Oh hey, Men of the World. Take Note.

One day you may be lucky enough to meet the love of yor life. You'll want to spend every day with this person, and see them through the good times and bad. 

One day, you'll both be getting ready for bed when she'll say to you in a shaky, terrified whisper, "There's a spider in the bed." 

Take note: The correct response is to pick up the magazine that's been sitting on your dresser for a year and try to get the spider to crawl on it so you can take it outside and let it die of natural causes (because no one wants spider carcas on his/her freshly clean sheets). This is the right thing to do because your spouse has crippling arachnaphobia and the magazine is near your side of the bed. You will react promptly and sensitively. Aint no how spidey is crawling around yo woman tonight. 

What you shouldn't do is mumble something nonchallantly without lifting your eyes off the facebook scroll on your phone, finish reading your friend's über mensch status and then look up to check out the situation. You should not be surprised when that spider gets away and disappears almost seemingly into thin air on your spouse's side of the bed. You should not then complain about having to wash the sheets immediately because your spouse finds evil lurking spiders to be unclean. 

You should react with immediate gusto because the spider may appreciate the escape, but your spouse will never forget. And she'll live a lot longer than that spider. 

Take note. Take note. 

Attack of the Cookies, Part II

A bright and colorful, deco-era building stood strong, as though it were an oasis amongst an industrial wasteland. The Lala Button factory was the only supplier of custom and designer-quality buttons in downtown Los Angeles. It was the oldest button establishment, dating back to the 1930's, family run, and absolutely cut throat in its competitive practices. So much so that, in 1996, when an Ebola outbreak contaminated the up-and-coming Fasten-Tech Industries, the competitor met ruin. Since the outbreak affected none outside the factory, whispered rumors of Lala's supposed involvement ran amok, without ever gaining proof or basis. It was the quietest, yet most impactful rumor to ever rock the Button Industry of downtown LA.
It was in this quaint-looking, artificial-sweetener colored environment, where Veda met the Cookie Ashat on her first day of work as a Product Development Associate. A recent graduate of FIDM with a degree in Toy Design, Veda was elated she would have the chance to gain experience in her field, even if it was somewhat outside the genre of employment she'd originally hoped for. She was creating, developing, manufacturing, compensated and grateful.
On her first day of work, an HR Rep guided her around the giant room where she would be working. She showed her how to use the office printer, which apparently required special codes that changed every three days, and introduced her to all her new co-workers, starting from the back of the room near the exit, one by one to the end of the room closest to the widows. The last coworker was located in a sectioned off area of the room, like an office whose walls were created by pushing together Ikea bookcases, with one bookcase missing to allow entry from the side, out of view of the rest of the office. The space was big enough to set comfortably, side by side, two large desks facing the window. In this cubby-area was an empty desk, soon to be Veda's, and at the occupied second desk was the first Cookie she'd been ever met.
Veda gasped when they'd walked through the entry and she saw the squat thing with its wavy blue hair shimmering in the sunlight streaming through the window. Ashat didn't stand to greet them, but eyed the smiling Veda wearily as the HR rep made the introductions and explained how they'd be partnering up and sharing the workload. As Veda sat at her desk for the first time, looking in the drawers at the files already there and checking out the system of organization, the alien sat munching on Skittles from a bowl sitting on the desk with a spoon. It was nearly impossible for Veda to mind the angst radiating from across the office because of her excitement.
She'd only ever seen the aliens on the news, and thought they'd seemed really adorable then. She'd thought the creatures resembled a short person who had merged with an Afghan Hound and then showered in Easter egg dye.
Veda, who thought of herself as shy, despite her colorful wardrobe, finally worked up the courage to start a conversation.
"You sure do love your Skittles."
Her first remark was met with icy silence. Ashat's left eye twitched as Veda continued.
"I'm more of a berry kind of girl. Raspberries and strawberries, and blueberries, et cetera. Nature's candy and all. "
Ashat raised an eyebrow, and Veda realized that her attempt at conversations may have made her come across as condescending.
"No judgement intended," she said, "Just my preference."
"I hate fruit," Ashat muttered. "I hate seeds, peels, juices... too  messy. It's disgusting. This," holding up a skittles-filled soup spoon, "is cleaner, more dignifying to eat."
 "Do all Cookies speak English so well?"
Ashat grunted before responding, "What did you think? That we wouldn't do research before approaching this planet? Earth had been releasing radio waves into space for a hundred years. We followed it like that children's game... what is it... connect the dots. Ah, it was easy. Your language is primitive, quaint, even. We liked some other languages better, but sensed the wars surrounding those areas would not make it an ideal spot to impose upon. California... a land of vegans living amongst slaughter houses. We chose the right land."
He was referring, of course, to a famous Los Angeles slaughterhouse, which was still operational but, coincidentally, the only surrounding restaurants within a 2-3 mile radius were either vegan or vegetarian - a coincidence noticed by the slaughterhouse workers or the bulk of the fashion industry which also occupied the same area. The reference went completely over Veda's head, being so new.
Not quite sure how to respond to that, she said, "Well, I'm very glad to have you here."
After a few moments she asked, "What do vegetarians and slaughterhouses have anything to do with Californians? I mean, those are everywhere."
Ashat looked at Veda condescendingly and spoke with disdain, "A society that kills the animals for eating but then doesn't eat the animals. The meat is shipped elsewhere. You are too peaceful to eat the animals, despite knowing how to kill them.You kill them for other people to eat, not for yourselves in the immediate area surrounding the killing. You are passive. Passive people are not harmful."
"Plenty of people eat meat in LA."
"Do you eat meat?"
"Actually, no."
Ashat waved his hand dismissively, "Nor me, and we'll get along fine."
Veda didn't follow the logic, figured something key was lost in translation and decided to change the subject. She gestured at the bookshelves, "Most of these are empty. What's the deal with them sectioning us off like this, I wonder?"
Ashat laughed, "Me. I was sick of being gawked at. Humans stare. It is very discomforting."
"Are you male or female?"
At that Ashat sat up very straight, abruptly and stared down Veda and spat, "You are rude to ask."
"I apologize! You're right, that was insensitive. I'm very sorry."
"Silence," Ashat hissed.
The next six hours were uncomfortably, shamefully silent.  The southern sunlight drifted in, throwing painted-glass shadows on everything; filling Veda with conflicting emotions. She felt like a social failure, insulting her new coworker on the first day, but also like she'd won the lottery with the beauty of the place.
At the end of the day, as she stood to leave, Ashat spoke to her again. "How do you feel about spiders?"
"They terrify me."
Ashat squinted, "Do you kill them when you see them?"
Veda shook her head, "If I see one, I try to confine it without injuring it, and then I take it outside, find a place in the garden free of other webs, since they eat each other and all, and let it free."
"It," Ashat nodded as this answer was expected, "Fine, see you tomorrow."

No King

I heard that Stephen King writes stories based off nightmares. I have no idea how factual that is, but I could imagine that's true, at least sometimes. 

I could never do that, though. I mean, my nightmares are nothing to write stories about. Literally, the worst dream I can recall from a recent night was that I wore the wrong shirt to the charity volunteer group I take part in every couple of months. It's a bright yellow tee and, because I didn't wear it, I couldn't receive a painted handprint on it, which is like a tally mark for how many times you volunteered. 

