Meditation and the Mexican Riviera

I silently stand as I watch the rest of the world float boastfully away.  I've begun to realize that I want so much more than I have allowed myself to believe I can receive in this sad world of limitations I call my life.  Of the few things I can honestly say I know, I've grown to understand that I am more than my fears and insecurities, more than the tiny 5' I stand up to, the wrinkles on my face, Alcoholics Anonymous and the medication that I take; more than the clothes I wear and the shoes I own.  Surrounding these realities, lifestyle choices and possessions are nothing but limitations.  I am imperfect in the most beautiful of ways and I do not want to be anything beyond happy.  I've spent the past 3 years in the doors of AA feeling as if I just don't fit.  I've done everything that's been asked of me; taken every suggestion that has been given me; gone above and beyond as a member of this program for the sake of my sobriety and sense of peace.  Although, I have not been peaceful.  Not at all.  I spent a week on a cruise in the Mexican Riviera with my family.  All 45 of them.  Nothing terrible happened.  Everyone seemed to get along quite well.  There was tanning, and drinking, dancing, and more drinking, dressing up and dining out, eating, drinking, eating, drinking.  There was one particular moment where my father dressed up as Elvis and sang Little Sister on Karaoke night.  Dear God, the faux gold sunglasses with the attached sideburns made me rub my eyes in disbelief.  Memories of him in that very same suit 12 years ago, he still hasn't grasped on to the importance of   choosing the right colored underwear.

I don't know how to describe my dad's side of the family.  Some would say they are "larger than life".  I suppose it's accurate.  Other words such as "grandiose", "intimidating", "loud", and "debaucherous" seem to level in importance.  There were nights when they looked like they stepped right off the set of Dynasty.  Others resembled J. Crew Models, kids and all.  I sat there sober, in my flannel and ripped jeans and couldn't for the life of me, figure what part of my blood was theirs.  I wanted to drink.   I wanted heels that were six inches tall, I wanted botox and hair extensions, the proper skills to apply eye shadow and an understanding of how to use a curling iron.  These were all things I lacked and am normally quite proud of lacking for that matter.  But I was pervaded in self-doubt.  I couldn't even smile for the 1,684 pictures I had to smile for.  You know when your lips are curled in an awkward angle and your eyes are slanted sadly downwards, like happiness is a far reaching hole in the center of the world and your hands uselessly dig and find nothing but an endless supply of the very dirt that fills your thoughts and your chest; grainy and tasteless.  That was my face for 7 days straight.  I don't think I could ever truly enjoy a situation like that.  1 or 2 days would be just fine, 3 would be pushing it, four would be flat out uncomfortable and anything beyond that is just suicide.  I love my family from a distance and I'm okay with that.  The fact is, the misery that came with the trip was unbearable.  I was depressed and insecure.  I could give about 2 hours of myself at a time but would always have to spend another 2 hours in my room trying to recuperate.  Truthfully, I think I could do better than that.  AA is not working for me anymore.  It hasn't for a long, long time, in spite of my best efforts.  I'm just not sure I want to spend my life telling myself that I'm a selfish, self-centered alcoholic; that I'm sick and destined to be uncomfortable; that it's normal to want to crawl out of my skin all of the time;  that I need to constantly be focused on what I am doing wrong if I want to feel peace.  These do not seem like behaviours that will lead to happiness.  At least not for me.  Maybe for countless others, but not for me.  I've decided to take another route.  Prayer and meditation, regularly, every day.  I've also decided to get my yoga certification.  I need a lifestyle change, something that involves a more positive approach to life.  I've been unhappy and scared for as long as I can remember and I'm tired of it.  The black and white thinking, the belief that I either devote my life to AA or I will drink and die is not the kind of thinking I wish to indulge in any longer.  I'm tired of blaming myself and Hunter for every unhappy thought I experience.  It doesn't have to be this way.  I want to embrace life, not dread it.

So that's where I am at.  It's been a long time since I've checked in.  I became blocked creatively and started to spend my time watching Breaking Bad and obsessing about ever feeling I had every moment that I had it.  Sharing my obsession with Walter White and his gang of meth heads wasn't at all what I had planned for myself when I moved up here.  I wouldn't even call it depression, just stagnancy; planted on our couch surrounded by air, words and thoughts that seemed to be planted with me.  No movement, no yearning, just the shrill, static resonance of utter and complete, emotional dormancy.  To hell with Netflix and every episode of Dexter, fuck speaking of which, there's a new episode available on megavideo.  I wonder if I watch Dexter and than meditate, do they cancel each other out?  Oh well, Dexter makes me happy and that's all there is to it.  My goal is peace, not perfection.  Not sure when I will write again, but Happy Holidays to everyone.

Yessss!!!

Sometimes I can't believe this is my home.  Berkeley, and when I say Berkeley I'm referring to the entire Bay area, San Francisco, Oakland, everything, is the most wonderful place I have ever lived.  I spend my days off hiking through the trails of Tilden National Forest.  I watched the sunset behind the city, I stared in wonder at the way the Bay Bridge glistens against the water and smiled at the way the Golden Gate stands against the horizon with such an amazing sense of authority.  All of this, along with the layers of trees and greenery that blanket the hills leading up to Tilden Park was seen from Sea View Point, just a 15 minute drive and one beautiful hike from my apartment.  I also spent a little time sunbathing on the beach at Lake Azna.  It's quaintness and simplicity is so serene I could have just lied there all day, taking in the scenery, the voices of those around me, the naked toddlers frolicking in the cool water.  I find myself smiling for no reason sometimes; I guess that's what it means to be happy.  Eyes closed, soft breadth, faint smiles that seem to last a life time, after so many years with my lips curved in a frown.  I am a woman in love with everything around me.  I find myself waiting for the other shoe to drop, like any moment I will wake up and realize that I don't belong here, that it was all a mistake, that my false sense of happiness will be humbled before my own disillusionment.  But it never comes.  I don't need a dose of reality, all of this is real and I am happy.  Life is what it is, but, in spite of the fears and insecurities that bite me in the ass on occasion, I am, without a doubt, truly, madly, deeply. . .happy.  I think it's important to recognize that sometimes.  Often times my words and perceptions are soaked in their own sorrow and I find myself wanting to shake it off of me like a wet dog and just go play. 

My Confrontation with Rosa Parks' Much Younger Evil Sister and Emma Stone's Big Fat Face

Hunter and I went to see the movie The Help last night.  Being the 2nd night open we were dealing with a rather full theater.  As we were looking for a seat we discovered two black women sitting in between 2 empty seats, one of them had her coat and purse on it so I asked if the seat was taken and they said no and that I could sit there.  So than I asked if the seat to her left was taken and, again, she said no and that I could sit there as well.  So I took a deep breath and I worked up the nerve to kindly and politely as possible, ask them if they would be willing to move over one seat so my boyfriend and I could sit together.  To my astonishment they actually looked me in the eye and said "no, you can sit in this seat here or that one right there but these are the seats that we chose."  Now I don't consider myself to be a racist person, that would imply that I have a centralized lack of tolerance for one single group of people, when, in reality I have a centralized lack of tolerance towards all people.  Don't act like an asshole and than scream discrimination.  White, black, Asian, Indian, I don't care, if you're going to be rude than I am going to contemplate punching you in the face.  So when I considered either screaming, "Who are you, fucking Rosa Parks!", taking the lid off of our coke and throwing it in their faces or simply sitting next to them and harassing them throughout the movie by reaching across their laps and grabbing handfuls of popcorn from Hunter every 2 minutes, it was directly related to the fact that these women were assholes, not because they were black.  Unfortunately we were the only white people in a theater showing a movie about violence and repression against blacks, so I thought better of it simply because I had just paid $22 to see the movie and didn't want to get kicked out before the previews had even started.  Not to mention, we're new to the city and I didn't want my name on the front of the paper as a violent bigot assaulting a poor black woman.  There is definitely a time and place for things.   So I hung my head and went to the Neck-Strain Section of the theater and spent the full 2 hours looking up Emma Stone's 42" nose.

Adaptation

Excitement is a strange thing.  In the past month and a half I have road-tripped across America, traveled out of the country, quit 2 jobs, packed my entire apartment, moved upstate, started a new job and began a Facebook account.  Although the last one mentioned appears to be trivial, I have spent the past 5 years boycotting it, so, in that respect, it is very exciting.  Berkeley is amazing.  The city is beautiful.  The people are kind and tolerant and interesting.  And we have an unbelievable apartment.  I love it here, Hunter and I fell right into the groove of a new city.  I was able to find a job within an hour of searching.  It's another waitressing gig but the people are nice and it pays well, in fact, they offer paid vacations and insurance, so I'm pretty happy with it.

