Between Time and Dreams

Letting Yourself Go

2011-10-08T20:46:00.000-07:00

When serious-we've-shared-a-toothbrush types of relationships crash and burn or crumble and explode - its a natural response to kind of "let yourself go". A few days into your Kubler-Ross experience you might notice you haven't bothered to put contacts in and are wearing a pair of glasses that make you look like Harry Potter or Ugly Betty. You vehemently deny to all who ask that anything is wrong wearing a fake smile that makes you look ridiculous. While wading thru the denial stage, you might also lash out at anyone who comments on the fact you are unable to rotate your clothing as often as you normally would. I like to trick myself in this situation that I am environmentally justified. After all, how many gallons of water are not being wasted in doing laundry? I think its like two gallons per wash if its a front loader, five for tops. I use the same skewed logic for a few days until I reach the point where I can noticeably smell myself at which time I surprisingly get grossed out and find a new fabric constant. The shirt you attach yourself to might end up smelling after a few days much like the ex's underwear or worn gym socks, which can effectively carry you into the next wave, known as anger. I think the experts should rethink calling this what it is: unadulterated rage. What else do you call pacing the floor reeling about how immature, incapable and pathetic that loser is- searching for anything left behind to destroy or set fire to. Soon, it evolves into face-cropping of photographs, ripping up the sappy now-meaningless cards you received and stomping on any expensive xbox games you don't want to waste time selling on ebay. You ponder calling the friends that betrayed you along with what's their name to assure them you are better off without all of them. But you don't. Instead, you put on some Aerosmith, listen to the song Crazy, and talk yourself out of it. It's inevitably about the time to hit up the freezer for some ice-cold gratification. Nothing like Chunky Monkey Ben & Jerry's to cool the intense fire of rage and send smooth tasting relief to the brokenhearted. After a bag of pretzels, some two year old halloween candy, leftover pizza, and some open-mouth kissing with your new friend Jack Daniels you land face first into the next pitfall aptly titled, "bargaining". This is the most embarrassing stage. And I'll tell you this: only one person knows the bargains that have crept into MY mind. I remember calling my best friend with my brilliantly ridiculous offer facilitating second chances to see what she thought. Approach, offer and win back. That was the genius battle plan to wean me away from wearing three day old smelly cotton t-shirts, a pair of his boxer shorts, nerdy glasses, a chocolate ice cream mustache and unbrushed blonde hair that was dreadlocking itself. Just so you know, best friends that take the time to slowly coax you out of the highest heights of the madness tree are keepers, let me assure you. So once cohesive from the climb down from the bargaining madness tree, expect to slip into the abyss of depression. For me, this is the shortest phase - typically only lasting for a day. I listen to sad songs, write sappy poems, fold laundry and crash on the bed trying not to think about what memories it might possess. Much like a poetic fly on the wall, recalling its life experience aloud prior to being smacked dead with a waffle-shaped piece of plastic from the dollar store. It was about at this point I realized the worst of it. Sadly, Kubler Ross does not address this travesty whatsoever. The glaringly obvious reminder of the entire ordeal had finally fallen into sight. My legs had not been shaved in almost two weeks. Fuzzy beige softies on both of them. Not like I have gross dark hairy legs or anything, but still for someone as meticulous and manicured as I like to be - it was the signal to get to moving on. So, acceptance rode in on a white horse with a bottle of shaving cream and a Venus razor. As I moved the blade along the frothy cream, rinsing after every inch under the running faucet, I smiled. I knew it would all be ok. Taking my time, I shaved both legs twice. They couldn't have gotten any smoother. Followed it up with baby oil then thick, heavy cream from Bath and Body Works and life was good again. I showered, changed into clean clothes, put in my contacts, ate a salad, and listened to some Bob Marley. My legs had endured mountain biking during the rage phase that should have killed me, a serious lack of maintenance and care for almost two whole weeks and now here I was- having let go, and gone thru the process. I emerged smooth as ever - optomistic and victorious, knowing I wouldn't settle for not getting it back. Song for today is going to be one of the best getting over it songs ever -Moving On by Rascal Flatts

Dirty Talk (Enjoy this post from last year)

2011-08-31T21:25:00.000-07:00

Its the time of year when people dress up as French maids and scantily clad characters from The Wizard of Oz. Judy Garland might be disappointed she didn't get to wear the ruby red stilettos and the short, low-cut blue and white checkered teddy being sold on ebay. Yes... I know it can be scary. And funny. Even at the same time. Some of the French maid costumes I've seen reveal lots more than just freshly shaven uh...legs. Secretly or perhaps openly, they are wishing they could wear the bare-all costume more than once a year. But I guess I am the kinda chick who thinks dressing up like a housecleaner or a frazzled tornado traveller is not all that much of a turn-on. To me, a provocative get up is wearing your guy's dress shirt while he wears nothing but the tie. *But be sure he takes OFF the black socks. Seeing those dark stockings without pants on can be instant moodkill. Truth be told, I'm not much a fan of Halloween anyway. I'm more of an Arbor Day person. I like holidays that are meaningless and often forgotten, in which trees are planted just for the sake of making the day legit. The kind of day where postal workers and bank tellers don't get the day off. It is the kind of holiday that gets put on the calendar, but its star power is impotent for all intents and purposes.

So, I'm pretty convinced good and evil and dirty and clean are battling it out right now. Angels and demons, salt and pepper shakers, Oxyclean and Lysol. They are all going head to head right now during the month of brewhaha, also known to Germans as Oktoberfest. Tipping back the lagers and the pale ales as I imagine my college German teacher in his lederhosen, cheerfully prompting us to Guten his Noggin. October is the month when the moon is full, the mugs are topped off with froth, and people are out and about, going about their lives dressed up the entire week before Halloween. Nothing like standing in line at the grocery store behind a cute but clearly deranged guy wearing a whoopee cushion costume on October the 25th. I almost asked him to lay down on the ground so I could try it out. Could you imagine the sound of that reverberation? It would keep me laughing for days. Missed opportunity.

I'm currently cycling thru a mad cleaning frenzy after having a houseful of relatives come to visit last week. Twelve people to be exact. The day before they were all set to leave, a few (ok...all but two) came down with one of the rampant flu viruses that are knocking people off their feet and onto the toilet. Now that's what I call a way to get family members to never to come back. Here's how goodbye went. "Thanks for coming to visit!" (big grin) "Sorry you'll be puking your guts out, dry heaving, and crapping your pants while having to navigate thru airports, shuttles to the Park and Ride, and then of course, the hour long drive home, on the interstate- in the snow. Hey, did you pack an extra pair of underwear just in case? Good. Love you. (another big grin) Come back real soon!" I was one of the two who mysteriously did not get sick, which makes it even funnier.

Life. It's both messy and dirty. For a germ and clean freak like myself, it just teases me to adapt and come to terms with having to figure out a way to laugh at it all. And if that doesn't work - it becomes Dirty Mojito time. Mint sprigs for everyone. Last thought for the day, I will touch on the subject of... Dirty Talk. Do you do it and what kind of voice do you do it in? You tell me and I'll tell you. I think that's how it works. Note to self: practice Bridget Jones Britspeak and brush up on random fake foreign accents, especially those helpful in pretending to be a Russian spy chick in a James Bond movie. I seriously think Rosetta Stone should look into the golden opportunity to get a product on the market that addresses Dirty Talk as an official language taken seriously and comprehensively. I'm tired of the Urban Dictionary getting so overused. Will they ask me to write it? Perhaps... but I am a busy chick and I am writing my own book, remember? I might have to turn them down. Sorry Rosetta Stoners. Well, now that I've come clean...go make life interesting-or at least less boring. Then plant a tree in your tasteless costume. Cheers friend!

Lucky Me

2011-08-20T21:43:00.000-07:00

"Where you been?" you ask-clearly pissed off. "Who are you, my keeper?" I respond dryly, with a look of amusement. Okay. Maybe I dreamed that dialogue between us. But in case you're wondering - here's my pathetic excuse. See, I'm writing a novel. A big-a** book that is sucking the time and life right out of me. But here I am ready to make it up to you. So choices seem to be: to forgive, forget, or just follow along. You are in fact my much adored friend. So let's play catch up.

It's not every night I get lucky. But tonight I did. I know what you're thinking. Winner, winner, chicken, dinner. But your train of thought is riding the wrong track. Obviously the Barry White, dancing babies kind of track. My favorite kind -as you already know. Which might be good for you. But that's not it. This evening, for the very first time, I won something. A prize. It was all so impulsive. I can't remember ever doing this kind of thing before. So, let me start at the beginning. I spent the evening at my fav coffee house hanging out drinking a Van Halen Latte. A huge one - I had him make it a decaf. Facing my laptop. Writing my book. Wearing a Jimi Hendrix t-shirt over a white thermal long-sleeved shirt and a pair of amazing jeans, I looked like I worked there. Forget that I had crocs on. Erase it out of your mind and pretend I was wearing stilletos or Converse sneakers or anything else. Because I agree. People who wear plastic shoes in the shape of swimming pools, outside of the boundaries of their primary residence, look absolutely ridiculous. Especially the fuzzy lined ones. But hey, I was in a hurry. So...sitting, writing, drinking- I can't help but overhear a loud and overly zealous conversation between two college aged guys sitting at the table right beside me. *Wow* I smirk and stare at my screen not wanting to draw attention to myself. How quickly this manly conversation turned graphic. These guys threw out details about chicks I didn't know men had the ability to capture, in the heat of the...um, moment. But I got bored and knew they were just talking smack -or smoking crack- after hearing the term "pearl necklace" get tossed about. Decided my iPod needed to get turned on instead. So I listen to some Sheryl Crow ~ The Globe Sessions. Earlier that day, a friend mentioned Sheryl might be coming in concert this summer. Oh yeah! Tell me who *doesn't* have a favorite mistake? The kind of mistake that's purely a physical attraction. Nothing more or less than just that. Anyway, I do remember that I have to be somewhere, so I hurry and pack up. Get inside my sweet ride only to see that I have more time than I originally thought. So I settle into the leather seat, look up thru the sunroof at the stars, and press the magic button to heat my seat. Turn on the radio and flip thru pre-set stations using the button on the steering wheel. Stop to hear a song I like by Owl City. His voice kind of sounds like he got kicked in the privates, but I really like it. Alot. It ends, but in its place, a soothing bubble bath kind of voice illuminates. One that takes me for a momentary dip into feeling relaxed. It's of a man beckoning me to be the tenth caller. The numbers he rattles off are virtually impossible to type into a Blackberry. *Especially* with a French manicure. But I do. Busy. Redial. Busy. Redial. Sh**. "Hang up!" I yell out loud to myself. Then I think the words that have gotten me into so much trouble before. ~One. More. Time. So I redial. Then, the unthinkable happens. It freaking rings. And my first thought is, "I must have dialed the wrong number." My hand is losing grip on the Blackberry and I panic by shoving my shoulder against my ear, recklessly sandwiching the phone in between them. Instinctively, I catch the front of my earring as it free-falls. As I am about to let out an expletive- knowing the back of the earring is now missing- someone answers. It's Mr. bubble bath voice asking for my name and number to call me back in a minute. "For what?" I ask innocently? Flowing into my ear, his soapy voice slowly responds, "YOU...won." I hang up only to realize that the earring back has fallen into the deep abyss. And someone walks by my car just as I reach into my cleavage to retrieve it. They stare. I roll my eyes. I breathe a sigh of relief as I find it and DJ bathtime calls back to get more of my info and tell me the good news. Two tickets to Lilith Fair. Sweeeeetness. Just what I need. A full day of chickness *and* great music. I might wear Lucky Brand clothes. I will eat Lucky Charms. And I can still wholeheartedly believe that there is no such thing as luck. Just like the way the word lucky sounds. Lucky Duck. And what it symbolizes. All it is really... is hope. Hope that someone likes you. Hope that you are loved. Hope that you win. And hope you stick with me as I write a book that won't let me quit it. And with that, my recommended song for you today is by The Rescues. You're Not Listening. Cheers. xc

