Lotus Martinis

another year

2012-01-10T11:43:00.000-08:00

Peartini Party (Tribute to Sandra Jones Campbell)

I started this painting over 2 years ago. Russell posed the hands holding glasses for me, and it was on the easel when he died. I couldn't go near it for nearly a year. I couldn't bear the thought of painting on the patio, still expecting him to come out and peer over my shoulder on his way out the door to play golf.

What do you think?

It's coming along. I think she's really going to like it.

Thanks, honey!

See you in a bit.

Bye, sweetie.

I finally finished it in November, and gave it to my friend for her birthday. I do believe she liked it. I think it turned out pretty well (again, with apologies to Sandra Jones Campbell, whom I adore). I know it was extremely hard to let go of. I only wish he could have been there to give it to her.

I miss him like hell.

the presence of that absence is everywhere

2011-12-17T01:28:00.000-08:00

baby, it's cold inside

2011-11-20T20:31:00.000-08:00

dia de los muertos

2011-11-08T22:36:00.000-08:00

Another day, another Day of the Dead. On Saturday, Robbie and I hit the event in Santa Ana, which featured dancing, face-painting, costumes and traditional altars in ebullient color and masks of the merry macabre. It is a festival that celebrates life and mocks death as a jaunty jester; inevitable but not inevitably permanent, as the spirits of the dearly departed are summoned and guided with offerings of food, drink, arts and entertainments, that they may once again partake of earthly delights and, if so inclined, intercede on behalf of their loved ones. Traditionally, marigolds are strewn from the cemetery to the door of the house, the better for souls to follow their yellow and orange-hued paths home. The ghosts are not seen, but their presence is felt, I am told, in the movement of tissue paper cutouts of wreaths, crosses and flowers.

I had a great time. We laughed, we ate, we drank. We admired the beauty of the costumes and the wisdom of centuries. It's a melancholy sort of mirth, but all comedy is famously born of tragedy, and it is probably what has kept the human race from committing collective suicide over many a bad century. It is a warm, happy, familial festival that embraces the journey of mankind. Death may be inevitable, but love is eternal. Until, of course, the death of the last to love, who leaves none behind to build altars of devotion or flowers to light the way back to the warmth of the living. What, I wonder, becomes of them.

I placed my marigolds, but no one followed the yellow brick road home to me. Must be the Santa Anas - those damn devil winds are blowing again. Not even the living are easy in their skins.

snakes in a drain

2011-10-09T13:04:00.000-07:00

So it's about 5:00 on a Friday afternoon. The sink in the guest bath had started backing up suddenly and severely. It was time to tackle the problem head on. Congratulating myself on my Rosy the Riveter-like self-sufficiency, I plunged in, sans plunger. I pulled out the plug and poured baking soda and vinegar down the drain. 20 minutes later I poured a pot of boiling water down the hole, but still the drain did not flow. I fished around with my fingers, pulling out a tangled bit of dark hair. Disgusted but determined, I put my fingers in deeper, this time pulling out a long, slick mass.

"This is coming out awfully...sleekly," I thought. And continued to pull.

That was when I saw the eyes. I screamed. It lay there. "What the f*#k is that?!" I yelled at the offending basin. I ran to the kitchen. I poured myself a beer. I tiptoed back to the bathroom and peered from the doorway. Yep. That is exactly what the f*#k that was.

I called my brother.

"Is this a bad time?" I always ask that when I call people, because it always is. There is never a good time to hear from me. I always seem to be either hysterical or depressed. Occasionally both.

"Kinda. I've got a gig, and I'm just about there. What's up?"

I told him. He laughed.

"So pull it out!"

"I CAN'T! It's too horrible! I can't go near it!"

"What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to come and get this mother*#%ing snake out of my mother*#%ing drain!"

I should mention my brother's gig happens to be in Texas, where he also happens to most inconveniently live.

"Gi, you just have to man-up, grow a pair, and get it out of there yourself. You can do it. Look, I'm here; gotta go. I'll call you later."

I poured another beer. Went into the bathroom, turned my head, pointed my phone at the sink and took a picture. Tried to imagine growing a pair and just yanking it out of there. Went back to the kitchen, grabbed a roll of paper towels, a plastic bag and a pair of tongs. Thought deep thoughts.

Went to the cupboard, found half a Xanax and washed it down with beer. Which of course you should never do. Watched TMZ, which you should also never do. Ah, Kim Kardashian, you beautiful, privileged moron. I'll bet you never had to slay your own dragons.

I, on the other hand, am Pioneer Woman - sturdy, pragmatic, brave and strong. I am my own Knight in Shining yoga pants, fearless, flexible and a little fuzzy around the edges. I grabbed the tongs, marched into the bathroom, threw a couple of yards of paper toweling over the wretched creature and pulled. It...broke. Undaunted, I tossed the mess into the bag and trotted it out to the bin.

Proudly, I went back to the bathroom, turned on the faucet and watched the water flow as freely as Niagara Falls in springtime. I so totally rock, I thought.

And then I noticed that the water was freely flowing out through the drain and onto the floor. No, I don't know what it is yet. But you can be sure of one thing. Somebody's about to get an inconvenient call.

Wanting Memories

2011-10-01T21:06:00.000-07:00

I am sitting here wanting memories to teach me,
To see the beauty in the world through my own eyes.
I am sitting here wanting memories to teach me,
To see the beauty in the world through my own eyes.

You used to rock me in the cradle of your arms,
You said you'd hold me till the pains of life were gone.
You said you'd comfort me in times like these and now I need you,
Now I need you, and you are gone.

I am sitting here wanting memories to teach me,
To see the beauty in the world through my own eyes.
Since you've gone and left me, there's been so little beauty,
But I know I saw it clearly through your eyes.

Now the world outside is such a cold and bitter place,
Here inside I have few things that will console.
And when I try to hear your voice above the storms of life,
Then I remember all the things that I was told.