Change, even the best kind, is still difficult.  I find myself fighting bouts of depression, but I guess that comes with the territory.  I find myself feeling jumbled and scattered.  Sometimes making simple decisions seem excessively overwhelming and I fall in and out of different stages of worry over random things.  I have to remind myself that it's normal and try not to over think everything the way I so often do.  Hunter has been a little difficult.  He hates doing work around the apartment.  Hanging a headboard or setting up a shelf is enough to throw him over the edge, every time he struggles with a measurement he starts swearing and has to go for a walk..  For the past week we have been living on the corner of Cordial and Fuck Off.  Not to mention I don't like living in a mess.  The place is definitely coming along, We have all the important things unpacked and there is finally room to live.  It's mostly hanging decor now and purchasing a few more things here and there.  But I still have a hard time relaxing and enjoying our new home/city when there are boxes that still need unpacking.  I tend to want to put everything on hold until the place is complete, while Hunter tends to want to say, "screw the place" and go have fun.  Unfortunately, I need someone to hold wall art up for me to determine where it should go and I still don't know how to use an anchor. 

All in all, we are happy.  My escape from L.A. has been nearly effortless.  Sometimes I wonder how I lasted 3 whole years there.  When we were taking the 7 hour drive up here from Long Beach I honestly felt like I couldn't get enough distance between myself and Southern California fast enough.  

So, here we are. . . 

Sexxxx Part 2

Dear readers,
I recently decided to erase my post called "sexxxxxx".  When I wrote it, I felt confused and angry about some uncomfortable situations that occurred between Hunter and I.  I decided to take the post down because I realized that it wasn't fair to Hunter to bring his personal life into my blog.  I don't know a person on this planet that doesn't struggle with sex on some level.  For me, I tend to view men and their sexuality as bad, dangerous and dishonest.  I have had to work really hard to trust Hunter and enjoy what we have instead of viewing it as something that will one day be used against me.  My relationship with him has taught me how to accept, respect and trust another person on an intimate level.  His patience and kindness towards me has given me a sense of ease and enjoyment that I never felt with another man before and I'm lucky he's as understanding as he is.  We are all children of God working to become better human beings and I owe it to myself and to him to respect his privacy and not shame him for his sexuality.  I made it about me and it's not.  The truth is, learning to live with someone, peacefully, and set healthy boundaries that still allow each person to be themselves is a difficult challenge and, after 2 years, him and I are both still learning how to do it with respect and love.  I know I'm with a man that is nothing like my father, I know he will always be loyal and faithful to me and I hope I didn't give anybody the wrong impression of the kind of person he is.  Thank you to all of you who keep coming back and reading what I write.

The Power of Distraction

It's strange, between the move, trying to find an apartment working our asses off and planning the road trip back home to Chicago, mine and Hunter's world has been turned inside out and my biggest concern is what brand of Authentic Black Soap I should use.  Our latest obsession has been a hostile and rather psychotic landlord that goes by the name of "Cozyrooms."  He left a not so friendly email after I asked him a few questions regarding his apartment that he felt could have been answered had I "properly read the Craig's list ad".  Now Hunter and I have been exchanging some mischievous banter back and forth with the guy who, i am now just beginning to realize, is very possibly mentally challenged.  I can't think of any other excuse for his behavior.  It's been going on for 4 days now and it keeps getting more and more bizarre on his end and abundantly amusing on ours.  We have spent hours mocking this nut job and he keeps coming back with emails that say we're "knee-jerkers", "A-Holes",  and that he has "complete control over us."  Fuck it, I'll share them with you.

US-"My boyfriend and I would like to schedule an appointment to view the apartment June 14th-after 12 or anytime the 15th (we will be coming from Long Beach).  We understand that it could be rented out by that point, but, in the event that it isn't, I would still like to set something up with you.  Please let me know what day and time works best for you.  Also, can you please tell me if the kitchen is an eat-in kitchen? And do you happen to know the square footage or general dimensions?  Since we are so far away at this point it helps to get as much information as possible. 
Thank you and I look forward to meeting with you."


COZYROOMS-"You obviously did not read the listing."

US-"Sure, you said it is a small kitchen with a dining area, so I suppose that answers our question, but you said nothing about total square footage.  Obviously you're acting hostile simply because you don't know how to use a tape measure, but that's o.k.  These things are difficult.  Thank you very much for helping us with the landlord elimination process.  You're clearly not someone we would want to give our hard earned money to."

COZYROOMS-"A-Hole

The listing clearly states same day appointments only and no email appointments.

I rule out A-Holes like YOU because you just want to lord over and order people about.
No, I do NOT measure units – that’s for prospects to determine for themselves.

You think that I am disappointed in not having TENANT FROM HELL like YOU?!!! Duh?  I am a psychologist and can tell a A-Hole Tenat jerk immediately.  Go abuse someone else A-Hole with your phony “thank yous”. Stuff yourself you know where."

US-"For a psychologist you sure have poor grammar, inadequate vocabulary, and atrocious people skills.  Besides, we all know that your education is far over rated and unnecessary.  By the way, can you please explain to me what a "tenat" is and what kind of a person uses the word "duh" when trying to validate his/her own righteousness?  Please keep them coming, us "A-Holes" are loving this!" 

COZYROOMS-"Go haunt and harass some poor naive owner – that’s who you are looking for with your tactics – you tenants from hell – so you can scam and harm some person. You hate FILLED ass-holes. You revealed yourself immediately to me – and then you could not resist.  You just can not resist.  Just knee-jerk – mentally controlled by your knee-jerk. Keep it up – who cares.  You are NOT in my unit. That’s the bottom line. Loser."

US-"You know we just feel way too sorry for you to keep going with this.  We wanted to get some info on the apartment at first.  You immediately showed us who you are with your hostile and intolerant response.  You don't know the first thing about conducting business, and we really feel bad for the unfortunate people who rent from you.  Clearly you are unstable so we will leave you alone now.  Good luck. 
P.S. you probably shouldn't lie to people about being a psychologist.  It's too transparent.
P.P.S.  You should have put an emphasis on "ass-holes" rather than "filled" but bonus points for actually spelling the word out this time, "A-Holes" just didn't have the same effect.
P.P.P.S.  Can we speak to your mother now-the adults need to have a little chat."

COZYROOMS-"No, fool.  I immediately had your number and rejected YOU – TENANT FROM HELL.  I Do NOT deal with ass-hole, losers like you and cut you out immediately as I did. You took the bait and you revealed yourself. You were not trying to get more info – you were trying to set up your knee-jerk habitual over-lording control trip and you failed. I am indeed a sickologist – deal with sickos like YOU and l have a long long list of published books, too.  You are a failure and will always be a failure because of your out of control knee-jerk responding.  Your life is a failure and you will always be a failure because you are not able to control yourself and you will never be able to control yourself. Knee-jerker!!!!!

YOU ARE A LOSER!
A HOMELESS LOSER!!!!!!!!!!!!!

US-"Oh my God you are out of your mind.  You say you were done with us
immediately, but you keep responding to our emails and giving us more
to laugh about.  It's really pathetic.  Are you aware that we are only
sending you these emails because we just think you're amusing?  Do
yourself a favor.  See a real psychologist.  Also, it would probably
serve you well to actually learn how to write.  It feels like I'm
receiving emails from a 5 year old.  Get a thesaurus as well.  There's
other words besides knee jerk and loser.  By the way Sybil,
congratulations on your many published books.  I'm glad the county
psyche ward allows their occupants to use crayons.  Keep the emails
coming.  We always look forward to them."

COZYROOMS-"Ass-hole, loser, tenant from hell . . . . YOU are the one who said she was done. . .  But you cannot control your knee-jerk jerking . . . . You absolutely cannot control yourself and you will continue with your praddle because you cannot control yourself.

Come on, Homeless Loser, keep on sending your idiot, projection messages.

I DEMAND THAT YOU CONTINUE. I have YOU under control and you WILL do as I DEMAND.

Just keep it it, Tenant From Hell . . .  You loser.

I DEMAND THAT YOU CONTINUE and you will do as I DEMAND. And you WILL respond to paradoxical intention - because YOU are a fool and YOU are a loser and YOU can not control yourself and YOU will live a LOSER'S LIFE!!!!!!!!

