tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26390298720659647462024-03-13T01:46:20.395-07:00RUAWAKERUAWAKE...a wake-up call column of questions, answers, celebrations, fascinations and philosophications.RUAWAKEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604628371229328744noreply@blogger.comBlogger209125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2639029872065964746.post-85271739667920538032011-01-08T11:27:00.000-08:002011-01-08T11:32:37.713-08:00AdieuToday marks the tenth anniversary of RUAWAKE. And today is the last post on RUAWAKE.<br />
<br />
I know, I know. I made a lot of promises at the beginning of last year to make it a great series of final posts, reveals, et blah blah blah. I like to think of myself as a woman of her word, but life moved pretty quickly in 2010, and this blog fell through the cracks. Sadly, it will go out more with a whimper than with any sort of bang.<br />
<br />
Back when this all began, before blogs were blogs, RUAWAKE was a website. Full-on HTML/FTP to update, multi-paged website. Then a computer crash and an OS upgrade, Fetch became difficult, and the great guy who built my beautiful website got out of the web design business. I felt it rude to keep calling him when something went awry. Pathetically, while I have a modest understanding of code, I really only learned enough of it to insert a return, make something bold or italic, blink or strike-through. And so, I moved it over to Blogger. It was hard to say goodbye to my website, which I truly adored, but it was time for a change. And it is time for a change again.<br />
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**************** <br />
<br />
Ten years ago, I had so much to say. And there were only a few of us with websites dedicated to rants and wonders and mishaps. Today, there are so many wonderfully unique voices saying so many wonderfully unique things, I prefer to sit back and read than chime in. I still have things to say, just not always the time to say them the way I want, then the moment passes. I just caught a glimpse of the plethora of drafts that never made it to post here. It leaves me a bit melancholy. <br />
<br />
I thought about making up for that by posting through 2011, if only for myself. But I realized the same thing would occur. Whether I want to admit it or not, I've evolved out of this space, this space I loved so much, which brought so many great connections, laughter and joy. The wonderful online community will never cease to amaze me.<br />
<br />
I still blog. Once you start, it's harder to stop than crack. You can find me at <a href="http://projectelegance.com/">Project Elegance</a>, my <a href="http://sandraannmiller.com/">personal/professional</a> website as well as a blog for <a href="http://blackcoffeethemovie.com/">my film</a>.<br />
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For those of you who have stuck around since the beginning, you have my heart and gratitude. For those of you who have found your way here at all, thank you so much. It is hard to say goodbye, especially in this manner. But, sometimes one just has to let go and move on. And so I shall.<br />
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I wish you a wonderful and amazing 2011. <br />
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Much love,<br />
SandraRUAWAKEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604628371229328744noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2639029872065964746.post-69560480221155367602010-08-02T16:18:00.000-07:002010-08-02T16:18:14.576-07:00SighI finally let go of a great deal of stress. Finally. It only took a good fall, an emotional breakdown (which occurred the week after I hit the pavement), and a rescue by my best friend, who whisked me away to Palm Springs for an overnight stay. "You're not getting out of this," she said. "We are going. The room is booked. And before you can say anything about money, I used miles. So there."<br />
<br />
Do you see why I love this woman?<br />
<br />
Los Angeles, or at least her beach cities, has been shockingly cool. Not as in "über hip", but as in "bring a sweater". The marine layer, rain, record-breaking lows -- this is more of what March holds than July or August. The 120 degrees of "dry" heat and ample sunshine was a welcomed escape. Vitamin D, poolside booze and a good friend cures all. After a two-year writing binge, I am very proud to report: tanlines.<br />
<br />
It's the little things, people.<br />
<br />
The irony in all of this is that, now that I've let go of all this stress, I'm so effing tired I can barely move. Um, yeah, guess I was running on just a little adrenaline. In the last week, have been sleeping like a hibernating bear. On Thursday, I was in bed by 9. NINE! That only happens when I am really, really, really, really sick. Like with a fever. This was simply sheer and utter exhaustion. <br />
<br />
In spite of my excessive slumber, I'm still tired. Less tired than I was. Not exhausted all the time, but still tired. And still yawning. All. The. Time. I've taken up regular afternoon latte runs, something I've eschewed for years. I've lied to friends -- LIED! -- and passed up dates because I had "plans"...plans to eat dinner and go to sleep. That's not very cool, I know. I don't like to be dishonest. But, what am I supposed to say? "I know we haven't seen each other in ages, and I love you to bits, but I'd rather go to sleep than go out with you?" Exactly. "Plans" sound much better. White lies, people. Every once it a while they make sense.<br />
<br />
******************<br />
<br />
"I don't want you to take this the wrong way," my bestie said to me last week, "but you seem like a different person. I mean that in a good way."<br />
<br />
The funny thing about Aries stress (and, yes, I'm going to get all astrological on you), is that we think we are handling it very well. And, for the most part, we do. We are analytical about it: Here are the facts, these are the realities and this is how I'm going to deal with it/them/that. There isn't any denial. No facade. We really can handle it. For a long time. Until something like a stubbed toe brings us to our knees, and leaves them bloody.<br />
<br />
I've been handling my tense situation in a dandy manner, I'd like to think, for the last three years. Three years is a long time to hold one's breath. Waiting for a resolution. A miracle. My hard work and patience to pay off. And, for an Aries to have any semblance of patience, well, that is worth something pretty grand. <br />
<br />
I've lived in the lands of Almost, Soon, Close and Nearly There for a little too long now. That's just the bitch of working toward a dream. On the outside, it has to look pretty stupid. On the inside, it can feel pathetic. I'm always surprised, though, when a friend will say how brave they think it is. They usually say this over a cocktail they insist on paying for. <br />
<br />
Have I mentioned lately how much I love my friends?<br />
<br />
I would tell you more about the situation -- something I did promise at the beginning of the year. I am a woman of my word. I will, I swear, tell you the ins and outs of what has been going on -- no "plans" will get in the way of that, promise. But, another aspect of an Aries (or, maybe just me), is that we don't like to talk about it too much. We don't want to jinx it. And I am close. We are close. And, soon, we will know more. In the interim, I sleep. And sigh. And smile.<br />
<br />
For the first time in a long time, I am happy. Not that I was unhappy before. No. It's just with that layer of stress removed, I'm freer to feel. It's easier to laugh, and not just at the irony abounding. It's easier just to be. The facts and the realities remain. There is a clock, and it ticks. Time moves really quickly, and there's plenty to fret about. I'm just not going to for now. I'm simply going to enjoy what's left of this winter-like summer before my tanlines fade away.RUAWAKEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604628371229328744noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2639029872065964746.post-17962587200638676572010-07-14T14:30:00.000-07:002010-07-14T14:31:43.517-07:00Heading for a FallWhy are the short weeks so mean? Seriously. It's like the holiday weekend flips you the bird. "Hope you enjoyed those three days off," it seems to say, "because that four-day work week is gonna be a futhermucker."<br />
<br />
Last week was a tad brutal, I must say. Just a tad. <br />
<br />
The week started off with discovering on that holiday Monday, that my debit card had been frauded to the tune of $600. Now, I'm not the type to regularly (or ever) check my bank activity online. But, on that day, I did. So I called my financial institution and found that, yeah, I would have to cancel and get a new debit card...which would take up to 10 business days to receive. I use that card for ev-er-y-thing, so the bonus to being frauded was the added inconvenience of going Visa debit card free. Um, yeah, boo.<br />
<br />
Next, I was met with an unhappy client, which is one of the better ways to begin the workweek, no? The upset occurred over simple math. We have an agreement to pay me a specific amount per week. That weekly rate was rounded to a monthly by the client. My invoices are still for the week, he just pays me for the month, which is really and truly nice. However...there aren't always four weeks in a month. There just isn't. We have 52 weeks in a year. Divide that by 4 and you get 13. We don't have a Decenuary on the calendar. So, any genius that builds a budget based on a 48-week year is doomed for financial failure. Because, occasionally, say about four times a year, we have a five week month. July happens to be one of them. So, when I sent my invoice reflecting this, I got a lecture on my math skills and a hint that I was being greedy. <br />
<br />
Suffice it to say, I'm just working less this month. And, future monthly invoices will reflect 4.33 weeks.<br />
<br />
The next hiccup came when the long-awaited meeting I've had calendared and re-calendard, then re-set again got moved. I really do ink things in my calendar, and I am never thrilled to cross anything out. This is kind of a big meeting. Well, not kind of, it is. And, while I'm a pretty laid-back gal, and understood the reasons why all the moves were occurring, the anticipation (and preparation) that went into it, only to be met again with a resched, left me a bit letdown. At least it wasn't a cancellation. That was the upside. But I was simply exhausted from holding my breath, and wasn't really looking forward to holding it again.<br />
<br />
But the week would only get better when a good friend went this side of apeshit on me over nothing, and made it all my fault. That is just nothing but good times, people. All I could do, while sitting through the email exchange -- yes, emails, which made it all the more sad -- was inhale and edit, re-edit and edit again my replies. When someone just decides that they are going to be pissed and that they are just going to be pissed at you, there's not a whole lot you can do but ride it out. And it was a very, very, very long ride. I was called aggressive, passive-aggressive, accused of not telling the truth, of suffering from the endless need to be right, of hidden motives and not being a good listener. Oh, and I complain about my life.<br />
<br />