I am sitting here wanting memories to teach me,
To see the beauty in the world through my own eyes.
I am sitting here wanting memories to teach me,
To see the beauty in the world through my own eyes.

~~~ from Wanting Memories, by Kealii Reichel

[ full Lyrics here ]

saturday

2011-09-12T17:30:00.000-07:00

Question: How many Me does it take to change a light bulb?

Answer: Just one, but it takes 4 1/2 hours.

In my defense, the bulb had broken off in an odd way from the silver tread-thingy and required some unusual light bulb-changing handiwork and possibly tools, of which I could find none. Or at least none suitable, which caused me to use my fingers and what's left of my nails. Which caused my brother to groan long distance as I balanced barefoot on the sink, holding the phone in one hand and jamming the other into the light socket with random precision. I am almost sure he groaned because he feared for my safety, and not because I call him every time something that needs to be done appears to call for a tool of some sort. And by that I mean no disrespect.

I needed needle-nosed pliers and had no idea where they were, but my nails are usually there at the tips of my fingers, although not always, and what's a little jolt of electrical current now and then? Frankly, I found it invigorating.

Of course, once I was up there and saw all the accumulated dirt of days gone-by, I was forced to drag out all the requisite equipment and scrub the room from top to bottom. And also plunge the sink, which I would like to point out is not my area of expertise. And while I do not have an actual area of expertise, I can now state with some certainty that this is not it. Still water runs, languidly.

Having no one to congratulate me on my new-found plumbing and electrical skills, I did what any Really Occasional Housewife of Orange County would do; I drew a picture of it. Wrote about and Photoshopped it; pinned a medal on it. Gave myself a Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval and a merit scholarship. Imagined a reality show featuring me changing light bulbs and unplugging drains. Green-lit the project, in which I will be played by Susan Sarandon, because I really want to be her.

Naturally, I had to blog the entire process. Then question the wisdom of doing most, if not all, of the above.

4 1/2 hours. And people wonder why I never clean anymore.

flip flop foe fum

2011-09-04T22:46:00.000-07:00

It's been so long since I cleaned my house, I have apparently forgotten how.

So as I flew around, barefoot, trying to get the place looking pretty and perfect for my first attempt at having a couple of our old friends over since last we entertained I ran, at some speed, into the leg of the kitchen table. It hurt so badly I cried for a moment, and then continued on my way, from vacuum to mower to grill. All of this was so much easier and infinitely more fun as a team effort, but the show must go on. Or so I am told. Some do, anyway. We'll see.

Now the little toe is almost certainly broken as, two weeks later, I can't put on heels, runners or shoes of any kind. I am living in these whimsical pink camouflage flip flops that I bought at WalMart around 2007, and which I now count among my most treasured possessions.

Yes, that weird shape is a bunion. And no, I don't care. Stilettos are my last vice. Nearly my last vice. One of my last four vices. Top five, and quit counting.

On Tuesday I have jury duty. Again. I think the pink camo flip flops might finally get me off. I certainly wouldn't want them deciding anyone's fate.

sunflowers for Russ

2011-08-24T12:25:00.000-07:00

I bought these flowers to bring to the cemetery on Saturday, but didn't make it before my guests arrived. So I put them on the patio table that I used to use for painting, and kept glancing at them all night long. They looked so determinedly cheerful. Come to the party, sweetie. We need you. I need you.

the widow throws down

2011-08-08T21:15:00.000-07:00

Granted, I did not plan the page out very carefully. Pretty poorly, in fact. It is as messy and overwrought as grief itself. Well, not quite as ugly as that, really, but it was cathartic. I was trying something new, and I have decided to like it anyway. The subject is damaged but defiant; she will be wounded, yes, but she will bear her wounds in her own fashion. If she has to defy the laws of physics and man, then by god she will.

But she will do it in a tasteful mini widow's weave, because the laws of style are a different issue entirely, and not to be trifled with. There are rules, people.

I continue to have a lot of problems with pen v paint v glue v scissors v paper (yes, I am such a skilled artisan that all my materials are actually at war). In this battle there can be no winners, only collateral damage. Because apparently, THE WIDOW also DOES NOT LIKE TO READ INSTRUCTIONS!

Muddy colors and sticky fingers ensue.

unpredictable

2011-07-19T23:56:00.000-07:00

This is my life now. Absurd but unpredictable. Not absurd because unpredictable but unpredictable because absurd. If I have lost the meaning of my life, and the love of my life, I might still find small treasured things amid the spilled and pilfered trash.

~ Joyce Carol Oates, "A Widow's Story"

I went up to Big Bear Lake to go kayaking this weekend with a friend.

We arrived early enough in the day, checked into our disappointingly adequate room and headed out the door. She turned toward the lake. I turned toward the village.

"Don't you want to check out the marina?" she asked.

"Let's have a drink first," I replied.

It is a phrase I hear myself saying rather often of late. It should make me feel badly, I suppose, seeking this most pedestrian of refuges. Frankly, it does not. I should probably be calling an agent and seeking treatment with the good Dr. Drew or, even more onerously, the bad Dr. Phil, but I do not. I have my dignity. And I am cheerful when imbibing, in ways I am not when entirely clearheaded. My mind goes blurry around the edges and for a little while I can almost remember who I used to be.

My friend eyed me dubiously. "Well, okay. One drink." We struck off in search of a quaint little pub. What we found was an adorable little biker bar whose clientele proved to be a welcoming blend of friendly locals and even friendlier tourists. She ordered a cocktail. I sprang for a beer. We were served by a barmaid called Charlie, who wore her cherry-red hair, hot pants topped by a belt of shining silver and 60 some-odd years like a sparkling tiara. I became very cheerful indeed.

At some point the next morning, we went kayaking.

I floated dreamily on a bed of lily pads as electric blue dragonflies hovered and silver-lit fish of indeterminate species leapt above the water. A tour boat modeled to look like a pirate ship listed by, a papier-mache deckhand swinging in the rigging. I dipped my hands in the water and rolled gently in the pirate ship's wake.

This is my life now. Absurd but unpredictable. If I have lost everything, I may yet find small treasured things. Or small things to treasure. Somehow, it will have to be enough.

unshared melody

2011-05-10T01:52:00.000-07:00

down at the grill

2011-04-03T15:22:00.000-07:00

We'd ordered our drinks, a vodka and tonic for him, a white wine for me.

"Now, I'll let you draw my picture," he said, leaning back in the booth with a playful smile.

This is the reason we came to the Macaroni Grill. For the fresh bread, coated in rosemary and oil, and because he loved their mushroom ravioli. And because they encourage you to draw on the butcher paper tablecloths. I always drew him. It was part of the ritual.

"I never get your nose right," I said.

"You always make it too big," he said, eyes twinkling, as I hacked away with red and green crayons, the only two colors I ever seem to get. "Why is it always too big?"

I think I held up my wine and took a deep drink. "This could have something to do with it!" We both smiled. The drinks made me a better a artist and he a more entertaining subject, we always thought, or at least until the light of day.

I can still him sitting across from me, fed, relaxed and happy, basking in the glow of his wife's undivided attention. Did it happen often enough, I wonder, that I so flattered him? When I go back in my mind, I try to make it so. In my mind's eye, I am always telling him how much I love him.

Rising from the table, he asks the waiter, as he always did, "Well, does it look like me?"

I know he asks this for my benefit, not his. He wants to hear me complimented. The waiter obliges, as always, indicating that it is indeed a very handsome likeness of a very handsome man, or words to that effect. We tip well.

It is not, in fact, a particularly good likeness - I did not get his nose right, yet again, and he looks much older than he ever did - but I tore the picture from the table and took it home anyway, thinking I might be able to work it up to something better. A week later to the day he was gone.

I've been using the picture as a totem ever since. I displayed it at the memorial service, explaining to all who inquired; We were going there that night! I was going to draw him again...only better this time.

It has become the talisman with which I try to make time stand still. I mess with it and play with it and torture it beyond recognition. I stop today only because the paper can take no more, and is puckering and tearing in protest. How I've managed to age him! His eyes have gone funny and his mouth is all wrong. I'm sorry, honey.

So I will put it under glass, because that is what the widow does with the myriad minuscule moments in time, moments tiny and tender that will be no more. That we can't stop yearning for or let go of, no matter how tortured they become.

in brief

2011-02-05T18:32:00.000-08:00

It's been awhile since I've written. There are many reasons, the primary being that, at least since August, I have been paralyzed by a grief I feel barely able to survive, let alone write about. I have no desire to describe it here, nor could I. It is feral, personal and inarticulate. Sometimes the ache is so great I believe I could die of it. I will it. Some days are better or worse than others. I will either learn to live with it, or not. I state the facts here now not to elicit words of pity nor even encouragement; I've no use for the former and will only take the latter as a denial of reality as I've described it, and be resentful. It is what it is. I write only so that I might be able to use this space again without the sense that I am hiding a central fact of my life.

That life ended on a beautiful summer's day six months ago, the day my husband died. He had a massive coronary while mowing the lawn. We had had plans to go out to dinner; earlier that afternoon I'd entered the den where he was watching golf. Looking up, he'd grinned broadly & exclaimed, "Hi, Gorgeous!" I laughed. Later, when I finally went out front to look for him, slightly impatient because he hadn't yet come in to shower and change I found him, slumped against a side gate in a corner of the yard, the lawnmower standing silently nearby. The police, paramedics and fire engines came and he was taken to the hospital, but I knew in my heart that he was gone when I found him.

He was my love, my light and my life. Whatever joy there was in this world ended for me on that sunny afternoon by the garden gate on an emerald green lawn, shielded behind a white oleander whose draping boughs I loathed to be trimmed. His loss has been devastating.

My husband was a wonderful man, a true gentleman; funny and playful; honest, strong, smart and kind. As one speaker at his funeral put it, a 'real class act'. Everyone liked him. He was legendary for the stories he could tell about growing up in Chicago; stories about working the freight docks and railroad yards; the exploits of he and his buddies: Otho, Danny, Jake the Bake, Marco the Greek God Giannopolis; 'the one-eyed guy from the Three-Eye league' and all the boys of Red's Bar.

He served in the army and once had a tryout for a pro ball team. He was good too; he would have made it, but responsibilities back home beckoned and he chose to cut out early, losing his shot at the big leagues. That's just the kind of guy he was. He saw Ella and Duke at the Blue Note, Elvis in Vegas. He had an adventurous spirit, great intellectual curiosity and in his youth traveled solo to distant places. I fell in love with his stories and the man who could tell them with an easy, self-effacing charm. I was honored and grateful that such a man could love me so. I still am. I adored him. I still do.

My husband and I were selfish as a couple, in the sense that we never needed a lot of other people in our lives. We had no children, no relatives living close by and although we thoroughly enjoyed a small, amiable group of friends with whom we played, dined and planned parties, our lives revolved almost solely around each other. We lived in one another's pockets, I don’t think either one of us realized to what extent. We were enough for each other.

He loved baseball, golf, reading, crossword puzzles and me. Mostly, he loved me. He was my best friend, protector and number one fan. Alone, we were ridiculously corny, sentimental and happy. We made each other laugh. He brought me coffee in bed every morning and sang a song he'd made up to the tune of 'My Darling Clementine'. He loved it when I drew his picture; the painting above of him reading the paper in the blue and white tiled kitchen he designed was his favorite. I loved his gentleness, his strength and his passion; the way his face lit up when I walked into the room. We rarely ran out of conversation; our silences were filled with the whispered dialogue of contentment. Our union was a joy and a gift and a refuge for 27 years. But now one is gone, and the other is left with little to live for. Except remember, and mourn.

you only hurt the ones you love

2010-05-04T15:37:00.000-07:00

One of my mother's favorite things to do whenever we were together was to go 'antiquing'. In Mom's case it was less about the antiques themselves than it was searching for the lost items of her memories ~ tiny porcelain dolls; delicate embroidery and tablecloths, dusty wooden washboards; irons made of, well, iron.

Often the items that caught her fancy were kitchen tools; often they were tools that her own mother might have used. And almost always she'd want to buy me something. Always, I declined. I am not entirely certain why.

Part of me wanted her to save her money, although for what, now, I cannot say. Thriftiness was a habit she had so deeply instilled in me that I couldn't let it go, even when it ceased to have purpose for her.

Part of me didn't want her to think that I took her shopping just to get gifts, something she would have been justified in suspecting given her experience of my youthful self. I am sorry to say that a more spoiled, selfish and acquisitive young woman would have been difficult to find. In fact, had cultural mores been then what they are today, I probably would have warranted my own reality show.

Long ago, Mom and I were out shopping when she found a large, cast-iron pot in a local shop. "Oh, it's a STEAL at $30!" exclaimed the proprietress, going in for the hard sell rather quickly, I thought. "It's an excellent deal!"

Well, maybe it was, maybe it wasn't. I only know that moments before, I had been examining some Spode "collectible" plates which the woman had priced at $29 that I had, just days before, spotted at TJ Maxx for $7.99. This sort of thing irritates me; I understand that there's a sucker born every minute, but it angers me when people blatantly attempt to take advantage of this sad fact. And it infuriates me when they seem to be insinuating that, by my very presence in such an establishment, I might just be one them.

So when my dear little mother said, "I want to buy it for you!" I could barely conceal my disdain.

"No Ma, I don't WANT it," I said, with little grace. Absolutely no grace, in truth. "Do not buy it," I sniffed coldly, as if I were doing her a favor by depriving her of the pleasure of giving something she valued to her graceless, boorish daughter. I can still see the disappointed sadness in her eyes. It breaks my heart to remember it. I do not know how people forgive themselves for the myriad small cruelties we inflict upon those who deserve it least. I can't. We can only learn from our mistakes, I tell myself, that we may go forth and injure no more. This may be true. But it remains that there are countless such moments I would give my life to take back. If only I could.

Of course, I cannot go antiquing without thinking of my mother and fortunately, the overwhelming majority of my memories of our outings together are happy ones. But it was this moment that came immediately to mind when I spotted a large enameled cast iron pot in one tidy little stall.

"A dutch oven!" I exclaimed excitedly to my shopping companion, Robbie. "Do you know how much these things are worth? This is an excellent buy! It's practically a STEAL!"

"You should buy it," she said, nodding agreeably. "You never buy anything."

It's true. And I did. In my mind, I finally let Mom buy it for me. Her birthday was April 30th, and she would have been 97 years old. This weekend I made a 6.5 pound garlic and fennel pork in my new vintage Dru Holland dutch oven, slow-roasted over a period of 10 hours, during which the house filled with the aromas of cooking and the sweet melancholy of memory. The results were delectable. Mom would have been happy, I think.

Miss you still.

it's my party and I'll cry if I want to

2010-04-19T18:00:00.000-07:00

I consider myself a cheerful person, in a restrained, melancholic sort of way. I am happy, with reservations. Life is hard and then you die, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't enjoy yourself while you're here. Really, it's the best you can do.

Unfettered joy, on the other hand, is an unsustainable and entirely irrational state of being for adult humans, suitable only for Sufi mystics and Labrador retrievers. I'm not even sure it's wise. Sadness is a condition of life, not a side effect that can and should be avoided at all costs with the proper combination of drugs, exercise and frequent applications of anti-fungal cream. To love is to lose. To live is to mourn. I think, therefore I'm mildly bummed.

In an interview I cannot now find but which I heard recently on NPR and am pretty sure I did not make up, a noted professional of some sort discussed at great length the benefits of sadness, which included improved attention to detail, complete focus on working through grief or difficulty; heightened awareness and acceptance of others and an increased tendency toward self-reflection resulting, in some cases, in greater creative self-expression. Without misery, there would be less art. No blues, no 'blue period'. No blues, no Blues. Period.

And yet pop culture is awash lately with perky enablers on this wanton quest for unrelenting gladness. In A Lot of Happy Talk, Times columnist Meghan Daum considers the hordes of people who are so clearly anxious to tell the rest of us how to be happy. Because they are. No really, they are! Dammit.

"I don't mean fleeting moments of happiness, the kind that can waft by as you dance at your wedding or watch your child lead his soccer team to victory. I'm talking about people who are always announcing how happy they are: The friend who meets you for lunch once a year and spends the whole time evangelizing about her constant self-actualized joy. The person on Facebook who reports on the bliss rendered by his most recent meal of wood-fired flatbread and organic litchis. These people are exactly what Gertrude meant when she said to Hamlet: "The lady doth protest too much, methinks."

Amen, sister.

Daum cites "The Nine Rooms of Happiness" by Danziger and Birndorf and "The Happiness Project" by Gretchen Rubin as prime examples of this stridently cheerful crowd. According to Rubin, making your bed every morning is key, although as Daum points out, as the wife of a hedge-fund manager living in a 3 story Manhattan townhouse, it's a little hard to imagine the author having to make her own bed in the morning in an effort to try and positively motivate her day. But I'm sure her maid is ecstatic.

I've no studies to prove it and have yet to write a book on the subject (although lack of evidence need not hinder any quest for self-help tome authorship) but it has been my experience that, barring neurological or chemical imbalances creating chronic and treatable dissonance, most people are about as happy as they choose to be.

Naturally, there are those who take a good thing too far.

For these people, there is Despondex.

sunday, painting Dad

2010-02-08T15:07:00.000-08:00

I've been meaning to do a painting of my Dad ever since I finished the one of Mom several months ago. As a couple they were inseparable, and I just know that somewhere out there in the vastness of an uncomprehending universe they are sitting around, drinking coffee, enjoying a nice piece of Entenmann's crumb cake or maybe a honey bun or two and wondering why their daughter hasn't yet made them a matched set. The truth is, I wasn't sure if I could catch a likeness. My father was a handsome, funny, charming man, and a Sunday painter like me. His portrait has to be just-so. So I keep putting it off.

But the rains and my own lack of ambition have kept me from painting outdoors for the last couple of weekends, outdoors being the only place I can deal with the smell and mess of the oils, and yesterday was still a little too cool. So I dragged the watercolors down from the guestroom closet and tried a tiny (4x4") sketch at the dining room table, based on a photo I took on a long-ago trip back home. The plan is to make a 12 X12" canvas to compliment Mom's in style and intent. I'm pretty awful with watercolor, always using too much water and mushing up the color, but I'm actually pretty pleased with this first attempt.

It's not perfect, and I need to adapt on the canvas in order to show his casually crossed arms and the WWII era tattoo that was such a part of who he was. But it looks like him. It feels like him. I may be able to come up with a matched set after all.

Oh, and the New Orleans Saints came marching in too ~ Laissez les bon temps roulez! Hip hip hooray!

A very happy Sunday overall.

optimism

2010-02-05T13:15:00.000-08:00

According to all the experts and Jillian Michaels, an individual must take at least 10,000 steps a day in order to maintain a healthy body weight, a statistic I find breathtaking in its optimism. I know this to be a rather difficult thing to do. In fact, I have long suspected the cardio machines at my own gym of flat-out lying to me about the number of miles and calories I was logging per session; of padding the numbers in a blatant attempt to bolster my faltering ego, to assure me that yes, I was still cute and no, pink sweat pants with Juicy emblazoned across the bottom (in a suspiciously large font) do not make my butt look bigger. Only, you know, perkier. And possibly age-inappropriate. But good for me!

To my everlasting credit and intrinsic paranoia, I did not take these disingenuous exercise machines at their word. In a move not unlike that of hiring a private detective to check up on a dubious lover, about a week or so ago I went out and bought myself a pedometer. Because I simply had to know the truth.

So far, other than the discovery that sitting at a computer while wearing a pedometer and expecting the numbers to increase is the height of magical thinking, the results are inconclusive. But it hardly matters. I needn't have bothered. Because who needs to walk when you can just get one of these?

Enjoy. I laughed so hard my pedometer fell off. And I logged 673 more steps.

oo la la LA Art Show

2010-01-24T14:35:00.000-08:00

*Editor's note : editor speaks only Pidgin French and takes no responsibility for poorly spelled words, misuse of grammar or improperly applied art historical concepts. Please direct all complaints to: Monsieur J. O'Donnell, 7th grade French, Spring Field Jr High School.**

**Name changed to protect editor's Alma Mater

inspiration

2010-01-18T16:39:00.000-08:00

It has finally come to pass. My second life avatar is more creative than I am.

In his review of the recently published "You Are Not a Gadget: A Manifesto" by Jaron Lanier for the LA Times, Ben Ehrenreich writes:

Despite the binary nature of his own neural wiring, each synapse an on/off switch, passing electrochemical messages from axon to dendrite, Jaron Lanier will be the first to tell you that the mind is not a digital device. We are analog creatures, staticky and mysterious, resistant to the normalizing containment of code. Lanier's mind has few apparent boundaries. It grapples with zombies and "gray goo," "inner trolls" and the "lords of the computing clouds," with "cephalopod envy" and "songles" -- with "the mystery of Bengalese finch musicality" and the bucket containing all red things.

This is heady stuff. I have never heard of Mr. Lanier before, but am awed by the apparently limitless scope of his mind. An enthusiastic fan of the virtual reality experience, I understand little to none of the technology which enables it, believing myself to be disappearing into it's fantastical realms by virtue of my childlike sense of wonderment, a smattering of pixel dust and an added gig of memory.

But I am intrigued by his stated original intention to create "something that would take the extreme possibilities of internal experience and bring them into a realm where they're shared with people instead of being sources of isolation." This, as Ehrenreich states, is essentially the definition of art, going on to describe Lanier's "fundamentally humanist faith in technology, a belief that wisely designed machines can bring us closer together by expanding the possibilities of creative self-expression."

The early days were filled with promise as "Individuals created free-form home pages, posting poems, theories, rants, pictures of their cats and, importantly, links to the pages of like-minded kooks. Lonely eccentricities quickly spawned communities. People behaved not as passive consumers but as active creators of their own culture."

Sound familiar? I miss those giddy, unselfconsciously idiosyncratic pages ~ everyone a poet, an artist, a writer, a pundit, a star. I've often wondered whatever happened to them.

According to Lanier, commercialization led to the devolvement of such free-wheeling creativity into what he describes as 'cybernetic totalism.'

"The hive mind is for the most part stupid and boring," asserts Lanier. "Why pay attention to it?" Why, indeed. Social networking sites like Facebook "confine creativity to preestablished fields, reducing our oceanic complexities to 'multiple-choice identities' that can be sold to marketing databases."

I am sorely tempted to buy this book, but as fascinating as all this is I confess I only understood about half of what was discussed in the review; I am certain I could not wrap my brain around anything as weighty as a manifesto. Still, I am motivated again to use the tools at my disposal in a freer, more imaginative, individualistic manner. Can't let my avatar have all the fun.

And to all a Cheery Night!

2009-12-24T23:52:00.001-08:00

Send your own ElfYourself eCards

everybody was ho-ho fighting

2009-11-17T14:44:00.000-08:00

I loved it from the first time I saw it: catchy, flashy, fresh and joyous. A bunch of pretty kids energetically tossing themselves around a stylized white log cabin cheering in rhythmic upbeat:

2, 4, 6, 8..T'is the time to liberate!
Go Christmas, go Hanukkah, go Kwanzaa, go Solstice!
Go classic tree, go plastic tree, go plant a tree, go without a tree!

