The Kingdom of Heaven

From a religious aspect, there are hundreds and hundreds of interpretations of "Heaven". While the, let's call them minor, details of whether the corner of the cosmos reserved for Heaven is flowing with milk and honey or brimming with indescribably beautiful flowers and jeweled trees or 72 naked virgins can be argued or rearranged or misunderstood, the fact that every version seems to share some unmistakably common and extremely pertinent points is quite promising actually. No suffering, no hunger, utter happiness, complete bliss. The list goes on. Oddly enough, even the extreme ends of organized religion have a version of heaven that highlights some form of unity, contentment and peace. But do we really have access to it only after we die? If heaven is so great, then why would we have to spend a lifetime waiting for it?

I saw heaven the other day.

No death or near-death experience required. It was right there, I could touch it and talk to it and even take a picture of it. Why? Because it was distinctly all around me. It was in the gesture of a man who woke up early to make an amazing breakfast for all of his friends. It was in the laughter that danced around the table as everyone gave thanks and then enjoyed a good meal. It was in the smile of a girl who along with sugar and flour, baked a whole lot of love into the cupcakes she had made. It was in the twinkle in his eye when he brought her something sweet because he knows that chocolate is her favorite. It was in the gaze of two people who finally acknowledged a long, unspoken connection. It was everywhere, day and night, in whispers and giggles, in hot cups of tea and bowls of guacamole, in blankets and socks and warm, cozy fires. And it was beautiful.

I watched a group of people care for one another, look out for one another, pick up after one another, applaud one another. Without any motive, without expecting anything in return, yet in my opinion, we all received so much more. It's so unbelievably easy that it's almost hard to conceive, I've realized. Heaven isn't a place we should all be waiting - and dying - to see...I was raised Catholic. (Dying to see if it actually exists.) Heaven exists because we make it. Right here, right now. All of those ideas put forth by religion can so easily be practiced, in a literal and earthly sense, daily. Create, be and nurture whatever your idea of heaven is…here on earth. It's so simple. We've all heard the notions and dreams of what heaven might be like. What about knowing exactly what it's like?

Heaven

noun

1. The expanse of space that seems to be over the earth like a dome.

2. A spiritual state of everlasting communion with God.

3. A place or condition of utmost happiness.

4. The abode of God, the angels, and the spirits of the righteous after death; the place or state of existence of the blessed after the mortal life.

If you ask me, those first three sound pretty close to the place I'm sitting right now. And the 4th one, if there's more of this after I die, bring it on.

Letters arranged into words never spoken

Words gathered together
in a letter
never
sent.


To the one I secretly admire,

I have always thought of myself as an educated and well-spoken human being, yet when you walk into a room, I turn into this perfect, bumbling idiot. I watch you walk in my direction and suddenly I cannot speak. I can't catch my breath when you're standing too close to me sometimes. God forbid any part of you should so much as graze any part of me as you walk passed. It is then I am rendered completely useless.

There are so many things I long to tell you, yet I continue, as I have for more days than I can remember, to shelter my thoughts of you. My cowardice prevails time and again, concealing evidence that I might possess an ounce of courage with which I could reveal even one affection I hold for you.

If I could pretend for a moment that I was unafraid, I would express my respect for your brilliance and your generous nature. If I were brave, I would whisper in your ear that I find you incredibly sexy. And hysterically funny. And admirably kind. I would draw you a picture of your immensely big heart along with a note saying I could never grow tired of just looking at your face.

I think of you. Often.


Gutlessly yours,

Alexis

Happy Valentine's Day...or something.

"Valentine's schmalentines. Bah humbug."

~Alexis Fedorowych



"The world as a whole has forgotten the real meaning of the word love. Love has been so abused and crucified by man that very few people know what true love is. Just as oil is present in every part of the olive, so love permeates every part of creation. But to define love is very difficult, for the same reason that words cannot fully describe the flavor of an orange. You have to taste the fruit to know its flavor. So with love."

~Paramahansa Yogananda

Second Life...

This gives a whole new meaning to the words Virtual Reality. 

Second Life

This might be the craziest thing I have witnessed in my life thus far.  Second Life is a virtual world, similar to the Sims video game, but then again…nothing at all like it!  (By the way, I’m not a video gamer in any way, shape or form, but I know the premise of the Sims games).  Be a character, build a city, theme park, whatever…entertain yourself, work, basically engage yourself in virtual world for however long you feel it necessary to keep yourself away from those 3 dimensional people called...humans. 

Second life, is literally what its name states.  You are creating your own second life in a virtual setting, however just like in the real world, the smarter you are and the more you prosper, the more money you stand to make.  Wait.  You actually make money?  Yes.  The virtual world of Second Life has its own economy – it is based on the Linden dollar.  As Linden dollars are spent, let’s say in your virtual guitar shop, they are exchanged into real American dollars.  You earn money for some virtual character walking his virtual ass into your store and dropping 100,000 Linden’s on a custom guitar.  Let me remind you that this guitar doesn’t even have to actually exist.  Out of curiosity, I checked the website for the exchange rate for today:  L$267/US$1.00

Does anyone else find this absolutely genius and altogether terrifying?

You create a pretend, non-existent, 3-D avatar, buy a pretend, non-existent parcel of virtual land, start a pretend, non-existent business or build a make believe cottage, make an imaginary product or sell a fictional service.  Buy…sell…trade!  In all actuality, these products or services you made up CAN exist for sale in the real world as well, as you retain your Intellectual Property rights over anything you create, but that’s just too much to get into at this late hour and my head already feels like it’s going to explode.  Current enterprising SL residents (of which there are 3,414,980 - in case you were wondering if this was HUGE or not) have founded and currently run such businesses as tattoo artist, wedding planner, private detective, bodyguard, aerospace engineer, hug maker – I had to include that one because it’s just too awesome - and the list goes on and on.  You can literally do or make or sell absolutely anything.  

I don’t know who has time to start and run a business in computer land, as it makes me wonder what they are doing at their real life job, however…there is evidence that some successful business owners “in-world”, as they refer to it, are making thousands of dollars – a day. 

I have no idea where I’ve been, obviously living under a rock somewhere...as I’m just learning about this from a friend of mine at 2:00 in the morning, but it’s been around since 2003 and quite obviously thriving.  And here I thought I was ahead of the game because I had already watched The Secret before it was featured on Oprah today.  :)  So now, not only do I have the demands of thriving in the land of people who breathe, I now have to concern myself with my virtual success in a world where the selling point of the home I’m about to buy is that it was once owned by Lara Croft. 

Oh the pressure, it’s just too much.

There's this one moment...

...in the middle of the night, in a teeny, little place between wake and sleep, that I wish I could stop time. Right there. It's my favorite time. The curtains are drawn, but you can tell it's still dark outside, completely silent. No cars, no creaks, no birds. It's as though God pushed the mute button so that if you happen to stir during this fleeting moment, you can experience actual peace and quiet. I wake here quite often. There are some days I realize and appreciate (and move closer to) the warm body lying next to me in this split second of silence…and I smile in the dark and close my eyes, willing time to stop right there.

But more often than not, it's just me awakening to complete consciousness and becoming slightly bothered by the realization that I have to pee.

Naturally, I muster the energy to get up and shuffle myself to the toilet. For the better part of 7 years, I have lived alone (aside from the cats). For the better part of those 7 years, I have not flushed the toilet in the middle of the night, just because I peed…I am a subscriber to the whole "if it's yellow, let it mellow" theory. Seriously, it's just pee. And if you're a girl, a little bit of toilet paper. No need to waste all that water for an ounce or two of sterile, albeit slightly yellow, liquid to be flushed out of the bowl. Did you know that your pee is sterile? Did you know that soldiers have been known to use urine to clean wounds in times of desperation? The fact is, you're probably spreading more germs by touching the handle TO flush rather than just ignoring the pee in the bowl and running back to bed to try and get the moment back.

