Life without a script.

Charity: water

2010-03-31T20:36:00.001-05:00

Even God is in S.A.D.

2010-01-24T20:13:00.005-06:00

It's that time of year again.

I have forgotten this chapter in the Michigan Living Archives. Perhaps if I had remembered this miniscule detail, I may never have subjected myself to a seemingly merciless season.

When the holidays are over, when the snow has fallen and has been acquainted with the earth for some time. When you don't see the sun for weeks on end and every day is a cold, overcast, gray day.

The last several weeks after being back, I found myself to be easily agitated, negative, listless and without motivation to pursue certain tasks. Or just having the unexplainable winter blues.

Understand that this is not my mode of operation.

I consider myself to be an unusually lively individual (under normal circumstances) and am always willing to exert some kind of an effort for the betterment of some greater good. And while I may have a fiery temper of an Asian woman (which, by the way, has only shown itself once in the bluest of the moon), I am also unusually perky, chirpy, upbeat and animated.

Even under the worst of conditions (and believe me, there have been such settings that would warrant the Debbie of all Downers) I am quite capable of making the most of it and proving myself to be a rather resilient individual that is able to press forward with the utmost of cheer.

This, however, has been tested very, very recently.

The truth is, I am still most grateful even under the loneliest blankets of winter. I have even found ways to endure the coldest nights and the iciest days. Protected by wool, cashmere and North Face fleece, I always manage to find the warmth that seeps into my bones.

And truth be told, my spirit survives most in the hands of a warm Savior.

And, "all shall be well; and all shall be well; and all manner of things shall be well" - Julian of Norwich.

My life in disarray.

2010-01-09T23:25:00.008-06:00

I had always taken pride in my penchant for order and organization. In particular, as it pertains to my immediate environment, aka my room. And of course, my bed was always made.

On any given day, my items are arranged in such a way that streamlines material acquisition in minutes, nay, seconds. I would imagine it would be a snooper's dream... my sentimental memories in several boxes that tells the stories of my past life, no skeletons required. My electronics in one corner, the power strip being the sole provider of all its glories. My closet full of materials fit for a proper haber dashery, systemized by color, season and type of fabric. Accessories just to the left of that, as last minute touches for an ensemble that would deem any boyish woman, a suitable lady.

This trait of my personality I was fond of. In fact, I found it difficult to walk into rooms that were unkempt and downright messy. They made me anxious and troubled my breathing. I found myself judging the owners of those disheveled spaces as ineffective and ungodly.

But now the roles have reversed.

Currently, I live my life in chaos. As I write this exact piece for my online site, my paraphernalia are no more placed in order as the explosion of wooden splinters from a burst of a tennis ball filled with matches. It is, dare I admit, somewhat next to impossible to locate several mandatory everyday items such as house and car keys, reading glasses, mobile phone and that ubiquitous chap stick - that to this very day, I might add, I cannot go to sleep without a bit of a dapple on my drying, winter lips.

Since the commencement of graduate school, I have found that I no longer have the time to be devoting myself to systematical and methodical order. And so, I have given up. Almost entirely.

My clothes may be strewn and blanketed all over my bedroom floor. My oversized desk may be littered with tissue boxes, lightbulbs with blown filaments, an excess of post-its, 36 spools of thread, a compass, a bag of pistachio crisps, my big screened computer, my laptop, verious editions of health and economic magazines, textbooks, cameras, cosmetic items, spiderman toys, etc, etc.

And I am quite okay with that... so long as my responsibilities as a student and an employee are satisfied.

Disarray will have to do, for now.

Signing off, in my pink, fluffy fleece-lined bathrobe, which is perhaps the only thing that I have found in its original place, and not on my bedroom floor.

Fernweh.

2009-12-27T12:26:00.005-06:00

Means "farsickness" - analogous to "wanderlust," a German derivative word literally to mean,

"the desire for hike" - not necessarily to "wander" as in "meandering."

It's been almost a year since I have been out of the country, and I am starting to get antsy for another adventure again.

This year is closing soon. Lots and lots of adjustments had to be made in its duration: moving, for what seems like the 5th time in less than a year and a half.

I have actually enjoyed the running about. I get bored somewhat easy and settling to a specified location feels limiting. But I hope that as I get older that changes a little bit. At the same time, I'm seeking a solace to plant my roots as homebase.

That part is still in the works.

In the meantime, I continue to dream about a hike to a far away land, distant to a "home where the buffaloes roam... where the deer and the antelopes play..."

Not just chocolates, Forrest.

2009-09-27T07:11:00.005-05:00

Robert Zerneckis directed quite a great film back in 1994 (yes, it HAS been that long), called Forrest Gump.

I met up with Forrest just a few weeks ago, Labor Day Weekend, an experience I would not only say adventurous, but surreal.

Turns out he was right. "Life IS like a box of chocolates... and you never know what you're gonna get."

Well, I got it all right.

I never considered myself to be the kind of person that was especially good with dates. In fact, I tend to miss people's birthdays or anniversaries unless I get reminded. But I do remember some life-altering moments.

This past week marks the approximate time when everything changed for me. I can hardly believe that it has been two years. The days and weeks and months just flew by (not at first, mind you).

And now, I am struggling very, very hard to remember the details. I have forgotten quite a lot, maybe because I don't revisit them often enough.

At this point, I only remember good things. Would that be considered strange? I only remember the sparkling, beautiful beginnings. I only remember the stillness of love after the high of it wore off. I only remember what got me there in the first place.

It's all good now.

But maybe next time I'm looking at that box of chocolates offered me, I'll pick one out that stands the best out of all the rest.

Sweet.

2009-08-30T00:15:00.002-05:00

It's been a week since I've been back.

In a way, it feels like nothing has changed. The apple orchards are still abound, the small town is still... well, small, the weather is expectantly cool and I've reconnected with those I never knew would stay.

But it's different, too. And flashbacks are the worst. I miss the old people - but then I meet the new ones, and then it's like discovering all over again.

So all in all, I can't really complain. I do love the north, the small town is lovely, I'm finally doing something meaningful with my life again - and I'm totally loving it... back in academia, learning, reading, debating, writing, researching... ahhhh it's a breath of fresh air.

Off to bed now.

I can't help it. I was bred this way.

2009-07-14T00:43:00.003-05:00

Filipino children are eternally indebted to their parents.

And that is a fact.

These parents are exceptional at coddling and spoiling... provided that the children adhere to the rules without exceptions.

Because we were born on this planet, because we are taught to be benevolent, upstanding and conscientious, we will forever owe our lives - and resources to them.

There is no way around this.

How to make them happy?

"Do (everything) as I say."

Are there any exceptions? As I have mentioned already, no, there is not.

If for any reason at all, whatsoever, the child chooses to go another path, or chooses a direction incompatible with their ideas, rest assured that there will be words - perhaps temperaments that might be akin to "flying off the handle." According to these lot, there is only one right way: theirs.

Be prepared to take it. Or at least fake it.

No. There is no comparison to any other parents. They are jovial, proud and relentless. They are devoted beyond rhyme or reason and should there be anything in the way of them and their children, they will go to great lengths to keep them unbroken and *happy.

And how do I know? Because I am an offspring of said parents.

*subject to interpretation

Weddings bring the promise of babies.

2009-07-08T02:08:00.002-05:00

I've had the most amazing journey involving a number of people lately - most of whom are my loved ones (and some I have learned to love anyway).

In the last few weeks, I have been to several tie-the-knot ceremonies. They have all been uniquely different, special and okay - to put it with blunt - quite cheesy.

The girls in their beautiful taffeta, silk, satin, tulle dresses and the boys in their oh-so-very-handsome suits. It is pretty incredible to see two people committing to being each other's cheerleaders for life. *

But perhaps the best part about being a witness to marriage is the hope that someday, you'll be seeing a new person come to being.

*With Baby Kiwi in D.C.
*For wedding photos, request my friendship on Facebook.com

365.25 div by 2

2009-06-02T19:25:00.004-05:00

It seems like a million years have passed in the last six months.

At that time, I was still in another country, listening to the British flair, commuting to work, shopping at Marks and Spencers and making sure I was keeping my feet warm.

Half a year later, I am back to my childhood soil.

Included is a major haircut, a new job, a romantic escapade, physical training, spiritual wrestling, change of wardrobe, change of weather, travel, new adventures in food, a falling out, a back-from-falling-out, a wedding and a funeral. Squeeze a few good laughs in there, a smidgen of rolling tears and you're pretty much caught up to the Vimie life.

I have been neglecting to write for some time for a host of reasons. Part busy, part feeling, part lazy, etc. Take your pick. But here for now, know that I am alive and well, kicking and (mostly) happy.

*photo taken just outside the Buckingham Palace, London, England.

Cheers, mate.

2009-02-03T07:14:00.004-06:00

Back in Londontown after a long train ride through the countryside. So beautiful 'twas this morn!!! The hills and trees were covered in a blanket of white and glistened the horefrost in the warm sun.

I'm deliriously knackered after my trip. Didn't have much of a sleep the night before and now I'm making up for it.

Transport is pretty limited here at the minute due to such horrendous weather. Yesterday before I arrived, everything everywhere, all roads were closed due to the heavy snow fall. Flights cancelled. Trains and buses at an all-time stop. London hasn't seen the likes of these in almost 20 years. I'm just happy to be here, oddly enough. I always knew I was going to see snow this winter. And I did. I have. Sated, I am. In a little bit, I'm going to go out and make a snowman in front of the flat.

The north is quite nice. Went up along the coast, and then closer to the northeast region. Had some proper fish 'n chips and my absolute new favorite: J2O in apple raspberry. Like Izze but better. Visited the tiniest little church there as well. SO SMALL. Over 60 years old with all its original parts, it was amazing. Met some of the nicest people of the world, too and so happy to try it all as well.

Hrrrumph. I'm well exhausted.

Night to all.

Lancashire people and their funny, talky ways.

2009-01-30T11:56:00.004-06:00

My train doesn't leave for another hour or two, so I'm sitting here at a cafe trying to pass time by writing you and eating a Swiss hazelnut Noisette bar - my new favorite of the chocs. Can't get enough of it. I was losing a bit of weight for a little while there, but with the over-abundance of sweets in this country, I couldn't help it.

This weekend will be spent in the North - some of it learning some codes and putting together a mental portfolio for the upcoming project at work. It's been so nice to have some time alone to get crackin' on some ideas and drown myself into, "how can I achieve these goals for good?"

But most of it will be spent travelling and seeing the English countryside, kind of.

I don't want to touch too much on the weather, cause most of you already know how ridiculously cold it is over here. It's roundabout 6 celcius (42.. 43 degrees fahrenheit). It's not freezing, but it's still pretty chilly. It takes me a good while to get myself dressed and undressed, what with all the layering going on.

I'm picking up more words everyday. Apparently the word "fanny" doesn't mean your back side, but is actually what they refer to as your "front bits." I heard that on one of the BBC Comedy shows the other night.

It has to be said that I've met some pretty interesting people whilst here. One lady from the museum (as I'm not at the office everyday, you see) made a comment about my pringle jumper and then we ended up having some drinks at a local pub later. It was the most extraordinary surprise. Like old friends meeting, except new. I learned that she had just ended an eleven year relationship with her boyfriend. Fancy that. There was no way I could top it with the unsuccessful 2+ years marriage to a man I hardly knew.

Then later ended up having a South African dinner with some very nice people from Brixton. It was top comedy. Guess you just had to be there. For one, I couldn't believe that I had been out-spiced. "What? This girl from Texas who likes it hot and spicy?" I couldn't make it through dinner without having to soak my throat in milk. I cried a little, even. It was well-nice.

I've been making a few trips to the grand cathedrals and halls here. It's hard to find God in the bustling, loud city. So I try to make the effort of finding Him wherever I know He is ABSOLUTELY there. I was about to make that dangerous trip to Harrod's the other day as well, then I thought, "sack it, I need to find something better to do with my time today."

Here and there, I've been seeing some of the country. I was just in Windsor last weekend. If you can think of something picturesque and incredulously monarchy-related, Windsor is it. So refined. And sophisticated. And polite. I was stunned.

Ergh. This post isn't as good as I would have liked. Kinda difficult to get my thoughts across when I've got shoddy people making yells and noises around here. Seems like it's been ages since I've had a quiet moment to get some thinking done.

Anyway, I'm off.

Too many mental notes.

2009-01-28T11:33:00.002-06:00

Sometimes, you just have to go for it.

That whole cagey, restricted, "But I'm not ready," (for possibly good things to happen? to start living your own life?) WAH WAH WAH isn't holding water anymore. Oh, it's a new year, for heaven's sake.

So I decided to finally wear that tartan skirt (refer to post previous).

In other news, Jimmy, the Greek-English plumber came by this morning. The flat flooded from a broken pipe that froze a few days ago. The kitchen has been proper freezing. But now, with the new radiator put in, and without that silly, wonky one, it's well-nice. I was even able to enjoy my traditional breakfast tea and crumpets this morning.

