Passing

My grandmother died on Thursday of last week. She was 91.

It doesn't seem to matter how old someone is when they go, it still hurts. I feel tremendously sad that I was unable to make my grandparents more proud of me and my accomplishments. There is so much that I wanted to impress them with. But in the end the things they were proud of are the things that define me more than any performance or award or publishing contract could have.

And my grandma did get to read some of my short stories and enjoyed them. She had been telling me since I was able to write what a good writer I am. I was glad that I was able to share with her something other than a personal letter, although those were probably the most enjoyable for her.

And I was glad that she was able to read a story I wrote just for her, an attempt to tell her how much she has meant to me and my growth as a person. That story follows if anyone is interested...


What I Learned From My Grandma


When I was a young girl, just starting junior college, and starting on the path to my adult life, though still living at home, my mother became sick. She contracted a rare form of leukemia. The kind children get. Most adults, when they get it, don’t survive. But she had total faith in her doctor and when he said to her, We are going to take you to the very brink of death and then bring you back, she said, OK.
Because I was not even 20 and my mother barely 20 years older than me it was a shock when she got sick. No one was prepared. She was too young to be so sick. My mother had chemotherapy treatments for almost a year. Few days of chemo, hospital stay, then several weeks of recovery only to do the whole thing all over again. And then remission. The whole thing lasted a year and a half before it was all deemed ‘over’. But it seemed like an eternity.
At the beginning of my mother’s illness my sister left to go to college at UC Berkeley, only 30 miles away from where we lived; and later my mother’s boyfriend left her. I was left to deal with daily living, paying bills, cooking, cleaning and seeing to all the little details that are requisite to a life. Whenever someone would come to visit it was like they were dazed. I remember my favorite uncle coming to visit while my mother was in the hospital and coming into my room late at night and just crying and crying. I was still at the point in youth when being alone with adults was uncomfortable and strange. Here I was in our house with my uncle whom I loved so much, and he was so bereft that all he wanted to do was hold someone, for me to give him a hug and yet I couldn’t do it.
It was an odd time for me. I couldn’t sleep for weeks on end and finally I went to some quack doctor in Castro Valley for a prescription for sleeping pills. It was the first and last time I ever tried them. I felt like a fuzzy cucumber in the morning, all stiff and cold and no focus. I broke up with a boyfriend whom I loved terribly because I was so distracted by my mother’s illness that intimacy was difficult. Relating to my friends seemed weird and inconsequential. Though one weekend, probably in desperation to do something that felt even slightly normal, I stole my mother’s boyfriend’s car with two friends and drove down to Hollywood over Easter break. Just for three days, pretending there were no such things as IVs or chemo or parents even felt wonderfully freeing. We saw Pierce Brosnan in the Thrifty’s on Easter Sunday buying his two young children Easter baskets. I always liked him after that because somehow it seemed so human and not star-like for him to have forgotten baskets until the morning of. We met some people who worked in a restaurant on Hollywood Blvd. and spent our last night there on the floor of the manager’s apartment up the street. He seemed nice enough but made me nervous. When we got home I found out why. He called me several times, saying how much he loved me and wanted to be with me and the fact that he was a good 20 years older than me made no difference to him. I was thankful I hadn’t given him my address.
And I regularly took the keys to my mother’s brown Porsche 944 and drove it around with some friend or other. The nurses had insisted we take away her keys when she checked in to the hospital. I got away with it actually. No one, except my sister, of course, realized that I had driven the thing and she was primarily jealous that she didn’t have the opportunity to drive it. I even went to my mother’s boat sometimes and just sat there on the bow or slept there overnight and then drove to the hospital in the morning. All these things added up to odd behavior and had someone been keeping a tally they would have worried about me. At the time these activities made me feel somewhat better.
It was just my way, I suppose, of dealing with the fact that my mother might be dead before I even turned 20. Strangely enough it was my mother who kept me on course. She insisted, in a drug addled stupor one of her first nights on chemotherapy, that I should continue school, continue plays and continue work. If I hadn’t gotten that message from her my odd behavior might have slipped into the realm of dangerous.
Finally, when my mother was declared to be in remission from the leukemia we all heaved a sigh of relief and everyone went back to life as normal. Except me. Probably it didn’t seem normal to my mother or my sister either. At the time, I was just finishing my junior college requirements and had just been accepted into UC Berkeley. My mother was now back home, but I still felt funny, at odds inside my skin. I couldn’t put it into words then and even now an exact description eludes me. I was, of course, as excited as any college student starting their first semester of university. I experienced all the hope and self confidence of any young student, yes, but underlying it all was stark panic and confusion. My mother had been gravely ill and now she was fine. I was just supposed to go on with life as if it had never happened. No one ever talked about it except to say things like, Oh good, and, Well, let’s hope she doesn’t relapse, and things like that. But nobody ever said anything about what affect it all had on me or anyone else for that matter. Maybe I am selfish to think that someone might have done so, and I certainly was too intimidated to reach out to anyone and say, Hey, I’m still struggling here, Can someone help me parse this out and figure out how I get on with life? So, I did what I suppose anyone does in those situations, I just moved awkwardly forward.
The first weeks of a new school year are a flurry. Classes to register for, student loans to apply for, books to buy and various other details to be sorted. And most importantly for me, auditions for the semester’s plays. Since we lived just a few cities away I decided that I would stay at home for at least the first semester. Thoughts of doing otherwise brought the panic I had felt during my mother’s illness back to the surface; and images of my mother lying dead on the bathroom floor, gathering flies, haunted my mind. When I told my mother I was planning on living at home for a while, I think she was grateful and relieved too. She had been lonely in the hospital and when she was home, in between treatments, it was just the two of us. When chemo made her lose all her hair, I had started to rub her head each night and we’d make up little chants for it to grow back curly and really blonde. Then when she started to lose muscle mass and be in pain all over I would massage her whole body. It made her sleep better, I think, and it made me feel better being able to do something that helped. When she was in the hospital, also, I brought her macrobiotic food, which I had just discovered, whenever I could. I would wake up early, cook her food for the day, drive to San Francisco to the hospital to be there before breakfast, leave all her food in the refrigerator with instructions for the nurses to give her that instead of the regular hospital food and then be to school for my morning classes or rehearsals or whatever. That made me feel better too.
Now that she was in remission yet not quite back to normal, my need to do something to make her feel better was no less. Sure, I wanted to go straight to the dorms like my sister had done. And I envied her that experience. But who else was going to stay with my mother if not I?
When I was cast in a good roll in a graduate student directed play that first semester I felt vindicated in a way. I felt this was a bigger pond than the one I had been feeding in. I had never had any problems getting cast in plays, managing to get a role in almost everything I tried out for but it was all high school and community theatre and small summer stock in my hometown. If I got a role at Berkeley I reasoned, that proved that I was a good actress. Back then my identity was almost 100% Actor and the thought of maybe someday having a professional career as such made me happier than anything ever had. The role, a middle-aged woman, with a child, held captive in Harold Pinter’s “One For The Road”, made me almost feel as if my future was assured. And at that point in my life I needed assurances.
At first it all seemed to go well. I would wake up early and take the BART to school, attend my classes, study and knock around campus until rehearsals and then take the last BART train home at night. I loved those first weeks, feeling probably for the first time, independent and almost adult. Reading and dozing near the bridge that led to the Theatre Department offices on the bank of Strawberry Creek was nearly sublime. My classes were stimulating and the coffee houses in Berkeley – before there was ever generic Starbucks – were always abuzz and endlessly fascinating with all kinds of people coming in and out. People watching alone I could waste three, four hours.
But after a few weeks of this schedule, and add to that working as a waitress on the weekends, I was beat. I also came very close to missing the last BART train out of the Berkeley station on several occasions. I would get out of rehearsals at around 10 or 10:30 p.m. and run my ass off, knapsack full of books and all, the twelve or so blocks from campus to the station, hurdle myself dangerously down the stairs and slip in through the closing doors, sweaty and exhausted. God help me if I needed to stop at the machine and get a ticket! If I missed the connecting train in Oakland, which did happen a couple of times, I would have to catch a bus the rest of the way home, making the normally one hour trip over two. This would put me home and in bed well after midnight and up again at 6am to do the whole thing all over again. Even at the age of 20 I couldn’t keep it up and something had to give.
In the summer before I started Berkeley I had performed in a musical on the campus of my junior college. “Over Here” it was called and I had a good role, lots of dancing and singing. My dancing partner hated me for some reason, maybe because I was fat or not pretty enough, or maybe because I had rebuffed his amorous advances a few times, but probably the former. Anyway, he thought he was too good. His bad behavior did endear me to others in the cast and I became fast friends with all the girls around my same age. Two of the girls, Amy and Eva, were also starting Berkeley in the Fall and we made plans to meet up. Walking across campus one day I ran into Eva. She had decided to give up theatre and go into the sciences so all her classes were on the other side of the campus so seeing her was a happy surprise. We laughed and bounced and screamed when we ran into each other, all the things that teen girls do. Over a latte – which, back then was quite cool and exotic – I found out that she was living in a house owned by her brother-in-law and was looking for roommates. This put a bug in my ear. We exchanged numbers. Later that night the last BART train was late getting into Berkeley station and caused me to miss my connecting train. As I sat on that bus, watching Oakland pass by, all I could think about were those banners you see on huge apartment buildings facing freeways and busy avenues, “If you lived here, you’d be home by now”. If I lived in Berkeley, I’d be home by now.
I didn’t want to tell my mom I had to move out. But I couldn’t figure how else I could go on. I worked up a fight in my head where my mother would tell me that I should quit the play. I would get indignant in this imaginary fight, as if she had just told me to stop breathing. But when the conversation actually happened what she did say was, If you move out then that’s it, you can never come back.
It wasn’t what I expected but it was a blow nonetheless. Of course, now, in hindsight and with an adult perspective I can see what she was really saying. She was telling me, in her way, that she didn’t want me to move out, maybe she wasn’t really ready after her illness to be left alone in the house. But she was also trying to convey to me the seriousness of my decision, that I was taking a step into adulthood and she wanted me to be sure I was ready. I didn’t get any of that message at the time though.
