I had a really badass idea for a top...

...and then I woke up and couldn't remember how it looked when I finally found a pencil and paper.

And now I can't sleep.

Bah.

Notes

12/26 In a plane hovering over a barren looking Midwest, at 12:35 PST, I realized that I really need to look further into the writings of Thomas Pierce. It is possible that I may need to Google his bio, as well. Any man who can write the narrative of an older woman with abandonment and humility is worth praising. The structure of "Shirley Temple Three" reminded me slightly of Bradbury, but, for the life of me, I cannot remember which story my mind links it to.

Pinterest had a point in my life today.

Usually I "pin" things while wondering to myself if I will ever actually use the ideas I've taken the time to create a board for.
I don't know why, though.
I had a board with decoration ideas for my engagement party that I used. I have tried more than a few from board dedicated to beautifying myself, because there are never enough beauty rituals in life. Obviously, I need more.
I tried a recipe or two, both of which worked out well. The calorie reduced ice cream cone cakes made with cream soda were funny looking but delightful. The egg baked in an avocado has enriched my fast-but-healthy meals.
I don't know why it's such a shock to myself that I would use a Pinterest idea for my home, and yet here I am, totally impressed with myself.
Tim and I were having an extended photo shoot for our engagement photos. I, of course, made a board and we played with the different ideas. One idea was for kitchey photos in front of a chalkboard, using the board to create a goofy story about us.
To create the board, we went to home depot and bought something called chalkboard paint. It can come in basic black, or they can mix it in other colors. We went with black.

Then, we took my card board fabric cutting board that I never use anymore and painted the back of it with the chalkboard paint. The chemical fumes were overwhelming, but didn't trigger a migraine, miraculously. We took our photos but loved the board so much, we decided to hang it on the wall over the couch.

How Advertising Stole Christmas

 

Christmas has become synonymous with mass consumerism and society acts as an emotional bully in its defense. If you go along with the madness, you spend way too much money on gifts, trying to please people on a level you feel is expected. If you object to the over-consumption and over-consumerism, you're called a 'grump' or a 'Scrooge,' or, worse yet, 'the Grinch.'

I love Christmas. My decorations were up the DAY AFTER THANKSGIVING. I buy a new tree ornament each year. I listen to Christmas music pretty much all month long. Sometimes, I'll still listen on the 26th because I freaking love this holiday. I love that there's an entire month of the year when we're all supposed to be kinder to each other, when people walk around caroling, when charity is emphasized and we are encouraged to spend time thinking of others.

However, I dislike that the time spent "thinking of others," has become figuring out how to squeeze a ton of Apple products on your credit card, and how to 'get by' the month of and the month after this gift-giving misery. Can't showing up and saying, "I love you and I'm grateful for you," and then listing all the reasons be enough? Why would I need to buy something that proclaims that message when I can literally say it?

Honestly, I see it all as corporate greed marketing their version of Christmas to us that if we don't buy these things for each other, then we fail at Christmas and we've ruing everything by not buying the "right" gift. It's a supercilious amount of pressure and, frankly, it's ruining the holidays for me. Greed has become complacent with Christmas. Advertisers and commercials have damaged the spirit of the season and I feel like if consumers everywhere don't break the habit we've all fallen into, the pressure to give beyond our means may never cease and the destruction of Christmas will become irreparable.

This isn't a "keep Christ in Christmas," message. This is just asking to keep corporate greed out of it and to maybe not bully the people who see through the scummy spending propaganda thrown at us from every direction for a whole month. Maybe modern "Scrooges" are "grumpy" because they actually love Christmas and we're not the kill joys, we're just the ones who are awake. Corporations are the real Grinch.

RAW BRAIN

It's amazing how when you're emotionally like an open wound, be it from a bad break-up, a horrible fight with friends, toxic relationships renting from your life, a terrible memory revisited in therapy, etc... your brain can come to focus on random items in a very strange way. When else, but when you're very depressed, can you stare at, say, lip gloss for twenty minutes; totally unmoving, totally unfeeling, just staring at lip gloss and thinking solely about something as mundane as lip gloss? Your mind finds some totally random object to obsess about for a few minutes while your chaotic and painful emotions "numb down." You take a small powder from your static despondency so that when you look back at what caused you to be so sorrowful, you look back from a place completely devoid of any emotion. The contrast is often so severe and striking because it's in this moment that the truth first shows itself. Not clearly, no, but maybe you see a shadow move somewhere in that melodramatic jungle. It catches your eye and you examine it closely. It draws you in. You take a step back towards the mess, but just a step. You're still in Apathetic Lip Gloss Land, but you're peering towards it, examining it. If you're very still, like a wild animal, truth will come closer and closer, becoming more and more visible, possibly coming right up towards you. The trick is to not move, one must be still and it will come. The more patient you wait for truth to come to you, the clearer you see truth when it does.

