A new environment has the power to change not just what we see, but how we see.

I like basements. I love basements, places where I feel oddly at home. And happy.

We had a basement once, when I was seven, when my parents rented a house for one year in Middletown, New Jersey. Since we were staying only a year, and it was the first time I’d lived in a house that was neither, A) my family’s home prior to my birth, nor B) brand new, we being the first and only occupants; this house didn’t feel like ours. It was someone else’s choice of wallpaper, someone else’s choice of carpet… someone else’s home. But it did have a basement. I’d never seen one before — it was like a secret room!

Only one item was in that Middletown basement when we arrived: a cardboard house. It was gender-neutral, so any child could make it whatever he or she wished. I would play for hours there, in that cardboard house, that kind of play that happens deep within a child’s imagination; existing only in that moment, living in a world completely invisible to everyone else. But it is real.

That was the first (and only) time growing up that we were surrounded by forest (prior to that, it was either the streets of Brooklyn or the desert of Las Vegas). Flora, flora everywhere! The Garden State. I learned to figure skate on the frozen Navesink River. When it snowed, we slid down the street (a slight hill) on sleds, and our father took us to chop down our own Christmas tree. It was all pretty magical stuff to a seven year-old, right down to the hours I passed in the basement.

We moved back to Las Vegas the following summer, where I remained until high school graduation. At seventeen, I couldn’t get out of that town fast enough, get back to the east coast, where naturally I’d decided to go to college. Because I had an opportunity to fly back on a family friend’s private plane, I arrived in New York a full month before classes were to begin, and stayed with my father at his sister Helen’s house in Bayside, Queens (he and my mother had divorced the year before, and being Greeks, family always lives with family). A month is a long time to live with your overly-protective Greek father and his widowed sister in a town where you know no one (and have no car), so I went around visiting relatives: one grandmother, five aunts, five uncles, and ten cousins.

With Georgia and her boys and my brothers in front of Caesars Palace. It’s changed since then.

I made my way to the family home of Georgia, my father’s first cousin, and her family. They had come to see us in Las Vegas years earlier (that’s them, in the photo on the right), and I really liked them. They were a fun family. And calm, compared to the most of the Greek relatives.

Naturally, I stayed in their basement (which I’d decided were indigenous to New Jersey). Theirs was very different than our basement in Middletown ten years earlier: it was their game room, with a pool table, concert and sports memorabilia on the walls, and a vinyl collection that would make Cameron Crowe cringe with envy. It was my last stop before moving into the dorm, so Georgia took me to buy towels and beddings and clothes for an East Coast winter. After shopping, I’d disappear into the basement and get lost in those records, discovering new artists and their stories, new worlds within those songs –while I was  eagerly counting down the days until I was to go off and discover a whole new world myself at SUNY Stony Brook. It was another magical time.

I write this from yet another basement, this one on the west coast, as I dogsit for my beau’s sister in Seattle. This basement, as you can see in the above picture, is also surrounded by lush greenery outside. Inside, hundreds of movies. It’s their movie room. The beau… it’s still a fairly new relationship, less than a year. I moved back to Las Vegas — none of the lush greenery I love so there — to be with him. So it’s an exciting time, another new beginning. And though I’m welcome to stay in the master bedroom while his sister and family are away, I prefer the basement. It just feels right. These basements are the waiting rooms for life’s next chapter. They’re a place where I naturally, optimistically, look forward to What’s Next — which has been harder and harder for me to do as I’ve gotten older. With age comes the ice cold water realization of What’s Not Next — which I’ve been focusing on too much as of late. It’s much better to focus on not only What’s Next, but What’s Right Here, Right Now.

This “naturally, optimistically” part of my brain is still there — it wasn’t just part of me at seven or seventeen — but it’s gotten very little airtime of late, this basement has made me realize. So I’ll be tapping into it now more and more now. Because having a What’s Next is an important aspect of feeling alive, for me. Here in this basement, I see nothing but a life of unlimited adventure awaiting me. It’s not the adventure I expected — but isn’t that exactly what adventure is? Not to mention, what’s Right Here, Right Now is pretty darn good!

Today’s “basement.”

I’ll create a What’s Next environment (without the basement, which is architecturally impossible in our second-story condo) when I return to Vegas. Armed with only my imagination, I once turned a cardboard house in a cement-floored Middletown basement into a log castle with a fireplace high on a cliff, waves crashing against the rocks below. I’m curious to see what my view will be out the window at my desk.

