Five days

120 hours. 40 hours of sleep, 20 hours of movies, 10 hours for meals, 3 for the baby shower I need to throw this weekend, 2 for the play tomorrow night.

I still have 45 hours to kill.

I think it takes 45 hours to climb one face of Everest. There's an idea.

Dear Diary

I used to keep a diary. No, not one of those girly girl pink ones with the miniature padlock. I regular Merit notebook, the one with the spine that's sewn. The kind whose pages you can't tear without another one falling out at the back.

I wrote almost everyday, which was a feat for an 11 year old that couldn't stay still. I would make lists. "Enemies" and "What I Want for Christmas". I wrote of exams, and trips, and days when I was sick. Once I wrote, "I did nothing today. Let's see about tomorrow."

Now, twenty years later, I keep a leather bound journal I bought from a street vendor in Florence.

Very fancy, very empty.

Praying for rabbits

It was Easter, I was six. My mom took me to an easter egg hunt. At the end of the day they raffled off a rabbit. The host called all the kids together and brought out a basket that had all our names in it. I wanted the rabbit so bad. So bad. I looked down, stared at my white sandals and did the only thing I thought was proper: I said a Hail Mary. I asked God to give me the rabbit.

I looked up to see my mom jockeying for a spot to take my picture with the rabbit I just won.

What's worse?

Not knowing how things will turn out, or knowing that the results of your efforts are unfavorable?

Right now I'm leaning towards not knowing. The anxiety over the wait, the restlessness, the lack of control. All these should be easier than rejection.

Not to sound trite, but ignorance is bliss.