Bald Move: The Update ...

Turns out, I am going not to have someone shave my head.

The reasons are several, the most important of which I don't feel at liberty to share.

But I know that everyone who contributed to my early efforts to raise funds in Donna's memory would have been happy to have contributed because she was an extraordinary little girl and because St. Baldrick's is an extraordinary organization. (If you've not yet met her photograph, this is Donna, our inspiration.)

So, thank you to all of you who contributed so generously. And to those who may be reading about this for the first time, the event is March 24th and Donna's Mama and Daddy and all those involved in this event have blown by the original goal of $20,000 ... by more than $30,000!

Right this minute, the total raised on behalf of Donna stands at $50,137!

The new goal is $55,000. But I see no reason why that can't be surpassed as well.

This is the link to the St. Baldrick's page for Donna's Good Things for those who would like to do their part to put an end to pediatric cancers.

And while I shan't be submitting to a shearing, I have another Good Thing in the works. Stay tuned.

Happy Anniversary ...

The other day, I looked up the date that I started this blog, all the way back in 2005.

Appropriately, that day was March 13. Thirteen is my favorite number. But I do believe it was just a coincidence.

Except that I don't believe in coincidence.

Anyway ... .

Seven years ago, I started blathering away in this space, thanks to my friend Jeff who said, "You need a blog, woman!"

Boy, did I.

I've met some really good people through this site. It's given me a space to jot my thoughts – some profound, most inane – and prompted me to write more than I otherwise would have, I'm sure.

Just for kicks, I looked up the seventh year of wedding anniversaries to see how it's observed with gifts. One of the traditional gifts for the 7th year? Wool.

Well, duh. That explains the 7-year itch, people. Who's the genius who thought of that?

The other traditional material is copper. That's nice. I like copper. Shiny copper and patinated copper. My mailbox looks like an old penny.

The modern version 7th-year anniversary gift is, oddly, desk sets.

Desk sets? Why desk sets?

Any of you married folk out there find yourself with the urge to spend a lot of time at your desk once your seventh anniversary rolled around?

Weird.

I like my desk just the way it is, thanks. Set-free.

So, here's to seven years. And however many more there are ahead.

In My Dream ...

I dreamt about Jeff. In my dream, it was night and very snowy. I knew I was meeting him, and I could see him as I approached a little station, like you might find at an "L" stop or along a Metra line. He was inside, waiting. I saw him through the glass doors.

I walked in and I hugged him and said, "This is a dream, isn't it?"

When I woke up, I marveled at that, that in my dream, I knew that seeing him was a dream. He was there, and I could hug him, but it wasn't real.

But now I think that it was. He's not here physically, but my memories are real. And since everything is energy, he isn't really gone. I may not be able to interact face to face with the being I knew as Jeff, but the essence of him remains in all of us who knew him and somewhere beyond what we can comprehend in this form.

In any event, it was nice to see him again.

Letting It Be ...

Last weekend – not this past weekend but the weekend before – for whatever reason the timing was the timing, I decided to finally accept that the baking/photographing/writing/cookie path is what I'm supposed to do.

Enough trying to "figure out" my calling, blah, blah, blah. I know. I've known. It just didn't seem doable. Or important enough. Frivolous, I've said before. But then I really thought about the cookie I did for Angelo in September, the little peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and how it affected him, and I thought, "It's not flashy or grand, but what I do touches people. And that's all I want to do." And I thought that I should write it all down, to make it real. But I didn't get around to it.

And then this morning, a comment arrived on this post, "Quiet Epiphany," which asked: "I'm curious..2 years later did you ever have the epiphany or direction you were looking for ?"

Well, Anonymous, as a matter of fact I have. I replied: "I have, actually. Your comment is very timely. And has spurred me to write a blog post about just this topic. Look for it in the next 24 hours. Thanks for asking!"

And here we are.

The signs have been mounting, as I wrote about in "A Cookie Story," "more and bigger pieces are starting to slot into place."