Yeah, I know.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>I love my friend immeasurably. I know that there's other stuff going on and sometimes shit (even of the ape variety) happens. Still, when faced with a situation like that, in a friendship where you've shared laughter and tears and secrets and joys, it's a little unnerving to be attacked for something so inconsequential that it doesn't even warrant mentioning here (and I don't want to piss my friend off again, <i>thankyouverymuch</i>). I had to stop myself from going to that place where you look at the friendship as a whole (and, yes, all the things I've done for said friend), and think, point-wise, I've earned a bit more credit that what I've been given. But, I didn't. You can't go there because friendships aren't tit-for-tat, let's tally up the scoreboard. You just kind of hope to get, I don't know, <i>the benefit of the doubt</i>, or at least a phone call.<br />
<br />
So, by Friday, I was in desperate need for something relaxing and fun. But, first, I had to go over to the LAPD Pacific Division to fill out my identity theft report. After that, I texted a nearby friend to see if a last minute walk to one of our favorite spots could be arranged. She was kind enough to comply. And that was exactly what I needed: a good laugh with a good friend, and a turkey burger to go.<br />
<br />
Now, I feel completely safe in my neighborhood, even though it's not completely safe. I feel comfortable walking home at night, but I am mindful of the routes I take. I should also be mindful of the moon cycles. Not so much to keep an eye out for the full moon shenanigans, but to be reminded of how dark a moonless night can be, especially when I take the shortcut-I-never-take-at-night-on-a-back-street-with-no-street-lamps home.<br />
<br />
I caught my left big toe on a piece of uneven sidewalk. The surprise of the pain this caused was more shocking than the unexpected halt. And, being somewhat graceful (or at least not a total klutz), I thought that I could catch my balance. In order to do this, one has to take up speed, and I was already walking at a pretty good clip. Unfortunately, I never caught up to myself. I went down and hard. <br />
<br />
I was carrying my wallet and BlackBerry in my left hand, my handled paper bag of dinner in my right. I kept my left hand clutched as I went down, taking the skin off the back of that. I let go of dinner, but my right hand alone wasn't enough to brace this fall. I came down on my right knee and chin. And, once I met the ground, I sort of just rested there for a moment, collecting my thoughts. The one that kept floating through my brain was, "WTF?!?" I slowly got up, happy that the contents of my left hand were still intact. I found my bag of dinner a few feet away, and it was in respectable shape. I still had four blocks to go before I got home, with a toes that was bleeding profusely.<br />
<br />
Here's what's sort of spectacular: I had skinned my right knee, but didn't tear a hole in my pant leg. I had a scrape on my right shoulder, but didn't tear my shirt either. I had a deep purple bruise on my chin, but didn't chip a tooth or bite my lip or tongue. And, FYI, OxyClean really does get blood out, because the bottom of my beloved near-bell-bottom khakis were soaked in it from the rest of the walk home.<br />
<br />
Here's what's sort of sad (besides the above): When I fell, I shattered one of my favorite Buddha necklaces. And that's what made me cry. Not the fact that I was literally bleeding and bruised from head to toe, and that's kind of painful, but that my lovely necklace was destroyed.<br />
<br />
I can't imagine ending such a week on a more perfect note. I mean, really. I sort of had to laugh, because the lyrics to "Hurt" were running through my head as I tended to my wounds: I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel. And, it's almost as if that's what I had to do. I've been just going and going for the past few months, pushing to get things done. Then, on that short week, others started pushing me, too. And the pace that I was keeping was like the shove that brought me down, even though, technically, it was an uplifted piece of cement. Don't even get me started on breaking my Buddha. Inner peace has not been mine of late.<br />
<br />
I can't even describe the crippling exhaustion I feel. (Though, I'm sure you're feeling something similar, too.) Not only did I hit that sidewalk, I hit the wall. I've got nothing. Zero. Zilch. And there's still so much to do. But, sometimes what's going on inside has to manifest outside. And when that happens, embrace the Arnica.</div>RUAWAKEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604628371229328744noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2639029872065964746.post-50519671893864119392010-05-28T14:11:00.000-07:002010-05-29T14:40:22.811-07:00Dear Facebook, We're Through...Kind OfI'm breaking up with Facebook. For a week. I know. It's a trial separation leading up to what will be the inevitable divorce.<br /><br />I'm sure everyone online is aware of the kerfuffle over Facebook's privacy policy. There's a movement to delete profiles on May 31st, another to not sign in on June 6th. Of course, the changes to the privacy policy to make them "simpler" have come through just in time to make those deadlines. By that, the deletion movement has lost some of its wind, as I'm sure has the June 6th protest. But, back in mid-May, I decided that, while I was too lazy to delete my account at this time, I would not sign in for a week to let Facebook (and my friends) know that I could indeed live without it. Facebook's advertisers would not get any hits or views from me in that time, making only a slight dent in FB's back pocket. Even though Facebook admitted to making some mistakes and have clarified the privacy policy, I'm not one to walk away from a commitment. So, I'll be signing off before midnight on the 30th and won't sign back in until the 7th. I'll also be deleting my BlackBerry Facebook app as well so there's no unintentional connection.<br /><br />Why go to all of this bother, especially when it's only me doing it?<br /><br />Well, for one, I think Mark Zuckerberg is the ultimate douche. He believes Facebook is too big to fail and that he can get away with just about anything because where else will people go? Back to MySpace? And, for the most part, he's right. Where would we move to if we made a mass exodus? (I say to a bar. Actually have real contact with real friends. But that's just me.) There are other social networks in development, most excitingly Diaspora. But, for now, there's no real, new alternative. So, maybe Mark is right. For now. Without a doubt, what happened to MySpace will happen to Facebook. Eventually. Everything changes. Nothing lasts forever. And, once you've reached the top, the only place to go is down. <br /><br />Zuckerberg ought to tattoo that somewhere.<br /><br />For the past two weeks, there were many interesting conversations and rants on the subject of <span style="font-style:italic;">To Delete or Not to Delete</span> as well as <span style="font-style:italic;">Who Cares?</span> I created a Facebook event and invited friends to join me in a week away. It was an underwhelming response with four yeses, 11 maybes and 33 noes. I wasn't surprised. We tend to be such good corporate lambs willing sacrifice privacy, among other things, for convenience or fun or to be part of the crowd.<br /><br />But that's not what I signed up for.<br /><br />I'm not so naïve to believe there's such a thing as actual privacy on the internet, or life in general, these days. I use a rewards card knowing they are keeping track of what I purchase. But, at least I'm getting money back for that. Not to mention I've been blogging for nearly a decade, and have been known to overshare. But, I'm not one to post photos or videos, or anything more compromising that an opinion on the internet. Yes, I blab on Twitter on a daily basis and tell people where I'm at via Foursquare. Obviously, I'm not *that* concerned with privacy. I just like to have a say in where what I post is going.<br /><br />It's a fine line.<br /><br />The Library of Congress is collecting my tweets. Google me and you'll know some of my innermost thoughts. But, I don't want to be on CNN.com and see what my friends have been reading. I find that incredibly creepy and assumptive. Like I need to be led by my friends' opinions as to what is relevant or cool.<br /><br />No. I don't.<br /><br />And, if it is something that's truly relevant to me, or super cool, my real friends will contact me directly.<br /><br />*********<br /><br />I will give Facebook its due credit. I've reconnected with countless people through it. Friends I hadn't talked to for ten or twenty years. That's an incredible thing. I also connected with total strangers who have become friends of sorts. And, in the beginning, I friended people I didn't know just to be polite, accepted requests from a friends' friends in order to not look like a jerk. I ended up with 160+ people connected to me who may or may not have the same views of privacy I do, and I started to ask, Why? <br /><br />So, on Thursday, I did a mass deletion. I removed about 20 "friends". It felt kind of heartless at first. It's not like you have the option when you delete to send a note saying, "Hey, nothing personal, but I'm removing you from my list. No hard feelings, okay?" (And I didn't have the time to send out personal messages.) Half of the people I was deleting I had already hidden from my news feed, so what was the point of having them linked to me if I wasn't paying attention to what they said? The others removed were courtesy friends that I never really connected with, or actual friends who use Facebook as a promotion tool or their center stage. At the end of the day, I'm sure people won't notice or care that I am no longer their "friend", and, if they do, hopefully, they will find this and accept my apology, or will pick up the phone to ask why. Seriously. Facebook isn't the only form of communication left on the planet, you know?<br /><br />*********<br /><br />When I first joined Facebook, it was fun. I will admit that I was that annoying user whose zombie would attack your zombie with zeal, and would send you karma regularly. But, soon, I grew bored with that. I never got into mobs or farms or the like. Never played any games or IM-ed. Facebook, for me, was about connection and conversation, and the occasional pleasant surprise of catching up with a ghost from the past.<br /><br />But now? Well, now, I've just about caught up with everyone I want to. I don't need a four-digit friend count to feel a sense of self. And I really couldn't give a rat's backside about what anyone "likes". Facebook has become a bit of a yawn, sort of like a dinner party that's gone on too long and the conversation is dying out. <br /><br />Still, no one seems ready to leave. Yet. But, I do believe that Facebook has jumped the shark. With competition brewing, the next year of social media is sure to be interesting. It's time for something new. A new group of people. New conversations. A different way to connect. Like, perhaps, in person.<br /><br />So, a week without Facebook is soon to begin. I'm sure it will be a bit awkward at first. A habit to be broken. But, I'll still be on Twitter. I still have email, and three phone numbers for friends to call or be called. This isn't a way of disconnecting from friends but perhaps connecting with them better. Yet, what I'm most curious to find is how often I will be back on Facebook once the week is through? Or if I will at all.