But lately, for me, a small dilemma has presented itself. See, there's this cat that has lived with me for 13 years, who has decided, and increasingly so in the last 2 years, that she cannot drink from her cat bowl of water. No. This is not suitable for her. She must drink from the toilet bowl of water. Therefore, she waits, sometimes rather impatiently, for me to…er, finish, then she slips in and watches while the magic bowl serves up what she considers to be suitable and, more importantly, preferable drinking water.

(I've asked a few vets about this peculiar behavior and as it turns out it's not entirely peculiar. Some cats like 'running' water better, no matter that you were running to that same bowl just a few minutes before to relieve yourself. The consensus from the docs has been, either let her drink out of it - or - shut the lid.) Shut the lid. Have you met my cat? This cat does not meow, she waahs. Some friends of mine swear that she also emits a sound that resembles the word 'Mom' being whined by a two year old who is not getting the attention she thinks she deserves. I have shut the lid. I have shut the lid while I've been on the phone with customer service people and they have said to me, on several occasions, something to the effect of, "Ma'am, do you need to put the phone down to get your baby?" They believe there is an infant - CRYING - in the background in my house (not to mention the fact that they think I'm ignoring it). Shutting the lid is not an option. I know now why parents cave to the kid throwing a tantrum at the store. You just want them to shut up. Plus, tantrum or not, this is the cat that plants herself under my arm, resting her head in the same spot a girl might rest her head on the shoulder of a boy she likes…and then purrs me to sleep, every night. She has me totally whipped.

I bought her, especially for her… one of those cat fountains that keeps the water running constantly, as a gesture to keep her happy and frankly, out of the toilet. I think I actually saw her roll her eyes and shake her head when I brought it home.

So back to the dilemma, I have always been a light turner-offer (thanks mom…good habits start young). I don't leave the water running when I brush my teeth, I recycle my bags and bottles. Since I do my part in these other areas, can I just let go of the fact that I have to flush for the sake of quenching the cat's thirst? Do I have to feel guilty about this? I do have those low water yielding toilets in my place, which use about a third of the amount of water in a conventional toilet tank…which is nice, but...


Two part dilemma.

If you're a mellow yellow person and you're at someone else's house and it's the middle of the night when you have to pee…is it acceptable to not flush?

A study in human behavior on The Master Cleanse

This weekend, three of my friends decided to commit themselves to the world famous Master Cleanse, a fast consisting of absolutely zero food and drinking a mixture of water, maple syrup, lemon juice and cayenne pepper. Since they are all residing under one roof, they could easily be each other's support system if any one of them began to have any doubts about their deliberate choice to starve themselves for 10 days straight.

Concoctions were mixed, lemons were juiced, charts were made to log their progress. There were even stars that came in the form of stickers to be displayed proudly under one's name on the log; motivation by public recognition and praise if you drank your sea salt breakfast, some ridiculous number of ounces of your maple syrup punch and took a few healthy poops (or peed out of your butt, whichever came first). This commitment was ON.

As a food-consuming spectator to this fasting folly, I have never in my life witnessed so much hilarity revolving around things that could be eaten. Edible or not. As they rounded the corner of only their sixth hour on the fast, the participants were already daring themselves to imagine what kind of desperation they might face in the days to come and what exactly would constitute 'cheating'. "A pencil…does a pencil count? What if I ate a pencil?" One contender went so far as to stomp on a perfectly good avocado because he knew that if he didn't, he surely would have eaten it.

I spent time with each of the participants throughout the weekend; sometimes one-on-one, sometimes in pairs, sometimes all three of them together. This proved to be positively enlightening in the ways of human behavior. The group conversation, quite predictably and without fail, became about food. Someone could be talking about roof shingles and three seconds later it turned into how awesome it would be to eat a burrito. In the one-on-one conversations, I learned about their favorite foods and the particular cravings they were having at that specific moment. However, the undisputed highlight of my surveillance of these fine creatures, was when I chatted with them in pairs. Any combination of two of them (it didn't matter which two), would result in their immediate suspicion of the 3rd teammate - and soon they would be absolutely convinced that he was somewhere…EATING. Every. single. time.

As it turns out I'm not very good at being supportive, at least not when it comes to starving oneself. When the hunger pangs kicked in and the sincere longing for the ritual and comfort of food was realized, a motherly instinct kicked in and I wanted nothing more than to help my starving friends. When one would teeter on the edge of a breakdown, I wouldn't even try to cheerlead them into sticking to it. I immediately offered up my services as: Accomplice. I offered up spoonfuls of peanut butter when no one was looking. I'd present my arguments on why eating an apple couldn't possibly be considered cheating, it was organic for God's sake! While I was away for a few hours and found that some were resorting to sending me text messages about the unspeakable hunger, I made sure to bring my leftovers back in hopes that I could slip 'em a french fry on the DL. Funny as all of this is, it's pretty intense to see how quickly the body experiences the effects, both physical and habitual, of the absence of food. Their feet dragged with the saddest sound across the floor, one considered locking himself into solitary confinement in his room just to make it through 8 more days, another took to cleaning the kitchen counters…with a toothbrush. Anything to keep his mind occupied.

I left yesterday, I can only imagine the antics that are taking place right now as the saga continues. I'm not getting any text messages, maybe that's a good sign. Or maybe it's just because I'm too far away to be of any help.

I've heard much about this diet over the years though I've never had the motivation to try it myself. But I have seen a few friends try, only to give it up after a day or two. So I sincerely commend them for their effort and pledge to this fast. My only wish is that someone had thought to make a video journal, the raw emotion that comes from three grown men denying themselves even a morsel of food is truly priceless. That and watching how fast they run to the bathroom after drinking their daily 32-ounce dose of salt water. Truly something worth commemorating with moving pictures.

The last 10 minutes...

...of my thought process.

I've decided:

That of all the varieties of apples, I like Fuji ones the best.

That I am positively moving away from LA. It's been great, but I'm done here.

That I love aloe vera juice. At first I thought it had the flavor of what a mild poison might taste like, but now I love it and find myself craving it.

If guacamole isn't spicy, it almost isn't worth eating. I said ALMOST.

If in 6 months, I'm as happy as I am right now in my yoga classes, I'm going into teacher training.

That in 6 months, if it's possible, I want to be as bendy as this one chick in my class. She is un-freaking-believable.

That I have the world's best couch. And my friend that's been crashing on it thinks so too.

That if I really miss rollerskating as much as I say, I need to go very soon.

That I am so happy to no longer be in my twenties. Without a doubt.

That I love this poignant, well executed line from the movie All the Real Girls.
Paul: "I just want to be sure that a million years from now, I can still see you up close and still have things to say."

That true love isn't just about pretty and perfect, it's about ugly and flawed.

It's about old and feeble and gray and wrinkled.

It's knowing that there's no such thing as perfect and that's what makes him perfect.

It's about helping her to the bathroom when she's 80 and still thinking of her as your girlfriend.

It's having the desire and the courage and the devotion to surrender to the entire experience, not just the storybook stuff.

That I am a big chicken shit and I have one thing I really want to say, but I just don't have the guts.

Blood, Sweat and Tears

First and foremost, high fives and a slap on the ass to all the guys in my yoga class. I probably shouldn't be, but I am genuinely surprised to see just how many men practice yoga. There were just as many men in my class tonight as women. I don't know what you do with your junk in some of the poses, but God bless you and I hope you don't hurt yourself.

Speaking of hurting oneself, I kicked my nightstand the other night while I was attempting to climb into my bed. My bed sits unusually high off the ground, making it difficult for one of my cats to jump up on the bed and apparently difficult for me too. I have placed a trunk at the end of my bed for kitty to use as a launch pad, I might need to look into some steps or something for myself. Anyway, it happened so fast I couldn't even process what exactly I had done, although I do know I laughed out loud at how it must have looked. It didn't begin to hurt until like 2 minutes after the fact. And it didn't bleed until my yoga class. Who bleeds in yoga? Me.