Knockout - OLD POST from JANUARY 9, 2010

2011-07-11T21:47:00.000-07:00

Thinking about something I left behind. Something I had no room to bring with me when it was clearly time to move on. If you follow my ramblings, you remember I grew up moving alot, so parting with "stuff" has never been that hard. Totally used to it. I detach readily. Without looking back. Without tears. Going, going...gone. I'm ok, you? Get over it. LOL. So, a few months back we went thru my memory box together. You discovered my affinity for nag champa and I openly shared the personal ad my ex (Time Will Tell) had written and published to find himself a new me. So picture this. I know some of you amazing friends of mine...actually can. You have been beneath the beautiful and magical gazebo in my old backyard. The one covered with climbing roses and accented with luminous patio mood-lighting. On a hot, summer night, we would sit in white Adirondack chairs listening to music, talking, laughing, drinking, wondering what came next in life. Oh yeah...keep in mind it's the Phoenix kind of hot- close to a hundred degrees. Most of the time, we were sitting around in cutoff shorts and tank tops smelling like sweat, chlorine and suntan lotion. Sometimes we would cook stuff on the pricey barbecue grill I fought like hell for in the divorce. The one I had no idea how to turn on or light. Cause I just wanted to want something that I didn't really want. Heartache's powerful anesthetic sometimes produces strange and long lasting side effects. It's the casualty of being young and idealistic, then abuptly feeling like you have absolutely no control over the direction your life has suddenly taken. When everything appears to be a disillusioned reaction to the person who betrayed you. The one you pledged forever to. And you know with every pain seared breath that you meant it, even though that person changed their mind...and forgot to tell you. Damage control. You assess how great it all seemed together and how fragmented it is now that its been ripped apart. You have a grill you can't figure out how to use, and the remnants of property that he either intentionally didn't want, or couldn't fit in the truck the day he moved out in secret. Your mind races feverishly as you try to think about what things looked like when they were whole. You make a list of things missing now, but not to turn in to the annoying Allstate guy, in case a burglar got past your lovable Rottweiler. You just try to think, what of mine is now gone. And the answer is everything. Sure he left your clothes. And the big screen TV. And all the pots and pans. And the dog. But he still took it all. You are left empty. Left with a mind full of questions that have no answers. Then the answers you finally squeeze out of him months later make no sense. Hints of regret only add to the anger and confusion and chaos your scattered mind gets to deal with. So you do what any mentally sound individual does. You head over to Play it Again Sports. You walk thru the store until you find exactly what you know will save you from needing another type of lawyer. One retainer at a time, you tell yourself. You engage the cute guy working that night to hook you up with everything you'll need. He gets you the gloves. You pull out your debit card, more than ready to purchase the safest hope for release that night. A free standing punching bag. Delirious, you fill the bottom of it with water, from the hose you also had to go out and buy when you realized the one you had was gone. Then you put on those oversized gloves and beat the **** (your word choice - any four letter one will do) out of what you can't understand. Feeling out of breath, emotionally drained, and thirsty for something that burns your throat going down, you collapse into the Adirondack chair, staring at the wedding photo you taped to the bag. And you feel ridiculously good. So good, in fact, you decide to do it again the next night. And the night after that. And over and over. Every time your foot or fist makes contact, a little less pressure builds up inside and the stinging hurt gets released. And slowly over time, with the help of a few intensely loyal friends and family, you begin to see the fight as being almost over. The bell rings. Knockout. You trust again, you love again, and you see people for who they are, instead of who you want them to be. And one day, you decide to take the gloves off for good and size up the bag that got you thru so many restless nights. Knowing it stays. While you go. FYI: Somber mood tonight -ext post will be a funny one.

Listening to:
Evanescence -Everybody's Fool
Lifehouse -Breathing

xc

Refine Me Please

2011-07-07T22:20:00.000-07:00

I'm being refined. And my attitude lately has been one of mild irritation, frustration and a desire to avoid people during this recent iron-sharpening process. Because I want it all to be organized & structured with succinct purpose & efficient mentoring by respectable teachers. I want a completion date. And a diploma. I know all this is good for me. I want to build character and be more patient and compassionate. I just want different people to sharpen me. But I know that isn't going to happen. And very intentionally I'm sure- the ones who have been chosen to scrape away my pride, bad attitude and impatience lately seem to be the kind of people I am least like. People like the following:

1. A union postal worker who has no chance of ever getting fired for gross incompetence. God has used her multiple times. First was when the hot pink envelope my wonderful mom had sent me containing a Shoebox card and a check for a brand new Medela double-action breastpump did not arrive. I waited and checked the mailbox four times a day for three weeks, anxious to never have to squeeze the life out of my boobs with my bare hands ever again. Eventually, I reluctantly approached our mail carrier and asked why whenever I was expecting a card that contained a check in it- it seemed to magically disappear. I tried to say this very matter-of-factly without appearing sarcastic. But I did ask her knowing she had lied to other neighbors about driving over their mailboxes. So I did what any hormone-raging pregnant woman carrying twins who couldn't bend over or breathe comfortably did. I avoided confrontation and took my oversized self to see Mr. Postmaster himself. And two days after he "talked" to her- the hot pink envelope with adorable mother-to-be card magically appeared. All that was missing was the check. However, there was a slit in the side of the envelope. But I didn't care~ because my thoughtful mom had already stopped payment on it and mailed me another. This time there would be no messing around. Check number 2 came FedEx Express.

So today, in the pouring rain, I went to check the mail and saw that an oversized cardboard box had been shoved into my mailbox deeper than...I better not say. But even with half of it sticking out getting drenched, I still struggled to pull it out. I might have even whispered a few words I shouldn't have under my breath while throwing my full weight around to yank and tug. When I finally got it out and discovered that the box contained fragile computer components that really shouldn't get squished or soaked- I exercised self-control and didn't freak out as badly as I would have expected. Instead, I did it over the phone. Into the kind, loving ears of my supportive husband, who I called the second I got back into the house. And then I was fine. And miraculously - so was the stuff inside the box.

#2. Random people who recklessly drive thru parking lots in the wrong direction to steal parking spaces away from considerate people who have their blinkers on and have been waiting patiently for the Suburban leaving to buckle their seven kids into carseats. I'm not going to go into detail on this one. I actually think God knows that I appreciate walking farther because its good cardio, especially now that I don't belong to a gym.

#3 Environmentally conscious people who drive battery-operated cars and like to make finger gestures to environmentally conscious people who drive SUV's that get 12 mpg. I tell myself if I ever see one of these roller skates stuck in the snow - I would gladly help tow their little carbon footprints to safety. Besides the obvious fact is that I can't fit all my kids in one of those things and who knows- maybe I would have one myself if I were a senior citizen who wanted a cartoon car with no trunk space or leg room.

#4 People who hold the spot in line of someone who you never actually see. I'm not going to get into specifics. But I will never again wait in line for hours for a limited quantity the day after Thanksgiving. Not for anything.

So...now that I've shared a few of mine- who is being used to make you a more compassionate, understanding, patient person?

Happy Hour at The Milk Bar

2011-06-15T16:35:00.000-07:00

Let’s talk lactation. Just unbutton the topic… and put it all out there. I’ve got to tell you…it is an issue that evokes a squirt or two of passion out of people. I had no idea the kind of rallying both sides of the booby issue were capable of. There are people totally for it and people passionately against. And both sides fiercely latch onto their positions, digging in their high heels to debate this tender topic. Honestly, until I reached the tender age of twenty-seven, the idea of using my boobs for anything other than attracting adult members of the opposite sex, never really occurred to me. I assumed nipples had no other value than simply being a reliable temperature gauge. I distinctly remember having dinner with a group of college friends at a TGI Friday’s back when everyone I knew, myself included, was young, single and flirtatious. One of the attractive guys casually pointed out an exhausted looking lady nearby, who was obviously wearing a starving five-year-old child underneath a small fabric camping tent. Junior was screaming aloud his intentions of “MILKEEEEEEEEEE” from beneath the wrap, his legs kicking wildly as she fumbled for the trap door on her ginormous bra. The rest of us painfully avoided looking anywhere near that table. I remember the guy saying something like, “Seeing that….just lost my appetite.” The whole table laughed in response. I paid no mind to the lady or to the comment, dismissing it all as something that didn’t really apply to me. If I had a form to fill out…under breastfeeding I would’ve written in N/A. Not applicable. Or maybe, no thanks. Or…perhaps, not yet. I smiled at the thought. Yeah. That was me. I didn’t notice and I really didn’t care. If people did it – great. I didn’t have a problem looking away. If not, no big deal. Bottles worked. I was Switzerland. Calling myself neutral.

Fast forward. I meet a hot sexy guy, steal his heart…and then his last name. Pretty soon it’s inevitable that everyone seems to be begging the question. And they start asking in a shrill, intruding voice, “When you two going to have a baby?” Everyone asks. Then I start asking myself. And of course, hot sexy guy who is madly in love with me, is game with whatever. So, we throw caution to the wind…and pretty soon a plus sign appears on the pee stick. Sick thing is I still have it. How’s that for being sentimental? Now I have no idea what I’m in for… so I search my memory for friends and relatives who have born offspring that I have had contact with in the last few years. And a repressed memory faintly appears. Picture an overjoyed, but tired looking mom holding a newborn with an open mouth. Then I see the nightmare nipples…ones that are dark and ominous and frighteningly large. It’s like seeing someone with a glass eye or something weird like that. And I am suddenly freaked out that my perky and proportionate breasts will morph into something hideous and grotesque. But then I think about how much I already am in love with this little person who I’ve never met. How I would do anything for this little heaven-sent gift, even if it means losing one of my greatest assets.

So my boobs got bigger. And then even bigger than I could have possibly hoped for. I bought a huge bra with trap doors and nursing pads to stick inside. FYI: those little circle pads can double for maxi’s if you line a few up and are seriously in a pinch after getting an unwelcome surprise. Especially…when you haven’t it in over a year. But luckily for me, there was no freak-show nipple changing. The belly button thing didn’t happen either. Whew! What a relief. Then… the much anticipated baby pushed its way out into the world to be adored by all. And I decided to give breastfeeding a try. And I will admit that the idea of bottle washing and mixing of formula sounded like too much added work. How’s laziness for a motivating factor? See I had already increased the amount of laundry I was doing- tenfold. So I was in the market for efficiency.

In the hospital, a lactation specialist came by for a visit and a consultation. I tell myself half listening, it can’t be that hard. Plus, I have a very high opinion of my abilities when it comes to overachieving at things. Seriously… boob in mouth, right? Not exactly. Turns out there are special ways to hold the baby. Ways to hold the boob. Ways to get the baby to open its mouth. Ways to tickle the cheek. Ways to massage the milk out. And then there are remedies for getting what I called, “hotboob”, a painful reminder that when it fills up…get that milk out…even when you’re so tired, you forget who you are. They would fill up like water balloons, and as soon as my ears intercepted a cry, I would be leaking like a spigot. It really didn’t matter what kind of cry. It could be a TV commercial, a dog whimper, pretty much any kind of high-pitched cry and I was ready to serve drinks. I wanted the menu to sound impressive, but I only served one beverage, what I called the “milktini”. A drink that was created on the foundation of me eating everything organic and nothing overly spicy. The ultimate, gassy, BF killjoy turned out to be the evil vegetable known in grocery circles as broccoli. And my patron left me the biggest tips imaginable. I knew I had done my job well by the amount of Pampers we were flying thru.

If you think about it, thousands of trees have been utilized in the construction of books on this very subject. Knowledge is power, right? Maybe. In my experience…I got impatient and irritated at the rigid concepts being hurled at me. So I did what I do when I convince myself that stressing out is not the answer. I tossed expert opinions aside along with everything I felt was not working, and just decided to figure it out. Just me…and of course, the most adorable little milksucker I have ever seen. And every three hours we figured it out together. All it took was something I had lots to give. Patience and time. It’s the byproduct of leaving the fast-paced world of impatient strangers to slow down and appreciate what matters most in life. And in that start to parenting, I got to know every dimple, every expression, and every sound that accompanied what had once been “Not Applicable”. I had become the deliriously in love bartender and waitress that looked forward every day for a year and two months… to happy hour at the milk bar.

Cheers,
xcetrachick

NEW POST: Then and Now

2011-05-18T09:08:00.000-07:00

This blog has changed. BIG TIME! Might be wondering where all the old BT&D posts went. Well ~ I suspended some of them. Because I had an idea. And of course- the nagging fear that I don't represent. I don't measure up. All of the old posts were of me reminiscent of going thru 40 days in the desert...that in actual time lasted more like a year and a half. The background deets: My self-absorbed life of carefree adventure got turned upside down by a major life crisis and then suddenly I met an amazing guy (one who actually wanted to get married & have kids!) & emerged with a new perspective on life and God. That was nine years ago. Sounds simple, right?

My analogy for you -not involving frogs and toilet seats- is that its kind of like the Lifetime television show Drop Dead Diva. Please note: I'm not advocating the show has any kind of sound theology - this is merely an analogy. Plot: a skinny, blonde supermodel dies and gets reincarnated into the life and body of a dark-haired, full-figured lawyer. It's a hilarious show! The character Jane is now trying to embrace this new life, but sometimes the way she does things makes no sense to the people who knew her before or for that matter, the people she meets who have always been lawyers. She finds so much more fulfillment and purpose in this new life, yet nuances of who she was before seep thru & complicate her understanding of who she is. It's like a daily identity crisis of small proportions. And a daily exercise in self-control to not be the person you were before, especially when you have a habitual past of doing those not-accepted kinds of things.

