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??

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.

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?

Then God Made IKEA

The New "U-Go"?








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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.


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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


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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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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!"

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.

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.

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.)

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.


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