The sweat is pretty self explanatory. It's hot in the room, it's hard as f*** doing these poses..there's sweat. And it burns like a mother when it gets in your eyes, kinda makes you look like you might be crying.

Unless you actually are, crying that is. Who cries in yoga? Me. In all my years of on and off yoga binging, this has never happened to me. Tonight was the second time it's happened in just one week and I gotta admit, aside from feeling slightly exposed, I kinda liked it. The therapeutic effects of crying in general cannot even be argued, but this is not like sitting down to watch the movie that never fails to start your waterworks. Or grabbing a box of tissues and some candles for chick night with your favorite heart break, sob CD. After laying down for Savasana, the tears that streamed down my face were unstoppable. There was no mistaking it, I was crying. I have no idea what the hell I was crying about, but man it felt good. So good that oddly enough, I actually look forward to it happening again.

I played sports competitively from the time I was in sixth grade. I have had coaches that were like drill sergeants. I cannot count how many sprints, lunges, laps, push-ups and sit-ups I've done; this is harder to me than all of those combined. Well, I was a lot younger then. Never in my life though, did I think that I would actually pay someone to enthusiastically surrender my blood, my sweat and my tears and love every damn second of it.

Round Two of The Naked Truth

(Ding!)

I found myself in a curious but familiar place recently, which curiously led to getting even more familiar with the anatomy of one stimulating young gentleman. And coincidentally, it was here that round two took place.

(I have to take a moment to clarify the 'how many times' thought process of mine from an earlier blog. It occurred to me that three 'times' was not the most accurate terminology to use, considering that I had made a comment to a trusted confidant a short time ago that certain activities had taken place in the evening as well as in the morning. This, of course, would add up to 2 of the 3 times I had suggested for this extremely precise research I was attempting to conduct. And frankly, I just don't like the way that works out, therefore I amend my terminology to be considered in 'rounds'. A round equaling any consecutive, yet unspecified, amount of time spent under one roof...what happens and how many times it happens in that duration...God bless you. And it still counts as one. I'm allowed to change the rules, it's my experiment.)

And so the observations and interpretations have been logged, in journals that will remain undisclosed. I may talk big sometimes, but when it comes down to it, me and my pajama bottoms are incredibly shy and fiercely private. I know what happened and I'm pretty sure he knows what happened, so there's really no need to expand on the exploits. Well, all right, in technical, laboratory analysis speak - he rocked my world.

As I'm sure it goes without saying, I look forward to a round three, and perhaps by the time it happens, I'll have found a way to justify another modification, maybe just a simple...uh, extension in the parameters of my study in unclothed activities.

Laid....off

The only good thing about unexpectedly losing your job is concluding that shitty day with the unanticipated loss of your pajama bottoms in tangled up sheets. Naturally, with a very hot, very naked guy lying next to you...who knows just what he's doing. Twice.

The Naked Truth - Addendum

It appears I may have offended a member of the Y chromosomed community with my last blog. "So, that's it? Just checkin' out the goods and then off you go." (Mind you, this comment was not from anyone whose 'goods' I checked out. We are just friends. Just so this is clear.)

But my answer is this: Of course not, my dear. All joking aside and despite the light-hearted nature of my yammering, it's about more than a hook up...it always is no matter what we (I) try to tell ourselves (myself).

It's really about second chances at missed opportunities. It's about the possibility that that same anticipation will ultimately express something that's been there all along but somehow wasn't ready to reveal itself until that very moment. It's about maintaining a belief that movie love really does exist and that though you were distracted by something or someone else, the one you had longed for had a longing for you just the same. And all it took was something, anything, a question, a thought, a whisper, a giggle, in that time you took to pay attention to your curiosity to turn your whole world around and here you are all sweaty and naked, wondering why it took you so long to get here.

(Cue cheesy music)

The end.

The Naked Truth

In the few days I have left counting down to my trip to Mexico, I've been doing a lot of thinking. Thinking somewhat forced upon me because of whom it is I'm going to see. While in Peru, I met an interesting fellow who happens to have a notable amount of boyfriend qualities. He is chivalrous and very kind, attentive and affectionate (which every girl loves) without being annoying about it (which every girl loves). He's Latin. Everything they say about them is true. How they can be so innately passionate and get away with saying 'make love' without sounding like the cheesiest bowl of Kraft cheese and macaroni, I will never quite comprehend. If a white bread, American guy EVER said he wanted to make love to me, aside from laughing uncontrollably in his face, it would likely be certain death to our budding relationship or even our budding hook up.

Speaking of hook ups, in light of the aforementioned potential for future relationship development, inevitable girlie conversation has taken place regarding satiating the curiosity of the what-could-have-been, before tying on that chastity belt and taking a walk down Commitment Lane. (And just a note, men may think about sex more often than women, but women undoubtedly talk about it more. I know this much is true.)

And so it was decided that yes, one is indeed warranted a visit to their former (or even current) curiosities, even if simply for curiosity's sake...better now than later, better now than never. Let's be honest, who doesn't wonder what it would be like to bag the crush they've been eyeing for so long. And in my opinion, unresolved, unanswered curiosity can be nothing short of agonizing torture. So why have that...

In addition to the unanimous decision by my lady friends to deem the hook up not only acceptable, but frankly downright necessary, it was decided that in order for this uh...coming together to serve its purpose, it must go down, at the very least, three times.

Why three times, one might wonder. Well, unfortunately, the first time is hardly an accurate or fair gauge for either party, really. I mean, let's face it, first time sex can be amazing, or entirely disastrous. The anticipation of this moment can cloud one's vision as well as one's perceptions as well as one's performance. All this sweaty nakedness has the power to provoke one to call out the names of deities into the darkness, or cause one to ponder what in God's name they're doing there. Even Olympians are given a few chances to achieve their best scores and they're already known to be good at what they do. Besides, if it is fantastic, why the hell wouldn't you want to do it again? Am I right?

Therefore, a second round is a definite must. The pressure is off, the nerves have calmed, neither party can say, "I haven't done this in a while". If by chance it was pretty damn good, but you just didn't get to do that one thing...here's your chance. And, surely a slightly more accurate reading can take place at this juncture.

Lastly and most importantly, for one to conduct scientifically sound research, the third time is most necessary for the sake of calculating...an average...of course.

Ayahuasca in Peru

Ayahuasca - Iquitos, Peru


The trolley drove us an hour and a half outside of Iquitos, Peru to the Blue Morpho Shaman Camp. The look on everyone's face was exactly the same - excitement mixed with scared senseless. A few people chatted to one another, getting to know the person sitting next to them, not realizing how their acquaintance with that person was going to multiply exponentially over the next nine days. The guy standing next to me asked me why I came to Peru and I told him. I won't even dare say it here, yet I spoke, without hesitation, of my hope to obtain a long sought reprieve by participating in an ancient Ayahuasca ceremony. 

Or five ceremonies to be precise.

The camp was breathtaking, lush vegetation, butterflies fluttering everywhere; brick laid paths leading to each bungalow displaying its beautifully hand-thatched roof. No locks on any doors and no windows, only mosquito netting protecting us from the elements. Each bungalow would sleep 6 people, one shower, sans hot water, one toilet and one sink, no doors; a curtain our only form of privacy.

After settling in, 28 strangers gathered for dinner. Along with supper came the continuing curiosity of every person who had found their way to this tour. Everything I'd heard before coming here was repeated in conversation after next as we sat behind checkered tablecloths, trying desperately to predict what tomorrow was really going to be like. "I heard that Ayahuasca doesn't just make you puke, you poop too!" "I heard that you sometimes can't even make it to the bathroom." "Seriously? You shit your pants?" "That's what I heard." "What's your name again? Oh, hi, nice to meet you." This was our 'get acquainted' dinner conversation. If any of us were apprehensive or nervous or downright petrified before, it is only fair to say our fear grew to a horrifying climax by the time our meal had ended.

