Today I was sitting in class, and I suddenly realized how unbelievably unhappy I am. But I should be happy. I'm doing this thing that I've been wanting to do for a long time, something that makes me feel creative and I can really get my hands dirty. But it's not really very fulfilling for some reason. I think I'm the only one that cares about it. My family doesn't give a rats ass what I'm doing (not one phone call from a single blood relative on my birthday, and a single card from my father), and none of my friends seem to understand anything I do. They just nod politely and give uh-huh's at the appropriate moments. The only person who ever seemed to be on my wavelength was beach guy, and he has nearly completed his extraction from my life. I realized that today when I was sitting outside on a bench, and happened to see him. I was about to jump up to go say hi, and then I saw that quirky blonde with him. Dammit. So I stayed where I was, and watched them walk up the sidewalk. She had her arms flailing because she was probably in the midst of some dramatic story, periodically bumping into him, and he was eating it up. And then I thought, when was the last time he walked with me like that? He doesn't even have time for me anymore. Whenever I show up, it seems I get shooed away in 10 minutes or less. But this girl gets his time. His attention. His leisurely walks to the Theater Building. And who knows, maybe he even had time to have lunch with her too. I don't remember the last lunch we shared. He avoids me. And my questions. He doesn't want to carpool anymore. He doesn't even want me to know what time he's getting to school. So he can spend more time on lazy walks with the girl with stories? Or is it just that he doesn't want to be around me? I've noticed the change in him since she arrived. He notices me less and less every day. He talks to me less and less. He used to give me hugs, now I can't even get him to look at me. His face used to soften and light up every time he saw me; now he just looks at me like everybody else. I wore my cute red pants, the ones that I thought he would like, and he didn't notice. Or maybe he just didn't care. I give up. Yes, I'm jealous. Yes, I'm hung up. I'm brokenhearted and lonely and no one understands me. He really believes that I'll find someone else, as if there's a second banana waiting in the wings, but it's not going to happen. Partially because I am so hurt from everything that I've been through. But it's also because I liked who I was with him. No one has ever been able to bring out the pieces of me that he brought out. And those were some of my favorite pieces. Pieces that I don't bring out on my own. I need help to be that person I like so much. And no one else appreciates that person. They want the other person that is not so fun for me. And that person I became with him is not easily coaxed out. She was sleepy-eyed and she whispered and she noticed how great every day was. She didn't care about schedules and appointments and assignments; she only cared about spending time with him. She opened up and showed her feelings and never held anything back. She was honest and generous and only cared about how happy she suddenly was. And her life seemed easier and lighter. And someone was finally walking beside her and understanding what she was. And she felt free to take risks and do things she wasn't used to because he said it would be ok and she trusted him. She was willing to trade her independence for solidarity and peace of mind. It was completely worth it to her. I like that girl. I miss her. I miss him too.

Dollars, Doctors, and Defense

I saw something today that said 68% of people would stop seeing movies for 6 months for $500. 16% would cheat on their taxes for the same amount. 8% would cheat on their spouse. And all it takes is 500 clams, folks. First of all, it would take a lot more than that to get me to stop watching movies for any length of time, but I know I'm a little tweaked on that one. As for cheating on a spouse, it seems like if you need some greenbacks, you could just pawn your ring. If you're not a total schmuck, it should be worth about 500 bananas. Not worth as much as you paid for it, but then the marriage probably isn't either. And that's a lot of trouble for not a lot of bones. It won't even cover the cost of your divorce.
I read all this in the doctor's office, which was another yucky experience. There's always the preliminary stuff before you actually see the doctor, where the nurse checks your vitals; height (which she just asked me), weight, blood pressure, and temperature. She "checked" my temp by telling me to put the thing under my tongue and handing me the attached readout box thing. She said, just watch the readout, and walked away. It appeared as though I was instantly promoted. Granted, it's not hard to read 98.6 on a thing the size of a remote control, but I do pay for these services. What if it was important? Do I have to draw my own blood sample next time?
So this doctor, who is checking the most personal parts of my body, starts asking me if I'm having the something whatever whosit, and I have no idea what he's talking about. I only know he's talking about one of my bodily functions that he will never experience and he knows more about it than I do. I felt like such an idiot. Or at least less of a woman. Some man is more in touch (no pun intended) with my body than I am. And he's probably gay, to boot.
Perhaps this is one of the reasons I have been utterly unable to hold down a man (in a relationship, that is). I'm not feminine enough. I don't get PMS. I don't get cramps. I don't talk about girl products with other people. I don't wax. I only shave on an 'as needed' basis. I don't 'do' my hair, finernails, or makeup. Maybe men secretly love this stuff, but bitch about it so they can seem more manly. They actually want high-maintenance girly girls who take forever in the bathroom, get headaches to avoid sex, and cut their bangs to make them grow. I'm fun for a while (6-9 weeks to be exact), but then the mystery is gone. They realize that I'm really not covering up some womanly doppelganger that plucks and tweezes and polishes and goes to pilates class(so she can look good naked for him) before work. I actually like football. I don't just feign interest to humor him. I know stats and players and rules and everything. There was even a short time (recently) that I wanted to be an NFL ref.
In my own defense, I do have lots of shoes. And I like wearing cute and flirty short skirts and sparkly jewelry. But that's not enough. It's never enough.

You Meltdown and I Freeze

I saw him at his usual place. It used to be our usual place. He was stressed out. He had too many things to do, he said. He couldn't keep up. His family was asking things of him he didn't want to do. Work was overwhelming him. He didn't have time to get things done. Silly, extra things that are a pain in the ass. He had found himself looking forward to his favorite things ending so he would have more time. He didn't like it. I understand. He looked and sounded like he was about to have a meltdown. And I failed. I didn't know what to do. I wanted to fix everything for him, but I didn't know how. I felt like I should leave him alone so he would have some time to himself, but I didn't know if that would actually help. I felt like I was burdening him with my presence, with phone calls and outings and whatever else. It is a terrible feeling to see him trapped, this man that I care about more than anything, and not be able to do anything. Or even have words of encouragment for him. I really just want to call his family and say "Leave him alone, he can't handle your melodrama" and call his boss and say "Leave him alone, he's the best you've got". And I want to take care of all the little stuff he has to sweat like going to the post office and the video store and checking out stuff online. But there is a weird piece of him that likes doing that stuff. So he won't let me do it. So I'm stuck with just feeling bad for him. Hoping he figures out a way to get everything back under control. Wishing I had something helpful to say or do. So I just sit there and shut up. Not exactly what one would hope for in a time of personal crisis. The worst part is that when I'm in trouble, he always knows exactly what to say or do to make everything ok. And I couldn't return the favor. I feel like a loser. I want to help. I want to be leaned on. I want to provide the shoulder that he seems to need. I froze. I suck.