It just made me smile. How clever! How delightful! How inclusive! How...

Oh. Of course. How offensive.

The Mississippi-based American Family Association has launched a call for a "two- month boycott (of Gap Inc.) over the company's failure to use the word 'Christmas' in its advertising to Christmas shoppers." On it's website, the AFA asserts that:

The Gap is censoring the word Christmas, pure and simple. Yet the company wants all the people who celebrate Christmas to do their shopping at its stores? Until Gap proves it recognizes Christmas by using it in their newspaper, radio, television advertising or in-store signage, the boycott will be promoted.

And yet there it is, right up front. Go Christmas! Right before Hanukkha, Kwanzaa and Solstice. Which is, one must assume, the real problem for the AFA; Christmas doesn't get sole billing but must share equally with it's brethren (and sistren) holidays.

Almost like, you know, in the spirit of Christmas.

In fact, Gap INC., with this year's Go Ho Ho advertising campaign, has taken the past complaints of the AFA and similar fundamentalist groups (as fueled by the opportunistic flames of all of Fox TV's rabblerousers ad nauseam) protesting an imagined War on Christmas and turned it on it's head.

Yes, sing the happy Gap cherubs, t'is Christmas. T'is also Hanukkha, Kwanzaa and Solstice. And who knows what else? (Festivus comes to mind. Surely someone is out there celebrating Festivus.)

The point is, AFA, that you do not get to determine the message of my holiday. I won't tell you how to phrase your celebratory sentiments, and you won't dictate mine. Or anyone else's. The fact remains that until you achieve the theocracy that you so ardently desire, it's still a free country.

And if I have to go buy an overpriced, inappropriately youthful sweater and/or matching scarf to prove it, well, rock on.

You 86 the rules
You do what just feels right
Happy do Whatever You Wannukkah
and to all
a cheery night!

bird flu, or much a-twitter about nothing

2009-10-25T14:14:00.000-07:00

I've been down for the count for the last few days with some sort of bug. I don't think it's the Minnesotan Swine Flu or the Chinese Chicken Flu or anything with a ready-made vaccination and health care debate talking points attached, but it is almost certainly an animal-transported virus of foreign origin. Maybe a Peruvian Nutria Infection or the Brazilian Wax Flu, or something equally debilitating.

Or it could just be a cold. In any case, I will no doubt be dead by sundown.

In the meantime, I've been filling my TheraFlu and NyQuil-fueled haze with all manner of facsinating endeavor. I read six back issues of the La Times Travel sections and planned an imaginary trip to Germany for next month. I emptied my spam folder of 167 emails entreating 'Gloria' to get back in touch with 'Brian', 'William' and 'Mrs Charles Lowenhart'. I played with my Blogger template and lost my favorite 'Simpsonized' profile pic. I spent a half a day attending a virtual pagan ceremony with some passing rogues and bards, tracked a couple of vampires to their lair (only to run in panicked fear when the fight turned ugly) and joined a motley crew of Rangers attempting to guard it's borders against...well, I'm not sure what, exactly, to be honest. But our weapons are totally cool! And I finally signed up for Twitter.

I have absolutely nothing to say on Twitter, just as I have nothing to say on FaceBook, Wordpress or here, for that matter. And I know very few people who subscribe, or admit to subscribing to the site. But when I heard that Paris Hilton and Demi Moore were bitchslapping each other over the relative sluttiness of Moore's 15 year-old daughter's attire, I knew I had to be in on that conversation. Which is frankly hilarious.

I signed up, tossed out a single tweet (I forgot to include the obigatory exclamation point!) and started following anyone who showed up on the first list that appeared. I chose on the basis of those whom I thought would amuse, intentionally or otherwise ~ Wil Wheaton, Stephen Fry, Eddie Izzard among the former; Demi Moore, of course, who is 'Feeling a deep need to clean my closets out!' among the latter. Heidi Montag, whose bio reads 'I love Jesus!' next to a picture of herself onstage in some sort of gold see-through underwear is 'Getting ready for church!' Kirstie Alley cannot shut up about, well, anything: Airports: Hello Denver.. Only passing through.. Prettiest airport ive ever seen. Boyfriends: Jonny Boy didnt dump me... That made me happy... Lol Haters: Wow.. The idiots are out in full force today.... Will have to name them so that u can bop them twittet style..

It is endless, pointless and just the thing to penetrate a fever-induced haze. I may never leave the house again. Oh, I know I'll get bored with it soon ~ okay, I'm already a little bored with it: Heidi Montag cant wait to talk to you all on#SayNow at 310-220-0244 later today! (Pimping? On Twitter? How dare you!!??) ~ but in the meantime I have learned two things.

One) That Paris Hilton, beautiful, vacuous, inexcusable bimbo that she is, is living a truly, miraculously, fabulous life: Oct 23 :The U2 Concert was incredible!!! Bono rocks! Such a talent, inspiration and total Rock Star! Love him! Oct 24: We just had lunch with Pete Rose, the baseball legend. He's such a nice guy and such a character. Later Oct 24: Had such an amazing day today! Back at The Hard Rock Hotel, going to take a lil disco nap before the night starts :) To her credit, she seems to be enjoying this incredible life, even if not entirely understanding it.

Two) I do not need to feel bad about never having anything to say. As Mark Twain so aptly put it, "It is better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool than to open it and remove all doubt."

Now there's a guy who would have given good Tweet.

d'oh!

2009-10-22T16:06:00.000-07:00

I lost my Simpson-me profile toon. I cannot for the life of me remember what I named it and Vista, contrarian evil that it is, will simply not help me find it. Which is why I never play at changing things in here. Change is bad. Me no likey change.

D'oh, oh d'oh is me.

Universal Health Care: SVU

2009-09-22T16:08:00.001-07:00

Protect Insurance Companies PSA from Will Ferrell

last of the summer tomatoes

2009-09-11T15:50:00.000-07:00

There's a group of Daily Painters whose widget appears somewhere on this page and whose work ethic I much admire. It's astounding to me how quickly and effectively they can produce such lively small scale paintings in such a short amount of time.

Me, I tend to plod, over-think and obsess with even the simplest subjects, resulting in canvases of overwrought mushiness and confusion. Much of this is no doubt due to a lack of training on my part, since I have no idea what I'm doing and am making it up as I go along. But quite a bit is probably due to essential personality flaws as well, as I tend to plod and over-think and obsess about everything, resulting in a brain and life of overwrought mushiness and confusion. Maybe because I'm still making that up as I go along, too. Funny, you'd think I'd have it down by now.

So when my husband came home and plopped some tomatoes down in the basket on the counter, I popped some blue hydrangeas in a vase and thought, hmn, I bet I could do this in a few hours(!) and quickly set out to try, you know, to loosen up my brain a little. When, to the surprise of no one I didn't finish that day, the canvas sat for a week, the tomatoes were eaten and the hydrangeas started turning green.

Hmn, I thought, I like that much better! More color, better contrast. Turk was promptly dispensed to the farmers' market for more fruit and I added some green to the blue.

Later that afternoon, as I noted that the flowers had started turning brown around the edges and imagined the tomatoes in a nice insalata calabrese for dinner that night, I threw a little sienna into the petals and finally called it a day. Before my bright little Still Life with Tomatoes turned into a picture of an empty basket and a couple of dry sticks in fetid water: Stilled Life: Study of a Too Literal Mind.

And I wonder why no one wants to sit for my portraits.

summer reading

2009-09-03T13:54:00.000-07:00

To all the slack-jawed yokels and Yosemite Sam wannabes proudly strangling free-speech and the democratic process in town hall meetings across the land, as well as to their media handlers and other mad prophets of the coming Apocalypse I would like to recommend picking up a copy of T.R. Reid's new book, The Healing of America.

I would further recommend that, rather than using said book as you normally would, say as a beer coaster or something to burn at the next Birther bash, that you actually look at the pages in a genuine attempt to discern their meaning. And if that's proves to be too difficult, perhaps a kindly visiting child could interpret them for you. That's why we make you send them to public schools. So they can help you to help yourselves.

In the meantime and for the rest of us, Reid has laid out the Five Myths About Health Care Around the World in a sensible, comprehensive and thoughtful fashion. I first heard Reid speaking this morning on NPR and was so impressed with his broad knowledge and reasoned compassion that I immediately went online in search of the book. I'd like to send one to each of my Congressmen and women as well ~ can a constituent give their legislators required reading lists? I very much doubt it. But I'm sure as hell gonna try.

Health Care: We all get it. We all pay. What could be fairer than that? Or more democratic? It's the American way. Dammit.

why I love Barney Frank

2009-08-20T11:49:00.000-07:00

Finally. A congressman with the cajones to speak Truth to Idiots. And obnoxious dining room furniture. Because the Nazis ~ well, they were all about the health care.

Those who cannot read history books are doomed to make complete asses of themselves in public forums.

who will give me Xanax when you're gone? a thoughtful debate in free rant form

2009-08-18T01:23:00.000-07:00

One of the advantages of having a blog that nobody reads is having a blog that nobody has to write. This has been a pleasantly liberating experience for me, and I have appreciated the time spent cleaning, cooking, and writing cranky letters to my reps, many of which begin with the phrase, "Dear Lame Duck Governor Schwarzenegger; I am writing to urge you to follow the courageous example of fellow LD Gov Sarah Palin and quit while you are still a viable entertainer..."

Another benefit of having a de facto private page is being able to write whatever you please without concern for diplomacy. Therefore, if you are offended by poorly written postings of a political nature that fly in the face of your considered beliefs in UFO's, the integrity of Dick Cheney or the wisdom of Elizabeth Hasselbeck, be forewarned: this is not the place for you. You will not like what you read. And if you are a member of the anti-Obama Birther movement, you will not understand it.

At long last we elected a president ready, willing and able to take on the enormous task of reforming the massively dysfunctional health care system in this country, only to see what is a truly heroic effort of monumental proportions being once again derailed by the health care industry itself. In a manufactured 'grassroots lobby', funded by the insurance industry and Big Pharma and whipped into a frenzy by a conscious-less right-wing media, pitchfork wielding citizens are showing up at town hall meetings screaming spontaneously memorized Republican talking points about roving death panels prowling the country eager to toss Granny down the shoot and faceless, uncaring federal bureaucrats replacing the compassionate and caring corporate bureaucrats currently coddling you, your family and that $200 bottle of Viagra.

Holding up copies of their own birth certificates, carefully preserved in Ziploc baggies these informed consumers of the best of American punditry demand to know why no one has looked into the fact that Barack Hussein Obama was almost certainly born on a UFO somewhere off the Beta Quadrant, the product of a human woman and an alien race of beings committed to bringing health care and gun control to a struggling populace.

As Peter Sagal of NPR's Wait Wait Don't Tell Me put it ~ the government wants to give the American people health care. And they don't want anyone to give them health care. Motto: Give us Liberty And give us Death!

I am sick and tired of the will of the majority of the American people as expressed by the electoral process being subverted by corporate behemoths and their Republican operatives in the legislature and media. I am sick and tired of bullies taking over the democratic process. I am sick and tired of self-righteous, misinformed, hotheaded zealots shouting down any voice raised against them. Just because you're loud doesn't mean you're right ~ my god, didn't your mother teach you anything? Don't make me come back there and euthanize you.

I am sick and tired of a propaganda machine so efficient in it's systematic demonization of intellectualism, education and indeed of any knowledge based on actual proof of fact that there are people out there who honestly believe that the government of the United States of America is coming to euthanize its citizenry.

Seriously, people. Get a grip. The administration is trying...to bring you...health care. Don't let the bullies scare you. We can do it. We voted for this. Change. It's a good thing.

And I am sick and tired of being sick and tired. Of people.

Where's a roving death panel when you need one?

a long and winding road

2009-08-02T23:15:00.000-07:00

I actually, finally finished a painting today.

I'd been working on this particular canvas on and off for, quite literally, years now. I've posted pieces of it over the centuries, I think. But it just never seemed to be finished; there was always some element, some signifier that would be missing and would not let me put it to rest, as I probably should have long ago. Until today, when I picked it up, added that which I suddenly knew it needed and voila! C'est complet. I regret that I cannot get a decent picture of it no matter how hard I try, mostly because it was, at one point in it's travels, poorly and unevenly varnished by its creator in a hurried fashion before it was ready, causing it to pick up light and reflection in unappealing ways. And then again, perhaps it won't photograph prettily because it is, in fact, unlovely, an idea which does not displease me overmuch. It always was an unruly child ~ errant, frustrating, even, dare I say it? ~ ill-conceived. But what the hell. It's mine.

I call the picture "Journey," and in the course of those long and winding years it has been on one of it's own. It has undergone considerable revision, both in content and intent, it's direction and execution meandering far and wide, gathering paint, dust and ephemera along its way. Until it emerged to become the thing that it is; dark, dense, and not at all what it imagined it would be when first conceived. Like life, and most of our journeys. Or so I imagine. This one's mine, for what it's worth. Because I made it so. And no one chooses my path but me.

smile

2009-07-07T14:16:00.000-07:00

I love those ad spots for Hulu, the ones starring Alec Baldwin and Dennis Leary claiming to be aliens providing us with mindless entertainment so they can suck our mushy brains dry. "Because we're aliens, and that's how we roll." This never fails to crack me up. My mushy brain responds to humor, and the truth of the jest.

The very cool image above is of a postcard collage created by my very talented pal Robbie, and which she sent me for my birthday. Very clearly on the surface is the message, "Honor Time," while invisibly, beneath several layers, are buried the words, "Life is Messy."

I've been thinking a lot about time lately; about how I've spent it, how much of it is lost, how much I might have left. That it was once my friend, and now very clearly is no longer. And I am forced to acknowledge that I have not always honored time, thinking, as one does, it to be in endless supply. I know, of course, that it is not. It is precious, finite in unpredictable ways and I have not been giving it it's due, spending far too much of it, in the words of my favorite aliens, in my bliggity blogs and facey spaces, cyber worlds and tweety places. I revel in a lot of pointless nonsense.

That life is messy is true as well, although I cannot in truth say mine has been. As lives go, mine has been a lucky one ~ full of love and affection, comfort and ease, often in spite of my best efforts to the contrary. This fact surprises me still, and I am grateful for it. But life is sorrow as well, and the passage of time highlights this inevitability.

I was looking for something in some old journals the other day and came across an unattributed quote (for I am not scrupulous in private diaries) "Accept sadness as a condition of life, not a transitory effect to be obliterated in a fourth act blizzard of good feelings, but something that can only be kept at bay..."

I've no idea where the passage came from, but I have always known the sentiment to be true. The older I get, the more I feel the wisdom of it. Perhaps that's what all the mindless, noisy, candy-coated entertainment is about ~ keeping the sadness at bay. This too has it's place.

I've just been listening to Brooke Shields speaking at the memorial for Michael Jackson, whose early death is a testament to the importance of honoring time if ever there was one. In memorializing her friend Brooke introduced the song Smile, written in 1936 by Charlie Chaplin with lyrics added later by John Turner and Geoffrey Parsons. I've always loved the song ~ it is happiness steeped in melancholy, given depth when sung with the wisdom of one who knows.

Smile though your heart is aching
Smile even though it’s breaking
When there are clouds in the sky, you’ll get by
If you smile through your fear and sorrow
Smile and maybe tomorrow
You’ll see the sun come shining through for you

Light up your face with gladness
Hide every trace of sadness
Although a tear may be ever so near
That’s the time you must keep on trying

Smile, what's the use of crying?
You'll find that life is still worthwhile
If you just smile

That's the time you must keep on trying
Smile, what's the use of crying?
You'll find that life is still worthwhile
If you just smile

silly birthday stuff

2009-06-25T16:00:00.000-07:00

Every year on my birthday my mother would call and read my horoscope to me from the daily paper. Even when she got quite elderly and could no longer manage it on her own, my brother would dial the phone and put her on. I can still hear her sweet, clear little voice, with its faint traces of New York and ever-so-slight hint of a lisp, carefully imparting my fate for the coming year. I thought it was loving, cute and funny. I will never stop missing it.

I know I haven't been nurturing my happy little corner of Bughouse Square here lately ~ the Real World has been demanding more of my time than I generally like to give it, and the myriad domestic emergencies and annoyances have not been of the even mildly interesting kind (although I did get my first speeding ticket in 23 years - good for me!) So I thought I'd throw together a cheerful, quickie collage made up of silly birthday stuff made entirely online. You know, just something to say hi to my friends and possibly kick start my lagging creative energies. For the background I photographed the darling blouse my husband had given me as a gift ~ a frothy, filmy, girly thing, so pretty and youthful I nearly wept with delight, both at the gift and what it said about his illusions about me. I didn't even mind that it was a size too small and had to be exchanged. I combined it with textures taken from collage materials a friend had given me (thanks Robbie!) and a mountain of miscellaneous doodling, noodling, cutting and pasting in Photoshop, most of which got appropriately, but painfully, tossed.

I will not embarass myself by telling you how long it took me to come up with this bit of fluff. Suffice it to say that I could have baked the cake, drunk the martinis, sewn the blouse and woven the matted background. Then probably gone off and painted a massive oil. But I do like it. It's a collage of sorts. I wish I'd done the real, tactile thing though ~ for the life of me I don't know why I thought this would be quicker. Or easier. At least at the last moment I did think to get 'Mom's' horoscope in, which makes me happy.

I suppose I will always think of my mother on my birthday, not because it is the day she gave birth to me; she did not. That was done by another woman, a stranger to me now, and on this night I look up into the black sky and wonder if she is still alive ~ if she ever remembers the day, and thinks of me. And it doesn't really matter and never has, because as soon as I see that first shining star, I know that little Ruthie does. And always will.

the cove

2009-05-23T16:12:00.000-07:00

My husband regarded me with a skeptical eye. "So in your view," he was saying, "the primary purpose of a day at the beach is to avoid the sun at any cost."

I nodded. "Yes, that is the goal. Actually, if it's at all possible I would like to emerge even whiter than before. Bleaching would be ideal." I waved my sunscreen lotion at him, laughing. "Look ~ SPF Clorox!"

We had donned our bathing suits for the second time this century and, armed with an orange striped umbrella, a wide brimmed straw hat and enough Banana Boat SPF 50 sunscreen to protect us from harmful UV rays even in the face of a nuclear explosion had headed for the pristine sands of Crystal Cove State Park.

"You're already whiter than an Irish albino," said my husband. He was sprawled recklessly beyond the comforting shade of the orange striped umbrella, cap pulled low upon his brow, eyes scanning the horizon for signs of dolphin or whale. Or maybe Spanish galleon. Like an old pirate.

"Yes, well, I've done enough damage to my skin over the years to horrify many a Clinique salesgirl as it is," I replied. I thought of all the years I spent slathering my body with baby oil and going up on the roof of my Long Island home, the better to be closer to the sun. I would fry up there for hours. I had sun poisoning more than once.

"You do understand that you are still going to age," he said, grinning.

"I know," I lied. "But you can't blame a girl for trying."

We had come to the Historic District of Crystal Cove to celebrate my husband's birthday, something we'd been wanting but unable to do for years; the cottages fill up within minutes of opening reservations, which book online 7 months in advance. After weeks of trying to snag a cancellation, we scored ~ first one, then two consecutive nights at Cottage #2, the Shell Shack. I am certain it is only due to Turk's most excellent karma. And he never doubted we would succeed for a minute.

Built in 1926, the cottage was a step back in time, a chance to experience the California beach style of a bygone, golden era. This was a community of artists and surfers, middle-class bohos and wealthy ne'er-do-wells. I've always felt I was born in the wrong time and place ~ as if, waiting in the wings to make my entrance on the universal stage I had stepped out for a cigarette and missed my cue to appear, stumbling out in some much later, less interesting Act 21. This is the scene I was meant to play in. This is the era in which I was meant to live.

Our front porch overlooked the cheerfully retro Beachcomber Restaurant, where they hoist and salute the martini flag every evening at 5:00, not so sharp, and ring the bell at the frequent dolphin sitings. The playful mammals cavort a mere 10 yards or so from shore. A waitress told us of a visiting seal pup as pelicans flew in formation over our heads. At night a chorus of frogs living in the nearby creek sang us to sleep.

And of course, there is nothing quite so wonderful, so soothingly powerful as the pounding of the surf outside your wide-open windows at night. It is, simply, bliss. From the oceans have we come and to the oceans we must return. I should live like this. We should all live like this. And if we're very, very lucky, thanks to the Crystal Cove Alliance, for a night or two we can.

Somewhere the martini flag is flying, and a very pale woman and her long-suffering, sun burnished pirate husband are making their way back up from the beach. Happy birthday, Turk. Cheers!

starry feets and lorakeets

2009-04-27T15:43:00.000-07:00

"The time has come," my friend had said
"to talk of many things.
Of men and love and bikini wax:
Why some are just for flings.
Why some are charming, and some are not
And whether fish have wings".

So off we went to the Beach that's Long
In the land of sun so fair
Where stars have feets and lorakeets
Fly straight into your hair
Where the seal pups play as the dragons sway
And sharks cruise deep within their lair.

When the sun went down, the thought profound;
"It's time to quench our thirst!"
So off we went to the Mai Tai Lounge
"We'll start with Mai Tais first.
Then a place with a view and a martini or two!"
And if I must say so as weekends go it really could have been worst.

happy shiny people singing songs

2009-04-20T23:51:00.000-07:00

There was a time when men were kind
When their voices were soft
And their words inviting
There was a time when love was blind
And the world was a song
And the song was exciting
There was a time
Then it all went wrong

For the life of me, I do not understand why people seem to be so genuinely amazed that a plain woman can sing beautifully. Susan Boyle seems a lovely person; charming, cheeky and cherub-faced, her willingness to face the likes of Simon Cowell and whatever dim duo of dyspepsia he has keeping him company this week strikes me as nothing short of courageous. Because you know that they were setting her up, in the best tradition of current reality programming, for public humiliation. And she wasn't having it.

I dreamed a dream in time gone by
When hope was high And life worth living
I dreamed that love would never die
I dreamed that God would be forgiving
Then I was young and unafraid
And dreams were made and used and wasted
There was no ransom to be paid
No song unsung, no wine untasted

So what was so shocking to the judges and the sniggering audience about her performance? A woman dares to be plain and still believe herself capable of beauty. Oh, dear.

But the tigers come at night
With their voices soft as thunder
As they tear your hope apart
And they turn your dream to shame

Of course, the people who write the songs that make grown men cry are not, as a rule, the fair of face or physically blessed by birth. But performance has increasingly become the sole province of pretty people, and never more so than now. It's all about marketing and always has been, they tell me, although they didn't seem quite so slickly savvy back in the days of Ella or Janis, back when the music was the message and the messenger an artist. But it's not called Britain's Next Top Model after all, it's called Britain's Got Talent. The delightful MS Boyle will get her hair done and her eyebrows waxed; a fleet of stylists will be summoned and before you can say guest appearance on Oprah she'll be happily on her way to fulfill her dream of singing for the queen.

And we can all wipe away our tears of incredulous joy that beauty really can come from within and go back to watching glossy, witless young things plumbing their meager depths to find the meaning in songs of haunted love and devastating loss, of shattered illusions and dreams made and used and wasted. I'll pass. Give me a homely artist with soul over a pretty one with a mirror any day.