Work in Pimlico has been busy... planning, collaborating, etc. Sometimes I wonder even how some of the people can even keep their rotors together. But it'll work. It will. And doors are opening, all around.

The credit crunch is hitting this country pretty hard. GB is officially in recession. The interest rate of the Bank of England has been at all time low of 1.5%. ONE POINT FIVE PERCENT, I SAID it (and I meant it). Poundland (similar to dollar stores) - and 99p joints (similar to 99c stores) are thriving like crazy. I suppose, at least the Chinese/Taiwanese workers still have their factories open to be able to keep up with the local discount demand here.

Makes me wonder what kind of legacy former PM Tony Blair had here. OH, well. At least he wasn't ever caught snogging with the au pair. That's always nice.

On my end, no messing about over here (for all you of my girls who are wondering, HA!). Usual everyday is filled with transits in trains and buses and getting to and fro work, to and fro weekend getaway destinations and so forth. So, tidy up and don't get your knickers all in a twist. What you've heard as of late is true though - I have to say. Be happy for me. Cause I'm excited (and a little scared), but I'd like to give it a go and see what happens in the meanwhile. So if you've got any objections, Come off it!

But don't worry. The more I know, the more I'll share. For now, just know that I am (slightly) missing the land of liberty and where they drive on the RIGHT and CORRECT side of the road.

Leave it to the British to swing about in their roundabouts.

=) Love you loads and Miss you heaps. X

Not just about the tartan skirt.

2009-01-25T12:01:00.004-06:00

I'm in love with Scotland.

We all need something familiar.

2009-01-10T10:07:00.003-06:00

I'm in my purple dress after a morning of church on a gray, snowy, Saturday afternoon having English Afternoon tea (that's the actual flavor) and minced pies. Grace is showing her flat around to some potential renters, as she'll be moving out soon to a new place, therefore the sign, "TO LET" is out front.

I've taken my boots off and I'm starting to regret that choice cause even in these tights, my feet are (FRICKIN') freezing. But the candles are warming my face, so at least that's something.

Went to church with Grace in West London today. Proper church with hymns and praise, and realized how small the world really is when I ran into a guy who went to school with one of my best mates from another country. But even with that, the SDA presence here is few and far between. You'd be hard pressed to find an SDA community. Full stop.

I've been taking it for granted: The dietary by laws, the remembrance and sanctification of the holy day, the lifestyle choices - of which, I'm just settling myself into. I'm not perfect... (I mean, who is?). And it hurts me to try so hard at doctrinal living, but doesn't get me much anywhere. I just want to walk in the light. But it's tricky. If there's one thing I know and want to be: it's not just about being good, but being pure in heart.

Till we speak again, missing you heaps.

2009-01-08T09:58:00.003-06:00

Woke up this morning and had the usual:

Human alarm clock on the mobile phone. Getting out of a warm bed into a cold morning. I haven't minded this so much anymore. I've gotten used to the freeze - (and actually, nothing is more annoying than being so hot in a wool coat in a warm train). Had the traditional Twinnings English breakfast tea with 1/2 tsp of sugar in the raw and milk for good measure. Nothing more lovely than that. Crumpets with jam and as always, since CNN is sorely missed, BBC Morning must be substituted.

Getting used to the use of celcius gauge by now, so that's a plus.

Had a steamy bath and got dressed... in layers. I wouldn't survive otherwise. Pringle-print is everywhere (argyle). My favorite. Supposedly, Scotland has quite a knack for these things, so I'll whisk myself away to argyle heaven. Tights followed over trousers and I am thankful for the cashmere sweater I got on sale before I left. Cashmere is my saving grace, it's much too cold for anything else around here.

I walk to the Underground Tube Station. The woman in her British overtones keep reminding me over and over, "Mind the Gap, between the train and the platform." I know all the stops in the Victoria Line now. While I'm reading my present book, "Strawberry Fields" - (A MUST, by the way!), without looking up I already know when King's Cross St. Pancras is coming up, or Tottenham Hale or Victoria or Euston or Green Park, etc.

I get off at Pimlico Station, in the Westminster District. Met with the director of the organization. They're expanding borders overseas. Presence in Ghana, Tanzania and parts of Southern Africa. She tells me she wants me on board - but actually, she'd be more interested if I was a part of a couple. Like, couple-couple. I tell her well, that might be a problem. I haven't been coupled up in sometime and had no plans to do so for the time being. As a sidenote, she asks if I've at least got a prospect. I smile. And she doesn't prod.

We work out some of the details for two hours.

Suffice it to say that although it will be short, I haven't been this excited about a mission in years.

After the meeting, I head off to Oxford Circus and shop for windows. They're quite nice. Even if the pound is weak at the minute, they've somehow made up for it, by escalating the price - even with the 50% off sale signs. Besides, I can get most of that stuff stateside for less anyway.

The rest of the day is stopping by shops for food. The flat is tiny, but a perfect size for two people. It's cozy and warm when the heat is on, but since space is so limited, it's an every other day effort to go food shopping because frankly, there's just no room to put it in.

Everything else seems quite ordinary to me now. The currency I carry in my wallet is brilliantly colored with foil seals, in different sizes. I was just handed Scottish money the other day - that was ace. The double decker buses are everywhere and I've gotten used to calling it "toilets" instead of "restrooms" now. The food I'm served I can ACTUALLY finish, without feeling like I have to eat it all, since I'll feel so bad if I threw it out. Portion sizes excite me. I never knew it could. My pants fit a LITTLE better - And I say little because the breads and cakes are much too good to pass up.

Besides all that, I'm pretty content. Satisfied. Even in a city like this, some things seem so simple. I've enjoyed the fact that my cell phone is out of sorts internationally and that my internet time is minimal. In terms of other things I'm learning... I'd have to say manners, sophistication and graces here are quite extraordinary. I was taken to be a beautiful bone china shop the other day and I was taught some of the rules (and games) of proper dining and entertaining. Someone has also taken it upon themselves to teach me some of the dressing classics that could sustain you (and your budget) for many years. It's been interesting.

Alternately, there's also that much more uncouthe, ill-mannered/tempered people who could use a few lessons in graceful living.

But if there's one thing I can say without any qualms, nobody swears like the English.

Even when they utter those dreadful words, it fascinates me.

Til here, (just some of me) missing the land of America.

This will have to do.

2009-01-04T15:10:00.003-06:00

It's buzzing with excitement. But utterly freezing. Even my fringy sea foam green scarf I can't seem to keep up with the bone-chill. I'm hearing so many words go on, sputtering in waves by the tips of their tongues as they drop their r's and round their a's.

I'm now wondering what took me so long to get here.

And the walking! You should see me bend my legs of steel at the minute! It's absolutely fabulous!

But I'm not shocked. Culture, that is.

The tundra-like-Siberianesque weather, perhaps, but the deathly winters of Michigan has prepared me for that well.

I haven't had a single morsel of rice since I've been here. The food isn't as bland as they say it is, by the way... and whilst we're on the subject of stereotyping among these parts, let me just mention that NOT EVERYBODY has bad teeth. I've run into some - plenty - nice (and not so nice) strangers with some marvelous gnashers, actually.

Yes... I've been picking a bit of the language. I've been saying "bit" and "quite" quite a bit. It can't be helped, you see. I just want to mesh in, and not scream !AMERICAN! in these parts.

Saw Edward Scissorhands ballet last night as well at the... Stedler theatre(??). It was every bit worth of a nice night out. Ballet... not as nutcracky as you think... more like fun dancing... A-freakin-mazing.

And yes, Harrod's... what can I say? But. Lovely...

Tomorrow I'll do the proper roam around, since I've not had much of a chance to. The commute has been pants recently due to the demonstrations in the heart of the city. I'll hopefully find my way around that later.

Right. That has to be it for now. It's overwhelming still, I can't believe that I'm here - but at the same time, I feel like I kind of live here now since I've been here for a little while already.

Will post more soon, my dear friends.

Lots of Love from the other side of the pond.

Taking pretty out of petty.

2008-11-25T00:22:00.006-06:00

Somewhere in an alternate universe, there lies a medicine cabinet with the contents of my health and beauty products. I like to think it's somewhere on the left side of no-longer-deemed planet, Pluto, but I'm probably wrong. Whoever found the lovely items inside has probably either adorned their girlfriend or wife by now, with the perfect smelling of now-discontinued Ralph Lauren Style or maybe out there nekking in the woods with my Ralph Lauren Romance eau de toilette.

I am beyond bummed.

Maybe this is what it feels like to be an Indian with no warpaint.

There must be 20 different eyeshadows in there (M-A-C!) to suit my every feeling-blue, feeling-green, feeling-purple eclectic mix. 15 different eyeliners beyond the primary colors, some with glitter, and mostly with glee. Paint pots, blush, wands of mascara, tweezers and eyelash curlers, those that you guys refer to as "torture tools." Lipsticks, lipgloss, lipliners - all gone. And now, they're either on a decorated poodle somewhere or some 2 year old must be having fun painting their baby brother in different colors as a peacock.

My dreams of retrieval has been blown to smithereens.

On the second shelf lies my medications that my family allergist has recommended. All arrays of Claritin, Allegra, Nasonex, Zyrtec and Decadron. I surely hope that whoever found it has at least black marketed it to some person who happens to be allergic to all things environmental: dust, dander, mold, mildew, ragweed, hayfever, pollen, trees, flowers, bees, etc. And maybe subscribes to some homeopathic magazine which would explain the natural sleeping potencies that I've required in the last year or so to combat the monster hiding under my bed (said monster usually transforms into some sort of a bogey-wolf man who wants to blow my house down).

Below that would be the apothecary bottles containing lavender, eucalyptus and rosemary oils, and several shapes, sizes, brands and makes of cosmetic brushes - all from unsuspecting animal hair, and yes, including the racoon, too. And with all that gel, mousse, lush whip, wax and hair pomade missing, my wavy hair will be all over the place in this dry, fall weather (AKA: frizz).

One can only conclude from reading this post that the writer (me) must be ugly and stinky now, with a sneezy, runny nose and an incessant cough with itchy, watery eyes - and of course, all under unruly locks.

Oh, well. A natural woman I will have to be.

*photo taken when such items in the medicine cabinet were employed.

Just a little bit.

2008-11-19T23:17:00.005-06:00

Everyday that passes, even as I get older, I've learned some things along the way:

Always keep change in your car. You never know when that elusive tollbooth will appear.

Never say never... NEVER. That 90s fanny pack might come in handy.

Nail polish gets all the gunk out. So if you're a boy, don't be afraid to use it.

When somebody tells you that they have a dark, evil heart, listen and believe it. Take that as a free warning and run for your life.

Don't keep pens that have run out of ink. That's just plain stupid.

Don't ever cheat, don't ever lie and don't ever lie about cheating. Peace of mind is a comfy pillow to sleep on at night. And in the end, you'll just end up hurting yourself.

Caramel apples are one of life's pleasures. Eat them.

If you're gonna laugh, don't do so quietly. Someone might need that laugh more than you!

It's not nice to stare at people in an elevator. It is equally rude to ask, "hey, wanna smell something weird?"

Stop pretending that you care. Because you don't.

Don't just drink tea, eat it. Vosges make the best matcha green tea chocolates.

Pink is not a gay color. Neither is purple.

Keep a secret tune handy. This is less irritating than a scream when that spider crawls across your screen. On the same note, ukeleles are fun to play this time of year.

Don't eat bacon chocolate. Just don't.

Keep your friends close and don't make enemies. If somebody hates you, give them a Target gift card. They can't hate you forever after that.

Know your time zones. At least you don't have to remember as much if you lived in Russia (11).

It's okay to lose your paddle once in a while. Nothing is more romantic than being rescued (without the cheese, of course!).

Stop trying to keep up with the Joneses. Even they have become obsolete.

Dip your Oreo cookies in cold milk. It's yummy and tasty, 'nuf said.

Be true to YOU. This doesn't mean steal all the popcorn in the bowl. It means listening to what your heart says (whether that includes being a can-can girl [or boy]). You're also not responsible for other people's emotions. That's not your problem.

Always keep your gas tank at least a quarter full. Your friends may use your 4-door sedan as a getaway car. You need to at least be ready for that.

Never trust a man with a drink in his hand. It's not really you he wants.

Go someplace where nobody speaks English, even if it's your parent's basement during a neighborhood game of mahjong. Hilarity is watching people curse in their native tongue.

Sometimes dreams don't come true; but know that you won't die, nobody's going to eat you and that everything - e.v.e.r.y.t.h.i.n.g. - happens for a reason.

Even if that reason is just a happenstance meeting of that stranger who took the lint off your jacket.

No wrinkles, please.

2008-10-09T21:19:00.006-05:00

Early last week, my cellular telephone decided to commit suicide.

I don't know if it's due to abuse, mistreatment, neglect, or sheer force of will. But it decided it would destruct itself for reason unbeknownst to me. I was upset at first, because I hadn't received the memo that it had an inkling to do that. It didn't even give me a two weeks notice! How rude. At least with my other mobile, it let me know it was slowly dying of monitor-related disease and gave me at least a few days to fend for another one.