Hesitation to blog for me rises out of the fact that I don't want so many of my countless failures and flaws exposed ~even though I do my best to make it all sound clever, funny and inspiring. Between Time and Dreams was designed as my vehicle to take the edge off of figuring myself out after the dust had settled from a shocking divorce, a reassessment of my life and a litmus test of what real friends look like. The purpose was to express what I didn't have a person around to tell to. Here's another non-frog analogy. Writing a blog is like drinking. Sometimes hard to distinguish when a taste becomes intoxication. Especially if you mix it with regular Coke or cranberry juice. Even more so when you feel pressured to "represent". When you need to call "the cab" ~rather than risk TMI.

I claim a title that I don't want tainted. Or misrepresented. Especially by someone as messy and imperfect as me. But that is who I am. And truth be told, the reason I think I got here is because I was humbled to a degree where I had no choice but to wholeheartedly surrender & embrace not being in control. Type- A personalities this is huge! So I did... and boy did life change. Sometimes I can only ask, "Why me?" Why not someone with less attitude. Someone less obsessed with living so loudly & vibrantly. Someone who can hold their tongue better. Someone who has lived this kind of lifestyle longer. Someone with more self-control. Somebody who isn't obsessed with extracting humor & sexual innuendos out of everything. Someone eloquent & reserved. Yep. Someone else should be the poster child for Christ-follower. Someone better at this than me. Because it would be easier to remain anonymous with a foot planted in both past and present worlds. But then I think of Paul. Who I envision as looking a lot like a shirt-less Jake Gyllenhaal, with a little bit of beard stubble. And I know even if it means I lose my head (literally) or my mind (figuratively) I must be truthful with who I am, where I've been, what I've learned and where I'm going. So there you have it.

And here's the idea. I will release from captivity one old post, from when I was figuring out how my past hurts & bad relationship experiences converge into who I am today AND a new post for where I'm at in the here & now- happily married mother of four. Meshing nine years of radical living together hoping you get a clearer picture of how complicated and simple God works in the life of someone like me.

Cheers~

Between You and Me

2010-08-13T22:36:00.000-07:00

Here's the latest silly stuff going thru my mind. Dashes of wisdom, bits of humor, and a slice of apple pie with the kind of cool whip that comes in a spray can. Enjoy.

When someone asks you what you are thankful for, pause before answering “skinny upper arms.” Apparently people who don’t have them, consider people who are thankful for them… smartasses.

Upon seeing someone with a French pedicure, don’t look impressed -then disgusted and exclaim, “Wow! I bet your toes could cut thru a watermelon.”

Don’t ever ask a woman pushing a shopping cart with a newborn baby in it when her baby is due. Especially at Target near the cage with inflatable balls in it.

If you happen to be in the crowded women’s restroom of Cheesecake Factory on a Friday night- hiding out in a stall just to be able to use the “Pull My Finger’ application on your cell phone to get a few laughs, possibly consider open mic night at the comedy club.

I really shouldn't say this, especially since a great friend of mine just gave me the book to read and she's been raving about it and will probably be pissed I don't want to see the movie. But here's what is circling around in my mind. Pretty sure if a guy had written that book (which is now the movie Julia Roberts is in about someone who travels and does whatever) it would have been called something like this: Drink. (Not gonna say it but you *know* what word would go here). Fart.

Working on a very funny song I wrote with Danger herself (Serena) that I hope to post very soon. It is totally hilar~

GO BE SILLY..

Cheers~ xc

Me Swing Pretty One Day

2010-07-16T22:26:00.000-07:00

Yes - the title is a spoof on a book written by someone other than me. I could have written it, I just didn't think of it. One of my favorite things to hear people say is. "That's just how I roll." Because I intrinsically understand that we all roll in very different ways and directions. I appreciate the mere acknowledgement of distinction when someone says that. In fact, I am rolling off the chair as we speak. So I get to wondering.. how do I swing? Not THAT kind of swing silly. LOL. Real chain-links and hard plastic, thighbusting seats secured to an overarching structure, typically placed on an island of sand, grass or wood confetti. We are talking about THE perfect spot for a first kiss, a serious conversation, or a lonely moment. So stranger best friend, are you the kind of person that seeks to build up enough momentum to literally go over the top and earn yourself a spot on Mythbusters or do you keep close tabs on how much air gets between you and the ground? What's your level of comfort swinger? Made you blush. Ok, let's kick it in reverse and I'll share a conversation I remember having *distinctly* on a swingset. Imagine the park next to the house I once lived in. It was a hot, breezy, Arizona evening a year or so post HS graduation. I was in town visiting family (and yes..Time will Tell ) after having moved to Chicago to go to college. So this guy (he was one year older than me) was someone who I had a crush on in high school and out of the blue he had heard I was in town and we made plans to meet up. We'll call him SwingGuy because I can't think of a cool sounding fake name at the moment. Of course, you wanna know what SwingGuy was like. It was the eighties remember ~so he was everything to go ga-ga over back then: yuppie cute, adorably geeky but with hip glasses, meticulous all around -with collared polo shirts, and a JanSport backpack always draped casually over one shoulder. But you know what - all that wasn't what made him so alluring to me at the time. It was the hushed chemistry between us. It was staying "friends" while teetering on the dangerous edge of some intense sexual tension. It was often disguised I think as hard-core teasing, playful but almost painful tickling encounters, socially acceptable acts of cruelty and affection, and verbal takedowns mimicing foreplay. If we were on the show Big Brother separated by cliques SwingGuy would have been with the geeks and I would have been with the hippy outcasts. How incredibly exciting is that mysterious wonder of possibility to one day tandemly swing perfectly with another person! So SwingGuy had been dating a controlling, manipulative, bossychick, who we will call Kiwi- for the whole four stinking years. And now here I was...temporarily back in AZ and newly enamoured with Time will Tell. So... SwingGuy & I sat on the swings at dusk in an empty park near my old house and the gist of the conversation went something like this. "Wow - you look the same". "So do you." "Hey I had a crush on you all thru high school." he flashed a huge grin "REALLY!"(said with emphasis) "Yep" I admitted. He then told me quite explicitly how the crush and chemistry had been mutual, asking, "Why didn't you ever clue me in to the fact that you would have considered me? I thought I had no chance with you." My response, "Probably because... let's see...you had always been with that monster- Kiwi. " Moment of silence. "Turns out I have a sexual frequency addiction and its one of the many, many reasons why I am no longer with Kiwi." "Is that so?" "Yep". Another moment of silence before I realize what I didn't realize all along. "You jerk! We would have been perfect together." I will cut the conversation off right there and NOT tell you about how we might have found some kind of water spigot, might have gotten soaking wet, and then possibly not ended up in an empty racquetball court ... flooded with the wild idea of rewriting history. But I WILL tell you that at some point I exercised the self-control to be able to quote someone with utter conviction in the best Arkansas accent I can muster that "I did not have sex with that woma - er... I mean...man." Even though Time will Tell and I were not exclusive at that point... I didn't want to tangle the swings. It is incredible how easily life can complicate itself and how hard it can be to back out of things we deep down know we probably shouldn't be doing. If you are swinging alongside another person, sometimes destiny or fate or meant to be or whatever you want to call it... might not allow you to swing in sync. Even if you really, really want to and there seems to be no reasonable explanation why you aren't. So should we instead ask ourselves, what is pushing us on these swings? Think about the force behind the rhythm and perfect timing of our actions, our acts of restraint, our mistakes, our intentions, the factors that pump our legs to go higher, and tell us when its just maybe time to get off and leave the playground. Me Swing Pretty One Day. Rest assured, I have fallen off my share of swings. Bruised my knees and gotten dirty. But I have to tell you...the best way to swing for me these days is straddled on the lap of love itself, embracing the man who makes me want to swing closer and higher every single day for the rest of my life.
So our song today is: Realize by Colbie Caillat (#1 on playlist below).
Energy drink for xcetrachick: status delayed- strangely feeling the need for a slow day & that thing people call sleep.

Nine Months

2010-02-25T13:35:00.000-08:00

Nine more months to go. I feel it today. The uncomfortable and necessary bulge of appreciation. Niners -until Thanksgiving- that is. And yet, here we are, stuck in February, and my mind is tossing around all the things I’m thankful for. Am I the kind of person to journal my thoughts? Not really -unless you consider this to be my documented diary of profound thoughts. I don’t write stuff down, especially the zillions of clever passwords I come up with and subsequently forget. I am thankful to have my password emailed to me after numerous guesses, to circumvent getting totally pissed off all the time. Thankful to have a job I love doing. Thankful to work from home and only have to wear high-heels with lingerie. Thankful to live in a house that is far too big and nice for my simple taste. Thankful I picked up Bride Wars for four bucks the day I found out Hollywood Video was going out of business.

I am also thankful to have a guy who does the dirty work. Spider-killer. Car-washer. Computer-fixer. Someone who knows how to run a chick the perfect candlelit bubblebath and make a stellar martini. A hot and sexy guy who keeps the garage as clean as I keep the house. And sometimes, he goes way beyond all I could possibly expect and he does the unthinkable. He goes out braving snow, wind gusts, icy roads, with a low fuel light warning, and makes a journey of risk and adventure to a place many simply refer to as -Walmart. Parking next to a battered car that has a screened door loosely attached to the roof, and a bumper sticker that has a spelling error in it, he clicks the lock button on my SUV’s keychain. Greetings come in the form of a grunt, from a goth teenager in a blue vest, swirling without purpose on a stool by the door. He makes his way thru the thong-laden female sumo wrestlers and acne-faced ant farmers waiting in line at the pharmacy, all the way over to the aisle many men won’t even dare to pass. Women are in abundance in that aisle, along with a solo male employee, stuck stocking razors. Razor guy is careful to avoid eye contact with the man brave enough to enter by his own accord. Some of the ladies smile, others display a look of scorn and jealousy over witnessing love in its finest form.

I am at home, slung over the couch, trying to read a book that has been borrowed for longer than Bill Clinton was President. Hair in a pony-tail with freshly painted nails, can’t decide if I want Diet Coke or Sprite. I wonder which will make me feel less bloated. Neither- so I go with a glass of organic whole milk. Bad decision. If only I had chocolate chip cookies, the milk wouldn’t make me feel so bad. The ringtone Adam Sandler uses in the movie, Bedtime Stories, breaks me out of my dirty little cookie fantasy. Ring. Ring. Riiiiiiing. Riiiiiing.

“Hey babe,” I say in my sweetest take-care-of-me-I-feel-awful voice.
“I don’t see the brand you told me,” he exclaims breathlessly.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“Yeah. High demand for this stuff,” he explains.
“ Oh, sweetie. Before I forget, can you pick up some easy-bake chocolate chip cookie dough too? They keep it over by the yogurt area. ”
“Fine. What about this other THING you said you needed? You know, the THING I came here for?”
“Ohhhh that!” I say casually, “See any overnights with wings?”
“What does ultralight mean?” he responds.
“Means they are really thin. Don’t get those. They leak." I reply, rummaging thru the pantry searching for a bag of Fritos.

Of course, I’m sensitive and smart enough to sense he wants to get my cookies home to me as soon as possible. I quickly agree to a substitute and opt out of explaining or defining the language that complicates purchasing feminine hygiene products. I know better than to bore him with my irrational fears about toxic shock syndrome or my crazy philosophy on why alternating between internal and external products depending on whether its day-time or night-time resonates as logical to me.

When I hear the garage door opening, I jump up and put away the Fritos. Meeting him at the door, I give him a squeeze and a kiss, as I tell him how much I appreciate his trip to hell and back. He smirks, hands me my bags of necessities, and knows my true appreciation won’t be for another few days. How thankful can I be-nine months from Thanksgiving-except to preheat the oven, pop in Bride Wars for later, and enjoy the fact I have someone to love, a guy that appreciates me as much as I do him. A man like that is hard to come by. And I know it. The ladies in that aisle know it. Razor-guy knows it. Love. Sacrifice. Appreciation. Now, back to this book I can't seem to get into. Listening today to Two Is Better Than One by Boys like Girls. Cheers~xc

Ready, Set...GO!

