wow, you guys are good.
you inspired me...
pupu incense = 1,620
rickshaw trollop = 1,910
niggle swarthy = 2,680
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Saturday, July 18, 2009
sweat salamander
mink bikini = 34,300
milk biscuit = 4,320,000
silk sangria = 2,200,000
bilk bourgeoisie = 14,000
my friend, lisa, plays a party game on google. the gist is to enter the two words that generate the least amount of hits.
try it.
log your best shot here.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Chicken Sex
Leave it to my lesbian friends to raise a rooster named Mathilda, and a hen that crows.
Mathilda the boy chicken is not such an uncommon development. It's hard to tell what sex those fuzzy little chicks are when they pop out of the eggs. When you get them home and growing in their little box, and then coop, you just gotta keep your eye, and ear, open for tell tale signs that your hen is becoming a man-bird. Like noticing the red crop growing on his head and the adolescent crackling that's trying to be a crow.
They had to get rid of Mathilda--dubbed Clark soon after puberty--because roosters aren't allowed in suburban backyards.
Rooster gone, this morning they woke to Daisy, the bossy hen of the brood, gurgling out a half-cocked screechy croon. In the absence of a rooster, she's taking on job. How very butch of her.
*
Mathilda the boy chicken is not such an uncommon development. It's hard to tell what sex those fuzzy little chicks are when they pop out of the eggs. When you get them home and growing in their little box, and then coop, you just gotta keep your eye, and ear, open for tell tale signs that your hen is becoming a man-bird. Like noticing the red crop growing on his head and the adolescent crackling that's trying to be a crow.
They had to get rid of Mathilda--dubbed Clark soon after puberty--because roosters aren't allowed in suburban backyards.
Rooster gone, this morning they woke to Daisy, the bossy hen of the brood, gurgling out a half-cocked screechy croon. In the absence of a rooster, she's taking on job. How very butch of her.
*
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Dirt Where You'd Least Expect It
When I lived in New York, I had a lot of surreal experiences. Like the time I walked past a huge advert pic of a swimming pool and actually smelled chlorinated water on hot cement. And that first week I was there in that raucous loud city, seeing a homeless, deaf teenager, and imagining what NYC would be like without sound...I think it would be like being under water.
And there was the time I saw construction in the street. They had the road ripped up and I could see the dirt underneath. Dirt. Brown, sandy earth. In Manhattan. I stopped and stared before I realized I was gripped by the surprise of nature holding us all up.
Saw the Mannahatta Project today and it reminded me of that surprising earth.
*
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
iParts
A: Hey I think I can select my iPhone apps with my nipple. I'm gonna try it.
B: What? It should work. It's warm. Maybe I can take a picture with my Johnson.
A: Oh, it's working!
B: I just took a picture of my leg. I'm going to send it to you.
(beat)
B: Oh my God, I'm scrolling through my pictures with my Johnson. Wait. Check your email.
"Penis Poems"
K sZ
G blog
Doug
Stle
Typed by my Tip
*
B: What? It should work. It's warm. Maybe I can take a picture with my Johnson.
A: Oh, it's working!
B: I just took a picture of my leg. I'm going to send it to you.
(beat)
B: Oh my God, I'm scrolling through my pictures with my Johnson. Wait. Check your email.
"Penis Poems"
K sZ
G blog
Doug
Stle
Typed by my Tip
*
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Law School vs. Baby Uncertainty Principle
My brother has three nearly grown kids and some variation of a constant question whenever I see him:
"When are you gonna have kids?"
Or, "Why don't you go get some seeds?"
Or, "Isn't your clock gonna explode soon? Get all rusty and freeze up on you?"
Eloquence runs in my family.
Kids don't. Out of 5 adult siblings, only 2 of us have procreated. I'm not one of them.
My mantras: I *think* I want kids. I don't want to ruin them. I don't want them to ruin me, which will ruin them.
Snake eats its tail.
Yesterday, after the course of some high pressure darktime hours with God, I get it. Yes. Kids. Babies. Offspring. I'd be a good mom. And maybe a nutter of one, okay. But yeah. Kids and me would go very well together.
Then I saw this post today on THE HAPPINESS PROJECT and it made me snicker while giving me perspective in all of 20 seconds. It's in the video linked here.
"When are you gonna have kids?"
Or, "Why don't you go get some seeds?"
Or, "Isn't your clock gonna explode soon? Get all rusty and freeze up on you?"
Eloquence runs in my family.
Kids don't. Out of 5 adult siblings, only 2 of us have procreated. I'm not one of them.
My mantras: I *think* I want kids. I don't want to ruin them. I don't want them to ruin me, which will ruin them.
Snake eats its tail.
Yesterday, after the course of some high pressure darktime hours with God, I get it. Yes. Kids. Babies. Offspring. I'd be a good mom. And maybe a nutter of one, okay. But yeah. Kids and me would go very well together.
Then I saw this post today on THE HAPPINESS PROJECT and it made me snicker while giving me perspective in all of 20 seconds. It's in the video linked here.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Hollywood Movie
Been okay. But tonight I'm a girl. A regular girl the kind I always wondered about who loved "Dirty Dancing" and swooned over boys and babies. Everywhere I look are couples aging and sophistcated on a Saturday night, young and cute in the giddy twilight. And everytime I hold back tears. Tears! Are threatening my eyes and slipping down my throat. I force myself into the street into a bar with a book and I hide behind the menu mystified that I'm crying just looking at wines. Or trying to keep from crying, lights dim, bar marble-topped, music perfectly jazz. The lights just got dimmer and my red is served. I wonder if I will be someone's story tonight, to see and consider as they go to sleep, the woman at the bar brushing at tears before her book even opens.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Facts
My boyfriend and I broke up yesterday.
My HS reunion is in a few weeks. To go or not to go.
Kittens slept on my head last night.
I just woke up from a three-hour nap.
Window washers dangled outside my 10th floor apt today, adept as spiders.
Yesterday I was angrier than I have been in a really long time.
Like maybe ever.
Anger is cumulative over years and bursts open like a storm cloud.
I am the same girl I was in high school. More talkative maybe. And as poetically morose.
I'm looking out my window at a river right now.
My friends make me feel so special I cry.
I ate halves of five different flavored cupcakes yesterday, with two of my besties, all of us in the haven of my bed.
We drank prosecco in the afternoon. Also in my bed.
I am tired.
I wonder a lot of things. Mostly about progress and reproduction and people.
I missed yesterday's blog post, busy living its content.
I miss New York sometimes.
Life is always just beginning.
*
My HS reunion is in a few weeks. To go or not to go.
Kittens slept on my head last night.
I just woke up from a three-hour nap.
Window washers dangled outside my 10th floor apt today, adept as spiders.
Yesterday I was angrier than I have been in a really long time.
Like maybe ever.
Anger is cumulative over years and bursts open like a storm cloud.
I am the same girl I was in high school. More talkative maybe. And as poetically morose.
I'm looking out my window at a river right now.
My friends make me feel so special I cry.
I ate halves of five different flavored cupcakes yesterday, with two of my besties, all of us in the haven of my bed.
We drank prosecco in the afternoon. Also in my bed.
I am tired.
I wonder a lot of things. Mostly about progress and reproduction and people.
I missed yesterday's blog post, busy living its content.
I miss New York sometimes.
Life is always just beginning.
*
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Office Deluge
My eyes have an office-y ache and a laptoppy strain. But success was found on my new scanner today. Even though I failed at the fax. 
Monday, July 6, 2009
A General Ick
What can be attributed to this ICK? I woke up and before I even opened my eyes, I hated my apartment. I loathed where it is located, isolated at the end of my block. I regretted the home improvements I made last weekend, and couldn't believe I bought that ugly little table and chairs. It disrupts everything with its wicker cuteness and caramel-colored brightness infecting my apartment's darker tones.
Ick.
In my late 20s I used to wake up with an emotional hangover. I'd have a fun night out the night before, no alcohol (special diet), nobody in my bed (no reason but shyness), and before I even opened my eyes, I'd be regretting all that laughing and joking and general self-expression of the night before...usually it involved meeting new people and having a really great time. And it wasn't just regretting, I was doing. It was a physical sensation. My insides churned in a kitchen mixer, getting folded into a batter headed for the flame and skillet.
What the hell is that about? Does everyone feel this way when they wake up? Is this why people drink coffee? Mood enhancer of happy prancers once static dancers. Stop me.
I'm still in bed. I wrote some morning pages then made a list of all there is to do today in lieu of hating myself. When I have stuff to do there is less time for that. In between lines, I considered when I have felt like this and remembered high school. Precious days of hormonal Jekyll and Hyde. Girlhood sucks sometimes.
Today is a girl day. In all the literature of all time, all those pagan fertility rites recorded and allusions to the power of women during their "moon time," why does none of it, not one speck say one thing about PMS?
If you know of an ancient reference to lady dragons, please post. I'd love some redemption in history.
Ick.
In my late 20s I used to wake up with an emotional hangover. I'd have a fun night out the night before, no alcohol (special diet), nobody in my bed (no reason but shyness), and before I even opened my eyes, I'd be regretting all that laughing and joking and general self-expression of the night before...usually it involved meeting new people and having a really great time. And it wasn't just regretting, I was doing. It was a physical sensation. My insides churned in a kitchen mixer, getting folded into a batter headed for the flame and skillet.
What the hell is that about? Does everyone feel this way when they wake up? Is this why people drink coffee? Mood enhancer of happy prancers once static dancers. Stop me.
I'm still in bed. I wrote some morning pages then made a list of all there is to do today in lieu of hating myself. When I have stuff to do there is less time for that. In between lines, I considered when I have felt like this and remembered high school. Precious days of hormonal Jekyll and Hyde. Girlhood sucks sometimes.
Today is a girl day. In all the literature of all time, all those pagan fertility rites recorded and allusions to the power of women during their "moon time," why does none of it, not one speck say one thing about PMS?
If you know of an ancient reference to lady dragons, please post. I'd love some redemption in history.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Independent
I missed yesterday's post!
I was independent of the blog while celebrating our country's independence.
Now, a lot could be debated about what our country and its individuals are independent from--or not--these days. Oil? A crazy craving to always be buying something? Debt, and the Industrial Revolution hours it makes one keep?
But systemically, ritually, we are free.
And a lotta folks work to keep us feeling that way, from red tapers to storm troopers to grocery markets that stay open till midnight.
And for that I give thanks on Independence Day.
Powerful stuff, freedom.
I was independent of the blog while celebrating our country's independence.
Now, a lot could be debated about what our country and its individuals are independent from--or not--these days. Oil? A crazy craving to always be buying something? Debt, and the Industrial Revolution hours it makes one keep?
But systemically, ritually, we are free.
And a lotta folks work to keep us feeling that way, from red tapers to storm troopers to grocery markets that stay open till midnight.
And for that I give thanks on Independence Day.
Powerful stuff, freedom.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Rhythm is Gonna Get You
My best dancing days all added together have not seen as much dancing as there's been in my life since Michael Jackson died, all that rhythm comin outta everywhere, radios all around.
I want a jazz funeral when I die. But if you play a little MJ when I go, it'll gimme some more boogie to woogie outta here on. And I won't mind a bit. As long as you keep marchin and swingin down the streets with them trombones and sassy colors, lovin the life I led as much as I did.
I want a jazz funeral when I die. But if you play a little MJ when I go, it'll gimme some more boogie to woogie outta here on. And I won't mind a bit. As long as you keep marchin and swingin down the streets with them trombones and sassy colors, lovin the life I led as much as I did.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Lawty Lawty Got a House Pawty
This is three-fourths of my core Welcome-to-Portland crew. Note the cute girl on the right. That's Stephanie. 
And this is the farewell crew.
Saying goodbye to Stephanie. Portland's loss. New York's gain.
We'll miss you, girl.
And this is the farewell crew.
Saying goodbye to Stephanie. Portland's loss. New York's gain.
We'll miss you, girl.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
Specs Addict
One dark and stormy night, I lost my glasses.
I was traveling, and was headed for another airport in the morning. So, I made arrangements to cab it directly from the Portland airport to Sears Optical to get new specs. And you know, sometimes life has more adventures than time.
So I met a blind date there. At Sears Optical. He helped me choose new glasses. He helped a lot, actually. It had been a sad, heavy winter and along came a perfect stranger to help me lift it.
A few months later, back in Santa Barbara, I met another stranger. It was windy on the night of our first date. Really windy. We went to the movies. Watched. Then ducked back into the wind. He walked me to my car. Whereupon I discovered I had lost my glasses.
I began to wonder if my glasses are connected somehow to the people I date, and what, if any, metaphysical meddling might be manifesting in my losing them. For, once, on a first date, I lost my wrist watch. And lemme tell you, I still haven't stopped mourning the time that went missing from the year that followed that night.
For the record, I lost my glasses *again* shortly after I met my current boyfriend. But I figured the metaphiz got balanced or redeemed or something because the glasses were found and returned by a cross-dressing furniture dealer named Woody. ...something about "if it comes back to you it's yours. If it doesn't, it was never meant to be" rings a bell. And the cross-dressing. That's a representation of balance, right? Male and female in one?
:-)
*
I was traveling, and was headed for another airport in the morning. So, I made arrangements to cab it directly from the Portland airport to Sears Optical to get new specs. And you know, sometimes life has more adventures than time.
So I met a blind date there. At Sears Optical. He helped me choose new glasses. He helped a lot, actually. It had been a sad, heavy winter and along came a perfect stranger to help me lift it.
A few months later, back in Santa Barbara, I met another stranger. It was windy on the night of our first date. Really windy. We went to the movies. Watched. Then ducked back into the wind. He walked me to my car. Whereupon I discovered I had lost my glasses.
I began to wonder if my glasses are connected somehow to the people I date, and what, if any, metaphysical meddling might be manifesting in my losing them. For, once, on a first date, I lost my wrist watch. And lemme tell you, I still haven't stopped mourning the time that went missing from the year that followed that night.
For the record, I lost my glasses *again* shortly after I met my current boyfriend. But I figured the metaphiz got balanced or redeemed or something because the glasses were found and returned by a cross-dressing furniture dealer named Woody. ...something about "if it comes back to you it's yours. If it doesn't, it was never meant to be" rings a bell. And the cross-dressing. That's a representation of balance, right? Male and female in one?
:-)
*
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Saturday, June 27, 2009
"Support for Spelling" ?
It's hard to swallow a hard-to-swallow rule.
But once you get used to it, sing-song a little mantra about it, and then become an editor, for Pete's sake, enforcing it with red pens the rest of your days, it's hard to let it go. Oh, i-before-e, must we? Part?
New Britain Teaching Guidelines Nix "I Before E" Spelling Rule
*
But once you get used to it, sing-song a little mantra about it, and then become an editor, for Pete's sake, enforcing it with red pens the rest of your days, it's hard to let it go. Oh, i-before-e, must we? Part?
New Britain Teaching Guidelines Nix "I Before E" Spelling Rule
*
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Tools To Live By
My friend and colleague, Jillian, was over yesterday, giving me counsel on my life architecture.
We were talkin story and she told me about how, after a big change in her life, she got rid of almost everything she owned...appliances, furniture. She wanted to keep it simple. So she didn't buy a TV. She made her coffee on the stove.
I was totally vibing on her story, drawn in like, yeah, I get it. Cathartic. Get rid of that stuff. And then I remembered my own moving story--story of moving, that is.
I am in New York to be a student, from San Francisco where I had a job. To get here, I have sold or trashed 75% of the possessions I laboriously accumulated between the ages of 19 and 30. Rent and tuition paid in the big city, I am so broke I am manufacturing air. I eat a lot of canned beans at this point in my life. You can buy 'em cheap and season them well, toss in an egg (yep an egg) and have a super high protein meal that lasts till lunch time.
That is, if you can open the can. Simplified and broke, I don't have a can opener. (Does this sound like a theme to anyone?) But I have a tool box.
I spend a week opening my nightly can of beans with a screwdriver and hammer. When I finally receive the student loan check and go to the store to buy a can opener, it is the best $1.27 I ever spend.
We were talkin story and she told me about how, after a big change in her life, she got rid of almost everything she owned...appliances, furniture. She wanted to keep it simple. So she didn't buy a TV. She made her coffee on the stove.
I was totally vibing on her story, drawn in like, yeah, I get it. Cathartic. Get rid of that stuff. And then I remembered my own moving story--story of moving, that is.
I am in New York to be a student, from San Francisco where I had a job. To get here, I have sold or trashed 75% of the possessions I laboriously accumulated between the ages of 19 and 30. Rent and tuition paid in the big city, I am so broke I am manufacturing air. I eat a lot of canned beans at this point in my life. You can buy 'em cheap and season them well, toss in an egg (yep an egg) and have a super high protein meal that lasts till lunch time.
That is, if you can open the can. Simplified and broke, I don't have a can opener. (Does this sound like a theme to anyone?) But I have a tool box.
I spend a week opening my nightly can of beans with a screwdriver and hammer. When I finally receive the student loan check and go to the store to buy a can opener, it is the best $1.27 I ever spend.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Sing it with Me
This is the way we gaze at our navel
gaze at our navel
gaze at our navel
This is the way we gaze at our navel
early in the morning.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Click It - Clock
Need a wake up call?
Or a reason to keep hitting snooze?
Bring home "The Perfect Valet."
(Click the audio samples for your daily laugh dose.)
Or a reason to keep hitting snooze?
Bring home "The Perfect Valet."
(Click the audio samples for your daily laugh dose.)
Monday, June 22, 2009
Mi Familia
SUE: My big toe is smaller than my middle toe.
ROB: Your big toe is smaller than your little toe?
SUE: Yeah
ROB: That lady we were with today, her little toe went straight up like this. Did you see it?
SUE: What lady?
ROB: That lady. The one with the one eye.
ROB: Your big toe is smaller than your little toe?
SUE: Yeah
ROB: That lady we were with today, her little toe went straight up like this. Did you see it?
SUE: What lady?
ROB: That lady. The one with the one eye.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Dinner With Grandma
My grandma is the only person I've ever seen eat a taco like a sandwich.
When I tell her that, she asks me, "What are you eating?"
(She can't see what I'm eating because she is blind.)
"A burrito."
"What's a burrito?"
(She doesn't know this because she's from Missouri circa 1910.)
"Everything that's in your taco rolled up in a tortilla."
"That's why I've never had one. I don't like those flour tortillas."
We are quiet a while. She and my grandpa used to come to this Taco Bell together a long time ago. They used to bring my brother and me here on get-out-of-the-kitchen nights. I loved the yellow paper my burritos came rolled in and the cheese shredded in super skinny slices. Grandma's vision has dimmed over the years. I am fully sighted. But we're both seeing the same history in our minds.
"I almost died laughing at Orin eating a tostado," she says.
"Why's that? How'd Grandpa eat his tostadas?"
"He had such a long nose." (And now she's laughing.) "Couldn't take a bite without getting it in it!"
When I tell her that, she asks me, "What are you eating?"
(She can't see what I'm eating because she is blind.)
"A burrito."
"What's a burrito?"
(She doesn't know this because she's from Missouri circa 1910.)
"Everything that's in your taco rolled up in a tortilla."
"That's why I've never had one. I don't like those flour tortillas."
We are quiet a while. She and my grandpa used to come to this Taco Bell together a long time ago. They used to bring my brother and me here on get-out-of-the-kitchen nights. I loved the yellow paper my burritos came rolled in and the cheese shredded in super skinny slices. Grandma's vision has dimmed over the years. I am fully sighted. But we're both seeing the same history in our minds.
"I almost died laughing at Orin eating a tostado," she says.
"Why's that? How'd Grandpa eat his tostadas?"
"He had such a long nose." (And now she's laughing.) "Couldn't take a bite without getting it in it!"
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Click It - Toof
My Milk Toof
Possibly the funniest, and the cutest, cute/funny combo ever.
(Web Cred - Thanks Kristin Thiel at Indigo Editing!
Ever the fresh source for mental rest stops along the road.))
Possibly the funniest, and the cutest, cute/funny combo ever.
(Web Cred - Thanks Kristin Thiel at Indigo Editing!
Ever the fresh source for mental rest stops along the road.))
Friday, June 19, 2009
BackFencePDX - Lawdy Lawdy Lawdy
Damn that was a good night. Sold out crowd of ~250, people in happy moods, lost in the stories, like they're sitting at a campfire, feeling the heat and sharing the love.
A stripper told a story about finding her vibrator in the bum of a half-dead man.
A preacher's grandson told the story of his accidental terrorist act.
A So. African ex-pat told a remarkable story of race, revelation, and The Jefferson's.
I told a story of childhood fantasy turned...fantasy.
If you're on Twitter, go to BACKFENCEPDX and follow some of the tweets on the night. What a great show, and so much fun!!
Catch the next one in Portland in September.
Video links to follow, I think.
A stripper told a story about finding her vibrator in the bum of a half-dead man.
A preacher's grandson told the story of his accidental terrorist act.
A So. African ex-pat told a remarkable story of race, revelation, and The Jefferson's.
I told a story of childhood fantasy turned...fantasy.
If you're on Twitter, go to BACKFENCEPDX and follow some of the tweets on the night. What a great show, and so much fun!!
Catch the next one in Portland in September.
Video links to follow, I think.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Appliance Challenged
My trip to Trader Joe's so fulfilled my need for familiarity, that I walked out with items it turns out I wasn't prepared for.
To my delight this morning, I remembered I bought my favorite TJ's toaster waffles! Opening the freezer...grabbing the box...thinking of my topping choices...yum! almond butter? honey? Then I remember...
I don't have a toaster.
Wah-Wah-Wah...
To my delight this morning, I remembered I bought my favorite TJ's toaster waffles! Opening the freezer...grabbing the box...thinking of my topping choices...yum! almond butter? honey? Then I remember...
I don't have a toaster.
Wah-Wah-Wah...
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Caught Red-Handed
Hey Folks,
I'm on stage tonight at BACKFENCEPDX, storytelling on the theme, "Caught Red-Handed." Uh-oh. :) Check it out!
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Scentrageous
I have an inordinate love of fresh basil.
I heart basil.
I order Thai food, just for the basil dishes.
I love the scent, the soft feel of its leaves, its rich, rich green, and that taste, mm mm mm.
I finally found the Wednesday farmers market downtown in Portland's South Park blocks, an came home clutching a bunch of basil. Happy homemaker, I put it in a glass of water near the sink and off I went, back out into the day.
That night, when I walked into my studio, I went straight to open the window. WHAT is that smell? It's like...grapefruit...rind...no, it's like B.O., old, stale, stinky B.O. that has been sitting in a gym shirt in the corner too long.
I did the laundry. The air circulated. The scent diminished. Until the next day. I came home, and there was that...grapefruity, no, stale, six-day-old sweat stink again. Trash out, recycling emptied, I nosed around the house to discover it was the basil, the pretty, thriving in its glass, scentsational, scentrageously overpowering essence d'sweat herb.
Who knew that's what basil smells like in an urban studio?
I heart basil.
I order Thai food, just for the basil dishes.
I love the scent, the soft feel of its leaves, its rich, rich green, and that taste, mm mm mm.
I finally found the Wednesday farmers market downtown in Portland's South Park blocks, an came home clutching a bunch of basil. Happy homemaker, I put it in a glass of water near the sink and off I went, back out into the day.
That night, when I walked into my studio, I went straight to open the window. WHAT is that smell? It's like...grapefruit...rind...no, it's like B.O., old, stale, stinky B.O. that has been sitting in a gym shirt in the corner too long.
I did the laundry. The air circulated. The scent diminished. Until the next day. I came home, and there was that...grapefruity, no, stale, six-day-old sweat stink again. Trash out, recycling emptied, I nosed around the house to discover it was the basil, the pretty, thriving in its glass, scentsational, scentrageously overpowering essence d'sweat herb.
Who knew that's what basil smells like in an urban studio?
Monday, June 15, 2009
Rebel Yell
In favor of peace between my dad and me, we skirt topics on race and politics. But when I was a kid, we would get into arguments. At 19, I began to harbor fantasies of moving away from home, and coming back with long, wild curly hair, tattooed and smoking, on the back of a motorcycle driven by my boyfriend, who would of course be black. (FYI, I am white, my hair is straight, and I was into girls at the time.)
Today over breakfast, 18 years later, my boyfriend and I were digging at the source of bigotry in an age that makes limiting beliefs about one's skin color sound archaic at best. My boyfriend, handsome as I find him, describes himself as a cross between Andy Dick and Woody Allen--5'6", near-sighted, self-deprecating, and a Midwestern shade of so-white-he's-pink. When I told him about my old fantasy, he looked slightly defeated and then offered:
"I could wear black-face."
Today over breakfast, 18 years later, my boyfriend and I were digging at the source of bigotry in an age that makes limiting beliefs about one's skin color sound archaic at best. My boyfriend, handsome as I find him, describes himself as a cross between Andy Dick and Woody Allen--5'6", near-sighted, self-deprecating, and a Midwestern shade of so-white-he's-pink. When I told him about my old fantasy, he looked slightly defeated and then offered:
"I could wear black-face."
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Love is a Battle Cube
SETTING: Hotel Bar.
TIME: Evening, after day one of "Celebrating Men, Satisfying Women," a self-help seminar.
CAST:
Woman
Bartender
Bartender mixes drink.
WOMAN: One thing I do know is he falls for people he works with.
(Sip)
So if he ever gets his divorce and we get married, you better believe I'm gonna keep workin' with him.
*
TIME: Evening, after day one of "Celebrating Men, Satisfying Women," a self-help seminar.