But still, I resisted. Even as I wrote, "There is lot of love that goes into baking for others. It is a simple act. But it is profound," I resisted.

I wrote those words on January 22. By the end of February, the Universe had had quite enough.

I was there. I had arrived. After 42 years of trying to "figure it out," I had figured it out. But I hadn't let it in.

So much angst. So much toil. So much fervent effort to analyze and test and figure, figure, figure.

Until that weekend, two weeks ago – I believe it was on Sunday – when I sat here, in this very chair, staring at the O magazines and the recently purchased e-workbook that were my latest installments of attempted discovery.

And my brain just said, "Stop. Beth, stop. You already know. Just accept it. It'll work out."

Just like that.

Forty-two years of my own sound and fury signifying nothing. All of which ended with a single thought.

"Just accept it."

Oh.

OK, then.

So I did. Without having any concrete reason on which to hang this decision, no pronouncement, no fanfare. Clouds did not part. Angels did not sing.

It was just there. It was just a relieved sigh. Sunday, February 26, 2012, the day my brain said, "OK."

Two days later, an email arrived.

Asking me to be part of a project for which is needed 50 dozen cookies.

Yes, 50 dozen.

Yes, that's 600 cookies.

Yes, that's a lot.

Hello, acknowledgment from the Universe. How nice of you to arrive so promptly.

Still, baking in and of itself isn't sustainable for me. Even with a bakery. I've written about this before.

But I said "Yes" to the project for more reasons than one, because I have no idea where this will lead but I'm smart enough to follow paths that appear in front of me.

I don't know.

But I do know that I know others who have traveled similar paths.

And, as I've said before, my network has always served me well.

So last night, I pinged one of my new acquaintances and asked him if he might have time, somewhere in his busy schedule, to hop on the phone sometime to offer some advice.

"Of course," he replied. "Tomorrow?"

Why, yes, tomorrow would be fine!

And I asked another food-type person, on Twitter, if I may tap her for advice sometime.

"Anytime," she tweeted, instantly.

I am a fortunate woman.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have 600 cookies to bake.

Ideal Beauty ...

My mom, her sister, and a family friend used to joke that when they arrived at a certain age, they were going to get a group discount on facelifts.

That was a long time ago. I was young. I may have been an age denoted by a single digit.

My mom never did go in for any plastic surgery. Hell, my mom doesn't even color her hair. A lot of people know my mom by her hair, its whiteish-silverishness and her long braid. The braid is much shorter these days. Every so often, she gets her hair cut for Locks of Love.

She is who she is, is my point. She doesn't wear makeup anymore and what she used to wear was so minimal, she was barely wearing makeup even when she was wearing makeup. I take after her that way, though I use eyeliner and she never did.

And she's beautiful. She's just entered her 70s – mom is proud of her age, so she won't mind my disclosing it – and she zips about the world in her sporty sedan and wears jeans and sweaters on her casual days and slightly dressier clothes for church, but she's never fussy. She's classic, my mom, in her own way. She doesn't look like a Ralph Lauren ad or like a mannequin at Talbots. She's just her.

All of which is a prelude to a wee post about being oneself. One's true self. Not that we should all eschew hair color and makeup and dress in sweats, but the older I get, the more I look around and I see people frantically trying to erase all evidence of aging and I'm grateful, so grateful, to have my mom as my example, my guide.

Someone recently took the time to write to tell me that I should stop using the "gosh-awful photo" that I use on here and Facebook and elsewhere. "I just know you have a better photo you could use. Something that actually looks like you--beautiful and smart. This one makes you look ditzy and it does not in any way show your looks to their best advantage!"

She went on to tell me that she had some new software to improve photos and that she would be happy to work on a picture of me to give my look "what we all need at a certain age--a little more rested, a little slimmer, teeth whiter, eyes open a little more or whatever."

So much for living an authentic life, eh?

Yes, it's true, I'm in my 40s. But I don't yet think of myself as a woman of "a certain age." I'm not sure what I'm supposed to look like in this decade, but I'm happy with who I see staring back at me in the mirror each morning.

