Heading for a Fall

Why 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."

Last week was a tad brutal, I must say.  Just a tad.

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.

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.

Suffice it to say, I'm just working less this month.  And, future monthly invoices will reflect 4.33 weeks.

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.

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.

Yeah, I know.

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, thankyouverymuch).  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, the benefit of the doubt, or at least a phone call.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Lengths I Will Go

I 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.

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.

I couldn't.

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.

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.

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.

How lazy am I?!?

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).

Recycled toilet paper seemed like a cheap price to pay for that.

(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.)

**********

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.

I don't have one.

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.

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.

xo

Nine

Hello. 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.

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 or chocolate, it's best to just keep to yourself. And, so, for the most part, I did.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. xo

I Need a Hero

For 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.

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.

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.

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


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Hard Candy

Look, 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Some Day

Today's my birthday. Oh, stop. I'm not telling you that because I want a flurry of cards and gifts. No. Thanks, but no. I'm mentioning it because I have to remind myself of it. I'm the kind of geek who loves birthdays. Not just mine, but everyone's. After all, it's *your* day. It's meant to be special. This one was supposed to be special, but it's sort of lost its shine.

I don't go to extremes for my birthday. I simply gather friends for dinner. We laugh and eat and drink. No matter what is going on, that night is just us. But, in all honesty, I don't want to go to my own party tonight. There's a part of me that would like to call everyone and just say, "Let's put it off until next year, shall we?" I won't, but I want to.

Like so many others, the recession has slammed me. My main client, whom already cut the project fee in half, is failing to pay me at all. I know, kind of rude, don't you think? That flakeage puts me in a bit of a financial tailspin, and I know I'm not alone in that freefall.

Somewhere along the lines, I've misplaced my golden parachute. And I know I'm not the only one. But this sort of takes away the glow of the birthday candles. This is kind of not how I planned to ring in this new year of mine. I had bigger plans. Things that were supposed to be done. There was stuff that should have come through. And it didn't. And, even more surprising, other things slipped away. I know there are plenty of others going through a similar sitch. And, no matter how bad it might be, we all know someone else has it worse.

Wait. I'm not replacing my birthday party with a pity party. No ma'am sir. I'm just sitting here wondering the best way to handle all this as the happy birthday wishes roll in. I don't feel much like celebrating. I have to make a plan, and fast. For now, though, I will simply go to the gym, work for the client who does pay me (God, I wish I had three more of her), put on a party dress and give my lovely friends a smile. While I might not feel like celebrating me, my friends certainly deserve a toast.

Electronic Revolt

I don't know what's going on. Or off, actually. My TiVo died. My iPod is on its last leg (has been for months, but the buzzards are circling) and my BlackBerry is positively geriatric, annoying me to the point that it's sort of mocking me to buy another.

Why is it this kind of stuff always happens at once? When I'm haphazardly employed, taxes are due and I just bought a ticket to NYC I could barely afford (but with airfare so low, I couldn't afford to pass it up, either)? And the choices that are presented as possible solutions are not exactly economically helpful or emotionally appealing. By the way, there's a recession going on. My timing is always perfect.

TiVo can be replaced for $149 (but that extra cash is carrying me to Eastern Standard Time). A TimeWarner DVR is $19 extra per month. I can't stand TimeWarner; the idea of giving them an extra dime gives me slight angina. I want them out of my life...but Verizon and DirecTV aren't really options I'm excited about either. And I will not be able to survive a day without an iPod. So, do I just get a Nano? Or do I splurge and get the Touch?

But, that brings up the BlackBerry issue. If I need a new iPod and want a new phone, should I just get an iPhone? But, I want to stay on T-Mobile. An unlocked, unjailed (whatever the hell that is) iPhone is like $700. WTF? So, now I'm back to a Nano and my GeriBerry...and a TW DVR. Because we are in a recession. And my spoiled need for electronic conveniences and entertainment has to get on board with that. And I've got to run. I have to turn in my cable box now so I can record tonight's "Biggest Loser". Because I sort of am one lately.

She Said He Said

I've always been the chick who has more guy friends than girl friends. I didn't plan it that way. It just sort of happened. Perhaps because I preferred kickball to jumping rope. Not that I'm particularly sporty; I just liked the friendly competition the boys had going. I preferred it to the rather catty competition happening in the girls' corner. Come on, sisters, you know what I mean. Little girls can be big bitches.

