We were commenting to each other how we're really 90-year-old women in much younger bodies. All this change makes my bones ache!

And then we said something really funny that made us both laugh. But now, an hour or two later, I can't remember what it was. Because I'm old. And losing my marbles!

Happily, I have friends that frequently say funny things. And that, my friends, is my belated Thanksgiving.

In May I accepted a contract position working as an Architectural Historian for my enterprise. Accepting the position had several consequences; a) I would have to leave my beloved friends in Washington for three months b) I would live in Mississippi for at least three months c) I would miss Washington in the summer d) I would compromise my romantic relationship and forsake any hope of future romance with eligible bachelors. A weighty decision indeed.

I have now been in "Mississip" for over two months and there is a very good possibility I will be here for a few additional months. Although I miss my friends more than I can express, I have met some very interesting individuals on the gulf coast. Most of the people I know and interact with, are my colleagues.

Recently I was assigned to work with an archaeologist and another architectural historian on a project in southeast Mississippi. The archaeologist is my age but the other architectural historian is a recent graduate of a MA program. Working with females close to my age with similar academic and professional interests has been very liberating. We spend several hours in the car commuting to the "field." During this time many interesting conversations have occurred. Such as one we engaged in earlier this week.

AH: So, I notice you have a few tattoos.
A: Yep. I really like them.
AH: That's cool.
Me: Did it hurt? You know...
A: No. (Pointing to her latest tattoo) I really want to get this one filled.
AH: My girlfriends and I decided when we finished our thesis papers at (insert university) we would get a tattoo representing our thesis.
Me: Really?
AH: Yeah. Mine was in Yellowstone. So, I was thinking it should be Old Faithful.
A and I: Interesting.
AH: Yeah, and I think the best place would be between my legs.
A: Bursts out laughing.
Me: Aghhhhhhhhh! Aghhhhhh! Aghhhh! Did you really just say that? Did I hear you correctly? I don't think you just said that to me.
A: That was awesome.
Me: I can't believe you just said that.
AH: Laughing.
Me: I am totally blogging about this.
AH: That's fine. Blog.

You're 90% of the friend you once were!

You go girl! We're all proud of the progress!!

You know you're living a quiet life when you can hear the wind chimes from two yards down.

As of Valentine's day I'm settled into my new apartment. I don't remember if I posted that or not because it's been so long since I felt the urge to write. I love it. If you sit in my living room you can actually see how the house and settled, leaving the middle of my living room an inch or so below the edges. The perfectly wood floors have had time to settle in too. Usually on days like today I turn on some music, only sometimes quietly, and make sure that my house really is clean. Or I read--lots. I used to wonder how Gwen could read so many books in a month, now I know. I bought a perfect painting from a friend/artist here called "Ebon" and other than a couch, it will be the final large purchase for my apartment. I'm not moving until I leave this area. If I never leave Missoula the pack of wild dogs you'll discover eating me will have to breach my beautiful little gate and run through my becoming-manicured Manhattan-sized yard, up my outside stairs peppered with built-in planters, past the view over the rest of the city and through my dog door. And if they make it that far, don't deny them the meal.

Other than the quiet I'm coming to adore and appreciate in my own life, I want to make sure Amber knows I support her. She said she feels like she's standing alone, stunned, in a crowd in motion--everyone moving on unaware. While I know it's impossible me to stop, impossible for me to feel her pain, I want her to feel my virtual fingers intertwined with hers so she can remember that someone knows she's there, cares that she's hurting.

I was thinking about pain this morning, about words that we use--these kinds of thoughts are what happens when I spend too much time without the blaring music, you see--and I was hesitant to write. I feel so much like I imagine a husband does during a difficult birth. Standing aside, watching pain and effort, helpless to alleviate any of it directly. All you can do is stand to the side, hold the hand and remind your loved one to breathe. Because you're there, unclouded, you can focus more on the result of the pain--the miracle of a new life on the other side.

Boo, I know it was a bad day. I'm sorry that I'm an oaf. I'm so glad that you love me anyway and I never doubt it--even when you're proverbially screaming at me to shut off the camera and never touch you again. You'll pull through this, I know you will. All I can tell you is that somewhere, on the other side, is a new, a different life--one that you can't even imagine right now. I have faith aplenty in the good things to come. Just feel my hand and hear my voice and we'll make it through this together, even if it was a bad analogy. *grin*