And I've grown so weary of the Photoshopitization of women. Sure, I like the sassy feeling I get when J-D makes my hair all pretty. And yes, I brush on a coat of mascara before I run to the store. I'm not against a little beauty. But I draw the line at altering images of myself. It feels dishonest.

I'm not talking about color correction or exposure. I'm not purple in real life, so if I look a bit lavender in a shot, I'm A-OK with using the settings in iPhoto to counteract the lavenderness into a more natural hue. But I'm not about to start tinkering with my physical features.

Years ago, in my voiceover days, I had a headshot done because my producer more or less commanded it. And it was fun to have my makeup done. And it was kind of fun to have the photographer snap off shots. But the contact sheets were not a lovefest. I didn't like most of the images of me. I don't like most images of me as a matter of course. But there were a few that worked. And the one that I chose was pretty. (The photographer called it when he shot it. He was right. It was good.) And so long as I had a headshot, I used it on Match.com in those days. Why not, right? Why not use the best picture I had of myself? It was me. It was just a really good picture of me.

And one guy wrote to ask if the image I posted was really me or if it was a picture I got in a frame when I bought it.

Yes, really.

Yes, I told him, it was really me. As if I would post a picture of a different person. That would make any potential first date rather awkward, wouldn't it, if a completely different person showed up?

Someone on Facebook commented that that photo is my "Jane Pauley" look. Which is funny. But which is also true, in its way. It's a very stylized shot. Headshots look like headshots, they don't look like candid snaps. Also, I don't appear to the world in black and white.

Perhaps one day, I shall have another headshot taken if my professional life becomes more professional. If I'm speaking at a conference, say, no, I won't be using my "gosh-awful photo" for promotional purposes. But on my blog? On Facebook? Yep, that's the picture I choose to use.

I like my "egg-beatered hair." I like that I snapped that picture with my laptop one night for L.A. Dave before heading out to see a friend's band. We had been on the phone and he wanted to see how my hair turned out. He was always fascinated by my hair. So that photo is a happy reminder of that night and my friend, who is no longer here.

I admit to being taken aback that someone would write to me and offer an unsolicited assessment of a picture I chose and to tell me that I should submit to being digitally enhanced.

No, thank you. For a host of reasons.

Good Times, March Edition ...

The March cookie installment for the angelo:HOME blog features Red-Wine Zabaglione with crumbled Shortbread. Not a cookie, per se, but cookies are involved.

The XX Factor ...

Oh, I've been so foolish.

Here I thought we deserved some respect, we proliferators of the human race.

No, no, it's no trouble, really, carrying the responsibility of perpetuating the species and making sure that your T-shirts are their very whitest. After all, that's why we're here, to birth your babies and bleach your loads.

Of course, we've been imbued with the miracle of bringing life into the world but that doesn't mean we have the good sense to make decisions for ourselves. So of course, if we participate in any sexual activity without the sole intent of creating a human being, we deserve to be branded as sluts. Never mind that two of the most terrifying words a man can ever hear are "I'm pregnant."

Forgive me my confusion – I don't possess a Republican Penis of Wisdom – but how is it that some men can want to have sex with women and want to deny them the right to birth control and and recoil at the notion that they might knock up a girl or 20?

Gosh, gentlemen, you're just too virile for your own good!

But what's a handsome, brilliant, powerful man to do? You have needs.

The good news is, now that all we women know we're prostitutes, thanks to Mr. Limbaugh, the patron saint of misogynistic asswipes, you shouldn't have to pony up your hard-earned cash for our services anymore.

Supply and demand at its finest, this development. If every woman is a prostitute, that should drive down the price all the way to $0.

Actually, I think this means that we'll start paying you!

Because you know what's sexy? Almost every Republican member of the United States Senate voting for the Blunt amendment. Oh, yes, Mitch McConnell, you gorgeous turtle of a man, embolden my future employers to pass judgment on me, too. That is so hot.