<br /><br />Any word on when Diaspora will launch?RUAWAKEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604628371229328744noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2639029872065964746.post-81984472520685770912010-05-17T10:05:00.000-07:002010-05-17T10:50:29.367-07:00The Lengths I Will GoI bought my first package of recycled toilet paper yesterday. I gag a little whenever I think of the phrase "recycled toilet paper". It's just gross. I, like most women, am a total toilet paper snob. So, while I will buy recycled paper towels (the 365 brand at Whole Foods is the best because it comes in half-sheets with little hearts embossed on it, so what's not to love), and biodegradable detergents and non-chlorine non-bleach, organic soaps and shampoo, I can only take my ecological efforts so far. Thus far, that has not included "feminine" supplies (nor will it), or recycled TP. Until I stood in the aisle staring at the $2.99 double-roll 4-pack of environmentally conscientious bathroom tissue.<br /><br />I stared at it for a long time. I looked at the options. Seventh Generation's was a whopping $4.69. Hell, if I'm going to spend that kind of money, I might as well get Charmin or Northern...stuff that hasn't been used before. No. That was quickly ruled out. The 365 brand was also $2.99, but had a lesser sheet count (yeah, I really do look at that stuff....eight months of unemployment will change a woman) than the brand (whose name I can't even recall, outside of "environmentally sound packaging") I ended up getting...but only after I squeezed it to see if I could gain a sense of its softness.<br /><br />I couldn't.<br /><br />But, I bought it anyway. Why? Because I was too fucking lazy to walk two stores down to CVS and get real toilet paper, that's why. Really. Can you fucking believe that one, people? No. Neither can I.<br /><br />Let me further articulate the situation. My Whole Foods is in a semi-gentrified mini-mall. It houses (from South to North) a laundromat, the aforementioned Whole Foods, a 99¢ Store and a CVS. Now, my Whole Foods is the size of the Super Dome, so it's quite a walk over to the CVS. And that CVS is tiny, and still kind of grungy, but has the basics, including real toilet paper.<br /><br />So, I stood there in the Whole Foods aisle of all things recycled, including things that really shouldn't be, and weighed my options: Dump my groceries in the car and walk over to CVS and get the super ultra Northern at nearly $1.25 per roll, or save myself a few steps and two bucks and buy the recycled crap.<br /><br />How lazy am I?!?<br /><br />Well, to my credit, I got up at 7:30, had my shower, sorted laundry, took it over to the 'mat (not the one by WF, because that one still kind of skeeves me out...all laundromats do, but I would rather get three loads done in one hour, so I suck it up and pretend I'm not really there) and got petrol for the week. So, by the time I got to Whole Foods, it was just after ten, and I had my whole day ahead of me. I just wanted to get home to my French press of French roast and the chocolate croissant I splurged on (because my uterus wanted it and she tends to get want she wants...it just makes life much easier not to argue with her, trust me). <br /><br />Recycled toilet paper seemed like a cheap price to pay for that. <br /><br />(I'll let you know how it goes. I'm making my half-roll of the really good stuff last as long as possible. Why do I do this to myself? Really. I would love some insight here.)<br /><br />**********<br /><br />And so, I should probably explain my four-month absence from the blog, especially since I promised so much and it is its last year, and to just toss a good third of it away kind of deserves an explanation.<br /><br />I don't have one.<br /><br />Sorry. But just being burnt out doesn't seem to hold water. Being busy with a job rather than doing the work I want doesn't really breed fodder for this forum. Spending every weekend writing for someone else's project leaves little left over for myself. Ideas whir about in my head, then evaporate before I can log in here.<br /><br />There's a lot I want to say, but can't right now. There's a lot on the line and a lot on hold and I desperately want to share, but I'm afraid it would make it all go away. I know. Could I be more vague? I'm sure I could, but how annoying would that be? Or annoying-er. Whatever. There is more to say here. Really, there is. I just need to free myself from a few more strings, and then I can really let it all fly.<br /><br />xoRUAWAKEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604628371229328744noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2639029872065964746.post-27805097428726565102010-01-13T19:55:00.000-08:002010-01-13T19:58:24.088-08:00Because I Laughed Longer Than The Video Ran<object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/0wHFqfa9Ye0&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/0wHFqfa9Ye0&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object>RUAWAKEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604628371229328744noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2639029872065964746.post-37962662859897812312010-01-08T00:00:00.000-08:002010-01-08T00:00:01.387-08:00NineHello. Remember me? Yes, I know it's been a while. I needed a little break. Some time to sort things out. Replenish the well. And, truth be told, I was a little cranky. Unemployment seems to have the effect on me. And, fortunately for you, my misery does not love company. You're welcome.<br /><br />This happens to me (and I'm sure all writers) every once in a while, where I have so much to express but absolutely nothing to say. As bitchy as my blog can be, I don't like to rant all the time. Who wants to hear me moan about the job market and mounting debt? Aren't we all dealing with that in one way or another? I kept hoping that I would have something more interesting to say. Turns out I didn't. It's hard to have adventures when you don't leave your house so as to not to spend a dime and you're conjoined to Craigslist hoping there will be a job that you'll be right for...and pays more than $9/hour. When you don't have enough money for booze <span style="font-style:italic;">or</span> chocolate, it's best to just keep to yourself. And, so, for the most part, I did. <br /><br />By the time October arrived, the toll hit me physically. I suffered the worst bout of gastritis I'd had since I was diagnosed three years ago. I couldn't eat for four days, and became quite impressed with functioning self-starvers. Really. I couldn't stand up to brush my teeth by day two and needed a nap after showering. Being dizzy isn't much fun when it's not cocktail induced. Also, having to buy easy-on-the-tummy foods isn't as inexpensive as one might think. But, in case you didn't know, if you eat organic cinnamon apple sauce with organic saltines, it tastes kind of like really cheap apple pie. I became a connoisseur of the bland. Do NOT buy low sodium chicken broth. You can't add enough salt to make it palatable. Ginger ale should be served in a champagne flute. And you should only get rotisserie chicken from Rainbow Acres. I was deeply disappointed to find that the chicken from my Whole Foods as dry as Death Valley. After a couple of weeks of that diet, and a new addiction to Reed's Ginger Candies, I was a few pounds lighter, leaving me with an ill-fitting wardrobe. My curvy 6's too loose, my 4's too snug...not to mention a little out of style. I haven't been a 4 in five years. And I will never forgive Seasonale for that.<br /><br />Fortunately, the day before Thanksgiving, I was offered a job, making my stint of un- or under-employment just two weeks shy of eight months. I survived that time only because of my incredible friends, who rallied around me, supported me (at times literally) and wouldn't let me give up or give in. They are as stubborn as I am. The hole I have to dig myself out of ends somewhere near Shanghai. And, so what? I'll get out of it one day. I've learned a little about patience during this time and the art of going with the flow. Which, for an A-type Aries, borders on alchemy. By the end of the year, I was so exhausted that I spent New Year's Eve with Netflix watching Bogie and Bacall (The Maltese Falcon, The Big Sleep), Cary Grant (Arsenic and Old Lace) and Grace Kelly (Dial M for Murder). I fell asleep about 10:30. New Year's Eve is one of my favorite events, but after the way it treated me, I didn't even feel the need to show 2009 to the door.<br /><br />2009 was much like my last boyfriend -- coming in with so much promise and beauty, but ending up a cloying, annoying, utter disappointment. Last year was almost arrogant in its cruelty. Let's just say it: Last year was an asshole. And, like my last boyfriend, I'm not looking back to wonder, "What happened?" No. I've got better things to do. Top on my list: I am going to fall in love with this year.<br /><br />I've been looking forward to 2010 like meeting the hot guy at the gym whose 6-pack remains on his abs, not sitting in his fridge; the only spare tire he's got is in the trunk of his car; and 'tight ass' refers to his bum not his wallet. Yes, I expect this year to be a perfect '10. And I am going to seduce it.<br /><br />I realize I'm going in to the New Year with the same level of optimism and hope I did for '09, except, this year, I'm stronger and wiser, and have even less of a tolerance for bullshit. And that kind of feels fabulous. There's a level of fear that falls away once you have lost your illusion of security. I find myself walking into situations like, "Bring it!" Any minute shred of doubt about who I am, what I want, what I am capable of has been obliterated. Now I probably sound pretty arrogant. But I simply lost tolerance for even my own bullshit. You kind of have to at some point, if you are really going to survive.<br /><br />And while we are celebrating '10 (which, by the way, I will say as two-thousand-ten because it just sounds better), today is a 9...the 9th anniversary of RUAWAKE. I know. Crazy, right? And I'm pretty sure this will be the last year for it. It's time to wrap it up. It's time to start moving on. <br /><br />There are sure to be lots of adventures this year, including revealing some secrets I haven't yet shared. Which should seem shocking. What haven't I talked about here over these last nine years? You might be surprised. It's time for some light and laugher and some bloody effing fun. <br /><br />Thanks so much for staying tuned even when I tune out. Thanks so much for your emails and comments and friendships. You make me laugh and think, and realize that I'm not just shouting into the abyss. So, happy damn New Year, friends. Let's show this one who's boss. xoRUAWAKEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604628371229328744noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2639029872065964746.post-62974516703245019162009-09-28T21:36:00.000-07:002009-09-30T09:31:16.034-07:00How Do I Say This...?I've noticed a new trend in Feminist writings (and, remember, I am one with a capital F), that I find rather concerning. Of course, talking about it will surely make me unpopular. But, so what? Popularity has never been a concern of mine. <br /><br />There seems to be a new wave of encouraging women to feel good about being heavy, while condemning other women for being thin. Some of the encouragement I've read borders on bullying. It doesn't make sense to me. The assumption is that heavy is normal, while thin is forced. As a woman, I find that somewhat offensive. We are still attacking each other, still trying to define what is right and wrong. After all this time, is this where Feminism has gotten us?