Liquor and Moccassins

The Incidental Hot Tub Missions

2012-01-30T22:28:00.000-08:00

Saturday night we had Alex over for dinner and put down three bottles of wine. No one was drunk, but we all felt good, and then Eric went to bed around 8:30p. Alex and I decided to take Peaches and Boudie down to the beach for a walk. Peach decided she wanted to run through the dunes, so Alex and I escorted her on that effort while Boudie sploshed along in the surf. The moon wasn't big, but there was enough light to give us our path and to track Peaches ahead of us.

I absolutely love where we live. Safe, quiet, beautiful. I know that if I'm not doing anything terribly wrong, no one will bother me. I don't have to really worry about the police rousting us for being at the beach late at night, or the park ranger telling me where my dog can and cannot poop...well, I don't take my dog places she's not allowed, so that helps. And we don't actually have a police department here, so that helps too. We rely on the sherriff's department to come when called. So, there's not really a lot of patrolling going anyway. Big Brother is not a big part of this tiny town.

Alongside the path is a hotel with a wonderful outdoor pool and hot tub. On the way back, Alex suggested we go try to get into the hot tub. There is a gate requiring a key card from the beach (which is kind of silly since you can get to the same area without a key card without going to the lobby at the front of the hotel) and key card gates for the hot tub and pool. I thought I saw people in the hot tub, but Alex convinced me it was just steam, so we made the trek over and up the stairs. Where we found people were in the hot tub, and a very nice gentleman who let us in the gate. Then we found more nice people who let us into the hot tub gate. And then Peaches stripped off all of her clothes and got into the hot tub. "Hi, I'm Peaches. Ahhhh, this is so nice. It's okay that I don't have any clothes on. I'm 4. What's your name?" What a life this girl has. Everyone was really, really nice to her, except for the couple that came later and were clearly having some kind of trouble with each other. They weren't mean, exactly, but it was obvious that they were disappointed to find so many people in the hot tub, and a little girl to boot.

About 10 minutes later, I noticed that the schoolteacher and her beau in the hot tub were realizing that we'd gotten into the area under false pretenses. I also noticed that they weren't quite sure what to do with that realization. I felt kind of bad, one on hand, but Peach was having such a great time that the other hand was feeling pretty good. But I decided that it was best to get out before they did and gathered up the towel that Alex had found on our way in. As I got up, something fell and I turned to look but couldn't find anything. I gathered Peaches up in the towel and went back to sit next to Alex. He said: "Here - you dropped your room key." and handed me a room key and I said: "Oh, thank you." and put it in my pocket. I got Peaches dressed while agreeing to bring her back the next day.

We made one more stop on the way home, to sit outside at the restaurant a little further down the path, enjoying the fire while we had drinks and Peaches had a hard-won hot cocoa. Then Alex dropped us off and Peaches melted into her bed.

Eric worked on Sunday, and I spent the day promising Peaches we would make it back to the hot tub. I was worried, though, that the card Alex found wouldn't work and there would be a scene. Finally, I broke down around 7:15p and made her promise that if it didn't work she wouldn't cry. Also, the cover of darkness always seems like a better time for nefarious activities. I don't know why that is - does it lend an added sense of anonymity? So, we climbed into our suits and cover-ups, and made the drive down. We went in through the ungated area at the front of the hotel, walked to the hot tub gate, and crossed our fingers. There was no one in the area, so I reminded Peaches of her promise. I slid the card in and....

The green light came on and we were in the hot tub. As she floated around in her tiny inner tube and I stared at the moon, I thought of the times that my mom took me on clandestine missions. They weren't terribly lawless - usually picking flowers from neighboring gardens - but they felt deliciously secret and wonderful and I remember them well. I wondered if Peaches had the same sensation while she floated around saying: "Ahh, I'm SO relaxed." We switched to the pool for about 30 minutes for laps and shark, then back to the hot tub until we turned into spaghetti. Then home, magically, to a place that truly seems like a vacation home after adventures like that or long days at the beach.

And I felt blessed, so blessed, to live in a place that engenders such moments of magic, that is so safe and friendly, and to have a friend that inspired such a wonderful adventure for the Peach. I still have the card, and I'm hoping that it's a magic card that will forever turn the hot tub light green.

Foodie's Wet Dream

2012-01-28T15:03:00.000-08:00

For those of you who don't know, I'm married to a chef. This, obviously, has it upsides and downsides. The upsides including living with someone who loves to cook, is an excellent cook, and can whip a meal together faster than I could ever hope to without hitting a drive-thru. The downsides are less romantic: weight gain, learning food costs, and hearing about what happens to food after you eat it. My chef's philosophy is that it all turns to shit so why be so covetous about it? An interesting point, although I'm not sure that he actually buys into that. But, once you hear that, it's hard not to consider when you're served an amazing meal.

The other thing is that you have to be aware of chef envy. I cannot (and do not!, of course) like the food of any other chef more than the food of my chef. Really, how could I? The food from my chef is cooked in my house by someone who loves me and understands what I like and usually tailors every meal to my liking. This also means that every meal is not a delicately plated piece of art, like you find in fancy restaurants. Which is just fine, because you know what's going to happen it after you eat it.

I have never considered myself a "foodie". I like food, I eat food, I cook food, and I married a chef. But I am not obsessed with food. I am not up on all the latest food crazes, or what chef went to what restaurant, and I don't make efforts to get to the latest "pop-up restaurant". Like it, eat it, cook it, etc. I do watch Top Chef. But last night I got to go to Fleur de Lys for a business dinner. The service, the atmosphere, and the food were all impeccable. The only thing I can complain about was my cocktail, some weird rye whisky/chocolate concoction better left for dessert, I think. I even ate an amuse bouche with a mushroom on it, and I never eat mushrooms - I hate them. But this mushroom was exquisite. Caviar, and foie gras, and pate, and all the fancy food you can think of. All the creation of a chef and his team that clearly adore food. He plied us with so many amuse bouche that we were all stuffed by the time dinner came. And I loved every bite. But I also realized what was going to happen to all that beautiful food.

Hubert Keller, the esteemed chef, even came out to our table. We gave him a gratuitous round of applause, and he was very gracious about letting people fawn over him and take pictures with him. A very nice gentleman, very patient. I even took a picture of him, more for the benefit of my husband than anything else. The strange thing was that my dinner partners were absolutely thrilled to meet him. In their estimation, he is a star. And to his credit, he is definitely a foodie star. But somehow, living with a chef took Hubert's stardom away for me. I was, of course, very happy to meet him and pleased that he came to our table. Who doesn't love the chef's special attention (not the kind where he pees in your soup)? One of the guests positively gushed at/on him; I think she's a real live foodie. He took it in stride and gave her a hug.

On the way home, I thought about our strange food culture. We are in the fortunate position of being able to pick what we eat, to be picky about it, and to enjoy it elevated to an art form. The food culture has taken eating to level that brings fame to chefs and has changed the landscape of our dining choices. Sometimes I don't understand the foodie culture, since for me food is food. I love good tasting food, but I'm also happy to snack on almonds, cheese, fruit, bread throughout the day to sustain me. I don't have the expectation or requirement of 3 squares that's so ingrained into our culture. But I can't scorn the foodie culture, either. When food is delicious and beautiful, it evokes an emotional response, like love. And sometimes, love turns into shit. So, I guess, food and love have more in common than I realized.

To The Costco We Go

2012-01-22T15:40:00.000-08:00

The morning is wet and dreary, the house is cold, and I want to stay in. But I said I would make the trek to the giant store filled with people, and so I will go. A list has been written.

I arrive, park, and begin the big box journey. I haven't been to Costco in at least 5 years. At that time, I managed to put down $700 on household goods alone. Granted, these lasted us for years. I believe we had the toothbrush pack from Costco for three years before we finally ran out of fresh toothbrushes. When you make the decision to shop at Costco, it's like entering into a long-term commitment with a product. You must be sure to buy a brand and product that you really like, because you and it are going to be together for a long, long time. Sure, you could turn your back on it, be unfaithful, look for satisfaction in the arm's of another brand, but in the end, that's only going to hurt you. Yes, your cuckolded brand will be hurt too, but it has not spent any money on you - it has not made the investment that you have.