Only for the Brave

I'm sitting here reading other blogs and think, hey, maybe I should put up a post. The only problem is, I've been having this problem lately where my thoughts are swimming in my head and I can't quite get them organized enough to put them down. Maybe I'm going crazy. Maybe I'm getting lazy. I'm not sure where to go with this thing. I know no one is reading, and I actually take some comfort in that. I can write about whatever I want and no one is going to know about it. But I have friends that want to know my address so they can check it out. They are good friends. They are supporting the things I do. But then I worry that they might finally realize exactly how crazy I am and call the authorities. Then I'd be in a world of trouble. It seems like this should be just like confession, where you can say what really happens and you don't have to worry about it coming back to you later. Anyway...
Tomorrow I have to go to the girly doctor. I hate this doctor. The last time I saw this doctor, he said, " You really don't like this, do you?" And all I could think was, "Who would?" Contrary to popular belief, most women do not enjoy have metal things stuck into them by people they hardly know. And I, for one, am particularly wary of answering any questions about my bodily functions or 'relations' with these people. I'm always a little concerned that they'll say, uh-oh, just as I suspected, and I'll wake up in the county sanitorium. And they always seem to have some extra procedure they have to do, just to make sure that you're normal. The first twenty minutes of hell wasn't enough. These people are sadistic. I flinch when they touch me and they act surprised. As if I should be used to it. This is the appointment I've been dreading for 3 weeks. Ick.

Goodbye Cruel Summer

I already miss summer. And it's only been gone for 6 days. Last night I noticed that my tan lines were fading. It made me sad. I want my tan lines back. They always reminded me of time spent doing nothing. Time spent alone, or with someone, but always outside. Always my time. Unscheduled time. Now the lines are fading because all my time is scheduled. Cluttered up with stuff. Now there's no time to clear my head of extra stuff. I don't like it. I want my tan lines back. I want to feel hot again. Now nights are getting colder. Back to jeans. It feels like walking into a memory that never existed. September is my favorite month. And now it's almost over. There's nothing left to look forward to for a long time. The sun won't be hot again until April. Seven months. After the six I just counted. The six that I tried to live and only ended up more dead than I started. But at least I tried. And I got tan lines for my trouble. And they ended up being the thing that made me feel most alive. And now they are going away.

Post Office Good, DMV BAD

Life can be so expensive. Sometimes it doesn't even seem like it's worth it. I hate how bills just keep piling up for stuff that doesn't really exist. Like minutes. Or liability. Interest. I love being able to call people. I hate that my cell phone company has crappy coverage. I could be in the middle of a city and only get one bar. It sounds like one of those stupid T-mobile commercials, but I bet those bastards have coverage problems too. Registering my car. What exactly IS registration, anyway? Another thing you have to pay for that they don't worry about until you get pulled over and then you're toast. And if your address changes, you're out of luck. The DMV can track every single ticket you've ever had, find out your mother's maiden name, where you were born, all the people you've slept with, everyone you've ever voted for, and your high school GPA. What they can't do is figure out what a forwarding address is. Idiots. They also have a hard time figuring out how to pick up the phone, but that's another story.
Why are these things so expensive??? I can eat at a fancy restaurant easier than I can pay car registration. And I actually get something for my money in the restaurant. I even pay a hefty sum for some mysterious airborne internet connection. And it works with the dependability and speed of Paris Hilton. It's beginning to seem like the best mode of communication is actually the post office. At least my mail gets there. I don't even have to pay extra to send a postcard during peak hours. And I don't have to be a registered correspondent in order to send mail. They'll do it for anyone for the low low price of 37 cents. All they ask is for a zip code plus four. I don't even do THAT and they still deliver my mail. What a swell bunch. How dedicated. How selfless. Actually I think the post office might be one of the only government agencies that actually does what they say they do. How refreshing. I wish more "service providers" could follow the credo: Not snow, nor sleet, nor dark of night will keep them from delivering their rounds (or something like that). The only group that seems to be as dedicated are meter maids, and I wish they operated more like the DMV. Those fuckers gave me a parking ticket ON MY BIRTHDAY. Yet another "thing" that I have to pay for that isn't even a thing. It's just paint on a curb. It's not like I was blocking a fire hydrant or something. The back of my car was just hanging in a little bit of red, and only because the jackass in front of me didn't bother to pull up. And in the off-chance the driver of that white 2-door Acura is reading this, you're lucky I didn't give your bumper a nice parting gift. I really wanted to. Asshole.

Anyone Listening?

Sometimes I feel like I have no one to talk to. To whom I can talk. I hate that. One one hand, I hate it because I know it's not true. On the other, it makes me feel really lonely. I don't even know where this feeling comes from. From where it comes. Maybe it comes from the same place as that feeling that I have absolutely nothing to wear. Is it boredom? Restlessness? Discontent? General insanity? It's like that feeling where you don't want to go home, but you don't know why, and you have nowhere else to go. But I fantasize about it anyway; I'm driving home from work and just keep going up the interstate (or freeway, as they're apparently called out here) until it feels right to stop. But then what? Being realistic really sucks sometimes. Because then the fantasy disintigrates into the banality of Where would I stay? What would I do? How would I get to class on time tomorrow? What about my roommates (they would be worried)? What if I didn't like it where I went? And that sucks. These are the troubles with fantasies; they are difficult to continue when you obliterate them with ridiculous logic. Don't get me wrong, I have a rich and vivid fantasy life. It just depresses me when I destroy them instead of letting them live where they like. They are dangerous sometimes when they accidentally turn into hope, and then they don't materialize because they were never meant to in the first place. Nothing is worse than disappointment, disillusion, and despair.
Anyway, I'm off my subject. If I did feel like I had someone to talk to, would I even have anything to say? Lately I've taken to rattling on about nothing while some poor soul is forced to feign interest and wish they were somewhere else. I don't want to be boring. I want to be fun and exciting and witty. I want people to eagerly await the next verbal encounter they have with me instead of hope they'll be able to keep it short. Nothing is worse than being a boorish windbag. And I can see it when their eyes glaze over and their uh-huh's and mm's become less and less frequent. They start looking at the nearest clock or watching people pass by, hoping someone will be able to rescue them. And I'm too fucking stupid to just shut up. Some mechanism in my head insists that everything be expunged onto some poor innocent bystander. God I hate that. So this is my (late) birthday resolution: I will try to talk less. I will try not to bore people. I will try to say things that are prudent or important instead of extraneous or tedious. Maybe then I won't feel like no one wants to listen.