<br /><br />Let's be honest: People who are severely overweight typically don't feel good, physically or emotionally. Ask someone who's lost a lot of weight. I get being supportive of women accepting themselves for who and how they are. I get being against the rail-thin models and the airbrushed magazine covers. What I don't get is the fact that we aren't talking about being our best, about caring and respecting ourselves enough to eat well and exercise, not because Madison Avenue or Hollywood says we should, but because it's good for us.<br /><br />You know I'm a big proponent of health care reform. But I know that starts in our shopping carts. Let's start pointing the finger at how we eat instead of what we see on TV, magazines or on film. Back in the 80s, we were made aware of anorexia and bulemia and how widespread they were. Those are terrible eating disorders. But so is constant bingeing on sweets and processed, high-fat unnatural foods. Overeating is as dangerous and deadly, yet we are silently accepting it as "normal". <br /><br />Somehow, it's acceptable to say, "Ick. You can't expect me to eat rabbit food my whole life," like fruits and vegetables are the enemy. Or "Exercise? I don't want to get all sweaty," like it's cute to be that much of a princess. But it's not acceptable to say, "I'd like to lose ten pounds." Immediately, you are diagnosed with either an eating disorder or a poor self-image, obviously warped by some gossip weekly. Because, somehow, women still can't make up their own minds. We are so weak that we are easily guided by glossies. We see a starlet who is a size 0 and we must be a size zero, too. Or, we are thin because we want to live up to some male fantasy. Skip the bread basket and you are accused of being a carbophobe instead of getting a back-pat for avoiding white flour. To me, it's nonsensical. <br /><br />As women, we should be at a point in society where we have the right to accept who we are, or change who we are, as it suits us. Hopefully, that acceptance or change will always be in a healthy manner. Of course, sometimes it's not. Sometimes we are trying to live up to a fantasy. Sometimes we are starving ourselves to death. Sometimes we are eating ourselves to death. But the fact that we are still being told what is "normal" is nutty. <br /><br />This rallying cry to celebrate obesity is as dangerous as championing anorexia. Yet, why don't we see that as such? Whether the medical issues are showing or not, we know being severely overweight is not healthy for the body. And there are a lot of unhealthy people dealing with this. Weight gain and loss is just simple math. But, for it to be blown out of proportion in either direction, that speaks of issues deeper than one too many pieces of pizza. It's easier to stay as we are than it is to change, but that doesn't mean "acceptance" is the answer. I would rather women respect and care for themselves enough to be the best they can be than accept where they are. Shouldn't we care enough to feed our bodies the healthiest foods out there, move our bodies so they stay nimble and strong, and look inside to find out what makes us tick than to merely accept things as they are? To paraphrase the Serenity Prayer: Change what we can, accept what we can't and have the wisdom to know the difference between the two.<br /><br />It's not society that makes us feel bad about ourselves. Media is not to blame for a poor self-image. Women aren't that weak. This is 2009, after all. We are in charge. Everyday, we make choices. Some are good for us, some are not. Each day, we get to make new choices. We can repeat our mistakes or go a different route. The only thing we should utterly accept is responsibility. There are always reasons for why things are the way they are, but we should know by now that if we want a happy ending, we need to write it ourselves. And, when it doubt, edit.RUAWAKEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604628371229328744noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2639029872065964746.post-76985117419853194122009-09-14T20:39:00.000-07:002009-09-14T22:08:18.091-07:00Now What Am I Going To Do?September sucks! "Rescue Me" ended on the first. Nine Inch Nails ended on the tenth (and sadly, no, I did not get tickets for the very last show at the Wiltern...sigh). And "True Blood" finished yesterday, not to return for nine long months. Nine months!!! Which I've made more painful by readying Alan Ball interviews replete with spoilers, so I have a hint as to what will happen NINE MONTHS FROM NOW! Farg.<br /><br />I suppose I need a hobby...or a life...but I do love good television. And it is so hard to find. So, when a show ends -- even for hiatus -- it hurts a little. And to lose two in such a short span...there is a tear in my eye, people. Though, that's probably just my allergies.<br /><br />What's worse is that this month, September, they are filming the last 19 episodes of "Rescue Me", which will be spread out over two seasons. The series will end on September 11, 2011. Rip my heart out, why don't you? There's no word when season six will air.<br /><br />"True Blood" will be back. I know only one new season is confirmed but, unless they totally blow it, I see at least two more. Figure the cast has signed five-year deals, so we are at least going to get that. (Please, Baby Jesus, I hope.)<br /><br />In the meantime, I don't know what I'll do with myself. Perhaps learn to knit? Take up bridge? It's going to be a long winter, my friends.RUAWAKEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604628371229328744noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2639029872065964746.post-26805472458000673422009-09-04T19:16:00.000-07:002009-09-05T16:40:38.263-07:00Going SoloIf you know one thing about me, it's probably that I act on impulse. I've long ago learned this is not always a positive. I mean, one should really look to see if there is water in the pool before one takes a dive, but I don't really have time for all that. Sometimes, I just have to do what I want to do, no matter what.<br /><br />If you know two things about me, the other is that love me some Nine Inch Nails. It's been bugging me that I've stayed so broke and couldn't afford to go to any of the last Nine Inch Nails shows. I missed the NIN/JA tour with Jane's Addiction. And, now, they were in town to do the last shows...forever. I know. Poor me. But, five months ago, I thought I'd be in a better place. <br /><br />Last Tuesday, in an effort to get to a better place, I was at happy hour with a friend. As I finished up my discount martini, and she went and she went out to feed the meter, I checked Twitter from my BlackBerry. Once again, when I was nowhere near my computer, Nine Inch Nails released tickets. [Insert litany of expletives here.] We finished up our chat, our drinks and $4 edamame, and then she took me home.<br /><br />There, I opened my laptop and logged on to the site. One last pathetic try for tickets. I checked Thursday's show. Sold out. I tried for Saturday's show. Sold out. I wasn't even going to try for Sunday's show, their last, because that had to be sold out...and it was in Glendale. Yes, I appreciate the irony of it being at the Echoplex, but the drive would be a buzz kill. That only left Wednesday night, the next night. Available. I took in a breath. At $65 a ticket, I couldn't afford one let alone two. And I knew that none of my friends would be up for something that late notice at that price that didn't come with seats. So, I did the unthinkable and bought a single ticket.<br /><br />Going to the movies alone is one thing. Having a meal alone is another. Going to a concert alone was...weird. I called two friends I thought might be up for it, or actually going. By the time one tried to buy tickets, they were all gone. I was indeed going solo. This, for me, was the ultimate single-gal act.<br /><br />I didn't really have time to dwell on that, though. I had to figure out what to wear. Jeans were obvious, it was shoes that would be the challenge. I no longer own General Admission footwear. And open-toed sandals are not appropriate for this kind of gig. Much to my chagrin, I put on a pair of Nikes and then found that I no longer own jeans that are made for sneakers.<br /><br />The compromises one makes to see one of her favorite bands perform one of their last shows ever should not be underestimated.<br /><br />The entire drive over to the Palladium, I debated on whether or not I would squeeze to the front of the stage. I'm the kind that can and would. I'm also the kind who doesn't really like the general public, or having them sweat or breath on me. Then again, I do love Reznor, and this would be one my my last chances to really get my punk on. Decisions, decisions.<br /><br />The last time I had been to the Palladium, it was for a charity show I had won tickets to. The Red Hot Chili Peppers, Mike Watt and Eddie Vedder performed. I ended up next to the barrier, right from center and separated from my friend. It was this event that brought to my attention that "slam dancing" and "moshing" were two, totally different things. Slamming was organized chaos that had the pit and the perimeter. Moshing just happened wherever some eejit wanted to do it. And he was doing it all over my platforms! This was also when I realized punk was dead. I told a guy just over the barrier, "Next time security goes to the center to break up a scuffle, take my hand so I can get over the barrier. I want to get up on stage." He looked at me and said, "No." What? That's when I said, "What the hell are you doing here? There's no such thing as 'No' at a gig!" Meanwhile, my thigh was being molested by some drunkard I had to keep elbowing. Two other guys finally came over to help me out, scared away the perv, and we enjoyed the rest of the show. Chivalry lives, even in bondage pants.<br /><br />Upon that reflection, I was happy to take my place off the floor. To the right of the stage, only equipment between me and the band. Trent would face me (yes, me) while he played keyboards. It was the perfect place. No one was crowding, molesting, or even spilling beer. It was, dare I say, civilized. And, I could have worn my sandals. Lesson learned.<br /><br />Another lesson learned is that there is no graceful way to exit a crowd surf. In spite of doing it about eight times throughout the night, this one girl never ended hers well. The highlight of the night was watching two girls get tackled by security when they tried to rush the stage, making the wrong decision to do it over the equipment and computers. If you are going to do that, 1) you should have a good game plan, 2) you should be in better shape; speed and agility are everything, and 3) stop when the guards get to you, unless you want to end up ass over teakettle. Know the risks, people.<br /><br />The show ended without an encore. Reznor was quite sick, but gave us his all. So much so, they had to reschedule the remaining dates of this Wave Goodbye Tour. My ears are still ringing (I took out my earplugs...I couldn't resist), which can't be a good thing, but it does make me smile. This is just confirmation that a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do, even if she has to do it alone.RUAWAKEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604628371229328744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2639029872065964746.post-38335817009584646972009-08-25T21:50:00.000-07:002009-08-25T23:59:08.093-07:00EndingsThis year, we have seen so much fall away, so much shift and change. It has left us unsettled, in question and scared. <span style="font-style:italic;">What next?</span> seems to be on everyone's mind.<br /><br />In the last two months, we have lost a fair share of icons. Each represented something different. The "me" of the 70s. The excess of the 80s. The buy-one-get-one-free-in-three-easy-payments 90s. The integrity of newscasting through the decades. And now the "lion" of liberals.