Now do as I DEMAND,

lil knee-jerk loser!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Ha, Ha, Ha, Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa"

US-"Woohoo! We just got an amazing apartment that blows your pathetic
piece of crap listing out of the water!  Oh and the landlord is
amazing!  Homeless losers my ass moron!"

COZYROOMS-"Ah, my obedient Lil Twit!!!!! Landlords who rent - in this hot snap-everything-great-right-up market - to Twits, sight unseen over the internet are desperate and reckless. Amazing?  And seductive!!!! Oh, yeah!

And what have you gotten into? Yeah! Lil Twit, yeah!!!!!!!! You really imagine this amazing landlord took you, Lil Twit, over someone here - who can be seen and screened?  You really imagine that, huh? Ahhh, desperate folks turn to the internet and full of themselves unsuspecting  Lil Twits.

Moron, is a higher grade level than Lil Twit, the A-Hole, who imagines she is oh sooooo smart - and clever.

Now, you WILL OBEY ME and YOU WILL write some more of your praddle - so that I am entertained by my experiments and studying YOU!!!!!

Yeah, Lil Twit. You WILL obey! Got it, Twit!!!!!!"

We stopped there, it started to get boring.  I know it's excessive and we probably could have been doing far more productive things and, yes, we completely antagonized the weirdo, but can you blame us?  I don't know, the shopping and hate mail just seemed like a comforting distraction from my fear of change and my poor management in stressful situations.  I'll be the first to admit that I don't handle stress well.  I've had a vaginal infection for nearly 2 months now which I believe is a direct result of it.  On top of that, I get flaky, for example, this morning I tried to brush my teeth using my vaginal gel instead of toothpaste.    

Hunter and I are doing our best not to strangle each other in the process of everything that's going on.  The fear of not having a job to depend on for a month or possibly more is a bit overwhelming.  We have to pack and paint and Hunter is a slob to begin with, so along with the enormous lack of organization that encompasses a home full of half filled boxes constantly taunting a control freak like myself, I find myself cleaning up after him on an hour to hour basis; half drunk bottles of coke, glasses of water scattered through out every room like were on the set of the movie Signs, every pen I own stuck in some crevice of our sofa; I'm finding it difficult not to lose it, and I think he knows it too.  We got into a huge argument the other day over who can pack faster.  I actually yelled the words, with the utmost sincerity, "oh, I could so totally pack faster than you Hunter!" and of course he responded with "I don't think so."  Followed by me yelling, "I think so!  Well at least I would be thorough!!"  It was so stupid we both wound up laughing.  Luckily our recovery time has improved drastically.

Really though, a lot of good things are happening.  The move up north just feels so right and our road trip back home is going to be so much fun, both of us exploring parts of America we haven't seen before.  We're going to be visiting Sedona, Santa Fe, Austin, New Orleans, and spending 4th of July in Nashville.  In all my cynicism, I know I've taken this country for granted.  My goal for the trip is to face each and every moment of it with honor and gratitude.  I feel like I've spent the past few years mistaking America's presence for it's politics and as a result I've grown bitter and resentful.  But I think I'm ready to let that go.  Between The Artist's Way and my sponsor, I'm finally learning how to have fun in life.  It's kind of sad to say bu I never really knew how.  Even in the greatest moments I have found something to be sad, angry or fearful about.  It's exhausting.  Life is just too exciting to spend it miserable all the time.  So I'm going to blast some Cat Stevens, say "fuck it" and Harold and Maude my way through the next 3 months.  I'll keep you updated.

Dearest Anonymous

"is this how all bipolars really think? cause my biopolar boyfriend drives me crazy.....i love him with all my heart but he never can tell me how he feels about me he always acts like he doesnt what me around him theres no affection im lucky we have sex twice a month..help me to understand cause i dont plan on leaving him i just need to understand this thank you" -anonymous

My dear friend,
I don't know if you'll get this blog or not but I am writing it for you and any other loved ones out there that have people in their lives that struggle with a mental illness. 

I cannot speak for every bipolar person out there, I know my own experience and I know that there are definitely certain traits that we do all share.  I don't know you're boyfriend.  He is probably, at the heart of it all, a good man who is just struggling with a mental illness.  Many people say that there are many different types of Bipolar Disorder, I, personally, believe there are only 2: the types who don't allow themselves to be victimized by their disorder, and the types that do.  I have been both through out the years.  I have fallen into mania and expected my loved ones to accept and, somehow, appreciate, my behavior; submitting to the convenience of insanity and hoping that, by doing so, I would never have to look, honestly at myself.  Other times I have perished into the shadows of depression, feeling terrified.  Governed by my own self-loathing, I was often completely unaware, or better stated, unconcerned with the worry and frustration it caused the people that loved me.  I have contemplated suicide on and off for the past 20 years, sometimes I wanted to make people worry, but other times I truly believed that I was doing them all a great big favor.  I separated myself from people because it was easier then actually doing any of the work.  I surrendered to depression because it was what I knew and it was familiar.  I remember thinking about killing myself at the early age of 9.  When I fell into manic episodes I would come alive and it felt like such a sweet relief from wanting to die all the time.  I would spend money, call people I hadn't talked to in years, chain smoke and stay up all night writing.  Other times I would get viciously angry and violent with people, punching walls, lockers at school, a nearby shoulder or what ever other hard surface I could hit with the hope that it would relieve me of the inner tension I was experiencing.  I couldn't understand how, when only 1/2 an hour prior to this sudden fit of rage, I was hugging an old enemy. 

I hurt people when I was manic and I hurt people when I was depressed.  I spent my life making everyone around me responsible for my feelings, as well as my life.  I was constantly engaging in insane behavior and then being unable to comprehend why people thought I was insane.  I felt trapped and scared and afraid that I would never escape the hell I was always in.  I was awkward around people, I desperately wanted friends and since I honestly did not believe I had anything to offer anybody (which was kind of true),  erraticism and victimization was my method in achieving some level of connection with the rest of the world.  I was either going to be the crazy, fun girl or the poor martyr surrounded by oppressive circumstances beyond her control.  I lacked the basic tools to function on a day-to-day basis with the rest of the world.  "They didn't understand me, I was different from them."  Of course none of this was actually reality, and all this thinking ever did was alienate me.  In the end, I always got what I asked for-separation and loneliness.

Support is good, when the person you re supporting is involved in supportable behavior.  I have chosen to seek out help where ever I can get it.  I have a therapist, a 12 step program and a sponsor, I actively take medication and I see a psychiatrist regularly.  The worst thing anyone can do for me is try to save me or enable my behavior.  The best thing my mom ever did for me was kick me out of her house and detach herself from my life.  I know it hurt her but it made me realize that I am the one who has to be responsible for my disorder and any other issues I might struggle with.  I may get stuck and I might struggle and I know I still sometimes get caught up in the victimization thing, but I have yet to give up, even when I really want to.  Although I don't always do it perfectly and thoughts of suicide still come up once in a while, I keep doing what ever it takes to be healthy and happy.  For this reason I have the support of my friends, my boyfriend and my family.    

So Anonymous, if you're boyfriend has shut you out and doesn't seem like he wants you around, remember this is his fight.  You don't have to support unacceptable behavior just because he has a mental illness.  Although it takes a little extra work, I know today that I am just as capable of happiness as every one else is and so is your boyfriend.  If he doesn't want to do the work, you don't have to stick around and watch him drown in his own sickness.  These are the choices he is making, you don't have to be a part of them.  I hope this helps.  Good luck to you.

The Three Little Pigs and Big Rad Brandi Carlile

I just got back from a Brandi Carlile concert at The House of Blues in Downtown Disney.  I have been to many concerts through out the years but she has, by far, the best stage presence of any musician I have seen.  She's beautiful and tiny with a voice that doesn't fit her physical appearance.  On top of that she has a level of humility up there that you don't normally see in singers.  I fell so madly in love with her it may be a potential threat to Hunter.


It's funny, I was so uncomfortable at first.  I really hate big crowds.  The sweat, the noise, the unending violation of personal space.  At one moment I thought about leaving before the show even started.  I figured I would make up some excuse to my cousin-food poisoning. . .that was as far as I got. I mean, really, is there ever a good reason to leave a perfectly good concert before it even starts?  I stuck out the initial feeling of claustrophobia and spent the entirety of the opening band thinking about handbags.  If I had an Iphone I would have been online shopping for one well everyone around me was swaying to some trendy Seattle boy band I can't remember the name of.  My current purse is a small, vintage handbag made from a gold and pink upholstery from the 1960's.  It's a cute little bag with two small handles.  But it's a real bitch to take to a concert.  I didn't realize that of course until I was there and everyone had purses with shoulder straps.  I feel I have greatly improved throughout the years.  I remember never feeling properly dressed for anything because I was always so uncomfortable with myself.  Now I feel pretty comfortable in my own skin, I just have yet to find the perfect handbag.  Well, this thought process got me through the first 45 minutes as I stood in one place waiting for the main act to start.  Once it did I forgot about my stupid handbag and found myself giggling and swaying to her voice. 