That's it, that was my nightmare. Sleep is supposed to lower your level of cortisol (stress hormone). But not me while that dream was occuring, nope. That probably rose my cortisol level, embarrassingly. 

There are far worse things than having tame nightmares; I know, believe me. I feel lucky that night terrors don't trouble me. I guess I just wish my dreams meant more than the wishy washy textbook regurgitation of the day's happenings with an impossible feat or an exploited minor fear mixed in sporadically. 

I wish

I wish I could be happier and more positive in general. 

But in a world where every little thing can feel like a fight some days, I'm not happy but I'm also not unhappy.  I'm just jaded. 

So there. 

...but I still think I'm an optimist. So enjoy this picture of a statue of Einstein at the Observatory in LA that slightly looks like he's instulting you and have a nice day. 😊

Seen and Heard: Designer's Lunch Room

Today, while eating my lunch and researching menstration tracking apps on my phone (yes, they exist), I couldn't help but overhear the conversation next to me. When I say, "I couldn't help but overhear," I mean that I would honestly rather concentrate on reading reviews than hear the high pitches girly-girl voices of ladies desperately trying to sound younger and cooler than they actually are, but I had trouble doing so because certain high-pitched sounds are difficult to tune out. 

The ladies at the next lunch table were having a discussion about what it means to "really be Greek." My boyfriend thinks he's Greek, but..." "Ommigod, look at her rolling her eyes!" "Well, he's not! His family is from Minnesota or something?" "Oh, he was born here?" "No, he was born in Greece, but he grew up in the MidWest."

Then she proceeded to describe all the thigs about him that make him inauthentically Greek. I tuned in an out and didn't actually catch the whole conversation, but some qualities mentioned involved a love of potato chips and frugality. "He thinks he's funny but he's not," was a comment thrown out there, but I was more interested in tracking calendar with symptom notes. 

When I stood up to throw something away, I glanced in their direction since they sat between me and the trash can. They were a table full of mixed girls, all of whom have American accents, wearing pretentiously "edgy" outfits, eating asian-fusian cuisine from a place called something like "The Eaterie," still discussing the arrogance of someone claiming an association with a place where he was born. Like, he's less Greek for loving such obviously 'Merican things, like potato chips and video games. I wanted to ask them if they were less American because of their obvious love of Eurotrash-inspired cloth and food. I didn't, mostly because I would like to continue not being the crazy person in this, but it leaves me feeling uneasy. 

Do gossipers have any idea how lacking in intelligence they sound when their high-almost-shrill voices gab in loud volumes? 

I guess my biggest fear is, if these are my peers, am I guilty of the same behavior simply because the same mentality that led to their hiring led to mine, as well? 

Idk. Maybe I'm just PMSing. Maybe I should add that to my new lady-bits calendar. 

The American Abroad

A work-worn American struggled through her fourth day in China, visiting manufacturers with her work associate. On top of the jet lag, they’d been working long days in the cold March weather, rain noiselessly moistening the foreign world surrounding them, muffling smells, sounds, thoughts. The pollution sunk deep through the lungs and the skin, deploring the body of any energy remaining, albeit the supply already depleted. During a mostly silent dinner, her tired associate suggested the two of them get massages to help revive their bodies and spirits. The American agreed that that would be nice, and after paying their check, they set off, found a place, and were shown to their separate rooms.

The American lay comfortably on the massage table and fell into a deep reverie almost at the moment she felt the masseuse's first touch. In a warm, comforting instant, she was back in the States, the Los Angeles sun filtering through the large windows of the rooms open to the familiar hospital hallway she glided through, walking towards the room she intermittently saw more often than she did her own home. Her mother’s nurse, leaving that room, stopped and asked her a few questions that he routinely asked her.

Whether the questions were good news or bad, the American could never decide. That they remained the same always meant there was no change in her mother’s condition, which could be interpreted either way. In spite of this, following the short and habitual conversation, she moved on to the room to find her mother awake and sitting up in her bed wearing her own clothing and not a hospital gown. This was the first time she’d looked her mother in the eyes since the late November stroke. The fact that her mother was awake was an absolute miracle, an answer to many prayers, but her mother appeared genuinely furious.

“Why,” her mother shouted, “Would you allow me to stay here for so long in those rags? How could you?”

The American, unable to process or talk about the miracle of her mother’s sudden improvement in health, began instinctively appeasing her. She apologized, offered to make her new clothes to wear that were more comfortable, with better fabric. The mother consented but could not be consoled. She was upset about the lack of comfort she received and continued berating her daughter regarding it.

The American struggled, could feel herself being pushed awake from within the dream while psychically not wanting to leave it. She could recognize the weight and feel of her body again, as well as the tapping of the masseuse, waking her. She sat up, realizing she’d been likely moaning in the internal sleep struggle. She looked at the tiny, anxious, wide-eyed Shanghai masseuse and burst into tears. She could detect the awkward fear seeping from the small Chinese girl in a confused panic like a shark with blood in the water but she hardly cared, allowing herself to push the sorrow from her through every sob.

The masseuse shrieked something incomprehensible and ran from the room. The American wiped her tears as assumed the massage was now cut short. There would be no more comfort today for her work-weary soul.

Blue moon over Long Beach

Attack of The Cookies, Part I

She thought of herself as a gypsy. Not of the unintended racist meaning of the word, but of the person-of-whimsy-on-the-go meaning. Veda wore huge, dangly hoop earrings and scarves in her hair matching her long skirts. It was her uniform, worn everyday with little variation, which she thought gave her power. Her true power, though, the most elegant part of her, was actually love. She had the ability to see beyond the shortcomings of others, into the goodness within their hearts. Her magic was that she could look into the eyes of people forgotten, ignored, and misunderstood by others and love them.

She never noticed the small things about people that might drive others away. She never snubbed people when they needed to vent. She sincerely wanted to help those in need. 

But there was no helping The Cookies; evil creatures who resembled stunted humans with limp wavy hair, fuzzy bodies, and angry, colorless grey eyes. They were infamous for their passive aggressive behavior and undying love of sweet delicatessens, from which they earned their sticky nickname. 

The Cookies could not go past a certain amount of time without eating sugary foods, or dire health circumstances might unfold that would be unhealthy for The Cookie and anyone around it. This worked well enough on their home planets, where they had a variety of sweet yet healthy options. However, upon arriving on Earth, or, more pointedly, in Southern California, they promptly became addicted to processed, chemical laden, overly died and unnaturally colorful sweet junk food. This amused the welcoming Earthlings, who had never seen beings quite so egotistical (and, mind you, that's saying something for Southern Californians) and so loathing of all those others different from them while simultaneously taking an extreme and almost hedonistic pleasure in HoHos and cupcakes, and pop tarts, etc. These aliens now consumed not only sweetness, but strictly artificial sweetness, for every meal and snack. For all the sweet pleasures they sought, all The Cookies put back into this world was cranky negativity by way of condescending comments, cold stares, interruptions while others are speaking, and an awkward disregard of the warm welcome Americans gave them, despite the sharp criticism given from other countries. 

So pleased with our society's artificial food resources, The Cookies decided not to make the horrendously long trip back to their home but instead gave up the least favorite member of their pack to the American government to be tested and dissected in exchange for Naturalization, the ability to maintain confidentiality of from where they came and, of course, plenty of junk food. 

