Okay, this was fucking confusing. Then I saw the arrows. However, it still was confusing, since this sign was several carlengths ahead of where I parked. Just behind where I parked was a sign stating that there was "temporarily" no parking. Where I ended up, there was no sign at all. I hate L.A. sometimes.

Whirlwind

So, all of a sudden, my vacation has really begun.

A couple of days ago, I saw my high school friend, Jennifer, and her new boyfriend. They were in town for the 4th of July to visit her mother. We went out for dinner and then drinks afterward.

It wasn't really weird, but it wasn't like old times either. I mean, dinner was great, and the bartender at the bar flirted with me (and asked for my number, which was a shocker), but I actually had more fun talking to the boyfriend than I did with her. Those bosom buddies from high school, aren't always the longest lasting. I'm lucky though, because so many of my true friends actually are from that time in my life.

Like Carol, who just became a mommy on Monday. Actually, her partner gave birth to the little guy, but you know what I mean. I drove to Santa Monica yesterday to see the little peanut, and he's bee-yoo-tee-full. It was a C-section, so they were still in the hospital. Did you know about the little baby alarm they put on infants now? Yeah. I couldn't believe it. That yellow box around his ankle? With the "13" written on it? It goes off if anyone tries to take the baby out of the room. A baby Low-Jack.

Wow. What is this world coming to?

There was also $12 parking. Whether I was in there for one hour or all day, 12 bucks. So, Rebekah tried parking on the street. The picture above explains it all. I made it out of there without a ticket.

However, not without my air conditioner deciding to take a nap during the hottest part of the day while I was stuck on the 405 North trying to get back home. It took me almost 3 1/2 hours to drive 90 miles. Yech.

Last night I caught up with some friends from school, two of whom will be going on a 10-day vacation together with their mountain bikes... felt a little left out, but then again, I've got Vegas with Tornwordo on Sunday (YAHOOLAMUNGA!)

Going to a "going away" get together tonight for another friend who's moving back to New York after 25-30 years away. I'm going to miss her. I hate when people leave. Although, it's at Arnoldi's, a great old Italian place which I love, so dinner will be tasty.

Tomorrow, there is a 25-year high school reunion for the class of 1981. Just a class ahead of me, so I've got lots of friends coming in. One of 'em, at the last minute, decided to fly in from Washington D.C. just from Saturday to Sunday. Even with that tight schedule, he and I are going to try and see each other tomorrow afternoon. He's not seen me since I've lost weight, so I'm hoping for a good response. Of course, he's gay, so I'm just hoping for a compliment folks.

And, then it's Sunday. Whoo hoo! This is going to be the big win weekend this time. I just feel it.

After 14 tries, the Dog Wonder finally looked at the camera!  

Another day in Paradise

Went for a long walk with the dog wonder today... lots of people already at the beach at 8 am. Lots of smiles and friendly folks. Love when that happens.

Okay, so the stupid personals thing. I finished it... and the matches that are coming up for me are frightening. The number one match for me is a 52-year-old man in a pirate's outfit in his picture (which he spells "pyrate" by the way), and who, in his little write up about himself, uses what he thinks is a "pirate" dialect...

"Aye, me compass doesn’t not always point to where we be goin n’ many a time I be losin’ me way but when ye loses yer way is when the adventure begins n’ ye discover new lands…"

He goes on like this for a while.

I'm with cold guy on this a bit... I feel left out around all my couple friends, but when this is what I have to deal with in trying to get a guy... ew.

Another guy seemed interesting, spelled everything correctly (I mean really, how hard is it to use spellcheck when it's part of the website?), and he was funny, but funny in the way my friends and I are funny with each other... here's part of what he said:

"I like to sit here and assign people new nicknames that would be a LOT more appropriate: 1bigheadache; Nocarbs4you; Nurserachet; Likesvicodin; Watchurwallet; Botoxgonebad; Cautionwideload; Lifeofquietdesperation; Bobdylansmother; YulBeSorry; Vergeofpanic; Venusflytrap; Threedatesandgone; Harpsicordlover... you get the idea."

He would be good to laugh with, but sheesh, what would he call me?

What have I gotten myself into?

Oi.

A good day

Yesterday was great.

After another beach walk with my dog (and three girlfriends and their three dogs), I went to lunch with a couple other girlfriends from my writing group. No writing involved, just eating.

Thank goodness for cell phones though. We were to meet up at C's house, and then go on to the cafe on Santa Claus Lane. I got there, but S. wasn't there yet. She's usually never late. I am, but she isn't. After about 15 minutes, we get a call, "Where are you guys? I'm already here." She was at the cafe already, not realizing we were going to meet and go on over together.

So, C. and I get into the car and drive over. A bit of a crowd due to the 4th of July weekend, but we can't find S. We call again on the cell, "Where are you? Are you here?"

Turns out she was at the Luna Cafe, not the Garden Cafe. So more shuffling, and we finally sit down together, all at the same place. Good food, then back to C's house for Sofia Rose from Coppola vineyards and then another Rose I brought back from Paris. Then, since that wasn't enough, we opened up a sparkling Rose from Australia. C's spouse, T., joined us, and we had a great time.

Even the part where they decided it would be a good idea to set up a profile for me on Yahoopersonals.com.

We worked on it all afternoon, but didn't post it. I didn't think a drunken photo of me would be the best way to attract the kind of person I'm looking for.

Although, I'm going to work on it some more. I'm so damn tired of being the single one all the time. I'm tired of complaining about it. This is not necessarily going to do anything, but how can it hurt?

Yoplait White Chocolate Raspberry yogurt

It sounds kinda gross, but it tastes wonderful.

Only 3 points.

Off to the beach again

Summer finally feels like it's started for me... I know I got out of school over a week ago, but I had 24 hours before I was in Denver at the Writing Project conference, and then, I didn't get my classroom clean until just a couple days ago. Mom's birthday took quite a bit of time and well...phew.

Katrina and I, and our dogs Jelly and Charlie went on a honking long walk yesterday. Walked on the beach from Montecito to Summerland, where we went to the wonderful Summerland Beach Cafe, which lets people bring their dogs and sit outside. They even have a sneaky outdoor gate so we doggie folk don't break any regulations by walking through the actual restuarant with our canines.

The walk takes about an hour and a half, but we hadn't planned on the tide being as far in as it was (yes folks, I do check the tide tables, but there are other factors, like the lack of sand that seems to be on the beaches this year). We had less than 1/4 mile to go, and we hit a point. Frag's point, or some such name the locals have given it.

The waves were breaking on top of the sandy part, and what was left for us to walk on were slimy, kelp covered rocks. Both Katrina and I tried to just walk through the knee to thigh high water, but there were also rocks there. Not only a little scary when I couldn't see what I was putting my foot down on, but also, around the rocks were deeper places. Take a step there, and the knee high water becomes almost underpant high.

Argh. Jelly had no problem, bounding back and forth in the waves and water; he loves to swim. Charlie? Not so much.

The water was over his head, so he got frightened, took refuge on a rock, and wouldn't budge. I had to pick him up. My soaking, dripping wet dog was hoisted over my shoulder as I forged the rapids.

Not really rapids. But they might've been if someone had seen me afterwards. I might as well have gone swimming in my clothes. Only thing dry I had was my pair of shoes, that Katrina so nicely held for me as I saved my bedraggled dog.

And Katrina? She kept her shoes on, to protect her feet, so the two of us were quite a pair as we sloshed up our way to the eatery.

Oh, but the biscuits and gravy sure tasted good.

The ugly, yet modest, witch. 

Costumes

We took my mother out for her 70th birthday on Tuesday. One of the presents (notice I didn't say "gifts") my sister gave her was a large frame with space for nine photos in it. All the photos were from my sister's birthday celebration. I'm sorry, there was one space left blank for me to fill with a photo of Charlie. Now, why my mother would want a photo of Charlie on her wall, or a whole bunch of pictures of my sister's birthday on the wall... well, I don't think she would. However, this is my sister's present to my mom, not mine, so what's the big deal?

I'll tell you.

One of the pictures is lovely. My mother, my sister and I all smiling together. I have my pretty new (size 14!) dress on, Sister has her shades on, and we all look pretty good. But did we stop there? Oh no.

There's another picture. I'm sitting on the edge of Sister's pool, with just my feet in the water. Sister's drunk friend is talking to me. Sister came over and took the picture looking down at both of us. I'm also leaning forward, unaware of the result of leaning forward, until I see this picture.

In this picture, not only are my boobs completely popping out of the dress a la Britany Spears in the Matt Lauer interview, you can see practically down to my navel. Okay, not to my navel, but... it's so bad that not only can you see all the cleavage I possess between the boobs, but you can actually see the curve UNDER my boob.

Mortification.

Total and absolute mortification.

Any friend of mine would use this picture to tease me, blackmail me, or just have a good laugh.

Not my sister though.

She puts it in a frame and declares "It's such a cute picture of you!" then gives it as a gift to my mother.

God.

Best of all of this? I asked my mother to please let me give her a different picture of myself to put in place of this awful picture, and she said, "I like it. I'll just cover up your chest with a sticker or something."

Is it time to go to Vegas yet?