I wish I could say the entire experience was a fabulously flawless evening, but there were three women next to me who had their little panties all up in a bunch over the yelling and singing going on in the audience.  The one next to me was the worst.  She was this little pig in a blanket, decked out in a denim top from 1988.  I only belted out and sang along to one song, it was the first song I ever heard by Brandi Carlile and I must have listened to it over and over for a few weeks.  I made a point to memorize every word so I could sing it throughout the day.  So I sang along to that one song and for the rest of the night every time me and the girl next to her so much as gave a woohoo at the end of a song, Little Piggy Number 1 would put her hand against her ear.  At one point every one was quietly singing along to Calling All Angels and the whole time she kept looking our way and covering her ear.  I kind of wanted to lean over and shriek as loud as I could straight into her ear drum but I was afraid Little Piggies Two and Three would kick my ass.  Honestly, isn't that the fun of a good concert?  When you are surrounded by people who love the music so much they can't help but yell and sing along?  And it's not like we were all a bunch of 15 year old girls screaming for 2 hours straight, just a yelp at the end of a song, a little bit of chiming in at the chorus.  If I ever get to be that fat I hope to God I have a good personality to compensate for it.  My anal Little Piggy friend was dull and repressed and just not a happy person.  The funny thing was that half way through the night, Ms. Carlile made an observation that it sounded like there were some singers in the audience.  At which point Little Piggy Number 2 yelled, "ya, some of us are!"  And then the 3 Little Piggies all proceed to start harmonizing together to a note in one of her songs.  I started cracking up.  Who does that!?  Well, anyways, aside from the 3 Little Piggies, it was a great night.

My Love Affair with Berkeley and How to Survive Natural Selection in the Modern World

Hunter and I arrived back into Long Beach late last night after spending 2 full days exploring Berkeley.  We both fell in love with it instantly.  I have to admit, I was starting to get a little nervous in regards to my disdain for the Orange County/L.A. area.  I was beginning to wonder if it was more a symptom of my own inability to find contentment rather than an honest assessment of who I am in relation to the world around me.  I felt more at home up north, walking around the streets of Berkeley, than I ever did in Long Beach.  

It's kind of strange how different northern California is.  The dead palm trees that shed their skin along the streets are replaced with huge, sweeping trees, covered in rich shades of green.  I was amazed by how clean the city was and by how everything was in walking distance of one another, unlike the cities surrounding Long Beach, where everything takes at least 35 minutes.  The Bay area also has great public transportation, which I'm really excited about, since driving and parking in major cities is quite a liability.  On top of that, I was amazed at how kind everyone was.  It took me off guard after spending the past 3 years down here where the vainglorious sourness of its people have left me a little jaded and bitter.   Any how, I'm very excited.

We checked out an apartment near the campus that had been lived in for the past 6 years by a bachelor musician who very well had never washed a dish a day in his life.  There was literally food running down the inside of the kitchen cabinets.  I can't understand how people can let themselves get to that point.  There was a bowl of black pasta in the sink and I still am not sure if it was black on purpose or if it evolved into that color after sitting out for months on end.  The landlord told us that they were going to do a bunch of work on the place, including install hardwood floors and replace the kitchen and bathroom tile.  When he told us that, mine and Hunter's mood towards the apartment changed instantly.  We started to get a better image of what the place could be.  But when he told us he would need the deposit immediately I got a little nervous, seeing that there was no guarantee the work would be done and we would not be able to see it before we moved in.  So we went home and did some research on the properties management company that he worked for and it turns out the family that runs it (take note, in case anyone is thinking about moving up to Berkeley, the name of this company is Everest Properties) has gotten in various levels of trouble for Human Trafficking, Sexual Molestation of Minors, and there was also a death in one of their units due to carbon monoxide poisoning.  I then yelped the company and read about 30 of the most awful reviews I have ever read about them from past tenants.  Even after that, Hunter called the guy and asked about lease flexibility and the landlord hung up on him.  So that answers out question.  But we are remaining hopeful.  I'm just grateful we never put down any money.  Thank God for Yelp!  I don't know how people survived on instincts alone before the Internet came along.  I suppose prior to the web, lousy instincts were a form of population control.  Maybe Yelp alone is the reason this country is so overpopulated.  Too many people are avoiding shady situations that would normally be a threat to their safety and financial security.  Charles Darwin would have renounced the entire Yelp movement due to it's fortuitous nullification of his theory on natural selection.  Oh well, I would have been the first to go, not necessarily because I have no instincts, obviously this apartment situation proves that I do, but simply because I doubt myself too much to actual use them.  So Darwin can kiss my ass. . . .oh and so can Everest Properties, but I think that's what got them into trouble in the first place.

The Artist's Way

I've been taking a class for the past 8 weeks called The Artist's Way.  It's been incredible but has kept me so busy that I haven't had time to blog lately.  It's a 12 week course and my friend Sark has been leading it at her house.  Every Sunday night, myself and 2 other students, Dick and Decent, go over to her place to discuss the prior week and read the chapter for the following one.  It's a spiritually driven course to help people to cultivate their creativity, through weekly tasks, daily journaling and urging artists to overcome fears and blocks that might be holding them back from doing things they have always wanted to do.  It's been a pretty awesome experience.  Every week I have to journal 3 pages a day, do a variety of tasks that are assigned to help you get back in touch with your creative side, and take myself on one "artist's date" (a date with just myself doing something, anything, that could be inspirational, last week was my chocolate covered strawberries-Billie holiday-inferno experience, not my best artist's date to be honest).   A lot of it does sound hoakie and cheesy.  We're constantly reading about how to "nurture" ourselves and I have just always hated that word.  Other terms come to mind when ever that word is used, such as self-indulgence, chick soup for the soul, and Oprah.  I always envision some middle-aged rich yuppie in white linen pants and some $200 blouse from J. Crew hugging herself at the beach as she mourns the loss of her child hood summer home while reading The 7 People You Meet in Heaven.  I know that probably sounds incredibly jaded and judgmental but I really think the term "nurturing yourself" needs to be replaced with something such as "you need to Harold and Maude the shit out of life", or "try some spiritual masturbation today".  So I have been spiritually masturbating and Harold and Mauding my way through life the past 2 months and it has been quite the experience.

I do have a little trouble with one of the students in the class, Dick.  I felt like Dick was a good name for him, as there are so many dense, rotten, half-witted Dicks in the world, in fact, every time I look at him, all I see is a big, problematic Dick.   He's like a character in one of those sappy t.v. shows, like Saved by the Bell.  He's Zach Morris except he's in his 40's, has a gnarly comb over and no real mojo that makes him cool.  He comes to class every week and when it's his turn to talk about what he did last week he always says, "I didn't do anything, what were the assignments, could we go over it again?  I just didn't do it, but I don't feel guilty or anything, I feel pretty good about myself, I'm not going to beat myself up, I'm just really trying to nurture myself, by not being so hard on myself."  Then as the rest of us share he goes over the chapter and tasks again and asks if he could have another turn sharing because there were things he did without realizing it that related to the homework.  He has repeatedly asked us to change the times and the days of the class because he's too tired.  He recently wanted to change the day from Sunday to Monday because he has to come to Artist's way with only a half hour in between the class and the end of his AA meeting and it's tiring for him.  I said Monday doesn't work for me because I have a regular meeting Monday nights.  He responded by asking if I can miss it for the next 2 months because this "back to back schedule on Sunday nights really wares him out".  When I suggested we meet at 7:30 instead of 7 he said that didn't work because then he doesn't get home until 9:30 and he gets sleepy (initially the class was at 7:30 but Dick demanded we change it to 7 so he would get home sooner).  He repeatedly asks us to change things around to accommodate his needs and it's like nails on a chalk board.  Last night he even suggested that well Sark is away on vacation for the next 2 weeks, we take that time off of Artist's way so that he can catch up.  And it's not like the man is busy, he even said himself last week that he doesn't read, listen to music, watch t.v. or really even go out.  That he works an easy job and then goes to about 2 meetings a day.  I have absolutely no idea what he is doing in the class.  There are times when I just want to bitch slap him and say "maybe if you spent less time trying to cover your bald spot and hiding behind your weekly 75 Co-Dependents Anonymous meetings you might find yourself with a little more time and energy!"  Once when we were talking about cutting out activities in our day that are unproductive he actually told us at that he believes he lives the ideal life and that there is nothing he would change.  Honestly, I think I would kill myself if I lived his supposed "ideal life".  One meeting, he said he wanted to count going shopping for some "new hip clothes" as his artist's date, it took everything in me not to say "dressing like Danny Kaye from White Christmas doesn't make you a dam artist."  Of course, the good AA that I am, I said nothing and smiled at him.   Last week he said he went to the hardware store by himself and that kind of counts as an artist's date because he likes tools, I think he failed to see the relation. 4 more weeks with the guy, I know I can do it, at least i hope I can.  Tonight he told us that he doesn't feel the homework is necessary because he is already living a spiritual life and he believes that God's will for him is to go about his day and the creativity will come when God wants it to so he is not going to push it by doing the recommended weekly tasks.  Oh well, Sark says we need to show him compassion, that he's obviously in a lot of pain.  Hunter even pointed out that if a middle aged man is suffering from that big of an identity crisis, then he needs more sympathy and kindness than any of us.  So my goal for the next 4 weeks is to try and love Dick.