The Cookies then entered the American workforce by the hundreds, snarking their way through awkward office politics they created. They weren't dangerous, war and battles weren't their thing. The only time their eyes would light up in conversation was when talking about cakes, cookies, themselves, or how much better life was on their home planet, and how, oh if only, they could have doughnuts there, too! Otherwise, they were cold, unfriendly, and frankly annoying to work with because they were always on edge. 

Which brings us back to our Veda, in all her fortune-teller-inspired threads, whose greatest power was helping, loving, praying for, and trying her best to please everybody; which, in of itself is an impossible task. But add The Cookie who worked with her at the button factory? Disaster was imminent. 

I'm not suicidal, but...

I used to think that people who killed themselves were selfish, only able to see their pain and not the grief their actions bring to others. Lately, though, through stress, hormones, disappointments, financial problems, loneliness, and grief; I can totally understand feeling so overwhelmed with negativity that someone could be blind to the pain they cause in others. Once you lose sight of others, which could easily happen when you're buried in problems, you are totally susceptible to feeling worthless and not only unafraid but maybe eager for death to end the misery. 

I couldn't imagine killing anyone, including myself (so please do not 5150 me), but these days, when an abundace of pressure catches me at seemingly every angle in my life, I can see why someone might crave that way out, how if it's all processed in the wrong way, someone might go down the wrong path. 

The ever-optomistic saying, "Life sucks and then you die," is wrong. Yes, life breaks away at you, but imagine you are a giant sand dune. The wind, or life, blows at you until, little by litte, you've peeled away to a lesser height. It makes you smaller, or so it seems. But that sand doesn't disappear, it's just shifted to another place. Life doesn't break you down so much as it rehapes you. It can feel like you're broken because you don't feel as great as you once were, but that's only height. Your mass is the same, only your shape is different. And such is life, after everything has gone wrong. 

The Ranch Dream

Last night I had a dream geared around the possibility of riding horse, and I felt the need to share it with the internet.  

Tim & I were on a ranch, on vacation. Other people were there - his friends. 

We are always around his friends in life, never my own - simply because I don’t have any, which breaks my heart to write, but the few friends I have left in this world live 3000 miles away. I simply do not see them, or interact with them non-digitally, enough enough for me to commit their faces to memory in order for them to be able to show up effectively dreams. If only I could see them in my sleep, I'd at least get to see them at least in some way and perhaps my time awake might feel so much less empty. 
 Being annoying is a bad habit, and, let me tell you from first hand experience, it is hard to break. The less I speak to real people, the more the bad habit grows. Real conversations put me in check and I recognize that I need them. Often enough, the only people I talk to outside the home are coworkers who find me utterly and completely annoying. It makes speaking at all difficult to even imagine, except to Tim. At least I have him in my life to speak to daily and he helps me hold onto reality. 

Dreams are an exception to this. Well, no, they aren’t; but in sleep I have allies. And they support me exactly the way I never even knew I always wished someone would support me in life.

In my dream, we were on a ranch-like resort with Tim’s friends. 

There were horses and it made me long for the summer days spent on a family ranch in Wisconsin, horseback riding Western Style, which is the best style, in my opinion, for safety reasons and also because it’s a classic example of an American improvement on a lacking design - why wouldn’t you have a handle, however small, attached to the saddle to hold onto if something goes wrong with your mount? It’s practical and intelligent, yet Westerners are the barbarians? Please. 

Anyway, I wanted to go horseback riding and I spoke about it any time the mention of making plans came up. I mean, what were we doing on a “ranch” resort if we weren’t going to ride a freaking horse? But people kept coming up with excuses and delaying the activity. One of his friends has a habit of speaking condescendingly to me, especially when he's drunk. It’s not personal, he does it to most women I’ve noticed - all the women whom he has already ruled out the possibility of sleeping with. It’s a pathetic display of his ability to dominate for no reason other than his own sad fears and he stayed pretty true to character in my dream.

 In life, I hardly tolerate this behavior, and look beyond it with the acknowledgement that I, the friendless wonder, am also far from perfect. I can see that talking down to women comes from a deeply bedded insecurity pushing him to feel as though he needs to constantly prove to everyone, including himself, whatever it is he lacks confidence over. I know I probably just made him sound like an asshole, but please note that there are so many aspects of his personality which are wonderful; that is just the one part of him I don't care for. Though, when faced with him placing his expectations onto me as a way to boost his ego in my dream, I fought back as probably would have in real life.

I forget what activity he was pushing for, that’s how interesting it was to me. Probably standing around a bar watching other people square dance. Nope, that sounds like a fun night-time activity. This was during the day so I don’t know what he wanted. Maybe there was a pool and he was more interested in showing off his new girlfriend. I met her once; she was an all around delightful person and if I were dating her, I'd want to show her off, too. I honestly like her and I have no real life prejudice to bring into this dream against her, so I have no clue why my subconscious made her the VP of Team Boss You Around. She was helping to lobby people into doing whatever crap thing the two of them wanted to do and, true to an his ego, Tim’s friend was annoyed that everyone didn’t find his boring ass activity interesting; which meant, he was took a considerably condescending tone with me for insisting on going horseback riding.

In my dream, as I would in reality, I told him to go do what he wanted, that I was going riding and I'd meet up with them all later. 

In real life, Tim would say nothing, afraid of rocking the group's boat too much. I have no such fears; if you’re afraid of a little boat rocking, don’t drop it in the water where I’m swimming, but Tim isn’t like that. He’d likely make sure I’m OK without him, and still join the other party, just because he knows I’m independent enough where I don’t care if anyone joins me or if his friend freaks out a little bit when he doesn’t get his way. He'd pick the option where someone freaks out less because he's just sensitive like that. I'm not sensitive. I don't care who freaks out; I want to do what I want to do and likely it's not actually hurting anyone.

But, in my dream... it was so beautiful. Tim took my hand and we walked away. I told him that I was concerned we should break up because his family doesn’t really like me (his sister is the only one who does, but she’s moving away) and his friends all don’t like me at all. I’m a square peg in the circular cookie cutter of his environment. He didn't scold me for being dramatic, lecture me on the importance of being nice and passive, or suggest any social behavior that always ends with me feeling repressed. He just smiled, kissed my hand and said not to be silly. He made a crack about the other couple eating too much cake, which in my dream, somehow translated to being a little nutty. We giggled and made our way to the horses to try on cowboy and cowgirl boots, which were apparently required. I picked out colorful ones and Tim picked out plain ones, then we had fun teasing each other for our choices. As we were waiting for the mounts to be brought up, other people from the group showed up, also interested in joining us. Only, they couldn’t because there was a line and a waiting list. They could go together and meet us at the end of the trail.

Shortly after that, the bossy friend showed up with his Frau, having decided to join everyone else. Strangely, though, he was talking as if it was his idea all along and acted annoyed at Tim & me, not for winning some kind of popularity game that existed only in his head which we weren’t even trying to play, but instead for some other cranky excuse that he’d made up in an effort to make us either look or feel like bad friends, which had no effect on us."Thanks for going ahead of us and not putting our names on the list, too," or something along those lines.

