Ahh, Technology

The husband and I seem to have been technologically cursed this Xmas. There's a laundry list of possessions that are letting us down and just begging to be thrown into the street in a fit of frustration. But it's the camera that stings the most.

The camera, which spends more time with my man than I do, broke two weeks ago and it won't be fixed until after the New Year. We'll just have our mental snapshots to remember the Holidaze 2007 and The Xmas Eve Ash Storm. Damn, I wish my memory card was bigger.

"Umm, you guys, do my eyes look funny?"

Giving

With every trip I take around the sun, my empathy for my parents and grandparents grows. This is especially true during this most wonderful time of the year. As the husband and I pulled down our boxes (upon boxes) of fabulous Xmas decorations last week, I thought of my childhood holiday decorating routine. What I thought was, "Oooh, so THIS is why Mom made us wait to decorate until she was good and ready."

It's a freakin' unholy, exhausting mess, that's why!

Truthfully, I really do love the Xmas rituals...well, at least, my Xmas rituals. I love putting the crazy, handmade, felt Santa cozy on the toilet seat lid; I love the achy-armed fifteen minutes it takes to hand-whip the eggs for one batch of Grandma's 1938 Betty Crocker recipe for Dream Bars; I love sitting on the floor with a pillow room-divider between us as we watch White Christmas and carefully sift through last year's box of wrapping paper to reuse on this year's gifts.

These days, though, my rituals involve the very minimum when it comes to shopping for gifts. The thrill is gone. The societal pressure to stack the gifts high and buy that perfect something for every person who may have crossed my path for five seconds throughout the last year pretty much exhausts the crap out of me.

Man, the cynicism which has emerged in my old age sure is a bitch. I can't even enjoy the simple rush of a last-minute holiday retail bender anymore!

SOLUTION 2007

At work, this year I asked my boss if we could replace the obligatory gift-baskets with monetary donations to a couple of local non-profits; and, he said yes. We sent out a letter, which explained that we chose to make the donation in their names, to our usual list of holiday card and gift-basket recipients. Within twenty-four hours, we had received two phone calls and one hand-delivered letter of gratitude for our unusual gesture. It worked! And it felt great.

So, the husband and I decided to try the same at home. For one side of the family, we donated money to a niece's college fund; and, for the other side, we purchased tree seedlings for farmer's in Asia. For our friends, we purchased bee colonies for villages in South America. Not only did we enjoy putting together packages of homemade cards and treats to go along with the donation, but we also were able to avoid participating in the shopping hysteria of the season.

You'd be amazed by how much energy you are left with to face the rest of the holiday obligations when you don't have to dive into a round of Xmas Eve mall shopping. Next year, I'm going to remember this alternate giving ritual when it comes time to deck the halls once again.

Mind Games Forever

For every birthday candle blow out, for every penny thrown into a fountain, for every shooting star, it's always the same wish: world peace, now, pretty please.

Hope springs eternal, right?

A couple of weeks ago, I was asked the question, "What do you feel is the biggest problem in the world today?" My immediate answer was that people aren't treating each other with enough care, that there's just not enough love being passed around.

Love. There's a true abundance of it in my own life. Indeed, love overflow-eth for most of the people I know. That's not exactly the problem. It feels more like we -- as a collective species -- are lacking a wider sense of love for one another, for the masses of people who aren't in our day to day lives.

It can be a lot to ask to foster love for total strangers because, you know, they're strange. Plus, there are some seriously idiotic, evil and smelly people out there. None of these things make you want to devote any love to them.

This notion of loving the unlovable is all well and good when conceptualizing, when discussing it with other like-minded people. But, it sure is a challenge to put it into an active practice. I certainly struggle spare any love for the likes of certain war mongering politicians, hideously awful "role-model" celebrities, or parents who can hardly figure out how to protect themselves let alone their own children.

See what I mean? It leaves me feeling sour just typing those words about people I don't know and don't really want to know.

And there it is: the people I don't really want to know.

I desperately want to find love for everyone -- friend, foe and otherwise -- in spite of whatever shortcomings they may have. But, most of the time, it's almost too hard to a little spare find love for myself in spite of my own unlovable shortcomings. Perhaps, herein lies our cultural problem: not enough love for ourselves. If we worked on loving ourselves and all we have to offer each other, would that make it easier to share our universal love? Would that make it easier to have sympathy for each other's struggles? Would that make a drop in the bucket?

Yes, people. The answer is YES.

I always suspected John Lennon knew exactly what he was talking about when he said, "Love is the Answer." It's no mistake that song is entitled Mind Games.

This holiday season I've altered my world peace wish mantra. From now on I'm going to wish for world peace through love for every single person I'll ever know and never will meet.

Wax On, Wax Off

Way back when -- in high school -- I used to butt heads with English teachers when it came to interpreting a given text. In my little mind, I found it outrageous to try to read too deeply into the written word. It made me uncomfortable and annoyed to assign any meaning that may or may not have been originally intended. Most of the time, my argument was something to the tune of "Couldn't the author actually mean what he says?" and "Why must we assume everything is symbolic?"

The whole reading comprehension thing plain old escaped me and I have the SAT scores to prove it. Plus, a stubborn attitude and unwillingness to resort to Cliff's Notes (like most of the kids on the honor roll) probably didn't help me out much.

So, now that I'm older (and working on the wiser), what would I tell my sixteen year-old self about interpreting a text?

Well, for starters, I'd tell her that she was absolutely right to question her authority.

Next, I'd let her in on a little secret that those silly teachers were inexplicably keeping to themselves. It's not that we have to assign meaning to other people's words, it's that we get to. It's our privilege as readers to chose to stay on the surface or dive down as deep as we can go. Once the author has put it out there, the words become ours to understand through the filter of our own experiences. If we want to think about the era during which the text was written, well that's entirely up to us. If we don't feel like to considering possible symbolism of a fig tree, then screw the damned tree already.

Last night, I started reading The Fellowship of the Ring for the first time (yea, yea, the first time, I know). This edition has a foreword by Tolkien in which he addresses this issue of the reader's interpretation of his words. He actually gets quite defensive that these books are not allegory to the World War II era (when he wrote them), as many people have extrapolated. Then he makes a point that I wish I'd known how to articulate in high school.

Tolkein states that "an author cannot of course remain wholly unaffected by his experience" and "the ways in which a story-germ uses the soil of experience are extremely complex." Then he refers to his own experiences during World War I, which affected the entirety of his adult life. Basically, he's rejecting the assumption that a book is allegory for the day in which is written as limiting. It doesn't mean that it cannot be, at times, but it is certainly not a rule of reading (take that Dr. Fussell!).

The part of the foreword that sat me straight up in bed is his comment that readers often confuse "applicability" with "allegory." Aha! There it is!

This is why Shakespeare can be so wonderfully and shockingly relevant, even in the twenty-first century. Human nature hasn't really changed all that much for the last several centuries, has it? The way we treat each other and the things we do to one another are just as beautiful and just as shitty as they ever were. The stories written about them, however are almost always applicable to one reader of one era or another. The only things that really change are the circumstances, the scenery, the outfits.

