The Democratic Convention

Last night over seared tuna steaks, asparagus, and fresh, sweet corn, we (and by we I mean me, Krista, Patrick the chef, and Sam) watched the democratic national convention.  Our plates loaded, we chewed with gusto as Al Gore told us about a man named Abraham Lincoln who became president though he had little political experience.  Hurrah, hurrah – the people in the audience cheered as Mr. Gore drew an eloquent parallel to Senator Barack Obama.  The camera zoomed onto a heavy-set man wearing a woven straw hat and a stained t-shirt, his thick, round glasses smudged with dirt.  I paused, fork in midair.  Wowzer, who was that?  The camera quickly panned back to Al Gore as I imagined someone in the control room yelling, “Not that guy! Not that guy!”

Dinner finished as the pale and somewhat limp, Senator Biden took the stage.  I used this opportunity to get up and refill my wine glass.  After Mr. Gore’s intelligence and passion, Biden’s climb up onto the dais seemed pointless.  His wife on the other hand, made me yearn for home.  I’m a native Delawarean and moms to me look just about exactly like Mrs. Biden.  I could easily imagine myself as a teenager, stopping by her home for dinner after soccer or to get ready with her daughter for the school dance.  “Eat my vegetables, Mrs. Biden?  Okay, but only if you promise we’ll get your famous home-baked cookies afterwards…that and you tell Mr. Biden to cut his hair in the back.  It’s starting to look a little like a mullet and we’ve got far too many of those in Delaware already.”

And then it was time for pie and ice cream and Obama…and to be corny, they all fit together quite nicely.  A video came on narrated by one of my favorite actors, that as intended, pulled on my heart strings and made me feel in awe of Barack Obama.  He seemed so real and hard working and well, special.  I went for it hook, line, and sinker.  By the time the man himself came out to talk, I had to remind myself that there was one more convention to go.  I was ready to run to the polls for this strangely named man whose advisers made videos about as great as those people over at Charmin Toilet Paper do.  And when he spoke, it was hard not to listen.  Take a minute to stand in another person’s shoes – he repeated several times.  It’s a new day and  a new age, and the old political machine of ‘fat cats first’ isn’t what we need anymore.  It’s time to look at the struggling senior citizens, the out of work lower middle class, the uneducated inner-city poor, and to remember that the only thing that separates us (if we’re one of the lucky ones who has an education, a job, and healthcare) is a different pair of shoes.  Only change would allow for us to think as a group, to make choices that benefited and rewarded everyone’s hard work, not just those lucky enough to be in the upper echelon.  I am my brother’s keeper.  I am my sister’s keeper…

And then the camera zoomed onto a sweaty woman with an ‘I Love Cats’ emblazoned across her shirt.  I blinked.  She was bouncing up and down with her arms raised towards the sky, her abundant bosoms shaking like small earthquakes.  I could work with this.  I could be my sister’s keeper, but the t-shirt would have to go.

Peregrination, comity, and other news from Cape Cod

There once was a man from Cape Cod, who enjoyed a tan, healthy bod.  But he read only mysteries and would never talk histories, so the other men thought he was odd.

Peregrination means a traveling from place to place, a wandering.  Example: When I awoke this morning I was glad of my peregrination into the sharp blues and greens and greys of Cape Cod.  The shingled homes are weather-worn and happy.  The ocean is a deep navy that endlessly kisses the pale sky above.  Not to mention I met a man on the beach who was tan, buff, and surrounded by a pile of mystery novels.  I love a good reader.

Comity is a state of mutual harmony, respect, and friendship.  This usually refers to a civility between nations or peoples, but for my purposes, we’ll apply this new word to individual relationships.  Example: The comity that exists in Cape Cod is evident to even the most weary of travelers.  The people of the neighborhood gather at night on the stairs of the beach to drink cocktails and gossip; the more cocktails, the better the gossip.

The idyllic Cape Cod has not changed one bit since the last time I was here, four years ago.  Slow and steady wins the race and like the proverbial tortoise, life crawls along.  This is a place where doors still remain unlocked, everybody has a cup of sugar, and kids run around building castles and playing tag until it’s time for bed.  I’m happy to see that this kind of lifestyle still exists.  Los Angeles sometimes makes me forget that.  Not that there’s anything wrong with fourteen year old girls having sex or fifteen year old boys experimenting with growing marijuana, but it’s just different.

Today I look forward to shocking the Vera Bradley/Lilly Pulitzer/Vineyard Vines wearing locals.  My bathing suit is the opposite of conservative and tasteful, but I needed to represent.  I’d hate for people in these parts to think LA wasn’t as tacky and naughty as its reputation.