I think everyone goes through this, on some varying level. We get worked up, we calm down, we see clearly.

I think it's what we do when truth comes close enough to touch, that's when no matter what everyone does, they all do it differently.

Long Beach Marathon, For Bobby

I did the unspeakable (for a non-runner, at least).

I ran half a marathon in honor of my Great Uncle Bobby, whose presence I felt with me the whole way.

My uncle Bobby in 1980 with his dog, Tabbet.

From the moment I signed up, I felt like I did at age 4, sending off my list of demands to Santa - excited, nervous, planning for the big day. I woke up most morning after that at 6am, ran a couple miles to start the day. After work, I would "run" a few more miles on an elliptical, weight train, and/or swim laps for an hour. I felt myself become stronger, have a longer endurance, and the endorphin highs would last throughout the day. It has been wonderful. What a wonderful legacy to adopt!

Now, I'm faced with a new question. Do I stop here?

I may have started for Bobby, but do I continue? If so, in his honor, or simply my own? ...more on this later, I'm sure.

In the meantime, here are some photos from yesterday.

starting with the last wave felt like a safe choice

right before the race began

mile 5, stopped to stretch

the fire boats gave us a show as we ran past

after the finish line

post race

my training partner and me

 photo recreation

favorite

Pepto Bistmol Month

If you're like me, and you roll your eyes at the advertising "styling" spreads in every magazine marketed towards motivating women into making guilt-pink-purchases (even my favorite, Essence, which I always felt was above exposing their readers to pure marketing ploys but apparently wasn't this October), then you understand the following points:

1- Retail prices hover around a 70% mark-up from the price it cost to make the product (which differs from wholesale, which is a 40% markup from cost). If a company donates less than half, they aren't really donating anything, they're still making a profit, they're just not making as much as they're used to. If the "donation" to a charity is 1/5 or less of the retail price, it's not worth it. A woman is better off straight up donating that money to a charity and walk around with pride knowing she donated instead of wearing a pink item to brag that she cares. Of course she cares! What modern woman in her right mind doesn't fear and loathe breast cancer. According to reports about BPA, air pollution, and that one glass of wine you were told to have everyday that was suddenly putting you at risk, it feels like every woman and some men are probably going to die of breast cancer.

2- Wearing head to toe pink doesn't cure cancer or raise any more awareness than is out there now. Do you really think there's someone out there still who's like, "Oh hey, what's breast cancer? Can that really affect me?" Or that looking like you were really inspired by Steal Magnolia's Blush & Bashful wedding colors, you're going to inspire anyone to donate more than they already do/can towards the research and cure? No. You're just looking for an excuse to dress as cutesy and girlie as you did when you were 4. There is nothing wrong with that, just own it. Showing up drenched in pink to walk/run/jog/stagger in heels to an event which raises awareness is way cooler than randomly walking around in pink, plus at that point, you really are working to raise awareness, in which case good for you!

3- Magazines don't really do enough to stress the above points, they just promote what they're given money to promote.

***
In case you want some actual products that may or may not be pink, which, you know, really donate the full price you're paying, I found a couple. They aren't the only ones, by far, but they are some I've come across. I also came across some that have already donated and are marketing their donation amounts with products that are inspired by their philanthropic choices with no spikes in price.

1. PUMA pink project

These products are affordable, not over-the-top, and 100% of the profit goes to charity. Then again, it doesn't say which charity, and they stop donating to this mystery charity at $120,000. Still that's much better than some. 

2. Ugg - Breast Cancer Awareness Edition

They are donating none of their profit, let's get that clear. They are selling pink shoes in celebration of already donating $25,000 to Susan G Korman. It could be said that if you buy these, you're just dying for an excuse to wear pink Uggs, which is fine. You may become distracted by the 'I Do - Capsule Collection's' sequin boots, which are extremely adorable. Just remember that they've already donated, and the pink boots above are cheaper than their sparkly distractions. If you buy anything from them at all, just know that your purchase is enough of a 'thank you' for donating. It doesn't have to be pink.