The Grind

I hate being busy. It really sucks. I would much prefer to lay on the beach like a whale until someone came along to roll me into the water. I wish my brain could be freed of all this other crap that has to get done before the day is over. It is making me tired. Some people may not need downtime, but I definitely do. I enjoy life more when I can actually stop and realize I'm enjoying it. Yesterday I was awake from 6 AM to midnight. That sucked. Not because I was awake, but because I had too much stuff to do, and that made the day so long. So today I just want to sit around and do nothing, but I can't. I have to do a bunch of stuff that I didn't do in the last couple of days because I was too busy. And tomorrow it all just starts over again. All I ask is one day where I don't have to do anything. Where the day actually belongs to me. Not to school, not to work, not to some assignment, or housework or errands or phone calls. Me. A day where if I want to lay in bed and watch movies all day, I can. A day where I can go to the beach and stay for the sunset without having to look at my watch. A day where I don't have to wear my watch. Or take my cell phone. Or get in my car. Or worry about what's next on the list, or what I'm forgetting. A day where I can sit and have lunch without having to time it right so I won't be hungry during class or work or something else. A day for me. Without appointments and schedules and deadlines. These things are driving me crazy. I am so jealous of the people I know that swim through their day just doing whatever they think up next. I want that too. I feel so disconnected from myself right now. I've had to force everything out of my brain that matters to me just to get through every day and get my chores done. I hate that. I want my days to be steeped in the thoughts that have nothing to do with tasks. I want to be able to taste my food. Feel the heat. See the sun. Argh. I guess this is what the daily grind is that everyone was talking about. No wonder I always avoided it. It sucks. And the worst part it, I don't even know how to get out of it. Help!

Day of Stuff

Today I saw a story on the news about a guy who is trying to develop a computer that you wear on your head so the screen is constantly in front of you. Ok, my first reaction is that this guy takes the term computer nerd to a whole new level. He even wore his computer while they were interviewing him. What a doofus. Secondly, WHO THE HELL WANTS THIS CRAP?!! Don't get me wrong, I love my laptop; it goes anywhere and is easy to store. But that doesn't mean I want it attached to my person. It is absolutely necessary to get away from all this multitasking crap as much as possible. What ever happened to enjoying one thing at a time? When I go on vacation, I make a point to leave my laptop at home so I won't be hauling it out all the time instead of enjoying the things around me. Sometimes I even (gasp) turn my cell phone off. Sometimes I read actual books, you know, the ones with the papers with words on them? What is happening to us if we are so hell bent to fuse ourselves with machines? It feels like one of those Star Trek episodes with the Borg. The funny thing is, I'm sure there are a ton of people out there who MISS their computers and cell phones and palm pilots and GPS devices. They think I'm crazy. I'm not. I'm just human.
Florida is about to get drenched again. I feel sorry for my friends in the South. They think they moved to Seattle, but don't remember packing. Oh yeah, all their stuff washed away in the floods. I feel sorry for them. I'm glad I don't live there anymore.
Today I had the best guacamole ever. And I don't even know what was in it that made it so good.
Tomorrow I make my first attempt at actual filmmaking. Wish me luck (for getting up at the butt crack of dawn). Happy Birthday Beach guy. Happy Autumn to everyone else.

Hair

I'm watching him talk. He's moving around because he is animated when he talks to people, like a performer trying to get everything into each word. But I'm not really watching him talk. I'm watching his hair roll around softly on his back. He is unaware of it, it seems. But I can't concentrate on anything else. I want him to shut up. I want to take him away from these people and run my hands through his hair and feel it like this. Its softness, its fullness, its weight. It seems so simple, so stupid. What he's saying really is interesting. I want to listen. I just can't. I remember what it felt like, but like the addict, I need more. And no one would even understand why. They would just shake their heads like they always do. But they don't see. This hair is who he is, it lives a life with him, in spite of him, and because of him. It has moods and needs like anything else. So I want my hands in it.
There was a song (is a song) that I once knew "La Chevelure". The rough translation into English went something like this : He said to me, tonight I had a dream, I had the tresses of your hair around my neck. I had your hair like a black circlet around the nape of my neck and around my breast. I caressed it and it was my own; and we were united forever this way, by the same tresses, mouth upon mouth, like two laurels that often have but one root. And little by little it seemed to me that so intermingled were our limbs that I became a part of you, or you entered into me like my dream. When we had finished telling me, he put his hands gently on my shoulders and he looked at me with so tender a look that I lowered my eyes with a shiver.
(Claude Debussy's "Chanson di Bilitis", in case anyone is interested.)
Hair is erotic. It's sexy. But sometimes it seems like it's so much more than that.

Movie Madness

Today I saw a film that I really liked. I didn't like it as much as another film by the same director, but I liked it nonetheless. (HERO was the film, in case anyone wants to know) This is a director who has definite ideas about what a film should look like, and what it should say. He has the most wonderful eye, and this film is full of amazingly beautiful images and colors that Kodak has wet dreams about. About which Kodak has wet dreams. He saturates his story in such fantastical landscapes and color palattes that it is easy to lose oneself inside the fairy tale. He includes nods to the amazing Kurosawa while exploring his own brand of storytelling. His stories are laden with Shakespeare-esque tragedies involving countries, friendships, and of course, romance. This is a director that will not be rushed; he seems to revel in slowing down his 'realities' to accentuate every minute detail that he has painted for you. So enjoy it. It's there for you.
As a side note(or side rant, as the case may be), I have grown increasingly hesitant to view movies with the general public, especially in large, corporate owned theaters. While going into the theater this evening, I noticed a sign that spells out which movies you can take your kids to because the MPAA (the people who give ratings) said so. Since when does anyone have the right to tell you what your kids can see? And besides, the MPAA is so screwed up (giving KILL BILL and BILLY ELLIOTT the same rating makes no sense) that there is really no telling what a movie might contain based on its rating. This is just some messed up marketing tool that ends up branding films (often unfairly). And all this adds up to one thing: Censorship. Is this why we live in the 'land of the free'? So that we can have our creative ideas be forced to wear the modern day scarlet letters: X, NC-17, and R?
One more thing. For those of you who have a hard time keeping your mouths shut while watching a movie, go to the video store. I did not pay good money to hear some jackass two rows behind me saying "Who is that?',or "I knew it!", or "That's so fakey." To all of you (especially that woman behind me who I really wanted to knock out), SHUT THE FUCK UP. Let me enjoy this movie in peace. Not only is your running commentary annoying and distracting, but you are revealing to every person in the theater what a moron you are with your idiotic banter. Stow it.

