MyAdultLand

Warning: this is bound to be the lamest blog post I’ll ever write — or that you’ll ever read. And I know there to be some fierce competition for that title out there. But I’m having far too glorious a time of late to be bothered with things like reflecting or writing (except for assignments, of course). But it’s been a while, and my conscience is nagging at me. So I’m giving it a go. Proceed at your own risk…

Call it Summer School in Myadultland. The little lessons I’ve learned this past season. I may never draw upon this newfound wisdom, or perhaps I will. Either way, the learning was fun. And I am happy to share with you, gentle reader.

Have you seen my sunnies?

1. DO NOT: DRINK AND DIVE. Let me explain. Beach town of Westerly, RI with my cousin, her daughters (roughly my age), their young sons, etc. The beach is peppered with hairy men who look like the cast of the Sopranos, some of whom are looking at me, the only natural blonde in sight (in a bikini yet), with those porkchop eyes. I go into the ocean — some wine in me, but what the hell, I’m just rinsing off here — with my nephew-once-removed or however that works, who is 7. He demonstrates his expertise at jumping UP just as the waves break. So I’m going broaden the kid’s horizons and introduce him to diving UNDER the wave as it breaks. Of course I’m in my prescription Ray Ban Wayfarers, as I hadn’t planned on full immersion. With those Soprano guys on the shore, my one and only priority was to emerge from my wave diving with my top (and its contents) in place. Which I did magnificently the first two dives. The third one… well, the wave came rather fast and it was a biggie. I pulled off my Wayfarers rather hastily, thus didn’t have a very good grip. And when I went to do the mandatory bikini top adjustment before standing up and turning to face the shore… gone (the sunglasses that is, not the bikini top). The saddest part of this story is that it’s extremely unlikely anyone’s gonna benefit from my loss (a/k/a my stupidity). For though they were classic frames, the lenses are for someone who is ridiculously nearsighted. Oh well. Those glasses and I had a good 12 year run together. I always wanted aviators anyhow.

Tourists: Almost always in a good mood.

2. DO: SOMETHING UBER GEEKY-TOURISTY WHEREVER YOU LIVE: I myself visited — for the first time in my many years here in Frisco (yes, I said “Frisco”; deal) — THE CABLE CAR MUSEUM). Do it on a day whe there are lots of tourists there. Bask in their sense of privilege in being there at that place, at that time. Your city or town.

Flame & Citron: I hear it's good.

3. DO NOT: WASTE YOUR TIME OR MONEY GOING TO SEE A DANISH FILM ABOUT NAZIS WITH A SEXY UKRANIAN* WHO HAS  A TENDENCY TO REST HIS HAND BETWEEN YOUR THIGHS. First of all, Danish movies about Nazis require an insane amount of steely focus and determination to sit through in the first place. But under the conditions I described, it’s impossible. Don’t misunderstand, I enjoyed the experience; I just can’t tell you the first thing about the movie.

…for that matter…

4. DO NOT: SEE A DANISH DOCUMENTARY ABOUT A TURN OF THE (20TH) CENTURY PAINTER. Unless you’re out of Tylenol PM. I shouldn’t even mention this one, but the above-mentioned Danish flick reminded me. It was at the Rhode Island International Film Festival, and my cousin was kind enough to let me do the choosing. The flick had a good description in the program guide — like this guy was the rock star in his artist colony of bohemians (I was expecting a time capsule of turn of the century debauchery). But no. This was straight-to-PBS fodder. THE GOOD NEWS is that the 9 minute doc on ANNIE LEIBOWITZ that followed was strong and tight and made me buy her book. Good editing is priceless.

5. DO: EAT SEA SALT + CHOCOLATE,  SEA SALT + CARAMEL, SEA SALT+ CARAMEL + VANILLA ICE CREAM  (I COULD GO ON  — just get some sea salt and DIY) = MOTHER OF GOD MY MOUTH IS THE HAPPIEST PLACE ON EARTH!

