A Eulogy With Resolve

Last week, my friend Mary died.

She was the first someone who died after my dad, who I knew, who I cared about, who I had laughed and cried and eaten and partied with at length. We were both on the Elder board at Church and I sat by her when I wanted to exchange looks and notes with someone who I knew would be as bored as I was when going over the endless financial statements.

My reactions evolved over the week before the funeral. When I heard she passed, I was talking covertly in a dressing room and between the hip music and the conversations about florescent-induced skin tone, it was hard to understand, to fully comprehend. Then, there was dinner with the kids on Wednesday nights, where I talked to them like I normally would, about school and the Superbowl and then, listened quietly as Russell got to the real stuff -- how it happened, what happened. The tragedy of it all made me sad that night, but sad deep inside and not out my eyeballs. On Friday, I was driving somewhere and the Grateful Dead song "Box of Rain" came on and between the beauty of the words, the melody, and the snow-capped foothills to my right, I was suddenly tearing up, remembering someone who probably loved this song and loved the foothills, too. The tears were there, but as I remembered her dancing in her kitchen around Thanksgiving turkeys, they disappeared and were replaced by smiling and my loud singing.

Another song I played a lot this week was Iron and Wine's "Naked As We Came," a song I have always loved and loved to play, and I thought about making a CD for the kids with both this and the Grateful Dead song, songs that to me, make death-sense. They helped put some words to something so senseless. But on a second listen, I hesitated -- they were so perfect that it was sad and hurtful and hard to hear these songs without thinking of Mary's untimely death. I didn't want to make things worse, so I quietly tucked away these songs for myself, and proceeded to the funeral.

At the funeral, the three kids - whom I only call kids as an endearing term and has no bearing on their maturity and general coolness - performed a trio rendition of "Naked As We Came." And my sad insides were suddenly all over my outsides, running down my cheeks and out my nose. I sobbed and went through tissues, until I had mounds of them in my purse, like small, white bats hiding in the corners. That pew in the front, where she slid in late every Sunday, would never be filled in the same way. As the final chords were struck, I looked up and saw both the misery and the resolve in each of the kids' face. It was in this moment that I was aware, not only by the power of words that so perfectly fit who I was missing, but by the power of us, to move forward, even despite what seems like impossibility.

Pursing Without Shame

A while back, I was listening to This American Life, as I am wont to do when the powers that be deny me a new hour of Car Talk, and I heard David Segal explaining why he just couldn't get a couch. It was sort of funny, in a weird, I'm-totally-going-to-gossip-about-you-behind-your-back-now way, and I didn't think about it much until the other day.

See, it's all about how David Segal was on a search for the perfect couch, not for religious or allergic reasons, but just to replace the train wreck that was his first couch. The only problem? He went looking with a specific image in his mind and it really didn't fit with the Ikea reality at all. Sort of like Goldilocks syndrome, an affliction in which nothing is ever right and the Mama and Papa Bear are ultimately responsible. This all culminated in visiting an artisan furniture maker who was custom designing couches, with these supremely cool materials, and even then, David Segal just couldn't bring himself to buy it. It just wasn't what he imagined. And so, welcome back the old, ratty couch.

When I heard this, partly because of his nasally voice, I figured he was a Woody Allen type. Extremely neurotic except Segal's neurotics just focused on upholstery instead of emotionally unavailable women. Because, I thought, who would ever spend so much time reflecting on a fucking couch? And while this bad attitude could possibly be attributed to hunger pains, hangover, or itchy bra strap, I'm pretty sure that it was just eight minutes spent ranting about couches.

But the other day, I realized I'm just like this guy. In fact, I am the couch guy. And here's why: I cannot find a purse/bag/junk carrier that I like. And reason? Because I somehow envisioned this idealized purse and now, cannot find one individual with leather binding abilities who has executed what was in my own mind. I've been going a little nutburgers trying to find my vision, dashing in and out of Pasadena stores, searching across eBay, enduring the jumbled mess that is Craigslist -- all for bupkis.

I will try not to go on here - I am about hitting the eight minute mark on typing and starting to feel slightly guilty that I am doing a David Segal here. But I have to say that I'm not sure if I will ever be able to buy a purse again and if I do, it will only be the purse that I sort-of-kind-of-can-live-with, instead of the purse I live-to-dream-about. And, I have to say, I understand Segal -- it's sort of a letdown to find out that what you really want is unattainable. I can even say that it's worth spending eight minutes talking about it on National Public Radio, without shame. Because it's not just a couch or a purse anymore.