Officially Older

So now it's over. I am officially older. I enjoyed the most wonderful dinner with the most wonderful man, who listens to me and looks at me when he talks. I wore the same outfit I wore on our first date. The little black dress with the sassy red shoes. I don't think he noticed, but I don't mind. That was a long time ago. Anyway, dinner. I ate too much food, and drank too much wine. And this man is so thoughtful, so great, that he brought his own birthday candles and lighter so I could make a wish with every course. This is a reason that I am still so in love with him.
We talked about lots of things, and he told me (like he always does) that I will meet someone and fall in love with them and forget all about how bad I feel now because we're not together. And he apologizes, which is not necessary, because I'm not looking for apologies. And I tell him that I disagree with him, because he is exactly who I want to be with, and there is no man alive that is like he is. He probably thinks I am saying this to make him feel good, or as mere flattery, but the truth is, I don't really want to say it. It would be much easier to say yes, there is someone out there who is the right one, who will make me happier, so I don't need you. But that isn't how I feel. This man is exactly as I want a partner to be. The better I know him, the more perfect he is. And he thinks I'm imagining things. But these things are real; the calming quality of his voice, the sway in his walk, the rambunctious curls of his hair. These are the things that soften the edges of the world and make it more palatable.
So I wish. I'm trying to keep it simple. Is the wish more powerful if you wish it more than once? I just want to get laid. Still, it's not simple enough. It seems like such a selfish wish, but I gave up wishing for world peace after the last election. So I'm drunk, I say goodnight, and walk back to my car. I crawl in the back seat and curl up under my big sweater. This should be fine until I feel up to driving. This is better than begging. But he eventually comes out to get me. He won't let me sleep in the car. I expect him to be mad, but he isn't. And he drives me home. And we talk some more about us. I hate doing this when wine is in the equation, because I always say too much. I feel humiliated for having to be "rescued" from my back seat. I try to apologize, and he won't let me. I'm afraid he might think I'm manipulating him in some way. I'm not. I gave that up years ago. I can't apologize enough. I don't want to be a burden. Or a responsibility. Or a liability. He doesn't seem upset. He's not even irritated. He is the most amazing person I have ever known. He gave me a great birthday.

Birthday Wish

He asked me what my birthday wish was. I said I would have to think about it, but I really don't. I already know exactly what I want. The trouble is, what I want isn't a thing, and I can't talk to him about it anyway. My birthday wish is for him to actually be in love with me like he used to be and for things to be the way they used to be. Then I could rid myself of this seedy jealousy for that quirky blonde that thinks he's so brilliant. The one that makes him laugh when he tells me funny things she said. Then I wouldn't be laying here in this bed looking at the other half that not only has no one in it, but not even the hope of someone being there because it is now a strange storage area for miscellaneous papers and clothes. These are not interesting bedfellows; I stick to my half. Then I could imagine some romantic getaway, even if we never went. Then I could feel him with me, encouraging me to keep going, even when we are not actually together. I could share things, and learn things, and discover things again. I could stop filtering the things I say because they might not be appropriate. I could give myself up and not have second thoughts. I could make plans. I could make promises. I could fantasize about a wedding in Hawaii, with just us. I could fantasize about the kids we would raise together. We could keep secrets. We could walk together like we mean it, and not have to say excuse me when we bump into each other. We could steal kisses and glances. I could trust someone again. I could glue my heart back together, piece by piece. I could stop counting the days since...I could have confidence and comfort back. I could feel beautiful. Smart. Funny. Charming. As good as quirky blonde girl. I could enjoy being naked again. Enjoy someone else's idiosyncracies again. This is my wish for my birthday. Something that is truly impossible, but in some parallel dimension, it IS possible.

Sleepy Puzzles

It's my birthday. It's finally here. And I'm laying in bed (alone) under a mountain of blankets because last night I started shivering and couldn't stop. This is California, not the Yukon. It's not cold. I wasn't cold. My feet were warm and almost to the point of sweating, but I was still shivering. So I got out every blanket I could find and put them on my bed. And I'm still under them all. It feels good, even though it's a bit warmer than I'm used to. At least I'm not shivering anymore. But then I had this dream that I saw an old woman dead in her bed with ice all around her. And someone said to me, she's not dead, she's' just frozen. And another voice said that she didn't die from the cold, she died from all her lonely nights. If that's not the wierdest thing ever, I don't know what is. I don't have dreams that seem to be stolen right out of my life. I have wierd dreams about people on horses riding through halls of schools. Dreams about fighting with my mother because she didn't win a Nobel or Pulitzer Prize. I'm not sure what to do with this information my subconscious is giving me. Any dream interpreters out there?

not a writer girl...

I'm not a very good writer. I know that. And I'm ok with it. I just think it sucks when I actually make attempts to write and it doesn't work out. Not even a little bit. This blog thing isn't a forum for me to show everyone how creative I am or what a fantastic writer I am, it's just to get me thinking about stuff and not forget the little things. Because those are the very things that are worth remembering. Or worth purging. Sometimes it seems like there are no new stories to be told. A romance, a comedy, a drama, whatever it is, it seems like when my pen goes to paper (or fingers to keyboard, as the case may be), my mind goes through all the other writers who have already been down that road. I'm sure good tales live inside me somewhere, but I don't know how to find them and make them speak. So instead, they come out bit by bit. On postcards, notes, and of course in my blah(g). So my task is to figure out how to get things to come out all at once and make it all interesting and compelling. But then, this is for me. No one needs to read this to make it worth my time. (which is good, since the readers are few and far between) I promise I have ideas in my head, no matter what one might infer from previous postings. And I'm sure that once I figure out how to get these extract these ideas, it will yield a veritable smorgasbord of fun and delightful things.

Hurricanes

I'm not ready for this birthday. Too many things going on in my head.
Tomorrow I become another year older, but yesterday
marked the sixth month since Beach guy dumped me
and shattered my heart into a
million
little
pieces.

And he probably
didn't even notice. Instead,
he went out with his new friend,
the one that makes him forget about everything,
the one I am irrationally jealous of.
Of whom I am irrationally jealous.

They laughed while I lamented.
Tuesday is supposed to be my day
to laugh,
but I really don't feel like it.
I just want to cry about it.
(Actually I already did)

It's my birthday, and I feel
alone.
No one loves me. No one needs me. No one wants to share with me.
I am the girl with the most cake
because I have no one to give it to.
To whom I can give it.

I want to crawl into a soft dark hole
and just stay there forever.
But I also want to try to crawl out.
Try to beat this feeling
that keeps bearing down on me
like hurricanes through Florida.

