cake.

She was raised by Haight-Asbury hippies. Or rather, she raised them.

She showed up in NYC sometime in the 80s - a beautiful, poised woman with a mop of short blonde hair and a smile that lit up the room. I needed a roomate, she needed a room. She became the best friend a girl could ever have.

I received a package yesterday from her. A birthday gift. Inside was an orange box -- yes, THAT orange box. The one with the brown imprinted ribbon donning the word, "Hermes". Inside was the most tasteful and delicate cappuccino cup and saucer and a little note, "To my big sister." I clutched it as I walked home from the post office, knowing that anyone who passed and was "orange box" savvy wondered what was inside and why it wasn't in their hands instead. I would have been happy with just the note. Or just the box. Or knowing that it was something special from someone special who had little chance to become what she has with the lack of opportunities she was given from birth.

I've known a lot of people who came from nothing and re-invented themselves to become elegant and lovely human beings who understand the importance of a thank you note or a housewarming gift.

Liza takes the cake.