But alas, this LG was kaput.

Because I'm not exactly rolling in mad cheddar these days, and cause I'm not due for an upgrade for a few more months, I decided to head for eBay, hoping that I might be able to get a stand-in till I got really serious about making a commitment (phobic, these days).

I don't know what possessed me to purchase a used LG Chocolate (I have come to despise these phones with a passion). But... I did. I thought... 'hey, how bad could it be?'

Turns out it's some old jerkhole trying to make another buck.

Besides the fact that this phone had bedazzles and sh*t all over it, (yes, bling bling), the battery is actually meant for a RED phone - not a pink one. And nevermind that the battery only lasts for 20 minutes after being fully charged. I won't even go into detail of the lack of consideration on the part of the seller for not having erased the messages on the in/outbox (and consider yourself lucky that you didn't have to read some of the titles on there!). But probably the WORST and THE most uncouth part of this whole circus?

At least you didn't have to sit there and erase inappropriate, disturbing pictures of a Chippendale in a g-string on a very sad bachelorette party and a (very severely) egg shaped naked woman mummified in Saran Wrap.

The short of it? That seller is getting his phone back. And he's getting the worst seller ratings EVER. And my complaint will be an allegorical tale, not a mini shout out.

There is a silver lining to my story though.

I finally went to the second store affiliated with my cellular company today, since I'd had a few hours to spare. It didn't occur to me to check with these guys after the first one had blatantly turned me down and said they couldn't do anything else and EVEN SUGGESTED (might I add) to check on Ebay! (I think it's cause she was a chick who didn't find me entertaining enough).

Within five minutes of arrival, I had a new phone in transit waiting for me, free of charge.

I didn't do anything. Except for answer irrelevant questions like, "what are you doing in Pensacola?", "how old are you?", "are you married?", "what's your number? (this is THE one time it's okay to tell!).

After the twenty social questions, I asked, "what's the catch? why are you giving me this for free?"

He smiled, "consider it the one thing I can do for a pretty little lady today."

Ergh... this is why it pains me, to get old. Cause I'm sure that when I'm wrinkled and furrowed at 80, I won't be getting phones for free.

Taking a heart break.

2008-09-17T00:14:00.004-05:00

It's been over a hundred textbook pages.

The charts and graphs are starting to look the same, and the figures and dashes seem to be colliding and flying off the pages, and yet delightfully fusing among the print of black and white.

The colored illustrations play like a broken LP.

Here's the flow of the heart: unoxygenated blood entering the tubes of the superior and inferior vena cava, work their way into the right atrium, down the revolving doors of the tricuspid valve, into the right ventricle, back up to the semilunar/pulmonic valve, to the pulmonary artery, taking the carousel ride to the pulmonary veins after grabbing that lifeblood of oxygen, down the left atrium, to mitral/bicuspid valve and lower still to the left ventricle and back up to the aorta... to sort itself out to the rest of the human body.

Seems simple enough.

Then you add the orgies of the self-absorbed vascular mafia killers and cardiophile fixers.

All of a sudden, pharmacologic trick or treaters join the party, flaming disorders come out to play, pretty pathologic insufficiencies need attention and how can I refuse?

I have to acquaint them all.

So here I am in the middle of a vital organ labyrinth, learning the Morse Code of the EKG readings and throwing back Heart's Hard Lemonade, getting drunk and high (and still overstimulated) from the drink of knowledge and the smell of hospital.

Waking up tomorrow from this scintillating evening won't be so pretty.

*Thank you Eisha for the lovely picture.

Denim Blues.

2008-09-13T22:58:00.001-05:00

I'm sitting comfortably on my bar stool, shifting my weight, wearing my favorite pair of jeans.

I've had these blues since first year at Andrews, and they've been through everything thick and thin. There's not many things that I can say that about; Not too long ago, I was so close to chucking them to the nearest Goodwill bin, disheartened that I had gotten a bit big and they no longer fit.... but insert a few life-changing experiences in its pockets, a few tears here and there, a yoga instructor on physical malfeasance and laughter in the backseat of a happy cruiser, and back in we go.

And now, I'm amazed at what this denim has seen in its lifetime:

Both empty and full u-haul boxes as I pack/unpack the turtle shell of my every "home." Sand hidden in the cuffs that empty on the bathroom floor when I've spent the better part of the afternoon staring at the clouds on a windy day at the beach. Ink stains from frustrated, copious paper-editing... and sleeping in the same exact jeans the next day when that said paper has finally been finished. Familiar hand on lap on a long drive to a Thanksgiving tradition, complete with autumn leaves. The color of green removed from grass while rolling on a soggy football field. Falling tears from broken hearts and broken parts. Airplane turbulence and spilled cheesy doritos, greasing the front button. Vision of a green planet while sitting Indian-style on the high mountains of the Andes... And always, never failing to hide my legs on lazy mornings when I've got no time to shave, or my skinned knees from fallen bike rides, and the inconspicuous scratch from sliding at the front driveway of my parents' while learning how to change the oil of a car.

I've seen other jeans on the way, but nothing fits quite as comfortably as the ones I'm wearing.

It has successfully morphed into the mold of my body. And no matter how many times I've washed and worn them, it always feels the same.

In its lifetime, it's been paired with overpriced, high-strung sneakers, three inch, pencil thin heels from a Macy's bargain rack and of course, the over abundance of my immeasurable overflow of flip flops from my coat closet. They've been under sweaters, hoodies, graphic tees of rock and earthy persuasions and never once complained when I've hidden them under large parkas, down jackets and wool coats when braving a cruel Michigan winter complete with unstylish Sherpa boots.

But really, I just love how it hugs me in all the right ways.

So here's to my favorite pair of jeans: HURRAY!

Who needs an etch-a-sketch when you've got Ike's winds on water and sand?

2008-09-12T22:18:00.011-05:00

You've heard it said that there is "beauty in simplicity," but I never knew that simple could be so beautiful.

The beach was amazing at dusk tonight. The moon was out. The dark, gray clouds playing tag in the sky. The rising tide washing ashore and the quick splitting of the waters, left its happy foam on the white sand.

It was me and four other people who braved the Gulf winds. One teased the ocean by chasing the galloping sea gulls (how brave!). A man with a golden ring was playfully singing to the woman next to him very pregnant with the skinniest legs and the fattest belly you've ever seen. And me, in the corner, losing my sense of self, frantically drawing sketches on the board of the sand, pretending my fingers were like chalk making smiley faces, drawing houses, clouds, illuminating stars and forming puppets by their stories, before the water washed my doodles away (it always won).

Whatever happened to life's happy simplicities?

I didn't need to be awakened by a book, entertained by a game, or a news ticker on the right corner of a screen, a romantic ballad or an unlikely story.

Contentment.

My definition?

It's being happy in the present, not-wanting.

May I have that in 34B, please.

2008-09-02T17:07:00.008-05:00

Every woman who wears a cup A or better can always tell the difference between a Victoria's Secret bra and some other no-name fakey fakerton.

I suppose it just comes with the territory of having boobs.

If only this deciphering tool could extend itself to other matters just as significant.

You've heard it said that when you find something good, it's worth holding onto. But when you find something great, you wonder how you ever lived without it.

Everyone remembers the Wonderbra sensation in the early 1990s. The branded plunge pushup brassiere caused such a phenomenon that the fashion industry eventually caught on by the use of low-cut necklines to accentuate the cleave of the woman in her true form. Suddenly the women grew busty, curvy and even the waif models of the Twiggy generation looked quite voluptuous and plump in their sweaters.

And then just a few years later, Victoria's Secret responded with reckless abandon.

Out came the Angels collection (my absolute favorite), Very Sexy collection (too much sexy isn't good for utilitarian productivity, is it?), Body collection (*yawn*), Pink, Classic, pout, Ipex, etc.

And now comes the BioFit.

It fits in all the right places, breathes in all the right ways, highlights all the good parts and downplays anything I don't want. In various colors, styles that suit every mood and sizes galore, it's a favorite of the female species as of late.

Plus, nothing feels quite as good over that delicate skin.

That's a pretty lovely icing on the cake, don't you think?

The question du jour is: "How did the other that I once thought was great ever suffice?"

And now I'm making room in my lingerie drawers for what I truly want.

Best friends are the best... hence the name.

2008-08-27T23:27:00.002-05:00

Where would I be without you?

Thank you for taking the reigns. And letting me soak your dress. And killing your eardrum with my loudness. For being the motherhen of protective shield.

But mostly, for loving me something unconditional.

At least there wasn't knives involved.

2008-07-30T21:42:00.006-05:00

Some time ago, I went on a first date.

(The kind where you go out and get to know each other on a purely romantic escapade, and not merely being friends in the beginning).

If you're an avid reader of my blog (or a friend, or if we're acquainted somehow), you'd know the state of my current social status. After all, it isn't as though I've been keeping it a secret.

After meeting and having a friendly chat, he asked for my phone number.

I hesitated at first (trust your instincts!), but I decided, "wutdahey? At the very least, there'd be a good story to tell."

We met up a few days later and had dinner... blah, blah, blah.

After which was the rooster display of: "This Is Me. This Is Why You Should Like Me. These Are My Wonderful Qualities because obviously, I cannot Trust You To Make Your Own Judgment on Why I Am A Great Guy." Sell. Sell. Sell. Me. Me. Me.

Or maybe it was just that obvious that I wasn't feeling it?

In my defense (now that you judge me to be sarcastic, cynical and maybe even downright mean), I had a pretty good time and afterwards decided that "hey, yeah... maybe I could do that again. I could give it another go."

Except for what took place in conversation a week later.

Because the pie place was already closed and I had an early start the next day, I opted not to go out when he asked.

"Okay. I'll just come over, or you can come over and we can spoon instead," he said.

(UMMMMM..... does he NOT remember that we had only ONE Date?! [and no... I didn't do any of that stuff, come on now...]).

"Tell me you're joking!" I exclaimed.

"No. I'm Not. I'm Serious. It'd be hot laying next to your body and I'm lonely. I'm sure you're lonely too. (I wasn't and I'm not). And maybe after that...(insert mumbly words here)"

"But spooning leads to forking... and that's Not How I Roll." I said flatly.

Needless to say, he never heard from me again.

It doesn't take spring for cleaning.

2008-07-13T11:29:00.005-05:00

Every few days (or longer... whenever), whether I need to or not, I break out my Dyson and let it suck all the grossness out of my life. After the Dyson, comes the Method cleaning sprays, armed with my polka dotted rubber gloves and there I go: scrub, scrub, scrub. Not a moment too soon, the O mop comes out from hiding and together we dance the lovely waltz of Clean. I squeegee the windows, the mirrors and dust out the electronics and shelves. Whatever I can't get out, my trusty Dirt Devil blue Kone takes over.

If only everything else would be that simple.

Usually reluctant to throw anything away ("Wait! I might need that later!") these days I've become matter-of-factly unyielding, singing the tune of, "JunK! Trash it!" (which usually means "which recycling bin can I throw this into?")

After getting rid of "it's just stuff" (a grand lesson I learned from my Old Life), it makes me feel so much better. Finally. Nothing getting In My Way.

Hard to believe that things can easily hold you back. It drives me nuts when I realize that I've been suffocated by little ordinary, once-maybe-useful items, paraphernalias and other useless merchandise that once held a place in a stock shelf somewhere.

It's not that things have suddenly lost their appeal; it's just that they've become obsolete.

I used to feel bad about chucking things, but now I don't. Sometimes, you just have to learn to let it go. According to the rules of probability, you won't need it later anyway. You won't want it either. And if you do, there's always something else to take its place. It is just a Thing after all. Just "stuff."

* Photo by: Pieter

One way ticket to Manchester, please.

2008-06-27T00:35:00.007-05:00

I didn't think he was going to do it for me. I was searching for some indie music online and by happenstance, I stumbled into him playing my favorite Oasis song.

And now I'm in love.
It's that ridiculous, silly, little school girl crush, really. The kind that keeps you up at night thinking, "who is this John Lennon incarnate?", "why can't I stop listening to him sing?" and "why do I want to wake and sleep to that voice?"

What can I say? He happens to be easy on the eyes, too. Who can resist that messy, unkempt head of hair, the chiseled face and the dimple?

Plus, I can't get enough of The Artist. And his glasses? I love looking at a picture in frames.

Besides that, any guy who can pull this off with his guitar is on my hot list.

Now, if only I could be Yoko.

"I've had enough."

2008-06-14T23:00:00.003-05:00

Askie and I were watching a movie in her living room tonight. Twice she looked at me in the middle of corny dialogue and asked, "hey, did you hear that?"

"No," I said.

Then later she asked me, "is your phone making that weird noise?"

I looked at the cell phone next to me set on silent and said, "ummm no. What are you hearing?"

"Just a weird buzzing noise," she said.

She looked at the TV screen and put away the thought.

About fifteen minutes later, she looks behind her, stands up, her mouth gaping wide open and starts screaming, "OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! Vimie! Get up! Look at this!!"