<br /><br />We don't use terms like, "Sex Appeal" much anymore. But Farrah embodied it. Today, we would mock anyone who declared themselves King or Queen of something. But, somehow, coming out of the materialistic 80s, we shrugged our shoulders and played along. How many of us got sucked in to buying the latest-greatest-product-ever in the 90s? I am raising my hand as a proud owner of the Caruso Curlers. How often have we wished that Walter Cronkite read us our news? At least then it was the facts, not the hype. And, even with all his faults, we will miss the kind of public service and progressive vision that Senator Kennedy gave.<br /><br />The past seems to be slipping away from us as we step into an uncertain future. These icons, these anchors, are gone now. I wonder what icon will represent this decade? Will it be Bald Britney? Paris Hilton or Lindsay Lohan? Will it be the crumbing Twin Towers? That bumbling idiot we were forced to call president for much too long? Will it be the two wars and the soldiers forced to fight them over and over and over again? Will it be Wall Street or Madoff? Or will it be Hope? <br /><br />In the face of all these endings, it's time to begin. It's time to change, for the better. To be brave and compassionate. To be fair. To truly make this country equal. To be responsible. To provide to those in need. I hope, if nothing else, this decade will have taught us to care, to be involved and to not turn a blind eye. From September 11th to Katrina to Wall Street to today, as this decade winds to its close, I hope we will be courageous enough to write a happier ending and not be afraid to move forward.RUAWAKEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604628371229328744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2639029872065964746.post-41141208153821919302009-08-14T08:21:00.000-07:002009-08-15T14:14:13.715-07:00Enough JunkI don't know about you, but I've grown a little tired of the health care debate. What's to argue? Fact: Our system is broken. Fact: We have the highest infant mortality rate of any developed country. Fact: We spend more per capita on medical care than any other developed country, yet we are one of the sickest. Fact: I have Anthem Blue Cross PPO health insurance with a premium that goes up every year while my coverage is reduced. I am healthy, I rarely go to the doctor, and I cannot afford to get sick with the coverage I have, mainly because they deny just about everything. Did I mention I have a PPO and all my doctors are in network? Welcome to having an individual policy. <br /><br />My friend, who is on a group Anthem plan, is treated like gold. Mainly, I suspect, because the company the policy is through is beyond high profile. Who would want any unhappy customers there? Not with that PR team. This is just my theory. But having been denied by Blue Cross (before they changed their name) when I re-enrolled instead of paying for the three months I was off the policy (I have a cheap side), I know their game. When I wrote a letter to the CEO and cc'd everyone down the line to the underwriter who declined me and used words like "blackmail" and "extortion", they reconsidered and reinstated me. <br /><br />A couple of years ago, when I finally met my $1,500 deductible during my stomach issue, for the first time, I went to get reimbursed for a single test I paid out of pocket. The claim, which was completely legitimate, kept getting declined. Why? The information they required wasn't on the form they sent me. That's one heck of an oversight, no? Instead of picking up the phone and calling me or the hospital to get the medical code and Federal Tax ID of the hospital they said they needed yet left off the form, they simply denied the claim. Even better, when I provided the first bit of information (the code), they failed to mention the second bit of information (tax ID) they required. See the game they play? Even better, they denied the use of anesthesia (Twilight sedation) for my endoscopy, that included a biopsy of my small intestine, after a peer review. Did I mention the facility and doctors were all in network, and I have a PPO? So, why do I stay with them? It's the devil I know. <br /><br />The system is broken. While I'm denied sedation, the bonuses being paid out to their executives would make Solomon blush. Profit seems to trump care in that industry. Love or hate Michael Moore, we cannot dispute many of the facts in <span style="font-style:italic;">Sicko</span>. What is happening in health care is worse than what collapsed Wall Street. Yet we are opposed to fixing it. Why? Because of the "Socialized Medicine" boogie man? Canada, the UK and the whole of Europe have survived decades on it. We have the opportunity to build on their successes and work out their flaws with 20/20 hindsight. But lobbyists need jobs. CEOs are used to multi-million dollar bonuses. They aren't going down without a fight. And they will do their best to scare us into believing we will be worse off. I find that hard to believe. And I have a PPO.<br /><br />Taxes. We don't want more stinking taxes. Well, the uninsured and unhealthy people of America are already costing us plenty. But, okay, you don't want to see less coming out of your paycheck. I get it, and I have a solution: Junk food tax. Yep. You heard me, a tax on every box and bag of processed food from chips to mac 'n cheese. Every piece of candy, every soda, every bag bought at a fast food restaurant should have a tax. Not just sales tax, but a fat tax. After all, we pay a tax on alcohol and cigarettes as a form of deterrent and punishment for having such unhealthy vices. It's junk food's turn.<br /><br />Junk food is not a necessity. It's a choice that is making us fat and sick. If you don't want to pay that tax, eat an apple or grab some carrots. Problem solved.<br /><br />It's scary to see how obese we are. Even though we know we are a fat country, we don't put down the doughnuts and walk a lap or two. Maybe throw in a sit-up or push-up for good measure? Nah. We don't want to break a sweat. We are too tired to exercise. Well, we are too tired because we eat crap. Then, we want to call our super size "normal". Obese is not normal. Nowhere near it. Look back 40 years ago to see what a normal size was. It isn't what we are sporting now.<br /><br />I come from farm people of Michigan and Iowa. I know the culinary culture of that well. Bacon grease was used instead of Pam. Things were fried, smothered and buttered. They ate that way because they worked all day in the fields and with the animals. Hard work takes heavy food. But now, we have machines. We live in cities. We work desk jobs. Yet, we continue to eat like we are doing physical labor, and the pounds pack on. Change isn't easy, but, for goodness sake, we are adults. We can make better decisions.<br /><br />To be morbidly obese takes a phenomenal effort. It takes an amazing amount of calories to put and keep that kind of weight on. The human body is not meant to be that heavy. No matter how people want to spin it, it's unnatural. Period. It's not healthy. Period. And, eventually, it will kill you.<br /><br />We are a gluttonous culture. Whether it is food or money or debt, it's always more, more, more. Look at the result. It's sad and frustrating. What is going to make us "get it" as a society? We can't keep indulging in this unhealthy behavior. And I don't think we should sugarcoat it any longer.<br /><br />Look at our portion sizes. They are ridiculous. A great book that puts it all into perspective is <a href="http://www.portionteller.com/pages/home.htm"><span style="font-style:italic;">The Portion Teller</span></a>. Not only does author Lisa R. Young, PhD, RD, tell us what a healthy portion size is, she gives us a history lesson on how they have grown in the last 30+ years, and it is shocking. Yet, with all our advances in health, science and education, we are failing at basic nutrition. We eat more with less value.<br /><br />Oddly enough, there's no real way to overeat natural foods. It's this side of impossible. You <span style="font-style:italic;">will</span> have a *reaction*. Anyone who has had too much fruit can attest to what that is. Why? I believe it's because your body recognizes what you are eating and can tell when to stop. Processed food, not so much. Your body doesn't know it (even though it should by now), so it doesn't say stop. It just stores it in case you run into a famine. When was the last time North America saw a famine? Don't like vegetables? No one does. We more or less come to appreciate how we feel after we eat them. Then we start to crave them. I am currently in love with kale and yams, and can't get enough. But who said you are supposed to like what you eat? It's fuel. Get your pleasure somewhere else.<br /><br />Then there is the argument that obesity a matter of personal freedom. Really? Our personal freedom is already limited, supposedly to protect us. Helmet and seatbelt laws for instance. And, of course, suicide is against the law. Wouldn't that be the ultimate in personal freedom; to say you don't want to be here anymore and check out? An extreme example, admittedly, but this proves that your life really isn't your own to do with as you please. And all morbid obesity is is a slow suicide. So why are we coddling it? We throw drug addicts and alcoholics into rehab. Why aren't we having interventions for the obese?<br /><br />There should be a price to pay for the weight being put on the system from making unhealthy food choices. Why should being unhealthy come so cheaply? And why should we have to pay a higher price for organics? I'm willing to shell out a tax on my cake and the 88% cacao chocolate bar I can't live without...and even those baked, organic, blue corn chips I find so tempting. Especially if we all will end up getting better health care.<br /><br />Health care starts with the individual. How you choose to live impacts the system (aka "all of us") as a whole, for better or worse. Right now, America is at its unhealthiest. We need to take a look at how we eat, why we eat it, and why we don't love and respect ourselves enough to take the best care of our bodies that we can. After all, we are Americans. We can do anything, right? So, let's start with taking care of ourselves. Every one of us.<br /><br />Enough junk. It's time for a change.RUAWAKEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604628371229328744noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2639029872065964746.post-73724260478445893752009-08-06T22:57:00.000-07:002009-08-07T00:17:27.666-07:00Coming HomeFirst, there's the rush of getting everything done. Not just packing, but dealing with a client, then another client, the errands across town. Don't forget to eat something. Stop by CVS, the mail box, inhale lunch, and fill your suitcase. Get gas. Get the car washed (I know, it's kind of silly, but it brings me luck), then put everything in the car and go.<br /><br />Even with traffic, it's the quickest six hours I know. I went a new musical route this time and listened to an old playlist. I'm one hell of a DJ, I must say. It was two-and-a-half-hours long. I listened to it twice.<br /><br />I ate dinner at 85. Miles-per-hour, that is. I drank 64 ounces of water in less than five hours, and only peed once. I made it all the way to Santa Nella for that. I sped through the gusty winds that blew as the 5 was about the meet the 580. I was surprised how cold it was in Dublin. No, not *that* Dublin. <br /><br />I've learned to compact my luggage over these visits. Even though this is only for a weekend, it's still a tad cumbersome; I have part of a birthday gift to bring. It's rather oversized for something so temporary. I made it all in, gracefully, in one trip.