2009-12-31T19:00:00.000-08:00

Before it got insanely popular on youtube...it was here. On MY blog. YOU SAW IT FIRST HERE. Now its one of the most popular videos of last year. Enjoy it again friends as we re-cap two oh oh nine. Does anyone remember watching a television show in which teams of people with grocery carts run thru a supermarket filling them with as much stuff as possible in a given time frame? I don't know if it is really a show...or just some weird dream I've had. Hard to tell. I feel like that periodically in my life. That I am recklessly steering an out of control basket with wobbly wheels everywhere I possibly can to shove as many turkeys and packages of dry goods in before the timer goes off. I want the percieved satisfaction of reaching the checkout knowing NOTHING else could possibly fit. Throughout most of my twenties and less so into my thirties, I tend to struggle with an inner restlessness. It is a drive to do more, to do better, to not have regrets, and to exceed, excel and push the limits. You might be thinking does xcetrachick sometimes "burn the candle from both ends"? And the answer is no. I douse it with lighter fluid and set the whole thing ablaze - sometimes even multiple candles... simultaneously. Here's a fascinating video I discovered on how restless people sleep at night. It captivated me so I thought I'ld share~ Remember to mute the playlist at the bottom of the blog *temporarily* so you can hear the music from this crazy video. Have a Red Bull Day new best friends!

Tick Tock

2009-12-29T21:19:00.000-08:00

End of the year always gets me running restless. Countdowns to the best of everything begin. Top ten movies, top one hundred songs, top, top, top. The bottom is simple. It's falling out. Cause time doesn't stop ticking away. You just lost seconds reading five sentences without a hint of anything important or juicy in it. So let's not waste another moment. My top ten things of this year:

1. Him. You know the guy. My soulmate-the true love of my life. Oh yeah... *bonus* his P90X beachbody.

2. Time spent with my beautiful family, friends, & loved ones. You know who you are.

3. Building up/restoring friendships I had neglected or messed up. Still working on a few...

4. TV: Season 4 of LOST /Big Love Showdown/Madmen

5. Music: Battle Studies/Dark Horse/The Fray

6. Movies: Blindside/Hangover/Ghost of Girlfriends Past

7. Dessert: Margarita cupcakes from Dippidee

8. Fav Blog Writer: http://jackfrombkln.blogspot.com

9. Book: On Writing: Memoir of the Craft - Stephen King

10. My favorite phrase: "The higher the monkey climbs the more he expose." (Been trying to learn a little Jamaican).

Some things I learned in 2009:
Dogs should NOT eat raisens.
Chickens don't have egg holes. Have no idea why I thought they did.
Arrogance and Ignorance are a bad combination.
Forgiveness is the cornerstone of love.
Letting go is never quite as easy as going past go in a Monopoly game.
Talent only blossoms with hard work, discipline and mom's consistent nagging and prodding.
The song I thought was titled "He's a Woman" is really called "Evil Woman". Thanks sis for clearing that one up over the phone as I held up my cell to the car radio for you to set me straight.
Don't assume someone that looks like Perez Hilton is really Perez Hilton.
Better to run than to hide.
The wheels of justice are square and don't turn as well or as fast as you'ld think.
One of my passwords is slang for something I had no idea was vulgar and sexual in nature. Oops.
Ambien is the answer to many of my questions.
Four is my favorite number.
Bourbon Cake and a few Christmas alcoholic beverages can make relatives fun to be around.
I still have alot to learn in this life. But I'm going to make it all count, running full speed ahead and have a blast doing it.
Cheers friends.
xc

Listening to Nickelback's Gotta Be Somebody off of Dark Horse. Highly recommend it.

Best Friending

2009-12-11T21:47:00.000-08:00

Been putting you off. Keeping you in a contained time period of my fascinating life. One that I really don't miss. Except... for one thing. Something I had to let go of to hold on to something else. Sorry if I skip unnecessary letters or words. Twitter does that to people. Do I really need more than 140 characters to say what I have to say? Maybe. Twitterers are #hashtaggers... not to be confused with #hashbrowners or #cornedbeefhashers. And I'm in the mood for spooning peanut butter out of the jar and squeezing Hershey syrup down my throat. So hang on to your...well, whatever it is you like to hold onto, while blog reading and time wasting, while we get thru some stuff to think about listening to Paramore's The One Exception.

Holding on and letting go. What are the things people hold onto? Well... you might be thinking balloon strings, pictures, memories, heros if you liked the movie Flashdance, hope, lots of great stuff. Or weird stuff like guilt, regret, fear, four year old positive pregnancy tests, or baby teeth. Or maybe you're a smarta** and only "hold on" to toilet seats while you're "letting go". Either way... holding on and letting go can be painful as all getup~ whatever getup is or means. Sorry friends, I haven't had an Ambien in two nights so this could get confusing. Just figure it out :) Tonight I shall sleep like a bay-bay (said in a fake British accent).

Loyalty.~ what a treasured commodity to me. I appreciate it more than even melted Nutella on a bananna drizzled with carmel sauce. Must be in the state of premenstual apathy tonight to be this food focused. Ok...lets stay on track. Do you hold on tight to best friendships that matter? Not just people you kind of know or hang out with. I'm talking BEST FRIENDS. Yes...I'm asking *you*. Deep-rooted I -got-your-back people where you know your friendship investment won't be frivolously withdrawn? Yes. I've been hurt by best friends. And I've hurt a few myself. But I hate the "you go your way", "I'll go mine" mentality, especially after they know lots about how you tick and could tag you in Facebook photos that you really don't want friends or family seeing. Why? Because few people want to deal with complicated... or stick it out. The ickyness of working things out, making mistakes, and forgiving each other. Byproducts of besting a friend. And you all must know that to be my best friend...loads of forgiveness is required. Pride messes me up more than you think. Upside of being in a best friendship is that it can make for such a fabulous time and overall deep-rooted sense of security. Some "cut and go people" would rather forget and move on to the next semi-interesting person, because they don't appreciate what they had in you or your suitcase (see the post called Baggage Claim).

So while we can't all be friends with Jennifer Aniston, Courtney Cox, whatshisname and David Schwimmer OR Jerry, George, Elaine and Kramer, we can develop our friendships into ones that matter when it counts. I've found that time and trials will eventually reveal to you who your true friends are! So to my beloved best friends... you know exactly who you are... I appreciate you.

Cheers. Now go tell your best friend you love 'em and are never gonna give 'em up (per Rick Astley). Great guy best friend movie: I Love You Man. Great chick best friend movie: can't think of one. Oh yeah... and tell me a little about YOUR best friend. I wanna know. :)

Love is a Candy Bar

2009-12-05T20:13:00.000-08:00

It's discouraging to me how many people I've spoken to lately that have given up on love. Called it quits. So..I start thinking about all the elements that would line the path of such a discouraging vision. Love's a winding road for sure, but even the most treacherous of journeys have always seemed more worthwhile to me than permanently standing still. Can't imagine not moving, not risking, not wanting to love and be loved back. I operate best under the reckless, wild abandon of making myself vulnerable - a bullseye to love's arrow. The people I know that take that road of desolation, seem to have little more to offer than bitter warnings, misguided directions, and stale complaints on a journey they chose to stop taking. A perspective tainted by a self-limited viewpoint. Armchair quarterbacks and backseat drivers - throwing and steering their lives out of the way of love's goal or destination. Intentionally avoiding the hope of love and its adjoining sidecar of appreciation, I wonder what perpetuates anything of meaning, anything of value or measurable worth in that economy? And the answer I thought of, can best be described as "restless self-gratification". It's life stuck in a hamster wheel. I'm telling you my thoughts on this because I have stepped onto the wheel a time or two..not for long, but I vividly remember after having my heart crushed, the restlessness that threw me into a whirlwind of attaining and achieving. Proving myself...to myself. Striving to be good enough and reclaim my validation. Sometimes chicks do this in very stupid ways. Yeah...not going to attempt to give more details on this here and now. Suffice to say our college wet t-shirt pool party karaoke drinking days are over. So...I looked back on my young life and like a hot-tempered coach watching the playback of the game, critiqued every move, every mistake, with harsh resolve to change and be constantly improving going forward. By the grace of God, a kind of peace emerged, even after never having close to all the answers, never quite figuring it all out and a humbling realization that I didn't have to prove anything at all. But even before that, the determination to proceed was always there. The restlessness also spurned a sense of urgency that I didn't have time to waste, especially avoiding what I knew I wanted most. I figured out that for myself, the fear of jumping into the deep end of love, was a losing game of shifting manipulations. Where pain and pleasure just melt together into a frenzy of exceeding expectations and keeping busy so you don't have time to think or admit how lonely you are. For that brief season in my life, when my boss thought I was an adrenaline junkie, I got promotion after promotion. I thrived off of the accomplishments I carried around like a crackpipe. Graduated with highest of honors from college, got my first acceptance letter into law school one month after sending out my application, made amazing friendships, and got to experience the ghost of seeing what life is like without having what you want the most. I understand the value of appreciating what you have -after given a second chance. This life experience (one of picking myself up , dusting myself off, and preparing to give love another shot) shaped the hard core premise that the only thing in life I could NEVER give up on... was love. Because regret is a bigger burden to me than heartache. Chasing after love, is the heart of every song that moves my soul. As are the songs that express the darkest sides of losing love. Because I know that without that immeasurable depth of loss, numbing heartache, and risk that accompany giving your heart away, the flip side of that coin is just as vast and immensely powerful. It's the landscape of intertwining every part of who you are with another person. It's knowing that the only perfect love comes from above. That forgiveness is love's tag along. Not just a warm, mushy feeling or a flurry of sexual desire, but an all-encompassing love fueled by a decision to hold on tight no matter what, to stick it out, and sometimes stick out your tongue at anything that threatens the core of it, knowing it will be a tough road sometimes. I value the understanding that nothing beats - being in, falling in, and most importantly, staying in... love. Nothing in the restless realm of unsustainable pleasures, mindless time wasting, money making or spending, achieving and self-deceiving will ever compare, or remotely fulfill or satisfy. Love is simply the ultimate Snickers bar... it really satisfies. For those of you with differing opinions, or experience, I would love to hear your insight. For those of you who want to add songs to my list...I LOVE that idea! So send me the artist and title go ahead ...just do it. A list of some of my life theme songs - upon hearing these can transport me effortlessly to the various places I've been on love's wonderfully amazing but sometimes hard road. These great songs on my life's soundtrack, currently located on the ipod affectionately known and loved as "pinkpod". Cheers, xc

Norah Jones...Don't Know Why
Patty Griffin...Rain
Paramore...The Only Exception
Michelle Branch...Til I Get Over You
Ford Turrell...Ghost of Goodbye
The Fray...Look After You
Indigo Girls...Deconstruction
John Mayer...Not Myself
Rascal Flatts... Movin On
REM....Nightswimming
Howie Day...Collide
Dave Matthews... Baby
Avril Lavigne...I'm With You
Auqualung...Brighter Than Sunshine
Adele...Make You Feel My Love
Lifehouse...Breathing
Shane Alexander...Feels Like the End
Train - Get to Me
Hoobastank - The Reason
Coldplay - Trouble

Backwards...Reverse

2009-11-11T20:00:00.000-08:00

Ever written a letter to yourself as a kid? Time to jump in the Delorean and hope for lightning. Only this time I'm taking you with me to travel back in time. Hop in and buckle up. And don't spill my Red Bull. Sorry -its my last one. Just so you know, we are not going back to change anything or alter the outcome in any way...just leave a letter. Yes, we have to leave now. No, there's no time to pack... or gripe. Did you bring an ipod? Cause I'm really not up for playing 20 questions- we have less than one minute to start the engine and depart. Sorry for being impatient and grumpy. I didn't get enough sleep last night. Hot, sexy guy stayed up late playing Call of Duty Modern Warfare 2 and I am a light sleeper without pharmaceutical intervention. Aren't these doors amazing! More cars should have doors like these. Wow - that was fast. I think you can unsqueeze your cheeks now. If you got the seat wet, there's a towel in the backseat. Yes, we are here. We made it. We're alive. Time to party like its 1999, as the artist formerly known as arrogant would say. Our plan of action: See the little girl who will one day be known as xcetrachick, hand her the letter, leave, and be back to the present before the Office comes on. What? Yes... I know you want to read the letter I wrote to myself. Did you know that curiosity kills cats and I can attest that mistakenly hot tap water can kill a goldfish in the second it takes to realize the water is way too hot. The drop of dechlorinator useless in a boiling accident. RIP Finn. Ok. Here's the letter. Read it before I change my mind. Ok- there I am...watching the Brady Bunch episode where they go to Hawaii. So, read it quick -then drop it in my little lap...and run like an Olympic sprinter to the Delorean, where I'll be waiting for you. Confused? Good. I like you that way.