3. Ford - Warrior

Yeah, Ford; like, the car company. They randomly have a yoga-wear line called "Warrior" AND 100% of the profit goes to a charity. Must feel guilty for all the cancer the fumes from their cars (and others) are probably responsible for.

For Me, Diamonds are for Never

It was a truly beautiful moment. We were standing on the cliff we'd come across on a hike, overlooking waves crashing against caves below. It looked exotically South American, like we'd somehow hiked through a wormhole in Southern California and came out along an idyllic Brazilian coast. It felt scientifically magical to stand there with Tim's arms wrapped around me.
He nuzzled his nose against my cheek before placing a small kiss on the same spot. He hugged me a little tighter and asked me if I would spend the rest of my life with him.  Of course, he didn't technically ask 'Will you marry me?' or bend down on one knee, so I didn't truly know what was  happening - I thought he was being really adorable and lovey because he's a really adorable and lovey kind of guy.  I told him that of course, I would spend the rest of my life with him.
Then he said he had something for me and my heart jumped. I was already loving this moment and I really, really love presents, so to add a gift on top of already being in paradise was like a dream. He pulled the small box out of his pocket and I melted. On top of Mount Faux Brazil, with a cool breeze blanketing against the shining sun, our dogs sitting by our feet, panting & happy to be outdoors, I absolutely, without a doubt melted.

Then he opened the box.

Let's just say, while I was surprised, none of this was actually a shock. Tim & I had discussed that we wanted to be married many times. I never wanted a formal engagement. If two people can sit down and admit they want to be married, why bother with the whole charade of a ring and a surprise question that you already know the answer to because we just discussed it like two logical adults.  At that point, plan a wedding, already.
Tim had a different outlook on the matter and he was incredibly stubborn about it. In his head, you had to be engaged. A ring had to be on the finger, or it wasn't real. Every time we had the discussion, I'd look him up and down, mentally judging whether I trusted his ring selection skills.

To build that trust, we went ring shopping and I sent him waterfalls of ring emails with pictures, links, tips. I even sent him photos of rings I thought were incredibly heinous, so he would know what to stay away from. I drew him technical sketches complete with specs about size, stone, cut. There was one point I stressed in every email, post-it, and shared link: no diamonds.

Everyone "does" the diamond thing and I was not only born without the cookie-cutter gene, but I have a severe distaste for it. Diamonds are fine for girls who like shiny things without thinking too deeply about it, but I like color, content, and symbolism - not marketed symbolism, but real symbolism. I do not want my love symbolized by a jewel that looks like broken glass, whose value is rumored to be a conspiracy, and was probably mined by kidnapped, forcibly drugged child slaves. Just because it happens on another continent does not mean it is exempt from the truth.
It is a known fact that jewelers lie and say their diamonds are from Canada. If I were a jeweler, as a small business owner trying to stay afloat, I'd lie, too. Who's to say these people aren't proficient at Photoshop, creating falsified origin certifications? As long as your appraisal is right, why would you ever question it? I have zero patience or trust, and I don't love diamonds enough to put that kind of energy into researching a stone. I'd just as easily move on to another one.

 I love sapphires. The really good ones are hypnotizing in their depth, as if you were in a boat looking straight down into the water. In literature, blue symbolizes loyalty, sincerity, truth; all of which are a great foundation for a life long partnership. Also, a majority of mined sapphires in North American stores come from Brazil or Montana where kidnapped, forcibly-drugged minor miners are possible but highly unlikely. I like to cut my odds greatly.

I also love Russian mined Alexandrite. It's beautiful. In daylight, it is green as an emerald. By firelight at night, it is red as a ruby. Pragmatic green by day, passionate red by night. That sounds like a fun marriage.
Russian mined Alexandrite is the only kind that is green and red and impossibly difficult to come by. Indian Alexandrite is purple and teal, which is still really cool, but not quite the same, either. The closest stone would be color changing garnets, but the colors are not as bright and, again, they're more likely be mined by kidnapped, forcibly drugged children. Again, I maintain my stance on having no patience or trust.

To be clear, I've been passionately discussing my feelings regarding these stones for - literally - years. The moment I realized Tim may one day propose, before we ever had a discussion about marriage, I started talking about everything above. I used to joke that I would say 'no,' if there was a diamond in the ring. 