I'll see you down at the karaoke bar. Drinks are on the pretty girls.

I had a dream my life would be
So different from this hell I'm living
So different now from what it seemed
Now life has killed the dream I dreamed.

I love tv ~ sad edition

2009-04-08T15:19:00.000-07:00

Oh, network executives, why dost thous torment me so?

Rumor has it that yet another one of my favorite shows, in this case NBC's quirky, clever and much under appreciated Life, is poised to get the ax after tonight's season finale. This makes me very, very sad. And frankly, I blame you.

I don't know what you're watching or doing or reading while you should be watching my...wait, you haven't turned off the TV to read, have you? What the...that is what commercials are for! I swear, I don't know what is wrong with you people.

Anyway, whatever you're up to, you're not watching this endearing little gem of a cop show, and that is truly a shame. For me.

Damian Lewis plays Charlie Crews, a cop back on the job after having been framed for a heinous crime, and possibly the only redhead I've ever had a crush on. Charlie did some seriously hard time before his release from prison, from which he emerged a changed man, richer in both spirit (the result of Buddhist study) and bank account (the result of millions in settlement money). The mystery of who framed Charlie and why forms the overarching back story to each week's crime du jour, but it is Lewis' performance as a man torn between a reawakened joie de vivre and an equally compelling lust for vengeance that is a pure pleasure to behold as, week by week, we see the struggle play with controlled ferocity in Charlie's dreamy blue eyes. Add Sarah Shahi as Charlie's hot but troubled partner Dani Reese, and Adam Arkin as Charlie's fallen ex-CEO of a roommate in performances nuanced, sympathetic and eminently believable, and you've got one pretty entertaining hour of television. Not to mention writing that contains one of my favorite conversational exchanges on TV in recent memory:

"You can't always get what you want," Charlie tells his captain, played with schlumpy earnestness by Donal Logue.

"What do you want?"

"I want a peaceful soul. I need a bigger gun."

My sentiments exactly. I feel ya, Charlie. That's Life.

sideways mom

2009-04-06T15:03:00.000-07:00

I spent the first couple of years of my life in foster care with a number of families, the last of whom left me alone in their house while they went on vacation to Florida. Over time I'd had enough of these 'moms' that in order to keep them straight I gave them different designations, with all the extreme literalism of childhood. The woman who finally adopted me and took me into her heart was Mommy-in-the-Kitchen, because that's where she always was; cooking, cleaning, caring.

Carol Bayer Sager has written a beautiful, heart wrenching piece entitled Anita's Girl for LA Magazine. In it she tells of the loving but complicated relationship she shared with her own mother until her recent death. With the wisdom of pain she describes how it altered, with the fluidity and changing circumstances of time, sometimes stressing and straining but never breaking the ties that bound them. At the very end:

I now see that my mother didn’t know how to leave me. On the day before she died, she seemed cheerful. She was hungry, and although I was always policing what she ate, I decided to let her eat whatever she wanted—like giving that party we’d never gotten around to having. Toward the very end, I was lying on her bed while she ate frozen yogurt, and out of the blue she asked, “Do you want to come with me?” I knew exactly what she meant, and I said, quietly, “No, Mom, I can’t. Not now.” “I know you have Bob and Christopher to care for,” she replied, then waited a few beats and said, more to herself than to me, “But how will we ever separate?”

It broke my heart to read that last line, for I could easily have written it, so close was it to the moments that I shared with my mother at the end of her life. She passed in October of 2006, and I know that I still haven't managed to fully separate myself from her. I probably never will. When Carol writes to her mother, "You occupied so much space inside of me. To me, you were always bigger than life. I still hear your voice—I know what you would say to me and how you would say it. You are still here..." she writes for me. And I am grateful.

I started Mom's portrait immediately upon returning from her funeral. I was distraught; determined to keep her with me, I painted her as I so often saw her ~ shifting her shoulders to look up from her chair, eyes alight with pleasure at the sight of me. I know in my heart that no one will ever be that happy to see me again. The colors were to be bright and cheerful, devoid of shadow, for I needed to make her happy and safe and somehow not alone. When my brother saw the picture he called it 'Sideways Mom', and that feels appropriate to me ~ a little fey, a little mischievous, a little off. Just like Mom and I. If I had to do it over again I probably would have made different choices, but this particular picture will have to stand as it is.

When I first proposed doing a portrait to Mom the last time that she was home with me, we decided together that it would hang over a bookcase in the living room, but I may have changed my mind. I've gotten so used to having her greet me from her perch on the easel as I come into the kitchen for coffee each morning that I may have to find a place for her there instead. She can be Mommy-in-the-Kitchen again. I don't think she'll mind at all.

there but for fortune go I

2009-04-03T13:16:00.000-07:00

Cynthia posted this little nugget of a meme and because I am lazy and in need of a giggle I tried it. The challenge was to google "unfortunately, (your name)" and post the first ten non-repetitive results. Like Cynthia, I chose instead to post only my favorite unfortunate fates:

Unfortunately GiGi was used as a brood bitch and...

Unfortunately, Gigi has become victim of recent changes.

Unfortunately, Gigi’s artist name is a bit too common, so searching for her music can be a tad more difficult than other artists.

Unfortunately, Gigi threw that menu, with most of the dishes, out the window.

Unfortunately, Gigi's magical attacks also will target your partner, so this limits her usefulness in a multiplayer setting.

Unfortunately Gigi speaks today.

Unfortunately, Gigi is in love with Gaston, and though she does not wish to become his mistress, she decides that a) she loves him too much to reject him.

Unfortunately Gigi has a point when he said there'd be alot of swearing.

Unfortunately, Gigi was brought in as an accomplice in dragging that storyline out and I've had a problem with her ever since.

Unfortunately, Gigi has a problem getting her teeth in the way, and deflating old Sammy.

Unfortunately, Gigi makes every scene awkward to watch as she continuously flirts with and teases Mouth, regardless of who's around.

Unfortunately, GiGi won the battle despite that she needed instructions to play the game.

I know. That's 12. But unfortunately, Gigi, well, see above.

thar she (allegedly) blows

2009-03-19T22:54:00.000-07:00

We were strolling along the boardwalk in front of the fabulous waterfront homes of Balboa Island in Newport Beach. I was trying to convey to Robbie why it was perfectly acceptable to peer openly into the living rooms of the homes' wealthy occupants.

"Will you please stop staring into people's windows!" she had requested, most unreasonably I thought. "It's rude."

"No it isn't," I explained patiently. "They want us to stare! Those windows are there for us, the lowly proles. They're our firsthand look into the lifestyles of the rich and not-so-famous, who are by definition insecure. We're their target audience. They need to see our soot-smudged little faces, clutching the sills, gazing upward with envy and awe at their tasteful opulence. It helps define them."

I was really enjoying waxing populist. It comes naturally to me. Especially at sunset, after a martini or two.

"They feed on our envy," I continued. "It's how they know who they are. They thrive on it."

"It's still rude," she insisted mildly, pulling out her camera.

"They could always draw the curtains. But you don't see them doing that now, do you?"

And indeed, there is something inherently theatrical about the Balboa boardwalk scene; designer set pieces framed by those huge picture windows, strategically illuminated from within. Recessed lights softly reflect the polished surface of grand pianos and decorative wine openers; enormous overstuffed sofas are tossed casually, invitingly, with billowy pillows of tapestry and silk. Twinkling lamps highlight gleaming telescopes on tripods, acres of hardwood flooring and etched glass. Lovely, stately, pristine. And at 6:30 pm on a Saturday evening, suspiciously unoccupied.

"You would think that at this point they'd be more afraid of a class uprising. Of the unwashed masses coming at them with pitchforks and shovels, like Marie Antoinette," she mused, snapping discreetly.

You would think. Looking around, there did seem to be a curious lack of long-handled tools topped with metal or spiky prongs laying about for a fully functioning harbor. Not even an anchor. The area had been prole-proofed. The least they could have done was provided us with nerf bats. Off with their hedgefund-happy heads!

Except these guys. They look kinda fun.

We were both celebrating and lamenting our earlier whale watching excursion out of Davy Jones' Locker, an annual event since 2004 or 05. Davy Jones guarantees their trips with free rain checks, so that if no whales or dolphins are spotted you get to sail again at any time for free. When we first started coming out, tickets were $14; today they would have set us back a whopping $30 bucks apiece. But we've been sailing free for years, and in time have forgotten about the whales altogether and just come to think of it as a pleasant day at sea. All we've ever spotted were seagulls and sea lions.

Until today.

"Whale! At 1:00!" hollered the captain. About 30 people flew to starboard at once. That means to the right, ye scurvy landlubbers. And I know right is starboard because I just looked it up.

"No! Sorry! 2:00!" shouted our I'm-pretty-sure-sea-worthy captain. We all turned our heads ever so slightly in unison.

And thar she blew.

At least we think so. Turns out, thar was pretty far. The truth is, although Captain Don't-call-me-Ahab Rick chased her for the better part of an hour, we never got close enough to truly appreciate much of her. We did see her spray far in the distance, but then again, this is Southern California, birthplace of Hollywood and special effects; for all we know, that could have been the old shark effect from Universal's 'Jaws' theme ride, reworked into a harbor leviathan. I was once on an excursion (and much smaller boat) out of Dana Point when a California grey whale swam right up next to us, close enough to reach out and stroke, to see every barnacle on her sleek broad back. I swear, you could smell the deep sea depth of her. It was a surreal and magnificent experience. This, well, this could have been a floating log. A very large, fast-moving log.

Disembarking, we felt a little deflated.

"It's the end of an era," said Robbie sadly.

I sighed. "No more free trips. I'm going to miss Balboa."

One hour and a refreshing cocktail later, we were feeling much brighter.

"To next year, in Dana point," toasted Robbie.

And thar we goes.

dissed by the stars

2009-03-18T17:20:00.001-07:00

Horoscope: Cancer

In Horoscopes

After years of painstaking research and rigorous clinical trials, medical science still doesn't have an answer for why you're such a jerk.

I feel like a number

2009-03-11T13:52:00.000-07:00

Diets tend to make one obsessively numbers oriented, and for the past couple of weeks they've been much on my mind. It occurs to me that my entire life has been recorded, at least at one level, as little more than a series of weights and measures which I have allowed to create my identity as a woman and which continue to influence how I feel about myself today. I thought I was smarter than that.

I am not. I can still recall how much I weighed at varying points in my personal history with a precision lacking in any other aspect of my life. I can't remember my cell number or the name of my last dentist, but I can tell you that I was 15 years old and 130 lbs when Seventeen magazine and the family doctor informed me that 130 was too fat for a teenager of my (disappointing) 5' 4" height. I had thought I was taller than that.

The doctor went on to tell me that if I kept it up at this rate I would be extremely overweight by the time I was 30. I wasn't exactly sure what he meant by 'extremely', but I knew that the idea of being 30 at all sounded terrifying enough. I can tell you that I went on a diet that summer and lost 16 lbs, thrilled that I weighed 114 lbs on my 16th birthday and vowing that I would weigh the same on every birthday for the rest of my life.

I did not keep that vow. And I never shall.

When my first boyfriend broke up with me at age 18 I starved myself down to 107; when my second broke up with me 2 years later I only managed a to whittle my frame down to a paltry 108. I took this to mean that my love for him was not as great as it had been for the first, a realization that added just enough regret to help me achieve a dangerously waifish 105. The self-induced pain of hunger masked the inflicted anguish of rejection. It felt good, regaining physical control as I imagined myself being devoured from the inside out, literally and emotionally. In the meantime, I assuaged my misery with an endless supply of whiskey sours, Virginia Slims, and Gloria Gaynor belting out I Will Survive on the jukebox at 25 cents a play. Disco Saves.

Sadly, over the years I grew accustomed to breakups and they could no longer be used as a reliable means of weight control. I learned to exercise. After I got married and the threat of a breakup became, although not impossible certainly, at least less frequent, I found that happiness was just another way of saying that I had to work out more. I thought I was more sensible than that.

5.77 miles in 45 minutes on the Precor burns about 400.02 calories, which means I'll have to do at least 2.15 miles on the tread at a rate of 4.0 mph to burn a total of 600 calories. But 45 minutes on the elliptical can vary between 5.75 and 6.35 miles depending on the pace and hits about 500 calories, meaning I can cut the tread to about 1 to 1.25 miles to burn the 600 and create a nice even mileage total as well, only if I do 6.35 miles precor I'll probably have to do 1.75 tread because I feel guilty if I do less than 1 and hate to stop at a number like 1.65 because it's so close to the end of the lap at 1.75. 1.67 is sometimes OK because it's 1 1/3, which seems more of an accomplishment and less of a wimp-out than 1 1/2, and represents approximately 7-10 additional calories; again, depending on the pace and ratio to vertical incline.

There are 104 calories in one baked potato and 200 in 2 tablespoons of butter; 30 in a cup of broccoli; 300 in a can of tuna packed in oil; 110 in a glass of Chardonnay but I like a large glass, more like 140 or so and after 2 who's counting anyway? Not I, surely. But the cardiac/sculpt instructor says it takes a deficit of 3600 calories to lose 1 pound; by cutting out 100 calories a day it will take 36 days to lose 1 pound. 36 days x 26 pounds = 936 days to achieve this particular Fitness Fetish goal, or 468 days if cutting 200 and there goes my glass of wine.

Bored? Yeah, me too. I thought I was more interesting than that.

And of course, it all adds up to little in the end. I will be no more or less loved, less engaged in the world, no more or less likely to have left a lasting impression on the lives of the people I care about. It is a tale told by a chubby idiot, full of math and fury, signifying nothing.

What Number Are You?

You Are 5: The Investigator

You're independent - and a logical analytical thinker.

You love learning and ideas... and know things no one else does.

Bored by small talk, you refuse to participate in boring conversations.

You are open minded. A visionary. You understand the world and may change it.

At Your Best: You are sharp, inventive, and creative. You have the skills to lead the world.

At Your Worst: You are reclusive, weird, and a bit paranoid.

Your Fixation: Greed

Your Primary Fear: Being useless or incompetent

Your Primary Desire: Being competent and needed

Other Number 5's: Bill Gates, John Lennon, Kurt Cobain, Bjork, and Stephen Hawking.

What Number Are You?

For the record, I am not paranoid.
Why are you looking at me like that?

can't post now ~ gotta finish this

2009-02-25T13:27:00.000-08:00

So I was toodlin' around yesterday when I should have been working/cleaning/rolling quarters/kiting checks/staring off into space. But it was actually in the course of doing some legitimate research (I swear) when I stumbled across this little divertissement and...well, a girl just cannot have too many avatars, as far as I'm concerned. They're like Barbies for grown-up geeky girls. Everyone needs a Barbie, right? No? Just me? Okay.

Sure, I know you're busy ~ like me, you're struggling hard to make up believable resumes (what year would I have graduated college if I were the 38 year-old systems engineer I am claiming to be? Where would I have gone? Is a $150k starting salary too high? Too low? Should I also be fluent in Chinese? What will I wear to my new office?) all the while upending your couch in search of loose change to pay for that last latte before the corner Starbucks closes and Armageddon commences.

Or maybe you're just energetically combing YouTube for video mix-ups of Christian Bale's rant, poo-flinging chimps and another one of those whack-job preachers calling Obama the Antichrist. All great fun, I agree. But even that kind of effort gets exhausting after a while.

It'll waste of a good hour or so of your life, I promise.

You're welcome.

I love my little avi. I think she'll get a tattoo.

tabula rasa

2009-02-17T16:26:00.000-08:00

Lately I've been playing around with trying to turn a few poorly written personal journal pages into a few poorly illustrated personal journal pages with predictably muddled results. In the process, I have learned two things about myself which I will proceed to put down here, as god knows I am currently unable to put them down there, for reasons which will be soon become clear.

A) I have the aesthetic and attention span of a six year old girl.

Despite having recently purchased and perused not one but three gorgeous new books on how to create successful mixed-media collages, I do not not understand these new materials at all. Acrylic paints remain an unfathomable mystery to me, and I cannot seem to grasp how to handle them without brushes drying up and the paper buckling and splotching willy-nilly while I am busily distracted elsewhere, cutting up magazine photos and gluing down pretty plastic pearls. It appears to require more organization and forethought than I am accustomed to. When it comes to the art of collage, I am still a child eating molding paste and dreaming about unicorns, gaily coating everything in sight with glitter and faerie dust, and thinking it magic.

B) I am not that bright.

Actually, this is probably a subset of A, but as I have predetermined that this should be part of an epic 2 Random Things You Don't Know About Me post, it gets its own heading. Although, come to think of it, you may already know this about me, or at least suspect as much. Consider yourself validated.

Inspired by the likes of Judy Wise, Teesha Moore and Amber Gibbs I attempted to
decorate a few journal pages of my own. This seemed to be going remarkably well, and so pleased was I with my cleverness that I even wrote a haiku to grace one of the freshly renovated pages. It was beautiful, that little poem; elegant, self-contained ~ a delicately framed image of the mountains being seduced by enveloping storm clouds. I like writing haiku because it combines two of my favorite things; precise imagery and counting to 7. Plus, they are easy to remember until I can write them down. And because I also like smooth, shiny things, I added to all my pretty pages what I thought was a light coat of glossy gel medium.

You may guess the rest.

I now have a journal full of pretty pages on which nothing may be written. They are sealed; no gel pen, no graphite, no watercolor pencil; no ballpoint, nor Sharpie, nor quill dipped in blood will adhere to the now impermeable surface of my mini masterpieces. Diaries without drama, journals without joy. It is the Never-starting Story.

Of course, I could still paste prose into them, or use acrylics and a very narrow brush to paint entries, calligraphy style, but frankly this is demanding far too much of my limited literary abilities; already there had been a question of what I could write that would be deemed pretty page-worthy. Hauntingly beautiful and long forgotten haiku aside (verily, I swear; a brilliant addition to the art of counted syllables, it was) what was I going to set down in my Japanese garden; the daily calorie count? Miles on the treadmill? My thoughts on the president's stimulus package? Surely, painting one's daily weigh-in is going a step too far.

The moving finger writes, and having writ moves on...

I wish you would step back from that ledge my friend

2009-02-04T14:43:00.000-08:00

Pay no attention to the dazzling creature you see before you, light dancing off the mirrors of her magnificently mosaic frame. The Fitness Blog is clinically depressed, and feels not her power.

Three weeks into the Most Pointless Diet in the History of Womankind, I have gained back 2 pounds, leaving me just 6 pounds less than I was when I started. Not to mention infinitely more sober, which has done nothing to improve my mood. If I get any more clear-headed I'm going to have to start going to meetings. Preferably meetings sponsored by Celebrity Rehab's Dr. Drew, whose freshly detoxed people all seem to turn up weeks later on TMZ partying at Teddy's or Chez Deux, none the worse for wear. And lookin' mighty trim, I'd like to point out.

In any case, I am frustrated and unhappy with my sudden inability to control my own body. I know how to do this thing, dammit. I have been a dedicated dieter since the age of 15 when, much to my mother's dismay, I dropped 15 pounds on a balanced diet of black coffee, TAB and teenage angst. Since then, whenever I put on a couple of pounds I simply throw myself into the latest diet craze, be it Grapefruit, Atkins, the Zone or Cabbage Soup. I vaguely recall one which started with rice cakes and peanut butter in the morning and ended with canned red beets and tuna at night. Oddly, it was not all that bad, and not the worst regimen by far. Certainly not as bad as eating several grapefruit a day. Those vodka and grapefruits can really get to you over the course of an evening.

Inevitably, I would get back down to where I wanted to be and resume normal eating habits, which are generally not all that different from what I've been putting down here for the past 3 weeks: primarily fruits and vegetables 3 or 4 days a week; steak, chicken, fish or pasta on weekends. The only difference is that when I'm not dieting, I really let go when I play. When I'm dieting I don't, and aside from the one blowout weekend, I haven't this time either. I've behaved myself. I've counted calories. I haven't seen a potato chip or M&M in weeks. I've run and stepped and downward-dogged myself from here to Texas, and still I can't fit into my jeans. Frankly, I'm flummoxed. And it goes without saying, poorly dressed.

An article in this week's Times on the merits of fasting states that women of my age should be eating between 1600 and 1800 calories a day. I would like to be on that diet. And everyone seems to be losing weight; the folks over at The Biggest Loser are losing 10-15 pounds a week; anyone gaining weight, as I have, would have been laughed clear off the farm. Or beaten to death by that mean-girl trainer, Jillian. Now there's a woman with issues.

But the reality is that years of extreme dieting, coupled with decades of regular, strenuous workouts have slowed my metabolic rate down to that of a tree sloth. In fact, I have developed a metabolism so ruthlessly efficient that I no longer burn calories, I create them. And the vast storage areas required to house them. Thus, I am a victim of evolution. I should be studied by scientists. And possibly theologians. I'd love to be able to settle that dispute.

The good news is that if my plane ever crashes into the Andes or a deserted island somewhere I will be able to exist for months without food, and therefore not forced to eat my fellow survivors for energy.

The bad news is that I will be so insufferable in my smug plumptitude that my fellow survivors will choose me to be eaten first. It's a win/lose situation.

So, I win. I am the Biggest Loser!

good news/bad news

2009-01-27T21:01:00.000-08:00

It was a good news/bad news kind of weekend.

The good news is that it was great, full of food, friends and frivolity; exactly the kind of thing Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays were invented for. Possibly Thursdays. Wednesdays would be too much, we must all have our limits, what is wrong with you?!! Therefore I do hereby declare Thursdays to be the Weekend Wild Card. All weekends shall begin with an optional Thursday. Forthwith.

After a Friday night pasta-making party for which I made some high-calorie appetizers (bacon, salami and cheese, oh my!) I hit the highway early Saturday for the LA Art Show at the massive Staple Center with a fellow art and fun-loving pal. We sailed across town on the wings of angels and arrived just in time to spend the next 55 minutes sitting around trying to get into the parking garage. C'est LA.

But the day was beautiful and the exhibit, featuring top notch galleries from around the nation, was comprehensive. We wandered among paintings and sculpture for hours, seeking inspiration in everything ranging from early French Impressionist oils to the latest in contemporary mixed-media objects, including some oddly executed, dubiously conceived student work (I'm looking at you, giant pink papier mache' penis in a guillotine!) So comprehensive was the show that it even furnished its own occasional celeb sightings; I am quite certain I nearly made eye contact with Ted Danson, who is lookin' mighty fine if indeed it was him. And if it wasn't, well, someone is keeping themselves up very nicely. Kudos to you, Tall, Tanned and Silver, whoever you may be.

After the show we hit the deliciously old-school Palm restaurant for dinner and drinks and one last hoorah before settling in for the long bleak breadlines to come. I had the Mahi Mahi, half the Gigi Salad (truly ~ how could we not?) and several loaves of bread (little known fact; art appreciation is an inexplicably carby-hardy endeavor. No really, it is...beauty burns bicarbo...oh, stop judging me!)

So what I'm saying is, it was all pretty terrific, which is good.

But I'm also saying it was seriously terrific, and my diet is trashed. Which is bad.

I'm screwed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Talkin' trash: Monday
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Breakfast: black coffee

bunch of grapes 110

Lunch: I swear I just forgot

Dinner: 1 bowl Campbell's chicken vegetable soup: 100
leftover salami and cheese: 400 calories? 500? 6? who knows? who cares? it's over. I'm sad.

And yet, to quote Lenny from 'The Simpsons' as he plunged to a likely death over the cliff, "I regret nothing......!"

Daily total: 700 ~ 800 ~ 1006 calories