What's that? Oh. Oops! There I go again, acknowledging that I sometimes have a fleeting thought about sex.

Naughty me. I'll have to practice my chastity.

I don't have any aspirin in my medicine cabinet. Will a liqui-gel do?

What a relief to no longer have to think about what I'll wear every day. I'll stock up on high-necked blouses and ankle-length skirts tomorrow. Does anyone know where I can get a deal on cameos?

Or has the GOP mandated burqas? I want to be sure to comply.

By the way, where can I donate my shoes? Clearly, I won't be needing them anymore.

And I'll sure miss driving. But think of all the money I'll save on gas.

Oh, wait a minute. I'm not supposed to be earning my own money, am I?

But I don't even own an apron, let alone pearls.

Whatever shall I do?

If anyone needs me, I'll be on my fainting couch.

'The Thank You Economy' ...

At some point last year, my very smart friend Mike told me that I should read Gary Vaynerchuk's Crush It!, so I did.

I liked it. A lot. I liked Gary's enthusiasm – nay, passion – and conversational-bordering-on-insistent tone. I liked that he is the one who introduced me to MOO. I love MOO. So will you. You should click this link and bookmark it so you can MOO, too.

So, no one had to tell me to read his next book, The Thank You Economy.

Now, Gary is a business owner, among other things. And I am not. A business owner, that is. Not yet. Someday, maybe. A "someday" that seems to be getting closer by the minute. But business or no, I was moved to read his second book because I liked the first and wanted to continue the conversation, so to speak. And also, because I'm a user of social media. Not as much as some, but much more so than others. In any event, I knew that reading it would be worth my time.

And it was. And I recommend it for anyone in business, both for those who are using social media and for those who shun it. Everyone can benefit from this book. The man knows whereof he speaks.

And I recently had an experience that drove home exactly what he conveys about the importance of caring for customers.

In advance of traveling to Detroit for Jeff's funeral, I did a bit of research online to get a sense of where to stay. Every time I'd been in that part of the world in the past, I'd stayed at Jeff and Sherry's, but this time called for a hotel. My past hotel experiences came into play and I decided that given the sadness that surrounded this trip, a little extra comfort was in order. I'd appreciated Westin's Heavenly Bed on business trips, so for this stay, Westin won again.

I went to Westin's web site to check the rate and then called the hotel directly to book, employing what little travel knowledge I possessed to ask if the hotel offered a bereavement rate. Money is not a plentiful commodity in my life right now. The hotel transferred me to reservations, which I presumed was for the entire chain or all of Starwood, but at least I was speaking to a person, not booking online.

She asked if I was attending a funeral. Yes, I told her, while wondering what other kind of reasons for bereavement there might be. She searched for a moment and then informed me that while the hotel did indeed offer a bereavement rate, it wasn't available for the night I needed. That night, specifically. I was about an hour away from getting in the car.

I didn't put up a fuss. I was too weary. But I did mention, since the call was likely being recorded, that it seemed a bit silly to offer a bereavement rate that didn't apply to every day of the year. It's not like one can plan when they might need it.

She was kind about it, as good customer-service reps are trained to be, and told me she'd find me the best possible rate, which turned out to be exactly what I would have paid if I would have just booked online.

I gave her my credit-card information and she enrolled me in Starwood's affinity program (I didn't bother to decline), I wrote down my confirmation number, and we hung up.

I knew I'd be writing a letter to Starwood later, when I returned. But in the meantime, just to vent, I tweeted this:


And then I proceeded to pack.

In the meantime, someone at Starwood saw my tweet, followed me, and replied, expressing their condolences and asking me to follow back so we could exchange private messages. They asked for my confirmation number, which I supplied, and within an hour, I'd received two messages (it's hard to write much in 140 characters) letting me know that they'd spoken to the manager on duty and that my rate had been adjusted for the evening (it turned out to be $80 less than what I'd booked). I replied to thank them for their attention and condolences, finished packing, and drove to Detroit. Somewhere in that process, I tweeted, publicly, my thanks to Starwood for their prompt attention and resolution. Credit where credit is due.

