I never said that I was brave,
but I thought I was stronger than this.
And I wonder if I will always be so affected -
by chance and regret.
It’s just that I can’t seem to forgive my actions
and words,
and thoughts
and the way that I have sometimes thrived
on making a mess of things.
Still I know he’s forgiven the ugly parts,
because grace is this perfect sweater
soft
warm
heavy
thick
surrounding me so that I can't feel the things that make my skin turn cold.

we ate pasta
and talked about
god and life
and remembering.

the cheese kept finding
the corners of my mouth,
and my napkin kept missing the mark —
making a mess of my face.

i had parsley and cilantro
in my teeth
and garlic on my breath,
but we talked like we meant it.
and I looked at you
and loved
that man.

i helped finish your bowl —
forking rotini with my fingers
licking goat cheese from my thumb.
savoring.

living

yesterday i slept until 9. and when nick pulled me out of bed, i was still tired. with sleep in my eyes and fog in my brain, i smelled pancakes. i don't usually eat breakfast, but nick insisted. so he made me sit at the table. he fixed me a cup of coffee with two splendas and one large spoonful of creamer and, he brought it to me. i sipped it and wished we had whipped cream to put on top, but the fridge was mostly empty because i go grocery shopping on saturdays out of need. saturdays are when we look at eachother and say "there is nothing in this house to eat" and when we say it, it's true instead of an excuse to go to Pappa Kenos or to get fajitas like when we say it on a wednesday or thursday. but we did have a new box of pancake mix and some syrup and butter and nick was cooking and i was sitting and the pancakes smelled so good. when we were in college, i ate pancakes like they were going out of style. i'd eat much more than i needed or than i even wanted. my stomach would expand well beyond the comfort zone, but nick would keep making them. it was usually midnight or beyond and i'd probably eat 10 or more before i went to bed and slept it off. yesterday, he only made me one because i don't normally eat breakfast. it was thick and crispy on the edges and the butter was melting all around and the syrup was so perfectly poised on top. it looked like an art director had put it all together for a photo shoot in Saveur or Bonne Apetite. it was almost too perfect to eat. almost. i ate it fast and finished my coffee and while i was chewing, nick was doing dishes. what? dishes. yeah. and by the time i was done, the dishes were clean and drying in the strainer. and i was kind of full and uneasy from eating breakfast, because i normally don't. and the house was kind of really cold. must have been cold outside. i was ready to shower and get warm, but nick made me put on a hat and a coat and a leash on gus so that we could go on a walk. it was 24 degrees, but it felt like 16. we walked for 40 minutes, and gus loved it. we looked at all of the houses in the neighborhood next to ours that we want to buy. we said, if that one goes on the market we'll move, or i like that house but i wonder if it has a basement. a basement is a must in the next house. there is this one expanded cape cod that we kind of lust after. and nick has figured that the people who live there now are very old. and so, his theory is that soon, it will be for sale. when that day comes, he says we'll buy it. i say we won't be able to afford it and that the smaller house we like, too, with the young family living in it, could come up for sale soon as well. people don't have to die for a house to be available, i tell him. but still, his heart is set on the pale yellow cape cod with the extra family room and the picture windows and the huge yard and the flagpole. he said that he has always wanted a flagpole. i told him that we could buy a flagpole and install it at our house or at the next house and that i hadn't even noticed that the pale yellow house had a flagpole. but he has been lusting after the pole and so i told him that we would have to paint that yellow house because it is an ugly color. kind of like watered down lemonade. as we gawked at it while we walked by, we looked for signs of a basement and didn't see any.
when we got home, i had more coffee and showered and made my grocery list and went shopping. and then when i got home, i sat on the couch most of the day. it was warm in the sun on the purple couch. i felt like a cat. i watched lifetime original movies and ate rice cakes and chocolate. it was a good day.

blog dog

thinking

Is it just me, or does the entire city smell like lighter fluid on a hot summer night? It certainly has me craving some ribs.

So the Lance American Century 8-story tall "poster" is creating quite the buzz. And while I feel sorry for all of us who have to drive beneath his watchful eye, what about the people who work at AC and have lost what I'm sure was a coveted view of the Plaza. I'm sure staring at the back of a building-sized poster is really helping them get through the work day.