Our horses arrived, we took our mounts, and raced to the beginning of the trail, laughing at our own inside joke about some people eating too much cake.The dream went on from there, but I don't remember it at all. I just remember the feeling of fulfillment and having someone truly by my side. 

I love how ridiculous dreams are, how what is a minor part of a person's in-real-life-personality becomes such a dominating part of a dream's plot. The brain has the capacity to manipulate scenarios that have so little link to reality, but touch on such real topics. The dream points out how alone I am, how good it feels when Tim stands by me - when it happens. It forces me to acknowledge that I'm not "nice" and that I never will be and how badly I just want to be accepted for that; how proud I might feel if only I could inspire someone else to act more socially independent. That our independence is what makes the forces trying to control us in life, no matter what their methods, weaken to the point where they are laughable. And love; most of all, this dream stressed the importance of love and interdependence; that you don't need each other as some sort of emotional crutch, but that you choose each other and work as a team from there. How we all must long for that in every relationship we have. 
Also, isn't it interesting how, when I can't think of anything I want to write about, how totally uninspired I am, my subconscious can spit out something amusing and technically correct in terms of story telling: a beginning, a middle, and an ending, with a problem (albeit a tiny one in this case, though sometimes the smallest problem feels like a giant dilemma) and a solution. Now, if only I could dream something a little more action-packed...

I just realized I believe in past lives

Sometimes when I'm reading in bed, I'll extend my right hand out, reaching for another hand I'm always subconsciously sure will be there. When it's not, I have a reality check. "Oh right, there's no hand there." There never has been. There's never been anyone in my life with whom I would lie beside, holding hands as we, Mystery Hand and I, read our separate ...separate what? Separate novels? That's what I read but maybe Mystery Hand's Owner's other hand held the day's paper? I'm unsure whose hand it is exactly that I reach for, so a reading preference is somewhat difficult to determine. What I can determine is that when it happened tonight, I finally decided it's not just a tiny neurotic quirk I partake in often. I decided that it must be a habit left over from a past life where I'd fallen into a habit of holding hands with someone while lying down and quietly reading. I must have loved this small gesture so much that my soul clung to the habit, always hopeful Mystery Hand's Owner will be there even after living such a different life as is mine. I must have loved this person very deeply and was, in return, loved incredibly much as well.
It's so much more beautiful of a thought than merely accepting that perhaps I am crazy. Crazy, sad, and lonely, but at least creative.

Hope

Hope is a bad dream

When your creativity

Wanted a nightmare.      -EF

Seen and Heard: Shuttle Stories

I inadvertently overhear a lot of crazy stories in the shuttle. It's not my intent, I dislike eavesdropping, but there's nowhere to go; it's a closed space, and people share their craziest lowdown in a normal volume of voice, as if they were in a car alone together.
Some are just not ashamed of their lives, and kudos to them for that; it takes a strong person to laugh at themselves openly in public. However, some of these things are so TMI - poop stories, stories involving squishy sounds that don't end well (they never end well), he cheated on me now I have nowhere to live but with his mother, etc - that I never thought to post them. But, hell, every now and again, something comes along that you can't keep to yourself - a story so great it can only be shared with the whole World Wide Web.
I sat in the second row of the shuttle while the two girls behind me in the third row spoke loud enough that I'm sure even the driver couldn't have tuned them out.
They spoke in the diglossia of immature female voices that are not so far from the Valley Girl inspired accent they were in the process of outgrowing. They haven't become adult enough to drop it altogether, voices an octave higher than really needs be. It sounds forced, like someone clinging to a youth that everyone within hearing distance is probably desperate for them to drop.
Although, we are a competitive bunch in this field. Perhaps these ladies are struggling to be the most feminine, and they believe a higher pitched voice equates chic femininity. I don't know and I don't care; I'm just grateful no one in my team feels that way. I'm crass enough to drop a snarky comment here and there if I was exposed to it on a daily basis.
But, I digress, these two people were speaking loudly and in falsetto post Valley Girl era voices.
"Ommigod, so, like, I was at a Birthday party last night? ...in a trampling park."
"What's that?"
"It's a big room with giant trampolines? -like, everywhere."
"Fuhhn..."
"Yah, it was. Everyone had such a fun time..."
"Yah, I behht."
"Yah, only," and she paused to giggle in an awkwardly intimate way, "There was this one thing that happened? ...that was kind of bahhhd."
"Oh no, wha-happened?"
"Ommigod, so, Dave? ...came bouncing up to me and was like, 'I'm gonna jump over you.' And I was like, 'No, you're not.' And Dave was like, 'Yes I am, I'm really good at this, I've jumped over someone as tall as you before.' And I was like? 'Idon'care, stay away from me.' And he was like, 'I'm gonna warm up, but when I'm done, I'm gonna come over, and I'm gonna jump over you.' ...yah... So, I tried jumping by myself, away from everyone because, like? I didn't want him jumping over me."
"Yah, that's nuts."
'Yah, he's so stupid," She gasped with disgust, "Dave." Then they sighed simultaneously, so I guess Dave has a reputation for this type of antic.
"So, I tried staying away? ...but people kept following me, all like, 'Why are you bouncing by yourself?' ...and then Dave would bounce over again and be like 'I'm gonna jump over you.' It was so scary."
"Yah, I behht."
"Yah... and so, eventually, he came up to me and he was like, 'I'm ready, I'm gonna do this. Hold still, don't move, or I could land on you.' I was so scared. I even bent my knees a little, in case that helped."
"He is a buff guy..."
"Yah, he's super in shape, and if anyone could do it, I'm sure it would be him, but still..."
"It's a dude jumping over you."
"Exactly!" I once sounded that excited when I finally found someone who agreed at the atrocity of corporations running news organizations, promoting not even politics anymore, but their own [evil] corporate agendas, which absurdly value their future pro-baller rapists. Well, someone else besides me who isn't a blogger on Jezebel, that is; a fellow sober Centrist lurking awkwardly at a party full of drunk Republicans who only blinked bleary eyed and rushed off bored when they'd tried to join our conversation, which, by the way, I've summed up way too generally. However, this girl was excited because someone finally agreed that having a dude attempt jumping over her didn't feel like a safe or sound idea.
"Well, you don't seem hurt, what happened?"
"So, he jumped? ...and he landed crotch first. Right. Here."
I didn't turn around to see what part of her body she gestured to because that would be crossing the line between overhearing and eavesdropping, but I really struggled to hold back laughing openly at this girl.
"Om-m-m-igod," her friend said, trying to sound comforting through laughter, which came off incredibly condescending, "Aw, that's so embarrassing. But, at least you fell back on your butt, right? I mean, at least you were on a trampoline."
"No, he stopped himself literally on my face, like he used my face as his brakes, and we both went down together."
Her friend gasped politely and she must have made the appropriately satisfying 'are-you-kidding' facial expression, as well, because Trampoline Girl said, "Yah, I know."
"Wow."
"Yah, my ears were ringing, I had to sit down, like I couldn't move for a few minutes. The guys who worked there came over and yelled at us for not jumping safely. And I was like, 'It wasn't me, it was him.' But they didn't care and I thought they were going to ask us all to leave. Like, I'm injured, my face hurts, and I was so embarrassed that the room was spinning, like? ...I was dizzy ...but then they just walked away. We weren't kicked out and I was like, 'phew!' That would have been so bahhd if it's someone's Birthday and we had to leave because of that. I mean, I'm so clumsy, anyway? I can't believe he did that."
"Awww."
"Yah."
"I'm sorry that happened."
"Thanks, yah, those parks are super dangerous."
'Yah, that's what I heard. Sounds like it was a lot of fun, though."
"Oh yah, other than that? ...it was so. Much. Fun."