5. DO: CUT YOUR HAIR. Seriously, nothing feels more like summer than a new short & sassy & maintenance-free  coif. Whatever nevermind.

Eye on the prize, eye on the prize.

6. DO: CLIMB THE FACE OF A MOUNTAIN. Honestly, it’s hard and can be annoying, especially if you like your thrills fast and furious, like I do. Because there can be moments of great, frustrating stillness when climbing. But getting to the top is awesome! Even better: the after-party! Talk about a well-earned cocktail!

*DO NOT: let a sexy Ukranian — who happens to be a photographer — photograph you while you’re making breakfast. That’s how breakfast gets burned. (Photograph not suitable for publication here).

I told you it was lame.

Michael Jackson died 3 days ago, and I suspect I’m the only person in the universe, IN THE UNIVERSE, who had no emotional reaction whatsoever. No urge to turn on the TV or radio, no urge to tweet about it Google it or comment or reflect or say something snarky or anything else.  Really,  I just didn’t think or feel anything.

Until now.

I woke up at 5:47am (rather early for me) with I’ll Be There in my head. And suddenly, it hits me, hard. I’ll Be There is one of those songs that gets to me every goddamn time I hear it. I lose it. I don’t know if it’ the melody or the sentiment of the lyrics or the bit when Jermaine chimes in on the chorus (God, now there’s a voice). But I know it’s one of the first songs I ever heard on the radio. Maybe that’s it.

Radio, back in the day. AM radio. Pop music. When pop music was songs like I’ll Be There and Al Green’s Let’s Stay Together and  the Raspberries Go All The Way (man, why couldn’t I have lost my virginity to that one?), and any song on any soundtrack to any Quentin Tarentino film.  But I digress. Back to Michael…

I realized: the Michael that sang I’ll Be There, and the Michael who brought us the album Off The Wall (superior to Thriller, in my opinion); that Michael died long ago. Replaced by someone who — for reasons I’ll never understand — had such a hard time looking at the Man In The Mirror that he actually erased him, replacing him with someone who bore little resemblance to other human beings. I’m grateful I’ll never understand what it must be like, to abhor where you came from or something deep inside you so much you can no longer face it. But I sympathize. My demons got nothing on Michael’s.

So now I can’t get I’ll Be There out of my head. And finally, my heart breaks for Michael Jackson. I wish I could thank him for giving me the first recording, the first voice, that talked about love and made me get it, feel it, pine for it: what love could be.

RIP, Michael. In your honor, I will now dance.

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kM3hgLRq8_0[/youtube]

What's not to like, Mike?

I was stretching atop a perfect picture-postcard hill, post “urban hike” when I overheard two women talk recipes. One was describing her hummus, which she makes with white beans rather than garbanzos. I gotta admit, her recipe sounded pretty tasty — and I’m very particular about my Mediterranean food. Then she added, “But Mike doesn’t like hummus.” And… I lost it.

It’s the sweetness of when you’re married to someone, and you know dumb little things about them, like whether or not they like hummus, that hit me. Because as of two days ago, the wheels of my divorce are in motion. It’s about time, since we haven’t lived together for two years. Sometimes I wish we could just go back and order pizza and drink wine like we used to and everything would be perfect – which it never was. Memories are perfect. No, you can’t. Go back.

VEGAS -- NIGHT -- MY POV

VEGAS -- NIGHT -- MY NEPHEW'S POV

VEGAS -- NIGHT -- MY BROTHER'S POV

Chapter 1: Childhood & Secrets.

I sent my nephew a text message. I simply wanted to tell him that the only reason I was driving to Las Vegas was to see him…

“Can you keep a secret?”

