Only Happiness

Well, Internet, I am one busy bee. I wasn't even going to post tonight but I don't imagine that I'll have another moment for a while.

How about the Super Bowl huh? I was worried for a little bit, but the Saints took over and there will be partyin' in the Quarter for weeks. It was pretty much awesome! I, however, spent the last 6 minutes or so of the game itching like a madwoman as I accidentally ingested soy, which is my allergy nemesis. I am very careful, but I didn't think to grill the nice guy who made beef jerky as to what was in his marinade (honestly didn't even know you could make jerky with soy sauce) so itch city was calling my name.

And after getting home, I dosed up on my favorite drug of choice, benadryl, and conked out. I'm surprised I even made it to work this morning. But drag my ass out of bed I did and I made it on time and even had time to do my hair. That's what I call tenacity. Still, I've had a fuzzy head all day. I'm sure my coworkers all thought I was on something. Well, I was. Benadryl. That shit will leave a hangover, I tell ya. And it left me just this side of cranky most of the day.

Anywayyyy. I'm finally home and snuggled in my bed and it's not even 9. But whatevs. That doesn't make me an old lady. Nope. I'm such sensible. And I need my beauty sleep. 'Cuz it takes a lot of sleep to make THIS look good. *points to face* Uh huh.

Nevertheless, I'm full of excitement. Is there a word for more than excitement? Please, if you know one, pass it on. I'm in need of it right about now. Because I leave in a little over 3 days for Portland to see Love Interest and I'm super duper stoked.

I know you're jealous, Internet, but try to keep it to a minimum. Only happiness for me will be accepted at this time. I don't take Visa, Mastercard, or Amex. Or checks. But I will take happiness. And cash. You can give me cash. That, I guess, would be okay.

Love Song Sunday: Make You Feel My Love

This Sunday's song is so sweet you may just want to eat something salty to balance things out. I cannot help but fall in love with this song whenever I hear it. May it bring a little heart to your world today.

Photo of the Day: From Snowy River

We've had an unusually stormy start to the year here in Small Town, Southern California and that has resulted in some very pretty views. Do you see how low the snow line is? Doya? Doya? Huh? Huh? Yeah. That's not typical. Usually around this time of year, the snow starts about halfway up. Most of that had melted though by this week because of the trademark blue skies of SoCal (see: photo above). But we've got a decent storm partyin' its heart out this weekend, so next week should be gawgeous.

can I have your number?

Superbowl fevah! Right, Internet? Isn't that what's on the collective minds of the nation a la moment? Well I will not go on and on about a football game, mostly because I won't know what the hell I'm taking about and sports savvy people will be insanely disappointed in my lack of acumen in the ball of the foot area.

I will just say this. I really hope the Saints win. I know, I know. Underdogs. But I have such a big place in my heart for New Orleans and after everything that city has gone through, they deserve a big win. Something to hope for. They deserve that. And so I'll be rooting for the Saints on Sunday.

Brilliant segue.

I got my first spam commenter on my blog the other day. And you know what I did? DENIED! That's right. Ohyeah. Watchout! Spammers, I will knock. you. down.

Which brings me to...being bitchy (see what I did there? I am fucking brilliant.) After a recent karaoke excursion with Morgan and her subsequent blog about seeming bitchy, she and I were discussing appearing bitchy to others. Her concern is the girls always think she's a bitch before they meet her (when, of course, they're always suprised). I can guess why this is. She makes a face when she's people watching which could possibly seem bitchy to the female set.

But I didn't have this experience with her. It's a long story, but Morgan and I arranged our first meeting via email and so I had never actually seen her in person before. And then we met and hugged and were instant best friends for evah. So I never thought she seemed bitchy. I thought she was awesome rolled in awesome and served with a side of awesome. She still is.