My rent was $200.00 a month. It seemed like so much at the time and I was to share the big room, which was really the living room, of the house. In college life every possible space is squeezed for accommodations to lower the rent for everyone. Or in this case, to make as much money for the landlord as possible. At first, I had the living room all to myself with my friend Eva in the ‘real’ bedroom, which was actually dining room, and another girl out in a little cottage in the back. Later in the year, in a relieving turn of events, my sister would move in and share the big room with me.
I kept my job, so, I was still home on the weekends mostly. But I felt that my mother was annoyed with my presence there. So, in short order, instead of taking the BART I started driving my car to and from Berkeley. Which, in Berkeley, meant having to move it every morning and night so that I wouldn’t get parking tickets. This was a huge hassle and the reason I hadn’t brought it with me to begin with. The first month went fine. I bought my books, paid my rent, bought food. But by the second month, things started to go wrong. I got several parking tickets at $25.00 a pop. Traffic enforcement has the whole town locked up so that getting them is really unavoidable if you spend much time there at all. Great earner for the city of Berkeley, but to a college student a distressful event. In subsequent years living in and around Berkeley I threw up my hands and simply began budgeting in parking tickets in my monthly expenses. If I ever got less than one a week it was like getting a bonus.
Then there was an additional book to buy for some class, though I don’t remember which. It was a doozy of a book at $50.00 and not knowing any better I went right out and bought it. Turned out I didn’t even need it until very late into the semester. But to my mind this was an urgent need. You didn’t get caught without a book in your fist semester at Berkeley! I was already struggling with ‘smart-issues’ as it was. My sister, who was also still attending Berkeley was always the smart one in the family. I was always the ‘creative one’ or worse, the ‘dramatic one’, which in my mind meant I was not very bright but somewhat entertaining. The idea of not having a book on the syllabus sent me into absolute idiot-panic. For sure, someone would suddenly notice me in the room, go back to my college application and realize a terrible, terrible mistake had been made in admitting me.
I was despairing one night at the hostess stand at the restaurant where I worked weekends, trying to surreptitiously beg for tables, (I didn’t even have enough self regard at that point to openly beg!) when one of the line cooks, Will, I think was his name, came up and joined the conversation. It was getting late and it still hadn’t picked up on a Friday night and I was lamenting the fact that I would probably not make any money. The conversation came around to my imminent rent and my skimpy bank account and Will offered to lend me the money. Really?, I said, overwhelmed with relief. I’ll pay you back in a month, I promised, and he whipped out the cash right there.
My rent was paid and I went back to stressing about all the normal college things, grades, boss, friends, etc. I paid Will back just as planned. Right after my play finished with rehearsals I picked up some extra shifts and actually made some extra money. I was feeling pretty good about myself. So when Will came to me and asked to borrow money, with some story that his little girl’s mother’s car broke down, or something, I said, Sure. I felt confident that since I had paid him back on time he would return the favor. But he did no such thing. I never saw a penny from him and, in fact, he disappeared. He just stopped showing up for work or answering his phone a couple weeks later and I was completely rooked. Humiliated, and embarrassed I dared not tell anyone about the whole business. But, here was the beginning of the month coming and rent due and once again I was short.
I didn’t want to do it, but I couldn’t think of what else to do. I called my mom. Too bad, I told you, you were on your own, she said and went on to change the subject like I had just called to chat. My sister didn’t have any money either and I couldn’t think of anyone else to call. So, I called my Grandma.
By the time I talked to her, I must have worked myself up into a frenzy. All I could imagine was me being kicked out of my room for not paying the rent. SInce I couldn’t stay with my sister, because she lived in the dorms, I pictured me banging on the front door of my childhood home, the locks having been changed, rain pouring down and my mother peeking through the curtains mouthing ‘go away’. This didn’t happen, of course, because my Grandma said of course she would send me money as long as I needed, till I could get my finances sorted out. We talked a little about how I had gotten into this situation. I don’t know if I confessed my bad loan, I may have, but I don’t remember. She talked to me a little about budgeting and advised that next semester I go to my professors to find out what books I might need right away and what others I might be able to get later. Just tell them you are on a tight budget and paying your own way through school, they’ll understand, she’d said.
My Grandma has always been a calming, happy influence in my life. My sister remembers distinctly my Grandma being a speed demon behind the wheel of a car. I don’t remember this, but certainly it was only because I trusted her completely and it would never have occurred to me that she could falter and crash the car. And she never got angry with me but once that I can remember. I was somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be, probably fiddling with something I wasn’t supposed to, and got caught. She raised her voice and for an hour I hid in my uncle’s room, sure that I would never feel good again.
My mother used to put my sister and I on a plane to Los Angeles to visit my grandparents over the summer. I cried the way down, already missing my mother, but I would sob and sob on the way home knowing that it would be months until I could see my Grandma and Grandpa again. When we would arrive at the house there would always be a little brass canister of pennies on the dresser. We would count up all the pennies and wrap them in paper. Sometimes there would be $2 or maybe $3 and we were allowed to keep this. On a couple of occasions Grandma took us in the bank to cash them in. That was my first lesson that if you save your pennies they really add up. I always considered very carefully how I would spend my special dollar.
Inevitably on these visits my Grandma would be sewing something, either for us or herself. Back then it really was more economical to sew yourself a new dress or skirt than to buy store bought. I learned the basics standing alongside her and her Singer humming away. She made it all seem so easy that I was emboldened to try. I sewed lots of things over the years; a prom dress, Halloween costumes, shirts and slacks. I even sewed matching outfits for myself, my sister and our ‘sister’ Angela, who was a foreign exchange student from Colombia in our high school come to live with us when her original host family had more ideas for her about house cleaning and babysitting than schooling. We wore those outfits over a long weekend sailing out to Angel Island in the San Francisco Bay. They were aqua-marine shirts and stripped white and blue pants. They didn’t last a summer of wear. But I still get a little slush of pride when I look at pictures of the three of us in those outfits.
I also watched my Grandma cook meal after meal when we visited. She made a good many holiday meals that were memorable too. Her food was pretty typical American cuisine but I always looked forward to her cooking. My mother herself was an OK cook but I think she looked at it rather as a burden than as a creative pursuit so sometimes we would have a bland ham steak with unsalted mashed potatoes or boiled ocre (though to her credit I think she only did that once, it was just that awful that I remember it so well). My mother, being a baby boomer and a working woman of keen intelligence felt undermined, I think, in some regard by the daily grind of preparing meals on top of having worked a full day. It certainly was not her most favorite thing to do. But I think I absorbed some of my Grandma’s love for cooking by osmosis if not by direct teaching. The whole house was her domain, of course, but the kitchen seemed to be her special place of peace and calm. Here, you came and went at her discretion, and I remember my uncles and Grandpa being shooed out on occasion. To me she seemed happiest in the kitchen, that is to say the activity of cooking made her focused and steady and there was an air of assurance about her that I longed for. I share that assurance in the kitchen now though I am not so deft at keeping my own children and husband out of it. My own mother did come around a few years after my sister and I left home, when cooking finally ceased being a necessary chore and could enter the realm of recreation. After some nearly 70 years of cooking, I think, my Grandma now looks at it less as fun and more as a necessary chore. The arthritis in her hands makes it difficult and no doubt the pain and lack of strength makes it a weary task for her.
One of the genuine treasures my Grandma gave me in the cooking arena is her cheesecake recipe. She claims to have gotten it originally out of some magazine or cookbook or other and not to have created it herself. But years of adjusting and transcribing the recipe from one soiled recipe card to another have made it uniquely hers. And to her credit has made me quite famous with my friends. I am a great lover of cheesecake and have tried all kinds but none quite like my Grandma’s recipe. I suspect its not so much the combination of ingredients as the preparation that makes it so delicious. Don’t completely blend the cream cheese mixture, its better when a little lumpy; It cooks better on a cool day; Leave it in the refrigerator two days before eating. I have myself doubled the recipe and added extra vanilla. But the accolades and smiles I have gotten from Grandma’s cheesecake are definitely due to her refinements, not mine.
My Grandma sent me $200 a month for three months that fall. Let me know when you are on your feet, she’d said. When I called her to tell her to stop sending the checks, that I was fine now, she practically insisted on continuing to send them, worried I suppose that I would falter again and trying to allay that possibility. I declined though and offered to pay her back at which she firmly pishawed me. Its not that those $200 made such a difference as such, though they did pay my rent during those months. It was a sort of culmination of all her lessons, those intentional and not; years of standing and watching my Grandma do her daily routine; and finally the unyielding kindness and gentleness with which she always dealt with me that finally put it all together for me. From that fall forward I was always able to make whatever I had go as far as it needed. I was able to spot a deal as well as figure out how to make it from scratch if that was going to be cheaper or better. And able to spot the moment when a splurge is in order, like a great huge slice of creamy cheesecake.
My natural frugality was enhanced by all of my Grandma’s lessons too, and has made me self reliant in a day and age of convenience foods, ready made drinks, store bought cheap clothes etc. It makes me confident that, if, say, I should be transported back in time 100 years somehow, I would not starve, nor be bored by my own food. I’d be able to make a dress and balance a budget. I also wouldn’t be afraid or intimidated by food or house and hearth. I know so many women who look at a recipe as a foreign language and carry it as a badge of honor that the only thing they can make is an espresso. Not to mention many, many men.
They may not seem much in cosmopolitan times, the domestic arts, despite the Food Channel and Martha Stuart influences, but it is as much a level of self reliance and confidence to be able to navigate a cookbook or a sewing machine as it is to be able to balance a checkbook or invest wisely. In either case, if you can’t do it yourself or at least figure out how it all works, you have necessarily beholdened yourself to the kindness and sincerity of others. That is not a bad thing if you can absolutely trust those who are taking care of your affairs and your needs just the way you like them. But as women’s lib moved women into the workplace it made the kitchen and the more domestic activities seem anathema to a liberated life.
But what my Grandma really gave me when she helped me that semester was a little perspective. And with perspective comes the ability to think ahead and plan. And that is really all cooking, cleaning, sewing, budgeting and all the other crafty pursuits that necessarily come along with having a life, need to do them well. We all have to do it and one way or the other we will. She gave me a little advice, a little skill, a little help and then a lot of love and faith and that soup made me more capable to take care of myself, come what may. Since college I have had times that have been flush and times that have been lean and in either case I have been able to cull together the lessons from my Grandma and get by and even treat myself. Because there really is nothing more comforting than a nice slice of cheesecake.