So what does all this have to do with Costumes? Well, we get to act differently when we wear costumes. Most of the time, my costumes have been detailed, but ugly. The one below took me weeks of planning to get right. The witch costume above is my fall back.

This last year, if you remember, I decided to be a cute witch. It all goes together. I feel better about my looks, and then I do even more to present myself the best way possible. I feel crummy, and I don't even try.

However. The big-breasts-falling-out-of my-dress look is one I've never gone for. Not that I'm modest in general, but the fact that I'm not small up top is obvious. Why should I make it even more so? No low cut or tight fitting tops for me. I think it looks cheap. Also, it seems that being a chubby girl means that one must play up those big babies even more. It's like, "there's at least one thing about her that's attractive."

I've always fought against it.

The naked breast is a thing of beauty.

Shoving it into a push up wonderbra and wearing a shirt two sizes too small isn't.

The best Halloween costume I ever made (and one, which I will never again wear). 

Dinner party

Okay, this isn't a new idea, but today, I read about em's fantasy dinner party, and thought, "good, I'll have something to write about!"

If I could invite any six people in the world to dinner, living or dead, who would I invite? Added to that is what would I serve?

Jesus - Totally curious about him. What would he think of people today? Would he think we were doing anything related to his teachings in the way he intended? I think he'd be one cool conversationalist. Besides, I have a sneaking suspicion that Jesus was a hottie.

Buddha - Gotta keep it real. Can't invite one without the others. There are two places I've felt the presence of something more than this world. Once at Stonehenge in England, and the other in Nara in Japan. I was in a very old temple, with the largest wooden carving of Buddha in the world (so big that a person could fit into his left nostril. But that's neither here nor there), and I just had this overwhelming... sense. There's no word to describe it. Both times I didn't expect it. There's something to be said for any ancient sacred place. I mean, hundreds of years of people's collective thoughts must affect a location. But still...

Mohammad - Again with the fairness. I don't know much about this guy. Want to. Already, with these three, we could have a pretty darn good discussion. I'd love to ask them how they get along, and if they could pass that knowledge on to us.

Antonio Banderas - I don't suspect he's such a sparkling conversationalist, but I'd just like to look at him.

Dorothy Parker - Along with Anne Lammott (whom em has already snagged for her dinner party), one of my two favorite female writers. She had heart, and wit, and sorrow. She tried so hard to be cynical and brash, and yet there's a hope to her writing that still comes through. She also made it in a man's world, doing and saying what she wanted. I've always wanted to meet her. Besides, I think she could definitely hold her own with the big guys.

Midge Sites - Who the heck is that? My maternal grandmother, who died when I was 18. It was too soon. I loved her so much, and she was the epitome of kindness. I never got to know her as an adult, and I don't know if she knew how much she shaped my view of goodness in the world. I know she would like the conversation at this table. And, I would like to hug her one more time.


For dinner, I'd order a couple pasta dishes (chicken, artichoke and walnut penne in rosemary gorganzola sauce and yellow pepper, onion, and sausage fusilli in sun-dried tomato cream sauce), with goat cheese and prosciutto salad from Palazzio, an Italian joint here in town. Oh and their fresh garlic rolls, bathed in butter.

Lots of red wine too. Always a social lubricant. And, if we run out, well, you know Jesus has some mad skills in that area.


Only thing is with this dinner? I'd want all my friends to come too.

Communication

Were you a phone-hanger-upper? You know, you're having an argument on the phone with someone, and so to have the last word (and really piss the other person off), you hang up on them?

I wasn't big on that. I don't know that I ever did it. Oh wait. I remember one time. I had a boyfriend in high school. He lived in another town, so we spent lots of time on the phone. Well, I used to call him and talk a little dirty to him sometimes. Mostly goofing around stuff, just to see if I could embarrass him. It never got too heated or anything (which now tells me that I should've known something wasn't quite right, because, I mean, what 17-year-old boy has a girlfriend who torments him by talking dirty?... but that's a whole other story).

Anyway, my boyfriend had a best friend. They were together all the time. Together so much that they sounded identical on the phone. So identical that that's the way they would mess with me. Best Friend would answer the phone instead of Boyfriend. I'd ask (because they'd done it enough to make me wary), "Is this Boyfriend or Best Friend?" But Best Friend still sometimes tricked me.

So, I call up, Best Friend answers the phone. Says he's Boyfriend. I hear no giggling in the background and I say something suggestive to him.

"WHAT!?" and then shrieks of laughter and my boyfriend's voice (yes, the real boyfriend) yelling,"What did she say?! What did she say?!"

I hung up on them.


But, back to the present:
Last night, I was having a disagreement with someone. She thought one thing, I thought another. As far as she was concerned, there was no compromise, because a third party involved agreed with her. The thing is, money was involved, money for a gift for someone important.

A LOT of money.

She's very proud of the fact that she makes so much money. She also likes to remind me that she makes more than me. That I don't have to "put in" as much as she and the other person involved in this decision (subtle hint that I also don't have as much "say" in the decision? you think?).

Remember my post about presents? That the most important factor for me, whether receiving or giving is the thought that goes into it? That's what we were arguing about. She was pushing for something very expensive (and showoff-y, in my opinion), and I was thinking of something more personal, and yes, less costly.

Oi.

So the argument becomes not about this gift, but about my perception of this other person. Every time we get into an argument, it has to be because I "hate her" not because I see things differently. Once she gets into this mode, it's impossible to get her out again. I can't be irritated or annoyed just because of this or that... it's always because I "hate her." And then she gets all hurt and we're not talking anymore about whatever the immediate problem might be.

Now, I do see her as somewhat manipulative, but then again, so am I, at times. I like getting my way, she likes getting hers.

Here's the problem. We start out with the disagreement about the gift. It then turns into this whole big thing about how I don't trust her implicitly to give my idea a fair shake, which means I see her in this horrible light. She's offended I think of her this way, and can't understand why.

So, I tell her why. I remind her of some shit she pulled in the not-so-distant past, and how that affects how I see her now.

"Can't we just move on from that?"

Well, that would be great for her, wouldn't it? My point to her was that I do mistrust her intentions sometimes. She asked why. I gave a reason. She told me to drop it.


And for the first time since my 20's, she hung up on me.

Oh, the drama.

Hamburgers from Heaven

Last night I had the best hamburger of my life.


I went over to a friend's house for what I thought would be a nice little meal of burgers, salad, and beer. They have a beautiful place, with a mini orchard of avocado trees. God, I love avocados.

Anyway, instead, the burgers were quite a bit more than ground beef patties. I've searched the internet this morning, trying to find a similar recipe, but can't.

Here's what the burgers had in 'em:
Lean ground beef
chopped andouille sausage
pecans
garlic
blue cheese chunks
some secret spices


Then, on top, there were caramelized onions and chipotle mayonnaise.

All from fresh ingredients. Made from scratch.

I think they should be called Heaven burgers because they taste like that's where they're from.

Also, because that's where one would end up if he or she ate these too often.

(torn, is your mouth watering yet?)

The past

A friend from my past is going to be in town in early July.

She was my best friend for a while in high school. She could make me laugh harder than anyone else... for a while.

She was smart and daring and funny.


And mean.

I don't think she intended to be. She just was.

Remember my Homecoming Dance story? My first real kiss, and my first passionate crush? Well, of course she knew about it. She knew how I felt about him.

We were all friends, of a sort. One night, after a bunch of us had been hanging out in someone's parents' jacuzzi, he gave my friend a lift home. They lived in the same neighborhood, and well, I guess Jennifer was playing footsie with my dream guy under the bubbles.

A couple days later, she and I rode bikes (neither one of us had our license at 16) to Aloha Burger. Those were the days when I could eat double-chili burgers, fries and vanilla shakes without gaining an ounce. It was a great little place, close to the university, and sometimes cute college boys hung out in there.

She started to tell me what happened after the ride home. They started kissing in the car, it got heated, and she told him her folks wouldn't be home the whole next day. Told him to "stop by," if he wanted.

(Remember, dear readers, she's talking about this boy as if he wasn't the love of my life... as if I hadn't confided my deep feelings for him to her. As if it was just something fun she did on a whim.)

Of course, as a footloose and fancy free 19-year-old male who thought he might get some, he stopped by.

And they got... um... into it. Went upstairs, took off their clothes, and Jennifer decided to lose her virginity to him.

(You know how you are hearing something you really don't want to know, but you can't say anything yourself? That open-mouthed-gawking-of-the-mind, if you will? That was me. I had no idea how to react. This was my best friend. Telling me how she had sex with the boy I was crazy about. Giving me all the details as if I would want to know them. Acting as if what she was telling me was just part of being girlfriends. I said nothing.)

Then, she said it really hurt, and they didn't get too far before she made him stop. She said it was over in about two minutes. That neither of them "finished." That it got really weird and uncomfortable, and then he left.

"I can't believe you did that." was all I could say.


We finished our burgers, went to Fedmart to look at the records, and went home.

I cried quite a bit that night. That, in and of itself, wasn't that strange. I was a 16-year-old girl you know.

But these were horrible, can't stop, ugly tears. I couldn't really get my head around what she had told me; I just knew I'd been betrayed. That word wasn't in my head though. In typical teenage fashion, all that I could think was, "Why didn't he want me? What was wrong with me? What's she got that I don't?"

