Heza, Wonderteen

Dear President Obama,

I am writing to nominate my niece Heza as the Miss Teen USA. Unlike the girls who usually preside in this role, Heza is a wonderful role model for other teen girls. She is a hardworking and bright student, is involved in many wholesome extracuricular activites, is kind to everybody, serves her family and community, and is way prettier than all the other teenagers in America. And she doesn't even smoke crack or marijuana. Seriously, ever.

Not only is Heza a good example to other teenagers, she has an irrestable personality and is a person whom everybody adores. She'll giggle with you until 2 in the morning (I mean... ummm... 10:30 pm), gallop around like a horse to make children squeal with delight... even get you to start laughing your head off (to the point where you almost embarass yourself by wetting your pants) in the middle of a grocery store isle. She doesn't use her friends to get ahead socially - she really loves them and would do anything for them. She doesn't scream and yell at her parents - she actually helps around the house and willingly plays with her younger brothers and sisters to give her parents some quiet time.

Heza has encountered some difficult situations for such a young teenager. But instead of becoming angry, dying her hair black, and tattooing "H-A-T-E" across her knuckles, she deals with life's challenges by writing, reaching out to family and friends, talking honestly and openly about her feelings, and continuing to shower the world with her loving and compassionate spirit. Really, she's the salt of the earth.

If you decide to leave the decision of choosing Miss Teen USA in the hands of big-hair loving judges who aren't much smarter than most of the current contestants, well then you're missing out. And either way, I will, for the rest of my days, be grateful that I am in the same family of this amazing, classy, awesome, brilliant, hilarious, gorgious gal. That's all.

Sincerely,

A very proud aunt.

Happy Birthday, Heza! I love you to bits, and will personally scalp anybody who ever tries to hurt you. Seriously. Scalp.

Ode to a granola bar. With superfluous italics.

One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.

~ Virginia Woolf

Because I've had a bit of a stomach bug of late, I have been subsisting on applesauce, jello, and rice. Now, I don’t have anything against these food groups, but it’s not like I enjoy eating them… it’s merely about survival (think Donner party). I don’t like food anymore – I hate it, really, and have been yearning for the days when I can say, “That too has passed,” or even, “that was a great character-building experience. So grateful for all that my-buddy-the-toilet-and-me bonding time.”

And today, I had a glimmer of hope. As I was planning a luncheon for a special speaker (my readership, especially Karen, will be super delighted to know that Adolfo Garcia-Sastre, who characterized the 1918 influenza virus and who has made many contributions to the field of negative-stranded viruses is the guest) coming Monday, I saw a picture of a pastry at a local bakery. And I wanted it. Wanted it.

Having forgotten how unbelievably glorious it is to desire food, I put on my jacket and raced to the bakery in question, paid $2.75 for a hand-made granola bar, and sat down. Ignoring dirty looks from groups of chatty medical students who clearly thought I didn’t need my very own table, I took a bite of the crusty, seedy, nutty, sugary, apricoty bar, and…. I enjoyed it. I enjoyed it – do you understand? I ate something just because I wanted it and it was (forgive the cliché) heavenly. I know it probably won’t last, but it – that beloved granola bar – has given me renewed hope that I have not forever lost my ability to participate in one of my very favorite pastimes. I sat and chewed and savored, and sat and chewed some more in a very present, zen-like manner, and - no lie - I shed real tears because of the exhilarating sensation of something tasting... umm... tasty.

We'll see if it stays down.