You can imagine, then, my surprise when he opened the box and there was a square cut green sapphire (which technically isn't a sapphire if it's green,  anything that strays from blue-tones is technically quartz) sandwiched between two giant diamonds.

I still said 'yes.' I smiled, cried, hugged and kissed my [now] fiance. I was oddly grateful we'd waited to officially be engaged, that I was able to see the nervous/relieved happiness in his face as he put the ring on my finger. Giddy, I called, texted, and emailed every person I knew with the wonderful news. We had celebratory french fries at the first snack stand we came across at the resort we were near. As we made our way home, I let myself absorb a simple truth about my life, and that is how incredibly lucky I am.

 The next weekend we returned the ring to his family's jeweler. We had one custom made and I upgraded the stones to my tastes. Now, I have a ring that makes me as happy as the man it represents.

Marathon: Beach Cities Challange

In memory of my Uncle Bobby, I intend to run a half marathon.

My Uncle Bobby ran often, usually at 5am along a beach in beautiful Northern California, until a rare but debilitating disease forced him to stop. When Uncle Bobby could no longer run, I took up running in order to train for an event like this one in his honor, to make him proud. On August 27th, he took one final run to the finish line in the sky, leaving behind many people who loved him and were touched by him during his time with us in this great rat race on earth.

I am so excited to take part in this and hope to complete all three of the Beach Cities Challenge in honor of this great man who was such a positive influence on me. Hopefully, in May, I can earn the trifecta medal and really live up to the potential Uncle Bobby always said I had. My big regret is that I was never able to tell him what he'd inspired me to do while he was still alive.

Also, I regret that my running buddy, my dog Brody, won't be able to join me on this endeavor.

Meine Lieblings Schwester

I love when silly things happen to those I admire. It brings them back to the level of humanity - that is, humility makes you a bit more human when your pedestal grows too tall. This is the case for my dear friend who I love unconditionally - so much so that I'm sharing her stories with the entire internet.

There are two stories just silly enough that I couldn't keep to myself, 'Not Single,' and 'Rented Fabric.' 


Not Single.


K & D began dating over a year ago and, while neither are really "Facebook" people, one day K realized that D had a 'single' relationship status from way before they became a couple. K, herself, had in the past, opted not to have a relationship status. In a place as public as that, who needs their relationships under scrutiny when some people feel their comments matter more when a keyboard is involved? Still, the 'single' kind of irked her, so she asked D to take it down. He said he would, and for a month she didn't think anything of it. When she saw it again, she asked him why he hadn't changed it.
'It's just Facebook, who cares?" He retorted.
K raised an eyebrow and thought to herself, we'll see about that.
She changed her relationship status to single.
For two days, everyone they knew buzzed about her newly single status.
Naturally, the rumor of their split had begun, and they both received an avalanche of texts and calls from their friends regarding K's newly proclaimed falsity of single-hood, which I'm sure felt more like a punishment to herself than a point made to D. The point was well taken, however, and yesterday, both K & D made their year's long relationship official on Facebook, with many comments and 'LOL's.

Rented Fabric
She worked an entire 8 hours before she realized the jeans she wore that day had a giant hole exposing a generous portion of her butt. This happened the day of the text/call avalanche, perhaps adding to the mystery of her newly single status. 

pattern or write?

I have no patternmaking projects right now. I've asked my team for work, but they don't have much for me. I started a dress last week just for fun but ended up spending Friday writing because an idea hit me.
Should I start on the dress again or finish spewing the literary creativity before I lose that spark again? I wish there was a way I could do both.

Hell

Hell is an endless 

car ride

where the destination

cannot be reached

with a fellow passenger

who

never stops talking. 

ERF 6.10.12

Hell, haiku

Hell is a road trip

With a chit chatty person

Who won't stop talking. 