Because of course, it had to be some lack on my part.




Wait.

I'm not done. Oh, did you think that was it? That was the "mean" thing I was talking about? Oh no, not that it wasn't mean of her, of course it was.

But then she really did it.

As talk happened, as it is wont to do among the pre-women of high school, Jennifer wasn't coming out of this looking so sweet. See, she had been on a sorta kinda date that night in the jacuzzi. And it wasn't with my dream man. And, the girl whose backyard we were in? She was the one on the date with my dream man. This second girl had no idea of the feelings I harbored for him in my little heart, because she also had a mad crush on the guy.

Anyway, Jennifer was starting to being referred to as a slut. Although, I don't think we used that word. We were quite a group of goody-two-shoes actually. But maybe we used that word. I know that's what some of the girls were thinking...

And the story started to morph into something dark and bad.

The story changed.

Oh, the kissing in the car was the same. But Jennifer wasn't sure about it. Now, he was the one asking to come over the next day, and her response has become, "well, I don't know, because my parents aren't home."

And now he comes over anyway, univited.

And yes, they do start kissing again, but in this version, Jennifer doesn't want to do anything else, but he's pressuring her. She's vague here, but somehow he convinces her to go up to her room, and he starts taking off her clothes, and then forcing himself on her.

And then she starts calling it rape.

Not at first, but as the story develops over the next few months.


I don't believe her. I know this boy.

But she made me doubt him. Just a little. Just a tiny little question mark.

In my better moments I know she would have told me right away, that next day when she was taking such pleasure in telling me that she lost her virginity with the guy I loved.

In my better moments, I know she changed the story so she wouldn't look like a manipulative bitch to the other girls.

In my better moments, I wish I had confronted her fully. But I never did.

Dream man? He and I are still friends. Still talk. We went on to an odd sort of romantic friendship that never really flamed into anything lasting. Well, other than friendship with a bit of flirting on the side. If I'm honest, with a bit of "what if?" thrown in once or twice a year.

I asked him about it a few years later. Directly asked him about it one night when we had ended up in bed together.

He told me the exact story Jennifer had told me that day at the burger place.

I believed him.

So much to do

I forgot to pay my car registration on time. Totally forgot. Had to pay 20 extra bucks for 10 extra days. It was so easy too. All I had to do was go on line and push some buttons. Nope, clean forgot.

I still have to get my car smogged too, before I get my stickers.

Catching up is all I feel I've been doing since February. Self-centered person that I am, it feels like it's been all about everyone else but me these past few months. Of course, I get to talk about myself to my heart's delight here, but that's not what I mean.

So many things have happened that I've had to deal with, but none were of my own doing. It seems like the list of obligations never gets smaller. For a single woman who doesn't even own a house, that sounds ridiculous. I know it sounds ridiculous. It's like a low grade anxiety all the time. And usually, something gets forgotten.

Or lost. I've lost all kinds of stuff lately. Right now it's my Handheld thing. I use it for the calendar, and for grades (but don't worry, the grades are also on the computer), and for phone numbers and addresses.

It was my turn for hosting the book club a couple of weeks ago. As some of you know, my organizational ability leaves something to be desired. I don't put anything away unless it has a place. Being that I have more stuff than places to put it, I usually have loads of things all over my house.

So, anyway, they were coming over, I was running out of time, so I started shoving things into boxes. Several boxes. Now I have no idea where anything is.

Story of my life.

I have to go grade papers.

Ticks, fleas and allergies

Let's just say that between itching, scratching, sneezing, and freaking out at yet another tick making its way across my couch, I'm not a pretty picture these past few days.

The big font

Why, oh why is my font so large? I was messing around with my template a week or so ago, trying to put the tide table on it... and that's when the font grew. I took the tide table thing off, yet still, the font is huge.

I don't have time right now to mess with it.


One other little thing.

I don't usually talk about school stuff here anymore; but I have to. Yesterday was the final exam for The House of the Scorpion, the book we just read. A student came in today, the same one that complained specifically that I get "off topic" when I tell stories (which are usually made to illustrate a point), and had her mother call in to the vice principal to complain about it, yeah, that one, anyway, she said to me today,

"We had a test yesterday?"


argh.

Please let me get all my work done, and let this year be over soon.

My sister is 40 today

And boy, did she rack in the goods or what at her party last Saturday?

Dang.

I was overwhelmed with the amount of loot on her dining room table by the end of the night. Those L.A. folks sure spend some bucks on each other.

Made me think about gifts. I'm as materialistic as they come, and I love presents, but I was almost embarrassed by the display of spendage I saw. Was I a wee bit jealous? Maybe, but I don't think so.

I have a lot of friends who aren't big present givers. Instead they do small things, like write me a poem, or a sweet card when I'm down, or take me for a coffee and a treat for no reason at all. Those are gifts that really mean something to me. I have a friend who differentiates between gifts and presents. Gifts have more thought. Presents are what the giver actually would like to receive herself, while gifts are made or bought with the specific receiver of the gift in mind.

Does that make sense?

One of my best birthdays was spent in Key West in Florida with a friend. We had drinks, went snorkling (even getting stung by ajellyfish didn't take away from the fun). got all dressed up and went to a great dinner. At the end of the meal, she said, "I got it," even though we had planned to pay our own way. It wasn't that it was an expensive dinner (although it was), but that it was an unexpected treat.

Last year I invited a few friends over for pizza, wine and board games. Even my pal who doesn't really like board games came. We laughed so hard at one point I thought I was going to wet myself. She had brought this really silly little party game; plastic glasses with a stick attached, onto which several other attachments fit. One was a mini basketball hoop, with ball on a string. We all took turns with these glasses, bouncing our heads up and down, trying to make a basket.

It was perfect.

Ahem... what was I saying about cramps?

Such a charming way to start the morning. It's Memorial Day, a holiday, no school. I'm warm, but not too warm, snuggled in my jersey sheets. Charlie the wonderdog is nestled up against my calf, it's the almost light before dawn, and all is right with the world.

Except.

I feel a slight... dampness between my legs. And not in a good way. I'm just sweaty, that's it.

No.

I get up, aforementioned dampness turns to a waterfall, and I shuffle off to the bathroom to take care of it. It looks like I was shot. Blood dripping in the toilet, down my leg, there was even some on my ankle from my hurried dash from the bedroom.

Off with the nightie which looks as if there was an entry wound, but no exit in this shooting, and the spraying of it with Wine-Away (I didn't have any Spray n' Wash). New pajamas with a protective layer of old panty just in case. Back to the bed to inspect for damage. Yep, the shooting took place in here. Through the sheets and the mattress pad. Not quite to the mattress, so the victim couldn't have been on the bed too long.

Damn it.

So, strip the sheets off the bed, more Wine-Away, and out to the washing machine in the early morning light.

This is all before 5:30 in the morning.

Hooray for another day.

Home stretch

May 24, 2005 is when I started this blog. As em, I was encouraged to do it by Torn, and I've been able to keep in touch more with friends through it.

A year of blogging. It's strange. Very few people read what I write, and even less comment on it. It's a public journal of sorts, but of course it's not exactly the same. I can say anything in my private journal; here, even though I like the idea of it being honest and truthful, I'm always considering my words. From whether or not I spelled a particular word correctly, to whether or not I'm going to hurt someone's feelings with what I say. I react to what others say on their blogs, knowing very well they will read mine, which is something unheard of in my own handwritten journal by my bed.

If a student wanted to find this blog, it would be possible. Not easy, but possible. I have to think about that too.

I've learned things I would have been happier not to know from this blogging life. The lack of emotion, inflection affects the way I read and how I've been read. I've thought about just leaving all this alone.

Sometimes it feels like a popularity contest; "has anyone read me today?" "How many comments did I get?" "God, I really put my heart and soul into that, and no one even noticed."

I failed at that contest the first time in junior high, and sometimes it feels like I'm back there again.

Teasing comments I could totally make in person come off as spiteful when left in writing. I've had my comments deleted when someone didn't like what I said, or how it made him look to his other readers.

I've had to learn a whole new idea of tact. I still haven't got it right sometimes.

Maybe that's why I'm not winning at this popularity thing, this second go round. I don't write every day, I don't comment on other blogs every day, and I sometimes forget that every one has a different reason for their blog.

Most of my friends never read my blog, even though I've told them about it. I like being the center of attention, but people have other things to do than learn that I've lost a pound or have cramps.

So, what's my point?

I don't have one. I talk a lot, and most of it is banal. Not always mind you, I mean, remember the monkeys and the typewriter analogy. You know, given enough time, something worthwhile's gotta come out of me.

And so it is with this blog. Most of what I write is unimportant. Every once in a while it's not.

Here's to another year.

So close, and yet so far

Two pounds! I lost two pounds this week!

I know, I know, in the bigger scheme of things, so what? There's a war going on, our phone calls and websearches are being tracked, there's an idiot in the white house...

But,

I lost two pounds!

eight tenths of a pound and I will be at the 40 pound mark. Gosh, that's a lot of potatoes. It's a toddler. It's quite a big bag of potting soil.

It's a lot.

I'm tired, and going to bed early tonight.

The Plateau

That is one hell of a hard word to spell. I kept trying different vowel combinations, and all looked weird. Torn probably loves it for Scrabble or Tangleword.