I peel myself off the living room floor. And my mind is racing. 'Did someone get in the house?' I thought. 'What is she talking about? Why is she freaking out? what could it be? WHATCOULDITBE?!?!'

At first I thought it was a small bat.

But it didn't take me long to realize that the "thing" making that buzzing noise was your typical, average Southern cockroach... flying. I would have to say that in all my time living in the South (and Texas included) and living in a tropical country, I have never seen a GINORMOUS cockroach ever flying around like that as though with a vengeance seeking its next meal.

For the next ten minutes (or hours it seemed) we were screaming at the top of our lungs trying to dance around this God-forsaken pest. I was crying, laughing, laughing, crying, screaming, peeking, ducking, screaming again.

Quickly, I picked up the swiffer mopper in the utility room and started swinging with all my might at this odious insect. Only it seemed that it would now be attacking ME. Shrieking into a shrill, I decided that I wasn't going to let it win and when it landed on a flat surface, I would hit it with all my muscley might.

I swear it resurrected from the dead.

Askie armed herself with a flip flop on her left hand and went under the sink to pick up the bug spray. When it finally decided to settle into a corner in the living room, tiptoeing, she frantically sprayed the cockroach as if her life depended on it, never failing to scream the whole time.

I picked it up and flushed it down the toilet.

"That's it," she says, "I've had enough of the south."

I wiped away the hysterical tears from my cheeks and agreed.

I won! I won! I won!

2008-06-10T21:28:00.009-05:00

I was half awake lying stomach down on my comfy couch when I got the call.

"Hey, are you by a computer?" he asked.

"No. But I can be. What's up?"

"I wanna send you something."

I walked over to my computer and logged on chat. After a little game of online tag with him, he finally gave me the site.

For your viewing pleasure, refer to link on the right called, "I lust method."

The post in reference is titled, "and the winner is..."

YAR, Mate-y!!!!

2008-05-26T00:32:00.005-05:00

I was out with Theresa this afternoon after a very hefty and delicious vegan brunch (yum. Wayyy better than bubblegum pie). We found ourselves at Barnes soon after that doing some necessary academic reading and listening to Brandi Carlisle in the background.

After plopping my seat down and settling into some serious knowledge-acquisition mode, I felt that all-too strange feeling that perhaps someone in the distance (or perhaps close proximity) was staring. Nonchalantly, I picked up my passion tea lemonade and looked up. And there he was.

Sitting on the other table in front of me, with beautiful dark red hair, a dorky semi-smile and the look of a neighborhood fall out boy mastering the art of dodgeball, he quickly looked down as I met his gaze.

Scattered in front of him were papers with unreadable chicken scratch, a calculator, protractors of various types, several American brand number 2 pencils and a thickly unfolded topographical map.

'How geeky,' I thought. (And somewhat alluring).

For the next three hours, I continued working on various topics that would do no interest for you here. Everytime I picked up my tea, I would catch his gaze, he would smile, I wouldn't, then he would look down again to continue making circles with his pencil and protractor on his precious map.

When it was time for us to leave, I walked over to his table and asked, "so I see you're working hard on that map of yours... Are you hunting for treasure?"

He threw his head back in laughter and said, "no. I'm a NFO* student" (and this is the part where I've completely forgotten everything he said - although it sounded interesting). We said our "good luck to you" spiel after exchanging information on school and learning and I left before my school books in my backpack can pinch my T7 on my spine.

No I didn't give him my phone number.

Theresa asked me why.

I told her I was boycotting pirates this year.

She smiled and understood.

*Naval Flight Officer (they ride "goose" on the plane; famously played by Anthony Edwards in the movie, "Top Gun" casted as Nick "goose" Bradshaw). When Luke completes his training, he'll receive his wings and to my understanding, be qualified as a systems operator on the aircraft. I'm sure there's more to that, but I need my brain to remember other things at the moment.

So not like an open fire.

2008-05-12T21:08:00.007-05:00

Back up off my platinum grill.

I love hearing about how your last ultrasound showed that little alien-resembling fetus gaze at you with its beautiful eyes. Or hearing that it has your honey's nose. I don't mind picking out paint samples with you divulging the many palettes of white (should we go with eggshell or cloud?). I even enjoy sending pictures with my phone of the new Dwell Studio beds and linens line for babies everytime I go to Target (and for the record, I want polka dots).

Don't get me wrong.

Coming up with baby names IS FUN. I swear. It really is. I promise. I can spend all afternoon looking up names derived from the Roman and Latin era. The history is surprisingly interesting too. And yes, I care that you want to name your daughter Rabbit. And yes, I will object to that. Even though I'm not even related to that offspring of yours. And for your information, Irish names are MINE. Just because you got knocked up before I did doesn't mean you can take my baby monicker ideas. This is not a game of "first come, first serve." I will sue you for theft and attempted retrieval of intellectual property.

You got that?

Good.

If you must know, your pregnant belly is something to somewhat envy. It's not the six pack of the Bally's Total Fitness that thrills me. It's that bulging life inside you protruding from your Motherhood pants. It's that rotating, keep-you-up-late-at-night and birthing classes that mean much more than my absolute fervor of yoga. I know, I know. Woe is to you. You have stretch marks and not enough cocoa butter on the planet is ever going to be enough to keep those striated lines at bay. Boo hoo that your heartburn is worse than the last time I went to La Senorita. And that you haven't moved your bowels since before you remembered to order Mother's Day bouquets from 1 800 flowers.... Life must be so rough.

Please don't take this the wrong way.

That new baby of yours is amazing. The way she smiles when I hold her. The way he squeals when I throw him in the air. The tickles and faces that bring lightness to my face. Nothing is more spectacular than bringing life into this world manifested by the love that you have with your partner. Trust me, I already know.

But please don't be angry with me when I say this.

I just have to care at an arm's reach, okay? I can only love you and love that little new life of yours from a distance. I can only stay here where I stand and can go no further. I will share this bundle of joy with you, but please don't expect me to comprehend what motherhood is like because I haven't a single inkling.

And herein lies my confession.

As you start your family and it begins to grow, that burgeoning tribe of yours multiplying, in a way it kind of reminds me of the family I lost.

You never really forget, no matter how hard you try.

So until I get a real God-honest reason to finally purchase that multi-colored polka dotted Boppy pillow in the nursery section, if I don't seem as ecstatic as you are, be reminded too, that it's not that I'm not happy for you (cause you know I'm not ready to tour Europe with a stroller or get one of those baby booger sucker things). So please,

back up off my platinum grill.

*picture courtesy of Target.com/baby/dwellstudio

Another reason to keep the refrigerator well stocked.

2008-04-28T00:35:00.007-05:00

A year ago, I didn't have this problem.

I was living on the top floor and was usually making so much clatter of my own that even if the people downstairs were singing their choir, I'm sure I wouldn't have even noticed it.

But having people live below AND above me, well... let's just say I'm more aware of the "noises" now.

One night, I was sitting up in bed reading with nothing in the background playing. No fans, no air conditioning, no air filters or music. And I heard that very distinct ululation coming from a woman from upstairs. Instinctively knowing its cause, my face distorted in shock, I quickly ran into the kitchen (due to its closest and far enough proximity to my bedroom).

'Don't they realize how loud they are?' I asked myself.

I stood infront of the refrigerator for a good thirty seconds staring at a half eaten sandwich. I looked at my watch and thought to myself, 'well, if he's any good, I'll let them have another thirty.'

And so, I waited.

I walked back to my room and I heard the unmistakable rhythm of boxsprings in crescendo.

Taking two steps toward the door heading for the kitchen again, I took another look at that half eaten sandwich in the refrigerator. But not before I heard the monosyllabic groan in baritone.

And it lasted for about two seconds. Perhaps three. But that's as far as I'll get at exaggerating the time limit.

It has occurred numerous times since then. And always when it begins, I head for the refrigerator. If not staring at a half eaten sandwich, it'll be a packet of mango lychees, fat free jell-o pudding cups, organic peach yogurt, or shriveling jalapenos in the cheese drawer.

Lately, however, I've compensated nicely insistent that if I kept up the refrigerator-content-staring behavior, I would end up gaining unncessary weight. Instead, I've turned up Kanye in the background, started singing and playing my guitar again and/or started calling my friends with the opening line of, "guess what my neighbors are doing upstairs?"

I've been told to get a broom and loudly tap it on the ceiling. But how rude would that be? I would imagine in their anger at having disrupted their little what-bedsprings-are-made-of session, they would only yell/scream/moan louder just to counteract my rather "rude" request.

Somehow it seems that heading for the kitchen is the easier solution.

Tonight, however, clearly Spring Fever is in full swing. What's worse than loud neighbors upstairs doing the oompa loompa?

It's being sandwiched in between the bottom people bumping uglies at the same time.

I'm gonna need another refrigerator for this.

A bare naked lady dancing to Barenaked Ladies.

2008-04-23T20:39:00.002-05:00

This morning was an extraordinary one. I had a clear schedule, with nothing pressing and felt like this Wednesday would be all mine. All to myself. All to my learning. All at my leisure. I was going to own it. I was determined to have a bright and exciting day.

It turns out it was an exciting day for others too.

Since I was up way too late reading last night, I scooted out of bed bleary eyed at a (still!) morning hour I'd rather not utter here. I did the usual routine: a three minute stretch, a moment stare at the white ceiling, I rolled out of the right side of the bed, turned my music up double the decibels considered safe, did my morning headstand and got in the shower.

Usually, I sing along with the music playing in the background. In between shampooing, conditioning, facial scrubbing and body washing, I do my little ditties, breaking into song and dance with arms flailing, booty shaking and grooving to the music. And today's morning routine was no different.

Except that since I still had a half hour or so to spare, I decided that my dancing would relocate from the shower to my bedroom. And since I was home alone, and I was in need of getting my waffles ready, I decided I would relocate my dancing to the kitchen after that. (Did I fail to mention that after drying myself with my bath towels that I neglected to put clothes on?).

It happened so quickly.

My place gets maintenance checks every month. During the day, when most people aren't home, workers let themselves in with their utility keys to spray the place (it's SO environmentally-UNfriendly, but that's for another post), replace air filters, check wiring, etc, just to make sure everything is in working order.

Apparently my music was way too loud I didn't hear them knock.

In the middle of putting waffles in the kitchen toaster, singing at the top of my lungs and dancing to oblivion, there I was...

A bare naked lady dancing to Barenaked Ladies.

Dressings, tape and fear of having to pull it off.

2008-04-22T00:04:00.009-05:00

In wound care, there's a process called debridement.

It's removing infected, necrotic tissue to provide room for healthy tissue growth. By removing the dead areas, it basically gives the skin a fighting chance. And if you do it right, it can make radical changes, that you may even forget there was a wound there in the first place. It can be done by surgical methods (the quickest way), maggot therapy, autolytic enzyme digestion, chemical removal and the worst, painful kind, mechanical.

It's so imperative to be rid of nonviable tissue. Wounds that have dead attachment not only take longer to heal, but they can cause (further) infection, exacerbation of current condition and worse, may require extensive intervention, like severing a leg with gangrene.

The mechanical method will usually require medication 30-60 minutes prior. This is due to the pain that occurs when a wet dressing has been dried before removal. Slowly, the dried gauze is removed, taking with it the unwanted parts, the parts without life. Patients really hate this because of the pain - even while medicated. But through gritted teeth and tight fists, they endure it. Because the alternative is not an option.

But once that wound starts to heal, when those epithelial granular tissue migrate across the wound bed and healthy cells proliferate, it creates something almost magical.

There's room for new life.

Green thumbs and wastebaskets.

2008-04-10T23:38:00.004-05:00

If you bury something deep enough, it grows.

When I first went to college, I had no idea what I was going to major in. I'm talking about the first week. I was enrolled as a psyche major - then let that one out the window when I decided that picking people's heads apart was not for me (or is it?). Nevertheless, Student Success made it mandatory for me to take an aptitude/interest/skills exam. A two hour drone on self-discovery (ooh! intrigue!) and mind games of "please pick one: introvert or extrovert," "select all that apply: outdoors, indoors, methodical, routine, spontaneous, overt, innate, impulsive" and my absolute favorite: "mark your (perceived) abilities: math, science, history, english, art" - all the while thinking, "now, why can't I find politically minded, environmentally conscious, fun-loving, comedy-inducing interest here? or at the very LEAST recess?"

As it turns out, I had two possibilities (wow! the choices!).

I would make a great a) world traveller slash lifecoach (how those two go hand in hand, I haven't the brains to figure out) and 2) apparently, I would make the BEST botanist.

That's right, a botanist. A green thumb. A gardener. A conservationalist. Ecologist. Naturalist.

Has ANYONE seen my houseplant? It has varying shades of brown, dusk and scorch. Oh and yes, the diverse mutations of the colors of Mordor (Sindarin Black Land, Quenya Land of Shadow, where Sauron lives). Let's see, both of my orchids have died, and nothing remains of them. I've tried the herb/spices garden by the sink and have never been able to keep pansies, roses, hydrangeas, daisies and or the dandelion... yes, the weed.

