• My love for skim milk
• My favorite snack is cottage cheese [+ chips]
• I can eat only one girl scout cookie
• I do not like alfredo, or any cream sauces
• My sweet tooth is more like the size of a filing.
• I do not like melon, of any kind [Do your research, peeps.]

Dietary habits that are certain to lead to my demise

• I don’t eat breakfast. [Yeah, I know.]
• I almost never drink water before 3PM.
• Every time I buy banana’s, they go bad, and I’m forced to mush them w. sugar, oil, eggs, etc. until they become an edible banana bread.
• [I just had to sing Gwen Stefani when I typed b-a-n-a-n-a-s.                        I just did it again.]
• My affinity for vodka, whiskey, beer, coffee and probably most detrimental, Diet Coke.

Now, just because I’ve always liked getting mail (who doesn’t?) doesn’t mean I was always the best at sending it. My Grandma Jane was a huge advocate for letter writing. When I went away (‘went away’) to Michigan State she would send a thoughtful response back to each letter I wrote and always included a crisp $20 bill along with her note. (Still wondering why I didn’t make that a weekly routine??) Those letters remain a very real, very personal connection to my Grandmother even though she is no longer with us. Wisdom, love, history, not to mention, a window to a 1/4 of my genetic make-up, lies in that cursive ink. So why then, do so many of these significant stories go untold? Lost in letters, journals, minds?

When looking at the spectrum of life, it is easy to see the importance of youth. To allocate resources for education, for health, for safety. This is no question. They will be our future. If you mentor one child, they say, that child may go on to be an engineer or a doctor or (heaven forbid!) a marketing professional. With proper guidance they will grow to become valuable members of society. They will boost our economy and solve future problems. But what about the other end of the spectrum? What about the people who have already sacrificed? Already put in ‘their time’ to the world? Did they not boost the economy? Did they not work? Spend? Create? Live? Love? Now they… wait?

How many people take the time to listen to the stories? *LISTEN* to the stories. Not just humor someone. Learn from them. In 2009 my boyfriend of many years’ grandparents moved from California to Michigan. His Grandma was 92 and frail. She was diagnosed with cancer soon after moving into a condo along with Drew’s mom. In April of 2009 she passed away. She never did like Michigan a whole lot. So what happens to a man who just lost his wife of 60+years? Who does he turn to with his stories when no one else has an accurate point-of-reference? His daughter’s heard them all. His grandchildren don’t live in town. Are his memories no longer valid? Is his history null? I struggled with these questions. As someone who very much likes to tell stories, I ached for this man who no longer had an audience. Selfishly I hurt as I looked upon him, praying I always have someone there to listen.

“That boy of yours never emailed me back” he’d say. He knew that I would be embarassed of my then-partner’s lack of respect. Within days, he would have his response. But we all know a forced response is no way to sustain and grow a relationship. It had to be natural. It had to be mutually beneficial. in 2009 change was the only constant in my life and it seemed that computer screens were relentlessly challenging me to staring contests. I needed some roots to grab on to. Some solid ground to rest my feet and some old fashion friendship. That’s when Bob and I became penpals. Drew and I had since broke up, but we remained friends. He would sometimes joke that I had to stop writing to Bob because his family wasn’t allowed an adequate grieving time to exit our relationship and, someday, when he was bound to bring a new girl home, there would be no way to compare. So you see through me, then huh?

Bob’s letters are some of the loveliest I have ever recieved. He often types them instead of hand-writing. He creates his personalized letter head and prints his own envelopes. Once I recieved a birthday card with my own face on it. It was pixelated to the point of resembling the side of a rubix cube, but it was my face none-the-less. This year, for Christmas, Bob had his daughter, Linda, take pictures as I strolled along Ottawa Ave. dressed as Clifford the Big Red Dog during the Grand Rapids Santa Clauhs Parade. He printed me a 16×20 copy of one of the pictures and attached it to some foam core. It now hangs in my office. Sometimes I stop by to check on Bob. Make sure he’s still going to church, attending some lecture here or there, and at least talking to someone non-blood related.

Every day that I stop over to see Bob I learn something new. Sometime it’s a new joke. A new riddle. The details of his new laser printer. It doesn’t really matter what it is, because at the heart, I know that I learn a little deeper what it means to have a friend. I believe that cross-generational friendships can be some of the most beneficial relationships in our lives and that we have so much to learn from those who came before us… and are still accessible! How could we ever pass that opportunity by? Yet, we do, right? All of us, do, I’m guessing. I certainly don’t practice what I preach nearly enough in my efforts to listen to those who came before, but I will say that I’m working on it, and I encourage you to do the same. There is so much wisdom that is silenced unless it is given a voice.

