Fin.

Driving home from celebrating my Mother-in-Law's birthday today*, I started to convince myself that yesterday was actually supposed to be my final post for the year. Which would have been great. It would make sense to end on that note. But, no, a quick calendar check brought me back to reality. It is today. Which is more fitting, as it completes a theme that has been recurrent over the last 364 days: I have absolutely nothing on my mind to write about.

I envisioned that, when this day eventually came, I would have some ground-breaking, grand finale of a post. But that would have required me to think ahead. Hmmm.

So, right now, I'm doing what I did many nights during my sentence: I'm just going to keep writing words, one in front of the next, until something happens. At this point, I warn you to proceed knowing that it might not.

In thinking about the past 12 months, it's a little surprising that this day is here. A year is a long time, but so much of what I am looking back on seems still so recent.

Like last summer's brush with death that endured long enough that it cannot be called a brush at all. More like, maybe, a pummeling. Of course, I wasn't even close to walking toward that bright light, but I didn't know that at the time.

Or how we ended up with the same number of cats in the house on day one as we did on day 365, but not without an unexpected shuffling of the cards that brought us both joy and deep sadness.

Then there was my unexplained, but thankfully temporary, obsession with both Lawrence Welk and the Masons. Not at the same time, at least.  

And, a lot of deep soul searching that led me to make some big changes. Some short lived, some still in the works, some achieved.

Writing every day for a year was a huge pain in the ass, and many times I cursed myself for making such a difficult commitment. But it forced me to experiment, it demanded me to think and think some more, and it required me to abide by an obligation. I did what I set out to do when I started this blog:

Eat.

Think.
 

And be daring.

And, write a lot of silliness in between, of course.

That's it. This is...

~The End~



*No, we did not choose her over my Dad on Father's Day; actually, my parents are in Iowa doing...you know what? I'm not certain what they're doing...hmmm...I never am.

The Best of My Love.

A couple of years ago, sometime around that year's end, a co-worker & I were discussing doing a "best of" post for our company's blog. She asked me to pick my favorites, but instead of doing that, I countered that we shouldn't list our favorites, we should list our readers' favorites. Otherwise, it would be too self-serving, I explained. Not one to ever win a disagreement with this person, I ended up giving her my favorites, but because I can be petty when I'm losing, I gave her a list of only my entries. In fairness, it was true.

Here I am at the penultimate (that word's for you, Ben!) post for this blog, and I've decided I should create my own "best of" post. As I only have 15 followers and a fraction of that of actual readers, there is little data for me to base any kind of readers' choice on, so they'll have to be mine. Here they are: 

1. On music: No Lifeboat Needed.
2. Creative writing exercise: Fallen.
3. Use of the F word: #%@&!.
4. Stupidest: a tie between Art is Fart and Don't Read This.<also an F word contender.
5. On food: Oh, Crap.
6. Most personal: I Will Never Know.
7. Attempt at sharing wisdom: Take My Advice.
8. Self reflection/improvement: Today is Tomorrow's Yesterday.
9. A little ranting: Look it Up.  
10. Promises, promises: Tough Love.

Huh, tomorrow is the last day... I think I'm gonna miss this...

Don't just be a friend. Be a friend.

One of the cool things about facebook is that you can know pretty much how all of your friends are doing, without ever picking up the phone or messaging them directly. (Man, do I hate talking on the phone...) This is especially nice for those friends whom you never would, but still like or know enough to care what they're up to these days. (On the flip side of that, a friend of mine and I refused for a long time to be facebook friends because we saw each other almost every day and wanted to actually talk about what's happening in our lives without knowing it already, in an almost weird telepathic kind of way. We gave in when she decided she wouldn't be seeing me or any of my coworkers with the same frequency anymore.)

Anyway, the downside of all this is that it's easy, when their news is scrolling past your eyes in a never ending feed, to forget to check in on those people you do care a lot about. My dear friend in Turkey is witnessing some crazy shit right now. But I know she is OK because she is updating all of us constantly with new posts. Whew, right?

Except she doesn't know that I am relieved that she is OK. She doesn't know that I've read every post and done my best to understand through the translation what is happening. She doesn't know that I click on every link of hers and everyone else's that have to do with the riots and chapulling going on in Istanbul's Taksim Square. Only I know that. And that was a thoughtless mistake on my part. I should have checked in. Not because I needed me to know, but because she did.

For those of you who want a synopsis of what's going on, here's a pretty informative article (sent to me by you know who...)

Üzgünüm. Seni sevdiğimi biliyorsun. 

Do-Over #2.

Last summer, on July 17, I wrote another post that I didn't want to share. Considering what I've shared since then, it seems pretty benign. But I was incredibly fragile at that time, and I know that the stress I was feeling was making me a little crazy. A lot crazy. Off the map crazy. Here it is, with only a couple of deletes. 

"I just arrived home with my new prescription and sat down to read the indications and cautions. Yes, the rash that I thought I had fought off is lingering on and this is the latest treatment in response to yet another, different diagnosis.

The problem is, having done my reading, I am now afraid to take this medication. Not only will I be on it for as many as 12 weeks, I also won’t know for quite awhile if it is working. And considering the record of accuracy so far, you might say I am losing my trust.

I would just try it anyway, but this drug has possible side effects. Some serious, some just troubling: like the potential loss of smell and taste that could be permanent. I quite like these two senses, and the fact that they are my two highest functioning makes me feel a certain attachment to them as my last connections with the world of experiences.

This probably sounds a little crazy, but I honestly can’t remember the last time I felt so anxious and panicked. I am so hyper-aware of how wrong I feel that I’m actually freaking out about freaking out."

That was pretty much it. It is difficult now to even remember what I was feeling at that time. Being nine months free of the condition (although not cured), I've forgotten what was like to be so ill and to have no one know why.

I do recall at one point telling Ben that I felt no joy in my life anymore. This made us both feel terrible, but for completely different reasons, I suspect. It took great effort and some much needed hope to become myself again. But, what it illuminated for me, and clearly, I am in danger of forgetting that, is that so many people suffer. They have illnesses that can't be cured or controlled. They must still find a way to live and appreciate the time and the moments they do have. And that's pretty humbling to think about.  
 

Trust Me.

What I've been thinking about over the last several days is how little I've been thinking about this NSA call collecting business. And my complacency is not because I am dim-witted, or too wrapped up in my daily trivialities (which, by the way, are strikingly few compared to the average person) to get it.

I might be guilty of naiveté, but, I really don't feel threatened or concerned by this at all. In my mind, I am an insignificant person whose private moments are just as I am: insignificant. It feels to me a bit silly that so many people are in an uproar over this. They strike me as having an incongruent measure of their own importance.

Whether we're important or not should not decide whether we have a right to privacy, I know. And just because they've been doing this for the last seven years and we've just now taken note of it doesn't make it any more right or wrong either.

Yet, still, I have felt for a long time, I suppose specifically since I started engaging with the digital age, that this is a consequence of our modern times. When we made the choice to engage in a web of practically unlimited interconnectedness, we surrendered, in my mind, our expectation that we could not be seen, known, heard, or tracked.

Note, I did not say our right, but our expectation. And those are two entirely different concepts. So, now, I ask: who are the ones being naive?    

Recycled.

At work, I've been writing about the same concepts for four and a half years, which greatly increases the risk of self plagiarizing. I've more than once actually written the same sentence, or, worse, an entire paragraph that is damn near verbatim of a piece I've already written.