It seems like it's neverending.
And I could hear him avoiding my questions.
I ask the simple one,
the one I always ask, "What did you do today?"
And I hear him hesitate.
And I cringe because I know.
He went out with the new friend.

And he hesitates
because he doesn't want to tell me.
He would have omitted it
if I wouldn't have asked.
So he takes a deep breath and
holds it
for just a second,
because he is silently dreading
or debating
telling me.

Is it still a lie if it starts out as just an omission?
I guess so, because he tells me.
And it hurts.
But I asked.
And then, I hear him avoid my question.
Another simple one, but he can't answer.
"What time are you going in?'
"I need to relax."
That wasn't what I asked,
but ok.
I get it.
I'm not needed.
I won't ask again.
I have to go anyway.
The next hurricane is about to hit me.

Emotions are funny things. So are needs. They are unpredictable and uncontrollable. For some reason, I've been feeling really lonely today. And every attempt I've made to crush these feelings has failed. I've reminded myself of the friends I have, and the things we do together. They invite me to do stuff. They ask me about things in my life. Somehow it just isn't enough. I'm still lonely. So I called the people I know, which took less than five minutes since no one was there. And that makes me feel even more lonely. I reached out to touch someone and got nothing but dead air. So now I'm stuck trying to cure my loneliness by talking to my blah(g). Or typing to my blah(g). Only my laptop is always there for me. So now my most meaningful relationship is with a little metal machine. Argh. Lonely again. Damn.

Wine

I love wine. Wine is yummy. Wine is something that will never cease to fascinate me, or make me happy. I can drink a glass of it and feel better instantly. It warms me up, settles me down and mellows me out. And unlike other kinds of alcohol, it has flavors that vary wildly and magically from one kind to the next. The fruit, berries, spices, pepper, pomegranate, peaches, pears, currants and so on are so much fun to experience every time. And it doesn't even have to be expensive. Every day wine can be just as enjoyable as a fancy bordeaux that has been aging for 20 years (although I'm never one to turn down a bordeaux). I love the Meritage in particular; most of my favorites are these kinds. And for those of you who are wondering, Quintessa is the name of my favorite wine to date that I've tried. There are a plethora of wines I'd love to try that I haven't gotten to (or can't afford...2003 Lafite-Rothschild @ $349.99! but damn, I bet it's awesome), but so far Quintessa is at the top. It's followed closely by Franciscan Magnificat and Clos du Bois Marlestone. I'm sure there's some collector out there scoffing at my faves, but oh well. I have no cellar, I'm short on cash (until my real aristocrat family finds me), and oddly enough, I'm short on wine drinking buddies. Inconceivable! Anyway, for anyone out there with a wine fetish, I shut want to give you a shout out. I'm right here with all of you. Salud!

Where is my aristocrat family?

There are always going to be things in life that are difficult. I'm in school. That's not the difficult part. The difficult part is paying for stuff. I'm studying film, and I love it, but that crap costs an arm and a leg. Being creative is always expensive. And now it seems like my creativity is being stunted by a serious lack of funds, and that just doesn't seem fair. And getting into serious debt is not going to work because then I'll be even more screwed than before. I just want to make movies. So now I'm trying to figure out how to get money for this stuff. Is there something I can sell? It seems like I should be able to since I'm supposed to be so creative. Would people even be willing to pay money for stuff that I did? I guess that would be a good barometer for whether or not they would like my movies once they are made. This sounds ridiculous. I am not an entrepreneur. I was not cut out for this. I think I was just switched at birth, and that aristocratic family is out there somewhere wondering where their real child is. I was meant to be that silly girl that make people shake their heads with her frivolous pursuits. I don't have child bearing hips. I can't lift 50 pounds. I'm a hypochodriac (I once thought I had leprosy, and would have to live in a colony). These are the traits of some Paris Hilton-esque heiress, not a working girl struggling to make ends meet. Working definitely gets in the way of being irresponsible and spontaneous and fancy-free. And it seriously puts a kink in the filmmaking schtick. So anyway, that's the rant for the day. If anyone out there has any ideas for how to break out of the working-class cell and into artistocrat utopia, please let me know. I'm open to ideas.

Birthday Buddies

Sometimes birthdays are a real drag. It's not that I don't want it to be a good thing, it just never is. When I was a kid, my favorite book was this Sesame Street book with Grover telling you not to turn the pages because there's a monster at the end of the book. Of course, you keep reading and turning the pages, and he gets more and more frantic about the impending doom on the last page. He even goes so far as to try to build obstacles to try to stop you; nailing the page down, using glue, and so on. And when you get there, it turns out that Grover is the monster at the end of the book, and it's not so bad after all. I guess birthdays are kind of the same. I'll fret about it for the few weeks before, but then when it's over, not much has changed. And I wonder if the people around me are thinking the same things. It seems like I've known so many other people with September birthdays along the way. And I don't usually forget these people because of when their birthday is. So I guess this is my salute to the other people who have September birthdays. For Bill Murray and Stephen King(same birthday as me), that pretty and smart girl in my class that I'm jealous of but I like anyway(same day AND she's only 21), that pen pal I had in fourth grade (same day). For my brother and Greta Garbo (both on the18th), my ex-friend from the South (17th), that geeky guy from high school that's too good to talk to me now (3rd). For my friend's sister and her ex's sister (both 22nd), my roommate's philandering playboy (20th), and that guy I met once who's name was Lake (15th). For the five most significant ex's: Ohio boy, who left me for a girl with beer (24th), Sam, who took my virginity, then married his ex (24th), Musician boy, who married the next girl (24th), and Sensitive Beach guy, who shattered my heart into a million pieces (also 24th...does anyone else see the pattern here?)And let's not forget Chef, who once asked me to marry him. Over the phone. While he was New York. With his mom. (26th), for my Musician buddies Guitar Pete (23rd), Bass Grant and Guitar Forrest (both 28th), who I miss a whole lot, especially when I go to jazz bars.

I guess that's it, but I know I'm forgetting a few. Happy Birthday to all of you. Hopefully the monster at the end of your books is as lovable and harmless as Grover.

Hay Carumba!