Dear Little Lady,

This letter is to inform you of events to come. I know this might not make any sense to you right now, that you are still more concerned with whether or not your mom will find out that you cut Barbie's hair and colored it with a sharpie. You worry your favorite doll might get mistaken for Marie Osmond, but rest assured your mom will only laugh... and you get a better Barbie on your birthday which is today. One with longer, blonder hair that you will never think of cutting. So save this letter for future days. The ones ahead when you might wonder how everything will turn out. Because while you dream and envision the perfect fairytale wedding, sometimes there is heartache in between the best joy imaginable. For instance, Ken might seem like a nice guy now, but after he marries Barbie Osmond he might start to slowly lose interest in wearing the clothes you pick out for him and he might not be smart enough to appreciate all the cute things you do, like bend his legs before you sit him down. Ken might one day go missing. And while you think the dog may have just hid him somewhere under the bed, he might really have just stolen Barbie's Corvette with no intention of ever returning, just having a process server surprise her with a stack of ugly paperwork. But don't cry. It will be ok. See... Barbie will still have Skipper to cry her eyes out to and if she calls an attorney right away, she will get to keep the condo... and the TV...and even the grill. So when those kind of days seem sad and you wonder how you will manage, know that it will get better- much better. You will wonder how it's possible that you went from worst to best. So remember that there are better guys out there, ones with cooler names who don't have hard, fake plastic parts. Real people to love and hug and...well, we won't go there. But take chances. And love with all you've got. Even when it hurts. And it'll sometimes hurt alot. But allow yourself to feel it, and be determined to emerge stronger and better for having endured the experience. Pick yourself up when life gets tough and be the best friend you possibly can. Embrace the best in the people you meet and those you allow to love you. Surround yourself with creative people - musicians, writers, artists... people who live passionately. There will come a day when you will meet the real man of your dreams. Let me clarify...your wildest, funnest, most exciting dreams. He will ride in on a white horse...ok I can't lie- he will drive a white lifted Xterra with huge tires. He will turn your heart inside out and you will adore loving him every minute of every day. You will appreciate knowing without a doubt he will never leave you. He will propose in the most amazing of ways and you will know what it means to share every aspect of yourself with your best friend. You might even get some added surprises. But I can't tell you any of that. You must wait and see. So go... grow up and remember -make it ALL interesting.

Love, the grown up you
~one day to be famously known as xcetrachick

P.S. Don't think you 'll get a car when you're sixteen. And don't be too embarrased/disappointed to learn how to drive on a wood -panelled minivan, one that you immediately dent your first try out. Be patient young one. Think cool convertible senior year so long as you keep those grades up.

TPM Crash

2009-10-19T21:34:00.001-07:00

I know how it goes to check for a new blog post and see the same thing you already read and laughed at and now you don't think its funny anymore. It's just irritating. It's lame and insensitive and I know you think I am a lazy***. But there is a very good reason why I have not been in contact. I am sparing you from uncensored insanity that comes from something tough to swallow. It's called Phenylephrine HCL mixed with a little Dextromethorphan HBr and a touch of Doxylamine Succinate. You might know my friend, by its code name: Tylenol PM. As much as I hate sickies~ I hate being the sickie even more. Because when a germ freak like myself gets sick - suddenly we find the capacity to share the wealth of our germs with all of the germspreaders that got us sick in the first place. Suddenly don't give a crap who we spray our sneeze on, who catches the whiff of cough residue or touches our unsanitized hand. The fun of being a germ freak is NOT catching anything. So once you have it, avoiding it loses its thrill and appeal. But I have to tell you, I now know why you have to show ID to buy this stuff. I kinda like taking it. I hate medicines. But I like this much more than I will admit. I sleep better than an Ambien-addict all by taking 2 tablespoons of honeylemonhell. But don't tell anyone. Even though it tastes horrible and I salivate thinking about swallowing it, it gives me the warm fuzzies once over before I crash into the deepest sleep ever imaginable. So... wish me well and know that tonight is the LAST night for me and the elixir to intertwine. Tomorrow, I shall end the relationship with TPM by downing a Rockstar Punch and taking a vitamin for sh*** and giggles. Only then shall I ponder whether to continue to write something funny for your entertainment. Listening to DMB today

Piss and Vinegar

2009-10-14T17:38:00.000-07:00

Here's my thoughts on the new Mazda automobile that runs on urine. Freaking awesome! An invention that finally makes sense! Not that I would ever buy a Mazda. NO offense Mazda people -they just don't make anything worthwhile for offroading that I would ever consider. I'm a Hummerchick. But think about it. This is the perfect vehicle for people who can't drive without the 120 ounce big gulp of Diet Coke stashed between their legs, chilling their inner thighs into frigidity. Or bottled water junkies who have to have their hydrofix tucked into every orifice of their car. Dasani freaks. Now, I realize that the "urea" is currently processed, but seriously, how many of you know guys that can't go more than an hour without peeing? I know plenty. And most would be up for a roadtrip. How cool would it be to just pull over, have them literally "fill it up" then jump back in and drive. *Gentlemen...insert nozzle here*. What a perfect design. Ingenius Mazda engineers. I applaud you. Recycling pee-pee -that's what I call going green!

So now, we are switching gears to talk about sourpusses. Specifically, men and women who tend to live life under the cloud of a chronic bad mood. I've been battling a cold this week and have been irritable as snot these last few days. But alas...I am on the mend and my good, silly nature is being revived, quickly. I might have to watch Wedding Crashers or Tommy Boy to totally turn the tide. But I will be gleeful and dancing around by morning. Dreaming about having my blonde locks braided while listening to some Bob Marley on a beach in Mexico somewhere with a bottle of Captain Morgan, while getting an oceanside massage by a hot local. Drifting back into reality. Sorry I took some cold medicine. What were we talking about? Oh yeah. Fellow happy-go- luckiers... the chronic "downer" can be a real pill to be around sometimes. It can really put a damper on your life's party. These kinds of bitter "pills" I don't recommend swallowing. You know I'm kidding. (Insert giggle here).
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I enjoy surrounding myself with funny, easygoing, sexy people, who like clever and witty conversation, wild adventure and often speak without censoring themselves, but I realize not everyone lives in a place where people are attractive or humorous or that fun to be around. So, if you are stuck with a green apple, here are some things you might want to try.
1. Motrin.
2. Sex.
3. Chocolate.
4. Food.
5. Season 1 of the Office.
6. Visit to a shrink.
7. Renting funny movies.
8. Boot to deliver a swift kick.
9. Tickling.
10. I'm out of ideas. Figure it out.

Jamming to Train today, specifically, I'm About To Come Alive. I think Patrick Monahan looks alot like the guy that never ages on Lost. Something about him I find oddly attractive. But then again the character I like most is Ben Linus. Go figure that one out. And while you're at it...go make life interesting.

Baggage Claim

2009-10-11T09:14:00.000-07:00

Let's take a trip. Anyone know if you can score Ritalin (adult dosage) in a foreign country without a prescription? Because I distinctly recall getting some kick-a** antibiotics in Thailand with just a doped up smile and some foreign currency. In airports I tend to get a little silly and like to page funny, non-existent names over the intercom. Then laugh uncontrollably when the operator tells Harry Anus to meet his party at baggage carousel 3. Not everyone that I travel with laughs as hard as I do. Anyway, just when I start to think I know exactly who I am and where I'm heading I almost always get lost. I look in the mirror and wonder how the freak I lose sight of myself so easily. So, what about creating a self-identity GPS system. We can help mesh who we are each and every day complete with recognizable remnants of the past and hopeful aspirations for the future. No iphoners- it would not be Apple compatible. Only for PC people with exclusive discounts for Blackberry users. I get all the credit. You can make it functional and deal with the refunds from the unsatisfied miserable people. Be the technical brains behind the arrogant beauty. Here's how it would work. Just type in who you think you are and it will pop up your driver's license picture and remind you what you are still hung up on. It can list what gets in the way of where you're headed with icons of little suitcases. The perfect self-humbling application. Ok, so maybe we will market to the Apple people only so the iphone can have another application people won't be able to find or get to work. The ugly luggage from past train wreck relationships and broken-down heartaches.
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So, what's in mine? You know by now I'm a neat freak and a germ freak who loves complicated things and I battle a daily energy drink addiction. So of course, my carry-on is going to be stuffed with Red Bull, Windex and Purell. As someone who is incredibly spontaneous and coincidentally structured, I don't always pack things that make sense or come in handy. I never pack a hair dryer, but sometimes carry a copy of the United States Constitution. I might have some regret rolled up, a hint of guilt, a few packages of jealousy and a mess of abandonment fears stashed away. But I try to unpack after every trip and not bring the same stuff over and over again, even though it happens now and again. Maybe its why I've taken a liking to traveling light. Where did I get my nifty little pre-owned rolling bag you ask? At a place that didn't seem to notice there was a simple wedding band stashed inside. Hiding for someone like me to find it years after purchase. Gem of irony. And like a good little writer I assimilated a story behind it, where the symbolism is intense and meaningful...but I'm not going tell you what it is. Not today... anyway.
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I always pack a bikini and extra contact lens solution. Have you ever seen the annoying blinking people do when they have dry eyes? Its very unsexy. Note, that I have very few irrational fears. One of them I will share with you. It involves walking on pool or shower drains, so I tend to bring pool shoes (Speedos) or flip flops to curb the fear and still look really cool in the bikini. And when I fly, I never want to sit in the middle. I'm an aisle girl all the way. I like to see what everyone else is doing and reading and talking about. I like to lean out and have the rolling drink cart smack me in the back of the head. And get stitches in a bustling Miami emergency room where the wait is over five hours long, few speak English, and I get to use an out of network insurance provider. It adds to the fun of not having a set plan for how things will turn out. And that sack...just leave it in the seat pocket or fill it up with air and then sit on it. I only dream that I could stand on my seat and pretend I'm windsurfing during takeoff. Turbulence and I get along just fine. We understand each other. For landings, I always push back into the seat cushion and play air guitar. A riff of excitement for getting to where I want to go. Dramamine is the drug of choice for sissies and chronic hurling pukers. And we all know I am neither. So where should we go today? Tahiti? France? Cuba? Anywhere they have nude beaches and all inclusive alcoholic beverages ? Funny! Good answer. I like to bring funny people along. Seriously, you can pick the destination. Anywhere is fine by me. I'm all for no tan lines and duty-free shopping. Let's take off and feel what it's like to fly nowhere in particular and unpack all of the icky stuff we don't want to keep where we reside. Then, we hop on a red eye, come back and recognize all the important little things we missed and took for granted. Changed your mind? Me too. As one of my favorite chicks always says when clicking her sparkling red stilletos together, "there's no place like home." Hey, what do you say we just grab a couple bags of Doritos,see who can get the orangest fingers fastest, make some break and bake chocolate chip cookies and watch a rerun of the Office instead. Have I told you that I like you friend? Good... because I don't know if I do yet. And I probably won't say that very often, even if its true. We'll have to see how long it lasts. For now, go make life interesting and work on unpacking your junk.

Listening to hip-hop today: Blue Without You.

Block Party

2009-09-15T22:02:00.000-07:00

It's been awhile since we just hung out together so I figured why not throw a party. We're all friends, right? I mentioned in a former post how the best way to *really* get to know your neighbors involves a case of beer and some lawnchairs. While that brilliant strategy doesn't work so well for me where I currently live, I'm here to tell you in most places it works just fine. So here we are... what can I get you? I have it all. The cooler is right by your feet so help yourself.

What I really mean to say is "Help Me... Help You. Come on Jerry...say it with me now SHOW ME THE MONEY"! Except I like to scream "SHOW ME THE HONEY" repeatedly, as loud as I possibly can, especially in quaint, quiet tea rooms. It's my battlecry to the diminishing honeybees. I get email's from Burt's Bees about it all the time. For some reason, the bee crisis makes me think of that Def Leppard song, "Pour Some Sugar On Me." Take a listen to this Cornbread Red cover of it. Especially you Hillbilly Headbangers. Think you might like it as much as I do.

What am I *already* drinking, you ask? I mix Red Bull with Grey Goose. I like to be able to tell people I drink Red-Goosed Grey Bulls. And what would a party be without music? Loud music. So, I fashioned together a stellar playlist just for the occasion. So let's get this party started. Is this bringing back some crazy college memories for you? Me too. See, I went to a top rated party school. There is no doubt some sociological negatives to that - but the sense of community and the ego boost it gave me sure was a blast. Nevermind the fact I graduated with honors and got to wear two very long cords around my neck while walking towards the extended hand and pricey piece of paper. Forgetting some of the things I learned at college was not intentional. Kind of like getting second-hand stoned at a Dave Matthews Band concert. It just happens. I have much fonder memories of hilarious Thursday night ski club meetings at Hooters or downing black and tans with Irish nachos in between homework problems. College was a time when I went to city court weekly to fight parking tickets and then in the evenings attended numerous campus pool parties that even a great writer like myself couldn't find colorful enough words to describe, at least not using this forum. My college experience can be summed up on one of those motivational posters on an office wall. Work Hard - Play Hard.

Do you ever forget what you were talking about? Parties sometimes do that to people. Time for another Bull Grey Red Goose. I was going to tell you about me falling in love, getting lost, and almost careening down the side of a ravine in a brand new loaded, supercharged Xterra with full lockers and a six inch lift. Maybe another time. But hey, I took that bee sting like a champ and it was the vehicle in front of us that got hit by lightening and caught fire. Speaking of confusing things -ready for a little Lady Gaga? I only put "Let's Dance" on this playlist because I don't want to "offend" anyone by the references in "Love Game", even though it might be on my ipod. Shhh. No telling.