And then, on my way out of the shuttle, my wrap dress unwrapped itself in the wind (wrap dresses: will I ever learn???) and I gave the warehouse employees a great show they won't soon forget, I'm sure.

So there you have it, one shuttle ride, two embarrassing stories, 
HotChaCha.

Princesses are Always in Peril.

I'm ten years old, playing Super Mario Bros with my two older brothers on the floor in my room. The games and consoles are outdated, and have been forgotten by their original owners since they were long ago replaced by newer, advanced versions while these gems were passed to me. Yet, here they are, those original players one and two, sitting with me on my floor playing a game while the tears begin to dry on my blotchy, red face.
The doctor my mother had taken me to six months earlier declared that I had ADD, that I should be taking Ritalin, and that I would be much more manageable for her while taking them.
The medication makes me awkward and painfully antisocial, which would be difficult enough to deal with had I grown up among my current classmates. But all the kids I bonded with way back in kindergarten are all 2,000 miles away, where they ought to be, where I feel I ought to be. There is no loyalty to depend on at school. There is no one to see a difference in my behavior. No one, save my brothers.
They, not my parents, witness my coming down off the medication my mother insists on force-feeding me every morning. They witness the shakes, both physical and emotional. They sit with me when I sob from the frustration of not understanding what is happening to me, to the point where my lungs hurt inside my chest and I can't breathe. They, not my parents, sit with me, distracting me, probably as scared as I am.
But their voices, if used at all in this matter, fall upon deaf, stubborn ears. Their concerns probably meet the same response I get every night when I tell her how much I hate taking the medication, "The doctor said there may be some adverse reactions, at first. Stop being dramatic. Do your homework."
Or, perhaps merely witnessing my struggle every morning deters them from seeing a point. A woman so bent on drugging me up does not seem open to the opinions or viewpoints of others. Except, of course, unless that person's name is followed by, 'MD.'
At the ripe age of ten, I will experience what it feels like to come off cocaine - an experience I will find myself in much later in life, after experimenting with drugs at the seemingly generous will of a future boyfriend I wish to impress. I'll recognize the dip in emotions, the aches, the lack of hunger, the cloudy head. The memories of the toll this feeling took on my childhood will ultimately be what turns me off to cocaine and, as a result, I'll be weary of taking any recreational drugs and eventually drinking altogether. This will be the only perk of the whole situation, and in fact, that behavior doesn't win me any gold stars among drinkers as I age, causing me to remain somewhat antisocial and aloof for life.
I will always fear others trying to control me for their own benefit, especially women.  It will destroy many relationships.
I will have no respect for the older generation, to the point of seeming cold and ungrateful.
I will not want to have any children, and dread settling down, for fear of being the next generation of this type of parental behavior.
But, for now, my brothers try to make me laugh, a banter I am not able to join in on. I don't understand why yet, but they instinctively leave me out of it.
It's my turn and I pick the Princess for the chosen level.
"You're like a princess," one says, thinking incorrectly that this would cheer me up.
"They're always in peril, something's always going wrong for them," he explains.
"No," I gesture to the screen at the pink dressed icon floating around the bombs and waterfalls.
"Well, if you aren't a princess, what are you?" Later in life, he'll learn how to control a conversation to make you think things like this were your ideas. He'll be so good at it that it concerns me, but for now I'm not convinced by his claim. After all, it doesn't feel like someone's coming to rescue me.
My other brother puts his arm protectively on my shoulders and responds calmly and quietly, "She's someone who is going to get far away from here one day."
A tear rolls down my cheek and he adds, "We both will."
Years later, after this brother moves three thousand miles away on his own, he'll give me the Dr. Seuss book, "Oh The Places You'll Go," with an inscription that LA was made for me and I will remember this moment.
The hard part is over, my cheeks will be dry by the time we hear the garage opening for her, in about an hour. It will still be midnight before my heart will stop racing and for my brain to stop reeling. And then it will all happen again, more or less, tomorrow.

Today's Meditation: Trusting Your Own Instinct and Running With It.

In the past, it has occurred to me that I don't like recipes because of how restrictive they are. A recipe leaves no room for your own instincts, no respect for your own voice saying, "do this," and "use that." This is dangerous because  your inner voice (which urges you to favor one ingredient over another) is very, very well in tune with what your body needs nutritionally, whereas a recipe is like a guess from someone you don't know.

You want more protein because you're working out. Your body wants more carbs, but you've decided carbs are bad because some diet you half read about (and yes, reading the method of a diet without researching the criticisms is only HALF reading about a diet) is counterproductive to meeting your goal of being healthy. Cutting out hummus because chick peas contain carbs is silly. If you want to cut out carbs, stop eating tortilla chips, french fries, and candy. Do not lump the carbohydrates from the former in the same category as the latter when chick peas contain an abundance of nutrition that, if you're craving hummus, your body is telling you it needs. Dip some carrots and/or sliced peppers in your hummus and enjoy.

Diets are a huge pet peeve of mine in the same way that recipes are: they devalue your inner knowledge of yourself, cut off communication from your instincts, and deny you the opportunity to listen to what you really need in order to to give yourself what you subconsciously already knew you needed to be healthy.
Don't diet and exercise for a "beach body" because any body in a well fitting bathing suit is ready for the beach. Dude.

Eat healthfully and exercise so that you are better in contact with your inner voice, with what your body needs and is asking for - do it to be healthy inside and out. It'll work out, vanity-wise, but that really shouldn't be a goal. Released endorphins and permanent giddy-lik-happiness, guilt free lifestyle, pride in your accomplishments: may those be your health and physical goals.

Today, I overslept, still ran for 15 minutes (total distance: 1.37 miles). After I returned home, showered and dressed; I started craving something different from my usual greek yogurt with chia seeds. I started craving a blend of banana, peanut butter, and chocolate. So, trusting my inner voice, I put a banana, some PB, and a heavy splash of chocolate soy milk into the blender and ran that. Then, I scooped it into tupperware to eat at work, mixing in a moderate sprinkling of chia seeds. The mixture had thickened by the time I made it to my desk, and the chia seeds had transformed into a gelatinous tapioca-like consistency. This little breakfast was sooo good.

Sure, I couldn't eat it every day, but there was something about the way I was craving it - this mixture that I hadn't even really known existed until I made it - shows me that I have an ability to listen to my body in a way that benefits my taste buds and my nutritional needs. Yay, me.

My little vegan-tapioca concoction totaled 504 calories, 27 grams of fat, 58 grams of carbs, 17 grams of fiber, and 16 grams of protein. So, while I'm not exactly cutting back on the carbs, calories, or salt; I also didn't think about food again until 1 pm. For those four hours, I didn't need a snack, my body was content - happy, even - and healthy because all those things have nutritional value beyond numbers and a small part of the impact.