As a matter of interest, if any of you, searching around, find a battered leather purse, big enough for library books and notebooks, but not bigger than my entire rib cage, with a little hardware on the front (perhaps in the form of pockets) and both a sling shoulder strap and two shorter carrying handles, email me immediately.

How Does Your Fondness Grow?

I've been gone a long while, so hopefully, that has made you all the more interested in where I've been and what I've been doing. Unfortunately for both of us, it's dreary and uninteresting, a bit like one of Shakespeare's kingly dramas. Luckily for both of us, I feel no need to publish it at all.

And my resolution? Short entries. Nonfiction abounding. In other words, watch this space.

Eek

This always happens at the start of a new semester. No matter how prepared I think I am, no matter what writing schedule I set for myself at the start of the fall semester, I always get overwhelmed in mere minutes of passing through the doors of any academic institution.

I am so busy, I have not even read the new Buffy comic. Yikes.

Not only has been a semester of intense proportions, but more than ever, I'm unsure about my gig as college writing instrutctor-naire. Because I'm not sure the -naire part is happening. This will find its way here, soon, or maybe a little later than soon, but just know that I have had some not-so-nice conversations with up-there authority figures about my own skills when it comes to instructing the younguns. And that's been a little destructive, but also, a little helpful. Because I'm thinking about myself in terms of work and myself in terms of work is maybe not who myself is at this very moment. In other words, maybe myself is disconnected from the work and thus, needs to find other work. Again, more explanation in mere months.

In leui of no writing of consequence, of having nothing much to say at this juncture, I offer you photos. Hopefully, enjoy.
niece Be
lucy and derrion
nephew Junior
waiting in airports this summer was boring
dog sitting for sparky
tanya

Laugh, Dante...Part 3

At first, it was easy. I could get it anonymously, thanks to the miracle of Ebay. I could find the issue I needed, and bid on it with my oh-so-covert screen name and then, someone from a distant land would put it through the mail. Ta-da!

But then, I realized that I was being ripped off. These comic peddlers were tuned into people like me, and knew that we would pay high prices for the luxury of sitting at home, away from any store front with any word resembling comic and book and store. We had to pay to maintain the illusion that we were still separate, that we weren't so into "Buffy" that we were fine just gleaning the basic plot from the reviews on Amazon.com. They knew we needed more, and like any good dealer, they knew we'd pay for it.

It was right around my birthday that episode five was issued, and for a few days, I stalled leaving my house in the direction of the local comic book store that is a mere two blocks away. I think this was my little vacation to limbo. Russ was on the couch, sick with a debilitating cold, and I used him as my excuse not to venture down the alley. I had a feeling akin to the first day of school, when there are those general barfy feelings one gets on walking into a room of entirely unfamiliar faces.

But, if you read my last post, you all know that it was more than that. I was unwilling to cross over, either into heaven or hell. I wanted the continuing gratification of being involved in a world of characters that I love. But I wasn't sure I was ready to enter a world where I would possible become one of those comic book people, who went to the stores on new release dates, quoted issue numbers and lines, and heatedly debated matters like whether it was an axe or a crossbow that killed the chaos demon in issue number 2. These are all huge stereotypes, admittedly. But I carried them and still carry them around as reference tools, because I know only one or two other people who buy and read comics, and they don't talk about it. So all I have are vague impressions, like the one I got of the two guys sitting next to me on my last plane trip home from Chicago. They were talking about a comic I'd never heard of, heatedly debating the planetary qualities of some world or distant star, and then, when the announcement was made that we were going to have to board a new plane, I heard one of them say, in a hugely stereotypical flem-coated voice, "This plane better be able to crush atoms or fly at the speed of light."

Did I want identification with that?

The short answer is yes, I do. Because I walked to the comic bookstore and with a deep breath, entered to the familiar sound of customer bell rather than Chewbaca-themed growl or something else comic bookesque. The guy behind the counter was not wearing a novelty t-shirt, but a Hawaiian shirt and he was not over or underweight. And all the sudden, I was happy to be there. He was not a stereotype, and I wasn't either. We were probably just two people who liked good stories and were just searching out ways to find them (oh, and he probably wanted to make money doing it). Like Kristan commented, there is something subversive and hilarious about giving the finger to the powers that be and joining in at the fringes. As someone who was always a cool girl, but also, a rule-following girl, this might just be one of my most rebellious moves ever.