I'm always kind of surprised when it happens, wondering how I could not remember that I've already extracted that thought. In defense, I do write a great deal of copy that never gets used, and it is hard to keep track of what does and what doesn't. It's really too bad that the brain doesn't have some sort of flush function. How great if I could just evacuate any used combination of words with the push of a button. (I'm thinking like one of those pneumatic vacuums they have for airplane toilets...)

Writing every day for this blog is no different. Most times I'm suspicious and have to google my own work when a cautionary flare goes off. But, tonight, I was feeling pretty sure that I had a point to make that I've not made yet in the past 360 days.

I would love to share that with you, but it's awfully late.

Maybe tomorrow.

I Like Love.

I've been listening to a lot of Bollywood music lately, and I've been hearing a specific word sung so frequently, I figured it must be a pretty important one in the Hindi language. The word is ishq. I never got around to looking it up until today, when I recalled that the Turkish word aşk means love. And I now know that ishq does, too. Duh. Not just an important word, but the ultimate word.

Being a bit of an etymology nerd, I was delighted to learn this from Wikipedia: 

"The word is derived from ‘ashiqah, a vine: the common belief is that when love takes its root in the heart of a lover, everything other than God is effaced."

I like that.

I also like that this word has its own wiki page, which should not be surprising. But, still, not every word in every language does. Just the special ones.

Think. Just Think.

It's too bad more people don't read this blog, not just for the sake of my ego, but because maybe if they did, they'd have caught the post from February 19 and let #9 sink in. (I think I've referenced #9 at least once since, and there's a good reason for it.)

Every once in a while if I feel like being really pissed off, I'll read the comments on an NPR article posted on facebook. One of today's was a whopper, and, as I read each contribution, I was dumbfounded by all the dumbness.

First of all, if one person other than you has already expressed the same opinion (let alone, say, 50 others), then why leave yours? You aren't sharing anything new, you're just, what, letting the rest of the world know you had a thought, too?

Second, if you're dead set on sharing your comment, anyway, then at least check your work before you hit post. Vomiting is involuntary. Stuff comes out before you have time to stop it. Not true with the ideas in your head. If you are so careless that you would type an indecipherable message that could be made decipherable by reviewing it first, you've not only achieved nothing, you've just proclaimed to a far-reaching audience that you are a sloppy idiot. (Yes, we all make mistakes. That's why they gave us a delete button.)

And, finally, back to my introductory point: all of this arguing is pointless. Especially with strangers. And even more especially with people whose beliefs are of so little consequence to themselves that they can't even give them the attention to detail they require.

No matter how valid your evidence, or how persuasive your argument, you rarely, if ever, can change another person's mind. 

Onward, But Not Upward.

There's a house that I drive past frequently in a more affluent part of our city that's on my way to here, there, and everywhere it seems. The property and gardens are meticulously manicured, including two shrubs out front near the drive that are always dressed (yeah, I said dressed) for the season. It's part charming and part eccentric, but I can't fault the person for getting down to the details.

I always assumed that the homeowner (a woman I've seen from time to time) had a lot of free time to work with. A lot. It never entered my mind that she had help, until the other day when I noticed a golf cart outside the home and an elderly Hispanic man crouched down plucking, primping, and pruning anything that was sprouting or blooming.

As I passed him, I thought: he is exactly who I want to talk to. One of the small people behind the big people. One of the ones who is moving and shaking in a completely different way than those celebrated as leaders in our community.

As I go in to my last week of writing for this blog, this new project is on my mind. I can't wait to get started, but that is in the future and I am in the now.

This Is Not Normal.

We just returned from Festival of the Arts in downtown GR. We go almost every year, despite the crazy crowds and questionable entertainment. It's the 25+ food tents that entice us, and while much of it is pretty tasty, it's not really the ideal way to have a meal: on foot, with paper-thin napkins, and ill-behaved humans of all ages stepping on our feet and elbowing us in the plates we're trying to not to spill.

Of course, the people watching is prime, if not somewhat disturbing. I know I'm weird. And most of my friends and loved ones are weird. But the weird we see in this crowd is in a different family of weird. I can't help but think: who are these weirdos and where did they come from? I don't know any of them, and yet Grand Rapids is not a big city. Do they hibernate all year and only come out for the first weekend in June?

I don't know the answer, but I'm definitely a little weirded out right now. 

The old guy dancing up front? He's good weird. The rest of you? Hmmm.

Ave Marie.

Today we heard the news that a loved figure in our community died. Because I didn't know her personally, I was a bit surprised by how profoundly sad I felt about it all day. I fought tears several times and choked on my words when I tried to talk with others about her.

She owned Marie Catrib's restaurant where she created inspired dishes made from fresh, whole, locally grown & raised "everything." Like everyone else in town, I never minded waiting for a seat, which was pretty much every time. 

But the food will live on, so why such sadness over a near stranger?

The thing was, she treated everyone she met like a dear friend. She remembered each individual. She connected with her customers personally at every spare moment. And, once, she was remarkably kind to us when our lunchmates' child went into a frenetic meltdown. 

She was special. And, I'm telling you, we could taste her heart and soul in every item on the menu, even if she didn't cook it herself.

Those of us who are so moved by her passing are so because she made us want to be better humans. Want to be motivated from a place of love and compassion, instead of all those other emotions. 

Yeah, I'm making a pretty big deal about her, but that's because she was.

Farewella!

Tonight we had a goodbye celebration for a co-worker whom I love in real life, but am not all that sad to see go in my other real life known as work. I won't go into the gory details; it's enough to say that I had an extra reason to give cheers tonight than the rest of my colleagues (as far as I know). In all fairness, I suspect the feeling is mutual.

For her final farewell tomorrow, I made a Nutella fondue, which turned out spectacular enough to share. Here is the recipe:

1 cup of heavy cream
8 oz. 70-80% cacao dark chocolate, chopped
1 cup of Nutella

In a medium saucepot, heat the cream on low heat until steaming but not boiling. Remove from heat and add the chocolate and Nutella. Let sit for a few minutes, then whisk until smooth. Transfer to a fondue pot set on low and serve. As far as I know this will  keep overnight and can be reheated the next day.

That was easy, but it's still about all I can handle this evening.

Nighty-night!

Do-Over #1.

In my final days of this year of blogging, I thought I might go back and request a few of do-overs. My first blunder happened on July 10, when the hour turned late and, after losing time floundering over the content of my post, I finally decided to confess that I had nothing satisfactory to share.

This is the offending post, with a few edits:

In class tonight, my instructor pronounced for me the Arabic names of the 22 countries in the Arab League. I giggled when she got to Palestine, as it is more enunciated: phelisteen. I thought, thankfully not aloud, hehe, 
f­ucking philistines.

In my house, this is a favorite way to express disgust for the artistically, culturally, and intellectually bankrupt. I also like knuckle draggers and mouth breathers. Sometimes in combination, depending on the severity of the case; always with that same modifier.

I couldn’t wait to get home and see if I could find the connection between Palestine, Philistia, and Philistinism and learn whether my insult had its founding in racial bigotry. Not because wanted it to, but so that I might figure out where its roots came from, and stop using it if I discovered it evolved from an ancient ethnic slur.

I’m not entirely sure what I’ve concluded after reading this, this, and this.

I'm inclined to believe that it was originally born out of groundless intolerance. Which is a damn shame because my use of it is entirely justified.

**6/17/2013 update**

Aggg. I just re-read this post in the light of day and, despite my efforts, it still sounds a bit to me like I'm saying something horrible about Palestinians. Palestinians are fine, as far as I know. Remarkably, I have two friends from Gaza: one who lives here in Michigan now and one who is over there. I like them. But I dislike philistines.    