Lizzie

A few years ago I had 2 dozen long stem roses delivered to my house with a card that indicated my cat, Bistro, was actually the recipient of the beautiful bouquet. “Dear Bistro, Happy Valentines Day!!” Great, cat got flowers, Lizzie got to go to to work and watch two couples get engaged. The next day I called the floral shop in Lansing to ask who had allegedly sent ‘my cat’ these flowers. ‘Sorry ma’am, if the sender requests we send them anonymously we aren’t able to tell the recipient who they are from.’ GREAT, I thought.

I guess I should step back a few feet. For those who actually know anything about me, and are assuming, based on my never-ending relationship with Drew that ‘a few years ago’ I was probably in a relationship and therefore, shouldn’t be asking these kind of questions. You are actually wrong. Thankfully. This was during our year(ish) hiatus. So obviously the thought crossed my mind that they were from Drew, but at the same time, it didn’t seem realistic. I had recently started seeing someone new but he had already given me flowers the week before Valentine’s when I was visiting him on the east side of the state. Doesn’t add up. Could they be from Wes? Was he finally coming to terms with the fact that he might actually have feelings for me? Highly unlikely. So after texting Drew, and Jason, and Wes, and my mom, and getting all of the incredibly awkward “no, Lizzie, I didn’t send you flowers” (this was pre-emoji iphone emoticons so they couldn’t even send the ‘angry’ face, or perhaps the middle finger) I was finally stumped. I did what I do best (prank calling) and I re-rang that little flower shop. This time, I explained to them about my stalker* and how I needed to know, for legal reasons, who the flowers were from, in case said man was violating the restraining order. Like taking candy from a baby. My flowers were from a guy that I had studied abroad with 3 years prior. I was surprised. Bistro was thrilled. All the other’s eventually got over it. I assumed this would be my last time in such a predicament. I was wrong.

Beautiful roses surprised me at work on Valentine’s Day. It is so much better getting roses at work then it is at home. Not that I ever get them at home, but I can only imagine. I walked them over to my desk trying to be all non-chalant and cool, even though I was so excited to be one of the few women in the office who were lucky enough to get flowers. I opened the card. “Happy Valentine’s Day!!” Are you serious? I was no fool this time, I thought, I’m not asking anyone. I knew who they should have been from, but as soon as I saw them I was certain who they were actually from. But just in case, I waited a day until I said anything to anyone. A guy called the Chamber receptionist the next morning to ask if they had been delivered because he hadn’t heard from me. Thank goodness for caller ID.

As I was sitting on the couch, enoying a little Tangled with my cousins this weekend I felt something on my neck and thought I might have gotten a freak winter bug bite. Upon further investigation in the bathroom I realized what I had was a skin tag. Now, I have seen these on plenty of people in the past, but never on my own skin. Clearly, I wanted it to disappear immediately which is why I offered my cousin Laura $10 to bite it off remove it. For some reason, she didn’t want to help. That was Saturday. Now fast-forward to Sunday and Laura was humming a different tune.

As we sat at the breakfast table in Midland, Michigan with 8 of my other family members the frightening little tag was brought to the forefront of conversation yet again. All of a sudden Laura wasn’t quite so afraid of the little guy and she was vying to be the one who got to twist it off. Unfortunately, she couldn’t get a good grip. Ta da! That’s when a light bulb went off! There was a string hanging from my sweatshirt and she immediately crafted a mini lasso to wrangle that tiny bull off my neck!

The bull was lassoed all right, but he wasn’t budging. This is when the pain actually started to kick-in and the hilarity of grossing my aunts/uncle out at the breakfast table was wearing off now that my neck was beginning to throb. So I have this creepy string tied to this creepy tumor (yes, I looked it up on wikipedia, and technically it is a little benign tumor) and I’m experiencing some discomfort. Thankfully, my uncle is a doctor and he agreed to freeze the thing off after breakfast so we took a little family field trip so everyone could enjoy watching me get zapped.

There is still a little tiny piece of string wrapped around my skin tag, but I am expecting it to fall off tomorrow. It has started to turn kind of dark-red and is getting a little bit crispy. So, all I’m here to tell you is, if you have a skin tag… don’t let your cousins wrap string around it, because it hurts long beyond the point of humor.