Tolkein has forever endeared himself to me with his stubborn stand that the trilogy isn't allegory, goddammit. A little bit on the defensive, stubborn side, but also willing to allow the reader to have their own experience with a text...so long as they know the author might or might not have wanted it that way. He and I would have been great friends.

Twenty Minute Tuesday

For weeks now, my teacher has been exceedingly patient with my non-production of short stories, or even pieces of stories (I'm too sheepish to share the 10 million, unrelated sentences that I've started). He's been giving me all sort of fantastic suggestions and plenty of encouragement, but still I have not gotten off the pot.

One of the more confusing recommendations, for me, is to try reading books from a writer's perspective. Meaning, try thinking about how I might write the scene differently, what different choices would the characters make if this were a tale of mine, etc. Also meaning, pay close attention to the various characters and see if I can pick up on their distinct personalities...it's not as easy as one might think to write a story wherein not every character is coming from the same point of view.

Anyway, I was pretty sure this would fuck up the joy of reading for the rest of time, and I don't think I put much effort into reading like a writer. Until this weekend, that is, when I became engrossed in Speaker for the Dead by Orson Scott Card (a fabulous read, by the way, highly recommend it, but a book report this is not).

Somewhere along the way, I began to actually see how the author cleverly lets the reader know -- and gets us to care about -- each character through simple, unexpected actions and dialogue. Their vulnerabilities, their strengths, their dialects, everything is of that character, that person. And, in theory, it's so damned simple. How does this person answer a phone call differently than that person? How do they react to the choices of another and why? Personalities, turns out, are not fiction, they're reality; and I have experience with personalities.

Hopefully this is the mini-breakthrough I was waiting for. Of course, my relationship with the theory of writing a story is a whole different matter than my discipline to sit down, hash out an actual set of characters and let them lead me where they need to go.

I have two responses to these reading/writing revelations:

1. Hallelujah for this new awareness to bring to my reading. The best part of it all is that reading like a writer has not ruined stories for me, it's enhanced it exceedingly. This is beyond exciting (don't forget, it's the little things!).

2. Per my teachers sage advice: I am not on a timeline, I am not in a writing race, it is OK to feel scared, overwhelmed, crazy, intoxicated, unsure. But it wouldn't hurt to jump off that cliff and find out what...or who...waits for me below.

Laughter

It took an hour to get from home to high school -- a tedious drive through commuter freeway traffic even though we hit the road at by six o'clock in the morning. For the entire six years we did the drive to that school, we always listened to the Mark & Brian on the radio. Nothing like a couple of wacky morning DJs to start the day off right.

By the time I was a senior in high school, I finally had my driver’s license. Sometimes I was even allowed to make the drive with Annika, who just started going to that school as a seventh grader. One morning, as the two of us crept off the freeway and up the hill into La Jolla, Brian was in the middle of the most terrible impression of Ricky Ricardo. The fact that he sounded nothing like Lucy's husband only made it funnier the longer the bit went on. Before long, we were struggling to catch a breath we were laughing so hard.

It was so much fun to get absorbed into a laughing fit with Annika. Our eyes would go all squinty and our faces would go red. Being sisters, we pretty much shared the same sort of silent, hysterical laughter: lots of rolling backwards and forwards with our mouths wide open, a few strange noises accompanying the combination of gasps for air and uncontrollable stomach muscle contractions, tears shooting out of our eyes and across our faces. If you didn't know we were laughing, you might think we were choking.

Laughter.

What a gift, and Annika knew how to use it as a child. Unrestrained, long and genuine. And contagious enough to last all day or break us out of a sisterly fuss. The gift left her, somewhat, when the cancer treatments showed up. She even said so herself, from time to time, that the chemo might have taken away her sense of humor. Her brain just didn’t function the same way anymore. I'm not convinced she lost her sense of humor altogether -- we certainly shared a few belly laughs as time went on -- but I do know that level of laughter didn't come as effortlessly, nor as often, the longer she lived with pain.

Today, something I heard on the radio that reminded me of the morning where I could barely drive because of our laughter. It’s a memory that only she and I share. It’s a memory that gives me the gift of my little sister: happy and free and pure.

Twenty Minute Tuesday

Crap. Today I found out it's week 9 of my 10 week school quarter. This sucks extra because I've been planning my entire life for the last month around this week being week 8. I may be somewhat screwed, actually.

Such is the life of a raging procrastinator. There's no one to blame by my own, sweet self. This, of course, makes it all worse because now I must punish myself for the lack of foresight and planning and days of living as though I'm not, in fact, a student. It's tempting, actually, to lock myself in my closet and beat myself silly, like one of those crazy Puritan preachermen who falls in love with the resident hotty widow. But, seeing as I can't stand up in my armoire and the coat closet is full of vacuum cleaners, that level of punishment isn't an option.

I suppose it will be punishment enough to have to miss the Toys for Tots motorcycle parade with the husband this weekend and the canceled (on my account) Big Sur weekend with a few high school buddies.

Poor me.

There's a sort of meloncholy that accompanies this stage of my educational journey at Antioch. Two years ago, when I started, we had just lost my sister and it must have taken well over a year before I really felt like I was in school. I look back at the work I did during those first several quarters and can barely believe I did it all. It couldn't have been me actually doing all that stuff, could it?

I had a great couple of quarters earlier this year, where I felt pretty damned on top of the world as a student. Now we're back to the fog. Back to the "what's happening to time"and "why can't I seem to keep up with anything" experience. I feel so sheepish, sometimes, for not taking full advantage of the time I have with certain professors. A few years from now I'll be pulling my hair out over some story that won't come together and I'll find some clever way to link it all back to that Fall '07 quarter where I lost track of time and forgot that I what I was doing for a couple of months.

It's a little unsettling to consider that this schoolwork procrastinator identity of mine is foreshadowing my identity as a writer. I know it doesn't have to be this way, but it is. This is simply how I be.

Herein lies life's challenge at this moment: embracing shitty habits and allowing them to just be habits so I can move on and get things done already!

Cause, really, who am I hurting by being a procrastinator? Nobody, really. It only hurts me on days that I realize that I can't read a calendar and have lost another week to have fun while delaying the ineveitable.

For now, I will keep the faith that things don't change. If that, indeed, is really the case, then I'm golden. The procrastinator within always manages to step aside just in the knick of time so that Rita can get her work done -- and get it done well.

Fingers officially crossed.

Hybrid Hippies

"Sometimes these revolutionary discussions really do exhaust me."

So said a good friend towards the middle of an evening of planning and plotting clever ways to save the world. Sure thing: figuring out how to swing others to your way o' proper, alternative thinking can really wipe a person out...I feel like I'm recovering on a daily basis.

One of the many perspectives I'm learning to respect, as my education and life continues, is that -- like it or not -- we're all victims of our social era, our cultural norms, our human tendencies. Even the most alternative-living folks around are living with some serious technology in the form of laptops, ipods, cell phones, and sometimes even televisions with DVRs. It turns out twenty-first century hippies like take-out dinners, expensive shoes, and luxury vacations, too. Despite these habits, there's something different -- more deliberate, perhaps -- in the way most new-age granola types approach their consumer identity than the general, Black Friday shopping masses.