As I grew older, I still found myself hanging out with the lads more than the lasses. Guys didn't mind that I was opinionated and prone to use language that would make sailors blush. With guys, I didn't have to mind my Ps and Qs. And the conversations weren't about clothes or hair or boys. Come on, sisters, you know what I mean. In high school, conversations ran about as deep as puddles in most cliques, no? [And I should really qualify all this by saying I grew up in a stucco-encrusted suburb I fondly refer to as Stepford.]

By the time college rolled around, I was used to palling around with the guys and usually being the only girl in the lot. That's when I noticed the whispers. Slut was a common slur. Because *obviously* I was sleeping with all of them. These guys wouldn't just be my friend if there weren't *benefits*, right? A girl couldn't be close friends with a guy unless they were very close indeed. This happened with more frequency and fervor if I was friends with a guy another girl liked but he didn't like her back. That suddenly became my fault. Because, at that age, it's always another woman in your way...right, sisters? It can never be that he isn't the right guy for you. No. It's the slutty girl "friend" re-routing the rooster.

I've come to find that there are some people who absolutely don't believe a man and a woman can have a truly platonic relationship. This is usually the thought pattern of those who sleep with their friends. I don't sleep with friends. I sleep with my boyfriend or lover, not a buddy. I'm not judging a buckfuddy situation. But, that's not what I consider a friendship. That's a quasi-relationship, ill-defined and prone to heartbreak or a bitter end. Most likely, you would not be able to sit across from that "friend's" spouse and have a pleasant conversation about all the fun times you two had without a few hesitations and awkward edits.

College is a heady time. Young adults and sexuality are much like baby rattlesnakes and venom -- we don't yet know how to control it. How much to give off. When to stop it before it goes further than planned. That's all part of growing up. And while I wasn't chaste, I was far from the hose-hound whore a some sorority sisters seemed to believe...and spread about. I can count my college conquests on one hand. And no, I don't have additional digits like Anne Bolin. I bring this up because, nearly two decades after the fact, I recently had to do a reality check. It seems that rumor and innuendo can fester into legend then harden into "fact". Which I found utterly baffling. So much so, emergency text messages were sent to two of my guy friends and a panicked after-midnight call was placed to a girl friend who, too, has her fair share of platonic male mates. Each of the communiques began with WTF?!?

It came in the form of an email in which she said he said, to which I said horseshit. At first, I really didn't care. I mean, seriously, WTF. But it was so outlandish that it began to bug me. What if all this time people were under the impression that actually happened? Now, I'm not one that feels the need to defend myself, nor do I really care what some people think of me, but I do care about the truth. I found myself going right back to sophomore year when I wanted to shout from a bullhorn at every kegger: Seriously, I'm not a slut! Just because we are hanging out does not mean we are making out...or anything else!

Sigh. Trust me, there are plenty of things I actually do that people can judge me on. That I welcome. Have at it. Spread it like wildfire. Whatever. But if I didn't do it...then I get a little pissy.

Rumormongering isn't just a girl thing. Guys were equally guilty of it. I remember one occasion where a dude in our crowd told the world I went home with a certain bloke. This, after I was nice enough to give him a ride home. Because I dropped him off first, I must have gone back to my dorm room with the other guy. When I heard about this, I was furious. The look on his face when I called him out on it -- in public -- was priceless.

"Why would you start a rumor like that?" I demanded. "Uh..." was all he could come up with. "Did you see us go into my dorm together?" I questioned. "Uh, no," he admitted. "Were we making out in front of you or flirting even?" He answered, "No." "Well, then what made you think he ended up spending the night with me?" I huffed. "I just...I...I don't know," he stuttered. "So you just made the whole thing up and spread it around? Kind of an asshole thing to do, isn't it?" He hung his head, muttered that he was sorry and couldn't look me in the eye for a month.

Now, if you'll notice, in my line of questioning I never denied going home with the guy. The truth was, I did. But, that wasn't for gossip guy to say. That was my private affair and none of his or anyone else's business. When the bloke and I later showed up as a couple, the gossiper called me on it. I explained that he assumed what happened and went about spreading the news like a twelve-year-old without asking me if anything had gone on before he did so. That's not what a friend does. But, like I said, some people don't think guys and gals can be friends. And, after that, he and I weren't.

