A Whole Year.

Last Saturday, I drove down to my dad’s cousin’s house for dinner after babysitting for a little girl with diabetes and her baby brother. My great aunt was also there, so we spent some time catching up on work and life. I told them about my plans for moving, talked about my job, and I found out that her daughter, my cousin lives in Israel, is going to have a baby girl soon. Then I realized that it had been exactly one year since I moved to New Jersey and I was exactly where I started. A full circle.

Today is another important date. Well, to me it is. I started my job one year ago today. I feel a little self-conscious bragging about my job and co-workers because, well, they all apparently read this. (Hello co-workers!) But needless to say, I’ve learned more about social networking and blogs than I ever did in the two years of being a blogger and I’m very, very appreciative that none of the people I work with are psychos. They are a little nuts sometimes but thankfully just the good kind.

Besides growing professionally, I also feel like this was the year I became a full-fledged adult. I pay my own rent. I have my own 401K and health insurance. I have made new friends, including some that don’t rely on artificial insulin! When I wake up in my apartment, or when I get another bill, or when I’m standing in the hallway getting a new reservoir from the closet, I still get a little thrill that this is all mine. I don’t know how long this will last… Maybe I have only a few more months before I think being a grown-up is totally overrated. Okay, occasionally I think being a grown-up is overrated, but mostly I think it’s pretty cool.

I’m excited to see where the next year leads me, especially with my impending move, and seeing how my responsibilities change both professionally and personally. I have added new freelance jobs to my resume in the past few months. In November, I signed on as a writer for the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation and I’m leading the JDRF Blogger Round Table, this spring I’ve been working on a new article for Diabetes Self-Management, and on my trip to Oregon, I met with the founder of SweetSpot.dm and agreed to help with publicity. I continue to enjoy exploring New Jersey, which despite the rumors is actually very nice, and the entire East Coast.

Plus I have this whole list of exciting adventures to complete.

When I moved, I knew my life was going to change dramatically. But I couldn’t imagine just how true that was going to be. Although I am living in New Jersey, a state I never imagined living in (seriously, who grows up saying “I want to move to New Jersey!”) and although I’m working at a PR agency instead of that non-profit I spent five years preparing for, I think “Allison” has still stayed the same. I try to keep the same values that I was raised with. I still hate the humidity. I think sales tax is the most annoying thing in the world. I am still frustrated that my apartment complex doesn’t support recycling. I still wish I could see Mt. Hood, I still think trees are as important as people, and I still think people need to slow down and enjoy life just a little bit more.

You can take the girl out of Oregon, but you can’t take the Oregon out of the girl.

“That looks important…”

I was at the Portland International Airport early on Sunday morning. Real early. Six-thirty in the morning early. My usual routine when going to the airport is pretty simple. Check my bags in at the curbside check-in (shorter line). Walk over to security. Unhook my insulin pump and slide it into my bag, while slipping off my shoes and taking out my laptop and resting everything in at least two plastic containers. Walk right on through the security, slip and/or hook everything back together and immediately find the nearest Starbucks.

A frequently asked question I hear is, “What do you do when you fly with diabetes?”

Honestly, my answer is: Not much.

I have flown at least twice a year, every year, since I was diagnosed - sometimes more. Before 9/11, I don’t remember doing anything special with my supplies other than to keep everything in my carry-on luggage because heaven-forbid you’re separated.

After 9/11, things were a little sketchy. We kept everything in their boxes and when I flew to Paris in 2003, we brought along a doctor’s note. When the liquids ban went into effect, it didn’t bother me that much. I didn’t bring juice with me on the plane, so I did one of three things: 1) bring glucose tabs (blech!), 2) buy overpriced juice at one of the hundred Hudson newsstands or 3) trust that the flight attendant will get me juice if I need it on the plane. Usually I went with number 2.

When I first went on the pump, back in 2000, I always wore my pump clipped to my jeans pocket. About half the time, nothing happened. The other half of the time, I set of the alarm, was asked to be patted down even though I insisted, “It’s just the insulin pump, let me take it off!” but was thoroughly denied because, “OMG! That’s a medical device! Nonono…” So then I would spend five minutes being scanned by a nice lady, determining that yes, it was the insulin pump that set off the machine. I could never figure out which airport. In Seattle and Portland, I would set it off. But in San Diego and Dulles, nothing would happen. It seemed random, and very annoying.

After three or four flights, I finally said, “Screw it,” unhooked my pump, tossed it in my bag and let it go through the X-ray machine while I completely uneventfully walked through security.