And I was discussing this with Love Interest the other night (don't worry, Internet, he has a real name), but when Morgan and I go out to karaoke or bars (very rarely), she gets hit on more than I do. And yes, her boobs are roughly 12.5 times the size of mine, but I don't think that's why. I think that she puts off a bit of a bitchy vibe without even knowing it and guys kind of dig that, I think. At least guys in bars. Real guys are much different. But they don't want a total bitch. But just a little bitchy poses a challenge. They like the feist. And Morgan puts off plenty of the feist. Problem is, she's not a bitch at all.

As for myself though, when I go out, I'm actually a bitch. And blame it on my years in Hollywood or 12 some odd years of dodging men's hands on my ass, but I don't want to be hit on. So I plaster a fuckoff look on my face whenever a dude tries to catch my eye and that usually does the trick. It's been a long time since I've had to resort to actually speaking to a dude in Bitch. But it's a language I can slip into easily if forced. And that, Internet, is way too much bitch for bar guys. They just want a little tail and that's way too much work. There's a fine line between the thrill of the chase and knowing full well they'll never get anywhere near that. Which is just how I like it.

Now, before the dudes start attacking, let me say that this is just out and about and only applies to that specific form of being "hit on" or "picked up." Nice guys who can actually carry on decent conversations and don't feel the need to troll bars for some tail were always okay in my book. I'm not a eunuch. I just like my ass hands-free thankyouverymuch.

Which brings me to....one of the best comedy sketches of all time. It's a classic, but still rings true. I know this type of dude (p.s. played by a woman) and there is no amount of bitchy that can shoot him down. I know.

Can I have your number?

Advice According to Andy

Lesson 1: You're at the grocery store, market, whatever the hell you call the place you buy your foods (no, not takeout) with a small basketful of things, ready to check out. There are two lines open, one with only one person in line but with enough food to feed a small country, the other is a long line of people with just a few things each. Which line do you choose? That's right. You get behind the freak with tons of stuff. Because even though she has more crap to purchase, she only has to pay once. Because that's what takes a goddamn year (unless she has a checkbook. that negates everything. besides, who writes checks anymore? what is this, 1995?). And then, as you exit the store before all of those schmucks still standing in line, shout, Peace, BITCHES! (in your head). And bask in the glory of small victories.

Lesson 2: You're at a stop sign trying to turn left amidst crazy ass traffic. The douche across the way has the right of way and is apparently going straight (no, he's not gay. if he were gay, he'd be a better driver). Douche successfully passes up two nice gaps in traffic and is still sitting there like like he's watching a damn tennis match. Left. Right. Left. Right. Left. Right. WE GET IT! The next gap in traffic is coming. So what do you do? That's right. You go. Just go. If he wants to enjoy the scenery, that's his right. Don't flip him off, even when he turns on his left turn signal. It's not his fault he's a moron; it's the DMV's (and yes, that is an accurate use of the apostrophe. bite me.) fault for giving him a license. As you glide into your lane with all the finesse of a love child of Baryshnikov and Jeff Gordon, give a little victory cry (bonus points if you shout SUCK ON THAT and yodel like Janis in Mean Girls. even more points if you don't have to look that up.) And bask in the glory of small victories.

Lesson 3: You're in a work meeting. It's the usual, going over what's what and who needs who done, the usual schmusual. Nothing too exciting or dramatic. And your boss looks over his shoulder and out the large office window noticing some hoodlums up to no good. They're even throwing oranges into the parking lot. And all you can think about is your brand new bumper you paid for last year. After calling security to tell these punks what's what to no avail, Boss decides to take some action and goes to the window in the office next door and yells at these little bastards, shouting, "HEY! Get the HELL out of here!" Then the punks chuck an orange at Boss and he screams "Expletive you too!" and goes for the stairs. So what do you do? That's right. You laugh! Not at Boss. You're laughing because that is the single most exciting thing you've seen all day and the completely coolest you've seen your boss. Ever. You laugh and when he returns and apologizes for his language, you say, "Don't apologize. That was awesome!" And you totally mean it. And bask in the glory of small victories.

All in a day's work.

Love Song Sunday: Morning Yearning

New blog feature! I'll be posting a love song I like every sunday (well, on sundays when I'm not traveling). To start it off, here's a little Ben Harper whose voice is just hummuna hummuna and this video rocks my world.