When it comes to revolutionary pondering of the mental shift required to protect the earth and rescue the human race from certain implosion, it's clear that we must address the consumer attitude of the peoples. For the most part, the general tendency of the eco-warrior is to approach this task with a certain level of preachy anger towards the ignorance of others...and we know how well that doesn't work. It's pretty basic really: nobody but nobody in this culture wants to be ordered around. Nobody wants to have their spending habits scrutinized as contributing to the fall of the current empire.

Revolutionary talk can be pretty dramatic, you know.

But we need to figure this thing out. We need to acknowledge that things have gotten out of control and consider ways to empower the little guys (that's us, by the way) to resist the system and stand up for positive change.

Recently, a loved one took the time to ask the hippy relatives questions about her grocery shopping routine. She wanted tips on eco-friendly ways to shop for food, paper products, cleaning supplies, etc. What I learned is that she, like so many others, honestly didn't have the knowledge about the impact of one-crop, mass farming. She didn't realize there's a legitimate ecological difference if she buys pesticide-free, locally grown produce or goes to Ralph's for whatever just came off the boat. She wasn't aware that items such as laundry detergent or toilet cleaner could be toxic to both the earth and her own body. And she didn't know why she is forbidden from setting foot in that blasted new Old Navy.

Her inquiries enlightened me to the notion that there must be plenty of consumers just like her. People who want to join the creeping-into-mainstream, green-living consciousness, but they really don't know where to start.

My heart grew three sizes that day...

Instead of the old style of lectures and holier-than-thou guilt treatment, it's time that we dig deep and seek out a little sympathy for the typical consumer mind. Not everyone wants to be a full on hippy-type, but most people are willing to adjust their lifestyles in small ways that help. Those of us already making efforts to live the green life, have something real to offer those who simply do not understand the ecological consequences as they head out for another day at the mall, a weekend at Disneyland, or even a necessary trip to the grocery store.

Here's the thing: most of us are never going to be faced with the opportunity to save the world with one perfect idea executed in dramatic, super hero fashion. Talk about exhausting! Rather, the revolution starts with the small changes that can be integrated into the consumer culture, of which we're all victims, of which we're all participants.

So, how about it? It's simple and it really doesn't have to hurt as badly as all that.

The revolution starts in our homes, in our bathrooms and kitchens. The revolution starts by sharing passion for a simple, realistic lifestyle with our families, friends, communities. The revolution just might actually start one person at a time, and why shouldn't that one person be each of us?

We have the knowledge, we have the love, we have the canvas grocery bags and we're not afraid to use them!

Twenty Minute Tuesday

The beginning of the end occurred last week while I was out of town. Old Navy opened their doors for business on State Street in the sacred grounds of the former Earthling Bookstore. Not only that, but it's across the street from the Santa Barbara Museum of Art. When I first heard the news of yet another chain store opening downtown, I threw up a little bit. Then I wept openly. And then I vowed never, ever to spend one penny in that gawd awful establishment.

It's really not that I'm opposed to Old Navy, specifically. Certainly, I've been known to hunt it down in some far away mall and delight in the bags of affordable undies and t-shirts that come home with me. But see, this particular location has crossed some serious boundaries that only worsens the current Camarillo-ization of our beloved downtown Santa Barbara, and it's simply not alright for this kind of activity to continue!

While perusing the onslaught of chain stores down there (Urban Outfitters, Cost Plus, Border's, etc...I mean you) can be fun, it's just not very a unique experience. These are the kinds of places one can find in just about any ol' strip or box mall type of place. I always thought Santa Barbara was the cool, off the beaten path, go see stuff that's not found right off the freeway kind of a shopping town. Some might argue that, hey, we've also got hip new stores like Juicy Couture, Mac, and Betsy Johnson. But, come on! These are shopping reasons to go Los Angeles, San Francisco or frigging New York City!

For me, downtown Santa Barbara has always been about the people watching and thrift/antique/mom & pop store shopping. It seems like we can hardly even do that any more seeing as all the real thrift stores have been chased away and there remains only one antique store and perhaps one or two privately/locally operated stores (sumbody, I mean you!).

I've mentioned the new Old Navy location to a few former Santa Barbara residents, and -- thank gawd -- they reacted with the proper, expected level of horrification. They sympathized with us because it's not like avoiding this store is going to be exactly easy...it's literally 2 blocks from my home and en route to just about everywhere I walk in a day. The husband saw the store on opening day last week and was sad to report that it was packed out the door, down the sidewalk.

This begs the question: What the f*** is wrong with everyone around here? WHY are we condoning this sort of behavior? Is this really what we want for our city? Who decides this crap in the first place? Besides, it's not like it's a Target or anything!

Seriously, though, I have to ask a simple favor from everyone I know. Please. Do not fall victim to the siren call of $2 flip-flops because the price of selling your soul like this is far, far too steep. If you want to sleep better at night knowing you've done your small part to defend the integrity of your town, then join the husband and me in boycotting the Old Navy store on State Street. You know you want to!

Dream Sabatoge

Sleep is like a daily reboot for the soul...it's just that, not every reboot works the first time you try it.

The other morning, I woke up from a dream in a clammy, gasping sweat. There are many inexplicable aspects of the dream I can no longer bring to the surface for examination -- probably for the best. But, I do remember sitting around the picnic bench at my folks' place, crying hysterically because the world just broke the optimistic spirit of yet another loved one. My mom was there, trying to understand and console me. When I woke up, the misery was fresh and real, lingering and disorienting.

The next night, I dreamt I was sitting at the same picnic bench with my mom. This time, we were laughing at a video I was showing to her. It was some footage of the senior citizen residence where I'd been visiting that day (in the dream). Apparently, I was leading a group of about ten white-haired ladies in a sort of salsa soul-train. We were having a helluva good time and the last part of the video showed me dancing circles around a lady while my pants fell to my ankles. Of course, I was so engrossed in my funny dance that I didn't notice where my pants went, revealing an awesome pair of saggy underpants. My mom and I were just about hysterical with laughter and were sure this video would be a hit on the internet. That morning, I woke up laughing out loud and the good mood lasted throughout the day. Now, that is more like it.

Upon a little reflection, I think I've divined the lesson to be found from these two nights of dreams: Do not, under any circumstances, dare to dream when you are so sick that your nasal passages are not free and clear. Trust me, you'll only regret it if you do.

Thank Gawd for Bosom Friends

Just home from a whirlwind trip to Seattle to visit some of my bestest, oldest -- and quite different from each other -- friends. I was rotten with a serious head cold the entire time but still had an incredibly beautiful time.

Even though this trip included fabulous meals, another Ben Harper show, and a glorious sick-day in bed marathoning the first season of my new favorite show (Ugly Betty...yay!), my favorite part has to be the gift I was given by each of my ladies in the form of a hand-written card. Their words are messages of appreciation for my friendship, which brought us to tears in seconds.