“Maybe”

“Need 2 know i can trust u”

“I wont keep secrets from my parents”

What the…? I was bereft. Few things can render me speechless for 30 minutes. His declaration was one of them. I wanted to tell him that that’s why secrets were invented  — to keep information from your parents. But of course, I couldn’t. I thought long and hard about how to approach this best; without stepping on parental toes, yet still encouraging him to question authority. C’mon, he’s 12 and long overdue. I came up with this:

“Ask ur dad if its ok 2 share a secret with me”

“Ya as long as its not bad”

What does my brother actually think, that I’m going to tell him where I hide the bodies? Or where to score the purest coke?

“1. Would never ask u  a bad secret, 2. Ur the only reason Im coming to vegas.”

“O ok cool”

But I got there and we shared some secrets. Good secrets. And it was cool.

Just us gals.

Speaking of secrets & kids: On my last night in Vegas, I went to visit my friend (who I know from SF) and his wife. Their daughter is 8, and reminds me so much of myself at her age. My dad, like hers, was a bar man, and she is more comfortable in a bar than in a toy store. Game recognize game, as they say. Anyhow, she and I were sitting with our feet in the pool while the grownups were still at the dinner table. After spelling out for me the pros & cons of being an only child, she — completely unprovoked — told me about a really scary dream she’d recently had. And it gave me so much comfort! Because I’d had a near-identical dream at her age that has haunted me to this day. And when she told me her dream, I just felt all that fear and anxiety melt away as I told her (realizing it for the first time myself): “Sweetie, we all have that exact same dream. It’s only a dream.” And then she gave me a friendship ring with a coral-colored heart, to match my toenails. Because it is the perfect shade for summer.

Chapter 2: The upside of big brothers? Some really awesome toys!

My brother. Yes, that is a Confederate Flag. Don't look at me.

This is what desert living is all about! One of my brothers (clearly not the father of my nephew) lives @ 25 miles west of Las Vegas, heading toward Pahrump. It’s a great drive. And most conveniently, he lives — literally — right next to a very popular biker bar. Fortunately for me (and him), they adore him there. So it’s nice to have a place to go, a stark alternative to the Vegas we all know and love and/or loathe.

But it’s all about the drive. The desert. The mountains. THE QUADS! Quadding: Lord is that fun. I got nothing to say, you just have to try it. It’s like motorcycling for dummies.

Chapter 3: Operation Nephew Corruption

My Little Rockstar.

I believe I’m making some progress here. Tiny steps. Even if not, I’m having a ball trying. Think he is too. Got him to put down the ping pong paddle, flip that table, and shoot some pool. Because let’s face it, billiards has the potential to open doors in life. Later that night, I convinced him that real rock stars don’t sing sitting on the sofa — you need to get up and feel the music (look at pic at left: eyes closed!). And he did! Of course we were just playing the American Idol video game, but it’s a start. (note to self: never, under any circumstance, attempt to sing The Spice Girls “Wannabe” ever again).

My little hustler.

The next day, after tracking me down (I’d locked myself in the upstairs room to get away from the sound of All Sports All The Time on the 65″ screen to get some work done), he asked what I was working on. I told him about the blockbuster franchise movie treatment I’m writing & hope to get produced (a girl can dream, n’est-ce pas?). Trust me, it’s in the very early stages and a mess right now. He asked to read it… and he said he liked it! So he promised to be my date on the red carpet at the Oscars when the time comes, which I cannot wait for now. The kid’s on the fast track to handsome, and it’s gonna be so much fun to see all the little starlets throw themselves at his feet.

Chapter 4: Talking To Ghosts.

where I get my good looks

Not “ghost” in the spooky haunting or “I see dead people” senses. Just people, alive and dead, who affected me profoundly and are always with me, or at lease very close. That’s a ghost to me and I have a few, many in Vegas. My mom outranks all of them combined.

This is just a sign to me, but I'm sure he's a ghost to someone, somewhere.

"Klute", anyone?

Two of my favorite things in life: 1. executing a good ruse; and 2. helping out a friend in need. Combine the two in one — and an opportunity to wear my favorite dress — and I am in heaven. Sheer heaven.