Rescue Me

I started a fire in the apartment today.  It was a grease fire.  I decided to make chocolate covered strawberries and figured it would be a nice way to spend my day off.  I went to one of the strawberry stands by my house and picked out the juiciest looking crate I could find.  Then I went to Trader Joes and bought two bars of their Swiss milk chocolate and a fresh bouquet of flowers.  When I got home I put on some Billie Holiday, put the flowers in the vase on our kitchen table and took our new sauce pan, put it on top of a small pot filled with oil and turned up the heat.  There was a cool breeze and the sun was shining through the kitchen window, I smelled the fresh roses and smiled to myself as I made a conscious decision to live in the moment and simply enjoy this beautiful day.  I even kicked Hunter out so I could have the place to myself. 

Anyways, I went back and forth about whether or not I should heat the chocolate with oil or water but I remember going to the Melting Pot and I recalled the way they heated each pot over hot oil and a small flame.  So I put the chocolate in the sauce pan and turned up the heat.  As I cleaned the strawberries I ate a few and placed my focus on the sweet, juicy flavor.  Every once in a while I would go back to the chocolate and stir it a little.  When the oil started to make a popping noise, I turned the heat down and then decided to take the sauce pan off the pot of oil, it was at that moment, as I picked the pan up and a stream of air entered into the hot oil that the entire pot went up in flames.  I remember staring at it and thinking about the flaming cheese they served at Greek restaurants.  I thought about yelling OOOOMPA and imagined that this wasn't really any different from a hairy Greek waiter carrying a plate of saganaki and figured it would slowly die down and go out.  Unfortunately the flame began to climb out of the pot, the hands of hell reaching for anything flammable to grab onto.  It's amazing, both my elementary and junior high years were filled with fire education.  They teach you what to do, how to respond to different types of fires, and the big no no's of fire safety.  What they don't seem to tell you is that, in the event of a fire, you will most likely panic and forget everything you learned in the first place.  I'm sure it doesn't help that, during those years that we were given the opportunity to learn about fire safety rules, I was a hormonal 12 year old at the cusp of puberty and they always seemed to send some sexy, uniformed 20 something fireman in a pair of package-pinching pants to educate our overly-stimulated, sexually driven minds that were already cursed with poor attention spans and a knack for making guest speakers exceedingly uncomfortable.  So, I did the one thing you're never supposed to do, I took my flaming metal pot, dropped it in the sink and turned on the faucet.  What happened at the point almost seems too big to define, like my description of the blast would be an insult to fires everywhere, and, being that I have a new found respect for an oil-based kitchen holocaust, I find myself sweating for words.  To me, a person who has never stepped out of the comfort of a softy lit fireplace, a combustive inferno shooting 6 feet upwards from my kitchen sink both stupefied and terrified me.  The power of that flame was enough to start the entire place on fire; enough to suffocate me; to burn my hair and my clothes right off my body.  It could have destroyed everything that mattered to us, but, in spite of this, in those astonishingly long 10 seconds, my life did not flash before my eyes, I did not find myself problem solving or thinking about what matters, I stared at that rising flame and thought about how embarrassing it would be to explain this to my neighbors, how much my landlord would hate me, how much I wished I would have a better story for the fire department then "I wanted chocolate covered strawberries," or "I was trying to melt chocolate like they do at The Melting Pot."  I guess at those vital moments, all that talk about "what's important" is a sack of shit, really what comes up is a more refined image of our greatest defects, mine being, what the hell is everyone going to think of me?

My Man and His Tiny, Hard, Overly Caressed, Incessantly Stimulated, Easy-To-Carry, Hot-On-The-Skin and Fun-To-Play-With Gadget

He can't keep his hands off of it.  Sometimes he plays with it using one hand, other times both, sometimes he uses his ear.  It's grotesque; the obsession, the constant stimulation, the endless need for more.  You should see the look in his eyes as he touches and rubs it's hard exterior.  Sometimes he even shakes it and then starts all over again like some kind of aroused, technical edition of the Etch-A-Sketch.  He uses it as a navigator; an obtrusive bulge in his pocket, pointing him in the right direction.  Dear God he even thinks with it.  I watch his lewd determination as he heads for the couch, longing to get his hands on it again.  On the occasion I might get to touch it but it's so small and awkward, I'm not used to working with an object of this nature; the shape, the color, the strange and foreign tricks it's so oddly capable of.  Just as it begins to excite my curiosity he yanks it back for his own pleasure and I am stuck witnessing the ardent desperation of an I-phone4 addict.  Oh well, I'll get my own one day and will no longer need him or his silly little gadget because I'm holding out for the I-Phone5.  Luckily, I have a vibrator to tide me over until then.

Mama Mia

During work yesterday at SOL, I heard an upsetting story about my boss, D.  Up until now, I believed that the majority of her aggression went towards us, her employers.  I knew she wasn't a good person but I also couldn't help but feel that underneath it all was a human being, capable of love and maybe even compassion.  Sadly enough, I was giving this woman, yet again, way more credit than she deserved.

D has one daughter, Trite, and one son, Con.  From what I understand, she raised them mostly on her own because the father went AWOL on them when Trite was a little girl.  Trite is a 13 year old girl trapped in the body of a 34 year old woman.  She works at SOL, on and off, depending on whether or not D decides to fire her for that week.  She has pockmarks on her face, just like her mother.  She's stocky and pale with short blond hair and a permanent scowl on her face.  Her low, raspy voice is difficult to distinguish from D's and always leaves us nervous that D is just around the corner.  Trite is not a bad person, she is just trite.  She leaves work early every day with a miserable look on her face, claiming to have a hernia, a kidney infection, walking pneumonia, a stroke, pain in her arms, legs, vagina, I mean, the list goes on forever.  The saddest part is watching the way she endlessly vies for her mother's attention, like a clingy little girl in need of a warm embrace after bumping her knee on the living room sofa.  She has that loud, nervous laugh every time she says something she hopes D will find amusing.  Trite watches D's every move and dawdles around her like a lost puppy, fearful that if she walks away she might miss out on some subtle term of endearment or a warm look that secretly says "I love and accept you".  She waits for it although the rest of us know it will never come.

 I guess Trite's stray dad now wants to come and see the family and his grandchildren, which Trite doesn't want, due to the fact that she resents him for what he did.  So, two days ago Trite left SOL early, in tears, after receiving not one, but two text messages from D, which were meant to be sent to Trite's brother, Con.  One of them blasted Trite for not forgiving her father.  D went on and on about how sick of Trite she is and how Trite needs to control her anger and is being dramatic and annoying.  The second one said that Trite has no right to judge her father's parenting since Trite, herself, is such an awful parent.  D then continued to criticize Trite's only son and pointed out how bad he turned out.  If that wasn't painful enough, Trite confronted D about the text messages and told her to be more careful about who the receiver is and D responded by telling Trite, "well good, maybe you'll learn". 