I have never been to this particular Costco, and my breath is taken away when I first step in. The shelves are so tall, the aisles so wide, the air so cold. The aisles are not lablelled with any information, so I have to wander down each one, staring open-mouthed, trying to steer my humongous cart and read my list and not get distracted by the tupperware sets, the giant-screen TV's, the stereo systems, the 12-packs of lamb racks...I must stick to the list. Of course, it's Costco, so they won't have everything on my list and the certainly won't have the things I most want them to have. Dell printer ink, tea light candles, 5W40 motor oil...all my wishes for those things are dashed. But I make what may be lifetime commitments to paper towels, toilet paper, various Ziploc bags, and multipurpose paper. I completely avoid the frozen food section; I know it will bring only heartache...and there's no room in my freezer. Our refrigerator is from the '70's...a high-time for Hungry Man dinners but I think our refrigerator wasn't aware of that. For some reason, it has drawers in it, like a dresser. And a defunct ice maker, which is okay as I fear that it might just make Freon cubes lightly flavored with water.

The paper goods section of the store is overrun with people and there are works moving palettes around while the customers try to shop. I don't understand why everyone seems to be in the paper goods section and why they all appear to be frantic. Is there a fire sale on paper towels and toilet paper? Does this having something to do with today's NFC championship game? Or is it just kismet - all these people needing paper products? The middle of this Costco seems to be reserved for the myriad of crap. There are boxes of books, notepads, tables piled with clothing, rugs, motorized couches, sports gear, outdoor furniture. I wander through that to caress a pair of jeans and stare stupidly at other consumers but don't add anything to my humongous cart of long-term commitment. I head for the check out but realize I have forgotten vital things: salami, cheese, and sausage. This realization brings me to a section of Costco I'd somehow overlooked: the deli section. Suddenly, I think we may need 1-quart tubs of spinach dips and 5-gallon pails of yogurt and butter and sauerkraut. I see 3-foot long salamis, but the thought of trying to slice a salami that long exhausts me on the spot, and I stick to the sliced salami. I get a block of cheese and am suddenly compelled to also invest in a pack of sliced cheese that has 4 different kinds of cheese. Whoa. I don't know why this grabs my attention, but it does and so it goes in the cart.

Finally I am headed to the line to stand with the others. I did not enjoy my Costco excursion. I realize that I don't like knowingly entering into long-term commitments. I don't mind them while they're happening, but I like to have a more open-ended feeling to my commitments. I've been married twice - am still in the second marriage - but even marriage doesn't seem to require the same level of commitment that's required by Costco. I guess because people are...well, if I decide I want to move to a new house, I don't need to pack my husband and child. I don't have to find a place to store them and then later remember that I have them and that I don't need to buy more and remember where I put them when I do need more.

I spend under half of what I did on my last Costco trip, load up my car, and make the soggy drive home with a warm Costco churro in my hand. The churro is really the best part of the trip. Tall, warm, and sweet, it's comforting and satiates my appetite. When I get home, my purchases will be scrutinized and critiqued, like when you bring a new love over to meet your parents for the first time.

Jesus, You Are a Superstar!

2012-01-20T16:07:00.000-08:00

I've never given much thought to the extent of Jesus' fame. Sure, he's Jesus and popular and all, but he's also so embedded in our culture that he's easy to take for granted. Well, that's easy for heathens like me, anyway. My in-laws are not heathens. They have sent an array of bibles and religious books and children's books that have a religious tone to them. To be quite frank, those books don't stay around and I don't let my daughter look at them. When she is old enough to develop her own curiousity about religion, I will happily take her on a tour from everything from Amish to Zion, but I don't like the idea of willfully leading her towards Christianity.

What I forgot about while I was discarding those religious tomes was that my art and art history books are dripping with Jesus pictures. Jesus with his mom, Jesus when he was a baby, Jesus on the cross, Jesus off the cross, Jesus risen, Jesus in a coffin, Jesus talking to disciples, Jesus looking anguished, Jesus working miracles, Jesus just sitting there, portraits of Jesus. He is everywhere; art history books are like Jesus' family photo albums.

My daughter loves my art books. She admires the work of Frida Kahlo, the Renaissance, paintings and scupltures from the Louvre, Mary Cassat, and others. She has also learned to spot Jesus in any of his various painting poses. Here's how I answered some of her questions:

About Jesus carrying the cross:
"Why is he doing that?"
I point to the Roman soldiers. "They made a mistake. They thought Jesus was a criminal."

About Jesus risen:
"Why is he up there?"
"Because after they made the mistake, Jesus was able to float."

About Jesus' halo:
"What's that behind his head?"
"A halo. Like an angel."

About Jesus with his mom:
"Who's that lady?"
"His mom."
"Is that his dad?", pointing to St. John or whatever other saint is featured.
"No, his dad is God. That's the story anyway. It's a legend."

She never really has follow-up questions, though I know Eric's answers are different than my own. Eric has a general bent towards oral pontification that I don't have (I reserve my pontificating for the written form. Meet me in person and you'll be surprised at how humble and quiet I am.), so he gives Peaches long answers that even confuse me. She doesn't have follow-up questions for his answers either, but she's happy to change the subject after being pontificated at.

So, the other night, she'd found another art book. This was a German artist (drawing a blank on the name) that did cartoon-y kind of drawings. In the middle was a drawing of the Last Supper. I said: "Do you recognize anyone here?" Peaches looked at the whole picture, and pointed at the guy at the end wearing glasses, Simon. In this picture, Simon is portrayed like a guy from the 70s that likes disco and is named Larry (like Three's Company). So, I smiled and pointed at Jesus. "Who's that?", I asked.

Now, if you have precious opinions about Jesus and God or children and swearing, you should probably stop reading right.............................................................................................here. Or here. Or here.

Peaches leaned forward to have a closer look and said: "Fuckin' god."
My mouth dropped open. "What?"
"Fuckin' god." she repeated, and I saw the twinkle in her eye and the sly look she gives when she knows she is doing something she shouldn't be doing but is doing it anyway to see what might happen.

I didn't yell at her, of course. I just used my tired, disappointed Mom voice to ask where she'd learned that. "Nowhere." was the sing-song response. We did a pinky swear that she'd never say it again. But I know where she got it. And I wonder if she made the connection that fuckin' god is Jesus' dad. Oh, these kids. Gotta be careful around these kids and their spongy little brains.

Anyway, a shout out to you, Jesus, for being the longest running superstar of print fame. There are so many paintings and drawings and t-shirts and bumper stickers and window decals and tattoos and pieces of toast and scupltures and architecture and other food-related Jesusy image things and jewelry and everything. You are a lucrative man, Jesus, and nobody seems to mind making a little money off of your image. And apparently, you don't mind. Or do you? Are you going to come back and law down some fat lawsuits against the people that have used your likeness without your permission? Or did they ask for your permission first?

Rock on, superstar Jesus, rock on.

The Blind Leading the Blind

2012-01-15T17:09:00.000-08:00

When you've lived a few decades, you start to realize that we're all making it up as we go along. The scientists, the psychologists, the physicists, the doctors, the astronomers, the mothers, the fathers, the children. Things change constantly; how we're supposed to raise children, how we're supposed to eat, the right medications, everything. Some things stay the same, I suppose, but for how long? We all read and learn about how we're supposed to do things, do them that way, and later learn that maybe it's the wrong way. All we can do, we non-scientist doctor psychologist physicists astronomers, is trust our inner voices to tell us that we're doing things in a way that is right for us, in a way that doesn't hurt our fellow people. Well, many of us - some just barrel through life doing only what is best for them, regardless of how it may affect other people. Or in some cases, doing only what is best for them and in spite against others.

Friday night I came home to Alex, Eric, and Peaches. Alex, the Chilean, befriended Eric a couple of years back. He is a good, faithful friend, and we all get along well; a valuable type of friend to a couple. He helps us fix things, brings food from time to time, comes over for dinner or drinking or both, comes to cry on our shoulders when he needs to. He is part of our family. We had a couple of drinks and a nice dinner, and having run out of whisky, I agreed that it would be a good idea to drive down to the beach. I drove Alex's giant SUV down to the Easy Mart, where Alex gassed up the behemoth, and Eric got Cheetos and whisky. We parked the behemoth and hoofed it down to the beach, bringing Alex's behemoth flashlight - the biggest I've ever seen in my life.