The ruse: my dear friend “Doug” (not his real name) needed a date to a wedding. Not just any wedding, not just any date. In attendance at this wedding would be his ex, and the man for whom she left Doug. That sort of thing happens. But this is one of those “they were cheating for a while and even after Doug confronted them (for he was friends with the fellow), they still lied about it. Double whammy. So my job was to be 1. The hot date; 2. The date who would keep him from opening a can of whoop-ass on this other guy; 3. The date who would have his back should he no longer be able to suppress the urge to open a can of whoop-ass on this other guy.

How fun does that sound! My response: “Honey, I am gonna make your property value soar.”

The bride - a faerie in Middle Earth!

The ceremony itself was short and sweet, and outdoors, surrounded by redwoods, I guess, what the hell do I know? Northern California really big trees. The couples’personal vows,  and comments by the bride’s uncle (who officiated) choked me up. The food was the best ever, as were the THREE cakes (lemon, red velvet, chocolate/hazelnut). Which nearly made up for the fact that there was NO BOOZE! That was probably a blessing in disguise, for otherwise maybe  things wouldn’t have gone so smoothly with Doug and his anger management. But seriously, what the… is this a new trend? This is Northern California, wine capital of the USA. Must I start packing my own?

My one challenge was when the bride did the traditional bouquet-toss. Doug leaned over and said “Do not let her catch it.” To which I said “Watch this.”

I got your bouquet, lady.

Taking my place among my fellow eligible gals, I extended one arm (my right, and I’m a southpaw) just as the bouquet of lilies or iris’ (I don’t know flowers — see photo to right) was coming down in front of her face, caught it, held it up triumphantly, and walked off. Mission #*$&@*% Accomplished!

But actually, the real excitement was the night before, in Carmel, CA. Where I’d have least expected to find it…

Don't let the calm facade deceive you....

We arrived at Doug’s sister’s house @9pm in Carmel. Sleepy, idyllic Carmel, where one’s olfactories are overwhelmed with the fragrance of the ocean and orange and some flower the second you get out of the car. Ahhhhhhhhhhh….

Doug’s sister is not there, as she’s a doctor on call that night. But the brother-in-law, “Joe” (not his real name) is upstairs, with the younger of 2 sons — the autistic one. The seven-year-old son (the one with asberger syndrome), is in the living room watching tv with his adorable three-year-old sister. And now two houseguests. As if Joe doesn’t have enough on his hands on a Saturday night…

Also there is 14-year-old girl, on the phone, who ignores us upon entry. We later learn she’s the neighbor’s daughter. The family immigrated to the US six years ago. She was there to avoid her mother and unemployed father. Apparently, tensions run high next door. Mom threatened to smash a ceramic vase over the daughter’s head. Daughter hid her passport because “my mom is going to deport me.” Mom hid her passport because “she’s going to run away”. I’m not even going to deny you the fun of trying to guess what country they emigrated from. Besides, then someone would ultimately say I’m stereotyping, and far be it for me…

What upsets me most: the shitty copyediting!!!

So Joe lets the girl hang out for a while to cool off. He offers her some advice, and convinces her to go home. He walks her there — and they both return 10 minutes later. With the police. Apparently, mom had called the cops and said she’d runaway. I thought someone had to be missing 24 hours for a response from police, but if you read the police blotter in Carmel (see photo at right), you’d understand that this is the equivelent of a bomb scare there. Eventually all was smoothed out and we were left to our our original plan of raiding their impossibly full pantry and eating every snack food item known to Trader Joe shoppers.

And I suddenly have a new appreciation of the fact that I have nothing but freedom and choices in my life. Freedom and choices aren’t everything, but they’re definitely not to be taken for granted.

So. Many. Choices.