CAST:
Woman
Bartender
Bartender mixes drink.
WOMAN: One thing I do know is he falls for people he works with.
(Sip)
So if he ever gets his divorce and we get married, you better believe I'm gonna keep workin' with him.
*
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Joe Sweet Joe
Q: How long does it take a girl to come to her senses and make herself feel at home in a new town?
A: As long as it takes her to find and frequent the nearest Trader Joe's.
I love a good farmers market. There are 6 of them within walking or biking distance from my house, selling yummy, locally grown organic fruits and veggies, and all kinds of other delights. But when I walked into Trader Joe's last weekend, I felt like I had found home in a dream where I had been lost a thousand years. There it was. Same as in every town I've lived in. Had never moved. It was only I who had forgot it was there. What familiarity it held. The scent, the layout of the place, the friendly faces and floral shirts and pre-packaged gluten-free gourmet-ish...foodstuffs, microwaveable produce...in plastic shrink wrap, and fruit in...plastic boxes...from...Argentina...or Chile. Yes, somehow, Trader Joe's is an island in the sea. Its non-local, non-recyclable, organic-from-far-flung-republics products calling to me like...like...like a lover I should have long ago outgrown but is too damned good to let go. Ahhh. Sweet Joe.
A: As long as it takes her to find and frequent the nearest Trader Joe's.
I love a good farmers market. There are 6 of them within walking or biking distance from my house, selling yummy, locally grown organic fruits and veggies, and all kinds of other delights. But when I walked into Trader Joe's last weekend, I felt like I had found home in a dream where I had been lost a thousand years. There it was. Same as in every town I've lived in. Had never moved. It was only I who had forgot it was there. What familiarity it held. The scent, the layout of the place, the friendly faces and floral shirts and pre-packaged gluten-free gourmet-ish...foodstuffs, microwaveable produce...in plastic shrink wrap, and fruit in...plastic boxes...from...Argentina...or Chile. Yes, somehow, Trader Joe's is an island in the sea. Its non-local, non-recyclable, organic-from-far-flung-republics products calling to me like...like...like a lover I should have long ago outgrown but is too damned good to let go. Ahhh. Sweet Joe.
Friday, June 12, 2009
To Pee or Not to Pee
So, would you find it kind of weird if you saw me walking along with my friend downtown, and I stopped, pulled down my panties and peed right there on the sidewalk?
Would your shock be resolved if only my friend pulled out a water bottle and doused the pee puddle away?
Mine would. That is, if it were you I saw peeing on the sidewalk, and your friend doused your puddle, I might be more forgiving of the transgression.
So why do drunks get tickets or jail time for the same thing 100 dogs do every day outside my building? Why don't dog owners get ticketed for not hosing down the lakes o' pee that make downtown smell like a public toilet in summertime?
Two words. G-ross.
Would your shock be resolved if only my friend pulled out a water bottle and doused the pee puddle away?
Mine would. That is, if it were you I saw peeing on the sidewalk, and your friend doused your puddle, I might be more forgiving of the transgression.
So why do drunks get tickets or jail time for the same thing 100 dogs do every day outside my building? Why don't dog owners get ticketed for not hosing down the lakes o' pee that make downtown smell like a public toilet in summertime?
Two words. G-ross.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Back on the Bench...and Watching
Hi.
I'm back.
Too many observables have occurred to keep my mouth shut and brain quiet. Maybe more to the point, I'm over the hump in my move to Portland, making space and time for my brain to activate its Pemascope. It's a vast and airy place the Pemascope observes: Imagination's underbelly, and scruffy top. It's sparkly underpants. Thank goodness for airy there.
Here, I'll scoot over. Join me on the Bench and let's watch a while.
Things to tell you about as we sit...
Trader Joes
Women at Work
Basil
BackFencePDX
Birth Control
Boys in the Yard
(Just kidding, those last two, I just got carried away by the B's.)
For now, because it's clearing as prayer and sufficiently odd, I'll make another list for you. I'm a lister.
They're poetic, lists are. I can't get away from them, keeping them in odd places, on post-its, in backs of books. Lists are at once ominous because they forebode so much responsibility, and glorious because they pat me on the head everytime I cross something off. I love the "good-girl!" I get from my internal grade school teacher every time I cross something off.
My favorite lists are grocery and drug store receipts. How often does one buy a garlic press, Q-tips, condoms, and ketchup in one visit? Or mail twine, eggs, a toilet scrubber and birthday candles? I could make an art installation with mine.
For now I'll list the web windows I have open at present. Ironically, if I were not such a lister, such an out-of-sight-out-of-mind type, I would just write these open windows down and return to them when I had time. But these are live lists of a sort.
As they stand, open, they are portals I'll climb through, someday. Soon, I hope. But if closed and written down, who knows which misplaced post-it or which random book jacket I'll find six years down the line that reads...
Yoga Pearl
Tin House
Magnetic Attraction Analysis - White Hot Truth
Ojai Playwrights
Arts Club Theater Company
Tropical Salvage
Find a BEST Practitioner
Reiki Healing
iContact
Bettina Yelman
Lumina
Portland Parks and Recreation
Windows Hotmail
Gmail
The Student Loan People
Mortified
Shawn Colvin Lyrics - "The Story"
NextBus
Feminine Principle - Google Search
Community Cycling Center
The Hundredth Monkey Studio
Pacific Northwest Hikes
Capoeira Portland
195 Riders
Improv Everywhere
Amazon - Love You Forever
Upholstery Classes Portland
Consignment NW
Blogspot
...and what course in life I'll have missed because of it.
(Incidentally, can anyone tell me why my computer is so slow?) ;)
I'm back.
Too many observables have occurred to keep my mouth shut and brain quiet. Maybe more to the point, I'm over the hump in my move to Portland, making space and time for my brain to activate its Pemascope. It's a vast and airy place the Pemascope observes: Imagination's underbelly, and scruffy top. It's sparkly underpants. Thank goodness for airy there.
Here, I'll scoot over. Join me on the Bench and let's watch a while.
Things to tell you about as we sit...
Trader Joes
Women at Work
Basil
BackFencePDX
Birth Control
Boys in the Yard
(Just kidding, those last two, I just got carried away by the B's.)
For now, because it's clearing as prayer and sufficiently odd, I'll make another list for you. I'm a lister.
They're poetic, lists are. I can't get away from them, keeping them in odd places, on post-its, in backs of books. Lists are at once ominous because they forebode so much responsibility, and glorious because they pat me on the head everytime I cross something off. I love the "good-girl!" I get from my internal grade school teacher every time I cross something off.
My favorite lists are grocery and drug store receipts. How often does one buy a garlic press, Q-tips, condoms, and ketchup in one visit? Or mail twine, eggs, a toilet scrubber and birthday candles? I could make an art installation with mine.
For now I'll list the web windows I have open at present. Ironically, if I were not such a lister, such an out-of-sight-out-of-mind type, I would just write these open windows down and return to them when I had time. But these are live lists of a sort.
As they stand, open, they are portals I'll climb through, someday. Soon, I hope. But if closed and written down, who knows which misplaced post-it or which random book jacket I'll find six years down the line that reads...
Yoga Pearl
Tin House
Magnetic Attraction Analysis - White Hot Truth
Ojai Playwrights
Arts Club Theater Company
Tropical Salvage
Find a BEST Practitioner
Reiki Healing
iContact
Bettina Yelman
Lumina
Portland Parks and Recreation
Windows Hotmail
Gmail
The Student Loan People
Mortified
Shawn Colvin Lyrics - "The Story"
NextBus
Feminine Principle - Google Search
Community Cycling Center
The Hundredth Monkey Studio
Pacific Northwest Hikes
Capoeira Portland
195 Riders
Improv Everywhere
Amazon - Love You Forever
Upholstery Classes Portland
Consignment NW
Blogspot
...and what course in life I'll have missed because of it.
(Incidentally, can anyone tell me why my computer is so slow?) ;)
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Overheard Kid Talk
He's five, the kid from the sidewalk. It's a surprisingly sunshiny moment under Portland's gray sky, and as he swings his arms and walks with his family, he engages his little sister. He is totally amused...
KID: Remember that movie? Remember the Wizard of Oz? Remember those Munchkins?! They were like tiny grownups! Isn't that so cool? They were SMALL grown ups.
KID: Remember that movie? Remember the Wizard of Oz? Remember those Munchkins?! They were like tiny grownups! Isn't that so cool? They were SMALL grown ups.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Poetry of Living
Remember scratch n sniff stickers? This is listen n read blogging.
Play this:
To read this:
Sometimes you drive around doing errands, buying office tools, buttoning up against the rain and eating a fast lunch so you can get back to work.
And then you get home and dive in. To the work. Organizing paragraphs and making up story lines. You're listening to George Winston because you remembered that pretty sound recently, when it was way past midnight, and you were suffocating in wordsand--a letter-y kind of quicksand that writers fall into, especially after midnight. It can show up right there in the middle of their apartments, one step backward and s-s-s-squish, there they go, if they are not careful, and they are barely surviving a Code Bleak, wordsand kind of night. If you still have a hand sticking out, though, you can open iTunes and see what can save you. For me, three nights ago, it was the memory of the sound of George Winston's piano. The sound of it bounced inside my skull. Such non sequitur memories get squeezed out of the desire to survive.
Then day returns. Lunch is finished. You've turned on George's DECEMBER. And you're working, and you look up, out your window at the bridge. And over the rooftops, it has begun to snow. It's snowing. And you're writing, in the middle of the day. And you're listening to DECEMBER and you remember, of a sudden but softly as snow falling, you've dreamt this again and again your whole life through. To be a writer. By day. With a window. And quiet. And snow.
Play this:
To read this:
Sometimes you drive around doing errands, buying office tools, buttoning up against the rain and eating a fast lunch so you can get back to work.
And then you get home and dive in. To the work. Organizing paragraphs and making up story lines. You're listening to George Winston because you remembered that pretty sound recently, when it was way past midnight, and you were suffocating in wordsand--a letter-y kind of quicksand that writers fall into, especially after midnight. It can show up right there in the middle of their apartments, one step backward and s-s-s-squish, there they go, if they are not careful, and they are barely surviving a Code Bleak, wordsand kind of night. If you still have a hand sticking out, though, you can open iTunes and see what can save you. For me, three nights ago, it was the memory of the sound of George Winston's piano. The sound of it bounced inside my skull. Such non sequitur memories get squeezed out of the desire to survive.
Then day returns. Lunch is finished. You've turned on George's DECEMBER. And you're working, and you look up, out your window at the bridge. And over the rooftops, it has begun to snow. It's snowing. And you're writing, in the middle of the day. And you're listening to DECEMBER and you remember, of a sudden but softly as snow falling, you've dreamt this again and again your whole life through. To be a writer. By day. With a window. And quiet. And snow.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
But Wait! There's More! TALKING DOGS Jan 30
Here I am, back already. 
For your theatrical pleasure and nighttime intrigue, you are welcome to TALKING DOGS, my new comedy about men and marriage, er, I mean, divorce.
My new play, TALKING DOGS, is receiving a staged reading at Portland Center Stage's the Armory. It's part of the new FERTILE GROUND FESTIVAL, garnering a national focus on Portland's local theatre scene. Come be a part of the scene, literally, in the Armory's gorgeous reception venue: My crazy farce is set at a wedding reception.
EMAIL LIST: welovetalkingdogs@yahoo.com
(Email me here to receive updates on pre-party and play info)
PURCHASE TICKETS: Click here to buy tix online and save yourself a seat.
DATE: FRIDAY, JAN 30
TIME: 11pm (Pre-party starts at 9pm - details to follow)
LOCATION: Portland Center Stage's Gerding Theatre at the Armory, Mezzanine Stage
TALKING DOGS, by Pema Teeter
"Sit! Heel! Stay. A fetching comedy about men and marriage."
Marriage is not about getting the girl anymore. It's about keeping her. Grab a cocktail and pull up a chair to this raucous comedy about five men facing various stages of divorce and dissolution, all while discovering love they never noticed, and possibilities they never knew they possessed. Set at one man's second wedding, a group of lifelong guy friends--straight, gay, transgender, young and old--all face the same hard challenge: not tying the knot, but breaking it.
See you there!
For your theatrical pleasure and nighttime intrigue, you are welcome to TALKING DOGS, my new comedy about men and marriage, er, I mean, divorce.
My new play, TALKING DOGS, is receiving a staged reading at Portland Center Stage's the Armory. It's part of the new FERTILE GROUND FESTIVAL, garnering a national focus on Portland's local theatre scene. Come be a part of the scene, literally, in the Armory's gorgeous reception venue: My crazy farce is set at a wedding reception.
EMAIL LIST: welovetalkingdogs@yahoo.com
(Email me here to receive updates on pre-party and play info)
PURCHASE TICKETS: Click here to buy tix online and save yourself a seat.
DATE: FRIDAY, JAN 30
TIME: 11pm (Pre-party starts at 9pm - details to follow)
LOCATION: Portland Center Stage's Gerding Theatre at the Armory, Mezzanine Stage
TALKING DOGS, by Pema Teeter
"Sit! Heel! Stay. A fetching comedy about men and marriage."
Marriage is not about getting the girl anymore. It's about keeping her. Grab a cocktail and pull up a chair to this raucous comedy about five men facing various stages of divorce and dissolution, all while discovering love they never noticed, and possibilities they never knew they possessed. Set at one man's second wedding, a group of lifelong guy friends--straight, gay, transgender, young and old--all face the same hard challenge: not tying the knot, but breaking it.
See you there!
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Happy New Year
Hi Friends and Park Benchers.
So, uh, where HAVE I been?
What have I been doing to be so neglectful of the Bench?
Something happened.
That ever occur in your life? Something, that isn't necessarily any one thing at all, but some turn occurs in your direction, and you are cruising, or trekking, or careening along on another path a fur piece before you turn around and realize what you left behind? In my case, a (mostly) daily exercise in painting pictures in the ether.
Park Bench Daily is going to continue slumbering a while. It started in a poof, one day when I kept running into funny, and thought I should share. It became a practice in writing for the public and included many exercises in stretching and scratching past being shy and inhibited.
I still have to stretch sometimes. But I don't have to try as hard anymore. For your audience and participation and curiosity, I thank you.
PBD will be back...in some incarnation. Whether it's more internet text, or a few books, or more plays, all these thoughts and observations will find a landing, and you will be invited to read them. Send me a comment with your email address if you want to invited to the new blog, or be updated on my work. I will send you a note when the letters have landed, so that you can be the first to read.
From the comment section, your info will reach my inbox, won't be published, and I'll add you to my distribution list for notices (new plays, published articles, random observations on a less frequent scale, etc.).
For immediate fixes, you are invited to read the archives.
WHAT happened?
Well...I'm writing a book on a deadline, producing a staged reading of my new play, "Talking Dogs", transitioning to Portland, setting up a new freelance writing business, writing occasional articles for others, looking for an apartment, playing with my new iPhone, and watching snow fall. Snow!
Till the next incarnation...
...sit naked.
xo
Pema
So, uh, where HAVE I been?
What have I been doing to be so neglectful of the Bench?
Something happened.
That ever occur in your life? Something, that isn't necessarily any one thing at all, but some turn occurs in your direction, and you are cruising, or trekking, or careening along on another path a fur piece before you turn around and realize what you left behind? In my case, a (mostly) daily exercise in painting pictures in the ether.
Park Bench Daily is going to continue slumbering a while. It started in a poof, one day when I kept running into funny, and thought I should share. It became a practice in writing for the public and included many exercises in stretching and scratching past being shy and inhibited.
I still have to stretch sometimes. But I don't have to try as hard anymore. For your audience and participation and curiosity, I thank you.
PBD will be back...in some incarnation. Whether it's more internet text, or a few books, or more plays, all these thoughts and observations will find a landing, and you will be invited to read them. Send me a comment with your email address if you want to invited to the new blog, or be updated on my work. I will send you a note when the letters have landed, so that you can be the first to read.
From the comment section, your info will reach my inbox, won't be published, and I'll add you to my distribution list for notices (new plays, published articles, random observations on a less frequent scale, etc.).
For immediate fixes, you are invited to read the archives.
WHAT happened?
Well...I'm writing a book on a deadline, producing a staged reading of my new play, "Talking Dogs", transitioning to Portland, setting up a new freelance writing business, writing occasional articles for others, looking for an apartment, playing with my new iPhone, and watching snow fall. Snow!
Till the next incarnation...
...sit naked.
xo
Pema
Happy New Year
Hi Friends and Park Benchers.
So, uh, where HAVE I been?
What have I been doing to be so neglectful of the Bench?
Something happened.
That ever occur in your life? Something, that isn't necessarily any one thing at all, but some turn occurs in your direction, and you are cruising, or trekking, or careening along on another path a fur piece before you turn around and realize what you left behind? In my case, a (mostly) daily exercise in painting pictures in the ether.
Park Bench Daily is going to continue slumbering a while. It started in a poof, one day when I kept running into funny, and thought I should share. It became a practice in writing for the public and included many exercises in stretching and scratching past being shy and inhibited.
I still have to stretch sometimes. But I don't have to try as hard anymore. For your audience and participation and curiosity, I thank you.
PBD will be back...in some incarnation. Whether it's more internet text, or a few books, or more plays, all these thoughts and observations will find a landing, and you will be invited to read them. Send me a comment with your email address if you want to invited to the new blog, or be updated on my work. I will send you a note when the letters have landed, so that you can be the first to read.
From the comment section, your info will reach my inbox, won't be published, and I'll add you to my distribution list for notices (new plays, published articles, random observations on a less frequent scale, etc.).
For immediate fixes, you are invited to read the archives.
WHAT happened?
Well...I'm writing a book on a deadline, producing a staged reading of my new play, "Talking Dogs", transitioning to Portland, setting up a new freelance writing business, writing occasional articles for others, looking for an apartment, playing with my new iPhone, and watching snow fall. Snow!
Till the next incarnation...
...sit naked!
xo
Pema
So, uh, where HAVE I been?
What have I been doing to be so neglectful of the Bench?
Something happened.
That ever occur in your life? Something, that isn't necessarily any one thing at all, but some turn occurs in your direction, and you are cruising, or trekking, or careening along on another path a fur piece before you turn around and realize what you left behind? In my case, a (mostly) daily exercise in painting pictures in the ether.
Park Bench Daily is going to continue slumbering a while. It started in a poof, one day when I kept running into funny, and thought I should share. It became a practice in writing for the public and included many exercises in stretching and scratching past being shy and inhibited.
I still have to stretch sometimes. But I don't have to try as hard anymore. For your audience and participation and curiosity, I thank you.
PBD will be back...in some incarnation. Whether it's more internet text, or a few books, or more plays, all these thoughts and observations will find a landing, and you will be invited to read them. Send me a comment with your email address if you want to invited to the new blog, or be updated on my work. I will send you a note when the letters have landed, so that you can be the first to read.
From the comment section, your info will reach my inbox, won't be published, and I'll add you to my distribution list for notices (new plays, published articles, random observations on a less frequent scale, etc.).
For immediate fixes, you are invited to read the archives.
WHAT happened?
Well...I'm writing a book on a deadline, producing a staged reading of my new play, "Talking Dogs", transitioning to Portland, setting up a new freelance writing business, writing occasional articles for others, looking for an apartment, playing with my new iPhone, and watching snow fall. Snow!
Till the next incarnation...
...sit naked!
xo
Pema
Sunday, December 14, 2008
To Blog
I told Tania, who is visiting, that I need to write down a list of blog topics, as they have been adding up. She suggested I blog the blog topics. So here they are, in no particular order.
Coming to a blog near you...
- Racial Profiling
- He really does resemble your dad!
- Portland Snot!
- Actually, that was a typo. Should say Portland Snow!
- Tania's visit
Coming to a blog near you...
- Racial Profiling
- He really does resemble your dad!
- Portland Snot!
- Actually, that was a typo. Should say Portland Snow!
- Tania's visit
Sunday, December 7, 2008
What U Did Last Summer
Don't you hate when it comes back to haunt you? Need an exorcism? This one's FREE!
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Dolla Dolla Bill Y'all
Hey folks, KISS MY FACE offered you all 30% off at their webstore:
The promo code is at the end of this article I mentioned them in...you may remember it. If you already read it, snoop around elsewhere on the CarrieAndDanielle.com site for cool stuff to read. :-) You won't have to look too far.
P.S. I LOVE Kiss My Face. Fabulous products.
The promo code is at the end of this article I mentioned them in...you may remember it. If you already read it, snoop around elsewhere on the CarrieAndDanielle.com site for cool stuff to read. :-) You won't have to look too far.
P.S. I LOVE Kiss My Face. Fabulous products.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Monday, November 24, 2008
Sponge Breakfast
CAUTION: Breakfast making and bath tub cleaning don't mix. 
Just ask Gina, who was making French toast and handing the sponge to Regina. Oh sad fate of the naked bread, never to be bathed in its French Toast future.
It wasn't fun cleaning the tub with cinnamon egg yolk either.
*
Just ask Gina, who was making French toast and handing the sponge to Regina. Oh sad fate of the naked bread, never to be bathed in its French Toast future. It wasn't fun cleaning the tub with cinnamon egg yolk either.
*
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Antibiotics Kill Even Pride
REGINA: Pema, do you have acidophilus?
PEMA: No but I have fixyourpussilous.
(Mama said there'd be days like this. Be prepared, with these two supplements in the herb cabinet: 1. Oregano oil capsules, and 2. Cell Food trace minerals.)
PEMA: No but I have fixyourpussilous.
(Mama said there'd be days like this. Be prepared, with these two supplements in the herb cabinet: 1. Oregano oil capsules, and 2. Cell Food trace minerals.)
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Love School
Maybe to a degree we teach people how to love us. If love fails, is it we, personally, who have failed to teach our partner how to best love us?
If we are not loved the way we want to be loved, should we not take it upon ourselves to teach our partner how to love us?
And if they fail, do we call it a personal failure because they have not learned from the best person to have taught them?
Do we take any accountability for that?
No doubt, it takes a willing student. But I've always found that a student's capacity to thrive increases with the enthusiasm, commitment, creativity and drive of the teacher.
As a chronic single person who finds plenty of reasons not to date people past a certain knowledge of them (something to the effect of: we'd never get along, that would drive me crazy about him, no, no, that's dangerous, and i would never want to deal with that the rest of my life...), I wonder if it is a matter of picking an apt candidate and teaching like my love depended on it.
If we are not loved the way we want to be loved, should we not take it upon ourselves to teach our partner how to love us?
And if they fail, do we call it a personal failure because they have not learned from the best person to have taught them?
Do we take any accountability for that?
No doubt, it takes a willing student. But I've always found that a student's capacity to thrive increases with the enthusiasm, commitment, creativity and drive of the teacher.
As a chronic single person who finds plenty of reasons not to date people past a certain knowledge of them (something to the effect of: we'd never get along, that would drive me crazy about him, no, no, that's dangerous, and i would never want to deal with that the rest of my life...), I wonder if it is a matter of picking an apt candidate and teaching like my love depended on it.
Friday, November 21, 2008
How to Be Sesame Street
Remember that little Sesame Street guy who is learning to read? Big and bold on the board in front of him is the word he is learning. He sounds out each of the letters and slowly--with so much suspense!!--pulls the sounds together to say the word:
BLOG
Buh Ll Ah Guh
BLl Ah Guh
((Meanwhile you're pinging in your seat, "blog! blog! it's blog! say BLOG!!!"))
BLl AhG
((BLOG! BLOG!! SAY IT!! (boing! boing! boing!))
BLOG. BLOG? BLOG!
And then he's pleasant and pleased and you, whew, are spent and relieved.
((Blog, I told you.))
The suspense of learning has really worn me out over the years, and my doctor suggested I do something regular to balance it out. So I turned to my pen and decided to share some tips of my own, sneak over to the teaching side a little while.
Take a peek at today's post on CarrieAndDanielle.com: Five Unexpected Tips to Get You Writing. Go ahead. Sound it out slowly. You'll be pleasant and pleased, like on Sesame Street, richer for your knowledge, like on Main Street, and maybe even a bit surprised, like on Wall Street.
BLOG
Buh Ll Ah Guh
BLl Ah Guh
((Meanwhile you're pinging in your seat, "blog! blog! it's blog! say BLOG!!!"))
BLl AhG
((BLOG! BLOG!! SAY IT!! (boing! boing! boing!))
BLOG. BLOG? BLOG!
And then he's pleasant and pleased and you, whew, are spent and relieved.
((Blog, I told you.))
The suspense of learning has really worn me out over the years, and my doctor suggested I do something regular to balance it out. So I turned to my pen and decided to share some tips of my own, sneak over to the teaching side a little while.
Take a peek at today's post on CarrieAndDanielle.com: Five Unexpected Tips to Get You Writing. Go ahead. Sound it out slowly. You'll be pleasant and pleased, like on Sesame Street, richer for your knowledge, like on Main Street, and maybe even a bit surprised, like on Wall Street.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
SAVE THE DATE - Jan 30, 2009
No, I'm not getting married on that date. One of my characters is!
Come visit me in Portland, OR, on January 30, where my new play TALKING DOGS will get its first public reading.
Taking place at Portland's poshest digs for theatre, Portland Center Stage's The Armory, you can grab a cocktail and pull up a chair to a wedding reception featuring five men facing various stages of divorce and dispossession, all while discovering love they never noticed, and possibilities they didn't know they possessed.
TALKING DOGS is a COMEDY. A farce. A run-around-naked good time. Oh wait, that's the honeymoon. I haven't written that scene yet.