Over the years, the ratio has shifted and I have a larger network of girl friends today. I still have a lot of guy friends, though. And, for the record, I can look every one of their wives in the eye. It's nice that we can all be friends. But it's sad when you stumble upon someone who's still sitting in the quad.

And Nero Whipped Out His Fiddle

I feel like I'm standing in my very own Rome and Nero is rosining his bow. Sadly, in this Rome, I am not the Empress. I'm more of a lady in waiting...which is so the story of my life. There's nothing I can do in this situation. I'm not the one commandeering the chariot. I just have to hold on tight until we either hit the brakes, or the wheels fall off.

While I am all about the optimism (yea, power of positive thinking! w00t!), I prefer being pragmatic. It just makes the day run a bit more smoothly. Not that I've not pulled a few ostrich moves in my day. (Why do you think I set up everything on bill pay? I just don't want to know. I know, I know. You sound like my CPA.) But, when faced with a crisis, I have the presence of a panther. I am engaged and ready to do what needs to be done without hesitation. Which makes being stuck on someone else's Mr. Toad's Wild Ride all the more uncomfortable for me. Especially when they keep turning their head toward me to explain how we really aren't going to hit that brick wall we are headed for; and to stop being such a downer. As if happy words and an affable grin will chase away the looming storm and bounce away those lightning bolts. Like a sunny disposition could get you out of the shit. Wouldn't we all be walking around like Cheshire cats if that were the case? Wall Street and DC would be ear to ear. (And don't even get me started on AIG.) In my case, my driver is putting perfume on a corpse and setting a place for his dinner. It's that deluded. Oh well, right? Excuse me while I put Vaseline on my teeth to keep that smile going.

I just hope that whatever tune Nero starts fiddling, it will be one I can dance to.

I Figured 8 Out!

It's been an exhausting week. The high high of the Obama win (let's be honest, Obama pwn3d McCain), and the low low of Proposition 8 passing was draining. Talk about buzzkill. I truly believed we would vote it down and make marriage available to all. We. Us. Californians. The trendsetters of the nation. Hey, didn't we bring you smoke-free bars, yoga and colonics? Enough said.

What is so bitterly ironic about all this is that we gladly passed Prop 2, which enables farm animals to turn around in cages. I'm pro-2. Don't get me wrong. But how did we give animals rights while we took them away from tax-paying humans? That's insane. And brought to you by a religion that believes in polygamy. Sweet Jeebus of late-in-the-day stains. Then again, we are the dorks who put Conan in our capitol. [Hey, Arnie, swell job with the budget. That whole "let's just open the books" strategy of governing is really paying off.]

It's taken me a while to process the whole debacle. But, I think I've figured out why people were so concerned about same-sex couples getting legally wed: A gay wedding is hard to top. Think about it. Same-sex weddings would be beyond over-the-top, but in a really elegant and efficient way. What straight couple could live up to that? Especially if all the best wedding planners, caterers, florists and designers were booked for years doing gay weddings. With that level of competition, and supply versus demand, it would certainly drive up the already high cost of a wedding. Imagine what a multi-tier wedding cake would cost under No H-8 circumstances. And, with our crappy economy, it really does come down to the bottom line.

If we know anything in California, we know not to piss off West Hollywood or San Francisco. They rally, picket, march and candlelight vigil like nobody's business. They are or-gan-ized. And they pull the numbers. Because these cities are known for fabulous, *inclusive* parties, everyone wants to crash them, easily doubling or tripling their crowds. People who love good dance music and strong drinks tend to tag along (and throw down their support). See, it's all about *community*. [That, and we know that the rallies end up at The Abbey in WeHo or Harvey's on Castro.]

I'm convinced that weddings are the reason Prop 8 passed. Straight people are insecure and afraid of being upstaged. Breeders have no style on their own. Oh, you think I'm being bigoted now? Puh-leez. Look at the difference between, say, Ellen and Portia's wedding and that of Celine Dion and Rene What's-his-name. That's what we are capable of without gay guidance. Everyone knows that. I'm not stereotyping. I'm stating fact. Reference Cher with Sonny and then Cher with Bob Mackie. Need I say more? And, while I would like to think I would avoid the meringue and a sad silhouette on my own, believe you me, if/when I get married, I'm bringing my queer nation with me to make sure I don't regret my wedding photos. And, that's what straight people are afraid of.