I checked out my site meter yesterday, and someone found me via an Internet search for "fat writer." I don't know what to think.

My legs are sore. I think it's because I wasn't able to run the entire first 13 days of February. I was in the hospital or on the slopes, and so I've tried to make up for it by running more than 40 miles since the 14th. It's a bit painful, but SO worth it.

Speaking of the hosptial and my lovely time there. I got my "this is not a bill, this is an explanation of benefits" in the mail yesterday. I was there two nights and two days and boy do I know how to rack up some charges. The grand total? $16,500. Yep. The total I have to pay? $100. Thank God for good insurance.

And last but not least, I am totally digging Built To Spill. If you haven't given them a listen, you should. The best news of all? They will be in Lawrence at the Bottleneck on April 19. Afraid to go to Lawrence like I am? Lucky you. They will also be making an appearance in Columbia April 17 at the Bluenote. Enjoy, and go Tigers.

and the workload dies down

Seven Things To Do Before I Die
1. Write my memoir
2. Visit Israel
3. Go on a long-term mission trip
4. Run multiple marathons
5. Become a mother
6. Go back to school to get my master’s and Ph.D
7. Ski a black run

Seven Things I Cannot Do:
1. Roll my r’s.
2. Dive
3. Pretend like I don’t care
4. Forget people and memories.
5. Miss more than one day of running
6. Make myself like the taste of water
7. Stop thinking about the day when I will not only be a published author, but a published BOOK author.

Seven Things That Attract Me to Blogging:
1. I think someone is listening.
2. Much easier than keeping a journal
3. A creative outlet
4. I think I’m a pretty good writer
5. I’ve met some pretty cool “bloggers”
6. I like to see pictures of myself online
7. And to steal one from Chase, I can say "I have a blog"

Seven Things I Say Most Often:
1. Whatever2
. Um…
3. This is Jessi (when answering the phone at work)
4. How far are we running today?
5. I feel fat.
6. I’m stressed out.
7. My back hurts

Seven Authors I Love:
1. Toni Morrison
2. David Sedaris
3. Fyodor Dostoevsky
4. John McGregor
5. Donald Miller
6. William Faulkner
7. Barbara Kingsolver

Seven Movies/DVDs That I Could Watch Over and Over Again:
1. Much Ado About Nothing
2. Crash
3. Terms of Endearment
4. Friends (any season)
5. My Best Friend’s Wedding
6. In America
7. Pieces of April

Seven People I Want To Join In:You’re all tagged. Sorry.

yes, that was me who bravely took a parking spot from a police officer.

Today, I stole a parking spot from a police officer. Kind of. I was at the Quick Trip just north of the plaza on Main and it was crowded like it always is minutes before the 8 o’clock bell rings. Finding a parking spot is usually similar to finding a spot at the mall the day before Christmas. Spots are few and far between and all of the good ones are generally taken by semi-trucks that are double parked or by people who sit in their cars for several long minutes after reentering them to do things like read the paper, apply lipstick or drink coffee really, really slow. So when one of those people actually throws their car in reverse, causing reverse lights to ignite, it’s a fight to the finish to see what lucky displaced car gets to park. Today, it was “on” between me and a KCPD cop car.

It all started when I was on the side street getting ready to turn left into the Quick Trip parking lot. I noticed a police car headed toward me while approaching the same parking lot. Although I had plenty of time and room to make my left handed turn in front of the cop, I decided that I didn’t want to risk anything and that I would be a good, upstanding citizen by letting him go before me. He pulled into Quick Trip, and I followed. Only, he decided to cruise the entire lot, making a loop around the gas area, and I decided to wait behind the row of parked cars for a sighting of glorious reverse lights. So, I waited and waited and there was nothing quick about it until finally, this Camry decided to leave. And then, reappearing for its glorious second coming, the police car crept back into site from around the other side of the gas pumps with its nose pointed toward my spot. “Um, heck no,” I thought, as I put my turn signal on (if I was going to be halfway stealing a spot from a police officer, I figured I’d do it legally). So, my turn signal was on and I was looking into this cop car and the police officer seemed to be seriously intent upon parking in my spot — the spot that I had been waiting for. And so, with all of the balls that I have in me (which is zero, by the way), I pulled into the spot before he did. And I immediately felt as if I had done something horribly wrong, but I also knew I got away with it the second Mr. Cop and I were getting coffee at the same time and he looked at me and smiled and laughed. I smiled back and was laughing on the inside. And I felt tough — real tough — like the bad girls at my catholic all-girl high school that would smoke during lunch break. And it felt good.