No mother is perfect.  I honestly believe that parenting is the most painful and difficult job in the world.  I think that, as long as a woman is capable of loving her children, the rest falls into place.  No matter how many mistakes are made, no matter how many problems the child grows up to have, a loving mother should never spend her life in morbid reflection of what she could have done differently.  My mother loves me, with all her heart and soul, she loves me to the core and would go to the end of the earth for me in a heart beat.  She's treated me with compassion and encouragement and has never missed an opportunity to tell me that she loves me, never.  I am so very, very blessed  to have her for a mom.  In fact, she was all I could think about as I listened to that dreadful story.  It's because of how my mom raised me that mother's like D are so, disgustingly, unimaginable in my eyes.  D is, by far, the worst boss, woman and parent I have ever met.  I look at Trite sometimes and can't help but wonder what kind of woman she might have been, had she been loved throughout her life.  I wonder what she might have been capable of, had she been given a mother that knew how to properly care for her and offer her the kind of affection every child needs. 

So, for the mother's out there that truly love their children and know, outside of the problems and difficulties they may have encountered in and throughout motherhood, that they have always done their very best to be good, loving parents, do not be hard on yourselves.  Please do not beat yourselves up for the mistakes you've made, a loved child is worth more than any crisis, misunderstanding or defect that may have kicked them in the ass as they were growing up.  Motherhood is an all day, never ending job.  A series of threads that tie us together and leave knots in strange places; colorful, suffocating, unpredictable; easy to interlace but impossible to unravel.  Thank you to all the mothers out there with love in their hearts, who try, no matter what, to always do what's right. 

Fear

Fear is a powerful and potent emotion.  It can give someone the strength to lift a car or the perspective to end a relationship.  I can't even begin to pinpoint at what age fear became the dominating force in my actions and behaviors.  When I look back at my childhood, I recall a slight suffering from fear of the unknown, but outside of that, I know I never recoiled from my mother's embrace or the opportunity to rough house with a friendly companion.  These are the simple instincts I believe we are all born with, the basic instinct to want to have fun, to want to enjoy life.  If we wanted to experience pleasure, we used to simply go after it.  If the opportunity to make a new friend arose, we introduced ourselves and immediately set in to discovering what we and that other person had in common.  When I was six I had a mad crush on Anthony Crissy.  He had dark hair and wore glasses.  To me there was no boy in my class that held a candle to my beloved Anthony.  Now, although I didn't have the tools to properly deal with my crush, I knew that I wanted to engage in some form of behavior that would be both amusing and potentially gratifying, so every day at recess I chased him around the playground trying to kiss him.  Although he constantly ran away from me, I have strong evidence to believe he enjoyed it too.  I'm not saying that as adults we should run around like little idiots trying to physically catch and maul someone were attracted to, I believe they call that rape in the adult world, but it would be nice if we could pursue our desires without the fear reaction that comes with putting our heart on the line.  Honestly, back then, I don't even think it ever dawned on me that Anthony Crissy didn't like me or that he might have intended on rejecting me, all I know was that I liked him and this was the only way I knew how to show it, nothing outside of that ever crossed my mind.

Unfortunately, with every disappointment, rejection or humiliation that has crossed our paths throughout our life time the seeds of fear are planted in our memories and we're suddenly faced with new instincts, the ones that lead us to hesitate, to procrastinate, to doubt.  I'm learning about fear in a way I never thought I would have to.  I'm learning about how debilitating it is.  I would give anything to experience the joy of loving without that thick, uneasy layer of doubt, fears associate, wrapped around my heart, like the arms of a bear just before it suffocates you.

I broke up with Hunter, yet again, yesterday.  This is the second time in the past month.  It seems to become a more prominent reaction the closer we get to the moving day.  I was asked if I want to sabotage the relationship out of a longing to get out of it.  I had to give that one some thought because I have a difficult time differentiating what my gut tells me and what the ghosts of my past whisper in my ear.  I find myself comparing my love for him with past loves, remembering how those ended; how foolish I felt; how ashamed I was for not seeing the truth sooner; how humiliated I was for repeatedly choosing the wrong partner; how afraid I was of what everyone else must think of me.  It isn't any wonder I don't trust myself with Hunter.  It isn't any wonder I question what's real and what isn't.  How, after so many painful experiences, can I possibly have faith that I have made the right decision by choosing to be with him; that he won't hurt me the way the others have in the past, in spite of the fact that he has proven, repeatedly, that he's nothing like them.  How can I have faith that I have the ability to learn from my experiences, to grow from them, and to not make the same mistakes, when my every thought is followed by dark after thoughts of fear, shame, humiliation, self-loathing and anxiety over the possible judgement of others. In truth I know I couldn't ask for a better man.  When we plan our future together I'm filled with excitement.  When I am free from my own exhausting thoughts, all I have for him is this peaceful sense of adoring love and gratitude.  I have found in Hunter a best friend, a strong, loving relationship that is honest and real from the core.  In truth, it's everything I've always wanted, and more, because with him I have the miraculous ability to be myself in a way I have never been able to before.  So the answer, no.  There is no longing to get out of my relationship with Hunter, just a longing to get out of myself.  To live with so much fear and self-resentment is more than I can stand anymore.  There is no room in my life to sit back and enjoy anything because my head is always in the way.  Even when we're happy I'm afraid, I rest in his arms in a constant state of panic, waiting for something, anything to go awry, because it eventually has to, right?  He will eventually let me down, something eventually will not go my way,  or will occur that is completely out of my control, and then what?  The fear begins all over again.  I start to panic further, asking myself what it means, is this a red flag?  He has to fuck me over some time, right?  I mean, nothing is ever as good as it seems.  Isn't it best to be prepared before it all blows up in your face and your friends and family sit there shaking their heads at you saying, "how, after all you've been through, could you have still been so blind and foolish?  You should have known better, what a fool you are.  Why does she have such awful taste in men, she really is weak minded.  Well, keep in mind she's bipolar, I mean, she's just not all there.  That's what you get, you pursue a newcomer that's 5 years younger than you are, what the hell did you expect?"

The funny thing is I broke up with Hunter because I caught him lying to me.  He made up this whole story about how he went with a friend on Friday night to hit a meeting and play some pool. But when I got home late Friday night from work, his car had clearly not been moved from it's spot.  I walked into the apartment in a state of panic, positive that I caught him this time, positive that this was the moment when he would break my heart.  "Who drove tonight?" I asked him while he was still half asleep.  His eyes wondered a little and he said, "I did".  When I remarked on how his car had not been moved he simply said, "oh ya, I got the same spot, I got lucky."  So we went to sleep but I tossed and turned all night.  The next morning I confronted him about it and he denied everything to the death.  I quickly became possessed by a state of suspicion, hysteria and determination, it wasn't even me anymore.  The rational, loving version of myself had left the building some time in the night.  Only until I threatened to call his friend myself (I swear to God, I am not usually that girl) that he came clean and told me that he had a friend, Mike, who used to be in the jeweler business who had another friend that sold jewelry from his home, and Mike had come to pick him up on Friday night and took him to this other guys house so Hunter could look at engagement rings for me.  Unfortunately, this demon that had kidnapped me insisted that Hunter was still lying, broke up with him and kicked him out of the apartment.  Somewhere in the night, prior to my confronting him, my little friend, Fear, and I must have decided to whip out the Ouija board and play a round, because I woke up head spinning and words flying without a fragment of logic and no exorcist to be found.  It wasn't until I talked to three different people that I suddenly came to and realized what I had done.  My boyfriend went out to buy me an engagement ring and, in response I accused him of lying to me and I broke up with him.  Thank God he took me back, in fact, he didn't even think twice, he was all ready to apologize to me!  I felt terrible.  How on earth did I get so far gone?  I couldn't even see how out of control I had gotten.  And there he was, ready to love me with open arms after it was all over.  Fear.  Fucking Fear.  All those dam voices, the judgement, the memories and self doubt just washed over me so quickly, burying any sense of reason or logic or even love that exists within me and leaving nothing but the phantoms of my past to haunt and torment me, while I roam around like a dam fool completely ignorant to what is happening inside my very head. I never pictured myself so stunted when it comes to loving another human being.  But I guess I am.  Aren't we all in some way or another?  I don't have all the answers.  I'm only beginning to explore the grooves of my existence that have formed from years of treading the same dam path, back and forth, then wondering why I proceed to get the same results.  I suppose, if I were to face this problem with grace and dignity, it would have to start with gratitude.  I have found someone who loves me enough to be patient and willing to grow with me.  I've hit a wall, a bottom per say, and I can't go back, I won't.  I know now more than ever where my thinking and my habits can lead me and it isn't pretty.