Reason #58 to stay in good graces with your exes (if/when that’s possible): you never know when they’re gonna come in handy. Even better, you never know in what way.

For example, I recently got an email from an ex of many, many years ago. Our lives are on opposite sides of the world now (literally), but we do check in occasionally. In this day and age, usually in the form of a Facebook comment.

In this email, my ex, a very talented writer, details a dream he had of me. A very sexually explicit dream. Let me tell you as I told him, he should seriously be writing erotica. Even if I weren’t the inspiration for this dream / short story, I’d still find it HOT. And also, perfectly timed.

I think they’re pretty.

I needed this. My most recent ex made me feel like a pariah in a fishnet bodystocking the last time I tried to seduce him. Not a highlight of our relationship, as I intended it to be. It was surreal (and, needless to say, humiliating). It also shook my confidence and self-image. Things with which I don’t usually struggle too much.

Granted, this email came from the man with whom I had the most incendiary sexual chemistry on the planet. Obviously, incendiary sexual chemistry wasn’t enough to keep us together, but it’s funny how that chemistry still has an effect. Oh him and his subconscious, and — by proxy — on me and the restoration of my self-esteem, by him sharing this dream with me. And reminding me that no, I am definitely NOT a pariah when wearing nothing but a fishnet bodystocking.

This is just one example. There are other ways in which other exes still play a part in my life, just by being true to who they are: the character that attracted me to them in the first place. If I could bundle each of their unique, individual characters — the pieces of them that keep them in my life — into one one man, he would be the perfect specimen. For me. But what fun would that be? Who wants flawless? I certainly can’t offer flawless in return. Flaws are good. They give us heart and make us interesting and complex and vulnerable — and thus more appreciative of others’ love. Now that’s value.

I posted this on the community board at the beach where I walk my dog. It was gone within an hour. I hope this necklace went to someone who really cherishes it. I cherish the thought and memory behind this necklace, and I’ll always have that.

I love the idea that it found a good home, and that someone out there is really happy to be wearing this necklace.

Sunset on the farm. Unless of course you ask the rooster, for whom the sun eternally rises.

I took a friend up on an invitation to spend Memorial Day Weekend savoring peace, fresh air, and fresh eggs on her family (a 4-H family) farm. I was surrounded by horses, goats, turkeys, chickens, cats, dogs — and a cacophony of animal sounds. And it was rather peaceful – even the rooster with total disregard for the sun’s location in the sky.

My job on these treks (which occur every six months or so) is to cook. It’s what I love to do and I love doing it for her mother, who lives there alone. She gets more vegetables in her diet the weekend I’m there than the other fifty-one combined.

It gets a little embarrassing when her mother informs everyone (in-home nurses, bridge partners, family members) who enters that I am the visiting “Iron Chef”; because then they stop and observe, believing that I really am some sort of expert. I’m not. I just have a good eye, hand, sense of taste, and (mostly), some serious curiosity. And of course, there’s always the glass of wine nearby, which is part of the ceremony that is cooking. And no one loves a ceremony more than yours truly.

Catching up on some light holiday reading.

Before accepting the invitation, I specifically asked my friend if any family activities were planned. “No” was the answer. My friend didn’t know this was a make-or-break for me. Not that I dislike her family; far from it. They’re lovely. It’s just… a very different family than I grew up with. And the whole “Iron Chef” thing… nah. Please, no live audience. I just want a nice quiet weekend, because…

I’d also decided the day before driving up that I was not going to drink for a month. A month. Just to “reset” the brain and the body. It’s not the sort of thing you share with nice people whose lives don’t involve (or for that matter revolve around) the ceremony of drinking to a large degree. Living in the city, I don’t know anyone whose social life isn’t rooted in the culture of cocktails. It’s how I grew up, it’s what I know, it’s what I love, it’s how I’ve often paid the rent (bartending). The people, the lifestyle, the stories, the making of a fine cocktail, the nose of an epic wine, the feel of a velvety cognac on your tongue… Most of my friends are artists of all strains, and over cocktails is where we come together.

But back to Memorial Day weekend:

Oh, the things one finds in other’s childhood rooms…

It turns out that my friend’s brother, his wife and their three children were, in fact coming over for dinner Sunday night. The wall of watchful, matching, green-gray eyes was on me in the kitchen from the moment they entered, as mom immediately started singing my Iron Chef praises. I took care of that by ordering them all to carry stuff to the backyard, where we’d be dining. Over dinner, All members of the family engaged in a very detailed discussion about a recent field trip to Washingon DC. Family Discussion As Ceremony. I’d heard of that…

After dinner, we gathered in the parlor to enjoy tea, Toblerone chocolate, and strawberries. And the whole time, the whole night, these kids participated. There were no cell phones, no distractions. This was normal to them: kids and parents talking. Kids behaving. I didn’t know families like this still existed!