I’ll post an update when it drops!

• I learned that people struggle at blogging once they begin worrying about the people reading what they write.  When I began this blog in June of 2009 I was working 3 hourly jobs and was learning a ton of random information from the wide variety of people I was interacting with. However, when I began at my current role (salary, 401k, health benefits – what, what!)  I started realizing just how small social media can make the world and I started getting apprehensive about what I was putting online. I realize that in the age of constant media-overload personal censorship can be a good thing, but at the end of the day, all of the most interesting people I pay attention to are the ones who aren’t afraid of putting themselves out there. So, I’m going to start blogging again and I’m not going to freak out if I spell something wrong or if I accidentally swear or throw in a sexual innuendo here and there. This is my own little blog and I’m still fairly certain my mom and Kelly Beaver are the only two who ever check it. [Rant, over. List, you may continue...]
• I learned how to let go. [Of an 8 year relationship.]
• I learned what it feels like to be part of a neighborhood again. After my limbo-years where I was going from East Lansing to Grand Haven to Ada/Cascade it is amazing to feel at home in the East Hills neighborhood here in Grand Rapids. I’m a sucker for small town vibes and East Hills is the perfect combo of all things I love. The Pickwick + Richard App’s Gallery + Green Well + Brewery Vivant + Antique shopping = happiness.
• I have learned that it is possible to develop incredibly close friendships within a short period of time if there is an equal exchange of honesty and vulnerability.
• I re-learned what it looks/feels/sounds like to fall in love with someone new.
• I learned that I’m excellent at saying goodbye. [But I'm ready to stop having to.]
• I learned how to garden! Kind of! And by what I mean by that is: I grew some herbs, some peppers and some tomatoes. I don’t necessarily know how these things happened, but I totally loved it.
• I learned what it’s like to have someone rely on me. I have been mentoring an 8-year-old girl through the United Way’s Schools of Hope program for the last year. My mentee expects me to be at her school, ready to read, every tuesday at 11:00am. Meetings are re-arranged. Flights are planned accordingly. The queen of 3 minutes behind, is on time, on Tuesdays. [If you live in Grand Rapids, you should consider becoming a mentor...]
• I learned (with help) that sometimes the best place you can be, is where you are.
• I learned came to terms with the fact that my drink of choice is a dirty martini (regardless of how much I’m sure my mom wishes it were a glass of cab). It’s really quite amazing considering one of my New Years Resolutions in 2008 was to make a list of all the foods I hated and be able to tolerate them by 2009. Green olives were on the top on that list.
• With the help of my dad, I learned how to shoot a hand gun.

[Throws hands in air, like a G, and exits.]

Lisa Rose Starner wrote a wonderful piece in The Rapidian last week that re-sparked my interest in maple syrup. Then, as I was driving home from the outskirts of Ada (Bailey) I saw that same little sign and immediately got worried that I had missed all the seasons syrup festivities yet again. I zipped down Buttrick Ave and ran inside to grab my computer. Quick, Lisa, tell me that all hope is not lost!

That’s when I saw it, Blandford Nature Center was having their Sugarbush Tours THAT DAY. It was 2:45. They were going from noon-4:00pm. I live 30 minutes away. I quick called and they fit me and a guest into the 4 o’clock timeslot. Life was good.

I called my Aunt Kathy (shortly to be renamed Aunt Jemima) who lives in Caledonia and we both immediately threw on our rainboots and headed toward our tasty tour!

Here is what I learned on this perfect little tour on the first sunny Saturday of Spring:

• “Maddogs” are trees that have branches that grow opposite of each other (vs. alternating branches). The three local tree’s that are the most common mad dogs are – Maple, Ash & Dogwood
• Sap is clear when it comes out of the tree. It looks exactly like water. Probably, because it is 97% water, and only 3% sugar.
• Maple syrup is 100% pure sap & heat. Once the sap is heated and the water evaporates, the sap becomes carmalized which gives it the brown color it is recognized by. Once the sap has been reduced to 66% sugar, it is now maple syrup. If you continue to evaporate the water out it will eventually become maple sugar.
• A sugar maple should be 40 years old before it is ever tapped.
• The stint that the sap drips out of is only around the size of my pinky. Or you’re pinky too, probably.
• The sugar maple needs to be at least 10 inches before it can be tapped with one bucket. It should be 18inches before adding an additional bucket.
• 1 tap gets around 10 gallons of sap per season.
• It takes 40 gallons of sap to make 1 gallon of maple syrup

And just as a side note, yesterday for dessert we had vanilla ice cream with hot maple syrup and it was fan.tas.tic!