1. Because lamb tastes really good. Like, suck-the-marrow good.
2. As does really rare (cooked rare, that is) hamburger. And steak.
3. And have you never known the joy that is a Monte Cristo (ham, turkey, & swiss — served warm inside FRENCH TOAST)! I like mine with maple syrup. If I’m ever posed with the “last meal” question: Monte Cristo. And I have to make it myself. I ain’t taking chances with my last fucking meal. I’d also like a side of  fries w/ aoli, and a vanilla malt.
4. Bacon, extra crispy. Why, the smell alone could make me turn in my own nephew, if it came to that.

Okay, seriously…

I know there are many religious and moral and philosophical and political and ideological and health and ethical and bubblebrain reasons to be a vegetarian. Just as there are such reasons to eat meat. All I’m asking is we respect each others’ choices and reasons. The information is out there, should one seek it. And the time to have the conversation is NEVER over ANY dinner table. Especially when alcohol is part of the meal. Yeah, don’t think there won’t be a future post about booze at the dinner table…

I like meat. That said, I hardly ever eat it. I feel better when I don’t. I’m a fruit & vegetable gal. But occasionally, my body craves meat. Or fish. Or something else with eyeballs.

Endorphin OD fast approaching.

And I do mean crave, on a primal level. And that’s when I dig in, without apology. I rarely (no pun intended, though I do like it extra bloody) get the craving. But when I do… do not try to stop me. When tearing into that filet mignon or lamb chop (@ thrice a year), I imagine I look like a cheetah at the gazelle carcass, blood dripping down the corners of my mouth. And yes, it feels like the most natural thing on Earth. No denying. Satisfaction and pleasure on a primal level. Wait, am I still talking about eating meat here…

I understand not wanting to allow other living beings to suffer cruelty, and with that I cannot argue. But here we start getting into degrees.

That lamb did not die in vain.

If a life of suffering is the issue, then can we not eat the cows who lived a life as cushy as Paris Hilton? Why not, if no cruelty suffered?

If it comes down to taking a life: Aren’t carrots alive? That is, before we violently rip them from the Earth, the only home they’ve known, the dirt. Poor, innocent carrots that have done no wrong: they don’t even have a mouth with which to scream. They must internalize all feelings. At some point, these arguments come down to splitting hairs: it has eyeballs, it has a mouth, It’s still growing. Where does life begin…

Oh, and the argument that we simply are not intended to consume animal products. Two words: Mother’s Milk.

I don’t want to change anyone. Let’s just live and let live. There’s the argument that all life is connected, we were cows in a past lifetime and suffered a tortuous slaughter and we’ve come back to right the wrongs of our slaughterers. There’s also the argument that God put us here, and devised this miraculous food chain, where cheetahs eat gazelles and we eat Spam and it’s all part of His Plan — of which we are a part. Take your pick. What the hell do I know?

Nothing beats a barbecue with friends.

All I know is Greek Easter is this Sunday. I got 2 legs of lamb, Rob’s cooking them on Jim’s big ol’ barbecue next door, and if that sounds alright to you, then just follow your nose. I’ll be in the kitchen making an orgasm-in-your-mouth Greek eggplant vegetarian entrée (please contact me in advance if you’re vegan).

Efcharisto! Christos anesti!

Okay, I’ve had just a few too many of those weird coincidence moments — 3  in so many weeks — to make me think it’s beyond coincidence. Maybe it’s a sign… or at the very least a really big coincidence. Whatever it is, it sure got my attention.

The most recent event was tonight. I was in yoga class, led by the incredible Mark Morford. I could write a whole column on the many reasons his class is unrivaled, but I’ll save that for another post.