~~~~~~~~~~

yoga 1 hour

treadmill: 2.05 miles 24 minutes

~~~~~~~~~~

net weight gain/loss since last Monday: +3 lbs.

OK. I regret that. I regret that a lot.

pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off

2009-01-20T23:59:00.000-08:00

The country has new leadership, renewed purpose and yes, fresh hope. I am happy, simply moved beyond words and will suffer no cynics on this most joyful day. I can only imagine the thrill of all those who chose to journey to Washington for this historic occasion. Today, as I listened to the somber, measured speech of our President and watched an exuberant crowd of millions cheer in a new dawn I thought, it's true ~ we really did do it. I have never been as proud to be an American as I was this morning.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the fitness blog cares naught for parades;
it is Killjoy, the Dick Cheneyiest of blogs
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Precor: 3.57 miles (45 minutes)

treadmill: 3.25 miles (42 minutes)

6.82 miles total

(leg machines - 15 minutes)

~~~~~~~~~~

Breakfast: black coffee

Lunch: 1 bowl Campbells soup 100

Dinner: spinach 50
baked potato 105
w/ lots of butter 200

daily total: 455 calories

~~~~~~~~~~

net weight gain/loss (from last weigh-in): +.5

that's plus 1/2 lb since yesterday, after eating just 600 calories.

Conclusion: Hope is fattening. If I get any Hopier, in 3 months I'll be 60 pounds heavier. But chock fulla Hope, baby.

how can we miss him if he won't go away?

2009-01-19T22:20:00.000-08:00

As our nation's capitol swells with thousands of cheering, joyful, tearful throngs eager to celebrate a future filled with new hope for our people, restored belief in our leaders and a renewed dedication to the principles of our democracy, there is no place I'd rather be than in Washington DC right now. And there is no place I'd rather be at this very moment than the Huffington Post Inaugural Ball at the Newseum. I hear that place is rockin'.

But, as with all the good parties, I am not there but here, rockin' the PJ's in the dark dungeons of the internets; listening to MSNBC and wishing to the gods that I could at least have a glass of wine, fer cryin' out loud; I mean, what's 110 measley calories when we're making history here people...

So, I'm doing this instead. So far my high score is 9. Remember ~ they break to the left.

We'll miss the laughter, but not the tears. The many, many tears. So long, George.

~~~~~~~~~~~
Torment Today:
~~~~~~~~~~~

the Diet is annoyed that it does not get Martin Luther King Day off
and intends to sue

Breakfast: black coffee

bunch of grapes 110

Lunch: 1 bowl chicken w/ wild rice soup 120 calories

Dinner: 1 whole can Campbell's chicken vegetable soup: 200
frozen peas 100
w/butter 100

Daily total: 630 calories

~~~~~~~~~~

yoga 1 hour

treadmill: 2.05 miles 22 minutes

~~~~~~~~~~

net weight gain/loss since last Monday: -2 lbs.

the fitness blog can hardly keep its eyes open

2009-01-16T21:54:00.000-08:00

Last night was date night and yet somehow uneventful ~ no movie, just a couple of Blonde Ales down at the local brew pub, a shared mini pizza and then off to a chain restaurant for a bland tilapia in an overly sweetened pineapple mango salsa. There were a couple of glasses of wine of a distinctly box-like vintage. All in all not a brilliant evening but, as Turk never tires of telling me, we are in the midst of a recession and beggars can't be choosers. Appropriately enough, we were home in time to watch The Office. It all seems hardly worth breaking a diet for. In fact, as dates go this one was pretty unimpressive, from a calorie-countish point of view. Frankly, I don't know if I should even keep seeing this guy. Still, he does make me smile...

Someone sent me this today, and you've probably seen it as well. I don't know who the author is but it's certainly apt and far more clever than I this evening, so in it goes.

Twas the month after Christmas,

and all through the house,

Nothing would fit me,

not even a blouse.

The cookies I'd nibbled,

the chocolate I'd taste

At the holiday parties

had gone to my waist.

When I got on the scales

there arose such a number!

When I walked to the store

(less a walk than a lumber),

I'd remember the marvellous meals I'd prepared;

The gravies and sauces and beef nicely rared,

The wine and the rum balls, the bread and the cheese

And the way I'd never said, "No thank you, please."

As I dressed myself in my husband's old shirt

And prepared once again to do battle with dirt...

I said to myself, as I only can,

"You can't spend a winter, disguised as a man!"

So, away with the last of the sour cream dip.

Get rid of the fruit cake, every cracker and chip.

Every last bit of food that I like must be banished

Till all the additional ounces have vanished.

I won't have a cookie, not even a lick.

I'll want only to chew on a long celery stick.

I won't have hot biscuits, or corn bread, or pie.

I'll munch on a carrot and quietly cry.

I'm hungry, I'm lonesome, and life is a bore...

But isn't that what January is for?

Unable to giggle, no longer a riot.

Happy New Year to all, and to all a good diet.

~~~~
Today
~~~~

gym:

precor: 3.59 miles 45 minutes
treadmill: 1.66 miles 22 minutes

total: 5.25 miles

Breakfast: coffee
grapes 100

Lunch:
grapes 60
apple 60

Happy Hour: oh, the love of...it's Friday! What am I, made of stone?
2 lite beers 180

Dinner: big salad

lettuce 45
onion 40
tuna 300
10 olives 90
1 tbs rice vinegar dressing 20
salad subtotal 505

daily total 905 calories

But, am drinking a glass of wine as we speak...so + 110.

Damn, that adds up.

Diets suck.

net/gain loss since Thursday: -.5

if it's tuesday, it must be baked potato(!)

2009-01-14T23:38:00.000-08:00

The excitement never ends.

One of the problems with keeping a daily blog (as opposed to the occasionally bi-monthly format I usually manage) is the fact that it requires me to, you know, log in on a daily basis. I'm just not that good at it ~ I view blog time as another form of indulgence that needs to be kept in check. I am too readily distracted in here, too easily seduced ~ I forget myself in realities in which I have no real place, losing myself in other lives, the product of other people's imaginations.

Keeping a daily blog also encourages me to do a lot more blathering. Is it wise or even rational to want other people to know of one's continual struggles with weight, self-denial and/or bad reality TV? To show sketches of oneself dressed in one's jammies, standing on a bathroom scale?

No. It's unseemly, is what it is. I question my judgment in this as in all things. But of course, I don't know how to stop.

Speaking of questionable judgment, I stayed up watching The Really Desperate Housewives of Orange County again last night. I think it may be some sort of chemical imbalance. And may I just say that Tamra is an ugly, ugly human being?

For those of you who don't know because you have better, more positive things to do, Tamra is a 40-something year-old self-described 'Princess' who, last night, deliberately encouraged another woman, whom she does not like, to get 'stupid... naked wasted' at her etiquette-themed dinner party (Tamra's husband is making her take etiquette lessons...that's right. So she throws a 'formal' dinner party in what appears to be her kitchen revolving around etiquette and tequila...No, I swear I am not making this up). Then, to add creepiness to cruelty, the woman virtually pimps out her adolescent son to seduce the poor foolish creature.

In a nest of vipers, Tamra is a multi-headed Hydra. I would not have been a bit surprised had her eyes suddenly rolled back in her shiny yellow head as her jaws unhinged and the putrid black, pus-filled darkness where once had been her soul came gushing forth. Now that's good television.

Karma, Tamra. Know it. Fear it. It's coming for you. And it's carrying a fish fork.