Drop what you're doing and come play with me this winter at the first ever FERTILE GROUND FESTIVAL. I'll promise you a rose city.
Come visit me in Portland, OR, on January 30, where my new play TALKING DOGS will get its first public reading.
Taking place at Portland's poshest digs for theatre, Portland Center Stage's The Armory, you can grab a cocktail and pull up a chair to a wedding reception featuring five men facing various stages of divorce and dispossession, all while discovering love they never noticed, and possibilities they didn't know they possessed.
TALKING DOGS is a COMEDY. A farce. A run-around-naked good time. Oh wait, that's the honeymoon. I haven't written that scene yet.
Drop what you're doing and come play with me this winter at the first ever FERTILE GROUND FESTIVAL. I'll promise you a rose city.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Lovin' Feeling
Wanna date on the cheap without looking like a cheap date? Allow me to show you how...Check out my latest on C&D.com.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Gut Feeling
If you pardon the typos, you might like my new post on trusting your intuition at C&D.com. I know...you knew I was going to say that.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Coffeeshop Overheard
Man: I'm not a germ phobe or anything, but--eww.
Woman: I'm not borrowing a swim suit. It's a yoga mat!
Woman (cont.): Do you have those tiny spoons? I love a good cappucino with a tiny spoon.
(Man hands her a cappucino)
Woman (cont.): That's not a really tiny spoon, FYI.
Man: Maybe you should get back to yoga and get a little more zenned out.
Other Man: Or have one of these white chocolate chip yummy cookies with coconut and cranberries...
Woman: You lost me at white chocolate.
Woman: I'm not borrowing a swim suit. It's a yoga mat!
Woman (cont.): Do you have those tiny spoons? I love a good cappucino with a tiny spoon.
(Man hands her a cappucino)
Woman (cont.): That's not a really tiny spoon, FYI.
Man: Maybe you should get back to yoga and get a little more zenned out.
Other Man: Or have one of these white chocolate chip yummy cookies with coconut and cranberries...
Woman: You lost me at white chocolate.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Eateritas
On Alberta Street in Portland, I dropped into La Sirenita to bring home dinner. The Mexican restaurant sits in between two others, La Bonita and La Playita, all on the same block.
I haven't eaten at the others, but have wondered about them. While waiting for my food, I got confirmation I was in the right place. A woman wearing a black apron that had a red embroidered "La Bonita" on it came in, got in line and placed her order.
Dinner break? Good thing she works so close to a good Mexican joint.
I haven't eaten at the others, but have wondered about them. While waiting for my food, I got confirmation I was in the right place. A woman wearing a black apron that had a red embroidered "La Bonita" on it came in, got in line and placed her order.
Dinner break? Good thing she works so close to a good Mexican joint.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
In the Name of Research
I ate grasshoppers last night.
Served sun dried in a bowl with chili flakes and lime. Garnished with salsas, cilantro, and corn tortillas.
I resisted temptation to wash it down with a shot of tequila. I was on a date, after all.
The bigger story is that I'm doing research for a story that involves entomophagy. The grasshoppers were listed on the menu as appetizers, under "pre-hispanic" food. With the opportunity right there in front of me, I didn't know how I could rightly refuse it. Granted, I wouldn't kill anyone if I were writing about murder. But...I felt a little guilty thinking I would pass up such accessible research. I felt the draw of exotic adventure. And I felt curious enough, both, to say I tried them, and have an excuse to be so bold as to order grasshoppers on a date.
They were less crunchy than I thought they would be. Not a lot of taste. They felt scratchy in my mouth. They were indeed little carcasses. I couldn't bring myself to pick one up and eat it by itself, or any part of it that had fallen off in the bowl. Actually, there was a moment there, as I sat and chatted with my date, grasshopper-stuffed tortilla rolled in my hand, that I glimpsed in my peripheral vision a bug sticking out of my food!! I jumped. Then realized I just hadn't taken that bite yet. I tucked it back in the taco and took a deep breath, allowing myself only a half second to wonder what the HELL I was doing.
As we left the restaurant, my date joked, "Ah, grasshoppa-eater, you have come so far."
Served sun dried in a bowl with chili flakes and lime. Garnished with salsas, cilantro, and corn tortillas.
I resisted temptation to wash it down with a shot of tequila. I was on a date, after all.
The bigger story is that I'm doing research for a story that involves entomophagy. The grasshoppers were listed on the menu as appetizers, under "pre-hispanic" food. With the opportunity right there in front of me, I didn't know how I could rightly refuse it. Granted, I wouldn't kill anyone if I were writing about murder. But...I felt a little guilty thinking I would pass up such accessible research. I felt the draw of exotic adventure. And I felt curious enough, both, to say I tried them, and have an excuse to be so bold as to order grasshoppers on a date.
They were less crunchy than I thought they would be. Not a lot of taste. They felt scratchy in my mouth. They were indeed little carcasses. I couldn't bring myself to pick one up and eat it by itself, or any part of it that had fallen off in the bowl. Actually, there was a moment there, as I sat and chatted with my date, grasshopper-stuffed tortilla rolled in my hand, that I glimpsed in my peripheral vision a bug sticking out of my food!! I jumped. Then realized I just hadn't taken that bite yet. I tucked it back in the taco and took a deep breath, allowing myself only a half second to wonder what the HELL I was doing.
As we left the restaurant, my date joked, "Ah, grasshoppa-eater, you have come so far."
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Gray Skies All Day
The thing about Portland is that it's morning all day long. At least that's what my history in SoCal tells me, where coolness and clouds clear out by 9am.
Under the perpetual morning skies of Portland, I have no indicator of time passing. Now that I work from home, I am prone to wake-and-work--I fire up the laptop before getting out of bed in the morning. I eventually move the work down to my basement office, but somewhere along the way, I forget to change out of my pajamas. And pink slippers.
You'd think when it's 9pm and nearing bedtime again, I would be happy for being that much closer to ready for it. Truth is, it's jarring. "Dark outside? But I'm still in my P.J.'s. Bedtime? I just got out of bed."
Today, I put on a bra and called it progress.
Photo Credit
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Sound Play
I had a funny experience. Actually, I had a fun experience and parenthetically encountered a funny one. Portland hosts a literary festival called, Wordstock. It's a weekend of readings by authors from all over the country. Before I moved to town two months ago, I signed up to volunteer. I'm a word nerd.
Last minute, I got a call to pick up an author at the airport. It was Stefan Fatsis, book author, writer for Wall Street Journal and New York Times, but more importantly, to me, NPR commentator. I'm a radio junkie.
Back story, I have better aural recognition than visual. So when I picked up Mr. Fatsis and accompanied him to baggage claim, I couldn't help but laugh at the ten years of radio listening that stood up in my memory on hearing him speak.
Better, when I sat at dinner and asked him about his latest book, in which he, a sports writer, plays on an NFL football team in order to write about the experience, I reverted to the memories that began the evening, but with a slight Alice in Wonderland twist: I was now sucked INTO the radio, one of the radio hosts, interviewing Stefan Fatsis, sports writer and NPR contributor, who diligently, dispassionately answered questions in the clipped and animated way I had heard from OUTSIDE my radio for years.
God that can warp a person's brain.
Shortly, I forgot the man was Stefan Fatsis, and he became some cool guy again, who'd flown into town to talk at the literary festival.
But the funniest part came this morning, when I called Mr. Fatsis to let him know Regina and I were on the way. Regina sits on the Wordstock board, and we were taking him to breakfast. If you've heard the man's radio segments, you know he is always in conversation with the host of the show. You know that his inflections are all over the sound map, making for an interesting listen. And if you're at all like me, you notice the way he gets off the air...like the thing is over and he's had enough, already. His sign offs are unmistakably complete: "BYE, BOB." He'll say it with a flat directness. I love these goodbyes. They always make me laugh.
Our brief phone conversation ended this morning. Stefan Fatsis signed off...and there I was spinning in ten years of radio again, but this time they were distilled into my phone: "BYE, PEMA."
Last minute, I got a call to pick up an author at the airport. It was Stefan Fatsis, book author, writer for Wall Street Journal and New York Times, but more importantly, to me, NPR commentator. I'm a radio junkie.
Back story, I have better aural recognition than visual. So when I picked up Mr. Fatsis and accompanied him to baggage claim, I couldn't help but laugh at the ten years of radio listening that stood up in my memory on hearing him speak.
Better, when I sat at dinner and asked him about his latest book, in which he, a sports writer, plays on an NFL football team in order to write about the experience, I reverted to the memories that began the evening, but with a slight Alice in Wonderland twist: I was now sucked INTO the radio, one of the radio hosts, interviewing Stefan Fatsis, sports writer and NPR contributor, who diligently, dispassionately answered questions in the clipped and animated way I had heard from OUTSIDE my radio for years.
God that can warp a person's brain.
Shortly, I forgot the man was Stefan Fatsis, and he became some cool guy again, who'd flown into town to talk at the literary festival.
But the funniest part came this morning, when I called Mr. Fatsis to let him know Regina and I were on the way. Regina sits on the Wordstock board, and we were taking him to breakfast. If you've heard the man's radio segments, you know he is always in conversation with the host of the show. You know that his inflections are all over the sound map, making for an interesting listen. And if you're at all like me, you notice the way he gets off the air...like the thing is over and he's had enough, already. His sign offs are unmistakably complete: "BYE, BOB." He'll say it with a flat directness. I love these goodbyes. They always make me laugh.
Our brief phone conversation ended this morning. Stefan Fatsis signed off...and there I was spinning in ten years of radio again, but this time they were distilled into my phone: "BYE, PEMA."
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Content of A Man's Character
Gina heard this on the radio today, paraphrased. An African-American man was interviewed out on the street in his town, in response to yesterday's landslide vote to elect Barack Obama President of the United States:
"This election was the biggest event since Abraham Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation. That piece of paper was supposed to free us. But we weren't free that day. We were sent out of slavery with nothing. No jobs. No property. No rights. Some of us no families. We weren't free that day. We were freed YESTERDAY. Nothing this significant has happened since the Emancipation Proclamation."
Can't help but hear MLK's voice: "Free at last, free at last. Free at last."
And Obama's acceptance speech last night: "Because of what we did on this day, in this election, on this defining moment, change has come to America."
Dr. Henry Louis Gates, Jr., Harvard Professor of African-American Studies, was on Oprah today, and repeated what his 95 year-old father said to him over the phone: "This is the greatest day in the history of the Negro and I am glad to see it."
"This election was the biggest event since Abraham Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation. That piece of paper was supposed to free us. But we weren't free that day. We were sent out of slavery with nothing. No jobs. No property. No rights. Some of us no families. We weren't free that day. We were freed YESTERDAY. Nothing this significant has happened since the Emancipation Proclamation."
Can't help but hear MLK's voice: "Free at last, free at last. Free at last."
And Obama's acceptance speech last night: "Because of what we did on this day, in this election, on this defining moment, change has come to America."
Dr. Henry Louis Gates, Jr., Harvard Professor of African-American Studies, was on Oprah today, and repeated what his 95 year-old father said to him over the phone: "This is the greatest day in the history of the Negro and I am glad to see it."
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Everybody's Doing It
I love election day! I love that I can fill in the bubbles on my ballot (which I am doing right now!) knowing millions of people all over the nation are doing the same thing today. Our nation has football and baseball games that bring fans together in hope and drive. We send athletes to Olympic games that pull our heartstrings in solidarity, and serve to expand our collective minds about regular folk all over the world. We have holidays that bring us closer to our families and help us reflect on feelings of love throughout the world. And we have election day...every four years the opportunity to cast our individual votes, raise our hands to be counted in a great and prosperous democracy. It is a perfect reflection of individuals coming together to form the community that is our United States. No matter how our opinions and passions differ, we vote together, to make our aspirations for our country a reality. Today, regardless of our differences, we are a community. Get out there and feel it today! It inspires!
Monday, November 3, 2008
Prop H8te
"Religions and their believers are free to define marriage as they please; they are free to consider homosexuality a sin. But they are not free to impose their definitions of morality on the state. Proposition 8 proponents know this, which is why they have misdirected the debate with highly colored illusions about homosexuals trying to take away the rights of religious Californians. Since May, when the state Supreme Court overturned a proposed ban on same-sex marriage as unconstitutional, more than 16,000 devoted gay and lesbian couples have celebrated the creation of stable, loving households, of equal legal stature with other households. Their happiness in no way diminishes the rights or happiness of others."
LA Times Editorial 11.2.08
LA Times Editorial 11.2.08
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Traffic
This has been a week of traffic. Two weeks of traffic. Pink vapory joy on the road of life, so, good traffic, like a line of drivers on laughing gas, but traffic nonetheless, of opportunity and ideas and possibility, riding down the road bumper to bumper, passing and weaving through lanes of friends and writing gigs and bright ideas.
Election season doesn't hurt. Nor the transformation in the air. Had lunch with Suzy today, who never fails to make me laugh. When talking about caustic political email forwards she had received from a few family members, she marveled at whether they realized who they were forwarding them to, and said: Can you guys please vote NO on Prop 8, so I have at least the same opportunity as every other person in my family to get divorced twice??
Election season doesn't hurt. Nor the transformation in the air. Had lunch with Suzy today, who never fails to make me laugh. When talking about caustic political email forwards she had received from a few family members, she marveled at whether they realized who they were forwarding them to, and said: Can you guys please vote NO on Prop 8, so I have at least the same opportunity as every other person in my family to get divorced twice??
Monday, October 27, 2008
Full
Fire in the fireplace, kitty on the chair in front of it, lights dim, night late, day long and so full I stopped capturing its marvels long ago and just let them wash over me.
It's good to be back in Santa Barbara a spell.
It's good to be back in Santa Barbara a spell.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Strange Fellows
People think holidays are a stressful time for families. But Can we hear it for ELECTION season? Geez.
I heard it from a source who heard it from another source that I am voting for Obama this year because he has a pretty face and straight teeth.
Before that, I got some craaazzzyyy emails from a different family member, farther removed, telling me what I have read, whom I believe, what I have studied politically and what I haven't, and what a follower I am, based on these things I am allegedly reading, not reading, doing, and not doing.
A pretty face and straight teeth. Yep. Sorry folks, to confess to you that despite a life committed to learning, I have educated myself no further in these my 37 years than a smiling charisma. That my patriotism and passions for my countrymen and women, my beliefs and understandings about my employment and my taxes, my body of wealth and the body I live in, eek only from the vain terrain of a hormonal brain, and the vapid recesses of my blankness. Sorry, guys. Just give me the pretty.
If I were voting pretty, I'd vote Palin, 'cause McCain's gonna kick the bucket, and THEN we'd better stake politics on straight teeth, or we're doomed.
I *have* wondered the size of the pretty vote that Palin will command. McCain seems to surround himself with fine-featured women--his Senior Policy Advisor, his wife, his ex-wife, his Playmate, I mean, running mate. How many Joe Six-pacs will that pull in automatically, for pure viewing pleasure?
I heard it from a source who heard it from another source that I am voting for Obama this year because he has a pretty face and straight teeth.
Before that, I got some craaazzzyyy emails from a different family member, farther removed, telling me what I have read, whom I believe, what I have studied politically and what I haven't, and what a follower I am, based on these things I am allegedly reading, not reading, doing, and not doing.
A pretty face and straight teeth. Yep. Sorry folks, to confess to you that despite a life committed to learning, I have educated myself no further in these my 37 years than a smiling charisma. That my patriotism and passions for my countrymen and women, my beliefs and understandings about my employment and my taxes, my body of wealth and the body I live in, eek only from the vain terrain of a hormonal brain, and the vapid recesses of my blankness. Sorry, guys. Just give me the pretty.
If I were voting pretty, I'd vote Palin, 'cause McCain's gonna kick the bucket, and THEN we'd better stake politics on straight teeth, or we're doomed.
I *have* wondered the size of the pretty vote that Palin will command. McCain seems to surround himself with fine-featured women--his Senior Policy Advisor, his wife, his ex-wife, his Playmate, I mean, running mate. How many Joe Six-pacs will that pull in automatically, for pure viewing pleasure?
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Exponents
My mind is TIRED from the long day of learning I had today. I'm in a workshop to learn how to teach kids financial literacy. Money's never been so fun.
BUT I've been thinking this thought all day, so I'll leave you with it:
People affect people exponentially. Would you agree? How many of you have someone in your life that has inspired you to change or grow the way you live or think or love?
How many of you learned from someone something that you have valued and incorporated to your life?
This is YOU to the power of that person.
If you get something from this blog post, that is YOU to the power of ME.
If my brother is changed by something my dad taught him, he is CHRISTIAAN to the power of JIM.
Do you get it? We are TANIA to the power of OBAMA to the power of the NATION.
We are our US to the power of our TEACHERS to the power of THEIR FAMILIES.
We walk through this world exponentially changed by each other.
Make your change for the good.
*
BUT I've been thinking this thought all day, so I'll leave you with it:
People affect people exponentially. Would you agree? How many of you have someone in your life that has inspired you to change or grow the way you live or think or love?
How many of you learned from someone something that you have valued and incorporated to your life?
This is YOU to the power of that person.
If you get something from this blog post, that is YOU to the power of ME.
If my brother is changed by something my dad taught him, he is CHRISTIAAN to the power of JIM.
Do you get it? We are TANIA to the power of OBAMA to the power of the NATION.
We are our US to the power of our TEACHERS to the power of THEIR FAMILIES.
We walk through this world exponentially changed by each other.
Make your change for the good.
*
Monday, October 20, 2008
Squeezed?? G I V E
Hey everyone, take a look at my new article on CarrieandDanielle.com.
You'll laugh you'll cry. It's warm like Christmas and sharp like a financial drop off a cliff.
HOW TO LIVE RICH IN A RECESSION
*
You'll laugh you'll cry. It's warm like Christmas and sharp like a financial drop off a cliff.
HOW TO LIVE RICH IN A RECESSION
*
Friday, October 17, 2008
Getting to Know You
MAN: Pema, that's an unusual name. Any special meaning or origin?
WOMAN: Pema means lotus flower in Tibetan. Also means compassion.
MAN: That's cool. Kevin means white guy with no rhythm in Gaelic. ;-)
WOMAN: Sorry about your rhythm.
MAN: I'm looking for a good rhythm coach, so I can forward you an application?
WOMAN: They say it's inborn. But in rare cases it's like the Tin Man. Little grease for the joints, little beat from the heart and suddenly Billie Jean is not your lover.
WOMAN: Pema means lotus flower in Tibetan. Also means compassion.
MAN: That's cool. Kevin means white guy with no rhythm in Gaelic. ;-)
WOMAN: Sorry about your rhythm.
MAN: I'm looking for a good rhythm coach, so I can forward you an application?
WOMAN: They say it's inborn. But in rare cases it's like the Tin Man. Little grease for the joints, little beat from the heart and suddenly Billie Jean is not your lover.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Curious Questions
You may have seen this in your inbox. If not, cue up your considerations.
WHAT IF...?
Obama/Biden vs McCain/Palin. What if things were switched around? Would the country's collective point of view be different?....think about it.
Ponder the following:
What if the Obamas had walked five children across the stage, including a three month old infant and an unwed, pregnant teenage daughter?
What if John McCain was a former president of the Harvard Law Review?
What if Barack Obama finished fifth from the bottom of his graduating class?
What if McCain had married once, and Obama was a divorcee?
What if Obama had left his first wife after a severe car accident disfigured her?
What if Obama met his second wife in a bar and had a long affair while he was still married?
What if Michelle Obama was the candidate's wife who became addicted to painkillers and acquired them illegally through her charitable organization?
What if Cindy McCain graduated from Harvard?
What if Obama had been a member of the Keating Five? (The Keating Five were five United States Senators accused of corruption in 1989, igniting a major political scandal as part of the larger Savings and Loan crisis of the late 1980s and early 1990s.)
What if McCain were a charismatic, eloquent speaker and Obama couldn't read from a teleprompter?
What if Obama were the candidate whose military experience included discipline problems and a record of crashing seven planes?
What if Obama were the candidate known to display publicly a serious anger management problem?
What if Michelle Obama's family had made their money from beer distribution?
What if the Obamas had adopted a white child?
If these questions reflected reality, do you believe the election numbers would be as close as they are?
Could racism be the culprit?
Racism covers up, rationalizes and minimizes positive qualities in one candidate and emphasizes negative qualities in another when there is a color difference.
Consider educational backgrounds, and the opinions they might effect, were the switch to continue.
Barack Obama -
Columbia University - B.A. Political Science with a Specialization in International Relations.
Harvard - Juris Doctor (J.D.) Magna Cum Laude (that means "top of class")
Joseph Biden -
University of Delaware - B.A. in History and B.A. in Political Science.
Syracuse University College of Law - Juris Doctor (J.D.)
John McCain - United States Naval Academy
Class rank: 894 of 899
Sarah Palin -
Hawaii Pacific University - 1 semester
North Idaho College - 2 semesters - general study
University of Idaho - 2 semesters -journalism
Matanuska-Susitna College - 1 semester
University of Idaho - 3 semesters - B.A. in Journalism
WHAT IF...?
Obama/Biden vs McCain/Palin. What if things were switched around? Would the country's collective point of view be different?....think about it.
Ponder the following:
What if the Obamas had walked five children across the stage, including a three month old infant and an unwed, pregnant teenage daughter?
What if John McCain was a former president of the Harvard Law Review?
What if Barack Obama finished fifth from the bottom of his graduating class?
What if McCain had married once, and Obama was a divorcee?
What if Obama had left his first wife after a severe car accident disfigured her?
What if Obama met his second wife in a bar and had a long affair while he was still married?
What if Michelle Obama was the candidate's wife who became addicted to painkillers and acquired them illegally through her charitable organization?
What if Cindy McCain graduated from Harvard?
What if Obama had been a member of the Keating Five? (The Keating Five were five United States Senators accused of corruption in 1989, igniting a major political scandal as part of the larger Savings and Loan crisis of the late 1980s and early 1990s.)
What if McCain were a charismatic, eloquent speaker and Obama couldn't read from a teleprompter?
What if Obama were the candidate whose military experience included discipline problems and a record of crashing seven planes?
What if Obama were the candidate known to display publicly a serious anger management problem?
What if Michelle Obama's family had made their money from beer distribution?
What if the Obamas had adopted a white child?
If these questions reflected reality, do you believe the election numbers would be as close as they are?
Could racism be the culprit?
Racism covers up, rationalizes and minimizes positive qualities in one candidate and emphasizes negative qualities in another when there is a color difference.
Consider educational backgrounds, and the opinions they might effect, were the switch to continue.
Barack Obama -
Columbia University - B.A. Political Science with a Specialization in International Relations.
Harvard - Juris Doctor (J.D.) Magna Cum Laude (that means "top of class")
Joseph Biden -
University of Delaware - B.A. in History and B.A. in Political Science.
Syracuse University College of Law - Juris Doctor (J.D.)
John McCain - United States Naval Academy
Class rank: 894 of 899
Sarah Palin -
Hawaii Pacific University - 1 semester
North Idaho College - 2 semesters - general study
University of Idaho - 2 semesters -journalism
Matanuska-Susitna College - 1 semester
University of Idaho - 3 semesters - B.A. in Journalism
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Blooming
As a little kid, I saw a tiny yellow blossom sprout open on a scrubby stem. It was in the field behind the house of my mom's friend. It seemed impossible to begin with, to watch a flower bloom. Flowers are much more discreet than to jump out all in the open. And it happened so fast I doubted I had seen it. So I sat and watched the plant to see if any more would pop open before my eyes. They didn't. Just a yellow stain on my mind of a tiny yellow blossom.
Years later in college, I bought iris spears at the farmers market. They would bloom into big purple beauties in a day or two. I put them at the foot of my bed, where the lamp was sitting, clicked off the lamp and laid down to sleep. It was black in my room, not even light enough to see my hand in front of my face. Lying there in the stillness, I heard a faint rustle. I couldn't figure out what it was. So I turned on the lamp, and there in its light were the irises, bloomed. I had heard the irises blooming.
Years after that, I went on a walk with a date at the Douglas Preserve in Santa Barbara. It was dusk, and there were low-growing green plants that looked like pools of green leaves. There were white flower buds all over them, and as the sun set deeper, the buds began to unfold. We sat on our haunches and watched them all open, whispering to talk.
Years later in college, I bought iris spears at the farmers market. They would bloom into big purple beauties in a day or two. I put them at the foot of my bed, where the lamp was sitting, clicked off the lamp and laid down to sleep. It was black in my room, not even light enough to see my hand in front of my face. Lying there in the stillness, I heard a faint rustle. I couldn't figure out what it was. So I turned on the lamp, and there in its light were the irises, bloomed. I had heard the irises blooming.
Years after that, I went on a walk with a date at the Douglas Preserve in Santa Barbara. It was dusk, and there were low-growing green plants that looked like pools of green leaves. There were white flower buds all over them, and as the sun set deeper, the buds began to unfold. We sat on our haunches and watched them all open, whispering to talk.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Pre-Historic Hardware
Gina and I were putting together a dresser from IKEA yesterday. If you are not privy to the IKEA experience, imagine finding the perfect piece of furniture, plucking the service tag to pick it up and take it home, and receiving not the piece you saw, but two heavy, flat boxes that can't possibly serve your purpose.
I'm pretty sure "IKEA" in English means "U-BUILD."
There were at least 200 pieces of assorted hardware.
GINA: I'm surprised there's no glue.
PEMA: Noah didn't have glue I'm guessing.