So sad, speaking of Tangleword. I have slower-than-cold-molasses-in-January dial up still here at home, so I can't play it here, and my school district has just put all kinds of new blockage up, so can no longer get to the Iwin.com playsite anymore. Don't tell me to get DSL, I'm still too far out in the boonies to get it. Cable is my only choice, and it's frickin' fifty dollars a month. I don't want to play games that badly.

But it sure would be quick.

Anyway, back to my title. I'm at a plateau regarding poundage lost. I've been hovering around the 38 pound mark for two months. It sucks, because it was coming off so regularly before, and I got used to that. Now it's gain two-tenths of a pound, lose four-tenths, gain a pound, lose a pound... etc.

Of course, I've lost 38 pounds. That's something. It's really something. I'm just not finished yet, and it's getting me down. I've set little goals for myself along the way. I want to lose 50 pounds by my birthday in August. That's only 12 pounds in three months. It's doable. It's possible. Will I make it happen? I don't know.

Oh, Happy Mother's Day Em, and any other moms reading today!

six weeks left

but who's counting?

I am wiped out from my weekend with the sister and father and wife of father. Dad got really sick; a bad cold, and so was like a weak little kitten most of the visit. He had to take a nap on Saturday (sister, wife of father and I went to Target), and Saturday night, he could only eat soup instead of the overly cooked steak my sister made. He went back to the hotel early because he felt so terrible. I actually felt bad for him.

All the worry I had about the visit was pretty much unfounded. He was very careful about what he said around me, and I was careful around him.

Charlie and Gideon (my sister's monster dog), didn't get along so well. Gideon actually drew blood after biting Charlie's ear. I guess Charlie got too close to the bag of dog food in the kitchen. Not sure what happened, but heard the most horrible noise come out of my little guy. He ran to me in the living room and jumped in my lap. I realized he'd been bitten when the blood from his ear got on my shirt.

He lived. I hope sister gets that dog some training though. Every time Charlie would get petted or any attention, Gideon would come over and nudge him out of the way. Charlie's the most submissive dog in the world, and still, Gideon wouldn't leave him alone.

So, this next weekend is Mother's day, then a weekend off, then Memorial day, then sister's 40th birthday extravaganza, then two weeks and school's out.

I have so much to do.

At my sister's house... Saturday night

Okay, so I'm still functional right now, but will definitely be ready to go home tomorrow.

The picture is of us today at the Ronald Reagan Library and Museum (I know, I know... shush.)

We're in front of the Air Force One plane that Reagan used. I bought the picture for a ridiculous $10.95 for a present for the father. Go on, laugh it up.

Tired tonight

But I'm waiting for my laundry to finish. Actually, only one of the loads. I'll put the other in the dryer tomorrow morning, early. I'm just too beat to stay up late again tonight. And, if I put my wet stuff in the dryer at 11 pm, it will be all wrinkled when I get it tomorrow.

The banality of my life can really get to me sometimes.

I took the day off tomorrow, and will drive to Chatsworth to be with my sister when my father and his wife visit. It will be the first time I've seen him since he stopped talking to me a couple of years ago. We've had a few sparse emails since then, and I figure, he's my dad, so I'll suck it up.

You know though, I have no clue what we will talk about. I was running through possible topics, and I've come up with only two: the weather and food.

That's it. I went crazy a couple of days ago, figuring out all kinds of things to do; go to the Reagan library and museum, go miniature golfing, movies, a comedy show... I'm trying to fill up as much time as I can, to avoid any kind of interaction. I'm nervous that I won't be able to shut my mouth if he says something racist or generally asinine.

My sister has a totally different idea. I don't know who she thinks is coming to visit her, but it's not the same man I'm expecting.

"Oh, I thought we could barbecue here at my house, you know, to save money. We could play board games, too. We don't have to go out."

This from the girl who bought herself a white, multi-colored, leather appliqued, Coach purse for $400 because she saw it in a magazine and "had to have it."

What is she talking about, saving money? Who's money? What about my sanity?

Ugh.

I'll get back to you all on Sunday.

Be well.

my throat hurts

No, I'm not sick, and I haven't been yelling. I was eating my soup tonight (black bean and roasted pepper), with my Tostitos "light" chips, and one of the chips went down and got stuck in my throat.

God. It sucked.

I have weird feet. I don’t think they look deformed or anything, but they don’t follow the foot rules.

What are you talking about Rebekah? Feet are feet. There are no rules. Some are narrow, some are wide, some are big and some are small. Some are in between.

Oh no. Not me. I have to be different.

Now, I’m not vain about my feet. Yeah, I like to get pedicures in the summer when I wear sandals, and I’d like a little less roughness around my heels, but still.

They are just feet.

Here’s the deal. Because of the oddity of my feet, I wear size 6.5 to 8.5 depending on the shoe. Of course, some of that has to do with individual shoe companies. I do not believe they are all using the same measurements for the same size.

Remember when Limited and Limited Express first started? And all the sizes were much larger than we were used to? All of a sudden I was a size 8, when I was normally a size 12. What a great marketing scheme. If I could buy something in a size 8 and wear something in a size 8, then I could say I was a size 8.

I was never a size 8.

Well, except in shoes. I’ve read that your feet, nose and ears keep growing all your life. I don’t know about that, but I do know I won’t give up comfort for style any more.

So anyway, here’s the deal. I have very short toes. Child toes. Elfin toes, my friend calls them. If you measure my foot from toe to heel, they are size 6.5 or 7. If you measure my feet from the ball (widest part of the foot) to the heel, I’m a size 7.5 or 8. Now, for comfort, this means I usually wear a size 8, just due to the width of my foot.

But, sandal season is coming again. It’s hard for me to find sandals or open toed shoes that fit. Because?

Because my short little toes stay hidden underneath the strap or wherever they are supposed to stick out from. If I get a smaller size, the arch of the foot ends up hitting me in the wrong place.

Flip flops. Those always seem to work. But, there’s a limited number of places I can wear those.

And to add to this, even though it’s coming up on warmer weather, right now I’m going through a boot ordeal. In addition to having weird feet, I have very thick calves. Humongous calves, if you will. Now, they aren’t tree stumps; I do still have an ankle. It makes buying boots almost impossible. Well, so far it had been impossible. I’ve never owned real boots. See, if I get wide width boots, my feet swim around in them, because really, I don’t have wide feet. Regular-size boots just don’t fit over my calves. Even in high school, boots were just not made for me.

Imagine my hope and joy when I found these http://www.zappos.com/n/p/product_id/7184613.html

on Zappos.com. Wide calf boots! Only the calf was wide. The shoe part was normal. I ordered a pair in 8, my usual size.

Nope, should’ve read the reviews. They were huge. My foot could practically turn around inside them. Sent them back and ordered a full size down to 7. Got them last week. Still too big. I’m now waiting for a size 6.5. I hope they fit. They are really cute. Although, by the time I get them it might be June the way this is going.

Now, I know there are far more important things in the world than the size of my feet. There are far more important things in my life. Most of the things in my life, actually.

This is just more fun to write about than some of those other things.

Fraught with Meaning

Back then,everything was. The way someone said "hello" or even looked at me meant something. Maybe it still does and I'm just not as aware of it now. Or maybe now I have other things on my mind like if I paid that last phone bill or if I can take Charlie on a walk before it gets dark, or how many points does that cookie from Von's have in it (8!)?

Anyway, the fact that the boy had been so unaware of me, ignoring me to the point that he didn't even have the kinesthetic realization that I was right behind him, hurt me much more than the physical pain of being hit in the eye. And really, it wasn't the eye anyway, it was just under the brow bone. You know that place where hardly any skin covers the bone? So there's not much padding between the object (his elbow) and the bone? Where, if one is hit, the nerves just get smashed up against the bone? Yeah, that was the place.

In my weird mind I thought maybe he would feel so bad about hurting me that he would give me more attention for the rest of the night to make up for it.

Nope.

Again to the bathroom with the girlfriends to clean up my mascara and reapply eyeshadow (did I really carry eye shadow around with me?), and try to look decent again. Out to where the boys were already sitting and laughing and ordering pie without us.

Next thing I know, my guy has offered to drive another couple home, "because it's on the way." This was the first moment I thought that maybe he was just a little bit nervous around me too. Yeah! That was it. Could it be possible? Was he worried about being alone with me?

However, whatever the motivation, I was not happy about the other couple being in our car. And here's the weird part. Instead of dropping off the other two first, the girl was dropped off, then boy-of-dreams drove to my house. With the male half of the other couple still in the car. We were never going to be alone.

We get to my house, and I'm realizing this evening really sucked. The boy just said yes to me because I caught him off guard, and was too chicken to even tell me the truth, that he wasn't interested in me. All three of us got out of the car, and the other boy threw his boutonnière into the bottlebrush tree in front of my driveway. I guess his night didn't go too well either.

I was kinda just standing there, hoping dorkhead (the new name I'd given my date) would at least walk me to the door, but he just kept kidding around with his friend.

I was going to have to walk up the god damn driveway alone, with the two goofballs of the world watching me. I'd probably trip, because I do that quite often, and they'd laugh at me, and talk about it later.

"Hey Beck, where're you going? I'll walk you."