~~~~~~~~~~~
Yesterday's drama
~~~~~~~~~~~

elliptical machine: 5.77 miles (45 minutes)

treadmill: 2.34 miles (35 minutes)

8.11 miles total

(leg machines - no more than 15 minutes)

~~~~~~~~~~

Breakfast: black coffee
1 apple 60

Lunch: 1 bowl Progresso soup 100

Dinner: broccoli 30
carrot 25
baked potato 105
w/ lots of butter 250

410 calories subtotal

daily total: 570 calories

~~~~~~~~~~

net weight gain/loss (from last weigh-in): -1.5

~~~~
Today
~~~~

gym:

precor: 3.69 miles 45 minutes
treadmill: 3.36 miles 42 minutes

(arms)

total: 7.05 miles

Breakfast: coffee
grapes 100

Lunch: grapes 60
soup 100

Dinner: big salad

lettuce 45
onion 40
tuna 300
10 olives 90
1 tbs rice vinegar dressing 20
1 inch cube cheese 110.....subtotal 605

daily total 865 calories

Ok. That's a lot. It was a big salad. I was hungry. And pissed off. Because...

net/gain loss since yesterday: +1

See, I ate 570 calories yesterday. Burned over 800.

And still managed to gain weight.

Seriously. That must have been a whole lot of butter on that there potato.

the fitness blog does not do weekends

2009-01-12T15:38:00.000-08:00

Lotus does weekends, but they rarely have to do with fitness. And Lotus never tells.

Well, sometimes she does, but then she usually forgets. In any case, she's not telling this weekend. Suffice it to say that as of this morning she has lost an unexciting grand total of 5 pounds. Her worthy opponent, she is reliably informed, has lost more. This makes Lotus happy for her friendly opponent but sad for herself because she is very competitive, something which causes her to continue to refer to herself in the third person for no apparent reason. Which confuses her mightily, as she has a difficult enough time maintaining consistency of tense and personage under the best of circumstances.

Her head begins to hurt, and she steps away from the keyboard in order to get a grip, possibly on a sandwich.

Breakfast: black coffee

bunch of grapes 60

Lunch: V8 juice 70

Snack: 1 carrot 25

Dinner: 1 bowl vegetable soup 90

1 small salad 245
(lettuce 40
onion 15
Gorgonzola cheese 100
5 black olives 50
2 tbs dressing 40)

Daily subtotal: 490

~~~~~~~~~~

yoga 1 hour

treadmill: 2.36 miles

~~~~~~~~~~

net weight gain/loss to date: -5 lbs.

last night was 'date night'

2009-01-09T15:00:00.000-08:00

And to no one's surprise, I fell off the wagon, hitting my head several times on the way down. This is nothing new and to be expected; I may be willing to starve several days a week in the interests of health and beauty but I will never give up my date nights, nor will I give up anything I wish to do on them. I will have my bread and butter and eat them too, preferably washed down with copious amounts of wine or vodka or whatever else is being poured. I will pay the price in poundage tomorrow, or as the case may be, today.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Yesterday's debacle:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Breakfast: black coffee

Lunch: 1 bowl Progresso chicken/rice soup 100

~~~~~~~~~~

Went to see 'Nixon Frost'** ~ excellent movie! I give it 4 martinis and an olive. As a good democrat and proud liberal I never expected to feel such compassion for the ex-President, nor to get so caught up in the drama of events surrounding what I recall as being a rather dull interview. But of course, I was very, very young, and everything was dull. I was but a toddler, I tell you. But I digress.

Turk, who rarely stays awake during an entire film, gave 'Nixon Frost'** a shockingly hyperbolic, "I really enjoyed that movie," thus earning it an Oscar.

snack: 1 large bucket of popcorn 1650/2 = a shockingly hyperbolic 825 calories

And I'd do it again.

After the movie we hit a brand new local wine bar to check it out. Overpriced wine, reasonable menu, depending on who you ask; Turk groaned on about how the place would never make it in this economy. I groaned on about he was always groaning on, and about how we really need a decent restaurant out here in the boonies and the only way to keep one was to patronize it. We argued about economic pessimism and my desire to spend money we don't have.

2 glasses unexceptional wine: 200 calories

I wouldn't do it again.

Headed for the local cheap n' cheerful Chinese:

dinner:

Szechuan chicken: I'm guesstimating here; I don't measure food in grams. In fact, I refuse to measure food at all. A large portion; let's call it 500.

I polished it off. With chopsticks.

and steamed rice 210

2 glasses unexceptional but appropriately priced wine: 200 calories

Jasmine tea

Daily total: 2035 calories

no exercise

Fortune cookie says: you will not be getting on a scale in the morning.

And damned if it wasn't true!

~~~~~~~~~~~
Today's Penance
~~~~~~~~~~~

Breakfast: black coffee

Lunch: 1 can V8 juice 70 calories

off to the gym. Take me treadmill, for I have sinned.

** turns out the actual title is 'Frost Nixon' ~ seems I am politically and/or titularly dyslexic

day 3

2009-01-07T23:28:00.000-08:00

Ha! Just made it.
~~~~~~~~~~

Breakfast: black coffee

1 apple 60

Lunch: 2 celery stalks 10

1/2 tsp. Trader Joe's Red Pepper sauce 10

subtotal 80 calories

Dinner: Big salad:

lettuce 45
black olives 140
w/oil 90
1/2 cup Gorgonzola 400 (?!) Really? looked it up; had no idea. Bugger.
2 tbs dressing 40

1/2 cup homemade pasta sauce snuck from Hub's plate during preparation 65
it was delicious

780 calories subtotal total

daily total: 860 calories

~~~~~~~~~~

elliptical machine: 5.92 miles

treadmill: 2.36 miles

8.28 miles total

(also; arm machines)

~~~~~~~~~~

net weight gain/loss: -3 lbs.

Again, just water weight. Still don't care. Still claimin' it.

Day 2 ~ fitness blog balking

2009-01-07T15:51:00.000-08:00

By neglecting to post yesterday, I have already failed in my solemn pledge to be boring on a daily basis. It will not happen again. I plead fatigue and loss of brain power, due only in part to lack of proper nutrition and severe muscle strain. The time I had designated Official Nightly Blog time I instead spent watching 'The Real Housewives of Orange County.' Clearly, hunger has unhinged me.

Seriously, what is wrong with these women? The silicone from their breasts has migrated to their egos, causing them to swell beyond all human recognition, and the botox in their faces has clearly paralyzed their brains, resulting in seizures. How else to explain those sudden crying jags and bewildering catfights? Or the sight of a thirty-something year old woman in a hot pink track suit dancing around the manse screeching with delight over the $65,000 engagement ring her beloved has bought her, even as said beloved lay in the ICU battling cancer? It has to be some form of surgically enhanced dementia. There is no other explanation. Doctors should be called.

So why would anyone in their right mind want to watch this coven of shrieking harpies, their spoiled children and beleaguered husbands? And why can't I stop?

There must be something in the water.

I should drink less water.

Off to the gym.

~~~~~~~~~
Yesterday's Bore
~~~~~~~~~

Precor step machine: 7875 strides

whatever that means. Damn machine was broken and wouldn't give mileage, just strideage.

Look, we have very specific goals here, people, and how are we supposed to know when we hit those goals if you give us distance in miles on the treadmill, in strides on a step machine, grunts per lap on the elliptical trainer and kilometers on the stationary bike? Consistency, please. We are way too hungry to do the math.

I'm calling it 3.60 miles. Who's gonna argue?

treadmill: 2.60 miles

6.20 miles total

(also; leg machines)

~~~~~~~~~~

Breakfast: black coffee

Lunch: 5 celery stalks 25 calories

1 1/2 bowls of Progresso/leftovers from yesterday soup 245

270 calories total

Dinner: 2 celery stalks 10
broccoli 30
carrot 22
baked potato 104
w/ lots of butter 200