desire

about attitude

My attitude sucks. Lately I've been having a hard time feeling happy. But scariest of all is that I think for a day or two, I forgot my joy. The difference between happiness and joy is that the first is situational and can be easily influenced by life or motives or just a really crappy day. The second, though, is something eternal, something that lives inside of us and that is not easily take away. Happiness is temporary, but joy- true joy - is endless.

I like to remember Paul and his letter to the Phillipians when I struggle with this. The whole book is pretty insane and mostly slaps me in the face. Paul wrote it when he was in prison. First of all, the fact that he was chained for believing in jesus but that he still kept his joy and praised god for things is an outstanding lesson for me to learn. And also, in his "previous" life, Paul was like the highest of the highs as far as people are concerned. He was what everyone aspired to be. He was likely held in envy by many people. For starters, he persecuted the church and was full of zeal, and as far as righteousness goes, he was blamelss. He was of the prime stock of Israel and as concerning the law, he was a Pharisee. Basically, he was the shiznit, and still, he gladly gave it all away for the sake of his christ and he followed him with joy and passion and zeal and nothing took that away.

What am I giving away. Seriously. What is the true cause of my joy and why is it so easily erased from my mind when I am in a traffic jam or feel really tired or when my back hurts. I'd like to be able to get through one hard day at the office without feeling like I've been robbed of my joy.

self portrait tuesday

Two years ago, I wrote about why I run and it's painful to read today. I used to run to escape, to forget about a body that I hated and a mind that was in turmoil. Today, I run because I can because it fills me up and relaxes me and because I can run farther than anyone ever imagined and that I ever thought possible. I run today because God gave me this body, and I am going to take care of it. Because it helps me to be okay with myself. This picture is a reflection of how I feel now when I look back at the woman I was two years ago. I'm kind of disgusted at her. But then I realize that I had to be her and I had to be honest and that it was that very honesty that has set me here in a much better place. A place where I can love myself enough to do better. I used to run to forget about myself. Now I run to remember. And though I'm more aware of who I am now, I never want to forget the ugly place in which I used to dwell. Here is an excerpt from the piece I wrote back then when things were messy and confusing.
----------------------

I’ve seen myself use flattery as a vessel to fill my ego to the bursting point. And when it bursts, it’s ugly. Before I left for my run, the mirror was my enemy, showing me distortions, fat legs, ugly face, huge pores, thin lips. What once was a cute haircut became limp and lifeless in the mirror. My sparkly eyes looked slanty and funny-looking. My butt looked too round and my calves, too defined. In the mirror, it’s hard to look away as I critique each eyebrow hair; each blackhead that lives on my nose that is way too big and pronounced. My chin gets a dimple that can only be taken away by surgery and my spider veins become very red and blue and purple. I’m too pale, too plain, too average. The mirror reflects a face filled with discontent. The face reflects a heart filled with the wrong things for too long. Flattery has lead to the ruins of my thoughts and my outlook and my soul. I think I’ll never again let flattery inflate me, because I don’t like what I look like when the bubble bursts. It’s ugly. And so I run. And while I run, my mind keeps racing, thinking thoughts that turn my strong calves into flab city. And yet I keep going, thinking, waxing poetic to myself.