Buzzed.

Last night I undid the tight bun my hair was twisted into (a look reserved for Sunday trips to the grocery store and the occasional weekday when I've snoozed an extra 20 minutes too long) and started finger-brushing through the snarls and curls. As I tried to tame the serpentine mass, a thought popped into my head: maybe I could shave it all off...?

I indulged for a few minutes in a fantasy in which I was not only bald and beautiful, but also sporting a different pair of earrings for every day of the year. I would need to invest in more sets, but that was a fixable problem.

When I felt sufficiently convinced that this was a brilliant idea, I interrupted Game of Thrones to ask, "Ben, would you still love me if I shaved my head?" And he replied, "Of course, I would love you just like a sister."

Though he was teasing, I suspected a hint of truth to it. But, then, he has stuck with me through other hair-related fiascoes, really bad eyeglass frame choices, and more than one drastic weight gain. I had a pretty good sense that he could handle it.

It's not like I need his permission, anyway, but I did feel like it would be fair to get some input from the person who wakes up next to me every day. Knowing he didn't really care was all I needed to put some more momentum behind my scheme.

But then I told facebook what I was thinking and (I should not be at all surprised) got an onslaught of opinions, including one not in favor emailed privately to me. What my friend said made a lot of sense, and I realized that shaving my head is not like changing my shade of lipstick. Does it need to be that extreme to be a liberating change? Probably not.

Of course, this morning, a friend who once had a star etched in the hair on the back of her head said she had been thinking about it for 10 years. We ended up talking for quite a while about why we would want to do it. And all that made sense, too.

Truth is, this is a big deal in my small world. But really it is just a pointless battle between embracing vanity and making a symbolic gesture to reject it. It is, in short, a silly thing to put so much brain power to. 

Good night, friends. 

Agreeing to Disagree.

Last night we went to see Bill Maher perform live. Being in arguably the most conservative city in Michigan, we wondered if we might be the only ones to show up. But the house was full and, at first, I felt comforted being surrounded by so many like-minded people. And, really, there are few instances when you can be more sure that you are with your kind than by choosing to be entertained by someone who has very specific, unwavering, and unapologetic opinions on politics, religion, sex, and social issues.

So, that was interesting for a few minutes until I remembered that liberals can be just as annoying as right-wingers. Well, almost. OK, not really even close. But they have their annoying moments. Like the couple in front of us who had possibly just returned from a sex therapy retreat and were still in the throes of their rekindled affection for one-another. That was a little uncomfortable.

The woman behind us had likely tipped back a few too many glasses of chardonnay, and had granted herself permission to burst out interchangeably in smug agreement and overzealous laughter.

I enjoyed the show immensely, but left it remembering that we can become complacent when sheltered in the arms of those we have no differences with. And in that safe place, we risk that we will stop growing and learning and seeking to form independent thoughts. And there's absolutely nothing progressive about that. 

 

Status Symbol.

The dreaded question for me whenever I meet new people is explaining what I do for a living. For starters, the name of my company is strange and usually has to be repeated more than once. By the third echo, we have to agree to move on, which is the point when I mention that our office is out by the airport. This has absolutely no significance, but it sometimes distracts the conversation from its original topic.

If it doesn't and I'm forced to persist, then it's time to explain what employee recognition is and what kind of copy I could possibly write for such an abstract concept. Couldn't we please talk politics instead? That would be so much less complicated!

People on the more senior end of my generation find it unnecessary. They believe that it's acknowledgement enough to get a paycheck and that they shouldn't be rewarded for showing up and doing their jobs as they're supposed to. This makes sense. Kind of. But if I believed that too much, I wouldn't be very good at what I do.

Feeling valued and appreciated is important to us as humans, not just workers. Factor in that the emerging workforce is filled will millennials who thrive on it in every aspect of their lives, and it becomes required practice.

Well, now that I feel like I'm trying to sell you a used car, let me get to my point. The other day we were having a conversation at work about how facebook has dramatically heightened our need for feedback. No matter what generation we're from, few of us can deny that likes are good. We like likes. The more likes we get, the more we feel clever, successful, resourceful, creative, beautiful...liked.

I started to type that this is probably a problem and why I think it is. But is it? If so, what is it that is created in us that is so wrong? Just wondering if anyone has any similar or differing thoughts on this...?

Mutual Understandings.

At work, I share a bullpen-style cube with two guys, one 26 and one about 10 years older. Our area is surrounded on either side by two identical (in allotment, not population) stations.

While this communal workspace isn't ideal, it is necessary that I be in the middle of all of the action because it's really the only way I would ever know what the hell is going on. Placing me with these two dudes was strategic as well, because everyone knows that while I love my ladies, I do love them more from a distance.

When men and women co-habitate in this way, there are two behavioral outcomes that emerge: there are the activities that we decide we will force our cellmates to live with, such as perpetual blasts of foot deodorizer spray, talking somewhat maniacally to ourselves, and penis jokes. Lots of penis jokes. Then there are the ones that are better left for outside The Grotto. These include passing gas (unless, of course, you are the 26-year-old), clothing adjustments of any kind, and eating bananas.

That's about all I have to say about that. 

Graphic Violence.

Those who communicate with art,
Don’t think writing deserves any part.
They make my work tough,
Thinking imagery’s enough.
Ohh, each word they delete breaks my heart.

Fucking designers.

Fanning the Flames.

I'm 346 days in and I'm about to pull a fast one. Another one, I guess. I worked an 11-hour day today (which is a profound affront to my spiritual beliefs) and, before I left, I suggested an artistic solution to our problem, rather than a written one, because my brain was starting to feel like a toasted marshmallow.

What I'm trying to say is that I used all of the soft, sticky matter trying to respond to "feedback," and, as a result, I have nothing left to give. (I think my little diversion worked, though. Hehehe.)

While I pluck off the scorched bits, why not listen to some cool music created by the son of a really cool guy I used to work with. You can hear it here. And also here.

Exit Humanity.

Unless we're talking about spiders, typos, or an internet outage, there isn't much that scares me. I take in horror movies and books with eyes wide and palms warm and dry. I'm drawn to the genre I guess because it offers thrills and excitement minus any potential of actually being harmed. I love what peoples' deranged imaginations come up with, all the while knowing that all of it is just that: a product of the mind.

But yesterday I read a story that exceeded what any person could imagine. It seemed preposterous. Incomprehensible. It couldn't be that anyone could dream up such savagery. And I was right. Because, he, the author, didn't. He lived it. And, as he recounted back every minute of it, I sweated, I gripped the binding at both edges until my fingers ached, and I choked on the enormous swelling in my throat. When I finished it, I felt exhausted and shaken.  

The book was "Night" by Elie Wiesel. And if you ever want to be truly terrified, you should read it. Actually, either way, you should read it.  

Feast or Famine.

I was looking at myself in the mirror this morning, feeling frustrated that I can't find the will to drop the extra pounds that I've put on over the past year. There's nothing wrong with me now; I'm just a little rounder here and there, which may not be a bad thing. Except that I'm definitely not at that place that I was back in 2010 when I felt nothing short of perfect.

But perfect only in my reflection, I have to continually remind myself. Under the surface, I was sad, frustrated, & confused and had no appetite for anything--food or otherwise. It was not a good time to be me, unless I was trying on clothes or walking in heels. Even then, these were brief flits of comfort to a mind addled with emotional turmoil.

I managed to drag myself out of it and also recognize how important it was that this crisis happened in the first place. It forced me to act; to do; to change. And, in finding contentment with my life, I also found my way back to the joy of eating more than just air and self pity.