The stay was pleasant enough, given the circumstances and given that I have insanely high standards for hotel rooms and service, but that $80 gesture bought a lot of goodwill with me and I'll be more inclined to stay at Starwood properties in the future for that reason alone.

In his book, Gary writes a lot about those who are slow to adopt social media or who don't see the value in it because it might not reflect in the short term on their bottom lines.

But my Westin experience illustrates his point: Yes, I paid $80 less for one night in one hotel, but over the course of my lifetime (however long that may be), I'll think of their brands ahead of many others, and they'll earn much more back in the months and years to come.

Also, and more importantly, I was touched enough by the nearly immediate response to my problem that I'm now writing about it and sharing my good impressions of Westin/Starwood with anyone who might be searching online for just such a story.

How much is that worth to a brand? A hell of a lot more than 80 bucks.

So, businessfolk, read Gary's book. Social media users, read Gary's book. It's a great read, a quick read, a fun read.

And consider booking into a Starwood property on your next trip. They're good people.

Seeing ...

I have a suitcase. I've used it as a pedestal for a long time. Today's the first time I noticed it smiling at me.

Enduring ...

These were on my kitchen counter when I returned from Detroit. I saw them that night and thought it was very sweet of my mom to have flowers waiting for me. The next morning, February 14, it dawned on me that they might be intended for Valentine's Day. But no, they were just-because flowers, to cheer me. As they continue to do. They're still lovely, as you can see. Thanks, mom. I love you.

'Kisses On The Bottom' ...

I may have been born in the wrong decade.

I love standards.

Some are swanky. Some are lush. The low notes on an upright bass. The whisper of brushes on drums. Let me settle in on a well-worn banquette and sip a glass of Scotch.

Which is exactly what I want to do upon hearing "Kisses On The Bottom," Sir Paul McCartney's new collection of standards old and new. (The title is a lyric from "I'm Gonna Sit Right Down And Write Myself A Letter," if you didn't know.)

What I wouldn't give for this man to do a tour of small jazz clubs. Well, small jazz clubs that could accommodate an orchestra, too.

Sir Paul wrote two of the tracks. The rest are songs you may or may not know. That depends on the depth of your standards knowledge.

"My Valentine," one of his originals, is one of my favorites. But then, I can't immediately recall a song of his that I haven't loved.

I can't help but smile and sing along with "It's Only A Paper Moon." Charming arrangement.

And I'm entirely smitten with "My One And Only Love."

It's lovely to hear the nuance in his voice and the intimacy of his delivery.

Order vinyl or other incarnations on paulmccartney.com (or find it on iTunes here), dim the lights, pour yourself a glass of something on the rocks, and take it all in.

Save the Beatles for another day.

Books ...

Coffee-table books on a coffee table. Go figure. Though, really, it's an ottoman.


This morning, Angelo posted a post about a personal problem: He loves books and magazines.

Hello.

Me, too.

I carry a list of books in my wallet, just in case I find myself at the library and somehow unable to remember a single book that I want to read. I write my wallet lists on lined index cards. My book list covers three index cards. Both sides.

It's a good thing that I'm trying to train myself to use the library more and more. Otherwise, I'd have to take out a second mortgage to buy books. And then I'd have to take out a third mortgage to buy another house in which to shelve them.

I did a rather big book purge a couple of years ago. I gave many of them away to good homes. Friends were able to call dibs on whatever they wanted. And the rest went to Goodwill, where I hope they've since been bought and appreciated.

I have, over the years, subscribed to many magazines and let many magazine subscriptions lapse. My latest to go is The New Yorker. I love you, New Yorker, but I can't take the guilt. I can't read you fast enough, and you pile up, and then I feel so daunted by the pile that I know I will never, ever get through because more magazines just keep coming. And there it is, all that erudition just waiting to be consumed, and oh, the pressure, it's too much, so I turn to The Bullseye page of Entertainment Weekly instead.