(We were listening to public radio. A bluegrass devotional was playing: "I heard a voice, must be the Lord's.")
GINA: Noah didn't have IKEA.
I'm pretty sure "IKEA" in English means "U-BUILD."
There were at least 200 pieces of assorted hardware.
GINA: I'm surprised there's no glue.
PEMA: Noah didn't have glue I'm guessing.
(We were listening to public radio. A bluegrass devotional was playing: "I heard a voice, must be the Lord's.")
GINA: Noah didn't have IKEA.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Snarky Home Remedy Suggestions
Think holistic home remedy types have nice things to say to each other? Read what commenters have to say about gas remedies. Maybe gas makes you cranky.
(Submitted at 2006-04-27 22:42:31 from 24.98.150.15)
1. Lie flat on the ground on your back. While inhaling, lift your left foot towards your chest very slowly.
2. Hold your foot to your chest with your hands for 10 seconds (hold your breath).
3. Slowly release the foot while exhaling.
4. Repeat steps 1-2 with the other foot.
You will keep passing gas while doing the above.
(Submitted at 2006-12-27 16:41:08 from 129.71.94.254)
Is it even possible to hold your foot to your stomach? This must be a joke.
(Submitted at 2007-01-21 08:04:33 from 72.195.150.126)
the above poster is clearly a moron. no your foot doesn't literally touch your chest, but that's what you're trying to do by doing these 'bicycle' movements. Haven't you ever seen this done at an aerobics class or gym? sheesh. . .
(Submitted by gassy at 2007-07-21 23:31:19 from 74.167.250.161)
maybe this person is a midget and her foot can touch her chest.
(Submitted at 2007-07-30 18:25:31 from 24.109.2.196)
I don't think you guys understand the directions. I think s/he's saying to pull your foot in towards your chest.. like bending your knee grabbing your foot and pulling it towards you, not up in the air. Like, keeping the bottom of your foot parallel with the ground still... If you understand what Im talking about.
(Submitted at 2007-10-23 15:19:42 from 72.159.40.249)
No, I think they meant literally hold your foot to your chest. Look at step number 2, '2. Hold your foot to your chest with your hands for 10 seconds (hold your breath'.
(Submitted by Sri.. at 2007-10-29 11:30:17 from 58.2.236.143)
Hi. Fold the leg and try to take the knee towards chest. During this process ur feet also moves towards chest but in feet base perpendicular to Hip & stomach.
Do the same with both the legs fold and bend the fore head towards ur folded knee... This pressuraise the gas in stomach and releaved from bottom hole.
(Submitted by Brad at 2008-06-14 08:06:09 from 76.104.202.109)
You hold your knee to your chest. I just tried it and it worked for me. Even burped a little afterward.
(Submitted by Varinder at 2008-07-15 22:54:29 from 76.30.159.31)
What he meant to say was bend your knee. Hold your knees with clasped hand and bring your knee closer to the chest. While you do this with one leg, you can raise the other leg straight ahead at 45 angle and then reverse with the other leg.
(Submitted at 2006-04-27 22:42:31 from 24.98.150.15)
1. Lie flat on the ground on your back. While inhaling, lift your left foot towards your chest very slowly.
2. Hold your foot to your chest with your hands for 10 seconds (hold your breath).
3. Slowly release the foot while exhaling.
4. Repeat steps 1-2 with the other foot.
You will keep passing gas while doing the above.
(Submitted at 2006-12-27 16:41:08 from 129.71.94.254)
Is it even possible to hold your foot to your stomach? This must be a joke.
(Submitted at 2007-01-21 08:04:33 from 72.195.150.126)
the above poster is clearly a moron. no your foot doesn't literally touch your chest, but that's what you're trying to do by doing these 'bicycle' movements. Haven't you ever seen this done at an aerobics class or gym? sheesh. . .
(Submitted by gassy at 2007-07-21 23:31:19 from 74.167.250.161)
maybe this person is a midget and her foot can touch her chest.
(Submitted at 2007-07-30 18:25:31 from 24.109.2.196)
I don't think you guys understand the directions. I think s/he's saying to pull your foot in towards your chest.. like bending your knee grabbing your foot and pulling it towards you, not up in the air. Like, keeping the bottom of your foot parallel with the ground still... If you understand what Im talking about.
(Submitted at 2007-10-23 15:19:42 from 72.159.40.249)
No, I think they meant literally hold your foot to your chest. Look at step number 2, '2. Hold your foot to your chest with your hands for 10 seconds (hold your breath'.
(Submitted by Sri.. at 2007-10-29 11:30:17 from 58.2.236.143)
Hi. Fold the leg and try to take the knee towards chest. During this process ur feet also moves towards chest but in feet base perpendicular to Hip & stomach.
Do the same with both the legs fold and bend the fore head towards ur folded knee... This pressuraise the gas in stomach and releaved from bottom hole.
(Submitted by Brad at 2008-06-14 08:06:09 from 76.104.202.109)
You hold your knee to your chest. I just tried it and it worked for me. Even burped a little afterward.
(Submitted by Varinder at 2008-07-15 22:54:29 from 76.30.159.31)
What he meant to say was bend your knee. Hold your knees with clasped hand and bring your knee closer to the chest. While you do this with one leg, you can raise the other leg straight ahead at 45 angle and then reverse with the other leg.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Learning to Age
Regina and I leave the theater after seeing the film, The Women. I wash my hands in the restroom while Regina waits for me outside. The light is bright in there, and fluorescent.
"Damn!" I run my hands over my hair and through it. "I just got it cut!"
I catch up with Regina and we're cruising down the street in search of libation and ambiance. I say to her, completing the thought I had in the bathroom:
"Who does your hair? I think I need another haircut." I touch my hair again, surprised I would consider such a thing only two weeks after a really great cut. It usually lasts months.
Then I realize. "Oh."
I drop my hands. "It's not my hair."
I walk ahead and think back to the mirror I was just looking into in the bathroom.
"It's my face!"
"Damn!" I run my hands over my hair and through it. "I just got it cut!"
I catch up with Regina and we're cruising down the street in search of libation and ambiance. I say to her, completing the thought I had in the bathroom:
"Who does your hair? I think I need another haircut." I touch my hair again, surprised I would consider such a thing only two weeks after a really great cut. It usually lasts months.
Then I realize. "Oh."
I drop my hands. "It's not my hair."
I walk ahead and think back to the mirror I was just looking into in the bathroom.
"It's my face!"
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Baby Naming
Eleven weeks till due-date, and Jack and Linda are down to a few. Ryder and Cyrus are Jack's faves.
LINDA: What do you think of the name Chad?
JACK: The Chad. I could never take the name Chad serious.
LINDA: And you could take Ryder serious?
JACK: Touche.
(beat)
JACK (cont.): I could take Cyrus serious.
LINDA: What do you think of the name Chad?
JACK: The Chad. I could never take the name Chad serious.
LINDA: And you could take Ryder serious?
JACK: Touche.
(beat)
JACK (cont.): I could take Cyrus serious.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Palin Invasion
Linda is pregnant. Jack is the dad and husband. I've come to up to Seattle to help with some baby prep. We talk about events of the day, the world, our personal lives. I suggest that Sarah Palin is invading the psyches of women, and tell them what happened in my job interview last week:
Half way through, I stopped talking, because I caught glimpse of my hands, gesticulating in concert with the sound of my words losing track of my thoughts...and I got stuck seeing Sarah Palin in interview with Katie Couric, over and over in my mind. "Crap," I thought. "I can't sound like Sarah Palin talking to Katie Couric in a job interview!! Save yourself, woman!" Fortunately, the kind people interviewing me fell out laughing when I told them what happened.
...Do you see Sarah in every brunette with her hair pulled on top of her head? Surely behind every set of snappy glasses, say it, you do. The first night I was here, Linda had a sex dream about Sarah Palin.
Her invasion of our psyches has got to be that not only is Sarah Palin being Sarah Palin on every T.V. screen that can capture her. But Tina Fey is being Sarah Palin after every substantial appearance Sarah makes. So we get a Palin echo, like John Malkovich walking through a room of John Malkoviches.
Yesterday after dinner, the following conversation ensued:
JACK: I'm turning into my father.
PEMA: I'm turning into Sarah Palin.
LINDA: I'm having sex with Sarah Palin.
Half way through, I stopped talking, because I caught glimpse of my hands, gesticulating in concert with the sound of my words losing track of my thoughts...and I got stuck seeing Sarah Palin in interview with Katie Couric, over and over in my mind. "Crap," I thought. "I can't sound like Sarah Palin talking to Katie Couric in a job interview!! Save yourself, woman!" Fortunately, the kind people interviewing me fell out laughing when I told them what happened.
...Do you see Sarah in every brunette with her hair pulled on top of her head? Surely behind every set of snappy glasses, say it, you do. The first night I was here, Linda had a sex dream about Sarah Palin.
Her invasion of our psyches has got to be that not only is Sarah Palin being Sarah Palin on every T.V. screen that can capture her. But Tina Fey is being Sarah Palin after every substantial appearance Sarah makes. So we get a Palin echo, like John Malkovich walking through a room of John Malkoviches.
Yesterday after dinner, the following conversation ensued:
JACK: I'm turning into my father.
PEMA: I'm turning into Sarah Palin.
LINDA: I'm having sex with Sarah Palin.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Who cares?
PEMA: Lisa, do you know when--? How do you--? Do you say "whom do you love?" or "who do you love?"
LISA: Whom cares, Pema?
(Then Lisa looked it up, because she is someone WHO cares after all.)
he = who
him = whom
(Repeat that a few times and see if you can say it without smiling. Or feeling sexy like an owl.)
LISA: Whom cares, Pema?
(Then Lisa looked it up, because she is someone WHO cares after all.)
he = who
him = whom
(Repeat that a few times and see if you can say it without smiling. Or feeling sexy like an owl.)
Friday, October 3, 2008
This Is Your Oregon on Tired
I am Californian. Fan of the Romans, I morph fairly easily to my surroundings. But I was born, raised, conditioned, and teenage-tanned in California.
California is not necessarily super fast paced anywhere. Even San Francisco lopes along behind New York's exhaust. But Cali's no slow-poke joke neither.
Oregon. It's slow here. It's calm. The speed limit is 30mph. People go home from work at 5pm, and as a general population, are more wont to eat blackberries than be chained to them.
I got here and loved it. Love it, but I'm telling you a story, so it's past tense. Loved it.
"How nice," I thought. "I don't have to rush."
"How nice, I can go slowly enough to see the street signs and don't have to worry about ticking people off behind me."
"How absolutely lovely. The customer service at coffee shops and grocery stores includes the cashier asking you genuinely about your day and taking time to feel the weight and heft of each spaghetti sauce jar, the smoothness of each ripe apple. Isn't that...refreshing?...If you can let go of the fear that the people behind you hate you for every last item in your laden cart?"
It is refreshing. Until you don't sleep but three winks the night before. And you don't nap the following day because...you can't seem to fall asleep no matter how much you try...and you finally give in and go to the grocery store on this sleepy rainy day of no sleep, to buy popcorn because it comforts you, and you stand in a "line" of one person with three items, TOTALLY STOKED because you'll barely have to open your mouth to say hello, and you'll be out the door and into your warm car and sitting on your warm couch eating your favorite, popcorn, in front of Oprah in NO TIME FLAT...
...
Right? ...Please God, RIGHT?????
(cue the sound of God laughing)
I am Roman in Rome. I am Oregonian in Portland. Until I am Californian when tired in Oregon.
Photo Credit
Monday, September 29, 2008
Anonymous
David Duchovny, star of "Californication" and formerly of "X-Files" apparently entered a re-hab facility recently for a problem. Regina sums it up here.
He had to go to sex anonymous?
Addicts anonymous?
Clearly it wasn't anonymous if everybody knows about it.
Poor dude.
He had to go to sex anonymous?
Addicts anonymous?
Clearly it wasn't anonymous if everybody knows about it.
Poor dude.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Givin’ and Gettin’: How to Solve All Your Money Problems Forever
This article went live on Wednesday. Ever wonder how mystery, sexuality, and money mix in your life? Read how it mixed for me on Carrie and Danielle.
Enjoy!
Enjoy!
Friday, September 26, 2008
$ Tank
Jeez Louise, go sit in the forest a couple of days and pop goes the world! Check out this idea for an economic bailout by Birk T. J. Birkenmeier!
Hi Pals,
I'm against the $85,000,000,000.00 bailout of AIG. Instead, I'm in favor of giving $85,000,000,000 to America in a We Deserve It Dividend.
To make the math simple, let's assume there are 200,000,000 bonafide U.S. Citizens 18+. Our population is about 301,000,000 +/- counting every man, woman and child. So 200,000,000 might be a fair stab at adults 18 and up. So divide 200 million adults 18+ into $85 billon that equals $425,000.00.
My plan is to give $425,000 to every person 18+ as a We Deserve It Dividend. Of course, it would NOT be tax free. So let's assume a tax rate of 30%. Every individual 18+ has to pay $127,500.00 in taxes. That sends $25,500,000,000 right back to Uncle Sam. But it means that every adult 18+ has $297,500.00 in their pocket.
A husband and wife has $595,000.00. What would you do with $297,500.00 to $595,000.00 in your family? Pay off your mortgage - housing crisis solved. Repay college loans - what a great boost to new grads Put away money for college - it'll be there Saved in a bank - create money to loan to entrepreneurs.
Buy a new car - create jobs
Invest in the market - capital drives growth
Pay for your parent's medical insurance - health care improves
Enable Deadbeat Dads to come clean - or else
Remember this is for every adult US Citizen 18+ including the folks who lost their jobs at Lehman Brothers and every other company that is cutting back.
And of course, for those serving in our Armed Forces.
If we're going to re-distribute wealth let's really do it...instead of trickling out a puny $1000.00 ("vote buy") economic incentive that is being proposed by one of our candidates for President.
If we're going to do an $85 billion bailout, let's bail out every adult US Citizen 18+! As for AIG - liquidate it. Sell off its parts. Let American General go back to being American General. Sell off the real estate. Let the private sector bargain hunters cut it up and clean it up. Here's my rationale. We deserve it and AIG doesn't. Sure it's a crazy idea that can "never work."
But can you imagine the Coast-To-Coast Block Party! How do you spell Economic Boom? I trust my fellow adult Americans to know how to use the $85 Billion We Deserve It Dividend more than I do the geniuses at AIG or in Washington DC. And remember, The Birk plan only really costs $59.5 Billion because $25.5 Billion is returned instantly in taxes to Uncle Sam.
Ahhh...I feel so much better getting that off my chest. Kindest personal regards, Birk T. J. Birkenmeier, A Creative Guy & Citizen of the Republic
P.S. Feel free to pass this along to your pals as it's either good for a laugh or a tear or a very sobering thought on how to best use $85 Billion.
Hi Pals,
I'm against the $85,000,000,000.00 bailout of AIG. Instead, I'm in favor of giving $85,000,000,000 to America in a We Deserve It Dividend.
To make the math simple, let's assume there are 200,000,000 bonafide U.S. Citizens 18+. Our population is about 301,000,000 +/- counting every man, woman and child. So 200,000,000 might be a fair stab at adults 18 and up. So divide 200 million adults 18+ into $85 billon that equals $425,000.00.
My plan is to give $425,000 to every person 18+ as a We Deserve It Dividend. Of course, it would NOT be tax free. So let's assume a tax rate of 30%. Every individual 18+ has to pay $127,500.00 in taxes. That sends $25,500,000,000 right back to Uncle Sam. But it means that every adult 18+ has $297,500.00 in their pocket.
A husband and wife has $595,000.00. What would you do with $297,500.00 to $595,000.00 in your family? Pay off your mortgage - housing crisis solved. Repay college loans - what a great boost to new grads Put away money for college - it'll be there Saved in a bank - create money to loan to entrepreneurs.
Buy a new car - create jobs
Invest in the market - capital drives growth
Pay for your parent's medical insurance - health care improves
Enable Deadbeat Dads to come clean - or else
Remember this is for every adult US Citizen 18+ including the folks who lost their jobs at Lehman Brothers and every other company that is cutting back.
And of course, for those serving in our Armed Forces.
If we're going to re-distribute wealth let's really do it...instead of trickling out a puny $1000.00 ("vote buy") economic incentive that is being proposed by one of our candidates for President.
If we're going to do an $85 billion bailout, let's bail out every adult US Citizen 18+! As for AIG - liquidate it. Sell off its parts. Let American General go back to being American General. Sell off the real estate. Let the private sector bargain hunters cut it up and clean it up. Here's my rationale. We deserve it and AIG doesn't. Sure it's a crazy idea that can "never work."
But can you imagine the Coast-To-Coast Block Party! How do you spell Economic Boom? I trust my fellow adult Americans to know how to use the $85 Billion We Deserve It Dividend more than I do the geniuses at AIG or in Washington DC. And remember, The Birk plan only really costs $59.5 Billion because $25.5 Billion is returned instantly in taxes to Uncle Sam.
Ahhh...I feel so much better getting that off my chest. Kindest personal regards, Birk T. J. Birkenmeier, A Creative Guy & Citizen of the Republic
P.S. Feel free to pass this along to your pals as it's either good for a laugh or a tear or a very sobering thought on how to best use $85 Billion.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Breitenbush Hot Springs
This is where I was the past two days. Hangin' at a cool hippie joint in Oregon miles away from anywhere. Got a lot of reading and writing and thinking done. My fiction client will be happy to hear that. :)
Photo Credit
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Love Stretches Out
PEMA: i'm sorry you're sad
PEMA: i was really sad when you left too
PEMA: that was a weird void
LAURA: i didn't like feeling jealous of you
LAURA: not jealous of you
LAURA: of your new friends, is what i mean to say
LAURA: and yeah, it made me wonder if people felt that when i left
PEMA: new friends are like new views, maybe.
PEMA: they may turn out to be pretty and inspiring, but they're never the ones you leave back home
LAURA: aww
LAURA: this weekend was the twins next door's birthday
LAURA: so i was telling them after the party how much we loved them and loved sharing their growing up together, etc.
PEMA: that's really sweet
LAURA: and sophia got really sad and wouldn't say why
PEMA: oh no, did she ever say?
LAURA: finally she fessed that she was sad because i said such nice things to the boys and that i don't say that to her
PEMA: omg, that girl is articulate
LAURA: so i had this conversation with her that love is not like cookies
LAURA: a plate of cookies, every time you eat one, you have less cookies
LAURA: but with love, every time you love someone new, you only have more love to give, your heart gets bigger
LAURA: you can love more
LAURA: so anyway, here i was talking that talk, but not walking it when it came to you
LAURA: i was feeling like someone else was nibbling on my cookie
LAURA: you
LAURA: silly me
PEMA: i'm a bake oven
PEMA: not just a cookie plate.
LAURA: new friends could never be more sexy, exciting, new and shiny than your old friends, right?
PEMA: what does ani say?
PEMA: there's nothing like seeing your own history in the faces of your friends?
LAURA: yeah
LAURA: she also says f*ck you a lot
LAURA: was glad that wasn't your quote
PEMA: hehe
LAURA: ani quote time
PEMA: f*ck you?
LAURA: when i look down, i miss all the good stuff. when i look up, i just trip over things
PEMA: that's great
LAURA: its ani
PEMA: are you still feeling sad?
LAURA: better to talk to you
PEMA: can i blog that sweet cookie talk?
LAURA: yeah.
PEMA: i was really sad when you left too
PEMA: that was a weird void
LAURA: i didn't like feeling jealous of you
LAURA: not jealous of you
LAURA: of your new friends, is what i mean to say
LAURA: and yeah, it made me wonder if people felt that when i left
PEMA: new friends are like new views, maybe.
PEMA: they may turn out to be pretty and inspiring, but they're never the ones you leave back home
LAURA: aww
LAURA: this weekend was the twins next door's birthday
LAURA: so i was telling them after the party how much we loved them and loved sharing their growing up together, etc.
PEMA: that's really sweet
LAURA: and sophia got really sad and wouldn't say why
PEMA: oh no, did she ever say?
LAURA: finally she fessed that she was sad because i said such nice things to the boys and that i don't say that to her
PEMA: omg, that girl is articulate
LAURA: so i had this conversation with her that love is not like cookies
LAURA: a plate of cookies, every time you eat one, you have less cookies
LAURA: but with love, every time you love someone new, you only have more love to give, your heart gets bigger
LAURA: you can love more
LAURA: so anyway, here i was talking that talk, but not walking it when it came to you
LAURA: i was feeling like someone else was nibbling on my cookie
LAURA: you
LAURA: silly me
PEMA: i'm a bake oven
PEMA: not just a cookie plate.
LAURA: new friends could never be more sexy, exciting, new and shiny than your old friends, right?
PEMA: what does ani say?
PEMA: there's nothing like seeing your own history in the faces of your friends?
LAURA: yeah
LAURA: she also says f*ck you a lot
LAURA: was glad that wasn't your quote
PEMA: hehe
LAURA: ani quote time
PEMA: f*ck you?
LAURA: when i look down, i miss all the good stuff. when i look up, i just trip over things
PEMA: that's great
LAURA: its ani
PEMA: are you still feeling sad?
LAURA: better to talk to you
PEMA: can i blog that sweet cookie talk?
LAURA: yeah.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Party Prep
Regina loves a party. She loves a party so much that she loves party prep and party clean up. She loves a party so much that even the yard work leading up to the party is a rockin' good time, weeding, edging, raking, sweeping, power mowing. I got enlisted to mow the lawn while she walked the dog. She was excited when, out in the garage, smell of gasoline in the air, she gripped the handle bar of the mower and instructed me on how to start the thing up. "You'll feel so butch," she said. "It's totally fun." Soon, I'm sure, you'll see a picture of Regina, tiny, curvaceous, fabulous-haired Regina, and you'll understand how funny that is.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Mmnllewup shlaagrrnepsh
That's me talking when my mouth's not awake yet.
Late night.
Welcome to Portland Party today! More later. Like pix n stuff. :-)
Late night.
Welcome to Portland Party today! More later. Like pix n stuff. :-)
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Heads Up
Hey, so I quit my job in finance to move to Portland and get paid to write.
I now live in Portland and I'm getting published on Friday.
Check out www.CarrieandDanielle.com today to nose around the site for context, and then on Friday...go there again to read my article! I promise it will titillate.
I now live in Portland and I'm getting published on Friday.
Check out www.CarrieandDanielle.com today to nose around the site for context, and then on Friday...go there again to read my article! I promise it will titillate.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Things You Say But Don't Mean
Having moved just over a week ago, I am still organizing notes and files. Usually in stacks of creased and crumpled receipts, I find stray post-its penciled with found dialogue--which means somebody says it, I scribble it down. Thanks to my heterosexual friend, Steve, for these inadvertently generous bits.
"Man, my ass took a pounding today."
(After a full day Harley ride)
"I'm gonna go get poked."
(On the way out the door to an acupuncture appointment)
"Man, my ass took a pounding today."
(After a full day Harley ride)
"I'm gonna go get poked."
(On the way out the door to an acupuncture appointment)
Thursday, September 18, 2008
The sound of sadness
Okay, I'm not dejected or depressed or morose. Or bummed out or sad to be here or thinking I made the wrong move. On the contrary, I'm happy for the change. But I have been silent. And slow to action. And loathe to email. And even further afield from making phone calls. Feh. (And let's tip-toe right over that word "Daily" emblazoned on my blog moniker, shall we?).
For me silence is the sound of sadness. I have dramatic tendencies in conversation (ask Lisa if she likes beets), and when finding humor in situations, and in my playwriting. But I am less emotive out in the world. Less ready to say, "hey look at me, I feel like crying! Hey, you know what? I miss my friends! I miss those damned kittens that drove me crazy and then grew up to be cute and friendly and around all the time! I'm sad I missed meeting Twilight's new baby because he was being born while I was driving to my new state." Nope that's not me, not my words, not even my awareness. My awareness, instead, is lack. Like a lobotomy. Not a lot of talking. A whole lot of busy (had some deadlines this week). And a whole lot of moving slow. (Isn't it weird the kitchen ALWAYS needs cleaning?)
I'm in the land of disconnect...where I am no longer where I was, and not fully materialized into where I am.
I'm in an in-between world, like waking up from a nap, not quite out of dream world. That might explain prolific dreaming since I've been here.
I'm looking forward to some solidity, so I can call my friends and talk and tell them all is well. And thank Tania for the little sauce pan. And everyone else for the going-away love.
Only today did the weather turn to gray, from spectacular sunshine. I'm really happy about that, because I've been down in the basement working all day the past week, and the weather change makes me feel less guilty about missing the sun for the sake of work. (I made a little office in the basement.)
So that you don't think it's all bad, here are a couple of bits of word lint I picked up in recent days:
I went on a bike ride with a nice guy whose house I looked at to rent. We took a spectacular path all around the river and then along it. We stopped after several miles to rest at the end of a little wooden dock, jutting out into water, surrounded by hills and evergreens and Portland bridges. We talked and stretched. He got up at one point, and bent at the waist to stretch his hamstrings. He looked through his legs upside down and commented, "Wow, the view between my legs is really cool!"
A few days later, Gina brought home burritos.
GINA: I didn't know what kind of salsa you like, red or green, so I brought both.
ME: I like both. I'm bi-salsa identified.
I realize I need to update the cast of characters on the side of my blog, but I'm not quite ready for that. When I defrag into Portland more fully, I'll do it.