So for now all I can do is be thankful for the willingness and the pain that is allowing me to move forward.  It may be a tiny step but it is still a step in a different direction, a step away from the habits of my past, a step closer to who I'm meant to be.  I wish the catalyst for change didn't always have to be so painful and dramatic but I guess it makes pain more embraceable with the knowledge that, what comes with it, is an opportunity for growth, a reminder that we're alive; that for every frost there is a warmth that follows; for every empty branch that characterizes the destructiveness of winter there is room for the rebirth of springtime.  It's the ebb and flow of life that allows us the realization that, with change and the emergence of every season, we all are given a second chance and that parts of us have to die in order to make room for the growth that follows.  For Hunter's sake, I really hope spring comes soon.   

Like Um, You Want To Get A Tattoo Or Something

Remember when tattoos were actually cool?  They had that whole masochistic, rebel-without-a-cause-like indifference to them and they were almost always associated with electric guitars and oil paint.  I'm as straight as they come but if I walked into a coffee shop and the girl behind the counter had an amazing sleeve on her left arm and a symbol behind her ear, I almost always wanted to get into bed with her.  Sadly enough, I find myself a little repelled by them lately.  I almost wish there were requirements for who can and can not get a tattoo.  I mean, these valley girls are ruining it for the rest of us!  The hostesses at SOL have both gotten 3 in the last 6 months.  One of them has a tiny sun on the side of her face-it's weird.  I keep thinking it's a spider and have to stop myself from smacking it every time I see her.  "Oh my God, don't move honey, you have a gigantic bug on your face, WHACK! Oh, um never mind, sorry."  This is what they do on their Saturdays now, take the BMW to go buy more blond hair dye, stop at Banana Republic then head over to the nearest tattoo parlor to get some lyrics to a Beatles song tattooed on their waist right next to their zodiac sign and a fucking seagull.


On a lighter note, I feel better!  Like my old self.  That sickness really took a toll on me but I feel good again, hopeful even.  Counting down the days til I leave this crazy place, but at least I feel hopeful.  Maybe I'll get a palm tree tattoo on my butt tomorrow or maybe a sign on my chest that says "saving up for plastic surgery".  The world is my big fat smog infested oyster.  I have to admit, I'm going to miss making fun of Orange County.

Ugh

It's been lonely lately.  A rough week, I suppose.  I had pneumonia last week and am finally starting to feel like myself again but a sadness has washed over me.  No one ever tells you when you leave your life behind that there's really no going back.  No matter how warm the welcome home might be, I would always feel like I was intruding on a life that isn't mine anymore.  I thought I would gain a better understanding of who I was, but now I don't know where I belong.  It seems that every time life starts to make sense I either get sick, throw my back out or have, yet another bad experience at work or in a relationship, reminding me of how unhappy I am here.

I am on bad terms with my sponsor and I am not only too scared to confront her but I'm also too angry.  She moved on Saturday and I was supposed to help her but was scheduled to work and told her I could switch shifts to be there in the morning and she specifically said "no".  She told me everything would work out and she wasn't worried.  Than I offered to come over after work to help unpack and she said "maybe" and told me to call.  Well, after working until 3 a.m. on Friday and then getting up at 8 a.m. to work Saturday I felt weak and tired and also felt like I should get to a meeting.  I called her and left a message telling her all this and told her she was my top priority and if she needed help unpacking still I would be willing to come by.  She never called.  Then on Monday night she called me up and chewed me out for not coming by Saturday morning-she had completely forgotten our conversation.  And then she laughed about what a funny "misunderstanding" it was.  After being told I don't know how to stick with a commitment, and that I played the meeting card to get out of helping her, I didn't think it was funny at all.

It's strange how upside down everything feels when you're at odds with someone that matters in your life.  On top of that I had another "uncomfortable" day at SOL.  We now serve sweet potato fries.  So I went up to a table and took their order and at the last minute the woman said to her husband who had just ordered coleslaw, "get the dam fries".  They both then chuckled and he said "I guess I'm getting the dam fries".  So I smiled and said "ok, you want the fries then?"  and he nodded his head.  Well, when I brought the food he looked at me grumpily and said, "I had ordered the YAM fries".  I thought his wife said dam fries but I guess I was wrong, whoops.  Honest mistake, who the fuck calls them "yam fries"?  It says on the menu "SWEET POTATO FRIES".  Not to mention, after waitressing for 11 years, nothing surprises me, people have sworn in the middle of an order plenty of times.  I got ridiculed for the rest of the day for it.  "Oh my God, I can't believe you said that."  "Oh my God, if you weren't sober I would totally think you were high."  "That's not even funny, I would never laugh at that."  "I don't know why you think that's funny, it's not."  And then of course Big D ripped me a new one and at the end of the day pointed out how "all the girls couldn't believe I would do that.  They were shocked, what were you thinking?" I'm glad I have yet to sell my sense of humor for a fake tan and some ugly platinum extensions.  But ugh!

There must be a statute of limitations on how long a freak like me can actually experience happiness.  I'm thinking a week tops.  Anyways, I started reading Tuesdays With Morrie for the third time.  I got past the first paragraph before I started crying.  I'm definitely losing it.

Poetic Justice

weary dialect
you always taunt me with your said perfection
a crimson sunset carries more words then poetry ever could
And my mind races for the comfort of your revelation
but there i am in silence
So I creak clumsily among the floor boards that have always guarded me from the monsters in the basements. Where I've stored my imagination all these years, fearful of its findings;
it's fallacies;
the caravans of creativity that could wash the reason right out of me;
the beauty that She gave to me I've hidden in this in-oracy.
To become a silent legacy, but find I am no more than I'll ever be, lost and silent, poetically challenged me.

Dazed and Confused

I've been sick with pneumonia.  It's amazing what happens with sickness.  Confusion and delirium crawl their ways up through the canyons of our minds and we're left with fabricated awakenings and distorted realizations.  Living with myself is rough but living with myself in sickness is unbearable.  Ask Hunter.  I actually broke up with him today because he told me that it's difficult watching me fall in and out of depression.  We worked things out of course, it wasn't even him.  My behaviour was like some awful, out of control, separate entity from the semi-rational person I usually am.  After 5 days of fever, not eating and not being able to sleep from fits of coughing and wheezing, I'm surprised I could think at all.  I'm now on 4 different medications right now and I just took some cough syrup with codeine, it helps incredibly.  I've had only a few coughing fits in the last 8 hours but I'm now drowsy and need to lay down.  Stay well and sterilized my friends, I would only wish this on my boss and the Republican Party. 

Prayers for the Devil

If I pray for the Devils highest good, does God still hear my calls?  Or am I just another schmuck on her knees begging to be relieved of a hatred that runs so deeply in my veins that it could easily cause my blood to mutate into vinegar?  SOL might just be the death of me.  D is like a poison that does not have to be ingested in order for it to kill.  All I have to do is look at that woman, as she tells me how disposable I am, how I'm a dime a dozen and how she could replace me in an instant and care less about it and I can feel her penetrate my skin.  I am not thick skinned, I suppose this is what separates me from them.  Deep down I want to curl up and cry every time she yells at me and tells me, in her own special way, what a disgusting piece of shit I really am.  It's my fault, a graceful, strong woman would laugh it all off, but not me.  I sit back and fantasize about how I hope to one day rub dog shit all over her white Mercedes, right before I tie her to a stake fabricated out of her poodle's bones and burn her alive.  So I pray for her highest good and then I pray that God will relieve me of my fears that I'm not good enough and replace them with the thoughts that She would have me hold.  These are the directions given to me.  I've grown to believe in miracles.  Not the kind that shake the surface of the earth, but the little ones that, in the long run, have a lasting effect.  The ones that have caused a shift in my thinking and in my way of life; the ones that fill my lungs with fresh, beautiful air and leave me feeling peaceful in a way I was never familiar with until now. 