Dates

My play, "4 at 40" which I wrote and will perform, now has dates.

Thursday, April 26, 2007 7:30 pm Press Preview
Friday, April 27, 2007 7:30 pm Performance, Tickets $12.00 at the door.

Location:
Dezart One Gallery
2688 Cherokee Way
Palm Springs, CA 92264
(760) 328-1440

If these performances go well then we will add, probably two per month, for the next several months until summer - wherein it will be too hot and anyone with sense and/or money flees the desert.

Only A Moment Away

Oh, it's coming. It may seem like just a small thing but it will irritate you to no end. It already irritates me in its first incarnation I've heard.

And that is "blog about us!" Some I'm-so-clever Adman or woman will someday be saying this to Taco Bell executives and Fruit of the Loom marketing departments and retailers of all stripes... Hilary Clinton and Barack Obama are already half there. It is the new version of "tell your friends about it" that marketers have been attempting for years.

They and we know word of mouth is extremely rampant and always has been. I mean don't you find, "Oh yeah, I tried that burrito. It was great" more convincing than any way they can possibly photograph beans spilling from a tortilla. They say a picture tells a thousand words... how does that go? But your friends are way more convincing...

It will not be very much longer now till the marketing world is trying to convince you to extend your mouth to your keyboard and will be begging you to "blog about it". It's annoying already, isn't it?

Thank you KCRW for introducing me to this new slogan that I am sure I can look forward to ruining my day for years to come!

Passing of a President

I have held my keyboard tongue for a week and now I just have to blog about it.

Former President Gerald Ford died last week. A sad event, no doubt. He was a resident of our area and there was a service and he lay in the church up the street from our house to be recieved by the public for 24 hours. He was, by all accounts, a good man. And everyone has to appreciate that his position gave his wife, Betty Ford, the platform to bring drug abuse and, importantly, recovery to the fore for this nation like it never had before. For that alone we should all be grateful that he was president.

But what I kept hearing last week was that news agencies were having to search the archives for SOMETHING to say about his presidency and what they came up with was: the pardoning of Nixon.

Now, I had never really known what pardoning Nixon was or was not to have supposed to do until Ford's death last week. Afterall, I was a little kid during Watergate and the aftermath... even Chevy Chase's Ford impersonation was only caught by me in reruns of Saturday Night Live several years later. So, I was a little surprised when I heard Ford's explanation for pardoning Nixon was that 'the country would not have been able to focus on the President nor any other matter at hand if Nixon was being dragged from courtroom to courtroom'. OK. I get it.

Surprising though, was the UTTER lack of irony with which Republican and Republican-leaning newscasters and pundits explained this! No one dared reflect on the irony of Republicans prefering that one of their own - who'd been caught in the act - be pardoned so that 'the country could move on' when the instant the very next DEMOCRATIC President was elected into office, what did they do!? Impeach him!

Hypocracy seems to run rampant amongst the dogmatically Republican, neocon, conservative and religious right. All those people who shed tears of gratitude for what Ford saved the country from jumped right on the bandwagon, frothing at mouth, when a Republican Congress bullied the country into the very same, albeit unwarranted, mess! For nothing, to boot!

I wish someone last week had had the balls to at least say to the American people, "too bad the Republican Party didn't spare us the impeachment of an innocent President"... Well, I am saying it to the few Americans who read my blog, and perhaps a few foreigners among them.

And the more ironic, though I haven't actually heard anyone say it explicitly yet, is the notion that the current President Bush shouldn't be impeached for his lies and the many deaths they have caused simply to 'spare the nation' the pain it would cause to see the President impeached, and Oh the slow down of the workings of Congress. Why nothing would get done if Bush were to be impeached!

I suppose to be a Republican you have to believe that causing the country pain and bringing the goverment to a grinding halt is only worthwhile if it's not 'actual' pain but concocted out of malice.... Real pain, like admitting that our President has caused the loss of massive numbers of American and Iraqi lives, and changed lifes through disability and trauma beyond recognition, and also lost of Billions of dollars through mismanagement and fraud perpetrated by the Friends of the Administration and/or out of plain stupidity, which our children and their children will have to pay back, is just too... Oh, how you say? Painful? Oh, that damn reality. It's so harsh, isn't it?

Street Crud-ier

It's nice to have little ones. They care. Even if they are not exactly sure what that means, or the reason they care is because they need you to take care of them... still, it's nice.

I was up all night sick. S.O. got it, then S.O.v.1 got it, then S.O.v.2 got it... Sometimes I dodge the bullet but in this case, nope. But S.O.v.2 woke up with me several times as I rushed to the bathroom. When I said, "Mama is feeling sick". She just said "Oh" in her sweet little way and held my hand back to bed. When you're sick, you always want your mama... but when you're the mama sometimes it's good to have your baby.

Too Scary Ah Me

...as S.O.v.2 says when something scares her. Well, we watched "An Inconvenient Truth" last night and that's what I say!

Save our planet... I don't care if you take the pledge just that you do these things...
http://www.treasureourplanet.org/pledge_now.htm

Street Crud

I have been mildly sick for the past couple of weeks. What S.O. calls 'the crud'. It is very annoying and is only aggravated by things such as lame and slow computer repairmen that are holding up my edit; the utter lack of a suitable holiday party wardrobe and the necessity of *gulp* having to SHOP!; and mucky weather that will neither sunshine nor rain.

After hearing that my play is a go I had a head full of steam to edit. However, I have been slowed to an almost complete halt, except my brain which keeps editing and rehearsing all by itself. It's nice to know that my brain still works the same way. When I was regularly involved in plays (i.e. BC - before children) my brain would absorb the play and whether I be in math class, on the freeway, at work serving a shrimp cocktail to a wanna be pimp (I'm thinking of working in restaurants in Oakland... now there are wanna be pimps everywhere... and we used to be special), my brain was thinking how to deliver a line or trying to make connections between what other characters said about mine and what my motivation was, and what the meaning of the whole play was, etc. etc. Even in my dreams. I would often dream of rehearsing or performing, seeing myself performing the way I believed I could or discovering new ways to approach a scene. It was all very helpful... in the midst of rehearsals! Now that I am stimied it doesn't feel so much helpful as it does aggravating.

So, needless to say, despite the fact that I probably will not have my computer back yet and Christmas (i.e. shopping, wrapping, hiding presents from curious toddlers and baking) will be crunching upon me, I will start to rehearse anyway. I will just take what I have and mess around with it on my makeshift stage in my boss' back office and see what comes up.

And hopefully by then my 'crud' will be finished... blasted nose and sore throat!

