1. KC had a huge chemical explosion like six months ago. It’s a potential wasteland. They’ll have to drink bottled water there for the rest of their natural lives.

2. Judy Garland died after filming a movie about Kansas once.

3. Don Johnson (1959) was born in Kansas.

4. So was Amelia Earhart (1897) and look what happened to HER.

5. Kansas produced six known mass murderers and/or bank robbers between 1866 and 1945. Yeah.

6. So they lead the nation in sunflower production. Big whoop.

7. The Kansas Territorial Government once drafted a pro-slavery constitution. Bigots.

8. When a crazy guy decided to bomb a government building, he chose KC.

9. With the exception of Moscow, the Kansas Cosmosphere and Space Center in Hutchinson houses the largest collection of artifacts from the Russian Space Program. Commie bastards.

10. The world’s largest hand-dug well, called “Big Well” (clever name, guys) is in Greensburg. Unsuspecting toddlers could fall in.

11. The 1960-2005 crime rates are horrifying. I’d study them, if I were you. I’ve linked an official site for your convenience: http://www.disastercenter.com/crime/kncrime.htm

12. There are currently 58 Walmarts in Kansas. And counting.

13. It’s 364 miles from Wisconsin.

Hmph.

Last night I had a dream about a good friend. I woke up thick with her, and for a good 20 minutes I lay there unable to think of anyone or anything else. And that’s when it hit me.

I forgot her birthday.

I didn’t just miss it, I blew past it without so much as a second glance, back in November. A mere four days after I wrote a sappy ode to another friend! Seriously, could anything be worse?

I didn’t technically forget it, actually. I thought of it dozens of times over the last two months. So, thinking I might be losing my mind, hoping in fact I’d forgotten that I hadn’t forgotten, I frantically searched my email for the missing greeting. (Though we only live 45 minutes apart, email has become our lifeline. I hate the telephone, and she accepts this about me. Every once in a while I get it together enough to send a card, but I know I didn’t this year.)

There was no email sent on the 22nd. Ironically, on the 21st, I asked her if she had any big plans for her birthday. But nothing on the day itself, and nothing – NOTHING AT ALL – in the 17 days since.

What the hell? It’s like a cog slipped. I don’t understand it at all. All I can think is I’ve been completely self-absorbed in my own muck, sunk heavy beneath my own weighty days of late.

I know she won’t be mad. I know she won’t hold a grudge. She’s not that kind of person. She may even laugh.

But I bet she’s thought about it, and I bet she felt a little hurt over it. And that’s something I’ll never, ever be able to erase.

I know she reads this blog. I’m taking this opportunity to apologize, both publicly and and privately, in a way, as if I were speaking these words directly to her. I want her to understand their importance.

How many years have I loved you now? Enough for you to know me so well, enough for you to believe what I have said here and smile about it. Remember I even sent you a card last year? (Or was it the year before?) Perhaps that near-miracle threw the Universe off kilter, causing a direct and opposite reaction. Perhaps I’m just a schmuck. It’s funny, because I’ve thought of you more lately than I have in so many years, and I know you know why. Maybe my brain, more often on auto-pilot these days than not, thought it had taken care of your birthday wishes and relaxed. I don’t know what happened. It doesn’t matter anyway. There is no excuse for not telling you how much I love you every single day, let alone on the most important day of all.

I’m sorry, R.

I sure am sorry. You are SO getting an over-the-top Christmas present this year.

And a phone call in a few minutes….

On Thursday I drank this magical potion and teleported through my laptop screen down the rabbit hole. It was so stunning that I regret to inform you I can only describe it with an amalgam of Alice in Wonderland and Poltergeist and Star Trek references, so here begins the most ghastly and expansive mixed metaphor in creation. You’re welcome.

The whoosh was deafening and I tumbled, slick with sweat, until I found myself on my ass, dress over head, at The People’s Party. It was too-small and low-ceilinged and dark but for the thousand sparklers pressed to my face, and it burned in the most exquisite way. Suddenly there you all were, my Google Reader sprung to life, Twitter Live. You really do exist in the flesh and this hasn’t all been some strange pixelated dream and it was dizzying and terrifying and exhilarating all at once. For an hour or so I felt so scared.

And then I let go.

I have heard there was drama, though I suspect much of it occurred in the overblown aftermath. I have heard there was Swag PR Sponsorship Overkill Roadkill, but I stuck to the ditch on those streets and so I didn’t smell it. I have heard it was ultimately overwhelming for many, but I didn’t feel it because for the first time in my life I didn’t over-analyze. I didn’t plot escapes to my room with MTV and a bottle of wine and no pants. I went with it. I lived completely in the moment. I followed the beacons of my friends old and new, familiar and un, and how you shined, how you shined, how you shined. For three straight days I participated fully in the magic and it honest-to-god was just that; magical. On Friday night a couple dozen or so of you stood up shaking before 1500 people and read the most unbelievably flat-out fucking amazing posts imaginable, and I wept. I was so moved. And that, my friends, is what this is all about for me. Not free stuff, not traffic, not status. How I felt listening to your words is why I am here, and while I’ll stay until the last of you goes home. It was the sweetest most fluid reminder, and I got punch-drunk on it.