Thinking about how I leave the mirror often half of the woman I was when I arrived before it. I walk away and fill my mind with something else, like TV or music. I watch perfect people prance around the screen in my living room. I compare. I pick. I decide I’m a mess. I take a walk because I can’t take the feel of my thighs any longer. Walking doesn’t do it though. I have to run. And so, I do. Fast and furious. My legs moving more rapidly than my heart so that it’s hard to keep up. My mind racing, like it always is. Except, outside, I think about things like summer and swimsuits and tans and blond hair and perfect people. I think that if I could just run a bit faster or a block farther, I could be a perfect person, too. I keep going, checking my watch, keeping my time. When twenty minutes isn’t long enough, I make it thirty. Then forty. Then, I’m going to the gym after my run, or I’ll ride my bike. I’ll con someone into riding with me so that I’m not so alone, so afraid of myself. I’ll stay out until dark when I get too scared, too enveloped by the blackness to care about my thighs or my upper arms or that place in my lower back that I just can’t seem to rid of fat - ever. It’s probably late by now, almost time for dinner, which I will toil over for hours. What to make, how much fat, will I take time to savor each bite, or will I shovel it down like a crazy person. Like the person I feel I am when it’s late and I’m hungry and I don’t know why I haven’t eaten anything yet. Preparation comes next and then it’s time to eat, pick by pick, noodle by noodle. I get full because my lunch was light and my stomach feels weird. I wonder if the calories I burnt during my run will be enough to cancel out my dinner. I wonder if I should do the dishes now, or just leave them in the sink hoping they will disappear. But, I can’t leave them. So I wash and dry and wash and dry and then, I go to bed. Dreaming of accidentally eating a candy bar, or of running into my old crush and finally telling him how I felt and crying and screaming and feeling like I have no eyes or that the air is being sucked from my lungs. And then, it’s morning and it all starts again. My stomach is bloated. My legs feel huge. Too huge to wear the jeans I wanted to. I don’t even try them on. I know they won’t fit. I want to wear sweats, to hide behind yards of cotton. To sink into the couch all day and forget about my body. But, I can’t. I have responsibilities that I can’t stop thinking about. A job, a husband, a family, friends. But sometimes, I can’t seem to recall when everything changed and I was thrust into adulthood without warning or a choice.

And as I was thinking all of this, my legs kept going. I kept running, up and down hills, past flowering bushes that set front yards on hot pink fire, past garbage collectors and skater girls. Past the boy with the long hair that always throws his Frisbee to the wind. The same boy whose black Labrador runs to the fence with a tennis ball in its mouth when I sprint by. All this was yesterday – and as I jogged, I couldn’t seem to understand how my tired body let me run all those miles and think all those thoughts. But it had. It was. I was running like I had somewhere to go. An appointment. A meeting that I would be late to if I didn’t push myself up that last hill, full speed. It was then, as I gasped for breath at the top of the steepest hill, that I realized why I run. The thirty minutes or hour I’m out, away from myself, from the place my body lives, soothes me. I run away in short bursts every day. Because, if I really ran away, I’d leave too much behind. Too many memories that have been made, and some that haven’t been made yet. I can’t run very far. I’m working up to eight miles. But never, ever farther. There are no marathons in my future. No cross-country runs Forrest Gump-style. None of that because, I have to come back. And, I always do. But even if I’m tired and dizzy and feeling too skinny or too fat, I run. I run because I can. Because it’s the only way I know how to forget about myself.
I run to leave behind the ego that has burst and to inflate it again with the knowledge that I have achieved a goal, that I can eat dinner without worry of weight gain, that I can enjoy two Hershey’s Kisses instead of just one. I run because it is what makes everything else okay. In the experiment of my life, it is my control, my factor that I can never, ever change. Because, in systematic inflation and deflation of the mess that is my ego, controlling my workout seems to control my crazy mind, making myself seem better, or at least average. And I am afraid that if I have to stop running, if something happens to my feet, if I can no longer tie on my running shoes – the shoes that take me down the streets and away from it all - that I might not know how to be okay. So until that day comes, I will continue to wear a path of sanity that takes me by quaint cottages and stout duplexes. The path that leads my feet, mind racing, through parks and villages, by barking dogs and crying babies and down the road of memories that has worn my mind to mush. The path that takes me everywhere beneath a sky that is always wearing its finest blue jacket.

um, no thanks.