This is a day I wish I could get rid of. Of which I could be rid. It seems like everything came crashing down yesterday, and I haven't been able to salvage anything. And more stuff is crashing. Ok, so work sucks, because people I trusted let me down. In the worst way. I almost lost my job because someone else was trying to cover their ass. And I thought that someone was my friend. And I suppose that just started the avalanche of other stuff that suck that I forgot about, but now I remember. Oh yes, let me see: I can go to school, but have no way to pay for it. I can work, but it will suck. I can love someone, but not be loved. Oh, and let's not forget yet another birthday just around the corner that's screaming at me about all those years I wasted. Now I'm old enough that kids I babysat are graduating from high school. People don't card me anymore. And I'm not in any better shape than I was five years ago. I might even be worse. Here I am, in a city where I can call everyone I know in about five minutes. I get lost every time I have to go somewhere new. Everything I own fits into a 12'X12' bedroom. I have no health insurance, no 401K, no career, no prospects. Oh yeah, and I can't keep a man for longer than nine months, and that only happened once. My next longest foray was 12 weeks. So each man totals less than 1/30th of my life. I've known my car longer than any man I've ever dated. So is this what it's like to get old? To become disillusioned? This isn't what I thought it would be. And I hate it. I know there are good things out there; they are so close I can almost taste them. But for some reason, I just can't get there. I can't get over that hump between potential and accomplishment. I wish I could figure out what I'm doing wrong. Hay carumba. This sucks. Birthdays suck. Age sucks.

I didn't forget!

Happy Birthday to brother too.

Not the Silver Lining

I have suddenly been overcome by a not-so-friendly feeling. It's not quite sadness, or anger, or frustration, but something in between all of them. It's a mysterious malaise that seems to be falling on me like a blanket of snow. Where did this come from? I was doing so well. I was getting things accomplished. I was on top of it. I was being responsible and productive. And then suddenly it all felt like it was for naught. Perhaps this is just fatigue. Perhaps I'm letting small problems become big ones. That phone call from my "boss" (actually 2 phone calls) that accusingly say, you need to call us, we're worried about you, are really just threats that I'm going to be fired. Fired? She says I was on the schedule. Let us recall, dearheart, that my school schedule plays directly opposite this, and I SPECIFICALLY said I was unavailable. Is this really that hard? It doesn't seem like it should be. All you need is the ability to read and know what day of the week it is. But these things are apparently impossible, and her literate shortcomings are obviously my fault and my problem. How do these kind of imbeciles get into positions of authority (oh wait, I forgot about our 'fearless' leader, Herr W.)? Still, it seems inconceivable that someone could fool their superiors into thinking they have no culpability in these matters. Hmm. This person didn't show up to work today, and she's never done that before, I guess we should fire her. That sounds logical? I mean really, what the fuck?

So now my whole day is ruined. I saw an amazing film, started a fun project, and contributed. And this poor excuse for a human being went and brought it all crashing down to be the day I didn't show up to work. The day she threatened (on my machine) to fire me. Great. How is it that these are the things we hold onto? I want to be able to let go of the bad stuff and hang on to the good stuff, but it is inexplicably hard. I want to grab this negativity and crush it to dust until it is as it never existed, but it seems like I just grab it and hold on. Sometimes I even save it for later, or forever. And the good stuff just gets lost in the shuffle. Damn. Surely I learned this from somewhere. I can't believe that it's just natural. But where? Parents, teachers, friends, newspapers, TV, movies, jobs; it could have come from anywhere. There's no telling. Is everyone like this? Or is there some amazing schmo out there who always remembers how much fun that party was, but doesn't really remember running into his ex? Who remembers that great vacation, but that broken leg just slipped his mind? I know these are exaggerations, but you get the idea. I just don't want to be the only one. The only one that has to be reminded to be positive. But don't worry, my mother is always more than willing to do that for me.

Struggles

Every day is some kind of struggle. It's just difficult to know what kind of struggle you're in for when you wake up. It might be for time. It might be for attention. It might be for survival. It often seems like it's against myself. There is a part of me somewhere that doesn't care about what kind of person I want to be, or who I'm trying to be. This part only cares about itself, about satisfying its own needs. And it seems like the more I try to squelch it, the more obstinate it becomes. Perhaps this is one of those things Freud was talking about. This thing that I try to bury so far down that it will never see the light of day is the most difficult struggle I will ever face in a day. Because it is ugly. Because it is relentless. Because it functions without reason, or logic, or regard to anything else. And the struggle comes because this thing really only wants me to be satisfied. It wants me to get laid. It wants me to be greedy when dinner is served. It wants me to hurt those who hurt me. But it is dangerous. When it gets a little piece of what it wants, it doesn't subside. It only grows. It is the emotional cancer that shades the day. And it has no name. You could call it greed, or jealousy, or anger, or hate, or gluttony, or any number of emotions that seem to be programmed in us "for our own good". But in the end, these are not the things I want to be. These things are only satisfying in the short term. They reek of consequences that I'd rather not suffer. So this is the struggle. Every day I have to hold my tongue, or control an appetite, or take the proverbial high road, I have to hope that the struggle is worth it. That the payoff for not being an asshole is bigger and better than giving in. And today it was. Someone was happy to see me today; really honestly happy. Not because I didn't give in today, but because I'm doing a good job of being who I want to be. Because I'm trying. And because he is too.

Producing Wasted Time

Whew! Being productive is tiring. I don’t know how people do it. Today I’ve managed to cross about 10 things off the to-do list, and boy am I exhausted. I’m usually proud of myself if I can get one thing done every day. And the crazy thing is, I still have a bunch of other things left to do before the day is over. I’m actually stunned that I’ve gotten so much stuff done. But then, I’m really motivated to get this crap done so I can get to the stuff that’s really important. Fun stuff. Stuff like concerts and birthday parties and movies. But first I have to get bank deposits, car insurance and doctor’s appointments done. That’s always a bummer. Why does everything always happen at once? Maybe it just seems like it. All I know is, today I had to set my alarm to get everything done, I haven’t had a shower yet today, and I really need a nap. All this running around is insane. I think someone should start some sort of service where they do all these things and make all these phone calls for you. Because the thing that makes them so annoying is that the actual errands don’t take any time at all. It’s all that time you spend in traffic, in line, or on hold. I’m willing to pay a few extra bucks for someone else to do those things for me and just report back when they're finished.
I once read that a person spends about seven years of their life standing in line. Just think what you could do if you had those seven years back. You could write that novel, or get a college degree (as a doctor even). You could even partially raise a child for seven years. But alas, you’ve been standing in line the whole time, starting aimlessly at your watch or admiring the beauty of fluorescent lights on taupe cinder block walls and linoleum tiles. And that’s not even counting the time you were on hold or in traffic. Is anyone else annoyed about all this wasted time?

Internetted!