<br /><br />Immediately there was laughter. Even a snort. And hugs. The adorable alarm-clock was already asleep. The magic coffee maker poured me a beer, then told a joke. We stood in the kitchen laughing, excited for the weekend and all that it holds. And now it's off to bed. A big day tomorrow. A bigger day the day after that. On Sunday, I'll pack it all back up and make the drive again, only heading South instead. Right now, it just feels good to be home.RUAWAKEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604628371229328744noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2639029872065964746.post-84549901460253953332009-07-29T23:00:00.000-07:002009-07-30T23:05:29.382-07:00MaruThere's really nothing to say about this other than: 1) I want to be this cat when I'm reincarnated and 2) You have to watch the whole thing. The ending is sublime.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/z_AbfPXTKms&color1=0xb1b1b1&color2=0xcfcfcf&hl=en&feature=player_embedded&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/z_AbfPXTKms&color1=0xb1b1b1&color2=0xcfcfcf&hl=en&feature=player_embedded&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowScriptAccess="always" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>RUAWAKEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604628371229328744noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2639029872065964746.post-15758625494295181152009-07-21T23:38:00.001-07:002009-07-22T00:07:47.855-07:00Whew!I always say, "It takes one phone call or one email to change everything." And that's true. Of course, waiting for that call or email can be utter torture. And these days, with our PDAs, we carry the rejection around with us. We know the phone hasn't rung. We see the emails are just spam. But, sometimes when you aren't looking and you are too distracted to hear the chime, what you were waiting for finally arrives.<br /><br />I got an email which lead to a phone call which lead to a meeting which lead to a job. Just in time. It seems my <a href="http://ruawakeblog.blogspot.com/2009/07/i-need-hero.html">ass</a> avoided disaster. And thank the Lord for that. Actually, I think it was my friends who were praying, and hard. Especially the ones who offered me their extra room, if push really came to packing up my apartment. <br /><br />The past three-and-a-half months were brutal, but they were also a blessing. I've said this here a number of times, but I truly have the best friends imaginable. The minute everything went pear-shaped, they rallied. They were there. And I was lucky to have them give so much support.<br /><br />This time was a gift, too. Sure, it was scary. But it also gave me time to look at how I really want to live my life, and then live it that way (except for the higher level of stress and lack of funds). Well, I didn't write the way I wanted to. It was hard to focus on that the way I would have liked, but new stories were started. A new endeavor was launched in <a href="http://projectelegance.com/">Project Elegance</a>. A new pace of life was taken. I bit more slow, a tad more graceful. <br /><br />This email that lead to a call that lead to an interview that got me the job came just in the nick of time. It saved me from having to make some pretty hard decisions. And my friends from getting a new roommate. Sometimes, it's hard to believe that something good will happen, but I suggest you believe. Really believe it. Because you never know when your miracle will arrive.RUAWAKEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604628371229328744noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2639029872065964746.post-55106150655069022092009-07-14T19:28:00.000-07:002009-07-15T00:13:51.186-07:00I Need a HeroFor the whole of this year, I have been teetering on the verge of huge success or utter disaster. I've joked that I hope my ass is pointed in the direction of success because, you know, baby got back. But this economy is one nasty futhermucker. It is mean and brutal and shows no signs of easing up. Unless you're at Goldman Sachs. Which, I'm not.<br /><br />Job hunts have that whole needle/haystack vibe. I've lost count of how many resumes I've sent out. Headhunters are actually pooling resources to staff jobs. That, my dears, is unheard of in this town. Deals that were set to go through four months ago fell through instead. Everything is an illusion...sometimes verging on nightmare. It's like being in an episode of "Twilight Zone", except we don't get union pay.<br /><br />I know I'm not alone in this sad, leaking, little rowboat. As a matter of fact, there isn't one of my friends not affected by this. Not one. And I've got a lot of friends, believe it or not. And they have rallied around me in heartbreakingly amazing ways. I'm pretty rich in that aspect of my life. I just wish it were a contagious condition.<br /><br />I'd like to think of myself as a self-sufficient gal who can handle just about anything. But, lately, I've been indulging in some rescue fantasies. I know, it's so cliche. But, at times like these, what I need is a hero. Or a benefactor. Or a magician. Something like a miracle. And I want it not just for myself but for you and my friends and everyone going through this mess. We deserve that, don't you think? Because we are good people. We have worked hard. We deserve a break. So, take one here and indulge in some classic Bonnie. Come on. It can't hurt. Well, maybe just a little. But in that oh-so-good way. xo<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/7f_HsjpSVaI&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/7f_HsjpSVaI&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br />(Feedburner subscribers, click to visit the site and experience the Bonnie.)RUAWAKEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604628371229328744noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2639029872065964746.post-76101431058854418472009-07-06T21:45:00.000-07:002009-07-16T23:25:03.612-07:00Project EleganceIt was one too many Hitchcock films (if that's even possible) that sent me over the edge. And I took a friend with me. <br /><br />Last night, while watching <span style="font-style:italic;">To Catch a Theif</span> (Grace Kelly, Cary Grant, Edith Head...enough said), J and I made a vow to live a life of elegance. It doesn't matter that she's bald and I'm broke, we are going to going to be elegant, dammit! Worship at the altar of Audrey, Grace, Bacall and Bergman. Bring a little of that sass and class into this modern and maudlin age.<br /><br />I know I've been harping about this for a while now...but, America, I'm sick of looking at your t-shirts and jeans! Would Grace Kelly or Cary Grant be seen in acid wash? Would they don Micky or Minnie and call it fashion? Wear sneakers anywhere but the tennis courts? No. Why? Because it's wrong. Not to mention lazy. And unsightly much of the time. Remember when "pajamas in public" was a fashion trend? I don't think I need to list any more of our sins. America, we have to start dressing better! <br /><br />Now, don't get me wrong, I love me some jeans. I pretty much live in denim. But look how Grace wore those 501s at the end of <span style="font-style:italic;">Rear Window</span>. Now, *that's* how a lady wears dungarees!<br /><br />Not only that, did you see how she packed her overnight bag? Truly a bit of movie magic there, but how elegant. No matter what the occasion, ladies and gentlemen were dressed for it. It just seems we don't have "occasions" anymore. <br /><br />Speaking of occasions, when was the last time you packed a picnic basket? Did you keep it simple or go all fancy? Fancy can be a pain in the neck. Keep it simple, darling. Just chicken and beer. Baked chicken, a salt shaker, bottled beer (Belgian, perhaps?) and a glass for the lady to sip from. Grace and Cary can make even paper napkins <span style="font-style:italic;">trés chic</span>.<br /><br />This morning, I came up with the idea for Project Elegance. Hey, being unemployed, I have a bit of time on my hands. The concept is rather basic: To lead a life of elegance in an everyday way. I don't have the money to revamp my wardrobe, redesign my duplex or hire staff. But I can make the most of the mundane. For instance, I am giving my my beloved, oversized mug and will sip my homemade lattes in a proper cup properly placed on a saucer. It might sound like more work and more dishes to some, but it sounds much more civilized to me. And then there's the apron. My lovely, yet often forgotten, aprons. Some might say, "Why bother?" Not only are aprons functional, they are dead sexy, too. My biggest challenge: Overcoming my fondness for four-letter words.<br /><br />Yes, elegance takes a bit more time and effort to pull off...in the beginning. Then, it becomes a way of life. I'm not talking about affect or pretense but an appreciation for the finer points, a delight in the details. Taking a moment longer to savor something. I'm a little too punk rock for all the propriety but, in this day and age, propriety might be one of the more subversive things I can indulge.<br /><br />So, you are cordially invited to join <a href="http://projectelegance.com/">Project Elegance</a> where J and I will blog about our attempts to bring elegance into our lives...in spite of our situations and ourselves. (You can follow us on Twitter, too: @ProjectElegance.)RUAWAKEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604628371229328744noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2639029872065964746.post-22936480186723164252009-06-27T17:56:00.000-07:002009-06-28T01:11:50.668-07:00Feeling the Hitch in my HeadIn order to escape the insanity that has been the last few days (sorry, I don't see the point of canonizing a pederast with a penchant for painkillers), I turned to TMC. There, I was transported back to the 1950s and 60s, and the world of Alfred Hitchcock.<br /><br />I love Hitch. Absolutely adore the man. I was raised on his television show and quickly fell in love with his movies. Imagine watching "Psycho" alone while babysitting on a huge piece of property on a desolate road during a windstorm with patio furniture hitting the side of the house and deer heads staring at you from the walls. I was thirteen and terrified, and absolutely mesmerized. He didn't need monsters or gore to put us at the edge of our seat. He delivered exquisite tension and lip-biting suspense. He also gave us sassy dames in dandy dresses dreamed up by Edith Head.<br /><br />I once got booed at a symposium on feminism in film (held at UCLA) for going against the panel (and apparently the audience) when I declared that I thought Hitchcock gave us strong female characters. His women were smart, mouthy, fearless and unapologetic of their sexual power (with the exception of "Marnie"). But, I guess because they were in WASP-waist dresses, gloves and high heels, that didn't make them feminists. At least not at UCLA. Alfred Hitchcock (along with Alan Parker and David Lynch) was why I went to film school. And, by the way, I went to CalArts. You won't find a more politically correct, pro-feminist film school...so all those who booed can bite me. We can argue the whole victim/need to be rescued by a man issue at another time (though, let's also remember the era in which these films were made). As a feminist, right now, I want to talk about the clothes.