So trucker hats are where it's at right now. or maybe, they're so last season. But no matter where they stand on the fashion spectrum, they just look better on an indy-rocked out teenager than they do on a real life, in-the-flesh trucker. I know this because of the trucker and subsequent trucker hat that graced my presence on the way to Colorado. We were somewhere in Kansas - before Plainville, but well beyond Manhattan - and we were hungry so we stopped at an Arby's and started to order. It was late for dinner, probably about 8 p.m., but we needed to eat and so did the trucker who stood behind us in line. I didn't notice anything strange about him at first. I just saw a flannel shirt, some dingy jeans and a black trucker hat. I saw a grey beard and a tired man, and I thought that he was probably lonely and could use a good conversation. I was about to suggest that we all strike up a talk with this hungry stranger until the message on his hat slapped me across the face. It said, and I'm not joking about this, "Show me your tits." What? Excuse me? Show you my what? I don't think so. And I hope, dear God I hope, that the message on that hat has never worked. I could maybe understand if the head sporting the message belonged to a 20-something rock star trying to go for shock value or if Britney, the queen of shocking t-shirts, sported this message on her forehead. But I really think this trucker thought that hoards of women would gladly flash him upon reading the request. Not only did I not flash the man, I zipped my hoodie all the way to the top.

monday, monday.

i don't have to work today. i don't remember the last time i had president's day off. i think i may have been 16.
that's it. just wanted to rub it in.

self portrait tuesday (on a friday)

i'm going to start doing this. i'm starting on a friday, which is slightly against the rules....

i stuck my tongue out in this picture because i hate the way my smile looks. i also figured my nose wouldn't look as big if i didn't smile all of the way. i don't know when i started hating my smile, but i prefer my face from the nose up. maybe it's because my top lip is so thin, or because i have freckles between my nose and my mouth, and they look like a moustache sometimes in pictures. maybe it's because i'm my worst critic or because i just can't be happy with the whole picture.

i never used to hate my nose. my mom has always hated hers and has talked for years about getting a nose job. she won't smile in pictures because she thinks it spreads too wide and looks too huge. no question about it -- i got her nose. i used to like my nose until i realized she hated it.

hands

Your hands look like the male version of mine. I forget that sometimes and instead, I dwell on your mind that thinks different thoughts than mine, and I wonder why our minds can’t be more alike or why sometimes, we don’t laugh at the same things. Or why you hate some of my music. And I hate some of yours. I forget that your soul looks like mine and so does your heart, and I forget how closely you hold me when I am scared and how it feels to be embraced by arms that would protect me from anything. Mostly, I forgot what it was like to laugh together at the same thing at the same time. Uncontrollably. Last night, I remembered. We may have been laughing at my own stupidity, but it was funny and we laughed and it was late but we still laughed and it was past our bedtime and Gus was already sleeping beside us, but we didn’t care and we laughed and I felt like everything was okay again. And it felt good.

I’m not always easy to love. In fact, I’m probably sometimes the hardest person for you to like. But somehow, you still do — love me. And I love you and because of that, because of a love that transcends our understanding or the limited vision we have of our life and what the future might bring, we will be okay.

You love me when I’m having a fat day and when I hate my hair or when I just feel like being alone or crying or running forever and endlessly. You love me when the dinner I made doesn’t come out quite right, when I spend too much on clothes and when I rent another movie that wasn’t worth it or that you hated. You love me when I don’t want to eat or when I feel like eating too much. And right when I wake up, when my hair is horribly out of place and my face is pale, when I have sleep marks on my skin and unflattering pajamas on, you tell me I look beautiful. And you make me believe you.

today is your birthday

You don’t always know the right things to say. You sometimes forget to call me back or to call me at all. You’re usually busy with work or life or God or friends or painting a room or taking a walk, and I’m not always a priority. I never have been. I guess I was early on. — before Evan and Amy. I’d like to think that for two and a half years, I was the light in your eye and the object of your affection. But then, siblings came, and you had to raise them, too. And so, you did. You always read to us and taught us things and made us do math and eat our carrots until we were blue in the face. You especially enjoyed reading novels by Mark Twain aloud. You wanted us to appreciate his economy of words. We’d lay there, in Evan’s big bed on a spring evening and listen to you re-read sentence after sentence marveling at his mastery of the craft. You wanted us to marvel, too. I was 10. I was the oldest. We hardly marveled. Instead, we rolled our eyes when you asked us to look up a big word in the dictionary, and we drifted off into dreamland or day dreamland. We wanted to be anywhere but there. The spring breeze was calling. We wanted to play.