So finally, the manners nazi from dinner remembered what he was supposed to do.

All my hopes for the night had gone nowhere. This boy wasn't interested in me, had no idea of the love I had for him in my 16-year-old heart. All that pure adoration, unsullied by cynicism or reality. He could have any girl he wanted. What did I think, he was going to choose me? A nerdy, klutzy, goofy girl? How idiotic could I have been?

At the porch, we said goodnight. He leaned forward for the obligatory hug, I patted his back...

His lips were on mine.

(wha..uh...um...)

Unexpected development. I pulled away, surprised, and slightly annoyed. He was going to make the whole night better with a kiss? What the hell? (Thrilled. I was thrilled. Competing feelings in my brain began to wrestle).

"That's it." I said. Proud that I had overcome my feelings of joy that he. was. actually. kissing. Me.
I backed off.

"Beck..."

So much for my moment of strength. He leaned in again, and this time it was a real kiss. I felt my shawl fall off my shoulder, I felt his hand on the bare skin of my back. My fingers went to the hair at the base of his neck, and I could smell his scent. Just him. No cologne, just his almost-a-man scent. This was my first real kiss, and it was everything it was supposed to be. Hoofbeats of horses and bells ringing and thunder.

I can still feel it now.

I remember

I remember things -- events-- more than most people. I don't really know why. Maybe because I used to keep such a detailed journal. The act of writing the things down perhaps cements the memories in my head.

But not everything I remember has been written down.

Something I don't remember much of was actually dancing the night I went to the Homecoming dance my junior year.

It was in the school cafeteria, and it was dark, and one of the girls was upset because she was being ignored.

Oh yeah, that was me.

It seemed my date was having more fun dancing with his buddies than he was with dancing with me. I remember crying a little in the bathroom, and being consoled by my friends.

After the dance, we went with three other couples to Heidi's Pies. It's now long gone, but it was the only place back then in Goleta that stayed open past eleven at night. Well, the only place that wasn't a bar.

This part I remember well. It was crowded, with the good-kid, after-high-school-dance crowd, and studious UCSB students looking for a quieter place than the dorms to study. Heidi's was big and drafty, but they didn't kick you out if you only got a piece of pie and a coffee. You could sit for hours.

We had to wait to be seated, and I remember thinking how the night wasn't over. Maybe, just maybe, all we needed was to be alone for my feminine charms to cast my spell on him. Of course, that was it... he was just embarrassed to show his feelings for me in front of anyone else. You know, the guys and all? Just look at him right now (I thought), there he is, carrying on with some stupid story, showing off with his back to me, waving his arms around...

OW!

He had paid so little attention to me, or where I was, that when he drew his arm back to demonstrate his point (How to throw a softball?) he caught me right in the left eye with his elbow. Hard.

Dead silence.

Then I started to laugh. What a perfect ending to a perfectly rotten night. My date stared at me in concern. I'm sure my laugh was rather maniacal.

"I think it's funny." I said and and started to cry.

But wait... the night still wasn't over.

Homecoming dance

I got the Eau Fresh cologne in the mail yesterday. It’s the discontinued drugstore perfume that I bought to wear to the Homecoming Dance my junior year of high school. Other than the box and paper padding reeking of stale cigarettes, it was just as I remembered. It’s funny how scents can take one right back to a certain time. The smell of Eucalyptus leaves always reminds me of riding my bike (I didn’t have a car) on my way to and from classes at UCSB.

Anyway, it’s not a scent I think I’d buy now, but it’s special to me.

See, I was actually in love with this boy. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was. Or, at least as much as one can be at that age. I was not a woman of the world by any means. Naïve is what I was. Inexperienced.

When I’d met him my first year in high school, I thought I couldn’t stand him. I had lots of friends who were boys, I had a brother, but no one made me as self-conscious and as uncomfortable as this boy did. He sensed this in some way, and teased me relentlessly. He was a real player at school, and dated everyone but me. Looking back, this probably meant something, but at the time it was not comforting.

He was not what anyone would call handsome in the traditional sense. He had something more than that. Charisma. He could and usually did, charm anyone into doing whatever he wanted. He loved being the center of attention (just as I did), and was successful at it. He was smart, and challenged me. He loved words as much as I did.

Over the years we developed a friendship of sorts; albeit a competitive one. By 16 I had the first major crush of my life. As for him, I can’t exactly say. I think he was more comfortable putting me into the “annoying kid sister” role, but every once in a while, he slipped and showed he cared more than that for me than perhaps he wanted to.

Anyway, about a week before the dance, I called him to talk about going out to dinner with some other friends before heading off to the decorated school cafeteria, and he had completely forgotten the “little high school dance.” I was crushed. I had built all my hopes on this one night; imagining his being floored by my beauty and poise, and he hadn’t even remembered we were going.

Then I got sick. Two nights before the dance, I had a fever of 102. My mother said there was no way I was going to get better enough to go to the dance. I was crushed yet again.

However, my will was stronger than the virus, and by Friday afternoon, my temperature was normal. Mom said if it didn’t go up again in the next 24 hours, I could go. Yahoo!

Dinner was at a fancy restaurant that burned down several years ago; I can’t remember the name now. Seven couples ended up going together, and dinner was great. Mostly great. All of a sudden, the boy who treated me much of the time as a pest had decided to have manners.

And decided my manners weren’t good enough. He yelled at me when I tried to open the car door on my own (never mind that I opened my door every Sunday when he gave me a ride to church), corrected me at the dinner table when I was putting the vegetables from my plate onto my friend’s plate, and told me that I was too loud when talking across the table.

Yeah, I guess that part wasn’t too good. But it was weird. He had never acted like this before with me. I couldn’t figure it out. Even in hindsight, almost 30 years later, can’t quite get a handle on it. I mean, I don’t think I embarrassed him that much, but it’s possible. Calm has never been a word that described me…

Question

Even if you don't like them, or understand them, or agree with them,

Aren't I allowed to have them?

A new book of poetry

Yesterday I got three books from Amazon; Plan B by Anne Lammott, Silent to the Bone by E.L. Konigsburg (the same writer of From the Mixed up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler!), and The Hell With Love, by Mary D. Esselman and Elizabeth Ash Velez. The last book is one of poetry. There are two other companion books to it, You Drive Me Crazy, and Kiss Off: Poems to Set you Free, which I already have.

The thing I like about these books is that they mix up poems from different eras. Ezra Pound is mixed in with Philip Larkin and John Donne. Dorothy Parker is next to Shakespeare and Margaret Atwood.

I love poetry. I love the way I can read a poem in a certain time of my life and it speaks to me. I love how inscrutable some poems are.

Although, I must state here, I'd be happy to never hear Casey at the Bat again.

Okay, so I'm going to post a poem (probably not supposed to) I read last night that touched me and the way I've been feeling for a couple of weeks:

Somewhere a Seed

Somewhere a seed falls to the ground
That will become a tree
That will some day be felled
From which thin shafts will be extracted
To be made into arrows
To be fitted with warheads
One of which, some day when you least expect it,
While a winter sun is shining
On a river of ice
And you feel farthest from self-pity,
Will pierce your shit-filled heart.

Michael Fried


Dramatic, right? Yeah, well, that's the thing about poetry too. One can be dramatic without being mocked or talked out of it. It is what it is.

Happy poetry month.

Grr.

So I'd like to finish my Homecoming dance story (a black eye was involved), and write about my frustration with my #$%$@#! printer (don't EVER get an Epson, the company is evil I tell you, evil), and even about my sister's upcoming 40th birthday extravaganza (bitter resentment on my part; it's not pretty). Also, I went to a three-hour meeting on Thursday night, and even though I was dog-tired, got a positive new way to look at teaching and team work. I want to write about that too.

Oh yeah, and of course, continue on with my rant about figuring out that something I really believed in for the last 25 years or so was completely false. That's not going to be easy.

So, there's all the stuff that's competing for space in my brain.

Start with one thing at a time, right?

Nope. I have cramps, and I'm cranky and I have papers to grade, dishes to wash and laundry to do.

Maybe next time.

Retail therapy

Okay, so Blogger is going down in 20 minutes, so I'll have to make this quick.

I've been doing a little retail therapy the last few nights. I'm regressing a bit, and I haven't gone overboard, but still.

Last night, I found Eau Fresh by Jovan at this ebay auction. I was thrilled.

It's a special cologne to me, even though it was an inexpensive drugstore brand. I bought it at Long's in Goleta, with my own money, when I was 16 years old. It was $8.99 I think, a princely sum at that time.

See, I was going to a formal dance at school, the Homecoming dance, my Junior year. I had developed a mad crush on a boy, and had actually asked him to go with me (he was two years older and already out of school). When he said yes, I nearly fainted.

I worked hard to make everything perfect for that night. I went to Operation Petticoat, one of only two formal dress stores in town to buy the dress. Mom came along with her opinion and the checkbook. This was a store run by a stereotypical brash New Yorker with his wife and two grown daughters. The women had no problem barging on in to the dressing room; "how does that fit? Do you need another size? Oh sweetie, that's not your color."

Although I've not ever been known for extreme modesty, this was rather startling for a young girl to deal with. But, all of us knew that Operation Petticoat had the prettiest dresses, and we all lived through the ordeal of being seen by strangers in our underwear to get those dresses.