366 calories total

daily total: 636 calories

~~~~~~~~~~

net weight gain/loss: -5 lbs.

I know, I know.

Water loss, not fat. Still counts. I'm takin' it.

self-flagellation is a bore

2009-01-05T21:41:00.000-08:00

And yet, as mad monks and fallen preachers all know, it is sometimes necessary and oddly satisfying. That doesn't mean, of course, that you must bear witness, and in fact I neither expect nor encourage you to do so. By all means, avert your eyes. It only gets worse from here.

For I weighed myself this morning after yoga class, something I have avoided doing for at least a month now, maybe two. I thought I was prepared for the result ~ I know where I've been and what I've been doing ~ but I was not. I was horrified. I was mortified. I believe I may have shed a tear on the ride home. I have been self-indulging to the point of abject stupidity since November (of 2007) and am thoroughly disgusted with myself. I have gone up not one but two sizes in the past year...

I will say no more on the point. I have little patience with whiny mopers who refuse to take responsibility for their own actions. But that is precisely the person I have become; a woman in need of a serious ass-kicking. And she could stand to miss a meal too.

And so, gentle reader, I am once again embarking on the dread Fitness Blog. And again I am sorry, for it never goes well. It is going to be dull. It is going to be dreary. It is going to entertain no one, least of all me. But until I lose this millstone around my neck (and waist, hip and thighs) I will not be worth knowing. I'm sticking with it this time too, because I have a wager on the outcome, and I never lose a bet. Ever.

Rest assured, this is going to bore me more than it bores you. And dudes, it is totally going to bore you.

GOAL: 26 pounds, 3 months, no whining

Day 1:

yoga: 1 hour
treadmill: 2.05 miles, 23 minutes

Breakfast: black coffee

Lunch: 1 apple

Dinner: 1 bowl of tomato/cabbage soup

deep into the nog blog

2008-12-25T00:30:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite columnists, Al Martinez of the LA Times has coined a phrase in describing what happens to people caught during times of shared difficulties; We huddle together in bad times, he writes. The spirits snuggle.

I love the descriptive aptness of that phrase, the spirits snuggle. It conjures up images of sleeping puppies, all cuddly and tossed together in soft furry heaps of companionship and warmth. Sometimes, we all just need to feel one another's heart beat. A reminder of our shared humanity, that we reach out to each other with hope, comfort and kindness because without it, there is nothing.

I wish you all the joys of the season. I wish you love and laughter and a cherished memory or two to hold close in the flickering of the candlelight. Most of all I wish you peace, from the bottom of my heart. Happy holidays to you all. May your spirits snuggle.

jager angels

2008-12-14T12:18:00.000-08:00

Black leather boots and bustiers. Fishnet stockings, DayGlo orange wigs and more tattoos and eyeliner than Amy Winehouse at a biker rally, it was an unlikely getup for a couple of angels. Yet for all its sexy outrageousness, the Jagermeister shooter girls managed to look innocently adorable.

We were sitting at the bar waiting for our table to open up in the dining room. Turk had talked me into going out to dinner in spite of my reluctance ~ frankly, I am not at all happy with the creeping frumpiness of my appearance. I just want to stay home and hide.

I know. I should be bigger than this. I'm not. I shouldn't care, but I do. I'm supposed to love myself and embrace the older, wiser, more beautiful goddess within. I really can't.

I am, if anything, annoyed with her. It was never my intention to live long enough to look this old in the first place. While all my friends were busy becoming doctors, lawyers and engineers I was working on my 10 year plan to live hard, die young and leave a beautiful corpse. Typically, in this, as in so many things, I failed to apply myself and wound up here, in a nondescript middle age, dealing with this frumpiness, this encroaching Elmer Fuddliness. Fat, furrowed and befuddled am I.

The girls came up to give their pitch regarding the exemplary qualities of Jagermeister. They laughed good-naturedly when Turk, clearly dazzled by such bodacious attention, claimed to be a German prince in exile, pining away for Jager, the milk of his youth. They were really very sweet. Then, leaving us with a smile and the gift of an orange paper-flower lei, they were moving on toward the next customer when suddenly they turned back and one girl exclaimed, "We just have to tell you how pretty you are!" Her friend nodded, beaming.

And so help me Aphrodite, just for a while I felt lighter.

See what I mean? Angels.

My angels carry shot glasses. Like I always knew they would.

is our children learning?

2008-12-05T14:18:00.000-08:00

I found this one at Girlyshoes and had to do it because I feel the need to prove that I'm not as dumb as my cartoon looks. I have too read stuff! Just, you know, not a lot of stuff on the list. Also, I don't actually remember all the stuff that I did read, not to mention...

Wait, what was this about again? Oh, yeah ~ me is sure smart! For a toon.

Instructions:

Look at the list and bold those you have read.

Underline those you intend to read. I didn't do this. I don't know how to underline things. Or even un-underline from a quick cut and paste job (see above re: toony smartness.) Let's just assume I plan to read all of them, and will get to Ulysses and Jude the Obscure as soon as I finish the English cozy currently on my nightstand.

Italicise the books you LOVE.

Reprint this list so we can try and track down these people who’ve read number 6 and force real books upon them. (Miz Shoes added that last bit but it made me laugh so it stays in. I'll do a whole 'nother meme on stealing other people's blog stuff later.)

1. Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
2. The Lord of the Rings - JRR Tolkien
3. Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte
4. Harry Potter series - JK Rowling. That's right; I'm the one.
5. To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee
6. The Bible
7. Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte
8. Nineteen Eighty Four - George Orwell
9. His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
10. Great Expectations - Charles Dickens
11. Little Women - Louisa M Alcott
12. Tess of the D’Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy
13. Catch 22 - Joseph Heller
14. Complete Works of Shakespeare
15. Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier
16. The Hobbit - JRR Tolkien
17. Birdsong - Sebastian Faulks
18. Catcher in the Rye - J D Salinger
19. The Time Traveller’s Wife - Audrey Niffenegger
20. Middlemarch - George Eliot
21. Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell
22. The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald
23. Bleak House - Charles Dickens
24. War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
25. The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
26. Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh
27. Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky
28. Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck
29. Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll
30. The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame
31. Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy
32. David Copperfield - Charles Dickens
33. Chronicles of Narnia - CS Lewis
34. Emma - Jane Austen
35. Persuasion - Jane Austen
36. The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe - CS Lewis (See 33.)
37. The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini
38. Captain Corelli’s Mandolin - Louis De Bernieres
39. Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden
40. Winnie the Pooh - AA Milne
41. Animal Farm - George Orwell
42. The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown
43. One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
44. A Prayer for Owen Meaney - John Irving
45. The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins
46. Anne of Green Gables - LM Montgomery
47. Far From The Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy
48. The Handmaid’s Tale - Margaret Atwood
49. Lord of the Flies - William Golding
50. Atonement - Ian McEwan
51. Life of Pi - Yann Martel
52. Dune - Frank Herbert
53. Cold Comfort Farm - Stella Gibbons
54. Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen
55. A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth
56. The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon
57. A Tale Of Two Cities - Charles Dickens
58. Brave New World - Aldous Huxley
59. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time - Mark Haddon
60. Love In The Time Of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
61. Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck
62. Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
63. The Secret History - Donna Tartt
64. The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold
65. Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas
66. On The Road - Jack Kerouac
67. Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy
68. Bridget Jones’ Diary - Helen Fielding
69. Midnight’s Children - Salman Rushdie
70. Moby Dick - Herman Melville
71. Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens
72. Dracula - Bram Stoker
73.The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett
74. Notes From A Small Island - Bill Bryson
75. Ulysses - James Joyce
76. The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath
77. Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome
78. Germinal - Emile Zola
79. Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray
80. Possession - AS Byatt
81. A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens. Enjoyed it, but loved what Mr. Magoo did with the role of Scrooge in the film version.
82. Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
83. The Color Purple - Alice Walker
84. The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro
85. Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert
86. A Fine Balance - Rohinton Mistry
87. Charlotte’s Web - EB White
88. The Five People You Meet In Heaven - Mitch Albom Seriously. Never.
89. Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
90. The Faraway Tree Collection - Enid Blyton
91. Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad
92. The Little Prince - Antoine De Saint-Exupery
93. The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks
94. Watership Down - Richard Adams
95. A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole
96. A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute
97. The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
98. Hamlet - William Shakespeare
99. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl
100. Les Miserables - Victor Hugo

rodos

2008-11-30T18:12:00.000-08:00

When no amount of begging, pleading and outright bribery could keep us in our cozy Oia cavern for even one more night we reluctantly headed to the tourist agency to book a couple of flights from Santorini to Rhodes. Or, as the handsome young ticket agent corrected me with a twinkle in his eye but a firmness in his tone, Rodos. And so shall it ever be.

The next morning when we arrived at the tiny airport and stood before our plane I actually laughed out loud. Suddenly, I understood the 15 kilo weight limit on luggage. And wished I'd skipped breakfast.

As we climbed aboard the 18 seater we were graciously welcomed by one of the most stunningly beautiful flight attendants I have ever seen in my life. As it turned out, every flight attendant on a Greek airline was female, friendly and absolutely breathtaking.

"I'd like to be the guy who does the hiring for this job," remarked Turk. I couldn't blame him. The requirements for this position must start with a goddess gene in the DNA sequence. In fact, one of the things one can't help notice of is how strikingly attractive the Greeks are as a people ~ young men and women stride the plakas and plazas with the casual insouciance of youth and a beauty that is a pleasure to behold and a tribute to the healthy Mediterranean lifestyle. Aphrodite and Adonis are not just mythology here ~ they're riding vespas and smoking Santes'. I silently regret my own luppen and questionable ancestry.

If Mykonos is an amiable Hedonist, welcoming with open arms the weary voyager and Santorini a winsome, pastel-drenched fantasy carved into the land by fey but determined cave dwellers with a surprisingly sunny aesthetic, the architecture of Rodos embodies a heavier, masculine and somewhat more conflicted history, for all it's inherent beauty. Located at an intersection between East and West, it is an island molded by commerce and conflict as over the centuries knights, Turks and Italians have fought for and controlled the island. All have left their mark and their stories. We stayed within the walled fortress of Old Town for 4 fascinating days and rarely felt the need to leave this thriving city.

To stay in the Old Town is to have one foot in the modern world of cellphones and cycles, nightclubs and credit cards, and the other in the shadows of its very present medieval past.

Upon our arrival we followed the cab driver's instructions through the massive fortress gate and, turning onto the main square, found ourselves in the midst of another bazaar, an explosion of color, sight and sound. As we pulled our cases behind us, searching for the tiny alleyway that held our hotel, taverna hosts beckoned passersby to their tables and shopkeepers into their stores, as travelers fingered fabrics of blue and gold and tentatively inquired about price. It was a moment of timelessness, that feeling that this plaza, this market, this moment has existed just so for hundreds of years ~ travelers arrive, open-mouthed with awe and delight, hawkers flog their wares, children play, money changes hands, life goes on. To experience it is to be conscious of one's own transient role in a continuous flow of humanity. It is marvelous.

We stayed in a charming, traditional hotel perfectly located in a quiet lane just off the main square. Our hostess, 'Irina' was the sole proprietor of the establishment and had done much of the massive restoration on her own. Staying with Irina is a lot like staying with family, in this case, your kind, energetic and slightly bossy aunt ~ the breakfasts are homemade and generous, the wine flows freely. But do not forget to lock up after yourself at night or, as I did, leave your key in the lock inside your room when you come down for coffee. Locksmiths will be called. Irina will be sternly disappointed but forgiving. And you will not do it again.

This being Greece, the gods of the ancient are represented in the ruins and archaeological museums of the town, as well as the religion of the conquering Turks. We did take an afternoon trip out to lovely Lindos to visit the Temple of Athena. Our cab driver/tour guide (they call me George the American!) proved to be an entertaining and colorful companion ~ twice decorated in the Korean War, he was featured on the cover of Time Magazine for his heroism as a soldier. He returned to Rodos, the island of his birth because his wife pined for her home and family here and because her doctor insisted it was the only way to relieve her sadness. She has been happy now for over 30 years. So, I believe, has George.

But it is The Knights of St John who dominate the landscape and the imagination within the fortress walls, heavy with the trappings of a very muscular mysticism and might.

On a whim, after strolling Mandraki Harbor and seeing the many sightseeing boats offering passage, we boarded the King Sauron ferry for a sail to Marmaris, Turkey, feeling rather intrepid and Ernest Hemingway about ourselves.

I don't really know what I expected; after being warned off by our new friends, a couple from Dundee, Scotland who we met staying at 'Auntie' Irina's, I was picturing something just slightly more civilized than the Black Hole of Calcutta, full of thieves and beggars and shifty-eyed men of dubious intent.

What we found was a relaxed and westernized resort town, one of the most beautiful harbors I've ever seen, and some of the warmest, friendliest, most courteous people I've ever had the pleasure to meet. In this one brief encounter, I found myself so loving this place and touched by these people, of whom I had previously been suspect that I was ashamed of myself. It was as though a film had been lifted from my eyes. If there is one thing I will take away from this entire trip it is that ~ that when we let our prejudices and fears dictate our actions we limit our universe and deprive ourselves of the all the wonder therein. An open mind is gloriously selfish thing. It is a key to universal treasure.

I wouldn't have missed it for the world.

We returned to Rodos just in time for sunset. And happy hour in the square.

deep in the closet

2008-11-23T21:40:00.000-08:00

It all started with the unpacking. I'd bought a few things in Greece; a couple of sweaters, scarves, a few gifts; some costume jewelry I couldn't resist, and I needed to put it away. At the end of three weeks, all the small bits were in place but the sweaters, scarves and a purse remained on the chair where I'd stashed them, staring at me accusingly.

I'd been needing to clean out my bedroom closet for some time. For weeks I'd been finding blouses standing alone, sans hanger, held up only by the crushing proximity of their sister garments. My clothing is its own support group ~ The Sisterhood of the Non-traveling Fat Pants. So I put my head down and dug in.

Things my Closet Told Me:

I shop too much.

Yes, this a no-brainer. I love to shop. I am a material girl with a frighteningly acquisitive nature. Shopping is my hunter instinct gone all girlie; it's practically feral. I have been known to buy something I'm not yet convinced I even want just because it is the last of it's kind and I can see another sister-hunter eyeing it lustfully. And then I do want it. Badly. This is a most unappealing side to my character and just one of the many reasons I would make a lousy Buddhist. This must stop.

I am cheap.

Of all the clothing with tags still attached (an alarming number of which still did, I am ashamed to say) 98.53% of them were marked down not once, not twice, but a minimum of three times. And that's just the tagged price; there is no doubt that there was additional discounting involved. It's the only way I shop. Thus have I saved a veritable fortune on a virtually unwearable wardrobe.

I am delusional.

Apparently, I am a 22 year-old hottie trapped in the body of a middle-aged nottie. How else to explain no less than 8 pairs of super-low rise jeans, some of which have rhinestone embellishments on the rear pockets, the better to draw attention to what I clearly believe to be a tidy little butt? I've noticed myself avoiding mirrors with increasing frequency and determination. I suspect this is the first step toward madness, followed by excessive use of silicone facial fillers and the dogged insistence that I am a foreign policy expert based on the French labels in my clothing. And the sturdy belief that Target is French. And that Forever 21 is not just a shop, its a promise.

I am clinging to the past.

Size 4 slacks. I'll say no more. It makes me go all verklempt. And I'm not sure it was ever even true ~ I must have worn those pants for all of 10 minutes in 1982. And then I ate something.

I am eclectically sized.

Sizes 4 - 12 are represented by various garments and styles, overlapping throughout the overall time period. Some would call this the result of a lifetime of yo yo dieting; I prefer to think of it as eclecticism; a certain generous expansiveness, if you will.

I am a sentimental fool.

My wedding dress (cocktail length) and a few pieces from my trousseau that will never be worn again. A hippie-child peasant blouse from Byer of California that I bought for $10 in 1975 and wore as a favorite throughout the following 2 decades. A beautiful burgundy velvet gown and fur cape, never worn, that my mother gave me just because she felt I had to have them. My old clarinet. A white tutu and rhinestone tiara. And no, I'll never tell.

I made some pleasant discoveries as well, including a nice pair of black suede boots purchased in Texas and an elegant velvet evening jacket (when was I that girl?) But my absolute favorite is a gorgeous gray, vintage faux fur swing coat with a designer label and broad cape collar that is to die for ~ also a gift from Mom, and one which I had forgotten about completely. If the temperature ever dips below 65 degrees here in the land of heat and smoke, I am going to rock that coat.

In the end, several days and a couple of tissues later, I liberated no less than 59 hangers (!), 10 shoe boxes, lightened the contents of several drawers and filled 8 shopping bags full of clothing. God only knows what they're going to make of it all down at Our Lady of Perpetual Amusement. I hope they'll judge me kindly in spite of myself; a cheap, delusional, sentimental shopaholic with growing antisocial tendencies. But I'm letting go. At least someone's going to get some pretty, gently-worn clothes out of it. Some tiny, tiny little people.

I put the Greek fisherman sweaters away.

mama said there'd be days like this

2008-11-15T15:28:00.000-08:00

"Honey, I hate to wake you," my husband was saying as he gently shook me awake in the way-too-early-in-the-morning, "but we have a problem."

I groaned without opening my eyes. "What is it now?" It was the house, of course. Doubtless, it was something about the plumbing. It is always something about the plumbing.

"The hot water heater is leaking. It's flooding the garage, I can't turn off the water and I can't find the warranty or the manual."

I moaned. I thrust my toes deeper into the soft sleepy caverns of the covers. I willed the day away.

"It's flooding the garage."

The day remained. I got up.

I located the paperwork in the files and called Sears.

"The hot water heater is leaking. It's flooding the garage and I can't turn it off."

"Very good, ma'am. Can you hold?"

I could.

"Ma'am? I have you scheduled for an appointment on Wednesday. Would that be convenient for you?"

"No, that would not be convenient for me. You see, the hot water heater is leaking. It's flooding the garage and I can't turn it off."

"One moment please."

I held.

"Ma'am? I have managed to talk to our router and we were able to schedule you for an emergency appointment on Tuesday. Would that be convenient for you?"

"No, that would not be convenient for me. Did I happen to mention that the hot water heater is leaking? It's flooding the garage and I can't turn it off."

Silence.

"I have no hot water. I cannot have no hot water for 4 days."

Silence.

"Not to mention the flooding, and all."

"Ma'am? I'm going to put you through to someone who can help you."

"Thank you."

I held.

"Ma'am? How can I help you?"

I went through the procedure again; name, rank, phone number, flood.

"Is there any possibility that you could schedule me an emergency appointment in less than 4 days? Or at least tell me how to turn off the water?"

"Ma'am, I'm going to put you on hold while I talk to a router. Is that alright?"

"It's fine. Thank you."

I held. I held for 5 minutes. I held until there was nothing to hold onto. I held until I was cut off.

Turk called Victor, his favorite go-to-guy for all our plumbing needs. Victor said he was leaving and would be here in 30 minutes. Victor should be on a retainer.

Turk entered the den.

"I smell smoke," he said. So did I. The wildfires were on their way.

Victor arrived and, having ascertained that the bottom had rotted out of the heater, took off to find us a new one.

The fires are getting closer. The air is thick with the acrid smell, and the winds seem to be holding at around 30 mph. The light has that eerie, end of days quality to it, beautiful in its way ~ pink, orange, gold. And then suddenly, that dense, grayish brown. At 2:00 the house was dark. Ash is flying, and my eyes are stinging.

Victor called. He was diverted off the highway by the police into a weigh station. Friends in nearby Yorba Linda called to see if we were OK after seeing our neighborhood on TV. NPR is reporting that people caught in dead still traffic are abandoning their cars not 5 miles from here.

I'm looking on the bright side. If Victor doesn't make it back, Sears will be here on Tuesday. I am really looking forward to some hot water.

santorini

2008-11-09T16:58:00.000-08:00

A while back I had hanging on my kitchen wall a calendar featuring photographs of some of the most beautiful destination locations in the world: the ancient Temples of Angkor Wat in Cambodia, the canals of Venice in Italy, a tranquil glade in a Brazilian rain forest and, in the merry month of May, a spectacularly glorious and implausible village called Oia on Santorini ~ a seemingly impossible collage of white, blue and ochre tumbling down the side of a steep sienna cliff.

Now, as I stood taking in the exact same view on the way down to our new lodgings I broke into a broad grin, sending a silent but gleeful shout out to Athena, Poseidon and her entire Olympian posse in gratitude for such unbelievably good fortune. That smile didn't leave my face for days.