And I haven’t worn it through security since.

Now, I know quite a few people who have absolutely no trouble at all with going through airport security or people who have develop tricks to prevent the pump from going off. I’ve never had an issue with my diabetes supplies going through the X-ray machine - and I even carried a 4 oz. juice box with me which proves that their caveat of “juice is permitted for diabetics” is in fact legitimate. I personally don’t think it’s worth my time to tempt fate to see whether or not the pump will set off the machine and it’s not like taking off my pump for 5 minutes will kill me. I take it off for much longer when I shower.

However, this past Sunday did not go quite as smoothly as most trips through airport security. I was standing in line, as usual, unhooking my pump, as usual, and setting it inside my carry-on bag, as usual. I took out my laptop and put it in one container, and I put my shoes and my bag in another. It was slightly tilted, not laying flat, but I thought it would probably be fine. I bounced through to the otherside like I was a trained professional, and went about collecting my things. After I slipped my shoes back on, I took my laptop and bag over to one of the chairs to get everything situated.

I reached my hand inside my bag to pull out my insulin pump. But it wasn’t there.

I look inside. Nothing.

I moved things around. Under my meter, behind my book. Nothing.

It was there before security, so it must still be there, right?

I turned around to see a woman, next to the conveyor belt, holding up my insulin pump and handing it over to one of the security guards.

I ran over.

“That’s mine!” I said breathless.

The security guard handed it over to me, and the woman, who had been saying something, said, “That looks important…”

Yes, I thought, very important…

I thought briefly that perhaps putting my insulin pump in my bag wasn’t the safest thing to do. But I have been on a plane dozens of times, with nothing ever happening, and really, the reason it fell out was because my bag wasn’t zipped and the security guard moved the bag so that it would lay flat. That’s all. So next time, I’m zipping up the bag.

The Cheesecake Mystery.

It was a time of celebration, of merriment, of festivity.
The family has gathered
For a high school graduation.

It was a time of killing time.
The location: The Cheesecake Factory, adjacent to the mall.
The time: Saturday night.
So many people, we thought.
65-85 minutes, they said.

Splitting up.
Mother napping in the car,
Brother (and the Boy of Honor) checking out video games,
The Grandmothers chatting on a bench,
The Sister trying on clothes she can’t really afford at The Limited.

Pants won’t fit,
Dress is hopeless,
But alas, two shirts!
Perfect for summer (humidity and all).

Time is almost up!
Quickly zip up jean skirt, adjust top,
Slip on the heels.
Beep! Beep! says the cash register.
With a flick of the wrist,
The receipt is signed
And off we go!

Dinner is filled with laughter and good food.
Salmon and pasta and chicken,
Slices of delicious cheesecake from the Cheesecake Factory and
The biggest Chinese chicken salad you have ever seen.

Buzzzzz buzzzzz buzzzzz, goes the insulin pump
As it dumps in the contents of my reservoir.
Is there a “Select All” feature?

Hours later.

Cards have been read,
Checks have been collected,
Presents have been unwrapped.
Time for a blood sugar check.

5, 4, 3, 2, 1…
520 mg/dl
Gasp!
Shock!
Awe!

“Don’t you sometimes do two tests?” the Brother asks.
Brilliant!
Furiously scrub hands in the sink,
Seeking to remove any sneaky cheesecake molecules.
Pat hands dry and
Take Two:

524 mg/dl.
Blast!
The feeling of utter failure and confusion begin to set in.
Override insulin pump, which suggests bolusing .6 units.
Something tells me: not gonna work.

Gulp down half a can of Diet Ginger Ale.
Trudge upstairs to the bedroom.
Change into pajamas.
Move insulin pump from pocket of jean skirt to
Pocket of hoodie jacket.

Notice trail of tubing down the side of my leg.
I am unplugged.
The dressing room…
Realizations begin to unfold and
The feeling of utter confusion is replaced with
The feeling of utter stupidity.

So, this is to say,
Ladies and gentlemen,
That dressing rooms are a
Very dangerous place.

And, in case you were wondering,
Or just joining us,
I am indeed
And in fact
A PWD.
(person with diabetes, yo)

The Return.

I actually wrote this on Wednesday but did not have time to post it.

Yesterday, I drove down to Eugene, Oregon, the town where I spent four years of my life attending the University of Oregon. Before I went to campus to speak at a few of the public relations class at the Journalism school, I checked into the hotel across the street.