Let Us Play

I had my presentation to the art gallery on Thursday of last week and have been basking in the potential for the past 24 hours. I got a message on my machine at work saying they want to pursue. I won't mention that they said they were "blown away" by my presentation, because I don't want to seem conceited... but that was my favorite part of the message.

I don't care what anyone says, a little validation is always good. And even though during my rehearsals for the presentation I knew I was doing good work I can't say as I felt totally 'on' during the performance. I was mostly relaxed but there is a portion of you that is just pretending to be relaxed when you perform. If you are too relaxed you run the risk of being boring, and/or missing what is going on. I felt like I could have done so much better, which makes the gallery's comments that much more validating. Oh just wait till they see me actually on!

But I am not resting on my laurels. By no means! I am ready now to get down and work on the play, parring it down to a manageable size. My self-imposed moratorium on working on the play has now been extended as our computer just went into Geek Squad for repair... and that'll take about a week! (They're so slow!) Then in January I start the work of rehearsal and producing. Yep, it's a one-woman show in more ways than one! Although they are providing the space, which is great, and a posting on their website and no doubt will help me in other ways as well, it is all up to me to bring in the audience! Marketing. Yikes! It doesn't feel so daunting though as I had always assumed. Or maybe I am just more confident now... that age thing helps sometimes!

But probably the best part about this whole experience so far is chosing material that I am just as thrilled about now as when I first had that 'aha' moment a few months ago. It makes the work a joy rather than a chore. Who knows where that sort of inspiration comes from. All I hope, at the moment, is that I continue to do good work and enjoy the process and that the audience that finds me/I find enjoys the play as much as I do!

Addendum to 8/29/06

S.O. has very graciously pointed out that I failed to mention this in my "Now it's time to stop" entry of 8/29/06 this one:

The OhMiBod personal vibrator that you hook up to your iPod... because you didn't know you needed it, did you?

http://www.ohmibod.com/overview.html

I would say "only in America" but can I just point out the iGallup? Only in America, or Japan...

Guug

It is one of those melancholy days... who knows why, although the Monday after a holiday, wherein fun was had, is always a bit of a let down.

Or maybe it's just my negative voices getting the better of me. I am trying to ignore them. I've made committments (only to myself, but those are the ones you beat yourself up for the most) to write/perform a play and to write a novel. Here is where my years in Hollywood-baby (S.O. taught S.O.v.1 to say "LA baby" while on our way there the other weekend) failures kick in... It is the same conversation that comes up in my head over and over. If you already failed at something what makes you think it will be any different this time? It is hard to get around all the 'no's. Nos for acting, nos for improv, nos for scripts - even to read them!, nos for gainful employment in the Industry, nos for 'gainful' employment in any industry (although I've always been wildly successful at getting those barely-scrapin'-by jobs) - someone at a temp agency once told me, "Ms. Ryan, you're really ONLY qualified to work in the entertainment industry so we can't really send you out on anything else" - because my BRAIN stops FUNCTIONING when I step into a doctor's office or real estate office of course!

So the negative voices in my head challange me with all this imperical evidence that has been logged for the past 20 years and all I have to combat it with when they say, "Why should you succeed in anything when you haven't so far?" is "'Cause I wanna. So there. Nana-na-nana". This is where some religion might come in handy, I suppose. But since I don't really want to take sides in the spiritual wars, nor do the research to find the one best suited to my disposition, or to just leap into the path of least resistance (i.e. the ones my family members practice/have practiced), I'm pretty much on my own. S.O. looks at me like a deer caught in headlights when I complain about this sort of thing (the inner voices thing, not the religion thing) and doesn't know what to say. I, frankly, wouldn't know what to say to myself either if I was complaining to me about my uncertainties - OK wait I am talking to me about... but I'm not... never mind.

The tacit impulse is to just crawl under a rock, or a corner and rock, or listen to loud rock... and weep, "I can't do it". But I have also made a committment to myself to not let my negative voices get the better of me.

On days like this it is dangerous to get back to work. As anyone who has tried to create something when you are having a bad day knows it can be a disaster. If I went to my writing today the negative voices would just start picking on specifics and that's never good. And then you make bad choices and screw things up that you just have to fix later... hell, it's not even a good idea to make dinner when you're in a bad mood.

Perhaps the only thing to do is to try and deflect. Work on something else, start a pretend project my negative voices can tell me I'll never succeed at, practice my guitar - 'cause I already KNOW I suck at that, go to the gym, get them to criticize my appearance! and then when they are on a roll I can work again... yeah, that's right negative voices, my thighs ARE abominably large!

I Love LA

I love LA like you love an ex-boyfriend, maybe even like a bad ex-boyfriend. You broke up for a damn good reason, but everytime you see each other again, you just can't remember why. Face it, you know that even entertaining the idea of getting back together is probably not good for you, good for your loved ones... You've changed but really, has he? You know that jumping back into that old relationship will screw up everything you have now... but still... you just can't stop yourself from wondering.

And LA feels like home still. Not that here doesn't. It's just that LA is more like the 'life' you see on TV (is it any wonder) - full of interesting things to do, interesting people, interesting possibilities. In LA you know that life could change at any moment - for better or worse. It is like perpetually holding a lottery ticket that only 100 other people bought into. If you met the right people, got the right job, the planets aligned just so.

Life in a suburb is essentially the antithisis of this. It is predictable, secure, safe(r). And our suburb in particular, because it is a vacation destination and retirement town - read: the company business is waiting to relax and waiting to die, which for some people may be the same thing - so it is not just teaming with possibilities. Face it, nothing spectacular or unexpected is likely to happen here. The population just doesn't want it to. But the payoff is time. Time to relax, time to contemplate, time to create. Less time in the car certainly.

But still... he does look really good in those jeans....

Really Modified Mat

Some days you just want to knock around the house, do some laundry, hang with the kids... you know, NOT drive a car... and especially wrangle children, scratch that, toddlers around public spaces. There were plenty of things we could have done and in fact I had sort of suggested a visit to the park's playground last night. So instead we played outside, freesbie and took some indoor toys outside for fun. But after naptime I was feeling a little bit guilty for not going to the gym.

So Mama says "Who wants to go inside and do pilates with me?" Of course, all takers so off we go, lay the mats in the living room in front of the TV and turn on the DVD.

Except S.O.v.2 who is now 2 1/2 and probably close to 30lbs decides that I am not allowed to be on HER mat. There are only two so, S.O.v.1 and his sister each get one and I end up on the carpet. Not three moves in S.O.v.2 decides that she wants to do pilates with me. Not on her mat - ON ME. So now my "powa-haus" is much heavier and bulkier... I bet there's not a DVD for that. But what's worse we are not allowed to do the ex-a-ciz-ess (in my DVD the chicky's giving the class are Australian) ON her mat! So I remain on the carpet, toddler on me... Where is the photographer when you need them?

Must Be Genetic

I have observed in my own little significant others that some behaviors seem to be just... well, genetic. We know that boys are different from girls, of course, in the obvious physical ways. They have an entirely different way of concentrating and thinking and working things out as we know from our own relationships. But I have noticed a disturbing trend...

S.O.v.1 was heard the other day in his room with his sister to say "You go ask Mama for moie wader". That being bad enough, she did it! She is a love and a sweet little girl, but she is no pushover, ooooohoohoo no! She has her own mind and she will exercise it by whatever means possible. But when it comes to doing things for her brother she just... does it! What gets me, more than her compliance, is his lack of chagrin in asking.

Many a time when I have been picking up toys I have tried to bribe, cajoll, entice, force him to pick up toys. Most of the time he won't do much, if anything at all. But when he says, "No tanks, Mama. You do it" my blood nearly boils! Those are the moments when you want to run out of the house screaming "There's no hope!"

We women have been accused for years of remaining willfully ignorant to tasks we wished to avoid; lawn mowing, tire changing, checkbook balancing. But I propose men do this too. My S.O. is befuddled by toilet cleaning, cooking and organizing and putting away child clothing. And why is that, when he is a champion diaper changer, dishwasher and laundry doer (without the actual putting away of the clean clothes), because he does not want to do these things. He perceives these things as tasks he would not like to accomplish, that he would find no scrap of pleasure in, that he would not be allowed to become so absorbed in (like dishwashing) that we would all leave him alone for a time.

So, is S.O.v.1 just following Daddy's example? Not that S.O. actually has ever said to me "No thanks, hon. You can do it" for obvious reasons. And is S.O.v.2 just following Mama's lead in picking up because if she doesn't it will be there tomorrow, and next week, and next month? Except she doesn't roll her eyes and sigh in exasperation.

The other day - we've been on the go for the past several weeks with a visit from S.O.'s mom, a vacation to Big Bear, a conference weekend for me and a camping weekend - first for the kids actually - and so, routines being disrupted many tasks fall by the wayside. I was scrubbing the tub needless to say why, the other day, and I found it strangely satisfying. It was a relief to be back in our routine but it was not just that. Dare I say, lest this come back to haunt me someday which is probably will, it was enjoyable a task in and of itself. I understand why some women find pleasure in housekeeping, over and above the pleasure one finds in a task accomplished. There was something simple and fundamental, maybe even nurturing, in making it nice for myself and my family. That was Thursday. By Sunday I was ready to get back to work and out of the house. I am a liberal and a feminist you know, just 'cause I like a clean bathroom doesn't make me Phyllis Schlafly! (Why didn't anyone every make fun of her name anyway?)