<br /><br />While I wouldn't be able to survive a day in the repressive landscape that was the 50s and 60s (they would have lobotomized me á la Frances Farmer), I would love to dress for dinner, have a man who wore a suit and hat as well as Cary Grant did, don gloves, have a closet full of shirt dresses (I have one, but it just isn't enough), and indulge in three-martini lunches without it being frowned upon. Twin sets, skirts and pearls. Cocktails at five. Pocketbooks. Upper-crust, faux-English accents. Witty repartee. The style and silhouette of the 50s (at least how it's portrayed on television and film) has always been my favorite. And the designs of Edith Head make me crave a return to that time.<br /><br />I see now how people carried themselves with a bit more dignity then, and much of that had to do with how they dressed. Sure, it was a constrictive uniform. But, clothing then was also a show of self-respect. Women didn't need to dress like streetwalkers to be sexy. They knew it was never the exposure of skin that was alluring as much as it was the reveal...or the anticipation thereof. A bare shoulder. An exposed back. A soft hand removed from a glove. I think that beats pasties and a thong any day. (And, guys, there's nothing better than removing your tie.)<br /><br />Even then, in Hitch's world and Edith's clothes, good girls did bad things. Even better, they wanted to break the rules. Yet they did it in a really classy manner. Maybe it was the gloves or heels, the cinched waists or petticoats. Perhaps a girdle instills a sense of propriety. Who knows? Whatever it is, it would be nice to have a little more of it these days. Turn on "Notorious" (not the Biggie bio pic) or "Rear Window" to take a peek. Tell me you don't feel the urge to put on a hat and some gloves and greet people with, "Good evening," "Good afternoon," or "Good day." Don't you think it would be simply grand to have a bit more social decorum and class without any of that pesky social repression? Wouldn't you agree, darling? Wouldn't you agree? [Insert martini glass clink here.]<br /><br />Yes, they are only movies and, no, Edith didn't do all the designs. But, in spite of the murder and espionage, it all comes off a bit more...civilized. And maybe that is what I'm craving most.RUAWAKEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604628371229328744noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2639029872065964746.post-88554309669513574222009-06-20T16:51:00.000-07:002009-06-21T00:17:59.609-07:00Hard CandyLook, I know I haven't been much fun lately. Deal with it. I'm working on a dream, and in the meantime, I'm not working. Being unemployed doesn't really bring on the comedy, you know? That is until you look at your EDD check. Now, *that's* funny. Not that I'm poo-pooing it. Not at all. I am supercalifragilisticexpialidociously grateful to be receiving that. Bless you, State of California. Really. Happy you can spare it.<br /><br />And I'm not whining about being a little less than flush. We all have our shizzle to deal with. This is just a bit of a hard time. And it's the second time I've gone through a patch this craptastic in nine years. Which makes it a little more irritating. However, that was a recession. I'm not sure what this will end up being.<br /><br />What I learned from Round 1 was appreciation. I'm the kind of girl who eats the heels of bread. Not just because I'm slightly addicted to carbs, but I don't like to waste anything. Not anymore. I squeeze and squeeze and squeeze the tube. Then I shake it, and squeeze some more. I can find a staggeringly good bottle of ten-dollar wine. I tend to prefer the six-dollar bouquet of flowers to the one-hundred-and-sixty-dollar arrangement. I know how much it costs to eat well and eat right, and I will pay it because I am worth it. I do my own pedicures because I do them better than the cheap places, and I can't find a good place open at nine pee-yem when I finally have the time to sit down and enjoy it. I can get away with the flared jeans I got on sale at the Gap last year because I live in Venice...and I don't care. No one is looking at my ankles anyway. Those jeans make my ass look fierce.<br /><br />What these hard times tend to teach -- at least me, anyway -- is how sweet the "little" things are. The things that we can blow by or blow off when we are busy doing other things (like working). I think when we are in hard times we have two choices: 1) to fret (and sometimes that is required), or 2) appreciate what you do have. The second takes some time to master.<br /><br />Being unemployed is sort of like hanging out with my family: Never more do I need a drink, yet I can't afford to have one. In the case of visiting my family, I have to stay completely sober in case I need to make a quick getaway. In the case of being sans job, I literally can't afford it. Every penny counts these days. Yet, what I do have an abundance of is time. And, I'm finally learning to -- dare I say -- enjoy that. I used to resent it. As you probably know, I don't like to wait. And that's all this really is...a long waiting period. Now, I appreciate the day. I balance the frustration of the situation with simple pleasures. I work out. I write. I cook. I don't have to rush through these things. I can savor them a bit. Not like in a vacation sort of way. The mail still comes each day, and reality is delivered in window envelopes. With all this time, I get to take a good look at what my life really is. And, outside of not getting a steady check, I really like it. As a matter of fact, I love it. Oh, it's not perfect. It's nowhere near what I thought it would be (yet). But, underneath the fear and the frustration brought on by circumstance, I am happy. Very. And peculiarly content, too. Must be a side-effect of the all-organic diet I'm on. I don't know. Talk to me next week when rent is due and we'll see how steady I hold. But, no matter how the situation might suck, much like hard candy, there's a sweetness there as well.RUAWAKEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604628371229328744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2639029872065964746.post-75284363193031084062009-06-13T09:03:00.000-07:002009-07-24T00:09:45.932-07:00I Am Not A Good FriendI kind of feel that I need to set the record straight. I haven't been sharing what Joy has been going through, and my visits up there, to tout my good deeds. I actually don't see what I did as above or beyond the call of duty. I don't feel like I've done anything special. I did what any friends would do...if they could. And one of the reasons I could do it is because I don't have a pesky job getting in the way. The upside of unemployment. It was easy for me to go up there for a week to help out. As a matter of fact, I looked forward to it like a vacation. <br /><br />Also, for the record, I was not the only one helping out. There are many others pitching in, and doing even more. Some of them even have jobs or families of their own to take care of. We're simply doing what friends do: Help out as much as we can when we can. Isn't that the basic definition of friendship?<br /><br />And it's not like it's a chore to be with Joy and her family. They are great people. And it's not like they were asking me to milk cows or churn butter. I was doing what I would do at home anyway: cook and clean and run a few errands. Except at Joy's there's a washer and dryer *in* the house (I go to the laundromat), and they have a real, live dishwasher (while I have dishpan hands). So, in actuality, I get to have a bit of a vacation by indulging in those modern conveniences and fantasizing about the day I actually live like a grown up.<br /><br />I also had the added bonuses of the world's more adorable alarm clock and a magical coffee maker. Pancakes and waffles were served on the weekends, and I got to hang out with people I truly adore in a lovely community. Yeah, hand me the martyr crown. <br /><br />Joy looked at me with concern one day. "I don't know how I am ever going to repay you for this," she said. My eyebrows came together. "You bought my lunch today. I think that makes us even." She shook her head. "I'll come up with something." And then she did a bit of performance art that still brings a tear to my eye...because I laugh so hard thinking about it.<br /><br />In full disclosure, Joy insists on paying me gas money. It's absolutely ridiculous, but I've learned not to argue. You really shouldn't argue with a friend going through chemo. It kind of makes you look like an asshole. So, I smile and take it, then use it to buy Guinness and wine for my next trip up there. It's my way of getting her back, though it's me and her husband who really get the benefit. I do make sure the wine is organic, in case she decides to have a glass (or two).<br /><br />I have another friend going through a lawsuit. She lives out of state, so we will have lengthy chats via telephone. She, too, thanked me for being a good friend the other day, and it sort of pissed me off. "Do you not listen to my shit?" I asked her point blank. "Yeah," she answered, somewhat taken aback. "Well, it's give and take, dear. It's all just give and take." And then I said, "Look, it takes a good friend to let someone be a good friend. So, mirror, mirror, my friend."<br /><br />I really want to be clear about this: I am not a good friend. I am just someone who has a lot of good people in her life. And I love them dearly. Anything I give, it's miniscule in comparison to what I get from them.RUAWAKEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604628371229328744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2639029872065964746.post-42480950161988032492009-06-04T20:45:00.000-07:002009-06-04T23:41:23.582-07:00Ask A Simple Question...Get A Stupid AnswerME: So, where are you from?<br /><br />HE: Well, I'm from a lot of places.<br /><br />ME: [Silently, to self: No, that's impossible. You can only be from one location.] Okay, name a few.<br /><br />HE: San Francisco, Colorado, Florida. <br /><br />ME: [Silently to self: What, are you in Witness Protection?] <br /><br />HE: But, I've been in L.A. for so long, it's like I'm from here.<br /><br />ME: [Silently to self: Which is what every native of L.A. hates to hear and completely disagrees with.] Okay, but where were you born?<br /><br />HE: Detroit, Michigan.<br /><br />ME: [Silently to self: See, was that so effing hard to cough out?] I have family from Michigan. They do that weird thing where they grab your had to show you where we are and where we are going.<br /><br />HE: [Smiles, nods. Probably what every native of Michigan hates to hear but has to acknowledge because they all do it.]<br /><br />ME: So, where did you go to college?<br /><br />HE: University of Michigan.<br /><br />ME: Oh. [So, basically, you've spent most of your life in Michigan yet aren't really "from" there. Interesting take.]<br /><br />HE: But I thought about going to school in Colorado or Boston.<br /><br />ME: Because they have such better weather than Michigan?<br /><br />HE: [Laughs]<br /><br />ME: So, you're in real estate. Kind of a tough time.<br /><br />HE: Yeah. Did you know the mortgage crisis is really Obama's fault?<br /><br />ME: [*crickets*]<br /><br />HE: No, really, it is.<br /><br />ME: [Silently to self: REDACTED.] Wow, will you look at the time. Gotta go. Buh-bye.RUAWAKEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604628371229328744noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2639029872065964746.post-70465014376175944062009-05-27T17:31:00.000-07:002009-05-27T17:53:53.318-07:00Cancer Is FatteningThere's just no way around it: Cancer is fattening. Or chemo is. Well, mostly spending a week with a friend going through chemo and trying to keep her weight up is thigh-widening. Fabulous, but fattening nonetheless.