You want to know why I would rather drink energy drinks than take medication to fall asleep. Well, the story I was told by the person prescribing me the Ambien was so downright hilarious (guess some sleep aids can make you fall over instantaneously in which injuries to random body parts have been known to occur ) turned me off to the idea. I like to be the one enjoying the joke rather than the one being the joke. Plus, I have an addictive personality and moderating Red Bull is enough for me. Why you ask, does my blog walk the fine line when it comes to sexual innuendos? And sometimes I like to answer questions best by asking questions back. "Why do you read it and what keeps you coming back for more?" Could it be that I say the things you think or you just want to know that someone like me thinks you're cool. Either way, I hope your answer is that it's funny and silly and it makes you want to see life a little bit differently. Get a little crazy Be a little wilder. Laugh a little harder. Get a little more...Hmm. I better not say that. And if you believe everything I say is true, then who am I to ruin it for you. And with that disclosure I think it might be time to break out the limes and get some karaoke or Guitar Hero going. If the neighbors call the police because we're too loud, could you just pretend to be me and say you own this house. Super. Deflecting confrontation is something I'm working on perfecting. Almost ready to set off the illegal fireworks I have hiding in the garage. I think the fine's only $500 so let's do this big. Ok. Ready...set...go - make life interesting!

Messed up Kind of Perfect

2009-08-30T06:31:00.000-07:00

Singlehood wraps like a nice package, only sometimes what's inside isn't as pretty as you think. With the freedom to hunt and become prey comes the constant pressure from friends and family to be paired up with someone of their indiscriminate choosing. Even someone totally wrong for you seems like a great idea to them rather than watching you go it alone. Locating the male counterpart for me seemed like a wild, fun, and entertaining project for my crazy mix of friends. And once the idea catches on it starts to turn into a sociological frenzy. The chum of dating, sex and singleness brings out the shark in people. Every conversation the question always loomed like a surprise burst of flatulence. Their inquiring minds wanted to know... "Who is it gonna be next?" They wanted intimate details of prospects, possibilities, and conquered prizes. Nothing like living vicariously thru xcetrachick's crazy single adventures in love and war. But in the moments after a breakup or heartache their enthusiasm changed into furious desperation to "find me a new one". I was ok with some down time. They however, were not. See, there is no waving away or covering pity up with a squirt of perfume. It lingers and sticks around for hours. It makes everyone uncomfortable and the common look shared by all is one of denial. So when it became time to house hunt, the ringless realtor became a prime target for those who call themselves my friends, or as I affectionately call them - my allies. Can you imagine how entertaining it would be to spend hours driving around stuck in a car with xcetrachick, well-meaning but agenda-driven allies and a single man, who looked like a real life Ken doll? Better put your Red Bull down for this. I'm gonna tell you the short version, because the long one is much too unbelievable. Realtorguy and my allies clicked instantly. I knew I was in for a very long, trying day walking thru other peoples houses with this bunch as soon as they got to fake laughing and schmoozing. I was clearly outnumbered. The memo that was being typed up in my head read like this: Hello allies... I am getting tired of being the source of your sick sense of humor. Please come back to earth and join me in real life because *newsflash* the sabotage/set-up with realtorguy is not going to work out as you had hoped. Stop poking me in the ribs every time we walk thru a house and wink wink doesn't register anymore. Please try your call again later. No more torture, please. Your friend, xc.

Realtorguy:
He had perfectly bleached teeth, plastic looking jet black Ken doll hair, expensive suit, white dress shirt, red tie, shiny shoes, tanned weightlifter body, and a really flashy smile. His cologne smelled delightful. However, if Mattel had wanted Ken to date me they would have created Hippy-Surfer-Xcetrachick Barbie who drives an Xterra and wears flip-flops year round. I had no desire for the pink corvette or elevator townhouse. While we drove thru neighborhoods in his perfectly waxed, shiny new car I noticed there was a mini fridge in the glove box. He explained it was so he could keep his high energy protein bars chilled. Sorry, but I genetically lucked out with a high metabolism, realtorguy. I eat whatever I want and still stay skinny. "Got any brownies in there?" I mused with my own attempt at a fake laugh. The allies switched sides and didn't think I was being funny. I had hoped the hilarious infatuation of the allies with the crazy concept of marrying me off to the houseseller wouldn't be painfully obvious, but I knew all along embarrassment was part of this game. And I was stuck playing. Every sentence began with my name and some ridiculous, meaningless fact. Example. Realtorguy: "I really like this area alot, there is even a clubhouse with tennis courts". Allies: "Oh yeah. Did you know our amazingly, wonderful, blonde, voluptuous single friend xcetrachick has a tennis racquet she bought at Sports Authority a few years back for like $25 - you two should definitely play together." Realtorguy: "I just got divorced too xcetrachick. Maybe we could lean on each other for support thru these painful, difficult lonely times." Flashes a big grin. Stuck in the middle backseat wedged between the allies, my only option is to fake laugh again and think yeah... and I have a meatball factory in Asia to sell you. And so went the day. Allies came up with a prototype Gitmo for single folk and disguised it as a Mercedes. The end of the day brought about an actual real estate contract... and somehow I ended up in my exhaustion agreeing to go over to realtorguys house for a few minutes to meet his dog. My exit line went like this. "Oh no, I don't think I should have a glass of wine with you. If my friends smell alcohol on my breath they might get the wrong idea. I already have alot of explaining to do. Wow, look at the time - I better be going. Take care now."

I was left to go it alone in realtorguys house with him for approximately four minutes, and the allies, were nonetheless convinced something wild, hot and passionate occurred in that brief amount of time. While they might have guessed right that four minutes was plenty of time for me to work a situation- it was categorically never gonna happen with someone like realtorguy. The allies interrogation: But you guys have the same kind of dog. Yes, we do, but sorry the answer is still NO. You are both hot and single. That logic is flawed - still NO. But xcetrachick, he owns a house near yours. Remember he sells these things for a living-the final answer, NO. Go have dinner together or better yet hit the gym with him(wink wink). Nope. Look at how great he looks in a suit-think of the possibilities. Another wink wink - Another No. But he smelled good. Yes, but I'm not that shallow allies. Finally, I had to tell them. Friends- I don't know if this will register as a red flag to to you but please listen very carefully so I don't have to repeat it. I spoke enunciating every word trying to overemphasize what I had discovered in the four minutes I had been at realtorguy's house meeting his canine. These words came out very slowly: "Realtorguy has something he doesn't even realize he should keep a dirty, dark little secret. Their eyes widened. "Allies, Realtorguy... he has a tanning bed in his family room with a little side table to hold the goggles". I shivered remembering. There was a hushed silence before I proceeded, "Don't make me explain how horribly wrong that is. I am haunted by that sight. Knowing you would probably think it was his ex's I asked the question and he proudly admitted his addiction to synthetic sunlight. It's one thing for a guy to go to a tanning place on ocassion and do so secretly, but its a seriously different type of messed up altogether to shell out thousands of bucks to have one in your house. This is a high maintenance guy we're talking about! One who has needs I can't even begin to fathom. It is uncharted territory... and I'm absolutely not going there. Besides, I'm used to guys who grow a three day beard for kicks and need to be reminded to use soap when they shower. Sure... realtorguy is nice, he's sweet, he has a body type that I appreciate, he seems harmless, he likes Rottweilers, BUT still... he is a messed up kind of perfect that definitely won't mesh with me. See allies... I am just more of a perfectly messed up kind of person. I need someone secure in their own insecurities, someone more like...like me. Does this make any sense to you? No? Great. Sigh and sulk. Minutes pass before they resume. "No... I don't want to see if he's free tomorrow."
So, instead of listening to the allies, I rejected their picks over and over again until eventually when I least expected it, found myself the perfect match. A guy who I was attracted to clean or dirty, wearing a suit and tie or a T-shirt and cargo shorts. A guy who has a talent for getting people talking about things that made me laugh harder than I ever had before. Listening to Elvin Bishop's classic: Fooled Around and Fell in Love.
Now go... make life interesting.

Come Down Now

2009-08-17T14:43:00.000-07:00

Like a little kid tucked away in a hidden treehouse, I have been furiously busy. I can't complain -great to live in a treehouse with stainless steel appliances, a fridge full of energy drinks and an un-claimed prescription for Ambien laying around unwanted on the granite countertops. Sleeping - it's grossly overrated. I can think of a million better things to do in a bed other than sleep anyway (she says with a big grin). No chance of this chick slowing down. I wanna make Steven Tyler look bad when I get really old like that. I wanna fall off a stage in Sturgis while singing Love in an Elevator AND get back up and finish the show. In between time, dreams, working and loving I've also been restructuring. There is a new saucier, spicier, fictitous blog for articulating my wilder rantings. Between Time and Dreams will go on for awhile and run medium to mild in intensity. Don't think I'm watering it down - I'm known to throw habernero around carelessly. I once made my own salsa for a charity fundraising contest. I had the little seeds of a habernero pepper in a baggie by a bowl of freshly cut tomatoes. So one of Time Will Tell's buddies came over and decided to pull them out and touch them. Why he proceeded to then touch his testicles I have no freaking idea. But I will never forget the howling and screaming that poor guy let loose that day. For future reference - soaking "the boys" in milk wasn't much of a help. Soap and water works better. No... I didn't do the washing. I merely offered soaking suggestions based on the limited knowledge I had on this tender subject. Lots in the works. I am also knee deep in a novel I'm writing so if you can come up with some cool character names that catch my fancy let me have em. Came up with a new word last night. Authenticklish = something that genuinely tickles you silly. Listening to Iron and Wine here's some of my latest random fragments of thought: Painting in colors we never knew existed. Posturing. Positioning. Manipulating. Performing. Pleasing. Audience. Covering. Seditious. Reflection.
Now..go climb a tree.

Man versus Wild

2009-08-11T12:16:00.000-07:00

First off, I must thank the immensely talented manstories blogger JD, a fellow seeker of fun and unusual life experiences, for allowing me to post his hilarious blindside of a breakup as evidence that men and women are most definitely destined to interact with each other. Not insinuating that either gender does it well. Face it-we all get tangled up sooner or later. This was both crushingly funny and mildly embarrassing for me to watch, since I'll be the first to admit my knack for not listening, running with assumptions, and occasionally reacting without reason or eventual recourse. Men & Women. Our bodies and mental makeups have been designed perfectly- both to mesh passionately and repel vehemently. Sometimes, the collisions and resistance happen at the same time or... for those liking make-up sex one precedes the other. It seriously blows my mind why anyone would not want to partake in the messy experience- the mystery, excitement, aggravation, pain, frustration, longing desire, anger-intensive, passionate and mind-boggling pleasure that plays out between the genders. So if you haven't figured it out yet...xcetrachick is unabashedly intrigued and captivated by love and the complexity of relationships. Oh yeah...friends make sure you mute the mediaplayer at the bottom before you watch... unless you like listening to layers of noise on top of each other. This video slightly reminded me of my former post Time will Tell - you remember the hilarious personal ad my ex constructed without my knowledge. Now go - make life interesting.

See more funny videos and funny pictures at CollegeHumor.

Barley Used

2009-07-25T23:06:00.000-07:00

We are diving deep into the messiness of life & relationships once again friends. Let's see how uncomfortable it is. So, recently I had the strange urge to spend a Saturday morning perusing local garage sales. The whole concept makes me smile even thinking that an obsessively neat, germ freak like myself intentionally sought out strangers homes in search of their stickered, unwanted stuff. I had once gone to a nearby neighbors house last summer that oddly had COOL items at bargain prices...so I had this skewed and unreasonable expectation for cheap expensive good stuff.

Essentially, garage sale-ing is the addictive act of pillaging and looting. The saying, "one mans junk is another man's treasure"- yeah, no freakin' way. Newsflash: Its all junk. Some people are just delusional enough to pay for it in the momentary rush of cheap satisfaction, which later morphs into buyers remorse once it sees the light of day... or the inside of your home. In my non-professional expert opinion, I think its much like a sexual addiction. In the primal urge for release and instant gratification- everyone suddenly looks attractive, much like the array of items spread haphazardly across driveways and front yards all across America every single weekend. It's the desperate attempt to find something great at a lower cost. Going to garage sales reminds me of going to a nightclub where you know everyone there is only looking for eyecandy -something cheap and temporary.