The dress we settled on was amazing. Royal blue, sleeveless halterneck, with a hem that was long in the back and rose up in the front. It was sexy, yet covered enough that my mother was satisfied. It had almost a shimmer to it. I felt like a movie star, and knew that my date wouldn't be able to resist me. Wishful thinking on my part, but we'll get to that.

$46 it cost. Isn't it funny how I remember that? I remember the price of almost every article of clothing I own. Probably due to the fact I was put on a very strict clothes allowance by the time I was 12. I get a thrill out of getting a bargain.

After the dress, I had to get hose and shoes and new make-up, and perfume, and hair doodads and a shawl. Okay, sure I didn't need them, but at 16, I really believed I did. I bought stockings with a golden shimmer to them, which didn't even last through dinner, got some new Maybelline eyeshadow, and bought the Eau Fresh cologne. Oh yeah, mom bought me a finely crocheted shawl graduating from the same royal blue as my dress into white at the end. It was beautiful. I think she still has it somewhere.

I can't finish this now, Blogger's going down.

Cheers.

proof that I'm not grumpy all the time. This is me, my sister, her new dog Gideon, and my wonderdog, Charlie, doing his impersonation of a scarf. 

Yesterday

So, I wrote a bit yesterday, went to my mother's for Easter Brunch, then took the Wonder Dog for a walk. I was exhausted from the night before. We finally got back from the game at 1 am, and by then, Charlie was ready to run around and play. So, every hour or so, he jumped out of bed, and ran through the house, barking at imagined bobcats or robbers.

I had to be at my mother's at 10 am. ugh.

After the walk, I came home, vegged on the sofa, and finally went to take a nap at 3 o'clock. Woke up at 7, did some laundry and house cleaning, finally back to bed at 11 pm. Not a very productive day, but at least I caught up on my sleep.

Still mulling over my new perception of things. It would be easy right now to just get cynical about the state of my life because of my new information.

For me, the problem is this: has any man ever truly loved me? I know, that sounds dramatic, but it's what's going on in my head.

Oh yeah, I know, lots of people love me, but that's not the kind of love I'm talking about. I sound like I did at 16 and at 24 and at 30. Fucking broken record. However, it's still a concern, a question, a ponderation, if you will.

What the hell happened? I'm smart, funny, care about other people. I have a big heart, I'm generous, kind, empathetic, and not repulsive to look at. How did cupid just totally miss me? What's going on?

Don't tell me I'm having a pity party for myself, and don't tell me to "get out there" and do what I love. I already do. I've always been independent. Please please don't say, "When it's time, it'll happen."

Bullshit.

It's been time for a long time. I have tried the on line dating route, tried blind dates, tried just being content with being by myself; you know, the "no one will love you until you love yourself" crap. I do love myself. I think I'm a pretty cool person. Men just haven't noticed that. Or the men that do, aren't interested in me as anything other than a friend.

There's nothing anyone can say that I haven't heard before.

Basically, I've been trying to follow my own little goofy star, and keep up the hope that someone else's goofy little star and mine will cross paths.

My friends, the hope is wearing thin.

Perception Shift

You ever find something out that changes how you see your life? It could be big or small, but all of a sudden you have to go back 20 years and realize that you haven't been aware of the whole picture. It's partially your own fault, you didn't want to see the whole picture... because of the aforementioned perception shift.

Now don't blame it all on yourself though. Yes, we all see things the way we want to see them, but others only show of themselves what they want us to percieve. That plays a role too.


I remember the first time someone lied to me, simply because he could. I remember the feeling of dispair that this person, someone I thought I could care about, just wanted something from me, and lied to get it. The kicker was that I was going to give it to him anyway, but just not that night.

I know, I'm being purposely vague right now. I'm not ready to bare my soul on line, even though there are only a couple readers of this blog. I've got students, and if they wanted to, they could find this.

Ideas are changing in my head as I write, and will continue to do so. I'm not sure what I feel right now.

So...

I don't have the discipline (or the life exciting enough) to write every day. I think about it, but then I don't have enough to write down, or what I do have to write down is whiny complaints... which no one wants to hear.

Okay, a recap:

For some reason, I was late to work three out of five days last week. I'm never late. We have to be at work at 8, and school starts at 8:30. And, I live about two miles from work. This time change is just making it hard to get up early. Yeah, that's it, blame it on something other than myself.

I didn't get accepted to a workshop I'd applied for. It was surprising to me, because I'm not used to being turned down. No, it's not that I'm so fabulous, it's just that I don't apply for most things unless I think my acceptance is already in the bag. This particular workshop was sponsored by the California Testing Board, to become an item writer for the standardized test given in this state. I think standardized testing has gone far overboard, and I think some of the questions on this test are inane, but I also thought it would be a great way for me to learn how this test is written. I had to send in a letter of application, and a resume. A resume! I haven't written one in ten years, but I got it done.

Then I got back a form email thanking me for my interest but that others were chosen. No explanation. It really made me feel crummy. I have no idea why I wasn't chosen. Was there a typo? Did I send in my application too late (there wasn't a deadline, just a "first qualified-first filled" statement)? Were only college professors chosen? I have no clue. There wasn't even a name to which I could send a follow-up, "What can I do to be better qualified?" letter. Just the
California Educational Testing Service. It felt crappy.

I made a joke during a staff meeting about how my boss's idea of "impeccability" and mine were different (he's on a new anal compulsive jag about classroom cleanliness. That's not what he calls it though, he says he expects a "State of Impeccability" in every room. This from a man who keeps a framed picture of his son in the closet in his office instead of out on a bookshelf somewhere. I have a more, um... artistic sense of organization). He had just vaguely threatened those "Certain individuals, I'm not going to say who right now, who aren't keeping their rooms clean enough" with losing their rooms and becoming roaming teachers. That's when I asked for clarification, since our definitions were different. Every one laughed and we moved on.

Yesterday in his office, he told me he was "incredulous" that I would have made that comment. Went on to tell me how inappropriate it was, and that I'd better figure out what it was he wanted, and pronto (of course, actually telling me or anyone else specifics about what he wants is too difficult). Pissed me off. Still does. He's so into making these threats, but doesn't give any information about who specifically is not living up to expectations, nor does he make those expectations clear. Grr.

Going to the Dodgers - Giants baseball game tonight. Whatever. I like baseball enough, but I'm missing my best friend's baby shower today. I didn't realize the two were on the same day back when I got the ballgame tickets with 7 other women from work. Poop. I got all this cool baby stuff from Paris when I was there, and I'm probably going to have to just leave it for her. I called her three times yesterday; I suggested I come over earlier today to give her the gifts. Got one terse message from her last night "I don't know when we'll be there. Can't make any promises. Why don't you just wait until the baby is born?"

Almost snotty, except my best friend is never snotty. Trying not to take it personally, but...


I guess this week feels like the week of fuck-ups. No matter what I do, it's not the right thing.


I lost another 1.2 pounds this week, and made reservations for my Las Vegas trip with Torn this July, so not everything was a bummer.

I heard this little guy singing, turned around, and there he was. Just a couple of feet away, singing his heart out. Giverny was a magical place. 

The tiny little circle at the bottom left has a picture of what looks like the Gerber baby with a circle and a red line through its face. Hmm... 

Sexual Candy

At Tati, the French Pic' N' Save I talked about a few posts ago, I bought several of these "Kiss" Candy packages. Can you see the little picture of the man and woman locked in an embrace at the bottom left of the package? Then, the candy itself is truly silly. It looks like something sold in the back of Penthouse or something. Do they even sell Penthouse anymore? What with the internet and all? God, I remember my dad had two towering stacks of them on the top shelf of his closet. I would peek at them anytime I could when my folks were gone. Such curiosities to my inexperienced self.

I always wondered why the women in the pictures would be totally naked except for tube socks.


I digress.

So, I'm trying to figure out what my response would be if one of my students was eating/sucking on one of these things in class. Of course, they aren't supposed to eat anything, but my goodness. I don't know how I'd take one of these away with a straight face.

There were Cola and Cherry flavored ones. I don't really like cherry flavored stuff, but they had the more realistic pink color. The cola flavored ones had brown candy and blue lips.

Now, who to give the candy to?

The "Kiss" Candy: Pretty realistic, ain't it? 

The "Kiss" candy z 

Dinner our last night in Paris... 

French Food

Well, weighed in last night, only gained 1/2 a pound. Not to worry. For the last week I said "fuggedaboudit" to watching what I ate and counting points. I knew I wasn't going to gain back 37 pounds in a week, and I didn't. Back on the wagon this week.

Last time I was in Paris, I was 22 years old, with a backpack and very little money. We ate a lot of bread and cheese, some crepes off the street, and had a fancy dinner one night. Well, fancy for us. My two friends ordered what they recognized; some kind of beef dish. Me, I wanted to be adventurous and order something I wasn't sure of... so I ordered the Pied de Porc.


Stop laughing.

My French is horrific right now, but then it was non-existent. I figured it was pork, and it was the least expensive item on the "Plates" menu, so I was ready to be surprised.

Carol and Tina each got a lovely steak and potatoes dish, and I mocked them for the ordinariness of their choice. Then my plate came out.