American Marketing: Finding Exciting New Ways to Give You Less For More!

Now I know you have all heard about and probably so far experienced Starbucks price hike. The company said it would be no big deal "just a nickle" what harm could that do, right? And Stephen Colbert belittled the discontented murmur on The Colbert Report, teasing that the increase will cost him all of a nominal $8.00 over the course of the year.

Price increase, smice increase I say. Why? My standard order, Mocha Frappacino Tall no whip, went up to $3.15. OK, fine, I say. I want it anyway. But when I got the cup holding that delicious cooling wakeup juice what did I behold but the cup is smaller! Ever so slightly so you might not notice. Which is most likely the objective. And if you were a w/ whip person rather than a sans whip like myself you really would not notice.

But I did! I have slugged a good many into my car's cup holder and continued on my driving around town errands for work. Normally the cup, condensation and all, fit nice and snug. Now I know my car is deteriorating, ever so slowly, and who isn't frankly. But not so that a cup would now have room to spare! I picked up the cup to take that first sip at the next stoplight and it felt different even. I took a good long look at the cup, looked back to my sense memory of the last Mocha Frappacino no whip I'd had and the cup is shorter and slightly skinnier.

Not that anyone in America really needs the few extra calories you'll now miss in your smaller more expensive Starbucks. I certainly don't. It's just a little underhanded and unseemly. Remember the Andy Rooney segment on 60 Minutes where he complains that the volumn in a can of coffee is ever shrinking? Well, they do it to us at every turn and at the same time announce "New and Improved!".

Despite the enthusiastic protestations of the Founder and CEO of Starbucks claiming love of the product and committment to quality, and health insurance to his employees, it seems he also has a healthy dose of committment his bottom line as well. More fleecing... oi.

Long

I wish I had read the memo (the one I wish someone had written me about 20 years ago) that said "Happiness does not mean the absence of longing".

I long for somethings that are, probably, completely out of reach, and for some that are possible with hard work, maybe.

I long for a career as an actor. A pursuit tried and not won. Not everyone can be the king...

I long to perform and I long to be on stage. Oddly, I feel most myself when I am performing. I feel all the vital parts of me come to the surface and my doubts subside. There is nothing I do better, in my own estimation. But, like space travel, it's a skill I rarely use... I'm sure Buzz Aldridge can relate.

I long for more laughing and fun in my relationship. It is the thing that brings you close together. Now that the 'season' of work has started for S.O. we are like ships that pass, "See ya round the other side of the world".

I long for my writing to find a home, an audience, readers, viewers, to be acknowledged.

I long to direct, to create an experience like the ones I so love. I directed three films in grad school, each one challanging and exhilarating, each taxed me in every way. But I loved it.

I long for the community of my friends, in the flesh. I have this community only electronically now, except for short visits here and there, one way or the other. The upside of an electronic community is that you can create new friends in places you might never physically get to. I have now new friends in Iraq and Romania. It's amazing when you think about it. And I continue to bridge the gap via emails with old friends in England, Pennsylvania, Washington, New York... My community is now a spiderweb across the globe.

I long for all these things and yet I am happy. I will remember in about 16 years to write a memo to my kids, to make sure they know not to put off being happy just because your heart wants more.

Pockets of Peace

There are really far too many things to worry about these days. And like most worriesome things they are largely out of our control. Modern life is clearly full of too much information, too many goods and services, too much technology and time-saving products to be completely comfortable anymore. Ironically most of these 'modern' conveniences are supposed to make us more comfortable.

We travelled to the mountains this past weekend for a four day family vacation. Just the four of us, no visiting friends, no visiting family, just relaxing in the woods, feeding the ducks on the lake. On the drive I got a lot of time to think, as you do... I noticed I did a lot more thinking on the way there than on the way back. Funny that. But it means the 'vacation' part worked. For a few days I got to not feel guilty or take sides, donate money or worry about what was going wrong in the country, and in the world.

In my think on the way to I thought a lot about my father. Not my real father (i.e. my dad, stepfather who chose to be our dad) but my biological father. He has been absent from my and my Genetic Twin's (sister) lives since I was about S.O.v.1's age and she was five. I thought mostly about what his absence means. Not that I particularly miss him - I never knew him really - but I used to feel that there was a hole of sorts, a chunk of something gone. I thought about what it means to me now, to not have his presence in my life or even know anything significant about him. The Female Parental Unit (mom) doesn't talk about him so we have very little information. When I see some of S.O. in our kids and even get little glimpses of myself in them it sometimes makes me wonder what I have of him.

My GT and I used to occasionally muse about finding him, but haven't for years. At this point, I have sealed up that hole. I don't really want to go in the hatch. I don't necessarily consider it part of my destiny (come on people, "Lost" anyone?) and believe that it would bring possibly only grievance or at best indifference if we were to 'find him', or find out anything about him even. So, I let it go. I moved on and deal with the present. The past may have created the who I am now but it won't control me.

But the past does control many people. Worse it controls whole populations of people. Part of the struggles of the Middle East, no doubt, are past-ridden. To look back and find something about who you are, as a human being, or as a culture, as a country is to be respectful and have reverence for those who have gone before. But to look to the past for how to manage the present is insanity. To do that is to not recognize that you can't change the past or even make up for what has been lost. What is gone is gone is gone is gone and there ain't no getting it back, no how. But yet the past is invoked time and again to justify present actions. We were supposed to have moved beyond that behavior when we advanced to the 7th grade, weren't we? "Well he stole my cookie from my lunch tray so I took his milk"... "and vengence is MINE!" Come on! We know psychologically speaking that if, say, I continued to try and 'make up' for the loss of a father year after year after year I would be spinning my wheels, being self destructive and miserable. Because you cannot get back what is no longer there. So any substitute, be it a fatherly boyfriend, or reunification with your ancesteral home will not put your psyche together again. It might be nifty for a time, but you will go right back to vengeful behavior if you keep looking backwards. Notice how it's not called "Look Now in Anger"?

So, after four days of unscheduled time, a couple of hikes and time with The Adorables I had very little brain action on the drive home. I had, for a time, a little pocket of peace. I had it because for those four days I was not trying to finish anything or start anything or create anything or destroy anything. I was only experiencing the present. And I discovered that in the here and now the past doesn't feel so uncomfortable. And the future doesn't seem so daunting. The people before you are just as wonderful, if not more, when you are peaceful inside yourself enough to see and hear them clearly.

Random Thoughts

The problem with random thoughts is that you never know where to start...

I had had cause to think about something I'd believed for a long time recently; that every woman marries below her. That is not to say men are bad, just that women are smarter, more able to multi-task, more compassionate, more expressive, more patient and the whole package makes it just easier for us to run a life which we all must do on one level or another. Even if you are single with no kids you are still running your own life and keeping your toilet fairly clean (except for the odd woman who revels in being laise fair about housecleaning, fine if only she has to live in it). But any woman who has children and/or is married is running more than one and that becomes difficult.

Men have an uncanny ability to focus on one thing for long periods of time, which is why we have disciplines like engineering and science and space travel. When they are using their powers for good instead of evil they are in that regard better than women. But doing one thing alone well does not exactly make one able to run a life successfully. And hey, if you are a single guy, who cares if your toilet is clean. When men are 'envolved' with other human beings they must strive to use their powers not for evil to, say, focus on figuring out how to do the least amount of work possible or how to use their powers of concentration to effectively ignore their people, but for good, as in focusing on how to contribute or be more compassionate.

S.O. and I have had many a skirmish over the subject of 'running the life' of our family. Our finally conclusion of the matter of running the life was to conclude that he is not, or we should not say, he's 'helping me' get the various chores done. That is condescending and I think implies that the whole kit and kaboodle is MY responsibility and mine alone and somehow he is doing me a favor by doing dishes or putting his shoes away instead of leaving them in the middle of the living room for me to pick up. So, women's lib did what again? Made it possible for women to have two jobs and men to continue to sit on the sofa and watch their shows while we take care of the kids?

I saw a young woman bopping along, coming out of the local college, this morning, talking on her cell phone. She had a lovely look on her face, one vaguely familiar and melancholy to me. It's that expression you see only on very young women and very old - but well balanced and grateful - women. It is the look of running only your own life and doing as you please. It is the look of being carefree. My perspective now makes all my worries as a young woman, even as a young married woman without children seem petty. Not that that young woman has no worries or troubles. It just strikes me how much easier troubles are when they are only your very own. As psychologists and wanna be therapists like to say to us over and over again from their TV pulpits, you can only change yourself. Great concept in theory, except it ignores the reality of most women who are managing someone else's life including their own. Sure, you can't theoretically control someone else but if you are running their life it is decidely more difficult to do if you aren't also controlling what they do... and thus why marriage is so difficult!

