Paulo Coelho is the author of one of my favorite books, "The Alchemist", and friend to Doctor Arash who tried to save Neda in Iran. Neda died in his arms. To read the urgency in Paulo and Arash's email communications is incredibly surreal. I sit here in my safe office, and the most troubling thing on my mind is the pile of laundry at home. Half a world away, people die trying to demonstrate for freedoms that seem so simple here. I realize my observation about how lucky we are in the States to be free isn't unique. But doesn't a blog post like Paulo's reach out to us in a way that traditional news reports are lacking? The emotion, concern, and worry between friends for each other's safety is heartbreaking.

What can I do besides pray for something as cliche as world peace?

For the last few months I've been getting up once, sometimes twice during the night for a trip to the loo to relieve myself. But over the last week these evening trips have had a greater sense of urgency. Sometimes I wake myself up from another crazy dream where I pee in unusual and inappropriate places. These dreams can be so realistic that in my drowziness I find myself checking the bed to make sure it isn't wet! This is very strange for me fair internet, since an older and much wiser friend used to always say to us younger gals that, "you shouldn't hold it!" after comments about our ability to carry on for days without going for a wiz. This makes me wonder if I'll ever be able to hold it again. Just last week my Kiwi made me laugh, and I could barely contain myself if you know what I mean. So this morning I told him about this latest loss of normal body function. "Maybe we should lay down a plastic sheet? Worst comes to worst I can round up some bubble wrap from work", he replied. I totally agree.

Earlier this week I made a special trip to Cincinnati with the intentions of buying a crib found on Craigs List. The seller made a point of restating obvious "rules" over our email negotiations when a person enters into such an agreement: they only accepted cash, would leave the ad on Craigs List until it was officially sold, and only wanted to schedule an appointment with me if my intentions were good. Not to mention our meeting time must coincide with her husband's availability, since I was a stranger n' all. At that point I thought, "Hey I'm GOING to your house which, after all, IS a strange house to little old ME and I don't need my husband to play chaperone. Let's not just point the finger at my possible weirdness, lady - I'm not the Craigs List virgin like YOU." But, because she was so pedantic about her regulations, I figured the crib must be in spic-n-span condition, AND it came with a mattress. Judging from the pictures and her asking price, this was a super score in my opinion.

And it is an excellent crib and mattress, which you'd think is brand new by the looks of them both. So I'm happy. I was also happy to see her by-the-book application of the Super Nanny's time out technique on her super cute little girls. Of course you know I commented with a giggle on what I had just witnessed. "The Super Nanny would be so impressed with you right now," was my response. To which she replied, "Honey, my best advice is consistency, consistency, consistency."

Indeed.

What is it about some childhood memories that make you remember events on a much larger scale? I used to be able to find strawberries as big as my fist when I went picking as a little girl with my parents. Philly used to have strawberry picking contests when he was a lad to see who could pick the biggest football-sized strawberry in New Zealand. So, for years I've been wanting to recreate this memory. June would roll around, picking season would pass and I would think, another opportunity to gather bushels full in minutes -- ka-poof.

Enter Saturday. Strange that it took a half hour to find a pick-your-own farm in Kentucky. This also holds true for apple season. Using up valuable farmland in Kentucky for apple orchards and strawberry patches are aparantely a gigantic waste of real estate - where would the horsies stay? When we found Goose Creek Berries in my little country town I think I heard a choir of angels singing. And, oh!, the beautiful bushel of berries that a man collected and was paying for! All of my dreams were about to come true. Sure, his berries were about the size of my pinky toe, but there was too much emotion running through me about making fresh strawberry jam to really think about that. His picking style was probably incorrect. He needed better training, that was obvious.

"I'll be right back!" I said to the lovely owners. I needed to go home and get my camera! The experience that I've been waiting for 10 years to finally check off my to-do list needed to be documented, my friends. And my outfit wasn't appropriate. I needed my strawberry picking hat, sneakers, sunscreen, bottled water...

So I raced through the house, gathering my gear, and was headed back to my strawberry patch in a flash. It wasn't until I was 15 minutes down the road when I discovered that I forgot my beloved camera. Should I turn around? What a dilemma, this pregnancy brain has almost got me to the point where I need to develop some sort of remembering system. I mean, I have got to stop loosing my blackberry at the airport, and forgetting essentials at the grocery store like tonic water for my Kiwi. So not taking pictures became my little punishment for months of the "sorry I forgot" excuses I've been dishing out.

Flash forward to my picking experience. "Are you finding any?" the very helpful owner asked. I must have been looking awfully confused, with my one hand on my hip and the other scratching my head in the middle of their strawberry patch. He explained that I was in the wrong section, since that variety comes earlier in the season and directed me to a better locale. But really I was learning that my timing was a few weeks off. The berries were terribly effected by all the rain we've been having. Every time I thought I saw a glimmer of red, something stopped me from picking it. Like worms or being overly ripe. And it's not for lack of trying, for goodness sake I crawled around that patch on hands and knees as though I was training for combat! ME, an almost 6 month pregnant silly girl. It was 90+ degrees, I was sweaty, and stinky, and dirty when finally I had two buckets full of pinky toe sized strawberries. Three hours later. THANK GOD. I commited to return next year with the owners, but my timing would be better for sure.

Tomorrow I would make jam. Pectin free! That should be easier, right?