Before long the light of day began to vanish into the surrounding jungle. Lanterns were lit, one by one, in each room, in every bungalow. Along with no hot water, no electricity. The nightlife began to crescendo into existence. The sounds that came out of the darkness were unreal. Insects zinging like jumping jacks on the Fourth of July. Over-exaggerated drops of water, they came from some bird, I think. One sound was likened to that which a Furby would make or a cartoon cat purring -- mixed with a cartoon zipper. It was my favorite sound; it seemed so lovable and innocent. Turns out the owner of that call was a tarantula. Another favorite was the frogs that sounded like cackling witches. At the time of night when they would begin to laugh, a quiet room full of humans would start to giggle and then eventually laugh hysterically from these contagious little amphibians. They were a welcomed distraction from the fact that we were still scared shitless for tomorrow evening, our first ceremony.

I fell asleep to the jungle concerto, never once having to remind myself that this was the real deal, not a nature sounds CD. I awoke fairly early, but continued to lie in bed for a few more minutes, staring at the ceiling of my heavy-duty mosquito tent. I instinctively checked my appendages for bumps, bites, fang marks, do tarantulas have fangs? I don't know. I seemed to have survived my first night in the jungle. I unzipped myself from my canvas house and made my way toward my group, already hard at work pounding some sort of bark with wooden mallets. As they broke apart the outer bark of the vine, its orangey pulp began to show. This was the main ingredient for our medicinal concoction. Ayahuasca - the sacred vine. I grabbed a mallet and got to work. Four large pots (we're talking witch's cauldron size) sat off to the side, waiting for the Shaman to begin their ritual of offering blessings with mapacho (tobacco) and carefully layering the ayahuasca and numerous other plants, barks and leaves. A large brick stove was then lit, the pots were set in place and there the Ayahuasca would eventually begin to boil. This would continue throughout most of the day. When the mixture was done, our first ceremony would begin. Many of us took turns sitting on surrounding tree stumps, staring at the bubbling pots. No one spoke much, but when they did, it was pretty much the same thing everyone else was thinking. "Am I really going to drink this stuff?"

The Shaman tended to the mixture, stirring it, watching its consistency. They strained it and then boiled it some more. They maintained hours of this painstaking process. Anywhere we walked in the camp, our line of vision somehow always directed us right to these ominous pots. Every time I looked at them, my stomach wrenched, every time I tried not to look, my stomach said, 'Nice try'. Late in the day, as I made my way passed the brick stove once more, I noticed the pots were gone.

The early evening quickly began to descend into the canopy of the jungle and the critters once again took their positions in the ever and over-growing amphitheatre they call home. The travelers began to take shorter, quicker breaths as the realization of this day became inescapable. The round house was lit with just two lanterns. This room typically displayed a bouquet of hammocks for lounging; tonight they were swung up over the beams from which they hung in order to make way for the mattresses that now graced the entire span of the floor.  Each mattress came with a pillow, a blanket, a cup of water, a roll of tissue, and a big, plastic puke bucket.

As I looked around the room, I wondered if I would be the first person in Ayahuasca history to throw up before the ceremony had actually begun. I moved the puke bucket closer to me.

Our master Shaman quietly walked in, scanning the room, acutely aware of every last person's every last thought. His face appeared sympathetic and humored at the same time, by the palpable anxiety in the air. He's been here before, many, many times. The smirk he wore was because he knew some of our uneasiness was insuppressibly magnified by our naïveté. His compassion shown because he knew some of our uneasiness was about to be horribly, painfully justified. As everyone shifted positions on their mattress, attempting to get comfortable, the Shaman and their apprentices initiated the ritualistic commencement of the ceremony. The lanterns still lit, we watched as they poured each cup, singing into each one individually, a personal Icaro, for the person to which the cup was intended. I watched as each person near me received his or her prescribed amount, I counted how many there were before me. And then I counted again. Before long, an apprentice was standing in front of me with a white mug, containing about as much liquid as one measuring cup. I closed my eyes and prayed like I've never prayed before. I opened my eyes, held my breath and then closed my eyes again. I tried to get it down in one big gulp. I almost succeeded. Ayahuasca's taste has been described in countless ways. None of them, in my opinion, came close to describing it accurately. I'm not certain there is a way to describe it accurately. I do know, however, that I quiver even now as I write this. While trying to get the taste out of my throat, I thought to myself, 'It's no wonder people puke from this stuff.'

In about a half an hour's time the entire room had been served. The Shaman lowered the wicks into the lanterns and the light excused itself from the room in a similar manner. They began to shake their leaf rattles, called Shakapas, a sound that could soothe even the most tortured of souls. Simultaneously, they began to sing. The Icaros would continue for an unspecified amount of time, growing louder at times and sometimes waning into a simple whistle by one or two Shaman. They made their way around the room, dedicating time to any person who appeared to need their attention. It wasn't long before the first person started to throw up. It wasn't long after that that pretty much everyone took their turn in front of their bucket. The indescribable taste of the Ayahuasca the second time around can only be described as worse.

My legs, my arms, my head, everything felt very heavy, as though I had melted and had become adhered to my mat. I seemed to have stepped outside of myself, took a look around and then decided to swan dive inside my own mind. Although the Shaman were still sitting at the front of the room, I could hear them singing and whistling so close to me, as though they had abandoned their physical form and were my very own personal headphones, inside my head. At first geometric shapes, like when you press your eyeballs a little too hard, were floating behind my eyelids. Then colorful landscapes, referred to as vistas, began to take shape. Waterfalls and rainbows, flowers, millions of them, would cascade over a constantly moving scene. I could think about anything and everything at once, without feeling confused or overwhelmed. My thoughts were complete and it was impossible to get distracted by uncertainty or insecurity. An unbelievable sense of gratefulness came over me. At one point, it was as though I was able to account for every single person in my life and know that they had crossed paths with mine for a reason. I could understand the issues in my life that just a few hours ago were undeniably problematic. I was in a place free from fear or judgment. A sense of contentment came over me that was truly authentic.

At times throughout the ceremony, I was aware of others in the room, sometimes it was impossible to avoid being aware. Some wailed and cried and moaned to a heartbreaking degree, others purged relentlessly. Others yet would call out to our Shaman for help, and he would go, be it physically or spiritually, to help them through their difficult moments. Linear time and space are typically lost during these sessions, Shaman are believed to be in multiple places at once, because they are needed in multiple places at once. On one occasion, I knew I heard him standing next to me, when I mustered up the energy to open my eyes, his shadowy figure was sitting in his chair, right where he had probably been sitting for quite some time. Or perhaps not.

At one point I decided to try to focus on one very specific event in my life. The real reason I came to the Shaman in the first place. Although I was aware of the situation in my mind, I could not feel about it the way I have felt for the last 8 years, not to mention, the way I had intended to feel about it this night. I wanted to cry and scream to get it all out, once and for all. It simply was not possible. The Shaman tell you time and again, that your experience with Ayahuasca will not be what you want, but what you need. It will be nothing like what you expect and quite possibly nothing like what you had hoped. I came in expecting a nightmare. I came out cleansed of my enormous guilt, relieved of my life sentence of regret. Yet, strangely, I cannot explain how it happened. It just did. All of the horrible feelings I had harbored for so many years, every minute of every day, were just gone. Disappeared into thin air.

The Shaman also tell you that no two ceremonies will ever be the same. We had four more to go. This was only the beginning.

You make me feel like I belong under the sun*

In the last month, three different people not related to me by anything other than friendship or acquaintanceship , told me that they were proud of me. All for different reasons, which made it even more special to hear.

I'm not sure if I can put into words how awesome it has made me feel. I am grateful for you just thinking of me, let alone with such handsome regard.



*Lyric courtesy of Citizen Cope

Where's My Oscar?

And 20 million dollar paycheck?