Erf.  6.28.13

An Apology, a Bit Late

When you broke my best friend's heart at age 16, my mother joked that karma would come for you. "May a tree fall on his head," she'd candidly thrown out there, initially talking about OJ Simpson, but also saying it about you when we brought up your name while we sat in the car cracking up. The next day, in chorus (it was after the spring concert, when chorus class becomes a study hall) Jamie and I sat together in the auditorium drawing pictures of trees falling on people's heads, not because we actually wanted a tree to fall on someone's head, but because the thought of a tree falling and specifically landing where a person stood was such a random thought that we couldn't help being amused by it. I caught wind that somehow a drawing of a tree falling on your head was passed around. That was never my intention. We never intended to make you feel like you were, to the rest of the world, better off dead. It stopped being funny and thirteen years later, I'm even annoyed that we did that in the first place. To joke about something bad happening to someone...why?... because of a broken heart? We shouldn't have taken that joke so lightly. I don't know if that effected you at all or the possible toll it could have taken in addition to many things, I am sure, but now, with your soul at rest, I realized I've blown absolutely every chance I'll ever have to apologize and now that I'm writing to a dead person, I can't apologize enough.
I wish your life had taken a different course, though I know you were likely just partaking in the advantages life can offer someone in your shoes. Things get carried away so easily.
If you never broke Jamie's heart, I'd maybe have known you better. Though, it could be said that if you hadn't, she and I wouldn't have become close again. In a group of "friends" where I didn't realize were so messed up, she was an ally. So thank you for breaking her heart, actually. She recovered just fine, as I'm sure you did, too, from our crude attempts at creating cartoons.
You were funny. A real smart-ass, and I mean that in the absolute highest regard. You could have been a comedian, and if you'd gone that route, no doubt you would be one of the greats.
Could have been...
You were...
You are...
gone.

May your body rest in peace, may your soul go on to greater things.

"People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel." -Maya Angelou

I'll remember a smart ass with intimidating intelligence.

In the Shadow of the Seam

I'm making a top based on a Balenciaga 2013 Resort Top.  I added Princess Seams and, of course, since we cannot see the back in a picture, I have completely made that up.

Was talking about how I was planning on finishing the cut-outs in the front with the Herve Lerge patternmaker, who is very German. I decribed the type of binding I intended to use and she didn't understand. I'd always been told stitch in the ditch binding. It took us a while but we realized that Germans considered it stitching in the shadow of the seam.

3/16" stitch in the shadow of the seam binding. I love that. How poetic.

Stitch in the Shadow of the Seam.

I'm totally using that from now on.

texting fun time

Júst fôúnd öut I cån èaßîlÿ hævę łęttêrš bé ālphábėtįçâlly mûltí-lîñguâl. This changes everything. Allen ist wündebar. And yet Çêst la víe.

Play Fighters

A warm, sunny Saturday on the heels of some hard weeks at work, I found myself in an escape route from man, dogs, and all the noise of the world. The good people of Long Beach would mostly likely blanket themselves across the shoreline, their children running, screaming, and kicking sand on all who had hopelessly come for the sounds of waves crashing. I knew better than to hope for recluse at the beach.
Better to blanket myself on the cool grass in a park, under decades old trees pretending to be in a forest. There is peace in El Dorado Park, near the golf course, tucked away from children's ballparks and their barking terriers.
There is shade, grass, wind in the leaves far above, and there is a view of picnickers and barbequing parties - just far away enough for their noise to feel like a murmur, but close enough (or perhaps, just downwind) to taste their food on an inhale. Starving artists do not usually enjoy the smells of food they cannot provide for themselves, but at that moment it was welcome in the form of a tell-tale sign of the season.
I wrote in my journal about the various things I should be writing about but am not. I read two Bradbury short stories. I people-watched. The latter was my favorite.
A  man & a woman left a party they were gathered at, walking side by side, talking casually. At a moment, they looked at each other sharply, broke apart, putting about three feet between them, laughing. Simultaneously, they both raised their fists, elbows bent sharply, and hopped around each other like defensive kangaroos. Still laughing, they began sparring, tapping each other instead of a punch, until they were so drunk with laughter they couldn't hop, or even hold their fists up.
They collapsed upon one another, each holding the other up.
With arms wrapped around on another, they walked on, laughing and laughing and laughing.
I couldn't hear the laughter, though. I strained my hearing, told myself to focus for the sound, but could not hear the laughter for my life. I could only see it.
Whereas only seconds earlier, I had been happy and at peace, in that moment I was incredibly alone and silent and hungry.

Ladies with Ladies

Since I'll never have the energy, design talent, or financial backing to successfully start this fashion line (nor do I posses the specific morals it requires to create affordable clothing by using slave-like off-shore labor - I can create patterns and look the other way, but if my name was on it, I couldn't do it & no one would be able to afford my clothes), I'm going to put the idea out there in h.

The idea is a clothing company for women whose body type is not the "traditional" body type that the standard fit block is based off of. The current fit block that 90% of companies use doesn't work for a staggering population of women. Women who are starved enough for ready to wear clothing that properly fits without the added expense of a tailor's bill.