So I’m in this balmy room with the most amazing, glistening, candlelit bodies in San Francisco, just flowing with it. And out of nowhere I get coldcocked by a flashback:

A foggy afternoon in November 2007. My friend Kai’s birthday. I took him to lunch. I’d just returned from my “Feather In The Wind Tour: 20 Beds in 10 Weeks” (where I rented a car & zig-zagged from San Francisco to Los Angeles To San Diego to Las Vegas, NV to Livingston, MT to Park City, UT, and a few stops in between). So Kai & I had a lot of catching up to do. After lunch we were just walking and talking, when we saw a crap storefront sign for a fortuneteller. Why not?! It was his birthday, right? Plus, like so many things in life, I love the idea of fortunetellers, and astrology, and all that. I want to believe in it all. I believe in a certain… magic if you will. But no particular school of thought, you know? Like religion. I believe what I believe and I don’t like talking about it much because it sort-of makes it seem trivial. And it’s not trivial. But I digress.

So we go into the fortuneteller (who is named after a certain Heavenly Body). I sit first, while Kai waits in her parlor (living room) with the fortuneteller’s 8 year old daughter. My reading was as lame as possible. Right off the bat, she gives me some bad news (I don’t even remember now, it was super vague; like “there is darkness”). BUT “for $90 more I can help you move away from the darkness”. Every sentence was followed by “for $90 more…”, so my eagerness to believe was fast dwindling. After making it clear that there was not going to be $90 more, she continued.

“2 children! You have 2 children.”

No, I don’t.

“There are 2 children.”

No, there aren’t.

“You wanted 2 children.”

I swear to you, I never even thought about the children.

“You were meant to have 2 children!”

Oh, so that’s it! Nice save, lady. Then she mentioned someone very important in my life. She gave me one trait of this person. I won’t name that trait here, so as to not disappoint the many of you who hope to be that someone important. But I assure you, there was NO ONE in my life at that time or prior who posessed this singular trait. And man, I racked my brain trying to think of someone. I don’t know if she was so sure about this “vision” or just didn’t want to be wrong again, but she would not move on until I identified the person. But nope, no one. So you can see, the whole reading was a complete strike out. I really really wanted to believe, but she might as well have been talking to anybody but me in terms of telling me my life.

Back to the present: Thank god at the time of this flashback assault in Mark’s class I was in a seated position (or I might have been hurt). It hit me over the head like an anvil — but I know who this person is now. I know who it is! I want to go back to her and say “Tell me more! Tell me more!” But I really need the $90 for other things right now, so I’ll have to ride it out.

The other 2 recent coincidences: My friend Evan mentioning “Tasty Greek food” in Pittsburgh, PA. My dad was Greek. He said “Tasty” a lot. You can read the rest of that one here.

The third one, I’m gonna keep to myself. It’s sorta personal. I got a secret…

Namaste.

Little story: Last May, @ a year after my dad died, I went to a friends house and opened a bottle of Petite Syrah I’d picked up at a winery on the way (she lives way out in the sticks outside Sacramento). My friend enjoys good wine, but she’s not a foodie and doesn’t have that silly wine vocabulary. So she took a sip and said “tasty”. And I lost it.

My dad always said “tasty” when he liked something. He was a food & beverage / bar man all his life. Very smart & wise, but not educated. He didn’t have that food/wine vocabulary either. But he’d light up whenever he’d say it, so you knew he liked it, whatever he was tasting. When she said it, it was the first time I’d heard it since his death.

I was stunned at the emotional power of such a simple word, “tasty”. I no longer lose it when I hear it now; I just smile & think of him.

Drunk photography mishap #1: capturing texture & shadow.

I did something really stupid the other night. I blogged! UNDER THE INFLUENCE! Fortunately I don’t get so inebriated anymore, and had the wherewithal to hit “save” rather than “publish”. But I was far enough under the influence to actually think I had something to say at that moment that was worth reading. To others, yet. I just re-read it. It’s quite embarrassing in its banality. Here’s an excerpt:

It’s nearly 2am and I just got in after a long night of a meeting with my screenwriting coach, no food, an unnecessarily long wait at a BART station for a train, and walking home at an ungodly late hour because MUNI was nowhere to be seen. So I met my pal Rob for a drink. No, 3. We had a lot to catch up on and it ws fun watching the Mardi Gras hoo ha going on.