For me silence is the sound of sadness. I have dramatic tendencies in conversation (ask Lisa if she likes beets), and when finding humor in situations, and in my playwriting. But I am less emotive out in the world. Less ready to say, "hey look at me, I feel like crying! Hey, you know what? I miss my friends! I miss those damned kittens that drove me crazy and then grew up to be cute and friendly and around all the time! I'm sad I missed meeting Twilight's new baby because he was being born while I was driving to my new state." Nope that's not me, not my words, not even my awareness. My awareness, instead, is lack. Like a lobotomy. Not a lot of talking. A whole lot of busy (had some deadlines this week). And a whole lot of moving slow. (Isn't it weird the kitchen ALWAYS needs cleaning?)
I'm in the land of disconnect...where I am no longer where I was, and not fully materialized into where I am.
I'm in an in-between world, like waking up from a nap, not quite out of dream world. That might explain prolific dreaming since I've been here.
I'm looking forward to some solidity, so I can call my friends and talk and tell them all is well. And thank Tania for the little sauce pan. And everyone else for the going-away love.
Only today did the weather turn to gray, from spectacular sunshine. I'm really happy about that, because I've been down in the basement working all day the past week, and the weather change makes me feel less guilty about missing the sun for the sake of work. (I made a little office in the basement.)
So that you don't think it's all bad, here are a couple of bits of word lint I picked up in recent days:
I went on a bike ride with a nice guy whose house I looked at to rent. We took a spectacular path all around the river and then along it. We stopped after several miles to rest at the end of a little wooden dock, jutting out into water, surrounded by hills and evergreens and Portland bridges. We talked and stretched. He got up at one point, and bent at the waist to stretch his hamstrings. He looked through his legs upside down and commented, "Wow, the view between my legs is really cool!"
A few days later, Gina brought home burritos.
GINA: I didn't know what kind of salsa you like, red or green, so I brought both.
ME: I like both. I'm bi-salsa identified.
I realize I need to update the cast of characters on the side of my blog, but I'm not quite ready for that. When I defrag into Portland more fully, I'll do it.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Portland is Good Today
This is my new house on a warm Portland day (today).
I hear the rain will come next week, but we won't talk about that yet.
This is where I rode my bike today.
I hear the rain will come next week, but we won't talk about that yet.
This is where I rode my bike today.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Hello Mother, Hello Mother
Readers will remember "Pema Has Four Mommies." That joke lasted, and made leaving Santa Barbara particularly sad on move day. ...by way of keeping my move news posted, here's the letter I wrote to Lisa, Tania, Kate and Kara yesterday.
Dear Mommies,
Camp Portland is cool but I miss you. After we got here on Monday night, I met up with my two counselors, Gina and Regina. Funny names, huh? They made a bunk for me that is up some stairs in their house. That’s the way it works here. You stay in your counselor’s house until you get your own cabin. I was kind of sad to leave my new friend who I met on the ride to camp, but he had to stay at his counselor’s house, too. He is 23 and traveled all around Russia and Scandanavia before going to Camp Portland, so he told lots of cool stories. His name is Ted. His brother chases eclipses! They went on a long hike with some other people to find the best place to watch an eclipse in Russia. They rode trains for longer than 24 hours sometimes! Going to some place that used to be called Siberia I guess.
It was really pretty when we got here. It was dark but the lights were twinkling when we drove over the river. It was finally not hot anymore. All day long on our drive we were very hot and all the farms and fields all around us were dry and brown. Oh, and we drove through a forest that was on fire! I probably shouldn’t tell you that ‘cause you’ll worry. But it’s alright, I’m here now.
My favorite part of the drive was when we were almost here. It was nighttime and the windows were down. We couldn’t see where we were because it was dark, but every few minutes we could SMELL what we were driving past. We smelled green onions, and then hay, and then cow poop (yuck), and something else I can’t remember. Then we got to Camp Portland and we smelled flowers.
Since coming to camp I have slept a lot and yesterday we took all my boxes and things out of the moving truck. Then I went around town to find my cabin. It is kind of weird because at other camps they already have a cabin and bunkmates set up when I get there. But “Cabin Hunt” is one of the activities at Camp Portland, and it’s not so bad. I met some interesting campers yesterday who live in a style of cabin called “Old Portland.” I guess they built it in the Olden Days. We went in the basement and it smelled like it. My counselors told me I could stay in my room up the stairs as long as I want and that “Cabin Hunt” is meant to go on during a lot of other activities, too. They said the prize for that activity is the cabin itself. Weird camp. But that’s okay. They said there are other activities I can get a Camp Portland blue ribbon for. Like cooking, and making friends, and picking vegetables from the garden, and good citizenship on rainy days.
I hope you can come visit me at camp soon. I miss you a lot and love you more.
Love,
Pema
Dear Mommies,
Camp Portland is cool but I miss you. After we got here on Monday night, I met up with my two counselors, Gina and Regina. Funny names, huh? They made a bunk for me that is up some stairs in their house. That’s the way it works here. You stay in your counselor’s house until you get your own cabin. I was kind of sad to leave my new friend who I met on the ride to camp, but he had to stay at his counselor’s house, too. He is 23 and traveled all around Russia and Scandanavia before going to Camp Portland, so he told lots of cool stories. His name is Ted. His brother chases eclipses! They went on a long hike with some other people to find the best place to watch an eclipse in Russia. They rode trains for longer than 24 hours sometimes! Going to some place that used to be called Siberia I guess.
It was really pretty when we got here. It was dark but the lights were twinkling when we drove over the river. It was finally not hot anymore. All day long on our drive we were very hot and all the farms and fields all around us were dry and brown. Oh, and we drove through a forest that was on fire! I probably shouldn’t tell you that ‘cause you’ll worry. But it’s alright, I’m here now.
My favorite part of the drive was when we were almost here. It was nighttime and the windows were down. We couldn’t see where we were because it was dark, but every few minutes we could SMELL what we were driving past. We smelled green onions, and then hay, and then cow poop (yuck), and something else I can’t remember. Then we got to Camp Portland and we smelled flowers.
Since coming to camp I have slept a lot and yesterday we took all my boxes and things out of the moving truck. Then I went around town to find my cabin. It is kind of weird because at other camps they already have a cabin and bunkmates set up when I get there. But “Cabin Hunt” is one of the activities at Camp Portland, and it’s not so bad. I met some interesting campers yesterday who live in a style of cabin called “Old Portland.” I guess they built it in the Olden Days. We went in the basement and it smelled like it. My counselors told me I could stay in my room up the stairs as long as I want and that “Cabin Hunt” is meant to go on during a lot of other activities, too. They said the prize for that activity is the cabin itself. Weird camp. But that’s okay. They said there are other activities I can get a Camp Portland blue ribbon for. Like cooking, and making friends, and picking vegetables from the garden, and good citizenship on rainy days.
I hope you can come visit me at camp soon. I miss you a lot and love you more.
Love,
Pema
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Monday, September 8, 2008
The Future's Open Wide
Hit play and listen to this in the background as you scroll down and read on...
Made it into Portland tonight. Driving over the Ross Island Bridge, building lights were shining off the water. Windows were down and our speed whipped the dark blue cool into the car. So beautiful after a hot 11-hour drive. Dido was playing some wah-wah song on the radio. I said to Ted, my passenger, we need an anthem for this arrival, not this whiny Dido. Ted moved to Portland today, too. We shared the ride from Oakland, CA (thank you Craigslist) and bumped fists when we crossed from California into Oregon. Ted turned the station and immediately found "Melt With You." (Modern English 1982! Perfect anthem.) Nothing like iconic 80s pop for nostalgia in the making. It filled the car and diffused on the wind as we drove over the bridge into our new town, night fragrant, air soft, and futures open wide.
Photo: Hisashiburi
Photo: Phoenixtx
Made it into Portland tonight. Driving over the Ross Island Bridge, building lights were shining off the water. Windows were down and our speed whipped the dark blue cool into the car. So beautiful after a hot 11-hour drive. Dido was playing some wah-wah song on the radio. I said to Ted, my passenger, we need an anthem for this arrival, not this whiny Dido. Ted moved to Portland today, too. We shared the ride from Oakland, CA (thank you Craigslist) and bumped fists when we crossed from California into Oregon. Ted turned the station and immediately found "Melt With You." (Modern English 1982! Perfect anthem.) Nothing like iconic 80s pop for nostalgia in the making. It filled the car and diffused on the wind as we drove over the bridge into our new town, night fragrant, air soft, and futures open wide.
Photo: Hisashiburi
Photo: Phoenixtx
Sunday, September 7, 2008
In transit
Hi, it's Tania. Pema said I could guestblog, so here I am. Pema's on the road to her new home. The setting and cast of characters are changing (soap opera voiceover: "now playing the role of Pema's housemates are Gina and Regina"). It was sad saying goodbye to Pema, so I wrote songs. In case you missed the fabulous group performance at Pema's going away party, here they are...
So Long, Pema
(to the tune of “So Long, Farewell” from “The Sound of Music”)
There’s a sad sort of singing in Santa Barbara
And your friends are all feeling blue
And we think you must be crazy to leave us
Just a little bit coo-coo (coo-coo coo-coo)
Regretfully you tell us (coo-coo)
But firmly you compel us (coo-coo)
To say goodbye
To you…
So long farewell, auf weidersehen, goodnight
Despite the rain, your future will be bright
So long farewell, goodbye, auf weidersehen
Without you here, life will be so mundane
So long farewell, auf weidersehen adieu
We love you so with friendship tried and true
So long farewell, auf weidersehen and ciao
Brie and Zola say “meow meow meow meow meow”
So long farewell, you head to the Northwest
You’ve touched us all; with Pema we’ve been blessed
You have to go, we cannot change your mind
But don’t forget the friends you left behind
Your bags are packed; it’s time to wave and cry
So long farewell, auf weidersehen, goodbye
Goodbye...
Goodbye....
Goodbye....
Goodbye...
Pema’s Leaving
(to the tune of “Babe, I’m Leaving” by the most excellent 80’s band, Styx)
Pema’s leaving
She must be on her way
It’s almost time to go
Portland’s gaining a writer and a friend
Who’ll keep them on their toes
But we’ll be lonely without you
We’ll read your blog when we feel blue
Thanks so much for enriching all our lives
We’ll be missing you
You know it’s Pema
When you’ve had a bad day and you need a hug
She’s like cheerful drug
Oh, yes, it’s Pema
Knowing you can always call on Ms. Teeter
To go to the theater
Yes, it’s true
Pems, we’ll miss you
Pema’s leaving
This is our final verse
And then we’ll have to part
We’ll keep you close despite the long distance
Right here in our hearts
But we’ll be lonely without you
We’ll read your blog when we feel blue
Thanks so much for enriching all our lives
We’ll be missing you
Pems, we love you.
So Long, Pema
(to the tune of “So Long, Farewell” from “The Sound of Music”)
There’s a sad sort of singing in Santa Barbara
And your friends are all feeling blue
And we think you must be crazy to leave us
Just a little bit coo-coo (coo-coo coo-coo)
Regretfully you tell us (coo-coo)
But firmly you compel us (coo-coo)
To say goodbye
To you…
So long farewell, auf weidersehen, goodnight
Despite the rain, your future will be bright
So long farewell, goodbye, auf weidersehen
Without you here, life will be so mundane
So long farewell, auf weidersehen adieu
We love you so with friendship tried and true
So long farewell, auf weidersehen and ciao
Brie and Zola say “meow meow meow meow meow”
So long farewell, you head to the Northwest
You’ve touched us all; with Pema we’ve been blessed
You have to go, we cannot change your mind
But don’t forget the friends you left behind
Your bags are packed; it’s time to wave and cry
So long farewell, auf weidersehen, goodbye
Goodbye...
Goodbye....
Goodbye....
Goodbye...
Pema’s Leaving
(to the tune of “Babe, I’m Leaving” by the most excellent 80’s band, Styx)
Pema’s leaving
She must be on her way
It’s almost time to go
Portland’s gaining a writer and a friend
Who’ll keep them on their toes
But we’ll be lonely without you
We’ll read your blog when we feel blue
Thanks so much for enriching all our lives
We’ll be missing you
You know it’s Pema
When you’ve had a bad day and you need a hug
She’s like cheerful drug
Oh, yes, it’s Pema
Knowing you can always call on Ms. Teeter
To go to the theater
Yes, it’s true
Pems, we’ll miss you
Pema’s leaving
This is our final verse
And then we’ll have to part
We’ll keep you close despite the long distance
Right here in our hearts
But we’ll be lonely without you
We’ll read your blog when we feel blue
Thanks so much for enriching all our lives
We’ll be missing you
Pems, we love you.
Truth is in the Timing
What's true?
That's up for grabs a lot, depending on who is telling the story.
Opinion, on the other hand, we can agree by definition that opinion is in the mouth of the beholder. But when that mouth keeps moving and the story changes before your ears, who do you believe? How are you persuaded?
I got it! Truth is in the timing. Take a (hilarious) look:
That's up for grabs a lot, depending on who is telling the story.
Opinion, on the other hand, we can agree by definition that opinion is in the mouth of the beholder. But when that mouth keeps moving and the story changes before your ears, who do you believe? How are you persuaded?
I got it! Truth is in the timing. Take a (hilarious) look:
Friday, September 5, 2008
oink
Pigs keep crossing my path. Not actual pigs, but pictures of them, and pigs, strangely, have been coming up in conversation. Look at this smiley guy. I found him this morning while traversing the google fields.
So I looked up "Pig Totem," and this is what it says:
Pig: symbol of Wealth, Prosperity and Luck
The pig moves swiftly and with determination. It intuitively knows the best reaction to various situations. If the pig is your personal totem, learn from its determination and swift motion to take the right actions in your life.
The Greek earth fertility goddess, Demeter, kept a sacred pig which became a symbol of fertility.
Native American Indians recognize the pig as a symbol of the abundance of daily life and believe that it teaches us to celebrate life and share it with others.
The pig is a strong symbol of luck. If you need more luck in financial matters, the pig provides prosperity in abundance.
Manannan, the Celtic God of the Sea, kept a magical herd of pigs (which renewed itself as soon as any were eaten). Manannan hosted a great annual "Feast of Age", where the gods acquired the ever-renewing qualities of the pigs, and thus never grew old.
...Good timing. Because, tomorrow's my going away party and the day after that is me going away! Wealth, prosperity and luck are welcome to come along.
Photo: My Little Space
So I looked up "Pig Totem," and this is what it says:
Pig: symbol of Wealth, Prosperity and Luck
The pig moves swiftly and with determination. It intuitively knows the best reaction to various situations. If the pig is your personal totem, learn from its determination and swift motion to take the right actions in your life.
The Greek earth fertility goddess, Demeter, kept a sacred pig which became a symbol of fertility.
Native American Indians recognize the pig as a symbol of the abundance of daily life and believe that it teaches us to celebrate life and share it with others.
The pig is a strong symbol of luck. If you need more luck in financial matters, the pig provides prosperity in abundance.
Manannan, the Celtic God of the Sea, kept a magical herd of pigs (which renewed itself as soon as any were eaten). Manannan hosted a great annual "Feast of Age", where the gods acquired the ever-renewing qualities of the pigs, and thus never grew old.
...Good timing. Because, tomorrow's my going away party and the day after that is me going away! Wealth, prosperity and luck are welcome to come along.
Photo: My Little Space
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
list
Hi.
I know.
I have been
starkly absent from the
bench. I am sorry. It
seems to be all I can
do to move through the house and
move things around, and open boxes, take things
out, move them around, close the boxes, and move
through the house. Today, however, I got the car
serviced, ix-nayed the ew-nay ires-tay, got new
speakers, and got the car washed. I
also got a massage and
went to the chiropractor.
Because, ouch, I
hurt my
back.
if
this
continues
this
lethargy
this
pallor
this
pain
then
each
day
i
will
write
a
list
just
to
write
something
until
the
funk
moves
on
to
some
other
neighborbood.
as
it
stands
(while
i
sit)
i
am
guessing
this
move
to
portland
is
bigger
than
i
expected
and
i
am
feeling
it
accordingly.
I know.
I have been
starkly absent from the
bench. I am sorry. It
seems to be all I can
do to move through the house and
move things around, and open boxes, take things
out, move them around, close the boxes, and move
through the house. Today, however, I got the car
serviced, ix-nayed the ew-nay ires-tay, got new
speakers, and got the car washed. I
also got a massage and
went to the chiropractor.
Because, ouch, I
hurt my
back.
if
this
continues
this
lethargy
this
pallor
this
pain
then
each
day
i
will
write
a
list
just
to
write
something
until
the
funk
moves
on
to
some
other
neighborbood.
as
it
stands
(while
i
sit)
i
am
guessing
this
move
to
portland
is
bigger
than
i
expected
and
i
am
feeling
it
accordingly.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
tick tock
It's Wednesday.
I finished a triathlon four days ago.
Tania is a delegate at the Democratic National Convention.
Lisa is thriving in her new director-level position at work.
Twilight is about to have a baby.
Her due date is one day before...
...I pick up and move out of state...
...in 11 days.
Michelle is in love and sad about it.
The boy I loved before I knew what love was (we're talking kid-age) is now designing my business logo.
Suzy is back in Santa Barbara because of a break up.
And she's a psychotherapist.
My little brother has a one-year-old.
Classmates from high school keep contacting me on Facebook.
Our 20th reunion is coming up.
Time, in its infinite tramp, makes life's rollercoaster rides sound pedestrian sometimes.
I finished a triathlon four days ago.
Tania is a delegate at the Democratic National Convention.
Lisa is thriving in her new director-level position at work.
Twilight is about to have a baby.
Her due date is one day before...
...I pick up and move out of state...
...in 11 days.
Michelle is in love and sad about it.
The boy I loved before I knew what love was (we're talking kid-age) is now designing my business logo.
Suzy is back in Santa Barbara because of a break up.
And she's a psychotherapist.
My little brother has a one-year-old.
Classmates from high school keep contacting me on Facebook.
Our 20th reunion is coming up.
Time, in its infinite tramp, makes life's rollercoaster rides sound pedestrian sometimes.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Spirit Finds You
Yesterday just before my swim, I nearly walked into a young woman (about 13) who looked remarkably like Talia, my late boss' daughter who died with him in the plane crash. At the time, I wondered what she had to tell me...in such a way that I felt visited by Talia at that moment. It was more than the girl's look, it was her presence, the look in her eyes, and we were inches away from one another, face to face before stepping out of each other's way.
I was nervous for the ocean swim, it being packed with people and all, and I worried about being able to breathe through all the excitement and exertion.
Then today, recuperating from the triathlon, I remembered that I have a wonderful ocean memory of Talia. Several of us were floating in the waves in Panama, but we were all a little anxious because we were waiting for a boat to come pick us up from this tiny island we were on...and we couldn't relax on the shore because the flies were biting. Time stretched on as we waited for the boat. The sun got lower in the sky and our skin pickled. But Talia and her friend, Caroline, about 11 and 12, stood in the waves and performed hilarious comedy routines, sang funny songs, and played interactive games with us. We floated out in the swells, and laughed and laughed. They kept us light till the boat arrived.
With the entrance of that memory, I understood Talia's appearance yesterday, right before my swim in the ocean and my dip into my dream to do the triathlon. Today I still feel the calm I felt yesterday as I cruised through the water, and the ease I felt that day Talia and Caroline made us laugh in the waves.
It occurs to me only now that I went alone to the triathlon. I didn't invite any friends to the crack-of-dawn athletic event which requires a lot of waiting and a lot of roaming around for spectators. I felt a little lonely, seeing people's friends and family cheering them on. It was kind of like showing up at the airport and your loved ones aren't there to greet you. The tri was a big deal for me, but I didn't set it up in a way for my friends to be there. But you know who was there? Greg, Michael's ranch manager. He runs the event and I saw him throughout the triathlon weekend. He even discovered an error I had made in my set-up and fixed it before I started.
And Talia, it turns out.
So...I guess I didn't run it by myself after all. :-)
I was nervous for the ocean swim, it being packed with people and all, and I worried about being able to breathe through all the excitement and exertion.
Then today, recuperating from the triathlon, I remembered that I have a wonderful ocean memory of Talia. Several of us were floating in the waves in Panama, but we were all a little anxious because we were waiting for a boat to come pick us up from this tiny island we were on...and we couldn't relax on the shore because the flies were biting. Time stretched on as we waited for the boat. The sun got lower in the sky and our skin pickled. But Talia and her friend, Caroline, about 11 and 12, stood in the waves and performed hilarious comedy routines, sang funny songs, and played interactive games with us. We floated out in the swells, and laughed and laughed. They kept us light till the boat arrived.
With the entrance of that memory, I understood Talia's appearance yesterday, right before my swim in the ocean and my dip into my dream to do the triathlon. Today I still feel the calm I felt yesterday as I cruised through the water, and the ease I felt that day Talia and Caroline made us laugh in the waves.
It occurs to me only now that I went alone to the triathlon. I didn't invite any friends to the crack-of-dawn athletic event which requires a lot of waiting and a lot of roaming around for spectators. I felt a little lonely, seeing people's friends and family cheering them on. It was kind of like showing up at the airport and your loved ones aren't there to greet you. The tri was a big deal for me, but I didn't set it up in a way for my friends to be there. But you know who was there? Greg, Michael's ranch manager. He runs the event and I saw him throughout the triathlon weekend. He even discovered an error I had made in my set-up and fixed it before I started.
And Talia, it turns out.
So...I guess I didn't run it by myself after all. :-)
Sunday, August 24, 2008
388
Today....I completed my first triathlon!
It was a sprint -- 500 yard swim, 6 mile bike and 2 mile run. The Santa Barbara Triathlon has been on my radar for about ten years now. A keen desire I longed to fulfill but for some reason or another never did. I once trained for a marathon accidentally, trying to gear up for a triathlon without a bike or a nearby body of water. I spent two summers, first getting over my fear of cold ocean water, and then strengthening my swim. And this year, this weekend, today! I finally did it! And guess what was my strongest leg of the race...the swim!
It was certainly nerve-wracking. And I have a way of getting into a deep deep focus so that not a whole lot exists outside the inner workings of my head and the brief snapshots of what my senses are feeding me.
I started the swim in the back of the pack, to elude the kicks and swats of the crowd all splashing toward the course exit. Also because it takes me a little time to get used to the water and the swell, to get through the jagged breathing and nerves hitting full tilt. But I made it out to the first buoy and started my stroke in earnest. There were only about 6 people behind me just before I started it. And when I did I was still a little nervous. But then my breathing evened out and I was stretching into my stroke, all in an effort to relax...and before I knew it, I was cruising by swimmers left and right. I was movin'! It was such a cool feeling. I was getting somewhere.
The water was green-blue in my goggle-view, there were tiny bubbles rising to the surface from the splash of my hands, there were pink feet first ahead of me then drifting behind me, then another pair. There was the sound and the feel of my breath, in, then out in a an unleashing of bubbles, then sucking in, then face in the water again, lungs working it out, all the while flashes of white swim caps, bobbing against the view of mountains, and sky, then that green-blue, and the bubbles and the breathing. It was hypnotic. I was cruising along in my focus when from the corner of my eye, face in the water, I saw the black felt-marker number on my shoulder: 388. And I realized...I'm doing a triathlon!!! I'm swimming in the triathlon! And my speed picked up another notch.
It was a sprint -- 500 yard swim, 6 mile bike and 2 mile run. The Santa Barbara Triathlon has been on my radar for about ten years now. A keen desire I longed to fulfill but for some reason or another never did. I once trained for a marathon accidentally, trying to gear up for a triathlon without a bike or a nearby body of water. I spent two summers, first getting over my fear of cold ocean water, and then strengthening my swim. And this year, this weekend, today! I finally did it! And guess what was my strongest leg of the race...the swim!
It was certainly nerve-wracking. And I have a way of getting into a deep deep focus so that not a whole lot exists outside the inner workings of my head and the brief snapshots of what my senses are feeding me.
I started the swim in the back of the pack, to elude the kicks and swats of the crowd all splashing toward the course exit. Also because it takes me a little time to get used to the water and the swell, to get through the jagged breathing and nerves hitting full tilt. But I made it out to the first buoy and started my stroke in earnest. There were only about 6 people behind me just before I started it. And when I did I was still a little nervous. But then my breathing evened out and I was stretching into my stroke, all in an effort to relax...and before I knew it, I was cruising by swimmers left and right. I was movin'! It was such a cool feeling. I was getting somewhere.
The water was green-blue in my goggle-view, there were tiny bubbles rising to the surface from the splash of my hands, there were pink feet first ahead of me then drifting behind me, then another pair. There was the sound and the feel of my breath, in, then out in a an unleashing of bubbles, then sucking in, then face in the water again, lungs working it out, all the while flashes of white swim caps, bobbing against the view of mountains, and sky, then that green-blue, and the bubbles and the breathing. It was hypnotic. I was cruising along in my focus when from the corner of my eye, face in the water, I saw the black felt-marker number on my shoulder: 388. And I realized...I'm doing a triathlon!!! I'm swimming in the triathlon! And my speed picked up another notch.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Already Always Listening, OR...Right, what SHE said.
Felicia and Emily are over for dinner. They tell us they recently took advantage of the new California law allowing same-sex couples to marry.
LISA: How did you two meet?
FELICIA: Sex club.
EMILY: Shut up. (punch in the arm)
Then they tell us the story of that answer...
Felicia's Mom sits in the corner of the living room knitting. Felicia's COUSIN, FELICIA herself, and EMILY stand nearby in the dining room.
COUSIN: How did you two meet?