“Are you visiting the college?” the lady at the front desk asked.

“Yes,” I replied, then realizing she meant as a prospective student, so I quickly added, “But I’m an alum.”

It was weird saying that out loud. An alum. How did that happen? I thought to myself.

I didn’t like college. It was not the happiest time for me. Changes in personal relationship and my own identity led to months of anxiety and depression. I enjoyed certain aspects of the school. I had friends and I enjoyed several of my classes, but most of my personal satisfaction came from the work I was doing in the diabetes community. But the diabetes community in Eugene is very small and I spent most of my time wishing I was somewhere else. After spending four years isolated in this town, it really doesn’t surprise me that I was so eager to move across the country.

I remember vividly driving away from the campus, from the city, from all of the people and the memories, and thinking to myself that I was never coming back.

You can imagine my surprise, then, that I came back. The journalism school has changed in the way it teaches public relations and they are starting to incorporate more about social media. STudents are now required to blog in their Advanced PR Writing class and professors are active bloggers and participants in social networks. This is how I became reacquainted with several of my former professors.

I knew I was coming back to Oregon for my brother’s high school graduation, which takes place in Portland on Friday. Initially, this trip was going to be bump and run. I would fly in Thursday night after work, take Friday off of work, spend Saturday with my family and fly out early (and I mean early!) on Sunday morning and be back at work on Monday. But in a Twitter exchange, I worked out with my professor that I could come to speak earlier in the week, which led to my weeklong visit to the state.

So now I’m back. I’m sitting on the back porch of Espresso Roma, the cafe where I spent so much of my time before, between and after classes during the last couple of years of school. Most of my friends are now gone, though I do recognize a few faces. But the students here still look the same and it’s a constant surge of deja vu. Students sit at tables, drinking their dollar coffees (yes, coffee really is that cheap here), chatting about politics, the environment and the latest drunken adventures from the previous weekend. They lean over hundred dollar textbooks and notebooks, poring over their notes as they prepare for final exams next week. Or they have completely forgone any hope of studying and instead laugh with their friends. They wear mismatched second-hand and vintage clothing, colored sunglasses and berets. Their hair is unkempt or pulled back into low-slung ponytails. They look nothing like the people on the East Coast and I miss the freedom that college allows in lifestyle. I imagine this is what old-school Brooklyn was like before the yuppies made their mass exodus from Manhattan, what with the continuing rise in housing prices to the point where only the Olsen twins and Madonna could possibly afford even a one bedroom apartment in Harlem. There are no Manolos or aspirations to be Carrie Bradshaw, and even the professors wear jeans and flannel jackets as they bike to class.
I don’t miss college. I don’t miss final exams or changing professors every ten weeks and having to re-explain my diabetes - or even skipping the five minute lecture and instead praying that I don’t have a low blood sugar before an exam. I don’t miss having my identity questioned by every social circle I came in contact with - the hippie liberals or the Christian youth groups or the preppy sorority girls (no offense to sorority girls, or Christians or hippies - honest, I love you guys). College seemed like a never ending series of recruitments to save the environment or save the country or save the babies or save your soul. Out of college, it doesn’t seem like anyone is doing any recruitment for anything. Half the time you can’t even do that because it’s against some kind of corporate code where you’re supposed to remain objective and just focus on your job. No one asks you who you voted for, no one asks you if you go to church and no one asks you if you want to save the whales.

They say you can never go home again and this is true. It’s even more true if you never even considered the your home. Your mind keeps the place in a weird time warp and I wonder if enough time will ever pass for me to like Eugene and forget some of the terrible insecurities this placed reminds me of.

But as I sit here, I instinctively turn towards the back door of the patio. I hear it creak open and my subconscious briefly hopes that the person walking in is a friend with whom I spent so many hours, laughing with, debating with and simply sitting with. I realize that this place changed me and influenced the person I have become and for that I must, at the very least, respect it and be grateful.

Lessons Learned at Powell’s in Portland

This afternoon, after my speaking gig to a group of soon-to-be graduates of the University of Oregon’s journalism program, I decided to take advantage of being in Portland and I headed to one of my favorite places in the city: Powell’s Books.

Now, despite the fact that this bookstore is on my top 10 list of Places You Must Go When In Portland, it has not always been this way. Powell’s Books takes up one city square block and is three stories high. The bookstore is divided up into rooms based on genres and each room is named by a color. Among them are the Gold room is the science fiction/mystery/thriller room, the Orange room is the business/planning room, the Purple room is the religion/language/travel room, and the Blue room it the literature/poetry room. The cases are ten shelves high and are jam-packed with books, sometimes two rows of books on one shelf. Powell’s Books is one of the largest bookstores in the world, having rightly earned the nickname the City of Books.