My disability comes from an incredibly stiff bandaid. This self-proclaimed ‘Heavy Duty’ first-aid essential is protecting my poor little ring finger and although I appreciate it’s hard word, due to it’s tight love-sqeueeze I’ve already had to correct approximately every fifth word for typos. Needless to say this will be a short post.

What does my injured finger have to do with what I learned today? Well, I’ll tell you that I SHOULD have learned this a month ago, but it’s finally becoming clear to me. One month ago Alexis and I decided we needed a little post-work manicure. We attempted to go to Douglas J, but unfortunately they were closed. We tried another salon that turned us down before finally arriving at a little place called ABC Nails. The name ABC should have been my first red flag. (Only a small select group of people will understand why I might say that, but just trust me.)

Now I’m not one to hate on a cheap mani but I’d bet my uninfected ring finger that they are not up to any sort of health code. The 11 year old that did my nails did such a disastrous job that in addition to the fact that my french manicure looked a considerable amount like the top of the Rocky Mountains this chick actually stabbed me. Stabbed me. My finger bled so much that it filled an entire paper towel. Not like a drop here, a drop there, an entire paper towel.

All I’m saying is, my finger still hurts from this minor stab wound. I think it might be time for some antibiotics. But honestly, it’m probably 30 days overdue. So what I’m trying to say is, it is never worth it to get your nails done at a salon that makes you sit in chairs with stuffed panda heads. Ever.

Time for a new paragraph. I just re-read what I wrote up there (^) and it is no wonder I have been advised to work on my professional writing skills. No filters. No order. No point.

Time for another new paragraph. (FOCUS LIZZIE, FOCUS.) So this morning at our Wake up Wednesday Roxanne Buhl from Davenport University’s Institute for Professional Excellence spoke about managing change within your organization. One interesting thing that caught my attention, but wasn’t all together supposed to be that important, was when she mentioned that employees only spend 60% of their work day performing tasks that are assigned to them. Meaning, obviously that depending on that employee and their motivation levels there is a) opportunity to go above and beyond or b) a lot of free time to cruise around on facebook (easily interchangable with: amazon.com, twitter.com, youtube.com, gmail.com, espn.com, etc. depending on your personal poison). Kevin, if you’re reading this, don’t worry, I spend at least 99% of my time working on CCL. Except for when I’m at Schools of Hope, or Lunch, or stretching, or when I accidentally get lost in Twitterland, but on average…99%.

All in all, I thought that was an interesting factoid. I will have to keep that in mind when I have a bunch of little minions under me. Make sure they are happy so I get at least 90% of their time. I will probably have to limit my use the word minions in order to make that happen. Ah, it’s a give-and-take world baby.

-Lizzie

Now, I have had pickled beets a handful of times on a Greek salads but this was the first time I have had them plain and they were, well, they were beets. They were decent. But most of all, they were beautiful! I found that pink color that radiates from a can of beats to be incredibly gorgeous. Donna gave me the idea to make a pretty little ‘beet martini’ and as some of you may know, It’s rare that I’ll turn down a) an odd combinations of food and b) a martini. As I stuck my finger in the juice to sneak a little taste to see if I should make the move to grab the bottle of vodka I noticed something strange… Although I had licked the juice clean off my finger, my tip was still pink! Quite pink. That’s when my mom (and all her wisdom) pointed out how I would be a moron to drink a beet martini because my teeth would certainly turn that same color. Thanks, mom.

DING DING DING. That’s where the epiphany happened. My finger was – pause for dramatic effect – beet red.

For the record, I did look this up to make sure it wasn’t just my mind jumping to conclusions and it appears I was right – that really is the origin of the phrase beet red. And all this time I’ve been saying beat red…

An hour later my day took a turn that you can never expect. As one new life was entering this world another was leaving. Today, for the first time, I experienced the joys of birth and the sorrows of sudden death within the same hour. It is the strangest feeling knowing that tears of people I love were being wept at the exact same moments last night, for completely opposite reasons.

So today, as I held my little newborn cousin the frailty of life fresh on my mind I learned what it felt like to experience heartbreak for those mourning and hope for those celebrating at the exact same time.

- Lizzie

Life and death are balanced on the edge of a razor.  -Homer, Iliad