I have unwittingly become an actress. When did this happen? Why did this happen? More over, HOW did this happen? And why am I not getting paid for it?

Yes, I live in Los Angeles, L.A., La la land...where you and your miniature breed dog can become a celebrity, a household name, a spokesperson, a joke and an E! True Hollywood Story in just one week's time. If you're lucky. And you don't even have to be a good actor.

I mind my own business, I don't have a cute, little dog that wears a shirt stating, "Bitches love me." Although, if I did, he probably might, but I digress. I tell people when I like them, I tell people when I love them. I have nothing to hide. Well, up until lately. It seems more often these days I have to hide the way I feel about certain situations. Usually in an attempt to just keep the peace, or take the high road or to be "gracious", but not a genuine gracious, of course. It's all an act. Smile ever so kindly and/or say thank you so that you can save face...the other person's face.

I'm sick of it. I'm sick of making situations comfortable, when they clearly are not. Do you think it's pleasant for me to receive your obviously regifted gift? No, it's not. It's SO uncomfortable, as a matter of fact, it makes me want to jump out of my own skin. But, to help YOU avoid feeling stupid, I will play dumb. I smile and say thank you so very much for your thoughtfulness. And as I walk away, I wonder why I felt the need to deny my feelings and spare yours. When did it become not okay to say what's really on my mind? Because it's a shitty thing to do? Well, guess what? So is regifting!!! You know what sounds fair to me? Returning the 'gesture' with the same sincerity in which it was given. Let's see how that goes.

Or what about the night I ran into a guy that I was spending a significant amount of time with and he happened to be with his on-again girlfriend? I once again tucked my feelings in my pocket and pretended that I was no one of any significance, particularly to him...to spare them both an extremely uncomfortable moment. Neither one of them aware that when I finally got to my car, I broke down and cried.

Why have other people's reputations, feelings, and shitty behavior become my responsibility to uphold? Why do I have to struggle to hold back the tears until I can hide so that no one will know the truly pathetic things that are actually happening? Why am I suddenly an actor whose job it is to conceal or completely dismiss my own feelings, on a regular basis?

Where's my fucking Oscar?

Remote Controlled Expectations

There's a great scene from the movie Singles where Kyra Sedgwick's character gives her garage door opener to this guy she's fallen for, who not surprisingly, ends up being a complete dick and she therefore loses said garage door opener (which of course symbolizes a plethora of sentiments much greater than the worthless piece of plastic itself). As she purchases yet another replacement to fill the remote shaped hole in her heart, she swears aloud that she'll never lose it again.

I lost my garage door opener not long ago. Off it went. I had a feeling it wasn't coming back. I didn't cry over the sad-looking little box that left my life that day, but over the hope that that little button holds each time it is pushed. No matter how tough any man or woman might pretend to be, the truth remains, no one really wants to be alone. The extra remote somehow represents the extra space in your life, not just in your garage.

As some things never change, I still somehow end up at Home Depot just about every other day. I found myself perusing that section a few times. Get yourself a new one and just don't ever lose it again. Then I thought, that's no way to be. It would be a pretty sad existence to never take risks just because of one, or two, or...ten bad experiences. But, chances to be taken or not, I still left the store without my Liftrex Super replacement.

I came home today and picked up my mail and inside a padded envelope I saw an object whose color could only be described as garage-door-opener gray. Out of the envelope, it fell into my hand and for a moment I was sad to see there was no note. Not even a scribble to say something like, "Hi, not long ago I used to kiss you a hundred times a day and now we don't even speak, how are you?"

But even so, I had the hope back in my hands. What's so awesome about this though, is I will forever attribute the loss of that stupid fucking remote to what finally inspired me to do things I'd been wanting to do for years. Things I kept saying I'd do next week or next month and then turned into years, without accomplishment. This August, I will travel to another country. By myself. And this Wednesday, I begin my lessons with my Spanish tutor. FINALLY. And so I thank you, former apple of my eye, for saying all those sweet things and for every one of those kisses...and then for being a giant asshole to me. You have inspired and motivated me more than I ever would have imagined. And getting my remote back is a reminder that, although at times it may seem like it, hope is not lost. Perhaps misused and mislaid and misjudged sometimes, but definitely not lost.

And so the dance resumed...

...with his glances from across the room, despite my preoccupation with diversions. His hand then on the small of my back, a heavy whisper in my ear. Its all so familiar but still perilously beckoning. My only other option was to run. A purely wicked dichotomy, because it could only bear the resemblance of catastrophe, regardless of the choice I was to make.


But so the world would not be, without tragedy lurking in the shadows of anything worthwhile. And how easy it is to forget its potential ravages at that one moment. That split second when choice simply ceases to exist and your heart begins to beat so fast you cannot find your breath. And as soon as you do, it is stolen from you just the same. But, oh what a kiss.

God bless the art of coquetry

I declare, wholeheartedly, I love men who flirt. And completely unabashed flirting at that. It is amazing how one seemingly trivial action is capable of making me feel unquestionably feminine and unmistakably pretty. There is something to be said about the confidence in a man who will hold my hand in his and play with my hair, in a room full of people, although we've barely just met. It is an art form.

One...

One love
We get to share it
Leaves you baby if you
Don't care for it

U2 "One"



Simple, simple lyrics. Yet, I found myself choked up tonight at the U2 show. Twice. I'm not a concert cryer, nor am I one of those crazed fans who screams bloody murder and then faints right there in the middle of a moshpit. I do, however, enjoy any music that evokes some emotion and manages to replace my everyday skin with those fantastic, tingly little goosebumps. I know Jade, it's chicken skin ;)

Tonight, I shed actual tears. I'm not sure where they came from really...I wasn't even in a particularly sad or emotional mood. I may have been embarrassed (even if slightly) from my blubbering if it hadn't been for one thing, I happened to look over at the 40-something year old man next to me at the very moment he was wiping a tear from his cheek.

I Do. Or do I?

I got into a long discussion about marriage today. Well, not just marriage, but partnership. These days it seems marriage can potentially be an entirely independent and unrelated action from the actual union of two people anyway. But in an attempt to try and understand why humans do what we do, we asked ourselves how and why people get together. A boatload of questions came about, but not many answers. Not many definitive ones anyway:

Is it natural for humans to want to find that one special person and ‘settle down’ as they say? Or is it the ideology of marriage that has brainwashed us into thinking that we do? If marriage just didn’t exist, would we still act the same way toward relationships? Would we even get into relationships? Are we walking around sizing everyone up to fit into that one slot whether or not there is an exchange of vows? Does the desire for children factor in here anywhere and change anything? Statistically speaking, if we’re meant to pair up with just one person, is it possible for everyone to find their partner in their lifetime? Does the probability of settling down with one person get higher or lower or stay the same the longer you are single? Are over half of marriages ending in divorce now because people are being fed an unrealistic view of what it should be? Are we having undue pressure put on us to get married because that is what is considered the standard? Why are people not getting married as young as they used to? Marriage was created by humans, will it ever be dismissed by humans? Is it even realistic to assume that we are wired to be monogamous?

Phew, I need a drink.

Not Bitching (for once)

There’s something to be said about going off and just bitching about the things that bother you sometimes. And I mean BITCHING, only the way a woman can. There’s probably a reason the term was originally associated with women in the first place, we’re quite simply really, really good at it. And it’s no secret that I’ve bitched lately about men and their shortcomings (pun fully intended).

 I feel a lot better.

 And I think the universe heard me complaining. And now, since I am a huge advocate of keeping things fair and balanced, I must now give credit where credit is due.

Big ups to the man who has caused me to wear an especially satisfied smile on my face lately and brought the spring back into my step. As well as helping me remember that there are things worth shaving my legs for. I don’t know where he came from or how he learned the things he knows, but I certainly wouldn’t mind finding out. I’m actually not so sure he’s human to be honest. Some of his abilities are not of this earth.