Today though, as I look back, I can't help but think that perhaps I've been missing something here... Could it be that I was so reluctant to embrace my inner hillbilly? There's nothing wrong with being a planter. A cropper. A cultivater.

But maybe there's more to the story.

It seems that gardeners are famous for their stamina. Tenacity. Patience of a... tree (pardon the pun). In their stoutheartedness, they grow flora and fauna of impressive bloom.

If this is what that assessment is implying, and not merely in gardening terms, then perhaps that would be the biggest compliment in the world. OR - maybe this whole time, there's a huge conspiracy set in motion that administrators of this test has been using for the purpose of research to quantify the effects of such quests to play the minds of the undecided freshmen.

Ironically, I'm still undecided about that.

But some days I'm convinced that I'd make a terrific botanist. I could spend the day outside or in a greenhouse. Travel the world, taking pictures and writing about biomes and what kind of plants thrive there... native, introduced, happy, healthy, etc. What we can do as a planet society to preserve what's left from all that cocoa deforestation. I could even pick out the pinecones from a coniferous forest and finally make that Martha Stewart winter craft for a Christmas decoration that I'd been meaning to do since 1997.

Just a thought.

This whole botany thing has been growing in me. Somewhere I know, there's a candid camera with a mad scientist rubbing his hands together and muttering, "my precious." That crazy scientist whose idea it was to suggest "Botanist" in the box for "what you're made to be."

Maybe I should've just stuck with psychology.

One thing for sure, though. I wish I hadn't thrown those test results in the trash.

Or I could've at least recycled it.

But... maybe that's just the botanist in me talking.

The collapse of the masquerade.

2008-04-09T21:47:00.003-05:00

We're all trying to hide something.

It could be significant like feelings we've harbored for years (whether loathe or love - or both) for somebody else or something so small as that scar when we fell off the chair when we were four.

(I happen to be hiding a tiny chicken pox scar right below my lower lip and one inch west and three inches north of my belly button).

In perfect hues and complementing colors, girls (and some trans) play up their eyes and make those baby blues or darling browns or getty greens more beautiful than they are - if not for a day or a lifetime. We hide from our jobs on vacations - and try to achieve that realm of escape. And ever so often, we sit behind huge screens with monstrous surround sound and watch with awe, dreaming in ponderance of what life would be like if we were a superhero (or Chuck Norris).

We hide from our neighbors. We hide from our families. We hide from our friends.

What... you don't think you're hiding when you haven't picked up that phone call when the caller ID reads, "Mom calling"? Or not answering that text of, "Hey, where are you?"

But mostly, and truly, we like to hide from ourselves.

It's that still small voice that we don't listen to when we're about to do something we really knooowww we shouldn't do. It's that continuous lie we tell ourselves. "Oh, this is okay. Just this once. I'll never do it again after this."

Until your choice confronts you on a winter evening when you've come home from work, once again alone, the lights off in the bedroom window and you think, "So... this is what it's like to be free." And even then the appeal of liberation can only last so long.

You solve it by never being home. Because it hurts so much to be there. Because it's so empty. And you think, "if I can just go here, be there, leave again... then I won't have to face it. I can hide under this rock until I'm completely consumed by it that I never even know I was lost in the first place. Until I don't even know where I am."

*We get a new car. That second degree. An offspring, even - hoping for a change, hoping to make things better. Hoping to hide from everything else that we don't want to face, or exactly what we're scared of.

And worst of all, hiding from ourselves.

It's the worst kind of concealment. It's a place of no refuge. You do everything you can to keep busy. To be occupied. To be incognito.

I have found that epiphanies are hard to come by. Which is why I love epiphanies. They come along right when you need them.

I was driving home tonight on a dark, winding road. I was the only one there. Nothing was on the radio. My music was out of commission. Lost. All five thousand of them. And so, I drove home in silence.

Nothing playing in the car, but just my thoughts to keep me going.

And I realized, that perhaps I was hiding from myself too. I'm hiding from this person I'm becoming: capable, strong, unyielding, singular, when all I've been wanting lately was to be weak. To be tired. To be dependent. To whine. To have someone else pick up the slack for a change. Or maybe that I just want to fall and want something - anything to catch me.

I keep driving that deafening silence and turn off the engine once I've arrived. As I walk up the stairs to my bedroom door, I think of merry things that I'm looking forward to: getting a shower, reading before bed, falling asleep into the night.

But first things first, I unpeel the clothes of my day. My socks, my jeans, my new favorite organic navy blue t shirt with the unmistakable recyclable print. And somewhere between my angels bra and ae boyshorts, lies my own mask.

All strewn all over the bathroom floor.

*This not to be misconstrued. I'm not saying that all people who want to better themselves or improve their life's situations, or have babies are trying to hide or escape from reality. I'm not saying that at all. I'm merely saying that sometimes, that's what people do.

Have no fear...

2008-04-08T21:59:00.002-05:00

[Before I begin my blog for today, I just want to announce that Lent was over a long, long while ago. And yes... I made it. I did like I said and by JOVE!!!! I prevailed! (with the grace of Christ, that is). But still... I have yet to achieve that gentle, quiet spirit I was meaning to grab....]

Moving on.... "Shut your eyes" plays in the background... am a bit frustrated because I'd already eaten the second Spiderman multivitamin gummy for today and I want more (why do they make them to taste just like candy? - don't they understand that's a liability?).

My mind is all in a tither tonight. In trying to achieve the "peace be still" status, I'm afraid I've levied somehow. Yoga tonight was a pure mess. I was a yogi on speed, or at least someone who had forgotten to take her ADD pill. My yoga teacher I gathered was not thoroughly impressed. She uttered repeatedly, "quiet the mind... let the your spirit take you to that quiet place... of rest, relaxation, stillness..." And I was not still. Or relaxed. Or rested.

Instead of my deep breathings, I was hrrrmpphhing through it.

Not the best sight.

I blame this on lack of practice from my break.

I've had a chance to remove myself from my everyday life last week. What an incredible time for journey. It was a trip I needed more than I thought I needed it. I don't really want to choose this time to gripe about the woes of my travels (5 flights, and 2 days later upon arrival)... and so I won't.

It's funny how sometimes, all it takes is just to step back from everything that is familiar, yet so far removed, that I almost hate willingly - to find myself in a new, but in an unduly intimate setting that is somehow... my own.

How does one continue to keep moving when her heart is spread all over the place? In far and near proximities of being here and yet, there? It may be the same principle as the lingering hotness of the serrano pepper between my fingers as they fly across this keyboard...

ahhh yes... the serrano. So deceptively sweet and spicy. From the outside, seems so innocent, so smooth - almost indistinguishable from a regular green pepper, if not for the size... and then you slice it open, take the seeds out, sliver a piece and one pop in the mouth - and thus, it is but fire to the buds.... (I had no idea what I was doing, I suppose. 'How hot can raw serrano be?'). And in moments, dousing the self with soymilk, yogurt and even parqueing the kitchen floor with a handful of ice in a pack held up against my lips).

My mind is all in a tither tonight... like I said.

I can't even seem to write a proper flow-through without ramble of random.

I suppose now you understand what baffles me. How the mind ebbs and flows ("ebb and flow", who made that up?). I wish I could be more coherent.

Or still.

Glass half over.

2008-02-28T16:25:00.002-06:00

Ya... hoo.

It is halfway over. Never believed I'd actually make it this far (refer to blog from 02.05).

And it is exactly in between.

20 days have passed since Ash Wednesday! (Sundays don't count - [don't ask me, ask the Catholics]). (Thought brewing) I'm not aware if I've yet achieved that "gentle, quiet spirit of incorruptible beauty" though. You may have to check back with me on that one.

I don't care who knows. I'll shout this from the highest peaks of the face of the planet.

2008-02-26T01:47:00.003-06:00

It was a catastrophe.

I wondered (and still do) how God was going to make it beautiful. I was curious to see how He was going to make me feel whole again. How He was going to fix His power on the restoration... immense mission to repair my brokenness and loss... What is He trying to say? Why did He allow me to experience the greatest fear from the deepest, darkest, closed depths of my heart?

The embers glow and the crackling fire startles me.

I wonder where His glory will reveal itself.

When will it shine? Where is my life and where is my hand in it? What is now my purpose? Where will my gifts be realized? How can I still serve Him when I am so incapable of looking beyond myself? Overcoming my acquaintance with grief. Where and how, do I even begin?

The times of darkness were grueling and so unforgiving. Morose. Anguish. Gloom. Sorrow. Bore through every fiber of my being. Such a loss. Such a tragedy. Shock. How would I move? How would I continue? To belong? To walk on in manner with pride and dignity intact?

But the promises of God kept me going. His words kept me safe. In my shadow of blackness, when all seemed dim and not a single flicker of a candlelight were present, He lifted me and the gates of heaven opened and out came the light that I'd been seeking. Through my most desperate tears and the silent, yet loudest cry for a Savior - any savior - He rescued me. "Draw near to me... I will draw near to you..." He held me. He rocked me back and forth. So soothing. My reprieve that would not be temporary, but forever. His tender love and mercy consumed me. I laid on the sunbeam on the floor of His home and He kept the perils of my Enemy from reaching me, from stealing me, from destroying the life He created and set aside for Himself.

He sent the army of angels to rescue me.

I was never alone.

One by one, two by two, in threes, they gathered. In my fists of fury, in my tantrums of hatred and outrage, the blood of a bitch that evil drank from a silver cup were unmistakable. In my unrestrained screams of jealousy and bruise of disappointment, they brought heaven on my piece of earth. In droves they assembled to help me through this mountain. And to think, I wanted to stay.

These angels manifested themselves in my dearest friends and family who never let me go. Who kept my soul alive. Kicking and screaming. They quickly wandered in. Taking turns. Refreshing the bath. Relighting the candles. Picking and placing back the fallen shreds. Daily, hourly, they reached for me: praying with me, sending me pieces of joy and happiness. Jewels of love, of fun, of thrill. Of anything to keep me beaming, even if pretend.

All this, through the most unexpected mediums, through the most inspiring and kindest ways.

I marvel at the sight of glory. I marvel at God's love. I marvel at His children.

Through Christ, I saw the strength in me, the fire ablaze, my character forged after His, seeking His spirit living in me. It is not me! But the God who rests in myself! He is the ultimate confidant, and my very dearest friend. God's grace was - is - the most amazing miracle. The most amazing gift. The most difficult to aspire to. I just don't believe it would be possible otherwise.

He purified me. He purifies me, still. He allowed the cross to rear itself - but He never let me be crucified. He had already done that, and He continues to do so every moment. Whether I need Him to. Or not.

What is this Love? What fortune had fallen on me that I may experience His grace?

How did I get so, so lucky?

What worth, what value do I have that I would dwell in His fortress? That He would die for me?

"It was never your battle to fight," I heard Him say. "I wanted to show you the miracle that is never impossible in My hands."

His lips continued moving. "I love you, as far as your eye can see, beyond what your mind can comprehend."

He didn't stop. "I will never leave you. I will never leave you."

Still He went on. "I am yours. And YOU are Mine. I'm devoted to you. I'm affected by you. You are the reason for my being. For my life. I live in you. I carry your name and I hold your picture to all the corners of the universe I tread. I am always with you. And you, are always with Me."

I'm struck with awe. I stood frozen. Was this the beginning of realizing the love of the Father?

As I rose from the valley of insecurity, loss, sadness, resentment, fear, pain - all the things Satan created and bore in this destructive, sick, evil-trodden life, God's army of love, peace, joy - and hope praised His name for my suffering. "She is coming soon. Soon she will be here. There is no more waiting."

In my earthly view of independence, capability, emotional self-sufficiency, exploring heart, considering mind, in my strength, in my fortitude, in my bold, spunky courage, God was all those manner that I could never be. It's not just realizing that I wasn't who I thought I was; it's not realizing soon enough that God would be all that for me.

I am now before you as a young, living testament. Don't move me. Because you can't. I have seen a microscopic glimpse, smaller than a single grain of sand of the neverending Love. Real true Love. Beyond romance. Beyond attention. Beyond kisses. Beyond empty love letters. The end all be all, is this.

He continues to amaze me. Every moment.

Better days have arrived since then. And while I know and am well aware that I have yet to recover completely, this has truly been a vision of God's ability to create and recreate the provisions and promises He holds for His children.

As I walked with God today, His strides hundreds of yards ahead of mine, I run after Him and ask,

"so why'd you do it?"

I called out loudly. So loud I had scared away the seagulls.

He smiled, the beams of light so unabashedly aglow, that even darkness envied its fervor.

"Because I love you."

I stop in my tracks. "Nobody will ever love me like you do."

He nodded. "And nobody ever will."

Eri asked... I deliver

2008-02-15T09:23:00.008-06:00

~ a 15 oz bottle of Naked juice in Mighty Mango (and yes, me like naked)

~ a 2008 Inspirational Daily Planner/Journal (present from Mami)

~ a polka dotted, stout, rotund pen from books-a-million

~ Blink tears eyedrops ("cause you're so beautiful, it hurts to look at you.")