America, don't give up on us just yet. H-8 doesn't belong in our groovy State. So we are taking to the streets. We are taking it to court. We are taking it to Utah. We are checking out of Marriott. We are petitioning up a storm. We will break 8!

And, not that I am any sort of legal eagle, but I don't think there is any way this can hold up in court. We have a precedence of same-sex marriage. Some same-sex couples were wed in that legal window. We can't make those marriages invalid. Therefore, we how can we deny others the same rights? It seems to this laywoman that there's enough here to fight the good fight and win. And equality will prevail. Because, while we might be known as the land of fruits and nuts, we are also a bunch of rebellious trailblazers. We know how to make things happen.

And, if Arnie needs to bring in some revenue to Cali, he might want to think about helping us bring down Prop 8. We need the marriage license fees.

Go With the Flow

No good deed goes unpunished. Seriously. Think how that little aphorism plays in your life. In spite of good karma (and, believe or not, I do have some of that), it's the little things that end up nipping us in the derriere. Like Tuesday morning, for example.

I'm desperately trying to adjust to this real job and long commute lifestyle, and desperately trying to fit the gym in there somewhere. It became painfully clear during week one that the after-work scenario was not going to fly. That meant an early morning call. I'm a night owl by nature and generally allergic to anything pre-noon. The six-ayem alarm screech has been met with multiple snooze button smacks. While that felt good, there wasn't a huge calorie burn or cardio benefit. (If only. Imagine how big that DVD would be.) After four bumpy weeks, I seem to have finally gotten my act together, and am waking up early enough to scramble to the gym. Not for the workouts of yore. No. This is a twenty-twenty split (twenty minutes of weights, twenty of cardio). Granted, there's not a huge calorie blast from this regimen, either, but dragging my ass there is half the battle. I get brownie points for that somewhere, right? (And can I use those for cake?)

There is no stretching apres workout, though. No time for that. Instead, I rush home and turn on the shower while I peel out of my gym clothes and begin the mad dash that is the remainder of my morning. So, it was a major hiccup yesterday when I turned on the tap and nothing came out. I stood there rather perplexed. There was water running before I left, right? Flashback to teeth-brushing, face-washing, toilet flushing and water refilling the tank. Yes. Water was intact an hour ago. So what the hell happened? I didn't see any signs of construction highjinks or burst mains on my way back home. Perhaps it was just a problem with my shower. Which I realize is a daft idea, but you know how it is when you are faced with a nonsensical problem -- you are driven to examine every possibility, no matter how dopey. Of course the bathroom and kitchen sinks were a no flow. I put on my robe and hit the phone.

Every moment counts on this new pre-work workout plan. I've got forty-five minutes to get ready and get out the door. I was losing precious time. My property manager had no idea why my pipes were dry, but she called the maintenance dude across town to come over and check it out. While I was on the phone with her, there was a pounding at my door. Through the security gate, I saw a man donned a reflective orange vest. He spoke no English. Me no hablo Espanol. After several attempts at Spanglish, I took the card from him and saw my street number next to my cross street, thus showing me an address that does not exist. I tried to explain this and that I had no water, and if he was in anyway involved in that to please remedy the situation. He said something I didn't understand, so I asked him to bring over his supervisor. He apologized and went away. Whatever. I needed a shower, and he obviously couldn't help me.

I called DWP hoping they might have an answer. Nope. No outages in my area. Blast. I pulled on some yoga pants and a tee and went out in search of the non-English speaking plumber, or some sort of explanation. Nothing out of the ordinary but me traipsing around the neighborhood when I should've been applying makeup or something as productive. I emailed my boss to let him know of the dire situation and that I would get there as soon as I could.

I tried to think of a Plan B. Go back to the gym and shower there? Yeah no. Showering with flipflops on is saved for camping trips. (I no longer camp, by the way.) Should I dash to the liquor store and buy a few gallons to heat up? Nah. I would rather see this as a sign from God that I deserved a personal day.

Another knock at my door. The maintenance hero. Someone had turned off the main. One day, I should find out where that is.