So what item did I seek out in this unusual endeavor, you ask? If I tell you it might change your perception of me, but hey... we bare all here don't we? I happen to have a little bit of a lamp fetish. What can I say... home lighting is my quirk - my bargain weakness. The truth is I bought two lamps for 15 bucks and by the time I reached the car I knew they would never enter my house or be fully accepted by me. From my car to *my* garage they sit as unwanted as ever... until I dump them on some other crazy fool at the garage sale I will inevitably be having soon. Full circle insanity I tell you. But the truly bizarre part of the experience comes in what I observed in this impulsive quest for multi-watt illumination. I pull up to a "multi-family" kind of sale - tons of other wanters are collectively sifting and sorting thru a ridiculous collection of many-strange-peoples junk. It is all organized in row after row of plastic gallon totes. I stop because I see a pair of motorbiking pants with the tags still on- which for no good reason caught my eye. They are super small and besides the obvious fact that I don't own a motorbike, in an utterly bizarre moment of me not being me I find myself asking how much they are. I hear the answer, regain my mental ability to assert my "no, thanks" and decide to walk the path of totes just for kicks. Rows and rows of gold tinsel Christmas decor from the seventies along with knit Santa stockings mixed in with dirty tupperware and I'm getting nauseous wondering what kind of genetic makeup people who buy this kind of stuff possess. As I near the end of the line, trying not to breathe the smell of old, I see two things that I could never imagine being that close to each other in any other setting -other than this bad-dream called a multi-family garage sale. A framed picture of the late Mormon church leader Gordon B. Hinkley laying in a bin with a long cylindrical massager of sorts with rubber tips on the end. Shiver down my spine. Ewww. My mind did not want to see either of those items in a garage sale..and most certainly not together. As I make my way thru the maze, sharply barking at eager sellers that I don't want any of their worthless crap, I see a pile of clothes to navigate around to make my way out of the intense weirdness. Squinting, I immediately cringe at the enormous-sized woman's lingerie stacked in a heap by the exit next to a handwritten sign that says, "Barley Used". Used lingerie?? Are you kidding me? Its far too sad for me to even muster a laugh until much later on in that harrowing day. As I enter the safety zone of my car, I think to myself (driving away empty-handed) that no bargain was worth the images I endured in the quest for lamps. Lamps that I will only end up convincing myself are fire hazards even with a UL listed sticker. Knowing full well they could never be clean enough for my standards. Clearly, my ONLY option is brand-spankin new. I simply don't want to see what other people are parting with. So there it is.

Song is Empty-Handed by Michelle Branch.

Time will Tell (My ex's personal online dating ad)

2009-07-09T08:37:00.001-07:00

Hey best friend strangers I'm diving a little deeper today so first scroll down to the playlist below and put the song Never say Never on by the Fray(its #11). Done that? Good. Let's go. So we all have a box. Yours is probably like mine somewhere tucked away either in the basement, attic, back of the closet, top shelf of the closet, somewhere not too obvious... but always there when you need to pull out the past. It has made it thru moving, organizing, decluttering, breaking up, garage sales, infestations, evictions, floods, hurricanes, fires and the likes relatively intact. This box of pictures, trinkets, memorabilia, xcetra... is harboring things we can't seem to part with. Think of today's post as Christmas morning. I am going to open my box for you and let you sneak a peek at a few things that this detached gypsychick hasn't let go of. First of all, upon opening my box you will be overwhelmed with the delicious aroma of nag champa incense. Hippychick that I was~ I used to smell like that ALL the time. So the incense in my time capsule is to keep me towing the hippy line. What's that you say? Pictures of a dog that meant the world to me -a 150lb Rottweiler named Rush. Watch the movie Marley & Me - except take out the part where the guy gets to the point of wanting kids - insert 5 years of wasted time then a surprise divorce. Wow, my first cell phone ever! That over there is my kindergarten diploma right next to my acceptance letter into Oklahoma City University School of Law. And the tiny green mug on a necklace - my delivery method for green beer drinking at Bennegan's on St. Patrick's Day. See I have lots of pictures in here. Some of the funniest cards I've ever recieved - this one is of a waitress and it says "What's this tampon doing behind my ear?....and WHERE did I put my pencil? and my other favorite: WARNING: Alcohol may make members of the opposite sex appear more attractive than they actually are. Keepers! So now I am going to share something painfully embarrasing. It's called Time will Tell. How did I come upon this and what is it you ask? One day I get this call from one of my single girlfriends with this shocker. Background: First love and I had met at our mutual friend Sasha's wedding when I was 19 and he was 20. We walked down the aisle that day as bridesmaid and groomsman and at the reception afterwards his british/irish accent,and blue eyes & dimples made quite the impression on me. He looks kinda like a cross between Leo DiCaprio and Robert Pattinson - yep...the twilight vampire. He stalked me all thru college. Then, after having a ring custom designed for me we tied the knot in an elaborate wedding ceremony at Tara - replica Gone with the Wind mansion. It started out as quite the love story. So anyway... while single friend of mine was perusing the personal ads attempting to find some mug shot of someone she could see herself sleeping with... she came across a picture of my soon to be ex-hubby, who was also "advertising" in the online personal ads. Wanna glimspe of what he wants and doesn't want? I like to hope that he was smoking crack when he wrote this because its far too sad for me to comprehend otherwise but he clearly mentions in this ad "that he does not do drugs". Makes me squeamish to share - but here goes.
Time will Tell.
27-34 year old blue-eyed, educated, professional seeking woman within 25 miles of Phoenix, AZ
Doesn't care what religion, political background, work background, etc. she is- but NO kids.
Here's his bio:
Honest to a fault, great sense of humor, never have done nor will do drugs, educated, competitive, employed, athletic, somewhat shy, romantic, ambitious, spontaneous, playful, sensitive, open if treated properly, communicative, active, hopeful. Satisfied with my career and have a range of hobbies including gourmet cooking and Latin dancing. (WHAT?)
Does not play games, smoke, pretend, cheat, abuse, lie, rescue. Proper use of utensils. I work out 3-4 times per week and into most sports including ice hockey and mountain biking. I believe opportunities are never wasted. A chance you don't take - someone else will. Intimacy and sensuality are very important. You need to be confident, stable, clean, educated, very fit. A good set of abs is a BIG turn on. Must be into fitness. Know when/how to be a lady. No drama queens, rebounds, bi-polars, projects, or door mats. NO attitudes-been there done that. I am told that it is impossible to find someone that does not fall into one or all of those categories. Prove my friends wrong, because I still have hope. I guess I am still a hopeless romantic. Need someone to go thru life next to me not behind me. You DO have to keep up. You do have to be able to hold a conversation about something other than yourself. Intrigue me with your mind, embrace me with your heart. If you just want to get laid -go on to the next profile. You are wasting your time here.

Ouch! Whenever I want to boost my self-esteem I dig into the box for this. Yeah-right. Obviously, you now know my abs weren't good enough, I can't keep up, I'm narcissistic and I have a bit of an attitude. Disclaimer: figuring out the reasons why you aren't wanted... is an invitation to losing your mind. So y'all know his leaving was a shocker - total surprise... but how did I find out the truth you wonder (esp those of you terrified of posting any question in the comments section)? I was chased down by a process server in my front yard. He was attempting to force me to sign for divorce papers three days after Time will Tell disappeared. It was quite the scene, one which my old neighbors are probably still talking about. I ran from the guy like he was on fire and I was highly flammable. Its a hard road falling out of love... but here we are today... happier, healthier and ultimately better off. We move on - we put the lid back on our boxes and step back out into life and its new possibilities. And somebody far better DID come along. My TRUE LOVE story. Fun digging thru stuff with you - lets do it again but next time at your house. A round of Rock Star Energy drinks for us all! til tomorow~

JUMPER

2009-07-01T22:54:00.000-07:00

Watched the movie Jumper last night. Yes...despite the fact it had Samuel Jackson in it. I think he is truly a mediocre actor, yet he seems to be in almost every movie I see. Seriously, when Samuel Jackson was cast in Star Wars I thought perhaps it was a Saturday Night Live spoof but nope - he was cast as a Jedi Master. Lost alot of respect for GL that day. So, essentially, the main character (Hayden Christensen) transports himself anyplace he can visualize. Once he discovers this special power, he "jumps" all over the world. And of course, one of the first places he jumps to is into a bank vault where he steals large amounts of money and then lives an extravagant life of luxury until someone (SJ) figures out what he's done. From that point, he is on the run - jumping not to places he wants to go, but jumping to escape being caught. So this movie made me ponder a parallel to spirituality. The question that strolled thru my mind is do I use what I get~ my "special accommodation" if you will, to live my life however I want til the day it catches up to me or am I the kind of person who uses what I get to do the right thing and not put myself into the precarious position of having to look over my shoulder all the time. Because life seems to pivot on the axis of cause and effect. Option 2 while much less dramatic, is definitely the best choice for long term gratification - for getting the most out of what you get. The best return on investment. A fellow student once told me in college that when taking standardized tests, if stuck, choose C, and statistically you'll have the best shot at guessing the right answer. They assured me the formula worked wonderfully. I looked them square in the eye and told them my top-secret strategy for taking tests. I said, "study until your brain feels like its melting into your scalp and know exactly what you are being tested on. Then read the question quickly but carefully and with every ounce of certainty you can muster PICK the right answer." Prepare for what you know you need to do and then go out and do it. So I can't tell you how the movie ends cause of course I don't want to spoil it for you...AND I didn't finish it. Decided there were much more fun things to do with the TV off. Besides, you didn't think I could sit thru an entire movie did you? Besides, the very best part of the movie Jumper that I will happily share with you is located in the playlist at the bottom of my blog. Scroll down and listen to the amazing song, Look After You by the Fray. You'll be happy you did I promise.

Disconnect? - Please Try Your Call Again

2009-06-24T08:14:00.000-07:00

Fasten your seat belt. Ever wonder, what am I doing? Moving thru our lives paying taxes, swerving disaster and pressing forward performing daily, expected, necessary tasks to pay the mortgage, drive thru traffic, care for loved ones, keep our houses clean, the yard nice, and at the end of the day wonder... what am I doing. When the ritual of your daily routine becomes you on mental autopilot, sometimes we stay stuck and don't know how to flip back into real flying. The difference is with real flying you retain the ability and possibility of screwing up - crashing it all. The risk and thrill and responsiblity that goes with real flying makes you react differently to other people and situations you encounter. Remember in the movie ~I've seen way too many times~ Airplane, the blow up autopilot doll? Could that be you? Are you soft and squishy and easily deflated? (I will restrain myself from going off on a hilarious blow up doll tangent) Its been a week of reconciling different parts of my life and reconnecting with people who have shaped my passions and ideas - figuring out how they all fit together - especially those parts that diametrically oppose who I think I need to be rather than who I currently am. Does it make any sense? No, Yes, Maybe. The "being the real you in real time" tsunami is flooding into every area I thought was safe and dry including my political platform, my moral platform, my spiritual platform. So what am I doing? I'm gonna tell you. Connecting with other people. People who are like me, different from me, people who I adore, people who drive me crazy, people who I admire, and people who it pains me to know. I am flying by the seat of my pants racking up as many frequent flyer miles with everyone I have the opportunity to connect with on a non-superficial level. Sad news is they are few and far between - most people are on autopilot, especially where I live. Taking bits and pieces of wisdom and insight gleaned from knowing transparent people who wear their hearts on their sleeves, who risk and win, risk and lose- and being able to laugh, joke, cry with, impress upon and figure out this complicated life with people who aren't scared of flying and actively seek out the thrill of free falling. You know sometimes the worst storms bring out something even more beautiful than before. Thanks for taking time out of your day to connect with me - I look forward to flying with you. You CAN comment you know...

Songs I'm jamming to today are:
Free Falling - Tom Petty or my fav - John Mayer's acoustic version
Blackjack by Everclear
Trouble by Coldplay - probably one of my all time favorite songs for self-reflection the perfect blend of simplicity and complexity

OLD POST: World Traveller

2009-06-22T08:10:00.001-07:00

When the opportunity arose for me to take a trip to Thailand - I hesitated for a split second- then rearranged my entire jam packed schedule to make it happen. It was a time in my life when I could finally see the light at the end of an intensely crazy year of working non-stop, getting ready to graduate summa cum laude from Arizona State, having just taken the horrific LSAT exam, the euphoria of being accepted into law school, preparing to move to another state, recovering from the heartbreak of an unexpected divorce, and hesitantly considering amazing possibilities with a guy I had just met who challenged me on every level I love. I was also tenatively embracing the possibility that I could maybe start to slow down a bit. What had kept me from despair & insanity in the months prior had been the driving force of constant productivity - doing something that would count-staying focused on things that I could control. I had been making up for some time I thought I had lost (or that had been stolen from me) and the only way to pack it all in was to stay insanely organized. Everything I did was put in pencil, planned and scheduled. No room for spontaneous and no capacity for surprises.