This actually isn't terribly unusual. We've never been the types to avoid sharing our feelings of love for one another. But, timing is everything. It means more than I know how to express right now that you each recognized me in the way that you did. You help me believe that I am actually achieving a decent level of success in being the person I strive to be, despite the crazy of it all. Thank you, my two friends, for all you have offered, as well, as our lives cross over and run parallel and screech in different directions.

Music Makes the World Go 'Round

Had something of a magical, musical weekend. We gathered a couple of good friends together on Friday and braved our way down to Los Angeles via the Pacific Coast Highway (good call Susie!) Then landed in the scary, but being revitalized, downtown theater district and a little place called The Orpheum. Online research reveals that this place first opened in 1926 and spent a good, long time as home for vaudeville acts. Recently, it's been restored to its original glory, and how. The theater itself is simply gorgeous and filled with all the Art Deco, incredible architectural details you'd ever want (you might catch glimpse of it on a random beer ad where some boys try to sneak in some suds to the opera). The only icky part was how shockingly close together the rows of seats are. Our row included a whole string of us at least six feet tall or more, boy were we thankful for the stand-up and shake yer booty portions of the evening!

Ben Harper & the Innocent Criminals were the main attraction, of course. Once again, they started promptly at 9pm and proceeded to blow the minds of all 2,000 in the sold out audience. For the last several years, I've been good and spoiled when it comes to concert going...meaning I prefer to be as close as possible to the action (it's addictive, I tell you, once you've been up front, nothing else will ever do!). For this show, I managed to score some 5th row center spots, not too shabby. I like being up close enough to check out how the band interacts with each other during the show; for some reason, I think it's fun to watch for if/when they mess up and how they handle with it. This time, they were having some sort of technical issues with Ben's amp as well as the odd forgotten lyric -- a rarity, but likely due to the set list of rarely played song -- and one near false start because he couldn't find the tempo. They're only human, after all! (they recovered well on all accounts, of course)

I'd been on a sort of emotional bummer the week or two leading up to the show. Two days prior, I came across their version of Hoochie Coochie Man, which they were first trying out on this tour. The crunchy, Delta blues song with Ben's deeply sincere delivery pretty much catapulted me out of my silly mood by reminding me of the spirit lifting, life altering power of music (*mental note: don't freakin' ever forget that again*). So, on Friday, when Ben sat down with an electric slide in his lap and busted out with the first lick of that song, my eyes blurred with the happy tears and my arms involuntarily shot into the air, ass grooving in my seat. Something changed for me this show, too. I found myself being one of the first people to stand up and dance (where normally I wait patiently until everyone else around me has risen first). Sometimes the music just takes over the body and you get lost in the moment and it's fabulous.

Every single time I see this band live, I'm reminded that my favorite part about them is the sincere level of appreciation they show towards their audience. For the last few years, they've been closing the show with the six of them in a row -- arm in arm -- spending several minutes actually making eye contact with as many faces in the crowd as possible, giving us their personal, silent thanks. Ben gives verbal acknowledgment that their audience is on this diverse, removed-from-the-mainstream musical journey with them and we play the vital role in their being able to do what they do in the first place.

This is the reason their fans keep coming back for more. It's why so many of us consider a Ben Harper & the Innocent Criminals show to be more than the phenomenal concert that it is, but also a validating shared experience, a sort of emotional/spiritual cleansing. Truly, I don't even want to imagine the kind of grump I'd be in this life without my yearly fix...or two or three.

Cats Are People,Too

Kizzy is really making an effort to transition from the skittery, invisible cat she's been playing at for so long to the cuddling, aloof-within-reasonable-limits pet cat I always knew she wanted to be. Our current evening ritual consists of her following me to bed and cautiously working her way from my ankles to my hands, which she often starts before I've even gotten settled under the blankets. For reasons I'll never understand, she begins at the feet, then rubs her way along my leg, back and forth several times before allowing my fingers within a grasping distance. Eventually, the path grows smaller and she moves across my lap, back and forth, while accepting some brief pets from me - but only with one hand, if I dare try a double-handed scritch all bets are off.

What I love the most, though, is how she is clumsy with this routine, there's no sign of a graceful feline whatsoever. Somehow, she manages to trip herself up while simply walking along the blanket. When she gets adventurous and dares a hop up onto my lap, she does it with too much gusto and has to teeter on my thigh to catch her balance. Repeatedly, she misses her mark and ends up headbutting into the side of my hand and casually recovers by walking back towards my feet, as though she meant to do it that way all along.

Silly as it is, this level of interaction with her person is massive progress for Kizzy, and it hasn't been an easy for her to get to this point. What she's going through seems to be exactly how it goes for a person when they're giving something new a try. At first, we stumble along, and, with the encourangment of our friends, we have to push through the painful bits in order to build up our stamina before whatever it is we're trying starts to feel natural and reasonable.

A hike last Sunday nearly ended me. There I was -- escaped from the downtown fog, surrounded by the views and smells and sounds that our hills have to offer - just wheezing away and pausing and kneeling my way through the entire trail. I wanted to give up and never go on a hike again, but my friend did her job well and encouraged me to keep going, that I was doing great, that it's only going to get easier. Of course, she was right.

For these seven years, I've been that person for Kizzy. Keeping the faith that she'll get there eventually. Patting myself on the back for staying so patient and steadfastly encouraging her to keep on trying. But, I wonder, now, if Kizzy is really the patient one in this scenario. Maybe she's the one who has had to be willing to forgive herself for not being able to fulfill her person's expectations from the very beginning. Maybe all this progress I think I've made is really Kizzy's triumph, not mine. Maybe she's got more to teach me than she's been letting on.

One Man's Trash?

There's been a set of pigeon wings on the ground in front of the building where I work for going on two weeks. After the third day, I stopped worrying about what happened to the rest of the bird and started wondering why the hell someone hadn't gotten rid of them because that sure as shit wasn't going to be my job. By about a week into it, I was actually looking forward to seeing the wings in their spot each morning as I made my way to the desk job. I'm not really sure why, either, because normally I'm not all that into pieces of animal carcass. Maybe it appealed to my teensy weensy appreciation for the macabre...can't really be sure.

Yesterday, a plastic fork appeared on top of the wings. I had to stop and stare for a moment because it sure looked like that fork was placed there with intention. It made me laugh a little, but its presence definitely altered my relationship with the wings. Now we had a third party involved and I wasn't so sure the fork was properly respectful. This sucked for me because, clearly, it was going to have to be my job to do away with the wings lest someone else mistake them for a place to stack their trash. But I figured that task could put that off for one more day.

This morning, though, I was let off the hook. When I checked for my friends...er, the wings...in their usual place, they had disappeared. All that remains now is the blasted fork. I'm not going to get caught up on why someone would take away the wings and not the fork because that could lead down too many icky paths. Still, I can't stop thinking about what these last two weeks with the wings might mean. Even though I'll probably have let it go by tomorrow, I need those wings to have meaning for reasons that I can't quite nail down.