"LADIES WITH LADIES" will cater to women with a range of waist sizes, bust sizes, and hip sizes, but specifically women with the hour glass frame not represented in current clothing stores. This is not a plus size women's store. Plus sizes are built around a body that has the same proportion of the basic block, but wider all over. LADIES WITH LADIES is a clothing line for women with more dramatic curves than the average fit model.

LADIES WITH LADIES would represent a woman who has a 48" bust, 28" waist, and 40" hips. That woman would not fit properly into a common ready-to-wear size, but also would not be appropriate for a plus-size ready-to-wear size. This is a woman who can either make clothes herself (unlikely in modern culture), can fork up the money for custom clothing (unlikely, given the modern economy) or could shop at FOR LADIES WITH LADIES, which would sell clothes similar to men's ready to wear sizing, by measurements and not the strangely accepted "XS-S-M-L-XL/0-2-4-6-8-10-12-14) sizing.

Some of the main arguments against women being offered measurement-specific sizing like this is that women do not like the reality check of their actual measurements, that clothing would be wasted if created for people whose measurements "did not exist," and that there's something inherently "unfeminine" about a woman seeking clothing using a men's sizing system. What these creepy size-fascists don't understand is that a dress made with specific measurements can be mass produced, it just takes slightly more research. That research takes work and money that companies aren't willing to front out of greed and laziness, stress on the laziness.

A little marketing and social networking could make this research mildly time-consuming and not for a loss of profit. Women are more than capable of measuring themselves and there are definitely enough women dissatisfied with the current sizing system that they'd be perfectly happy to anonymously enter those measurements on a website created to gather information for the purpose of catering to women with "uncommon" (or rather, unrepresented) sizes. A company could take this information and use it to organize size ratios, percentages, and geographical/marketing information so where certain body types with certain tastes/aesthetics are located. A woman in Montana may not have the same wardrobe requirements of a woman in Miami, but they may have almost the same measurements, and this should be factored in the research, as well.

Finally, affordability is a constant struggle that the American public fights for in terms of fashion. How does one create measurement specific-sizing while maintaining low cost? Off-shore manufacturing would be a must, but also, using on-the-spot tailoring at every retail location, free of charge for LADIES WITH LADIES customers would be key. This way, clothing can be started in another country, with seams only stitched together for fitting purposes, but entirely finished on location in the store where the customer has the fitting. The brunt of the labor could be sewn ahead of time, and the finishing of labor can be done here. It creates even further freedom in the sizing, adds a personal element to the shopping experience, and also feeds people's eagerness to see items made locally without the added costs of something being made entirely locally.

Every industry fears change, even when it is as desperately needed as the upheaval of the current sizing method.  Waiting for a current industry leader to create this change would be a hopeless endeavor. It takes someone entrepreneurial to open up shop and make change.

"We are an Audience for Miracles" -RB 7/2008

Late last year, my brother convinced me that we should write together and that maybe we should start with short stories. For a really long time, I have held off on writing because everything I started felt chick-lit-ish and so, defeated by my own lack of depth, I stuck to goofy blog posts and notebooking. When it was suggested that we collaborate, I was excited and researched writing competitions he and I could possibly enter. Writer's Digest has a bunch every year with different categories. The one that peaked my interest the most was Science Fiction, though my own inspiration was lacking. So, I started reading "The Martian Chronicles" and three-ish chapters in, I knew I'd found my new favorite genus. I still haven't written one word, but I have not stopped reading and loving the genre.

When I heard about Ray Bradbury's death the other day, I felt a) embarrassment that I'd assumed he was already dead and that I could have tried to meet this bad-ass man but that now I'd really never meet him, and b) that I should buy some of his work. I did this two ways. I wanted some short stories for my Kindle so I could begin reading right away. I also wanted a physical book, since the man loved real books and distrusted e-books.

So, I went on Amazon right away and bought a book of 100 most celebrated Bradbury stories. It was $4.99, being sold by Long Beach Goodwill, and reported to be in 'good condition, with some writing in it.' I figured some student had probably underlined passages and that maybe it would add to the dog-earedness of the book.

There is no writing in it except for what is in this picture:

I remember someone saying that when Acres of Books closed three years ago, they donated their inventory, but I have no idea to where. I also know Ray Bradbury had been a regular at that book store, along with many writers, and now I'm aware that he'd even written about it.