~ Baby-G watch for lab, hospital, lecture, work, etc. (thanks, Ruby, my pear)

~ Tylenol extra strength gel-tabs (I never use it – but someone always does)

~ Fruits and Passion Cucina hand lotion for chefs (my catnip)

~ Edward Bess lipgloss in Soft Whisper (thanks, Eri)

~ two tubes of Airborne tablets in Pink Grapefruit and Zesty Orange (cause I gotta stay healthy from all the sick people)

~ wallet (full of everything else but money)

~ keys

~ checkbook

~ a spiderman plush doll (hey, I work with kids!)

~ 3 mechanical B.I.C. #2 pencils (I have OCD, so I need three)

~ Burt’s Bees chapstick (i love the tingle)

~ Nikon Coolpix camera

~ book of 37 cent stamps (yeah, I know it’s up to 41 now.. or 42?)

~ Origins lip gloss in Raspberry Truffle (for a sexy pout)

~ O.B. tampons in a hot pink container (you know what it's for - the pink container was their advert for making periods more "discreet" - there's nothing "discreet" about a woman's cycle)

~ Colgate toothbrush (I have a hot dentist, and I want to impress him)

~ Colgate toothpaste (not my preference, but it's what's in the bag)

~ Purell hand sanitizer (cause ewwwwwwww if you don't already have one!)

~ Jane Iredale translucent powder (I'm wondering if I even need that since I never use it)

~ Department of Health name badge (kind of important)

~ Business cards in a rubberband (mostly Antique, vintage and boutique stores)

~ Blue pen and highlighter in one

~ LG cell phone (which I used to take this picture)

all in a Dooney signature bag (iloveyou present from Mom and Dad last year)

I tag Dee!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

A little fasting, a little gorging, a little lenting, a little ringing...

2008-02-05T17:25:00.000-06:00

This year, Lent begins, February 6th, 2008.

That is tomorrow (or, today, if you're reading this tomorrow.. Or yesterday, if you're reading it tomorrow after that).

I plan to throw myself onto the nearest chimney stack in hopes that somehow a bit of ash will fall on my forehead.

But because I'm not of the liturgical religion, I decided to do a little research behind the season:

To my brief understanding, the individual participating is to "give up" one's choice of food, vice, thought, etc. until Easter (In other words, if you're giving up red meat and that little red juicy lamb presented itself to you, your immediate response is to utter, "come back in 40 days"). Of course, you may also refrain from sexual activity (made famous by Josh Hartnett's indelible caricature in the movie "40 Days, 40 Nights" co-starring spunky, yet beautiful Shannon Sossamon), enjoyment of sweets (as mentioned previously), toxic thoughts and perhaps even something ridiculous such as ignoring or postponing dinner with your in-laws or significant others.

The day of, which is Ash Wednesday, you're supposed to get an ashened cross on your forehead until Sundown (see sentence above last paragraph) as a symbol of penance and purging of your sins.

But today is not Ash Wednesday yet. Today is Tuesday. Also referred to as "Fat Tuesday", "Shrove Tuesday", "Carnival" and/or "Pancake Day." The epitome of gorging, this day is celebrated as the day that all vices and such are celebrated, caution is thrown to the wind, that such evil practices such as gluttony and promiscuity are celebrated to the point of no remorse, knowing that for the next 40 days, the desired vice shall be withheld.

Several thoughts flew through my mind as I pondered on what vice I would be giving up.

There's the obvious: candy, caffeine, debauchery, etc.

I figured I shouldn't go too boring. Instead I've chosen adornments. Not limiting... Refraining. Not cutting back or downsizing... Obliterating.

It will be a noble quest, I'm sure. For if there's one thing women are oh so insecure about, it would be their presentation to the world in means of the outside appearance. As we are constantly shoved into the normal spectra of the model woman with her perfectly poised pearls around her neck, what are we to do... the common, plebeians with jobs and busy lives... but to cater to the social construct?

Thus, I am boycotting that construct... at least for 40 days (it's such a shame Sundays don't count, as Easter seems more far away).

I intend to make my own statement, that yes, I CAN live without the accessories - if even for a time - and that while there may come a moment of weakness ("aw! that necklace is so pretty!") those little snippets will subside while I learn to meditate on other things.

Not ever really being a particularly religious individual, I will admit to being a usually conscientious and a spiritual one. Quite aware that the battle between bad and good lives within me, bearing demons of my sinful state, I can attest that although this challenge may seem minute and insignificant, I may surprise myself (and even you!) by the insight that I can learn from this experience.

It goes without saying, that perhaps while you may think this effort to be extremely light and facile, I may actually learn a bit or two of really comprehending that "gentle, quiet spirit precious of incorruptible beauty precious in the sight of my Maker." *

You see, I don't really know what that means... "gentle, quiet spirit..."

For I'm sure if you've ever spent a day or two with me, you'd haphazardly realize that I'm neither "gentle" nor "quiet" in my spirit.

So... herein lies my feeble attempt at that summon.... Lenting without the bling.

*1 Pet. 3:4, paraphrased.

carpets and other heavy things.

2008-01-28T22:44:00.000-06:00

Don't you just love the feeling of getting hit by a ton of bricks? Not really a defining moment, an epiphany or even a personal tragedy... not by any means the same or could even come close to someone pulling that rug under your feet.

I'm talking about bricks.

Huge, red, rectangular, heavy, strong, intact... all the means necessary for that big bad wolf not to blow the pig's house down... those bricks.

That idiom is so descriptive, so massive, so serious and most of the time so incredibly true.

So here you are... just walking through life. Minding your own business. Going about your ways, doing your deeds, making ends meet, continuing on with living. You don't take great strides to solve the problem of war in the planet, you don't make new inventions that would redefine the meaning of the Industrial Age, you don't even have discoveries or explorations that completely constitute any distinction of anything new.

Just living.

Doing your thing.

And then... in a state when you least expect it, in such a rare opportunity when your guard is down and dismay seems so foreign, so unlikely, so incredibly far away - BAM! There it is. The ton of bricks. So loud. And violent. And grievous. So hard to digest its weight... it's gravity.

It's disquieting... these bricks. Inopportune moments when your state of being seems to be going great. You've finally deemed yourself as "okay," - even functional... You've given yourself a pat on the back for even getting up this morning. No cries. No fears. No real worries. Just - another day... And (surprise! surprise!) no drama to speak of... (what? Is that even really possible?). Oh sure! No real fights today. No real loaded discussions or what could even come close to being a "tiff."

But those bricks.

Damn!

It's as if you should just be walking about with steel covered umbrellas over our heads... just in case this day happens to be it. Or maybe incessantly checking the sky for any signs of falling objects. I'm sure even the neighbor's dog is wondering where that loud crash and crackle is coming from.

I've come to the conclusion that these bricks are unavoidable. Just as there's no use in crying over spilled milk, there definitely is none either in fallen bricks.

And so... I'm grabbing me a wheelbarrow and making myself a house.

And while I'm at it? Shopping for a rug of my choosing to go under these tiny feet.

Bridges... you won't see me burning it.

2008-01-24T11:08:00.000-06:00

Bridges these days seem harder and harder to come by.

I won't bore you with the details of the reality that is living.. in this world full of empty promises and great big boulder-sized disappointments.. it's true that sometimes, we really can't help the circumstances that unfold the moment we open that front door.

No amount of fancy words or self-help books prescribed by Oprah, or in like manner can prepare us for what is waiting just behind that curb, that turn... the yield sign so ever absent. So invisible. Even in the rare event of clairvoyance, that alone cannot even begin to highlight the doom that seems to be present when you're not ready.

And I wasn't ready.

What to make of it? How do you move? Could courage and audacity alone be enough to face the giants? Stare the demons in the face, open your mouth and roar in a manner belligerent, angry, deceiving?

It has been many months of adjusting. Readjusting. Switching lenses. And even, picking and switching the location from the point of focus. But from this view, even as I look back, the valley wasn't as deep as I had anticipated... I'm sure you know.

Could this be what it means to be surviving? You will never know unless you walk that single mile in these shoes - or in this case, stilettos (I have to be fabulous, don't I?). Every now and then, a saving grace. They come slowly and ever so coolly. Perhaps it sounds so facile, in its merry sentiment. Almost as if I had found a Savior that softened the blow. That lessened the fall. That carried the weight when I can no longer lift it... or push it... or roll it...

Am I done believing? No.

In fact, I think I've just begun. No amount of dogma or philosophical pointers could have prepared me for the coming of age... I have arrived.

But one thing I have decided and that is this: I won't be burning any bridges. At least not anytime soon. Even these structures that span for passage provide a way for us to go... to continue... to move on... even in the occurence of such that could only be defined as irretrievably broken.

Optimism? I think not.

There's only so much a person can handle after all... and we were never meant to stay afloat in a boat that was sinking. But if there's any way in my depth that I might witness the mountains move, it's a time such as this.

I'm sure you'd agree.

If only you knew.

There's a new way to be human

2007-04-22T20:25:00.000-05:00

I haven't yet found a sensitive, diplomatic and intelligible manner to address the current affairs of last week. Perhaps today, I will attempt to convey just exactly how the ripples of thought are conveyed in my mind.

I was reading through one of the comment sections of a sirius radio show* last week. The following is the entire script of one of the musings of the listeners. Bear in mind that the point of references are: the firing of Don Imus and the Virginia Tech shootings respectively:

April 18th, 2007
Hypocrites! said...: I have a feeling that the people who comment on this blog, and claim to feel "...upset and nauseated by this horrible story and senseless act" [referring to the VT shootings] are the SAME people who support abortion. Because if you ask me, an abortionist is far worse than the Virginia Tech shooter; for at least two reasons: 1. When those dead students were face to face with their murderer, they had a sporting chance to run and/or hide from their attacker... That poor innocent baby, who is permanently trapped in another person's body, never got that sporting chance. 2. At least those dead students will be comforted in the knowledge that they died at the hand of a strange attacker... Again, with a self-centered, spineless, murderer for a parent, what poor innocent baby could ever stand a sporting chance, if its attacker is ALSO its mother?! Think about it, people. There are mass murders taking place Every. Single. Day. Don't those actions warrant your attention and outrage? Shouldn't those actions make you feel equally "...upset and nauseated"? Or do you just like picking and choosing who will or won't die, just like your Virginia Tech shooter friend?

This is America. The land of freedom. The freedom of speech, one of them to be sure, is often "used and abused" as in case the above. My initial reaction to this comment was outrage... followed by hatred... and ended by pity.

Are we breeding ignorant souls? This is not a question of morality - it's a question of ignorance. I heard myself say, "where the %$#! do you get get off telling people that 'an abortionist is far worse than the Virginia Tech shooter?' Do you live in the sticks of BFE? (No offense to the people in the outlying rural, conservative, Republican-induced areas). I'd like to hear you say that to the families of the victims."

No doubt that this anonymous individual was cheering in the sidelines when the Partial-Birth Abortion Ban Act was signed into law (Wed, April 18, 2007).... not to say that I wasn't exactly cheering.... as I feel very much divided and "sitting on the fence" on this issue... although, in total honesty, I feel as though I would be more inclined to be against it. Because of this, terminating a pregnancy would be illegal - even if the mother's life was in danger.... what do you think of that?

I would agree that intact dilation and extraction of a fetus seems unnatural and abhorrently wrong. BUT where do you draw the line between sovereignty and tyranny in respect to a government allowing its citizens to practice the freedom stated in the first degree?

I know, I know. Stop freaking out.

I can hear your whining over the waves.

This is not anarchy. We do not live in a total libertarian society in which its peoples can "pretty much do whatever they want, wheneever they want as long as they don't harm the lives of others." But is that the catch? as long as we are not harming the lives of others... THEN we can practice the right to freedom. ?

My current state as a non-elitist aware of the current situation puts me in a position of unwarranted, opinionated of the non-fully enlighted consort. Therefore, this places me in the disability to make a proper judgment. And I fear that that is the biggest hurdle in the everyday decision (and opinion) making process of the average American.

There's no way around it. I'm just glad I don't have the enormous responsibility of judgment.

I just know that I can't force my ethical doctrines on someone else.

You wanna quote me? Here it is.

I don't believe I have the right to tell a father to terminate the pregnancy of his unborn child if his wife is in grave danger or is in jeopardy should she carry the fetus to term. And vice versa.

What do YOU think?

*whateverradio.com

Liberty (and justice) for all

2007-04-13T22:42:00.000-05:00

I think I've underestimated her.

My example of a libertarian?

My mother.

Who else would liberate a daughter like me?

I requested an EZ bake oven. "As long as you don't set the house on fire."

I dared to embrace vegetarianism at 13. "I hear TVP is quite tasty."

Smashing Pumpkins and I were an item. "Why is he still a rat in a cage?"

I obsessed over long skirts and bohemian wear. "This.. uhh... hemp clothing is really quite.... becoming."

I wanted to move out at 16. "Well at least you can drive."