Once we got down to the beach, I opened the whisky and we passed it around to fight the cold. Peaches turned on the giant flashlight, which is essentially a spotlight. She pointed it to the sky and waved it around; it's beam was so bright and extensive that it looked like one of those spotlights they put out at events. She used it to show us her favorite star. Alex and I stared at the stars and Eric waited for us to start making out. We didn't. Then we all walked out onto the dock. Boudreaux (the dog) jumped off the dock into the dark, cold water and we shone the spotlight into the shallow water. We spotted rock crabs, dungeness crabs, a baby stingray, and oohed and aahed and shivered and passed the bottle around.

Finally, we all got cold enough to head back to the car. Being almost 10pm, it was well past Peaches' bedtime. I remember being young like her, cherishing these types of special times, up with the crazy adults doing crazy, secret things. Magic.

The blind lead the blind, the blind follow the blind. We are all blind together, and it's so good to have these fellow blind men with me as we all stumble our way through, trying to do the right thing the right way, trying to find what is right for us. Every day I learn something new; sometimes about what I've done wrong, every day I have doubts that I'm doing the right thing. I never have to doubt this love and friendship.

The Old Crew...or The Crew Is Old.

2012-01-13T10:25:00.000-08:00

The past is convoluted, and that sometimes makes the present and future convoluted. So, this post will be convoluted. Convoluted+convoluted(2)=convoluted.

Let's get in the time machine and go back to 1986, when push-button phones were still new, handwritten notes were the equivalent of texting, girls had big hair, rockers had bigger hair, and being able to talk like a Valley Girl was a highly prized entertainment skill at parties. Let's go to San Francisco in 1986, to the time I fell in with the crew. The crew hung out at The Top of The Steps at McAteer High School. I didn't hang out with them there, because I wasn't in school. I was introduced into the crew by a friend, but if I had gone to school, I would have been part of the crew anyway because they all know people that I know.

So, in 1986, I started dating (I'm going with made up names here, for some reason) John. John was 4 years older than me, which would have made him 20 and I was 16. Yeah, I was an advanced 16; he didn't seem that much older. I think he actually turned 20 after we started dating. Anyway, John was part of the crew as was Joe, Richard, Matt, Josh, Caleb, Sally, Arthur, Doug, my still good friend Lana, and a bunch of other people. They had all been friends for a long time, so I considered myself a bit of an interloper. There were card games at Doug or Lana's or John's house every weekend and/or during the week, and people in the crew were always together everyday at some point all week long. You know how it is at that age. Work is secondary to life, and life is all about fun! Yay! So, I dated John for about a year and at some point Joe showed up on the scene. I'd met and gone bowling with him and some other people while I was 15 and pregnant, but didn't remember him in that context. He was all new to me, and very interesting. Anyway, one thing led to another and I started seeing Joe on the side while I was still seeing John. John had actually gone to Europe with a friend when this happened, and stayed with my sister in Germany. Eventually, things unravelled and I had to tell John about Joe and it was ugly and the whole crew kind of split up. I was with Joe for 9 years after that, and we had lunch yesterday.

Joe sprung on me that there was going to be a reunion of the crew. He didn't want to go, I didn't want to go - but really, we wanted to go but not alone. Finally, 30 minutes before the reunion we talked each other into going together. We would walk in together, which would be both strange and appropriate. I was still embarrassed and remorseful about what I'd done to John, though so many years have passed. People forget and move on, but when you do something that you know is wrong, sometimes you carry it around a long time (see previous post: Past, Present, and Facebook) like a fucking albatross. Have you ever seen anyone carrying an albatross? It ain't fucking pretty. So, we park our separate cars and meet and make our entrance. And there's John, on the first seat at the bar by the door. And my heart goes into my throat and I feel bad and happy at the same time. I hug everyone, and John too, and Matt who calls me "Little Sister" which almost makes me vomit my heart up. Joe, mercifully, gets me a whisky and I cozy up to Josh because he's the reason we're all together and I want to hear his story. I see Richard and get hugs from him, and this is all so fucking surreal. We all are so goddamned old, but it is almost as if time has stood still, because we are all very happy and comfortable. And I still have a love for all of these people.

I see John go outside to smoke, and I follow him out. We do small talk for a second, and then I just blurt out that I'm sorry for what happened. And John looks a little surprised, and says it was lifetimes ago and looks away, but he is gentle. Yes, I say, lifetimes, but still...and Joe and Arthur come out and save us from this awkwardness. But I feel better. Even if John got over it years ago, I feel better that I got the chance to apologize. A little later, as I'm trying to leave, Josh decides we need a group picture first. So, all us old folks gather together for this, and I'm am glad at them. I'm glad they still smoke without remorse, and swear, and make the same fucking jokes with each other. I am next to John and Caleb (Lana's old flame) and I think how strange it is, how the past keeps coming back to be repaired.

I finally break away and John is still outside and we chat longer. He is still, I don't know, John. Engaging, warm, funny, humble, and I can tell he is glad that we got to see each other. And I like to think that he is glad that I apologized, but that may just be me, wanting him to be glad that we finally closed that door. Ironically, he is dating a woman who is 16 years his junior and has the same birthday as me - another Taurus. "But the sex is great." Of course, it is, just like it was back then.

I head off to my car and the weight lifted from me is so great that I feel like I'm floating down the street and home and into the arms of my husband and child, and I think if I keep getting these chances to repair the past, that when I die I will just float away, so light will be my load.

8 Things I Know About People At Work

2012-01-12T15:11:00.000-08:00

....That I Probably Wouldn't Know If They or I Were Normal:

N. trims his balls
A. shaves his balls and now he can't stop because once you start you can't stop
A2 trims his balls
In the shower, S. keeps the hot water running on his back while he dries his front
J. gets aroused by wrestling with ladies
R. doesn't like condoms (really, who does?)
E. thinks 2 in the stink and 1 in the pink is backwards
J2 doesn't like rimjobs, especially when they're sneak attacks

Past, Present, and Facebook

2012-01-11T11:39:00.000-08:00

Hey, do all y'all remember the world before Facebook?

That was when the past stayed in the past, the present was still the present, and Facebook was in the future. When I was growing up, people did bad things to other people and then just moved on. Or tried. Not just bad things, but made mistakes with people, or said stupid things, or hurt people. Then they moved on and lived with whatever they did.

Since I joined Facebook, I've come across a lot of people I never thought I'd see or hear from again. Now, these are all fine people, but some of them were around when I was doing things that I'd rather forget. Like Kevin Smith. Kevin Smith had a big ol' crush on me in high school. He was my knight in shining armor the day Adam gave me 7 hits of acid and the principal showed up at my house to break up the everyday parties and we all fled the house and I rode MUNI all day with Kevin and some other people. For obvious reasons, I don't remember the day well. But I do remember Kevin sitting next to me on MUNI, exuding a very protective aura, and telling me I had eyes like a ninja. Now, I'm sure Kevin's a fine man, but I didn't actually plan on hearing from him again. He friended me on Facebook: "Hey, do remember me? I had the biggest crush on you...". But all I could remember was that MUNI ride, so that's what I said. "Yep! That's me." Okay, well...what should we talk about now? Because I don't really want to talk about that; I don't remember much that happened that day and I'm assuming that's for the better.

And that's the most mild story of people cropping up that I'd just as soon stay removed from, memories sequestered in a dark corner of my mind, never to be discussed ever. I bring this up because I had a lovely lunch with one of my junior high school boyfriends. A lovely fellow, really, but like all of us, mentioned that he cringes to remember some things that he said to me. With him, I only had one memory that I'd rather forget and it didn't really involve him, except that it was at his house. We had a good lunch together, laughing about the time me and my girlfriends sat in his yard with mayo, lemon, and eggs in our hair, our shirts off, and towels around our necks (we were trying to lighten our hair). Then the bees came and we all started running around the yard and the towels fell off. And then his mom came home. See, that's a heartwarming story, right? Then he finally broached the subject of what he said that had been making him cringe ever since. I had completely forgotten about it. Then I talked about what was making me cringe. He hadn't forgotten about that. I had let him off the hook years ago, but I'm still on the hook for what I did. That's not his fault, but I guess I was hoping that he would have forgotten too, so that it would be okay for me to forget.