It was fitting that this adventure happened around my birthday. Sometimes I wish that we humans had a skin-shedding system more akin to snakes, where it gets tighter and tighter until it's just no good anymore and has to be removed. The process of shedding isn't easy. Snakes repeatedly grind their head against something hard to get that skin to peel back so that they can slid out of it. They leave it there and move on, in a new skin that's a lot more fitting. But they don't get to appreciate that old skin at all, mostly because they have brains with no residual capacity for memory or reflection, but also because it's hard for them to rubberneck. It would be neat to have my old skin from these years before, to look at it and really see that it's no longer me.

Laugh, Dante...Part 2

Intermission: This afternoon, I was chatting with my friend Jeremy, who teased me about my AIM status activity bar, which usually reads "around, writing," because I usually am around and in some way, writing. This afternoon, I happened to be writing a syllabus for my upcoming semester, which is not really "writing," but is a lot like writing. You need the same focus, the same ability to pull ideas from some void in the nether regions, but unlike writing, a patience for the hair splitting tedium of daily details. Anyway, Jeremy's first words to me were something along the lines of "A MFA who writes? I thought we all ditched that gig when we graduated." He was joking, but it's pretty sort of true, that in the world of the real, there is much writing of the syllabus type and not as much writing of the writing type. And I thought about this blog, where I have let this part two lapse for at least three weeks, and not that any of you were dying to see what happened in this second part - except maybe Christina - but this conversation with Jeremy reminded me that there is much writing to be done, lest I become a casualty of the MFA, like so many before me.

This is also, in part, for Kristan, in her blog reading, Planet Earth watching, tea-into-the-sink existence at the moment.

So...

This all started with Buffy. No wait -- it goes further back than that, all the way to reading and rereading The Babysitters Club over and over until the spines no longer held together and one by one, pages started dropping out. Then, it was All Creatures, then Sweet Valley High, then those demon-awful Frank Peretti books, and then, the Christy Miller series. Then, there was college, where I tried not to read anything serialized at all, for fear of betraying the not-so-secret English major code that serialized books are dumb. This, of course, was my own take on it and not like anything resembling reality. (Well, maybe just a little.) My friends were still reading Tolkien and Lewis and watching the X-Files, but I wanted to be cool. Cooler than cool. And cooler than cool was more like obscure Medieval theologians and contemporary Irish writers than hobbits and David Duchovny. So there went I, tripping after what I thought would make me smarter-looking and cooler-sounding, when in essence, I was just following the usual hipster-wanna-be directives like a neatly-laid, vintage cobblestone path.

Man, I was lame.

Another not-so-secret English major banner is about the rejection of science-fiction as a lesser, or bullshit, writing style.

Back to Buffy. This was the first serialized anything that I ever stayed up all night to watch in chronological order on DVD, the first series I had bought since junior high, or the first series where I searched out reviewers' analysis of each show and poured over them like a Rosetta stone. I checked out books at the library where fans like me wrote funny and insightful articles about as topics as varying as Platonic ideal in the Buffy verse, or (and much less impressively) Buffy's perfect relationship match. I memorized the soundtrack to "Once More, With Feeling." If I'd been around when the show was still in its hey-day, I might have gone to Comic Con or a meet-and-greet with the stars.

But who am I kidding? I wouldn't have -- I was way too cool for that back then.

The whole Buffy experience, when I thought about it, was a little unsettling. I, literary type who's been trained in tiny cheeses and art-for-art's-sake public readings, suddenly felt as though nothing could reach the pinnacle of the story arcs and characters that I found in Buffy. And that's when I realized, finally, that I was a nerd.

But I didn't embrace it, really embrace it, until recently.

Buffy, as many of you know, had seven TV seasons and then, like most shows excluding The Simpsons, went off the air. But Joss Whedon, that schemey little trickster, didn't end it there. Late last year, he announced that season eight of Buffy would be in comic book form. And to me, that was, comics as in lameness personified?