All in the Details

Interesting what our little minds hold on to as meaningful. There's a shirt I sleep in sometimes. It's a men's long-sleeve cotton t-shirt...orange with a wide, blue stripe down each arm and one across the chest. For as long as I live, I shall refuse to put this shirt into the yard sale box because of it's incredibly significance. This is the shirt the husband wore the night I first noticed him, on the night he dropped his beer at the Joyce and I looked up from my spot at the pool table and there he was...puddle of beer at his feet, hands still in front of him in the shape of the glass, and making eye contact with me, eyebrows high on his forehead as if to say, "Ummm, did I do that...?"

That was the night I stopped letting anyone but the future-husband have a bite from my candy necklace. Ha! Believe it or not, I'm being literal about the candy necklace and not attempting some perverse metaphor. Really!

Anyway, back to the orange shirt. Could it be that within this seemingly minor detail lies the root of our love? Would I have even noticed him in the way that I did had he been wearing, say, the green version of the very same shirt? Well, probably, since it was actually the charming way he recovered from the spilled beer moment and how he managed to end the evening with me chasing him into the parking lot for the goodbye candy necklace bite that truly reeled me in to his life forever. And it's all of those things I think of when the minor-detail-orange-shirt works its way to the top of the comfy clothes drawer.

Chipped Beef on Toast?

Last night I dreamt I was giving Ben Harper a pre-concert pep talk. In the silly little dream, he was a slightly older version of himself, perhaps in his late 40s, and was feeling somewhat uninspired. I randomly bumped into him outside the small venue -- where I had, apparently, brought every single friend I've ever had -- and sensed his mood. I was overwhelmed with a sense urgency to get him cheered up. Watching him climb a tree covered with branches that looked like scaly, brightly colored snakes, I shared how much live music helps me feel like life might actually be worth living and that his concerts were the first to really give me that sense of hope, like church is for some people. He seemed to respond favorably to my pep talk; we parted ways and I went back to celebrate the conversation with my friends before waking up.

There's a great episode of Northern Exposure in which the aurora borealis is going crazy and the people of Cicely, Alaska begin having each other's dreams. One of the characters is trying to figure out the meaning of his dreams, which, of course, were being dreamt by another character. As they're attempting to analyze, someone suggests that perhaps the dreamer is all the characters inside their dream (which then gives us one of the greatest lines in television history: "I'm my mother, I'm my father, I'm chipped beef on toast?").

Wait a second, are they saying that I am an aging Ben Harper climbing a tree of crazy, rainbow snake branches while taking my own advice as to what makes my world go 'round? If so, I think it means I'm feeling pretty damned stoked to be getting myself on down to the church of Ben Harper twice in the next week.

It's Only Natural

I just came across this picture in the computer, Annika took it for me. At the time, the husband and I were into collecting images of "found porn" (well, one never really stops such a search)...you know, advertising and random pieces of furniture and whatnot that -- whether or not they intentionally look naughty -- are awfully suggestive. I remember Annika's comment on this picture was something about how "nature does it best."

Oh, I suppose that's probably mostly true and is deceptively easy to accept when you're looking at a pile of innocent, sun-baked rocks in all their glory. But what about when there's a distant, blurry line between what is natural and what is otherwise?

There's quite a lot to chew on in that question, come to think of it, and frankly, it's got me a little befuddled. I can't say I feel exactly thrilled about accepting things as they occur "naturally" in this world; not so much stoked on the degree of unnatural shenanigans that accompanies existence among the humans, either. But the truth is, we've pretty much been confusing ourselves with what does and doesn't matter ever since they invented social hierarchy so maybe I need to freakin' lighten up around here...like I promised myself I would do....and recognize that it's pretty cool to get live in a world where found porn like these beautiful rocks can be innocently happened upon in nature and shared with others through these truly obscene, distinctly-unnatural cyberspace means.

Abby Normal

Happy Halloween, dammit! Today's mission: to lighten the fuck up. Sure, the world is a crushingly depressing place to call home, but, here I am, at home, giving in with a mere dollup of riteous indignation.

To whatever reasons have been crippling me from being able to make the brain space to write -- both academically and otherwise -- this last week, I say kiss my grits. I don't have to like the reality that there's no easy way out, that we're all in the same sinking boat, that this is all there is to this life business. No need to place blame or try to convince others that humantity is in crisis because they already know it. I merely need to acknowledge what it means to me and continue doing my own thing with in it, continue figuring out how I'm going to process and live with it anyway. BAH! Ready or not, here I come!

Procrastination, Senioritis and Caaaaaaandy

Like so many others I know, I tend to put off completing items from my to-do list for as long as possible. Right now I'm having a hard time directing my attention towards the more academic aspects of my school assignments. Procrastination is so super-fun and carefree at the beginning (making it easy to ignore the inevitable, painful flip side). Mix this in with what's ramping up to be a raging case of senioritis (one quarter too soon as far as I'm concerned) and my uncontrollable habit of bags of Halloween chocolates, and you have Rita: The Reigning Queen of Getting Next to Nothing Done But Having All Kinds of Fun While Not Doing It.

Loss

Kids...I love 'em...they're great...especially in small doses and when you get to send them back home with their parents.

Growing up, I figured I'd have three or four children filling up my days by now. For some reason, it never seemed like there was any other choice but to be a mommy...it's what women do, right? I dunno, do they? When we got married, we agreed to be married for five years before diving into the whole kid discussion. By the time the five years passed, it was pretty clear that having our own kids wasn't going to be our path. Cool, then. I moved on to other things.

Or so I thought.

Impossible as it was for me to believe, there really is such a cursed thing as a biological clock; and, apparently, its role here is to confuse the @#%* heck out of me. For some reason, I was convinced that once I made the "no babies" choice then the body would listen and that would be all there was to it. In no way was I prepared for the surprise attacks of yearning to be pregnant, the daydreaming about telling my mom the big news, and even imagining what it would be like to give birth. In no way did I ever expect commercials with cute and cuddly infants to launch fits of tears and secret longing. In no way did I know this difficult choice is one I must make on a continual basis.

These occasional hormonal fits don't tend to last very long, though. I've observed that this baby fever of mine only seems to include the pregnancy and birthing bits. Never does it venture into the territory of poopy diapers or the terrible twos, and it certainly doesn't take me so far as to imagine the school years. Which leads me to believe that my rational mind must still be correct in its assessment that raising kids isn't what I want in this life. I'm in college, after all, I'm sharp enough to realize that desire for the immediate gratification of the one thing does not equate desire for what the one thing turns into after the first few months of gratification. My logic may be dizzying, but it's logical nonetheless.

Still, though, I experience deep loss over this choice, this profound sacrifice. It's far more challenging than I suspected not to follow the biological and social norms. The questions keep coming up: if I'm not going to be a parent, then what am I going to be? What else could I get up to that might give my life that feeling of worth, purpose, place? What am I going to do with all this love and nurturing I have to offer?

I don't know the complete answers yet...still searching, still settling into who I am trying to be. One thing I do know for sure: I love, love, LOVE being the aunt to my eight nieces and nephews who never forgets a birthday.