Before Facebook, though, he and I would have spent our entire lives on our hooks, never being able to discuss the past with each other. Perhaps we would have run into each other eventually, but being that we both work and/or live in this tiny city and managed not to run into each for 25 years I'd say the odds on running into each other were long.

So, is it good that this social tool is out there that allows us to reconnect with the past? Part of me says yes: I reunited with one of my best friends from junior high, I found Dustin's birth father, I'm in touch with many people that I'm still very fond of and interested in. Part of me says no: the past is the past. I feel like, in a sense, that we are altering the past in a subtle way. We are making it very difficult to leave the past behind. Between Facebook, the Patriot Act, and computers, it's more difficult than ever to leave the past behind. And yes, we as individuals never truly leave the past behind, but we have a good knack for forgetting things that we'd prefer not to remember. Now it's not so easy. One friend request on Facebook and there you go down Memory Lane, remembering things long - and happily - forgotten.

Mal de Debarquement Syndrome

2012-01-10T10:33:00.000-08:00

Well, the neurological party in my brain is neverending. Along with the two brain lesions (one calcified), the ocular migraines, we can now add the Mal De Debarquement syndrome to the least. At least it's got a fancy French name; maybe I'll change my name to Marquess Mal De Debarquement. MDDS is thought to be caused by an inability of the brain to readjust being back on land once one has adjusted to being on a boat, or plane, or even reclining on a waterbed. The idea of being on a waterbed right now makes me absolutely vomitous, perhaps since I already feel like I'm on a waterbed. My friend Marlis' parents had a waterbed, a big, sploshy waterbed.

If I remain in constant motion, I feel just fine. If I could spend my whole day walking, running, jump roping, boxing, driving...but I can't. I am very excited to get to the gym today to get on the treadmill and run, just to feel normal for a little while. This is what I get for agreeing that having the company holiday party on a boat would be a good idea. I agreed because I completely forgot about the MDDS. Forgot despite the fact that it happens every time I fly or ride a boat. I remember being in NOLA, in Bud's tiny kitchen, and having the sensation come on all of a sudden. I tried to attribute it to the tiny size of Bud's kitchen, but it was just my brain.

They say that MDDS and migraines are both genetic...but to what fucking purpose? Why is it genetically beneficial for me to lose my vision in one eye for thirty minutes? How is that helping me and my offspring get ahead in the world? And same for the MDDS. How the fuck is the helpful? Especially since I never remember that it happens? Or are these genes that got all fucked up from too much inbreeding in my distant family's history - too much royal on royal action?

I'm like Eminem - fucked in the head. But in a different way. And less from Detroit.

Okay, I'm going to go vomit in a trash can. I am absolutely sick from just sitting here. Happy Tuesday!

UPDATE: I understand from a neurologist that the MDDS can be caused by "otolith displacement". If you're reading this post because of MDDS, you should look into otolith displacement as well. This is related to the inner ear and can affect balance and the ability to recover from periods of motion like on boat and plane rides. I believe there is also treatment for it.

All Right Now

2012-01-08T17:17:00.001-08:00

You can interpret that post title whichever way you prefer.

I went with my 4-year old Peaches to see my 25-year old Dustin. That girl was ready to roll this morning - after had breakfast and relaxed - very excited to see her big brother. It's been quite awhile since they hung out. This morning was beautiful, warm, windy, big blue sky. The surfers were out at Surfer's Beach, checking the surf, in the surf, by the roadside...what a day for the beach. We drove along the coast and could see all the way to the horizon, a flat blue line at the end of the world.

After we went to breakfast with Dustin, we went to Howarth Park in Santa Rosa. If I were 4, I would live at Howarth Park. There's a great playground with a Wild West facade, a train ride, a carousel, bathrooms...what else do you need when you're 4? You know, besides food, water, and sleep? Peaches had a great time; she got to take three trips on the carousel and we all took a train ride. The train ride was harrowing since we sat right in front. I got to feel the heat and inhale the fumes from the engine and Dustin got to sit right next to the loudspeaker. So I gagged and sweated while he winced every time they made an announcment...all very hokey announcements. Hokey for us, great for kids. "That's the pond where the alligator lives. But don't worry...he loves chocolate chip cookies, long walks on the beach and listening to Frank Sinatra." What kid knows who Frank Sinatra is?

We took Peaches to the vending machine to get a bottle of water, and I was telling Dustin that at Christmas dinner, I am the last one between the old folks and the kids. It's me, then my nephew Keenan, then all the young 'uns. I thought it would be better if Dustin were there, as a buffer. It's weird for me to be in that middle place between the adults and the kids. Dustin said: "That's not that weird, Mom. This is weirder.", circling his finger at me and Peaches and him. Yes, well, he's got a point. Not every 41-year old woman has children 21 years apart. And it's always interesting to hear how people will interpret our relation. Some go siblings, some go married couple, some don't bother. It's usually siblings since we look alike.

Before we left, Dustin made me a CD and we hung for awhile with his roommate and girlfriend. Peaches had a great time hanging out with the cool kids, getting tickled and playing with their giant bouncy ball and doing raspberry faces with Dustin. Then she and I piled into the car and put the CD on. The road with Dustin has been an interesting one, and I am ever mindful of my good fortune in our relationship; he is a gift in many, many ways - in some ways a gift different from Peaches, and in some ways a gift like Peaches. Peaches and I stopped and In 'n Out and sat in the front seat of the car eating while we watched Looney Tunes on the phone (ah, the good old days when a bunny saying "A-Rab" wasn't a social crime...not that I would ever say "A-Rab" or think it's okay, but...it is okay when a bunny does it, right?). I know this was a satisfying day for her, from beginning to end, when I carried her sleeping self from the car into a nice warm bed with her sleeping daddy.

The full moon and the music from Dustin's CD followed us home, all the way into my backyard, where I gave thanks for these children. Having them so far apart may be strange, but they have many blessings wrapped up in them. They are from different lifetimes, and there wouldn't be one without the other. I can't put to words how they fill my heart, my soul, how they feed my will to survive, my love of life. Kids are hard, yes, because they own your heart, they hold it in their hands and don't even know it. I am someone's kid, too, but I can still never imagine that she feels like I do about her kids. Intellectually, I'm sure she does, but it's a feeling that is so difficult to express and vocalize, she would never be able to explain it. And the paragraph of her trying to explain it would just go on and on and on, like this one.

(I Was) On a Boat

2012-01-07T17:31:00.000-08:00

Our "I'm On A Boat" themed holiday party went off quite well last night. Only one person puked off the back of the boat, no one fell off the boat, and no one passed out on the boat. We drank, we mingled, we drank, we ate dinner, we drank, we danced, we drank, we danced. Then after the boat docked and they kicked us off, a lot of us went and drank some more. This weekend, we only had one blackout victim, so huzzah for that. We'll call him Frank.

Frank wanted to travel into the Mission from our location near the ballpark and go to some bars there, but we all vetoed him and stayed local. This is good, because after one drink Frank was pouring sweat. Just standing there, sweating. We were all worried and pointed it out. He said: "No, I've been through this before, man. It's just that my endocrine system is so good." Who can argue with that? Frank's only 25 and he's a semi-professional cyclist; I'm not about to bag on his endocrine system. Last weekend, he'd been pretty good at moderating his drinking and smoking. This weekend, he was smoking cigarettes and ganja, and two-fisting drinks on the dance floor. Clearly, a man on a mission. After he made an attempt to go into a janitorial room to vomit, I was the one to herd him to the men's room. Funny, I just realized something. While I was herding Frank into the men's room, another man had been coming out. He looked at me and said "It's all yours." and I just laughed and said "I'm okay." Only now am I realizing what he was getting at. Yeesh. Dirty bastard. I'd like to go back in time and straighten him out, but I guess his comment may have been spurned by prior experience in San Francisco. A male co-worker helped Frank out in the bathroom, and then we put him in a cab and sent him home. I spoke with him this morning; he had, indeed, blacked out. Go, endocrine system!