Laugh, Dante, This Is Serious Comic-dy (Part 1)

I’ve most always been a very cool girl with a nerd inside. This, perhaps, is not unique. Maybe everyone has a secret nerd division of self, that loves Scrabble or reading Wikipedia or setting up sum charts on Excel. Maybe it’s when you look at junior high photos and see just how screwed up that perm was, just how ridiculous that gold chain with matching ID bracelet looked. Or it could be as simple as overabundant knowledge in any area – of Johnny Cash, say, or international soccer fantasy leagues, or, as I found about one of my friends today, of complex home brewing techniques casually mentioned as just something with which you experiment once in a while (never mind the colossal brewery that fills up most of your garage). We all get white and nerdy. Some people are just better at hiding it than others.

I didn’t learn how to hide it until high school, which accounts for being often lonely and slightly fearful of many of my classmates for the first seven years of school. The most apt example of this would be the fact that my friend Julian, who I went to school with for 13 years, once asked me in high school, with no trace of sarcasm, “You went to this school in junior high?” I was just quietly weird. I didn’t know how to take care of my wild curly hair, my pants were always splitting down the butt seam, I was into stencils and poetry, and I wrote dramatic one-acts. I won awards for civic service announcements. I never knew the top 40 radio hits that the other girls in my class knew because I was too busy listening to Amy Grant and old Johnny Mercer tapes. I was also devious – I went to camp in Wisconsin every summer, and when I was nine, I disliked my bunkmate so much that I told her every single horrible occurrence in the book of Revelations (which I had read for just such an occasion) and watched her have a small meltdown as I nonchalantly predicted that the end was near. “I hope you said bye to your parents,” I said. A few hours later, she was packing her bags, still crying, to leave camp. Of course, some of the other girls listening in were scared, too, but they were the kind of girls who came to camp with their names written in all their clothing, ziplocked in bags by day, color coordinated, always with a little note from Mom. I was insanely jealous of all that. I would often write myself notes from my mom, who never thought of packing my clothes any time except for five minutes before departure. So I never felt too sorry for those crying girls, only sorry for my own wrinkled tops and holey socks.

When I was in eighth grade, I made cheerleading and decided that I needed to study up on this whole fitting in thing. So I observed. I got myself partnered with one of the coolest girls in the class for science projects. I sat at her table. I listened to her and her friends flirt with boys (mostly with amazement, since I, myself, had not had any guy friends since fourth grade). I learned that the best lunch was some combination of one part soda and one part candy. I learned that Great America was probably the best date you could ever have, though when I went for the first time that year, I had a goliath zit above my upper lip and spent the day ducking into the girl’s bathroom for follow-up squeezings, thus squashing any chance at romance. I got invited to parties and tried not to talk about the yearbook, but about how many times I’d seen The Cutting Edge. I learned, too, that people perceived me totally differently than I thought, that they all thought I was cool, but too fiercely private and a little snotty. I had no idea. I thought that we didn’t talk because they were cool and I was not, more of a stasis than ripple effect.

I learned to do a pretty good cool girl act, culminating in the despicable act of telling one of my best friends, over the phone, that she was no longer cool enough to hang out with me. This was because I had been at a slumber party the night before, where the girls were asking me if I was still best friends with her, and remarking that she was way too smart and goody-two-shoes so, like Peter, I’d denied her until the sun came up in order to get ahead with these other girls. I was a good enough listener that I could always pick up on the vibes I was getting from the people around me and then, join in, a talent that made surviving high school a breeze, though not a very authentic breeze. I got older, though, and like those wrinkly shirts I always got in my suitcase at camp, it just didn’t quite fit anymore. I became ill at ease, a little squirmy. It was sort of fortuitous that high school was almost over, because as I planned my escape to distant lands (California or Kentucky), I slowly reembraced the side of me that wanted to read To Kill A Mockingbird for fun and hang out with my teachers on the weekend and join up with YMCA Youth and Government.

But I would’ve never dreamed of going anywhere near a comic book store.

Wild America

Right now, I'm typing with a blister on the tip of my index finger, one that makes it look as though I have started mutating, Gremlins style. What actually happened is that I was making ice cream and, while carmelizing, touched the silicone spatula. The sugar practically melted onto my finger and it took a few seconds to get it off. I've been reading various internet remedies about blister-care, and each one says something different -- pop it. Don't pop it. Bandaid it. Ice it. Pop it and squeeze! So I've taken the only possible course of action in situations like these and done nothing.