I did the same thing with Vanity Fair a few years ago. I am a serial subscriber and lapser. Surely, I thought, if I read Vanity Fair on a monthly basis, I would become irresistibly urbane.

[ SNORT! ]

Have I met me?

I am many things. Irresistibly urbane is not one of them. Thus has it been. Thus will it ever be.

So magazines come into my life and magazines go. The core remains. I am a faithful subscriber to a few.

And I could lose myself for hours in a used book store. I like used books. I like new books, too, but I like the idea of used books having another home, another life.

I love Better World Books because it saves books from landfills and shares the proceeds with literacy programs. Smart, that.

And I love Open Books, too. Similar missions, but closer to home.

I marvel at bookstores. So many books. So many ideas that have made their way into print. So many people who cared enough about every topic under the sun to spend portions of their lives translating ideas into words on pages and binding them and releasing them into the world.

It irks me that designers see books purely as objects, and often bothersome at that. I don't understand why anyone would cover all of their books in coordinating papers. How the hell is anyone supposed to know what they own? The other night, I saw a reveal that had all the books turned backward on the shelves, so only the edges of the pages showed. What? A stager once pulled all the book jackets from books before replacing them on the shelves.

Screw aesthetics, people. Respect the books!

I shudder at the thought of a Kindle. I understand the practicality of it for those who travel, but oh, I hate the notion that someday, physical books will be rendered obsolete. I don't want to hold a tablet and press a button to turn a page. Or worse, swipe my finger across a screen as though I were leafing through a magazine.

What about children? I love buying books for babies. I love starting their little libraries with books that I've loved. How will babies Pat The Bunny on a Nook Color? What about reading to a group of children and turning the book toward them so they can see the pictures? What if there's a glare on the screen? Will readers to children use an HD monitor instead?

Sigh.

I suppose the day may come when I simply content myself with the books I already own, if books are no longer printed, only digitized. I will be the Miss Havisham of books. Minus the wedding dress.

I think I just talked myself into never giving another one away.

Be Informed. Be Afraid. And Vote ...

This is a big deal. A big story. With big repercussions. In an election year. And beyond.

You may or may not know about legislation that is about to be signed into law in Virginia – signed into law by Governor Bob McDonnell, who is making it very well known to the GOP that he would like to be that party's vice presidential nominee – that would require a medically unnecessary vaginal probing which a woman would not be allowed to refuse and which her doctor would be required to perform in advance of an abortion.

This is not a post about abortion. But whether you are pro-life or pro-choice, you should be outraged that the Commonwealth of Virginia is about to mandate rape.

I am not being hyperbolic. I am not overstating the case. Women would be forcibly penetrated with wands for the purposes of obtaining ultrasounds in advance of undergoing abortions. Also, they would be required to wait an undisclosed amount of time between the ultrasounds and the abortions, presumably in the hopes that they will change their minds.

An amendment was added to the bill (by a Democrat) that would have required a woman's consent or would have allowed her doctor to opt out of performing this medically unnecessary procedure.

The amendment was voted down.

All legislative bodies in Virginia are under Republican control presently.

This is today's GOP. The party that insists it favors smaller government is about to sign into law legislation that is as hideously invasive as anything I can fathom.

I remain stunned that birth control is currently the hot-button issue in the GOP primary, that in 2012, old, white men have decided to revisit whether women should have access to contraception. This extends beyond whether religious institutions should be required to provide such access through health insurance. That has been addressed. No, this goes far beyond that talking point.

Congressmen, Senators, Governors, hear this: Women vote. We have enormous power. We are the majority of the population of this country. We are sorely underrepresented in government. And 98 percent of us, now or at some time in our lives, have used birth control. You can convene all the panels of men you wish to convene to decide this issue on our behalf, but know that you will pay for these actions with your political careers.

That Governor Bob McDonnell is about to sign into law state-mandated rape – state- ... mandated ... rape – is reprehensible. And, in turn, that he is openly campaigning to be the next vice president of the United States terrifies me.

And as a citizen of this country, it should terrify you, too.