By 12:30, there was only me and two single co-workers, one male, one female, left at the bar. So I said my goodbyes, walked a block, took off my heels, and then walked back to work along Embarcadero. Embarcadero runs along the bay in SF, a wide boulevard that goes under the Bay Bridge, past the Ferry Building, and has trains and cars running along it constantly, so I felt safe. Plus who's gonna mess with a drunk lady in a hood carrying black boots? I passed a lot of people sleeping on the ground in complicated sleeping bag arrangements; the Occupy SF movement spread out from its epicenter. I also passed an office chair, a discarded workout glove, and part of a car headlight. An hour later, I arrived back at the office and found two of my drunken co-workers waiting for me. I put on sneakers and we walked over to IHOP to convene with some of the other drunken degenerates in the city. Shane got very fixated on one that was literally wearing his pants so low that the belt of his jeans was below his asscheeks. Then Shane and Jim had a discussion about how this used to be shocking and now its mainstream while I bored burning holes into our waiter's head until he came to take our order. Naturally, it was the best breakfast I've ever had in my life. On our way out, we saw a man passed out sitting up, apparently looking very closely at the menu on the table. The IHOP host didn't look too concerned; maybe the drunk was a regular. We were all very pleased with ourselves for not being that drunk. And also for not being very, very, very sweaty.

We finally got back to the office at 3:30 and hit the beanbags. I got up at 5am, had an espresso, drove home, and crawled into bed with my family. My daughter woke up next to me about 6:30 and reacted like there was the best present in the whole world lying in bed next to her. She and I got up around 7:30 and hung out together until around 10:30. She is the best present in the whole world. I was really surprised at how un-cranky I was with her; I guess my happiness at seeing her outweighed the hangover and sleep deprivation. She made me a soup of mud, dirt, water, and weeds, and it was the best soup in the whole world.

I still feel like I'm on a boat, but also ready to stare down the barrel at 2012. For reals yo. Imuna pop a cap in that bitch's ass.

Decade

2012-01-06T15:47:00.000-08:00

Our company Christmas party is tonight, on a boat. This post isn't about the Christmas party, but it's a helpful tidbit. Also, you'll know that I'm going to be trapped on a boat for 4 hours with most of my co-workers tonight. Fortunately, I like my co-workers and I like boats, so it's not the worst place I could be stuck for 4 hours. In fact, right off the top of my head I can think of at least 10 worse places to be stuck for 4 hours: in an elevator, in a cave, in a pine box underground, in a car with a woman with a high-pitched voice, on an airplane circling a runway, in a traffic jam surrounded by zombies, at my work right after an earthquake, on a boat with Paris Hilton, on a train with any Kardashian sister, under a volcano that's spewing. See? On a boat with my co-workers wasn't on the top 10 list.

Last night I dreamt I was on the boat with my co-workers. We were all very drunk and there was some sex had, although at this point I don't remember if I was directly involved in that or just refereeing. After the sex, I took someone over to introduce them to my dad. But there were three of my dad's at the table. I was confused at first, but then explained: "This is my birthdad, and this is my stepdad, and this is my other dad." But there were all the same three dads: my dad. His arms were crossed and he was grim-faced. Perhaps because there were so many dads, or because I was confused about why there were so many dads, or because I was drunk and subjecting all of my dads to a 4-hour boat ride with my co-workers. Of all those choices, I think the last is most likely. He would have been most unhappy if I'd stuck him on a boat with these people.

My dad died 10 years ago this month - on 01/10/2002. I thought of him a lot last month, but had a reprieve over the holidays. But this morning, after the dream, it came back gangbusters. I miss my dad. Ten years is a long time. When is he coming back? Why can't he come back? I wish he'd been able to meet my kids before he left. He was kind of an asshole, but I miss the him of him, just the knowing that he's there, behind the bar at Finnegan's Wake when I want to see him.

When my dad died, I flew to SF with my ex-husband (not an ex at the time). At that point, I'd already asked him for a divorce and was denied, so I was just counting off time until he finally gave in. We were staying in my sister's basement, and one morning I woke up and started crying. Rather than being empathetic, he said: "How do think I feel? My dad died 20 years ago and it still hurts.". At the time, I took affront - rightfully so, I think - at his comment, only because of the poor timing and lack of social grace. And I haven't given much thought to what he said, but I understand now. I still don't understand why he would mention that at such a time in such a way, but I understand that you can miss a person 20 years later. That it leaves a big hole in your heart, and that as they fade with time, the hole grows bigger. The less you can remember about that person, the less they are part of your daily thoughts or comfort, the bigger the hole gets.

I've written here about my dad before, so I'm sorry if this is redundant for you. But it's been 10 years since he left, and I still miss him fucking fiercely. I miss his asshole-ness, and his dry humor, and his forgetting what I look like, and his inappropriate comments to me, and his big, husky laugh, and his tenderness when he told me he loved me, and his undying love for my mother who he left when I was 3, and his love of food, and pot, and video games, and the warmth of his being. I miss his eyes, swollen with lyphoma and alcohol and cigarettes. 10 years down, my lifetime to go.

I still have some of his ashes. My son's going to use some of his adoptive father's ashes in a tattoo. Maybe I'll do the same. Yeah, it's a little weird, but we do weird things when we miss people and want to keep that connection.

But who knows? Maybe there will be a weird sex party on the boat full of co-workers tonight and my three dads will show up. Wouldn't that be weird?

Day Four, 2012.

2012-01-03T13:53:00.000-08:00

I like boxing. I like to watch boxing and I like to do boxing. People think this is odd. There are millions of people all over the world that like boxing, but apparently I only know two or three of them. One friend had never watched a fight before, so we watched the Mayweather-Ortiz match the night it was on. Yeah, the first fight she ever watches in the one where Mayweather takes a cheap shot and/or Ortiz makes a mistake by trying to talk after they touched gloves. "Are they all like this?". Sigh. No, they're not. Fucking Mayweather.

We have an older Chilean friend who told me he likes to box, so he brought his gloves over and we boxed in the kitchen. He's got a hundred pounds, 5 inches, and 10 years on me, but what the hell? He put his gloves up right in front of his face, like he was hiding. "What the fuck are you doing?", I ask. "Boxing!", he says. I think, but don't say, that's not boxing! We had a good fight, though. I asked him again, later, why he kept his gloves right in front of his face. "That's how we do it in Chile!". Fucking Chileans.

There's a guy at my work who's a wrestler (yes, a 40+ year-old wrestler. At the boxing gym I went to in Dallas, the owner also taught wrestling and hosted wrestling matches. I always thought this was odd. I still associate wrestling with high school. I am Judgy-McJudgerson just like those people who judge my boxing). He likes to tell me that if we were to box and I fell down then I wouldn't know what to do. I punched him in the arm and left a big bruise. Fucking wrestlers.

I woke up next to my daughter this morning since I slept in her bed with her last night. She looked at me and said, "What am I doing today, Mommy?". She's in her 3rd week of Christmas vacation from school and has mostly been home with Daddy. At first, this was a wonderful thing for her, but this morning she gave it a big old frown. "Not again!" So, my heart gives in. I have to be at work today, but I am the boss lady, so I concede that she can come with me. We shower, pack books and toys and crayons and shoes and a blanket and head to work together. On the way in, I tell her: "This is the city where Mommy grew up." She's been to the city a lot, but today she responds: "This seems like a hard place." My heart breaks a little; she is too wise for her age. How can she know that this is a hard place? My childhood was all concrete and hard angles and bloodied knees and chins and elbows, hard people and hard times. Yes, we went to Golden Gate Park and Mt. Tamalpais sometimes, but by and large, my time was spent at the North Beach Playground where the ground was hard and the trees were sparse. Her world is so different; a big backyard, a beach within walking distance, a gentle preschool, everything soft and familiar. I am glad she does not live in this hard place that I venture into everyday.

Maybe this hard place made me like boxing. The necessity to be able to defend yourself, to be strong, to fight alone. Maybe this is where I learned to fight alone, to do the beautiful dance, to be able to take a punch and come back swinging. Or maybe I'm just a brutal person, a loner, that prefers to see people bloodied in one-on-one battles. No, that's not it. To me, boxing takes a lot more fortitude than other sports. You are on your own in that ring, you and your body and your mind, just trying to make to the next round - a lot like everyday life.

