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First, I want to thank all of you who sent email or called. Your support means a lot to me. What I appreciate about each of you, is that to the one you didn’t sugar coat my stupidity—but loved me just the same.

We’ve all had those moments where we’ve metaphorically found ourselves strolling down the aisle of Safeway with the back of our skirt tucked up into our waistbands. In a hurried attempt to salvage our pride, we glance around to see just how exposed we are. Tugging down our skirt, rearranging ourselves in an attempt to restore our composure, we discover that we were alone in the aisle. Whew. That was close. Oh, sure, there is a nagging thought about who might have seen us before we discovered our stupidity. I mean, how many times has our mother told us to always check the mirror before going out the door?

My mom’s best friend in her young adult hood found herself in an desperate need of a bathroom while driving on the freeway with her husband. Central California is full of tumble weeds and acres of alfalfa, but certain stretches of highway are devoid of facilities. Her husband pulled their car over and she promptly jumped out, put her head in a bush, and squatted to pee—fully exposed to oncoming traffic.

I know! Her husband was just as shocked, “Why didn’t you turn the other direction?” It’s here that I ruin the story. Because, this woman was witty and smart and on her toes and had a very clever comeback. I’m far too punchy today to remember it correctly (forgive me mom, I’m failing all over the place here!) but the implication was that she couldn’t see passing cars and they couldn’t see her. They weren’t likely to remember her backside either.

Me? I’m in the aisle next to you, the aisle that features a BOGO deal on humility and a 50cent coupon off on shame featured in the weekly flier. It’s packed over here—half the town is crammed in witnessing my demise. Their making an awful mess, munching on cheetos. . . because of course my fate would play out in the chip aisle. (Ok, that’s damn clever, and you’d better appreciate it! The lengths I go, people!) It’s a real temptation to pull the skirt over my head and pretend that they are not there.

But they are. And, in processing this most of the night (there’s a reason I’m punchy, sleep deprivation is an acquired taste.) that is probably what gets me most. I am completely cognizant that my blog is read by locals. Locals who lurk. Locals who may or may not have my best interests at heart. I’m paranoid enough to assign ill-intent. This is not news, we’ve established I’m unhinged. But my reasons for thinking so, are not entirely unfounded. I’ve just not bothered to catalog the splinters in the eyes of my neighbor—there’s a damn log in mine!

And then I go zen, breathing grace into the universe, hoping it will breath life back to me.

I cannot control these people. I can’t assume intentions either. Although, to quote a famous Dane, “It reeks in here, I suspect fish.” I can only try to protect myself. I have no doubt there is more processing I must do. IZ has spent hours extolling the logic—long time readers will know that I am heart centered, and logic only goes so far with a person working from that space. But beyond my grief I have words to say about Grace and our ability to see it. About Reconciliation and our ability to offer it. Words that would ordinarily be meant for open consumption. Words that would not be censored. Words that would be offered with good will, in hopes of changing just a small part of the world. Words hard earned and laboriously honed.

Words that are muffled by the skirt over my head. Bottom line, the presence of ill-intentioned people has me running scared, questioning my every move. Re-evaluating every glance, every conversation—seeking meaning in pointlessness.

I don’t know if I will write these words. I do know, that if I do, they will be password protected. I know, I’m sorry. It’s a PITA, but please bear with my wounded soul. When confronted with your transgressions, the wisest most honorable thing to do at the time is to bear that pain. But there is more, more that I am attempting to work out off line, but I know me. . . vestiges of it are going to leach into my work. It’s inevitable. And I want the freedom to say what I need to say, without looking over my shoulder worried some person with an agenda might seek to use it against me.

And long time readers know, that if I threatened to write on a particular subject that I probably won’t follow through. That being said, should I actually write a password protected piece, the password is freely offered to those of you who have commented and been a part of this community. If you are a lurker, don’t bother asking. I’m sorry, but there is a price to be paid for not being a contributing part of this world. You were sold out by another one of your own—and I have zero compassion.

Ask any blogger what they hate most about blogging—the ones with sophisticated stats packages will tell you “Lurkers.” I’ve long held that I’d prefer people to participate, I would! But I understand reading without being a part. I’ve not hidden who I am, boils and all! If anything, this has firmly established that I am human—and I try really hard to be honest about my own limitations. If only as a cautionary tale. People, don’t do as Wende does, m’kay? Lurkers are as much a part of the fabric of blogging as the next reader. It’s when they step into my personal life, even by my own fault, that I draw the line.

As for the rest of you… I adore you. Please know that I’ve read your emails and I appreciate your feedback. I will be getting to them, I will… but this is Friday and I am painfully, woefully behind in all that I must do. The photo above is the vintage fabric I found to make a banner for a surprise party planned tomorrow. Uh. yeah. So not happening. Sadly, the Strawberry cake he requested, his mother will be purchasing at Safeway this year… there is no time to bake it, and considering how punchy I am, it’s probably a good idea for me to stay away from things that could blow up! My most urgent prayer request is that Safeway actually has enough of the cake he wants. Because otherwise, I’m screwed. Joy, joy… guess who didn’t have Strawberry Cake? I can sleep when I’m dead, right?

And don’t worry about my skirt, mom. I’m wearing pants.