I packed my life for Michigan at 18. "Maybe we should order a Russian catalog. Some ideas for winter wear."

I picked a liberal arts major. "I hear that's what Fidel Castro studied in college."

I've threatened to get tattoos, come home with a hoodlum, and even offered to go ahead and ship me off to military school.

She voted to send me to boarding academy instead.

When I wanted a dog, she made sure to get the most difficult breed.

At age 12, I had a "boyfriend." She let me neglect my homework and talk to him on the phone as much as I wanted... until I got so sick of him that I dropped that guy like a hot tamale.

If I was mean to my sister, she never punished me for it. She just believed in a little thing called, "karma."

One year, for Mother's Day, I decided to make her an eggshell mosaic. Those art works are stinky, smelly and messy.... She bought 3 dozen eggs to get me started.

When I asked for candy as a child, she gave me sugar free gum. Needless to say, Splenda, Sacchrin, Equal and I are NOT friends.

She let me experience my first heartbreak... instead of forbidding me to "see that boy." She didn't take my car away after my accident from wreckless driving. She watched as my friendships unraveled from intolerable cruelty. She smiled when I told her about my presence at a demonstration in Cuba. She never said a word when I came home at 3:30 in the morning from a New Year's Eve party. She witnessed me make the same mistakes, again and again... until I learned it for myself. And she's never forced me to do anything I never wanted to do.

It's not that I thought I had too much freedom. In fact, I thought she was too strict. She had rules... she just never grounded me for breaking them.

My mother's way of teaching me about life was trial and error. Life is what you make it, your choices, and these are incontestable truths we have to live with. "Someday, you're gonna get it right, " she says, "it may not be today, but one day, you will."

I worry that I won't be so liberating. Will I be supportive when my daughter declares to join the Peace Corps? What will I say to my son when he tells me he wants to marry a woman he just met?

Oh... my mother. To be like her -

I should be so lucky.

Life with Bridget.

2007-01-22T21:52:00.000-06:00

I am a true Bridget Jones fan.

I have watched these two films religiously. I know every line and detail, have favorite parts of each movie and even KNOW someone who IS Bridget.

Meet Jael. The Spanish version of Bridget, if you will.

After seeing "The Edge of Reason" the other week, the symmetries between Bridget and Jael were just too uncanny to ignore.

Contrary to Jael's belief,
I do not think that she is,
" a fat, man-crazy, neurotic twit who's self-esteem hangs on the
possibility that a man, albeit a hot man, will love her hopeless ass."

But I just couldn't help thinking of Jael during these parts:

'Cannot believe how fantastic shagging was last night...maybe I'll ring him... no no.... obviously it's important to tell one's boyfriend how nice he looks naked...'

"It's me.. though I just had a... rather graphic shag flashback.. you do have a GENUINELY GORGEOUS bottom!"

(As Bridget is on speakerphone).

Arriving at Mark Darcy's house with leaves all over her hair as she meets Rebecca Gilleys.... "Lovely legs..."

But how could I ignore the wobbly bits scene???

Bridget gets out of bed draped in her top sheet while Mark Darcy is lying in bed asleep as she proceeds to put her clothes on...

"What on earth are you doing?" Mark Darcy asks.
"Getting dressed."
"but you're dancing around in that tent business?"
"because. i don't. want. you. to. see. any. of. my. wobbly.bits."
"well now that's a bit pointless, isn't it? because i happen to have high regard for your wobbly bits in ALL circumstances." Mark smiles.
"Really?" she asks.
"Absolutely."
"I think it's about time we have another look."

*And Bridget takes the tent off and exposes her wobbly bits.*

The scene after the law council dinner when she's at home, on the phone with Mark Darcy's answering machine. SO Bridget. SO Jael.

"hahaha... you're outside... look... uhh i'll ring you later... unless you've come to chuck me, once and for all, in which case, bye.... and thank you. and..... sorry.... Oh, God... please don't chuck me, don't chuck me, if you have chucked me, please change your mind. I'll behave much better in the future. On the other hand, if you haven't chucked me, please behave better next time we go out..... Stuck up, Snob."

Nevermind the scene of Bridget trying to buy a home pregnancy kit at the non-english speaking pharmacy.

Why can I see Jael doing that in Switzerland?

But perhaps the greatest attribute of Bridget that I love so much that I see in Jael is her ability to see the good in whatever comes her way... I can just imagine her teaching salsa if she ever got taken in by 3rd world prison, Madonna as well, to the women in her cell. "No... it really IS like. a. virgin. touched for the very first time."

"But I always have wit and conversation to fall back on."

This is why I love her.

Bridget Jones did NOT end up fat and alone. And neither will Jael. A guy indeed fell in love with Bridget, "just as she is." And the fact that he's hot.. well.... there, there, the icing on her cake. I think the same will be true for Jael. She will one day live in a lovely, penthouse apartment, overlooking the city, drinking coffee poured from a french press, focused on her career, and will have a hot British boyfriend with a lovely ass.

And when she gets pissed at him, she'll say, "And by the way, I know EXACTLY where Germany is. The question is: DO YOU KNOW THE LOCATION OF YOUR ASS HOLE!"

I just wonder, how would Jael be on a magic mushroom trip???

The End.

DISCLAIMER: It's not always about you.

2007-01-18T22:09:00.000-06:00

Every founded and rightful place expressing the entries of the freedom of speech must have a disclaimer. Infact, it is imperative.

In my previous post, entitled, "Life and train wrecks," I wrote about the sad realities of the angels and demons disguised as humans that come in our lives.

But truth be told, I feel that some (or one) of you who read this blog may have taken it to mean an extra length further from the truth in My own life.

I regretfully apologize for the confusion.

Please leave me a little room to groove in my creativity. It is not my usual practice to announce to the world of the inner goings and outs of my marriage, if at all. No... there IS NO woman that is trying to get in between me and my husband (nor a man, for that matter - but I suppose that's a debate yet to be discovered).

(And believe me, if there was, I wouldn't be announcing it on blogspot... how insensitive do you think I must be??).

May this be a medium for clarification.

I give my sincerity for this matter that demands a modicum of sensitivity.

So... as you were........

Life and train wrecks.

2007-01-16T22:08:00.000-06:00

I have a theory.

There are two kinds of people in life.

The first type is what I call the seawater dwellers.

Seawater dwellers make life exciting. They are the mermaids that make themselves known to wayfaring travellers of the sea. They bring starfish in their hands as peace offerings in times of war. They trade in currencies of the sand dollar that have washed ashore. They ride on the backs of waves and surf through life's realities. They bring peace to all whom they fall into, and keepers of kindness, stored in their treasure chests. Inside their homes, you will find the sanctity of their blessed hearth, and they choose to love and accept those that harm them. They come in forms of old friends, new friends, families and strangers that bring the best of life in full view. The genuinely nice people. Those that are covered in sweet cheeries, always wishing the best for whom they love. They are not jealous, unselfish, unassuming, without criticism, forgiving to a fault and love overflows their hearts, that they cannot seek refuge for it.....

And then, there's the sewer habitats. They drive the sickle in their hands. And with that sickle, they tear away the love that the world has left. They are seething with resentment and bitterness that they have kept so long, it has become an attachment, they cannot bear to let go of, and accept the cancer it induces. You will find the deep ridges of hatred in their eyes, in their words, in their lives of envy and invoking the pain they have suffered. In their world, they are the only ones that matter. Narcissism and conceit fills them. Selfishness and jealousy breeds them. Respect has no place in their vocabulary and they swim through the brackish water in search of another tide to stain. Another life to steal. Another heart to break. Another world to destroy. These are the people that come between husband and wives, provoking the sounds of uncertainty, testing the ties of the marriage, with no regard for its sanctity and sacredness. They arrive in our institutions, creeping through our unguarded territories. These are masked men and women who arrive hiding their stench, clothed in attractive packages, attempting in vain to obliterate those they know not of.

Beware of the latter.

You never know when their presence is near...

an ode to Tia Rosa.

2006-11-20T10:54:00.000-06:00

Ohhhhh how your presence pains me....
in my muscles, in my tummy, in my ankles that fatten, Tia Rosa...

Ohhhhh how your presence excites me...
though in my annoyance at your arrival, you have maintained to yet still
visit, time and time again, Tia Rosa...

Ohhhhh how your presence rages me...
in my fit of anger, you are there, to guide me through every step,
never failing for reason that YOU are the reason I am angry, Tia Rosa...

Ohhhh how your presence causes me the coaster of jubilee and lachrymity,
for you are - and you alone, are the lovely shade of red and pink, waving your flag on my pantsbottom, Tia Rosa...

Ohhhh how your presence stirs me...
in all my athleticism as I surf this wave the color of crimson, Tia Rosa...

Ohhhh how your presence stirs me...
for it is this - that causes me to be conscious of my rearview as I strut from the parking lot, to the grocery store, to the shopping mall, and beyond... my Tia Rosa...

But ohhhhh how your presence delights me...
for this your purpose, I will one day receive - and when that day comes, you will cease your visit for a total of two hundred and seventy days, and then I will say,

"ohhhhh Tia Rosa..."

Ignorance: A little bit goes a long way.....

2006-11-14T22:06:00.000-06:00

I had once believed that ignorance existed only in the minds of the unformally educated. The impoverished. The people walking on the planet with no previous experience, or those lacking the insight available to all men.

As it turns out, I AM the one ignorant about the ignorants.

The unenlightened citizens come in all shapes and sizes. They begin at the bottom (or the top) of the "hobo" circling the main street pushing shopping cart, rugged up in wool mittens, face painted with gray soot, begging for money. They exist in the unlikely places of the schooled suburbs. The housewives behind large Escalade wheels, donning their expensive fur and high class Se7en and Citizen Jeans, unaware of the high price they're paying for cheap labor and animal cruelty. They assume position in classrooms, even - leading themselves to believe that they are teachers following the protocols of society, but unable to see the obvious signs of domestic violence.

Yes, the presence of ignorance come in all shapes and sizes.

There is nothing like being in the dark. Nothing could compare to utter oblivion. It is a consuming state, with no idea of truth. But the saddest part about ignorance is the choice it accompanies.

So herein lies my confession:

As most of you good friends of mine know, I have been relocated to a place that - well, frankly, I think requires a passport to get to. After living here for quite some time now, I have learned to accept those things I cannot change. The culture is shocking. Waffle House Districts is as though the Civil War never even happened. The confederate flags manifest themselves in T-shirts, bumper stickers If they had an Iron Chef America taping here, the gator cuisine would reign supreme (it's unnerving when a local FINE DINING restaurant serves alligator sushi - somehow, there's something unnatural about that - never mind the fact that everything is soaked and dipped and friend in hot oil). Somehow, somedays, I find myself repeating what I've just said (due to my NORTHERN accent??!!??). "Bubba" surely is a common name. Shrimp boats? not unheard of. Large pick up trucks with gun racks and full of empty beer bottle cans? very likely. Hunting gear as fashion statement? not far from the truth. Winn-Dixie? yes. A step above the Piggly Wiggly, I know. Trailer parks? well... how do you feel about the word "double wide"?

What I didn't realize is that my pride has kept me safe, comfortable and judgmental about the way of life of some here. I have chosen to BE ignorant about my perception that THEY are ignorant. One way or another, I'm no better. I'm just merely a visitor here, observing the local way of life.

The truly humourous part of my story can only be concluded with this. One Thursday night, with nothing else planned for the evening, I accompanied my Japanese girl friend to line dancing. Yes, line dancing. I figured, "well..." So, four foxtrots, five charlestons, three electric slides, fifteen swing-your-partner-dosey-dos and a million saches later, I was still having a pretty good time.

Shania Twain? Bring it on. Brad Paisley? Let's go party. Tim McGraw? I shook my booty. Willie Nelson? We had a good time. I even did a little number with Faith Hill and Lee Ann Rhimes.

But I had to stand my ground and sit one out when the announcer wanted to boot scoot to Baha Men's "Who Let the Dogs out."

Even I had my standards.

Ignorant or not.

Maintenance

2006-10-29T15:25:00.000-06:00

When I was thirteen, I couldn't wait to be sixteen. When I was sixteen, I couldn't wait to be eighteen. When I was eighteen, I couldn't wait to be twenty one.

But I am older than that now.

Not MUCH older - but still... mid 20s.

I used to believe as a child that life gets better and better as the years roll by. That life gets easier and happier the older I become.

I was half right.

Most of everyday living is maintenance.

That's right.

Maintenance.

Whether it's relaxation and stress management to maintain our sanity,weight or fat loss to maintain our proclivity as an attractive being... it's all for what? Maintenance. The daily rituals and beautification projects are included here (why else would women [and men!] get themselves shaved, plucked, waxed, colored, trimmed, etc.). We clean our houses (hopefully - and ROCK THE HOUSE all you domestic gods and goddesses out there!), delete our inbox, kiss the women and children, study, balance checkbooks, keep the running tally of every tennis and scrabble game we've ever played with our mates (classmates, roommates, etc....).

Maintenance.