Girl At The Beach

2012-01-02T15:53:00.000-08:00

We took Peaches down to the beach to blow off some steam this afternoon. She helped me in the garden this morning; I gave her worms that I dug up and she carried them off. One went into a bird's nest she was making and the other was presented to the cat. Jimmy the Cat knows not what to do with worms. He put his big, fat paw over the worm while he played with some leaves. I had to do a worm rescue and give it back to Peaches; a minute later she screamed and dropped the worm because it moved. Those damned moving worms! Just to be clear - at no point did I touch a worm. In the worm rescue, I merely moved the cat's paw so Peaches could retreive the worm. She is much more fearless than me.

At the beach, she rolled in the sand commenting on how it cooled her off. I contemplated suburban mothers. Oh, suburban mothers. Devoid of sexuality, all dressed the same, speaking of things that would put me into a instant slumber. One set came along with a sexless suburban father, looking miserable and utilitarian. Are these people born this way or is it a slow devolvement? Do they set out to be just like all the other suburbanites, is it a goal, a dream? Why do they irritate me so much? I want to shake them and slap them and take away all their accessories and show them the real world. Do they know there's a real world? I don't live in a suburb, but many suburbanites have moved into the area, constructing perfect lawns behind the cracked, uneven, and inconsistent sidewalks. Some blocks have sidewalks that have been replaced, circling perfectly constructed homes that long to be in actual suburbs.

Oh, wait - weren't we at the beach? Yes, Peaches was rolling in the sand, "cooling off" in the winter weather. Just as we were about to head out, she decided to get in the water. The waves at this beach are mild to non-existent, and the tide was out so she ran up and down the water line, skipping and jumping. She found the perfect spot to stop and do a water dance, kicking the water and shaking her hips and spinning, then ran out to make sure I'd seen and back in to do it all again.

Then two boys ran in after her and they all started splashing each other and running around and getting wet. Their lesbian mother, clearly not a suburban mother, came down to watch and chat. She told me her boys had been too scared to get into the water until they saw Peaches strolling around and dancing in it. I hope she's always an example and an inspiration like that for other people, that she can uplift them and free them from the bonds of their fears and show them what fun it is to live away from that. I wish she could do it for all the suburban mothers and their poor husbands. She does it for me everyday and I will never be able to express to her what that's meant to me.

Day One, 2012.

2012-01-01T21:46:00.000-08:00

Well, we'll start on the last day of 2011, wherein I wake up in the conference room at work, having slept off a proper drunk on two beanbags smashed together. I got 8 hours of sleep, in two shifts of 4 hours. I had to break for a glass of water, 4 Advil, and a pee in between.

We took Alberto out for drinks at the Red Jack Saloon on Friday night. Alberto worked for me as a manager for 7 years and with many of his co-workers for a few years longer. Early in the day he told me that he had a meeting scheduled with his business partner that evening and that he was leaving on a 9:30am flight the next day for Puerto Vallarta. I could tell he was reticent to give me this information; he knew that I was bound and determined to see him completely shit-faced. And so I did. We plied that poor man with so much scotch and tequila that he did the floppy-leg walk back to the office, supported by two women, laid down on the couch in MCR and vomited in and around a wastebasket while we all made jokes and laughed and discussed the best plan for Alberto.

After he seemed to be done puking, we gathered him up for the trek to the trolley stop to take him to the BART station. While we waited for the trolley, he vomited some more while I simulated ass-raping him at the encouragement of one employee. What's a little mock-ass rape among friends? The trolley came before I did, off they all went, and I did my own floppy-leg walked back to the office. After a small vomit, and a peanut butter sandwich, I settled into the beanbags to watch a movie I could barely see.

Shane called about 30 minutes later. "I'M IN THE FUCKING GHETTO! I'M WALKING PAST A BURNED OUT COUCH IN THE GHETTO! I got Alberto home, though. ALBERTO LIVES IN THE FUCKING GHETTO! YOU HAVE TO STAY ON THE PHONE WITH ME UNTIL I GET OUT OF THE GHETTO! I'M WALKING THROUGH THE GHETTO WITH A WORK LAPTOP ON MY SHOULDER!".

Shane made it out of the ghetto, but I have yet to hear if Alberto made it to Puerto Vallarta. Maybe I'll never hear from or see him again. Yeah, right.

I finally made it home around 11:30, bleary-eyed, relaxed. I took a little nap with Peaches and then we all geared up to go to a birthday party for 1-year old Ethan down the street. Ethan's dad, Mike, lived in the house we're in for 10 years. He met his wife while she was renting the house that they now own. Upon leaving, Stephanie said they'd come by for drinks later and leave their kids with the grandparents at their house. I began cleaning as soon as we got home, of course.

Stephanie showed up with Ethan and Isla about an hour later. Isla is 3, and immediately requested that she be allowed to go get on Peaches' bed which she loves for some reason. Maybe it's the twin size she's so fond of. Stephanie was clearly on her last drink. Mike showed up a few minutes later, beer in hand. I tried talking to Stephanie, but her response was to sing along to some Bob Dylan. She suddenly rounded up the kids and announced it was time to go, but Mike came back a couple hours later.

By 11:45, it was Mike, Eric, and our friend Alex ringing in the New Year. I kept my drinking to a minimum as Eric was 3 sheets to the wind, planning Peaches' future nuptials to Ethan, and the grandkids we would share with Mike and Stephanie. Around 11:50, I started hearing the drums across the street and they got louder as the New Year approached. The neighbors across the street brought us into the New Year with the crescendo of the drums and primal screaming. Very cool, actually, to feel that energy, that build-up, without the 3-hour old countdown from NYC on the TV screen. Eric packed up his tambourine and his boys and went across the street, and I fell asleep listening to all of them banging their drums.

Around 3am, I woke to the smell of a house on fire. I yanked open the bedroom door to find Eric standing in the kitchen, eating a salad, in a house full of smoke. I don't think he cooked the salad, but I did find a giant black ghost of a tortilla in the trash this morning.

Today was simple and beautiful. The weather was warm and clear, the ocean twinkling as Alex drove Peaches and I to breakfast. I took the tree down when we got back and had a long nap with Peaches, her head nestled on my chest the whole time. We got up and went to the park, home for dinner, and now she's asleep, the first day of the new year done and she on the path to kindegarten.

Done. Done. This Year is Done.

2011-12-29T16:52:00.000-08:00

Almost done, anyway. Done like big, juicy steak resting on the cutting board, keeping all its juices inside. Come 01/01/2012, all the yummy juices will spill out all over us.

This year has turned me 41, one of my oddest ages so far. 40 was a little awkward; I had to come to terms with it, stick my toe in the water, test it, reflect on the prior 40, realize that I am now as old as really old people were when I was young. I had to shift my perspective to that of an old person, well, older person. A person who is willing to be aware of their age and can hopefully, somehow, carry it with some dignity. At 41-1/2, I have embraced this part of my 40s. I am kicking its fucking 40+ year old ass. I've lost many, many pounds, and found my way back to the alcohol. I've lunched with several ex-boyfriends and skimmed many people I don't care much for off of Facebook. I've boxed with a Chilean in my kitchen and my living room and taking a few good punches to my face without crying ir getting bruised or angry. I'm better at embracing my I-don't-give-a-fuck attitude. I do, of course, give a fuck about many things. But I've also learned not to give a fuck about many other things. This is a hard lesson to learn - when to give a fuck and when to not.

Alberto, my faithful direct report of 7 years, is leaving the nest to start his own business. I took him away from a company that I left and made him a manager, mentored him, abused him, berated him, helped him, made things difficult for him, and here at the end, gave him one of my old Texas license plates. His last day is tomorrow, our last day of work for the year. We will go for drinks and I will get drunk and then finally, maybe, shed a tear for his departure. But I doubt it. But I might. It's been known to happen. And then we will be on to next year.