If being bone thin was a result of a malnourished soul, then maybe these extra curves signify a kind of satisfaction. And that actually tastes better than skinny feels. 

 
 

Ain't Misbehavin'.

If you've ever looked at trends in maternity clothes (and considering that 90% of my readers are men, I'd guess not), you'd realize that, until very recently, something has been very wrong. (Not that I've had any reason to, either. Let's just write it up under anthropological interest.)

High necklines, peter pan collars, delicate floral prints, and enough fabric to double as a tent in case of emergency seemed to indicate that absolutely nothing except the most immaculate of deeds created this condition. What?!

In more current times, a nice spandex blend stretched creatively over the proverbial breadbasket suffices--and is a much nicer homage to act of procreation. In my opinion.

If I can be honest, it is the permission to let my belly out in such a boastful and blatant way that has made me half consider baby making. Except there would be a baby and a belly not fit for anyone's eyes (knowing my unforgiving flesh) afterward. I'll have none of that.

Now that I am woefully off topic, I'll try to get us back.

The reason I was thinking about prudish maternity clothes is because the same phenomenon occurs in kitchen curtains. Last summer, I desperately combed sites and stores for a replacement of my current all-white coverings. And concluded that the window treatment industry has some shame issues that it needs to work out. The abundance of lace trims, crocheted borders, and pastel color palettes--and lack of anything other--suggests a conspiracy to censor the bacchanalia that goes on in my kitchen. I won't have any of that either.

I finally decided to make my own, inspired by the indulgent designers of tea towels:

They're loud and they shout: "Hey, let's make something!" As it should be.

Auto Frustrato.

We have one Fiat dealer here in town, and they seem to me to be unsure if they want to sell any of them--kind of like a reluctant garage sale host who decides his precious items are just for show right at the moment you've made an offer. Humph.

I drove up and down the parkway with the dealership lot clearly in sight, but an entrance to get in not. I started to wonder if this was really a dream. You know, the kind your subconscious sews together with pieces of your day's frustrations...

But, after my third revolution of Michigan turns, I saw what looked to be a way in, if I turned off the main road and drove in from behind. So I did so, a bit rushed since they only stayed open 'til 4:00 and don't have Sunday or holiday hours.

After I parked, I experienced what no one ever has: a car lot that's open for business without one salesperson on the ground. I wandered the lot alone, unharassed, yet I wouldn't have minded a little. When I walked into the unlocked showroom, it was empty. 

This was feeling more and more like a fantasy, as I stroked their hoods and whispered into their side mirrors--unnoticed and uninterrupted.

I left, finally. No closer to making a purchase. I don't think these ones are for sale...

 

New Rule.

I went to lunch today with a big group to celebrate a friend's birthday. We decided that the first person who checked his/her phone would have to buy the Birthday Girl dessert. Within moments, one person had already weakened and, when spotted, was followed by another, knowing she wasn't the first. A brief (but not at all serious) argument broke out and it was decided that we would all put our phones in the center of the table and leave them there until we finished our meal.

How many times did I forget and motion toward my purse to grab a quick peek? Three. Maybe four. With others, I could see their eyes darting in the direction of the row of phones. But, after a bit, nobody seemed to care anymore...as if we had been transported back to the early aughts when nobody did care.

We were all back on the grid the second we left the table, but, not so surprising, few of us missed out on anything.

I'm Afraid. So?

Today I deleted an email that's been sitting in my work inbox for several months. It was titled "Do Something that Terrifies You" and I saved it because it seemed to me to be a pretty good thing to try.

I am very good at thinking about doing things and talking about doing things, but it's the actual doing of things that I don't do very well. Sometimes when I say them out loud enough times, there's a certain pressure cloud that looms, reminding me that if I don't follow through, I'm creating a reputation for myself and to myself that I'm just a good dreamer. And also a fickle dreamer.

So, I deleted that email because I've decided that it's time to be terrified. And I've started saying things aloud about it, and taking ordered steps in the direction of my fears–even investing in my fears. Which will eventually drop me into a pit that I can't climb out of. And that's what I want, so I'm going to keep moving.

Just Say No.

I'm not sure if you're aware of this, but alcohol can sometimes lower your inhibitions. Surprising, right? And, do you know what else? One glass too many can turn an ill-advised act into a brilliant one. And render the inconceivable by day to probable by the time the hour hand is two marks past your normal bedtime.

How do I know this? A friend told me.

Ikigai.

I woke up this morning knowing it would be a great day.

I'm normally not this much of a zealot, and I'm actually more likely to be a hater than a lover when it comes to new albums from favorite bands, but I had pretty high expectations for the latest Daft Punk.

So, I was out of bed and downloading it from iTunes before the sun was up.

Then, after I showered, I put on quite possibly the awesomest pair of pants ever.

I drove to work in an electronic, Random Access Memories stupor, barely able to stay in my own lane because of the severe aural distraction.

Back to the pants. My friends and coworkers bowed before them with both awe and envy. I walked taller, and, maybe, struck a pose when I thought I could do so without seeming too obvious.

Later, I left work and headed to my dance instructor's 15-year anniversary open house. More Daft Punk on my drive to the studio. Pants still awesome. And, after I arrived, some amazing & inspiring performances from my fellow dancers.

I finished the night with an impromptu bevvie with one of my favorite chicks.

This is Ikigai. Music. Dance. Friendship. Joy. Love. (Oh, and fashion). The reasons I wake up in the morning.

 

O' No.

I just finished sorting through and uploading some old pics from our trip to England and Ireland back in 1996. Now it's late and I still haven't written a post, so I may as well tell you about my inexcusable behavior in Dublin.

We took a tiny plane over from England and landed with a couple days worth of luggage, which we carried through the streets until we found the cheapest place possible to stay. Our room was no bigger than a closet, with two twin beds that, when we tried to push them together, blocked the door so that it only opened about 10 inches. Just enough to squeeze through in the middle of the night when a trip to the priv down the hall was needed.

Complimentary breakfast, which was delivered with a bang at about 5:30 a.m. consisted of a hard-boiled egg, a hot dog bun, cold coffee, and possibly something fruit-like.

When I got done ignoring everything on my plate, I went down to the communal bathroom to shower and turned on the water to warm it up. After about five minutes of slipping my hand under the stream to see if it had changed from icy to steamy, I realized it never would and so I hopped in bathed with amazing speed.

I survived, but now I was angry. Angry interchangeably with the egg and the dried out bun. And the beds and the surprise awakening and the arctic cleansing. So I insisted we leave. Dublin. Seriously.

We took a train to Howth, a little fishing village not too far away, and spent the remainder of our brief trip there. It was beautiful. And quiet. And wonderfully antiquated. But we missed seeing Dublin. And that is regrettable. 

Arousal Dysfunction.

Forgetting she'd already asked me five times previously, a colleague asked again if I'd yet read Fifty Shades of Grey. When I told her no, she said (with what I would call undisguised disapproval), "Oh, of course not. You're too pure." I laughed, because I was trying to imagine anyone I know thinking that word about me. But she explained. She meant that my taste in writing is too refined to enjoy reading amateurish prose. While this isn't necessarily true (OK, I think maybe it is), I do kind of take pleasure in knowing that others think of me this way. Literary snobbishness seems like a desirable quality to have.

The conversation carried on, with her and another women insisting that I could get past the inadequacies in style because I would thoroughly enjoy all the sex. That I could agree with, so I accepted the rumpled, roughed-up, sweat-upon, broken-spined volume that was being shoved in my hands. Seriously, this is the shape it was in when it was lent to me:

Its condition actually gave me hope, and I looked forward to a good fire stoking (so to speak).