Unfortunately, because of the sheer enormity of the building, the bookstore had a tendency to scare me as a small child. I didn’t like to go because I was afraid of getting lost - which is not hard to imagine because even grown-ups sometimes lose their way around the building.

But now I have come to appreciate Powell’s selection and as an West Coaster-turned-East Coaster, I also appreciate Powell’s ridiculous good prices. I browsed the bookstore for about an hour with my Peet’s coffee, another love of mine, though it doesn’t rank nearly as high as Powell’s. Though Peet’s does serve as a reason for at least a couple Boston pilgrimages a year, as Boston is the only city on the entire East Coast that has Peet’s Coffee and Tea locations.

I ended up with a selection of about ten books but I knew I couldn’t afford all of them… the total price was over $60 and while that’s a steal, that didn’t necessarily mean my bank account would approve. I wheedled it down to six books for just under $50. My purchases include The Dance of the Dissident Daughter by Sue Monk Kidd, because I read The Secret Life of Bees and loved it so I thought I would enjoy her memoir; The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion, because I saw the play last summer and loved it, plus it came highly recommended from a couple OCers; The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency by Alexander McCall Smith, which I have been nagged to death to read by several people, plus his other book Friends, Lovers and Chocolate, which is the second in the series after The Sunday Philosophy Club which I finished earlier this year; The Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett, which is a monster of a book but I’ve heard rave reviews about it so I’m hoping it’ll be worth my while; and finally, The Naked Roommate: And 107 Other Issues You Might Run Into in College, which I’m giving to my younger brother who is graduating from high school on Friday.

This is definitely quite a bit of reading material and I’m not even starting on any of them until I finish Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen, which I bought a couple months ago but just started reading on the flight out here on Saturday. I’m over sixty pages in so far and I’m really enjoying it.

In the past, I go on the book binges with the intention of devoting a significant amount of time to reading and absorbing the messages and lessons in these books. I have visions of myself curling up in a coffeeshop and reading for several hours, while refilling on cappuccinos and munching on scones. Of course, this never, ever happens. Usually I go through two - maybe three, if I’m lucky - books before craving yet another book binge which leads me with six more books that will sit on my shelf, patiently waiting to be read in a never ending queue of literature.

But I have decided that it is absolutely imperative that I break this trend. For the past few months I have become acutely aware of how much of my life has been devoted to the Internet and the mindless social networks that eat up so much of my time. I’m not even talking about the amount of time I spend on the Internet at work. I’m talking about all the hours and hours I spend glued to a computer screen, which I’m sure is going to cause brain cancer someday. As I zig-zagged through the halls of books, I realized that unless I made some serious changes to my time-management I was going to spend most of my life twittering it away and not actually do or experience anything. I mean, how much life reflection can you do on Facebook anyway?

One of my items on my 101 Things To Do in 1,001 Days is to give up the Internet on the weekends for one month (#92). But I have decided to expand it for the entire summer. It doesn’t hurt that my weekends are already swamped with plans, but adding a few extra weekends to the goal will really help me make the most of the summer before the weather turns so cold your air starts to freeze and your breathe turns into slabs of ice (okay, so that hasn’t actually happened to me, but I’m sure it could!)

Starting today and ending Labor Day weekend, I will not be using the Internet at all during the Saturday and Sunday hours. The only reason I will allow myself to log online is to get directions or look up a phone number in case I am absentminded and forget to do it at work, which, knowing me, is bound to happen. I did this last summer for a little over two months because I was without the Internet or television for six weeks when I moved into my apartment (that was the earliest the cable guy could come and install the equipment in my apartment). This meant I was forced to explore my new surroundings and I really appreciated how it helped me acclimated much faster to where I was. I felt comfortable with New Jersey much faster than I would have had there been an excuse for me to stay inside my apartment.

Hopefully by the end of the summer I will have regained a bit more of a sense of self instead of relying so much on other people’s lives to provide entertainment. I shouldn’t have a constant feeling of watching the Real World. I need to be out there. I hope you’ll join me.

Summer Plans.