So now I’m home & hungry & of course there’s virtually no food. So mama gets creative. Did you know roasted soy nuts & shelled sunflower seeds are @ 1/10 the price of

Yup, that’s it. No secrets revealed. No solutions to world hunger. Just thoughts so lame they’re not even worth writing a complete sentence about or spellchecking. Even when drunk.

Drunk photography mishap #2: the badass facebook profile self-portrait.

Drunk-blogging. It’s like drunk-dialing, only the call goes out to the entire goddamn world. Fortunately, most the world doesn’t answer my calls (or rather, read my blog); so I think it would have been okay. But for the lovely people who do read, I would have either tarnished forever my reputation as a writer, or a person with good judgment — or at the very least given them a good snicker at the expense of my dignity.

Other activities where performance is compromised (and judgement impaired) by the bottle:

Photography: Ah, the things you deem worthy of photographing. I’ve identified a few categories of drunk photography, evidence provided. Note: these are re-enactments. Yes, they are. And then there’s the quality of the photo. Trust me, my camera is a lot smarter than me after I’ve had a few. That auto / manual feature really fucks with my head.

Drunk photography mishap #3: XCU and lack of context. So creative.

Snacking: I think the problem here has more to do with the lack of groceries in my refrigerator. I tend to only shop when I cook for friends, about once a week. So there are usually leftovers for a day or so. After that, just the usual stash of fruits & vegetables (I’m a healthy girl), and an array of Greek stuff (fig jam, figs, olives, olive spread, feta, walnuts… you get the picture). We dazzling urbanites eat out a lot. Which sounds great. Until you come home hungry and drunk and really have a craving for a burrito. Or carrot cake. Or a vanilla malt. Or leftover Chinese. Or anything but what’s in my fridge. But that’s all you got. So… it’s homemade trail mix at 3am. I have… raisins and roasted soy nuts. mmmmmmm! Oh well, I guess the good news is at least I’m eating something healthful at 3am, even if it is for all the wrong reasons.

I think I’ll deliberately do a drunk blog draft — any sacrifice for my art. For one month, I’ll see what inane crap I write in the wee hours and actually save it (hidden bonus: this gives me a great excuse to not cut back on drinking!). But the real danger here is: I’LL BE DRUNK. This could be a costly mission I’ve set before myself, for I might easily hit the “publish” button, rather than “save”. And not realize it, because I’ll be drunk (this post breaks the world record for # of times the word “drunk” appears in a blog entry — just a non-drunk observation), I could forget I wrote the entire post in the first place. Wow, a blog blackout. A blogout.

Drunk photography mishap #4: Feet photos give navel-gazing a good name. Especially when you barely get your feet in the shot.

I haven’t had an anything blackout since high school, and that was just the once. Who even remembers what the winning substance combination was on that night? (Though my money’s on Canadian Mist & Lowenbrau). Nevertheless, I woke up, alone and safe in my bed. In my pajamas. Everything where it should be. AND I HAD NO IDEA HOW I GOT THERE. At the time we were living in a condominium complex, with a shared parking lot. I had been driving the collective “kid’s” car the night before. Did the car make it home in one piece? I had no idea. So I walked to the parking lot. Looked around for a while… oh, there it is. The aging yet still sassy ’74 Mercury Comet. Looks okay from here. Then the slow walk-around, to make sure there was no major damage or roadkill in sight. All clear.

That’s my only blackout. Uh, that I know of. That’s why they’re called blackouts.

I am not a co’ ho’.