I hung up on you last Tuesday. I called you because I needed you to listen, to hear me. I didn’t need you to tell me anything other than the fact that you were there for me. I needed you to put down your scrub brush and to give me your full attention. I needed my mommy when I called. Instead, I got my mother, a rushed, somewhat bitter woman — a woman who couldn’t put her scrub brush down to fully listen to what her oldest daughter was saying through tears and an angry voice.

I kept telling you that I was hurting, and that I just needed you to listen. I kept telling you to stop preaching at me — that I knew everything you said was true but that right then, it didn’t matter. I wanted you to ask me to coffee or to lunch. I wanted you to drop what you were doing and come to my rescue like my best friend does or like Nick does or like half of the people I know would. You let me down, and I hung up on you. I haven’t talked to you since.

Today is your 51st birthday. I left you a voicemail. I’m not sure I can muster the courage to do much more. Every time I try to get close to you, you put up another wall or refuse to stop doing another task that you could continue in a minute. You’re needy and broken, but don’t you see that we all are.

dry

I’m not feeling very inspired lately. I think I’ve hit a dry spot. Only it’s dryer than any spot I’ve hit before — the kind of dry that takes your breath away and sucks all of the moisture from your chest. Today, it hurts to breathe.

Valentine’s Day wasn’t easy. We went to the gym and ate leftovers and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. We watched the Olympics and played with Gus. We usually go out to a fancy restaurant or cook an elaborate meal with recipes borrowed from the food network or from epicurious.com. Last night, we didn’t even eat dinner until 9p.m., and by then, we weren’t really hungry anyway.

We weren’t going to get each other anything. And so, I didn’t buy a card or a gift or even chocolate. That was the agreement. But when I left for work, I found chocolate bark and a new dryfit Nike running tank waiting for me. I cried and felt like a monster and so, I visited Andre’s and chose a selection of different small perfectly decorated cakes filled with hazelnut and chocolate and cream and rum and then I bought a small bag of chocolate hearts and I told Nick to meet me at home for lunch. I gave him the gift and he acted so excited. He even took a picture of it because really, the pastries were perfection and then took it to work to show it off. It was $20. It wasn’t a big deal. I’m not sure the excitement was warranted, and then, I felt even more like a monster and confused and afraid and part of me wanted to wake up today because Valentine’s Day would be over and expectations would be gone and we’d have another 364 days to try to get it right.

So, I’ve hit a dry spot, and I’m not sure what it is going to take to bring the rain. But I am anticipating it with the kind of longing that is so deep and buried that it’s kind of hard to recognize, but you still know it’s there. And when the rain does come, I’m not going to have patience for sprinkles or mist or even dew. Because it's going to take a massive storm to quench this heart's soil.

he may have gotten a treat after looking at me like this

the adventures of a group of friends who ski, stick their tongues out and visit plainville, kansas

what blowing a puss pocket out of my nose taught me

So, I have a headache and the postnasal drip is out of control and then there is the numbness, which is more of a heaviness and is still there in my left cheek by my nose and jaw and cheekbone. Oh and my throat hurts — I mean really hurts, like strep throat only worse but there are no white pockets of puss on my tonsils, just strings of thick drip from my nose and it’s gross and offensive and I’m sure it’s given me terrible breath but anyway, I've developed a theory.

This morning, I went to blow my nose and out of my left nostril came what appeared to be a plug. I’m sorry for the graphic description, but this quarter-sized, cube-like mass of green and red just flew out of my left nostril into the tissue and I was in awe. I had never seen anything like that come out of anywhere let alone my nose and it was like a relief to see that it was no longer in my body. And then I remembered the “numbness” and the heaviness and the subsequent sore throat and I’ve decided that what I really have is a sinus infection — not a stroke, not a heart with a hole in it — but a sinus infection.