There once was a girl from LA, who traveled far and away.  She wore lots of leather and a bathing suit with feathers, and the people in madras said, “That one’s gay.”

Jaded Over Easy

Tomorrow morning at the crack of dawn, Sam and I head off to our home away from home…LAX, Los Angeles’ International Airport. From there we will catch a plane to Boston,

• Where we will rent a car to drive to Cape Cod,
• Where we will eventually hop on a ferry that takes us to Block Island.
• Where we will attend a wedding.
• Where a different ferry will bring us back from Block Island to somewhere in Connecticut,
• Where we pray there will be a taxi or at least a preppy teenager with his mom’s Mercedes to take us to the closest train station.
• Where we hope to catch an Amtrak into New York City.

All we need is John Candy, Steve Martin, and a movie camera.

Growing up I would hear about the jet-setters; the nameless people in glamorous magazines like Town & Country who would fly here and fly there and look fabulous the whole time. Sam and I don’t have the fabulous part down (I’m prone to motion sickness and Sam catches narcolepsy as soon we take flight) and it’s hard to be glamorous when you’re flying commercial (our private jet’s in the shop of course) – but by God, we have the jet-setting part down! We jet-set so much I’ve barely had time to unpack from my last trip let alone get my intestinal system back on track.

I love traveling. I love opening my suitcase and picking out my clothing for the day. I love eating and walking and taking pictures. I even love sleeping in strange beds, but (and I can’t believe I’m saying this) too much travel is not a good thing.

2good 2B 4gotN

I went to a dinner party on Saturday and by dinner party I mean a feast worthy of the gods – my Italian girlfriend cooks like a 5star chef.  At the dinner party, Hunter S. Thompson came up as a topic of conversation.  Now coincidentally, Sam and I had just been speaking of the legendary writer that very morning.  Sam has a friend, a fellow reporter I believe, who became amigos with Señor Hunter through work.  The two men had a quite a few late night phone conversations with Hunter often conferencing in other well-known figures so the group could talk about who knows what and football.  Yes, Hunter loved football.

 

Which brings me back to my dinner party…another guest asked us all if we knew how Hunter died.  Many nodded with funny smiles on their faces, but I shook my head no.  (I think by now we can all agree that I’m not the most informed gal when it comes to news and current events.)  Hunter, he told us, had terminal cancer so he arranged a huge party with all of his friends on the top of a mountain.  Everyone ate and drank and told stories about the man who had brought them there.  When the laughter and the walks down memory lane came to an end, Hunter walked off into the distance alone.  That was the end.  He shot himself.

 

When I was 14, I wrote up neat, concise instructions of what I wanted my funeral to be like.  I would be in a pale pink casket, happy rock and roll music would play, and all of the boys who never looked twice at me would suddenly realize that I was the love of their lives.  It was to be the best party of my 14-year old life…except that I was dead.  As I’ve gotten older I’ve come to realize that what I really want is a party before I die.  Just like Hunter, I want to hear my friends laugh, I want to remember that I was loved, and I want to know how I’ll be remembered.  Like my senior year yearbook, I want everyone to write indelible messages that I can carry with me into the night.  Sara Morris – 2good 2B 4gotN.

I don’t know if the story of Hunter S. Thompson’s death is accurate, but I like it.  We should all take the time to hear that we are loved and to know that we make a difference…and that all those boys who broke our hearts at 16 still dream about us every night.  Insert pink casket.  Insert AC/DC…She was a fast machine, She kept her motor clean, She was the best damn woman I had ever seen!

A Season of Change

It’s been a week for me of this inexplicable insomnia and without a doubt, I’m a woman on the edge.  Just now I started crying – big, huge, gulps of tears streaming down my face for no other reason than it was another day.  The craziest thing is that I look fabulous.  No one would ever know that I haven’t slept more than a few hours since Saturday.  I have no bags or dark circles under my eyes, my skin is glowing, and of all things, I’ve lost weight.  It’s like a nightmare come true…I’m dead on my feet, but thinner than ever.  Who knew?

So why is this happening to me?  Why am I awake night after night, reading books like candy?  Sam told me he thought I was just going through another one of my voracious reading episodes where, like a binge eater, I read and read and read until I explode.  I gave his opinion some consideration, but I don’t think this is that.  I think I’m suffering from the new house, new neighborhood, new everything blues.

Change is both a marvelous and a stressful thing.  Most of us get a sense of comfort through our routines:  This is where I go to rent my movies.  That is the dry cleaner I use.  There is my yoga studio.  This is the way I take to work.  Here is my walking route, my jogging route, the grocery store, and the carwash.  It’s our little piece of the world that feels familiar and safe and somewhat controllable. 