Sometimes the internet really burns my butt. Whenever you feel like you are actually getting it, it turns on you. Uploading that next page? Whoops, connection error. Want to see that cute photo? Too bad, you’re just going to get an ‘X’ in a square. Try again some other time. Trying to find that web site from yesterday? Oh, it’s gone. But keep hitting that refresh button and maybe it will magically appear again. What the hell is going on??? This thing that doesn’t even really exist (it’s virtual, remember?) has made us more or less dependent on it, and yet it works with about as much reliability as an old Ford Pinto. (Just don’t hit it from behind, or it will just explode) If it were a car, people would be bitching and moaning about how little it actually works. It would be in the shop more than it’s on the road. Why do we accept this? Why do we become dependent on it? Those brainiacs at Microsoft (I’m talking to you, Billy) need to buck up and give us something that actually works for those of us who don’t speak six different computer languages fluently. It would also help immensely if they could hire tech support people that actually speak a language besides computer. Sorry pal, I don’t know where this mysterious file you speak of is. If I knew where it was, or what it was, or what it does, I wouldn’t have spent the last 45 minutes on hold waiting for you to tell me, would I? I don’t mind if you say, “See that thingy in the corner that looks like a pink elephant? Click on that.” That is much more effective than saying, “Go into your scan disk server and see what the RAM properties are.” I don’t know what you’re talking about, nor do I care to. I just want this damn thing to work like it’s supposed to. So here, I guess, is my open call for computer geeks to get their crap together and make this internet thing work more like a Honda than a Pinto. But now you’ll never get it because my server just crashed…

Eating Out Ettiquette, Part 1

Unfortunately, I am one of those poor souls that is forced to work for a living. Tragic, I know. To make matters even worse, I only have enough skills to get work waiting tables in a restaurant. Now, I am lucky enough to work in a nice place (a resort even), where I don’t have to worry much about non-tippers or people who run out on the bill, but there are always downsides to swanky places too. For instance, for some reason, women with money tend to believe that if they don’t order something that isn’t on the menu, or at least make something on the menu so complicated with special requests that it takes a small miracle to get it right, they aren’t getting their money’s worth. For all you ladies, just eat that fucking steak and like it. Go to Burger King if you want it done your way. And as a special note, if you ask for something special and you get it, show your appreciation with a thank you and a little something extra (I mean money, you cheap bitch) for your server. We put up with a lot of shit, and that béarnaise that you just got was made especially for you from scratch. And don’t waste it.

Also, if you are the only one in the restaurant and your server is mindlessly wandering around while you finish your water, LEAVE. That “tip” you are leaving is not enough to keep someone waiting around on your dumb ass. Eat and leave. That’s how this works. If you want to stay overnight, you’ll have to check in at the front desk, not on our patio.

If you want wine, fine. We like wine here. It’s fun. However, it is not something that we are going to speak of in hushed tones, as if it is the nectar and you are the gods partaking. Don’t speak to me as if you are something special because you asked for a thirty-dollar bottle of wine. I drink this stuff every day. I know what it tastes like, and you, you know-nothing fat ass, just chose the cheapest bottle on the list. Don’t think I’m going to compliment you on your exquisite taste. I’m not. Even if you ordered the expensive bottle, it’s not going to happen. I’ve had that too. So just shut up and drink, stop pontificating at me, and order the second bottle. Oh, and don’t forget, you are expected to tip on the wine, too, you cheap bastard.

Unfortunately, our restaurant allows dogs on their outdoor patio. For those of you who can’t bear to be without Fluffy for a few hours, here’s a tip. Make sure your dog has manners. Any barking, whimpering, growling, or sounds of any kind are not acceptable or appropriate at dinner. And if your dog tries to bite someone (especially me), you sure as hell better have a good lawyer. And don’t be surprised if I kick the crap out of your beast. It deserves whatever happens. And don’t forget to tip extra if your dog is a pain in the ass.

There are plenty of other guidelines one should remember when eating in public, but these are only a few that I wanted to address right now. I’m sure I’ll feel the need to address a myriad of other do’s and don’t’s, but I’ll save those for later.

Football Season

Yeah! Footbal season is here! Granted, I'm not the demographic the NFL is thinking of with their scantilly clad cheerleaders, macho tailgaiting commercials, and all male commentators, but I still love it. I may be the only person switching back and forth between the game and that Lifetime Movie, but I don't care. I'm excited to see how the Broncos are going to do without Clinton Portis, to see how the Giants are going to do with Eli Manning, how the Dolphins will fare without Ricky. And what about Deion Sanders?? (Why he gave up a gig where he can wear goofy suits with clown shoes and say crazy things so he can get beat up by kids ten years younger is a mystery, but a fun one nonetheless). I want to see all the bad calls, good calls, hard hits, great catches, and flagrant penalties. This is the game I was raised on, the thing you did on the weekend instead of homework. These are the players I know and love or hate, the teams I'm loyal to, whether it is to win or lose. And for the record, I will ALWAYS hope for the Raiders to suffer the most humiliating loss in every game. Raiders bad. Broncos good. And as for college football, I'm looking forward to crybaby USC to crash and burn. Hopefully they will. And Miami too, although that seems unlikely. But that's the beauty of football. No matter how good a team is, they can still lose, and vice versa. So I can always hope for things that the "experts" are convinced will never happen. This is fun. This is magic. I'll be watching. Go Broncos!

Connections

Sometimes people don't surprise you, but they still make you feel good in unexpected ways. Today HE called ME. I left him alone, to decompress and get away from everything and everyone. I wanted him to be able to enjoy time to himself. Quiet time. I could talk to him later. But in the end, he wanted to talk to me before the day was over. Not because he had something important he needed to talk about, but just because he wanted to make a connection. It sounds like such a silly little thing, but I don't care. I like feeling like I make someone's life more enjoyable, more bearable. I like to help by doing nothing at all. All I have to do is be there. Talk. Listen. It's easy to miss these things in life, these connections. In the shuffle of life, with the petty games and silly rules, making contact often gets low on the priority list. Too bad. Anyway, I like connecting. It's fun. It makes everything else seem so much less important. If one person can make things less painful or more satisfying, then why wouldn't you let them?

Shapers

I am well aware that no one is reading this. That's ok. In fact, I prefer it that way. It allows for a certain amount of freedom that I wouldn't have if I were writing for an audience. Then there would be expectations and limitations that would alter what comes out. And that can be dangerous. So here I am, essentially alone on the internet blah(g), spouting something that only I will ever hear. Cool. A sounding board for myself. The only trouble is, I feel like I don't have anything to say to myself. Is that bad? Or is it just that I have heard it all?