<br /><br />It's really not Joy's fault. I mean, she didn't <span style="font-style:italic;">force</span> me to eat the (organic) cookies or the soy/flax chips (with guacamole) or the shrimp burrito or to choose pasta for every dinner...but the one that involved fish and chips. At least she and I split that. It's not her fault I couldn't say no. No. But it's not like it was a level playing field. She gets the bonus of having a tiny appetite (chemo bonus?). I have the appetite of an Olympic athlete. If only I trained like one. Which is the other problem: Chemo and cardio don't really go together. Throw in a shot of Neulasta (to help her build T-cells) and you have bone pain on top of fatigue. So, a few laps around the block weren't really going to happen. Not like I couldn't go on a walk by myself. But that's so not the point. The point was to spend quality time with my friend going through the cure. And so I stayed by her side...and went toe to toe as we snacked my butt into oblivion.<br /><br />Laughter might well be the best medicine, but it is total crap at burning calories. Seriously. Because we laughed a lot. <span style="font-style:italic;">A lot</span> a lot. Not even Percocet could dull Joy's sharp wit. We were doubled over, catching our breath. And that requires a good deal of ab work. Shoulders, too. But I saw no results, other than laugh lines. <br /><br />You would think that waking up at seven each day to help with Laddy's breakfast and make his lunch would help burn some calories, too. Nope. But I suppose I didn't have to eat the cut off crusts on top of my toast. Not literally on top. You know what I mean. The way-too-basically-simply idea of putting them into the trash didn't sit well with me. Thanks, mom, for tattooing all those starving kids in China onto my brain. Food guilt is child abuse, people. Piggyback rides and park playing aren't calorie busting either, FYI. But, it is fun.<br /><br />My dieting discipline was something I seemed to forget to pack. Breakfast consisted of carbs. Lunch consisted of carbs. Dinner consisted of carbs. Dessert, well, that was chocolate, and that is God's gift to us. But it's full of carbs. And a bit of fat, too. That's not to say we didn't eat healthy. We did. But Joy can't have too much fruits or vegetables because her digestion is a bit sensitive. Sure, I could have gone to the store and bought some, whipped them up on my own. As a matter of fact, I did go to the store. A few times. And I made dinner every night. But that extra effort of chopping and washing and steaming...what was the point? I was only going to be there a week. We all deserve a little break, right?<br /><br />Justifications must be full of carbs and calories, too, because when I got on the scale after returning home, I found four (FOUR!) extra pounds. Feck. Okay, I've already lost two, but I'm grounded until the rest are off. No more cookies or chips, and chocolate is to be used for medicinal PMS purposes only...and only in moderation. Control, people. It's a choice.<br /><br />In spite of the pounds, I wouldn't trade an ounce for a moment with Joy, her hubster or adorable son. And let me tell you about how great my friend is: <br /><br />A week after what we hope is her last chemo treatment, her hair is starting to grow back. You heard me. This after two IP chemo treatments as well. This coming from a woman who was moved to Stage IV. By the way, once they mark you at a stage level, they don't downgrade you. Sure, we know the statistics of ovarian you-know-what (that's the only C word I truly hate), but Joy is the fluke. Statistically, she shouldn't have gotten it. So, screw statistics. She is already thriving. She's one of the healthiest people I know. And I'm looking forward to the days when we are old ladies, doubling over laughing and wetting our Depends.RUAWAKEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604628371229328744noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2639029872065964746.post-8103827085722542282009-05-13T20:12:00.000-07:002009-05-13T20:59:10.798-07:00At Least We Can LaughI don't know where I am right now. I don't know if it's denial, acceptance or certainty. It doesn't matter, really. There's only one place I can be and that's here, in the moment. Dealing with it. That's all anyone can do.<br /><br />And we are all dealing with it, no matter what our <span style="font-style:italic;">it</span> might be. Everyone has something going on. It's part of the human condition. The trick is not to do it alone. That's what friends are for.<br /><br />Thank God for my friends. They are a fabulous group of wonderful nuts. You won't find better people anywhere. Except maybe in your tribe. I hope you've collected some wonderful nuts along your way. My friends and I are all dealing with a little merde right now. But, at least we are dealing with it together. And, at least we can laugh about it.<br /><br />I'm going back up to see Joy next week. T-cells willing, she will have her last chemo treatment tomorrow. Hurrah! I can't wait to get back up there and spend some quality time with three of my favorite people. I think what I adore most about Joy is that, through this whole ordeal, we have laughed more than we've cried. A lot more. The last time I was up there, we spent most of our time together doubled-over laughing. If you were in California after Easter, you'll remember the winds that kicked up. They were Dorothy/We-aren't-in-Kansas-anymore wicked. I had to pop outside to pick up some errant socks (her three year-old at least brought in his shoes), and in those twenty-seconds, I couldn't believe how my hair was whipped around. We were going to be leaving in a few minutes to go to her doctor's appointment and when I came in, I said, "Hey, you'd better tighten up your wig, sister. It's a blustery day." She bent into a ninety-degree angle, laughing. When she came up for air, she said, "I'm so glad I can laugh about stuff like that." To which I replied, "Shit, so am I." <br /><br />I have another friend who was slammed by the housing market. Another who is considering bankruptcy. Another dealing with family issues. Another juggling three jobs. Another hoping to find a job. But, we are just as concerned about what the other is dealing with as we are with our own load. And, in the midst of our merde, we are laughing. Hard. At each other. At ourselves. At the absurdity of it all. We are laughing more than we are crying. Maybe it is a form of denial. Perhaps it is acceptance. More than likely, though, it is the certainty of our friendships. We have each other's backs. And we have each other in stitches. And I can't think of a better place to be.RUAWAKEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604628371229328744noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2639029872065964746.post-35962260185981848822009-05-06T21:02:00.000-07:002009-05-06T21:35:20.746-07:00When 'What If' HappensFor years, I've been aching to have nothing to do but write. Just write. Writing, to me, is like drawing breath. I just have to do it. And, each time I rushed from the gym to get to my desk for whatever client I was dealing with, I wondered, "What if I didn't have to clock in? What if I didn't have someone else's deadline? What would my life be like?" I would fantasize about waking up a seven, being at the gym by 8:30, working out for two hours every day (I really like my gym time), then, after a shower and breakfast, I would write. And write. I would take myself out to lunch at a sunny bistro, then sip coffee as I typed out a scene or spiced up some dialogue. I pictured myself happy, well-rested, fit, prolific. But, since I've been unemployed (for over a month now), I've done anything but write. See, it turns out I didn't need the time to write -- I would shoehorn that in, much to the detriment of my social life and benefit of my dark circles -- what I needed was dough.<br /><br />By no means am I a materialistic label-whore. You'd be lucky to ever find me in anything but Gap, except maybe Banana Republic. Whatever you find me in is most likely from the sale rack. I like a solid bang for my buck, people. Being freelance, I am always living on a budget. Sometimes, it's stricter than others. Right now, it's Sado-Masochistic. <br /><br />The odd thing is, with an open schedule, instead of feeling free and having all the time in the world to write, I find myself slightly paralyzed. With everything in flux, I think of all the things I should be doing, worrying about what might happen, hoping a miracle arrives and eating organic. Because that seems to be the most proactive thing I can do. Go figure. And with all of that, there's no room for the story stuck in my head to come down. I've yet to have a two-hour workout because I'm just a little too stressed out to enjoy that. It makes much more sense for me to be at home waiting for the chips to fall.<br /><br />But, I was just thinking today that I might as well make the most of this. Why not? Sure, my budget has me spanked into submission and there are real-life worries to deal with, but why not take a few days to dip my toe into the great What If? Maybe tomorrow I'll enjoy a lengthy workout and let the story flow. Get used to being a self-supporting, self-sustaining writer who gets up at 7, is at the gym by 8:30 and has a two-hour workout then writes and writes and writes. Maybe I can make it happen in a build-it-and-they-will-come sort of way. After all, it seems like a version of 'What If' has arrived, so what the hell, right?RUAWAKEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604628371229328744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2639029872065964746.post-28273698677562079782009-04-29T11:29:00.000-07:002009-04-29T15:22:36.002-07:00Feeling the BurnLadies, we are a smart lot. When we set out minds to accomplish something, it's done. So why, in the history of womankind and snogging, have we not come up with a cure, balm or salve for beard burn?<br /><br />Seriously. You'd have thunk we'd have come up with that by now. I mean, exfoliation is good to a point...but then you hit disaster.<br /><br />The problem with beard burn is that you don't feel it while it's happening. Not if you're doing it right. It's not until you wake up the next morning, late for a meeting, and look in the mirror that you realize no amount of moisturizer or makeup is going to hide the fact you were up to some good the night before. Or a few nights before, depending on the level of the burn. It's clear your face has been met with some friction, even if the stubble was slight. A little stubble and a long snog can be big trouble. And, if you aren't wearing a ring on your left hand's third finger, or haven't declared yourself in a deeply committed relationship, you get a look. The look can range from "Good for you!" to "Hussy!", depending on who's shooting it. Either way, your private life is on display. It's a bit un-fun.<br /><br />So, ladies, I'm putting it to you to solve the beard burn issue. We can't leave it to the guys because they already have the answer: SHAVE! And a girl should still be able to get caught up in the moment and take off half her face. So, send in your remedies. Put your chemistry cap on and save face. Thank you.<br /><br />Oh, and guys...even if you think your Miami Vice-esque (be it a Johnson or Farrell), one-to-three day growth is hot, it's not. It burns. Take care of it and the ladies. Thanks. xoRUAWAKEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604628371229328744noreply@blogger.com1