For more on this story, read Slate's "Virginia’s Proposed Ultrasound Law Is an Abomination," or watch Rachel Maddow's reporting on the issue, "Really Really Really Big Government" and "OMGYN."

Perception ...

Does anyone see themselves clearly?

Are we incapable? Like how we're unable to hear our voices the way others hear them?

I see the world from my point of view – with wide-angle peripheral vision – but I can't see behind me. I can't see inside.

So I've been mulling an exchange with a friend on Friday who wrote to express his condolences about Jeff and included: "I marvel at your strength, Beth."

Huh.

Really?

What strength?

I don't feel strong.

When L.A. Dave died, I was flattened. I functioned, but not well. At least, not well by my standards.

And perhaps that's the crux of the matter: my standards.

Still, I don't feel strong in the face of these losses.

Then again, I don't know what qualifies as strong.

Last Saturday, I procrastinated. I knew I had to call Sherry, but I had no earthly idea what to say. And I knew that calling her, that hearing her voice, would make everything real. Not that it wasn't real already, but speaking to her would cement it. I finally dialed their number and she answered. I told her the only thing that made sense. I told her that I loved her. Sherry was strong. Her voice was weak but she managed to speak. I, for my part, managed to speak, too, but I could barely say goodbye. I told myself before I called that I had to keep it together. I am incapable of keeping it together.

Last Sunday, I tended to details and got into my car and drove to Detroit.

Last Monday, I attended Jeff's funeral and burial and then drove home.

Nothing about that strikes me as strong. Necessary, yes. Strong, no.

Jeff is the fourth friend I've lost since 2003, the third of those friends to die unexpectedly. And while the fourth friend was older and had been ill, even his death came sooner than any of us expected. There was no time for me to get to him to say goodbye.

This time, though, feels different.

Yesterday, I had a good day. I was struck by the fact that it was a good day. In the morning, I walked into the kitchen to get more coffee, marveling at the fact that I felt good, not sad. "Yeah, well, wait five minutes," I told myself. When Dave died, I was often fine one minute then sobbing the next.

But I decided to proceed with the day by being fine in the moment. If sadness arrived, I'd let it move through me, but in the meantime, I did the dishes. I did the laundry. I did all of the laundry. I wrote a note to Sherry and drove to the post office to mail it. I wrote to an author of a column about Jeff to thank him for giving form to the angst. I traded emails with a friend who may have heard about Jeff belatedly and who asked me to tell him about the funeral. I did a bit of reading. I took out the garbage and the recycling. I sorted mail and ordered bills and shredded papers. I flipped through catalogs. I put away catalogs. I watched a bit of TV. I had some lunch. Later, I had some dinner. I Swiffered my floors. I found a pair of shoes underneath my bed (the ones I was sure I had thrown out and therefore did not take with me to Detroit which required that I buy a new pair of shoes for Jeff's service because my ratty gym shoes would not suffice). And I had a few teary moments, but they were brief.

And so I went to bed having had a good day. And I woke up to what I hope will be another.

I have decided, this time, that I cannot let grief consume me. I simply can't. And Jeff would not want me to let it. Not that my other friends would have. Charles never let me wallow. Dave would have told me to have a milkshake. John would have commiserated and shared insight and wisdom from his vast, deep experiences, but then he would have given me a task or sent a book or a CD to provide something to ponder or a distraction.

So maybe this decision to carry on counts as strength. But how can I do otherwise? The days continue to arrive. And I am grateful to have each and every one of them, more grateful now than ever. Today, I really need to restore some sense of order to my closet. And I should probably deal with the dust that I discovered yesterday underneath my bed. And I have books to read and recipes to reimagine and more dishes to do.

Life goes on, in all its richness and all its glorious banalities.

Jeff In His Own Words ...

This is a great clip of Jeff giving a TED talk.

And here I thought I knew all of his stock jokes!

Watching this reminded me – not that I needed reminding – that he truly lived his beliefs.

He is a shining example of authenticity.