Today, I finally decided to give it a try. But within the first sentences, I realized I was reading nothing more than the poorly formed thoughts of a dull adolescent girl. I threw the book down. Angry. I picked it back up and paged through until I found a combination of words that indicated there was some congress about to happen. :sigh: Still, nothing. Total trash. Sadly, not the good kind.

P.S. Considering that I can be a bit intolerant at times, I thought I'd just see if anyone on Amazon agreed with me. Oh, only about 5,411 people.
 

Maybe I Think.

Here's a little tribute to the many garter snakes that inhabit our backyard. Not one met its end by a mower blade today. I suspect this song has little to do with them, baby or not. That's OK by me.

Not Funny.

We decided it might be fun to watch some old SNL episodes from the 1990s, and the first one we queued up featured Kyle MacLachlan (whom we've loved from Twin Peaks and I from Sex & the City) and musical guest Sinéad O'Connor (whom we've both simply loved). We wondered as we pressed play if this was the one. It was not. That one came two years later. 

Still, we were struck by the similarities between then and now. Twenty years later, there is still war. More war. There are still abominations carried out by religious and other trusted leaders. Had we not known, we could have turned this on and been watching an episode from last week. 

And, I say: come on. Let's use our hearts and imaginations and break out of this bullshit.

Pez.

You know what? No matter where we go in life, we're always going to encounter difficult people. They may simply annoy us, they may obstruct our paths, or they may seem to exist for the sole purpose of shattering our spirits. 

Some we can walk away from. Some walk away from us. No matter. Because there will always be another walking toward us or one that we're advancing toward. This may seem pessimistic, but I think I've lived enough of this life to consider it realistic.

Which is why breathing a sigh of relief when a problem goes away, or believing that life would be so much better if this particular problem did, is short sighted, and also imagines no emotional freedom. It says that the power lies in others and not in ourselves. It says that our happiness and prosperity are not in our control.

I've know this for a while, but it's time to put it to practice: I can change no person or their behavior, but I can change how I respond. And I can change much it will affect my sensibilities.

That's all I can do. And if I've got that mastered, it's all I need.

Respect.

Today, a 30-year-old party girl who rents a campervan to go to all the summer music festivals, who still believes in the power of glow sticks, and who makes every single married and single man in our office swoon when she walks by squealed, genuinely, while broadcasting to our entire department, "You are SOOOOOO COOOOOOL!!!!!"

She meant me, moi, mi...for real. I was so taken aback that all I could think to say was, "Yaaaaaaay!"

Yeah, that really happened. It was kind of awesome. All I had to do was introduce her to Violent Lips and show her a picture of me actually wearing them.

Instant, everlasting credibility. Or, as the kids say: cred. ;)

 

Easily Dismissed.

The VP and my boss called me to an impromptu meeting early this morning. As I bent to sit down, I turned to one to search her expression for any clues, and then the other. But their faces were emotionless, until one began to speak.

She said, "Allison, you've really let yourself go. You've gained weight and you've lost your toned physique."

"I know," I said. I bowed my head in genuine shame.

She continued, "...And you haven't been applying yourself lately and it shows in your work."

:silence:

"You really haven't made any valuable contributions in several months."

"I know," I repeated. This time more automatically, without considering the accusation or its validity.

I thought we were just having a counseling meeting, but then she stood and said, "You're fired!"

"You can't," I said. "I've never been fired from anything in my life!"

As they escorted me to my cubicle with a box to clear out my desk, I continued to plead. Even as it dawned on me that it might be a hidden blessing. But my mind kept circling back to the disgrace of being fired. Not laid off for redundancy, but fired for inadequacy. And, for putting on weight, which I felt seemed pretty insignificant, and only related to my work in my ancillary role on our health and wellness team. Plus, it's only about five pounds. And, I hadn't been slacking at work at all! I cursed myself for agreeing so quickly when it's been quite the contrary.

I considered it could be a dream, but there we all were standing in my cube, packing up my belongings. As I pulled jar after jar of peanut butter from my overhead bin, I thought: wait, I don't have an overhead bin... And, then: wait, I don't eat peanut butter. It's too fattening...  

She Had it Coming.

Key Lime Pie Incident update:

Much to our surprise, we were never called to a private corner of the house or awakened in the night by the ruckus of violent retching. And just when I thought the thief would get no comeuppance for her deeds, I discovered the punishment this morning. 

Yes, from the looks of the war zone that was once the litter box, the pie exited her weak, bony frame with the force and destruction of an atom bomb. I'm a bit surprised she survived with her innards intact. 

Poor thing, I thought. Or tried to think, but instead giggled. 

You might consider me unkind, but trust me: she's been earning the nickname Asshole Face for 15 years.
 

Oh, Behave.

The family just left a bit ago, and the day played out perfectly. That is if you forget that Puck snuck up on the dining room table while were all visiting and ate nearly a whole slice of key lime pie. Whether we witness it or not, there will be green cat puke to clean up sooner or later.

I was thinking today, as my mom was on exceptionally good behavior, that I have been too hard on her. Then again, when she is good, she is very good...but when she is bad, well, someone call in the lion tamers so we can get this circus back in the tents.

This past year has been especially difficult (more for her than any of us, I'm sure) and at one point she wrote a long letter to my sister and me. She ended it with a quote by Oscar Wilde:

"Children begin by loving their parents; after a time they judge them; rarely, if ever, do they forgive them."

I suppose I best try to prove her & Mr. Wilde wrong. 

Word to Your Mother.

Tomorrow is Mother's Day and I've been rushing around since early afternoon getting ready to host my family for lunch tomorrow. Off and on I've paused to catch up with the news of the world (:ahem: facebook), and just now stopped for a longer minute on an NPR story that featured 6-word stories to honor moms.

Maybe I didn't think hard enough, but this one came almost immediately to my mind, and I feel it fits perfectly for mine:

"I know you tried your best."

It has positive and negative connotations to it, just as our relationship has had equal moments of both.

When we were little girls, she sewed all our clothes herself, and often stitched tiny, matching outfits for our Barbies. She made elaborate cakes for our Birthdays and volunteered in our elementary school classrooms.  She remained a stay-at-home mom long after we needed her to be home.

As we got older, she struggled with how to deal with teenage daughters. (Who wouldn't?) And she made some life-altering mistakes with both of us. Most parents probably do. I know this is a big reason why I chose not to be one.

Once we both had left home for college, she tried to make sense of what she was meant to do, if it was no longer to raise children. She strives still today to find her meaning, and her inability to do so has manifested in some troubling habits. Ones that affect her health and affect her connections with everyone in our family. It is tough to be powerless as she searches to find her way back to mental and physical wellness. Despite the pain and alienation she's created, I still love her. Of course. And, I know she tries her best.

Mean People Suck.

This story came to me today via an email from a coworker with the subject line: People I Want to Punch. 

Feeling pleased that it wasn't followed by: You. Meet me in the parking lot after 4:00, I read on. Turns out the CEO of Abercrombie & Fitch is a douchebag and has been since at least 2006 and we're now just taking notice.

The gist of his story is that he won't carry large/plus sized clothing (particularly women's) in his stores because he doesn't want "fat chicks/dudes" ruining the super-cool, in-crowd image that his brand evokes.

Now, here's the thing. I just wrote a few nights ago that I thought it was irresponsible to use plus-sized models in marketing, because I feel it encourages the masses to think that obesity is OK (and, thus, not seek more ambitiously a healthier lifestyle). So, what is the difference here? Had he refused to sell x-sized clothes under that rationale, rather than one inspired by exclusion and discrimination, would I have felt OK about it?