EMILY: The internet.
COUSIN: A Sex Club??
FELICIA: THE INTERNET.
EMILY: It's a good place for singles.
COUSIN: The place is called FINGERS??
.
LISA: How did you two meet?
FELICIA: Sex club.
EMILY: Shut up. (punch in the arm)
Then they tell us the story of that answer...
Felicia's Mom sits in the corner of the living room knitting. Felicia's COUSIN, FELICIA herself, and EMILY stand nearby in the dining room.
COUSIN: How did you two meet?
EMILY: The internet.
COUSIN: A Sex Club??
FELICIA: THE INTERNET.
EMILY: It's a good place for singles.
COUSIN: The place is called FINGERS??
.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Gramcrackers
Back in L.A. Back in the land of NOW. Back to the landscape of flatscreens in bars with Olympics on them late into the night, to the corner of the key lime pie colored room that means for me INTERNET INTERNET INTERNET!! I can't drink it in fast enough! Must...slake...my thirst!!!
I've been in San Diego at Grandma's. Frequent occurrence of late, I know. She's 97 and blind and living alone because she's so derned independent, she'd rather totter around on fossil-frail legs in a macular degenerated fog than give up her digs. She's also waiting for the welcome from the part of the family that will take her in when her bones won't hold her up anymore [Cue hold music] ... Considering those bones are creeping up on a century that should be any minute now [More hold music]...
...Okay, we're just going to let that line hold while we continue with the rest of the program. So, Grandma has lived in the same retirement village for 31 years. I remember the night she and Grandpa moved in. It was rainy. I was 6. And tired. I remember sitting on the couch that had just been set down. 31 years later, I am prone to napping on the "couch" that has replaced it, this one short enough that my legs hang off of it (you shrink when you get to be 97--couch is Grandma-sized).
Since Grams is blind and has been getting that way for years, there is no internet connection. Her last memory of modern data entry is of the Word Processor. So I explain the internet by saying it's like magazine pages inside a Word Processor. And you can send the pages as if they were themselves on a phone call, and the receiving phone is another "Word Processor" where the message you wrote or the page you sent pops up. And you can "sift" through the many millions of pages stored on the "phone lines" like you can flip through a phone book, looking at all the ads...but the pages are glossy and pretty like magazine pages. ...How she translates the tactile experiences of paper, ink, heavy dial-phones, and the sounds that go with them, to a purely intellectual chain of events, I long to see what this looks like in her imagination.
Point is, at Grandma's there is no internet. And I no longer have my Blackberry from my office job. So I am completely without access to any brief little hop to the outside world and I consider claustrophobia, for, oh, let's say just a few moments, because it's sweltering hot in the empty bedroom, can't go in there, and the T.V. is blaring in the tiny living room--did I mention her hearing ain't what it used to be? I SAID, DID I MENTION HER HEARING AIN'T WHAT IT USED TO BE?? And it's nighttime, to which my Grandma is allergic, and she can smell it on me and immediately begin choking and wheezing in a feverish contact high, so God Forbid I Go Outside Where the Criminals and Rapists wait just outside the door.
It's near 8:30, though. Bedtime for Grandma. And I wait to pounce on the T.V. to find the Olympics. Grand display of amazing feats are on for two weeks, inspiring and heartwrenching stories unfolding in time-delayed real time. In a country far far away. THAT will take me farther than even the 6 o'clock news and I can fantasize about being connected to the outside world late into the night. Grandma has said she doesn't get that channel but I don't believe her. How can you not get the Olympics? Why, that's unamerican, and Grandma is most certainly card-carrying.
She doesn't get that channel. Criminy! Now SHE's in the tiny bedroom, sweltering or not, the place is locked down like Fort Knox, and I am sitting in Grandma's chair, not one foot away from the television (placed there so she can "see" it and hear it) and I am devolving into the caverns of my mind, collapsing in on itself. ... ... ... I realize that this is what Grandma does every day. ... ...
I get up and make a freezer waffle and eat four Oreo's when that is not enough. It takes me all of ten minutes from start to finish. It takes Grandma ten minutes to get the waffles from the freezer into the toaster (but she'd sooner bury me than not make breakfast for me, so she starts early). I turn off the T.V. and work on my play...thanking God I have the faculties to at least map this manic imagination, or distract it, in the absence of internet and the Olympics.
I've been in San Diego at Grandma's. Frequent occurrence of late, I know. She's 97 and blind and living alone because she's so derned independent, she'd rather totter around on fossil-frail legs in a macular degenerated fog than give up her digs. She's also waiting for the welcome from the part of the family that will take her in when her bones won't hold her up anymore [Cue hold music] ... Considering those bones are creeping up on a century that should be any minute now [More hold music]...
...Okay, we're just going to let that line hold while we continue with the rest of the program. So, Grandma has lived in the same retirement village for 31 years. I remember the night she and Grandpa moved in. It was rainy. I was 6. And tired. I remember sitting on the couch that had just been set down. 31 years later, I am prone to napping on the "couch" that has replaced it, this one short enough that my legs hang off of it (you shrink when you get to be 97--couch is Grandma-sized).
Since Grams is blind and has been getting that way for years, there is no internet connection. Her last memory of modern data entry is of the Word Processor. So I explain the internet by saying it's like magazine pages inside a Word Processor. And you can send the pages as if they were themselves on a phone call, and the receiving phone is another "Word Processor" where the message you wrote or the page you sent pops up. And you can "sift" through the many millions of pages stored on the "phone lines" like you can flip through a phone book, looking at all the ads...but the pages are glossy and pretty like magazine pages. ...How she translates the tactile experiences of paper, ink, heavy dial-phones, and the sounds that go with them, to a purely intellectual chain of events, I long to see what this looks like in her imagination.
Point is, at Grandma's there is no internet. And I no longer have my Blackberry from my office job. So I am completely without access to any brief little hop to the outside world and I consider claustrophobia, for, oh, let's say just a few moments, because it's sweltering hot in the empty bedroom, can't go in there, and the T.V. is blaring in the tiny living room--did I mention her hearing ain't what it used to be? I SAID, DID I MENTION HER HEARING AIN'T WHAT IT USED TO BE?? And it's nighttime, to which my Grandma is allergic, and she can smell it on me and immediately begin choking and wheezing in a feverish contact high, so God Forbid I Go Outside Where the Criminals and Rapists wait just outside the door.
It's near 8:30, though. Bedtime for Grandma. And I wait to pounce on the T.V. to find the Olympics. Grand display of amazing feats are on for two weeks, inspiring and heartwrenching stories unfolding in time-delayed real time. In a country far far away. THAT will take me farther than even the 6 o'clock news and I can fantasize about being connected to the outside world late into the night. Grandma has said she doesn't get that channel but I don't believe her. How can you not get the Olympics? Why, that's unamerican, and Grandma is most certainly card-carrying.
She doesn't get that channel. Criminy! Now SHE's in the tiny bedroom, sweltering or not, the place is locked down like Fort Knox, and I am sitting in Grandma's chair, not one foot away from the television (placed there so she can "see" it and hear it) and I am devolving into the caverns of my mind, collapsing in on itself. ... ... ... I realize that this is what Grandma does every day. ... ...
I get up and make a freezer waffle and eat four Oreo's when that is not enough. It takes me all of ten minutes from start to finish. It takes Grandma ten minutes to get the waffles from the freezer into the toaster (but she'd sooner bury me than not make breakfast for me, so she starts early). I turn off the T.V. and work on my play...thanking God I have the faculties to at least map this manic imagination, or distract it, in the absence of internet and the Olympics.
Friday, August 15, 2008
My Play on Stage in San Diego
Hey folks,
Tania reminded me that I didn't tell the blogosphere that a play of mine is getting produced in San Diego this month.
Here are the details:
GOD SAID QUIET is playing at
The Fritz Blitz - "Best of the Blitz"
(A selection of the best of 15 years at the Fritz Blitz Festival of New Plays)
WHERE: Lyceum Space Theatre, located at 79 Horton Plaza in downtown San Diego.
DATES: Performances run August 14 to August 18, 2008
TIMES: Thursday - Saturday at 8pm and Sundays at 3pm.
Tickets are $18 general admission, $15 for students/seniors/military/AASD.
A Fritz Blitz Pass to see all plays is only $49.
For information (press only) call (818) 633 5468.
For tickets (public) call Lyceum box office (619) 544 1000.
Passes available at www.fritztheatre.com
Tania reminded me that I didn't tell the blogosphere that a play of mine is getting produced in San Diego this month.
Here are the details:
GOD SAID QUIET is playing at
The Fritz Blitz - "Best of the Blitz"
(A selection of the best of 15 years at the Fritz Blitz Festival of New Plays)
WHERE: Lyceum Space Theatre, located at 79 Horton Plaza in downtown San Diego.
DATES: Performances run August 14 to August 18, 2008
TIMES: Thursday - Saturday at 8pm and Sundays at 3pm.
Tickets are $18 general admission, $15 for students/seniors/military/AASD.
A Fritz Blitz Pass to see all plays is only $49.
For information (press only) call (818) 633 5468.
For tickets (public) call Lyceum box office (619) 544 1000.
Passes available at www.fritztheatre.com
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Shake Down Wake Up
"I think it may take an earth shaking an event like the end of humanity to bring people to their senses.”
- My friend Roy
- My friend Roy
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Peace Is Personal
I realized something profound today: I realized that peace is personal. And that world peace is attained when each individual knows peace within.
Too woo woo for you? Read on.
Breaking it down, I realized that what brings me peace is the physical sensation I get when I know that I am loved. I know peace when I know that I am loved or have been loved. When I remember this, I am filled with a sensation, the presence of which makes anxiety, fear, impulse go out the window. They are canceled out by the exquisite calm I feel. The negative feelings have no bearing. They don't matter when I know this peace.
Other people, I imagine, come to peace in a variety of ways and experiences. What brings you peace? What slows everything down, brings an ease to your chest, breath to your lungs, and slack to your shoulders when you encounter it? What makes you warm and quiet and grateful, lacking absolutely nothing in that moment? This is peace. Your peace.
Imagine if you made every decision in your life from this experience, standing right in the middle of this sensation. Imagine if world leaders, community leaders, individuals in each family and community spoke and acted from their personal peace. Would there be any harm, any foul? Ever?
If peace is personal, then world peace is personal. If it only takes healing and exploration to recognize our individual answers to "What is Peace?" then what are we waiting for? Dive in, folks. Visualize personal peace. Wholeness is its own reward.
Too woo woo for you? Read on.
Breaking it down, I realized that what brings me peace is the physical sensation I get when I know that I am loved. I know peace when I know that I am loved or have been loved. When I remember this, I am filled with a sensation, the presence of which makes anxiety, fear, impulse go out the window. They are canceled out by the exquisite calm I feel. The negative feelings have no bearing. They don't matter when I know this peace.
Other people, I imagine, come to peace in a variety of ways and experiences. What brings you peace? What slows everything down, brings an ease to your chest, breath to your lungs, and slack to your shoulders when you encounter it? What makes you warm and quiet and grateful, lacking absolutely nothing in that moment? This is peace. Your peace.
Imagine if you made every decision in your life from this experience, standing right in the middle of this sensation. Imagine if world leaders, community leaders, individuals in each family and community spoke and acted from their personal peace. Would there be any harm, any foul? Ever?
If peace is personal, then world peace is personal. If it only takes healing and exploration to recognize our individual answers to "What is Peace?" then what are we waiting for? Dive in, folks. Visualize personal peace. Wholeness is its own reward.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Priceless Park Bench Story
This is WAY better than the park bench pix I've posted in the past.
Thanks to Lo Smithie for the link.
Caution if you're squeamish.
Man Almost Loses Penis Humping Steel Bench | Weird Asia News
Thanks to Lo Smithie for the link.
Caution if you're squeamish.
Man Almost Loses Penis Humping Steel Bench | Weird Asia News
Saturday, August 9, 2008
The Debate Continues
My friend's 9-yr-old, Ryan, picked an apple today and bit into it. I sniffed it and the following conversation ensued:
PEMA: Mmm. Smells like the kind you dip in caramel.
RYAN: What the heck is caramel?
PEMA: ...Caramel...you know, it's, like, a candy...it's soft?...brown...square...
RYAN: You mean CAR-muhl?
PEMA: Mmm. Smells like the kind you dip in caramel.
RYAN: What the heck is caramel?
PEMA: ...Caramel...you know, it's, like, a candy...it's soft?...brown...square...
RYAN: You mean CAR-muhl?
Friday, August 8, 2008
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Jingle What?
It's 86 degrees in Los Angeles. We're baking in the heat. There's no breeze. In the refuge of the coffee shop, there is air conditioning, thank God. And CHRISTMAS SONGS?? Cute young cookie behind the counter thinks it's quaint. Personally, it's messing with my wiring, so I lean back, look at the ceiling for a stretch between "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" and "What Child is This?" and stare at the pull-cords that dangle under the spinning ceiling fan. What's that on the pull-cord? I watch it till it makes a full revolution and I can see what it is. Oy, me brain. It's a tiny wooden pine tree and a tiny reindeer above it. I give in. Deck the halls. At least I'm wearing red.
Lovin' Summer, Havin' a Blast
I've been in the no-internet zone of Grandma's the last few days.
I've been jobless the last 6 days.
It's summer and hot and lazy out.
I don't have 24/7 access to the internet with a Blackberry anymore--it went the way of my day job.
Can I just say it's felt more like a high school summer evening and long stretch of days than any since? Nothing pressing to do. Lazy socializing depending on who's under the shade. Chats with Grandma. Warm SoCal nighttimes and sleeping when tired. Waking without alarm. The only thing to move toward is curiosity.
Deelicious.
I've been jobless the last 6 days.
It's summer and hot and lazy out.
I don't have 24/7 access to the internet with a Blackberry anymore--it went the way of my day job.
Can I just say it's felt more like a high school summer evening and long stretch of days than any since? Nothing pressing to do. Lazy socializing depending on who's under the shade. Chats with Grandma. Warm SoCal nighttimes and sleeping when tired. Waking without alarm. The only thing to move toward is curiosity.
Deelicious.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
The Non-Woman
First off, let me just say that "The Non-Woman" is absolutely the wrong title for this. Just because you can't see something or someone doesn't mean it or s/he doesn't exist. You couldn't see the Wizard of Oz. But he existed behind his light show. You can't see Wonder Woman inside her invisible plane, but she's in there! All of her wonderful self is in there, unseen and fighting the forces of evil.
But this morning, I got out of the ocean after a swim. Wet and tired but energized, slick in my Speedo, I walked up the beach with my swimming partner, Dov. At the parking lot were a couple of guys kicking around a soccer ball, and a tiny little dude, probably not yet two, standing bow-legged between them, gripping the ground with his feet. Santa Barbara has been spilling over with overseas tourists this summer. America is on sale, after all, with the dollar weak as it is. These guys wore the soccer jerseys, cropped hair, slim builds and fine features of folks from a far-flung place.
Then from a nearby car came a billow of black cloth toward the child. A woman in a full length black garment, head cloth, face piece over her nose mouth and neck. She wore gold-rimmed glasses that covered her eyes. She wore bulky blue tennis shoes. And bulky black gloves. She wore gloves. There was no part of her exposed. It was as if I was watching a film and her presence in the film was not cut out, but inked out by a permanent marker--especially in contrast to the contemporarily-dressed men kicking the soccer ball. And suddenly, my natural half-nakedness at the beach after a swim in the ocean in training for a triathlon felt gauche and exposed as I walked past the men with the soccer ball and the tiny two-year-old boy who turned to watch Dov and me walk by. What an affront, right? Me in my skin tight suit, ambling by the little boy and the men with the ball? I toiled with this contrast a while, and finally heard myself say to myself sternly: I'm in my own country. I can dress like this when I go into the ocean.
The only identifying element that came from behind the black cloth, besides maybe the blue shoes, was her voice, which called out to the little boy. It was sweet and light and clear, young-ish, "Yusef!"
I have seen covered women before. But never in such stark contrast, to first the men who accompanied her, and then me, near-naked me. She wore gloves.
I couldn't help the thoughts that rushed in: Where is she in there? Where does she go to be who she is inside? Where can she be exposed? Expressed? What do these men think of their woman (because automatically I assume she is "theirs," my mind associating the full coverage with ownership of her ways), their woman, at the beach, with nearly naked westerners and her little boy exposed to them? I realize these are western thoughts applied to a non-western culture.
Oh, am I aware of my lack of education here and my assumptions and perhaps prejudices. But I can't get the image from my mind, of the billowing black cloth at the beach, early morning in a West Coast American town, and the notion of being blacked out of a part of existence.
But this morning, I got out of the ocean after a swim. Wet and tired but energized, slick in my Speedo, I walked up the beach with my swimming partner, Dov. At the parking lot were a couple of guys kicking around a soccer ball, and a tiny little dude, probably not yet two, standing bow-legged between them, gripping the ground with his feet. Santa Barbara has been spilling over with overseas tourists this summer. America is on sale, after all, with the dollar weak as it is. These guys wore the soccer jerseys, cropped hair, slim builds and fine features of folks from a far-flung place.
Then from a nearby car came a billow of black cloth toward the child. A woman in a full length black garment, head cloth, face piece over her nose mouth and neck. She wore gold-rimmed glasses that covered her eyes. She wore bulky blue tennis shoes. And bulky black gloves. She wore gloves. There was no part of her exposed. It was as if I was watching a film and her presence in the film was not cut out, but inked out by a permanent marker--especially in contrast to the contemporarily-dressed men kicking the soccer ball. And suddenly, my natural half-nakedness at the beach after a swim in the ocean in training for a triathlon felt gauche and exposed as I walked past the men with the soccer ball and the tiny two-year-old boy who turned to watch Dov and me walk by. What an affront, right? Me in my skin tight suit, ambling by the little boy and the men with the ball? I toiled with this contrast a while, and finally heard myself say to myself sternly: I'm in my own country. I can dress like this when I go into the ocean.
The only identifying element that came from behind the black cloth, besides maybe the blue shoes, was her voice, which called out to the little boy. It was sweet and light and clear, young-ish, "Yusef!"
I have seen covered women before. But never in such stark contrast, to first the men who accompanied her, and then me, near-naked me. She wore gloves.
I couldn't help the thoughts that rushed in: Where is she in there? Where does she go to be who she is inside? Where can she be exposed? Expressed? What do these men think of their woman (because automatically I assume she is "theirs," my mind associating the full coverage with ownership of her ways), their woman, at the beach, with nearly naked westerners and her little boy exposed to them? I realize these are western thoughts applied to a non-western culture.
Oh, am I aware of my lack of education here and my assumptions and perhaps prejudices. But I can't get the image from my mind, of the billowing black cloth at the beach, early morning in a West Coast American town, and the notion of being blacked out of a part of existence.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Dream Progress
I had one of those ridiculous anxiety dreams this morning, you know those? The ones where you show up late to an important meeting, wearing the wrong thing (or nothing), holding the wrong material (or your tooth brush), and you have only minutes to make it right, but each attempt you make to get back to where you should be gets trammeled by some silly obstacle, like the company toilet overflows but the closest towel is across a field and around a bend, etc...
My dreams like this usually involve distance that increases rapidly as I try to gain. My running slows, no matter how much I focus on my technique to make me faster. And somehow, that weird distance between me and where I want to be, gapes open.
Last night's dream was one of those, but first I showed up to an important meeting wearing a short, red-checked waitress uniform, complete with cute apron and white hat. The meeting was to find out whether I was good enough to get hired on the writing team for this new client. My prospective boss was infuriated, because his new big time client was about to get off the phone and join us. I had just minutes to make my outfit right. As it happened, I'd had a morning restaurant job and forgot to change before I came to the meeting.
So the anxiety unfolded, the toilet did overflow, the distance did open wide (home was far away), my clothing was all wrong...but with each frustration came a modicum of success. As I chased my tail trying to find the right clothes and get back to the meeting on time, I heard in my head how confident in me the boss was. I heard how well he liked my resume, and how talented I would be on this project. Turns out, shoes that I didn't expect but that worked for the occasion showed up where I least expected them. Somehow I found myself in jeans, and that cute red-check dress tucked into the jeans to make quite a hip-looking top.
Maybe I should have turned the apron into a cape, because I made it to the meeting! And in it heard these words: small, break it down, the new client will be into this if you package the project in small pieces, comprehensible and tangible, doable. He likes you. You relate easily. You know how to do it a piece at a time.
I wake up from the dream taking mental notes. Because later this morning, I have a first meeting with a prospective client. :-)
My dreams like this usually involve distance that increases rapidly as I try to gain. My running slows, no matter how much I focus on my technique to make me faster. And somehow, that weird distance between me and where I want to be, gapes open.
Last night's dream was one of those, but first I showed up to an important meeting wearing a short, red-checked waitress uniform, complete with cute apron and white hat. The meeting was to find out whether I was good enough to get hired on the writing team for this new client. My prospective boss was infuriated, because his new big time client was about to get off the phone and join us. I had just minutes to make my outfit right. As it happened, I'd had a morning restaurant job and forgot to change before I came to the meeting.
So the anxiety unfolded, the toilet did overflow, the distance did open wide (home was far away), my clothing was all wrong...but with each frustration came a modicum of success. As I chased my tail trying to find the right clothes and get back to the meeting on time, I heard in my head how confident in me the boss was. I heard how well he liked my resume, and how talented I would be on this project. Turns out, shoes that I didn't expect but that worked for the occasion showed up where I least expected them. Somehow I found myself in jeans, and that cute red-check dress tucked into the jeans to make quite a hip-looking top.
Maybe I should have turned the apron into a cape, because I made it to the meeting! And in it heard these words: small, break it down, the new client will be into this if you package the project in small pieces, comprehensible and tangible, doable. He likes you. You relate easily. You know how to do it a piece at a time.
I wake up from the dream taking mental notes. Because later this morning, I have a first meeting with a prospective client. :-)
Monday, July 28, 2008
And I Feel Fine...
Today was my last day at work.
Tomorrow I swim, go to the spa to INDULGE in my near-unemployed status, get some of my own work done, then go on a date.
Sounds like a damn'd fine dayyyheehee indeed.
Tomorrow I swim, go to the spa to INDULGE in my near-unemployed status, get some of my own work done, then go on a date.
Sounds like a damn'd fine dayyyheehee indeed.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Pill for That?
Laura called me as she was waking up, thinking that maybe a conversation would help get her brain back in motion. She sounded drugged, and definitely not awake, even as the conversation progressed. But being that it's Laura's MENSA-grade brain we're talking about here, she managed to describe her sleep-grog thusly:
LAURA: You think they make a little blue pill for waking up? I suffer from Erectile Dysfunction of the Brain.
LAURA: You think they make a little blue pill for waking up? I suffer from Erectile Dysfunction of the Brain.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Science Lesson
My friend Sophia is 5. Her reasoning is this:
SOPHIA: Fish are not mammals because they don't breathe air. Boys are not mammals because they don't carry babies in their bellies, and they don't nurse their young.
SOPHIA: Fish are not mammals because they don't breathe air. Boys are not mammals because they don't carry babies in their bellies, and they don't nurse their young.
Friday, July 25, 2008
New parts
Had a date last night. I've known the guy a long time in a work context but that's it. Told Britt and Chris about it today...
ME: I kissed a boy last night.
BRITT: Oo!
CHRIS: Is this a new guy?
ME: New to my lips anyway.
ME: I kissed a boy last night.
BRITT: Oo!
CHRIS: Is this a new guy?
ME: New to my lips anyway.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
"Everyone's Got One"
You know what I mean. Now there's a clinical term for it. It's called:
Adult Onset Opinion Formation
Adult Onset Opinion Formation
Monday, July 21, 2008
Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha
Every once in a while, a comment graduates to Bench-status.
Matteo Norteno said...
Ha!
That's right! She's ours. Portland wins, one-to-nothin'.
Can't wait for you to be up here, Pema. If you need anything, lemme know.
Oh yeah, and Santa Barbara, if you were a little nicer and maybe a little less arrogant, you could've kept her. Oh, but Santa Barbara, if you're not seeing anyone... call me!
July 21, 2008 8:30 PM
Matteo Norteno said...
Ha!
That's right! She's ours. Portland wins, one-to-nothin'.
Can't wait for you to be up here, Pema. If you need anything, lemme know.
Oh yeah, and Santa Barbara, if you were a little nicer and maybe a little less arrogant, you could've kept her. Oh, but Santa Barbara, if you're not seeing anyone... call me!
July 21, 2008 8:30 PM
Saturday, July 19, 2008
News
I'm moving to Portland, Oregon.
I leave end August, early September.
I'm a little bit happy about it and a whole lot petrified right now.
Petrified: immovable, stuck, holding my breath. I feel like I'm at an intersection, all trucks facing each other waiting for someone else to budge. So much information. Where will it go?
I gave notice at work.
I have a week left there.
I have money saved to focus on writing in Portland when I get there, and not get a job right away.
But I'm loathe to spend all my money, and not know where the end is to this leap.
Transition (a la David Bowie).
I do have a public reading scheduled there already, however!
Meanwhile, in SB, I'm scheduling a table reading for my play, "Talking Dogs." Collecting actors.
It's dark blue outside right now with a moon that was full just last night.
There's a cool breeze drifting in the open window. Crickets and night bugs chirp in surround-sound outside. Someone's wind chime sounds nearby.
It's beautiful here.
I leave end August, early September.
I'm a little bit happy about it and a whole lot petrified right now.