It was a pig’s foot. Actually, part of the leg and the foot. It came on an oval platter, cloven hoof and all. It appeared to have been deep-fried, and sprinkled with parsley.

As I shot dirty looks at my friends, who were doubled over with laughter, I peered sorrowfully at my plate. How was I going to eat this? I tentatively poked my fork into the upper (leg) part.

Oil squirted out, and I almost lost it. More laughter. I picked up a roll and buttered it. C. and T. offered me a bite of their potatoes. I was low.

Then, a large man who had been sitting next to us started to tell us how wonderful and tasty my dish was. At least I think that’s what he was telling us. He was speaking French, and mostly what I heard was “Très bien” and “Très délicieux.” He was smiling, and somehow we got the idea that he was the owner or the maitre'd off duty or something. He may just have been overly friendly, but I felt as if I was insulting him with my displeasure at my dish.

He leaned over, took my knife and fork, and cut the pig’s foot down the middle. Right through the hoof! On my plate now was cartilage, fat, deep-fried skin and maybe ½ an ounce of meat. I gamely took a bite.

It was pure fat. Pure pig’s fat. Greasy, slimy, leave-a-film-all-over-the-inside-of-my-mouth, fat.

I smiled my most winning smile at the man, tried not to look at my friends who were choking with mirth, and swallowed.

“Merci,” I said to the man, who made a little sound of satisfaction, and went back to his own dinner.

breakfast most days. Lots of bread, not much else... 

Boat ride at sunset (at 8 pm!) on the Seine 

The General Strike

We arrived in Paris on Monday, dazed and hungry. The trip over took less time than the return, but it was still a long shlep. We got settled into our apartment and while I took a shower, the other two girls went out exploring. They said they'd be back in an hour.

Two hours later, I set out on my own. How difficult could it be to walk around the block? If you know me, and my sense of direction, you might answer differently. Of course I got lost, and just kept wandering. Another 30 minutes found me back on the right street and meeting up with Katrina. No biggie.

We went off to find Cynthia, got our Carte Orange (a great deal if you are in Paris for a week or so, and arrive on Monday or Tuesday. It only costs about 16 Euro, or 20 bucks, and it's good for seven days. It worked on all the metro and bus lines in the city, and even for the people mover at the Sacre Couer Church), and ducked into a brasserie to get a coffee.

We asked about the General Strike that was supposed to shut down the city on Tuesday, the next day. Everyone we asked said that it was only going to affect the Metro lines, and that shops and restaurants would still be open as usual. We even asked about the taxis, and those too, we were told, would probably be running. We figured we'd just take a cab if we got stuck somewhere, or walk if the weather wasn't so horrible.

Went off to get some Onion Soup (delicious) in the Gare du Nore (again, not sure I spelled that correctly), and got back to the apartment around 11 pm.

Well, the general strike didn't seem to affect the Metro at all. We hopped on the next day, and went off to the Museum D'Orsay. Which, of course, was closed, due to the strike. We then went walking on the Champ's Elysee's, and stopped to buy postcards. At the post office, we again saw a sign stating that it was closed due to the strike. Now, so far, we'd seen nothing in the way of protests or picketing or any groups at all. We decided to go to the Arc de Triomphe... yep, you guessed it. We could walk around, but not go up, because it too was closed.

Now, if we'd had our wits about us, we would have just gone shopping, because later, on Sunday, when Katrina had planned to do her shopping, the stores were all closed. Which was stated pretty clearly in all the guidebooks, but ... well, that's another story.

We went to Notre Dame, and it was beautiful, as ever, and walked around the Louvre's grounds. We then went on one of the Bateaux - Mouches; a boat ride/tour on the Seine. It was pretty darn cold, and there were about 50 junior high school students on board, as well as 200 other tourists. Every time we went under a bridge, the students would whoop and yell and holler; Teenagers are the same everywhere. I took some cool pictures, but haven't figured out how to put them in the middle of my post, so they might end up out of context when I do post them.

Katrina's habit of walking as if she was being chased was firmly in place already. She has no conception of strolling, taking things in, stopping and smelling the roses. I don't mind dawdling behind a little, it's par for the course when I'm with her, and I'd rather do that than keep running to keep up with her, miss what I'd like to look at, and getting annoyed at her at the same time.

However, I would appreciate if she looked back oh, say, once every three blocks or so. She never did. Just kept walking, even when I'd see a sign stating we were going in the wrong direction, and would call to her. Yes, she speaks French fairly well, and I don't, yes, she has a better sense of direction than I do, but... sometimes she is wrong. It didn't matter. She was in charge, even if she didn't say it, and wasn't to be questioned. This caused some trouble later on in the trip, but at this point it was just an observation on my part.

We ended up at a fabulous Thai restaurant that night, and ate a great meal. The dessert I had was amazing; Earl Grey infused Cream Brulee (I know, how Thai is that?). Usually I don't like Earl Grey tea, and Creme Brulee is nice, but not my all-time favorite. Something though, about the combination of flavors... it was delicate, creamy and fragrant, no one taste or scent overpowering another. I went to take a picture of it, but Katrina shamed me out of it, "You aren't going to take a picture in here, are you?"

"Uh, no. Of course not. I was just checking to see if I could still see through the viewfinder of my camera."

Didn't matter. The food was great, and we went to bed that night full and happy.

The Arc de Triomphe closed due to general strike 

The post office closed due to general strike 

The Musee D'Orsay closed due to general strike 

So is Steven Seagal the David Hasselhoff of France? 

I'm Ba-aack..

And I'm tired. It took 30 hours from getting up yesterday morning in France to putting my head on the pillow in my own bed here in Santa Barbara. But wait, a day only has 24 hours in it, right? Yes my friends, but Paris is 9 hours ahead of California. It made me think that next time, I'm taking a direct flight, even if it does cost more. We flew to Toronto, where weather caused all kinds of delays, but not to worry, we had a 4 hour layover. So, Paris to Toronto was 8 and 1/2 hours, plus the 4 hour wait, plus our Toronto/Los Angeles flight was delayed by an hour or so. Another 5 and 1/2 hour flight and we landed in L.A. But wait, we still have to get on a shuttle for our car, drive to Ojai where Charlie needed to be picked up, and then go home. Oh yeah, it was raining. Hard.

Got home in one piece to find my kitchen flooded. Threw down some towels and called it a night.

I don't know why I got up so early this morning. I went to bed around two last night, and woke up at seven. (Yes, I remembered to switch my clocks). I’ve done three loads of laundry, downloaded my 278 photos (yeowza!), and unpacked one of my two suitcases.

I tried some of the Chocolate Mint tea I bought in Paris, and ate some cookies that I had packed. The milk in the fridge has gone bad. I have to go shopping, and I have to pay bills. Tonight I’m going to a Mary Chapin Carpenter/Anne Lamott double-billed show. “A Night of Story and Music” it’s called. I have no idea what to expect. I’ve seen Anne Lamott several times because she’s my humor idol, and I love Mary Chapin Carpenter; just hope I can stay awake for it all.

I’m working on recounting my adventures, but today I’m a bit out of it. I’m glad to be home, and glad to have a few more days of spring break before I go back to work. I don’t know how my buddies are going to go back tomorrow!

Giverny was beautiful. I think this was the high point of the trip. 

Finally, some time to myself

Today we have a "free day." This was at my insistence. I may be just as difficult as the others, but I was at the end of my rope. Spending 24 hours a day with two other people is trying at times. Katrina, who speaks French fairly well, is also rather bossy. We have to do things her way, go in the direction she says, and eat at the restaurants she insists upon. Okay, we don't HAVE to, but it's what's been happening. Of course, it's easier for her to navigate, because she doesn't have to look up every other word she says, but still.

I needed to be on my own. I get overloaded with museums, and it seemed that was all we were doing.

Not as cranky as I sound right now, just tired.


Found the French equivalent to Pic' n' Save today; it's called Tati, and I found all kinds of fun stuff there, mostly for gifts. The "kiss candy" you will have to see. It looks obscene. Very funny.

We're meeting up in about half an hour in front of Victor Hugo's house in the Place De Voges (not sure I spelled that correctly). Hopefully we can slow down and have tea or a glass of wine or three. Katrina also walks very quickly, where ever we are going. I like to stroll, check things out, browse, window shop... all that. Our other friend, Cynthia, she just goes along with whatever we are doing. Never puts in her two cents, which most of the time is probably a good thing, but she can get a bit passive aggressive about things at times too.

Again, I'm not focusing on all the fun stuff.

Some observations:
The boots the women wear here are marvelous. They inspire me to keep looking for my own pair.

Scarves are big here. Really big. Everyone, male, female, young, old, all wear scarves. It's not even that cold.

People cut in line all the time. Nicely dressed people, 50ish looking people, not just teenagers.

I forgot the scents from last time. Everything smells a little like amber to me, which is one of my favorite scents. Cigarettes are everywhere, and I don't like that odor at all. The subway doesn't smell at all.

Everything takes an hour longer than one thinks.

Shoot. Speaking of which, I have to go. Still have to track down the girls.

The girls are breathing down my neck

so I can't write very much right now. We have wine and cheese waiting for us at home, which is the apartment we are renting.