Is it really possible I unknowingly bought a book signed by Bradbury, purchased on the day he died? Can that really happen? If so, that is quite a coincidence. But how would Goodwill not understand they had a signed copy? Or did they know, but not feel that it mattered?


Fake or real, this has opened my eyes to so much. Fake or real, I will never part with that book.

Life. Is. Crazy.

On the Ballot

Today I inadvertently smacked a really heavy bag into a frail, waify girl in too tall of heels. She didn't fall over or anything, but she was hit pretty hard while we were both exiting the shuttle from the parking lot to work.

I said, "sorry." I showed the appropriate emotions to let her know I meant it. I tried to make eye contact so she could see how mortified I was at this mistake.

She said, "it's okay..." in that vague tone where you know, it's not okay. She didn't return the eye contact, my sincerity obviously undetected.

Then I walked inside and when I stopped to pull out my ID, I dropped the bag... on someone's open toed super tall shoe.

I looked up.

Same girl.

"Oh my God! I am really sorry."

"Stay away from me."

Yes. I am officially epically smooth. I should run for mayor.

Mayor of Awkwardia.


P.S. Why the hell would you walk that close to someone with a heavy bag? Why? I only take partial responsibility for the bag-on-the-toe incident. 

oh, to be great...

One of the many wonderful things about living in Southern California is how warm it is year round. One of the deterrents is that it's always ice cream weather. I used to associate the sound of the ice cream man with late spring, the freedom of summer, and the happiest 15 minutes one dollar can buy you. Then again, I grew up in a a small suburban town in New Jersey, where there was an Italian Ice truck that drove around playing "Popeye the Sailorman," who would only stop if you chased him down yelling, "Stooooop!!" The chase was half the fun. But, you never heard that song more than twice a day. you never hated the damn Italian Ice truck, or Popeye, for that matter.

In Southern California, that truck doesn't carry Italian Ices, but generic shitty vending machine-style ice cream snacks; it plays "It's a Small World," and it parks near a school for an hour every day to lure kiddies and mommies away from soccer games and practice. Living within earshot of a school, I now hate ice cream trucks with a passion usually withheld for those who thoroughly oppose equality.

I might be crazy. I might  have a few blood cells that are frenemies with my other blood cells. I might excel in a cut throat industry, but 99.2% of the time I am a lovely and delightful human being... that is, until the time of day when Mr. Ice Cream Truck parks his device of audible torture two blocks from my house. From approximately 5:45 to 7:15 pm, I am a fire breathing dragon, ready to melt away Mr. Ice Cream Man's stupid business.

In my defense for what I am about to tell you, Reader, playing the same song continuously year round should be classified as torture. It should be banned as a direct violation of a Constittional law forbidding 'cruel and unusual punishment,' in the form of noise pollution. It should be fought against and banned. It is directly disrespectful to those who live near a school to have to endure, nightly, the banal sounds of "It's a Small World." He uses it, most likely, to trigger the same excitement children feel at Disney world, which is two towns over, where one is most likely to hear that song played over and over again. No one lives close enough to Disney, though, to become sick of the music. Living in close proximity to a school shouldn't be a regrettable location. It's a drug free zone, the homeless are kept away, there's a positive police presence, and your neighbors are quiet, family-oriented, and polite to each other. It shouldn't be a location where people are aloud to market unhealthy treats at high volume every single day.

One day, I was coming home from work. I hadn't had a bad day. Actually, it was a productive, good day - full of good news and pleasant conversation. It's always nice leaving work feeling like you bonded with someone. But then, I came home and Mr. Ice Cream Man was already parked outside, music blaring - a failed siren call since no children surrounded his truck. What a small world, after all; here I was face-to-face, alone with my nemesis (well, alone if you didn't count the populated soccer game one field away, but we were alone on the street).

I pulled over, window rolled down, honked my horn a few times to get his attention. He looked up and I shouted out, "YOU'RE A BAD MAN!! SHAME ON YOU!! THAT NOISE POLLUTION HAS EARNED  YOU A PLACE IN HELL! IN HELL!!!!! BAD!!!"

I did not stop while I yelled this, just slowed the car to a crawl. It was important to stay in motion in case he decided to leap out and attack. I didn't expect him to come after me, but you never know how people are going to react. We were in Long Beach, after all. I mean, Snoop Dogg grew up there - not on my side of town, of course, but in the same town nevertheless and I didn't know in which neighborhood Mr. Ice Cream Man resided. If I did, I might have slashed his tires and trashed his speakers ages ago. In other words, his secret ice cream lair was better left a mystery from the scary woman on the preppy side of town.