How degrading to food to be classified do crudely. Nothing should be broken down and defined by small parts of what's inside them; especially when the chemical compounds that lead to those classifications all react differently inside the body than similar chemical compounds found in other foods which lead to the came classification. Beyond that, even; when ingredients are combined, the body digests everything differently.

The same claim of degradation could be said for recipes. The same recipe that makes an excellent tomato sauce made from fresh ingredients in Plainfield, New Jersey with taste very different in Cross Plains, Wisconsin. That is because the ingredients grown locally will have different minerals from the soil and the water, resulting in a different taste. Everyone knows the basic ingredients to a tomato sauce, even if they think they don't. The best meals happen without a recipe, but from an instinct.

Your inner voice knows what your body wants - not what is easy, not what is simple, but what nutrients your body truly wants - and it tells you every day.  All you have to do is listen.

the Importance of Annonymity, PART II

 Ugh.

After reading this I feel dirty; and no, not the kinky/fun kind of dirty, but the kind inspired by annoyance and severe eye rolling.

The Importance of Being Annonymous

There's not enough honesty in this world.

My boss once brilliantly said, "If truth were deodorant, most people would stink." She's onto something there.

People feel so much pressure to be good, passive human beings; but how many of us can be passive? I'm no Alpha, but I'm no Beta, either - surely, I cannot be alone in feeling that way.


What's funny, though, is how people regard you before they know who you are. It's like that girl at work who I would sometimes see walking around the building. Without fail, she would always eye me up and down, smirk judgmentally and, if we had to communicate for some reason, speak condescendingly to me. That changed the day she realized what team I work with and what role I happen to have within it. Her initial behavior was the truth. She didn't like my forever-unkempt hair, or maybe it was the lack of make-up on my face or my eclectic style. She judged me on that, and, while initially I found it amusing when she suddenly avoided eye contact and her tone changed to a polite whisper, after a while, I kind of preferred the judge-y behavior. At least it was honest - someone who takes a lot of time to look impeccable maybe wouldn't have much respect for someone who would rather spend her morning running than sprucing up. She had no problem being aggressive before she found out my name, when I was still anonymous to her. It gave me a chance to raise an eyebrow at her superficiality.

My name, ha! Like anywhere outside this company it means anything. I am neither famous nor actually important. The label I work for is exceptional, and through this job I shine, but what is Pedigree without a little pretension? Perhaps we all let it get to our heads a bit and maybe that's dangerous.

If I ever did create something worthy of being judged by others, I don't think I'd put my name on it anymore. There was a time I would have, but that ship sailed as I learned how people change their tone when they know they're speaking to you regarding your work. I even want the gender of the pseudonym to be androgynous and left to interpretation. I want the harshest criticism spoken plainly and in an impassioned manner.

I want that regarding anything I'd create.

Better Left Forgotten?

I had a dream about a dress. I fell in love with it there, in the Land of My Subconscious. I awoke and, though it was 3AM, I took a lesson from instances before when I dealt with dream designs and immediately began sketching what I'd "seen." I do not keep a sketch pad and croquis on my nightstand, which means I had to leave bed, walk across my apartment, find my rarely used sketch book, and draw what had floated into my brain before it returned to the unknown forever.

When I finished drawing, I took a really good look at the dress and decided I didn't care for it after all. By then, I was wide awake and couldn't sleep.

New lesson: maybe it's OK to dream about something you could create and forget it the next day. The possible creation itself may not be what's important about the dream, or else there would be no problem remembering it, which means it would have floated to the subconscious from any bit of random inspiration. If the creation itself is forgotten, then the important part may be the emotion it sparked within you in the first place. That part remains in the memory banks, even if the idea that sparked it has gone off into the abyss of forgotten ideas. The motivation it stirs within is actually the purpose of the dream. It exists to light a fire for creation, not to give out free ideas. This gives the chance to consciously connect the final outcome from the inspiration - it allows for the creation to stem from a place of deep & critical thinking. And, well, isn't that better, anyway?

Perhaps it is just better to remain asleep.

Oh, hey there.

  

I passed along the web address of this blog to someone I love and respect today. 

Last time that happened - the last time I shared the blog I'd been writing - things didn't end so well. 

.

.

.

.

Let's hope it doesn't bite me in the butt. 

Today's Meditation: Cope in Your Own Way

My morning's headache is passing, I must exercise. After Tim returns with an iced hazelnut liquid perfection, I'll be headed to the gym for an hour of laps.
One of my favorite parts about swimming is the meditation that naturally occurs when the body has been pushed to the physical point where endorphins are released but also while the exercise is far from over. The brain starts looking for something else to concentrate on to make it all bearable. These are the moments I use for prayer, mediation, self reflection, or to clear my mind of anything blocking the formation of creativity. It's like shuffling a deck of tarot cards - I go in asking a question or concentrating on a problem and I push myself until I have an answer.
Today, I'm going in with a thought from Piers Morgan, spoken while complaining about the brutality he has experienced from people who didn't understand him or the way his brain worked.
"One thing you, who had happy or secure childhoods should understand about those of us who didn't - we who control our feelings, who avoid conflict at all costs or seem to seek them, who you call compulsive, a workaholic are, above all, survivors. We are not that way from perversity. We cannot just relax and let it go. We have learned to cope in ways you never had to."
When I reach the point of endorphins-based creativity, I will think of his quote and use it to harness the way I feel about others from my past who didn't get me, who didn't understand why I wasn't or couldn't be like them. I will forgive them, which will be difficult because there's a heavy load of misdeeds, infringement, disobedience, trespassing, and offenses. I will not forget what happened (because you can't use what hurt you for empathetic moments unless you remember what it is that hurt you) but I will dissociate the experience with the person involved. Hardest of all, I will forgive myself for any role I played, whether I was aware of it or not, in the devastating times I faced.

I need to realize that I find comfort in ways the people who hurt me are unfamiliar with, that they hurt me because they didn't understand me. Maybe they thought they had to try to understand me but came up with the wrong conclusions. When I was working out my own issues and didn't have the answers yet, they saw dishonesty. When I tried to be creative in reaching out, they saw bravado. Or maybe they didn't. Maybe they just hate me. One can only guess.

When most people say, "forgive but don't forget," they're claiming they have the magical ability to forgive someone but still resent them. What the saying should mean is to forgive, but remember how it was to feel so low, to be grateful for those who stood by you and, in turn, be there for someone else who needs it.

You have to be able to look someone in the eye, smile at them from your heart, and sincerely wish them well before you can say you've forgiven them. You don't need them to be in your life, but if you can't bring yourself to do the former, you have not forgiven.

As for my laps, no matter how far I'll actually get with all that forgiveness (because that's quite a load for one hour... I think I'll be meditating on this, swim-wise, for a while) I think I'll spend the last few concentrating on what or, more importantly, whom I am most grateful for. Isn't that what life is all about, anyway? We can't create peace out of turmoil without the love of one place within us spilling over into another.

Brain Garden aka My brain is a cofeehouse of internal dialogue.

I had a paranoid thought regarding a friend. It’s easy when you feel isolated from people, whether the isolation is caused by physical or emotional distance, to replay small things they said casually in conversations, take them out of context, and dissect them. This cannot be healthy, though it does appear to be a common condition I find myself in.