How different is it to show larger-sized clothes on a model than to sell them in stores? Does selling sizes up to quadruple XL enable just as similarly? Maybe.

But here's the thing: there is a vast difference between actions of conscientiousness and actions of cruelty and intolerance. If you're not perfect, you can't buy his clothes? The perfect answer here is: OK. No problem.

The interesting part of this is that I have never set foot in one of these stores. It is better that I say nothing about it than continue to give it more attention. Except that I did consider it a thought-provoking anti/complement to my other recent feelings.

Anyway, on a final note, this guy is especially a DB because he has so obviously had an exceptional (shall we say, surprising) amount of plastic surgery. When hatred starts from within, there is really no help for a person, is there?

A Head Full of Cabbage.

I slept very little last night, not because being deeply troubled about the state of my professional life was keeping me awake, but because I had a completely inappropriate dream about a community salad bar I would be helping coordinate today at work. Inappropriate, I say, since I was not overly concerned about it. I wondered if we would have enough food, but that was the extent of the mental energy I had devoted to it.

No matter, because a 7-second blip still played on loop for hours in my slumbering subconscious, which consisted of the following question: Do we have enough cabbage? Do we have enough cabbage? Do we have enough cabbage? 

(Really, my brain should try out for a part in the next Harmony Korine film. It would perform an improvisational dance as part of the audition.)

Despite all this, I ended up having a decent, if not, downright pleasant day. Which reminds me that circumstances can change drastically from one day to the next. I know why this is, and it has much to do with a quiet dysfunction that's rumbling underneath the tightly-looped, polyester carpet that our business casual shoes walk around on from 8-5.

I'll leave it at that and focus on the mindfulness that has come to my emotional rescue time & again in these difficult days. And, share with you this wonderful piece that I heard this evening on WGVU:

Click this. Read it. Do it. Do it. Do it.

(I've been waiting for the audio to load. It hasn't yet, so I am posting as is.)

Be Happy.

I had another one of those tough days that made me once again wish I was a fine-feathered starling tugging at worms in the ground. This has to stop, one way or another, I think.

As I try to find new ways to tread in the increasingly turbulent waters that I swim in for most of my waking, weekday hours, I am looking to the moments that bring me joy when I get to give my flailing limbs & mind a rest.

Pizza & beer at The Mitten? A good start. 

A little bitch session? Hmmm...it has its pros & cons.

Music to soothe the sinking swimmer? Better.

I started with Don't Worry, Be Happy. (Well, one has to start somewhere.) I followed it with Give Up the Funk. Followed by Let's Groove. Followed by Silly Love Songs. That'll do for tonight. 

Clash of the Stubborn.

So Ben and I were debating the other night on a subject that I'd like to say is not being disclosed because of personal reasons, but it's actually because neither of us can remember what it was. Or, I should say, which it was. We do debate regularly and so it could have been any number of topics.

What I do remember is that I was dumbfounded that he didn't agree with me, and so I thought that if I just continued with my incredibly solid reasoning and logic, he would eventually cede his position. Nope.

I had been at it for a good twenty minutes when he finally asked, "Why can't I just have my opinion?" And, I said something like, "Because I think you're wrong and you just need to see that." ::blank stare::

And then he said, "We don't have to agree on everything, you know." And then I said, "But I want you to agree with me on this. It's very important." <so important I can't remember, mind you.

And this went on for a bit until finally it hit me that it doesn't really matter. Nothing changes if we don't agree. Nothing changes if we do. I guess I forgot Rule #9.

Right. 

A Big Deal.

I recently read a story on and a ton of accompanying praise for H&M, who started using plus-sized models in its advertising.

Look, as a formerly plump girl, I know that there's nothing worse than seeing a garment that drapes beautifully on the size 2 mannequin, but bunches nightmarishly on a size 12 frame. I've seen it in my own reflection and it's not cool.

That said, is the answer to excessively grow the size of the example? Why go to the other extreme, when a healthy size 8 is a perfectly average option?

Being overweight is not healthy, and it takes an incredible toll on every inch of our anatomies. Encouraging our population to embrace their extra pounds is, in my mind, as irresponsible as promoting cigarettes to kids. But there's a wide line between shaming and enabling. It's called Medium.

I have more to say, but I do believe that the angry mob outside my house is looking for me. If I'm able to outrun them, I have an idea why. Just saying. 

Human Behavior.

Continuing on yesterday's thought, I am reminded of a passage in Robert B. Cialdini's book "Influence: The Psychology of Persuasion" that I was reading a couple of years back.

On the subject of Commitment and Consistency (which he calls "Hobgoblins of the Mind"), he says: 

"Like other weapons of influence, this one lies deep within us, directing our actions with quiet power. It is, quite simply, our near obsessive desire to be (and to appear) consistent with what we have already done. Once we have made a choice or taken a stand, we will encounter personal and interpersonal pressures to behave consistently with that commitment. Those pressures will cause us to respond in ways that justify our earlier decision."

This explains why some stubbornly deny truths that have been proven by science (climate change and evolution come to mind). Or have bumper stickers on their cars from 2004 that say "I stand behind George W. Bush." Still? Really? Or stay in toxic, abusive, or dead-end relationships.

This phenomenon is likely what drives my friend to continue to devote 110% to her already abandoned job. I'm not saying that I would immediately start doing a shitty job if I were in my last two weeks—I have way too much pride in my work and in my reputation to do that. But I wouldn't stay late and skip lunches and fight losing philosophical battles with my manager. Because it's over, right? Except that's how she's always done it, and to stop now would not be how she identifies who she is.

I'm not saying she's wrong, I'm just saying it's interesting.  

Like the other weapons of influence, this one lies deep within us, directing our actions with quiet power. It is, quite simply, our nearly obsessive desire to be (and to appear) consistent with what we have already done. Read more: http://snipi.co/l/0:1le0NqC_SQGk

Like the other weapons of influence, this one lies deep within us, directing our actions with quiet power. It is, quite simply, our nearly obsessive desire to be (and to appear) consistent with what we have already done. Read more: http://snipi.co/l/0:1le0MLU4Nmgo

Like the other weapons of influence, this one lies deep within us, directing our actions with quiet power. It is, quite simply, our nearly obsessive desire to be (and to appear) consistent with what we have already done. Read more: http://snipi.co/l/0:1le0MLU4Nmgo

If You Leave.

I am approaching the end of my one-year writing obligation and I find I am losing steam. In this period, I am thinking about a friend who resigned from her job, but has stayed on indefinitely out of goodwill toward the company as well as a why not? attitude, given that her new adventure hasn't started yet and may not at all.

I have quit many jobs in the past. Some without a known prospect, and, about the same amount, with one. As I've aged and taken on more responsibilities, a known one is practically required. Though the fantasy of not needing one remains, hovering in the back of my mind.

So, my friend, who has a foot out the door and planted in the grounds of a completely different future, continues to perform her current duties with the tenacity and permanency of a person who is going nowhere. And, I suppose, I find this strange. When we make a decision to leave, it seems realistic that we move on in entirety; taking our head-space with us as well. Which is likely why a 2-weeks' notice has become so popularized.

When I asked her about this, she told me that if she were to behave any differently now, then everything she once was in this role would be false. That all along, she was just acting.

Interesting.

 

Metal Mettle.