It is so easy to be empassioned with something new; new love, new school, new baby, new job. And doesn't society and talk show hosts tell us all the time that we should recapture our 'inner child' - that enthusiasm, that discovery, that passion for life. But doing something for the first time or having something new is always easy and exciting. I'm a little sick of this whole idea of 'finding your passion' because, frankly, it is not the way the world or a life works. It is great when someone is enthusiastic about something new, you love to hear about it. And we run to our loved one's side when they are feeling down or in need. But all the mediocre stuff in between is where life really lies. Why is it not ok to just be ok with how things are going? Why does every morning have to have the sparkle of potential? Isn't not expecting something to happen, i.e. expecting a regular day, and it turning out spectacular just the best? But if you are every day living your passion, grabbing, eating life, consumming with passion... when the hell do you rest? Besides unrealistic it sounds just tiring to me. I am happy with making methodical progress forward and not knowing when the spectacular may happen. Besides, isn't all this 'passion stuff' just starting to smack plasticy?

We are heading up to the mountains for a few days tomorrow. Our first family vacation that is not also a visit friends and family vacation. As much as I love my friends and family it's just not the same. I realize that we are lucky. Many do not ever get a family vacation and as much as I am compelled to complain that this is essentially the first since having our children, that thought keeps popping into my head. Many get outrageous vacations where they don't life a finger, except maybe to purchase expensive gifts for themselves or to haul themselves on to the massage table, and get to have an exceptional relaxing time. We fall somewhere on the lower end of that scale just into the priveledged enough to get a vacation at all section. For that I am grateful. But it will not be totally relaxing because there are still responsibilities that will follow me up the mountain - diapering, bathing, clothing, feeding, cooking, organizing... but maybe if I am really nice to him (wink wink) S.O. will allow me to sleep a couple times.

A Moment

There are moments when the exiquisite beauty and pain of being a parent appears before you. It flies away before you can grasp it completely. Maybe if you really knew what it meant to have the honor of being the mother of these little perfect people it would just be too much... too much to handle... too much to comprehend... to much to be able to move forward with... Maybe that is what love is....

Now it's time to stop

First there was iTunes. Then there was iPod... or maybe it was the other way round, I don't know, chicken and egg situation.

Now, iMesh!? Yet a new music downloading software.

So, here I am reading the Hollywood Reporter thinking, "What's next? iChildren? iHusband?" I thought I'd do a little survey... this is very limited to my imagination but you try too and see what you come up with.

There is now:

iHouse - a real estate marketing firm
iComputer - a computer consultant
iKid - something to 'help protect our children' - no doubt something run by Republicans
iDesign - Solutions, Inc. no less - a little throw back to the 'solutions' we were all promised in the 90s! This promises to solve all our education problems
iFood - which offers, of course, a 'unique blend' of something or rather having to do with food and hopefully not also computer chips, although I hear they are great along side a nice grilled Ahi on a chibatta - baked with olive oil, not fried of course!
iCatalogue - where you can find all your company gifts!
iSnake - a net software site
iFax - Solutions - there we go again...
iRabbit - which is of all things a vibrator, but it promises to be descreet and secure... so, that makes me feel better
iRobot - which is a consummer robot - for all your robotic needs of course, or solutions as needed I assume, and of course a mediocre Will Smith movie
iBlogger - website something, name change, solutions...
iCondom - which is a cover for an iPod, logically
iDoctor for iSeries, an IBM company... huh?
iVillage - they have actually been around forever so they can't really be blamed for perpetuating the problem, just helping to create it
A Canadian paper, the National Post, writes and article about the rise of iPolitician - the Prime Minister apparently did a podcast... which I sort of think is a little bit cool... at least she's up to date!
iDog - an electronic pet dog... cuts down on the grooming but hell on battery costs I i-imagine (which, if you need a wedding video shot, is in the business)
Sadly, no iCat... isn't there a market for an electronic pet cat!
iMouse - which is, of course, a computer mouse... but if your house got infected with those THEN I bet there'd be a market for the iCat
iHuman - a performance group I found on craigslist in all places, San Francisco naturally
No iHusband just yet (though the website is for sale for you to jump on!) though there are several hits for iWife, not least of which is some failed product that Apple introduced, a singles dating site - not very appealing to men who want to remain such I would think and software, that's funny
iGallop - I can't even write anything as funny as this is all on its own
http://www.brookstone.com/store/product.asp?pid=531707&wid=1&cid=18&sid=113&prodtemp=t2&cm_re=B_BKST*MN*531707

Have a go! You should try it! It's iFun! (website still available) Let me know how you do...

I've been doing some fake news gathering

Housing Bubble Not Over

Washington D.C. – As the booming housing market of the last few years takes a downswing, National Association of Realtors, VP of Marketing Strategies, Mike Couven, says their new tact will be aiming at the third home market.
With affordable homes out of reach to nearly 90% of the population in some areas the NAR had to find new ways to keep the housing industry strong.
“Let’s face it,” Couven said, “Most of those that didn’t have one already bought their second homes in this last boom. We think going after the top 1% of earning households is the next logical step.” Not swayed by predictions of a market decline Couven is convinced the ‘third home’ is the new black.
The one two punch of keeping the price of houses artificially high – preventing the Have Nots from entering the current market – and adding more granite countertops, will make the acquisition of the third home more appealing to the Haves.
“The middle class is shrinking, there’s nothing we can do about that and there’s no money in affordable housing,” grins Couven, “So we are positioning housing as something unique, out of reach to most, something that makes them feel special like having a third Rolex or a third Mercedes Benz they never drive in their six car garage.”
Couven insists this is not a rental market he is trying to create but a totally unnecessary luxury market that will have a huge impact on the price of homes, particularly in desirable locations, such as locales where there remains a job market.
“We’re gonna keep gains in the double digits with this strategy. This could be huge, bigger than the last bubble.”

Bee-stung lips and other ailments

I was just telling a friend of mine that I don't usually do the "let me tell you about the lousy day I had" blog posts too often. Because I don't want to seem like too much of a navel gazer because that is really boring for other people (besides me) and because it seems like when you read blogs randomly that is what they are all about. "I'm so pissed at my mom because she wouldn't like let me go to the mall because of some stupid thing about me coming in at 3am, like shah, like she didn't come in totally late the other night!" Just kidding. I don't even know if teenagers say 'totally' anymore. Probably not...

In any case, I feel compelled to complain because I am just so irritated with my various injuries primarily because they are all self-inflicted. You know when you bite yourself for no obvious reason? Then you have to be super careful not to do it again, but it never matters how careful you are because inevitably you do!? What a bummer. And what is the biting all about anyway? Is it your subconscious trying to tell you something? And if so, why the passive-aggressive thing, why not just come out and say it Subconscious? Come on, don't be shy, I can take it. Be honest with me... but it never does and before long the bite turns into or activates that virus that most of us have called the canker sore. Ugh! Throbbing all night. Not much sleep. Got up twice to do the masochistic baking soda pack on it. Eyes watering at 2 in the morning, then again at 3:30... ouch. Still upon awaking, it's still there. Why is it that no matter how much lysine, vitamin C, laying off sugar and baking soda packs you inclict on them the things stay around to torture you 3-5 days...

On top of that I have runners rash. This is my own fault for trying to get in shape and lose the two babies worth of fat which of course is layered primarily on the inner thigh, where runners rash appears naturally. The other night I resorted to applying the babies' diaper rash cream because I just could not take the burning and the everytime you put your legs together sting in the middle of the night. Seems unfair doesn't it? I mean, I am doing what Bob Greene, Oprah, Dr. Phil, Dr. Atkins, Runners World and Triathlete Magazine have TOLD me to do! Why am I being punished?

Then the other week I bumped into something at the gym which gave me a nasty and large bruise. Didn't hurt though unless I poked it, so my plan, don't poke it. But in the last 24 hours it has swollen - probably because of all that running and biking working the muscle the bruise is on. Now it just hurts hurts, poke, no poke.

Last night if I could get comfortable on my stomach then my canker started to throb. If I laid on my right side the runners rash pressed together and stung. If I laid on my left side my weight fell on my swollen bruise. Ugh!

You know, in a case like this, it would probably be easy to ask "Why me?" and in the middle of the night laying on my back on the sofa (did I mention the allergies are high at the moment so I can't breathe through my nose unless propped up? - sheez) I could have asked, but frankly, I was too tired. Blast. Hell. Damnation. Cripes.

Now, in the light of day and just as uncomfortable I am just mad, and ready to show my subconscious (or body, whomever it is that is trying to send me a message) and go workout after work today anyway! Ha! There! I'll just inflict more pain on you nasty buggers.

That'll show you, Subconscious!

Friends

I don't normally post twice a week let alone twice a day... but I got to thinking about my friends yesterday. Probably because we watched the documentary film "Be Here To Love Me" about Townes Van Zandt recently and watched the additional interviews last night. It is rife with interviews of friends of his and they clearly loved him dearly.