Before I explain about the conversation with B, I should explain as to why I have a hard time remembering conversations verbatim, settling mostly for the gist of what went down. The thing is, I constantly have a few conversations going on in an ever-going internal dialogue on top of whatever it is I’m talking about with those around me. One conversation processes everything I’m seeing. But then, I ask myself questions like, “Do I like the green hat because it brings out the butterscotch highlights in that girl’s hair or is this a color that is on the rise in popularity that I should probably incorporate into a top or some sort of accent, like binding?” 

While I’m studying the girl in the green hat, I’ll simultaneously be writing. I have had a list of characters filed away in my head to reference when I get to actually writing. Nevermind that I haven’t “actually written” anything in years. The list remains and continues to grow. At that moment, I was adding a character with chronic Asian hair envy to the list. This girl would notice something beautiful about asian girls everywhere she went; inspired by an earlier thought that only asian girls can bleach their hair and have butterscotch highlights and not have hair accents the color and texture of hay. Mediterranean gene FAIL.Although, that would be a challenge to translate into sci-fi.

While all that is going on, I’m also maneuvering how I can turn a conversation a certain way so I can casually bring up something I’m absolutely dying to talk about. It’s important to me to hear all about other people first before I dive into what feels like my MEmeMEme spiel. I don’t like to lose what’s important in life in the mix. There should be balance.

Oh, and on top of all that, I can sit on a bench with B, enjoying a hot, fruity tea beverage in the middle of a bustling Queens neighborhood, talking about politics. I do not think I can be the only person on Earth who consistently has multiple conversations articulating in my head. Also, those are not the subjects my mind is limited to while conversing; there are many, many issues on my mind at any given time. There is no back burner. There’s a massive garden and every person, place, or issue, big or seemingly small, has a flower pot containing it and that my brain feels compelled to feed. Nothing ever dies in my brain garden. As cluttered as that may seem, I’ve always preferred a baroque-esque garden with layers upon overgrown layers. 

However, those were just merely a few issues on my mind, the eternal coffeehouse in my head, me chattering away with myself and other versions of me, and sometimes actual physical people in the real world, like B when she called me a Republican even though I voted for Obama.

Why would I dissect that? I’ve admitted to being Republican in the past. Just lately, it feels like an insult; it no longer feels like part of me, or even relative. It’s another version of me, tucked away in the garden behind the thorny raspberry bush called Ex-Boyfriends. I forget about those plants sometimes. Why should it bother me if others don’t?

Why is this bothering me four months later?

How Best Buy Managed to Ruin My Easter and Easter Hasn't Happened Yet.

Let this be a cautionary tale, should the temptation to purchase an appliance from this awful, hateful place ever arise in your life. Best Buy has ruined my Easter holiday with their disorganization and their flat out lies.

Their free delivery actually costs you the price of your sanity and freedom. You will lose time out of work as they botch your order continuously. You will get a great deal on items they won't actually deliver on the day they claim. Don't worry, when they cancel your order for no reason, they'll let a really young girl leave a valley girl sounding message on your voice mail. "We, like, totally hope that we can sell you another washer dryer."

Let me start from the beginning.

This past Saturday, I bought a washer and dryer set from the Best Buy in Signal Hill, California. My fiancé and I left the store excited for our new lives free of laundromats to begin. The woman who had helped us, Kathy, had been honest sounding and very sweet. She seemed sincere in wanting us to have the best experience, working with the measurements of our space to get us the best machines for our fit. She even set up the appliances to be delivered on Tuesday so we could have them in just a couple days.
We were so excited. We went out and bought the drip pan she said we'd need right away. Tuesday came and I couldn't believe my luck that the delivery people were on time! That never happens.
One of the movers stayed behind with the truck while the other mover came to our apartment upstairs.
He didn't measure the space, but told me right away it wouldn't fit. I told him we'd cross checked our measurements. He said that because a vent was in a certain place, it would push the machines away from the wall an extra couple of inches. This wouldn't be a big deal, except the laundry alcove has a threshold where the floor dips down two inches deep. The mover told us we would need to raise the level of the floor in order for it to fit, but that it would be fine afterwards.
I alerted my fiancé about this and right away he had his father, who is a carpenter, make a platform out of very heavy, strong wood to raise the floor level. After I spoke to him, giving the needed dimensions for the area where the platform would need to sit, I went back to the Best Buy store where we bought the washer and dryer set and rescheduled a new time for them to be re-delivered. I couldn't spare more time away from work, so I settled on Saturday.
This meant that Tim and I wouldn't be able to go on the Easter family vacation we'd been looking forward to. Anxious to get this over with, I agreed and set up the delivery time for then. That night, Tim broke the news to his parents that we wouldn't be celebrating Easter with them, after all. That they would have to go without us. We surrendered our tickets to some family friends, to our own and our family's disappointment.
This is when Best Buy turned evil on us.

This morning, Tim received a call from a teenage sounding girl apologizing that our order was cancelled, that she really hoped Best Buy could put the money towards another washer and dryer set. He called me right away and asked me to check up on it. He said he was sure the girl had made a mistake, that he had information confused, that this couldn't have happened.
"What makes you say that?" I asked.
"She used the word 'like' about 8 times in a thirty second voice mail. No one who does that can know what they're doing."
Valid point, it seems.
I called the Best Buy Signal Hill location and, this time spoke to Mike who sounded like a sincere person, but might actually have turned out to be the exact opposite.

I told Mike the whole story. He said that he saw our note from the day before, that he would call the warehouse and see. Like Tim, he was doubtful the order could have been cancelled.
"That must have been received in error. We didn't cancel the order so there's no way it could have been."
Regardless, he'd said that he'd call the warehouse and see what the problem was. I didn't hear back for over an hour.
He apologized, told me the warehouse cancelled the order, which he stressed they weren't even supposed to be allowed to do. He said the note on the cancellation was that the washer and dryer units wouldn't fit at all in the space. I told him that was not what happened and he said that he knew.
"Unfortunately, once an order is cancelled, it's cancelled. There's nothing we can do about it but create a new order. I can get the units out to you on Tuesday..."
I explained that Tuesday was unacceptable. That I had done everything right and that this was their mistake. I politely let him know that the warehouse should do whatever they needed to do to fix this mistake, and that would be getting the units I already paid in cash for to my on Saturday.
He said he'd call me back. He did, and told me that they would be shipped to me *this* Saturday. Pleased, I thanked him for all his help. Little did I know, he'd flat out lied to me.
My fiancé just received an email saying that the washer and dryer units are not supposed to be delivered until Saturday April 6th.

I have never been so disgusted with a company. I will never give my business to Best Buy again. I won't buy anything there, not a Blue Ray, not a video game. They will never get one penny out of me ever again.

And certainly, reader, they do not deserve your business, either.

3/29/13 Update: We received an email confirming the delivery will be happening that Saturday, after all. Keeping in mind Best Buy's behavior up until this point, the review will remain up until the units are actually delivered. 

