring it the best of the evening.

After a delectable dinner, I didn't feel like the evening was done. My mom kept repeating, "We should go," but in that voice guests use when they really would rather the hosts invite them to stay the night. In a clear genetic link, I kept repeating my request to go bowling. So, my mom and I were like two broken records, but I won.

We went bowling.

I rode with WG and WGM. My parents went on their own.

We discovered, when the two long-lost friends were reunited in fits of giggling in the parking lot that both had separately declared they could easily become "the best of friends!!!!!!"

The squeeling and happiness continued, and my dad, WG and me only had to stop them so that our ears would cease to bleed.

We played. We complained about the little teenie boppers in the next lane who kept stealing our balls. WG could not quite get into the groove of his crazy-ball. I happily got two strikes in our second game but still failed to break one hundred. We laughed a lot, and finally, everyone went home exhausted but content.

So, his mom met my mom, and there was narry a drop of drama.