Got to wondering, if I were docu-worthy, what would my friends say about me? And then the mind, as it does, wandered to the question I'd been asked of late "What do all your friends have in common?"

I had a little bit of a revelation about myself as I answered this question in my mind. You see, my friends are brave women and some men all of them. They jumped in with both feet to friendship with me while I was more reserved. I think everyone holds a part of themselves back. But there is a difference between holding back sustinence for yourself and holding in reserve so that you might not be hurt - that is cowardice and I am guilty of it.

I think diving in to any sort of relationship, lover, friend, co-worker, child, with both feet and all your self is very courageous. I attribute the fact that I have many friends to their own bravery. I am still afraid, a little bit of the ugly goose feeling. I feel on some level that at any turn I might be pushed down and mocked. It is a remnant of some elementary school experience no doubt because that is about the maturity level. But there it is, right inside me.

It was a bit of a shocking revelation because I had always thought of myself as brave. But what I am is a good mediator. I am good at midgating pain. I'm not afraid of that and I'm not afraid to feel my emotions once they arrive. It's just the throwing oneself into the ring that frightens me.

I liked to chalk up my lack of bonds out here in exile to the area, the fact that we didn't know how long we'd be here, to 'those' people being so pedestrian and not creative and intellectual like the lovelies I left behind in LA. But really it is because I have not been brave enough, not willing to take the risk.

Wow. What a thing to find out about yourself... what a wonderful thing to find out about your friends though!

Derailed

You ever have one of those days where no matter how clear your goal is in your mind you just get... derailed?

Yesterday, I was determined to get my workout in (I have been going to the gym 6 days a week, I'm doing a program, you know the whole weight, cholesterol thing). I planned to leave work a little early because S.O. needed to get to a dinner work meeting. But then the phone rang and so I left just a few minutes late. Well, enough time, only need to get a short cardio in, I thought, I'll have time. I speed down the road to go pick up S.O.v.1 from preschool and I hit, of all things, traffic! Whawhawha-what? You have to understand, I live in the desert, in the OFF-season. There is barely 6 cars in a row during the season. There is never ever traffic in the off-season, that is just absurd.

I get S.O.v.1 and there is not enough time to get to the gym and then get home on time so that S.O. can get to his meeting. Nevermind, I think, I'll just go for a swim later. Our complex sports a pool that is almost long enough for a real lap swim workout. I have a new swimsuit (rather LARGER in size than my old triathlon swimsuit, :(...) and a new pair of goggles to try out.

I get little S.O.s to bed and await S.O.'s return home... I make a little visit to the restroom and who should appear!? My little friend. You remember ladies, before we couldn't say the words 'menstral cycle' or even 'period' without being moooooooortified! Damn, I say to myself. Then minutes later, the headache, the cramping, the ooogy in skin feeling, the runs... totally derailed.

More Mama Files

Sometimes I forget my own rules.

Last night I had a minor blow up at the little S.O.s. Poor kiddos. It was just all around a bad day and, you know the deal... anyway, S.O.v.1, the little charmer that he is, when I went in to tuck him in, asked me to explain to him why mama was so irritated. What a smarty, I mean, he's only 4! So, I explained the concept of mama's being cranky and what it means to be taken advantage of. He got it.

So, this evening as bathtime was coming to a close little mister S.O.v.1 decided that it was time to poo poo poo. He's a conservationist. He likes to limit his water usage, so he visits the toilet in this regard only every few days (no matter the pleading, prodding, insisting or introduction of fiber to his diet). Consequently, they are plunger-worthy (I know, it's gross, I hope you haven't just eaten). As I was weilding said instrument, S.O.v.2, who loves to flush the toilet, kept trying to flush, threatening to overflow the bowl. Patience held out only until she tried to grab the plunger. Ick! So I got mad, picked her up and removed her from the situation. This made her, understandably, upset.

Even after I managed the bathroom situation S.O.v.2 was still crying for mama. When I went in to her, looked into her little face, she seemed so confused. That's when I recalled the previous evening's conversation with S.O.v.1. See, even though I always made a point to explain things to him, I realized that I have been lax with her. Even though she is only 2 now it's still important. So, I gave her a brief explanation on how toilets are dirty and mama doesn't insist she doesn't touch things unless there is a good reason. I mean, who knows if she understood - but she does do very cute "unh huh"s, her version of nod and smile, no doubt. The point really is not the explanation. It is taking the time and effort to do it. That above all else, I discovered long ago with S.O.v.1, is what makes the impact. It is the face time, particularly if you have gotten mad and they have gotten scared.

I decided when he was born that I would give him the respect and dignity that he deserved. I must admit I am harder on S.O.v.2. Maybe it is because she is the second and I am busier, more harried. Maybe it is because she is a girl - we are always harder on the same sex child, I believe. But maybe it is just that I forgot my own rules.

And whala! the behavior that had driven me crazy and set me off the night before disappeared tonight. Sometimes yelling or insisting "Because I'm the mama and I say so" seems like the easy way or short cut to compliance in the moment. And it can be a stop gap. There are times when a short cut is necessary. But for overall peace and harmony the long way is the best way. There is something to showing your child that you not only believe that they are smart enough to understand why but have a right to know. Compliance may seem welcome but understanding is better. Don't get me wrong, I will take blind compliance when I can get it but I just think instilling a sense of self worth in a child is an opportunity not to be missed. It is a great way to show them they matter, to say, "You're worthy of an explanation".

Rule duly noted.

The Illusion of Love

I watched "Must Love Dogs" last night, a film essentially about finding 'the one' and then tonight as I was washing dishes I watched "One Tree Hill". I usually stop on it for at least a little while when surfing because of Chad Michael Murray. No! Not because I think he's dreeeeeamy but because I worked with him on "The Lone Ranger" when I still lived in L.A. - BE (Before Exile). It's that loyalty for no reason thing, and because he is genuinely a nice guy. OK, he's a little dreamy.

Annnnnyway, as I'm washing dishes I'm thinking this show is all about who's doing who, except it's more than that, it's about who's falling in love with whom. Clearly, it's aimed at teenage girls... But so many shows and movies come down to that one magical thing; love. Who doesn't want to be loved! I mean, come on, it's fundamental. But I realized that it is also an illusion. Love, more than anything else really can give you a sense of well being that goes beyond temporary. It's good to feel loved. It's good to love. But the message, when love is portrayed in movies and television (and I am generalizing here), seems to be the only work you need to do is to FIND it. Then you're done. Satisfaction for the rest of your life. (OK, I know one shouldn't really be philosphizing over a sink full of dishes and normally I don't do them at all, but my dishwasher is in Santa Barbara at the moment. S.O.'s working making money for the family, work that is non-existent here in the desert during the summertime, so I am playing single mom for three weeks. Washing dishes just takes way too long, too much time to think!)

But that is the illusion isn't it? That is the destructive force, that idea, that it's couldn't be that you stopped appreciating your loved one, or started acting disrespectful or taking them for granted (because when you treat someone poorly you subconsciously feel bad, and when you feel bad about the way you have behaved your psyche tends to try to find the path of least resistence which is find the person you have mistreated deplorable for some reason and therefore justify your mistreatment). No, it's that they are not 'the one'. You have 'stopped loving them' you don't know why you just did and can't anyone tell that is not your own fault! You know, I get that love fades and sometimes doesn't stand up to life. I mean, hell I've been divorced twice! I do get that.

It's just that I think there are destructive and distracting ideas about love that float around the world. It is great to be in love but it is not the only thing that can give one a sense of well being. And frankly, I think there is so much focus on 'love' and finding it, and the right 'one' that there is less energy left for all the other parts of life. There are lots of things that can give you that sense of well being; music, eating, laughing... There are also many things in this world that need our attention.

I guess, I just get annoyed that the real struggles don't seem to be portrayed. And maybe it's because we can't figure out how. Many of life's other struggles are internal and have more to do with fighting your own demons than embracing someone else. It has always been the same of course. Finding love is the most titilating part of the story and has been memorialized in every kind of human expression there is... the rest is... work.

Global Warming Training

We spent a lovely three days in Santa Barbara and arrived home to the desert to... 120 degrees... plus hot wind...

Hell. It actually is very hell like. Just as we were driving up some neighbors of ours were escaping to cooler climes for the night. And a no wonder. Our airconditioner is struggling to reach 90 on the thermostat temperture monitor (that's as high as it goes) and not quite there yet after three hours at home. Who knows what temp it really is in here. Sweaty. That is a few degrees beyond sticky right? I mean, I am sitting here, inside my home, with all the windows and door closed and I am sweating.

As we left Santa Barbara we stopped at Vons for water and cookies for the ride home. The checker said it was "awful" outside... oh if he only knew. What a wimpy!

The only upside that I can think of is that this just might come in handy if we can't manage to get out collective head out of our collective rear and insist that something be done about global warming. It's like astronauts. They train in a weightless enviornment to simulate what they will be dealing with while in space. We are getting our global warming simulator right here in the (sometimes beautiful) Coachella Valley! All the wealthy people move here to golf and relax but leave when the going gets hot. But us full time residents who have no extended relocation choice must suffer through the painful heat and the excrutiating electric bill. The wealthy are so dumb. If they were smart they'd actually STAY here for the summer. Come on, suck it up! But no, they won't. What they don't realize is, us po' fok is creating an uber-race that will be able to withstand temps like no one else.... maybe the meek shall inherit the earth... when it's ALL 120 degrees!