I'm looking for a surfboard shaper. Who knew it would be so intimidating and difficult? Well, maybe not difficult, but at least intimidating. I feel moronic looking for someone who will tell me about what they do when I have no knowledge of what they do. I don't even know how to surf. I just want to know about it. This craft of shaping surfboards is so mysterious to me, and I know I'm missing something really cool. And I'm missing something artful. I could be wrong, but I have a feeling that shaping surfboards is somewhat of an art form, since just about anyone who talks about them takes on a somewhat hushed tone of reverence, as if these people possess some sort of magical quality that allows them to shape surfboards. But the thing is, I kind of understand. Someone who makes something that allows a person to temporarily tame something as wild as the ocean deserves elevated status. Their understanding of humans, as well as the exotic, everchanging and mystical properties of the tides is nearly akin to witchcraft. Anyone can buy a surfboard. And anyone can learn to ride one. But not everyone can shape one.

Olive Oil

I read something the other day about olives. And olive oil. I love food. I wish other people did too. The ancient Greeks held olives as something that is sacred; the olive tree was regarded as a cherished member of the family, to be tended and loved and coaxed into bearing the precious fruit that would keep the family alive. Now it is just plopped into the bottom of a martini glass without any thought at all. Tragic? I think so. Not everyone would agree with me. I realize that most people view food in a more utilitarian light, eat to live and so forth. What ever happened to the idea that food was something sacred, a giver of life that should always be revered and respected? In Athens, there was an olive tree so sacred that when they were attacked by Sparta, the Spartans were careful not to burn this tree down. It was believed that they would suffer some terrible wrath from the Gods if they harmed this tree in any way. When an Olympian won an event, they were given a cup of olive oil from this tree, to signify them as "chosen" by the Gods for victory and glory. Perhaps it is too difficult to take time out to appreciate food anymore. With microwaves, pre-packaged, preserved foods, and the advent of agribusiness (which isn't really about feeding people, but making money) food seems to have lost its bond with human kind. It is now something we do in between important things, in the car, at meetings, on the way to doing something else. For once, it would be wonderful to see people eating for the pure joy of it. To sit and appreciate what is in front of them. To not multi-task at the dinner table. To let that call go to voice mail. To forego those easy, familiar chicken tenders and try something new--a piece of fish perhaps. This is not about nutrition. This is not about eating well. This is about appreciating the things we are given, to take a few minutes to recognize the art that is cooking.

More Whining

I have always felt that jealousy is one of the ugliest, most damaging emotions a person can experience. It eats away at you, first with a slight knawing, until it grown and consumes every thought, every deed, every word. There is no controlling it, and there is no escape from it.

And now I feel it. It sits like a rock in my stomach, and I wish for another life constantly. And this is no ordinary jealousy. This is the jealousy of things unknown, the jealousy that lives in my imagination. I am able to concoct the most callous betrayal. The most invincible adversary. She is perfect in all she says, does, and is--and how could he resist? I am but old news--tossed in the recycling bin for someone else--now that I have been read. I am not worth keeping, especially when I compare myself to this poem girl I see. I am jealous of his time, his attention, his body. I can't bear for anyone else to have it--or rather for him to give it to anyone else.

And I think, how childish. I created this scenario. I allow this jealousy to grow from my brokenhearted insecurity. But then I think--What if I'm right?

Sometimes I just want to cry for no reason. I'll see a tree, or a street sign, and feel like I just can't keep it together anymore. I think I'm weird. But I'm really just unhappy. But I just don't know why. There are lots of good things in my life. I do good things. I'm always concentrating on the things that are wrong; the things I can't have. Why should I always torture myself like this?

But this thing, this element that I want in my life is not a thing at all. It is so necessary to my happiness that it seeps into every other facet of my life. You never miss something if you've never had it. Sometimes I wish I could take an eraser to the chalkboard in my head. But it's too late for that. Now it's just damage control. I feel like I'm trying to stop a boat from sinking with a bucket, outrun a train. It seems hopeless.

I struggle for hope--just one thing that will make everything seem ok again. Those small rays are often so faint I am scrambling to grasp them before the door closes again. Even if I could catch it, it would suffocate and disappear as if it had never been there in the first place. This isn't stress. This is hopelessness. This is despair. This is frustration. This is helplessness. This is a broken heart.

Swing State

So this is what a swing state looks like. Dusty. Hannity and Colmes is on the radio--railing about something ridiculous. The politics here are much like the weather; drive an hour in any direction and things change. I've spent time in a town that recycles everything, has no Starbucks, and encourages walking. Not far away is another town developing agribusiness, supporting the war, and building a Wal-Mart Supercenter on Main Street. Bumper stickers and lawn signs are everywhere, touting one candidate or another. There are some things I will never understand, and my family's political views is one of them--near the top of the list. (Nascar, speed-dating, and low-carb diets are a few others, but I'll save that for another time). I will never understand how my own sister can support a politician that revokes her overtime pay, cuts education spending and food regulations for her child, and sends her youngest brother to a war based on vanity and money. Is it his oh-so-charming idiocy? His bumbling daughters? Those pretty ties he wears? I simply can't figure it out. How can educated people be so blind? Is this what is being taught in our schools, homes, and churches? I cringe every time I see one of those bumper stickers with a big fat 'W' on the back of some gas guzzling Range Rover. These people are the modern day 3 monkey: They hear no evil, see no evil, and speak no evil--and allow the Axis of Evil to take over.

Hair Magic

I got out of bed early today to get my hair done. I know that immediately conjurs up images of some woman who gets manicures, pedicures, facelifts, and botox shots as regularly as she eats (or doesn't eat), but this is not what you think. I get my hair done about twice a year. This one involved color, which is something I tend to get excited about. The idea that you will end up looking like someone or something else is extremely alluring. Reinventing myself is such an arduous task, the hair aspect is the easiest part of a reinvention. But the thing that I loved about today was setting the color. She put me under this thing that blows warm air on my head for about twenty minutes, and presto, the color is set. The beauty of it is that I was suddenly transported to another land. The hot air prevented me from hearing anything outside this little dome, and it created sensations that stimulated parts of my brain that are usually dormant. I sat there, half awake, and realized that here I was unreachable. No one could talk to me, I could talk to no one. I closed my eyes in the hot air and remembered what the Califonia desert was like. A clump of hair went floating by like a tumbleweed through the dust, and I remembered this. It feels so familiar, only heavier. Sad. Lonely. It feels like the sunset of a moody Western, with our faithful hero watching from the back of his trusty steed. Wait. I lost my steed. Where did he go? How do you lose something right from under you? But then I remember. It just happens. He keels over or bucks you off and suddenly you are hoofin' it (pun intended). And then--Ding--Time's up. The color is set. My mane is different, reinvented. Still, I miss my trusty steed. He always knew the value of a good sunset.