Maybe D will my next miracle.  Maybe I will no longer be afraid of her.  Maybe I will find myself filled with enough love to dismiss her pettiness and cruelty.  Until then, I think I'll bury myself in Vegan peanut butter cookies and historical fiction.  Funny thing, I bought these fabulous cookies 3 days ago, this was day one of my period.  I had terrible cramps, couldn't stop crying and all I could think about was chocolate.  So I compromised and bought Uncle Eddies Naturally Sweetened Vegan Peanut Butter Chocolate Chip Cookies.  These were just what my uterus ordered.  So after indulging in 3 of them I decided to throw the rest away so I would not be tempted any further.  Well, the following day, I still felt as if my period needed a little more attention, I mean, we do burn twice as many calories and I am losing a lot of blood, plus, I had been through quite a fiasco, with my boss being a sadistic ass pirate, so I decided that, since the cookies were still in a plastic bag, which were then stored in a paper bag, there was no harm in taking them back out of the garbage and indulging in just a few more, 4 to be exact.  After taking the cookies out of the paper bag, leaving the paper bag in the garbage with the hope that Hunter would not then catch on to my scandalous behaviour, I decided to empty out our balcony ashtray.  I then placed the remaining cookies, which were now in the plastic bag, on top of the mound of cigarettes, in the garbage can and went on my merry way.  Today, day 3 of my period, I said fuck it, I'm not even going to make excuses, I want a fucking cookie.  So, with Hunter at work and me at home, left completely to my own devices, I decided to take the plastic bag with the cookies in them, after they had spent 24 hours now on a mound of cigarette butts in our garbage can, and emptied them onto a paper towel where I decided to inspect them for ashes before I took my first bite.  As I took my first bite I tasted something strange, so I took another bite, same problem, so I decided to try a different cookie, you know, cause maybe it was just that particular one, same problem.  Yes, my friends, every single one of those little fuckers tasted like a thousand old, stale cigarettes.  Once I reached that point of acceptance, I threw them all away, on top of the cigarettes, not protected by a plastic bag, and chugged about 2 glasses of water.  I told Hunter about it and he related a story of moral depletion from his drinking days, shamefully I reminded him that I'm 7 years sober.  I have no excuse.  I warned him that if, in the next few weeks, he sees me make a disgusted face and shake my head a couple times, to not be concerned, that is just me trying to shake off the memory of the cookies.  Ugh, in fact I'm doing it right now.  I think my next blog will be a list of all the cheap, simple ways you can traumatize yourself.

House of Boobs

Tonight I was working at House of Boobs and pulled out a writing pad I had grabbed from the SOL office before I left work there this afternoon and, on the front of it, in block writing, read "Bitch Face" with hearts around it.  This seems to just about sum up the bulk of my big-breasted, twenty something year old co-workers.  As if being 12 didn't suck enough the first time I have now entered round 2.  Anyways, so I headed to the ladies room after I had checked on all my customers, walked passed two women standing in front of the sink, and went into one of the two stalls (I often choose the handicapped one, I find the extra space offers me a diluted sense of freedom when I'm stuck serving tables all day).  I sat down to pee and suddenly a bright light started flashing and I hear, "girl you look so good tonight, take another one *click*, ya, your hair looks sooo good, lets get one together now, ahahaha *click*, seriously girl, you look soooo good tonight.  I love that top on you *click click*.  I sat on the toilet thinking to myself, holy shit, I'm in Orange County!  This, my friends,
is the land where people incessantly call one another girl and they pose for pictures of each other in the women's wash room.  I walked out of the stall and squeezed through the two busty blonds and the one looked at me as I was about to wash my hands and said, "oh, we'll have 2 more Belvederes and Cranberries".  Seriously.  This is the land where grown women call one another "bitch face" as they heart the i's, the one were breasts are, well, fuck the metaphors, they speak for themselves, the one where women dress up in a sliced up version of a prom dress to hang out at a neighborhood sports bar, and where it's apparently acceptable to pose for pictures in the washroom as you place orders to your server while she's exiting a stall after taking a leek.  It's a land where men's triceps outweigh their minds, and probably their dicks, and their existence is validated by the number of unoriginal tattoos they have on their bodies.  I have to say, I walked out of there tonight feeling quite refreshed.  Similar to how a caterpillar must feel when it's ass has been hanging out in bird shit all day, partially violated by the bird that shit on it's leaf, but also quite exhilarated once the shit finally dries up and chips right off.  From now on, those guys are all "Chip" to me, fresh shit that will eventually chip off once they dry up.  And trust me, it's sunny California, in time, that shit always dries up.

Eradicating Telemarketers and Coping with Diversity

Hunter's drinking a gallon of milk a day in order to gain weight, he's given a whole new meaning to the term lactose intolerant.  Sometimes I look over at him and he's slumped on the couch staring at a half drunken glass of milk with the most pathetic look on his face, forcing himself to keep on going.  It's funny, outside of our little home, the rest of the world is living off of bun-less hamburgers and raw broccoli while my boyfriend consumes 2% milk and 6 meals a day with the hope of gaining 25 pounds in a month.  I've never seen such a skinny figure look so bloated and filled with anguish.  But fear not, I loaded up on gas x and the bathroom has an entire cup of matches by the toilet.  My hope is that I suffer as little as possible through out this experiment.

I've decided to buy a safety whistle, not so much for the late night strolls, I'm buying one for telemarketers.  They won't stop calling me on my cell phone, in spite of the fact that I have requested that they take me off their list 4 times now.  So I've decided to buy the fox40 sonic blast.  I'm so excited.  For the first time in my life I look forward to getting that call.  The minute I hear the voice of a human I'm blowing that thing right into the phone.  Those fuckers will rue the day they ever dialed my number.

My life is actually really good right now.  Sometimes I find myself smiling for no reason, the only time I can remember doing that in the past was when I was high on something.  Although I hate my waitressing jobs, I'm making more money than I ever have before and it's really nice not to worry about how I'm going to pay my bills.  SOL is still a nuisance in my life, the infamous brother and sister clan, D and Pediphilio, are ravaging the human race, one young woman at a time.  My other job, HOB, is interesting.  I don't get yelled at and harassed regularly but my new boss, Anorexia, is a little weird.  For Christmas, she gave me a picture of herself. It was taken in front of a Christmas tree inside the bar and she was dressed up in a sexy elf uniform posing with her snow white, bony arms out to the side and a freaked out look on her face, her lips slanted upward in an awkward smile.  This semi-professional world that I live in seems to be laced with crazy people who either make me feel even more out of my own mind or absolutely normal, depending on the day. 

P.S.  Hunter is starting a counter blog to set the record straight, it will be called "My Fabulous Fucking Girlfriend and Her Gasless Fabulous Quirks".  Actually, we're still negotiating the name.

Starting the New Year

Towards the end of 2010, my life became an assemblage of comings and goings as I desperately searched for a solution to the ever-growing fear of financial insecurity that seemed to hijack my physical, emotional and spiritual well-being. I prayed, relentlessly, for a job that would pay the bills, what I wound up with was 4 jobs, chronic back pain and not a moment to myself. My sponsor asked me recently if my God has limitations.  At the time it seemed like a strange question seeing that we're raised to believe that God is limitless. But when I really put thought into it, I realized that my God, the one I've chosen for my belief system is filled with limitations. When I envision what I want for myself, it seems to have nothing but limits. I've spent my life basing the kind of jobs I can have on my lack of intelligence, my lack of connections, my lack of confidence and my poor memory. I've believed that I can only have a small amount of friends because too many would be an invasion of my comfort zone. I've put limits on my happiness because I've believed that the only way to be properly prepared for the other shoe to drop is to never let go of my sadness. I've put limitations on fun because I've grown to believe that to truly have a good time involves money and the "right" places with the "right" people. I've put limits on my ability to succeed, believing that success is measured by what I have and who I know. 

So, I've taken on a new God; something more expansive and not so limited.  This particular God is a man, a woman, a dog, a tree, the peacefulness of my apartment, the love I have with Hunter, my mother's voice, my sister's laugh, the ocean, the sunset, Bob Dylan's lyrics, sometimes just the comfort of being quiet in my own head.  I'm tired of the false humility that comes with constantly putting myself down.  Why can't i be amazing?  Why can't I be smart?  Why can't I achieve what I want to?  This year I am turning 30.  I'm going to dedicate it to healthy action and the rejection of fear, limitations and self-hatred.  I'm excited, I really am.  There's been a shift lately in my thinking.  A kind of "I don't give a fuck, it will all work out" kind of mentality.  I'm tired of worrying and thinking that everyone has it together except me.  I'm tired of thinking I'm supposed to be in a specific place that is contrary to where I am at. 

I have an amazing boyfriend who compliments my strengths and defects with his own, how I got so lucky to find someone as good for me as Hunter, is beyond me.  I have a loving family and a truly great relationship with them.  I have attainable dreams that fill me with excitement.  These are diamonds in the rough, the things we live for.  I've spent my entire life looking for the weed in a bed of roses, and then wondered why I'm so unhappy.  So here's to freedom from limitations , honoring what matters, cherishing what's in front of us, and basking in the joy of what we already have.  Here's to Gods without boundaries. Here's to a new year.  I wish you all the best.