Between "blister" "remedy" "how to treat" "finger" searches, I have been hiking and beaching. Mostly hiking, although I know of no better way to celebrate independence than to be crowded onto a beach with thousands of other people (and their dogs). Our dog obsessively chased her cat-sized rubber balls up and down the beach until she physically could not stand, an activity which is nil at all other locations and times, and let children touch her. CHILDREN! (aka, those who must be growled at.) Even this daft kid who was trying to squash her with his fists -- no bitey, no growly, just a ducked tail and sheer panic in Tanya's eyes. I see this as Russ and my good influence on her, although when confronted with a feral batch of kittens in the backyard yesterday, she actually caught one (with her teeth) and didn't let go until I screamed and our neighbors came flying out of their house, probably wondering whether I was, in some way, finally losing it.

On Sunday afternoons, back in the day, my sister and I would complain that there was nothing on TV and my dad would roll his eyes and tell us to go outside. After we'd hem or haw that it was too hot, too cold, we were too tired, there was nothing to do - the basic arsenal of responses - he would usually click around and land on old reruns of Marty Stouffer's Wild America. Even as a nine-year old, I knew it was in the super cheesy category, but I still dug the close-ups, the freeze frames, and especially the slow-motion action shots of exotic and not so exotic animals. I took bike rides and walked my dog for miles around our neighborhood, hoping to see something more exotic than a cardinal or Cubs fan, but there was nothing even minimally interesting about wild life in Aurora.

Now I live in the foothills of the San Gabriels, the gateway into the Angeles National Forest. And that's where I hike, in Monrovia Canyon and Chantry Flats and every time I set off, I always come across unexpected forms of nature -- the other night, while exiting the canyon, a huge coyote ran across my path and I watched him run until he disappeared behind a hill. Yesterday, Russ and I watched dolphins showing off right beyond the wake, jumping and splashing in criss-crossed aerial dances. You can't go very far in the canyons without seeing baby rattlesnakes these days (or standing adjacent to them, as Christina did) or deer grazing lazily on the slopes. A few years ago, I saw a bobcat and watched her run across a meadow in short, graceful bounds. And then, there are the animals right in my backyard -- the parrots that hang out in the persimmon trees and squawk at dusk; the neighborhood skunk that hides behind our daylilies; all manner of feral kitten; and the bats, which are my favorite to watch, soaring in their erratic flight patterns and letting out high-pitched exclamations from time to time. I love throwing pebbles up into the air and watching them descend upon it within seconds.

So I'm trying not to fault Tanya for embracing her wild side, which necessitates chasing and biting kittens. I'll keep embracing my own, too, including such daring feats as going toe-to-toe with snakes, but keeping my fingers off hot carmelized sugar.

David Lee Roth Sang It Best: Panamaaa

This is where in the world I'm at right now...
More specifically, I was in Panama City, in the neighborhood of Casco Viejo, which is the historical district of Panama City and on a whole, much poorer than the downtown. Panama City, the fancy downtown part, where Donald Trump is building his next mega project, looks like this:
But Casco looks more like this:
Now we are in Barro Guadalupe, which is about as different from Panama City as you can get. We're up in the highlands, in cloud forests with over 800 types of orchids growing. In fact, we went to an Orchid Sanctuary (Fincas Dracula) today that grows over 2600 types of orchids, the second largest sanctuary in the world. Their premiere orchid is called "Dracula," because it's got a slightly sinister face inside the petals.

Russ and I follow the German travel methodology -- pack light, make plans as you go, and try and do as much as possible. Since I arrived on Saturday night, we have done everything from visiting the Canal to visiting Barro Colorado Island, recently featured in National Geographic as the place with the most diverse bat population in the entire world. Our guide on the island, Juan Carlos, was very fun -- he loves watching Lost and called Costa Rica "cheesy." Everywhere we go, thus far, people have been amazingly friendly, which is essential, since our Spanish is amazingly embarrassing. I am the human sugar cube, and the mosquitoes can't get enough of me. Here's a pretty normal size bite: Now imagine them all over my body. I'm one itchy chica.

Tomorrow, we'll be grabbing a bus and heading down to Bocas Del Toro, which is on the Caribbean side of the country, and doing the beachy thing, snorkeling and trying to spot the multitudes of sea turtles that live off the coast during this time of year.