It seemed God would rather I worked. Emailed the boss man again that the water was back on, hopped in the shower and rushed out the door. And, even with all the time lost, I was only five minutes late for work, and that included a stop at the slowest Starbucks in the world. There's a lot to be said for not enjoying your shower or giving a toss what your face or outfit looks like in the harsh light of day. It saves a lot of time. But we all know I'm a spender not a saver.

Smoke Gets in Your Area Code

The joke is that California does have four seasons, but they are: Earthquake, Fire, Riot and Mudslide.

It's Fire season, people.

When the Santa Ana winds kick in, all bets are off. I think we'd be better off just staying in. That's my preference. Heat, rain, snow, bitter cold; I can take all of those happily, with a hair flip and smile. Wind annoys me. It's rude, difficult and unforgiving. There's no hairstyle that can survive the Santa Ana's (though, I have to say, the Brazilian Blowout does a good job of it...because all it can be right now, a week after doing it, is be pin-straight). Let's not even get into the whole static situation. It's so not the best part. Lotion. Hairspray. No matter the trick or remedy, it only gets you so far.

Because the winds are multi-directional, crap easily bypasses your sunglasses and attacks your contacts, which remain dry no matter how much you blink. Then there is all the other shizzle being blown about, going right up your sinuses, which become irritated making your eyes red, cutting the ribbon on the sneeze-fest. All in all, it makes for quite a look.

Driving in to Malibu on Monday was an adventure. The winds were so strong, I felt like I was in a scene from Twister. Because the Santa Ana's were blowing over the mountains, I wasn't sure what would fly out at me next. I got used to the branches, of all sizes, being hurled at me. I was keeping an eye out for a Smart Car, though. And the trucks. We were all having a tough time driving a straight line. Amazingly, what the winds did blow over was all the smoke from the Lake View Terrace/Porter Ranch fires. That area is a good forty-five miles east of Malibu, and countless zip and area codes away. Mother Nature is a powerful broad.

When Malibu smells like campfire, people grow uncomfortable. Me included. As the smoke cast the glow of sunset in the sky (and it was barely eleven ayem at the time), we started checking the news sites regularly to be sure there weren't any fires in our neck of the woods. After all, Nick Nolte's caught ablaze last week, and for no good reason. Anything was possible. Fires don't necessarily come in threes here; more like they come in dozens.

Fortunately, we were in the clear, so to speak. We had a hard time breathing from the thick-ash air, but looked good under the amber glow of the smoky sunlight filter. The winds remained relentless. Something I would enjoy at home, on the sofa, watching an old movie. Not so much at work. I did my best to tune it all out, send my good vibes to our tireless firefighters, pray for those whose homes are at risk or were consumed.

Eight-point-five hours later, I left the office. The winds were gone. The air was still. The skies were calm. The glow was actually coming from the sunset, though the smoke was still in the air. And the ash was in my car. Tilted moonroof. Amazing how much junk can float through that little crack. Fugme.

As I drove home on PCH, I admired the full moon's glow on the water below, so much more serene than it was that morning. The scent of campfire still in the air. Usually a comforting aroma instead marking another of nature's tragedies. Wildfire. Heartbreaking and scary, reminding us that no matter how powerful or in control we think we may be, Mother Nature can quickly prove us wrong. All of us.

Leaves Are Turning

Spring and Autumn are my two favorite seasons. They both involve sweaters and the probability of open-toed shoes (remember, I live in SoCali; sandals are a staple). I suppose I like change more that I let myself believe. And I can feel the change already. Last night, I wrapped myself up in a sweater, feeling the crispness new to the night air. Mornings are a bit more brisk than they were a few days ago. This is just a taste, though. Just when I put away the window fans, Indian Summer will come a-knockin'. Somehow, I never enjoy that flashback. But I do savor the first hints of season change.

Everything's changing, though, not just the weather. The economy is in the crapper. My hair's gone hooey. I've bowed and taken full-time, full-fledged-employee employment, my first job of this variety in nearly a decade. Everything is unfamiliar. Twilight Zone-like. Then, I watched Suze Orman going berserk on "Oprah" (which I now view exclusively on TiVo), ripping the American wallet a new one. She's spooky. As much as she bugs me sometimes -- and she does bug; I much prefer the financial stylings of Jean Chatzky -- she was right. This is America's wake-up call. An ugly one; painful as a four ayem wake-up call after falling asleep at two. Brutal. And by no means am I being flip about this. You are talking to a chick with no nest egg.