Dressing Funny

Formerly a highly anticipated social event, it is now a dreaded, lonely excursion away from all things good and right. It used to provide a fulfilling rush , but now it sends me spiraling into foot-dragging depression. What once qualified as joy of joys is now the hugest chore of all time. Friends, I'm talking shopping for clothes.

Oh, the horror, right? But, don't go calling the feds on me just yet; I'm still a good citizen who contributes regularly to our booming economy. Truly, I quite like all sorts of shopping...in antique stores and farmer's markets, in swap meets and used bookstores. Oh, and at Target (note: love of Target is not by choice, it's gender related, most of the time I can't understand it myself).

Admittedly -- even back in the brief period when I fostered love for malls -- when it comes to clothes shopping, I'm not very clever. In fact, I make some incredibly questionable decisions. Wonder if this is connected to a distaste for trying things on before purchase and a habit of inexplicable 50% off impulse buys? It's also quite plausible to blame the abnormal proportions of my body. Tragically, I simply was not built for this world: too big and tall in some directions, too short and skinny others. These technical problems -- combined with the annoying crowds of other people and guilt over purchase of probable sweatshop manufactured items -- have only exacerbated the clothes shopping aversion in my old age.

So, what, you say? Well, it's just that, you know, I sort of thought I would be cooler than that. I never thought I'd be the lady with a closet full of nothing to wear, who then turns around to bitch about it in her blog. This is yet another one of those sobering, life lessons in I'm only human, I'm merely a product of my society, I'm not an ethereal being of perfection sent here to rescue humanity from itself.

...or am I? The superhero suit hanging in the closet just can't be for nothing.

Rolling with the Bus

Even in Santa Barbara, riding the city bus is an adventure every single time. It can also be a real exercise in patience and letting go of the elusive control factor, because you never know what you're going to get:

It's almost always late.
Once inside, it's you can count on it being either really cold or really, really, really hot.
It's often smelly (old lady perfume, sweat stink, bad breath, you name it).
It's full of injustice (people not offering seats to elderly/handicapped, the $1.25 fare).
It can be a jerky, harrowing passenger experience, depending on the driver.

You have the chance to encounter a cornucopia of your fellow citizens:

A crazy lady.
A homeless man.
A happy, go-lucky type.
A woman in crisis, shout-sharing her misery with the entire bus.
A drug dealer dropping not so subtle hints.
Grandparents - both well off and otherwise.
Teenagers - generally shouting at each other or into their, like, cell phones.
A herd of six-year olds accompanied by a neighbor lady on their way to school.
And me - with my nose in a book and my eye on everyone else.

No matter the specifics of the day, you can count on the bus eventually showing up and getting you to your destination, more or less in tact.

thanks for your good thoughts!

Many friends have asked how my family's places have been doing during all these crazy fires. Here's a picture from Rainbow, looking west towards Fallbrook. This is the Rice (Canyon) Fire, which originated about 2 miles directly below my family's homes. The winds pretty much pushed the flames away from their home and into some areas of Fallbrook. I believe this picture is from Monday.

Right now, everything seems to be going OK. There are still a few fires burning around Rainbow, but everyone is home and safe and being cautious.

Whatever Gets You Through the Night

We're all susceptible to it. Hell, we're encouraged to do it. A little retail therapy here, some People magazine there, maybe a late-night pint of Haagen-Dazs. Indeed, we are a culture of the Guilty Pleasure.

But where do these habits come from? How did we get to this place? I'm thinking the guilty pleasure is merely a side effect of a culture with leisure time. I mean, would we have naughty little secrets to keep if we were busy digging in the fields or, say, chewing animal tendon to make the glue for our new bow and arrow? Unlikely.

They must be called guilty pleasures for a reason, though. Some might suggest that this sort of luxury is a real curse to our society. Morally speaking, we should probably feel at least a little bad about such self-gratifying activities that certainly aren't contributing to the greater good. We should probably make a few more personal sacrifices and redirect our energies in ways which would help out our brother men. It's the only proper thing to do.

But, yea...whateva! Honestly, what harm could come from watching The Biggest Loser from bed while mowing through a pile of Halloween candies? Uh, er, not that I know anyone who does that. But if I did know such a person, I'd know that she surely does not feel guilty about any of her pleasures.

10 minute rant

FIRE STORM 2007!!!

Don't you just love how we're only on day 3 or 4 into this current disaster and the news coverage is already gone over the edge with their dramatizations. Flipping on the evening news won't give you very much information about which the fires are burning in what neighborhoods or where to evacuate or how to find resources. Instead what they do is throw families in front of the remains of their home, which they've just seen for the first time 5 minutes ago, and proceed to ask them questions like, "So how does it feel to have nothing left?" These poor people - in the midst of personal devastation that they couldn't possibly have had one moment to process - get to spend the next several minutes trying to hold it together for the cameras, but inevitably succumb to tears due to the reporter's incessant questions about how they feel about all this. Well I think it's pretty obvious, their friggin' house just burned down!

It just seems too soon, too raw, too ambulance chasing. The fires aren't even out! There will be time for dramatic reenactments and lessons on fire tornadoes and Katrina disaster relief comparisons later. Right now, let's please focus on keeping people safe and perfecting our rain dances.

shoulda woulda coulda

Obviously, hind sight and all that. But, what should I have done differently...now that I have the perspective of what it meant to lose her to a long, painful cancer at the age of twenty-six.

There's only one thing I believe I would change, which I think could have opened up a lot of avenues of communication that somehow went missing. I would have had the perspective that death happens; I would have recognized and dealt with the denial factor.

This is the root of my guilt: lost opportunities to get real. All that wishing for it not to be happening the way it was happening. All the stress of confusion and resistance and disbelief. Realizing the misery of the situation - one that we could not control - and simply being with her didn't happen until the very end. I'm still greedy for more of those moments.

If this ever happens again, I know there will be more of those days. I will understand the meaning of her request of me to "go deep." I will let go of this guilt and get on with remembering the essence of her and the many lessons she taught me.

Why I Love Me Some NFL Action

When the husband and I were first dating and sharing secrets, he warned me that he was crazy about football. I found this hard to believe since he displayed no other signs of being "one of those" guys. Seeing as I was wild about him and we were months away from the next season, it was easy to brush aside his statement. Come that September, I learned just how honest he was being. This man's enthusiam for the game runs deep...we're talking a certifiable football maniac.

We're now well into our ninth NFL season together and I find myself earnestly looking forward to the Sunday ritual. I'd even go so far as to categorize myself a fan. Because the husband is willing to explain the rules to me ad nauseam, I can keep up with the big boys when it comes to understanding what I'm watching. Even though my favorite part remains critiquing the outfits, somehow, I've developed an appreciation for what these gigantic men in tights are able to do with their bodies. And I just turn my head away when someone gets hurt.