Next year, ah, next year. Next year will be much like this year. The nieces and nephews will continue to get older, as will my children, and I will still be surprised about it. Summer will come and I will long to be at the beach and in the water. Next year, though, we will go on an actual vacation, where we choose a place and fly there and love it, rather than going to visit a relative and calling it a vacation. Yes, it's like a vacation, but not really. Hawaii it will be, neither of us have been.

The idiots in Hollywood and Washington, D.C. will continue their idiotic behavior and the Republicans will continue to be crazy and social media will be the thing and YouTube will pour out its endless amounts of entertainment and TV shows will come and go and I will mentor Alberto's replacement and cars will be made and so, the world will turn.

And if I'm lucky, I will be here more, entertaining myself.

Regret

2011-10-03T12:44:00.000-07:00

Regret is a nasty thing; a looming, nightmarish spectacle that both follows you and lurks ahead at every corner. A couple of weeks ago, a friend asked if I had regrets. I said no. I said no because I don't like regret; I want no part of it. I think sometimes people wallow in their regret, using it like a pass into a state of constant helplessness and self-pity. I also don't see a point in regret; either you learn your lesson and move on or you don't. Regret, in itself, serves no purpose in the long-term. In the short-term, it's excellent, like: "I really regret that I knifed that guy in the ass when he accidentally brushed against my ass on the MUNI. I probably shouldn't have done that." But going back and regretting something over and over and over - to what purpose? I have the same idea about worry. Worry to what end?

But I do have one giant, festering, awful regret. I can usually step around it, throw a blanket over it, make a face at it, give it the finger, whisk it away with chocolate, cockblock it with painting, catapult it with exercise, exorcise it with music, or black it out with current happines. But not always. Sometimes it comes to me and settles in my chest, my heart, my head, and has a little party. The title of the party is usually one of these: "What If?", "You Should Have", "Why Didn't You?", "You Could Have", or my favorites, "You Really Fucked That One Up" or "There Are No Good Excuses". The party favors are nausea, a choking feeling in the throat, anxiety, horror, feeling frozen, a sensation of reeling backwards, and the inability to concentrate. If you decide to come to one of these parties, please bring these gifts: a time machine and a parallel universe. While I may have a regret about the past, I wouldn't want to change my present. That's another problem with regret: going back and fixing the regret might be great, but how would that affect the present or the future? What sort of horrors would follow the fix? Hence the necessity of the paralell universe, and the "Back to the Future" movies (or "Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure"). I think the paralell universe is a good option, as long as you could decide what universe to stay in.

Unfortunately, this unfixable regret will be with me until I finally keel over and die. Then perhaps it will be let loose into the world and attach itself to some other poor soul, though I'd prefer it just die with me. I will have my battles with this regret until then, or until I get the time machine/parallel universe gift that someone will bring to my party. But, if anyone asks again, I will still say I have no regrets. Not because I don't, but because I do not want to acknowledge or discuss them. I don't want to take them out of my pocket and show their shininess to anyone, to gloat over the perfect nature of the regret, its infinite power and mocking abyss.

Let me know when you're coming to the party with the time machine cum parallel universe (that's right - I used cum in a sentence that didn't involve genitals - well it didn't until now anyway). I'll get you a little party hat and a bottle of whisky and I'll totally give you a hickey. But only one. Don't even think of asking for more.

Let's Talk About Charlie Sheen

2011-05-13T23:47:00.000-07:00

Clearly, Charlie Sheen is clearly all fucked up. He seemed ready to roll with that, but I doubt his resolve will last. At this rate, actually, he may not outlive his resolve to remain all fucked up. Charlie will die, and his resolve will be left out in the world, all dressed up with no place to go (and a pound of coke and a whore in its pockets). Some people don't like Charlie because he's openly fond of whores and cocaine and addiction, but I think his devotion shows a good deal of integrity.

Here's Charlie young and (kind of) hot:

I was gonna post a picture of Charlie in a Rambo get-up, but that doesn't really do him any justice. I wonder if Charlie's dad had a propensity for whores. My dad's best friend also prefers whores to regular ladies. Is this a reflection on the man, his mother, whores, or all of them confirmed? I guess if I was fond of cocaine I'd probably be fond of whores, too. Not that I'm not fond of them now; I just don't give them much thought unless I happen to see one, but I'm excited when I do: "Ooh look! A whore! Hi whore!" I usually make sure they don't hear me when I say that. If I can't avoid their eavesdropping, I change it to: "Oooh look! A pretty lady! Hi pretty lady!". If I'm walking by them, I don't say anything. I don't want to go to jail. (I just saw Lenny Kravitz in a Jeep commercial; clearly the world's coming to an end)

Here's Charlie in a picture from last year, I think prior to his complete fucking meltdown. Was it just bad cocaine that put him over the edge? I think he needs a brain scan; I bet they'll find some lesions and stuff. He looks old and fairly unhealthy, but you know, okay:

Not really hot, but I guess if I was a whore I'd whore it up for the old guy. Then I'd look in the mirror and say "Hi pretty lady!" while I put my tube top and mini-skirt back on.

And here he is this year. All-time best picture of Cocaine-crazy Charlie:

Umm, his hair still looks good, right? I think he's lost a little too much weight. And he might have scurvy.

Godspeed, Charlie Sheen. I'll look for your resolve and have a whore-coke party with it when you're dead.

Brain Things

2011-05-03T17:38:00.000-07:00

I got into a car accident a few weeks ago. Whatever. That's my third one - not one was my fault - so by now I'm used to it. Right? I'm like a demolition derby pro now.

This time, though, I started to get some headaches the week after. I'm one to write things off quickly to getting old, or it's just a phase, or it'll pass, but I had a doctor's appointment anyway so I told the doc about it. Then he told me a horror story about a lady and a blood clot, and signed me up for a MRI.

That's okay, I thought. It's gonna be fine. I haven't had the headaches in a week or so. So I went today, and thought okay, that's done. Then I walked out with pictures of my brain and put them in my car.

Can we talk about what it's like walking around with pictures of your brain? It's weird. Have you walked around with pictures of your brain? And then looked at them? Dude - it's weird! You're looking a picture of the thing that lets you hold, look at, and analyze the thing that you're looking at. Kind of like looking in a mirror but different because you can see the backs of your eyeballs, your nasal cavities, where your spinal column goes into your brain, your cerebrum, your cerebellum, etc. The left side of my brain is really, really big. And the right side seems a little atrophied. Hmmm...and what's that little white spot in the middle there? And why does that look lopsided? And what's that thing? And why does that say normal? Is that normal? Does that mean I am, in fact, normal? My poor brain. I have to get home and get my textbook out cause I can't remember all my brain parts.

So, I was sure everything was going to be fine. I'd go to the doctor next week and we'd joke about my brain (although he wouldn't participate in that - he's not very fun that way). Instead I got THE call: "They need you to go back in to rule something out. They'll call you."

I love that - "rule something out". Sounds very positive, doesn't it? I'm trying really hard to take it that way. They want to do a contrast MRI this time, so they can see better. I'm sure I just moved a little and smudged something. That's probably it, right? Right?

Right. That's what I'll tell myself until next Tuesday, while I'm being hooked up to the IV and having my face covered with the Hannibal Lecter cage mask.

Grandpa Bought a Rubber!

2011-04-04T14:46:00.000-07:00

I believe I spent one whole year listening to Steve Martin's "A Wild and Crazy Guy" album about the time it came out - when I was 8. Granted, I didn't understand a lot of it. There was the whole diaphragm bit, the part about the lady's pussy (I'm talking about her cat!), and a couple more. But I thought the rest was uproarious. "Grandma's Song", "Cat Toys", etc. Have you heard it? You should, you know, if you think you'd think it would be funny.