I’ve been babbling for awhile now about all the places I’m going this summer. While I’m very excited about it all, I realized that I have absolutely no idea what anyone else is doing this summer. I remember when I was in high school and college, discussion about summer plans were pretty much non-stop the two weeks before school got out. But now, being a working girl and all, vacations are sort of randomly placed throughout the year.

Despite this, I know some of you have to be doing something cool this summer. So on the eve of my return to Oregon, I’d like to hear from you: where are you going? Who are you going with? What are you planning on doing? And most importantly of all: you wanna buy me a shotglass?

The picture of Portland (with Mt. Hood in the back) that I have as my laptop’s background.

Merry Month of May.

I love May.

Ever since I can remember, May has been one of my favorite months. It’s the month where the cold weather streak snaps (supposedly) and at least in Oregon, it’s the time when our marathon weeks of overcast skies and rain slow down and become more sporadic. May is more relaxed and being the last month before school got out, most of us were more comfortable slacking off a little bit more. We spent more time hanging out on the back porch of our favorite coffeeshop in Eugene, Espresso Roma, where everyone liked to congregate between classes to drink coffee, play chess and chat.

Of course, now that I’m a big person, there’s no summer break for me but I’m still enjoying seeing more sunny days and warmer weather. I would appreciate it even more if Mother Nature cooperated and quit with the rain completely, but I’ll take what I can get.

May looks to be a pretty good month so far. This weekend, Jon Schlaman, co-founder of Diabetes Talkfest is in town, so I’m heading into the city to play tour guide for awhile. Next week is JDRF’s Spring for a Cure fundraiser, which is the first JDRF event that I’ve actually paid to attend, believe it or not. I actually felt quite grown-up being able to afford the $100 entrance fee without having to rely on my back-up plan of volunteering for registration and then quietly sneaking away to enjoy the party. Later in the month are dinners with friends and of course, our first summer meet-up in Delaware (email for details).

All of this leads up to the grand finale which is I’M GOING HOME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My younger brother is graduating from high school on June 6th. :: sniff sniff :: My little baby’s all growed up… Anyway. I’m flying to Oregon on May 31 which gives me a full week in Oregon. I’m actually working remotely from home, as I am speaking to a few public relations classes at my alma mater, the University of Oregon. I’m not entirely sure how I convinced them I’m qualified to mold young minds, but apparently they’ve given me the power so I’m taking it!

I think it’s safe to say that it’s going to be a good month.

This photo was actually taken in October, but with all the evergreen trees we have, there isn’t much of a difference between summer and winter in most parts of Oregon.

What I Love to Love.

I love driving, because despite how horrible it is for the environment and my wallet, there’s nothing more satisfying than a long drive with good tunes turned up so loud that I can sing along and I don’t even notice how bad I am. I love going to a new place, getting lost and finding out much fun you can have when you have no idea what to expect. I love flying in airplanes. I love the way pillow clouds look like castles and imagining an entire world exists in the sky.

I love the when the clouds are lit on fire by the setting sun. I love the way the Manhattan skyline looks early in the morning, just before the sun rises over the skyscrapers - the dark gray contrasting with the bright yellow. I love people-watching at restaurants, parks and on the subway. I love when people ask me for directions because it makes me feel like I belong.

I love purple. I love the scent of Oregon after it rains and the crackling of campfires. I love Portland. I love diabetes camp. I love waking up to birds chirping outside my window, because that means it’s going to be a nice day. I love Rita’s water ice, especially in mango. I love sitting in Rittenhouse Square in Philadelphia. I love movies that make you think and songs that remind you of someone.

I love blogging and bloggers and RSS Feeds. I love writing. I love doodling. I love giggling. I love meeting new people. I love people who know things that I don’t know. I love asking questions, which I suppose means I love being curious and consequently, I love being a little annoying. I love bookstores. I love Sudoku and word searches. I love sitting on the back porch of Espresso Roma of Eugene, Oregon on a warm May afternoon with a cup of coffee and a good book.

I love when my phone rings. I love Facebook and Twitter and when the little blue envelope icon lights up when I have new email. I love the ping when I have an instant message. I love sussys and hand-written letters and when my grandmother sends me a card with a $5 bill. I love comments on my blog.

I love history. I love antique stores, the smell of old books and when an eighty-year-old couple holds hands.

I love CO Bigelow’s flavored lipgloss. I love going to new restaurants. I love naan and tandoori chicken and curry. I love Trader Joe’s. I love coming home from work and watching reruns of sitcoms. I love sneaking in fast food into a movie theater. I love going to the movies by myself. I love a big bowl of popcorn. I love movie trailers. I love art galleries and amazing photographs and taking photographs that I’m proud of.