3/30/13 Update: The delivery people showed up, made up a code and claimed we were breaking it. I have since researched this code and found that, for a fact, it does not exist. This means the delivery people just didn't want to do their jobs. I called the Best Buy in Signal Hill that we bought the appliances from and they sent over people who happened to be working at the time. These people showed up with a great attitude, despite the fact they were definitely doing something not in their job description. They were knowledgeable, hooked up the washer dryer set like pros, and stayed until they were sure everything was hooked up correctly. They were courteous and pragmatic in the installation process.
However disappointed I am in their choice of delivery company, I couldn't be more pleased with Best Buy's Signal Hill employees.

Today's Meditation: The War of Internal Progress

Looking back seems to lead to results of which no good ever comes. Usually, nostalgia makes me insecure, opens old wounds, makes me feel [thiscloseto] where I began when I was looking to change. Sometimes, though, the stars align, a blue moon shines down on us, and the rare occurrence happens where you look back at where you once were and can witness the obvious progress you've made.

Today, I had such a delight.

I decided to tally all the work I've done for my employer which happened to make it into their runway show. It is by no means the sum of all the projects I've done for work, but it does show the strengths I've developed over the past year and a half.It shows the responsibilities they trust me with.

I added a sampling to the bottom right of the screen, if you scroll down you can see it.

When every day has felt like a fight within myself to become a better patternmaker, seeing the progress I've made is not only inspiring to continue this internal battle, but it shows me that I am valuable, that the struggle is worth it. I am worthy of working here, of being among these talented people. Of course, I borrow their talent every so often (as they borrow mine). It shows me, though, that I can do this.

Gosh darn it, I might make it, after all. 

Today's Meditation: Concentration on Lack of Exhibitionism, Intended or Otherwise

God[dess],

Please help me to "sit more like a lady." It's something I obviously need to work on.


Especially when wearing skirts.


I thank you in advance for your help in providing me with the strength to overcome this challenging obstacle and achieve the connected-at-the-knees-ness that I so desperately seek this afternoon. Please, if not for my benefit, for Everyone Else's.

God[dess] bless yourself.

-ERF

Talent Vs Aesthetic

 not the painting described below

    Recently, my fiancé and I attended an art show where someone we love was co-DJing. We showed up, drank some wine, nibbled on horsdevours, and discussed art. When we'd made our way through the gallery, we continued wandering the streets of Downtown Long Beach hungry for more art and a restless drive, hopping from one art show to the next, not quite able to get our fill. Were our interests piqued or were we bored? Surprisingly, and rather unfortunately, the difference between the two was difficult to determine.
     We found ourselves in one particular gallery looking at an abstract on a canvas so huge, it took up the entire wall of the alcove in which it hung. It was a play on colors: strong reds, three different shades of blue, some green thrown in, and organic looking black lines (for stability, I suppose). It what was I think of as a Rorschach test but in a painting form; what you see might depend on your mindset.
    My parents had a similar painting which my uncle had made in his "reckless-artist-turned-political-activist-turned-home-wrecker" phase, reached somewhere in his mid to late twenties. My mom always swears she sees the naked body of a married woman he was known for seducing within it. I see a fabulous dress and the blurry colors of lights on a busy street at night, after a rain. Like I said, everyone sees what's already inside their mind. My mom sees her brother's annoyingly carefree lifestyle. I see a party and the after effects of rain.
     There was a moment of silence while we each contemplated our own thoughts, then Tim asked, "Wouldn't it be wonderful if someone just gave us a piece of art like this?"
     I disagreed.
      "Why? It's art. It's interesting. It's colorful. It takes up a lot of wall space. What more would you want?"
    I told him about the painting in my parents' house, how everyone saw something different.
     "Exactly," he urged, "It's a conversation piece."
     "Yeah, but then you're stuck having the same conversation with guests over and over again. It's very monotonous. How many times can you talk about a piece of art until you do what my parents did: stick it in the basement."
     "They stuck it in the billiards room."
     "Yeah, the basement."
    He called me a cynic and accused me of being merely jealous that I cannot paint like this, to which I responded that maybe I could make a painting like this, I just don't have the motivation to because it's not a goal whose achievement I aspire to. The end result isn't a desirable one, so why would it matter if I could or couldn't? And further more, would the jealousy of not having talent to do something really be a deterrent to the perception of a work of art, or whether something is considered a work of art?
     I consider cubism to be art, and Picasso to completely be more brilliant, creative, and talented far, far, far beyond my means. That doesn't mean I'd want "Les Demoiselles d'Avignon," hanging in my living room. Although, that would be an excellent conversation piece.

 

     What exactly is the difference between accepting something as art, appreciating the talent & the creativity it took to bring the idea to life and wanting something hanging on your wall? Is it merely the [in]ability to assign part of yourself to the art - I chose this therefor something within the art represents me, or the fear thereof? Or, is it that we can love and appreciate something while also looking down on it?

I'm a Unicorn! Part II

 As you can see, it was a costume made on a tight deadline and with a limited budget. But, from what I was working with, I think I'm proud of this costume.
I'm having a lot of trouble not wearing it out on the streets of Long Beach as if it were a regular top.
Does it have to be a costume??

Prenatal Vitamins and the Art of Faking Conversation.

I've been trying to take Hair, Skin, Nails vitamins for a while now. They're glamour vitamins, similar to One-a-Days but with extra amounts of certain vitamins that make you look better. Some cheap HSNs contain only the "beautifying" vitamins, but I have been picking ones with the full range so my health doesn't suffer for my vanity.
Daily V's have always given me tummy aches, so it came as no surprise when the beefed up ones gave me wicked stomach cramps. Not the Boston version of 'wicked,' but the original, real meaning. These cramps were evil. Since the dosage was two pills, I split them up with my meals: one at breakfast, the other at lunch. I still would feel uncomfortable, though.
So, at a recent check-up, I happened to mention my issue and my doctor recommended Prenatals, but in a chewable, gummy version. She said that they are easier to digest (it is) while containing basically the same nutritional boost (it's pretty close).

On the way to Target a few days later, I started to tell my fiancé about what my doctor said. We had a convo that started with my story but then morphed into him also getting chewable vitamins in case the gumminess made taking a one-a-day more tempting/easier for him to take, too.
We spent half and hour to gather $80 worth of crap, of which ten minutes of that time as spent in a vitamin isle. I noticed Tim was acting strangely during this time but thought nothing of it because of how much he dislikes going to Target. I just figured he was cranky.
We bought our items, grabbed our two bags & paper towels, and headed to the car. When we were out of earshot from toddlers and their pearl clutching mothers, Tim nudged me with the edge of his bag and, in a deliberately calm voice, asked, "What the hell?"
Assuming I'd missed something epically Orange Trashy County or classically Long Ghetto Beach, I began looking around me curiously. "What happened?!" I replied. 

"Are you pregnant?" He asked with an edge to his voice.

I stared at him, confused and 'getting it' at the same time - which is a very strange feeling. 

"You're talking about the pre-natals?"

"Yeah."

"Remember when we were in the car talking about what we were planning on buying and we started talking about vitamins?"

He nodded.

"Did you tune me out for a little bit before that?"

His intensely serious facial expression softened as he remembered and his eyes had the faraway look of connecting dots. 

"Tim, honey," I said. "You are really good at tuning me out while convincingly faking a conversation."

As we climbed into the car, I told the whole story again, laughing at his sheepish responses. I clowned him for not hearing me, teasing him about learning a lesson. But I wonder if it was a lesson learned or a hole in the development of a practiced talent.