Summer Vacation Begins

Besides the fact that I have 60-some reserach essays to grade, I consider today my first day of summer break. This is because I went to the library and instead of just picking up my held books, I purused multiple shelves. (Yes, I am using purused in the correct sense, not the commonly misused way.) I found some gems - a collection of Amy Hempl stories was very exciting. Her writing being mostly one or two pages makes it feel very doable. I also found the new M. Ward and the old Elliot Smith, which isn't exactly summer-like music, but will supplement the other music I'm listening to this week, some very throwback R&B-girl-group tunes. Which is most definitely summer.

Why is it so hard to grade essays? I know my students worked hard on them, that many of them are wonderful, and that once I get just one done, the rest will fall like dominoes. But it's sitting down with the special grading pen (not red) and reading that first page that's the real work of this business. It's a lot like writing in that way. Once you start, it mostly begins to fall into place, but those first tentative key strokes are the worst.

Russ won a scholarship award today from his department, by unanimous decision of the faculty. It's called the "creativity award," which his professor Joan Woodward compared to the Macarthur Genius Grant, just without the $500,000 cash prize. I was so proud of him that I was first, sentimentally weepy and then, manically clappy and hooty. I probably would've peed myself if there had been a generous cash prize. I told Russ he should keep his award with him at all times and wave it at his classmates every time they disagree with him.

Yes, Photo Header

Okay. So all I've wanted to do today was put a photo in my header box here. But after reading hours of unintelligable instructions, I'm no closer to doing so. Any help here?

The Weather

One of my writing professors at Long Beach once told my class that the way they narrowed down six applicants from 200 was by reading the first paragraph of the story; if there was any mention of the weather, they set it aside.

Being from the Midwest, I am prone to have long conversations with the peeps back home about the weather. My aunt has said it's because I come from farmers whose whole lives depended on the weather. Thus, they liked to dish about it. I tend on the side of boredom during these conversations, where the temperature is relayed at least three times with a vocal exclamation mark. This is happens especially with my grandma. She obsessively watches the Weather Channel, although now that she's lost most of her hearing, she watches it on mute. This is just one of the many things I love about her. While I have always enjoyed watching the "Tropical Update," I've never watched it for seven hours consecutively.

So since this is all in my blood, this weather talk, let me tell you how lovely it's been around here lately. Russ and I spend a lot of our minimal free time outside in the backyard, trying to make it sustainable, edible, and beautiful. It feels good to pull Bermuda grass, battle earwigs (which we have in legion), and exorcise lurking alley cats and their ass faces. But Russ took it to a whole new level this weekend by providing a lunch for about 150 people that was all sustainable, edible, and beautiful. Using produce grown on Cal Poly's campus, meat from a semi-local California ranch from a local butcher, and all recyclable-compostable dishes and flatware, he threw a lunchtime gala without the usual trash bags that follow. He didn't do all this himself, of course -- he had help from volunteers, but when it all comes down, he was the hands carrying it all out, from harvesting the veggies to designing the menu to barbecuing the meat during the event. For me, it was a new way to experience from the farm to the table -- and let me tell you, it's a lot of work. Processing lettuce and cabbage is especially taxing. The snails and slugs hide inside the deepest layers and most of the leaves need to be removed in order to get at them. I have a new appreciation for farmers, especially the herb lady at the Pasadena Farmer's Market.

Russ had to plan a menu around the weather -- he was hoping for peas and beans, but because LA had a little bit of chill-n-rain over the last few weeks, they hadn't grown as fast as expected. He had to rearrange the menu at the last minute, figure out how to pull it all together without what he expected. But he was excited about that, strangely, becaues it reminded him that we're so used to having what we want available, we rarely have to rearrange in such a way. And I was struck by just how good it was to chat about the weather and not be bored.

Extended Eulogy

When I first read Kurt Vonnegut, I was in college. Someone showed me the cover of Breakfast of Champions - I think it was Melissa, Carlos, or maybe Natalie - and then opened up the page to one of the famous drawings -- the one that looks like this:

*

If you've ever read Vonnegut, you know what that means.

And that was all it took. Life-long fan.

Working on a Full House

My house is like a Garth Brooks song right now. We found a dog last week and this dog has been living here for the last two weeks, disrupting the delicate balance of small housedom in which Russ, Tanya, and I exist. The three of us are like one pulsing mind -- we each know that space is sacred, as is downtime, and we each take it in our respective corners. Me with a book, Russ with his computer, and Tanya with her giant pillow. People always say that having two dogs isn't so different than one, but I beg to differ. This new dog does not need this sort of alone time or space. She is not so much chilling in her corner as under my feet, scratching me with her claws, which I haven't cut because I'm afraid of animal claw-cutting and the splurting blood that usually follows.