No matter how hard we try, growing up is synonymous with it. Why else did our mothers and fathers yell at us as children to clean you room, take a bath, do your homework, feed the dog?

It was as if they KNEW that our lives would be destined for such as this.

Of course, we could choose to stop the madness. We could stop showering. We could stop doing research. We could stop paying the bills and just live a life full of Halo, sleepovers and Jackass.

But then what would be the fun in that?

Who ever said that love was 50/50?

2006-10-22T21:10:00.000-05:00

In science, there is a simple way of calculating percent yield.

Percent yield = Actual Yield/Theoretical Yield x 100

Always trying to find that paper thin line between physical science and social science, I've come up with a correlation of my own.

Consider the word "yield." And substitute for the verb "try."

Also, replace "100" for "now."

Given that "x" means "for."

So,
Percent "Try" equals: Actual "Tried"/Theoretical "Will Try" (therefore, this is the way it is) "for" "now."

Let's see...

Question: Assume you carry out the reaction of adipic acid to produce nylon. (The acid made commercially by a controlled reaction between cyclohexane and oxygen). Using 25 grams of cyclohexane and that adipic acid is the limiting reagent, what is the theoretical yeild of adipic acid?

Solution:
25g C6H12 x 1 mol C6H12/84g x 2 mol H2C6H8O4/2mol C6H12 x 146g/1 mol H2C6H8O4

equals: 43.5 g adipic acid.

If you obtain 33.5 g of adipic acid from your reaction, what is the percent yield of adipic acid?

Solution:
33.5 g of adipic acid over
43.5 g
x 100
=
77%

Question: Assume you carry out the promise-of-trying to produce how-much-you-tried. (The Atlantis commercialized by the mass media, duly informing the public that with three hundred swipes across your cheek of your favorite Bobbi Brown shimmer brick compact, three thousand four hundred phone numbers, fifty five Eharmony clicks, two hundred Caramel Macchiatos, fifty five first dates, five steady sweethearts, three heartbreaks, two engagements and one wedding would produce). Using 25 treaties of promise, and that how-much-you-tried is the limiting reagent, what is the theoretical yield of how-much-you-tried?

Solution:
33.5 g of how-much-you-tried divided by
43.5 g of promise of trying
x 100
=
77%

As scientists, we INTENDED to utilize 43.5 g of how-much-you-tried, so that we would have a one hundred percent yield of the promise of trying. But some things just got in the way: 0.00985 g of late nights, 0.00874 g late fights, 0.93746 individuality, 0.6526 g collectivism, 2.4587 g time at its standstill, 3.84736 g time at its bullet speed, 0.4523 cognitive dissonance, 0.5634 emotional resonance, 4.323 g jaded reforms, x amount of political aspirations, a gazillion g attitude implications, misunderstandings, disassociations, etcetera, etcetera, and on.... (ditto marks included here inserted exponentially).

Your percent yield will never equal a hundred. The percentage of how-much-you-tried will never be a hundred percent. You see, theoretical "will try" to the "actual tried" is always greater. That means that each participant in the love ceremony always hope TO try, and will do everything they "can" TO try, but the usual, or actual effort of "actual tried" is always lacking.

That's why love will never be 50/50.

But that doesn't mean it's never worth a try.

*photo from ccal.shanebweb.com

Life without a script.

2006-08-30T01:31:00.000-05:00

The thing about living life without a script, is it's crude familiarity to taking home a new unassembled furniture and after opening the package, realizing that the directions are MIA.*

Then you have to go through the awful trouble of going back to the store, taking the time out to look for another set of directions, and what if that particular furniture you bought (cause 'OH! I'm sooo handy, I can do this by myself, I don't need THEIR help!') was the last one on stock, and if it isn't, then someone has to open another box of its kind, make a copy of THAT, - and never mind trying to explain to the salesworkers that "no.. it didn't come with directions... that's why I'm here.." and how could they POSSIBLY believe that it was missing - those things NEVER happen, the list goes on.

The thing about living life without a script is also its inability to predict the next scene. What happens next when the curtains fall after finding out that a parent has a serious illness? Or the tearjerking reality that your favorite and only sibling - your best friend - will be moving half way across the world, to an unknown land that even YOU have never even dreamed about, much less KNOW anyone so close to you that would set up house there... and imagine - a LIFE there..?

Scripts tell you how much tears you need to free - before going into the biggest break up of your life.

Scripts also tell you just how much excitement you need to display when the man of your dreams has just asked you to be his bride.

It's all new to me....

This thing... living. Life. Without a script. Without a literal director behind the camera telling me to "smile more", "cry harder", "yell louder", "speak softer", "move less"....

Where am I supposed to look when there is unspeakable joy?? Where's camera two when I need someone to record the best game I ever played? Why can't the acoustics on the microphone be better when I sing my heart out with my eyes closed, only feeling the strings of my guitar on my fingertips?

Why does that make up artist never show up when my eyes need depuffing after a long, bad night? Why can't my costume designer put me in a better wardrobe?

The thing about living life without a script is the comfort in knowing that... every passing moment, is a chance to turn it all around...

So... here's to living life without a script.

YOU are the star of your movie.

Do me a favor.

When life hands you a lemon,

throw the script out.

*Missing in Action
*photo from Fotoscript

"No uterus, No opinion."

2006-04-10T10:33:00.000-05:00

As I was walking to my car this morning, after a grueling lecture of all things eternally uuber to the max grossness, and (mulanna's) all thing's kaka from micro, I noticed the bumper sticker on the rear shield window of the car adjacent to mine.

"Feminism is the radical notion that women are people."

My face grew red.

"This is NOT the time to be messing with me!!" I say. (Time of the month? Oh, yes).

Fuming, I was livid. This ignorant driver needed to be bushwacked. Shanghaied. Sent to an eternal Lillith Fair Sunshine or worse... needed to be sent a bra.

I fished for my car keys in my book bag, and picked out exactly the one I wanted to key this car to perfection.

(Or so the thought crossed my mind).

But I didn't need to.

Turns out there were more females pissed off than Hilary Clinton, Madeleine Albright and Janet Reno put together. Never mind the obvious Alanis flair and Alias-like creation.

For there... in all it's glory.... the most keyed car you'd ever seen... With wavy lines, and stripes, and dots and quartered - colored in beauty of the marker chrome. And to top it off.... a half missing door.

Ah... yes.

And I smiled.

my, my, oh how we discover ourselves....

2006-03-25T00:56:00.000-06:00

You Are a Frappacino

At your best, you are: fun loving, sweet, and modern

At your worst, you are: childish and over indulgent

You drink coffee when: you're craving something sweet

Your caffeine addiction level: low

What Kind of Coffee Are You?

Your Birth Month is October

You are a natural leader who is able to stand up when no one else can.

Strong and powerful, you tend to overshadow those around you.

Your soul reflects: Gratitude, comfort, and true love

Your gemstone: Tourmaline

Your flower: Cosmos

Your colors: White and yellow

What Does Your Birth Month Mean?

Your Superhero Profile

Your Superhero Name is The Shatter Samurai
Your Superpower is Vampirism
Your Weakness is Puppets
Your Weapon is Your Force Bludgeon
Your Mode of Transportation is Pegasus

What's your Superhero Name?

You Belong in London

A little old fashioned, and a little modern.

A little traditional, and a little bit punk rock.

A unique woman like you needs a city that offers everything.

No wonder you and London will get along so well.

What City Do You Belong In?

Over a cuppa.

2006-02-13T12:22:00.000-06:00

Day: Monday

Time: past noon

Weather: 40 degrees fahrenheit, 5.5 degrees celsius

Latest pick from the haber dashery: dark rinse bootcut-stretch jeans, pastel cami under a navy blue, willow green, argyle cashmere sweater, a single hair pin, steel grey wool socks, sparkle jewelry on my left ring finger, one slide of burt bee's chapstick on my lips

Mood: deliberate with a mission to my own free-flowing of thought and provocation

Reading Material: The Great Divorce by CS Lewis, Sleeping with the Devil (How Washington Sold our Soul for Saudi Crude) by Robert Baer

Mac is playing: Chomsky

Last acquired in the belly: Panera's Everything bagel with sun-dried tomato cream cheese, iced lemon tea

Latest Annoyance: Ruptured beats on the incessant play of little dirty rap songs emanating disruptive cadences and ignorant, cruel profanities of mysogynistic tendencies on the streets of my Djibouti Waffle House District.

Grandeur is: waking up and sleeping next to the one your heart beats instinctively with

Latest occurences wired of my brain and neurotransmitters connected thereof of said organ:

These days, after the machine awakes from slumber, dutifully finishes and starts the scheduled tasks at hand, and goes through the routine of that which is said to be life - between the commute accompanied by NPR, the gears of said machine continues to shift in images between war and peace, hatred and love, ignorance and wisdom, knowledge and awareness, fear and hope, resentment and forgiveness, life and death...

The machine wonders.... 'when another generation of my own machinist seed arrives...' the questions....

"Will there be a solvable conclusion to the greenhouse effects of Chloroflourocarbons?"

"Will there be enough clean water to nourish and refresh the children of Calcutta, India?"

"Will there be an end to the endless search for refuge in Congo, Rwanda and Somalia?"

"When my children arrive, will the best golf player still be black?"

"Will the tallest basketball player still be Chinese?"

"Will Bill and Melinda Gates continue their endless outpouring of funds for AIDS Research and Relief?"

"Will there be anything close to LOTR's Trilogy?"

"Will this non-recyclable, denuding trees of a throwaway society continue for the next children to come?"

"Will there be a switch to ethanol? Ever?"

"Will this executive administration bushwack the state of Alaska successfully - if success is even possible...?"

"Would it be possible that perhaps the next Commander-in-Chief buds a woman?"

"Will we ever experience such great artists as Elvis, Tupac, Ray Charles and Sinatra?"

"Will I breed children of no substance, who care not for profound values, or will my offspring be those of strong, noble character with their father's fortitude, self-sacrifice and his hopeful disposition? Will they follow my husband's footsteps of great honor, loyalty to his convictions and consideration for his fellows?"

"Or will they be as their mother... wives of the military who stand patiently by the porchlight, seeking the patience of the horizon, made aware of life and death everyday, striving to live with purpose and share the marriage walk with a partner who knows no fear?"

"Will they forsake the feelings of others, but remain true to their own individuality, and faithful to their own hearts?"

The machine wonders..... as time progresses, as she gets older, and rust spots suddenly appear, faster than they could be eradicated........ what will the future hold for those it holds dear...

There is much to fear, yet much to hope for.

Through the sounds of Enya and Loreena, as if subdued in an Aveda's hands... it lingers.

All over a cuppa.

* Photo courtesy of coralcoast.com

Montezuma's Revenge.

2005-12-11T17:13:00.000-06:00

Down with the chicken!

Ban them all!

No more bird flu carriers stock of poultry!

On Thursday night, Anne and I had an idea of going out for dinner and walking along Cordova for a night of relaxation walk and slight perusing.

ohhh yeah.

Relaxation all right.

So relaxed that I missed the shelter exercise for sociology the next morning as I had developed a rather close and intimite o--l and a--l relationship with: opposite bidet. Ahh yes....

eau de toilette.

One day in Mexico, if one is not so careful could easily contract Montezuma's Revenge. Well here, in WaffleHouse District, it too is revenge. Of a kind.

Please do allow me to stress my complete utter misery, of last night's hurl and gluteal jam session.

Not so fun.

Not so fun.

I think the word "delirious" might even come in handy, as you bargain with all the Greek parthenons that their gods might spare you agony or injury of the slightest intestinal discomfort.

I distinctly remember looking at my shoe... 'damn you inanimate object. as you are lifeless to even feel the most infantile of all sensations of painful remorse as known to man.'

and then... a thought: in a second of one wake of sheer visibility, i grappled... 'if this is no pain i could take... what more with expelling a human growing being outside my body???'

ahh yes.

Then there's that.

Well... good things come to those who wait. Hopefully when that time rolls around, there'll be no chicken around to beat with a meat tenderizer.

But just a hint, should you decide to get me ready for that... I prefer "KitchenAid" tools.

So about Montezuma.

Whatever the hell did I ever do to him??

Let it snow, let it snow, I don't know...

2005-12-07T13:03:00.000-06:00

And so.. Christmas is fast approaching. Wouldn't you know it - December is here. This is the first time in five years that I won't have a snowy winter.

Bleh.

It's about 50 degrees outside... and counting... up.

Where the hell are the reindeers?

Where's my frosty?

Why have my ugg boots been demoted to the storage closet?

When can they go out and play?

In other news, I haven't been using the heater, so it's about.. hmmmm lemme check... about 55 degrees in my pad. Not bad. Quite cozy, actually. 10 more degrees and I'm using the fireplace.

It's actually quite entertaining seeing the Southerners wear their parkas (we needed them here? - Nobody gave ME that memo], complete with gloves and ski masks.

(Okay, okay. I was kidding about the ski masks.)

(But - geez. Might as well.)

And the other day, I saw a chick wearing hunting gear in class.

if you can believe that.