I did notice, as I pulled away, that the soccer game had stopped. I don't think it stopped because of my yelling, but it did give everyone there, players and onlookers alike, a chance to look away from the field and check out the crazy lady screaming at their local frozen dairy hero. Children and parents stood staring at me, their gaping mouths wide open in silent shock. At the end of the glance in that direction, before my eyes swept back to the road, I saw one parent was smiling.

I drove on, shocked at what I had actually done, curious as to whether the amused parent agreed with me or just loved a good old fashioned shit show, and simultaneously pleased... I'd had told that horrible man what I thought of him. Odd behavior, maybe, but brave behavior. I did one thing that day which scared me... and that brings me back to the Eleanor Roosevelt point at the top of this post.

She's claiming the stupid people gossip about other people, average people talk about what went down, while intelligent people debate theology, philosophy, aesthetics, and morality. In all this, I discussed Mr. Noise Pollution, who, despite his obnoxia, is a person; I discussed the glorious event of me  drive-by-yelling at him; and I discussed the ideas behind my actions which I believe wholeheartedly. According to Roosevelt's theory, I am all at once small, average, and great. Why didn't someone think to ask her at the time, "What if you discuss all three at once?"Because that's what I'd like the answer to.

pizza?

preheat oven 350 degrees

on lavash bread with minimal coconut oil spread on it, sprinkle onion slices, tomato chunks, fat free feta and lentils.

bake 5-10 minutes


filling, surprisingly low in fat, yummy

what on earth do you call it?

Feeling Bad?

A year has passed since my life took what I thought at the time was a dramatic turn. I thought I lost so much, but I actually maintained everything - every ideal, passion, and hope - that were supposedly wiped from my life. But, nothing changed. My heart still beats, my skin glows, my eyes are filled with love, my smile just as meaningful, and my head... well, it has yet to fully deflate.
I've been humbled, yes; that's what happens when the truth comes out - when you find out why something's not working. It's tangible, you know? You don't need that mystery in your life. You need not feel paranoid.

The only thing wrong with me is that I'm absolutely crazy. Then again, I always loved that about myself.

And nothing, not being pushed into unkown waters, the battle of ANAs, or being periahed by piranhas could stop me from being happy.

so there.

cunfusious say..

happy dragon year.

The Trouble with People... not in love.

There's a general philosophy among many people, whether consciously or otherwise, that over time feelings change and that sooner or later this person with a crush will inevitably find someone else who will return their feelings and will forget about the way they felt in the first place.

It's a very cavalier, "We'll look back on this and laugh," attitude. Only, after the Earth makes a couple trips around the sun, people find they never laugh when they look back. Matters of the heart are not silly clothes worn in the heat of a trend. They stick with you long after you've replaced all the things you wore and even owned at that time.

Some people have yet to understand the expression, "I could never see the forest for all the trees." You can't see what else is around you if you're only looking at the objects placed in front of you. It is difficult to recognize when you are the object; that takes maturity and depth.

I will assign gender roles here, but please note that the same message is equally true in the reversal of roles:
If a girl remains friends with a lot of men who have made it clear they want to get in her pants, maybe she really likes the attention - even feels validated by it, somehow. Who wouldn't want to be surrounded by people who flat out adore you, just love to love you, and cannot get enough of you? Or, perhaps these guys aren't in a bad place to remain friends because their attraction is mostly physical and their friendship would have taken an incredibly awkward turn after they boned, anyway. Deep down, they know it, and would rather hang out with an otherwise cool chick who may have single cool chick friends they can bone without care.
Maybe she gets off on having "back-up admirers;" men whose laps she can "innocently" sit upon whilst her honey is somewhere else, doing God-knows-what.
I've seen it among couples of whom aren't that serious. If someone is engaged and behaving in this manner, then my guess is that he or she has become accustomed to attracting only physical attraction from others and lumps every admirer into that category without much consideration to what their intentions or hopes could be.

The whole scenario is a bad situation simmering on the back burner of that person's mind.

Be no one's back up.

Find someone else to spend time with, and that's my advice - whether or not you asked for it.

dandy

ah the apple tv slideshow.

there's nothing like a baby picture of you sliding across the screen at the same time that picture of you drinking champagne straight from the bottle does.

memories and technology.

good times.