I envisioned the experience of heading off to Thailand to be like a visit to one of my favorite, expensive Pan-Asian restaurants- comfortable, sensuously delicious, relaxing, and filled with familiar favorites like sweet, milky Thai iced tea and spicy, skewered peanut satay. I had entered everthing about the trip into my Palm Pilot and was expecting it to be calming and restful. Just what I needed before a flurry of life change inevitably flooded my organized but hectic routine. Twenty-two hours into the flight a throbbing headache and the beginnings of a sinus infection drove me into a drug-induced state of consciousness I never could have imagined. I made the flight from Phoenix to Chicago fairly coherent, but after picking up a plethora of over the counter symptom relievers at a gift shop in O'Hare, I began to feel the full effects of my pharmaceutical misjudgement. On the stretch from Chicaco to Japan, where I vaguely recall throwing up once and sporadically dry heaving, I think I started to realize all my planning was going to be for nothing. I was going to have to take whatever happened in waves. Luckily I was in first class so I was adequately tended to, but the thought of food or water was revolting- even though my eyes and mouth were so dry I couldn't see or speak. At some point of the ordeal I fell asleep and woke up to connect the last flight from Japan to Thailand. I arrived in Bangkok on a different day in a different dimension looking and feeling like I had been spun around inside of a tornado. In spite of my meticulous preparations, careful planning and deep-felt yearning to control my surroundings and situations- I was being humbled and reduced to a sneezing, dopey, dry-mouthed idiot in a country where I didn't speak the language. Nothing makes me laugh more at myself than when my neurotic tendencies get adjusted by life-especially when I don't expect it. Being an overthinking, cautious, germ freak in Thailand challenged me in ways I can't use words to describe. Seeing the stark differences in culture, lifestyle, and ways of thinking changed me permanently. My Thailand experience has altered the way I see this chaotic world and left me with a different perspective - one filled with more compassion and concern. The magnitude of poverty left me feeling overwhelmed by how much gets taken for granted. I began to understand that I had to go against my nature and try to go with the flow of the experience rather than fighting for control over it.

Temptation stalked me even across the world. I remember vividly seeing the overwhelming amount of foreigners lined up to buy something expensive & desired, that could be found for ridiculously cheap in Bangkok. Prescription drugs were unregulated. Computer software was pirated. I admittedly was torn and conflicted. I was a student and *really* wanted Dreamweaver. I was just beginning to research and understand these new concepts I had heard about God & salvation. The arguments between my conscience and my intellect were going at it...and I impulsively ended up kicking conscience to the curb. The person that sold this illegal merchandise to me for a mere $10 was neither man nor woman - instead a genderless figure with disgustingly long fingernails. I wrestled my mind to the ground over a piece of illegit software from a Thai computer mall three stories tall filled with crowds of other people buying the same thing I was. So I bought it, brought it home, and never did install it. Instead, while I was still jet-lagging - I recalled the evil looking person that sold it to me and took a hammer to it. I was done with skirting around right and wrong. I was done with obvious rationalization tactics that led only to bad decisions. So I gathered up all the little pieces then threw it all away. It was an amazing moment because I tangibly threw away the mindset of compromising truth out of convenience or selfishness.

With a little help from a wonderdrug called Zithromax - I made an amazingly quick recovery while overseas. The entire trip threw a monkey wrench in every plan, preparation and expectation I had. Checking out of the incredibly luxurious hotel where I had experienced a Thai massage at the spa and showered in a bathroom brimming with teak, I headed to the airport feeling fantastic. The things I had seen and experienced in the two week adventure were swirling frantically in my mind, which is probably why I got to the airport twelve hours prior to the departure time. Instead of leaving at 11am - I was scheduled to leave at 11pm.- So with twelve hours to kill stuck in the Bangkok airport, I did what any reasonable person seeking solace and understanding of life does - you hail a cab and go see the sights one last time. What could possibly go wrong getting into a Mercedes cab with someone anxious to take you where you want to go who speaks very little English. This friendly but pushy cab driver took me to the famous Thai Gemstone Warehouse where you can gaze at sparkly diamonds while men armed with machine guns and people carrying red mccaw parrots on their shoulders stroll all around you. We drove by palaces, hit shopping malls, and went thru a few of the temples where bald men in orange outfits hung out. As the hours flew by, we came to a stop in front of an old brick building in a poverty-ridden, bustling neighborhood which I initially thought was perhaps a beauty college or hair salon. Lots of pretty young girls sat around in a glass room. "Thai massage" he kept telling me - "you must get Thai massage". Cab-driver apparently did not comprehend my feeble attempts to tell him that I already had one at the spa in the fancy hotel I stayed at. So I find myself riding in an old elevator with cab driver to the second floor of this creepy place where I begin to freak out a little inside. I manage to stay calm, maintain my composure, smile and again try to tell cab driver I am really ready to go back to the airport. Instead he tells me in broken English he be back for me in an hour and exits back into the elevator. As the doors close, I notice the hallway is filled with doors lining both sides. All have little red lights above them. Two are lit. I nervously giggle as I realize where I'm at. Not that its funny- just that I have no idea what to do in this situation. No hair salon or spa I've ever been to has looked like this. I wait in the hallway until a nice lady in a pink smock comes out of one of the rooms and leads me down the hall. I am handed a white shirt and white pants. Part of a Thai massage for those of you inexerienced thrill seekers is that it centers more around stretching (like having someone exercise you) rather than rubbing your body... and you stay clothed. I notice most of the rooms lining the hall are sporting double beds, but I was led to a room where there were massage tables. And I got a truly authentic Thai massage. One hour later I am back in the Mercedes cab, eating Thai food he picked up for me, heading back to the airport. And twenty-four hours later back in Phoenix - changed in ways I never want to let go of. The whole trip pushed the limits of where I was at and where I was going. The self-discipline that had pushed me into being so freaking productive had been detrimental in allowing me the mindset to enjoy it all. I was coordinating life rather than living it.

While my modus operandi hinges upon the tension, force and constant driving battle between letting go and clutching tighter, keeping track of time and losing it, right and wrong, diving deeper into thought and floating mindlessly, extending mercy or hard-pressed retaliation, it is where these contradictions mesh that I am pondering today.

Music I'm enjoying can be listened to on my playlist below.

I'm About to Come Alive - Train
Mother Father -DMB

Transcending Time & Experience

2009-06-19T10:36:00.000-07:00

It is really easy to let my mind wander into the realm of thinking about time travel in history and the future, especially as the country falls into the crazy, unconstitutional mess we are in. So what is time? We measure it, treasure it, waste it, buy it, burn it, and every day the sun rises in the sky until we take our last breath. So does this every day life just collect into fragments of a legacy we leave and pass on to offspring, which will inevitably be forgotten within a few generations? My theory is that we transcend time within our own lifetimes. Obviously we do it thru memories - however certain elements can enhance and supercharge the recollection of events thru things like music. I think we live organically today in this moment in time, but mentally and emotionally we travel back and forth all the time- racing between the paradigm of who we are versus who we want to be. We go back into our personal histories, our failures & screw-ups and jump ahead thinking about who we want to become and what we want to do next. Hang on, need to compartmentalize my thoughts. Ok, so we have forward and backward. Future and past. The only two directions to go other than the moment you are currently in. I really don't want to start thinking that there could be other directions or I will drive myself crazy later pondering what they could be. Since I am not on hallucinogenics and don't suffer from mental illness- I don't think a car with suicide doors is taking me anyplace today, BUT I do have an ability not to go back in time- but to go back to my own historical experiences- to bring my feelings from the past into the present, so I don't forget the lessons or the person who I was. Little tangent to tie together what I'm proposing. When I was little, my parents (hippies who were in a band that sang Three Dog Night and Black Sabbath songs) were very influenced by music, which somehow permeated to their offspring. So its the 70's -my parents divorced, the band broke up, mom moved us to Palm Springs and away from dad. So, every summer visiting dad - he would make my sister and I our own soundtracks back in the days when you bought 45s and recorded them onto cassette tapes. We would spend hours pouring thru the mountains of 45s deciding which ones we wanted- which we would listen to all summer with our dad then take back home when our visit ended. We kept an ongoing connection with our dad throughout the year by enhancing our memories of the past. The music brought us back to our hippy dad's basement with the old stereo and huge speakers, the stacks of records, the smell of cigarette smoke and beer, the television set that was gigantic, a ceremic green frog ashtray, sports trophies from when he played high school baseball, his Army duffle bag that he used in the Vietnam War slung into the corner. Man I am there - back in time when I listen to those songs. So throughout my life I have accumulated theme songs collectively becoming my life soundtrack. On the anniversary day I talked about in my first post, I listened to a theme song I had from that experience in my past - and it pierced me as deeply today as it did then. I travel time in the gamut of my life everyday and anytime I want. Maybe tomorrow I will secretly tell you some of my life theme songs. I am ridiculously -I hate to use the word anal- so the alternate word is- selective- about songs that I pick to act as a marker to the events of my life.

The songs I am listening to on Pinkpod TODAY are:

Everything's Not Lost by Coldplay & Quasimodo by Lifehouse

OLD POST: What to do when you can't turn off your mind.

2009-06-18T11:18:00.001-07:00

Pondering some wild ideas today. I started thinking how much I appreciate my blogger friends who share so much about themselves so honestly and openly regarding the struggles, trials, joys, fears, and failures they endure day to day. I kinda feel like I know them, I am definitely encouraged by them, and I somehow care about what happens next in their blogistence. Couple that with a recent conversation on a significant anniversary day with my hairchick & it got me to thinking maybe I should blog- not just about politics or other stuff I like to rant on- but about the transparency of my life. Maybe somebody is curious to know what goes thru the mind of someone extraordinarily genius in lots of insignificant ways.

So...Lindsay has done my hair for almost five years now and when I mentioned that it was the anniversary of THE day my life turned inside out - she prodded me for more information. I think they teach them that in hair school. Her jaw dropped and so did the comb when I told her I had been married just shy of 6 years then suddenly... on that day... the ring got ripped off my finger quicker than a sleazy girl's prom dress. I didn't go to Prom in case you're wondering. That's another story... Usually she leaves me to bask in the highlight fumes alone and read People magazine as she scuffles into the back somewhere but here on that day I opened up a can of worms. She sat squarely in front of me and fired off questions interspersed with short comments. "YOU WERE MARRIED BEFORE Andy? I never knew that. WHAT HAPPENED? Oh my gosh. WHAT WAS HE LIKE? Oh my heck. WHERE IS HE NOW? No- he DID NOT do that!" As I revealed the story of the deconstruction of my first love, she sat intensely focused while tears streamed down her face. Luckily, she set the timer or I would look like a toe-headed baby right now. Details on the unexpected divorce I endured will surface later, I'm almost sure of it.

So... in addition to my inspiring blog friends and hairchick, I recently drove by an unusually large house near where I live. The place is massive and quite beautiful but it has almost no front yard. Before I could even get my eyes focused on the magnificence of this huge house on the tiny lot -I saw the sign. From my gas-guzzling, ozone-depleting SUV driving down the quiet street, I saw a bright yellow sign in the microyard bearing the warning: YOU ARE BEING WATCHED BY A SECURITY CAMERA. Really!? You wanna watch us all? LOL. Hey neighbor... just look out your window if you want to see what's going on out here! What the heck?-as people in Utah say. Where I'm from people use a much harsher word than "heck".

Surrounding the eye-catching yellow sign and huge house was a wrought iron fence that was at least ten feet tall. This exhibit is located in a suburb of Salt lake City. Safest place on earth. It first made no sense to me - this oddity. As an obsessed fan of common sense - and a groupie of the cover band called logic, it finally hit me... I have become that house. So this blog is my tearing down of the wrought iron fences, ripping out the signs and warnings, turning the security camera into a fun reality show with guest appearances from various people of interest and a feeble attempt to let you see how imperfect, repentant, impatient, and in need of adult ritalin this sweet, blonde chick really is.

Disclaimer: I do not advocate or condone any acts of violence towards animals, especially chickens.

Music I'm listening to today:

Deconstruction by the Indigo Girls. This song has gotten me thru some painfully dark days in my past. But I have a hilarious story surrounding my attendance at an Indigo Girls concert many years ago, that I might just have to tell you~ just not today~

When the World Ends by DMB -
When the world ends collect your things your coming with me when the world ends you cuddle up yourself with me watch the stars disappear into nothing - we'll be lying in bed.....we're gonna be crazy...

The Space Between DMB
You cannot quit me so quickly...there's no hope in you for me... no corner you could squeeze me...but I got all the time for you love
the space between the tears we cry is the laughter keeps us coming back for more
fickled fuddled words confuse me... like will it rain today...waste the hours with talking talking these twisted games we're playing
the space between the wicked lies we tell and hope to keep safe from the pain
you know you went off like the devil like in a church in the middle of a crowded room