But, she is sweet and wonderful and full of cuteness, and she doesn't walk on a leash as much as skip. She is an incessant shaker. She loves to prey on birds and has the bad habit of wandering into people's houses when not supervised. She has a mustache, a clear identity crisis for a she-dog, which is also endearing. We think she rather looks like one of the founding fathers as well as Robert E. Lee. We've been calling her "Puppy Goo-Goo," as a tribute to the best Simpsons character of all time. And now that she has a new owner which she'll be joining this weekend, I realize that despite her I-don't-quite-fit-into-your-separate-corners household, I will miss her cute little antebellum face.

Eulogy

God Bless You, Mr. Vonnegut.

Further Up and Further In

On Sunday, I'm looking forward to getting into my car and turning on the radio.

You see, about 40 days ago I had this it-seemed-brilliant-at-the-time idea that it would be spiritually beneficial to give up all noise in the car. The thought was that since I often distract myself with NPR and sing-along-songs, if I didn't have them, I would have nothing to do but meditate, pray, center myself, commune with the universe. And that would give me at least two 45 minute times per week where I did nothing but all this wonderful, soul-improving work.

But I'm not so cool as all that. I wish that I was the sort of person who, when faced with silence, did nothing but turn her attention to her soul and God and the needs of others. Because I want very much to be that person. I know people like that and find myself astonished and admiring by them. But when I found myself in the silence, I found, more often than not, my only thoughts were about myself. And those people directly affecting me. And all situations that I would be in that day. Sometimes, I even found myself thinking about situations that I'd handled badly mere hours or even days before. I had plenty of time to catalogue my own mistakes, missteps, and bonehead moments. Welcome the mild obsession.

I've found, over the last few years, that I am like that old movie The Three Faces of Eve. I am usually inwardly and outwardly laid-back about most daily grind kind of things (Eve White), but then, there are a few that I get in my head and can't stop focusing on (Eve Black, sort of). For instance, I'm taking care of a stray white poodle right now while other friends and I look for a new home for her. She's a sweet dog, but she's had diarrhea for the last day and a half and now, our carpet is covered with small splotches of carpet cleaner and remnant stains. And I've been thinking about it and gritting my teeth over it when really, it doesn't matter because we have a guy coming to professionally clean our carpets today. This is mild obsession at its worst -- thinking about what is already under control.

This is a rather new experience for me, actually. As I get older, I find myself more and more often feeling this type of stress. It's a sucky, black-hole experience and I'd be glad to forgo it. I don't think, though, no matter how much you pray or meditate or tell yourself that you're ultimately out-of-control anyway, that you ever forgo your own bodily and/or emotional makeup. Or maybe I'm just not there yet. So I'm stuck with me and the clingy webs of reptitive details and, for the last month and a half, I've been doing this more often than not because it's either that or watch how incredibly slow LA traffic can be.

Solitude is a discipline that I've always been okay with, but never silence. I'm okay with being minus a plus-one because my own inner monologue has always been so active. As a child, I was sort of lost in my own head most of the time, writing the details of what was happening around me (and yes, sometimes rewriting with delusions of grandeur), and at some point, I think I just got used to hearing my own voice all the time. My thoughts have turned on me, though; instead of friendly narration, there's now hyperlinking between concerns of how I'm handling all aspects of my life. Damn you, adulthood and responsibility cluttering my imagination.

I guess the funny thing that I've walked away from this experience with is two-fold. One is a better knowledge of myself. Obviously, this is the point of any discipline -- self-awareness and thus, more perspective. I see myself a bit more clearly, I think, and while I may not want to, this is clearly a good thing. And two is a realization of the sanctity of NPR. No really. Cutting NPR out of my life, even for forty days, has really turned my focus inward. What I thrive on, what I gain energy from, oddly enough, is extending out and hearing about people all over the country, nee the world -- it continually pulls me out of my own skin, exposes me to newness and thus, I grow. I learn. I cry with other people and laugh a little bit, too. While the same thing happens at church, NPR is with me daily in my car. It's a form of the great commandment, to love others as yourself and when I'm aware of what's going on out there, I'm excited, grieved, empathetic, and above all, more concerned about the world around me instead of the world within me.