But change is good, change makes you grow and stretch.  Routines are broken and it’s uncomfortable:  This is different.  This is not what I’m used to.  This is scary.  And that’s the crux of it really – it requires bravery and boldness to change, to leave behind what you know and to start again.  Sometimes it’s at a new job, sometimes it’s in a new city, but each time there are these moments of utter terror.  Why did I do this?  I have no idea where I am or what I supposed to do right now.  What was I thinking?

I tell myself that soon it will all be just another routine.  I’ll figure out this new house, this new neighborhood, this new everything and it will be time to stir the pot again.  Because as much as change hurts, it also opens door after door of endless possibilities…

I know exactly what’s going to happen in my old routine – I have absolutely no idea what’s going to happen with each of my new choices.  And that is a season full of change.

 

 

Insomnia (and the benefits of)

 

For the past few nights I’ve been wide awake way past by bedtime.  I’ve read four 600 page books.  I’ve drunk gallons of water.  I’ve walked Kiki and I’ve paced around my new house.  I’ve unpacked boxes, folded laundry, and wiped down ever flat surface in the kitchen.  I’m getting a lot done really.

 

And then I read something in a Feng Shui book that said if a room has negative energy, your subconscious mind will try and stop you from entering into it.  <pause>  Oh my god, my bedroom has negative energy.  That’s why I can’t sleep.  My mind knows I shouldn’t go in there.  Maybe there’s a ghost, a vampire in the closet, a bloody hand that crawls in through the window when no one’s looking…who knows what evil, scary monster could be lurking in the dark.  Thank you, subconscious mind for saving me.

 

Today I’m wearing a headdress of $4.00 ostrich feathers that I found at a fabric store on Melrose.  I look a little like Pocahontas meets Daisy Buchanan, but if it’ll save my life, who cares.  I went to the library and checked out a book on exorcisms, the power of healing, and everything you need to know about the undead from A-Z.  Everywhere I go people are frowning at my headwear, but I’m paying them no mind.  I must protect my subconscious and feathers seem like a good way to do it.

 

Tonight, before I even think about going to bed, I’m going to do some major cleansing on the bedroom.  Somehow I just have to get Sam on board.  I know he’s going to give me a hard time about putting on the headdress I made for him.  Not to mention performing some of the ceremonies I have planned.  If only I could convince him that this was for his own good.  If he doesn’t help re-Feng Shui the room at least I can read another book, hang another picture, and eat some more stuff in the fridge.  There’s really so much to do.  Plus, I’d really rather not be in there when the hand gets him.

Ramblings of a Tired Writer

 

Although I love my new home and I love unpacking boxes and finding new places for all of my accumulated belongings to collect dust, I am absolutely pooped.  First and foremost, I apologize for not writing for the past several days.  I’ve received hundreds of emails asking me what the hey, and the answer is simply, no internet in casa nueva.  And to make matters worse, Time Warner (aka the devil company) can’t fit us into their schedule until early September.  I know, right?  By the time I have internet access it’ll be out of fashion.

 

Seriously though, I had no idea how much my life needed, revolved around, relied on even, the World Wide Web.  I can’t look up the closest Bed, Bath, and Beyond because my box of linens somehow ‘fell off’ the moving truck. (???)  I can’t mapquest how to get from my new house to Tom Cruise’s. (Tuesday night Scientology meetings) I can’t even read my emails <gasp!> or watch reruns of Project Runway when I’m getting ready for bed.  It’s terrible, like a hole in my heart.  Oh internet how I miss ye.

 

And this got me to thinking about internet dating.  Let’s just say that my social life revolved around the internet via Match.com or eHarmony or S&Mfreaks.org – what would I be doing right now in this vacuum?  Nothing.  My dates would either lose interest, get picked up by someone else or realize they weren’t as into bondage as they thought they were.  And where would that leave me?  Alone, bored, and even angrier than I already am at Time Warner.  Time Warner would have single-handedly ruined my entire social life with their ‘we’ll be there in September’ negligence. 

 

Somewhere I have a box full of arts and crafts with colored paper and markers.  I’m off now to find it and to go make some flyers:

New Neighbor Needs Internet

32, Curvy, Likes Dogs

Call Me to Discuss

Am Open to Paying For It

It’s Moving Day!

Like a beat from an old Guns and Roses song I am awake and ready…welcome to the jungle, baby. 