However, I must admit, the real secret to my pigskin appreciation is blatently selfish. I love football because it means I get to spend an entire day with one of the best versions of the husband, and frankly, I'm straight up addicted to it. Sunday mornings during football season are like Xmas morning for his six-year old self. He's giddy, he's in the moment, he's running around the house shouting with glee having an out of body experience. Even when his team doesn't win, he maintains this state of elation right on through to the end of the night game. Don't even get me started on Monday Night Football, or - gasp! - the Super Bowl.

Well...now you know...true confessions of a football wife.

Thwarted Saturday

Everybody's working for the weekend. That's pretty much our reality during the school year. The husband spends weekdays facing upwards of thirty children during his twentieth year of teaching at the same school. It has become a journey that I share with him in many ways, in particular the long sigh of relief that accompanies Saturday mornings: OUR DAY.

This one greeted us with pure gorgeousness, which inspired the husband to conquer that front yard work and sent me indoors to deal with some long-procrastinated school stuff. We agreed to meet back up around mid-afternoon for our traditional, work-is-done, congratulatory beer and fries on the Derf's patio.

It can never be that simple, though, can it? We literally made it half-a-block around the corner before catching full view of the formerly beautiful day, which hadn't seemed so bad from our yard. The hazy smoke looked like the grosser-than-gross version of the smoggiest LA day enveloping our dear downtown Santa Barbara. As if on cue, the winds took this moment to really kick in, delivering us Zaca Fire Part Deux in the form of fine, dirty ashes squeezing through window sills and gritting their way into eyes and mouths all over town.

Always up for taking acts of nature as personal attacks, we headed back for home to commence our bitch festival. "Mother nature hates us!" "Is it so much to ask for one crisis-free day?" "The yard was perfect, but only for one minute!" "Why must this always happen on the weekend?!"

My weekday life is exponentially less hectic and energy-zapping than the husband's, so I was able to regain composure without too much effort. The day was saved with some Thai food leftovers (always better 24 hours later) and a little NFL channel. But what really turned it all around (and end-game for this entire post) was my brilliant assessment that we were experiencing...wait for it...

A Big-Ash Storm.

Coincidence?

It's odd, this life...and magical, and creepy, and welcome and amazing.

During the day yesterday, I found myself facing a moral dilemma: whether or not it was time to delete Annika's email address from my list of contacts. I paused, staring at her name, several times, and rather sheepishly sent her long defunct account the notice of my new address. The redundant "mail cannot be delivered" message stung a little too much and convinced me to - finally - let the email address go.

During the night yesterday, Annika visited my dreams again; but, for the first time, it was just Annika. There was no undercurrent of cancer or problems of any variety. She was merely joining her sister and our mother on a wild adventure through an airport and subsequent rodeo. In the dream, we were working together, laughing out loud, and having the most comfortable interactions imaginable.

Sure, the same-day email address deletion and dream visitation may be coincidental. It may also be coincidence that, last night, I happened to sleep in her white t-shirt with a blue Ganesha on it. But shrugging things off to boring coincidence is not how I roll. Annika doesn't show up in my dreams very often. Nor do I happen upon her email address or wear that shirt very often. Besides, it's more fun being a subscriber to the "it's all connected" line of thinking. It's sort of like religion - without having to be all religious - in the way it offers meaning to the daily drudgery and allows for a sense the profound.

Still, there's something niggling at me about this whole thing: we went to a freakin' rodeo?!

Blaaaaahg-ified

One week, I'm going about my business: breathing, eating, the usual. Tra la la la.

The next week I'm being trailed by an internal narrator who can't seem to stop herself from crafting every move I make into fully structured sentences. She's chasing me all over town, whispering in my head descriptive lines of witty prose sure to catapult me into fame as the world's most brilliantly poignant new author. So where the fuck is this narrator hiding when I finally have the chance to sit down and transcribe her strokes of genius? How convenient for her, really, to just up and evaporate like that.

What is it that holds a person back as they write, as they decide what they'd like to say and how to say it in a given moment? What is it that causes an artist to drink to excess and beat their spouse? Despite best efforts to convince myself of anything else, the answer is, indeed, the obvious one. Dammit if it's not the dreaded F-word, the middle finger that thrives on wagging itself in the face of vulnerable minds far and wide.

Fear. Fear of intimacy, fear of going deep, fear of the hurt, fear of experience, fear of lack of experience, fear of being found out, fear of looking stupid, fear of hurting feelings, fear of being wrong, fear of being right, fear of trying something different, fear of finding something I love, fear of the boogieman.

Right now the little narrator chick is telling me to relax and lighten up already. She's reminding me everyone starts from their own place, everyone brings their own level of experience - or inexperience - to their writing. She's telling me to knock off the elitist perfectionism and release the pressure that keeps me from making progress. She's telling me that I've already found my voice and to go ahead and use it. She's telling me...damn, disappeared again.

No matter, I've said what I came to say.

and now for something completely different

The husband tells me that a sick kid asked to be sent home early from school yesterday because he had a bad case of stripper throat.

True story.

Welcome to the Cruel World

I had been enjoying a refreshingly light mood the last week or so...but that's all over now. Yesterday delivered a triple whammy of frustration, disappointment and reality television; and today I find myself literally long in the face.

Today it doesn't matter whether or not I realize this "poor me" episode won't last more than a day or two because, basically, it's obnoxious and I don't want it and I'm supposed to be a princess, dammit!

Today it makes no difference that I've made my peace with Annika's death and am trying to honor her by living my life well. Nope, turns out three minutes of a stupid TV show has the power to rip my heart back open and leave me feeling as raw and vulnerable and confused as the day she died and my heart broke.

Today it's not enough to go about living my peaceful life, reducing my carbon footprint, and focusing what I can for those in need within my family, my friends, my community.

Today is a mascara-free day because every other thought I have or song lyric I hear sends me running down the hall and into the bathroom so I don't frighten anyone who might walk through the office door with my red, puffy eye slits.

Today, the universe revolves around my sorrow.

Today, the thing I wish I didn't understand about heartbreak is that it's never going to fully heal. I don't know what made me think it ever could. Now I must live with the knowledge that once you've been broken, you'll always know what it feels like to be broken...and the broken spots are sensitive to changes in the weather.

They Say the Mind is the First Thing To Go

I started out the day fretting over the fact that large chunks of my memories go missing on a relatively frequent basis. It's starting to be unsettling.

For example, that brain-burning pink, Parisian hotel room from fourteen years ago is somehow easily recalled. I spit gum out of the window and watched it hit - dead center - the top of a parked car, forming a perfectly flat circle. I sure thought that was clever, but, apparently much more that went on inside that room. A recent look through a friend's photo album proved that I actually co-hosted a small party in there; the European pinkiness of it all must have made it easy to pretend we were a group of sophisticated, worldly ladies (rather than the sheltered eighteen and nineteen year olds we, in fact, were). Why is it that don't I remember Jessica getting stuck between the two beds, having to be pulled to safety by her ankles? Why is it that I have no memory whatsoever of posing for pictures in a rose-shadowed corner, demonstrating the "French inhale" with a cigarette? What was I doing with a cigarette, anyway? These photos - taken long before I ever tried anything that might cause legitimate brain damage - sure do make it look like we were having one hell of a good time! So, what gives? Why can't I remember a thing about it?