And while this is really scary, I'm kind of excited by it. Perhaps it's just a lack a sleep and the delirium thereof, but I think we can turn it all around. We, as in all of us. Wake up to how corrupt, greedy and selfish our economy, and the people who've run it (into the ground), have been. But, we the people are a part of that. We are complicit.

But what are we doing about it? It seems like we are waiting to see what "they" will do. Haven't we figured out yet that "they" don't have a friggin' clue? And "they" are just fine. Their pockets are lined. They'll be flying on the private planes of the ousted CEOs and under the shade of those platinum parachutes. "They" suck! So, it is down to us. Hate to break it to you, but we are on our own.

It's hard to do something when paralyzed with panic. How does one make a change when there's so little to work with? Really, I'm asking you. But that effing Suze Orman scared the bejeebus out of me, and now I'm examining my options. Happily (or delusionally), all I can see ahead of me is a clean slate. Granted, it's a tiny little blackboard, like the one the girls carried in "Little House on the Prairie", but it's my petite slate, replete with a stubby piece of chalk with which to draw a plan. I'm still going to be hard pressed to give up the cable, no matter what Jean or Suze say. I already gave up Starbucks, new clothes and shoes, and junk dudes, too. Shouldn't I have one little bit of joy after my long days in the beach cave? I think so. My storage unit, however, must go. Netflix...buh-bye (I don't have time for it anyway and still haven't watched "My Kid Could Paint That", which I've had for a month now). Certain other little online subscriptions must end, too. See you later IMDB Pro. Love you, Publishers Marketplace, but I must go back on the free lunch. I already let Salon expire. I never got over them dropping the gossip. I still miss The Fix. And, I'm buying whatever three-ply, double-roll toilet paper is on sale. It's the little things, they say, that add up. Which means it's time to stir-fry the tofu at home. Ooh, or I'll make a big batch of soup to stay warm on these newly chilly nights. Ha! The bay leaves are turning now, too.

Labor Pains

I just got out of a shitty situation. And that has put me in a precarious position. But, instead of getting in a mood or a panic, I can't wipe the silly smile off my face.

You know those circumstances that you so desperately want out of, but you don't have a plan? The ones where you hold on, hold your breath and wait out, holding out until something better comes along. You hope for a smooth transition, an easy escape, a graceful exit, wanting to avoid acrimony or catastrophe -- even at a high cost to you and your sanity. You spend your time trying to find the bright side, clinging on to whatever is positive about it, no matter how miniscule, to make the suffering a little less soul-draining.

Yeah. That's been the last year of my life. But, fuggit, now I'm free!!!

I'll admit, my first reaction was indeed panic. But that only lasted a few hours. I had a tiny pity-party for one, but it so halfhearted, it wasn't even worth uncorking wine. The fear was simply a knee-jerk reaction. One of pragmatism. Perfunctory. Something that needed to be done just to get it out of the way. Once I did, the dread disappeared and the grin moved in.

"You seem fine. Really good," my friends have said. "Actually, you look great. You're, like, relaxed and...breezy."

It's been a long time since they've seen me. The true me. Not the one bogged down by BS. It's been sort of a mixed reaction of, "Who are you?"/"Where have you been?". God bless my friends. These are the people who regularly talked me off the ledge, let me vent, cheered me on and held my hand. They were going through the wringer with me. Or, more like I was dragging them along. I owe them a few rounds. To start.

When you're in such a sucky situation, it can grow ominous. You feel cornered to a degree. You aren't really rendered powerless. You know what your options are. It's just that they don't always seem very attractive. Besides, you are strong. You can tough it out. Deal with it until you can pack that parachute and make the leap. Sometimes, though, you need a shove before you find the guts to jump. And in that moment of freefall, you regain perspective. Observe your options. And realize what a dope you were to put yourself through all that agony. (And your friends, too.)

Rebirth is just too cliché. Renewed sounds like a skincare plug. Re-energized is vaguely reminiscent of a fuzzy, pink bunny. But I do feel a bit of each. The anchor that was weighing me down for the past fifty-four weeks (yes, I was counting), has finally been cut loose. I can breathe. And I can finally move on.