Raise your hand if you’re tired of people old enough to know a thing or two by now (and I’m talking to you, my fellow aging Gen Xers) complaining, lamenting, wondering: “how did I get here?” Not just in terms of their relationship, but their life: career, income, self-fulfillment. I used to do the same. But at some point, increasingly I’d ask that question of myself (rather than of a friend, rhetorically, over my second double macchiato, as was my way in the past). And when I asked it of myself, I actually required of myself an answer. And it hit me:  Because that’s what I’ve chosen. Wealth and a relationship and self-worth cannot be had if the price is feeling trapped. Compromise? Of course. Frustration? A given. But trapped: never, ever again. Not in a job, not in a relationship, nowhere. Let freedom reign.

I’m smart. So why am I not Wealthy? Married? Satisfied? Sometimes I need to remind myself, to be quite honest.

Why am I not wealthy? Because I chose to walk away from a lucrative corporate gig a long time ago. It paid well but I was miserable. I felt trapped. The good definitely did not outweigh the bad – no amount of money is worth feeling trapped, not to me. So I walked. I could quite easily have more money. There are lots of ways right outside my door I could easily earn a great income with lots of benefits. Perhaps I’ll find one that fits well and doesn’t feel come with that “trapped” feeling. In the meantime, I know exactly how I want to live my life, what I want to do with it: and it can pay off. It’s a longshot, I know. And that’s okay. I’m doing okay. It’s 100% worth the tradeoff. I’m loving every minute spent trying. This is an adventure.

Why am I not married? Again, I chose to not remain married. I loved being married. I loved him, he loved me; we still love each other. But Dave Mason said it best: “There ain’t no good guys. There ain’t no bad guys. There’s only you and me and we just disagree.” And if you spend your life together in disagreement, it’s not good for either party. It felt like another trap: one I’d built around myself. Some people stay with the wrong person for fear of ending up alone, or for the kids, or because they loathe the confrontation/battle of divorce, so they take the lifelong path of least resistance. It’s up to you: risk being alone for the right reasons or with someone for the wrong ones. And that is for no one to decide or judge but you.

Climb Me.

Why am I not satisfied? I choose — no in this case, I’ll always need — to ameliorate. Because I like the act of striving, pushing myself, wanting to accomplish more, improving myself. I’ve been satisfied many times, and to great degrees. I just don’t remain satisfied for very long. Show me a mountain and I have to climb it. And there’s always a mountain to climb. I like the climb as much as the view from the top. And I mean that literally, not metaphorically. But you can do what you want with that mountain and that metaphor.

Self pity, tear down this wall!

I wonder if he’s satisfied.

But let’s talk about you now, my fellow aging Gen Xers, who are still stuck on the “why me?” loop. Most of you are fiercely smart. Too smart for your own good. It was great currency in your 20s, when having a low-paying job with cool cred was hot. Or you were working a McJob until your big break, when your indie-alt-grunge band “Carpet Picnic” (or whatever genius name it was then) was discovered, signed to Sub Pop, and changed the face of rock forever. Or you were working to Save The Children (or The World, or The Peppered Moth) in a non-profit organization — which made you a good person. Fine and dandy.

But we’re 15, 20 years on, guys. You didn’t go into it for the money then. And you stuck with it. So why, oh why are you whining that there’s no money now? “How did I get here?” “How did this happen?” Answer: Because it’s what you chose. You could change it any second. Get a broker’s degree. Go into pharmaceutical sales. Not into selling out? Write the next blockbuster movie franchise that elevates the genre into the category of  “art”. Just do something, anything, different. Differently. Or own it, take pride, be the best you can be at it. Or… choose to stop complaining. It’s only your life we’re talking about after all. Just how much of it do you want to spend complaining, regretting, lamenting – and annoying everyone around you in the process (while you still have their attention, that is)?

Sure, there are some circumstances we definitely do not choose. Death of loved ones, layoffs at work, and other’s behavior all come to mind. But whether we stay vs. go? Choice. To listen vs. ignore? Choice. Accept vs. change? Choice. Path of least resistance (and often, least reward) vs. challenge? Big choice. Big choice. Choose wisely.