I thought this sort of thing only happened on the Hallmark channel. It truly was an episode of The Waltons, directed by Norman Rockwell. I’m not joking. The children have flaming red hair and more freckles than the bus has strains of bacteria. The adults sport a faded version of this coloration. And they’re all tall. I do not blend in this crowd. Not just the physical difference (I’m a petite, olive-y blonde, the result of my Greek/Norwegian heritage); but more to do with the fact and I’m an acerbic urbanite. Chalk that one up to nurture, not nature. And the fact that I was sipping a grapefruit spritzer rather than a glass of pinot was not helping my disposition. Quite the opposite.

Gatherings at my house growing up looked like a day on the set of Casino. It was Vegas in the ‘70’s. My parents even looked like Robert DeNiro and Sharon Stone (that Greek/Norwegian thing again). As a family, we didn’t gather in the parlor to converse over tea and Toblerone and strawberries after dinner. For starters, my father was the Bar Manager at the Hilton Hotel (when Elvis was performing there). So he was seldom home for dinner. Our garage looked like the liquor warehouse of the hotel. My parents had parties, and that’s when things got conversational at our house. It was always fun to watch the adults loosen up and not be so hush-hush (in front of us kids) about… whatever it was that adults talk about.  And their conversations were always much more interesting than those of my peers. At one holiday party, I stood at the door holding a crate of Elvis’ Christmas Album (I assume that was a “secret gift” from the Hilton Hotel to my father), handing one to each tipsy guest as they left. It never dawned on me that this wasn’t typical of every child’s holiday memories.

So being there on the farm, surrounded by Rockwell’s Waltons, the feeling that “I don’t belong here” was now festering into pure irritability because I didn’t have my beloved glass of wine handy to help me appreciate the oddity, the surreality (to me, anyhow) of the situation. No, it was just me, unarmed. And again, I can’t tell nice non-drinkers that I’m cranky (and trying to hide my crankiness, which makes me even crankier) because I’m a baby and I want my ba-ba. They won’t understand and it’s embarrassing. Yeah, you know it’s bad when you can’t stop staring at a (probably 15-year old) bottle of vermouth. All of this soon spirals into a very real headache, and very real reason to excuse myself from the room and pop a Tylenol PM.

A good thing. I miss you.

So why the hell all this 40-something equivalent of 20-something navel gazing? Damn good question. I got nuthin’. I do have this: It’s day seven now. I’d just finished writing a feature screenplay (right before taking this vow of a month’s sobriety) and was wondering “what next?” And in recent days I finally started to write something for the upcoming Tenderloin Reading Series at which I was invited to read. And I was informed that my play, It Is What It Is, has been accepted in the upcoming SF Theater Festival. And of course, I did not pop a bottle to celebrate. That was tough!

So do I need this ceremony, this companion, this lovely crutch called “cocktail”? Last night I went to a local bar and had two ginger beer/mint/lime spritzers. So the past 7 days prove I don’t need it, the alcohol at least. But the ceremony… yes, I need ceremony in my life. Though there are a million (non-alcoholic) ceremonies out there and a million more I can invent… but I love this one! It’s where I come from, it’s in my blood; it even reminds me of childhood, watching my fabulous parents entertain. Hell, I made my first cocktail at age 5; I’d make them for my parents friends and charge them 10 cents. It’s who I am! Other kids longed for Disneyland; I had Fantasyland right there at home. Whenever my parents entertained, there were gorgeously groomed men in suits, beautifully made-up women in fabulous frocks, the Rat Pack backed up by the music of ice chiming in beautiful glasswear, and laughter! I couldn’t wait to grow up and make that my world. My Adultland.

But I guess we all need to step outside our skin once in a while, now don’t we? If for no other reason than to decided whether or not the skin we’ve grown so accustomed to still fits and is still flattering. Or do we still wear it because it’s what we’re used to, and we’re too lazy to try on a new one?

The one thing I know to be directly related to not drinking is waking up with a clear head. So clear is it, that I decided to write this little reflection to share with you. But is a clear head worth  going without my beloved ceremony? Ask me on July 1st, when I celebrate this achievement.

Better make that July 2nd.

This too shall pass.