I love when the pieces of life fall perfectly into place. I love hugs. I love reunions. I love volunteering and the satisfaction of making the world a better place. I love hearing that I’ve helped someone.

I love life, and you too.

I love that there are so many things in this world worth loving.

Edit!: I spent so much time on this that I completely forgot the challenge part. I challenge you to make your own list or leave a love of yours in the comments. The only catch? You can’t include a single person you know on your list. No “I love the way my husband laughs” or “I love hearing my little girl call for me.” It’ll be tough, I know. But this particular little exercise is about stripping away everyone who defines you and figuring out what you (not his partner; not their mother/daughter/sister/friend) love. (This meme is stolen from Michelle and the City).

The Little Games We Play

Yesterday afternoon I hit 100 mg/dl, my first such number in recent memory. I twittered if anyone wanted to give a dollar. But no one did.

I’ve told this story before. When I was a kid, on rare (and we’re talking rare) occasion, I would test my blood sugar and land at the “perfect” 100 mg/dl. It’s just so pretty looking! I mean, in all honestly it’s not any better for my body than a 92 mg/dl or a 104 mg/dl or even a 120 mg/dl, but for some reason, that 100 is like the frickin’ Holy Grail. So my dad was joking around one day and said he’d give me a dollar. You know, 100 cents, 100 mg/dl. Get it? He’s a clever guy. And we just kept up the habit. All the way through high school, whenever I was 100 mg/dl, I would announce, “Dad, you owe me a dollar!” I tried once or twice to convince him to give me two dollars when I was 200 mg/dl, but for some reason that never worked out.

It eventually stopped when I went off to college because, well, he wasn’t exactly going to transfer over $1 into my bank account.

It was these little thing, you know, that made growing up with diabetes a bit easier. Kind of like celebrating my anniversary. And going to the bakery at the hospital with my mom after a doctor’s appointment because we had three whole months to work off whatever damage the donut did to my blood sugars.

It almost made growing up with diabetes… fun. Almost.

Movement.

Although I’m sitting exactly where I was this time last year - inside my parent’s house in the good old suburbs of Portland, Oregon - the truth is I’ve spent most of the past year anywhere but.

Movement was the theme for 2007, and the year took me from my idyllic childhood home in the quiet Oregon suburbs to my last few weeks at the University of Oregon to the bustling metropolitans of New York City and Los Angeles. I spent my summer adjusting to my new life and my new job in New Jersey and exploring my new surroundings with trips to eastern Pennsylvania, Philadelphia and many trips to New York City. My one excursion was to Chicago for the BlogHer ‘08 conference.

The Indian summer left plenty of opportunities for more adventures: a long weekend in Providence and Boston to see Mel and Bernard, a trek out to western New Jersey to visit Wendy’s family farm’s harvest festival, and a whirlwind two day trip to Washington D.C. to see Jill and an old friend and her son.

My year was filled with meeting new “old friends” with diabetes, but the actual illness managed to stay on the back burner of my mind as I focused on the more pressing issue of getting the rest of my life balanced and under control. It wasn’t until the end of the year that diabetes crept back onto the main stage, with finding a new endocrinologist, frustrating high blood sugars, and my first experience with being identified as a diabetic outside of my comfort zone.

My new life has had some very exciting moments - including one World Diabetes Day event, two movie premieres and three Broadway plays. It has also led to bouts of homesickness. Months ago I referred to a quote from Garden State, about how a home becomes an imaginary place after you move away from your childhood home. But I think what this year and all this movement has taught me is that I have homes everywhere. I have a home in Oregon. I also have a home in New Jersey. There is the cliche that “home is where the heart is.” But I believe that home is also a feeling. I have a home in a booth at Mimi’s Cafe in California, I have a home on the streets of Washington D.C., I have a home at a fancy restaurant in Manhattan, I have a home on the Brooklyn Bridge, I have a home in a park in Philadelphia.

I miss the feeling of associating home with a place, though, and my resolution - or simply my hope - for 2008 is for that to become a reality. For home to become a place that I go to, not just a fleeting feeling.

The movement is exciting and I cherish these experiences, but I crave stability. I crave the routine and the familiarity and the peace that comes from having a home you love and want to come back to. I always thought I was too young to need something like that, but I think it’s something everyone needs. I’m going to try very hard in 2008 to find it.

Wishing you a very happy 2008!