Petrified: immovable, stuck, holding my breath. I feel like I'm at an intersection, all trucks facing each other waiting for someone else to budge. So much information. Where will it go?
I gave notice at work.
I have a week left there.
I have money saved to focus on writing in Portland when I get there, and not get a job right away.
But I'm loathe to spend all my money, and not know where the end is to this leap.
Transition (a la David Bowie).
I do have a public reading scheduled there already, however!
Meanwhile, in SB, I'm scheduling a table reading for my play, "Talking Dogs." Collecting actors.
It's dark blue outside right now with a moon that was full just last night.
There's a cool breeze drifting in the open window. Crickets and night bugs chirp in surround-sound outside. Someone's wind chime sounds nearby.
It's beautiful here.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Chicken Sweaters
After work happy hour conversations:
Scott went to Westpoint Military Academy. Eugen served in the military in Romania after high school.
EUGEN: If Westpoint wants to go green, they should make biodegradable bullets. The lead used to make bullets is really bad for the environment.
*
Steve said that chicken growers figured out how to breed featherless chickens, to require less work to pluck them in the processing. But the growers discovered that the chickens were too cold, and it would cost more to try to keep them warm and alive than it would to pluck the feathers in the processing.
STEVE: They could have made chicken sweaters. Can you see it? Employing a bunch of little old ladies to knit little chicken sweaters.
Scott went to Westpoint Military Academy. Eugen served in the military in Romania after high school.
EUGEN: If Westpoint wants to go green, they should make biodegradable bullets. The lead used to make bullets is really bad for the environment.
*
Steve said that chicken growers figured out how to breed featherless chickens, to require less work to pluck them in the processing. But the growers discovered that the chickens were too cold, and it would cost more to try to keep them warm and alive than it would to pluck the feathers in the processing.
STEVE: They could have made chicken sweaters. Can you see it? Employing a bunch of little old ladies to knit little chicken sweaters.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Why We Love Ms. Brindle
KARA: We won an Indian dinner and you two are invited!
SUSAN: Ooo!
ME: Can we wear saris?
KATE: Is that like a sarong?
KARA: Kind of.
ME: Have you ever worn a sari?
SUSAN: No
ME: Have you ever been sari?
SUSAN: No, but I've been sarong.
.
SUSAN: Ooo!
ME: Can we wear saris?
KATE: Is that like a sarong?
KARA: Kind of.
ME: Have you ever worn a sari?
SUSAN: No
ME: Have you ever been sari?
SUSAN: No, but I've been sarong.
.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Overheard
Fascinating phrases I heard this weekend:
Babycakes
Stooped to canned beans
Painted her poodle pink
Mouth full of noises
I admit, the last one started in my head. But then I heard myself say it.
And "babycakes" isn't exactly original, I know, but when you stop and consider it as an adult, it's a strange word to call your loved one.
Babycakes
Stooped to canned beans
Painted her poodle pink
Mouth full of noises
I admit, the last one started in my head. But then I heard myself say it.
And "babycakes" isn't exactly original, I know, but when you stop and consider it as an adult, it's a strange word to call your loved one.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Flowers and Virgins
TANIA: I've never deflowered a virgin. How come I never got to deflower a virgin? I've always wanted to deflower a virgin.
PEMA: (channeling Lisa) That's okay. You're good at other things.
TANIA: Now I'm too old. If I want to deflower a virgin I have to be a Mrs. Robinson.
KARA: That's too bad! You're a professor! You're the perfect archetype for deflowering virgins.
PEMA: You deflower young minds!
TANIA: Oh my God that's right I do deflower virgins!
PEMA: (channeling Lisa) That's okay. You're good at other things.
TANIA: Now I'm too old. If I want to deflower a virgin I have to be a Mrs. Robinson.
KARA: That's too bad! You're a professor! You're the perfect archetype for deflowering virgins.
PEMA: You deflower young minds!
TANIA: Oh my God that's right I do deflower virgins!
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Stir Crazy in Yellowstone
So I fly into Jackson Hole, Wyoming, over the arresting and jagged Grand Teton Mountains, capped with snow and peaked like meringue, and I imagine the camping that will soon follow. Majestic wilderness, peace unfolding under the solitude of tree canopies and the sound of a creek rushing by. Flowers and butterflies floating on a summer br---eerrrtt!! That's the sound of the record scratching off its track. Imagine this five minute polaroid of camping life instead:
Setting: an R.V. park crammed with aluminum hulls on wheels and spilling with strangers and folding chairs and bicycles, electrical cords and hoses that hook up to running water. Just outside the edges of the park, which you can't really see because of the crammed nature of the people-in-parking-spaces carved out of the wilderness...is wilderness...of expansive grass and in the distance, roiling clouds in a limitless sky and those jagged jagged mountains.
Action: My sister-in-law, her daughter and two sons, and my brother, crammed into the camper playing cards, and laughing so hard that my niece pees her pants. That makes everybody laugh harder, but no one realizes till she gets up that Allie has left a mark on the couch! So Joyce has to take a picture of the spot, but she's laughing so hard, she can hardly stand straight to push the button. She keeps swaying and kind of falling over. She finally gets the shot while Allie is changing her clothes in the tiny camper crapper, and shortly it is time for bed. I'm on my laptop when the bigger of the two chihuauas, Chili, bounds over to me and barfs on my keyboard. Of course I flip out and attack the barf with wet Q-tips where it has seeped between the keys. Barely has the barf cleared, Q-tips still in hand, when the teacup chihuaua, Coco, pees at my feet, and Joyce's nose starts bleeding in the back of the R.V. Allie is by this time in the loft in her bed, laughing and laughing, and waiting for something else to happen.
Joyce says it's what happens when we're all in one small spot together for so long. I for one, liked it.
Setting: an R.V. park crammed with aluminum hulls on wheels and spilling with strangers and folding chairs and bicycles, electrical cords and hoses that hook up to running water. Just outside the edges of the park, which you can't really see because of the crammed nature of the people-in-parking-spaces carved out of the wilderness...is wilderness...of expansive grass and in the distance, roiling clouds in a limitless sky and those jagged jagged mountains.
Action: My sister-in-law, her daughter and two sons, and my brother, crammed into the camper playing cards, and laughing so hard that my niece pees her pants. That makes everybody laugh harder, but no one realizes till she gets up that Allie has left a mark on the couch! So Joyce has to take a picture of the spot, but she's laughing so hard, she can hardly stand straight to push the button. She keeps swaying and kind of falling over. She finally gets the shot while Allie is changing her clothes in the tiny camper crapper, and shortly it is time for bed. I'm on my laptop when the bigger of the two chihuauas, Chili, bounds over to me and barfs on my keyboard. Of course I flip out and attack the barf with wet Q-tips where it has seeped between the keys. Barely has the barf cleared, Q-tips still in hand, when the teacup chihuaua, Coco, pees at my feet, and Joyce's nose starts bleeding in the back of the R.V. Allie is by this time in the loft in her bed, laughing and laughing, and waiting for something else to happen.
Joyce says it's what happens when we're all in one small spot together for so long. I for one, liked it.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Kittymail
LISA: The kitties check their kitty litter like we check our email. "What's going on in here? (sniff sniff) Any messages?"
Monday, July 7, 2008
Temp Drops
Gap Fire is 30% contained and people are moving back into their houses. Fog has rolled in the last few nights. 
Threat is not gone, but we're not breathing as much ash as we were in recent days.
Last year a fire started in the back country on July 4 and burned for three months.
Threat is not gone, but we're not breathing as much ash as we were in recent days. Last year a fire started in the back country on July 4 and burned for three months.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Gap Fire
I'm back. By that I mean from the Yellowstone vacation and the sickness I brought home with me. I've been in bed sleeping the last two days.
Before I hit the bed, I flew into Santa Barbara close to midnight, over the black night and orange flames of the Gap Fire. You could smell the smoke in the plane before we came in for landing. You could see the flames spread over the hills out the window, orange and smoky.
(Here is a panoramic my friend, Daniel Girard took of the Gap Fire late on 7/3/08. That's the fire to the right and town to the left.)
My roommates and I climbed the hill behind our house to take a look at the flames across town. It was about 12-15 miles away from where we stood, in the front country, city lights just below it. Our friends, Britt and Chris were evacuated (and are still staying downtown at Geoff and Henry's) and others of our friends have been in and out of their house on voluntary evacuations. They're here this morning for breakfast to get away from the heavy smoke at their house.
News last night said the fire was 24% contained and evening winds that fueled the fires earlier in the week had subsided.
I also heard on the news there are 300 fires burning in California right now. Wow.
Before I hit the bed, I flew into Santa Barbara close to midnight, over the black night and orange flames of the Gap Fire. You could smell the smoke in the plane before we came in for landing. You could see the flames spread over the hills out the window, orange and smoky.
(Here is a panoramic my friend, Daniel Girard took of the Gap Fire late on 7/3/08. That's the fire to the right and town to the left.)
My roommates and I climbed the hill behind our house to take a look at the flames across town. It was about 12-15 miles away from where we stood, in the front country, city lights just below it. Our friends, Britt and Chris were evacuated (and are still staying downtown at Geoff and Henry's) and others of our friends have been in and out of their house on voluntary evacuations. They're here this morning for breakfast to get away from the heavy smoke at their house.
News last night said the fire was 24% contained and evening winds that fueled the fires earlier in the week had subsided.
I also heard on the news there are 300 fires burning in California right now. Wow.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Charming and Clever
Hi. It's Tania. I'm actually going to take an active role in blogsitting today. I decided to write about writers -- charming and clever writers, to be exact. It's a theme blog. But perhaps they all are. I love how blogging allows me a departure from my typically bone dry research article writing so I can write sentences that start with "but."
But I digress.
The first writer of the day is Stephen Sondheim. You read Pema's review of "Company." What you may not know is that I forced her to watch two of the songs from Act 2 because I thought that the play might be redeemed in her eyes if she heard "Being Alive." Also, she had to hear "The Ladies Who Lunch." Just because it was such a good performance and so over-the-top cynical. She went out of town, so I had to watch the interview with Stephen Sondheim all by myself (while doing yoga and pilates 'cause was trying to make the most of my Sunday afternoon). Anyway, he was certainly charming and clever, and the fact that he started as a lyricist was particularly inspiring for me as I like to make up new words to borrowed melodies, which is, I think what lyricists do.
Next, is a playwright who wrote a play based on Stephen Sondheim's "Sweeney Todd." His adaptation is set in San Francisco, and it's called "Sweetie Tanya - The Demon Barista of Valencia Street." Yes, that's right Dan Wilson, I'm writing about you! Pema had gone to see the play, and I was very excited to see a musical set in SF with my name in the title. It turned out to be everything I could have hoped for -- it was funny and the songs were catchy and clever and it was wonderfully feminist. Here's a review of the play from the SF Weekly.
I became a fan of the third featured writer when I heard him singing songs he made up on NPR. In the short time period since this piece aired, I made Lisa and Pema listen to the clip, I googled him, I sent him fan mail (with some of my songs, since clearly he was someone who would appreciate them), I heard back from him (as, indeed, he did appreciate my songs), I wrote a song about him (which also received a positive response), I read his entire blog (which makes me laugh out loud), and I bought both of his books on amazon. Of course, I'm talking about the charming and clever Marc Acito.
Finally, I want to pay homage to charming and clever Pema. In particular, I want to say how much I enjoyed the 10-minute play she wrote that was produced as part of a 10-minute play festival at our local community college. Here's what impressed me most about her play -- I would think that in 10-minutes you would want to fit in as many words as possible to communicate the context, characters, narrative arc, etc. But that's not what Pema did. I think all the lines in the play could have been read in about 45 seconds, and yet she managed to engage the audience, build suspense, convey development of characters and their relationship, and find resolution. She's good! And charming? Well, if you know Pema, either through her blog or in person, there's no question.
So that's my blog entry. I hope it provides sufficient substance, amusement, and brown nosing the blog owner that I will be forgiven for the sporadic nature of my blogsitting activities. Of course, if the blog licked my face at 5am, I might remember to feed it daily.
Oh, and props to anyone who knows the play about a writer that inspired the title of today's blog.
But I digress.
The first writer of the day is Stephen Sondheim. You read Pema's review of "Company." What you may not know is that I forced her to watch two of the songs from Act 2 because I thought that the play might be redeemed in her eyes if she heard "Being Alive." Also, she had to hear "The Ladies Who Lunch." Just because it was such a good performance and so over-the-top cynical. She went out of town, so I had to watch the interview with Stephen Sondheim all by myself (while doing yoga and pilates 'cause was trying to make the most of my Sunday afternoon). Anyway, he was certainly charming and clever, and the fact that he started as a lyricist was particularly inspiring for me as I like to make up new words to borrowed melodies, which is, I think what lyricists do.
Next, is a playwright who wrote a play based on Stephen Sondheim's "Sweeney Todd." His adaptation is set in San Francisco, and it's called "Sweetie Tanya - The Demon Barista of Valencia Street." Yes, that's right Dan Wilson, I'm writing about you! Pema had gone to see the play, and I was very excited to see a musical set in SF with my name in the title. It turned out to be everything I could have hoped for -- it was funny and the songs were catchy and clever and it was wonderfully feminist. Here's a review of the play from the SF Weekly.
I became a fan of the third featured writer when I heard him singing songs he made up on NPR. In the short time period since this piece aired, I made Lisa and Pema listen to the clip, I googled him, I sent him fan mail (with some of my songs, since clearly he was someone who would appreciate them), I heard back from him (as, indeed, he did appreciate my songs), I wrote a song about him (which also received a positive response), I read his entire blog (which makes me laugh out loud), and I bought both of his books on amazon. Of course, I'm talking about the charming and clever Marc Acito.
Finally, I want to pay homage to charming and clever Pema. In particular, I want to say how much I enjoyed the 10-minute play she wrote that was produced as part of a 10-minute play festival at our local community college. Here's what impressed me most about her play -- I would think that in 10-minutes you would want to fit in as many words as possible to communicate the context, characters, narrative arc, etc. But that's not what Pema did. I think all the lines in the play could have been read in about 45 seconds, and yet she managed to engage the audience, build suspense, convey development of characters and their relationship, and find resolution. She's good! And charming? Well, if you know Pema, either through her blog or in person, there's no question.
So that's my blog entry. I hope it provides sufficient substance, amusement, and brown nosing the blog owner that I will be forgiven for the sporadic nature of my blogsitting activities. Of course, if the blog licked my face at 5am, I might remember to feed it daily.
Oh, and props to anyone who knows the play about a writer that inspired the title of today's blog.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Blogsitters r us
Tania: "I'm not very good at blogsitting."
Lisa: "That's OK. You're good at other things."
Lisa: Ok, after you have read the above witty exchange, be sure to read Pema's blog entry below (Earth's Prayers), because it's one of my favorites that Pema has ever written--I could feel my soul soaring to the music of her writing.
Lisa: "That's OK. You're good at other things."
Lisa: Ok, after you have read the above witty exchange, be sure to read Pema's blog entry below (Earth's Prayers), because it's one of my favorites that Pema has ever written--I could feel my soul soaring to the music of her writing.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Earth's Prayers
Leave your blog to your friends for half a minute and they go telling high school secrets. Oy. We have to turn our focus somewhere in high school. Always did like a theme and a purpose.
In other news...I found WiFi in Yellowstone. Right there next to the buffalems and mule deer.
Did you know that Yellowstone is one of the world's five largest volcanos? And it blew 640,000 years ago? And it is currently ten years behind schedule to blow again? And when it DOES blow, it will be a big enough blast, and ash enough, and power enough to black out the sun to create the next ice age? There's a way to defeat global warming.
I learned all of this only after yesterday's walks through steaming, roiling, spewing water, its source the volcanic activity below. It's not just Old Faithful that lives out here. It's fields and fields of deep blue baths and smaller geysers, belching and spitting hot water and endless pillars of steam.
Usually when I'm out in nature, I get a little holy. I can't help but feel close to the earth and God and native spirituality. Whispers of history, ancient history, sneak up and make me feel small and wide-eyed in a big wide world. So I get quiet and listen for what the big, timeless things may have to share with me.
So here I am walking through the tourist-corrals reminding myself to pay attention to the beauty of natural Wyoming/Montana rather than the two-leggeds in shorts and short haircuts that trail each other like ducklings and keep placing little silver boxes between their faces and the other ducklings who gather and show their teeth when the little boxes comes out.
I keep pulling my attention to the mineral colors and the warm water pools and the steam and then I hit on something.
I learned a practice a long time ago that is an energy clearing practice. You put your hands on the ground or the floor, and you breathe into the left hand and out of the right hand. You breathe in a cleansing breath, drawing it up from the earth, you let it course through you and you release all negativity through the right hand, breathe it out into the earth so the earth can take it away. The earth can handle it, deep and churning as it is below. I usually feel better whenever I do this. But never without wondering what the earth does with it all. I'm certainly not the only one practicing it.
In Sweat Lodges, which are ceremonial for many Native American tribes, they implore the people who sit in the steaming lodge to send their prayers up with the steam. Send your prayers to Great Spirit on the steam as it rises and purify yourself of your longing. Looking at the steam rising off the geysers and cauldrons and hot springs yesterday, it occurred to me that these are the earth's prayers, rising into the sky. This is how the earth sends what I give it, away to Great Spirit.
Then I learned about the volcanic activity and history and realized when it blows, that's gonna be one big prayer.
In other news...I found WiFi in Yellowstone. Right there next to the buffalems and mule deer.
Did you know that Yellowstone is one of the world's five largest volcanos? And it blew 640,000 years ago? And it is currently ten years behind schedule to blow again? And when it DOES blow, it will be a big enough blast, and ash enough, and power enough to black out the sun to create the next ice age? There's a way to defeat global warming.
I learned all of this only after yesterday's walks through steaming, roiling, spewing water, its source the volcanic activity below. It's not just Old Faithful that lives out here. It's fields and fields of deep blue baths and smaller geysers, belching and spitting hot water and endless pillars of steam.
Usually when I'm out in nature, I get a little holy. I can't help but feel close to the earth and God and native spirituality. Whispers of history, ancient history, sneak up and make me feel small and wide-eyed in a big wide world. So I get quiet and listen for what the big, timeless things may have to share with me.
So here I am walking through the tourist-corrals reminding myself to pay attention to the beauty of natural Wyoming/Montana rather than the two-leggeds in shorts and short haircuts that trail each other like ducklings and keep placing little silver boxes between their faces and the other ducklings who gather and show their teeth when the little boxes comes out.
I keep pulling my attention to the mineral colors and the warm water pools and the steam and then I hit on something.
I learned a practice a long time ago that is an energy clearing practice. You put your hands on the ground or the floor, and you breathe into the left hand and out of the right hand. You breathe in a cleansing breath, drawing it up from the earth, you let it course through you and you release all negativity through the right hand, breathe it out into the earth so the earth can take it away. The earth can handle it, deep and churning as it is below. I usually feel better whenever I do this. But never without wondering what the earth does with it all. I'm certainly not the only one practicing it. In Sweat Lodges, which are ceremonial for many Native American tribes, they implore the people who sit in the steaming lodge to send their prayers up with the steam. Send your prayers to Great Spirit on the steam as it rises and purify yourself of your longing. Looking at the steam rising off the geysers and cauldrons and hot springs yesterday, it occurred to me that these are the earth's prayers, rising into the sky. This is how the earth sends what I give it, away to Great Spirit.
Then I learned about the volcanic activity and history and realized when it blows, that's gonna be one big prayer.
Big Gray Spot on the Blog
Welcome to the strange void. This is the place where your imagination can run free. Or run for the hills. Or get sucked into another time and space. This is the white noise or gray fog or chink in the smooth surface or flaw in the weave for the spirit to live. I think that last one is a Navajo weavers belief, that they weave an intentional flaw into the bowl or vessel in and call it a place where the spirit lives. I think an African belief is that the flaw is where the devil gets out. Whatever your persuasion, here is the flaw in the blog...I have no idea how this big gray spot got here or how to get it off. I shall title it, "Contemplation of a Flaw."
Moving on.
Should "Contemplation of a Flaw" not properly reside within this blog exact blog post, note that the post it once partially covered is titled, "Earth's Prayer's," and that the first paragraph doesn't relate to the story at all. So you could start reading it at the second paragraph and not miss anything. The first paragraph is only an embarrassed disclaimer from me after Lisa told the Internet audience about my high school System of Annual Prom Attendance, with boys named Miller. Read the post. I can't repeat it.
Warning: These paragraphs are repeated as many times as were necessary to get the Big Gray Spot to reside on this blog post. Read it anew each time if you like. Or skip ahead.
Welcome to the strange void. This is the place where your imagination can run free. Or run for the hills. Or get sucked into another time and space. This is the white noise or gray fog or chink in the smooth surface or flaw in the weave for the spirit to live. I think that last one is a Navajo weavers belief, that they weave an intentional flaw into the bowl or vessel in and call it a place where the spirit lives. I think an African belief is that the flaw is where the devil gets out. Whatever your persuasion, here is the flaw in the blog...I have no idea how this big gray spot got here or how to get it off. I shall title it, "Contemplation of a Flaw."
Moving on.
Should "Contemplation of a Flaw" not properly reside within this blog exact blog post, note that the post it once covered is titled, "Earth's Prayer's," and that the first paragraph doesn't relate to the story at all. So you could start reading it at the second paragraph and not miss anything. The first paragraph is only an embarrassed disclaimer from me after Lisa told the Internet audience about my high school System of Annual Prom Attendance, with boys named Miller. Read the post. I can't repeat it.
still in the void....
wheee!!!
whew it's murky in here!
i see the light! we're close! let us out!
.
Moving on.
Should "Contemplation of a Flaw" not properly reside within this blog exact blog post, note that the post it once partially covered is titled, "Earth's Prayer's," and that the first paragraph doesn't relate to the story at all. So you could start reading it at the second paragraph and not miss anything. The first paragraph is only an embarrassed disclaimer from me after Lisa told the Internet audience about my high school System of Annual Prom Attendance, with boys named Miller. Read the post. I can't repeat it.
Warning: These paragraphs are repeated as many times as were necessary to get the Big Gray Spot to reside on this blog post. Read it anew each time if you like. Or skip ahead.
Welcome to the strange void. This is the place where your imagination can run free. Or run for the hills. Or get sucked into another time and space. This is the white noise or gray fog or chink in the smooth surface or flaw in the weave for the spirit to live. I think that last one is a Navajo weavers belief, that they weave an intentional flaw into the bowl or vessel in and call it a place where the spirit lives. I think an African belief is that the flaw is where the devil gets out. Whatever your persuasion, here is the flaw in the blog...I have no idea how this big gray spot got here or how to get it off. I shall title it, "Contemplation of a Flaw."
Moving on.
Should "Contemplation of a Flaw" not properly reside within this blog exact blog post, note that the post it once covered is titled, "Earth's Prayer's," and that the first paragraph doesn't relate to the story at all. So you could start reading it at the second paragraph and not miss anything. The first paragraph is only an embarrassed disclaimer from me after Lisa told the Internet audience about my high school System of Annual Prom Attendance, with boys named Miller. Read the post. I can't repeat it.
still in the void....
wheee!!!
whew it's murky in here!
i see the light! we're close! let us out!
.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Fascinating Facts about Pema
I've known Pema for years. However, I didn't know until Tuesday night this fascinating Pema fact: she went to the prom 4 times throughout highschool...ALL with a Miller man. Only one was a repeat. Apparently some of this was intentional on Pema's part, sort of an inner-theme: "I know, I'll only go to the prom with guys who have the last name Miller! I can make this happen..."
The sheer power of manifestation of this woman, I tell ya!
lisa
The sheer power of manifestation of this woman, I tell ya!
lisa
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Blogsitting
I am going to Yellowstone with my brothers and their families tomorrow! So I asked Lisa and Tania if they would blogsit while I'm away. (I don't know if Boo Boo and Yogi have wireless in the Montana mountains.)
Whenever Tania and Lisa go out of town, I am the kitty sitter. You perhaps have seen other posts of me whining for lack of sleep because the kittens (better known now as cattens), briefly put, are maniacs. Best thing about blogsitting versus kitty sitting? The blog won't wake you up at 4:30 in the morning licking your face. Hear that? No licking while I'm away, people!
Whenever Tania and Lisa go out of town, I am the kitty sitter. You perhaps have seen other posts of me whining for lack of sleep because the kittens (better known now as cattens), briefly put, are maniacs. Best thing about blogsitting versus kitty sitting? The blog won't wake you up at 4:30 in the morning licking your face. Hear that? No licking while I'm away, people!
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Fertile Crescent
Write about the "Dark Continent" and you're sure to get a reaction. Actually, I had to quell and then ignore all my own reactions before I hit "publish" on yesterday's Bench.
Women who have been tending to their health as prescribed by their gyn doc or nurse practitioner understand the absurdity of what we put ourselves through every year. We have to go sit in the stirrups--and I don't mean at the horse ranch--annually if we don't want to chance being a statistic: Cervical cancer used to be the number one cause of cancer deaths in women. Key phrase: used to be. Deaths and incidence of cervical cancer have declined as the number of women getting annual exams has increased.
Great. Fabulous. So why do I need to write publicly about the details of that very private practice? Well...ultimately, how private is a practice that half of the population submits itself to every single year? How solo is the experience when, as reported again and again, it ranges somewhere between mortification, degredation and personal empowerment, depending on what kind of woman you're feeling like that day?