Ben Harper - Morning yearning
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End of a Kite

Well, Internet, I just learned that my Uncle Roger died this morning. My dad's brother. Of cancer of course. The big C. And we knew he was sick. He's been struggling for a while and went into the hospital this weekend without much hope I guess.

I didn't know Roger that well. He's lived in Montana my whole life and so sometimes I'd see him and my Aunt Cheerie on the occasional Christmas eve when they could fly out. I even think the last time I saw my uncle was 11 or so years ago when my grandma died. But at least my memories of him are good. Can't say that about all of my dad's family. And my dad seems to be doing well, but I know that's bravado.

I know my dad's big brother picked on him, but my dad has been closet smoking since he was like 12, just like his big brother, so it's got to be sobering.

Anyhow. Roger didn't even want a service at all so I guess his Montana family is scattering his ashes this weekend. I guess I respect that. He was a quiet, private kind of guy so I can't imagine his death being any different.

My dad's family is such an enigma to me. Strange. So much I could say that would paint them in a box. But impossible to nail down their real essences.

Well, enough of that.

Here's a song that touches my soul:

The Killer of Love

I am so tired, Internet. So freaking tired. Having trouble getting enough sleep and under some pressure, I'm really beginning to drag. I've been fighting off a monstrous headache ALL AFTERNOON and it's starting to make me loopy. And it's only Tuesday! Joy!

That aside, things are good. It's raining right now and I just love the sound of the drops hitting my window. Makes me happy in my heart. ♥

see?

Plus, I was going to have to work Saturday, but that was canceled and now I have a whole weekend off! Oh the possibilities. I could take my car in. Or get some basic shopping done. Or do laundry. Or garden. Or take myself to a movie. Or, or, or. So many options! Where to even begin?

And this weekend I bought a ticket to Portland to go see Love Interest for a weekend in February. Which is uber exciting! I cannot wait. And I'm tempted to shop first so that I have cute new things to wear. But I'll try to resist. I should save my money. I won't buy anything I don't need. Or maybe I'll just buy a couple of things. Just to be cute.

And I inadvertently picked Valentine's weekend, as he pointed out to me. But of course, I wasn't thinking of that. I was thinking of the first weekend I had free which also had the cheapest flights, not of the day that kills love. Okay, here she goes again, you moan, is there a holiday this woman actually likes? Well, as a matter of fact there is, Internet. I like New Years and Halloween and my birthday. What? My birthday is a holiday. It's labor day too. Every year, they let out school for my birthday. Hello!

Anyhow, I'm just not a huge fan of the day of Valentines. The best February fourteenths I've had were with girlfriends, getting facials, or going dancing. And the worst ones I've had were on dates. I realize that for the rest of the world, Valentine's is the worst for the singletons, those who have their faces rubbed in their singleness by Hallmark and One Eight Hundred Flowers. And we also assume that the coupled-ups bask in their rosy bliss and soak in the smarmy holiday like coffee cake. But I've just never seen it that way. When I'm single, Valentines passes like any other day. For the last 4 years, I've celebrated V-day at a performance of the Vagina Monologues. Sometimes I wear pink. Whatever.

But for couples, isn't there too much hype, too much pressure, too much everything? Why this one day? This one day with pink heart confetti, raunchy greeting cards, and bad chocolate? Why ruin something potentially special and wonderful with an insane amount of pressure to be the most perfect yet somehow most cheesey? I don't get it.

I've never seen much romance, but I'd like to think it exists and I'm sure to the core of my being that it doesn't exist on Valentine's Day. Or maybe it happens to some people sometimes, as it would organically happen on any other day. But contrived romance? I think those two words kill each other. And thus, Valentine's Day is the killer of love.

Sorry, Saint Valentine, wherever you are. Your holiday sucks.

Nevertheless, I'm still excited about this weekend in Portland, even if I'll be there on Valentine's Day. I have a hunch that it will still be awesome.