Bits from the album arise in my mind at good, and inopportune, moments. Like when I going into crowded restaurant, I hear this from my internal Steve Martin voice: "You go in to a busy restaurant, and every head turns - except hers, because she has NO NECK!". And sometimes I am compelled to repeat it, often to puzzled looks and half-smiles from my companions. These obviously are from people who didn't spend a year listening to that one album over and over again. And anytime I feel I should sing better, I think of my diaphragm. Oddly, at the time I was listening to this album, I was more familiar with the diaphragm as a birth control device than a body part. I have no idea why, but that's pretty much how most of my childhood was. I believe I learned the wrong things at the wrong times. Like the time I found a book on how to give a perfect blow job. I found that in our hall closet when I was 12. I think it was a wedding present for my sister from my mom. I think...but the book was definitely in that closet. I guess I should clarify that now, when I'm thinking of my diaphragm, I'm not thinking of my birth control device. But I do try to sing from my diaphragm like Steve Martin said to do. Then there's the "tuna fish sandwich under each arm" which is never appropriate unless I'm with my sister, who completely understands. I can also quote Cheech & Chong's Wedding Album to my sister, and she'll understand that. I don't know how many of you have listened to that, but you should. When I listened back to that one, I'll admit to being slightly appalled about my young self being allowed to listen to it.

Around this time, I also listened relentlessy to Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody", Fleetwood Mac's "Rumors", a Chuck Berry album, and The Beatles "Abbey Road". I had to listen to them in my brother's room. They're all near and dear to my heart.

So, to wrap this all up in a neat bow, whenever I see an old man who is on a date, I think "Grandpa bought a rubber!" and if I'm alone or with my husband in the car, I sing it loud and proud.

We cannot be the American Red Cross of everything...

2011-01-27T16:12:00.000-08:00

I grew up in a city, where people live on top of, below, and next to each other. Where you could travel across blocks on the rooftops or through the yards. Where there were too many neighbors to really mind what any of them were doing, unless it was excessively strange or annoying. A place where you didn't really get to know your neighbors.

Now, I live in a semi-suburb. I say "semi" because it was built as a resort area for San Franciscans, not as a suburb. Not a bedroom community, but a "vacation town". Hundreds of years later, though, it definitely has a suburban air to it. And sometimes, I feel like an outsider. I don't know how friendly I'm supposed to be, who's paying attention to what I'm doing, and what I'm doing wrong. At the end of the day, I don't care, but there are moments where these questions loom large.

There's a nice family across the street from us. Husband, wife, four kids. Not long after we moved in, we met them on the street and chatted. Not long after that, Peach and I were walking by their house one day and somehow ended up getting invited in. I had no bra on, I hadn't showered or brushed my teeth, but the enthusiasm of Peaches carried me into the house where we made small talk while I stood around uncomfortably. I was finally invited to sit, given coffee, but I didn't take my jacket off. We talked about having dinner, etc., and I was finally, mercifully propelled by my own discomfort to collect Peaches and go. We never did the dinner. Like I said, they're nice folks - the kind that built their own house and go to church every Sunday. The wife's from Canada - do I need to say more?

I'd say hi when I saw them, friendly and all, but that voice in the back of my head was pestering: "You're not being friendly enough. They think you don't like them. You're a bad neighbor...". On a walk last weekend, the wife was out front with two of the kids drawing with the chalk on the sidewalk and one of them called for Peaches. So, we went over, and Peach played while the mom (whose name I can never remember) made small talk. Did I mention she's from Canada and goes to church? I'm not really all that good at small talk to begin with, so it petered out, and I felt bad because she seems really nice. But really, how much small talk is there for me engage in with a Canadian woman with four children that goes to church every Sunday? So, as the sun set the kids ran around a tree in the front yard and we just stood there. Then Peach and I went home, with me feeling bad for being such an awkward suburbanite. Goddess forbid I ever get caught up in some area with a Homeowner's Association.

But, like I said, it's a semi-suburb, and we've got our fair share of just plain crazies, artists, burn-outs, etc. Here's a snippet from the Open Line from our local paper, Half Moon Bay Review. The Open Line is a transcription of calls made to a recording device where locals can make comments on recent stories, etc.

"I noticed across form Sea Horse Ranch there is a big old pine tree that had a big rounded top that broke several months ago, and the impression I got initially was, it seems to be what is wrong with everything. The top is overloaded, taking too much, breaking the back of everyone else. It might be good for the paper to take a picture of that tree broken in half and comment how everything is broken. Our society is run amok. We cannot be the American Red Cross of everything without funding. Unfortunately, everyone is broke."
Editor's note: The caller reminds me of a song. If you are interested, look up the lyrics to Bob Dylan's "Everything is Broken".

Blog Free or Die!

2011-01-21T13:13:00.000-08:00

I am putting a fucking reminder on my calendar about posting here. I swear Facebook killed all the bloggers...maybe that was Zukerberg's real motivation for Facebook.

All right...now I'm going to think about complete sentences that don't start with my name.

The Move

2010-07-22T16:01:00.001-07:00

Eric and I lived in the deep dark forests of Pescadero for a couple of years. The trees shaped a little crescent hole above the tiny cabin, the dog sat on the stone patio, the kid ran free, the silence was wonderful, the greenery was lush.

The cabin was tiny.

The cabin was cold.

The cabin was funky.

The water came from the creek.

The electricity bills were outrageous.

Part of me loved the place. The remote feel of it, the ruggedness, the danger of living where the electricity could go out for days at a time. I liked driving past the pig (before it ate the dying goat), the sheep, and all the goats that lived together, past the flower fields, past the leek fields, over the fields and through the woods to Mercedes' house we go.

As a city girl though, part of me hated the place. I didn't grow up with "amenities", but I did grow up with a steady supply of electricity, clean smelling water, not much mold, sunshine, and lots of places to walk to. After a year, the city girl was ready to straight bolt back to the city. Fuck trees, fuck clean air, fuck silence. After two years, I honestly think it was starting to drive me a little batshit. The 3-hour daily commute probably didn't help, and I'm sure the limited living space didn't help.

Finally, finally, we saved money to move and found the new place somewhere a little less remote but closer to the city. Think sunshine and roses, literally, in the garden. Big windows. Amenities. Insulation. Clean-smelling water. Walking to the beach. Fresh fish from the harbor everyday. Full moon hanging framed in the living room window.

The first morning I woke up in that place, it was with a profound - and I really mean profound - sense of relief, calm, hope, and relaxation. Now I don't want to even go back to see the old place. Granted, it's only been 3 months or so, but it feels like a lifetime. I think the last few months there were darker for me than I would admit. A great angst had been growing, like a tumor, from all the driving and trials of a rugged lifestyle in a place with too much shade.

This all leads me to conclude that had I been the husband on Green Acres, I woulda cut the bitch and ran - ran, ran, ran - back to the city.

Too Long

2009-08-24T14:11:00.000-07:00

Eight months since I've written anything here. That's what Facebook will do. It will eat all of your words and creative energy and turn the mix into a "status update". If I was a twatter - oh, sorry - tweeter, I would be rendered wordless by social networking. Thankfully, the end of my junior year in college left me a little time on my hands and I actually had the urge to write something...even broke out pen and paper. I ended up making a tiny bracelet for my daughter while my son chattered away at me instead of writing but the thought was there. And still is.

This year has sped by; birthdays, holidays, vacations, midterms, finals, milestones, deaths, impending deaths, all looming in the windshield and then flying into the past in what seems like seconds. Is it the sign of old age or just an overly busy lifestyle? This weekend seemed abnormally long, perhaps because I enjoyed the company of my two children so much. They barely know each other, but still have a mutual admiration that seems ingrained.

I keep telling this story I heard though I have yet to read the actual details: "A man boarded a plane in Oakland that was bound for St. Louis. Sometime after the flight took off, he took his cock out of his pants. The woman next to him made some comment and he punched her in the face." I laugh everytime I tell the story. I don't really know why I think it's so funny. I guess because it's so strange...why did he punch her in the face? Did he think she wasn't going to say anything? Was he expecting a more enthusiastic response from his fellow passenger? I really do need to look the story up...maybe it's even funnier than I can imagine.

We watched "Tsotsi" last night, and I recommend it even though it has many heartbreaking aspects to it. I think we all have a little bit of Tsotsi in us, just waiting for the right something to come along and bring light into our hearts.

Today's Top Headlines

2008-12-18T17:38:00.000-08:00

on Yahoo...

Taylor Swift confides that ex-beau Joe Jonas is no longer the only man on her mind.
Britney's Circus Act Falters in Week 2

Okay, that's what comes up on my Yahoo! home page. I guess I should change it. Or shoot myself so that I don't have to continue watching my society in its downward spiral towards complete and utter shallowness.