Some time ago I made out with him…in a 7-Eleven freezer. I would hardly think cases of Budweiser and 2 percent milk to be alluring, but when he spun me around and kissed me in the vapor of our visibly cold breath, I knew I stumbled upon something interesting. And although it would be quite some time before I really knew what I was in for, I got a sneaking feeling that this one had some tricks up his sleeve. These tricks, my friends….are not for kids.

Looking back at my past, I accidentally noticed something, although I’ve never had a “type”, seems in recent years there were a string of guys who weren’t the burliest of chaps. The I’m-a-lover-not-a-fighter types, which is all great and good. I like to think that anyone I choose to spend time with is an exceptional person, for the simple fact that I am extremely selective about my free time and whom I spend it with. But I have to say, I’ve missed a few things over the years. Like guys who own (and know how to operate) tools, like saws and drills and stuff. A tool belt is an added bonus, even if I ask him to put it on just for fun! Or the guy who can pick up those big jugs of water without turning purple before toppling under its weight and cracking a rib. Speaking of picking things up…there’s something refreshing about a guy who can pick me up (and let’s say…just for the hell of it…carry me into the bedroom) with the same ease as say, carrying a bag of feathers. Okay, a hundred and five pound bag of feathers, but whatever.

Moreover, there’s something fantastic and strangely comforting in knowing that if someone fucks with you, he’s not even going to hesitate in taking the necessary steps to introduce his fist to the person's face (only if absolutely necessary, of course). I mean, not that he’d go looking for bar brawls or anything, but he ain’t running away from a little danger when another’s respect has been compromised.
But it’s not just about size and strength, there’s also something very attractive about a man who makes an experience of taking you clothes off, one piece at a time…in the living room. And especially appealing when he actually takes the time to check out the ensemble you just bought (after all, that is at least part of the reason you bought it, you kinda thought someone might be taking a peek pretty soon). There’s something enticing about a man who isn’t afraid to make the first move and even if you say no, he’s aware that it just means no until next time. And until next time he will wait. And when next time comes, he will be equally disarming and kiss you wildly…(and change your water jug for you too).

As always, out of respect for the privacy of others, I never mention any names but, with a big smile I say thanks to my new friend for all the spooning...and the forking.

If you can't beat 'em, join 'em

I’m exhausted but cannot sleep, why this happens I will never understand…so I find myself in front of my computer. Back in the day I would have found myself holding my journal in my lap. The journal that I painstakingly kept…long hand. It’s so much easier to type. I seem to have this love/hate relationship with technology…

…exemplified by my personal anti text messaging campaign lately. I loved it at first for so many reasons. A great little novelty and a reason to spend all too much money on a new cell phone which boasts easier access to texting (which has now become its own verb), the quiver of excitement from hearing the special ring tone you’ve set for your special incoming texts. The wonder of what that little message might tell you that spoken words could not. But then, I began to despise it. I started to think that communication in this form would deteriorate our one on one, face to face experience. It seemed like an easy, almost cowardly, way out of having to really speak to someone. I decided to put myself on hiatus from texting.

Reluctantly, I must confess I may have changed my mind. But I don’t suppose that’s such a bad thing. There is always reason to discover the good things in everything, especially when you may have just overlooked them initially. My flip flopper attitude stems from a virtual tennis match of texting I participated in recently.

In the silence of the late evening, I lay in bed thinking about my adamant new old fashioned ways, and then I hear that special ring tone. I began to imagine life when there were no telephones. Not only cell phones, but regular telephones as well. Correspondence came in the form of fancy inked letters with a melted wax seal, stamped with a family shield or monogram of some sort (all this to insure the messenger wasn’t being a snoop while on his way to his destination). The anticipation of a letter from a lover may have made the days feel like weeks, and the weeks an eternity. And just as we always appreciate the book much more than the movie because of the pictures we paint so vividly in our minds, the mere thought of her smile from his words as she reads them would stay with him long after the pen touched the paper. It seems that because everything took longer, perhaps they were appreciated more. And that wasn’t so bad.

So what does this all have to do with modern times I asked myself? I realized that if I took a step back, I might find the very qualities I’d written off, because of our hurried world, staring me right in the face. Turns out, there could be many similarities in those feather quill letters and the texts I’ve received. They were just shorter versions…and of course, I was receiving them at lightning speed. No horses or messengers or carrier pigeons. But the wonder and imagination were ever present. Dare I say there was even something romantic about talking to another without actually speaking? With the inescapable romance of a dark and stormy evening (where I was anyway) and the distance between us, I couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps something I wrote may have made him smile. I vividly painted my mental picture, his face highlighted by the dim light of the LCD screen on his cell phone, nimbly pushing the corresponding numbers to form the words he was about to write.

Of course text messages are a far cry from writing a letter, but I found that I liked partaking in a form of communication that telephones seemed to have taken away long ago. And maybe this technology that I love and hate so much is bringing a bit of it back.

Bush League

They gave me a handy little locker for my shoes, but what about my inhibitions? Where am I supposed to put those?

I found myself in Koreatown a couple days ago. A friend of mine had recommended this Korean bathhouse for a massage and the loofah body scrub they offer...at quite the modest price, no less. Well, that was about the only modest thing about the place. I’ve been to a spa or two in my day. Burke Williams and the like, I also used to work for a day spa while I lived in Chicago. All of these spas seemed to run pretty much the same way, you’re handed a robe and a key, and then you’re pretty much good to go. Use whatever you like, the hot tub, sauna, pool, steam showers, all of which are primarily occupied by entirely naked women. When it comes time for your service, however, whether it be a massage, salt scrub, mud mask, etc…I'm accustomed to being whisked away to a quiet, Zen-like room…just me and the masseur.

NOT so in Koreaville. Aside from being the only white girl in a room full of some of the hottest Asian women I’ve ever seen, they were way less modest than any chick I’ve ever witnessed prancing around in the women’s lounge at an Americanized spa. I swear some of them would get out of the hot tub and grab their folded up towel and just walk with it right in their hand. It was slightly intimidating, I won't even try to pretend otherwise. They've got some great genes -- those bitches. The 70’s bush on the other hand was unlike any I've ever witnessed live. I know, I know. I swear I wasn’t staring, but it was hard not to notice. I am all for rolling with the old school triangle, it’s vintage, it’s retro, it’s in, that’s cool. But trimming the length is a must! I mean no disrespect at all, I was a total bush leaguer in there (no pun intended), they were all damn hot, over-sized muffs or not.

So, here I am (sporting my micro-mini triangle) getting into the hot tub. No big deal I can handle those miniscule moments of nudity amongst strangers. But now comes time for my massage. This lovely Korean woman comes over to me and I believe she is calling me over for my "appointment" but I have entirely no clue what she is saying to me, so I just got up and followed her. We walked into a room that I had noticed upon my arrival. There appeared to be a massage table directly in front of the doorway, and I thought to myself, ‘what an odd place to put the table…right in front of the door??!!’ As I made my way through the entrance, trying to avert my eyes from the overgrown muffin that was lying on that table, an alarming reality set in. There were 7 more tables in this giant shower-like room, and they were all occupied by naked women, except for the one designated for me. I had a couple of choices here. I pictured myself sprinting to my car, barefoot, white robe flailing crazily behind me from my adrenalin-induced speed. 'Screw my wallet, I’ll get new credit cards...I wonder if they're gonna charge me for this robe.'

“Face down!”
“Huh?” I mumbled when I realized I was still standing very close to the only visible doorway (read: exit).
“Face down!” She smiled as she tapped her hand onto the table. Yep, this time I understood exactly what she said.

My next move surprised even me. I smiled a smile from ear to ear and dropped my robe right there on the floor. Me, chicken? Hah!! I did, however, FEEL like a chicken…a chicken getting prepped for the deep fryer. I was being cleaned, slathered and tenderized. I was even garnished with something that resembled a cucumber salad.

