So many people I know in the glass room. I am reminding myself of how I know each of them when the ship appears at the horizon. An oil tanker, slick black and barnacled like I imagine whales to be, heads for the beach, for the glass room. It is bearing down too fast as its surface breaks, curves upwards like a fish.

Suddenly the tanker flops like a massive trout on a hook, rearing from the beach, disturbing the ocean in great waves that finally catch the attention of the people in the glass room: my people in the glass room. I run toward it as fast as I can, throwing myself against the glossy door as the black hull breaches the structure.

Glass, water, blackness and blue. “Hold your breath!” someone screams. As I gulp air, I wonder if those heroic words prevented her from surviving. After a few minutes submerged — how can it be so long? — I cannot find the surface. I decide the only thing to do is drown. I release my air in large, silvery bubbles, resigned and relieved, and watch them float away.

• Pork chops with bacon-sage sauce: bacon, sage, and shallots are wonderful things.
• Creamed leeks: because I wanted to do something awesome with our lovely CSA leeks. (I substituted gluten-free baking flour.)
• Baked butternut squash: because FunkyPlaid is all squashed out, yet I still desire their tastiness.
• Roasted potatoes with fried sage and brown butter: are you sensing a theme? I modified this one to half potatoes, half sweet potatoes. FunkyPlaid really loves this dish!
• Shredded Brussels sprouts: again with the bacon. Lest you think I hate vegetarians, I have made this bacon-free and it is quite tasty.
• Apple-filled acorn squash rings with curry butter: just read that over again.
• Brown sugar chicken: I love our new crock-pot. Tonight we’re having applesauce chicken.
• Always and forever, butternut squash risotto: this is one of my favorite things to eat. I have tried different recipes, but mostly they are a variation on this pumpkin risotto one.

This Friday, I am attempting a gluten-free fried chicken recipe in the crock-pot. It sounds crazy, which is why I want to try it. Let’s hope I don’t poison our dinner guests!

My first thought was: who shits on the sidewalk? This thought was immediately followed by a memory so forceful I giggled aloud. A couple of years ago, FunkyPlaid’s car was stolen. It was an awful realization, standing in front of the house, staring blankly at the blank space. We thought, well, we will hop in my car and drive down to the police station to report it stolen.

That is when we discovered that my car, parked a block away, had also been stolen. But not really: after calling the city, it had only been towed, for what must have been a millimeter in a driveway. A millimeter, I swear to you, and this is only important in my former-driver’s sense of pride because I do not take liberties with parking rules. I was cautious, yet not cautious enough.

We took the N-Judah downtown to retrieve my car so we could go to the police station to report FunkyPlaid’s car stolen. It was not the best transit ride we could have experienced, and not Muni’s fault, for once. We were disappointed, unhappy with the outcome of our precious day off together, a bit demoralized about how our neighbors would treat us, and sort of hungry. At least, I was sort of hungry.

We were walking down the sidewalk in SoMa when a gentleman not entirely possessing of his faculties stepped in front of us, dropped his pants, and began to ooze shit. I say this because it was nothing so structured as a bowel movement, more of a Jackson Pollock than a Mark Rothko. I yipped like a purse-dog at the spectacle. FunkyPlaid had the foresight to steer me away and across the street. And then we fell apart laughing.

Hats off to you, sir, for that moment of levity on a dark day, and hats off to you years later for interrupting my day of awkward things with the memory of your unabashed soul.

On January 12, a series of earthquakes with magnitudes ranging from 6.5 to 7.3 devastated Haiti. The American Red Cross is working with its partners in the global Red Cross and Red Crescent network, including the Haitian Red Cross, and other partners to assist those affected by this disaster.

From Al Jazeera –

Scenes of fighting have broken out in the Haitian capital as survivors continue to have little food and water two weeks after an earthquake devastated the Caribbean island.

From Amy Goodman, “Let the Haitians In” –

National Nurses United, the largest nurses union in the U.S., has 12,000 registered nurses willing to travel to Haiti to help, but they say they can’t get assistance from the Obama administration. So they called filmmaker Michael Moore. He told me this week: “This is pretty pathetic if you’re having to call me. I mean, you are the largest nurses union … and you can’t get a call in to the White House?” The NNU is seeking individual sponsors through its Web site.

From Tom F. Driver and Carl Lindskoog’s “An Open Letter to David Brooks on Haiti” –

The third important truth we have to offer (and we hope President Obama is listening as well) is the opposite of your call for “intrusive paternalism” as the solution to Haiti’s woes: Haiti does not need nor does it want the paternalism of the United States. Haiti is literally dying of cultural imperialism.

Last summer, after a friend mentioned Jillian Michaels’ “30-Day Shred” workout DVD, I read some reviews, mostly favorable, and decided to buy it. I managed to stumble my way through the first level a few times, following the modified exercises for beginners, and thought it wasn’t bad. Then my illness interrupted my routine, as was the case for much of 2009, and the DVD and hand-weights went untouched for the rest of the year.

While I skipped the jumping-jacks, time marched on. I felt lumpier and weaker than ever. During our Portland vacation, I went on a 5-mile hike with moderate elevation and thought I was going to die. A friend and I talked about running, but I did not see myself as a runner. My trainers were ancient, purchased long ago on deep discount during another fit of athleticism while I still had my bicycle. I tried a few times to go running but winded myself almost immediately and, dejected, walked around the block a few times before returning home.

I could not tell you why Monday the 28th was any different. Perhaps I was finally fed up with hearing myself make excuses and then feel sorry for myself. Perhaps I was simply too tired of spending so much time thinking about it. Whatever the case, I got home from work, ate a banana, read email for a few minutes, and then I went into the living room and flailed awkwardly for a while. Calories were burned. Epithets were hurled. Push-ups, even “modified for beginners”, were barely pushed up.

Heady with my sweat-soaked achievement, I decided that the next day I would go running. The Couch to 5k program had intrigued me when I first heard about it, so much so that I promised myself I would do it if I ever got back in shape. But I was tired of waiting for that, and the program is for beginning runners. So I downloaded the nifty C25k iPhone app and set my alarm for 6:00 the next morning.

Surprising myself, I didn’t hit snooze. I staggered out of bed, ate a bowl of cereal, and stared at RSS feeds for about twenty minutes. Then I donned my sad old trainers and what passes for “exercise clothing” in my closet and went running. Well, heavy walking with brief flurries of jogging. And I have done so six times now. The second week was less painful, thanks to new trainers, but was far from easy. Good thing I am stubborn, and also newly addicted to endorphins.

For someone who doesn’t see herself as a runner, it is strange to be excited about running. I am far less excited about flailing with Jillian Michaels, but I am doing that on the off-days for lower-impact cardio and strength training. And I still can’t do more than a few push-ups, but changing that is my next fitness goal.

The last week of C25k begins on my birthday. All I want is to wake up on my birthday and run 5k. Wish me luck!

I am not careful. I am tired of being careful.
I throw love at you, and it could hit you in the face.
It is tiring to be loved haphazardly, I know.

Someone will tell you things about your past,
about how you should feel about your past,
or about how to match the socks.

All I say is shapes and colors matter little.
Some of them have gone missing anyway.
Love with force. Match or don’t match. Just catch.

– Halsted M. Bernard