I didn’t bring my laptop. I didn’t bring a camera. I clutched my crackberry like a pacifier but I tried hard not to suck on it. I spun on raucous dance floors. I took the small print on invitations literally, and without shame. I carved out chunks of sweet dark chocolate time with some very special people, and I won’t link to them — they know who they are. I laughed until my guts ached. I split a sandwich with a bum. I didn’t sleep before 2am three nights in a row. I didn’t skip a single session. I let glorious predator shoes devour my innocent and unpracticed feet. I got lost in the city, quite literally lost, eight or nine times.

But I kept on walking.

I honestly had the most amazing time. I’m not going to preach that BlogHer is what you make of it and only what you make of it, though I believe that is mostly true in life. The reason I won’t say it is that I get how complicated it is. I do. Usually the only people who say that are those who can walk into any room and be bodyslammed with love. They are the main characters, the Alice’s and the Carole Anne’s and the Spock’s. I admit I felt like one of them this weekend. I have never been so tightly embraced in all my life. I am grateful, and I had more fun than I ever imagined I would, but I won’t pretend that everyone can possibly share my experience. It seems important that I say this.

Though it feels good to step off this spaceship, to press back through the looking glass, to be sucked from the vortex of my screen and plopped back in my living room, I will miss it. I will forever remember the moment that each of you became living breathing flesh before my eyes and my god, how glorious you all looked. Every single one of you.

and I wish her insight
to battle love’s blindness
strength from the milk of human kindness
a safe place for all
the pieces that scatter
learn to pretend
there’s more
than love
that matters.

I am a happy butterball. I am a roley poley doughy ball of happy goodness. I am sated.

You may or may not have noticed my absence on this blog. It was never my intention to ignore you, my lovelies. It’s just that it’s so difficult to type and/or think while food is crowding out your brain and oozing from your eyeballs. I’ve gone positively wonky.

But I love that your comments continue to roll in, whether on the last post or on posts from many months ago. Some of you are actually reading the archives! It’s like you’re caring for my beloved blog in my absence. Gently tending its fields. Oh, how I love you all!

The last week has been a blur – the best kind of blur! – of good food and good friends. I can’t remember days, exactly, just segments of eating. Pie-cut portions of moments with those I love, ending only when it’s time to cut the next slice.

Chicago was the proverbial torch ceremony of this Eating Olympics. I literally shook in my seat the entire drive down, unable to sit still, my heart (and belly) remembering what it’s like to be with my oldest friends. Eliza. Sara. Carrie. Their names like the ancient spices infused in my favorite dishes from home, Laughter, Love, and Confidences. Twenty-two years of aromatic memories indistinguishable from my own. We shopped in Lincoln Square (hot chili with drippy cheese and crisp oyster crackers), prepared the house for the party (thick fudge and goopy taco dip), and celebrated well after the last guests had gone (festive champagne cocktails and impromptu snow cones?)

Upon my return home, I had one week to “interview” for an article I’m writing on ethnic food. That’s right, dear reader – I have spent the last several days stuffing myself with the best home-cooked native dishes of six different restaurants – and getting paid. I brought a loved one with me to these feasts as often as their schedules would allow. Jenn explained the art of Indian food to me as I sampled lamb chutney, vegetable balls “in a delicious sauce”, sweat paan with fennel and raisins hidden inside. Katie made googly eyes with my cute interpreter as we gorged on Peruvian offerings and sweet Inca Kola. Sarah acted as the yin to my yang as we puzzled out the delicious Afghani offerings, each of us favoring different tastes. On my own, I took in Thai, Mexican, and Russian as well. It was as if the United Nations convened in my belly. (Or, perhaps, tribal warfare – but I’ll spare you the details.)

To make things even more interesting, good friends came to visit Tuesday night. Their stay was far too brief, but the laughs at that Tied House table may just give me my fill until the next time we meet again. I left that place bloated with grateful giddiness and three-cheese zucchini pasta.

In the mean time, I’ve continued my twice weekly sessions with the personal trainers of Orange Shoe Gym. “What did you eat today?” My trainers always ask. I, in turn, always grin. “Salad,” I fib happily. “One half wheat bagel with 1 tsp natural peanut butter. Good stuff.” The trainers nod, satisfied, and make neat check marks on the clipboard.

I hope there is no telltale Creamy Spinach stuck between my teeth, and keep my mouth closed as the smile takes over my face. Head spinning, feet surprisingly light on the treadmill, lungs full of sweet air, I revel in my happy secret. I don’t feel bad about the lies. At least I am moving. At least I am celebrating. At least I am living.