I have on a great outfit that seems appropriate for moving (colorful Mexican trapeze dress with contrasting Lanvin flats) and Sam has on his (Patagonia shorts, t-shirt, sneakers.)  We make an unusual team.  Sam says one of us looks as if he’s moving furniture and one us looks as if she’s moving margaritas.  I assume that means me…

The movers are officially late, which has Kiki peeved, but I am cool.  I am calm.  I am like the river Styx.  WHERE THE HELL ARE THOSE GUYS???  Sam just told me to serve another tortilla and hush. <gasp!>  If I could get around this huge wall of boxes I’d show him.

So everyone, please think of me today as I toil and slave away moving my life (literally) from one side of Los Angeles to another.  (insert Sound of Music soundtrack)  When your boss yells, why your child screams, when your car gets a flat…simply remember that it’s moving day and then you won’t feel so badddddddd.

Gold Medal Brings Marriage

Searching the news (that’s what we intrepid writers do), I saw that India won its first Olympic gold medal since 1980.  When the press interviewed the family of the young man who won the gold for air rifle shooting, they were thrilled – not only because of the honor and pride they feel in their son’s hard work, but also because now finding him a wife will be a cinch.  And this got me to thinking…do all of us need a gold medal to find love?

 

Not everyone wants to get married and not everyone wants to have children, but those who do often find it no less challenging than the Beijing Olympics.  From our teen years we begin to prepare and train for the fight ahead.  By the time we reach our thirties, some of us look like battle-scarred warriors.  Where’s our gold medal?  Where’s our reward for years and years of struggle and heart break? 

NPR (national public radio) had a program this morning on marriage in Rwanda.  When a man and a woman are considering tying the knot, they and their families travel to an unbiased negotiator.  The female plays hard to get (she tells the man she might become a nun in Spain for example, rather than marry him) and the man thinks quickly (you can’t become a nun, it’s illegal.)  The family and friends cheer the witty repartee until a winner emerges and the loser’s family pays their dues.  This seems twice as difficult as our western tradition of just having to find someone you can put up with and visa versa.  These poor people not only have to enter the Dating Olympics in the first place, but then after they’ve won that, they have to compete in the Clever Negotiation Olympics.  That should be worth 3 golds, a bronze, and a silver at least.

If this man in India will now be able to find a wife with ease thanks to his air rifle gold medal, I think we should all take note.  Why spend years and years of frustration, bad dates, people who say they’re going to call and never do or worse, call repeatedly when you wish they wouldn’t – when we could just dedicate all that time to a sport?  Archery, badminton, handball, judo – the Olympics have room for all of us.  I myself, am going to focus on table tennis and wrestling.  I’m fairly confident I could win a gold medal in at least one of them.  Marriage here I come!

  Me, as a tabble tennis Olympian. 

 

  Me, as a wrestling Olympian.  You see?  There’s hardly any difference!

 

 

 

Moo (to the) ving.

I woke up in the middle of the night covered in a cold sweat.  Bubble Wrap had been chasing me down a dark alley.  He and his evil companion, Packing Tape had been trying to corner me inside a refrigerator-sized box full of kitchen utensils.  “No, No, No!” I screamed – and gasping I sat up awake.

I currently live in a rat-like maze full of boxes.  Box #1: Bathroom – medicine, first aid, make-up, and beauty products.  Box #2: Bedroom – shoes, jewelry, sewing machine, and jar of lost buttons.  It goes on and on like this way into the 60’s.  Box #62: Kitchen – FRAGILE! Vases, votives, and clear glass dessert plates.

Kiki, Sam, and I wind our way like clumsy tight-walkers in and out of the sinuous path of boxes.   When I awoke in the middle of the night, gasping from my nightmare, I decided to get up and get a glass of water.  For a brief moment I forgot what my house looked like and then I was jumping over Box #27: Hallway Bookshelf – Books (heavy) like Jason Bourne in a nightgown.  It was action time!  I slipped past the leaning tower of Pisa (Boxes #16-19: Bedroom – Underwear and Socks, T-shirts, Shorts, Yoga Stuff, Pajamas)… Skirted the jaws of hell (my armoire – it’s got very sharp edges)… Rounded the corner into then kitchen (Box #41: Living Room – Lampshades! On Top Only!)… Stubbed my toe on Box #34: Appliances – Toaster Oven and Microwave… Only to find Box #8: Kitchen – FRAGILE! GLASSES!          Who packed all of the glasses?

The movers arrive on Wednesday morning, which gives us two more days of circus living.  Kiki knows to stay close – at any minute this whole maze could come tumbling down around her.  Until then, I’ve got to figure out what to do with Box #59: Linen Closet – Towels, Sheets, Blankets, and Duvet Comforters… it’s in my way to the toilet.