This marks 800 posts.

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Yet, there is so much I have not said. And then I read Nora Ephron’s I Feel Bad About My Neck this afternoon and my throat caught during the last essay, “Consider the Alternative.” And I did. I often consider the alternative. It is, quite likely, why I am so neurotic, why I no longer feel inclined to finish books, why I am such a hugger, why I say, “I love you,” or “I am so glad we are friends,” or “I deserve better.” Because one NEVER knows.

So, tidbits of what I have not said and others that bear repeating, random and sundry.

Mom and Daddy, thanks for raising me the best way you knew how. It wasn’t always what I wanted, but it was enough and more.

I do not like goat cheese. And no matter how often I hear, “This one doesn’t taste like it,” IT REALLY DOES.

Look for beauty and you will find it, everywhere.

I am sorry if I hurt your feelings.

Chaz and Jett, I am proud of you.

Be kind as often as possible and mean when necessary.

Batshit crazy people are no fun at all.

It is not always easy to be brave, but it is always worth it.

My friends are marvelous people.

Maren, Hef, Wendy, Michael and Mary, I wish I could hug you right now.

Basil is over-rated.

Life really is good.

I love stories and books and fine fil-ums with gold-star words. I love the way they fill my hollowed out places with what I want and wish to be, with what is possible, with what are the very best dreams.

I love the blue of the hubster’s eyes, his silky brown hair, and his thumb that clicks from being broken. I love that my nose fits in the space between his nose and top lip, two perfect puzzle pieces. I love that he gets my soft spaces and loves my hard ones, too. I love that our anger is the quickest fire, and in the embers, flowers bloom. I love his laugh and his voice and the way he clears his throat. I love the way his snores wake him up while I read and he says, “I’m sorry.” I love HIM.

And to you, dear reader. I love that you come here and sometimes you stay. Thank you.