I never knew the meaning of the word liberating until that day. Every nook and cranny was exposed to a room full of ladies, not to mention the woman who didn’t miss a beat while she flipped and patted and kneaded (all the while maintaining her entire routine wearing only a matching bra and panties. Black. Lace. I'm not kidding).

Americans are funny about our junk. We are a painfully yet hypocritically modest society in so many ways. God forbid we see a nipple on television and women have to fight for the right to provide their child vital sustenance in public. But Britney Spears (pre K-Fed) grinding under gallons of pouring water for her audience of 9 year olds who want to be just like her is totally acceptable. Funny, I say.

I have to say, another excellent feature of this hard core smack down I stumbled into was the fact that they didn’t have to be all pseudo proper and fakey respectful out of fear that you would sue them for coming within three inches of your business. It was more like, “You’re in my hood now, you pale American, your laws are no good here.” And probably thinking all the while that my triangle was just too darn small.

It was brilliant. I highly recommend it.

Family History

Family's History
I’m home in good old democratic voting (this year anyway) Michigan. It snowed the first night I was here, big beautiful snowflakes, the kind that look like feathers. A story came back to me from when I was a kid about the angels having a pillow fight. I like that one. Well, they were still going at it this morning when I got up. The ground looked just like the down comforter I was wrapped up in. What a wonderfully descriptive name, who thought of that one? Comforter. It keeps you warm, it protects you when you’re scared, it always wants to hang around you. If only they would make one in human form. You could choose his thread count (style) and his filling (smarts) and his size (well, you know). You could just go to the store and pick him out right there, and he would be conveniently zipped up in a plastic bag (with air holes of course) and labeled with one of those convenient little round stickers. Like Funny, Smart or Romantic…rather than just Twin, Full or Queen. Oh well. Anyhow, I didn’t want to get up, but I had snow angels on my mind. I wrapped the comforter around me a little bit tighter and slid out of bed. I planned on running outside, dropping the blanket at the door and making a snow angel in my pajamas...just to freak my mom out. All I needed were my boots, so I put them on and opened the door. Sam, my mom’s dog stood at my feet with his ball in his mouth. I took it and threw it into the yard and said, “Go get it!” Whoever said dogs can’t talk doesn’t know anything. He said, “Are you crazy? It’s fucking cold out there!” I swear. And he was right. I turned around and went back inside. Watching the snow from inside was perfect. Perfectly warm. I decided I’d go play in the snow later, at least after breakfast. My mom asked me how I wanted my eggs. I only eat them scrambled. I might need to come home more often.

Later on in the day, my mom and I went for dinner, just her and me. I was thinking about my grandmother and the state that she is currently in. And by state I don’t mean one of the 48 contiguous, I mean her state of mind. She is losing it. That Alzheimer's is one sly thief. I guess as far as geographical states go, it might be fair to say that technically she’s no longer a citizen of this one, or any other for that matter anymore. Hell…she’s not even on this planet anymore. Just a few months back she actually saw aliens. She described the space ship to me, and the people…or should I say “people” she saw come out of it. They were skinny and were wearing the same clothes, like a uniform. She didn’t mention anything about oversized heads and hairless bodies, I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. She saw them right outside the window of the bedroom I’m sleeping in while I’m here. Might be an interesting couple of days. I’ll be checking for implants in my neck or buttocks, or wherever they put them, I’m not really sure.

Anyway, during dinner I began to ask questions about my family. Having had a conversation about families just a few nights before in LA, I guess it prompted me to wonder again about mine. And since I’ve already lost one parent, I’m really starting to realize how much of your history you lose when your parents go. I mean, unless you record your history, which aside from pictures or a few home videos, most people don’t do, your parents are really the link to those days past. I’ve always known that my grandmother lost her parents at a young age. Her mom when she was six and her dad when she was about ten. So, how much could she have been told by age ten? But I learned something new tonight, my grandmother’s mother was orphaned at fourteen, so she’d also lost out on some of her own family history. Throw in the fact that while my grandparents were growing up, a war was brewing and now they had to leave even more of their own history behind and get the hell outta dodge. It’s such a sad story through and through, that there’s a part of me that doesn’t even want to know. But there’s another part that, of course, longs to know everything. What they were like and the fact that I might be like or look just like one of them. I need to find out more of my family’s history, before my family is history.

It's funny how different the world is now. So much of the present, which in the course of 24 hours becomes history, is recorded these days. And you can sit down and watch just about all of it at any given time. (I wonder when President Bush's War - Season 1 and 2 will be out on dvd.)

If ever I have children, I will encourage them to write. I would give anything to be able to sit down and read any notes my grandmother may have scribbled. Having kept a journal myself since 6th grade, I've come to appreciate the documented history of my life that I own. Although much of it in those early years was 'he said...and then I said....and then she's like...i hate her...but he's so cute...I love him'. Ah, it'll be worth at the very least a hearty chuckle someday.

Well, it’s getting late…about the time that strange things start to happen. Maybe I’ll go look for some aliens outside my window. Maybe they know something. They’ve got to, they have a round thing that they can get to fly (she said it was round and it made a noise, almost like a plane and that’s what prompted her to look out the window). Maybe they know about the history…maybe they know where my grandmother’s mind has gone…maybe they know if I’ll ever find a comforter and what his name will be. Oh Christ, the wind just blew so hard I freaked myself out. I’m going to hide under the only comforter I've got right now...good enough.

Be careful what you wish for

Been on my soapbox lately about technology and how I sometimes wish we didn't have cell phones so our world could go at a less hurried and frantic pace. Well, I believe I just got what I deserved.

I couldn't have asked for a better day Friday. Having just seen Wilco on Thursday night and feeling refreshed and revived again for a number of reasons, it was a perfect day. In addition to this beautiful day, an entirely unexpected surprise at 4pm…tickets for Wilco's show that night...what kind of lottery did I just win?

I went with the same friend and we were amped to say the least. For Thursday’s show we were running so late that I completely forgot to grab my bowl before I walked out the door. I promised myself I wouldn’t forget it tonight. In the lobby of the Wiltern I let out a Homer sized, "Doh!" and decided I’m obviously doing too many drugs and it’s causing me to forget things…like bringing my drugs. Oh well...thems the breaks. We bought ourselves a couple of beers and settled in for another night of Tweedy and friends. Not one minute into their first song, an angel from heaven, disguised as the guy sitting next to us, passes us a joint. Could lightning really strike twice? The concert was even better than the night before...my night was perfect. Nothing could possibly spoil it.

I sat in my chair, transfixed and happily high. I decided to send a friend a text, but decided that I first needed a sip of my beer (which was sitting on the floor at my feet). Note: they don't give you the bottle at the Wiltern, they pour it into a big plastic cup. As I brought the cup up off the ground, my beer exploded. The cup is in my hand, I never dropped it, it is not cracked, but my shoes and pants are soaked. I stare at the cup that I was still holding and I am utterly perplexed as to how this happened. My friend looks over at me and whispers, "Did you drop your beer?" Almost sarcastically, I showed him that I was holding the cup in my hand, so NO, obviously I didn't drop it! I didn't knock it into anything; I didn't tilt it over, what the f....!?? It was almost as if something kamikaze’d its way into my malt beverage out of nowhere, I may have even looked up to the heavens above me for a possible explanation. And then, with a marijuana induced delayed reaction, I saw something that looked very familiar floating in my beer. My cell phone.

If they had been playing "I Must Be High" while all this went down, I would have surely lost it.

Lesson learned. No more tempting fate...it seems she's conspired to teach me a lesson. I already miss my text messages.

(You'd think there'd be a lesson here about drugs, but...nope)

One more blog about boys

I find lately that I would much rather make out with a guy than, to put it bluntly, get laid. I’m just bored, I think, with the idea of sex. I could get laid any night of the week if I wanted to (primarily because it's not hard to find a guy who would refuse sex). The problem is he most likely wouldn't be someone I cared to talk to the next day, or ever again for that matter. There just aren’t that many people out there that I want to share my pink places with. If it's about ‘getting off’, I have the means to do so, and honestly, probably better than anyone could ever do. But of course, you can't cuddle with a vibrator, so we all know that those little battery-operated over achievers are not the answer to the Mars-Venus dilemma.