I wasn’t looking for a title to this post. I wasn’t planning on writing about this, period. But something happened recently, something that  stung. Then I was filled with regret, self-loathing, repulsion, pity, and compassion. And then I got angry. Good and angry. And this is what I chose to do about it.

What does it take to get me this angry? Put it this way: If you were to draw A Map Of Moral Behavior, and there was a territory  called Things You Don’t Do; what this Mook (though he is far too old by definition, the rest of the description is spot-on)  did to me would be bordering Sleep With Your Best Friend’s Wife. Yeah, it was shitty and selfish and low (that’s where the self-loathing comes in: I actually trusted him).

I don’t believe in blaming others for our actions and choices. With one exception: when our actions are based on another person’s deliberate deception; when we act on good faith and later learn that someone withheld information that they knew would affect our behavior — but they witheld it anyway. I call that being violated emotionally. Again, certain things you don’t do: You don’t violate another human being. Emotionally, physically: You Do Not Do That. Especially to a friend. Hey, I’m very open-minded when it comes down to what goes on behind closed doors: as long as all parties have their cards on the table so that everyone’s eyes are wide open: All’s fair.

I’ve never used the term “douche bag” before, unless I was quoting another. I always thought the expression was childish and banal and better suited for those lacking any imagination, originality, or a respectable vocabulary. But it’s stuck in my head.; it so perfectly crystalizes how I feel about the Mook. Douche bag douche bag douche bag! God, I’m not kidding. Douche bag! Okay, there is a certain satisfaction in saying it, I have to confess.

I want these feeling to go away. I want to move on. I realized yesterday: What I need is to forgive. But… I don’t know how to forgive in this case. I was just about to begin a yoga class and I was getting anxious about not knowing how to forgive because this is just eating me, and I didn’t want to go into the class like that. I don’t want to go into the next hour like that. So I shot off a text to a dear and wise friend (whose blog, “Belief Systems & Other BS”, I highly recommend): “Any words on forgiveness?”

He wrote back “She who forgives most is happiest”. It made me cry. I instantly got a picture in my head of a very old, very happy woman who’d lived a very hard life — yet with the biggest toothless smile you can imagine. She had forgiven a lot, this woman in my head.

There you have it. So simple. I want to be the “She” in his text. Okay, realistically, I’m never going to be “happiest”.  But I can be happier. That’s realistic. And then the yoga class started. And I’m fortunate to have two instructors who feel like home to me. I feel safe and alive and grateful in the environment they create. I relax and breath and am open to thoughts/feelings/ideas that the stupid 8-track in my brain often drowns out.

Let’s get back to the Mook. Part of the problem is that anything I have to say to him would be extremely hurtful. It would be truthful, and if I thought for one second it would actually do him some good to hear it, that he’d learn something from it, I might confront him. But he’s not at that place now. We all have our demons and our issues; hopefully we learn from them and grow and they make us better, more compassionate people. But some people choose to remain children. And no amount of adult dialogue will make them get it. It being the fact that their actions directly affect others. Sometimes deeply hurting them even.

So I won’t be confronting the Mook. Because at the end of the day, being hurtful has never been who I am, and I’m not about to start now. No good would come of it. The one and only thing I would say to him — and it sounds snarky but I mean it sincerely — is this: I hope he gets the help he needs. As I’m trying to get the help I need. Help To Forgive.

Which starts with: How did I get here? I never let a Mook get so close to hurt me like this before. Maybe I just didn’t let many people in before, as a way of avoiding hurt. But now that I’m divorced and single again in my 40’s, I’m taking more risks. I’m being more open because for so long I felt nothing, and I pined to feel alive. And half of feeling alive is feeling pain. Can’t have your ecstasy without your agony. So… I guess I asked for this, to a degree. But I’m learning. I’m learning to gather more information before trusting someone with my heart. There were signs — there are always signs — but I was so hungry for the newfound bliss that I missed many douche bag signs along the way. It’s a tricky balance: head/heart. Bliss/information. I’ll use a food analogy that we ladies are so fond of: eat healthfully, but you must indulge occasionally (and moderately) in the sinful — for if you deprive yourself too long, you will gorge and regret it.

I’ll trust again. And again. I won’t be trusting him (I’ll stop calling him a mook now — see? I’m already mellowing), but I will trust again. But cautiously next time, receptive to the flags on the field (a little sports analogy for the guys this time).

I think I’m starting to forgive.

PS: If you aspire to be a man — or if you already are, but want to be a better man — I strongly urge you the check out  The Art Of Manliness.

Manly, yes. But I like it too!

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.

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.

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.