Being Political Now

Warning: I am in a little bit of a "mood." You might be offended. If your fragile ego can't take a little political ranting, then you would be advised to read another blog, perhaps one about babies. Or unicorn poop. If you keep reading and are still offended, too damn bad. Get your own blog. This one is mine.

So Haiti. What has happened in Haiti is awful. And I'd hope that Californians wake up and realize that if a 7 point something earthquake hit here, we'd be on our own and preparedness is the only way to survive. But I have resisted discussing the tragedy there because I didn't think I needed to. Most people care, I think, and give what they can in the face of utter destruction. At least, they are beginning to. And I didn't think it my place to climb on my soapbox and fundraise or whatever. This blog is typically a "me" show. I thought I'd keep it that way.

BUUUT, now I have something to say. Two major points, actually, if you'll indulge me, Internet, for just a bit.

I stumbled across a Facebook discussion on a friend's wall today. And no offense to this friend (I do think his heart is in the right place, even if we disagree), but I think this echoes the larger misconception. This discussion circled around the idea that America suffers enough with homelessness and hunger and disease that we should fix our own problems before we help Haiti, that why do the stars come out of the woodwork now when so many people need help in our own country at home? And I think that argument is valid to an extent (even if my friend didn't phrase it in the most sensitive way). I am the first to shout about the lack of caring in New Orleans even 5 years later. I am the first to complain about the sorry state this nation is in, despite being the richest nation in the world.

But that doesn't mean that in the face total destruction and devastation, we sit back and do nothing on the basis of some kind of selfish principle. We don't say that because we've fucked up NOLA, we say "fuck Haiti" too (which one girl actually wrote). That just seems so naive to me. Haiti needs help NOW. We can afford it. They don't need bodies right now. They don't need volunteers. They need funds. And WE CAN AFFORD IT! $5 a person would help get food and supplies to the starving and injured. We spend more on our morning coffee and we're supposed to say that because no one gives to America's homeless we shouldn't give that little bit to another nation?

Right. Instead, just go buy another coffee. Then all the homeless around the globe will be starving equally. Mustn't give if you can't give to all, right? Foolish.

But isn't this a good place to start? Give to Haiti now (and Bee Tee Doubleyou, if you don't earmark your ARC donation for Haiti, they can use it for anything, even domestically. I know, I used to work with the Red Cross) and then give to your local homeless shelter tomorrow. Spend a day at a food bank. Take a week and build homes with Habitat for Humanity. And if the celebs are coming out now to give, don't let them stop! Use this momentum to keep our royalty giving. Pressure them with social media. Trust me, they'll want the good press.

Instead of bitching about what Americans do for others and not their own, get off your rich American asses and do something about it! And yes, you're rich. I don't care how poor you are (and I've been pretty damn poor), you're still 100 times more wealthy than the average Haitian. Do you have access to clean water? Well then you're a millionaire. Can you afford to eat (and not everyone can)? Cut your meal portions in half. Take the money you saved and give it to a good organization. Don't disparage those for doing good if you don't do something your damnself!

Aaaaaaaand now on to my second point.

Pat Robertson, you should burn in hell. There is so much I'd like to say to this man. But mostly I'd like to hit him in the face with his own Bible. To claim that Haitians have brought this on themselves because of a pact with the devil to drive out the French is disgusting, asinine, and completely specious.

*breathes in deeply*

First of all, soooo we're then saying that the French colonizers were so much more holy than the Haitians who revolted to claim their island back? Is that right, Pat? Slavery is more Christian then? Riiiiight.

And for that matter, even though 80% of contemporary Haitians are Roman Catholic (still going to hell in Pat's eyes) and don't actually practice Voodoo (which, for the record, has nothing to do with devil worship), this earthquake has been coming to them for what, two centuries? God likes the tension to build, does he?