Summer sick

There is nothing worse than being sick in the summer time. But in the desert it's actually not so bad. When temps are pushing north of 110 and the wind is blowing hot and dry, like someone please close the oven door!, then it is a little bit of a blessing in disguise.

I dread the countdown to the end of summer - not as some of you who are NOT in exile in the desert might - but dread the length of it. So any few days that can eliviate some of the boredom and cabin fever are welcome. See, when you're sick of course you don't lament not being able to go outside so much.

But this summer we have had 2 weeks plus of illness. The little Significant Others have been cold and flu on and off and throw in a couple goopy eyes and allergic reactions and you have sick soup. Finally, this week S.O. and I caught it. For as many germs were flying around our house I think we did pretty well fending off the sick!

Finally it seems we are all on the mend and I am so grateful. There is nothing worse than watching your little ones suffer. Maybe now I might get some regular sleep.

And the countdown to coolness - only 2 1/2 months to go! Ummm... rah?... or maybe ugh...

Summer - Ugh!

This is what I thought as I ran around the desert this morning, taking S.O.v.1 to the doctor to have them check his TB shot and fill out the paperwork for his preschool, "ugh! Summer is here". At least it's the end of June I thought, meaning that there are really only 3 or maybe 3 1/2 ungodly months left of this heat. Only a few more months till I can feel normal again, go back to waking up only a couple times a night (aircon, smaircon! your body still registers the atmosphere even if you are in your cool little coop) and only a few more months till my head stops hurting.

It will get up to 110 today. But with the cloud cover it is downright muggy. It is true what they say about dry heat. But after 110 all bets are off. I don't care if it's muggy, not muggy, raining, raining locusts (which we do get here)... anything after that is just irritating. You walk to the car - you sweat. You start the car - sweat. Wait for aircon to kick in - swear. And the more in-out errand running you do the more you think to yourself "Now, I live here why again?" The locals used to say "Nine months of paradise" in the summer to me... yes, true, give or take, depending on the state of global warming.

I remember my first summer when I met a very lovely older lady who'd moved here in the 60's. Imagine the state of airconditioning then! S.O.v.1 and I were getting some ice cream at the Rite Aid (what was wrong with the name Thrifty, by the way? Not that it is that cheap anymore, maybe they felt bad because their prices really weren't 'thrifty' anymore. It was much easier to say anyway) and I asked her how long it would take to get used to the summer heat. "Three years," she says "but if (she) is really being honest (she) ought to say six". Grand. She was about right though and now that I am at the start of Summer Number Four my threshold for pain has risen. It used to top out at 104 - anything after that and I was miserable. Now, at least I am at a hummin' 110. After that, I am downright cranky till the temperature comes down...

And don't ask me to nip out to the Rite Aid for a pint of ice cream either!

Facade

I did not sleep well last night. Probably because I slept intermittantly throughout the day, that sleep of fending off a sore throat that makes the nighttime a toil. So, as I was wandering around the empty bed, S.O. is working in Santa Barbara this week, I thought it silly to toss and turn so I checked my email... of course. Hasn't the computer replaced the TV as the insomniacs drug of choice? So, there was a link to a speech given by Barack Obama at the recent Take Back America conference. I was struck by his sincerity and 'realness' for lack of a better word. He strikes me as someone who is entirely comfortable in his skin, comfortable with who he is and confident in his ability to do his own life.

And so, tonight, I am watching Oprah as I am washing the dishes and it is all about women who have lived secret lives. And it struck me that there are a lot less Barack Obama's in this world than there are people living secret lives. Even if the secret is something small and not devastating, it is still a secret and it still prevents you from being completely who you are.

But then that is the way our society is set up. We are particularly allergic to peculiarities in human beings and by and large prefer neat little packages, even if they are false. And isn't credit card use chasing that dream? Of being a neat little package? Don't we all think we are SUPPOSED to be neat little packages - logical, attractive, sensibly put together personalities - and I don't necessarily mean just the 'preppy/conservative' types, but also the 'artistic' types and the 'deep' and the 'wild' and the 'bad boy' and the 'quirky'... isn't any type really at its core a facade? Isn't hypocracy really a facade in denial?

We seem to have a problem with sincere truth in this country at the same time that 'reality' is a commodity - on television certainly. If we all felt that we were truly being seen, for who we are, if we all felt that we were acceptable just the way were are in the world; if we all felt that it was OK to be incongruent as a person and have pieces that just didn't seem to fit; would we really be so susceptible to marketing? Would we have elected a man whom, as the media kept telling us we liked, we wanted to have a beer with?

I propose we, America, as a society, are in the middle of an identity crisis. We are, afterall, about, oh... in our 20s as a country. As cultures go we are youthful. And didn't you all hit 25 and look about you and think, "What the hell am I doing with my life!? What have I accomplished yet?"

The problem now is that any accomplishment short of multimillionaire-hood or creativegenius-hood at 25 anymore is considered 'not worthy'. Gone are the days when a woman at 25 with 2 children could think, "I'm contributing to society". Gone are the days when a college graduate at 25 can look back and think, "I did what only, some 30% of Americans accomplish. I've learned so much". Gone are the days when a body can look back at 6 or 7 years of hard work and say, "I've gotten three raises and two promotions".

And forget asking the question at 30! We dare not! At 35, 40... "OH MY GOD! I'M A LOSER!" jumps immediately to mind if you aren't overseeing a vast, wealthy foundation ala Bill Gates or some such. I blame the 'champagne wishes and caviar dreams' dude. Remember him? "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous", Robin Leach. In the 80's? The ME generation, led by, who else, a Republican. It all looked so romantic. Add to that MTV, a randy and budding generation of teens - not that I mean to dis my own generation but... really guys, we did buy it - and you have recipe for overeating, overspending, overdrinking/drugging/smoking. We have tremendous debt in this country. We have a huge meth problem. We have a huge prescription drug problem - and I don't just mean Rush Limbaugh, there are others too. We have a HUGE greed problem. If this is not a "grab all I can get for me" time in our history, I don't know what is!

Its symptoms are all over the place. The national debt. The personal debt in this country and severe lack of savings. The HOUSING BOOM, can I just say... The war! What about this country right now is NOT a facade? Honesty is at a premium in this administration and competance and sincerity are at a premium in the world at large in our country. When was the last time someone did something, they were being paid to do, right and DIDN'T give you attitude doing it? We are so 20-something floundering for direction and meaning right now.

Living anything less than honest with oneself is less than living. It is time we wake up and stop just smelling the coffee! Damnit, drink some and get with it! We have a country to save. We have our own lives to save... otherwise, let's just try to imagine the mental health crises that will arises in this country when people finally are so maxed out on credit cards they need to declare bankruptcy but can't. All the Iraq and Afganistan vets return home from wars unwon and perhaps unwinable. The houses we live in crush us under the weight of thier cost. The latest scandal is pushed under the Rove, I mean rug. The health crisis when our weight crushes us and we have no insurance to cover it. The underemployment crisis.

It's coming. It is inevitable. It's frightening.

From The Mama File

I have discovered, in my four years of parenting, that it saves a Mama a lot of time and hassle if you tell your kids what is going on. For instance, when you awake in the morning if you say "Junior, this morning Mama is going to go to work and Daddy will take care of you all day and then when Mama gets home after your sleepy nap we can make dinner together" then you have just alleviated potential melt downs. Sure, you may be stuck with the whining, there may be no parenting skill to get around that. But isn't it better than throw-self-on-floor-scream?

I had been very good about doing this with S.O.v.1 but have been more lax with S.O.v.2 and am feeling the effects. I am not talking enough about what is going on in the day. I used to do this all the time, make a running commentary on the day, i.e. "As soon as Mama gets done cleaning the toilet I think we should go have a snack. What do you think?" It worked wonders and we went through terrible 2s with little fuss... not just terrible 2s but terrible 2s with new baby in the house. Now that new baby is 2 we are seeing real fuss I have been wondering what the hell is going on. It occured to me that I have let down my commentary guard. It is so easy to let the complication of a second child divert one onto the short road. But the short road often has road blocks to progress. Like, trying to get out the door and child is clinging leach-like so that you can't actually get out the door. It made me realize that had I just taken the time to talk to the leach I'd be there by now!

So, the moral is, always tell the kids what is going on in their world. "We're gonna have some breakfast and then Mama is going to leave for work" It's the same working principle for leaving the park. I think all Mamas know about the 10 minute warning. If you think about it, too, it is only fair. Imagine you had not kind of control on your day and how it played out - I mean, really no control - you'd be fussy too. It is somewhat akin to being in prison, but the guards love you... wait, that may not be the best analogy... but you see what I mean. And frankly, the more I talk the easier and more enjoyable my Mama life is. It's worth a few extra breaths to avoid the naughty corner!