I could be wrong. I am a writer after all and not a doctor or a nurse or anyone remotely qualified to diagnose ailments. But answer me this — why didn’t the doctors at the hospital check for something as simple as a sinus infection. Why did they jump to the stroke conclusion without ruling out little, less scary things like huge puss-like, bloody sinus plugs. If I’m right and the facial sensation was a result of a massively infected sinus cavity, I am going to be writing my friendly local hospital a letter along with my bill and a request for a reimbursement. I know that’s stretching it, but a girl can dream can’t she?

currently

Ingesting: Airborne, Halls Defense Vitamin C drops, Hot and Sour soup from Bolings, Powerade Option, Orbit Cinnamint gum and brownies.

Sporting: Hair that’s too long for my taste, black pointy-toed heels, black slacks, black sweater, gray tank, red band watch with buckles, hair band on right wrist, red “life” band on right wrist, black and white “cameo” necklace and butterfly earrings.

Contemplating: Getting my nose pierced.

Listening to: Jimmy Eat World, “Stay On My Side Tonight.”

Wondering: If my chiropractor is full of doodoo.

Looking forward to: Skiing, the van ride to Keystone, being with friends, watching Nick ski for the first time on a real mountain and the Brew to Brew run.

Dreading: Upcoming Sacramento biz trip.

Laughing with: Dooce

Laughing at: myself

Loving: mewithout you lyrics “The cure for pain is in the pain, so it's there that you'll find me. Until again I forget, and again he reminds me, "Hear my voice in your head, and think of me kindly." Let me be, let me be. Lowered down like a casket and buried just below her chest. "Whatever I was searching for, it was never you," she says. The record ended long ago, we go on dancing nonetheless. I opened like a locket, "If you're ever cold," I wrote, "there's warmth inside me. I'm the pocket of an old winter coat." But where she used to say "I need you." Now...."I don't." You'd only make the softest sound, like sugar pouring into tea. Darling let your Self pour down and dissolve into the Love who revealed himself there quietly to me.”

Needing: My sore throat to go away.

Wanting: To be able to run again.

did she say "jessi?"

Despite the persistent numbness in my left cheek and strange tingling in my left hand, I did have some weekend highlights. Here they are.

1.I ate dinner at Marrakesh Café and there is nothing I would have rather put down my sore camera-swallowing throat. The Hummus was ridiculously good and so was everything else I tried. And I tried everything.

2. Grey’s Anatomy. Can we say “best episode ever?” I loved every second of it and stayed up last night thinking about it and am counting down the hours to see what happens to Meredith when the episode continues next week.

3.I found out that I can still go skiing. Yes! Colorado, here I come.

4. Liliana, my best friend’s daughter, actually reached out for me to take her away from her dad. She was interested in my necklace, but I really think she’s starting to like me.

5. Liliana, though hardly talking at all yet, sounded like she may have made and “es” sound, which is halfway to saying “Jessi” and “Messy.”

6. I found out that I have extremely good hemoglobin levels for a woman. I have no idea what that means, but I’ll take any good news right now.

Yes, I'm talking to you.

a stroke, at 26?

I've been in the hospital since Wednesday night. Tuesday evening during American Idol, the right side of my face went numb and heavy. I watched it for almost 24 hours and saw no change until my left arm started to feel hot needle sensations. I left work and went straight to the ER. I figured I'd go home that night. I didn't.

They admitted me at 9:00p.m. I had never stayed at a hospital at night. And Nick was in Indiana. I felt alone and emptly. I was also scared.

Due to my symptoms, they wanted to monitor me over night to be sure it didn't turn into a full-blown stroke. They hooked me up to a heart monitor and continued to check vital and neurological signs all night. I had an MRI and an MRA and a sonogram of my heart the next day. I figured they'd find nothing and I could go home. I didn't go home.

The nurse said that they saw what appeared to be a hole in my heart - a condition that can cause migraine headaches and strokes. They wanted me to stay another night and scheduled a TEE test for the next morning. I was told that if there was a hole, they would need to patch it by going in through a large artery in my groin.

The test consisted of a very sedated Jessi swallowing a garden hose with a camera attached to it. I don't remember much but I do know they didn't find a hole. And so, with no explaination to my symptoms and with no recommendations about how to avoid having this happen again or if I should or should not go skiing next week or if I should worry or if it really was a stroke, they sent me home.

So, here I sit. Face still partially numb, very confused and kind of unsettled. But I am glad to be home and I am glad that I have such good husband and friends and a family that took care of me when I wasn't at home.