Sex, for me, is not an affirmation of beauty or sexiness or desirable-ness. I mean, from a physiological perspective, men want to have sex...to insure their place in the kingdom. Animal instinct is to keep your species alive. Males, being an integral part in that structure, instinctively rise to the occasion (pun intended). It really has little to do with whether I wore my black lacey panties or those really cute pink ones with the ruffle. (Seriously, how many times has a girl put on her hottest unmentionables and had them end up on the floor…still inside her sweater?) You could be wearing a potato sack, he won’t care. Sorry, he might care, but it’s not going to stop him from having sex with you. I’m not denying that men are attracted to women for more reasons than just some instinctual motivation, but there is definitely a different frame of mind between the X and Y chromosomes when things start to get sweaty.

Not to be misunderstood, I sincerely and genuinely enjoy the act…immensely. I’m not shy or insecure about it. But I guess because my instinct isn't driving me to fornicate with as many breathing men as possible, I’m longing for things that seem to be more difficult to find. I was presented with one of those “Which would you rather?” questions the other day. I had to choose one quality that was really important to me. And the choice became this: forgettable sex with a guy who made me laugh every day or amazing sex with a guy who had a horrible sense of humor (all other qualities in these make-believe men were exactly the same). I picked comedy.



Anyone know any good jokes?

Do You Woo, Who?

I used to think that holding the door open for a girl and walking her home made him a gentleman. And by him, I mean that guy. The one we are convinced we’re going to find, the one who just gets it. But I’ve realized, while those chivalrous deeds are lovely and appreciated by women universally; they aren’t at the very top of the list (where I once put them) of things a man can do to truly be a gentleman. Don’t get me wrong, those things should always be done without question, but there’s a little more than chivalry that defines a man. This gentleman I speak of is no storybook hero, either. He’s not perfect and he doesn’t like to go shoe shopping with you. He belches and wears the same clothes for a week (there’s something about his scent that makes you crazy about him). He forgets to brush his teeth and complains when he’s sick. But, he makes you feel like the only girl in the world.

The latter statement is what I’ve come to realize makes a truly outstanding man. He likes you and he lets you know it. He holds your hand in public. He asks you out on a date. Properly. And the date by no means need be proper, just the manner in which he asked. Has this tradition just faded away and no one told me? Lately, it seems I run into these guys who flirt for about 34 seconds and…well, that’s it. At this point, I would probably think it was me…and they simply decided they weren’t interested. But then it happens all over again, 34 more seconds suggesting their interest, but this time throw in his expectation that you’ll be waking up at his place in the morning. What is happening?

I’ve always loved the word ‘woo’ and it would be great if boys re-learned how to do it. Maybe they should teach it in school, kind of like sex education. It would be the prerequisite class, promoted as the you-need-this-class-before-you-even-have-to-worry-about-sex-education class. To say I’d like to be ‘courted’ suggests that I should be wearing a corset and holding a parasol. The word is pretty dated. Is there a new word to indicate this desire from a new era of old fashioned girls? And by the way, I’d like to clear up some confusion. I’m not sure how it happens, but somehow ‘old fashioned’ gets misinterpreted as ‘prude’ in the air between her lips and his ears. There is a world of difference.

I hesitate to think that my geographical location has anything to do with this. I constantly hear people say things like, “It’s because you live in L.A.” Well, if everyone in L.A. is not really from L.A., then what is that saying? Is something changing in the role of boy meets girl and I’m just not adapting? Could it be technology? I fear that text messaging is inadvertently keeping us from flirting face to face, thereby causing us to simply forget how. I have to admit, texting has been an enormous icebreaker on more than one occasion. But these occasions seem to have fizzled before they even had a chance to begin and I’m starting to blame this feature on my phone. I liked it better when a boy knew I liked him because I didn’t look away when he gazed at me from across the room, not because I replied with a sideways winking smiley.

I’m a girl. I like being a girl. But I’m starting to forget what it’s like to be giddy. What it’s like to blush when someone utters the name of a boy I can’t stop thinking about. A boy who thinks about me just the same. And goes out of his way to let me know. I’d like to think that the days of time honored wooing aren’t lost to those who play what seems to be a testosterone-fueled numbers game. For as long as I can remember, men have been dubbed the hunter...I get it, it’s human nature. And maybe we’re really not meant to be with one person for the rest of our lives, a tiny part of me believes that may be true. But (trying desperately not to sound pessimistic), lately it seems almost impossible to share a few significant moments with someone let alone a lifetime.

Bitch on Wheels

I love those seemingly normal, fairly average…nothing-to-write-home-about nights that, out of nowhere, turn into a life changing experience. I was prepared to hang out with a couple of friends, drink some wine, smoke a joint and way too many cigarettes, which by the way, is an amazing evening to me in itself. I hate going out. There’s nothing ‘out’ that I feel I need to spend my time doing. Bars are annoying, actually no, it’s not the bars that are annoying, it’s the people. Or maybe it’s me and my antisocial-ness, I’ll take the blame. Whatever the reason, I don’t like going out. But who would have thought that someone who couldn’t go out, even if she wanted to, would have such an incredible impact on me on such an unexpected evening.

Nadia. She’s 64, I believe she said. She’s a cancer survivor, which before this evening I probably would have scoffed at that word…survivor. See, Nadia recently had one of her legs amputated. Me, young and arrogant, thought what kind of survival is that? You can’t walk, you’re in a wheel chair! I felt sorry for her. After hearing this woman speak to us for hours tonight, I started to feel sorry for myself! Sharp as a tack, hysterically funny and swears like a sailor. Behind every word and every story there was this silent attitude that screamed, ‘fuck cancer, what else ya got, I’ll beat that too.’ She drank with us, a self proclaimed ‘wino’. She could drink a frat boy under the table, believe me. Might be the fact that she’s Ukrainian. No attempt to take the drinking title away from the Irish, but Ukes pour vodka in their breakfast cereal. Nadia lit up her sixteenth cigarette and told us a story about how she got her dad stoned when he came to visit, it was his birthday. She was forty-something at the time and she remembered thinking her parents were ancient. She’s not much older than my mother, but she’s hipper than my mom could ever be. Hell, she’s hipper than I could ever be. She refers to it as grass, which is so incredibly awesome I can’t stand it. We didn’t smoke any with her tonight, but next time, I’m bringing her a bag.

I’ve been through some fucked up things in my life and it’s taken me a long time to learn that you have a choice, and it sounds easier said than done, but it really is simple…laugh or cry. It’s your choice. Nadia made me realize that the only thing that can break you, is you. I had only a little sample tonight of the wisdom that emanates from this amazing woman, I already can't wait until next time. Nadia’s experienced so many incredible things that I’m not sure I’ll ever get to do in my lifetime. I can only hope. She’s also been through hell and back, but she’s found the positive lessons to be learned from every one of those moments. And she claims she’s ready to do it all over again, but this time on her new scooter. I’m bringing a notebook next time.

As I drove home I found I was a little sad. I remembered her telling us she might get a prosthetic leg sometime in December. The operative word there is might. A bunch of bullshit with Medicare and money, so she’s not even sure it will happen. I thought about this as I drove through Hollywood. I couldn’t help but think about how twisted our society is sometimes. Especially here in LA, where one can see so clearly the absurd amount of money that successful actors, for instance, get paid. Money they won’t be able to spend in their lifetime, money they can’t take with them when they go. Money they get paid to play pretend. Maybe even to play an amputee in a film someday. Yes I’m sitting here complaining about how unfair the world is. And I know no one ever said that it would be. Funny thing is, I'll probably cry over it before Nadia will.