And even if you buy the argument that voodoo is evil and the Bible is true and the Christian God is all powerful, doesn't Pat's argument lose water if you actually READ the Bible? Because I'm pretty sure there's a second half to that puppy. Pretty sure that whole part that makes Christians Christians, you know, the whole CHRIST part, the whole crucifixion, die for your sins part? That whole second half pretty much did away with the whole wrath of God thing, the whole fire and brimstone thing. Negated. That homeboy Jesus supposedly died a most horrible death so that the big Man wouldn't destroy cities or flood the earth anymore. AND wasn't there this little part where that Jesus dude talked about loving one another or something? Something like that. I wouldn't know. I'm a lowly heathen.

That is, if you buy that.

Which is where I'm a little confused, Pat. I thought (stop me if I'm wrong here) that you are a Christian Evangelist? Aren't folks like you always talking about the Bible? Or are you onto just writing your own scripture now? Hrm. You may be right. The Bible is a little old and tired. Ancient text and all. How about we just make up the rules as we go? All bad things happen to evil people and only good things happen to the righteous. Make a deal with the devil in the 19th century and have your nation destroyed 200 years later. AIDS is the pox of homosexuality. And if you have sex, you will get pregnant, and die.

I swear you can't make this shit up! And I'm not even a Christian. But at least I've read the Bible. I'm sure that's more than most "Christians" can say.

So what have we learned today, kids? First of all, before you bitch about the state of the world or your country, do something about it. Second of all, before you open your mouth, do a little reading in your subject matter first. Third, don't be a douche. Fourth, if you are a douche, I will punch you in the mouth.

The Sound of Trains

Most people, normal people, sane people (read: people unlike myself) usually hate to live near train tracks. They hate the sound of the train blowing its horn at all hours, the rumble of the tracks. Now, I don't want to live in a shanty next to tracks, so close my whole house, excuse me, shanty shakes every time a train barrels by. I'm not that crazy.

But I love the sound of trains. I think it's because my little cousin lived somewhat near tracks when we were kids and after oh so many nights spent in little girl sleepovers, I not only got used to the sound, but was comforted by it. I loved being at Lindsey's. It was a happy place for me. So the sound of trains takes me right back to that comfort. I now live in a place where I can sometimes hear trains and it's something I hadn't heard in many years. But if I can't sleep or I'm stressed, hearing a train melts all that away. It's crazy.

Just now, I was feeling a little overwhelmed and exhausted. I'm mired in several projects both personal and work-related and feeling a smidge in over my head. Feeling like I'm just one person and good god what I would give for a clone of myself to follow me around and share my load and anticipate my needs. Because that's how good of an assistant I'd be. Hell, I am a kickass assistant. Combine an anal retentive need for organization with this laugh and you have assistant perfection.

Incidentally, I don't think it's a coincidence that the word "ass" is in the word assistant. Take that how you will, but I think being a bit of an ass is a necessary ingredient for a fantastic ASSistant.

Where was I? Oh, right! So I am the best at supporting others, but who the hell will anticipate my needs, handle my organization (as well as I can?)? Who will keep ME sane?

I was in the midst just now of that reel of overwhelmedness (like that word I just made up?) running on a nonstop loop through my brain and I heard a distant train blow its horn. And just like that, it was gone. I didn't feel all crazy over whel med anymore. I don't feel any better about all the things I need to do, but I just wasn't thinking about any of it. It was all gone. In the wind. Just like that. Comme ça.

Like magic. Now, I don't normally talk of the magic of childhood, though I do believe that's a very lovely and real thing. But I mostly don't feel my childhood was very magical. I had a sucky ass hard fucking childhood. But there are some things that stick out palpably from pure childhood happiness: the scent of chlorine in the morning (I spent most of my happy times at a pool), the feel of plastic (like Barbies or Legos or Thunder Cats), the smell of old books and the feel of their worn spines, the taste of vanilla, the touch of newspaper print (from reading the paper with my dad), the sensation of freshly clean sheets straight from the dryer, the feel of a dance studio floor under bare feet, the texture of a horse's muzzle, the sounds of a kitten's tiny mewl, a hundred songs from musicals I performed in or sonatas I danced to or eighties pop stars I emulated, that salty sandy layer that coats your feet at the beach, the smell of pencil shavings and a brand new eraser, or the sound of trains.