My house has been filled with the foreign sounds of George Jones for the past several days, and while I've been given ample chance to appreciate him, I just can't find the love. Thank goodness, and, of course, I do not mean that I am appreciative of Jeff Hanneman's unfortunate and untimely passing, that there's a change of noise in the house.

You might be surprised to know that when I was in my last semester of high school, I was listening to Slayer. As well as a lot of other heavy metal. I had gravity-defying hair, brought to me by the magicians at Aqua Net; I wore a fringed leather jacket that moved well when headbanging was required; and I somehow made tight jeans with sneakers work.

I can't explain why I loved it. The energy? The bad boys who were associated with it? The subversiveness? Leather?

Tonight I looked low & lower in our basement for the cassette of Reign in Blood that I am fairly certain I still have from those days. Side A and Side B were identical, which was probably not intended genius, but made for a quick repeat of the album without ever having to rewind. I couldn't find it, but I know it's lurking down there somewhere.

Meanwhile, here is the final song:

P.S. I ended up listening to most of the album tonight while previewing videos, and you know what? That is some dark shit. I can't imagine I absorbed any of those lyrics back in the day. I think I just liked driving around raising hell with my friends. While wearing leather.

 

  

Rustic Roots.

My parents both came from Iowa, and, as they gradually moved eastward, they seemed to enjoy leaving behind the economy of small towns, and the antiquity of outdoor plumbing. Yes, my dad's high school class was comprised of a mere six individuals, and, until around age 15, my mom and her family left the warmth and comfort of their home to take their constitutionals.

On landing in Michigan, they abandoned any shred of country, and, except for an occasional Hee-Haw, the sounds of rural America did not reach our ears.

No Dolly Parton, no Hank Williams Sr., no Willie Nelson. And, no George Jones.

While all the former have become familiar to me, George is new. (Which seems a bit late, this week's news considered.) And, while I remain on the fence, Ben tells me he's the real deal.

Duh....

It's 10:24 p.m. as I start this post. I had a couple of hooray it's 80 degrees in May beers after my regular Wednesday workout and I thought I might experiment with a little drunk poetry. So I recorded myself on my phone reading a favorite piece by Pablo Neruda.

You know what? Drunk people are stupid. And, they sound even stupider. Even to a drunk person.

I'm going to go drink a glass of water and we're all going to forget this silliness.

Goodnight.

Yes. that's really it.

Sorry.

You don't want to see that video, I promise.

Emoti...con.

So, I was writing a facebook post yesterday and I realized that it was long enough to consider it as a blog post. Desperate as I am these days for content, I put it in the pocket of my Monday pants and pulled it out today.

I was thinking about then & now, and how I couldn't fathom then, being the lengthy letter crafter I was, writing the way I do now.

Yes, then, I doodled in the margins, drew hearts and smiley faces in-between the lines, and, occasionally, sealed them with a kiss - though that mostly in my mind. These were ancillary elements, not required for the reader to get my meaning.

Now, it seems that every electronic transmission requires a qualifier. A misunderstanding diffuser. That is, the emoticon.

So, now, to my deep thought on the unanticipated acts of my future. The other day, in a dashed off note, I accidentally typed a winky frowny instead of a winky smiley. It was a mistype, but I wondered, were it not: what is the emotion here? Cheeky, but damned grumpy about it? I'm giving you my shitbird face, but really it's just a front? Meet me in the corner and I'll confess to you how happy I really am?

And then I thought: what the hell? And, I'm still thinking that.

I Don’t Think We’re in Lansing Anymore…

Driving home from work today, I realized that the CD I was listening to had looped about three times, and the fact that it included alternate cuts of a couple of songs on it, I had metaphorically eaten a peanut butter & jelly sandwich for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Yes, Dave Brubeck’s Time Further Out is brilliant, but now it was stuck to the roof of my mouth.

I hit eject and tuned in to the standard rush-hour slot that typically features news of the day, traffic updates, and, as it was today, and interview with a local politician. The topic was a pretty controversial one, and the interviewee was on the opposite side of my opinion. I thought: good ol’ NPR. I know they’re legit when I don’t agree with everything they report on and everyone they talk to. It shows they are unbiased, as they should be.

But then suddenly my house was uprooted and I was no longer in Midwestern farm country. I heard the interviewer start to express an opinion. He abandoned any perceived objectivity and rallied with the interviewee. He even pointed listeners to a place where they could retrieve canned statements that they could send to their representatives in objection to the abomination that was in current discussion.

I know I said What the Fuck? aloud and also may have hit the brakes. This slowed me down enough to look at the channel and realize that I was no longer on NPR station 91.7, which is a mid-Michigan public radio feed that we had tuned into yesterday while road-tripping. Instead I had harnessed the batshit craziness known as 91.3, Grand Rapids. It’s actually a bit of a wonder that my car didn’t veer off the road from the misalignment or explode on the moment that such a message hit my nihilistic ears.

I am reminded that I need to send Michigan Radio my yearly contribution. With a thank you note. For asking me to listen to what I’ve heard and think; not take orders and get in line.

I Realize.

For the fourth time since 2009, I walked today with my family in the Komen Race for the Cure. The first year, I arranged it--on a high from learning that my sister would very well survive her diagnosis and the exhausting and difficult treatment that ensured that she would. She did, and we continued after that year over year.

I lost considerable steam when the Komen Foundation decided to cut funding for Planned Parenthood. (FOR CRYING OUT LOUD: what sane person is not in support of bringing children into world who are both wanted and expected?! Seriously.)

Plus, I have become somewhat doubtful of the results of such an effort and skeptical that the appropriation of funds goes to a so-called cure. (On an aside note, I believe that lifestyle and diet can be instrumental to prevention, which seems so much more effective than curing after the fact. Hmmm. Kind of like Planned Parenthood. But that's not profitable, is it?) 

I stopped raising funds for them after the first year. I go only these days because it pleases my family and it is a symbolic gesture of solidarity. And a reminder that everyone in my life is fragile. And temporary. No matter what.

So, I'd like to dedicate this post and this day to this wonderful song. Lest we forget.

Old Bags.

The big thrill of today was the Michigan Modernism Exposition, in good ol' Southfield. Not quite as big as I'd hoped, but my senses still got their fill.

I hadn't planned on buying anything, but a strange grouping of mugs featuring flying pigs, a school of fish, and a pair of dragons called me back for a second look.

Of course, the second look is merely the gateway to the parting with cash. Once I had the dragon mug in my hands and Ben was suggesting I drink wine from it while watching Game of Thrones, the deal was done.

The cranky, era-appropriate woman I bought it from was clearly unimpressed with my singular purchase and showed it by packing my little prize in a crumpled bag that was very likely from the same century. That is, definitely last century.

Just Winging It.

I was sitting at an extraordinarily long stoplight yesterday evening when two unusual-looking birds that appeared to be male and female of the same species caught my eye. Starlings, I learned from my research. They pecked and poked at the ground, and one simultaneously pooped, which actually kind of startled me—as if swallowing the scrap that was in its beak had immediately produced this result.

I got drawn into their business, and, for a moment, drifted into a daydream. Except for the whole dropping right where I'm eating part, suddenly being a bird seemed like a pretty good gig.

The ability to quickly flee a situation? That'd be a nice power to have. Traipsing around in the grass all day long? Beats putting on clothes, driving in traffic, and genuflecting to the man for the majority of the daylight hours.

So, I've decided that I'm going to be a bird in my next life. I'll just have to watch out for hawks, fast cats, and plate glass windows.     

Marooned in Dreamland.

I've just returned from a mis-routed flight that landed us in Albuquerque, New Mexico. We had a layover, so we visited an artists' community where I ran into an old coworker. He was painting an abstract piece and wearing a hat with Pippi Longstocking-like pigtails poking out from it.