I bounced the Bench post back and forth in my head before publishing it, alternating between loud laughs and not-so-subtle cringes. One voice in there said: Ah, what the hell. It's "Sex and the City." Every woman experiences it. Another voice said: Oh my God, you're going to describe yourself in that position? We know what doctors do in that room. Another voice said: Men reading this post will faint on the spot. To which another voice answered: Men have as many words for their members as Eskimos have for snow, and their turn-your-head-and-cough moments are hardly hidden from popular talk.
Meanwhile, my experience of that annual excursion to the ranch--let's just let go and call it the ranch, shall we?--my observation of that time-of-the-year is that it's absurd. The whole picture. After all, that physical place each woman and all society holds precious and dear, that bodily Bethlehem that women carry as their source of being, power, identity, passage, rites of their own and of the children they bear, THAT one vortex of humanity gets exposed in the most demeaning and embarrassing and silly of ways, every year--usually under a dusty, unattractive ceiling, and always within these degrading acute triangles of steel that force demureness off today's set list right quick. If we can't look at it and laugh, we get buried in a lot of undue shame. And additional shame is one less thing we could stand to carry around in our body's Bethlehem, can-I-getta-witness.
Women who have been tending to their health as prescribed by their gyn doc or nurse practitioner understand the absurdity of what we put ourselves through every year. We have to go sit in the stirrups--and I don't mean at the horse ranch--annually if we don't want to chance being a statistic: Cervical cancer used to be the number one cause of cancer deaths in women. Key phrase: used to be. Deaths and incidence of cervical cancer have declined as the number of women getting annual exams has increased.
Great. Fabulous. So why do I need to write publicly about the details of that very private practice? Well...ultimately, how private is a practice that half of the population submits itself to every single year? How solo is the experience when, as reported again and again, it ranges somewhere between mortification, degredation and personal empowerment, depending on what kind of woman you're feeling like that day?
I bounced the Bench post back and forth in my head before publishing it, alternating between loud laughs and not-so-subtle cringes. One voice in there said: Ah, what the hell. It's "Sex and the City." Every woman experiences it. Another voice said: Oh my God, you're going to describe yourself in that position? We know what doctors do in that room. Another voice said: Men reading this post will faint on the spot. To which another voice answered: Men have as many words for their members as Eskimos have for snow, and their turn-your-head-and-cough moments are hardly hidden from popular talk.
Meanwhile, my experience of that annual excursion to the ranch--let's just let go and call it the ranch, shall we?--my observation of that time-of-the-year is that it's absurd. The whole picture. After all, that physical place each woman and all society holds precious and dear, that bodily Bethlehem that women carry as their source of being, power, identity, passage, rites of their own and of the children they bear, THAT one vortex of humanity gets exposed in the most demeaning and embarrassing and silly of ways, every year--usually under a dusty, unattractive ceiling, and always within these degrading acute triangles of steel that force demureness off today's set list right quick. If we can't look at it and laugh, we get buried in a lot of undue shame. And additional shame is one less thing we could stand to carry around in our body's Bethlehem, can-I-getta-witness.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Vagina Slinger
In fact, yes, I did just write that title. Why? Because the gynecologist I went to yesterday was a cowboy. Big stature, big hands, I was down and he was done in 50 seconds flat, having, with the decorum you'd expect of a cowboy, groped around my garden like he was searching for a spigot in the dark. I guess he found it because he slapped my knee and hollered, "All done!"
“A horse is a horse, it ain't make a difference what color it is.”
-John Wayne
.
“A horse is a horse, it ain't make a difference what color it is.”
-John Wayne
.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Company
Tony Award winning, Sondheimian stage goodness, and I can't palate it. Tania rented COMPANY, a Sondheim musical, and I couldn't get through 40 minutes. All about a single guy at 35 who can't commit, and his 5 sets of married friends--the male of whom complain about being smothered and discontent, the female of whom dote and nag in heavy doses. It pushed all of my buttons. It's exactly why I called it off with Bombo. I don't want to be with someone who plays the yes-man to his woman then complains to his buddies that "she-made-me." Call me crazy. ...Then I read the Wiki. It came out in 1970. Guess I'm a daughter of the feminist revolution.
Better write my own play about men and marriage. Oh, I am.
Better write my own play about men and marriage. Oh, I am.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Little Big Things
"Little tiny dreams, Pema, require little tiny thoughts and little tiny steps.
Great big dreams require great big thoughts and little tiny steps.
Do I paint a clear picture?
-The Universe"
(from www.tut.com)
*
Great big dreams require great big thoughts and little tiny steps.
Do I paint a clear picture?
-The Universe"
(from www.tut.com)
*
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Censorial Parlor
LISA: The only thing I would take off your blog is me scratching Tania's ass.
TANIA: Don't you dare.
PEMA: So, you probably don't want me to put this on my blog.
LISA: We could stop referring to it. You could put THAT on the blog if you want to.
TANIA: Don't you dare.
PEMA: So, you probably don't want me to put this on my blog.
LISA: We could stop referring to it. You could put THAT on the blog if you want to.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Theatre of the Absurd
The IT guy at work looked over my shoulder at lunch today and saw that I'm working on a play called TALKING DOGS.
KEN: Talking Dogs?
PEMA: Yep.
KEN: I was biking by the Scientology Center this weekend and there was a person dressed in a big pink bunny outfit and there was a little chihuaua going nuts just wanting to have a go at that rabbit.
I couldn't respond. But I've been laughing since the middle of his sentence.
KEN: Talking Dogs?
PEMA: Yep.
KEN: I was biking by the Scientology Center this weekend and there was a person dressed in a big pink bunny outfit and there was a little chihuaua going nuts just wanting to have a go at that rabbit.
I couldn't respond. But I've been laughing since the middle of his sentence.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Transmogrify
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Integrity
last night we had a little party. lisa grilled sausages and sloppy veggies to put on them, and served yummy condiments. the infrastructure of my gooey delight was deteriorating faster than i could eat it.
ME: My hot dog has lost its integrity.
LISA: That dog was always a slut.
ME: My hot dog has lost its integrity.
LISA: That dog was always a slut.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Art review
Here's a little bit of what I've put to paper lately.
http://www.independent.com/news/2008/jun/12/beauty-simplicity/
For me as an editor, it's ironic when I play the role of the writer, with my work subject to being edited. I should understand the notion of cutting and shaping for the purpose of clarity, and I do. But when I see the final version in print, the effect of the changes is less like having my nails clipped and more like watching my various body parts fall to the ground. Beyond their usefulness, there's an artistry in the way those body parts were situated.
Good lessons, I hope, lie in my arm waving to me from the floor, my lips blowing me a kiss as they drift down on a breeze with the jacaranda blossoms.
http://www.independent.com/news/2008/jun/12/beauty-simplicity/
For me as an editor, it's ironic when I play the role of the writer, with my work subject to being edited. I should understand the notion of cutting and shaping for the purpose of clarity, and I do. But when I see the final version in print, the effect of the changes is less like having my nails clipped and more like watching my various body parts fall to the ground. Beyond their usefulness, there's an artistry in the way those body parts were situated.
Good lessons, I hope, lie in my arm waving to me from the floor, my lips blowing me a kiss as they drift down on a breeze with the jacaranda blossoms.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Visionary Legendary
"Here's to the crazy ones, the misfits, the rebels, the troublemakers, the round pegs in the square holes...the ones who see things differently -- they're not fond of rules... You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or villify them, but the only thing you can't do is ignore them because they change things...they push the human race forward, and while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius, because the ones who are crazy enough to think that they can change the world, are the ones who do."
--Quote attributable to Steve Jobs
Practicing my leaps. Looking past the horizon. Trying to be crazy with my head on straight.
--Quote attributable to Steve Jobs
Practicing my leaps. Looking past the horizon. Trying to be crazy with my head on straight.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Tchewna
Question: How do you write about your life in a public forum when nearly EVERYTHING in your life is currently A) ridiculously titillating and B) not yet cleared for public consumption, and C) you are so mired in your obsession over the changes and shifts and such that you (ahem) D) FORGET to even blog??
Whenever I get lax on the public share part of my life, presented in this incarnation in this here blog, I get my friend, Matt's, texty man-voice in my head--since it's usually email--more than a little perturbed after a few blank blog days and a lame-ass excuse exempting myself from the responsibility:
"What you're saying is unimportant. It's how you say it. Just tell us what you had for lunch! 'I had a tuna sandwich for lunch. Tchewwna!!'"
Granted, Matt's facility for expression is somewhere between godlike and monkeylike, resulting in a startling, ass-on-the-asphalt-at-the-side-of-the-road daze. All the more reason to take it and run.
SO my friends, it's salad for lunch today, saaalllaaaddd!!! (Hm, it's not quite Tchewna is it.)
Whenever I get lax on the public share part of my life, presented in this incarnation in this here blog, I get my friend, Matt's, texty man-voice in my head--since it's usually email--more than a little perturbed after a few blank blog days and a lame-ass excuse exempting myself from the responsibility:
"What you're saying is unimportant. It's how you say it. Just tell us what you had for lunch! 'I had a tuna sandwich for lunch. Tchewwna!!'"
Granted, Matt's facility for expression is somewhere between godlike and monkeylike, resulting in a startling, ass-on-the-asphalt-at-the-side-of-the-road daze. All the more reason to take it and run.
SO my friends, it's salad for lunch today, saaalllaaaddd!!! (Hm, it's not quite Tchewna is it.)
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Sound tricks
Sometimes I think the only thing missing from writing is the ability to capture sound. If only I could manipulate the letters to replay the sounds I hear. Like tonight, out the window across the way is a party. It's a warm night and the windows are open. Outside them it's black. Nothing to see but the images the muted voices make in my head. I see inkspots on heavy paper, black on white, landing in small spatters, and then big blots when voices get booming, punctuating themselves, then a streamer of ink as a young woman's voice calls in a surprised higher pitch.
I hear voices bubbling like a big pot of boiling water. Popcorn, pinging under the lid of a pot.
Imagine what the sound would look like if the party were in the dark. Soft swashes of watered-down ink, and sword-like slashes from a few fearful voices honking to penetrate the night, honking to hear they exist, even under cover of darkness.
I hear voices bubbling like a big pot of boiling water. Popcorn, pinging under the lid of a pot.
Imagine what the sound would look like if the party were in the dark. Soft swashes of watered-down ink, and sword-like slashes from a few fearful voices honking to penetrate the night, honking to hear they exist, even under cover of darkness.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Quakes
When the Earth is shifting, it's all one can do to hold on till it settles back into itself, newly aligned.
My Earth is shifting. Something about history and the present colliding. 30 years of geothermic pressure finally blew. Spewed out long awaited relief on this front. Damage as yet untold. No deaths. Age the only casualty.
As my good friend, Dan, likes to point out to what degree I'm clothed when I'm making "naked" posts, :-) , I will acquiesce the point that this one is kind of like wearing a snowsuit on a summer day. Barely a neckline exposed. But give me some time to settle in before I strip entirely. The quake ain't done quaking yet.
My Earth is shifting. Something about history and the present colliding. 30 years of geothermic pressure finally blew. Spewed out long awaited relief on this front. Damage as yet untold. No deaths. Age the only casualty.
As my good friend, Dan, likes to point out to what degree I'm clothed when I'm making "naked" posts, :-) , I will acquiesce the point that this one is kind of like wearing a snowsuit on a summer day. Barely a neckline exposed. But give me some time to settle in before I strip entirely. The quake ain't done quaking yet.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Wordphiles and Rice Piles
This habit have you picking grain out of your brain yet? (There must be a word for that.)
www.freerice.com
www.freerice.com
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Put to Work
Tania's been home from her trip 7 minutes. Three of us shared with one fork the jambalaya she brought home, and conversation commenced.
TANIA: They have mosquitos in New Orleans. I think I got a mosquito bite on my ass.
LISA: I can scratch that for you, baby.
TANIA: They have mosquitos in New Orleans. I think I got a mosquito bite on my ass.
LISA: I can scratch that for you, baby.
ThriftyMoron
Spent the weekend in the No-Wireless Zone at Grandma's again. Came home to this hilarious email from Regina:
This is what you call "ironic". Hello Alanis.
This is what you call "ironic". Hello Alanis.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Making Love to History
Went to The Cure concert tonight at the Santa Barbara County Bowl. They played Pictures of You and my earplugs made it sound like I was in a cup, or a genie bottle, floating on a whitewater current of sound, beat booming through my chest, bumping me against images, loosening memories and shaking them free. Giddy youth with The Cure on the radio. Bright nights, shy desires, young limbs unsure of how to hold them, and silly squeals, car rides, hope up in my throat, breathless, dreamy, wishful youth.
When I took my ear plugs out for Just Like Heaven, it was like the band and the sold-out crowd were inside the genie bottle with me. Rocking from the inside out, riding on the sound.
So wild to be at the source of the soundtrack to youth. These guys and their sound heretofore in my head, in my car, now right here in my face, and a few thousand other faces at once. This time, instead of wondering about the music as I hear it, I'm wondering at the memories the music helped create. I missed Close to Me. :( My verymost fave.
When I took my ear plugs out for Just Like Heaven, it was like the band and the sold-out crowd were inside the genie bottle with me. Rocking from the inside out, riding on the sound.
So wild to be at the source of the soundtrack to youth. These guys and their sound heretofore in my head, in my car, now right here in my face, and a few thousand other faces at once. This time, instead of wondering about the music as I hear it, I'm wondering at the memories the music helped create. I missed Close to Me. :( My verymost fave.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Good Lookin Meat
Geoff and Henry came over and we talked about shadow sides to our characters, the parts of us we don't really like, which are often scary, and which actually seem to undermine us. There are times when my character becomes absolutely limp, I cannot only NOT voice my thoughts, I can't think them. My whole being is in scramble code.
There are times when I'm going so fast and furious and narrow to get something accomplished that no one else exists and until I'm bounced out of that mind frame, nobody else matters. Once my great-Uncle Martin asked me if I had a boyfriend, an intended. I was probably 30 or so. I said no and shrugged my shoulders. He shook his head and said, "You gotta take your track shoes off." This is the same man who brought the deli tray out of the fridge before a party and said to his wife of 60 years, "Damn, Mom, that's good-lookin' meat."
I don't have a boyfriend, I have a notebook. Cuddly, sweet, sexy notebook, mm hmm, you should see it.
I tell my brother and sister-in-law I would love to have kids, but am so self-absorbed in my survival, I'm afraid to. They tell me having kids is the exact antidote to that.
Damn, Mom.
There are times when I'm going so fast and furious and narrow to get something accomplished that no one else exists and until I'm bounced out of that mind frame, nobody else matters. Once my great-Uncle Martin asked me if I had a boyfriend, an intended. I was probably 30 or so. I said no and shrugged my shoulders. He shook his head and said, "You gotta take your track shoes off." This is the same man who brought the deli tray out of the fridge before a party and said to his wife of 60 years, "Damn, Mom, that's good-lookin' meat."
I don't have a boyfriend, I have a notebook. Cuddly, sweet, sexy notebook, mm hmm, you should see it.
I tell my brother and sister-in-law I would love to have kids, but am so self-absorbed in my survival, I'm afraid to. They tell me having kids is the exact antidote to that.
Damn, Mom.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Inconvenienced
Splitsville for me and Bombo tonight. Our conversation was difficult and sweet. Hard to articulate. But was as kind and generous as the whole dating spell had been.
Nothing like the break-up with a guy from years ago whose name I don't even recall now. He was a stand-up comic. Things got weird. He emailed me to call it off. Wrote a couple of lines that ended with: Sorry for any inconvenience.
My Reply: Now that's comedy.
Am I really comparing break-ups? At this inappropriate moment? I have this theory that trauma that is hard to relate brings up past traumas as reference points. Experience comes in to try to help us understand and identify...pattern recognizing machines that we are. Experience in general has that pattern of referencing back to what we know, not just traumas. But something else societal teaches us not to bring them up so soon. Sometimes, soon is now. According to The Smiths, anyway.
Nothing like the break-up with a guy from years ago whose name I don't even recall now. He was a stand-up comic. Things got weird. He emailed me to call it off. Wrote a couple of lines that ended with: Sorry for any inconvenience.
My Reply: Now that's comedy.
Am I really comparing break-ups? At this inappropriate moment? I have this theory that trauma that is hard to relate brings up past traumas as reference points. Experience comes in to try to help us understand and identify...pattern recognizing machines that we are. Experience in general has that pattern of referencing back to what we know, not just traumas. But something else societal teaches us not to bring them up so soon. Sometimes, soon is now. According to The Smiths, anyway.
Tale of Two Minds
Flew into Santa Barbara yesterday. On the descent, the beauty below was both strange and familiar. Golden hills, jagged mountains, lanky sea. In Seattle and Vancouver BC, the ocean and land are all entwined with each other in all these inlets and outlets and islands. In Santa Barbara, the ocean stretches and curves around the land that juts out here and there, reaches into a lagoon, a harbor, then rides down a very long coast.
I stare into the landscape from the sky and feel like my ten days away were more like ten months. How does that happen? The plane lands, we disembark. I stand on the tarmac of Santa Barbara's little airport and still feel a little out of place.
So much alters in my life when I travel, so many shifts and new people and new understandings that things look different when I return. I feel different.
Now I am trying to muster enough sameness to get ready for work. Remember that place? They're expecting me today. Same same same same work work work work, okay, here I go.
I stare into the landscape from the sky and feel like my ten days away were more like ten months. How does that happen? The plane lands, we disembark. I stand on the tarmac of Santa Barbara's little airport and still feel a little out of place.
So much alters in my life when I travel, so many shifts and new people and new understandings that things look different when I return. I feel different.
Now I am trying to muster enough sameness to get ready for work. Remember that place? They're expecting me today. Same same same same work work work work, okay, here I go.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Fun worth having
It's so tired out I'm very late.
We went friending and dancing. With Tracy and Bernadette. Had sushi. Laughed. A lot. Watched lightning. Tracy made this yummy cocktail of bourbon, cherry juice and soda. Yum.
I got a psychic reading. From which many tidbits will creep in bench posts to come. Many tantalizing and tasty tidbits, my friends. Stay tuned. You won't want to miss what's on the horizon.
We went friending and dancing. With Tracy and Bernadette. Had sushi. Laughed. A lot. Watched lightning. Tracy made this yummy cocktail of bourbon, cherry juice and soda. Yum.
I got a psychic reading. From which many tidbits will creep in bench posts to come. Many tantalizing and tasty tidbits, my friends. Stay tuned. You won't want to miss what's on the horizon.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Oh, Portland
Regina is piled on top of Gina on their purple cushy armchair. Gina is rubbing Regina's legs.
REGINA: Ow, I got a bruise.
Gina rubs her legs.
REGINA: Ow!! Why when I say I have a bruise you go over it again? Why do you have to be such a masochist?
GINA: Honey, it's a sadist. Don't embarrass the family.
REGINA: Ow, I got a bruise.
Gina rubs her legs.
REGINA: Ow!! Why when I say I have a bruise you go over it again? Why do you have to be such a masochist?
GINA: Honey, it's a sadist. Don't embarrass the family.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Travel Notes
In respect to "Reduce, Re-use, Recycle," I'm posting a pithy little email I wrote to Bombo. Travel notes keep playing...
I just got to Portland from Canada today after about 9 hours of travel, bus and train. I swear I've been going non-stop. I LOVE traveling. Have met cool people on every leg of the trip, making reading the books I bought and doing the work I planned totally obsolete. Chatted with a National Geographic photographer/youth tour leader all the way to Seattle from Vancouver this morning. So engrossed in talking, I was surprised to find we were already rolling into Seattle!! Then slept on the train to Portland from Seattle just about the whole time...Last night went to bed at 2am after 2 nights of staying up late talking to the guy I rented the room from, and kicking around town with the spritely artist I met at the bookstore before dinner. We walked around in the rain and the dark and made up stories and art projects.
Charles, the guy I rented the room from, started a charity for youth who learn how to raise funds for charities of their choosing. Very cool. Lots of cool conversations ensued. Then I was cruising around town at a fast clip, maximizing my two days. I met up with a woman who is a friend of the photographer who came to my office last week. She moved to Vancouver from Santa Barbara a year ago. At dinner we discovered we have a good mutual friend who was Michael's personal assistant when he died. Smaller and smaller worlds.
Got picked up at the train station tonight in Portland and went straight to a bday party at a restaurant for my best friend and caught up with all her good friends here in town, who all know me because of Regina, and the few times I've been up here. I'm telling you I'm crashing RIGHT NOW. My butt is on the couch, my bags not even toted to my room yet. My lips won't talk, my feet won't move, my eyes are closing, it's a wonder my fingers are tapping these keys.
Ah but it's good to be here. Idgie the pooch sleeping on her bed to one side and Regina reading my play on the other, Gina off to bed for brain rest, and us intermittently chatting and reading Nico's blog, getting good baby fixes. From one coast to another, several cities, visiting in real time and surreal time (ie, virtual). Warm all the same.
I just got to Portland from Canada today after about 9 hours of travel, bus and train. I swear I've been going non-stop. I LOVE traveling. Have met cool people on every leg of the trip, making reading the books I bought and doing the work I planned totally obsolete. Chatted with a National Geographic photographer/youth tour leader all the way to Seattle from Vancouver this morning. So engrossed in talking, I was surprised to find we were already rolling into Seattle!! Then slept on the train to Portland from Seattle just about the whole time...Last night went to bed at 2am after 2 nights of staying up late talking to the guy I rented the room from, and kicking around town with the spritely artist I met at the bookstore before dinner. We walked around in the rain and the dark and made up stories and art projects.
Charles, the guy I rented the room from, started a charity for youth who learn how to raise funds for charities of their choosing. Very cool. Lots of cool conversations ensued. Then I was cruising around town at a fast clip, maximizing my two days. I met up with a woman who is a friend of the photographer who came to my office last week. She moved to Vancouver from Santa Barbara a year ago. At dinner we discovered we have a good mutual friend who was Michael's personal assistant when he died. Smaller and smaller worlds.
Got picked up at the train station tonight in Portland and went straight to a bday party at a restaurant for my best friend and caught up with all her good friends here in town, who all know me because of Regina, and the few times I've been up here. I'm telling you I'm crashing RIGHT NOW. My butt is on the couch, my bags not even toted to my room yet. My lips won't talk, my feet won't move, my eyes are closing, it's a wonder my fingers are tapping these keys.
Ah but it's good to be here. Idgie the pooch sleeping on her bed to one side and Regina reading my play on the other, Gina off to bed for brain rest, and us intermittently chatting and reading Nico's blog, getting good baby fixes. From one coast to another, several cities, visiting in real time and surreal time (ie, virtual). Warm all the same.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
The Urban Exercise
This is a picture of Vancouver BC. What you see at bottom of the picture is Downtown Vancouver wearing the big green headdress of Stanley Park.
Here are a few exquisite closeups of Stanley Park.
Stanley Park is the "second largest urban forest in the Americas." My muscles are nodding emphatically at that assertion this morning. Click here to see the satellite view of my walking route yesterday, and why I'm still in bed today at 10:15am. I walked from the bottom center of the picture to the tip of the park at the top. Caught a trolley to the bottom of the park, and then walked around the eastern edge of the city, and back to my starting point.
As a result, I think I'll spend my day being studious at the Vancouver Public Library
(as seen here in Battlestar Galactica).
Here are a few exquisite closeups of Stanley Park.
Stanley Park is the "second largest urban forest in the Americas." My muscles are nodding emphatically at that assertion this morning. Click here to see the satellite view of my walking route yesterday, and why I'm still in bed today at 10:15am. I walked from the bottom center of the picture to the tip of the park at the top. Caught a trolley to the bottom of the park, and then walked around the eastern edge of the city, and back to my starting point. As a result, I think I'll spend my day being studious at the Vancouver Public Library
(as seen here in Battlestar Galactica).
Sunday, May 18, 2008
I Heart Seattle
This is where I'm living for 3 days...
SEATTLE
Before I go here...
VANCOUVER BC
and then here...
PORTLAND, OR
Met a painter, a Swede, and a writer. The writer moved to Seattle almost site unseen and met her boyfriend the following weekend. They're still together. Dressed as a Jacaranda tree for a birthday party, had mussel leek chowder for lunch. Reunited with faraway friends and then sang Karaoke and reminisced with strangers about first loves. Travel is good.
SEATTLEBefore I go here...
VANCOUVER BCand then here...
PORTLAND, ORMet a painter, a Swede, and a writer. The writer moved to Seattle almost site unseen and met her boyfriend the following weekend. They're still together. Dressed as a Jacaranda tree for a birthday party, had mussel leek chowder for lunch. Reunited with faraway friends and then sang Karaoke and reminisced with strangers about first loves. Travel is good.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Vacation!
I'm in Seattle! and in the bedroom next to mine, Linda is watching "Grey's Anatomy." Right here in Seattle! :-) 10 days of the Pacific Northwest and good friends start today. Love it.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Best Email I Got All Day
Dear Friends –
Just one hour ago the California Supreme Court issued its long-awaited decision on the right of gay and lesbian couples to marry... and they ruled that to prohibit couples from marrying merely on the basis of gender is, in fact, discrimination, is unconstitutional and cannot stand!
This is an important step forward for families of all kinds, for fairness, for equality, and for loving relationships everywhere...
A portion of the actual text of the decision is below:
...“Accordingly, in light of the conclusions we reach concerning the constitutional questions brought to us for resolution, we determine that the
language of section 300 limiting the designation of marriage to a union “between a man and a woman” is unconstitutional and must be stricken from the statute, and that the remaining statutory language must be understood as making the designation of marriage available