There was a general strike yesterday, so I have lots of pictures of signs stating that the monuments and museums we tried to go to were closed. I have already taken 100 photos on my digital camera. Some will never see the light of day again, but that's the beauty of digital. We've been all over the place, and the Cordon Bleu cooking school is tomorrow. The weather's been not so fabulous, but not so rotten either.

Even though there is a sweet Rottweiller here that my friends are loving up, I have to go. This might be all I get to write whilst I'm here, so I'll write more when I get home.

A bientot, mes amis!

At tthe double tree

waiting for the shuttle to take us to LAX. And then to Toronto and then to Paris!

Of course, my stomach started acting up last night, so I'm fully Vicodon'éd for my trip.

(Why there is an accent over that "e" is beyond me, by the way.)

Went to eat at the Cheesecake Factory last night; god, what a zoo. Sometimes I'm very happy living my little quiet life in Santa Barbara.

Okay, does this count for an update?

Packing

Damn it.

I haven't packed like this for a while. Most of my trips the past few years have been 2-3 day affairs during the summer. A skirt, pair of shorts, a couple of cute tops, and I'm good to go.

Not this time. First off, there's the size problem. I'm now down 37 pounds (that's a hell of a lot of potatoes). Happy happy joy joy, all that of course, but... nothing I already have fits. I bought a pair of pants at Ross yesterday, specifically for the plane ride. I washed them,and they shrunk. Only in the length. I am not particularly tall, but I have legs just on the taller side of average. That means most of my pants are just 1/2-3/4 of an inch too short. Not short enough to be considered "cropped," just short enough to give me displeasure. I hear some of you, "Who cares? just wear the pants." I care. I am looking good these days, and want to wear clothes that continue to make me look good.

Okay, whatever. I did find three turtle necks at K-Mart of all places. $2.50 each! Yowza. I need turtle necks because it's butt cold in Paris right now. Oh yeah, not Montreal cold, but definitely cold by Santa Barbara standards. It's going to be in the low 50's high 40's most days. Oh yeah, it's supposed to rain every day we're there too. We'll be out and about, walking around, and need to be somewhat bundled up.

My portable umbrella got destroyed somehow at school. I picked it up Tuesday and it was all bent and broken to hell. Sheesh.

We're leaving late this afternoon for LA, then flying out tomorrow morning. My last load of laundry is in the dryer, and I'm still trying to figure out how not to bring too much clothing, but enough so that I'm not unprepared.

Black pants, green pants, jeans, brown pants, plaid dress pants. Already that looks like too many.

Black sensible shoes, brown sensible shoes, black pumps. Should I bring sneakers? would I even wear them? What about a dressy brown pair of shoes?

Blue cashmere, brown cotton, Navy wool, brown cotton stripe, thin brown wool sweaters... again, looks like too much.

blue, white, brown, pink, black, green turtle necks. One long sleeved polo shirt. Plenty. Like a uniform every day.

Pretty dress for the Opera house. One sexy shirt for going out. Yep. I need to figure something out in this department. All my belts are too big. Maybe another skirt? I don't know. That means hose. I know, I know, I don't HAVE to, but when it's 40 degrees outside, one wears hose.

Boots? Should I bring my boots? They're good for going out, not so much for lots of walking.

Then there's the coat, jacket, scarf issue. How much is too much? I have a great big Nanuk of the North down coat which is going, and I'm thinking my brown leather jacket. I have just one scarf right now that's along for the ride.

Must. Bring. Less.

But how?

It was much brighter than this, but by the time I ran in the house, got my camera, ran outside, and realized I had no batteries in aforesaid camera, ran back in, got the batteries, and ran outside again, it was already fading.  

One week

One week from today I'll be driving to LAX to fly to Paris with my two girlfriends. We'll be there for a week, and I can't wait.

Of course, I have all kinds of nonsense to take care of before I go, and last week I started feeling a little run down. I started taking Zicam like it was going out of style (go for the nasal spray, the "strawberry" chews are horrid, AND you can't eat or drink for 15 minutes after taking one), and tried to get to bed early. But no, I bought tickets last August to Bocco Tango, a dance performance from Argentina for Monday night. Tuesday was a three-hour training for BTSA, Wednesday was Weightwatchers (it's coming off more slowly, but still coming off. 35.8 pounds as of last week), and Thursday night was the last night of my Adult Ed French class. I basically know how to say my name, and that I speak English. I also know how to say I'm lost, which is what I'll be most of the time if left to my own devices.

Wednesday I wasn't feeling any better, and my neck started to hurt. Weird, but I ignored it. Thursday the pain was worse and was both in my neck and starting up my chin. At 3:30 am, I woke up because of it, and the whole right side of my face was aching. The pain in the neck that everyone always refers to had happened.

Turns out I have a cold in my neck. My right Lymph Node, to be exact. Normal people get colds in their chest or sinuses, but not me, no siree. I gotta be different. I'm on antibiotics, and vicodon when I need it (which is not a bad thing), and I'm feeling better already. I just feel tired, but I don't really feel sick.

Anyway, I have to go figure out what I'm going to bring with me on my trip. I hear it's pretty darn cold this time of year.

This fascinating article of clothing goes with the post below. 

Walking shoes

Yesterday I drove to Ventura to try and find some clothes that fit. My friend, Ariana from school, came with me for moral support. I told her I wanted to find: mock turtlenecks, polo shirts, pants that fit and a dress to wear when I go to the Opera house in Paris.

I was fairly successful too.

The dress I found was a total score. I tried on about ten dresses, and four of them fit. That, in and of itself, was a miracle. The Macy's here in town doesn't have much in the way of dresses, and all that are my size are Mother-of-the-bride, flowing, glorified sack dresses. I'm a normal size 16 now, no longer in the "Woman's" section, and I want a dress that at least looks like I chose it for more than just fitting me.

It's off the shoulder, black, with a few sprinkles of beads and a cool little pleated detail. I'm not taking a picture of it for you right now because it doesn't look as good hanging on the hanger, and I'm not talented enough to take a picture of myself wearing it. You'll just have to wait until I wear it (only two weeks now!). And the score? It was originally $149, marked down to $54, plus I had a $15 dollar off coupon. Whoo hoo! I got it for less than 40 bucks. Jones New York, no less. Very proud I was.

Then, got two pairs of pants at, of all places, Sears. One's black, sorta velvety, but more like corduroy(I never know how to spell that damned word) without the wale. They're jean styled, so they aren't fancy shmancy. The others are cuffed trousers in denim. Very sharp. The price? Both were $11.99. Yea! I have pants now for my trip.

Then, got three long sleeved polo shirts from Kohls for $7.99 each. I love polo shirts. I'm always looking for them. They look more polished than tee shirts under sweaters, but not as fussy as button-down shirts I have to iron. My friend Katrina says every time I go shopping, I'm "looking for a nice polo shirt" and maybe it's true. Anyway, it was still a score.

I even bought a very Vegas-y halter top for my trip this summer with Tornwordo. That I will take a picture of. Just a minute. Okay. I just took it. Of course, I don't know how successful I will be in posting the picture in the middle of my post. I haven't mastered that yet. So, if there is a picture of an outlandish halter top above this post as a separate post, now you know why.

Before you start gagging at my clothing choice, I'll have you know that I bought it only for Las Vegas. I would never where it here in town where people know me, unless it was for a Halloween costume. And, again, it was a steal. Only $6.99. I tried it on as a joke, but it actually looked rather sexy, in a flashy, obnoxious sort of way.

Lastly, I tried on some Dansko shoes I've been eyeballing for some time. They're called the "Megan" and they are very comfy. I want some good walking shoes when we go to Paris, and for when I'm back here for teaching. Danskos are always really comfortable, but expensive. Frustrating because the 38's were too small and the 39's too big. I'll try again at the leather store here in town.

Okay, so my rant about not liking shopping? Disregard that. I'm back.

Movies

I love movies. I'm not particularly critical of most of them; some are like a full-course, steak dinner and some are like potato chips. I enjoy both the heavy and the light. Of course, just as there are foods I don't like (Brussel Sprouts, Okra, Olives, Whipped Cream, Coffee-flavored anything except coffee, and anything that lives under water), there are genres of movies I don't like either. Horror is one of 'em. I don't see the point in being grossed out and paying for it. I have friends that are great at grossing me out, and it's free. I don't like war movies, or sports themed movies too much, but there are exceptions.


Anyway, Friday I saw Capote, and last night I saw Transamerica. Both great films. Seeing Capote in the second-to-the-front-row really sucked, but there wasn't lots of action, so it could've been worse.

(Hey, maybe that should be my mantra, "Things can always be worse.")

I loved the portrayal of Truman Capote. A vile man, but not one without a conscience. My friend kept saying he was a monster, but I wouldn't go that far. Great thinking film.

Transamerica surprised me. Why wasn't this more talked about? It was good. Really good. The transgender part of it was secondary to the human interactions. I could see it again, just to see Felicity Huffman amaze me with her talent.

Now, both films are quite, shall we say, "talky." Those of you who want action or sex or violence, not the movies for you. They are quiet and elegant films.

I've rented Walk the Line; going to watch it tonight. Reese Witherspoon is going to have to do an unbelievable job to convince me she rightly won the Oscar instead of Felicity.

I'll get back to you.