Whew, that was weird...so happy to be back in my bed!

Except that Adam Levine's doppelgänger is sitting on me and tickling me in the most uncomfortable and almost terror-inducing way. I am writhing and screaming, but it just comes out in a muffled mwa... mmwaaa... mwwwwaaaah kind of way.

The crickets chirp and I am snoozing my alarm.

Oh. Good.

I'll Be Grateful When You're Nice.

What I left behind in 1991 was the desire to cover my rear window in stickers that promoted love, peace, and day-old jam bands. The better to watch my past in my mirror become faint and indistinct as I drove further and further away from it.

A few days ago, for the first time in so many years, I tagged the bumper of my car with a new message. One that embodies the spirit of the old days, but in a less posturizing kind of way. I think. I mean, I want to mean it...

 
In doing this, I acknowledge that some people will read it, and, therefore, I should be on better behavior while on the roads. Lest my message be rendered insincere. The problem is, some people are not beautiful, and rush hour traffic is an explicit way of understanding this.

What does it say when a woman driving the "just the way you are" vehicle flings a finger, shakes a fist, or tilts her head upward so that you, you shithead with your window down, can hear my personal, just for you expletives echoing more clearly through my sunroof?

We call that an incongruity.

So I am thinking about installing something akin to a vacancy/no vacancy sign. Something that I could switch on, when needed, that would append my message with: "Except you. You are actually an asshole. Go home and think about that."

That should do.

There Are Places I Remember.

So, that Chinese restaurant I worked at. It was owned by Kent and Mary Chen, but run by a wizened and weathered old bird named Dolly. She used to manage Dukes, for any of you in GR who know the reference.

The waitresses were all non-Asian women, and I surprisingly remember most of them, including their names. There were also two busboys, who were Chinese, named Bah (quiet, hunched, & shy...I can actually still replay his soft voice in my head) and Tahn (gregarious and personable; he occasionally waited tables and always made at least double of the rest of us).

The kitchen staff were all Mexicans. Tony was the lead cook and a ridiculous, mostly annoying flirt. Kent Chen owned a house where every one of them lived. Knowing what I know about Mr. C, it is very likely that they were illegal. But I'm not sure if I knew that at the time.

We had cockroaches. Gross, but true: few people cared because the food really was gorgeous. Hell, maybe it was the extra protein that made it so.

My fellow waitresses:

Mary, whose family came from Lebanon, once told me that the Turks claimed to have invented baklava, but that was bullshit; it was a Lebanese creation. Funny. I've heard this from nearly every country in that region. Sure, baklava is delicious, but this is your most important, most arguable claim?

Laura was a typical Midwesterner. Except she was in a sham marriage. I never knew all the details, but the mystery of this odd situation stuck with me. I ran into her half a year ago at the bookstore. She looked exactly, I mean exactly, the same—down to the tightly-pulled ponytail that sprouted from the top of her head. I'm talking 20+ years. No change. That's crazy.

Deb: told everyone that the delicious, honey-sweet rolls we served with every meal were rice rolls. I once noted aloud that I didn't know that and she said she'd just made it up. It seemed to please the customers that they were an ancient Chinese secret of sorts and so she continued to perpetuate the myth. Deb also had a 13-year-old daughter who participated in a study I did for a college course on learning and development.

There were two sisters whose names escape me, but I am hoping will come to me, but not necessarily in the middle of the night. It's not that important. They both worked alternately at Hong Kong Inn and Little Mexico, trading off when the exasperation of one exceeded the other. About ten years after, I did find the older sister bartending at the south of the border locale. She made me a Southern Comfort Manhattan with extra cherries.

That's about all.

Ancient Myths.

So I was thinking about two things yesterday: 1) how much better my life is now than when I was half my age 2) how drastically the world has changed since that time.

Because I'll need a topic for tomorrow, I may as well split these up, right?

In 1991, I drove a Chevy Citation that was covered in Grateful Dead decals and a COMPOST sticker that was meant as a noun for labeling of bins, but that I was using as a verb/suggestion/command (as in: I am an environmentally conscious individual and, like me, you really should...).

The washer fluid trigger hadn't worked since I bought it, and after a year or so of driving around with a bottle of generic Windex rolling around on my passenger side floor, and lurching out the window to spray any time I slowed to less than 20 MPH, my dad decided to fix it for me.

He did so as any practical/stingy person would do: with a standard light switch mounted to the dash. This worked, of course, but never once escaped the curiosity of new riders. (What is this for? Flip. Oh...weird.)

My one brag-worthy feature of this vehicle was that with the wide frame and hatchback, I could fold down the seats and transport a twin-sized mattress. This sounds way more romantic than it was, as my personal life was not just in shambles, but still smoldering from the carnage. The only pleasure associated with a bed in my back seat was that I was driving it to a new apartment where, presumably, life would suck less.

Did I mention that I worked as a waitress at a Chinese restaurant, then? The peculiarities of this particular chapter are so numerous that I'm not entirely sure where to start or stop. Their food was spectacular, though, and I gracelessly gained at least 10 pounds.

This was also the year that I decided to change my major (year four, mind you) but because I was actually all but finished, the only sensible thing to do was add on a minor. This is how you graduate college in just six short years!

And about midway through this 12-month experiment in living, I decided to become celibate. A born-again virgin, I think I called it. For about a year, as I recall. It was after (and likely because of) this that life became more placid. And the road ahead less cluttered with debris.

And there is more, but that's enough for today.

Prime Time.

Today is my birthday, and, as I've already noted to a friend, I feel twice as good as I was at 22.

1991. Fraternizing with goats.

2013. Upgraded to camels.

I have a whirlwind of thoughts connected to this, but all day I have been unable to form them into ones I want to share. I have also had the majority of my biddings this weekend handled by my "Birthday Slave." One can quickly gets used to such luxuries, and find any semblance of work to be the burden of mere peasants.

So, tomorrow, when I am replanted in reality, I will elaborate.

Paradise by the Satellite.

Well, we managed to break the Internet this morning. Through a process of elimination, we learned that I did not forget to pay the bill, that our hardware is seemingly functional, and that rebooting, while typically very effective, was not going to fix this one.

We're both fairly bright people, and, yet, this one has us stupefied. Our best guess is that we need a new wireless router. While it waits to be our salvation, a little bit of contemplation has me feeling mixed about how reliant we truly are.

If I didn't have these four bars, I'd probably be up the street at Starbucks with my laptop. Because, why? Not sure.

Judge Not, As They Say...

I’m going to say something here that may sound strange. I said it once already today: I wish the Boston bombers weren’t Muslims. (I'll qualify that with "suspects" and "presumably" for now.) It goes without saying (though, just in case, I will) that I wish infinitely more that this tragedy didn’t happen at all.

That said, it seems lately I am constantly defending people of the Islamic faith (as a whole) against those who treat the people and their faith as if they are all the same. Those who say that the heinous acts of a few are condoned by and even conducted by the masses. This isn’t true.

I don’t believe in their religion or their version of god any more than anyone else's, and I do believe that their views on women’s rights need to progress a great deal. (So do a lot of others’, as long as we’re mentioning it.) But, I have met more Muslims than the average Midwesterner and I can see no resemblance between their behavior and the extremists. In fact, so far, I’m finding these to be some of the most exceptionally kind, generous, and peaceful people I’ve met.

Can't we all just get along?

Are all Christians as deranged as the Westboro Baptist Church members? I don’t even need to answer that.

So...?