One Angry Sarah

I got served today. My first jury duty ever.

I figure it will finally put to use all my detectiving skills from years of Nancy Drew and the Boxcar Children. Currently, my skills are pretty much put to use solving cases involving missing chocolate chip cookies that I put in the refrigerator for a day and time of my choosing. But with Tanya lacking opposable thumbs, it's a pretty open-and-shut case in a house of two.

So this should be much more challenging.

Saturday Morning Shins

I was at The Grove with Kristan yesterday, walking around eating homemade-store bought ice cream (oh so delicious) when I noticed the impending apocolypse. But then I realized it was just a fire cloud. This phenomena is common enough, say, in September when the whole of California is yellowish-brown and snaps like an uncalcified bone, but in March-almost-April? Rare. My first thought was that the parking garage, in which I had hesitantly parked, was on fire. Hesitantly, I should say, because whenever I drive in one, I'm always reminded of the story that Jeremy told me about being trapped inside a Long Beach parking garage for hours and hours on 9/11. And as you may know, I'm into scenarios so this really doesn't mix well. As I was walking from my car to the stairs yesterday, I also imagined all the ways in which I might die in this coffin-y space: being hit by a car is the obvious. Mugged/assaulted/womanapped was less likely, but still possible in a lull. Death by explosion is always an option in a town where thousands of people have grudges and prepetrate environmental hoo-ha. But in my run-down of death (which sounds much darker, now that I'm typing it, and not just cutely aware), I never even considered death by fire. Which, to me, is the absolute worst way to die (besides Fargo, feet-first).

Anyway, the parking garage wasn't on fire. But most of Universal City was. I spent an hour on the 101 pondering it, which was one of the least fun hours of my life. Russ and I hiked to the top of Alta Vista Drive last night and looked out over the valley to see what we could see. But, there was a foothill blocking the northwest vista and all I could see was downtown and out to San Pedro. But the sky was swirly pink and purple and we saw a group (gaggle? toggle? murder?) of deer eating rich people's gladiolus and snapdragons. So that was fun.

Today, I read that this fire was started by Illini here on vacation. Damn Illinis.

I happen to be listening to the Shins' "Chutes Too Narrow," which I just got yesterday and like mucho. I'm drinking coffee at home for the first time in months. Our coffeemaker broke a few months ago and sadly, we got into the habit of just walking to Starbucks or driving to Peet's to get our morning cuppa. We would often comment on how this reinforced the whole stereotype of what Russ once got called by an old man passing him while having breakfast with a friend at Europane in Pasadena. "So," this old grump said, "is this where the young and priviledged hang out?"

We were living the young and priviledged life. It was decadent and I think partly because we gave up music and sound in the car, we needed some other habit to fill the void (which I will be blogging about this next week, it being Holy Week and such). So, coffee it was. Just for fun, I was making a spreadsheet of our expenses the other day and figured out how much per month we were spending on coffee-related beverages. And now we're drinking it at home again.

I told Kristan this story yesterday and when I was at the part after I figured out how much we were spending, I stopped and said, "Why was I telling you this again?" She, all kindness and patience, smiled and said, "Umm." And here I am, telling it again. And maybe you're saying "Umm." But that's okay.

Again and Again and Again and Again...

I'm sitting here right now, in a rare non-planning, non-writing moment. I just wanted to say that I'm still here, that personal apocalypse has not occured and that I'm, as the saying goes, doing my thing. There is much to discuss, though, including my trip to Chicago, where I successfully played Mom for a day (I even had a Ford SUV), embarked upon the search for the perfect (open) pizza joint, and partied with the Shipshewana Amish; the oddity of seeing old friends on TV shows; why a martini should never be drank before the Oscars; and my Lenten discipline of silence in the car, which is probably the most difficult thing I've ever taken on and hits at the absolute core of my obsessing time. Also why, despite my best efforts, I cannot give up caring about American Idol.

As a preview, here's one of my favorite shots I took in a football-obsessed city:

Proud and Punchy Like a Persian Cat

Russell's been working hard this week in collaboration with top-notch designers in his field on a (competition) design for an Interspiritual Chapel. It turned out beautifully and, all proud and punchy, I wanted to share it.


Check out the boards and Ken McCown's explanation of this project.