I wish someone would lock me away in a cabin with excellent books and no internet. Paper. And pens. I would need those. And yes, being the extrovert that I am, I would go slightly insane with all that alone time. Maybe I could have visitors, periodically – little spurts of human contact for sanity sake.


The part of the blog where I just tell you what I want.

I want to go on a bike ride around a shaded lake.
I want to nap near the lake on an old quilt.
I want the mosquitos to not show up but go away.
and ants. no ants.
I want to swim in the lake during the afternoon time.
and eat rasberries too.

There should probably be a man involved. A nice one. That I can kiss.

If not, a terribly good book instead to keep me warm.


My life these days is (outside of work)…

yoga (started, goal is to go twice a week)

and writing (but never enough, i’m so lazy when it comes to this)

and netflix (why do i love californication? david duchovny is the hottest 50 year old i don’t know, that’s why.)

and organizing (i went for the first time to the container store – my, oh my, what a wonderful place.)

and drinking water (i’m in a current competition with a friend, we try and drink 75 to 90 oz a day. It’s completely gross and awesome.)

and mandolin lessons (yep, bluegrass, i love you.)

and music (upcoming concerts – mumford & sons, tired pony, hardly strictly bluegrass festival – lucky, lucky me.)

and darling friends.

and that’s about it, for now.

i am needing to add to my list – trips to the beach, night swims, kisses.


I am in love with Amy.

Recipe for Resurrection by Amy Gerstler

Bathe the body in quinine.
Then let his wrists
be braceleted with the stings
of tiny iridescent insects.
A group of ten restless boys
should encircle the sleeper
whose marrow is to be rekindled.
The boys must sneeze violently
without covering their mouths
till the body is wet.
A poultice of figs and licorice
smeared over the lips
has often proved useful.
Rub footsoles with prickly poppy
and buttermilk. Place a live
green treefrog over each nipple
and stroke the frogs tenderly
until they are calm. Cover the empty
genitals with white duck feathers.
Allow relatives to huff and puff
and blow the feathers away.
Under no circumstances should
anyone sweep them up or collect them.
They must float where they will.

Don’t let the sleeper stand up
too quickly. Giddy on arising,
he may declare there are swarms
of fireflies swooping through
the room. He’ll be hoarse,
prey for days to seaside
complaints, prone to whine
that everything smells of vinegar
(or another pickling solution),
and that sore all over, nothing
he lies down on is soft enough
anymore. He may try to bite you.
He might talk nonsense, and sob:
where is the silver forest,
the lapping glassy canal
unruffled by its boats,
the flock of noisy parrots
I was promised?
Resist the temptation
to fall to your knees
and beg his forgiveness. Instead,
armed with pinches and kisses,
fistfuls of pumpkin seeds
and biscuit crumbs, let him
be breathed on by the subtle
dusty gusts from a lily’s
golden-tonsiled throat.
Graciously welcome the truant
soul home as you stutter your love-
that thin tuneless exhaust
we exhale every day.