And just like that, they're back.

On the first day of kindergarten, I asked a little girl to hold my Cabbage Patch Doll while I put my coat in my cubby. She said, "Sure!" and we both found that we were sitting at Table 4 in Mrs. Bimson's a.m. class. It was 1985. Her name was Wendy. For the next eight years, we were inseparable.

She was the first kid I ever knew who was allowed to make phone calls for fun. My dad used to get a kick out of her timid voice down the line, "Is Angela there?" She lived in an apartment in her old farmhouse. We used to play in "Little House on the Prairie" in the barn and feed vanilla ice cream to the kittens.

She got to keep one. I was so envious. His name was Rascal, and one afternoon we tried to remove his fleas with Smurfmallows. We decided he looked so good blue that we colored his white patches blue with Magic Markers. That poor cat.

She was always my first pick for partners, my Special Interest buddy. She was cool, period. She was allowed to wear jewels around her eyes like the cool chick from Space Camp stuck on with spirit gum. She loved roller skating, R.L. Stine books and sleep-overs. We both played the violin and got identical perms and pink eyeglasses. We went to Claire's Boutique at the mall and got Best Friend necklaces. She got the "Be Fri" half. I got the "st ends" half.
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It was the first day of fourth grade.

The curly-haired new girl with the Southern accent was in our grade now. She had been "held back." All she remembered about me was that I had worn my headgear to school one time, one day, the school year before. I never made that mistake again.

We pushed our desks together for indoor recess, and two became three.

It wasn't an idyllic sisterhood. There were other girls, other friends, sleepover cryfests and ganging up on each other and mean girl activity. There were no traveling pants. There was hair spray, though, lots of it, and afternoons at the town pool, lip-syncing to Madonna, and spandex bicycle shorts under skirts.

There were notes folded like triangles, and crushes on boys, phone calls, shared books and "stories." Stories about what our lives would be like when we grew up, the men we would marry. Ironically, I think that my sister married a guy named Tom in our imaginary worlds. Or maybe that was me? Sometimes we were married to our latest 6th-grade crushes.

We wore poodle skirts to go trick-or-treating. They were both in the room when I got my first kiss, and they were the first to see my training bra when my mom and I got back from Penney's.

Our paths diverged in junior high. M-H went the field hockey route and won a coveted seat at the Popular Table before she moved away. I went Band Geek, and Wendy went a different way altogether.

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"Wendy P has sent you a message on Facebook," my email inbox says. The last name isn't the one I remember, but I know- as surely I know her birthday was January 12th and that Kirk Cameron was her crush in 1988- that it's her. Within hours, M-H has written on my wall.

And just like that, they're back.
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My Weekend

My weekend involved a big surprise party for my dad and Christmas: Round 1 for me and Joel, my parents, sister, and brother-in-law. I went quiet on the blog in part because I was making presents, wrapping presents, baking cookies, doing laundry, creating centerpieces, shopping for something to wear and generally trying not to blow the secret.



My dad put the pieces together about two hours before the shindig got started, but I do think he was surprised by the number of people from all the decades of his life who showed up. Well, he wasn't surprised to see the people in this photo, but it's nice, so....



As usual, I ended up doing a fair amount of work: toast-making, picture-taking, etc.



I had the CUTEST photo assistant, though.



And then this happened, which was HI-larious.

Happy birthday again, Dad. You're the best.

Survivor

This week has just been awful at my newspaper, at newspapers owned by the parent company across the country. People leaving in tears; lives uprooted.

The names of the laid-off were announced right before the annual holiday party. Presents with the names of the freshly unemployed sat in the middle of the conference table surrounded by the saddest group of people you've ever seen eating pie. It's so bleak; it was downright Dickensian.

Since the mandatory staff reduction was announced about a month ago, well-meaning friends have been telling me that I'll be fine, that they would be "crazy" to let me go. I've so appreciated the supported, but this week, SO. MANY. talented, well-connected people who were writing about really important things (including the economic downturn, for Heaven's sake) were let go. It was swift and terrible, lacking in rhyme and reason, and it's very real to me now that it doesn't matter that I'm damn good at what I do, or that I'm incredibly flexible about my schedule, or that I'm committed enough to work Christmas Eve AND Christmas day AND New Year's Eve, or that I'm bilingual and smart and underpaid.

I'm not stupid. I'm saving up for the gear and computer upgrades I would need if I have to strike out on my own. I'm doing everything that needs to be done so I can hit the ground running if that day comes.

It's also clear to me that this work that I do is more important than ever. There is so much news to cover, so many stories to tell, people who need to be seen and heard and read about. There is more work to do, and less people to do it. So I will be out there, busting my ass, making meaningful pictures, informing the public, and I will do it until they pry the camera out my cold, unemployed hands and replace it with a cardboard box of my personal possessions.

Sick Bleeeeh Sick

Sorry to everyone who's been trying to get a hold of me or wondering where I am around here. I've been fighting one of those Mack Truck, run-you-over, hurts-to-blow-my "Nose in Need Needs Puffs Indeed" type colds. I think I'm through the worst of it now, but I still feel like I'm moving underwater.

I always think if I do "everything right" I can get over a cold faster. I attack it like a "To Do" list: pound water, use neti pot, make my Magic Potion Tea, take Dayquil, sit in a steamy equalyptus shower, drink orange juice, eat chicken soup. Somewhere around my third can of soup, my second bag of Halls, and my fourth gallon of water I'm like, "Come ON! I WANT TO FEEL BETTER! Let's get this DONE."

It's probably that "go, go, go, burning the candle at both ends" mentality that got me sick in the first place. Still, though. How many Vitamin C drops do you need, immune system?!? Bleeeeeeh.

I am pleasant company these days. Can you tell? Joel is a lucky, lucky guy.