I have no idea where I read the other day that creative-types tend to also be forgetful-types. Come to think of it, I do seem to take notes on every little thing that I think I'll need remember to keep my life together (translated as a cloud of post-it notes in my trail). Here all this time I thought I was just a touch absent minded, but now I know it's on account of I'm all kinds of creative and shit! One thing I've noticed is that my brain is non-discriminatory; that is, I'm equally capable of losing track of the fun life experiences as the nasty ones.

Chalk it up to my creative genius that, this morning, I arrived for my second scheduled punishment of the year - involving a dental hygienist stabbing and flossing her way through my troubled mouth of doom - without a hint of trepidation.

Suddenly, I See

Lately, I find myself drawn primarily to science fiction books. Long ago, my stubborn mind must have declared this genre unworthy of my time and pretty much have avoided ever reading any. Unfortunately, bull-headedness doesn't always work in my favor.

How did I miss the fact that these stories are a logical approach to exploring the problems that accompany humanity and warning us that we'd better get it together before the machine people show up to teach us a lesson in perspective? Who knew that it makes sense to use alternate universes and the intangible future world as a means of telling stories of philosophy? Of living for the present? Of tolerance and brotherhood? Of love? All this mixed in with hints of "Will it work?" and "Does it even matter?" It's great fun, honestly! I especially like the tales involving kid heroes/heroines who find themselves with the responsibility of saving the world from the adults' poor choices.

I do realize I'm not the first person to discover this truth about science fiction; I'm really just the latest newbie to join the club. Maybe it's as simple a explanation. Maybe I plain old didn't used to give a crap about these "humanity is doomed because of our actions" issues. It's interesting - and laughable, scary, even sort of sweetly naive - how the last few years of unfamiliar life experience has completely altered what I see. I guess I always have been a bit of a late bloomer.

It's a Miracle

This morning, the most amazing thing happened; it feels like I've had a visit from Santa Claus.

For six and half years now, we've been living with an invisible cat named Kizzy. OK, she's not actually invisible, but it sure feels that way every time we have to convince a visitor that the litter box, in fact, is not just a cleverly placed decoration. Way back, when I realized she was far more skittery than the shelter people had let on, I stubbornly - foolishly - declared to the husband that I'd have our adorable little fur factory sitting on my lap in no time. I hate it when I'm wrong.

Actually, she's almost like a normal pet when nobody's looking. I get to chase her from room to room, sometimes catching her long enough for a minute of huggy cuddles. I get toss her something to play with and deal with her blank stares, as if waiting for my next trick. I get to keep her well-fed and pretend not to mind cleaning up her occasional hairball on the carpet. I even get to share the bed with her, where she's careful never venture any closer to the lap than foot level.

Lately, though, Kizzy has been showing subtle signs of cracking under my "you SHALL sit on my god damned lap someday because I am the Cat Whisperer" pressure. In fact, she's been so responsive - sitting next to me on the couch for long stretches of time, snuggling against my thigh when she thinks I'm asleep, letting me pick her up after only half of a lap around the room - that I've started to wonder who this new cat is that looks so much like our Little Miss Priss.

Then today happened. October 14, 2007 began with my usual, stubborn routine of cooing at the cat, trying to get her to come to me, rather than the usual vice versa scenario. I'm still lying down in bed and all of a sudden, she's sitting on my lap and purring audibly! She even stayed there long enough for the husband to catch photographic evidence! Even if Kizzy never gives me lap time again, I'll always have today, the day I got to think for one fleeting, triumphant moment, "I WIN!"

Today's Bitch List - 3 Items

item #1: adult acne

It's one of those things they didn't tell you about when you were a kid, and, if they did, you didn't believe them. My thirties have blessed me with a migrating patch of cloggy blackheads and the occasional gigantor zit that sets up camp on my forehead - like on the wedding day - or on my cheek - like right now. Sure, adult acne isn't as awful as most other adult concerns they didn't tell you about - war, grief, pantyhose - but it sure is irritating.

item #2: flip flops vs. cold weather shoes

Another thing nobody warns you about is the side effects of a flip flops addiction. See, my tootsies simply cannot handle the exposure on these cold weather, rainy days; yet every single alternate choice in my tiny closet makes me feel like I'm attached to cement blocks. So far, the only covered shoes that I can really tolerate have turned out to be Crocs, which, frankly, horrifies me. There was a time that I could have handled the Crocs, but that all ended when I took down my Jim Morrison posters. And, I confess, it gets worse: this morning, I pulled on a pair of black socks before slipping my feet into the Crocs...and then...I went to work. This cannot continue!

item #3: cooking

You mean grown ups have to take care of this for themselves? I'm deep into this routine of stocking the cupboards and fridge full of yummy, healthy food, and then going out to eat. For some reason, hours of prep time resulting in a mediocre bowl of vegetable mush simply does not seem to inspire further experimentation in the kitchen. The husband, sweetie that he is, always says it's alright because I'm in school right now...but those days are numbered. Sigh. I wonder, how long does one last on freezer food, smoothies and beer?

I Heart Minesweeper

Despite all that I am capable of getting done in a day, I sure am easily distracted. For the last two years, I've been carrying on a love affair with the PC game, Minesweeper. The clickity clickity click of the game has become my constant companion at work. It whiles away the time when on hold and drowns out the siren call of online shopping. It fills in the doldrums of a slow afternoon and feeds the procrastinator within. It's more addicting than most substances and the box-grid has made appearances in my dreams far too many times.

At one point, I figured it was time to show some control over my obsession; so I broke it off with Minesweeper entirely. "Free, at last," I thought, pressing the delete button with authority. Weeks went by - perhaps even a month or two - during which I found myself yearning for the friend I had so coldly banished from my life. Eventually, guilt got the better of me. The days without Minesweeper had left me far too efficient and there was time to kill. Imagine the elation when I found my love awaiting restoration in the trash!

Things feel back to normal now with Minesweeper back in his rightful place along my taskbar. My addiction is fed on a continual basis and the husband doesn't even have to know a thing about it because, thankfully, the home computer is Minesweeper-free.

starting is the hardest part

where zen ends, ass kicking begins

So goes the quote that has been taped to our bathroom mirror for the last year and a half. The edges of the paper have long since curled to cover the purple, handwritten words. Yet, there it is, the unassuming reminder that catches my eye every now and then. Like yesterday, when it was time to come up with a clever name for this blog.

You know, I try to live with the intentions of love and peace; I try to maintain a balanced perspective on the madness of it all; I try to be zen. But honestly, how the hell did the word BLOG become a part of the vernacular? "Hello, and welcome to my blahhhhhhhhhhhhg." Seriously, folks?! I'd like to go ahead and blame the blog-word itself for keeping me from starting one until now.

But here's the deal, if one is going to label oneself a writer, then one must actually develop their writing practice. I've gotten to know myself pretty well these last thirty-something years; and I can admit that I require a little ass kicking every once in a while in order to reach my goals.

Therefore, to my blog, I say this: Zen time is over.