If all the imagineers in all the Disneylands in all the world labored for a thousand days and a thousand nights they could never in a thousand years conjure a place as fanciful, practical, pretty and profound as lovely Oia.

And if all the tourists on all the buses from all the cruise ships in all the world could stop here to crowd all the streets and all the taverns and get in all the pictures, so be it. Even that would not spoil this tiny gem.

After our uncharacteristic venture into beach resort glamour, we were looking for some traditional island style. We had booked the Chelidonia Traditional Villas
a month in advance and still couldn't get our desired length of stay. So if you plan on coming, plan ahead. And do plan on coming.

Our charming host, Triantafyllos Pitsikalis, pointed out the apartment where he had been born. He now owns and has renovated nine apartments, each unit a lovingly restored former home. Ours was Katarina ~ airy and spacious, with curved white walls carved right into the cliffside, it is simplicity and elegance itself. There is just no other way to put it. I want to live here.

All units feature wonderful private terraces with a view across the caldera toward Imerovigli, Fira, and the southern tip of the island. That is the patio of our unit featured at the top of the web page, by the way. And no, you cannot have it. It is ours. You may borrow it when we're not there, but otherwise, I'm not giving it up without a fight.

And when you stay there, you'll know why.

Our days quickly settled in happy routine. Up first, camera in hand, I'd put the coffee on and climb the stairs to our favorite bakery (chosen for it's proximity after climbing all those stairs) for honey, croissants and, if I could find one, an English language paper for Turk. Then we'd eat on that magical terrace, lingering as long as we possibly could before setting out to shop, eat and explore. I have never been so indolent on vacation before in my life.

And no, I have not a single regret.

Even the dogs are happier here.

We did manage to organize a day trip, clinging to the straps of the local bus for a 45 minute jaunt to the island capital of Fira, a city with spectacular vistas of its own. It was here that we came upon a mode of transportation unfamiliar to most Southern Californians, although we should take note. It strikes me as a very green way to get about.

"Want to ride a burro?" I asked the Turk hopefully.

"Where's it going?" he asked.

I had to admit I had no idea. "To the bottom of the cliff, it appears."

"I'm already at the top of the cliff. Why do I need to go to the bottom?" he inquired.

"Because it's there?"

He looked at me.

"I am not getting on an ass," he replied firmly, "just because it is there."

I could not argue with the wisdom of that.

I absolutely loved Fira for graciously providing their hardworking donkeys with the wonderfully named Magic Sunset Pool Bar. As far as I can see, it is the only watering hole/pool bar for working burros and I applaud their humanity. After a long, hard day hauling around sweaty tourists I think it is the very least they could do.

Athena, divine goddess of whatever-place-we-are-drinking-at-now.

Everyday at around 6:00 pm tour buses drop off day trippers and cruise shippers by the thousands (I think) at the town plaza. From there they begin a slow, winding pilgrimage through the streets of Oia to the western-most point. There, perching on walls, roofs and even at restaurant tables they remain poised for what must be one of the most heralded events on the planet. Our worldly innkeeper finds this exasperating.

"The people that do this are stupid," he tells us one day, shaking his head in disbelief. "Everyone has a sunset! The sun goes down everywhere. It is no different here than on any other part of the island. This is not even the best view. But here is where they bus them..." He sighs and shrugs. People. What are you gonna do?

He makes an excellent point.

Although it is a very pretty sunset.

We made the trek exactly once. After that, we were content to put our feet up, sip a bottle of the house white, watch the colors change over the caldera and thank the gods once again for our very great good fortune.

Yamas! Cheers.

Mykonos

2008-11-05T13:39:00.000-08:00

As travelers, my husband and I tend to be A-type overachievers. This in direct opposition to my own everyday behavior which is, at this point, so excessively underachieving as to defy any level of letter-type designation. So determined am I in my effortlessness that I can only be described as a slacker. An elderly slacker. An S-type.

But as travelers, we are unstoppable.

We study up on the art and politics of a region before we go; we know what we want to see and what we need to do to get there. I took a semester of Italian at the local community college before our first trip to Italy; I'd already had 6 years of French before heading for Paris. Turk, whose career was in transportation management back in the misty long ago is a wizard with maps, bus and train schedules, co-ordinating every connection with military precision. On the road we are early to bed and early to rise, cramming as much education and exploration into the space of a single day as we possibly can. We are, dare I say it, positively ambitious.

That all fell away on Mykonos.

In fact, that all pretty much died at the Petasos Beach Resort and Spa.

RIP crazed, overachieving tourists ~ I got me an infinity pool! And a beach! And luxury shampoos and bath gels, and a bathroom I can actually turn around in.

And suddenly, we didn't want to leave.

My conscientious journal keeping took a decided hit as well ~ each night's entry for the entire 4 night stay contains a day, a date and a long, crooked line heading down the page as the writer fell swiftly and soundly asleep.

One entry does survive intact, in all its breathless inanity:

Platis Yialos, Mikonos
Room 185 2:10 am

Will not write long. Or much. Or well. Lovely day. We're on Mikonos! Had to keep telling ourselves. Actually went & lay out on the beach, just like real beach resort people. We went swimming!!

Later took bus to Hora (Chora?) for dinner. Amazing, wonderful place! Fairy tale, lovely dinner at Eva's Garden ~ fresh grilled Sea Bream (bass?) for me, roasted chicken for him, the freshest salad ~ olives olives olives! tomato, soft feta, olives! 'rocket' greens, a jug of the house white ~ all perfect! Then home, a glass of wine on the balcony and tomorrow, breakfast on the open terrace.

What can I say? Life is good.

What can I say? Paul Theroux I am not.

I'm not sure how long I spent in the sea, in that first thrilling swim in the Aegean. I know that Turk was standing up and scanning the water anxiously by the time I headed for shore. But it was exhilarating, playing in that salty crystal clear water ~ swimming out toward the beckoning horizon made me feel free and powerful in ways I hadn't felt in years. Looking down, I could see small fish passing through and around my legs; looking up, the brilliant blue Mediterranean sky. In the realm of Poseidon I was born again.

The Heinekens the waiter kept bringing didn't hurt a bit, either.

We had planned to rent a car to go exploring but no longer felt the need. A hike around Platis Yialos to Paradise Beach offered up its own treasures; indeed, for the hale and hearty the island seems hikeable in its entirety, given enough time. And in the evening there was Mikonos Town, a short bus ride away.

Mikonos Town is a beautiful place, a party town, at once youthful and historic. Although overrun with tourists from every corner of the globe and not above its share of kitsch, it remains a delight; a minute jewel-box of a town that has not lost its joy or essentially Greek nature. It is home to the most romantic tavernas and restaurants on the planet, each striving to outdo themselves in idyllic charm. Walled gardens twinkle with fairy lights, terraced patios bask in the glow of open firepits and votive candles nestled in stony nooks. We asked for local favorites and found a couple on our own; Eva's Garden and Phillippe's are the only two I found named in my spectacularly underkept journal, although I can see them clearly all in memory's eye. But the food was uniformly excellent in every place we chose, and the house wines in each, served in jugs or bottle, were marvelous. Really.

In Little Venice, the sea breaks over (suddenly) unoccupied taverna tables. Which explains all those soggy postcards I sent.

This particular windmill is actually a private home. How adorable is that? And how very inconvenient. As I and my 300 or so traveling companions stood about staring and taking pictures, I realized that odd, universally understood truth; when you live in a Mykonos windmill, you are never truly alone.

The peaceful pelicans of Mykonos pose prettily pastel in the plaza. They are serenely beautiful creatures and, like the locals themselves, tolerant of the frequent foolishness of tourists. It saddened me, though, that when I asked a shopkeeper how the birds were trained, he glanced around to see that we were alone before replying, sotto voce,

"Ah, alas, their wings are clipped." He lifted his shoulders with a weary what-are-you-gonna-do shrug.

"Otherwise, of course, they might fly away."

Of course.

I had but one regret on leaving the otherwise enchanting Isle of Mykonos. We had looked forward to spending one day visiting the nearby island of Delos which, we are reliably informed, is the birthplace of Apollo and remains the sacred refuge of the gods, home to many ancient marvels ~ the Grotto of Hercules, the Avenue of the Lions, the House of Masks...

Alas, be aware: the Island of the Gods is closed on Mondays. After a long weekend even deities, it seems, prefer their Mondays off.

hey, we did!

2008-11-05T00:27:00.000-08:00

"In this country, we rise or fall as one nation, as one people...and while the Democratic party has won a great victory tonight we do so with a measure of humility and determination to heal the divides that have held back our progress.

As Lincoln said, to a nation far more divided than ours, 'We are not enemies but friends. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection.'"

Tonight, we once again heard the voice of a leader of nations. Tonight, the republic was born anew.

I am so happy I can hardly stand myself.

Oh, yeah. And George? You are so fired.

Athens

2008-11-02T14:41:00.000-08:00

Winding through the narrow streets of stone the Acropolis, that perfect wonder of the ancient world, appears suddenly on high, at the top of a steep rocky mountain. Even at this distance it takes one's breath away. According to my guidebook, purchased at a corner news stand:

No wonder the violet-crowned had been envied by gods and men ever since Poseidon and Athena disputed the patronage of the newly found city. The God of the Sea struck the rock of the Acropolis with his trident, and water as well as a fiery steed sprang forth. Yet the Olympian gods sitting in judgement awarded the coveted prize to the Goddess of Wisdom for her olive tree, symbol of peace and prosperity.

The approach appears to be working for them.

The people of Greece live their daily lives in the shadow of these ancient gods, past and present melding, not seamlessly but beautifully, like parallel universes existing side by side but on different planes. In places, the fabric of time has worn sheer enough to see through to, and perhaps even touch another, ancient reality. Motorcycles whip by medieval mosques and chic young things in skinny jeans and stilletto-heeled boots saunter past Byzantine churches while chattering into blackberries. Here are classical landmarks known to every student of art history: the Roman Agora, the Temple of Hephaestus, the Arch of Hadrian and, of note because it is now my favorite monument name ever, The Bath House of the Winds. Gazing up to that mountain and its gleaming marble temples silhouetted against a darkening sky, it is easy to imagine oneself at the mercy of tempestuous gods.

Regrettably, we only had a day and a half in Athens, and a serious exploration of such incredible sites requires more. After an exhausting and very cramped flight in from Atlanta, we landed at Marco Polo Airport around 11:30 am, picked up a cab at the taxi stand and made our way directly to the Acropolis Museum Boutique Hotel; chic and charming, with easy access to the plaka and Acropolis. After freshening up just a bit, we hit the ground running, without direction or plan. We wandered through the winding streets of the old town, encountering the remains of a Roman library, Hellenic ruins and Christian basilicas. We wound our way dreamily past bustling shops, markets, and tavernas. And all the time climbing, climbing, long and twining, under what proved to be a very hot, hard, Mediterranean sun.

When finally we reached the Acropolis, poor Turk, who's been battling arthritis in his legs and whose feet, ankles and knees were badly swollen from the long flight, sat down on the steps of the Propylaea and announced he could go no further. He found a spot to rest while I mounted the stairs, walked through a brief passageway and looked upward to see, looming quite suddenly it seemed, the mighty Parthenon.

Situated on the highest platform of the Acropolis, majestic in its proportions, it is so much larger than I had ever imagined to be, and tremendously impressive. The ground we stand on appears to be all natural marble, veined pink and grey and ivory. It is beautiful, slippery, shiny and smooth.

I decided, standing before the Erechthion with its famous Porch of the Caryatids, that if I ever decide to denounce my atheism and worship a deity (or three) Athena, she of Olympian wisdom, would be my goddess of first choice. Built on the site of an earlier temple of Athena between 406 and 393 CE, the Erechthion is dedicated to both Athena and Poseidon, the God of the Sea, to whom I am also perfectly willing to pay tribute, should the occasion arise. But I fell in love with the the Caryatids way back in high school; those lovely, graceful figures of young women in flowing drapery and elaborate head dress supporting that immense stone structure has always appealed to me as an image of feminine strength and beauty. Without the goddess, there is no temple. Without support, the roof collapses. Without women, the world comes tumbling down.

I went back, grabbed the Turk and begged him to come up and meet the temple gods. He did, and pronounced them good.

The sun was setting as we wound our way back down the hill. We stopped at a tiny, picturesque taverna, with tables set on either side of a narrow street. When we told him we wanted to sit outside, the owner ~ there is always an owner, manager or family member enticing you in, bidding you welcome ~ beckoned us to one of these tables, saying, "Here is outside ~ in the middle of the road! Watch out for cars!" We laughed. And realized, as a small vehicle inched past our knees minutes later, that he was only half joking.

Rested, we wandered down into the Plaka, where the narrow lanes have preserved their local color and the tavernas, shops, nightclubs and bars are alive with the musical chatter of locals and tourists of every nationality in nearly equal numbers. The shopping is indeed marvelous, with fabrics, clothing, leather goods and jewelry literally spilling out onto the street. It has all the liveliness of a modern bazaar.

One of the elements in this city of parallel realities that struck me as most surprising was the quality of the grafitti. Much of it was startling and beautifully rendered. My first thought was that some of it belonged in a gallery, but this was quickly replaced by another ~ that it was perfect just as it was; an art that lives, breathes in the streets, an intrinsic part of an exciting community.

Later that evening, at an attractive winebar called Brettos we met the garrulous sommelier/owner who regaled us with tales of his many travels in search of the perfect wines for all occasions. Looking over the menu I told him that I had never tasted absynthe. He insisted on pouring me a glass.

"This is not Greek, it is French, but your first must be the very best," he said with a conspiratorial wink.

Turk looked on warily. "Isn't that stuff supposed to make you hallucinate?" he asked, sounding for all the world like a man not anxious to have his wife hallucinating in public.

"I believe that is the point," I said cheerfully, watching the clear emerald liquid turn cloudy as the ice dissolved in the tapered glass. I took a long, slow, anticipatory sip.

It was delightful; refreshing, licorice-y, a bit like Pernod. I can't truthfully say I saw any little green fairies that evening. But I did get a fabulous night's sleep.

oh, for the love of blogger

2008-10-28T02:15:00.000-07:00

My blog has been driving me crazy of late. It's been in need of an extreme makeover for ages, but since I lack the necessary skills to make it work (thank you, Tim Gunn) nothing ever came of it. Still, I wanted to upload some new pics and finally just couldn't stand to put them in the old space. Thus, I have been screwing around with this thing for practically the entire day. And now it's 2:00 am.

Can you say obsessive, boys and girls? Yes, of course you can. And can you spell Xanax too? Hint ~ it starts and stops with the same letter! I know, it's so cool. Now go write mama a nice prescription. Before she starts this whole thing over again. From scratch.

She'll do it too. You know she will. She is in a dark place, apparently. A dark blogger place.

But ~ yay (!) I think. A new look at last; not exactly how I wanted it (or tried for hours to get it...ok, sorry...letting it go) but there it is. The picture is an acrylic I did ages ago when I was thinking of trying to develop some quick and cute character paintings to sell on eBay. But I never do anything quick, or cute, or to the point of usefulness, so I never developed the theme. Or sold anything on eBay. How nice that here at last I find a purpose for my little lotus flowers. And props to my friend Robbie for the sub-heading ~ it's actually printed on a martini glass she gave me for Christmas one year. And here I thought I was the only yoga babe with issues. So much for original neurosis.

I'm off to bed. I wonder if this thing will still be here in the morning.

And I so totally forget what I wanted to post in the first place.

going postal

2008-10-25T11:35:00.000-07:00

I did it. Yesterday, I voted. And because I still don't trust my vote to electronic machines manufactured by companies owned by avowed party loyalists who have, in their less-guarded past, vowed to "deliver" states to the Republicans, have been known to mysteriously switch votes cast for Democrats and are still hackable within 3 minutes by a fifth grader with a laptop and incentive, I voted via absentee ballot. If this is the modern equivalent of chiseling my choices on a stone and throwing it though the window of election headquarters, so be it. I'm crazy that way.

On local measures, I voted for women's choice and against voiding gay rights. I voted for mass transit and against animal cruelty; for slow-growth candidates and against T. Boone Pickens' ability to buy personal legislation. I would have voted against Arnold Schwarzenegger again but he doesn't seem to be running for anything. Or running anything, for that matter. Is he still in charge around here? Somebody find him and ask.

Most of all, I voted for change. I voted against fear and for hope. I voted for the liberal ideals of the founding fathers as embodied in the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution of the United States of America. I voted for a return to fact-based science and compassionate and rational governance. I voted for an end to Bush's War and the corporate hijacking of the ship of state; for a rebirth of global leadership and the respect of nations. I voted for the Republic and for the People.

I feel fabulous.

at sixes and sevens

2008-10-22T12:42:00.000-07:00

Still not here but no longer there, I can't quite bring myself to settle back into my mundane suburban existence. All twitchy disorientation, I have one foot in Costco and one in the Aegean as I pay bills, sort papers and delete emails (only 131 to go!) I have yet to fully unpack, and my traveling cosmetic bag still hangs on a hook on the bathroom door, as if anticipating a move on to fresh accommodation in the morning. There is laundry and grocery shopping still to be done, as well as closets and photographs to organize. Lots and lots of photographs.

I took exactly 1147 pictures on my trip, which awed even Turk, who had begun to complain that he could no longer recognize me without a camera in front of my face. And yet as it turns out, I did not take quite enough.

Downloading the contents of my tiny Canon Elph, I realize that not once did I capture that deep, diamond-studded blue of the Mediterranean Sea, so clear at the shoreline that I could have counted grains of sand from the air. Nor did I immortalize the glorious reds of the bougainvillea that adorned the whitewashed brilliance of Mykonos, or the peach-drenched burst of a Santorini sunset. Although we spent hours exploring it, the Athenian Acropolis was beyond my ability to embrace digitally, as was the incredible Palace at Knossos. The photographs pale in comparison to the real thing, as may be expected, and the true glories of the monuments there will forever be a thing of memory for me.

But the single most exceptional memory I will always have of Greece is the genuine expansiveness and humanity of her people. In all of our travels, Turk and I have never encountered such gracious, fun-loving and open-hearted people. From taxi drivers to waiters, gas station attendants and bank clerks; housewives, teenagers and old men alike; nearly every single human being we encountered exuded welcome and warmth. Particularly on the islands, everyone we stopped on the street to ask for directions or otherwise inquire was eager and willing to help a foreign stranger; if that person didn't speak English, as was sometimes the case, they'd take us by the hand and lead us to someone who could. Who would in turn go and find a map, draw us a picture and, if we were clearly very, very dense, as was sometimes the case, would hop on their vespas and show us the way. Then, with a smile and a wave and a puff of a tsigharo, be gone. Not once did anyone treat us with anything less than respect, patience and good humor, no matter how obtuse or annoying we must have been. Truly, it was an amazing thing for a couple of old cynics to behold, for this one certainly, and a lesson in an elevated state of being. I owe the people of Greece a debt of gratitude for this alone ~ an education on the ways of an enlightened humanity.

Efharisto.

Now I'm off to the bank. I gather there've been some sort of financial shenanigans going on. I wonder how my Wachovia stock is doing. Catch you later. Yiassou...

yiassou, babies!

2008-10-16T13:58:00.000-07:00

It was a fabulous trip; a wonderful journey, an experience of a lifetime.

And as with those oft-dreaded dinner parties of yore; the ones after which guests payed for their feast by viewing their hosts' interminably narrated vacation film (god, I miss those parties. Hey ~ it's me in front of the Temple of Athena! Now, from over this side!) I fully intend to bore everyone to tears with tales of it before long. It's what I do.

We got in late Tuesday night following a grueling 17 hour flight with the good people of Delta Airlines (motto: happily breaking kneecaps since 1975!) and spent yesterday in some sort of peanut-induced coma. Rather than unpacking, and before uploading my 537 pictures of the Parthenon taken from 87 different angles and in varying lights (At sunset! At dawn! At 5 minutes after dawn! In widescreen! Slightly bigger than widescreen! A movie!) I hit the net to make a quick survey of my fave blogs to ensure that everyone was well and whole and not under indictment or fleeing the country or anything. Most of them were not, I'm surprised and perhaps even a little disappointed to say.

Honestly people, I expect more from you. Don't make me go back to Europe for my entertainments. Or do.

Anyway, after spending 3 weeks mercifully campaign-free ~ CNN was available at only a few of the hotels in which we stayed, and American newspapers a hit-and- miss affair ~ I was leery of once again entering the fray. When last we saw our heroine, Sarah I-can't-name-a-newspaper-because-I-read-all-of-them Palin, the right-wing press was swooning over Caribou Barbie and her obvious feminist credentials (look~ she's a girl!) and I wondered how well that image had played out with the American people.

Seems I needn't have worried. Way to go, my fellow Americans! And when I found this at Girly Shoes, my best source for such pithy links and always the best damn ANTM and Project Runway recaps ever, I laughed so hard I was almost glad to be home. Almost.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to pick up 3 weeks worth of junk mail, which means I have to go rent a truck. In the meantime, if you haven't seen it, enjoy.

For my part, if this woman gets in you can find me and the Turk nursing our wounds with a bottle of ouzo, a bowl of olives and a pack of Sante's on the beautiful isle of Crete.

Sante'.